Abuser’s Web Guide, Episode 19
By: Turboencabulator
The shot opens on a softly lit, finished basement. The walls are adorned with posters and
framed pictures of fluffy families, barring a large flat screen TV with the day’s schedule
on it, in easily-recognizable pictograms. A familiar white vinyl table dominates the shot,
a few sheets of paper on it, held down from a gentle breeze by a paperweight, made from a
unifluff’s horn suspended in acrylic. There’s a quiet rustle of ventilation fans, and the
calm but perky mutterings of fluffies.
Interocitor, in his flannel and pixellated face, sets down a wooden chair and sits,
adjusting a lapel microphone and picking up the papers.
“Hey all, Interocitor here, welcome back to another episode of the Abuser’s Web
Guide. Now, I’ve been keeping an eye on the comment sections, and one of the most common
things people have expressed interest in have been derped fluffies. Well, I hear you, and
they can be a real varied source of entertainment, both for more wholesome fun, and the
stuff you all are probably here for.”
He glances over the papers. “Though I have also seen a lot of interest in other forms of
mental illness in fluffies. That will be next episode, in which we will cover recognising
mental disorders in fluffies, what can be treated, what needs to be managed, and what just
out-and-out ruins a fluffy.”
A smirk creeps into his voice, the pixellation somehow showing it as well. “And of course
how to induce these disorders for your own fun.”
“But!” He says, tossing the papers aside. “Today we have some derpage to dig into. So
let’s start with what derping is, and then we’ll get through some kinds of derping, how to
care for derped fluffies, and at the end, how to induce the condition yourself.”
The shot focuses on a large, fat stallion unicorn in a pen. The floor has a few smears of
feces from apparent accidents, and there is a puddle of drool directly under where the
stallion sits. He is wall-eyed, slightly dirty and matted, and constantly making a low
hnnnnn sound.
Interocitor takes a seat behind the pen on the floor. “Everyone, this is Toby.”
Toby sharts at the sound of his name and blows a raspberry, before returning to his
previous droning state.
“Toby is a particularly severe case of derpage.” Interocitor says with a
sigh. “Unfortunately this is what happens when young children and fluffies mix without
parental supervision. In his case this was caused by oxygen deprivation because a young
girl decided to bathe him incorrectly.”
The stallion looks around slowly, wobbling on his haunches until he falls over backwards
into his own litterbox.
“Oh goddammit Toby.”
Toby is much more clean, wrapped in a blanket, and tucked into his bed in the now equally
clean pen.
“Right, where was I…” Interocitor mutters, drying off his hands.
“Ah yes. Derping is, clinically, spontaneous acquisition of mental handicap in
fluffies. Most people would probably instead think of it as the fluffy’s brain just
snapping, but this is a bit inaccurate. It’s just as possible for a fluffy to have a
psychotic break, or fall into catatonia.”
Interocitor leans over and adjusts Toby’s blanket, prompting the fluff to look around and
say, “Fabbubgbnnnn spppppb.”
“You’re welcome.” Interocitor replies, then turns back to the camera. “Derpage is actually
a far more severe outcome because it actively damages the function of a fluffy’s brain. In
pretty much every other ‘snap’ a fluffy can have, they retain motor function, their eyes
still work, they can still speak even if they choose not to, things of that nature.”
Interocitor claps his hands soft in front of Toby, right in the line of vision of one
eye. Toby does not react for a half second, before looking around wildly and squealing in
confusion.
“A derped fluffy,” Interocitor continues, “is essentially brain-damaged. Cerebral hypoxia
in Toby’s case is very common, especially with young children, or near drownings in
swimming pools or bath tubs.”
“Now,” Interocitor says, sighing, and leaning back a bit. “Most of the time a derped
fluffy can be trained to at least find the litterbox and be social. Toby is pretty far
gone, however. If nobody on the forums reaches out to adopt him he’s probably getting
popped this weekend.”
He thinks for a minute, then says, “Might use him for surgical practice, actually.”
An earthie mare, bright blue and giggling as she swats at a toy on a cord, is seated on
her rump in another pen. She has one good eye, the other rolling around at random.
Interocitor sits behind the pen and waves. “This is Beans. I dunno I didn’t name her. But
Beans is also a derped fluffy, though in her case it’s from mummah-derp.”
Beans looks around at the sound of her name, before awkwardly trying to get up backwards,
flopping on her side with a quiet poot sound, and giggling.
“Hbebro dbabbly!” She shouts.
“Hello Beans.” Interocitor says with a chuckle. “Mummah-derp is caused when nutrients that
should be used for neurological upkeep in a female fluffy are diverted into their
milk. Fluffies are far more sensitive to low B12, for instance, than humans. This tends to
be a creeping issue, since the chronic deprivation of these nutrients don’t really have
much of an effect until suddenly, the derpage sets in.”
Beans perks up at the sound of the mummah-word. “Bbbebns heb bebbebs!”
“That’s right Beans.” Interocitor says gently. “You had very nice babies. They got big and
went with nice humans, remember?”
Beans thinks, slowly rolling over the long way to get up and accidentally piddling on her
own face from the exertion. She doesn’t seem to mind.
“Beans?”
“Whu?” She says, looking around, confused.
“Nothing sweetie, go have fun.” Interocitor sighs, facepalming quietly. Beans goes back to
her swatting at the toy.
Interocitor is back at his presentation table, with a mug of coffee.
“Look, chances are if you have any interest in fluffies, you know the rudiments of
derped fluffies, at least how to recognise them. What might be a bit less obvious is how
to take care of them if you decide to.”
“First, you have their environment.” Interocitor says, pulling up an isometric photograph
of a fluffy-pen. “This is one of my standard single-occupancy pens. These are perfect for
normal fluffies, but the number one rule of derps is you should always pair them with a
helper.”
He drops the picture, revealing a larger pen, closer to three by five feet. The colors are
a bit brighter, there’s more foam and padding, and the lighting is a bit more specific.
“This is a special needs pen. Two beds, one for the derped fluff, the other for their
helper. Training helper fluffs is in previous sections, but Alenix makes specific
conditioning tapes for the chirpie incubators for helper-fluffs.”
He reveals another picture, showing a derped stallion being guided by a hefty
earthie. “The most important thing is that the environment a derped fluffy has should be
static. They do not handle change well, but they can learn where things are with enough
repetition. You will want to select your helper based on their patience primarily.”
Another picture, this time of a daily schedule. “The other thing you should be aware of is
that derped fluffies need a fixed schedule to anchor to. Meals at specific times, bedtime
at specific times, so forth and so on. This regularity helps them emotionally as well as
intellectually, which generally keeps them well behaved and calm. Few things are more
irritating to clean up than a panicky or angry derp.”
He puts the images down, chuckling. “Of course this also can be turned on its ear if you
want to fuck with them. Move everything around while they sleep, have the lights on random
timers, and they’ll be in a hell they can’t understand.”
Interocitor is in his ‘fun room’, cleaning the work table of a large quantity of blood and
dried gore, studded with little tufts of technicolour fur.
“Sorry, had an experiment go wrong but, this is going to be mostly an info dump. There are
three main categories of derp-induction.” He says, going at a lump of burned flesh with a
bristle brush.
“First,” He continues, dumping out some scouring powder. “Is the most common, physical
trauma. Toby was deprived of oxygen, sometimes it can happen from a wicked blow on the
head, but most common is from people trying to ‘reset’ their fluffy with electric
shock. That isn’t real, that was a prank from the internet. Remember when they told people
they could recharge their iPhones in the microwave? That.”
Putting his back into scrubbing down the table, Interocitor continues. “However you also
have two more methods, one being chemical derping, such as mummah-derp, or psychological
derping. This is when the fluffy’s brain just can’t process what’s going on anymore, due
to being overloaded, over-stressed, what have you.”
“In the end though,” He says, standing up with a groan. “you still have a fluffy with
higher needs than even the most neurotic of runts. But, as long as you follow the basic
rules, they can be just as fulfilling as a normally-functioning fluff.”
Interocitor has a picture of a daily schedule up again.
“So we talked about daily schedules and fixed environments. But what if you don’t have a
helper fluff on hand? Also, what about interacting with other fluffies?”
The shot cuts to a unicorn giving a derped earthie sorry-hooves and laughing.
“Let’s start with other fluffies. First, if you want to have your derp be more social,
watch the behavior of other fluffies when they begin to interact. Sometimes bullying
derped fluffies is a sign of other malginant personality traits.”
The unicorn kicks the derped earthie around and mounts him, before Interocitor reaches
into frame and scoops the uni up, clamping his hand around the fluffy’s hind legs and
keeping his rear pointed away while the attempted fecal assault sprays the padding of the
pen.
“Rape, for instance, is rarely a one-off behavior.”
The shot cuts to a different derped fluffy, a pegasus, playing with a foal like it’s a
doll. The foal is obviously in distress.
“Generally speaking derped fluffies and infants shouldn’t mix, unless it’s their own
children. The child-rearing behaviors built into a fluffy rarely get entirely occluded by
the derping, except in the most severe of cases. You probably should still keep an eye on
the family to make sure feeding and hygiene aren’t being overlooked or forgotten about.”
Another cut, and two derped fluffies are snuggled together, fast asleep in a little canopy
bed.
“However derped fluffies seem to be incapable of malice, and assuming they’re of
reasonably close age, can be housed together with no issue. This might be an easy
substitute if you don’t have the opportunity to get a helper-fluff. At the very least it’s
a good plus for their emotional state.”
The shot moves on to two derped fluffies attempting to get jiggy with it. Except the
stallion is missing the mare entirely, instead standing behind her and gyrating his hips
intensely while he stares at her rump. The mare seems confused but is wiggling and
grinding around on the ground.
“Though sometimes pairings might need some additional help.”
The shot changes to Interocitor’s abuse room. The fluffy cages have been upgraded with
removable plastic and integrated lights, and a small computer sits on a desk, cabled to
something behind the wall of cages. The muttered conversation and whimpering dies
immediately as the door swings open, Interocitor entering with a fresh mug of coffee and
taking a seat behind the work table.
“Now, all of you abuse fanatics, you can calm yourself, we’re at the part you’ve been
waiting for.” He says, following up with a sip from the mug before setting it on a coaster
and taking a box out from under the workbench.
“So I’m just going to give you ten methods. The reality is that just like triggering a
‘wan-die’ loop, half the fun of derping a fluffy is figuring out new and interesting
ways. But,” he says, turning the box around and manipulating the dial lock on it. “No
reason I can’t give you a few starting ideas.”
He flips the lid of the box open, revealing a neat line of bottles of drugs and inserts
for cardboard containers of syringes and needles.
“Make sure if you do decide to use injected drugs you have a fluffy and human-safe sharps
container.” He comments, taking out a few bottles of drugs. “So I’ve found a few
substances that fluffies are both sensitive to and that you can probably get without being
put on every watchlist in the US.”
The first bottle is placed down on the table and turned to show the label. “The first is
diphenhydramine. Yes, good old Benadryl, only in this case you’re going to want to give
fluffies about thirty times their normal dose.”
“This also works in humans.” Interocitor says. “Do not, and I mean do not abuse
Benadryl for recreational purposes. I have a stonerfluff and he volunteered to try
this. Guess what, he’s derped now. I don’t know exactly what he saw but it involved a lot
of screaming and shitting. In high doses, diphenhydramine is a psychoactive deliriant.”
After a moment of organizing himself, Interocitor loads a syringe with the drug. “Fluffy
dose is usually around .5 milligrams. Let’s do 20 mg for fun.”
A quick cut later and Interocitor is injecting a freshly pillowed stallion in an
enclosure. The stallion is glaring daggers but also wincing and cringing away from him.
“Now, you know the deal Spark. If you make it through this, you get your leggies back.”
Spark huffs and nods, shifting uncomfortably as the fresh stitches itch and pull.
There’s a 20 minute fast forward period, only to come back to Spark looking around, deeply
paranoid and gibbering nonsense, trying to scoot backward from something only he could
see.
A title card comes up. “2 hours later.”
Spark is screaming constantly and smashing his head against the mushy, soft floor, failing
to do any damage.
Another title card. “3 hour later.”
Spark is now derped, blowing bubbles and shaking constantly, eyes looking around
wildly. Not together, in different directions, but equally earnestly.
Interocitor puts his legs down in a jar in front of him. “Well done. Here’s your leggies.”
Spark does not notice, instead trying to eat the jar.
Interocitor is back at his table, filling another syringe. “The next is a combo of
separate drugs that are used in fluffy medicine. The first is called Calutolin, and is for
a rare autoimmune disease that show fluffs get. There’s a tendancy in pregnancy to have
calcium build up in the mother and none gets to the foals, so they’re born with brittle
bone syndrome, and the mother gets bone spurs. This drug facilitates moving calcium into
the foals.”
He fills the same syringe further from another bottle. “And this is Hintrodex-C. I have no
idea who came up with this idea, but was used to treat smartyism through chemical
castration. For some reason, you combine these two in a normal, pregnant dam about halfway
through the pregnancy and it almost guarantees severe mummah-derp. Now, I have a dam I’ll
be injecting later, but this video is going up sooner than she’ll derp out. We’ll visit
her next episode.”
The injection is set aside in a tray and the box of drugs is locked and placed under the
worktable. “I should point out that some people have tried good ol’ booze for derping
fluffies. Surprisingly, I haven’t found any level that will actually do this, though
getting a fluffy blackout drunk and then using the ensuing hangover for leverage has been
a grand way to break even the most haughty of bitchy mares or stuck up bestest-babbies.”
“So, two drug-derived methods. Easy, cheap if you can find the drugs online somewhere, and
reasonably effective. But what if you want to get your hands dirty?”
A flash cut and Interocitor has a fluffy sized surgical kit out on the table.
“We’re going to take a look at three different surgeries which can result in derpage. The
first is kind of cheating, but a good ol’ lobotomy is kind of a rite of passage for
advanced abusers. Second, we’ll be covering a new favorite of mine, the bottomless pit
mod, and finally we’ll be making a fluffy into a monster. These go in order of
effectiveness, so hopefully they all fire off first time. I’ll show failures if I get
unlucky but I’m feeling pretty good about these tonight.”
A unicorn stallion is strapped into a leg immobilizer board, fighting valiantly as
Interocitor stuffs the fluffy’s face into a muzzle, silencing the threats and protests.
After a moment to snug down the strap and adjust the placement, Interocitor pushes the
fluffy’s head down to a padded raised platform and securely straps it in place.
“Right.” He says, turning the fluffy a bit to show it better. "Now, this is of course
after you go through the usual routine, de-poop it, and I would recommend starting a
course of antibiotics a few hours before you intend to begin.
He leans down to the fluffy and smiles. “Now, this smarty is a bit of a handful.”
The fluffy snorts, tail flipping once, a smug look on its face.
“So it’s time to make it a dummy.”
There’s a pause, and the fluffy’s pupils contract. He starts weakly struggling, barely
able to shift at all. Interocitor lays down a fluffy-size leucotome and a small
mallet. The fluffy struggles harder.
“So, we’re doing this the fun way, a transorbital lobotomy. I’ve seen people do this with
all sorts of things, metal BBQ skewers, sharpened chopsticks, even saw one of my cousins
do it with a bone needle he picked up in Java. Apparently it was supposed to be used for
traditional tattoo art but uh, in that case it left a very different impression in his
fluffy.”
Interocitor shifts, lifting the stallion’s eyelid. “Serves it right for trying to fuck his
cat.”
“So, first, lift the eyelid and take your very sharp thing.” He says, placing it just
inside the tear duct. The fluffy makes muffled whining sounds, trying to protest.
“Then… tap.”
TOKK-crunch
The fluffy immediately sags in its straps, eyes glazing over. Interocitor levers the
leucotome up and down a little bit before removing it and putting a gauze pad over the
puncture.
“And there we go.” He says, taking the muzzle off the fluffy.
“Haa… aaahaahaa. Hab.”
“Yeah this tends to be kind of an all or nothing derping but give it a few days to recover
and it’ll be a happy fluffy. Just a bit more brain damaged than they start out.” He says,
taking the fluffy out of site. “Let me get the next one set up for you all.”
There’s a brief shot of a familiar-looking fluffy playing. It tries its hardest to kick
the ball back but it takes a few tries, and it gets lost in the open middle of the
playroom after a particularly vigorous swing that gave it a bit of a tumble.
Then the shot cuts to a mare, sedated and strapped on her back splay-legged, with
Interocitor shaving her belly.
“This one is a bit of a longer plan.” Interocitor says, carefully adjusting the curved
bars keeping the mare’s legs open. “When you have a fluffy flat like this please take care
to size the pad to them, or it can cause them to have problems breathing mid-surgery.”
“What we’re doing here,” He says, using a ruler as a guide to mark incision lines, “Is
severing a nerve that goes from the stomach to the brain of the fluffy. It’s a bit tricky
but in the majority of fluffies the nerves separate just a little bit, right above the
branch out to the hepatic section of the left vagus. Refer to page 322 in the fluffy
anatomy handbook. If you sever this little separated bit, the fluffy’s brain can no longer
tell how full the stomach is.”
“Essentially, they will always feel like they’re starving. Just keep them on a normal diet
and eventually they’ll derp. Or eat something that kills them.”
The shot changes to a head mounted camera as Interocitor opens the fluffy’s abdomen,
pulling muscle and connective tissue aside with retractors. “So once you’re in, carefully
part the muscle and be very careful about where you poke, there’s a lot of large blood
vessles here, especially in mares. The placenta is very close to where you’ll be working
as well.”
After a moment of maneuvering things around, Interocitor slides a slip of white laminated
card behind a section of stomach, and uses a scalpel as a pointer. “This is the divide,
what the professionals would call Kobb’s Bifurcation. No idea if this was put in
intentionally or if it’s a weird quirk of fluffy genetics, but you’re going to just want
to remove a section of the narrower part.”
With two careful cuts he removes a quarter inch segment of nerve. “Just leave the ends,
they’ll die back naturally and seal up better than anyone could do directly.”
“With that, just close 'er back up and have fun.”
“PWEASE DADDEH NEED NUMMMMIEEEEEES!” Screeches a familiar looking lilac mare, banging her
hooves on the floor in a tantrum.
“Paula you just had a full meal.” Interocitor says, quietly, calm. “You don’t want to make
bad poopies in your sleep, do you?”
“NEED NUMMIES! NUMMIES! SUU HUNGIEEEEEE!” She screams. “GIB NUMMIES DUMMY DADDEH NAO NAO NAO NAO NAO NA-ghnbfnngf.”
She’s cut off as Interocitor clamps down on her mouth. “No, young lady, you are spending a
night in the sorry-box for this. I do everything to help you after that bad shelter and
this is how you thank me?”
The fluffy continues trying to shriek and beg as he bundles her off, being careful not to
open her stitches.
A title card cuts in. “Three Days Later.”
The shot is a bit washed out, but Paula is severely derped and plowing through the
shitting-trough outside in the garden, chowing down on a mixture of urine and feces with
reckless abandon. She’s swollen, and her stitches are visibly leaking brown as she eats. A
foal, half dead and similarly brown, is shovelled into her face and swallowed without her
even noticing.
There’s a meaty ripping sound, and Paula screams, before continuing to eat the waste of
other fluffies, slowing down as her stomach splits open internally.
“Now, I am not a plastic surgeon.” Interocitor says, shoveling Paula’s distended, leaking
corpse into an incinerator. “But I do have one trick that I can show you for making a
monster out of a fluffy. You just need any fluffy that’s either currently alive or hasn’t
been dead more than a few hours. Or two or three.”
He holds up a pair of dead unicorns. “These two will do.”
The shot flash-cuts to his workshop again, and he’s removed the fluffy’s heads, separated
the skin at the base of the horns, and is using a surgical saw to cut them off flush. The
horns immediately go in a jar of preservative.
“Now, some of you might be wondering what I’m on about. But.” He holds up a bottle marked
with the Alenix Biotechnologies logo. “This is what’s known as bio-glue. This is the
fluffy version but Alenix also has this for humans and equines. This takes broken bones,
and speed-heals the break when you inject it inside. It also helps keep things aligned
during the healing process.”
He turns the camera to a sleeping pegasus in a surgical frame. “Interestingly, it also
works if the bones come from two different fluffies.”
“This one I’m going to leave as an exercise to the viewer, but I’m pretty confident you
could pull this off with enough patience.”
Another smash cut, to a pegasus with two horns freshly attached.
“This particular fluffy showed severe alicorn aggression. Let’s see what happens when it
notices.”
The fluffy is staring at itself in the mirror, being held back by Interocitor. It’s
hyperventilating, and getting more agitated every second.
“Nu. Nu. Nu. Nu. Nu am munsta, dis bad sweepy-pictuwe time. Nu am munsta. Am gud
wingy-fwuff, pwease nu FwootWoop nu wan be munsta pwease maek bad piccy-ture gu wai daddeh
Pwease PWEASE NU DUN WAN BE MUNSTA WAN BE GUD FWUFFY PEASENU NUNU
NUNUNUNUNUNUNUNUNUNUNUNn…nnnnnnn”
His eyes slide into different directions, tongue lolling out, and he settles
down. “Paubrhn. Guoo fnuf?”
“Yes Fruitloop. You’re a good fluffy.”
“Habby!”
Interocitor is sitting in his abuse room, drinking some coffee.
“Wait didn’t I say something about not leaving a mark…” He muses out loud, glancing
through a clipboard of notes.
There’s a flash cut and Interocitor is back in presentation mode, adjusting his cuffs.
“Right so, let’s cover my personal favorite now, psychological methods of derping a
fluffy.”
He adjusts his position and leans in, a grin entering his voice.
“So, the first, and the most amusing, in my opinion, is derping through complete
degradation. Then we will be covering direct hatred, and finally, terror.”
He cracks his knuckles and gets up. “Let’s meet our first contestant.”
Interocitor is seated next to a specially made pen, for interviewing fluffies on
camera. A splatter-screen of clear plastic is set up, and a dumpy mare is busy eating from
a bowl, oblivious to Interocitor setting down a chair and organizing the shot a bit.
Eventually he sits down and coughs once, prompting the mare to look up. She eyes him for a
moment, snorts derisively, and goes back to her food.
“Everyone, this is Purity. Purity is a three month old earthie who was surrendered to me
for the sort of things you’d expect first-time fluffy owners to encounter. She’s a bully
to other fluffies, has tried to kill foals from other litters that she deemed either ugly
or not good enough, and-”
As he speaks Purity frowns and glares at him, then turns and lifts her tail, spraying a
torrent of sorry-poopies in Interocitor’s direction. The plastic shield is fortunately
quite solid, and the feces simply slides off into a tray.
“And she is, in general, a cunty little piece of shit.” He finishes, turning to face
her. “Mostly because of one thing. You want to tell the people at home what it is you
want, Purity?”
“WAN. BABBIES. DUMMIE DUMMIE MEANIE DUMMIE STOOPIT PUWITY TEWW YOU PUWITY GET BABBIES NOW GIB BABBIES GIB BA-SCREE” She screams, promptly cut off by Interocitor reaching in during her tantrum and giving her a full, open handed slap.
“Dear christ she’s insufferable.” He says, sitting down again.
She sniffles and sobs, glaring from behind her hooves at Interocitor as she holds her
face, a puddle of fresh urine forming under her.
“Now, some of you might be wondering why I haven’t just pillowed and milkbagged her, or
something similar. Well the short version is she’s got genes that I want.” He says, waving
a printout. “So I actually want her to have kids.”
At this, Purity perks up, her tail flicking as a bit of excitement creeps in.
“But since she’s already killed foals before, it’s going to be as a breeder, not as a
mother.”
Purity doesn’t notice as Interocitor gets up. She’s confused, processing the statement she
just heard. How could she have babies but not be a mother, after all?
She’s distracted in her confusion long enough for Interocitor to jab her with a syringe
and sedate her, and he picks her up with gloved hands for a bath.
A freshly bathed, groomed, and trimmed Purity is set in a large pen, empty other than a
gutter-style litterbox and a feeding trough, a few water stations around the
periphery. The floor is thinly padded, and the whole space is evenly lit from
above. She’s still unconscious from the sedatives.
Interocitor crouches in shot behind where he placed Purity.
“Now, this is normally where I set up for training fighting fluffs, but today it’s a
derping arena. You can make something similar for a trip to the hardware store and about
forty bucks if you’re frugal with material. Blueprints are on the website in the ‘DIY’
section of the forums.”
The shot changes to a trio of fluffy carriers. Interocitor walks behind them and leans on
one from behind. “So, fun fact. Did you know steroids work on fluffies?” He asks with a
grin. “They’re even more prone to roid rage.”
He knocks lightly on the top, prompting an aggressive screech and a rattle from inside.
“Whoa, Tiberius. Chill.” He says, tapping lightly on the top. “It’s just me.”
“Tibewius wa’ asweep.” A fluffy voice says from inside the carrier, slightly deeper than
normal.
“Gun kiww Tibewius if fwuffy nu shaddap.” Another fluffy says from the adjacent carrier.
“Boys, boys.” Interocitor says, sighing. “None of that. You all have a special treat
today. You three get to have special huggies.”
There’s silence, and then Tiberius pipes up, “Weawwy?”
“Yes, you don’t even need to be nice. As long as she doesn’t go forever-sleepies, you have
as much fun as you want with her. No in-fighting either.”
“… gun kiww Tibewius next time den.”
“Yeah that’s fine.”
Purity wakes up, looking around. She’s confused, and sits on her rump. The lights
surrounding the pen are dimmed, so she can’t see out.
“Hewwo? Dummy daddeh?” She calls, standing up and turning, looking for a sign of anyone
else around.
“Over here.” Interocitor says from off-camera. “Just making sure you have privacy for the
baby-making time.”
“Babbies?!” She shouts, perking up and shaking off the remainder of the sedation.
Interocitor walks into shot from one side, coming around and adjusting the camera to get
full coverage of the pen. He’s also carrying a smaller camera on a gymbal mount. “Yes,
just be patient. You’ll meet the stallions soon.”
“Yey! Su ha-… stawwions?” She asks, pausing mid-clap.
“Oh yes.” Interocitor says, lifting a section of wall.
Three beefy fluffies walk out, an earthie and two unicorns. One has a horrific scar across
its throat, the others have marks but nothing quite so severe. The earthie is missing most
of an ear. All three have been trimmed very short, and are displaying massive
testosterone-fueled erections.
Purity backs up slowly as the three rapists advance on her, before they charge.
The shot cuts to a card: “Unedited rape footage available on our Patreon. You sick fucks.”
Another card: “Five hours later.”
Interocitor is seated beside Purity in the interview pen again. She’s curled in a ball,
drooling, and wall-eyed, sobbing constantly and rocking back and forth with an unearthly
keening sound.
“So, as you can imagine, derping a fluffy by organizing a brutal gang-rape is a bit on the
side of overkill.” Interocitor says, with a shrug. “But entertaining. Also as a side
benefit the constant steroids used to get those three swole also chemically fried their
balls so if they do manage to knock her up, it’ll be almost impossible to get to
term. Free milk though.”
The camera pans to his other side, showing a young foal looking around from his own
interview pen, curious. “Dat mawe seem scairt, daddeh.”
“Yeah she had a bad time, Patch.” Interocitor responds, and points to the camera. “Say hi
to the nice people.”
“Hewwo!” Patch says, waving to the camera.
“You wanna tell the people what you told me, squirt?”
Patch sits heavily and puffs his cheeks out. “Big bwudder am suuuper meanie. Sez bwudda am
bestest an ebwy odder fwuff am poopies. Bwudda awmos make Patch wick Bwudda’s poopie-pwace
befow Daddeh cum home. Sez he gun take housie from Daddeh when big and stwong.”
“This is Paris, the blue unicorn?”
“YEH!” Patch says, bouncing once. “Sez he twick Daddy bein suuu nice when Daddeh home.”
Interocitor looks at the camera. “Well it sounds like Paris needs taken down a peg or
two.”
“Wut am pegortu?”
“It means Paris needs some sorry-time.”
“Oh. Dat wite!”
Interocitor sets Paris down in an interview pen. “Now just wait there Paris and we can
have a little talk.”
Paris nods, and goes to relieve himself in the litterbox, followed by a long gulping drink
of water.
Interocitor sets down a chair and leans over the pen a bit. “So, Paris, I just wanna have
a little chat with you about some things.”
Paris, ever bright and cheery, tilts his head in curiosity. “Wut talky bout daddeh?”
With a sigh, Interocitor brings up a small screen and starts playing back surveillance
footage of Paris bullying Patch.
“Dat wite yu widdle poopie-babbeh, wickie cweanies fow bestest fwuffy Pawis.”
Paris stops being quite so cheery, looking between the screen and Interocitor’s face.
Patch is heard sobbing, then says, “Pawis yu meanie, Daddeh nu wike buwwies.”
“Daddeh stoopit.” Paris proclaims, stomping around on the screen and kicking over Patch’s
block-tower. “Pawis kno how be nicey when Daddeh around, an hao get awwwww de toysies an
nums Pawis wan fwom Daddeh. Jus nee’ a widdle mowe time tu get big an stwong an den take
housie!” He stops for a moment, lifting his leg and urinating on Patch’s back.
Interocitor stops the playback and puts the screen away, watching Paris silently.
The fluff shuffles uncomfortably, then puffs his cheeks out a bit. “Dummeh Daddeh twick
Pawis.”
There’s a moment and Interocitor pretends to think. “Hm. If I’m a dummy, then you must be
even more dummy, because you were tricked.”
Paris puffs his cheeks out more and gets up, stomping once. “Nu, daddeh am du-”
Interocitor looks directly at Paris, making the fluffy sit down again, his cheeks
deflating.
“Listen very carefully you ignorant little cunt. I have always been better than you. Every
human always has. Your own fucking retardation and ego is entirely to blame for you
turning out to be a worthless, unloved piece of shit. The best part of you got wiped on
the breeding-pen floor after dribbling out your mother’s snatch.”
Paris is welling up with tears, sniffling. “N-nu da-dat not-”
“Not true? What the fuck would you know about truth you cowardly little shitweasel? I’d
call you a pussy but you lack the warmth and depth for that. I gave you a chance to be a
good fluffy and look at the waste of effort that was.”
At this point Paris is just crying, making little hurk inhales, and trying to talk
but Interocitor doesn’t give him the chance.
“I don’t love you.”
The fluffy goes still, making hitching little sniffle noises, before breaking out in loud,
stamping bawling, defecating where he sits.
“How could anyone love a failure like you, a bully, a coward, a worthless little
turdgoblin without any perspective or understanding that you are weak and powerless
without a human to protect you. Look at you sitting in your own shit like the retarded
pighorse you are. You’re an affront to the concept of love and an insult to biology.”
Paris has slumped on his side, curled up and still pumping out feces, a pool of urine
spreading as he tries to cover his ears, almost screaming his tears out.
“Jesus wept you’re disgusting, I’m amazed your mother didn’t just stomp you when you were
squeezed out. You probably looked and smelled like a wet turd if your behavior now is any
indication. You’re only worth being hated and treated like a freak of nature anymore.”
After a minute, Paris’s sobbing turns more into just atonal vowel noises, and he begins
hitting his head on the padded bottom of the pen, one eye dilated, the other rolling
around without fixing on anything in particular. He bites through the tip of his tongue on
accident before Interocitor can get a sedative shot into his haunches, and Paris passes
out.
“Right.” Interocitor says, turning to the camera. “I really got lucky that time, with
verbal abuse, there’s about a 50-50 chance of pushing them to the ‘wan-die’ loop instead
of derping. But, now that he’s taken care of, I’ll get things cleaned up and we’ll move
onto our third contestant.”
An earthie filly is sitting in the interview pen, shuffling from hoof to hoof nervously
and looking around.
Interocitor sits behind her and tickles her back, making her eep and jump before giggling
and swatting playfully at his hand. “Siwwy daddeh.”
With a laugh, Interocitor gives her a gentle boop on the nose. “So, this is Sam, wave to
the camera hun.”
Sam twists around to face the camera, falling on her back with an oof. She waves from her
back, looking at the camera upside-down. “Hewwo camewa.”
“You wanna tell me what happened with your fluffy Daddy?”
Sam freezes before getting up and looking around, very nervous. “N-nu? Wascaw nu du
nuffin.”
“I didn’t say he did anything, I just asked if something happened.” Interocitor says,
leaning in a little. “It’s ok, he’s not around here, but if he did something bad I need to
know.”
With a little whine, Sam shifts in place. “Wascaw say nu boffer Daddeh wit it, is nuffin.”
“Now, that doesn’t sound right does it?” Interocitor asks, lightly patting Sam. “If it’s
nothing, he wouldn’t say not to bother me with it.”
Sam shift a little more, looking very uncomfortable, before nodding a little. “Wascaw has
been smewwin in speciaw-pwace. A wot.”
“He has?” Interocitor asks, maintaining a mild tone.
A few nods, then Sam continues. “An widdle wickies. Feew weiwd.”
“Well don’t worry.” Interocitor says, looking at the camera. “I’ll have a talk with him.”
Rascal is eating and humming to himself, occasionally coughing a little as it is quite
difficult for fluffies to do two things at the same time. Interocitor is sneaking up right
where Rascal is eating with a cheap halloween mask on.
With a loud BOO Interoctior jumps up and into Rascal’s line of sight, behind the
plastic wall of the pen. The fluffy immediately react, screaming and spraying food from
one end and filth from the other before turning to run. He gains a bit of speed before
slipping in his own shit and slamming his head on a building-block with a dull crack
sound.
Interocitor pauses, then stands up, taking the mask off and examining Rascal.
“Ah shit he broke his neck. Well ya can’t win 'em all.”
He chucks Rascal in a biohazard bag before turning off the camera.
The shot re-opens at the white table in the main fluffy room. Interocitor is going through
a bin of mail.
“Well folks, it’s mail time. Just remember that next time we’re going to be covering
fluffy mental disorders. It might take more than one episode, we’ll see what happens.”
He pulls out a letter from the bin. “Dear Interocitor, I have a very well-tempered mare
who is refusing to let me supplement her milk with feed, even though she had a very large
litter and can’t feed them all herself. What should I do? M from Seattle.”
“Well,” Interocitor thinks, putting the letter to one side. “If she’s got enough of a
braincell you might try and reason with her, but I’m assuming you did that already. That
leaves two options. First, you can give her a milkmare supplement treatment to boost her
production. This has risks of derping though, and it might also permanently damage her
ability to generate milk. Milkmares that occur naturally don’t have this issue, but when
it’s induced through hormone therapies it can cause trouble down the road. The second
option is you can just let her have her way. A few dead babies and she might change her
tune.”
He reaches in and grabs another letter, unfolding it. “Dear Interocidude, can fluffies
have cannabis? Signed Kush Daddy 69.”
After a pause to stare at the letter, Interocitor looks up to the camera. “Yes, they can,
with appropriate reduction in dose of course. It effects them much the same way as humans,
though they are far less tolerant of smoking it than we are. I recommend gummies or a
cooled vape smoke. Dab hits are right out unless you want a fluffy that sounds like the
twins from the Simpsons. Just be warned that universally fluffies get the munchies
something fierce.”
“Last letter folks.” He says, pulling out a folded sheet of paper and putting the bin
down. “Dear Interocitor, my dog keeps killing Fluffies, what should I do? Unsigned.”
He scratches his head, then tosses it aside. “I mean. Good pupper, but if this is
something you don’t want to do, you really need to just keep them separated. Some dogs
just get a prey-drive stimulus from fluffies. It’s not something that can be easily
trained out once established. Especially because fluffies tend to scream in the same range
as some squeaky toys.”
“That’s it for now folks, good luck and have fun with your fluffies.”
