The mare cleaned up alright.
Douglas leaned in the doorway of the saferoom, staring down at the mare as she fed her brood. They were all given a much-needed bath, removing their foul scents and, more importantly, confirming the mare’s worth. Her fluff almost shined in the room’s light, and her mane was even brighter too; to the right buyer she’d be worth a fortune, but instead…she was going to his brother. He considered breeding her with some of the favorable fluffies outside, but with their shitty colors there was no telling if they would come out as grand as her, or just more cannon fodder. He didn’t feel like taking the risk.
Said mentality was why he had “moved” Mary into his office. With how well-behaved she was, all she needed was a kibble bowl, a bed, and a litter box. He didn’t want her introduced to the mare, not until she was certain the damn thing wouldn’t get confrontational. He read stories about mares getting hostile at the presence of another fluffy because that meant less attention for her and her brood. So, Mary was gonna stay there until he was sure she wouldn’t give him a valid reason to bash her head against the wall.
For now, Douglas stepped into the saferoom and refilled the mare’s kibble bowl. Her foals weren’t clamped to her crotchtits, so they were probably ready to try kibble, though maybe watered down. “Breakfast.”
The mare looked at the bowl and pouted, but she got moving and started to eat the kibble. Her foals approached it and dunked their heads in, doing the same, and the blue one pulled its head back. “Dis nu taste gud…wan sketties…”
“Nu! num kibbwe, babbeh, ow daddeh gibes owies!” The mare whispered to her foal in a frightened, hushed voice. She was smart enough to warn her brood…maybe he misjudged her. That, or her time in the mill made her see some shit that stuck. He knew how most mills did their thing; mares who didn’t comply were made examples out of, and the punishments ranged from a simple beating with a sorry stick to smearing IcyHot on their crotchtits and letting them scream for hours. They shared the same cruel pragmatism he did.
“Buh…babbeh wan’ sketties! wan’ it wite nao!”
Douglas scowled. The mare flinched at that and turned her gaze towards him. “Daddeh? can babbehs hab some sketties?”
“What were the rules?” He sternly reminded her. “Only on Sundays.”
“Buh…dat’s wong time fwom nao…”
“And?” Her voices went into a cacophony of babbles and pleads for the Italian cuisine, and she alternated between silencing them with fearful whispers and trying to come up with a reason to refute what he said. Her logic was “there”, but it was shit logic. Still, she presented an opportunity. A chance for her next lesson.
“Fine. Let me get it ready.” He set the kibble bag on the shelf and left the saferoom. Once in the kitchen, he casually plucked some microwave spaghetti from the fridge and popped it into the microwave. With the meal underway, Douglas opened the pantry and, quickly, located his target. A gift from a satisfied customer he kept more-so as a keepsake.
A bottle of Mad Dog. To be exact, a small bottle of Mad Dog 357 Number Nine Plutonium. In other words, a very spicy sauce. The customer told him it’d make a nice desk ornament, and to never use it unless he didn’t feel like tasting for the next day or so. Douglas believed him, but knew it’d be a smart idea to keep it in the pantry. Just in case.
The microwave beeped. Douglas walked over to it and pulled the black tin of spaghetti out. The bottle was cracked, and he poured a dismal amount of the Mad Dog in, mixing it in with a plastic fork and then tossing it away. The meal would be painful for a person, but a fluffy? Well…as long as the mare didn’t eat it.
The big man held the hot tin in hand and returned to the saferoom. The smell of shit hit his nostrils again and he saw the blue foal finish dropping a steaming log. He wanted to punt the bastard, but no, this was far better.
“Here it is.” He set the tin down and the four foals converged on it. The runt moved a bit slower and was batted aside by her working siblings. The mare waddled over too, but Douglas shook his head at her. “No, you have bad poopies to clean up, remember?”
“Huu…wan’ sketties…” All the same, she walked over and tried her best to grab the steaming log and relocate it to the litterbox with her mouth. Gross, but semi-effective. With that, Douglas turned his focus to the foals who eagerly devoured the tin. The tan one smacked his lips in delight…and then started screeching.
“OWWIES! MOUFF OWWIES!!!” He screamed at the top of his little lungs. The others followed suit and all four foals rolled around on the floor, screaming their heads off from the literal melting of their mouths. The sight was amusing, but Douglas didn’t focus on that. He focused on the fact the mare watched on with an utterly horrified, confused expression. As if her puny brain couldn’t comprehend why spaghetti, their most trusted food, was giving her children such agony.
“This is why ‘sketti’ is only on Sunday,” He lied. “it keeps it from doing this to fluffies. If you eat ‘sketti’ on any day that isn’t Sunday, it burns your mouth and destroys your tastebuds, and then you can’t taste anything ever again.”
“NUUUUUU!!! BABBEHS!!!” The mare wailed in fright and shock. “Daddeh! hao can fwuffy sabe babbehs!?!”
“Get them some water. Best dunk them in a few times.” He lied again. His time with regular hot sauce told him water didn’t do much except weaken the burn. Milk canceled it out. She worked all the same and grabbed the tan foal first, dunking him by the scruff into the water bowl over and over before tossing him aside. She rushed back over and did the same to the blue, and then the green. When she got to the runt, the poor thing wasn’t even screaming and simply peeped in distress, wiggling and flailing like a sightless, broken foal. All the same, she dunked it into the water over and over, though Douglas was quick to notice her frantic state meant she wasn’t checking how long she held the foal underwater.
Nor did she see when the foal stopped flailing.
The orange runt was tugged from the water dish and set by the others. They huffed and panted in lingering pain, but the orange one was still, eyes rolled up into the back of its head. “Babbeh…owange babbeh…wakies!” The mare plead. “Daddeh, owange babbeh—”
“She didn’t make it. Seems the bad ‘sketties’ gave her forever sleepies.” He lied again. He could have told her that she killed the foal with her fear, but that would just complicate things and make her more emotionally unstable. Now…well she’d never look at a tin of ‘sketti’ the right way again.
The mare broke down sobbing. Douglas sighed and plucked up the tin of tainted spaghetti. “This is why we have rules. Best listen well.” With that, he left the saferoom, hearing the cries of the mare on his heels. With what he did, he’d be surprised if she ever asked for ‘sketti’ again. Inevitably, she’d figure out he lied, or maybe she wouldn’t. It was hard to tell with fluffies, with how feeble their brains were. But he did know they never forgot trauma, at least not subconsciously.
Sunday was gonna be interesting, though he made a note not to make a lot of spaghetti. He doubted the mare would want a lot.
Which was a shame; he was pretty good at cooking.
[Wow, this turned out shorter than expected. Only needed one line-break this time.
The tainted spaghetti idea was pitched by MostlyNeutralBox. I just remembered an episode of Wreckless Eating and remembered there exists even stronger brands of hot sauce, and so here we go. Thank him for the insidiously delicious idea; I was just gonna do something with bad scents. The sauce’ll leave some lasting physical and emotional damage to the foals and loads of emotional damage for the mare, but everyone learned a valuable lesson.
Go ahead and make suggestions on what you think the next test should be. I always like nearing new ideas and hearing feedback from people enjoying this story.
Who knows? I might even drop more facts. There’s a reason Doug knows so much about mills, after all.]