(Originally posted on Reddit)
I hope you all enjoy this, because I’m sure as hell enjoying writing this. Might do a part two.
You’re an average guy. Average desk job, shirt, tie, slacks, normal interests, nice house, single, perfectly normal, though you’re also pretty arrogant. You keep it to yourself though. You decided you wanted to take up a new hobby in an effort to combat that. You got a few fluffies, both as a way to have someone (or something) to talk to, as well as to have something to talk to people about. It was pretty nice when they were foals, but they quickly got grating. That, coupled with your job and the soulcrushing monotony of everyday life, caused you to look for new outlets for your rage. You could finally be in control of something! You feel like a God! Untouchable! Nothing could stand against you! YOU STAND ABOVE ALL. Okay lets not get carried away, they’re still just weird toy things.
Disappointingly, you weren’t good at holding back, and killed the fluffies rather quickly. If anything can be said about you, you are incredibly determined, and you decide to give it another shot. After a good bit of strays, you finally have the art of abuse down pat. How to keep them alive while still having a ton of fun, and how to keep their minds from turning to mush and constantly spouting how they want to die. You have found that psychological torture is more fun than physical torture, but the best is a mixture of the two. A few weeks back you adopted a fluffy, about a year old, yellow coat with orange mane, who was specifically touted as “loving to run, play, and give hugs”. You named him Fireball (Fiwebaww as he says, god you hate the way these things talk) and took the best care of him for a week. He was so happy!
Then you had a talk with him. “Fireball, today something very special is going to happen.” you say, with the biggest shit eating grin you can muster. Fireball looks up at you, happy as can be. “Fiwebaww so 'cited daddeh!” Yeah, you should be, you think to yourself. “Well, Fireball, you get to become a pillowfluff!” He looks up at you, confused. “Wha’ piwwowfwuff?” he says. Oh he doesn’t even know. He doesn’t even REALIZE. He trusts you so much! “Well, Fireball, you know how you like to run, and play, and give huggies, and all that good stuff?” Now that you think about it, there isn’t much that a fluffy can do even WITH legs. “Ye! Fiwebaww wuv to wun an pway an gif huggies!” He smiles. You smile back, ready to crush all enthusiasm. “Well, Pillowfluffs don’t get to do that. They get to sit, and eat, and MAYBE watch TV if they’re good. But they’re usually very happy!” You know that isn’t true, you know these things are fucking miserable when they can’t do anything, and anyone who thinks they enjoy this, or that they’re happier this way, is either kidding themselves or their brain no longer works. Certainly makes it easier for you to get this procedure done without getting stared at like a freak by the doctor. Fireball’s smile turned into a frown, one that conveyed confusion, with a slight hint of fear. “W-why dey no wun o’ pway o’ gif huggies?” he asks, nervous. This is the part you’ve been waiting for. “Well, that’s because they lose their leggies. They get cut off.” you say, giving his front left leg a squeeze. His expression turns into one of complete terror. “B-buh, w-w-why dadded du dat tu Fiwebaww?”
“Because I want to.” you say, same smile still plastered to your face. It looks as if your head would split in half if you grinned any more than this. He pisses and shits in terror, and immediately tries to turn around and run. “Oh no you don’t little guy, don’t make this harder than it has to be.” He screams and pounds his hoofs against your side to no avail. “NU WAN BE PIWWOW! WAN WEGGIES! NEED FO WUN AN PWAY!” he screamed, tears in his eyes. You threw him into the transport crate, and drove off to the vet. The waiting must have been the hardest part for Fireball, because each time they called a number, you’d hear a little “prrt” and notice an awful smell in the air. His crate must have had a metric ton of shit in it by the time you got home. “Hey, if I knew it would take this long I would have brought a small litterbox.” He "huuhuu"s to himself. You know your number is coming up, so you take him out of the crate and hold him under your arm, not unlike someone would hold a bundle of firewood. “Okay, number 2112? Fireball, quadruple amputation?” Fireball immediately starts flailing. “NUU NUU! NU WAN BE PIWWOW! NEE WEGGIES FO WUN AN PWAY! PWEASE DADDEH, FIWEBAWW DO ANYFIN!” His ardent pleas fall on deaf ears, as you stand up and walk to the surgery theater with the doctor. It sucks for the fluffies, since anesthesia just ends up killing them 99 percent of the time. They just go without it. You don’t remember where, but you remember reading that fluffy brains are wired to feel pain like, 50 times more intensely than humans. You don’t exactly know firsthand, but you can imagine having an arm broken and then sawed off would hurt a lot. Then do it three more times. It’s a wonder how Fireball managed to stay conscious throughout it all. Overall, a very entertaining experience. You even recorded it, to show Fireball later.
A week after the surgery, and Fireball has, understandably, had a very rough time adjusting to life as a pillow. He’s obedient, but that’s likely because he realizes his daddy isn’t quite as loving as he was. He would sit on your lap while you watch something on TV, just letting you stroke his fluff. Sometimes you would touch his stumps, as if to remind him of what he has lost. “N-n-nu touch Fiwebaww in weggie spot.” he says, whimpering slightly. Late in the day, he starts crying. “N-neba gonna wun 'gain. Neba gun p-pway.” he sobs. You simply stroke his fur, brushing against his stumps from time to time.
Fireball is fun and all, but you really wanna “take care” of some foals. Ones that are a couple weeks old, so they can talk and see. You have plans for them. “Hey Fireball, daddy’s gonna go out for a couple hours. Don’t go anywhere while I’m gone, 'kay?” You know there’s not a chance in hell he’s going anywhere. “Huuhuu… C-can daddeh tuwn on teebee?” he whimpers. “Heck no, that stuff will rot your brain! And with no leggies, your brain is basically all you’ve got left!” You pause, thinking about the video of Fireball’s surgery. You grin. “Actually, you can watch TV, since you’ve been such a good pillow.” You transfer the video over to your laptop, face the laptop towards Fireball so that he has a great view of it, and press play. Fireball recognizes the operating room, and immediately starts flailing his stumps and sobbing. “N-nu! Nu w-wan teebee! Nu wan s-scawy no weggie bideo!” You make sure to set it to repeat, and plug the computer in. “I thought you wanted to watch TV? And this video is especially educational! You learn about anatomy, surgery, and discipline!” He sobs even more. You’re frankly surprised he hasn’t entered the “wan’ die” phase yet. Maybe it’s the spaghetti you give him every other day, or maybe he’s just strong willed. “Have fun little buddy, I’ll be back later. See ya!” You leave, making sure he has enough food and water to stay alive. You would think that having no legs would mean he needs to eat less, but the universe doesn’t make sense. If it were up to you, you’d destroy it and recreate it perfectly, but messing around with shitrats is good enough.
You decided to just walk around the city all day, getting lunch, later dinner, taking in the sights of the metropolis you live in. You think about how Fireball is all alone at home, nothing to do but watch the footage of him losing his legs. You smile at this thought. You notice that in your haze of thought that you have made it to the Flufftopia store. It’s impossible to miss, considering the gaudy neon coloring and smiling fluffies decorating the building. The only thing you like about this place is the fact that the fluffies here are used to being treated extremely well. You step through the sliding door and are instantly assaulted with the smell of “pet shop” cranked up to eleven.
You ignore the worker, and he ignores you. He’s too busy looking at something on his phone with a broad smile on his face. You stride over to the fluffies, eyeing the mummahs with their babies. The babies might not be drinking milk anymore, but this store likes to keep the moms and kids together to make sure they stay happy. Hell, they even give you a discount if you buy the mom with the kids, but for some reason, the moms don’t hate the idea of letting their kids go. Probably told that their kids are going to a nice home, or maybe the moms here are just raised to be more mature. The cynical side of you, the one that overwhelms your every waking moment, knows that it’s probably because these things can barely remember anything at all, or they see their babies as nothing but toys to be replaced.
You look closer at the fluffies. You spot three, all belonging to the same mother, who will be perfect. One of them is a pegasus with dark purple fluff and a light blue mane playing with a ball, another is a baby blue unicorn with a blonde mane who’s cuddling with a hugtoy, and the third, possibly your favorite, is a mahogany brown earthie with a red mane running around and just having fun. You’re surprised that the brown one is still around, but then you remember that this place is supposed to be upper class, and they probably train the foals to be nicer. You always found it a little weird how these things seemed hardwired to hate brown fluffies. Probably has something to do with “optimum color”, but then why wouldn’t Hasbio just make them unable to be that color? You shrug, and turn towards the worker. “Hey, think you could help me out over here?”
The man looks up at you, can’t be older than 25. He puts his phone in his pocket, and strides over with a smile. “Certainly sir, how may I help you?” You point to the three fluffies that you had picked out. “I’d like those three, please.” He nods, and looks through his keyring for a key to unlock the door to the enclosure. “And, could you, uh, take them aside for about 5 minutes and lecture to them about how they’re going to a great home, with all the skettis they could ask for, and toys, and stuff like that?” The man stares at you, eyebrow raised. “There’s 10 dollars in it for you.” The man shrugs. “Don’t worry about the money sir, just an odd request is all. But if it’ll ensure that the fluffies are happy, I’m happy to do it.”
You watch as the man steps into the enclosure, picking up the three fluffies. The mother looks somber, but waves goodbye to her children. It reminds you of a human mother, waving goodbye to her child as he leaves for college. You see the man standing in a playroom, talking to the fluffies the way a character would talk to the camera in one of those shows for preschoolers. The fluffies sit in his hands, looking intently at him. You can’t see their faces, but you can tell by their occasional movements, stuff like “dancies” and that weird “huggie pose” they do, that they’re very happy with what their being told. Only gonna make it more fun for what comes next.
5 minutes pass, and the worker finally rings you up. “Oh, you’re also gonna want to get the-” You cut him off. “Yeah, yeah, just give me the deluxe package or whatever, my Christmas bonus can cover it. Do you have a self-pillowing station?” The man points behind you, and you see a station with a pair of shallow sinks, and a special tool made for pillowing foals. It looks like a pair of wirecutters, except with a blunt section for breaking the leg at the point where it connects with the body. There’s also a heated rod used for cauterizing the wound. This is your favorite part. You stride over, placing the three down in the sink on the left. The purple fluffy is sitting, looking slightly dejected about having to leave its mother. The baby blue fluffy is giving him a hug to comfort him. The brown one is sitting and dancing, trying to make you give it something. You lean in close to him and say “Your name is going to be Meatball.” Meatball simply begins dancing faster, smiling. “Weawy? Meatbaww wuv nyu namie! Tank yu nice mistah!” You look over at the other two. “I’ll give you your names later. For now, I need to give meatball here his first present!” Meatball looks up at you, beaming. “Ooo, Meatbaww wuv pwesent!” You pick him up, deleggers in one hand, meatball in the other.
“Wha’ nyu daddeh doin? Dis nyu game?” You chuckle slightly. “Yeah, its kind of a game. It’s a very fun game.” You place the blunt part of the instrument over Meatball’s back left leg joint. Applying pressure, and one sharp twist, you snap the leg. “SCREEEEEE!!” The other two fluffies nuzzle in eachothers fluff, trying to block out the sights and sounds that they’re witnessing. You give Meatball a moment to scream. Surprisingly, he managed not to shit himself. “Huuhuuhuu, w-why daddeh du dat to weggie?” He whimpers. You move on to the next leg, swiftly snapping it. “SCREEEEEE! M-MUMMAH, MUMMAH! HEWP BABBEH! SABE BABBEH!” You chuckle. Damn, he’s forgotten his name already. Or maybe it’s just trauma or instinct. “Oh come on, it’s not that bad!” You move on to the next, and the next. “SCREEEEEE! W-W-WOWSTEST HUWTIES! SABE BABBEH! chirp! peep!” All four legs are now broken, but somehow, Meatball managed to hold his piss and shit in through it all. You set him down for a second to admire your handiwork. The other two babies have shat in the sink in fear, and are 'huuhuu’ing to themselves.
You pick Meatball back up, placing the cutting part of the instrument around his broken leg. With one quick motion, you sever it from his body. “SCREEEEE! WEGGIE, WEGGIEEEE!!” He shouts, finally losing control and pissing and shitting himself. You decide not to waste any time, and cut the 3 other legs off without giving him a break. “N-NU TAKIE WEGGIES! NU TAKIE WEGGIES!! N-NE FO WUN AN PWAY!” You think about how Fireball said the exact same thing. By the end of it, he’s passed out. He held out for a while, but he just couldn’t take it anymore. You grab the cauterizing tool, and press them against the stumps. He softly chirps and peeps as this is going on. He’ll probably be awake in a few seconds, just in time to see the handiwork.
Now you have a perfect pillowfluff, with a very fitting name. You wake Meatball up, and place him next to his purple brother. You pick up the baby blue fluffy, who immediately starts struggling and crying. “P-pwease nice daddeh, nu take babbehs weggies. Babbeh nee weggies to gif huggies!” You look down at him. “Don’t worry, you’ll still be able to give huggies.” You repeat the snapping process with this foal, limiting it to the two back legs. He cries less than his brother, probably because he knew what was coming. “chirp! peep! W-weggies hab w-wowstest huwties…” You switch over to the cutting part, and wasting no time, you quickly sever the legs and cauterize the wounds. “Babbeh hab w-w-wowstest weggie huwties…” he says. He cried a lot less than Meatball, but his fluff is still tearstained. Maybe it’s because you let him keep his front legs.
“There you go little guy! You liked giving huggies, now you’re PERFECT for giving huggies!” Meatball is sobbing, and the baby blue foal is giving him a hug. Meatball looks up at you. “P-pwease nice daddeh, p-put Meatbaww’s weggies back? Wan to w-wun an p-p-pway.” You try your hardest not to laugh at this. “Sorry Meatball, you can’t put legs back. Once they’re gone, they’re gone for good.” Meatball breaks down sobbing again. You pick up the three fluffies, and bring them back to the counter. The clerk puts them into a carrier, and hands you the bag of supplies. “Thanks for shopping, sir.” He says. He sounds nice, but you look up at him briefly and notice that he’s giving you a glare that could kill. You decide to leave the building as quickly as possible.
Standing outside, you lift the crate up and stare at the foals. They’re all trying to comfort Meatball. “Alright you three, listen up. I know the man in there said you were gonna be going to a nice new home with a nice daddy, but I’m gonna tell you the truth.” The three foals look at you. “You aren’t going to a nice home. I’m not a nice daddy. Frankly, your lives are going to be terrible and filled with pain.” The fluffies look distraught, beginning to cry. “You may have thought that the world was nice and happy, and that nothing bad could possibly happen to a fluffy, let alone a baby fluffy. I’m here to tell you that the world hates you, and doesn’t care how cute, or pure, or nice you are. It is cruel, and it is punishing. You three are simply unlucky.” The three foals are now quietly sobbing, cuddling again. “Alright, good talk guys.” You say, lowering the carrier just in time to see someone running towards you.
