Cruelty Repaid [Part 2] (Sinko)

You weren’t a sadist, not by any means. In fact, your family almost questioned whether you would turn out vegan or not, considering your actual tendency towards liking animals. Of course, this leniency also meant you loved justice for those little animals, even if you did like the odd steak here and there. But, still, most still expect the justice to go from animals to humans, not from animals to animals. It made sense, since animals seemed to have their own justice system. Leave them be, and they’ll sort it out.

But these fluffies, and this goddamned mare…they were in that little section in-between, far away from the Courts of humanity, or from the justice of the animal world. They were retarded enough not to be conscious, not to be citizens, but smart enough to go from alley to alley, using their bigger size and moral authority to fuck over, of all beings, their own offspring. Just as this mare was doing now.

And there she was. A satisfied look on her face, despite the disgust of eating your leftover grease, rested on her dirty-white lips, her fat little body springing back from sitting to standing on all fours, now yelling over to her pink baby, and to her brown one, the only two who didn’t get to eat. ”Mummah am finish wit nummies! Poopie babbeh can hab poopies fwom bestes’ babbeh, an’ pinky can hab wittwe nummies.” She said, motioning over to the frankly-pathetic amount of leftovers. The pink fluffy seemed to have it bad, but not nearly as bad as the malnourished and miserable brown one. This needed to be fixed, and quick. Even looking at their “normal” interaction was disgusting enough to force anyone to want to leave. But, you had seen too much - too much not to do anything.

And, just as quickly as that part of your brain was energized, a plan hatched in your head. It’s amazing how quickly a pent-up brain with better morality than these shitrats could work when it was excited. The mummah was barely walking away from her food, her literal rolls of fat bouncing with her babies identical, smaller ones, and you already had a good and utterly fitting punishment in mind.

Of course, you could go with the cliche. You had seen it all before on the internet; feed the mother to the bestest, feed the bestest to them all without knowing. It was stale, even to a moralist like you. No, what this mother needed was something very long-term. At first, in those mere seconds of thought, you considered dying the whole family brown and the brown one white. It would be good, but it wouldn’t stick, and the mother might be delusional enough to just switch the roles, make brown the “bestest” and white the “worstest”.

So, as the pink fluffy desperately lapped at the little puddles of grease (or maybe even piss, you weren’t paying enough attention to see), your brain finally settled on something good. Moving over to your kitchen, which was thankfully in another room of the house, you find a good knife. Sharp, but small, and damned effective for misbehaving and collaborating foals.

“Oh, new-mummah?” You ask out, the knife, its sharp steel poking your skin a little, behind your back, in your pocket. “You said you wanted the bestest sketties? I can make some for you.” You said, struggling to contain the smile threatening to break out across your face. It was almost too devious for someone like you, but your eyes kept going to the newly-made image, now in full reality, of the little brown foal, two steps from death, munching on literal shit. And, somehow, there wasn’t even enough of that.

Greedy, even with their goddamned crap, you thought to yourself, Yeah, they deserve it. You said, looking back to the mummah, an excited, almost-cute, look on her face, as if she was the foal in the situation. ”Mistah can? Pwease make nyu-mummah bestest sketties! Bestes babbeh an’ mummah nee’ sketties!” She yelled out. Predictable to the very letter. You kneel down, feigning a helping, almost teacher-like, stance, looking over the mummah and the one foal she even gave two shits about.

“Ok. But making the bestest sketties isn’t easy, you know. I’m gonna need to travel to sketty-land very quickly, and I need the help of someone very small, who can get all the sketties from the tight, small spaces, which are very small.” You said. You were practically spelling it out for the thing, more than even a preschool teacher, that you needed her foal to “help” you. Even still, the sub-measurable IQ moron took nearly a good ten seconds to think, perking up her head as if she was Einstein in front of a blackboard or something.

”Mummah kno’! Bestest babbeh am vewy smaww! Bestes’ babbeh can hewp mistah get sketties fo’ mummah! Nyu-mummah am so smawty!” She said, giggling in that little way kids do when they find out a secret, or have to keep one they damn well know they won’t. And, of course, she neglected to mention her three literal children who needed food. It was almost “fo’ mummah” with her, it seemed. It was the little things with selfish people that pissed you off, but at least they usually meant it. This moron didn’t seem to find a thing wrong with her logic.

“Alright. Well, little foal, come with me, and we’ll go to sketty-land.” You said, extending your palm, opening it. The little thing, fat as it was, struggled to climb even your finger, but once it got in, it was comfortably set like a piece of dough in your palm, spreading out by the second. Of course, it didn’t spread out past a point, but the density of the fatass really made it hard to tell. As you stood up, going to the kitchen, the foals mummah waved to it, saying goodbye, as a mother would to an adventurer. Or, rather, as the whole town would, considering how loud the mare was being.

As you opened the door, and got to the kitchen, you were almost thankful your decor skills were so variable throughout your house. Most rooms didn’t look like one another, and although that jarred some people, it was perfect to make idiotic animals think they had “travelled” someplace. The foal was already peeping with excited as it was set down on your cutting-board. ”Mistah bring babbeh to sketty-wand? Babbeh wub mistah!” It yelled out, almost rolling around with its fat on your cutting board. Your plastic cutting board. You didn’t want to risk getting any blood on wood of any actual worth, after all. Especially since you were making something that seemed to have no real worth.

“Alright, so, now that we’re in sketty-land, how about this, little foal?” You said, a twinge of mercy fluttering in your heart like the tiniest butterfly imaginable, “Sketty-land needs only the bravest little fluffies, and to be really brave for your mummah and me, you need to yell a little bit, to drive the monsters away.” You said, pointing to the little mouth of the fluffy. Of course, as soon as the foals enthusiastic little head bobbed and went up to yell, the most it could gather was a pitiful little shriek, almost like the peeps it was making before. It didn’t really matter, since that wasn’t necessary. What was necessary was for the mouth to be open.

As quickly as the happy little foal had started, it seemed to stop. Utter silence filled the room. It didn’t know why. The voicy-thing was working, after all. Why wasn’t any sound coming out? All of these were thoughts you imagined the foal had as you quickly took the little long pin you had on the side, going right through the foal’s throat. It didn’t matter how much collateral damage you made, as long as the voice box was fucked up enough. And, boy, did you hit your target. A few seconds passed before the foal could even notice the tiny pool of blood under its head, and only a fraction more passed before it noticed the shearing pain in its throat.

Oh, God, the pain must’ve been unimaginable for such a spoiled, fat, little, coddled thing like that. It fell right on the board, needing to scream, but lacking a working mouth for it. It didn’t know, or care about that, so its mouth stayed open, letting out cough after cough of small droplets of blood and empty, silence-filled, air. The tears were all there, of course, all fully-working, pooling down and mixing with the blood to form a gross little mix. If you had been a sicker person, you would’ve stared at it a bit longer, but you had work to do. You pressed your hand to the foals body, almost caressing it with the most utterly sadistic ideas in your mind.

“Don’t worry, little guy. I can make the hurties go away quicker.” You told him, which, of course, got his attention. His little useless hooves struggled to move up, holding onto the pin it couldn’t take out. Within minutes, he’d probably bleed out if he took that out, but, once again, it didn’t know, nor did it care. Much like its mother to her other children. “Little foal, I don’t exactly believe in punishing the son for the father’s, or, well…the mother’s, sins. But you have been a bad little foal, haven’t you?” You told it, looking down for the obvious reaction of denial, denial, denial. Which it did, the best it could, crying and weeping at being called bad.

“Well, how about this, then? If you want to be a good foal, and go to the real skettyland, all you have to do is ask, and I’ll be nice and pull that pin out, and we can forget all of this.” You said, moving your head to the other side, shrugging a little. ”Or, you can keep that in there, and the hurties will keep going for many forever’s.” You said. God, the irony in this was delicious. The best, the utterly smartest thing for this foal to do now was to keep that pin in there, until it could be bandaged, and the worst, the complete stupidest thing, would be to listen to your short-term desires and pull it out.

Of course, you know which, everyone knows, which of those fluffies are. The foal bobbed its injured head the best it could, inaudibly begging for the pin to be pulled out, the straw to break the camel’s back, and for the dice to be rolled on its fate.

Begging for its death.
That was the best part.

Being the good samaritan you are, you obliged, a simple two-fingered grasp on the top led to the removal quickly. But it didn’t stop the hurties. Now, without the pin, nothing could stop them. Nothing could stop the rush of blood, the gushing of arteries, the widening of the pupils and the paling of the skin under the fur. Even you could see it. The dirty white on his mane became a little whiter, as it choked and slammed its hooves from the blood exiting it. There was more blood than you, and especially the foal, had expected, pooling under it, across your board. Boy, were you glad you bulk-bought those plastic boards.

And you watched all of it. You watched that obese little thing die, confused as to why it was, terrified as to that it truly was happening, and clearly angry at you in particular, eliciting a nice smile from you. You weren’t fascinated by it, really. You knew all of this, all of what would happen, and you knew how well these little things fall into the trap. No, you were…satisfied. The crescendo of this little beings life had arrived, all because of you, and it had ended, all because of you. The only way, the only reason, this little putrid roll of fat and mucus and blood would be remembered was because of you. In that way, you were still being merciful, at least with what you could’ve done as an alternative. For a fluffy, this was as peaceful an ending you could get.

But your crescendo wasn’t finished. In fact, it had not even arrived yet. Why waste the foal’s body, in all this blood, not even ten minutes after you had left? No, you had a lot to do before even the arrival, you had a lot to prepare.

Well, in the end, maybe you were a bit of a sadist.

59 Likes

I was very excited about this one. Originally, I had planned to split this into two, but I know I couldn’t leave you all hanging without some abuse, and a delicious amount of sadistic thoughts at the end!

For the next part, some of your suggestions may be incorporated, too. Remember to leave compliments, comments, or any constructive criticism you want. And don’t forget; enjoy!

5 Likes

Ooooooh lie to the mummah and say a scary munstah nummed her bestest Babbeh.

Looking forward to part 3!

5 Likes

Yayy, the justice begins.

4 Likes

Pinkie is next I CAN FEEL IT

4 Likes

Depends on how our newly-sadist protagonist feels. Is Pinky a Bystander or a Collaborator? We’ll have to see!

3 Likes

The mare is literally a smarty in disguise because of the dummeh hoomin and poopie babbeh eat poopie and I hope the protagonist gets what she deserves

3 Likes

Paralyze the mare and do a little cut to expose the guy, then let the poopie eat it and make the mare watch how her “tummy sketties” being eaten by the creature she despises the most.

Or make some food where you can hide the dead foal an give it to the mare to discover while she eats, one of the things bad mummahs hate the most is the poopie babbehs getting milk, you can pin her limbs to the plastic table stained in foal blood and make her watch the poopie get milk and shit on the bestest babbeh corpse, if it wasn’t a foal you could even make her watch the bestest corpse being profanated by the poopie’s enfing .

Or you can make her watch the bestest corpse be eaten by the pink and poopie babbehs, make the mare drink the blood and then reveal here where did it came from, switch roles and make her eat the poopie’s shit, there’s many possibilities to choose.

3 Likes

Tummy sketties and the mare eating shit is definitely something I will explore in the next part. Other than that, these are great suggestions!

2 Likes

As long as you don’t cook the little shit up and feed it to the mother. It’s been done before.

Maybe immobilize the mother, ( don’t paralyze or break her spine, ) and force feed her. Drop her “good” baby into a bowl under her. As she eats, the bowl fills with shit, drowning/suffocating the baby.

Feed the brown baby a nutritious, filling diet. Just let it live and grow.

3 Likes

Don’t worry, I made sure to drop a little reference to the cook-and-eat cliche. It’s not going to happen for this story. It seems no one has guessed my current plan for Part 3, which is good.

2 Likes

love it so much. more plss

2 Likes

God damn it, your writing skills are top notch.

2 Likes

Thank you!

1 Like

I know this is old but… “But these fluffies, and this goddamned mare…they were in that little section in-between, far away from the Courts of humanity, or from the justice of the animal world. They were retarded enough not to be conscious, not to be citizens, but smart enough to go from alley to alley, using their bigger size and moral authority to fuck over, of all beings, their own offspring.” is genuinely a good reason to torture the fluffy fucks. Not that you need one but still