Your name is John. You are a shit brown fluffy with even darker brown eyes. In the world of the fluffies, you are nothing but a “poopie-monstah”, and a “ugly daddeh”. You live in a shallow abode in the middle of the woods, after being ostracized by your herd, with nothing but sharp leaves and the moonlight to keep you warm at night. One cold, rainy morning, you think life couldn’t get much worse, and that nobody will ever save your miserable existence.
Until you meet a new man.
He strides past your shitty little home, no, hole, not even noticing your presence, despite your feeble calls of “d-d-d-daddeh” between coughing fits… He only looks back when his beloved yellow lab, Tucker, begins rapidly barking and growling at your disgusting presence.
“N-n-n-ic kuf**kuf e-e-e m-munsta…me hk munsta t-t-too…”
Tucker, being the beautiful God-given gift that dogs are to mankind, chose not to rip into you, instead sitting and patiently waiting for his owner.
You hear the ear-deafening thuds and booming voice get closer and closer, as Tucker stares at you, hair raised and muzzle in a snarl. When the man arrives in the vicinity, the snarl turns to a happy smile, tongue hanging out of the front of his furry mouth.
“TUCKER! WHAT DID YOU FIND!”
You almost, almost, blend into the dirt with your shit brown fur.
Unfortunately, as a fluffy, your only form of stress response is pissing, crying, and shitting, so any form of camouflage you would have had is entirely moot.
“N-N-NUUU!! hakhakhak JOWN SCAWED!!”
You feel a pinch on the back of your neck.
Your skin feels like it is pulling away from your tiny musculature. Hasbio didn’t account for rough behavior.
“LOOKS LIKE WE FOUND A SHIT-RAT. PERFECT. OH WHATS YOUR NAME? EVEN BETTER.”
You feel blood running down your back.
Pressure is building up in your weak chest.
It’s getting harder to breathe.
HAK HAK HAK HAK
The last thing you hear before blacking out is the excited barking of one loyal yellow lab.
I can’t believe I finally fucking found one.
I finally found one of those fucking shit-rats.
Ever since the city-wide edict against the abuse of domesticated fluffies, I couldn’t take out my frustrations on those babbling retard ponies the neighbor has. They attracted coyotes from the woods with their wailing, as their owner was asleep and forgot about them overnight. Unfortunately, one of these coyotes entered my yard and attacked my beloved Tucker, so I grabbed a shovel from the backyard shed and took out his attacker in one swing. I hate killing animals.
Good thing fluffies aren’t “animals”.
The night after the attack, I brought my dad’s old tools out of the same shed, and cut a hole in my neighbor’s fence, inviting the brightly colored fluffies into my yard for “yummy sketties”. I took a hard piece of Barilla pasta and threw it through the small opening to the rotting crawlspace beneath the porch. The retarded ponies flew into the cramped hole like they had never seen Italian carbohydrates before.
I locked them in.
I remember their calls, crying “mu-mu-mu-mUMMAH!!!” despite being full-grown mares, their groans as they went hungry and were force to eat their own shit, and the death rat—
hk HAK HAK gasp HAAAAK hk**hk
It’s awake.
I was so deep in thought about past tortures, I forgot I had another shit-rat in the basement.
It even had the same name as your good-for-nothing roommate back at college, who you were taking a weekend reprieve from. He had almost, almost as annoying as a voice as a fluffy, and was just as nagging for attention. Constantly.
It was finally time to get my frustrations out.
“OHHHH JOHNNN!!”, I call, opening the basement door.
Tucker rushed to join me, loving to lay by the electric fireplace, but the horrors about to happen did not deserve to be seen by such precious eyes.
“You gotta stay here buddy,” I assuage my beloved yellow dog, “this shouldn’t take too long.”
His ears drooped with dissatisfaction. No matter, he’d forgive me anyway in a few minutes.
I closed the door with him sitting at the top, where he would wait for me, as always.
Almost running down the stairs into the warm, carpeted room with the electric fireplace, I almost slipped in my rush to meet the victim of my ire.
I entered the room adjacent, blocked only by a swinging door. Any comfort that would have been had in the first room was taken away; replaced by cold, hard, uneven concrete. There was a single burning light that swang over a roughly made wood table in the farthest corner of the room. The dark brown fluffy sat strapped stomach down with an old belt to his final resting place. My hazel eyes met the almost black disgusting eyes of the abomination in my basement. A grin came across my face, but was quickly replaced by a thought of, in that peanut-sized brain of his, the thoughts of the fluffy at the time of his arrival.
A blinding light forces your eyes open. Your chest is rolling in pain, and your back feels funny. When your eyes adjust to the light, you try to move, but are unable. There seems to be some sort of munstah attached to you. The sudden movement only makes your current suffering worse.
HAK**HAKHAK* “huuu-huuuuu….wungies huwty….bakie itchee…”
You long for a time long gone. When you were still with your mummah, drinking her milkies and doing dancies for her! She loved your dancies more than anything. You don’t remember much about your brothers and sisters, but recall them sleeping. A lot. They were friends with the buzzy-fwies.
Fluffy brains can’t retain much information, but a handful of good memories can be stored for situations of high stress.
You remember your name; John. Your mother loved that name. You close your eyes to try and remember what she looks like, but the light keeps your eyes open. In the meantime, you try and relax. You think to yourself, “maybe da big man is fwendly, he’s just sweeping wite now.”
“I’m NOT a bad fwuffy. Da hewd is bad fwuffies. Old mummah and daddeh bad hoomins. Mummah luv jown most.”
Your thoughts are disproven as a door slams into a wall of your confinement cell.
A snarl fills the dark air.
“Hello John. That’s your name isn’t it?”
“y-yes mistuw b-bu-but jown’s wungies weeeeawwy huwt pwease he-“
“You say any other words but yes or no and I give you forever sleepies right here and right now.”
You freeze, for a moment, before committing a fatal flaw.
“bu-“
A single stride was all it took for the man to traverse the room.
In a moment, a large shadow loomed over you.
In another moment, you feel the worst pain you have ever felt, as the man’s fingers compress your lungs.
“Enough.”
I figured that would shut him up. Usually being in the dark and isolation renders fluffies silent, but little John seemed like he was tough.
Tough fluffies get the worst treatment. For special occasions, I like to keep the “Baby’s First Fluffy Surgery™” from Hasbio in a shelf under my sink. It got recalled a few years back due to “malfunctions” with the equipment, which, ironically, made it more useful in my eyes. John would be the the first victim to this pack of tools.
I release pressure from his back and lungs, and he takes a huge gasp of air.
“HUUUUUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH WHYYY U DO DIS TO JOW—”
I swing my fist into his right eye.
“I SAID ENOUGH.”
I swing my fist into his right eye again. Then his left.
HAK HAK “WHU—” HAK hk HAAAAAAAK
The brown abomination has the gall to have his mouth agape, horrified at what I had just done to him.
Any restraint I had before was now gone. I will ruin this disgusting creature.
From the Fluffy Surgery kit I grab “gauze”, but is far too long and elastic to work. First “malfunction” in favor of yours truly.
Where the punches knocked out the fluffy’s teeth, I ran the “gauze” through and wrapped it around it’s snout. Then, with the rest of the long roll still attached, I hung it from a hook jutting from the wall. It kept coughing and hacking, even getting a little spit on me. He’ll pay for that one.
The fluffy was now in a precarious situation, as the strap across its back connecting to the table held it down. The gauze only pulled, and pulled, and pulled until the fluffy’s mouth was wider than it could ever naturally distend.
I asked the victim;
“Is that comfortable?”
The fluffy managed a few muffled words.
iackICKACK**HAK…nowh……nowhannys…”hk**HK
It still did not understand.
I grabbed the pliers from the Fluffy Surgery kit. They were unusually sharp at the point. I thought to myself “who the hell gives kids pliers?”, but then realized they were made by the same God-cursed corporation that brought the fluffy parasite onto our paradise.
It’s teeth shone like pearls in the distended brown jaws of the fluffy. Perfect targets for the business end of the pliers.
SHUNGK
The fluffy’s front tooth now had a “new fwen”, as their “species” would call it.
John’s swollen eyes extended as far as they possibly could. Then, they snapped shut, and the fluffy blacked out.
You feel the blades of grass, many times larger than you, brush up against his you skin. You had just taken a great fall, from a place you did not know. You first instinct was to cry for your mummah and for miwkies; but what were those? Your questions fade away as a large blue mare picked him up and inspected him.
“He’s poopy cowoed…but he’s da wast won…”
A second green figure appeared next to the blue.
“Yu wan keep poopy babbeh? Yu keep him awone!”
The green figure was gone.
The movement, colors, and ringing in your ears make you squirm, and you slip from your mother’s jaws.
There’s a burning in your chest.
Like fire.
Like there’s an inferno in your lungs and you can’t make it leave.
If you knew what those things even were.
But, the only thing you know how to do is cry for your mummah, so you do so.
She waddles over to you, and leans over. You crawl over for miwkies.
This is the best day of your life.
When you’ve had your fill, you look up at your mummah. She looks different. It looks like you are looking into the sun itself, a burning light that blinded you. You try to look away, but the light gets brighter and brighter. You cry for your mummah, but the only thing you feel is the most excruciating pain in your mouth.
“MUH-MU-MUHHHMU—”
“—UHHHHHH!!”
The stupid fuck finally woke back up. Seems like shining the overhead light in his face did the trick. I didn’t think he was gonna come back. This all would have been for nothing…there must be more.
The terror on the fluffy’s face as your eyes met once again was delicious. You felt like ending him right there, but his suffering must be prolonged.
“BAD HUWTIES!!! TEEFHAKHAK*IE NO FEEW PWETTY *kkhHIKHIKHAAAK* ANYMOAW*”
SHUNGK slide
SHUNGK slide
SHUNGK slide
“SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEHAKEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!”
“JUS WAN HUGGI-“
SHUNGK slide
Warm, soft miwkies. All to yourself. It didn’t matter if your brothers and sisters went fowevah sweepies, and you only had a few siblings left. You had mummah’s attention, did best dancies, and was best babbeh even though you had bad colors! Things couldn’t get much better.
That was, until the animals came.
First , some of your foal siblings tried playing “huggy-tag” with crows. They were carried away.
After, another one called your mummah “stoopid mummah” and thought he could live on his own. He didn’t make it across the street.
The last foal was crushed underfoot by a bad hoomin.
You never saw these, your Mummah protected you.
The warm, soft fluff, and the warm, soft miwkies.
The shit-rat almost blacks out again from his sudden dentist appointment, but his nodding off was interrupted by a new pain. I couldn’t make it that easy for him.
I retrieved the last tool from the kit, a dull knife. I grabbed the hoof of the fluffy, which was oddly leathery, and felt as if there were feathers inside. I decided to do a little spelunking, and opened the fluffy’s hoof from the bottom.
Unfortunately, there was only blood and muscle.
“hikhikwhy yu do dis to jown…was gud fwuff…—"
It seemed as if his earlier screaming and and coughing began to take a toll on his throat.
“Finally. You shut up. Do you want to end this now?”
The fluffy said meekly:
“y…ye…yes…”
So I began the final processions. The knife would be needed once more
His front left leg was now gone, cut off at the elbow. Or whatever these things have for elbows.
The cuts were slow, deliberate. The knife was just sharp enough to cut through the soft fluffy skin, muscle, and bone. This one was extra easy to cut through, his mother must have overfed him.
With all of this torture, I almost forgot the purpose of why I took this one.
At this point, who cares.
The fluffy was in another oral dilemma. If it tried to close its mouth, the roots of his former and now disgraced teeth ground against each other, leaving him squirming under the belt and the scorching beam of light. His coughing fits only became more and more violent, now with blood actively flowing from his mouth and nostrils.
He was losing too much. I got too greedy too quick.
Might as well get greedier. He won’t stop his coughing.
HAKHAKHAKHAKHAK “huwt…”
His next three legs were as painful as the first.
A cut, horizontally across the flat of each “hoof”.
Then, slow, methodical cuts right at the “elbow”.
I lazily shut the wounds with rough stitching and a Bic lighter.
hikhikhiiiiiiiiiiii……ikhaaaa….kh……aaa……aaa……
John the Fluffy becomes woozy. For once, his ceaseless coughing ends.
When fluffies get to this state, the “pre-death” stage, as I like to call it, moments before their death, their life flashes before their eyes. As they close their eyes, all the “gud memowies” they can remember play behind their eyelids. Usually, this doesn’t last long. However, ALL fluffies, when they are “dealt with”, their “gud memowies” come a little early. And when they do, the memories are associated with the trauma, and are no longer considered “gud memowies”.
Seems like we have another prime example of “de-memorization”.
Whatever. I’ll just clean it up tomorrow.
You feel an odd tingle rush through what remains of your ruined body. In the hours of pain you have just endured, it is the first “gud feewing” since seeing Mummah.
Instinctually, you close your eyes, and let the sight of the large man walking away. You hear an excited thumping from upstairs, maybe some fluffy was up there getting huggies and wuv.
As your eyes close, you see nothing. What about the “gud memowies”? You thought you’d be able to see Mummah again.
Might as well try again. The pain has been numbed by your mind, what’s the use not to.
Your eyelids slam shut into your face. You try to see your siblings, your old home, your Mummah, one last time.
As you use the last strength to move your eyelids, you feel yourself fading.
As a last resort, you look up for your mummah. The only thing that greets you is a burning…yellow…light.
hak
hak
hak
hak
hak
haaaa…….kk…khaa…
You do not die well.
