Chapter 3.5
Two Years Ago
A white car stopped in front of a house. The house was attached both it’s sides, the sounds of football could be heard as two young children passed by, unattended.
A man stepped out of the car, his suit and tie straight and tucked. A model employee. A straight shooter. Walking around the car, he unlocked and opened the back passenger door to reveal a smiling young girl—braces, hairband, and plaid. As she got out, she hugged the man, who was assumed to be her father.
“Just walk behind me, okay, Sara,” he said, the summer heat beating on his brow.
“Okey, Daddy,” Sara said, her smile unaware of the man’s worry.
They walked to the front door and rang the bell. What was heard next was barking—deep, loud barking.
“Back, Max, back!” a loud voice called out. Opening the door was a man, a larger gentleman: baseball cap indoors, designer vest, sweatshorts, and shoes. Both arms were sleeved in ink—beautiful, artistic.
The men looked each other up and down.
The straight shooter spoke first. “Oh, um, hello sir, I believe we spoke on the—”
“Oh! Mr. Mace,” the larger man said, offering the suited one a handshake, which he accepted. One strong as stone, the other wet like a fish.
“We have, oi—Bailey’s in the kitchen. This is her third litter. Come on through.”
As the larger man turned, the person we now know as Mr. Mace wiped his brow. The quick tone shift to a sunnier one put his nerves at ease. He and Sara walked into the house. They both moved past a large XL Bully that sat happily, tongue hanging out.
In the kitchen, past rooms echoing with virtual gunshots and unpleasant trash talk, lay a still-fat but sleeping earth fluffy mare, nursing two foals while the other three played nearby.
The large man made an over-animated “SHHH” noise to both Mr. Mace and Sara as they entered the kitchen. Sara put her hands over her mouth, while Mr. Mace felt his worries fall away.
“So…” the man whispered, “you said pink, correct? And a boy will be okay?” He turned to Mr. Mace, recalling and confirming their last communication.
Mr. Mace nodded as Sara moved closer, still silent.
“That’s your one there, love,” he whispered, pointing to one of the foals now in their exploring-baby phase—eyes now open and waddling around the soft mess mat beneath their hooves. The man quietly jostled a tiny lamb’s bottle with only a small bit of milk left.
“That should put him to sleep there, until you get home,” he said softly, turning to retrieve a small cardboard box with felt inside.
The braced pre-teen lowered herself and swung her arm over the gate to pet the pink fluffy foal. It giggled and looked up at her before hugging her hand.
The young girl smiled brightly as she scooped him up, thoroughly distracted. The adults exchanged paper money before she could notice. Once the rubber nipple was in the foal’s mouth, it closed its eyes and dozed off in Sara’s arms.
She placed him in the felt-lined box and waited as the two men shook hands again. They left on good terms.
Once in the white car, they drove away. Mr. Mace looked to Sara and said,
“Now Sara, this is like a little baby. You can’t spoil him—he needs to be raised right.”
She beamed back at him.
“I promise, Daddy. I’ll call him Marrian, and I will raise him right.”
She… did not.
One Year Ago
Your name is Maran. You were a boy fluffy, so it hurt your head to think about, but your Mummeh Sara was the best mummeh ever. Well, she wasn’t when she didn’t give you your sketti every bright time, but most of the time she was.
You played and ran and watched the tee-vee, and everything was perfect.
You were told Fluffy Mummeh gave you to Sara because she was too old and went to a place called Heaven—or, as you put it, “Heven.”
You were an Eathy, and you were the only fluffy you knew—except for that one in the mirror that kept copying you.
One day, your special lumps started to hurt, and Mummeh’s Daddeh hit you with the sorry stick when he saw what happened to the carpet. You saw a show with Sarah on “yu-tub” where little foals were running around, and you used to be a foal and would like to have more fluffy friends… Then a pwetty mawe came on screen, and your lumps started hurting again. You started rubbing the new special stick on the bed, which made Mummeh scream and tell Daddeh you made bad pee on the bed.
Mummeh’s Daddeh said Maran needs to lose his special lumps, and that was when the last straw broke.
Daddeh can’t take your lumps from you! He should be giving you more food and toyies to make your lumps feel good like that mawe on the yu-tub! Daddeh said you’re a very bad and very stupid fluffy.
But you yelled at him back.
You’re the best fluffy.
You’re the smartest fluffy.
“Smarty wan enfies now!”
You felt something break—as if you had become your full self, all grown up now.
That, or the black plastic bag over you broke something.
When you woke up, you started chewing.
Chewing your way through the bag. That you’re used to, to get more foodies.
You were outside. Somewhere you don’t know.
Where were you?
Where was Mummeh?
Smarty now live with the trashy numies and eat the numies from the hooman numie place across the voomy monsta road. You still haven’t met any fluffies, but you know you’re the bestest, smartest fluffy there ever was.
Recently, a hoomin mawe with colourful head fluff stopped you while you were working on the next set of numies. She had metal on her lip and nose and ears… Old Mummeh had metal on her teeties. Smarty have no time for hoomin wady, who make him think of old Mummeh.
Smarty was hungry…
Smarty is always hungry.