A Lesson in Kindness (12/4/12)
A Lesson in Kindness
Be a fluffy owner
You adopted a pink amputated fluffy because all the other fluffies were picking on her.
She used to be a pegasus, but now she’s just more of a ball.
When you got her, she begged for “weggies come back!” and asked “how time tiww weggies?”
You told her that he “weggies” and “wingies” were on vacation in the south of France, and probably weren’t coming back.
She still writes them a post card every once in a while
Well, write is pretty generous. It’s more of a few crude scribbles of legs coming back to your home.
Still, she’s pretty happy.
Enjoys her salad bowl, and the fluffy chow you give her.
Plus she’s got these adorable little shades she wears when she’s outside.
You occassionally take her for “walks.”
By which you mean strap her to a skateboard and roll her down the sidewalk.
She even plays with a few other fluffies in the neighborhood as well.
Mostly they’ll just roll her around as if she’s their ball, and she’s okay with that.
Except for your next door neighbor’s grey fluffy pegasus, Mittens.
Every time Mittens sees Berry, she tries to bite and kick her.
Calls her “dummy fwuffy!” and tries to give her “sowwy poopies” whenever she can.
Of course, Mittens is a huge bitch to every fluffy in the neighborhood, so it’s not surprising.
Even her owner, a veterinarian, thinks she’s a huge bitch.
Today, the fluffy play group is your yard, rolling Sphereo around in a circle.
“Wuv baw fweind!” says a blue unicorn. “Fun fow woww wound!”
“Bewwy wuv friends!” your fluffy replies.
It’s nauseatingly adorable, until you notice Mittens wrigling through a hole in the fence.
The rest of the fluffies soil themselves in terror and “wun way fwom meanie fwuffy!”
Of course, Berry can’t run away, so she receives the full brunt of Mitten’s agression.
“Dummy ugwy fwuffy!” she says as she slaps around Berry. “No weggies, dummy uwgy fuwffy git biggest owies!”
You’d punt her over the fence, but you actually like your neighbor, so instead you grab her by the scruff.
“Wet go Mittens!” she demands, flailing her hooves at you.
Her wings buzz uselessly at her back, and you’re tempted to tear them off.
But no, mutilating someone else’s pet is pretty poor form, so you pick up your sobbing fluffy, and walk next door.
Your neighbor opens his door, and shakes his head.
“Mittens being a bitch again?” he asks.
“Mittens nawt bish!” snarls the grey fluffy. “You Bish! Aww you ugwy and dummies!”
Your neighbor just looks at her and frowns.
“I think it’s time I taught Mittens a lesson on being nice to those less fortunate,” he says. “Can I borrow Berry for a while?”
Sure, why not?
Hand over the fluffies, and go home.
The next day, you’re making a nice spaghetti dinner when you hear a very soft tapping on the front door.
Open it up to find Berry standing there with a huge smile.
“Weggies and wingies com bak fwom vaycayshun!” she says as she waddles into your hallway on four grey legs.
Her little grey wings buzz in exceitment as she does a happy little dance.
Wat.
A moment later, mittens rolls by on a skateboard, sobbing her eyes out and crying “pwease gif back weggies!”
Berry is too busy counting her new grey hoofsies and giggling to notice.
“Wan, two, fwee… fwee again.”
Your neighbor walks after the skateboard and just waves.
Man, what a weird neighborhood.
Spare Parts (12/5/12)
Spare Parts: Training Day
Today, you are a fluffy pony.
You were also a fluffy pony yesterday, and the day before that.
Before that? You’re not so sure.
The only things you’re sure of? Today is a great day!
The big sky ball is out, you got nummy kibbles when you woke up, and you made good poopies.
Daddy gets mad when you make bad poopies, so you always make good poopies.
Daddy is letting you play out in the yard today where there’s grassies, and sometimes other fluffy friends to play with!
Today there’s not any fluffy friends, but there is a big black wingie not fluffy sitting on the fence.
“Hewwo nu fwiend!” you say to him. “Nu fwend wan pway baww? Bwocks? Huggies?”
The big black not fluffy just looks at you for a moment.
Then his big black mouth opens and he yells at you for no reason!
“CAW!”
You make scaredy poopies and try to run away.
Scaredy poopies are okay outside, but you get caught up in them and fall on your belly!
The black not fluffy flaps it big, scary wings and lands in front of you.
“Nuuu!” you cry out. “Nu wan be fwends! Scawy!”
The black not fluffy lifts up its head and and starts pecking at your face!
“Nuu!” you cry, covering your eyes with your hooves. “Nu wan! Daddeh! Hewp!”
If you can’t see it, it can’t see you, right?
It stops pecking a moment, so you look up from behind your hooves.
It’s still there!
The beak comes forward again, filling your whole field of vision.
And your entire world becomes an explosion of pain
The world shifts and warps around you as the not fluffy pulls away from your head.
Then your eye goes dark as daddy arrives to chase away the not fluffy.
You’re too busy sobbing and soiling yourself to form a coherent sentence.
…
Be a fluffy pony owner.
And holy shit, that raven just stole Billy’s eyeball.
Like “bam!” Just yanked it out of his pinto skull.
It would have been an awesome display of nature if it hadn’t been your pet.
He’s bleeding pretty bad; better take him to Dr. Stein.
Toss Billy in a box, and head toward the vet’s office.
He’s busy sobbing and asking “Why dawk? Nu see gud!”
Arrive at the vet’s office to see few other fluffies there in various states of injury and disease.
One is missing a leg, another is missing a wing.
There’s one that looks like he ways thirty pounds and is wheezing with every breath.
Another fluffy looks positively ancient. Well, for a fluffy anyway.
Chatting up the owner, you find out that the fluffy is actually twelve years old.
“Oh yes!” she says. “Dr. Stein is a miracle worker. I don’t know what she does to keep Felix running, but I bring him in once every six months, and he leaves here happy and healthy as can be.”
Well, Dr. Stein is supposedly the best fluffy vet in the country.
A guy in a ball cap and lab coat comes out of the back room with a hand truck full of equipment.
Every fluffy in the room looks up at him, gasps, and cries “Asshowe!” in unison.
Dude just grumbles and keeps walking.
“Billy?” asks the nurse.
Ah, that’d be you.
Pick up your fluffy’s box and take him into the exam room.
A moment later, Dr. Stein walks into the room to take a look.
“Hrm…” she says, examining the hole where Billy’s blue eye used to be. “You say a raven took out his eye?”
“Pwease gif fuwffy eye baww back!” your fluffy begs. “Biwwy be gud! Pwomise! Nu bad poopies if gif bak eye!”
“Pretty rare coloration,” she says. “Pinto with piebald eyes. Ever think of breeding him?”
“Nah, got him from the shelter fixed,” you say. “Didn’t know he was worth anything.”
Dr. Stein fuzzes his head, and turns to you.
“Well, the good news is that I can repair the damage,” she says. "You’re looking at about two hundred and fifty dollars for the procedure.
Well, if Billy weren’t such a great fluffy, you’d just dump him and get a new one, but he is well trained, if a little dim.
“Alright,” you say. “Let’s do this.”
“Just leave him here, and you should be able to pick him up in two days.”
…
Be Dr. Francine Stein.
You are the best god damn fluffy vet in the country because you help design parts of them.
It’s a brand new day, scheduled full of fluffy surgery.
Hrm… neuter, neuter, spay, liposuction…
Ah! Amputee repair, reconstructive eye surgery for the pinto, and a “youth-a-sizing”
Shuffle around the schedule so you’ll only have to make one trip to the basement.
…
Be a pinto fluffy pony.
You’ve been here for day, sobbing quietly, and waiting for anyone to give you huggies.
But here there is only rows upon rows of sobbing fluffy friends.
The ones that cannot stand hang from hooks embedded in their necks, carpeting the wall in a tapestry of multicolored suffering.
You are fortunate enough to have all four of your leggies still, but your pretty tail is long gone.
Still, you could be on the wall as the other fluffies are:
A hook through your spine, devoid of limbs and doomed to sob in agony.
The quiet sobs turn to full on screams of terror as the light from atop the stairs falls onto your cages.
The screams are soon replaced with pleading of “Nu huwt fwuffy no mow!” “Gif wingie fwiend owies instea!” “Nu owies fow fwuffy!” and “Pwease nu huwties!”
Stay silent. Dead silent. Fluffies that make the most noise seem to get picked first.
The “Docta Munsta” carefully looks over the hanging fluffies for a moment before selecting a blue mare named Dancer.
“Nuuu!” shrieks the horn friend. “Nu! Pwease nu huwties Danceh! Be gud! Pwomise! Nu haf nuffin!”
“You’ve got a healthy set of lungs, obviously,” says the Docta Munsta, as she pokes around the mare.
“Feels like a healthy set of kidneys and liver too. You’ll do just fine.”
She leaves the mare on the table for a moment and comes over to the cages.
All the fluffies cry out in terror, trying to cover their eyes with their hooves as she passes.
She’s humming something.
It sounds like a song your momma used to sing to you,
But coming from her, it’s a tuneless dirge of sorrow.
“Ah ha!” she says after a moment. “You’re the right shade.”
Oh no! She’s reaching for you cage!
Wait, no she’s going for the cage above yours.
“Nu huwt Wawwy!” he cries. “No wan be on waww! Nuu! Hewp! Pwease!”
Poor Larry. You knew he wouldn’t last. The pink fluffies never keep their weggies or tailsies long.
She straps him to the table before coming back to the cages one last time.
Docta Munster is still humming that song as she approaches your cage.
She opens the door, and reaches inside.
Your mind races. Do you run? Do you hide? Do you make scaredy poopies?
Do you fight? Fluffies who fight get the worst owies, but it’s better than living in fear.
Lunge forward and chomp down on her hand as hard as your fluffy teeth allow.
She just kind of giggles at your assault.
“I like you,” she says, pulling her hand from between your weak teeth. “You got spunk.”
She turns you over a few times before scratching her chin.
“Oh hey, you’re not even neutered yet,” she says. “Heck, I could have sold you for breeding stock a while ago. I’ll do that right after I’m done.”
She grabs you by the scruff, and drags you over to the table where the blue mare and the pink stallion are struggling against their straps.
For a moment, she lets you go and you think of escape.
But alas, the straps come down and you too are bound to the table like your friends.
Momma always said to be brave, but you’re so scared of the Docta Munsta.
She picks up the buzzy thing and flips over Dancer.
“Nu have weggies to gif!” squeals the fluffy. “Pwease nu mow huwties! Nu make bad poopies ow be meanie! Pwease, Docta Munsta, nu!”
“Don’t need your legs,” she says, putting the buzzy thing to her chest fluff. “I need what’s inside.”
The buzzy thing makes the beautiful blue fluff fall away in great sheets as it hums across her chest.
The blue fluffy cries and sobs begging “nu take fwuff way, Docta Munsta!”
Docta Munsta flicks her snout, and points a finger at her.
“That’s Doctor Stein, you little shit. No anesthetic for you.”
Then she picks up the shiny thing, and starts giving the blue mare owies.
You want to cover your eyes with your hooves, or at least look away from the scene of carnage, but she forces you to watch as the owies get worse, and boo-boo juice spills across the table.
For nearly ten minutes the blue mare screams in agony as Docta Munsta takes out pieces and sets them in a bin.
You can only shed a single tear for her as Docta Munsta takes something else out, and Dancer finally goes silent.
She’s taking the big sleepies now. Docta munsta slides what’s left of Dancer into the red bin
You hope that your big sleep comes quicker than hers.
Larry, on the other hand, has been screaming and struggling against his straps the entire time.
“Nu!” he cries, trying to escape. “Nu! Nu! Nu! Nu!”
“Christ almighty, shut up,” says Docta Munsta. “No anesthesia for you either.”
She picks up a big, shiny thing, and drag Larry over to the table
Nu wan owies! Wan weggies! Wan keep weggies! Pwease nu owies! Pwease nu huwties! Hewp! hewp fwuffy! Hewp!"
The screams only get louder as the shiny thing saws through Larry’s leggies.
As they fall away from his body, the smell of burning fluff and skin reaches your nostrils.
Larry’s screams reach a crescendo of wailing before he finally loses consciousness.
The leggies go into another bin before Docta Munsta jams a shiny new hook through the back of Larry’s neck.
The hook goes on the wall, to join the blanket of pain that lines it.
Docta Munsta takes off her hand covers, and finally turns to you.
“And you haven’t said a word,” she says to you. “Are you scared, fluffy pony?”
Is this a trick? It has to be, but she’s going to hurt you no matter what, so you’d better answer.
“F…fwuffy scawed,” you answer.
“What are you afraid of?” she asks.
“F…fwaid… of big huwties,” you reply.
"YOu didn’t screech, you did’t cry, you didn’t even say anything as I gutted your friend. Did you even know her name?
“Fwuffy wuz Danceh,” you say. “You take Wawwy’s weggies. Befow dat, wuz Daween, an Ginah, and Tewwy’s weggies. Fwuffy no dem aww.”
“And what do you think I’m going to do to you?” she asks.
“Dun know,” you answer.
“Well, you’re going to be fine,” she says. “In fact, you get to live a life of happiness making new babies with pretty mares.”
Now you know it’s a trick. Fluffies don’t leave the basement unless it’s in the red plastic bags.
“Unfortunately, I need that piebald eye of yours,” she says. “But you’ll get an eyepatch out of the deal, so I guess you win after all.”
She puts something underneath nose.
“Smell this,” she says.
You give the rag a sniff and everything goes dark.
…
Be a fluffy owner.
And today’s the day you get Billy back!
Billy is happy as can be with a brand new eye.
He keeps looking at things, saying “Biwwy see you now!” then giggling.
Looks like Felix the ancient fluffy is feeling better too.
And that little amputee is looking much happier with her brand new legs.
“Billy was a perfect patient,” says Dr. Stein. “Just keep him away from ravens from now on.”
“Tank yoo daddeh!” Billy tells you.
“Thank Doctor Stein,” you tell him. “She’s the one who did it.”
“Tank you Docta stein!” he chants. “Wuv Docta Stein!”
Dr. Stein fuzzes his head, and gives him a lolly-pop.
You and your happy fluffy walk from the vet’s office a few hundred dollars poorer, but much happier.
As you buckle Billy into his car seat he gives you a big hug.
You love your little pinto fluffy pony.
…
Be Billy, the pinto fluffy pony.
And today is the best day ever.
Everything looks so much better now! You have no idea how, or why, but it’s so fantastic!
You look out the window, just seeing what you can see.
And you can see a fluffy in a cage on the truck next to you.
But he doesn’t look very friendly.
He’s got a mean look on his face, and a black thingee going around his head that covers his eye.
The mean fluffy just stares at you and turns away as you wave.
It’s too bad. You’ve never seen another fluffy with your color fluff before.
You quickly put it out of your mind, though. There’s so much fun stuff to do today!
Why you ask?
Well because today is the best day ever!
Spare Parts: Training Day (3/22/13)
Spare Parts: Training Day
Be a wingie fluffy.
You used to have a home and a mommy, but she was a meanie and wouldn’t let you have babies.
So you ran away from home.
You’d show mommy. You’d get your own babies.
All the boy fluffies loved your extra silky golden fluff and your sparkly silver mane.
Not to mention those super-rare purple eyes! You’ve never seen another fluffy with those before at all!
But no matter how many special hugs you had, you never got fat with babies.
Then the scary men came to your safe place.
The boy fluffies got necklaces that gave them bad sleepies, and all the girl fluffies got taken away to become mommas.
When they figured out you couldn’t be a momma, they took you and all the other unwanted fluffies here.
Now you’re sitting in a cage in the dark room with dozens of other fluffies.
Some are in cages like you, softly sobbing and begging for anyone to love them.
Other hang from the walls by hooks through their necks, weeping about their lost weggies and wingies.
The soft crying fills the room with an air of palpable sorrow as you all sit in the dark, waiting for the doors to open, and the terror to begin anew.
You’ve been here for weeks, and in that time you’ve seen the Docta munsta pass by your cage so many times.
Every time she does she just shakes her head and says “If only they’d kept your ovaries,” whatever that means.
Then the screaming starts and you try not to watch as fluffies come off the walls, and go into the red bins.
You’re beginning to think that you’re never going to leave this basement when the door up the stairs opens.
Of course, it’s Docta Munsta again.
Some of the fluffies scream in panic. The fluffies on the walls wriggle their amputated bodies, trying to escape from their hooks.
Others buzz their one wing or single weggie trying to struggle against the hook in their necks.
They can’t go anywhere but the trough full of bad poopies, but maybe even that is preferable to the horrors that await on the table.
You just cower and hope she doesn’t pass by your cage again.
But what’s this? There’s other people coming with her!
No one but Docta Munsta comes down here!
There’s a few daddies and mommies with her! Maybe one will take you into their home and make you their fluffy!
“Good lord,” says the daddy, looking around at the cages and the wall fluffies. “This… this is pretty intense.”
“The rack system saves time and space,” says Docta Munsta. “A butcher taught me the technique, and it’s worked out pretty well for the amputees.” She pauses a moment. “Well, as well as it could for them anyway.”
“I think I’m gonna be sick,” says another daddy, running up the stairs.
“So, students,” says Docta Munsta. “Why do I have racks of amputated fluffies hanging off the wall?”
“Because you’re a sick bitch?” says one of the mommys. “I’m calling the cops.”
“First, nothing illegal is going on here,” says Docta Munsta. “Second, that telephone book sized contract you signed forbids you from revealing any and all of Stein Inc. trade secrets. If you do, I’ll sue your ass into oblivion and if you don’t like it, you can just get the hell out.”
The mommy huffs and stomps out of the basement, leaving only one mommy and one daddy.
“So, again,” says Docta Munsta “Why do I have racks of amputated fluffy ponies hanging from hooks?”
“For spare parts?” says the daddy.
“Very good,” says Docta Munsta. “If you’ll notice, the most common colors are represented up here: Blue, pink, green, etc. If a customer’s fluffy is injured, we simply take the injured limb from a healthy fluffy and graft it on to the patient.”
“That can’t be cheap,” says the mommy.
“You’d be surprised,” says Docta Munsta. “We cut costs where we can. Cheap kibble for the donors, pennies on the dollar for the fluffies, cauterizations versus stitches. It costs us about a dollar per limb, and we charge fifty dollars a limb replacement. Mostly for time spent in surgery.”
“So, wait, it only costs a dollar to harvest a leg?” asks the daddy. “This I gotta see.”
The Docta Munsta goes over to the rack of fluffies and scans through them for a fluffy with a weggie. She smiles as she takes the hook from the rack, and lays it down on the table.
“Nuuu!” yell the fluffy, trying to scrabble away on its single front weggie. "Nuu mow huwties! Pwease! Hewp! Hewp fwuffy! "
“Christ, do they ever shut up?” asks the mommy.
Docta Munsta picks up the shiny thing. “Well, no, unless you knock them out first. But that costs money, and if you don’t have to spend it, why bother?”
“Hewp! Nu take weggies! Fwuffy pwomise be gud! No bad poopies! Gif anytin! Hewp! Pwease mistah hewp! Save fwuffy fwom Docta Munsta!”
“Oh come on,” says the daddy. “Please give the little guy a sniff of ether or something.”
Docta Munsta rolls her eyes, and puts down the shiny thing.
“Tank you!” sobs the grey fluffy. “Daddeh save fwuffy. Dadd-”
The fluffy’s thanks is cut off as Docta Munsta grabs his tail and spins him through the air.
His head smashes against the edge of the table, and he goes quiet except for a gurgle.
“Now he’s completely paralyzed,” says Docta Munsta. “Probably brain damaged too, but we at least he’s quiet.”
The daddy’s mouth just drops open, but the mommy smiles and nods.
“Now, a proper amputation is down with a saw,” she says. “Fluffies have amazing regenerative capacities which is why they can survive so much trauma. We can exploit this to repair amputations because the muscles and nerves will reform themselves around the transplanted limb.”
You try to cover your ears so you can’t hear Docta Munsta anymore, but it’s no use.
“Nine times out of then, you get sloppy amputations,” says Docta Munsta, “So you don’t have to replace the head of the femur, just the shaft. If you need the head to, take a screwdriver, and just…”
The sound of squishing and popping coming from the table makes your tummy feel even worse.
You turn away from the sound, trying not to listen, and hoping that it’ll stop.
“Once you’ve got it off, put it in the cooler, and take it up to surgery,” says Docta Munsta. “Then cauterize, and hang the fluffy back up.”
“Fascinating,” says the mommy. “So can we practice?”
“Tommorrow,” says Docta Munsta, throwing the weggie into the red bin. "Now I’m going to show you how to take out a fluffy’s eyeball without cracking the skull open. A fluffy’s skull is like a jar lid. Once you crack it open, the timer starts to when they’ll expire, so we avoid it when possible.”
You hear the clank of the hook going back on the rack and the gurgle of the grey fluffy, but you’re still hunkered down behind your hooves hoping she won’t find you.
The sound of her feet covers echo through the suddenly silent room as she paces the cages.
Click
Click
Click
She’s getting closer to your cage.
Click
Click
Click
The steps are getting louder.
You hide even harder, scrunching down with your hooves over your eyes. She’ll never find you now.
”Well, well, well,” says Docta Munsta. “What do we have here?”
Spare Parts: Training Day, Part 2 (3/25/13)
Spare Parts: Training Day, Part 2
Be a wingie fluffy.
And you’re so scared you can’t remember your name.
All you know is that Docta Munsta is standing outside your cage while the mommeh and daddeh are standing there with her.
You were hiding behind your hooves so hard, you don’t know how Docta Munsta found you.
This is it. You’re going on the wall with the other fluffies.
”As you can see, I keep stock of rare fluffies, in case a customer needs parts,” says Docta Munsta. “This fluffy has some of the rarest colorations found in fluffies. Silky golden fluff, iridescent silver mane, and most of all…”
She pounds on the door of your cage with a balled fist.
You make scaredy poopies and try to back away from Docta Munsta.
But there’s nowhere to go. You can only flatten yourself against the back of the cage beg for mercy.
”Pwease nu huwt fwuffy!” you bawl. “Nu be bad! Nu Wan die! Nu wan die! Hu hu hu…”
”Oooh, purple eyes,” says the mummeh. “That’d be nice to see put back into a fluffy that someone cares about.”
What? Your mummah cares about you!
”M… mu… muumah cawes bout fwuffy…” you sputter.
“No one cares about you,” says the mummeh. “You’re going to be cut up for parts and hung out to dry like the rest of your retarded little friends.”
”Bu… bu…” you stammer.
”Are you talking back?” asks Docta Munsta. “Oh, I don’t like fluffies that talk back.”
You cram a hoof in your mouth, trying to hold back tears.
Your mommy loves you. She just doesn’t know where you are. She’ll come and find you.
”Why didn’t you ship her off to a breeder?” asks the daddeh. “A fluffy like that is worth a fortune.”
”Some idiot removed her ovaries,” says Docta Munsta. “I’ve sent some samples out to an associate of mine to try to get a clone, but no luck so far.”
You continue sobbing as Docta Munsta walks away from your cage.
”Now where was I?” she says. “I think we’ll hold off on the eye surgery for the time being, and instead work on repair of typical fluffy injuries such as cut, burns, scrapes and blunt force trauma.
”Go grab one of the common fluffies off the wall,” says Docta Munsta. “Then I’ll need you to cause some injures…”
”I don’t think I can do that,” says the daddeh.
”I got this,” says the meanie mummie. She grabs a horn friend and a wingie friend off the wall, and slams them down on the scary table.
She slams them so hard you can hear snapping and popping coming from their bellies as they beg for mercy.
”Nu huwties! Pwease! Nu mow big owies!” begs the wingie fluffy, as she tries to push herself away with her back weggies.
”Oh I haven’t even begun,” says the meanie mommy. “You have a hammer down here? I’m going to work over this unicorn for Mr. Hugboxer here.”
”That’s really not…”
You can’t hear Mista Hugboxeh over the sound of the shattering bones, squelching thumps, and panicked shrieks of terror as the meanie mummie brings the hammer down again and again on the horn friend.
She tosses him to the floor with a wet thump.
”Pw… pwease gif… huggies…” he sobs as boo boo juice runs from his shattered face. “Big owies… hu hu hu…”
Mistah Hugboxeh just stares at the fluffy for a moment before looking back to Docta Munsta.
”Well you wanted to be a fluffy vet,” says Docta Munsta, with a smile. “Can you save that one?“
Mistah Huxboxeh picks up the horn friend and puts him back on the table while Meanie Mummie picks up the scary shiny thing.
”Fwower?” asks the wingie friend trying to crawl toward the horn friend. “Fwower need huggies! Pwease gif huggies to Fwower, Munsta Wady! Nu have weggies to gif huggies!”
”So you want legs do you?” says Meanie Mummie. “I’ll get you some legs.”
Docta Munsta laugh makes you so scared.
”You’re going to let him get away with calling you ‘Munsta?’” asks Docta Munsta.
Meanie mummah just laughs too and she grabs another fluffy from the cages.
You cover your eyes with your hooves again, but you’ve heard enough screaming and the sawing of the shiny thing to know that the green fluffy from the cage is getting its weggies taken away.
After what seems like hours of screaming and sobbing, you finally look up to see the what’s left of the green fluffy going in the red bin, and the three people standing over two fluffies.
The wingie friend now has green weggies in the front and is buzzing her wings happily.
”Fwuffy have weggies!” she says. “Tank you Musta Way! Wuv Munsta Wady!”
The horn friend is laying down on the table, but he’s not crying anymore, just sleeping.
Mistah huxboxeh is just shaking his head.
”I can’t believe I just gutted one fluffy to save another,” he says.
”You two used every part of the fluffy, which is the ideal situation,” says Docta Munsta. “Surgery planning is important; if you can use all the limbs and organs from one fluffy, you just saved yourself a few bucks.”
The wingie fluffy is rubbing against Meanie Mummie, and hugging her with her new green hoofsies.
”So that wraps up today’s lesson,” says Docta Munsta. “We’ll continue tommorrow with more advanced techniques.”
As they all leave the basement, Mistah Hugboxah looks back at the fluffies hanging on the wall in misery, and to the sobbing fluffies in cages around you.
”Do you actually care about fluffy ponies at all?” asks Mistah Hugboxah. “Or is this just how you make your money, Dr. Stein?”
Docta Munsta takes off her eye covers and sort of smiles with that creepy, scary smile of hers.
”These fluffies?” she says. “I helped create them, and it’s only right they know their lives are worthless.”
…worthless?
You’re not worthless. Your mummah loved you, and she thought you were worth something.
She loved you so much, and you ran away from her.
”They’re toys, and like any toy, they need to be repaired from time to time.”
But… but you’re not a toy. You’re a wingie fluffy.
“I don’t care that they cry, or beg for mercy. The fluffies upstairs are beloved pets and cherished companions, and I treat them as such. Someone loves them very much and I do my best to make sure they stay happy and healthy.”
She points to the cages, and then right at you.
”Maybe someone loved that one once, but these fluffies down here?”
”They’re nothing more than spare parts.”
The lights go out, and the door slams shut behind them, leaving you sobbing quietly in the dark
Your voice joins the soft sounds of dozen whimpering fluffies as you try to remember your mommah.
But you can’t remember her anymore.
All you remember is how long you’ve been here, and how every day brings you closer to the table where Docta Munsta or Meanine Mummie, or Mistah Hugboxeh will tear you limb from limb so that some other fluffy that someone actually loves will live on.
You cover your head with your hooves and continue to sob as your will to live drains.
”wan die.”
Challenge 57: Dr. Stein’s Custom Fluffies (6/30/14)
Challenge 57: Dr. Stein’s Custom Fluffies
In all the years that fluffy ponies have been around, you’ve always taken what you could get and thought nothing of it.
Your fluffies have run the gamut from bog standard earth fluffies to an exotic spider fluffy that you housed for the winter.
Ah, little Charlotte. You can still remember those adorable fangs and how they injected liquefying venom into the foals she sustained herself on that winter.
Still, you’ve always just kind of wanted something special; something that wasn’t just a regular fluffy or a variant species.
You’re perusing the Fluff-TV forums reading through the “available” board.
It’s your usual mishmash of free “get these fucking fluffies out of my home” and high priced “seventh generation Martini” fluffies with the trademark “Rape Stare.”
As you gloss over an ad for waterhead fluffyshys, you finally reach an advertisement that piques your interest.
”Fluffies Custom built to order. All breeds, genders, colors, and temperaments available. Delivery in two weeks.”
Now this promises to be interesting. How does one custom build a fluffy?
It can’t possibly be a custom breeder, that’d take six weeks, and even then you can’t guarantee color and gender, to say nothing of temperament.
Call up the breeder, and you’re greeted with a prerecorded message.
”Dr. Steins Fluffy Vet Clinic welcomes you. If this is an emergency, put the remainder of your fluffy in a bag and come directly to the hospital.”
Heh, they really know their market.
”If you’re calling about an appointment, please press one. If you’re calling about custom fluffy design, press two. If you’re calling about the class action laws…”
You press two.
Wait, what was that about a class action?
The phone rings for a moment and you’re greeted by a pleasant female voice on the other line.
”Dr. Steins Custom Fluffies. How can we design your perfect pet?”
”So, what kind of fluffy can I get?” you ask with a hint of doubt. “Anything I want?”
”Certainly, sir!” she replies. “You can custom order anything from a brown earth fluffy smarty to an iridescent black Lunafluff.”
It takes you a moment to put together what the hell she means by that, but you remember that kids cartoon that kicked off fluffies so long ago.
”So, I can order, say, a pure white alicorn fluff that never makes a peep?”
”If that’s what you want,” she replies.
”How about a pinto unicorn toughie friend?”
”Anything you want, we can make,” she says. You can hear the smile in her voice, as if she’s got a yes answer to any question you might throw her way.
This may be just what you’re looking for; a completely custom fluffy job.
It’s halfway across the country, but you’re going to be in that city in two weeks anyway on business.
”Alright, here’s what I want,” you begin. “First, it’s got to be an Alicorn. Second, it’s got to be smart. We’re talking genius level fluffy here. I want it to be male, and as far as color goes…”
What’s a fluffy you’ve never had but always wanted?
”Shimmering silver with violet eyes,” you say at last. “I always wanted a shimmering fluffy but I could never find one.”
You hear keys clicking on the other end of the phone and the soft humming of a professional searching for an answer.
”Got it,” she says after a moment of quiet humming. “Alright, looks like we’ve got the ability to make that fluffy.”
”Now when you say make…”
”Dr. Stein uses a customized and trademarked process for fluffy pony design,” she replies. “Your fluffy pony will come fully trained and ready to love for years to come.”
Awesome.
Crazy expensive, but awesome.
There’s no such thing as an unwanted fluffy, you’ve always said.
Each and every fluffy in your network of shelters serves a purpose, even if it’s just another body to simmer in the Fluffycide! vat.
You are Dr. Francis Stein, legendary fluffy pony veterinarian and geneticist.
For years you’ve repaired beloved pets back to a state of functionality from near death and it was last year that you realized you could do so much more.
You see, fluffy pony parts are pretty much interchangeable.
Organs and limbs transplant with a minimum of good surgical technique and the hyperactive regenerative systems of the fluffy take care of the rest.
Their genetic similarity make transplantation so easy, a backyard abuser could do it, and often has.
You can’t count the number of times you’ve seen a “baby legs” fluffy come into your clinic after some psycho sewed foals to its mother’s amputated hooves.
Good idea or no, your custom fluffy business is taking the fluffy community by storm.
So much so, you’ve had to keep contract with an alicorn breeder just to keep decent base stock.
And of course your next order is no different.
Some guy in Iowa wants the works. Alicorn, shimmering, clever.
It’s not unexpected, but the iridescent ones are always such a pain in the ass.
Iridescent fluffies are recessive and rare to boot, so you mostly only get iridescent earthies in stock.
Luckily, you’ve got a breeder for them too.
Here, dozens of alicorns play with balls, blocks, and crayons, and coming running up to you as soon as you enter.
”Wuv Doctah Stein!” they cheer, as you pass out treats to the waiting alicorns. “Wuv Doctah Stein so mush!”
”Fwuffies haf nu mummah ow daddeh?” one asks you.
”That’s right, my little darlings,” you say. “One of you is going to a new home. Now which one is it going to be? I need a fluffy that’s smart. Who’s the smartest fluffy here?”
The alicorns rush around, trying to show off just how clever they are; some with art or blocks, others with simple tricks like standing on their back hooves, or hiding under boxes.
You select a rather ugly colored alicorn who’s managed to arrange magnetic numbers in order up to ten.
”Bwanchie get nu home!” he giggles, as you put him into the kennel.
The alicorns aren’t really sad that they didn’t get chosen, and instead wave to Branchy as you head out.
”Bye bye bwanchie!” They call “be gud fow nu mummah an daddeh!”
You set Branchy aside, and head into the smaller kennel with soft, but true white lighting.
Dozens of cages line the walls, and in each is a single fluffy of various shades and hues.
Each has a kibble dispenser, a water bottle, and a plushie toy to play with.
There’s nothing sharp or even remotely dangerous here, as one cut could ruin their shimmering, beautiful coats.
As you come into the room, the constant babble of fluffies goes silent and they all back away from the doors of the cages.
You hadn’t trained them to do this, but they quickly figured out that any fluffy who threw a fit when the got pulled from the cage got a serious whipping, then disappeared down to “da bad pwace.”
It only takes a moment to find your fluffy, a stunning silver Pegasus who only bites his lip as you pull him from the cage.
He’s barely holding back sobs as you place him in the kennel next to Branchy.
”Nu fwiend haf pwettiest fwuff!” says Branchy as you head to “Da bad pwace.”
Now it’s time for eyes.
You walk down the row of cages, your heels “click-click-clicking” across the tiled floor as fluffy ponies cry out in fear.
It screams make you smile a little as the fluffies quail in terror from the sound of your shoes.
You actually quite enjoy that they call you “Docta Munsta,” but you make sure to harshly punish any that does so in ear shot.
After all, forbidden fruit tastes sweetest, even to a fluffy pony.
Ah, there’s one in the back. Shimmering golden fluff, sparkling grey mane, and most importantly, violet eyes.
She’s been here for months, though most of that time has been spent laying one her side and sobbing “wan die.”
You’d have her upstairs, but the “wan die” was upsetting your shimmering stock. Down here, it’s just one of a half a dozen.
Sadly, she’s not getting her wish today.
You pick her up with no resistance as the rest of the basement cries out in terror.
The carpet of multicolored fluffy that hangs paralyzed from the wall only tries to turn away as you prepare the donor for surgery.
A sniff of ether, a few taps with the bone hammer, a bit of pulling, and voila! Two perfect violet eyes ready for transplant.
Pack the empty sockets with dissolving gauze and then glue them shut to heal.
You’ll probably be back later for her fluff, but you’re pretty sure she won’t care at that point.
Eyes on ice, you head back upstairs to find your assistant taking Branchy into prep for his surgery.
The other fluffy just trembles as you approach.
”Fwuffy haf wongest sweepies?” he asks.
”Fraid so,” you reply. “Are you going to fight me? Scream and cry and wail and make a mess of yourself?”
”Fwuffy nu wan die,” he sobs softly. “Jus wan wuv nu mummah.”
“At least parts of you will be loved,” you say, pressing the rag against his face. “It’s just bad luck that you’re a fluffy.”
With a quick stick and a flick of the wrist, the fluffy’s hide comes off in a single velvety sheet of skin and fluff.
It’s like taking a sweater off, really, except in this case the sweater is still alive for a few minutes.
You pass the hide off to an assistant before going to work on the wings with a screwdriver and scalpel.
It only takes you a moment before the wings squelch off the pegasus’s scapula like wet pop beads.
The donor’s fading fast, but there aren’t any other surgeries scheduled for the next few days.
Normally, you could keep a skinless fluffy alive for days in a heated kennel, but there’s no real need right now.
Plenty of fluffies in the basement for that, and this one didn’t need to be made an example.
You waltz over to the surgical area where Branchy is already asleep and under the careful eye of your assistant.
”So do we need to reset this one after we’re done or just let him heal?” he asks.
”No, Branchy will be happy to get out his ugly brown coat and into something more luxurious,” you reply.
“But let’s get those eyes in his head before anything else. Hand me that melon baller, won’t you? And pop those wings off next; we need to get them in place before we put the pelt back on.”
It’s been two weeks, but you’ve arrived at Dr. Stein’s Custom Fluffies.
The wait’s been almost too much for you. Your very own bred to order custom fluffy.
They must do some sort of accelerated cloning process to get them ready that fast, but who cares?
Your heart leaps as your shimmering fluffy pony trots out of the back like a proud Arabian stallion.
He’s everything you could have hoped for and he barrels into your waiting arms.
”Nu daddeh!” he squeals. “Wuv nu daddeh! Bwanchy wan be bestest fwuffy fow nu daddeh!”
”Well?” asks Doctor Stein. “What do you think?”
”He’s perfect!” you reply. “I’ve never seen a better looking fluffy.”
”Bwanchy pwetty now!” he says. “Bwachy have ugwy ppoopie fwuff, buh now haf pretty spawky fwuff!”
You look to Dr. Stein, who just kind of shrugs.
”Who knows why fluffies say what they do?” she says. “I hope you two have a long and happy life together.”
”Daddeh wan go pway?” asks Branchy. “Pway wif otha fwuffies?”
Sure, that seems like a good idea.
You fuzz his head and notice a small scar beneath the fluff where the horn meats the head.
Huh, must have slipped with the clipper or something. Oh well.
Branchy is your fluffy, and he’s perfect just the way he was born.
Word Count: 7313