Your eyes opened a few bwite times ago and your name is “Poopie”, or at least that’s what your mummah called you. You hated this name because with it came your rank. You were worsest bebbeh, even with your nice grey mane, you were still just not up to standard when compared to your three siblings, one yellow, one blue and one shiny purple. Mammah liked the yellow and blue brothers but your purple shiny sissie was the “bestest ob da bestest”.
You had a special job in your family though, as you had the privilege of keeping your alleyway home clean of poopies by numming them. Your poopies, your sibling’s and even your mummah’s. They all made a pile for you every morning and you scooted your little butt over to the heap and chowed down. You hated the smell, the taste, the little buzzy munstahs that got in your ears and the sicky wawa you’d make on occasion. When you did that you always got a big sorry hoofsie from mammah for being a “dummeh poopie” and for “nu eben numming poopies wite”.
You just wanted a hugsie now and again but nobody gave you one, well, except for your yellow brother when mummah wasn’t looking, and only sometimes. Your purple sissie was just like mummah, not just in appearance but her opinion of you was identical as well. You hated her but if you dared push back when she bit you or gave sorry poopies then you were sure you’d be given the scary sounding “foweva sweepies” your mummah always threatened you with when you cried just a little too loudly during the dawkie time.
Some fowevas passed you by and now you were just on the cusp of no longer being a bebbeh. Sure you were smaller than your brothers and your really big sissie but that didn’t matter, because once you were a stallion then you were out of there. And that morning you sat and ate your creme de la poopies a la sissy with the hope that maybe, just maybe, that bwite time would be very soon; and if you asked him really nicely, maybe your yellow brother would come with you.
You woke up the next bwite time from under your newspaper bed, behind the twashies and saw a new fluffy at the entrance to your alleyway home. He had a big head pointie, a black coat, a shiny silver mane, and with him were two slightly larger and uglier fluffies.
“tuffie nu wike dis pwace, smew ob poopies an dummehs” the green one on the right would say.
“smawty nu cawe, nee mowe enfie mawes fow hewd! Gonna be da bigges n’ dah bestest hewd eba”. He declared proudly.
You were taken a back by the names. Other fluffies had names apart from you? This was incredible news, this means that you can get a new name, a better name, a-.
Just then your thought was cut off by this “smarty” character, as he casually sauntered up to your mummah. Confidently he pointed his hoofsie at her and declared “yew gun be speshew fwend… bu’ nu wan dem bebbehs!”.
You took a large gulp and covered your turd encrusted mouth to muffle the cries as she suddenly and without mercy crushed your only friend. Poor yellow was now just a stain on the concrete, his pink brains clinging to his infanticidal mother’s hoofsies.
“dat gud enuf?” she huffed with a exhausted smile.
“nu!” the smarty snapped at her, “yew faiwed da testie, hewd no wan mummahs dat gib foweva sweepies to own bebbehs, yew sposed tu jus weave dem, yew enfin dummeh mawe!”, he chastised as he motioned for his grey tuffie. The big lug grabbed your sissie by her scruff in his mouth and dragged her away screaming, “nu wan bad uppies!” she cried and chirped as he turned the corner with her, never to be seen by you again. “fiwwy am gon be smawty speshew fwend wen bigga. Smawty gon show hew how be gud mummah…” the smarty added with a devilish smirk, before turning his attention to and laying a sorry hoofie on your blue brother, who was trying to puff his cheeks and chest out at the clearly aggravated smarty.
You watched as he chirped and gurgled, his eye dangled from its socket and swayed with the shifting weight of his twitching and flailing body.
“wook, himb am dancie bebbeh!” the smarty laughed to his green tuffie. Then with another quick and silent signal, the tuffie put his hoofsie on your ‘dancie’ brother and slowly pressed down on his rapidly peeping body until peepees, poopies, and boo boo wawa came out everywhere.
“gon hab tu num dose poopies watew…” you thought to yourself suddenly. It was an intrusive thought that swiftly vanished as you heard a sudden crack echo across the halls of the alley. Your brothers were both now gone. You didn’t like this smarty, heck, you despised him, but you still hated mummah more. Her sins were numerous in your eye and now so many of the past ones seemed pointless she did not even bother in protecting your yellow brother, blue brother and she didn’t even try to stop them taking your “bestest” sissie. She just sat on her fat purple rump and whimpered as she got told off like a bebbeh who just made bad poopies.
“w-wat gon du wif mummah?” she cried.
“nu no, may-beh jus gib stompies, may-beh foweva sweepies… ow may-beh, yew be enfie mawe for hewd, bu nu hab bebbehs, ow wun way, aww bebbehs git stompies wen enfie-howe hab biggest poopies… dems, da, wuwes” he stated.
You watched the little cogs in your mummah’s head turn until she eventually relented and agreed in a whimpered and defeated tone.
“otay… Mammah be good fwuf-” she attempt to say, before getting a swift back-hoofsie to the face.
“nu! Yew nu cawwed ‘fwuffy’ ow ‘mummah’ nu mowe, yew cawwed ‘enfie-howe’!” the smarty roared.
“OTAY” she screamed in fear, “ENFIE-HOWE BE GUD! PWEAS NU MOWE HUWTIES!” she begged further.
You watched on, frozen in complete terror, as the puke green tuffie reared up high and crushed her weggies into broken red nubs with his mighty stompies before he then dragged her away by her tail. Her "screee"s went on for ages, even long after she was pulled around the same corner as your sissie, gone now and probably gone forever.
Now it was just the smarty and you.
“nu hidies, git ou fwom hidie pwace dummeh, can smeww yew” he said with an almost playful tone.
You knew that eventually he would find you, and the price for hiding would be the wowstest of huwties. So with a big, deep breath you swallowed your fear, did a little scawdie peepee and walked out from behind your twashie place to look him dead in the see-pwace.
“oh… am jus an poopie…” he said with disappointment, rolling his eyes.
“n-nu wike namsie…” you stammered. You weren’t entirely sure as to why you were talking back to him, but if anything it was just your method of soothing the crippling fear growing in your gut.
“yew thinkie Smawty cawe?” he scoffed before turning and walking away.
“wan nyu namsie, can Poopie be wike gweenie and gwey stawwions?” you begged him.
“Nu” he said as he slowly trotted on, “yew am tu wittal fow bein’ tuffie, yew on yewr own poopie, smawty am da bestest an onwy wan da bestest”.
As the black silhouette vanished into the curtain of sunlight that separated your dingy (and now bloodstained) home from the outside world, a thought entered your traumatised little head. Somehow, some way, you were going to get that new name. The name respected and feared by all other fluffies, a name that meant you deserved to be in this world, a name that would make it so your mummah would one day look at you with equal amounts admiration, fear and respect and say she had “da biggest sowwies, wuz wong to be stupid bad mummah”, and now you knew exactly what name you wanted. With the sky-daddeh of skettiwand as your witness, you were going to be a Smarty.
-To be continued?-
