Red Conan, Scooby-Guy and Rainbow felt lucky to be alive. After their encounter with the Church of Skettiland, and their narrow escape from the Snake Daddy, his giant snake Maximillian, and the crowd of mean humans who had gathered to watch them die, they ran back to Rainbow’s Herd.
The baby fluffy known as sacrifice was returned to her mother, and two other babies were returned to the herd. Conan and the others tried to tell the foolish fluffies about what they had seen, but even the babies chirping about “Snek-Munstas!” failed to persuade the herd of the Snake Daddy’s true intentions, so strong were their beliefs. Even the next morning, when Sacrifice’s mummah found her dead from her injuries, they still believed that Sacrifice was “in Skettyland now.”
Scooby-guy told Conan that the feral herds were all really dumb, and that it was pointless trying to convince them. Red Conan tried though. He wanted to unite the herds against the Snake Daddy, but all his yelling just made the herds mad. Two toughies actually tried to give Conan sorry hoofies, but he made short work of them. Eventually, mares started calling Conan a “meanie-fwuffy”, and babies started calling him a “munstah”, so he decided to leave the foolish fluffies to their fate.
In spite of his revenge being thwarted, for the first time in his life, Red Conan started to feel happy. Scooby-Guy knew the city like his own hooves, as well as where to find all the best nummies. Donuts, Burgers, Chinese food, Conan’s gang stole it all, and even raided the Church of Skettiland for sketties from time to time. Before long, Red Conan and Rainbow became special friends. Life was good.
“All manner of pleasures
and diversions were indulged.
Wealth can be wonderful.
But you know, success can
test one’s mettle…
…as surely as
the strongest adversary.”
Then, one day, as Red Conan, Rainbow and Scooby-Guy were sleeping off a meal of foot-long subway sangwiches that they had stolen, they were approached by four of the largest fluffies that any of them had ever seen. Rainbow, having eaten slightly less than the others, was the first to react.
“Speciaw fwiend! It am GIANT FWUFFIES! Quick! Wun!”
Conan only managed to belch. Scooby-guy was only able to grumble, toot, and cry about “nu wan Hawepeenos.”
Red Conan opened his eyes, to see four enormous earthy stallions staring down at him. They look serious and somber, and had thorns and leaves woven into their muddy and matted fluff. Some of them had their fluff pleated into dreadlocks. They were much older than Conan, clearly veteran toughies of their Herd.
“Yu am Wed Conan?” asked one of them in a booming monotone voice.
Red Conan tried to reach for his horn blade, but only managed to vomit three different types of salami on the floor. He regretted stealing a sangwich with ranch dressing on it.
“Dis am Wed Conan,” said another of the giant fluffies, “Onwy Wed Conan hav armour, and Hown Bwade.”
“Take dem,” said the first fluffy, “Da Hewd King wiww want to speak to dem.”
Red Conan tried to fight, but he was too bloated to resist. The fluffies grabbed him and Rainbow, and stuffed them into a type of bag that humans carry on their backs. Then, they loaded the struggling bagged fluffies onto a skateboard, and towed them for a very long time, to the far edge of the city, to a park with a large forest. Only Scooby-guy managed to escape.
After what seemed like an age, Red Conan and Rainbow were roughly pulled out of their bags. Blinking at the light of day, Conan realised it was a new bright time. Looking around him, he could see that they were surrounded on all sides, by the most enormous, gigantic fluffies, all stood shoulder to shoulder in a clearing in a forest. Some were as big as barky-monsters, and even more heavily built, weighing perhaps forty pounds, easily twice as heavy as Conan, who was bigger and stronger than most. This herd was no gang of city ferals, it was a strong forest herd, a survivor of many winters. Red Conan had never seen anything like it.
Then, the line of fluffies parted, and the largest of them all stepped forward. The Herd King.
“Dese awe da fwuffies yu asked fow Smawty-King.” one of their kidnappers told their king.
“Yu sed dewe was thwee of dem? Whewe am da thiwd?” the King asked, in a gravelly voice.
“He was nummed…” lied Conan, not wanting Scooby-guy to share their fate.
“…by a miaow munstah!” added Rainbow, picking up on Conan’s story.
A rumbling sound echoed from within the herd king’s chest. After a while, Conan realised it was laughter.
“Nummed was fwuffy? Den who am dis?”
Red Conan and Rainbow looked as Scooby-Guy was emptied out of another rucksack. Scooby did not look very pleased.
“Do no wie to Bowsew again Wed Conan, Bowsew need to heaw da twoof.”
Bowser, the Herd-King, started to pace, and as he did so, he told his story.
“Bowsew was dewe. Bowsew wemembew, da weaw Skettiwand. In da pwace dat hoomins once cawwed, CWEVEWAND. Evewy fwuffy wanted to gu dewe. Num sketties, make babbehs, hav happies. But den, da hoomin smawty, Pwesident Supweme, say: Skettiwand is nu a pwace whewe fwuffies can be happy fowevew. It am a pwace whewe fwuffies wiww gu to die if dey nu weave.”
Bowser stopped and looked down at Conan’s gang, with sad, weary eyes.
“Bowsew am not awways Bowsew. A wong tiem ago, da fwuffy-daddah of Bowsew am Bowsew. King Bowsew wewe cawwed Koopa. Da daddah-Bowsew wewe gud smawty. Wead hewd fow wong tiem. Pwotect babbehs an mawes. Awways gud an just. Twain da toughies and wisten to wise owd fwuffs. Daddah-Bowser nu want gu to skettiwand, Daddah-Bowser knew it was a WIE.”
Red Conan listened intently, and saw how Bowser’s emotions showed on his face as he told his story.
“Dewe wewe too many fwuffies. A countwess hewd, mowe dan da staws at dawk-tiem. Dey aww wanted to num sketties, to be wiv Uni da Unicown. But too many fwuffies make a whowe wot of poopies. Awways fighting, too many fwuffies, not enough nummies, babbehs wost, ow twampewd…”
Bowser’s voice wavered for a moment.
“Meanie hoomins came, wiv scawy sowwy sticks. Dey make bangs, wike sky-mustahs, and wots of fwuffies died. Den, da meanie-fwuffies came. Big, wike Bowser hewd. Aww white fwuff. Bwue eyes. Dey tawk funny, an kiww aww da fwuffies dey see.”
Bowser looked straight at Red Conan, and Conan could see tears glistening in the old fluffies dark brown eyes.
“Da meanie fwuffies did kiww many of da Bowsew hewd. Stwong stawwions, but awso babbehs, mummahs, even soon mummahs…”
The Bowser’s voice sounded like it might break into crying at any moment.
“Dey… dey kiwwed da fwuffy-mummah of Koopa, and den, dey kiwwed da Daddah-Bowsew. But befowe dat happen, da Daddah-Bowsew make Koopa da new Bowsew. Da owd fwuffies wiww wemembew.”
Red Conan saw that several of the oldest, most veteran stallions and mawes were nodding sadly at the memory.
“An now dis,” Bowser nearly spat the word, “Snake-Daddah, am tewwing aww da fwuffies dat dewe am a skettiwand, but dat fwuffies can onwy gu dewe aftew fowevew sweepies… Skettiwand am nu a pwace for happies, it am a pwace of owwies and dead fwuffies.”
Bowser was angry now, and was pacing more quickly, nearly shouting as he continued.
“Aww da fwuffies in da city, dey wuvs da Snake-Daddah, ow ewse dey to afwaid to fight his hewd. Dey am sending out wecwuitew fwuffies, in white wobes, tewwing evewyfwuff about skettiwand, giving dem sketties. Most fwuffies am too dumb to know what a WIE is. Dey too young to wemembew da weaw Skettiwand, but Bowsew wemembew.”
Again, the herd king turned to face them, shouting now in his rage.
“And den, da Snake-Daddah’s hewd come to fowest, teww Bowsew hewd about skettiwand, and dey take Bowsews wittewest babbeh, Pwum, and teww heww about skettiwand, so she want weave hewd and join dem. Bowsew’s own babbeh fiwwy, in da Snake Daddah hewd! Dey say if Bowsew twy to wescue, dey wiww giv Pwum fowevew sweepies! BOWSEW’S WITTEWEST BABBEH!”
The ground practically shook as the Fluffy roared with rage. Red Conan knew that if he ever had to fight this herd, he would surely die, horn-blade or no.
“An nu fewaw’s in da city wiww hewp Bowsew to steaw hew back. Dey aww to afwaid of da Snake Daddah, aww except yu thwee, Wed Conan, Wainbow, and Scooby-Guy.”
The herd-kings herd pressed forwards. For a moment, Conan was scared they would try to crush him, but instead, they dropped gifts of the most wonderful nummies at his feet. Blackberries, mushrooms, flower nummies, oreo cookies. All kinds of wonderful nummies Conan and his gang had never even tasted.
“Take it, it am bewong to Wed Conan hewd naow,” Bowser explained, “Dewe is mowe. Much mowe if yu bwing back Pwum to da Bowsew hewd.”
Red Conan and his companions feasted long into the night.
Phil scratched the scar on his leg. It didn’t hurt anymore, but it itched horribly. That fucking fluffy had actually cut him. Me! The Snake Daddy! Phil thought to himself. And then they killed my pet. My snake Maximillian, that I had raised since he was born.
Phil had searched the city for this “Red Conan” as the other fluffies were calling him. His recruiters were everywhere, wearing little white robes, which meant that animal control left them alone, and radio collars so the government could track them. More and more fluffies were coming to the church each night. They were bringing rare colours and Alicorns from time to time, but no Red Conan, even when Phil promised that a hundred fluffies could go straight to skettiland if Red Conan was brought to him.
But the damn shit-rat was nowhere to be found.
Phil was so obsessed with hunting him down, that even his sermons started to get boring. He relied more and more on recorded sermons now, projecting them at his “Churches” in Vancouver, Toronto and Edmonton. He even wanted to open a branch in Montreal, but if there was one thing he could not stand, it was French-Canadian fluffies.
His abuse shows, on the other hand, became more and more intense. He typically attracted between fifty and one hundred of the city’s most hard-core abusers, all spreading the word via word of mouth and the most depraved fluffy abuse forums. They were willing to pay one hundred dollars a head to watch the show, and be given a fluffy each at the end. His abuse shows happened just once a week, and with upwards of fifty fluffies being chosen each night for “skettiland”, there was plenty to spare for snakefood and abusers.
Phil had refined his setup somewhat. In addition to the reptiles, which were becoming fat and overfed, he had devised several other methods of torturing the fluffies to death. He had bandsaws to cut them in half, baseball bats to crush their little leggies with, all manner of hooks and knives to skin, defluff and eviscerate them with. He had frying pans to cook skinned foals alive in, and dart boards to strap them to, while he threw knives at them.
By far the best part was listening to them wail, cry and beg when they realised that skettiland was a lie. He made sure that as he tortured each fluffy, thirty or so more of them were sitting there terrified in their own shit and piss, knowing that they would die too.
Even more hilarious was promising ONE SPECIAL FLUFFY that they, and they alone, would be the fluffy that actually would go to skettiland. This seemed to keep the fluffy’s hope alive just long enough to delay the eventual “Wan Die” pleading that they all eventually started to whimper. Every fluffy was dumb enough to believe that they were the chosen one, pissing themselves with fear, but still clinging to that false hope. The lie was enough to make their eventual realisation, as they were picked to be the next torture toy, deliciously pleasing.
“Nuuuu! Nu pick fwuffy! Fwuffy wan go sketti-wand! Nu wan be nummed by Komodo Dwagon!”
“Nu wan num own weggies!”
“No-nos! Nu take no-nos!”
“SCREEEEEEEEEEEEE!!! SPECIAW WUMPS!!!”
“Pwease Snake-Daddah, fwuffy nu wan num fwuffy babbehs! Dey am nu nummies”
“Fwuffy nu wan be cooked in fwying pan!”
Phil recorded the shows and sold them on the internet, in secret and hard to find places. He fitted the fluffies with little lapel mikes, so that both the live and internet audiences could hear them begging for their lives.
“Okay fluffy, you can survive if you num ALL THE POOPIES that the other fluffies have made.” Phil had told one particularly pathetic fluffy, only to see it eat an ungodly amount of fluffy filth from the botton of the glass cage tank. Its stomach practically exploded with shit when he finally band-sawed it in half, breaking his promise.
After a while, he had more money than he even cared to keep track of. The power over flesh was all that stimulated him.
“Nu Conan!” Rainbow was begging, “Wets just take da hewd nummies and wun away. Wun faw away fwom Bowsew hewd, wun faw away fwom Snake Daddah!”
“Wed Conan wan Wevenge,” said Conan icily.
“But Cownan,” Scooby-guy said, trying to persuade his friend, “Wainbow is wight. Snake-Daddah hewd am too stwong. Even da fwuffies hav scawed da Bowsew Hewd, and da Snake Daddah hav meanie hoomins dewe too…”
“Wed Conan nu cawe. Wed Conan wan wevenge!” Conan growled.
“Fowget about wevenge!” said Rainbow, nearly crying at her special friend, “Wainbow wiww be speciaw fwiend fow Conan fowevew, wiww be soon-mummah one day, why Conan nu wan be happies? Have babbehs wiv Wainbow?”
“Wevenge,” was all Red Conan could mutter.
Eventually, they made their way back to the city. Rainbow and Scooby were set on running away, maybe back to Vancouver, or to Montreal, where the rumour was that the trees made sweet nummies if you gave them owwies.
When they got back to the city, the word in the alleyways was that the Snake Daddah was hunting for them. Scooby-guy could blend in and sneak around with his common brown fluff and feral appearance. Red Conan was obvious though, a red Unicorn wearing armour is not exactly common. Rainbow heard that her sister had already been mistaken for her, and given sorry hoofies and forever sleepies by a bunch of mean toughies wearing the white robes of the cult.
Red Conan was set on revenge though, so one night, when his friends were sleeping, he set of to find the Snake Daddah. Taking off his armour, he decided to sneak in, rather than charge in. His metal shark-teefies would be enough to kill the Snake Daddah. Maybe he could find out where he slept?
Approaching the warehouse, Conan could see dozen’s of fluffies, herds and families, all walking towards the warehouse from several directions. From time to time, he saw toughies in white robes, talking to fluffies, telling them about skettiland. The white robes gave him an idea.
Hiding behind a trash can, he put on his best pretend-mare voice, and waited until a stallion in a white robe was nearby, but alone.
“Oh, fwuffy-mawe am so wonewy,” Red Conan squeaked “If onwy dewe was a stwong stawwion neawby, fwuffy-mawe wud wet him hav bestest-speciaw-huggies fow shuwe.”
It was too dark to actually see, but Red Conan was sure that the stallions eye’s widened and that his no-no stick started to stir at Conan’s saucy lies.
“Why hewwo dewe pwetty mawe,” the stallion said, squinting in the darkness, unable to see much other than the shape of a fluffy behind the trash can. “Stawwion wiww be speciaw-fwiend if fwuffy-mawe wike? Giv bestest gud feews wiv massive no-no stick.”
“Come hewe den big stawwion!” squeaked Conan, trying not to laugh.
The stallion drew closer, and as he did so, realised the con-trick Red Conan was trying to pull.
“Whaaa? Yu nu am mawe!” he cried, but by then, it was too late.
Red Conan kicked him in the face, then gored him with his horn. The fluffy fell over, and Red Conan kicked him in the throat, making the fluffy splutter, struggling to breathe and unable to scream. Then, he stomped on his special lumps again and again, until they were a red pulp on the ground. Before the fluffy could find his breath, Red Conan brought both front hooves down on his head, a killing blow he had learned in the fighting pits.
Checking that no fluffs had seen them fighting, Red Conan pulled off the fluffy’s white robes. It was difficult, but he managed to get them on, and covering his horn with the hood, he pushed forwards, into the congregation, and up onto the stage, where the Snake Daddah was talking from a a magic picture wall.
“Hewwo bwuddah,” another white robed fluffy said to him.
“Um… Hewwo,” Red Conan replied, trying to keep his head down.
“Bwuddah fwuffy hav some boo-boo juice on wobies, dat nu am gud,” the other fluffy said.
“It nu am boo-boos, jus sketty sauce,” Conan lied.
“Gud fwuffies keep dewe wobies cwean, if wan gu to skettiwand.”
“Fwuffy am gud,” Conan said, wondering if this had been a good idea after all.
Another white robed fluffy walked up to Conan.
“What am a password?”
“Passwowd?” Red Conan asked, trying to remember things he had heard the white robed fluffies say “Um… it am um… Haiw Snake Daddah?”
“NU! It am Gweetings Fwuffawinos!” cried the cultist fluffy.
“HEWETIC!” yelled another robed fluffy
“BWASPHEMEW!” yelled a third.
“Seize him!” cried the first fluffy.
Red Conan fought as hard as he could, but without his weapons and armour, he was soon overpowered by the herd toughies.
“So what do we have here!” asked the Snake Daddah, sitting in a back room, surrounded by white robed fluffies, sitting on the floor, on desks and chairs, and on shelves stacked up to the ceiling.
“Its RED CONAN,” the Snake Daddy laughed. “Not so strong without your sharp tin-cans are you fluffy?”
Two of the Snake Daddah’s biggest fluffies had beaten Red Conan repeatedly with their hooves, so now he was broken, exhausted and bloodied.
“Where are the babies you stole from me?” demanded the Snake Daddy.
Red Conan merely spat blood on the floor.
“Well fuck it, my followers told me you gave them back to their mummahs, probably for a night of special huggies,” the Snake Daddah paused to light a cigarette, and took a drag on it before he continued.
“What a waste. You unbelievers are so dumb dude. You broke into my secret ceremony, stole my shit, and killed my pet. I fucking LOVED that Snake. I got him when I was twelve. And you killed him!”
“Yu kiwwed fwuffies! Yu kiwwed Conan-mummah!” Conan raged at the Snake Daddah, only to be hoofed again by his tougies.
"What? I killed your mummah? That must have been in my early days. I think I remember her. Red Fluffy? Smarty? Pooped all over a lot of pillowfluffs? Yeah, that WAS her wasn’t it? Her suffering must have been exquisite. I smashed her legs and burned the stumps with an iron, then I covered her in hot-sauce and left her to die in the shit-tank. Oh man, I do remember it now!"
“Conan HATECHU!” Red Conan yelled, only to be hoofed to the floor again.
“There was a time, Red Conan, that I loved to use the sorry stick on fluffies. The riddle of the sorry stick. Yes, you know it don’t you fluffy? Shall I tell you the answer? Its the least I can do.”
The Snake Daddah pulled a flick-knife from his jacket pocket, making the blade spring out, and waved it around.
“A sorry stick is strong, but flesh is stronger. Look around you Conan. Look at my followers. Up there, the little filly on the high shelf. Come, come to me my fluffy.”
“Bu-but Snake-daddah, it am a wong way down,” the young filly said fearfully, “Nu wan owwies.”
“Do you want to get to skettiland?” the Snake Daddy asked her.
“Yes! Fwuffy wan gu skettiwand mowe dan anyfing!”
“Then step forward my child.”
Hesitantly, the young filly stepped forward from the shelf. For the blink of an eye, she seemed to hover in the air, but then she fell, crashing to the ground, snapping all of her legs horribly and shreiking with pain.
“AEIEIEIEIEIEEEEEEEEEEE! WEGGIES! WEGGIES HAV WOWSTEST OWWIES!” the stupid filly screamed.
“You see!” cried the Snake Daddy excitedly, “That is strength, fluffy! That is power! The strength and power of flesh. What is a sorry stick compared to the hand that wields it? The strength of your body, the desire in your heart. I gave you this.” The Snake Daddy stopped and took another drag on his cigarette.
“Such a waste. Contemplate this on the Tree of Woe. Crucify him.”
Red Conan was dying.
Meanie humans had taken him, and nailed his front two hooves to a tree growing in an abandoned parking lot. The pain was lancing through him, and he could see Crows and Magpies fighting over who would num him first.
The pain was too much… too much…
Conan slept for a while, dreaming of a happier time… a safe room… mummah-Claire…
He woke to find a seagull pecking at a wound on his chest. Red Conan growled and sank his metal shark-teeth into the seagull’s neck, biting and ripping and not letting go, even as the Seagull shrieked and cawwed and flapped its wings.
The bird dropped to the floor, dead, or dying. Red Conan swallowed its blood, keeping him alive for a few more hours…
The pain…
The cold…
The heat…
Conan knew he was dying. He could feel the forever sleepies taking him into its cold embrace. He was to tired to fight any more… too tired
Red Conan awoke in a strange place. All around him were dark grey clouds, a nothingness that carried on… forever.
Conan wandered in the strange not-place. Eventually, he stumbled into another fluffy. This fluffy was strange. It was a pegasus, but instead of birdie wings, it had bat-monster wings. Its fluff was half-burned away, but in spite of this, it seemed friendly, rather than monster like.
“Hewwo Wed Conan,” the strange pegasus said.
“Who am fwuffy? Wewe am dis pwace?” Red Conan asked.
“Dis am cawwed, Wimbo. It nu nice, but nu bad. Fuwffy am cawwed Mewcuwy. If Wed Conan wike, Mewcuwy can take Conan to da weaw Skettiwand… Conan can be wiv mummah-Jewwy again…”
“Je-Jewwy?” trembled Conan, nearly crying like a newborn foal.
“Yes, aww fwuffies can find peace in da end, even bad ones.” Mercury replied.
“Conan wan find mummah… but…” Conan’s face hardened, “Conan wan WEVENGE!”
“It am too wate fow dat,” Mercury sighed. “Conan can stay in Wimbow fow a whiwe, but it am duww hewe. Caww Mewcuwy when Conan wan gu to Skettiwand.”
As with that, the strange pegasus disappeared, in a puff of smoke.
Red Conan was left alone in the strange, dull, never changing place. He had no pain or hunger, but nothing good either.
Then, in the distance, Red Conan thought he could hear Rainbow and Scooby-guy calling his name…
