Rent-A-Fluffy
Rent-A-fluffy #2
Rent-A-Fluffy #3
Rent-A-Fluffy #4
Izzy’s departure from Rental Central was unexpected, to say the least. The only other time she had left the place was to go to Charlotte’s. Mummah. When an employee loaded her up in a little cardboard box she gave an excited squeal when they were going to the door. This wasn’t the way to the trash! This was outside! Where fun adventures happened and you got to run around being carefree. Yet as she sat in her box, she knew they weren’t going to mummah’s. It’s not like she know how to get there but where she lived, there was lots of green stuff and open places. Where they were going was further into the city. Everything got grimier and more depressed the further they traveled.
The mare didn’t end back up with mummah. She didn’t end up anywhere nicer. In fact, it may be worse. Quickly processed into an overfilled, hastily set-up new shelter for fluffies. Shoved into a kennel with a concrete floor absolutely filled with other of her kind. Mares, fillies, soon-mummahs. A rainbow of different colors. Despite there being a few littertrays, there was nothing near the amount needed. Also: Many of these fluffies weren’t even littertrained to begin with. They made bad poopies or peepees where they pleased, the floor absolutely caked in little brown or black hoofprints. There were no cushions to sleep on and everyone just had to kind of huddle together in fluffpiles intermixed with feces.
“Mummah! Wan mummah!” They cried. Or ‘daddeh’, depending on who had ownership over them before being brought in. Their little hooves sprang at the wire-fencing that kept the kennel closed off from the world. It was pure misery, though they still had hope. Fluffies, if nothing else, always had hope.
“Teehee! Buttahstotch am hab mummah abin! Hab sketti, toysies, be bestest mummah…” This was said by a portly soon-to-be mare, most likely dumped off here because of her coming foals.
“Wasberry tu!” Agreed a red unicorn, proudly clicking her hooves against the cement. “Hab bestest babbehs!”
Izzy sat there in the muck. The unpretty mire. There was nothing good here. Just poopies, hunger, dullness. Some well-meaning volunteers had thrown a few stuffy-friends and balls in here but they had either been torn to shreds or deflated. Some of the talkie-babbehs still tried to cuddle the scraps of the stuffies or nudged the deflated balls around as if it still offered a small morsel of fun.
“Yew am dummehs! Yew neba hab anyfing! Omwy huwties! Huwties ‘fo fwuffies!” Izzy suddenly spat this out to the crowd of blabbering fluffies. They grew silent for once, looking to her. One of them whimpered.
“N-Nu…dat nu am twue…Spwinkew hab mummah ‘n nyu bedsie ‘n be su pwetty.” The vanilla-hued mare gave a hopeful smile. Izzy gave a dismissive whish of her tail.
“It am twashies ‘fo yew. ‘Fo Izzy. ‘Fo ebby fwuffy. Nu happies.”
This didn’t cause much of a stir. They just chose to ignore her. Izzy sat in the back, scooted off to a corner. Rarely any mummahs or daddehs came here. There were the shelter owners, pushing along a cart which they’d periodically load up with fluffies. Taken away to never been seen again. Those that found themselves as it’s cargo cheered, thinking they would find a new home.
“Dey go tu twashy pwace. Dark pwace. Huwty pwace!” Izzy told the fluffies that remained. They never came back. She didn’t need to see what had happened to them to know nothing good had happened. They were fluffies: Nothing good was allowed for them. The mare felt meaner and meaner each time the cart passed by. She stuck her tongue out at the other mares, pranced around and called them names, shoved foals out of the way when it was time to eat.
The other mares gave her sorry-hoofies. Sorry-poopies. Did it matter though? Even if she got forever-sleepies, she would find herself in the trash. Being covered in poopies? They already were. None of this mattered. It was all pointless. The only thing that made her feel good anymore was to remind them that they were all headed to the same place. That these huwties would be shared among each and every single one of them.
“Mummahs dun wub yew! Daddehs dun wub yew! Dis is ‘aw dewe is ‘fo fwuffies! Fwuffies am awibe ‘fo huwties!” No matter how many times she got a hoofing, she continued ranting and raving to them. Screaming sometimes just as loudly as Bolt had. Feeling more and more like him. He hadn’t been a dummeh at all.
“N-Nuu….mummah nuuuuuu!” A foal who had it’s mother taken away by the shelter staff earlier broke down and sobbed on the floor. Wept as it’s cheek rested in a pile of feces. There was nobody around to protect or care for it anymore. Izzy stood over it.
“Dummeh babbeh! Yew mummah am twashies naow! Twashies fowebbah! Wots ‘ob huwties! Nu wubs! Nu huggies!” The mare sneered down to the foal. It only continued to cry harder.
“Mummah am be back! Mummah pwomise…” The foal choked out, and Izzy looked around.
“Wewe am babbehs mummah?” She asked, seeing nothing, and the foal curled up. Miserably shaking and suckling on her hoof.
One day the shelter staff came for her. Pulled her in, though she didn’t offer a struggle. Some of the other ones had. They had listened to Izzy’s rantings and ramblings enough. Maybe they hadn’t accepted things yet, but the idea was firmly implanted in their heads. They were brought to a backroom and there it was: The trash. Bigger than even the one back at Rental Central. Fluffies were cast in there regardless of age or gender. Cruel? Yes. They were just toys though. Cast-off toys. Mares from the kennel that Izzy had been in were thrown into the pile already seething around in the trashcan. Crying. Shouting. Begging. Hooves scrabbling against other furry bodies. Trying to find a hold on the slippery black bag lining the unit. Izzy was the only one who was calm about being lifted: The others made scaredy-poopies or tried flailing around as they were shifted off to the trashcan. She looked down to the mass impromptu grave of her kin. The heat inside could actually be felt, almost seeming to boil up from inside. A great stink that would be hers soon. Had always been hers. Just as Bolt said.
Dropped down amongst the other fluffies, Izzy watched the lid shut down. They were cast into darkness. Others moved beneath her, the warmth grew even heavier. Like a rancid blanket.
Two years later at the same shelter:
A new hired named Stephen was busy loading up a cart with fluffies who were going to be cleared out today. The situation from back in the day was just as bad and they were constantly having to put down fluffies. Once in the back room, he couldn’t help but notice a green and red stallion was…acting slightly odd.
“Dis am pwace ‘fo fwuffies! Omwy pwace! Twashies ‘fo aw fwuffies! Omwy ‘fo huwties! Daddehs ‘n mummahs am munstahs! Teehee! Dummies am be twashies naow!” The stallion yelled, eyes full of feverish excitement. Did he know what was going down? He had to, right?
“Uh, Trish?” He questioned his supervisor. “What the fuck is wrong with that thing?”
Trish sighed. Yeah, unless you dealt with fluffies all the time in a certain setting it was quite unlikely you’d see this.
“They’re called Downers. You know Smarty Syndrome and the Wan Die loop, right? It’s like those two things get mixed together. It spreads like a mental virus from one to another and triggers under unknown circumstances. Once it establishes itself into a large group, it’s almost impossible to completely cull.” She had been here since the opening. These things popped up every so often, though it was a rare phenomena elsewhere.
“Yuwetide am twashies naow! Dummeh twashies! Aw fwuffies am twashies! Teehee! WUB TWASHIES!” The fluffy screeched from within the can after being discarded into it.
From Bolt to Izzy to each and every single fluffy that was within the shelter, their dread and fear stayed alive. Unlike them, it would never truly die. It would always be around to remind other fluffies where they’d end up.
