In April of 2020, life was still pretty ordinary on the Miwk & Huggies Fluffy Farm
Old man Bob oversaw the operation, and took care of the fluffies.
The TVs and the radios continuously complained about COVID-19, but so far as old Bob knew, this was just a time when it’s a real pain in the ass to visit Tractor Supply.
Bob didn’t watch TV.
He didn’t bother with a radio.
He was too busy for any of that nonsense.
Bob has fluffies to raise, and breed, and care for. And Bob loves his job.
Bob is an old drunk that stumbled on his job via a Craigslist ad. He was contracted to build a stable for fluffies inside the pre-existing barn, and somehow the job became a 7 day a week permanent position.
This is the sort of thing that happens when people that have more money than sense find a moderately intelligent worker with far more sense than money. It’s a parasitic relationship.
And thus Bob began working for morons, raising moronic stock, and selling his stock to other morons.
The first time he stepped into the barn he found an absolute shambles.
The floor was dirt, with a light dusting of hay to keep down the mud and other…fluids… The fluffies within had the run of the place.
There was shit sprayed on nearly every wall, with piles of the refuse kicked up into the corners of every room. The fluffies inside the barn took one glance at the new caretaker, and turned tail, each one leaving a wet brown stain behind them as they scattered to their safe spaces.
Outside there was a small herd of 15 brightly colored ponies conducting races in the grass.
Two of the foals died because they had forgotten there was a sinkhole in that pasture.
In time, Bob realized that there were brittle little skeletons just about everywhere on the farm. They weren’t in some mass grave or pyre, but they were simply everywhere!
He would find dead ponies in the rafters of the barn, with broken skulls or snapped spines. I guess it doesn’t matter how good your wings are if you can’t get through the metal roofing…
He regularly found babies that had gotten trapped beneath trees or fences. They would screech their demands to be rescued, and later their pleas for help.
Bob had never raised fluffies, and he had never worked on a farm, but now he began to realize just how fucking stupid these creatures were.
Their mothers had not heard their cries over the sound of her own kibble munching, and their little shit-factories were about as tough as a fart in strong wind.
I guess it only makes sense that the dams would have two teats, yet they gave birth to eight or nine babies at a time.
So Bob had a long road ahead of him.
It was going to be a tough job; Whipping this farm into shape.
Fortunately he already had a decent whip.
