I stop to wipe the sweat off my brow. This is harder work than I thought it would be. I had put my cunning little plan into action, planting the spikes in the ground, grabbing the now panicking smarties, and impaling them, one by one. They’re bleeding from both ends, and screaming, and those who can’t scream are moaning. But none of them have actually died yet. There’s blood, and shit, and vomit all over the place.
“Y’know,” I muse to myself, as I impale a green smarty foal on the top of a spike, leaving absolutely no more room for any more smarties, “I feel like I’m throwing a rare opportunity away, here. I mean, I’ve never even seen an all-smarty herd before. Has anyone? Shit, I could have made some money off this discovery. On the other hand, smarties are bad enough when there’s just one of them. Oh well. No such thing as too many dead smarties.”
I move on to the next spike, impaling a fat pink smarty, who wails “Nu! Smawty knu smawty am pink but smawty nu am mawe, nu wan sowwy stick bad speciaw hugg–EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”
A couple of hours later, there’s just one fluffy left. At least, I think there is. Could have sworn I saw another blue one… Eh.
I grab the last smarty, a bigger gray one that would have been a toughie if he wasn’t a smarty. Lucky little bastard is getting a spike all to himself.
“P-pwease, nice mistah, pwease nu huwt smawty… smawty nu wan go foweba sweepies…”
“Really? That’s all you want? Just to live?”
At that point the smarty pushes his luck too far.
“An mebbe nyu wawm housie an sketties an mebbe nyu toysie ow too?” the little shit asks with a hopeful look on his face.
“Aaaaaaaand you blew it.”
Yeah, I wasn’t going to take in a smarty even if his herd hadn’t already invaded my garden. I’d heard from Judy, a friend of mine (a hot friend, I must note) that her fluffy foal had developed Smarty Syndrome and ran off when they were at the park. What did she say the little shit’s name was? Eh, doesn’t matter, he’s probably dead by now.
In one quick movement I impale the last smarty on the spike, the only one of two that didn’t have any fluffies impaled on it yet.
And that’s that. All I have to do is clean up all the blood and shit and puke, and this will be a perfect warning to any future herds that decide to treat my lawn like an open buffet.
As I start to head inside to grab a bucket of soapy water, I notice a flash of blue near my shed.
I knew it! I knew I’d missed one!
I stomp over in my boots, almost slipping in some shit, and behind my shed, there he is.
A blue stallion, looks to be on the younger side, I guess he only reached physical maturity in the last week or so. The stupid little thing is sitting on his ass, sobbing loudly, covering his eyes with his hooves. Aah, that old chestnut. He thinks if he can’t see me, I can’t see him.
“Huu… pwease nu wet munstah hoomin fine Bwuebewwy… huu… Bwuebewwy nu wan wowstest owwies… huu huu huu…”
Blueberry, Blueberry… That’s it! That’s what Judy’s fluffy was called. But could it be…
“Hey. Blueberry. Hey. HEY!”
Blueberry jumps at the sound of my voice. Then the begging starts.
“Pwease nu huwt Bwuebewwy! Bwuebewwy wiww du aneefing! Nu awsk fow nummies ow housie ow toysies! Bwuebewwy wiww jus weave!”
“Shut up, I’m not going to hurt you.” Okay, that may turn out to be a lie.
“Blueberry, I want to ask you a question. Did you run away from your… ugh… your hoomin mummah at the park?”
Blueberry nods, at this point he’s too scared to speak.
So this is Judy’s fluffy. Mystery solved. But now I have a choice to make. I could just stick to the plan, impale the little bastard, and nobody would ever know. Or I could return the fluffy to Judy, though she might not want him back: not only is he a smarty, but she’s got a new fluffy now, apparently she made the mistake of getting Blueberry from a low-grade fluffy mill. Her new fluffy, Snowball, is much better behaved, having come from Flufftopia. Taking the little shit in myself is not an option, and not just because he’s a damned smarty. Neither is letting him go, my city has started heavily fining anyone who knowingly releases an unsterilised fluffy into the wild. I know another guy who only narrowly avoided the fine, because he proved that he did have his fluffy neutered, but it somehow reversed itself some time after he dropped the little shit in an alleyway for shitting on the rug. Apparently it happens to one out of every ten neutered fluffies due to the clusterfuck that is their genetic code.
“Wai mistah wookin at Bwuebewwy funee?” I hear, snapping out of my reverie as I realise I had completely zoned out.
Blueberry is looking up at me expectantly. He’s still scared, but now it’s not because he’s sure he’s going to die, but because he’s not sure. Uncertainty like this deeply unnerves fluffies. That’s why they’re so scared of the dark.
I need to make a decision quick, before the little shit decides I’m going to be his new daddy and latches onto me.
