The Abuser’s Web Guide - Episode 11
By: Turboencabulator
Interocitor is elbow deep in a plastic storage tub, rummaging around. His microphone is turned
off, but the camera picks up swearing and muttering. After a minute, he turns the microphone on
and pulls out a cigar box.
“Hey everyone, we’re back for Episode Eleven. Today we’re going on a special side topic that I
find endlessly fascinating, but rather under-represented in the usual places you find fluffy
information. Fluffy superstitions, folklore, and the rare ‘fluffy cult’.”
He tries to open the cigar box, but it’s stuck. After a moment of grumbling, he flicks out a
pocket knife and levers the box open.
“Aw I thought this was my old fluffy spotting photos.” He says, taking out an old, slightly
yellowed film slide. He peers through it at a light. “Looks like my brother’s baptism
photos. Weird.”
He puts the box of slides aside and sighs. “Well that was a bit of a disappointment. But either
way, the best way to find these fluffy stories is to go to the source. So, if you’ll pardon me,
I’m going to go get the food for the barn herd sorted, and then we’ll go talk with one of the
feral herds out here. I’ve found one that’s been around long enough it has an old-mummah and
old-daddy fluff.”
Interocitor is tromping through the woods, on a selfie stick and with a pack over his
shoulders, and a bale of hay. “Now, it’s a bit late in the year, so herds tend to be going into
winter lockdown mode. This is a fairly stable, good sized herd, and the last time I saw them
they had a good smarty leading them. They were a bit wary of humans first but when they figured
out I wasn’t going after them or making them move or anything, they warmed up fast.”
He turns the shot, resting the selfie stick over his shoulder and heading down a long, rambly,
brambly trail cut into the side of a shallow ravine. The last leaves were still hanging on the
trees, and the vegetation has shrunk back to a dim grey and brown starkness. “Should be down
here somewhere, I helped out making some shelters out of old plastic drums and stuff.”
“Hewwo Mistew!” A voice calls out.
Interocitor turns, and waves at a bright green fluffy standing on a rock off to one side. “Oh
hello. You all been safe?”
The fluffy nods. “Vewwy happy times, hab fuww nummie-pwaces fow de cowd-times an wots nyu
tuffies. Yu vis’tin?”
“Brought some more good bed stuff for you all.” Interocitor said, heading down into a cove like
curve of the hillside. A small clearing was there, the leaves and brambles cleared out, and the
ground stomped all over with dry grass and thin vines, making a sort of carpet. Interocitor sat
down on a low stump and set up the camera on a small tripod, then began digging through his
backpack.
Fluffies poked their heads out of drums, half-buried in the hillside, insulated with straw
under dirt layers. Others were wandering out of dug warrens, but at the forefront was a greying
old stallion and a jet black alicorn, both coming up to Interocitor.
The old stallion sat down slowly with a quiet sigh, but the alicorn stayed upright, watching
Interocitor. The human and the fluffy stared at each other, until they both made a silly face
at each other and had a quick giggle.
“Right, you lot. Bedding.” Interocitor said, hauling the bale of hay around and cutting the
wires. Fluffies came forward, proclaiming their thanks and trotting off with mouthfuls of clean
straw, lining their sleeping places. After a quick rummage through his bag, Interocitor pulls
out a tied paper parcel, and sets it down. “This is nummies, you pull the red tag and the paper
will open.”
He watched as two stallions managed to get the parcel in the nummie-place, a barrel buried at
the back of the toughie area.
“So, I had a few questions.” Interocitor said, and the two stallions perked up. “I wanted to
know what superstitions fluffies had.”
The two looked at each other, and the old stallion asked, “What su… soup-poer…”
“Superstitions.” Interocitor said, “They’re things that you believe but you don’t know
why. Like humans think that if you walk under a ladder it’s bad luck, or that if you sleep with
a certain thing over your bed, it’ll catch bad dreams.”
The old stallion nodded. “Fwuffy unnerstan. Mummah teww dat yu no shuld make poopies an
pee-pees in wawa. An nu eat nummies in dawk-time, unwess is in nummie piwe.”
Another fluffy wandered over. “Hoomin mummah said dat da night-sky-baww teww yu when da
nummie-gwassies weady fow bein bestest nummies.”
A third sat down, thinking. “Da smawty in owd hewd said dat makin dwawins in da city bad wuck.”
More fluffies gathered, sharing the little tidbits they’ve learned, until one sat down and
sighed. “A miwkie fief dat gibs speciaw huggies tu a babbeh wiww make Da Scweam come.”
Fluffies shuddered, looking around.
“What’s the scream?” Interocitor asked, leaning in, listening.
The one that spoke shivered, and looked around as well, up the hillside. “Da Scweam a wind, but
a wind of bwack and sickies fwuff, an it find fwuffies dat been weawwy, weawwy bad an when dey
awone, it scweam su woud da boo-boo juice come fwum fwuffies heaw-pwaces, an den it get aww
over da fwuffy, an weave jus da mane an taiw behind.”
The fluffies assembled all went silent, looking around, tense.
“What other things do you know of? Are there things like the scream that are nice?”
The alicorn perked up. “Yu!” He said, with a giggle. “Nicey hoomins onwy come tu nicey
hewds.”
There was a quiet shuffle as a grey and silver mare came in, laying down with the old
stallion. She tucked her forehooves under herself, and looked around. “Da jewwenheimews.”
Some flinched, others just quietly trembled. A short symphony of fear-toots came out, and one
fluffy trotted off to the filth pile. Interocitor watched as she grumbled, turning something
over in her mind, before she spoke again.
“Dey da size of a fwuffy, but hab nu hoofsies. Dey aww da wed of da sky-baww when it awwmost
compwetewy down. Bwack eyes an a smiew dat is nu smiwe. Nebbew make tawkies. Jus watch. Dey jus watch. Den bad fings happen. Den fwuffies go fowebba-sweepies in da most owwies way.”
Interocitor is washing his hands in a deep sink. “So, why fluffies come up with things like
this is wide and varied. Some of it, like drawings in the city is to prevent humans from
noticing fluffies. Some is hygiene, like not dumping in flowing water. The stories though,
they’re weirdly common throughout fluffy populations. The ‘jellenheimer’ story shows up in just
about every well established fluffy herd, even ones on opposite coasts. Where it comes from is
unknown, but it’s expected to have some connection to the baseline programming fluffies have.”
Drying his hands, he coughs once. “Excuse me. So we’re going to get on to the second part of
the episode, and the one that I find more interesting, personally. I’ve got a friend studying
fluffy behavior over at the University of Chicago, and they’ve invited me over to have a look
at the weird shit they’ve found. So I’ve got to go catch a flight.”
Interocitor is seated in a dim room with someone, who also has their face pixelated. “Folks
this is, uh, shit we didn’t pick a nickname for you did we.”
"Hi, " he says, a deep basso profundo voice. “I’m Tiny.”
“Really?”
“Shut up.”
“So, we’re going to be seeing Tiny’s research into what happens when fluffy populations become
extremely isolated. Tiny, how about you give us the rundown?” Interocitor says, leaning back
and gesturing at a wall of monitors.
Tiny turns, tapping on a control pad. “Sure, so, essentially what I’ve done is used a series of
homebrew drones to parasitically tap into power lines running in the sewers so I can observe
the fluffy population down there.”
“I thought that sewer fluffs were a myth.” Interocitor says, confused.
“In most places they are, or it’s one or two that fell in. They don’t survive long down there
usually, but here we’ve got a rarity.” Tiny says, pulling up a map of the sewer
system. “There’s basically one big system, but here and there you’ll find that little offshoots
got cut off during renovations or modifications. This populace is in a cut off area, with one
sluice leading to the outside world.”
Interocitor leans in. “How do they get food? I mean waste disposal is no problem obviously
but…”
Tiny nods, and switches over to an overlay of the city. “The pocket is right under where the
food importers lots are. All the offcuts and waste produce, well, some of it makes its way down
into the sewers. Also means a lot of the water down there is fairly clean if they get it before
it mixes with the waste.”
“Huh, that’s lucky.”
“Let me show you how odd this gets.” Tiny says, and begins showing some footage.
A fluffy with a crude necklace made from pop tabs and string is staring up at the grating,
casting the only natural light into the concrete and filth of the sewers. He hums to himself,
swaying slowly. The food has been good lately, and many babies had been born healthy. The
prayers had brought many pointy-wingies this season, and they had all been found to be worthy
Guardians.
He turned and looked at the other Speakers, the fluffies that had opened the Metal
Cans. Somehow, they had earned their place as ones who had once opened the forbidden foods. It
was time for another meeting and gift, to ensure they had food through the cold times.
The four Speakers looked at each other, and knew it was time. They grouped together, walking
into the dim twilight of the sewer system, the herd gathering behind them. Guardian fluffs went
ahead to prepare.
The fluffy with pop tabs stepped out onto a steel sheet, a bridge between the two concrete
sides of the sewers. He looked down the flow, to the spot of light at the end.
“It time.” He said, and turned to see the herd clustered in a large, half-bricked
chamber. “Bwing owt da Smawty.”
A beaten, bruised Smarty is forced out by several large alicorns. He tries to charge but is
brought down with a swift kick in the face.
“Huu huu wet smawty go, dummy poopie-hewd nu gud anyways.” He says, glaring around. “Munstas.”
The decorated fluffy sits up, arms wide as if in benediction. “Da cowd-times soon. We mus make
da hoomins an da bwite-times happy. We gib dem ouw dummy-babbies, an da Smawty. Dey wiww gib us nummies, an moaw tests. Da next Speakew may come fwum one of dese tests.”
The assembled fluffies quietly muttered to each other. One by one, a mare or stallion came
forward and put down a rejected chirpy or foal in front of the Speaker. They clustered
together, clinging on each other for warmth on the steel plate. There were a dozen by the time
the last family came through.
“Pwease, mummah, am nu dummy!” One filly, a hot pink and silver-maned unicorn, shouted. She
tried to waddle back to the herd, but a guardian swatted her back into the fluff pile. She
started sobbing, and the Speaker patted her on the head softly.
“Nu cwy, yu go to bwite-pwace, an dat mean hewd hab nummies fow cowd times.” He said.
Then he pushed the twelve children into the flow of sewage.
The Guardian fluffs muscled the smarty over to the edge and with a loud scream, booted him in.
The thirteen fluffs drowned in sewage before they ever saw the light of natural day. No tears
were shed as the herd made its way back up into the sewer, to their dens.
“Was that ritual fucking sacrifice?” Interocitor asked, bewildered.
“Not only that,” Tiny said, “but we’ve got the actual formation of a priest class and guardian
class, the belief in higher powers, and self-correcting dogma. Several of those foals were just
fine, but asked questions about why the fluffies were there, why they prayed for nummies, all
that. Questions lead away from dogma, and so they got rid of the source of questions.”
“Jesus Christ. How often does this happen?”
Tiny shrugged. “I doubt it happens anywhere fluffies have any interaction with humans. There’s
probably no way to find out but it’s going to be an incredibly small percentage of the world’s
fluff population. Unfortunately this group is due for some problems.”
“How’s that?” Interocitor asked, leaning back in his chair.
“They’re slated for extermination.” Tiny said, sighing. “Apparently the constant stream of
infant bodies clogging up the filtration system has given people enough trouble they’re just
going to get rid of 'em.”
“Shit. Well. Thank you for sharing your research with us.”
“No problem.” Tiny said, turning the monitors off. “While you’re in town, how about a beer?”
“Oh hell yes.”
Interocitor is back in his work room, and pulls out a clipboard. “Right, mail time everyone.”
"Dear Interocitor, " he begins, “Is it possible for a fluffy to become numb to the wan-die
loop?”
“Technically, yes.” He says, with a shrug. “But it’s not really that useful. All you’ve got
then is a massively depressed fluffy that might or might not be a suicide risk.”
Another check of the clipboard. “Dear Interocitor, I’ve got a four month old mare and we’ve
told her that in three months, she can have babies. However, she’s tried multiple times to
‘trick’ me into letting her breed sooner, in the usual sense fluffy way. This is beginning to
irritate me. What should I do?”
“Well,” Interocitor says, “First step would be to point out that if she keeps being bad, you
can always change your mind. Granted you then need to deal with a mare with mummah-fever and angry at you. You may want to take time to explain why she needs to wait. Having her foster
babies is a bad idea, because she can easily try to claim them as her own. If she persists, you
might want to find a bad-huggies stallion. These are stallions that have been made sterile, and
are usually either conditioned or tricked into being violent, brutal rapists. Then play it off
as ‘well I told you you should wait, this is what happens to mares who try too early.’ or
something of that nature. If it still doesn’t work, you might need to look into getting your
mare fixed so the hormones calm down. Or just beat her to death with a golf club and get a new
mare, whatever.”
“Dear Interocitor, I’ve got a feral fluffy problem and I’d like to just off the little bastard,
but I also have raccoons and other animals, so I don’t want to use a poison that would harm
them. What do you recommend?”
“A gun.” Interocitor flatly said. “Seriously, go down to your local Hall-mart or Rural Queen or
whatever, get a .22 rifle and plug the little fucker in the face. If you aren’t the shooting
type, then you just put out a red meat based bait with some tomato mixed in. Fluffies can’t
digest meat. Unless they’re cannibals. After the shitrat eats it, you just follow the groaning
and whimpering and drop a cinder block on its skull or something.”
“Well that’s it for this episode everyone, I’ll see you next time!”