Fuckin' Fluffies 3, by Swindle

You’re Dude. Not The Dude, just Dude. And you hate your fucking life.

After rolling out of bed, you shit, shower, shave, get dressed, feed your daughter’s fucking fluffy, and walk outside.

Hey, no fluffies on your porch! What a nice-

“Nice mista, pwease gif nummies fow mummah! Nee make miwkies fow babbehs!”

Son of a motherfucking cock whore. It was waiting in your driveway next to your car.

You grab the three foals off the mare’s back and toss them into the trash can, where they chirp and cry while the mare wails in sorrow and taps her hooves against the can trying to reach them.

You narrowly miss her as you back out of the drive, then head off on your way to work. You wave at the trash truck as it turns onto your street.

“Fucking fluffies.”

You don’t see many fluffies on your way to work, though you do see a Mexican street vendor on the side of the road clobber one with a bag of oranges and stuff it in a burlap rice sack. Presumably to eat it. You officially name the fluffy Taco and pull into the parking lot at work.

Walking up to the building, you see that fluffy family that’s been living under the bushes for a couple weeks now. Looks like the parents are teaching their foals to eat grass. Also looks like their situational awareness hasn’t improved any, since they’re completely oblivious to your presence.

You casually kick the stallion in the balls for the third or fourth time and he pukes all over one of his foals and clutches his crotch in agony; you’re honestly kind of curious if repeated kicks to the junk can render a fluffy sterile.

Well, guess there’s only way to find out. You’ll see if he’s still there on your way to lunch.

“Fucking fluffies.”

Once in the office, you sit down and spend the next couple hours trying to mask your utter contempt for the assholes in charge and the sheer hatred you have for your incompetent, airheaded co-workers. You almost start to fantasize about going on a massacre in the office, but you’ve seen God Bless America so many times that the concept bores you. So, you keep working and try not to let it get to you.

That works for about fifteen minutes, then you duck into the men’s room and jerk off while fantasizing about a life that doesn’t so closely resemble hell. You finish just in time for lunch.

Walking outside, there’s the stallion, waddling painfully as he follows the mare and his foals around the lawn. You punt him in the balls and send him flying into his foals, who immediately cry about ‘owies’ and call their sire a ‘meanie’, completely oblivious to the fact that he didn’t do it on purpose and is, in fact, in far more pain than they are.

“Fucking fluffies.”

You drive to a decent Chinese buffet and are halfway through a plate of general tso chicken when a health inspector walks in and announces that the restaurant is closed until further notice ‘due to serving feral fluffies as chicken’.

“Fucking fluffies!”

You get a refund and stomp outside and grab a McDonald’s burger and decide to eat it at your desk. On your way inside, you see the stallion laying on his side where you left him, crying and hugging his scrotum. Which you kick again. For science.

Then you sit down at your desk, bite into your burger, and immediately get ketchup on your shirt. Gritting your teeth in exasperation, you open your desk drawer to get a napkin and-

Oh. Fuck.

You forgot. You dumped your framed photo of your wife and daughter in there so you didn’t have to see it anymore. You stare in horror at their smiling faces. Your mind flashes back to the phone call. Your wife called to tell you she’d picked your daughter up from school and they just had to pick up some milk and then they’d be home. Then you heard the tires squeal and your daughter scream, the phone cut off in the middle of a violent crunching noise and she wouldn’t answer when you called her back. You called ten times before you called 911 and then you couldn’t tell them where they were because you didn’t know.

It was an hour before the police officer arrived to inform you that your family was dead. Your wife had swerved to avoid a fluffy that had stepped out into the road, lost control and crashed.

You manage to sprint out of the office, run past the moaning stallion, and jump in your Blazer before you lose it. You completely and totally break down in your car, crying like a bitch and banging your head against the steering wheel.

After a while, you don’t know how long, you finally run out of tears and start the engine. Fuck it. You’re not going back to work. You can’t handle it.

You drive home, ignoring the mare still tapping on your now empty trash can and begging her babies to answer her. You reflexively kick the fluffy of indeterminate gender that’s squatting to take a shit on your lawn as you walk inside like a zombie and flop into your La-Z-Boy. You stare at the blank tv screen for a while before you get up to get a beer from the fridge and somehow end up with a bottle of Jack Daniels instead and start going to town on it.

After a while, you’re heartbroken enough and drunk enough that you’re basically done. You’re ready to check out.

“Fuck it.”

You retrieve your old Beretta from the closet, rack the slide to chamber a round and sit down in your chair to take another swig of whiskey, contemplating the gun in your hand. You disengage the safety and slowly, so slowly, raise the muzzle up to your temple and close your eyes.

“Daddeh?”

You pause, finger on the trigger. Maybe you should take him with you.

“Wuv yoo, daddeh.”

You open your eyes and Whisper is resting his hooves on your knee, looking at you with concerned eyes. You fucking hate fluffies. Hate 'em. You only take care of this little shit out of obligation, since it was the only thing you had left of your daughter.

Whisper climbs up into your lap and hugs you.

“Nu haf saddies, daddeh. Whispew wuv yoo.”

Dammit. You break down crying again and drop the gun on the floor, scooping him up and hugging him while bawling into his fluff like he was a teddy bear and you were three years old again.

“Ok. Ok, buddy. I’ll give it another chance. You fucking fluffy.”


A couple hours later, you’re feeling a little better, having gotten it out of your system. Along with most of the alcohol. So you decide to make a trip to the gas station for some nachos and a can of fluffy chow for Whisper; fuck it, why not.

You pull in, grab your nachos and completely bury them in artery-hardening cheese and jalapenos, pay the cashier, and walk out.

The one-winged pegasus mare is sitting on the sidewalk, hugging her sole remaining foal and singing a depressing song about “wastest babbeh” and “meanies awways kiww babbehs” and “maybe dis babbeh nu huwties su mush befow fowevuh sweepies”.

Dammit. One emotional episode and you’re turning into a total softie.

“Hey. Why don’t you go somewhere else if people keep killing your babies here?”

“Nu haff anywhewe tu gu. Hewds nu wan mummah, an dis onwy pwace tu fine nummies.”

“Well, if people keep killing your babies, why keep having them? This is like the third or fourth litter I’ve seen you with.”

The mare shakes her head, tears soaking her fluff.

“Fwuffy nu wan haf mowe babbehs. Buh awways git bad speshow huggies an haf babbehs ennaway, an den… den mummah wuv babbehs. Nu can hewp it. Mummah awways wuv babbehs, even when nu wan wuv dem cuz dey awways git fowevuh sweepies fwom meanies.”

Wow. Her life sucks worse than yours. For the first time ever, you really stop and put yourself in a fluffy’s shoes and see what a shitfest their lives are. Especially because of you. In no small part, you contributed to how badly this fluffy’s life sucks, and you can certainly relate to the loss of a child…

SIGH Here. Have some nachos.”

“Nummies?! Weawwy?!”

“Yeah, eat 'em before I change my mind.”

You set the tray of nachos down and the mare rushes to her feet to gobble them down, then stops just as she’s about to take a bite.

“Um… fank yoo fow nummies, nice mista, but…”

“But what?”

“Mummah am wactose intowewant.”

You kick her across the parking lot and dump the entire tray of nachos on top of her screeching foal before getting into your Blazer and peeling out.

“Fucking fluffies.”

30 Likes

PPPFFFFFFFF that last bit… nice screwing with my expectations.

That said, I’ve got friends who are lactose intolerant so I can kind of understand the fluffy as well. Got one has celiac disease (diagnosed by a doctor, not daytime television) so no gluten for her.

9 Likes

Im glad he felt better and get to know the horrible trauma and hatred he got for fluffies but seriously i think he was cursed that last one was a WTF moment and insert “shot in iphone meme music”

4 Likes

I’m starting to suspect this guy has bigger problems than fluffies.

2 Likes

Just a tad.

3 Likes

“Everyday I watch fluffies suffer and die. Sometimes because of me. I’ve started to wonder what really makes me that different from all of them. And today I realized the answer. Nothing. As far as this uncaring world is concerned, we are all fluffies.”

Cocks gun

Wide shot of his house.

Sound of a single gunshot.

5 Likes

Motherfucker you got me

lol crying is for pussies

And now I’m sad Whisper stopped him. Fuckin’ fluffies, saving this trashbag of a human.

I feel this in my bones, genuinely fantastic mix of humor and seriousness.

Love it

“Ok. Ok, buddy. I’ll give it another chance. You fucking fluffy.”

“no meanie wowds daddeh”

“… On second thought”

BANG
BANG