Your name is Greg. You capture or kill problem fluffies in your community, as well as breed fluffies at your farm. You have just returned from a job dealing with a feral herd in an urban back yard. In addition to the surviving herd members, you have an alicorn mare and her two foals, one of which is another alicorn. On your drive home, you have picked out names for them. The green mare is now “Pickle,” her big purple earthie colt is “Midnight” and the alicorn filly has been christened “Cocoa.”
“Daddeh, Pikuw wub nuu name, bud hab question…”Pickle asks slowly.
“Whats your question, Pickle?” You ask, pulling into your driveway and carefully backing up to the garage.
“Wat daddeh gon do wiwh odah fwuffies?” Shit. You forgot that alicorn’s aren’t quite as stupid as other fluffies.
“Well, girl, I am going to keep the good ones so they can make babies for me to sell.” Pickle frowns for a moment, apparently deep in thought.
“Wa daddeh du wid bad fwuffies?” God damnit. You don’t want to scare her, but she is going to figure it out sooner or later.
“Well, I am going to take the bad fluffies away forever.” Pickle seems torn.
“Daddeh, can Pikuw pwese hewp daddeh find which fwuffies aww bad fwuffies?” What?
“Uhhhh, sure, girl. You can help me sort them." Pickle seems satisfied with this arrangement.
You never bargained on a fluffy this smart. I guess you have some learning to do.
—
After you bring Pickle and her foals into your office in the barn, Pickle sniffs around the space apprehensively. You’ve placed down a clean blanket from your medical pens, and Midnight and Cocoa are quietly playing with some blocks you grabbed from a cupboard.
“Dis am new housie fow Pikuw an babbehs?” She asks apprehensively.
“…Nu smeww pwetty.” She mumbles under her breath. You chuckle quietly.
“No, I will have a nicer place for you to stay later. But now I need to sort the other fluffies, so you can stay here for now.” You leave to ferry all the boxed-up ferals into your holding pen, and Pickle sits patiently, watching the door as you leave.
It takes a while, but eventually you manage to unload all the surviving feral ponies into the holding area, and they mill about, sniffing and droning on.
“Dis nyu housie? Where am nummies?”
“Fwuffy smeww otaw fwuffies. Wewe am otaw fwuffies? Nu see dem!” A red mare complains, searching the pen for your other breeding stock.
You deliver your lecture on following your rules, and then the sorting begins. Ugly colored fluffies and foals go into the disposal bin, while breedable examples and viable foals get separated out. You deal with the foals first, separating any weanlings from their mothers, neutering them quickly, and depositing them in one of the foal pens deeper in the barn. Then comes the future breeders. There are several nice mares, but only a few of the stallions make the cut. Your stallion needs are significantly smaller, with less than 20 needed at any one time to service your 50 or so mares, which will grow to 60 or so with the new additions. You are checking out a potential stud pony, a purple and yellow pegasus, when Pickle rears up on the divider wall. The reaction from the remaining ponies is loud and immediate.
“Nuuuu, munstah!”
“Daddeh, pwese hewp! Nu wan huwties from meanie munstah!” The unsorted fluffies cower together, as far as they can get from the mesh fence that separates them from the alicorn. Pickle, for her part, snarls at them
“Daddeh! Pwese gib dat fwuffy tu Pikuw. Dat am wowstest fwuffy. Gib speshuw fwend tewwibwe owwies!” Oh, really? You examine the cowering stallion. His hooves do have a little bit of flaky dark stuff on them, which upon further examination turns out to be dried blood. Before you bathed him, he also had some blood on his snout, and there are several missing patches of fur on his coat. You turn the scared stallion to face you.
“Is that true? Did you hurt the purple alicorns?” The stallion juts his chin defiantly in answer to your query.
“Dummeh hooman, dat am munstah! Big toughie gib munstah tewwibwe owwies an fowebba sweepies! Toughie pwotect hewd fwom dummeh-munstah!” He sneers at the alicorn.
“Wrong answer, asshole.” This little fucker fucked you out of a big payday. You grab him by the scruff of his neck and hurl him over the fence to Pickle. He lands hard on the concrete floor, and there is an awful crunch as his rear legs snap in half.
“Screeeeeee! Hewp fwuffy! Hab tewwibwe owwies!” He screams, but you don’t move to help him, obviously. While he is screaming, Pickle approaches. You can hear her growling from here, and she stalks up on the stallion carefully, lips parted in a tiny snarl. Honestly, she looks kinda scary, you must admit.
“Pikuw gon gib you suuuuu many huwties!” She growls, launching herself on the smaller fluffy, and pounding him with her hooves. Blood spurts from his wounded nostrils and tears stream from his eyes, shut tightly as if this would make the terrible monster go away. While he tries to wish her away, Pickle crawls over his broken legs and carefully grabs his fluffy tail, ignoring the panicked diarrhea excreted by the terrified stallion. A few quick tugs of her head, and she manages to pull out his glistening tail, followed by his mane, though he squirms and flails his hooves at her without success.
“Pikuw gon make yu a mawe, dummeh!” The stallion screams as she tears his scrotum off with her teeth, spitting his ruined sack out onto the shit and blood-smeared floor. You stride over to the alicorn and stop her from further attacks.
“Thats enough, Pickle.” She stops and looks up at you. Bending down, you wipe the gore from her face and fur. Then, turning to the remaining ferals in the pen, you place the boot of your prosthetic leg on the unfortunate stallion’s tiny skull. He chirps in pain, his hooves grasping at the remains of his genitals in futility.
“Are you watching, fluffies? This is what happens when you kill an ali…Pointy-Wingie fluffy in daddy’s house!” Your foot crashes down, popping the stallion’s skull like an overripe grape.
The remaining fluffies all scream and cry as you finish sorting them and bringing them to their new pens.
Good. Hopefully this means they have learned not to fuck with any future alicorns.
—
After finishing your work for the day, its time to get Pickle and company settled in their new home. The barn is out of the question. Pickle seems to understand your work, but you aren’t sure the violence would sit well with her foals.
Instead, you decided that they can live in the basement. You ordered a nice, modular pen from the internet, but in the meantime, you’ve jury-rigged a fence in the corner, surrounding a nice pile of old towels, a food dish, a water bottle, and several nice toys. The finished basement stays nice and comfortable in any weather, and there isn’t anything terribly dangerous down there.
“Tank yu fow tasty sketties, daddeh.” Pickle is enjoying a large bowl of actual spaghetti on the kitchen floor. You play with her foals on the carpet while she eats.
“You’re welcome, Pickle.” You reply, tossing a ball for Cocoa to chase as Midnight snuggles up on your tummy.
You hadn’t really planned on keeping them as pets, but they have grown on you. And besides, you’ve started to formulate a plan for Pickle, and working animals should always be treated better than the livestock they work with.
Everything is looking pretty good for Greg’s Farm.
This is not the end of this series, BTW
wow Pickle sure knows how to do revenge on the toughie who killed her mate.