Cover art by @toofymunstah
When it comes to fluffies, there’s a lot of assumptions. Whether it be their disposition towards certain colors or their discerning palette for food… As it turns out, however, it doesn’t matter. No matter what the dish actually is, whether it’s lasagna al ragu, spaghetti alla bolognese, rigatoni al forno… It just doesn’t matter. It was all reduced to a single, enthusiastic word;
“Skettis!” Brutal cheered, scampering toward the bowl as Paul placed it on the tiled kitchen floor. After three months of healing, the fluffy had recovered well. His scamper - alongside his walk, run, trot, canter, so on - was accented by a small tilt on his left step. He never went in a perfect straight line, always wavering to the left and then returning to center. On top of that, Paul was right. The fluffy was a decent looker. Now that Brutal was more round in the belly, it was a lot clearer. Where most fluffies would sit around 14 inches, Brutal had a whole head over that. From his front hooves to the top of his head, he stood at 18 inches. His bulk, a blend of fatty tissue and fluffy ‘muscle’, gave an image of strength to this disgrace of natural laws. Paul could’ve sold him for a tidy sum - but it wouldn’t come close to what he’d spent. So what was the point?
Hell, Brutal made a decent little house-guest… pet… thing. If anything, his presence gave Paul a reason to ignore his doctor’s orders and cook pasta more often. Two, sometimes three nights a week, he whipped out the old family recipes. A hearty plate of sauce-laden perfection for himself, and a doggy-bowl of it for Brutal. And it was homemade every time. None of that canned crap. His mother would rise from the grave and slap the taste out of his mouth if he dared to touch that shit.
“If your hands didn’t make it, then your mouth shouldn’t eat it.” she used to say.
But being a good excuse wasn’t the only thing Paul came to like about Brutal. For the two months it took Brutal’s leg to heal (and the extra one for his infection to clear), the fluffy hadn’t made any demands. When he wanted food, he’d trot up to Paul and place a hoof on Paul’s leg.
“Pwease nummies?” he’d say. Paul would oblige - no reason not to, really - and be rewarded with an enthusiastic “Fank ‘ou, daddeh! Wuv ‘ou!” He was a polite little fluffy. Obedient, too. Was quick to learn the rules. Anyone’d swear Brutal was always a domestic but, given he’d never had a name before, it seems he was feral-born. Feral-raised. Maybe that’s why? Survival of the fittest? But, like a lot else, it didn’t really matter what Brutal was before. For all intents and purposes, the fat little bastard was Paul’s pet now.
For his pet, Paul had set up a saferoom in what was once his laundry room. The washer didn’t even work anymore, so what else was he gonna do with the space? Jerk off in it? No. It was a decent enough space for a fluffy. Five by five, once the washing machine was out. Then all the fluffmart stuff was put in. Paul had heard that fluffies were pretty easy to care for - no one mentioned all the shit you gotta buy.
Paul had gone to FluffMart the day he got Brutal. There were two kinds of FluffMart in the city: the big ones that catered to every fluffy need under the sun - and the corner shops, damn near on every block. Thankfully, the small ones didn’t sell live fluffies anymore. Ever since the Fluffy Overpopulation Abatement and Limitation Act was passed three years ago, only the mega-stores could sell ‘em. The small ones were basically glorified slop shops at this point. All the good stuff was at the mega-stores. So, Paul went to one of those. Soon as he walked in, a blonde-haired kid (early twenties, sure, but still a kid to Paul) was at full alert. With a big, pearly-white smile and corporate-mandated enthusiasm, the worker offered a hand to Paul.
“Welcome to FluffMart, sir!” Paul shook the kid’s hand, if only to be polite, “My name’s Chet, Fluffmart’s Happy Helper of the Year. If there’s anything I can do to improve your FluffMart experience, please ask away!”
“Uh…” Paul raised the carrier in his hand, “I just got this. What do I do with it?” Paul twirled his free hand beside the carrier, “I mean, how do I take care of it?”
“Oh, a new fluffy owner? Well, sir, don’t you worry. We here at FluffMart know exactly what every first-timer needs to ensure the happiest, healthiest care for your new forever-friend.” Chet bent down to peer inside the carrier. “Now, who do we have here?”
“Hewwo!” Brutal said, “Am Bwutaw!”
“Oh, what a unique name. Guess you’re a special lil’ guy, huh?” Chet said, putting a finger through the cage door to scritch under Brutal’s chin. As the fluffy cooed, Chet stood upright again. “Sir, we have a small Fluffy-Care, would you like to leave your fluffy there while we ‘talk shop’?” he addressed Paul.
“Sure,” Paul said, “He’s got an infection, though. Will that-?”
“Not a problem, sir. He’ll be in his own little pen. Some toys, some FluffTV, he’ll be okay. In fact, going around the store will just bore him. It’s the best thing for him, sir.”
“Well… eh, sure. What do I know?” Paul shrugged, “And, please, call me Paul.”
“Sure thing, Paul.”
Five bucks later, Brutal was parked in Fluffy-Care and Paul was following Chet down the aisles. Chet stopped at every necessity, listing off all the wisdom his expertise had to offer;
“Fluffies can eat most of what we eat. But there’s two things every fluffy loves: BigBoi Kibble and Nutri-Sketti Deluxe. No, sir, we only stock the best.”
“The smaller FluffMarts really aren’t worth the time, if I’m being honest. All they sell is low-grade. Awful for fluffies. Shouldn’t even be allowed to sell it.”
“Now, you can give your fluffy tap-water, milk, or fruit juice. But I’ll always recommend giving them water and adding a little Wawa+ vitamin extract. It gets rid of any nasty bugs that our systems can handle, but a fluffy can’t. Plus, it supplements the BigBoi Kibble very well. Helps them get the most of it.”
“Oh, but you don’t really want to measure the water every day, do you? Well, you could get one of these. It’s like a hamster bottle, but bigger. Just mount it to the wall and it’ll keep your fluffy hydrated all day long. Actually, why not get an auto-feeder, too? This isn’t our newest model, but let me tell ya’: this bad boy can hold so much kibble. Mount it up, set up the app, and never worry about missing a feeding again.”
“You don’t have a saferoom? Well, would you like to hear about our Welcome Package? 50% off saferoom padding, and a coupon for 25% off a fully-loaded Hasbio toy-chest.”
“Well, you could get a litterbox, gloves, scooper, litter, bags… But I think I could cut a deal on the ToiletStation 2. Just hook it to a- wait, where is the saferoom going? That’s perfect. Just hook the TS2 to water and a drain, plug it in, and you’ll never have to worry about litter box cleaning again. Just refill the litter every week and that’s it.”
By the end of that trip, Paul had everything he needed for a saferoom. Well, what Chet said he needed for a saferoom. But, Paul wasn’t gonna be someone to spit in the face of someone who knew more than him. He didn’t know fluffies. Chet was paid to deal with fluffies. He even gave Paul a few tips to take care of Brutal, for no charge whatsoever. Paul appreciated the free advice - after slicing a pound of flesh from his savings, he’d take anything that didn’t come with a price tag.
As Paul looked into the saferoom, a clear eyeline from his open-plan kitchen, he… kinda admired it. Not the look of it, no. Not the four hundred fucking dollar cost of it, hell no. But he admired that the stuff worked. He admired that he had actually managed to set it all up himself. Which brought up a question. One which, every so often, would surface in Paul’s mind as he watched Brutal. Why? Why was he doing this? He couldn’t sell Brutal. Couldn’t breed him, either. His colors would fetch a good price on something like a unicorn. But Paul didn’t even know where to begin with that. Nor did he want his name on the licensed breeder registry. Just do it without a license? Well, back to square one. Where does he even begin? What if he’s caught? He wasn’t about to have Brutal confiscated, destroyed, and then be charged a $5K fine for the privilege. Fuck that.
It probably all came back to that. Paul had spent some real money to keep Brutal from kicking the bucket. So, he’d be damned if this fluffy was gonna die. So, for now, he was a good little guest-pet-thing. Really, Paul could use more company. His usual pals were a lot more ‘busy’ now. But he knew what it was, really. They were good guys. Paul knew them from high-school. We’re talking thirty years of friendship. Every week, they spent Friday nights together. They drank, they smoked, they did whatever. When it was Paul’s turn, two weeks after Brutal came along, he had them over. Reluctantly. If they had found him with a fluffy, he’d never live it down. A grown-ass man with a fluffy? A grown-ass man with a little girl’s toy? He decided to keep Brutal locked in the saferoom while they were over. Surely, that would be fine? Brutal had food, water, toys… But, in the middle of the Giants/Eagles game, he heard it:
“Hewp! Huuhuuu, nee’ hewp, pwease!”
Thankfully, the padding had muffled it enough so Paul could spin a decent lie. It wasn’t in his house. No, no, it was his neighbor. She got a fluffy and it was a loud little fucker. Which was only half a lie. Mrs. Cooper still had that orange twerp. But it wasn’t loud – just the opposite. Quiet as a mouse. Adamantly denied shitting by Paul’s trash cans. Didn’t matter anymore, since he’d moved them into the garage. Stunk like hell, but a hell of a lot less than a mound of fluffy shit. The only time that Papaya - yeah, she named it fucking ‘Papaya’ - was loud was if it saw Brutal. The two always screech at each other like a pair of pissed off koalas on helium. Now, it might’ve been the beer. It might’ve been that they trusted Paul’s word. Or it could be the fact that they all saw Papaya shitting on Mrs. Cooper’s lawn when they pulled up Paul’s driveway. So, they believed it was Papaya.
But, Paul wasn’t going to risk another close call. There hasn’t been a Friday night at his house since. He always figures out an excuse.
“Old bag’s throwin’ a bitch-fit again.”
“Boss-man’s ridin’ my ass. Got a buncha homework.”
“Ate some bad gabagool, been chuckin’ up all day.”
He’d still go to their houses. Meet ‘em in the city for drinks. But it felt more… distant? That’s probably the right word. He had stretches of loneliness. But, Brutal alleviated it a bit. Even if a guy like Paul wasn’t meant to have one. It helped.
“Daddeh?” Brutal said, the little padded taps on Paul’s leg breaking him from his thoughts.
“Yeah?” Paul said, looking down at the fluffy.
“Wuv ‘ou~” Brutal smiled, giving Paul’s leg a hug. The corner of Paul’s lip twitched up, before he silenced it with a sip of black coffee.
It was just under 4 months before there were any problems with Brutal. Fluffy problems. It was a one-two punch. The first issue was mild, all things considered. With a half-bag of BigBoi under his arm, Paul went into Brutal’s saferoom to refill the feeder. Immediately, Brutal was on him with chatter.
“Hewwo, Daddeh! Bwutaw miss ‘ou!” Brutal said, excitedly tapping his hooves in a little dance of joy.
“Hey,” Paul replied. It had been a… long day for him. Work wasn’t great. Ever since they moved him from the floor to a desk, it never rose above ‘okay’. All he did was beige work: filing, forms, calls… Meanwhile, guys he had trained were out on the floor, working the machines.
“Daddeh pway wif Bwutaw?” Brutal said, as he picked up a block and held it up to his disgruntled owner.
“Not now, Brutal,” he said, “I just need to refill your-”
“But Bwutaw wan’ pway!” Brutal cried out, stomping his hooves down to emphasise his demand. And that was the first demand he had made. Not a request. Not a question. A loud, angry demand.
“What did you say?” Paul said, dropping the bag beside the feeder.
“Wan’ pway wif daddeh!” Brutal repeated, “Nao!”
Paul looked down at the fluffy, eyes narrowed. There was something in that word. The way Brutal said it. ‘Nao’. ‘Nao!’.
“WAN NAO!” Came another voice, higher pitched and so familiar. Paul snapped his head toward the spot where the washing machine used to be. Paul coulda swore it came from there. “MUMMAH!” Again, there it was. That blur of pink swirled up from the depths of his mind.
“Daddeh! Pway wif Bwutaw!” Brutal’s voice snapped Paul back and the pink sunk back in the mental void.
“Not now.” Paul said, flinging his arm toward the toy chest in the corner. “Play with your damn toys.”
“Fwuffy nu wan toysies.” Brutal said, eyes looking only momentarily toward the chest. “Toysies am bowin’.”
“Last night you said they were the best thing ever,” Paul crossed his arms as he straightened up, stepping closer to tower over Brutal. Yet, despite the behemothian stature of Paul, Brutal did not cower or flinch. “You were stacking your blocks for hours. You kicked that damn ball around like it owed you money.”
“Fwuffy nu haf baww!” Brutal yelled, stomping a hoof again.
“You do! I saw it in-” Paul began as he walked to the toy chest, before Brutal scampered over and grabbed his leg with his padded little hooves.
“Nu! Fwuffy wan daddeh! Pwease!” Brutal begged, as Paul shook him off his leg. Something was up with that little red bastard and Paul had no clue what it was. But it had something to do with his toys. It had to. He only got bad when they were mentioned… Or did he? Paul paused, hand clasped on the handle of the toy chest. Was he imagining things again? Like that day he got Brutal. Or… no, it wasn’t his imagination. But it couldn’t be real. Maybe it was real? Just… not here. Like that damned apricot smell. Whenever it happened, that’s all he could smell. Sometimes when he looked at Brutal playing. Or when Brutal ate. Little fluffy-isms he’d say. It all brought these little episodes. Sometimes he’d hear something or see a wisp of pink. But every single time, without fail, he’d always smell apricots. Just like her…
Maybe Brutal was acting normal and it was just these… whatever they were. Flashes. Maybe it was just those putting him on edge? Yeah…
“Daddeh, pwease put fwuffy toy-boxie down?” Brutal begged, eyes watering as he looked up at his owner - a god in power, compared to a fluffy.
“Yeah…” Paul muttered, after another moment of hesitation. He was being ridiculous. Brutal just wanted to play. “Sorry, Brutal,” he said, then let go of the chest and shook his head, “I’ll play with you, sure.” He then began to slowly get down onto the floor, while Brutal rubbed the tears from his dull-gold eyes. “Let’s get your ball out and play with that, huh?” Paul said, opening the chest.
“NU!” Brutal yelled, but went dead-silent once the lid had swung open. Inside of the chest were all his toys, sans the three blocks on the floor and the stuffed bear and dog on the fluffy-bed. They were all broken. Pieces and fragments. Piled into the chest. Three of the Fluffy-Safe Stackie Blocks sat in clear view, atop everything else. The foam was in shreds, as though torn apart by a dog. The rubber duck - ‘Squeaky Fwen’, as Hasbio had rebranded it for that sweet, sweet mark-up - was in two parts, one heavily dented all over. A ‘Pwetty-Sounds Box’ was under the rubber and foam. Basically an electronic piano, but simplified to four large, colorful keys that made sounds which delighted fluffies. Now, it was incapable of making any noise. The cheap plastic keys cracked and the shell caved in. Beneath it all… a ball. One of those cheap ball-pit deals. Solid blue. Flattened hard enough that the plastic was splitting down the seam. Paul knew that fluffy had a damn ball. But why would Brutal say he didn’t?
“What the hell…?” Paul muttered, before turning his focus directly to the fluffy in question. “What did you do?”
“Fwuffy nu mean to!” Brutal protested, fear and sadness in his voice, as he crouched low enough for his stomach to touch the floor.
“Brutal, it’s all broken. Every single toy is fuckin’ destroyed!” Paul slapped a hand down on the toy chest. “Do you have any idea how much these cost?!” Brutal whimpered and put his hooves over his eyes.
“Fwuffy nu mean to! Huuhuuhuuuuu…” Brutal began to quiver, “Fwuffy jus pway an’- an’- an’ den dey am bwoken. Fwuffy gif huggies buh nu make bettew!”
“Then why are they in the toy chest? Why did you hide them?”
“Fwuffy nu wan make daddeh angwy… Daddeh say bad wowdsies…” Brutal sniffled as he lifted a hoof up, just a sliver to peek at Paul. “Nu wan angwy. Hewds awways angwy wif Bwutaw, gif bigges’ huwties. Nu wan huwties.” Brutal then stood up quickly, eyes wide at Paul, “NU HUWT BWUTAW! BWUTAW GOOD FWUFFY!”
“Whoa, whoa, calm down,” Paul said, reaching out his hands to the trembling, tear-pouring critter, “It’s okay. No one’s gonna hurt you.” His hands clasped onto Brutal, then lifted the fluffy onto his lap. While Brutal shook like a fuzzy mass of gelatin, Paul looked down and thought: could he be over-reacting? This isn’t some rebellious teenager in his care. It’s a fluffy, for god’s sake. It has about as much awareness of what it’s doing as a toddler. And Brutal is bigger than a regular fluffy. Maybe the extra weight just… strained the toys too much? And they looked cheaply-made. Paul had dealt with enough ‘Made-In-China’ shit to know when something was made cheap.
Paul sighed.
“Okay,” he said, giving a light pet to Brutal’s mane, “How about you stay here and stack your blocks. I’ll make us some popcorn and we’ll watch some TV together. How’s that sound?”
“O-otay, daddeh…” Brutal said, leaning into his owner’s palm, “Bwutaw wuv cwunchy-nummies.” He rolled his eyes up to look at Paul. They seemed to almost instantly dry of tears. “Can Bwutaw haf icy-sugaw on cwunchy-nummies?”
“Sure, pal,” Paul spent a few more minutes with Brutal. Petting him, before rolling him over and tickling his stomach. Brutal giggled, trying to push Paul’s hand away to escape the tummy-tickles. He enjoyed them, but they also gave him breathie-hurties. For a fluffy, it was a true conundrum. Probably would have given his thinky-place the worstest hurties if he wasn’t distracted by the laughter and joy. Eventually, it ended and Brutal was sat aside. Paul left the saferoom, with Brutal following all the way up to the threshold of the door. From there, he sat and watched as Paul worked in the kitchen. Tail swishing back and forth, smiling his chubby little smile.
Then came issue two. It was… well, it felt worse. The whole incident with the broken toys must’ve put Paul’s guard down, so this stuck him right in the soft spot. It began when Paul started to notice this odd little ‘stuff’ start to appear. Now, Paul didn’t gate off the saferoom - Chet hadn’t mentioned anything about doing that - and Brutal had free-reign to wander the house. Anywhere he wasn’t allowed was sealed off by the ingenious plan of ‘shutting the door’. But every room Brutal ventured had begun to show signs of a crust. Not a lot, just a little spattering of crusty… something.
From the times Paul had watched Brutal wander, he found that the fluffy had a propensity to chew things. Fluffy teeth were, thankfully, not very capable of breaking anything stronger than foam, so nothing was broken. But anything chewed was completely soaked in that spaghetti-scented saliva. At first, Paul didn’t really see much issue with it. Yeah, he’d have to get a wet cloth to clean up the crust, but it was better than having to clean up a cat’s piss or dog shit.
It started with stuff like the couch. He’d caught Brutal chewing the cushions once, then (roughly a day later) he found the crust on the armrest. Same thing happened when he forgot to shut the bathroom door… Brutal chewed the corner of a towel. Next day, crust on the towels. It was when Paul found the stuffed dog toy half-shoved under the TV cabinet that something started to prickle in the back of his mind. The stuffed toy had the same crust on it. More than the other things. Now, he never really saw the things up close because they were always in Brutal’s saferoom. Hell, they never really left the fluffy’s bed. He probably just chewed this one a lot, thought it was broken, then tried to hide it again. But even that didn’t quite add up… Why hide it under the TV? The only time Brutal went near it was when FluffTV was on - which was only when Paul went to work and left the network on to keep Brutal company - other than that, Brutal never went anywhere near it.
Paul put a dishcloth over the stuffed toy and lifted it up. As he pulled it from the cabinet, he discovered that the head was missing. Yep, another broken toy. Cheap shit. He’d have to pick up something more durable during the next FluffMart trip. He made a mental note to ask Chet about chew-toys as he wiped the crust from the stuffy’s back. Once clean, he decided to take it back to Brutal. With each step, he prayed the fluffy wouldn’t cry again. When Brutal cried and begged and screamed… it upset something in Paul. He didn’t know what. Just kicked his heart into overdrive and bored a pit in his stomach. The kind of feeling you only notice in hindsight when you think back and, in the calm of the now, the feeling comes back and you recognize it.
Paul shook his head as he stood outside the saferoom, the door was firmly closed. Faintly, there was a sound coming through the wood. It sounded… strained. Paul figured Brutal might be constipated - which wouldn’t surprise him, given how he gave the fluffy half of a three-cheese pizza - but that thought dissipated as he listened closer. It was a constant straining noise. There was a rhythm. A tempo. It was like… panting? Yeah. Sounded like panting. Maybe the fluffy was too hot? Exhausted? Paul grabbed the handle, hoping he wouldn’t have to go back to that rip-off FluffCare place.
The door swung open and Paul was met with the full sound and visual of the truth:
“ENF ENF ENF ENF ENF,” Brutal vocalized, each high-pitched exertion matching the pace of his chunky flanks. Beneath the fluffy, his stuffed bear was laid prone. “ENF ENF ENF ENF-” It kept on, while Paul remained silent and still - aside from the sudden jump his eyebrows did and the drop his jaw made.
“GOOD FEEWS!” Brutal exclaimed, his body trembling for a moment before he sighed and stood from the violated plush. He looked over and saw Paul, then scampered quickly to his owner, trailing a small line of white behind him. “Hewwo daddeh!” Brutal cheered, sitting back and holding his hooves in the ‘uppies pose’. All Paul could do was look from the bear - it’s back coated in a pearlescent splatter of fluffy seed - to the dog in his hand, then down to the fluffy. Dots connected in his head.
‘Special huggies’, it was called. Brutal explained it… as best as a fluffy could. As Paul found out; when a stallion has ‘wump huwties’, they need ‘good feews’. So, they find a mare or something soft so that they can have ‘speshuw huggies’. This is what Brutal has been doing. Day after day after day. Now, Paul wasn’t stupid. He knew that fluffies were “alive”. They ate, they shat, they pissed, they died. But he did not know that they could fuck. Well, he’d be damned if he was gonna keep cleaning up a retarded midget horse’s jizz. For the first time, he laid the law down on Brutal.
“No more of that shit.” Paul commanded.
“Otay, daddeh…” Brutal replied, hanging his head as he retreated to his bed.
It was easy. Or so he thought. Next day, he found Brutal going to town on the bear again.
“Nuuuuuu!” Brutal begged as Paul threw the bear in the trash can, making sure it was in view of the fluffy. “Bwutaw nee’ beawy! Beawy gif bestes’ good feews!” Brutal yelled, stretching up as his hooves climbed the side of the plastic bin.
“I don’t give a damn.” Paul said, kicking the bin. It knocked a foot to the side, causing Brutal to twist and fall as his only support was gone. “I don’t want you to do that anymore. I already told you once.”
“But Bwutaw wumps had su many huwties…” Brutal huffed, lying prone on the kitchen’s tiled floor, “Bwutaw nee’ speshuw huggies! Nee’ speshuw fwen!” He yelled, climbing to his hooves with exaggerated stomps.
“NEE’ SPESHUW FWEN!” came that other voice. That’s… Paul remembered it clearer now… That’s what she wanted, too. “WAN’ NAO! GABWIEWWA WAN NAO!” Gabriella. That was her name. That had been bugging him for so long. He knew it was a ‘she’. But the name escaped him. That faint apricot. The pink. The-
“BWUTAW WAN!” Brutal yelled out, rushing over to Paul’s leg. Like a begging dog he jumped up and begged against Paul’s leg. “PWEASE DADDEH! BWUTAW NEE’!”
Paul, once again, shook Brutal off his leg. Before pointing a firm finger down at him.
“No!” Paul raised his voice. Then Brutal puffed out his cheeks and spread out his legs. The two stared at one another in silence. Paul shook his head, swatting his hand in the air toward Brutal. “Fuckin’ fluffies…” he muttered, getting a beer out of the fridge.
“Gabwiewwa gun’ haf bestes’ good feews~” the memory spoke again. As Paul popped the cap off with the edge of the kitchen counter, the fog of recollection parted ever-so-slightly more. That’s what he heard Gabriella say, in that little side-alley next to the house. ‘But I made up my mind’. And that song… What was it about that song? Then there was a thump. Faint and weak. Then another. Another. Another. A shattering sound pulled him back to reality and Paul spun on his heel.
“Enfenfenfenfenfenfenfenfenfenf-” Brutal huffed and puffed, working as quick as his body could. While Paul was away in his thoughts, the fluffy had shoved the console table until a potted plant had fallen against the floor. Now the little freak was dicking down the dirt pile.
“MY FUCKING POTHOS!” Paul yelled. For a moment, he considered stomping the fat, carmine pig into a fuzzy paste. But the red faded from his eyes as dollar signs filled them instead. Paul had been in fights before. Caused damage to person and property. Those had cost him in fines and restitutions. But hurting Brutal? Now that’d be a cost he couldn’t recoup. Not a chance. No, he needed a way to deal with this bullshit. So, Paul picked up Brutal to the tune of “Bad uppies!” - holding him at arm length to avoid the micro-pecker - and shoving him in his saferoom. He shut the door, picked up his car keys, and made for the FluffMart.
“Now that is quite a doozy of a problem, Paul,” Chet said, leaning his elbows on the edge of an empty fluffy pen. It was full that morning, but there was a midday rush that saw them all sold. Out of six sparkle-fluffies, Chet got the commission on four. Happy Helper of the Year, bitch.
“So, I’m shit outta luck?” Paul asked, pinching the bridge of his nose as he felt an ache start swelling behind his eyes. That’s where the headaches always started. Always when he was stressed.
“Not at all,” Chet chuckled, nodding over his shoulder, “FluffMart has a product for every problem.” Paul internally cringed. Not so much at the slogan, but more at what it meant for his wallet. Still, it was a problem he didn’t know how to solve and here was someone giving him a way out. So, he followed Chet down the aisles again. It was in a far corner of the store, separated from the rest of it by an enclosure and tinted windows. Chet swiped his ID on a card-reader and the door slid open. ‘Very sci-fi’, Paul thought. Inside, however, it was basically like a smaller store. But with a very immediate difference. The senses were assaulted as one crossed the threshold. First was the sound - completely imperceptible from outside the enclosure - which could only be described as a chorus of ‘impatient’ and ‘sad’. Some fluffspeak questions that all sounded different, but all meant the same thing; ‘When will I get out of here?’ Then the faint sobbing of fluffies, a bit more distant than the questions. This soundtrack of the room was a soft muzak behind a smell of chemical cleaner undertoned with feces and urine. Then the sight… shelves lined up in small aisles, each topped with fluffies, their bodies encased in a variety of boxes. Some were simply decorated cardboard, others were fanciful plastic shells. One far wall was lined with various product displays, each one looking complex with wires and tubes and god-knows-what-else.
“What the fuck is this?” Paul said, the words just slipping out. Chet laughed.
“Yeah, that’s the usual first-timer response.” Chet shrugged as he ushered Paul toward an aisle. Fluffies turned to look at them, but one flash of Chet’s smile and those that had opened their mouths instantly closed them. Then lowered their heads, ears tucking close to their pates. “We keep this part secure so kids and teens don’t come in.” Chet put a hand on one of the boxes, the all-brown fluffy flinched. “Kids get scared and teens… oh, they’re little bastards.”
“Tell me about it…” Paul said, remembering the time he found a mare on his front doorstep on Halloween. Five seconds later, he was covered in blood and guts because some local kids shove an M80 up the thing’s ass. He missed the days when it was just a flaming bag of dog mess… at least it didn’t smell as bad.
“Now, you’ll want to get one of these,” Chet said, gesturing down the aisle at the boxed fluffies.
“Another fluffy? Are you kidding?” Paul scoffed, “I don’t want-”
“Whoa, hold on a moment, sir,” Chet held up his hands, “This isn’t just ‘another fluffy’. This is a ‘Special-Pal’.” He turned one of the boxes sideways, while the fluffy inside yelped at the sudden spin. “See?” He tapped the side, where the name was printed in bold rainbow letters. “They don’t take much care. Just give them one ‘Sketti-Special Pill’ and they’ll be fine. No mess, no fuss.”
“That… that don’t seem right.” Paul pursed his lips. Something about this didn’t sit well with him.
“Let me explain how it works, maybe that’ll help?” Chet picked up the boxed fluffy and turned it toward Paul, “Better yet, let her explain it!” He said, cheerfully, “Go ahead, sweetie.”
“Name nu am Sweetie,” the fluffy said, trying to look back at Chet, “Name am Mapwe.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Chet apologized, “Maple, could you please tell the nice mister what you do?”
“Otay, mistew Chet!” Maple said, nodding her caramel-colored head. She turned her attention to Paul, smiling, and spoke. “Mapwe am fwuffy fo’ odda fwuffies! Mapwe nu make noisies ow poopies or peepees. Onwy num widdwe sketti nummies and hewp fwuffies wif wump huwties!”
“Wait wait wait.” Paul said, putting a hand forward, clasping it over the Maple’s snout. “Are you telling me…?”
“The common term is an ‘enfie-friend’,” Chet said, giving a soft nod. Paul picked up the meaning quickly, remembering that noise from Brutal’s… Yeah. “Now, I know what it sounds like. But, listen to Maple. She’s happy to help. Aren’t you, Maple?” The fluffy nodded within the confines of Paul’s grip. “These fluffies are specially made. It’s what they do and they’re happy to do it.”
Paul’s eyes studied Chet for a moment. The smile was solid and didn’t waver for a moment. The salesman stood confident and tall. In that youth, Paul saw someone ahead of him. Someone who had their feet firmly planted. One in the present and one in the future. Paul was a relic… he remembered the Gen 1 fluffies, when they hit the shelves in the 80s. Or was it the 70s? God, that right there. The muddled memories just proved the point. He was old and had no idea what was what anymore. He needed someone like Chet to keep the path lit, so he knew where to walk without falling into some pit of brambles.
“It doesn’t…” Paul began, releasing Maple’s muzzle, “Couldn’t some kinda… toy or something work?”
“Well…” Chet said, a sigh punctuating his words, “We do have toys for that purpose. They simulate a mare using silicone, scent gel, synthetic fluff, so on and so on. They work well.” Chet shrugged a shoulder, biting his lip, “For a while.”
“What d’ya mean?” Paul cocked a brow.
“Well… once the scent gel runs out and the fluff wears down…” Chet gave an amused little huff, “It just stops working. A stallion will stop using it because they figure out it’s not real. Once they know, they’ll never go for it again. Fluffies aren’t the brightest, but they have a memory just like you and me.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
“Couldn’t I just get a new one?”
“Afraid not. Your little guy will take one look and think ‘hey, that’s just like the other fake mare’. It’s just a bad investment, Paul.”
“Damn…” Paul put his hands on his hips, shaking his head as he looked down to the floor. His brow furrowed as thoughts slowly dripped. How much could he afford? Was this a good idea? Would this stop Brutal from fucking the couch? “And these… ‘Special-Pals’? They’re fine with this?”
Chet responded with a nod. Maple gave a nod. Paul scanned his eyes at the other fluffies. Some looked with a smile. Others didn’t even look at him. Just rested on the cut-out hole their head poked through. There was something in the eyes. Maple’s had brightness, like the ‘showroom’ fluffies outside this little corner. But the others, especially on the lower shelves, had a dullness. They were still bright, but just stared ahead or at the floor - like the eyes were painted on. Bright but… empty. Lights were on but no one’s home.
“So, how about we set you up with Maple, here?” Chet said, lifting Maple a little higher up in his hands. “She’s a Series 2. Very agreeable, long-lasting, and pre-spayed.”
“Yea- wait, spayed? These things can have babies?!”
After the shock of learning that these proof-of-man’s-hubris’ can breed, Paul fished out his wallet and laid down another card charge. $150, down from $200. Thank the lord for small miracles and 25% off sales. Chet wouldn’t stop hyping up Maple, both to her and to Paul. She was getting excited to meet Brutal and help him and finally be a special friend. Paul was feeling more and more at ease with the idea. Not… wholly on-board. It was still weird in the ear to hear such a childish voice talking (in euphemisms) about being a fuck-doll. But, once the receipt printed out, Paul knew there was no turning back. He had the solution to his problem. No going back. No refunds. Store policy.
