The California sun was hot. It was around six, and the sun was going down. The atmosphere was relaxing, but what you were about to do, wasn’t. The cars were honking, and the lights from the buildings gave a very comforting feel.
Sigh.
It was time to head in.
The Fluffy Store! The place that both hugboxers and abusers thrive together.
As you open the door, the sound of fluffies chirping and squealing break all silence from before. There was a counter about thirty feet away from the entrance. There was a giant cage, and in that cage there were metal walls dividing little rooms for the fluffies.
Mares and fathers. Foals and grownup fluffies. All the colors blind you for a moment, but then you step forward.
“I want to buy a fluffy” you say.
“Any one catch your eye?” the employee asks. You take a look.
So much movement. Yellow ones. Purple ones. Blue ones. Green ones. Pink ones. The list goes on. Eventually, you spot an obese purple foal sucking from its mothers crotch breasts.
This was the one.
“I’ll take that purple foal” you say, pointing over at it. The employee says nothing, and unlocks the cage. The foal looks at the open door, but still continues to feed.
He picks it up by the neck fat, leaving the foal in hysterics.
“SHREEEEEEEEEEEEE”
It shrieks, flapping its tiny arms and legs in panic. The sound of release from its mother makes a semi-loud popping noise.
“Nuuuuu!!!” No tak mummah’s sensitibe wittl babbeh!!!" Huhuhuh!!!"
The mare cries, hoping for her retarded baby to be returned to the same spot right in front of her.
The employee picks up a small carrying cage and carelessly throws the foal in. As he punched in some information into the computer, you look around the store a bit. The signs hanging from the ceiling say
Food
Abuse / Punishment
F.E.R (Fluffy Emergency Room)
Toys (To entertain the fluffies)
Customization Station
Every child’s dream. A little spot near the back of the store where you could get your fluffy customized with a special type of paint that didn’t harm the fluffy’s skin.
You stare down at the counter, where a clipboard lay with a form. At the top of the paper there was a foal sticking out its hoove, as if to say “Nyu daddeh?” in big text next to it, it reads
“BE A FLUFFY FOSTER PARENT” You are tempted to sign up, thinking of all the easy kills you could get, but you decide against it.
Finally he finished typing. “Do you want anything else, maybe a bag of kibble?” he asks.
“No I’m good”, you say, pulling out your wallet.
“Total’s gonna be 79.99.” He says.
Damn, these things are getting expensive. You swipe your card and pick up the cage.
“Thanks.” you say briefly, yet politely. He says nothing in return, and you head out the door.
On the drive home, you occasionally look down at the cage and tell the foal to shut up. It was chirping like crazy, didn’t even take a second to breathe.
Once you arrive home, you set it on the kitchen counter. You look through the tiny bars. It was peeping and chirping very quickly, scanning the room for its mother, to no avail. You take it out of the tiny cage and it slowly waddles into your hand. It’s shaking like crazy. You can feel its rapid heartbeat. You have the sudden urge to crush it, but don’t. You weren’t even going to bother feeding it or setting up a space for it, it’s death was going to be soon, you knew it. The foal had calmed down a bit, but you started to feel a little bit sweaty. It looked into your eyes, and you expected it to say something like “Nyu Daddeh?” but no, it just chirped and smiled. It must’ve been only a week old, too young to talk.
You take a good look at it. It’s a vibrant purple, no mane, but a blue tail and blue hooves. It had tiny wings, too. Also outlined in blue. “So your a pegasus.” you say. It jumps off your hand and scoots back onto the counter. You watch it very closely. It sits down. Oh no. You see where this is going. A loud blast rockets out of its fat ass and wet, brown shit bubbles out. It pisses as well. You watch in disgust. It was time.
After it finished, you grab it by the neck fat and it shrieks again. You place it on the other side of the counter, free of anything. You place your thumb and index finger around its wing. It watches, wondering where you were going with this. You twist the tiny wing. You hear the tissues unwinding. SNAP!! The wing was home free. It starts crying and screaming, it even tries to run away, but you put your other hand on its back. The other wing comes off just as easy. “Look what your daddy took from you!” You say mockingly, showing the foal its dismembered wings. It wiggles its arms, trying to grab it, but you shove it into its throat instead. It swallows and wheezes, you stick your finger in its tiny mouth and pop its jaw down. It babbles in pain, time for part two.
You open a drawer from underneath of where the torture was taking place, and grab a knife. Not a very sharp knife, but sharp enough to cut through the bones of the foal. You look at the fluffy, its eyes are screaming for mercy. Then you look down to see it wrapped its arm around your hand. It’s hooves! Of course! You cut right where the blue ends and rub the soft leathery hoove of your little victim. Finally the bone cracks. You are deafened by the screaming and you barely even notice it’s still shrieking. You remove your hand from its helpless body, not like it can run anywhere. You squish the skin and pull the bone. The hoove skin falls off, just leaving the little piece of bone, oozing with blood. You shove the hoove into the foal’s mouth again, but quickly realize that the jaw is still locked. It can’t eat it. You push it back up for a second, just to let it chew, and then bring it down back to where it was. You grab a rusty pair of pliers. You place it near the left side of its mouth, and press.
KRRRR-KRRRK!!! It snaps, the foal screams louder than ever before. You use your hand to remove the jaw entirely. All that was left was a disgusting mess of face. It’s eyes were big and crying. Its ears were lowered. There was just a big red hole where its mouth was. Its tiny teeth lay on its only gums. It was disgusting. No, it was sickening. You felt like throwing up. You decide to make it quick and finish it off. You grab your lighter and click it on. The foals pupils shrink. You move it towards its eyes and watch them melt. All the foal can do in response is shake its hind legs and gargle its own blood. The fur and skin began to dry up and burn away, too. It was dead. Another innocent fluffy life destroyed. You let out a sigh of relief. You put the body and its remains into a ziplock bag. You throw it on the ground and stomp on it for shits and giggles. Hopefully the bag will mask the odor. Hopefully no one had heard the foal’s cries of help. You throw the bag into your back trash can outside. After a bit of cleaning, your work is done. You sit down on the couch and turn on the tv.
THE END
