You hummed to yourself lightly as you stirred a fistful of basil into the pot of marinara sauce. Behind it on the stove a large pot of water began to bubble, and you grabbed the bowl of fresh pasta and sprinkled it in a few noodles at a time to prevent sticking. You gave it a few stirs to keep them moving and pulled the bouquet of herbs out of the sauce, turning off the burner. After a minute of boiling, you fished out the thin noodles and dropped them directly into the still simmering sauce to finish them.
It needed to be perfect. You spent hours every day perfecting the sauce, letting the sugars cook out of the tomatoes and the herbs release their flavor, for exactly this moment. The most important part of your day.
The timer on the over buzzed, and you pulled out a foil lined pan of tiny meatballs. Perfectly fluffy sized. You set them on the counter to cool while you played up the spaghetti.
It needed to be beautiful. You swirled the noodles around the fine blue and white bowl, forming a soft, tomato stained nest. An extra spoonful of sauce was nestled at the center, and you licked the back of the spoon to check your seasoning. The flavors coated your tongue, rich and herbal with the sharpness of the fresh basil lifting up the more delicate flavors. You were getting good at this, no extra seasoning today.
You popped a meatball in your mouth, despite the heat. They were delightful, fatty and spicy with a dusting of black pepper on the outside. You carefully nestled the rest of them in the center of the pasta nest like many tiny eggs laid by some unknown creature.
With a flourish you pulled out the cheese grater and laid a light dusting of real parmesan cheese over the top, smiling at your creation. It was perfect. It was beautiful. It was delicious.
A small dribble of sauce had dripped down the side of the bowl, you wiped it away with a kitchen towel before making your way upstairs.
Your ward was the most important fluffy in the world. One of the most important things that had ever been. You wouldn’t dream of anything more than caring for this glorious creature, this pinnacle of his breed.
You tapped twice on the safe room door before opening it, letting the bright lights wash over you and a smile spread across your face. You spared no expense on this safe room, the carpet was the thickest and plushest you could find, the wallpaper depicted many fluffies playing on grassy hills in the distance and gave a simple but tasteful illusion that the room was but a small part of a large pasture. Toys piled high in every corner; blocks and huggie friends and balls stacked up haphazardly, most still in their original packaging. A spotless litter box sat next to the door, with a shallow ramp leading up to it for ease of use.
And sitting there, in the center of the room, staring blankly at the picturesque wallpaper, was your beloved Hastur. Your King in Yellow. The blessed vessel of The One Who Sleeps Beneath. His head was adorned with a crown formed of the dried ears of the fluffies who came before him. Along his back ran a long cloak of the dried wings of those same fluffies and many, many more who arrived after, the purpose of these parts finally known.
“Your meal, my king. May it nourish your body.” You knelt and set the bowl down before him reverently, bowing low as you did.
There was no word spoken by the diminutive shell containing your king, but the form began to eat, slurping up one of the meatballs and chewing it slowly. As you stood it didn’t turn to look at you, its eyes locked on the wall before it.
“I have made the preparations as you instructed. I will follow your teachings.” You bowed again, feeling the excitement well up in your stomach. After months of preparation the parts were finally in place. The vessel never spoke, its diminutive and imprecise voice unworthy of the divine being controlling it. He spoke to you in your dreams, blessing you with visions of what He needed you to do.
You exited the room, careful not to turn away from the Yellow King until the door shut. Then you hurried down the hall to begin the rest of your work.
At the bottom of the stairs, in what was once your living room, a stage stood. You constructed it out of whatever scrap wood you could find, with an old sheet for curtains and a seconhand shower curtain rod to hold them in place. Pointed at the stage were real theater lights, purloined from a local comedy club with poor security and bright enough to make very little else of the room visible with them on. You had placed a row of folding chairs in front of the stage, the two in the middle covered by a dark cloth.
You carefully maneuvered around the small space left by the stage and returned to the kitchen to clean up your mess. One side of the kitchen table was covered in flour from making the pasta, you scraped the remains into the dirty mixing bowl and dropped it in the sink. The pots were added to the sink as well, and you poured water over them to soak. Under the sink you grabbed a trash bag and returned to the other side of the table, where the flayed remains of a fluffy lay, the source of the meatballs.
Contrary to popular belief, the average fluffy contains very little meat. To create the pile of meatballs your king needed every possible scrap of meat from the bones and, regrettably, the liver and other organs. You wish you could have stewed this one’s liver up to cure your wounds, to heal the open oozing sores that spread across every part of your body, but your king needed them more. You ached, you could smell the festering flesh under your stained clothing, but you were soothed by the bliss of serving your master.
The bones and skin were tossed into the trash bag and set by the backdoor to take out when you had time. You washed your hands and splashed water on your face. It was showtime. Your hands shook as you lifted the heavy leather apron over your head. One last use of it, provided everything went to plan. With the added weight of the sticky, stained leather you felt the oh so familiar disgust well up in your stomach. Your master never said this would be easy, but you had hoped the disgust would abate somewhat after His entrance into your life. It didn’t matter, you had put your feelings aside for the sake of ritual before, you could do it again.
Your tools waited on the table, carefully cleaned after flaying the fluffy for your master’s daily meal and wrapped up in dark cloth. You tucked them into the front pocket of your apron and readied yourself mentally. This needed to be seamless, perfectly executed or it wouldn’t work. If you messed up, your master would not give you a second chance. Some small part of you begged for more time to prepare, but you knew things were as far along as they needed to be. The stars were in their places, the moon was right, you could feel the stirrings of power in the air around you. It was now or never. You grabbed three cloth sacks and went to pick up your actors.
In what was most likely meant to be an office you had set up a makeshift saferoom for most of your actors. Compared to the beautiful room upstairs, this one was bare bones at best. An aluminum brownie pan served as a litter box, filled with sand. There were no toys and in the middle of the room had a pile of old towels to serve as a bed. Cheap kibble was piled on the hardwood floor, dumped directly from the bag.
The two fluffies loose in the room ran to greet you, a rusty red earthie colt and a young mottled green pegasus mare. Despite the poverty of their living space they were always excited to see you. Your stomach turned seeing the adoration in their eyes. They loved you, completely unaware of what was planned for them.
“Mummah! Fwuffy wub you!” The colt said. You ignored his wub and grabbed him by the scruff, shoving him in the sack. You found him wandering a park alone in the evening and brought him back promising to help him find his owner. You lied, of course. You knew no one was looking for their obviously abandoned pet, and even if they were he had been chosen for a greater purpose.
“Nu! Nu huwt fwuffy’s babbeh!” Ah, the mare had taken a motherly role to the colt. How cute. Perfect for your uses. You caught her trying to tip over your trash cans. Had you arrived a second later she would have succeeded, dumping the remains of your prior victims out across your driveway. She was oh so trusting, happily entering your home after you promised not to harm her. Her fluff was almost camo colored, something that could be quite valuable to the right breeder. Instead she would perish here tonight, and her pelt would be thrown out with the rest of her.
You tied the top of both bags, ignoring their complaints. The door at the back of the sparse saferoom contained your final actors. Opening the door you were immediately assaulted by the scent of excrement and the noise of FluffTV.
“Wha’ dummeh wan?” The fattest hot pink unicorn you had ever seen sat in a padded bowl, not looking away from the TV. You had found her on craigslist, offered up for free by a fed up owner. They asked no questions about your plans for her and you asked none about the clearly amature amputation of her legs. She had been named Queenie and was foul tempered, foul smelling, the actor that you had for the longest and one of the few of these creatures that you would be happy to see flayed in your trashcan. She had a very important role to play, however. One that you had been carefully grooming her for.
On the TV in front of her the usual programming of FluffTV cut away to something you had added into the mix. A quick slideshow of various fluffies in wedding attire taken from a basic internet search accompanied by a computer generated fluffy voice.
“Hewwo fwuffies! Ebewy mawe dweam of habbin’ a wedding! Yu find big stwong stawwion to be yu hubby, and hab pwetty wedding!”
The obese mare watched, drooling as the slideshow changed over to pictures of blue stallions from breeders websites. They were buff, well groomed and often photoshopped to have a more confident expression. Poorly photoshopped, but it was enough to fool a creature that hadn’t even figured out that she was watching the same hour of content on loop.
You swallowed your disgust and started getting to the other resident of her “safe room”. Behind the door, where the pillowed mare couldn’t possibly hope to see, was a dog crate wrapped in old blankets. You unlatched the gate and stuck your arm in blindly, feeling around until you found a trembling mass of fluff. Pulling it out revealed a heavily scarred blue stallion. This one was once an alicorn, horn and wings removed by his previous owner as punishment. He had knocked on your door, begging for food to feed his mate and foals. You told him you could do much more for them if he could bring them to you. The trusting nature of these creatures overwhelmed any fear of humans he had, and he assumed you were someone kind that would care for him and his family.
He assumed wrong, of course.
You lifted him up by his patchy purple mane, glaring into his terrified eyes. “You remember what you’re supposed to say?”
The stallion nodded silently.
“And you remember what will happen to your special friend and babies if you don’t do what you’re told?”
Again he nodded, tears brimming in his eyes. This was fine, tears did not sully your plans.
“Good. Do what I need you to do and you can see them again.” You tucked him under your arm, turning to the other fluffy. “Oh Queenie, I found you a special friend!” You forced your voice to be friendly, singsong even.
“WHEWE?! QUEENIE WAN SPECHOW FWEND AND BESTEST WEDDIN’!!!” The pillowed mare flailed her stumps around.
You plopped the terrified stallion down in front of her. “Here he is, and he has something to ask you.”
With a nudge of your foot, he spoke robotically. “Fwuffy wub yu, wiww yu be fwuffy’s wifey?”
“YUS!! WAN’ PWEETIEST WEDDIN’ AN CAKEIES AND-” You ignored Queenie and stuffed the stallion into the last sack. This was the last part of the puzzle, the method actor. Your performance required an actor that was unaware of the coming acts, and this spoiled brat fit the bill perfectly.
You threw the sacks over your shoulder, ignoring the protests of the biotoys within and picking up Queenie’s bowl. You nodded along mindlessly to her demands, caring very little about what kind of cake she wanted for the big day. These things would be far from her mind in but a few moments.
You plopped the bags down in front of the stage and set Queenie’s bowl off to the side, behind a curtain. “Let’s get you all pretty.”
The obese mare smiled smugly as you brushed her mane, babbling quietly about what a pretty fluffy she was. You wrapped her in yellow lace, tying a yellow satin ribbon around her head.
“Now, it’s bad luck for your special friend to see you until it’s time for the wedding, so you’re going to stay right here behind this curtain. We will still be able to hear you.”
“Guud! Wan’ dummehs to get pwettiest fwowahs, an’ pwetty wibbons, an-” You cut her off by shoving a cookie in her mouth and pulling the curtain around her. It would keep her quiet until it was her cue.
You slowly untied the stallion’s bag with shaking hands. It was time, finally time. All your preparations would come to fruition here. Or the creatures would avenge their fallen brethren by spoiling her plans. No, she trusted her master, and He trusted her. It would all fall into place just as He said it would.
She set the stallion on a small chalk mark on the stage, he carefully lined his front hooves on it. You stepped back, flicked on the lights, and did a once over of the stage. Your tools sat on the ground next to your seat, waiting for their moment. The two waiting actors complained from their bag but a solid kick quieted them down to just light sobbing.
It was time.
From under the covered seats you pulled The Book. A large, heavy tome wrapped in stitched together scraps of yellow fluffy fur. The pages were carefully dried fluffy parchment, each piece stretched and scraped by your hands. The words written on the inside came from your visions, this was the script of the play you, the director, were about to put on.
You exhaled, letting the anxious thoughts exit with your breath, and opened the first page of the book. You lifted your hand, cuing your actor.
The stallion stepped forward into the spotlight, raising his head nobly. “On dis day, fwuffy am mowe dan fwuffy, an’ da wine between what am weaw an’ unweaw am bwuwwed. Da time fo’ inny-cents hab passed, da time fo’ da consee-kwences ob da fwesh tu be known. Dis fwuffy, King Hiwdwed, am to be cwowned and mawwied to mai bwide. Dis am nu wifout da twiaws ob wub, bu’ fwuffy am stwong an’ wiww see to da end. Da king is dead! Wong wive da king!”
The king on stage looked to you nervously, and you nodded as you followed along in the book.
Without looking away from the pages you opened the next bag, pulling the mottled green mare out and plopping her on another chalk mark on the stage. The mare looked around nervously, squinting in the bright lights, before seeing the blue stallion and running to him.
“Oddah fwuffy!! Fwuffy wub yu!” She cheered, nuzzling her nose into his neck.
The stallion stiffened, unsure what to do. Your training sessions ended after the speech was finished, he had not rehearsed any further. You waited, holding your breath for the next line. If all went according to plan-
“HOO DAT?! ODDAH MAWE?!?!” A screech came from the curtain hiding Queenie. Both fluffies flinched, the mottled green fluffy darting to hide behind the blue stallion.
“It is.” you responded calmly. “She’s snuggled up to your special friend.”
“NU!! DAT AM QUEENIE’S SPECHOW FWEND!!”
“What should he do, Queenie?”
“WOWSTEST HUWTIES! GIB STOMPIES AND KICKIES AND BITIES AND WOWSTEST HUWTIES!! NU TUCH QUEENIE’S SPECHOW FWEND!!!”
The blue stallion looked to you pleadingly. He knew well what speaking out of turn on the stage would get him from experience. Not all of his scars were there when he arrived. You stared him down for a moment before he sighed softly. Your smile returned as he, with shaking hooves, turned towards the green mare.
“…Am sowwy…” He slowly lifted a hoof.
“Nu, pwease nu…” The mare cowered, pleading with him.
The stallion hesitated no further, slamming his hoof into the smaller mare’s face.
“SCREEEEE-” Her pained scream was cut off momentarily by his other front hoof slamming down on her neck.
“Am sowwy!! Am sowwy!! Nu wan! Nee’ du fow spechow fwend!” He sobbed, mashing the green mare into a red paste as she writhed and moaned on the scrapwood stage. You continued following along in the script, nodding as every hit followed what you had written. The Book seemed to hum as the fluffies sobbed and screamed before you.
Eventually the mare fell silent, a bleeding green mass at the foot of the king. The stallion stared at her bloody corpse for a moment, tears dripping down from him to mingle with the blood on his hooves. “…Am sowwy…”
You untied the next bag, setting the little red colt down on a chalk mark to the other side of the stage. He continued hiding under his hooves while you sat back into your seat.
“…nu mowe dawkies?” The colt asked, peeking around his hooves. King Hildred spun around, staring horrified at the other fluffy. The colt slowly got up, squinting up at the bright lights. “…Mummah? Where am Mummah?”
The king turned to you slowly, a horrified look on his face, silently pleading with you not to make him do this.
“Oh, it looks like she had a baby. Do you want to take care of another fluffy’s baby, Queenie?”
“NU!!!” King Hildred flinched as she yelled. “GIB WOWSTEST HUWTIES TO BABBEH TU! NU WAN SHAWE SPECHOW FWEND!!”
He looked to you again, and seeing no mercy in your eyes, he slowly made his way over to the colt. “…Hewwo wittow babbeh…”
“Hewwo! Hab yu seen fwuffy’s mummah?” The colt toddled up to him, ever trusting. “She am gween!”
The stallion paused, looking down at the little fluffy before it. You could see a very familiar look in his eye, you had felt this with every one of your early sacrifices. It was so hard to look something so trusting in the eyes and cause it intentional harm. But it must be done.
“…Yus. Fwuffy… wiww bwing yu to hew.” His voice was robotic, cold and dull.
“Otay! Tankoo!!” The colt happily wrapped his hooves around the stallion, who lifted his bloodstained hooves to return it.
He slowly, subtly, slid his hooves up over the colts shoulders, grabbing ahold of his head. You could see him bite his lip, tears streaming down his face.
“Wai nice fwuffy gib tinky-pwace-” With a sharp snap the stallion wrenched the colt’s head to the side, snapping his neck cleanly in a practiced motion. He let the corpse slide from his hooves, eyes blankly forward.
“Good, your highness.” You said, standing.
“… Fwuffy am dun?” He asked, slowly turning to you.
“You are.” You pulled the cloth off the seats next to you, revealing the other members of the audience.
The blue stallion gasped, looking upon the desiccated corpses of his mate and foals. The mare was laying flat on the seat of the metal chair, hooves outstretched as if to ask for help. On the seat next to her four dull fluffed foals were piled carelessly atop each other.
You stepped onto the stage as he shook, frozen in place, and began to tie the rope over the bar holding the curtains.
“…Wai…?” He whispered.
“You did your part.” You stepped back from the noose hanging off the edge of the stage. “Once you’re crowned you can be with them again.”
The stallion looked from you, to the noose, to the dried up corpses that were once his loved ones. You had a feeling this fluffy’s previous owner had introduced him to concepts like a mercy kill and a noose and you were right. He killed with only the slightest threat to his beloved mate and offspring, it took very little to get him properly trained. Your King had picked a wonderful lead actor for you.
You sat back, holding out a small plastic crown on the other side of the noose. King Hildred nodded slowly to himself and began to walk forward, bloody hooves stepping over the colt’s corpse. He extended his neck elegantly, leaning over the edge of the stage and thrusting his head through the noose. You set the crown atop his head, framing the scar where his horn once was, and then he stepped off the stage. With a snap of rope he was no more. Nothing more than a swinging corpse, face forever frozen in a pained grimace.
“The king is dead. Long live the king.” You gently closed the book, bowing to the corpses serving as audience. Setting your tool roll on the edge of the stage, you pulled the curtain hiding Queenie.
“FINAWWY! FWUFFY wan’…” She trailed off, taking in the scene. The green mare, stomped to death in a puddle of her own blood. The red colt laying center stage, head twisted at an unnatural angle. Her new special friend, hanging limply from the noose.
You unrolled your tools and got to work. The first part you needed came from the stallion, and you spun him around. Running your skinning knife down his spine the fluff parted cleanly as if it was begging to be stripped from this imperfect form.
“Wai… wai am fwuffies foebah sweepies…?” she whispered.
“You asked for this.” You said, working the tip of the knife into the connections between spine and ribs.
“N-nu! Nu wan!!” Queenie balked.
“You asked for the mare-” You pointed with the bloody tip of the knife, “-to get worstest hurties. The colt too.”
“Nu…. nu…” she shook her head, unable to look away from the carnage.
“It’s true. That is what you said, isn’t it?”
The obese, pillowed mare looked across the scene one last time, and you paused as you heard a small whisper escape her. “…Wan die…”
“One died of violence,” You said, pointing to the mare’s corpse again.
“Wan die.”
Pointing to the colt, “Another for mercy.”
“Wan die.”
“The third of his own hand,” You gave a final pull, the fluffy’s spine coming loose with one wet rip.
“Wan die.”
“And the last meets death alive.” You set the bloody spine on the stage, pulling the bowl with the obese pink mare towards you.
“Wan die.” Her voice was hollow, lifeless, and devolved into dull groans as you began to strip the flesh from her forehead. The layer of fat under her skin, while thick, offered no resistance as you carved into her skull. Fluffy bones were so soft, almost malleable, and after only a moment you pulled her pastel pink horn from her head. After slicing off a lock of her mane you let the limbless corpse drop, brain matter and fluids dripping from the hole as she mumbled to herself. Her life would end soon, no need for you to finish her off.
You grabbed the colt next, slicing into the flesh of his back with a boning knife until the shoulder blades were visible. Running a scalpel through the connective tissue around them you parted them from the body, pulling one and then the other free with a wet snapping noise. Grabbing a fistful of his mane, you yanked it from his skin.
Your hands shook as you added them to the growing pile. One part remained, an easy one to harvest. The wings of the green mare were undamaged in her execution, and were freed from her corpse with only a small slice each. With a final yank you obtained a lock of her mane, and all the pieces were in your possession. You wiped each part down with a rag to remove excess blood, and began the assembly of the last object needed to bring your master to his proper power. The spine at the center, you lashed on each actor offering with their own hair, the wings at the top with the horn between them, the shoulder blades dangling underneath. Finally you carefully lashed the entire spine with the blue stallion’s mane, and in your shaking hands you held the scepter of Hastur.
Your heart skipped a beat and you felt dizzy as you looked upon your final creation. The key to the lock in the saferoom upstairs. So many endless nights of work and you were done. You brushed your fingers over the outstretched green feathers, marveling at their perfection. A small smear of blood stained one, and you looked down at your hands to see them coated in thick, fresh blood. You were confused, you wiped your hands clean with all the parts! There should be nothing staining your master’s perfect scepter! As you reached for the bloodstained cloth the room spun and you fell from your chair. The scepter landed next to you and you had one last moment to admire your work before everything faded to black.
CASE NO. 92618
OFFICER ON DUTY: RONALD FREEDMAN
DETAIL OF EVENTS: I responded to a wellness check on 27 year old Dalia Tremere. Subject did not respond to requests for entry, so I made the decision to enter the property. In the living room of the premises I found the corpse of Miss Tremere on the floor in front of what seemed to be a makeshift stage. The corpse was covered in open sores as well as post-mortem bite wounds and a large wound on the subject’s palm, seemed self inflicted and most likely cause of death due to blood loss. The subject had multiple mutilated biotoys in the room with it as well as a living yellow male alicorn wearing the severed parts of the biotoys.
Subject was declared dead on scene by EMTs.
Fluffcontrol denies finding the yellow biotoy on the premises. Biotoy may have escaped while the subject’s body was being removed. It is unlikely that the biotoy had anything to do with subject’s death beyond attempting to consume the corpse post-mortem. Due to subject having no recorded next of kin I do not think it necessary to find the missing biotoy.