I hate my job.
Once upon a time, I had enjoyed it, almost loved it, lots of hours, decent pay, good benefits, and I could essentially set my own schedule. People always greeted me when I arrived, showed me the problem, and thanked me when I left. Now, I’m lucky if I get someone to actually point me in the direction of the problem. No one really sees me as someone who helps out, just a reminder of a much more chaotic and bleak time.
I pass by an alley, from my van I can see at least one adult fluffy curled up in a cardboard box, I can’t see if it has foals or if there are any more but I assumed that was the case. Not my call, so I ignore it. The road is bumpy, Worcester has always had shit infrastructure but the last few years have really exposed just how poor of a job the city has been doing. Fluffies really have set so many butterfly effects in motion, you might as well call it a swarm. 6 years ago they were introduced, 5 years ago they became a problem, and I got my job, but I still think I’d prefer they never existed. They were revealed to the public as a shiny new alternative to a typical pet, more interactive, safer, partially customizable, Hasbio had the marketing nailed. They were an instant fad, with celebrity partnerships, licensed merchandise flying off the shelves, Hasbio was even able to hide the less savory aspects of Fluffy ownership for a good bit.
But, like all fads, they came to become less popular, people generally find a tiny fake horse that shits and bleeds and talks to be unsettling, especially after seeing them everywhere. They plateaued at a respectable level of popularity, but never reached the heights of those first six months. Hasbio, unfortunately, hadn’t anticipated this, and suddenly had a massive overproduction of fluffies, and all their plants were overcrowded. Worse for them, they had attracted the attention of the federal government. Curiosity about how they had gotten something that looked like a stuffed animal to talk like a human, and other details about their anatomy had opened the doors to quite a bit of hypothesis, and Uncle Sam doesn’t like being kept in the dark. The Department of Health and Human Services opened a file, and Hasbio soon found themselves being faced with lawsuits and warrants. So, like any smart corporation caught under scrutiny, they took the safest option and began to destroy evidence.
In their panic, accidents happened, and thousands of brightly colored chimera were suddenly released into cities and wildernesses across the country. It was never disclosed if it were panicking workers or negligent federal employees that actually caused the mass releases, or if it was a last ditch effort by Hasbio to conceal evidence, but all that was certain was that Fluffy’s, which were once worth fifty bucks at your local fluffmart, were now more plentiful than anyone wanted. New interest was sparked of course, and independent breeders and shelters popped up like weeds, but the real money making business was in population control. Private exterminators made bank wiping out alleys and backyards, and some of the sicker people got a kick out of making the ordeals as brutal as possible. I used to be like that, I remember my first call, a Mare, a Stallion and four foals under someone’s front porch. I had a picture taken of me holding the stallion’s corpse like I was a teenager who caught a fish. I even kept one of the foals as a living bobblehead on my vans dash, until it started to stink.
As time wore on, the damage Fluffies caused became more and more noticeable. The first few generations were really not equipped to live outside of human care, so they died in huge numbers. Weak and stupid as they were, they never really were a threat to native species, but their corpses were. Fluffy bodies clogged street drains, sending water out of sewers and making roads like Worcesters even worse than normal. Landfills overflowed as the beasts kept breeding and dying, but that wasn’t even the worst of it. As the dead accumulated, nitrogen began to release into the watersheds near towns and cities, and some of the worst algal blooms in America’s history were recorded for two years straight. Multiple fish and amphibian species became endangered, and some of the ones that were already threatened went extinct outright. Reservoirs for drinking water reached unsafe levels of toxins for months. Water bills skyrocketed, and illnesses and deaths related to this reached an uncomfortable amount. Everyone lost money, and people started finding out about some practices that shelters and exterminators were doing, like dumping dead fluffies outside of landfills, and jobs were lost overnight. Right now, I am the last private exterminator working in all of southern Worcester County. Doesn’t mean I don’t have competition, there are still state and federal crews, and a good bit of people who prefer to solve their own problems.
I arrive at my work site for the day, a decrepit strip mall south of route 90. Apparently a few families were living together by the dumpsters, luckily there weren’t any reports of them getting into an abandoned shop. I grabbed my gear, an industrial sized trash bag and portable fence. I always carry a strong snake grabber too, great for everything but pregnant mares. As I approached the dumpsters, the high pitched voices began to grate on my ears.
“Babbeh duin bestest dancies foh pwettiest Mummah!”
“Mummah am so pwoud of dancie babbeh! Wook fwends! Dancie babbeh duin dancies!”
“Nu be woud fwend! Chiwpy babbehs am asweep! Need dere nappies!”
“Bestest Daddah hab nummies foh Mummah an babbehs! Daddeh hab softy nummies!”
As I close in, they don’t notice at first, too occupied with the exciting topics of hugging, singing, dancing, eating and shitting. I’m able to start rolling out the fence when one of the stallions finally turns his attention to me.
“EEP! Munstah! Mummah need hide babbehs! Gu Hide in nestie!”
“Huuhuuu, nu huwt mummah, am gud mummah! Hab bestest babbehs! Am fow huggies and wuv!”
“Daddeh wiww pwotect famiwy! Nu be scawedies! Daddeh an bestest fwend wiww make munsah gu way!”
I’m able to finish encircling the zone with my fence when two stallions approach me. I also take the opportunity to do a count, stupid, I should have done it when I first got here.Apart from the two stallions I see three mares, each with around four to five foals ranging from chirping with their eyes closed, to miniature versions of adults running around. All of them are trying to hide away in their nests, which are a cardboard box, a hollowed out tv, and an overturned trash can.
“Dummeh Munstah! Gu way an weave gud fwuffies awone! Gu way ow get wowstest huwties and sowwy poopies!”
I could have recited that at the same time the stallion was saying it. I feel like I’m a zombie, shambling about doing the same meaningless thing over and over. I open the trash bag, then step forward to quickly pin one of the stallions front legs under my foot as I reach down to grab the other.
“SCREEE! WOWSTEST WEGGIE HUWTIES! WAI HUWT GUD DADDAH? DADDEH NEED WEGGIE TO WUN AN PWAY AN GIV HUGGIES! PWEASE NU HUWT DADDEH! HUUUHUUU WAI WEGGIE NU WISTEN? WAI MUNSTAH NU GU WAY?”
“BAD UPSIES! Nuuuu! Pwease munstah! Pwease wet daddeh gu! Speciaw fwend an babbehs need Daddeh! Daddeh sowwy foh meanie wowds! Wiww gib huggies ib munstah nu gib huwties!”
As the one in my hands blubbers in fear I quickly grab the back of hits head, my other hand holding its chest, and twist. A sharp crack, and the fluffy is dead. I stuff it in my trash bag and reach down to grab the other one, but its thrashing a good bit, biting my pants which does little more than cover them in slobber. I get a grip on its back legs, and lift it in the air preparing to repeat the process when a spurt of fluffy shit shoots out of its ass, hitting my hand and arm, I’m not wearing gloves, another mistake. My melancholy turns to annoyance and rage. “FUCK! Goddamn it you dirty piece of shit!” I slam the fluffy down on the ground, hearing a crunch as its other forelimb is caught under its body.
“SCREEE! BOWF WEGGIES HAB WOWSTEST HUWTIES HUUUHUUU NUUUUU! NU CAN GIB HUGGIE NO MOW! NU CAN WUN AN PWAY! NUUUUUUU!”
I kneel down and punch the fluffy in the face over and over, feeling its skull begin to give.
“PWEASE NU MU- OOF”
“AM GUD FWUFF-OWWIES!”
“UHHUUU-CHHKKRP”
With the final blow, his skull craters and he goes limp, but he doens’t seem to be dead as his body begins to shake and seize. I decide I’ll let him stew and grab him last. I finally walk towards the nests, hoping this will be the last hard part. The good part about letting fluffies establish nests is that when under duress, like when an exterminator is present, they always hide in them. Makes an easy job finding them all.
“Huuu! Daddeh am fowevah sweepies! Wowstest heawt huwties!”
“Nu be woud babbeh! Munstah am stiww hewe!”
“Nu wowwy babbehs, mummah wiww gib miwkies soon…”
“Huuu speciaw fwend huuuuu…”
The chirping also becomes audible, muffled but there. I reach the first nest, a simple cardboard box, an flip it onto its back, leaving the mare and its foals trapped inside.
“OOF! NUUU MUNSTAH FIND MUMMAH! PWEASE NU HUWT BABBEHS! PWEASE NU HUWT MUMMAH!”
“EEEE MUNSTAH! AM ONWY WIDDWE BABBEH! PWEASE NU GIB HUWTIES! AM FOW HUGGIES AN WUV!”
I reach in, starting with the foals and pull them out one by one, snapping their necks with my thumb and stuffing them in my trash bag. They cry and beg as I grab them, some of them hugging my hand in a desperate attempt at causing compassion. The mare also makes an attempt to stop me, first hugging my arm, the batting at it with her hooves, then trying to bite it. Still holding a foal in my hand, I punch her in the mouth, which crushes the foal and gets a mixture of blood, guts and shit all over my clean hand. Another careless mistake.
“OWWIES! TEEFIES! WOWSTEST TAWKIES PWACE HUWTIES! HUUUHUU BABBEHS AM FOWEVAH SWEEPIES! AM WOWSTEST MUMMAH HUUU-GURK!”
I reach down and grab the mare around the throat, crushing her windpipe, then pull her out and stuff her gasping body into the bag. I damaged her throat beyond recovery, no point in wasting more energy. Done with the box I move onto the TV, and pull out my snake grabber. The TV is an old school box, one that would be in a classroom or barber shop in the corner. The family is deep inside the back of it, and it would be too much effort to try and reach in or tip the tv so I just poke the grabber in and start fishing. First attempt nets me a foal, which is screaming about is chest being hurt. I tighten the grabber until its guts erupt from its mouth. Repeating, I get two more foals, squish them, then finally, I pull the last foal out, and fortunately the mare was dumb enough to follow it.
“NUUU! Pwease gwabbeh munstah! Pwease nu huwt babbeh! Am onwy widdwe babbeh! Mummah wubs Babbeh! Babbeh hab huwties an need mummahs huggies an wub!”
“WOWSTEST CHESTIE HUWTIES! MUNSTAH HAB BABBEH! MUMMAH SABE BABBEH PWEASE HUUHUUU!”
I make sure to pull the mare a good bit away from its nest, crush the foal again, then reach down and grab the mare. Since this one didn’t make a mess on me, I simply snap its neck. Into the bag she goes. The final nest is the overturned trash bin, which should be the easiest. I can hear chirping from it, so there shouldn’t be any chance of runaways.
“Pwease nu make noisie babbehs, munstah am stiww hewe, huuuuhuuu, fwends am fowevah sweepies, wowstest heawt huwties…”
Tired of this job, I grab the edge of the trash can and right it. I then pick it up, and violently shake it.
“EEEEEEE! NESTIE AM GIBBIN MUMMAH HUWTIES! WAI NESTIE? MUMMAH WUBS NESTIE! NUUUU!”
The mare’s cries quiet as they’re drowned out by dull thuds and weak sobs, and finally I look inside to see if the job is done. The mare is a bloody mess, one leg is broken so bad the bone is poking through the skin, and as her chest rises and falls I can see multiple broken ribs. Her mouth is bloody, and her movements are weak. I hold the trash bag to the edge of the bin, tip it and spill the mare and her dead foals into the bag. I double check the area, but don’t hear or see any more. Just to be safe, I toss all the potential food I can find outside the fence, and leave a bunch of poisoned treats laying around. The poison is too weak for most wild animals, so no risk of liability. I pick up the stallion, who had finally expired, and make my way back to my van. The bag joins a few others in the back, I had gotten a little lazy over the past few days, and I had essentially tuned out the smell of rotting fluffy over the years so I kept forgetting to do a landfill run. I’ll leave the fence up for a night, just to make sure. Checking my webpage, I mark myself as available, hopefully I’ll get another call before the day ends.
I think back to the end of the legal dram surrounding Hasbio after the fluffies caused billions of dollars worth of environmental and infrastructure damage, and get pissed all over again. As it turns out, Hasbio had deeper roots than anyone could have guessed, and could weather the storm. Hasbio, even though they distributed fluffies, weren’t actually the producers of them legally. They had a subsidiary company dedicated to creating hybrid animals to be used for medical and product testing, and held the patents for dozens of man made species, many of which were essential for America’s pharmaceutical production. They had so many connections, that the FDA picked a fight with the HHS to protect it. The end result was that Hasbio got off essentially scott free, a few board members and executives took early retirements and some new regulations were put in place to be ignored, but the wheel kept turning. They even found time to start suing private fluffy distributors. I drive back up the pothole filled roads of Worcester, I need to clean myself off somewhere, god I feel gross, once upon a time I would be shaking with adrenaline after slaughtering multiple families at the same time.
Now, I just feel empty.