A Day for Frankie
By: Turboencabulator
A dingy but robust brass alarm clock ticked away quietly on a battered old bedside table. A
window-fan hummed and ground along quietly, casting a flickering shadow as the golden morning
light streamed in, dust cascading in the light. Frankie lay in bed, half awake, sweating and
almost-dreaming of beating his landlord until the AC was fixed. His alarm clock managed to go
off for a few lethargic ping sounds before Frankie shut it off and got up, stretching
with a groan. A glance at his lumpy old mattress, calculating how much it would cost to get a
new one, and he went out into the living space.
Slow stretches began the day, starting with the click of an outlet timer tuning on the coffee
pot. First, a slow yoga routine, then a cup of coffee. Then, a series of wing chun forms, and
another cup of coffee. Finally, crunches, push-ups, dips, lunges, squats, and pull-ups, fifty
each, before a cup of coffee and a shower. Frankie stared at himself in the steamed-up mirror
as he shaved and performed his morning ablutions, trying to force his inner dialogue away from
worries about money or time, and back to the day ahead.
He glanced at framed picture of his old fluffy, gone in a house fire, but then continued on his
day. After dressing and assembling his pistol, tucking it and his backup safely in their
places, Frankie wandered out into the hallway of his apartment building, locking the door on
his three-room pad carefully, and wandered out to his beat up old Kia.
A short drive and a stop at a little hole-in-the-wall diner, Frankie was on his way out of the
tiny spit of a city and to work, in a squat grey building full of emotionally unstable
shitpigs. With a soft sigh he saw that one of the two business partners he had somehow acquired
was already in the lobby. After a moment of musing, he came to the conclusion that at least the
coffee would be ready, and parked his car in the manager’s space.
Wandering in, Frankie glanced at the special-care tank. Sam had taken the super-breeder, and a
hugboxer had adopted the pillowfluffs. The tripod poopie was left, on solid food now, and was
sent off to a city shelter for adoption. Now, it had three new denizens. A shivering, twitching
wreck of a fluffy used as a breeder far too roughly, a blind but generally well-mannered
stallion, and the last was a ‘huggie fluff’ named Harriet, recovering from surgery to correct
the pair of botched hind-leg amputations her last owner had attempted with a pocket knife and a
can-do attitude.
Will was in the back room behind the tank, changing Harriet’s bandages. He waved, and Frankie
waved back. After turning to pour himself some coffee, there was a dull series of tapping
noises, and Frankie turned around to find himself face-to-face with a fluffy.
“Jesus Christ.” Frankie said, looking over the earthie. He was huge for a fluffy, and not that
fat. Dense, fuzzy fluff was growing in, a bit patchy, and a deep eggplant color. His face was
scarred, leaving white streaks in the fuzz, and a yellow ‘worker fluff’ vest was neatly
buttoned in place.
“Nu. Am Poundew.” The fluffy said, and continued eating from a bowl on the front counter.
Will walked out from the back. “Frankie. Meet your new fluffy.”
“Uh, what?” Frankie said, confused, looking between Will and the bulked-up earthie. “I mean, I
don’t really-”
“Hey, hey. Hey.” Will said, making various gestures of import and warning, before walking out
without another word.
“Will, y’asshole, my lease says no fluffies.” Frankie called, and Will just continued making
gestures indicating Frankie should wait, before getting his his truck and rolling out.
Silence for a minute. Frankie and Pounder looked at each other.
“You like coffee?”
“Wut dat?”
Pounder spent an hour alternating between running on the treadmill and using the litterbox,
much to Frankie’s chagrin. He made a mental note that fluffies and coffee should not mix, and
went about his morning routine, answering the overnight messages.
After the treadmill shut off and Pounder drained his water bottle, he flopped over on a fluffy
bed behind the counter, panting heavily. “Coffee. Nu. Poopie pwace hab buwnies wike bwite-time
aftew twying cuwwy.”
“Right, gunna need to get you some tea then.” Frankie muttered, then after a minute’s thought,
bent down and picked up Pounder in his bed, setting it on the counter. “Alright, look. I don’t
know what Will’s thinking but I want you to know I just lost a fluffy.”
Pounder sat up wit a tired groan. “Wost?”
“Some kids thought it would be fun to burn my house down. My fluffy was inside.”
A dark expression came over Pounder’s face. “Dat sad. An make Poundew angwy.”
“You an me both, kid.” Frankie said, lighting a cigarette. “Lil fuckers went an pled it was a
prank that got out of hand, and got three months in juvie. I got a gutted insurance check and a
shitty apartment.”
Pounder watched Frankie, obviously grumpy from the information.
“Well that’s all past us now.” Frankie said, popping his knuckles. “Now, when fluffies come
here we need to sort them into groups.”
Pounder nodded, calming down again. “Gwoups?”
“Right. So all the pregnant ones get separated, and the injured. Juveniles get put in a
group pen with one of the minders, and lone chirpies go with the milk-mares.”
“Joov’niles?” Pounder asked, squinting at the word.
“Young’uns.”
“Oh, otay. An smawties?” He asked, getting a grumpy look in his eye.
“You want to keep 'em under control?”
Pounder smiled, and Frankie knew that he would grow to like this fluffy.
A shelter van rolled up to the building, creeping along the side to the dock and backing
in. The driver got out, carrying the battery-powered warming tray of chirpies, and carried it
in the side door. Frankie looked up from hosing down the concrete depression the fluffies would
spill into and sighed.
“It’s a big one, Frankie.” The driver said, setting the tray down on a side
counter. “Twenty-two chirpies alone.”
Pounder walked out of a fluffy tunnel connecting the counter to another room through the
wall. “Dat sound wike wots. Sud I wake up Sandy?”
The driver blinked. “Dude. You’re huge.”
“Tim, Pounder. Pounder’s my new assistant fluff.” Frankie said, fitting the ramp to the back of
the truck and sealing the opening against the wind and escape attempts. “Pounder, I’d wake up
Sandy and I’ll ask if Millie and Bubbles are free.”
Pounder nodded and wandered back through the fluffy tunnel while Frankie texted Sam. The driver shook his head. “Well you won’t be having trouble with a fluff like that working for you. I’ll
need to get in and get some carriers out after the loose fluffs are out of the way. Someone
turned in six pillow-fluffs.”
Frankie sighed. “Jesus Christ, really?”
“Yup.” The driver said, pulling liquid-proof covers on his work boots. “I’m just glad the
shelters agreed to fit a raised shelf so the other fluffies aren’t taking turns shitting
through the bars of the carriers at them.”
Frankie sighed, pulling on surgical gloves and an apron. The driver opened the back door and a
wave of fluffies came charging out into the light, complaining of the smell and the
dark. Nearly forty emerged, and the driver went in after, handing carriers with pillowed
fluffies over to Frankie.
Already a smarty was trying to yell over the rabble for control, and like a purple bullet,
Pounder was out the fluffy tunnel, jumped the three foot gap to the wall of the concrete basin,
and had the smarty’s face grinding against the ground.
“GUN WAPE AN KIWW SMAWTY” Pounder said, his voice dropped nearly an octave. “YU WAN STIWW BE SMAWTY?” He asked, loud but more a roar than a yell. He had mounted the far smaller unicorn, and began to thrust, making a small gush of blood spurt out of a tear. The smarty screed and scrabbled, but Pounder kept him in place, and with a snarl, ripped off one of the smarty’s ears with his teeth.
“GUN HAB FUN WIT YU” He roared, and the unicorn began to beg.
“SCREE Pwease nu! Nu wan poopie-huggies! Nu am mawe! Nu wan be smawty!”
Pounder pulled out and bucked the unicorn in the side, knocking it over. A few thrusts in the
unfortuante ex-smarty’s mouth and a stomp on his balls finished the interaction. Pounder looked
around at the terrified fluffies, the only sound coming from the high pitched, whistle-like
scream as the smarty curled up in reflex, his mouth laced with feces and spots of blood.
“Fwuffies.” Pounder said. “Sit down. Nao.”
About half sat down immediately. The rest slowly went down and cowered, hiding behind their
hooves. Many shits were taken, and more than a few pools of urine, adding to the filth already
present.
“If Poundew find anoder smawty, gun gib EBEWY fwuffy a HARD FUCK.” He said, somehow managing to lose the lisp for two words. “So gib up da smawties. Big an widdle. Nao.”
Several fluffies were pushed into the middle, including a pair of foals. Frankie gathered them
up and put them in a few barebones side pens, for later processing.
“Right.” Frankie said, handing the hose over to the driver. “Soon mummahs next.”
Several fluffies, happy to get away from Pounder, sat up and waved at Frankie, shouting that
they had ‘bested babies in dewe tummies’. After a few minutes of gently moving them out, he
looked at Pounder. “Check the rest.”
Pounder got up and began moving among the fluffies, smelling them carefully. Eventually he came
to an ordinary looking mare and pointed at her. “Dis wun a soon-mummah.”
The mare screamed and tried to run, but Pounder stood on her tail until Frankie could pick her
up. She was fortunately out of ammo, only a few drips of foul feces coming out. She went in to
the soon-mummah room, and calmed down.
When Frankie came back out, he saw Pounder was on top of another earthie stallion, keeping him
down.
“GIB BACK SPECIAW FWIEND!” The stallion was screaming, and trying to bite at Pounder. The other
fluffies had backed away against the concrete wall of the basin, watching the confrontation.
Frankie stepped in and picked up the stallion, holding the tiny pony at arms length as it
unloaded a round of rancid feces straight down, cheeks puffed and staring daggers at Frankie.
“Well I was going to take you to her, but after that I’m not so sure.” Frankie said, and
glanced down at Pounder, who had avoided the spray. “You ok?”
Pounder nodded, and made a frustrated grumble. “Dis wun is stwong.”
The stallion had lost the puff of his cheeks and was fidgeting in Frankie’s grasp. “Yu wet
fwuffy be wit speciaw friend?”
Frankie gave him the stink eye for a minute. “You promise to be good and stop with the poop?”
The stallion fervently nodded and Frankie sighed, taking him to his dam.
When he came back in, a group of stallions had started to try and sneak up on Pounder. After
clearing his throat, the group looked over at Frankie. With a face like thunder, Frankie walked
up to the edge of the tank, putting down a wide covered tray a foot high. The group backed off,
slowly.
The driver had finished hosing out the truck, and came out holding something in his
hand. “Frankie?”
Frankie walked over and gently took a barely breathing pair of foals. One was a runt, the other
had bad colors. Both were caked in feces and had the marks of being stomped on.
A quick dial and a few minutes later Sam gently took the foals, examining them. “Yup. Ok. Find
the mother and isolate her, this is definitely advanced bitch mare syndrome. I’ll go get these
two set up.”
After Sam chugged his way out, Frankie turned to the group of mares with their foals, loosely
surrounded by a protective ring of stallions. He had a more relaxed expression on, and sighed.
“Now, ladies, we found the bad babies. Whose were they? I wouldn’t want any of your other
children to fall ill.” He said, with a layer of false concern filling his voice.
An obvious domestic perked up and made a worried whinny sound. “Iww? Da bad babbies gib gud
babbies sickies?” She asked, protectively pulling her three remaining children closer. They
complained about wanting to play and explore but she quieted them down with a few swats and
name calling.
“Both were yours?” Frankie asked, leaning over to her and scratching behind her ears. She cooed
and leaned into his hand.
“Yus, dummy an nu-pwetty babbies wewe bad. Nu be gud babbies fow mummah.”
In a flash he had her by the scruff of her neck, and hauled out of the basin. Her children
barely had time to register what had happened before Frankie had the mare in an isolation board
and muzzled on a nearby cart.
“Right.” Frankie said, turning to the mass of fluffies. “Foals go in that tray.” He said,
watching. “If they don’t, you stay here without food or water until every foal is in that
tray.”
Pounder began with the three foals, muscling the stallions aside. He carefully placed them one
by one in the tray, and turned to watch the rest. A few groups came forward, and Frankie picked
the parents up after their foals were surrendered, placing them in the fluffy cart.
When the cart was full, Frankie took them in to induction and placed them in open top pens,
single occupancy but they could still touch their mates. When he returned, another load was
waiting, and another, until just a lone mare was left with five foals. Frankie watched as
Pounder picked up the splorin’ foal and placed it with the rest, the now abandoned children
having formed a fluff pile, crying and begging for their mummahs and daddehs.
But the last mare was curled protectively around her children. Pounder sat in front of her,
staring, and she stared back, until Frankie grabbed her by the tail and hauled her up, letting
her four children fall lightly onto the floor. Pounder gathered them up and put them in with
the remainder, and Frankie penned the screeching, frothing mare.
Pounder managed to scrabble out of the basin and plop onto the floor, while Frankie picked up
the foals and carried them in to a room with a single large pen and a few minder
stallions. There were a handful of foals already, but the addition of twentyish more brought
the room up to a lively place, and the foals began to play and listen to the minders as they
were told they’d see their parents again, just be good, and the rest of the induction
afterwards.
Pounder and Frankie looked at each other.
“Wunch?”
“Jesus fuck yes I’m starving.”
An order-in from a greasy spoon down the road and Frankie and Pounder were leaning back and
enjoying the feeling of fullness brought by a half rack of ribs and a massive Caesar salad,
respectively.
“Wut next?” Pounder asked, absentmindedly nosing around a crouton.
“Did Sam bring in the other two milk mares?”
Pounder nodded, and Frankie sighed, lighting another cigarette. “Well, next up is getting the
pillows settled, then checking for chips and sending the rejects over to Sam’s bit. Then we
see about this gene thing and then we go … home. Crap.”
“Wut?”
“My lease doesn’t allow fluffies.”
“Oh, Wiww said he had a fix fow dat.” Pounder said absentmindedly, and got up with a
stretch. “Gun go visit wittabox.”
“A fix? Huh.”
Pounder had gone to lay down for a nap after the morning’s exertion, and Frankie went in to the
rudimentary exam room, laying thick, waterproof padding on the counter, and began taking out
the pillowed fluffies.
The six ranged in temperament from nervous subdual to mute terror, and all cringed and made
noises at his touch, but refused to speak. They were taken straight from their carriers and
onto the pads. Frankie put the soiled carriers in a wide industrial sink to soak and be
cleaned, and then drew up a stool and sat in front of the pillowfluffs.
“Right. You all, you can relax. No more bad fluffies and no more meanies.” Frankie said,
quietly filling food bowls with a wet feed, as much for hydration as it is for solid
nutrition. He set one in front of each pillow and watched as they nervously glanced at him,
then tentatively began to eat.
After a moment they were eating with gusto, and Frankie took out the chip wand, finding that
all six were microchipped, and from the same shelter.
He pondered for a moment, and then brought up their entries from the state database. All were
adopted on the same day, and at the same time. By one person. They were adopted as foals, and
apparently with all their limbs still connected.
“Bill Hinton.” He said out loud, musing.
This was met with four muffled blort sounds as a majority of the pillowfluffs shat
themselves in terror, all of them cowering and putting their heads down, trying to bury their
faces in the pillows.
“Whoa, whoa.” Frankie said. “He’s not here. I just looked up who adopted you all.”
One looked up, with a dry, rasping voice, quietly asking. “Pwease, nu send fwuffies back? Nu
wan. Nu wan go back.”
After a moment of consideration, Frankie nodded and texted Sam, then pocketed his
phone. “I won’t tell him where you are. He won’t find you. What happened?”
The fluffies had begun to eat again, and the one that spoke coughed, clearing out the
dryness. “M-munsta daddeh 'dopted us an ouw mummah. Nu get gud housies, munsta daddeh gib
mummah bad speciaw huggies an took ouw weggies. Den… den fwuffies go to da Fun Woom.”
Frankie winced. “Let me guess. It was only fun for Bill.”
Another nodded, hoarse. “Fwuffies get bad speciaw huggies. An nummie-pwace speciaw
huggies. Sometimes he make Fwuffy gib wickie-cweanies tu sissies ow bwudders.”
The others nod, and the sniffling begins.
“Sounds like you got adopted by a real sick person.” Frankie said, picking the first
pillowfluff up carefully and setting it down carefully on a sort of miniature fluffy
shower. “Now, don’t freak out, but it’s bath-time.”
He could feel the fluffy tense up and suck in a breath, and in a flash of inspiration, Frankie
leaned down. “We’re going to wash all those bad feelings and icky things away, ok?”
“Thought you were a lot less nice about fluffies. Ya big softie.”
Frankie looked over while the water came up to temperature. Sam was leaning against the
doorframe with a wry grin on his face, as per usual.
“Just the ones that need their ticket punched.” Frankie said, and began lathering up the
fluffy, gently turning it and getting underneath what was now identifiable as a
stallion. “These guys have been through the wringer. They’re chipped but I’m not sendin 'em
back to any abusive sex weirdo.”
Sam nodded and wandered over, picking up a towel. “I take it you all want to stay together?”
An immediate surge of agreement and protests about separation. Sam dried off the stallion as
Frankie picked up the next filthy fluffy and began to bathe it. “Don’t worry, don’t worry. I
might actually have someplace in mind.”
Frankie glanced up at Sam. “Really, for all six?”
“Yeah, they’re a hardcore hugboxer. All sorts of fluffy-centric projects this crew could help
out with, product testing and all that.”
After picking up a mare, Frankie paused and looked underneath. Her teats were growing rosy, and
she squirmed uncomfortably.
“Uh… I think we have a dam here.” Frankie said, setting her in the shower and getting her
lathered up. “You’re going to have babies.”
“Nu wan.” She said quietly, staring at the floor.
Sam and Frankie looked at each other, and Frankie sighed. "Your old daddy made you have special
huggies with a brother, didn’t he.
She nodded. Sam winced. “Oh boy. Yeah I can stop that if you want.”
The dam looked up, sniffling. “Weawwy?”
With a sigh, Sam nodded and held out a small biscuit. “Here.”
She scarfed it down, and muttered thanks before wiggling in to Frankie’s lathering with a soft
cooing sound.
“What you just carry those around, just in case?” Frankie asked.
“These are the nice ones.” Sam said, a flicker of a malicious smile. “The other ones keep the
mare from ejecting the corpses so they rot inside her.”
“Oof.” Frankie said, wincing and rinsing down the now empty, filth-stained pad. “We have a ton
of foals by the way, and four smarties.”
Sam nodded, with a grin. “Excellent. And pregnant?”
“Five, not counting this unfortunate girl.” Frankie said, drying the dam, watching as she
slowly passed out and began to bleed as the pre-fluffy clusters of cells were flushed
out. Frankie gently washed them out, keeping her tail up and away from the mess, and got her
cleaned up again.
The six pillows were transferred to the front tank, after Sam took a moment to check their
stumps. They had some mobility, although it was well reduced, and after Frankie traded out the
toys for more pillow-friendly ones, they all began to cheer up.
Pounder and Frankie walked in to the fluffy holding area, listening to the babble as it died
down, the denizens noticing the human and monster fluffy were back. Pounder went up a
switchback set of ramps and waited on a walkway over the fluffies, staring daggers down at the
one Frankie was nearest.
“Alright everyone.” Frankie said, quieting the remaining fluffies. “You’re not in trouble,
we’re going to make sure everyone is healthy, and then we’ll get all the mummahs and daddys and
babies back together.”
“Whewe babbies?” The nearest mare demands.
“Your babies are all playing together in the next room.” Frankie said. “Just be calm, let me
make sure you all are healthy, and your babies and special friends will be back with you
afterwards.”
This seemed to settle the fluffies down, though many still gave Pounder sidelong
glances. Frankie began working down the rows, checking for chips, giving a general checkup to
the fluffies. He prayed thanks to various higher powers that he’d gone nose-blind, as there
wasn’t a clean fluffy in the lot. Sam passed by with the soon-mummahs in a cart, all sedated
and wrapped up against the breeze outside.
It was easy to guess which fluffies were chipped and which weren’t. The chipped fluffies
regularly used the litterbox in the back of the cage, and the ferals just shat wherever they
pleased. As he tested each fluffy, Frankie hung a card on the outside of their holding pen. A
yellow card for chipped, pink for female, blue for male. A cheek swab was taken, and placed in
a numbered container, matching the number on the pen.
Eventually, Frankie finished, and with a button closed the tops of the pens. Pounder walked
along the lexan tops, watching the fluffies inside.
“Everyone, I lied. Your babies are mine now.” Frankie said, and motioned for Pounder to
follow. The huge fluffy trotted down the ramp as the fluffies started shouting in protest,
until their neighbors yelled at them to shut up and sprayed them.
After handing the container of cheek swabs off to Sam, Frankie and Pounder went in the front
office and settled down. Frankie plugged the wand in to its base station and pulled up the scan
results, sighing. “Now we see who should have had their parents called at the last
shelter.”
He flicked through the screens, seeing that one had been surrendered in person, one had been
confirmed on the phone to be unwanted, and then one that was still registered.
Picking up the phone, Frankie dialled the number and leaned back, watching Pounder sit and
stare at a poster of Paris Frankie had inherited from the previous shelter manager.
“Hello, is this Cynthia Cole?” Frankie asked, as the line picked up.
“My name is Frankie, I’m manager of a fluffy shelter. Are you missing a ‘Spearmint’, female?”
“Oh I see. One more falls to the baby fever?” He mused down the line.
“Yes, that can happen rarely, ma’am. Spaying prevents that but on average two percent can still
get intermittent hormones.”
“Oh no. No requirement at all, if you don’t want her back we’ll just mark her as surrendered.”
“Ye- well of- a persian rug?”
“Dear lord that must have cost a fortune.”
“No, there’s no fee for surrender. I’ll make sure she knows she ran away for nothing. Have a
pleasant afternoon ma’am.”
Frankie hung up, with a low whistle. “That woman is wound way too tight.”
“Speawmint made bad poopies on de wug an wan away?” Pounder asked, looking over from his
observation of the poster.
“Sat on it and dragged it around.” Frankie said, wincing. Then he leaned over and poked
Pounder. “You like that poster?”
Pounder nodded, looking back up at it. “Pwetty pwace.”
“That’s Paris.” Frankie said, then blinked, an idea forming. He fished around in the bottom of
his desk drawer and pulled out an old tablet. After hooking it up to power, he turned it on and
brought up a virtual tour of the Louvre, setting it down for Pounder. “Here, this is an art
gallery in Paris. You can use the arrows to move around.”
Pounder took to it immediately, quickly getting a handle on the simple controls, and exploring
art.
Frankie turned back to his computer, flicking through until he found the next call. A quick
dial and a short wait passed.
“Horace Delgado?”
“Oh excuse me, Jorge, someone must have entered your name in our system wrong. My name’s
Frankie, I work for the state fluffy shelters. Are you missing a stallion named Slate?”
“I’m sorry what?”
“Your girlfriend?”
“Oh. Ohhhh. Ok. I understand. I’ll hold onto him if you want to come pick him up? We’re at 2122
West County Road 1600.”
“Yes tomorrow will be fine, we open at eight.”
A sigh as he hung up, and stood up. “I’ll be back.”
He walked out, going in and opening the pen for Slate. The grey fluffy looked up from where he
lay, tense and twitching.
“Your daddy is coming to pick you up in the morning.” Frankie said, gently picking the stallion
up. “We’re going to settle you in where you can see him when he gets here.”
The stallion nodded, perking up a little, and made no fuss as Frankie gave him a quick bath and
put him in another compartment of the front tank, where Slate could see the front door.
The phone calls went much the same way, all except one rejecting their former companions. Slate
soon had a neighbor in the form of a beet-red and very chubby stallion, and the two got to
talking very quickly.
A glance at the clock and Frankie saw it was already three, and he was well behind schedule.
“Too many fucking fluffies.” He muttered, and leaned into his office. “Hey Pounder, I’m going
to go do the foals, you good?”
Pounder looked over. “Poundew guud, daddeh.” He said, and went back to the Louvre tour.
Frankie paused and grinned a little before moving off and to the foal room.
The minder stallions had already sorted the foals by gender into their own divided parts of the
raised island play area, with sibling groups clustered together occasionally along the mesh
border. Frankie wandered over to Mick and bumped him once.
“Trouble?” He asked, peering into the row of small sorry boxes, seeing a few colts sulking
inside.
“Sum fitin’. Nuffin weawwy bad.” Mick said, yawning absentmindedly. “Time fow spekshun?”
Frankie nodded and went to a table connected to the middle of the large play area, at the same
height, and sat down. The minders on the female side began to herd the fillies into a little
collection area and into a chute, until one was waiting at a gate emptying out onto the table.
He opened the gate, letting her out onto the exam table, and only her.
“Hello.” Frankie said, gently picking her up and checking her over. “You have any owwies or
weird feelings?”
The filly giggled at the exam, shaking her head. “Nu, jus hab biggest tummy hungies.”
“Well we’ll get you all fed after I check you over.” Frankie said, watching as the minders got
out of the way for the main pen area to be given an automatic clean. “And a nice bath.”
The filly began to wiggle and protest, but Frankie gave her a fast and practiced wash before
gently bumping her into a tunnel full of warm moving air, rapidly floofing her up and drying
her out before she made her way giggling back out onto the main area of the pen.
He worked like this diligently, checking colts and fillies in alternation, occasionally setting
one aside with pink-eye, or some injury, until he arrived at a cowering, twitching colt. An
examination showed it had once had wings as well as the still intact horn, but they had been
severed. Frankie lifted it up and eyeballed it. The colt wouldn’t make eye contact.
“You were called bad things by your family, weren’t you.” Frankie said. The colt nodded and
nervously piddled a little bit.
Frankie set it in a special compartment to one side, a much nicer area, with food and water
already waiting. The colt looked around, confused, then back up at Frankie. He gave the little
fluffy a wink and a sly grin, then turned back as the colt bucked and jumped happily for a
moment before running to a litterbox.
Eventually the ill were separated from the healthy. Frankie leaned out and saw Sam in the adult
room pulling the ones he wanted out. “Hey, we have a load of thirty or so ones done with their
time here and we’ve got a metric fuckton of foals. If I drive the rejects over can you handle
all the rest and stuff, I’m way behind.”
Sam gave him a thumbs-up, and Frankie breathed a sigh of relief. A cigarette in his office
later and Frankie and Pounder went through the shelter, pulling out the fluffies marked as
terminal, stuffing them in small cages, and loading them on the transport wagon. Pounder looked
around from the passenger seat as Frankie drove the trailer of loud, disgusting bio-toys over
to the terminal shelter, dumping out each one individually in a pen on the floor of the
induction lot. One fluffy tried to hug to his hand and beg him to be his daddy, looking up at
him with big, watery eyes.
Frankie jabbed it in the eyes with his fingers, three stooges style, and it fell into the pen,
screaming and crying. Pounder watched from the cart, then turned and looked over at the open
air pens.
Will was over there, absentmindedly smoking a joint while he unloaded shovelfuls of garden
waste and sub-bargain-basement-quality kibble into the food troughs. The sound of sloppy,
hog-like swilling fluffies was audible even from where Frankie was. Will waved, and Frankie
waved back, before wandering over.
“Hey, dude. Special day today.” Will said, hefting an insecticide sprayer. It reeked of
gasoline.
Frankie facepalmed and sighed. “Oh no don’t tell me.”
“Yup.” Will said, going to the last pen and spraying the fluffies down with gas. They coughed
and spluttered, shouting protests, until Will dropped in a match and backed off.
There was immediate screaming and the sound of dozens of fluffies writhing and trying to
run, quickly dying down to just a crackle and the smell of burning fluffy shit. Will hosed the
fire out and wandered over to the next outdoor pen.
The first had been the males. Will sat cross-legged on the corner of the large, square area, and
spread his arms, speaking to the females for that day. “Everyfluffy here, please listen. You
are going forever sleepies today.”
The protests began immediately, a mix of begging, pleading, threats, and incoherent
rambling. Will took a moment to listen, nodding, and then got off the wall, holding up three
carriers. All fell silent.
He put the carriers down, doors open. “If you want to live, get in a carrier.”
Immediately the mares charged, and three made it in first. Will closed the doors and lifted
them out, putting them on the wall where they could see out. “You three lucky ladies just
volunteered for milkbagging, isn’t that great?”
The one that had obviously been a mill fluffy started to scream and thrash, while the other two
just grew more nervous. Will jumped in, landing on a mare and making her explode like a meat
balloon with blood. “And now the rest of you.”
Taking out a cermonial knife, Will began walking among them, picking them up and slicing their
throats, whistling a merry tune, tossing them aside to expire.
Frankie sighed. “Milkbags?”
Will shrugged. “Apparently they’re for a project. Oh which reminds me.”
After reaching into his pocket, Will tossed over something to Frankie. He caught a set of keys,
slightly marred by fluffy blood.
“What’s this?” Frankie asked, confused.
“Airstream we got you, until you can get a real house again.” Will said, before going back to
his butchery.
Frankie stared for a minute, then turned and got back on the cart, parking the trailer and
driving over the ridge to Sam’s property, just as the clock ticked to six. There, in the drive
and hooked up, was a restored 1962 Western Pacific Airstream. Frankie parked next to it,
unlocking the door, and peered inside the forty-foot mobile home.
Pounder bounded up the steps and looked around inside as well. “Nyu housie?” He asked.
Frankie nodded. “Yeah, hell of a place. How about you wait here and I’ll go get my stuff from
my current house?”
Pounder bounced around inside before settling on a fluffy bed. “Otay daddeh.” He said, before
poking his nose at the fluffy tablet inside and exploring.
It took two trips for Frankie to move all his stuff out of the shitty apartment. The neighbors
were blasting drum and bass again, and he could hear the couple upstairs have very loud
arguments, soon to be followed by very loud, grunty intercourse. He got out before that
started, leaving a note for the landlord that he would not be renewing the lease.
As he finished putting his books in the shelves mounted inside the trailer, a knock came on the
door. Frankie opened it, leaning out, to see Will walking away with Hickory alongside, towards
where Sam was with a grill. Sam waved, and Frankie waved back.
“Wanna go get grub?” Frankie asked Pounder, staring out as Sam and Will tried to lift a keg
into the ice bath, only to be brushed aside as Fergus did it easily.
Pounder excitedly got up and the duo walked over to the picnic table, smelling the grill
getting hot. Fergus pressed a mug of cold craft lager into Frankie’s hands, and Pounder got a
small bowl of it as well.
The party lasted long into the night.