The Neighbor
World building, neutralbox, abuse
By: Turboencabulator
“I gotta ask, why do you want this place?”
Jack had been a realtor in southern Indiana for forty-five years. From colonial-era cabins in need
of some serious carpentry and stone repair, to miniature McMansions so new you could see the siding off-gassing in the evening light. For nearly thirty of those years the Coleman property had been listed for sale by the county, and at a strangely low price. For nearly thirty years people would
view the property, the forested back half, the unplowed field in front, and the few half-standing
barns and the cement foundation where the house once stood. They always left with a bad feeling,
which suited Jack fine.
He was legally required to disclose the events on the property, but few people stayed long enough to hear of it.
However, a fresh-faced man had shown up at the real estate office, printed out listing in hand and a cashier’s check made out for the list price, already signed.
They stood on the old foundation, still vaguely smelling of fire and burning plastic after thirty
years. Jack watched as the man flipped through survey maps on a tablet.
“Jack, I grew up in the city. I hate the city. Too cramped and loud and too many people nosing in on
your business. Out here is different.” He smiled, never looking up from the maps.
The sky rumbled, and Jack glanced up at the incoming weather. “I can’t argue with that. You only
have a junkyard on one side and your only neighbor on the other, and he’s a recluse. Some kind of
artist, sold his parents a place up on the ridge. They passed, though, so he’s there now. Except for
the fluffies and packages you probably won’t have anyone bothering you.”
“Yes, about the fluffies. What are the laws here regarding dead fluffies?”
Jack laughed. “It’s a red state, son. As long as it doesn’t bother the local wildlife or get into
the water you can do what you want. Dumping live ones is illegal though.”
The man grinned. “Fair enough. Also, I’d like a recommendation for a few things.”
“Shoot.”
“A good general contractor, stoneworkers, and a gun shop.”
Months later, Jack was driving out to view a home going up for sale and drove past the Coleman
property. The barns were restored, there was a new, not-too-big house, and the old foundation had been used for what looked like a guest house. The biggest change, though, was the addition of a four-foot stone wall that looked to go around most of the property, and the field was half covered in a large, imposing poured-concrete building. The other half was occupied by a number of greenhouses.
After viewing the new listing, a mediocre ranch house on a lot the size of a paddling pool, Jack
returned to the office and metaphorically put his feet up, mulling over the rapid changes at the
Coleman property.
His curiosity got the better of him.
Over the next few hours, he dug and searched, poking around in databases and records, until he
decided he had tried enough.
Sam, as he found out the buyer was named, was from Chicago. He was a day-trader, apparently quite successful, and single. No criminal record, no suspicious banking trends, nothing interesting at all, beyond taking six years to get his bachelor’s.
Completely uninteresting. Jack mulled over this and decided that Sam was just what he said. Over the next few days, Jack just forgot about Sam, other than being thankful someone took the damn Coleman property off his desk.
A bell attached to the door tinkled merrily as a well-built, smiling man slipped in out of the rain,
pulling down the hood on his jacket and looking around the shelter.
The front was a simple reception area and waiting room, with windows on the walls, letting visitors
see in to rooms of cats socializing, or dogs nursing their litters. The soft pastel walls and faint
smell of wet animal and shampoo, and the quiet sounds of the occupants mixed together with the smell of oil in a warmer, and NPR playing on a small radio.
He walked up to the desk and quietly tapped a service bell, the crisp ‘ding’ making the cats look
over, and a few dogs bark.
Lisa, according to her nametag, slipped out of a door behind the desk and popped her back. “Hello,
sorry. Someone surrendered a pet pig. How can I help you?”
The man took out a card and offered it. “My name is Sam Carroll, I’m … hold on, a pig?”
Lisa took the card, and chuckled, looking it over. “Yeah, apparently they didn’t realize that pigs
tended to get big. At least it’s well-behaved.”
Sam nodded, taking out a small pocket portfolio. “Yes, ma’am. I’m here on behalf of a client looking
to acquire surplus mistreated fluffies for humane food trials. Better kibble, wet foods,
supplements, and things like that.”
Lisa chuckled. “I’m afraid you’re out of luck. We don’t handle fluffies here anymore, it’s all done
at a special shelter. They’re just too much of a handful. Last I heard they just took in a bunch of
fluffies from an illegal animal fighting ring.”
Sam sighs. “I don’t understand how people can just do such horrible things to fluffies.”
She shrugs. “If you can’t understand how people can do that to fluffies you’re either a saint or new
to this job.”
There’s a pause, and Sam tilts his head, curious. “You, if you pardon me saying so, sound like
you’re not a fan.”
Lisa laughs, short, and sharp. “You could say that. They’re cute enough but they have no place in a
shelter for real animals. If they weren’t sentient I’d say they were worth about as much as any
other vermin.”
“Well,” Sam says, looking up and into the middle distance, thinking. “I can’t say I entirely
disagree, really. I’ve not found one that’s all that pleasant to be around.” He looked back at her,
with a shrug. “Ah well, it’s kind of moot. Would you have their address? The shelter, that is.”
With a nod, she wrote down the address. A few minutes later, Sam was in the rain, and away.
Lisa wasn’t wrong, the shelter was definitely for fluffies. Where the animal shelter he just came
from was clean and pleasant, Sam found himself staring at what could be mistaken for a
warehouse. Aside from a painted section on the concrete reading ‘State Fluffy Shelter’, it was
entirely unremarkable, and massively depressing.
Sam could already tell he liked this place. Sauntering in, the first thing he noticed was large
glass window at waist height, with a lit metal box on the other side, running about ten feet of wall
space, and four high. The metal box was probably around four feet deep, with a steep upward slope leading to a hatch at one end, and a tile floor.
Aside from the window, there was a steel counter that ran along the other interior wall, with a cash
register bolted to one end, near two swinging doors. Papers, a coffee maker, hot-air popcorn popper, and an ashtray full of cigarette butts were at the other end of the counter.
Sam knocked on the counter. “Hello? Anyone home?”
There’s a muffled slamming sound, and heavy footsteps. A short, stocky man, late into middle age
walks in, wiping his hands on a rag. “Wouldn’t call this a home, bud. What can I do for you?”
“Looking to establish a fluffy supply.”
“Thank fuck, the faster you burn through 'em the happier I’ll be.”
Sam blinked. “Uh, what? I’m-”
“Look asshole, and I mean the term in a friendly way, I don’t care. You come here, you tell me ‘Hey,
Frankie, I need one fluffy’, I’m going to be all ‘Swell friend, here, have this one, it called me
names.’, and you’ll be doing me a favor. If you come here, and say ‘Hey, Frankie, I need forty cuz
I’m going to host a race to see which one can get fucked to death by a dog the fastest.’, I’d help
you lube them up before sending them off with you, though a cut of the betting profits would be a
nice thank-you. So why don’t you just tell me what you mean by a ‘fluffy supply’, and I’ll figure
out how much I like you.”
Sam blinked again, organizing his thoughts. “Well, Frankie. I’m Sam. Since you seem to have fluffies
in surplus, I think I’ll be coming around quite often. I’m not sure how many at once, probably five
or six. On a slow day, it might be just one or two. Expect it to be weekly on average, more will be
not uncommon, and right now I’ll make you a deal and take a few of the worst ones to deal with, for a tour of your lovely facility?”
Frankie grinned, lighting a cigarette. “Oh I’m going to like you a lot. What you use 'em for, if I
might ask?”
With a grin, Sam tosses a ziplock bag on the counter. “Mostly medical and chemistry
experimentation. Some recreational sadism, and occasionally, that.”
Frankie picked up the bag, and opened it, taking a deep whiff. “Is that jerky?”
“Fluffy jerky. They’re surprisingly delicious.”
After a pause, Frankie took out a small piece and handed the bag back, tearing off a segment,
carefully tasting it.
“That’s actually pretty good. Huh.”
After finishing off the piece, he motioned for Sam to follow him. “One fifty-cent tour, then.”
They went through the double doors, revealing that in fact this had once been a self-storage
facility. The shutter doors had all been removed and replaced with ones that slid sideways, with a
viewport cut in at eye level. Frankie pulled the first one open.
Inside were two rows of fluffy cages, stacked four high. The cages were narrow enough that the
fluffies could barely turn around, and were wire-bottomed. The lowest fluffies were the most
shit-stained and sobbing quietly, but all watched as Sam and Frankie talked at the doorway.
“These are the smallest rooms. Forty fluffies in each. The biggest rooms can hold a hundred and
twenty.”
One of the fluffies nearest the pair pressed its hooves against the cage wall. “Pwease, nyu daddeh?
Pwease, fwuffy nee’ daddeh, nee housie, nu wan be in shewtew no mowe.”
Sam glanced at it, cold. “Don’t talk to me, shitrat.”
The fluff sat down and cried, watching Sam, still with a flicker of hope in its eyes.
Frankie went up to the fluff and opened the cage door, grabbing on to the little earthy by the
scruff of its neck. “What did I fucking tell you about talking to people.”
The earthie immediately started to piss in fear, trying to back away from Frankie. “SOWWY! FWUFFY SOWWY! NEBBA TAWGUNNGFF-” The sudden introduction of Frankie’s thumb inside the fluffie’s mouth quieted it. With a whimper and a loud whining sound, he slid his thumb to one side and back, forcing the fluffy’s jaws wide open.
“No, you won’t, will you?” Frankie asked, staring at the fluffy, before taking a drag on his
cigarette and blowing it in the fluffy’s face. It immediately coughed, eyes watering a little, and
right when it was going to cough again, Frankie put the cigarette into the back of the fluffy’s
throat and knocked the cherry off.
He let the fluffy go as it started to half-scream, pawing at its mouth and throat and choking,
writhing around. Shit dribbled out in spurts, the fluffies beneath cowering as far from the hatch as
possible.
Frankie re-lit the cigarette and slid the door shut, out in the hallway with Sam. “I’m going to grab
the disposal cart. Let’s make this a real tour.”
After disappearing into a room, Frankie came out again with a large bin on wheels, two feet deep,
with a grating for a floor and on top. He went back in with the now silent, sobbing fluffy, and
grabbed a few out of their cages, putting them in the bin.
“Right, got over a thousand fluffies to visit. I want them to see you, so I can get them to behave
if they think you’ll come back and take them to a better place.”
Sam grinned, nodding. “I like your style. Which ones did you think about sending home with me?”
“Eh, some pregnant ones, a few pillowfluffs people abandoned, maybe a couple troublemakers. That work with you?”
“Always. I do like your facility. Let’s keep going.”
They walked on.
Many rooms later, they returned to the front of the building, and Frankie took the bin for the
eighth time, and put the fluffies inside into a shallow chute, leading to the large metal tank in
the front room of the shelter.
Sam walked out to the waiting area with Frankie and saw nearly a hundred fluffies in the metal tank, some curled up, others standing or otherwise pressed up against the glass, watching the two
humans. They had only been in the box for an hour and the floor was already a mess, slick with urine and feces. Sam watched as a small orgy in the back corner broke out, the pent-up fluffies finally given a chance to relieve themselves.
“This is something I rigged up for fun. Got tired of the captive bolt pistol I got from the last guy
and this thing means I don’t need to cart them to the incinerator when I’m done.” Frankie grinned,
opening a metal panel next to the window. Inside was an industrial panel of buttons. “Let’s see, we
have carbon dioxide, water, a vacuum pump, or-”
“I got something for you.” Sam interrupted him, and went out to his van. After rummaging through a storage bin in the back, he wandered back in again, holding a canister. “Had this in my car since I
got it from my cousin in New York. Apparently it’s the secret to perfect homemade pretzels.”
Frankie took it, reading the label. Food-grade lye.
“What do I do with this?”
Sam smiled, and pointed at the nozzles hidden in the ceiling of the box. “Give them a shower.”
Frankie looked back and forth between the canister and the nozzles, before letting out a laugh. “Oh
this is going to be messy isn’t it.”
He went back while Sam waited, and after Frankie re-appeared, he turned the ‘shower’ on for a few
seconds. The nozzles inside sprayed the fluffies with a dense covering of liquid, before shutting
off, the drain in the middle taking away the mixture of water and fluffy waste.
The huu-huuing and ‘why bad wawa’ slowly subsided as the fluffies started noticing their fluff
coming out in patches. Then they collectively started screaming, feeling the skin slough off their
backs, the fat saponifying and coming away in pale-yellow, slimy chunks. Some fluffies tried
pounding on the glass, begging, but Sam just smiled and gave them the finger. Frankie watched,
impassive, until he reached over and flicked another switch.
Small inlets opened in the back wall, and promptly filled the chamber with flames, burning the
fluffies alive. The screaming was clearly audible through the thick glass, and the fire cut out
after reducing the trapped bio-toys to so much ash and bone.
With a snort, Frankie turned to Sam. “Now let’s get you set up with some new fluffies, eh?”
Flipping through the notes Frankie had hastily scribbled together, Sam began sorting the
fluffies. Dams in the soon-mummah pens, their stallions next to them, but separated. Three
pillowfluffs, in special padded u-shaped plush beds. However, there were a few problem fluffies that he kept in their carriers in the waiting area.
Three fluffies remaining. After checking the feeders, and making sure the microphones and cameras in the pens were recording and sending to the house, he took the three down into the house’s basement, and set their carriers on a table in a dimly-lit room.
Opening the first carrier, he lifted out a bright pink unicorn with a flame orange mane. Apparently
this one was a particularly troublesome smarty. It was giggling about enfie babies and dripping
pre-ejaculate in its sleep. After settling it in a leg immobilizer and strapping it in, he put the
carrier away and opened the second.
With some effort he hauled out a massively overweight fluffy, a teal pegasus, and according to the
notes, it had something akin to fluffy pica. It would not stop eating, even other fluffies if they
were small enough. This one just was strapped in place.
The third was awake. It was weirdly chubby, but not in a healthy way. Its skin sagged in places, the
fluff thin, and it was smiling with crooked little chalky teeth. Sure signs of a milk thief. Sam
watched it, and then tapped on the table.
It slowly walked out and sat down on the table, a disgusting bile green color. It twitched, looking
around, leering at the other fluffies.
Sam sat down and prodded the two sleeping fluffies until they were awake.
The smarty of course started things off. “DUMMY HOO-” it screeched, before being cut off by a brutal backhand from Sam, making two teeth bounce off the wall.
“Don’t even start, you little piece of day-glo shit.” Sam grabbed the smarty’s ear and twisted,
making it scree. “I am the boss here. You are the dummy stupid no-good fluffy now. If you forget
that, I’ll make you an enfie toy for the fluffies I like.”
He let the smarty’s ear go, watching as it glowered and whimpered, staring at him.
“You three fluffies. You’re in a bad place. I only want good fluffies. Fluffies who listen and
follow orders, who are polite and nice fluffies. I know you are none of these. I will give you one
chance to-”, he stopped, watching as the milk thief tried to burrow under the teal pegasus,
screeching about wanting milk.
“But,” The overweight fluff said, “Nu am mawe? Nu hab miwkie-pwaces.”
Sam grabbed the milk thief and broke its neck, dropping it on the table. Both the smarty and the
lardball stared at the corpse of the disturbed fluffy.
“He didn’t listen. But he was sick in the head. I made it fast. You two will listen, right?”
The fat fluff had already started to try and eat the corpse of its companion, barely able to reach
it with a hoof and drag it close enough to get a bit in its mouth.
Then it looked up and saw Sam staring at it, and noisily shat itself. Sam picked up the corpse of
the milk-thief and dropped it in a bucket, before turning to the smarty. “Looks like you’re the only
option now.”
The smarty glared, fighting against the immobilizer.
Sam pulled out a knife and casually slit the overweight fluffy’s neck, before opening a leg vein and
propping it upside-down to drain in the bucket. “Why do you want to be a smarty?”
The little fluorescent ingrate blew a raspberry. “Cuz smawty is bestest fwuffy an bestest fwuffies
are de smawty in a hewd. Dummy.”
This earned him another, lighter backhand. “Idiot. That’s why you think you deserve it. Why do you
like being smarty?”
After the whimpering settled, the smarty grinned to itself a little. “Smawty get aww de bestest
nummies, an hab tuffies, an aww de special-huggies smawty wants, an bestest beddies…”
Sam leaned down, getting eye level with the smarty. “You were found beaten and shat on, dumped in a culvert outside a fluffy shelter. Your own herd rejected you. You were a bad smarty. Good smarties take care of their herd and protect them.”
“Nu cawe. Fwuff dem.”
“You just want to fuck things and be mean, don’t you.”
The smarty just looks at Sam, burning with dull, arrogant hate. “Fwuff you, stoopit.”
“Damn.” Sam sat up, sighing. “And I had hoped to use you for some fun. Too far gone.”
“Wha dummy hoomin tawkin 'bout?”
“Well,” Sam began, making a theatric shrug and gesturing absentmindedly, “I was going to try to find a fluffy who would listen and work for me as my toughie. Lots of enfie-babies, good food, the pick of the mares, all that, and not having to worry about having to protect a herd. Too bad.”
The smarty opened his mouth to speak but Sam simply closed it again with his fingers, and wrapped it in a few turns of vet-wrap. He picked up the immobilizer and the bucket of dead fluffs, and after putting them on a cart and corking the smarty, wheeled them out into the hall, and down to a basement kitchen.
The fat, draining fluffy was transferred from the bucket to a hook over the sink, blood slowly
dripping from its chin and nose as its body drained. The milk-thief was dumped, tossed into a small incinerator chute in the wall.
Sam put on some soft, upbeat lounge jazz and turned to the Smarty, now less arrogant and more
scared. Sam uncorked the fluffy, and swiftly replaced it with a plug and tube, making the fluff try
to buck and struggle. A few swift motions and the straps were in place, the tube already evacuating
the high-pressure slurry that fluffies somehow produce.
“Smarty, I think you need a new name.” Sam said, pulling the vet-wrap away, and forcing the fluffy’s
mouth open with one hand. “I’m going to name you Entree.” He began pushing a feeding tube down the fluffy’s throat. Entree struggled weakly, gagging and choking, crying sweet tears. After securing the tube, Sam licked the fluid off his hand, watching the fluff.
“Entree is a fancy name for ‘meal’.”
He hooked the fluffy’s feeding tube up to a machine in the cart’s bottom and took the pegasus down off the hook, and with a few motions of a knife had cut it open and exposed the fluffy’s
organs. “Look, each one of you is a cornucopia of flavour. This one’s liver is so fatty already.” He
takes out the purple-red organ, snipping the connecting tissues and ducts. “Marvelous.”
Entree was watching, horrified, trying not to vomit both from the tube down his throat, and seeing
another fluffy being prepared. Sam placed the liver in a glass container and covered it with brandy,
before taking out the offal and rectum. He dropped these in the top of Entree’s
auto-feeder. “Enjoy. I’m going to fatten you up on a mixture of honey, oats, cornmeal, and every
fluffy that you see from now on.”
Sam pat Entree’s head in mock affection and turned back, butchering the fluffy expertly, reducing it
to fine cuts of meat, before cracking the long bones with a hammer and dropping them in a stock-pot, the flesh marinading in a mixture of cider vinegar, mustard powder, and white pepper.
Entree began to hyperventilate as the autofeeder ground the unwanted refuse into a slurry with the grains and honey. He flinched as it begin to fill his stomach, making his eyes widen in
horror. After a bout of struggling and muffled screaming, his eyes rolled up and he passed out.
Sam chuckled and after wheeling Entree to a corner of the room, continued cooking. Fluffy ramen
takes a lot of preparation.
Will looked down from his house on the ridge, through the woods, over the wall, and into the
basement of the new neighbor. His eyes were shut, painted with holy oils and the blood of a recent
sacrifice. The new neighbor was like how he used to be. Will watched as the newcomer prepared an elegant meal, garnished with the suffering of an arguably innocent mind. The paintings whispered to him, but the wax spoke volumes as it dripped into the pan of water, the shapes forming a writ of instructions.
Will observed longer, watching as the newcomer checked his computers, observing the sleeping
fluffies in the barn, and back to preparing the fatty, rich stock for his meal. This new neighbor
was very much like Will before finding the hidden path he now walked down, so much potential and a healty amount of discipline, but no direction, simply reveling in it.
He stood, wiping the marks from his face, and opening his eyes again. The energy drained out of him, the trance dissipating into nothing, and he groaned as the weight of exhaustion came over him. Will turned and checked a heavily modified calendar etched into a brass plate on the wall. It had just changed itself to the current cycle, and he saw there would be an opportunity for rejuvination in a little over a week.
Grinning to himself, he resolved that he would pick up a fluffy from his new neighbor for the
ritual. It would be a good excuse to make introductions.
The door opened to the fluffy pens and Sam quietly slipped in, and turned the music down. “Hello
fluffs, I’m back. Is everyone doing well?”
The question was answered with high pitched happiness and screechy proclamations of bestest
whatever-the-shits ever. Sam gestured lightly to get the assembled fluffies to settle down. “Good,
but now it’s bedtime. So toys away, make good poopies and pee-pees, and tuck in.”
It took a not-insignificant amount of willpower not to throw up in his mouth, but Sam managed to
portray the face of a benevolent and loving caretaker. Naturally every fluffy had asked if he would
be their daddy, but when he explained that he would help them find good daddies and mommies, they were just as happy. He went around, putting soft blankets over the pillowfluffs, adjusting them so they were comfortable, and checking the dams could breathe easily and see their partners.
As he checked on each fluffy, he was silently evaluating things in his mind. The pregnancies were
still a week off at minimum, so he couldn’t have fun with them yet. However, there was a pillowed
stallion that was just right. It was a splotchy radiation-yellow color, with a violently purple
mane. Its upbeat, perpetually sunny personality was almost manic in its happiness, which Sam took to be a sign of it being slightly less sharp than most fluffies.
He finished, and dimmed the overhead lights out, leaving the soft night-lights in the pens, and a
cheap planetarium projector in the middle, spreading stars overhead.