Margret Cooter was the moon-eyed owner of Miwk and Huggies Fluffy Farm.
She was 70 years old, but her wigs made her look considerably younger than that.
Her husband had passed away some years before, and with his life insurance money she had bought this five acre farm to begin raising fluffies. She said that she intended to sell the fluffies, but to this day she’d never even posted one of them for sale.
She doted on the multicolored turdmuffins and would go to the barn each day to hug and kiss them all, leaving lipstick prints on their tiny heads.
Margret didn’t do any of the actual work on the farm.
That was Farmer Bob’s job, now.
She didn’t like the fact that Bob carried a sorry-stick of any kind; even though it was a weaker fiberglass rod instead of spring-steel like some other breeders used.
She couldn’t see how anybody could ever harm such beautiful, delicate little creatures.
This is mostly because she didn’t do any of the real work involved in raising the fluffballs.
Farmer Bob knew very well why the sorry stick was necessary. He also knew why his .22 caliber revolver loaded with rat-shot was going to be necessary.
So despite her disapproving glare, he strode down to the barn and began his second day of work.
There were no partitions separating the stallions, mares, and foals yet. So that’s where he began. It took a couple of hours to set up 8’x 8’ pens with 2’ high walls in each corner of the main room in the barn. They weren’t pretty, but they’d do the job. He set up slop troughs and water buckets in each of the four pens. Then he went to the larder and grabbed a 6 gallon bucket of Kirkland Pre-Cooked Spaghetti with artificial meatballs. He carried the bucket around to two of the pens, scooping the cold congealed pasta into the slop troughs.
How any animal could eat this shit and enjoy it, even cold, Bob had no clue.
Some of the braver fluffies gasped when they saw the well-known bucket.
“Haaa!! It Sketties! Hey fwuffies, it SKETTI DAY! Fwuffies am gon’ get sketties!”
they shouted as they ran off to tell their friends.
Soon he had little hooves pawing at every door, tiny voices mewling to be given their treat.
The smallest fluffs tried to scramble under the gap of the door, chirping and huffing in their excitement.
“Open up da dow hoomin, fwuffies wan da sketties nau!”
That one had to consider itself to be a Smartie. Bob would be watching for that one during the sorting.
“Settle yourselves down, I need to talk to you all, before you can have your spaghetti.”
He pushed the barn door open, and there was a tiny scream. One of the chirpies had been struggling to get under the door, and the action of pushing it open had rolled the little creature in half, snapping it’s spine and tearing skin from it’s back. Jesus fucking christ these things were idiots. Most of the fluffies payed no mind to the broken child, but shoved their way through the gap in the door and started clambering at the walls that were keeping them from their precious “sketti”.
“Howd stiww, dummeh!” There was that smarty voice again. It was a big blonde stallion with a shimmering mane. You could call him a stunning specimen, if it weren’t for his attitude.
“Fwuffy am gon’ cwime up awn dummeh fwuff 'n git aww da sketties!”
The champion stallion stepped on the head of one of his herdmates; a drab brown on with a matted mane.
Bob pulled the little revolver from his pocket, aimed at the stallion’s haunches and fired.
Every fluffy in the barn was shocked into near silence, apart from the sound of their little bowels emptying. The stallion fell off of his makeshift ladder and convulsed on the hay.
“OWIE! OWIEOWIEEEEEEEEEE! Wuwstes huwties ebbah. Wy yu am gib Puhnini suuuu bad huwties!!!”
“Shut up, it’s just rat shot. You’ll live.”
‘Probably’, he added, under his breath
“Now I Said that I need to speak to you all before you can have your spaghetti!”
Hundreds of trembling, tear-filled eyes turned to the farmer. He could see they wanted to run, but the promise of food had their little brains so muddled that all they could do was stand there…and listen.
“Today, everything is going to change around here. Today is Sorting Day.
Each and every one of you are going to be sorted into one of these pens.”
“Buh, buh wyyyyy?” one of the mares spoke up “Fwuffies am sooooo hungawy and am NEEDS skettie ta make bestes miwkies fow bestes babbeeeehhhhs!”
“Well then I guess you’d better shut the fuck up and listen so you can get your ‘sketti’ faster then, right?” Bob huffed and put away the pistol.
“You’re being sorted because your days of running wild and carelessly breeding are over. Stallions are going in one pen, mares with foals in another. Mares without foals will go in a third one, and babies that are old enough that they don’t need milk anymore go in the last pen. From then on you will be kept separated at all times, until I allow you to interact with the others.”
He strode over to where Panini was struggling and whimpering on the ground
“And if any of you even THINK of defying my commands, and sneaking into places where you’re not supposed to be; Just remember how much Panini is hurting. I will gladly do the same thing to you.”
Whimpers started among the group. Bob couldn’t tell if it was because the fluffies understood what he had said, of if they just wanted their food.
It hardly mattered, though.
He knelt down next to Panini and quietly scratched the back of the dark brown fluffy the stallion had tried to use as a footstool.
“What’s your name, little one?” Bob tried to speak as gently as possible.
It hardly mattered because shit still came burbling out of it’s butthole.
“Fff…fffwww…fwuf…fee am cawwed…” He saw the fluff glance at Panini “am cawwed… poopiehed”
"Oh I see. Poopiehead? Did your mother give you that name?
The fluff shook his head vehemantly
“Puhneenee sed am cawwed Poopiehed”
Well Panini is on my poopie list right now. So I think we can forget everything he’s said before now. What did your mother call you?
The colt sniffled “Mm…mummah cawwed ugwee fwuffy Co-co”
The farmer gave him a small smile “Cocoa. That’s a good name. You get to be the first to have spaghetti today, Cocoa.”
Piss dribbled from the wide-eyed colt. It was clear that he’d never been chosen first for anything in his life. The other fluffies watched in stunned silence as Bob lifted him up, and placed him in one of the pens.
“Wy you wet dummie poopiedhed fwuffie get fuwst sketties?” Panini again. “Puhneenee shud git da sketties fuwst. Puhneenee am da bestes fwuffy an yu…yu huwt Panini wib wuwstest owwies ebuh!”
“Panini, you’re going to be the very last to get any spaghetti”
Abject horror crept across Panini’s face
“Every single other fluffy: Every stallion, every colt, every mare, every foal, every filly, every baby…is going to eat before you.”
Panini cried more from this than he did from being shot.
