The Exodus of Fluffy
Part 1
Be a fluffy rancher.
Ranch is kind of a generous term for two acres of slightly retarded fluffy horses fenced in by a pond and a stream, but whatever, it keeps the lights on.
But rather than simply raising your fluffy for meat and fluff, your fluffies also work the land next door.
You keep the fluffies working with a whip.
Why a whip? Well it goes right through the fluff and leaves massive welts to remind them who’s boss.
The whip instills more fear in the fluffy mind than the chopping block, that’s for sure.
Today is a beautiful day.
You’re watching the fluffies pull weed from the careful rows of carrots when a feral fluffy crests the hill.
Ah, perfect, another fluffy to add to the work force.
This fluffy unicorn is red with a brown mane and carrying a stick.
Which is odd since so few fluffies know how to use tools.
As you reach for a collar to put on the fluffy, he waddles up to you and throws his stick at your feet.
“Dees fwuffies wan be fwee!” he yells at you. “Mowses say wet mah fwuffies go!”
…seriously?
I mean, you had a dog named Pharaoh once, but this is full on stupid.
“Fwuffies no wan be swaves!” he goes on to yell. “Fwuffies wan wive in wand of hugs and skettis.”
“Cleveland is an irradiated crater, idiot,” you tell him. “And why should I let these fluffies go? They do so much work for me.”
Moses seems confused for a moment as he tries to think.
You can practically smell the burning brain cells.
“If no wet fwuffies go, gif you bad owchie sickies!” he says.
Unbelievable.
“You threatening me, fuzz ball?” you ask. “Give me a reason why I shouldn’t punt you across the field.”
He blows a raspberry at you and runs off over the hill as fast as his fluffy legs will carry him.
Whatever, you’ve got shit to do.
Lay into the fluffies extra hard with the whip so they know who’s boss.
The next day, you go out to feed the fluffies to find that their trough has run red as blood.
Of course, Moses is standing there, blowing a raspberry at you.
“Mowses say gif bad bad owchie sickies!” he says. “Wet mah fwuffies go!”
You look down at the water, then back at Moses.
It takes you a second to realize that the water is red with blood because there’s a fluffy laying drowned at one end.
It looks like someone tried to jam a stick through his throat, but only got halfway through.
Notice Moses wasn’t carrying his stick anymore.
In fact, where did that shit get off too?
Leave the trough there, and gather your fluffies.
“The trough runs red with blood, because Moses has plagued this land.”
“Wha pwauge?” asks one of your fluffies.
Fluffies who ask questions get the whip. The sobbing and welts remind him of his place.
“A plague is bad ouchie sickies,” you explain. “And Mosses brings them upon you!”
“Nuuu!” “Nu wan Mowses! Nu wan bad owchie sickie!”
The fluffies whine and complain for a while before you put them to work again.
Today they’ll work with no water because of Moses poisoning the trough.
Predictably, the fluffies are miserable, and several drop dead of exhaustion by the end of the day.
As you’re skinning the fluffy’s pelts, a familiar shrill and nasal voice comes from behind you.
“Wet my fwuffies go!” Moses demands again. You turn to find Moses standing next to a snapping turtle bigger than he is.
“Go way, dummie fwuffy!” yells your herd. “You no gif bad owchie sickies!”
“I’d love to see what you’ve got planned next,” you tell Moses.
“Mowses gon gif you grween hoppy bad owchie sickies of fwogs!” he says.
You look down at the snapping turtle, who is now wandering away from Mosses.
“That’s a turtle,” you say. “Do you even know what a frog is?”
“…Mowses no dat!” he yells at you, puffing up his cheeks. “Bad owchie sickies of tuwtel den!”
You’re distracted from this idiocy by screaming coming from your herd.
It seems the snapping turtle is busy chomping a mare’s legs off.
“Wun way fwom gween munsta!” she yells as the turtle takes another leg from her. “Wun way babbehs!”
Her foals are shuffling away as fast as they can, but can’t even outpace the snapping turtle.
A moment later, the foals have disappeared down the cavernous gullet of the snapping turtle while the herd runs around shitting in panic.
Moses, of course, is nowhere to be found.
Now you’re six fluffies down, and you’ve got a pissed off snapping turtle in your garden.
It occurs to you that this is probably going to go on for a while.
You’re loathe to admit it, but that fluffy may be a genius
Either that, or a complete idiot.
Part 2
Be a fluffy rancher.
And you’re currently dealing with a fluffy named “Moses” that has decided he’s going to try to set your fluffy farm workers free.
Sure you force them work the land.
Sure you take their fluff and meat when you need it.
Sure you literally whip them into obedience, but it’s not that bad.
For you anyway.
But this Moses is trying to bring plagues upon your land in order to convince you to “wet his fwuffies go!”
Of course, his “plagues” or “bad owchie sickies” have turned out far worse for the fluffies than you.
Whatever deity is guiding this fluffy idiot sure isn’t endearing him to the cause of your fluffy gardeners, and they panic whenever they see him coming.
Today, you’re busy hosing off your fluffies with flea and tick spray after Moses brought lice and ticks into the fluffy’s coops.
Predictably, your fluffies cry and sob as the medication stings their open bites.
“Wet mah fwuffies go!” cries a voice from behind you. “Bad owchie sickies of aminaws if no wet fwuffies fwee!”
You turn to see him peering at you from beneath the fluffy coops.
“They’re plagues you idiot,” you say to Moses. “And the fourth plague is flies, not animals.”
“Mowses no cawe! Wet mah fwuffies go!”
You spray him in the eyes with the flea and tick spray, leaving him crying about “Buwnie eyes! Nee’ huggsies!”
It’d been a long time since Sunday school, so you go back inside to check your bible.
Huh. According to your bible it’s either flies or wild animals. Maybe this Moses isn’t as big an idiot as you though.
You head back to the yard, to find not Moses, but several dozen more fluffies than when you left.
And for some reason, like twenty rabbits.
The rabbits leave as soon as they see you, but a pink pegasus mare looks up and you, seemingly confused as to what she’s supposed to be doing.
“Um… Mowses say we awe pwauge?” she says. “Tink we upossed do sometin’?
Huh. Instead of delivering fluffies to their freedom, he’s instead added to the ranks of the enslaved.
Well, enough of this foolishness. Time to put the fluffies to work.
You fluffies toil for hours in the hot sun. Beneath your whip, they whine and cry about how “wife no faiw.”
“This is all Moses’s doing,” you tell them.
“Mowses dummy fwuffy!” Come the cries of the fluffies. “Gif Mowses sowwy poopies!”
Take that, fluffy rebellion.
The fluffies go to bed that night, tired hungry and whiny as they always do.
You’re kickin’ back on your porch with a beer when a familiar fluffy shape waddles up to your porch and puffs out his cheeks at you.
“Wet mah fwuffies…”
You cut him off with a punt to the face that sends him flying across your yard.
The familiar snap of ribs against shed wall puts a smile on your face as you walk up to his twitching body.
”Wet…mah…”
Ignore him and get a staple gun from the shed. You come back to find Mowses trying to waddle away.
Slam him against the shed and staple his ears to the side of the building.
”Fuck your plagues,” you tell Mowses. “And fuck you too.”
The next morning, you expect to find Moses still hanging by his ears, but he’s not there.
More importantly, your fluffies are sick today. About ten are dead, and the rest are rolling about, moaning in pain.
Maybe that little bastard really did give them the plauge.
Pick up a fluffy, who cries and whines at the slightest touch.
He’s got a fever, which isn’t real specific, but the dead rabbit sitting underneath the coop gives you a clue.
Although how Moses knew that tularemia was spread by bunnies, you’ll never know.
More importantly, your fluffies are breaking out into nasty boils and rashes from the bacteria.
Two plagues at once.
If you weren’t so pissed, you’d actually be impressed.
Part 3
Be a fluffy rancher.
You’ve given your fluffy farm workers the day off because they’re all sick and covered in boils, no thanks to that stupid “Moses” fluffy that introduced an outbreak of tularemia into your herd.
In the mean time, you’re headed into town to buy a new bow for deer season, and pick up some city ferals to replace the ones that died.
Pull up in front of the Gander Mountain, where some asshole has chained himself to the front doors.
Oh look, it’s your hippy, vegan ex-son-in-law, Jayden.
With a herd of fluffy ponies at his feet. Of course.
“Hey hey, ho ho! Hunting season’s got to go!” he’s chanting into a bullhorn.
It looks like he’s got the fluffies chanting too, but they don’t seem to really understand what their supposed to be protesting.
“Wan, too, fwee, fow, fwuffy ponies bowck da doow!” calls one.
“Wan, two, fwee, fow, fiv, sis, seben, um…” the fluffy pauses mid chant, putting a hoof to his chin in contemplation. “nine, fow, sis, ten…”
“Wha we wan? Skettis!” calls a pegasus. “Wen wan? Skettis!”
It’d be hilarious if it weren’t so tragic.
“Hey fluffies!” you tell them. “I’ve got a big farm with lots of food that you can have if you’re willing to work for it!”
The fluffies all cheer and gleefully waddle toward your truck.
“Hey, don’t’ go with him!” yells Jayden. “That man is a slave driver! He’ll put you in chains!”
“Chains?” asks a fluffy.
“Sure,” you reply, with a wink and a grin. “Chains made of Spaghetti!”
The fluffies cheer as you load them into the bed, and close the cap.
“You monster!” Jayden yells at you. “How dare you enslave those poor fluffy ponies? Someone ought to teach a lesson.”
“How bout I teach you a lesson?” you ask. “Don’t put your keys on a lanyard when you’re chaining yourself to something.”
You yank the strap off his neck, and toss the keys onto the roof of the building with a satisfying “clink.”
“Also, maybe don’t chain yourself to an automatic door,” you say.
Press the handicap door opener, smooshing Jayden against the wall.
They didn’t have the bow you wanted in stock, so you leave empty handed.
By the time your leave the store, there’s a crowd of children just repeatedly pressing the button to smash Jayden up against the glass.
And who says kids aren’t useful?
“You’ll pay for this!” yells Jayden. “Your reckoning is coming! And it will be legendary! A plague on your house, sir! A plague on your house!”
What, what?
“The hell did you just say?” you ask.
Jayden adopts a smug sort of grin.
“Fluffies talk,” he says. "And they all call you ‘Bad Man.’ "
Hit the door opener again, smooshing Jayden against the wall.
“And I’m sure your little fluffy butt buddies call you Daddy.”
Walk back to the truck, and toss a few packets of trail ration spaghetti to the herd in your truck bed.
“Fank yoo daddeh!” they call, gobbling down the spaghetti.
“Oh, I’m not your daddy,” you say. “Call me Bad Man.”
Their massive eyes go wide in terror as you slam the truck cap shut.
The deadened wails of fluffies rings of music to your ears as you drive away.
When you get back to the farm, Moses is busy throwing rocks down at your sick fluffies.
“Mowses bwing bad owies sickies of haiw!” he yells from atop the fluffy coop.
Now you’re really regretting not buying that bow.
Part 4
Be a fluffy rancher.
It’s been a day or too since you’ve seen that fluffy jack ass Moses and his stupid “pwagues”
In the mean time, you’ve run into your hippie vegan ex-son-in-law Jayden like four times since then.
He’s been running around the downtown area protesting every business that sells anything related to hunting season.
And he’s using fluffies to do it, which just makes him six times as annoying.
He didn’t look healthy, though. All pale and lethargic.
Well, whatever. You’ve got a harvest to pull in, and more fluffies means faster work.
A hundred fluffies is far cheaper than a tractor, that’s for sure.
Your whip assures compliance from the retarded fuzzballs.
And the threat of becoming pelts keeps them in check.
Not that you’re not going to skin most of them at the end of the season anyway, but they don’t know that.
It’s nearing the end of the day, and it’s been a long one.
Man, your whipping arm sure is tired, and these days just keep getting shorter.
Gotta beat the fluffies harder to garner compliance all day long.
Hrm… better idea.
You’ll butcher a “wingie fwiend” in front of them to show them the price of disappointing you.
Besides, pegasi suck at farm work anyway; the only thing they’re good for is meat and pelt.
Head to the coops and call all the fluffies into the yard.
Most drag their hoofs and whine at being woken up. The whip turns their whines into sobs of pain.
From the whiners, you select a fat little purple pegasus fluffy, and hold him up by his scruff.
Of course, fluffies don’t have scruff, so it’s painful for the little retard.
He flutters his wings uselessly, and kick his hoofs in a futile effort to get away.
Of course, he empty his bowels right at your feet, splattering the fluffies on the ground.
“Dummy wingie fwiend!” yells a unicorn. “Dun wike bad poopies! Gif you big owies!”
Unicorn gets the whip for talking out of turn and for threatening violence against another fluffy.
You’re the only one who gets to do harm around here, damnit.
“Listen up fluffies!” you yell to the assembled herd. “Your performance today was terrible. Pitiful. You are all unworthy of love.”
Sobs fill the herd as they cover their heads with their hooves.
“Fwuffy sowwy!” “Nu huwties, pwease!” “Hu hu hu…”
You violently shake the pegasus in your hand.
“YOU DO NOT SOUND SORRY!” you bellow.
“What is your name, pegasus?” you ask the fluffy.
“Fw…fwuffy name Gweenie.” he sobs.
“Greenie shall be made an example,” you tell the fluffies. “This is the price of the failure!”
For the next fifteen minutes, you precisely skin, debone, and dissect Greenie in front of the fluffy herd.
Some of the mares cover their foal’s eyes, while others cover their ears to try to drown out Greenie’s screams.
But they all watch, knowing that if they don’t, they will be next on the rack.
By the time you’re done, you’ve got a perfectly butchered pile of fluffy meat, a beautiful purple pelt, and a pile of fluffy bones that you’ll grind up to put into the fluffy’s feed.
“Remember the price for failure,” you tell the fluffies, holding up Greenie’s skull. “I am a fair master, and if you work your hardest, you will not end your life screaming as he did.”
The sobs of the fluffy herd nearly drown out the high pitched, nasal squeak of a fluffy from behind you.
“WET MAH FWUFFIES GO!” yells Mowses.
You turn to face the little red unicorn, and shake your head.
“The hell do you want?” you ask.
“Mowses bwing bad owie sickies of dawkies!”
You look up at the sky, and realize that night is falling.
“Of course it’s dark, you idiot. It’s night time.” You think for a moment. “And just say plague, stupid.”
“DUMMYY HOOMAN NO TAWK BACK!” yells Moses.
Without even thinking, you whip Greenie’s skull at Moses.
The skull catches him right in the face, sending him tumbling mane over flank off the coop and to the ground.
You walk around the coop to find Mowses crying, snout broken, and trying to roll back onto his feet.
“W… w… wet mah…”
Grab a shovel, and scoop Moses off the ground.
You walk back to the herd bouncing Moses on the shovel’s blade.
“This is Moses,” you say. “Any fluffy who thinks about trying to aid him shall suffer the fate of Greenie.”
“But I am merciful,” you continue, dumping him on the ground. “Any fluffy who gives ouchies to Moses will be spared my wrath. I leave him to you now. Goodnight.”
As you take your fluffy meat and pelt away for processing, the fluffies gather around Mowses, stomping, kicking, and giving him “sowwy poopies.”
That should be the last you see of that little bastard.
Part 5
Be a fluffy rancher.
Yesterday, you clocked the fluffy liberator “Moses” with a fluffy’s skull and left him at the mercy of your herd of fluffy workers.
Today, his body is nowhere to be found.
Well, if you were a Disney villain, you’d assume he was dead and not worry about it.
However, you know that fluffies, while fragile, have a bad habit of staying alive no matter what sort of injuries they receive.
Well, you don’t have time to worry about that little turd, you’re far more concerned with getting your crop up and off the fields.
Luckily, your fluffies are super motivated today, so as not to become your breakfast and coat tomorrow.
It’s only a few hours before the last of crops are onto the wagons, and headed toward your daughter’s house.
After all, it’s her fields you’ve been using the fluffies for. Her farm is mostly for horses, but you use a few acres to grow whatever suits your mood.
You’re just glad she ditched her idiot husband a few years ago. Now she’s living with a nice young lady she knew in college.
You stop to pet a real pony as the fluffies struggle to drag their carts into the silos.
He whinnies at you and you fuzz his head.
With winter coming he’s starting to look a bit fluffy himself.
Of course, he’s a Shetland, and you love Shetlands.
“Bad Man, pwease have some nummies?” asks a brown earth fluffy. “So hungwy!”
God DAMNIT.
In a single smooth motion, your whip is out and lashing the fluffy pony across the eyes.
“YOU ARE TO SPEAK ONLY WHEN SPOKEN TO YOU LITTLE SHIT!” you scream.
The rest of the fluffies cry and cover their faces with their hooves as you lay into the brown fluffy.
“DID I SAY YOU COULD STOP?” you demand. “GET THOSE CARTS IN THE GOD DAMN BARN BEFORE I FEED YOU TO A MULCHER!”
The fluffies sob and redouble their efforts to drag the heavy carts toward the barn.
Give the Shetland another pat on the head. He hates fluffies as much as you do.
Follow the fluffies into the barn. Smells funny in here. Like earth, and soil, and flowers.
The dirt floors are covered with thousands of purple petals and boxes of small purple flowers line the walls.
Huh, you thought that her plants would be growing in the green house, not the barn.
She’s a plant biologist, after all.
The fluffies, however, are running around the floor, gobbling up all the leaves they can find.
“Wet mah fwuffies go!” yells a voice from the rafters. “Dis bad owie sickies of wocust!”
God damnit.
“These are flowers, you retard,” you yell at him. “Locusts are grasshoppers.”
“Nah uh!” yells Mowses. “Wocust pwetty nummie fwowers! Manna fow fwuffies!”
Well, the fluffies seem to enjoy the leaves, but the first one to start eating stops suddenly and starts shaking.
A moment later, every single fluffy in the barn has fallen to the ground, twitching and foaming at the mouth.
Moses blows a raspberry at you from the rafters as your workers last spasms empty their bowels upon the floor.
That’s it. You’re going to go get a shotgun and deal with that little retard once and for all.
Knock on your daughter’s door.
“Hi daddy!” she answers. “What’s up?”
“Gotta borrow a shotgun,” you tell her. “That stupid Moses is in your plant barn, and I’m going to finish that little bastard off for good.”
“Plant barn?” she asks. “There shouldn’t be anything in there. I know Jayden asked if he could grow medicinal plants in there, but I figured he was growing pot and told him to go to hell.”
“Well, you might want to put your shoes on and take a look at this.”
You and your daughter walk out the barn, shotguns in hand, only to find Moses gone and a pile of fluffy bodies.
Your daughter looks at the plants for a moment and scratches her chin.
“Well, these plants are poisonous alright,” she says. “But you could have guessed that by all the dead fluffies.”
She adjusts her glasses, and takes a closer look.
You’re glad your daughter is smarter than you and has a degree in horticulture.
“These are part of the Colchicum family,” she says at last.
"Or as some people call them, the ‘Autumn Crocus.’ "
Your daughter just looks at you as you chuckle.
That stupid fluffy wasn’t too far off the mark after all.
Plague of crocus indeed.
Part 6
Be a fluffy Rancher
Yesterday, Moses managed to kill your biggest and strongest fluffies with poisonous flower petals.
Not that there’s much difference between fluffies, but still, kind of annoying.
Now it’s the middle of the night, and windy as hell.
It’s always windy in the fall around here.
You’re busy tanning the hides of the fluffies Moses killed when you hear screaming out by the fluffy coops.
Head out to see what the hell is going on.
Shine your flashlight at the coops to see three big ass raccoons hauling away mouthfuls of screaming foals.
A few fluffy mares waddle after the raccoon pleading “nu huwties babehs!”
Awh, hell no.
Draw an arrow, aim, and…
“WET MAH FWUFFIES GO!” screeches Moses from behind you.
Release the arrow, skewering the fluffy mother right between the eyes.
She drops to the ground with a “guuuh,” and starts drooling.
“Bad owie sickies of big sweepies fow babehs!” yells Moses as he darts away.
Nock another arrow and let fly.
The wind sends your shot sailing off into the dark.
God damn it.
Go to the coop to find a scene of absolute carnage.
There must be a dozen dead foals in here. A half a dozen more are missing limbs, just sobbing and rolling around on the floor.
One foal’s been cut in half, and his mother is trying to put him back together with “huggies”
“What the hell?” you demand. “Why were all the foals in the same coop?”
“g…gud daddeh say puh b…babbehs in heh, dey go happy pwace,” sobs the mare.
Slap the bisected foal out of her hooves.
“Who’s ‘Good Daddy’?” you shout.
She only sobs harder.
Spot a lone survivor in the pile of foal corpses. Grab him by the wings, and hold them out stretched.
“Eee! Pwease nu huwties!” cries the foal. “Nu wike! Nu wike!”
“NU!” she cries. “Dun huwt babeh! Pwease!”
Tug at the wings, causing him to squeal harder.
“Tell me who good daddy is or I will tear this fluffy in half.”
“Gud daddeh come few dawk times ago, teww fwuffies wisten Mowses!” she sobs. “Bwing skettis! Bwown fwuff! Fwuff on nosie! Pwease nu huwt babehs!”
Fuckin’ Jayden. You knew it.
Well, the asshole’s going to get his wish.
The next morning, you rouse the fluffies from the coops by pounding on the roofs.
Fluffies waddle out of their coops bleary eyed and whiny after a long night.
The dams are still sobbing at their losses.
Notice that only about half of your fluffies are still here, mostly unicorns.
God damnit.
“Listen up, you wastes of technology,” you announce. “I have decided that you are all free to follow Moses.”
“Dun wan fowwow Mowses!” yells a blue unicorn. “Mowses dummy fwuffy! Hown fwiens nu wan fowwow!”
Grab up the whip, but the fluffy continues to yell about how much he hates Moses.
Little schmuck’s got some chutzpah, you’ll give him that.
“Come in dawk time, fwuffies fowww!” continues the fluffy. “Wan gif biggest owies, nu can. Too much fwuffies. Sowwy.”
Seems like it’s time to let the fluffy masses get biblical on his ass.
“Alright then,” you yell over the wind. “What’s your name, fluffy?”
“Fwuffy name Bagew.”
“Well, your name is Pharaoh, now,” you say. “And as Pharaoh, it’s your job to hunt down Moses and make him pay for his crimes.”
Get some razor blades and JB Weld from the shed and bond razor blades to Pharaoh’s horn.
He immediately growls at another fluffy and slashes his horn blade at him.
Excellent.
“Go forth my Pharaoh, and bring me the head of Mosses.”
Pharaoh, jumps up on a stump and begins yelling at the remaining fluffies.
“Phawow is smawty fwiend now!” he yells. "“Bad man gif him poweh to gif biggest owchies to Mowses! Gif him sowwy poopehs and biggest sweepies!”
The fluffies cheer, and waddle off after Pharaoh at top speed.
It’s slower than a brisk walk, so you follow behind.
It’s not long before you reach the edge of the property, near your small pond.
Man, is this wind ever going to let up?
You’re surprised the fluffies aren’t blowing away in these 40+mph winds.
You spot a pile of multicolored fluff along the edge of the pond.
It seem they’ve spotted you too as the fluffies in Mowses’s camp starts running around in panic.
“Dun wun!” yells Moses. “Give wa-was ouchies!”
Now your fluffies are in full charge after the escapees.
Moses is standing at the edge of your pond, wind blowing through his fluff like a raging storm when the impossible happens.
With the winds so high for so long, the pond actually starts to part, leaving a tiny strip of dry land for the fluffies to start running down.
You stand in shock as you watch the fluffies waddle along the muddy pond bottom.
Son of a bitch. If you hadn’t seen it with your own eyes, you’d have never believed it.
Two dozen fluffies walking through the parted pond as if Moses caused it all.
Moses turns to you and blows a rasberry before running down into the pond.
Your fluffies are hesitant, but Pharaoh is ready to go charging in after him.
“Hold on a second,” you say to him. “’Cause I think the wind is dying down.”
Sure enough, the wind begins to settle, with the fluffies only halfway across the pond.
A torrent of water washes atop the fluffies, sending them shrieking and panicking to the bottom of the pond.
Sure it’s only five feet deep, but that’s five more feet than a fluffy can swim in.
You expect at least one to resurface, but they never do. That fluff is pretty absorbent after all.
You turn to walk away with a smug smile when you hear coughing and sputtering coming from the shore line.
All your unicorns growl and stare as Moses drags his waterlogged ass out of the lake.
“W…” he chokes. “Wet mah…”
“You are pretty wet, I’ll give you that,” you say. “Too bad about your fluffies. Looks like they all drowned.”
Moses looks back at the pond for a moment, before pushing himself to his feet.
“W…wet mah fwuffies go!” he defiantly shouts.
“I dunno,” you say. “Pharaoh? What do you think?”
Pharaoh and the remaining fluffies waddle over to Moses, looking him over.
He growls before pummeling Moses with his marshmallow like hooves.
The rest of the fluffies join in, beating on Moses till he’s a bleeding, sobbing mess.
Finally Pharaoh turns and unleashes a hellacious torrent of shit upon him the likes of which you’ve never seen before.
The other fluffies join in, nearly burying Moses in “sorry poopies,” as he continues to cry.
You didn’t know fluffies could be so vindictive, but it’s pretty awesome to watch.
To top it off, Pharaoh walks up to Mowses and puff out his cheeks.
“You kiww mah specaw fwiend. You kiww mah babbehs. Now gif you biggest owchies evah. Wha yoo say, Mowses?”
“Mowses sowwy,” he chokes. “Gud daddeh make Mowses do dis.”
“Mowses bad fwuffy,” says Pharaoh. “Bad fwuffies git biggest owchies.”
Pharaoh grabs Moses’s ear and slams his face into the pile of shit.
For a full minute, Pharaoh stands on Moses’s head.
The red unicorn’s body goes still after a moment as the winds begin to die down around you.
Pharaoh waddles off the body and addresses his remaining fluffies.
“Phawow am smawty fwiend now! Nu tawk bout Mowses evah again! Do wha Phawow say or biggest owchies! Bad Man say so!”
He looks up at you for reassurance.
Actually, having the fluffies doing their own oppression would really make things easier on you.
It’d really help strain on your whipping arm.
“You heard him,” you say. “All hail Pharaoh.”
“Aww haiw Phawow!” they chant back.
…
It’s a week later, and you’re enjoying a Thanksgiving feast at your daughter’s house
The phone rings and your daughter picks it up.
“Hello? Yes this is her. What? Really? When? Tularemia? Seriously? Wow. When is it? Sure, I’ll be there.”
She hangs up the phone and blinks a few times.
“Who was that?”
“My ex mother in law,” she says. “Seems Jayden died yesterday. Tularemia. His funeral is on Monday.”
You can’t help but chuckle.
Seem like Moses’s last plague picked up one more first born after all.
This is a repost of the story “The Exodus of Fluffy” from the Booru.