Be Anon.
As if you could be anyone else, with a hangover like this one you wished you could.
Ever since Dad died you’ve been getting smashed every day, twelve year long battle with cancer took out a lot from both of you.
Alarm buzzes, not caring if you’re trashed on grain alcohol nor that you miss your dad. Mocking you with it’s incessant blaring, you’d throw it away but…it’s dad’s.
Your fist slams into a button in one swift motion and silences the noise, opening your eyes caked in sleep is a herculean struggle but you manage. Anonington’s always do.
Look at the time.
11:30 AM
Same thought that crosses your mind every morning pops in today, if you wanted to you could just go back to sleep.
Your only real chore is managing the farm land, you get a monthly check as long as you’re here and maintaining the land and overabundance of orange trees.
Second official Californian government never comes to check up on you, seeing you live smack dab in the middle of nowhere. Why not sleep in more, go out around five to the nearest town thirty miles out and waste more cash?
The prospect sounds glorious, as it always does, but the loud thump from outside causes a shockwave of pain to rattle the inside of your skull.
“The fuck…?” you groan out, placing a palm to your forehead as if to try and push the pain out.
Probably possums, you reason to yourself, little fuckers liked coming in and taking some of the product. You could spray down everything with garlic/chilies/tobasco sauce water cocktail later, that’ll keep the little bastards out.
Could sleep in until then, sure. That’d work out just fine, not like they can get to too much in the meantime.
“Yeah,” you murmur already feeling your eyes getting heavy again “Yeah that’s fine.”
Another crash, just as loud as the last with the sounds of oranges repeatedly thudding to the ground.
“Hewp!”
Your eyes shoot open, staring into the alarm clock.
“So scawy dawk!” another voice screams out, joining the original
“Huuuhuhuu…”
“Hewp Pweese!”
“Nummies so good!”
Each voice as adorably shrill as the last, sending blasts of pain through your head.
Pull up your jeans, pull down your wife beater, sunlight shining in through the screen door of the back porch.
Wondering how kids so young could get into the fields, sound like they couldn’t be more then seven or eight at the oldest.
“Pweese,” a voice screams “Pweese don’t wike dawk! Pweese!”
Try to not get overwhelmed with the urge to beat whatever kid the voice belonged to.
You press your face sloppily up against the screen door, you don’t see any children.
Instead you see a bright colorful blur, then another, then four more.
“No…” you groan, hand slithering up the brass door knob as your vision adjusts and you see exactly what the problem is.
“No come on, not this. No christ fucking way,”
Fluffies. Of all things it could be, it’s shit rats. Farm hasn’t had to deal with the little bastards since you were small.
Most of them died few miles out of the town due to predators and lack of water.
You’d thought the things were almost all gone if you were being honest. Ever since Second California started, it was rare you saw anything about other farms dealing with infestations on the news.
Six total you count in your line of sight, munching on mashed oranges that fell to the ground. You wonder how on earth they could possibly get to the fruits in trees taller then them.
As you watch the little bastards, the origin of the noise that split through your hangover and rocked you back into reality becomes abundantly clearer.
Two of the six, one which had been a pure white, the other a dull orange, had each an overturned basket securely fastened to their heads.
The ginger one, had been running in aimless circles pleading for help while it cried and tripped over its own hooves. None of the other fluffies seemed really to care, in fact they were all too involved in some of the smashed oranges which sat among others still intact.
The white one, had decided to take a more active stance against the ‘scawy dawk’.
”Nu like this! Go ‘way!” it screamed, at nothing as it backed up taking an offensive stance, quite alike to a mentally deficient bull preparing to attack.
”Snobaww getchu an’ give biggest owwies!”
With the war cry uttered, it backs up further then begins to charge forward with a toddleresque run. Though, being encased in darkness and trying to chase said darkness only would lead to failure, as the small moron bashed it’s head into an orange tree that had been a few feet in front of it.
”Owwies!” it yelped falling back onto it’s ass, then slowly returning to a stand, only to charge and hit into the exact same tree.
Yeah, this is coming together now for you even with a throbbing headache that begged you to be put out of your misery. The metaphorical gears turn through the sludge of pain as you put the pieces in place.
Somehow, a herd of at least six fluffies found their way into your farm land looking for food. In their march of the penguins styled journey they find the orange baskets stacked outfront meant to be shipped today.
Orange and white probably lead the operation and because they have no idea how physics work, get the baskets stuck on their heads after being pelted by an array of oranges.
Since you got up, the rest of the herd (that you can see at least) ignored them to eat their stolen bounty.
You never owned one as a kid, before they disappeared from the public face, but you knew from your dad that summer killed the bio toys en masse especially out here. How they avoided that death you aren’t sure, but you suppose they must have gotten to your trees just in time for shade and safety from wild animals. Probably arrived late in the night and ate the overgrown weeds and grass on the way to your home.
By all accounts though, the journey out here should have killed them. The last time you’d even seen a fluffy on the TV had been at a tender age of twelve, you think coincidentally that’s also the last time they’d played fluffy exterminator ads on the TV.
You wonder what happened since then, never really did figure out what drove the things out from the public mind. Didn’t exactly need to either, truth be told.
Regardless though there’s something certain here, you have vermin on your land damaging what was supposed to be government owned food. Second California did not take kindly to it’s rations being light, last thing you need is to be removed from here if they send someone out and see how ‘well’ you’ve maintained the general land.
You’ve never been fond of killing something, but a man must do what he has to, just like dad taught. The fluffies should pray to whatever god watches them that they make this easy on them and let you spare them a cruel cleansing from your farm.
As you begin to turn the brass doorknob which had now become warm in your hand you hear something else-
A single knock reverberates through your home which itself would fail to be a significant cause of stress, but the sound of your front door opening is another story.
Shit.
Must’ve left the goddamn door unlocked last night, not the first time you’ve done it and you keep saying you’ll stop doing it but you never do.
Maybe this time it’ll be the last, the thing that makes you change up for the better. You’ve thought that time and time again before, just like you keep promising to stop fucking the peanutbutter. Always promise you will, never follow up.
You hate to leave as you let go of the door handle, a herd of fluffies can cause much more damage to the farm than possums ever could, but the idea of someone in your home is much more alarming.
You make way moving past the washing machines, into the kitchen, stumbling your way back into the living room where you spot the intruder in question.
Your heart which had been racing prior begins to slow again. Standing there was your post man, the only post man that was sent out to your farm to pick up crops for delivery.
He’s the same sickly malformed yellow as always, like he desperately needed dialysis or almost like he had been a character out of that show The Simpsons before it got cancelled some years back in the early two thousands.
He’s standing there looking at the old PC on your mahogany dining table, a device you haven’t used in a few years. Deceptively bulky looking in his puffy blue mail man jacket, blue cap taken off his head and set on the table, he takes a thin finger and drags it slowly along the tower. Pulling it back he has a thick pile of dust set atop his index, analysing it with curiosity.
“What’re you doing in my house cunt?” That catches his attention, he turns quickly to meet you. Strange figure in all blue, the logo of the reformed government proudly emblazoned on the breast of the puffy jacket, right side.
”Friendly as always, eh Anon?” his hand, the one with the dust, slices through the air quickly to hold out the index to you in an accusatory manner.
”Should consider dusting sometime,” he pauses, holding up the finger now to point towards the sky with his entire arm still outstretched “Not many people still own computers, should take care of yours. Unless it’s just for show.”
”Besides,” he hums as he takes back his hand and rubbing it off on his blue pants “you should know our pickup schedule by now.”
“Doesn’t exactly give you permission to just come into my home you know, “ you don’t make any effort to hide your bemusement nor do you need to. Two of you have known each other for years.
”Left the door open, figured you wouldn’t mind.”
“Common courtesy not to just fucking walk in, still-I…wait…” what he said finally hits you. The oranges are meant to be shipped and you have a pack of vermin eating them.
You take in a deep breath, your hand lifting up to your hair to anxiously smooth the greasy mess back.
“I’ve got a problem,”
”Fluffies huh?”
That’s the first thing he says after several minutes of silence, the two of you watching quietly from inside your home.
“Yeah,”
”Well I’ll be damned,” your mail man pulls himself away from the spectacle and moves to the washing machines, his frail arms grip onto the one closest to the wall and with a huff, pulls himself to sit up ontop of it.
”Dunno how you managed to get fluffies in this day and age Anon,” you’ve long since stopped watching them, back pressed to the screen door and arms crossed as you watch him.
”But you know you can’t just let them fuck around on your property like that right?”
“Of course I know that, you dense fuck.” You say with a particular hiss to your voice, causing the ill looking postal worker to raise his hands up in a show of defense.
”Alright alright, just checking no need to get your panties in a knot.” his hands lower again “ Not like you’ve been in your right mind for a while now, man.”
“Look,” you can hear the white fluffy thumping his head against the tree outside screaming at it “I just need your help here, you’ve been around fluffies before haven’t you?”
”Sure have,”
“So don’t you know any exterminators or something?” you breathe out “I’d hate to kill the things but I remember when my dad encountered that smarty when I was eight, moron had a herd of thirty of the shitrats and none of them wanted to leave.” You shudder “I still have nightmares about fluffy guts exploding everywhere from the shotgun.”
”Anon there uh,” your mail man gives you a look of confusion, one of his hands rubbing at his thigh “There are no exterminators anymore.”
“You’re kidding me, am I gonna have to deal with them myself then?”
”Jesus christ, when’s the last time you watched the news?”
“Never, spent most of my time taking care of dad and the farm the last few years.”
”Anon, not only are there no exterminators anymore, you can’t kill them yourself either.”
“…What?” you respond with a mixture of equal parts confusion and anger “Of course I can kill them, people kill them every day. This is my land too!”
”Those things,” he says ignoring you, lifting up the hand that had been rubbing his thigh, pointing to the fluffies past the screen door “are legally considered an endangered species now.”
You feel your heart begin to sink in your chest like a lead anchor in a bottomless ocean.
”Technically speaking, they’re labeled extinct.”
“Bullshit.” you snarl “You’re fucking with me, when I was growing up there was practically a hasbio section in every toy store!”
”Not anymore.”
“But…you…the things breed constantly how could they-”
”Most of the stuff people said back then about fluffies wasn’t true, that’s the first thing you need to understand here.” He says, moving with an unexpected quickness he slips down from the top of the washing machine and steps in closer to you.
“They get knocked up pretty quick yeah, but they die even quicker. Most mares have an average litter of one to three babies with ten at the most. Majority of foals and adults in the wild get killed by fluffy ignorance or the weather changes that started back in ‘06.”
”Anon, they’re all gone pretty much. Weather kills most of them, they still get bred for pet sales but they’ve become a small niche.” He moves in an inch closer to you, his breath smells acidic and painful. An olfactory sensation which mimicked the way his own crippled body looked like on the outside.
”Most owners only have the one fluffy if they got it, not to mention you and I both know the general state of humanity means that there’s not a whole lot of owners to go around either.”
”You can’t kill them, I’m sorry.”
Well, you’re boned.
”But…”
“But?”
”There’s some alternatives, there’s a government service that relocates fluffies to what shelters there still are…” the idea doesn’t sound too bad, really. You’re nearly about to jump in on that, which he must have noticed because he quickly cuts it down soon after.
”However, no offense by the way Anon, but your place looks like shit.” Particularly blunt way to put it, not that he was wrong at all. “If the FPPA sees how much you let the land go to pot, Second Californian government will probably kick you right out. No job, No home, No check. I can spot two trees from here that are dying from dehydration.”
“Alright alright,” you wave your hand at him, before pressing it into your temple and attempting to massage out the frustration you now felt. “What else?”
”Keep ‘em.”
“Now why in the ever loving fuck would I ever want to do that?”
”While you can’t legally kill the things, they’re still counted as pets-endangered ones, but pets all the same.” A smile begins to etch in his face again as he speaks, something which seemed to convey a sort of malignant glee to it.
”You have a lot of trouble keeping things up to date, filling the baskets you meet the minimum quota. Fluffies are pretty dumb yeah, but they can be taught to do simple tasks most of them.”
“Get to the point already,”
”Fluffies are pets with less rights than your average dog. Anon,” his hands zip out and grip your shoulders and leans in, the smell of his acidic breath wafts back into your nose. You consider giving him a sock to the jaw and shaking his shoulders off you violently but you hold back, there’s a fire in his eyes you’ve never seen before and it lights something up in your midsection. A feeling you haven’t felt since you first started watching my little pony as a young boy, before dad got sick.
”You have free labor outside.”
Like crystalized glass there is a moment of silence, the idea has dawned.
“How long do you think it’ll take to break them?”
”Well,” he trails grabbing the brass handle for you and opening up the door to the outside. When the door pulls back it does so with a loud creak. Instantly every visible fluffy there is looking in the direction of you and your good ol’ mail man.
”That’s gonna depend on how big the herd really is and if there’s any smarties around.”
You and your ‘friend’ walk out of your home, it is quiet but you cannot help feeling that this is the eye of a storm soon to break out.
The ginger fluffy from earlier has taken to sitting on the ground and crying, the other white one now lays near the foot of the tree like a useless sack of potatoes. Last thing you heard in the background was a ‘HAY’CHOO MEANIE’ and thump.
You wonder if it’s dead.
”What munstah hoomins doin’ hewe?”
Your mail man flicks you in the back of your head, bringing your attention to a black fluffy with white coloured hooves.
”Pay attention now,” he whispers to you, voice crackling with phlegm like static on the old car radio.
”Well hey there little guy!” your mail man chimes in with a sickening amount of predatory enthusiasm, not that the fluffy seems to notice.
”Nodda widdle guy!” it counters aggressively “Am fwuffy!”
”Sorry sorry, of course…” watching the way he moves is all too similar to watching a rattlesnake hiding in the brush getting ready to strike “What’re you fluffies up to on my friend’s land?”
”Not you fwiends wand, dis am fwuffy wands now. Smawty fwiend show us! We get aww da nummies.”
“You look here you little cock sucking goblin faggot,” the arrogance on the things face combined with the way it spoke about YOUR land. The land you and your father have lived and worked on, that your father died on sets you off.
You Know you could kill the thing if you wanted, might get in trouble, but it should know who’s boss. Everything in you demands to put the fear of god into it; but your friend gets his hand up to block you from coming in any closer than you already had begun to get.
Apparently what you did had some sort of effect, the ginger cries louder and the black and white one is cowering a bit.
”Fwuffy not scawed…” it says, struggling to get the words out past its anxious shiver ridden jaw.
”No, sure you aren’t. Why would you be, you’re brave aren’t you?”
The fluffy gives your friend a scrupulous look but nods, the others (save for the crying one, which you keep wishing would shut up) join in.
”Yeah!” chimes apparently a secondary white one, though much filthier looking than the one that laid possibly dead on the ground.
”Fwuffy am bwavest fwuffy evah! Bestest nummies findah!” the gray and white pegasus giggles, to which another lilac fluffy nods.
”Bet you’re the smarty of your herd too, yeah?”
”Nuuuu,” the black one shakes his head rapidly “Smawty fwiend with west of hewd!”
”There’s more of you all then?”
The smile that crosses the mail man’s face is enough to send chills up your spine, morons never had a chance.
”You gotta learn, Anon,” he says as you follow along side him, the both of you following five out of the six fluffies that you’d seen earlier.
”A gentle hand can get you real far.”
“I’m not gonna give these fuckers a free plate of…” you lower your voice “ ‘skettie’ every night. I don’t care, it’s not happening.”
”Of course it’s not,” he replies with a shrug of his shoulders, the fabric of his jacket giving a light hiss when his arms go up.
“Why promise it then…?”
”Fluffies aren’t good with reason Anon, you go and wail on them before you get information out they’re gonna shit themselves so hard they forget what they were doing in the first place. Y’need free labor, not a lost herd that’ll kill itself off in a week.”
Huh.
“What am I supposed to feed these things then?”
”Most of them can have the overgrown grass and weeds you’ve got growing here.” The fluffies ahead babble incoherently to each other, you know you must be getting closer because there’s a distinctly heavy smell of shit in the air.
”Throw them an orange every now and then, we can supplement the grass and weeds once they mow it down too much with fluffy chow.”
You open your mouth ready to ask another question but he stops you, annoyingly.
”Don’t worry Anon, I’ve got your back. Anything you need help with regarding the fluffies, I’m there.”
You don’t even get the chance to process what he said, as a sea of technicolour fluff swims into your vision. The group of five runs up to greet their friends, dropping off small pieces of orange and dead leaves or some of the group to consume.
All together it’s approximately a group of seventeen fluffies, primarily earth ones, though you can spot an odd unicorn or pegasus amongst the group.
Before you know it, he’s left you to go search for the smarty friend.
The first thing that comes to mind is back when the Lauren Faust hour used to play on the hub. ‘FLUFFTV’ was your least favourite segment, like a more dumbed down sesame street.
Christ on a crutch, you haven’t thought about the Faust hour or flufftv since…well, since you were a kid. It’s funny, the things you think about when shit happens. You know why you thought of it-the sight of fluffies triggered that memory.
At the same time, there’s always something different about memory recalls like that, something near otherworldly in them with the potent nostalgia they contain. Like a warm flush inside of your chest, you could almost forget your general distaste for the creatures in this moment of time.
Something tugs at the leg of your denim jeans, looking down you see the thing pulling at you is a bright blue unicorn foal. No idea how old the thing is, couldn’t be more than a few weeks old.
The thing chirps at you, drool dribbling down its face as it tugs at your pants leg playing with it. It’s a cute sight, really.
Thoughts dance in your head about smashing the thing under your foot. Not that you particularly want to do this, just simply happens to be what comes into your mind. Before you know it, another fluffy has toddled up to the little foal and nuzzles it gently.
The other fluffy, a valentine red pegasus, looks up at you smiling excitedly.
”Dis mah babbeh!” it states with an air of pride “Is bestest babbeh evah!”
You roll your eyes at the thing, you vaguely remember hearing fluffies talk like that on tv way back when…infact you…
Wasn’t there something on old FLUFFTV segment called ‘babies’? The memory tickles you, thoughts interspersed between the wave of nostalgia of kicking the mother directly in the face.
Feels weird.
Several hours later.
It’s a glorious betrayal when your mail man convinces the herd who’d followed him like the pied piper to your…mostly empty shed, to just walk right on inside.
“All the nummies you can get!”
Nope.
You can hear fluffies screaming and crying like weasels high on helium gas, you watched as the person the herd had dubbed the ‘sickies man’ slammed the latch on your barn shut.
Tucked under his arm was the smarty, who’d been a purple unicorn a little…too reminiscent to Twilight Sparkle for your liking.
Reminds you of when they found those old drawings President Haber did.
Shudder.
“PWEESE PWEESE SO DAWK N SCAWY S’NOT GOOD FOR FWUFFIES.”
“You sure they’re gonna be alright for a few hours?”
Your mail man nods snorting, the purple fluffy kicks and screams and wiggles uselessly under his grasp.
“Yeah, the tools you got in there are a bit too heavy to get moved when they’re having panic attacks like that. Majority of the cunts will conk out for a few hours after hyperventilating about being in the shed.”
“Just make sure you come back and clear out the tools by then, it’s gonna be a bitch to get them to accept it as a slave quarters after this but it’ll be harder if a few die in it.”
“What about that one?” You’d asked pointing to the hyper ventilating Twilight breed. “What happened to new slave labor? Not that I mind you taking one I guess but…”
“Nah,” he says with the coolness of dry ice “I get it. Don’t worry, I’ll be bringing it back by the end of the week. Last thing you want is a smarty who-”
“Put smawty down wight nao! Give biggie owies evah n fowevah sweepies! Nao nao nao nao! Wet hewd go!” Begs the purple unicorn in a mix of anger and sheer desperation, it’s crying such thick globules of tears.
“Don’ huwt hewd pweese or ewse!” It cant seem to decide whether to be angry or beg or both.
Your mail man sighs, you note that he shifts the writhing creatures ass end out farther behind him.
The unicorn scrunches up it’s face, eyes shut so tightly you wonder if it’s going to pop a blood vessel and then, like a horrible magic trick it lets out a stream of hot diarrhea smelling of literal death.
The stench, scented like rotting corpse and whatever oranges that must have made it’s way into the fluffies diet, acrid and horrible causes you to double over.
“Oh jesus,” your hands are on your knees, you’re gagging and you swear you can feel the shit rat grinning triumphantly “How does that smell so much worse than the literal pile of shit they left a few acres back?”
“Anon,” he doesn’t say anything, there’s this long and awkward pause of time between you gagging and his use of your name. You cant help but feel small, small like the shit rats when he says nothing.
When strength returns to you to hold your head back up you see what you already knew.
He never gagged once.
“Anon, that’s a “sorry poopies”.”
“Sowwiest poopies evah! Make munstahs go 'way!”
“As much as I enjoy spoon feeding you shit you should’ve learned watching the Faust hour, I gotta go.” He points his yellowed thumb back towards your home behind the two of you.
“Someone’s gotta cover your ass,”
“Le’go smawtie! Pweese, nao!”
“And give this little fucker the worst sorry sticking of their life.”
Watching the unicorns face turn practically pale as it realizes it’s disgusting shit hose of revenge had done nothing is delightful.
Seeing the fear in it’s eyes is better.
“Someone’s gotta cover your ass,”
“Le’go smawtie! Pweese, nao!”
“And give this little fucker the worst sorry sticking of their life.”
Watching the unicorns face turn practically pale as it realizes it’s disgusting shit hose of revenge had done nothing is delightful.
Seeing the fear in it’s eyes is better.
Soon your mail man is gone, all that’s left is you.
Well, you and the white fluffy laying on the ground possibly dead.
You look down at the pitiful thing, basket still covering its stupid face. You don’t know what it is that motivates you to do this, there’s no real reason for it at the end of the day. But leaning your head down to the critter you press your ear up near the basket.
You notice a smell of iron, immediately. If there was one thing you remembered about fluffies it was how heavy their blood smelled. Thick, metallic scent that stayed for days.
Then you hear against all odds the soft little wheeze of it’s breath.
You suppose the thing probably gave itself a concussion, which is…some sort of hilarious. Gotta wonder what kind of cruel fuck would make a species that could concuss itself with sheer stupidity.
Though, truth be told, you suppose humans do the same thing then don’t they? Maybe god is the one you should be talking to.
Same god who thought it was funny to give your pop cancer.
Whatever.
You pick up the animal, careful-you didn’t want to get baptized in the frightened shit of the pure white fluffy, when it doesn’t wake up you cradle it in both your arms and carry it into your home.
If you can’t have dead fluffies, you suppose you’re better off saving one.
You hate everything about what you’re doing but you do it anyway.
A man does what he has to do.
You’ve got the fluffy set down on the dining table, you know that what you’re feeling is stupid, even more when you take the basket off and see it’s small cut on it’s head.
This is simple, nothing more than a few stitches. But the thought of anything medical makes you sicker than the sorry poopies had.
So you do what comes natural, you head to the kitchen and slurp down a little of your orange 'moonshine you store in the fridge.
Time to get to work.
Your hands stumble with the needle awkwardly, sewing up the small tear in it’s head.
That iron smell never stops being thick the whole way through, without liquid courage you don’t think you could’ve handled this.
When all is said and done, you pull the white earth pony off the table and drop them a few feet from the ground.
It whimpers, but nothing cracks. You’ve done a good job.
It’s face is a little tighter looking now but what animal doesn’t want to look young again?
You grab the peanutbutter on your way back to the bedroom after admiring your handiwork.
You’re gonna make it your girlfriend.