The Death of Fluffies stalks through the garden. It’s a very strange garden, with very strange plants, but the Death of Fluffies is no stranger to strangeness.
One’s level of tolerance for strangeness is high when one is the fluffomorphic personification of the death of fluffies, after all.
The ghostly forms of fluffies wander through the garden, silvery threads linking them to their earthly remains, or in some cases, what’s left of them. Some of the ghost fluffies are very small.
The Death of Fluffies sighs. Another big job.
Holding a scythe between his teeth, the Death of Fluffies gets to work, severing the bonds that tie the fluffies to this mortal coil.
As he works, the Bone Fluff spots a plantlike creature, also at work, disposing of the bodies, transporting them to a manure pile to decompose. She looks like she’s been crying recently. She notices the Death of Fluffies too.
The Death of Fluffies nods courteously, as one professional to another, and both continue with their work.
Leafy, or Emma, technically works for the Other Side, that is, Life. But the Death of Fluffies bears no ill will towards those who work to nurture living things. After all, no life, no death, and what happens to the Death of Fluffies then?
When the job is done, and the last ghostly fluffy has moved on (the Death of Fluffies knows that the smarty is still alive, and he won’t be back for him for a long time yet), the Bone Fluff senses that he is needed elsewhere.
With a salute to Leafy, the Death of Fluffies disappears.
Another time. Another place.
The Death of Fluffies appears in an alleyway. Between an old sofa and a dresser, the quarry awaits.
It’s just one fluffy this time. A yellow and orange one. The poor thing has been pillowed, and is sobbing relentlessly. The Death of Fluffies sighs again. Humans. They create living things that just want to run and play and give and get hugs, and then they amputate their legs so they can’t do any of that. The Death of Fluffies doesn’t think he will ever understand why.
The Death of Fluffies takes out a lifetimer. Lined with yellow fluff, engraved with the name Fireball, the Death of Fluffies examines it and does a double take.
It’s a false alarm! This fluffy still has plenty of life left!
The Bone Fluff hears a human approach. Ah, good. They’ll take good care of this fluffy. The Death of Fluffies knows this, remembering the future, and not exactly feeling, but thinking strong embarrassment about his mistake.
The Death of Fluffies departs.
Yet another time. Yet another place.
It’s the middle of the night, and a nameless, reddish and purple mare sobs her eyes out. This mare is part of a junior high school science project, and is supposed to be kept isolated and deprived of all social activity, but a little accident at the shelter nearly ruined that.
Nearly.
The Bone Fluff isn’t coming for her. Not just yet, at any rate. He’s here for the two small, silvery shapes floating aimlessly above her cage, connected by shiny threads to the two tiny misshapen blobs the fluffy is crying over, killed by an injection intended to induce a miscarriage.
Another example of humanity’s pointless cruelty, the Death of Fluffies muses. Creating a creature designed to love, and then depriving it of all affection. And for what, exactly?
The Bone Fluff cuts the threads, and the ghost foals fade away. There’s special circumstances for them. They’ll be reincarnated. They’ll get a second chance to live. Well, a first chance, really.
The Death of Fluffies is reminded of Blueberry. He doesn’t hope, but knows that Blueberry is making the best of his second life. And he thinks of the stupid, fat, puke green fluffy who Blueberry replaced as smarty of their herd. The Death of Fluffies smiles, knowing that the fat smarty has been reborn too. As a poopie fluffy, in another herd, to a smarty that’s just as bad as he was. And he’s going to spend a few more lives eating shit until he’s finally allowed to move on.
That sensation again. DUTY calls. Other fluffies close to the edge, who need someone to show them the way. There’s always something. But THE DUTY must be done.
Busy, busy, busy.
