December, [YEAR REDACTED]. Skettie-Land construction site, Cleveland, Ohio…
An electrician watches a fluffy stallion try in vain to hug the fire out from a foal, though its effors are, unsurprisingly, in vain as the the fire spreads to the older fluffy’s flammable fluff. As the cries of at least a dozen fluffies being electrocuted and burned to death can be heard, the doomed creature just sits and stares at the human.
“Dis am onwy da beginin’. Da end wiww come fow us aww. It wiww end da onwy way it can. Fwuffies wiww dwown in da fiehs, an earfs, an wa-waws. Aww faww down. Aww wiww pewish.”
The electrician watches the prophetic fluffy finally sucumb to its wounds, and smiles…
“Fret not, my scortched friend,” the electrician says starring at the fluffy corpse through oranged-lensed goggles, “I assure you, your prophecy will come to fruition, and PETA will pay for what they did to our work.”
In the years to come, this man would become known as Hasbio, but for now, he is still masquerading as a technician to maintain access to Skettie-Land.
“Murdoch should be more thourough in checking the backgrounds of his employees,” the disguised geneticist says, “if he knows what’s good for him… But alas, it’s already too late.”
The “electrician” pulls out his phone, making sure nobody is within earshot.
“Hello… yes, it’s me… I’m currently at the construction site, by the power station… Nothing notworthy except for a feral herd being electrocuted to death… One of them was all prophetical while burning to death… Heh, yeah… Anyways you got the design schematics and access codes to the Fuzzy Pony microchips yet? I know that they will inevitably fail, too lifeless and robotic for people’s comfort… Like we’ll even let the fuzzies get a chance on the market in the first place… I’ll talk to you later, just follow the plan…”
The “electrician” hangs up his phone as he can hear his coworker calling out to him.
“Yo! Donnie! What’s the hold up? Help us get this shit wired. I’m freezing!”
Why did I choose “Donnie” as a name for my false identity. It sounds stupid, a young Hasbio thinks to himself while he joins his coworker.
Present day. Hasbio’s Manor, New Cleveland, Ohio…
Jocelyn stares at the robed man sitting in a chair accross from her. She could had sworn that there was nobody in the room but her and Jekyll/Hyde.
“Jocelyn Tatter, I presume? It has been such a long time since Hasbro has last appointed a new board member. A new face in corporate leadership is always a pleasent site.”
Hasbio’s appearance is just as bizarre as that of his servant. His entire body is completely concealed, not a square inch of his flesh is visible. Jocelyn could almost mistake him for a Tusken Raider if not for, well, everything but the totel body concealment.
“Um… Yes… Uh… Mr. Hasbio… You wanted to meet with me, right?”
Jocelyn could almost sense Hasbio smiling underneath the cloth covering his face.
“I did, yes… Now, publicly Hasbio’s as good as dead. Like PETA, Cleveland proved to be the final nail in the coffin for Hasbio… but in reality, Hasbio lives on, in me…”
Jocelyn had heard about Cleveland, the apparent destruction of an entire city by fluffies. Well, more accurately, Richard Murdoch, a high-ranking member of PETA, was to blame. Jocelyn, like a vast majority of the country didn’t like PETA but nothing could be done since they were just an animal rights group, despite the countless violent acts they committed. That changed when a Russian merchant, Smirnoff, turned himself in and confessed everything he knew about the Cleveland incident. The public was sent reeling with the revealation that Skettie-Land was, in fact, part of a terrorist plot designed to wipe out as many fluffies and their owners as possible. The blame was supposed to be placed on the accident-prone fluffies so they could be made illegal to have as pets (knowing PETA, they would then try to get all other pets made illegal). Biotoys, a shell business owned by PETA, would then swoop in to save the day with their Fuzzy Ponies. As if the terrorist plot wasn’t enough, Fuzzy Ponies were actually designed to attack and kill both fluffies and humans, as the military can testify. Despite his confession of murdering Murdoch, he was pardoned by President Vermin Supreme, and Smirnoff had become an international hero ever since. With PETA effectively being eco-terrorists, President Vermin Supreme had no choice but, or the perfect excuse, to declare war on PETA with several countries following America’s lead. The top leaders and members of PETA were sentenced to Guantanamo Bay.
“Rest assured, dear Jocelyn, that I mean you no harm. I just wanted you to know that Hasbio’s interest are the primary concern of Hasbro… and that I should not be opposed.”
Despite Hasbio’s claims, Jocelyn could sense the underlying malice in his tone. Maybe Frank was more reliable than she ever gave him credit for.
“I-if you that is all you wanted to tell me, I can take my leave now…”
As Jocelyn turns to leave, she feels a bandaged hand grab her by the shoulder.
“To think I would have you travel all the way here just for a simple message, how rude of me! The least I can do is give you a tour of my abode. Jekyll, would you be so kind as to assist Miss Jocelyn with a tour of our residency?”
“Of couwse, Mastah. Pwease fowwow me down zhe hall, nice wady.”
The manor was, something. The portraits of Hasbio and a younger Jekyll/Hyde didn’t help with Jocelyn’s nervousness, especially the fact that Hasbio wore creepy animal masks over his face in the pictures.
“Hewe awe some of zhe bafwooms. Each toiwet is costumed made to wesembwe PETA’s gwavestone.”
“Feew fwee to go aww out wid dem,” Jekyll’s eyes gain the yellow rings signaling Hyde’s in control, “Boss does not mind. He en-co-wa-ges it, actuawwy.”
“Moving on,” Jekyll says as he regains control. “Zhrough zhis doow-way lays Mastah’s pwojects.”
The two enter a much less furnished section of the mansion.
“Hewe on zhe work-bench, we have fwuffies wike See-bed zhat Mastah is ek-spe-we-men-tin’ on. Pwease be quiet, she’s sweepin’,” Jekyll says as Jocelyn looks at an extremely bloated dam laying on a table with blood trickling from her mouth.
“Uh… I dink she’s fowebah-sweepin’, dummeh…”
“Oh… she must habe a ponty-head babbeh zhat punk-jured an owgan. Fwom zhis point on, meanie Hide wiww be youw guide.”
With Hyde taking the reigns, they head to a tank filled to the brim with Jellenheimers.
“Dis-po-saw is awways impowtant, as Boss says. Now, Boss doesn’t bewieve in buwny boxies, so we use Jeww-in-hi-mews instead. It is actuawwy mowe en-vi-wa-men-ta-bwy fwiendwy since it doesn’t e-mit gween-housie gassies.”
They then move on to what appears to be a dungeon full of sweaty humans with the body type of Jabba the Hutt locked in cages.
"Dis am wewe Boss keep aww his Bwonies. He says it da wast time he out-souwce his man-power fwom MLP con-ven-shuns.
One of the imprisoned Bronies tips his fedora to Jocelyn, “M’lady…”
They eventually reach the entranceway were Hasbio is waiting for Jocelyn with a giftbox clutched in his hand.
“See-bed gone fowebah sweepies, Boss.”
“Very well, I’ll deal with that later, Hyde,” Hasbio turns to face Jocelyn, “A farewell gift, for you, Miss Jocelyn…”
Hasbio hands the giftbox to Jocelyn as she slowly opens it to reveal a jet-black unicorn colt sleeping on a bed of wood shavings.
“Do you like him? A genetically near-perfect replica of Graphite, your first fluffy, I presume.”
Jocelyn stares at the sleeping colt in shock. How does he know about Graphite, she thinks, I was only in highschool when I got him.
Jocelyn forces an uneasy smile, “Th-that’s very… thoughful of you. Thank y-you?”
“The pleasure’s mine, just don’t tell any of the New Clevelanders about your… acquisition. They have strong opinions on fluffies shall we say.”
Jocelyn rushes out of the manor to her car. She does her best to not vomit while the car heads back to the office.
“So… what do yu dink of her?” Hyde asks his “father”.
“She may try to conceal it, but I know her type. Once they find a rabbit hole, they must see to its end. The colt was just to ensure her return. I see… potential in her…”
To be Continued…