You are the bestest smarty of the bestest smarty herd ever!
You know this, even though all the other fluffies in the herd say that they’re the bestest smarty.
But you’re willing to let them think that, because you know in your little fluffy heart that you have to be the bestest smarty!
After all, you’re the only one that has a name: Blueberry, like your prettiest blue fluff!
At least, you’re the only one with a name who hasn’t gone forever sleepies.
The herd doesn’t mind if one of them goes forever sleepies. After all, if a smarty fluffy goes forever sleepies, it means he wasn’t actually a smarty, and he didn’t belong in the bestest smarty herd in the first place!
You don’t know how long the herd has been around, you joined it when you were just a talkie babbeh. You still remember it like it was only a forever ago…
You were at the “pawk” with your dummeh hoomin mummah, yelling at her because you wanted sketties, and your mummah said it wasn’t “sketties day” yet, and you didn’t care, you wanted sketties now.
Then she turned around, and while she was looking away a couple of big fluffies came along. One of them gently picked you up, placed you on his back and walked off with you.
You started to panic. You knew your mummah was a dummeh, but she had drilled it into your brain that fluffies that run away from their mummahs go forever sleepies.
The big fluffy you were involuntarily hitching a ride on spoke up.
“Nu wowwy, widdwe babbeh smawty. Am takin yu tu bestest smawty herd. Aww am smawty. Nu nee dummeh hoomin mummah nu mowe. Babbeh smawty haf namesie?”
“Am… am Bwuebewwy.”
“Blueberry! Where are you? Please come back! I’ll give you sketties!”
I started to get really worried. I turned around for five minutes, and when I looked back, Blueberry was gone. I knew he was mad at me because I wouldn’t give him sketties, but he wouldn’t run away, right? I told him what happens to bad fluffies who run away time and time again. I was sure he was just hiding, right?
Right?
A few hours later, a few hours of frantic searching, I realized that Blueberry was gone and probably not coming back. The average fluffy’s odds of survival without an owner are low enough when they’re fully grown.
Goddamnit. I had a feeling this would happen. He used to be sweet, and well-behaved, but then he developed Smarty Syndrome and I thought I could snap him out of it. Joke’s on me, I guess.
“A-am Bwuebewwy! Weawwy! Pwease giv sketties, nice wady?”
I looked down at the source of the voice. My god, that’s a fat fluffy, I thought. He was blue, but a lighter shade of blue than Blueberry, and Blueberry’s mane was dark blue, not searing orange. He was wearing a collar that clearly said “Chunky”. Nice try, kid.
“Oh, piss off, you’ve clearly had enough sketties to last you a lifetime.”
I gathered up my things, got into my car and drove to Flufftopia. They were still open, and I was not making the same mistake as last time. This is what I get for buying a cheap fluffy from a scummy mill.
You and your new friends got to the smarty herd’s safe place. On the way, they were telling you all about the smarty herd, how smarties, ousted from their herds by the dummeh fluffies who didn’t know what was good for them, decided to band together as one. The logic made perfect sense to your little smarty fluffy babbeh brain: smarty fluffies are the bestest fluffies, so a herd made up entirely of smarty fluffies would be the smartest and bestest herd ever! You looked around, and saw one… two… more fluffies than you could count! (37, but even an adult fluffy counting that high is a rare feat.)
You’re suddenly brought out of your trip down Memory Lane by a scary sound, and you remember where you are.
It’s been many forevers since you joined the smarty herd, you’re now a big fluffy, and your herd found a way into a hoomin’s “gawden”. When the hoomin showed himself, you were the only one who didn’t immediately start making demands of him, but only because the smell of the flower nummies in the gawden reminded you of the flower nummies in the pawk, which triggered your little flashback.
The hoomin is carrying a lot of pointy sorry sticks (as one of the few formerly-domestic fluffies in the smarty herd, you were one of the few with first-hand, er, first-hoof experience with sorry sticks).
But instead of hitting the fluffies with them, he’s… sticking them into the ground?
He’s placing the sorry sticks in the ground, in neat little rows, with the pointy ends sticking up.
Once he’s done with that, he walks over to your herd. He picks up one of the other smarties, squeezes him so hard he makes poopies, and walks over to one of the sorry sticks, ignoring the smarty’s complaints.
You realize what’s going to happen a few seconds too late.
“SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”
The smarty screams in agony as the hoomin places him on the sorry stick so that the pointy end goes right up his poopie place.
“SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE–gurgle”
The smarty continues to scream as the hoomin pushes him further down the sorry stick until-- you start to gag at this point-- the pointy end rises up out of his mouth. Then the hoomin pushes him down further, so the fluffy’s bottom is touching the ground. You know what he’s doing. He’s making room for another fluffy.
By this point the rest of the herd is in a blind panic. Everyone is running around, screaming in terror, making scaredy poopies and sicky wawas, and nobody remembers where the way out of the gawden is.
The smartest move is made by you, as you manage to hide behind a small housie (a shed). Little do you know that this will only delay your fate.
You hide behind the small housie, huu-huuing and making sicky wawas, occasionally daring to peek out and see what’s happening.
One by one, the hoomin is grabbing the smarties, big and small, and putting them on the sorry sticks. Soon, only two are left: you, and a bigger grey smarty that you recognise as the one that brought you to the herd.
The hoomin ignores his pleas for mercy (and maybe some sketties and a nice warm housie and a couple of toys), and your last friend gets impaled like the others.
At least it’s over now, right? You just have to hide here and wait until the hoomin goes inside and then you can find the way out and–
The hoomin is looking right at you.
Oh, no.
Note: there aren’t any death tags for a reason. None of the smarties that have been impaled are actually dead. Yet.
Note 2: I’m still experimenting with POVs and first/second/third person and past/present tense, so I’m sorry if those kind of things get a bit inconsistent. I’m trying my best to fix any mistakes I catch.