“Let me get this straight.”
Pierre sits at a picnic table in the middle of the forest, his face buried in his silver palm.
“You ran into the herd, gave them a stack of marijuana-laced baked goods, inadvertently kick-started the fluffy drug trade, and you’ve been supplying them with, with drugs ever since.”
“That about, uh, sums it up, yes.” Tommy Fonda, an old friend of Pierre (well, old from Tommy’s point of view, from Pierre’s, Tommy is practically a baby), sits across from him, next to his wife, Maria. Pierre knows they aren’t legally married, but usually respects Tommy enough to not bring it up.
Their garishly-painted VW bus that Tommy insists on calling the Mothership is parked nearby. Their fluffy, Woodstock, is inside, watching cartoons and gently tripping out on a tiny, tiny piece of an LSD tab. Tommy is smoking one of the monster blunts he calls atomicas, occasionally passing it to his wife.
A few moments of silence pass.
“Why, Thomas?”
A few more moments of silence pass.
“Well, the first time was an accident, but after that, we just wanted to see what would happen. And please don’t call me Thomas, you know how I feel about being called that.”
“You just wanted to see what would happen.” Pierre’s eyes are two slits of blue light.
“Hey, don’t look at me like that, nobody’s gotten hurt!”
“Yet. Nobody’s gotten hurt yet.”
Pierre is having a very strange day.
A few weeks ago, he saw, via one of his drones, an old friend of his and his wife visit the feral herd Pierre had been observing. Pierre was surprised, but thought nothing of it. He knew about the Fondas and their mission to help feral fluffies, he was bankrolling it, after all. They just talked to some of the herd, helped the smarty name his herd, and gave them some food. Nothing unusual. Nothing they haven’t done for other herds. They even gave them some toys, which was unusual. Pierre made a note to get in touch with Flufftopia’s toy department, hoping to supply Tommy with more toys to donate to the feral herds.
Fast forward to this morning, when Pierre witnessed Tommy returning to the herd, this time dropping off a package, containing what were quickly confirmed to be pot brownies.
By the time the Fondas were gone, Pierre was left staring into space for a full ten minutes, processing what he’d just seen.
Fortunately, one of his Remote Bodies was in the area, because drones don’t repair themselves, y’know. So finding the Fondas and asking them what the hell was going on was easy. The hard part was figuring out what the hell to do about it.
“Honestly, I don’t know what to do with you sometimes, Tom. Vous bouffon absolu!”
“Avez-vous oublié que je parle aussi Français, monsieur?”
Five minutes of angry French later, Maria cuts in.
“Guys! I don’t speak French!”
“Really? But I got you those tapes for our anniversary. You said you loved them.”
“Yeah, 'cause they were from you, you dummy.”
“Awwww…”
As the couple shares a kiss, Pierre clears his throat. He knows the Fondas well, and if he doesn’t cut in, they’ll be naked and going at it on the picnic table in thirty seconds. He’s timed it. Yes, the Fondas have no shame. They staunchly believe in free love. And have been banned from several businesses for it.
“Can we get back to the reason I’m here? That is, you accidentally creating a fluffy Tony Montana?”
“Oh right, sorry.” Tommy says, putting his Pink Floyd T-shirt back on. Maria pulls her skirt back up. She never wears underwear, and Pierre is respectfully averting his eyes, even though she honestly wouldn’t mind if he looked.
She’s openly admitted this to Pierre. Again, no shame. She admitted that it would actually turn her and Tommy on. After hearing this, and the subsequent invitation, Pierre seriously considered inventing a device to erase the entire conversation from his memory. It’s not that she’s not attractive, or that he’s a homophobe, but Pierre has never been comfortable with the idea of sleeping with another man’s partner, especially not if the other man is in the room, and especially not if he’s actually participating. His friend Victor, on the other hand, will happily seduce another man’s wife, and then seduce the man for good measure. And then seduce both of them at the same time, just because he can.
Pierre snaps himself out of his unpleasant trip down Memory Lane, and gets back to the point.
“The fact, Tommy, is that you are a grown man, even though you refuse to act like it. However, you’re on my payroll, and that means you’re my responsibility. I was hoping to observe the development of the herd without interference from humans. That I neglected to instruct you to stay away from them, is on me. That you started a fluffy cartel, is on you. So, as your punishment, yes, punishment, for doing so, you three stooges are to stay here, and continue to assist the herd, since the damage has been done, until further notice. Yes, I know you hate staying in one place for too long. It is supposed to be a punishment. I will be keeping an eye on you, via my drones, to ensure that you stay here, and I will be checking up on you frequently. You are two of the few people who know that I can be anywhere. There is a town a mile or two away from here. I grant you permission to stock up on supplies there, and visit it as you please. Anything you need that cannot be procured there, I will provide, except for any drugs, you’re on your own there. Though I do happen to know that there is at least one person in town who can help you with that. No, I’m not telling you who, you can have fun finding out by yourself. I will be very disappointed in you if you run out on me. If you wish to keep providing the herd with your brownies, feel free, but if the smarty winds up full of bullet holes, face down in a pile of, what do they call it, oh yes, yeyo, I will be holding you personally responsible. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal, dude.”
“Good. Now if you will excuse me, one of my drones just crashed into a tree. Again. Good day, Tommy. Maria. Try not to let any of them OD.”
And with that, Pierre gets up from the picnic table, and strides into the woods.
Meanwhile, back in his lab, Pierre angrily swears up a storm in French. You don’t even want to know how the latest version of the formula went wrong.