The calm before the gore. I know I don’t post as much as a should but I still hope you folks enjoy.
You lay there in your bed. Enveloped by the shroud of comfort that is your blanket. You hear your fluffy frosting snoozing by your foot. It’s been a hard day of working the farm.
You’ve managed to grow your strawberries without a hitch this year. No bugs, no blight, and best of all no feral herds. Your body aches from the exertion. You already know you’re gonna be stiff for a few days.
Knock knock thump knock!
… Juuuust your luck.
Frosting stretches and yawns.
“YAAaaawn!… Wha am noisy Daddeh?”
She asks looking at you with groggy eyes.
You begrudgingly get up and put your slippers on. Grabbing your shotgun.
“Who knows frosting. Go back to sleep.”
Like she needed permission. She was already back in Dreamland before you even got out of bed.
You chamber a round of double 00 buck and creep towards the door.
Without opening you try and muster the most menacing tone possible.
“Who’s there!”
What comes out sounds more tired than menacing. Then you hear what you were afraid of.
“Um… Am… Am jus fwuffy mistah dowr munstah… Am… Am hooman hewe?”
You hear before also hearing a couple peeps. Fuuuuuck another one with foals. Oh well. You’ll scare them off.
You open the door. Making sure the gun barrel is the first thing it sees pointing directly at it.
Before you sits a dark green stallion with a teal mane. A singular bright yellow chirping foal laying on his back oblivious to the world.
“Whelp your choice little dude. Leave or you get to experience what nine little pieces of lead do to a Fluffies skull.”
You threaten.
“Nu mistah pwease nu huwt! Daddeh nu wan bothew mistah buh… Babbeh nee miwkies.”
He says now backing up and preparing to run if need be.
“Yeah sure. Just let it’s mother give it some.”
He looks at you with big sad eyes.
“Sniffle babbehs mummah am nu hewe. Meanie bawkie munstah gave Speciaw fwen an udda babbehs wowstest fowevew sweepies! Pweeheeheeheeze hewp Daddeh mistah! Wastest babbeh hab tummie owies and Daddeh nu hab miwkies!”
He stays there begging through huuhuus. You know the proper action would be to pull the trigger and put them both out of their misery but… Uuugh fuck your stupid conscience.
“… How did you even get in my yard?”
You ask.
“… Fwiffy cum thwu pwetty doow.”
He says pointing towards the gate that you realize you forgot to lock.
“Uuugh …”
You could punch yourself for that one. You look at the foal rummaging through it’s father’s back fluff. Desperately looking for any resemblance of a nipple to suck.
“I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you some milkies. But you can’t stay here. I’ll give you a bottle to take with you. Make it last.”
You see his face light up as you say that.
“Gasp weawy!?! Huuhuu fank ou nice mistah! NAO babbeh nu go fowevew sweepies!”
True to your word you take an old baby bottle you used to use for foals before you had a mare who’s constantly producing fresh fluffy milk. You fill it full of old foal formula and shake it up. You put it in a paper bag so he can carry it easier.
You sit the bag in front of the feral Daddeh. He looks at it carefully before using his nuzzle to open it. He immediately smells the sweet milkies coming from the bottle.
“Gasp MIWKIES! BABBEH AM SAVED! Fank ou nice mistah. Fwuffy wub ou!”
He says before picking up the bag and waddling off.
You unload the shell and place it back into the tube. Clicking the safety on you close the door and walk back inside. Not giving it a second thought.
~8 days later~
You sit on your front porch watching Moses play with his newest batch of foals. Sadly still no rainbow alicorns but still all good quality.
Suddenly you hear one of the foals say something that raises a red flag.
“Daddeh wook! Nyu fwens!”
It says running towards the gate.
Moses chases.
“WAIT BABBEH NU! DOSE AM NU FWENS! MISTAH STEEB! HEWP!”
He says. Fear in his voice as he chases his naive spawn.
You notice what he’s running towards. Outside of your gate stands yet another herd. The obvious smarty standing in front. His cheeks puffed out. His eyes trained on the unaware foal.
The foal stops just short of running head first into the fence.
Thank god you remembered to lock it this time
“Hewwo nyu fwen! Wan pway wif babbeh?”
The foal says in his innocent little tone.
“Smawty nu hab tim ta pway. Open doowsy babbeh! Hewd nee Nummies!”
Finally Moses catches up and frantically grabs his foal placing it behind him.
“Wha fwuffy wan? Dis am hooman wand. Nu ouside fwuffies awwowed.”
He states.
The smarty looks at Moses through the fence.
“Hooman?.. Wook poopie fwuffy. Smawty nee Nummies foh hewd. Nao open da doo-SCREE! SMEWW PWACE OWIE!”
Before the smarty could finish Moses bopped his nose through the space between planks.
By that time I reach the fence and tell Moses to go back inside with his foals.
He listens but never takes his eyes off of the smarty rubbing it’s snout.
You look down at the watery eyes intruder.
“So what are you doing by my house? I don’t need any more Fluffies.”
You say coldly.
Finally he quits huuhuuing and looks at you.
“Pwease nice mistah. Hewd nee Nummies. Babbehs hab tummie owies. Nu hab nuff miwkies!”
He pleads.
You look at the rather skinny mares and their petite foals and see he’s probably telling the truth.
“Sigh… It’s august. There are plants and grass everywhere. Why do you need human food?”
You ask.
“Gwassies an weafies am gud Nummies buh dey nu make wots ob miwkies. Aww Speciaw fwens in hewd hab wots ob babbehs dis Tim. Nu hab nuff miwkies foh aww babbehs.”
Seeing how every mare as atleast 4 foals clinging to their backs. You suspect this is also true. Again… Damn your conscience.
“I’ll tell you what. I’ll give the mares some food. But you have to leave afterwards. You can’t stay here.”
At first the smarty makes a disappointed frown. Must have been expecting you to say you’ll be their new daddy. Then he perked up a bit.
“Otay nice mistah. Hewd weab aftah get Nummies.”
You use this as an excuse to get rid of old stuff in your pantry. Of course making sure to unwrap it all first. Twinkies from last thanksgiving, generic pop tarts that you only ate one of and decided they were gross, a bag of stale potato chips, junk food in general. The mares can use the extra calories.
Like last time you had them the bag you put it in and off they go.
… What? Did you think that you were gonna just let them go without following them? Nah. Smarties are never that polite. Something’s up. Plus you haven’t had a chance to play monster for a while. You lock frosting and black berry in their saferoom. Then make sure the nursery is secure. You gear up and grab your ar-15 before heading out the door.
You check your cameras and see they’re going through the wooded area of your property.
Off you go.
The herd was easy to find. Bright colors stand out against the green and brown forest. Plus you could hear their baby talk from a mile back. How these things even survive in the wild confuses you.
You stalk the herd carefully. Making sure to not break any twigs or move too fast. You keep a calm and slow pace along with the herd.
Their facade of being a good herd dies pretty fast as they talk to each other.
“Smawty am bestest fwuffy. Twick dummeh hooman inta gibin gud sweety Nummies!”
One toughie says.
“Smawty towd ou so! Dummeh poopie fwuffy was wite.”
The smarty says boastfully.
“dummeh poopie fwuffy fink he can nu teww smawty whewe he get hooman miwky ting. Smawty make him tawkies.”
He says.
“Teehee. Dummeh poopie fwuffy’s babbeh made da bestest Enfies.”
A blue toughie says with a malicious tone.
“Dummeh tuffy! Onwy smawty gets ta use bestest Enfie babbeh!”
The smarty declares.
“Huuhuu buh smawty! Wumps huwt!”
A larger orange toughie whines.
“Quiet dummeh! Jus enf dummeh mawes!”
Smarty snaps.
… Poopy Fluffy… One baby… A human milky thing … Your mind races as you think of the polite green fluffy father and the scrawny yellow foal on his back… Just once can you actually get a nice herd? Well looks like you’re on a rescue mission now. You’ve been dying to test out your new toy. With the selling of Moses’s foals you’ve been making a killing. You spoiled yourself a bit by buying an attachment for your ar-15.
You place your hand on your under barrel flamethrower on the front of your rifle that you’ve lovingly painted the phrase “Wowstest Buwnies” on the side in fancy cursive. The fluffy murder boner starts to rise.
It might take all night but after they take you back to their nest. These fucks will know the meaning of Burney hurties.
(So just for the non Americans. Yes flamethrower ar-15 attachments exist, And are fully legal to own. Grilling shit rats MURICA STYLE!)