The next several days are terrible. You’re trapped in a small box, with no room to run or jump or play or do anything but turn around in circles or sit. You have nothing to make a nestie from, just some sort of odd-smelling wood covering the floor; it feels soft under your hoofsies, but it makes for a terribly uncomfortable and itchy nestie. You know from experience and your mummah’s teaching that you need to make poopies and peepees away from the nestie, but you can’t do that here. You try to make poopies and peepees in the corner, but there isn’t enough room in the box for you to get away from it, and the smell is awful. There’s plentiful wawa, which is clean and doesn’t give your tummeh sickies, so that’s a plus. There’s also nummies. Not enough to make your tummeh happy, but you never have to worry about not getting any at all, which is a nice change. The nummies themselves are awful though. They’re hard and hurt your teefies when you crunch them, they taste terrible (though still better than some of the trashies you’ve had to eat in the past.), and they’re so dry that you end up drinking all your wawa by the time you’re done eating and then you have none left for the rest of the day. Your special place is still sore from whatever they did to hurt you when they brought you here.
The scary hoomin munstas here aren’t very nice. You’ve begged and pleaded for them to let you go, but they won’t listen. Whenever you cry, they yell at you to shut up and say mean things to you. Sometimes they hit your box with something hard and scare you. Once, when they put nummies in your box, you tried to escape and they hit your rump and poopie place and special place with a sorry stick so many times that you couldn’t sit down at all. The whole time, they shouted at you angrily and called you a bad fluffy. You’re not bad! You just want to escape the scary place full of mean munstas and go home! You don’t like it here.
This place is awful.
The stallion next to you is wailing and sobbing miserably. This morning when he woke up, his special lumps were laying on the floor of his box. He screamed and cried and hugged them and tried to put them back, but then a meanie munsta came and yelled at him and threw his special lumps in the trashies. The stallion bit him and tried to run away from the meanies, but he got hit with the sorry stick even worse than you did. Now he’s huddled in his box, covered in his own scaredy poopies, and he can’t stop crying. You tried to comfort him, but you can’t hug him and he won’t listen to you. He just cries for his special lumps back and keeps asking why the munstas here are so mean to him. The meanie hoomin munstas keep yelling at him to shut up and keep hitting his box with the stick, but he won’t stop crying.
Finally, one of the munstas says, “I’ve had enough of this shit. There any customers in the store?”
“Nope.”
One of the munstas walks over and opens the stallion’s cage. The stallion screams and tries to run to the back of his box, but there’s nowhere to run or hide and he’s dragged out, still screaming. The munsta holds the terrified stallion up high in the air by the scruff of his neck, and the stallion tucks his tail against his belly and holds his leggies in a posture of submission. He’s sobbing uncontrollably now and begging not to be hurt again.
“All you fluffies look here! Right now! You see this fluffy? This is a BAD fluffy! Do you know what happens to BAD fluffies?”
He drops the stallion on the floor and you wince as you hear a snap.
“OWIES! WEGGIE HAS WOWSTEST HUWTIES! Huuhuuu, why huwt fwuffy? Fwuffy nu bad! Huuuu…”
“BAD fluffies get a visit from Mr. Hammer!”
WHACK!
“OWIES!”
WHACK!
“OWIES! PWEASE, NU MOWE HUWTIES! FWUFFY AM GUD FWUFFY! DU ANYFIN MUNSTA ASK! NU MOWE HUWTIES, PWEASE!”
WHACK!
“Huu… gurgle…”
WHACK!
The munsta lifts the stallion’s lifeless, broken body again, his head dangling, tongue sticking out, one eye popping out of his face. His head is red mush.
“This is what happens to bad fluffies. So no more crying, no more screaming, no more biting, no more trying to get away. You step out of line, you get the hammer. Got it?”
Every fluffy is silent, petrified with terror.
“I SAID DO YOU GET IT?!”
Dozens of fluffies all scream some variation of an affirmative answer and the stench of dozens of simultaneous scaredy poopies fills the shelter. The munsta carries the limp stallion into the back and tosses him in the trashies.
“That oughta keep the little shitrats in line, at least for another day or so.”
You curl up in the corner, tears staining your fluff, and sob as quietly as you can. Why are they doing this? Why did they steal you and put you here? Why are they so mean?
You bury your face in the cedar chips, which reek of your own peepees, and hope none of the munstas notices you crying and comes to give you more hurties.
You don’t know how long you’ve been here. Many sleeps, you know that. Sometimes other hoomin munstas will come in, talk to a fluffy, give the munstas some funny green paper, and take the fluffy away. You never see those fluffies again. You have no idea what happens to them.
But you know you don’t want to be one of them.
Every day, when it gets dark outside and the munstas lock the door so more hoomin munstas can’t come inside, they go through all the boxes. Most days they find one, sometimes a bunch at once, and for reasons you don’t understand take those fluffies in the back and give them forever sleepies. You can hear the awful sound of Mr. Hammer giving them the worstest hurties, hear the fluffies begging and screaming. You don’t know why they do it. Most of them were good fluffies, who tried their best not to cry and never did anything bad that you know of.
You just huddle in the back of your box, knowing it provides no protection whatsoever, and sob, hoping they don’t pick you.
It’s not supposed to be like this. You’re not supposed to be scared all the time. You have the worstest heart hurties, and you keep hoping you’ll wake up in the morning and be in your familiar alley.
But it’s a nightmare you can never wake up from, and every day is filled with fear and dread.
You’re sore from being stuck inside the box for so long. Your leggies need to stretch, but you don’t have room to do anything but stand and then sit again. You’ve taken to gnawing at the fluff around one of your hoofsies, trying to get an itch that won’t go away. You’re bleary-eyed from lack of sleep; the stress and fear is keeping you up, and even when you don’t get bad sleep-pictures that scare you, other fluffies do and when they wake up screaming and crying it wakes you up too.
You hear the odd ding-a-ling sound from the door and look in idle curiosity to see what sort of munsta walked in this time. You have nothing better to do, nothing to keep you occupied. There’s a little filly in the box next to you, where the stallion used to be. She’s still crying about her special place hurting. You don’t bother to offer her any comforting words like you tried to do for the stallion.
There’s no point. This is a nightmarish hell and the only escape is a painful, horrifying death. You can hear the sound of Mr. Hammer just thinking about it.
WHACK!
WHACK!
WHACK!
You know it’s only a matter of time until it’s your turn with Mr. Hammer. And you know that being a good fluffy isn’t going to save you.
Nothing and no one will ever save you. It’s just a matter of waiting for the awful end. The sooner the filly learns to accept this, the better.
Two hoomin munstas have entered the shelter, one of them only half as tall as the other and acting very excited.
“Ok sweetie, go pick a good fluffy while daddy talks to the nice man.”
“Yaaaaaay!”
The short munsta runs from box to box, looking at the fluffies inside. She stops at the filly next to you and the tall hoomin walks over.
“Do you like this one?”
“Hi! What’s your name, fluffy?”
“Huuuhuuu, pechow pwace huwties! Huuu…”
The filly makes a stream of scaredy peepees and the short munsta makes a face.
“Eeeeeeew! Daddy, I don’t think I want that one.”
Then it stands in front of your box. You press yourself against the back of the box and hide your see-places with your hoofsies.
“Aaaw, look daddy! This one’s shy! She’s so pretty!”
You sob, hoping they’ll go away and leave you alone. Please don’t hurt me, please don’t hurt me…
“I dunno, I don’t think this one is-”
“Oh no! Daddy, look! She only has five days and then they’re gonna put her down!”
“Yeah, honey, I don’t know if this is the best-”
“Daddy, we can’t let them kill her!”
Kill? Who? You? Kill you? They’re going to kill you?!
“EEEEEE! PWEASE, NU HUWTIES! FWUFFY GUD FWUFFY! NU WAN FOWEVUH SWEEPIES!”
You look around frantically, but there’s nowhere to hide, nowhere to escape. You’re trapped. Just like you have been ever since you first tried to eat that skettis. You flop down into a quivering lump and hide your see-places again, crying. You know your outburst has earned you more hurties from the munstas.
“Daddy, that’s awful! We have to get this one!”
“Honey, I really don’t think this is a good idea. Why don’t you pick a different-”
“No, daddy, I want this one! Look at her, she’s scared! C’mon daddy, please? Pleeeeaaaase?”
“SIGH. All right, but I think you’re making a mistake. We could get that yellow one over there, she seems nice.”
“No, I want this one, daddy!”
“Ok, ok. Hey! How much for this one?”
The meanest of the meanie munstas approaches and you whimper, trying not to cry and make him angry. You don’t want more hurties.
“This one’s a feral, we got her almost a month ago. Never had a home. But she’s had all her shots and she’s spayed, so you don’t have to worry about that. You can have her for twenty bucks.”
“Well, that doesn’t seem too expensive.”
“Wait until you start buying the accessories. Sorry stick, sorry box, fluffy kibble, water bottle, all of it necessary if you want a healthy, well-behaved fluffy. You gotta be strict with these things, come down hard on 'em, or they’ll get bratty and give you all sorts of trouble. You got a safe room?”
“Yeah, my daughter wanted a fluffy for her birthday, so I did some research and we’ve got a walk-in closet we set aside for a safe room.”
“That should be fine. Go ahead and talk to Earl over there, he’ll help you with the paperwork and get you set up with what you need. I’ll box up the fluffy for you.”
“Thanks. Now sugar, you’re SURE this is the one you want?”
“Yes, daddy! She looks so sad! We have to help her!”
“Ugh. All right, if that’s what you want. Go ahead, I guess I’m stuck with that one.”
“Just remember, we have a no returns policy.”
“Of course you do. C’mon honey, let’s let the nice man work while we go pay.”
The meanie munsta turns to you, scowling, and says, “Looks like today’s your luck day, shitrat.”
Then he pulls down another box and sets it at his feet, then opens your box and reaches in for you.
You scream.
There’s no escape. You go in the box, he shuts it, and you’re trapped! Trapped in the dark! The box shakes and you go sliding around, bumping your nosie and huuhuuing from the sudden pain.
“Settle down and shut up!”
You huddle at the bottom of the box, trying to hug your hurt nosie and not slide around as the box keeps moving, and wonder how things could get any worse.
