“H-Hewwo?”
The soft squeaky voice coming out from under the toy chest sent Spike immeasurable panic, nearly jumping a foot out of the litterbox. “SCREEEE!” Sting screeched, frantically looking around. He had always startled easy. It was why he noticed that the ‘toughie fwens’ that his brother had sent were there with ‘foweba sweepies’ on their mind. It was perhaps his greatest of survival instincts, and Sting had rapidly adopted a defensive posture. “W-Who dewe?!” the fluffy called out, as he scampered over towards the toy-chest. He paused for a moment, before laying down and flattening his body against the floor. Underneath the toy-chest he saw what appeared to be a ‘babbeh’. Perhaps a big ‘babbeh’, judging by how it was able to speak.
“W-Who yu?! D-D-Dummeh babbeh, dis…dis…dis smawty wand!”
Sting’s tail was whooshing to and fro now and had puffed up quite a bit. The ‘babbeh’, however, tried to edge backwards and away from him, only feeling the cool drywall up against his rump. “P-Pwease! P-Pwease…!” the foal begged, trembling as it fearfully covered its face with its hooves. Giving an analytical stare, Sting deemed it to not be a threat. But still. He wouldn’t let his guard down so easily. “Wai yu hewe, babbeh? Wewe is yu mummah?” Sting asked, staring at the foal. It was dark, but he could make out the color of its coat. A nice royal purple. The foal sniffled, before moving one of its hooves to peek at Sting. “Hic…m-muh…munstah…munstah daddeh take mummah ‘way…”
“Wuh…? Munstah…daddeh?”
Sting was confused. Surely this little ‘babbeh’ didn’t mean the nice man who had just taken him in, cleaned him, fixed his ouchies, and fed him the most sweetest of nummies he had ever tasted. “Who munstah daddeh?” he asked, cocking his head to the side. The foal paused for a moment, trying to process the events it had recently endured. “Am mummah’ wastest babbeh, an’ nice mistew take mummah an’ babbeh in howsie, an’, an’…” the foal’s voice weakened as the tears begin to flow. “Mummah teww babbeh tu hide fwom daddeh, an’ daddeh take mummah ‘way…” Sting sat in silence as the poor little ‘babbeh’ cried its eyes out. Perhaps if he had any real lasting memories of his own ‘mummah’ he might have been moved.
“Nu! Daddeh am da bestes’ ebah! Gib Sting namesie! Nummies! Toysies!”
Sting stuck his tongue out and blew raspberries at the foal for its insolence. “Maybe Sting teww daddeh dewe am dummeh babbeh undew toyboxie…” he thought aloud. The foal’s reddened eyes widened at this. “N-Nu! Nu! Nu teww! Nu teww!” it begged, on the verge of breaking down into tears again. “Den…den…” Sting stared for a good few moments, the gears in his head turning. A gentle tingle emanated from his stubby little horn once more, and suddenly he had just the perfect idea. “Den…dummeh babbeh be Sting’ fwen’!” There was a part of Sting that wanted to say, “join Sting hewd!” but…what would he need that for? He had everything he needed from his ‘nyu daddeh’.
“H-Huh? Fw-Fwen? Weawwy?”
The foal was truly and wholly confused by this. It was even enough to throw it completely off its previous trainof thought. Never had it known a true ‘fwen’…the only other fluffies it had ever known was its ‘mummah’ and now deceased ‘bwuddahs’ and ‘sissies’. For the first time in a while, its muzzle curled into a smile. “Otay! Babbeh be Sting fwen!” it squeaked, crawling out from under the toybox. Sting would rise back to his hooves and scooted backwards to give his new ‘fwen’ the clearance it needed. “Sting pwomise nu teww daddeh ‘bout babbeh?” it asked, nervously eyeing the door. “Uhhuh! Sting pwomise!” Sting replied, his muzzle curling into a smile.
“Su, babbeh kno how pway’ wif toysies?”
The foal’s eyes lit up, clapping its little hooves together. “Babbeh nu widdew bit! Mummah pway wif’ bwockies, an’ baww, an’…an…” the foal tapered off, as it once more began to sniffle. “Huuhuu…mummah…” it murmured and began pressing its hooves over its eyes. Sting frowned, but quickly resolved to remedy the situation. “Nu cwy, babbeh! Nu cwy!” he softly said, attempting to give the foal a hug. “Hab huggies an’ feew bettew! Huggies awways hewp! Awways!” The foal lifted its head and sat on its rump, ‘leggies’ wiggling. Typically, a foal would do this to signal its ‘mummah’ or ‘daddeh’ that it desired ‘huggies’. “It otay, it otay…” Sting said, gently lifting the foal, and pressed it against his chest. The warmth the foal felt was like the warmth it had once felt with its ‘mummah’.
“Huuhu….huuuhuhuhuu….”
Sting cocked his head to the side. Why on earth would his new ‘fwen’ be crying? Looking down, Sting gently placed the ‘babbeh’ back down. “Wai hab saddies, nyu fwen’? Babbeh nu wike huggies? Nu wike Sting?” he asked, his own voice cracking slightly. It seemed that rejection was a sore spot for him. “N…Nu…Nu…” the ‘babbeh’ sniffled, looking up. “Babbeh miss mummah, buh, buh…nyu fwen’ gib gud huggies jus’ wike mummah…” it sighed. Sting would reply by letting out a relieved sigh. “Oh…otay.” He said, glancing at some of the other toys. “…Babbeh wan’ pway wif’ bwockies?” he asked, his tail swishing excitedly. Out of all the toys here, the ‘bwockies’ seemed like they would be the most fun. The ‘babbeh’ rose on its little ‘weggies’ and nodded, mirroring the much larger fluffy’s tail swishing.
“Otay! Sting nu’ how pway wif bwockies?”
That was something the fluffy hadn’t considered. When they were first described to him long ago, they were described as “stackie bwocks”. But more than that, how would both he and his little new friend be able to enjoy them together? Another tingle danced across Sting’s brain as an image appeared in his mind’s eye. “Sting…fink su.” he said, approaching the nearby half-stacked pile of wooden alphabet blocks. With a gentle tap of its hoof, they would topple over into a pile. “Otay! Babbeh, come obew hewe, an’ wets pway!” he beamed, as the ‘babbeh’ eagerly approached. “Huh? Buh…how bof’ babbeh an’ Stingy pway tugedda?” It asked, looking at the blocks, and then back to Sting, and then back to the blocks.
“Sting am smawty! Su Sting nu how!”
Plopping down on his rear, Sting hunched over to grab at one of the blocks with his hooves. “Hewe! Take bwocky!” Sting chirped. The ‘babbeh’ sat there dumbfounded for a moment, its eyes lighting up as if it seemed to have just had its own eureka moment. “Oooh! Otay!” The babbeh struggled with taking the block from Sting, but when it did, it deftly placed it atop of one of the nearby ‘bwockies’. The babbeh’s jaw dropped as it looked at it, and back to Sting. “W…Waow….babbeh nebew fink of pway bwockies wike dis!” the foal squeaked, its eyes glittering in amazement. “Sting…Sting weawwy am smawty!” Sting gave a big grin, reveling in the compliment. “Mowe bwockies! Mowe stackies!” he cheered, as he continued passing more and more blocks.
The time flew by, until the stack was as high as the foal could reach.
“Twade pwaces wif me! Gib bwockie tu Sting! Sting make biggewew bwockie stackie!”
The babbeh eagerly nodded, struggling to carry the blocks over. Sting, for his part, was very patient with the foal. “Otay! Howd bwockie! Sting hewp babbeh!” he said, reaching down to hoist the foal up. “Eep! S-Scawy!” the foal squeaked, its little legs kicking. “It otay! It otay! Jus’ make da bwockie stackie!” Sting said, as the babbeh began to relax. “Otay…otay…” the babbeh murmured, as it deftly placed the block down onto the stack. “Hehe! Yu am smawt babbeh!” Sting squeaked, gently placing the foal down. The foal would then stare up at its new bestest friend, before waddling over and wrapping its little legs around his hp in embrace. “Babbeh wub nyu bestes’ fwen!” it cooed, and Sting did his best to reciprocate the hug.
“Otay, babbeh! Gu get mowe bwockies! Stuffy fwen’ obew dewe hab bwocky!”
After the hug ended, the foal eagerly cantered over towards the stuffed bear that sat near the toy chest. “Sowwy stuffy fwen’! Babbeh nee’ dis bwockie fow’ make bwockie stackie!” it said, wrenching the block out from between its legs, causing it to fall over. “Oh nu! Sowwy stuffy fwen’!” it squeaked, giving the bear a quick hug before pushing the block back towards where Sting sat waiting. “Babbeh find wastest bwockie! Make da biggest bwockie stack EBAH!” it excitedly squealed, as Sting once more hoisted the babbeh up to place the block. It turned out to be quite the task, as Sting even had to stand on his hind legs to even reach the highest block. “Awmost…awmost…” Sting muttered, eager to see their task complete.
Little did the fluffies know, however, was that the ‘stuffy fwen’ sitting in the corner and staring at them was more than just a ‘stuffy fwen’’.
“Ah. So that’s what happened to that foal.”
Elsewhere in the house, the very tired and rotund man was relaxing in a chair, his phone held tight in his hand. On the screen was a video stream from the perspective of a teddy bear. But even better, was that the video stream was connected online to an online streaming platform. “What do we think, chat?” the man asked, smiling down at the phone. Many of the comments did not go beyond the simple “kill em both!!”, “enfie babbeh time!” and things of that nature. “Hmm…I’m thinking of something more long-term. Maybe…hmm…” the man thought aloud, as more and more messages and donations rolled in. “SORRY ROOM!” one message said. “SORRY ROOM” “SORRY ROOM” “SORRY ROOM” soon followed.
“Mm, yeah…the sorry room. That’s a good idea.”
“I think I’ll keep the foal around for a little while longer. See if I can’t get S…S…Sting? Is that what I named him?” the man asked, scratching his chin. “Right. Yeah. Sting. We’ll see if we can’t get them to ruin their friendship.” More messages rolled in, all applauding the fat bald bastard on his plan. “I’ll get started with it all tomorrow. Stream’ll be up still, but there won’t be much direct interaction.” The man said, as he placed the phone back down. “Oh, right. Thanks for coming everybody, and your donations are all appreciated.” He grumbled half-heartedly, looking at the clock on his phone before setting it back down. “Alright then…” the man muttered to himself as he rose from his seat.
The man would shuffle down the hall, making sure to secure the door to what could only be the ‘Sorry Room’ shut, before making his way to the safe room door. He couldn’t just open the door right now…as it would deny him and his audience the sweet, sweet build-up that they both desired. After taking a breath, he gently rapped his knuckles against the door. “Sting? Buddy? Are you okay in there?” he asked, trying his hardest to stifle a laugh. “You’ve been in there for quite some time now…” he continued, as he began to gently jiggle the handle. Both Sting and the babbeh almost lept in panic. “M-Munstah daddeh! Nu! B-Babbeh nee’ hide…” it squeaked, and frantically made its way back under the toy chest. “Huu…otay, fwen’. Buh daddeh nu am munstah. Daddeh am gud daddeh!” Sting squeaked, making his way over to the chest.
“Sting pwomise bwing bestes’ fwen nummies, otay?”
The babbeh nodded, licking its lips. “Fank yuu, babbeh hab su much fun, fowget aww ‘bout hungies…” it whispered, rubbing its belly with its hooves. But just then, the door swung wide open. “Sting, my boy!” the man called out, approaching the fluffy. Sting gulped. Hard. He wanted to keep his promise to his new best friend, but…but…he just couldn’t believe that his ‘nyu daddeh’ was the ‘munstah’ his ‘bestes’ fwen’ made him out to be. “H-Hewwo, daddeh!” Sting said, charging over at him. “Sting…Sting make gud peepees! Wittew box am su pwetty!” he smiled, rubbing his head against his master’s leg. “Well.” The man said, squatting down slightly. “I’m glad you like it.” The man gently patted Sting’s head, tousling his mane and scratched his ears. The colt leaned into the scratches and pets, emitting a most pleased cooing.
“Everything in here is for you. The toys, the litterbox, and if you’re an especially good fluffy, I’ll let you watch some Fluff TV. I should have another TV around here somewhere…”
The possibilities surged through Sting’s mind. He now had the bestest of ‘fwens’, ‘toysies’, ‘nummies’, the ‘Fwuff Teebee’ he had heard so much about from the former domestics who had once been part of his herd. How could ‘daddeh’ possibly be a ‘munstah’? But that thought kept repeating as he turned his head to gaze at the toybox. Gulping slightly, Sting made his way over towards the door. “S-Su, daddeh…um…” he mumbled, eyes darting around. “S-Sting nu see sweepy pwace…whewe Sting gu sweepies?” he asked, giving his best pleading eyes. The man for once was caught somewhat off-guard. In truth, the last bed he had used for this purpose had been soiled and ruined. “I guess…you could sleep on the floor here.” The man shrugged.
“You could sleep on my bed if you want. Just know that if you shit or piss on it in your sleep, I’m going to make you lick it up.”
The man’s voice took on an aggressive tone, causing Sting to cower backwards ever so slighty. “O-Otay! Sting pwomise! Nu make bad peepees ow poopies on daddeh!” he said, scurrying back out into the hallway. A chill ran up Sting’s spine. Once more he recalled his former herdmate’s stories and tales. Some had run away from homes where their ‘mummah’ or ‘daddeh’ denied them skettis, gave them ‘huwties’, or didn’t let them have their own ‘babbehs’, or were whacked with the ‘sowwy stick’ one too many times. That was a fate that Sting wanted to avoid most of all. It had been only a few short hours, but Sting had grown quite accustomed to the nice cozy ‘housie’ and all the amenities within. After a few moments longer, the corpulent man emerged from the room, and scooped up Sting, holding him in his arms like an infant.
“I’m going to have a special job for you to do tomorrow.”
The colt’s eyes widened in surprise. “W-Weawwy? Speshuw job fow’ Sting? Wat speshuw job, daddeh?” he asked, curling up nice and close to him. His snout wrinkled though when he took a nice whiff of body odor combined with something musty; like dirt mixed with the scent of a fluffy who had taken ‘foweba sweepies’. It was strange to be sure, but, Sting wouldn’t complain. The man chuckled, before clearing his throat. “I have a special job, Sting. And that is to punish bad fluffies. The absolute worst fluffies.” Sting’s eyes widened. “N-Nu! Nu! S-Sting gud fwuffy! Pwomise! Sting gu—” the man chuckled again as he placed his fingers over the anxious fluffy’s mouth. “No. Not you, Sting. You’re a good fluffy.”
“Huu…fankyu daddeh…”
“Right. So, as I was saying…” the man said, as he reached his bedroom. “I punish bad fluffies. Very bad fluffies.” He said, plopping down on the side of the bed. “You’ll be my helper, Sting. You’ll help me choose which bad fluffy gets punished.” In truth, the proposition excited Sting. He had been wronged quite badly by some fluffies he regarded as being ‘bad fwuffies’. For some reason he could not explain, he felt this pit in his stomach. A pit that unfurled into a most primal urge; who cares if he wouldn’t be getting back at those stupid meanie ‘fwuffies’?! The mere thought was enough for a smile to creep on Sting’s face. “W-Weawwy? Daddeh…gib sowwies tu bad fwuffy…an…an…Sting get tu hewp?!” he excitedly squealed.
“Uh…yeah. That’s right, buddy, haha.”
For a moment the man was given pause; when he had made such an offer to fluffies just like him, they typically balked, or nervously agreed. Never had one shown such excitement, or perhaps it was delight that was etched upon the fluffy’s features. Likewise, a smile spread across the man’s face. He wasn’t going to quite squander Sting, who seemed the most promising out of all of the ferals he had taken in. After another period of silence, there was a loud creaking as the man flopped down onto the mattress. “Whatever. I’m going to bed. You know where the litterbox is.” The man sighed, as he turned over onto his side. While there was no video recording equipment in his bedroom, he would sleep confident in being able to review any footage from other places in the house. Sting would splay his legs out, yawning. As much as he wanted to ‘go sweepies’, he knew he just had to wait for ‘daddeh’ to go to ‘sweepies’.
“Zzzzzz…………………”
A loud snoring noise filled the room, the loudness of which startled Sting awake. He decided to curl up and lay his head down to rest his ‘see pwaces’ for just a moment, but now he was wide awake. “Mmhh…daddeh am sweepies nao…?” he whispered to himself, turning his head. He was met with the sight of a rotund shape under a blanket rising and lowering. Good. All he need do now was to find ‘nummies’. He hopped off the bed and started down the hall. There wasn’t much light to go by, but he just knew he had to be brave. He’d turn a corner, and found himself back in the kitchen. He raised his head and began to sniff the air in the hopes that he might catch the scent of something edible.
“Huu…su hawd tu see…”
But just then, Sting felt his little hoof brush up against something. “Oh! Wat dis?” he thought, and his eyes widened in delight. It was one of the ‘sweetie nummies’ that ‘daddeh’ gave him earlier! He could still remember the sweetness mixed with the cold, refreshing milk. He leaned down further to lick it up off the floor. “Mmm…” he sighed, before sniffing around. He smelled more! “Hnn…nee’ bwing sum dese nummies fow’ bestes’ fwen’…” the fluffy grunted before collecting them in his mouth. But the more he collected, the more he felt them stack up against his tongue. “Huu…su sowwy bestes’ fwen…” he sniffled, before greedily crunching on the remaining cereal pieces. He just couldn’t help it! They were simply so sweet and delicious. Really, it was their fault for being so good.
“Wait…Sting see mowe nummie…”
There was a banana peel that sat precariously on top of an overstuffed trashcan. “Nanna nummies am gud nummies!” he thought to himself, as he began to engineer a way in which to retrieve the peel. “Twashy box! Gib nummies! NAO!” Sting screeched, before charging into the plastic trashcan. It wobbled slightly, just enough for the peel to fall and land on his head. “Eep! Scawy nana!” Sting said, as he thrashed his head to remove it. After it was all said and done, Sting hauled it away by biting on its stem. After a few minutes, he pulled himself and this slimy old banana peel through the Fluff Flap™. It was dark, though a night light provided just the right amount of light for him to see. “Bestes’ fwen…?” Sting called out, scanning the room. The foal was splayed out on his belly, face down on the carpet. “Bestes fwen!” Sting said, cantering on over. “Bestes’ fwen! Time fow’ wakies! Hab nummies fow yu!”
“Zzzz….nnnn…whuh…?”
The foal’s eyes widened in surprise as it quickly hopped to its feet. “Eeee! EEEEE!” it screeched, before calming down. “B-Bestes’ fwen! Nu be scawed!” Sting said, as he dropped the banana peel in front of the foal. “Oooh!” the foal sighed, before relaxing. “S-Sowwy bestes’ fwen…” it replied, before eyeing up the brown and yellow spotted object. “W-Wut dis?” it asked, stepping forward to give it a whiff. Whatever it was, it didn’t smell very good. “Um…Sting…Sting nu find any nummies fow’ bestes’ fwen. But den Sting find dis! Nana nummie!” he proudly said. The foal took a step back. “Dis…dis nu smeww pwetty. Nu smeww wike nummie…” it squeaked, its little ears pinning back. “It otay! Nu taste pwetty buh Sting find dese nummies befowe wen Sting nummie findew in hewd!”
“Mmmn….HRK!”
The foal sunk its its little ‘babbeh teefsies’ into the peel and tore off a small piece. It’s eyes widened as the cold, slimy foulness slid down its throat. “EECH! D-Dis nu pwetty! B-Babbeh nu wan dese bad nummies!” it whined, shaking its head. “B-Buh bestes’ fwen! Dese am da onwy nummies Sting find! Bestes’ fwen need nummies fow’ gwow big an’ stwong!” he replied. He knew what it was like to be hungry. He didn’t want to see the same thing happen to his new “bestes’ fwen”! “See? Sting show nummie am good nummie…” he said, gulping slightly. He took a much larger bite, and likewise struggled to get it down. It wasn’t the greatest thing in the world to eat, but he could speak for its nourishing qualities. “S-See, bestes’ fwen’? N-Nummie am good!” Sting squeaked. The foal simply stared; its muzzle curled into a frown. “Otay…babbeh eat…” it sighed defeatedly.
“Dat wots’a nummies so bestes’ fwen nu wowwy ‘bout gu hungies!”
“Otay. Sting nee’ gu bak fo’ sweepies. Wub yu, bestes’ fwen.” Sting said, trotting over to the foal. The foal would kip up and Sting would lift with its hooves to give it a great big hug. After a moment of hugs, the foal was sat back down. “F-Fank yu fow’ nummies, bestes’ fwen Sting…” the foal said, as it turned to face the banana peel. Steeling itself, it took another bite. “Mhm! Mhm! Hab good sweepies nao!” he said, as he trotted out of the saferoom. He wanted to ‘go sweepies wif daddeh’!