The Fluffy Mill
By: Turboencabulator
Columbia City, Indiana, used to be one of many places dotted among the midwest that fell into a
familiar, but unnoticed category. It was heartily dancing back and forth over the line between
big town and small city, the population fluctuating around ten thousand as young adults left
to find their life, and old adults returned when their life needed to slow down somewhat. For a
long time it simply did as locales like this always did, tucked in its own pocket of the
countryside, and living.
During one summer, the mayor of Columbia City found himself on some maladjusted medication and got a wild idea, a real âshot in the armâ plan to invigorate the townâs economy and ensure his
continual re-election until they put up a statue of him, and turned his lovely little burg into
another Fort Wayne.
So, in a town that is perpetually dependent on agriculture, the mayor did the obvious, and
paved over fifteen million square feet of farmland, not including the additional roadways to
serve it, making the second largest industrial park in the USA, putting an emphasis on its
location and existing shipping infrastructure.
Three months after the project was completed, the mayor was found dead in his home, having been suffocated when the vice president of the local chapter for the national farmerâs union broke
in and shoved a whole cob of corn down the mayorâs throat. The farmerâs didnât take very kindly
to having their land seized and paved over.
However, his successor was far more savvy in business, and she saw the potential in the massive
space. So, giving the plan a spit-shine and a new spin, she pitched the space as âfor any
industrial useâ.
In time, small firms would set up shop there, working their way over the bare concrete patches
one at a time. A welding firm here, a contractorâs supply there. Eventually the project began
to break even, and the town relaxed a little as the economy stabilized.
Then HasBio purchased two thirds of the space, and began building the Midwest Breeding Center,
a collection of buildings, walking bridges, shipping terminals, and workshops. Two hundred and
fifty acres of land were used for the production of fluffies and fluffy-centric goods, and all
the operations that support the industry.
Columbia City, for its part, did become more prosperous, rising to twenty-four thousand
citizens within a decade, largely supported by the Center. Yet even with this new expansion,
and the stability the economy was granted, people still had misgivings. The smell occasionally
wafted downtown, and on still nights, people swore they could hear the sobbing of tiny hearts
being broken down under the weight of capitalism. It only took a short time, but soon the
operation was simply called The Mill.
The Mill was not only a breeding center. Warehouses and factories churned through tonnes of
soybeans, corn, and wheat, and tens of tonnes of various kinds of hay, processing and packaging
them into various grades and brands of fluffy food. Depots were strategically dotted around the
perimeter of the industrial park, handling the exchange of toys, made up in Detroit, coming in
and mixing with food, and Ikea-like flatpack fluffy furniture, and discretely marked boxes of
trite garbage that Hasbio branded as âabuserâs toolsâ, all parted out and loaded into trucks
for distribution to Fluff-Marts.
Mitchell Smalls was not used to a place like the Mill. Mitchell, a man so stiff and formal that
people swore he starched his shirts while wearing them, was a deeply fastidious about
appearance and cleanliness. He was not nose-blind to the industrial reek of the Mill, and found
himself constantly checking that he had not trod in something unpleasant, before remembering
that was The Smell Of This Place.
He walked in to the reception of the main administrative building at the Center, and checked in
with the staff. He was three minutes early, which he utilized to carefully re-straighten his
tie and polish his very straight and level glasses, and finally to make sure the OSHA badge on
his lapel was in its Correct and Proper Position, as all things in his possession had.
He was met in reception by a woman he had not yet met on his previous visits. She was well
under his height, and wore a HasBio badge indicating she held the position of âFacilities
Managerâ. Aside from being completely normal, the left side of her face was a pale, scarred
mess, except around the eye.
âMister Smalls,â She said, extending a hand. âIâm Lyla Harding, Iâll be answering questions for
you today.â
He shook hands, noticing that she had a much more powerful grip than anticipated. âA
pleasure. Where abouts is the plant?â
She gestured, and he followed, walking side by side down a glass walled corridor, either side a
row of displays of fluffies playing happily, and various other showpieces for visitors.
âIâve done two kinds of tours, Mister Smalls.â She said, getting in a HasBio branded electric
cart. âThe kind where people donât ask, and it stays tense, or the kind where people ask and we
get it out of the way.â
âIf weâre going to remain formal then itâs Doctor, if youâd be so kind.â He said, then got in
the passenger seat, sitting stiffly as the roof forced him to hunch over. âSo, what happened?â
Driving, Lyla leaned back. âThe last place I worked that had a cryo plant didnât follow your
departmentâs recommendations. A leak caused a steam pipe to blow. I was right by it.â
Mitchell winced reflexively. âIt seems luck was fickle for you that day.â
He looked around, wrinkling his nose a little as the smell of fluffy waste grew more
intrusive. âI am curious, on another topic though.â He said, âWhy does this place require its
own liquid nitrogen plant?â
Parking in front of a large building, she got out and watched as workmen installed a large sign
reading âCryogenic Fluid Production Plantâ.
âItâs rather simple.â She said, turning and buzzing them both into the building. âThe Center
isnât just for producing live fluffies, but also for freezing and storing ova and sperm from
them. We can then use these for what are essentially âcustom orderedâ fluffies. Itâs still a
new concept but the Board has hopes for bringing back high end fluffies by making them
essentially bred to-order without needing to go through the usual multi-generational stuff.â
Mitchell was nodding, and after putting on a hard-hat, they went into the main bay of the
cryogenics plant, and he began his inspection. âIâm surprised that Alenix hasnât started doing
that, itâd be right up their alley.â He said, musing out loud.
Lyla waggled a finger. âAh-ah-ah, theyâre not allowed to.â She said, with a wry smile. âPart of
the lawsuit battle a few years ago. Both companies can make products, but only HasBio can breed
fluffies for public sale, and only Alenix can breed fluffies for research. They wonât give up
their tech that easily anyways.â
âIâm not surprised.â Mitchell said, ticking boxes on his checklist. âI just found that in order
to inspect their facilities one has to get some special government clearance.â
Lyla raised an eyebrow, and followed along while Mitchell continued the inspection.
Riding in the cart, Mitchell looked around some more, curious. âSo the LN2 is only going to be
used in one area, correct?â
Lyla shook her head, dragging on a vape pen. âRight, so. We have three out of seven production
departments that are going to be using it, if you go by the department breakdown. They share
facilities that the nitrogen is going to be used in, though.â
Mitchell nodded, marking down notes. âThatâs kind of a strange way to organize things.â
She shrugged. âI mean, yeah, but also itâs kind of logical in a way. So we have seven groups,
right. One is this project for custom fluffies, theyâre going to be using the lionâs share. One
is the stallion house, for storing sperm until it gets shot in a breeder, and the last one is
the surgical ward for harvesting ova from females. Dry ice is fine for organs but the docs say
that if you wanna store sperm or eggs for more than a day or two it needs to be put in glycerin and stored in liquid nitrogen.â
After thinking for a moment, Mitchell turns to her, and asks, âOk, what do you mean âshot into
a breederâ?â
Parking, Lyla gets out and they walk up to the veterinary medicine building. âWell, thatâs the
other four groups that need explained if you want a clear picture of what that means. The other
four are the breeding floors, S, and A through C. S is where we breed show ponies and other
high end fuzzballs. If a mare is well behaved and has genetics we want, she can get promoted to
S and actually get a real fluffy-dick in her. Otherwise, itâs all done with a FID.â
âDo I want to know what a FID is?â Mitchell asked, going through a new, shiny lab and
inspecting things.
âFluffy Insemination Device.â Lyla said, picking a device up from the table. "One of these. The
techs have all sorts of sophomoric nicknames for them. Most popular one so far is âthe
enfinatorâ.
She held a black plastic and shined aluminum pistol, with a long nozzle made of firm silicone
on one end. A port on the back was open and empty.
Mitchell watched as she picked up a battery-sized vial and inserted it in the back. Pointing it
at a sink, she pulled the trigger. A little plunger snapped forward and a spray of sterile
saline solution squirted out the nozzle.
She set it back down, to see Mitchell with a rare grin on his face.
âWhat?â She asked.
âCock gun.â
After a moment, the pun hit, and Lyla quietly buried her face in her hands.
Lyla and Mitchell stepped out of an elevator into a quiet hallway, technicians shuffling to and
fro, the smell of tea tree oil in the air.
âOh good Sammyâs in today.â Lyla said, and snagged the elbow of a technician. âHey any idea
where Sammy is?â
The technician turned, looking down the hall. âUh, last time I saw her she was at intake, but
that was like⌠twenty minutes ago?â
âThanks.â She said, and started walking down the hall, Mitchell in tow.
Going in a room marked âIntakeâ, Lyla went up to a heavyset, hippy-ish woman and gave her a
swat on the arm. âJesus Christ Sammy youâre supposed to be on medical leave.â
Sammy turned, then grinned. âYeah, sure, like thatâs ever stopped me.â She waved at Mitchell
with an arm in a sling, gingerly. âHi.â
Mitchell nodded, and Lyla gestured. âThis is Doctor Smalls from OSHA, heâs doing our general
inspection. Could you show him how we handle the stallions while I make a few calls?â
âSure.â Sammy said, and Lyla headed out.
âRight, so, weâll take you through hwhat we do here.â Sammy said, linking arms with Mitchell
and walking him to the end of the room like a pair going to prom. âYou handle fluffies before,
Doc?â
âNo, and Mitchell is fine.â He said, vaguely flustered.
âPick up one of them foals. These are all colts and theyâre all a-goin for production here.â
She said, bumping her hip against his to push him lightly towards a long, narrow pen.
Mitchell looked into the pen, and saw two dozen adolescent colts inside, who all looked up at
him with cute, wide eyes, full of innocent wonder. He selected one, picking it up, watching as
the surrounding colts rubbed against his hand and batted at his fingers. Cradling the colt in
two hands, Mitchell looked it over.
The little fluffy sat on his haunches unevenly, sucking his hoof and looking up at Mitchell
with unconditional love. After a minute, he squeaked and hugged Mitchellâs thumb. âNyu daddeh?â
It asked.
âSorry little guy.â Mitchell said, and handed the colt over to Sammy.
âRight.â She said, looking the colt over. âCute little goobers arenât they.â
Turning, she walked to a little leg immobilizer and set the colt in it. There was a loud snap
and a flash of light from under the stallion, who let out a loud, sharp peep and immediately
shat himself with vigor.
âJust a little zap.â Sammy said, marking down the coltâs weight. She took a saliva sample, put
it in a machine, and dropped the colt in a small fluffy enclosure.
It was a simple molded plastic affair, with a food dish, a sleeping pad, and a small screen
mounted in the wall. Two other walls were clear, with air holes.
She closed the last wall of the enclosure, more glass, and slid the pen onto a cart. âThatâs
all the handling they get unless they get sick or need punished. Weâll take him to his home pen
now. Sometimes they need to wait a while in the transport pens, especially if theyâre moody.â
Pushing the cart out, the little colt looked through the glass in wonder, stumbling around
trying to follow people as they walked past. Mitchell followed, jotting down notes.
Sammy pushed the cart in a modest sized room. The walls were a sea foam green, and along each
wall was three levels of identical fluffy enclosures. Each one was about a meter square, with a
much nicer sleeping bed, automatic food and water, and a television in the back wall. The two
side walls were clear, allowing the denizens to talk with each other and have
socialization. There were no toys in the pens, instead each one had, mounted right in front
of the screen, an enfie toy. It was an artificial mare rump, angled down like she was stuck in
the floor.
Mitchell watched as a big, spry unicorn mounted the toy in his cage, giving it a vigorous
rutting. A small tube underneath captured the semen, automatically bottling it and signalling
the technician to collect it. A young man came up and slid the vial in a small tube with dry
ice, and sent it off in a pneumatic tube.
Sammy had already put the colt in its new home, closing the front and letting it explore,
before it sat down on its rump and watched as the television in its pen sprung on, in concert
with every other screen.
Playing fluffy porn.
Sammy chuckled at Mitchellâs expression. âWell ya canât say they arenât happy.â
Soon the room was a chorus of enfing sounds. Mitchell watched as the colt looked confusedly at
his own groin, now fully at attention, before he too joined in on the fun and mounted the
mare-rump fused into the floor of his pen.
âSo, the sperm you harvest here is stored for general use around the facility?â Mitchell asked,
examining the collection and hygiene systems on an unused pen, taken out for maintenance.
âThatâs right.â Sammy said, happily wheeling a dewar of liquid nitrogen over and, using a pair
of heavy gloves, screwing a hose onto it. âEach stallion gets their genes done up, then their
sperm is tagged per vial. Each vial gets sent to processing, where they preserve it and send it
for storage. Or over to one of the mare floors.â
Lyla walked back in. âSorry about that, phone meetings.â
âNot at all.â Mitchell said, straightening up. âShall we move on?â
The pair walked out, Mitchell making notes. âI take it next is S?â
âNo,â Lyla said, handing Mitchell a sheet of paper. âAlready been vetted, by your predecessor.â
Mitchell took the proffered sheet and read it. âHm. Weird, the inspection was interrupted
afterwards?â
âFluffy Liberation Front set one of our greenhouses on fire.â
With a nod, Mitchell tucked it under his notes. âRight.â
âYouâre not missing much there anyways.â Lyla said, walking him to a skybridge and over a road
filled with carts and bicycle traffic. âItâs the usual mushy breederâs setup. Private
saferooms, time out in safe play-fields or in sun-rooms, partnered stallions and mares and
spaghetti on Saturdays.â
âSo next would be what, A?â
âSorting.â Lyla said, checking her cell and jogged ahead as someone came into view. âHey! Hey
Hank!â
A speccy beanpole of a man turned, before waving. âOh hey.â
âDoctor Smalls, Doctor Peterson.â Lyla said, the two gentlemen nodding at each other. âIâm
sorry this keeps happening Mitchell but Hank can you please show Mitchell how sorting works for
our OSHA inspection?â
Hank nodded, and Lyla jogged off, swearing quietly.
âRight, this way.â Hank said, turning and going in to a room. âWeâll do equipment first.â
âLet me guess,â Mitchell said. âDoctor of Biology?â
âComputer Science.â Hank said, grinning and picking up a plastic device the shape of a football
cut along its long axis. âI designed and wrote the control and management system for this
place, and helped design these.â
He handed it to Mitchell, who turned it over, examining it. It was a thin acrylic dome over a
pad, a QR code and various marks on the sides. The narrow end portions were marked for milk
and waste, respectively.
Hank held up one in two parts, split into a lower plate and the upper portion with reservoirs
exposed. âItâs quite nice if I do say so. The pad keeps the chirpy warm and comfortable, and
also has a small heartbeat and breathing biomonitoring system in it. Thereâs also level sensors
in the milk and feces tanks for filling and emptying, respectively. The system can continually
monitor the location of each chirpy in transit, as well as its general health and activity
level, and refill or drain the tanks on the fly.â
Mitchell nodded, âHow are they moved around? This looks too automated for just passing around
with carts.â
âWe have a belt system between the buildings. Itâs all automated, thatâs been vetted last time
we got certified.â Hank said, fitting the two halves back together. âBut, most of the chirpies
go to distribution. Policy says that sale chirpies need to be in store within three days, and
canât be in the truck for more than twelve hours or they run out of milk. Or poop room,
whichever.â
âAnd the rest come here?â Mitchell asked, examining an optical scanner and several photos of
chirpies in various colors.
âNo, just the dams of good enough color to go back in for breeding.â Hank says. âWe were
working with that to try and auto-sort by color but it kept giving wonky data when we used it
on the real chirpies. Probably something to do with the plastic.â
Mitchell was taking notes, nodding. âBut theyâre all in pods like this?â
âYup. Once theyâre sent here theyâre put in the adolescent pens, then once they hit six weeks
theyâre put in the A breeding pens. Then theyâre on a three strikes rule. Three strikes and
they go to B, three more and they go to C. With some exceptions.â
Mitchell glanced up. âOk?â
Hank counted off on his fingers. âFirst, killing a chirpy is immediate demotion to B, unless
itâs an alicorn or similar rarity, then itâs straight to C. Trying to give sorry-poopies is
immediate demotion to B, hiding chirpies from collection is immediate demotion to B. Those are
the three they are told. They donât understand why letters are bad but they understand
demotion.â
âAnd the ones theyâre not told about?â Mitchell asked, curious.
âPoor production.â Hank said, pulling on a lab coat and apron. âThree litters of any mixture of
stillbirths and bad colors.â
Mitchell watched. Hank grinned. âDonât worry Iâm just filling in for a friend while heâs at
lunch. Come on, Iâll show you how this works in A.â
Grabbing a tray, Hank walked out into a wide floor of pens, each one large enough for a mare
and her litter to be reasonably comfortable. Each one had either a lone mare or dam, or one
nursing a collection of young. Hank went over to one and rested the tray on the corner, smiling
down. âHi there.â
The mare inside whinnied quietly, looking up at Hank. She was a unicorn, and her cluster of a half
dozen chirpies were nestled in against her stomach, her tail curled around them. âHewwo
mistew. Is day?â
Hank nodded. âIt is, C-210 I know it isnât easy, but youâve had three bright times with them. Itâs
time to let them go.â
With a nod, the mare sniffled, and gave each of her babies a little hug and a muttered âwuf yuâ
before handing them over to Hank. He turned a warming pad on in the tray, setting the chirpies
in, and giving the mare a gentle pat, scritching behind her ears.
She cooed, and leaned in to his hand. With a gentle pull, Hank flipped her over on her front,
revealing another chirpie behind her. This he picked up, avoiding the mare as she scrabbled to
get up and grab her baby.
âGib wast babbeh back!â She shouted, trying to jump, but only managing to bounce up and roll on
her back again.
Hank sighed. âYou were doing so well, too.â
He pulled out a tag from his pocket, sliding it in a frame on the mareâs pen. âDemotion.â He
said out loud, and all the surrounding mares went silent.
The mare shrunk back, reversing into the far side of the pen. âPwease, nu, seetwoten jus hab
wowstest saddies, nu wan babbies gu wai.â
âYou have three days with your babies. You just had to make it a few babies more and youâd get
to go to The Happy Farm.â Hank said, sighing. âNow youâll go to B section.â
The mare started quietly sobbing to herself, sucking her tail, curled up against the far
wall. The padded floor under her stained dark as a pool of urine spread.
Mitchell followed Hank over to a station on one wall. Hank busied himself sliding the rectal
catheter in the chirpies, tucking them carefully in their transit pods. The chirpies latched
onto the artificial nipples, suckling to relieve the discomfort of a silicone nozzle being
popped up their butts.
âWhatâs âthe happy farmâ?â Mitchell asked, watching as Hank worked.
âItâs our term for the fertilizer production area.â Hank said, carefully setting each chirpy up in its own little pod. âThe mares get to go out to there and eat themselves silly, play, all that. Once we harvest their eggs or otherwise spay them, but they donât know that. They just think their babies are all happy somewhere else and they get their reward. Right up until theyâre made into steaks. Stallions too, so the meat tastes better when couples are butchered together.â
Putting the first six chirpies on a belt to be whisked away, Hank wheeled a cart out of a
cubby, putting the seventh, contraband chirpy on it next to an immobilizer built into the top
of the cart.
He wheeled it back, over to C-210. Mitchell watched as he turned to her, resting his elbows on
the side of the pen. âOk, C-210. Make good poopies, itâs time to go.â
The fluffy stood up, shaking a little, and turned, backing over the litterbox and emptying
herself. She sat down in front of Hank and went into the uppies position, crying weakly. He
picked her up, setting her in the immobilizer. He slid the chirpy pod in front of her, where
she could see.
She rested her chin next to the pod, nose pressed against a vent hole, where she could smell
her child. Hank wheeled her through the aisle, and mares shied away. Mitchell watched as one
dam took another chirpy she had been hiding and put it with her other young, shaking, watching
C-210 being taken away.
Mitchell and Hank went in to B section. The smell made Mitchell flinch, and looking around, he
sighed, growing depressed.
Mares were in identical cubical frames, stacked and racked in a modular superstructure. Their
hind legs were splayed and strapped to memory-foam padded braces, a small chute tucked up
against their crotch, so chirpies can slide down and be close to the mareâs teats for
feeding. Mitchell watched as one mare gave birth, grunting and straining. The slick chirpies
slid down to the padded shelf below, lightly sprayed with warm water, and warm air introduced
to keep the chirpies active, and induce them to feed. Two latched on to her teats, and the mare
sighed, teared up, muttering her love for her unseen children.
Hank deposited C-210 in an identical pen, just as nice, and updated the tag on it. He leaned
over, giving her a scratch.
âYouâre a good fluff, but I canât ignore the rules, C-210. Iâm going to make sure your chirpy
baby gets to go to the Happy Farm. B mares can still go there. Youâll be able to see your baby
again if you keep to the rules.â
C-210 nodded, perking up a little, and listening as Hank continued.
âHere, the rules are the same. Except youâll go in a birthing frame when itâs nearly time for
babies.â
Mitchell looked around while Hank was talking. One mare was defecating into a tube, while
another urinated, the chute letting it drain into a catch through a series of small grated over
holes. Technicians came through and bathed the mares in place. One was harvesting the freshly
born chirpies. Their mother whimpered, complaining that they hadnât fed enough. She was
ignored.
Back in A, Hank picked up one of the inseminators and tapped a few buttons on a console. âSad,
but rules are rules. Hygiene is an important thing here, so the frames are cleaned regularly
and we maintain a clear barrier between fecal matter and other systems.â
Mitchell is nodding, and notating. He looks up when the console dings, and a fresh-thawed and
prepped vial of stallion semen was delivered from a small port. Mitchell watches as Hank slots
it into the gun and gestures, walking over towards another cluster of pens.
A mare is riding on a stallion toy, making grunting sounds with greater and greater lustiness,
until a proclamation of âgood feelsâ is issued, and she flops over, panting.
Hank softly poked her side. âHi D-909. You ready for the next babies?â He picked up the
stallion toy, putting it in a basin of soapy water nearby.
D-909 managed to stagger upright. âYis mistew! Wan babbies 'gain!â
Hank patted her, and pointed. âOk, face the food place.â
The mare turned around, and lifted her tail, her thigh still slick with sexual exertion. Hank
slid the silicone nozzle in, and pulled the trigger. The plunger shot her full of sperm, and it
was removed, the nozzle dumped in the same tank of soapy water.
She stood upright again, and waddled over to her food, chowing down.
Mitchellâs eyebrow was raised, and Hank shrugged. "We let them get some stress relief once a
week. If we inseminate them right after we find the litter size and health is a lot better.
Mitchell went back to notes. Lyla leaned her head in, and Hank walked Mitchell over. âWe
covered B as well.â
âOh excellent.â She said, guiding Mitchell out by his shoulder as he wrote notes, frowning for
a second as she glanced over the several pages heâd produced.
Lyla and Mitchell stopped outside of C department. It was significantly larger than the
previous, and Lyla looked up at it and sighed.
âWhat is it?â Mitchell asked, looking up at the building as well.
âEnd of the line.â Lyla said. âOnce a mare makes it here theyâre just a commodity. At least
before they had the illusion of some chance.â
She walked in, and he followed, after a momentâs contemplating.
The building was far more quiet. There was no distant muttering and chatter of fluffies. Lyla
went to an office and knocked. No sound inside.
âWhy is this building so much bigger?â Mitchell asked, looking around.
âOnly good colors go to A for breeding. Bad colors wind up here by default. Sometimes we even
get Fluffmarts sending us good breeders with unsaleable colors or shit temperaments.â She said,
going to another office.
A noticably pale, white-haired woman wearing sunglasses opened the door before Lyla got there.
âHi, Ruth.â Lyla said. âOSHA Tour. Got any new fluffies so we can demo?â
Ruth nodded, stepping out and walking down the hallway. She went in to a room and began
working.
Lyla leaned against a wall, dragging on her vape. Mitchell watched and took notes as Ruth began
her work.
A metal cube was placed on a workbench. Ruth removed protective caps from ports molded into the
back plate, and swung the front up and open.
Inside was a padded metal frame, and a hollow silicone tube poking out a pad on the
bottom. Ruth went to a sliding door and slipped it open.
A jet of sorry-poopies hit the glass wall inside the sliding door. A mare had her tail up,
asshole puckering as she pushed as hard as she could, spraying a jet of feces through the front
of a wire cage.
Ruth stared, impassive, until the mare turned around, her triumphant expression fading. Then a
button was pressed, and nozzles inside the holding area kicked into action, spraying the
fluffy, cage, and glass divider down.
While the cleaning cycled, Ruth pulled on an apron and rubber gloves. The mare was screeching
about cold waters and trying to escape, but the water was everywhere.
Soon the cycle stopped, and Ruth slid the dividing glass open, and pulled the mare out of the
cage by her hind legs, letting her hang by them. The mare kicked and bit, until Ruth dropped it
in a glass chamber. A fan spun up, and the mare settled down, kicking at the glass wall and
looking around as warm air was blasted through the chamber.
âDummy hoomins.â The mare said as Ruth lifted her out again. âGib babbies back ow get
sowwy⌠uhâŚâ
Lyla watched. âOut of poopies, arenât you.â
The mare blew a raspberry at Lyla. Ruth laid the now clean fluffy on her back and pulled her
hind legs up, picking up a meat cleaver. With one swift motion the fluffyâs tail was off
exactly at the base. The mare began to scream, trying to kick and struggle, but Ruth held her
down, spraying the stub with heal-gel.
Mitchell noted it was Alenix branded.
Picking the mare up, Ruth kept its hind legs up against the fluffyâs abdomen, under her
arm. The mare tried to bite at her, but couldnât turn her head enough.
With a practiced, smooth motion, Ruth picked up a waiting device, like an upscaled version of a
fluffy inoculator. Pushing it in the mareâs rage-puckered asshole, she triggered it, pulling
out in one motion. Lubricating her.
Ruth grabbed the hose in the base of the cube and slid the fluffy on it, pushing the mare up
against the padded back plate, strapping her in around her abdomen.
âWet gu, meanie hoomin.â The mare said, starting to sound more afraid. She watched and
struggled as Ruth strapped her four limbs in place, before picking up what looked like a
mouthguard, in fluffy size.
With a cold smile, Ruth lowered her sunglasses, looking at the mare with blood red eyes.
âM-m-munstaâŚâ The mare said, and Ruth used the opportunity to jam the mouthguard in
place. There was a dull snapping sound as Ruth made the mare bite down, and then a hot chemical smell penetrated the room. The mare wailed quietly, struggling against the steel and nylon, and little wisps of grey smoke seeped out of the breathing hole in the mouthguard.
Ruth took down a thin hose and lubricated it, grabbing the fluffyâs snout and sliding it
in. The mare bucked and struggled harder, snorfl-ing and gurk-ing, until a stop reached her
nostil. Securing it to the mouthguard, Ruth connected the other end to a port in the back wall
of the cube.
A pair of milking cups were fit over the mareâs teats and secured in place, and a soft slide
was inserted between her legs, leading to the front of the cube.
Ruth pulled out a flashlight, checking the front plate of the cube, and removing a protective
outer coating. The mare would be able to see out, but nobody would see in.
Taking out a fluffy insemination device, Ruth shoved it between the mareâs legs and pulled the
trigger. After the clack sound, the mare stiffened, then whimpered, looking down at her
tummy. A faint smile on her face.
Then the mare started screaming, struggling, as Ruth slowly closed the cube up, plunging the
now-pregnant fluffy into darkness.
She picked up the cube and carried it out, going into a large floor of identical cubes, stacked
head high and in long, unbroken walls of black framework. She placed it in a carrier, the ports
connecting to matching connectors on the back, and Mitchell watched as the fluffy was drained
of feces, and fed slurry through the nasal tube. Dribbles of urine came out a padded port, the
slide behind. Through the cube, the mare could be heard wailing.
A little sensor light lit up on the carrier. There was a warning beep.
The mare kept trying to scream.
Then, she screamed louder for a minute.
Then she was quiet, sniffling and huuing. The sensor light went out.
Ruth scanned the cubeâs bar-code and an automated arm came down, moving the carrier to the
cubeâs final destination, where it was slotted in to the framework. A padded catch-tray was
fitted in front of the aperture, with fake teats inside, enough for eight chirpies.
Lyla watched, next to Mitchell. Ruth gave a small bow and left to clean up.
âThey can only ever see their babies.â Lyla said, sighing. âBred over and over. When they die
or canât produce babies anymore, theyâre dumped for the abusers on the staff to play with. If
theyâre lucky they go straight to a medical waste incinerator first. Until then, itâs a load of
babies every month, and kept hopped up on hormones so they double as milkbags.â
Mitchell was writing. He squinted lightly against the pain in his wrist, following Lyla out
absentmindedly.
His phone went off, and he checked it, and did a double take.
âA deposit of $250 000 has been made to your checking account. Please pass the correct
judgement or it may be questioned where it came from.â
He stopped, staring at his phone. Then, making his farewells, he got back in his car, watching
Lyla walk back in to the administration building.
Two weeks later the Mill was granted its OSHA certification.
