An hour later, the fluffies began working in the yard.
First, Mason had needed to explain religion to them. It was fairly straightforward, as he provided a truncated version of Genesis for the fluffies, then followed it up with a basic summary of Heaven and Hell, promising them that if they were good they would go to a land full of spaghetti and toys, but if they were bad, they would go to a land of eternal punishment and pain.
After they had all agreed they would be good fluffies and go to ‘Heaben’ (all except for Smarty, who just continued to glare and snort), Mason had given them their tasks.
The unicorns, he told them, would use their horns to poke holes in the ground in the designated ‘garden’ area. Other fluffies would then carry singular seeds in their mouths over from the bags by the garage, then place them into the holes before pushing the dirt back over them. Then, once an entire row was done, designated fluffies would carry the watering-cans over to sprinkle water over each planted seed in turn.
Mason had opened up a bag of carrot seeds first, and tipped it over enough to spill a decent amount on the ground.
One by one, the unicorns got to work, poking holes in the ground with their horns (which was easier said than done, considering the vertical angle their heads had to be rotated to), then stepping forwards a few inches to do it again.
Then other fluffies, either pegasi or earthies, would waddle over with seeds in their mouths, while complaining endlessly that they tasted ‘icky’. Upon reaching the holes, the fluffies would spit the seeds in, pat the dirt over, and waddle back to the seed-bags.
Soon an entire row was filled and the unicorns began digging another, as the water-fluffies went by with the watering-cans clutched in their mouths, liberally sprinkling life-giving water across the soil.
Mason watched it all with crossed arms and a stern expression on his face. The fluffies were doing well… at least, for fluffy ponies. Their line of holes wasn’t exactly straight, and most fluffies spitting the seeds at the holes ended up missing and having to nudge the seed in with their hooves. Not a problem really, but it was just wasting time.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a fluffy waddle up to him, bouncing from leg to leg as it walked.
“What?” Mason snapped.
“Uhm… whewe fwuffeh make poopies?” It asked anxiously, it’s eyes darting around in a despearte search for a litter-box.
“If you need to pee, you do it on the grass, away from the garden, understand? If you need to poop, it better be on the soil with the plants.”
“Nyu daddeh wan’ us make poopies on pwanties?” The fluffy asked, confused. It had never been told to intentionally shit on anything before, except a litter-box.
“Yes. The poop will help the plants grow. But remember that. Peeing on the grass, pooping on the dirt. If you poop anywhere else, you’ll have to carry it to the soil, in your mouth. Understand?”
The fluffy let out a sharp ‘EEP!’ and bolted away to the garden, making it just in time before a log of shit burst out of it’s asshole, landing neatly on the dirt.
He turned his gaze over to the one fluffy he had punished before, who was still set in the leg-restraint, forced to stand in the blazing sun with his injuries still throbbing all across his body. He had stopped wailing, but had begun panting from dehydration, and his body was starting to shake from the pain in his legs, having been forced to stand perfectly upright and still for at least two hours (post-whipping).
Good, Mason thought to himself. Maybe next time they’ll know not to lie to me.
He was just remembering he should go and clean up the turd left in the garage, when something prodded his leg.
Mason looked down and saw a small coffee-brown colored fluffy was poking it’s mud-coated hoof against his clean pantleg.
Once more, the nerve in Mason’s forehead twitched.
“What is it now?” He snapped.
“Uhm… fwuffeh nu wan pway ‘wowkies’ nu mowe…” It mumbled. Mason looked up and noticed the other fluffies had stopped working too. They were simply milling around the yard, poking at the bag of seeds with their hooves, or chasing each other around and giggling. Some had even laid down and begun to sleep!
Just fucking typical. The moment you give them the slightest bit of freedom, they abuse it.
“‘Work’ isn’t a game.” Mason replied, loud enough as to catch the attention of all of the fluffies. “If you don’t work, you don’t eat. Now get back to it.”
“Buh… buh hoofies sowe…” The coffee-colored fluffy said quietly. “Nu wan do ‘wowkies’, wan play wif tosies an’ watsh teebee…”
“Teebee! Teebee!” Some of the other fluffies echoed. “Wan watsh Fwuff-Teebee!”
“There is no television in this house.” Mason told them sternly. “Television is a gateway drug to addictions, abortions and voting for a black President. I will not allow a television in this house. Now get back to work.”
The coffee fluffy, evidently used to whining until it got what it wanted, promptly sat back on his rear and began to quietly cry.
“Buh… buh wan watsh teebee…!” It wailed and sulked.
Mason had had enough.
He snatched it up and carried it over to the middle of the yard, where the one guilty fluffy from before was close to passing out. Mason grabbed it and yanked it out of the restraint, dumping it on the ground as he placed the new fluffy in the restraint. The coffee fluffy, upon realising it’s mistake, began thrashing and squealing, but it was of no use.
Soon the coffee fluffy was placed in the restraint, and Mason was once again removing his belt.
“I told you before, this was your punishment for disobeying me.”
He pulled his arm back before slicing it downwards, lashing at the new fluffy’s back.
One lash was all it took for him to soil himself, as Mason turned and looked at the rest of the fluffies in the yard.
“Does anybody else feel like not working?” He asked them. The fluffies immediately got back to work, unicorns poking holes as the others carried seeds and water to and fro.
Mason glared at the sobbing fluffy in the restraint and slipped his belt back on. He might actually need to invest in a proper whip sometime, the little bastards certainly found it effective.
“I’m going away for a moment.” Mason told them, in a warning tone of voice. “When I get back, I expect this garden to be fully planted. If anyone disobeys me, even while I’m gone, they’ll be punished. Understand?”
Once more, a murmur of agreement rippled among the fluffies, and Mason left to clean the garage floor. It only took a few minutes, after he located a shovel, and before long he was walking back into the yard.
The sight took his breath away.
The ground had been torn up all over, with all the seeds picked and pulled back up and scattered around. The soil was strewn everywhere, the watering-cans were tipped over and empty, the seed-bags were poked full of holes and leaking seeds everywhere… the entire place was, on a fluffy-pony scale, ruined.
And at the centre of it all, in the middle of the grass, stood the red Smarty, facing away from Mason, his horn caked in fresh dirt from digging up the soil, hunched down with his legs splayed out, his muscles tightened as he grunted and hissed. Finally, with a single sharp grunt, a turd flopped out of his fuzzy rear and landed right on the grass.
The rest of the herd were scattered around the edges, covering their eyes with their hooves or watching Smarty with terror on their faces.
“Dewe!” Smarty said proudly, looking around at his herd. “Nao when dummeh hooman come back, he nu can make fwuffehs ‘wowk’ nu mo-”
The Smarty was cut off as he was lifted into the air by Mason’s white-knuckle grip. It was taking everything Mason had not to throttle the wretch where he stood. The only reason he didn’t was because he had a better idea.
Sure, it was skipping a few chapters, but what the hell, if it was good enough for the son of God, it’d be good enough for for a Smarty fluffy.
Mason carried the Smarty back into the garage and slammed the door shut. He dumped the Smarty on the concrete ground and ignored his babbling demands as he scrounged up a pair of wooden planks, a claw hammer and a handful of nails. He placed the longest plank down horizontally on the work-bench, then placed the shorter one vertically over it, forming a rough ‘t’ shape with them. He used two nails to fix the shorter plank in place, then put two more into his mouth, holding them between his lips. Slipping the hammer into his belt-loop by the handle, he picked up the makeshift cross in one hand and snatched up the Smarty with the other.
It was time to strike the fear of God into these fuckers.
Mason walked out into the yard with the Smarty thrashing and shouting the entire way. The herd were still cowering around the edges of the yard, watching them both with wide eyes.
Mason put the cross down flat on the ground and drew the hammer, pinning the Smarty to the dry, patchy grass with the other hand.
“Gather round, everyone. I don’t want any of you to miss this.” Mason called, his lips pursed to hold the nails in place, drawing the fluffies nearer with every word. The Smarty continued to babble and shout but Mason ignored him.
“Evidently you aren’t learning, so I’m going to make an example out of this Smarty once and for all. An example you’ll always remember.”
With the Smarty unable to move, Mason raised the hammer high and brought it swinging down hard on the Smarty’s front left leg. The bone broke with a loud, wet ‘CRACK’, but the limb itself remained intact otherwise. The Smarty shrieked in pain, but Mason ignored it.
The Lord’s work was still not yet done.
He repeated his action with the other front leg, breaking them both. The Smarty was shrieking bloody murder by this point, but Mason wasn’t done yet.
He gripped one of the broken legs in either hand and lifted the Smarty into the air, just long enough to place him down on the wooden cross. Mason took one of the nails from between his lips, placed it over the Smarty’s mangled left leg, and swung the hammer down, instantly driving the nail through the skin, muscle and bone of the limb and into the wood on the other side.
As the Smarty shrieked and cried, Mason repeated his actions for the right leg. Seconds later the Smarty was in immeasurable pain, but he was secured to the cross.
Only one thing remained.
Mason picked up the cross and stood it upright, tilting it back slightly so as to ensure it didn’t fall over, then beat the top with the hammer to drive it into the ground.
Before long, the Smarty was stood upright, hanging on the cross by the nails embedded in his limbs, blood pouring out of his body and dripping down the wood, as the rest of the herd watched in stunned, terrified silence. The only noise came from the herd’s foals, who were loudly crying.
The foals… and the Smarty, who was shrieking and wailing in ungodly pain, not only from the broken limbs, not only from the nails in said broken limbs, but also from the gravity that was pulling his fat, flabby body downwards, pulling hard around the nails and causing them to dig deeper into his wounded body.
Mason stepped back, admiring his handiwork, and glanced at the rest of the fluffies.
“This is your ultimate punishment. The Smarty will never go to Heaven. When he dies, if he dies, he will go straight to Hell and never be freed. Do you understand me? This is not a game, this is not a joke. This is your life now. You are going to live here, and you will do as I say or you will be just like this Smarty. You will work, you will pray and you will obey, or you’ll be the next one on a cross. Any questions?”
The herd was silent. The only noise in the yard was Smarty’s agonised sobbing.
“Good.” Mason said, ignoring it. “Then you can get back to work. I expect this garden to be fixed up, all the soil put back and the seeds planted again. I’m not refilling the watering-cans until tomorrow, so either you refill them yourselves or you figure out another way of watering the plants.”
The fluffies immediately took off, shovelling earth back into holes with their stubby hooves while others began carrying seeds over to the gardens. There was still a lot of work to do, Smarty had done a lot of damage, but they were doing as much as they could.
As they worked, Mason noticed some were actually using their mouths to carry water too, spitting it out on buried seeds as soon as they could. Sure, one or two of them swallowed it on the way there, but he had to give it to them, that was pretty smart for them.
The thought of the word ‘smart’ caused him to glance at the Smarty. He looked awful, his entire body was sagging on the cross, blood still pouring out of the wounds in his legs, his eyes half-closed and his face a mixture of misery and pain.
His mouth hung slackly open, and he gurgled out two words.
“Wan… die…”
Mason ignored him.
God would grant him his death when it was the right time, and who was Mason to interfere with God’s will?
(Next)
