“So, Rick,” said the head Chef, “What makes you want to apply for the job of fluffy butler?”
Rick rushed to answer so quickly that he nearly tripped over his words trying to get them all out.
“Well, I used to work, I mean, I still do work, well volunteer actually, at a local shelter, you know, looking after abandoned fluffies. And I have four fluffies of my own. They are all pillowfluffs that had been tortured by abusers, I try to give them a good life… and of course I’ve worked as a waiter, I’m silver service trained, so I know how to be an excellent server and…”
“Okay, okay, that all sounds good,” the Chef replied, cutting him off mid-stream. “Caring for pillowfluffs and former ferals won’t help you with Lord Fluffhammer though. He’s extremely demanding. What makes you think you can cope with him where so many others have failed?”
Rick looked down at his shoes for a moment. The chef was right. Shelters were full of volunteers like him, high school and college kids with little other work experience. What made him special? What made him stand out? What made him anything more than the loser his stepfather always called him? Rick told the chef the only thing he could think of.
“I really love fluffies. Like, totally. They are my favourite animals.”
“Ahhhhhum…” the chef coughed, as if he were clearing his throat, or secretly cursing.
“And I’m a fast learner. My biggest weakness is that I’m a perfectionist. I’ll be a great fluffy butler.”
The Chef glanced sideways at the lawyer who was sitting next to him, and some hidden understanding passed between their eyes. Rick couldn’t read their expressions, but as it turned out, the Chef told him what he wanted to hear.
“Okay kid, you got it. Night shift with Lord Fluffyhammer. Go talk to Michelle in the kitchen. Your shift starts in two hours.”
Rick felt awesome for the first time since… maybe since ever!
The lawyer paced up and down in the study.
“What makes you think he’ll cope any better than the others Lou?” he asked the Chef.
“Ah, he’s just what we need. Another hugboxing faggot to look after the Fuckhammer.”
The lawyer turned to face him, eyes wide in alarm.
“I thought I said not to call him that! If he found out, or if you accidentally called him that!”
Lou turned to look at him, putting his hands in the pockets of his pristine white apron, which covered his not inconsiderable gut.
“I am not about to start calling Lord Fuckhammer ‘Fuckhammer’ to his actual fat fucking face. I’m perfectly capable of being all ‘yes sir, no sir, thank you for the sorry poopies sir’ to him in person. I just have to vent when I’m not in the room or I’d go totally nuts like all the others.”
The lawyer nodded curtly, but still looked unimpressed.
“Just remember Lou, there’s your share of the hundred and forty-seven billion on the line here. Do NOT fuck this up. We’ve got to keep that retarded obese shit-rat in the lap of luxury until he dies of old age. We can’t risk one of these hugboxers flipping out one day and going postal on his ass. This is too important, and your vetting system leaves a lot to be desired…”
“My vetting system is just fine you asshole,” huffed Lou. “The kid looks after abandoned Pillowfluffs for fuck’s sake. He’s a total hugboxer, anxious to please, and most likely a virgin to boot. He wouldn’t say boo to a goose. Fluffhammer will abuse him for sure, like all the others, but I reckon this kid could last a good while.”
“I hope so Lou,” said the lawyer, resting his hands on the windowsill and looking out across the gardens, “I sure hope so.”
Rick was feeling great. He’d got the butler job for the richest fluffy in the world! Lord Fluffyhammer had been the pet of Earnest Bollockwanger III, the grandson of an early twentieth century oil magnate. He’d shifted the family funds into solar panels when the oil started to run out, and had died rich, and childless. The news that he had left all of his estate to his favourite pet fluffy had shocked the world. Many had argued that a biotoy was not even legally allowed to inherit, but Bollockwanger had thought of everything. Technically, his wealth was held in trust for the fluffy, so as to avoid inheritance taxes. He had specified down to the most minute detail how Lord Fluffhammer was to be treated, with clauses stating that, should he die of un-natural causes, the trust fund would be donated to the American Hugboxing League of Faggotry.
The trust fund was watched over by a horde of lawyers, as well as Bollockwanger’s former staff, who now served as staff for Lord Fluffyhammer, in the grounds of Bollockwanger’s fifty-four bedroom mansion and grounds. Their motivation for this service was the possibility of inheriting a share of Bollockwanger’s fortune, in the three or so years that the fluffy had left to live. It was enough money for people to fight and kill over, an undreamable sum for most people, but it would be theirs, if only they could take care of Lord Fluffyhammer, and prevent him from dying in an accident, drowning, or being killed by an abuser.
Rick knew that he would have no chance of getting any of the money, but Lord Fluffyhammer had been known to give extravagant gifts to former butlers and other servants that the lawyers and original staff had hired. Fluffyhammer had given a Lamborghini to his personal assistant, and by now, Rick just knew that he must be getting all the chicks. Rick imagined what the girls at the shelter would think if he pulled up in a Rolls Royce.
Rick crept into Lord Fluffyhammer’s dining hall. A long dining table of polished oak dominated the centre of the hall, surrounded by chairs. Behind it was a large fire place, long extinguished, and above the fireplace, a priceless oil painting of Ernest Bollockwanger the first. To the left of that, a paining of his son, Bollockwanger the second, and to the right, a painting of Bollockwanger the 3rd, in his later years, with his beloved Lord Fluffyhammer, sitting on his lap.
Rick was overwhelmed by the riches and opulence of the dining hall. Above him were three great chandeliers, made of gold and diamonds. Gold and silver ornaments adorned the walls and alcoves, and fine tapestries were hung between priceless paintings. A single artwork alone would be worth more than a house to Rick, or possibly more than he had ever hoped to earn in his life.
Then, he saw Lord Fluffyhammer.
The fluffy was a cream coloured unicorn, with a shaggy brown mane. He was by far the fattest fluffy Rick had ever seen in his life. Morbidly obese in fact. At present, the fluffy was sitting on an old after-dinner chair, upholstered with leather and smelling of old cigars and older whisky. Lord Fluffyhammer was watching FluffTV.
“Hahahaha! Weggies!” the immensely fat fluffy was laughing to himself, “Dat fwuffy hab nu weggies!”
Rick looked over at the 72 inch plasma TV that the fluffy was watching. An episode of Pillowfluffs are Happyfluffs was playing. It was light hearted slapstick comedy about the mishaps of a family of pillowfluffs. Some fluffies found it funny, but Rick’s own Pillowfluffs couldn’t watch it, as it triggered their PTSD.
“Fwuffy wan sketties,” one of the pillowfluffs was saying on the TV, her voice projected across the dining hall by a massive sound system, “But fwuffy nu can weach!”
“Fwuffy wiww hewp fwuffy!” another pillowfluff said.
Rick watched as the Pillowfluffs attemped to form a fluffy pyramid, in order to reach the delicious sketties. There was much limping, scrabbling and huuing as the pillowfluffs all stepped on one another, forming a tottering tower of legless fluffies, only to knock the pan of sketties all over the fluffy at the bottom, and collapsing into a writhing legless fluffpile of huuing fluffies and sketties.
“Nuuuu!” cried a fluffy at the bottom, as the other fluffies pinned it down and started numming the sketties right out of her fluff, “Nu num fwuffy! Fwuffy nu am nummies!”
It was humour of the lowest and most base kind. Rick could only feel sorry for her, and wondered how much the Pillowfluffs on the TV show must cry as they were returned to their cages after each episode.
Lord Fluffyhammer found it hilarious.
“Hahahahahahahaha!” He roared with laughter, “Dose fwuffies am dummeh, stoopid, poopie fwuffys! Hahahaa!”
Rick looked at him in disgust.
“Nu num fwuffy!” Lord Fluffyhammer mocked
“Nuuuuu!” the Pillowfluff cried again, “Nu am mawe!”
Rick looked on in horror as the other fluffies started to gangbang the Pillowfluff at the bottom, having licked him clean of sketties.
“Hhaahahha!” guffawed Lord Fluffyhammer, “Nu am mawe! Hahahahahaa!”
Rick realised that this must be some X-rated version of FluffTV, specially paid for by abusers. And Lord Fluffyhammer had a subscription to the channel. The title credits rolled as the pillowfluff wailed, and the announcer spoke up, advertising the next show.
“Tune in next week for another exciting episode of Pillowfluffs are Crappyfluffs. Coming up next, part seventeen of Enfie Babbehs.”
“Oh goody, fwuffy hammew WUB Enfie Babbehs!” the morbidly obese fluffy declared. Then he tooted, so hard, that a semi-liquid turd escaped from his ass, splattering all over the upholstered leather of the priceless antique chair. Rick could see that dried poop was all over it.
“Dummeh sneaky poopies. Stay in fwuffy hammew bunghowe.” Fluffyhammer turned around, examined his poop, sniffed it, wrinkled his eyebrows, and gave it an experimental lick.
Rick wanted to throw up in his mouth, and nearly did.
“Fwuffy hungy naow. Need nummies. Butwew!” Fluffyhammer roared, calling for… Calling for Rick! “BUTWEW!”
Rick realised this was the job he had been hired for, and sprang to attention.
“Er… um… I’m here Lord Fluffyhammer,” Rick said, stammering over his words, falling over himself in his flustered eagerness to prove himself to his new employer.
Fluffhammer looked over his shoulder towards Rick, who hustled over to stand in front of his new master. The fluffy’s fur was stained with skettysauce, and the seat in front of him seemed to have… Fluffy jizz? Oh god no it WAS fluffy jizz.
“Who am dis? Dis hoomin nu am butwew?” Lord Fluffyhammer said, turning again to call over his shoulder, “BUTWEW! WHEWE AM BUTWEW? DEWE AM INTWUDEW! INTWUDEW IN FWUFFY MANSION!”
“Er… No, no I’m not an intruder,” Rick explained quickly, “I’m your new Butler! My name is Rick!”
Fluffyhammer looked up at him suspiciously, from his stained leather chair of skettysauce and bodily fluids.
“Wick?” he asked.
“Yes, that’s right,” Rick flustered, “Rick!”
“Wick?” Fluffyhammer asked again, as if he didn’t believe him, “Dat am dummeh-poopie name. Wick sound wike… DICK. Am yu a Dick, Wick?”
“Er… I… er… No I’m not a…”
“Yu am a dick,” Fluffyhammer declared, turning away again, “BUTWEW! DEWE AM INTWUDEW! AND IT AM CAWWED DICK!”
“Um… No, I really am your new butler.” Rick insisted, feeling like he wanted to curl up and die.
“New butwew?” Fluffyhammer asked, “Wat happen to Owd Butwew?”
“Um… I think the old butler is in… Hospital?” Rick volunteered, wondering if honesty really was the best policy.
“Hospitaw? Oh yes, dat wight, Owd Butwew was bited by Awwigatow. Hahaha. It am so funny when fwuffy pway Hoomin-Wunnew. Dat am bestest-smawty game.”
Smarty. He was calling himself smarty.
“Fwuffy hammew wiww caww yu, Wicky-Dicky, ow Butwew, ow Poopy-pants,” Fluffhammer told him, “It depend how fwuffy feew. Naow, Butwew, get fwuffy nummies. Fwuffy wan silvew pwattew of mashed tatatoes, gwavy, wib waviowi an ice-cweam on top. Stwawbewwy ice-cweam, nu vaniwwa. An PWAWNS. Fwesh PWAWNS. But NU cwunchy pwawn weggies. Aww PEEWED PWAWNS. An fow dwinkies, fwuffy wan mountain dew, wib mowe ice-cweam. CHOCOWATE ICE-CWEAM.”
Rick just blinked, unable to take it all in.
“Weww? Wat am Poopy-pants waiting fow? GU GET FWUFFY NUMMIES!!!” he roared.
“Om, nom, nom, nom, nom…” the fluffy moaned, as he feasted on his platter of decadence. The platter alone was twice the size of the fluffy, even obese as he was, and the mountain of food was five times his size.
Most of the mashed potato and gravy was clinging to his fur, as he concentrated on eating the Ravioli and ice-cream on top. Rick was terrified of letting him drink mountain dew, as caffeine could give fluffies heart attacks, but Fluffyhammer seemed to love it. Disturbingly, Fluffyhammer didn’t even stop eating to relieve himself, and simply pissed and pooped all over the rear of the silver platter as he ate, so that the gravy and mash he had not eaten were now swimming in a pool of piss and shit.
Rick wanted to throw up again.
It had taken him three attempts to get the order right, so flustered had he been. Fluffyhammer didn’t seem to care though. In fact, he seemed amused as Rick’s inadequacies. Fluffyhammer called him Wicky-Dicky, Dickwess-Wicky, and Sticky-Dicky, and all manner of other names. He insisted that Rick wear “Cwown Shoes” and “Wubbew nose,” as well as “Siwwy hat,” and made him do “Wetawded Dancies!” while he was waiting for his food. Rick felt like a total fool in the clown clothes he was now wearing over his Butler’s uniform, but he entertained the massive and disgusting fluffy anyway.
“Om-nomnomnomnom,” the fluffy continued eating, as more turds escaped his rear end.
“BUUUUUURRRRRRRRRP,” the fluffy belched, before continuing to stuff his face.
“Huuuuughhhh… dat am bettew… Fwuffy am fuww naow,” he finally concluded, before turning to one side, and vomiting an horrendous mixture of ravioli, mash and ice-cream all over the polished oak table, which was already covered with gravy stains and hoof-prints.
“Uggh… Fwuffy num too much again…” he declared, still sounding bloated.
“Wight, dat am dat. Wicky!” He yelled, “BUTWEW-WICKY!”
“Um, yes, your fluffyness?” Rick asked, addressing Lord Fluffyhammer with his preferred title.
“Fwuffy wan mawe naow. Get fwuffy pegasus mawe, wib puwple fwuff an WED mane.”
“You? You want a mare?” Rick asked.
Fluffyhammer looked at him like he was retarded for a few moments.
“YES! FWUFFYHAMMEW WAN MAWE! DEESE WUMPS NU GUNNA WICK DEMSEWVES AWE DEY? UNWESS BUTWEW WAN BE MAWE TONIGHT?”
Fluffyhammer stood on his hind legs and waved his no-no stick and special lumps in the general direction of Rick’s face. The thought of being buggered by the disgusting smarty was terrifying to Rick, who ran out of the room, calling for help from the other staff.
“Dats wight,” Fluffyhammer called after him, “YU WUN. AN COME BACK WIB MAWE. WIB PUWPEW FWUFF. OW NU COME BACK!”
Somehow, Rick ended up being driven to Wal-mart at 11.23pm on a Friday night, by Fluffyhammer’s chauffeur in a large black limosine. He practically ran into the store, as the chauffeur and kitchen staff all told him that Fluffyhammer didn’t like to be kept waiting. And yes, he had played “Human-Runner” with previous staff, and yes, there really was an accident with the alligator pit. That WAS why the last butler was in hospital.
Rick ran into the fluffy section, attracting the attention of the security guards. When they saw him looking at fluffies however, they figured he was just a harmless crazy.
“Umm… Er… I need a fluffy mare,” Rick told the assistant, a girl not much older than him, who looked at him like he was a freak or pervert. “And she needs to have purple fluff, and a red mane and tail.”
“Okaaaay…” the girl said, chewing on her gum and rolling her eyes, no doubt thinking he was some wierdo abuser. Only then did Rick realise he was still wearing the clown nose, which he quickly pocketed.
“We got a purple mare, but she’s got a yellow mane. Is that good enough?”
Is that good enough? Is it? Rick looked up at her with desperation in his eyes. His balls were well and truly on the line here. On the drive over, the chauffeur had told him about Fluffyhammer’s “Human toughies” and his tendency to give butlers and their family members “Worstest owwies” if they didn’t perform. Rick regretted ever applying for this job.
“Um… yeah, sure, let me see her… Maybe she’ll be good enough.”
The girl led him over to a lidless glass tank, containing a purple fluffy mare with a yellow mane and tail. Surrounding the fluffy were five of the most cute and adorable foals Rick had ever seen. Such was his terror however, that all hugboxing tendencies flew straight out of the window, and he found himself grabbing the mare by her mane and lifting her straight out of the tank.
“Bad upsies!” the mare cried.
“Mummah! Mummah!” the babies wailed.
“I’ll take her. We can paint the mane!” Rick exclaimed, handing the girl a fistfull of dollar bills.
“You wanna take the foals too?” the girl asked, chewing her gum with a bored looking expression, "They tend not to like being separated from their mother.
Of course! Phil remembered, separating foals from a mother could cause fluffy trauma. It was one of the worst things you could do to a mother and foals.
“Sure, sure, I’ll take them too,”
“Bad upsies!” the mare cried again, prompting Rick to place her under one arm, gently hugging her to his body.
“Nyu daddah?” one of the babies asked.
“Okay, that’ll be twenty seven dollars plus taxes.” the girl told him.
“Twenty seven?” Rick asked, “Sure, I… I… FUCK! I only have seven dollars and change!”
“Well thats enough for the momma and one foal. The foals are five bucks a piece. Momma is two dollars.”
“I… I…” Rick hesitated, “I… I’ll come back! Save the babies for me. I’ll come back!”
“Okay,” said the girl, as Rick ran off down the aisle, with the wailing fluffy mummah in his arms.
“Mummah! Nuuuuuuu!” cried the babies.
“Mummah!” they wailed, weeping in utter, utter despair.
DeShawn watched the gate to Bollockwanger mansion as the black limo pulled up at the automatic gate. He’d snuck up to it earlier that evening, and found that a simple housebrick placed at the right place, was enough to prevent the magnetic lock from clicking closed. Now the limo had come back, he could put it to the test.
“Hey Trevon,” he called to his accomplice, “TREVON! Get off y’aw damn phone nigga, dat bitch still gon be dere tomorrow.”
“Chill nigga, I just tryin’ get my ass LAID muthafucka. You should try it some time.” Trevon responded, always thinking with his dick.
“Dat housebrick don stopped the gate Trevon, we can get inside and rob dis bitch!”
Trevon looked up from his phone, “Oh DAYUM! You gon done it dis time DeShawn! Weez gonna be RICH.”
“Yes!” Said DeShawn, “An den you gon have all da pussy you wan muthafucka!”
“Oh fow shaw,” Trevon agreed, putting on his anonymous mask and taking out his gun.
Rick ran back into the kitchen.
“Will this fluffy do? She is purple, but the mane…”
“Oh fuck, she’s not got the right mane,” one of the serving girls told the Chef.
“Fuck it,” said the Chef, “We’ll dye her mane and tail with red food coloring. Rick, hold her down on the table while I rub it in good.”
Rick held down the wailing, screeing and shitting mare as they rubbed food colouring into her mane and tail. Then, he looked on in horror as the Chef placed her on a chopping board, and reached for a large meat cleaver.
“You might wanna look away from this part kid,” he warned Rick, “Fluffyhammer don’t like his pussy to have legs see.”
Rick was horrified, “W-what? You’re going to pillow her? Just so he can… so he can…”
“Look kid, you’ve got a good heart, but what smarty wants, smarty gets,” the Chef explained, “Last year, a fluffy mare kicked him in the nads, and we spent two whole weeks listening to him wailing. Plus, he had one of his toughies kick the poor bastard that brought him the mare in HIS nads repeatedly. I reckon that guy lost his balls kid. His fuckin’ BALLS.”
Rick gulped.
“You wanna risk losing your balls over this mare kid? Be my guest.”
Rick gulped again.
“Well?”
Rick looked away, which was all the agreement the Chef needed.
THUNK
“SCREEEEEEEEEEE!!!”
“Dayum! Dey got some proper ornamental shit up in dis bitch!” said Trevon, as the pair of robbers snuck into the mansion, “Dis is like, high-class livin’ an shit. Fo’ real.”
“Keep yo’ mout shut nigga, weez gotta find dat fluffy, an dat safe.”
“Fo’ sho’,” agreed DeShawn.
Rick crept into the dining hall, weeping almost as much as the now legless fluffy mare that he clutched to his chest. Her blood had soaked into the clown clothes he had reluctantly put back on over his butler suit. The mare was drenched in red food dye and her own blood, though the chef had quickly cauterised her wounds with a blow torch intended for creme brulee.
“Why take fwuffy weggies? Why?” asked the mare again, “Huu huu huu huu huu…”
“I… I’m… I’m…” Rick stuttered, “I’m sorry.”
Rick slowly walked up to the fluffy’s leather chair, where it was sitting as it watched FluffTV. To Rick’s horror, it was an episode of Enfie Babbehs which showed various smarties raping fluffy foals, as their mother’s looked on in abject horror.
“ENF ENF ENF… GOOD FEEWS!” the fluffies on the TV declared. It didn’t appear to be acting.
“Hahaha! ENF ENF ENF!” laughed Fluffyhammer as Rick approached.
“Wa? Babbehs?” asked the purple mare.
Fluffyhammer heard her question and looked up from his show. As Rick got near, he realised that the fluffy had been fapping furiously for the past hour, no doubt waiting for him to return with the mare. Rick didn’t even realise that fluffies COULD fap, given their lack of hands. But Fluffyhammer was making up for it, rubbing his little fluffy penis with hooves covered in mashed potato.
“Ahh Wicky-Dicky am back… an bwing… Pwetty mawe!”
Fluffyhammer’s eyes widened like a kid in a candyshop when he saw the legless, struggling mare.
“Um… I um… I got her…” Was all Rick could say.
“Dats good Wicky. Serb Fwuffyhammew weww an yu wiww get wewawded.”
“Nuuu!” wailed the mare, at the sight of erect no-no stick.
“Um… where do you…” Rick asked.
“Oh, jus’ put dummeh nu-weggy mawe down in mashed tatatoes. Smawty wike num whiwe Enfing.”
Rick places the weeping, legless mare down in the platter of half eaten mashed potato and gravy, which had smatterings of fluffy shit and piss all trodden into it, along with the occasional prawn and uneaten piece of ravioli. He watched as fluffyhammer trotted down a set of fluffy sized steps from his leather chair, and up a similar sized set of steps onto the oaken dining table. Fluffyhammer paused at the bowl of mountain dew, and took a good long drink from it.
“Ahhh…” Fluffyhammer sighed, sounding refreshed, “Dat am bettew. Naow put on muzik butwew.” he said, exposing his no-no stick and exposing the wriggling rump of the legless mare, “It am HAMMEW TIEM!”
Rick pressed play on the hi-fi, which stared playing some awful 90s rap music. Rick watched in horror as Fluffyhammer started to rape the weeping mare, pushing her face down into the mashed potato and humping her in time to the beat.
“Hey DeShawn, look at dis shit man, dis some high-grade shit man. Like, golden candlesticks an shit. We shoulda got a whole bunch of niggas an one o’ dose removal van bitches.”
“Keep yo’ voice DOWN nigga!” DeShawn whispered fiercely, “We ain’t robbin dis bitch fo’ a big TV, we here fo’ da MONEY. Deez muthafucka’s keep dey money in da SAFE, so dey don’t get taxes n’ shit.”
“Okay, fo’ real, fo’ real DeShawn, I do it.” Trevon agreed, suddenly going quiet.
From a room around the corner, came sounds of music and the squealing of one or more fluffies.
“DeShawn… is dat… dat sound like MC muthafuckin Hammer nigga.”
“It… it IS MC Hammer,” DeShawn agreed.
“DeShawn, da only nigga dat listen to MC Hammer is my GRANDPAW. An we ain’t robbin my paw-paw. Uh-uh,” said Trevon, shaking his head.
“Did yo’ momma drop you on yo’ head when you wuz a baby nigga?” DeShawn asked his friend.
“Oh don’t you start sayin’ nothin 'bout dis nigga’s momma nigga!” said Trevon, anger suddenly flaring.
“I ain’t sayin’ shit about yo’ momma nigga, I sayin’ shit about you. Dis fluffy weez robbin’ his name am LORD FLUFFYHAMMER. Every nigga know dat Hammertime by MC Hammer his favourite tune. You know wha’ I’m sayin?”
“Oh yeah,” realised Trevon, “Him an my paw-paw.”
DeShawn and Trevon pulled down their masks again, and entered the dining hall. To their surprise, they saw a 72 inch plasma TV, with some kind of fluffy foal raping show, and a cream coloured obese fluffy, raping a purple fluffy into a pile of mashed potato larger than both of them. Stranger still was some white boy, dressed in some kind of butler-clown costume, sitting on a chair in the corner and crying.
“DAYUM!” spat Trevon, calling it like it was. “Dey had some kinda fucked up fluffy gang-bang in dis bitch!”
“Shut UP Trevon!” yelled DeShawn.
“Oh, now you gone yelled my name nigga! You always tellin’ me, where da masks, don’ say shit, act like you some white robber an’ den you go yellin’ my name? Fo’ real?”
“SHUT UP!” DeShawn yelled again.
The white boy was looking up at them both, with that shit-my-pants with fear look that DeShawn had come to recognise. The fluffy didn’t seem to notice, or care though, so busy was he, fucking his bitch.
“Okay, dis is a robbery,” DeShawn yelled over the sound of the FluffTV
“ENFIE BABBEHS!” an excited stallion declared, until DeShawn ended the noise by shooting out the sub-woofer. The enfing continued, albeit at a much lesser volume, and with treble alone. The white-boy jumped at the sound, but Fluffyhammer just continued his enf-enf-enf.
“Who IS this clown-ass bitch?” asked Trevon
“Nevermind him, is dat Fluffyhammer?” DeShawn asked the shaking white boy.
“Um… yes… yes that’s him… p-please don’t shoot me!” the boy begged.
DeShawn realised he had to act fast, get the money, and leave, before some bitch called the cops.
“OK, where the money at bitch?” he asked the clown-ass fool.
“I… I don’t know. Its my first night on the job! I’m new here!”
“Awww shiiiit,” said DeShawn, “Yo Fluffyhammer… FLUFFYHAMMER!”
DeShawn grabbed the Fluffy by the scruff of its neck and pulled it off of its purple partner, who by now had stopped struggling. DeShawn realised she had drowned in mashed potato.
“Dayum, dat ain’t no way fo’ no beast to die nigga,” said DeShawn, solemnly.
“Bad upsies!” yelled Fluffyhammer, his gravy covered cock waving in the air.
“Where the safe at bitch?” yelled DeShawn, in the Billionaire fluffy’s face.
“Safe woom? Fwuffy nu hab safewoom. Fwuffy onwy hab MANSION.” Fluffyhammer declared.
“Not safe ROOM. Safe SAFE. Where the MONEY at BITCH?!” DeShawn asked again, pointing his gun at the fluffy.
“Fwuffy nu hab safe,” Fluffyhammer calmly replied.
“I ain’t foolin’ wid you fluffy, tell me where the safe at or I shoot yo’ clown dead!”
“Shoot clown den. Fwuffy nu cawe. Can get nyu Butwew tomowwow.”
DeShawn pulled the trigger, putting a .44 magnum round in the white-boy’s clown-ass leg.
“Aarargjgjgghhhh!” the white boy screamed, going down like a sack of shit.
“Hahahhaha! Dat am su funny! Naow shoot uddew weg!” cried Fluffyhammer.
“Wut?!” asked DeShawn in disbelief, before pistol whipping the fluffy, breaking its nose in a shower of blood.
“AAAIIEIEEE!” the fluffy screamed, “Why huwt fwuffy? Fwuffy nose hab wowstest owwies!”
“WHERE DA MONEY AT BITCH?!” DeShawn repeated.
But before the Fluffy could respond, another voice called out across the room.
“Ye’ll be puttin ye guns an’ Laird Fluffyhammer doon naw, an ye’ll nae come tae any hairm.” said a man with a very strange accent.
DeShawn turned around to see a man with a large red-beard, holding a shot-gun, and wearing some kind of skirt.
“Ahh… Gawdenew-toughie, dese aww INTWUDEWS,” explained Fluffyhammer, “Gib dem WOWSTEST OWWIES!”
“DeShawn, is dis bitch wearin’ a dress?” asked Trevon.
“Its a KILT ye wee bastarrd.” the strange man said icily, “Now ye’ll be puttin ye guns doon an…”
Trevon went to shoot the Scottish gardener, but the man was too quick for him, and blasted him putting Trevon on the floor with a gaping wound, screaming even louder than clown-ass white-boy.
“ARRRAAARGFHGG!” Trevon screed. “He done shot me in the DICK nigga!”
“Not so fast bitch!” said DeShawn, aiming his gun at the gardener, only to see several suit wearing mother fuckers and an angry looking chef walking up behind him with a variety of hunting shotguns.
“Oh where did you mother fuckers come from?” he asked them, before turning his gun on the fluffy.
“TOUGHIES! KIWW DA INTWUDEW! GIB HIM WOWSTEST OWWIES. DEN GET SMARTY NYU BUTWEW. AN MAWE.”
“Oh that shit ain’t gonna swim motha fucka,” yelled DeShawn. “Yeah you got me out gunned bitches, but you can’t shoot me without killin’ yo’ mastew.”
The sudden hesitance in their eyes told DeShawn everything he needed to know.
“See dis was jus’ gonna be an easy stick-up, but now dis gonna be a kidnapping. Dat’s right muthafuckas, I’s takin’ Lord Fluffyhammer with me. An if any of you clown-ass mother fucker’s try an’ stop me, I gon’ shoot him dead. An I KNOW ya’ll need him alive for the inheritance.”
The advancing army of lawyers and house-staff stopped still in their tracks, and backed away, letting DeShawn back away via a different exit to make clean his escape.
“NUUUU! TOUGHIES! STAWP DIS! GIB INTWUDEW WOWSTEST OWWIES! STAWP HIM! STAWP!”
“DeShawn…” Whimpered Trevon, “Don’ leave me nigga, I bleedin’ out… Dat skirt wearin’ motha fucka done shot m my dick off…”
“Sorry Trevon, I can’t leave no one squealin’ to doctors and po-po on this job.” said DeShawn, before putting a bullet between his best friend’s eyes.
DeShawn then took the fluffy, and fled to the getaway car. No one dared shoot him with their lord and master in his hands.
