The Life of Ivan - Chapter Two
“Sensitive Site Fluff-sploitation”
It is now the end of the day, the clock seems louder than usual. You can’t actually be arsed to do the wash, make dinner, or anything for that matter. You aren’t depressed, at least not currently. You’re just bored. Incomprehensibly, impossibly, totally, utterly bored. But then it hits you, you do actually have something to do. The vile, technicolour shithead you witnessed being beaten earlier. You have just decided to retrieve him, and possibly find out what he knows if you can convince him.
Off to the shed! You prepare the workbench starting with the surface. The hardwood surface is stained from decades of use, but you cover it with a thick plastic tarpaulin to avoid it getting soaked in fluffy shit. You don’t plan to torture it, even if it’s well deserved, but you anticipate it becoming scared enough to shit itself. On a small, rolling tool cart, you leave safety glasses, thick rubber gloves, and a tool box filled with assorted hand tools. Nothing particularly sinister, but you feel you should have options.
Finally, a potato sack. You plan on using this to ferry the shit soaked fluffy back to the shed, assuming it isn’t dead when you get there. As you get read to step off, you stop and wonder: “What the hell am I doing right now?”
You took your time creeping up to the clearing, careful not to spook any fluffies. When you arrive at your destination, you are pleasantly surprised. Not a soul in sight. But you can hear them babbling to each other from underneath the cover of their new home. Now onto the fluffy, he’s still breathing. You aren’t familiar with fluffy physiology, but he didn’t move when touched. Could be shock, or a coma. Who knows.
The fluffy is buried under a sizeable mound of shit, piss, and what appear to be….miscarried foals? Absolutely brutal. There is also a few small pieces of plastic, presumably because the herd determined they weren’t edible. Just…wow. Even as you pick the fluffy up to put him in the sack, he still doesn’t move. Maybe this was a waste of time?
Back in the shed, you got about halfway through washing the waste off of him before he woke up. He hoarsely screams and kicks, crying the whole way through until you finally dry him off and set him on the bench.
“Huuuuuuu, dummeh hoomin, wawa bad fow fwuffy. Huuuuu….” The fluffy looks down at the table, then flops over with tears still streaming from his eyes. “Poopie pwace hab worstes huwties…”
“Hey, retard, I have questions for you.”
He turns over and taps a hoof on the table, cheeks puffed. “Nu am wetawd! Am fwuffy!”
“Yes, yes, great. I have things to ask you. If you tell me, you get food. Deal?”
“Dummeh hoomin gib nummies to tuffy nao! Nu wan…qwue…west…westion….” He stops and tilts his head, you swear you hear dial-up tones coming from his remaining ear.
“Listen fluffy, this dummy human will give you the worst ever hurties if you don’t give me what I want. If you do, you get the best sketties ever.” It pains you to use fluffspeak, but it must be done.
The fluffy sits back on his haunches and looks up at the ceiling, then back to you. “What dummeh hoomin want fwom fwuffy?”
He has a decent poker face for a little shit, but his tail betrays him. Swishing back and forth at the mention of “sketties.”
You ask him “Did any fluffies in your herd ever have mommies and daddies?”
“Nu, fwuffy nebah hab daddeh. Nu fwuffies hab daddeh ow mummah.” he pauses and looks back at you again, “Nyu daddeh?”
“No fluffy, I am not your daddy. But I will feed you so you can go back to your herd.” This is a lie, of course. But he doesn’t seem to approve either way. He begins to sob again, crying about getting “sowwy poopies” and “wowst poopie pwace hurties” from the other fluffies earlier in the day. You tell him he must’ve been a very bad fluffy, and accuse him of using “babbehs” for “gud feews” and being mean to other fluffies.
He gives you a look of shock, saying “How dummeh hoomin kno what tuffie do? Dummeh babbehs steaw miwkies fwom speciaw fwend, nu wike.” And he says so very matter-of-factly. As if there could be no other course of action for that offence.
Twisting around in vain to reach his own asshole, he goes back to mumbling about poopie place hurties whilst sniffling and grunting with effort. Suddenly he stops, and lets a massive flood of shit from his rear end go all over the workbench. You pat yourself on the back for bringing a tarp. You realise that you grossly overestimated a fluffies ability to communicate, and that there isn’t much else for him to tell you. Having confirmed that the entire herd is likely feral, you decide on a new course of action.
You pick up the former toughie by the scruff, and as he kicks and screams, bring him over to the slop sink in the corner. In it lies an old washboard, perfectly suitable for the task. You take zip ties and secure the toughie to the washboard with a limb at each corner. He is now screeching in fear and pissing himself. Of course the piss has nowhere to go except all over him, it runs down his belly to his hoofs, taking the shit on the insides of his legs with it. This creates a rather foul smelling river of waste in the sink.
Leaving him right side up in the sink for the moment, you step away for your gloves and a small jerry can full of diesel fuel leftover from the previous owners. Walking back to the distressed fluffy, you’re sure to grab an old hand towel from the shelf. Sobbing uncontrollably the fluffy asks you what you’re about to do between distressed chirps and screeches.
“Well my little friend, you know what they say, it isn’t waterboarding if it’s diesel.”