(This is a slight rework of a story I posted on the booru years ago)
Growing up, I was always fascinated by European history. England in particular. I’d built this fantasy land in my mind of knights, chivalry, castles and fair princesses.
After growing up just a bit more and reading a book or two, I acquired a more modest view of what it must be like to live across the pond, in the old world. A place where history wasn’t simply told, but created. I would have given anything for the opportunity to experience it.
A month after my 25th birthday, my (extraordinarily) wealthy uncle Grant passed. He and I were tight. He’d taught me about life, the world and girls. Maybe it was because he’s never had a son of his own. Not for lack of fucking, mind you. He and aunt Marie tried for so many years to conceive, to no avail.
The strain of this constant failure on their marriage almost broke them both. Two separations in three years but no divorce. They’d spent so much time fighting with each other, they forgot to fight for each other.
Everyone was happy they finally got their shit together. I never asked for details, but the grapevine speaks loudly to those who listen.
Anyway, he died due to a “fluffy-related boating accident” and threw more money at me than I knew what to do with. The only thing he’d written to me in his will was, “Where will you go when you don’t have to worry about how you get there?”
Well, fuck my life. I knew exactly where I was headed.
Being the “typical American” who’s generally ignorant of affairs outside my own borders, I’d always assumed the Fluffy Pony was strictly an American problem. After all, Hasbio is an American company. Or was, before being quietly chopped up and shuffled into other enterprises.
So, imagine my shock when our plane was waved off three times on approach because there were motherfucking fluffies on the runway. I quickly lost my will to live and begged for the plane to crash. Never a religious person, I prayed to all Gods on that day for a swift and merciful death. My prayers, like most, went unanswered.
The fourth attempt was successful. Everyone started clapping for some reason as the wheels hit the tarmac. I looked around at everyone grinning and banging their hands together because the plane was no longer airborne.
Never one to miss out on a good time, I started clapping too, hooting and hollering like a jackass.
I know for a fact, no matter how upset I was, the pilots were even more enraged. They were easily heard even without the intercom, cursing Hasbio. Luckily, the plane ran over an entire herd on it’s way to the gate. I even watched a few foals get sucked into the jet turbines, so there’s that. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.
As I set foot outside Heathrow, I breathed deeply, allowing London to introduce itself to me. Halfway through this olfactory handshake, London started squeezing my hand a little too hard, like an overly competitive cousin.
Hey, London, settle down a little.
Now, he’s breaking my knuckles.
I gagged and promptly threw up in a nearby trash bin. That smell. That. FUCKING. Smell. I’d know it anywhere.
My neck almost snapped as I whipped around to look behind me. And there it was, right next to a third-world immigrant heroically defecating in a bush, a fatass neon green pegasus mare spraying high-velocity shit all over an innocent bollard.
Imagine two dozen unwrapped Hersheys with almonds in the driver’s seat of a car on a hot summer day. Quantity and consistency. Now imagine it coming at you at 45 kilometers per hour, hot and fired from an arsehole.
After abusing the infrastructure, she began her list of demands to anyone within earshot.
I’d like to take a moment to mention that fluffies aren’t programmed with an accent or dialect. Much like humans, they tend to pick up on and use the local speech pattern. Specifically the accent that’s most easy to use when combined with their already brutal speech impediment.
So, for instance, instead of saying “spaghetti”, these little shits will say “sketti”. Or, “Play” would instead be “pway”. Baby talk, for the most part. Now, what do you think that turns into when you slap on a cockney accent? Motherfucking “Skeh-ays”.
“Oi mate! Baybehs nee nummays an miwkays! Nee a pwopuh bow o skeh-ays fow mayk miwkays! Nee chips fow baybehs! Gef nao ow oi gef woust poopays! Oi gef fowevah sweepays!”
After being on a plane for over 8 hours, fucking around with the TSA and customs, being poked, questioned, patted, wanded and having to wade through a sea of fucking humans anytime I wanted to go anywhere or do anything, my resolve broke.
Shattered, really.
“God fucking DAMMIT!” I tore my backpack off my shoulder and, using it as a counterweight, I began to spin around. This bag, which (coincidentally) was full of hammers, would be as a bolt of lightning from God.
My two and a half years of track and field were about to pay dividends. As the world blurred in a cone around me, I had only a fraction of a second to spot the garishly green monstrosity before I loosed all my anger and frustration.
My lifelong dream began crumbling before the plane even touched down and this single creature would pay the price.
Pouring nothing but pure black hatred into an overflowing cup, I bellowed from within my hurricane, “FLUFFCUNT!”
She stopped her whining as I caught her attention. Her jaw dropped as if she’d seen the reaper himself. In a way, I suppose she had.
“You have been judged. . . and found wanting!” I released.