Abuser's Web Guide, EP 9 (Turboencabulator)

The Abuser’s Webguide, Episode 9

By: Turboencabulator


Interocitor is quietly loading a .22 revolver, half in a closet filled with a gun-safe and a
folding cleaning bench. He nods to the camera and gives a wave.

“Hey folks, Interocitor here, I’ve been getting some feedback from the forums and I’ve got a
whole slew of people interested in more ways to interact with fluffies, psychological
manipulation, and things like that. I would’ve had this video up sooner except, surprise, I’ve
moved. No more suburbia for me, I finally got a place a bit further out. Took a while to get
back up to speed on the fluffing front, but now that we’re all set up, it’s time for another
episode.”

“Now, a quick note on this here.” He holds up the revolver. “Y’all should know that even if
they’re gunna be used on fluffies, firearms are not toys, insert rant on gun safety here. If
you don’t know what I’m talking about, go get a popsickle and find some youtube videos on proper
handling of firearms.”

He picks up a round, showing the blue plastic tip full of a grey powder. “I’ve loaded the first
cylinder with one of these. I reload so doing this is easy but you might need to find a friend
or someone you can get to help you. So.” He sets down another round with a blue plastic tip,
full of tiny steel balls. “This is what’s called rat shot. It’s a .22 long rifle round that
fires number twelve shot. Good for snakes and rats and other pests, but only within about eight
feet. After that it’s like throwing rice at someone.”

He puts that in the second cylinder position, then holds the one with grey powder up to the
camera. “This one is a bit of a special case. I removed the steel balls and some of the powder
charge and filled it instead with a mixture of salt, powdered red pepper, and a bit of chili
oil. Unload this in a fluffy’s face and it’s basically like pepper spraying a human, but not
lethal. The salt gives it a good ‘thump’ feeling as well.”

Setting the antifluffy round aside, he loads the remaining empty spaces in the cylinder with
regular .22 rounds.

“Now, reason for this is there’s a herd trying to get into my yard, so in case they don’t
listen to reason, I’ll hafta indulge in some celebration of the second amendment.”

The shot cuts to him walking down a slightly overgrown brick path. “How this goes depends on
what kind of smarty is leading the herd. Reasonable ones I can deal with. Bad ones I don’t
bother.”

The herd is muttering and pawing at the hip high brick wall, some peering through the chain
link gate. As Interocitor walks up the herd draws back, and a few stallions step
forward. Interocitor hops up and sits on the wall next to the gate, leaning over to peer down
at the fluffs.

“Alright, so, which one of you is the smarty then?”

A vile purple unicorn steps forward from the stallions, who closed in behind him. “Hawowd da
smawty. Need wand and nummies fow hewd.”

“Interesting, most smarties are much more rude about it.”

“Had smawty wike dat. Twy take wand fwom hoomin wiff bawkie-munstas. Hewd was much biggew den.” Harold said, sitting down. “Tuffies make smawty gu wai.”

Interocitor nodded slowly, thinking. “I see, and you learned that you can’t just take things?”

Harold huffed, puffing his cheeks in indignation. “Knew not take fings not Hawowds ow hewds
befow dat. Smawty jus stoopit.”

“YU STOOPIT HAWOWD!”

A radiation green unicorn with a cracked horn was stomping towards the group, with a few
toughies and a smaller herd behind, only six or seven in total.

“HOOMIN GIB WAND AND NUMMIES AND SKETTIES AND HOUSIE AND… AND…”

Interocitor stood up, getting between the two groups, and opened the gate. “Harold, take your
herd into the yard. They can eat the grass, but no eating the flowers.”

Harold stood up, eyes brightening. “Weawwy? Fankyoo mistew! Tuffies, wine up an pwotect da hewd.”

The toughies flanked Interocitor as the herd went through the open gate, watching as the new
smarty stared, mouth open, in confusion. Finally, the toughies went through the gate, followed
by Harold. Interocitor shut the gate and sat on the wall again, hands folded, watching as the
new herd looked at each other, and the smarty finally gritted his teeth, making a loud, angry
whinny noise.

“DUMMY HOOMIN GUN GET FOWEBBA SWEEPIES FOW DAT!”

Harold was standing behind the gate. He waved at the other smarty. “Siwwy Acid, yu said dat
befow you wan fwum da bawkie-munstas.”

Acid turned and charged, smashing his forehooves into the gate. “HAWOWD GET FOWEBBA SWEEPIES FIWST! GUN GIB YU STOMPIES AN DEN GIB YU MAWE BADSTEST SPECIAW HUGGIES AN GIB YU BABBIES STOMPIES!”

Harold just sat on the other side of the gate. Acid stared at him, panting.

Harold blew a raspberry.

In a fit on pique, Acid made a little irritated scream, shitting in frustration and turning to
Interocitor. “WET ACID IN NAO!”

Without responding, Interocitor took out the revolver and fired the doctored round in Acid’s
face. The fluffies all jumped, a few letting out little dribbles of urine in surprise.

Acid immediately began pawing at his own face, writhing around on the ground, making little
screeching noises. Harold watched, then peered out at one of the toughies. “Spwinkews?”

A big pale earthie, with light blue spots along his mane, waved at Harold. “Hewwo Hawowd. Yu
wewe wite, Acid weawwy is big dummy. Can fwuffies join yu hewd?”

Harold looked up at Interocitor. He got off the wall, lightly kicking the bawling Acid aside,
and opened the gate, letting the rest of the fluffies in. “Make sure they know how to behave,
Harold.”

With a nod and a little prance, Harold said, “Yes mistew! Fankyoo!”. Then he turned to
integrate the herds.

Acid had gotten up and began trying to stomp on Interocitor’s foot.

“Look, Acid. I’m giving you once choice. Turn and leave or you go forever sleepies.”

“Stoopit hoomin can’t do nuffin, am Smawty. Am da bestest an stwongest and-”

The fluffy’s tirade was cut off by another gunshot, turning the top of Acid’s head into a
mushy mess. He flopped over, slowly exhaling. Interocitor took the moment to dump him in the
garbage, then hopped the fence back over into the yard.

The thirty or so adult fluffies were gathered in the shade of an elm tree, and Harold was talking
quietly to the toughies. As Interocitor approached, Harold stopped, and turned to face him.

Crouching down, Interocitor sighed. “Alright. We need to talk, you.”

Harold sat down, curious.

Interocitor gestured at the herd. “This herd is ok to be on my land to feed and sleep for the
night. However. You seem like good fluffies, so I will give you the option of staying, but if
you do, you follow my rules and listen to me like I was the smarty.”

As Interocitor spoke, Harold’s eyes got big and wide. Then he looked down at the ground,
thinking.

“Hawowd ask hewd. Can hab awone time?”

Interocitor nodded, standing up. “When you decide, I’ll be sitting on the porch.”

Walking towards the porch, Interocitor half turned to the camera. “Thing about fluffies is yes,
they’re about as bright as a half-damp candle about most things, but they generally have good
hearts and will listen to humans. The exceptions I’ve covered in previous parts, such as bitch
mares and smarties, but a well-raised fluffy is almost always a kind and well-intentioned
fluffy.”

He sat down on the steps, watching the herd. Harold was speaking to them as a group, and the
fluffies were excitedly muttering to each other. The discussion went on for a few minutes, only
interrupted by a loud, warbling fart from one of the toughies, who was sitting awkwardly, and
seemed pained.

Harold trotted over. “Hewd wan stay hewe. Does dis mean mistew is nyu daddeh?”

Interocitor chuckled. “I suppose so.”

The herd was close behind Harold, and erupted in celebration. The image froze with a VHS effect
and pause symbol, then cut to Interocitor at his usual white-topped table, this time in a much
larger room, midway through being finished.

“Ok, few things. First, this was an excellent test of my new camera drone, thanks to my friend
for the custom coding for fluffy recognition, you know who you are. Second, this is a starting
point for a little bit of showcasing the difference in behavior between ‘Hasbio Approved’
fluffies, if you’ll pardon the connotations, and what I would consider to be fluffies worth a
damn.”

“Now that I’ve had a chance to unpack everything and get the good camera out again, some more
general updates. In the move I was unable to bring most of my fluffies with me, though I was
able to bring the genetic material and all of my equipment. The non-abuse fluffs went to good
homes, and the abuse fluffs, well I had a bit of a goodbye party with them. Video of that
available as a Patreon perk.”

“You’ll notice that the fluffin’ space has gotten quite a bit bigger. The property I’ve moved
onto has several outbuildings and the folks before us had this one set up as a pottery
shop. Unfortunately it was originally put up in the heyday of asbestos, so there’s quite a bit
of work to do post-cleanup. On the bright side though the high-volume propane feed that
originally went to the kilns will be excellent for an incinerator.”

“We’re going to be looking at more on fluffy psychology today, but before we get to the
manipulation, the gaslighting, and things like that, it’s useful to identify what a fluffy is
susceptible to, and this is where the difference between common domestics and ferals come into
play.”

“Let’s cover something you can spot pretty quickly, without even needing to interact with the
fluffy or fluffies in question. We’re going to cut to two different alleyways in the same city,
and observe some street fluffs.”

The scene cuts to a high angle of a particularly nasty alleyway, a fridge box on its side
nestled in a corner of a brick building. There’s a festering pile of shit across the alley, a
dead chirpie poking out of it. A mare is nursing her three young just inside the opening of the
box, and a stallion is dragging a torn up fitted sheet inside, making the box a bit more
comfortable. Food is piled near the entrance, consisting of some torn up grass and flowers and
some orange rinds.

Interocitor’s voiceover starts. “Now, these fluffies are domestics. It’s fairly easy to tell,
but the most obvious sign is that domestics don’t form herds. That’s a learned behavior, and a
fluffy that’s used to being in a house thinks that the normal household structure is just a
universal thing. The mother, the father, the children, and that’s it.”

“Second thing. Fluffies don’t understand hygiene unless they’re feral or show fluffs, and
nobody is throwing out good show fluffs. Ferals will try to keep their tails out of the shit
flow, they’ll try to wipe, and they will not make their latrine spot within smelling distance
of where they sleep. Some of them can even be seen trying to wash their rears in gutters or the
like, but the fluffy’s native hydrophobia sometimes wins out.”

“Third, the food is exposed. Ferals protect their food stockpile. Let’s go and look at the
alternative.”

The scene changes, showing a dead-end alleyway. Mares are nursing their young, and stallions
are near the entrance to the alleyway, looking around. The young play in the middle of the
alley, and smaller stallions are dragging cloth pieces or food in. The cloth goes into a
nesting area, and food is diverted into a covered space at the back of the alleyway.

“As you can see there’s no latrine area in sight. This group actually defecates directly into a
storm drain. They mind their organization, and work together in a larger group. Food is
stockpiled somewhere safe, and a simple hierarchy forms.”

The scene cuts back to Interocitor. “Now, this hierarchy is one of the best things to use to
your advantage when dealing with herds. The top of the herd is the Smarty, who may have smarty
syndrome or not. Then you have a small number of Toughies, the enforcers and muscle. In a good
herd, they protect the rest. Bad herds, they’re thugs for the Smarty.”

“Then you typically have working fluffs. Usually stallions because the mares are reserved for
breeding, but this is not always the case. You’ll have fluffies who gather food, ones who act
as lookouts or scouts, ones who are in charge of den maintenance, and sometimes others. In
badly-run herds or ones that are infected with ‘poopy syndrome’, the brown fluffies may be
relegated to cleaning the anuses of the rest of the herd, usually while also being a punching
bag or target of rape.”

“The herd that we took in earlier has no sign of poopy syndrome, so let’s cut back and see how
to use the Smarty to manipulate the rest of the herd’s behavior.”

The scene cuts back to Interocitor sitting on the porch with the herd. He stands up and
gestures. “Alright everyone, the yard is nice for playing but let’s get you squared away with
some sleeping-places.”

He turns to Harold. “Would you take them over to that big red building?” Interocitor asks,
indicating a large barn. “I’ve got some fluffy shelter in there I think you all will like.”

Harold looked over at the building, and nodded, happy. “Hewd, fowwow!” He shouted, and began to half trot towards the barn. Interocitor watched the fluffies stream past, evaluating them,
counting chirpies and juveniles.

A toughie lagged behind, wincing and making little squeaky farts. Interocitor picked him up and
carried him in a cradle hold. “You are one not-good-feeling fluffy, aren’t you.”

The stallion’s tail immediately curled up under himself and his limbs folded over it. The image
freezes, and the voiceover returns. “This is known as the baby position. It, like the uppies
position, the huggies position, and the breeding stance, are characteristics of fluffy body
language. This is a snuggly and safe-feeling fluffy.”

The playback continues, the stallion getting a pained look and blasting a ripe fart with a
groan. “Am hab wowstest tummy owwies. Was fwuffy’s tuwn to twy wed bewwies.”

Interocitor nodded. “Well you don’t need to worry about testing food anymore.”

The herd was milling around in front of the barn door, which Interocitor hauled open
one-handed. The fluffies muttered about strong human stuff and went in. The interior of the
barn was clean, with a few horse stalls standing open, fresh straw down, and a table in the
middle of an open space with some fluffy supplies on it. A low wall divided the back half from
the front, made out of pine lumber and wooden dowels.

“Now. Harold, before fluffies get to their new beddie-place, they need to have a bath. All of
them.”

Dead silence from the herd, except for a few making whining noises or muttering how water isn’t
good for fluffies. Harold looked around nervously, and shifted from hoof to hoof. “Daddeh, do
aww fwuffies weawwy need baffies?”

Interocitor nodded, filling a shallow basin with warm water. “Every fluffy. From you down to
the chirpies. I also need to make sure that I know if any fluffies have sickies so I can help
them.”

Harold got more nervous, then both he and Interocitor turned and watched as the sick toughie
ran over to a corner and vomited, collapsing on his side with a groan and a spurt of bloody
stool. Interocitor picked him up and started lightly bathing the toughie. “Look, this one’s
already sick enough that I’m going to need to take him to the clinic. You don’t want bad things
like this happening to the rest of the herd, do you?”

After shifting around, Harold sighed with a little whinny. Interocitor wrapped the toughie in a
towel and set him to one side.

Harold went over to the herd. “Hewd, fowm a wine, mummahs in fwont. Is… baffie time.”

The herd whinnied and grumbled, but got into a rough queue. Harold went into the uppies pose,
and Interocitor picked him up, giving him a quick bath, and setting the now much poofier
stallion down on the other side of the wall.

“It otay, de wawa nu meanies!” Harold said, and sat, watching.

Interocitor gently picked up a pregnant mare and set her in the water. More of the fluffies
watched, curious. After a moment of scrunched-face flinching, the dam blinked and looked down
at the water, then giggled and splashed in it. “Why de wawa nu meanies, Mistew? Is siwwy an
wawm.”

He started to bathe the dam, and gave her a little boop. “Well warm water is always much nicer
than cold.”

The footage went into fast forward, showing him working through the fluffies, hand-bathing the
chirpies with a rag while the mothers nervously watched. A colt bolted and was picked up by a
toughie who plopped the young fluffy in the basin.

Afterwards, the entire herd was inside the fence, and Interocitor picked up the sick
toughie. “Alright. The stalls back there have blankets and straw, and once I get your friend
here tucked in at the clinic I’ll be back with food and water.”

The herd shouted happiness and thanks, and went about their business, exploring their new
space. Interocitor walked out with the toughie.

Cutting back, Interocitor was steaming some vegetables. “Now, some people would be going ‘what
the hell, that wasn’t manipulation, Interocitor, you daft bag of gravel’, and to these people I
say you have a strange set of insults. However, the manipulation is in fact there. It’s simple,
if there’s something a fluffy doesn’t want to do, like get a bath, they will resist. However,
if they see the Smarty doing it, that makes them feel it’s ok and something that might be
good. It’s not a conscious thing, but it’s there. So you apply pressure to the Smarty to do the
thing you want, because it’ll help his herd. Then he’ll go first, to be a clear leader.”

“Now, Harold made mothers go first. This is not unusual, since mothers are the most vulnerable,
and therefore they process the logic as ‘outside shelter is at risk, inside shelter is
safe’. Even if both sides of the wall are in a building, one side is a nest, the other
isn’t. So the mothers need to get inside first, and the toughies are at the back to make sure
nothing jumps the herd.”

“So, let’s move on to single fluffies and an illustration of relative intelligence. You’ve seen
how ferals are decently rational, if a bit simple. Now let’s do a quick demonstration of how
dumb domestics are.”

The scene cuts, going back to the single family living in the box in the alleyway. Interocitor
walks into shot, and the stallion runs out into his path.

“Nicey mistew! Hab nummies fow good fwuffies?”

Interocitor stops, looking down at the stallion. “Fluffies? There’s only one of you.”

The stallion blinks, mouth hanging open, then giggles. “Speciaw fwien is in da boxie-housie,
siwwy.” He turns and pokes his head in the box, quietly talking to his friend.

The mare trots out, hindquarters caked in shit, with three chirpies on her back.

“What happened to the brown baby?” Interocitor asked, nonchalant.

The mare blows a raspberry at it. “Dummy poopie babbeh. Nu wan be pwetty fow mummah.”

“And you’re ok with the … the other bad babies?”

The two fluffies look up at Interocitor, blinking and confused. The mare looks around. “Bad
babbies? Dewe nu odder bad babbies hewe.”

The stallion proceeds to dump a load where he’s standing, half soaking his tail in liquid
feculence.

“Well why is a poopie baby bad?” Interocitor asks.

The mare turns back to him, brows furrowed. “Poopie babbies am poopies. Wook. Dey same cowwow.”

“Right.” Interocitor says. “But you have two babies that are red…”

The stallion blinks, beginning to think. “Otay…?”

“What else is red?” Interocitor asks, giving the fluffies a moment. “Blood. Hurties-juice.”

The fluffies gasp, the mare dumping the three chirpies on the asphalt and backing away. The
stallion watches them closely.

Two of the chirpies are indeed shades of red, the remainder is an unappealing dirty iron
color. They cheep and peep in fear and pain from being dumped, shivering at the lack of their
mother’s warmth. One latches on to the grey chirpie’s hind hoof, suckling it.

“NU! NU NUM GUD BABBIE!” The mare yells, and she and the stallion wobble forward, staying at
arm’s length but trying to swat the infants apart. She eventually manages to separate them and
picks up the grey one between her forehooves, rolling on her back to try and get away. The
stallion starts stomping on the two red chirpies, and the crack of bones and high pitched
squealing screams take nearly half a minute to stop.

“Why did you do that?” Interocitor asks.

The two fluffs pause, thinking.

“All I said was they’re red. Roses are red too. So is sketty-sauce. You two are mean fluffies,
stomping your babies like that. No housie for you.”

With that, Interocitor turns on his heel and leaves, letting the pair paw at their dead
chirpies, begging them to stop playing and wake up.

The shot returns to Interocitor, mixing some greek yogurt in with the steamed
vegetables. “You’ll need to pardon me, the sick toughie made it through the night on fluids and
it’s time to get him something a bit more substantial. This illustrated the fundamental
simplicity of a fluffy’s thoughts, but even being out on the streets for a few days was enough
to give them a little bit more than a fluffy’s normal thoughts. So I went out and got a real,
twenty-dollar fluffy mare. She’s never been uncomfortable, or experienced anything other than
light taps with a sorry stick or time in a sorry box.”

The shot cuts to a mare singing a happy nonsense song in a small pen next to Interocitor, who
is working at a desk. She proceeds to trot to the litterbox, relieve herself, then trot back to
a ball, and bat it around. After a minute, she looks around and then up at Interocitor, and
stands up on her hind legs, forelegs on the wall. “Daddeh? Dunf hab question.”

Interocitor turns and smiles down. “What is it, Dunce?”

“Weww… in da fwuffy-mawt, dey wet us watch Fwuff teebee, an dewe dis show, babbies? Babbies
wook so fun an … Dunf wan babbies, Daddeh.” The mare said, then sat down on her rear as her
hind legs got too tired to support her weight, making her squeak a little.

“You sure, Dunce? It isn’t a happy thing at first.”

She tilts her head, nodding. “Wan babbies weawwy badwy. What mean nu happy fing? Babbies make ebewyfin bettew!”

“Well when the babies are here, maybe. But to get babies is not easy, or fun.”

Dunce just stared at Interocitor, scrunching her face up a little, trying to process.

“Dunce, where do you think babies come from?”

She perks up, smiling. “Fwum a mummy’s tummy!”

“Right, but how do they get there?” Interocitor asks, leaning down paternally.

She looks down, thinking. “Uhh… fwom… a speciaw fwiend?” She says, half question.

“Very good.” Interocitor says, smiling. “But, you don’t have a special friend.”

“Den Dunf need a speciaw fwiend, Daddy!” She said, cheering up again.

“You’re right, but what if he’s a meanie?” He asks, voice getting quiet, worried.

She thinks, and grows a horrified expression. “Speciaw fwiend might be meanie to babbies!”

“What… what if we could get you babies without a special friend?”

She looks up, with a little gasp. “Weawwy?”

Interocitor nodded. “Well, we can just get the special juice that a stallion makes, and you
would put it in your special place. We just need a thing that would let you put it in.”

She gets up, leaving a perfectly formed Hershey’s kiss shaped poop nugget on the pen
floor. “Weawwy daddy?”

“Sure, let me find one, and we’ll set up a little room area so you can have good feels with the
not-stallion thing, and have babies!”

Dunce began to prance around and sing atonally about having babies.

A title card cuts in: Eighteen hours later.

Interocitor is carrying Dunce through the halls. She’s in the baby position, suckling the end
of her tail, squirming and clapping her hooves in excitement.

“Now, Dunce, you need to remember that this is supposed to be between a mare and a
stallion. Daddy can’t help you if it isn’t going how you want.” He says.

“Dat otay daddy, Dunf be bestest mummah soon!”

“Right.” He says, setting her down in a padded playroom. there’s a little balcony-like area
with a sleeping pad, a few toys strewn around, and nightlights in every few feet of the wall.

“Here you are, just remember that it pretends to be a stallion, so it might take a little bit
of time. Have fun.” Interocitor says, and sets down a conical cheese grater, spraying it with
stallion musk, before stepping out of the room and closing the door.

Dunce looks at it, confused, before slowly walking up to it and sniffing it.

Her tail gets a bit more poofy and she paws at it, before pushing it over and attempting to
back up on it, getting the wooden handle against her special place and pushing back. A mild
rhythmic enfing sound began as she worked her hips, trying to get more of the grater inside
herself. After a minute she huffed and pulled off it, then turned and grumbled at it.

After a minute she looked around, and then up at the balcony. A good three minutes passed,
looking between the balcony and the grater, before she nosed the grater over to under the
balcony, and stood it up on its base, wedging it firmly between two fixed dishes, for food and
water. She trotted up the carpeted ramp to the balcony and turned around, slowly working her
rear end off the edge until the cheese grater’s handle was slowly penetrating her.

Then after a minute of wiggling around and enfing, she let herself slide a bit more, the cone
top beginning to slowly stretch her open more. She was almost halfway off the balcony, her mass
now dragging her off with every little wiggle. The first serration caught on one lip of her
clitoris, and she squealed, losing her grip and sliding further onto the grater.

She screamed a little, hind legs waggling in the air as she tried to stand, but the grater was
keeping her up. She tried pulling herself back up on the balcony, but only managed to squirm
herself a centimeter up before losing strength and sliding down two, barely holding herself
onto the balcony’s edge.

Blood was slowly spreading, and her strength finally gave out, the portly mare sliding down
until she was standing on her hind legs. She screeched as the grater tore her inside.

“D-DADDEH! HEWP! WOWSTEST HUWTIES!” She screamed, then began trying to turn around to face the door, ripping more inside of her as the serrations snagged and tore. She screamed and squealed, her legs giving out from pain, and she settled further on the grater.

Interocitor came in, smiling. “Hey, look at you, riding cowgirl like an experienced mother.”

“Daddeh pwease, hewp, hab wowstest huwties!” She said, crying, sobbing.

“Well I told you that making babies wasn’t fun, didn’t I?” He said, hands on his hips. “You do
still want babies, right?”

She sniffled, sobbing, and nodded, suckling her hoof. Getting her legs back under her, she began
to slowly ride the cheese grater, making little squeals and yelps, sobbing.

“Good girl, now, when you feel the babies in you, yell for me and I’ll help you after, ok?” He
said, closing the door behind him before she could respond.

Dunce rode the cheese grater for a little bit longer, until her legs gave out again from
pain. She sank almost all the way down, the cone ripping her vagina open a bit from sheer
size. Dunce tried to scream, but the loss of blood made her woozy, and she passed out, upright
on the grater.

The scene cuts back to Interocitor, feeding the sick stallion, watching him slowly work through
the mixture of vegetables and yogurt. He pats the stallion gently before heading through a
glass door separating the clinic from the domestics room, back to the table and adjusting his
microphone clipped on the collar of his flannel shirt. “Right, that should be a fair
demonstration of how dumb domestics can be. Also how clever, I didn’t expect her to stabilize
it by getting it stuck between the fixed bowls.”

“So now we come to mail time, I did the drawing earlier, if you don’t mind.” He says, picking
up a clipboard. “First off we have a question from Michael D. Dear Interocitor, what parts of a
fluffy are suitable for consumption?”

“Well that’s pretty straightforward. Yes. Pretty much all of a fluffy except the fluff itself
is either consumable directly or can be used in the preparation of foodstuffs. Bones and hooves
make excellent stock, their liver is commonly used in place of foie gras now-a-days, you can
even use the intestines for sausage-making. The parts that are not consumable, specifically,
are the fluff, the rectum and large intestine, and the tail. One of my favorite recipes is
actually a veal sausage.”

He thinks for a moment, then shrugs. “You know what, Part 10 is going to be a few basic fluffy
recipes for beginners. Give me a bit of time to build up my fluffy stock again and get my
kitchen back in order. When the last owners moved they took everything that wasn’t cabinetry.”

Turning back to the clipboard he reads, “Interocitor my dude, I have a mare that won’t stop
masturbating on random objects, even on my game controller. She’s been raised right and isn’t
baby-mad, but she won’t quit it. What do I do?”

“Take her to a vet, it’s possible she has a hormonal imbalance and it’s tweaking her knobs, so
to speak. This can be caused by diet, ovarian cysts, and various other treatable things. If
you’re particularly lucky you might just have a really horny mare and that’s just how things
are. In that case I would recommend talking to her about maybe voluntarily being a breeder,
which would also net you income. In the meantime, you might need to go to your local fluffy
supplier and have an uncomfortable conversation about fluffy sex toys.”

“Finally, we have from … Dank Shizznasty. Oh boy. Interocitor, have you run across the shit
on the dark web where people have apparently discovered that on rare occasions fluffies can
begin exhibiting cult-like behavior?”

“Yes. Hoo boy that’s going to be a long one to talk about. We’ll call that Part 11, but in
short, sometimes fluffies get weird ideas and it basically develops in the same way that ‘cargo
cults’ develop. A lot of the time it’s because humans are encouraging it, but I’ll have a guest
who has studied this and can weigh in with more detail.”

“Right, folks. Thanks for tuning in for Part Nine, we’ll see you next time!”

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You’re a machine, man. A machine.

This is good stuff!

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As always, another great bit of fluffy world building. Personally, with regard to fluffy intelligence, I think its less domestic = dumb / feral = smart(er) and more that a fluffy needs to have it’s mind stimulated/challenged in order to gain more mental faculties. Ferals naturally get this by simply having to face the challenges of nature everyday to survive but domestics can get this too if you give them puzzles and other enrichment tools besides just balls and blocks. The problem is that most Fluffmarts and pet owners only give fluffies toys and have them watch Fluff TV the rest of the time which gives them about as much challenge as a crossword puzzle with all the spaces filled in.

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I’m exactly with you on that, it’s just that the character is stating it along those lines because that’s the average. I bet his own ‘boutique’ raised fluffies would be far more capable than their fluffmart cousins.

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Fair enough. I’d imagine that, on average, people are pretty lazy when raising fluffies which leads to so many of them being so dumb, hell fluffies being dumb might even be encouraged in some cases as it makes them “cuter”.

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I’ll take a slightly less cute if it means not needing to do daily litterbox re-training.

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How do you come up with trying to fuck a cheese grater? Did you, like, have this grater at home and connected the dots? I would love to know your train of thought specifically for this scene, genuinely, out of curiosity

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Honestly I don’t know where that one came from, it was just something that popped in my head and gave me a giggle.

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Fair enough, most unique and interesting ideas do come out of nowhere and are written on the go. In my experience at least

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