Red Conan stood in the tangled roots of an ancient oak tree, watching Bowser’s herd of giant fluffies walking off in the early morning light. His hooves felt heavy on the damp autumn leaves, and his breath steamed in the cold, uncaring air.
He and Scooby Guy had beaten the Snake Daddy’s toughies, and returned Princess Plum to her herd, but the young filly had been full of bitter hatred toward them. The foolish young fluffy truly believed in the Snake Daddy’s Skettiland, and loathed them for returning her to her father. Bowser had seemed happy, even as he had to drag his daughter away in a net, and had rewarded them with a feast of berries. Red Conan and Scooby Guy had eaten their fill, but the berries just tasted of Princess Plum’s bitterness.
Just a few days ago, they had been standing in this same clearing, with Rainbow.
Now, as the herd receded into the distance, only one feeling remained in Red Conan’s heart. Revenge. Revenge on the human who had killed so many of Red Conan’s kind. Revenge on the human who had taken so much from him. Revenge on the human who had killed his mother. Revenge on the human, who had killed his special friend.
Red Conan gritted his teeth, and started the long, slow walk, back towards Toronto and the Snake Daddy’s lair.
Phil watched as the rest of his herd clambered onto the back of the 18 wheeler truck. Cries of “Skettiwand! Skettiwand!” and other babbling excitement were predominant, but chirps and squeaks of foals, riding on their mothers’ backs, and the occasional “Nu wike scawy metaw munstah!” could be heard over the general din.
“That’s right fluffarinos!” Phil yelled enthusiastically, “Keep climbing up the ramp. The metal munstah will take us to the border of AMERICA. America is where SKETTYLAND is!”
“Yey!” the horde of fluffies cried, “Skettiwand! Skettiwand!”
Phil laughed at the ridiculous squeaks of overexcited fluffies.
“We’ll get off the metal monster near the border, and walk the last few miles, and then… SKETTIES! SKETTIES FOREVER!”
“Yey!” the fluffies cried, some of them weeping tears of joy.
“Skettiwand! Skettiwand!” others shouted excitedly, barely able to contain themselves and pissing themselves with excitement.
“Wuv Snake Daddah!” chirped many of the fluffies, overwhelming Phil with their wave of happiness.
Phil turned away from them and spoke to some of his human staff. They explained that each truck held about two thousand fluffies, give or take a couple hundred, and that wasn’t including foals riding their mummahs and daddahs that were too small to count. Five trucks in all, meant about ten thousand adult fluffies, and an uncounted number of foals. Maybe thirty thousand in all, plus however many foals were growing in the bellies of pregnant mares.
The fluffies had come from all over the city. Thousands of ferals from Toronto itself, thousands more from the outlaying suburbs and surrounding towns, including hundreds which had been driven there specially in the backs of pickups and old school buses. Phils recruiter fluffies had been working hard, spreading the word about Skettiland, and how the Snake Daddy’s herd was swollen with new recruits, many of them domestic runaways who had left their human mummahs and daddah’s behind, abandoning them in favour of the fluffy promised land.
Even that many fluffies had only been about six thousand, plus the uncountable foals, but then the g-man had kept his word, and emptied every shelter and illegal fluffy breeding mill in the city, bringing van loads of abandoned and fetid fluffies to his warehouse. The sermon he gave to the swollen herd that night had been magnificent.
“Daddah?” asked a fluffy from somewhere behind Phil’s feet, momentarily breaking his reverie. Phil turned around and looked down at the fluffy. It was one of his high priests, a blue Unicorn wearing a black hooded robe. Phil remembered him well. The fluffy had escaped from an abuser - an abuser that had named him Ballsack. Poor Ballsack was too dumb to realise that his name was part of the abuse. Ballsack considered himself a smarty in fact.
“Oh, hey there Ballsack,” Phil said, trying not to laugh. He had sent Ballsack on an important mission a couple of days ago. “Did you manage to find Red Conan?”
Ballsack looked sheepish. He twitched uncomfortably, shifting his weight from hoof to hoof as if he needed to piss himself.
“Well?” Phil simply asked.
“Ummm… Bawwsack did find da Wed Conan, bu-bu-bu…”
“Just spit it out dude!” Phil yelled at the fluffy impatiently, “I haven’t got time for all this shit!”
Bawwsack looked up at Phil, but crouched low and submissively, with his tail between his legs, flinching as if he was just about to be hit. The story poured out of his mouths like sorry-poopies from a smarty’s ass.
“Wed Conan an meanie fwuffies did gib Snake-Daddah hewd toughies wowstest owwies! Dey was meanies, wiv gwassie owwies and sowwie sticks! Owny Bawwsack an two toughies manage to wun away! An one toughie wose speciaw wumps on gwassies!”
By now, Ballsack was quivering, and clearly about to burst into tears. Phil weighed up his fate. Ballsack had been good for the cause, keeping the other fluffies in line, ordering his toughies to stomp any dissenting fluffies, and making bad fluffies lick the warehouse floor clean. Fluffies needed a hierarchy, and with the Snake Daddy at the top, Ballsack had been his right hand fluffy.
Phil looked down at the quivering fluffy, wearing a false look of sympathy on his face.
“Its OK Ballsack,” Phil lied gently, “I forgive you.”
Ballsack looked up and stopped his snivelling, a look of hope dawning in his bright blue eyes.
“Is otay? Da Snake Daddah Fowgive Bawwsack? Weawy?” he asked the Snake Daddy.
“Yeah, its OK little dude,” Phil said, bending down and pulling back the fluffy’s black hooded robe, to give the little blue unicorn a scratch behind the ears.
“Coo, wuv Snake Daddah!” the Unicorn cried, apparently overjoyed at Phil’s affection.
“Upsies,” said Phil, carefully picking up the unicorn as if it were a newborn foal.
“Bawwsack wuv upsies!” Ballsack said excitedly, “Snake Daddah neva gib scwatchies an upsies befowe!”
“Or huggies?” said Phil, hugging the fluffy.
“Fwuffy WUB huggies! Wub Snake Daddah!” the Unicorn practically cried with joy.
“You wanna ride in the cabin, at the front of the metal monster, with me?”
“Wide wib Snake Daddah? Weawy?” Ballsack asked.
“Sure!” Phil replied, laughing.
Phil carried the overjoyed fluffy into the cabin with him, ignoring the begging from other, no doubt jealous fluffies of “Upsies!” and “Huggies!” and “Pick fwuffy Snake-Daddah!” Phil climbed into the cabin, sat Ballsack down on the passenger seat, and shut the door.
“Yay! Fwuffy am gu to Skettiwand, and wide metaw munstah wib Snake Daddah!” Ballsack squeaked, with tears of joy sliding down his fluffy cheeks.
“Oh,” Phil said, “You’re not going to Skettiland. There is no Skettiland.”
"Wha? Nu… nu Skettiwand? the fluffy cried in disbelief, “Bu-bu-but wat about aww da sketties?”
“There is no Skettiland,” Phil said, his voice turning from honey to cruelty. “It was a LIE. I told it to you stupid shits so I could give you the WORSTEST heart hurties. I LIED to you, so I could feed you to SNAKES and other kinds of monsters.”
“Wha? Nu Skettiwand? Nuu… dat nu twue!”
Phil punched the fluffy full in the face, sending it flying across the cabin, its horn smashing into the far door. He was sure he had broken its jaw, such was the force of the blow.
“AIIIEEEEE… urh urhghg… Airiieee! wobstest hubties… urrgk urg… aieeee… eieesg… hhuuu huu huu… huu huu huu… why hubt fwufby? moufy hubties… urghk, rubg… urgh…”
Phil stared at the pathetic creature, its smashed jaw spreading a slowly growing pool of blood on the passenger seat, while piss and shit escaped from its rear, and tears fell from its eyes in a pitiful mess.
“There IS no Skettiland. It was a LIE. And you are stupid. A stupid pathetic failure.” Phil told the fluffy.
“Huuu huu huu… nu sketbiewand… huu huu huu… it am wie… huu huu huu huu huu…”
“And you are a FAILURE.” Phil repeated, “What do I do to fluffies that fail me?” he asked.
The fluffy suddenly tensed. Tensed, and then sprang into movement, desperately trying to escape, his hooves scrabbling for a firm footing on a leather upholstered passenger chair that was covered in its own blood and excrement.
“WHAT DO I DO?” the Snake Daddy screamed.
“Nuu! Nuu huwt fwuwby!” the fluffy begged, backing off into a corner, covered in its own filth.
“TELL ME!” the Snake Daddy roared.
“Huuu huu huu… Snake Dadbah take specbiaw wumps fwum faiwuwes…” the fluffy wept out of its ruined mouth.
“Thats right,” Phil said, grinning, as he took a pair of pliers from the cabin glove compartment, and leaned over to grasp Ballsack’s Balzac with its metal teeth.
“SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!” the fluffy wailed as its testicles were crushed and ripped from its hysterically flailing body.
Phil was so engrossed in his abuse of his former cult-fluffy that he failed to notice a mud covered Red Unicorn, clambering onto the back of the last truck, with a horde of fresh converts from the local shelters. The unicorn had not failed to notice him though.
“Good evening America,” the news anchor reported, his image being broadcast across the country, “Tonight, we at Central Networks have an exclusive story from the shores of Lake Erie, Ohio, up by the Canadian Border. It seems that a fluffy megaherd is crossing over the border, into America.”
“Thats right John,” Cheryl, his co-anchor said, wearing a serious look in her eyes as she starred into camera number one. “This is the first sighting of a fluffy megaherd since the events of the Fall of Cleveland, four years ago.”
“We can’t emphasize how serious a problem this could be,” John continued, “If fluffies are starting to swarm again, the results could be catastrophic. Our Central Networks helicopter is flying just a few miles away from the Niagara River, where the megaherd has just crossed a bridge, into America. They seem to be making their way into Buffalo Ohio, and are already in the local suburbs. Our reporter, Samantha Landley, is reporting live from the skies above the city.”
“Thanks John,” Samantha half shouted over the whirring of the helicopter blades, “We’re actually about fifteen miles north of Buffalo, New York State now, flying over the Tuscarora Nation Reservation.”
Below, the fields were covered in a multi-coloured carpet of fluffies, a true megaherd.
“Is it true that the megaherd has reached the Buffalo suburbs Samantha?” John asked her.
“That’s not quite right John, the Tuscarora Nation Reservation isn’t very built up, its mostly fields and farmhouses, and not the surburbs proper. As you can see there is a herd of fluffies about two miles long, making its way alongside a small stream that feeds Niagara river. Apparently they crossed the Niagara River at the Interstate 190 bridge a couple of hours ago.”
“How can that be Samantha?” John asked her in frank disbelief. “Didn’t our border guards stop them?”
“I’m not sure how they could John,” Samantha yelled over the roaring blades, “The Canadian border isn’t militarised like our border with Mexico. There’s no wall or electric fence to keep them out, and the border guards are set up to stop individual vehicles, not tens of thousands of fluffies.”
“What is the megaherd doing now?” Cheryl asked.
“They’re winding their way along the riverside, I’m not sure where they’re going. The worrying thing is that as they’ve made their way into America, more feral fluffies have been joining them. Fluffy psychologists say that when a herd gets this big, fluffies from miles around feel an irresistable urge to start following them, because they think that the bigger herd is 'bestest” and will find the best food."
“Is there any indication as to what made them initially start swarming again?” asked John.
“I’m not sure. There have been rumours about the viral video, about the fluffy ‘Chosen Land’ which we’re not allowed to name on television broadcasts. There are also rumours about a fluffy messiah, called the ‘Snake Daddy’ who had been rounding up ferals in Canada, and promising that the ‘Chosen Land’ is in America.”
“Who is this ‘Snake Daddy’? Is he a fluffy?” asked Cheryl.
“No,” Samantha replied, “Our reports say he is a homeless man, living in Toronto. We can’t verify these reports at present.”
“What is the herd doing now Samantha, our camera is giving us a close up of the vanguard of the herd.”
“It looks as though smaller groups of fluffies are scouting ahead,” Samantha explained, “Fluffy experts say that these groups are called ‘Nummy finders’, who help the herd to find food, normally fields with lots of grass, or farms with other crops, as well as safe places for them to rest. It looks as though the fluffies are relatively contained at the moment, the herd has entered a ravine with steep banks that the river has carved out of the landscape.”
“How many fluffies do you think there are in total?”
“Its hard to say John,” Samantha yelled, “Its at least a mile long. We estimate their could be about twenty to thirty thousand, but its impossible to count how many babies might be riding on their parents backs. Smaller herds from the local area are joining them though, so this herd could grow rapidly. Plus, we all know how fast these creatures can breed.”
“Biotoys Samantha,” John corrected her, the frown in his voice obvious, even though the camera showed nothing but the stream of fluffies, “They’re biotoys, not creatures.”
“Can you tell us what we are seeing now?” Samantha asked her, “The camera has zoomed in on… is that a man? A man leading the fluffy megaherd? What about, woah, was that fire? Is that fire I can see?”
“It looks like it, wow, that’s lots of fire, is that, has he got a flamethrower?” Samantha asked the camera man. “They, the fluffies, the fluffies are on fire and running around in a panic!”
“Folks, if you’ve just tuned in, this a Central Networks live report from the skies near Niagara, on the Canadian Border, close to Lake Erie and Buffalo Ohio. We have reports of a fluffy megaherd, about thirty thousand or so strong. In a shocking development, someone or some people seem to be burning the megaherd, using what appears to be a flamethrower or some other flame weapon.”
In Detroit, Michigan, Governor Quimby sat in his limosine, watching the events as they unfolded, biting his nails nervously.
Several hours after the trucks had set off, Phil was hiking through the countryside, north of Buffalo, through land that was supposedly an Indian Reservation. Behind him was an uncountable number of fluffies. Just as he had predicted, the border patrol were helpless to stop the horde of fluffies from crossing the border. Phil had laughed his ass off, watching those fat donut eating bastards try in vain to hold back thousands upon thousands of former ferals, as they stampeded across the bridge.
The fat border patrol guards were completely overwhelmed, then literally trampled by the horde. A hundred or so fluffies had died, many old, sick and baby fluffies, too weak to keep up with the toughies, the enthusiasm, and the fat mummahs that ran and ran for their promised land. Their cries of “Skettiland! Skettiland!” drowned out everything else. Even the bark of a border guard firing his revolver into the horde did little to stop the advance. Phil almost pissed himself with laughter as the fluffies tripped and stampeded over the man, many of them pausing to give him their sorry poopies. Phil briefly wondered if a man could suffocate underneath so many fluffy bodies, or drown in sorry poop.
Now, a couple hours since they had crossed the border, they were following a river deeper into Ohio. Just as he predicted, the fluffies cries of “Skettiland!” had brought ferals running from every cardboard box, alleyway, poorly maintained yard fence and open dog door in the state. They came in dribs and drabs at first, a runaway here, or soon mummah there, but soon there were feral gangs and herds of ten or twenty joining them, all wanting to follow his herd to skettyland. Phil felt he was a true messiah, leading them to the promised land, as his river of fluffies grew and grew.
It was a shame they would never make it to Buffalo. Part of Phil wanted to watch another city burn, but his small remaining core of sanity knew that he had to complete the mission, in order to get paid the million dollars that the g-man had promised him. Phil checked his flame-thrower again. It had been right were the g-man had said it would be, in an apparently abandoned car, just a half mile inside the border. He’d been itching to use one, ever since he’d seen the demonstrations that the Fluffy Control group had shown him, all those weeks ago.
Phil looked around him. They had made their way into a ravine, with steep embankments on either side, choked with leaves and tree roots. It would be hard for a man to scramble up the sides of the ravine, and impossible for a fluffy. With the herd herded into the ravine, a river on one side, and an impossible climb on the other, they could only go forwards, or backwards. They couldn’t outrun Phil, and with only one way to flee him, he would catch them all. It would be wickedly good fun.
“Here we are fluffies, we’ll rest here for the night,” Phil announced.
“Dis nu gud pwace daddah,” said one of the fluffy nummy finders, “Dewe am wawa fow dwinkies, but nu enuf gwassies fow big hewd. Need find feiwd wif wotsa gwassies, an twees to hide fwom sky wawas, to keep fwuffpiwe wawm an dwy…”
“ARE YOU THE SNAKE DADDY?” Phil roared at the impudent little shit, “DO YOU KNOW THE WAY TO SKETTY LAND?”
The fluffy shrank back in fear. Phil had learned to command the fluffies to respect him absolutely, and had publically castrated any smarty stupid enough to try and take control of the herd, or defy him in any way.
“DO YOU WANT TO LOSE YOUR SPECIAL LUMPS?” he asked the fearful beast.
“Nuu! Nu wan wose speciaw wumps!” the fluffy said, shrinking back further, in terror, from the awesome and angry Snake Father.
“GOOD!” Phil yelled at it, watching the other fluffies stop and shake their heads at the nummy finder for his defiance. From inside Phil’s backpack, he heard the whimpering of the fluffy that had until recently been known as Ballsack, weeping about his ‘special lumps’. Phil had decided to keep him alive, and renamed him Shit-Sack.
“MY FLUFFIES!” Phil yelled, as the herd started to surround him in the clearing. “THIS IS WHERE WE WILL REST FOR NOW. I WILL TELL YOU ANOTHER STORY, ABOUT SKETTILAND, AND ALL OF ITS WONDERS.”
Phil began to wish he had packed a microphone, and some speakers, or at least a megaphone. Even shouting, it would be hard for the fluffies to all hear him, as there were so many of them. Plus, the ones at the rear were at least a mile behind, and would take an age to catch up with the rest of the herd. Phil stood on a large outcrop of rock, so that he towered over them even more, and all the fluffies could see him. They quickly settled down in a massive circle, all around him, but mostly in front. A hush descended on those closest to him, as his sermons were wondrous stories. In the distance, the stragglers were still jabbering excitedly about spaghetti land, squeaking like a horde of over excited chipmunks.
“MY CHILDREN. I, YOUR FATHER, THE SNAKE DADDY, HAVE WORKED HARD, FOR MANY YEARS. I AM THE PROMISED ONE, THE CHOSEN ONE, THE BESTEST SPECIAL ONE. I ALONE CAN LEAD YOU TO SKETTI LAND!”
“SKETTILAND! SKETTILAND!” the fluffies shouted in total awe.
“IN SKETTI LAND, NO FLUFFY WILL EVER BE HUNGRY. IN SKETTI LAND, ALL FLUFFIES WILL BE LOVED. IN SKETTI LAND, ALL SPECIAL FRIENDS AND BABIES WILL LIVE FOREVER, AND FOREVER SLEEPIES FLUFFIES WILL WAKE BACK UP AGAIN!”
“Yes! Yes!” the fluffies cried, many of them weeping for joy, remembering lost foals, babies dead from hunger, and special friends killed by humans, cats and cars. “Skettiland! Skettiland!”
“IN SKETTILAND, THERE WILL BE SKETTIES! AND BALLS! AND BLOCKS AS BIG AS TREES! IN SKETTI LAND, THERE ARE NO HURTIES. NO HURTIES EVER AGAIN. ONLY RUN, AND PLAY, AND HUGGIES, AND LOVE.”
“Skettiwand! Skettiwand!”
“AND THE INSIDE OF MY ASS.”
“Skettiland! Skettiland! Wha?” some of the more intelligent fluffies sounded confused at his last promise.
“IN SKETTILAND, THERE WILL BE SNAKE MONSTERS, THAT LIKE TO EAT BABY FLUFFIES. THERE WILL BE DOG MONSTERS, THAT EAT FLUFFY MUMMAHS. THERE WILL BE RACOONS, THAT LIKE TO EAT STALLION’S SPECIAL LUMPS!”
“Special wumps!” squealed a particularly retarded fluffy, who eagerly sat in the front row, and repeated everything that Phil said, until it pissed itself with excitement.
“Snake munstahs?” asked other fluffies, confused at this strange and different sermon.
“Wacoons?” asked others.
“IN SKETTI LAND, THERE WILL BE FIRE, AND FLAMES, AND SuFfERiNG!” Phil roared, emphasising the last word with perverse glee.
“IF YOU WANT TO GO TO SKETTI LAND, DON’T RUN FROM THE FIRE!”
Phil hefted the flamethrower’s fuel packs onto his back, setting down the backpack containing the still weeping Shit-Sack, the only fluffy that knew the truth, so that he could torture him later, with the knowledge that his whole herd was dead. Phil gave the flame thrower a quick test, igniting a nearby bush with a gout of liquid flame, then held down the trigger and set the herd ablaze in a sweeping arc, covering hundreds of fluffies with fiery death.
“SCREEEEEEEEE! AIEEEEE!!! AEIIEIEE!!!” came their screams of agony and disbelief, like music to Phil’s ears.
“AIIIEEEEE!” screamed the retarded fluffy that always repeated the Snake Daddy’s every word. The flames consumed his body, but he wailed and wailed and wailed.
“SCREEEEEEE!!! AIIEEEEE!” screamed a purple unicorn stallion, fleeing the flames behind it, but unable to outrun the flames that were consuming its hindquarters, burning fluff and flesh alike, leaving blackened, bloody and charred meat behind, and biting it to the bone.
“NUUUU!” screamed a green mare with a yellow mane, fleeing the fire which was twisting around her legs, foals falling from her fluff and being trampled underfoot. Behind her, dozens and hundreds of fluffies were totally consumed by the flames, their writing blackened bodies lighting up like torches as they wailed and burned. Yet more were half ablaze, fleeing into the wider herd, spreading flames, misery and death in their wake.
“Mummah! Mummah!” cried a light blue foal, dropped and forgotten in the firestorm and pandemonium, “Wan miwkies! Huu huu huu!”
Nearby, another foal simply sat and hid its eyes, terrified at the sudden carnage.
Phil just laughed and laughed and laughed, “I AM A GOD!” he thundered, as he spouted another arc of liquid flame into a group of about sixty or so fluffies that were fleeing off to one side. “I’M THE MOTHER FUCKING SNAKE DADDY!” he laughed, igniting the hundred or so fluffies that had been sitting behind him.
Phil ran through the burning carnage, trying to get as many fluffies as he could. The creatures were too slow to outrun him, and even though it would take hours, he would get them all. He had four spare tanks of propellant, and plenty of time to discard the empty tanks and reload. It was open season on fluffies, and Phil had a government sanctioned license to hunt them. It was just a shame that he was in the wrong country to use it properly.
Somewhere in the distance, he herd a helicopter hovering. He failed to see Red Conan, hiding behind a nearby rock, plotting his doom.
“Oh my god! Its awful!” cried Claire, staring at her TV in disbelief. Somehow a horde of feral fluffies had crossed the Canadian border into America, somewhere near Niagara Falls. A sick, abusive scumbag was killing them with a flamethrower, and the TV networks were going crazy reporting it. Governor Quimby was already on the phone, talking to the news anchors about the “Feral Threat” and repeating his promise to build a wall between the US and Canada once he was elected.
“We can’t let Alice see this! It will break her heart!” Claire told her mother, who had sent Alice and the fluffies out of the room. Alice’s parents had gotten back together, and Alice had spent the last two weeks reunited with her family, but was staying at Claire’s for the weekend, when the horrible news came on TV.
“How can people do this mom?” Claire asked in disbelief, “How can they be so evil?”
“I don’t know Claire,” her mother admitted, “I just don’t know.”
Claire was appalled by what she was seeing, but felt horribly unable to look away. Her sick concentration was broken a few minutes later, when Alice came running into the room, tears streaming down her face, holding her fluffy Humphrey, and an iPad, which was showing her the whole horror show.
“Huu huu huu huu huu!” wailed Humphrey, “Da meanie munstah is gibing fwuffies fowevew sweepies!”
Phil cackled with glee as he ignited a group of bushes in which a couple dozen fluffies had been trying to hide. The screams, wails, and cries of “Nuu! Babbehs!” from those few fluffies that managed to flee filled him with delight. The suffering! The sweet sweet suffering of these retarded cartoon creatures come to life was simply too much for him. The power of the flamethrower was incredible. Living fluffies - Flame - Screaming Burning Fluffies - Charcoal. It was absolutely delicious.
“DIE YOU FLUFFARINO BASTARDS!” Phil cried, listening to the increasing number of news helicopters flying overhead. Phil reckoned that the g-man had something to do with them turning up so quickly, and wondered how long it would be until the cops showed up. He might end up in jail for a day or two, while the g-men sorted things out, but in the long run, he was getting a million dollars. Hell, they might even give him a fucking MEDAL. He might be FAMOUS.
“BURN MOTHERFUCKERS!” he yelled, as he incinerated a half dozen more fluffies that tried to run for a group of trees nearby. He aimed the flamethrower up and managed to just about ignite the trees too, filling the skies with the despairing wails of the fluffies that where hiding there.
Many fluffies had tried to run for the river, either to hide, swim, or douse the flames that ate their fluff and flesh so ravenously. However, as Phil knew, and the fluffies discovered, fluffy ponies drown.
“No you don’t!” Phil cried, twisting and flaming a mare and stallion, desperately fleeing with their babies on their backs.
“Nuuu! Babbehs!” cried the mummah, ignoring her own agony as she kept on running, ablaze with her foals squealing and boiling in their own flesh, as their fluff and skins ignited and were flayed away. Phil watched as the mummah ran and ran, before collapsing and burning into a blackened husk. He listened, enraptured by squeals of pain, turning into hissing flesh and popping eyeballs.
“DIE!” he yelled, as he caught a single brown feral, trying to make a run for it. He wasted a massive amount of propellant, only to just catch the backfluff of the fleeing beast. It caught alight, but might survive, for a while, though it would be hideously burned. Phil would catch it later, he knew.
“Woah, outta ammo. Gotta reload,” Phil said to himself, as his pillars of flame slackened and dribbled from the nozzle. The car was a fair distance away now, but fortunately, once he got back to it, he could drive to catch up with the fleeing herd, who could only make their way back through the ravine. They were trapped, and Phil would slay them all.
As he trudged back to the car, he surveyed the carnage he had created. Blackened and charred bodies lay everywhere, and the ground was ash. Every so often he would pass a still breathing fluffy, horribly maimed beyond recognition of the playful things they had once been. Phil decided it was best to leave them to die, slowly and in agony, rather than finish them off. He did stop to tell them that Skettiland was a lie though. Occasionally he found foals, alive and unharmed, having fallen from their mother’s backs, or abandoned in their haste to flee. He stomped these into the ashes, crushing them to a pulp, and laughing as they screamed and popped, spilling their blood and intestines onto the hellish and unreal landscape.
“Ahh, ammo,” he said, as he reached the car. For some reason, the fuel tanks stank of propellant, but then so did Phil, and it was hard to notice over the smell of burning flesh, smoke and fire. Phil’s eyes stinged from the smoke when he had been downwind, and his hair, hands, eyes and face were singed from standing too close to burning trees and bushes. On several occasions he had had to flee from the intense heat, being blown back into his face from a sudden gust of wind.
“More ammo, more fire, more death,” Phil chucked to himself as he attached the hose from the new propellant tank to the death-end of the flame thrower. If he hadn’t been so caught up in himself, he might have noticed it was leaking.
“Okay fluffies,” he said, looking at the fleeing herd in the distance, mostly still alive, but with a half dozen or so small fires spreading throughout it, as burning fluffies desperately sought “huggies” to make their hurties go away. “Its time to DIE.”
“Yes,” said a fluffy voice from behind Phil, “It am time to DIE!”
Phil was taken aback. Very few fluffies used the word die, apart from those few broken fluffies, like Ballsack, no, Shit-Sack, who would wail and beg, “Wan die.” Fluffies talked of the forever sleepies, but this one simply said, DIE.
Phil turned around, to see Red Conan, standing there, covered in mud, with a hateful look in his eyes.
“What the fuck did you just say to me?” Phil asked in disbelief.
“Die,” Red Conan said, with grim determination, walking slowly towards the Snake Daddy, “Wed Conan wan da Snake Daddah to DIE. Wed Conan HATECHU!”
Phil looked down at the little red fluffy. Its hatred would be scary, were it coming from another human. But coming as it was from a child’s toy, such emotion seemed beyond a joke. Phil nearly laughed out loud, but decided it would be more fun to taunt the fluffy with false sincerity before burning it to death.
“My child,” the Snake Daddy said softly, “You have come to me, my son. For who now is your father, if it is not me? Who gave you the will to live? I am the wellspring from which you flow. When I am gone… you will have never been. What will your world be without me? My son.”
“Wed Conan HATECHU! Yu kiwwed fwuffies! You kiwwed Wainbow! Yu kiwwed mummah-Jewwy!” the fluffy roared, “Now Wed Conan wiww kiww yu!”
Red Conan growled at the Snake Daddy and prepared to charge him. Phil merely laughed and aimed his firey sorry stick of death at the pathetic thing. He pressed down hard on the trigger, expecting a firey pillar of death to engulf the fluffy, but instead a pitiful spurt of flame trickled out of the end. It was as though Phil’s murder boner had suddenly wilted.
“SCREEEE!” cried Red Conan, as a splatter of liquid flame splashed onto his fluffy face, setting it alight, making him scream and roll in the mud, trying desperately to put it out.
“Haha!” laughted Phil, "I got you anyway motherfucker! I’ll burn you GOOD once I reload… Once I… I thought I had reloaded.
Phil looked down to see liquid propellant was leaking down his leg, soaking into the legs of his pants. It was leaking down the flame tube too, covering his hands and dripping down the pole. The gas jet at the end was still burning, and Phil watched in frozen fascination as a small flicker of flame snaked its way around the tube, spreading up the stick like a firey serpent.
“What the fuck?” Phil asked, until the flames reached his propellant soaked hands.
“Aaaarghh!! FUCK! MY HANDS!” Phil screamed, as the fire set his hands alight. “FUCK!”
Phil panicked, dropping the flamethrower tube to the ground, and desperately whacking his burning hands against his body, anything to stop the pain, anything to put out the flames. But his clothes had little drips of propellant on them, and his pants legs were half soaked, so his body merely fed the fire.
“NOOO! FUCK! FUCK ME NOOO!”
And then, the fire serpent spread to the leaking hose, which Red Conan had been chewing through, along with all the other propellant hoses, with his metal shark teeth, for the last half hour. When it did, the propellant tank exploded.
“AAARRGGRHRHRHHHHH!” cried the Snake Daddy as he was engulfed with firey death. “ARGRRGRGRHHRHHR!”
For a moment, he flailed around, like a human torch, waving his arms and staggering hopelessly. He soon fell to the ground, and managed to scream, five more times, before he was finally unable to breathe. His flesh was flayed to the bone in a matter of seconds, but he twitched for several more, before he finally stopped moving, and entered a hellish forever sleep.
Red Conan looked down at the burning corpse of the Snake Daddy through his one remaining eye. The left side of his face was burned red raw, his left eye totally gone, but the pain was nothing. Red Conan had tasted his revenge, and revenge was sweet.
So, did Red Conan return the wayward…
…daughter of King Bowser home.
And having no further concern…
…he and his companions sought
adventure in the West.
Many wars and feuds did Conan fight.
Honor and fear were heaped
upon his name.
In time, he became a king…
…by his own hand.
This story shall also be told.
THE END (of Red Conan & The Snake Daddy)
(Original Art by Great White Nope - Booru ID 41537)
