You are Lil Asskicker, and so far things are going great.
After you took care of a Smarty and his herd a long forever ago - at least three and three bright times, twice - you had been getting a little more skettis than you usually did. It was like this whenever mummah saw you do a Good Job; when one of your bruddahs learned how to be a Good Fluffy, when you helped out around the house picking up the empty nummie-bags, and especially when you gave those Bad Smarties their well-deserved Forever Sleepies. You couldn’t get enough! But then, one Bright Time, things seemed to change…
It started out like any other Bright Time. You woke, made good poopies in the litterbox, nummed your kibble, made sure your Soon-Mummah Enfie Mare got food and enfies, and then let your little bwuddahs and sissies out to play. You were allowed to take them from the cage now, at least three of them; the two from the Smarty’s herd hadn’t opened their eyes just yet, but the other three were now old enough to be 'Splorin Babbehs. And what good 'Splorers they were; they 'splored around their cage, around your bed, and around the new toy housie mummah had found for you that they could just about fit in. When it was nummy time, they had their milkies from your Enfie Mare - who was also sometimes called Milk Bag (but not Princess anymore, she’d stopped calling herself that when she realized she’d be Soon-Mummah again) - and made good poopies before scooting across the pad mummah had put down to rub any ickies off onto, and then it was time to play with blockies.
At least, that’s how it was supposed to be; one of your Bruddahs, the brown one that had come home with Princess, was playing with a blockie before he’d made poopies. No biggie, you thought, maybe he just didn’t need to make them. You turned to look out into the hall, hearing the sounds of mummah’s big TV going, when suddenly a smell assaulted your nose. You wrinkled it and looked back, gasping when you saw the tiny turd behind the bright pink tail he’d grown. “Babbeh, nu!” you cried out, wandering over to gently grab him. As you lifted him away from the blocky he suddenly squealed “BAD UPSIES!”, but you had to fix this before the problem got worse; you carried him to the litterbox and set him down carefully inside.
“Sowwy, bwuddah, buh yu nee’ make gud poopies in wittabox. Assiden’ poopies nu gud poopies. Wai bwuddah nu gu wittabox when nee poopies?” you asked him, and he turned around. You were a little startled; he wore a frown on his face, and stared angrily up at you. “Babbeh wan’ pway! Nu gu wittabox, pway!” he squeaked. “Nu, nu, babbeh, when nee’ poopies, yu gu-” you try again, but then he tapped his little front hooves on the side of the box angrily. “Nu! Wan’ pway! Poopies nu gonna stop babbeh! Babbeh make poopie whewe babbeh wan’!”
You shook your head as if it was a bad bright-time picture. Surely he didn’t mean that, right? You tried again, gently pressing your hoof to his nose and pushing him off the side of the litterbox further into the sand. “Nu, babbeh.” you say more firmly. “GUD poopies gu in wittabox. Wisten to Asskika, be gud babbeh!” “Babbeh AM gud babbeh! Babbeh gu poopies whewe wan’! D…big bwuddah wisten to gud babbeh!”
You caught something before he said “big brother”, but you couldn’t make it out. It didn’t quite register to your fluffy brain. “Dat am nu how dis wowk, wiw bwuddah.” you tell him, sitting there as calmly as you can. “Yu nee wisten tu Asskika, oh mummah put babbeh in sowwy boxie.” It had only happened once before; your cherry-red brother had made accident poopies on his way from the milkies to the litterbox, and while your mummah understood it was an accident, she said he still needed to learn. She picked him up and carried him out, and for one whole bright-time you heard his soft huu-huus coming from a small boxie out in the main room. When he came back, he hugged you ALL darkie-time, and never made bad poopies again. “Yu nu wan gu in sowwy box, wite?” Your small brown bruddah whipped his little pink tail, and puffed up his cheeks. You felt a cold chill run down your back for some reason, and then his hooves stamped in front of him again. “Nu cawe! Wan’ pway bwockies!”
There was that chill down your back again; the puffing up of his cheeks, the stamping of his hooves, the “Nu cawe” attitude. Those…those were what Smarties did. Not Good Babbeh words! But…but that babbeh was a dark-colored one too! Just like you and the other good babies on TV! Just like your mummah said! A Good Babbeh can’t be a Smarty, they can’t! “Babbeh, pwease. Yu am givin’ Asskika heawt huwties.” you tell him, surely he can’t refute THAT. “Nu say wowds wike a meanie Smawty. Yu am nu Smawty, yu am gud babbeh!” Something crossed his little face then; a mix of realization, and something else. “Am…am!” he started, trembling and shaking in place. He seemed at a loss for words, and he just seemed to get angrier and angrier.
You are Surge the Tenrec.
You’ve gotten used to the babble of Fluffies in your home. When they were in the other room down the hall, it was much less annoying to hear, and oddly enough you found yourself a little happier when you heard them having fun. Today, however, things were quiet in the other room. You heard Asskicker babbling to one of the newly walking foals, and the tiny squeaks of said foal talking back. Unlike most days, however, these were…off, somehow. Not exactly happy. Even over the scuffle of your boots in Skyrim, even over the blast of fire and clash of axe, every time there was a quiet moment for the past few minutes you heard the babble, and tiny squeaks of “Nu!”
Finally, you got up from your desk, quicksaving your game and walking into the hall, just around the corner and out of earshot. “Yu am nu Smawty, yu am gud babbeh!” Asskicker was saying, and then you heard the tiny squeaks of “Am. AM!” Slowly you walked into view of the room, glancing down; there was a turd dropped next to the blockies, and the little red one you’d picked up a while back - one of Asskicker’s actual siblings from the parents you left broken and dead in an alley - was trying to get to the blockie, walking around the poopie with his nose crinkled. “Nu smeww pwetty.” he squeaked, avoiding the turd like a plague and placing his hooves around the block, trying to tug it away from the turd. You looked up a bit, and saw the brown foal that you’d brought with Princess in the litterbox, with Lil Asskicker staring him down, ears flat to his head.
And then you noticed it; the little brown foal had his cheeks puffed up and was stamping in the box. It was then that Asskicker noticed you, and stood up, walking over to the gate. “Mummah, mummah hewp! Wiw bwuddah am doin Smawty tings, buh am nu smawty!” he said, looking confused. “Mummah say poopie am nu Smawty! Buh…buh widdow bwuddah am…” He drifted off, looking back. “Widdow bwuddah make bad poopies.”
“Nu cawe! Wan’ pway bwockies!” the brown foal said, hopping out of the litterbox and dashing over to the red one. You thought he would simply play, but then he headbutt his sibling and you heard Asskicker gasp. “Am babbeh bwocky! Wan pway fiwst, nu bwuddah bwockie!” the brown foal snapped as the red one began to sob. “Wai bwuddah gib owies??” the red one asked, and the brown foal stopped, looking concerned. “Fwuffy…fwuffy…” he said, and you leaned slowly in. Your blood was starting to race, like it did when you saw alleyfluffs. Despite this being one of the babies you’d taken in and raised, you found yourself going through your inner mantra again; your punk heart was yearning, daring the little brown foal to say something. You tried to hold back; this was one of YOUR fluffies. And YOUR fluffies get trained up, not abused. But then…
“Sowwy bwuddah, fwuffy nu cawe. Fwuffy pway wif bwockies, dummeh bwuddah wait tuwn.”
Asskicker froze; the red one stopped sobbing. The green other-walking one pulled away from the milkbag mare’s teat and stared, wide-eyed. “Babbeh…yu nu caww bwuddah dummeh.” Asskicker said, tensing up, demand in his voice. “Yu am dummeh tu, foh sayin’ dat tu bwuddah.” The little brown foal’s cheeks puffed up, and he looked around, looking fit to burst, as if trying to find something, anything…but his coding doomed him. He turned to Asskicker and puffed up his cheeks. “Babbeh am nu dummeh, Big Bwuddah am dummeh!! Yu am aww dummeh! Smawty am nu dummeh!!!” Despite your best efforts, despite it being a poopie babbeh, the little brown foal with a pink mane just called itself Smarty…and you acted on reflex.
You leaned into the enclosure, your hand shooting out. You gripped the brown foal in your fist, and you felt your mouth break into a wide grin as you lifted him up to your face, your arm flexing, your fingers starting to squeeze. “BAD UPSIES, NU WIKE, MUMMAH!” the brown foal cried, and you snapped out of it. You could feel your thumb press against it’s tiny chest, enough to feel it’s rapid heartbeat. You felt your fingers curled in, each one pressed up along it’s body. In it’s fear, it began to make scaredy-peepees and poopies, and from where you held him, Princess - or rather, Enfie Mare - began to squeal and complain as it dropped on her head. “Nuuuu, nu gib sowwy poopies!! Bad babbeh!!” she squealed, her stumps wriggling about.
“Mummah?”
Asskicker’s voice drew your attention. You stopped grinning, looked down, and saw him trembling. “Mummah…Asskika am…hab bad tinky-pwace owies.” he said, staring at the brown foal in your hand. “Poopie babbeh say am Smawty, but mummah say poopie nu can be Smawty. Su…am…am poopie Smawty?” Your heart sinks, and you look back to the foal in your hand, loosening your grip. “I guess…i was wrong.” you tell him. “I guess Smarties just happen sometimes.” He took the information in stride, it seemed, and then looked to you and then to the Smarty. “Su…what am du?”
The foal in your hand puffed up his cheeks, tears staining the fur down his face. “Dummeh mummah…wet Smawty down…” he told you, sounding unsure of even himself. “Wet down, nu wike upsies.” You stared at him, and realized…you had to make a call.
- Kill Smarty
- Asskicker kills Smarty
- Try rehab
- Let Asskicker keep trying
