“Dummeh-Pistow nebah fin Shane hewe!” Shane giggled loudly enough to be heard from across the room. When the timer for the treadmill had suddenly stopped Shane’s torment, he had looked around but Pistol was nowhere to be found. Realizing this might be his only chance to go rape both Sally and Pistol to death, Shane made a run for the stairs. This was less than successful. To start, the electrodes were still in Shane’s penis and balls, and even though he was only running at fluffy speeds, having the probes so violently removed left Shane a sobbing wreck for twenty minutes.
Once he was done crying loudly enough to get a restraining order from the dead, Shane ran for the stairs again, only to fail at the first step; Shane was only slightly taller than the stairs when he was on four legs, and he didn’t have the cleverness to sit on his rump and pull himself up like he had LITERALLY SEEN OTHER FLUFFIES DO ON SEVERAL OCCATIONS, he instead tried to jump the stair, but just ended up jumping up and down about half an inch high for fifteen seconds before he was exhausted and needed to rest.
After resting for a few minutes, Shane explored the basement he was in, although given his intelligence, he just went around the same oak chair in a circle five times before deciding that he had explored the entirety of the basement, and concluded that he should hide under the chair… that Pistol had been sitting in, in the middle of the room.
Eventually Pistol returned, and seeing that Shane seemed quite content hiding in the middle of the room, ass pointed at the only entrance, Pistol killed the light, put away his pistol and left Shane there in the pitch black room for the night.
Around two months prior, Pistol had heard the doorbell, but by the time he checked the peephole, there was nobody there, just a delivery van starting up and leaving. Opening the door, Pistol was greeted with a large cardboard box that was emitting muffled peeping and chirping. Back in the kitchen, he opened the box to reveal forty of the new ‘Surley Smarty’ foal-in-a-cans. A quick examination showed that none of them could be more than two days old, and the can recommended that they stay in the cans for at least five days(seven was better), cans which, up close, could be heard playing messages to the foals. Messages of humans (for some reason exclusively celebrities) and fluffies in a long mix tape assured the already genetically smarty prone foals that, “yu da bestest smawty’(some random fluffy mare), ‘All of the other fluffies are idiots compared to you, so you should be in charge of them all’(Samual L Jackson), ‘remember, as the smarty of your herd, it’s your job to put the poopie babbehs and poopie fluffies in their place; they only num poopies and also give poopie place licky cleanies and enfies to the rest of the herd’(Patrick Stewart) and even 'yu get aww da pwetty mawes ‘cause yu deserbe dem’(Justin Bieber).
Pistol had waited the full week for the messages to really sink in, so pulling them all out of their cans was a bit of a chore as none were still small enough to just slide out, and every single one complained when he gently pushed them out with a warm, damp rag on their rear end. “WOWEST PUSSHIES!” They’d exclaim, but that was all they saw of Pistol for a long time as they were then all placed in 4’x4’ cubicles.
Each ‘smarty enclosure’ as Pistol termed them had one wall that doubled as a tv screen, food and water delivered daily by drone to ports on the cubicle roof, a branded fluffy bed, thin but very effective soundproofing, three small stacking blocks, and a combo enfie/litterbox pal so as to ensure that every one of them would know how to use poopie foals and babbehs. Officially titled FluffSafes, one of Pistol’s side project companies sold them for $1000 for two connected (sharing the tv wall, with one side just seeing reversed tv images) or $700 for just the single FluffSafe. The advertising blurb told of FluffSafes keeping single fluffies alive for months or even years, and more impressively, mostly intact cognitively. Manufacturing Cost was $200 for a single cube, $300 for the double, and thus this company was ludicrously profitable, not that Pistol was dramatically interested in that, but it made it so he felt that he could just take home forty of them without hurting the company too much.
The original purpose of raising forty assholes to adulthood was to allow Pistol to continue his research into curing the worst cases of smarty syndrome, mostly found in adult smarties whose ‘smarty’ tenancies had been strong enough, for long enough that the smarty based their mental identity on the fact that THEY were THE smarty of smarties, leaving simpler methods of treatment like beatings and the like utterly ineffective. They would have remained there for that purpose, slowly being tested on, until Pistol either had satisfied his curiosity, or had grown bored of the whole thing, with both options likely to take years. However, with the advent of Shane’s adoption causing a plague of Shane being Shane by doing Shane things, Pistol had earmarked all forty jerk-nozzles for a new project.
And so it was that early in the next morning, Shane was woken up by the sound of a ‘Surley Smarty’ brand smarty adult being rolled down a flight of stairs, weakly illuminated by the morning light filtering in through the basement’s only window. “FWUFF! ENFIN FWUFFIN FWUFF! BILLIONARES DYING ON A SUBMARINE IS A TRAGEDY EVEN IF THEY PAID A QUARTER OF A MILLION DOLLARS TO DISTURB A MASS GRAVE! MUMMAH FWUFFAH! SMAWTY WAND ON SMAWTY KEYS 'GAIN” (Note that due to a technical issue in the trans-dimensional transponder, this audio may not be accurate, but rest assured that fucking around by disturbing a mass grave and subsequently finding out is not a tragedy, but is instead hilarious)
“Why su woud? Shane wa sweepies!” Shane declared as he struggled to turn around, his task made more difficult by being trapped inside the four chair legs that seemed to be everywhere at once.
“Nu am smawty fawt, dummeh staiwsies nu wisten tu best smawty.” The solid sky blue pegasus mare replied.
Hearing the mare’s voice added extra incentive for Shane to escape from under the chair, so it only took him two minutes before he was able to stand up and face the smarty.
GASP! “Enfie mawe fow Shane!” At that, Shane forgot all about the pain in his hooves and sprinted toward the mare.
As Shane reached the mare, she turned around as he had expected, but then donkey kicked him in the face, sending him to the ground.
“Dewe gon be enfies, bu nu how yu wan” she said as she lifted her tail and backed up slightly.
“Now get wickin’”