Your name is Smawty… well, it is now; it didn’t used to be, but that was a long time ago. You used to be called ‘Twat’, and before that you were ‘Coaw’. You never cared for these names, or the fat hairy hoomin that gave them. You were free now, free to be your own stallion, and you had been for years now.
You had amassed a small army of tuffies, your bestest tuffies. Unfortunately, you may have been a little short sighted.
You had plenty of strong stallions but so few enfie-mares to go around.
A while back, you took some unimportant purple mare and smashed her dummeh weggies into mush and then had your way with her. After a while, her speshew pwace wasn’t as tight anymore, not as fun, so you gave her to the tuffies, and after a while even they got bored of her.
Occasionally you still hear a few of them have a go at her, now and again, for a quick enf and for somewhere to drop their poopies.
From that gross mare, you at least got a new speshew fwend. You didn’t give her a name though, she didn’t need one, and in truth, she’d eventually die like all the others.
All that mattered was that she was yours, yours to own, your property.
As of late, the tuffies keep giving you meanie looks. They whisper in the darkie timsies, some follow your sparkly, pwetty speshew fwend around just a bit too close for your liking.
They need entertainment, they need food, and you aren’t as popular as you’d like to be.
You had muscle in your herd, alright; muscle with not enough nummie finders; muscle with not enough enfie-mares.
Recently, you had met with the fattie pinkie mare who also proclaimed to be a smawty like you, but she wasn’t, she was just mean.
You yourself didn’t care if fluffies were meanies, you were a meanie and you didn’t care, because for all your life you had only known that being a meanie was what got you what you wanted.
But this mare, she had something you wanted. Her herd was big, very big, and it was full of mares that would make for the bestest enfie-mares, and weak stallions that would make for the bestest nummie finders, and bebbehs that would make for the bestest enfie-bebbehs.
You had thought about giving her the wowstest fowevah sweepies and just taking them all when you met, but if you lost too many tuffie fwends, they’d blame you and give you wowstest fowevah sweepies too… even if you won.
She also had set up her herd’s nestie by a big shiny boxie that makes sketties when you put ugly dummeh bebbehs in it, and there was the solution. But she wanted something in exchange for sharing her magic skettie boxie with you.
Apparently her speshew fwend, the last smawty of her herd, had been given fowevah sweepies by a dummeh poopie fwuffy, and the funniest part was that this poopie fwuffy wanted to be a smawty. What a dummeh, it made you laugh at the idea of such a siwwy dream.
She was determined to find this ‘Poopie Smawty’, and offered you access to some of her herd’s mares, their bebbehs, and the skettie boxie, if you brought this slayer of smawties to justice; specifically alive.
You had agreed a good many bwite timsies ago to this hunt, this ‘skettie bounty’; and then, just as you were close to calling the hunt off, one of Twackew’s missing gang came home to you, and with guests.
You sat upon your throne: a cozy dent, right in the center of a pushed over twashie can. And from there you glared at Shawpie as she returned home.
“H-hewwo… Bestest Smawty, Shawpie am homsie…” she bowed fearfully. This gave you the biggest heawt happies that she still remembered her place.
You peered behind the young mare and saw two fluffies behind her, both younger, both… poopies.
“Wy yew bwing dummeh poopies hewe?” you demanded to know, to which Shawpie gulped before steadying herself.
“Dey am fwo-.” she went to speak, until the little mare pushed ahead with a stomp and a huff.
“NU CAWW PATCHIES POOPIE! AM PWETTY!” she shouted.
There was a terrible silence as the herd stopped in their tracks. They had never seen a fwuffy talk to YOU like the before, especially a mare, ESPECIALLY a poopie mare.
The silence was deafening, and you enjoyed watching the confidence slowly drip out of her, pooling around her hoofsies as soon as she realised what a dummeh she had been.
“Howd dat mawe downsies.” you ordered, and quickly, two tuffie fwends did just that.
“Wai, nu! Pweas nu gib huwties tu Patchies! Shawpie say dat hewd am bettah den Poopie Smawty hewd!” she begged and squirmed.
“Id am bestest hewd, cus in dis hewd, dummeh mawes kno tu shud uppies…” you said as you mounted the young mare.
“NU! PWEAS! NU WAN HUWTIES! WIWW SHUD UPPIES! AM SOWWIES!” she begged.
“Wat am yew? Saysie id.” you ordered.
“AM DUMMEH MAWE! AM STOOPID DUMMEH MAWE! NU GUN EBAH TAWKIES WIKE TUFFIE EBAH GAIN! PWEAS WET GU!” she cried as you pressed yourself to her entrance.
“Bwuvah! Downa… Pweas hewp… Pweas sabe…” she sobbed.
You looked over to the other gross poopie fwuffy. He looked at his sissie and did absolutely nothing.
“Wat be da point? Downa nu can du nuffin…” he said.
Patchies panicked and flailed as she felt the pressure against her speshew pwace building, almost fit to punch right through, she turned, eyes wide, full of scawedies, full of tears.
“Pweas…” she begged.
“Yew gun weawn.” was all you said.
“ScreeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”.
A few fowevahs later and you dismounted with a smile. You looked down her: booboo wawa and nu-nu juice seeping from her bruised and swollen speshew pwace. You laughed to yourself… It wasn’t so ‘speshew’ anymore. Her face was awash in snot and tears, her body trembled, her eyes darting madly in the deepest scawedies.
“Tanks fow da nyew enfie-mawe, Shawpie.” you smirked. You trotted over and talked about all that she had seen and done. She regailed you in the entire story, although she kept looking over your shoulder as the tuffies began taking their turns with the new enfie-mare.
“Smawty… Shawpie nu can thinkies wid aww dat noisie.” she admitted.
“Gud pointie.” you smiled, “Tuffies, use nyew dummeh enfie-mawe moufie tuu. Enfie-mawe nee shud da enf uppies… Ib yew aww git bowed, can use poopie howe tuu.” you suggested further.
And suddenly, several more stallions jumped the new living enfie-toy, muffling her screams behind gags of defeat.
“Sowwies bout dat… Wat wus Shawpie sayin’ gain?” you grinned happily.
“Dis Poopie Smawty, himb saysie wus goin tu da big twee pwace. Faw way fwom fattie pinkie mawe ow bestest Smawty. Su, wat gun du?” Shawpie explained.
“Hmmm, nu kno.” you thought out loud, “Wat Shawpie kno bout dis dummeh Poopie fwuffy?” you probed.
She explained what he was like, his herd mates, and his dream of being a smawty after a meanie smawty gave his bwuvahs wowstest stompies and took his mummah and sissie away.
And then it clicked… You KNEW this Poopie. In fact, you had MADE him, if what you had said truly was what got him to start his own herd.
You felt panic, the fattie pinkie mare would want to kill you, or at least not give you what you needed to stop your tuffies killing you, if she found out that YOU had caused this.
“Umm, Smawty… Yew otay?” Shawpie asked.
“Yus! Smawty am otay. Smawty nu saysie dat wus nut! Su SHUD UP!” you barked at her.
“…O-o-otay…” she whimpered.
“HEWD! WE GUN FIND DAT POOPIE NU-SMAWTY AN GIB WOWSTEST FOWEVAH SWEEPIES! DEN WE GUN TUWN AWW HIMB HEWD INTU ENFIE MAWES!” You declared.
“Wat bout da stawwions an bebbehs, Bestest Smawty?” a tuffie fwend asked.
“We gun stompies stawwion wumps an mayk dem hewd nummie findews!” you explained to roaring applause.
“AND YEW CAN ENF AWW DEY BEBBEHS! ENF DEM, STOMPIES DEM, NUM DEM… CUS HEWD DU WAT WAN!” you added, to which they exploded in joy, psyched up, ready for war.
“Yew!” you pointed at Downa, “Show Smawty whewe yew weft da Smawty, an ib hewd git himb, yew nu gun end uppies wike sissie… Unastan?” you demanded and questioned.
“Yeh… Downa unastan.” he frowned in compliant defeat.
-To Be Continued-
can’t wait for the next installment. The Maroon esk Smarty speach is even getting me hyped.