East Prarie Street, p. 1 and 2 [by ekulmam3838]

Not sure how many parts this will be, but will update as I go along. Got big plans for these shitrats and their hellspawn.

East Prairie Street, Part 1.

mmmmgmmmfffmmmMMMMMGFNNMMM!!” cried the small patchy ball of, well, something.

You smiled, looking down at the pitiful creature. You knew it was a fluffy, but your students had no clue. It’s eyes were a deep yellow, crossed by large red veins. It’s silver fur was patchy and strained, dotted with areas of exposed skin and raw flesh from where it’s once luscious mane was viciously pulled. It looked at you with pleading eyes, tears unable to flow, to end it’s life here and now. But, that was not the fate for this little creature.

It would be far worse.

A beam of sunlight shone in from window across your room, as it always did at five in the morning, every morning since you were ten. Begrudgingly, you open your eyes and rub the crusted over areas, quickly getting up and going to the bathroom. As you sit down, you hear the faint huu-huus of your toiletside cleaner. A jet black fluffy, pillowed and blinded from untreated and still infected pinkeye, whimpered, fearing that it would be used, so to speak, for the eighth morning in a row. As you finish your morning number two, wipe, and flush, you realize the toilet is clogged, AGAIN. Sighing, still half asleep, you stand and pull your pants up. The fluffy recoils audibly from the sound of the buckle.

“SHITSTAIN!” you bellow, waking yourself up.

y-yy…huu…yis…daddeh? What du yuuhuuuhuu neeed?”

He’s already in tears.

“The toilet munstah needs to see you.”


It took under twenty seconds to get him into hysterics. Picking the creature up from its ever expanding neck rolls, he flailed his raw stumps around, cut right below the shoulder to not prevent forward movement. Shitstain never realized the gashes on his stumps were of his own doing; he refuses to sit still in the dark bathroom and rocks side to side in agony, wailing for his LONG dead mummah. His crusted over and oozing eyes attempt to dart around and instinctively open, but were unable to due to swelling and weeks-old pus that hardened between his eyelids. Shitstain began to babble to himself;



He began to cry for you at the end, wailing for upsies and huggies and love. But, as you held him there, relishing in the cries, you realize Shitstain still has a job. Grabbing the fluff around where his tail used to be, as well as the scruff of the neck, you force the fluffy’s short mouth into the bowl. He began chewing at the now soggy toilet paper, trying to eat around the large turds that were almost the size of him. Each bite releases a new wave of shock and discomfort through the fluffy’s bowels. The groans and slight squeaks emanating from such a small gut were audible; you could almost imagine what pain it must be feeling right now.

And you smile.

Shitstain continues to eat the wadded toilet paper, and relinquishes a defeated “awhhuhh…dunnnnhuhhuuu…”. You grab him around the throat, switching your grip. His stumps flail around in a circular motion, only causing more pain to the fluffy. The sudden jerking and movement of his entire body apparently caused enough pain for his eyelids to snap open, shattering the crusted pus and taking chunks of the lid with it. This elicited an incredibly shrill SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE that left Shitstain’s dark brown eyes dripping with viscous blood.



There was no room for disobedience, especially not for a utility fluffy like this. You shove his bloodied face into the bowl, the new wounds immediately being infected by the fetid, disgusting toilet water. You hold him under, he screeches until his lungs are empty, calling for you to save him. It’s truly insane that for all that you’ve done to this foul abomination, it still thinks you will be its knight in shining armor that comes to rescue it from the evil monster. You pull him up as the bubbles begin to dwindle.

Shitstain gasps for air, but only manages to breathe in more water.


You hold him by the back leg, and the water comes flushing out into the toilet.

“Are you going to finish the poopies now?”


You grab him in a similar fashion as before, but with a far tighter crip, causing the skin underneath the shit-brown fur to flush and begin to bleed. Slamming his head into the deepest part of the bowl, you hear his delicate forehead smash against the underwater porcelain. You then flush the toilet, keeping Shitstain’s head underwater and pulling him out as soon as the poopies nearly reached the drain. He came out a sopping mess. Clearly the strike on his forehead did some permanent damage, as his eyes now faced the opposite way from each other, and his fat tongue leaked from his mouth from newly vacated holes in his gumline.

“Good. Maybe he’ll not cause any fuss now. Faggot ass…” you trail off.

You check your watch. 5:21 AM.

3 more hours. You go back to sleep, trying to get some extra shuteye before work.

About thirty seconds into your extended rest, a slight rapping comes from your front door. Eyes snapping open, you march down the stairs from your bedroom to your front door, whipping it open hard enough for the doorknob to puncture a hole in the corresponding wall. “Fuck…” you mutter to yourself, forgetting why your door was even open in the first place in your sleepless haze.


The sound hit your ears like nails on a chalkboard. A fat, lime green mummah, clearly older than she should be having children, with three foals lining her matted back fur. Violet, navy blue, and pink were their colors, but you thought you could hear some other, more faint peeps behind her.

“Who the FUCK are you. RETARD,” you say, emphasizing the “bad wowds”.

The mummah recoils, reaching for her heart. “Mumm…mummah is Emwowd. Siggsuhmimeanfwee pweddy foaws aw Phownee…powneeshee…powneesha…PUWPOW!” she blurts out, staring at you with still frightened eyes. “Ummm…oddah babbehs is Naybee and de odda is Fwowah” she finished triumphantly.

Gan u wet fwuffies wib wif yu…be nyu…bee nyu daddeh!” she spurts, as you look on with a smirk.


Emerald smiles, her eyes growing to the size of dinnerplates. “WEAWWY??”

“Maybe! You have beautiful fur and some of your babbehs look verrry pretty…”

“DU YU MEAN ID DADDEH!!! FANK OOO!! PWEEZE be daddeh nao??”

“You know what…sure! Just under one condition.”


“Get your other babbehs. These three are bad colors.”

She froze at the sudden twist of fate. But her babbehs were the best colors, old mummah told me, she thought. Old mummah couldn’t lie, right?

Buh…daddeh…fwuffy hab no odda babbes…” , she was clearly lying.

You shot a glare at her. She understood the message. She scampered out the front door, leaving her three good-colored babbehs alone. Taking advantage of the situation, you swoop in to muffled cries of sabfubbee and mobbah, the undeveloped voices of foals who would never grow up into adulthood.

You place them in a brown paper bag. You are trying to recycle more.

Emerald returned shortly after with three brown colored foals, incredibly undeveloped from neglect and lack of food. The disgusted look on your face when she brought them through the door and roughly dropped them at your feet told her, in her peanut fluffy brain, that she was right! That these babies were disgusting, and new daddeh thought so too. She nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard her new daddeh stomp right next to her and bellow;


Dead? What did that mean? Emerald had no idea, her neurons were firing, until she came upon the conclusion: foweba sweepies.

She immediately calmed down. “Poopie babbeh aw foweba sweepies caus dey aw poopy. De desewb id!”

The searing pain that followed in Emerald’s ribs and subsequent throbbing in her left side shot up her spinal cord and into her brain, overloading it with pain.

As you look down on your now bloodied shoe and wall at the kicked fluffy, you covered your ears for the incoming screech. Luckily, you only saw it, but you thanked your lucky stars you did. It lasted for a solid thirty seconds, a shrill tone that echoed through the house. The mare clearly had three broken ribs and likely internal bleeding, plus a front hoof that was bent out of place. Damaged, but not enough to kill. You look down to the three brown foals…

They are all dead. From heart attacks, apparently. The little rats died with their hooves reaching for their chest, eyes lolled backed in their head. It was a real shame, you felt bad for them. They didn’t ask for an awful mother or bad colors. Maybe they were right, it wasn’t fair. Then again…they were only fluffies. Abominations. Opening the front door, you threw them into the street that was picking up traffic. Didn’t take long for the corpses to get run over by some loser in a clapped out WRX going 60.

Slamming the door shut, you grab the paper bag, now loaded with scaredy poopies and peepies as well as the demon that birthed these hellspawn. The mare was silent, staring off into space, not reacting as you grabbed her by the scruff of the neck. You bring the family through the living room and down the stairs, where the unfinished portion of your basement lies. Half of it is used to store fishing equipment, and the other is now used for your newest hobby. The solid stone floor makes cleanup incredibly easy, and the tall sturdy workbenches your father left you allow for easy access to your darkest destructive desires.

East Prairie Street, Part 2.

The dark room flickered alight as you entered. The wooden bench, lightly stained from your new foray into the new hobby, had cold metal clamps attached to it. As Emerald entered the room, suspended by her scruff, she came to and noticed the clamps first. An instinctual, or possibly learned, behavior caused her to squirm frantically while uttering a deep, guttural noise from the back of her throat. Something, or someone, made her REALLY not like clamps. Flicking her in the temple a few times left her dazed and immobilized. It began to swell and bruise, with her temple vein engorging and seemingly bursting beneath her skin. She managed a few whimpers before passing out once again, her eyes open and blood visibly pooling behind the tiny sclera.

Flipping Emerald on her back, legs spread eagle, you close the clamps on her nubby wrists and ankles. The busted arm isn’t much of a problem—you break it into position, no sweat. The break stirs her from her sleep, as she awakes she cries;


“EMERALD,” you proclaim sternly.

She comes to attention almost immediately. She was fake crying.

“…fucking retarded little thing…I’M NOT GONNA KILL YOU. YET.”

Her eyes and expression grew and shrank with each word, slowing to a pitiful wallow with tears at peeking at her eyes. Her current predicament ensnared in the makeshift crucifix has distracted her from her broken arms, and most importantly, her babbehs.

It seemed that she came to the conclusion after you said “yet”.

Reaching into the now greasy and shit-filled paper bag, you feel a slight gumming against your knuckle. The blue foal, Navy, was attempting to attack the munstah coming to his new home.

Dummeh munstah!! Pwoteggt sissies fwom munshta!! GrrrahhhhahNUUHHUUUUUUUU BAD UPSIESS!!! AM GUD FWUFFY, FWUFFY DO NUFFIN WONG!!”

“Is that right.”

uhm…yiz…i fink so…”

“You are WRONG.”

You snatch the fluffy from the bag violently, causing the foal to scream in agony as his frail limbs were crushed up against his fat body. You held him in limbo for a moment, staring straight into the coal-black eyes. You stare, and stare, and continue staring…until Navy stops crying. He looks back into your eyes, deep into green and yellow abyss that colored your iris. For a moment, and only a moment, he understood that this was his final bwite time. The nice man he thought would save his family will be the architect of his destruction.

And how right he would be.

You slam him, back first, into the wooden table. He makes and audible SLAP was his fat smacks against the hardened oak, causing his organs to shift within his small, dainty body. This sudden disorganization caused Navy to void his bowels in every possible way. His pinprick nostrils spewed snot, his mouth shot milky-yellow discharge, and he gave the table a small stream of bad poopies. After he had nothing left to void, he struggled to breathe laying on his back. It seems as if the liver had shifted atop his lungs in his ribcage, shortening his oxygen intake significantly. He could not move; it caused unbearable pain. But so did staying in one spot. Emerald looked on, from her new perched position crucified on the wall above the wooden table. Her voice sounded like a low guttural scream. She could no longer muster words; her own physical pain added with the intense mental pain completely shut down most of her brain. Her new red-backset eyes flicked around the room, looking anywhere but her misshapen baby.

You could almost make out the words “tahke mummeh insted…” and smile.

You whisper back, “we’ll get there honey.”

Navy began a rasping sound. Blood was getting into his windpipe. Urgently, I flipped him over to empty him through his mouth. Luckily it had already coagulated inside of him—or, more likely, the hole was covered by a misplaced organ. Sitting him on his backside, front paws in the air attempting to reach you for huggies or wub or anything else that wasn’t worstest hurties, you look at him once more.

In a singsong voice, you call to him “Ohh Navy, if you can be a good fluffy I can fix your hurties and you can not have forever sleepies!”

Navy panicked. His high-pitched squeal rang in your ears, echoing “SCWEEEEE!!! NU’WA FU’EBA SEEBS!! BUBEHHH!! EHH!!”

“Then all you have to do is be a good fluffy.”

He sobbed and sobbed until he finally relented and nodded yes.

“Okay Navy,” he perked up at you saying his name, then doubled over in pain and coughing up blood.

Once he regains attention, you say “I’m going to ask your mummah what you’re REALLY good at. All you have to do is your best job of that if I think it’s good!”

Emerald lit up, forgetting about her pain for a moment.

She spoke up, barely croaking out “b-a-bbehh gud at espwowin….su gud…”

“Good to know Emerald!” you exclaim, Navy clearly getting excited his pain may end soon.

aww Nabee ha tudu id ‘spwow!! Wub spow!!!”

“Also good to know,” you spill out devilishly, “good thing you won’t be doing that. I don’t think it’s very good.”

Emerald and Navy cry out simultaneously. Their cries seem to wake the other two foals still waiting in the bag with slight huus before falling asleep in piss and shit.

“You’ll be dancing for me. I love danceh babbehs!!”

Navy continues sobbing, as he has done for almost the entire duration. “buhh nuhh guud ad dancehh huuuhhuuuuuuu…”

He attempts to get on his hind legs and dance, but falls on his back once more. His eyes bug out of his head, his lungs becoming compressed once more by the displaced organs. You help him up, and he very faintly coos at your touch. You flick your hand back, disgusted.

“You know what Navy?” you bear down upon the small blue fluffy, “for that little disgusting thing you just did, you are now a BAD FLUFFY.” He looked shattered mentally. “You now only have three chances to dance good for daddeh. Including the one you just had…so two more chances.”

Navy began to shake uncontrollably, repeating “NU NU NU BAH DADEH BAH DADEH WAN MUMMAH WAN MUMMAH” and refusing to dance or even look at you. He was bathed in a waterfall of his mother’s tears, crawling over to attempt to be closer to her. He was nowhere close, but began to cry in the deep pool of tears that was forming.

“Is that attempt two?”

Emerald cried a gruff and guttural NUUU, but it didn’t matter.

“One more try.”

Navy cried and cried until his chest began to heave. Blood began to drip from his orifices, the organs clearly becoming punctured being in the wrong area. He sat on his behind, slowly shitting out liquid diarrhea and blood, crying and reaching for his meanie daddeh or his mummah, one refusing help and the other unable to do so. Navy felt a slight shift in the left side of his chest with a deep, pulsing pain, and within ten seconds, his eyes glazed over. The last thing he saw was his disfigured mother screaming in pain, covering him in her own tears. You grab him by the midsection and throw him back into the bag where he came from. His siblings screamed in terror, seeing the face of their deceased brother spewing liquid. Lightheartedly, and with a coy smile, you ask the distraught mare,

“Which one is next?”


Get fucked.