I awoke.
It had been over a year since I last kept fluffy ponies. A year of torment, filled with pain, failed surgical procedures and failing hope.
Everything. The bitch had taken damn near everything. The doctors could rebuild by face, replace my hands, but certain things can never be returned. Only in revenge could I make her pay me back, but she had fled, taking the fluffies with her, and my agents failed to track her find her again and again.
I would make her pay for what she had done.
I must have spent six months in my bed, staring out of my window as the seasons changed from autumn to winter. Drinking soup as dentists talked about titanium teeth, and idly pressing the syringe driver to spurt some more heroin into my veins. Enveloped in a bliss of uncaring grey, I would drift away for a few hours. Just as though I had placed a plastic bag over my head. Hiding from the world.
But the pain, the despair, always returned.
I stared at the tree in my garden, and tried to rebuild my mind.
It had been shattered.
In time, I came to use the internet. I could have opted for the finest robotic prosthetics, but in the end I decided on a cast iron fist for my left hand, and a grasping steel claw for my right. Along with my titanium teeth, I must have looked like a half-crippled Bond villain, but I didn’t care.
A cable in my right hand connected a muscle in my forearm to a mouse pointer, allowing me to point and click. Point and click I did, reading about the explosion in popularity, and population, of the fluffy pony creatures. The fools had introduced them to the UK, and now every fancy pet store and supermarket was selling the pathetic shit-rats to little girls and boys. Youtube was full of them, squealing and begging and running and playing. Oh they “loved” their mummahs and daddahs. The very sight of them made me want to grab them, and slowly squeeze.
There were other websites of course. Specialist websites that catered to my… unusual tastes. It seemed I was not alone in my reaction to the retarded little pig-hamsters. People all over the world had found, as I had, that the abuse and torment of fluffy ponies scratched an itch that nothing else could touch. For the first time in months, I felt stimulated, alert, and alive, watching the fluffies wail, beg and weep as they were skinned alive and set on fire. I slowly weaned myself off of the heroin, and back on to cocaine, my first and only love, and searched the darkest recesses of the internet in search of more and more extreme stimulation.
But the fools had no class. They rushed things, kicking fluffies to death in alleyways, disemboweling them as soon as they were home from the pet store. The imbeciles did not know what they were doing. True pain required a fluffy pony to lose everything, and the creatures had so little to begin with. I wanted to create real suffering. I wanted a fluffy pony to feel despair.
And to lose everything, one must first have gained the world.
And so I found myself, at an exclusive fluffy section in London’s Harrods, looking at designer unicorn foals, and Alicorns with rainbow manes. The pranced, and preened, and begged for “upsies”, only to recoil at the sight of my monstrous hands. Indeed, they called me a monster, and rightly so. For now, my outsides resembled my insides. I grinned to reveal my perfect titanium teeth. The fluffies wailed and ran, crapping all over themselves and each other in the stampede to escape the arms of death.
“Munstah! Munstah!” the fluffy ponies shrieked.
“I’m so sorry sir,” the shop assistant blurted, “They are normally much friendlier. I will make sure they are disciplined severely for this…”
I waved my claw in the air dismissively. “Don’t worry, don’t worry,” I grinned, “The little darlings are just afraid is all. I think these ones are too fancy for my tastes anyway. Do you have anything a little more… desperate?”
The shop assistant saw the look in my eyes, and led me towards the back of the store.
“We do have some less popular colours,” he explained, “Greens and Browns mainly. Customers don’t like the drab colouration, and even the fluffy mothers seem to neglect their plain coloured babies.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “These are exactly the type of fluffies I wish to adopt.”
And so, in a small cardboard box, reeking of urine and despair, I found two baby fluffies, a brown earthy and a green pegasus, whom I immediately knew should be called Greeny and Browny, clinging to each other and weeping.
“Huu huu huu…” came their distinctive huuing noise. “Mummah nu wub fwuffies. Nu hab daddah. Nu one wan fwuffies. Fwuffies awe wowstest poopy fluffies! Huu huu huu huu huu…”
“Why, hello there, little fluffies,” I announced, sounding for all the world like the child-catcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, making the shop assistant squirm uncomfortably. “Would you fluffies like to come home with me? I have a nice warm house, and lots of toys, and lots and lots of your favourite nummies.”
The brown fluffy peered up at me, blinking away his tears, but utterly failing to read the sadistic insincerity that was written all over my face.
“Nice mistah am… Nyu daddah? Fow fwuffies?” Browny asked, “Weawy?”
The hairs on my neck stood on end as it spoke.
“Yes!” I cried with delight, “Really!”
The fluffy’s eyes widened.
“Hab housie? An nummies? An toysies?”
“Yes!” I replied, no less delighted.
“Fow fwuffies?”
“Yes!”
“Weawy?”
“Yes!” I repeated, the anticipation exploding within me.
Browny bent down and started talking to Greeny, who was hiding her eyes behind her hooves. I heard him whispering, and sensed some reluctance in his shit-box companion. Moments later, Browny looked up and asked a question.
“An huggies? Fwuffies nu need bestest nummies… onwy need huggies.”
I raised my iron fist and steel claw into the air with genuine glee.
“Of course!” I cried.
“SCREEEEEEEE!” Wailed the fluffies. “Munstah!”
I bought them immediately.
Over the next few weeks, I doted on little Browny and Greeny, giving them everything a fluffy could ever want.
I converted my old ballroom into a heavenly fluffy safe room. It had padded floors, and plush green carpets, and walls painted sky blue with rolling hills, unicorns and rainbows. It had nests and tunnels, ball pits and feather pillows. It had smell-stations and musical instruments, abacuses and xylophones. It had water bottles and milk bottles, hidden chocolate eggs and self-dispensing kibble bowls.
A new cable channel had just started FluffTV, a show by fluffies, for fluffies, with wonderous adventures and shows about babies. I set up a 72 inch plasma screen for the fluffies, mounted on the wall, and provided them with a fluffy operated remote control. I even had my butler set up a toy train set, big enough for them to sit and ride on, and drove them around the room while they gasped and wept for joy.
I had the fluffy sized chariots mounted on the wall, to remind me of better times. They were not for fluffies to play with, just for decoration I said.
Over time, the fluffies came to trust me, then to like me, then to love and adore me. My monstrous hands made them run in fear at first, but I never punished them, even as they left trails of “scaredy poopies” all over my carpet. As my butler cleaned the carpets and their behinds, I explained to them that I was not a “mean daddah” or a “monster daddah”. The fluffies listened and understood that I had had “worstest hurties” and lost my hands as a result. When Greeny understood what had happened, she apologised and cuddled my leg.
“Huu huu…” she wept in sympathy, “Meanie wady gib daddah wowstest huwties… Gweeny wiww make daddah bettew. Gib bestest huggies to bestest daddah!”
“Bwowny wub daddah too,” declared Browny, waddling over to hug my other leg as I sat on the carpet in their safe-room. “Bwowny wub bestest daddah, daddah am bestest-daddah ebew!”
I smiled, drinking down their love as if it were the sweetest nectar. One cannot betray unless one first has trust.
“Now,” I said, “Who wants some sketties?”
“SKETTIES! YAY!” the fluffies beamed with joy.
Over the weeks, the fluffies grew and grew. By now, Browny was a fine young stallion, and Greeny a pretty little filly. Being from separate litters, and fully fertile, as the shop-assistant had assured me, it was only a matter of time until nature took its course.
“ENF ENF ENF!” roared Browny, thrusting himself in and out of Greeny, who cooed and purred with pleasure.
“Guuud feews! Guuuud feews!” she told her special friend.
A diet of fine food and FluffTV’s show Babies was all that was needed to push the fluffies towards their biological imperative. At first, I pretended to be shocked, but later, I encouraged their “Enfings”, and in no time at all, Greeny was pregnant, with a swelling belly full of more of the little torment-monsters. I smiled as the proud parents cuddled and cooed, desperately excited at the thought of their babies being due.
I gently stroked them with my metal hands, listening to them singing to to Greeny’s “tummeh babbehs”
“Mummah wub babbehs! Babbehs wub mummah! Mummah gib miwkies! Gwow up Big an Stwong!”
I turned on the night light, and waited for the overhead to dim, mimicking a beautiful sunset. During the “dawk tiem” the night light cast figures of shooting stars and unicorns over the walls of the safe room. The fluffies nest was near to an open fire, but safely behind a metal grid, and distant enough that they could come to no harm. I threw a log on the fire, and let its warmth fill the room, letting my fluffies drift off into a magical sleep, no doubt dreaming of their fabled “Sketty Land”.
They were beautiful, and nearly ready.
I missed the babies being born, but found them cuddled up in their mother’s fluff, sucking and chirping the next morning.
“Bwowny hab babbehs!” exclaimed the proud father, “Bwowny babbehs am bestest babbehs! An Bwowny am bestest daddah! Gweeny am bestest speciaw fwiend!”
The creativity of his pathetic vocabulary, and the pride with which he declared his love was truly moronic, but I decided to give him his last few days of happiness. It would make their coming suffering all the more sweet.
“Gweeny wub babbehs daddah!” Greeny told me, “Gweeny am so happy dat daddah wet fwuffies hab babbehs! An safe-woom am so big! Fwuffies can hab wots and wots of babbehs!”
“Yes!” cried Browny, “An den Bwowny wiww be smawty fwiend, fow da fwuffy hewd!”
“Can I hold them?” I asked.
“Otay daddah,” said Greeny reluctantly, “But be cawefuw wib cwaw handy.”
I laughed and smiled, and cuddled the foals with my “claw handy”.
Later, I watched as the babies grew. After a few days, they were walking and exploring, still chirping, but able to speak a little, begging for milkies, and huggies, and saying “wub daddah!” and “wan mummah!”.
I helped them as they fell over and cried, and brought them safely back to their mother if they strayed too far from the nest. By now, the whole fluffy family trusted me completely.
On the final day, I assembled a fluffy-safe playground, complete with a slide and swing set, and a carousel for them to ride on. I played with Browny and Greeny and their four delightful foals, red and blue and green and brown. The parents adored all of their babies, but one could only wonder if they loved the green and brown babies the most. At night, I had heard Greeny whispering “Mummah wub gweeny babbeh da mostest. Gweeny babbeh am bestest babbeh.”
“Oh daddah!” cried Browny, sat on my lap while I gave him “bestest scratchies” with my claw hand, “Bwowny am so happy. Hab bestest babbehs, an bestest safe-woom. Fwuffy hab bestest-speciaw-fwiend, and bestest nummies!”
“And bestest daddah?” I asked him, knowing that his happiness was approaching its zenith.
“Yes! Daddah am bestest daddah ebew… Huu huu huu…”
“Oh, but what is the matter little Browny? Why are you crying?” I asked, milking his emotions to feed my dark desires.
“Huuu…” Browny sniffled, “It am jus… Bwowny wemembew da fwuffy stowe. Fwuffy fink neba hab daddah… Neba hab nice housie… Neba hab speciaw fwiend an babbehs. Huu huu huu…”
“Oh, but you do have all of those things.”
“Yes! An it cos of bestest daddah ebew! Fwuffy WUB you daddah!” he said, wide eyed and innocent, staring up at me, before buring his face in my clothing and hugging me fiercely.
I sat there for a moment, watching his babies riding the toy train in its circuit around the room, and realised it was time to begin.
“Are you… happy Browny?”
Browny looked up at me, momentarily confused.
“Am fwuffy… Of couwse fwuffy am happy daddah! Fwuffy am SO happy!”
“Gooood,” I purred, stopping the toy train, and gently pouring the carriage of squeaking baby fluffies onto my lap with their daddah.
“I have to ask you Browny, do you have a favourite baby? They are all so cute.”
Browny looked down at his wonderful litter of fluffy pony foals. They were cooing and squealing and rolling around in my lap.
“Bwowny nu hab fabowite,” he protested, “Bwowny wub dem aww da same.”
I smiled.
“That is very noble of you Browny, but, does Greeny have a favourite?”
Browny leaned in closer.
“Gweeny wub gweeny babbeh da mostests. Gweeny say am bestest babbeh, but Bwowny wub dem aww da same. Nu teww babbehs daddah. Bwowny nu wan dem hab heawt huwties.”
“Its OK Browny,” I said, lifting the green foal in my claw hand, and carefully placing her left hoof into the grip of my iron fist, ignoring the protesting flutter of her pegasus wings. “I won’t tell them if you don’t.”
“Wat do wib gweeny babbeh daddah?”
“Oh, its just a demonstration Browny. You see, you fluffies think that life is all magic and rainbows and huggies and love. But life is not really like that.”
Brownies eyes widened, and the green pegasus foal started to wriggle and whine, unable to extracate her hoof from the grip of my monster hand.
“You see Browny, we don’t live in a magical sketty-land. We live in a cold and uncaring universe. Things evolve to be… because they can. Do you know what emptiness is… little Browny?”
Browny gulped, clearly concerned for his struggling little foal.
“Empty? Empty am when dewe nu mowe sketties weft in nummy boww daddah.”
“Yes… Emptiness. The absence of form. And yet emptiness is what enables all forms to arise. Did you know that? Little fluffy?” I asked him, letting the sinister, so long hidden from him, drift back into my voice.
“Fw… Fwuffy nu know… Pwease put down wittew wingie babbeh daddah… babbeh am fwightened.”
I ignored the shit-rat and continued my lecture.
“You see, the thing about emptiness is, that it can birth happiness… but also, the most hideous and terrible suffering. Do you know suffering little fluffy?”
“Suffewing?” asked Browny, the word clearly new to its fragile little mind, “Wat am suffewing daddah?”
“This,” I said, “This is suffering.”
In one swift motion, I tore both wings from his bestest baby.
For a moment, the foal didn’t realise what had happened. Then the pain hit it. Hard.
“SCREEEEEEEEEEE! SCREEEEEEEEEE! WINGIES!” It wailed.
“Daddah!” cried Browny, shocked and appauled, immediately bursting into tears. “Why huwt wingie babbeh daddah? Why?”
“Because fuck you, that’s why. Simply because. The universe is cold and uncaring. It allows all forms to arise. Even monsters, like me. And I AM a monster Browny.”
“BESTEST BABBEH!” Greeny wailed, running over from her nest. “Speciaw FWIEND! Wa happen to wingie babbeh?”
By now, all the fluffies were weeping and wailing, and the green pegasus foal was fluttering its wing-stumps, spraying a fine mist of blood all over the arm of my white silk shirt, and shitting all over my iron fist.
“Its all Browny’s fault,” I told her, “He said he loves the brown baby the bestest, and that he HATES the greeny-wingie baby. So I cut off her wings.”
“Nuuuuuuu! Speciaw fwiend! Why huwt babbeh?” the retarded mother wailed, swallowing my lies as easily as she had the finest spaghetti.
“Nuuuu!” Protested Browny, “It nu am twue! Bwowny nu say dose meanie fings!”
“Oh tut-tut Browny,” I scolded him, putting the wingless and weeping pegasus foal down on the floor, where its larger pegasus mother immediately scooped it up into her fluff.
“Bestest babbeh!” she wept again, desperately trying to fix its amputations with her hugs “Huu huu huu huu huu…”
“You’ve been VERY BAD Browny,” I told the huuing father, who was feebly trying to hug his family, only to be hoofed away by the distraught mother. “You’ve been very bad, and you need to be punished.”
I carried the weeping Browny downstairs, and into my wine-cellar. There I placed him on a large table, where his fate would be sealed.
“Why?” he kept on asking, when he managed to stop crying long enough to breathe, “Why huwt wingie babbeh? Why teww speciaw fwiend dat Bwowny nu wub babbeh?”
“Because I can,” I explained. “I gave you everything Browny. And I can Take It All Away. Everything. The universe creates, and the universe destroys. That’s all there is to it really.”
“Huu huu huu…” Browny wept, “Daddah am meanie munstah… Nu wub fwuffy. Huu huu huu huu huu…”
“For once, little fluffy, you are right.”
Without further ado, I grabbed Browny by the scruff of his fluffy neck, in the clenched grip of my cruel iron fist. Then, I set about slowly removing his legs with the callous pincers of my claw hand.
“SCREEEEEE! WEGGIES! NUUUU! DADDAH STAWP! STAWP! SCREEEEEEEEEE!”
I laughed and laughed and laughed. Feeling pure joy for the first time in over a year. My claw hand ripped through fluffy and flesh, crunching his bones into broken fragments and spurting blood all over both of us. It was hilarious to hear him wailing and begging as I removed his first leg, inch by inch. Twisting and cutting and crushing him slowly, making it last far longer than a merciful cleaving would have been. As I removed his first leg, I held it up in front of him, making him wail as he realised it was gone forever. Then I started on his next leg. Then the next leg.
“Nuuu…” the fluffy begged feebly, having screamed so much it could barely speak, “Pwease daddah, nu take wastest weggy…”
But the lastest leggy simply had to go. I cut into him once more. Taking satisfaction from his torture as I once had taken it from sex. As I did so, I imagined it was her I was dismembering. Her arms and legs I was removing. Her who was a crippled freak. Instead of… instead of…
“Daddah!” Browny cried, as his last leg was torn from his body.
“And now,” I declared, holding the final limb aloft, it is time to take, your No-no stick!"
“Nuu…” was all Browny could manage. “Pwease daddah… Nu take no-no stick. Bwowny nu hab weggies nu mowe… But Bwowny need no-no stick fow speciaw huggies, an make tummeh babbehs… Pwease nu take no-no stick daddah. Pwease… Bwowny need no-no stick.”
“I’m afraid I have no choice,” I told him.
SNICK.
“SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEE! SCREEEEEEEEEEEEE! SCREEEEEEEEEEEE!”
Allowing the agonised fluffy no time to rest, I hauled him by the scruff of his neck, and placed him into a stinking sorry box. It was still covered in the dried shit and piss of its previous occupant, and literally stank of fluffy fear. The only difference was, it now had a hole cut into one side, so he could look out from his hell-hole into the heaven that his special friend and babies were still living in.
“From now on, you will live in this box… forever,” I explained to the fluffy, wailing in agony, unable to comprehend my words. “You will have a new diet. From now on, you will eat nothing but the excrement of your own family. You will watch as they run and play, and if they don’t want to let you starve to death, they will shit in your food bowl to appease your hunger.”
“Aiiiee… daddah… why? Why take no-no stick? Why huwt Bwowny?” the blubbering fluffy babbled between its wails.
“Because I can,” I simply explained. “Oh, and from now on, you have a new name. Your new name is not Browny. Your new name is… Shitbrick.”
“Huuu huu… fwuffy nu wike nyu name…” the fluffy wept as I placed it into its sorry-box prison.
“No… I didn’t expect you to,” I replied, as I shut the lid on him forever.
His pitiful head was sticking out of the hole, tears streaming down his face. He truly was a picture of despair.
“Huu huu…” the fluffy pony wept, “Fwuffy wan mummah…”
“Goodnight Shitbrick,” I said, as I walked up the stairs from my wine cellar. And with that, I turned off the light switch, and left the fluffy to cry in the darkness.
