The Herd Provides (story by TheWarmGun, inspiration by CarniviousDuck)

Based on an illustration by CarniviousDuck

Your name is Angela. You are a stay at home mom, and you have a problem.

That problem is fluffies.

Feral fluffies, to be exact. Your own fluffy is fine. He is a brown-furred unicorn that you got at the local fluffy shelter. His bright green tail and mane are a little jarring, but the kids got to pick, and he was the one they chose. Shrug. At least he is well-behaved. The kids named him ‘Slime,’ probably because kids are stupid, but he seems to like the name a lot.

He doesn’t beg, he doesn’t throw tantrums, and he always does his business outside or in the litterbox. Seems that the shelter fluffies just called him “Poopy” all the time, and he still calls himself that sometimes, when he thinks he’s done something wrong. You aren’t really his biggest fan, but the kids love him, and he obviously loves them. They are always playing some game with him in the back yard.

You suppose that that big back yard is the problem in the first place. It is certainly a contributing factor for the state Slime is in right now: torn ear, busted lip, swollen eyeball, and some missing fur. You’ve patched him up as well as you can, and he is currently sobbing on your lap, wrapped in a towel as you talk to your friend Sal on the phone. She works at a shelter, and you want her help with what comes next for the feral herd, which is crying and complaining from the cardboard box you stuffed the survivors in.

You can tell something is wrong as you set the groceries on the counter. Usually, Slime will greet you when you come home, but there is silence. After putting away the perishables, you quickly search the house for your children’s furry pet, but he is nowhere to be found, leaving only the yard.

Outside, the back yard is chaos. Slime’s food and water bowls are tipped over and empty, his toys are scattered everywhere, and there is blood smeared on the porch and doggy door. You are going to have a very bad time explaining things to the kids when they get back from school today. There is loud chattering coming from the yard, and with a glance, you find its source: Ferals. Over a dozen of the fluffy little rodents are busy demolishing everything in your yard: flowers, grass, the vegetables growing in your truck garden. Nothing is safe. You feel your ire rise, and you grab a rake and stomp out to deal with them.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

You scream at the technicolor rodents, the rake swinging down to knock them away from your prize-winning tomatoes.

“Owwie, nu huwt fwuffy! Fwuffy onwy wan yummy wed nummies!”

A now-injured blue pegasus bleats.

“The fuck you say?!”

“Dese nummies am hewd’s nummies naow, dummeh hooman! Wady go ‘way, ewse hewd gib tewwibwe owwies!”

A bright fuschia earth mare mouths off to you, gesturing with her tiny hoof.

“Not if I give you ‘owwies’ first, bitch!”

You pick the mare up by the scruff of her neck, and throw her full force into a nearby tree trunk. There is an awful ‘crunch’, and the mare’s limp corpse slides to the ground.

“Pwese mummah, nu huwt fwuffies! Swime wub nyu fwends!”

You spin around to find your children’s fluffy running to you from under the porch, where he has apparently been hiding. His lip is bleeding, and he sports several other injuries, as well as clumps of missing fluff.

“It’s okay Slime, mommy is here.”

You scoop the injured fluffy up and carry him inside. You wash him off carefully in the sink, the little fellow wincing when the water touches his wounds. Twenty minutes with the first aid kit and you have patched up his pathetic little injuries as best you can. He will be sore and bruised for a number of days, but there is nothing broken. You are not terribly fond of the little creature, but he is a member of your family. Those ferals need to pay.

You rock the tiny creature to sleep while you call your friend Sal for help. Once he is conked out, you set him down carefully in his bed and return to the back yard, bringing a large cardboard box with you. The fluffies are still happily munching on your prize-winning produce, having quickly forgotten the death of their apparent leader. They complain as you scoop them up into the box.

“Nu wike dis! Wet fwuffy gu!”

“Nu bad uppsies! Pwese nice wady, wet fwuffy down?”

“Nyu mummah? Gib huggies?”

You drop the box of ferals unceremoniously on the front porch and sit down to wait for Sal.

You’re Sal, and you have a box full of feral fluffies to deal with, courtesy of your friend Angela. The two of you were bad bitches in high school, but that was a long time ago and Angela has mellowed out a bit, especially once she had those kids. Different strokes for different folks, you suppose. You can’t stand kids, yourself.

Setting the box of whining rodents on your workbench, you get a few tools together before you begin your…project. Working with paracord, you cut off a short length, and then tie a loop in the middle, followed by a slipknot on each loose end. This gets hung from a nail on the wall.

“Wet fwuffy gu, dummeh hoomin!” A mouthy yellow fluffy pounds her hooves on the edge of the box.
“Nah.” Taking the stub of your cigarette out of the corner of your mouth, you grind it out in the filly’s left eye. There is a sizzling sound and an awful smell.

“Screeeeee! See-pwace hab tewwibwe owwies!” she clutches at her ruined eyeball as you grab her by the tail, and- grabbing your stapler from the bench-quickly staple her tail to the sheetrock, letting her hang upside down as she pees herself in fear.

Ignoring the mewling filly, you grab the first contestant from the cardboard box, holding the ruby stallion by the scruff of his neck.

“Hoomin put down, nu wike upsies!” It barely notices as your hand darts out with a boning knife and opens its throat, blood pouring out of the deep gash, and bloody bubbles foaming his snout.

“Whgurble” He spews blood from his snout, shudders and dies.

Holding the deceased fluffy carefully over a five gallon bucket, you let the blood flow to a trickle before giving his other end a squeeze as well, voiding his bowels into the bucket. His hind legs get placed in the loops of paracord hanging from the wall, and your knife cuts circles around his rear legs while the corpse hangs in place. Then, cuts are made down the inside of the rear legs, meeting at the base of the tail, which you cut around, joining the two cuts. Then, taking a firm hold of the fur at the base of the legs, you quickly yank downwards, turning the fluffy’s skin inside out, and separating it from the muscle beneath. Peeled of its fur, the stallion looks an awful lot like a rabbit. You gut it quickly, and set the dressed carcass in the sink, stacking the pelt on the benchtop. Grabbing the next fluffy, you work quickly, bleeding and skinning before moving onto the next. The violent work and awful dying noises of their friends terrify the remaining ferals, and soon the box is filthy with fear-shits and nervous bladder leaks.

“Nuuhuuhuu! Fwuffy nu wan fowebba-sweepies! Just wan wuv an nummies!”

“Nu wan poopies on fwuff! Nu smew pwetty, an fwuffy am scawed!”

There cries fall on deaf ears, and you continue your bloody work. Soon enough, you have a bucket of blood and feces, a stack of fluffy pelts, and a pile of dressed carcasses. The pelts you scrape carefully, removing any clinging flesh that your knife missed when skinning. The carcasses get rinsed, doused with cooking oil, rubbed with spices, and thrown on the pellet grill out back. A few hours of smoke, and they will be ready to eat.

You return to the garage and turn your attention to the banana-yellow guest currently stapled to the wall. An idea has been forming as you flayed the others, and now it is time to begin…

You are Angela, and you have just finished feeding the kids dinner. They are watching TV while you clean the dishes, and the doorbell rings.

“I’ll get it!” Tommy bounds from the sofa, his sister Emily chasing after him. There is a squeal of joy.

“Auntie Sal is here!”

“Hi kids! How’s it going?”

Sal ruffles Tommy’s hair and hoists up Emily in a big bear hug, Slime toddling along after the trio.

“Hewwo Missus Saw! Swime hav huggies tu?”

The little stallion plods up to Sal and raises his tiny hooves. You hold your breath. Sal is not particularly fond of fluffies. But you needn’t have worried, as Sal picks up Slime with only the barest of twitches of her eyebrows.

“Hi buddy. I have a little present for you later.”

“Tank yu, Missus Saw. Swime wuv yu.” The dirt-colored unicorn hugs Sal tightly.

“So you did what I wanted, right?”

“Yeah. Here’s all the hides. What do you want them for anyway?”

“I figured the smell of other fluffies and the feel of their fur would make him less lonely when the kids aren’t here. He seemed to like the ferals, even though they hurt him. So, I’m going to sew him a bed and blanket from their hides.”

You explain your plans to Sal, who nods.

“Makes sense, in the twisted fluffy-logic. They really are big on smells.”

“Yeah, that’s what I read somewhere, what with the whole ‘smell pretty’ thing. What’s this present you brought for him?”

“Oh, yeah. Let’s go into the garage and I’ll show you.” Sal lifts a shoebox from the plastic bag containing the hides, and you both step into the garage while the children return to playing with Slime on the carpet.

“What the actual fuck, Sal? Is it still alive?”

Sal has opened the shoebox, and inside there is a small yellow fluffy, somewhat the worse for wear.

“Murble! Glib blurg!” The thing mumbles. With its mouth open, it is clear to see that it is toothless.

“Yeah. I figured one of those ferals could be a companion for the little shit, but I needed to make sure it wouldn’t hurt him, so I took some precautions. Took the tongue so it couldn’t sass him or insult him, the teeth so she couldn’t bite, and the eyes so that she’s too clumsy for kicking or ‘sorry hooves.’ Shes basically helpless, so I’m sure she will glom onto him like crazy.”

“That thing is going to scare the kids.”

More like give them nightmares, you think.

“Just let it keep him company when they are at school. She can live in that shoebox almost indefinitely. Just fill the little water bottle occasionally, and that dish there with some kibble. But you’ll have to soak it in water so she can gum it down. There is a cork up her ass to stop her from pooping on him, so just take that out when you put her back. Oh, and she’s sterile now, so he can go nuts on her when he feels the urge.”

“Gross, Sal!”

“What? You don’t have an ‘enfie toy’ for him?”

“No, that’s disgusting.”

“That’s pretty rich, coming from the Roosevelt High Gangbang Queen!”

“At least I didn’t blow the entire football team.”

“Like I said, it was just the starting lineup, you slut.”

The two of you laugh it off. You suppose you can leave Slime’s new ‘friend’ on a shelf in the garage. You’ll introduce tomorrow, when the kids are at school. Meanwhile, it’s time to get to work on your present for the little furball.


Your name is Slime, and you are fluffy unicorn. Each day, your tiny mommy and daddy leave for “school.” You aren’t sure what that means, but you know that you spend so long alone in the house. Big Mommy is always too busy to play with you. Sometimes, Big Mommy drinks her special red juice from the big shiny bottle, and then she lets you sleep with her on the couch. You treasure those days, even though Big Mommy can sometimes be mean after she finishes her nap.

But now, you have a friend! Miss Sal brought you a pretty yellow fluffy to play with. Every day when little mommy and daddy go to school, Big Mommy brings your yellow friend out to play with you.

All day long, you hug, and play, and snuggle up in your soft, furry new bed that smells like other fluffies. Well, your yellow friend isn’t very good at playing, always missing the ball or dropping the blocks in the wrong place, but you don’t mind. It’s nice to have a friend, even if you have to play extra for her. When it’s cold, your Big Mommy wraps the two of you up in a bright colored blanket. The blanket makes you feel like you are covered in hugs, and makes your heart so happy.

“Yewwow Fwend, Swime hab huwties in wumps. Can hab speshul huggies?”


Your friend thrashes her tail enthusiastically. She’s so excited for your special hugs, and you try your very best to give her the good feelings by working extra hard. Soon, you have the good feelings too, and you slide off of her back, your sticky not-peepees dripping from her special place.

“Tank yu fow bestest gud feews, Yewwo Fwend! Swime wuv yu!”

You coo to your friend, who cries, obviously in happiness, tiny tears rolling down her pretty yellow cheeks as you hug her tightly.

It’s a solace having friends!





I enjoyed it so, the tasty descriptions of fear, skinning and sewing. It brings my cold dead heart such joy, thank you. In return ill draw anything youd like just name it…


Wonderfully rendered. That was fun!


I’m really glad you enjoyed it. Having an image to inspire me is leading to some good stories.

If you really want to, I’d love an illustration of anything you find interesting in any of my works. Characters, scenes. Whatever piques your interest.

That’s what they get for eating someone prized garden.

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A lovely story of how to turn a selfish feral herd into something useful!

Have to note though that slaughtering and eating suburban or urban vermin is not recommended just because you have no idea if a fluffy is currently digesting a stomachful of rat poison or a lot of heavy-metal-tainted materials- I would recommend mentioning a waiting period while verifying lack of parasites or any slow acting ingested poisons that would not be ideal for human consumption. Also the fear shits would require more cleaning of the pelts so pre-squeezing fluffies or simply frightening them, hosing them down, then depriving them of food the night before would avoid this common problem.

Turning one into a huggy friend for a lonely house fluffy however, how deliciously thoughtful!

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For sure. Realistically, eating fluffies not raised purposefully for meat would be a bad idea. Too many variables for any kind of food safety.

Don’t forget to check their liver’s for signs of tularemia!

Loved it

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