Sam does Drugs
By: Turboencabulator
NB: Inspired by Le Saturna’s art and the subsequent discord conversation.
The summer sun was just peeking up over the horizon as Will strolled down to the fluffy shed,
freshly pressed and neatly groomed for once. Hickory bounced along behind him, the little fluff
stopping now and then to have a little bound around, or stop and smell a flower, or to watch a
bird. A gentle breeze was blowing, the clouds in the distance a storming black. The wind
smelled of rain, and the world felt as if it was an in-between place, the liminal moment
before a storm.
Sam was, for his part, enjoying the morning in an altogether different way. He was passed out
in the middle of the lawn, Lightning sitting nearby, munching on a bag of beef jerky.
“Hewwo Wiww.” Lightning said, blinking with a tired sigh.
“What’s he doin out here?” Will asked, nudging Sam with his foot.
With a dull snork sound, Sam woke up, blinking.
“Damn how much did you drink, dude?”
“F’huck off.”
Ten minutes later, Sam was sitting, slumped over a coffee at the kitchen table. Will was busy
at the stove, vaguely worried.
“Sam you’re going to need to cut down on the alcohol, it’s doing some fuckery to your health.”
Will said, tending to a mountain-man breakfast being assembled in a dutch oven.
Sam grunted, staring at his coffee. Lightning watched from his raised chair, thoughtfully
munching on jerky. “Wiww wite, Daddeh.”
“I know.” Sam sighed, leaning back and rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palms. “But booze
is where the ideas are.”
Hickory turned from his oats and veg and looked at Will. After a minute, Will glanced back,
then went back to the cooking, brows furrowed in thought. “I might have a way around that,
Sam. How much do you weigh?”
“Uh, about 180. Why?”
“Eat first. Then I’ll need to do some math.”
Will wandered in to Sam’s office after breakfast, looking at the myriad of empty
bottles. “Jesus Christ dude how much have you been drinking?”
“Look I’ve had some stress lately.” Sam said, with a groan, downing a few pills with a beer
chaser.
There was a moment of silence, and Will gestured for Sam to continue.
“Look, man, I’ve had a bit of a stiff few weeks. I spent a lot on getting my lab set up and now
I need to do something to get an income with it otherwise I’m probably going to get
investigated.” Sam said, shrugging a bit, looking around. “It’s been giving me some stress.”
After a bit more time, Will sighed and sat down, clearing a space and setting down a small
tacklebox. “Right, run that by me again?”
Sam sat opposite, with a wince. “Well, I bought a ton of equipment, and the cashflow isn’t
exactly subtle. I have some items that are kind of uh, well they would raise an eyebrow or
two. So I need to have a reason to possess them and ‘doing research’ rarely counts as enough to
be left alone. So I need to start producing something.”
“Hence why you’re desperate for an idea.” Will said, nodding, and leaning back, deep in
thought.
A minute passed. Will, with a sigh, opened the toolbox, and began perusing a small grey
notebook, jotting down notes on a small pad. “You said 180 right?”
Sam nodded, and Will continued, before leaning back and watching Sam, thinking.
Sam watched back, glancing around a bit, confused.
“Look man, I don’t often get out the serious drugs, but if you really, really need a
breakthrough this is how you do it.” Will said, leaning forward again and filling a syringe
with a cocktail of drugs, one ampoule at a time. “Took me years to collect these but if you’re
in the shit then it’s your best bet.”
Eyeballing the needle, Sam winced a bit. “Dude I don’t know, I’ve done some shit but hard IV
drugs?”
“I’ve done these before, you relax.” Will said, tossing Sam a length of rubber strap.
After Sam wrapped it around his bicep, Will slipped the needle into a vein in Sam’s elbow,
slowly depressing the syringe plunger, then pulled the band off.
Sam sighed, and then looked around. “Ok, so, now what?”
“Now.” Will said, putting his kit away and carefully storing the used needle. “Now I’m your
damn shadow to make sure you don’t go and hurt yourself. You have about thirty minutes before
the ride starts.”
Sam sat on the couch, staring at the wallpaper, mouth hanging open. His pupils were dilated,
unevenly, and a twitch had developed in his jaw. Lightning was sitting nearby, watching him
with a degree of concern.
Will walked over and sat next to Sam, leaning into his field of view slowly. “Dude?”
Sam turned and looked at him, blinking a few times. “Hi. Hi. What? Hi.”
Lightning and Will looked at each other.
“Daddy siwwy?” Lightning asked, and Sam turned to look at him.
“Oh my god you’re so fuzzy.” Sam said, running his fingers slowly through Lightning’s
fluff. The fluffy giggled and pranced closer a bit, and Sam picked him up, staring at where his
fingers were flowing through the fuzz. “It’s moving, dude. It’s moving.”
“Sam, do you feel like doing anything?” Will asked, gently laying a hand on Sam’s shoulder.
“I’m doing this.”
“I mean like watch a movie, play some games… what do you want to do next?”
Sam froze, thinking, then sat bolt upright. “Museum!” He shouted.
Will leaned back a it. “Uh, I’m right here Sam. What do mean museum?”
Without speaking, Sam got up and began rummaging through the closet. Will got up and followed
him. “Sam, talk to me. What do you mean, museum?”
Sam turned to face Will, pulling on a heavy winter coat, a manic grin plastered over his
face. “Come on, we’re going to the museum.”
Will sighed and got the jacket off Sam, lightly smacking his hands down. “Alright, which one?
I’ll drive.”
Two hours later, Sam and Will wandered in to the Indianapolis Museum of Art, Sam grinning like
a maniac, and Will deeply regretting his decisions.
Four hours further
Will watched as Sam stared at a painting, a confusing collage of newspapers, portraits,
landscape cutouts and cardboard shapes. He had a headache, and the constant sidelong looks from
the docents did not help the stress and paranoia he felt being out among other people. Sam had
blown him off the first hour or so, ignoring Will’s curiosity in an obstinate way.
“It’s here, somewhere.” Sam said, the first thing since leaving the house.
Will turned, looking around, making sure nobody else was near. “What is?”
“The key, the key, the key to what I see.” Sam said, then giggled. “The key to my i-dee.”
After a minute more, Sam turned and wandered into another room, Will hurrying after him,
stopping short as Sam stared at a painting on the far wall. He purposefully strode to it, and
stopped a respectful distance away, straightening up. He stood with his hands clasped behind
his back, no longer appearing stoned, but deeply studious and contemplative.
Will caught up to him and looked at the painting, a simple collection of lines and squares in
primary colors. “Dude? You ok?”
“This is what I needed to see.” Sam said, then turned around, heading out again. “Come on,
let’s get back to the house.”
After a moment of processing, Will jumped, realizing what Sam said, and jogged after him.
The rain was pouring down in torrents. Fluffies huddled in their little dens together in pairs,
occasionally flinching at a peal of thunder, watching the skylights for flashes in the moments
when the storm woke them up.
Will walked between the rows, calming the awake fluffies, checking the sleeping ones during
their naptime. He glanced up as a particularly bright flash fired off, followed by a booming
crash of thunder. There was much high-pitched screaming and evacuating of bowels.
With a sigh, Will took out a baggie of slightly sedative treats, and began distributing
them. He worked methodically, smiling as the fluffies thanked him from their hiding spots in
their beds, until he came to the last one. The fluffy he had come for.
She was a pure, flat white, plump and healthy, but of a twitchy disposition. The streets had
rendered her a dirt brown when she was picked up behind an abandoned apartment block, finally
plucking up the courage to approach Will and ask for food. He had of course, obliged, and took
no small delight in watching the other fluffies hiding in the shadows grow indignant and
confused when he took her home, and left them behind in the cold of winter.
Now, months later, she had recovered her weight and was eyeing one of the pegasus stallions,
shuffling nervously when he looked her way, and staring wistfully when he wasn’t.
Will came upon her after the last shock of lightning and thunder caused her to empty her
reserves, thankfully into the litterbox. Mostly.
He crouched down with her. “Hey there,” he said, watching as she twitched when a distant rumble
rolled by. “Good thing you’re in here, isn’t it.”
The mare nodded, looking up at the skylights. “Sky-munstas weawwy angy. What dey angy bout?”
She asked.
“Oh there’s no monsters up there.” Will said, “Just loud clouds.”
Another flash, and shock of thunder. She squealed and shoved herself back into the corner of
her bed. The neighboring mare plopped asleep from the drugged treat. After a moment, Will
checked around, seeing every other fluff had nodded off.
He stood and retrieved a carrier, setting it down in the pen. “Alright, come on. If you can’t
sleep here, I know someplace that’s a bit more quiet.”
She looked into the carrier, whining absentmindedly and shifting from forehoof to forehoof. The
carriers were nicer than normal, but still felt like a sorry-box. A peal of thunder shocked her
into nearly leaping into the carrier, which Will closed gently.
After covering the carrier with a towel, Will hurried from the fluffy barn to Sam’s workshops,
leaning against the wind and rain. After taking a minute in the hallway to hang up the towel
and his jacket, he carried the fluffy, squeaking with each step, through to a room near the
back.
Sam was there, setting up for a surgery. Will set the carrier down in a well set into the
table, opening the gate. The mare quickly backed out and whinnied at the feel of cold steel
underhoof.
Putting the carrier aside, Will took a stool near where Lightning watched.
“Whewe Hickowy?” Lightning asked, perched on the counter.
“He doesn’t need to see this sort of thing.” Will said. “He’s enjoying some Brubeck up at the
house.”
“Dat fwuffy?” The mare asked, managing to barely get up on her hindlegs, nose barely poking
over the edge of the basin. “Nyu fwiend?”
“He’s here to give you babies.” Sam said, absentmindedly. He glanced up at Lightning and shook
his head, winking. Lightning nodded, confused.
After a moment, the mare let out a little scream and sat down heavily, flailing and rolling on
her back. “NU! NU BABBIES! NU WAN!” She shouted, kicking and finally managing to get upright,
only to back into a corner, tail tucked underneath.
“Damn.” Sam muttered, glancing over at her. “You’ve been raped, haven’t you?”
She looked around, twitching and muttering to herself. Sam walked over to the basin and snapped
his fingers, making her jump and stare at him.
“You won’t be made to have babies. Back on the outside, the stallions raped you, didn’t they?”
Sam asked, looking down at her, vaguely amused.
“W-wut waped?” The mare asked, whimpering.
A pause, then Sam blinked and nodded. “Right, forgot that. The stallions made you let them give
you bad special huggies, didn’t they.”
After a moment of silence, she looked down, staring at the wall of the basin. “Yus.” She said,
then shuddered, making a sick-sounding little burp. “Su much bad speciaw huggies. Nu wan. Nu
wan babbies agin.”
“You’ve had babies before?” Sam asked, leaning on the counter by the basin, carefully fitting
scalpel blades into their holders.
“Yus. Hewd smawty gib wowstest sowwy-hoofies an den nummie-pwace enfies, an den he wet tuffie gib bad speciaw huggies. Nu wan babbies.” She said, more determined.
“What happened to them?”
“Hewd had to weave an find new housies in awweys. Dewe not-wockie-stuff dat wet fwuffy go up
staiws. Su high. Den jump.”
“You went up, like a wheelchair ramp? A slope next to stairs?”
She nodded.
Sam stood upright, sighing. “And you jumped, and the babies came out too early, didn’t they.”
She nodded, cheeks starting to puff. “One was chiwpin. Got stompied. Bad babbies. Nu wan.”
“Right, self-aborting. That’s pretty severe.” Sam muttered, then glanced over at Will. “She
empty?”
Will nodded, grinning. “That last big one and she lost two pounds.”
In one smooth, almost languid movement, Sam slipped his hand under the mare, lifting her over
in an arc, and planting her on her back on the table with a meaty thump. She pawed at the air,
the wind knocked out of her, struggling to breathe. A quick set of straps later and she was
immobilized in place. Sam picked up the scalpel nearest her head, letting her see the blade.
The mare froze, and then bared down with a groan, but only a weak trickle of feces came out.
Sam chuckled and gave one of her teats a slap. “Good try, but no ammo.” He said, setting the
blade back down again. “Getting ahead of myself here.”
The electric clippers turned on, and Sam held the mare from writhing in the straps as he shaved
her abdomen.
“Nu, weave miwkie pwaces awone.” She said, shaking, trying to crane her neck far enough to look
down.
“Why?” Sam said, grinning. “You don’t want babies. Why do you need milkie-places?”
She froze, then flinched as Sam swabbed her with iodine, staining her fur a dark brown near the
edges.
“Dat cowd. Pwease stop? Nice mistew?” She ventured, whimpering, squirming.
“Oh don’t worry, no more of that stuff.” Sam said, grinning. “It’s too bad you don’t want
babies. I want babies. Specifically, I want your babies.”
The mare squinted, trying to process the statement.
With a sigh, Sam continued. “I want the babies you would make.”
“Oh.”
A beat passed, then she started struggling again. “NU! NU WAN BABBIES!”
Sam slapped her, making her scree and freeze. “I told you. I’m not making you have babies.”
She huued, sniffling, eyes watering. “Meanie mistew. Nu hit gud fwuffy.”
“Oh, I’m mean even though I’m not making you have babies you don’t want.” Sam snidely muttered,
spinning the surgical knife in his fingers.
“Nu make hab babbies?” She asked, blinking the tears away.
“That’s right.” Sam said, then plunged the knife in her abdomen, cutting in a quick, precise
motion, opening her from sternum to navel. “So, I’m just going to take your baby making parts.”
She screeched, making an ungodly sound, urinating over herself and struggling, but weak, the
shock already beginning. Sam carefully but quickly sliced and cut, eventually pulling out the
mare’s ovaries, setting them in a sterile cooler.
Sam set the cooler to one side and picked up Lightning, setting him on the surgical table.
The sleek fluff smiled, his white, sharp teeth glinting a little in the direct, harsh lights of
the surgery. He paced around, to where he was in the vision of the restrained mare. Then he
began walking towards her, a perky little bounce in his step, almost prancing.
The mare began to weakly struggle again, squealing panicked babble, until Lightning leaped and
landed, planting his forehooves on either side of her head and sinking his teeth into her
cheek.
The squeals turned to shrieks as Lightning slowly pulled, twisting his head from side to side
to rip more flesh off, until the skin pulled loose and came off half her face. Lightning
eagerly dug into the muscle and tissue exposed, making the shrieking escalate and grow more
harsh and agonized. After taking an eye and enough musculature the mare couldn’t close her jaw
cleanly, Lightning bounced around and dug in to the mare’s entrails, eating her teats from the
inside surface, and entertaining himself with prodding the helpless fluffy’s diaphragm.
After she began to flag, eyes rolling up, Lightning prodded her vagina with one hoof. She
bolted alert again, a gutteral half-speech gurgling from her. Mid-statement, Lightning tore out
her diaphragm and watched, chewing thoughtfully, as she tried to draw breath, struggling more
and more until she finally expired.
Lightning looked up at a grinning Sam, a goofy grin on his face. “Daddeh, can Witenin hab baff?
Dis one wus messy.”
One bath later, Lightning was napping on a bed while Sam carefully opened one ovary, working in
a coldbox. Eggs were separated out into individual vials, and stored. Will watched nearby,
smoking a joint. “So you needed eggs.”
“Not just eggs.” Sam said, “These eggs. A flat white. There’s no color data encoded in them.”
“Data?” Will asked, confused.
“Fluffies are built for any ludicrous shade.” Sam said, squinting through a microscope. “They
encode their fur color as a series of proteins expressed in the X chromosome, one for darkness,
three for different pigments that control the shade. Patterned fluffies have an additional
component that functions as a ‘second color’ code, and a genetic rule for when it’s
expressed. Sometimes it’s random, which is where ‘shiny’ fluffies come from. Other times it
makes blobs or streaks.”
“Right, there was a fluffy that sold for something ludicrous because it had racing stripes.”
Will said, puffing out a smoke square.
“Five hundred thousand, after bidding.” Sam said. “So, what if you had more rules?”
“Then you could get more colorful fluffies?” Will said, unsure.
Sam looked over at Will, grinning, manic. “I mean a lot more.”
Two months later, Hanson’s Auction, Toronto
The auction platform was an austere, crisp stage, the auctioneer engaged in a droning piece of
marketing about a fluffy up on auction, Princess. A rare Celestia, she was obviously slightly
drugged to prevent behavioral issues from being obvious. The audience, none of which were the
least bit concerned, quickly pushed the price up to two hundred and ten grand.
In the balcony, Will sat with Sam after a trip outside. He was distinctly uncomfortable in a
freshly tailored business suit. “Look man why are we here? This place is like a temple to
mindless consumption.”
With a soft smirk, Sam subtly indicated the crowd below. “Most of these people think they’re
cultured. Granted some of them might be, but the key is that most of them think they are. I’ve
put my little project up for auction here, specifically because of this.”
Will groaned. “Christ, how good can one fluffy be? And why wouldn’t you let me see it?”
Sam chuckled. “You’d want to keep it.”
Will opened his mouth to protest, but Sam waved him to silence. The auctioneer was reading from
a slip handed to him from off-stage.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, Hanson’s would like to offer a small apology as the following item was
somehow missed in tonight’s programme. Quite strangely, I have been asked to turn the
microphone over for the piece’s explanation to… the fluffy itself.”
A carrier was placed on a table next to the podium, and a microphone on a stand was placed
down. The audience muttered to each other, and as the door opened, all fell silent.
A sleek alicorn stallion trotted out onto the table, his fur adorned with perfect squares in
primary colors, thick black lines, and perfect white voids.
“Hewwo, Wadies an Gentewman. My name is Piet, named aftew de Dutch paintew Piet
Mondwain. Mondwain’s awt was one of de pioneewing infwuenses in twentief centuwy abstwact awt, famouswy pwocwaiming “Awt should be above weawity, otherwise, it would hab nu vawyu fow man.” Piet am a custom fwuffy, inspiwed by Mondwain’s wowk, “Twafawgew Sqwawe”.”
After a beat of silence, the auctioneer took the microphone back, fumbling a bit of feedback
out into the stunned silence.
From the back of the room came a quiet voice. “One million.”
Then the shouting began.