In case it is not immediately obvious, this is a prequel
You are Greg. You run a fluffy breeding and extermination business. You’ve only been doing it for a year or so, but you seem to be pretty good at it.
At the moment, you are in your barn with visitors. Normally, you only sell to pet shops and other distributors, but today you made an exception. A close friend of yours has a daughter with a birthday coming up, and he has come to you since she has always wanted a fluffy. Now that she is ten, he feels that she is old enough for the responsibility. Ted, your friend, has been here for a bit, and after a few beers and shooting the shit, you take him down to the Barn.
“Now, I know you’ve never been in here before, so I gotta warn you, there is…an odor.”
“I mean, don’t most animals smell?” He asks.
“Well yeah, but I just thought I’d warn you. My nose is dead to it by now.”
You punch the door code and let him in. You can both hear the dozens of fluffies chattering to each other.
“Fwuffy wub bawl.”
“Why dummeh nu-smeww pwetty fwuffy twy hug gud fwuffy?”
“Whea am nummies, fwuffy ib so hungwee?” Ted is slightly shocked.
“Are they always this loud?”
“Not always. They are fairly active in the afternoon. They tend to be excited when they wake up and eat, but then they tend to play themselves out and sleep until the afternoon. Rinse and repeat after dinner. But really, it varies from fluffy to fluffy.”
“How many do you have right now?”
“Well, I only have about 50 breeders right now, and maybe a dozen or so stallions. As far as foals go, I think I have around 280 at the moment,” you answer, checking a sheet by the door.
“Actually, 294.” You correct yourself, as you and Ted walk down to the pens.
“So, tell me what I should know, Greg. All I really know is that they are basically a walking, talking, living stuffed animal. Sarah is the one who knows all the shit about them, and you said not to bring her.”
“Yeah, well I don’t know how well she is going to take to how they are raised. Taking the grown foals away from their moms, for instance, is a bit of a tearjerker for any kid raised on Disney movies. Better that it’s just you.” You continue, pointing to one of your pens.
“Well, those fluffies you see over there are adults. They range in size, but that’s about the height they typically reach. Like a chihuahua or other small dog breed, for the most part. Those babies over there, those are newly weaned. You definitely don’t want one of those. They aren’t reliably housebroken yet, and they can still be pretty mouthy at that stage. I have mares in those pens that teach the little ones how to behave.” Almost on command, one of your tender mares bops a violent foal to the ground.
“Fwuffy dun huwt oddah fwuffy! Pway nice, shawe bawl n toysies.” She barks at the unruly foal, who immediately apologizes, crying over the sorry hoof that the mare gave him.
You smile at your well-trained mares. Walking Ted over to another pen, you point out the fluffies inside.
“Now, these here are ready for sale.” you say, indicating the foals below. They are about the size of guineapigs, and they run and play with one another happily, cavorting around their spacious pen.
“Once they are this size, they are litter-box trained, and they are used to eating kibble. The initial weaning process can cause some toilet problems, so its best not to grab a weanling that isn’t used to solid food yet. Also, since they’ve spent a few weeks in the other, “learning” pen with the adults, they wont be quite so rude or stupid anymore. Just like a dog, they need to be socialized with others of their kind if you want them to behave well.” You reach down and grab a passing foal. The tiny pegasus flaps his wings and hugs your hand.
“Hewwo Mistah, huu am dis?” he asks, looking over at Ted. Ted pets the thing tentatively, and then holds it in his hand.
“Damn, this thing is light. Do they get hurt easily?” He asks, hefting the yellow fluffy in his palm. The tiny guy giggles at the ‘upsies.’
“Well, it varies a little from variety to variety, but in general they are pretty fragile. A fall from that height,” you point, indicating Ted’s chest region, “would probably break his legs. It might even kill him.”
“Nuu! pwese, nu huwt fwuffy, fwuffy am gud fwuffy, onwy wan wub!” It grasps Teds hand tightly, and you pry it loose and return it to the pen, where it takes shelter in the arms of its litter-mates.
“That was a pegasus. They tend to be a bit more active than the others. They really like jumping from things so they can ‘fly.’ Obviously, their wings aren’t big or powerful enough to actually fly, or even glide for that matter.” You point out other fluffies in the pen.
“Those are Unicorns, and that over there is an ‘Earth’ fluffy, the standard type. They are probably your safest bet. Unicorns can sometimes get a bit uppity.”
“Well, my daughter wants a foal, so I guess it would be one of these here. Is there any benefit to a boy vs a girl?”
“They are all fixed, so it’s not a huge difference. The boys get mellowed out by being gelded, but the girls are still just a bit more sedate, for the most part.”
“I think Sarah would like a girl pony. She loves the color blue, so anything in that color would work.” You nod to this, and look out at your stock.
There are several blue earth foals in view. Several are very obviously male, their fuzzy little sack really giving it away, but there are a few fillies running around. You swoop down and grab a pair.
“Nu, pwese nu huwt fwuffy!” Chirps a bright blue foal with a yellow mane and tail.
“Nu wike upsies, pwese nu upssies?” The other fluffy has paler blue fur, and a white mane and tail. Ted takes a moment, and your phone rings. Handing one of the fluffies to Ted, you answer
“Yeah.”
“Uh huh?”
“How many?”
“I’ll be right there.” You hang up your cell and turn to Ted.
“Hey, so I’ve got an emergency call and I’ve gotta leave right now.” Ted is cuddling the blue and white earth filly that you handed him.
“I think this one will work fine. How much do I owe you?” You laugh in response.
“It’s one fluffy, Ted. She isn’t fancy in any way, so I only make actual money when selling them in bulk. If she had special features, I’d ask for $50, but she is one of the ones I’d sell wholesale, so basically nothing. You can buy me a drink the next time we go out.”
You walk Ted out and lock up. Plodding your way to the garage, you don your coveralls and start up the truck.
There is work to do
—
You are drive down a suburban street, checking the house numbers. You pull up to a dark green, two storey house and park your truck. The homeowner answers when you ring the doorbell.
“Hi, Greg’s Fluffy Services. You called just a bit ago?” The homeowner is a middle-aged woman with auburn hair. She has an uneasy look on her face.
“Yeah, I’m Janet. A friend of mine recommended you. “ She lets you in. Her house is nice, with hardwood floors, artwork on the walls, even a marble fireplace. You follow her to the back of the house, where there is a kitchen with windows looking out into her back yard.
“So, when I let my fluffy out this morning, there were a bunch of what I assume are feral fluffies in the yard. I told them to leave, and they were gone for a bit, but about an hour ago there was all sorts of commotion back there, and they were obviously back. I think they were fighting each other.” She seemed rather distraught by the idea.
“Probably. Sometimes ferals can get pretty nasty. I can take care of it for you.”
“There won’t be any chemicals or anything that might hurt my fluffy, will there?”
“Oh, nope. I don’t usually K-I-L-L them if I can help it. Easier just to bribe them into listening to me. I try to spare as many as possible. Some of them even get adopted.” You spell that word out for the benefit of the red pegasus hiding behind the clients leg. The lady is an obvious hugboxer, but she seemed mollified by your words.
“I would suggest you put your fluffy somewhere where they can’t see the back yard while I am working. It might be troubling for them.” The client agreed wholeheartedly, and joined her bright red fluffy in what must have been their safe room, closing the door behind her.
You take a look out the windows and scope out the situation. From where you are standing, you can see the whole back yard rather well. There is a nice wood deck attached to the back of the house, followed by lush grass, and finally a planted flower bed, full of bright flowers and short bushes, following the back fence line. Your quarry is plainly visible, brightly colored blobs movings around, eating the grass and flowers voraciously. You return to your truck and grab some gear before walking around to the back yard with your arms full. You set the crates down around the corner, out of sight, before advancing on the herd. You can see now that they have indeed been fighting. Several are rather ruffled looking, and blood is smeared on several more. Two or three appear to have died, but are being hugged by other members of the herd. Two corpses, however, stand apart, crushed and bloodied. No fluffy hugs these bodies and you stomp over to investigate.
Oh. The two dead ones are alicorns, a large male and a smaller colt. Both are clearly dead, their bright purple fluff smeared with blood, their wings torn. You shake your head. There goes two grand, easily. As you examine them, the herd spots you.
“Nuuu, go way dummeh man.”
“Dis nu daddeh? Gib nummies to fwuffy?”
A large orange stallion with blue fur tromps to the front.
“Wat human wan? Dis fwuffies pwace naow, hewds soft gwassy nummies.” Well, this is obviously their leader, you think to yourself. Surprisingly, he doesn’t seem to be a smarty-friend. That’s always a plus in your book.
“I want you to leave this yard. You can find grass to eat somewhere else.”
“Nuuu, dis safe pwace, gud fo fwuffies and nu-mummahs. Human go somepwace ewse.” The fuzzy stallion holds his ground.
“So you won’t leave? Not even if I give you…sketties?” You ask, and the stallion gives a start.
“Sketties?! Mistah hab sketties for fww…hewd?” His demeanor has changed completely. There is just a little drool forming as you reply.
“Yes, I have plenty of sketties for everybody. Why don’t you come check that I have enough sketties, and then you can bring the rest of the herd.”
“Hewd wait hew, fwuffy check da sketties.” He announces, barely containing his glee from the prospect of eating his fill of tasty spaghetti. The eager stallion follows you around the corner of the house, where you retrieve a bowl and a can of pre-cooked spaghetti in tomato sauce. You buy the generic stuff in bulk. Not exactly gourmet, but the fluffies don’t know and don’t seem to care.
“There you go, buddy.” You step away from the bowl after filling it with cold noodles and tomato sauce.
“Dese gud sketties. Tank ou mistah!” He barely manages to thank you before burying his face in the bowl, chomping away at the mushy noodles.
You let him feed for a bit as you fish around in the other boxes. You retrieve what you need, and step back over to the fluffy. He looks up from eating only for a moment, and you slip the noose around his furry neck, holding him down with a boot as you yank the paracord tight. His little eyes bulge as you quietly strangle the life out of him. He tries to scream, but the noose has bitten into his windpipe, and there is only a quiet gurgling noise as life leaves his tiny body. His little legs wiggle and kick, and he paws at the cord to no effect. Bloody froth drips from his snout, and he goes limp. You open a trash bag and toss him in, carefully closing it so the other fluffies can’t smell him. Then, you prepare several large bowls of the cheap spaghetti for the others.
“Tank ou, nice mistah. Fwuffy wub sketties!” A green unicorn bleats happily, his snout smeared with cheap tomato sauce. The rest of the herd echoes the filly’s sentiments. Soon, they have stuffed themselves, and the dozen or so fluffies are snoozing happily, bellies full. No chemicals or drugs are needed here: a full belly of spaghetti is soporific enough for the tiny buggers. You gaze over the herd. There are plenty of nice colored fluffies here, about a dozen total, plus about a half-dozen tiny foals frolicking about in the grass, close to their now drowsy mothers.
You return to your equipment, retrieve some crates, and start sorting the fluffies out. Pink, yellow, orange, blue. All the nice color combinations go into several crates, sorted by sex. There is a bright red dam, with yellow wings, and she goes into a nice padded crate, along with several nicely colored foals.
“Mistah pweese, nu upsies? fwuffy am soon-mummah!” She chirps in alarm. You quiet her back down with a few strokes of her soft fur, and she settles in the carrier. Next come the ‘unfortunates’. Brown foals or fluffies with badly colored manes, anything that just doesn’t ‘pop’, all goes into a separate crate. Some of the fluffies you would otherwise keep join them, too. For example, a nice white stallion that would be a great breeder goes in the ‘reject’ pile, because he has some sort of infection. Likewise a blue unicorn filly with a hare lip. Them’s the breaks sometimes.
You shuffle the now-laden carriers off to your truck, and return for the expired fluffies strewn about the lawn. Picking up the dead fluffies, you sigh over the dead alicorns. That would have been quite the payday, you think to yourself. Of course, the fluffy brain naturally defaults to “monster” when it sees something it cannot identify, and so the “pointy-wingie” fluffies were killed by the rest of the herd. What a bunch of savages, you think to yourself, sliding the large male alicorn and his foal into the trash. As you are tying the bag, you hear a noise. The back yard is quiet now that all the chirping fluffies are gone, and you follow the soft noise to its source. It seems to be coming from a large rhododendron.
“Huu huu huu. Fwuffy miss daddeh.” Clearly a foal.
“Mummah am sowwy babbeh, meanie fwuffies gib daddeh fwowebba sweepies. Dey gib yu bwuda sweepies tuu. Buh mummah and oddah bwuda stiww here.”
You lift a low-lying branch to reveal an emerald-green alicorn and two foals, hidden beneath the bush. One of the foals is a large, purple earth fluffy, with a dark black mane. The other is another alicorn, the color of good milk chocolate. They are both cuddled up to their mother.
“Hello beautiful fluffies. Are you okay?” They are startled, but do not bolt. The foals bury their heads in their mother’s green fluff, but the mother stands her ground.
“Mummah am okay, mistah. Wha…wha mistah wan?” She asks suspiciously.
“I’m sorry the other fluffies killed your foal and special friend,”
“I’ve captured them, and they can’t hurt you now.”
“Mistah take hewd, gib owwies?” She asks carefully.
“No, but they can’t hurt you anymore. I have a safe place that you can live, if you want, with plenty of food, and you will be safe from mean fluffies. Wait here a minute.” You retrieve a large crate from the truck and fill another dish with spaghetti. The mare sniffs it suspiciously,
“Mistah gib sketties to fwuffy, mistah be nu daddeh?” She inquires, before she can’t help herself and begins to eat. You nod in response, and she smiles around a mouthful of pasta.
“Babbehs, dis nice mistah am nu daddeh. He gib bestest sketties tu fwuffy, so mummah can gib babbehs awww dah miwkies.” She chirps happily, consuming her dish full of noodles rapidly. When she is done, you carefully lift her foals into the padded crate, followed by the mare herself.
“Pwese carefuw when uppies, nu daddeh.” She asks nervously, and you set them down extra gently in the crate.
Carrying them back around the house, you place them carefully in the front footwell of your truck, making sure they are secure. The two alicorns are quite the jackpot. Each will go for $1000 dollars, easily. The earth foal isn’t all that special, but he has nice colors and would make a good stud stallion when he grows.
Not bad for two hours of work. You might just call it early today.
