You are Surge the tenrec, and you’ve had to make a call.
One of the baby fluffies you’ve collected has turned into a Smarty, and worse yet, it was one of the “Poopie” babies. This has had quite the negative effect on your well-behaved fluffy, Lil Asskicker. You’d told them that poopie babies were good, and couldn’t become Smarties; however, now, it seems you’ve got egg on your face, as the little brown foal with a pink mane squirms in your hand. “Wet gu, wet gu! Wet Smawty gu!” he was complaining, and each passing second seemed to make him more and more sure of himself. At first, he seemed reluctant to call himself a Smarty after everything you’d taught your steadily-increasing collection of rescue-fluffs; now, in the past two minutes he’s squirmed about, he’s taken to calling himself Smarty, and only seems to grow more and more bold by the second. There’s a brief moment where you think some time in a box will do him some good; a little zap here or there, any time he decides to act up. But then, a solid truth creeps across your mind; the time and effort it would take to attempt to rehab a Smarty would not only be more than you or Asskicker could give, but also had such a low success rate it would probably simply relapse by the time it was ready for ‘enfies’.
And there was that other problem too; Asskicker himself. You slowly looked at your rust-colored bowl fluff, frowning as the Smarty squeaked in your grip. You’d taught him everything he knew about Smarty extermination, and now he seemed as if he was unsure of even himself. You couldn’t let your little Toughie question himself now, not after so long. Slowly, you sighed, and stepped over the gate holding them in the room; the fluffies that had gathered - as in, yours and the two others that could walk - backed away to let you sit cross-legged on the floor.
“Aight Lil Asskicker. Looks like i was wrong. Sometimes, a Poopie can become a Smarty.” you tell him, holding the squirming little shitrat out in front of you, an inch above the ground, halfway between you and him. “But just because he was a good chirpy doesn’t mean we can relent, you understand? If we treat ONE Smarty nice, we might start treating the others nice. The ones that enf babies, or kill mummahs.”
“Nuuu! Nu tweat Smawty nice!” Asskicker proclaims, sitting upright. “Asskika am gud fwuffy! Awways gib Smawty wowstest zappies!” You smile at him, almost sadly, and then place the new-Smarty on the ground in front of him. “Then you know what to do.”
Asskicker looked down at the brown fluff as it stood back up, looking between them all. “Wha…wha’chu wook at Smawty foh? Nu wookies!” he said, turning to run towards his mummah, Princess. Your hand drops down in front of his face, stopping his advance, and he bumps his nose against your palm. “Owies!” He rubs his nose, and then glares at your hand, then up at you. “Wet Smawty gu! Meanie, dummeh mummah!” he says, and rears up, kicking at your hand with his front hooves; the impact feels like little marshmallows patting away against your skin. His leathery soft hooves are nowhere near as tough as Asskicker’s, who somehow got the ones closer to thick fingernails than leather, and since even THAT doesn’t hurt, you hadn’t expected to even feel this little guy. You shook your head and brushed him back in front of Asskicker, staring down at the two of them.
You are Lil Asskicker.
You stare down at the little brown fluffy that, until today, had been your little brother. He had been a good chirpy all his life; he’d used the litterbox, drank milkies from the milkbag, and played nice with his siblings. Now, however, he was making bad poopies all over the carpet, had called himself Smarty, and had even called your mummah Dummeh! ALL of these were signs of a Smarty, a BAD fluffy. You’d never been more confused in your life; how could such a good chirpy become a Smarty??
You looked up at mummah Surge again, frowning. She was frowning too. “Go on, Asskicker.” she said again. “You know what to do. We can’t go back on what we know.” She was right; your whole life, you’d learned that once you learned something, if you tried to do anything different, it never worked out. No matter what it was, you couldn’t go back. Slowly you looked down at the brown fluff and stood up, waddling the couple steps closer to it.
He looked up at you, a mix of fear and confusion on his face…but behind all that, that horrible look in his eyes. He puffs up his cheeks, and both Good Babbeh emotions are replaced by that angry look of a Bad Fluffy. “Wuh big bwuddah wan?” he asked, and for a moment you hesitated. He still called you brother. “Stahp stawe at Smawty! Yu an’ mummah jus’ dummeh nao! Babbeh am Smawty nao, yu du wha’ Smawty wan’!” The hesitation slipped from you, and you sighed. You swung your right front hoofsie the way mummah showed you, and felt it collide with his cheek. He let out a loud “SCREEEEE” as he rolled two feet away, and you advanced on him again.
“N-nuuu, nu gib Smawty owies!!” he begged, and once again you hesitated. He stood back up, sniffling, and then turned around, lifting his tail. Instinctively you reacted, jabbing your hoof forward against his tiny little no-no wumps. He slid forward an inch, his yelp of pain higher pitched, his front hooves ducking between his hind legs to cover the tiny little things hidden in his fur. “B…big bwuddah! Nuu!” he cried, and you stepped around to his side. “Say nu am Smawty. Babbeh be gud babbeh, and Asskika stahp.” you say. He looks up at you, and for a moment you have hope…
“Smawty nu nee’ be gud babbeh!” he squeaks out through the pain, wobbling back up to his hooves. “Bwuddah am dummeh! Tweat bestest wif owies! Smawty nu desewb huwties, desewb sketti! An wawm nestie! An huggies! An sketties!” “Babbeh am BAD babbeh.” you tell him, sitting next to him, still trying to get through to the little guy.
“Asskicker.” your mummah says firmly above you, and you look up to see her giving angry-eyes. “Enough. He’s a Smarty now. We can’t fix him.” You stare at her, hurt in your heart, and look back to the babbeh. He’s run up to you, and his little hooves are beating uselessly against your legs. “Take sowwy hoofsies! Dummeh bwuddah, yu am big, buh yu am dummeh! Smawty gon’ tee’chu wesson! Smawty make dummeh poopie-bwuddah num poopies wen Smawty am weadah!!”
You kick him again, harder this time. You feel his nose crunch under your hoof, and see boo-boo juice spill out as he rolls backwards with another loud “SCREEEE!” He cries there, writhing in pain. “Mummah! cheep Sabe bestest! peep Smawty hab owies!!” You stroll to him again, and look around. You see your other siblings standing there, cowering. You hear the chirpies in the cage chirping from fear at the painful noises. You see Princess try desperately to turn, complaining. “Nuu! Gib babbeh hewe! Dummeh ugwy fwuffy, gib Pwincess poopie babbeh NAO!” You huff, and reach down to pick up the little Smarty with your teeth, lifting him by one back hoof. “Bad upsies!! Nu gib bad upsies tu smawty! Weggo, weggo!”
You drop him in front of his mummah, your enfie-mare soon-mummah. She tries to squirm to him, but besides being bloated with your own soon-babbehs, mummah had taken her weggies a long forever ago. You pin the Smarty under your hoof, and look to the other two Walky babbehs. “Wiw babbehs, come hewe.” The other two approach carefully, and you sigh. “Dis am wha’ we du tu bad Smawties. Asskika knu was wunce gud babbeh, buh am gud babbeh nu mowe. Dis am Smawty nao. An’ Smawties get foweba sweepies.”
The two foals gasp and hug each other as your pretty zappies race across your fur. Your enfie-mare gasps and squeals, wriggling in place. “NU! NU GIB BABBEH FOWEBAH SWEEPIES! AM POOPIE BUH AM PWINCESS ONWY BABBEH!” she squeals out, desperately reaching to him with the stubs of her shoulders. The baby squirms under your hoof, reduced back to a cheeping babbeh in fear, suckling on a hoof for a moment. He takes it out just long enough to look back over his shoulder and puff up his cheeks. “Dummeh big bwuddah! Hate’chu! Smawty hate’chu, an’ hate mummah! Smawty gib wowstest poopies, gib wowstest hoofsies!” His threats were idle; as much as he tried, he couldn’t get out from under your hoof.
Your zappies kept building up, and you sighed, closing your eyes. You opened them with a grimace, staring down at the Smarty under your hoof. “Fak yu, Smawty.” you told him, and released the zappies through your hoof. You expected him to seize up like all the other Smarties you’d taken out over your life; you’d given at LEAST three forever sleepies. Three and two, actually. You almost didn’t remember the first two. But now, you did; all the Smarties had seized, had foamed at the mouth, had twitched and did a silly forever-sleepy dance on the ground, and then had gone. You expected the same to happen here, to THIS Smarty. But he was a very little Smarty, not a full-grown one, so instead…
You are Surge.
This had been hard to watch; Asskicker had tried to talk sense into it, but you needed to make sure he understood this wasn’t an expection. Smarties must die. As he charged up his tiny little shock attack - something you were SO proud of him for - you felt a smile creep along your face. “Good boy, Asskicker. Finish that bitch Smarty o-” You were cut off as the small poopie exploded beneath Asskicker’s hoof. With a tiny ‘POP’ that sounded like a water balloon filled half with gel and half with water had been burst, the little Smarty burst all over the ground between Princess, Asskicker, and the two small walky-foals you hadn’t named yet. A corona of blood and viscera covered the carpet; Asskicker had gotten some on his legs, and Princess’ face had been splattered, a tiny single eyeball slowly running down the side of her snout before landing with a barely-audible ‘plip’ in the puddle of gore below.
You stared for a good long moment. You were sure this was traumatizing to your little fluffies. It was horrible, having to kill one of their own siblings.
And yet, despite yourself, you felt your chest flutter. You felt air escape your nose. And then slowly, from a snort, to a chuckle, to outright bursting, you began to laugh. “PAAAAHAHAHAH, HOLY SHIT, IT POPPED LIKE A FUCKIN’ GRAPE!! AIN’T EVER SEEN THAT, AHAHAHAHAHA!” You covered your eyes and stomach with a hand, doing your best to keep sitting there and not rock backwards onto the cage holding the chirpies. You managed to open an eye and stand, hopping over the fence, and hurrying back into the living room, beating your fist on the ground. You’d killed a LOT of Smarties yourself, even a couple soon-mummahs, but for some reason, the sight of that tiny Poopie-Smarty exploding like that was downright hilarious to you. You couldn’t even pin down why, so you just settled on the truth; you’d NEVER seen a fluffy POP like a balloon before.
You are Asskicker.
After the Smarty popped under your hoof, you watched as mummah ran from the room, and heard as she made happy-laughs all the way out. Even when you couldn’t see her, you heard her laughter, and looked back down at the mess beneath your hoof. It didn’t look pretty or smell pretty, but it made mummah…happy?
The two foals to the side heard her laughing. They huddled together, silent, their ears perked as they sniffled in silent huhu’s, listening to mummah laugh. “Big bwuddah…” the cherry-red with a green mane spoke up. “Wai…mummah…happeh?” You looked to him, then back to the popped foal. The sound was silent except for mummah’s laughter, and the shocked whimpers from Princess as she stared down at the remains. Finally you look over at them, and decided the best option was to pretend. You perked your ears up and gave them a warm smile; the same one you gave them when they made good poopies in the litterbox. “Mummah happeh dat meanie Smawty gone! Smawty onwy foh fowebah sweepies!” you told them, standing up and wandering over to the pad in front of the litterbox, wiping blood and bits of fluffy flesh onto the absorbent pad. “Smawty…smawty can come fwom anywhew. Nee’ be pwepawed, su can make mummah happeh.”
The foals looked to their once-brother’s exploded corpse and stood, walking over to rub the gore from their fluff as well. The green one with a white mane stood there, looking at the blurry mess of red he’d gotten off his face. “Wha…wha we du…if…moh Smawty?” he asked, looking to the three chirpies in the cage.
You looked up at the them, peeping away in fear, and walked over to open the cage, gently picking them up and hugging them till they calmed down. “Fwuffy wait. Fwuffy keep eyesies open.” you tell them, and put on a reassuring smile.
“Wiw Asskika wiww gib aw Smawties fowebah sweepies, till dewe nu moh Smawties, fowebah again.”
Later that night, after the blood had been scrubbed from the carpet, Asskicker got good sketties. Despite his initial hesitancy, he had learned an important lesson.
From now on, even if the Smarty was in his own family, he’d give them forever sleepies.
[Lil Asskicker will remember this.]