help i’ve fallen down a rabbit hole and can’t get out
In all seriousness, this is my first post here after lurking for some time; I decided to start off with a story covering a free idea I had in mind, which would probs be much too elaborate for the Free Ideas Thread (tho I will be providing a link there). Anyways, here goes:
The Destroying Angels
A couple of cars pulled into the parking lot of the local FluffMart. Nothing that would’ve garnered suspicion… except it was well past closing time.
Nine people poured out; all of them wore hoodies and various forms of long pants, as well as leather gloves, sunglasses and face masks. Had anyone been around to see them, they would have noticed the masks had an odd logo - a sword in-between two angel wings. Obviously, they were up to no good. Wordlessly, they slunk over to the entrance, where one of them whipped out a glass cutter and sliced open one of the panes on the sliding door. Quietly, they snuck inside.
A couple of them whipped out flashlights and spent a few minutes taking note of the store’s layout. Then, it was time to execute the plan. They rapped on one of the fluffy pens, then as the fluffies woke up, they reached into their pockets…
yawn “Hewwo, nyu daddeh-”
The one nearest the unfortunate fluffy whipped out a stiletto and shanked it in the groin.
“SCREEEEEE SPECIAW PWACE HUWTIES!!!”
The screaming managed to stir the other fluffies from their sleep. As if on cue, the rest scattered to other fluffy pens and started their massacre. The intruders were merciless; one snatched up a chirpy and bisected it lengthwise in front of its wailing mother before the same knife was used to lop off her head. Another skewered as many foals as they could on their knife before force-feeding them to the adult fluffies, shanking their genitals as they choked to death. Yet another had manage to perform the Blood Eagle on one, with it suffocating as its little lungs fluttered uselessly without a diaphragm, as they casually went to work on more.
Nevertheless, as the slaughter bore on, one weanling managed to speak up;
“W-whai huwt fwuffies? Huhuhuhu…”
The human at the pen stopped cold, and focused their attention on that fluffy. The weanling was quivering in fear, and had already shit themselves in typical fluffy fashion. The human hefted it up, and spoke the first words any of them had said since they arrived.
“Hey guys, this one just asked why we ‘huwt fwuffies’,” the human announced. His voice was distorted - he obviously had some sort of voice changing device under the mask, which they all did. “Why don’t we take the shitrat with us so we can answer it later?”
He then passed it over to another guy, who took out a small jar from his cargo pants, plopped the fluffy in and closed the lid - which had vents to allow the fluffy to breathe. The human then stuffed the fluffy back in their pocket, making sure to leave the flap open, and got right back to slaughtering.
“Nu wike sowwy box, huhuhu…” The weanling could hear the others getting the worst forever sleepies from the pocket, which was even worse than just being in a sorry box.
Eventually, the humans had finished off all the fluffy in the front, so they made their way to the back. One of them took out a lockpick and opened the door, where they barged inside and did their thing to the fluffies in the back. All in all, the whole thing took about 20 minutes. The group headed back to their cars, the inquisitive weanling still in tow, and they took off. Once they were on the road, they got much more chatty.
“Man, making the trip to Pittsburgh was hella worth it,” one proclaimed. The people in the back of each of the cars had started up a video chat with one another so they could communicate despite being in two different vehicles.
“Hell yeah, very first raid was a great success. And I’m personally honored to have worked with Duma himself.”
“Don’t mention it,” the guy driving one of the cars said. He was the one in the cargo pants who had put the fluffy in the jar, and he was driving with the windows cracked to lessen the inevitable shit stench. Duma was, of course, an alias - they were all using aliases for this mission.
“Uh, don’t you guys think that went off a little too smoothly?” Another of them asked. “I really thought the alarms would’ve gone off at some point.”
“You’re welcome,” the guy in the front passenger seat said smugly.
“Wait what?”
“I went in a few day ago posing as a technician, and tampered the alarms saying I was fixing them.”
“…holy shit dude, that was genius! Though we oughta be more careful in the future, cuz they probably are gonna be.”
The group made their way back to Akron, Ohio, where ‘Duma’ lived. They pulled up to a fairly non-descript suburban home and made their way to the basement, the weanling in tow. Duma carefully plucked them out of the jar and dumped them onto a metal table. After a few minutes of cleaning out the jar, he sat down facing the fluffy, pressing down on it, not enough to hurt it, but enough to keep it from moving.
“Now then, you asked us why we hurt fluffies… well, here’s your answer,” Duma then pressed Play on a voice-recoding he had made.
“It’s because we hate you fucking fucks! You fuckers don’t fucking deserve to fucking exist! You’re fucking all the fucking epitome of fucking shallow, fucking fake shit fucking shat out by the fucking marketing departments of fucking mega-corporate fucks!” Duma, in addition to playing the recording, was slapping the weanling in the face, hard enough to hurt, but not to break something. That would be for after the rant.
“WAAAAAAAAAAA!!!” The little shit starting bawling, in typical pathetic shitrat fashion. It flailed its weak limbs as it cried, as if somehow that useless gesture would do something.
“The fucking bigwigs wanted fucking something as fucking saccharine as fucking possible, and they fucking got it! You fucking fucks act like some fucking grotesque fucking parody of how fucking toddlers act! And it’s fucking unnatural - you fuckers were fucking literally fucking programmed with fucking language, for fucks sake! At fucking two fucking weeks old!”
While Duma didn’t swear nearly as much as he had in the recording - hell, a sailor would’ve asked him to tone it down - he was using the constant barrage of cursing - along with all the slapping - to maximally trigger the fluffy, as he knew they reacted poorly to 'no-no wowds". And it was working, judging from the wailing shit under his hand. Also, barring the excessive swearing, the feelings were completely genuine.
“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!” The shitrat let out a load of sad poopies as the verbal and physical barrage continued. Pathetic, Duma thought.
“And you fucking fucks are fucking shills for the fucking company that fucking shat you fucks out! All you fucking do is fucking plead for fucking this, fucking that! Well, fucking guess who’s fucking got that fucking covered! You fucks only fucking exist to fucking sap the fucking money out of our fucking wallets into the fucking bank accounts of the fucking bigwigs!” It should be noted that Duma still had his mask on, so to the shitrat it would appear as if he was actually yelling all this at it.
“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!”
“And you fucks are so fucking idiotic! You never fucking learn any-fucking-thing beyond what was fucking programmed into you fucks, and that fucking wasn’t fucking enough! If any fucking real fucking animal did fucking half the fucking shit you fucking do, they’d fucking be fucking classified as fucking mentally fucking challenged!”
“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!”
“And even if you fucking weren’t fucking dumb as the fucking shit you fucking fucks seem to fucking have a fucking endless fucking supply of, you fucking fucks are so fucking helpless! You’re fucking weak, fucking slow, you fucking drown like fucking nothing, and your only fucking defense is to fucking shit all fucking over fucking anything that’s a fucking threat! Like that’s fucking gonna stop a fucking predator! Us fucking humans are like fucking gods to you!”
“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!”
“And worst of fucking all, despite fucking being fucking dumb and fucking helpless, you fucking fucks still fucking manage to fucking be a fucking ecological fucking nuisance! That’s fucking because you fucking breed e-fucking-nough to fucking put fucking rabbits to fucking shame, because you fucks are fucking obsessed with fucking babies, so the fucking best fucking thing ever is to fucking have as fucking many as fucking possible, fucking food sources be fucking damned!”
“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!”
“And the fucking shit you fucking pump out be the fucking truckload is not fucking only fucking disgusting, but the fucking perfect fucking vector for so fucking many fucking diseases! You fucking fucks were what fucking modern fucking sanitation was fucking supposed to fucking protect us a-fucking-gainst! Why the fucking fuck do you fuckers think we fucking call you fucking shitrats?!”
“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!”
“You fucking fucks only fucking live to fucking take for your-fucking-selves, fucking making your fucking babies and fucking shitting fucking everywhere! Us fucking humans fucking gave you fucking everything you fucking have, and you fucking never fucking give fucking anything fucking back! And that’s fucking why you fucking fucks need to fucking suffer AND FUCKING DIE!” With those last words Duma took his hand off the shitrat and slapped it harder, flinging it to the left. One of the others caught it - letting it fall off the table to its death would be a mercy they weren’t willing to give.
Duma coolly pulled out a utility knife and flipped out the wood saw. A few of the others chuckled, they knew what was coming. As the guy who had caught the shitrat handed it over, Duma restrained it again and placed the saw blade on of the fluffy’s front legs.
Then the sawing began. Duma methodically, yet furiously, sawed his way through each leg, cool as a cucumber the whole time. The shitrat, of course, screamed through the whole thing.
“SCREEEEEEEEEEE! NU TAKE WEGGIES! NEE WEGGIES FOW WUN AN PWAY AN HUGGIES!!!”
Once Duma was done, he stood up and addressed the shitrat one more time.
“That’s right, no more legs! No more running, no more hugs, no more playing! Just sadness and misery for the rest of your pathetic life!” He leaned into the shitrat’s face. “And to make sure, every day I’m gonna bring a fluffy over, kill it in front of you, and make you eat it.” He then turned to the other humans. “Hey, one of you guys mind closing the shitrat’s wounds? Don’t want it to die before it eats my special its-own-legs roast. Medkit’s in that cabinet over there.”
The next day, Duma was walking around the streets of Akron with a purpose in mind. He was searching the alleyways for ferals, in order to find his victim of the day. Eventually, he managed to hear the unmistakable sound of chirping; following it, he saw a mare and several chirpies.
“Hewwo, nyu daddeh?”
Duma gave the mare upsies, paused for a few seconds… and then smashed the shitrat headfirst into the wall, killing it.
“PEEP CHEEP CHEEP PEEP PEEP” The chirpies, being blind, had no idea what just happened, but mummah was suddenly gone so it couldn’t be good! Duma just chuckled as one by one he picked up the chirpies and chucked them into the same wall that killed their mummah, reducing them all to splatters… all except one. This one, Duma squeezed the bowels, causing it to empty itself, wiped its ass roughly against the ground, and shoved it in his pocket.
“NUUUUUUU!!! SPECIAW FWIEND!!! BABBEHS!!!” Duma turned to see a stallion galloping towards the bloody mess… as fast as it could go, which wasn’t so much. Duma merely picked it up, then slammed it against the opposite wall. His task done, he headed back home.
Back in his basement bathroom, Duma returned to find the fluffy from his raid last night (which was, by the way, all over the news). The legless little shit was resting on the countertop, with pipes to catch its piss and shit and dump them in the toilet.
“Today, I’m going to show you that I’m a man of my word.” Duma said coldly as he whipped out the chirpy in his pocket. The chirpy chirped and peeped to no avail, as Duma set it on the counter, leaving it to flail even more uselessly than regular shitrats. Using one hand to pry his captive’s eyelids open and make sure he saw, Duma then used the utility knife to saw the chirpy’s head off.
“Huhuhuhuhu…” The captive could do nothing but weep and make more sad poopies into the tubing, the final destination for its legs after Duma had force-fed them to it the night before. Duma casually proceeded to snip the fluff off the headless body, then strip the meat from the bones. After washing off the knife, sink, and countertop, Duma began feeding; prying the shitrat’s jaws open, then making it chew, then finally making it swallow.
“See you tomorrow, shitrat,” Duma said as he left the bathroom.
A few days after the Pittsburgh raid, steles cropped up in the town centers of several major U.S. cities. Each of them had the same message, in both Chinese and English, as well as Spanish in the appropriate cities:
Humans bring forth innumerable things to nurture Fluffies.
Fluffies have nothing good with which to recompense humans.
We are here to make sure Fluffies suffer and die.
And below the text, there was a logo: a sword, in-between two angel wings.
tl;dr, the Destroying Angels are a group who see the existence of Fluffies as a blight, and desire to kill off every last one of them, often in brutal fashion as the story shows. Despite the ultraviolence they show towards fluffies, however, members are discouraged from inflicting unnecessary harm to humans or ‘real animals’ (i.e. basically if they have to hurt them, only do enough to get them out of the way), to ‘show everyone who the real targets are’.
They technically have a phantom-cell structure with an encrypted forum as their main base. Their founder, Dumah (a codename taken from an angel in Rabbinical and Islamic lore responsible for punishing the wicked dead), has a little more say over matters, but mostly due to respect by other members.
BTW, Dumah was in Cleveland during The Fall (if that happens in your headcanon), and was lucky to have been in his car the whole time. Other members are refugees/expatriates from Cleveland, or from other states adversely affected by ferals (again, if that’s a part of your headcanon).
