Stale cigarette smoke hangs thick in the dingy basement of the dive bar near your motel. You came all this way for King of Iron Fluff, and after a couple days of taking in the sights you’re craving some normalcy.
Which is where McGinty’s comes in.
You’ve come to the basement looking for the bathroom. You were going to smoke in it since it’s raining outside and the bouncer kept telling people to “quit crowding the door” when they tried to smoke under the awning. But clearly that’s not an issue down here.
There’s a few folks sitting at a table. Faces you…think you recognize? Maybe they’re just familiar looking. Like they just have faces people have? They’re trading stories and laughing, their energy warm and welcoming. You find yourself drawing near as you light up. Like the lamppost in a parking lot or the only ashtray outside a theatre. You want to be near them, if only so you know you’re near something.
A fat guy with a bushy beard is wildly gesticulating as he tells a story, much to the chagrin of the thin gentleman he keeps side hugging and indicating towards. Clearly the two have had a go of it.
As you position yourself so as not to seem like an eavesdropper, the fat guy continues.
“But if it’s saddest you want, I’m your guy. Like for single saddest fluffy? That’s all me.” He takes a hit off of what you know can see is definitely a corncob pipe. From the smell, it’s about three parts weed and one part…lavender? Like a lavender…mint? He’s breathing it like it’s air, whatever it is. His every word cushioned and cradled by wafting pillows of a blend you smoke when you want your neighbors to know you have weed, but not complain about the smell.
“I used to have this mare, yeah? Three legs missing, used her as a stock standard breeder, kept her leg around so I could threaten to take it.” He paused to take a drink.
“Ain’t nothing straightens a bunch of fluffies out like hearing one beg you not to take its last leg.”
He smirks like the conceited douche he probably is even when he’s not half lit and hotboxing a basement with Grandma Weed.
“Anyway she had kids. Lots of them. And the way I kept her in line was by sending one of her kids to a nice farm where he could run free. He’d send photos and postcards and shit. It was great. Running and playing and whatever. She’d get so excited for the mail. They even smelled like him. She liked that.”
He takes a drag off his pipe and a look of brief guilt crosses his face. It’s gone in an instant, replaced by smug self satisfaction.
“They’ve got good noses. Particularly for fluffy smells. She knew her brave blue and white boy was happy and healthy, and she knew he’d stay that way as long as she did her part. I let her keep the pictures. Kept her quiet. Kept her in line.”
“But eventually she dried up. I was breeding recreationally, and that gave her a better life than most. When she couldn’t bear more litters, it was time.”
He breathes in deep and his eyes hollow out some. Smoke spills from his mouth and nose as he grinds out the next part.
“First I drug her brat in. She’d seen so much. I’d killed shit…ten? Twenty? Maybe more of her kids in front of her? She had to sit there and take it. ‘Su sowwy, but mummah hafta be bad mummah fow owdest babbeh. Owdest babbeh am safe! Haftu keep safe!’ It was pretty heartwrenching every time. Good shit.”
“So when she sees this blue and brown fluffy stumble in, she doesn’t know what to think. See, I’d been lying. The photos and shit smelled like her kid because I rubbed them on him. As soon as I took him from her, he went in a small concrete hole in the basement under my carport. About six by six. There’s a metal grate to shit through in one corner, and a machine dispensed food in the other corner every day. I had a faucet half on to let water flow down the side of the pit with the grate. He’d drink there, too.”
“I’d only give him attention once a month. When I’d go get his scent for the pictures of my client’s better looking fluffy from upstate. I’d pick him up and hug him, with the photo or postcard between us, and I’d sing one mummah song. Then I’d set him back down and leave while he wailed about ‘Whewe fwuffy’ and ‘Pwease tawk’ until I left the basement. Did that for six years until mom ran dry.”
“So I bring him out and her nose is telling her this unhealthy and confused looking fluffy with ugly fluff is her son. She knows that. ‘Pitcha fwuffy nu am mummah’s babbeh? Onwy meanie twick?’ I’d almost be impressed if I weren’t so excited.”
Geez. Some people.
“I tell her she’s right. She tries talking to her son, but his mind is gone. He’s startled by the direct communication and his vocabulary is pretty stunted. She’s visibly distraught until she gets my assurance that yes, at least the fluffy from the pictures is real. She likes knowing someone was really enjoying themselves. That even if her real son is this empty whatever, that’s she’s like happy about ‘nu weaw babbeh’ being happy.”
He grins from ear to ear.
“So when I trotted him in, she was pretty well taken aback. Immediately started begging for his life. I just laughed as I let him loose to go kill her real son. Massive overdose of testosterone and adrenaline will do that. She’s wailing and screaming and howling until it’s done. Within an hour, he’s come back down and is horrified by his actions. He’s comforting her and everything. She’s shell shocked, but seems to be responding.”
He takes a deep drag and savors it before blowing it out over everyone.
“So naturally I cut him open from nuts to navel and let him slowly panic-drag all his innards out as he paced himself to death begging for help. She wasn’t thrilled with that, no sir. Sad as sad can be.”
A tall woman in a frilly black waistcoat smoking cloves prods further. “And that’s it? That’s the saddest you’ve seen a fluffy?”
He smiles. “No.”
“No that was when I forcefed them both to her bit by bit.”
“Hey,” says one of the cluster looking your direction. "What about you?"