Cover art by @awfulfawn
Between the FluffMart and home, there was a non-stop humming in the passenger seat. Paul didn’t want to glance over at the cardboard-encased fluffy. The less he looked at her, the less his mind would think about what she was. How it worked. The way it was just big enough for a fluffy, but not their legs- NO. No more thinking about it. It’s a fluffy, a product, a thing. Done. Moving on. But the humming made that hard. Constant, with only the barest trace of rhythm or melody. Usually, the little horsepigs would just make up the musical equivalent of gibberish. But a handful would manage to pick up an idea of a tune, usually from music they listen to a lot. Paul guessed Maple had heard the FluffMart muzak every day for most of her shelf-life.
And it made him remember. Gabriella. When her name came back, a lot came with it. She was an earthie. One of the Gen-1s, from back in the 80s. Paul was… about halfway between 9 and 10 years old when they got her. She was technically the ‘family pet’, but it was all on his mother. Absolutely loved the little thing. She even named her after the dog she had when she was Paul’s age. Paul’s mom loved animals, but she loved Gabriella more than anything. Except for Paul and his father, of course. She was a good woman… A damn good woman.
Then the song came back to mind. It was clearer. It was ‘86, in the fall. The de Monti family driving out of the city, heading to the new fluffy park which had opened just two weeks prior. Paul sat in the back, with Gabriella strapped into a baby’s car-seat beside him. The scent of apricots was strong on her, since his mother always used shampoo on her which held that scent. Why? Because it matched the color of Gabriella’s fluff. Her apricot fluff and pink mane. Always clean, always groomed. She sat and looked out the window, in awe at the ‘pwetty cowow weafies’. Paul’s mother would ask Gabriella if she was okay, and she would reply positively and enthusiastically. Then the radio would play that song. Papa Don’t Preach. Paul’s mom loved that song and, thus, Gabriella loved it.
Gabriella couldn’t carry a tune to save her life, but she tried her best. Paul’s mom would hum and sometimes sing along, while the fluffy would follow her lead. It was just another thing they bonded over. Their shared love of that song. And, despite how cloudy it all got, Paul always remembered that peace. Deep, deep inside there would always be that memory. But then came the SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-
Paul shook his head, unlatching the sudden flash of screeching and red from his mind. Now parked in his driveway, Paul took a cigarette from his pocket and put it in his lips. As he reached for the car’s lighter, the fluffy in his passenger seat spoke up;
“Am at nyu housie?” Maple asked, ears perking up. Paul sighed, tucking his cigarette away and picking up the boxed fluffy. On the edge of his yard, peeking around a fence, Paul saw Papaya staring. His orange head tilted, one ear lifted higher than the other. The fluffy probably thought he was being sneaky, but he wasn’t exactly well hidden by the knee-high chain link fence. For what Papaya lacked in brain, he made up for in… surprisingly, niceness. What few times Paul saw the fluffy, it was always when Papaya was helping Mrs. Cooper with laundry or tending her flowers. Well, as much as a fluffy could help. For something that had been shitting on his trash cans and had broken Brutal’s leg just under four months ago, the turn-around was quick.
Maple was ooh-ing and awe-ing at everything she saw. Though Paul didn’t know, she hadn’t seen much of the outside world. She was born and raised in a Mill, then sent to FluffMart. In her whole life, most of her view had been concrete, metal, plastic, wood… Sure a lot was painted with childish depictions of nature, but it’s a poor substitute for the real thing. She loved the fresh air and the ‘pwetty fwowew-fwens’ by Paul’s porch and even found the sight of the grass to be fascinating. Fucking grass.
“Alright, do you… need me to do anything?” Paul asked, hand gripped around the handle of his door.
“Wha daddeh mean?” Maple asked.
“Do I gotta do anything to help you and my fluffy?”
“Mapwe jus nee’ gu in safewoom, dat’s aww~” She beamed big enough that her squishy cheeks forced her eyes shut. Fluffies were naturally enthusiastic and cheerful things, Paul knew this. But this was another level. “Can daddeh pwease gu fastew? Mapwe wan meet nyu speshuw fwen!”
Paul complied and went inside, making a beeline for Brutal’s saferoom. Opening the door, he found Brutal curled up in his bed. That sight lasted for all of two seconds before the fat little bastard jumped up to his feet and scampered over as quick as his waddling trotters could carry him.
“Daddeh! Bwutaw sowwy! Pwease nu weave Bwutaw awone again!” the fluffy pleaded, hurriedly going to hug Paul’s leg. He was met with a soft push away by his owner’s shoe. For a moment, Brutal looked up with sadness in his eyes. But, the pre-cry mist evaporated when he noticed what was in Paul’s hands.
“Hewwo!” Maple said, looking down at Brutal with a face like an ecstatic sunbeam.
“Nyu fwen?” Brutal asked, mouth agape like he had just seen the Red Sea part.
“Am Mapwe!” she said, as Paul placed her down, “What fwuffy’s namsie?”
“Am Bwutaw,” he replied, stepping closer to her. A few seconds of sniffing followed, punctuated with a gasp. “Pwetty mawe!” Brutal’s jet black tail began to whip to-and-fro, his body perked up to stand taller - as though subconsciously putting on a display. “Why pwetty mawe in boxie? Is sowwy boxie?” Maple shook her head.
“Is Mapwe boxie. Mapwe awways in boxie. Is wike widdwe housie~”
“Bwutaw think Mapwe boxie am pwetty, too. Jus’ wike Mapwe!”
“Bwutaw am nice stawwion, wan be speshuw fwen?” Mapwe asked, Brutal answering with an energetic series of nods.
“Bwutaw wan! Bwutaw wan!” He said, leaning forward and giving a riot of nuzzles to Maple’s face. “Wan speshuw huggies?”
“Mapwe wuuuuv speshuw huggies wif speshuw fwen~” Maple replied. Brutal’s enthusiasm seemed to hit his ceiling at that. Without hesitation, he trotted behind her box, to where her rear end hung exposed through a hole in the cardboard. There, he lifted his front hooves onto the top of the box and- Paul immediately stepped back and shut the door before he could witness anymore. He stayed to make sure the introduction went well, as Chet instructed him during check-out, and that was all he was gonna do. The last thing he needed to see was two fluffies getting busy.
Besides, he wanted to make something to eat. Probably whip up something for the new ‘couple’. Well, for Brutal. As the symphony of muffled ‘enfenfenfenfenf’ sounded from Brutal’s saferoom door, Paul fished the bottle of pills from his back-pocket; ‘Sketti-Special Pills’. The actual name was some amalgamation of latin and science-y words that Paul couldn’t spell, let alone say. But the brand name was ‘Sketti-Special Pills’. For use with Special-Pals, Litter-Pals, and Fluff-Lite Diet Kits.
“What the fuck is a ‘Litter-Pal’…?” Paul muttered, squinting at the label. Some part of him wanted to look it up, but that train of thought was broken by a muffled exclamation of ‘good feews’ from behind Brutal’s door. Followed a few seconds later by another cascade of ‘enf’s. A stray thought wandered into Paul’s mind on whether or not he’d have to clean Maple. As he took the milk, mayo, and salad cream out of the fridge and binned it all - he wasn’t going to be able to eat anything white and creamy for a while - he decided that no, he was not going to be cleaning his pet’s fuckbuddy.
It was three weeks later (two days into October), when Paul awoke from another apricot-scented dream. His house was quiet, as it had been every morning since Brutal met Maple. It was a nice change to not have Brutal scampering up his leg or tapping at his door. But today was… somehow quieter. There were no birds tweeting. No breeze whistling. No trees rustling and loosing their leaves to drift. It was all just dead silent. Paul, however, didn’t care. He wanted to get all his usual shit done before his shift that afternoon. So, he pulled on his robe, slid on his slippers, and made way to the kitchen.
He’d start off easy. Coffee machine on, snatch a poptart out of the box, and pop it in the toaster. Then he’d go to the bathroom and start the shower, by the time he gets back from feeding Brutal, it’ll finally be warm. Fuckin’ plumbing needed a complete overhaul. But that was a problem for future-Paul. For now; Brutal. Gotta top up his feeder and give Maple her pill. So, bag of kibble in one hand and pill in his robe pocket, he bumped the door open with his hip.
He was then met with an odor he could only describe as ‘hot, rotten ass soaked in a boiling pot of piss and vinegar, then left to fester in cow shit in death valley’. The source? Maple. At least, what used to be Maple. Paul had dropped the kibble to the floor, the bag spilling out into a pile. He gathered a fistful of his robe and pressed it over his mouth and cautiously approached her. She was in the middle of the room, tipped on her side. Not a single part of her moved. He knelt slowly, the pungent aroma easily thwarting the piss-thin fabric barrier that was his 14 year old bathrobe.
Righting Maple from the floor, he saw that her face was swollen and bruised, dried remnants of foam-y drool and fluffy spunk in the corners of her mouth, which hung open limply. Flies scurried along her tongue. As he stood with her in his hands, her head lolled to the side with a slow, wet crackle. Followed then by a gush of pinkish-grey gunk from her nose. For a moment, Paul’s heart sank as he saw those once-bright eyes stare lifelessly in two different directions. Then, as he heard crunching behind him, it turned to rage.
“What the fuck?!” Paul yelled, turning around to face Brutal, who was scared from his morning mound of munchies - subsequently pissing himself, as well.
“Woud bad wowdsie!” Brutal replied, crouching down and covering his ears with his front legs.
“What the hell happened to Maple?! Did you fucking kill her?!”
“Nu! Fwuffy nevew huwt speshuw fwen! Fwuffy wuv speshuw fwen!”
“Then what the fuck happened?!” Paul said, shaking Maple accusatorily at the trembling fluffy.
“Fwuffy nu knu! Huuhuuhuuuuu…” Brutal cried out, tears flowing freely over his cheeks, “Bwutaw just haf speshuw mouthie huggies an den speshuw fwen gu sweepies! Fwuffy nu knu speshuw fwen go fowevah sweepies!” Brutal broke down at this point, falling onto his stomach, covering his face with his hooves, and bawling like a toddler with a scraped knee. Paul just stood over Brutal, trying to piece it together. As far as he could tell, Brutal had suffocated Maple while… Jesus fucking Christ. Maybe Maple drowned? Chet said the little shits could drown in an inch of water.
Put ‘em in a pool? Fluffy pony drowns. Bathtime? Fluffy pony drowns. Water bowl too full? Fluffy pony drowns. It looks up while it rains? Fluffy pony drowns. Watch ‘The Little Mermaid’? Well, darling, it’s better down where it’s wetter, fluffy pony drowns.
Paul reached down and picked up Brutal, cringing at the wet feel of piss-soaked stomach fluff as he tucked him under his arm.
“Don’t care what the hell happened,” Paul said, placing Brutal in the corner, “You’re in a fucking time-out.” He spun the fluffy to face the wall. Brutal needed some discipline, surely. Accident or not, Brutal had to learn to be… he had to know that… Okay, Paul couldn’t quite articulate the lesson. It was 9am and he was firing on half-a-cylinder. “You stay there until I tell you to leave.”
“Otay, daddeh,” Brutal said, with a sniffle, “Fwuffy stay hewe…”
Now Paul had one more thing to add to his to-do list before work. Go to FluffMart and get this shit dealt with. As far as Paul could tell, he was promised a working product. Well, 3 weeks later and it ain’t working. The thing is fucking kaput. If it was a toaster or a blender, he’d get a refund. And he was damn well going to get one for this fucking fluffy.
“The fuck do you mean ‘no refund’?!” Paul yelled, slamming his hands down on the FluffMart counter.
“I’m sorry, Paul,” Chet said, still looking inside the reeking garbage bag Paul had brought Maple in, “I’d love to give you a refund, but it’s store policy. No refunds on non-defective products.”
“Non-defective?” Paul couldn’t help but scoff, “You think this isn’t fuckin’ defective?” He slapped the back of his hand against the bag, clattering the stiffening corpse against its cardboard coffin. “The thing’s fucking dead!” A chorus of ‘huu-ing started up in a near-by fluffy pen.
“Paul, please.” Chet said, putting out a firm, flat palm, “If you’re going to keep yelling, we’ll have you removed.” He flicked his eyes to the side, which Paul followed with his own. Standing a few yards away was a security guard, hand poised over a hip-holstered taser. FluffMart wasn’t a stranger to belligerent customers and F.L.A wannabes. “If you want me to help you solve this problem, just calm down. Let’s talk.” Paul knew what he wanted to do right now. Every fiber of his being was screaming to grab this blondie brat in a headlock, drag him onto the counter, and shove his head into the garbage bag until he puked from the smell.
But he couldn’t do that. For some reason he just… he couldn’t say no. When he saw Brutal upset, it made him feel something. Reminded him so much of Gabriella. But she was never like that… Was she? Trying to comb through his memories, Paul never recalled one where she was upset. Hell, the only time he ever saw a fluffy upset was when it was inflicted upon them. They’re all about ‘huggies and wuv’, right? They’re always meant to be happy. That’s how Gabriella was. That’s how Papaya is. That’s how Maple…
“I think I’m fuckin’ this up…” Paul said, resting his elbows on the counter and clutching his head in his hands, “How the hell did it get to this?”
“It’s how it is, Paul…” Chet said, patting his customer’s shoulder, “We try, we fumble, we fall.”
“I’ve spent so much on this thing. I can’t keep doing that. But I can’t get rid of him either.”
“How about I do you a favor, Paul?” Chet said, lowering his voice to a hush, “From the looks of Maple, I think I know the problem. Your little guy has a drive that’s… a bit more than a regular fluffy. He probably just got carried away and she couldn’t keep up. He’s probably a bit of a big boy, huh?” Paul nodded. “Well, that’s my fault for not doing a better job. I should’ve asked, then I wouldn’t have recommended Maple.”
“What are you talking about?” Paul asked, brow furrowed.
“Maple is a Series 2. A good line, don’t get me wrong, but not up to snuff for… tougher fluffs.”
Twenty minutes later, Paul was driving home. Eye twitching subconsciously as he tried to keep his breathing steady. The only noise in the car was a non-stop humming from the passenger seat. An all-black pegasus mare, encased in a fancy lilac-colored plastic shell, sat. The shell was sleek for easy cleaning. Padded on the top and bottom with faux-fluff. Even the inside was padded for maximum comfort for the fluffy within.
“Wicowice wuv nyu daddeh~” the fluffy begun to sing, “Takin’ Wicowice to speshuw fwen~”
The back of Paul’s eyes began to ache. Then his temples began to pound. Apricot scent drifted all around him. And the singing became screeching. A dull thudding, punctuated with wet drips. Crying, dripping, screeching, splashing, all spiraled in his head.
“Fank ‘ou mummah, Gabwiewwa wuv ‘ou!” repeated far behind him, a thousand times or more. He felt he had heard it that many times. Each accompanied by a sweet treat or little toy. And, distantly beyond even those, there was the silhouette of a stick on the wall. Hanging untouched. Layers of dust upon it. Forgotten.
When Paul got home, Brutal wasn’t in the corner. At first, Paul wanted to smack some respect into Brutal - the same way his own father had done to him - but, Brutal was also currently in the litterbox making (as Brutal so eloquently put it, mid-strain) ‘good poopies’. Couldn’t exactly fault the fluffy for not shitting on the floor. All opportunity to scold Brutal flew out the window when Licorice and him locked eyes. Calls of ‘nyu speshuw fwen’ and ‘wuv’ rang out. Without a word, Paul placed Licorice down and the two fluffies nuzzled tenderly.
As he watched the two gibber in infantile love, Paul shook his head. In that same spot, one of their own kind was laying dead. And the murderer - even if accidental - was there. Smiling. Sniffing his new partner. Paul hoped it wasn’t also a new victim. But Licorice looked sturdy. Chet even said that pegasuses… pegasi? What the fuck ever, Paul got a D in English. Go fuck yourself. Chet said that a pegasus fluffy was more durable. Could take whatever Brutal could dish out. If, however, anything were to happen, Chet gave Paul his word that he’d get him a good deal on a Series 4. Paul saw the prices on ‘em though. Even 80% off was still $80 that Paul did not want to fucking spend.
When Brutal asked if Licorice wanted ‘speshuw huggies’, Paul turned outta the room and shut the door. On one hand, the sounds and images of My Downy Ponys doing the nasty were bad enough. But it was… the more time he spent around them, the more he’d remember Gabriella. Even though all the memories were saccharine and wholesome and all that gay shit, it still made Paul feel like he was about to vomit for both accuracy and distance. Why? God only knows. And God help Paul, he needed this feeling out of him. He went to the fridge and fished out a beer-
“GOOD FEEWS! GOOD FEEWS!”
TWO beers. He popped the cap of one on the kitchen counter and necked a good half of the amber fluid. That hit the spot. Blunted his memory and dulled the sickness. Fuck everything else, this was his bliss right now. A moment where there were no fluffies in his sight, in his mind, and barely in his ear. He could go to his couch, slump down, and just rest.
It took two weeks. Two fluffy-fuckin’ weeks. This time, Brutal said, he was playing blocks with Licorice and she wanted to stack the next block in their two-block-tall tower. Brutal handed it to her and she grabbed it in her mouth. When she stretched to try and stack it, she suddenly fell down and the sudden stop of her jaw on the plastic shell… shattered her teeth against the block. She inhaled in shock and the block slipped in, blocking her airway.
Of course, Brutal’s version of events was filled with a lot more tears, snot, and pre-programmed fluff-lisp. But the story was essentially the same; Licorice is dead. Paul picked up Brutal, still crying, and thought about what to do with him. Another time-out? Then again, this wasn’t really his fault. How would he know that her teeth would break on a foam block? Blocks that… he had torn apart. Well, not those specific ones, he had three left unbroken. But how could they break Licorice’s teeth, but not Brutal’s? Was he because he was bigger? Stronger? Paul’s brow furrowed as his mind chugged the train of thought along, eyes never leaving Brutal.
“Daddeh, fwuffy nu smeww pwetty…” Brutal said, pointing a hoof down at Licorice while wiping away the tears from his face with the other, “Bwutaw safewoom nee’ cweanies.”
“Yeah,” Paul said, placing Brutal down, “I’ll… clean her… it up.” Brutal waddled off to his feeder, shovelling his face into the kibble as soon as he got into range. As Paul scooped Licorice into a garbage bag, he heard the feeder rattle. Shit, he forgot to refill it. Over the past week, Brutal had begun eating more. Even after having a helping and a half of Paul’s own meals, the fluffy still always wandered back to the kibble for an extra feed. If it was empty, he’d search out Paul to refill it. After six failed attempts to explain to Brutal that it only gave kibble on a timer, he just set it to auto-dispense whenever the bowl was empty. Easier to do that than listen to a fluffy whine about ‘nu undastan’.
“Daddeh, nee’ nummies.” Brutal said, turning around and galloping - as best as a fluffy can - to Paul’s feet.
“Let me just deal with-”
“Nee’ nummies NAO.” Brutal emphasised with a stomp of his hoof.
“The fuck?” Paul muttered, squinting down at Brutal. “Whatchu’ say?”
“Bwutaw nee’ nummies. Nee’ nummies nao.”
“Well, you can wait ‘till-”
“NAO!” Brutal gave a thwap of his hoof on Paul’s shoe.
“Hey, quit that shit.” Paul said, giving Brutal a shove back with his foot. “I’ll feed you after I throw away your putanna!” To this, Brutal huffed and began stomping his front hooves. Paul… just couldn’t bring himself to give a fuck. He didn’t want to smell the reek of death another minute longer. Didn’t want to argue with something that has the brain of a toddler. Why the fuck was Paul getting angry? It’s a fluffy. The fucking things probably don’t even have object permanence. If it shut the thing up, Paul would take 30 seconds to pour some more kibble out. An act which Brutal responded to with an enthusiastic “Nummies!” and more pig-like trough-munching.
Paul just took the chance to take Licorice out to the Bio-Waste dumpster down the street, then a straight shot to FluffMart. Because Paul knew that the complaints would come again. The jizz marks and raping of inanimate objects. If Brutal couldn’t vent out that bullshit, it’d just be another headache for Paul. Followed by another wave of nausea. He made a mental note to pick up some more beer.
As Chet said, he got Paul a deal on a Series 4 Special-Pal. A white-fluffed, gray-maned unicorn mare. For a low price of $150. Apparently, the Series 4 was the most durable, high-stamina, enthusiastic model on the market. It also came in a reinforced, composite-plastic shell on wheels. Motherfucking wheels. This one was mobile and could be pushed or pulled around by a fluffy. Once again, the introduction between Brutal and his new ‘speshuw fwen’ went swimmingly. Names, the question, special huggies, all the same. Brutal and the new fluffy - ‘Boo’ was her name - got along swimmingly.
Paul didn’t care. He was just happy to not smell apricot or remember that pink-maned mare again. A slow, steady imbibement kept his thoughts fuzzy and his stomach steeled. Except in the morning, when he’d puke into his toilet, sink, and/or bath-tub. But it was a small price to pay. All he wanted was to not feel that sickness. That looming dread. The… fucking misery. His life was a fucking misery.
Some nights, as he sat on his bedroom floor amid a cluster of cans and bottles, he’d just think of where he was. What he was doing. Tears would threaten to spill from his eyes when his thoughts drifted to the two miniature horse retards in his home. If the Paul from just six months could see the Paul of now, he’d call him a fucking pussy. Laugh at him. He was on the verge of crying over how much he’d fucked his own life up. What kind of man does this? What kind of man drains his savings and knee-caps his income for a little girl’s toy? What kind of man drowns his brain and pickles his liver because he can’t stand some happy childhood memories? A lonely, pathetic man. That’s what Paul saw when he looked in the mirror. All he had in his life anymore was his girly toys. His fucking fluffies. Did he even like them? No. Fuck no. But… what could he do?
“You little… fucking bastards!” Paul yelled, throwing an empty bottle at his wall. The shattering glass scattered across the floor. He knew he’d regret it in the morning, when a piece stabs him in the foot. But that was future Paul’s problem. And there was no one Paul hated more right now.
“Daddeh?” came a muffled voice from behind the locked door of his bedroom, “Daddeh am otay? Boo heaw scawy noisie…”
Paul stayed silent.
“Daddeh nee’ huggies?”
Silence.
“Boo wuv ‘ou, Daddeh…” Then the gentle squeak of wheels growing steadily distant.
Paul just shook his head. He looked up at the picture of his parents, hung on the wall his bed faced.
“How the fuck did you do it?” Paul asked, a light quiver in his voice, “You did it. So, where did I fuck up?” He stared still, as though waiting for an answer. Soon, he pursed his lips and lifted his near-empty can to the picture. “Salud,” he said, before drinking the last gulp of beer and collapsing on the floor.
Papaya loved his new housie. Loved his mummah. Every bright-time, she would come into his saferoom - though she called it a ‘sun-room’ - and spend time with him. His mummah would put him on her lap and let him watch her knit the softest thingies. Sometimes she would read books, but they had the biggest wordies and no pictures. Papaya didn’t like the books, but he loved when his mummah would pet him or give his ears scratchies. His mummah was sooooo smart. Maybe the smartest of all mummahs. Why? Because whenever they would play blockie-stackies, she would stack three or even four blocks!
And every dark-time, she gave Papaya tasty nummies. His favoritest was grill-cheesies and his other favoritest was oats & milkies. After nummies, he’d make good poopies outside. His mummah even put a little door in his saferoom so he could go outside whenever he wanted but no monsters or other fluffies could get in. Papaya didn’t know how it did that. But Mummah said it was because of his pretty collar. Papaya was always so amazed by human magic. After good poopies, Papaya would come back inside and snuggle in his bed. But, sometimes, he would snuggle up in mummah’s basket of yarn. He loved how it felt. It was the bestest, softest, comfiest, warmest, snuggliest thing.
And the basket was also in the perfect place for him to see the trees. Back when he lived in the forest, Papaya had never noticed how pretty the leaves got during this time. Back in the forest, all it meant was that the cold-time was nearly there and then a lot of his friends would be gone. There were never enough nummies in the cold-times and there were too many fluffies in the herd. But, after the cold-time, there weren’t too many. Papaya would sometimes miss his herd. Especially his special friend. She was so pretty. Her mane was orange and her fluff was green. It was like Papaya, but not like Papaya.
Papaya curled up tighter when he thought of her. The heart-hurties wouldn’t be as bad if he curled up. Because it felt like she was giving him huggies again. He can’t remember the last time he had huggies from another fluffy. The last fluffy he remembered was the meanest fluffy ever. Wanted to be part of the herd and demanded Papaya take him to the herd. But Papaya knew about this fluffy. He was a bad fluffy. He gave hurties and stole nummies and gave bad special huggies and and- Papaya shivered and began to huu.
Papaya tried to stop him. But Papaya was a nummie-finder, not a toughie. His special friend had the biggest hurties and was a soon-mummah-no-more. Papaya had the biggest heart hurties. His special friend wanted forever-sleepies. Asked again and again. Papaya got so angry. He screeched and screamed and tried to give the meanie fluffy the worstest sorry-hoofies and biggest owwies ever. Chased him as far as he could. But he got so tired. He hid under his new mummah’s housie. He was too tired to move. Had so many owwies.
But mummah saved him. Saved him from the monster-mister. Gave him huggies and love and replaced all his heart-hurties with the biggest heart-happies Papaya had ever had. Sometimes, his heart-hurties came back. But he knew they’d go away again. Because his mummah loved him. And he loved his mummah. The only thing that would make his life better would be a new special friend and new babies. Then he could be a better special friend and keep his family safe and happy and… and… Papaya could smell something.
Papaya lifted his head and sniffed at the air. He knew that smell. It was…
“Pwetty mawe?” Papaya said, his tail beginning to make happy wags. He got up and went as fast as he could to his little door. As he pushed it open with his head, he got coldies. But this wouldn’t stop him! Next to the little door, his mummah had put up a special thingie that held a ‘sweater’. Papaya loved it. Mummah had knit it for him. It was the same color as mummah’s sweater; blue with white stripes. The thingie that held his sweater kept it up, like it was flying. All Papaya had to do was climb into it and wiggle until his leggies popped out of the leggie-holes. Then he would do a little hop and the sweater would be free and he could go outside without feeling the coldies! His mummah was soooooo smart.
Papaya, with his sweater on, dashed out of his little door. Every few steps, he would raise his sniffer and try to catch the pretty mare’s scent. The smell was soooooo pretty! It gave Papaya heart happies, but also made his special lumps feel funny. The closer he got to the scent, the more his lumps began to hurt. By the time he wandered out onto the black-rockie place, the smell was so strong and Papaya couldn’t stop from giving enfies to the air.
“Pwetty mawe? Whewe pwetty mawe?” Papaya called out, “Wan be nyu fwen? Papaya wuv nyu fwen! Papaya gif bestest huggies and haf toysies and- SCREEEEEEEEE-”
Paul woke up on the floor of his bathroom, dressed in boxers and a wife-beater. In one hand there was a bottle of suds, spilled out onto the floor. In the other hand, there was a fully-loaded calzone. Was. It was currently resting on the floor between his legs, with the majority of its innards splattered across his front, from chin to stomach. He mumbled a string of expletives, before rising to his feet and stripping the vest from his body. He stumbled into the kitchen, ignoring the soft huu-ing from the saferoom, and fished the OJ from the fridge. Unscrewing the lid and tossing it aside, he put the bottle to his lips and let the citrus bliss wash away the taste of vomit and regret.
When he was finally done, chin soaked and thirst quenched, he put the bottle on the counter and made his way back to the bathroom. He had to go to work today. He was out of sick days and was needed back on the night-shift. Yeah, night-shift. The only reason he still had a job. No one else wanted to work it, so his offer to take it was immediately accepted. They fire him and… well, there goes the 24/7 part of the sign. As he passed the saferoom he, again, ignored teh huu-ing. Whatever problem the fluffies had would wait until he had a damn shower.
As Paul found out… it wasn’t worth delaying. When he was finally cleaned up and dressed (at a sprightly 2:30pm), he went to the saferoom. Inside, Brutal was sitting beside Boo. She was at the kibble bowl. But there were no sounds of munching, crunching, or eating. Paul approached, hoping and praying the silence was just her taking a break. Then he could scold her for eating kibble instead of her pill and that would be the end of-
“FUCK!” Paul yelled. His prayers were ignored. Boo was sitting at the bowl, but she wasn’t eating. At least, not anymore. Her mouth was stuffed with kibble, as though she tried to scarf it down like it was her last fucking meal. Even when Paul moved her head, the kibble stayed put. Her eyes had rolled into the back of her head and there was no breath coming out of her. “Leave it to a fucking fluffy to do shit like this…” Paul scowled.
“Dummeh mawe twy to num tu much kibbwe,” Brutal said, before giving a hard tap of his hoof on Boo’s box, “Dummeh! Onwy nee’ speshuw nummies!”
“Brutal, leave her.” Paul said, swiping Brutals’ hoof off Boo’s box. He’d have to dump this one, too. Tap-dancing Christ…
“Can Bwutaw haf nyu enfie-mawe?” Brutal asked, putting his hooves on Paul’s knee as he knelt down to scoop up Boo.
“What?” Paul asked, shaking his head as he tried to decipher fluffy-lingo.
“Enfie-mawe. Bwutaw nee’ nyu enfie-mawe.” Brutal said, before turning his head to Boo, “Dummeh enfie-mawe gu fowevah-sweepies. Bwutaw nee’ enfie-mawe fo’ good feews.”
“No, Brutal, you’re not gettin’ another.” Paul said, standing upright with Boo under his arm. As he walked out of the room, Brutal followed hot on his heels. Paul dumped Boo into the kitchen trash, then began to pull the bag out and tie it shut. All the while, Brutal kept repeating his request… no, demand.
“Bwutaw nee’ nyu enfie-mawe! Wan good feews! Dummeh daddeh get Bwutaw nyu enfie-mawe NAO!”
“I am not throwing more money down a fucking rat-hole!” Paul yelled back. Brutal responded by lowering his stance and puffing out his cheeks.
“Bwutaw nu am wat! Bwutaw am bestes’ fwuffy! Gif Bwutaw bestes’ enfie-mawes and bestes’ nummies! BWUTAW WAN!”
“Not a fucking chance.” Paul spat, “You ask me one more time and I’m gonna-”
“BWUTAW NU CAWE! DUMMEH DADDEH! BWUTAW WAN! SCREEEEEEEEEEEE!”
As Brutal screeched, Paul just made a beeline for the front door. Before opening it, he locked the doggy-door, just so the little prick couldn’t follow him when he slammed the door shut behind him. All he needed was a few minutes to process things. Why today? He needed to get to work. He didn’t need to deal with a dead fluffy that cost him one hundred and fifty fucking dollars. All he had left in his savings was $75. Any money he had to put back in there went to getting kibble and litter and FluffTV and beer and… Paul had enough. No more. He was not gonna spend anything more on this fluffy. He’d get cheaper kibble. He’d cancel FluffTV. He’d make Brutal shit in the yard. Then he could sell all that expensive shit and just… ah, fuck it. It was too early to think about all this shit. He’d figure it out later.
Paul opened his car door and tossed the garbage bag onto his passenger seat. He took the moment to take a deep breath of non-rancid air. But that didn’t work. Because the smell was in the air outside. The smell of blood and shit and rot. It was hard to see the source, either. On the black asphalt was a mess of orange, green, and red. In a moment of curiosity, Paul approached it. Papaya. It was definitely Papaya. Flattened like a meat pancake. Spikes of bone pierced through skin and fluff. What was once a skull was now the same shape as a stomped apple, with the pinky innards oozed out and wriggling with a colony of maggots. The only part uncrushed was one leg, which splayed limply at an odd angle. Connected to the body by a cluster of exposed muscle. Must have been run over by a car. Paul figured he’d feel a little sorry for Papaya. Maybe a month ago, he would have. But not now. Not today. Though… As he stood up and walked away, there was just something that bugged Paul about it.
Even as he drove away, it still nagged at his thoughts. When he checked his rear-view mirror and saw Mrs. Cooper run over and drop to her knees beside Papaya’s remains, it nagged. As she wailed for her loss, it nagged. How many times was he run over? One car would hit a clean line over the body. Flatten him. But he looked like he was run over by a good handful. He was lumpy and uneven. Like parts had been flattened, then were lifted up when other parts got crushed. The suburb wasn’t busy. Unless it was early… Yeah. Probably got caught out in the morning rush.
Should’ve been easy to see, really. From the looks of the remains, he was wearing a fugly sweater. Bright blue with dark red stripes.
The next few days of Paul’s life was, with no hyperbole, a fucking nightmare. He’d work empty, boring shifts at night. Then he’d come home to a fluffy that’s in a perpetual tantrum. As soon as the door opened, Brutal came running just to make demands. If it was a bowl of ‘sketties’, then Paul had better have it hot-and-ready within 10 seconds or Brutal was going to spin his vocal chords up like a buzzsaw going through a lead pipe. New enfie-mare? As soon as Paul said ‘no, the house was open season to Brutal’s anger-fuelled micro-dick. He’d seek out the nearest object of worth - in a fluffy’s eyes… so, anything that isn’t brown or smells bad - and hump it for the next thirty seconds.
“Bwutaw gif wowstes’ enfies!” the fluffy would say, one day, as he ran up and mounted the brown paper bag of groceries that Paul bought. He had just sat it down for a moment so he could open the fridge. Thank God it was just canned food in that bag. Just run it under water, wipe it off, put it in the cupboard. Given his tightening budget, it was all Paul ate now. Canned fruit for breakfast, canned beans or spaghetti for dinner. In between, he’d have beer and the cheapest store-brand potato chips he could find. But anything to make his life a little easier. Anything at all.
It all came to a head on day three. Paul came home with one of those store-cooked whole chickens. A gift from a co-worker who had noticed Paul’s… uh… “issues at home”. The signs were evident. The bags under Paul’s eyes. The frayed flecks of skin lifting from his chewed lip. The constant fidgeting of his leg or fingers. Paul couldn’t turn down such a meal. It had been only three days since he tightened his belt, but it was hell to a man like Paul. He longed for the taste of real food on the first day. His readiness to murder for a fresh donut peaked halfway through day two. But, as Paul walked in the door, he was met with the sudden rush of a fluffy from behind the door. Tripping over the fat pony, Paul went to the floor and the chicken flew from his hands. It landed with a wet squelch on the floor, sliding through lint and hair and crumbs of weeks past. Before Paul could even lift himself from the ground, Brutal scuttered past him and
“He fucked my dinner.” Paul said, head in his hands. He expected Chet to laugh. Anyone would’ve laughed at that. Except Paul. The man who now sat in FluffMart’s cafe, on a shitty metal chair, across from the same store’s top salesman. And, in Paul’s eyes, the only person who could help him. “I… what the fuck do I do?” Paul said, putting out his hands to Chet like a beggar, “I can’t take this shit anymore. What do I do? I… I… Help me. Please.” His voice trembled as he spoke. He didn’t care. He was past the point of caring. No matter what he did, nothing would stop it. The erosion of everything he had.
He had friends. He had a good job. He had money. He had a good fluffy. He had self-respect. But it was all gone. All of it. He was holding on by a thread and needed an out. If he had to get on his knees and beg, he was ready. God, he was ready.
“Paul,” Chet said, taking in a slow breath. He had barely moved as he and Paul talked. Just sat and took it all in. Seeing every little twitch on Paul’s face. Every quaver in his voice. All the little signs and signals. All of which screamed out the same thing: desperation. It was the lifeblood of his kin. The sweet succour on which he thrived. It was his job. “I know exactly what you need.”
Chet brought Paul to the ‘Hasbio Latest’ section of the FluffMart, where the hottest releases from Hasbio’s labs were up for sale. There were a few fluffy pens, sporting some limited edition branded fluffies. Then a wall of new fluffy toys. A micro-enclosure. Pills advertised as ‘the ultimate in sorry-poopies prevention’… whatever the hell that was. But, Chet didn’t draw Paul to any of that. Not the $300 Nike fluffy. Not the $185 Fakie-Babie. No… Chet just showed his customer to a line-up of hamster cages. Inside of each, a fluffy. Sized around 8 inches, front-hoof to head. But… something about them looked off.
“These are brand new. Just got them in yesterday.” Chet said, gesturing to the nearest cage. “They’re called ‘Rubber-Fluffies’.” Inside the cage, Paul saw a powder-blue fluffy curled up on some torn-up newspaper. “A bit smaller than a regular fluffy, but a lot more durable. Hasbio whipped them up for the younger kids. Y’know how they can be a bit… rough when playing. These little guys can handle it.” As Chet spoke, the rubber-fluffy stretched out its legs and turned onto its side. Over its stomach was a series of rings, like the ribbing of a rubber dog toy, starting around the top of the ribcage and continuing down to just above the diminutive genitals. It was a boy.
“From what you tell me,” Chet said, “durability seems to be your problem. Your fluffy needs a friend that can keep up with him and won’t have any unfortunate accidents.”
Paul stayed quiet, still looking at the little creature. Slowly, the fluffy’s eyes began to open. Upon seeing Paul, he got up and waddled over to the cage door. Sitting up on his haunches, he hooked his padded little hooves over the cage wire.
“Buddy haf nyu daddeh?” the fluffy asked, a soft smile across his face. He already had a name. ‘Buddy’.
“How about it, Paul?” Chet asked, placing a hand on Paul’s shoulder. “Just for you, since you’ve been such a loyal customer, I can give him to you for $75.”
Paul put a hand up to the cage, slowly curling his fingers around the grid bars. Buddy leaned in and nuzzled Paul’s finger.
“I’ll take him.”
