Industrial abuse is one of my guilty pleasures. Enjoy!
It takes place at the climax of the fluffy pony frenzy. What was once considered the ultimate luxury pet has been reduced to a cheap trendy novelty. Ever since fluffies were left to roam and reproduce across the country, they irreversibly became an aspect of society, victims of their design as a lucrative product.
Some fluffies are born into the cruel existence of a stray, forced to subsist on rotting garbage while enduring the unforgiving elements of the outdoors. A lucky portion managed to find solace in the comforts of a home, depending on the unconditional love of their owners.
The rest of the fluffy population emerges from the cold confines of breeding mills and factories, where a foal’s natural needs are replaced by systematic processing. The complete commercialization of fluffies has condemned them to an existence akin to a contemporary plaything, easy to manufacture and even easier to discard.
Inevitably, like any other faceless corporation, a fluffy enterprise will seek to reap the benefits of innovating its merchandise. As such, one particular company introduces a new addition to its product line, the litter-pal, a heavily modified fluffy forced to lick clean the filthy rear of a household’s fluffy.
A fresh idea, brainstormed by a materialistic board of directors, the litter-pal draws upon the fluffy pony’s peculiar design. For instance, one of the many plights of the fluffy pony is their poor bowel control and self-discipline. Too often, an owner would be displeased with their fluffy’s tendency to poop outside of their litter box, a flaw that serves as the selling point of the litter-pal.
The purpose of the litter-pal is to encourage an owner’s fluffy to associate proper pooping behavior with pleasant sensations; thus, significantly reducing the likelihood of a fluffy leaving behind a stinking mess on the owner’s floor.
A litter pal will consist of a fluffy, typically one with undesirable colors or behavior, strictly raised to ingest excrement. Since the fluffy will not be required to walk ever again, their legs will be amputated. Similarly no longer serving a purpose, the fluffy’s teeth will be yanked out and discarded, and premium litter-pals may also have their voicebox surgically removed to scour noise complaints.
Lastly, the fluffy’s body will be enclosed within a box comprised of either wood or plastic, leaving only the fluffy’s head sticking out. A complimentary ring-gag device may be applied, forcing the miserable fluffy’s maw open, ensuring that they receive their only source of nourishment in the form of feces, surviving thanks to their swine-like digestive system.
With the product assembled, the fluffy, now marketed as a litter pal, is shipped off to stores, to be sold to doting fluffy owners. Used correctly, a household fluffy will have its rear end licked clean by the hapless litter pal, enticed by the pleasurable sensation of a warm moist tongue in their anal area, diminishing their carelessness when excreting.
The production of litter pals has been refined into a cost-effective process. In one particular factory, a disheveled yellow fluffy, one of the many breeding mares, gives birth to a red earth pony foal. The foal slides down onto a conveyor belt to join other recently-born fluffies, where underpaid employees sort out the river of chirping critters, separating them by color and discarding the malformed.
Unsurprisingly, the foals are stressed and confused by their environment, innately desiring the warm embrace of their mother, only to be shoved and crammed amongst each other. An employee dumps a box of squeaking foals into a chamber lined with plastic nozzle dispensers, filled with inexpensive soybean formulas, upon which the red foal alongside many others will instinctively suckle for nourishment.
For a few days, the foals will grow in strength, feeding on pallid fluids and sleeping under fluorescent heating lamps. Eventually, the foals open their eyes, their first sight being of the smelly congested space they were confined in. With no mother to cuddle with, the foals often pile together for companionship and affection.
When the foals can speak the pre-programmed phrases of their minuscule brain, they are deemed suitable for the next step of processing. An employee collects the aged foals, crating them and transporting them into a larger pen, with cheap flatscreen monitors lining the walls, in addition to the rudimentary dispensers of stale water and musty kibble.
For a whole week, the fluffies reside in their new quarters, often watching the television screens, looping a simple-minded instructional video, meant to teach the fluffies proper etiquette and obedience to their possible human owners. When the week is over, the fluffies undergo a test that will determine their future.
The red foal, now a grown fluffy, awakens alongside his brethren, as a human worker enters the living quarters with a plate of canned spaghetti, the aroma of the pasta igniting an intense craving within the fluffies. The fluffies run to the edge of their pen, slamming each other against the plastic bars, excited from the delightful sensation they never experienced before.
“Only good fluffies will not eat the spaghetti.” said the worker, promptly placing the plate of pasta onto the middle of the pen, then standing back to observe the fluffies.
“Sketties!” screamed a handful of fluffies as they rushed to devour the spaghetti, deliberately ignoring the human’s statement. The red fluffy was amongst them, his tongue brought back to life, deprived of pleasure for so long by tasteless soy liquids and dry kibble.
The rest of the fluffies, however, were keen to adhere to the doctrine that the televisions had taught them. Although their bellies ached them to dig into the pasta, their brain was properly molded to obey the commands of a human, fixated on being a “good fluffy”.
“Nice mistah say nu num sketties!” said an orange fluffy, who alongside other obedient fluffies, stared miserably at the other fluffies staining their cheeks with tomato sauce.
Deciding that enough time passed, the human worker re-entered the pen with a crate, plucking the teenage fluffies who refused to abstain from the spaghetti. It was this process that separated those whose behavior made them an ideal pet from those whose disobedience destined them to be litter-pal.
“Bad-upsies!” yelped the red fluffy, who only managed to nibble a few bites of the scrumptious bait.
The crate of gluttonous fluffies dropped them into a pen that was filthier and more barren than their previous one. Each day, a bucket of excrement, derived from the facility’s fluffies, is poured into a feeding bowl.
As a result of their bad behavior, the unfortunate fluffies are forced to consume the putrid scat as their only source of sustenance. No matter how much they beg or cry, the fluffies will not receive anything but a puddle of poop. The fluffies who starve leave behind those ready to be transformed into a litter pal.
“Pwease mistah! Fwuffy nu wan num poopies! Huuuhuu!” wailed the now emaciated red fluffy.
Sobbing from his hunger pains, the red fluffy finally caved in and reluctantly slurped up the rotting excrement. His remarkably effective digestive system breaks apart the pungent slop and revitalizes his body.
“Fwuffy sowwy! Pwease wet fwuffy haf kibbwe! Neba ask fo sketties again! Huuhuu…” cried the red fluffy, filled with regret at having such poor self-control.
Regardless of how sorry a future liter pal may be, the strict procedures of the factory offer no leniency to even the slightest hint of impulsiveness.
After a miserable month-long period of consuming fecal matter, the red fluffy had reached an acceptable size for a litter pal. A worker removes the fluffy from the pen, who wrongly thinks his pleas for a better life have been answered.
The worker plants the red fluffy into a conveyor belt, placing each of his legs into the 4 holes of the belt. Anchored down, the fluffy alongside many others are slowly pulled towards a motorized blade, meant to amputate their restrained limbs.
Up ahead, the red fluffy widens his eyes as he sees another fluffy further ahead of him, screaming in agony as the blade tears off their legs. The rest of the fluffies panic and wail helplessly, unable to pull away from the holes trapping their limbs. More screams are released, as one by one, a fluffy loses his legs to the creeping advance of the blade.
“Nuuu! Nu take weggies!” cried the red fluffy, struggling fruitlessly against the tight grip of the conveyor belt.
The screaming happened over and over, getting louder as the blade amputated one fluffy over another, the wails of agony getting closer to the red fluffy. In a frenzied state, he twists and turns to no avail, having no leverage to pull himself out of his restraints.
Only a few more hapless fluffies stood between him and the approaching blade, the conveyor belt pulling him closer. Exhausted, the red fluffy gulped down the realization that there was no escape. He was going to lose his “weggies”.
In front of him, a brown fluffy loses control of his bowel movements in fear of the blade, splattering shit onto the red fluffy’s despondent face. With the fluffy in front of him screeching in response to the ruthless blade, the red fluffy shuts his eyes tight, as a fiery hot pain drowns his limbs. Tears flowed and drenched his cheek fluff, enduring the horrible sensation around the bloody stumps where his legs used to be.
His torment was far from over, for the conveyor belt dragged him into the next step of the litter pal processing. Human workers pulled out the amputated fluffies, shoving a plastic device reminiscent of teeth retainers into the maws of the agonized critters. The device is clamped onto their weak sensitive teeth, upon which the worker yanks out the device with the teeth attached.
The red fluffy gurgled as throbbing penetrated deep into his gums, unable to comprehend so many terrible sensations. Seconds later, the suffering creature is sealed into a decorated box, his body enclosed and his head protruding out of it. A brand new litter pal has been manufactured.
And so, the red litter pal would be shipped off to a fluffy-centric store, where he would languish on the shelves alongside other whimpering litter pals. Every now and often, an employee would empty the container behind each litter pal, disposing of their accumulated waste and feeding the fluffies the all-too-familiar soybean formula.
Eventually, a lavish woman carrying her bright blue unicorn fluffy passed by the shelves, observing which litter pal to purchase. Her fluffy has its eyes set upon the red litter pal, upon which its owner is happily obliged to buy.
Initially, the litter pal experiences a twinge of joy, secretly hoping that the nice lady will give him a nice home filled with warm hugs and tasty food. While the woman did give him a nice home, there wasn’t any other kind of comfort for the litter pal to enjoy; after all, his purpose was to lick clean the rear end of the owner’s unicorn fluffy.
For months, the depressed litter pal forced himself every day to lap up the shit-stained rump of the owner’s fluffy. The litter pal sat in the corner, with the rancid taste of feces in his mouth, envying how the unicorn fluffy got to eat spaghetti and cuddle with their owner.
It wasn’t fair! But what could he do? Every time he complained, he would receive a flick to the nose from the lady, or receive sorry hooves from her fluffy. It was a lifetime of despair, only experiencing brief consolation from his sleep, as he dreamed of a better life filled with love and care he never received.
One night, a burglar broke into the house, enticed by the many valuables of the lavish woman’s home. As he carefully bagged up a handful of jewelry, he noticed the absent-minded litter pal, clearly in a state of misery. The burglar had many bad traits, but heartless was not one of them.
The litter pal stayed silent, not even bothering to notice the burglar picking him up, and then fleeing the house. The burglar felt a pang of pity toward the red critter, but he knew he didn’t have the resources to provide for a fluffy.
At his residence, he broke open the prison of the litter pal, freeing him from the disgusting box. The burglar stroked his hand across the matted fluff, igniting a small source of warmth within the fluffy. The red fluffy had never been petted before, but something deep inside told him that it was right, soothing him.
“Everything is going to be okay. Things will be better soon.” cooed the burglar, who opened a can of spaghetti, and poured the contents into a small plate.
Seeing the pasta, the red fluffy panicked, regretful memories surged from the past.
“Nu! Pwease, fwuffy sowwy! Nu huwt anymowe!” whimpered the tearful fluffy.
“It’s alright! You have nothing to fear. You’re safe now.” whispered the burglar, who continued stroking the mistreated fluffy.
“Fank yu mistah, fank yu so much!” responded the fluffy, never having felt so much compassion in his entire life. Tears of joy rained down his face as he slurped up the spaghetti. In his mind, everything is going to be alright.
Unbeknownst to the fluffy, the burglar had a hammer raised above him. In an instant, the hammer slammed into the fluffy’s head, the creature twitched for a few brief seconds before slumping down lifelessly. It was over.
A small part of the burglar lamented wasting a can of food on such a disposable creature; however, deep inside, he could sleep easier knowing that he ended one’s torment.
