“Nuu! Pwease! Gib babbehs back!” begged the pink and purple mare. She was following me as I carried her newly born babies away from her, trying to grab my ankles, and generally making a nuisance of herself. Meanwhile, the basket of foals chirped and peeped, no doubt crying for their mummah.
“I can’t give them back,” I told the stupid fluffy pony. “We need them for Foal Runner. These baby fluffies are worth far more to Fluff TV than they are to you.”
The mare trotted in front of me and made a desperate attempt to hug my ankle.
“But fwuffy-mummah WUB babbehs! Babbehs is most pawtant fing in da whowe wowwd! PWEEEASE gib back babbehs nice mistah! PWEEEEEEEASE!”
“You can’t have them back,” I said, kicking the pathetic fluffy away from me. “You can only win them back, in the Foal Runner arena.”
“Wha? Wha am Foaw Wunnew Awena?” Asked the confused young mare.
“Oh? You want to play?” I asked her, running through the standard script. Once they started asking about ways to get their babies back, recruiting them was a piece of cake.
“Fwuffy can pway game? Get babbehs back? What game am dis?” she asked, her ears pricking up and her heart no doubt leaping for joy, judging from her new found enthusiasm.
“Its called FOAL RUNNER,” I explained to her, with deadly seriousness. “Your foals are too small to play just yet, but they will be big enough, once they are walky-talky babies. In the meantime, you can play with some of the other mares, to help them save their babies. Then later, another mare can help you to save your babies!”
Sounding excited is the key to getting the mares to put on a good performance. Make them believe the game will be fun. Make them believe they have a chance. Make them believe there is a prize to be won beyond winning back the foals you took from them anyway. Or another mare’s foals. It works much better that way.
“Fwuffy can sabe babbehs? If pway Foaw Wunnew?” she asked me.
“No, you can save another mare’s babies. Then later, when your babies are old enough to play, another mare can help you save your babies. Sound good?”
The fluffy looked confused.
“But fwuffy wan babbehs back naow!” she begged, confused at the sounds of this game.
“Well,” I told her, “That’s simply not how this game works.”
Putting the foals into a glass cage, I attached them to the nipples of a milk bag, who started humming a mummah song at them, despite her own sorry state. Of the five foals, I reckoned three or four would survive to play the game. The runt had no chance, but the brown foal would probably survive. The milkbag could not move or see to reject it, so it would only miss out on milk if its brothers and sister’s started bullying it, as they undoubtedly would with the runt, if it was even strong enough to find some milk. To help motivate the young mare, I lifted her up and put her in an empty glass cage, next to her foals and the milkbag. Proximity and the sight of the foals really helps them.
“Babbehs! Babbehs!” she immediately started babbling, “It otay! Mummah am hewe! An… What am dat stwange bawd fwuffy wib fwuffy’s babbehs? Why dat fwuffy nu hab see-pwaces? Why dat fwuffy nu hab weggies? Why dat fwuffy hab nu FWUFF? Huu huu huu… Fwuffy nu wike dis pwace!”
“That fluffy, is a BAD FLUFFY,” I told her. “She wouldn’t play FOAL RUNNER. We had to take her eyes and legs and all of her lovely fluff, and turn her into a milk-bag. The only thing she is good for is feeding foals now. Otherwise we would give her forever sleepies.”
“Huu huu… Fwuffy nu wan fowevew sweepies… Fwuffy can gib babbehs miwkies. Can gib back babbehs to fwuffy? Pwease?”
I looked at the young mother in disgust.
“You MEAN, HORRID, SELFISH fluffy!” I said, scolding her severely, and making her cringe at the tone in my voice, “I just TOLD you that the bad fluffy is only good for feeding foals, otherwise, we would give her forever sleepies. If I gave the foals back to you, what would be the use in keeping her. Do you think I should give her forever sleepies?”
As I talked, the crippled milkbag heard and understood my every word. From the confines of the milkbag rack, and despite the feeding tube inserted into her mouth, he started to squirm, no doubt trying to beg “Nuuu! Pwease nu gib mowe huwties! Pwease nu gib fowevew sweepies!” The young mare could see the other fluffy’s discomfort, and no doubt felt instantly guilty. It was all part of the script.
“Nuu! Pwease nu gib fowevew sweepies to bawd fwuffy. Fwuffy wiww stay hewe. Can sing to babbehs.”
“Okay then, but you have to be good, or you can sleep on the cold floor instead.” I told her.
“Otay! Fwuffy wiww be gud!” she insisted.
I turned to leave, throwing a handful of the cheapest dried kibble into the young mare’s cage.
“Fank yu fow nummies!” the fluffy said, nibbling at the 50% sawdust crap I had just given her.
“Um… nice mistah?” the fluffy asked.
“Yes?” I said, wondering what she wanted.
“Whewe am wittabox?”
“There is no litterbox. You’ll just have to shit in the corner.”
“Uh… Otay,” the fluffy said, looking crestfallen.
“Um… Nice mistah?” she asked again.
“What now?” I snapped, growing increasingly impatient.
“Can fwuffy just hab one babbeh back? Fow huggies? An miwkies? An Wub?”
“No!”
“Just ONE babbeh? Wiww hab wittewest babbeh? Ow bwown babbeh?” she begged, hoping beyond hope.
“NO!” I yelled at her, whacking her on the nose with the kibble scoop.
“Aiieie! Wowstest nosie huwties!” she wailed.
I walked away then, listening as the mare began to cry again. She would probably calm down after a while, sing to her babies, and then fall asleep, trying not to roll over into her own poop.
The next day dawned bright and early. My assistants got the fluffies ready for the show. Foal Runner was rapidly becoming the hottest new show on FluffTV. Ever since the late night subscription only channel started up for abusers, it started bringing in some serious dollar. The trick is in the anticipation. The fluffies DO actually have a chance, albeit a very small one. It is technically possible to save all the babies. The fact that no fluffies had managed to do so was a testament to their limited intelligence, and improved our rating dramatically.
To keep them motivated, the fluffies were trying to save the foals of OTHER MARES. This was very important. A typical litter is between four and seven fluffies, for a fully grown mare, and less for a smaller filly, such as the domestic mares that run away and get knocked up by a gang of feral stallions. Of those, one or two will be runts, or “poopy babbehs” and won’t survive anyway. We manage to increase the survival rate by using blind, pillowed milkbags, but the main issue is the amout of foals that die in a typical foal runner game. If a typical mare has four or five babies, and these quickly die, the mare is then useless for the rest of the show, entering the fluffy despair known as the “wan die” loop.
Instead, we keep the mare’s own babies as hostages, not that the fluffy fully understands that. In the meantime, while her own foals mature, each mare is tasked with saving foals from one or more other mares, from a variety of traps and “monsters”, while the real mother’s watch. The utter injustice of the show is that the occasionally intelligent mare, which shows some aptitude in saving foals, has no opportunity to save her own foals in turn. Instead she must watch, helplessly, as the more typically retarded fluffy pony fails horrendously to save her own beautiful babies.
Such is the appeal of Foal Runner.
“Come on Sally, we’ve gotta get those mares ready!” I yelled at my assistants.
“Fwuffy nu wike haiw-dwyew!” the mare wailed as the hairdryer roared.
All of the mares are showered (“Nuu! Wawa am bad fow fwuffies!”), Shampooed (“Nuu wike smewwy stuff!”) and then blow-dried for the show. They need to look as pristine as possible, to fulfil the fantasy that they are lost or kidnapped domestic mares, rather than shit-rats bred in the Fluff Factory. To aid the effect, we add collars, ribbons and other accoutrements, and occasionally dub some other fluffy’s voices over the top of their speech. The screams are all real though.
“Are you ready fluffy? You just have to watch the first round, to learn how the game is played.”
“Huu huu…” the now pretty and puffed up pink and purple fluffy mare sniffled, looking adorable with a red ribbon in her mane and a purple collar that matched her mane and tail. “Fwuffy am weady to watch. Wan sabe babbehs.”
The game was on.
“Hello, ladies and gentlemen!” I greeted the audience of millions, watching from the comfort of their plasma screen TV’s or directly from their phones, laptops or VR. “And welcome, to another episode of… FOAL RUNNER!”
“Woooo!” screamed the live studio audience from their chairs. Their enthusiasm was tangible, and from their wide eyed appetite and hungry smiles, the men and women of the audience were positively erect with excitement. Marketing informed me that a sizeable percentage of our home viewers admitted to fapping furiously at the most juicy parts of our show. Those kind of freaks disgusted me, but I still made a show of whipping the audience into a frenzy.
“And have we got a show for you tonight!” I said, introducing the three rounds of the game. “First, we have the mare known as Julie. Julie is brand new, and she has to try and save FIFTEEN foals, from the STEAM-ROLLER!”
“STEAMROLLER! STEAMROLLER! STEAMROLLER!” the audience chanted.
“Yes, Julie watched last week as Bluebell only managed to save two foals from the SCORPIONS. Lets hope she does better than Bluebell did! The other mares taunted Bluebell until she was a gibbering wreck. That’s why she’s not able to play tonight.”
“SHAVE HER! SHAVE HER!” the audience cried.
“Yes, yes, she will be shaved, and pillowed, and milkbagged, but not until the final credits, so remember to KEEP WATCHING!”
“Pillowed!” cried an over-excited man in the front row.
“Yes, pillowed. But before that, we have round two, where we have everyone’s favourite, Lolly the Alicorn! Who will be trying to save TWENTY foals, from the WATER MAZE!”
“DROWN THEM! DROWN THEM!” the audience cried, whipping themselves into a frenzy.
“And then, in the third and final round, we have a new mare, that we are calling Pinky,” I said, looking over at the Pink and Purple mare I had recruited last night, “Pinky, will have to save FIVE foals, from a MYSTERY MONSTER!”
“OOooooooh!” the audience exclaimed.
“And so, without further ado, I present you Julie, and… the STEAMROLLER!”
The audience cheered, and I sat down next to the mare I had named Pinky, making her watch, so that she would understand what was at stake when it came to be her turn to play.
“Pinky WUB nyu name!” the retarded fluffy pony was gibbering. It would all change when she saw Julie fail horribly.
“Look Pinky, you need to watch Julie save the foals.” I whispered to her, making sure my mike was off.
“Oh yes, Pinky mus sabe babbehs!” the mare said, no doubt thinking that the game would be fun for all concerned.
How wrong she was.
“Oh, hewwo babbehs!” said Julie, entering a room that to the fluffy mind, was simply FULL of foals. Fifteen foals was as big as two of the biggest possible litters, and was far more than any non-Alicorn fluffy could count too.
“Hewwo mummahs!” Julie practically chirped, looking up at the glass viewing cages, from which four fluffy mothers were watching in fear and trepidation as they hoped beyond hope that Julie would save their foals.
“Babbehs!” Julie said, trying to sound serious, “Come to mummah. Fwuffy mus sabe babbehs, befowe munstahs come!”
Julie no doubt thought that scorpions, or some other monster, would be set free into the enclosure, as had happened with Bluebell. The fact that she was anticipating this meant that perhaps she was not as stupid as the typical fluffy.
“Babbehs!” she cried again, “Wait, dese am nu wawky-tawky babbehs?”
Her confusion peaked.
“Dese am onwy wittew chirpie babbehs! Can nu see ow wun yet! Huu huu… How fwuffy sabe dem aww fwom munstahs?”
The audience started giggling with anticipation.
“Hey! Why am dat waww mobing? Dat waww am wowwing awong an… Nu! Babbeh!”
CRUNCH! “SCREEEEE!”
The fluffy finally worked out what was happening, just in time to see the steamroller that made up the entirety of the far wall slowly crush a green coloured foal into an ugly red paste. Its screams and wails were horrific to her, but sweet ambrosia to our audience of sadists, psychopaths and the sexually deviant.
“Babbehs!” she cried again, “Wun to mummah!”
One or two of the larger chirpy babies heard and understood her, and started feebly crawling towards her, but the others were simply too small and weak to be able to move.
“Nuuu!” she wailed, as the steamroller claimed its second victim.
CRUNCH. “Screee! SCREEEE! Uurghghgh…” the baby screamed, before vomiting up milk, then blood, then its own intestines as they were squeezed out of its mouth.
“Huu huu! Fwuffy am bad fwuffy! Mus sabe babbehs!” Julie cried, in horror and indecision.
“Fwuffy nu wike dis game!” cried pinky, sitting next to me, and thankfully de-pooped by my assistants earlier.
“SABE BABBEHS!” cried the viewing mares, “SABE DA BWUE BABBEH!” they yelled at her, all asking her to save their own babies, at the expense of the other mummahs.
Julie just watched in horror, as the steamroller crushed another baby, and then another. It was possible that she might just sit there, pissing herself with fear, as the steamroller had a complete wipeout, claiming all the foals beneath its cold and uncaring steel.
“DUMMEH MAWE! SABE BABBEHS!” One of the watching mother’s cried.
Suddenly, Julie sprang into action, grabbing the nearest foal, and carrying it to the safety basket, from which she had entered the arena. Perhaps she was not as stupid as she looked.
CRUNCH. “Aiieee! Mummah! Aiieieee!” cried a slightly older baby, “Mummah! Miwkies!” it cried, as the roller slowly crushed it to death. By now, five foals were gone.
“Nuuu!” cried Julie, as she ran for a second baby. The audience went wild at the death of the newly talking foal.
The foals in the room were randomly distributed. The optimum strategy, as any human could quickly deduce, was to notice the roller before any foals were killed, and quickly grab the nearest babies, saving them first. Then, if a mare was really quick, she could save the next nearest babies, and the next nearest, and so on, until the room was cleared. Unfortunately, fluffy ponies are not known for their intelligence. Several fluffies had just watched and wailed as the Steamroller executed every single baby in the room. Others managed to save three or four, but none, except for Lolly the Alicorn had managed to save any more. Even Lolly had lost two.
“Babbehs! Mummah-Juwie nu fast enuff to sabe yu aww! Must wun!” Julie cried, as she dropped a third baby into the basket.
CRUNCH. “SCREEEEeeee…” came the babies screams, before they turned into a whimper and the shattering of soft bones in fluff and flesh, turned into paste. Six foals were gone now.
“Nuuuuuuu!” wailed Julie, echoed by the foals mummah, who wailed in despair.
“Pwease!” a watching mummah begged, “Sabe WED babbeh! It am mummah’s WASTEST BABBEH!”
Julie scooped up a forth, and fifth baby. These were the largest babies, who had managed to crawl towards her. She dropped them into the basket, just in time to hear…
CRUNCH. “Aieieieieieeeee… rugugghhgh…”
“NUUUUU! WASTEST BABBEH! WASTEST BABBEH! Nuuuu-huu-huu-huu-huu…”
Julie was too late to save the “lastest-babbeh” and the mother of the red foal wailed with despair, hammering her hooves against the glass, tears pouring from her eyes.
“Why? Why nu sabe wastest babbeh?” she asked, failing to understand that the Universe simply doesn’t care, and that humans, far from being the loving mummahs and daddahs fluffies were engineering to believe, are in fact the worst monsters of them all.
“Sabe babbehs!” cried the other mothers, watching as Julie ran to save the last three babies.
Julie could see now that the furthest babies were the ones to save, and showing quite some bravery for a fluffy pony, snatched the furthest baby from the steel jaws of the encrouching steamroller, which was now less than two feet from the safety basket. She turned around to grab the second to last baby, just in time to see it liquified by the rumbling monster.
“Nuu!” the baby cried as the steamroller caught its tail, “Mummah! Chirp! Chirp!”
CRUNCH
“SCREEEE!” the steamroller ate its legs, then its abdomen, then its chest, and finally, its skull, crushing it beneath its hideous body.
“Babbeh!” Julie cried, echoing the wails of the baby’s actual mother, weeping behind the glass above.
“LASTEST BABBEH! LASTEST BABBEH!” cried the audience, mimicking the fluffy speech.
Julie scooped up the lastest babbeh and placed it into the basket. SEVEN! She had managed to save seven babies! This was quite a turn up for the books. Millions of dollars were bet on Foal Runner, both online and in shady fluffy abuse dens across the country and throughout the world. Julie would be a new star of the show, she could…
“Nuu! Pwease metaw munstah! Wet go of fwuffy taiw!” Julie cried.
In all our excitement at the rescue of nearly half the foals, we hadn’t noticed that Julie had failed to leap into the safety basket in time! Even the most retarded fluffies that sat there and cried, while the steamroller ate all fifteen babies managed to save their own asses! What the fuck had she been thinking!
“Nuuu! Metaw munstah! Nu num weggies! Not weggies! Pweaaase!”
CRUNCH. “SCREEEEEEEEEE! SCREEEEEEE! WEGGIES!!!” Julie wailed.
CRUNCH. The steamroller continued to slowly devour the adult fluffy. Being larger than a foal, it took considerably longer to smash her to a pulp. She vomited her own instestines, and almost choked to death before the roller crushed her spine and then her skull. Her brain, what little of it there was, exploded like a ripe watermelon from her shattered head. All that was left as the roller stopped was a blue ribbon we had put in her hair, and a safety basket of weeping and chirping rescued foals.
“Huu huu huuu,” cried Pinky, hiding her eyes as she sat on my lap, “Pinky nu wike dis game!”