((WHATS UP I WROTE ABOUT RILEY SOME MORE SURPRIZZZEEEE notes at the end btw ))
“NUUU POOPIE PWACE!! SCREEEEEE!!!”
“No, Riley! Bad! Bad!!”
You hit your fluffy over the head with a rolled up newspaper, “Bad girl! You’re supposed to be practicing your bucking!”
But it was too late, Riley was already humping away at the smarty colt you brought home. You always made sure they were plugged, but your clever little beast had figured out how to push the cork in further to make space for herself.
Not that you were complaining (you hear that, karma?), you’d rather clean up vaginal discharge from your own prize-winning fighter than a worthless smarty’s shit any day.
“Thanks for the italian, man.”
“Thank Riley! She paid for it when she won her fight today.”
“Speakin’ of the li’l monster, where’s she at?”
“She’s staying at the vet overnight. Fat bastard landed on her leg and broke it.”
“Riley’s leg? He musta been massive.”
“He was, actually! He was smaller than her but he was in her same weight category.”
“Ain’t muscle s’posed to weigh more than fat?”
“He was also shaped like a pregnant refrigerator.”
“God, I don’t know what to do with Riley. She keeps humping everything. I’m stepping in cum puddles at every turn. I slip and fall at least twice a day. The bottoms of my jeans are starting to bleach. I can’t train her like this, man.”
“Ya try feeder foals?”
“Those are a one-and-done deal. Plus, she nuts like twenty times a day. I can’t keep that many fucking foals.”
“Ya try toys?”
“Ugh yeah. She wrecks them in like an hour and then complains that it isn’t the same.”
“Y’sure you ain’t buyin’ the cheap ones?”
You shot your best friend a dirty, exhausted, cum-weary look.
“Okay, okay. How 'bout one of them enfie-pals?”
“And listen to a depressed, limbless fleshlight whine all day? No thanks. And before you say anything: I can’t get her a “speciaw fwiend” either,” you said it in the cutesy-wutesy fluffy voice you hate. “She’s terrifying! I’d have to find a fluffy that enjoys getting fucked in the ass by the scariest thing imaginable!”
“Yeah, sounds more like some shit you’d be into,” Sydney snorted.
“Shut the fuck up we are not talking about that right now.” You leaned your elbows on your knees and nervously ran a hand through your hair, “She probably wouldn’t even accept a mate if I got her one, she hates literally every fluffy she’s ever met. And I can’t take care of another fluffy! You’ve seen my place! It’s a fucking shoebox! I don’t even have a saferoom! The only reason Riley doesn’t stupid herself to death is 'cause she’s a goddamn freak of nature. She’s so creepily smart sometimes I worry she’s gonna murder me in my fucking sleep for not feeding her enough of her stupid fucking bullshit ‘sketties–’”
“Bro. Bro. Chill. Sit down.”
You hadn’t realized you were pacing.
“S’alright bro. Have some of this, it’ll clear your head,” Sydney handed you two-thirds of a half-crushed joint.
“Th-thanks,” You fumbled with the lighter and managed to get a couple deep lungfuls before you started coughing up smoke like it was your life savings.
“Relaaaax, and let the ideas flow.”
Thirty minutes and two hard lemonades later, an epiphany.
“Y’could get her one of those “Happy Pillow” things.”
“The fuck’s that?”
“They’re like bougie high-end enfie-pals for hugboxers. They’re supposedly always in the mood and don’t complain about nothin’,” Sydney waved his hands like a drunk while he spoke. “The training’s suuuper thorough. And they leave 'em with juuuuust enough leg to get to-and-from the litterbox but not enough to run around and actually hurt theirselves.”
“Or more importantly, hurt the fluffy they’re servicing.”
Syd didn’t rise to your cynical bait, and instead waited patiently for you to get your mental shit together.
You sighed, “How much are they?”
“They’re a pretty penny, I think like a hundred bucks? I know a guy what works there and they let employees take the broken ones for cheap.”
“Broken? Like how broken?”
“Ones that go “wan die” loop or can’t complete the trainin’ or whatever.”
You tried to do some very basic calculations in your head. It took you several minutes and multiple failures before you realized you were way too crossfaded to do math and gave up, “… alright, how cheap are we talking?”
“Thaaaat’s the spirit!”
Little did you know, the perfect little pillow was about to fall right into your lap.
Your name is Rodney, and you fucking hate fluffies.
You hate your clothes always smelling like piss and garbage. You hate hearing people gag and hold their breath as they walk by. You hate being denied service at restaurants and on public transit for “health code reasons.” Bullshit. It’s the smell. It sinks into your clothes and follows you around like cigar smoke. You hate how everyone tries to pussyfoot around it. You hate that no matter how hard you scrub, there’s always just a little bit of brown stuck in the stitching on your shoes. You don’t even own any fluffies.
Your feet hurt. You just want to take the fucking bus for once.
You were on your way home from your dead-end job as a part-time janitor at an underground fluffyfighting ring. It was the biggest ring in the city. It was so big it was basically official, just with fewer government-mandated restrictions. A championship belt from the Fluffy Durden Association practically guaranteed multiple contract offers before the season was up. You’d shoveled shit for a few champs that went legit. Bulldozer was the big one you remember. Weird fluffies, but even weirder owners.
You heard the pathetic huu-huuing of a miserable fluffy echo down the street. Then again, there wasn’t much else to hear downtown at four in the morning. Yet even in broad daylight next to a bustling sidewalk, you know no one would’ve stopped to help. You certainly wouldn’t. You’ve got rent to make.
You offered silent thanks to a god you’re sure has long since abandoned humanity. It’s just a stray. No one will mind if you stomp its head in.
“NU!!! MUNSTAH NU HUWT MUMMAH-NU-MOWE SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!”
You stuck a finger in your ear and checked it for blood.
Sounds like someone else beat you to it.
And when you peeked down the alley, it looked like it too.
The alleyway looked like Hannibal Lecter tried to eat a shit-stuffed muppet, only to projectile vomit his expensive chianti and the guest he drank it with. You hardly even registered the torn-open garbage bags spilling everywhere. When you looked closer you found the back halves of three fluffy foals. A blue one, a green one, and an ugly little brown one. Their flesh held the shape of the predator’s bite like a block of cheese. You were uncomfortably reminded of the times you’d gotten la chancla for not using a knife.
Definitely a fluffy family that got Dhamer’d, but the wailing mummah was nowhere to be found.
The biggest, grossest smear led you back behind some trash cans where you started hearing weird, wet crunching sounds and a childish voice talking with its mouth full.
“Nom Dummeh mama munch am biggesh nummiesh sshhlurp smack fo’ Wiwey om nom nom”
It was a fluffy.
With its snout buried in the carcass of a fat pink mare.
Your shoe landed on what was left of the little brown foal, and the meat inside squeezed out like toothpaste. Like dropping a book on a juicy spider, you were mourning the fact that you’d eventually have to lift your foot. Then you heard growling coming from behind the trash cans.
“Grrrrrrrrrrrr gu away! Dese am Wiwey’s sketti-nummies! Nu wan shawe nummies wif hoomin!” The fluffy’s fur bristled and it snarled at you in a very un-fluffy-like way.
“Hey there, uhhh… Wiley? Whatcha got there?”
“Fwuffy namesies am Wiwey!” It snapped, offended, as if you were supposed to know which letters it was trying to say. “Hoomin can haf big nummies when Wiwey am DONESIES!” At least it did the polite thing and offered. Points, you guess?
“I don’t want any of your food.”
“Did you kill all those fluffies?” You gestured to the bloodbath in the alleyway behind you.
“Yesh!” In the shadow between the two cans, you watched the weird fluffy puff its chest out proudly, “Wiwey gif bad mummah an’ bad babbehs foweba sleepies. Bad fwuffies am bestesh nummies.”
“You eat bad fluffies?”
Seems straightforward enough. Although, you were still hung up on the fact that you were even talking to a fluffy. You wouldn’t be caught dead doing this with people around.
You might as well keep going though. Sunk Cost Fallacy where the only cost is how long it takes for you to get home and go to bed.
“What makes them bad, exactly?”
“Bad mummah nu gib miwkies tu poopie babbeh. Bad babbesh nu shawe miwkies wif poopie bwuddah. Nu gif huggies ow wuv, onwy poopies and saddies. Bad fwuffies. Dummeh fwuffies.”
“You ate the brown one too, though.”
“Dems bettah when dey smaww. Tastee Sshlurp!”
It’s drooling. Gross.
“Why’d you only eat the front halves then?”
It looked at you like you were genuinely asking if spaghetti was a fluffy’s favorite food, “Poopies come outta da back haff. Make yummy nummies icky.”
Oh yeah. Fluffies are like 40% shit by volume. Even the babies.
How could you possibly forget?
“Hey sooooooo… Why don’t you come out of there?” You said in your nicest voice. You wanted to get a closer look at this thing before you offered it any food.
Fuck. You’re even just considering offering it food? Feeding a fluffy is the universal gateway drug to taking it home with you. But if you were being honest with yourself (which you weren’t) you’d already made your decision.
The fluffy smacked its lips, “Wiwey nu wan weave nummie-mummah…”
“But I uhhhh… wanna see your pretty fluff?” Fluffies are vain in addition to being stupid, right? You wouldn’t actually know, you were used to juice-boosted pit fighters and drugged-up enfie-prizes and trembling, terrified bait.
“HA! Haha ha! Eehehehehee heehee!” Its sudden bark of laughter startled you, and the eerie cackle that followed made your hair stand on end. “Wiwey been poopie foweba. Fwuff am onwy pwetty wif boo-boo juice on it.”
Okay, forget everything else, you could totally vibe with this thing.
“I like blood too! Why don’t you show me? Um… please?”
Okay, so you weren’t lying per se. You’d acquired a thirst for fluffy blood ever since Sydney introduced you to Battle Fluffs, but you were a lot more interested in watching it be spilled than you were in admiring it afterwards. You were the one who had to clean it all up at the end, after all.
Speaking of Syd, your friends would bully the living shit out of you if they ever heard you using that sing-song baby voice. God forbid saying “please” to a fluffy.
This fluffy was a lot bigger than you thought. It struggled to squeeze itself between the two trash cans, bloated from its meal. Its front was caked in blood, but the fur underneath was brown. Plain, dirt brown. It had a wing neatly folded on one side, and a crooked little stump on the other. Lost in a fight most likely, if everything else about it was anything to go by.
Its most notable feature were its teeth. Yellowed and overgrown, they stuck out in every direction except the ones they’re supposed to. You realized the reason this fluffy kept smacking its lips was because it couldn’t actually close them all the way. In the daylight it would’ve drooled like Saint Pavlov Bernard.
“Hoomin wike boo-boo juice?” It struck a little pose for you.
“Oh! Uh yeah, you look great.”
In the little alley light you still couldn’t tell if it was male or female, and trying to surreptitiously sneak a peek at its junk raised way more questions than it answered. You decided to just flat out ask, “Are you a boy or a girl?”
It didn’t seem offended at all, “Wiwey am giwl fwuffy! Hab speshul pwace undah no-no shtick. An’ dey smaww buh hab miwkie-pwaces, tuu…”
“Stop! That’s okay! You don’t need to show me!” You pulled your hat down over your eyes in a hurry.
“Am suwe? Okey.”
Bullet dodge successful.
Still, you looked anywhere but the fluffy mare in front of you.
Your gaze landed on a sad cardboard box drenched in blood and fluffy shit, and the four stubby pink legs still inside.
She tore the mom’s legs off before she ate the babies.
Probably made her watch, too.
But how did the mummah make such a bloody mess if she couldn’t move?
Simple answer: she didn’t. This fluffy did.
“Do you like hurting things?”
“Yesh!” A swift answer and a wagging tail had never given you the shivers before. “Wiwey wike givin’ huwties tu dummeh fwuffies!”
“What kinds of fluffies are dummy fluffies?”
“Uhhhhh Smawties an’ bestesh babbehs an’ tuffies an’ soon-mummahs an’ miwkie-mummahs an’ soon-daddehs an’ dumb stoopie stawwions who onwy fink abowt enfies–,” the fluffy took a breath like she was about to keep going, but you cut her off.
“So, what kinds of fluffies aren’t dummies?”
“Hmmmmmmmm…” She thought long and hard, “Dunno! Wiwey nevah met wun of dose!”
“Would you give hurties to another fluffy if your daddy told you to?” You hesitated to say the “d” word around a stray, but this one struck you as different. She wasn’t nearly as desperate or cloying as any of the others you’d encountered. She still had plenty of time to prove you wrong though.
“Wiwey nu hab daddeh. Smawty say dat he am daddeh, buh he wen’ foweva sweepies.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Wiwey gabe him da sleepies.”
“Oh…” Okay. “Well, let’s say you got a new daddy and he told you to give another fluffy forever-sleepies. Would you do that for your new daddy?”
“Even if it’s a nice fluffy?”
“Dewe’s nu such fing.”
((i found a bunch of writing & drawings i didnt remember doing bc i was stoned jdjdbdjbdbdjbf
for every drawing i post, i guarantee there’s at least 40 more that are gonna get lost to obscurity in the “Scanned Documents” folder on my computer. organization is not my strong suit & lack of self-confidence is my biggest hurdle
and now that Twitter’s dead idk where i can post them all? patreon??? get a .zip file of my life’s work for 69 cents. the tiers are $0.69, $4.20, and $6.66 bc i refuse to be serious abt anything lol))