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Byron awoke from his sleep refreshed and very stinky, having falling asleep in his work jeans which already stunk of petroleum distillates and various shop chemicals before the addition of nearly nine sweaty hours of sleep. He rubbed his eyes and took a long shower. He went into the kitchen and saw the bag of kibble he left on the table the night before. Byron decided he should have something to eat before confronting the fluffies. Usually, Byron opts to just eat a couple pop-tarts and a coffee on the way to work, but on the weekends, and when he had the time, he did enjoy cooking a hearty breakfast. Today, Byron decided to make some poached eggs, buttered toast, and a healthy side of sausages. After such a good breakfast, Byron grabbed the kibble and walked into the spare bedroom.
For once, he was pleasently surprised with the fluffies. There were no bad poopies, and it appeared they all lived through the night. A dull orange pegasus mare looked up lovingly at Byron and whispered " Hewwo nice daddeh. Did ou hab good sweepy time?"
Byron was in awe. This mare’s demeanour was so much more pleasent than the smarty who was currently languishing in the sorry box in the garage. Byron responded softly, “Yes, I sleept well. Thank you.”
“Dat is so gud. Tangewine some dawk time hab scary see pictures.” responded the orange mare.
Tangerine. That must be her name. Byron would make a note to try to remember it. As he glanced around the closet, he engaged in inane converstation with Tangerine, and she showed Byron her two babbehs.
It didn’t take long for Byron to notice something is off, however. Byron noticed that not only were there no bad poopies, there were no poopies anywhere. Where the fluffies holding it in waiting to strike? Byron did not want to take that chance. Byron leaned in and whispered to Tangerine “Poopies, make them in the litterbox now.”
“But no nee make poopies nao, nee be with babbehs. Babbeh’s nee mummah.” responded Tangerine.
Byron swiftly stooped over and snatched the two foals from Tangerines fluff and sternly told her to make her poopies or no babbies. Tangerine shivered nervously and, without taking her eyes from her two precious foals, went to the litterbox and made good poopies. Byron waited for her to leave the litterbox, and gently lowered the foals onto her fluff. The mild commotion was causing a stir in the makeshift safe room. All of the fluffies were now awake, and most ignored him or babbled some nonsense about babbehs or “scawie dawkies”. Byron ignored them, and scooped some kibble into each bowl and refilled the water bottles.
“Alright little fluffies, you didn’t make a mess, so here is your kibble and water. If you keep the saferoom clean, I will give you some more kibble later.” Byron said, with a hint of boredom in his voice.
“Tank ou fo nice kibble nummies daddeh” peeped a small, blue colt.
Byron nodded in response, and cleared his throat, preparing to speak.
“I noticed there was no poopies in the litterbox. Anyone who gives me sorry-poopies goes into the sorrybox.” Byron stated plainly.
He glanced quickly over to the litterbox, and noticed the poopies were…moving? It couldn’t be?. Indeed it wasn’t. There was a small brown foal eating the shit!
“Why is he eating the poopies?” said Byron to no fluffy in particular.
“Dat am poopie babbeh, am onwy fo num poopies and gib wicky-cweanies” bleated a grey earthie, who then asked “Where smawty go? Meanie daddeh gib smawty back to toughie WIGHT NAO oh get sowwy scree …”
Byron plucked the grey toughie from the closet and carried him to the laundry room, careful to keep his asshole pointed downwards and covered by his tail. He callously tossed the toughie into the sink, which elicited a torrent of “owwies, wet fwuffy go munstah meanie daddeh. Gib smawty back.”
Byron ignored the insults and instead placed an old cardboard box, which had been flattened, over top of the sink, effectively blocking out all light from above. Byron knew this sorry box was more forgiving, but he wasn’t exactly feeling like making another one, and besides, the current sorrybox was being used by the smarty. He should probably check on the smarty, Byron thought to himself. He left the toughie to languish in the dark, and laughed as he heard a series of “owwies” when the grey toughie kept hitting his head on the sides of the sink in an attempt to escape.
The smarty was eerily silent. Byron hoped he didn’t kill him. He opened the box and let the red earthy fall onto his workbench, which was about three feet above the ground. A jump would mean certain death. The poop soaked paper towel had dried and stuck to the smarty’s snout. Byron ripped it off and set it in front of the smarty.
“You must be hungry.” stated Byron flatly.
Byron points to the nasty paper towel and says “That, is your nummies for today. Eat it or starve.”
Predictably, the smarty was less than amicable to either choice and instead puffed his cheecks and threated to give Byron sorry-hoofsies. Byron pretended not to hear him and instead leaned his right arm onto the table very deliberately. He wanted to see if the smarty would be so dumb!
After a few minutes, Byron spaced out watching some squirels outside his garage window and was snapped back into reality by a light pinch. The smarty was biting him! With his left hand, Byron grabbed a nail that was laying on his workbench and, using his sheer strenght alone, pushed it through the smarty’s brittle tail and into his workbench. His workbench had seen lots of love and lots of abuse. One tiny nail hole would not stand out amongst the various gashes and goughes and general roughness of the material. The smarty howled in pain, its energy suddenly restored by a healty dose of adrenaline no doubt. Byron pushed the nail in further, until it was almost flush with the workbench. The smarty was in agony.
“Nee wun way fwom munstah. Nee wun way. huu huu” cried the smarty, clearly defeated.
Byron lowered himself to the smarty’s level, glaring daggers at him. “Run away. Do it.” Byron egged the smarty on. The smarty tried with all his little might, but try as he might, the nail gave no purchase.He was stuck!
WHACK WHACK WHACK
Byron planted three firm, but measured hits to the smarty’s backside. He got up and went into the kitchen to fetch a handfull of kibble. He returned to the garage and placed the kibble just a half an inch or so out of reach of the smarty and sat down to watch the show. The smarty stuggled and struggled but could not reach the kibble. He was so hungry! Why was daddy such a meanie? He was a good fluffy. Hmmpf!
After a few minutes, Byron returned to the makeshift saferoom. On one side, Tangerine and her two foals were stacking blockies. On the other side, the fluffies were all staring menacingly at daddeh, too afraid to insult him–but glaring daggers nonetheless. Figureatively, and literally, the fluffies were divided. Tangerine and her herd, loved him. They were good fluffies. The smarty’s herd…well, they might become lab experiments in the near future.