Ten Examples of Fluffy Death, Destruction, and General Mistreatment, by Ekulmam3838.
A collection of ten short stories as a follow-up to the Nine Examples of Fluffy Death. Enjoy and read them all, they only get better and better!
#1. Lost, Alone, Wegwess.
An infant, mutilated and abandoned in the dead of winter. His owner relieved him of his “weggies” to shorten “make him feel a little better about things”, but it only ended with frustration and banishment of the fluffy from the home. Unfortunately, with most predators in the region deep in hibernation sleep, the only thing the fluffy can do is cry and yell for his mother. And wait for the cold grasp of winter to kill him.
#2. The Volunteer.
The sun beats down upon the tired crowd. Days are long in the park, especially with the increasing popularity and ticket prices. Sighs were heard echoing across the crowd, with some tempers flaring. The crowd’s issues were assuaged as an announcer belted across loudspeakers, “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. IF YOU WOULD PLEASE ATTRACT YOUR ATTENTION TO 13-B.” The crowd audibly gasped at the short announcement and quickly rushed to the window to see a fat fluffy wandering in the exhibit. It wore a helmet that read “JP VOLUNTEER” with a red heart. In an instant, as soon as it was there, it was gone. Cries of mummah and bad huwties were heard as the ancient apex predator ate its evening meal.
- A Sneak Preview.
The youngest foal of the three foal litter opens its eyes to see a cold, grey floor. Disappointment immediately wracks her face, as she expected the vibrant fluff of her mummah and not whatever this was. Her feelings rapidly shifted as out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of red. With a sickening CRACK her brother hit the floor neck-first, still barely-formed spine sticking out of his asshole and cheek, blood dripping from high above. His eyes, never opened, popped out of their sockets in a sickening display of agony and horror. In her emotional anguish, she reached for her brother, not knowing the sickle-like hook pulled her leg further and further from the socket. The last thing she heard was the squelch of her leg flesh ripping asunder as she dropped directly on her face, crushing half her brain in an instant.
- Dying in Droves: Fata Cannydus
“Mutations induced by abusers guised as scientists have made life for fluffies a living hell. Foal adoption is almost completely extinct, as no child wants an ugly, leaking horse-pig-sheep-whatever. Just a few years back, alleyways were filled with foals and various screams of joy or terror. Now? Death rattles and gurgles. There’s not even a smell, the mutations got rid of it. Pray for all forms of intelligence.
We sure won’t.”
— Anynomous, 2023
- Mimicry.
The Fluffy cannydus is truly a terrible thing. Already at a genetic disposition at birth, they are also incredibly ugly and malformed. Their brains form far smaller due to induced microcephaly in the past. There were also some unintended consequences, such as the FAR decreased overall size, as well as striking lack of external ears. They are born with holes, lacking any form of protection. Many Canny’s do understand human language, and remarkably make the connection that their lack of ears is what makes them undesirable.
They are hilariously wrong.
- Aisle Nine.
“Fuck this weather,” you muttered to yourself as you trudged through the snow to enter the supermarket. The storm that had come upon your town only a few hours back was predicted to only leave an inch or two of snow; not an entire foot. You enter the sliding doors, creaking in the freezing weather, and rush inside for the warmth. The store is empty, apart from a handful of cashiers on the twenty checkout lanes. Taking a breath of the warm air, you stride inside and walk past Aisle 9, where a man in a black trench coat is staring at the shelf absentmindedly. Paying no mind, you grab the few things you need to make dinner. As you finish and head to the registers, the man in the trench coat is staring at you from the end of the aisle. Giving him a brief smile, you turn around to the cashier and finish your transaction. As you do, you look behind you. The man is gone.
“Will that be all?” the clerk says, snapping you out of a trance. “Yeah…” you begin to say, before continuing, “…actually I may need to go grab something very quick.” She replies with an understanding smile and nod as you briskly walk to Aisle 9. About halfway down the aisle are the cans of tuna, marked down from 99 cents to 2 whole cents. It seemed like a great idea, until you actually looked at the can. Superglued to the lid of the can was a shit-brown fluffy foal making barely audible squeaks. “Still here from the liquidation, huh,” you quietly say to yourself. It looks at you, mouth agape, eyes pleading, not wanting to be the last fluffy on the shelf anymore. With a smile, you reach for the can…
And move it behind the rest, never to be seen again.
- Never Had a Chance.
Fluffies and Reproduction: Another Look into Biology
By Stephen J. Klorowonowski.
Abstract: In the short time since fluffies have been introduced into society, they remain highly contentious, pitting the rights of bio-toys against those of God-created creature. Public health implications of fluffies are staggering; around 50-60% of household pets have perished due to a parvovirus spread across mega herds. Sentiment regarding vigilantism and mass killings in response to the death of beloved pets is split heavily in favor of those deemed “Revengists” who advocate for fluffy genocide. However, detractors of their popular euthanization method still exist, and this paper is meant to dissuade those arguments. In short, as seen in images (I) and (II), the “tweezer” method forcefully aborts the foal moments before birth, allowing it to be held by its mother for a moment before being placed upon a tray where its head is twisted twice and then separated from the neck. This is a largely painless procedure for the foal, and is therefore humane to commit.
Introduction: In the year 2019, the first fluffy was introduced by DengFluff out of Beijing. Since that fatef
- Like an Orange.
Dear Diary…
Having this “diary” is still fucking gay. It’s STILL a journal, and always fucking has been. Just cause my retarded brother “feels better” according to my bitch mom. There’s only one thing that makes me feel better. And it’s just not the same. I have to keep coming up with new ideas.
This one might take the cake. I call it “Like an Orange”. The first step has nothing to do with the name, its just an immobilization step. I put in these small fishing hooks in the little shit’s upper eyelids and tore off its lower eyelids, forced to marvel at my work. It’s eyes started bugging out and looking all over the place. I left it there and went to grab four leather belts from my closet, relics of the stupid fucking High School uniform I had to wear. The fluffy is already in shock, but kinda came out of it weirdly when I touched it like I was gonna help it. I tightened the belt around each forearm, the neck, and the waist as tight as they could go. You would figure it would just die quick, but these fluffies are tough little fucks. I like to play a little game as I watch the fluffy struggle as its shit gets crushed, eyes flailing about in their sockets. I bet five bucks what would kill it first; asphyxiation, the limbs falling off, or its guts spurting out of its asshole. For the first one, within about thirty seconds, all the guts fired out of the ass like a rocket, splashing on the floor and wall. It was fuckin sick…but with its tangerine fur it couldn’t help but remind me of a crushed orange in my hand. Maybe im the problem man
— R.H. 2020
- Lying in Wait.
Day I. 12:01 PM, EST.
I’ll keep these entries short, they’re for my own sanity anyways. Being up here in the lighthouse by myself is truly lonely, and it’s only day one. Luckily, the previous guy had a pet, and forgot it here. He sent me a message, as he was going to be away for the next six months, asking to take care of it when I arrived. To my surprise, it was a fluffy. They were kinda cute, my little sister had one, so I figured there couldn’t be too much harm in letting it stick around.
Day II. 12:07 PM, EST.
How the fuck did he keep this thing here? It took me about a day to punt it into a wall where it laid sobbing, LOUDLY, for hours, crying about its daddeh. I finally went over to the thing to stomp it out for good until I realized I somewhat liked it. I rolled the fat blue creature over with the tip of my boot to discover that it had a massive gash on its stomach from where it had broken its fall on the wood wall. Good thing I know my way around a needle.
Day IV. 7:32 AM, EST.
I write this with a shaky hand. I stayed up until the wee hours of the night with the fluffy, doing…various things. I brought it to the depths of the lighthouse, in the keeps underneath used for storage I would never violate it, that was reserved for my lovely wife, but this thing just fulfills some sort of bloodlust in me. I shaved the fluff around the gash, and then sewed it up hastily. The skin was red with welts and blue with bruises. Unfortunately, “Chawowes” as this thing calls itself, had an issue with flailing his arms about while I was so graciously helping him. So I simply tore them off and left them there. What he did with them was up to him. I must sleep, I gotta keep watch all night. Fuck I’m tired, there’s even these red things in the corner of my eyes. I’ll leave him here, I’ll get him in the morning.
Day CLXXXI. 11:59AM, EST.
I write this final log as I leave it for the next watchman! I hope you will have enjoyed your stay as much as I did. The nights are long, dark, and incredibly boring, and you have no company. Have fun, fuckface!
— R.L.S.
“Well, you might have a little company,” he chuckled to himself, knowing that deep in the depths of his former place of employment lied a rotting, necrotic carcass of a creature that was just a little too annoying.
- Last Gasp.
Kelly was really, really getting sick of her choice a year ago. She adopted a soft, white mare from the Fluffy shelter who was nothing but sweet and loving…for the first hour. After getting comfortable in her new home, “Chrysalis” immediately started acting out. Not understanding how to pronounce her own name, she demanded to be called “Chrys”, or as she pronounced it “Kiss”. Kelly obliged, wanting to make her new pet comfortable. Unfortunately, Chrysalis is about as stupid as they come, and when Kelly called her, she constantly believed she was getting “kissies” and would sob for hours until her owner gave her the slightest peck on the forehead. It was cute at first, but got old really quick. Chrysalis also turned out to have a genetic defect, causing her back legs to not form fully, almost as if she had been pillowed. It started out okay, but just like everything with Chrysalis, it got worse over time. Hundreds, if not thousands in bills stacked up for prosthetics that Chrysalis refused to use, physical therapy that Chrysalis did not try in, and constant beratement caused Kelly to simply ignore her pet for around eight months. She allowed “it”, as she called it now, to remain in her home, but never paid it any attention except for meal times once a day. It was a nightmare for the fluffy, wailing and moaning for attention but never receiving even a glance.
Kelly had one particular day circled on her calendar. July 11th. The day she got Chrysalis. When the day came around, she didn’t even have to make the first move. As she opened her eyes and wiped away the sleep, she saw a white ball of tears and snot begging her for attention. Chrysalis had said something to her, but she couldn’t quite make it out.
“What?” she said groggily.
“MUMMAH!!! YOU TAWKK TOO MEE!!” Chrysalis screeched, breaking her mother out of her sleepy state.
“What did you just say.”
“Uhmmm…fwuffy say….”
“Fucking spit it out.”
“…pwease wage up Gewwy…”
With the mention of the creature addressing her by her first name, Kelly snatched the fluffy by its scruff and carried it to the bathroom. She had always meant to use what she stored under the sink, but always thought she could fix her pet.
She grabbed the plastic Stand-A-Fluff (R.I.P. Edition) and stood it on the sink, with Chrysalis’ fat bunching around the sharp edges uncomfortably.
“Mummah…….”
“Another word. I fucking dare you.”
“…….pwease n-”
The metal clamp was fixed across the fluffy’s back, attached to a mechanical arm holding a large syringe.
“WUHHH—” the fluffy exclaimed, as the almost flat needle tip pierced its massive vulnerable artery on the top of its neck. Green, viscous liquid was pushed slowly into the bloodstream of the pet, as excruciatingly as possible. The fluffy tried to ask her mother what the “hurtie wawas” was, but all she got in reply was a cold stare and a disappointed sigh. Another year down the drain, Kelly thought to herself, closing the door on the fluffy. Never again. She heard Chrysalis knock over the Stand-A-Fluff, falling onto her stomach and leaving the syringe further pushed into her back. About thirty seconds of front hooves flailing led to a rasping cough, followed by a heavy thud and the clacking of plastic on the bathroom floor.
Two minutes later, Kelly comes back into the bathroom to wash the remaining dye out of her hands. At least it’s on the outside, she mused to herself, glancing at her final victim of the fluffy variety.
