Curtains rise on a bare and empty stage. In the middle, a pedestal looms in darkness. All at once, lights! A spotlight carves through the theatre like a bullet through a president, illuminating a single lone fluffy bereft of even a single leg. His name is Racecar, and he is speaking with the calm confidence and clarity of a grade schooler who spaced out during classtime and doesn’t know what paragraph he’s supposed to start reading aloud now.
“Hewwo aww hoomins an yoo-zews ub fwuffy cummoonity dachaum. Am Wacecaw, ebbybuddy favwit…huuuu…ebbybuddy favwit dummeh. Bu’ du ou knu hu ewse dummeh? Da ansah may suhpwise ou. Hint fwum daddeh: Da dummeh am a fwuffy.”
He turns slightly, facing a new part of the audience. “Dis stowy as weww as ebby stowy in da Stwumpo Cattywog am bwought tu aww fwuffies bai @LGBT! Memba tu cwick su nu miss aww da bewwy gay fwuffies!” Satisfied, he nods authoritatively. "Nao, on wif da shoooooow!"
…
Mummah gave everything to get you where you are.
You were born in the cold under a big metal nu housie where hoomins threw their trashie nummies. Mummah loved all her babbehs, but babbehs can’t eat love. They can’t drink huggies. Mummah songs won’t keep them warm. You didn’t understand why it was so hard for mummah to make milkies, but you know there were never enough. That’s why you didn’t see as many bruddas and sissies when you opened your see places as you’d heard in the days before.
Mummah gave everything for her babbehs.
You were still only a little babbeh- so little! -but now you could walkie and talkie! Mummah was so proud. She said you were her clever babbeh because you could tawkie firstest out of all your bruddas and even sissy! You beamed with pride, your pretty dark chocolate fluff reflecting that subtle olive green that mummah said your daddeh gave you.
You don’t know where daddeh is but you hope you get to give him huggies and fankyus for your pretty fluff. You love your pretty fluff and you love daddeh. But you love mummah bestest.
Mummah loved all her babbehs bestest.
Months passed. You were the Smarty Babbeh! You were soooo 'cited when mummah told you! You puffed out your cheeks right away to practice demanding nummies from dummeh munstahs! But your mummah booped you on your smell place. “Nu babbeh,” she sighed, “nu am Smawty, babbeh hab tu be smawty. Udda babbehs am gud babbehs, an’ mummah wub! Bu’ udda babbehs gunna depen’ on smawty babbeh. Smawty babbeh gon’ be suuuu smawty fo’ famiwy!” You started to get it. Over the weeks and months mummah would teach you well. You felt strengthened by your responsibility. Your bestes’ bruddas and sissy were so huggy and fluffy, and you wubbed them suuuuuu much! So knowing that you had to be the Bigges’ Babbeh and keep them safe made you proud.
But it was mummah who gave everything.
Mummah didn’t lie to babbeh. Not like she did to your bruddas and sissy. You wubbed them, but they could scare easily, and sometimes they didn’t need to know that all the singy noisies they hear at night are really barky munstahs in the distance. But you needed to know. Mummah said she had to make sure you were always ready, since life was hard for a fluffy. She might take fowebba sweepies any time and you’d have to lead your family and keep them safe. You felt ready. You were ready. You’d give anything to protect your family!
But mummah gave everything for her babbehs.
Littlest brudda didn’t last long enough to know he was gone. His finky pwace popped like a gwapie nummie as a tiny baww went through it and hit mummah in the weggie. One second before he’d been about to sing the high note in your daily performance of “Babbehs Wub Mummah!” It’s his favorite note. He’s the only one of you still teeny enough to get his wittew voice that high.
He…was. No time for saddies, have to get family to safety.
Mummah doesn’t have to tell you. You’re already up and running towards Sissy. She gets nervous when she has to run fast because she doesn’t want to make any of her weggies mad for not letting them be in front. She’ll need you reminding her that good weggies only want to be in the place she has them or she’s liable to fall down. Then whatever is playing with those meanie bawws will get her for sure.
Mummah has already scooped up wingie brudda. He was the only one out of the whole family with any pretty parts. Because nobody else had wingies, wingie brudda made up his own stories about what his wingies could do.
These were frequently inaccurate, and often involved him forgetting he couldn’t fly, a mistake which often required physical correction. As you reached sissy, you glanced back. Mummah already had wingie brudda scooped up in her moufie she was running your way. Following you.
Relying on you.
Trusting you.
You had a choice to make. If you kept going straight, you could see the bushes of the park waiting for your family to hide. You were all earthtones and it would hardly be the first time you’d escaped this way. But something was bothering you. The meanie baww toy that turned your brudda into booboo juice and bits of skull. You couldn’t see where it came from, and the alley had been pretty open. Then it hit you: Whatever is throwing the baww at you, it can throw it really fast. That means it can give hurties from really far away.
Which means running straight to the bushes may be suicide.
It’s not that far, but you’re easy targets with nothing to make hidies behind. As much as you want to run for the nice bushies and their nummie bewwy tweats, you need to go left. You need to get somewhere that the Baww Munstah can’t see you.
You turn left. Your sister is at your side and doesn’t question. It’s as though she was never choosing to run in any particular direction, but was merely an extension of yourself. She trusts you. Your family trusts you. Mummah is behind you. If she disagrees with your turn, she can’t say so. Wingie brudda is still trying in vain to convince her that he’s figured out how to fly and can go give munstahs “wowstes’ huwties ebba fwum sky.”
Mummah trusts you.
Mummah follows your lead.
You round the corner at breakneck speed. You know a blind alley is a gamble. You aren’t familiar with this block, and some alleys don’t go anywhere. As you’ve already committed, you silently hope this isn’t a dead end.
Immediately it is clear that a dead end would have been preferable.
You are faced with two hoomin munstahs carrying big meanie nets on long sorry sticks. They lunge for you, but you and sissy are too fast! You dash under them and the nets barely miss you. You’re behind them before they know which way is up.
But Mummah gives everything for her babbehs.
You hear mummah cry out. The first thing through your head is that she sounds further back than you’d anticipated. The second is that your brudda has never voluntarily agreed not to try to fly, and if he isn’t in mummahs mouth…
Just as you’re about to turn and look, you realize what mummah is calling out. “Keep wunnin’ babbeh! Sabe sissy! Gu wun way! Wub mummah! Wememba mummah an’ bwuddas! Keep sissy sa-”
Her farewell is cut short by a loud puffing sound. You hear your wingie brudda shrieking. He’s not even making words now. Just sounds. Loud ones. Either as a warning or a desperate plea for help. Though you hope it’s the first one, your hope is immediately dashed.
“Bwudda! Bwudda, hewp! Wingie Bwudda scawed! Dummeh wingies nu fwy, babbeh nu can wun way!”
You aren’t tempted to look back this time. Doing so wouldn’t just be a foolish waste of a head start, it would also probably result in you losing your nerve. Turning back. No. Mummah taught you about responsibility. Sissy is your responsibility. Wingie Bwudda was mummah’s, and if mummah felt telling you what she did was more important in that moment than saving Wingie Bwudda…
“Bwudda? Wai nu hewp wingie bwudda? Wingie bwudda am bad bwudda? NUUU! SCAWEE MISTAH NU HUWT! HEWWWWP BWUDDA! SABE WINGIE BABBEH! SABE MUMMAH’S BABBEH! NUUUUUUUUUU…”
You choked back tears as you and your sister escaped down a stairwell. Normally stairs are dummy and don’t lead to fun places or any nummies, but you know some stairs lead into biiiiig housies under ground. The big housies have lots and lots of hoomins going very fast, and they all get inside big snakie munstahs! Hoomins are so brave! You wish you could meet a nice one.
You wish mummah was here.
You and sissy make it down the stairs. Hoomins don’t like for fluffies to come into these houses, but they’re a good place to sleep if the sky is making bad wawa or if you’re getting chased by evil meanie munstahs like today. As you come to a rest behind the big beeping not-teebee teebee places, sissy is already giving you the biggest huggies.
“Fankyu big bwudda. Fankyu sabe sissy fwum munstah. Sissy was suuuuu scawed bu’ bestes’ bwudda sabe sissy. Bwudda am bestes’ smawty.” You sob. You don’t feel like bestest smarty. You feel sad. You feel like a dummy babbeh. Just a little chirpy babbeh begging for milkies. But mummah doesn’t have milkies. You don’t even have mummah.
Sissy anticipates this. “Nu am bwudda fawt. Meanie munstahs am su big an’ su meanie! Bwudda do ebbyting bwudda could. Sissy knu dat. Sissy wub bwudda. Wub 'ou suuuu much.” You believe her. She has always been good at helping you feel brave when you feel like giving up.
A few bright times go by. You found a small nummie pile so you and sissy have stayed hidden, but it’s finally depleted and now you need to go back up. You certainly aren’t a dummeh hoomin, so you aren’t getting nummed by some big scary snakie munstah! You and sissy have to rejoin the world above.
But it’s not to be.
As you step out from the safe place you’ve been hiding, there’s a loud “swoosh” sound and you feel yourself lifted off the ground. You’re caught in one of the hoomin nets! This is not good. You struggle to turn and check on sissy. “Sissy wun way! Meanie munstah twap!” Your head comes around with just enough time to see sissy. She starts to run like you said, but when she sees you tangled in a net it startles her. Suddenly she forgets which hoofsie likes to be where, and her paranoia ties her weggies up. She hits the ground. It’s not a bad fall, she’s taken worse.
But it was really poorly timed in relation to the net.
Sissy fell right where the hard edge of the hoomin net hit the ground. It instantly collapsed her back weggies and smashed her poopie and speshul places. Sissy howled in pain.
“NUUUUUUUU! HEWP BABBEH! NU FEEW WEGGIES! NU FEEW NUFFIN! BWUDDA! SISSY NU CAN FEEW POOPIE PWACE! WAT DU? PWEASE HEWP SISSY! SISSY NU KNU HOW MAKE WEGGIES AN’ POOPIE PWACE WOWK!”
You’re screeching. It’s hurting your throat but you can’t stop. You’re all tangled in nu-sketty net and can’t move your weggies too well, so you just make as much noise as possible. Maybe you can scare the munstahs away from sissy. Or summon a passing herd whose smarty can rescue you both! Or maybe you’ll at least yell so loud that one of the munstahs gets hurties in his hear places.
The net has closed. It’s been removed from the sorry stick and thrown in a large sorry box. To your horror, so has sissy. She isn’t in a net. She’s just in the box. She’s too far away! You can’t reach her to give her huggies! You try to call out to her, but she can only respond with weak peeps. She’s so pale. No matter. All your hollering hurt your tawkie pwace anyway.
You sob softly into your own fluff as you watch the life slowly trickle from your beautiful sister’s see places. Bright blue. Same as mummah’s.
You sob less softly.
Weeks go by. The meanie hoomin munstahs brought you to a shelter. More of a pound, not that you know the difference. You haven’t bothered learning names or faces. The meanie hoomins said something about needing to find a new family, but you ignore them. You already had a family, and they’re gone now. You don’t want another one. You just want the hurties to stop.
Sometimes you even want forever sleepies. Never for long, and the thought of wanting them is su scawy so you let out an involuntary scaredy fart every time the impulse passes. But like I said. You have been numbly trudging through life. You aren’t even paying attention until one of the hoomins picks you up.
This is new.
They don’t normally do this. Nobody has touched you since you got dropped in here, they’ll only throw loose nummies into the big nestie place where all the fluffies sleep. The sensation of being picked up rejuvinates you. You can’t remember the last time you felt this good. It’s as though you were meant to be given upsies by nice hoomins. A thought forms, and it’s out of your tawkie pwace before you even consciously think it.
“Nice mistah be nyu daddeh fo’ fwaffy?”
You practically do a double take. It’s as though you weren’t even the one saying it, just whoever was used your mouth to do it. Nice mistah? You’ve never even heard someone call a hoomin munstah that. And yet it came from you! The thought is perplexing to say the least.
You shake off the confusion to ask your nyu daddeh to repeat himself, but before you can, he’s dropped you in a sorry boxy. Before you can protest, the box closes.
What follows seems an eternity. You cannot see throughout the duration. You hear only terrifying scraping sounds, wet meat, and your own screams. You taste boo boo juice. Smell it too. It’s all you taste and smell. You can’t tell if the metallic scent is from your boo boo juice or the meanie munstahs giving you hurties. Meanies! Don’t they know fluffies need leggies?
You can’t feel yours now, you realize.
You start to panic, but you don’t have time. The sorry box opens in front of you, but while your eyes struggle to adjust to the light, a really scary meanie metal munstah grabs your tawkie pwace! You try to ask it to please stop, but it’s too strong! It starts giving hurties to your good mouthie! No! Don’t give hurties to mouthie! Fwuffy nee’ moufie fo’ nummies an’ tawkies!
But you can’t tell anyone. Nobody will stop this because you’re too dummeh to get their attention! You sob some more as you realize the hurties are specific. Your teefies.
They are taking your teefies away. No. Please no. How will babbeh get nummies?!
After a few moments, you stop feeling new hurties. Your tongue confirms what your heart already knew: Your teefies are all gone. Mummah was so proud when you grew them! She taught you to always take good care of them, even though it meant numming some things that nu taste pwetty so they could keep bestes’ teefies cwean.
A hoomin walks up. It takes a second, but you surface from the tar pit of self pity that is your mind to seek help.
“Pweathe! Babbeh hab thhhhuuuuuu many huwdieeeeth! Nithe mithtuh hewp babbeh ge’ fwee fwum thowwy bokthie?”
The hoomin looks surprised. “Hey Gene,” he hollers, “this one still has a working squawk box.”
“Oh shit, thought he screamed his out. Guess he’s more resilient than I thought.”
You can’t see the second hoomin. You don’t know what those words meant, but you hear him approach before he comes into view. Two hoomins! And they no give hurties to babbeh! These hoomins will surely help you!
The new hoomin leans down, holding a funny stick thing. You don’t think it’s a sorry stick, it looks more like a nummie stick hoomins use to eat sketties.
“Ya hear that, little fella? You must have been a really exceptional specimen.” He chuckles a bit, as if reading your confusion at these big words. “I bet your mummah thought you were a really special babbeh. Probably worked hard and took care of you. Must have been difficult.” He approached you and takes hold of your face gently. Good! He’s going to look at your teefie hurties! Maybe he can give back bestes’ teefies!
“Oh well. Too bad it wasn’t worth it.”
Before you have time to even make a confused face, you feel the worstest hurties ever have from deep in your nummies and bweathies pwace, between mouthie and tummy. It’s so bad you pass out.
When you awaken, it’s dark again. You try to call out, but you can’t make tawkies anymore. You can’t screeee, or shout, or chirp, or even peep. You start to cry, but you can’t even do that right. You only make sad wawas, but no matter how hard you try, no huhuhus come out.
It is two weeks later. You now understand what the hoomin munstah meant.
They call you a new name. No longer are you fluffy, or babbeh, or smarty like mummah always called you. Now your name is “litter pal.” You wouldn’t be able to say it even if you weren’t a dummeh nu weggie fwuffy nu make tawkies o’ eben peepsies. But that doesn’t make you cry. Nothing makes you cry. You haven’t felt anything in days. Not since it finally sunk in that this is it. This is what you are. This is what you amounted to.
Your mummah ran away from her herd to have you. Her old smarty didn’t want any babbehs that weren’t his, and mummah hated him. She always sacrificed to make sure you had the best chance at life. To her dying breath she had nothing but hope for your future and faith that you, her smartest babbeh, her special little fluffy man, would make her proud. Would make all the sacrifices worth it.
Well?
Was it?
…
The camera pans up, the stage now fully illuminated and the back curtains drawn wide to expose backstage. A fluffalo pulling a sort of chain-broom slowly waddles by, clearing the dust and detritus of backstage as another show wraps up. Racecar is still on his pedestal, wearing glasses to show that time has passed. “Weww fwiends, dat am pwetty gud stowy. Bewwy saddies, wittwe babbeh gu fowebba sweepies! Huuhuuu… But dat otay, cuz aww hoomins weedin’ dis nu hab fowebba sweepies yet! Yaaaay! Hooway hoomins! Goobai!”
The camera slowly pulls back, showing the crowd filing out as the house lights come up.