Dave stared at his phone, having just exhausted the last of his contacts who knew anything about fluffies. Doctor Mongolia had never heard of such a thing, Doctor Phetamines and Doctor Redacted would have loved to come and examine the entire fluffy family, but they were “Up to our tits in crash-developing a multi-target fluffy-based ‘smart’ bomb for the Overthereistanian Army.” Apparently getting the bomb in the fluffy is easy, but finding a trigger that the fluffy can reliably actuate was starting to seem like a fools errand. Although the call had ended rather abruptly with “OH FUCK THAT ONE’S HEADED TO THE MUNITIO-[static]”
Reaching to the shelf to his side, Dave set his phone on its charger and cued up the video again. There it was, plain as day, Pistol talking into the tiny sorry box, and after an inane story about a feral smarty, Pistol just needed a few sentences to finish breaking the smarty clean out of Red.
Red, the foal Dave had bought from Surley Smarty, who was guaranteed to turn any litter of foals into irredeemable entitled assholes by the time they are weaned, was fixed by less than five minutes of storytelling and conversation. Of course he’d called up Surley Smarty themselves to complain, but they had simply refused to believe that it was possible, and told him that he must have switched foals for the cctv video he had sent them, as Surley Smarty brand foals were the most reliably infallible assholes on the market. However, Dave’s continued insistence and his AMEX Black card had convinced them to send out an expert to take stock of the situation.
Turning off the video, Dave uncorked a vintage bottle of vodka and made himself a drink, figuring that there wasn’t much more he could do that day, so he might as well have a drink and watch back episodes of The Price is Fluffies.
By mid afternoon of the day that Red attacked Jave (the foals were six days old on that day, if we count it as they were born on day zero) Pistol felt off. He had stopped lactating sometime around noon, even though he was trying to nurse foals, there simply was no milk to be had, and eventually he gave up and told Sally.
“Sawwy, Pistow nu hab miwkies nu mowe, su sowwy speshul fwend, nu can hewp gib miwkies tu babbehs.” While he missed the strong feeling of parental bonding associated with nursing, he was far more upset that Sally had to feed so very many foals alone, and he felt like he had somehow failed her.
“Oh… Sawwy undastan.” Sally told him, not quite realizing what she was now in for.
Pistol suddenly felt a wave of exhaustion wash over him, and fell onto his rump. “Pistow hab sudden sweepy fee-” He managed to say before he collapsed completely, falling into a deep sleep.
“-we have left for today, remember to help control the pet population, have your pets spayed or neutered, and torture your fluffies slowly to death. Goodbye everybody!” The blood soaked host reminded the viewers as the camera zoomed out to show dozens of dead and wan-die-ing fluffies, fading to black as the host and his assistant poured buckets of screaming foals into a wood chipper.
Dave was in one heck of a drunk funk. “Friggin-fraggen-fucken-wuken” He muttered as he bumped into the wall on his way back from throwing up in the bathroom nearest his computer room. He barely made it back to his computer, where he opened another bottle of soviet vodka- he had purchased several cases of old soviet stock just after selling his startup, having found that he could really taste the desperation and abject misery of the soviet workers who had made the stuff, and it really improved the experience. Not that he could taste anything right now- but he pored another drink anyway, and tried to put ice in it, missing badly to the point where one of the five ice cubes ended up actually in the glass, the others bouncing to the floor. If he were capable of noticing anything at that point, he would have seen Pistol collapse on the saferoom cctv monitor. As it was, he knocked back his entire drink, immediately threw it up all over his computer screen and keyboard and passed out, his head hitting the desk on the way down.
Sally was initally alarmed by both Pistol collapsing and her inability to rouse him, but that would have to wait, as she now had many foals to nurse. This wasn’t the first time she had nursed them all alone, but it was so much worse not knowing if Pistol was okay. Every time she had tried to wake him, he would mutter something or other, but that was the only way she knew he wasn’t dead. This time she sobbed as she sang to the foals.
“Mummeh wub babbehs, babbehs wub mummeh,
Mummeh gib miwkies, babbehs dwink miwkies,
Babbehs gwow biggies, babbehs gwow stwongies,
Mummeh wub Pistow, babbehs wub Pistow,
Pistow pwease wakies, nu fowevah sweepies.”
By the time the sun set, both Dave and Pistol were still unconscious, but only one of them had shat themselves, with the watery mix ruining Dave’s pants. Sally was frantic by this point, having eaten all the food Pistol had put into her dish, and after an afternoon of feedings, she was famished again.
“Pistow-fwend! Pwease wakies! Sawwy nee nummies! Babbehs nee su many miwkies!” She said, putting all her weight behind her front legs to shake the unconscious stallion. All this accomplished was getting pistol to mutter something about babbehs before letting out a semi-liquid gush of diarrhea… and something else.
“Nuu speshul fwend! Nu make ba’ poopies!” She said before she noticed something in the rancid mound by Pistol’s ass.
“How Pistow make poopie sketties? An why sketti-poopies hab wigglies?”