You are the owner of an ex-fighting fluffy.
Your ex-wife insisted that you get one. For your “recovery.”
Fine, you said. But it’s gotta be the biggest, toughest, manliest fluffy you can find. Not one of those faggy pink sparkly things your daughter wanted for Christmas. Your buddy eventually asked, “Why not just get an actual horse then? Or a dog? They still make dogs, don’t they?”
You hardly needed to remind him of just how expensive real animals had become, let alone trained service animals. Some seriously dystopian Blade Runner shit. The Veterans Association wasn’t gonna pay for that.
Your life was like one big X. Ex-soldier, ex-wife, ex-smoker, ex-able-bodied man, and now ex-fighting fluffy.
A few months ago, the local news stations stopped running their “adoptable animals” segment and started running an “adoptable fluffies” segment. They also ran a 90 minute special on a huge underground fluffy fighting ring that got busted and the hugboxer charity organization that was trying to find homes for all the “rehabilitated” ones. There was no further discussion on the ones that weren’t “rehabilitated.”
It was as good a place to start as any.
The bus ride was thankfully a short one. The driver was an old friend of yours and he gave you a cheeky salute while the ramp did its BEEEEP BEEEEP BEEEEEP routine. You snapped to attention and assumed your usual station at the head of the disabled section.
The girl with the clipboard who welcomed you to the event had a bright blue ponytail and glasses as thick as a dam. Her black lipstick was coming off, to the point where you’re not sure why she bothered wearing it. Her smile was forced. She had a lipstick stain on her teeth.
“Hi there! How can I help you today?” There was a strong air of disgust beneath her peppy Customer Service Voice. She cracked her gum at you.
You cleared your throat, “Ahem. Yeah, hi. Do you have any fluffies that’re like… for men?”
Her glasses magnified the twitch of her eye, but her voice belied nothing. A real professional.
“Right this way, sir.”
She led you to one of the many collapsible tents on the lot, past a myriad of information booths and pens where prospective owners could play with the rescue of their choice. Inside were dozens of kennels containing a single fluffy each. It was startlingly calm for a room packed full of the things. It was almost eerie, like when the kids in another part of the house suddenly go quiet and you just know they’re up to something. The lights were dim and a single exhausted volunteer was playing the Mummah Song over a crunchy bluetooth speaker. It was a human version with soothing instrumental backing and a few pleasant key changes that kept you from wanting to tear your ears off.
“What’s with the room?” You gestured around yourself.
“These are the stallions we picked up from that fighting ring,” Clipboard Girl replied, “They’re a lot tougher than our usual stock. And they’re pretty much all neutral colors, no sparkles and swirls and shit. A few are missing eyes, legs, teeth, balls, whatever. Some of them are on Xanax. Some on Prozac. They’ve all got something or other going on.”
You knew all about Prozac.
“Uh-huh.”
You went to look at the cages. The first one held a brown colt with white socks; he was huddled in his litterbox and shuffled further into the corner when you made eye contact. The litter directly beneath him grew dark. Gross.
The next one had a fat mustard yellow pegasus, stacking blocks with his one remaining hoof and having a terrible time of it. You watched him get frustrated and kick all of his blocks away and roll over to squeeze a stuffed rabbit.
Another held a big orange fluffy with three legs and one wing, lounging against the side of his cage. He gave you the evil eye when he caught you peeking, but otherwise didn’t move an inch. You decided not to bother him.
In the cage next to it was a more normal-sized brown one, curled up in a tight little ball, as far away from you as he could physically get. He was pressed to the wall where the orange one was leaning, one flimsy sheet of plywood between them.
“Grrrrrrr…”
You heard growling and looked back. The orange one was up against his cage door spitting and snarling and looking like an angry cheese puff. You didn’t know cheese puffs could look that scary, let alone fluffies.
“Shark, relax! He’s just looking,” Clipboard Girl snapped her fingers at the orange fluffy and it backed away, grumbling.
“Sorry, sir. This one’s really protective over his brother. They have to be adopted as a pair.” She turned to address the fluffy, “Shark, apologize to the nice man.”
Shark did not apologize.
Yeah, best leave that one to the professionals.
Further in, there was another orange one that looked oddly intact. No scars or missing limbs, but upon further observation, seemed to be a few brain cells short. He kept trying to stack a block on top of a ball, but the ball kept rolling away and leaving his block to land flat on the ground, his tower no taller than when he started. He was crying.
There was a black pegasus trying really, really hard to ignore you, his back so covered in scars that he looked like a miniature zebra. There was a three-legged earthie with one eye and no lips, and a tan unicorn pacing around in cramped, nervous circles. They even had a wall-eyed fluffalo that kept trying to scratch behind his ear, but nine times out of ten just ended up kicking himself in the face.
When you first saw Matt you swore he was a dog. His fur was short and dense, his ears were cropped, and there was a veritable waterfall of drool rolling off his tongue.
Now imagine how unprepared you were when he opened his mouth and spoke to you,
“Hewwo! Am wimpy mistah sowwy-hoofie-gibbew tuu?”
“JESUS CHRIST!!”
“EEK!!!”
The big white fluffy scrambled away from you, back up against the furthest corner of his kennel. In fact, the whole tent was now filled with loud clattering and crying.
If looks could kill, the volunteer with the speaker would’ve made mincemeat out of you. Clipboard Girl threw her head back and groaned. She stomped out the door without a second glance. The remaining volunteer turned the Mummah Song up louder and crunchier and glared at you while they tried to shush the panicked fluffies.
You were suddenly feeling very unwelcome.
Clipboard Girl was just outside, rubbing her temples and generally looking unwell.
“Hey–”
“AAUGH!!!” She obviously hadn’t expected you to follow her out.
“I’m sorry about that, he looked so much like a pittie I…”
“No, no it’s fine. You just startled me,” she reached for her pocket but aborted the motion and her hand fell awkwardly to her side. You recognized the familiar twitch in her fingers, so you dipped into your own back pocket for a flattened pack of Pall Malls. They were several months old already, definitely stale. You swore at the time it would be the last pack you’d ever buy, so you made sure to make them last. There were two left.
“You look like you could use this.”
She looked from your face to the pack and back again, chewing her lip. Now you know where all of her lipstick went.
“I’m trying to quit,” she said.
You pulled a smoke from the pack with your mouth and flicked your lighter, “So am I.”
The smoking area was behind the only tent that allowed abusers to adopt. It was supposedly full of hellgremlins, but you had your doubts. Too quiet. Not that you were complaining.
Clipboard Girl’s name was Brie, short for Brianna. She used to be a child athlete until she got tendonitis in both knees and decided to focus on writing and design instead.
“These black velcro things are my knee braces,” she demonstrated by unhooking and tightening the black straps around her knees, “I have to wear them when I want to walk literally anywhere.”
Deep down you were amazed that a couple of flimsy fabric belts medically qualified as “knee braces.”
“Full honesty, I thought those were a fashion statement.”
“I could say the same about your cane,” Brie shot back. There was a split second where her face froze, like she hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but you were already coughing up a lung laughing. Her shoulders relaxed and you playfully swatted her in the ankle with said cane,
“I’ll kick your ass, little missy. I was a soldier, I’ll have you know.”
“Oh yeah? You gonna fight a cripple? Bring it on, Dr. House,” she put up her dukes and punched the air a couple times and you chuckled.
“I… don’t actually know any pop culture characters with tendonitis,” you brought the joke to a grinding halt. “Forrest Gump, maybe? No, he had scoliosis…” You stroked the flaky stubble on your chin. Christ, why hadn’t you shaved before you went out in public today?
Brie took a long drag from her cigarette, “I wouldn’t know. Never seen it.”
“You should, it’s a real good movie. Helped me through…” You weighed the pros and cons of bringing up your divorce and how your cheating wife got you declared legally unfit to hold any custody over your daughter beyond “reasonable visitation” to this complete fucking stranger. Maybe your PTSD and newly-acquired fear of firecrackers, or else the near constant pain in your knee? Perhaps the back and neck and shoulder pain you were starting to develop from leaning so hard on your cane? Or even just having to use a cane to walk everywhere at age thirty-eight, no friends, no hobbies, no reason to even leave your apartment aside from court-mandated doctor’s appointments and checking the mail.
“… a lot,” you finished lamely.
“Really? I guess I’ll give it a watch. Plus, Tom Hanks is always good no matter what he’s in,” she shrugged.
“Amen.”
During the lull in conversation, a puke-green alicorn poked his head around the corner to give you and Brie the stink eye. He stood there and watched you smoke and coughed. Loudly. You looked him dead in the eye and blew a fat cloud in his direction. The alicorn fell into a sneezing fit that set off a chain reaction of crashing and screeching from inside the tent, so he turned on his heel and marched back in and started shouting like a drill sergeant on helium.
You and Brie just kinda looked at each other.
“What the hell was that about?” you grunted, flicking your cigarette butt to the ground.
“No idea,” She shook her head, “I don’t really have the stomach for that tent. I think his owner volunteered and brought him along? Both of them give me the creeps.”
“I kinda like him.”
Brie shuddered, “Suit yourself.”
“So…” You decided to just shoot your shot, “You wanna go for drinks sometime?”
“I don’t date men,” her response was flat and immediate, though it was really no surprise. You’d had your suspicions at first glance.
“I’m not asking you to. I’m lookin’ for fellow disabled drinking buddies.”
She thought for a moment, “Sure, why not. Having a big military-lookin’ dude around could be handy.” she stubbed out her cigarette on the asphalt and crushed it under her trendy low-heeled boot that probably cost more than your rent. “And maybe you can show me that movie too. Bubble Gump?”
“Forrest Gump.”
“Yeah that one. You got it on VHS or something? Old man?” She elbowed you in the chest. If her face hadn’t been shining with good humor, you would’ve taken it personally.
“I ain’t that old! Do kids your age even know about VHS?”
“Bro, I’m a 90’s kid, we grew up on those things.”
“90’s?? Christ, maybe I am that old.”
“You’ll have to meet Jolene, too.”
“Your girlfriend?”
“What? No, my fluffy!”
“You named your fluffy Jolene?”
Brie turned bright red where her makeup was thinnest, “Shut up, it’s a good song! And Dolly Parton is a national treasure.”
“Hey man, no argument here,” you put your hands up. You were raised on classic rock and country music, and Dolly will always hold a special place in your heart. Your first vinyl wasn’t Nevermind or Back In Black or Abbey Road, it was your mom’s old copy of Hello, I’m Dolly. You could feel yourself starting to tear up so you changed the subject,
“Let’s head back in, I want another look at that one-eyed white one. You feelin’ better?”
“Yeah,” she nodded, wiping the soot off her glasses, “Thanks.”
When you stepped back inside, an instant hush fell over the tent. Like a room full of traumatized preschoolers.
You felt all of their little eyes on you.
You silently wondered if you should apologize for scaring them. They’re just toys, aren’t they? Do you really need to apologize to a tent of organic Furbies? Memories of waiting rooms and doctor’s office dolls and couple’s therapy all came rushing back,
“It’s like you’re allergic to the words ‘I’m sorry!’”
“It’s bad enough that you were away on duty when your daughter was born, but do you even care that she’s growing up with an emotionally absent father?”
“You never talk to me about your feelings! I’m not a mind reader!”
“Why aren’t you interested in me anymore?”
You took a deep breath and hooked your finger through the door of the white fluffy’s cage and did your best to sound contrite, “Hey, I’m sorry I yelled. You startled me, that’s all. What were you saying?”
The fluffy looked at you sidelong. It still didn’t trust you, but its lips loosened nonetheless,
“Madd ask’d if wimpy mistuh am sowwy-hoofsie-gibbew fo’ jobsies…”
You had no idea what that meant.
“Wimpy?” You failed to keep the scowl out of your voice, and the fluffy immediately stiffened. His wide, doey eye darted down and back up.
He was talking about your limp. Christ, your masculinity was fragile. Maybe Linda was right…
“Yeah, I used to be a soldier. My leg is what sent me home.”
“Mistuh nu gib sowwy-hoofsies anymowe?”
“Not anymore. That’s why I need some company.”
The fluffy hesitated, unsure of your motives and unsure if he wanted to offer himself as collateral,
“Madd can be com-panny.”
((with cameos from @anon3053411 @Reddit-Word_H83r @creeper ))
i have no idea what the quality of this is actually like, ive been reading it over & over so many times i’ve forgotten what the words mean. perfect time to dump it on the internet 
