You’re Richard. A local fluffy shelter worker who secretly tortures shitrats on the side. You started this job over a year and a half ago with a hugboxish interest in fluffies. Never having owned one yourself, but finding them adorable and interesting from afar. That quickly changed.
You had just entered community college, and needed a part time job on the side. You found out the local fluffy shelter was hiring. This would be a good opportunity for you to finally get to know the little fluff balls. What a mistake it was.
Within six months, you were sick of them. It was like babysitting a bunch of brain washed saturday morning cartoons from decades past. A bunch of huggies and love infused Care Bears and Popples in physical form.
It was like they thought life was a tv show where all of life’s problems could be solved by huggies, wuv, sketties, and playing with their babies. Oh they so love showing off their babies to humans, and letting them be held and pet. Fluffies believe that playing with babies is as healing as huggies to a human’s woes.
That is unless they feel their foals might be in danger, or if they sense that the human might be untrustworthy, then their maternal instincts kicks in, and they will protest their foals being held and played with. “Babbehs am tu wittew, nee tu be wif mummah” they will nervously say to a potentially bad human.
Then of course there are Smarties and Bitch Mares. Both types bring out the absolute worst in fluffies. I’ve learned to loathe every type of fluffy over my time working here however, from the kind hearted to the horrible. The kind hearted are uselessly delusional cartoon characters, the horrible are mirrors of humanity.
Then I realized that fluffies can be used for healing, and can relieve stress, and frustration. Just not by huggies and wuv or babies. But by torturing them and watching them cry and scream and plead. Especially if their babies are involved.
They oh so love their babies. As do I. I love watching them frantically chirp, peep, cry, and scream for their mommies to save them as I slowly snuff their life out of them in numerous horrific ways, while their mothers are powerless to save them.
Yes, their mothers. My torturing of fluffies began when my own mother was slowly dying of cancer. I had been working at the shelter for eight months when she got the diagnosis, and she was gone in four months.
All that rage, all that pain, of my being powerless to save my own mother from the cancer that was eating her life away, I channeled into relentlessly torturing fluffy mothers and their babies. Watching them scream, bleed, plead, and slowly die in my hands. It was great catharsis for my rage and my feelings of being powerless.
I’ve grabbed feral mothers and their foals, shelter mothers and their foals and “soon-mummahs” whose time was up and I “adopted” (never leaving my house alive), and I even paid a few bucks at a time for the local fluffy mills to dump their shit factory mares and their foals on me instead of incinerating them. They wished they’d had a quick death.
Then my latest project suddenly revealed itself. Sightings of a loving fluffy mare and her eight foals began to be told by my co-workers.
Three days ago, one of my shelter co-workers, Laura, said she witnessed a purple pegasus mare with a red mane, giving birth to a whopping eight foals in the alleyway. Laura helped the mare with the birthing process, and gave her some food to help make milk for all her many babies.
The mare was in tears, thanking Laura for helping her and her eight babies. She cried and told Laura how much she loved her babies, about how she loved them since they were tummy babies, and how badly she had wanted to meet her tummy babies for so long.
Laura said the mare had brought her to tears by the way she hugged, cleaned, snuggled, and cooed at her eight newborn foals. Telling each of them how deeply they were loved by her, and how she would struggle to keep all of them fed no matter what. Laura said the mare was crying tears of joy the entire time, and her mummah song she sang deeply moved Laura.
Laura promised the mare she would be back later to take her to the shelter, and told her not to go anywhere. But later that afternoon Laura couldn’t seem to find the same alleyway again, got lost, and was devastated she couldn’t locate the mare a second time.
Then yesterday, another shelter co-worker, Debra, witnessed the exact same mare, with eight hungry and weak chirping and peeping foals on her back, tearfully begging for food to make milk for her babies, on the street about a block from the shelter, crying desperately that she didn’t want her many babies to take “fowevew sweepies fwom bad tummeh owies”, and telling people how much she loved her babies.
To Debra’s shock, a few people kicked the mare, knocking her babies onto the hot pavement below. The mare quickly picked up the frantically chirping and peeping foals, one by one, and put them back on her back. Debra said the cries of those little babies laying on the hot pavement broke her heart.
Debra went up to the mare and offered her some snacks she had, and told her she would be back later to take her to the shelter, the mare tearfully thanked her and cooed at her foals. But when Debra returned later, the mare was gone. A passerby said some mean kids had chased the mare and her babies away.
Then today, it all came to a head. Today was the hottest day so far this year. Feral fluffies were baking to death out there. All day today, my co-workers were praying (lol) that that mare and her foals were safe today.
In the heat of the afternoon, we heard a desperate knock on the front door of the shelter, and to everyone’s surprise, it was the mare!
She had heat stroke, was dehydrated, emaciated, and had all eight foals on her back, who were dehydrated and emaciated as well. The mare’s hooves were burned and bloody from walking across the hot payment.
The mare cried, “Pwease … pwease … sabe babbehs … sabe babbehs … pwease, sabe babbehs!!!”
Then she collapsed! Laura and Debra quickly checked the foals. Two of the eight were dead, and had been dead for hours. Three were so weak they couldn’t even chirp or peep, and were barely breathing. Three were very weakly chirping and peeping. All were hot to the touch, and emaciated.
She took them all to the back and got them hooked up to emergency IV fluids (the city fluffy shelter doubles as a vet for fluffies). Laura, Debra, and I did all we could to save them. One more foal passed away despite our best efforts (one of the three that was too weak to chirp or peep) but the rest to our surprise, survived.
It was very touch and go the first 24 hours. The mare was unconscious for over a day, until she finally started to stir. Five of her eight foals had survived, thanks to us.
We later learned that the mare had been walking from business to business, begging them to save her babies from the intense heat, but all of them turned her away, until she found her way to our door.
As soon as the mare regained consciousness, she started asking about her babies immediately. Laura stroked her fluff softly, and smiled,
“You did it girl, you saved your babies!”
The mare cried tears of joy, and Laura and Debra both hugged her for a long time.
After 48 hours of care, they were finally past the danger stage.
The five surviving babies were reunited with their mother, and I watched as they chirped, peeped, and squirmed around in her fluff. She beamed the most loving smile at them.
The three foals who didn’t make it were then presented to the mare, in order for her to properly mourn them. The mare cried and cried over her three dead foals, trying desperately to hug them back to life in vain. Laura and Debra cried with her.
Then they were taken away, and she lovingly turned her full attention back to her surviving foals, beaming an incredibly warm smile at them.
“sniff babbehs, wuv babbehs.”
Laura and Debra said the foals were lagging a few days behind development wise, due to their malnutrition.
I watched as the foals suckled from the mare’s crotch tits, rapidly kneading them with their little hooves. And once finished, detaching and letting out an instinctual series of happy chirps and peeps to let their mummah know that they are happy and content, with their bellies full of mummah’s milkies.
I stared at them, and stared, and stared.
“I’ll take them home with me for the weekend to let them fully recover in a loving environment. Then we can put them up for adoption.” I said with bated breath.
My two co-workers only know me as a kind hugboxer, not knowing what I do in my spare time in my basement.
They both hugged me and said “Bless you!”
Upon closing time, Laura and Debra got me some highly nutritious kibble made especially for fluffy mummahs to feed the mare, and some backup nutritious foal formula just in case I needed it.
They both told the mare what was going on, hugged her, petted her, kissed her, and put her and her foals into a carrier, and handed her over to me.
“Tank yew fow sabe mummah’s wittew babbehs!” The mare tearfully said to Laura and Debra and I.
My co-workers thanked me for the kindness I was doing for this mare and her foals, and then we all departed ways after locking up the shelter for the night.
I drove the mare and her foals home with me, and quickly took them into my basement.
I sat the carrier down at the end of a large wooden table in the center of my basement. Then I picked up a large bloodstained fluffy bed, and sat it down in the center of the table.
I stared at the mare in the carrier, with her foals squirming around in her belly fluff, making happy chirps and peeps.
“I’m going to put your babies in this bed first, then I’ll help you into it, okay girl?”
The mare stared at the bloodstained fluffy bed, grew nervous, and asked,
“Nice mistah, is dat, is dat boo-boo juice on fwuffy sweepie pwace?”
“Oh no! That’s just spaghetti sauce! I feed all of my fluffies lots and lots of spaghetti! They love to wipe their mouths on the bed after they finish eating!”
I opened up the carrier door, and motioned for the mare to step out of the carrier. She nervously and cautiously does so, slowly. Her foals happily squirming around on her fluff.
The mare looks around in the dark, damp basement with serious caution in her eyes. I think she’s starting to figure out something is wrong.
“Show me your foals.” I say coldly.
The mare starts getting teary eyed, and looks very nervous and scared.
“N-nu, babbehs am tu wittew, nee tu be wif mummah.”
“Show - me - your - foals!” I say, growing angered.
The mare starts making scardey pee pees on the table, and starts shaking, and peddling backwards.
“N-nu. Pwease. Mummah’s wittew babbehs awe tu wittew fow upsies an pwaysies, nee tu be wif mummah.”
I SLAM my fist down on the table, HARD.
“SHOW ME YOUR FUCKING FOALS NOW!!!”
The mare makes scardey poopies and tries to run back inside the carrier.
I grab her strongly with one hand, and start taking away her babies with my other hand, who are now frantically chirping and peeping in fear.
“NUUUUUU! NU TOUCH BABBEHS! NU HUWT BABBEHS! NU HUWT MUMMAH’S WITTEW BABBEHS!!!” She screams as tears pour from her eyes.
I set each baby into the bloodstained fluffy bed as I pull each of them off of their mother’s fluff.
Once all five babies are frantically chirping and peeping and squirming around in the bloodstained fluffy bed, I very roughly shove the mare back inside of the pet carrier with both of my hands tight around her fluff.
She sobs and sobs as I close and lock her back inside the carrier, begging me not to hurt her babies.
I then walk over and assess the foals. They are frantically chirping and peeping in fear, squirming around blindly, seeking their mother’s warmth. All of them are making scardey pee pees and scardey poopies on the bed.
“Huuu Huuu, mummah’s wittew babbehs am making woud scawdey-peeps! Babbehs nee mummah! Babbehs nee mummah! Huuuu Huuuu.” The mare says in tears through the gate of her carrier.
Loud scardey-peeps huh?
I roughly pick up a wingie foal, and hold it around the waist, between my fingers.
The foal immediately starts making loud scardey-peeps, its head blindly bellowing chirps and peeps out in all directions, looking here and there with its blind closed eyes, screaming scardey chirps and peeps relentlessly, while flailing its little hooves in all directions, hoping its mother will hear it and come rescue it.
Then the foal starts to piss and shit itself in fear.
“Huuu, Huuu! Babbeh am making woudest scardey-peeps evew! Pwease mistah, put babbeh down! Pwease nu huwt mummah’s wittew babbeh! Babbeh nee tu be wif mummah! Babbeh scaweed! Babbeh nee tu be wif mummah! Babbeh scawed! Huuuu, Huuuu!”
I take my other hand, and PINCH the foal on its tender backside as hard as I possible can. It SCREEEEEs, and starts rapidly chirping and peeping even louder than before.
The mother is hysterical.
I spend the next several minutes pinching the foal all over its most tender areas, watching it scream and make frantic scardey-peeps.
Then I place the foal’s back against my mouth, and clamp down and bite its back as hard as I possibly can, drawing blood. Keeping my mouth clamped down on it for a solid minute.
The foal is screaming, and chirping and peeping like crazy, with its little hooves flailing around, trying to escape.
I then turn the foal over, and start flicking its balls over and over, watching it squirm and scream.
After awhile, I toss it callously back into the bloodstained fluffy bed with its frightened littermates.
The mare cries and cries, powerless to do anything.
During that first 24 hours I invoked all forms of torture on the foals. Pinching them, jabbing them with thumbtacks, beating them with sadistic sorry sticks, biting them with my teeth, shoving toothpicks up their asses, drenching them in cold water, flicking their balls and their noses, pinching their vaginas, the works.
I took a fine razor and made many small cuts on each of them, and then poured “sorry juice” (lemon juice) and salt all over their wounds, watching them squirm around in agony.
The mare was a blabbering mess the entire time.
Near the end of that first 24 hours, I got a little cheery, and picked up a unicorn foal, and started forcing it to dance around on the table, while I sang a popular fluff tv song about how foals are for “huggies an wuv”.
“Babies are for huggies an wuv, huggies an wuv, huggies an wuv!”
I manipulate the foal’s legs to dance just like the talented trained foals on fluff tv. The chirpy foal just makes endless scardey-peeps while I force it to dance around against its will.
I continue to sing and force the foal to dance,
“Babies are for huggies an wuv, huggies an wuv, huggies an wuv!”
The foal makes louder and louder scardey-peeps, and seems to became increasingly hurt and stained.
“Babies are for huggies an wuv, huggies an wuv, huggies an wuv!”
CHIRRRP! CHIRRRRP! CHEEEP! CHEEEEEP! CHEEEEEEEEEP! SCREEEEEE! EEEEE! EEEEE! PEEEP, PEEEEEEEP! PEEEEEEEEEP!
Whoops, looks like I accidently snapped one of its legs.
“NUUUUUU, BABBEH! HUUUUU HUUUU HUUUUUUU!”
I toss the foal back into the bloodstained fluffy bed, and watch as it squirms around in agony with its broken leg. I stare and laugh at it for a good ten minutes as it cries. Its siblings crawl up to it and instictively give it huggies, even though they are all still blind chirpy babies. Awww.
“Pwease gif babbeh tu mummah! Babbeh am huwt! Babbeh am scawed! Babbeh nee mummah, nee huggies!”
I continue to torture the foals in front of the mare all weekend.
I mix the milk formula they gave me with Forever Foal ™ formula. This formula stagnates and ceases a foal’s growth rate, allowing them to be chirpy babies forever. At least until their hearts give out after nine months on the formula (which is how long a forever foal’s chirpy body will last on the formula before giving out.)
I also mix in a chinese bootleg fluffy formula that is infamous for causing aggressive cancers in shitrats, into both the mare’s meals and the foal’s meals. This cancerous formula was taken off the market, but easily still found online.
I lastly mix in a chemical into the foal formula that tricks their brain into believing they are in starvation mode, even if they are full. I feed them carefully with droppers so they don’t over eat.
The make loud hungry chirps and peeps at all hours of the day and night, even though they have been properly fed, its glorious.
The night before I go back to work, I stare at the sobbing mare and her tortured foals, and while fake crying, I say to her,
“You did it girl, you saved your babies!” Before laughing hysterically.
When Monday comes along, I falsely inform my co-workers that the mare and her foals ended up escaping.
I tell them that the mare was telling me the night before that she wanted to return to the shelter to visit the two nice ladies again. I told my co-workers that I told the mare how dangerous that was, and to just wait until Monday when I can go back myself. But she wouldn’t listen to me, and found her way out through my doggie door during the middle of the night!
The next few weeks my co-workers started putting out fliers for the missing mare, asking if anyone had seen her. They started telling everyone about her and her foals amazing story of survival. They had gotten really really attached to her.
Over these next few weeks, the mare got more and more worried that her foals were no longer “gwowing big an stwong” and repeatedly asks they be put into her carrier with her. I refuse.
These past few weeks the foals feel (due to the chemical I placed in their formula) that they are in starvation mode, and endlessly chirp and peep their hungry-peeps even when full.
The foals have started gumming each other with their mouths, trying to eat their own siblings, due to the feelings of starvation tricked into their brains. They went from giving huggies to each other, to trying in vain to cannibalize each other.
They even frequently open their mouths in a starvation yawn, that animals are known to do when they are in the last stage of starvation, even though their bellies are full of formula. Its amazing.
Forever Foal Formula keeps them as chirpy babies throughout this whole ordeal.
I start burning the foals with soldering irons, boiling hot water and then dripping it on their fluff, suffocating them until they are about to expire then letting up. All sorts of creativity.
I even place a fresh plate of spaghetti in front of the mare’s carrier each day, which she can smell but never eat. All she gets to eat is the tainted kibble.
After about three months of enduring my daily torture, and of drinking the tainted milk formula that I feed the foals, and of eating the tainted kibble that I feed the mare, they all start to rapidly develop cancerous tumors from the chinese formula I mixed in.
As the weeks go on, they start getting weaker and weaker, and start screaming and crying at all hours of the day and night, as the painful cancerous tumors inside of them continue to grow and eat them alive from the inside out.
I walk up to the mare and poke her with a sorry stick through the carrier’s bars. She is infected all over with malingnant cancer, as she cries watching her cancer-filled foals stumbling around on the bloodstained bed, crying at the horrific pain of their tumors filling up their little chirpy bodies.
The foals and the mare are being eaten alive with cancer now, screaming in agony all day and night.
I tell the mare,
“Cancer is good for babies!” and laugh.
I start pinching the foals cancerous tumors, and pick each of them up, watching them scream in agony as I contort their horrifically inflicted cancer filled bodies in front of their mother. Barely touching them causes unimaginable pain to their little cancer filled bodies.
When it is finally apparent that the mare and her foals are close to expiring, I let her out of her cage, placing the five foals on her back (noticing that two of the five are already dead from cancer), and carefully set her on the basement floor.
I then tell her,
“You’ve saved your babies before, now save them again! If you can walk out of her with them alive, you can leave! Try to walk back to that shelter again, and find those nice two ladies who love you!”
The mare takes a few weak and feeble steps towards the basement steps, and then SCREAMS as her legs break beneath her from the cancer infecting them! Her bones were far too brittle from cancer to walk around on, and they snapped.
As the mare and her foals slowly die from cancer on the cold basement floor, I walk up to her and whisper in her ear, saying sarcastically,
“You did it girl, you saved your babies!”
After pulling up a chair, listening to their death rattles, and watching as they each take their last breathes, I finally go back upstairs to watch television.
This here was my grand finale. At the end of each torture cycle, I give each mare and her foals cancer over time with that formula, and then watch them slowly waste away, just like I was forced to do with my own mother. It always ends the same way. Cancer is a bitch.
A few weeks later, I walk back downstairs, and look in awe at their mummified corpses laying on the cold basement floor.
“You know what, I think I’m finally starting to feel that ‘huggies an wuv’ vibe coming from you shitrats.”
I start making motions with my hands towards their mummified remains, like I’m feeling their energy, like a wacked out cult leader or guru would do.
“Yeah, I’m really starting the feel the ‘huggies an wuv’ vibe now!”