The Fluffpile
By Skrelptastic
Your alarm goes off at 4 AM. You yawn and stretch, gas you groggily hoist yourself out of bed and head to the kitchen for a quick breakfast. It’s still dark out, the scent of wet grass wafting through the window…and then the other smell hits you. You curl your lip and put on your gas mask that you keep by the door. You should really remember to shut that window before bed.
You wash your dishes and put on your rubber apron as you warm up a big vat of arabiata sauce. You dip your finger in and taste the bright red sauce.
“Fuck!” you cough. The stinging heat from the sauce instantly brings tears to your eyes as beads of sweat erupt from your pores. You grab some milk and chug down a few mouthfuls until the heat is tolerable. Panting, you wipe the milk from your mouth and set down the jug. You eye the pot warily. This sauce is a sin, and feeding it to anyone would probably be counted as assault.
“Needs more heat,” you mutter, grabbing a few more ghost peppers and tossing them into the bubbling sauce.
Satisfied, you let Satan’s diarrhea cool to room temperature and grab the pot. You crack your neck, make sure your gas mask is securely sealed, and step outside to your project.
Your backyard isn’t like most backyards, seeing as you own all the land within 5 miles of your house. Past the 3-foot fence around your project are rolling hills as far as the eye can see. But even in the darkness of the early morning, your project commands attention.
Just in front of you is a massive fluffpile. Fluffy ponies of all colors and breeds are huddled tightly together, their fluffy rustling faintly in the morning breeze. But none of the fluffies move as you approach with the pot. Any bystander would be confused as to why the pastel-colored horsetards aren’t bumrushing you with cries of “wan sketties”, “fwuffy wuv yu”, or even “dis smawty wand”.
All it would take was a few steps forward to see that all the fluffies are stone cold dead. Their lifeless eyes are frozen wide open, their chubby little faces contorted in agony and confusion. Most, as you can imagine, are splattered with shit. You whistle a lively tune as you approach the pile of still corpses with your pot of sauce. You set the pot down on the wet grass and hear a faint rustle from the behind the waist-high pile of death. As you peer around the mound, you spy a bloated purple mare slowly crawling through the grass about meter from the pile. The mare’s right foreleg is gone, leaving only a ragged, bloody stump. You quietly approach the mare as she slowly drags herself away.
“M-m-Mummah…mummah mus…kaff…mus wun…n-nee s-s-save…s-spesh…kaff” she cries to herself as she crawls desperately. A spray of shit erupts from her anus as she sobs in pain and fear. “W-w-weggie p-pwease…”
You nod to yourself, mildly impressed that she made it so far. You stride over to the mare and yank sharply on her mane.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
The mare shrieks in pain. “OWWIES! H-HUWTIESSSSSS!” She opens her eyes tearfully and sees your mask as you hold her above the ground by the mane. “M-MUNSTAH! HEWP FWUFFY MISTAH MUNSTAH!!!” she screams.
“Poor thing! What happened here?” you ask dryly.
The mare sniffs. “Mummah w-wawk wif b-babbehs an speshow f-fwen. D-den mummah smeww sk…sketties! So mummah w-wun tu fin sketties! Bu mummah nu fin sketties…jus uddah fwuffies!” she sobs. “Mummah wuv fwuffies an…an mummah wuv huggies s-so mummah wun tu give h-huggies bu meanie fwuffies nu huggies back!”
The bleeding mare shudders. “Mummah t-twy tu giv meanie fwuffies sowwy poopies bu…bu mummah nu move! Meanie fwuffys nu wet mummah go! An mummah nu fin babbehs! Mummah twy to wun bu weggies…huuu huuu weggies nu wowk! Bu mummah nee fin babbehs so m-mummah twy an twy an…an den weggie…” she chokes on the sentence as her eyes fill with tears.
“You poor thing! And you don’t know where your foals are?” you exclaim sarcastically.
The mare trembles, weak from her blood loss. “M-mummah…mummah n-nu no…w-wost b-b-babbehs…kaff”
“Oh no!” you exclaim in mock surprise. You slowly walk back toward the pile of dead fluffies. “Luckily I know just where to find them.”
The mare wiggles weakly in your arms. “Tank yu nyu daddeh! Den giv sketties to mummah an babbehs an speshow fwend?”
You grab the bottle of Industrial-Strength Spoosh Glue from your pocket as you reach the pile of dead fluffies. You apply a copious amount of glue to the side of a rotting blue fluffy on the outside of the mound while the mare sings weakly about “babbehs an nummies”. You hold her up.
“Before I do, you said you had a ‘special friend’. I’ll bring him to you if you tell me where you lost him.”
The mare thinks hard, visibly straining herself with the immense effort. “S-speshow fwend…ova dewe,” she says, pointing her good hoof to a nearby hill.
You smile. “Thanks fluffy!”
The fluffy smiles back. “Wuv yu nyu daddeh! Nao giv babbehs!”
You squeeze your grip on the mare, your gloved fingers digging deep into her soft fat flesh. The mare’s eyes bulge as she screams in pain, her pathetically stubby legs flailing wildly in the air. You turn and press the mare’s body against the rotting blue fluffy, pinning her down while she struggles uselessly. You count out 10 seconds and release your grip on the wailing fluffy. The mare sticks fast to the decomposing corpse thanks to the glue.
“NUUUU! H-HEWP FWUFFY! NU WIKE ICKY SWEEPIE FWUFFIES!!!” the mare shrieks, desperately thrashing against the corpse in an attempt to escape. Her movements only bring her increased pain, as her skin and fluff begin to rip from her body. Finally the pain is too much for the fluffy to bear and she goes limp against the rotten pile, sobbing quietly into her fluff.
You chuckle, satisfied with your work, and begin to make your way over to where the mare pointed out her mate.
10 minutes later your pile has gained one more fluffy, a fat black pegasus that you found where the mare said you would. You lured him over with the promise of his family and spaghetti, and you made sure to stick him juuuuust out of reach of the mare, who had expired at some point while you were gone.
“S-s-speshow fwen! HUU HUU PWEASE SPESHOW FWEN! Fwuffy nee huggies!” the stallion sobs, his eyes filled with tears. “SPESHOW FWEND PWEASE WAKIES! AM YO SPESHOW FWEND! FWUFFY SO WUV YU!!!”
The mare hangs cold and lifeless, just another piece of rotting pile.
The stallion finally gives up, his HUU HUU cries shrinking to a low sob as he reaches for his dead mate. You roughly grab his extended hoof yank sharply. His hoof meets the mare’s’ but there’s a large crack as his leg is violently dislocated.
You leave the shrieking fluffy and fill the nearby trough with your Satan’s diarrhea sauce. You crack open your mask a bit and the smell of fresh hellfire wafts through the opening, masking the smell of the decomposing fluffpile.
Finally, you grab the bottle of glue and coat the outer layer of dead fluffies with as much as you can, pausing only to shatter the sobbing black fluffy’s jaw with a swift kick. As you finish up your work, the sun begins to rise over the hills. The wild fluffies should be up any minute.
You head back to the porch, recline with a book, and wait.
It’s not long before you hear the shrill little voices of fluffies nearing the yard. You set down the book and remain still so the approaching fluffy won’t see you. A family of fluffies eagerly enters the yard, two parents and two foals, all unicorns.
“Huuuu, sketty smeww giv big tummy huwties,” you hear the stallion whine sadly.
“Nu wowwy, speshow fwend. Bestest Mummah fin sketties!” the mare exclaims, noticing the trough.
The fluffy family cheers happily, sprinting to the trough as fast as their stubby little legs can go. You snort. An autistic quadriplegic on ice skates would make it across the grass faster than them. The family finally reaches the trough, joyfully jamming their chubby faces into the sauce.
Wait for it…
“WAAAAAAAAAHHHHH! BUWNIE HUWTIEEEEES!”
The fluffies simultaneously shriek in agony as the spicy sauce seeps into their fluff. You grab your camera and start to record the fluffies blindly running around your yard.
“HEWP FWUFFY! HUU HUU HNNNNNNNG!” the mare shrieks, unleashing a torrent of liquid shit. One of the crying foals is instantly buried, trapped to suffocate in his mother’s shit as the sauce destroys his tender eyes and sears his skin.
You sit up, knowing what comes next. The wailing mare finally pauses for a moment.
“S-SPESHOW FWEEEEEND! G-GIV HUGGIES TU MUMMAH AN MAKE OWWIES GO 'WAY!”
The sobbing stallion gallops over to the mare, embracing her while the remaining foal collapses from sheer pain.
“SKREEEE! WHY HUGGIES NU WOWK!”
The fluffies tear away, spotting the rotting pile. In their agony they fail to notice that the fluffies are all dead.
“F-FWUFFY FWENDS! NEE WOTS OF HUGGIES!” the stallion sobs as the pair of fluffies dash toward the pile, charging in with hooves outstretched. The glue sticks fast to the fluffies, trapping them against the rotting corpses.
“W-WHA? NUUUUUUUU HUU HUU NU WIKE ICKY SWEEPIE FWUFFIES! HAV BIGGEST OWWIES! HEWWWWWWWP!”
The fluffies struggle and scream for 10 minutes before their vocal cords give out and they collapse from exhaustion. All the while, the sauce continues to scorch their soft chunky bodies. The unfortunate mare is blinded when the sauce drips down into her eyes, coughing up blood from her shredded throat when she tries to scream.
Another ten minutes pass and the fluffies are near death. They occasionally whimper in pain or whisper for “huggies” but the rest of the time they lie still, weeping silently.
Soon the fluffies join the rest of their kind in death, adding to the ever growing pile of rotten flesh, dried hooves, and mangy fluff. Drawn by the scent of heaven, more and more fluffies will join the pile of living hell every day.
You’re gonna win the Abuselympics for sure this year.