Your name is Sally, but everybody just calls you Sal. You are 27 years old, and you work at a fluffy pony shelter. The nametag pinned to your flannel button-down reads “Intake Specialist,” but to the other employees, you are known as “That evil bitch.”
—
Pulling up to the shelter parking lot at 7AM, you park your battered Toyota pickup at the far end of the lot. The shelter is a long, low building, with a narrow parking lot beside it, nestled into a light industrial area. Somebody has helpfully sprayed graffiti all over the cinderblock exterior. The employee entrance opens into a wide work area. The area is mostly filled with shiny stainless work-tables, sinks, fluffy cages, and a series of long, low pens along both walls. As you cross the workspace, most of the others glare at you with disdain. You flip them the bird and smile your best shit-eating grin. An older man, with thinning hair sprinkled with gray, approaches you, shaking his head in amusement.
“Hi Sal.”
“Hi Rob.”
“Hope you’re well. We have 29 surrendered fluffies. The ladies have already scanned them, and they found 3 chipped strays. The others are all confirmed ferals or surrenders. Bad news is that we only have 12 adult slots open. Plenty of room for foals, though.”
“Awesome possum. I’ll get to work.”
“I really appreciate this Sal. None of those old bats have what it takes to do this.”
“No problemo, boss-man.”
You stride across the back room and open the door to your “office.” It is a long but narrow space against the back of the shelter building. The exterior wall is lined with a series of separated pens, each with a drain in the tile floor. The opposite wall has a series of trap doors that lead to chutes, like a laundry chute. There is a well-lit workbench with sink, as well as a large, wheeled biological waste container in the corner. Donning your vinyl coveralls, boots, tool belt and a set of thick nitrile gloves, you wheel an industrial laundry hamper out into the workshop and over to the holding pen.
The holding pen is a long, low structure, lined with easy-to-clean foam padding. A gently sloped chute deposits surrendered fluffies into the holding pen. Like an unwanted baby, a person can deposit an unwanted or feral fluffy, no questions asked. A touch-screen outside allows people to leave notes on what they deposit, so that a chipped fluffy that is no longer wanted is not mistaken for one that is simply lost. Each morning before you arrive, the dried up old cunts who work here scan each and every surrender, so that they might save any strays from your tender mercies. The thought of this makes you smile a little as you survey your workload for the day.
The pens are not even close to being full. Fluffies of all shapes and sizes frolic, hug each other, or merely sit quivering in a pile of their own shit. In the corner is some sort of commotion as several fluffies mill about violently.
“Nu wan meanie-huggies! Weve fwuffy awone!” An emerald mare desperately tries to evade a pair of angry stallions, as a yellow unicorn eggs them on, his snout smeared with blood.
“Das wight toughies! Gib dummeh mawe bestest sowwy hoofsies!”
You stomp forward and roughly sweep the stallions aside with your boot. Your gloved hand reaches down and you give the mare the once-over.
“Fwuffy wub nice wady! Pwese gib huggies fo owwies?” It reaches out its stubby little hooves for a hug, which you dodge by straightening your arm.
“Fuck no.”
She seems to have no real injuries aside from a bloody nose. You place her back down in the pen, and turn to the yellow fluffy who has been battering your boot during your inspection of the mare.
“What the fuck do you want?”
“Gib dat mawe to smawty, dummeh! Dat mawe am fo smawty’s gud feews!”
LOL. LMAO.
“Nah, shitrat.”
You answer by punting the smarty across the pen. The toughies stop hugging away each others pain and freeze as they see this. Striding across the pen, you retrieve the sniveling smarty and stuff him into a garbage bag from a dispenser on your belt.
“Nu wike dawk pwace! Dummeh wet smawty go” He grunts as the tied garbage bag lands roughly on the concrete outside the pen.
“Huuhuuhuu! Smawty hab owwies!”
You ignore the mewling unicorn as you load the rest of the surrendered fluffies into your cart for “processing.” Back in your workshop, you begin processing the fluffies, marking a small scrap of whiteboard with a tally for the appropriate category as you process each fluffy. First up to bat is a bright blue mare, her tail a brilliant red.
“Nice wady be nyu mummah? Gib wuv an huggies to Bwubeww?” The earth mare asks as you set her on the benchtop.
“No. Be good and someone might give you a new home though.”
You give the mare a quick inspection: no lesions, infections, injuries. This one is domestic for sure. The mare has clearly been fixed, the fluffy complaining when you part its vulva to check.
“Nu! Nu wike touch speshuw pwace!”
“Quiet.”
You bonk her gently on the nose, and she shuts up. Turning to the other wall, you open the hatch labeled B and let the fluffy go.
“Wheeeee! Fwuffy wuv swide!” T
he fluffy’s voice vanishes as you slam the hatch shut. One of the other shelter workers will clean her up and place her in the appropriate cage. Next up is a purple male pegasus. His turquoise mane is quite fetching, but there is some kind of awful growth in the matted fur behind his ear. It oozes puss as you poke it with a gloved finger.
“Owwie!”
He chirps in pain from the poke, but you wipe the pus off on his coat and grab a treat from your pouch.
“C’mere little guy. I have a treat for you.”
You motion him down to the opposite end of the bench and he follows readily. On the end of the bench is a small hand-operated press brake, and you place the treat on the far side. Without hesitation, the stallion edges forward, his head between the jaws of the brake.
“Tank u fo nummy tweat, nice wady!”
He munches happily.
“Don’t mention it.”
You yank the handle down.
KACHUNK
There is a sickening crunch as the jaws of the press brake close with authority, instantly cracking the fluffy’s neck. The stallion shudders once and is still. You sweep his corpse into the waste bin and move on to the next. Raw deal for the little shit, but the shelter can’t afford medicines, even for an adoptable fluffy like that.
You move quickly through the remaining fluffies. Class A refers to weaned foals of any kind. These will get adopted without a doubt, even the less desirable colors. B’s are adults: nicely colored and without any obvious issues, they get spared as long as there is room for them. Plenty of people will adopt an attractive and well-behaved adult. Certainly a better choice for a kid than a foal like so many buy instead. Class C is where things get more subjective. Any adult without visible problems, but sporting a less than attractive color scheme gets tossed here. Sometimes there is room for them, sometimes not. If there is, you pick the least awful looking and best behaved of the bunch for salvation. Hey, some people like brown fluffies. The ‘D’ in Class D stands for ‘death.’ Nothing but instakills in this group. Smarties, ferals with deformities, and any amputees. Plenty of abused fluffy’s get dumped here. Shelter life can be rough for ‘scary’ fluffies like those with abuse scars, so doubtless the abuser thinks they are dooming them to a life of misery. Instead, they get a quick end to further suffering.
KACHUNK
KACHUNK
KACHUNK
There are two foals. Both are spared after expressing an interest in solid treats from your pouch. Unweaned foals are a no-go here unless Rob gives you a heads up. Formula is expensive, and it is doubtful there are any mares willing to share theirs. One is pale red with a bright yellow mane.
“Cowt nu wike dis!”
He bleats from the tiny hobble you have placed him in. The plywood apparatus sits several inches off the ground and has holes for his hooves.
“Tough titties buddy. You’re gonna hate this next part.”
From the toolbox comes a set of banding pliers. Loading it with a stretched rubber band, you lift the worried colt’s tail and position the tool carefully.
“Nu wike touch wumps! Pwese no?” It chirps pathetically. You twitch your hand and the band slips off the pliers, and into place with a snap pinching off the blood flow to the little colts’ testicles.
“Screeeeeeeeee! Owwwiessss!”
The tiny fucker tries comedically to hug away the pain in his tiny nuts, but to no avail. Down the chute he goes with the others. Today’s surrenders are about 95% domestic, so you haven’t had to fix any until now. The other foal is a female. Quite a bit more work there. Pale green, with a bold purple mane, the tiny earth fluffy squirms as you place her in the hobble.
“Pwese, nice wady. Nu take weggies? Fiwwy am gud fwuffy.”
“I’m not taking your legs. Hold still.” You dig around in your tools and find the world’s tiniest speculum, inserting it into the filly’s tiny vagina.
“Nuuuu! Nu put cowd ting in fiwwy’s speshul pwace!” You flick her nose.
“Quiet.”
Next comes a syringe of caustic solution, injected quickly through the opening in her tiny cervix. Uterine ablation, as this is know, is both cheap and simple. Any idiot with a syringe can perform it, in contrast to an expensive spaying performed by a vet. Far less possibility of infection or other complications, too. Not particularly pleasant for the filly, though. A moment or two after emptying the syringe inside her, the filly tenses up and bleats loudly.
“Screeeee! Fiwwy hab buwnie-huwties in speshul pwace!”
You un-hobble the squealing foal, and send her sliding down the ramp marked ‘A.’ You move on down the line, filling the wastebin with dead fluffies.
KACHUNK
KACHUNK
Two battered-looking pillowfluffs get the sweet release of death. You swear you almost see relief in their eyes as they realize their fate. Now it is just your last two contestants: The two feral stallions from earlier. One is brown with a black mane. Nice enough, you suppose. The other is purple with a yellow mane. Both are intact. They will be the last two survivors today, if they act right.
“Wet toughie gu! Fwuffy gib tewwibwe huwties to dummeh wady!” The purple toughie stomps on the barricade to get your attention.
“Oh yeah?” You smile in a way that some of your previous therapists have called ‘unsettling.’ Better ensure compliance with a demonstration. You scoop the two whining stallions up and hobble them on the benchtop.
“Gib back weggies, nu wike!” The brown earthy demands.
“You’ll get them back if you’re good. Now, watch what happens to bad fluffies.”
You retrieve the plastic bag from the floor and slam it on the table.
“Huuuhuuhuuu! Smawty hab tewwibwe owwies!” The battered yellow unicorn sobs, covered in pain-shits from his tribulations.
“But Smarty, we haven’t even started!” You whip out a hammer and bring it crashing down on his left hind leg. There is a crunching sound as his bones turn to mush.
“SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”
The smarty wails in pain, and you bring your hammer down again. And again. And again. Finally, the smarty gurgles a bloody last breath and expires. Leveling the gore-stained hammer at the two stallions, you question them.
“Are you going to be good, or are you going to be bad, and get the bestest-smashies I can deliver with the Meanie-Hammer?!”
The former toughies fall over each other in their attempt to assure you.
“Fwuffy be gud! Be su gud fow nice wady!” The purple one babbles.
“Stawwion be su gud fow mummah!” The black-and-tan adds nervously.
“Don’t call me Mommy…” you gesture at the brown one with the hammer, and he gulps loudly, nodding his stupid head in agreement.
These two get their balls banded like the others, complaining and crying at the loss of their “special lumps.” You always find it amusing that the shelter insists on the use of the bands. It actually causes more pain for longer than simply giving them a snip, but who are you to argue. Its not like the horny little devils deserve respite anyway. After depositing these last two charges down the ‘C’ ramp, you tie up the stuffed bio waste bag and haul it outside. The stench from the dumpster is unreal, stuffed to the brim with dead and decaying fluffies. After dumping today’s victims, you reach into your bra and retrieve a crumpled pack of Marlboros, and spark one up. Taking a drag, you relax, having earned your pay in a matter of hours.
Killing is your business, and business is good.
