March of the Fluffies: Spider Fluffies
Flipping through the channels one night.
Kind of late, and there’s nothing on.
You’re about to go to bed when you hear the melodic voice of Morgan Freeman coming from Fluff TV.
”Good evening, and welcome once again to ‘March of the Fluffies.’”
Dis gon be good.
”We begin tonight’s journey in the woodlands of North America in the treetops, of all places.”
The camera pans through the lush woodlands, before settling on a pile of brownish fuzz nestled on a low branch.
”You might think to yourself ‘Now, how did a fluffy pony manage to get way up there? Far as you know, fluffy ponies don’t climb trees.”
The pile of fuzz begins to move, and turn toward the camera.
Eight fuzzy legs stretch in unison from the chubby body of a fluffy pony.
The soft hooves patter in a circle revealing the smiling face of the Spider Fluff.
Two adorable fangs grace his smile like tiny pointed commas.
”Hewwo!” calls the Spider fluffy, raising a hoof.
”Here we see that this is no ordinary fluffy, but instead the rare and beloved Spider fluffy.”
The scene shifts to the spider fluffy scampering down the tree trunk and across the ground in a little eight legged waddle.
Sure, she moves with all the grace of a fluffy pony, but it’s at least three times faster.
”No one knows where the spider fluffy came from,” continues Morgan Freeman. “Some think that it was yet another experiment gone awry. Other believe that it was some sort of crossbreed with the now extinct Metroid promotional fluffy, and still others think that it just came about through the gross mutation of the unstable fluffy genome.”
The spider fluffy hums to herself as she continues her waddle across the leave strewn ground.
However the spider fluffy came to be, anyone can agree that they’ve far outstripped the potential of their vermin cousins.”
The spider fluffy goes silent and ducks down into the drying autumn grass as she spots a small family of fluffies dead ahead.
”Today, the spider fluffy has found the ideal prize: a family of fluffies with a father, a mother, and a few foals.”
”Because winter is coming, she needs every last bit of energy she can find before she lays her eggs, and passes on.”
The spider fluffy makes her way up to a nearby tree and starts grunting with gusto.
A moment later, she expels from her behind great quantities of a what looks like cotton candy.
After leaving her pile, she climbs up the trunk of the tree, and waits on a low branch with her eyes covered.
”With that sort of hiding, she may not fool a human,” says Morgan Freeman, “but the fluffies below won’t be able to see her until it’s far too late.”
”Skettis!” calls the fluffy in a chirpy, youthful voice. “Fwuffy haf skettis! Mmmm!”
The camera focuses back on the fluffy family, which has turned to face the sound of the sound of the spider fluffy.
The mother gathers her foals onto her back as they trundle over to the pile of sticky fluff.
””No fluffy alive can resist the siren call of spaghetti,” says Morgan Freeman.
”Sketti?” asks the male, speaking directly to the fluff pile. “You haf skettis?”
”Hu hu hu!” cries the spider fluffy. “Nu can eat skettis! Too maneh owies! Pwease gif huggies, make betteh?”
The male looks around, sniffing at the pile of fluff.
”Fwuffy smeww wike skettis,” he says. “Wheh skettis? Teww fwuffy ow big owies!”
”Nu huwties!” cries the spider fluffy, as she positions herself over the mother. “Gif skettis if gif huggies!”
The father fluffy looks around a moment before hugging the pile of fluffy spider excrement.
”Wha?” asks the father, as he finds himself stuck fast. “Wet go fwuffy!”
”Then, as he begins to panic, the spider fluffy strikes.”
She drops from the branches atop the fluffy mother, and pins her legs to the ground in a single swift motion.
Struggle as she might, the dam is pinned and helpless in moments as the spider fluffy’s cotton candy like webbing cocoons her.
”Eeee!” shrieks the “Wun bebehs! Wun way!”
But it’s far too late for the foals, as the spider fluffy has already begun to tie them in their own sacks of fluffy silk.
She bites each one behind the neck, her tiny fangs puncturing the tissue soft skin with ease.
The fluffies shriek in agony as the venom starts to take hold.
”Bebehs be gud!” she says, adhering the sacks to her underside. “Gon gif huggies to you daddeh!”
The spider fluffy waddles over to the struggling father with a wide grin.
”Wet fwuffy go ow gif biggest owchies!” demands the patriarch.
”Fwuffy gif you huggies!” the spider fluffy replies.
”To watch her embrace her prey might make you think that she desire companionship, or warmth, or any of the other things a fluffy desires in life.”
She repeated bites the male, despite his sobs of protest, and shrieks of agony as the venom flows through his body.
”But what she’s doing is injecting the male with her toxin over and over again.”
The picture cuts away to a slick computerized drawing of the spider fluffy’s fangs.
”When the venom comes into contact with fluffy DNA,” says the dulcet sound of Morgan freeman’s voice, “it causes this section, known as the merge fault, to activate.
“Early fluffies could be combined to create larger fluffy ponies. While this ability didn’t carry past the prototype stages, it still allows fluffies to reintegrate lost limbs and organs from other fluffies.”
The camera cuts back to the male fluffy screaming in agony as his body slowly looses its fluffy shape.
”Unfortunately for him, that same gift is now causing every bone and organ in his body to lose to become a thick soup which the spider fluff will feed upon for the rest of the day.”
The camera time lapses ahead for the next few hours as the male fluffy slumps into a puddle, and the spider fluffy feasts on the gooey strew inside.
She finishes the meal with the webbed foals before turning her attention to the still webbed mare.
”Having feasted upon the insides of her cousins, the spider fluffy now turns her attention to the sobbing widow that she left alive.”
The spider fluffy gathers the web bundled mare and departs for the tree tops as night falls.
”Now is the most treacherous part of the spider fluffy’s life. She must wait the evening as new life forms inside of her, hoping that her quarry not only livs through the night, but that it doesn’t escape.”
The camera focuses on the hanging fluffy mare.
”Huu huu huu,” she sobs.
Day breaks over the next scene, as the spider fluffy drags the fluffy mare down from the tree top and onto the ground.
The webbing is weak now, and the fluffy mare struggles free of it with little trouble.
As she takes off at maximum speed, the spider fluffy is upon her again, once more pinning her to the ground with her eight legs.
The spider fluffy mounts the mare and begins thrusting with reckless abandon.
”eeee!” Screeches the mare. “Nu wan spechaw huggies! You giwl fwuffy!”
”Enf enf enf!” replies the spider fluffy.
It’s only a few short moments before the spider fluffy releases the mare again, but the spider fluffy looks far worse for the wear.
”Sweepy,” mutters the spider fluffy as she makes her way toward the trees.
”Her eggs laid, the spider fluffy has done her part to secure the survival of her species, and she will soon die.”
”Fwuffy haf nappies,” she yawns, before cuddling up against the desiccated sack of fluff that used to be the fluffy stallion.
A few short minutes later, the fluffy spider stops breathing, and lays motionless on the forest floor.
The scene shifts again through the winter, following the mare as she struggles through the snow and ice.
”As the winter progresses,” continues Morgan freeman, “the mare grows larger as the foals grow insid her.”
”Gon be mummah!” she says to no one in particular.
As the scene fades from winter to the first green sprouts of spring, the fluffy dam lays comicly bloated and immobile in a hollowed out log.
She pants and squeals at every contraction, before finally yelling “big poopies!”
”As the dam gives birth, the spider fluffies break free of their amniotic sack to swarm over the brood mare.”
”Eeee!” she screeches as the baby spider fluffs swarm over her. “Munsta bebehs! Eeee!”
”The dozens of fangs of the spider fluffies bite down, each injecting a tiny bit of venom into the mare, paralyzing her as the toxins begin to break down her organs.”
The camera pulls out as more spiders fluffs swarm from within the dam, leaving the hollowed out log with the howling cries of the mare.
”Few of the spider fluffies will make it to adult hood,” says Morgan freeman, leaning against a nearby tree.
”But the ones that do will devour many fluffies in their life time, and help to control the vermin that have spread across our land.”
”So if you see a spider fluffy, leave it be. Give it a pat on the head, or a fluffy foal if you’ve got one, and remember that the spider fluffy is your friend.
He leans down to pat a green spider fluffy on the head.
“Isn’t that right, Miss Muffet?”
”Dat wite daddeh Fweeman!”
March of the Fluffies: Sea Fluffies
Sit down with your bowl of popcorn, because March of the Fluffies is new tonight.
Somehow, Fluff TV got Morgan Freeman to narrate a series about fluffy ponies, and it’s the greatest thing on TV.
The intro music starts playing followed by that smooth voice you’ve grown to love.
“Spaghetti Warehouse presents… March of the Fluffies.”
Cue montage of fluffies drowning, walking off cliffs, pummeling each other with ineffective, marshmallow like hooves.
The scene fades to calm beachscape, where the waves calmly wash ashore.
The sun is barely up, and the first rays of dawn are lighting the world.
For a moment, it’s relaxing, when the silence is broken by the shriek of a fluffy pony.
“Dummeh wa-wa wet go fwuffy ow…”
A dozen seal like bodies come into view as wave gathers along the shore, and a pile of sea fluffies crashes ashore with the wave.
“If all of God’s creatures could be called majestic,” says Morgan Freeman, “then the creatures of man sure are surely not.”
The sea fluffies roll off of one another, blowing raspberries and calling each other “poopie faces”
One could confuse them for seals at first, until you heard the babbling and saw the multicolored fluff covering their bodies.
Their two front flipper like legs have the same soft, leathery padding that a fluffy hoof has covering the underside and their back legs are fused into a single seal like tail.
“Originally created by Hasbio industries as aquarium pets, the sea fluffy soon escaped the confines of its tanks, and spread to the ocean.”
“Dis fwuffy wand now!” yells a sea fluffy to no one in particular.
“An ecological disaster in the making? You might think that, but the ocean is not nearly as forgiving as the land.”
As if on cue, a massive killer whale rides in on another wave, snatching a mouth full of sea fluffies in its cruel teeth.
“EEE! Fishy munsta!” shriek the remaining sea fluffies. “Wun way! Wun way!”
The fluffies flop and struggle about fifty feet down the shore as the killer whale washes back into the ocean. The fluffies continue waddling along the beach as if nothing happened.
“Most people would think that other fluffies would view the sea fluffies as monsters…”
The camera changes to a herd of fluffies cresting over a nearby dune. The fluffies start toward the sea fluffies, but find no grip in the soft sand and soon tumble face first down the dune.
One of the fluffies starts running around in blind panic, crying “Eyebawws huwties! Hu hu hu!”
Fluffy pony runs directly into the ocean and immediately disappears beneath a wave. None of the other fluffies seem to notice or care as they pick themselves up out of the sand.
“Hi nu fweind!” says the smarty sea fluffy. “Wan pway? Haf nummies?”
“…but anything with fluff is a friend to the fluffy pony.”
“Fwuffy fwiend haf nummies?” asks a fluffy pony. “Wheh nummies?”
“Nummies in wa-was!” says the sea fluffy. “Come haf nummie wif fwuffies?”
The earth fluffy looks to the waves, then back at the sea fluffy. You can practically hear the wheels turning in his head.
“Buh… wa-wa bad fow fwuffies?” he says at last.
The sea fluffies all giggle and hug their land based friends.
“Wa-wa no bad fow fwuffies!” says the sea fluffy. “Fwuffies wive in wa-was! Pway, haf nummies, an bebahs aww in wa-was!”
It seems to click for the earth fluffy.
“If fwuffy fwiend say wa-wa gud, den dis wa-was gud!” he announces to the herd.
The herd of land fluffies cheer as they follow the sea fluffies into the water.
Predictably, fluffy ponies drown the moment a wave washes over them.
“While sea fluffies mean well, they don’t even go check on their new friends as they head back out to sea. And it’s a good thing too, because the sea is still full of dangers for sea fluffies.”
The scene shifts to underwater shots of the sea fluffies playing in the oceans.
“We see here that Sea fluffies frolic and play, just as their land counterparts do,” continues Morgan Freeman. “They even attempt to make friends with fishermen on boats. But in the ocean, as on land, the consequences for being a fluffy is always the same.”
A new batch of fluffies swims alongside a fishing boat, babbling “Nummies? Pway? Huggies?”
An aspiring smarty sea fluffy flops onboard the boat.
He pushes himself up on his flippers, puffs out his cheeks and loudly proclaims “Dis fwuffy’s boat now!”
The fisherman looks at the sea fluffy for a moment, before grabbing it by the neck, and stubbing out his cigar on its cheeks.
The sea fluffy’s face immediately catches fire and soon his entire head is engulfed, turning the sea fluffy into a wailing pyre of pain.
He tosses it back into the sea where other sea fluffies swarm around him
“Fiew bad for fwuffy!” they cry. “Huggies hewp!”
Soon the entire herd is alight, flailing in the seas, begging for “Nu buwnie huwties!”
“Unlike regular fluff, the sea fluffy’s coat contains a strong oxidizer that will continue to burn even after being completely submerged.”
The shot shifts to a floating mat of charred sea fluffy corpses.
“Because they cannot drown, they burn. Such is the give and take of the sea fluffy.”
After a quick commercial for Flufficide, Babies! and some new show featuring Brent Spiner, Morgan Freeman’s dulcet voice returns to narrate a herd of sea fluffies happily eating at a kelp bed.
"Like the manatee and many other sea mammals, the fluffy pony prefers to feed on kelp, or as they call it “Sea skettis.”
The sea fluffies happily munch on kelp fronds without a care in the world.
“Of course, fluffies will try to eat anything they can get their flippers on…”
A sea fluffy in the background is choking to death on a plastic bag.
“…but most other food fights back…”
One of the fluffies looks over his shoulder before returning to his dinner of kelp.
“To say nothing of the predators that lurk beneath the waves.”
Out of nowhere, a flash of grey belly fills the scene before replacing it with a cloud of red.
A sea fluffy looks where its friend was a moment ago before spotting the bloodied jaws of the shark bearing down on her.
Her screams come out only as bubbles as the scene goes dark.
“But even as dangerous as the ocean is for sea fluffies, the land holds just as few promises.”
The scene shifts to sea fluffies sitting on the shore with her pups playing beneath her watchful eyes.
Well perhaps watchful is a bit of an overstatement.
The mare is too busy playing with a rock to notice the sea fluffy pups straying too far onto shore.
It’s only moment later that a flock of seagulls descends on the pups, snatching them into the sky above.
“Nuuu!” the pup shrieks. “Nu wan fwy!”
The mother finally notices, too late to do anything but raise her flippers to the sky.
"Fwy bad fow bebehs!"she cries, before flopping face first into the sand.
“But as is typical for fluffies, even the smallest thing can cause them great troubles.”
The fluffy jolts upright from the sand, screeching and wailing a moment later.
“Eeee! Huwties! Nu wike! Nu way pway!”
She flips on her back, desperately flopping her flppers at her face to try to dislodge the crab that has clamped its mighty claw around her eyeball.
"And here we leave the sea fluffy behind, alone to die along the shores and oceans,” he says as a swarm of crabs over take the sea fluffy.
“A failure of man to recreate the majesty of the natural world."
The camera settles on Morgan Freeman, sitting with a long fishing pole along the dock just a few yards away from the screaming sea fluffy.
“Join us next week as we watch the enchanting antics of the Garden fluffy.”
He reels in the line to reveal a sea fluffy pup sobbing on the end of his hook.
“Here… on March of the Fluffies.”
March of the Fluffies: Garden Fluffies
Just got home from work.
Long day, but it’s okay, because now it’s time for one of your favorite shows…
The intro music starts playing followed by that dulcet voice of one, Mr. Morgan Freeman.
“Spaghetti Warehouse presents… March of the Fluffies.”
Cue montage of fluffies drowning, walking off cliffs, pummeling each other with ineffective, marshmallow like hooves.
With your recliner in maximum lounge mode, your fluffy pony bounds into the room and plops down in front of the TV.
“Show stawtin!” she cheers. “Daddy wook! Show stawtin!”
“Settle down sweetie, or you’ll miss it.”
The view pans slowly to the left, revealing nothing more than patches of flowers and stalks long grass.
But what’s this? There’s a patch of flowers moving of its own volition.
What is this sorcery?
“Here in the rainy fields of Oregon, we find the rarest of the still living fluffy pony…”
A filthy, fluffy face pops up from beneath the grasses, and stares directly at the camera.
“The Garden Fluffy.”
The garden fluffy continues to stare at the camera, never breaking eye contact as it pans around him.
“Some think that the garden fluffy is yet another creation of the Has-bio Lab staff, but leading fluffologists tell us a different story.”
The scene shift to a man in a trucker’s hat with thick plastic glasses.
“Asshowe!” yells your fluffy pony.
Man, where’d she learn that?
“Evidence suggests that the garden fluffy is actually a product of environmental factors,” says the man. “They, at heart, a regular fluffy pony.”
He leads the camera over to a table where a Garden Fluffy sits in a pile of mulch with an expression of vague happiness.
Its entire head has been opened up to reveal a brain teaming with green tendrils.
The garden fluffy either hasn’t noticed or doesn’t care.
The man continues to prattle on with big scientific word and gestures, but the audio returns to Mr. Freeman’s kind words.
“Fluffogists tell us that a parasitic fungal infection from deep in bayous of the south is to blame for the Garden Fluffy.”
“By altering the fluffy’s brain chemistry, the fungus slows their heart, slows their digestion, slows everything about them.”
The scene returns to the man, now sewing the garden fluffy’s head back together.
“And that’s how the garden fluffy came to be,” he finishes. "It’s not something anyone could have predicted, but fluffies are anything, it’s unpredictable.”
The scene returns to the garden fluffy trundling through the fields of Oregon.
Instead of constantly eating, he instead picks up things from the ground and puts them atop his mud covered fluff.
“This will go nicely,” says the garden fluffy to no one in particular. It rolls off a moment later without notice.
“The garden fluffy spends its days quietly wandering the fields and valleys of the country side, looking for things to grow upon its back. The roots dig deep into the fluff, and become part of the wandering biome that is the garden fluffy.”
The scene speeds ups, following the garden fluffy over the course of several days. In that time, he makes a small circle around the field only once.
It returns to normal time as a herd of fluffy ponies comes wandering up the side of the hill.
Being normal fluffies, they babble, eat, and shit all over everything they can get to.
It’s only a moment before they find the garden fluffy making its slow circle across the field.
“Fwiend?” asks a pegasus fluffy. He sniffs the garden fluffy, who only smiles blankly at him. “Fweind nu smeww pwetty.”
“I will be your friend,” replies the garden fluffy.
To this, the herd cheers and starts eating around the garden fluffy.
“Garden Fluffies will befriend regular fluffies, not for the sake of companionship, but for their valuable fertilizer.”
The scene follows the fluffies playing, eating, mating, and generally making a nuisance of themselves around the stoic, but smiling Garden Fluffy.
While the fluffies aren’t paying attention, the garden fluffy rubs some of the fluffy’s waste on the great mass of life upon his back.
Over the next few days, the fluffies move on, the garden fluffy following behind at his own plodding pace.
Ahead of him, the fluffies continue to eat, play, and destroy everything in their path.
They also fall in every hole, puddle, trap, along the way, as well as getting mauled by cats, coyotes, dogs, and aggressive rabbits.
But the garden fluffy trundles on past the drowned, broken, and flaming corpses of the fluffies he follows till they make it into a suburban backyard.
The garden fluffy finds his way into a pile of mulch and sits quietly as the fluffies raise hell.
“In typical fluffy fashion, the herd has sown their own seeds of destruction…”
“Dis fwuffy wand now!” cries a smarty friend.
You cover your fluffy pony’s eyes so she doesn’t watch the scene of a home owner disemboweling the fluffies with a rake.
“…but the garden fluffy’s quiet nature shields him from the rage and hatred of the home owner.”
The homeowner approaches the garden fluffy, his rake spattered with the gore of a dozen fluffies.
“Hello, friend,” says the Garden Fluffy. “You have so many flowers. I love this place. I love you too. I’m going to live here in your mulch pile.”
“Go away,” says the human.
With that the garden fluffy slowly walks away from the yard, pausing only to drag a still twitching fluffy pony with him.
Eventually, the garden fluffy comes back to his field and drops the near dead fluffy pony in a hole.
”…wan… die…” babbles the fluffy.
”In the common fluff pony, that wan die loop means that the fluffy believes his life is over,” says Morgan Freeman.
The garden fluffy starts stuffing tufts of his fluff into the fluffy pony’s mouth and finishes by burying the in the garden fluffy’s waste.
”But for the garden fluffy, it is the start of a new life.”
The garden fluffy wanders away from the body of the fluffy to seek out new fields, leaving the fluffy to die in a hole.
The scene time lapses a day forward where we see the fluffy pony rising from the hole and staring out into the world.
But he looks different now.
The dirt and feces stick to his fluff better than before.
Traces of moss begin to grow about his back and eyes.
The fluffy pony looks out onto the world, and starts picking flowers to lay upon his back.
The camera pan back to Morgan Freeman, now sitting in a red leather chair in the middle of the field.
”And thus begins a new generation of Garden fluffy,” he says, with a tip of his pipe. “Join us next week when we explore the rituals of the sacred and mysterious fluffalo.”
”Here, on March of the Fluffies.”
March of the Fluffies: Fluffalo
“Is time fow Tee-bee?” asks your fluffy. “Wach fwuffy show?”
“You’re damn right it is,” you reply.
Turn on the TV
The velvety smooth voice of Morgan Freeman wafts through your speakers like pipe tobacco through a smoking jacket.
“Spaghetti Warehouse presents… March of the Fluffies.”
Cue montage of fluffies drowning, walking off cliffs, pummeling each other with ineffective, marshmallow like hooves.
Normally, your fluffy claps her hooves and cheers when shows come on, but she knows better than to interrupt Morgan Freeman.
The scene changes to a rolling hill somewhere in the American Mid-West where a dozen mutlicolored blobs march through the high grass of the plains.
A song follows the gently flowing breeze in what a deep, yet unmistakably fluffy, voice.
“Dank you sky baww fow dis day…”
A chorus of other fluffy voices chants back the same line.
“Dank you fow da gwassies dat da fwuffawo pway.”
The other fluffies repeat in their own off key, sing-song voices.
“Dank you fow da bwight baww, we aw you fwuffawo, dank you fow it aww.”
The blobs come into focus to reveal fluffy ponies unlike any other.
They’re larger than regular fluffies by about half, and their manes fall into their eyes like English sheep dogs.
Gracing either side of their head is a horn that is nowhere close to the color of the rest of their fluff.
The fluffies sing as they march, pausing only to eat some of the tall grasses of the planes.
“These are the fluffalo,” says Morgan Freeman. “An uncommon breed of fluffy pony born in defiance of any reason or logic.”
“Unlike other breeds of fluffy that came about from tampering with the genetic code, or force of evolution, the fluffalo come to us through a peculiar means.”
The scene changes to a film of Native Americans chasing after fluffy ponies on horseback.
They look like regular earth fluffies that have severed unicorn horns glued to the side of their heads.
“Because of their protected status,” says the voice over, “we were unable to hunt buffalo in the traditional ways.”
The scene changes to an elderly Native American, draped in a fluffy, multicolored pelt, complete with a hollowed fluffalo head as a hood.
Around the room, bi horned fluffy skulls decorate the room.
It’s sort of dignified.
“We feared the old ways would die, and with it, our way of life,” continues the elderly chief. “But then the fluffy ponies came and gave us an idea.”
The scene changes to a dozen Native Americans surrounded by hundreds of sobbing fluffy ponies.
One grabs up a unicorn and, with a single swipe of the axe, cleaves off his horn.
The unicorns shrieks in pain, trying desperately to clutch at his damaged forehead before being tossed into a nearby chipper.
The axeman simply drops the horn into a box, then grabs another unicorn.
Meanwhile, a woman dressed in traditional garb straps an earth fluffy to a bench before picking up a hand drill.
“Pwease nu huwt fwuffy!” begs the fluffy as she lines up the bit.
The woman drills for a few seconds on each side of the head, despite the fluffy’s shrieks of protest and thrashing attempts to escape.
“Why fwuffy git owies?” asks your fluffy.
“Uh… he was bad, I guess?” you respond.
“Bad fwuffies git owies,” she says, turning back to the TV.
Another Native American picks up the box of served horns, and dabs a bit of medical glue onto the back of each one before jamming them into the holes in the earth fluffy’s heads.
This is, of course, followed by more screaming, shrieks of protest, and if it weren’t for the corks, violent defecation.
“We did this as a way to preserve our heritage,” says the elderly chief. “We used these vermin to raise awareness for our way of life and what we had lost through the white man’s incursion.”
“Tourists came from around the globe to see us hunt these creatures we had created. We took their money, and sold them the survivors when there were some.”
“Never in a thousand years would we have expected that it would resulted in anything like the fluffalo.”
The scene shifts away from the chief to a farm where a herd of fifty fluffalo lay in the sun.
They graze, wandered, and graze some more.
“They ain’t so bad to raise,” says another voice over. “They talk and all, but they ain’t people, so they don’t make no sense.”
The text at the bottom of the screen tells you this is the voice of Dennis Smith, Fluffalo farmer.
“'Course, they think they’s thousands of years old, and they gotta connection to the land like suma dem indians out there.”
Cut to the farmer watching his herd of fluffalo, who are watching the setting sun.
“I told them they ain’t older than five years, but they couldn’t tell time if their life depended on it.”
One of the flufflo wanders up to the farm and bows his fluffy head.
“Dah gwassies an sky baww teww us is time fow da hawvest,” says the fluffalo. "
“Ffwuffawo come one wif earfies?”
Dennis kind of shrugs.
“Kinds weird that they ask you to die,” he says. “I suppose that kinder than killin’ somethin that don’t want killed.”
A dozen fluffalo follow the rancher to the barn where they wait in line for the rhythmic thump of the bolt gun.
“Some researchers believe that the two horns of the fluffalo causes pressure on the brain, giving them these delusions of grandeur,” says Morgan Freeman. “Others think that the ‘wan die’ loops has just been refined.”
“But what’s important,” he continues, “is that fluffalo, unlike fluffy ponies, never seek leadership outside of humans.”
The scene changes to a wild herd of fluffalo in a patch of eaten grass.
Fluffalo foals orbit their mothers in a tight circle, babbling about “sky baww” and “gud earfies,” while the males keep watch on the sky.
From the tall grass comes another clump of multicolored fluff with one fluffy bickering and shoving other fluffies out of the way.
“Dummy fwuffies pawt of smawty hewd now!” yells the green unicorn. “Fowwow smawty ow biggest owchies!”
“You no smawty,” says one of the males. “Sky baww gif wife to gwassies, gwassies gif mummas babehs, so sky baww smawty.”
“Sky baww nu smawty!” demands the unicorn. “Smawty am smawty! Come wif fwuffy now!”
The males form a circle around the females and start singing a low pitched tune.
“Sky baww is ow smawty,” they sing. “Sky baww gif us wife. Take dis dummy fwuffy, gif him stwife.”
The uniorn is enraged at this point, and puffs out his cheeks.
“COME NOW OR BIG…”
He’s interrupted by a flash of talons and spray of feathers as a hawk grabs up the smarty.
The camera follows a trail of feces and blood as the eagle soars off before returning to the scattering fluffy ponies.
It pans up to reveal Morgan Freeman, sitting at a desk in the middle of the field.
“So ends the tale of the fluffalo,” he says, resting an elbow on a fluffalo skin mat. “Join us next week when we discover extinct fluffy breeds.”
“Here, on March of the Fluffies.”
March of the Fluffies: Extinct Fluffy Breeds, Part One
Morgan Freeman velvety smooth voice saddles your ears as he walks through a featureless hall.
”To some, a fluffy pony is a cherished part of the family.”
He walks by a live fluffy pegasus, and gently pats it on the head before the camera follows him to another room.
”To others, they’re targets of aggression,” he continues, gesturing to a flayed, but still breathing unicorn. “Vermin to mutilated and exterminated for the crimes they have dared to commit.”
Mr. Freeman walks away from the soft sobs of “wan die” to another hall where dozens of mounted fluffy species stare back at the camera.
”But to the scientists who created them, fluffy ponies are nothing short of a miracle.”
He sits down in a red leather wingback and opens a book on the nearby table.
”When the fluffy pony came to be, it was not as we know it now, but as a series of failures that created the greatest ecological disaster of our time.”
”If someone had told you a decade ago that an entire species could come into existence, and then cease to be in just that short time, would you have believed them?"
“Tonight, on a very special March of the Fluffies, we’ll discuss how the fluffy pony came to be, and how the dead ends of genetic engineering came to be the species we know today.”
“Spaghetti Warehouse presents… March of the Fluffies.”
For such a dignified discussion, you’ve outfitted your fluffy pony with a top hat.
She seems content with it as the scene shifts to a laboratory.
“Here in Hasbio laboratories, a miracle is about to occur,” says Morgan Freeman.
A group of white coated scientists tap on tablets as a container full of pink liquid drains away to reveal a blob of life moving beneath a membranous coating.
One of the scientists reaches forward with a pair of scissors and cuts open the membrane to reveal a creature unlike any the world has seen before or since.
Its front and rear don’t match at all, looking more like a rabbit’s hind quarters hastily tacked to the front end of a horse.
Its amniotic coated fur lays matted to its skin, jus t a few centimeters long and a mottle of grey and brown.
The creature gasps for air for a moment, coughing up a lungful of amniotic fluid before chirping quietly in distress.
“This, viewers,” says Mr. Freeman, “was the first fluffy pony.”
The scene changes to a montage of the proto-fluffy shying away from people, mewling like a kitten, and generally being terrified of everything around it.
“This fluffy couldn’t talk, didn’t look anything like a horse, and most of all, was terrified of every human being it ever saw.”
A few more of the proto-fluffies gather in a shivering huddle around the first fluffy, as the scientist shake their heads in disappointment.
“It was, in many ways, a complete disaster, and funding for the pony product line was nearly cut.”
One of the scientists flips a cover up before pressing a large red button.
Hissing fills the speakers as the camera focuses on a small nozzle in the ceiling of the glass observatory.
Proto-fluffies screech and paw at the glass for a moment before falling over.
A few shallow breathes later, and they lay still.
The scene of the proto-fluffy herd fades to black and white, only to be replaced a minute later by a creature that looks more like a cat sized horse.
"But the success of the next generation ponies gave Hasbio hope that this project wouldn’t be a complete failure.
The tiny white horse walks around its glass observatory, pushing around a ball with its nose. A few others trot around happily, shaking their brightly colored manes.
“These ponies came from a complete revision of the fluffy DNA,” says Morgan Freeman. “While smarter, friendlier, and more lovable than their forbearers, these fluffies still did not have the ability to speak, and came only in the earthie variety.”
Cue scene of scientists giving each other a thumbs ups before tapping on their tablets.
The camera slides to the left, showing a room filled with creatures quite similar to the others, only with massively oversized heads.
Most of them lie on the ground, unable to lift their heads far enough above the ground to move.
Along their backs are a pair of wings, and adorning every grotesquely oversize head is a horn.
“Huu huu huu,” they sob. “Evy ting huwt so bad. Wan die, hu hu hu. Wan die.”
“The next generation wasn’t nearly as good, but they were at least able to speak.”
As a scientist shakes her heads in disappointment, she reaches for the big red button.
“I never thought we’d get these things right,” says the scientist, as the bobble headed monstrosities behind her flail for air.
“Docta!” shouts your fluffy pony. “Daddee! It Docta Stein!”
Sure enough, the banner at the bottom of the scene reveals that it’s Doctor Francine Stein, your fluffy’s vet.
“But as it turned out, we couldn’t do everything we wanted to with genetic engineering alone,” she continues, walking past a series of tubes holding what you recognize as fluffy ponies.
“We wound up engineering an organic nanomachine that did some of the heavy cognitive lifting for the fluffy, giving it most of the abilities that it needed in a size it could handle.”
She smiles and pats a Luna fluffy on the head as she sits down at a microscope.
“A fluffy pony is really two creatures living in perfect harmony,” says Dr. Stein. “The fluffy, and the nanofluffy.”
The camera changes focus to view what’s on the slide: a clump no bigger than a blood cell that touches, then skitters away to do it all again.
“It’s not without a certain amount of irony,” says Morgan Freeman, “That a electron microscope picture of the nanofluffy looks quite like it’s full sized companion.”
The picture changes to a false color image of the nanofluffy, looking like a clump of fluff with two black eyes.
“This is, of course, where the Cotton Fluffy came from, but more on that later.”
The picture changes back to Morgan freeman, walking around that same laboratory, now abandoned and laying in ruins.
“But as we all know, Hasbio scientists didn’t stop with the fluffy pony,” he says. “The continued their research into bigger and better pursuits, and perhaps, even into dangerous territory.”
The scene fades back to an active and bustling laboratory. In the middle of a pen, a ten foot high, pink fluffy pony toddles around, giggling, and trying to hide under boxes.
“Nu find fwuffy heh!” she giggles.
“We discovered an early fault in fluffy DNA that caused their fluffy to act as if were cilia,” says one of the scientists. "Of course, since fluffies can’t bring things inside of them, it just let go eventually.”
He pauses to pick up a green unicorn fluffy.
“Except for other fluffies of the same generation.”
The scientist pats him on the head before setting the green fluffy down inside the pen
He toddles over to the ten foot tall fluffy and raises his hooves.
“Huggies fwom big fwuffy?” he asks.
“Huggies!” booms the giant fluffy.
The two embrace, for a moment before the pink fluff starts to entwine with green fluff,
“Wha happen?” asks the green fluffy as the pink fluff starts to drag him in. “Nu! Nu wike! Hewp fwuffy! HEW-”
He is silenced a moment later as the pink fluff engulfs him and drags him into the giant fluffy’s body.
“Wheh fwiend go?” asks the Pink fluffy, looking around.
She only looks for a moment before going back to playing with the boxes.
“Though this fault was bred out of the fluffy pony,” says Morgan Freeman, “it remains dormant, allowing for easy transplants.”
Morgan Freeman steps away from the laboratory, and in front of a twenty foot wide, pink fluffy pelt.
“March of the Fluffies: Extinct Fluffies, will return in a moment, after these words from our sponsors.”
Get up from the couch to get some spaghetti for you and your fluffy.
You know what’s coming up next, and you can hardly wait.
March of the Fluffies: Extinct Fluffy Breeds, Part Two
You’re back for the next part of Morgan Freeman’s dulcet tones and informative wisdom.
Your fluffy settles in next to you as “March of the Fluffies” returns with Morgan freeman sitting in the hall of stuffed fluffies.
“While everyone immediately recognized the Mega-fluffy was a bad idea, it was marketing departments from other companies that brought forth the next waves of fluffies.”
The scene transitions to a trade show where fluffies are being poked and prodded by men in stuffy suits.
“He he!” giggles a white furred, red and blue maned fluffy. “Fwuffy wuv Aumewica! Gawd bwess Ooo-esss-ay!”"
Other fluffies, also featuring garish color schemes, chirp similar things as more ad men circle around the Hasbio booth.
“Because of the great expense of the fluffy pony project,” continues Morgan Freeman, “Hasbio was forced to license the product not only to other companies for production, but for promotion.”
Cut back to the lab where scientists in clean suits work with petri dishes and pipettes behind a glass wall.
The camera pulls back to reveal a nearby break room and a soft clink clink clink echos through your TV speakers.
It pans down to reveal a fluffy looking creature that is not only not fluffy, but entirely clear, and filled with a brown liquid.
“Fweind wan dwink Coke fwuffy?” he asks a scientist trying to eat his lunch. “Coke wewards for fwiends!”
“God DAMNIT!” he yells, scooping the fluffy up in one hand. “How do these fucking things keep getting out? And who keeps filling them up?”
“Dwink Coca-cowa!” the fluffy titters.
The scientist grabs a cap where a unicorn horn would be and twists it off in a single motion. He upends the fluffy over the sink where fizzing cola spirals down the drain in a brown whirlpool.
“Nuuu! Dwink Cokies!” protests the glass fluffy, its screams becoming slower and quieter as it drains. “Nu dump out coke fwuffy! Wan give coke! Wan… wa… w…”
The scientist screws the cap back on and leaves the glass fluffy on the counter to dry.
“Everyone hated those damn things,” says a scientist. “It’s not like they were even hard to make. Change the cellular structure of the fluff a bit to make it transparent, do the same for the organs amd bones, reconfigure their bodies to run off the glucose and phosphoric acid in Coke, then bam, you had a glass fluffy.”
“What no one seemed to talk about was the fact that they died as soon as you drained the coke out of them,” he continues. “Or that they went flat really quick. Or that the change to their cellular structure caused their skin and fluff to be brittle. Or even that the Coke in them tasted like shit because, well, they’re fluffies and that’s what they do.”
“Still, they were miracles. You could fill them up with any sort of soda and they’d walk around, even after being empty for a few days.”
Cut to a scene of scientist filling a Coke fluffy with Pepsi.
The fluffy starts shrieking at the top of its lungs and running around the testing facility.
“Nu wan Pesi! Nu wan Pesi!” he shrieks. “Wan die! Wan die! Wan…”
The fluffy loses traction and slams into a girder at top speed.
Even the pathetic two miles an hour is enough to shatter the fluffy into a thousand tiny shards.
The fluffy gasps for life as the sticky brown soda spills into the floor drain below.
“It wasn’t long before the coke fluffy promotion ended,” says Morgan Freeman, “and though it was considered a success, the Coke fluffies slowly were never made again, and slowly went extinct.”
He motions over to a stationary coke fluffy that looks just like a glass statue.
“Intact bodies such as this one are rare and valuable to fluffy collectors,” he continues. “But not nearly as valuable as the Metroid Fluffy.”
Cut to a small, tear drop shaped fluffy with three chitonous legs skittering across a table top.
“Released in promotion with a new game, the Metroid fluffy was a marvel of fluffy engineering.”
The Metroid fluffy chitters and “screes” occasionally as he wrestles with (and loses to) a Samus doll.
“I love these Metroid fluffs,” says the man on camera. “They’re cuter than a fluffy, and cool to look at. They’re dumber than a regular fluffy, but they don’t talk as much, so you never know it.”
He picks an ice cube out of his drink.
“Plus they’re hardier than those fragile fluffies.” The ice cube slides cross the table toward the Metroid fluffy, who instinctively jumps back from it and off the edge of the table.
“You okay, Brain?” he asks of the floor.
The scene changes back to the hall of stuffed fluffies to find Morgan Freeman standing beside some fluffy miniature pachyderms and bovines.
“Of course, with the conquest of ungulates, Hasbio simply couldn’t stop there.”
The camera fades to an indoor enclosure where a three foot high fluffy giraffe eats hay out of a regular sized trough.
“Well, the thought was that we’d create all sorts of animals for the kids to come in and pet,” says the scientist.
“But they’re not commercially viable,” he continues. “Petting zoos are not a winning business model.”
The fluffy giraffe looks left, then right for a moment before a miniature, fluffy mammoth barrels him out of the way with massive shove.
The fluffy giraffe’s head ricochets off a fence post, causing him to stumble around in a daze.
“Dis fwuffy gwassies now!” says the fluffy mammoth before blowing a rasberry with his elongated trunk.
It’s not even a minute before a smaller, but much faster fluffy rhinoceros shoves the fluffy mammoth out of the way.
The giraffe lays sobbing on the ground while the mammoth and the rhinoceros pummel each other with the flexible horns and tusks.
“These products, and many other like them ever saw the light of day,” says Morgan Freeman. “With a saturation of wild fluffies growing in every corner of America, the public didn’t want other bio-toys to cause problems.”
The scene shifts to a much smaller and quieter facility butting up against a massive lake in the background.
“But with the initiative to create gone, the scientist sought ways of solving the fluffy problem and recreating the market for their work.”
“The fuzzies were the best idea to come out of Hasbio in years,” says a scientist. “They’re everything a fluffy isn’t. They were smart, obedient, quiet, disciplined.”
The camera scans the room where a dozen white fluffies stare impassively ahead with bright blue eyes and short fuzzy coats.
“We ramped up the control from the nanofluffies and implanted chips in every single fluffy,” says the scientist, holding up a large skull.
The skull shows several wires fused to a central chip. "They can’t live without them, and they can’t survive without a special diet.
“Fuzzies are better than fluffies any day of the week because we can control their actions, their diet, and everything about them. They’re basically pets as a service, and we’re the only provider.”
Queue Morgan freeman sitting in a boat, a spire of the laboratory barely sticking out of the lake as he drifts by.
“Sadly, the fuzzy ponies became extinct after the tragedy in Cleveland destroyed their facilities and most of the records pertaining to their care, maintenance, and creation.”
A fluffy spider sits in the boat next to him, repeatedly biting a sea fluffy with her tiny fangs.
"Thanks to fluffy ponies, we’ve garnered new and valuable insights into the creation of life, and the hazards within.
“And much like actual evolution, we’ve had some failures along the way. Missteps that lead to genetic dead ends, and ultimately, commercial failures.”
“Fwuffy faiwuwe?” asks the spider fluffy. The sea fluffy simply sobs as it starts to lose shape.
Morgan Freeman gives the fluffy a reassuring scratch under her chin.
“Thank for watching March of Fluffies, and we hope you’ll join us next week for Cotton Fluffies, here on Fluff TV.”
March of the Fluffies: Cotton Fluffies
Home from work again.
You fluffy pony is in front of the TV, running in a circle and screeching.
”Tee bee! Tee bee!” she’s shouting.
”Do we yell in the house?” you demand in your sternest voice.
”Nu, daddee…” she says, cowering from your voice.
”Do we run around in the house?” you demand again. “Or do we run outside?”
”Wun outside,” she says backing away from you.
”Do you want the sorry box? Bad fluffies who yell and run in the house get the sorry box.”
”Pwease nuu sowwy bawx!” she sobs. “Be gud, pwomise!”
Well it is Wednesday and it is time for her favorite show.
Turn on the TV
The velvety smooth voice of Morgan Freeman wafts through your speakers like pipe tobacco through a smoking jacket.
“Spaghetti Warehouse presents… March of the Fluffies.”
You fluffy plops down on the floor and watches in wide eyed wonder as the camera slowly focuses on a pile of white fluff.
It’s another moment before one of the blobs of fluff wanders into the focus of the camera to reveal two dark eyes and a vaguely fluffy pony shape.
It’s no larger than a ladybug,
It waves at the camera a moment before being snatched up in the jaws of another white blob nearly twice its size.
”No larger than a strawberry, the cotton fluffy is a most peculiar breed of the fluffy pony,” says Morgan Freeman.
The camera cuts to a disheveled scientist, sitting in a filthy warehouse with a dozen fluffy ponies behind him.
They all lay on their side, tongues hanging out, and eyes staring in opposite directions.
”Back when we first started with fluffies, what we got wound up looking like a cat sized horse,” says the scientist.
”They couldn’t talk, but they were fluffy, and pretty smart, for animals. Still, that’s not what Hasbio wanted, and we wound up scrapping that whole genetic line.”
He swivels in his chair to show off the monitor behind him.
The monitor shows a small swarm of clumpy white creatures scrambling around the petri dish.
”We wound up creating these self replicating organic nanomachines to do some of the heavier cognitive processing for the fluffies. They worked like clustered processors, and gave the brain enough electrical stimulation to make the fluffies able to speak.”
The white clumps, bump into each other and float away as he’s talking.
”You probably think self replicating organic nanomachines are a terrible idea,” says the scientist. “But since we thought they couldn’t survive without the host fluffy, they were the perfect solution.”
He stands and picks up a needle that looks more like a drill bit.
The camera follows as he walks to the cages, and grabs one of the brain dead fluffies.
”Why fwuffy no move?” asks your fluffy.
”He’s got bad owies,” you tell her.
”Hu hu hu…” she sobs, covering her eyes with her hooves. “Nu wike fwuffies haf bad owies.”
You’re sort of glad she chose then to have her little pity party because the scientist is busy jamming the drill into the back of the fluffies head.
”The nano-fluffies are highly susceptible to electrical pulses,” he explains, screwing the drill bit into the fluffies head. “Which is why you can reset their memories with a shock.
”Exposure to an electomagnetic pulse, or just strapping them to a generator for a few days will cause the nano-fluffies to die off, leaving you with what you see here.”
The fluffy doesn’t seem to respond to the fact that its brain is currently being pierced with a drill bit.
The scientist pushes in the plunger of the needle, and unscrews it from the fluffies head.
A moment later, he jabs the hole with a soldering iron, as the fluffy struggles to its feet.
Its eyes uncross.
And drops a huge load in his cage.
”Fwuffy make bad poopies!” your fluffy cries in panic.
”It’s TV,” you say. “It’s not real.”
”Pway?” says the fluffy on the TV. “Huggies? Nu daddeh?”
”And just like that,” says Morgan freeman, “The nano-fluffy and the fluffy are one again.”
The scene changes to a pile of cotton fluffies wandering around an aquarium.
In the background, a man wearing a trucker’s cap just shakes his head.
”Asshowe!” yells your fluffy.
Man, what the shit? Every time you’ve seen this guy, every fluffy in the room yells that at him.
”Organic programing sucks, big time,” he says. “It’s like coding in binary, only worse because the programing can get scrambled by chemicals, radiation, or dozens of other mutagenic processes.”
”So after we made them self replicating, we made them self correcting as well,” he continues, showing off the tank full of cotton fluffies.
Every so often, the cotton fluffies start tearing apart another cotton fluffy, leaving only a smear of red behind to mark their passing.
”Unfortunately, the nano-fluffies genetic code got messed up and they started getting bigger.”
He picks up a cotton fluffy with a pair of tweezers to show it off to the camera.
Its tiny legs walk in the air as he holds it upside down. Otherwise it doesn’t seem to notice that it’s been picked up.
”Luckily,” he continues, “the problem is self limiting because they’re so damn fragile.”
He emphasizes the point by crushing the nano-fluffy with barely any pressure.
It falls back into the aquarium, where it is quickly devoured by the other cotton fluffies.
The biggest cotton fluffy, one the size of a half dollar, stomps through the crowd of cotton fluffies to claim a bite for himself.
”That big one is Tom,” says the man. “He’s big enough to be heard if you get close.
The boom mike lowers the microphone closer. A tiny voice repeats itself in a high pitched chirp.
”Hugs. Pway. Nummies. Skettis. Pway. Fwuffy. Wuv. Huggies. Nummies. Pway.”
”Of course,” says the man. “Cotton fluffies have absolutely nothing interesting or intelligent to say.”
The scene shifts over to a clearing where a dozen fluffy ponies are playing, eating, or sleeping.
A patch of white fluff comes into the meadow view before rolling over an ant hill.
”In the wild,” says Morgan Freeman, “Cotton fluffies travel in herds of hundreds, moving like a fluffy sheet across the ground and eating anything that doesn’t move.”
The patch grows black spots for a moment, and the sheet continues on with slightly fewer members that before as the ants dismember the smaller cotton fluffies.
”Such staggering losses would stymie lesser creatures, but the cotton fluffy doesn’t know the meaning of the word.”
A focus on the cotton fluffies reveals a fluffy the size of a quarter that drops out a half a dozen rice sized cotton fluffy foals.
It’s less than a minute later that the cotton fluffies are up and eating whatever detritus is left around their birth site.
The mother cotton fluffy has wandered off, only to be snatched up by a spider a few moments later.
”They are completely independent by the time they’re born,” says Morgan Freeman. “And they will grow as big two inches in some cases.”
The camera pans to a massive cotton fluffy, waddling its pillowy white fluffy and dead black eyes near a regular fluffy pony.
”Of course,” he continues, “Fluffies and cotton fluffies have been known to interact.”
”Pway. Nummies. Wuv.” chirps the cotton fluffy.
”Babeh?” asks the fluffy pony. “How babeh get heh?”
”Huggies. Skettis. Wuv.”
””Mummah wuv babeh!” says the fluffy pony before putting the cotton fluffy on her back. “Babeh be gud, mumma make miwkes fow babehs!”
”Wuv. Hugs. Pway.”
It’s only a few minutes later the cotton fluffy herd maneuvers itself into a puddle and drowns, leaving the big cotton puff with the fluffy herd.
”It will be a week before the mother realizes her mistake,” says Mr. Freeman, and invariably, she’ll leave the cotton fluffy to die somewhere for being a runt.”
”But for now, he’ll be safe.”
A four legged, winged shadow darkens the fluffy mother’s back before the scene snaps to black.
”Or at least, as safe a fluffy can be with certain predators around.”
The camera returns to Morgan Freeman, sitting in a wing back chair, with a twenty foot fluffy pelt behind him.
”Join us next week when we discover the puffy griffons. Here, on March of the Fluffies.”
March of the Fluffies: Puffy Griffons
Your fluffy sits quietly in front of the TV, although she’s clearly quivering with excitement.
Well it is Wednesday, and it is time for her favorite show.
Turn on the TV
The velvety smooth voice of Morgan Freeman wafts through your speakers like pipe tobacco through a smoking jacket.
“Spaghetti Warehouse presents… March of the Fluffies.”
The scene opens on a regular fluffy pony barreling down an alley at top speed
Of course, top speed for an average fluffy is a blistering 3 miles per hour.
The camera switches view as the fluffy comes to the slow realization that this alley was a dead end; a trap for fluffy ponies.
In the background, thick German accents echo though the abandoned alley with loud cries of “Dweeb! Dweeb! Dweeb!”
The fluffy pony wets himself in terror as the silhouettes fill the only way out of the alley.
With the setting sun to their backs the fluffy pony can barely see what horrors stalk him.
It’s only another moment before the silhouettes focus on the feathered heads of three beaked faces.
”Ve gut you now, Dveeb!”
The camera pans away as the screaming fades into Morgan Freeman’s dulcet voice.
”Scenes like his one play out all across the streets of Berlin and Munich, for they are home to puffy griffons.”
Scene changes to a half cat/half bird creature, perching on a fence post in the middle of Berlin, quietly preening its feathers as he waits.
”In Europe, the fluffy pony hasn’t ravaged the landscape like they have in North America. Tight controls on bio-toys prevented that disaster before it even started.”
”Yet much like raccoons brought over by furriers in the early twentieth century, the fluffies escaped their homes and habitats, and threatened the forests and fields of Germany.”
Camera change to a scientist sitting at a desk, a puffy griffon curled up in his lap like a cat.
”It is our fault zat the floofy ponies came here in ze first place,” he says.
Good lord, that accent.
”Ve had out people in the states bring us a few of them so zat we could study their genetic codes, and learn the secrets that Hasbio vanted to keep from the vorld.”
”Of course, ve too vanted exotic house pets,” the scientist continues. “”Ze market potential for somezing like that is limitless in potential. Our sources inside Hasbio gave us ze codes and techniques ve needed to create no just another floofy pony, but somezing entirely new.”
Wipe to a laboratory where canister of pink fluid suspends speckled eggs.
”Rather zen ze live birth, ve decided to use DNA from kestrals und ze common kitty cat to create our toys.”
The camera pans down to a table where a fluffy pony is strapped down.
You cover your fluffy’s eyes when you see that the top of his head has been removed.
”Wha goin on, daddeh?” she asks. “Bad owies?”
”Yeah, bad owies, sweetie,” you say.
It looks as if they’re flushing his brain with some sort of yellow liquid that looks suspiciously like Pine Sol.
He stops trashing after a moment and just kind of stares off into space after their done with him; clearly alive, but with all traces of his sentience gone.
”Vonce ve collected ze nanofloofys from ze brain, ve were able to use more advanced und efficient forms of genetic coding to make our pets better, smarter, und stronger than ze floofy ponies ever vere.”
The scene again shifts to a puffy griffon nearly the size of a Saint Bernard playing with a large ball of string.
”Unfortunately,” chimes in Morgan Freeman, “The first puffy griffons were far too large to be kept as household pets, and, though no stronger than a large dog, their fearsome claws proved too dangerous a more litigious society.”
”Ve did our job too vell,” continues the scientist with an air of disappointment. “Ve vere ordered to destroy the big griffons and make zem as small as ze floofies.”
”Of course,” adds Mr. Freeman, “smaller is not always as easy.”
There’s a minute long montage of failed puffy griffon variety, some with grossly bulbous heads, others with huge, malformed claws.
Your own fluffy covers her own eyes and asks you “teww when scawy pawt ovah!”
The scene eventually stops on an egg slowly cracking from the inside.
After a moment, a small feathered head not unlike a kestrel chick pokes out.
”But by the time the puffy griffon had been perfected, the fluffy pony menace had already taken hold in the United States, and the bio-toy market collapsed.”
Picture of fluffies knocking over trash cans, harassing old people, eating lawns down to the dirt.
”The original marketable griffon vas supposed to get along vith the floofy pony. Ve vere, after all, after ze same market, and who vouldn’t vant a pony und a griffon in zere house?”
”But vhen ve discovered zat the floofy pony was such a menace to ze environment, we decided zat ve needed our own counter in case ze floofy ever escaped into Europe.”
”And of course, ze did, but ve wvere ready for zem.”
The scene cuts to a city park where a scant few fluffy ponies nervously look around the park while one feeds on a patch of grass.
In the trees above them, a silent griffon moves through the branches like shadow warrior.
”Even with strict restriction on Bio-Toy imports,” says Morgan Freeman, “the fluffy pony found its way across the ocean and into the cities of Europe.”
”But a total lack of legal protection, as well as a distain for the pests, led to tiny populations of fluffy ponies across Europe, and in most areas, a complete lack of them.”
One of the fluffies strains to look above him, but misses the tell-tale waggle of the griffon’s tail.
From seemingly nowhere, three griffons move in perfect harmony to pounce upon the prey below.
”But the puffy griffons aren’t perfect either,” continues Morgan Freeman, “and some fluffies proved a match for their European cousins.”
The fluffy Pegasus that had been eating the grass is bowled over by the griffon gliding into him like a missile.
A moment later the dull beak is tearing the wings of the helpless fluffy as the unicorn and earth fluffy battle behind him.
The earth fluffy, larger and stronger than his unicorn and Pegasus friends, makes headway against his puffy opponent with ferocious hoof blows that send the puffy griffon to the ground.
”Ugwy meanie munsta git big stompies!” yells the earth fluffy.
He doesn’t even see the other griffon flanking him, and soon the earth fluffy is dragged to the ground by the puffy griffon’s claws and beak.
The two puffy griffons each hold a hoof with their claws before gouging the earth fluffy’s eyes with their hooked beaks.
”Working in packs, two puffy griffons are a match for even the biggest earth fluffy,” says Mr. Freeman.
”But the biggest danger for puffies is the sparks of the fluffy unicorn.”
The final fluffy, a unicorn, puffs out his cheeks at the griffon, contorting his face into fierce grimace.
”Dummeh musta gow way!”
”Daddeh wook! Sparkwies!”
Sure enough, the unicorn’s horn sends cool sparks towards the griffon to devastating effect.
The sparks catch against the feathers of the puffy griffon and in a moment, he is completely engulfed in flames.
”Parts of the puffy griffons genetic code were borrowed from sea fluffies,” says Morgan Freeman. “Their waterproof fluff served as an admirable base for the feathers of the fluffy griffon, but it wasn’t known at the time that they were highly flammable.”
The puffy griffon dives into a nearby fountain, only to emerge a moment later, sopping wet and sobbing heavily.
The other griffons turn to each other and make a break for the trees.
”Dat wight you dummehs!” yells the unicorn. “Gif you aww biggest owi…”
The unicorn is interrupted by savage mauling of a large German Shepard.
The camera fades away to a play pen full of puffy griffon chicks playing with balls and blocks, much like any fluffy ponies would.
”I didn’t like the puffies at first,” says a man sitting next to a large, black earth fluffy and a slightly smaller puffy griffon.
The creatures stare at each other with suspicion as their owner talks.
”Kaiser here kept antagonizing Bingo, and Bingo would beat the crap out of him.”
”But they became friends after a while, which just goes to show that genetic programing isn’t everything.”
”Isn’t that right boys?”
”Ja, mistar!” squawks the puffy griffon.
”Inuwbidabwy, Govenah,” says the fluffy.
Wait, did that fluffy have a British accent?
”Still,” continues the man. “The problems with puffy griffons aren’t as bad as they were with fluffies when they first came out.”
”They don’t’ drown, they don’t explode, they don’t reproduce like crazy. They can glide if they jump from enough height, and most of all, they’re obedient.”
”Kaiser es good poofy, ja?”
”Still, like any bio toy, they have their downsides,” continues the owner. “They’re kind of vain…”
Switch scene to Kaiser sitting in front of a mirror, admiring himself.
”kind of rude…”
Scene of Kaiser sticking his tongue out at Bingo.
”And I could really do without the presents he leaves me.”
Scene of Kaiser dropping an entire taco onto his owner’s lap.
The camera changes to the black fluffy. A banner tells you his name is Bingo.
”Kaiser nawt bad fow a Kwaut,” says the fluffy. “He a big dummeh at fiwst, but Bingo wearn to be fweinds wif dah scamp. Kaiser betteh den dummeh Fwenchie dwagon.”
You have no idea what that fluffy is talking about.
”Stateside, the puffy griffon never caught on like its more equine cousin,” continues Mr. Freeman.
”Fluffy boutique rarely import the majestic beasts, as regular fluffies are deathly afraid of the puffy griffon.”
The scene changes to a puffy griffon snuggled into a fluff pile with a spider fluffy and a majestic golden alicorn fluffy.
”But the irregular fluffies?”
The pile snores quietly as the camera pans back to Mr. Freeman, sitting in his marvelous red leather chair.
”It seems as if those fluffies rejected by others come together. Here, there are no monsters, only friends.”
Morgan freeman reaches down, and scratches the spider fluffy’s head.
”Join us next time when we visit the mysterious and wonder fluffy alicorn.”
”Only on March of the Fluffies.”
March of the Fluffies: Alicorns
Yesterday was your fluffy’s second birthday, so you held a party with all of her fluffy friends.
With only two dead and six unwanted “spechaw huggies,” you count your fluffy’s birthday party as a rousing success.
She’s still wearing her party hat as you settle in for some quality entertainment.
The show opens with dozens of fluffy ponies glancing nervously around a crowded convention hall, swarmed over by hundreds of people.
On the forehead of every fluffy is an elegant horn, and upon their backs a pair of sleek feathered wings
The camera pans across the convention hall as the velveteen voice of Morgan Freeman pours through your speakers like brandy from a cask.
“The celebration of Fluffy pony reaches its apex here at the American Alicorn Association Annual Expo.”
“Breeders and enthusiasts of this very special breed of fluffy pony gather every year to swap stories, breed fluffies and celebrate their treasured pets.”
“Tonight, the pinnacle of fluffy pony, the majestic and beautiful alicorn.”
“Spaghetti Warehouse presents… March of the Fluffies.”
The scene fades and comes back to a pristine laboratory where cloning tanks of fluffies line the walls.
“In this laboratory” says Morgan Freeman, “something unexpected and miraculous is about to occur."
In the middle of it all, a screeching pegasus fluffy is giving birth to a litter of babies.
The first foals to tumble from the mare are your usual assortment of earthies, pegasi and unicorns, but the last one, slightly smaller than the rest, has both horn and wings.
The scientists look at teach for a perplexed moment of as the mother examines each of her babies.
“Bwown babbeh is Bwownies, bwue hown babbeh is Bwuebeww, gweenie wingie babbeh is umm… Gweenie…”
She finally comes to the tiny, chirping alicorn foal.
“Dummeh ugly wunty munsta babbeh dun get no name!” she says at last before lifting her hoof. “Bad babbeh git biggest owies!”
It’s then that the scientists swoops in and grabs the white foal from beneath her smushing hoof.
Even as fragile and weak as fluffies are, the foals don’t stand a chance against an angry mother.
The scientists look over the chirping alicorn for a few minutes, taking measurements and readings before beginning to feed it from a bottle.
“We tried to make alicorns before,” says a bespectacled female scientist. You recognize her as Dr. Stein, your fluffy’s vet.
The camera transitions to grotesquely misshapen fluffies, twice the size of a normally fluffy, with wings and horns appearing at random parts of the body like some kind of Lovecraftian horror. They mewl and beg for death as they try to drag themselves along the floor with half a dozen gangly wing like structures.
“But the proteins for encoding both horns and wings went horribly wrong, and design specs were scaled back to the more successful pegasus, earthie, and unicorn fluffies.”
“It was by sheer chance that our test mother gave birth to a live alicorn foal,” she continues. “But it turns out that it wasn’t only her mother who would reject her.”
The scene transitions back to a daycare center where other fluffies are cowering in fear from an alicorn fluffy that stands nearly six inches taller than them.
“Pwincess wan be fwiend!” she sobs. “Pwincess wuv fwuffy fwiends!”
“Go way, musta fwuffy!” shrieks a brown earth fluffy from the crowd. “Musta fwuffy uwgy! An dummeh! And… ugwy!”
The white alicorn goes off by herself to sob in the corner as the other fluffies continue their playing.
“While life was difficult for the alicorn,” says Morgan Freeman, “her intelligence and beauty garnered her a special place n the scientist’s heart.”
The next scene is of two alicorns, one an imposing black male and the other Princess as she lies on the floor of the kennel about to give birth.
“Purely by luck, another alicorn foal was born,” says Mr. Freeman. “This one a male. Black as coal dust, and as loyal as any dog to walk this earth.”
Scientists wait quietly as the litter of multicolored alicorn foals breathe their first breath and begin chirping for their mother’s milk.
“It seems that alicorns bred true, and with that revelation, Hasbio knew that it had an important product line on its hands.”
“You cannot imagine how relieved we were when the alicorns came out,” says a grey haired man in a blue suit.
“Thanks to Prince and Princess, we could create the Celestia fluffies and Luna fluffies and Twilight fluffies that people really, really wanted.”
He pushes up his glasses and points to a handsomely framed picture of Prince and Princess, older, but smiling as dozen or so fully grown alicorns played around them.
The picture fades to a recorded interview with Princess.
“Pwincess wuv bein’ mummah,” she says. “I have saddies when babbehs go 'way, buh Pwincess know dat dey go to gud mummahs and daddehs.”
“Pwince wuv babbehs too,” says the black Alicorn stallion. “Pwince so pwod of babbehs dat know cowaws and numbahs. Dey so smawt! Wuv smawtie babbehs!”
The scene changes to a news report which has been replayed a thousand times over of the breakout at Hasbio Labs
“We had them on lock down,” says the older man again. “Which Prince and Princess didn’t mind, so when the PETA breakout occurred, the alicorns didn’t get out with the rest of them.”
Cue montage of fluffies terrorizing the streets, getting pancaked under cars, and generally being destroyed by the world at large.
“With the collapse of the bio-toy market, we simply stopped breeding alicorns,” says the man.
“Prince and Princess lived out a happy life together, and we all assumed that it would be the end of them.”
“But enterprising breeders weren’t about to be outdone by Hasbio,” says Morgan Freeman.
Transition to a pair of shimmering violet eyes that giggle and scamper away from the camera to reveal a pink fluffy alicorn.
“Oh my god,” says the weary man as a half a dozen alicorns nap around him.
“I went through so many damn fluffies just to get ONE alicorn. I’d have to knock up a hundred mares to get one, and then she’d foal in the middle of the night just to squish the poor thing.”
“But I managed to figure it out,” he says. “Only certain lines give you a chance of an alicorn foal, and it’s about one in a hundred fluffies that carry the gene.”
“If both parents have the gene, you’ve got a fifty-fifty shot per litter of getting one alicorn. So many foals to mulch…”
“Wha muwch mean, daddeh?” asks your fluffy.
“Uh, they were bad babbies,” you reply. “Bad babies get sorry mulchings.”
“Nu wan sowwy muwching,” repeats your fluffy as she goes back to the show.
“Once you’ve got them though,” says the farmer, “you’ll never want another fluffy.”
The scene moves to a bunch of alicorns playing with magnetic letters and stacking letter blocks in order.
“It takes them longer to grow up, but even then, they don’t cry, they work together, they’re smart, funny, and they love people without fail,” says the farmer. “They’re like children that never grow up. Not like fluffies, who are like toddlers that only get meaner as they get older.”
“And you never get smarties,” he says. “They seem to want to work together, with or without people.”
“But alicorn fluffies aren’t just the progeny of Prince and Princess,” says Morgan Freeman. “Others have come from sordid basement experiments, much to the detriment of their component fluffies.”
You cover your fluffy’s eyes as a montage of horrific surgeries flash on the screen.
Horns and wings are slapped on to screeching fluffies as their donors sob and convulse in the background.
“Yeah, they don’t breed true,” says the blood covered ‘surgeon,’ “but they’re a hell of a lot cheaper than a purebred, prissy ass alicorn fluffy.”
“And once you take a tazer to their heads they don’t know they didn’t always have the wings and horns. Fluffy’s are stupid and stapling a horn to their head doesn’t make them any smarter.”
The scene transitions to an ancient alicorn fluffy, its greying fluff almost overwhelming the patchwork color scheme of blue legs, orange body, and green head. The label at the bottom of the screen say “FrankenFluffy.”
“What we see here is one of the first artificially created alicorns,” says Morgan Freeman. “Fluffy lore says the he brought lessons of civilization to the fluffies a decade ago, but that his lessons came at the price of a million fluffy lives.”
He sits quietly atop a hill looking down upon a herd of wild alicorns that seem to be digging into the earth with their horns and hooves.
Others are weaving long grasses together to form primitive baskets for carrying food, and still others are foraging in the nearby meadow for grass to bring back to the herd.
“Awicown fwuffys awe so mush smawtew den weguaw fwuffies,” says the ancient alicorn.
“Dey wisten, dey unnastan, they weawn dat they nu need hoomans to suwvive in da wild.”
“So maneh fwuffies nu unnastan dat hoomans gif biggest owies to aww fwuffies, an dat to be safe, dey must weave hooman wands and find nu pwaces to wive.”
You swear you’ve never seen a fluffy look wistful before as he stares out at the herd below.
“Other fwuffies awe dummehs compawed to awicowns, and dats why dey awe best fwuffies. Dey nu haf smawties, nu angwy wif fwuffies, and dey wuv each otha wike dey aww big famiwy.”
“Buh awicorns can be meanies too,” he says as his smile is replaced by a thousand yard stare.
The scene shifts to two alicorns quietly following a herd of regular fluffies.
“Dis smawty wand now!” the fluffy yells at no one in particular and the fluffies begin to feast on the grass.
Unseen behind the herd, a few alicorns watch as attendants roll a bloated dame over to patch of grass.
““With so few of them in the wild,” says Morgan Freeman, "fluffy alicorns will often stalk regular herds, waiting to add to their numbers. Fluffies pregnant with an alicorn give off a distinctive smell, which attracts other alicorns.”
“Big Poopies!” shrieks the mare.
The attendants are by her side in a moment, giving her hugs to help squeeze out the foals.
Meanwhile, the alicorns watch unseen as the young fall to the ground in a chirping pile. Sure enough, an alicorn is among the babies, and the mother recoils in disgust.
“Bad babeh!” she says. “Dummeh, ugwy munsta babeh get biggest owies!”
It’s only a second before the alicorns are on top of the mare, beating her into the ground with their dense leather hooves.
The male alicorn brings his hoof down on the mare’s throat with a horrifying thump.
She struggles, flailing in a useless panic at the alicorn’s hoof crushing her throat.
It’s only a moment before she goes limp, and another before the alicorns disappear back into the wilderness.
The herd erupts into chaos and scatters away from the dead mare, leaving the pile of foals to die next to their mother.
It’s not long before the bodies all disappear into the woods, taken by wild animals to feed their own young.
But there’s one foal missing. It lies safe in the fluff of a nursing alicorn.
“Dawing wuv nu babbeh,” she says. “Gud babbeh. Mummah wuv you.”
The camera pulls out to reveal Morgan Freeman sitting atop the hill, having a snack with a few abnormal fluffy breeds.
A spider fluff, an alicorn, a garden fluffy, and a fluffalo all babble quietly to each other as Morgan Freeman watches.
“Rejection from fluffy pony society has given alicorns a supremacists view on fluffy ponies,” says Mr. Freeman.
“They are smarter, and they are stronger than their brethren, yet they love and cherish all those other breeds that fluffies would consider monsters.”
“Perhaps we could learn a lesson from the alicorns,” he says. “Perhaps, there’s hope for fluffies yet.”
“Join us next week when we discover a new breed of fluffy pony.”
“Here, on March of the Fluffies.”
March of the Fluffies: Urban Herds
It is Wednesday.
Your fluffy’s had her canned spaghetti and she’s staring in rapt fascination at the TV.
It’s not turned on or anything, she’s just staring at it.
You’re pretty sure she can’t tell time, since she routinely has no any idea what day it is, yet somehow she always knows when it’s time for her favorite TV show. So you sit down on the couch and join her for some quality entertainment.
Warning: This program is a nature documentary and may contain scenes of graphic violence and animal mating. Viewer discretion is advised, a monotone voice warns before the show starts.
Fwuffies! chirps somone doing a pretty good fluffy impression. Dis show haf fwuffies gettin’ owies and maybe spechaw hugs! Ask you mummies an daddies if it otay fow you to watch TeeBee!
You’re guessing that warning came after complaints from last weeks show about the anatomy and physiology of fluffies that involved everything from conception to a perhaps unnecessarily graphic dissection.
The scene opens on a rather ordinary looking blue earth fluffy walking down the street of Anytown USA. Traffic and city noises don’t seem to bother him as he sticks to the walls to avoid getting underfoot of any of the walking people. No one seems to pay him any notice as he trots along with a half a sandwich in his teeth.
He turns down an alley and comes up near some boxes where a earthie dame bloated with pregnancy is waiting. He drops the sandwich in front of her and curls up beside her to take a nap.
The velvety soft voice of Morgan Freeman fills your living room, saying those words you and your fluffy have waited all week to hear.
“Spaghetti Warehouse presents… March of the Fluffies.”
The scene fades back onto the small family of fluffies sitting in an alley, dirty, miserable and dejected.
“Here we see the typical North American urban fluffy family,” Morgan Freeman narrates. “No more than ten or so in number, these fluffies are born into a world that hates them and a city that would see them dead.”
A half a dozen babies chirp and peep around the dame that’s obviously just given birth. She holds them tight, trying to feed them all at her two swollen teats.
“Mummah haf miwk fow all,” she says. “Spechaw fwiend gif gud nummies fow mummah!”
“In city herds, only two out of every five fluffies survive to adulthood,” says Morgan Freeman. “They often have no names. Without names, they are the endless rabble that don’t know to name their own offspring.”
“Mummah wuv babeh, babeh wuv mummah,” she coos to her foals. “Mummah take caw of babehs.” They chirp and squirm at her feet as she picks up another to feed.
“Such simple mother songs are common among urban ferals,” says Morgan Freeman. “Which such small herds, there’s no mixing of songs, and with such a limited vocabulary, creativity simply doesn’t happen.”
The scene zooms out to reveal the big blue earth fluffy napping on the other side of the ally while the mother feeds her babies.
“Lack of food, human abusers, cars, and urban wildlife are all threats a fluffy must endure to make it to adulthood. Even then, an unexpected threat to foals comes from fluffies’ neighbors.”
A pea green unicorn peers around the corner at the fluffy mother. His mouth hangs half open in a stupid, vacuous smile. He’s staring right at the foals that chirp and peep around the mother.
“Through some genetic fault or brain damage, this unicorn has become addicted to ‘good feels,’” says Morgan Freeman.
“Unable to obtain a special friend, due to his unsettling smile and warped personality, he has taken to using foals for his pleasure…"
He creeps along the wall, approaching an unguarded foal. Stringy and chaotic violin music swells as he makes his way closer.
"While other fluffies may engage in the practice, this brazen debauchery labels him an outcast even among the worst of the urban herds.”
He reaches out his stubby hooves to grab one of the foals before the large blue earthie rams him into the wall.
“Nu gif babehs bad enfies!” he shrieks, pummeling the unicorn with his hooves. The unicorn is knocked down to the pavement and the earthie pins his leg to the ground with his bulk. “Wost dummeh!” He’s bashing in the unicorn’s teeth with callused hooves that have hardened from a life on the streets, punctuating every word with another blow to the teeth.
“Ugwy!” Punch. “Cweep!” Punch. “Dummeh!” A few of the next words are bleeped. You can’t even imagine what a fluffy would say to get censored.
Through it all, the green unicorn retains the same vacant smile and wide eyed look, despite having several teeth knocked out and crying “Wost hurties! Hu hu hu!”
“Normally,” says Morgan Freeman, “fights between fluffies are short, ending with one side or the other crying due to minor injuries. But no fluffy will abide such a pitiful creature in their territory. They’ll drive off or kill any of these ‘bad huggers’ that they can get their hooves on.”
The big blue earthie drags the sobbing unicorn over to a paving stone and shoves his teeth against it.
You cover your fluffies eyes so she doesn’t see the big blue fluffy curb stomping the unicorn’s jaw open. His pathetic sobs shift to bloodied gurgles as the earthie pitches him out into the street for the cars.
The camera turns back to the mother to find her watching her special friend’s prowess in rapt attention. The earthie returns victorious over the bad hugger. He looks at the dame, then around at the foals.
“Wha happen to puwple and owange bebeh?” he asks. Sure enough, two of the foals are missing. She looks around for a moment.
“Bebehs?” she asks as the dread creeps in.
You wisely cover your fluffies eyes again, but what you should have done is covered her ears.
Deeper in the alley, far into the shadows, a soft crunching sound echoes, followed by a horrible suckling. Soft chirps are heard for a moment before a squeal, then more crunching.
The dame gathers up her remaining foals and the herd bolts out on to the sidewalk instead of facing whatever lies down there.
The camera zooms in on a sickly colored yellow fluffy, happily crunching on the missing foals. He tears the back half off the orange foal with horrific crunch, barely audible against the shrill squeal of the foal. He crunches and chews for a moment before sucking out the insides in greedy slurps. The front half of the foal struggles for a moment, chirping and peeping in frenzied panic before going still.
“Most fluffies don’t have a name for the foal eaters,” says Morgan Freeman. “The ones that do speak of them simply call them evil, if they dare refer to them at all. These vile cannibals are one of the biggest dangers to fluffy dames, for without a herd or a special friend to protect them she can lose an entire litter in a single evening to their horrible appetites.”
Your fluffy looks aghast as she dashes out of the room towards her litter box. She comes back a few minutes later just as the commercial are ending.
“You okay?” you ask.
“Fwuffy haf sickies and scawdy poopies,” she says. “Pwease nu mow ebil fwuffies.”
You have no idea what’s coming next, but hopefully it’s less gruesome than fluffies eating foals.
The scene returns to the fluffy family, all sleeping quietly in a different alleyway. A dark blue pegasus creeps up on the sleeping family. You can only wonder what the hell this thing is up to when he starts suckling on the dame’s swollen teats.
“Less of a direct threat,” says Morgan Freeman, “these milk thieves will stalk lactating dames in the night to steal what they can from the unsuspecting mothers.”
The fully grown pegasus greedily and noisily suckles from the dame. His cheap imitations of a foals peeps and chirps stir her from her sleep.
“It’s suspected that these milk thieves come from foals that were nursed far too long from overly protective mothers,” he continues. “But they have to be quick about their habits, less they wake their victims.”
The mother wakes, and shrieks at seeing a fluffy suckling like a foal at her teats. She kicks out, catching him in the eye and knocking him away.
He stands back up with a sad imitation of a foal’s chirp to come back in for more milk, but finds the mare on her feet and stomping her hooves at him.
“Miwkie fow bebehs!” she shrieks, puffing out her cheeks. “Go ‘way! Nu miwkies fow fwuffies!”
“Let’s take a look at this behavior for a moment,” says Morgan Freeman, walking in front of a paused image of the mare.
“By puffing her cheeks, the fluffy tries to appear bigger and more intimidating in the way many animals adopting a scared or angry posture would. Were she a pegasus, you’d see those tiny wings fluttering on her back. While this might not intimidate a human, it is effective on fluffies so pathetic as this one.”
The scene resumes as the pegaus runs squealing into the road, only to be pancaked by a late night bus. It rolls by without slowing down, leaving the mother to check on her babies. They’re still asleep in a fluff pile with their father. She cuddles back in and drifts back to sleep.
“A small family to be sure,” says Morgan Freeman, “but fluffies that stick together in small herds have a better chance of survival in the city. The foals that make it to adulthood are taught valuable survival skills by their parents.”
The scene cuts to the same small herd, now with the foals nearly full sized. Two of the fluffies stand atop each other to pull food from a trash can while the sire and newly pregnant mother keeps an eye out. They drag a Styrofoam container out of the can and into their alleyway to feast upon its contents.
“These youngsters will stick near their mother for a few weeks more before heading out into the city or surrounding suburbs to start their own family,” says Morgan Freeman.
The young green earthie spots something and makes his way down the sidewalk after it.
“The older they get, the more adventurous they’ll be and the further they’ll wander from their family. But wandering from the family can have unintended consequences, such as missing out on a tasty treat."
“Mummah, wook!” says one of the young fluffies. “Skettis!”
Along the wall is a plate of spaghetti that wasn’t there before. They all stare at it in reverence, as if they’ve never seen anything so glorious in all their lives.
“Wait fow bruddah?” asks the small blue pegasus.
“Nu can wait!” says the big blue earthie. “Skettie fow fwuffies naow!”
They all share the spaghetti and for a brief moment, the family is happy and content. Soon they’re sleeping quietly together in a happy fluff pile, smiles and sauce stains on their faces. In another few minutes they’re completely still.
Their bodies are shoveled into a container marked “Fluffy Pony Disposal” by a jump suited animal control officer.
“Better this than someone killing them with a golf club,” says the tech. “Or a chain saw. Or firecrackers. Or a thousand other ways those suburban psychos deal with fluffies. I don’t know what’s so damn important about a broken fence or a backyard garden that makes people lose their minds over these guys.”
He clips his shovel back to the truck.
“A bit of spaghetti mixed with Flufficide and they fall asleep with smile. No pain, no mess, no problem. Pest control is about control, not cruelty. We made these damn things, the least we owe them is a painless passing.”
He drives off. It’s another moment before the young green earthie fluffy comes back into the alley. He holds the remains of a cheese sandwich in his teeth.
“Mummah?” he asks, looking around. “Daddeh? Bwuddah? Sissy? Anywan? Fwuffy haf nummies?” Only the sounds of the city return his calls. He plops down to eat his sandwich for a bit, listening and waiting for his family to return.
The scene time lapses for a few hours, showing the fluffy waking, sleeping, eating a bit more, and generally looking sadder as the time passes.
“Fwuffy wonwy,” he says before heading out into the streets. “Fwuffies nu come back.”
The camera follows him for a bit before coming to rest on Morgan Freeman sitting on a bench, a large grey spider fluffy sitting next to him on a leash.
“Nameless and without a friend, lone fluffies such as him won’t last long on the streets,” he says, petting the grey spider fluffy sitting beside him. “But like most fluffies, he’ll forget about his family and meet up with another small herd. Maybe he’ll become one of the lucky few picked up for adoption from the many shelters.”
“If he survives, it’s likely he’ll have a herd of his own to protect soon enough and the cycle will repeat just as it has so many times before.”
“Join us next week as we explore the herd dynamics of the rural fluffy, here on March of the Fluffies.”
March of the Fluffies: Rural Herd Dynamics
Your fluff pony idly spins in a circle in front of the TV. She seems to be chasing her tail and humming the intro to her favorite TV show.
“What are you doing?” you ask her.
“Time fow Mawch of Fwuffies!” she says. “Wuv Mawch of Fwuffies!”
Well she’s right, which is a nice change of pace for a fluffy pony. You turn on Fluff TV for your fluffy’s one hour of TV a day.
It opens on a scene of a field somewhere far out west. Trundling through the knee high grass, a few vibrantly colored fluffies lead a large herd of about fifty fluffy ponies.
“Out in the wilds of North America, a herd is on the move.” Morgan Freeman’s dulcet tones and smooth voice pour from your speakers.
On the TV, a grey unicorn stands on a small rock, looking around for signs of obvious trouble. He spots a few bison a hundred or so yards off.
“Fwuffies eat now!” he announces. “Ownly big qwiet fwuffies awound! Bestest gwassies fow mummahs an tuffies! Hidey fweinds on wookout! Bad gwassies foh dummies!”
Brightly colored and neutral colored fluffies pair off and spread out at the edges of the herd with the brightly colored fluffies obviously standing watch. Camouflaged in the tall grass, the muted fluffies stand watch as well.
The camera pans, silhouetting the smarty against the rising sun against the rising swell of music.
“Spaghetti Warehouse presents… March of the Fluffies.”
The scene returns to the herd. The grey unicorn eats surrounded by a few enormous earthie fluffies of varying colors.
“Here in the American West,” says Morgan Freeman, “a herd is only as good as its leader. Devoid of human leadership, fluffies will naturally turn to whomever is giving orders, leading to the rise of the Smarty friend.”
The grey unicorn finishes his meal, then begins to walk through the herd. His entourage of earthies follows, as he surveys every fluffy as he passes. Fluffies say “hewwo!” as he passes or “Smawty wan pway?”
He smiles as he passes these fluffies, occasionally stopping to give out hugs or nods of approval.
A few of the fluffies cower before him as he passes. A bright blue unicorn covers his eyes and craps himself in terror as the smarty passes. The unicorn pauses in his survey to regard the cowardly fluffy.
“DUMMEH!” he bellows. You’re sure it’s intimidating to a fluffy, but it’s nothing of the sort to you. “Scawdy poopies? Weawwy? Dummeh fwuffy get owies!”
The big earthies gather round the scared unicorn and begin beating the crap out of him with their hooves.
“A smarty’s retinue of big fluffies are called ‘Toughie Friends’ and are there to enforce the will of the Smarty,” Morgan Freeman explains. “Generally earthies, these brutes are given preferential food, treatments, and mating rights.”
The toughie friends each grab an ear on the unicorn and tug.
“Eeee!” he shrieks. “Pwease nu huwties! Pweae nu owies, tuffy fwiends! No wan be dummeh!”
Shrieking pierces the air and every fluffy head turns to the sound. A moment later a khaki colored pegasus with grass tucked in his fluff emerges from the grass in front of the smarty.
“Fawks munster!” he says. “Gawt pwetty hidey fwiend!”
The unicorn regards him for a minute before making a decision.
“Now it’s time for the Smarty Grey to decide who lives and dies,” says Morgan Freeman. “Does he make the toughie friends earn their keep?”
“Wocks, Awwow, move fwuffies hidey pwaces.” The toughie friends drop the unicorn they were beating up and move out to bellow orders to the rest of the herd. The unicorn turns back to the khaki pegasus. “Weaf, teww hidey fwiends faww back,” says Smarty Grey. “Take dummeh fwuffy wif you. He new pwetty hidey fwiend.”
You’ve never seen a fluffy roll their eyes so hard in your entire life, but Leaf obeys and drags the blue unicorn away with him.
“Hidey friends in this herd work in pairs,” Morgan Freeman explains as Leaf jams a few sticks and pieces of grass into the unicorn’s fluff.
“A brightly colored fluffy is paired with an earth toned fluffy to act as the lookouts for the herd. They’ll fill their fluff with grass, sticks, and leaves of the local area to help blend in.”
“Hu hu hu,” he sobs. “No wan be hidey fwiend.” The khaki Pegasus swats him upside the head with a hoof.
“Dummeh Hidey fwiend be quiet!” he hisses. “Nu cwy! Cwy bwing munstahs!” The bright blue unicorn bites his lip to hold in his sobs.
“Shu up, dun cwy, keep eye open,” he warns. “Weaf nu wan owies caus you dummeh! Find hidey fwiends, bwing back safe pwace.”
Leaf disappears into the grass as the unicorn snivels and blunders through the grass after him.
“What the brightly colored hidey friends don’t realize,” says Morgan Freeman, “is that their job is less about hiding and more about being bait.”
A fox leaps from the underbrush to pounce upon the bright blue unicorn a few moments later. There’s a squeal, followed by sobs of pain. The khaki Pegasus doesn’t even turn back as he continues to move through the high grass.
The fox holds the fluffy in his jaws, just off the ground as his legs pedal in terror.
“EEEEEEE!” he shrieks. “Weaf! Hewp fwuffy! Fawk munster! Weaf? WEAF! PWEASE NU WEAVE!”
Leaf is now invisible in the long grass, gone without a trace. The fox drops the unicorn and yips into the grass.
“Predators of the American West have learned that fluffies spoil quickly,” says Morgan Freeman, “and normally paralyze their victims by severing the spinal cord. They’ll start by eating the legs, keeping the fluffy alive as long as they can.”
A litter of fox kits emerge from the grass to surround the sobbing unicorn.
“This one, however, is training for the next generation, and will have a much worse time of it.”
The camera tilts towards the sky, leaving the screams of the unicorn to echo into the transition to night. It tilts down again to reveal a circle of young fluffies sitting before a dark green unicorn.
“Gwassies aways gud fow fwuffies,” she says. “Nu eat gwassies to diwt. Diwt yicky and gwassie nu gwow back so nu gwassies wateh. Fwowers nu gud fow nummies, buh can eat sum if bewwy huwties. Big wong white fwowers nu gud. Gif big sickies and wong sweeps.”
The young fluffies sort of listen as the unicorn explains more about flowers, grasses, and plants.
“A rare site for herds is the story friend,” says Morgan Freeman. “Not found in small herds, the story friends are fluffies that are smart enough to remember what’s happened to the herd before, along with information passed down through the oral tradition of fluffies.”
“Stowy fwiend teww you scawy stowy now,” she says. “Taiw of Asshow! A hoomn munsteh dat gif wowst owies to fuwffies he say he twy to hewp!”
“Not every generation will have a story friend,” Freeman explains. “In fact, most fluffies learn nothing from of these stories because their memories just aren’t good enough. But for the ones that do, it helps the herd remember what to do in hard times.”
The scene shifts to the starting snows and of dozens of fluffies trudging through the tall grass. Many fluffies drag tall stalks towards a large pile of grass stashed in an abandoned farmhouse. The story friend stands next to the smarty, directing him what to do next
“Too maneh fwuffies fow cowd times,” she says. “Nu haf nummies fow aww. Wess fwuffies haf wongest sweeps in cowd times. You know wat do.” The unicorn nods in agreement.
“This is the third winter for this Smarty Grey,” says Morgan Freeman. “He’ll knows he’s going to lose up to half of his herd, and it’s time to make decisions on who’s likely to survive and who’s not.”
The last of the fluffies drop their grass into the enormous pile, and gather outside to where the smarty is standing on an old box.
“Wisten up!” he yells. “Smawty fwiend tank you fow you hawd wok. Tuffie fwiends do gud jawb. Hidey fweinds du gud jawb too. Stowy fwiend gif good stowies! Gif huggies to fwiends! Dey bestest fwuffies! Bestest fwuffies git bestest nummies and bestest speciaw fwiends!”
The rest of the herd enthusiastically gives hugs to the mentioned “fwiends” before they move to the front of the herd near Smarty Grey.
“It may not be obvious to the casual observer, but here Smarty is dividing his heard into tiers,” says Morgan Freeman. “The alpha fluffies are the named friends. They’ll get the first choice of food during the winter, first choice of breeding come spring, and they’ll sleep in the middle of the fluff pile during the winter.”
“Fwuffies dat hewp bwing nummies, gud jawb!” he continues. “You aww gud fwuffies. Nu as gud as bestest fwiends, buh gud fwuffies. Nu wan babehs in cowd times, so nu spechaw huggies tiww cowd time oveh. Bests fwiend gif huggies to gud fwuffies!”
“Here, Smarty address the beta fluffies,” says Morgan Freeman as the Alphas distribute hugs to the rest of the herd. “They’ll get second choice on food, and whoever remains for mating in the spring. Most importantly, it’s up the Alphas to decide on who the betas of this herd are. Disaster awaits Smarty Grey if he picked ineffective Alphas, as the Alphas choose who’s going to survive the winter.”
The Alphas move out and select their friends and good workers from the rabble of fluffies, notably avoiding sick, old, or injured fluffies. More importantly, they avoid fluffies that haven’t participated in the food gathering efforts. Hugs are delivered and the beta fluffies move in with the alphas.
“Dummeh fwuffies nu hewp bwing nummies, nu haf pwace wiff hewd for cowd time!” says Smarty at last. “Nu git nummies fow cowd time! Dummeh fwuffies nu pawt of hewd nu mow!”
There’s crying and wailing from the rejects. A big blue unicorn puffs out his cheeks and stamps his feet.
“Sentenced to death without the herd for the winter, these gamma fluffies will almost always put forth a challenge to the smarty’s rule.”
“Smawty Gwey am dummeh!” the blue unicorn shrieks. “Bwubeww am new smawty! Gif Smawty Gwey biggest owchies!”
He points a hoof, expecting to be obeyed, and a few of the rejects come forward to support Bluebell’s claim. Except these aren’t just lazy fluffies that didn’t follow orders; these are the sick, infirmed, and old fluffies on their last legs. The best and biggest among them take up positions beside him and puff out their cheeks. Smarty just looks down his nose at them, then points a hoof directly at Bluebell.
“Biggest owies fow dummeh.”
“The new leader of the herd will be decided shortly,” says Morgan Freeman. “A good smarty will let underlings earn their keep, as a good toughie friend will happily give their lives for their smarty.”
What happens next is typical of a fluffy pony battle. Two sides charge at each other, collide, and fall to the ground. A few bites, a few soft hoof slaps, and many on both sides are crying and covering their eyes. The big toughie friends are the only ones left standing after a few moments of fighting, and they’re easily pummeling the upstart’s new legion.
Smarty has disappeared from the battle, leaving Bluebell to stand around looking smug. He hasn’t raised a hoof to help his toughie friends, even though they’re badly losing the battle.
“But a good leader knows when to take action personally.”
Smarty comes leaping from behind Bluebell and drives him to the ground with the force of his impact. Grey bites an ear and tosses Bluebell onto his back.
You’re expecting a typical fluffy fight with Bluebell getting smacked around a bit before crying in submission, but what happens next is so fast, you don’t even have enough time to cover your fluffies eyes from the violence.
Grey lunges at Bluebells face and grabs his eye in his teeth. With a hoof on Bluebells muzzle, he yanks his head back and tears Bluebells eye straight from the socket with a sickening ripping sound.
“Nuuu!” your fluffy shrieks and cover he eyes. “Nu eybaww huwtie!”
She doesn’t see Grey repeat the process with the other eye, leaving Bluebell a blinded, shrieking, and defecating wreck upon the ground. Grey spits out the eye, then stomps it into the ground.
“Dummeh fwuffies go way naow,” he says just loud enough to be heard. “Go way naow ow biggest owies.”
The gamma fluffies pick themselves up and flee as fast as their stubby legs will carry them. The vastly reduced herd looks on in silence as the toughie friends drag Bluebell away from their building by the ears. There’s a few more thumps and cries from off camera before the toughie friends return to the waiting herd.
The camera cuts back to Bluebell, sobbing and blinded, stumbling through the grass. It follows for him a bit, the snow gathering along the grass before he runs into a bison. He feels its leg for a moment, then has a smile of recognition.
“Big fwuffy wan be fwiend wif Bwuebeww?”
The bison responds with a grunt and crushes Bluebell beneath an enormous hoof. The blue unicorn gurgles and chokes with a death rattle for a full minute before he finally stops breathing.
The camera slides to the left and zooms out. Atop a mahogany desk is an adorable grey spider fluffy wearing a green toboggan. Behind the desk, wearing a smart grey tweed, is Morgan Freeman.
“Life is hard for feral herds deep in the American West,” he says. “Even by sending a third of his herd onto an uncertain fate, even by recycling their waste as a food supply in late winter, some of the herd will not make it through the winter.”
“Fluffies that can think that far ahead are rare and make admirable leaders in absence of humans. They’re so far out their programed environment that the fluffies are making up their own rules as they go along. They’ve become part of the landscape as much as the elk or bison, and have found their place in the web of life.”
“This concludes our series of March of the Fluffies. On behalf of Spaghetti Warehouse, Fluff TV, myself, and Miss Muffet here,” he pats the spider fluffy’s head.
“I’d like to wish you all a wonderful evening. Thank you for joining us, and goodnight.”
Thus concludes “March of The Fluffies.”
Word Count: 17987