You just finished changing the oil in your 1973 Plymouth 'Cuda. Wiping your hands on a greasy rag, you admire the beautiful weather and- well, there goes your day. A herd of ferals is making its way down the sidewalk, and the smarty, a dark purple unicorn, is making a beeline for you.
Every fucking spring, it’s the same shit. ‘Dummeh hoomin, dis smawty wand now’, blah blah blah. Then you have to chase the damned pests off or, if they’re persistent, call an exterminator to get rid of them.
The rest of the herd halts on the sidewalk, staying a safe distance from you, and only the smarty and another fluffy carrying a small foal walk up to you. Yup, here it comes.
“Hewwo, nice mista! Yoo wawn wook weady fow mowin! Fwuffies twim wawn fow fwee! Hoomin want fwuffies twim wawn?”
Wait, what?
“Excuse me?”
“Fwuffies twim wawn, so nice mista no haf to mow gwassies. Hewd hungwy, hoomin no wike mow wawn, eferrybuddy win. Fwuffies twim gwass no showtew dan dis chiwpy babbeh.”
“Cheep!”
The other fluffy places the foal in the grass to demonstrate how short the fluffies will crop the grass, then picks it back up and waddles off to rejoin the herd. The smarty continues his sales pitch.
“An fwuffies nu make poopies on wawn! Nice mista haf gawden? Poopies is vewy gud fow fwowas and gween nummies, make poopies in gawden if nice mista want.”
You blink a couple times. Is… is this fluffy offering to mow your lawn and fertilize your garden for you?
“So, wait, you DON’T want to annex my land and chase me away?”
The smarty actually chuckles.
“Nu, nu, nu! Dat siwwy! Hoomin get mad, fwuffies get huwt, nobuddy happeh. Fwuffies get to num gwassies so nu haf tummeh owies, hoomin gets wawn twimmed and nu nee to mow it. Eferybuddy happeh!”
“So… I don’t have to pay you anything to trim my lawn?”
“Nu! Fwuffies juz wan num gwassies!”
“And you’re not going to poop everywhere?”
“Nu! Fwuffies pwomise!”
You think about it. Your gas mower is old and a pain in the ass to get started, and that electric one you bought a couple years ago is absolutely worthless. What’s the worst that could happen, the fluffies eat all your grass, shit on the lawn, and you get to practice for the kickoffs when they piss you off?
“Sure. But don’t eat all the grass, just… make it shorter.”
“Fwuffy unnustan! Nice mista show fwuffies whewe they make gud poopies?”
You show them into the back yard where your wife grows roses and tell they can poop there, admonishing them not to eat the flowers. The smarty assures you the flowers will remain unmolested.
An hour later, a gentle tap on your front door startles you, and you open the door. It’s the smarty; his herd is standing on the sidewalk.
“Fwuffies dun! Nice mista wike wawn?”
Huh. They did a pretty decent job, trimming it all down to a uniform length. You check, and there’s a small pile of fluffy shit fertilizing your wife’s roses and, true to the smarty’s word, the flowers are unmolested.
“Uh, yeah. Good job guys, thanks.”
“Nu! Fank yoo, nice mista! Hewd nu haf tummie owies nu mowe! Um…”
“What?”
“Nice mista know anywun whu nee wawn twimmed?”
“Yeah, John down the street. He’s old, so he has trouble doing it himself. He probably wouldn’t mind.”
“Um…”
“Oh. Right. You don’t know where he lives. Uh… What the hell, you mowed my lawn for free, I’ll show you where it’s at.”
“Fank yoo, nice mista!”
A fluffy, you think it’s a mare, huddled with the rest of the herd shuts, “Nice mista am nice!”
Well, that sounds grateful. And redundant. You lock the front door and walk down the sidewalk to John’s house, trailed by a dozen fluffies.
Smarty and his entourage have spent the whole spring and summer nibbling people’s lawns down and fertilizing their gardens. It took a while, but once word of mouth spread and people were sure that the fluffies wouldn’t be an absolute terror to their lawns and gardens, they got more business. After people got used to Smarty, as everyone now called him, and his little herd keeping their lawns short without having to break out the mowers or rakes, and providing free fertilizer, the fluffies began the next phase of their plan:
“Nice mista, maybe wan hewp fwuffies wif pwobwem?”
“What sort of problem, Smarty?”
“Cowd times coming soon. Fwuffies haf enuff nummies while twimming wawns, but nu haf nummies when cowd times come. Nee haf nummies, ow wittwe babbehs haf wowstest tummeh owies. Fwuffies nee nummies fow cowd times. Nice mista gif mow nummies for fwuffies? Fwuffies am gud, keep wawn showt and nicey-nicey!”
“Oh. That makes sense, you guys need food for the winter. Uh, sure. Tell you what, maybe John and some of the other neighbors will pitch in and buy you guys some kibble. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Fank yoo, nice mista!”
Most of the neighborhood pitched in to buy kibble and canned spaghetti for the herd of lawn trimmers. The few that didn’t contribute had to mow their own lawns afterward. They grumbled, but gave the fluffies some kibble to resume trimming their lawns.
With a nice stockpile of food piled up on an empty lot at the end of the subdivision, the next thing the fluffies campaigned for was shelter for the winter. John donated his old shed, since he no longer needed his broken down lawnmower, and you moved it to the empty lot and helped the fluffies move their food stockpile inside. Someone got clever and painted SMARTY’S LAWN SERVICE on the side facing the street.
All autumn, the fluffies kept everyone’s grass neatly trimmed to a uniform level and began disposing of fallen leaves. Fluffy ponies stuffed their fluff full of dead leaves and carted them down to their shed to use as bedding material, and the neighborhood was pleased not to have to break out the rakes and garbage bags this year.
You notice Smarty’s herd has been growing steadily, and not just from babies. Other ferals have been joining the herd individually or in small groups. Most stay on, glad to have a sure thing that keeps them fed and sheltered, but a few are turned away by Smarty when they fail to follow his simple rules for keeping the lawns neat and pooping where directed. Another smarty and his little herd tries to annex a soccer mom’s lawn at the end of the street, and Smarty promises to deal with it. The next day, you notice the herd of lawn fluffies has grown by a handful, and the aggressive smarty is floating face down in the drainage ditch. Wow. Fluffy gang warfare is serious business.
The fluffies don’t have much business throughout the winter, but they keep to themselves and don’t bother anyone in the neighborhood. Then one day, Smarty taps on your door with his hoof and politely asks you to open a bag of kibble and a few cans of spaghetti for the herd, as a special favor, and you gladly do so. Ever since Smarty and his herd moved in and started providing lawn care, the feral problem has become nonexistent and everyone is really happy with the ‘free’ lawn service.
Since Smarty asked you to help the fluffies open some food up, you started watching and noticed that he was going door to door, asking a different neighbor every day. In this manner, he kept the herd fed throughout the winter, carefully rationing the food stockpile so it wasn’t depleted, and didn’t annoy the same people by begging them for help opening cans or bags over and over. For a fluffy, this guy has his head on straight.
Spring came again, and Smarty’s Lawn Service took to the streets again, clearing lawns of dead tree branches small enough for them to haul away, trimming the grass, and fertilizing gardens. The head of the neighborhood watch had a one-on-one discussion with the head of Animal Control for your town, and an exemption was made for the ‘feral’ fluffies; they were now considered community property, rather than ferals, and each was given a red bandanna with the Smarty’s Lawn Service logo printed on it to wear around their neck; these bandannas basically gave them qualified immunity and kept the fluffies from being exterminated or hauled off to the pound.
One day, you were helping Smarty dispose of the trash from the food stockpile in the shed, which basically consisted of bringing garbage bags, opening them, and letting the fluffies carry the trash out of the shed and drop it into the bags for disposal. You considered it a small price to pay for having a well-kept lawn and keeping your wife happy with her gorgeous, lush rose bushes.
“Oof! Nice mista? Dis tuh heafee fow fwuffies, hewp fwuffies cawwy it?”
You go inside the shed for the first time since you moved it to the empty lot and Smarty indicates a sheet of corrugated metal with two dead fluffies on top of it.
“Dese fwuffies get sickies and haf fowevaw sweepies. Fwuffies haf saddies, but nu can keep dem hewe; dey gonna nu smeww pwetty, and haf to go bye-byes.”
You feel bad for the little guys and remove the bandannas from the dead fluffies, dropping them on the floor of the shed to be assigned to one of the larger foals or a newly adopted feral, and dispose of the bodies for them. You stop and think for a second; there was something odd about the inside of the shed. You go back inside and look, and yes, that’s very odd.
“Smarty? Why do you guys have this big pile of change sitting here?”
“Change? Oh, yoo mean muhnies. Fwuffies fine on gwound aww ofew pwace, keep hewe fow safe keeping. Dis piwe been gwowin since fwuffies stawt twimming wawns.”
“What do you need money for?”
He shifts suspiciously and shrugs.
“Safe fow wainy day?”
Well that doesn’t sound at all bizarre and un-fluffy like. But, it’s harmless, and you’ve noticed fluffies from Smarty’s Lawn Service picking up loose change in the street before, so who cares why they’re stockpiling it.
Late in the summer, you notice a troupe of strange fluffies waddling down the sidewalk toward Smarty. These fluffies, oddly, are all wearing blue bandannas around their necks. You go outside to see what’s up and, startled, realize these fluffies have the Smarty’s Lawn Service logo on their bandannas too. Who started making blue bandannas for them?
The blue-affiliated fluffies are pulling a pair of Radio Flier red wagons behind them, loaded down with kibble and canned spaghetti. The leader of the group exchanges pleasantries with Smarty (this seems to involve sniffing and lots and lots of hugs), then Smarty’s red-clad fluffies empty the food from the wagons and tote it into the shed for safe keeping. This done, the blue fluffies haul their empty wagons back up the street and disappear at the end of the block.
“Hey, Smarty?”
“Yes, nice mista?”
“Who were those fluffies?”
“Oh. Hewd gwow to big to wive in one pwace, so when wawm times come, Smawty sen fwuffies to fine new pwace to wive and wowk. Dey their own hewd naow, but stiww pawt uf Smawty’s hewd, so dose fwuffies bwing Smawty sum uf what nicey-nicey hoomins gif dem fow twimming wawns.”
Oh dear gosh, he’s invented the franchise and is spinning off new herds to start their own lawn care businesses in other neighborhoods and bring him a percentage of their profits.
This is… wow. You’ve never seen a fluffy with this level of forethought and scope of planning before. Hell, you know humans too stupid to pull this off.
You go back inside and sit on the couch, watching the fluffies as they eat weeds and trim lawns, and wonder if everything you know about the world is wrong.
Autumn is coming again, and Smarty’s Lawn Service is busy clearing away the leaves and fallen sticks. Eight more fluffies died in a miniature pandemic, as a mild cold decimated the herd. They were mourned, but soon replaced by more adopted ferals or foals big enough to help the adult fluffies with the lawn care business.
You’ve now seen envoys from other spin-off herds, wearing green, orange, and yellow bandannas with the Smarty’s Lawn Service logo. You’ve also heard rumors that a couple of these spin-off herds have grown large enough to split and form their own spin-off franchises, all of whom pay tribute to their parent herd. You have no idea how many neighborhoods are now customers of Smarty’s Lawn Service, but you’re beginning to suspect that a significant percentage of the town may be doing business with them.
Then one day, as the fluffies are disposing of more fallen leaves, you notice a bum walking down the sidewalk, trailed by three of the fattest, happiest fluffies you’ve ever seen. Greeeaat, just what you need, some creepy homeless guy hanging around begging for change and peeking through windows. You consider calling one of the neighborhood watch members, but decide to confront the guy yourself. You step outside and see him and the three fluffies trailing him enter Smarty’s shed. Dammit, now he’s gonna try to take up residence in the shed and he’s gonna ruin the whole arrangement you’ve got with the fluffies. You jog across the street and walk into the shed, ready to chase the damn bum off.
To your surprise, he’s sitting on the floor of the shed petting Smarty and telling him what a good job he’s done, and Smarty acts as if the bum is familiar. Several of Smarty’s fluffies are assisting the three fat fluffies that came with the bum as they pick up change in their mouths and deposit it into a large backpack. The fluffies have gathered quite a stack of loose coins over the past year they’ve been working the neighborhood, and it’s all going into the backpack.
“What’s going on here?”
“Well! I was just catching up with Smarty here, he’s been telling me what a good set up he’s arranged with you folks. Looks like they’re doing pretty good for themselves, better than I expected.”
“They’ve been collecting that money all year, why are they giving it to you?”
The smelly, homeless bum laughs and pats Smarty on the head again.
“Whose idea do you think this little lawn service enterprise was? The fluffies never would have thought of it themselves, and I sure as hell couldn’t take care of them all. So, I came up with the idea, they tried it, and it worked. And in exchange for teaching them what to do and how to do it, they save all the loose change and dollar bills they find and give them to me.”
“And who might you be?”
The bum grinned as he zipped up his backpack full of coins and hefted it onto his shoulders.
“You can call me Hobo: King of the Fluffies.”