My name is Barry Fawkes and I’m standing slack jawed in front of the noticeboard in the Extermination Wing of Hasbio’s Pennsylvania complex. Rocco, Peter, Wren, and the Montalvo twins were all surrounding me as we contemplated the noticeboard which had just received a new message directly from Hasbio HQ. Paul Alana, my boss, had just walked over, glancing in confusion at our reactions before audibly muttering “Oh come on.” and facepalming himself as he read the notice.
To all staff of the Extermination Wing,
Effective immediately, Hasbio has made the difficult decision to shut down the Extermination Wing for an undetermined period of time. This decision comes after careful consideration of ongoing operational factors, and while we understand that this may come as a surprise, we assure you that it is necessary at this time. We regret to inform you that all activities within the Wing are to cease, and personnel are required to vacate the premises by the end of today. Further details will be provided should circumstances change.
During this shutdown period, employees of the Extermination Wing should not expect compensation, as operations are being placed on full hold. We acknowledge the hardship this may cause and appreciate your cooperation in adhering to this directive. Please remain attentive to future communications regarding any potential developments. We thank you for your service and understanding during this time.
— Hasbio Upper Management
“Fucking bullshit!” Peter was of course the first to say something, his face red with anger as he barely stops himself from punching the noticeboard. “Hasbio fucks up an’ now we gotta go home with no fucking pay for it!?” He continues to yell at the noticeboard before Paul steps in, his presence calming Peter down just a little bit. “Alright listen up. Is this bad? Yeah, getting sent home for God knows how long with no pay isn’t something anyone wants to hear, but that doesn’t mean we’re up shit creek without a paddle. Sure Hasbio can shut down our office but that doesn’t mean we’re without work, at the end of the day we’re still Exterminators, and if the corporate world doesn’t want us, then the public’s always looking for an extra pair of hands!”
Rocco is the first to speak up, “But how’re we supposed to work without any equipment? We can’t just steal the fumigation guns and hazmat suits from Hasbio.” Though considering the smirk on Paul’s face he was anticipating a question like it. “I know a guy, just trust me. Everyone head back to your homes, tomorrow I’ll get into contact with you all and before you know it we’ll all be back on stable income’s.”
Edwin goes to ask another question but his brother Miguel gestures for him to keep quiet as the rest of the squad nod in agreement to Paul’s plan. Yeah it was vague and I doubt any of us believed it as much as Paul would’ve liked us to. But it was better than sitting at home figuring out how to ration what cash we had.
With that cleanup started as we all moved to our desks and started packing up personal belongings, photographs, desk decorations, and putting any equipment still on us back in the armoury. Though while the Montalvo twins seemed a bit hesitant to give up their fumigation rifles, I hardly felt anything as I tossed the Sniffer into its slot, I sure as shit wouldn’t miss that worthless piece of plastic.
With cleanup done we all start moving out of the building, on the way out I spotted Paul and Jessie talking, something about Jessie just being moved to another Wing instead of getting the ‘temporary’ boot like the rest of us. Fair enough, she was the doctor after all so it wasn’t like Hasbio was just going to get rid of her. Once out of the building everyone went their separate ways, the Montalvo brothers heading off together with Edwin loudly pestering his brother about how they’re going to explain what happened to their family.
I start heading back to my house when I suddenly get the distinctive feeling of someone who’s blood was forty percent alcohol by yield was coming up next to me. “What do you want, Peter?” I ask dismissively, stopping dead in my tracks as I slowly turn to face Peter who sure enough was trailing me.
“Well y’know, I was just thinking with the split up goin’ on and Paulie’s big ol fuckin ‘trust me’ bullshit plan that you n’ me could hang out a bit?”
I could feel myself smile slightly at the suggestion and fought back at the urge to chuckle right in Peter’s face. “Why would I have any desire to be within ten feet of you outside of work?” Fortunately it seems this was the answer Peter was expecting but it didn’t dissuade him at all. “Oh c’mon, even if Paulie is full o’ bullshite you n’ me can still make it big in public extermination! I saw you last night at the nest, you were like a fuckin’ bloodhound for Fluffy fear! With your nose n’ my… methods. We could make thousands!”
I’ll give Peter this, he was a Hell of a business man and he’d almost come off as professional if it wasn’t for the constant swearing and the faint smell of alcohol on his breath. I took a moment to think of Peter’s suggestion and considered how I was going to spend the rest of my day.
Probably sitting at home, browsing Fluffy forums or playing videos games… a tempting possibility but I don’t know if it was curiosity or if I woke up stupid that day but I decided to take Peter up on his offer.
“Fine. Lead the way.” I respond bluntly, even if I was going to humour him it wasn’t like we were suddenly going to get along.
Walking through Pennsylvania was hardly the highlight of any day, even before Fluffies became widespread you had to be careful when going through the bad places. Though I suppose that’s most places when you really think about it. Course now with Fluffies it didn’t get any more dangerous but it sure got a lot more annoying. Every other alleyway Peter and I walked past we could hear the whining chirps of foals or the squeals of Fluffies in various states of distress.
Walking up to one alleyway we saw a terrified looking Fluffy with mossy green fluff and a dirt brown mane crawling out, its lower half missing causing it trail a mix of blood, guts, and shit in its wake. Huffing desperately, it looked around with bloodshot eyes before spotting Peter and I and waving its hoof to get our attention. “N-Nice mistuhs! Pwease hewp famiwy! Bawky munstahs gib speshul fwend foweba sweepies! Am gonna gibe babbehs foweba sweepies! Pwease hewp!” The Fluffy cried, Peter getting a devious look on his face as he started walking up.
But before Peter could even speak a pair of gleaming, blood flecked jaws came down hard from around the alleyway’s corner, biting down on the Fluffy’s head as the Fluffy went to scream before being reduced to a gurgle as the large black dog bit down hard. The Fluffy’s skull crushed as one of its eyes popped out, the dog gulping down the fleshy cheek areas of the Fluffy’s destroyed head before picking the eyeball up with its teeth and glancing at us with wild looking eyes before fleeing back into the alleyway.
Never before would I think Peter would look shocked at the death of the Fluffy, though chances are he was just terrified by the wild dog just like I was. Not wanting to risk drawing the ire of a pack of wild dogs we decide to cross the street and continue on from there. “Well… that was fuckin terrifying.” Was all Peter could say as we kept fairly quiet for the rest of the fifteen minute walk to Peter’s house.
Much to my surprise, and admittedly not giving Peter much credit, his house was in shockingly good condition, looking almost freshly built were it not for the slightly overgrown lawn leading up to a beige door. Peter’s dog attack-induced quietness seemed to dissipate as he ran ahead of me to tend to his door, opening it up and directing me inside. “Feel free to make yourself comfortable anywhere that pleases ya. I’ll go and grab some refreshments.”
I head inside and was again shocked at the surprising normality of Peter’s home, various family photos and mementos from his home in Ireland decorating the shelves. One that caught my eye was a rather wholesome photo of what seemed to be a young Peter sitting on a big floral chair with who I can only assume is his grandmother, a kindly old lady with big librarian glasses patiently reading a story book to him.
Walking into the living room I got comfortable on the nearby couch, getting comfortable on the armrest as Peter called out from the attached kitchen. “What’s yer poison by the way? Beer? Whiskey?” Of course. I doubt it was every Irishman, but Peter seemed determined to keep the alcoholic stereotype going. “No, just water thanks.” I replied, trying to stay polite. As annoying as Peter could be, he did invite me to his house and was being surprisingly civil.
I only heard Peter chuckle in response before he walked back in with a glass of ice water for me and a frosted beer for himself as he handed me the glass and sat diagonally from me in a spinning chair. Taking a quick sip I notice that in the doorway leading to the hallway was a Fluffy with bright green Fluff and a creamy white mane who was staring at me from around the corner before dipping back around when it realized I noticed it.
“You never mentioned you owned a Fluffy.”
“Hm?” Peter responds, still drinking his beer before wiping his mouth slightly and smiling. "Oh you must mean Shamrock. Yeah he’s a good Fluffy, bit nervous around strangers though. Peter spins his chair around and calls out to the hallway. “Shamrock! Quit being a baby and come say hello to our guest!” With that Shamrock nervously shifts out of his peeking spot in the doorway.
His fluff was in amazing condition, the bright colouration and pleasing combination of his fluff and mane probably means he’s more valuable than most Fluffies you can get at a mart. As Shamrock nervously trotted up I noticed his eyes was a soft caramel brown with round iris that stared up at me, a bit unsure of how to respond before Peter gave him a quick nudge on the butt with his foot.
“H-Hewwo new mistah… me am Shamwock… wha is youw name?” Shamrock spoke slowly and quietly, either he was just nervous by nature or Peter was a wizard with a sorry stick, and I was more willing to bet on the latter. “It’s very nice to meet you Shamrock, my name is Barry, Barry Fawkes.” I respond similarly politely, not wanting to startle the clearly skittish Fluffy, but in my attempts to remain nice I made a mistake I swore I would never make. I gave a Fluffy my full name.
“Shamwock hav many heawt happies t-to meet ou… Bawwy FUCKS.” It’s only when Shamrock pronounces my full name in Fluffspeak that I realize my blunder, followed by Peter’s roaring laughter. “God dammit…” I sigh, rubbing my eyes as I mentally tear myself apart for making that God damned mistake again. Shamrock just looks around confused, probably wondering why I reacted the way I did and why Peter is laughing like a tickled hyena.
“So lemme get this straight, Fluffspeak mangles your last name so it ALWAYS comes out as Fuck?” Peter asks, having finally worn down from his laughing fit, wiping tears from his eyes as Shamrock sleeps peacefully on his lap. I meanwhile had finished my water while Peter was laughing and let out an exhausted sigh. “Yes. I always have to remind myself not to give Fluffies my full name because they always butcher it, it’s even worse in public, it’s just embarrassing…” I look to the side as Peter carefully lifts Shamrock off his lap and places the snoozing Fluffy onto its bed next to the couch.
It’s then I notice a strange device hooked into Shamrock’s butthole, with what almost looks like a sensor attached to the base where Shamrock’s anus would be. “What’s up with the belt? Some sort of plug to stop him from shitting everywhere?” I ask as Peter polishes off his beer, placing it on the table next to my empty glass of water. “Something like that. More o’ a discipline thing than an abuse thing. It’s linked to a sensor located at the litterbox in his safe room, when it senses he’s there it flips open and lets him poop. They’re expensive as fuck and only available at a few Fluffmarts but it’s beyond worth it.”
We both get up from ours seats as Peter clears up the beer bottle and glass, putting the glass in the sink and tossing his beer in the trash can. “So Shamrock was a trouble Fluffy when you first got him?” I continue to ask, curious mainly on how Peter could afford a Fluffy with as good colours as Shamrock. “Something like that. Got 'im shortly after I moved to America from Ireland. Had pretty limited knowledge on how the little shitters worked when I first showed up. Apparently Shamrock was a ‘Smarty’ which is why I didn’t have to take a second mortgage just to buy 'im.”
Peter chuckles slightly as he leans against the kitchen counter and continues recounting Shamrock’s story. “When I brought Shamrock home he was an absolute devil straight out of Lucifer’s arse. Shat up a storm in my new home and constantly squealed about wantin’ this and that.” I nod in response, sitting down on a metal stool sat right at the counter. “Sounds like he was a real handful. How’d you deal with him?” I question, and almost regret it as Peter grins at me.
“Would be a pain in the arse to explain. How about I just show ya?” His grin was almost enough to send a shiver down my spine as he got up and lead me to the hallway.
The hallway of the house seemed rather normal, a bedroom and a guest bedroom, bathroom, safe room for Shamrock, door to the garage. But at the end of the hallway was a dark oak door covered in enough locks to make Fort Knox blush and a big “NO FLUFFIES INSIDE” sign hanging from the top. Getting closer I could faintly smell something metallic. It smelt like Fluffy blood.
“I smell blood.” I state bluntly, not sure why, I’ve always had a habit of saying what I could smell, something about how potent my nose was. Peter gave me a surprised look in response to the comment.
“Shite I knew ya had a good nose but you really are like a bloodhound.” He chuckles slightly as he starts undoing the locks, pulling out a keyring to handle the key locks. “I usually put air fresh and the like around this door to stop the bad smells from leaking into the rest of the house but I suppose nothing gets past you huh?”
After some further lock fiddling, Peter gets the door open and we both step inside, it was pitch black inside but Peter soon turned on the light at the same time the metallic smell of blood hit me like a truck.
I immediately heard the dim whines of Fluffies kept inside of cages lining the walls, half a dozen of them curled up with small puddles of urine beneath them and varying sizes of shit piles in the corners of their cells. At the left end of the room next to the door was a metal table with dried blood clearly visible on its surface, various sharp tools laid out neatly next to it. “An abuse room huh? Guess I shouldn’t be surprised.” I respond, abuse rooms were a fairly common thing for abusers with more than half a brain. Somewhere private to have their fun without disturbing their neighbours thanks to sound proofed walls.
“Yup, saved a bargain on the cages and equipment, Fluffmarts always have surplus to spare if you know to ask em for it.” Peter responds, putting on a pair of sterile gloves as he walks past a few cages, the Fluffies inside recoiling instinctively at his presence, seems they knew that when Peter was around, pain was sure to follow. I make sure to close the door behind me as I stepped in, a few of the Fluffies looking at me with confusion that a human who wasn’t Peter was inside their hellish prison.
“Shamrock spent a good three months in here before he learned to behave. Fluffies are just like people y’see, put the fear o’ God into them and they’ll do whatever you say. Something I learned during my time in the Irish Mob back home in Dublin. Was my job to cut off ears from druggo’s who couldn’t pay back what they owed us, among other things, nasty work y’know?”
Peter continued to confidently pace to and from the cages, eliciting more than a few scawedy poopies from the imprisoned fluffballs. “Right… but you don’t do that kind of thing anymore right?” I ask, staying close to the door in case I needed to make a break for it. At first Peter responds with a chuckle, clearly seeing I was nervous at this point, “No need to worry. It was just business, never enjoyed hurting other people. Death always fucked me right up even when I grew up and got mixed up in all the dark shite back home. But there’s something different about Fluffies, the fear they feel, their stupidity. It’s freeing in a way I suppose. Not that I need your approval of course, just something to put your mind at ease.”
Our conversation is then interrupted by a light tapping against metal followed by it suddenly stopping, Peter getting that devious grin on his face as he shuffles over to one of the cages in the middle rows and peers in. “Was that dancing I heard in there? You know the rules about dancing.” I walk over to look into the cage and see a mortified looking hot pink mare desperately holding her wiggling lavender purple pegasus foal. “N-Nu daddeh Petaw! Babbeh knu wules! Wou’ nebaw make dancies!” the mare pleads to the leering Peter before her baby finally wiggles free from their mother’s hooves and stomps over to Peter with a determined look in their eye.
“Bestest dancie babbeh nu cawe abou’ wules dummeh hoomin! Babbeh am bestest dancie babbeh! Daddeh sai’ so! Hoomin am dummeh an stinky su nu wisten!” With that the foal wobbles onto their hind legs and starts clumsily shaking and wiggling about in what is probably the Fluffy equivalent to dancing, the foal’s face that of stern determination as the mare goes wide eyed and covers her mouth with her hooves, trying to stop herself from protesting. Peter meanwhile looks like he’s on the verge of laughter as he glares down at the defiantly dancing foal.
“I see…” Peter taps his chin, still grinning as he glances at me. “The brat’s dad was a right cunt, so I drove a nail through his throat and forced the mare to watch him bleed to death on the table. Now she’s so scared o’ getting the same treatment she won’t even stop her baby from signing its death warrant!” Peter chuckles and the absurdity of the situation causes me to chuckle slightly as well. I always knew Fluffies had variable personalities and had nearly non-existent survival instincts when it came to humans but this was unbelievable.
With that, Peter swings open the cage and grabs the dancing foal in his hand, the mare simply staring in abject horror as she already knows her bestest babbeh’s fate. The foal immediately begins struggling in Peter’s hand, Peter himself not tying particularly hard to hold it but Fluffies being as they are the foal had no chance of escaping his grasp regardless. “Hey Barry. If you don’t wanna see this I understand, even Exterminators get a bit ansty around torture like this, right?”
I appreciated him at least asking, but I felt something strange, like an odd sense of morbid curiosity to see what exactly Peter had in store for this brat of a foal. “I’ll stay. But wouldn’t most say it’s a bit extreme to do that much to a foal just for dancing and being a bit bratty?” I continue to follow Peter as he takes the struggling and loudly protesting foal over to the metal table. “Babbeh nu scawed ov dummeh hoomin! Dummeh, stinkie hoomin nu scawe bestest babbeh!” The foal repeats over and over again in its high pitched voice.
Peter gives me a lightly curious look at my response, completely ignoring the foal as it ‘bites’ his gloved hand with its gums, a light sunshower of watery poop leaking between Peter’s gloved fingers. “Maybe, if these were domestics I paid for. But nah, these’re just Ferals I grabbed off the streets, who gives a shite if a couple loose pests get done in, right? An’ makin’ it a punishment is all part of the fun.” With that Peter drops the foal onto the metal table as it grunts weakly and Peter goes over to swap his shit covered glove for a fresh one, throwing the soiled one in a hazard bin.
The foal has started angrily dancing on the metal table, clearly trying to push its defiance as hard into Peter’s face as possible while blowing a raspberry at him. “Bestest dancie babbeh nu scawed ov cowd floow, an bestest dancie babbeh nu scawed ov stinkie, dummeh hoomin!” The foals squeaky tirade continues as I lean against the nearby wall to get a good view of the table as Peter returns to the foal, bringing with him various metal tools including a scalpel, ball-peen hammer, tweezers, pliers, a nutcracker, a straight razor, and all other kinds of things you’d probably see in an interrogation room in a movie.
As the foal continues its dance of protest against Peter, its met with a swift, backhanded smack that sends it sprawled out on the table. The smack knocking any sense of defiance swiftly out of the foal as it sobs on the table. “Huuuhuuu… meanie hoomin! Nu huwt bestest babbeh! Gib ou sowwy poopies!” As the foal lifts its tail up and ‘sowwy poopies’ come out as a pathetic spurt of watery faeces that quickly dry up. I could feel the dangerous aura radiating from Peter as he pins the foal to the cold metal table with a single finger, the hamster-sized foal continuing to loudly protest.
Its protests quickly change to shrieking as Peter grabs onto the foals barely grown in wings and gives them a painful twist and tug, snapping them off with ease as the foal lets out a blood curdling screech, droplets of blood spattering the metal table.
“That should seal quickly enough.” Peter mutters under his breath, his usual loud bantering replaced with an almost clinical coldness as he entered his abuser element. “PEEEP PEEEEEEP CHIRP CHIRP!!! MUMMAH HEWP BESTEST DANCIE BABBEH!! PEEEEP!!” The foal cried out desperately, its legs hopelessly wiggling beneath it as Peter thoughtfully picks out his next tool a ball-peen hammer. “Gonna take its legs off? Classic.” I comment from behind Peter, granting me a swift chuckle from the surgical Irishman. “That’s the plan. Could probably just twist and pull em, but the hammer draws it out, makes it as painful as possible.” Even though Peter wasn’t looking at me I could feel the grin from him.
“MUMMAH HEWP BESTEST DANICE BABBEH PWEA- SCREEEEEEEEEEEEE-” The foal screeches at the top of its lungs as Peter brings down the hammer on the first of its legs, shattering the bone to powder with a single swing as the leg folds in on itself. Three more slightly firm swings later and Peter releases his pin on the now crippled foal which rolls around in agony as it continues calling out for its mother who remains silent in her cage save for a faint “Huuuhuuu…” escaping her attempted silence. Peter decides to leave the foal to suffer and scream its heart out for a minute before its little lungs run out of breath and the foal is weakly wheezing on the table, trying desperately to escape only for Peter to push it back to the centre of the table, causing the foal’s fat body to press down on its broken legs causing further pained cheeps and peeps to escape it.
“Mummah… s-sabe bestest babbeh…” The foal weakly cries, trying to raise its front hoof to reach for its mother’s cage. But again the mare is silent, even her faint cries having subsided to a grim quiet. Peter glances at me and I see an idea flash in his eyes as he crouches down to eye level with the foal. “What’s the matter babbeh? Why isn’t mummah saving you? I thought you were the bestest dancie babbeh?” Peter asks in a sickeningly sweet, tormenting voice. “Oh! I know, it’s because you’re not dancing! Once you start dancing I’m sure your mummah will come straight to your rescue!” This blatant lie seems to invigorate the crippled foal to some extent as it heaves itself up a bit with its chest. “B-Babbeh am… bestest dancie babbeh… du dancies fow mummah’s heawt huwties!” The foal proclaims before panting as it drops back down flat onto its belly.
“What’s the matter with you? Dance! Your mummah’s waiting for you!” Peter continues to egg on the foal who tries desperately to meet his challenge, the foal wincing and softly sobbing with pain as its unbroken joints try to force its legs to lift its fat body off the table, to expectedly little success as a small pop rings out as whatever leg bone that wasn’t totally obliterated just then gave out.
“B-Babbeh nu… nu can dancie…? Wai weggies nu dancie!? Dummeh weggies dancie fow mummah! DUMMEH WEGGIES DANCIE NAO NAO NAO!!!” The foal begins to cry out, flailing itself around the table as it desperately tries to dance on its powdered leg bones.
The whole time the mare hasn’t made a single noise, this fact alone seeming to set into the foal’s tiny heart as Peter drives the metaphorical knife ever deeper. “You’re not dancing? What kind of bestest dancie babbeh can’t dance for their mummah!? And mummah hasn’t said a word… must mean she doesn’t love you anymore, huh?” Peter leans down and prods the foal’s snout, his words and the mare’s silence absolutely shattering the foal’s perception of itself as its eyes widen, tears soaking into its fluff as it starts pathetically sobbing on the table. “Babbeh am… am bad babbeh…? Nu! Dummeh weggies nu wowk! Nu’ babbeh’s fawt! Nu faiw nu faiw!” The foal continues to cry out as Peter gives me a sadistic smile, clearly loving the foal’s growing despair.
And I have to admit, seeing the once prideful foal now lying in a puddle of its own blood, piss, shit, and tears gave me an odd feeling of satisfaction. Like I could see some asshole I’ve seen online or in person in that foal’s place getting exactly what they deserve. This was different to just exterminating ferals, this was something more personal, more primal.
The foal had finally given into depression as it rests its head on the table and quietly sobs “Huuhuu… babbeh am dummeh babbeh… mummah nu wub anymowe… wan die… wan die…” The foals utterances of despair seemed to bother Peter as he groaned, rolling his eye dramatically. “Shit it wan die looped that easily? Well fuck… no getting a foal out of a wan die loop, guess the fun’s over. Sorry about that Barry, wish I could’ve made this a bit longer for you.” Peter looks over at me, looking genuinely apologetic that the Fluffy torture session had to end sooner than he would’ve liked.
“It’s fine. I got the idea and I actually kind of enjoyed it, they’re pretty pathetic huh?”
“Haha! Yeah hearing em cry is a sound that’s hard to beat, right? Anyway might as well put this little shitrat out of its misery…” With a satisfied but still slightly disappointed look on his face, Peter grabs the foal, still muttering “wan die…” to itself repeatedly as Peter brings it over to a group of small meat hooks attached to an exercising pipe attached to the ceiling, usually used for pull ups but now serves as a suitable anchor for showing off Peter’s latest kills.
“Wan die… wan- HURGK-” The foal’s despondent muttering is soon cut off by a guttural gag as one of the hooks is driven through the back of its head, the foal’s body jerking awkwardly as it voids whatever’s left of its bowels and bladder onto a sickly pile on the floor beneath it, its eyes bulging in shock before slowly turning a milky white as the life escapes it. With that, Peter tosses his gloves into the hazardous waste bin and leads me to the exit to the abuse room, waiting until I’ve left to call out to the remaining Fluffy’s: “And let that remind you shitrats about the importance of following the fucking rules!” Before turning the lights off and loudly slamming the door shut.
Back in the main area of Peter’s house, Shamrock was rolling a ball back and forth around the hallway as he looks up at us, Peter giving Shamrock a smile as he pats the cat sized Fluffy on the head. “Barry’s leaving now Shamrock, remember what to do?” Shamrock nods his head in response as Peter opens the front door for me and picks up Shamrock, holding him close to his chest as I step out the door and both start waving at me in sync.
“See ya tomorrow Barry! Hopefully old Paulie has a good plan!”
“Bye-bye nice mistuh! Shamwok am happy to meechu!”
The two wave me off as I wave back and start heading back to my home and the only thing I could really think was that maybe I should look into getting a Fluffy of my own, and if I remember right there’s a Fluffmart near where I live. Might check in on the way home…