This is from Stwumpo’s “King of Iron Fluffy” game going on right now. Two opponents square off, and win by facing challenges posed by Stwumpo’s game officials. So, for the challenge Napoleon’s pair got? We were face with 200+ hungry foals. Whoever had the most surviving foals won. The problem? The only food there was milk, and the foals were all deathly allergic to it.
I entered Napoleon for the Weirdbox factor. He’s intended to be the Dan Hibiki of the contest. Well, the challenge isn’t what I expected it to be (was thinking some cool combat thing), so this is a very different story for Napoleon.
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Napoleon Vs Sapphire
Napoleon’s eyes opened wide as foals flood the arena from all angles. Earthies, Wingies, and Pointies. Some are walkie-talkies, others just roll out from bins, chirping and peeping pathetically. From the arena loudspeakers he hears, “Babies need nummies! The arena is swarming with over 200 foals ranging in age from “chirpy” to “walkie talkie” and they are hungry! They haven’t eaten in 48 hours. Try to feed as many as possible! Remember, they’re babies, so nothing more solid than a smoothie or they’ll choke and die.”
He bounces around, onto Sapphire’s head, then up and away to get a really good look. There are bowls of milk scattered around, with some of the walkies-talkies already going to them.
“Dis too easy…” the micro-fluff muttered. And too easy usually meant “trouble” with humans.
He settled down near one bowl as a green alicorn suddenly reared up, its eyes bulging, gasping. Tiny hooves went to its neck which was bulging before it fell down on its side. Napoleon looked panicked foal, too distressed to even register his presence.
No breath. No sound coming out of its mouth.
On a hunch the diminutive fluff crawled into the foal’s gaping mouth, still smelling of milk. It smelled like milk, at least. He risked a lick. It tasted like milk. Still nothing coming out of its throat. He jumped down the canal and found it to be swollen shut.
“Dat not wite.”
He scampered out and saw the other foals by the milk bowl here having similar reactions. Was the milk bad? Napoleon paused. He felt alright. Whatever it was it only seemed to be affecting the foals.
“Oh, and one more thing: They’re all extremely allergic to milk,” the announcer laughed. “Which we’ve placed in various dishes throughout the arena!”
Napoleon sighed. While ten fluffies weren’t worth a can of spaghetti to most humans, this was something else altogether. Teeth grated as he hit his head with a hoof. “T’ink! T’ink! What du?!”
All sorts of foals. All ages. They all looked like they were starving.
An idea clicked into his head. Not that he liked it.
Running to a large group, Napoleon began yelling, “Miwkies onwy for Smawties an Bes’ Bebbehs! Miwkies onwy for Smawties an Bes’ Bebbehs!” Then onto another. And another. He didn’t need to get them all, just a large group in the center. As he ran and shouted, the walkie-talkies began to repeat it.
“Miwkies onwy for Smawties an Bes’ Bebbehs?”
““Miwkies onwy for Smawties an Bes’ Bebbehs.”
“Miwkies onwy for Smawties an Bes’ Bebbehs!”
The babbling began to take form and coherency. Some of the foals began crying when hearing it. Others looked confused. Nevermind them. He was looking for the ones shouting it. Declaring it like it was gospel truth.
“Mobe dummeh! Miwkies onwy for Smawties an Bes’ Bebbehs!!!”
Bingo.
A bunch of foals began pushing their way to the bowls. Napoleon leapt to them, zig-zagging past crying foals and chirpies.
“Smawties and Bes’ Babbehs,” he yelled at them. “Dey sit in miwk bowl so no fwuffy ewse can get! Miwkies onwy for Smawties an Bes’ Bebbehs!”
The already aggressive walkie-talkies had no problem with this line of thinking. It was theirs! Nobody else should get the sweet, sweet milk! “Miwkies onwy for Smawties an Bes’ Bebbehs! Dummehs get sowwy hoovesies!”
The other foals around them began wailing, “Dey sit in miwk bowl so no fwuffy ewse can get!”
“Miwkies onwy for Smawties an Bes’ Bebbehs!”
The chorus went back and forth, growing in volume between the two groups. One side proud and triumphant, lording over the other. He stopped his mad dash, listening.
“Gud. Pwenty woud naow,” the fluff spat. The smarty/toughy wasn’t proud of himself; this was the sort of behavior he would never tolerate in his own herd. But, this wasn’t a situation his herd would ever be in, he hoped.
“WISTEN TO SMAWTY!” he screeched. A break came in the cacophony. “IF YU NO SMAWTY OR BES’ BABBEH, DEN YU HAB TO NUM POOPIES! IF NO NUM POOPIES, DEN GET FOWEBAH SWEEPIES!”
Gasps went up from the foals along with pleased chuckles from the ones with the milk.
“Dummehs gonna num poopies!”
“Das wight, ass-howes…” Napoleon grunted, shoving his tail to the air as he prayed. “Sky-daddeh, no wet Taco Beww faiw Napoweon now!"
A geyser of Sorry Poopies erupted from the microfluff, visible from even the nosebleed seating of the arena. Napoleon wailed as he twisted his hind quarters to and fro, trying to spread the foul fecal stream all around the floor. It’s evil stank of chalupas and nacho cheese rained down upon the foals regardless of color, type, or status.
By the time he finished much of the floor was covered in Sorry Poopy shit. Foals wailed at the smell, how it wasn’t pretty, how it wasn’t fair the Smarties and Bes’ Babbehs got milkies. Napoleon slowly stood back to all fours, feeling quite depleted.
“Good t’ing from comedy funny-haha pwace,” he winced. Suddenly Napoleon was quite thankful he didn’t eat any of the Diablo Nachos like he had planned to originally. Shaking himself, he yelled, “Num da poopies ow get fowebah sweepies! Miwkies owny fow Smawties and Bes Babbehs! Dey gib sowwy hoofsies to any fwuffy dat twy hab miwk! West ob yu num da poopies!"
As he got his bearings again he saw that hunger was grudgingly being sated.
“No taste pwetty.”
“Huu huu huu… wan miwkies!”
“Wan… /slurp/ mummah… /slurp/”
A lone foal approached him, half covered in the fecal rain. “No faiw, why no can hab miwkies wike Smarties an’ Bes’ Babbehs? Am good fwuffy!”
Napoleon sized him up. Sad eyed, green, tearing.
“Sowwy babbeh. Wife no faiw. Dea’ times aww yu can do is twy wib to see next bwite time an’ hope it bettah.”
The green Earthie looked like it was about to cry. Napoleon hopped onto its nose, licking the shit covered snoot. “Heah, gib wickie cweanies,” he said. “But yu gotta num da poopies tu. Gotta num dem to WIB to see next bwite time…”
