Grigori is my fluffy. I have had him for six years as of next Tuesday, his sixth birthday. I take excellent care of Grigori. I have for many years. I feed him, provide for him, play with him, love him. I give him everything he needs. Our relationship, still, is quite tense. Why? I suspect it has something to do with my intention to kill and eat him.
Okay, it probably has more to do with my decision to make sure he lives his entire life knowing that that’s going to happen.
When he was just a little baby, just a newborn chirpy in his mummah’s arms, I told him. Her too, I guess. She understood it better. Her reaction was essential. What little I understand about their psychology tells me that her mother hollering at me about not eating her infant son would do more to cement in his head the idea that I want to eat him than anything I could tell him later.
She had six kids in total. One more than I needed, which isn’t exactly a problem for me. When all the babies were still chirpies, before their eyes could open, I took Grigori and his sister aside. His mother didn’t like that one bit! Screaming bloody murder, all about “nu nummie babbehs” and “daddeh am munstah” to try and warn her foals. Little does she know she’s doing my job for me.
Once we were aside I sat the two confused quivering foals in a shoebox on the table. They quickly seek each other’s scent, peeping more frantically as they grow near, finally erupting in happy chirps as they embraced. It was all very heartwarming, and it let me know that the familial bond, extremely strong in fluffies, was fully formed. I took the filly and, while being careful not to pry their hug apart, lifted her lower body into my hand. They didn’t know what was happening, but she sounded scared and he was holding fast.
I slowly tightened my grip, crushing the life out of her as I went. Her peeping sped, became bloodcurdling screeching, and immediately stopped as her airway became too blocked with…well, airway bits. Her throat, meanwhile, was busy serving as conduit for her digestive tract to escape onto her brother’s face.
I released her and left him there. He couldn’t see or communicate beyond his chirping, but his nose worked. He found her. He hugged her limp distorted corpse and cried so hard I thought his lungs would collapse and I’d have to start over with some other soon mummah. I went to retrieve the mother, hand still dripping in viscera and fluids.
She resisted, screaming that I’d killed her baby, that I was a monster. I rubbed my disgusting hand all over her face and told her she was right. I had. I was. Speechless, she didn’t resist when I grabbed a fistful of her mane and drug her into the next room with her son.
He was in the shoebox, still hugging the crushed remains of his sister, making questioning chirps. The upward inflected hopeful kind they make when they’re anticipating an answer to the chirp. He’s asking if she is okay.
I take her from him and bring her to the mother. I tell her to eat it and she refuses. I told her I’d force her, and she screams. It took me forty minutes and ruined a perfectly good funnel, but I returned to her the extra child I hadn’t anticipated. Frankly I had doubts that a trauma like that could even imprint that early, but having thay sixth foal was sort of pointless.
After finding herself unable to induce vomiting, a feature of the line courtesy Hasbio by the way, she started rocking back and forth sobbing those big heaving belly sobs that mares her size do. Muttering to herself. Apologizing to her daughter as she digested her, apologizing to her son who she could hear. Hell, I heard her sob while saying “mummah tummeh su fuww nao.” They’re way more capable of understanding what’s done to them than some folks think.
She broke after that. She didn’t fight me when I made her feed him the milk her meal provided. There wasn’t a real reason to, but later when I do it again I want to be able to truthfully say “you’ve already done this once.” Plus I want to eat the whole family at the end of this, and how can I do that if their souls don’t reside in him first?
Yeah. That’s what I thought. Not so smart now, reader.
He wasnt hungry. He suckled for a while, but I had to keep reattaching him by hand and pinching his soft tissue until he latched and started sucking. Then when he stopped I’d immediately pinch again. I hoped to get him to realize drinking=no pinching so he’d hurry up, but as the days wore on it seemed like all I’d accomplished in that regard was making him terrified to eat. Pretty funny.
Within a couple weeks the babies were all walking and talking. Since their birth, I’d been a model father. The mom didn’t trust me, but it’s not like she could do anything about it. Besides, she probably figured I was done.
I entered their well stocked saferoom and announced it was time for names. I had nametags made up for them. I named the mare “Bluebell” and gave her her collar with the tag on it. I gave Grigori his, revealing his name to him in the process, and then I dropped the other three. I told them that these were for the three other babies. His four siblings were dipshit fluffies, but they could count to four. They were puzzled. I told them there were only three fluffies. One of them was going to be food, and they needed to decide who.
While they freaked out and Bluebell tried to comfort them, I brought in a large clear plastic bin to put the four babies in. I told them that they couldn’t leave until they told me which of them was to be eaten. They all tried to argue, but I insisted. “Tell me who is food, and if they say otherwise, you can’t leave.”
It took three hours.
Bluebell vacillated between hyperventilating sobbing and retching in the corner. Grigori ran around, terrified more by his mother’s reaction than his siblings. He didn’t really understand what was happening with them, but his mummah was having a full on meltdown. Kid was doing that nervous tip tap dance when I scooped him up. He was afraid, but I comforted him. Hugged him and held him close. I rocked him to sleep while his siblings decided.
After about two hours the kids had all but given up. As soon as one of them said “weww if nu can pickies mabbeh nu babbehs am nummie babbehs?” I cleared my throat and interrupted to tell them that failure to choose means I pick two at random and kill them both. A bluff, obviously. I just needed something to incentivize a 3 on 1, and quickly three of the babbehs realized that if they teamed up, they could…force matters.
One of the four, a grey pegasus, was noticeably larger than the other two. Not from being fed more, but at this age babbehs vary widely in size. She tried to throw her weight around, repeatedly insisting “Wun ub ou guyz hab tu du it, babbeh tuu scawed. Nu wan huwt bwuddas if hab scawedies.” The message was begging, but the threat was so clear even fluffies could see it. Which they did.
I guess she had assumed one would join her since she was larger. She failed to understand that while she was by far the largest, three on one is still a mismatch. As the kicking started, I woke up Grigori so he could watch his brothers slowly murder his sister.
Being foals, they weren’t quick, efficient, or ruthless. Took like thirty minutes, and one was usually crying while begging his sister to sit still so it won’t take so long and hurt so much. They must have kicked her in the gut twenty times before they realized it wasn’t working. What’s ironic is that it eventually would have. Internal bleeding is a miserable way to go, but she’d been just this side of it when her brothers switched to beating on her largely untouched head. If they’d kept up the body blows, she’s dead within a minute. They switched to her head and took nineteen more minutes before she fell silent. Right up until the end she was making words, or trying to.
“Hkkkhhhp…hkkkkkkh khkkeeeee…”
Awful stuff. Fucking morons had trouble doing it while she begged so they smashed her snout first. Honest to God I don’t think they could have done a better job slowly beating her to death as painfully as possible if I’d literally told them to. They were trying to be merciful. They failed, as is their way.
Again, I forcefed her to Bluebell. This time the siblings all watched in horror. “Aren’t you excited, Grigori? You get to have bestest milkies ever! It’s going to be wonderful!” He was still quivering and whimpering, having worn out his sobbing voice a bit. “W…wat?” I gently ruffled his hair. “Your nummie sister is in your mom’s tummy right now turning into milk. Milk that you will drink to grow big and strong!” He recoiled in horror. “Nuuuuu! Nu wan meanie sissy miwkies! Wan onwyest sissy back!” I pat his head and chuckle like he’s just accidentally made a pun or some shit. “Oh don’t worry, you’ll get her back in a bit!”
He held out. She hadn’t eaten until becoming a mother of four a few minutes ago. I’d forced Grigori to skip breakfast, only his siblings ate. He was quietly weeping, crouched down behind his hoofs. He didn’t want to do this. He wanted his sister back.
Hours.
“Huuuuuu miwkie pwaces tuu fuww… Hab tuu manneh huwties in miwkie pwaces fwum tuu much miwkies…” Little by little their resolve eroded. While the three extras observed, they broke. “Huuuuuu babbeh tummeh bein suuuu meanies tu babbeh, hab wowstest owwies…nee…huuuu nee miwkies…” He trudged over, defeated. His mother wordlessly sat as he drank. He tried to stop a few times, but I kept gently insisting over and over and over that he continue until it was all gone.
When he completed it, I helped clean him up. I sat the whole family down and apologized for how scary things had been. I just kept telling them it all had to happen for a reason and that they needed to trust me.
This is how I did it for years. Every once in a while, out of the blue, I’d decide to thin the herd. I’d done the really gruesome ones early to cement that fucking nightmare in his head, but for the bit to work I needed him to have a more or less normal-ish life. Hard to do when daddy has a flensing knife that’s killed half your family before your eyes.
Once they had teeth, it was easy. After they all proved they could eat a bowl of kibble without breaking any teeth, I congratulated them on being weaned. Then I explained they didn’t need mummah anymore, and spent a few minutes De Niro kicking her to death. I threw her in a meat grinder in my garage, made some spaghetti sauce out of her, and fed it to the kids.
Don’t worry, they knew what it was.
That’s just how it would be. Every so often, bam. One less relative to share toys with. Force him to knowingly eat them. Talk a whole lot about “essence” and “having them within you.” By the time he was two years old, he’d tearfully eaten his last brother. That one was, admittedly, kinda fucked up. Did like a hibachi thing where I was cutting meat off him while he was still alive, frying it, and force feeding it to Grigori.
Grigori was dressed in a party hat I stole from some fucking clown fluffy whose scalp I tore off to see how hard that would be to accomplish. He was jammed in a highchair he was too big for, and wearing an “I’m turning 2” bib. He was crying and screaming and begging and apologizing to his brother while he was forced to eat him. Never seen so many tears.
Eventually I got him to start picking cuts. I jammed an apple in his brother’s mouth for a bit to calm Grigori down. I let him relax enough to slip and compliment the food. I’m a solid frycook. Then I take the apple out and let his brother do the rest.
“Meanie Gwigowwy! Ou wiked nummin’ ou bwudda! Huuuhuhuhuuu meanie daddeh take Bwaxtun weggie an gif tu Gwogowi fow nummies! Hatechu! Hatechu!” He had a heart attack shortly after he watched Grigori eat his testes. Kid ate awful quiet after that.
A few months later, I’d been a model daddeh. Grigori trusted me and felt safe. “Daddeh? Why make wittwe Gwiggy num aww famiwy? Gif Gwigowwy wowstest heawt huwties. Miss famiwy, huuuuu…” I scooped him up as I always had and explained it.
“Well they were food. It was their time.” He balked at that. “Bu doze nu was nummies, doze wewe fwuffies! Gwiggy hab tu num wastest bwudda whiwe wastest bwudda yeww an yeww at Gwiggy huhuhu wai daddehhhhhhuuuuuhuhuhiuuuu…” Cradling him close, I rubbed his belly. “Silly boy, fluffies are nummies.” He took a second, but his brain caught up. "N…nu! Wat? Nu num Gwiggy! Gwiggy nu wan be nummies, daddeh!" I sat him down gently in the house and laughed. “Oh silly boy, I’m not going to eat you now. I’m going to eat you many many forevers from now. When you are seven years old.” Ah yes, numbers above four. A fluffy’s worst nightmare. “W…bu…h…how time am dat, daddeh? Am bigges’ wong timesie ow onwy wittwe timesies?”
“Long. You are two years old now. Remember your birthday?”
“Uh huh, Gwiggy memba. Daddeh was dewe an-an-an Gwiggy had pawty! Gwiggy an Bwaxt…” He trailed off. Ha. He’d forgotten for a moment.
“Right. So that means you have been alive for two years. Two more years is how many?”
“Fouw, dat nu hawd.”
"Right. And two more after that?"
“Uhhhhhhh…”
“It’s six.”
“Otay…dat soun gud tu fwuffy…”
“Seven is one more than that. Seven is all your weggies, and all but one of another fluffies weggies.” That sunk in. I could see it on his face.
“So you are two weggies in. That means five weggies left.” He giggled. “Siwwy daddeh, nu nee fibe howe weggies, onwy fouw!”
“Well that is how many birthdays you have between now and being nummies for daddy.”
“Huuuu nu wike…nu wan be daddeh nummies…”
…
For four years I’ve raised Grigori. He’s smart and courteous and intuitive and loving. He’s an ideal fluffy in a lot of ways. That just makes it even funnier to bring up sometimes.
“Hey Grigori, buddy? Can you c’mere real quick?”
He trots into the kitchen cheerfully. “Hewwo daddeh, Gwiggy am hewe! Wat du?” I lift him up to the counter and he giggles as I set him in my stew pot. “I’m just making sure this pot is gonna be big enough. You haven’t really grown in the last year, so I think you…oughta still fit in this when it’s time for daddy to cook you and eat you next year.” He slumps down and starts to whimper. He knows nothing bad is gonna happen right now. He’s not afraid or running away. He’d just managed to put the fact that I’m going to eat him out of his brain for a while, and I brought it back to the forefront and fucked his whole mood up.
“Huuuuuuu nu wan fink bout dat, daddeh! Gwiggy get saddies huuuuuu…” I scratched behind his ears like he likes. “Don’t worry bud, you won’t have to for too much longer! You’re turning six next week! That’s your last birthday party ever!” While his face contorted I corrected myself. "Well, the last one you’ll finish. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure your Goodbye Party next year is even better!"
This, obviously, did not comfort him. “Bu…bu wai daddeh haftu num Gwiggy? Gwiggy wub daddeh! Nu faiw! Gwiggy nu wan Goobai Pawty, wan nu be nummies!” I just laughed in the dismissive way I always do and told him some shit about that being the future. No need to worry about it. But the seed was planted. I heard him whimpering to sleep that night.
“Huuuuu dis gunna be wastest biwfday ebba! Huhuhuhu nu faiw nu faiw nu fa-ha-ha-haiiiiiiiiwwwww…”
Music.