People are more likely to buy fluffies from crowded storefronts than barren ones.
If you want people to leave with a talking shitpig, they apparently have to be surrounded by other ones. Maybe it’s because they want to believe they have a choice. Maybe seeing a bunch of the things make them feel like they’ve found “the one” when one catches their eye.
Regardless, it means we need to have plenty of stock. Excess stock. We sell more when we have way more and since fluffies are…well, fluffies, they aren’t terribly expensive to keep alive. Even so, I like to cut corners.
See, it’s yet another piece of trivia that people are more likely to buy desperate fluffies. Because of this, we have to have a strict rule: Once foals are weaned, they go out on the floor. Once their mane comes in, they’re sorted by color, tagged, and priced accordingly. Good colors get three weeks. Good pelt, bad mane get two. Bad pelt, good mane get one. And fluffies with no good colors?
Like I said, to sell a lot, you need a lot more than you want to sell. I keep the place bursting with “poopy fluffies” and if the numbers start to get dangerous, illegal, or counterproductive I can just liquidate some of the excess stock. Hell, I heard about a fella who uses pillowed foals as packing material for delicate cargo. Their wriggling and sobbing apparently helps keep stress points from forming by slightly jostling everything around.
The long and the short of it is that at any given time I have about eighty fluffies and expect to sell roughly 50 a week, give or take. Almost all of that is from the stock that last two or three weeks. Very rarely someone will buy a bargain fluffy, and I try not to sell any of the shittiest ones. They’re actually more good to me if they make the better fluffies look good in comparison and then die after a week than they would be selling for a dollar, which is more than I’d get for most of them.
But still, some people get attached. Some people like them. So I have to take steps.
One thing I do is always make sure to tell the biggest worthless one some bullshit about how he’s the best and the smartest and the strongest and he has the sorriest poopsies ever. This way he tries to big dick it out the gate and gets his ass beat. Sometimes I’ll make…alterations.
A brown foal sleeps in a pile of other foals. His mane has started to sprout, and it’s pale green. While he slumbers, he is gently scooped up by a human. He’s only a couple weeks old, roughly the size of a coconut. The human holds him close as they enter a new room. The foal had been snuggling and hugging the man’s hand, but this new room was cold and smelled bad. He opened his eyes and yawned like a cartoon. “Hewwow nice mistuh! Am nyu daddeh?” The man scoffed as he reached a wall with several deep metal sinks, like one would find in a professional kitchen. He approaches one of the smaller ones and sets the foal inside. He looks around, confused. “Wai nice mistuh put babbeh down hewe? Wat du?”
“Your tail is coming in, and-” but the foal interrupted. “BABBEH HAF PWETTY TAIW NAO? WHEWE? BABBEH WUB PWETTY TAIW!” He started chasing his own ass around trying to catch it. The man smacked him pretty good and he bounced off the far edge of the sink. Not a lot of damage, but he’s scared and startled. "Huuuuu wai huwtin’ gud babbeh? Wan mummah! Gib babbeh tu mummah wite nao!" He puffed out his cheeks in an attempt to show dominance, and even emphasized it by rearing up on his back hooves and stomping down.
Which is about when his left shoulder gave out. He bashed his nose into the sink, prompting a small bleed. His left front leg had been totally dislocated.
The man smiled and laughed as the foal screamed and sobbed. “Shit, you did my job for me. Time to put you back out there.” The despondent babbeh looked up with tear filled eyes and begged. “Bu babbeh hab wowstest weggie huwties! Owwwies fow weggie! Weggie nu wowk, nu hewp babbeh get uppies nu mowe! Pwease hewp babbeh?” He sat back and tried to go into huggie pose, but his left leg mostly just dangled.
The man looked puzzled. “What? What is this?” The sad foal chirped out “huggies” between sobbing and trying not to choke on his own sobs. The man shook his head as he picked the foal up, not being careful with his delicate and still very dislocated weggie. “No, you give huggies with two weggies. I don’t hug lazy fluffies.” The foal was sputtering denial. “But babbeh weggie nu wowk! Nu wisten tu babbeh! Tuu huwties! Pwease huggy! Babbeh nee huggied!” The man stopped and held him up by his neck scruff to eye level. “Look you little shit, I-”
“NU CAWE! HOOMIN AM MEANIE TU BABBEH! WAN MUMMAH!”
With his free hand he flicked the foal in the tip of his snout. He teared up, but puffed his cheeks again. “Nu huwt bab-” Again. His nostrils looked crooked now and he was openly sobbing while trying to cover his nose with only his right hoof. No more puffing.
Flick.
Several teefies came out this time. His top lip was split open and his whole snout looked swollen. “Huuuuu hotay hbabbeh hbe ggghhhhhhuud…” He could barely form words with his bruised and battered snout.
Flick.
More teeth. More blood. More crooked. No words. He can scream and cry but he’s unintelligible. Finally, the man pulled out a bottle of foalmula and shoved it in his mouth. He struggled weakly but he was so tired and his snout already hurt so very bad. He couldn’t close his mouth. When he tried to he got very bad hurties and head something click. He repeated a few times. His jaw was broken enough that when he tried to bite down on the nipple, his jaw folded. He almost passes out from the pain, but he’s set down in the foal pen. The good foal pen.
One approaches the quivering sobbing heap. “Hewwo nyu fwend? Hab saddies and owwies? Huggies hewp.” He wrapped the foal in a hug, and the pain in his shoulder exploded.
“EEEEEEEEE!” He was thrashing and struggling. The better babbeh released him and ran to mummah in fear. “Huuuuurgh nnnngh knnnn…t…tk? Hng owggggass…” He couldn’t speak. He barely looked fluffy with his unnatural gait and hideous injuries. He sounded like…
“SCREEEE! POOPY FWUFFIES AM MUNSTAHS!”
Sure, it was the man who yelled that and not a fluffy. Doesn’t matter. The desired effect was had. By the end of the day, all the “filler” merchandise had been marked accordingly.
“Like I said, we need a steady supply. Now pardon me, I’m gonna go “rescue” babbehs from loving feral families so I can hurt them and make them sad for the display.”