I live in a (now) snowy part of the world. Wake up one morning and look outside to see a lumpy mound; 4-5 feet tall, and at least 10 in diameter, covered with snow, but tufts of multicoloured fluff and the occasional leg stick out.
Looks like ferals got into my garden again. Something about the high fencing providing enough shelter from the wind to make fluffies bivouac in a large fluffpile huddling together for warmth. Happens once or twice a year. There was a foot or two of snow last night, and I can’t see any movement or rising breath fog so they have to be dead.
With them dead in the snow there was no point in going out right away. So I have a leisurely high fat fried breakfast, wash it down with steaming black coffee that I may or may not have added some Cognac to. Read the news, surprise surprise, food riots in the third world, AGAIN.
Fluffies really fucked global food production, the rich nations of the world could afford to buy up what was available, but everyone else starved, been a few years since the famine and they still struggle to get anything but fluffy meat outside the first world. So many people starving and the resultant unrest burned most of Africa, Central Asia and surprise surprise the middle east. All the soot and crap in the air dropped global temperatures 5 degrees in two years, this crashed the gulf stream so Europe froze over.
Upsides:
- I don’t need to hear anyone talking about global warming anymore.
- Europe’s too cold for asylum seekers to get to so I don’t need to hear people banging on about that anymore.
- I got a job at the newly opened Peak District Ski Area.
Downsides:
- Its fucking March and its still snowing in Yorkshire.
- Somehow the Tories are still in charge and are still confused at the concept of actually salting roads.
Look out the window at the the mound of dead fluffies and the expanse of cold white bullshit and mutter to myself “Fuck you shitrats.”
Time to deal with the snow and its victims. Put on some old ski salopettes on, a jumper, another jumper, an old military surplus winter greatcoat before some warm gloves. Grab the garbage bags with the biohazard symbol on, A household staple in the post-fluffy world.
Crunch a path through the snow. Start prying the dead icecube fluffies out of the pile, some take a good few hard yanks to separate. Some of the death poses really would pull on the heart strings had they not been fluffies.
The outside of the pile seemed to be mostly stallions, they had died with looks of fear, confusion and sadness on their faces, protecting their women and young. Once the frozen stallion crust was peeled back I started to find the mares, Mothers frozen curled up around their foals, I would pick up a mare and there would be a pair of foals still hanging, frozen to the teat. The fluffies all seemed to have been mostly dry but their face fluff were solid ice. They all died crying. Found a mare that had gone into labour, the fluids of which had frozen the fluffies under and behind her, I never found the newborns so they were either frozen inside or had been eaten to save them the horror of existence.
As I walk around, trampling down the snow I trip over a solid lump on the ground, I realise its a fluffy totally hidden under the snow, I find 3 fluffies, each holding the tail of the one in front in their mouths to stay together. They must have attempted to flee when it became clear they were gonna freeze in the fluffpile. They made it about 15 feet.
I grab a fluffy and while cold and dead, its not frozen, I hold it up an inspect it, A dead foal slips out of its mouth, down the pub I heard that fluffies would try that to keep their foals warm, also heard that like half the time they forgot they did that and swallow them.
Fucking fluffies.
I have filled half a dozen bags, I carry them to the pavement outside my house for collection alongside the other garbage. Crunch over to the rest of the pile, another 3 bags or at most. Over my heavy breathing , crinkling of the fresh bag and my cold weather clothing I hear a tiny high pitched croaky voice “h… hewp… c-c-c-c-cowd…” Look down at a shivering and shuddering stallion, they are lying on top of two heavily pregnant ex-fluffies.
They are jowly fucker, fatter than every other fluffy so far, right in the middle of the pile and with some insulating blubber, surprised I say “I didn’t expect to find any of you guys still breathing.” as I pick up the last survivor.
“s-sss-s-smawty c-c-c-cowd h-huu-huumin g-g-g-gib w-warm h-h-housie…” Fat chance of that, we had a nice warm planet before fluffies fucked that up. Put the smarty in the half full biohazard bag. They make confused noises “W-whh-whuuuu?” as I drop his ground insulation mares in the bag on top of him, before closing up the bag and dropping it off on the curb along with the rest.
Go back inside, strip off most of my extra layers before putting the kettle on, I need more coffee. Fucking freezing out there.
