(Part 2 of 2. If unbirthing needs to go in the Controversial section, just let me know and I’ll try to change it. Enjoy!)
A high pitched voice sounded from below the exposed heating duct.
“M-mummah? Whewe mummah gu’?”
The man inspected his quarry. Three foals. The magenta one - the one that was talking - is the same color as its mother, and looks to have opened its eyes. Very well developed. Surprising, given its feral lifestyle. There are two other foals, one yellow and one green, that don’t look quite as far along. Still asleep, most likely. Good. The man wanted to keep the element of surprise. But that means silencing this inquisitve little baby before it has a chance to wake its brethren.
The foal blinked back the last remnants of her sleep. She had dreamt warm dreams of milk and love. The foal’s eyes peeked curiously up at the man.
“Nyu daddeh?”
The man grabbed the magenta-colored foal.
“Ba’ ups-Hheugh!Cheep! Peep! Chea-!”
He stuck his finger down the baby’s throat to keep it from talking.
Little eyes the size of green peas looked at him with growing fear. The man felt the foal’s bristly little tongue slide against his finger in an instinctive attempt to suckle. A dampness grew in the man’s hand, and he extended his arm out. Up and down, left and right, side to side, he shook the precious little baby. The wretched foal voided its bowels within seconds, splattering liquid waste in every direction. The man didn’t care. He tightened his grip around the foal, squeezing the last drops of waste out of it until its magenta fluff was stained with shit. He worked the foal around in his hand, squeezing and prodding the infant fluffy. This would leave a nasty bruise. Little legs the size and shape of cocktail weenies wriggled and squirmed against his hand.
A little drop of “boo-boo juice” began to trickle from the foal’s nose. This was not a hug. This was something painful, and terrifying, and wrong. Fluffies were not designed for this kind of treatment, especially not babies. The baby wanted to scream, to cry for her mother, but the meanie human - no, the meanie monster’s - not-hoof was stopping her somehow. If only she had teeth so she could give the monster a sorry bite!
Nu! Nu huwt babbeh! Cried the mare. Or rather, that is what she would have cried out. Her muzzle was still taped rightly shut, so her plaintive cries came out as muffled moans. Apparently, the mare had staggered to her hooves and loped her way over to the man while he was preoccupied with shaking her child. The mare’s ruined posterier had left a snail trail of blood and urine behind her. The fluffy mare forced back tears as she headbutted the man’s leg. This was a time for bravery. She had to save her babies!
Thinking quickly, the man delivered a swift - but not too heavy - kick to the mare’s side. The blow sent the beleaguered biotoy bowling over onto her side. Just where the man wanted her. The man kept a tight hold on the writhing foal in his hand, making sure to keep it quiet without shattering its rib cage. The man bent down and gently rested his knee on the mare’s torso. He was very careful - if he let his whole weight rest on the fluffy, its ribs would shatter, and that would end things far too quickly. The foal’s tongue was a delightful tickle against his finger as the poor creature kept trying vainly to suckle out of panic.
He took a moment to gaze at the mare’s ruined anus and genitalia. Almost all the fluff was gone, little tufts and follicles mixing together with sticky blood and shit in a semisolid sludge of ruddy organic waste. This sludge seeped and caked around the crevasse that was the mare’s vagina, skin hanging off in bloody red strips. The perineum had been rent asunder, leaving the mare with only a single large hole that wept blood. Plenty of the fluffy’s own waste was in her bloodstream now. Death was inevitable. Not from infection, but from what the man was about to do next.
With one hand forcing open the mare’s bloody hole, and the other firmly grasping her magenta foal, the man got to his nasty work. The process of unbirthing is rather like stuffing a turkey. Or cleaning a really tall drinking glass. Or any other task that requires shoving your hand into something slimy. The man could feel hot synthetic guts pulsate and churn around his fingers as he deposited the foal in the chamber from whence it came. The foal resisted every inch of the journey, but the man’s strength ensured that the brave cave explorer would finish her long journey. One of the foal’s little legs snapped as the man forced a near-weanling through the mare’s birth canal. That brought an end to the foal’s squirming. When the foal was suitably embedded within the wet clay of its mother’s insides, the man finally withdrew his hand. He wiped the slime off on his pant leg as the mare shuddered, too traumatized to cry now.
“Huwties! peep Dawkies! Babbeh cheep scawed!”
Amusingly, the foal did not quickly suffocate in its warm, damp, all-too-familiar new residence. No longer restrained by the man’s finger, the foal peeped and chirped, the little high-pitched squeaking plenty audible over the mare’s paralyzed silence. This brought the man some pleasure. He wondered if, given enough time, the foal could work its way back out of the birth canal and into the terrible world once again. An intriguing prospect, and one that warranted leaving the fluffy mare alive - for now. That said, he couldn’t have the mare interrupting again. There were other foals that needed his attention. So, with an iron grip, he dislocated the mare’s front two legs. He left the back legs intact, not out of mercy, or even out of some sinister purpose, but just because he didn’t want to risk dislodging the foal he had shoved up its mother’s clunge.
Time for the other foals. It looks like they were still asleep. Good thing, too. It would be terrible if they escaped. The man replaced his soiled latex gloves with a fresh pair from his back pocket - it wouldn’t do to frighten the sleeping foals by smearing them with blood, shit, and amniotic fluid. At least, not yet.
The man knelt down near the fluffpile, which was now just two foals, the yellow and the green one. He began to gently stroke the yellow one’s back. The little foal cooed in its sleep. The man figured if it was old enough to vocalize then it was probably old enough to talk. With all the care he might have used if it was a real animal and not a toy, he carefully slid a hand beneath the yellow foal and cupped it in his palm.
“peep peep Muh-mummah?” The little tyke was starting to wake up. Groggily, the fuzzy yellow foal opened its beautiful blue eyes.
The man wrapped his index finger around the foal’s torso in a gentle “hug”. This was bliss for the foal, who nestled against the man’s fingers in a genuinely loving embrace. The foal’s soft little belly rose and fell as it breathed in and out through an open mouth.
“Wub… wub 'ou… peep” Adorable.
With his free hand, the man reached into his back pocket and pulled out a lighter. This was no 99-cent zippo, but a powerful butane cigar lighter. Its steel alloy body enclosed three powerful jets, and with a flick of the ridged switch on the side, those jets roared to life with three blue flames. The dim light from the butane lighter might as well have been brimstone and hellfire for this innocent fluffy family.
The man tightened his grip around the foal.
“Cheep!” came the nonverbal reply from the half-asleep foal.
One finger held the soft biotoy’s arms and torso snug against his palm, and the rest of his hand he held up at an angle. Didn’t want to burn himself, after all. Fluffies - the fluff of the fluffy - burns a lot like hair, or like a cotton swab. Slowly at first, then it lights up all at once.
“SCREEEEEEEEE!!!”
Whatever progress the foal had made towards developing speech was burned away in an instant, along with all the peach-fuzz fluff coating the lower half of its body. Feces and urine spewed from the foal’s nethers, then quickly sputtered to nothing. A wet fart did nothing to blow away the raging inferno that continued to roast the foal alive. The man gazed with perverse delight as the foal’s miniscule testicles boiled under the flame and fused with his torso.
“EEEEEEEEEEEE!!!”
Little specks of melting fat and boiling blood bubbled up from blackened cracks in the biotoy’s paper-thin skin and dropped precipitously onto the man’s hand. First degree, second degree, third degree. About half the foal’s body was covered in severe burns. A trickle of blood formed on the corner’s of the foal’s mouth as his baby blue eyes went wide with agony. Poor foal was screaming itself hoarse.
“EEEEH!!! EEEEH!!! EEEEH!!”
Every breath was a new fresh hell for the foal. He inhaled the air, bitter cold in contrast to his simmering insides, and exhaled wordless, thoughtless screams. The man flicked his lighter off, then gently lowered the foal into a puddle formed from a wet pothole. A foul hisssssss rose from the water as the sizzling hot baby touched it. The foal’s mouth was stretched wide from screaming, and its eyes were bloodshot. Its probably going into shock, and that means this biotoy is no fun anymore.
One foal left.
“Cheep! Cheep!” It sounded like a real baby chick.
But it wasn’t a baby chick, and it wasn’t real, and anyway the sound was too weak and too humanoid to come from a genuine animal. This foal was definitely awoken by the anguished shrieks of its sibling, but didn’t look able to walk or talk yet. How sad. It wriggled around in the pile of crumpled newspaper that served as a nest. Fluffies have no real capacity to regulate temperature, foals even less so. If this foal didn’t get something nice and 90-odd degrees near it ASAP, it would surely die of exposure. The foal wiggled and shuddered in place with its legs tucked in to preserve body heat.
The man left it there to die slow.
Before he left the alley, he turned to look at the fluffy mare. The poor creature was futilely stamping against the ground with its rear hooves, sending flecks of blood sputtering from its ruined genitals with every motion. It looked like a perverse mating presentation. Without any ceremony, the man delivered a heavy stomp to the mare’s skull, instantly severing the spinal column and collapsing the cranium. If the mare even knew she was about to die, she didn’t show it.
Just as the man was about to leave, he heard a strange sound.
schlllorp
He turned. Could it really be? It is!
The magenta foal he had inserted back into its mother’s gaping axe wound had somehow, miraculously, worked its way back out again! The foal’s head, front legs, and a good portion of its torso flopped outward from the bloody wasteland that it had been inserted into. Looks like its legs were still stuck - maybe one of the back legs was the broken one.
The exposed parts of the foal were coated in a thick, slimy mixture of blood, feces, urine, and the mare’s internal mucus. The liquids blended together in a reddish slurry, dulling the foal’s magenta fluff with putrefaction.
“Haff… haff… cough… huuu… huu… nu’ wan be tummeh babbeh nu mowe… huuu…” The foal sputtered and gasped.
“Huuu… hu-HUARFH!” With a wet, heaving retch the foal vomited. Plenty of blood was mixed with the half-digested milk.
Happy birthday, little foal. Now you get to experience the wide, beautiful world with a new lease on life!
The foal couldn’t feel her back “weggies”. All she could feel was hurties, and all she could taste was boo-boo juice, her momma’s and her own. The foal blinked away the filthy muck that coated its eyes and spat out more vomit. What it saw was horrific. Everything was boo-boo juice, and not-smell-pretty, and yuckies, and bad poopies. One brother had worst burnie hurties, and he wasn’t moving from the dirty water he was stuck in. Her other brother chirped weakly in the cold air, desperate for food and safety that would never come. Her mother… the foal didn’t even want to think of that. But she knew from the blood and filth and the stink of death and the growing cold that “mummah” was “fowebah sweepies”.
“Babbeh… babbeh wan’ die…”
