2/22/24.
Its eight at night, and you sit in your bed, alone, waiting for sleep to catch up with you. The fan blows a fine, comforting breeze towards you, but your mind is racing. The daily work grind has really ground you down – its all you think about anymore. Promotion this, license that. “Quotas quotas quotas” rings in your head for hours.
Finally, you decide to get up and take a walk. There’s no need to sit here and do nothing, after all. You throw on your dirty black sweatpants and a sweatshirt with a local hockey team on it, covered by a thick flannel. It would be a cold, windy night, getting sick this early into the winter would certainly suck, given your line of work. Enough of the work talk, you remind yourself. As you walk at a brisk pace down the sidewalks of your town, the clattering of a trash can catches you off guard in the dark. A shrill voice pierces the night.
“Hee-hee! Babbeh bwuddah is fo’ twashies!”
You stride over, your cold face beginning to wrap into a warm smile. The pair of fluffies, no, foals, lay within an open trash can that someone left out. One of the foals was clearly smaller than the other and had a mute orange coat, inferior to its sibling’s bright pink coat. Both were absolutely filthy, but the pink coat stood out even amongst the trash. The larger one stood over the smaller, teasing it for being filthier, smaller, and a worse color. The pair barely noticed you as you stalked up to them.
“Hello there,” you say in a warm tone. The pair look up at you with eyes that look like plastic.
“H-HEWWO M-I-ISTOW!! FUFFIES AM VEEEWWYY COWD!!”
“Oh, you look absolutely freezing! How can I help you two lovely babies?”
The pink one giggles, and the orange one’s tears begin to stop at the pleasantries.
“W-weww…yu can be nyu daddeh…?”
“For SUCH good babies like yourselves! Well…let me see…”
You pick it up with gentle hands, turning it over, tickling its’ bare stomach. Its ribs are barely showing, and it has a bit of pudge to it. You place it back into the trash can, giving it scratches behind the ears. You merely look at the orange one. It looks back with pleading eyes. You do not indulge it, or show it any kind of attention other than vision.
“It seems like I can take you! But…”
The pair’s ears flattened against their tiny, malleable skulls.
“…I can only take one. The BESTEST one.”
The pink one perked right up. It thought it was superior to its orange sibling, even so far as thinking it was the bestest of its litter, despite their mother’s corpse never telling it so. It had the beginnings of smarty syndrome, you could see it in the eyes.
“NYU DADDEH NYU DADDEH I KNU DA BESSES FWUFFY EVA!!”
You smile down at her. “Who?”
She, as you noticed just now, begins to wiggle her arms, mimicking a dance. “DIS FWUFFY!!”
“Looks like you might be right! Let’s go ro your forever home, new fluffy!”, you say, with hidden venom.
The orange one begins to sob again. You slam the cover down directly on its head. Whatever happened to it is no longer any of your concern – you have what you want. The commotion seemed to have woken up the owner of the trash bin, so you take off down the street back home. As you get into your neighborhood, one of your neighbors drives by from their daily activities. Not noticing the fluffy in your hands, the man pulls up next to you and asks if you need a ride home. His demeanor quickly soured as he peered at the object cradled in your arms, face morphing into a scowl as his eyes met yours. He screeched away, leaving clouds of exhaust in your face. Clearly your reputation precedes you nowadays.
Walking back into the house, you take special precaution not to set the fluffy down anywhere on the main floor. You head past the warm couches, past the snack cabinets, and down the wooden stairs into the basement. The pink foal awoke in your arms as you passed the threshold into the basement, clearly disturbed by the change in lighting. She began to panic, her heartbeat able to be felt through its chest. She scrambled her hooves around, trying to grab something, but only found your comforting arms. She fell back asleep, unaware as to what was happening.
You snatch a plastic Rubbermaid container, about 14 inches by 8 inches long, and cover the bottom with a small white towel. You also place a small plastic ashtray in the container for a litter box. The still sleeping fluffy was last to be placed in the box, shifting around in your grip as you cradled it in.
“…nee daddeh…” the foal whispered in her sleep. You would think it was cute, but, alas, it came from a fluffy. You pull over a rolling chair and sit in it idly, waiting for the foal to wake up. Sitting idle isn’t really your thing – but you’ll wait days to see these abominations suffer.
As if reading your malicious thoughts, the foal stirred and finally awoke with a startle. It looked around with its chubby neck, tears beginning to bead in her eyes. She kneaded at the paper towel floor, the dry towel bouncing back with the light presses of her delicate hooves.
“Daddeh?” she cried. 'Whewe daddeh?"
“Look up.”
Her tears immediately turned into a giddy smile. She screeched and took off in a run, well, waddle, towards the clear plastic edge of the box. She ran into it face-first, causing her nose to bleed slightly. She brought her pathetic hooves up to her bleeding nose, demeanor shifting immediately back to utter sadness from elation just a moment before. Such fleeting feelings, you think to yourself. You bring a corner of the paper towel sticking up in the corner of her box to her nose, wiping the blood. The stain remained as the paper towel retreated back into its corner. You comfort the foal, telling her everything will be just fine, as long as she listens to daddy.
You begin to walk away upstairs, but the foal begins to whine.
“Nuuuu daddeh jus’ staw pwayin! Pwee stay moaw fowebas daddeh!”
The voice is already starting to irritate you.
“No. On that note. Now there’s rules you need to follow. I want you to be the best fluffy.”
“Huuu wai nice daddeh use bah wowds…”
“Do not question me. Do not go poopies outside of the litterbox. Do NOT leave your safe-box.”
The fluffy stares at you, plastic eyes trembling.
"WAIIII DADDEH JUS WAN PWAY AN’ WUN AN’ PWAY!!! NU WAN’ STAY IN BOXIE!! BESSES FWUFFY NEE WUN AN’ – "
You roughly grab her snout.
“What did I just say about questioning me.”
Her eyes snap shut, covered by her hooves. She begins to moan “MMM–MMM! MMMM–MMMMMM!” She wants you to let go. You oblige her, just this once. She begins to sob uncontrollably, and in her fit of tears, you stare at her, and when she calms down, you place your hand around her for comfort.
“Uppsies?” the foal pleaded.
“You do not leave this box under any circumstances.”
You wait a moment.
The tears started once more, and when she was in hysterics, you slinked out of the basement and upstairs. The hour with the fluffy was enough to tire you out. It was time for sleep.
As you slept, the pink fluffy trotted about her new cabin. She thought to herself that her new daddeh might just be a munstah, and that she does NOT need to listen to him. Bestest fluffies have the bestest rules, not munstahs. She curled up to sleep, trembling gone from self-reassurances, but then she smelled something. And then she saw something. In the corner of her boxie, she saw the crimson stain that came from her nose. In a panic at seeing her own blood, the foal scrabbled to her hooves and began backing up in the opposite direction until she ended up in the corner. Backed up against a wall, she began to scream and hyperventilate. She felt her chest rise and fall every quarter second, her vision beginning to fade to black. Before passing out, the last thing the fluffy saw was her enraged daddeh thundering down the stairs.
Despite how mad you were, you couldn’t give up the charade fully just yet. You stroke the fluffy’s fur, the tiny creature waking at your touch. Her face was tear-stained, body heaving, but she leaned into your hand for comfort. You brought a bottle with warm milk, bringing it to the foal’s mouth. She gladly suckled it, and after she was done, you read her a bedtime story. Her tears and heartache went away with a drink and a story, how easy that was. As her eyelids began to droop, you tore off the small piece of bloodied paper towel and threw it away. Her night needed not be more traumatic – it would get far, far worse for her in the future.
The next morning was a Monday, and you called out of work. You had other plans. You began the morning preparing a small can of spaghetti for the still unnamed fluffy, as well as a sausage and biscuit sandwich in the microwave for yourself. You scarf down the sandwich and half the spaghetti before realizing you need it for the foal in the basement. Heading back down to the basement immediately after, the foal is elated to see you, and after a moment –
“SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!! SKETTIES FO BWEFFES!!! BESSES DADDEH EEEBBBAAAA!!!”
“That’s right! Just for you! I made it all just for my special fluffy–”
In her excitement, the pink foal tipped over the can and spilled it all over the paper towels inside her plastic box. She began darting from noodle to noodle, hurriedly slurping them up with tears beading in the corners of her eyes.
“Huff-huff NEED EE SKEDDIES huff-huff eeeee SPIWW GUD SGEDDIE HUUU huff-huff”
You look on, attempting to hide your laughter. You go back upstairs to get more paper towels, but you come back to a terrible sight. Well, for the fluffy.
The commotion of her spinning and darting around in her box caused the whole damn thing to tip over, fluffy and all. She was flat on her back, legs flailing, screaming bloody murder with spaghetti stains, paper towels, and a now-ruined carpet surrounding her.
You felt something boiling in your stomach. It rose and rose up your body until it reached your head, making you lightheaded. It wasn’t the last straw; in fact, it was the first straw. But it was the only straw that was needed for your wrath to come down upon this little fucking pink rat making a mess of your carpet. The plan for an elaborate scheme, mentally abusing this foal, making it raise its own young just to kill them, just went out the window. That one can wait. This one will be eviscerated.
The carpet had no sentimental value, you had no real attachment to it. But seeing the pink foal squirm and cry on the ground broke something in you, something you didn’t think you had. The urge to take your bare foot and crush the foal’s fragile body almost overtook you, but the need for a long, agonizing demise was earned by this disgusting, pathetic creature.
The foal calls out for you.
“DADDDDEEEEHHH!!! BESSES BABBEH SWIP AN’ FOWW!!! PWEEEEE PWEE HEWP!!”
You take a deep breath.
You can feel your heart pounding in your ears.
As the foal pleads, you slowly take a step towards her.
You take another. And another.
You snatch the foal from the ground in an iron grip, squeezing her innards and bones into places they should not be.
“GHHHAAAKKK!!! HHAYYEEEHH!!! UUU WEEEFFFIE!!”
You bring her up to your eye level, staring at her. Blood begins to pool under her skin, leaving purple-black discolorations all over her body. After a good thirty seconds, you march back over to her plastic container and throw the pink foal with a thwack as it hits the bottom.
“I think I’ll call you Retard.”
“UUUU–HUUUU WETOWD NU - HUFFFFHUUFFFHHAACKKK WIKE NAMSIES HUUUUUUUU!!”
“Too fuckin bad. You broke one of the rules. You break another one, that box is going to be your fucking grave.”
“*HUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!! NU WAN FO-HACKKKKACCK– HUUUU CAN’ EBEN TAWGG!!”
“Maybe it’ll shut you up for a bit.”
You promptly turn around, your face lighting up in a huge smile as soon as you are out of sight of the foal. As you close the door behind you, muffled screams and cries for a fluffy mummah caress your ears. Another day, another victim.
You crawl into bed, and quickly sleep the day off away. You toss and turn all afternoon, nightmares causing you to sweat and lose sleep. Cries of “mummah”, “sabe babbeh” and “pwee hewp” echo through your nightmares.
At 6:00 PM, you wake up drenched.
Your eyes are bloodshot.
You only have one thing on your mind.
Today you’ll have to bury another fluffy in your yard.
—
Just over a half hour later, showered and refreshed, holding a fresh Cherry Coke, you calmly walk down the basement stairs. Retard seems at least somewhat excited to see you, that stupid fluffy programming doesn’t allow for anything else, bar the right circumstances. The foal has already started to grow at a surprisingly fast rate, even being a feral and not having food for almost a full day. As you stride over to her plastic prison, her vision darts between you and the leftover sauce on the floor, staining the carpet by now. Your anger was so tiring that you completely forgot about the spilled pasta – not to worry, it won’t be the worst stain on there tonight.
“H-hewwo daddeh…We-wet-wetowd misses yu…”
She starts tearing up saying her own name.
You crack the can open, startling her and causing a cascade of tears. It seems as if her crushed organs and bones haven’t healed quite yet, and possibly might be growing in the wrong way due to her growth spurt. If she had more time, she might suffer more. But she won’t.
“Retard.”
You lean down to peer into the side of the clear box. You glare at her, sneering at her pathetic little face. She tears have turned into a full sob. You also notice some brown stains around her asshole, staining into the towel.
You grab a side of the box in each of your hands and pull it off the shelf it resides on.
“Little fluffy!” you call, sing-songly.
Retard perks right up, tears completely gone.
“Yis daddeh!” she responds, tail wagging.
“Are you ready for a game!”
“WETAW WUV GAMESIES! WUT WE PWAY– EEEEEEE!!! NUUUUUUUUU!!!”
You vigorously shake the box, Retard smacking against the cover and sides a multitude of times. You shake and shake, until you stop, saying,
“DID YOU THINK I WOULDN’T NOTICE YOU BROKE ANOTHER RULE!!”
“NUUU DADDEH NU– BLEEEGGGHHHH HHUUUUUHUUUUU!!”
The foal vomits all over herself.
–BWEAK WULSIES!!" she finishes.
“That brown spot, that’s not your shit?”
“HUUUUUUUUUUU NU KNOWSIES ABOU’ BA’ POOPIES!!!”
“I never said anything about bad poopies. You did it on purpose, you little fuck.”
Lying through your teeth, you continue, “I was only planning on hurting you a little bit. However, I told you I’d make that box your grave if you broke another rule. I’m a man of my word, I don’t break promises. Especially when the promises are so fun.”
Retard looks around, confused.
“Gwavesie…mummah in gwavesies…mummah foweba sweepies…WETAWD GUNNA GU FOWEBA SWEEPIES??? HUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU NUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!!”
Retard wails, attempting to change your mind on the matter. No whining will change that.
You clack open the container’s cover and snatch Retard by the throat.
You say three simple words, directly in Retard’s ear.
“I hate you.”
This begins the next act of theatrics, tears staining Retard’s pink cheeks.
“HUUU—NU DADDEH WUB WETAWD HUUUU—NU TWUE NU TWUE—FWUFFY MEANT FO HUGGIES AN’ WUB AN WUN AN’ PWAY—FWUFFY ONWY WIDD—”
Before she can finish that oh-so wretched statement, you spike her into the concrete of the basement floor. She lands ass-first, her hips and tailbone audibly cracking from the impact. She lets out a shrill SCREEEE before you kick her directly in the face, sending her across the room. She reaches for her nose, but its been caved inwards. The moment she realizes she can’t breathe through there without excruciating pain, she lets out another wail.
“WAIIIIII DADDEH SU MEANIE TU WETAWD!! NU DU NUFFIN WONG!! ONWY FOUN’ IN TWASHIES AN DADDEH MEANIE EBAH SENSE TWASHIE!!”
Her voice is wet and raspy, blood beginning to pool in the back of her throat.
You throw a metal pipe at her from across the room. You miss your mark just above Retard’s right ear, the sound causes her to scream. You take off to her position, snagging her by the ear.
With a mighty RRRRRIIIPPPPPP, the foal’s sensitive ear comes clean off. All that is left on her skull is a red, wet, meaty hole that isn’t even leaking blood. Fluffy clotting really is something else.
The thought of the fluffy’s ability to clot blood made you think for a moment in your blood-fueled rampage, the violent action spurring a thought of “what else clots that quickly?”, causing a devilish grin to fall over your face.
The moment Retard sees your toothy smile, she makes a gurgling noise to which you can only assume is “NUUU!”
You begin by tearing apart Retard’s face.
You grab the remains of her gnarled nose and rip it out with a loud SQUELCH. Her bloodied sinuses and nostrils are open to the air now, every breath is torture, even more so than before. Her eyes flail wildly around, same with her hooves.
You decide to fix that.
Starting with her back legs, you grab a pair of pliers laying on your basement table. You flick them open, clamping them around Retard’s groin and hip muscles.
Then you yank down.
Blood, sinew, flesh, and pink fluff follow your movement in a torrent of suffering.
Retard’s eyes roll back in her head, passing out for the time being. Her eyes are beginning to leak blood, becoming more bloodshot as her torture continues.
“FUCK NO YOU DON’T,” you roar. You grab her vulnerable jawbone and snap it in between your pointer finger and thumb. This wakes her up with a gurgling scream. You finish the job by yanking the left side of her jaw straight out of the socket. Blood gushes from the new wound.
You continue with the other back leg, flensing it down to the bone, even taking the hoof.
Retard is panting, unable to scream bloody murder anymore. Her pupils have dilated massively, her eyes almost entirely black. You snap her front legs at her tiny humerus, twisting the broken bone and pulling at the bloodied raggedy stump.
You drop Retard to the ground with a bloody thwap. She lies there, stunned at her misfortune, and at the amount of blood she is losing. She frantically looks around until she sees a familiar sight on the carpet next to her.
She still manages to roll to her side and begin licking the day-old spaghetti sauce through her destroyed jaw.
You are absolutely enraged. Through everything the little foal just went through, through all the bodily destruction, the filthy fucking pink rat is so greedy all it wants is leftover sauce. Your eye twitches. Without a word, you snatch the foal by the stomach and SQUEEZE. Hard.
Blood flows from every orifice.
Her bony stumps flush red, squirting it in a foot radius.
Who knew such a little body had so much blood? I thought they had too much shit?
Her rasping hacks grow silent, as her eyes grow larger and larger. She stares at you, pleading.
In return, you reach your open hand out to her. She tries to touch you with her bloodied stump…
…but you dart for her eye, and in one fell swoop, you plunge your middle, pointer finger and thumb deep into the eye socket, and PULL.
Retard looks with her one good eye, and begins to cry blood. Her mangled jaw dances around as she attempts to babble like the foal she is, but it only succeeds in making y9our rage worse. You complete the same job to her other eye.
Robbed of sight, touch, smell, and her jaw to taste, Retard begins to flail around in your hand, deprived of love, a home, and now, a working body. Her heart rate spikes, beating heavily thumping out of her chest. Gotta take that out on the next one, you chuckle to yourself, as a life is being snuffed out in your hand.
Retard seizes, her body contracting almost in half, snapping more ribs.
She goes limp for the last time.
You stare at her in your hand, for just a moment.
You toss her ragged body back into her plastic container. She thumps into the side, and flops over into the white towel, leaking all sorts of bodily fluids and staining it. You grab the plastic container, lighter than before, and bring it directly outside to your town’s trash bins. Turns out you won’t have to go through the work of burying a shitrat again. After all, they do come tomorrow morning to pick the bins up.
Nobody will ever, ever know.
