"A Hunt and a Wager", by TheBaroness

“You know, August,” I began as I strode abreast of my dear cousin, my gunslip in my left hand and my right comfortably stuffed into my pocket. “You really shouldn’t let pests have free reign of your land. It’s a bad look for the family.”

“Please, Emma, would you give it a rest?” He snapped, tugging at the brim of his flat cap and bringing it down over his furrowed brow. “It’s bad enough I have to have these filthy creatures waddling about, I don’t need your insightful remarks.”

Rolling my eyes, I followed the worn path through the grounds of August’s estate, the damp earth splashing under my leather boots. If my quarry de jour wasn’t so utterly incapable, I’d have been more mindful of the sounds of our footfalls. As it stood, though, even if they did have the presence of mind to flee, they were usually too slow and clumsy to do so.

“Fine, I apologise.” I said, utterly deadpan, before carrying on unabated. “So then, why did you want me to come out and shoot the little sods? Couldn’t you just throw some traps down, sprinkle some poison and call it a day?”

He rolled his eyes, as though I had asked the most painfully obvious thing conceivable. With a vexed sigh, he explained. “I tried that, Emma. But for every one that winds up in a trap, there’s some bitch out there pumping out three more!.. besides, the missus doesn’t want me throwing out poison for them, she’s worried the birds might eat it.”

“A valid concern, I guess.”

“One of them managed to get into the kitchen, would you believe it; some fat purple bitch, just sat there talking about what a ‘good mum’ it is, and demanding ‘sketties’. What the bloody hell does that even mean?!”

“I think it wanted spaghetti, August.” I knew all too well that he didn’t care what I said; he would always get like that when he was… incensed. I could have told him that ‘sketties’ was fluffy-shorthand for ‘let me take your wife into the study, bend her over the bureau and rearrange her guts like it’s going out of fashion’, and I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t have noticed. So long as he had someone to talk at, he was placated.

“And then when I grab the thing by the neck, it shat itself and started whingeing about ‘bad uppers’ or some such bollocks! Should’ve drop-kicked the damn thing, really.”

“Don’t say that, cousin; it sounds like it would’ve ruined your shoes. Hardly seems worth it.” As we walked the perimeter of his land, the two of us chuckled between ourselves; we didn’t exactly see eye to eye on much, but we could always bond over our shared enmity of fluffies. I hadn’t seen them much myself - they were pretty rare back in London, mercifully. But my neighbour’s fluffy was enough to leave a bad taste in my mouth; she brought it over to show off, cooing and doting over the lime-green lummox as it bounced around my flat, getting hair all over my settee and demanding that I put some stupid fluffy-centric show on the telly for it. I couldn’t imagine living with one of them, never mind being out in the country where packs of the little shits roam about.

Still, I heard the Yanks had it worse; the thought of those things running roughshod across the States is what kept me rooted on this side of the pond–

“…Emma, are you even listening?” I was drawn from my train of thought by August barking at me; I cleared my throat as I looked over at him.

“I try not to; I was, uh, looking for those fluffy things.” I hoped he would be more preoccupied with my sarcasm than the fact that I was lost in thought.

“I was trying to tell you, they’re right over there, just in the thicket.”

Ah. That was a bad time to not pay attention, then. I pushed past him to peer into the morass of wild bushes and undergrowth that delineated the edge of his estate.

Sure enough, there was a group (or was it herd? Pack? Flock?) of fluffies nestled in a relatively clearer patch of grass between two bushes. The first one that caught my eye was the mare, a deep purple in colour with a silver-white mane – I already found fluffies to be strange looking, but this one was especially odd. She looked downright spherical; her gut oozed out across the ground beneath her, but nevertheless looked distinctly taut. I could only presume she was pregnant (or she was just a fat fuck that gorged herself into immobility).

Three little foals sat around her bloated form - one purple, just like the mother, with a yellow mane and nursing away at her bloated tits, one blue with a grey mane, and one green with a head full of red hair, playing with its blue sibling. Whatever stallion had gotten her knocked up wasn’t around - either gathering food, getting his end away with another mare, or dead. She didn’t seem to give a toss either way as she sat there singing the same mindless, atonal refrains about how she loves her babies and ‘tummy babies’, while her foals chirped and squeaked.

As I took a step closer, the dam finally looked up, waving one of her stumpy little forelegs at us. “Hewwo, nyu fwiend; am yu no smokey munstah daddy?”

‘Smokey monster daddy’? Oh, now that was rich; I looked back at August, whose face was tinged a cheerful shade of pink as she greeted us. Grinning, I unzipped my gun’s bag, carefully removing my shotgun before handing the empty slip to my cousin; I could see his knuckles turn white as he gripped the bag. With that much pent up hostility towards them, I’m amazed he even needed me to come out and help hunt them down.

“Yes, he’s my cousin.” I replied, retrieving two shells from my coat while resting the shotgun on my shoulder, looking down at the bloated creature as I approached it. I don’t know why I felt obliged to greet this thing; it was more for the novelty, I suppose. After all, I’d never actually spoken to one, and I didn’t expect it to have anything of merit to actually say to me.

“Otay!” She beamed, wiggling in place; she dared not move, lest the brat sucking on her jugs be disturbed. “Wat dat shiny stick fo’, nyu mummah?”

Oh god. My face fell as she called me that, and I heard August scoffing behind my back; were these mentally-challenged lumps really that quick to bond to the first thing they see? Maybe it was a defence mechanism, earning pity from humans by calling them mum and dad. If so, then they were more manipulative than I gave them credit for. Or maybe they were just brainless shits that wanted to befriend everyone.

With a little flick of my thumb, I opened my shotgun, loading both chambers.

“It’s a toy. For good mothers and their babies.” I said, gritting my teeth as I shouldered the gun, the muzzle levelled with this bloated cow’s gut. My index and middle fingers curled around the triggers; all it would take is one little twitch, and I’d find out whether this fat sack of shit was pregnant or just a glutton.

Before I got the chance however, August called out, and I lowered my weapon.

“Wait, Em. Why don’t we make this a bit more interesting?” He grinned, placing a fresh cigarette into his mouth and lighting it up. The bloated dam sniffed at my gun, and winced.

“Nyu toysie nu smeww pwetty… Cadbuwy nu wan’ toy, is bad for babbehs.” I fought my urge to introduce her to the stock of my gun; I was briefly curious to see if the scent of polished walnut was more to her liking than that of metal and cordite.

“Dear cousin, I don’t think you could make… this… remotely interesting.” I remarked, gesturing to the helpless vermin in front of me; they wouldn’t fight back (unless one considers them shitting on my boots a fair defence), nor run (I’m pretty sure a quadriplegic would be able to keep pace with these things), and they stuck out like a sore thumb against the drab, earthen tones of the muddy ground and trampled leaves. There wasn’t much challenge to it; it felt downright perfunctory, really.

Still, he plucked a twenty pound note from his pocket, giving it an emphatic little flutter.

“Twenty quid says you can’t blow the head off that mare from over there.” As he spoke, he pointed to a spot about ten yards from where we stood. I wasn’t exactly Calamity Jane or anything, but a shot like that seemed too easy. Almost as soon as I thought that, he appended, “…without hitting any of her foals.”

Now there was a fun little challenge. These fluffies kept low to the ground, the foals kept close to their mother. I’d actually have to be somewhat careful about grazing her spawn.

“Bwow… head off?” The mother repeated, grabbing at her neck as her face contorted into a look of horror. “Cadbuwy nu wan’ wose head! Head is fo’ gibbin’ babbehs wicky-cweans an’ singin’ mummah songs!”

I stood in absolute shock, taking a moment to parse what the actual fuck any of that meant.

“U-Um, right. You just stay still… that’s it! If you move around to much, your head’ll pop off!” I found myself utterly agog that something so stupid could live. Did they have enough brainpower to breathe and eat at the same time?

This time, it was the foals’ turn to interject, specifically that purple one that was, until now, glutting itself on milk. “Nuuu! Nu huwt mummah! Mummah nee’ mouf to num an’ make miwkies fow bestes’ babbeh!” It screeched, puffing its cheeks out at me. I debated whether or not I should forfeit the bet and jam this little prick into the barrel of the gun, just for the hell of it, but thought better of it; fluffy gore would probably be a bitch to clean off.

“Shut up and stay still, or you’ll get-- shit, what is it they say?” I trailed off as I tried to reason with this mindless imp. Why couldn’t they just speak normally? “Forever sleep? You’ll be going to forever-sleep if you keep back-talking me.”

That seemed to shut the cretin up as it scrambled away, leaving a trail of shit in its wake as it hid from me… under its mother’s fluffy form. I cursed under my breath; I really shouldn’t have said anything, it’d be harder to avoid hitting it if it’s nestled in her fat rolls.

“Look, just stay there, don’t move. I’m gonna go over there, okay?” I demanded, striding towards my cousin, who was still grinning broadly. The wind began to pick up, the rustling of the trees filling the air as I inhaled the faint scent of dew.

“I didn’t know you had such a way with words, cousin; perhaps you should just take her home, set her up with a nice little room and pen for her foals?” He snorted with laughter, arms folded across his chest as he looked over at the abhorrent little things. The shock of being told she’d lose her head seemed to have worn off, as she eventually went back to singing her stupid little fucking song. I’ve seen animals that have no sense of object permanence, but she was something else entirely. The baby I had threatened, likewise, went back to sucking at its mother’s tits, keeping the other two away as they loudly chirped and cried about 'tummy hurties’ or somesuch rot.

Ah, parental favouritism. It did wonders for me, I can tell you; really toughened me up as a kid.

Once more, I lifted my gun, aiming at the purple heap of flab; mindlessly, she waved at me, seeing the whole thing as some inane game. So much for 'don’t move or you’ll get your head blown off’.

My fingers coiled around the triggers as I heard that purple foal begin prattling on about something. “Babbeh wan’ see hooman!”

I exhaled as I watched her lower her head; as soon as she popped back up, I’d ventilate that empty little skull of hers. With a surprising degree of speed, the fluffy dam straightened back up, with her foal held in her hooves. He beamed as he faced me, expecting to see his new caregiver and provider of spaghetti.

What he instead saw was a muzzle flash, followed shortly by twenty or so 00 pellets whizzing towards (and ultimately through) his face as his mother held him up. As the shot collided with brittle bones and pillowy fur, they puréed the neonate fluffy’s skull, sending a myriad of bones, fur clumps and a spray of blood behind him; not only had his head been totalled from the neck up, but some of the pellets clipped his torso, tearing a solid chunk out of his upper chest for good measure. Perhaps unsurprisingly, this little handful of fluff and fat provided no cover for the dam, who probably wasn’t intelligent enough to recognise what even befell her and her child in those last few milliseconds; her head had been almost entirely blown apart, little more than the top of her skull (held in place by a surprisingly resilient bit of sinew) and her lower jaw remaining. Her face had been reduced to a messy red splatter of viscera on the undergrowth, intermingling with the gore of her son’s head and upper body. Both the dam and her foal were knocked backwards by the impact, collapsing in a limp, lifeless heap, her coat and mane (what remained of it) getting matted down with blood and dirt.

There was a loud scree’ing from the other two foals as the report from my shotgun rang out, and I heard them whine and screech about ‘biggest noisies, nu wike!’ and ‘scawy munstah stick!’ I didn’t particularly care, though; instead, I was preoccupied letting out a bevy of expletives most unbecoming of a woman of my stature.

“Are you fucking kidding me?! That stupid cunt lifted him up! That wasn’t my fault! She… she cheated!” I yelled, opening up the gun and letting both empty shells eject over my shoulder with a little puff of smoke. That worthless little abomination just cost me twenty pounds (and maybe my itchy trigger finger was only partially to blame, in some infinitesimally small manner); I had every right to be furious. More vexingly, August was roaring with laughter, the cigarette falling from his mouth as he doubled over.

Snatching my case from him, I stowed my gun back inside, scowling as I zipped it up. Without another word, I gave August a twenty pound note, all but shoving it into his gloved hand before storming off towards his house. The sound of the foals’ sobbing was only further frustrating me. It was nothing but a constant, gnawing cacophony of “huuhuu!”, and the occasional squeaky burst of flatulence as they cried about making “scawedy-poopies!”

“Wait, where’re you going? You missed the other two!” His voice cracked and broke into fitful snickering as he followed behind me.

“I’m well aware of that, damnit; they aren’t going anywhere, though.” I didn’t know it for sure, but it seemed like a sensible assumption; they couldn’t waddle terribly far, and even if they did, some enterprising fox or owl might snatch them up for me.

Right then, shooting them seemed so… dissatisfying. I needed to figure out something more involved, and for that, I needed a clear head.

[First time writing a fluff story, been turning this idea over in my head for a while. I hope it’s okay; I’d love to get some feedback. Also, if I write a follow-up with the foals, I’ll make sure it’s a bit more torturous (and less heavy on the human interaction).]


I actually really like the human interaction, I’d like to know more about Emma, August less so, he’s not that interesting.
If you’d like to do something more tortuous to the remaining two, put one babbeh on a cross, make him watch his brother lose his balls, dick, hooves, limbs, ears, eyes, nose and finally heart and keep him there as a scarecrow for fluffies. Nothing makes fluffies scared like a rotting baby corpse.
I really like your writing style, excited to read more from you.


They’re gonna regret letting those foals go. While they might die due to starvation, the elements, predators, or their own stupidity, but fluffies at times are stupidly lucky, they might survive, heck even thrive, attracting even more vermin to the property.




Nice story :+1: well turns out this bitch have a bestesh baby glad they die within one shot, feel sad on the two left foals now open to the elements.

Seems fluffy is less in europe due to its climate and predators?


More target practice :smile: