So, my first post on FC and my first fluffy-related thing. Been a lurker for a while and decided to jump in. Hope y’all like it~
Cover art by @FluffyChimera
The first thing Paul always felt was the garbage juice. Warm, reeking, bleeding through the fabric of his slippers - and then socks - before the bag even hit the can. Trash day was always shit. But, three weeks running, it had become a whole other level of shit. Literally; mounds of fetid, claggy, half-syrup/half-solid shit piling up around the cans.
“Son of a fuckin’ bitch!” Paul said, throwing the garbage bag at the can. He had just cleaned it a few days ago. Whatever was leaving it was not stopping, even after he laced the yard with Fluffix brand poison pellets. Paul didn’t precisely hate fluffies. He treated them like he treated any other animal. If it doesn’t fuck with him, he doesn’t fuck with it. But this? With the hill of turds in his trash? That was fucking-with worthy. He let out a sigh and pulled one of the loose cigarettes and matches from his shirt pocket. He flicked the match with his calloused thumb, then got the cigarette tip glowing with a puff. From the corner of his eye, he caught his neighbor giving him that judging side-eye as she walked back indoors with her laundry. “Judge this, ya’ old bitch.” He muttered, grabbing his crotch. He’d been smoking since 1997 and, 28 years later, he ain’t gonna change for some dried up old-
“Huuhuuuuu…”
The fuck? Paul turned toward the thought-interrupting sound. It was faint, but noon in this cul-de-sac was pindrop quiet.
“…huuhuuhuuuuuu…”
There it was again. Paul tapped a few ashes off his smoke as he made his way to where he approximated the sound to be: his porch.
“Probably one beggin’ at the door.” Paul grumbled, picturing some baby-saddled mare making puppy-eyes for a new place to mooch. Thank Christ above, the porch was clear of any hooved critter.
“…huuuuuuu…”
But, god damn it, there it was again! There was a fluffy on his property. There just had to be. How it resisted the pseudo-sketti taste of the pellets, Paul couldn’t figure out. But wherever it was, it was gonna get a one-way-flight into the woods out back. So, Paul stood quietly. Listening. Waiting. The same sound kept coming. Coulda been coming from the garage, if they found the loose panel on the door. Maybe it was nestled in his hydrangeas? They were brand new, though, so he’ll be damned if they were gonna get eaten by more of the little fuzzballs. But… nope. The little fence he’d put around them was unmoved. No sign of damage or filth.
“Huuuuhuuuu…”
It was the fucking porch.
Just to the side of the hydrangeas is where he saw the tell-tale sign. The criss-cross pattern of the porch skirt was off. A section had been hastily propped up the wrong way, breaking the pattern. Kneeling beside it, Paul flicked the wood aside. As he stared into the crawl space, dimly lit by the angle of the sun, he stubbed his cigarette in the grit. From that dark wafted a stink that was something awful. A chimera of wet dog, cat piss, sickly rot, and a hint of sour grapes.
“What the fuck?!” Paul rattled out, amid a flurry of coughs - a desperate attempt by his body to eject this acrid funk - before he reached into his back pocket and took out his phone. He tapped the flashlight on to see into the deeper nooks - where the smell seemed most concentrated.
“N-nuuu…” came a weak voice - high in pitch, but thick. Like it had to force its way through clenched fat. Behind the voice was a pair of eyes, the dilated pupils framed in thin yellow rings that were worn with a tired mar. Paul’s own eyes locked on those. He was right. A damn fluffy. “Too bwight…” The fluffy whined, trying to lift a leg over its face.
“Tough shit.” Paul said, “You the little bastard been shittin’ in my trash?”
“Fwuffy nu make poopies… Nu enough nummies tu make any poopies…”
“Yeah, well, one of you’s been piling it up. You got more in there with ya’?”
“Nu hewd wan’ fwuffy,” The fluffy said, with a sniffle and a shake of its head.
“God damn it…” Paul lifted himself up, taking in a breath of air that wasn’t laden in fluffy filth.
“Hoomin!” The fluffy called, “Fwuffy know! Fwuffy know!” Each call was strained, like each syllable was forced past a wave of pain.
“The fuck you know?” Paul said, flicking his hand toward the hole in the skirt.
“Fwuffy know whewe bad poopies fwom!”
“Yeah? Where?”
“Bad poopies am fwom meanie fwuffy.”
“Doesn’t tell me a damn thing…” Paul muttered, rubbing his temple.
“Meanie fwuffy gif huwties… steaw nummies… make bad poopies…”
“Well, where the fuck is he?” Paul’s tone grew more annoyed and the fluffy trembled.
“Meanie am unda owd hoomin housie.”
“Of fuckin’ course…”
It took three hours - three goddamned hours - to convince Mrs. Cooper to let Paul check under her house. Sure enough, there was an orange-and-green stallion under there. Caked in dried mud, crusted shit, and multi-colored stains from whatever food it had been gorging on. The only reason Paul knew what color it was was because he got it out by spraying it with a hose. Sadly, the little chunk didn’t drown in it. No, it came scampering out. Right into a hard kick from Paul’s boot. While it curled up on the grass, vomiting out its pain, Mrs. Cooper decided to strike an argument up now. It was back-and-forth with ‘psycho this’, ‘cunt that’, ‘dago’ and ‘dyke’ a-plenty. At the end of it, Paul didn’t have the patience to deal with a hugboxer.
“Fuck it, you want it? Keep the fat little asshole. But it shits in my trash again, I’m puttin’ it under my tires.” Paul spat, dusting his shirt off at her, before walking away. Mrs. Cooper gave a few more remarks before ushering the wet fluffy into her home. Back on his porch, Paul noticed the foul smell stronger than ever.
“Meanie fwuffy go bye?” The fluffy had made its way out from under Paul’s porch. It now sat in front of his door, a path of red and brown left in its trail. With a fuller look at it, Paul could see why it reeked. The fluff - a deep carmine - was patchy and matted in something that gave both sheen and crust. But, and this is what really stuck out, the left hind leg was twisting oddly. The hip was fine, but half-way down was jutting at an angle before going sharp to the back. There was a clear wound on it, heinously green and oozing a thick pus.
“Jesus… How’d you get up here on that?” Paul winced.
“Fwuffy cwimb steppies. Biggest huwties…” The fluffy looked up, a promise of tears in its dull eyes - yet none could break through the arid ducts. As he looked, Paul noticed more; for one, it was male. He was also big. Emaciated - the visible curves of ribs and spinal knobs made that obvious - but still big. Larger than most feral fluffies, anyway. If he had the stock-standard pudge, he would’ve been as thick as a bulldog and stood a little taller than a housecat. Hell, with a bit of grooming and care, he’d be a decent looker. That nice deep red, coupled with his jet black mane and tail… Sure, he wouldn’t sell for much. Earthies never really did, even with great colors. But this little guy had the makings of-
“Mistah…?” The stallion began, before whining as his stomach’s growling overpowered his ability to talk.
Paul sighed. The stallion watched as Paul disappeared into the house, shutting the door behind him. The fluffy laid down, burying his muzzle between his front hooves, sniffling sadly.
A few minutes later, the door opened and a pleasant scent drifted down over the whimpering feral. He lifted his eyes in time to see a half-eaten burger plop in front of his snout, the parts all flopping and sliding loose. “Nummies!” The stallion cheered, quickly diving forward to shove as much of the meat, bread, and vege into his maw as he could. It was divine. Everything from the cold, chewy pattie to the bun that was soggy with congealed grease. Each bite exploded flavor across the biotoy taste buds and filled his aching stomach. As soon as the solids were chowed down, the fluffy began licking up any crumbs or spatters of sauce from the wood beneath his hooves.
Paul stood and watched the ravaging of the three-day-old, bargain-bin, store-brand, microwave burger that he forgot was in the fridge. To him, it was trash-bound. To that fluffy, it was ambrosia from Zeus’s own hand. When it was over, the stallion looked up with grateful eyes and a mildly distended belly.
“Fank ‘ou fo’ nummies, mistah,” he said. Paul did not reply at first. He just thought for a moment.
“You gonna be okay?” he finally said.
“Fwuffy… nu know.” The fluffy said, looking down at his twisted leg. “Weggie nu wowk. Nu smeww pwetty.”
“Yeah…” Paul said, crossing his arms. Again, he sighed. “Let me get a box or somethin’…”
“Mistah hewp fwuffy?”
Paul grunted in affirmation. The fluffy tapped his front hooves in celebration, like a little dance against the porch wood.
The drive to the vet was… surreal for Paul. For one, it was a fluffy vet on the other side of town. Even though he heard about it (fucking commercials were everywhere), he never expected to go there. But he’s more than happy to drive an extra half-hour (both ways) just so he didn’t have to sit in a regular vet, next to people he knew, while they darted questions at him about his masculinity. Especially Jackie Maglione, that pencil-pushing cocksucker. Reason two was… well, the memories. Paul idled his damn-near ancient car at a red light, one hand lazily resting on the steering wheel while the other tuned in a different station on the radio. As he passed one station, a song came on that he recognized. His hand froze as that familiar tune played and a discomfort sat upon his shoulders. ‘Papa don’t preach’. He looked in his rear-view mirror, to check that his passenger was still alive. ‘I’m in trouble deep’. He had the red fluffy in an old beer box that Paul procured from under the bed. All he did was line it with a ratty towel and the critter willingly climbed in. This box was then buckled into the backseat of the car. But now… it was gone. A lump formed in his throat.
“Hey, you fine back there?” Paul said, swallowing that lump. He could smell apricots.
“Yus, mummah~”
Paul immediately turned around at the cooing response. For a split-second, he saw a cloud of pastel pink. The smell of apricots lingered heavily in his nose. That song still played, but with two voices, in his ears.
“Mistah. Boxie haf gweenie go-wight.” The red fluffy said, peeking out of the box. Paul shook his head and it all faded in an instant. The smell, the words, everything. “Madon’…” He sighed as he looked forward again. Yep, the light was green. So he drove. Left the memory behind. He hadn’t thought about her in a long, long time.
The vet was quite the place. “FluffCare, ‘All Heart, No Hurties’” was emblazoned on the monument sign out front, just to show how hugbox the place was. A sentiment becoming all too popular in the upper-east district. Paul sat in the waiting room, which had the constant hum of an A/C mixed with the soft whimpers, pleading, and sniffling of fluffies.
“Pwease mummah, nu wike doctah, huuu…”
“Nu take babbeh speshew wumps, daddeh, pweeeeease?”
“Wavendew nu feew pwetty… tummy gwumby…”
When the smell of vomit started to drift from ‘Wavendew’s carrier to Paul’s nostrils - because of course it was placed on the seat next to his - he was about ready to start flipping his shit. He was thankful that a nurse stepped over to usher him into a room. As Paul stood up, tucking the beer box under his arm, the red fluffy piped up.
“Wady gif fwuffy weggie-fixies?”
“Not me, little guy,” the nurse said, “but I will be taking a look at it.”
“You trained for that?” Paul asked, gesturing nowhere in particular with his free hand. He didn’t really care, but it was either show fake interest or make small-talk. He hated small-talk.
“I am,” she said, taking the box and setting it on the room’s central table, “all the nurses here are trained to examine these fluffy lil’ fellas.” As she reached into the box, the injured stallion assumed the uppies pose. He looked vaguely happy to be lifted, even by cold, latex-clad hands. “Oh, you’re a big boy, aren’t you?” she said. The fluffy cooed.
“Fank ‘ou, nice wady!” he said.
“So, what’s his name?” the nurse asked Paul, as she began her examination - cleverly disguised as petting and scritches, keeping the fuzzball content.
“How should I know?” Paul said, “Hey, fluff, you got a name?”
“Fwuffy nu haf namsie,”
“Alright, you left that part of the form blank, so I had to make sure.” She said, “Sometimes people forget to fill in the whole form.”
“Yeah, I must look like some kinda dumbass to you…” Paul muttered under his breath. Meanwhile, the nurse’s focus zeroed in on the ghastly leg. Under the blinding medical lights, the leg looked somehow worse. It had a thicker sheen across the skin, like a thick layer of green- and black-tinted sweat. As the nurse gingerly moved the fluff from the festering wound, the fluffy whined and the sudden tension across his body made a crack across the scabs, releasing a spurt of pale mindaro gunk. Paul grimaced at the sight. Then the gloved hand moved down, to where the leg was twisted unnaturally.
“SCREEEEEEEEEEEEE!”
“Jesus fuck!” Paul yelled, stumbling back as the screech of the fluffy belted his ears and jumper-cabled his heart into overdrive.
“It’s okay, it’s okay!” The nurse urged, trying to calm the fluffy as she felt for the details of the break.
“HUWTIES! BIGGEST HUWTIES!”
“Can you shut the thing up?! Give him some painkillers or… something?!”
“Nothing that will help this.” She said, pressing a hand down on the fluffy’s back, “I’m almost done.” Her fingers worked along the angle, checking little nooks and crannies. When she released the fluffy, it began to pant and curl into itself as best as it could. “Yeah… That’s a full break.”
“No shit.” Paul said, “You really had to get him screamin’ to know that?”
“Sir, I had to find out the extent of the damage. The bone is completely snapped and the cartilage is shredded. Since he’s a feral, it’s likely another fluffy did this. Stomped it ‘till it broke.”
“Fuck…” Paul shook his head, leaning to look at the whimpering little mound on the sterile steel surface. The huddled fluff looked back at Paul with those same promising eyes. “That’s brutal.” The fluffy lifted his head, a hopeful tremor faintly rocking it.
“We’ll need to set the bone, inject some FriendMend, then put him in a cast.” The nurse said, turning to the fluffy, “And, for the infection, he’ll need some kind of regular medication.”
“Sounds expensive…” Paul narrowed his eyes, math flying through his head as quick as it could.
“There’s always…” The nurse gestured with her thumb, miming a slice across her throat. “It’s what most people do with ferals.”
“That’s…” Paul hesitated. He didn’t quite know why. His eyes just locked onto the fluffy, whose own stare had never left Paul. As it began to relax, the pupils contracted and he could clearly see the irises - rings of gold tarnish - that framed them. It burned into his mind. A bright fire that sat in the back of a car. Smoke that smelled of fruit. Apricot. Pink flames. Crackles that spoke. ‘Mummah’, it crackled. ‘Pwease, mummah’.
“How much?” Paul asked.
Paul stood outside the Fluffcare, half a cigarette between his lips. This was his third, as he waited and stewed in the sour mood the raping of his wallet had left him in. He turned the thought over in his head. Again and again, he questioned it. Why had he just forked out for this feral? He could’ve bought a night in Atlantic City or a good bottle of bourbon. Hell, $800 can buy a lot of nuts and beer. But no, it’s just been flung out of his account to fix up a critter he found under his god-damn porch.
Why? Fucking why?! Was it because of her? He hadn’t thought about her since… He couldn’t even remember the last time he remembered. But that song on the radio. The color of that little guy’s eyes. It sent him back. Far, far back to something so familiar. It made him feel equal parts comfortable and nauseous. He flicked the cigarette stub into the gutter and went back into the vet.
As he had waited, the doctor had worked. The first thing he told Paul was; “We can’t use anesthetic.” ‘Depressing the respiratory’ something or other. Well, Paul took the offer to step outside immediately. Even as he passed through the waiting room, Paul could hear the screeching. Muffled, sure, but he didn’t want to hear a bit of it. So he went outside, to escape the fucking apricots.
In the doctor’s room; there were straps, an IV, spray-on fluff remover. Then came antiseptic, more screeching, and the scalpel. Scabs were removed and the wound drained. An awful slurry of black and green and yellow. The leg lost half its swelling from that alone. Afterward, two injections of antibiotics and a surface application of FriendMend. The bone alignment came next. The way the fluffy screamed would’ve sent shivers through a ‘Nam vet. A needle jammed into the cartilage so the mending gel could smooth out a base for the bone to settle in. Two strong hands pulled the halves of bone together, then another needle of gel to glue them together. This earned the doctor a squirted mugful of fear-induced feces, splashed right up his arm to the bicep. By the time the cast was being sealed, the fluffy was sobbing and trembling. All screamed out.
“And here’s your little guy. All done.” The doctor said, patting the fluffy carrier as he placed it down on the receptionist desk. Paul looked at the plastic box - Hasbio branded and decorated with rainbows and clouds, of course - and wondered how much mark-up they slapped on it.
“Yeah, yeah, thanks.” Paul said, swatting his hand dismissively in the air. He leaned down to peer inside the cage. “‘Ey, fuzzball.” Within the confines, there was a prominent glow of bright-blue plaster and those yellow eyes.
“Namsie am nu ‘fuzzbaww’,” the fluffy said.
“Huh? Wh- Did you give him a name?” Paul said, turning his attention to the doctor, “Is that on the fuckin’ bill too? Huh, you crooked fuck?!” He yelled, eliciting a chorus of huu-ing from the waiting room patients.
“Sir, could you please-” The receptionist spoke up,
“Daddeh gif namsie!” the fluffy called out. All went silent, besides the soft mewling in the background. “Wuv nyu namsie.”
“Your daddy? Who- What, me?” Paul asked, jabbing a thumb in his own chest. The fluffy nodded.
“Bwutaw’s daddeh gif namsie. Bwutaw wuv nyu namsie!”
“Bw- The fuck does…” Paul began.
“Brutal.” The doctor said, “It’s fluffspeak for ‘Brutal’.”
“Brutal? Where’d…” Paul’s brow furrowed as he racked his brain. “I never named you ‘Brutal’.” This earned a shake from the stallion’s head.
“Daddeh wook at Bwutaw. Den saysies ‘das bwutaw’.” The fluffy smiled at Paul, scooting himself as best as he could to the wire door. “Daddeh gif namesie to Bwutaw~”
“That’s not a…” Paul started, before groaning as he stood upright again - his aged back giving a burst of clicks and pops - “Whatever. Fuckin’ whatever.” He shook his head and apologized to the doctor and receptionist. They were understanding. They’d dealt with much worse from over-protective, uber-hugboxing, suburban moms. Faaaaar worse from the owners of Fluff-Pageant Ponies (one had even slapped that very doctor for daring to chip a hoof while fixing a degloving accident). But Paul still flipped off that monument sign as he drove out of the parking lot. “Fluffcare my cock.” He had said.
As he drove, he heard something from the carrier, which now rested in the passenger seat. It was humming. The fluffy was humming. Fucking humming. Not even five minutes ago, he’d been screaming like he was doused in napalm and rolled in a salt flat. Now it was humming away with some tuneless nonsense song. Christ, these things changed on a dime. As he sat at a red light once again, this time in silence, Paul’s brain started to work. What was he gonna do with this thing? He had just dropped $800 on it. No way he could send it to a shelter and let some guy pay a $12 fee and undo all that expensive medical care. Then there were the meds it needed. He almost forgot about the god-damn meds. Two pills, twice a day, until the cast came off. Each pill cost about a buck-twenty. For four pills a day, roughly thirty days… Another $288. No, he couldn’t spend more on this thing.
Though… it did tell him who had shit in his trash. Well… around his trash. Plus, he seemed friendly enough. Wasn’t pestering him for anything. By now, most fluffies would be begging for hugs or spaghetti. The more he thought about it, the more it settled. In his mind, harsh waves became a still pond. A rock sat heavy in his gut. ‘But I made up my mind’. He took a deep breath through his nose and slowly let it out of his mouth.
“You…” he began, unsure what sentence he was even starting, “Uh… you sure you wanna keep that name?” Paul finally asked.
“Yus! Bwutaw haf namsie nao. Nebah haf gud namsie befow. An’ haf daddeh, too. Daddeh gif homsie to Bwutaw~” The fluffy cooed, giving a punctuating little chirp. “Haf biggest heawt happies!”
Paul began to grind his back teeth, a phantom stroke of fluff against his cheek. He side-eyed the carrier. There were tears glistering in the occupant’s eyes as it gazed up from the wire-frame door. Paul huffed.
“Guess I…” Paul grumbled, forcing out the words, “better stop by… ugh, a FluffMart.”
“Can Bwutaw haf a baww, pwease? An bwockies?”
“Yeah. Sure. Whatever you want, Brutal.”
