You slowly stir and open your eyes. Ugh. What woke you?
You can dimly see the inside of the refrigerator box from the glow of the street lamp leaking through the lid and holes used for carry handles. You found it yesterday, along with the boxes from a washer and drier set. You opened the lid of the fridge box and inserted it into the washer box, which open at both ends. This basically gave you an expansion for your cardboard box home; you haven’t decided what to do with the drier box yet. Assuming you ever get enough food for you to store it, maybe you’ll keep it in there so the damn fluffies don’t steal it.
Speaking of which, you can feel the warmth oozing out of the three fluffies sharing your bed. Hopefully not literally oozing, because that’d mean the fuzzy little bastards shit the bed again. But they basically act as space heaters inside your cardboard box, so it’s much warmer in here than it was in your old box by yourself. Fluffies have their uses after all, you suppose.
Hell, in addition to being a source of warmth during the cold winter months, if you ever got desperate enough you could also look at them as self-propelled emergency rations! Heh.
But what woke you up? It’s dark, so the light isn’t bothering you. Your fluffies are asleep instead of pestering you. It’s warm, for once. So why are you-
“Nu wuwwy babbehs, mummah fine wawm pwace to sweep!”
Oh for fuck’s sake, not this shit again! You’d think she’d have learned after you kicked her the first time she tried to crawl into your box (your old box; she didn’t bother you when you were sleeping in the open and freezing to death), but she bothered you last night and now AGAIN. Couldn’t she take a fucking hint? That was the worst part about fluffies, besides the endless shitting: they were like brain-damaged toddlers who NEVER learned. You’d only had your fluffies for a couple days, but you were already pretty sure that the entire species as a whole had the collective IQ of that kid who rode the short bus to school and licked the windows the whole way there.
You open the flap to your box and crawl out; yep, the same fucking fluffy and her four babies. She never fucking learned; maybe the third time was the charm?
“Listen you stupid furball, this is MY home! I sleep here! You and your babies need to fucking go somewhere else and leave me the fuck alone! I can’t sleep if you keep coming here every damn night crying and trying to get inside my box! Go away and stop coming back!”
“Huuhuuu, fwuffy cowd! Babbehs cowd! Nee wawm pwace tu- YEEEP!”
You punt her as hard as you can for the third time, launching her across the alley to smack into the dumpster with a metallic WHUD! A trail of shit spews from her ass and arcs through the air in a trail behind her, splattering onto the pavement shortly after she hits the ground. You glare down at her irritating babies, already peeping and crying.
“Get outta here, you little shit rats! Go on, get!”
You don’t kick them; you’re pretty sure you’d kill them if you did, and while you don’t really care if a fluffy lives or dies, you still have an aversion to doing the killing yourself. Especially babies. Instead, you just sweep them all away from in front of your box with your foot, sending them rolling and tumbling across the alley at random, peeping and chirping in panic. Their mommy doesn’t move from where she collided with the dumpster; fuck it, either she’ll get up, collect her babies, and find somewhere to sleep that doesn’t bug you and keep you up all night, or she’ll die. Whatever.
You crawl back inside your box, shove your fluffies aside so you fit on the makeshift bed you’ve made, then rearrange them as they sleepily protest so they keep you warm.
Ah, now you can sleep!
The next morning, you stretch, rub the crust from your eyes, and crawl out of your box. Ugh. Still cold, but not freezing. Your trio of fuzzballs emerge from the box as well, blinking in the sunlight.
“Fwuwwy am hungwy! Daddeh find nummies?”
“I keep telling you, I’m not your daddy, dumbass! And yes, I’ll find us some ‘nummies’, just wait.”
Your stomach is gurgling and you don’t feel so good. Probably that old pizza you found in the trash yesterday. You should find a bathroom and-
Oh shit. Literally. You ain’t gonna make it. You run down the alley and squat behind another dumpster, pants around your ankles, and let loose the smelliest, nastiest stream of diarrhea ever. Even your fluffies seem offended by the stench, and wander off to take shits of their own. Oh hell, this is awful, it just keeps coming and coming. You hope you aren’t sick…
Finally, the last of the brown shit water finishes trickling from your ass and your gurgly guts feel better. Hopefully that’s the last of it. Now you can go about the business of finding breakfa… dammit. You don’t have anything to wipe your ass with. You glance around and don’t see so much as a crumpled up sheet of paper you can use. This suuuuucks. Wait, what’s that noise?
You stand up partway and peer over the trash can next to you. There’s the retarded fluffy from last night, with her babies. Looks like she’s feeding two of them and the other two are waiting their turns. Hmmm…
“Psst! Hey, fluffy! C’mere!”
“Nuuuu! Munsta nu huwt fwuffy! Fwuffy nu bovver munsta, nu-”
“Shut up! I’ve got… skettis.”
“Skettis?!”
“Yeah, bring your babies here and I’ll give you some.”
“Otay, nice mistaw! Fwuffy comin!”
She pulls her two protesting babies off her fluff tits and tosses them and the other two onto her back, then waddles through all the trash to stand next to you.
“Wheaw skettis?”
“I got your skettis right here, dumbass!”
You grab the first baby, note that it’s very soft and just the right size, and ignore its cheeps and crying as you wipe your ass with it. Thoroughly covered in your liquid shit, it cries and you toss it aside to grab the next one.
“Nuuuu! Nu make sowwy poopies on babbehs! Babbehs nu huwt munsta, nu make sowwy poopies on babbehs!”
“Ugh, shut UP already!”
You end up going through all four babies before your ass feels dry and clean again. Then you punt the stupid mom back behind the trash cans and let her smelly, shitty babies waddle around huuhuuing and chirping like stupid birds. You kinda feel like an asshole for doing that to them, but maybe they’ll finally get the idea and just go away and leave you alone. You join your trio of fat fluff wads at the mouth of the alley.
"Ok boys, let’s go find something to eat!
The four of you end up splitting a glazed donut you bought to go with your coffee, and a bean burrito you found on the sidewalk with one bite taken out of it. You’re pretty sure the last thing you want to feed your fluffies is beans, but hey, it’s free, right?
You made some good money panhandling at the intersection yesterday, especially with your fluffies looking as cute and pathetic as possible, so it’s time for a beer run. You walk down to the convenience store, but you have to keep yelling at your fluffies to pick up the pace; their stubby little legs only carry them so fast, and they get tired easily. The clip-clop-clip-clop of their little leathery hooves on the pavement isn’t as annoying as it was when you first got them. Fluffies may be irritating little bastards, but you have to admit that the three you snagged as an emergency heat source are starting to endear themselves to you. They wait outside the store while you go in to get a six pack of beer.
Now where the hell is the cashier? You can’t just walk out with the beer, there’s cameras inside the store and the cops know where you hang out. You just want to pay and leave. Maybe he’s in the back stocking?
“Hey, buddy! Can I pay for my beer?”
No response. Dammit. Maybe he’s cleaning the bathroom? You go outside, ignore the whining from your fluffies complaining how their hoovesies huwt, they’re still hungry, it’s cold, etc. and walk around to the bathroom and bang on the door.
The door opens and there’s the balding, glasses-wearing cashier. He’s wearing disposable gloves that are completely covered in shit and is holding them up to face level.
“WHAT?!”
“Uh, I just wanna pay for my beer, man.”
“I’LL BE WITH YOU IN A MINUTE!”
You head back inside the store and wait for him to finish cleaning up; he doesn’t seem to be in the best of moods. Eventually, he comes inside and rings you up for the beer. Some black guy deliberately slams his shoulder into you as he walks in the store and you walk out, but you let it slide. You avoid getting your ass kicked by avoiding confrontation. You sit down on the wall by the dumpster and crack open a beer.
“Am nummies dwink? Fwuffy can twy?”
“Hell, no! You guys are bad enough without alcohol! Just… Just sit down and let me enjoy this, all right?”
“Otay! Fwuffy wuv daddeh!”
“Ugh, for the millionth time, I’m not your daddy!”
The black guy runs out of the convenience store with a case of beer, jumps in his car, and peels out. The cashier comes running out and hurls something at the car, shattering the back window, as it drives off.
“MOTHERFUCKER! I’M CALLING THE COPS, YOU DAMN SHOPLIFTER! I GOT YOU ON CAMERA!”
He heads back inside the store, still ranting and screaming. You look down at your fluffs and say, “C’mon guys, let’s go somewhere else. We don’t want no trouble.”
You pause before leaving the parking lot and pick up the object the cashier threw at the fleeing car; it’s a can of pork and beans. Score.
“Looks like we’re gonna eat well tonight, fellas!”
“Yaaaaay!”
“Fwuffy am wike yummy nummies!”
“Daddeh am cwevew daddeh!”
“Stop calling me daddy!”
“Otay, daddeh!”
“Aaaarrrgh!”
That evening, you settle down in front of your box and prepare to cook your beans.
“Daddeh am wawm nummies?”
“Yes. And stop calling me daddy!”
“How nice mista wawm nummies?”
“Watch and see.”
You use your pocket knife to cut a beer in half, then a second beer can. Then you use the sharp point of the can opened accessory to poke holes in a row all around the rim of one bottom half of a can. You take the other bottom and pour rubbing alcohol into it, then carefully slide the bottom with holes in it on top of the other bottom. The top halves of the two cans are useless and you toss them aside.
Then you hold your Bic to one of the holes you poked in the can and with a quiet FWUMP, gentle blue flames come out of all the holes. You open the lid to your pork and beans and set it on top of the makeshift hobo stove.
“There. It ain’t as good as the propane stove I had stolen from me, but it’ll warm the food up at least a little.”
“Yay! Nice mista am cwevew mista!”
“I sure am. Now go take a shit while the beans cook, I don’t want you guys waking me up to let you out so you can shit in the middle of the night.”
Your fluffies waddle off to the other end of the alley to pop a squat, then waddle back, giggling and dancing in joy at the prospect of dinner. Damn, anything even remotely good is enough to get them excited and happy, isn’t it? Maybe being such simple-minded little vermin was actually a blessing for them. They’re nowhere near as jaded and bitter as you are.
The alcohol burns off quickly, but your beans are warmer than the winter breeze blowing down the alley, so it’s something. You spoon off half the can into a puddle on the ground, the three fluffies gathering around it and eating while cheerfully telling each other how awesome and amazing you are for finding them such good food. You’re an asshole, you’ll freely admit that, and they’re eating the same shit you’re eating, freezing in the same shitty alley, sleeping the same terrible box, and they’re actually happy. They’re even fond of you and go nuts over the slightest kindness on your part.
It makes you feel a little envious. And like a jerk. Whatever. It’s starting to rain, so you gulp down the rest of your beans and bring the beer can stove inside with you, huddling in the box next to your fluffies, trying to stay dry. You hope the plastic sheeting works and keeps your box dry so it doesn’t fall apart.
Something warm in your belly, you settle down under your ratty old blanket and arrange the fluffs to keep you warm, using the least smelly one as an improvised pillow; he doesn’t seem to mind and even views it as an opportunity to cuddle with you. Geez.
You slowly drift off to sleep. Warm. With someone to talk to and share your shitty life with. Yeah, you guess fluffies aren’t so bad after all…
You wake up to the sound of heavy rain drumming against your box. You check for leaks; it’s a little damp on the bottom of the box, but the plastic sheeting seems to be doing its job. Thunder booms and echoes off the buildings and your fluffies jump at the noise and start whining about scary monsters. You tell them to shut up and settle down, it’s just thunder. They eventually settle down again and you start to lay back down when you hear a familiar, whiny, high-pitched voice.
“Huuu, fwuffy am cowd! Bad sky wawa am huwt fwuffy and babbehs! Wawa bad fow babbehs, make sickies! Huu, huu, pwease, pwease wet fwuffy in! Fwuffy am good fwuffy! Fwuffy go away and nu bovver nu mowe, just pwease wet fwuffy in!”
“Peep! Peep! Cowd! Bad wawa! Babbeh nu wikey! Mummah, make bad wawas go 'way!”
You groan; oh, for FUCK’s sake! What does it take to convince this dense little shit to go away and stop bothering you. Fuck, it’s raining too hard for you to go outside and kick her down the alley again. And if you just ignore her or yell at her, she’ll keep whining and bothering you. Dammit…
You open the flap of the box.
“Hey! If I let you inside, just for tonight, will you shut up and leave me the hell alone?”
“Yes! Yes! Fwuffy nu bovver nice mista agin, just wet fwuffy bwing babbehs in fwom wain!”
“Get inside already, stupid!”
The fluffy and her four noisy brats squirm into the box and you pull the flap shut.
“Ugh! Don’t hug me, dumbass! You’re wet! Sit there and don’t move. At all. Forever. Until I say otherwise. I don’t need you getting everything wet or shitting everywhere. You sit there by the door, and in the morning you get the fuck out and never bother me again, understand?”
Yes! Fank you! Fank you! Fwuffy wuv nice mista, wiww-"
“Shut the fuck up! I’m trying to sleep!”
She shuts up and eventually settles down, along with the babies. With wet fluffies crowded next to your head, it smells more awful than usual inside your box.
But at least they’re not whining and crying to be let inside anymore. In the morning, you’ll kick them out, finish the last of your beer, and head down to the park with your three fluffies and see if you can’t beg for any change. With luck, you’ll never see that irritating mother and her babies ever again.
You doze off listening to the rhythmic drumming of rain.
