You are Greg. You are a fluffy pony breeder and exterminator. You are in your truck, on your way to do a job at a nearby berry farm. Your Alicorns have come with you, because their mother has decided it is time for them to learn their job first hand. They snore happily from the quilted ‘nest’ you have built in the passenger foot well of your work truck. A short drive later, you pull the truck onto a short gravel driveway and come to a stop in front of a lovingly restored farmhouse. An older man, his beard solid white with age, waves from the wrap-around porch and makes his way down to your truck.
“Hello Greg, how are things?”
“I can’t complain, Al.” You reply
“I see you brought your little helpers today. You’ll find our ‘unwanted guests’ in the South field, about three or four rows in, last I saw them. ” he says, reaching through the passenger window with a treat for each of them.
“Tank ooh for tweat, nice mistah!” Your Alicorns reply politely, accepting the graham crackers from Albert’s wrinkled hand. They munch happily on the snacks, and Al leans over to whisper
“I still can’t believe yours are so well behaved. They aren’t anything like those wild ones.”
“Its just like anything else Al, if you let them run wild, they are little terrors, but train them well and they are as loyal as any dog.” you smile.
You get back in the truck and drive out past the house. Row after row of blueberries greets you. While service roads transect the fields horizontally, the rows of bushes are far too narrow to drive the truck down. You roll slowly down the rows, scanning for life with your binoculars. Just as promised, you see the moving lumps of brightly colored fluff down the third row. Unfortunately, they are all the way down at the other end, and a hundred yards on uneven ground with a prosthetic leg is not your idea of fun. You carefully turn your truck around back the way you came, and drive around to the other end of the field. As you pull up to the herd, you count something like thirty or forty fluffies, of all shapes and sizes. Fluffies hug and chase one another, plucking low-hanging berries to munch. Several mares nurse their foals, and under the shade of the bushes, dams sing happily to their unborn children. You pull on your gloves and tool belt, retrieving your pistol from the glovebox, and let Pickle and her twins down from the truck. The fluffies have noticed your approach. Several of them approach you apprehensively, but a dark red unicorn with an absolutely filthy white mane works his way forward to stand before you, defiant as can be.
“Dummy Hooman! Deese nummies am fluffy nummies! Go 'way!” He shouts, blowing a raspberry at you. You can hear Pickle growl softly “dat one is smawty, daddeh.” You pat her softly before you respond.
“I regret to inform you that you and your herd must leave, because these nummies aren’t yours to eat. You have one chance to leave on your own before…” you don’t finish before the smarty cuts you off
“Hooman go, dis hewd pwace now! Smawty nu am 'fwaid of hooman or dummy munstah!” He blows a raspberry at Pickle, Cocoa and Midnight. “Weave dis pwace now, or get tewwible owwies!” He stomps the ground for emphasis. You smile. Music to your ears. As the smarty’s toughies line up to face you, you give your response
“Like the US government, little shitball, I do not negotiate with terrorists.” You turn to Pickle and nod. The alicorn charges in like a freight-train and knocks the smarty on his ass. When the smarty gets back up and begins to spark his horn at Pickle, the alicorn rears up and pounds him with her hooves. The herd cowers. Most have shit themselves in fear, but several toughies run forward to fight the “Munstah.”
“Fwuffy hewp smawty!” an earthie charges forward to the smarties aid, but Midnight and Cocoa have gotten the picture, and they charge him, knocking him to the ground and kicking him mercilessly in the snout. “Mouf hab 'iggest owwies,” he mewls, “Pweese huggies?” He begs the herd, but they are clearly far too scared to help. As he writhes on the ground in pain, the twins attack another toughie, biting at his neck and tail. Undeterred by the screaming and fighting, a large gray unicorn head-butts Midnight in the balls, eliciting a squeal from the big fluffy. Cocoa rounds on her brother’s attacker and charges in, but you are there first. You stand carefully between the unicorn and your big boy, and the unicorn tries to bite your leg, only to recoil in pain with a mouth full of tiny broken teeth and blood smearing his muzzle, apparently unaware that titanium is stronger than his little chompers.
“whargarbleeee.” He spits out blood and tooth fragments, “teef habb wostets huwties, huu huu, h…” his whining is cut off as you crush his fragile skull with the heel of your steel-toed work boots. Surprisingly enough, the herd hasn’t moved during the short melee, as most are quaking with fear, in puddles of their own shit and piss. One of the dams has apparently gone into labor from the stress, squeezing out several foals at once into a puddle of her own diarrhea where they chirp loudly in distress.
“nuu huu huu. Why huwd nu hewp smawty?” The smarty bawls in the background. Pickle is sitting on him, having pulled out nearly all of his mane.
“Ugwee dummeh smawtee gon get what oo deswerve,” she growls, spitting out a mouthful of hair. She reaches down and carefully takes hold of the quivering smarty’s right ear, and pulls her head back sharply, tearing it clean off his skull with an awful ripping noise
“Screeeeeeeeeeeeee!” The smarty wails “Tewwible owwies!” blood from his wounds has covered his face, giving him a rather haunting appearance, and the herd shies away from their broken smarty as he gropes for aid in their direction. You turn to the herd as Cocoa and Midnight become distracted chasing a passing butterfly. You stride over to the quaking mare, and fish several newborn foals from a puddle of their terrified mothers excrement.
Unfortunately, two have already drowned, their mouths stuffed full of shit. You set them down and turn to the survivors. Two are white with colored manes, another is green, and last is a tiny pegasus that is almost dayglow yellow. You wipe their tiny mouths clean of poop with a handkerchief, and give each a once-over with a wet wipe retrieved from the thigh pocket of your coveralls. At this point, the mother has stopped sobbing and shivering long enough to notice the foals.
“Babbehs came! Am mummah now!” She squeaks apprehensively as you set them down in front of her, one by one. At first she wriggles her nose at their smell, but then begins to lick them anyway, instinct kicking in. You reach out to pet her softly as she cleans her foals, and she stops mid-lick
“…Mistah nu huwt fwuffy? Hewp mummah’s new-babbehs?” she asks with concern.
“No, I won’t hurt you,” you reassure her. “Me and my big fluffies only hurt bad fluffies and smarties.” You tickle a nearby earthie colt under the chin and it chirps happily.
“Fwuffy scawed. Sowwy Smawty, but munsta-fwuffy so scawy!” a green earth mare turns to you, pleading: “Pwese Mistah! Save fwuffy fwom meanie-munsta! Wime am good fwuffy, nu wan tewwible owwies!” It hugs your leg tenderly, crying onto your pant leg in pathetic little sobs.
“I’m not sure Lime, are the rest of your friends good fluffies too?” The rest of the herd quickly swarms over to hug and plead with you.
“Fwuffy am gud fwuffy, nu am bad fwuffy!”
“Nice Mistah pwease hewp?”
“Pwese be nu daddeh? Gib huggies and nummies?”
You smirk “Well, I guess I have enough room and sketties at my house… if you are all good fluffies.”
“Yayyyy, new daddeh!”
“New Daddeh say gib sketties!” They all cheer and follow you to the truck.
You look over the survivors, and count about 25, maybe thirty total if you include the immobile dams stuck under the bushes. Most are fairly muted in color, but a good third have nice bright colors, and here and there you can spot a telltale mane or birthmark that means big bucks. One by one, you carefully lift them and place each into the big, blanket-lined tubs in the back of your truck, which pull out on a slider for ease of loading. Foals are placed with their mothers, and you carefully load the pregnant dams with extra blankets for padding. Several mothers complain about being separated from their weaned foals, but they shut up when you bribe them with dog treats.
Now that you have dealt with the herd, all that’s left is the dams and the trouble-makers. You look back down the row and notice that our little smarty friend has managed to make it quite far. For a fluffy, this equates to maybe ten yards. You close the short distance with a few quick steps, and deliberately stomp on his hindquarters. The loud crunching sound you hear is surely a broken pelvis, and the screams confirm it.
“Screeeeeeeeeeeglleee,”His screech turns into a gurgle and he coughs up a little blood before resuming his sobs. “Fwuffy hab tewwible hewties. Pwease hewp fluffy?” The pain has short-circuited his brain, defaulting to begging for help from a ‘daddeh’.
“You got it, champ.” you say,
You pick him up, holding him away from you carefully, and wring his neck. There is a loud ‘pop,’ at which point the creature stops thrashing and a dribble of poop flows out of its relaxed anus. You shake the corpse carefully to clean what you can off of it, and trudge back over to the dams. They were abandoned in the rush to get away from the ‘meanie-munstah’, and you take a moment to pick up all the dead or injured toughies and stuff them unceremoniously into a spare bucket, before squatting down to chat with the dams. There are five in all, two unicorns, two earthies, and one heavily pregnant pegasus. They chatter quietly to you as you pet them, with one earthie tending her newborns and singing to them as they feed.
“Fwuffy be mummah soon. Pweese nice mistah hewp mummah? Gib nummies?”
“Fwuffy have sooo many tummy babbehs! Be good mummah, fwuffy pwomise!”
“Mistah be new daddeh, gib fwuffy safe pwace for babbehs?”
“Sure, I’ll be your new daddy. You and your babies will be safe at my house” They all babble in agreement. In the back of the truck are several padded crates, you carry the first two over and place them carefully in the crates. On your second trip you pick up the bright yellow unicorn, who has been talking the entire time. She swollen up so much that she looks like a furry sausage with legs.
“Wemon gon hab bestest babbehs evah! Gon hab smawty babbies!” She sings. You stop abruptly and raise the dam to eye level. She beams at her new daddy, reaching out for hugs.
“Who is your special friend, Lemon?” you ask, holding her solidly at arms-length.
“Siwwy daddee! Speshul-fwen ish smawty! Am hab bestest swawty tummy-babbehs.” Well shit. You promptly drop the mare. She lands roughly, and there is a crack as at least two legs break.
“Hewp, worstest owwies! Why nice mistah dwop fwuffy? Fwuffy am mummah soon!” You leave her to mewl in pain as you retrieve your bucket. She wails in pain as she lands on top of the corpses of the toughies and her special friend. Hugging his lifeless body, she sobs as you put the bucket back in your truck and gather up your Alicorns for the ride home, wiping them clean of gore before lifting them into their nest.
“Nuuuuuuu! Wemon nu take fowevah sweepies! Am mummah soon! Nu huu huu huu”
Her wretched sobbing is drowned out as the engine roars to life, and you take off down the road, waving to Al as you drive past.