Temperature
Abuse
By: Turboencabulator
A fat, sweaty man in a stained coors light t-shirt shouldered his way through the door of a
dingy, cramped storeroom, filled floor to ceiling with boxes of various size, shape, and
degrees of water damage. The overhead lights were a sickly yellow, and would flicker when heavy
trucks drove by on the sun-bleached highway overhead. Setting a minifridge-sized box on the
desk outside, he peered over at his customer.
“This is the guts. The cages will be out by the loading dock. You know you can’t use this stuff
on animals, right? It’s illegal, cruelty laws and all that shit.”
The customer, a tall, thin man with a slightly off smile, nodded. “I won’t be using it on any
animals.” He said, and took out a wad of cash, counting off a thousand dollars.
“You should be careful flashing wads like that around. Less decent people would try to take it
off you.”
The customer’s smile grew wider, and more wrong. “I’m aware. They would be mistaken to try.”
He got up and left, and the room seemed to grow lighter, and less confined.
Sam was walking the rows of the feral pens, thinking, observing the fluffies. He stopped by a
pen of a family, one of the bitch mares and a batch of fresh chirpies. He gently patted the
mare on the head. “You’ve got some lovely babies there.”
“Dummy hoomin. Dese de bestest babbies.”
The adjacent mare, with an older batch of five, stomped up to the separating wall. “Dose awe
poopie nu-good babbies. Fwuffy’s babbies bestest.”
They stared at each other, cheeks puffed. The first mare started to lift her tail and turn
before Sam lightly pushed her butt down against the floor, elicting a surprised fart.
“Now now, you know making sorry-poopies might get your pretty babies all yucky and make them
sick.”
With a huff she nodded, and blew a raspberry at the offending mother.
Sam chuckled. “I have an idea. How about you two have a little game to see who has the better
babies?”
The pair looked up at him, curious.
“Yeah, I know. I have a game you can play. One mother and her chirpies, versus another mother
and her walky-talky babies. Wanna play?”
The mothers looked at each other. Both developed identical expressions, determined, and nodded, cheeks puffed, in a charging stance.
Sam popped his knuckles, making the surrounding fluffies jump, a few peeing in fear of the
loud, sharp noise. “I’ll go get set up.”
With that, he turned and went to gather equipment, and a heavy parka.
Will found Sam in the back of the fluffy barn, monitors on the old butcher’s block, a heavy
coat hung up in the doorway, and a whirley-pop popcorn maker next to an unlit campstove. Sam
was busy filling fluffy-safe water bottles in the old sink, which finally had begun to run
clean.
“Deal went through. I’m going to hose down the cages and stick 'em in storage. What’s all
this?”
Sam grinned, and thumbed over his shoulder at the old meat locker. “Gunna run a little
experiment in thermoregulation. I want to know how cold we can run the ‘bad’ shelter without
killing the occupants. Figured we can get rid of two of the bitch mares and their brood at the
same time.”
“Ok, explain.” Will leaned up against a post, picking a fresh joint out of a hard case and
lighting up.
“Well, everything that’s warm blooded has a range of temperatures that it’s comfortable in. Too
high though, and the body starts spending energy to regulate back down. Too low, and it starts
spending energy to regulate back up. If it’s really too far out of that range, then you get
things like heat stroke and hypothermia. Fluffies are reasonably comfortable at a nice 72, and
I want to see how cold they can live in.”
Will grins, thinking out loud. “And then we can keep them cold and shivering without letting it
kill them. Nice.”
Sam nodded, and went in to the meat locker, which was brightly lit, if drab, and put the water
bottles in five identical cages, each one with a standard camera, an overhead infrared camera,
and a digital thermometer in-shot. They were devoid of comfort, with one having a solid plywood
sheet floor, the remainders being metal grating, elevated from the floor a few inches.
Will watched as Sam went out, and came back with one of the bitch mares, and set her down in
the wood-bottomed cage. She stood up on her hind legs, almost jumping, as Sam picked up her
four chirpies.
“Now lay down there, I’ll set them on you, ok?”
She quickly flopped on her side with a thud and a muffled ‘owwies’. Sam gently deposited her
babies on her side and gave her a light boop on the nose. “Now just wait a little. I know it
isn’t very pretty but once we get started you won’t even notice. There’s water and once I get
everyone else here we’ll give out food.”
She grumbled, something about how it had better be bestest sketties. Sam ignored her, and
fetched the other family. The mare went in one pen alone, two foals in together, and then two
foals in separate cages. They looked around, confused.
“Dummy hoomin, u need put babbies in hewe wit mummah. Gib babbies NOW!”
Sam chuckled. “No, I don’t think so.”
He put down a bowl in each pen, filled with a grade of kibble that would be charitably
described as ‘technically edible’.
With a clap of his hands, he stood up. “Now, fluffies. We’re going to play a game. The game is
called ‘Survive’. You win by not going forever sleepies.”
The fluffies erupted in cacophony, yelling a mixture of threats from the mothers, and pleading
from the foals who were able to talk. The lone mare turned and lifted her tail, spraying sorry
poopies out the bars of the cage, but landing several feet short of Sam. He turned and went to
the thermostat on the wall, which maxed out at 50 degrees. Turning it on, the overhead chillers
rattled to life, making the assembled fluffs quake and look around, muttering about ‘munstas’.
He left the room, closing the door, sealing away the shouting fluffies.
50 degrees
The meanie cage the human had put the fluffy mummah in hurt her hooves, and smelled not-pretty, but that was ok, she showed him with some excellent sorry poopies. Who cares if it didn’t get on him, he left anyways. The food was dummy too, hard and yicky. She looked out, pressing her snout against the bars, a foot from her nearest two babies. They were already huddled together, pressed into a corner. Beyond, she could see the two single babies.
“Mummahhhh? Hewp babbeh! Babbeh cowd, wan mummahhhh!”
She stood on her hind legs, pressed against the cage wall, looking over to the furthest baby. She was a wingy little one, and was the bestest dancie baby. “Mummah hewe babbeh, nu wowwy, gun make meanie hoomin gib babbeh, den gun make hoomin sowwy an take sowwy poopies and pee-pees fwom AWW babbies.”
This didn’t cheer the little ones up. Her wingy-dancy baby sat down heavily, whimpering, and
trying to get comfortable on the rough, grating floor. She started crying and sucking on her
hoof.
The other mummah was curled around her little chirpie ones, keeping them buried in her fluff,
and staring at the door. She had scarfed down the food and made sure her babies all got milk,
even the not-pretty one.
With a huff and a glance at the door, the lone mare curled up, wondering why the wind was
blowing inside a housie-room.
45 degrees
The plywood floor was thankfully smooth, so the mare could turn and eat and drink before going
back to tend to her chirpy babies. They were shivering a little, though not as much as she
was. Looking up, she could see the other mare, put separate from her babies, was still alive
from the clouds of white coming from her nose. Even from where she lay, the other fluffies were
obviously shivering, except one.
The littlest filly, with wings. She was curled up in a ball, head tucked in close, and very
still, her side barely moving.
Curling tighter around her chirpy babies, and making sure none of them were on the wood, the
mare glanced at the door, then tucked her head over her young.
40 degrees
Sam walked in, and kicked the cage of the dead filly lightly. The sound spooked all the others,
elicting a splashing of piss from the nearest, also alone colt. He was chattering, and barely
able to lift himself on his forelegs.
Sam crouched down and pulled out the dead fluff. “Forty degrees, thirty minutes.”
“P-p-pwease mistew Sam, w-w-wet f-fwuffy go, nee-nee-need wawmsies an muh-muh-muhmmMmmMma” The colt stammered, breathing in shallow little spurts.
Sam looked over. “Why would I do that? Nobody’s won yet.”
“Be-be-because fwu-fwuffy wub you? An-an-an you sabed fwu-fwuffies fw-fwu-fwum
shew-t-t-ter. Pwease?”
“But I don’t love you. I don’t love any of you.” Sam smiled, standing up.
The colt looked up at Sam, and started to cry, in short, hitching sobs, shaking, and started to
scream. “PWEASE MISTEW SAM FWUFFY NEED WAWMSIES AN MUMMAH AN BEDDIE AN BWANKIE AN NICEY FOODS NU WAN FOWEBBA SWEEPIES NU WAN NU WAN NU WANNNNN!” He finished with a screeching tantrum, pounding his little hooves against the wall of the cage, squirting shit and piss, bawling.
Sam watched, impassive. “You wanna be warm do ya? Ok.”
With a sniffle, the colt looked up, big eyed, hopeful. “W-w-weawwy?”
Sam crouched down. “Put your little hoofsies through here.” He held out his hands on the other
side of the bars.
The colt eagerly shoved his forehooves through. Sam took them, and promptly zip-tied them in
place, standing up again. The colt began to struggle, confused, then crying again, watching as
Sam unzipped his pants. The young fluff couldn’t run or turn away as Sam pissed in his face,
soaking him thoroughly as the hot urine seeped into his fluff until he was dripping wet.
Sam used a knife to snip the zip-tie off. “There. Now you’re warm.” With a spit in the sobbing,
traumatized foals face, he turned and left the meat locker, slamming the door shut.
35 degrees
The piss-soaked colt was dead. The paired colts were, according to the IR cameras, in one of
the more moderate stages of hypothermia. The mares, with their fat reserves and much thicker
fluff, were cold, and shivering, but could survive. The chirpies were a hot white-red splotch
in the camera, kept alive and very warm. After an hour at 35, Sam was ready to finish.
Standing up he wandered in to the meat locker and sighed. “Well, looks like your babies are
almost all dead. These two won’t make it much longer in here.”
The grieving, shaking mother looked up at Sam. “Hatechu. Munsta, dummy, poopie,
fowebba-sweepie-gibbing h-h-hoomin. Gun kiww you.”
Sam crouched down and offered his arm. “Go ahead. Try.”
She promptly grabbed on, biting down and beating at his arm with her hooves. Sam watched,
expressionless, until she slowed, staring at him, sobbing. Her tears trickled down and dripped
across his arm, and off her chin. Sam shook her off, dropping her in the metal cage, and
picking up the two near dead foals, depositing them in with her. “Here. I’ll give you a chance
to save them.”
With renewed energy, she grabbed her foals, pulling them in tight and wrapping her poofy tail
around them. The young fluffies were barely able to move, but managed to grab on and cling to
her fluff.
Sam walked out, pointing at the other mare. “You just hold tight. You’ve won, so i’m going to
get you out of here and get you warm.”
He busied himself at the portable stove, before coming in again, with a stock pot full of
boiling water. In one smooth motion, the boiling water was dumped out on the mare and her two
foals. The chorus of screaming and agonized wailing went unbroken, until Sam carried the
winner’s cage out, and closed the freezer door for the night.
The mare could feel the warm air displacing the frigid, and watched as Sam laid a large fleece
blanket down next to her. “Here,” he said, “I just got this out of the dryer. It’s warm.”
She nosed the blanket, and quickly shifted her babies into its folds, laying next to
it. staring at Sam. He picked up the cage, and carried it outside, setting it on a platform in
the evening sun.
The warm summer breeze blew through her fur, seemingly tearing the cold out of her and bringing energy back. She looked up at Sam. “You bad hoomin. Yu gun get worstest poopies.” She stood, turning, and lifted her tail. “No wun, u deserbe poopies an wowstest sowwy-hoofsies.”
Sam deftly spun her with a slap on the haunch, so she sprayed shit all over her assembled
babies. “What did I tell you about sorry-poopies near your children?”
The mare turned and picked up the first baby, making a disgusted face as she tried to lick it
clean.
“Well, you won. I’m going to make sure you don’t feel cold ever again.”
She turned to retort, but saw he was quite a ways away, watching, and smiling. There was a
strange smell of smoke, and a crackling sound.
Sam watched as the fire under the cage took, the evening wind helping stir it up, and listened
as the mare and chirpies burned to death, the orange-red of the fire blending beautifully with
the early sunset hours.
