Victor was tired. As he hefted the fluffy’s broken corpse—sheathed in a plastic bag—into the dumpster, the world went darker and darker. God, he needed sleep. Even with those melatonin gummies, it was a struggle. And yet his trained ears picked up faint rustling from underneath the dumpster. He bent down and looked under it, only to find a cowering mess of a fluffy family. One dark orange and red maned mother, a dark orange and brown maned foal, and another two tan and red maned foals which looked nearly identical. The dark orange and brown maned foal was the first to speak at the sight of a 30-year old combat vet’s worn face.
“Wewe daddeh? Hab bwown haiw an’ am…am…besstes dancie fwuffy?” The quivering foal inquired, tears already seeping down its matted and dirty face.
Vic groaned, and responded, “He’s…eh…away. I took care of him.”
“Bu…bu daddeh bwing back bestest nummies! Nu daddeh, nu nummies…huu…”
“I don’t know what to tell you. Goodnight.”
Vic walked away amidst the cries of those four ferals, feeling no remorse. He had other matters at hand—he’d just picked up a slice of black forest cake that was practically calling to him from the fridge…
The grizzled Marine woke up violently, throwing a cascade of sheets from his bed. He looked around slowly and meticulously to offset his disorientation. He creaked to the side and got up fully, placing a hand on the wall to balance his jellylike legs as they hit the carpet. Ambling over to the bathroom, he noticed his boxers and shirt were missing, leaving him totally naked. And then the smell hit him—a sickly, earthy, and fecal one. Had another coyote shat on his lawn? Vic, against his better judgement, decided to investigate in his birthday suit. He grabbed and racked his shotgun, and went forth to blast any trespassing wildlife…
The lawn was gone. The once vibrant green and carefully manicured grass was now barren dirt with…pools of liquid shit on it? Vic stood in the front doorway truly shocked for the first time in years. What happened here?
“Tank ‘ou fow nummies, mistah!” came a voice directly below him. Vic closed his eyes for a second or two before pointing the shotgun directly at the fluffy. Looks like it was the same foal that he met yesterday, but plumper and more energetic. The foal was sitting on its hind legs, in the same god-forsaken dancie pose it’s father had done. The apple never falls far from the tree, thought Vic.
“Fwuffy wub mistah an’ mistah’s nummies an wawa! Can fwuffy be wif daddeh nao?”
“Get off my lawn, now.” Said Vic, contemplating how much of a mess would be made if he blasted the fucker with 12 gauge.
“Bu…”
“Off. My. Lawn.” repeated Vic, naked and very pissed off. His morning was not going great so far.
“Fwuffy jus’ wan wub, mistah…”
The foal was beginning to cry again in staccato. Vic had no clue whether it was genuine or a pity tactic—he then recalled the stories of gentle domestics gone spoiled and bitchy. He went with it being a pity tactic.
“I don’t care. He’s not here. He’s dead—cracked his neck on the floor after dancing for us and then getting alcohol poisoning.”
“Nu! Daddeh stiww hewe! Mistah say daddeh am in housie! Mistah say dat daddeh…take…to…”
“Taken care of? That’s what we humans call an idiom. I killed him.”
“Don’ kiww fwuffy! Pweese! Nu wan die!”
These things were uncomfortably human. He’d almost been fooled for a second.
“I won’t kill you, okay? You’re very cute.” said Vic, lying through his teeth. “Bring the rest of your family around for me. I have a big tub of pasta for all of you!”
“Wut am pa…pasta?”
Oh, right, he thought. “Spaghetti! Sorry bud, slip of the tongue. Now get your family, little fella! Go!”
“Skettis! Otay, mistah!” The fluffy yelled, promptly waddling away with the speed of a Roomba.
Vic took a quick shower, got some clothes on, and grabbed his plastic tub with a lid. He poked some air holes in for good measure, and shoved a ratty old dish towel in there for comfort. They wouldn’t be in here for long.
He opened up the front door to see a full fluffy family, eyes gleaming and maws drooling. They were all slightly caked in shit from wading in their own fecal pools, but nonetheless eager for spaghetti. Vic grabbed the closest foal, a tan and red maned one, by the scruff and held it in front of his face.
“BAD UPSIES! BAD UPSIES! SCREEE!”
Thankfully, it was swiftly tossed into the bin where it let loose a veritable tsunami of brown. The three others were also quickly put inside, where they too voided themselves out of excitement and/or fear. Vic fastened the lid and tossed it in the trunk of his car, where the sobbing and rationalization of betrayal could occur much less loudly. He’d stop by the bar first—to let Jeff know about his findings and maybe to find a way forwards. He didn’t want to kill the fluffies, of course, but it was difficult to think of any other cost-effective option.
Vic arrived at the Capstone Bar, fluffies in tow. Their screaming had died down to a series of intermittent peeps and cheeps, along with the occasional fart.
“Heya, pal!” shouted Jeff as the Marine walked in. He paid no mind to the sloshing container filled with live animals.
“Hey—why are there no customers? I thought business was getting better.”
Jeff stroked his beard and sighed, “It’s…the fluffy we killed. Did a little research online, and the scrotum is vascular like nothing else. We dunked him in and the alcohol went straight into his bloodstream. Plus, he was underweight and…a fluffy.”
“You could have gone into medicine, you know.” “Sometimes life is fucking cruel, Vic. I hate these little shits getting houses and all of their favorite toys and foods while we’re out here doing real work and taking real consequences. I wanted to be a doctor, but we had no money.”
“Money and medicine are the same thing nowadays, right? There’s got to be a way you can use your passion to its fullest once the bar gets going.”
“Will it, Vic? Will anyone come back after seeing a live animal die on this floor?”
“There are people out there who love suffering. Cater to them, maybe?”
“I’m…I have morals, okay. There’s a family of fluffies out back under the dumpster, and I’ve been feeding them table scraps. We killed the dad, Vic. We killed the dad.”
“I’ve got the family in my car. They followed me to my house and shat all over my lawn. It’s already getting better, but I’ll have to suffer with the residual smell for another week.
“You blasted them, didn’t you.”
“I just picked them up and I don’t know what to do with them.”
“Just give them to the local Fluffbilitation. It’s a nice place, been there a couple times. But Vic—don’t kill them. Their father dying is enough consequence.”
“I won’t.”
And with that, the Marine set off once more, and the container sloshed with every step he took.
The Fluffbilitation shelter was indeed a nice place visually. It smelled of budget cleaning solution and mothballs on the olfactory side of things, but the interior design made up for it.
Vic walked through the glass double doors as they let out a soft chime signaling his presence. To his left, there was a pen where seven foals scurried about. They were collectively playing with a single tennis ball, chasing it around like it contained the secrets of life and death. Or in their world, spaghetti.
To his right, there was a seating area with plastic chairs and a clearly hand-me-down coffee table. Somehow, it worked to complement the grunge/industrial vibe this place unintentionally had. Vic sat down, placing the container of fluffies next to him. The stench was manageable, thanks to the last-minute draining operation he pulled right next to the gutter. The cargo was sleeping, a cacophony of snores escaping the airholes. It would have been endearing if they weren’t coated with piss and dredged with hardened shit. Vic would never make breaded chicken again.
The Marine picked up an issue of “Sketti Stories,” and then quickly put it back down seeing the vibrant colors and baby speak. Who knew they made magazines for fluffies? What a fucking industry, thought Vic.
A woman emerged from the door in between the pen and seating area. She looked to be around forty, with long blonde hair and a kind face. Vic would have absolutely pegged her for a shelter worker on the streets. And she looked good enough for him to peg her in the sheets, too.
“Welcome to Fluffbilitation! I’m Betty. Is it your first time here? I don’t think I’ve seen your face before.” She said with a flowery lilt. There was something else lurking in her tone, but Vic didn’t have the energy to put his finger on it.
Vic nodded, and explained, “It is. I have four feral fluffies that need to be rehomed. What’s the process for handing them over?”
The woman was clearly daunted by the man’s directness. She wondered if he was former military—there was a base nearby after all.
“Where did you find these little munchkins?” She asked, taking the container and peeking inside through the air holes.
“Outside my friend’s bar. They were living on scraps. I figured I’d do a bit of community service.”
Vic cleared his throat and added, “You know, because they need a new home and don’t deserve to be on the street.”
Betty nodded. “They really don’t deserve this. Quick question—were you former military?”
“I was. Ten years in the Marine Corps. I was an infantry officer. Honorably discharged at the rank of Captain a couple years ago.”
“Thank you for your service.” whispered Betty, a bit turned on solely because of his job.
“No, thank you for supporting our nation’s troops. We couldn’t do it without the support of our loyal and patriotic civilians,” he delivered.
Betty laughed, “Was that meant to be sarcastic?”
Vic didn’t know, so he changed the subject. “So can I just hand these off?”
“Yes, of course. We actually pay people for bringing them in. We’d rather have them here than out on the streets. You’re going to get…”
Vic watched intently as Betty pulled out her phone and tapped on the screen a couple times.
“Twenty bucks!” She jubilantly cried, producing the relevant bill from her pants pocket.
Victor gently took the bill from her hand and thanked her as he walked out. He’d have to tell Jeff about this.