You work in a large restaurant specializing in fluffy ponies. It has a steady clientele, but there’s protesters outside in the parking lot on an almost daily basis, screeching about how it’s cruel and inhumane.
And they’re absolutely right. You have a few dedicated abusers for co-workers, but most are just people who want to collect a paycheck and go home to smoke blunts; they don’t enjoy the suffering the fluffies go through, but they don’t give a shit either. Anyone who cares quits, usually on the first day.
You’re just finishing an order of creme brule when Dave sets a tray on the counter next to you.
“Hey, you done with the blowtorch?”
“Yeah, here.”
“Thanks, I’ve got some fluffy flambe I gotta take out there.”
On the tray is a small mare, not even out of foalhood really. Her legs have been tied to the corners of the platter and her pale pink fluff is thoroughly soaked in what smells like rum. Her eyes are bugging out in terror and she’s hyperventilating, but the roma tomato crammed in her mouth prevents her from screaming.
“I gotta light her back here so the customers don’t complain about the burnt hair smell.”
He clicks on the torch, holds it to the mare’s back for a second, and she bursts into a ball of blue flame. Dave hands back the torch and carries the platter out to the dining area, careful not to drop it while the fluffy writhes in agony.
Like you said: they’re absolutely right about cruel and inhumane practices in the restaurant. You ring the bell and slide the desert you made down the counter to a server and look at the digital display for your next order. This one will be easy.
You go to one of the foal bins in the back, select five or six good sized ones while the rest all chirp and either try to escape you by hiding in the corners or try to hug your hand. Once you’ve made your selection, you slide the drawer shut and check the display again.
Each of these foals has been starved for 24 hours and fed a laxative, so they’re completely free of fecal matter. Customers don’t care if their food suffers, but they do care if they end up eating shit.
You dunk the foals in some thin, pre-made batter, eliciting frantic chirping as they’re submerged into the cold liquid, then roll them in the bread crumbs so they’re thoroughly coated. This is usually the second step for this recipe, but you prefer to do it first because it minimizes the length of time the foals suffer.
Let’s see, don’t want the customer to complain about it being too spicy, so you insert a cerrano pepper into the ass of two different foals, which immediately prompts loud screeching, and use the “butt gun” as your co-workers call it to fill the other three by inserting the tip and squeezing the trigger to fill their intestines with cream cheese.
Now all battered, breaded, filled, and screeching in pain, you drop the foals into the basket, lower it into the deep frier, and set the timer.
The foals are small enough and have the instict of taking a deep breath when they hit liquid (which usually results in drowning because the instinct to hold their breath usually kicks in after they’re submerged) that the boiling oil kills them in seconds, so their suffering doesn’t last too long. Usually they’re stuffed before they’re battered and breaded, but you don’t get your giggles by making them suffer, so you do it out of order to lessen the time they spend in pain and discomfort.
None of which helps full-sized fluffies, like the one a co-worker is lowering into the other frier. Technically, you’re supposed to gut them first (killing them in the process), but this co-worker is a bit of a sadist and just lowers them into the oil alive and intact. There’s a lid on top of the frier basket so a frying fluffy doesn’t thrash around and splash someone with boiling oil, and the large stallion is pleading for mercy as he’s locked into it and held over the oil.
Then your dick of a co-worker takes his time lowering the fluffy into the boiling oil, and it immediately starts screeching in agony, shits out the onion he’d shoved up its ass, and thrashes around, foaming at the mouth, until he finally drops the basket and submerges the stallion completely.
The beeper goes off, you pull out the foals, sprinkle some cheese and spices on them while they’re still moist from the frier, slide the tray down the counter and ring the bell.
“Order up!”
Ok, next order: you check the screen, nod, and walk to the foal bins again. This time you’ll need ‘walkie, talkie’ foals, not ‘chirpy foals’.
You select three, one earthy, one pegasus, and one unicorn, as requested, and bring them over to the prep area.
They’re all crying. You pick up the unicorn first and he hugs your hand, looks you in the eyes, and, with trembling lip and quavering voice, begs, “pwease nu foweba sweepies! Am jus widdwe babbeh, nu du nuffin wong!”
You snap his neck and set him aside, then reach for the pegasus, who screeches in fear and tries to escape, wings buzzing.
Snap. Next.
The earthie seems to have accepted his fate and lies limply in your hand, sobbing. He doesn’t suffer much longer as you snap his neck and quickly skin, gut, behead, and bread all three of them before dropping them in the frier like the litter that preceded them.
Ding! “Order up!”
“Hey Samantha!”
You look up and see one of the managers holding a big box full of vegetables.
“I got some of the guys helping me unload the delivery truck, can you restock the foal bins?”
“Sure thing!”
You head to the back, open the empty bins, erase the date written on them in dry erase marker, and write today’s date and time. Then you head over to the breeder cages.
Let’s see… here we go. A mare popped out half a dozen foals two days ago and they’re the right size for the stuffed foals you made earlier. You open the cage and start plucking foals off the mare’s back while she sobs and begs you not to take her babies.
“Babbehs am fow wuv an huggies, nu fow nummies an huwties! Pwease, nu take babbehs!”
You ignore her. Engaging the fluffies only makes it worse. You roll the mare over, spot two more foals she’d been hiding under herself, and snag them too. Then you close the cage, place a sticker on the door that signifies she needs to be bred again, and deposit all the foals, who are now chirping frantically, into the bin.
You turn on the bin’s heat lamp so they don’t die away from their mother, then fill the feeder bottle with the laxative mixture and scoot all the foals next to it so they’ll nurse from it. They’ll shit out everything in their system, and in 24 hours without any nutritional input their systems will be fully purged and ready for frying.
You slide the drawer shut and go back for some older foals.
This time the mare you select screams a war cry and lunges when you open the cage, sinking her teeth into your gloved hand. You sigh, punch her dispassionately in the face with your other hand, and scoop up four foals that are almost a week old while she huddles in the corner, sniffling, and asks, “why huwt fwuffy? Am gud fwuffy…”
You bin the foals, then notice that someone has dropped a small chirpy foal on the floor and pick it up.
Oh. It’s deformed and an ugly brown color. Someone must have tossed it at the trash can and missed. You shrug, enter the walk-in freezer, and toss it in the corner where it immediately chirps frantically at the cold, hard surface. It’ll be frozen solid in a couple minutes and get tossed out with the evening clean up. There’s two more foalcicles beside it.
You step out of the freezer and shake your head; at least this way it freezes quickly instead of sitting in the bottom of a trash can and slowly starving to death.
You go to double check that you closed the cages properly and Stan is there, supervising the breeding of the first mare whose offspring you kidnapped. She’s weeping uncontrollably while a stallion humps away at her unenthusiastically.
“Enf enf enf…”
“Hey Sam, we got an order for stallion fries. I’m gonna be clipping some stallions over there for the order, can you put the mare back in her cage when they’re done?”
“Sure, which cage does the stallion go in?”
“Eh, he’s not special, just a random food breeder, so go ahead and bring him over to me and I’ll clip him for stallion fries. His breeding days are over as soon as he finishes, heh heh.”
You roll your eyes and nod. As soon as the stallion finishes, you let him hug the mare and whisper a few words of comfort to her (hey, no sense making them suffer every second of their lives, right?) then plop the mare back in her cage. The stallion waits patiently, a forlorn, world-weary look on his face as he knows the fate of the children he just conceived, and you pick him up and carry him over to where Stan is working on some muzzled stallions, who are nonetheless screaming as loudly as they can through their muzzles.
The stallion looks up at you and asks, “fwuffy nu goin back in housie?”
“Not yet, fella.”
He peers at your face closely, then sees where you’re taking him and what Stan is doing and immediately realizes his fate: his balls are going to be chopped off and fried, and he will become food of one variety or another in the next day or two.
He doesn’t beg or try to escape. You set him on the counter and he lays down beside a restrained, muzzled stallion who is sobbing as he is castrated without anesthetic, and hugs him, offering what little comfort he can. He knows there is no escape from his fate and accepts it.
He knows he’s already in hell and that death is the only release.
You shake your head before you get overly dramatic and head to the back again, where Johnny is working in the crush cages. Crush cages are so named because the cages are so small that the fluffies inside can’t move at all, resulting in the tenderest meat. He’s currently holding a spray gun with hose attached and has it down a fluffies throat; the fluffy’s eyes are bulging and watering and its stomach starts to distend.
“There we go, all full. Next!”
“Pwease, nu huwtie nummies! Fwuffy nu wan- GHHK!”
“Shaddup. Nobody cares what you want.”
The first time you saw this, you had no idea what was going on; the fluffies have a tube shoved down their throat so that kibble and corn are forcefully filled into their stomachs, overfeeding them, which results in a fatty liver perfect for fluffy foui gras. It takes someone experienced in the task to feed them, because it’s easy to overfill the fluffy’s stomach and make it burst like a balloon, which eventually kills the fluffy in agonizing pain; they’re served as food before it kills them, but you can’t make fouis gras from them, which costs the restaurant money.
“Hey, need anything back here?”
“Nah, I got it.”
You nod and let him keep working, and continue for the rest of your shift.
Four hours later, you clock out, take off your apron, and walk out the back toward the employee parking, which avoids most of the protesters, who prefer to cloister near the front door that all the customers go in and out of.
Most.
A couple of protesters are putting fliers on the windshield of every car and holding signs about animal cruelty, when they spot your uniform and start howling in righteous indignation. You almost make it into your car before one of them splatters something all over you and you jump inside, lock the door, and examine yourself.
Well, at least this time it’s just red paint. They often use worse things.
You sigh, write off your uniform as ruined, and drive towards home.
Your tattered remnants of a conscience might make you feel bad now and then, but att least your massive paycheck, some wine, and your Bruce Lee holographic sex doll let you sleep at night.
Back in the restaurant, a man who calls himself Deathproofpony on the internet is stealthily jerking off under the table as he takes another bite of his extremely expensive alicorn sushi.
“Pweeeeaaase, nu num fwu-hu-huffyyyyy…”
“Your suffering is delicious.”
yeah i was wondering on that story series its way wtf wheb i try reading it.