On a warm Spring morning walk, you come across a yellow-orange abomination sobbing in a field on the side of the road. You could hear the huu-huu’s a half mile away, and everyone but you seemed to ignore it. It cried:
You stared at the fluffy for moment, and it locked eyes with you. It saw only malice in your eyes, and began to sob harder. Clumsily, it began to run away, tripping on a small root and clouding its eyes with dust. You pick it up by the scruff of its neck, and ask it its name.
“…n-nam…namesies…i-ii-i-is…Giw-giwaffe…”
You respond with nothing, carrying him along the half mile walk home to your basement.
When you arrive, you beeling straight for the basement stairs, Giraffe in tow. It’s eyes were red from crying, tears beginning to stain the fluffy’s cheeks. You clamp four shackles to its wrists and place it on a long wood sheet. You drape the shackles’ iron links over the sides of the wood and interlock them together on the underside, creating a taut and painful link from ankle to lock. You can already see the chafing beginning on the fluffy’s thin legs and underside as it struggles to escape the clamps. It won’t be able to. After a few minutes, the fluffy begins to realize it is stuck, and pleads for help:
You simply look at it, and leave it to its devices. You set up a camera, overlooking his suffering head-on. You might want to watch this later.
You come back the next day, eager to prolong his suffering. You bring a diaper, so his intestines can rot out of his ass. You put it on the fluffy as it screams in agony, the metal scraping its flesh with ease. You leave once more.
The next day, the third day of its suffering, the chafing has only gotten worse. Raw skin begins to show on most of his underside, blood following not far behind. It already shit itself through the diaper, to no surprise.
After a few days of torture, it simply stops talking. It only cries with cheeps and peeps its only form of communication. You decide to try and get it to talk.
First, you rip off the tail with surprisingly little effort. The fluffy only closes its eyes tight, tears flowing out like a tsunami. Its mouth hangs open, limp.
Your eye twitches. This isn’t fun. No fight, no struggle, just patheticness.
You yank the two front shackles with all your might, almost freeing the fluffy’s legs in a bloody cavalcade. Blood spurts on the floor, the table and the wall, meeting already drying blood from the tail.
It still doesn’t scream, its vocal chords clearly strained to the maximum from screaming. You look over the almost-carcass. Its humerii are showing, quickly clotting. You poke holes in the flesh with a toothpick to extend the bloodflow, trying to end this quick with as much pain as possible. If it doesn’t want to pla, it won’t.
You continue the onslaught by fully tearing off the legs fully. Still, no reaction, nothing you want. You grab the yellow-orange fluffy by the snout and TEAR.
Snot flows out of the fresh wound. Its eyes shoot open, pink with blood. Tears pour out. The once pure fluffy is a bloody, stumpy, disgusting mess. You’re done here. You’ll find a better victim.
Two weeks later…
Sorry this one is a little short! Made all the images and made a tiny story with it. Still practicing the skills!