The next day I spent some time looking up more about fluffies. Mostly it was what I expected, but I did learn more about their basic anatomy and bio-programming. One thing I did find fascinating was the peeping and chirping is a noise infants make before they can talk to communicate with their mothers.
I also found there were whole communities of people who took interest in fluffies far beyond them being basic, if complicated, kids toys. One of the biggest and most popular had boards for pictures and descriptions of what people did to fluffies, including torture. I found myself pouring through the media, sometimes laughing at the plight of these beasts but also nodding along with the like minded people who also found them pathetic and disgusting.
After a couple hours of “research” I decided to find another fluffy to mess with. I packed my dog’s portable carrier, a couple old cans of spaghetti rings that had been sitting in the pantry for a long time, and a pump-sprayer of water. I also lined my car’s trunk with news paper and plastic sheeting.
It didn’t take too long driving around one of the more rundown but quieter sections of town to see evidence of feral fluffies. I found a dead end street with an open field area where I figured I could lure out a fluffy or two. Thinking back to some of the stuff I read about their bio-programming, I figured I’d spend some time just walking around talking to myself about “happy” things. I believe I mentioned multiple times how “I wish I had a friend” and that I had “heart hurties because I was lonely”. While I head read that feral fluffies were a lot more unpredictable (as someone on the community site referred to them: “hell gremlins”), their basic bio-programming still existed to some extent.
After walking and talking out loud in an appealing way, I heard rustling and fluffy voices poorly trying to whisper. Walking back to my car, I talked about eating some “sketty” and pulled out the can and started to open it. And that did it.
Within moments, three dirty fluffies waddled our of the grass, shit encrusted and filthy. The largest, a rusty red colored one with a black mane came forward tentatively, but didn’t appear to be terrified.
“What mista am on fwuffy wand? Dis fwuffy wand nu mista wand.”
Excellent, this was a smarty. I’d read about them. This was going to be perfect.
“Why, hello! I was just going to eat this can of sketties cuz I’m sad that I don’t have a friend.”
“Hah! Den mista gib sketties to Smawty den mabe be fwiend…”
I paused a moment smiling, then placed the can down. “Ok, here you go!”
The red stallion ran forward, tipped the can, and started gobbling up the contents. The two fluffies that had been watching followed, but stayed a bit behind, muttering “nu faiw…weave some fo toughie…”. Their idiot faces looked “hurt” like when you tell a kid they can’t have candy at the store, their stupid eyes welling up in tears. These things are fucking pathetic.
As the smarty ate greedily, I slowly moved forward and in one quick movement I grabbed the smarties main in one hand, a hank of fur above his tail in the other, and lifted him off his feet making sure his ass end was pointed away from me.
“SCREEE!!! NU BAD UPPSIES! PUT SMAWTY DOWN OR GIB BIGGEST WOWSTES POOPIES! WIW GIBS SOWWY HOOFIES!” Tears were already streaming out of his eyes. I couldn’t help but laugh. I gave him a hard shake and a massive stream of shit and piss. I knew there would be more so I gave him another shake. Nothing.
“What? I thought you were a big smarty? Give me more poopies!”
“HATECHU! HATECHU! TOUGHIES SABE SMAWTY!” He was puffing his cheeks out, something that I read was how males tried to look dangerous. It was nothing of the sort. The only things that would be scared of this act would be other fluffies. Maybe.
I hadn’t noticed but the two others had ran off, probably the second I snatched up the stallion.
I walked him around to the back of the car where I had placed the portable dog crate and shoved him inside, moving away quickly.
“PPFPPFFFFPPPPPPP!” a spray of shit came out of the cage, in addition to more threats of what a fluffy considered violence. I grabbed the pump sprayer of water out of the trunk and started hosing off the cage, hitting the fluffy on purpose a few times partly to get him to crap himself out, partly just to hear him screech about the water. They really hated water. Probably why they’re always so filthy.
I gave it some time and pulled out a contractor bag and stuck the whole crate into the bag, then tucked the whole thing back into my trunk for the ride home. The second the trunk closed the yelling and threats turned into the obnoxious “hu hu hu” cry they do interspersed with him pleading to be let out of the “dawk sowwy box”.
When I returned home, I took the crate down to the basement via the basement door and took the crate out of the bag. The stallion’s face was wet from bawling his eyes out, snot running out of his nose. And like that, back to the threats.
While he continued to yell about how much he was going to give me sorry hooves between forced farts, I laid out some tools: an old length of metal antenna, some various hand tools, and a small oak cudgel.
I bent down far enough away to avoid any projected waste, but close enough that he could see me through the bars.
“WET SMAWTY GO! WITE NOW DUMMY MISTA!”
In my bit of research, if you could call it that, I had read up on some of the words they used, their language if you could call it that. I was hoping this feral wasn’t so far removed from the original bio-programming that it still understood most of it.
“What’s your name, Smarty?”
“SMARTY NU TELL DUMMY MISTA!”
“I just want to know, because I have sketties and a mare to enf, but I can’t give you either without knowing your name.” That gave him pause. I was hoping as a smarty he’d be easy to trick with his own greed.
“Mista habe sketties and mawe fow good fews? Den gibs!”
“Oh sure, but what is your name? So I can tell the mare. She’s really excited to have babbies with a red stallion who’s smart and brave.” Another pause. Demeanor totally changed. I’m pretty sure he totally forgot everything that happened up to now.
“Smawty name am Weddy-Fwuffy. Now gib Weddy-Fwuffy mawe!” He stamped his leg to emphasize.
I walked over and picked up the crate. “You take Weddy-Fwuffy to sketties fiwst, Weddy-Fwuffy am hungy den Mista take Weddy-Fwuffy to mawe fow enffies. Den maybe Weddy-Fwuffy nu gib dummy mista wowstest poopies!”
I opened the crate and dumped him on the basement floor. The fluffy landed with a thud which knocked the air out of him. He looked up in a mix of terror, shock and defiance. I stepped on his tail to keep him from running, grabbed the antenna, and proceeded to whip the stallion repeatedly.
“SREEEEEEEE!!!”
The sound was hilarious. After about a dozen strokes, his backside was bleading and he had left a puddle of piss under him.
“NU HURT FWUFFY HU HU HU!”
I grabbed him by the main and hauled his head around to face mine. I stared into his eyes and I could feel him shaking in fear.
“Listen to me Red-Fluffy. I’m going to give you the worsest hurties you will ever have. I will do this until I’m tired of doing it. Then when I’m tired of hurting you, I’m going to give you forever sleepies. Do you understand?”
“Nuuuuuuu! Pwease nu gib Wed-Fwuffy fowebew sweepies, hu hu hu. Wed-Fwuffy am pwomice be bestest fwuffy for mista, hu hu hu. Pwease!” The begging was great.
I laid into him again with the antenna, over and over again, until I lost count, only stopping when his back was dripping with blood and his SCREE became hoarse.
Looking at the hand tools, I switched to a large pair of pliers. I grabbed his rear leg by the hock and squeezed. He SCREE’d in high, hoarse pitch and started flailing around which I can only imagine made it worse. As I squeezed, I could feel the joint giving until finally there was a weird popping, crunching noise. I released the grip and saw the joint was floppy and the skin over it torn and bloody. The fluffy was wheezing and gasping for breath. Once in a while he’d get a “pwease” or a “nuu” out, but thankfully, the hu hu’ing had stopped for now.
I flipped him a bit and grabbed the other hock joint and squeezed again and again he writhed in pain, but to my surprise he lurched hard enough when the joint was destroyed that he pulled away from the pliers enough to extract the joint, but not enough to clear the skin. I pulled up with the pliers until I was holding him off the ground by the skin.
“OUWIEOWIEOWIEWETFWUFFYDOWNHUHUHUHUHUHU!”
I complied and dropped him on the floor with another thud. He rolled onto his belly and used his front legs to try and crawl away, his voice weak.
“Pwease weggies…pwease…”. Weird. Just like the first fluffy, he was pleading his legs to save him.
Next up was a quick clamp, the kind you can use with one hand by pulling the trigger to tighten it. I walked in front if him and started shoving him back with my foot.
I popped the clamp perpendicular to him across each shoulder and started clamping. As soon as he felt pressure he pleaded “Nu pwease sqweezy!”
click
click
“NUUUUUU!”
click
click
“nuuuu…heff heff heff…nuuu…”
click
click
I kept tightening the clamp. I could tell he was struggling to breathe and in an immense amount of pain. His eyes were closed and lips pulled back in a grimace of pain, shoulder joints compressed. I left it there until I noticed him going a bit loose. Nope.
I hit the release before he passed out. The second the pressure was released enough he took a deep breath and let out a long, loud SCREEEEEE!
“Mummah…mummah hewp bestest babbeh…”
“Wow Red, you’re begging for your mommy? That’s pretty pathetic. You are a terrible fluffy.”
He winced. I had read they were very susceptible to negative speech. Good to know that it hurt.
“Wed be gud fow mummah…”. His eyes were lolling around. And then the music: he started peeping and cheeping.
I let him do this for a bit, his eyes closed, while I went up stairs and grabbed some ice water. When I returned to the basement, he was still peeping, cheeping, and shivering.
“Wake up!” I dumped the water on him. He instantly woke, SCREEing yet again. This time a loud fart and a turd flew from his ass.
“Red, here’s what is going to happen”, he looked at me in terror, quietly hu-hu’ing, “I’m going to take this stick and I’m going to hit you in the head with it until you are a dummy fwuffy.”
“nuuuuuuu….”
“Yes. I don’t know how long you will be aware of anything. Hopefully for a bit. I really want you to be a dummy fluffy for a while. Then I will hit you more until you take forever sleepies.” I wasn’t sure he actually understood most of that. I hoped so.
I grabbed the oak cudgel, making sure to go slowly and have his attention. I rolled him over on to his back. He started hu-hu’ing louder.
“Good bye Red.”
I brought the cudgel down as hard as I could on his skull making a loud sharp crack. Twice. Three times.
The first hit made him squeal. The second as well. The third was the one. I felt his whole body tense. I took a step back.
His eyes rolled back and his whole body stiffened, front legs pulling up. His eyes were rolling up, but opened wide. Some blood flowed out of his nostrils. He started shaking, less like when he was scared and more like a seizure.
I quickly grabbed him by the main and pulled his face closer to mine.
“RED! You are the worse fully ever! I hate you so much! No mommy or daddy would ever love you!”
I dropped him on the floor once again and watched as he lurched and struggled for breath. At no point did he talk again, or even cheep. Once he stopped seizing, the only sound was his wet irregular breathing. I left him there to die cold and alone on the floor. No idea if he knew, but I hoped.
Look at that. Time to feed the dog.
“I’m going to leave you here now, in the cold, in the dark. You’re going to have forever sleepies alone. That’s what you deserve.”
I left him there overnight. I’d pitch him in the trash tomorrow.
Maybe he heard me? Maybe it was the pain? Or maybe it was just an autonomic reaction of some sort, but the next morning when I went downstairs to dispose of the busted fluffy, I couldn’t help but notice that he had cried profusely and for a while. His muzzle was positively soaked and there was a small puddle under his head on the floor.
I couldn’t tell what was more enjoyable, the physical or the mental abuse. Either way, another of these horrible toys was gone. I was doing my part.