You’re Joe Average. Just your average, every day slob. IQ of 95, employed as a poorly-paid mall security guard, single, and unmotivated.
Today, you’re hiking through the woods, because why not. You like going for walks, last time you did that downtown you got mugged by knife-wielding gangbangers TWICE (the second one got pissed when you said you’d already had your wallet, watch, phone, etc. stolen and beat the shit out of you), and you’ve never heard of a black person that liked camping, so you figure the woods are safe.
You stop to rest, using a fallen tree for a seat, and decide now is as good a time as any for lunch. You pull out a self-heating can of beef stew (expensive as hell, but really nifty; you didn’t know there was such a thing until you found in a catalogue from the company you bought your security guard equipment from.), press the tab to heat it up, and wait ten minutes. Ten minutes up, you grab the can, cutting off a curse when you nearly burn yourself on it, rip off the pull-tab lid, and start eating. Not bad. Not bad at all.
Something rustles in the bushes and dead leaves nearby and you freeze, spoon full of stew halfway to your lips. What the hell is that?! You’re not prepared to deal with any wild animals. Oh, fuck.
“Nummies?”
What.
A bright red fluffy with purple and yellow striped mane and tail (it hurts to look at) pops out from under a bush, looking in your direction.
“Eeeee! Munsta! Wun!”
It turns around and tries wriggling under the bush again, but you lunge and grab its tail (spilling your stew all over the ground in the process; dammit!), pulling it out and dangling it in the air.
“Owies! Taiw huwties! Pwease wet fwuffy gu! Huuhuuuu…”
You grin to yourself, eyeing your prize. The best part of your security job is dealing with all the fluffies that keep mobbing the dumpsters and the back of the food court. You’ve been mugged repeatedly, high school was a living hell that saw you get beat up and stuffed into a locker by jocks on a regular basis, and even your own neighborhood wasn’t safe from bullies. So whenever you get to beat the shit out of some fluffies and stomp their heads in while they scream, beg, and cry, it feels… good.
Who’s the little guy now, Vinnie?
And now you’ve got a fluffy all to yourself. This day just keeps getting better and better.
You chuckle evilly and the fluffy shits himself in fear; his upside position means the shit goes all over himself, but he ignores it, staring at you.
“Pwease nu huwt fwuffy,” he whispers. “Fwuffy am gud fwuffy.”
You slowly pull out your telescoping baton, making a show of it, then snap it open with a flick of your wrist. The fluffy flinches, a little more shit popping out its rear with a loud PBBLT, and starts begging you not to use the sorry stick.
“Oh, I’m using the sorry stick. And I’m gonna take my time doing it.”
“Nummies?”
The hell? You turn and there’s another fluffy standing on the hiking trail. He isn’t looking at the stew spilled on the ground, he’s looking right at you. Dumbass.
“Yeah, I’ll give you nummies, all right. Let’s see how you shit rats enjoy the taste of your own teeth and blood…”
“Nummies?”
You turn and there’s another fluffy behind you. What is this, a whole herd out here? Whatever. Just more for you to stomp and destroy while they scream and beg and choke. Catharsis.
“Hoomin nummies?”
Yet another fluffy. They’re all staring at you, hungrily. This just keeps getting better and better.
“Dewe hoomin nummies hewe? Fwuffy wuv hoomin nummies…”
More and more fluffies keep coming out from the bushes, all staring at you with an odd expression. There’s… there’s something wrong here.
“Wook, babbeh! Hoomin! Hoomin am bestest nummies, make bestest miwkies fow babbeh!”
“Yaaay, miwkies!”
Wait, the fuck?
“What did you just say?”
Another fluffy, a big green one with bright fuchsia mane and tail and a horn, steps forward, licking his lips.
“Hoomin am bestest nummies. Fwuffy wuv hoomin. Dis hoomin am gud nummies.”
Are… are a bunch of feral fluffies seriously saying that YOU’RE food? What… what the hell is this bullshit?!
You brandish your baton menacingly and the nearest fluffies instinctively wince, but then the entire group slowly approaches. You look around and you’re completely surrounded by over a dozen of the little fuzz balls. Every one of them is staring at you and salivating in anticipation.
“Nummies…”
“Wan nummies…”
“Hoomin am bestest nummies…”
“Mmmm, hoomin…”
“Nummies…”
“Fwuffy nu num hoomin in wong time…”
“Wan num hoomin…”
“Nummies…”
You’re freaking the hell out. This isn’t right. This isn’t normal. Fluffies should be terrified of YOU, not the other way around. They should all be running away, not surrounding you and getting closer and closer. And, and, what the HELL is with them saying they want to eat YOU? These things aren’t normal fluffies, they’re freaks!
You toss the shit-covered fluffy in your hand at the biggest clump of fluffies (“OWIES!”) and run, leaping over a couple of them in a single bound, and haul ass down the trail as fast as you can. Nope! Fuck this, you’re out. Nope nope nope!
“Cum back, hoomin! Fwuffies wan num yoo!”
Nopenopenopenopenopenopenopenope!
Fuck the woods, man, you’ll take your chances with the crackhead gangbangers!
You help roll the scaredy poopies-covered fluffy back onto his feet; he’s not hurt too badly, and he quits huuhuuing once you tell him he can have first turn at the nummies the hoomin spilled.
“Smawty?”
You turn and your advisor, a soft orange pegasus stallion, is giving you a smug look of satisfaction.
“It wowked. Pay up.”
“Yeh, yeh.”
You pull the last three or four delicious berries out of your fluff and give it to him, his look of smug satisfaction getting even bigger. If he wasn’t your best friend and the best idea fluffy in your whole herd, you’d smack the poopies out of him for that look. You turn back to your herd, as they gobble down the delicious nummies the hoomin dropped.
“Otay, hewd! Gwab his backpack, wets open da zippy-mouf and take da nummies fwom it, we gotta gu befowe mowe hoomins cum!”
The half dozen mares and stallions in your herd quickly wrestle the heavy backpack onto its side, fight to get the zipper open, and begin pulling out the goodies inside. More cans like the ones the hoomin was eating from; you saw how he opened it, so you can get the nummies out. Candy bars, fruity drinks, and more. There’s a bunch of not-nummies you don’t recognize; you leave those in the bag.
“Otay, hewd! Befowe we gu back tu safe pwace, wet’s aww make gud poopies!”
You grin and every fluffy around you grins too. They know the score.
The babbehs all crawl into the backpack first; they can get into the small spaces a big fluffy can’t. They make their poopies and peepees, then crawl back out and the big fluffies all take turns making poopies in and on the backpack. You’re the last to go, and you kick dirt from the trail onto the pack for added measure when you’re done.
“Wet’s gu!”
The herd, now fed and well-provisioned, charges into the brush. Today resulted in a very good haul for your herd; your advisor’s idea was a good one.
You still can’t believe that worked though.
they manage to scare a hoomin damn I admit it worried me from the start.