Cover art done once again by the lovely @LemonCurds
In a post fluffy world, economic and social trends adjusted to meet new problems, and fulfill new desires. While they legally weren’t alive, the torture and abuse of fluffies still carried a stigma. As a result, companies that specialized in fluffy discipline appeared wherever fluffies were found.
Record capital investment and virtually zero percent interest rates allowed unlimited growth right until the world realized that fluffies were in a bubble. The average price of a fluffy went from hundreds of dollars to free, and hundreds of abuse centers found themselves being bought up and consolidated into two major entities. MiseriCorp and Cocytus Farms. This is the story of MiseriCorp.
Tombo had been happy once, when he was little. He still was little, if you asked him. His daddeh had been with him as long as Tombo could remember, always giving him milkies or warmies from his lap. Whenever he needed to make peepees or poopies Tombo would peep, peep, peep, and his daddeh would carry him over to the good poopies place. Daddeh would always sing to him while he drank his milkies, and tell him how much he loved Tombo. Every day, Tombo had the biggest heart happies in the world! It was peaceful. It was a paradise. One day, through no fault of his own, it was taken away from him.
Tombo didn’t peep for his daddeh anymore. He had become a walky talky babbeh, and he could ask his daddeh for help like a big babbeh. This had worked just fine for a lot of forevers, but now Tombo’s daddeh was telling him this meant he wasn’t a babbeh anymore, and would have to use the wittabox like a big fluffy. This was obviously not true, his daddeh was being silly. Tombo didn’t feel like a big fluffy at all and was clearly still a babbeh. What’s worse, when Tombo said he was hungry his daddeh didn’t give him milkies like he usually did. Again, daddeh started talking about being a big fluffy and doing strange things. He didn’t sing his daddeh song while he got the nummies. He didn’t get a bottle, just a bowl that he filled with dummeh brown nummies. He wouldn’t even hold Tombo, or stay with him while he nummed! That was too many changes. Everything had been perfect before, and now his daddeh was trying to make him do things a new way. He was a babbeh! He liked being a babbeh, and not even daddeh could tell him that he wasn’t one anymore.
“Daddeh… Tombo am babbeh. Babbeh nee daddeh fo bestest miwkies an’ fo gud poopies.”
“That’s the great thing buddy, everyone still feels like a baby when they get older, but you’ll find that you’re more capable than you think.”
“… otay daddeh.”
Then his daddeh left. He just didn’t understand, what was even happening to him? What did he do to deserve his daddeh leaving him alone? Why was this terrible thing happening to him? Hungry from not getting his usual morning milkies, Tombo was eventually forced to check out the sad brown nummies his daddeh had poured earlier. One sniff was all he needed to start crying softly. It was so strong that it made his smell place wrinkle. His daddeh wanted him to eat this? Whatever this was it looked, and smelled, like poopies! Milkies were white, had the bestest sweet smell, and tasted like heaven. There was no way he could eat this smelly, poopie looking stuff. His eyes rimmed with tears, Tombo went to find his daddeh and fix this.
“Daddeh, Tombo am hungwy.” He sniffled. “Miwkies pwease?”
Daddeh had been watching teebee and just looked at him, but didn’t say anything. This was weird. Did daddeh not hear him? A cold feeling settled in Tombo’s tummeh.
“Daddeh. Tombo am babbeh. Nee miwkies fow nummies pwease?”
Again, his daddeh didn’t answer him. He just shifted in his chair to look at him straight on. WHAT was happening?! This wasn’t how things usually worked in his world. All these changes and weird things were giving Tombo the worstest heart hurties and head hurties ever! He sank down as the feelings overwhelmed him, and the light sniffling turned into big, hearty sobs.
“Huu huu huu huu! Wai daddeh nu wub Tombo anymowe? Am bad babbeh? Tombo sowwy-hee-hee-huu huu! Pwease wub Tombo, nee miwkies fwom daddeh!”
The sobbing, and saddies, only got more intense as his daddeh sat and watched him. This was it. His daddeh was going to let him sit here and starve. Tears blinded him, his smell place was running with snot and Tombo’s little lungs wheezed as he took big gulps of air. The saddies even got into his chest, giving his heart owies. Without any warning, he felt daddeh’s strong hands wrapping around his tummeh. His daddeh loved him again? Tombo was so relieved, but he couldn’t stop the tears. His daddeh held him while he let all his saddies out, slowly preparing milky nummies because he could only use one hand. With his lips finally on the bottle, and in his daddeh’s arms, Tombo was able to stop crying. While he had still gotten his nummies, and his daddeh, he quietly knew that things would never be the same.
What Deacon was doing couldn’t technically be considered pacing, as he was only going in one direction. All the same, his mind was feverishly trying to solve all his problems. The outcome of his last big client, an alicorn by the name of Seraph, had pleased senior management so much that Deacon was saddled with additional responsibilities. No longer a humble “rehabilitation engineer” with a specialization in some of the nastiest turds God shat out, he was overseeing every single fluffy that passed through the building. While the increase in pay and benefits were nice, having to put out other people’s fires on what seemed like a daily basis bugged him to no end. The other thing that bothered him was the fact that Seraph had only gone well in other people’s opinion. It had become personal with Seraph, and he had truly lost his composure. Not good. A certain detachment had made Deacon exceptional; the kind of employee that people like Viviana LeRoche sought out. The more emotional he became dealing with fluffies, the more he risked fucking it all up. As he wandered absentmindedly through the bowels of MiseriCorp the smell of cigarettes and weed grabbed his attention; he must be close. Zig-zagging through more hallways and passing rows of empty offices, Deacon finally rounded a corner and faced the observation room. He spied an aide standing outside, looking casual. Seeing Deacon he gave a smile and a wave, opening the door such that he didn’t even break his stride.
A tidal wave of smells and sounds washed over Deacon as he stepped into the once modest observation room. Weed and cigarettes, yes, but also the burn of alcohol, sour body odor, stale food and old garbage. There were easily fifty people in the room, which was more aides than he even had. A dart flew past his face and into its board opposite the thrower, who got thumps from his friends for almost hitting their boss. This was Deacon’s third problem. The methods he used to ensure participation with the Seraph debacle worked a little too well, and now they were permanent. He had never actually told senior management about how lax the rules had gotten when reporting his success, and they hadn’t asked. Nobody had snitched so far thanks to a policy of anyone who asked being allowed in. It turns out working with fluffies is a nightmare, and most MiseriCorp employees needed to blow off steam. This was only a temporary solution, however. While having a combination speakeasy/dab-ratory/gambling ring was an obvious nightmare if you were trying to keep it a secret from your boss, it came with some surprising benefits. The least of which came in the form of a hilariously large dab rig the aides had positioned in the center of the room. They beckoned Deacon over, already prepared for what had become his daily ritual.
Deacon took a paperclip he’d grabbed earlier and scooped rosin from a proffered jar, eyeballing the amount. Passing the paperclip to an aide, he stood and positioned himself on the mouthpiece while the aide bent to the freshly blowtorched nail near the floor. Deacon emptied his lungs, and with a signal to the aide, he inhaled. It was like chewing air. As the aide touched the gob of THC to the nail, thick, viscous fog percolated through the base, and filled all six feet of glass tubing. It engulfed his throat and Deacon suppressed the urge to cough, knowing the payoff he was in for if he succeeded. A lifetime of being a choir boy and playing tuba had set him up for success, but even then it was work. He had to use all of his diaphragm control, feeling his intercostal muscles stretch while his rib cage expanded. After what felt like an hour, but was only 30 seconds of steady, deliberate inhaling, Deacon stepped back with a sort of scrunched look on his face, made a horrible snorting noise, and exhaled a plume of smoke that filled the room. Perfect! he thought. I’ll be too busy being high to get mad at anyone. Seconds later his walkie-talkie, a new addition from his promotion, gave a single squawk.
“Shit.” Deacon choked. That was the signal for a walk-in, which he was still in charge of due to no one else being hired to fill the position. While making his way to the reception room he recited his daily affirmations. “You don’t smell like weed. No one can tell that you’re high. God is good. Let’s get this bag.” Pausing at the door, Deacon summoned his willpower to not appear high, which is the mental equivalent of clenching your anus. He entered the lobby with a rictus smile.
“Hello there, sir. My name is Deacon, I manage fluffy rehabilitation here at MiseriCorp. What can I do for you today?”
The sight that greeted Deacon was one he’d never seen, even in all his time working with fluffies. Before him stood a man in his mid to late twenties, dressed bookishly with black framed glasses and doughy features. In contrast to his unmemorable appearance was a black sling, typically used for human children, which contained a very limp, almost grown brown fluffy. The man stared blankly at Deacon for a full second after he’d finished speaking.
“Oh, hi there! Uh, I was having some trouble with my Tombo and I was wondering if you could help me out.”
No shit man, I literally asked how I could help you. Deacon mentally sniped. “Of course, sir. What seems to be the problem?”
“Well when I first got little Tombo he was such a sweet thing,” the man got a faraway look. “He was only the size of my hand, it was so much work to feed him every four hours but the little noises and his cute hooves made totally it worth it.”
“Mm-hmm.” This guy was clearly going to tell Deacon how to make a clock, but he didn’t care enough to interrupt him.
“And when he opened his eyes and called me ‘daddeh’ for the first time… words just can’t describe the pride I felt. From then on we were even more inseparable. I raised him as best I could, feeding him whenever he was hungry, giving him plenty of attention, and helping him go in the litter box.”
Deacon glanced again at the infant sized horse hanging off the man’s midsection. “That must have been some time ago, no?”
“Huh? Oh, it was uh, year ago I think. Anyway, eventually he was old enough for kibble, and to use the litter box on his own. You know, like the DVDs say? I decided to break the news to him one day, and he didn’t take it well. He threw a huge tantrum, and refused to eat his kibble long enough that I had to eventually give him formula again. I’ve tried things to get him to use the litter box, but nothing’s really worked. And he- oh no.”
The man suddenly stopped speaking, and it took Deacon a second to spot the dark spot spreading from the bottom of the sling, and the liquid that was now dripping onto the floor. The poor man, covered in what was certainly piss, started to limply chastise Tombo before a muted PFFFT emitted from him and the smell of fluffy shit filled the room. True mortification filled his eyes as he babbled to Deacon.
“Oh my god, I am so sorry mister… Deacon. I- This is what I wanted to ask you about, unless I physically carry my Tombo to a litter box and hold him over it, he has accidents. Do you think you can help me?”
“Have you tried putting Tombo physically into the litter box?”
“Uh… no, actually.”
“Well, we can try that for a start. What you’ve told me about Tombo raises some concerns, but you’ve come to the right person. Don’t worry about the mess, I’ve seen plenty of fluffy shit in my day.”
“But you’re about as old as I am.”
“Uh huh. Why don’t you step into my office? I can get a more detailed history on Tombo and we can work out a treatment plan, and payment.”
Tombo’s owner was Mike Birbiglioni, a man that Deacon judged to be too limp-wristed to own a fluffy. Despite this, he was the lead programmer at some tech startup somewhere, and so was worth Deacon’s time. Being a single man in his twenties with disposable income, Mike had bought a chirpy fluffy, known in expert circles to be a high demand and complicated pet to properly take care of. Not only did they require feeding every four hours; they also needed proper socialization and training, or they could develop behavioral issues. On top of that, he’d intentionally decided to get a brown one because he “empathized with them more.” While Mike had undoubtedly made a mistake with litter box training, the addition of Tombo refusing kibble pointed to a common cause. In Deacon’s opinion, excessive attention and pampering had made Tombo into an extremely lazy fluffy. He got too used to his owner waiting on him hand and hoof, and now he was lashing out. Mr. Birbiglioni says after he gave Tombo his ultimatum about being a big fluffy, the little snot had simply acted like nothing had happened. He would beg for milkies every day, and insist that Mike help him to the litter box, or else make a mess on the floor. It eventually got so bad that Tombo would also become distressed if he was separated from Mr. Birbiglioni, and was required to at least be in the same room at all times; though he preferred lap time.
It’s worth noting that every day for weeks, Mr. Birbiglioni would give in to his fluffy’s demands out of a sense of self admitted guilt. Eventually the issue became enough of a strain on his professional life that he tried passive litter box training, otherwise known as the “just don’t clean” method. For a month and three days, Tombo was a little subdued, but otherwise unfazed by the ever increasing amounts of waste that littered the house and showed no interest in the litter box. Apparently the floors ended up needing to be replaced after that incident. Mister Birbiglioni had even tried diapers after reading online that fluffies found them embarrassing and he could potentially shame Tombo into being litter trained. Not only had this not worked, but when Tombo was told that he was wearing a diaper for babies, he had expressed excitement at “bein’ a babbeh ‘gain” and complained when the diaper was removed. Mike had originally come to MiseriCorp looking for some advice, but at Deacon’s recommendation Tombo was signed up for inpatient treatment with his department. As it would happen, there was an availability that very day, and Tombo was ready for intake immediately.
Tombo awoke to his daddeh taking him out of his bestest sling. That bothered him, but it was ok. He knew that daddeh needed to take him out of his bestest sling to give him things like nummies and cleanies, and he didn’t smell pretty right now. He hadn’t woken up in time to make good poopies. As the sleepies left Tombo’s eyes he saw a weird hoomin with black not-fluff, and two others wearing white, whose faces were covered by more not-fluff. Knowing there were other hoomins in the room made him nervous, and he nuzzled into his daddeh’s neck for comfort. He tried to ignore the poopies and peepees that still clung to his bottom, his daddeh would take care of them. Then his daddeh did something weird; he held Tombo away from him and had a funny look on his face.
“Good morning, bubbas.” he said. “Did you have a good sleep?”
“Uh huh. Daddeh, who am dese scawy hoomins? Nu wike.”
“Oh, don’t say that Tombo. These people are very nice, I’ve had a talk with them and they’re going to help us out.”
Hearing this, Tombo perked up a little. “Nice hoomins hewp? Wai hoomins hewp Tombo an daddeh?”
“Um, well… daddy has to work so he can have enough money to take care of you, but I’m too busy cleaning up poopies and peepees or making milkies to do enough work. So, these nice humans are going to teach you how to use a litter box and eat kibble like a big fluffy! Doesn’t that sound exciting?”
“WHA? NUUUUUUUUUHUHUHUHUU!! NU MAKE TOMBO USE WITTABOX, NU WIKE WITTABOX! NU WIKE NU TASTY KIBBWE, TOMBO WAN BE BABBEH! WUB DADDEH, WAN BE WIFF DADDEH!!”
His daddeh didn’t give him huggies, or even say anything. It was the biggest, worstest scardies Tombo had felt in his life. Feeling himself being moved, Tombo shrieked; his daddeh was going to leave him with these strange hoomins! He was in full meltdown mode now, leggies flailing, tears staining the fluff around his eyes, throwing out mental lifelines for his daddeh to realize the mistake he was making. He needed his daddeh! His daddeh needed him! He was too busy flailing to pay attention to his surroundings. He didn’t even notice when daddeh held him out to the hoomin in black to be met with a curt headshake, it was just more movement. He only reacted to the feeling of white gloved hands wrapping around his torso, and his daddeh’s warmth leaving him. Tombo exploded in desperation. His saddies and hurties were so big that he made bad peepees and poopies, even though he had done it earlier. Then the hoomin holding him said a meanie word at him! Again he tried to reason with his daddeh.
“DADDEEEEEH! TOMBO AM ONWY WIDDOW BABBEH! BABBEH NEE DADDEH, NEE MIWKES, AN HUGGIES AN WUB! NU WUB BABBEH ANYMOWE? PWEASE WUB BABBEH! PWEASE DADDEH! WAN BE BABBEH! WAN BE BABBEH! TOMBO WUB DADDEH!! PWEE-HEE-HEEEASE!”
His daddeh didn’t turn around. Tombo’s words hadn’t even slowed him down. He needed his daddeh, but none of the hoomins were listening! The hoomin in white put Tombo in a scary metal box, one that was dark and he couldn’t see out of. Inside the box Tombo heard lots of noises: hoomins saying meanie words, loud bangs, the whirs of machine munstahs, until he was wheeled into a small room that made every noise happen twice, and he heard wawa running. Tombo’s heart hurties at daddeh not loving him anymore were quickly replaced with the WORSTEST scardies. Scardies that gummed up his talkie place and made his leggies stiff. Scardies that gave his thinky place hurties. The top of the sorry box opened and a hand gave him bad upsies, carrying him towards the sound. This wasn’t good! He had to let the hoomin know before they accidentally put him in the wawa! He managed to say “WAWA BA-” before his protest was literally drowned out. The wawa was hot, but it smelled pretty. His skin felt like it was being cooked off. His daddeh had never been this mean to him before! Tombo had only ever gotten the bestest wipey cleanies, which felt almost as good as he imagined licky cleanies. When he tried to thrash free, his leggies just hit the sides of the wawa place and made them ache. After the wawa hurties Tombo was dried by a towel that pulled his fluff and gave him worstest skin and fluff hurties!
After the hoomin had given him hurties with the wawa and towel, Tombo was brought to… a safe room? He had never actually been in a safe room, but Hasbio’s genetic programming told him that’s what he was seeing. The floors looked soft, with foam padding, the walls were decorated with pretty clouds and flowers, and in the middle of the room was a shallow box filled with brown stuff.
“This is a litter box.” The hoomin carried Tombo to the box without even giving him a chance to adjust to it. “Let’s give it a try, ok?”
Numb from the horrors of the wawa room, Tombo allowed himself to be lowered into the litter box without complaint. His four hooves touched the sand, and the hoomin took a step backwards. Immediately the bottom of Tombo’s hooves lit up with hurties! The sand had a really not pretty texture, and it gave him a yucky, owwy feeling all up his leggies and in his breathie place. This was the litter box? No wonder his daddeh had always given him uppies when he needed to make good poopies, it was terrible! Without taking another second to think, Tombo drew a breath, gathered his leggies underneath him and ran, screeing as loud as his little babbeh lungs could.
Deacon hadn’t expected it to be that easy. Sure, Tombo had clearly been coddled too much as a foal, and his owner was too infirm to handle any of the hard truths of fluffy ownership. The odds weren’t great that he’d just get better if someone put him in a litter box, but now it couldn’t be said that they didn’t try. Plus, he had really enjoyed watching Tombo’s reaction. Worry stabbed him even as he thought that, but it couldn’t be denied. Seeing the little turd overreact to standing in a litter box was pathetic, in a way that made him want to grin ear to ear. Despite this Deacon raced down the hall to the location of his next emergency, the clinic. Two squawks from his walkie-talkie was the signal. He didn’t have any more time for Tombo, but his aides would carry out their orders like he had instructed.
Footsteps in a silent hallway were swallowed by an orchestra of medical instruments, each indicating something wasn’t going well. Heading towards the source of the noise, Deacon saw three figures in scrubs huddled around an obstructed fluffy. Pushing them aside, he beheld Drizzle, the number two dam in MiseriCorp’s entire breeding wing. Having this job meant Deacon got to know each and every fluffy under his care, which now included the entire MiseriCorp compound. Drizzle was a gray mare with a white mane, and a rare spotted coat pattern that made her a highly valuable breeder. From what Deacon could see, she had been torn from vagina to anus and was bleeding out all over a litter of stillborn foals.
Deacon wheeled towards the three doctors, fixing the middle one with an accusatory glare. “What’s going on here?” He shrieked. While they had reacted to his touch when he’d pushed them aside, the three standing before Deacon were obviously in shock and unresponsive. This time he approached the middle doctor, and firmly seized his lapel before speaking again.
“Are you all right? What’s going on here? I got the call to come down; why aren’t you operating on Drizzle?”
Deacon’s new approach got better results, with all three doctors reacting to his sudden physicality. The left doctor, much shorter than the other two, was a girl who couldn’t be much older than eighteen. The rightmost doctor was by far the oldest, with liver spots and a salt-and-pepper beard. Lefty stepped towards Deacon, a placating hand extended.
“She was doing fine, talking and all that, when all of a sudden she went into labor! Things weren’t going well, so I called you, and then this happened! We were tryna do triage but she’s banged up too bad.”
“What? She isn’t due for another week! And this is a fully equipped surgical center, I know for a fact that more than one two-headed fluffy has left these walls alive.”
“Fully equipped, sure. But it ain’t fully staffed! I’m just a surgeon’s assistant. All I do is pass what I’m told to pass, I don’t know how to put a fluffy back together!”
Jesus. Fucking. Christ. We’ve got a surgery center with no surgeon? Deacon’s heart dropped into his stomach as he realized Drizzle’s fate would ultimately be his responsibility. He would have to take charge and save the mare’s life. Well, that’s what he’d signed up for, right? After a moment of paralyzing silence, Deacon decided to assess the rest of his assets. He turned to Middle.
“You. What do you do?”
“I-I’m a phlebotomist.”
“Oh good, someone with an actual medical degree.” Deacon sighed.
“Well no, it’s actually a certification. I’m a CPTII.”
“Is that impressive?”
“It’s the highest level they have.”
That meant no, then. There was only one source of hope left for Deacon. He prayed that Righty’s age was indicative of his sage wisdom and surgical prowess.
“What about you? What’s your deal?”
Righty gave a large, toothy grin, and spoke with a voice rasped by years of apparent hard living.
“Chiropractor.”
Deacon wanted to decapitate everyone in the room, then himself. Medical emergencies could happen at any time with fluffies, and he was stuck with these three? It was a miracle no one had died yet. He would later remember that Lefty had actually grown up on a ranch, performing all the chores that entails, and was technically the most qualified person in the room. Even then she would only know how to deliver foals, not sew up an eviscerated torso.
“Uh, sir?” Lefty’s comment couldn’t pierce Deacon’s mental fog.
Of course. Of course this would happen when he was in charge. Drizzle was only the second most profitable mare in the entire compound, and in the middle of a routine checkup she had apparently exploded! Now he was going to have to deal with it. Senior management was obsessed with long term revenue streams, and their own infinite source of fluffies to sell was their absolute favorite idea. If production took a hit from this, they would notice.
“Sir?”
Did it matter that there wasn’t a surgeon on staff? Not to management. All they would see is the slight dip in profits and a reason to issue a correction. There had to be some way to fix this. He had heard about freelance fluffy doctors before. Usually they had been barred from medical or veterinary practices, but with fluffies being neither human nor animal they presented an unending source of work. They were often expensive, but he could pay for it out of pocket if he had to.
“Sir! Are you listening to me?”
Deacon finally realized Lefty was speaking to him. He blinked at her, but didn’t say anything.
“She’s… already dead, sir.”
Sure enough, she was. The frantic beeping of the medical devices had either flatlined or gone silent. The table that Drizzle had been laying on was completely covered in blood, nearly spilling onto the floor if not for a built-in fluid channel. It matted her white-spotted fur. Drizzle was splayed out, clearly having struggled while the life emptied out of her. Her tongue was cyanotic, hanging out of her mouth like she choked on nothing. Her eyes were bloodshot, and full of agony. Having seen this, Deacon started to tremble. He jammed his fists into his pockets, hunching his back to try and hide his distress. He wasn’t sure what it was about.
“Oh, so she is. Well, might as well get some use out of her.” He sighed, and kneaded the bridge of his nose. “Harvest her eggs or something, then deliver her corpse to meatpacking.”
He left without making eye contact.
It had been hours since Tombo was put into the hurty litter box. After running and running, and running, he got sleepy and took a nap. There was no blankie or pretty bed for him to lay on, which made one more thing to give his heart hurties when he woke up. Standing, Tombo realized he could hear hoomins talking on the other side of the door. They were talking loud and fast, and Tombo thought one of them could be his daddeh! He called out for him, and the hoomins stopped talking. The door opened and… his daddeh wasn’t one of the hoomins. Instead two hoomins in white, maybe the same ones from before, came into his safe room and shut the door behind them. This wasn’t good. Last time hoomins had been in the safe room, they had put him in the hurty litter box! He tried to get away, but there was nowhere to hide in the mostly empty room. Eventually the hoomins cornered Tombo, which gave him scardies, so he covered his face with his hooves. The next thing he heard made him jump a little.
“Hey buddy, hey little Tombo. My name’s uh… Thing One, and your daddeh asked us to help you out.”
“…”
“He told us how hard it’s been for you, having accidents and not liking your new nummies. If it’s alright, we’d like to help you out with that.”
Now Tombo peeked at the hoomins from behind his hooves. “Hoomins… hewp Tombo? Hewp Daddeh?”
“That’s right. We’re helping your daddeh, and this will help you stop having accidents.”
Thing One held up something that looked like his babbeh diapew, but it was different somehow. His diapew had been a piece of white not-fluff, and after every accident his daddeh would wash it before putting it back on. This thing was… crinkly.
“Dat am dummeh diapew. Nu wike.”
Thing One’s voice took on a showmanlike quality. “That’s what you think! This is no ordinary diaper, it’s a special diaper. While wearing this, it becomes impossible to make bad poopies! Doesn’t that sound nice? Your daddeh would be awfully happy if he heard you’d stopped making bad poopies.”
“Weawwy?” Tombo thought hard. He did love his daddeh, and he wanted to make him happy, but the diapew was definitely not pretty. His daddeh wouldn’t be there to help him with it, either. He was going to have to try.
“Can Tombo feew diapew pwease?”
Thing One wordlessly placed the diaper on the ground in front of him. Tombo trotted over to it, and paused. Carefully, he lifted one hoof and gently, slowly, pressed it into the diaper. It made a not-pretty sound when it moved that gave his thinky place itchies.
“Hold him.”
Without warning, Thing Two, who had stood behind and to the right of Thing One, put his much larger hands on Tombo’s neck and back, pressing him to the ground. Thing One came forward, and began putting the diapew on him! Even though he wasn’t ready for it yet! He tried to wiggle out of it, but the hoomin’s hands were so much stronger than him. They were even stronger than daddeh’s hands! Soon their terrible work was done and the hoomins stepped away from him. Tombo was left with a yucky feeling from the diapew rubbing up against him, but he didn’t say anything. His daddeh would be happy if he stopped making bad poopies, after all.
“Thing Two has something else for you, doesn’t he?”
At Thing One’s prompting, Thing Two produced a bowl as if by magic, and set it on the ground next to a bowl of wawa. Immediately Tombo could pick up the sweet smell of milkies and rushed over, despite the diapew. Peering in he saw milkies, and brown nummies? He looked to the hoomins, but they were already walking back to the door place.
“Remember,” Thing One chided, “your daddeh would be very happy if you stopped having accidents, and ate your kibble.” The door locked with a ka-chunk, and he was alone. Left with nothing to keep him distracted, the diapew tormented Tombo. It was too tight, it pinched the skin around his hips too much, and it made the most horrible noise when he walked! All these horrible feelings made Tombo cry again, while he tottered around looking for someone to take the yucky feeling diapew away. He walked in circles looking for his daddeh, or any hoomin, to come save him. Eventually the yucky feelings made Tombo feel like his thinky place was on fire, and he was forced to sit on the floor. Then he wailed, and wailed, and wailed.
Deacon felt hollow, like his innards had been scooped out with a melon baller. A prized mare and her entire litter, dead before he could even try to save them. Now he’d have to find a way to replace her, preferably at no expense to MiseriCorp or himself. There were ferals, obviously, but their genetics were more than likely mutt garbage. There was also theft, but he’d like to avoid legal trouble if he could help it. His train of thought fell into a gorge as four squawks issued from his walkie-talkie, the signal that he was needed in the breeding wing. Deacon was half expecting it; he knew a generation of foals was just about to age into the retail wing, and he was sure it was something minor. He hurried anyway.
Upon entering the breeding wing he was met by a single aide, a lone woman in slightly more casual dress than a standard white jumpsuit, probably because this was a nursery. More worrying than her atypical uniform, Ms. Aide was holding a foal that couldn’t be more than a few days old, based on its size. Deacon knew every foal in there was at least two weeks old. Getting close he saw the extent of the damage. Here was a foal exhibiting signs of severe neglect from birth. His ribs and spine were clearly visible. His fluff, which was puke green, grew in thin and his skin was covered in lesions and scabs. Malnutrition had clearly stunted his growth, and he looked barely old enough to have opened his eyes as a result. Through the mess he recognized this as one of Fondant’s foals, obviously the least favorite of her five newest children. Per MiseriCorp regulations they were all as of yet unnamed, but Deacon was willing to bet Fondant had been naughty. He began to drill Ms. Aide.
“How did this happen?”
“Well, the mother made a fuss about an ugly foal, but the training course hadn’t said anything about it, so I thought it was fine.”
“And it took you this long to notice? A foal only gets like this because of prolonged starvation.”
“I’m sorry! I’m just- I wanted to do a good job and I was busy with all the other mothers too, and I didn’t really pay attention or when I did I didn’t think it was that big of a deal-”
“Not that big of a deal? How long have you been working with fluffies?”
“Uh, sixteen days? I had a couple days of training and I’ve been here ever since the foals were born. Why?”
“Wait, do you even work here?”
“Well no, I’m a temp.”
Fuck! Fuuuuuuck! Of fucking course management sent him a temp to manage these mares all raising their foals in the same room. It’s not like that would be hard for a trained professional, given the BMS that Fondant is clearly exhibiting, why not throw in the fact that this person doesn’t know shit about dick?! Deacon was visibly seething despite the near lethal amount of THC still in his blood, and actually got so mad that he stamped his foot not once, but twice. He then clasped his hands, as though in prayer, and fixed Ms. Temp with a stare as he inhaled deeply.
“Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. Why don’t you point me to Fondant’s pen, and I’ll take care of her and do a once-over on her foals. Then, I’m going to show you the ropes again to make sure you know how to handle yourself here. And remember, anyone walking by here might know how to help you out, and if all else fails you can call me again.”
Then it was on to the breeding wing proper, where Ms. Temp pointed Deacon in the right direction. Fondant was a white mare with a magenta mane and tail. An earthie herself, both of Fondant’s parents had been alicorns, and her genetics were MiseriCorp quality as a result. Her foals were, in descending order of importance, a pudgy white pegasus with a pink mane, clearly a bestest, a jet black unicorn, an emerald green pegasus with a lime green mane and tail, and an electric blue earthie with a yellow mane. The green one raised an eyebrow for Deacon, as the emaciated foal wasn’t too far off color-wise. He gestured to Ms. Temp for the foal, and stepped up to the fence to address Fondant.
“Fondant, I found this foal here; our records show it belongs to you, but it’s in too bad a condition to be your babbeh, right? Any mummah that’s gone through our training wouldn’t hurt a babbeh.”
Fondant took one look at the bundle in Deacon’s hands and snorted. “Dat nu am babbeh, dat am smewwy nu pwetty munstah! Munstahs nee foweba sweepies ow huwt bestest babbeh.”
Gotcha! Sure enough, Fondant had given at least one of her foals a name, her “bestest babbeh.” With years of fluffy experience under his belt, Fondant’s response gave Deacon pause and prompted him to re-examine poor foal N°5. Sure enough, on his nascent head and back were the beginnings of a puke green horn and puke green wings. Well, that explained the rejection, and informed how Deacon would have to retrain Ms. Temp. After his instruction, she would be able to handle Fondant and all the other mares without breaking a sweat. The foals, soon to be adults, were another story. Their mother had raised them while having a raging case of Bitch Mare Syndrome, and they all presumably watched their sibling starve basically to death. It would be best if Deacon quarantined them from the sale floor and assessed the damage. That, much like replacing Drizzle, was probably going to take a while.
With a plan of action, Deacon spent the rest of the work day running Ms. Temp through every task he could think of in the breeding wing, and gave her tips from his own time working the floor. It was repetitive, and the entire time he was slightly annoyed to be doing it at all, but he was a thorough instructor. Deacon showed her where the restraints were kept, how to set them up for an expecting dam, how they were designed to accommodate dams even as they progressed to the later stages of their pregnancy, signs of alicorn rejection, protocol for separating foals from their mothers, methods of discipline, how to set up the milk extractors, where the medical wing was, how to safely transport foals or dams over long distances, and anything else she needed to become a one woman army of fluffy care. By the time he was satisfied she could handle herself, the sun had nearly set. Deacon took two pet carriers, filling one with the green alicorn and the other with its four siblings, and made a beeline for the clinic. Inside he was fortunate enough to find Lefty, the surgical aid, as well as Middle, the phlebotomist.
“Hello you two! I have a special project for you, I need you to get this little guy out of critical condition. Sounds good? Okay, here you go!” Without waiting for a response he thrusts N°5 into Lefty’s arms. “Once he’s stable you can go home for the night.” Deacon breezed into the hallway, then out the front door and into the parking lot to find his car. Ignoring the scared cries coming from the passenger seat, Deacon began the long drive to his apartment. The MiseriCorp compound was barely within city limits, surrounded either by forest or rolling, undeveloped plains. As he approached civilization small gas stations and strip malls started appearing, gradually increasing in size until he was at the feet of skyscrapers. Finally pulling into his parking spot, Deacon muscled the four foals out of the basement and into the lobby elevator. Once in his apartment, they were taken to a spare room and left to their own devices. Deacon took the time to arrange a number of wifi-enabled cameras to keep tabs on the foals. They had some food and water, but Deacon was interested in how they’d act when unsupervised. To that end, he stepped outside and went for an evening walk.
Deacon enjoyed living in the city. He liked the noise, liked the neighbors, he even liked the wildlife. It had been on a walk much like the one he was on now, that Deacon had first encountered a fluffy. It had actually reared up and touched him, asking for love, and in doing so gotten a horrendous brown stain on his jeans. It didn’t take many interactions like that for him to learn that he had a penchant for fluffy violence. Long before he had started his career at MiseriCorp, Deacon had sharpened his instincts for fluffy behavior in alleyways and behind gas stations. He spent the better part of the night walking. Peeking into dark spaces, walking gently to not scare any silent observers, Deacon scoured the places he knew fluffies liked to hide. The chance of finding a replacement for Drizzle just walking down the street was extremely slim, but it was free to look around. Several times he found fluffies, a lone male looking for a special friend, a mare with a litter of doughy newborns, a brother and sister pair, clearly orphaned; each time he disposed of their bodies in a nearby dumpster, hoping that other fluffies would see the vacancy and fill it. Having no luck, and finally being tired, Deacon decided to go home and sleep.
The next morning, as Deacon got ready for the day, he considered Fondant’s litter. They had used the litter box well enough, one or two misses. Just sorting through the damage her foals may have undergone would take a week, at least. It would be much easier to give them names, even if they were unofficial ones. He decided to name the bestest Aspartame, the unicorn became Knight, the pegasus was Sour Diesel, and the earthie became Wonderbolt. All this was decided in the car, as he was making the drive back to MiseriCorp grounds to check on poor foal N°5. His siblings were already going to be a handful, but nursing N°5 back to health would be a serious time investment. Deacon figured he could close walk-ins for a little bit, the revenue from Tombo would cover the entire department’s income for a month, at least. Facing the door to the clinic, he spotted Lefty and Middle, but Righty was still nowhere to be found.
“Hello you two!” Deacon beamed. “Working hard first thing in the morning, are we?”
Lefty’s gaze could have started an international incident. “We never left, actually.”
“Ah. Well, good job! How’s our patient doing?”
“Well he was dehydrated something fierce, his leg was broken, he’s clearly been starved most his life, and to top it all off he’s got ringworm. Despite all that, he’ll live.”
“Is he stable enough to take care of at home?”
“I mean, not for an average Joe. Why?”
“So it would be possible for, say, an employee of MiseriCorp?”
“I- I mean yeah but why? What good is he, all skinny and sick like that?”
“Oh, it’s probably nothing. Just humor me, ok?”
The clinic staff looked skeptical as they helped Deacon pack a selection of medical equipment into a box, mostly fluffy IVs and antibiotics for the long recovery ahead. A second box was lined with sterilized blankets, a huge departure from the cold metal table that N°5 had been recuperating on all night. The foal was out like a light, the nutrients introduced to his system were working overtime to catch his little body up to speed. After a quick review of how to administer IVs from Middle, Deacon set N°5 in the blanketed box, stacked him on top of the medical supplies, and again left the MiseriCorp building. He was gentle as he weaved through a mostly full parking lot. Looking down, he saw N°5’s prone form, the tiny amount of strength he’d regained making a huge difference.
“I think I’ll call you… Hail Mary.”
Within a cyclone of gambling, drinking, smoking, fighting, and general merriment, Thing One and Thing Two sat hunched over a CRT monitor. It had been weeks since their introduction to Tombo, and they spent every work day as Deacon’s right, and left, hands. It had been relatively hands-off work, excepting the first day, and the hardest part turned out to be resisting the urge to gamble instead of keeping tabs on their charge. The spectacle unfolding on the CRT made it a little bit easier, it was like watching a very avoidable car crash happen in slow motion.
“Are you sure Deacon said to just let him sit in it?” Thing Two half yelled.
“Yeah man, he told me himself. Leave him in the diaper, and just keep giving him milk and kibble on schedule. ‘Parently the little dude’s supposed to get so grossed out that he tries the litter box again.”
“All he’s done is drink the milk from around the kibble and shit himself. And I think he’s gotten smaller.”
“Well yeah, the milk alone isn’t enough for him to live off. He’s supposed to get hungry, and then he’ll want to eat the kibble.”
“He’s been hungry enough to starve and he isn’t trying the kibble. I think we should give Deacon an update, we haven’t really seen him since Tombo got here anyway.”
“I don’t think we need to do that, let’s just watch him a little longer.”
“Well who died and put you in charge? And while I’m at it, since when am I Thing Two?”
“Since I came up with it on the spot. Fine! If you want to get Deacon involved, I will. You have to talk to him though.”
With a huff, Thing One pulled out his walkie-talkie and put out the relevant squawks. While it normally took Deacon an average of five minutes to respond to a summons, Things One and Two were shocked to see twenty, thirty, then sixty seven minutes pass and Deacon finally entered the observation room. He was paler than usual and had dark circles under his eyes. His collar was out of place. He stood before the pair, hands on hips, but both Things were too distracted with his appearance to say anything.
“Well?” Deacon’s question was drawn out, and rose in pitch as it went on. Thing Two took his cue to step forward.
“Uh, sir, we’ve been looking after Tombo like you told us to, but I don’t think we’re going to get any results with him using this method.”
“Won’t get any results? And who the fuck are you?”
“I’m… one of your two personal aides? Do you really not know my name?”
“What I think Thing Two was trying to say,” Thing One put himself in front of the pair, “is that Tombo is responding to the treatment in an unpredictable way. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes! Just look at him, come here.” Thing Two beckoned for Deacon to take his seat in front of the CRT, and was obliged. Peering into the screen, what he saw in Multipurpose Room 2 was a health and safety nightmare. Following his forceful diapering, Tombo had indeed remembered what Thing One had said to him about it being impossible to make bad poopies in it. So, after wearing it for several days, and several dumps, when the shit had started to leak out, already custard like from his all milk diet, he must not have seen it as bad poopies. The same seems to have applied for bad peepees, and as a result every square inch of Multipurpose Room 2 that Tombo could reach was covered in a film of fluffy piss and shit. Tombo himself was filthy, with a horribly oversaturated diaper sagging around bony hips. His food bowl was relatively clean, since it was swapped out every time he was fed, but his water was filled by a spout, and its contents were now a green slime. Every inch covered, that is, except for the litter box in the center of the room. It had remained completely untouched, and there was a distinct radius where Tombo wouldn’t even step close to it.
“Holy shit! What the fuck happened to him, it’s a miracle he hasn’t gone blind from parasites!”
“Okay, so we agree sir. He’s kind of just taking whatever happens to him without trying to change things. I think we should try something else.”
“You’re right, of course we’ll have to do a deep clean of Multipurpose Room 2, maybe even a resurfacing. We have to relocate Tombo, but we can’t let him know that he’s scored a ‘victory.’ Hmm… maybe I can kill two birds with one stone.”
Deacon whipped out a pocketbook and scribbled a few lines in it. He then tore out the page, and handed it to Thing Two. “Go to the fenced area on the South side of the complex, facing the green belt. Fulfill everything on this list as soon as possible, then notify me.” Still pale, but with a renewed mental energy, Deacon stood and made his way out of the observation room, already back to his apartment to look after Hail Mary and his siblings.
Tombo wasn’t happy, but that was ok. Ever since the two hoomins in white put that dummeh diapew on him, he’d had nothing but heart hurties and smell place hurties. The diapew had worked at first, but after a few bright times it had started to leak! He had tried calling daddeh, but after that did nothing Tombo decided to just sit with it. That was how he spent his days, sitting with the dummeh diapew, trying to keep the poopies out of his wawa, and sometimes walking around the safe room. He hoped he was making his daddeh happy.
The door to Multipurpose Room 2 slammed open, and Tombo’s ears pinned themselves back. In walked Thing One and Thing Two, wearing much thicker, but still white, jumpsuits with fully enclosed faces and air filters. Their breathing was muffled. Seeing the people who put him in this situation Tombo started to crawl away, malnutrition and a putrefying diaper keeping him roughly in place. Thing One tried to talk to him. It sounded cheerful and positive, but Tombo wasn’t listening, he was scrabbling his soft hooves. After a few seconds of trying, the tone changed and Thing Two lifted him by the waist wearing big, thick rubber gloves which pulled at his skin and fluff when he moved. That finally brought some awareness to Tombo, and he paid extra attention to not moving in order to avoid yanking any more of his fluff. At the same time, he was spun around to face a hoomin wearing all black, with a little bit of white not-fluff on his neck. His clothes weren’t nearly as thick as the other hoomin’s, and he didn’t wear anything on his face. He was standing with his not-hooves behind his back, and even though he was smiling it was scary to Tombo. Thoroughly cautious, all he did was stare at the hoomin, who cleared his throat.
“Hello there Tombo, my name is Deacon. Your daddeh and I are friends, and he’s been telling me all about having you and how hard it’s been; you know, since you haven’t been using the litter box or eating your nummy kibble. He even brought you to me, so that I could try to make you a good fluffy and you could go back to your daddeh. But that didn’t happen Tombo, and now I don’t want you, and you daddeh doesn’t want you back either! You know what that means? You are now homeless!”
Tombo’s eyes were saucers, and he wanted to scream! A gloved not-hoof over his talky place kept that from happening. Before he could do much more in protest, Deacon and the two Things whisked him down a series of hallways and into a room he recognized instantly: the wawa place! The first time Tombo had been here it was inside a metal box, but the sounds were exactly the same and he thrashed to escape what he knew was coming. The two hoomins cut the diapew off of Tombo, and roughly sprayed him with cold wawa all over while it ran off in brown rivulets. Weeks of shit and dirt and dead skin and scum was roughly and quickly scrubbed off of him before he was towel dried and picked up again by clean, fresh gloves. Carried down another set of hallways, Tombo was brought to a door made of metal and Deacon faced him again. This time the look on his face was sad, almost regretful, and it made Tombo feel strange.
“Well, here we are. If only you had learned how to make good poopies, or eat that kibble, maybe you could be living with your daddeh right now. Oh well, now there’s no one to take care of you at all, not even these meanies!” The way Deacon chuckled as he said that gave Tombo more heart hurties. “Maybe you can find a herd of fluffies to be your family now, who knows? Alright then, goodbye forever Tombo!”
With Deacon’s signal Thing Two, who was still holding Tombo, stepped through the door as Thing One opened it, and with one, two, three swings, hurled Tombo into a bush. It hurt, and it was scary! The bush had so many pointy sticks that poked and scraped him, making boo boo juice come out as he groaned. When Tombo got up the hoomins were gone. Where they had been he just saw a wall, smooth and unmarked, with no indication of a door. He called out for them, but his voice just scattered to the empty air. All that he heard was the chittering of bugs. He squinted at the sky, a hot bright thing sent its rays to penetrate Tombo’s chocolate fluff and warm his skin. Oh no, he really was outside! He needed his daddeh, now. He didn’t know how to get nummies outside, or get enough wawa to drink, or get any cleanies or huggies. Was he going to have to do all those things himself now? He was already so hungry now, what if he went forever sleepies?
Tombo didn’t call for his daddeh, though. It hadn’t worked in the safe room, and that meanie hoomin said his daddeh didn’t love him anymore! His thinky place was like a hive of bees, worrying about what he was going to do while he wandered the length of the wall. The bees quieted a little when the wall ended and he came to a fence, one that he could see through. On the other side of the fence there were green grassies, while on his side there was nothing but dirt the same color as his fluff. The grassies went for a ways, but past them Tombo could see trees no matter where he looked. Even from this distance he could tell they were big, much bigger than the trees on his side, and they grew so closely together that under them it looked dark even though it was bright time! They gave him scardies, but a different scardies than the bees had given him, so he stayed. His tummeh still gave him hurties, and that gave him scardies, but he decided to just stay near the fence and look at the trees and green grassies.
Sometimes his thirsties got so bad that he had to get up, and he eventually found a rock with some wawa dripping in it and took a drink. He drank to slake his thirsties, and then he kept on drinking, filling his hurty tummeh with the wawa to stop the hurties. After he was full he just went back to the fence, and looked at the trees. Each time he got wawa he took a little longer, his leggies getting shaky the more he sat and looked at the trees. Each time it got dark, he just laid his head down and slept. It was just after the second dark time now, and Tombo was once again filling his tummeh with wawa from the bowl shaped rock. He was tired now, and taking his time so he didn’t make himself even more tired, when his ears twitched as though they heard something just out of reach. He kept drinking. They kept twitching. His tummeh was almost full when it finally came in.
“…wwo? Nummies Findew smeww nummies, can fwuffy pwease hab sum nummies? Nice hoomins? Fwuffies?”
The cries continued as Tombo lurched towards the fence as fast as his starved leggies could carry him. The trees had quieted the bees in his thinky place, worried about forever sleepies from not eating, but here was a voice actually talking about nummies! Crashing through the bushes and arriving at the fence, Tombo was faced with a brown fluffy, just like him. Unable to recover from the shock, the other fluffy was already talking to him.
“Nyu fwen? Hewwo, fwuffy am Nummies Findew an smeww nummies in dewe! Fwuffy hab nummies? Am… fwuffy otay?”
Nummies Finder’s cheerful and somewhat apologetic nature rapidly deflated as he took in Tombo’s condition. What had been cultivated through years of trial and error to get nummies from anyone he could was naked in the face of plain fluffy empathy. Tombo, meanwhile, was having trouble reckoning with what the stranger was telling him. There were nummies, in here? All he could see was a lot of bushes, flowers, small trees, and some rocks with clean wawa in them.
“Fwuffy smeww nummies in hewe? Tombo nu hab nummies, jus’ wawa an twees and bushies. What fwuffy smeww?”
“Nummies Findew knu nummies, smeww jus’ wike kibbwe nummies! Sometime nice hoomin gib Nummies Findew bestest kibbew nummies fow hewd.” He puffed out his chest with pride.
“Kibbew nummies? Kibbew nu am nummies, nummies am bestest miwkies fwom daddeh. Tombo nee’ daddeh fow nummies.”
Nummies Finder made a show of looking to the left, and then the right of Tombo. “Am daddeh in da woom wif us nao? It am jus’ Nummies Findew an’ Tombo hewe, an’ Tombo wook wike… hab tummeh pwace huwties.”
“Tombo nu hab huwties, Tombo fiwwed Tombo’s tummeh wif wawa so nu haf tummeh huwties.”
Nummies Finder didn’t respond, just anxiously tossed his mane and dug at the ground.
“How am Tombo’s weggies? Do dey feew otay?”
“Weggies am dummeh, nu wike howding Tombo anymowe.”
“Weggies nee nummies, Tombo nee nummies fow weggies and nu get fowebah sweepies.”
“…”
“Nummies Findew fink ‘daddeh’ nu am comin’. Fink Tombo shouwd twy kibbwe, ow gib Nummies Findew kibbwe.”
Tombo didn’t respond. The things that Nummies Finder was saying were smarty, very smarty, but he didn’t want to hear them. They made the bees in his thinky place get loud again, so he feebly turned around to find the kibble he had mentioned. Maybe if he gave it to Nummies Finder, he would stop saying those meanie things. He took a few sniffs and started walking towards the wall. A few times he had to pass through a bush and lost the smell, but eventually he came to a pile of kibble nummies that was sitting on the ground. Leaning down to carry some to Nummies Finder, Tombo thought of what the other stallion had said. He had called these bestest nummies, and said his leggies needed nummies. He really did need nummies, he wasn’t feeling very good since his daddeh had left him. His lips secreted a single piece of kibble into his mouth, which he gingerly chewed and then swallowed.
It was… good? It didn’t taste like milkies, but it definitely wasn’t bad. It was sweet, with a kind of savory flavor on top of it. He ate another. Then another, then an entire mouthful of kibble. This stuff was amazing! It made his mouth a little sore to chew, but this kibble tasted just as good as milkies. There was no way he would share this with that meanie fluffy, who gave him thinky place hurties. He would eat all this kibble, and tell Nummies Finder that he hadn’t found any nummies. Then he would leave him alone! Tombo nummed and nummed, each swallow filling his tummeh in a way he hadn’t felt in weeks. He was truly full, and nourished. Just having solid food in his stomach made the bees in Tombo’s thinky place get quieter than they had been since he’d gotten thrown outside. It gave him space to think. Maybe Nummies Finder wasn’t that bad, he had tried the kibble because of him after all. His tummeh was getting really full as he kept eating, and he decided that it wouldn’t be so bad to give him some of the kibble, actually. After one more swallow, he grabbed a mouthful of kibble and brought it back to the fence, then pushed it through the gaps to Nummies Finder. His gratitude was genuine, and immediate.
“Fank ‘ou fwend! Dese nummies am bestest fow hewd! Nummies Findew be back soon, otay?”
“Uhh, otay?”
Tombo’s response was weak, and Nummies Finder wasn’t listening for it anyway. He was already on his way into the woods with his mouthful of kibble. That was fine with Tombo, he was still tired but now he was also full. He laid down in the shade of a young tree and slept peacefully. The kibble was, of course, fortified with extra vitamins and minerals, and Tombo’s body felt a hundred times better when he woke up later that day. It was none other than Nummies Finder, he was back and asking for more nummies. Tombo really did feel better, and he was starting to like Nummies Finder, so he wobbled back to the pile of kibble, a little faster this time, and brought another mouthful back to him. He also took a few more bites himself, having passed most of the wawa he drank earlier. Nummies Finder thanked him, and as he walked back towards the woods Tombo curled up next to the fence to sleep again. He slept on and off for the rest of the bright time, and through the entire dark time. Every few hours he would wake up to eat more or make peepees, and then half dazedly curl back up.
Dread creeped into Tombo’s thinky place, just like it had every time he woke up for many forevers. His daddeh was gone, he didn’t have any milkies, and he was alone. Eventually he opened his see places, and remembered where he was. He was outside, not in the hurty safe room! His daddeh was still gone, but he had nummies, didn’t he? Now that Tombo paid attention, he realized he didn’t even have tummeh place hurties. He didn’t really have hurties at all. This was new to Tombo, or basically new, since that’s how Tombo had felt when he was a little babbeh. He wasn’t really sure what to do now. He decided to pass the time by exploring, since he couldn’t see anything to play with or anyone to talk to. Eventually Nummies Finder stopped by, and they had a little chat while Nummies Finder ate some kibble for himself. Nummies Finder found nummies, that was his job. He told Tombo that he came from a thing called a herd. His was sooo big, and the way Nummies Finder talked about it was almost mythological. There were a lot of different fluffies, all living together and sleeping in the same fluffpile, and each of them had something they did to help the other fluffies. Some found nummies, like Nummies Finder, but other fluffies did things like protect the herd, clean up poopies, gib enfies, or make bestest dancies to cheer everyone up. That was something Tombo would like to see, and he said as much. Nummies Finder offered to bring some fluffies to meet him, and he happily agreed! Tombo was so happy that he got an extra big mouthful of kibble to bring back to the herd, and waved Nummies Finder goodbye.
The next bright time Tombo stretched his leggies and did a lap of the wall and the fence. He stopped along the way to drink some wawa, and eat some kibble, and by the time he’d completed his route he saw the dark shape of Nummies Finder moving across the grassies. Only this time, there were two other shapes with him. More fluffies! For so long, Tombo had only known his daddeh, and after making his first friend, Nummies Finder, he was about to make even more friends. His heart had the biggest happies, and a little scardies, while he watched them approach. The new fluffies stood on either side of Nummies Finder, the right one had a muddy pink coat and a hot pink mane, and the left one had sky blue fluff with a bright purple mane and tail. Tombo greeted Nummies Finder as he stepped up to the fence.
“Hewwo Nummies Findew, am nyu fwends?”
“Uh huh! Dis am Bwue Nummies Findew, an Dancew. Dey am Nummies Findew fwend, wan to meet nice fwuffy Tombo!”
“Bwue Nummies Findew? Buh Nummies Findew am nummies findew. Wai fwuffy hab Nummies Findew namesie?”
This time it was Blue Nummies Finder that spoke. “Nummies Findew am gud at findin’ nummies, buh jus’ Nummies Findew nu can bwing nummies fo howe hewd. Am oddah nummies findews, wit oddah cowows, an oddah wowk too.”
“Oh… otay.” Tombo wasn’t really paying attention to the response. He had heard it, and it was kind of interesting, fluffies all having the same name but being different colors, but there was something different about Blue Nummies Finder. Nummies Finder had been a fluffy just like Tombo, there was nothing unusual about his voice or appearance or smell, but Blue Nummies Finder’s voice was higher than his. They also smelled nice for some weird reason; it didn’t smell like nummies, but it was the bestest thing he’d ever smelled. He really wanted to talk to them. Just then Dancer introduced themselves too, and again Tombo noticed that they were different. He turned to the blue fluffy.
“Bwue Nummies Findew am diffwen’ fwom Tombo an Nummies Findew? What am Bwue Nummies Findew an Dancew? Am fwuffy?”
“Wha? Am mawe, siwwy!”
Mares! They were mares. Tombo had never met a mare in his entire life, or a female of any species for that matter. He liked them. They knew things he didn’t know, and they talked to him with their soft sounding voices and Nummies Finder, making Tombo feel like he had his own little herd. Before they left that bright time Tombo brought enough kibble for all three of them to carry, and once they were gone he couldn’t wait to see them the next one. Other fluffies were so much fun! He still missed his daddeh, but this was just as good as seeing him. Too bad he wasn’t here right now, and the other fluffies had gone away for the bright time. That made Tombo think. How come he wasn’t able to go with the other fluffies? Why was he on the other side of the fence, where he could look at the trees and the fluffies but not play with them? He thought he had liked it in the outside ever since he met Nummies Finder, plenty of food and wawa, and a friend to talk to sometimes, but he was kind of bored with his outside. He wanted to see what was outside of this outside. Maybe he would surprise Nummies Finder and find his herd! Excited now, Tombo ran to the fence and looked for a way out.
It was too high to make climbies over, but maybe he could dig under it. The fence was made of black not-sketti that was twisted together and tied to some poles in the ground. Where it met the ground, it’s like the fence stuck into a rock! He tried pushing it with his thinky place but it didn’t even wiggle. Next he pawed at the dirt, to see if he could go under the rock. Tombo dug and dug, until he was standing in a hole as deep as himself, but all he saw was more rock. He was stuck! He sat in his hole while his heart filled with saddies, there were nice fluffies to talk to, but he wasn’t able to get to them. Eventually he began to sniffle, and then quietly cry. These saddies were much calmer than when his daddeh had left him, but they hurt him in a different, new way. It was like his heart hurties had turned inside out. Tombo spent the rest of the bright time waiting, eating, drinking, and trying some of the things he had talked about with his new friends. After he’d tried kibble, Tombo had eventually needed to make poopies, and Nummies Finder told him how to do it outside. After burying the poopies he found a good cluster of grassies to wipe his bottom on. It wasn’t bad! Not nearly as bad as the litter box. More and more, he wanted to go ahead and meet this herd, and live with them and play. He went to sleep that dark time, and even though he wasn’t a pegasus, he dreamt of flying.
When the Nummies Finders and Dancer visited the next bright time, Tombo told them about how he was feeling. They all hated to hear that he was having saddies, and decided to try and help him get past this fence. First they tried digging, the logic being that three fluffies would be better than just Tombo at digging. After a few forevers they ran into the same problem that he had, and tried something else. Nummies Finder stood at the base of the fence, and then Blue Nummies Finder did something bizarre: she climbed on top of him, and stood on his back! Now she was way taller than Nummies Finder, but still not as tall as the fence, so Dancer tried to get on top too. No matter what they tried, though, Tombo’s three friends couldn’t help him. The bright thing was high in the sky when Nummies Finder made a decision.
“Dis nu am wowkin’. Nummies Findew fink fwuffies gu back to hewd, ask hewd fo hewp.”
The idea of his friends leaving scared Tombo. “Buh, wha if hewd nu wan hewp Tombo?”
“Nu be siwwy, fwen! Tombo am bestest, nicest fwuffy Nummies Findew knu, hewd hewp!”
“Den Tombo wive wif hewd and Nummies Findew?”
“Yus!”
“Mmm otay, hewd hewp Tombo.”
As he watched them go, his heart still felt tight. He hoped his friends would be able to convince the herd to help him out, everything he heard about it sounded like he would like being there. He’d never be lonely or bored, and he would have nummies from Nummies Finder or Blue Nummies Finder. Tombo daydreamed as the time passed. With each forever that passed the shadows lengthened, the bright thing got less bright, and it got less warm. They said they’d be back, right? He watched as the bright thing disappeared behind a wall, and the sky started to turn purple, instead of the color of Blue Nummies Finder’s fluff. Maybe they could only convince the herd at a certain time? He started to pace the length of the fence, checking the woods every time he turned. Would they get here? Had they given up? Had it not worked? Just as twilight gave way to a dark, starry blackness, Tombo saw a dark blob move out of the woods. It was like the trees’ shadows were spilling onto the grass, reaching their branches towards him. As the blob approached Tombo could hear fluffies talking, and the falling of hooves. There were even babbehs!
On a moonlit night, Tombo pressed his face to a chain link fence and snorted. In front of him was Nummies Finder, flanked by Blue Nummies Finder and Dancer, like always. Blue Nummies Finder and Dancer were flanked by two fluffies each, for a total of four. Those four fluffies were in turn flanked by eight fluffies, and those eight flanked by sixteen, and those sixteen flanked by thirty two. There were… sooo many fluffies here! No wonder Nummies Finder had gotten here so late, it must have taken forever to get everyone moving. They had come for him! Nummies Finder’s herd had actually come to help him, and now he was going to join them. He looked at where he knew his friends should be, although he couldn’t see them very well.
“Nummies Findew! ‘Ou bwought hewd! ‘Ou bwought hewd! Tombo am su happies tu see Numm-”
With a loud chunk a bunch of lights buzzed to life and almost made it look like bright time again! Tombo squeezed his eyes shut on reflex, and he heard wails of confusion from the herd. Then there was a loud pop-pop-popping noise coming from high up, and it gave Tombo scardies! Now the herd was screaming like something was hurting them. His ears flattened while he hunched in place, waiting for the lights and noises to go away. The noise stopped, and after twenty forevers Tombo opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was Nummies Finder, slumped against the fence so his cheeks were squishing through the gaps. His eyes were closed. Looking past him he noticed that Blue Nummies Finder, and Dancer, and every other fluffy in the herd was the same way. It was like they all went sleepies. He decided he didn’t like them going sleepies all of the sudden, and tried to wake Nummies Finder with a poke. It got no reaction. Tombo poked him again, and again, harder each time, but Nummies Finder didn’t wake up. Tombo could hear him breathing, but he wouldn’t move. His heart dropped all the way down to his tummeh. Did they have… forever sleepies?
While Tombo was being rocked by the possibility of killing his only friends a really big vroom vroom munstah rolled up. It was green, with three wheels on one side and three wheels on the other. Its engine chugged and rumbled, making Tombo’s chest and ears vibrate before coming to a stop. Two hoomins in white stepped out of it and started wading through the crowd of fluffies like they were looking for something. After a while one reached down and lifted a limp fluffy by its scruff, an apple red pegasus with white spots all over their coat. The hoomins signaled to each other, and put the pegasus in a sorry box. After setting it near the munstah, they opened the doors on its rear to reveal a big, empty space inside. Then, they picked up every single fluffy in the herd, and tossed them into the vroom vroom munstah. Sometimes they held the fluffies by their scruff, other times their leggies or tails, and sometimes the fluffies got swung by the neck. Dancer, Blue Nummies Finder, and even Nummies Finder were all taken, and they didn’t even say a word to Tombo. He didn’t sleep that dark time.
Tombo’s horrors were interrupted by the sound of an opening door. The selfsame door that Thing Two had very ceremoniously thrown him out of. Into the morning light stepped the hoomin in black, with his not-hooves held behind his back. He looked down on Tombo with a smile that was genuine this time, but still scary.
“Congratulations, Tombo. You’ve done so good out here, eating your kibble and making good poopies, that your daddeh has decided to take you home. Isn’t that great?” The hoomin tilted his head towards Tombo, but didn’t get a response. “I’m sure you’re cheering on the inside. Well, you go with Thing One and Thing Two now, and they’ll give you a once over to make sure you’re ready for your daddeh.”
It hadn’t been easy, but Deacon had pulled it off. Tombo was an almost supernaturally stubborn little shit, but he’d finally started eating kibble and using the bathroom by himself. On top of that, he’d used Tombo as bait to bring fluffies to him, instead of suffering the slings and arrows of craigslist for any suitable breeders. He’d had to give up 2% of the house winnings he was collecting from MiseriCorp’s speakeasy, but it was worth getting the cooperation of the aides for this project. It wasn’t that different from feral extermination, setting up a trap and cameras, then waiting until the opportunity was right to catch as many as possible. As with hogs, so with fluffies. Of course, Deacon had the resources of MiseriCorp at his disposal, and equipping a few turrets with AI powered cameras to identify anything fluffy sized and put a sedative BB in them didn’t even require an expense report. The real value came from the aides and their twenty four hour surveillance. Deacon checked his watch, seeing he had a few hours before Mike Birbiglioni would return to pick up his “fluff baby.” Euch. He took a step to make his rounds, when an ear shattering screech issued from the direction Tombo had been led.
Bursting through the door of Multipurpose Room 2, Deacon beheld chaos. Litter had been thrown in a fan across the floor, and Tombo was streaking across the room like a madman. Thing One and Thing Two both stood and watched, neither trying to stop him or rile him up. They just covered their ears. Seeing Deacon, the aides turned to him and they all yelled over the commotion.
“What’s going on in here!?”
“I dunno sir! We were running him through everything, he took his kibble and water just fine, and didn’t say no when we said ‘go to the litter box.’ Second he put his hoof in it though, this happened!”
What the fuck. Here, at the eleventh hour, Tombo still isn’t litter box trained? It was just Deacon’s luck. His owner would be arriving in less than two hours now, and he was only halfway rehabilitated. At the same time, if that experience hadn’t broken Tombo of his laziness he didn’t know what would. In ninety minutes, realistically, he had to come up with an idea that would both cover his ass and MiseriCorp’s ass, while not letting knowledge of this get to senior management.
“Okay. Calm him down. I’ll be back once I’ve thought of something.”
One hundred and ten minutes later, Deacon was standing in the MiseriCorp reception area with Thing Two behind him. Tombo was in a crate, like all discharges were, but he was also in a diaper. He was freshly bathed, and smelled of sandalwood. The pair counted the seconds until Mike Birbiglioni stepped through that door.
“Are you sure this is gonna work?” Thing Two half whined.
“I’m sure I can convince him.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Yeah, but it’s all I can be sure of.”
Eventually the crystalline door bell rang, and in walked five feet, eight inches of milquetoast. He stood for a moment, looking around the empty hall as though lost, before snapping towards Deacon and the gang. Fresh off of his daily dab, and mentally clenching harder than he had in his life, Deacon started his difficult conversation.
“Good morning Mr. Birbiglioni, you’re looking well.”
“Hey there, I am well. I’ve been sleeping better, working more efficiently, and my house has been clean every day. I’m excited to hear how Tombo’s been doing with you.”
“Well you’ll be happy to hear that Tombo’s eating his kibble and drinking plain water like a big fluffy.”
“That’s awesome, and he’s litter box trained too?”
“Yes, about that.” Mike’s face rose and fell with Deacon’s words. “Over these weeks I’ve spent… a lot of time with dear Tombo, and I believe he’s a very special fluffy. Tombo has what we would call late onset sensitive baby syndrome.”
“SBS? I’ve heard of that, Tombo isn’t like that. He walks around, and talks, and opens his eyes. SBS foals are like, well, babbehs.”
“That is the popular view of it, but sensitive baby syndrome is a little more nuanced than most people realize. SBS actually has many different forms, with the foals you’re thinking of being the most common. With late onset SBS, the foal will physically develop but remain stunted emotionally. Basically instead of being a big baby, Tombo is a big toddler.”
“So… what? Tombo still needs diapers, and he’ll always need them?”
With years of experience dealing with angry customers, Deacon knew his best weapon was honesty. “Yes. It seems that Tombo will always be a more dependent fluffy than average, but that doesn’t mean he’ll have a poor quality of life. He’s taken a liking to kibble, but he can’t seem to shake his litter box aversion. It would be best if Tombo stayed in diapers.”
“Are you sure? I mean, isn’t there a place where there are other fluffies like him that I could ask for help?”
“I’m afraid late onset SBS is extremely rare, so no such luck. I wouldn’t worry too much though. Tombo is a big fluffy, and he can help you avoid accidents unlike a typical SBS foal. More importantly, Tombo loves you and he missed you a ton! In my opinion, the hard part is over now.”
It took a little more schmoozing, but he was able to get Tombo into Mr. Birbiglioni’s hands and out the door in exchange for a check with many zeroes on it. Hopefully that would be the end of it. Deacon relaxed his mental sphincter while he finished covering up his tracks. Ms. Temp was doing well, all her remaining foals had been sold already, and she was looking after a second batch of litters. Righty actually was an animal chiropractor, and he found a lot of fans in the MiseriCorp spa wing. As for a surgeon, apparently they did have one on staff per company records, but those same records showed he hadn’t clocked in for 59 weeks. Deacon formalized firing them, and put in a request to hire his replacement with senior management. Fondant’s foals turned out to be too far gone, and were sent to the entertainment wing. That is, of course, except for Hail Mary, who had grown up to be a respectable albeit physically weak stallion. Fortified foods and regular physiotherapy had given him back his health, but he would always be smaller than usual. Fortunately, stress didn’t have much to do with genetic health, and Hail Mary was introduced into MiseriCorp’s breeding wing as a descendant of Fondant. It always paid to keep track of pedigree, after all.
The stallion that was poached from that feral herd was named Mac and bred with a random mare to test his genetics. Not only was the litter large, it had two alicorns and immediately secured Mac’s place in the breeding wing. The rest of the fluffies, all sixty two of them, were considered genetic garbage and either used for spare parts, turned into milk bags, or ground into chum. It was MiseriCorp’s policy to not waste a single soul, no matter how insignificant. The “outside” area that Tombo had been living in was now nicely fertilized, and after more landscaping it was turned into an outdoor dining area for staff. In an attempt to cover up his redeye, Deacon got into the habit of wearing sunglasses indoors. Nobody seemed to mind. Tentatively, he declared the crisis averted.
Tombo always tried to make his daddeh happy. Tombo’s daddeh was the bestest, bestest ever, and seeing him smile was his favorite thing ever! Unfortunately he was bad at it. When he was a chirpy babbeh it had been easy, his daddeh had loved him and he had loved his daddeh. After that terrible day, though, things had changed between them. His daddeh had started asking Tombo to do things he didn’t think he could do! He told him to use the litter box because he was a big fluffy, but he never felt like a big fluffy, because he didn’t know how to use the litter box. And the nummies had just seemed so yucky. Still, he had always tried his best to do what his daddeh wanted. Every time he was hungry he went to the kibble bowl, every time he needed to make poopies he went to the litter box, and the uncertainty and sadness and overwhelm gave Tombo’s head the worstest hurties and he went crying to his daddeh, or made bad poopies.
When his daddeh had stopped cleaning his poopies Tombo had done his best to be a good fluffy, but nothing worked. He tried holding it, he tried hiding it, he even tried numming it, but the floors got poopy all the same. He could hardly breathe with all the not pretty smells, but that was the way his daddeh said it would be, so he didn’t complain. Even then, it was easier to do all those things than use the litter box. When his daddeh had given him the diapew he had the biggest heart happies! It felt like things could go back to normal, even if the diapew wasn’t the most comfortable thing ever. His daddeh would put it on him every day, and change it whenever he needed. He was his babbeh again! Still, he had tried to make it easier for him. He tried to go as long as possible between changes, because he knew it didn’t smell pretty for his daddeh.
Even when his daddeh had sent him away, Tombo tried to make him happy. It had been hard, for a long time it felt like he’d been betrayed. The things the hoomins had done to him were some of the meanest, hurtiest things in the world, even now he hated to hear the crinkle of that dummeh diapew. Getting thrown outside was where things had really changed for him. It was the first time he seriously thought he would go forever sleepies. If it hadn’t been for Nummies Finder and his kindness, he probably would have. Tombo learned so many things then, what kibble tasted like, how to keep his poopies clean, how fluffies lived without daddehs, that he almost forgot to remember what happened to them all, on that terrible night. Even now he missed them.
It wasn’t long after that nightmare that the hoomins had put him in the hurty litter box again, but since then things have been ok. They might even have been good, actually. He was back living inside with his daddeh, not having to go looking for his nummies or keep his wawa clean. His daddeh took care of those things for him, on top of changing his diapew whenever the need arose. He was definitely a big fluffy now, though, he ate his kibble at the table with his daddeh, instead of getting fed milkies. He always gave his daddeh all the huggies and wub that he could as a thank you. Now they spent their days together, happy and at peace. Tombo sat on the couch watching TV while his daddeh stood up and did laundry nearby. Leggies, his favorite show, is playing, and as the program winds down with an outro song a commercial plays.
“Studies have shown that one in forty fluffies are affected by Sensitive Babbeh Syndrome, and symptoms can be varied depending on where your little friend falls on the spectrum. One of the most common traits is environmental reactivity. Is your fluffy friend showing sensitivity to changing their food, or being trained to use the litter box? Try our Fluff Friends™ sensory friendly litter and sensory friendly kibble! Eliminate odors, and make good poopies fun again!”
“What that FU-”
Author's Note
Another few months, another edition of Fluffy Hell! I really liked writing this one. In every story I write, the characters are at least a little bit me, or someone I’m thinking bout. Tombo is a little bit more me than most. I named him after the boy from Kiki’s Delivery Service, shout out to that movie for making me miss a life I never even lived. Until I was around halfway through writing this he was actually only a name, it took commissioning the cover art to finally nail down what the main character was going to look like. His owner is very loosely based off of comedian Mike Birbiglia, who I’m actually a fan of and don’t think of as poorly as Deacon does Mr. Birbiglioni. He’s just a guy who regularly talks about some of the most embarrassing and shameful things I can imagine, but in a way that you end up liking him. I’d like to give a massive shoutout, and a small nod, to @MostlyNeutralbox for their series You’re A Bad Mummah! It’s one of my favorites to this day, and I made Drizzle a little reference to his fluffy Sleet. Definitely go read all their stuff if you need something to do.
I don’t really have much else to say about this one, actually. I feel like it speaks for itself in a way. The pacing is different and hopefully good. What I really want to know is what people DON’T like about this series. I’m writing it to basically have it all, I love taking inspiration from all the awesome art and stories you guys create here, and sprinkling in the juicy bits and fun references and funny lines. I want to know what I’m missing, or what I do too much. Critique me! I mean it so much I’ll even put a message outside this little dropdown. If you read this far I shall place a long, but platonic, kiss upon your forehead. I love you.
I seek critique! Compliments are always awesome, but if I don’t get any pushback I feel like I never learn anything. Please, please find something in this story that you don’t like, and I’ll try to raise the bar like my peers before me. 
this guy shelled out hundreds if not thousands of dollars to get his fluffy ‘trained’ when instead he should have just taken it to the vets and gotten a diagnosis. At least Decon got a good ending, new fluffies for breeding plus money
