“Between the time
when Hasbio created Fluffies…
…and the Worstest Nuclear Hurty Tiems…
…there was an age undreamed-of.
And unto this, Red Conan…
…destined to bear
the jeweled crown of Fluffydom…
…upon a troubled brow.
It is I, his chronicler,
who alone can tell thee of his saga.
Let me tell you of the days…
…of high adventure.”
“Wisten to owd mummah,” the wizened old pillowfluff said to the group of babies in the Pillowfluff pen. They had gathered around to hear her speak, as her stories were full of munstahs and adventure. Red Conan was sitting with the other foals, trying to forget the horror of the last few hours, and a story from owd mummah was just what he needed. The hoomins had turned off the lighties, so it was Dawk-Tiem, and the shadows from what little light there was seemed to move, making owd-mummah’s stories even scarier.
“Fiwe and wind come from da sky…
…fwom the Daddahs of da sky,
but Cwom is your Daddah.
Crom wivs in the eawth.
Once Giant-Munstahs wived in the eawth, Conan.
And in da dawkness of chaos…
…Dey fooled Cwom and took
fwom him da enigma of… Da Sowwy stick.
Cwom was angewed and the eawth shook.
Fiwe and wind stwuck down da giant-munstahs
and thwew dewe bodies in the wawa.
But in dewe wage, the Daddahs fowgot
the secwet of da stick…
…and weft it on da battwefiewd.
And we who found it…
…awe just Fwuffies.
Not Daddahs. Not giant-munstahs.
Just Fwuffies.
The secwet of da stick hav awways
cawwied wiv it a mystewy.
You must wearn it, wittew Conan.
You must wearn its discipwine.
For no one,
no one in dis wowwd can you twust.
Not hoomins, not mummahs, not munstahs.
Dis, dis you can twust.”
The old-mummah looked down at a toy sorry stick that was laying next to her pillow. Some of the older baby fluffies would pick it up to play “Daddahs and bad-fluffs” and beat each other with it. It was made of a thing called “Wubbew” and it didn’t hurt at all, but Red Conan knew that if he could get a hoomin sorry stick, and hold it in his mouth, or attach it to his horn somehow, he could have revenge on his enemies.
“WEVENGE” he said to himself.
The next morning, Red Conan grabbed some oaty nummies in his mouth, and prepared to walk back to the poopie-place. His heart felt heavy in his little chest, and every step seemed harder to take than the previous one. By the time her got there, a group of foals was already surrounding the grill, and taunting the pitiful fluffy, trapped below.
“POOPIE-MUNSTAH! POOPIE-MUNSTAH! YU AM A POOPIE-MUNSTAH!” the baby fluffies were calling down to it, in its cave of despair. Sometimes the inhabitant would gurgle back up at them, but today it was silent.
“Haha! Poopie-Munstah! Gotta num poopies! Num babbeh-poopies!” a large orange foal, nearly a colt, cried, as he turned and made sorry poopies onto the grid, hoping to get some on the poopie munstah’s head.
Red Conan felt the rage building up inside him. He lowered his head and aimed his horn at the laughing orange colt, and charged.
“OOOWF!” the orange colt, cried, and then started crying “Huuu huuu huu… why huwt fwuffy?” he asked.
“DAT AM NU POOPIE MUNSTAH! DAT AM FWUFFY-MUMMAH!” Conan shouted at the other baby fluffies, crying himself now.
The orange colt got back up, and limped off, nursing his leg where Red Conan’s horn had hurt him. The other fluffies gathered around though, seeing Conan’s tears and sensing a new victim.
“POOPIE-BABBEH! POOPIE-BABBEH! YU AM A POOPIE-BABBEH! YU MUMMAH AM A POOPIE-MUNSTAH! YU AM A POOPIE-BABBEH!” they all sang as they taunted him. Conan tried to get up and rush a few of them, but the young toughies were ready for him, and quickly knocked him to the ground, giving him sorry hoofies and sorry poopies. Now he really was a poopie-baby.
Crying, Conan waited until the other fluffies got bored and wandered back to their mummahs and milkies. Then, he picked himself up, and slowly walked over to the grill. He got the oaty nummies out from his cheek pouches, and dropped them through the grill, hoping the fluffy below would be able to eat them, little though it was.
“Mummah?” he called out, into the shadows and stench below, “Mummah?”
But the was no reply.
Red Conan walked away, crying his little heart out. Why had the Snake Daddah hurt his mummah-Jelly so badly? No fluffy deserved what he had done to her. Conan wanted REVENGE.
Just then, he heard another baby fluffy’s voice.
“Hewwo, yu am Wed Conan?” a little yellow foal with a red mane was asking him.
“Yes, hu am yu?”
“Fwuffy am cawwed Bit o’ Honey, cos wook wike mummah’s favwit sweety.”
Dat am stoopid name, Conan thought, but said otherwise “Dat am nice namey.”
“Do Wed Conan wan be nyu fwiend? Honey know dat da Snake Daddah huwt fwuffy-mummah, if Wed Conan wike, can hav miwkies from Honey-mummah. Honey am da wastest babbeh… aww da ovas have nyu daddahs ow nyu mummahs.”
Conan thought about it, and decided to be friends with Bit o’ Honey and her mummah, if only to get the milkies.
The next bright-tiem came early, and Conan woke, next to his new fluffy friend and her mummah. The milkies were good, but not as good as Mummah-Jelly’s. Still, for a while he had been safe and warm, and dreamt that he was living happily, back at Mummah-Claire’s home, with Jelly and his other brood mates. Then he woke up.
There was a very bad smell, coming from the grill above the poopie-place. Flies were buzzing around it, and Daddah-Frank and Mummah-Margaret were looking concerned.
When they hauled out the rotting body of a forever sleeping Red Fluffy, Conan wailed in despair. Jelly, his mummah, was dead.
Daddah-Frank and mummah-Margaret argued. Later, when the Snake Daddy came in to work. They both shouted at him, and told him he was “FIRED”. He just laughed and said he didn’t have any more “FOX” left to give. Another fluffy told him that a fox was a type of monster.
Conan became angry. He started fighting with other fluffies, pooping wherever he felt like, with no cares and no respect for anyone. When he got the sorry stick, he tried to bite daddah-Frank, but just got more of a sticking for his trouble. Then, he got angry with Bit o’ Honey and hoofed her in the nose. That stopped his mummah from loving him, but she couldn’t do anything to stop him.
With all the adult fluffies in his pen pillowed, the only ones that could control Conan were the older babies. A gang of three toughies jumped him one day, in a corner of the pen that was out of sight of the shelter mummahs and daddahs. The jumped on him and gave him sorry hoofies until he could barely move. For the next three days, he just lay next to Honey and her mummah, who took pity on him and nursed him back to health. He vowed to take revenge on the toughies, and anyone that hurt him or had hurt his mummah-Jelly.
Shortly thereafter, Conan found a piece of sharp “metaw” on the floor of the pen. It was part of the thing had held the wawa bottle on the side of the pen. Red Conan looked at it. It was small enough to fit in his mouth, and if he bit down on it, it kind of worked like a set of metaw teefies. Red Conan realised he could use it to give wowstest bities. He kept it in his cheek pouches, and waited, and planned. Eventually, he had an IDEA.
Waiting until Dawk-Tiem, Conan found the toughies that had hoofed him so badly the other day. They were all brothers, and being the biggest fluffies in the pillowfluff pen that actually had legs, they terrorised all the other fluffies. Now, they were all asleep, next to their pillow-mummah, a big fat mare with green fluff and a red mane.
Conan crept up to them, feeling his little heart hammering inside his chest. What if they woke up? What if someone saw him? What if anyfluff called out for Daddah Frank? Conan knew he was taking a risk, but he didn’t care. He just wanted revenge. Red Conan snuck right up to the biggest of the three brother toughies, found his special lumps, and bit down as hard as he could with the metal teefies.
CRUNCH.
The young colt kicked out, stirred and woke. Before anyone else could do anything, Conan ran up to the second biggest toughie and started hoofing his belly, no-no stick and special lumps as hard as he possibly could. Then the first toughie realised what had happened, and screamed.
“SCREEEEEEEEEE!!!”
“Wa! Wa happen!” yelled their mummah, waking up from a nice dream.
“Ugh! hewp mummah!” cried the other toughie, as Conan landed his hooves on his no-no stick and belly, bruising them horribly.
“AAAAIIIEIE! MUMMAH! SPECIAW WUMPS HAV WOWSTEST OWWIES!”
Red Conan grinned. A red grin, dripping with the blood of his enemies.
From that day onward, all the other fluffies were terrified of him.
His rule of the pillowfluff pen didn’t last long though. After little more than a day, Mummah-Margaret found the castrated colt, and had asked him who did it to him. Despite Conan’s threats to “take AWW speciaw wumps, fwom AWW cowts” the fluffy must have squeeled, and Conan found himself hurled into a box, ready to have his leggies taken off.
Just then, fate intervened. A man had been looking for fighting fluffies, and told mummah-Margaret he would pay “TOP DOWWAR” for fluffies with some fighting spirit. Margaret took the other hoomin to see Red Conan.
“Wow, that little fluffy looks just like Red Baron! I’ll buy him!” the hoomin had said.
Then, the man had taken Red Conan home in another type of box, telling him that he was Conan’s new daddy, and that if Conan did well in the fluffy fighting games, he would get lots of sketties, and pretty mares.
Red Conan’s new life had begun.
