Petra fluffies belong to @angry19 and I didn’t ask permission to use them.
Petra Fluffies (Commissioned for Angry19) (InfraredTurbine)
++++
Jeb’s his name and fluffy hunting is his game. Now he’s not one of those fancy-schmancy fellas with a rifle and a tragic backstory about how one of those cute li’l biopets got his wife run over in the road or what-have you. Nope. All Jeb has is a canister of poison and an appropriately sized whompin’ stick he took down from a tree out back.
When people see Jeb shuffling down the street or cruising down main street in his beat-up Dodge D150, they give him waves of appreciation and Hell, some people even come out of their shops to offer him coffee or pastries. He’s easy to spot too: A big bald head rubbed down with wax, a scraggly grey beard, standing at 6’5“ and built like a too-filled sausage casing. Why the appreciation? It’d be too far to list him as a ‘last line of defense’, but he was a bulwark against a bunch of annoying street shitting ponies.
“Whoa now, Miz Cartwright! Mind!” Strolling through a city park when he got a good eyeful of the ever-charming Missus Cartwright, an apple cheeked young woman with honey blonde hair. She was wearing a right pretty dress this morning and had a stallion, covered in mud, barreling straight toward her. Jeb sent it sailing with the tip of one steel-toed workboot. Giving him a smile of appreciation, she grimaced when he proceeded to stamp the blue & yellow ruffian into a pile of blood, organs, and scraps of fur.
“Be seein’ you at church, now.” A polite tip of his straw hat and she was on her way.
Later, in front of the bank…
“No, I don’t have any food! Now get away from me!” The absolutely uptight manager of the branch was attempting to shoo away a bedraggled pink & purple mare with a clutch of babies clinging to her back fluff.
“Buh…Buh Pinkbewwy nee’ nummies ‘fo bestest miwkies!”
Jeb was pulling by in his pickup at an amicable speed, squeezing down on the brakes. Why, that was Mr. Lorenzo. A nice enough fellow but he wouldn’t be caught sullying his hands with the murder of a sentient creature. That just wasn’t for polite society most the time, and now you may understand why the exterminator was so prized in this cheery small town. Popping out of his truck, he cut across the street and took his whompin’ stick out from a beltloop.
“Hewwo nice mis…” Pinkberry couldn’t get her last words out before the stick rammed down on top of her face with such force that now semi-liquified brains shot out of her nose like a slurry of rotten milk. One eyeball detached from her skull and went a’rollin thatta way, and he’d whistle out to the parked truck.
“Daisssyyyy! C’mere, honeypie!” An ancient bluetick coonhound waggled it’s tail before popping out of the open passenger side window. The old girl knew exactly what was up: She seized upon the chirpies that had fallen to the sidewalk and savaged them with rapid shakes until they weren’t peeping anymore.
Giving a sigh of satisfaction, Jeb thrust a slightly grimy hand out and seized up one of Mr. Lorenzo’s. “Now you have yourself a peach of a day, hoss.”
++++
“Petra fluffies? Wazzit?” This was at a city meeting. He had to answer to folks, be briefed on the pest problem. Typical stuff when you were employed by the city. Not like he could complain: He was in here in the cool AC instead of out there in the July heat. Daisy too, the faithful coonhound lapping up water from a collapsible bowl before dropping down to the carpet and watching with little interest.
A woman with a rather pinched face, in charge of pest control proper for the town, laid it all out for him:
“They’re like fluffies but smarter. Faster. I’m being told they’re immune to bleach for…some reason, can outrun most predators, and are kind toward one another. It’s like they fixed the problems of regular fluffies and then added more unnecessary features.”
Looking a bit shocked by all of this, Jeb took up a pamphlet of literature she’d thrown down on the table. His eyes scanned over their features.
“Pardon my Français.” Beginning to speak, fingers trembling as he looked over the provided information. “You’re tellin’ me these sonsabitches can pronounce spaghetti by it’s proper name?”
His boss gave a rather curt nod, Jeb’s fingers curling in around the paper and trembling slightly.
“Sweet mother o’ Jesus.”
+++++
Down the way by Henderson’s hardware. There weren’t so many alleyways in town, what with it being so small. This one ran right back the grocery store and the hardware place and was where these so-called Petras had last been spotted.
Daisy’s nails clicked on the pavement but otherwise it was quiet. Too quiet. He’d been told they were smart, to expect just about anything. Maybe they’d left by now. Flew south for the winter or whatever these freaks did.
Jeb lifted his nose to the air. Sniff sniff. That there? That was alcohol. The town’s only wino, Joe Sumac, hung out by the river. Placing a hand down and making a hand gesture to Daisy, he got her to sit with a non-verbal command.
Meandering down the alleyway, he lifted up a bag of ‘super sketti’ flavored fluffy treats and shook it around. “Oh golly, I got all these sketti treats and nobody to share ‘em with. Also, I ‘aint been hugged in forever and I’m mighty sad.”
Suddenly, eyes started peeping out from around a dumpster, random cardboard boxes, and wooden crates. A collection of rainbow colored bodies seethed toward him. Ten. Twenty. Thirty…FORTY.
“Hewwo! Nyu fwend hab spaghetti?” Spaghetti. It said it. That little purple and yellow freak said the magic word. If the smell of alcohol wasn’t enough, that was confirmation enough. Petra fluffies runnin’ loose in their tiny town.
“Wime wub spaghetti su su much!” Chirruped a light green and blue stallion, going to nuzzle at one of his pantlegs.
Nice and easy now. One hand went to his belt loop, fingers tapping against the stick pokin’ out like a gunslinger about to draw at high noon. Sweat beaded on his forehead. There would only be once chance to get these useless freaks before they cottoned on. The whole town depended on him.
“DRIVE ‘EM, DAISY!” The sketti treats dropped from his hands and went spilling out to the ground below. At the same time his weapon of choice flashed out and smacked into Lime with a sickening crack. Teeth sprayed out on the asphalt along with a gout of blood, the fluffy’s neck twisting gruesomely from the force which had been delivered. They might be immune to poison, but you know what they weren’t? A good ‘ol walloping stick. Few things alive could beg immunity to that.
Popping from her resting position, Daisy flew into the crowd of fluffies and dragged one by it’s mane, wrestling it to the ground and tearing at it’s throat with vicious tugs until it began bleeding out. She knew to keep doing it though, and as old as she was the bitch would go flying at another one. The last thing it would see was a mouthful of dripping fangs.
Jeb, meanwhile, had become a tornado of whompin’ stick and boot kicks. Sure some began to flee, but didn’t you know? Petras were perfect. They were the absolute pinnacle of fluffies…so more than a few attempted to stay and drag off their beaten brethren.
“Ain’t immune to THIS!” His boot rocked back, stomped down on a yellow mare’s spine and drove her to the ground. Half-formed babies shot out of her like a party popper.
“Or this!” Taking a metal trashcan lid from the ground, he spun around like an Olympic Discus thrower, letting loose and watching it sail through the air. Ever had one of those metal trashcan lids? They’re sharp. Whistling through the air, it cut a stallion who was cowering clean in half. The two seperate pieces slid down to the ground with a spill of intestines, it’s halved mouth still attempting to peep.
“Where you think you’re goin’!?” The whompin’ stick flew out from his hand and made an arc through the air, cracking right down on top of a fleeing brown mare’s skull. She went down like a sack of potatoes, a flurry of shit sadly spraying out behind her.
No more whompin’ stick. He was down to his fists and boots. Lifting up a white alicorn by it’s golden horn, he pinned it up against a brick wall and slammed a fist into it’s chest with such force that it’s heart exploded. A bloody froth forced it’s way past it’s mouth, and Jeb snapped off it’s horn.
“You might prefer nutri gel but I think you could do with some BRAIN FOOD!” A talky-babbeh got picked up from it’s hiding place in a collection of trash, Jeb slotting the horn past it’s ear and giving a savage pound with his palm. All those smarts didn’t amount to nothin’ when you had a horn going through both ears.
By now what had remained alive had made like a library and booked it. Daisy attempted to get after them but was called off by a whistle from her owner. No, they were too fast for her old bones. Vet said she had arthritis but she wanted to go sleuthing after them! Jeb gave an appreciable scritch behind the yellow bandanna looped around her neck, digging in.
“Let’s show those rat bas’tids some Detroit rollin’ iron.”
++++
The petra fluffies had escaped out into a field. Nothing grew over in that field, no. Old man Thompson kept threatening to sell it to real estate developers but hadn’t yet, and the only thing out there was scrubby grass that offered no protection.
“B-Bwuddah, yew otay?” An orange and green Petra asked his brother who had escaped from the melee earlier with nothing but a slightly stubbed leg.
“Widdew huwties. It otay.” He gave a considerate smile to his sissy but she didn’t care, she was getting down there to give him wicky-cweanies. Their tongues, of course, were 40% alcohol so it hurt but…it was sanitizing!
“Dat wuz scawy munstah. Huuhuu! FWENDS!” Lamented a purple & white pegasus mare, tears rolling down her ample cheeks. Fluffies who weren’t nursing wounds sprang to her care and enveloped her in hugs. She gave a giddy giggle at all the plush warmth.
“Dank yew fwends…uhmm…wat am dat noisy?” Cocking her head, ear twitching, she swore she head something. Then she saw something! A big cloud of dirt off in the distance, a roaring noise preceding it.
“Fwends…?” She asked innocently as Jeb’s big old Dodge slammed up above the gentle slope, two tires destroying the brother and sister who were busy tending their wounds. Body parts exploded out over the sun-parched grass, wheels digging down and sending clods of soil spraying out.
Jeb gripped the wheel like a madman, spun it and charged forward at the gaggle of fluffies who were all grouped together. “Run 9 miles per hour, do ya? Let’s see ya outrun this!” He could feel the tiny speed bumps under him as he flattened a rainbow assortment of the freaks. One wheel got stuck in a rut: A fluffy collapse into a hole along with his tire.
“Come on, sugar darlin’! Let’s GO!” The engine roared, tires squealed, the fluffy who was stuck between the hole and wheel screamed in agony as first it’s fur was ripped away by the rapidly passing rubber and then patches of it’s flesh. With a lurch, the truck bounced back to a proper driving position.
A talky-babbeh named Mallow was sitting behind a dried-up old bush. All alone now. No more friends, no more mummah. She was a Petra though, and they were the smartest ebah.
As long as she sat here behind this bush. Maybe closing her eyes would help too. The munstah couldn’t see her if she was like this. Keeping her mouth shut, the filly would outsmart it. There wouldn’t even be a peep to give away her position.
Roaring grew louder. A slap of a hand against metal as Jeb leaned out the driver’s side window, hootin’ and hollerin’. A puddle of piss grew around Mallow’s backside. No, no, no. Petras were smart, and perfect. Munstahs couldn’t get them…
“AWOOOWOOOWOOO! IMMA HOUND DOG!” He whooped out to the fluffy he could see quite clearly behind a bush. The last one: Her family was a slick of blood and roadburned fur behind him. Daisy leaned out her window and offered a braying howl of her own in return.
No. No! NO! The roar was all she could feel now. Not just a sound now, no. It was something she could feel, vibrations scoring through her body. Opening her eyes, Mallow caught the sight of blood encrusted and muddied treads coming down on her.
Turned out, Petras couldn’t in fact outrun a truck.
++++
A few months later at the town picnic, Jeb sat down at a picnic table with a huge spread of food in front of him. Funeral potatoes, a ham sammich, corn pudding, black-eyed peas, two massive wedges of sweet potato pie. This was the biggest shindig of the entire year, and my how he looked forward to it.
“Momma! Momma! A fluffy stole my cookie!” ‘Fluffy’. Jeb jerked up from his resting position. No whompin’ stick on him right now. Not even workboots. Could he take out a fluffy with his fists or just by kicking? Of course. In front of Alicia Cayes li’l girl who was only four? Going a little too far.
Taking up his ham sammich and sauntering up to the kid, Jeb patted a hand down to his overalls and fished around in the pocket, finally finding a crumpled up dollar. He held it out to the girl with a smile. A dollar couldn’t buy you shit for breakfast these days, but kids always appreciated anything you gave them.
“You put that in yer piggybank when you get home, ‘ken?
The girl didn’t know what ‘ken meant but nodded anyways with a big, gap-toothed smile. Jeb’s looked around her and saw the cookie thief: A red & green stallion who was triuphantly gloating over his ill-gotten goods. Winding his arm back, the exterminator let it sail forward with an impressive amount of strength. It struck the fluffy back, wobbling on his hind legs and attempting to make sense of what was happening. Falling backwards with a squawk into the town’s river just behind him, the smarty was lazily carried away. Jeb watched him bob and thrash around before finally sinking down.
“Thank you Mister Jeb!” The girl told him with a giggle, not even realizing what had happened to the fluffy who’d just accosted her. He gave a nod and went to scoop the sandwich off the ground, taking a massive bite and giving a hearty belch.
My how he loved this town and the good people in it.
