It’s a calm and moonlit night in Wichita. Out in a wheat field, there sits a small shack. Within the shack, a small television and a bed. Also the walls are COATED in shit and piss.
This is the domain of a monster.
“HEY GET READY YOU FUCKING PUSSIES I’M HATEGOAT AND I’M GONNA SHIT IN YOUR AORTA”
Hategoat operates the television with his paws, and the image of a crying babbeh appears onscreen.
“THAT FUCKING COMMIE CUCK STWUMPO IS ON FLUFFY-COMMUNITY.COM NOW, WHICH MEANS I GET TO RAPE AND EAT ALL OF YOU.”
From a distance, shouting can be heard. It is hard to determine the source or meaning, but Hategoat knows.
“HEY SUCK MY RANCID COCK YOU RAT FUCK, I WILL COME THE FUCK OVER THERE AND EAT ALL YOUR FUCKING HEART PILLS!”
Hategoat returns his attention to the viewer.
“SO WHAT DO YOU GODDAMN CRETINS WANNA SEE? YOU WANNA WATCH ME FUCK SOMEONE’S PET TO DEATH WHILE IT BEGS FOR MERCY? MAYBE I’M GONNA FUCKING DRIVE A CAR, WHO THE SHIT KNOWS? I’M HATEGOAT MOTHERFUCKER, I FUCKING PISS GREATNESS AND SHIT MONEY SOMEHOW.”
The television babbeh has only intensified his crying. It seems to be a live feed, as he jumps when Hategoat yells.
“TODAY WE HAVE A STORY FOR YOU FUCKING WEIRD BASTARDS, AND IT’S ABOUT SOME FUCKING ALPHA CHAD DOING WHATEVER THE HELL HE WANTS AND THEN FUCKING YOUR MOM WHO LEAVES HIM FOR ME, HATEGOAT, THE GALACTUS OF MAKING BITCHES CREAM.”
The babbeh disappears and is replaced by a title card reading “Please Hold For Assistance.”
“WHAT THE CANDY COATED FUCK KIND OF TITLE IS THIS? WHAT FUCKING MORON COMES UP WITH THIS SHIT? I MEAN SERIOUSLY, THE GUY’S TITLING EVERY FUCKING STORY LIKE HE THINKS HE’S CLEVER OR CUTE OR SOME SHIT. FUCK HIM, I’M CLEVER. I’M CUTE. I’M FUCKING HATEGOAT I DON’T GIVE TWO SHAKES OF A DEAD DOG’S DICK WHAT YOU FUCKING THINK OF ME! WHITES ARE BEING REPLACED!”
The camera slowly pulls in until the tv fills the frame. Hategoat screaming all the while.
“WHAT? NO YOU PIECE OF HOBO SHIT, I SAY WHAT I WANT. I’M HATEGOAT MOTHER FUCK, YOUR WIFE PICTURES ME EVERY TIME SHE CUMS! THE GREAT REPLACEMENT IS REAL! DEGENERACY IS DESTROYING AMERICA! I’M FUCKIN’ HATEGOAT, I BET YOUR KIDS TASTE FUCKING INCREDIBLE AS PULLED PORK!”
…
It was a warm and breezy afternoon, and Bradford was off on his morning walk. Daddeh had installed a dog door so Bradford could patrol the yard at his leisure, and Bradford liked to say hello to all the pretty plants and any new buggy or bunny friends he meets. He’s a chubby little fella so his walk is more of a waddle, but he sings tunelessly to himself as he goes.
From the bushes, John Stalvern waited and watched.
When Bradford came close to the hedges separating his yard from the neighboring one, he noticed something. A smell. It smells like…like…
“Sketties?” The aroma wafted out so hard he could practically feel it on his skin. Like he could breathe sketties. He was pondering how that would work when he felt a fish close around his snout, silencing him in an instant. He thrashed and tried to free himself, or even just see the face of his captor, but to no avail. The human had a mask, and after giving Bradford poopy place hurties, let him go.
Bradford was proud of the lack of scaredy poopies, daddeh had been very patient with him and he’d managed to come a long way from the timid foal who’d soil himself if someone closed a window too quickly. Now he’d faced down a scary hoomin! He was fine! He shook it off and continued walking.
A few hours later, daddeh was home. Bradford had honestly almost forgotten his brief scare this morning, and daddeh returning meant no more scaredies anyway so it was fine. Daddeh was cooking Vermicelli and it smelled almost done when Bradford came in from hugging the birdbath “goonite” so it doesn’t get lonely from an entire night of no good huggies from Bradford.
“Dinner’s up, go get ready.” Bradford clomped his way to the saferoom and went to make good poopies.
Nothing. He pushed again. Pressure builds up, but nothing still. It’s not like having “meanie wocky poopies” because those come out. They move. They hurt, but they love.
Whatever causes this isn’t moving.
Bradford strains again and again. By now he can consciously feel how backed up he is and grows concerned. “Daddeh? Bw…Bwadfudd nee daddeh hewp! Sumfin wong! Poopy pwace bein’ meanie tu wittwe Bwadfudd!” Daddeh came in quickly, a look of genuine concern on his face. “Oh no! Let me take a look.” He turns Bradford around to see the culprit. “A ha! Found it.” He runs his finger across the plug in Bradford’s asshole. “Huh. No puller. Must be a cheap one.” He tries to get under it, but to no avail. He can’t grip it either, and Bradford is starting to freak out.
“Daddeh? Wat wong? Meanie pwant munsta gif wowstest poopy pwace huwties tuday! Wai du dat? Wai, daddeh? Am onwy wittwe fwuffy fwend!” After another hour of trying and failing to dislodge the plug, things were getting dire. Bradford felt sick and kept throwing up. He could drink water and piss it out fine, but his asshole was completely capped off.
So they went to a vet.
“Look sir, I don’t know what to tell you. They don’t COME out. That’s the whole POINT. Thats why it’s a CULINARY plug. Not a standard one.” Daddeh rubbed his forehead in frustration. “Look man I didn’t buy it. Some asshole who attacked my pet did. What’re our options?” The vet barely thought. “Really just two: Colostomy Bag, or euthanization.” The vet catches himself. “Oh, sorry little guy. That means going forever sleepies.” This made Bradford even more upset and he threw up on daddeh again.
Daddeh looked on in sheer bewilderment. “W…why did you tell him that?” Bradford was trying to beg for his life through the pain and all the toxins backing up into his bloodstream. “Peez nu huuut faaaaff…ff…yyyyyehhhh…”
“Yeah shit man, sorry. Not sure why I did that. Guess I’m still not used to talking animals so I go into explain for kids mode.” Daddeh frowned. “You think kids are like fluffies?” The vet simply smiles.
“You don’t?”
…
It had been six days since Bradford had his surgery. Removal of the plug would habe caused untold damage to his body and the ensuing infection would almost assuredly kill him, so they left it in. Instead now a hose comes out of his side and empties his poopies in a clear bag that’s supposed to be smellproof. Supposed to be.
He’d recovered well physically. Healed at a record pace, he’s a very healthy fluffy boy and he works hard when he has to. But some wounds never heal. Time can turn mountains to plains, but it can turn desert into canyon just as well.
“Hey bud, you going outside? Weather finally cleared up.”
“Nu, dat otay.”
“You sure? Birdbath looks kinda lonely bud.”
“Bwidbaff nu wonewy. Bwadfudd nu nee gif huggies.”
“Still though, the flowers are-”
“NU!”
The two sat in silence for the rest of the evening. That night Bradford cried himself to sleep.
But daddeh cried harder.