Jeremy slid down the shutters as quietly as he could so as not to disturb anyone and twisted they key to lock them shut. He withdrew the key with a flourish and turned back to the interior of the store. All was well: floor swept, stock tidied, till balanced, emptied and locked in the safe, and the fluffy pens in the corner were silent save only for the minute buzz of the nightlights suspended over them. The shop was ready to shut for another night, but Jeremy didn’t reach for his coat just yet.
With a sigh and a grimace he made his way over to the counter and pulled a schedule out from one of the drawers. Jeremy made no secret of the fact that he liked his job. He’d been understandably apprehensive when he’d first applied for the role. He’d heard all the horror stories about fluffies and occasionally been accosted by them in the street, but as soon as he’d started at the store they’d quickly became the highlight of the job.
They turned a normal retail wageslave position into something more entertaining. He enjoyed talking to them, even if the conversation never went beyond a preschooler’s level, and helping them with their games when time allowed, and the fluffies always appreciated his presence. When he was on early shift they’d bid him good morning, they’d thank him whenever he did something for them. The mares sometimes even let him hold their babies, such was the trust they had.
For the most part the fluffies in the store were polite and sweet, and any punishments he had to dish out were understood and never repeated. Yeah the odd smarty would wind up among the stock, but they were rare and swiftly dealt with, and he could get back to spending his shift with a flock of pleasant creatures.
But retail traded in money, not sentiment, and nothing brought that point home more than Thursday evening, which was why Jeremy was leafing through the schedule.
He skipped over to the last page, hoping the box would be blank. His heart sank when it wasn’t. Under the heading ‘scheduled for liquidation’ stood one entry:
Stock no.: 495
Species: Earth
Sex: M
Fur Colour: Orange
Mane Colour: Brown
He groaned, quietly so as not to disturb the sleeping fluffies across the room, and felt the pit form in his stomach. There was one last task he had to do today.
He replaced the schedule and crept over to the fluffy pens. They took up the entire far wall of the store, plus a small portion of the front window. There were four pens: a general pen where most of the stock lived, a newborn pen where chirpie foals snuggled warm blankets or suckled on plastic teats in peace, a timeout pen where misbehaving fluffies were put in isolation, and a promo pen in front of the window where deals could be advertised. The fluffy he was looking for was, unsurprisingly, in the promo pen. It was nicknamed ‘The Last Chance Saloon’ for a reason.
He peered over the edge of the pen and saw 495 curled up under a blanket in the corner. Even in the low light his burnt orange fur stood out, broken by a murky smear atop his head. In a species where colour reigned supreme he only had a slim chance, but the boss loved slim chances. Whenever he did stock purchasing there’d always end up being one or two extra arrivals of odd colour where he’d seen a bargain and couldn’t resist. It was a gamble, but that’s what businesspeople did: they looked for opportunity when others saw there was none; he took fluffies that likely wouldn’t have made it out of the mill and gave them a chance in his shop window. Sometimes it worked and no-hopers suddenly turned into a hefty profit, but these purchases were business purchases, and eventually the time would come to give up and accept the loss.
Jeremy reached into the pen and gently shook the sleeping fluffy.
“Hey,” he whispered, “Hey little guy, wake up.”
The fluffy’s eyes twitched open. He let out a huge yawn, but perked up when he saw Jeremy looking at him.
“Hewwo mistah Jewamie!” he beamed.
“Shh,” Jeremy said gently, pointing to the other pens, “We don’t want to wake up the other fluffies.”
495 nodded. “Otay,” he whispered back, “Babbeh be kwiet so no wakey udah fwuffies.”
Jeremy plastered a smile on his face. His eyes gave away the falseness of it, but he knew the fluffies weren’t intelligent enough to see that.
“I’ve got some news for you little guy,” he said, “You’ve been selected to go to the Happy Farm.”
Just saying the word made him grimace. The Happy Farm was a term coined by Derek, a piece of shit abuser who’d somehow slipped through the vetting net and gotten a job here. He’d only lasted a month before he got caught forcing the fluffies to eat their own shit and was swiftly sent on his way, but his legacy lived on in the form of his nickname for the Thursday Night Stock Liquidation, a task he had always keenly volunteered for. And while Derek was long gone, no one had come up with a better way to tell the fluffies what was happening and where other fluffies had gone, and so the name had stuck.
Predictably 495’s face lit up.
“Bab…” he began at normal volume, then remembered his instruction. “Babbeh get nu housie an daddeh?” he whispered, eyes aglow with happiness. Jeremy nodded.
“Well, it’s not quite a new house and daddy, it’s a big farm where lots of fluffies live. There is a daddy who runs the farm, but mostly you get to spend time with lots of other fluffies. It’s a really really good place.”
495 nodded excitedly. He stood up and waddled over to Jeremy. Despite referring to himself as ‘babbeh’ it was obvious to anyone that 495 was near fully grown, and while the boss had tried shifting adults with unpopular colours before they mostly just ended up consuming space that could be used for fluffies that actually sold. It was either go as foals or not go at all.
495 made the ‘wan upsies’ pose and Jeremy obliged. He cradled the fluffy in his arms as he carried him across the store towards the Staff Only door. He could feel 495’s heart racing in his chest, his little legs twitching with excitement. Jeremy clenched his eyes shut and focused on his breathing.
He backed through the Staff Only door and crossed the corridor into the medical room. The shop did all its vaccinations and veterinary care on site, partly for extra revenue, partly for quality control, and also to get the fluffies out front used to seeing the room in case they needed to come here again.
Jeremy set 495 down on the table. He quickly checked the tag fastened around 495’s leg, just to make sure that this was the right fluffy; it was.
“Babbeh su 'cited, babbeh su happy!” 495 sang in the tuneless warble that all fluffies sang in. Jeremy resisted the urge to grab its snout and hold it shut, anything to not make this harder than it already was.
“I know you are little guy, you’re gonna have a great time up there,” he squatted down so he was at 495’s eye level, “But before you go, we just need to give you a vaccination.”
“Wa a vacsunashun?”
“It means I have to stick a pointy thing in you and squeeze some special juice into you that stops you from getting sick.”
495 winced.
“Don’t worry. When you first came here as a tiny little foal we gave you vaccinations then as well, and they helped you grow into the big, strong fluffy you are now. I know it sounds scary, but it only hurts for a tiny amount of time, and once you’ve had it you can go to the Happy Farm and have a great time with all the fluffies up there. Will you be a brave fluffy for me?”
495 puffed out his cheeks.
“Babbeh wan go to Happy Fawm; babbeh wiww be bwave fwuffy.”
Jeremy rustled 495’s mane. “Good boy. Now give me a second to get the vaccine.”
He turned his back and hunched over the counter, fishing his keys from his pocket. He unlocked a drawer, then a box inside it marked with a ‘Hazardous Materials’ symbol. He plucked a single, pre-prepared needle from the pile inside and refastened all the locks. He briefly read the instructions on the packaging, even though he knew them by heart at this stage. It always helped drown out the excited chatter of the fluffy behind him.
He ripped off the packaging and withdrew the needle, making sure to hold it at his side so as not to alarm the fluffy with the point. He forced a smile and turned to face 495.
“Lie on your side for me, will you buddy?”
495 dutifully did as he was told. He stole a glance over as Jeremy raised the needle. A visible tremor ran through him, but he steeled himself as Jeremy gently eased his arm fluff aside so he could find a vein.
“Twenty-two fourteen,” he muttered as he glanced at the clock, then without hesitation sunk the needle into the fluffy.
It was over in a flash. The skin punctured and trigger depressed in one fluid movement, the needle withdrawn before 495 could even yelp.
“Huwties!” he cried, tears welling in his eyes, but was comforted by another rustle of his mane by Jeremy.
“Good boy!” he said, “All done now. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Jeremy swiftly discarded the needle in a nearby bin as he crossed the medical room and seated himself on a stool next to a logbook. He flipped it open to the next empty page and scribbled down the time he had muttered earlier.
“So,” he said, closing the logbook, but using the pen to hold the page, “All the hard stuff is done now, all we need to do is wait for the man from the Happy Farm to come pick you up. He should be here shortly.”
“Otay mistah Jewamie!” 495 chirped, “Fank oo fow vacsunashun, babbeh nu wan get sickies at Happy Fawm.”
Jeremy just nodded. His eyes diverted between the clock on the wall and the fluffy in front of him, though he took care not to meet 495’s eyes too often. This was always a difficult part. The waiting game.
“How many fwuffies are dere at Happy Fawm?” 495 asked.
“Lots,” Jeremy assured him, “Last time I was there there were loads.”
“An’ did they have nice housie?”
“Yeah, there was a big barn where they all slept. It had lots of comfortable places to sleep and lots of toys to play with.”
494 nodded happily. Jeremy noticed the reduced enthusiasm compared to his previous shakes.
“Babbeh su ‘cited. Babbeh gonna wuv Happy Fawm.” He looked warmly at Jeremy, “Babbeh gon’ hav sum saddies tho.”
“Why’s that?” Jeremy asked, genuinely surprised.
“Babbeh weawwy wike dis housie. Wots of uddah fwuffies to pway with an give huggies. Babbeh weawwy wike seeun Mistah Jewamie too.”
Jeremy’s eyes immediately turned to the floor. He clenched his eyes shut hard.
“Wiww nice mistah Jewamie come visit babbeh on Happy Fawm?”
Jeremy looked up and put on his best smile, again grateful that fluffies couldn’t read his eyes.
“Yeah,” he croaked, “Yeah I will.”
495 reared onto back hooves to ask for huggies. Jeremy obliged. He held the fluffy close to him, its heart pressed against his, its fur trying in vain to warm the coldness inside him.
495 suddenly slackened in his grip.
“Babbeh feew sweepy.”
Jeremy set him back down on the table and retreated back to his stool, even if his heart screamed not to.
“That’s normal after a vaccine, buddy. Just go to sleep. Most fluffies who’ve gone to the Happy Farm sleep through the trip and wake up there in the morning.”
495 nodded his weakest nod yet, comforted and trusting in Jeremy’s words.
“Otay,” he yawned, laying down on the bench, “Babbeh go sweepies, wake up on Happy Fawm.”
His eyes started to slide shut and Jeremy didn’t watch, but his attention was drawn when 495 whispered.
“Babbeh wuv oo, mistah Jewamie.”
Jeremy sat there in stone silence for the next few minutes. Unmoving, unthinking, only blinking to try and clear his burning eyes. He listened to the tick of the clock, counting off the monotonous sounds until he could sense the inevitable stillness in the air. The instructions said five minutes, but he’d done this enough times to sense when it was over.
“495?” he said. The fluffy remained still.
He reached over and shook the body, but received no response. He felt the neck for a pulse; nothing. He fished the stethoscope out of the drawer, hooked it to his ears and pressed the other end to 495’s chest. Nothing.
He looked at the clock, then retreated back over to the logbook and filled in the remaining empty box on the page he’d scribbled on earlier:
Time of Death: 22:18
He closed the logbook and took out a black blanket, which he draped over 495. Sometimes he wrapped them up ready for incineration in the morning, but Jen preferred to take one last look at them beforehand whenever she was on Friday morning shift. Whether that made her a hugboxer or an abuser he didn’t know, and he didn’t bother thinking about it. You couldn’t think about things too much in this job.
His work finally over, he collected his coat and exited out the back door. He collapsed into his car and started the engine, but like on so many Thursday nights he didn’t drive away immediately. He sat there. Seatbelt on, dashboard illuminated, radio blaring the latest chart garbage, lights beaming against the colourful exterior of the FluffMart store, and tears glistening in the corners of his eyes.