The Fluffy Assassin
It’s a dangerous world out there. There’s bright colors to assault your eyeballs, whiney voices to hurt your ears, and fluffy poop to step in. The world belongs to fluffies now, and we’re all worse off for it. That’s why it’s so important to hire the professionals to get rid of them. The right Fluffy Exterminator is guaranteed to take care of your fluffy problem, at least for a while.
Too fucking bad the market is cornered in this city.
Weston, Wes for short (he’d let you know if you could use that) had learned about the professional world of fluffy exterminators, and had gone down a rabbit hole of videos learning all about the ins and outs, and how good of a job it could be. Weston was a college dropout, failed as a writer, and recently fired from delivering packages. He’d gotten hyped up on the thrilling world of fluffy extermination and was ready to get out there, buy a few basic tools, and hit the pavement.
Except he was too late, the poor fuck. Fluffy Extermination was the new Pressure Washing business, the next ‘just buy and operate some vending machines, it’s easy!’ of the internet. A few people that got in early made a ton of good content talking about their cushy jobs, not going into how they had built up a network of market dominance where they operated in order to have that cushy lifestyle. So Weston hit the ground running, and then smashed his face into the pavement.
The only jobs he could get were the shitty ones from people unwilling to pay reasonable prices to the actual established exterminators, and he quickly realized why. Extermination meant killing, eliminating the source, and body disposal. But what he hadn’t realized was what that meant, not really, because Weston didn’t do enough research into the actual work, just the flashy parts.
His first job was simple, lady paid him a twenty to get rid of a pair of fluffies and their new foals that had invaded her backyard. He went in, ready to collect his easy payday, and quickly realized the first issue with this work. He wasn’t a fluffy abuser, and he didn’t hate them enough to be cold blooded about it.
The fluffies had been nice, polite even. Away went his tools, a bb gun an a shovel, and instead he forced them to leave, then got a hammer and nails from the lady to put back up some planks fallen out of her fence. He got paid, but he barely did anything.
The next job got a lot worse. 100 dollars to clear out a construction site overrun with the fuckers. A grueling day of work, of running after fluffies with a shovel when he was out of bb’s, chasing off those he could and dealing with those he couldn’t, then having to carry off the bodies into a very fucking heavy pair of contractor trash bags had not been worth it. Fluffy shit and blood all over his pants and shoes, and his car reeked of it for a month after.
He tried a few more, and then decided working for himself was stupid.
He joined a proper extermination company and quickly learned working for others was worse so he jumped back out within a week.
Down on his luck and deep into a bottle of bourbon he shouldn’t have fucking bought with his money issues, his mind turned to his old job. Weston had liked delivering packages. It was simple work, he got to see some people happy to get their stuff, and no one bothered him much throughout the workday. Get his work done and go home mostly. But he got fired because of some fucking…fluffy! A fucking FLUFFY got him fired!
The little shit had stomped on his shoe and refused to let him pass to do his fucking job. Some Smarty shit about ‘dis am fwuffy wand! Hab gib sketties tu gib boxie!’ He tried to argue it was for the fucker’s owner, but you can’t negotiate with stupid and stubborn. Finally the thing talked about ‘Gib wowstest sowwy poopies!’ and fucking turned around to do it! Weston couldn’t believe it, this thing was actually planning to shit on him just like that. In a gut reaction he punted the thing across the lawn…right under the surveillance camera for the home. He didn’t know that then, but he rushed to drop the package and left. The owner was some Karen that shouted people down until his ass was fired for the incident.
Half a bottle down, he thought, ‘If there’s one fluffy I would be happy to kill, it’s that little shitstain…’ And before he knew it, he was a quarter further down the bottle and outside that same house. It was remarkable he managed to walk all the way there, let alone find the house. But then he got real sober real fast, least he felt a lot more sober. He waited in the bushes, right under the camera’s gaze but he didn’t know that then. When that stupid bright blue fluffy walked out of the house, he waited and watched. He ran around the neighborhood unchecked, shitting on someone else’s lawn, shouting and another person’s fluffy and threatening it, and even found time to force itself on some stray mare. He waited still, wanting to be sure he didn’t miss, and let the little shit have one more ‘gud feews’ before he left the world.
Drinking is not conducive to good aim. So even though he waited patiently and quietly, when he eventually got the drop on the fluffy, his bb’s didn’t his the head like he’d tried. No, instead he ended up laying round after round into random parts of the fluff’s body, if not missing entirely and striking the Karen’s house or her lawn. He hoped he shot some of her flowers on accident too. But he got at least two of the fuckers leggies, enough to leave him crying and screaming in angry, terrified pain at someone having the audacity to hurt him.
“WHY HUWT MINT?! AM GUD FWUFFY!”
He took a few more shots into the body before finally shooting the thing in the head. It…wasn’t clean, but emptying the rest of the bb’s made sure he wasn’t getting back up. Wasn’t long before Karen came out screaming about her poor fluffy, but by then he was sprinting away full speed, making his clean getaway.
Until he smashed his face into some parked car a block away. One bad step and he was down for the count. He ended up waking up in the Emergency Room cuffed to his cot. Won’t bore you with the details, but he got in more trouble for running around drunk with a bb gun than what he did with it. The cop had said, “Fluffies ain’t protected even as much as most actual pets. You’re looking at destruction of property at best, probably gotta pay some damages.”
The cop had been right. He got a stern warning about his drunken conduct and put on probation for it, but so long as he didn’t go around being a drunken asshole again he’d be fine. The fine was…not as bad as he feared, but Weston was broke as shit right now so it was still awful. $500 bucks. But only 200 of that was for the fluffy, the rest was because he struck her house and did some damage to it.
Still, Weston was screwed if not for a particularly happy set of neighbors to that bitch and her now poor, deceased Mint. They pooled together a good 352 bucks for him as a thank you. More than enough to cover the money for the fluffy, and what little savings he had left was just enough to cover the rest and leave him with food money (well, beans and rice money).
That was when he had an idea. An idea he thought sounded a lot cooler than it did, but was a solid idea nonetheless. If he couldn’t be a Fluffy Exterminator, bane of all fluffy kind and bringer of mass fluffy decimation, he could be something better suited for him. The Fluff Buster. The Colorful Painter. The Last Resort. The Fluffy Assassin!
Have a Fluffy you can’t stand to deal with anymore? Neglectful Owner? Shithead of an Owner? Fluffy is a menace to your peace and quiet? Hell, partner has a pet fluffy you can’t stand? He was your man.
That was how Weston got here, waiting patiently at a bench in a Fluffy Park. He paid his buddy a few bucks to borrow his fluffy, a nice little orange and yellow fluffy named Randal, and set to work. He was a few jobs deep now, and this one was real specific. Guy loved a girl, girl loved him. Her Fluffy was extremely territorial and kept making sorry poopies on the bed whenever he slept over. She wouldn’t discipline him, had spoiled him rotten, and he knew even asking to get rid of him would be a step too far for the relationship. He wanted the little monster gone, and it had to look like the fluffy’s own fault so it didn’t blow up in his face.
Weston played fetch with Randal, taking his time between each throw as he waited for his target. The fluff was a deep red with bright green mane and tail, and might even be considered a ‘tuffie’ for his bigger size. Fluffy was named…he had to check again, right, the fluffy was named Claus. Probably a Christmas Fluffy she actually held onto long-term.
A few minutes after getting the text from the client, he spotted Claus running around, playing a bit rough with some mares, maybe hoping to get lucky. He played one more round of fetch with Randal, then said loudly, in hopes of being overheard. “Alright, I think you deserve a good rest after all that good playing. Here’s your water.” He put down a collapsable bowl freshly filled, “I’ve got something special too.”
“Speshew?” Randal looked at him curiously.
“Yep. I heard these were your favorite, so I brought a lot for you. Sketties!”
Randal gasped, “SKETTIES? AT PAWK? YU IS BES DADDEH FWEND EBA! TANK YU!”
“Mhm. Here you go bud. I got lots so eat up!” He placed the tubberware container down, after double checking it was the right one, and let Randal just go to town. He’d been warned he was a messy eater but he didn’t expect just how messy. The little guy was getting sauce on his back somehow, and flinging stray noodles all over the place.
With how loud Randal was, it was no surprise when a couple nearby fluffies wandered over and stared longingly at the scene. One inched over and slurped up a stray noodle that had been lost in the slaughter of the pasta dish, but Weston pretended not to notice it. Finally, the red guy made his way over, and huffed, looking ready to charge in and steal those sketties, if not for Weston sitting there, looming over the happy fluffy. “Man, are you gonna be able to eat all those sketties, Randal?”
“Wandew nu nu! Am so many sketties!” He went right back to devastating the poor pasta dish.
“Oh man, what will I do with the extra sketties then? It’ll go bad before we get you home…” Weston pulled out another container, marked differently, “Maybe…we can give it to one of your new friends here?”
“Ye! Otay!” Randal barely got a breath in before continuing to devour the pasta.
The surrounding fluffies immediately broke into a crazed contest of pleas and demands. Two danced for him, one asked to play fetch with him, and another stomped and demanded them while another just shouted about wanting the sketties. But then there was Claus. He thought about his options for a moment, then pushed through the fluffies in his way, knocking them over and even giving one a headbutt to force it to move as he came right up to Weston, “Cwaus is bestest fwuffy fwend. Shud hab Sketties!” he stomped down his foot and stare up at him.
“Oh yeah? Bestest one, huh?”
“Yus. Mummah say so! Now gib Sketties tu Cwaus! Or gib wowstest poopies!”
“…” Weston had to take a breath on that one. Now he really didn’t feel bad about this, not that he felt bad much for it anyway. “Oh man, I don’t want that…okay, but only if you promise to eat them all okay?”
The stupid fluffy looked at him like he was dumb, “Ub couwse Cwaus eat all da sketties. Is sketties! Cwause eat all da sketties eba!”
“Okay…better tell these other fluffies to go away first.”
Without hesitation, Claus started to threaten them with stompies, and even gave one poor fluffy a good stomp before he ran off, complaining of a hurt leggie. Well, not like he told the shitstain to do that, not his problem. He opened the container, and made sure to place it a good bit away from Randal’s container, “There you go!”
There was no thank you as the big red guy dug in. Randal couldn’t even finish all the pasta he had, and looked happily over full when he pulled his sauce stained face back out for the final time. To be extra careful, he pulled Randal up onto the bench next to himself and started petting him, “Relax with me, okay?”
“Otay!” and like a good boy, Randal got comfy right there. He kicked the container over so the last of the pasta spilled out, and left it there. He knew it would get eaten by someone, and he wasn’t about to leave any of the other container lying around.
The big shit ate every bite and then licked the container clean. His face was covered in sauce, which was part of the plan, but it still was funny. He’d had to make sure the sauce was a brighter red than this fluffy or it wouldn’t be evident later on. “Wow, you ate every bite!”
“It was gud skettie, dummeh!” the fluffy laughed for himself, “Eat all dem! Eben this one!” he then proceeded to eat the pasta spilled out on the grass, the greedy fuck. Then he had the audacity blow a raspberry at him before running off.
He texted the client, “[All taken care of. Be sure to take pictures before the sauce comes off.]”
“[Got it.]”
After all that, he collected his containers carefully, stuffed them back in his bag, and brought a very happy Randal home to his buddy.
Throughout the week, the problem would solve itself. It was a long week, since he didn’t get the second half of his payment till the job was done, but he got the money before he got the message.
“[Worked perfect man. Little fuck shit himself to death when he tried to shit on the bed again.]”
He wasn’t there to see it, but he imagined it went something like this:
Claus returned full and happy to the client. The client saw the sauce all over Claus’s face and took a picture to send his girlfriend, before chiding the fluffy only to be, of course, ignored.
Client would text something like, “[Babe, I told you he doesn’t listen. He went and ate something in the park. Probably some garbage. Said it was a lot of skettie.]”
Weston knew this because he’d told him to, basically.
His girlfriend would be concerned, but not be able to blame the client because he just brought the fluffy to the Fluffy Park, trying to connect supposedly.
When asked, the fluffy would just say something like, ‘ate aww da sketties!’ and not really think bringing up Weston was important.
Then, he’d start having stomach issues a day later. Oh no. But a Fluffy being a bit sick from eating garbage? Hardly notable.
But it only got worse. The fluffy being a gas bag, and got real bloated. His insides were being destroyed bit by bit by stuff his body couldn’t break down that Weston had mixed with actual pasta and covered in sauce. His insides were slowly becoming a system on the brink of collapse, and all it took was one overly strained anus to finally activate that bomb. He went for sorry poopies 5 days after the day in the park, and as soon as he strained a bit too hard to spurt out his rancid shit, his body’s internals cascaded in a horrible self destruction. The shit came out fast and hard, and then it became blood, and chunks of his internal organs, until half his organs were sticking out of his poor ass, and he was panicking as his vision failed and even screaming in pain became too difficult.
A horrible mess, traumatizing even, and there his client would be to support his girlfriend through it all. Hopefully, seeing that, she’d never want a fluffy again, if they could just self-destruct like that from some garbage eating. She’d never know how intentional it was.
But as he collected his second half of payment and read the message with a grin, he didn’t linger too long on what happened, he was busy figuring out how to take care of his new target, a pair of very loud fluffies that were breeding like rabbits in the backyard of an old lady that fed and kept stray and feral fluffs. He was thinking of faking working for a shelter for this one. Maybe even a worker at “Skettie Land”. He would have fun with this one.
(Been away a long time. Been lurking, but haven’t had a chance to write in a while, was doing some work that pays but I am very bad at time management. Not abandoning the fluffy sink experiment story just taking more time with it. Had this idea since I like exterminator stories. Might continue more with it. Hope ya enjoyed.)
