Emily checked her phone for the tenth time as the minutes passed by. She sighed. 4:17 PM. Jenny was late. Again.
Emily let out a long, dramatic expulsion of air that caused the teenage barista behind the counter at “Speedy Espresso” to raise an eyebrow. Emily just ignored him. She was beyond caring about social niceties when her dumbass friend Jenny’s chronic tardiness was totally derailing her carefully planned day at the mall.
After paying for her drink, Emily found an empty bench and sat down with a huff. “Does this bitch think I got all day?” Emily muttered as she pulled out her cell phone and looked over her recent text messages.
Her iced latte was already lukewarm at this point; the foam had half dissolved into a sad, milky film. With a scoff, she buttoned up her favorite navy blue Hollister cardigan, her gaze sweeping over the bustling mall atrium. Parents wrangled screaming toddlers towards the many bright toy stores. Groups of dumb giggling teen girls clustered around the latest fast-fashion displays, gasping in awe as they viewed the latest trends. A synthetic pop song, over-caffeinated and relentless, pulsed from unseen speakers. It was all a carefully curated, loud consumerist cacophony, and Emily was usually an enthusiastic participant in such displays. But today, she was sitting on the sidelines waiting for her dumb bitch friend to show up. Seriously, who takes nearly half an hour just to show up?
“This bitch better give me a lift home if she expects me to wait this long. Christ, it’s been like 30 minutes, that’s practically a whole day.”
As Emily sat there, a sudden creeping feeling slowly emerged, as this whole day was all too familiar.
“Jesus. She better not have another one of her lame ass surprises,” Emily muttered bitterly. She could easily recall the past few atrocities that Jenny gifted her that year alone. There was a time when Jenny had gifted her a crystal that was supposedly “charged with ancient benevolent energy,” but just looked like a particularly dull rock that had been dropped in sand. Or the ‘vintage’ sequin scrunchie that turned out to be a fuck ugly hairball fished from the very back of a thrift store bin. Jenny meant well, her heart was in the right place, but Emily had no clue where her damn brain was. God, how Em hated well-meaning but fundamentally confused heart, the girl had a knack for finding the most utterly fucking stupid, inconvenient, and downright retarted gifts. And her timing for revealing these shitty gifts was always impeccable.
Emily was debating on leaving right there before Jenny could show up.
A flicker of movement caught her eye. Over by the main entrance, a figure was weaving through the crowd, a large, shapeless bundle clutched protectively to her chest. Jenny. Finally. Emily straightened, a steely resolve settling over her features. Whatever it was, she was prepared. She had cultivated years of practiced eye-rolls and cutting remarks for just such an occasion.
Jenny, a whirlwind of apologies and disheveled blonde hair, finally skidded to a halt in front of Emily. “Oh my god, Emily, I am SO, so, so sorry! The bus was, like, completely late, and then I had to make a quick stop, and then…” She trailed off, her usually bright blue eyes darting nervously from Emily’s stern face to the bundle she held.
Emily’s eyes narrowed. “A quick stop? What kind of quick stop involves you clutching something like you’re smuggling drugs? Actually, that would be pretty cool?”
Jenny giggled, a nervous, high-pitched sound. “It’s not drugs, don’t worry! It’s… It’s a surprise, this one has to be the best so far!” Her voice took on that familiar, overly enthusiastic lilt that always preceded an unveiling of pure, unadulterated Jenny-chaos. She presented the bundle, gently pulling back a corner of the soft blanket.
Emily braced herself for the next couple of minutes. She expected a particularly ugly ass accessory like a random necklace or earring, that would snag on her sweater and rip open her ears. Or maybe it was some lame ass doll, probably from one of those stupid video game stores. Emily, however, did not expect what she saw next.
Nestled in Jenny’s reverent hands, blinking up with wide, innocent eyes, was a bright red, fluffy pony foal. An extremely fat fucking foal, Em was honestly surprised that ugly fuck hadn’t died of a heart attack.
Emily froze. Her carefully constructed facade of annoyance cracked, replaced by an expression of pure, visceral horror. She hated fluffy ponies. Hated them with a passion that bordered on the irrational, a hatred born of their sickly sweet cuteness, their incessant demands, and the sheer biological absurdity of their existence. They were bio-engineered pets, designed for maximum adorability and minimal intelligence, but often turned out to be whiny, messy, and prone to sudden, inexplicable emotional outbursts.
This particular specimen was a bright crimson, a startling, almost unnatural shade of red, with a neatly coiffed dark brown mane and tail. Its tiny hooves were the color of polished obsidian, and its nose was a perfect, slightly damp pink button. It looked like a living, breathing cartoon, a saccharine nightmare.
“Aw. Isn’t he just adorable?” Jenny cooed, gently stroking the fluffy’s head. “His name is Cinnamon! I just saw him in the pet store window and he was, like, looking right at me with his little sad eyes, and I knew he was meant to be yours!”
Emily felt a vein throb in her temple. “Eh? The fuck you mean mine?” Her voice was dangerously low. “Jen, you know how I feel about these things. What the fuck made you think I’d want one?”
“Oh come on! That’s only because you’ve never had a good one!” Jenny insisted, oblivious. “Cinnamon is special! The guy at the store said he’s really smart! He’s, like, even more intelligent and responsive than the regular fluffies. He’ll be a great pet! You can dress him up, and take him for walks, and he’ll give you hugsies and stuff!”
“… In what fucking world does that sound like something I’d ever wanna do?”
The fluffy, Cinnamon chose that moment to stir. Its large, liquid eyes, previously fixed on Jenny, swiveled to Emily. A tiny, high-pitched voice, surprisingly clear despite its small size, echoed in the otherwise bustling atrium.
“Wan’ sketti! Wan’ toysie! Dis’ hoomin gibe Cinnamon toysie and sketti nao! Wan Wan Wan’!”
Emily’s face hardened. “Oh, for God’s sake. It’s a fucking smarty too? Jenny, are you serious with this shit? It’s already demanding shit and it hasn’t even been here for a full minute.” Her initial horror was quickly morphing into a familiar, seething irritation.
Jenny winced, but tried to defend her choice of gift. “He’s just hungry, Em! He’s trying to communicate! See? He’s smart! He even knows what ‘sketti’ is!”
“Sketti is spaghetti, Jenny,” Emily bit out. “That shit is like a universal fluffy demand. It’s not a sign of advanced intellect, it’s a sign of inbreeding and a lack of self-control, bet you right now the ugly little fucker is gonna take a massive shit on your hand in the next few minutes.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper.
“I seriously cannot believe I waited around for a fuck ugly fluffy. Get that thing away from me before I… I don’t know. Before I accidentally-on-purpose dropped it in one of the decorative fountains.”
Cinnamon, unperturbed by Emily’s threat, wiggled in Jenny’s arms. “Gib! Gib! Gib Smarty Nao! Bestes’ babbeh wan’ nummies and toysie! hoomin gib WITE NAO! Gib!” The fluffy’s grading voice only grew louder, more insistent, bordering on a whine. It started to kick its tiny hooves against Jenny’s chest, a surprisingly strong movement for such a small creature.
Emily recoiled further. The sheer audacity of the ugly creature, its entitled waddle, the way its little head bobbed back and forth as it demanded shit like it had any kind of authority. Dear god, that thing was everything she hated about Fluffies, magnified by its “smarty” nature.
“Oh, Jesus Christ. Shut the fuck up! You fat, whiny little dipshit! Like, seriously, I am not in the mood for this shit! fuck off! Go bitch to someone else!” Jesus, Emily could imagine this whole shitshow from an outside perspective
Here she was in a well-populated mall having a full schizo meltdown in front of some dump fuck children’s toy
The fluffy stopped, its red fur seeming to bristle. Its unnatural wide eyes narrowed, the soft little button nose twitching. It let out an entitled huff, a sound that Emily had heard way too many times before. Oh fucking shit! Emily knew where this was heading. With a sudden, deliberate shift in the fluffy’s fat body, it angled its hindquarters, and a small, perfectly formed, brownish-green pile of liquid feces splatted wetly onto the back of Emily’s outstretched hand. It almost had the appearance of a mudslide. Hell, Emily would certainly describe this whole afternoon as a natural disaster, that’s for sure.
Emily stared, aghast, at the tiny, steaming turd on her skin. A sickly sweet, vaguely grassy smell wafted up, mingling with the mall’s generic perfume of cinnamon buns and disinfectant. The warmth of the fresh biological deposit was sickening.
“Oh my god, Cinnamon!” Jenny gasped, horrified at the horrible behavior she had just witnessed. “No! Bad fluffy! Bad!”
But Emily didn’t bother listening to whatever Jenny was going to say. A primal, unthinking wave of pure revulsion washed over her. Not anger, not even disgust, but a sudden, overwhelming need to be rid of the offending substance, and the creature that had just produced it. Her hand, the one with the fluffy poop, instinctively swung out, not a punch or a slap aimed at the fluffy specifically, but a frantic, violent gesture to dislodge the repulsive matter from her skin.
Her open shit smeared, palm connected squarely with the side of Cinnamon’s fat, ugly face. And unfortunately for the foal, he was now covered in shit, but that was the least of his problems.
The impact was shockingly solid. The fluffy, still in Jenny’s arms, let out a startled ‘ooph!’ as the force of the blow, combined with its small size and Jenny’s pathicly loose grip, sent the ugly little shitrat rocketing right out of her hands.
“SCREEEEEEEEEE!!! WAI HUWT BABBEH?”
The foal let out a squeal of terror as another volley of shit exploded out of its bowels, which covered the once pristine tire floors with a sickening light brown sludge. Clearly, the fat little shit had spent the past few days just gorging himself on his mummah’s miwkies. At least that’s what Emily assumed.
For a terrifying, drawn-out second, time seemed to slow for Cinnamon, the bright red projectile, tumbled end over end through the air. Jenny gasped, her hand still outstretched where the fluffy had been. Emily stood frozen, her hand still hovering in the air, a smear of brownish-green visible on her palm. Her expression was one of annoyance mixed with disgust.
The mall, previously a hub of cheerful noise, almost seemed to hold its breath as the fat, ugly foal flew through the air. A shame he wasn’t a pegasus or whatever the name was, at least then he would have been squealing happily and buzzing his stubby little wings, he probably would have thought that he was flying. But instead, this foal was just a boring old earthy. Honestly, Emily would have preferred if the foal were a pegasus, which would have made the eventual shitshow ten times funnier.
Cinnamon arced through the space between the coffee shop and the main thoroughfare. Directly ahead, a pair of chrome escalators descended into the mall’s lower level, where the food court churned with lunchtime diners. The fluffy, caught in an impossible trajectory, hit the top step of the downward-moving escalator with a soft thud.
It bounced once, a small, vibrant red ball of fluff, then slid down the metal steps, picking up speed. Emily watched, detached, as the fluffball tumbled, a tiny, helpless thing. It reached the very bottom, where the steps fed into the grinding maw of the escalator machinery.
A sudden, sharp shriek pierced the air – not a whimper, but a pure, unadulterated cry of terror and pain. Cinnamon’s tiny limbs, flailing uselessly, Emily couldn’t quite tell, but it looked like the side of its stomach had been snagged on the very last descending step just as it began to disappear into the machinery. Cinnamon’s bright red fur, its soft, chubby body, caught in the relentless, indifferent maw of the escalator’s gears and chains.
The foal’s screams intensified, a horrifying, high-pitched wail that was abruptly cut short as the machinery pulled the fat foal further under, its soft skin barely able to withstand the force of the machinery. All the fat foal could do was shriek out in pain as it writhed around, cheeping and peeping desperately for help that would never come.
“SCREEEEEEEEEE! HUWTIES! WOWSTEST HUWTIES! PWEASE NU HUWTIES”
There was a wet, sickening crunch, a sound that was then swallowed almost immediately by the whirring and grinding of the escalator itself. By now, several random mall shoppers had noticed all the commotion and soon gathered around the unsightly display. A few shoppers who were unfazed by the screaming, fluffy foal simply moved on with their day, continuing with their shopping spree like normal, while some couldn’t help but look at the ugly, fat foal and all the gory details.
A few random shoppers who were unlucky enough to be using the same escalator that was currently eviscerating the helpless shitrat had to carefully step over the bloody mess to avoid being in the splash zone. Some audibly gasped as they jumped over the last few steps, and others cursed in frustration at the inconvenience. One guy even pulled out his phone a snapped a pic as he laughed. Emily was tempted to give the guy a high five, but stopped herself once she noticed his lame ass guitar pic necklace; seriously, who still wears that shit?
A collective gasp went through the mall. People stopped, conversations died, heads turned. A woman screamed, a high-pitched, terrified sound. Jenny, her face ashen, stumbled forward, her hand flying to her mouth. Her eyes were wide, horrified saucers, fixed on the bottom of the escalator.
Honestly, Emily was almost impressed with just how much blood a single fat shit rat could hold, not to mention all the shit as well, thank fuck she wasn’t the janitor at this dump, cause fuck trying to clean that shit up. Oh actually? Would they force her to clean up this shit? Like the time she dropped her slushy and security made her clean it up?
Shit, if that was the case, maybe she should make her exit before security showed up. Emily’s thoughts, however, were abruptly interrupted when several vocal gasps and screams were heard as the fat little foal suddenly popped from the great pressure, seems his fat ass was no match for the escalator mechanism.
A dark, wet smear was appearing on the bright chrome floor, spreading outward. Then, a small, unidentifiable clump of red and brown gore, smeared with crimson, emerged from under the steps, followed by a final, horrifying squelch. The whirring of the escalator continued as if nothing had happened, relentlessly chewing and spitting out the remains of the foal.
A small, gruesome puddle of blood and gore coalesced at the very bottom, a horrifying testament to the sudden, brutal demise of Cinnamon the ugly, fat shit rat. The sweet, cloying smell of sugar and coffee in the air was suddenly, sickeningly, replaced by the metallic tang of fresh blood a shit.
Jenny gagged, a desperate, retching sound. She clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes still fixated on the grizzly scene for another agonizing second. Then, a fresh wave of nausea seemed to seize her. She spun on her heel. Emily could have sworn that her friend’s entire face turned green,
“Oh my god, oh my god! I’m gonna be sick!” And just like that, Jenny bolted in the opposite direction, weaving erratically through the stunned shoppers, heading straight for the nearest restroom, her retching coughs echoing behind her.
Emily stood alone, her arm still extended from where she had smacked the fluffy. Her hand, still stained with the tiny, abhorrent turd, trembled almost imperceptibly. Her gaze was fixed on the small, bloody pile at the foot of the escalator. The screams still echoed in her ears, but they were already fading, replaced by a strange, cold silence in her mind.
A couple of mall security guards were already pushing through the gathering crowd, their radios crackling. A few people were pointing, whispering, and looking at Emily with a mixture of shock and accusation.
Emily didn’t exactly feel much from the whole shitshow. No guilt, no regret. Just a lingering feeling of profound disgust from the fluffy’s final, messy act. She looked at her shit-smeared hand, then back at the pile of fluffy gore smear on the escalator.
A part of her, a very dark, unacknowledged part, felt a perverse sense of validation. That ugly ass creature, that demanding, entitled, messy little abomination, had gotten exactly what it deserved. It was a fluffy after all. And Emily hated fluffies. Every single cell in her body, every rational and irrational thought, screamed that fact. Now, the proof lay at the bottom of a descending escalator, a messy, gruesome testament to her unwavering, absolute disdain.
She finally lowered her arm, the small stain on her hand a stark, unpleasant reminder of that whole shitshow. Her eyes drifted slowly from the gory scene, past the horrified faces of the few remaining onlookers, towards the sign for the nearby fuffy mart.
Emily wondered if the foal’s mother saw the whole thing? Maybe? Hell, its mother probably heard all the screaming. Honestly, she didn’t care. With how that little fucker was acting, his mom was probably a massive bitch anyway. Emily thought about it; there was probably a term for it, but she couldn’t remember. Right now, she needed to wash her hands. And maybe, just maybe, she’d send Jenny a text later when she gets home. Something short. Something like, See? I told ya bitch >3<.
