“This is fucked up, dude.”
"I know, but if it works-"
“If it works I’ve got a pen full of violent sexual predators.”
“So keep them in the pen.”
The two men approached one of the stallion pens in this corner of the warehouse. They were carrying a decent sized Rubbermaid tub with muffled sounds emanating from within. As they reached the pen, they wordlessly perched it atop the fence.
One of the stallions, a volatile blue unicorn named Pumper, is puffing his cheeks and screaming, his near permanent erection on display. As breeding studs, these guys were fed kibble with shitloads of hormones to increase potency and longevity.
Unfortunately it turns an otherwise sweet fluffy into a spaghetti powered rape machine.
See these stallions did their jobs well, but even a large operation isn’t going to have them producing nonstop. They’d lose so many that way. But they’re still HORNY, and enfie toys get gross fast. Suck to clean. Can’t hose them down like the pens and the fluffies.
They tried enfie pals, but the demand was too high and nobody wanted to fuck his corpse. One of the stallions said something about babbehs, and while Bob was beating the screaming stallion to death with a Maglite he had an idea.
They dumped the tub. Out of it poured scores of terrified and complaining Microfluffies. Specially bred to be dense and durable.
The stallions were initially confused. Thought they’d been given toys. The crying micros were forming clusters and some had begun seeking aid from “bigges fwuffies” in escaping meanie daddehs. Then, after a few tense minutes, a breakthrough.
The shrill scream of a micro cut through the crowd noise like an air horn. “OWWWWIES! NUUU! ONWY FOW POO-” He’s cut off by a thrust from the stallion. His words fail him and he just starts crying and vomiting from the pain. Meanwhile, the stallion that mounted him is enjoying himself.
"Enf, enf, enf, enf, gud feeeeews!" He flops backwards, the bloodied and barely conscious micro still adorning his weird horsedick like a pencil topper that can cry and beg for mercy. “Owwwwwwieeees…staaaaaahp…”
“Udda stawwions! Micwos am gud fow enfies! Su tite! Bestest feews!” The satisfied fluffy beams, relaying his findings to his friends. “Wike enfie babbehs?” One of the stallions inquires.
He is immediately beaten to death by the other stallions who call him “gross” and “munstah” the whole time.
The two men watched as more and more of the stallions realized they could make their wump hurties stop by giving special huggies to “wittwe enfie fwens.”
“I can’t believe that worked.”
“Really? If I put a crude mare made of driftwood in that pen we’d be picking spinters out of their dicks for weeks.”
“Well I’m more taking about the whole ‘enfie babbeh’ thing. I didn’t expect that to solve itself.”
“Well the way I see it, that’s just their human instincts asserting themselves. They’re fluffies, so they’ve got genetic code from umpteen different sources, and a lot of their instincts are basically human. Makes them good pets.”
The skeptical man crossed his arms. “I dunno man, humans are the evilest animal of all. Maybe it’s something else? Preying on the weak is a pretty human instinct…” His friend chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder reassuringly.
“Tom, honestly, you need to get out more. You’ve been spending too much time around shitty people if you think that.” The man got kind of wistful, swept up in the moment. “Human beings don’t prey on the weak. Certainly not our own, not by nature. We can be made to via incentives, but our natural tendency is towards cooperation and collaboration. Not competition and dominance. Left to our own devices, we built the entire idea of civilization out of nothing. It took billions of humans working for tens of thousands of years, but we did it.”
Catching himself rambling, he returns to his friend. “People don’t prey on the weak because they want to. They prey on the weak because they’ve been conditioned to.” Tom ponders for a moment.
“I guess, man. Maybe it’s just the human instinct to not get caught.”
The other man paused. “How do you mean?”
“Well, it’s like stealing from the cookie jar. If you’re the thief, you might police others to throw off suspicion. It’s not that you hate cookies or cookie thieves, just that you know that getting them caught means more cookies for you.”
An uncomfortable silence hung over the room.
“Tom, this isn’t cookie thievery. This is…a great deal more fundamental and severe than that. Human beings have the divine spark. We ate from the Tree, we know good and evil. We know right and wrong, and we have the good sense to tell which is which. Fluffies are dumber and shittier than us, but they have the same fundamental desire to protect the weak that all decent human beings possess. It’s not ‘preying on the weak’ to steal cookies.”
Tom shrugged. “Hey, whatever you say man. Just so long as they keep stomping the deviants.” He throws on a smile and turns to go. The other man stayed back, looking out over the pen. After he heard the chime on the screen door at the farmhouse, he knew Tom had gone inside. He pulled out a flip phone he’d hidden in a secret pocked inside his pants. Quickly dialing, he ducks behind the barn door to make his call.
“Yeah, it’s me. Mm-hm. Mm-hm, yeah. He did. Yep. Uh huh. Honestly I’m shocked how well it worked. Dude may as well have been screaming it. Oh I’m not sure he’s part of the ring, but he’s party to it. Diane, you didn’t hear him talk. He practically told me what he was. Get your people out here ASAP. I’m pretty sure he’s hiding them in the big plastic oil drums out back.”
“No, Diane. I don’t think an adult could fit.”
