The business is breeding fluffies.
With fluffies being the way they are, the business is good.
It is not an easy venture to buy a property, and then redecorate it to match the kind of happy go-lucky mood that a fluffy shelter is supposed to inspire. Especially when fluffy shelters are a dime a dozen. Not every fluffy enterprise survives.
The ones that prove that they have the sticking power have it made, though. It’s a business model that can run itself, essentially. Making babies is a solid third of a fluffy’s possible ambitions, for starters, and there are plenty of young workers in need of a starting income in order to progress on their stepping stones through life. These steady, mostly capped demands make for a safe overhead for investment.
But what if the model could be tweaked even further?
That was the question that the franchise director of Douglas Wattsville’s Fluffy Pasture asked the company board. It was a million dollar question – more figurative than literal at this point in time, but it was only a matter of waiting until a fluffy business broke a healthy million in the bank. The people in suits were determined to ensure that the first fluffy provider to break seven digits would have the Wattsville region on lock. If they did so, it would justify the existence of a board of directors for a glorified pop-up stand for talking gerbil-things.
Fortunately for the founders of these pop-up stands, the bulk of their handlers were an insightful lot that grew up with the derivatives of classic media, such as Pokémon. They were predisposed to the idea of forming close bonds with the talking gerbil-things, and through these bonds, certain ideas were allowed to take root and blossom.
“Welcome aboard the team, Ingrid!” Jesse held out her leather-gloved hand for a handshake.
The new-hire, Ingrid, accepted the gesture uneasily. She thought that Jesse must be on pills, or had a bad caffeine habit. Ingrid was not much of a pessimist, but she was certain that no one past twenty was naturally as enthused about everything as this Jesse character was.
At least the orientation for fluffy handling was not as dull as the pamphlets would have one believe it to be, with Jesse at the lead. The young woman was brisk about the routine procedures of feeding schedules and basic fluffy needs, which were not difficult topics to grasp due to the fact that the staff area of the shop had everything printed out and pinned to the walls. If something ever slipped Ingrid’s mind, or she found herself idle, she could always consult that information and correct course.
Things got really interesting when Jesse brought Ingrid to the nursery at the back of the shop, and introduced her to the pet project.
“I want you to pay extra attention to this little unicorn fella, here. We’re calling him Chikky-Boop,” Jesse explained.
“Chikky-Boop?” Ingrid commented on the unusual name.
Jesse gave a brief recap about a recent customer who had picked up a foal, and named him something was was clearly thought up on the spot. “… So, now we think it’s funny to name the fluffies the first thing that comes to mind. It beats having to keep track of the same normal names that fluffies get. Do you know how many green fluffies get named something like… ‘Avocado’? Too many!”
Ingrid followed up her previous question with a reasonable inquiry, “What about this foal brought the idea of ‘Chikky-Boop’ to someone’s mind?”
Jesse shrugged. “I think he was born during lunchtime, and the guy on shift at the time was in the middle of eating a crispy chicken sandwich. Like, it was half-way eaten, in his hand, while he was watching Ring Pop… pop her kids out.” To emphasize her point, Jesse pursed her lips before making a ‘pop’ sound.
Ingrid cocked her head at that visual. “I guess your ‘pop’ was more of a ‘boop’ in his mind.”
Jesse smiled. “Yeah! Chikky-Boop! Anyway, we’re thinking of encouraging him to be a ‘smarty’ fluffy for his eventual pen-mates.”
“I thought ‘smarties’ were bratty and dumb,” Ingrid remarked. “Why are we trying to raise a fluffy that we can’t sell?”
Jesse’s smile turned into a wry grin that reflexively put Ingrid on edge. She did not trust whatever pills, or caffeine supplements, that this girl was on. “Fluffies are an odd bunch. If you over-baby them, they can get entitled and narcissistic, and those are probably the smarties that you’re familiar with. They conflate the special care with some weird idea of self-worth. I read a psychology paper about it a couple of days ago! Fascinating stuff.”
Ingrid asked the next logical question: “How do we stop that from happening to Chikky-Boop?”
“Oh it’s easy. We don’t give him any real privilege, or different care than any other fluffy. We just have to get him acclimated to the concept of tangible responsibility for other fluffies early in his life, so that it becomes his second nature.”
“Huh?” Ingrid raised an eyebrow questioningly.
“Unicorns have an unusually high brain plasticity compared to the other fluffy types, except for alicorns. But we don’t use alicorns because of how rare and valuable they are and-- well, put simply, the other fluffies can’t comprehend their existence and freak out whenever they’re near one.”
“… Right. So we–” Ingrid dabbled with including herself into the madness, now that was wearing the uniform, “–use unicorns, because they’re easier to train than the normal types, and pegasi.”
“It’s a marginal difference. That’s why we need to start training Chikky-Boop as soon as he becomes old enough to start talking. He’ll get frustrated with his role, and he may throw tantrums, but we just have to keep firm, and it will work itself out.”
Ingrid nodded. All of this was acceptable enough, so far. Except… “Um… why are we doing this, exactly?” Ingrid asked, while noting to herself that she should have asked this question before getting into the weeds about fluffy psychology and mental manipulation.
Jesse answered, "Because, once a fluffy group has a smarty to act as your second-in-command, your job becomes a whole lot easier. They resolve pen-conflicts, provide structure and security for their group, and they correct bad behaviors in their subordinates without us having to break out the sorry-sticks. If you raise a good smarty, this job is a breeze. All you have to do is feed the fluffies, and they think their smarty is the best leader they could ever want until they get adopted.
Also, something about them saving corporate a few extra pennies here and there. I didn’t pay too much attention to that part of the Lighting Spot slideshow."
Ingrid smiled. She liked the idea of not having to hit a small talking gerbil-thing because it didn’t have the wherewithal to poop in the right place.
“Otay, fwend. Chikky-Boop am ask fo’ moa baww and bwockies fwom nice-wady so dat hewd can ma’e bestest pway-time!”
“Otay, fwend. Chikky-Boop am ask fo moa bwankets fo’ fwuff-piwe nappies!”
Ingrid did not hear the chatter from the second pen down the aisle while scrolling on her work tablet. The newsletter pushed out from the franchise heads proved to her that they were way out of touch with what running a hybrid fluffy shelter and adoption agency was actually like. The girl shrugged. It couldn’t be helped that some people were only in it for the money. She was glad that they stuck with accounting and pushing pencils, instead of trying to have a heart.
Maybe that was a little too cynical.
“Nice wady?” the voice of Chikky-Boop pulled Ingrid from her thoughts.
She kneeled down in front of the plexiglass pane that the unicorn was pressed up against, standing on his rear legs and bracing with his front ones. “What can I do for you, Chikky?”
“Chikky-Boop hewd wowd wike some moa toysies fo’ pway, cuz dey am moa fwuffies dan toysies in pen-pwace,” said the unicorn. This was as eloquent as fluffies could get, probably.
Ingrid tapped in a note on her tablet. “You got it. Anything else I can do?”
Chikky-Boop nodded exuberantly. “Yus! Hewd wowd wike moa bwankets fo’ nappy-time fwuff-piwe, cuz dey am moa fwuffies dan bwankets in pen-pwace!”
“Thanks for letting me know. I’ll be right on it, Smarty.”
“Dank 'ou, nice-wady!” Chikky-Boop extended his gratitude on behalf of his pen-mates.
