You are chilling at your house playing some game when suddenly…
“Housie? nummies?”
“Fuck…”
You leave your PC and go to your front door and there it is: a tiny pink unicorn foal.
“Nyu daddeh fo’ fluffy?”
On a closer look its a filly, good for it since a pink colt is less than worthless. You know how this thing entered: that fucking doggie door. You would get rid of it but its a rental and the owner doesn’t give a damn about your problems. And the door is one of those flap ones so you can’t lock it which means every so often a stray fluffy walks in. You learned to cover the hole with a box or some rags when you’re out after a preggo mare made a mess trying to squeeze through when you where at work.
You look out at the window and see the rest of the feral herd on your front yard, just one stallion and two mares but a ton of foals in different stages of growth. You walk to the kitchen and look for the box of disposable gloves. You aren’t going to pick a dirty feral foal with your hands, specially since someone told you ferals can give you meningitis among other awful diseases. As you find the box you get a pair on and pick up the filly.
“Upsies! tee-hee!”
You open the door and step outside, immediately more eyes than you can count are staring at you. The stallion approaches you, cheeks puffed and wings buzzing but wont say anything. The filthy aqua unicorn mare with a pink mane walks towards you.
“Huu pwease mistah gib babbeh back!”
As you get a close look you see the other mare is pregnant and has less foals around meaning that this aqua one here probably had two litters in a row.
You don’t tell them to not use the doggie door.
You don’t tell them to leave.
Its pointless, fluffies were made to obey but they are buggy as fuck so few actually do that. After all most feral these days are ex-domestics that were abandoned because they were bratty and wouldn’t follow orders. Others left their homes for the very same reasons and nobody bothered to get them back since fluffies are so cheap you simply buy a new one from a vending machine and hope for the best. You heard the base animals during fluffy development were pigs and goats. Who the fuck uses farm animals as base for pets? no wonder they came up like this. So you don’t bother to tell them to leave since being ferals you know they are simply gonna get scared and make a mess then hide under your shitbox car or behind your trash cans only to come back later when you’re not around.
You think about calling Animal Control but they charge to take care of fluffies now and you can’t afford that right now. You could get a dog to get rid of these shitrats but dogs are expensive now ever since flufflies caused a parvovirus pandemic that killed off most dogs, ironically increasing the market share of pet fluffies while decreasing that of dogs that are now as premium as a tropical parrot. And besides the guy across the street did just that and his expensive doberman got an infection after a smarty shat all over him. After a ton of vet bills the dog simply barks at fluffies.
You consider grabbing a shovel and go mental on the shitrats but then you remember that guy who did it back in college only to be labeled a psycho animal abuser. So why bother going through that? why live with the anxiety of not knowing if someone is going to upload you slicing shitrats with a shovel and get you doxed by hugfags?
So you simply go back inside, boil some water and start cooking some cheapo pasta you have around. As it boils you look around in your trash. Bingo, an empty beer bottle. You grab an old pair of stained jeans you were going to throw away and wrap the bottle in it. Then you use a hammer to pound the denim until the brown glass becomes a fine dust. Once the pasta its done you grab an about-to-expire bottle of generic ketchup since you’re not going waste actual sauce on these things. You pour it into the pasta and then add the grounded glass then stir it.
You step outside and walk straight to the curb. As you pass with the pot full of pasta you say out loud to the fluffies nibbling on your grass or sleeping under the shade of your car.
“Who wants some sketti?”
A cacophony of tiny voices erupt, all asking for sketti. The asshole stallion is suddenly your best friend ever. The preggo mare tells you she never had any sketties not even from her dummeh mummah that wouldn’t let her have babies. Speaking of that while some of the foals can get the sketties most wont, but they are looking forward at the quality miwkies they will get.
Once you get to the curb you pour all the sketties there. There is a reason you don’t do this on your grass or the sidewalk. As the pasta falls the shitrats rush at it, starting to eat even before you get all the sparkly noodles out of the pot.
You go back inside, back to the games you barely get to enjoy anymore due to your grueling work schedule. The task is done anyway and the fluffies are not going anywhere, so why bother watching them?
Next day you wake up and as you are leaving your house you see all three fluffy adults right where you left them. The preggo mare is clearly dead, blood oozing from every orifice. The stallion is moving its mouth like a fish out of the water, its rectum a prolapsed ruin. The last mare, the aqua one whose shitty foal invaded your home is shaking and foaming at the mouth. The bigger foals are all dead, puked their own bowels after the glass on the sketti shredded them from the inside-out. The only ones remaining are the unweaned ones who will soon die seeing how they are all desperately begging their dead parents for miwkies that will never come.
Suddenly the pink unicorn filly, the one that started all this waddles towards you
“Daddeh y mummah nu wuv babbeh?”
You ignore it
“Daddeh? daddeh hewp babbeh? gib nummies?” it says at you with its annoying squeaky voice as it follows you
You stop and the foals waddles around your feet then sits in front of you staring at your face. Staring with those big eyes its designers put on them because they knew that would help them sell more fluffies.
A moment of silence…then you kick the foal so hard it flies and impacts the side of a mailbox across the street exploding on impact, guts sticking to the surface then sliding down to the concrete below. The other foals get the message and decide to huddle around their dead parents rather than ask you for anything, though you can still hear their cries and ‘huuhuus’.
Thankfully you don’t have to clean shit. Because the fluffies are on the street they are the sweeper’s problem now. The city might have decided fluffy removal carries a fee but as far as they know these fluffies died on public property, and from god-knows-what since there are no dishes or containers with poison in them so is not like they can blame you for a bunch of shitrats deciding to take a dirt nap on the tarmac.
You walk away knowing that next week you’ll probably have to do the same. The insane breeding rates of fluffies coupled with their status as a disposable pet people throw away like stained paper bags means there are always new shitrats coming to your home.
At first you tried to reason with them
Then you chased them away
Then used violence
And then you got tired and came up with the sketti method
Because why bother?
The foals that don’t starve or die from exposure will get torn to pieces by the rotating brushes of the sweeper.
