Fluffies.
Fuckin’ Fluffies.
Anyone can deal with a herd of ferals. Any idiot can fend off a lawn invasion. But what do you do if the fluffies just keep coming back?
My friends and I had decided to live our lives for ourselves. In Detroit, you can buy a house and surrounding land for just $100. Its insane. One hundred dollars for a fucking house! Sure, the houses are in bad condition, but the shell is still OK, and they’re hooked up to the water and light companies still. My friends and I pooled our savings and bought ten houses, right next to each other along one side of a road called Oakland Street. We took down the adjoining fences and reinforced the outside ones, and started our own urban farm. We could easily grow enough food for ourselves, but we made most of our money growing weed. It was legal to grow, smoke and sell in Michigan by now, but the real money was in selling it to my friend Clive, who sold it in those few backward states where it was still illegal.
That first summer, we made about forty grand in profit, but the money wasn’t the point. We were taking very little in wages, and were living on home grown veges, soups and bread. I spent my time gardening, getting a suntan, learning carpentry and fixing up old houses. Oh, and getting very, very stoned.
Then, the fluffies came.
Detroit basically has no public services. If you have a fire, or you need the cops, you are basically fucked. At first, we were worried about gangs stealing our weed, but all those fuckers had fled the dead city by that point. Just to be sure, we all bought shotguns early on. A few of us had pistols, and one friend had an AR15. We never imagined we would end up using them on fluffies.
July 2nd
Knock Knock Knock
“Hewwo,” said a sad and starved looking fluffy, sitting on my doorstep, “Be nyu daddah? Gib nummies to fwuffy?”
I ran at the shit-rat and punted it a good fifty yards down the road. It screamed and shat itself as it tumbled through the sky, and landed with a sickening thud on the crumbling and pot-holed tarmac in the distance.
It didn’t come back
July 6th
Knock knock knock
“Hewwo,” sad a timid looking motherfluffer, with babies riding on its back, “Nice hoomins have nummies? Fow fwuffy? Fwuffy am mummah now, an need nummie fow make miwkies for bestest babbehs! Fwuffy can…”
The fluffy’s speech was cut off by my friend Steve who kicked her as hard as he could, attempting to beat the record of a 50 yard punt I had set the day before. Unfortunately he didn’t catch her right with his boot, and she ended up smacking into a faded wooden fence just fifteen feet away, screaming and sending babies flying everywhere. After that, we used her for soccer practice while her babies screamed and cried. Eventually we got sick of hearing them cry, and stomped them all to death. Good times.
July 12th
The fuckers! The fuckers have been eating our vege patch! All our cabbages, and most of our carrots!
We hunted them down. They were hiding in a derelict across the road, a small herd. One smarty, three toughies and about six or seven mares, all of them either carrying babies or bellies swollen with more of the shit-rats. There must have been a couple dozen “big babies” too. Too old to ride on their parent’s backs, but not fully grown yet.
Me and Steve beat every last fluffy to death with our baseball bats. I don’t think a single one escaped.
July 18th
Angela has been fucking feeding them! And Chris knew all about it!
Angela says we can’t be committed vegans, vegetarians, or eco-warriors if we kill fluffies. Chris agrees with her, but we all know that’s because they are fucking each other. Alf thinks they have a point. Steve and I just want to kill them all.
We told her that they were pests, and that they’d been eating our crops. Just veges for now, but if they got into the cannabis crop, they would cost us serious dollar.
Angela and Chris relented, and drove the fluffy family they had been feeding to a local shelter downtown.
She said they would make scarecrows later that week, to scare other fluffies away.
July 24th
The fluffy scarecrows were ready. Painted cardboard cut-outs of The Goblin, Bozdo, Ring-Master and The Snake Daddy, all figures of terror from fluffy lore, featuring in scary bedtime stories told to bad babies by their fluffy mothers, in order to make them behave. Do as mummah says, they would tell them, “Or the Goblin will num you!”. Don’t poop on daddah’s floor, they would warn them, “Or the Snake Daddy will take your leggies!”
They didn’t fucking work. The fluffies just ignored them. One smarty actually gave them sorry poopies.
August 14th
They finally fucking did it. They ate our fucking weed.
“Heewwooooow… heeheheh… Fwuffy feew bewwy funny… Hab nummed stinky bushy nummies… Fwuffy nu know name any mowe. Hey hoomin, what am dat funny wookin stick? Why point at fwuffy? What am…”
BANG.
BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG.
August 15th
Knock Knock Knock
“Dis am SMAWTY WAND. Dummeh hoomin wiww gib AWW Fwuffies…”
BANG.
August 18th
The fluffies just keep on coming. We have reinforced the fences with chicken wire, buried a foot deep in case they can burrow and patched all the holes we can find. Steve left the gate open while he was high though, and a whole fucking herd got inside! I shot them until I was out of shotgun shells, then stabbed a half dozen more with my pitchfork until I couldn’t get their bodies off of it. Then I went full Rambo on the remaining shit-rats, who by this point were cowering and shitting themselves with fear. I gutted the last of them with my hunting knife, and left one to run away, half-disemboweled.
“Nuuuu! Fwuffy nu wike munstah hoomin! Pwease bewwy sketties! Nu wun away fwom fwuffy! Fwuffy need bewwy sketties!” the fluffy wailed as it fled our farm, tripping over his trail of intestines that were escaping from his gut as he ran, flailing, into the sunset.
I decided to let him go. Maybe he would serve as a warning to other nearby herds and families?
And then I had my brainwave. REAL Scarecrows. We needed fluffy scarecrows.
August 21st
This time, I didn’t wait for the fluffies to come to us. I needed some fluffies to make my scarecrows, so I searched the nearby derelicts until I found a fluffy family.
Soon enough, I found a daddah, a mummah, and five adorable babies.
“Mean hoomin nu huwt fwuffy famiwy!” yelled the Stallion, puffing out his cheeks and stomping the floor, “Go way naow ow get wowstest owwies!”
“Oh,” I said, trying my best to sound sad, and desperately surpressing the urge to laugh out loud at the stupid fucker, “That’s a shame. I was looking for a fluffy family to adopt. You see, I’ve got too much spaghetti to eat and…”
“Human wan be nyu daddah?” the stallion asked with a mixture of hope and disbelief.
“Gib sketties? To fwuffies?” the mummah asked, “Weawy?”
“Sketties! Sketties!” the babies at her belly gibbered excitedly.
“Yes,” I lied. “Really.”
“Whewe am sketties?” asked the daddy, “Fwuffies nu wike dawk sowwy box.”
“You’ll get what is coming to you soon enough,” I told them, “But first, let me tell you a story.”
I set the box down on my work bench, and looked down at the fluffy family. They were less enthusiastic than before, their hunger for sketties and love having been replaced with a wise sense of distrust and foreboding. It was far too late to be of any use to them however.
“Fwuffy wike stowies!” one of the babies told me.
“Shush babbeh,” the fluffy mother told it, snuggling it closer in her belly fluff.
“A long time ago,” I began, “There was a mean monster daddy.”
The fluffies quivered in fear as I began the horror story.
“His name was Vlad Tepes. The second son of Vlad Dracul.” I smiled to myself, anticipating what was to come.
“Vlad had a problem. He had a really nice farm, but mean, nasty, greedy Turks kept coming, and trying to steal his land.”
“What am a Tuwk?” asked the stallion.
“Turks are basically scum. Like fluffies, only not as stupid.” I told him.
“Fwuffy nu stoopid!” the Stallion huffed.
“No? Well, listen to the story and then tell me you’re not stupid. You see, Vlad told the Turks to leave his land, and never come back, but the Turks just kept coming. So he fought the Turks, but they just kept on coming. So he KILLED the Turks,” I said, sneering at the babies, “But they just kept on coming.”
“So, what did Vwad do den?” asked the fluffy daddy.
“Eventually, he had to IMPALE them.”
“Impawe? What am Impawe?” the confused looking stallion asked.
“Well,” I said, “Impale is when you take a very sharp stick, like… oh, just like this one I have on my workbench right here. Vlad got very sharp sticks, and he well… Impaled the Turks on them…”
“Bu… but what am Impawe?” the fluffy asked again.
“Well, Vlad impaled the Turks by putting the blunt end of the stick into the ground, and the sharp end of the stick in their bungholes.”
The fluffy still looked confused. Fluffies are not known for their intelligence after all.
“But what am bunghowe?” he asked.
“The bunghole is the… poopy place. He shoved the sharp stick up their poopy places.”
“Shawp stick in poopy pwace? Dat am mean!” the fluffy daddy said.
“Fwuffy nu wike mean stowy,” the mummah protested, “It am scawe babbehs.”
“Huu huu,” One of the babies started to cry, “Babbeh nu wike shawp sowwy stick,”
“Babbeh nu wike Vwad. Nu wike Impawe! Nu wike sowwy stick in poopy pwace!”
“Huu huu… Vwad did huwt da Tuwks!” another baby cried.
"So anyway, I said, ignoring the protests of the increasingly distressed fluffy family, “Vlad hated the Turks, but they just kept coming back, so he decided to impale about a thousand of them by shoving very sharp sticks up their bungholes, and leaving them there to die.”
“Nu wike stowy!” the daddy said, trying to crawl out of the box.
“Vlad impaled them all, and didn’t care when they cried and screamed and begged. It took them a very long time to die, and they screamed and screamed and screamed. He put them all along the side of the road to Turk land, and from a distance, it looked like a forest of crying, screaming Turks. So much so, that when an army of new Turks arrived, they were confused by the new forest that was not there last time. Then, they realised… That’s not a forest! That’s all our friends with big spikey sticks up their bungholes!”
“Huu huu huu huu huu…” one of the babies started to wail, “Fwuffy nu wike meany stowy no mowe! Wet fwuffies go mistah!”
“I’m sorry fluffies,” I told the pitiful baby as it sobbed and begged, “I can’t let you go. You see, for too long, fluffies have been coming to my land. I tried to warn you, I tried to fight you, but none of it worked. So now, I’m afraid, I have to impale you, as a warning to other fluffies.”
“Wha?” the fluffy daddy asked in utter disbelief, “Nuuu! Nu impawe fwuffies! Yu said gib fwuffies sketties! Wan sketties! Nu impawe!”
"Its too late for that, I said, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck, “You have to be… IMPALED.”
“Nuuu! Bad upsies!” It begged, crapping himself in fear and covering his family in a torrent of his foul fear-turds.
“Speciaw fwiend!” the mummah cried.
“Daddah! Daddah!” the babies wailed.
I took the sharp stick, and placed it at the poop covered entrance to the fluffy’ bunghole.
“Nuuuuu!” It begged, “Nu impawe fwuffy!”
“No?” I asked it, as if it was crazy not to want its impalement.
“Nuuu! Pwease nice mistah! Wet fwuffy gu!”
“Well, I have to impale a fluffy, if not you, then who?” I asked it, inserting the very tip of the sharpened stake into its horrible shit covered asshole.
“Nuuuu… huu huu… PWEASE! Nu impawe fwuffy! Impawe annova meanie fwuffy! Impawe a meanie smawty! Nu impawe daddah fwuffy… Speciaw fwiend an babbehs need daddah fow find nummies! PWEEEEEASE nu impawe fwuffy!”
I inserted the stake another inch. Just enough to cause discomfort and terror.
“Nuuuu! Pwease!” It wailed. “PWEEEEEEEEEEEASE!”
I sighed, and put it down on my workbench. The fluffy quickly shook the stake free from its ass.
“I guess I’ll just have to impale your babies then.”
“Nuuuuu!” the fluffies shrieked in a collective cry.
I picked up the first foal, and squeezed it.
“Dancie babbeh! Dancie babbeh!” the mummah cried, but nothing she could say could stop me now.
“Eeep! Cheep! Chirp!” the foal started chirping, in utter terror, as I slowly inserted the sharpened stake into its ass. “Eeeep!” its eyes widened as the pointy end entered the first half inch, “EEEP! EEEEEEEEEP!”
I slide the stake in a good two inches. No deeper than it had slid into the daddy-fluffy’s ass, but on a foal no bigger than three inches, it quickly ruptured its sphincter and tore through it delicate internal organs. Shit flowed down the stake. Followed by blood.
“EEEEEP! EEEEEEP!” the foal continued to wail.
“NUUUUUUUU!” wailed the mummah.
“BABBEH!” cried the daddah, and started hammering his hooves against my body. It didn’t hurt at all, but was distracting, so I turned to him, picked up a hammer, and smashed all four of his leg to a bloody, bony pulp.
“SCREEEEEE!” the daddy-fluff squealed as I smashed his first leg, “SCREEEEE! SCREEEE!”
He continued to scream as I smashed his other three legs, leaving him legless, and helpless, as I continued my impalement of his offspring.
“Nuuu… babbehs…” he moaned pitifully.
“Babbehs! Babbehs!” the mother wailed, “Speciaw-fwiend! Save babbehs!”
“Huu huu huu… fwuffy nu can hewp… nu hab weggies nu mowe!” he simply cried.
“EEEEP!” chirped the next foal as I tore its asshole to a diameter wider than its body. That particular stake was not very sharp, and far too thick for a foal. Its intestines probably weren’t even punctured, but its asshole couldn’t have been torn any wider if it had given birth to a bowling ball.
“BABBEHS!” the mother shrieked again, before breaking down, and weeping pitifully.
Later, she begged me not to impale her “bestest babbeh”, and finally, not to impale her “lastest babbeh”. When I found the fifth foal, she begged me not to impale the “lastest-lastest babbeh”
“Nu… huu huu… Nu impawe wastest-wastest babbeh… It am onwy wittew babbeh… Pwease wet mummah an wastest babbeh gu!”
“Oh ok then,” I told her, “I’ll only impale him a little bit.” I slowly slid the lastest-lastest baby onto the sharpened spike into its poopy-place.
“Nuuuu!” the baby yelled, “Cheep! Cheep!”
I impaled it deeply enough to split the ring of its ass, but not enough to rupture its colon. It wailed and screamed, but was by far the least impaled of its brethren.
“Babbehs! Babbehs!” the mummah cried again, before beginning yet more pitiful huuing.
“S-sowwy babbehs… am bad daddah… nu can hewp…” the daddy-fluff simply groaned.
“And now to impale mummah and daddah,” I said.
“NUUUU! Nuu impawe mummah! NUUUU!” the mother begged and screamed.
“Huu huu huu…” the crippled daddah simply cried.
I grabbed the mummah, ignoring her cries of “bad upsies” and slowly slid the final stake into her asshole. Her eyes widened as the stake went inside, but then an idea struck me. Taking out the stake, I parted her fur, and found her other hole. That would be better for impalement in this case I felt.
“Nuuu! Speciaw Pwace!” She cried, “Nu wan sowwy stick in speciaw pwace! Nuuu! Nuuuu! NUUUUUUU! SCREEEEEEEE!”
The fluffy mother was impaled a good eight inches or so into her foot long body. Unlike the babies, I really had to pull down hard on her rear legs to impale her properly. She only stopped wailing when the stake punctured her lung, causing her to gasp and gurgle, unable to catch her breath to scream again. It was a pity, I had impaled her too deeply I realised.
“Speciaw FWIEND!” the daddah fluffy cried, “Huu huu huu huu huu…”
“Oh, I’m sorry, but she had to be impaled,” I told him, “Looks like I’m out of stakes now. Does that mean you get to escape? I guess so. Well, go on then, run along now.”
“Huu huu… Fwuffy nu can wun… huu huu huu… Fwuffy nu hab weggies nu mowe…”
“Oh well, looks like you get impaled after all. Still, I’m out of stakes. You’ll have to share a stake with the lastest-lastest baby.”
“Nuu…” the daddy-fluff huffed, “Pwease… nu impawe…”
I picked him up by his two pulped front legs, ignoring his wails of agony, and sat him on top of the semi-impaled lastest-lastest baby. It was bent over by his weight, and would probably be smothered by his weight alone. I pulled down on the daddah’s ruined legs, and squished him slowly onto the baby. It took far, far longer than with the other fluffies. I had to keep pulling him off and re-adjusting the baby fluffy, as it kept slipping off the stake. Each time I put it back on the stake, it tore a larger rent in its tiny bunghole, until eventually I was inserting the stake into a gaping blood and shit covered wound.
Finally, the stake spiked through the baby’s back, and I was able to insert it into the daddah-fluff’s asshole. The baby’s remained outside its daddy’s ass, as the force of its daddy being impaled pushed its body further and further down the stake, like some kind of fucked up fluffy kebab.
“Eeeeep!” it wailed, “Chirp! Cheep!”
“Sowwy babbeh…” the daddy apologised, “Huu huu huu…”
“There,” I said, wiping my blood and shit covered hands on an old rag, and admiring my work, “All done.”
“Dave?!” A woman’s voice asked, “What the FUCK are you doing?” It was Angela, looking at my impaled fluffies in disbelief as she entered my workshop.
Angela left the farm later that day, to go stay at her grandmothers for a while.
The first day, the fluffies cried, and begged to be released.
Later that day, I actually found a mini-herd, trying to free them somehow. Some of the fluffies were even hugging the stakes, and saying things like “Pwease mistah sowwy stick, pwease wet fwuffies go!”
Dumb-ass mother-fuckers. I impaled them all too.
On the second day, my fresh batch of fluffy scarecrows cried and begged to be freed, while the family I had impaled earlier chirped and gurgled. All except the fluffy daddy that was. He had learned. He warned any fluffies that got close enough to hear about the “monster daddah” that lived in the farm.
“Wun!” He croaked, severely dehydrated and in searing agony, “Wun away, ow get wowstest impawe huwties fwom munstah daddah!”
The fluffies turned and ran, but not before I caught a few and impaled them too.
On the third day, the fluffy mummah and babies had died. Somehow, the fluffy daddah was still alive, though he did little but gurgle in agony. I decided to give him a drink of water, to see how long he would live.
The fresh fluffies from yesterday were still begging for their freedom, but the fluffies from the first day were now warning other fluffies to leave, telling them about the “munstah daddah!”
By day three, crows were eating the baby fluffies, and flies were buzzing around the corpse of their mother. Several other fluffies had died, but others were still crying about the “munstah daddah”.
And the fluffy daddy? He was still alive. Just. I asked him some questions, and tried to give him more water, but he didn’t drink it. I had to lean in very close to his stinking, bloodied body. Flies were buzzing around his legs, and laying their eggs in his decaying flesh.
“Wan die…” he gasped quietly. “Fwuffy wan die…”
