You’re a fluffy breeder. Or at least you’d like to be. So far you haven’t had very many customers, just a couple abusers and a girl at the local community college, but you’ve invested quite a bit into your business plan.
Well, ‘quite a bit’ for someone making minimum wage.
You’ve got a decent stable of fluffies, at least in your opinion. You started by opening the back gate to your yard and playing a recording of a fluffy saying “sketti” on endless loop over your computer speakers at full volume and set them on the back porch. Within a couple of hours, a small feral herd wandered by, heard the recording, and came to investigate. You shut the gate, grabbed any you thought looked decent, and killed the rest with a tire iron. The ones you grabbed went into cages barely large enough for them to move around in; you got the cages for free by driving to every animal shelter in the county and requesting humanitarian traps to solve your possum problem. They give those out for free, you set them up, capture the possum inside, and call animal control to pick up the trap; they deal with the possum, raccoon, feral cat, whatever and return the empty trap to the shelter. You had to give a name and address, so you gave them the info of a guy who pissed you off in highschool; you had no intention of ever returning all your free cages, after all.
You repeated this process several times, caging the ferals you thought looked decent and beating the rest to death with a tire iron and burning them in an old steel drum with some kerosene. You didn’t bother killing the foals too small to run away before burning them.
In the end, your capture program netted you eight stallions, twelve mares, six fillies, and two colts, the only ones you thought looked decent enough that people would pay money for them. By the end of the first month, you were down to five stallions, ten mares, two fillies, and no colts. Partly because fluffies are fragile as hell and you had no idea what you were doing (most bled to death, one died from infection, and another killed its sole remaining foal and then itself.), but partly because you needed to set an example by purging the ones you decided weren’t worth bothering with after all.
You keep the fluffies in their cages so they stay out of trouble; you don’t bother with litter boxes. Why spend the money when they can just shit through the bars of the cage into a big bucket and you can toss it on your garden? Your tomatoes are doing AMAZING this year. Troublemakers get put in the bucket and shat on until they learn to behave. They’re fed with the cheapest kibble you can find; after you made one of the mares eat nothing but shit for a couple days in a row, they all quit bitching about how terrible the food was. You know it sucks; you just don’t give a shit. The kibble is to keep the damn things alive so they churn out more foals, not to make them happy.
You glance at your stable of mares in their cages; most of them are quadruple amputees, though you left a few with one foreleg so they could roll over easier to nurse their foals. You think in the future you’re going to leave all of them with one leg; you lose fewer foals that way, and it gives you something to threaten them with. Bad fluffies lose ALL their legs. You also cut off all their tails; since they’re all completely or mostly immobile, they can’t do anything but shit all over themselves. Removing the tail at least means less shit stuck to their fluff.
Only three are bloated from pregnancy; five more are nursing litters, which means you’ve got two that haven’t been knocked up yet.
You open one’s cage and grab her by the scruff of the neck, shaking her roughly and slapping her a few times when she starts screaming. You drop her on the bare concrete floor and then open one of the stallion’s cages and drop him on the floor next to her.
“OWIES! Weggie huwties! Huuhuuu, why huwt fwuffy, am gud fwuffy…”
“Shut the fuck up and fuck her, shitrat. Nobody wants to hear your bitching.”
“Nu! Pwease! Nu wan speshow huggies! Nu wan! Pwease, hewp fwuffy!”
The stallion twitches his ears and stares at the pleading mare morosely.
“Hey dumbass, you deaf? I said fuck. That. Mare. I haven’t got all day. You think I’ve got time to just stand around while you stare like a dipshit?”
“Nu wan gif bad speshow huggies.”
“What was that? WHAT WAS THAT?!”
He flinches and rolls onto his back, tail tucked against his belly like a dog.
“Fwuffy sowwy! Nu be bad fwuffy! Pwease nu huwties!”
You hold up the cheap stungun you bought at the flea market and press the switch, making it crackle. The stallion pisses all over his own belly.
“Either fuck that mare, or you get zapped in the balls again. Hurry up, shitrat, I ain’t got all day.”
The stallion frantically gets to his feet, mounts the mare, mutters, “sowwy fwend”, and starts humping away. The mare screams and cries, so you zap her nose to shut her up. The stallion starts making a high-pitched sob of terror, but his thrusts don’t slow down any, so you don’t need to punish him. At least not right now.
Finally, the stallion grunts and climbs off the mare and hugs her. You grab him by the tail, ignore his screams of pain, and toss him into his cage with a metallic THUNK and shut the door. Then you toss the mare back in her cage.
“Hey dude, figured I’d find you down here.”
Your roommate, Dave, is standing at the top of the basement stairs with a bag of Carl’s Jr. You didn’t really get along with Dave when you first moved in and only tolerated him because you couldn’t pay the rent on the house by yourself, but after you had your idea to make money breeding fluffies he got interested. Now he’s your business partner. Well, he helps out sometimes.
“Is that lunch? Hell yes. C’mon, let’s eat upstairs, I don’t want the stench and constant bitching from the inmates ruining my food.”
“Hold up, I want to check the foals first. We got any old enough to sell yet?”
“Nah, they gotta be weaned first. I figured there’d be a market for foals you had to bottle feed, maybe people’d think they were cuter or something, but I guess everybody figures they’re too much hassle. By the way, two more died this morning.”
“Damn. We gotta find a way to keep them alive long enough to sell 'em, or we aren’t going to make any money off the damn things.”
“Shit, way I see it, even if half of them die, we can always make more, right?”
Dave shrugs and hands you your food and you open the back door and sit down on the porch to enjoy some fresh air and sunlight after being down in the dank, dark basement.
You’re chewing your burger when something rustles in the dead grape vine next to the fence and a small, pink fluffy pops out.
“Nice mista? Pwease gif nummies tu fwuffy? Haf wowstest tummeh owies! Mummah… mummah haf fowevuh sweepies, an bwuddas an sissies aww… dey aww… huuhuuuuu! Su hungwy…”
You set your burger down, stand up, and snag the little fluffy before it can run off. It yelps and protests as you lift its tail to check its crotch, then turn it over, poking and prodding, to inspect it. It looks older than your two fillies, so it should be good to go. Nice colors too.
“Hey Dave! Grab the tree pruners and the Quick-Clot, I got us another brood mare!”
The little pink mare, with her legs and tail sitting in a bloody pile next to her and bandages on all five bleeding stumps, keeps screaming.
“Holy fucking shit, SHUT THE FUCK UP ALREADY!”
You try flicking its nose repeatedly but it just keeps screaming, begging for its mother, and screaming that it hates you. You’ve heard fluffies make threats, you’ve heard them beg, you’ve heard them cry, you’ve heard them insult you… but you honestly have never heard one say it HATES you. Even with all you’ve done to them, fluffies are still programmed to love humans to some degree, even if all their experience says humans are bad. This one is screaming her hatred of you, and you can tell she means it with every fiber of her being.
Damn. What a bitch!
A stungun to the vag shuts her up for a while. But you need to teach this little bitch who’s boss around here, starting now.
“Whoo-whoo! Here comes the rape train, next stop is you! Choo-choo!”
You open a cage, grab a stallion as he begs (“pwease, pwease, nu! nu mowe!”), and carry him to the operating table.
“Chugga-chugga choo-choo! All aboard the rape train!”
You set the stallion on the table and it stands there like a retard, pissing and shivering. The little mare is writhing and mewling in agony.
“Well? Hop to it, Casanova.”
“Whu?”
“Oh for fuck’s sake!” you slap your forehead, then grab the stallion by the scruff of the neck and squeeze; he squeals and you slap him and hold your face inches away from his.
“How fucking stupid are you shitrats? You’ve been here how long, and you can’t figure out what to do? Fuck. That. Mare!”
“Dat- dat nu mawe! Dat fiwwy!”
“Who gives a shit?! There’s no age of consent laws for shitrats, dumbass!”
“Bu- she nu smeww wike mawe! She tuu widdwe! Nu gud tu gif speshow huggies tu widdwe fiwwy!”
“I. DON’T. CARE. Fuck her. Now.”
The stallion shits all over your table, which has earned him another jalepeno in his tender asshole, and then he does something you never expected him to have the balls to do.
“Nu.”
“Excuse me?”
“Fwuffy say nu! Nu giffin bad speshow huggies tu widdwe fiwwy! Yoo bad meanie! You wowstest munsta eba! Yoo… yoo wowse dan POOPIES!”
He doesn’t have much to say after you rub Theralgesic all over his tiny dick and balls. Well, he does, it’s just repetetive. And consists almost entirely of “SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”
You hold the defiant stallion by the tail, dangling him in the air as he screams, thrashes, and tries to hug his burning junk. Looks like you’ve got to make another example; seriously, these stupid shitrats never learn.
“Listen up! This is a BAD fluffy! BAD fluffies don’t do what they’re told! BAD fluffies tell me no! BAD fluffies get punished! Do you want to be bad fluffies?”
Most of the caged fluffies scream some variation of “no” or “fwuffy gud fwuffy”, though you hear a few “wan die” utterances. Eh. Fuck 'em.
You drop the screaming stallion on the table, then drag another stallion out of its cage and set it on the table next to the little pink mare. You don’t say anything, just stare at him. He looks at you, pisses himself, looks at the other stallion screaming and writhing on the table, then at the filly. Sobbing uncontrollably, he approaches the filly on shaking legs and mounts her.
“Su sowwy babbeh… fwuffy am suuuu-huuuu-huuuu soooo-hooooo-wwyyyy… huuhuuu… enf enf enf…”
The filly has gone catatonic. Good. That means you don’t have to listen to her shit.
You pull another ripe jalapeno from the basket of vegetables you picked from your garden this morning, cut slits into it so the juices leak out, and shove it up the screaming stallion’s ass while he’s still trying to hug his crotch. His screams intensify and you drop him in the shit bucket. A loud “BOO!” in a nursing mare’s face inspires her to take a giant shit, which naturally goes all over the shrieking stallion below. Laughing, you turn back to the mating couple and wait for the stallion to finish, then toss him back into his cage. After a moment’s consideration, you drop the filly into the cage formerly occupied by the screaming stallion in the shit bucket; he can live in there now. Maybe the only way to get obedience lessons to stick in these thickheaded morons is a permanent example of where bad behavior will land you. Maybe you’ll reinforce that lesson by amputing the stallion one limb at a time. Or maybe force one of the others to fuck him in the ass. Shit, you can keep using him as an object lesson for weeks to come.
You head back upstairs, unable to tolerate the stench of shit and the noise any longer and flop down on the couch to watch some Jersey Shore.
“So how much money do you think we’ll make off those things?”
“I dunno, hopefully more than we’re making now. There any beer left?”
Down in the basement, the only sounds are quiet sobbing, the stallion’s agonized screams, muttered “wan die”'s, and a mare saying, “sowwy babbehs, mummah wuvs yoo vewy much…” followed by a series of crunching sounds and a pained chirp quickly cut off.
The little pink filly finally emerges from her catatonic state and begins slamming her head against the bars of her cage, blood dripping from her nose.
“Wan die. Wan die. Wan die.”
