Phil was feeling great. When the lady at Grandma Jeanie’s Fluffy Sanctuary had received his application, she’d been impressed. Phil had told them that he had kept fluffies for years, and had an affinity for the little critters. He said that although his degree was in arts and media, he now realised that his ultimate ambition was to become a veterinarian, specialising in treating fluffies. Margaret had said it was hard to get unpaid interns, but that without them, the shelter would struggle financially, due to the overwhelming numbers of fluffies they cared for and fed. Phil said he was desperate for experience, to get into vet school.
It was all lies.
Phil hadn’t even finished college. He’d done a few classes, but mainly he’d just partied and got high, chased girls and flunked exams. Then he discovered a new hobby. For many years, Phil had kept snakes. His pride and joy was a burmese python, Maximillian. Maximillian, or Max for short, started out eating crickets and mice, but over the years he grew. Phil moved him on to eating rats and baby rabbits, but the damned thing was expensive to feed. Then Phil discovered Fluffies. Fluffies were FAR more satisfying to feed to Max. Rats, mice and rabbits would run away, clearly in terror, but there was something truly amazing about a meal that would beg for mercy. The fluffies naivete and squeaky baby voices just made it even more juicy.
So Phil had started hunting feral fluffies, combing the alleyways and trash cans, late at night, with a lunch box full of spaghetti and a flashlight, listening for their little cries and squeaks. At first it was easy. Hungry fluffies, often with babies, would gladly approach a “nyu daddeh”, especially one offering them sketties. Max ate well, and Phil fed on the delicious satisfaction of hearing the fluffies cry, beg and scream, before finally being swallowed whole and digested alive in the depths of Max’s innards.
After a while though, it became harder and harder to find feral fluffies. Fluffy owners were slowly learning to spay their fluffies, which meant less unwanted babies. Winter was particularly harsh, and for a while, he’d found nothing but frozen fluffy corpses. Then, there were the fluffy fighting tournaments, which were becoming more and more popular. Tormented feral fluffies, and not a few trained house fluffies, were given weapons and armour, such as they could use, and pitted against one another in a fight to death. Phil had even been to a few fights, and won and lost some money. It was fun, but not as fun as feeding Maximillian. Finally, Vancouver animal services started spending more money on pest control, especially after what happened in Cleveland. Humane Skettie-traps were laid, and captured ferals were delivered to shelters, where the were kept for a short while before being either adopted or euthanised.
So, Phil went to the shelters, and found a steady source of snake food, for as little as 50 cents, or even free. This was good at first, but the lower end snake food typicaly had no legs, no fur, or no spirit. Abusers had already broken these fluffies, breaking them into a “wan die” cycle, although some would cry first. Watching Max swallow legless pillow fluffs quickly became boring. Max realised that what he really wanted to see were cute, trusting house fluffies, expecting nummies and huggies and love, only to find that THEY were the nummies.
The problem was, the cute house fluffies that he wanted cost about $5 to $20 each, and Max needed to eat four or five of them a night. Phil’s day job was pizza delivery, so that kind of expense was beyond him. Phil realised he needed to work in a shelter himself, that way, he could disappear a few fluffies before they were counted. With some creative lies, he’d managed to land the intern job, which didn’t exactly have many applicants. He could get by delivering pizza’s during the day, and work at the shelter three nights a week. It would be awesome.
Jelly sat in the fluffy pen, shivering from the cold. She’d managed to roll in the saw-dusty stuff, and got most of the poop out of her fluff, but she still didn’t smell good. When would the hoomin mummah or dadda give them nummies and baff tiem? Jelly had asked the two mares, Pinky and Lou-Lou, who she was sitting with, but they were new too, and didn’t know. Jelly fed Red Conan some milk, and tried to ignore her tummy-owwies.
Jelly asked why Pinky and Lou-Lou were there. Both of them had had babies within the last few days, and had hoomin mummahs or daddahs that did not like fluffy babies. Lou-Lou had lived happily with her fluffy-mummah, brother and sisters, until her brother had grown up. “Bwuddah am giv sissies mean speciaw huggies,” Lou-Lou said, crying, “an now hoomin mummah nu wuv Wou-Wou nu mowe… huu huu huu…”
Pinkie’s story was similar. She had lived with her hoomin dadda, and fluffy-mumma and fluffy-dadda. Everything was good, until one day, fluffy-dadda had decided she was an Enfie-baby. Now she had babies too.
Jelly knew that she was the smartest fluffy in the pen, but she also knew that she was not the biggest or toughest. She knew that, and that meant she was smart. Pinky and Lou-Lou were afraid of her, and would do what she told them to. Jelly had owwies in her belly, and could feel that there was not much milk left in her milk-places. Jelly told Pinky and Lou-Lou that they had to give milkies to Red Conan, or they would get sorry-hoofies and wowstest owwies, and that she would poop on their babies. Pinky and Lou-Lou begged her not to, and both of them let Red Conan drink from their milk-places, even though their own babies were hungry and cried when she plucked them from their teats.
Once Red Conan had drunk his fill, he walked back to Jelly and snuggled up in her fur. The shelter was cold, so Jelly told Pinky and Lou-Lou to let her and Conan snuggle in the middle of a fluff-pile. Once she was warm, she tried to ignore her tummy owwies and started to think up an IDEA. Snowflake was the one that used to think up ideas, but Snowflake was far away, and anyway she was a stoopid-dummeh… yes yes, that wasn’t helpful now. Jelly needed a plan.
Suddenly, and without any warning, the shelter was plunged into darkness. Fluffies reacted with terror,
“Mummah! Daddah!”
“Nu WIKE scawy dawk tiem!”
“Pwease daddeh, tuwn on night-wight fow fwuffy?”
“Munstah! Munstah!”
Stoopid-dummeh fluffies, Jelly thought. The shelter-daddah had just turned off the lighty. Still, it was scary in the dark. Some stoopid fluffies were still moving around, and in the darkness, the faint shadows that Jelly could see did look a bit like munstahs. Jelly knew that was dummeh-thinking though, and tried to think harder about a plan.
Jelly knew that the pen next to there was another pen, just below hers, with nu weggy fluffies in it. If Jelly and Red Conan could get into that pen, she could easily steal their nummies, and Red Conan could steal their milkies! If Jelly sat on one of the pillow nesties, and tucked her legs up underneath her tummeh, the hoomin dadda might not realise that she was not a nu weggy fluffy. It was a good idea, but eventually, Jelly knew she needed to run away.
The problem was, where could she run to? Mummah Claire didn’t love Jelly any more, and the Claire-dadda said he wanted to cut Jelly’s legs off. Jelly felt very sad, and quietly cried herself to sleep.
Some time passed, and Jelly had a dream. In the dream, she was dressed as a Princess. It was her special birth day, and all the hoomins and fluffies had come to her party. They had brought her presents. Jelly sat on a big nesty that overlooked all the other fluffies. It was higher up than even the hoomin heads. One by one they brought her treaties, which were nummies or toys. Then they brought her a giant bowl. Jelly knew that the bowl would be full of sketties. She sat there feeling so good about herself. She was the bestest smarty fluffy, and everyone knew it, and would give her presents or get wowstest owwies and sowwy hoofies.
But inside the bowl, there were no sketties. Instead, there was a white Unicorn fluffy with one eye and no weggies. It was Snowflake, and she was very angry.
“Doom!” Snowflake said, “Doom!”
“Shut up dummeh Poofwake! Go way! Jewwy nu wan yu hewe!” yelled Jelly, but her sister just carried on.
“Doom!” she cried. “Doom! Doom! DOOM!”
Then Jelly woke up.
Someone had turned the lights back on, and various fluffies started waking up.
“Am bwight-tiem alweady?”
“Nummies! Nummies”
“Huu huu, fwuffy hav nu sweepies.”
“Fwuffy am HUNGY.”
Walking over to their pen was a strange looking hoomin. He had a purple coloured mane, worn in a style that the Claire-Daddah had once called WETAWDED. He was also wearing a white not-fluff, with a picture on the front. The picture was of two Snake Munstahs! The Snake-munstahs were facing each other, but actually it was ONE snake-munstah with TWO heads. Behind the snake-munstah was black sun, and a black moon. The hoomin also had pictures on his front weggies, which mummah-Claire had taught Jelly were called Tattoos.
“Wakey wakey little fluffies!” the hoomin was saying.
“Am nummy tiem?” several fluffies were asking.
“No, its not nummy time, although it could be, if you are good fluffies.”
“Fwuffy am gud! Giv nummies!”
“Pwease nice daddah, giv fwuffy nummies and huggies an wuv, fwuffy am hungy.”
“Hav tummeh-owwies.”
“Hush hush my little Fluffarino’s, and gather round. That’s right, come closer, right up to the edge. You too Pillow-fluffs,” the hoomin said, looking into the pen below, “Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot that you CAN’T WALK.” This made several no leg fluffies start to cry.
“Who here likes sketties?” the hoomin asked
“Fwuffy wike sketties!” the pen declared, or several different variations of that statement
“Who wants to EAT some sketties?” he asked.
“Fwuffy want eat sketties!”
“Weawy? Sketties? Fow Fwuffies?” said others, adding their various stoopid fluffy-names.
Jelly kept quiet, but her tummeh wanted Sketties really badly. But somehow she remembered Snowflake from the dream. Doom!
“Hoomin am nu dadda,” said a particularly perceptive fluffy. “Wewe am dadda Fwank? An mummah Mawgawet?”
“They’re not here fluffies,” the hoomin said, “Well, Frank is sleeping in the back room, with a bottle of Jack, so he won’t wake up for a few hours, and Margaret won’t be here til the morning,” he said, pacing up and down, “so its just you and me. My name is Phil, but you can call me Snake-Daddy.”
“Phiw!”
“Snake-Daddeh!” said some of the happier and stoopider fluffies.
“Nu wike Snake!” said some of the fluffies that knew what they actually were.
“Now, would you fluffies like some sketties? Yes? Then all you have to do is watch some TV with me, for five minutes. And then you can have some sketties. But you HAVE to WATCH it. All of it. Any fluffy that looks away or tries to hide, WON’T GET ANY SKETTIES. Got it?”
Jelly knew that the Snake-Daddy was having one of Snowflakes IDEAS. She also knew that it would be a bad idea. But her tummeh really wanted sketties. The other fluffies seemed to be ruled entirely by their bellies.
“Teebee? Fwuffy can watch teebee? Fank you Snake-daddeh!”
“Fwuffy wuv sketties!”
The Snake-daddy was wheeling a table up in front of the Pen, with a large TV on it. He messed around with it for a while, and plugged a little box into the side of it.
“OKAY FLUFFARINOS. Watch the show. And remember, you have to watch it ALL, or NO SKETTIES.”
“Otay Snake-Daddeh.”
“Fwuffy am be gud an watch aww TeeBee.”
The Snake-daddeh turned on the TV, and Jelly saw a little baby fluffy, smaller than Conan. The fluffy was blue, and reminded her of her baby Blueberry, wherever he was now.
“Sketties?” the baby blue fluffy on the TV was asking, “Fow fwuffy? Weawy?”
“Yes,” the Snake daddy was saying, but it was the TV the Snake Daddy’s voice was coming from.
“Fow fwuffy? Aww for fwuffy?”
“Yes little dude!” the TV Snake Daddy said, giggling with glee.
“Fwuffy neva hab Sketties befowe. Fwuffy wub Snake-Daddeh! Dis am bestest day of fwuffy wife!” the baby said, squeaking with happiness, and wriggling so much that it peed itself with excitement.
The TV snake daddy placed a little baby-sized bowl of Sketties down in front of the baby fluffy.
“Now, remember, you can have the sketties if you close your eyes and count to THREE. Do you promise?”
“Yes!” said the baby, overcome with excitement, “Fwuffy pwomise!”
The baby fluffy closed her eyes, and started counting “WUN… TOOOOOO…”
Then, the Snake Daddah took the bowl of sketties away, and put a… put a…
A GIANT SNAKE MUNSTAH!
“TWEE!” The baby fluffy cried, and opened her eyes.
SNAP - the Snake Munstah struck the baby fluffy like lighting, sinking its fangs into her body.
“AaAAAAeieiei!!” the fluffy screamed, “Daddah! Hewp! It am a MUNSTAH!”
The pen of fluffies was in absolute pandemonium. Cries of “NUUUU!” and “MUNSTAH!” Some ran, others hid their eyes or buried their heads in saw dust or behind other fluffies, but many kept watching, including Jelly and Red Conan.
“KEEP WATCHING!” Snake Daddy shouted above the cacophony of fluffie mares and babies.
Jelly did keep watching. She looked on in absolute horror as the baby blue fluffy begged for its life, while the TV Snake Daddy laughed and taunted her, dangling sketties near her mouth, just out of reach, and the Snake Munstah slowly sucked the fluffy into its munstah-belly.
“Nnnnuuuuuuuuu!” the baby cried, before the Snake-munstah’s jaws snapped shut completely, trapping her inside. A baby sized lump slowly moved down the snake-munstah’s neck.
“What did you think Little Fluffies?” The real snake daddy asked, turning off the TV, and revealing a bowl of spaghetti.
“NU WIKE!” screamed most.
“Sketties!” cried the dummehs.
