Farmer John’s Homemade Fluffy Sausages, a well beloved local brand in a sleepy little town called Downesville. These delicious sausages (in a variety of flavors and sizes) are sold in both the local supermarket and the only diner in town. People love ‘em! There’s nothing more All American than Farmer John’s wares, what backyard barbecue or breakfast could be complete without them?
The man, the legend, does everything himself out on the outskirts of town. His slaughterhouse is actually a landmark for those out of town as the outside of the abattoir is decorated with bright rainbow imagery and happy fluffies frolicking around. It looks like an innocent place, and nobody really puts too much thought of what goes on in there.
After all, seeing how the sausage is made is a phrase for any unpleasant task best kept out of the public eye.
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Farmer John quite loves his way of living. Nobody gets to tell him what to do and boy oh boy, what he does is something that he feels excited to get out of bed for every morning. Each and every morning he pulls himself out of bed and gets dressed: In the winter, it meant flannels under overalls. In the spring and summertime? It meant going out onto his property, naked under a pair of filthy overalls with a pair of black gumboots pulled over his feet.
John is a filthy man by his very nature. Late fifties, what little teeth remaining in his mouth yellowed shards or blackened stumps. Covered in a sheen of grease, dried bodily fluids from a multitude of sources, graying hair which has turned a multitude of different colors from the various viscera that comes from his line of work. Does he bathe? Sometimes. Usually, he has no need. One of the few people who can’t quite be called a friend but is the closest thing he has to one takes care of delivering product and dealing with getting the money. Or delivering shit he might need.
He doesn’t leave the farm very often. For just about every meal he has, he’ll fry up some of his sausages in a griddle which is just as unwashed as he is. A wife? Please. A woman wouldn’t really understand this lifestyle.
Once John had what little he needed to begin his day, he walked out into the yard. Aside from the slaughterhouse, there were various open-air pens set up with fluffies crammed into them. Protection from the elements? Of course…if you considered a small curl of blue tarp propped up on sticks to be any kind of protection. Most of the time the sticks collapsed anyways, and he’d go months with fixing it.
“Woo shitpig sooooooie!” He called out, dragging a wheelbarrow down a naturally created dirt path that led along the pens. Said wheelbarrow was filled with bread which would have been otherwise thrown away: Moldy, stale, whatever. You could get it as animal feed for basically nothing. Flocks of different colored biopets scurried over to the chickenwire which kept them housed in that giant pit of mud, feces, and bones.
“Daddeh, pwease wet fwuffy out!” An orange mare cried out, hooves threading against the wire and shaking it around.
“Fwuffy nu can see nu mowe!” Screeched a brown on brown stallion whose eyes had crusted over with some form of infection. It came easy out in the pens: Bone piles poking through mud was evidence that dying out here was mighty effortless.
Those who had been here slightly longer than these ones knew it was best to scrabble out for their share of bread. There wasn’t enough to go around, and complaining just meant using your mouth for something that wasn’t nummies.
++++++
“Mummah, Buggy dun wike dis pwace.” Whined a green and brown talkie babbeh to his mummah, a pale blue mare who had scurried out in the mud and got into a flailing hoofsie sparring match with a bunch of other fluffies for food. A few scraps of hardened, incredibly stale heels of bread were her spoils for getting knocked around and bitten. Pressing the food over to her babbeh, Polina gave a small ‘huu’.
Of course he didn’t like it. She didn’t either. Why couldn’t they have a nice housie like she’d once had? Buggy hadn’t ever been in such a place where there was FluffTV, skettis, toysies, warmth, nice things…
She’d given birth to her babbehs in an alley after being kicked out for having tummy babbehs in the first place. Lost each and every single one of them except for the male currently hugging up against one of her legs, trying to num his slice of bread pitifully.
“It am otay, babbeh. Yew wif mummah, mummah fin’ nyu housie.” The confidence in her voice was enough to cause him to calm down a bit. Still, this was a pretty bad place. Even worse than the alley he’d be born in and definitely worse than the shelter they’d spent a brief amount of time in before coming here. Shelters and backyard breeders just sent their fluffies over here instead of euthanizing them when that time came.
Flopping down into a patch of mud which had dried over into a brown scablike crater, Polina gave a soothing coo to Buggy and invited him to climb up onto her side and snug up on her fluff. Something precious that she had still was hope and love. Other fluffies which had been here longer simply just stood in place and stared out blankly, or lay in mud just barely breathing to show they were still alive.
“Buggy wub yew mummah. Dank yew fo’ bein’ bestest mummah.” Licking her cheek appreciatively, he caused his mummah to giggle. Her eyes shining with pride.
++++
It wouldn’t take long for John to finish throwing out bread. Some of those who had eaten wouldn’t even needing the meal: They’d be going out into the production area soon.
The process of choosing which ones he wanted was more random than anything. You’d think he would choose fluffies that seemed as if they’d expire soon, you know, to maximimze profit and fight against product loss. Not him though. Angling up a shepherd’s crook, he’d drag fluffies out toward their gates and flip the little latching lock to let it swing free and lead them out.
His process for choosing fluffies had no rhyme or reason. Sickest mingled with the healthiest, youngest to oldest, sometimes mother mares were allowed to go with their babbehs and sometmes they were left behind to wail in their pens.
“Come on, fluffies. Don’t tarry. We’re going to a place with…spaghetti! TV! So many toys! Such a nice house.” This was assured to each new group of fluffies that got pulled from the the chicken-wire encampments.
“Skeggis? Fwuffy hab skeggis?” Asked a brown colt curiously, tail wagging ferociously.
“Nyu daddeh am suuuu nicesies! Wub wub!” Exclaimed a mare who had once been yellow and green, though the mud and shit of her living arrangments had left her brown too. Apparently she didn’t have the mental comprehension to realize this ‘nyu daddeh’ had been the sole reason of her torture up until now.
Finally he got up to the pen that Polina and Buggy were kept in. Some of the fluffies got up to the fencing to possibly be let out. A grand majority simply stood or lay in place, not wanting to move or maybe being mentally incapable of making their bodies become ambulatory. Since Polina was a newcomer, she had plenty of pep and vigor. Hooves squishing down in the mud, the mare shoved everyone else out of the way and happily tried to dance in front of John.
“Pwease pick Powina an’ babbeh Buggy! Wook at babbeh!” Carefully lifting up her precious cargo, the talkie babbeh looked up to John and was at a loss of words. He’d simply peep instead.
Flicking the lock up, he opened the gate and waved Polina through. Some of the other fluffies who were more energetic attempted to rush the gate and received his shepherd’s crook against the countours of their faces and were sent back wit pained squeals.
Cooing adorably, Polina went to hug up on John’s leg and rubbed her cheek against it. “Dank yew ‘for hewpin’ Powina an’ Buggy. We am wub yew fowebba and be su good fwuffies.”
Grinning to himself, John led the trailing group of fluffies over to a side-area in his slaughterhouse.
“Oh, it’s not me you need to impress. Just the missus. But I’m sure she’ll love all of you.”
++++++
Polina and Buggy excitedly entered a dark hallway which would have been far too small for a human to enter but was just right for a fluffy. Both the walls and floor were made of a greased aluminum panel sheeting, Polina wrinkling her nose as she entered it. At first there was sunshine enough to illuminate the passageway and showed off random piles of drying poopies or long curls of some rust colored substance.
“Nice mistuh, dis am nyu housie? Su smaww.” Polina complained over toward the entrance of the hallway, struggling past the surge of bodies entering the cramped space which only got that much more compact as the shepherd’s crook sent rainbow colored ponies in.
John didn’t answer. Instead he looked over his shoulder to make sure they’d all gotten in and made it up over the ramp into the corridor. Slammed a sidepanel in to close them off and shutter them into an all-consuming darkness. The heat and stink was unbearable, and chaos soon exploded out over the darkened scrap metal halls.
“DUN WAN BE IN SOWWY BOXSIE! HEWP FWUFFY!” Was the general line of reasoning right now. Of course there were variations on it.
‘Fwuffy am gud fwuffy! Wry sowwy boxsie!?’ Whimpered a stallion next to Polina who began backing up against one of the metal walls. It was hot and caused her to yelp, bucking forward with Buggy squeezed up in her arms. The jostle caused a rippling effect which sent every fluffy in there into a semi or full-blown panic. Hooves tamped down against the metal, poopies got expelled out onto the walls or whoever was nearby, scared fluffs began shoving or biting one another in an effort to make sense of what was going on or figure a way out.
+++++
Farmer John unlatched the lock barring the door to his slaughterhouse and slid the door open. Nostrils flaring, he took in that truly unique scent. Though it was only still spring the building was impressively hot. Almost like a greenhouse, in fact. In the summertime it became so explosively heated that sometimes he’d do his work completely in the nude. Well, with his gumboots on of course.
The building stank of iron, fetid meat, curdled milk. It was mouthwatering to John and reminded him of when he was a child and accidentally bit into a rotten plum. Through the blanket of decay had been an extreme sweetness which he’d marveled over ever since.
Stepping across the slick wooden floorboards of his shack, he instictively went reaching out for the beaded string which worked the only source of light in the room. Pale amber light burned out from the old bulb, a halo being cast directly under it. The rest of the room received little more to beat back the shadows but he didn’t need much: John’s eyes were pretty good in the dark and he knew this place like the back of his hand. Bands of cockroaches gathered on scraps of meat left to lay on the floor scuttled back into every nook and cranny of the room, but not all of them. Some were bold enough to resume their feast, shiny brown bodies catching what little light there was.
An infestation which was among many. Did John care? No, not really. Rats, roaches, great clouds of biting flies, and a wasp nest in the corner of the room didn’t much bother him. In fact, the wasp nest was a great addition. They give him a whit of trouble. Though, you couldn’t say the same thing about Thatcher. As always, he decided to pay her a visit.
“Hullo, Thatcher. How’s the weather?” John asked as his boots clocked over to her. Up on a small workshelf was a pillowed mare who’d once been pale pink, though that winsome color had dulled to a nicotine brown after such a lengthy time spent in his slaughterhouse.
Thatcher was one of many who’d been assigned the task of keeping his Missus company. There had been so many Thatcher’s that he’d honestly lost track, though he used to drag his penknife into a nearby wall and scratch out tally marks. There were 32 before he’d stopped bothering with the pointless task.
This one had stuck around longer than most. Not for much longer though. Her entire back half was a tangled, blackened mess of rotting flesh. Virulent infection which actually seemed to be liquefying her body. Fur, fat, and even muscle sloughed off that part of her and dripped down to shit sticky fluffy bed below. You would think that fluffy bed would be a small mercy in an otherwise unmerciful situation, though you’d be wrong. It was teeming with bedbugs. Even with the light on, they seethed over her body. Some patches were so covered with the bloated parasites that it seemed as if she had tumors growing out of her.
“Ghrklll…” She rasped out, raising her swollen face to him. Tongue stuck out of her mouth like a fat purple slug. Why the swollen face? The paper wasp nest nearby certainly had everything to do with that. When the Missus got noisy, it made ‘em right fucking angry and Thatcher was the nearest thing to punish.
Not liking her reply, John bent his fingers down into a clawlike pose as if he were struck with crippling arthitis. Sank his filthy nails down into the carpet of white-brown maggots which seethed at her backside. Pushing through the mesh of infected flesh and grubs, he twisted further down with his long ungroomed nails and forced her to scream.
“SCREEEEEEE!” The mare shook with the force of her pain. Honestly, her entire existence was nothing but torture. You had to really make an effort to get a reaction out of her these days. Pulling his now pus dripping hand from the rotting, cavernous wound he’d wipe it off on his overalls. Though her eyes were near swollen shut from the stings and terrible conditions, she’d look up to him. Attempt to suss out some kind of mercy.
No time for that though. Time to wake the Missus up and really get the day started.
The Missus. Something which had gained an almost mythological status in the old man’s jumbled up brain. The centerpiece of the entire place.
Love of his life, apple of his eye, ‘She’ happened to be nothing more than an incredibly old shredder. Something which had been in his life ever since he’d been a child, an object of deep fascination.
The Missus was bulky and painted firetruck red, actually receiving fresh coats on a regular basis and standing out as the only thing in the slaughterhouse which received any care or loved. Though Her surroundings were splatters of rotting meat and insects, the machine always received a soapy rubdown each and every night. Bits of fur or shreds of organ got dutifully pulled from the blades, and she was doted on quite well.
Human women were of no interest to John. No, he’d come to love this shredder. Diesel powered and with two settings: On and off. Made before a time where safety features were a consideration. There was a massive gore-encrusted pail sitting underneath to catch what it produced, a greased up conveyor belt leading up to it’s adorable metal maw.
“Time to wake up, li’l lady.” Cooed John, running his fingers gently over one of it’s corners. Flipping the switch to ‘On’ with a satisfying click, he grabbed hold of a pullcord and gave a mighty pulll. Oh, the Missus could be a bit fussy in the wintertime. Needed a kerosene heater to warm up after a long night of laying dormant in the cold. In warmer weather though? Always ready to go. With a clattering roar, it came to life.
It was like music to his ears. A throaty little purr of pure sensuality. Fluffies didn’t much like it though. The ones behind the killchute trapdoor all began to screech.
“Munstah!” Came a series of worried voices.
“Woud noisie! Dun wike! DUN WIKE!” Was another protest. Hooves clattered against the sliding hatch that led from the tiny compartment they were being kept in temporarily.
Patting his beloved shredder, John moved on over to the hatch and seized it up. Fluffies began to pile onto one another with their eyes practically bulging out of their heads in fear, slamming together and forcing their companions to be shoved out. Sometimes those at the front saw the Missus. Though they were stupid, they realized it meant danger.
“N-Nu! Munstah dewe! Stahp fwends!” Trying to hold back against a mass of shoving bodies, a poopie stallion at the front attempted to hold them back. Would it work? Nope. Never did. The ones at the back only saw light. Precious light in a world of darkness they’d been cast into. Without fail they always pushed the front ones out in a panic and fell down onto the conveyor belt before they ever realized what was happening.
“EEEEE!” That brown unicorn who had been trying to warn his peers went flailing down onto the conveyor belt below, legs sprawling out uncomfortablly. Screaming fluffies went piling down on top of him in a mountain of crying weight.
Beginning to roll away and form crowds along the conveyor belt, each each attempted to shuffle back away. The line was greased, though, and most of them went slipping and sliding along.
“Mummah, Buggy scawdies!” The talkie babbeh wept against the mare as she’d gotten up onto her hind legs after taking the tumble down. Looking up to the filthy man who’d put them into this predicament, she pleaded.
“Pwease hewp fwuffies! Babbeh Buggy am su scawed! Mummah scawed tu! Nee’ wahm huggies tu feew beddah!” Glancing to the shivering mother and her child, John flipped the conveyor belt on. It began to roll forward at a snail’s pace, the man grabbing up his shepherd’s crook in order to drag the fluffies out to better spaced piles.
++++
Trying to crawl away from the shredder and it’s mangling teeth was a fools game. Their panic didn’t allow for managed, precise movement on a track which was so slick with lubricant. Hooves skidded, fluffies went smacking facedown without so much as making a mite of distance away.
First one up for the day was a red and blue pegasus. Standing up on his hind hooves, he gave flurried beats of his wings with frantic whirrs. “Pwease wingies! Hewp fwuffy, dun wan nummed by munstah!” He begged his body to perform a miracle, tipple-toppled at the precipice of Missus’s steely yawn, buckled down into the machinery.
John thrust himself against the shredder’s side, leaning over in delight at watching her work. Blood shot up in a fan as the biotoy’s entire body was rendended down into mangled chunks and then something resembling a slurry, excreting out to the bucket below. Fur and all. People wouldn’t notice or care too much. Never had and if they got a hairy sausage? His product was such a bargain they’d just write it off as something expected.
“Dun gib fwuffy huwties! Am soon mummah! Wook at mummah an’ tummy babbehs!” Trying to show off her swollen tummy to John, a pink and yellow mare saw this as her best chance to be saved from the munstah. All of them were attempting to come up with their own appeals. Raising a hand as the hopeful mare reached the end of her rope, he waved as she plummeted down over the edge and got caught up in the steel teeth below. Metal seizing up against her bottom half, it mangled her hooves and legs. Notched up against her abodmen, caught in such a way that instead of being immediately torn to pieces she was squeezed instead. Watching her belly pop like a zit come to head, John cackled in glee as innards coiled through the air along with teensy multi-colored foals. Just having formed their fur, perhaps just barely having been ready to make their way out of their mummah. After tumbling through the air they felt right back into the grinder to become a paste along with mummah dearest.
“My old lady is showin’ off!” John shouted to the line of fluffies who were still flopping around uselessly on the conveyor belt, watching their fates rise up to meet them.
Proud. So proud of his darling. She reduced these things down to nothing but meat. Sustaining, delicious life. Of course he had to do the business of seasoning it all, making cases, putting said meat into casings. Yet she did all the heavy lifting. Thrusting himself against the machine, he moaned as vibrations rocked through his body and a bunch of blathering mouths were forever silenced.
He loved his job.
+++++
It was getting to be Polina and Buggy’s turn up to bat, Polina trying her best to appeal to John with all her might.
Holding Buggy up, she tried to get him to look. “BABBEH! BABBEH! BAAABBBBEEEHHHH!” Repeated over and over again like a mantra of protection. ‘Look at this. It’s my precious progeny. You wouldn’t hurt this, would you?’ the line of thought went. Eyes glazing over with absolute pleasure, John clacked his rotting teeth together rapidly as he watched the track reach it’s end and send the two plunging down into the shredder.
Clutching Buggy against her body, Polina screeched as the metal began ripping her apart. Buggy could actually feel the process, protected from them for the moment. His fear had reached such a pitch that shit sprayed out of his ass and splattered all over his mummah’s face, though she had much bigger things to fret about.
He was sure that the munstah would num him just as it was getting mummah. Instead, The Missus seized up. It happened sometimes. Rare. Also very upsetting to John. Teeth stopping in their tracks, machinery grinding, it seemed as if the old battleax was about to give up. Peering over his mummah’s tummy, Buggy looked down to the teeth. Slicked with blood, tangled with his mother’s flesh and shreds of fur.
“Yay! Munstah am fowebbah sweepies!” Came up a chair along the conveyor belt. Those who were being momentarily spared got up on their hindlegs and did joyful dancies at their ‘defeat’ over such a terrible creation. Filled with rage, John swept down the conveyor belt with a heavy rubber mallet in one hand.
“Yeah? You think so!? Huh!?” Pushing them along the conveyor belt so they wouldn’t pile up on top of each other inside the shredder, he slammed the mallet down on a few of their limbs. Broken bones would teach them to mind their fucking manners in front of HIS lady.
Distracted, John wouldn’t see as Buggy slipped off from his mummah. Cried out, hooves flailing in the air, tumbling down into the metal teeth below. There wasn’t much room to work with but he was a tiny thing, managing to squeeze himself through gaps in the metal. Small cheeps as he forced his way through the yucky mess, making his way through the dangerous maze of steel before plopping down into the bucket of meat below.
John returned to The Missus, slammed a fist against it and rattled it around. Roaring back to life, it finished the job it’d started and render Polina down into nothing more than slick meat which got shot out with projectile force down below. Buggy watched helplessly as his mummah’s body splattered on top of him, trapping him for a moment before he wriggled around helplessly and finally tunneled out. Wrung himself up against the edge of the bucket, ears folded down. Feeling there was nothing else to do, he curled himself up over the side and plopped down to the floor below. It hurt, but he could crawl.
“Mummah…” He whimpered, curled up under a nearby workbench where buckets of sausage seasonings were kept.
++++
Everything went far more smoothly afterwards. No more seizing up, and John felt somewhat bad for having to slap his woman around. Well, sometimes you needed a strong hand with these kinds of things.
The last pair were making their way down the line. This entire process caused fluffies to understandably lose their minds. Some went catatonic, others screamed for mercy with such force it seemed as if their tongues would rocket right out their mouths.
“Enf! Enf! Fwuffy hab gud feews!” A stallion rasped as he hurriedly raped a mare underneath him. Not an uncommon sight. These ones, John could reckon, had lost their minds to the point that they’d seek any quick comfort. Luckily for the purple mare under him, she’d gone the catatonic route. In her mental anguish, the light in her eyes had simply flipped right off. Drool slicked the corners of her mouth as her attacked plowed along happily, even continuing to pummel into her in a grim embrace as they went to meet their sausage maker.
Breathing heavily, sweating with excitement, John thrust one more time against The Missus. Overalls tented, nostrils flaring as he took in the sour tang of diesel fuel being spent, he was on cloud nine. Time to turn the old girl off…though as his hand moved toward the switch, something caused him to pause.
Peep!
Peep!
Huu!
Wheeling around, he faced Thatcher. As expected, the hive of wasps were currenty lit up about her face and stinging her. By this point she was accustomed to it. Only way you could get a reaction out of her was to dig a hand down inside her infected flesh, as seen earlier.
“Oh…” A straggler. Survivor. Some shitkicking stain on this world had somehow slipped his by and thought they could just leave The Missus.
Though the room was dark and the machine was still making a racket, he had an almost supernatural awareness of his slaughterhouse. Eyes flicking around, he found the escapee. A foal stained dark with blood, just a bit of it’s green and brown hues peeking through.
++++
Buggy watched in shock as the eyes of the munstah daddeh fell upon him. Had he not already voided his bowels right onto his dying mummah’s face, surely he would have done so then and there. With a terrified peep, he scuttled back.
John had gotten down onto all fours, skittered along the grimy floor like one of the many insects which called this place home. Old man or not, it was as if he was possessed by something. A drive to feed the machine.
“Come heeerreeeee, little fluffy!” Cawed the man, sending an arm shooting down under the workbench. Long nails flexed out, skittered across. Found the whispy tip of Buggy’s tail, attempted to wring him close. Squealing and tugging away, the foal left him with a tuft of fur and went into a full gallop away from the area. It wasn’t a safe place. Looking from side to side, he found other nooks and crannies. Went diving into a pile of crusty rags.
Sniffling and trying to calm himself down, he listened as John continued to rattled along the floor with squeaks of his boots and tip-taps of ragged nails clenching into the wooden boards below.
“Where’s it at, Missus?” Buggy heard the man speaking to his beloved tool, pausing, taking a leaping bound across the room. Stuff crashed down to the floor as he began rampaging around.
Thump, bang, CRASH! The tantruming force got closer to closer, shakes jostling Buggy around. Squealing, he went to once more run away. One of the rags in the heap he was hiding in clung to the top of his furry head as he went running away.
“WUN WEGGIES WUN!” He begged his appendanges to give him the speed which was needed at the moment. There it was. Light! The sun! Natural light meant outside, and his delicate nose could even smell the much fresher air. John always kept the door to his slaughterhouse cracked open slightly. Being diesel powered, his shredder gave off enough carbon monoxide to put you to sleep if you didn’t pay it mind.
Rag flying off of his body as he absconded, Buggy squeezed into the gap on the door and wriggled about. Popped out and took down the dirt path which led from the slaughterhouse to the pens. Now a fluffy wasn’t exactly the fastest runner and especially not a foal, but he was giving it all he had. Legs burning, he watched as the pens of other fluffies passed by.
“Babbeh am wunnin’ way! Gu babbeh! Yaaaaay!” Cheered one of the livestock which first noticed him. Others gathered to the fronts of their pens, cheering and waving hooves over their heads in celebration.
Buggy felt hope warm his heart, the praise and shouts of encouragement from other fluffies making him spurt out even faster along the path. Dirt gave way to dew-covered grass which tickled the fur on his legs and…suddenly, he was stopped.
Tiny hooves plopping down into a hidden track of mud along the yard, he found himself unable to wrench himself out of the muck.
Looking over his shoulder, he pleaded to the fluffies in their pens.
“Fwends! Hewp Buggy! Babbeh Buggy am stucksies!” Chirping fearfully, he watched as the door on the slaughterhouse banged open. Hunched over, John dragged himself out into the sunshine. The sight of the filthy man was obscene and caused the poor foal to piss himself.
Hanging his head down, Buggy attempted to hide. You know, in plain sight. Not an awful plan as he was so small and sort of naturally blended in with the area, but the other fluffies were quick to point him out.
“Wook! Da bad babbeh am wite dewe!” Called out the very same fluffy who’d been first to encourage him. Buggy felt hot tears prick at the corners of his eyes as shuffling feet led up behind him. Yanked out from the mud and spun around, he kept his head bowed as tears flooded from his eyes.
“Where you think you’re going?” John asked him, nails cinching down into his fat sides. Hot breath which stank like buttermilk and turned meat curled around Buggy, and he didn’t need to even raise his head again to know where they were going next.
