The Abuser’s Web Guide, Episode 16
By: Turboencabulator
Interocitor limps into frame, setting a cane against the white table and adjusted the mic
clipped to his shirt.
“Hello, hello. New microphone, hopefully it doesn’t sound like garbage.” He says, then cracks
his knuckles and continues. “Also, before you ask, I’m fine, this is why you wear safety gear
when using a four-wheeler.”
He reaches under the table. “Right everyone, today we’re covering a niche topic.”
With a bit of effort, he takes a trophy out from under the table and sets it up. “Whoo. This is
heavier than I remember. This is my 4H trophy for fluffy intelligence competition. Got this
four years ago when my own little Clipper beat the state fluffy champion at checkers. Today
we’re going to be talking about competition fluffies, the popular forms, advice for rearing and
training, as well as some more unpopular elements of competitive fluffery.”
He takes a moment to return the trophy to under the table. “Now, of course we need to address
the obvious, no, I am not advocating gambling on fluffies. That’s a whole other kettle of
fuckery.”
“That being said, we can begin with an overview of common competitions.” Interocitor says, and
the image cuts to a series of short vignettes of different competitions. “Generally, you’ll
find physical dexterity competitions, intelligence, studding, breeding, and the usual ‘show’
fluff competitions.”
The shot returns to Interocitor. “Personally I rather dislike show-fluffy stuff, and any
category that allows you to buy your way in to a good ranking. 4H for instance requires you to
document that a fluffy you enter in competition is both raised by yourself and from a litter in
your own household. Farmhold. Whichever.”
“First, a word. Most show-fluff competitions are ridiculously unfair and rigged so the same old
crew wins over and over, or it’s set up so the ‘winner’ is the person who drops the most cash
in the donation box. Most of these you can tell from a distance because almost universally
these competitions are for ‘Broadcast Grade’ fluffies. This means that the fluffies are judged
on if they are to Hasbro’s quality standard for a fluffy that would look good in a commercial.”
“Guess what happens when a fluffy wins?” Interocitor asks, then holds up two photographs. One
shows a slightly vacant-looking mare with a distinctive streak of white in her fluff, the other
is a still from a commercial with six reasonably grown foals, four of which have the same
streak.
“They get the living fuck bred out of them, of course. Broadcast grade fluffies are not cheap.”
He puts the photographs away. “Now, we won’t be covering physical dexterity competitions, since
those just require you to be able to steer a fluffy through an obstacle course until they learn
the route themselves. You probably already have ideas on how you can motivate a fluffy. It’s
far easier than training a canine to do this since fluffies and humans can communicate.”
“More interesting though is going to be the intelligence and, a personal favorite of mine, the
fluffy eating competitions.”
“But first, we’re going to cover studding and breeding competitions.”
Interocitor walks into a small barn, not his own, and waves as the fluffies cheer and say their
greetings.
“We’re visiting a friend of mine who focuses on stud and breeder rearing, though he won’t be
appearing on camera. Let’s go over and find one of his trainee stallions.”
Interocitor wanders into the barn, occasionally stopping to say hello to a penned fluffy or
small family. Eventually he goes through into a modest sized room, with what appears to be a
fluffy-sized running track on a table. There’s a stallion chugging his way around the far bend
at top waddle, and a small curtained off area on the table.
“Studding competition is pretty straightforward in concept. The fluffy who can successfully
impregnate the most mares in a row wins.” Interocitor says. “This is Wil, his father, fluffy
father that is, was regional champion last year with twenty-one litters.”
Wil slows to a stop near Interocitor and flops down on his side, panting. “Hewwo haaf
mistew.”
“Hi Wil, you’re having a running day?”
Wil shook his head and got up, stretching a bit. “Got enfie-toy evewy time wound the twack.” He
says, pointing to a large artificial mare-rear jutting out of the table’s surface behind the
curtains. “Makin Wiw tiwed, haf guud feews, den wunnies, den guud feews, den wunnies.”
“Well you’re getting better at it aren’t you?” Interocitor asks.
Wil nods, and then puts a serious face on. Which on a fluffy is remarkably similar to
constipation-face. “Gun do bettew dan daddeh did. Yu see.”
“I’ll be there.” Interocitor said, and watches as Wil takes off again, with renewed vigor, and
mounts the fluffy fleshlight in the curtains.
Interocitor turns to the camera. “Everyone has their own method of training, but in the end it
really is a stamina and endurance competition. Blood tests for steroids are standard, but most
competition fluffies are allowed natural supplements in their diet like Zinc and other things
that might help their performance.”
He walks out and into a less populated part of the barn, full of equipment in storage. “Of
course some people may be pointing out at this point that even with small studding competitions
this would result in a stupidly large number of fluffies being born with no reason. Naturally,
such a competition would be, at best, frowned upon. The standard treatment for this is that
first, the mare pool is made up of mares that would like to get pregnant and their owners have
said yes. These of course go home with their owners and have their babies and what have you.”
“The remainder, it depends on the group, but most common is to just burn them. Some sell them
off to abuse studios for cash, others use them for education on how to help fluffies give
birth, then just pop the little one’s necks after the lesson is over. They’re not allowed to go
further.”
He steps into another room, turning out the overhead lights, and pulling a heavy curtain
aside. “This room is soundproofed, and behind one-way glass, for observation.”
The area on the other side of the glass is done up as a fantastic raised-floor playroom,
horseshoe shaped along three of the four walls, and a narrow walkway in the middle. The fluffy
area comes up to around hip height, with four fluffies in it. There is a stallion, an earthie,
watching from a pad in one corner. With him is a gelding pegasus, sitting up. The third and
fourth are a pegasus mare and a very pregnant earthie dam, being assisted on the way to the
litterbox.
“Breeding competitions are usually for things like litter size, average foal weight, there’s
any number of categories, but it all revolves around having big, healthy litters. Superbreeders
like Matty in there are specifically bred for, and can take dozens of generations to get one
that’s viable.”
“Matty is almost ideal, except she’s uh…” Interocitor thinks for a moment, then looks at the
camera. “She’s fucking dumb. I mean even fluffies notice. Usual policy is for one minder to
help keep the breeder happy, and their special friend. I’m guessing the gelding in there is so
her special friend doesn’t go nuts from lack of mental stimulation. And possibly so he can get
his rocks off.”
“But, in this case, you want to focus on the basics. Healthy dams produce healthy litters, and
earthies are the toughest variety, so they generally produce the most well-established
litters. Also, most serious super-breeder competition starts with ferals or farm fluffies,
since they have more hardy genetics compared to boutique-bred.”
“A relaxed environment and good feed is paramount, and you’ll want a helper fluff on hand at
minimum, doubly so if you don’t allow fluffies to pair-bond. Having a special friend has its
pros and cons, especially if you target a pregnancy to come to term during a competition’s
submission timeframe.”
“Usually for a breeding competition, the mare is supposed to be on-site, so getting her used to
that is an important part of the training. If she’s ill-behaved towards babies that of course
is a massive deduction in points, since the mother’s demeanor is counted as part of ‘how well
she breeds’.”
“Also it should be noted that usually a mare has one shot at a competition, unless all her
babies are adopted or the owner declares he’s going to keep all of them. Otherwise they’re
disposed of, usually the same day they’re squirted out.”
The helper mare is taking time to make sure Matty is pointed in the correct direction to use
the litterbox. Interocitor heads out before it goes any further.
“However, stud and breeder mares can be sold for quite a lot of money, even if they did not
come in first. If a champion stud also is known to produce good offspring, they can be sold to
boutique breeders or breeding farms for a good sum. Same with super-breeders of stable genes
and good temperament.”
“But, these are not competitions I have personally entered in before, so I would recommend
going on the video archives and looking up ‘HRFluffandStuph’. They have a lot on raising studs
and breeders. Let’s head back to my fluffing studio and we’ll take a look at one of the more
hilarious competitions to enter in.”
Interocitor is washing his hands in a deep-well sink. “So, one of the more accessible and fun
competitions you can get into is competitive eating. Not you, but a fluffy. They’re little food
vacuums if you give them half a chance, and there’s a wide variety of categories to compete
in.”
He dries his hands, going back to his table. “The first and most obvious is speed-eating. This
would be something akin to hotdog eating competitions. Fluffies get a big tray of something
reasonably tasty and have a set amount of time to consume as much as possible. There’s also the
other kind of speed-eating, where the amount of food is fixed, and whoever eats it all the
fastest wins, but this is less popular.”
“Next there’s challenge eating, which might be eating feces, live bugs, rotten foods, or my
personal favorite, spicy food. You would be surprised how well fluffies can tolerate hot foods
if you acclimate them to it over time. Not as well as humans but close enough to be mildly
impressive.”
“But overall my absolute favorite food competition category is the Feast. The concept is
simple, every fluffy gets an unlimited supply of delicious food. First one to eat itself to
death gets one award, and the fluffy that ate the most before dying wins another. Corks are
mandatory.”
“Let’s start with speed-eating and the Feast. The training is essentially the same, you want to
train your fluffy to get as much as it can as fast as it can. There will be a minor differences
such as Feast fluffies are emotionally abused a bit more. Everyone has their own secret sauce
with training these fluffs.”
Interocitor is at the door to a room, slipping his shoes off and padding in quietly. It’s dim
inside, with a quiet white noise playing through the raised pens. Each pen was sunk a few
inches down, padded deep, and warmed. A few minder fluffies were milling around, on the raised
divisions between the padded depressions.
The pens were full of chirpies, around ten to each, all deeply asleep in fluff piles, except
for one or two here and there wiggling around or suckling. Interocitor went from pen to pen,
quietly checking on the chirpies within. He gently moved one back in to the fluff pile it had
wandered away from, and then went over to where one of the minders was resting.
He turns to the camera. “This is Orbit, if you all remember Selkie’s first litter he was the
one with breathing issues. He’s fine now.”
Orbit sits up with a little yawn.
“Hewwo Daddeh.” He says quietly, looking over the sunken pens. “Bebehs be 'citabwe today.”
“Orbit, have you had any babies being greedy eaters?”
With a little frown and a huff, Orbit nods. “Wun of de wuns in yewwow. Had tu gib widdle
nosey-boop when babbeh nu stop twyin tu get miwkies. Ebben gabe widdle sowwy-hoofies tu next
chiwpy an twy steaw miwk fwum dey nu-weaw-miwkie-pwace.”
“Was this after it had fed normally?” Interocitor asks, looking over at the yellow-rimmed pen.
“Yus daddeh. Da big hand was pointin down when babbies had miwkies, an when big hand was
pointin uppies, da chiwpy went bak tu twy an get mowe. Da odder chiwpy nu eben be nummin, was sweepin’ neaw da nu-weaw-miwkie-pwace.” Orbit said, with a sigh. “Nu unnerstan’.”
“That’s alright.” Interocitor said, walking over to the yellow pen and looking in.
There were only eight chirpies in this one, most of them of good coloration and healthy
plumpness, but one was a bit fat, suckling insistently on its own hoof. Interocitor reached in
and gently rolled it on its back, inspecting the infant. It peeped and churred, lightly kicking
on its back in confusion. It was a filly.
“Dat da wun.” Orbit said, walking over carefully.
“Little tubster isn’t she.” Interocitor said with a smile. “Seems to be calmed down.”
“Onwy cuz gabe hew a widdle sweepytime miwk.” Orbit said. “Fiwwy was makin woudest angy noises when nu get mowe miwkies.”
“Really.” Interocitor said, a bit more serious. “I think I have a better place for her, then.”
Orbit nodded and sighed. “Gud.”
In normal light, the filly is shown to be a cream and saffron streaked earthie. She suckles and
kneads at Interocitor’s finger, making little frustrated peeping noises.
He’s holding her, seated, and gently deposites her in a pen on a side table. “Right, now we’ve
got our greedy little goober, time to discuss what’s going to happen.”
After a minute of watching the filly nose around, searching for food, he turns back to the
camera. “A bit of testing indicates that this particular fluffy does not have pica, which would
have invalidated her for competition. Greedy feeders like this can be easily broken of the
habit by keeping to a strict four-hour feeding schedule, but in our case we want to use it to
our advantage.”
“I’m going to be doing this on easy mode though.” Interocitor says, picking up a large alicorn
and holding him on his lap. “This is Bismarck.”
The charcoal and steel alicorn looks at the camera and nods, his wings fluttering a bit.
“Bismarck is very intelligent and uh…” Interocitor trails off, thinking.
“Bismawk nu wike stoopid fwuffies. Which comes tu mean most uf dem.” Bismarck says, grinning a
bit. “Su Bismawk gun hep Intewocitow fuk wit da devewopment uf fwuffies fow swits an giggwes.”
Interocitor grins and scritches Bismarck all over. “He’s got a wonderful case of being
misfluffopic. And it isn’t really ‘stupid’ fluffies. It’s just the bad ones, right?”
“Wite.”
“So, Bismarck is going to help me raise… I suppose we need a name for her.”
“Pigwet.”
Interocitor laughs once. “Piglet it is. We’re going to be conditioning her in two main
ways. She’ll get two grades of food, ‘good’ and ‘bad’. ‘Good’ food will taste delicious, but
won’t be filling at all. She’ll have a fixed amount of time to enjoy the good food. We’ll
probably spike it with hormones so she doesn’t get any satiation at all from eating ‘good’
food.”
“Bad food will be bland but filling. She only gets good food for a meal if she eats all of her
bad food, uses the litterbox, all that. This teaches her to gorge herself on good food. The bad
food will be increased in quantity slowly over time, so she develops a larger stomach
capacity.”
“And Bismarck will be managing her.” Interocitor says, ruffling Bismarcks’ scruff
softly. “Providing the right amount of abuse and such so she only gets real happiness from
eating.”
Bismarck giggled softly, looking down at the chirpy in the pen.
Interocitor opens an antique pharmacy cabinet, pulling out the working surface from its stored,
closed position, and begins setting up a scale. “Now, before we can let Bismark have his fun,
we need to get Piglet long enough along in life she can feed herself. We’re going to exploit a
little factor of fluffy biology to get her training started even when she’s on milk.”
He begins measuring out powders, adding them to the scale. “Infant fluffies feed until they’re
full. However, there is some kind of mechanism in them that determines the quality of their
feed. The standard ‘every four hours’ is for full-nutrition, healthy milk or formula. If they
get sub-par nutrition, they actually will increase their metabolism, excrete extra urine to
reduce liquid volume in their digestion, and need fed more frequently.”
“This is why you’ll often find abandoned dams unable to feed their whole litters, even if
they’re otherwise competent mothers. In the worst cases the mother might be producing little
more than milk-colored water and her children starve with full bellies and overactive
bladders.”
“So for our purposes, we need to make a feed that keeps Piglet healthy, but makes her body
think she needs to feed more often. The first and most important thing for the little ones is
going to be glucose, but we don’t want her to have satiation if possible. So we’re starting out
with quinoa flour and powdered oats, as carbohydrates get processed to sugar, plus the fiber
will help keep her from being bunged up.”
He continues putting powders on the scale and adjusting the weight bars. “I’ll have multiple
formulations noted down in the description box of the video. Next though is the second most
important thing for a little one, which is fats. Fats are what make fluffies feel ‘full’ the
most at this stage, so we’re going to be doing a little trick.”
Interocitor pours the powders so far into a bottle. “So far in here we have vitamin
supplements, our carb sources, and a very small amount of miracle berry powder. This will let
us slip the normal healthy required amount of fats into Piglet without her having the flavor
and ‘full’ mouth-feel that fats give. Now for the liquid additives.”
He takes out one bottle at a time, adding a few drops or so from each. “First, an old favorite,
ghrelin, to increase hunger. A bit of highly dilute nicotine so even if she hates this stuff
she’ll want to eat it anyways. This will be removed after a few feedings when psychological
dependence has been established. Then, a touch of lemon juice to mask the chemical flavors, and
finally, a teeny tiny bump of caffeine. First to help really kick the other chemicals into her
system, but also because it fucks with serotonin production. Dose her this early and she’ll
have lifelong chronic depression.”
After a moment of staring at the bottle in front of him, Interocitor sighs with a chuckle. “Man
if you told me when I was graduating high school I’d have a career giving talking shitpigs
eating disorders I’d want some of whatever you were smoking.”
He adds some full fat milk to bring the bottle up to volume, seals it, shakes it well, and puts
it in to warm. “Once that’s up to temperature, it’s feedin’ time.”
Piglet squeaks quietly as Interocitor picks her up, waking her from a nap.
“Aw, Piglet. Did I spook you?” He coos quietly, mockingly. “Stupid little shitlet, it’s food
time.”
He offers the bottle and Piglet begins suckling greedily, then slows down, making mildly
uncomfortable sounds. The nicotine and ghrelin compounds do their work though, and she starts
sucking it down with more gusto.
“God you’re going to be a fat piece of garbage aren’t you?” Interocitor asks, watching. The
chirpy winces at the insults, suckling harder.
“Yeah, eat up. It’s the only thing you’re good at.” He says, just as she finishes, peeping to
herself, wiggling and pawing the air to try and get some affection.
He immediately puts her back in her pen, dimming the lights just enough she’s
uncomfortable. “Go back to sleep. God you’re irritating.”
Four weeks later
Bismarck watches from the other side of a pen wall while Piglet kicks a ball around. She’s
plump, and healthy, but has a bit of a nervous disposition, glancing over at the big, dark
alicorn.
“Pigwet.” He says, leaning back on his haunches, just enough Piglet can see his erection. “Yu
wookin bettew tuday.”
She looks over, unsure of Bismarck, but the apparent compliment has cheered her up.
“Weawwy?” She asks, trying not to look at his groin.
“Yus.” He says. “Yu awmost pwetty enuf da poopie fwuffs nu hab tummy-sickies fwom wookin at
yu.”
She blinkes, then starts tearing up. “Huuu Bismawk whai yu su meanie? Pigwet twy be gud
fwuffy.”
Bismarck thinks for a minute, then shrugs. “Yu jus su easy tu hate, Pigwet. Onwy fing Bismawk
wan yu fow is special huggies. Aww yu gud fow is speciaw huggies. Eben den wan a bag on yu head
so Bismawk can get gud-feews.”
Piglet breaks down sobbing, running away to the covered litterbox for a cry-shit. Bismarck
creeps along the wall of the pen, to as close to the litterbox as he can get. “Aw, da widdwe
babby habin a cwy. Dun cwy Pigwet, it make u eben mowe ugwy.”
“WEAVE ME AWONE!” She shouts, accompanied by a loud BLORT sound.
Interocitor walks in with a bowl of food. “What’s going on?”
Bismarck shrugs. “Pigwet bein emotionaw again.”
Piglet waddles out of the litterbox, her hindquarters and one haunch messy. “Bismawk bein a meanie again daddeh! He suuuu mean!”
Interocitor sighs, then blinks. “Piglet, what happened? You’re covered in poopies.”
After a moment of sniffling, Piglet looks down at the floor. “Pigwet stumbled an feww in da
wittabox.”
Both Piglet and Interocitor look over as Bismarck starts laughing behind his hooves.
“Come on Piglet.” Interocitor says, setting the food bowls aside and pulling on some gloves. “I
know you don’t like bathing but you can’t go around half covered in dirties.”
Piglet hangs her head as Interocitor picks her up and carries her over to the fluffy-bath. A
quick run from the tap to let the water warm up and she’s tensely sitting in the basin,
lathered up and whimpering quietly.
“Piglet, have you been having other issues with your litterbox?” Interocitor asks, already done
cleaning her, but pretending to go further.
“Nu, daddeh?” She says, confused. “Whai?”
“Well you’ve got quite a lot of dried poopies in your hiney-fluff and tail. Like a lot. It’s
kind of gross but it’s not your fault.” He says, putting on a slightly disgusted tone of voice.
She sulks. “Pigwet nu kno.”
A rinse later and a dry and Piglet turns to get picked up, but finds Interocitor gently pushing
her down on her chest.
“Piglet I couldn’t get the dried stuff out.” Interocitor says, flicking on a
hair-trimmer. “We’ll need to trim it out.”
Piglet immediately starts to struggle and squeal. “NU! NU WAN BUZZIE-MUNSTA!”
Interocitor easily keeps her down. “Hey, hey, hey. Don’t worry, it’s just going to trim your
fur. It’ll grow back just fine in a while.”
She starts to settle down, crying and sucking her hoof. After adjusting his grip so she can’t
kick, Interocitor shaves up the hinds of her legs, from one hip to the other, over the top of
her rump a bit, and her entire tail.
He pats her gently. “There, no more poopies. You might feel a weird breeze once in a while but
it’ll grow back soon, you’ll see.”
Interocitor returns her to the pen and sets down the food, a mushy morass for her, and a prime
salad for Bismarck. “Now, you two be good, the bowls are special cracker bowls so you can num
them too.”
He leaves, putting on some music, and Bismarck immediately bursts out laughing. Piglet squeals
and runs to her food, burying her face in it, finding solace as she sucks down the
larger-than-normal pile of slop.
“Wookit hew poopie-pwace!” Bismarck says between rounds of laughter. “Bismawk cud fin’ dat howe in da dawk nao!”
The tears return even stronger. Piglet tries to block out the giggling of other fluffies
joining him.
Interocitor grins, watching the camera feed as Piglet gorges herself and Bismarck continues to
humiliate her. “He’s gotten better at this.”
“Anyways folks, at this point I’ve been slowly increasing the portion size and reducing the
nicotine and ghrelin. They test to make sure your shitpigs are clean for the competition, but
getting them there is anything goes. Piglet has been on a schedule where if she does her
‘chores’, consisting of cleaning her pen, eating all her food, and doing her walkies
requirements, she gets special nice food every few days.”
He holds up a calendar. “The next special day happens to be the day of the competition. So,
here’s how this is going to work. We’re going to wait until after the meal before the
competition, and get Piglet on her own so she thinks she’ll get a break from Bismarck. I’ve
been playing up the competition as something special for her, so she’s really looking forward
to showing how good she can eat.”
“Then she’ll have a very bad night.”
A hover-drone pans over a large pen on its own in a room, filming.
Piglet flopped down on her side in the big pen, grumbling and full. She wasn’t fond of the grey
slop all that much but it made her feel better, and there was always lots of it. The big pen
was new to her, Daddy said it was so when he had to take fluffies somewhere, he could just get
them and go. Mommy was in charge then, though she didn’t spend as much time with the fluffies
as Daddy did.
She got up after a minute and looked around. The pen was big enough for many fluffies, and
there were a few cuddle-houses, a play area with balls and blocks, there were walls with holes
so a fluffy could poke their head through and make up games, there was even a little spinny-thingy.
Piglet toddled over to the merry-go-round, pushing the padded handles with her snout to get it
up to speed, then trying to jump on. She fell off a few times, then got on it, kicking a bit to
make it go faster.
She giggled merrily, trying to hold her balance, before she fell out in a pile, dizzy, all
giggly and wiggly.
Eventually the world settled for her and she got up for another run at it.
Late that night, Bismarck crept along the back wall of the pen, staying below the line of the
night-lights. Piglet’s rear was still mostly bald, he noted, grinning. He took a minute to sit
in the darkness and watch her sleep. Her poopie-place was mostly covered by her fuzzy pinkish
tail, but her special place. He could see it. He could smell it, and watched it wink and quiver
in the cool air of the night.
He crept over, and nuzzled under her hind leg slowly, giving her special place a lick, watching
as she shivered and squirmed. He kept going, until she started to stir. Then he slowly lowered
her leg and backed up around the corner of the sleeping-area.
She sat up, blinking, making little confused and aroused sounds. After a minute of looking
around, fuzzy headed and half asleep, she got up, trotted out, and visited the litterbox.
A minute later and she was sucking down water at the bottle, then back in to try and sleep
again, this time facing out.
Bismarck smiled and crept in again, carefully standing over Piglet, already hard with
anticipation. He watched as Piglet grumbled, then suckled on his stick, like it was a water
bottle or milky-place. It made him squirm and shiver, until he finally let out a hearty
Enf!.
Piglet started to wake up, confused and out of it, until Bismarck firmly pinned her down,
easily controlling things, being much larger.
“Hewwo Piggy!” He shouted happily, before beginning to vigorously rape her throat.
She gagged and struggled, but the night was young, and Bismarck had been waiting for this.
Interocitor is in his car, driving.
“Hey everyone. So, the camdrones worked on auto-film this time, and got so much
footage. Bismarck was one needy boy last night, four hours of rape, bullying, and humiliation
before he got tired. Even managed to chase her into the peek-wall and use it like a breeding
stand for extra leverage.”
“She’s still out of it though, definitely tired, but you want to play it off like a bad dream,
otherwise your fluff might get too depressed and then try to starve themselves. She’s only got
water in there right now anyways so she can’t stress eat until the competition. Plus a longer
sleep means she has time to digest all the loads Bismarck pumped into her.”
“We’ll let you know how things go at the competition, they don’t allow filming during since
they monetize the event.”
Interocitor is sitting in the shade of a small portable pavilion tent, enjoying a small cigar
and a beer. There’s a trophy on the table next to him.
“Well.” He says, grinning, standing up and walking behind the table. “She wasn’t the first. But
she was the biggest.”
With a bit of effort he picks up the distended and twitching corpse of Piglet, on a metal
serving tray, and set it on the table. The fluffy was double her previous size, a blackish-red
substance slowly oozing out from around the plug in her asshole.
“Wasn’t a record, but christ she got there like a trooper.” Interocitor says, putting his cigar
out in the dead fluffy’s eye. “She managed to horf down nearly two kilos of broccoli alfredo
before she died. Managed to rip her stomach open before that but she kept sucking down the
pasta.”
“For those of you that are curious, the record for ‘most food consumed by a fluffy without
dying’ was set by a fluff legendary in the competitions known as ‘Garbage George’, at three and
a half kilos. With dying was four and a quarter set two years ago by Ketchup the earthie.”
“Well folks that’s been a good fun jaunt into competitive fluffy stuff, and I have a challenge
for all of you out there. In six months is the Fluffy IQ Olympics, and you all know how to
train the little goobers well enough if you’re this far in the series. Any of you who show up
in Fort Wayne and enter a fluffy to compete, I’ll buy you a drink at Henry’s bar and we’ll have
a meet and greet night before the competition.”
“You all have a good one, and we’ll see you next time.”
