The Life of Ivan - Chapter One
“Fluffy Observations Group”
Ain’t no such things as halfway crooks, scared to death and scared to look, they shook….
Music plays in the background as you dress for the day. You decided that you want to observe the fluffy herd that apparently inhabits your land for two reasons. One, because they may become a huge pain in your ass. And two, because you have nothing better to do. As cliche as it may be to some, you do own a ghillie suit. Looking like a swamp monster made of dry moss, you intend to sit on a branch of a very large tree that you know overlooks another small clearing on the property.
Let’s skip to actually climbing the tree.
The tree is rather large, and the diameter of this particular branch is over 12 inches. Plenty to sit on. The weather is overcast and breezy, but despite that the temperature is still pushing 75F by the time you walk out there. You lay on this large branch, get comfy, and rest your face on your hands in front of you and wait. It takes nearly 20 minutes, but the first fluffy walks into view from your right.
You observe a group of fluffies around ten in number, in various colours. You see at least two mares judging from the balls of fluff on their backs, their foals. Several smaller fluffies follow with the group, probably younger ones, and at the very rear are two brown fluffies. You slow your breathing as best you can and listen intently.
“Speciaw fwend! Whewe fwuffies make nestie pwace?” You can’t tell which is speaking, but with this you assume this group isn’t native to your property. This could be interesting.
“Smawty wan’ nestie in dis ting, wooks gud fow cowd time.” The blue fur and red mane fluffy, a unicorn, taps a large fallen tree with his little hoof.
This tree is, or was, just as large as the one you observe this herd from. It has been hollowed out closest to the ground over the years from a combination of rot and animal activity, and it just so happens to have fallen onto a dumpster-like metal container the previous owner of the property left behind. You’re sure that with exploration, they will discover this. You wonder if anything nasty also inhabits that space.
Nothing particularly interesting happens for the next half hour. You lay there on the branch, watching them toddle about collecting “gwassies” and “nummies” whilst babbling like toddlers. While you can understand them clearly, they don’t necessarily sound human. There’s a clear difference. This somehow makes it less creepy that they can talk.
“Huuuuu, pwease nu take babbeh, is onwy widdle babbeh! Huuu…”
You witness a large male fluffy, a monochrome dark green in colour, with his face pushed underneath a distressed mare. After a full minute of whinging, the stallion is successful in pulling the foal from underneath its mother. But the mothers crying has drawn the attention of the herd, as well as the assumed smarty friend.
“Shuddup dummeh mawe, dummeh babbeh is poopeh babbeh. Twy to take miwkies fwom toughies speciaw fwend.”
“Huuu…Fwuffy am bad mummuh, nu hab miwkies fow babbeh huuu…”
The ‘toughie’ stallion gives the brown foal a backhand slap that Will Smith would be proud of as the mare cries. It is amazing that these things were meant to be children’s toys. So, this emaciated mare couldn’t produce the milk to feed her child, which wandered off to find milk elsewhere.
You zone out whilst giving this whole thing some thought, and come back to earth in time to notice that the mare is pleading for her foals life. You also notice that this commotion has successfully drawn the smarty even closer, but he nor any fluffy watching has announced his presence.
The green toughie gives “sorry poopies” to the mare, who by now is completely inconsolable, and says: “Toughie gib dummeh babbeh sowwiest enfies and forebah sweepies. Den make dummeh mawe gib -“
The green toughie is interrupted by a swift kick from the smarty. The two back hooves, likely no tougher than the thickest of callouses on your own feet, still manage to disfigure the toughies face. This kick appears to have severely damaged its snout and eye, and starts bleeding heavily. He cries and cries, while the smarty picks up the brown foal by the scruff and returns it to its mother.
Because they aren’t yelling at each other, you don’t hear the exchange. You’re in a state of disbelief. Not only did that little bastard realise he could use rape as a weapon, he consciously threatened to do so. You are equal parts disgusted and fascinated by this ridiculous behaviour.
This theme continues as the smarty leads three larger-than-average fluffies, presumably other toughies, back to the injured stallion.
“Dummeh, yu am nu toughie nu mowe. Dat was onwy widdle babbeh. An tuffy was ‘sposed tu be nummie findah fow mawe. Yu wowstest tuffy.” Says the smarty. He doesn’t seem to be shouting, but speaking loudly enough that everyone can hear him. You cannot hear what he says next, but the other toughies begin slapping him with their hooves, and finally, one of them actually mounts the poor bastard.
Enf, enf, enf, enf!
By this point you’d like to go back to the house, but can’t leave the tree just yet without spooking this new herd. You feel raindrops blowing in from the side, and decide that when they begin to take shelter you can leave. So until then, the only show you have to watch is the fluffy fuckfest down below. Everyone seems to get a turn, except for the smarty. He toddled away as the toughies did what they do best.
Nearly 20 minutes later, the rain starts. Leaving the broken stallion crying, covered in sorry poopies, and in a puddle of his own piss. Having been violated by not just the three toughies, but by several other male fluffies, who animatedly shared some choice words with him before taking their own turns. You can only imagine what that stallion did to draw the ire of the others.
Back at the house, now in fresh clothes, you grab a small notebook and scribble down what you learned for the day:
- “Smarty friend” blue coat w/ red mane + tail
- Dumbass foal diddler mono green
- Skinny mare w/ sickly pale purple, mono colour
- ^ equally sick foal w/ brown colour + no mane
Sitting there on your laptop you troll the internet for fluffy facts concerning smarties. You determine there is a difference between a regular smarty friend, and a fluffy with smarty syndrome. Actual smarties appear to be far more common among ferals. Whereas domestic fluffies tend to have more cases of smarty syndrome. In the short time you observed this group, you make a bet with yourself that this smarty friend may actually be a smarty. This makes you tempted to approach them, but decide against it. If you wait until they become better established they will be less likely to try and leave.
You consider trying to rescue the former toughie for the purpose of finding out where he came from, or if any of the other fluffies have names, to try and determine the makeup of the herd. But you know well enough that you wouldn’t succeed. The little bastard is smarty material, and you have no doubt it would be a waste of time.
Still, you are tempted to bag one and see what it can tell you.