Jim Jimson woke up as he did every day. First he went to go take a shower, staring at a bar of soap for a long while with his mouth hanging open slightly. Then it was off to make breakfast. A guy like Jim had very simple needs in this regard: Just two pieces of toast (lightly toasted) with butter and strawberry jam slathered on top. Then it was off to get finished getting dressed while his breakfast rested for a moment.
Whistling to himself, Jim poked back into the kitchen and found something horrible. A blue fluffy foal. Now one could mistaken for thinking that it was a micro but no. There it was, stepping around in his toast. Hopping off and pattering around the counter to leave slick, sticky red hoofprints everywhere it went.
âHey. HEY! YOU SON OF A BITCH!â Now fluffy infestations werenât anything new in this world. It didnât mean you were dirty or anything. Anyone could get fluffies! Usually micros though. Looking up at Jim, the blue foal gave several terrified peeps and went scurrying behind some crap on the countertop. Searching behind cracker boxes and cookie jars, Jim could find no sign of that little pest.
ââŠâ Tossing away his toast and putting some new bread in the toaster, he wiped up the counter and resolved to get some glue traps after getting off work.
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Jim returned him from work later that evening with a small bag of various goods from the drug store. Not only glue traps but conventional spring traps, poison sketti bait, a âHuggy Hotelâ which was a cute little house shaped plastic contraption that shocked micros or espowinâ babbehs to death when they ventured into itâs depths.
âLetâs see you ruin my breakfast now. Heh.â After setting up the last trap, he threw open the freezer and selected a Hungry Man.
As he microwaved his fried chicken (what the fuck?), tiny eyes watched him from behind the coffee maker.
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The next morning Jim didnât even bother taking a shower first. Nope! He was like a kid on Christmas morning, marching out triumphantly to the kitchen.
There on a glue trap beside the stove was that little blue fuck. Small and blue, struggling helplessly against the adhesive.
âPeep peep peeeeeeep!â It called out helplessly. Perhaps to itâs mother. Well let me tell you this: If Jim met his mummah, he was going to kick her ass too.
Lifting the glue trap up and leveling it up to his eyes, Jim gave a sick chuckle. âYou played in the wrong guyâs breakfast. Now look at you. Youâre in aâŠsticky situation.â The foal could only start peeping harder, looking to the humanâs eyes pleadingly.
Folding the glue trap, Jim felt itâs bones crush and innards shift. Ew. Tossing the carcass into the trashcan, he felt like a real big man now. If he had a wife heâd go and fuck her, thatâs what a great feeling it was.
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That day at work was completely normal. Jim worked at the box factory. Not on the floor where the bigshots were but in an office. His day went so normally, in fact, I donât know why Iâm telling you about it.
This continued on until night fell. Snuggling up in bed next to a body pillow, he proudly declared: âMy life is pretty darn greatâ and then promptly began to fall asleep.
Deep, dreamless sleep. Is there anything more satisfying? He was always such a restful sleeper that hardly anything could wake him up. Yet there was somethingâŠstrange.
A tickling at his ear. Kind of wet. A noise? Eyes groggily flickering open, he reached out blindly and grabbed at whatever had been bothering him. His fingers seized around something small and furry.
By the light of his phone, Jim made out what it was. A blue fluffy foal. In factâŠno. Couldnât be. Regardless this sick fuck had been licking his ear and peeping. Lips drawing back, he flung the foal hard against the wall. It struck there with with a small âsplatâ then fell to the floor with a series of small twitches.
Collecting the corpse, Jim went out to the trashcan. Inspected it just to make sure. Yup. This one was different. Yet it looked just the same.
âIs there a fucking blue baby convention in my house?â He asked aloud.
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The next morning he went to take his shower, staring at the bar of soap on itâs little resting ledge as usual. Grumbled. Goddamn fluffies.
Stepping out into the kitchen he found something that caused him to pause. Nearly every trap had been sprung, stepped into, or otherwise used. Every single one occupied in one way or another by a blue foal.
âThe fuck!?â Jim asked, beginning to drag blue foals out of traps. Shaking out the Huggy Hotel and finding and entire stack of them piling out into the trash. Some of them had gone for the poison sketti bait and vomited in various places on the floor, huddled around dead in hiding spots.
Someone was playing a joke on him. Some big fucking prank. Who? Who the Hell would want to do this to him?
Cleaning up this mess had cut into his time enough and he wasnât very hungry anyways. All he wanted right now was a small bowl of cereal. Reaching for the box of flakes, he poured out a fair shake and watched in surprised horror as something thumped down into the bowl.
Another motherfucking blue foal. It looked up to him, suckling on a cornflake happily and cooing softly.
It went right into the trashcan, bowl and all.
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âIâm losinâ my mind. Or someone is fucking with me. Who? Is it Janice? What the Hell did I do to you, Janice? All I said at the company Christmas party was that your 7-layer dip smelled like farts!â Jim was clearly rattled as he made his way into the box factory. Saluted the heroes working on the assembly line, made his way up to the office.
As soon as Jim made his way through the doors to the office he found himself accosted by the boss. Oh great, what now? What in the world had he done now?
âHi, Mr. Boxman.â The man said nervously, hands fretting together. Good Lord, Mr Boxman looked CHEESED OFF.
âJim. You know we have a zero pets in the office policy here.â Mr Boxman told him in a tense tone. Pet? What? Jim gave him a clearly confused look.
âSirâŠI donât got a pet. I had a goldfish once but it done ran away.â He said pathetically. Boxman tugged him into his personal office and indicated his coffee mug.
âWhat do you call that!?â
There it was. A blue foal. That same goddamn piece of shit heâd seen over and over. Just chilling out in the coffee mug as if it were a hot tub. How the Hell was it not being scalded?
âSIR! Mr Boxman! This is some kind of a sick joke!â Jim tried to explain but the boss dragged him out to the main office area and to Jimâs own desk.
âHow do you explain this, then!?â He asked. Jim stared down to his area which was normally a little messy but had lacked personal items. Now though? There were picture frames. Each of them showing Jim with that blue babbeh. One where they were parasailing. One where Jim was dressed up like Santa with the foal on his lap. Another where Jim was helping the fluffy blow out candles on a birthday cake.
Stomach lurching, Jim had to put a hand to his mouth. âIâm taking a personal day.â
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Driving back home in a hurry, Jim ran into his apartment. There were no more fluffies waiting for him in the kitchen traps, so that was something.
He swept through his apartment to check for any trace of them. Nothing. Not one cheep, peep, or small pile of turds.
âI just need to relax. Thatâs it. You know what? I just need to crank it. Yeah, thatâs it. Punish the old trouser snake.â He chuckled sickly. Navigated to his favorite porn site on his phone like another unhygienic bastard in this world.
What he saw caused him to actually vomit right on the sofa. Blue babbeh. That stinky cocksucker had infiltrated his porn site. There were blue foals twerking, some of them in lingerie, others doing that weird thing with their faces like what those Japanese cartoons did. Tossing his phone across the room, he looked to the vomit on his coach. Broke out in a heavy sweat. Went back to retrieve his phone and quickly closed out of the porn site.
His next step was to call up an exterminator. This was something a professional needed to fix. Finding a local company, he called the number and waited for someone to pick up.
âHi, Fosterâs Fluff-B-Gone! How may we help you today?â A cheerful woman said on the other end. Jim nervously licked his lips.
âHey. I, uhh. Iâve got a problem. All these blue foals are everywhere I look. Itâs seriously fucked up. You gotta help.â
There was silence on the other end of the line. Somewhat startled, the woman replied: âBlue foals? Youâre sure? Theyâre not micros?â
Jim was sure they werenât micros. Micros spoke! These were just espowinâ babbehs. âYeah! Everywhere! Iâm serious!â
More silence on the other end of the line. And thenâŠthenâŠ
Peep peep peep!
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After that, Jim began seeing that blue fluffy everywhere. Actually, everywhere. Turning on the news resulted in him viewing the bastard out in the middle of a rainstorm wearing a tiny yellow raincoat and cute gumboots. When he went to go get something to eat of the refrigerator he found that the Indian girl on the margarine container had been replaced by the blue baby in what he thought was very tasteless cultural misappropriation.
Eventually he could take no more. No phone. No food. No nothing. He couldnât stand to be out in the open in a room either. That thingâŠit could be hiding anywhere.
Now he sat right in the middle of shower, the door closed. Heâd throughly searched the room before coming in here. Tossed out the trashcan, all the pill bottles, duct tapped the toilet lid down.
He was going crazy. That was it. Soon heâd be in the nut hut where he belonged. No. No. He couldnât go there.
The blue foal would be there. Dressed up in a nurseâs uniform, carrying a tiny tray of pills.
Maybe he could just kill himself? No. No. Maybe? NO. That fucking foal would be the one presiding over his funeral and nobody would even know any better.
Jim began crying hopelessly. Down in the drain, he could hear distant peeping.
