You’re sitting on your front porch, enjoying a cold beer. It’s a good day. Not too hot, gentle breeze, hot chick in a bikini mowing her lawn across the street. All is well.
You raise your eyebrows as a riot of color makes its way down the sidewalk; the guy down the street acquired four fluffy stallions last week and named them Larry, Curly, Moe, and Shemp. They’ve all got collars with jangling tags. Fluffy ponies are unusual in your town, and ferals even more so; it’s nearly impossible for fluffies to survive on their own when every winter brings at least eight feet of snow with it. But, somehow, some ferals showed up, and the guy down the street claimed these four for himself. They didn’t bother anyone and were polite when encountered, so nobody minded if they roamed the neighborhood in search of entertainment.
Their principle form of entertainment, it seemed, was heckling another feral fluffy. Unlike the Stooges, as everyone called them, this feral fit every negative stereotype in the book. They were quiet and well-behaved, he was loud and obnoxious. Unlike them, he tore up gardens, shat everywhere, and tried to bully people into handing over their yards to him. He was a confrontational little shit, but he was more or less harmless, so nobody went out of their way to get rid of him permanently, just drive him off when he bothered them. You still laugh when you think of little old Missus Jenkins clobbering him with a can of creamed corn when he demanded she cede her groceries to him.
Now the Stooges have parked themselves on the sidewalk in front of your house. Oh boy. That can only mean one thing…
Yup. Here comes Smarty, trotting down the sidewalk arrogantly. He brushes past the other fluffies, walks up the drive to your house, and climbs up on the porch, glaring at you and puffing his cheeks in what he thinks is an intimidating manner.
“Dummeh hoomin! Dis smawty wand nao! Yoo weave now, ow get bigges owies!”
You set your beer down, lean over, and deflate his cheeks by pressing them with your fingertips.
“Hey! Nu du dat, dummeh! Dis smawty wand nao! Yoo haffa weave!”
You deflate his cheeks again.
“Stahp dat! Yoo get bigges owies, yoo du dat agin!”
You grin and deflate his cheeks again. He screeches indignantly and stomps his little hooves in rage.
“NU DU DAT, DUMMEH! YOO STAHP! YOO STAHP NAO!”
You laugh and deflate his cheeks a fourth time.
“AAAAAAAGH! DAT NU FUNNEH, DUMMEH!”
You deflate his cheeks a fifth time, then rub your finger up and down in front of his face so he makes a stupid “plbplbplbplbplbuh” noise every time he tries to yell at you. He finally backs away from you and hops in a circle on your porch, stomping, spitting, and screaming in incoherent rage.
Once he’s calmed down a little, he turns to face you again, glaring hatefully.
“Yoo ask fow dis! Smawty gun gif yoo bigges owies now!”
He waddles over, brandishing his horn in a manner that would be threatening if he were anything but a fat, fourteen inch tall, poofy horse, and ‘charges’ at you with it. You get up out of the chair and step over him.
“Buh? Whewe hoomin gu?”
“Well, guess it’s time to let Ol’ Painless out of the bag.”
The Stooges all glance at each other, then settle back to watch the show. You head inside and spend the next ten minutes getting ready. You can hear Smarty prancing around on your porch and bragging about how he scared you away and this is his land now.
You step back out onto the porch and Smarty looks up at you.
“Whu? Who yoo?”
He seriously doesn’t recognize you? Stupid. Granted, you do look a little different than before.
Now you’re wearing old-fashioned military fatigues, a boonie hat, a glue-on handlebar mustache, and are chewing a wad of Big League Chew in lieu of chewing tobacco.
“Dummeh hoomin! Dis smawty wand nao! Weave nao ow get bigges owies!”
In your best Jesse Ventura impression, you reply, “I ain’t got time for owies!” and bring Ol’ Painless out from behind your back.
Ol’ Painless is an airsoft minigun modeled after the one in Predator. It fires 4,000 plastic BB’s a minute, each traveling at roughly 300 feet per second, and the backpack ammo pack holds 25,000 BB’s. You thumb the safety and the barrels begin to spin with a loud whirring sound. Smarty’s eyes get big and he scrambles to get away.
“Oh, POOPIES!”
BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRT!
“Owies!”
BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRT!
“Nu huwt fwuffy!”
BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRT!
“Huuhuuuu!”
BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRT!"
The force of repeated bursts of pellets impacting his body flips the fluffy over each time. He huddles down in your grass and covers his face with his hooves, crying. He’s just exposed his ass and his tiny, fuzzy balls to you. You open with another burst from Ol’ Painless and several hundred pellets splatter against his anus and ‘special lumps’. The screech of pain is deafening and Smarty sprints away from the yard faster than you’ve ever seen a fluffy move (well, you only have him and the four Stooges to compare, but whatever.). The Stooges follow.
Hank, your next door neighbor is watching the antics with obvious amusement. Breaking character, you raise Ol’ Painless over your head and shout, “I’M WAYNE BRADY, BITCH!” Hank cracks up, retrieves his newspaper from the lawn, and heads back inside.
You go inside, doff the costume, and hang Ol’ Painless on the wall. That was fucking awesome. You head back out onto the porch, sit down, and relax with your beer again. Aaaaah, what a beautiful day!
Before too long, however, you see a familiar blob of brown and orange as Smarty trots up the driveway again, covered in painful welts and trailed by the Stooges. You sigh and set your beer down again. This little asshole has to have the steepest learning curve of any creature on the planet. He’s lucky people in your town aren’t abusive psychos like down south where fluffies are more common; he’d have already been skinned alive and crucified by now.
“D-dummeh hoomin! Dis smawty wand nao! Yoo weave, ow, ow get bigges owies!”
“Come at me, bro!”
He pauses.
“Huh?”
“Oh, geez, do I have to explain that one to you? You wanna give me owies? Go ahead, give me your best shot!”
He charges (waddles quickly, in other words), stops to climb up onto your porch with some effort, then resumes the charge, shouting a war cry that would sound more impressive if it wasn’t coming from something that sounds like fucking Elmo.
You grab him by the scruff of the neck and he yelps uncomfortably, surprised you grabbed him.
“Listen here, shithead. Why exactly do you want to steal my land, anyway?”
“Stoopi hoomin! Dis nu yoo wand, dis smawty wand!”
“WHY. DO. YOU. WANT. IT.”
“… nee wand fow hewd.”
“WHAT herd?”
He doesn’t seem to comprehend the question and looks at you like you just asked him about the status of the free market in Alexandrian Macedonia.
“There is no herd. It’s just you. And, I guess those guys, but they’re not even with you. They just follow you around so they can laugh at how stupid you are. You don’t have a herd. It’s just you.”
Smarty’s eyes start to water and he hangs limp in your grip, bawling uncontrollably.
“WAAAAAAAH! Huuhuuhuuuuu! Smawty jus wan feew impowtant! Smawty nu haf hewd, nu haf spechow fwend, nu haf babbehs, nu haf wand, nu haf daddeh, nu haf nuffin! Huuuuuu! Effybuddy hate Smawty awweady, su why twy be nicey-nice when hoomins jus be meanie tu Smawty aww da time? Smawty twy take wand su Smawty can say he dun sumfin in his wowfwess wife! Boooo, huuhuuhuuuuu!”
Wow. You almost feel sorry for the little guy. Almost. You remember when he shit on your leg last time he tried to annex your yard, which you now think of as The Sudetenland. Get it? Smarty’s a land-grabbing Hitler wannabe? Yeah, nobody thinks that’s funny.
“Geez, if you wanted a home and a family, you could try ASKING someone. I know people don’t like fluffies in general and you in particular, but did you even TRY not being a douche?”
He sniffles pathetically and sobs.
“Hell, Smarty, if you were really, really nice, I might even be your new daddy and let you live with me.”
His flow of tears stops immediately and he instantly perks up, his entire demeanor changed.
“Weawwy?!”
“Ha, no.”
Then you drop-kick his furry little ass and he sails over the Stooges heads and lands in the street, tumbling end over end before skidding to a halt face-first on the asphalt. He shakes as he struggles to his feet, blood pouring down his face where his nose hit the ground, one eye already swelling shut, and sobs as he shits himself. The Stooges watch in silence as he mumbles to himself pathetically and limps away down the sidewalk. Damn. You really do almost feel bad for Smarty.
Then one of them, you think it might be Curly (you never bothered to learn which was which) turns and raises his forelegs in the air and shouts, “GOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAL!” and you crack up laughing.