After the chocolate-poop-pocalypse that happened the previous weekend, your sister starts taking much better care of the fluffies. With help from your mom, she gets a book, designed for kids, on the proper care and treatment of fluffies. She doesn’t feed them anything bad, and makes sure they are safely locked in the saferoom each day before she goes to school. Your parents are very strict on that last rule, as wandering fluffies are well known for having messy, and sometimes fatal accidents.
Knowing that further “accidents” would be increasingly hard to pass off as your sister’s fault, you decide to change tactics. You realise that if you act as though you are a caring and responsible big brother, that you will be the last person they suspect when something horrible finally DOES happen to the fluffies. The plan seems like a good one, but is very hard to pull off.
A typical evening at home has you playing with Dora, who now struggles to keep up with Princess Holly and Barby, while your sister plays with the other two fluffies. Dora’s sadness has become entrenched for some reason. If she really goes for it, she can nearly keep up with her sisters, but having been used to being the bravest and most intrepid fluffy, the loss of one of her front legs hits her very hard indeed. Although she can still trot about, with difficulty, something inside her just seems to give up.
“Huu huu huu…” comes her usual evening tears, as Barby and Princess Holly play ball with your sister, “Dowa nu can wun an pway nu mowe… Am dummeh twee weggy fwuffy naow… Huu huu huu huu huu…”
As always, you comfort Dora, but in a way that undermines, rather than supporting her confidence and well-being.
“Its OK Dora,” you tell her, “I still love you, even though you can’t ever run or play, ever again. Its not so bad, being a dummy three legged fluffy. You can still watch TV, and have big brother huggies. I still love you, even if Candice and the other fluffies don’t.”
“Wha?” asks Dora, looking up at you with a look of misery and disbelief, “Sissies an mummah nu wub Dowa nu mowe?”
You look away for a moment, over at your sister and the other fluffies, who are now settling down to watch FluffTV, lost in their own bubble of happiness and oblivious to Dora’s suffering. When you look back at Dora, it is with a wistful look of feigned sincerity.
“I’m sorry Dora,” you explain to her, “Candice only likes happy and fun fluffies, who can run, and play, and give proper huggies. Dummy three legged fluffies can’t give proper huggies any more you see. And a fluffy that can’t give proper huggies is stupid and useless to Candice.”
“Huu huu huu…” Dora starts to wail, her cries obscured by happy fluffy songs, playing on the FluffTV, “Dowa am usewess Fwuffy. Can nu gib huggies nu mowe. Huggies is most pawtant fing in da wowld. Huu huu huu huu huu…”
Worried that you sister will hear Dora’s crying, you gently pick the fluffy up and carry it to your own room. You have done this before, and your sister and parents think it is kind of cute that you are making friends with Dora, and taking care of her after her injury.
“Why mummah nu gib huggies to Dowa? Huggies make fings betta 'gain. Make weggies come back?” Dora asks.
You sigh, “Its because…” you pause, for maximum impact, “I’m afraid its because Candice doesn’t love you anymore.”
“Huuu huu huu huu huu!”
“But I love you,” You lie, hugging the fluffy until it stops weeping. Then, you decide to up the ante.
“Dora, if I tell you a secret, do you promise not to tell anyone else?” you ask.
“Secwet?” Dora says, her ears perking up, “What am secwet?”
“You have to promise Dora,” you say sternly, “No telling Candice, or the other fluffies, or Mom or Dad.”
“Dowa pwomise! Nu teww anyfwuff!”
“Well, Candice used to have another fluffy.”
“Anudda fwuffy? Whewe am fwuffy naow?” Dora asks, looking puzzled and afraid.
“She got hurt, the fluffy that is. The vets had to take all her leggies.”
“Huu huu… Fwuffy nu wike dis stowy!” Dora says, starting to sniffle again.
“Neither did Sparklehorn. That was the fluffy’s name. Sparklehorn got really sad after she became a dummy no legged fluffy. All she did was cry. So one day…” You look away, as if reluctant to tell the story any further.
“Wha? Wha happen to Spawkew-Hown?” Dora asks, pressing her last front leg against your hand.
“Candice… Candice threw her in the trash.” you say, pretending to sound choked up, but in reality, stifling a laugh.
“Mummah-Candice thwow fwuffy in twashies!” Dora gasps, “Candice am bad mummah! Huu huu huu… Candice wiww thwow Dowa in twashies too… Wha happen to Spawkew-Hown?”
“I’m afraid she starved to death. It took days. Every day she would cry and beg to be let out of the trash bin, and she survived by eating yikky horrid things in the trash bin. But Candice just laughed and called her a dummy. Eventually she died of tummy owwies,” you tell her, deliberately adopting fluffy speak to make Dora understand your lies, “You know what died means? It means, forever sleepies.”
“Huu huu huu huu huu…” Dora wails, “Candice am mean mummah! Dowa nu wan live in twashies! Nu wan num yikky nummies! Nu wan fowevew sweepies! Huu huu huu huu huu…”
You smile to yourself, having managed to totally break the young fluffy.
“Don’t worry Dora,” you tell her, snuggling her close, “I will protect you, just remember, don’t tell ANYONE about Sparklehorn, or she’ll throw you in the trash for sure. If you keep it secret, Candice will probably just ignore you. You can be my fluffy instead if you like. How does that sound?”
Dora manages to calm down and stop her relentless huuing after a short while. “Fwuffy can, stay wid big bwuddah? Be nyu daddah? Weawy?” She asks, managing to sound adorably cute. The look of longing in her eyes as she looks up at you makes you want to smash her with a baseball bat.
Instead, you smile
“Yes, I’ll be your new daddy if you like, but I’ll be your secret daddy. Don’t say anything to Candice. Just keep quiet and she will probably ignore you. And DON’T mention Sparklehorn, or its the trash bin for you for sure.”
“Nu! Nu wiww say anyfing 'bout Spawkew-Hown!” Dora promises.
And so the next part of your plan comes to fruition.
Over the next week, you spend every evening with Dora, pretending to keep her safe from an evil Candice. Candice doesn’t mind at first, but then she becomes curious, and finally demands that you “give her fluffy back.”
Of course, then you respond by asking Dora what she wants.
“Umm…” Dora says, looking timidly at Candice, “It am otay mummah, Dowa wike stay wid big bwuddah…”
This makes Candice stomp off to your parents room, demanding that they return Dora to her, and that you have stolen her. Your parents disagree, saying that you have taken good care of Dora, and probably just feel bad about her losing her leg after she fed the fluffies chocolate. When Candice’s smarty demands are not met, she immediately starts with her huuing act, saying how it is not fair, that the fluffies are hers, and that you are a big meanie etc etc etc…
Your parents then start to tell her off. They say she has not been cleaning up after the fluffies, and that your father is sick and tired of cleaning up their poop. They tell her that she has to take better care of them, and clean up any bad poopies they make, or they just might reconsider letting her keep fluffies after all, and send them all to a shelter.
This makes Candice cry even harder. She promises to look after them better, and to clean up any accidents they might have (which is a lot, for Barby at least, being the most scared and timid fluffy imaginable). Eventually your dad apologies for losing his temper, and gives Candice a hug.
The evening ends with your parents deciding that she has not been playing with Dora since she lost her leg, and that two fluffier are enough for her anyway. They ask you if you like Dora enough to keep her, and you agree. You are now officially the owner of a blue fluffy named Dora.
“Nyu daddah? Weawy?” Dora cheers.
Even though Dora is perfectly capable of trotting, albeit with some difficulty, over time, your constant reminders that she “cannot run or play ever again” eventually convince her that she is a cripple now. Her sense of helplessness has caused her to give up even trying, and she resorts to having you carry her around everywhere, making her totally dependent on you.
Deciding that you need her on your side to torment the other fluffies, you come up with a cunning plan. For your next round of torment, you decide to mess with the other fluffies. First, you wait until your sister is at a friend’s house for a play date. Then, you find your radio controlled car. Using some card and a glue gun, you make a seat for Dora to sit on, and start to drive her around the room with it. Most fluffies would find this terrifying, but Dora seems to love it.
“Yay! Fwuffy am VWOOM MUNSTAH! Vwoooom! Vwoooom!” she cries, happy for the first time since she lost her leg ten days ago. “Wook out dummeh fwuffies! Dowa wiww num yu!”
You race up to the other fluffies. Barby is utterly terrified that her sister has grown wheels and is now a Vroom monster, and runs away in terror, and immediately starts crying, hiding back in her nest and shitting herself with fear.
“Mummah! Mummah!” Barby cries and wails for help, but Candice is no-where to be seen.
“Sissie-Dowa nu am munstah! Fwuffy nu wike dis game!” Princess Holly practically barks, “Stahp dis stoopid game naow!”
You respond by racing Dora straight into the retarded fluffy’s nose, bopping her with the bumper of your racing car.
“Owwwies! Huu huu huu… Meany sissie gib smeww pwace wowstest owwies! Huu huu huu!”
Princess Holly runs to the nest, and hides in there with her sister, crying, but managing not to crap herself with fear. You dad hear’s the commotion, and enters the room, asking what is going on.
“Barby has crapped herself dad. She’s practically retarded!”
“Don’t use that word Anon,” your father tells you.
“Huu huu! Meanie sissie an big bwuddah huwt fwuffies!” wails Princess Holly.
“No I didn’t!” you argue, “They’re just scared of the remote controlled car dad.”
“Yeah! Dummeh fwuffies am scawedy fwuffies!” squeaks Dora, defending her new daddy.
“Okay, take that car and your fluffy out of here. Its scaring the other fluffies.”
Your dad looks really angry, so you quickly leave the room. He doesn’t get like this very often, but when he does you have learned to make yourself scarce. From your bedroom next door, you listen with a mixture of fear and anticipation as your father utterly loses his shit with the quivering fluffies.
“WHY HAVE YOU SHAT IN YOUR OWN DAMNED BED?!?” he yells at the top of his voice, “I AM FED UP OF YOU FUCKING FLUFFIES SHITTING EVERYWHERE! I MADE THIS WHOLE DAMN ROOM FOR YOU AND YOU JUST FUCKING SHIT ALL OVER IT!”
Dora shivers in your hands, and the other fluffies start wailing and chirping with fear. If your mom or Candice were here, he’d at least try to contain his anger, but it seems their absence is releasing something he has kept pent up for the last two weeks or so since they bought the fluffies for Candice.
“I AM SICK OF YOUR SHITTING. FROM NOW ON, ANYTIME YOU SHIT ANYWHERE, YOU WILL EAT EVERY LAST DROP OF IT! COME ON, EAT THAT TURD! EAT IT!”
“Bu-bu-but… fwuffy nu wan num poopies!” you hear Barby’s feeble begging.
“SCREEEE!”
Your eyes widen at the sound of a fluffy being beaten!
“EAT THAT SHIT! OR I’LL HIT YOU AGAIN!”
“Nuuu! Nu wan sowwy stick!” the fluffies wail and beg. To their further misfortune, you hear the sound of Princess Holly, crapping herself with fear.
“WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?!?” Your dad roars, his blood pressure no doubt reaching critical levels, “NOW YOOOU HAVE SHIT IN THE BED AS WELL! AFTER I JUST FUCKING TOLD YOU NOT TO! WELL YOU ARE GOING TO EAT EVERY LAST BIT OF THAT SHIT PRINCESS HOLLY OR I WILL BEAT YOU UNTIL YOU CAN’T EVER SHIT AGAIN!”
The fluffies try to beg a little more, but the sounds of both of them receiving four or five blows with whatever your dad is using is enough to convince them that resistance is futile. Eventually their wails and scree’s are replaced with more pitiful weeping, and the sounds of them numming their own foul excrement.
“Huu huu… Nu wike num poopies… it nu taste gud!” cries Holly, a princess no more, at least for the moment.
“Good!” Your dad says, apparently calming down, “Now LICK IT CLEAN.”
“Nuu! Nu wan wicky-cweanies poopies!” she begs, quickly following by a whack, a scree, and a “Nu wan sowwy stick!”
Eventually, the fluffies cry and complain some more, but give their bed “wicky-cweanies” just like a mother fluffy does with her babies. A few moments later, your dad tells them never to poop on the floor again, and shuts the safe room door. A heartbeat later, and he is in your room, clutching a rolled up newspaper in one hand, and looking embarrassed.
“Er… I’m sorry I was shouting so much Anon,” he begins, sitting down at the foot of your bed. Dora buries her face in your hoody and tries to hide, squeaking about a “munstah”.
“Look. Don’t tell Mom and your sister OK Anon? They wouldn’t understand. I’m just sick and tired of cleaning up after those fluffies. Your sister needs to train them, like you have with Dora.”
“Yeah, I get it dad,” you agree with him, “I won’t tell.”
“Good. I’m proud of you son,” your dad tells you, patting you on the leg, before getting up and leaving your room.
Now you have something you can use against your dad if you ever need to.
What do next Anon?
What do?
[Part 05 - NEWLY WRITTEN CHAPTER COMING SOON]