“So yeah, long story short, dude literally fixed a Surley Smarty brand smarty foal, yeah I’ll send you the footage- he starts talking to it and five minutes later it’s bawling about not wanting to be a smarty. Darndest thing I’ve ever seen.” Dave said into his phone, before holding the phone back to protect his ear from the loud response. “Geeze dude, I just sent you the video, give it a bit. As for Pistol, I’m probably just going to have him and the rest of them fixed, sixteen fluffies is enough for a lifetime. Listen man, my head’s killing me, I’ll talk to you later.”
It was after noon the next day before Dave actually left his bed to try and kill his hangover with bacon. It was past one by the time he swung by the safe room.
Sally had had a hellish night. Without access to food, she had run out of milk by midnight, her teats simply refusing to produce any more while her involuntary fast continued. When the foals missed their first feeding, all she could do was comfort them, hugging and singing, and while it did eventually get them to sleep, it was exhausting, and even though there was nothing she could do to get them more milk at the moment, Sally still felt like she was failing her sweet, beautiful babbehs. She again tried to rouse Pistol without success, and eventually went to lie aside the foal’s fluffpile. Demoralized and miserable, Sally finally fell into a fitful sleep.
When Sally next woke, she heard voices, many voices, many tiny voices. Her eyes opened to see fourteen foals milling about, babbling to each other, trying to walk, and/or clumsily chasing each other about. While Sally didn’t notice it, Red was taller than all but the alicorns, who now were clearly taller than him as they walked around almost gracefully, carefully avoiding collisions with their stumbling siblings.
“Babbehs am tawkies! Sawwy am suu Happy!” Sally gasped, scrambling to her feet and rushing to them to try and hug as many as possible as quickly as possible, calling to Pistol over her shoulder. Once she had probably hugged each of them at least once, she looked about, surprised that Pistol wasn’t also hugging babbehs, only to see him behind where she had been sleeping, still on his side, his belly now very swollen. Seeing him like this started to bring the previous night harshly back into her memory, and she rushed over to try and wake him again.
“Pistow, pwease wakies! Aww da babbehs hab tawkies and am wawkies now.” She begged as she shook him, only managing to elicit a low moan and another spray of diarrhea and worms from him. “Pwease hab wakies, babbehs nee daddeh.” Then, looking down at herself in horror, “An’ babbehs nee miwkies! Sawwy nuu hab miwkies! Huu huu huu.”
By this point the foals had made their way over to the adult fluffies, and Red softly prodded Sally’s side “Mummeh, babbehs nee miwkies.” He gently nudged Java forward with his nose, “Sissy Java stiww hab hewties and nee miwkies an huggies.” Java looked up expectantly at Sally, slightly wincing at a moment of pain in her side while she did so. Sally met Java’s eyes, and it broke Sally. She wailed louder and curled up into a ball, muttering about being the worst mummah.
The newly walking foals were confused- mummahs gave milkies, that’s what happened, but even when the gray colt tried nursing from Sally, he got nothing. “Mummah nu gib miwkies tu babbeh? Am babbeh bad babbeh?” The grey colt said, about to cry until the alabaster alicorn put a hoof gently on his shoulder.
“Mummah nu hab miwkies tu gib, yu am gud babbeh, bu mummah nu hab nummies tu make miwkies. Daddeh hab sickies an nu can bwing da nummies.” She said, lifting her hoof from her brother to point at the still prone Pistol.
“Bu babbehs nee miwkies, hab tummeh hewties!” A different colt countered. “How babbehs get miwkies den?”
The white alicorn looked morosely at her brother. “Babbeh nu no.”
Dave’s head’s throbbing had lessened as he ate, and reasoned thought began to return to him. Somehow his hangover had granted him clarity, and he had to conclude that nothing he could do would deter Sally and Red from being wonderful parents. The game was over, they had won, and really, Dave had gone too far. As he headed to the saferoom, he planned his apology.
“Okay Sally, you and Pistol win, you guys are-” Dave said as he rounded the corner and entered the safe room, stopping dead when he saw Pistol down and out next to a pile of diarrhea and worms. He next saw Sally looking up at him, tears streaming down her face.
“DADDEH! PISTOW HAB SICKIES, BABBEHS NEE MIWKIES, BU SAWWY NU HAB MIWKIES TU GIB!” Sally sobbed, abject pain in her voice.
If Dave thought he was sober before, then this was super sober 2. Quickly looking about, he saw Sally’s empty food bowl, and saw that Pistol was hardly breathing.
“Not like this” was all Dave said as he kicked over the auto feeder, spilling all of its kibble onto the floor, and yanked the fluffy fence, throwing it into the next room. Continuing in rapidly, he scooped Pistol up and without another word sprinted for his car.
Dave drove like a maniac to the vet’s office, and he was hardly into the office when the receptionist, a lifelong hugboxer par excellant, grabbed his arm and pulled Dave and Pistol into an exam room, before sprinting off to get the veterinarian. When the vet arrived moments later, she and Dave exchanged only a few words while she worked, starting an IV on Pistol.
“How long has he been like this?”
“I don’t know, can’t be more than 16 hours”
“What?”
“I was drunk yesterday, I’m sorry. I just got up and found him in a pile of shit and worms.”
At the word worms, the vet gently pressed on Pistol’s lower abdomen, eliciting a fresh stream of diarrhea and worms. She immediately recognized them as a common parasite in new born fluffies, usually caused by drinking milk from a feral fluffy, as ferals sometimes are carriers of the eggs. She also knew that while it was almost trivial in foals, the much more advanced gut of an adult fluffy would lead the worms to grow to dangerous numbers rapidly. She rushed across the room and grabbed two small white labeled vials from a drawer, carefully but rapidly filled a syringe with each, and injected one directly into Pistol’s small intestine, while the other went into the tubing of the IV.
“I need to empty him, the worms are taking up so much room he can hardly breath, stand back.” The vet said as she rolled Pistol onto his back and proceeded to firmly empty him.
Dave was shocked. He knew that fluffies were champion shit producers, but this was something else. Again and again the vet squeezed Pistol, and torrent after torrent of shit sprayed from him, luckily a second vet had heard the commotion and by now was holding a garbage bag behind Pistol to catch most of the mess.
Slowly, as Pistol was emptied, his swollen belly returned to its normal size, and Pistol’s breathing visibly deepened. As shallow gasps were traded for deep breaths, Pistol woke with a panic. He looked around briefly before realizing Sally was not there.
“Pistow nee fin Sawwy! Nee bwing nummies! Babbehs nee miwkies!” He blurted at Dave.
“Relax buddy, I fed Sally, this whole thing got out of control, but she has all the food she can possibly eat.”
Pistol looked beyond relieved, saying “Tank Fwuff” before involuntarily bearing down for the largest stream of worms and poo yet, after which he grunted, and announced “gonna hab sweepies now” and again passed out, but this time looking vastly more relaxed.
Earlier-
Sally tried to tell Dave more, but Dave had just grabbed Pistol and ran. Thinking she had failed again and in doing so doomed her children, Sally was about to lose it when Jave poked her saying, “wook mummah, nummies.”
Sally’s head shot up and her eyes locked onto the pile of kibble, and she sprinted over, not even noticing that the fence was gone, her sole purpose at that point was to eat enough to be able to feed her foals, who she was convinced were moments from starving to death. In actuality, they probably hadn’t even entered the realm of actual harm yet, but they sure were hungry. After a minute or so of stuffing her face as fast she could, Sally grunted out “Babbehs! Mummah hab miwkies now, dwink miwkies!”
As she spoke, she shifted her hips enough for the foals to be able to get at her nipples. Red was near the front of the group, gently pushing Jave onto a nipple, while the inseparable blue and green alicorns carried the blue runt forward and pushed him onto the other nipple. This continued for a bit, with Red and the alicorns shepherding the foals toward nipples as the ones ahead of them all initially had just enough milk to stop their stomach pains before switching, while Sally gradually slowed her frantic pace of eating once she was sure she was producing plenty of milk. Once all the foals had had a small meal, the family shifted gears a bit and every foal took their time drinking all the milk their tiny bodies could hold. With all the food she could eat, Sally had little difficulty keeping ahead of the demand, and before long, there were fourteen happy foals falling asleep in a large fluff pile.
Two or three hours later, the foals all woke up more or less at the same time, and with Sally’s help, all used the litterbox, most of them for the first time, and then it was time.
TIME
TO
PLAY
Sally was almost delirious with joy at the sight of her foals running about, bouncing her ball around, trying and failing to lift blocks that were almost half their size, and chasing each other in innumerable different games of chasies and huggie-chasies. Her mesmerization was only broken when Dave placed Pistol down next to her almost two hours later.
“Pistow! Babbehs am tawkies an wawkies!” She said, tackle-hugging the stallion.
“Whoa, easy there Sally, be gentle on Pistol, he just got back from the vet.” Dave told Sally.
“Dat okay Daddeh,” Pistol said, looking and sounding immensely proud, if tired. “Pistow jus suu happy dat babbehs an Sawwy am aww wight.”
“Now.” Dave began, “I owe you two an apology. To be honest Sally, I didn’t initially want you to have foals, and I figured that if I made the experience difficult enough, you’d decide it wasn’t worth it, but then I saw how nothing I did could dissuade you two from being literally the best fluffy parents I’ve ever heard of, much less seen in person and I had a change of heart. Things are changing here, and they’re changing today. I will do all the litterbox cleaning. I will bring you guys all your food, and there will be no more of this this Pistol bringing Sally everything nonsense. I’m going to put the fence back up, but just to keep the foals from wandering away, and both of you now get the special collars to let yourselves in and out of the Saferoom as you wish. Do you both understand?”
Both Sally and Pistol nodded before both declaring that they “Wub Bestest Daddeh!” At which point they insisted on showing Dave each of the foals, describing them as “wingie bwue cowt” and other descriptors that Dave could, on account of having eyes, have generated on his own. Nonetheless, he humored them and acted amazed at each one. The moment was capped when Red apologized to Jave, who forgave and sweetly hugged him.
Hours passed as Dave watched the fluffies joyfully play, talk, eat, play, shit, and play more. It was almost surreal. Long after the sun went down, the foals were hungry again, so the feeding began yet again. Once the last foal had been fed, they all curled up into a family fluffpile. As Dave left the saferoom, he heard the doorbell ring. The sun had set hours ago, and Dave wasn’t expecting any visitors, much less the large man in a trench coat he found beyond his door. “Hello?” Dave asked, having never seen the man before.
“Are you Dave?”
“Yes?”
“Did your fluffy just have thirteen foals and fix a smarty?”
“Yes, but how-”
“I’m here for your fluffies”
“You can’t ha-”
Dave was cut off as the man pulled a pistol and shot him twice in the belly.
