(My first attempt at industrial abuse. Please tell me what you think. I had some fun writing this one.)
Adam sighed as he walked down the aisle of the mare cages with the cart. Number 22 had given birth, according to the alarm. Time to collect the foals. He arrived in time for the last foal to be born before he gathered the four to sort through them.
“Wha-? Whewe babbehs?!” The mare said, wiggling around to see no chirpy foals, even though she could hear the peeps and chirps. She was a good color; pastel blue with a pastel pink mane. Easy on the eyes. She spotted Adam with the babies in hand. Well, hands. “Gib babbehs! They too widdle! Nee mummah!” She protested, wiggling her legs.
“You know why none of you get to keep your babies.” Adam replied in a monotone. The mares used to be able to raise their foals until they were weaned. They even had a little bit of running room in their pen. But one bitch mare…she thought she knew better. Each time they gave birth, the caretakers would come and inspect the foals. Bad colored ones were taken and humanely killed. The good ones were given a quick medical, and their colors recorded. Each mare was told all through the pregnancy about alicorns. They were good babies. Not monsters. Each one KNEW this. Yet one mare stomped all her alicorns, and looked so fucking smug about it. Adam was not there for this incident or her punishment, it was his day off, but he saw her hung body the next day. The cages were implemented after, and a reminder for each complainer. Even then they still had some foal killers.
He looked through them. He could only tell what color their mane would be from the tiny nub of a tail they were growing. Green, but it was a nice shade of green with a gold nub of a tail. Score. A St. Patrick special. An earthy colt. It went into the green bucket after cleaning with wet wipes. Next…jet black! Nice! He was pretty sure the tail nub was indigo instead of black. Another colt, but a Pegasus this time. This one got cleaned up. If it had a good temperament, he might just buy it himself. Third…a reverse of the mother with a pink body and a blue tail nub. A unicorn filly. This one was cleaned too and put in the green bin. The last one…unfortunate. Although it was a nice caramel color earthy with a chocolate brown mane, its leg was deformed. It also appeared to have a hard time breathing. Damn. A shame, since Number 22 almost always provided nice foals. He snapped the little one’s neck and put it in the red bin. There were hardly any in there, given it wasn’t even midday. He patted the sobbing mare on the head, crying about her babbeh going fowevah sweepies.
“I know. He wouldn’t have lived. His leg and lung had the worst owwies.” He said. Adam was kind to a few of his favorite mares, Number 22 among them. The rest…met with cool indifference. “As long as the rest behave, they’ll be in good homes.” he said as he wheeled the cart away. This…may be a lie. They sold to anyone. Some may just be abusers. With the prices they sold the foals for, it was unlikely. They liked to sell high to top tier foals.
Next on his to-do list…
“SCREEEEE! BIGGEST POOPIES!!!” A mare screamed.
Never mind. A mare’s birth took priority over the rest. He rushed down his pager, yes he had that old school device, told him it was Number 12. Ah. That one. She was trouble. He scowled putting on his mean face for her. More than once she’d tried to shit on staff, disregarding her babies that were RIGHT there! She’d gotten icy hot on the teats and privates for that. Number 12 was a lemonade yellow unicorn with a white mane.
He arrived to see the first foal sliding out. Already he knew it was a bad color. One more litter with more than half being shit colors would turn her into a milkbag. Definitely a milkbag. Good ones got ‘promoted’ from breeder to milk mare and teacher. The bitch mares went to milkbags. And the staff took a fair amount of pleasure in the conversion.
The foal the color of dehydrated piss slid out. Adam didn’t bother to check sexy or kind. He just immediately snapped its neck, and dropped the slimy creature into the red bucket. It landed with a soft ‘plop’ rather than a splat. It probably landed on the caramel foal. The next foal came out. Silver! A little unicorn filly with a white tail nub. He cleaned it carefully, almost reverently, and placed it in the green bin. Next foal was sliding out. He caught it. Rust red. An ugly red. Sucks to be him. Adam sighed, and snapped the neck, dropping it in the red bin that was prettier than it. A splat was heard soon after. Another foal slid out into Adam’s waiting hands. A Teal earthie colt with a purple tail nub. Pass. He carefully cleaned it off, and placed it in the green bin. Another foal, likely the last. This determined whether she would be milkbagged or continue to be a breeder. And…it was green. Puke green with an ugly brown tail nub that could be confused for shit. Oof. He snapped the neck, and plopped it into the red bin.
“Whewe babbehs! Wan babbehs!” The unicorn demanded. She was pounding her little hooves. “Gib babbehs or sowwy poopies!” She threatened. Adam raised an eyebrow and shoved a cork from the cart into her rear. It was for the difficult mares. He slid her cage out, putting it on the cart between the bins. He had to drop the foals off at the incubator, then it was milkbagging time for this bitch!
The incubation room was a nice room. It had a wall of milkbags on one wall, the chirping feeding from there. The right side had the oldest, almost old enough to open their eyes. Any foals with their eyes open were taken to the foal center, where milk mares taught them how to be good fluffies.
Adam placed the new arrivals by the first available milkbags on the left, then took the time to properly write down which foals came from which mare, their sex, coloring, and type. He also put a note that Number 12 was going to be milkbagged, so they needed a new breeder.
“BABBEHS! PUT TWEVE DOWNSIES! WAN PWAY WIF BABBEHS!” The unicorn demanded.
Adam slammed his hand on the top of the cage, which caused the mare to go ‘SCREEE! Nu wike woud noisey!”
“Milkbag time for you, little bitch.” Adam said, some glee in his voice. He wheeled his cart down to the second to last door on the right. The last one was the incinerator. They tried to avoid incineration when they could help it. That was a waste of product. They even sold the fur and meat of the fluffies that died. Well, the sold them off to those that did for a profit. Some of them…they just needed to be incinerated for safety reasons. Or ones that were milkbags. Their fur and meat deteriorated to worthless levels.
Adam made it to the room, and opened the top of the unicorn’s cage. This was normally not used unless the fluffy was sick or retiring in some way. He picked Number 12 up by the scruff, carrying her over to the skink.
“EEEEE! BAD UPSIES! NU WIKE!” The mare protested.
Adam paid this no heed and uncorked her He shifted position to squeeze around her middle, releasing a torrent of shit. He wrinkled his nose at the smell, trying not to gag. He had to empty them first. Otherwise he’d have a job of cleaning the table, floor, possibly the wall, then have to sterilize it! He plopped Number 12 on the table as gently as he was allowed, then read what the next number would be. “Alright. Your new name is Milkbag 72.” He announced.
“Nyu name? Wuv nyu name!” The stupid fluffy said, her white tail wagging.
“Oh, we’ll see about that.” Adam said, securing the leather strap around her waist. It wasn’t attached to the table, but rather a wooden board so they could be placed anywhere on the table. He took out the trusty, and totally medically professional machete. A saw took too long and the axe looked just plain medieval. The hunting knife broke three days ago, and they had yet to get a replacement. He needed only one hand to dislocate the mare’s leg with a ‘pop’.
“SCREEEE! OWIES! NU WIKE! STAHP!” The mare screamed. Adam paid no mind as he brought the machete down on the leg. This would leave her without so much as a stump. Stumps got in the way. The other three legs went much the same way, Adam blocking out the screams. He’d even paused after the first leg to put his headphones in. His head bobbed to hear his tunes, but nothing could entirely block out the bitch mare’s screams.
After a cauterize with a heated cylinder, jokingly called the ‘curling iron’, Adam was sewing the wounds closed. His stitches were nice and neat, something he took pride in. It was actually due to home ec he took in high school instead of swimming. Finally the mare was reduced to barely more than a sobbing tube. Now it was time to get her tubed up. They didn’t bother to blind, detooth, and deafen the mares. More expense. He got the feeding tube apparatus, and shoved it down her throat, finally silencing her to nothing more than whimpers. Next was the back end. Luckily she was devoid of poop. He shoved one tube into her rear, and another up her baby maker. There. Milkbag complete. He left her on the output table. Installing milkbags wasn’t his problem. He had to get back to the foals. His pager was going off. Number 55. He sighed. That was nearly on the other side of the warehouse. He got his cart, and headed off at a brisk pace now that he had no living foals in his cart.
He was too late. Adam growled as he saw the dead bodies. He’d told Brian that 55 was trouble! That she needed to be restrained in the week before she foaled! She’d had trouble before! She was a beautiful mare with a rainbow mane, and a white body that sparkled all colors of the rainbow with light hit it…but she was trouble when it came to babies, especially alicorns. She often made those. He growled. She had three babies. All alicorns. At least one was iridescent, from what he could tell. They all went into the red bin, being dead. Number 55 was huffing and puffing about ‘Munsta babbehs go fowevah sweepies’. She looked up and wanted a treat from the ‘nice mistah’. Adam glared at her. “Those were expensive alicorns, 55!” He shouted. He rarely had to do this. Another mill did something similar with a different product, but the icy hot had two effects. He rubbed it onto her teats, and watched her start to squirm in discomfort, then scree in pain. She was too expensive to kill.
On that depressing note, Adam sighed. No more mares were predicted to give birth for his shift. What was next on his list?
Ah. Neutering. Should be fun.