The State Fair (LegendGW)

(This was a writing experiment I did up in a free hour to see if I could. Please excuse any copy errors or grammar fuck-ups. I’m more used to speaking English than writing it. The inspiration for this story was going to my first state fair after coming to the USA and for training for sports in university, making up little memory games to get motions down.)

I let out a deep breath.

“E.M.B.A.T.T.L.E.” I whispered to myself for the hundredth time, going through the motions in my mind. At some point my hands stopped following along as my mind’s eye became so clear. I heard the news in the background prattle on about fluffies at the state fair this year–my time was here! Turning from my nude tai-chi routine I dropped to one knee and raised the remote like it was a pistol, firing an OFF command at the TV. I stood up, leaving my hotel room exactly as my watch turned over on the hour. Time to pack and get to the vendors’ entrance.

Every year the state fair committee put on…what else…the state fair! This one was like most others. Big, loud, with lots of American-style food including deep-fried horrors and the pudgy people which then consume them. There were vendors, shows, stages, games, and rides. Most fairs also included some kind of agricultural component. And ours was no different! We had all the usual mainstays of farming stuff at a state fair–biggest grown vegetables, heaviest cow, prettiest pig, and, of course, all the equivalent entries for Fluffies.

Fluffies were everywhere at this state fair. Not that it was hard to miss them most places out in public here. I knew when I moved here that a fluffy-legal state would mean lots and lots of them around but…damn. For the most part it was more or less as expected. Lots of chatter about bullshit and wanting to ride the fluffy-sized rides or play the “breathe to win” difficulty fluffy games–because furry rat toddlers needed more stuffed junk to bring home and hoard I supposed.

Fluffies were expected to use giant sand pits next to the human toilet blocks as litter boxes and any “bad poopies/peepees” meant a stiff fine for mommy or daddy. Due to the number of sights, people, other animals, smells, and sounds at the fair, “scawdey poopies/peepees” were common enough that cops walked beats along the aisles, waiting to slap a sweet, sweet fine on some poor bastard trying to herd three screaming kids while the fluffy they “had to have” shat all over some lady’s shoes because it’s “too woud” for its liking.

As a result, a hilarious number of fluffies were waddling around the fair on their required leashes wearing little diapers, some with their foals on their backs wearing their tiny diapers, too. It was an interesting sight to see, especially whenever a tantrumming fluffy or a smarty tried to give its owner “sowwy poopies” and just ended up puffing its diaper’s ass out and crying because it had shit in its fluff now. I shuddered a bit–a loose gaggle of “living” pony toys waddling toward me with diapers yellow with “'cited peepees” was a memory best left to last year’s fair. The one where I lost.

But, I thought as I wheeled my stuff into the show barn, it was kind of cute seeing a guy dragging his happy little family of fluffies around in a red wagon as they exclaimed in wonder at the mundane features of the fair. “Pwetty” seemed to be the little herd’s consensus as they rolled by.

“E.M.B.A.T.T.L.E.” I repeated once again. My mantra for the day. At least until my event was over. I spread out my kit bag and checked that all my show stuff on the cart and under the tarp was good to go. My shiny new metal dish drainer glinted under the sun.

My assigned slot was somewhere in the middle of a small convention hall off of an indoor rodeo paddock. As I looked around, I saw others prepping for the rodeo. Plenty of young guys out this year to ride bulls or horses, all getting their minds right to do battle with all that animal. Good luck with that. I work on a smaller scale…

To my left, a young man was getting a fluffy carrier out. I looked at his tool wrap laid out and saw most of it was cosmetic and grooming-focused. They must have put me on the border with the people here for the show fluffies judging events.

“Hi there!” I held out my hand and received eye contact and then a handshake. “What are y’all in for here, show line?” It was a guess, but an educated one.

He laughed. “Got me pegged, for sure. I’m Pete. Apple and Bread here are going to take first prize this year.” He gestured to the two fluffy carriers on his table. The fluttering of a gold wing through the top of one and a pink leg through the door of the other carrier are visible.

“First prize in……?” I ventured, since there were, after all, quite a few different categories of awards for everything here.

“Oh, sorry!” A peep from one of the carriers interrupted him–someone had slammed a gate in the paddock and evidently scared Apple or Bread. He bent down to check and make sure they were okay, and after seeming to decide it was just a little surprised noise and not the signal for a torrent of mini-pony shit, he straightened up. “God, I would never be able to get that out of her fluff now.”

Seeming to come back to himself, Pete snapped his head back around. “Sorry! Got distracted there. I’ve got these two entered in the “special pair” category. They are judged on their show looks and temperament as special friends, not just individuals.” His eyes darkened for a moment. “Almost got first prize last year but Apple’s uhh…predecessor…didn’t put down the stuffed toys on command so she got a point off on obedience.”

“Is that right?” I ask, regretting that I had opened the door on this conversation in the first place. At least from the way he was talking it sounded like he had the balls to off the prior failing fluffy or at least crush its hopes of a blue ribbon–little shit must have taken it hard. Keeping the smile off my face when confronted with that thought is work. Hard work. Never can tell who is a hugboxer. For all I knew this guy might have been too sheepish to even admit he gave a fluffy up for adoption.

“Mmmh!” He says with enthusiasm. “What about you? What are you here for?” I see his eyes try to scan my tools and work out what they’ve for.

“Speed trial division.” I say with a straight face. “E.M.B.A.T.T.L.E.” I think to myself. That fucking ribbon is mine this year.

“Oh!” Pete’s eyes light up as he leans to peer around me toward the black tarp covered shape on the cart I wheeled in. “Do you have racing fluffies in there?! They are SO cool!”

“Yeah, sort of a racing team in there, if you will. One guy who’s going to help me take home a ribbon and his, er, practice team–his warmup squad!” I manage to finally put a button on the thought, although I see Pete’s eyes flash with slight disapproval when I mention that “I” will be taking home the trophy and not my fluffy.

Fucking hugboxer.

“Well, that’s cool!” Pete said, a distinct note of Silicon Valley techbro douche or Canadian passive aggression leaking out. Apparently it was quite the faux pas to imply that my fluffies wouldn’t be the “real winners” here and our conversation was #over.

I heard him beginning to groom Apple behind me. Apparently the sights and smells of the hall were not to her liking–complaints of “Daddeh dis big housie am nu smeww pwetty!” rang out from behind me as Pete struggles to keep her still enough to buff her hooves.

With a flourish I whip the black tarp off the cart. Under it are four fluffy carriers, each with a different yearling stallion in it. Each rocking back and forth in rage or fear, looking at me from eyes over their gagged mouths. Their legs are bound with simple string and their asses are corked with some of the old wine corks I collect as I drink the bottles–you never know what you need one for! A clothespin adorns the tip of each’s penis, keeping the cages and me nice and dry.

“E.M.B.A.T.T.L.E.” whispers in my mind again. It’s what I am here for.

I pull out the first stallion from the bottom left carrier. “Number One” had no name, like the other three have no names. He was a light blue stallion with green eyes and a darker blue mane and tail. Cute enough, if you thought these things were much beyond a meat tamagotchi designed to be a companion for toddlers and a “little buddy” for older kids.

Personally, I considered them creepy–something deliberately created to be a borderline brain-damaged child for up to a decade, never growing up…why the fuck would anyone create that on purpose? And then make them talk like a kid who got stung by a bee on top of it.

But the rules said no gags so I had to practice this right. Might as well get set up before the babble begins. Steeling myself, I laid out all of my regulation tools: hammer, pliers, flathead chisel, box cutter, a teaspoon, and a bottle of mare pheromones.

Next to me, Pete was tickling Apple’s belly and brushing her teeth as she giggled from the tickles “Daddeh TEE HEE dis toofpace tasties wike HEE sketties! Appew wub bwushies time wif sketties ‘pace! Wub DADDEH! AM BESTES’ DADDEH!” She abruptly shouted, in an eerie echo of what a real child might do.

I almost puked and focused my mind on what was in front of me. No distractions from the outside. Game face.

I rolled “Number One” over onto his back. The clothespin on the end of his penis seemed to be holding for the moment so I risked removing the gag first. Instantly, I was met with the beginning of an endless torrent of noise.


His eyes finally stopped rolling around trying to take everything in and locked on mine, trying to elicit help. Those too-cute fake fucking eyes. Usually I don’t talk to toys, but what the fuck, Pete seems like just the sort of person who will really, really appreciate this.

“Well, Fluffy,” I began, knowing the dire outcome that awaited me if I named the fucking thing. “It’s like this. You have to help me win a big race first. Then you and your family will be together again, I promise.”

“N-n-n-nice M-m-m-mistah pw-pwomise Fwuffy am see speshul fwiend ‘gain wen win wace?” He looked so hopeful, innocent enough to believe anything. In other words, the perfect nonthreatening friend for little kids to watch Barney with. Too stupid for words.

“Yes and if you do the “bestes’ wacies” you can. I will even send you all to Skettiland after your babies come!” I used to feel stupid doing the fluffy-speak but over time it’s become a pleasure to use their own fake pseudo-English to fuck with them. They never pick up on the ironic usage but it makes me smile nonetheless.

“Fank ‘ou nice mistah Babbehs an’ skeeties! Fwuffy am su happies was su scawed in meanie boxie and metaw munstah." He paused and winced. "Uhm…nice mistah?” I see his eyes darting down toward his clothespinned penis. “Fwuffy nu-nu stick hab wowstes’ huwties and hic it hic it hic HUWWWWWTS!” Number One began to bawl as his composure shatters.

“E.M.B.A.T.T.L.E.” I whisper to myself.

“Wat am PEEP em-em-CHEEP-embattuw, ni-nice mistah? Pweeese stop owwies on nu-nu’s pweese. HUU HUUU HUUUUUUUUUU….” The simulacrum of consciousness emerged for a moment, programmed to respond to new information when possible, and just as quickly slipped back under the “toddler with a boo-boo” state Number One was in. Incredible creations.

They could have cured cancer but instead we got pocket rat ponies who shit all over and cried all the time. I think as I get myself ready.

Pete eyed me nervously, no doubt wondering why Number One was prone on the table before me with a clothespin on his penis and a cork in his ass. I could feel his eyes on me as I used my foot to edge the trash bin left next to my station closer. Each station had one, so I figured it must be for my use. It was a good-sized gray can that you might see used by a construction crew. Durable. Doesn’t leak. Holds a lot of…dead weight. I chuckled at my own witticism and rolled Number One, still crying, over onto his side and slid an absorbent pad under him over the table top.

I picked Number One up and held him up under his forelegs, out over the trash can.


I reached down and pulled off the clothespin and pointed his abused little penis down. His distended bladder finally had the chance to drain and a torrent of urine erupted into the trash bin. Number One let out an involuntary moan and sagged a little as I let him empty out.

Number One squirmed bashfully at this invasion of his childish modesty. “Nuuuu wooook mistah nu wook at nu-nu stick and wumps! Huuuuu….” emerged almost as a mumble from his lips, too afraid to be any louder and broadcast his shame farther out to those around us.

Fuck these things are annoying I thought for the millionth time, wondering why I do this.

I pulled the cork out of his ass next, and sure enough a torrent of “poopies” shot out of his ass straight down into the can. The experience of having the pain removed from his penis and anus as well as the pressure on from his bladder and bowels being gone all at once shocked him into silence for the moment. He let out a low, contented moan.

“Nice mistah. Fank ‘ou fo’ no mowe huwties on nu-nu’s. C-c-can nice mistah, uhm, hewp fwuffy an’ teww how time tiww weggies?” He wiggled his bound legs pathetically and gave me his best Hasbio-focus-group-tested puppy eyes.

“Soon.” I give him a quick glance over along with the cryptic answer. Looks ready. Time to warm up. Take this one SLOW and get fancy later. Core. Fundamentals. “E.M.B.A.T.T.L.E.” time. Like coach said.

I flip Number One over on his side, his head facing me.

“Nice mistah pweese wet fwuffy up nu wike be on sidey on tabew–too high up bad fo’ fwuffies!” He was trying to tell me some bullshit about the table being too high. I didn’t give a fuck because that was about to be the last thing on his mind.

“E.M.B.A.T.T.L.E.” I whispered.

The chisel and hammer came to my hands like old friends. Number One looked up at me and the tools, alternating where his eyes were focused, trying to watch it all from his position on his side.

I lined the chisel tip up with one of his legs and rested it gently against it. Counting down to a starter’s pistol in my head, I gently took a few slow-motion runs through.

“Hey, Siri. Start a stopwatch in ten seconds.” I heard her reply and started to count down in my head. Seven….

“Huuuu huuuu babbeh no wike swcawy sorry stickies!” Five…. He sobbed, snot dribbling down his snout. “Metaw am cowd on weggie!" Two… "Nice mistaw pweaese am put dow-SCREEEEEEEEEE!” his words ended in a cry as I slammed the hammer into the butt of the chisel, severing his leg instantly at that spot.

“LEGS!” I shouted!

SCREEEEEEEEEEE-PEEP-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! WOWSTES’ WEGGIES OWWIES PWEASE CHEEP NU—-SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!” His cries broke off his words twice more as he begged me to stop. In seconds under my practiced hands’ sure work, all his “weggies” were gone.

Legs off. Immobile. Good. I turned Number One around on his belly to face me. The blood from his stumps started to discolor the absorbent pad under him.


The pliers closed on his tongue like a vice, having found their way into his mouth during his screaming. I noticed with some interest that I had knocked out some of his teeth on the way to his…

“TONGUE!” I said to myself, and ripped it out with a skkkkkkrppp noise.

SKWEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!! WOWTES’ OWBEET! WEW BABGH TUNH??!?” Number One asked, confused what exactly happened to him before he tumbled to the fact his tongue was…dangling from pliers I was flicking at the trash to send his severed tongue flying into the bin.

Wasting no time, I heard “E.M.B.A.T.T.L.E.” in my head, coach’s mantra, and set to work on the…

“TEETH!” My words were punctuated by a ululating wail from Number One. I looked up briefly to see what he was looking at. One of my soon-to-be-rivals in his line of sight was working on her speed skills , and had chosen to start with her stallion’s genitals.

He was so distracted by the removal of the other fluffy’s genitals that I had half his teeth out before he snapped back to it.

“TEEHESHPEEPPEEPPEEP****PEEP MUH! MUH! MUUUUUUUUU!” he wailed in his mutilated fluffy babble. It was music to my ears as the last of his teeth came free.

I spared a glance to Pete next to me. He had hastily arranged his boxes to try and hide Apple and Bread’s view of what was going on. Despite the way he spoke soothingly to them, there was no way they didn’t hear the show I put on next door.

“EARS!” I shouted right next to Number One’s head. Might as well use them before you lose them, guy. A quick couple tugs with the pliers and flicks with the box cutter and Number one’s ears were no more.

PEEPUHEUHEHUAPEEPHUHEHPEEPUHE!!!” Number One’s objections had become borderline unintelligible now.

My spoon glinted in the white glow from the tube lights above. My eyes found Number One’s. Even though he could no longer speak in any meaningful way aside from PEEP, we had a conversation with our eyes.

Skettiwand was wie! Mistah am meanie munstah! Fwuffy nebba see babbehs gon’ get fowebba sweepies! His eyes searched mine, his programmed faux humanity seeking like from a member of planet’s apex predator species and finding none.

Yes, you little fuck. You’re going to die. I killed your family right after I snagged you. You are an ABOMINATION!

“EYES!” I pushed onward, gently sliding the spoon behind his left eye to work it out of the socket. Speed would come later. Right now, I needed to work on precision, since incomplete removals like leaving broken teeth or part of an eye added a lot of time in penalties, which had cost me the champion’s ribbon last year.

“SWCWWWWWWWPEEP****PEEPEWEEEEEEEEWEEEEEEHHHHHHHUUUUUUUHPEEPHHHHGGGGGG” was all Number One had to say now, almost beyond words in his pain.

Sliding my box cutter’s blade out to just the right setting, I grabbed the top of Number One’s head and yanked him up by the mane.

“MANE!” With that, I set off cutting under his scalp and neck scruff to make sure I got the whole mane, not just the hair. Number One’s nugget body jerked and bucked violently as I peeled off his mane. I had such a good, even peel that I went for a risk and slid the box cutter farther down his back, separating the skin and attached fluff from his spine, heading down his back toward the….

“TAIL!” I used one hand to hold his tail taut as the other guided the blade of the box cutter toward the root of his tail.

“GRHEHEHEHEPEEPEEEEEAIAI!!!” Number One screeched, spraying bloody spittle all over the absorbent mat under him as I admired my work–he looked like someone had used a giant potato peeler all along his back. That would be bonus marks in the competition, getting the mane and tail attached to each other.


“E.M.B.A.T.T.L.E.” was on my lips. After I flipped Number One on his back, I got a good look at the final targets. I grabbed my chisel and leaned down–time to make up some seconds here.

“‘EESH PEEP MUHSA ‘U ‘UMP ‘PEEPPEEPPEEPU-’U’s EESH…” slurred out of Number One’s mouth, to little surprise on my part. His “'u-'u’s” could only be his “nu-nu’s” as far as I could make out.

How typical of a fluffy. Legless, eyeless, tongue-free and toothless and yet somehow his genitals still trumped all enough for him to speak through what was left of his mouth–amazing. Merging a product for toddlers with a mini-pony as an animal template…what a fucking awful idea.

I rolled him to his side, figuring this should be faster. Once he was on his side I grabbed the chisel and hammer and placed the chisel right at the root of his little penis, aligning it with what I hoped was a straight shot down through his balls, giving me an intact scrotum for full points.

“EEEEEPEEPEEHEHE” Number One gurgled, robbed by the moment of more and more of his functions from blood loss and trauma. I needed to hurry. Fluffies who died before all the necessary parts were taken off meant you had to stop and take the time penalty for each missing bit as well as an “early death” penalty on your final time. In short, it was just as fatal to my ribbon shot as it was to the fluffies.

SLAM The chisel bit cleanly through his penis and scrotum. Blood sprayed out in such quantity and at such a rate that I wasted no time setting the rapidly-fading Number One on the dish drainer rack and positioning the tray to drip into the trash can, stopping my timer as I did so.

As Number One finished draining his life’s blood away, I looked down at the absorbent pad stained with so much of his blood. Eyes, ears, teeth, penis, scrotum, legs, tail, and mane…all whole, all accounted for, and all free of excess.

My phone! The time! My eyes and fingers briefly confounded each other in their hurry to get into the clock app.

Holy FUCK–1:30 on a slow precision run? I could lose 30 seconds easily just by streamlining my eye removals! I grabbed Number Two’s cage, noting with some pleasure that the clothespin I put on him this morning when I lured him out of the alleyway behind my house was not quite up to the task of holding back all the “scawdey peepees” welling up and dripping out of him. What a shitrat.

Next to me I could hear soft “Huuu” sounds drifting over from Apple and Bread as Pete’s shushing did nothing to distract them from the gradually slowing drizzling sound of Number One’s blood pouring off the drainer tray into the trash.

“E.M.B.A.T.T.L.E.” I thought again, psyching myself up. 1:30 PB to beat! That ribbon was as good as mine.

“E.M.B.A.T.T.L.E.” = Ears, Mane, Balls, (and), Teeth, Tail, Legs, Eyes. A mnemonic often used in speed-harvesting events by competitors who want to ensure they remember all the parts of the stallions they must harvest.



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What a great fair.

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Yes, quite.

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