SOON MUMMAH SPECIALS
A FluffMart Anthology
Prologue
Allan walked back down Peachtree Street, confident that everything was in place for his afternoon meeting. The supplier, who seemed happy with the steak Allan had just bought him at Ted’s Montana Grill, had no problem with the terms offered.
If this works, the company is going to make millions, he thought. And I’ll be next in line for VP when Bill retires.
He daydreamed about the corner office he wanted as he walked through the revolving door into 191 Peachtree Street Northeast. FluffMart’s corporate headquarters took up three floors on the massive building—the call center and warehouse were both out in Tucker.
Judy, the Marketing Department’s secretary, greeted him. “Allan, Bill called. Mr. Patel’s plane was delayed, so the meeting’s at three now instead of two.”
“Thanks, Judy.” Fuck, he thought. He was ready to make his presentation—the one that would make his career—now. Still, another hour delay is another hour to prepare.
Upper management milled about in the conference room until about 3:15. Allan was an excellent bullshitter (like any good marketing professional), so he could hold his own in conversation with everyone in the room.
“Ok, since we’ve got everyone here, let’s go ahead and start the meeting.” Ashok Patel was a slight man, but he had a commanding voice that easily drew his colleagues’ attention. Under his leadership, FluffMart had added fifty-seven stores in the past three years and grown same store revenue by six percent per year in each of those years.
“You all know Allan Bradley. In the five years that he’s been with us, he’s really taken our marketing efforts to the next level. Bill and I have invited Allan today to discuss his latest idea.”
There was a time when Allan would have pissed his pants at having a one-on-one conversation with a major retailer’s CEO—but that time was long gone. Twelve years in PetSmart’s marketing department, and five years with FluffMart later, and he walked to the projector with ease.
“Thank you, sir. I won’t bore everyone here with the details of our financials—everyone here knows how to read a 10-Q.” Several of the executives seated around the table chuckled. “What interests me today is the difference between the increase in our same store sales and that of the folks in Chicago.” Allan knew he didn’t have to use their name—FluffMart owned 26 percent of the US market for retail fluffies; Fluffs-R-Us controlled 28 percent.
“Our research still shows that foal sales dominate the retail market. Ninety-two percent of fluffy ponies sold at retail in this country are foals—that’s the highest percentage ever. And that’s not changing anytime soon. Foals are cute, extremely dependent on their owners, and want nothing more than to cuddle and play.” An extremely annoying jingle from a commercial he made the season before about “babbehs wan wun an pway” jumped into his head, but he quickly pushed it aside.
“Now, Fluffs-R-Us doesn’t have that many more stores than we do. Their prices aren’t any better—in fact, we’re about three percent lower on most accessories. And yet their same store sales increased by nine percent last year, versus our six percent. Ladies and gentlemen, that is astounding.”
“We’ve asked scores of focus groups, and done a good deal of mystery shopping in their stores, and we keep coming back to one big difference.” He clicked to his next slide. “While we sell cute foals in need of ‘mummahs’ and ‘daddehs’, they sell the whole family—minus the stallions, of course.”
A woman near the back whom Steve recognized as the Southeast Region Vice President raised her hand. “Allan, shouldn’t that actually work in our favor? Aren’t most customers put off by mares screaming for their separated babies? I mean, the reason we stopped selling adult fluffies in the first place was because too many customers got their mares home, only to find they were squarely in ‘wan babbehs’ mode!”
Allan grinned. “Ms. Stein, I’m glad you asked. The best answer is, the market has changed over the past five years. While we (and the competition) used to sell lonely adult fluffies who spent all day watching FluffTV and pining for their owners to come home from work, Fluffs-R-Us is getting more customers to buy multiple fluffies at once. Sure, some customers still insist on buying one foal from a litter. But a higher number of customers are now going in whole hog on buying the dam and her whole brood. And our research shows that in many of the cases where foals are getting separated, they’re the runts and ones with bad colors. The dams mistreat and neglect them, and customers buy them out of sympathy. Sure, you may not get as many rings at the register, but getting those sales on the margins are what make your three percent difference in growth between us and Chicago.”
A balding man at the back interrupted Allan. “So, wait—are you suggesting we start doing the same thing they’re doing: keep dams in the stores with their litters?”
The marketing manager shook his head. “Not at all. I’m afraid we’ve let them lock up that market. This idea is fresh.”
He clicked to the next slide. It featured a purple fluffy, so bloated that her hooves couldn’t reach the ground. She had a contented smile on her face and had a red bow tied around her belly. Over her head stood a twinkling Christmas tree, and all around her were wrapped gifts.
“Ladies and gentlemen, FluffMart proudly presents the ‘Soon-Mummah Special’!” Apart from a pair of VPs whispering to each other next to the window, the executives sat at rapt attention. Good. They’re all watching.
“The idea is simple: fluffy pony gestation lasts for approximately four weeks. By day four, a mare proclaims to everyone within shouting distance that she is pregnant. That leaves us twenty-four days to get her to the store and get her sold.”
A middle-aged black woman near the front of the room spoke up next. “Hang on—twenty-four days? That’s a quick turn. What kind of waste do you expect?”
Accountants. “Well, the good news is that our potential supplier network is strong enough for us to get next-day delivery to any of our stores, leaving us twenty-three days before she pops. On the back end, we should be able to offload the ones who give birth before they sell to our existing supplier network in exchange for credit. There should be minimal losses.”
The woman nodded, seemingly satisfied with Allan’s response.
Then, it was Mr. Patel’s turn. “Allan, I think this idea is worth testing out. Who do you see as the target market for the ‘Soon-Mummah Special’, and where is the margin?”
“I think this is going to be a big hit with the hugboxers. Our focus groups seemed in uniform agreement that the cutest fluffies—other than foals, of course—were ‘soon-mummahs’. As adults go, they sing more, they’re more dependent on their human owners, and hey—they’re going to have foals! Besides that, pregnant mares draw a lot of sympathy from single people living alone, and parents may pick one up for their children to experience the miracle of birth.”
“Also, accessory sales should be through the roof—every customer who buys one will need a birthing nest, special kibble (or higher grade spaghetti), plus all of the foal accessories that they would normally buy.”
Ms. Stein pointed her pen at Allan. “I think you’re on to something here, Allan. Might I suggest we launch a test program in my region?”
The man nodded at the smartly-dressed woman. “That was what I had in mind, Ms. Stein. I had hoped that you would allow the test in Atlanta, Nashville, and Charlotte.”
It was settled. Atlanta, Nashville, and Charlotte would all serve as test markets for the “Soon-Mummah Specials”. If the first two quarters proved successful, the whole Southeast, and possibly cities outside of that region, would get the program.
Harry Dellinger of Misenheimer, North Carolina, ran Harry’s Fluffy Farm. The farm was 9 acres of wide open space—the only border was a well-kept chicken wire fence that kept coyotes and feral herds out of the farm, and kept Harry’s fluffy ponies out of Curl Tail Creek.
All day long, Harry’s fluffies played in the warm sunshine. He didn’t separate them by gender or race (though he did make a point to neuter any foals with poor colors), and so they bred freely. On sunny days, the fluffies ate “grassies nummies” whenever they wanted. On cold or rainy days, Harry gave them kibble and kept them in the barn.
Hugboxers came from as far as Raleigh and Wilmington to buy his “free-range” and “cruelty-free” fluffies. He was retired from a nearby stone quarry—and the farm barely made enough money to stay open—but keeping fluffies had been his passion ever since his wife, a professor at the nearby University, had died of cancer six years ago.
He was a bit surprised when he got the call from Mr. Bradley from FluffMart. Harry didn’t care for how FluffMart obtained their foals—he had seen many of the undercover mill videos—but the proposal before him was an interesting one.
FluffMart had flown Harry to their corporate offices in Atlanta, and had treated him like a king. Mr. Bradley took him to a Braves game, showed him around the College Football Hall of Fame (a bad knee had ended Harry’s chances at a scholarship to play at State), and treated him to the best steak of his life. He balked at the notion of supplying a known foal mill supporter, but the marketing expert had allayed his fears.
“Mr. Dellinger—“
“You can call me Harry, son.”
“Ok, then. Harry, I appreciate your conscience on the issue of our supply chain. That’s one of the main reasons we contacted you. A happy fluff makes for a happy customer. We wouldn’t trust our pregnant mare business to just anyone. You have a reputation for selling loving, cared for pets. ‘Soon-mummahs’ are so delicate—so fragile, even—that I need someone who can sell me the most calm, contented fluffies around. And I can promise you that the mares you sell me will go straight from your farm to the sales floor. Not to some dark, dusty warehouse somewhere.”
Harry believed the man. And he was sure that his checkbook would thank him for it later.
Two weeks later, a white van with the giant blue and yellow FluffMart logo pulled up the farm’s driveway. Harry set his coffee down on the front porch table and walked out to greet the young man who got out.
“Mr. Dellinger?”
“That’s me. You Sam?”
“Yes, sir. I believe you spoke to Allan, right? He told you I was coming today?”
“Yep. I’ve got thirteen mares in that four-to-seven day window he wanted. That enough?”
“Thirteen? Wow, that’s fantastic! He told me you might only have six or seven.”
The older man chuckled. “Well, they seemed to be particularly frisky this past week. Must have been the weather change. Come on, let me show ‘em to you. Got your carriers?”
Sam Fiske started working for FluffMart while he was in college. In five years, he had his degree and the company offered him a store management position in Pineville, near the border with South Carolina. By year three, he had turned the flagging location into the second highest earning store in the Greater Charlotte area.
And then the recession came.
Being a great manager doesn’t mean dick in a company where seniority is king. The lowest volume store in the district closed, and FluffMart moved its manager to Pineville. Sam found himself unemployed, and trying to provide for his wife and infant son by working the third shift in the grocery department at Harris Teeter.
The downturn took its toll on FluffMart. Failing stores and shrinking margins meant a shareholder revolt, and many heads across the company rolled. One of the beneficiaries of the new regime was Esther Stein—Sam’s old district manager.
Esther took a liking to Sam early on. She was the one who singled him out for management training, and she sure as hell wasn’t the one who gave him the boot. Her first decision as new Southeast Regional Vice President was to hire the young man back to FluffMart. But this time, he was the district buyer.
He quickly made a name for himself in the new role. Suppliers considered him fair-minded, professional, and hardworking. He wasn’t about to let his mentor down.
The “Soon-Mummah” project was the first time he had questioned Esther. She was a smart businesswoman, from the time she graduated at the top of her class at UNC forty years ago. But Sam saw more than a numbers problem with this new scheme—he saw major product flaws.
“Esther, it takes ten days to sell a foal, on average. As long as we don’t get stupid and overstock from the outset, I don’t think waste is going to be a major issue.”
“But…”
“But the problem is the product itself. Have you ever dealt with a territorial dam?”
“I understand your concern, Sam. You forget that I managed South Park back in the day, when the return policy was more lax. Every time one of the little bastards got out, it got pregnant. Sure enough, the owner would try to return it a couple of weeks later when the mare was a demanding mess. I’ve been bitten more times than I can count.”
“Then you see my point?”
“Of course. The product’s not for everybody. Hence the test. If it doesn’t work, we’ll kill the project in six months with little harm done. If it’s a success, we’re all looking at a bigger bonus come Christmas.”
Sam sighed. Upper management had spoken.
It was a bright, sunny day, and all of the fluffy ponies played in the meadow. Sam had never seen such luxurious conditions for a domestic herd. He watched as a light blue alicorn stallion chased a salmon-colored earthie mare in the grass.
“Gon’ getchu, speshuw fwend! Hehe!”
“Nu can catch! Mummah am fast! Hehe!”
The pair’s foals ran behind them, unable to keep up with the game of “huggie tag”. Sam noticed a happy couple “enfing” next to the barn, and realized he’d probably be back for the mounted mare in a few days.
“Well, whaddya think? Mr. Bradley said he wanted the happiest mares around. Do my fluffies look like they fit the bill?”
Huh. This may actually work. “Mr. Dellinger, I have a feeling that we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other over the coming months.”
The old man guffawed. “I hope so, son. There’s nothing like watching a fluffy I’ve raised go to a loving home.”
They agreed to get down to business and start packing fluffies into the van. Harry picked up each “soon-mummah” and explained to her where she was going. Most of them were excited to get a “nyu mummah” or “nyu daddeh” for both them and their foals, but a few huu huued at being separated from “mistah Hawwy” and their herd. The farmer made sure to give them extra big hugs.
After eleven of the mares were secured in the back of the van (Sam declined to take a brown one), Harry pointed to the salmon-colored mare that they had seen playing earlier.
“See that one right there? Her foals are weaned, but I know she’s got a few buns in the oven already.”
Sam considered. Her weaned foals had good colors, and if that alicorn had sired her unborn litter, then she would likely go at a premium price. “Hmmm…I’ll take her. But are you sure? I don’t want to cause any separation issues for the foals.”
“Nah. It’s time for her to let go. And don’t worry about her ‘special friend’. I’ll fix him up with spaghetti, and he’ll move on.”
The men walked over to the knoll where the mare and her alicorn mate were giving each other hugs. Harry knelt down and addressed the mare.
“Sweetie, this nice mister has a special surprise for you.”
“Hewwo, mistah Hawwy! What am suwpwise, nice mistah?”
Sam got down on his knees. “Do you have a name?”
“Nu, nice mistah. Mistah Hawwy nu gif namies fo fwuffies. Mistah Hawwy teww fwuffies dat nyu mummahs an daddehs gif fwuffies namies.”
“Well, I’m going to take you to get a new mommy and daddy. Would you like that?”
The earthie’s face lit up. “Oh, yus, nice mistah! Fwuffy wan haf nyu mummah an daddeh, an haf howsie, an haf bestest nummies fo tummeh-babbehs, an—“
Sam cut her off. Mouthy little bastards, aren’t they? “Tummy babies?!? Did you say you have tummy babies?”
“Yus, nice mistah! Fwuffy am soon-mummah ‘gain!”
Feigning excitement, Sam replied, “Well, I have just the place for you! If you come with me, I’ll make sure you get the bestest mommy and daddy ever for you and your tummy babies!”
“Huwwaaaay! Heaw dat, speshuw fwend? Fwuffy famiwy haf bestest mummah an daddeh, an haf wawm howsie, an haf bestest nummies fo tummeh babbehs, an—“
Uh oh, better nip this one in the bud. “Uh, sweetie? I’m just taking you and your tummy babies. Your ‘special friend’ and the other fluffies are going to stay here on the farm.”
“Whuuuaaa? Nice mistah…take soon-mummah…bu nu take speshuw fwend an wittwe babbehs? Bu speshuw fwends am fo wife. Nu can weave speshuw fwend!”
Harry tried to interrupt. “Sweetie—“
“An babbehs am onwy wittwe babbehs! Nee mummah fo miwkies an huggies an wuv! Nu weave wifowt babbehs!”
Harry gently picked up the dam. The stallion stepped forward and puffed out his cheeks.
“NU! Yu nu take speshuw fwend. Am fwuffy’s speshuw fwend! Fwuffy wiww…wiww gif owwies!”
Harry pulled a rolled up newspaper out of his back pocket and bopped the alicorn on the nose. The stallion plopped back on his rump and grabbed his nose with his front hooves. Instinctively, the couple’s four foals shuffled forward and hugged their daddy, huu huuing into his blue fluff.
“Huu huu…why huwt fwuffy’s smeww pwace? Am gud fwuffy…huu huu…”
“Bad fluffy! Good fluffies do not threaten humans. And good fluffies don’t tell humans what to do.”
The alicorn’s eyes welled with tears, and he huu huued as Sam placed the last carrier into the back of the van.
“Goobai, speshuw fwend! Goobai, babbehs! Fwuffy nevah fowge’choo,” the teary-eyed mare said, waving as she munched on a spaghetti-treat that the “nyu nice mistah” had given her.
Her ‘special friend’ simply hunkered down, still sobbing. A couple of the foals broke from their hug to wave at their mother as the van’s back door closed.
“Let me grab my checkbook, Mr. Dellinger, and I’ll get out of your hair.”
“Ah, don’t rush off on my account! It looks like you’ve got a busy day ahead, though.”
“Yeah, I’ve already made the foal run for the day. All of these fluffies are going to the stores on the eastern end of Charlotte. Tomorrow afternoon, I’ve gotta drive down to Clover to get some ‘soon-mummahs’ for the stores down in the southern part.”
“I hear ya. Not that it’s any of my business, but who are you buying from down there?”
“Paul Duncan. You know him?”
“Yeah, Paul’s a good guy—and a hell of a breeder. Mr. Bradley wasn’t kidding when he said you all were particular about who you bought from in this program.”
Sam nodded. “Only the best.” He handed the old man a check, and could tell from his reaction that it was the largest sum he had received for his fluffies in some time—if ever.
“Take care, Sam. I’ll keep you posted on the pregnant mares. And be careful on 49 where they’ve got that speed trap set up.”
“Yeah, I saw them camped out on my way here. Thanks, Mr. Dellinger. I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”
The salmon-colored mare huddled in her “sowwy bawks”. She didn’t know why she was in the sorry box, or why it was so dark or loud in the tiny room, but the nice mister had reassured her that the metal monster wouldn’t num any of the fluffies, and that it would take them to meet their new mommies and daddies. A pastel green mare across from her smiled at her.
“Fwuffy am su ‘cited tu haf nyu mummah an daddeh! Whuh ‘bout fwuffy? Yu ‘cited?”
The mare simply nodded her head. She was excited at the prospect of a new mommy and daddy, and all the things that every fluffy knows come along with them, but tears still rolled down her cheeks. She had a feeling that she would never see her special friend or her babies ever again, and that gave her heart-hurties.
Jen Robertson surveyed the sale flyer for the coming week. Hmmm…Sorry Stick Jr. two for $15…”Bestest Skettis” three for $2…Like that’s even a sale price…
Short and heavy-set, with dark brown hair, Jen had been at the University City FluffMart for nearly five years. She had never owned a fluffy herself (“Why would I buy a pet that shits everywhere? I’ve already got a toddler for that.”), but could bullshit better than just about anyone. She carefully read product reviews, and had pored over every book the store sold, so at this point everyone deferred to her as the store’s expert. Jack had rewarded her by promoting her to Assistant Manager last spring.
She was in the middle of the “FluffTV Recommended” section in the ad when Sam walked in.
“Hey, Jen! How’s Colin doing?”
“He’s great! You know, he actually counted to twenty the other day!”
“Wow. He’s only three, right?”
“Yeah, turned three back in July. What’cha got for us today?”
“Some foals and—drum roll, please—the first of the ‘Soon-Mummah Specials!”
“Waaa waaa waaa waaaaaaaah!” A red-headed twenty year old stepped out of the back room, doing his best imitation of a sad trombone.
“Hey, Keith.”
“Hey, Sam. So, instead of baby shitrats, we’re selling balloons filled with baby shitrats, now? What’ll they think of next?”
Jen snapped. “Watch your mouth, Keith, or you’ll be deep-cleaning all of the foal pens. Bring ‘em in, Sam. You can see we’ve already got some pens set up for the mares.”
Twenty minutes later, the foal pens were fully stocked, and each ‘soon-mummah’ had been gently placed in a bed in her own little pen. Since Jen was a friend, Sam let her pick the four she wanted, and she decided on a white pegasus, a pastel green earthie, a salmon colored earthie, and a dark blue unicorn.
After the buyer was gone, Jen went back to reading the sales flyer. Keith walked over next to her and leaned on the counter.
“You know this is the dumbest fucking idea in the history of dumb ideas, right?”
Jen agreed, but wouldn’t give the prick the satisfaction of knowing that he was right for once.