Margaret walked swiftly through the house, rounding the corner to see absolute carnage taking place in her garden. Scarlet and Clementine were softly huuhuuing to themselves as Punky screamed in agony as contractions rocked her small frame. Button was trying, and failing, to console the two other pregnant mares as Bullet attempted to calm Punky through hugs. Jackson was trying to hold back Bumbler from stabbing Grapenut with his horn, unsuccessfully, if the blood seeping from the side of the green stallion was anything to go by. Grapenut, for his part, was desperately pulling the rope to ring the bell, collapsing in a heap as Margaret strolled into the garden.
“Dummeh Gwapenut stop makin’ wingy noise! Huwt Bumbwah hearie pwaces! Stoopid fwuffy! Dummeh!” Bumbler reared up to give sorry hoofsies to Grapenut, only missing as Jackson threw his body against the smarty, knocking him over. He screamed in anger, scrambling to his feet and preparing to charge Jackson.
Running as fast as her geriatric hips would allow, Margaret swooped down, picked up Bumbler up by the horn, and practically threw him in the compost bin. She heard the crack of bone and the pained screams of the stallion, but didn’t care at all. Walking swiftly to her car, Margaret grabbed the pot of Insta-Heal gel, then jogging to the kitchen to pick up a bowl of warm water and a clean rag.
Running back out to the garden, she saw Punky had already birthed two foals, one a black pegasus with pink tufts of mane, and a pastel pink one with the faintest wisp of a white mane. As Punky screamed, a red unicorn slid out. Right now, Margaret didn’t give a shit if she popped out a fucking Clydesdale.
Wetting the rag with the warm water, Margaret began to clean the side of Grapenut slick with blood. Luckily, the wounds appeared mostly superficial, with the exception of a particularly nasty one on his hind leg. She guessed this was from before Jackson began to interfere. Daubing the gel on the open wounds, Margaret motioned Jackson over to her. The stallion limped up to her, a dark bruise showing through his fluff. “What happened here Jackson?”
The fluffy spoke haltingly through sobs. “Fwuffy an’ Button an’ Buwwit an’ Gwapenut wewe pwayin’ huggie tag wen Punky stawt habin’ biggest poopies. Su Button go to woww Punky to wittah bocks when Buwwit say she habin’ babbehs!” Jackson attempted to stifle a chirp. “So Gwapenut say dat mummah told him to win’ dah wingy ting when fwuffies hab babbehs an stawts puwwin’ dah wope. Bumbwah didn’t wike dah noise su fwuffy tewws Gwapenut to stahp, buh Gwapenut no stahp, fwuffy just keeps wingin’ dah wingy ting.”
“Den Bumbwah says he weadew o’ hewd, den wuns at Gwapenut an’ gif wowstest owwies wiff hown.” “And then you stopped him, right?” Jackson began to tear up. “Jackson twy, buh Bumbwah to stwong fo’ fwuffy to stahp. Gif wots of owwies to Gwapenut.” Margaret lifted Jackson in her arms and gave him a hug. “I’m sure you did your best dearie. You did a good job.” She could feel him shaking in fear.
Placing Jackson down, she lifted Grapenut and carried him into the kitchen. Grabbing the phone from the wall, she dialed Jim. “Hey granny, wha-“ “Jim I’m going to need you to walk me through a bit of fluffy trauma care.” Jim’s voice instantly took on a serious tone. “What happened?” She sighed. “The smarty gored one of the fluffies in the hindleg with his horn.” “I told you about the smar-“ “Jim, now’s not the time. How do I treat a fucking fluffy stab wound?”
“Ok, so hows the patient looking?” Margaret checked his breathing. “Breathing a little shallow, but he’s been physically exerting himself pretty hard for at least five minutes.” Jim wanted to ask her about it, but decided now wasn’t the time. “Ok, what does the wound look like, is it still bleeding?
Brushing the fluff away from the wound, Margaret could see it had already stopped bleeding for the most part. “Damn things already stopped bleeding, how in the hell does that work?” Jim chuckled. “Miracle of biotoys granny, Im going to need you to press down around the wound.” The action was met by a trickle of fresh blood and a dark red plug of blood. “Some sort of slug came out, that’s normal right?” “Yeah, that’s a blood clot. Fluffies have blood that clots super quickly, causing a large clot to form inside large punctures. If you leave it in there it would cause a bit of discomfort as it healed.” Margaret reached for the tub of insta heal gel.
“There’s no downside to the use of instaheal gel, is there?” “Not really, don’t need to use much either. Just a dab’ll do ya.” Applying a thin layer of the gel, Margaret left the fainted fluffy on the kitchen table as she retrieved the first aid kit from the bathroom. “Jim how tight should I bind the wound?”
“Pretty loosely, all you’re trying to do is prevent dirt getting in the wound.” Margaret stepped back and looked at her handiwork. Grapenut appeared stable, breathing much more normally. Grabbing a blanket from the closet, Margaret bundled the little green pegasus before laying him in the old dog bed by the TV.
“Thanks Jim, I’ll send you a gift in the mail in a bit” Jim laughed. “If you can send a batch of your cinnamon cookies I’d appreciate that more than money.” Margaret smiled. This was why he was her favorite grandson. “I’ll call you in a bit, right now; I have a shit stain to discipline.”
As she hung up the phone, the anxiety in her heart slowly faded. In its place Margaret felt rage. Grabbing the bullwhip from the wall, as well as some pruning shears and some baling wire from the tool closet, Margaret walked outside with a purpose. She briefly noticed that Punky had finished giving birth, one more earthie, a golden yellow horse with a wisp of black for a mane, and a sky blue Pegasus lying in the grass off to the side, completely immobile.
That was an issue for later. Flinging open the compost bin, Margaret saw the unicorn, wallowing in shit and piss, and scowled. “Dummeh munstah mummah wet Bumbwah out NAO!” Reaching into the bin, Margaret grabbed him by the mane, wrenching him out. She carried him out of the garden over to the old pecan tree about fifty yards from the garden. Under the tree was the old dog house of Arnold, the guard dog they had a decade ago.
The dog house wasn’t what Margaret was here for. She was here for the tethering stake they had driven into the tree. Swiftly binding the smarties hooves together with baling twine, she hoisted him to the point where his hind hooves just barely touched the floor. Bumbler was screaming incoherent threats at Margaret. “GIF SOWWY POOPIES!” He screamed as he attempted to spray her with shit, his position ensuring the only thing that got covered with shit was his own legs.
Margaret slowly uncoiled the bullwhip, straightening out the coil after its years of disuse. “You little shit head.” Even through his rage, Bumbler could tell that the old woman was furious. His screaming trailed off. “Why Bumbwah gettin punished fo’ stoppin’ dah stoopi’ fwuffie who made woud noise wen Bumbwah takin nap?” The smarty huffed. “Bumbwah shouwd be getting skettis fo’ stoppin dummeh gween fwuffy fwom makin noise, wakin Bumbwah up fwom sweepie time.”
Margaret walked slowly up to the stallion. Leaning in she hissed in his ear. “You stupid fucking shit stain. First, you come into my garden, the pride and joy of nearly twenty years of hard labor and love, and ruin it within a single week. Then, every single FUCKING time I see you, you attempt to shit on me or hurt me. And you couldn’t, so instead you hurt Grapenut, one of the sweetest, kindest souls I have EVER met, for doing what I told him to do, because he woke you from a fucking NAP?”
Margaret pulled out the pair of shears. “First things first, I can’t have you stabbing anyone else with that horn of yours.” Pinning Bumblers head against the old tree, she placed the shears as close to the base of the horn as possible. Margaret began to clip through the horn. It took more effort than she had expected, especially with the little unicorn attempting his hardest to wrest his head from the old woman’s grasp.
But, eventually, the keratin gave way and the shears cut through the nerve cord, Bumbler passing out momentarily from the shock. Margaret held the thumb sized horn in her palm, a small trickle of blood flowing from the cut end. She pocketed it; perhaps she’d make a necklace for the littlest granddaughter. She roused the smarty from his faint with a couple firm slaps to the snout. “We aren’t done yet you little shit, WAKE UP!” The stallion awoke with a yelp.
Bumbler was scared. For the first time since he had watched the red barky monster eat his mother right in front of him, he was feeling true fear. A trickle of urine began to stream down his legs. For the first time since he had been nothing but a little chirpy baby, Bumbler began to cry.
“ Huu huu, fwuffy am chirp suuuuuuuuu sowwy mummah, huu huu, fwuffy chirp nevah do it again.” Margaret felt her eye begin to twitch. “Pwease peep wet fwuffy go, fwuffy am fo’ huggies an’ chirp wuv!” Margaret took a couple paces back. Thinking she had forgiven him Bumbler muttered to himself “Dummeh munsta take fwuffy hown fo’ no weason. Gif wowstest huwties wen Bumbwah ge’ down.”
Margaret felt her blood begin to boil. She cracked her whip. Bumbler shit himself again, screaming in terror at the sharp crack. “FWUFFY NO WIKE WOUD NOISE!” Margaret raised her arm and cracked the whip again, this time aiming directly at the fluffy.
Margaret had no way of knowing, but a square inch of a fluffies skin is said to have around 20,000 nerve endings in it, more than a human hand had. This is why they are so receptive to hugs, love, and physical comfort. It allows fluffy moms to know exactly how many babies they have on their backs, preventing them from losing track of any of the more adventurous ones.
Likewise, Bumbler had no idea that a fluffies ear was much, MUCH more sensitive than regular skin. Sure he knew that nuzzling against a warm fluffy made his ears feel so good, but not that they contained nearly one and a half times as many nerve endings as regular fluffy skin, which is why fluffies begin mating rituals and greetings by nuzzling against each other.
What the two of them did know, is that when Margaret’s strike went high and to the right, the steel cable cracker on the end tearing the ear into ribbons, Bumbler let out the loudest scream either of them had heard in their lives. He then promptly voided the rest of his bowels and his bladder, and then went limp.
Unbeknownst to the two of them, this was the best possible outcome for Bumbler. Had Margaret’s whip connected to any other part of the fluffies body, it would have cut through the weak skin of the biotoys like butter, snapping through bones like twigs. The heavy metal end was designed to be a heavy duty whip cracker for extended use in rodeo demonstrations, but neither Margaret nor Leo knew that when they purchased it.
Margaret slowly walked up to the fluffy, re-coiling her whip as she approached. She checked his breathing. Faint, but there, and that’s all she really cared about right now. She debated cutting him down and throwing him into the compost bin for two days, but decided it would be too much trouble. She decided to instead leave him tied up for a day or two. And if he were to be eaten by coyotes, so be it.
Secretly, Margaret hoped something would kill him so she wouldn’t bring him back into the garden. She knew once the adrenaline died down, she’d bring him back in. She was always too nice. And right now, she hated herself for it.
Nice to see Bumbler getting some comeuppance. Punky may actually be a great breeding mare if not for the awful attitude.