After several moments of careful deliberation, I come to a decision. I can’t let Blueberry stick around. Not with the situation I’m currently dealing with in the house. He can’t even stay long enough for me to call Judy. The fucker’s gotta go.
“N… Nice mistah be nyu daddeh? Wub Bwuebewwy? Nu gib owwies? Can wib in housie?”
Aaah, fuck. Now he thinks I’m his new daddy. I’m about to break his little heart. And I already said I wasn’t going to hurt him.
I pick Blueberry up and carry him over to the last untouched spike. Some of the smarties have already succumbed to their wounds, and the ones still alive are too weak to even moan.
“Wha nyu daddeh duin?” Blueberry asks.
“Sorry about this, little guy.”
“Sorry bowt wha–SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”
Blueberry screams as I slide him down the spike, piercing him from anus to mouth, next to the spike holding the grey fluffy, who doesn’t look like he’ll still be alive for long.
I spend the next few hours cleaning up the rest of the mess, hosing away the various bodily fluids.
You’re having the worst owwies right now! But even worse than that, you have the biggest heart hurties too.
You thought the nice mistah was going to be your new daddeh, but then he put you on a sorry stick like all your other smarty friends. He said he wasn’t going to hurt you, why did he lie? You feel so saddies now. You’re going to go forever sleepies, all because you ran away from your mummah so many forevers ago.
She was right. You should have listened to her. You regret ever yelling at her, you regret joining the smarty herd, even though it wasn’t exactly your choice, you regret coming into the gawden. You don’t even know why the herd came into the gawden in the first place. One of the other smarties said it was to get nummies, but you feel like there was something else drawing all of you into the gawden, but you don’t know what.
You’ll never find out now. Because you’re a bad smarty who couldn’t hide. Because you’re a bad fluffy who didn’t listen to your mummah.
You spend a few forevers on the sorry stick, and as it gets darker more more and more of your friends go forever sleepies, until the bigger grey fluffy next to you goes forever sleepies, and then you’re the only smarty left who hasn’t gone forever sleepies yet.
Then, as you start to feel weaker and weaker, and it gets harder to keep your see-places open, you think you see another fluffy, on the other side of the gawden, a thin fluffy covered in a black blankie, but then you blink and the fluffy is gone, and you’re not sure you didn’t just imagine it.
Then your eyes finally close for good, and the rest is darkness.
I finish cleaning up the garden, and stop to admire my handiwork.
Over two dozen fluffies, impaled on the spikes, about half of which are still alive, including Blueberry. They’ll stay up there until they decompose, then I’ll have to wait for the next herd to come along. It’ll happen sooner or later, with the chronic problem I have to deal with.
I get inside, taking in the strong smell of lavender coming from the many oil burners placed around the house, locking the back door, throw my filthy clothes into the laundry, put my shit-encrusted boots aside to clean later, and take a long shower with lavender-scented bodywash, to rinse off the stench of fluffy death. I wonder if I did the right thing, not calling Judy, but then I remember the risks of letting Blueberry live. And she probably won’t even miss him.
After toweling off and getting dressed, slipping into some comfortable slippers, I take out a key and unlock a door, stepping into the saferoom.
In one corner of the lavish, toy-filled saferoom, a lavender pegasus mare, with a darker purple mane and tail, is curled up on a big, soft bed, fast asleep. The sight gives me a big warm fuzzy feeling in my heart, as it always does.
As if she senses my presence, Lavender wakes up and opens her purple eyes. Yeah, I know, not a creative name, but fuck you, I like lavender. Deal with it.
“Hey Lav. You doing okay?”
“Yus, daddeh. Wub yu, daddeh.”
“I love you too, sweetheart.”
As Lavender gets up and walks over to the litterbox, I can’t help but smile.
I really do love Lavender. I don’t hate all fluffies, just the filthy begging ferals and demanding smarties. It’s not her fault she has a condition.
A few weeks after I adopted her, I discovered that Lavender had a very rare disorder. Fluffies produce a lot of different pheromones for varying reasons, and I discovered that, a few times a month, Lavender’s body begins producing a very powerful pheromone that attracts fluffies from even miles away. Apparently, it’s a rare “glitch” in the fluffy’s patchwork DNA. They don’t even consciously notice the scent, they just find themselves being drawn to the source without realising it, or knowing why. But that’s not the problem.
The problem is that, if any fluffy who gets a whiff and follows it to the source lays eyes on Lavender, even if it’s a fluffy that she’s met when she’s not having an “episode”, as I call them, that fluffy is immediately driven into a flufficidal rage, won’t stop until every other fluffy in sight is dead, and has to be restrained. And they forget about it completely once she stops emitting the pheromone, and go back to being friendly. Though of course, fluffies are naturally forgetful. The rest of the time, things are perfectly normal. She’s a well-behaved, loving ball of fluff, and very popular with her friends at the park, so it pains me to have to lock her up alone several times a month.
I’ve been able to keep up with these little episodes, locking Lavender in her saferoom before one starts up, and trying to smother the pheromone scent as much as possible, but still, the herds are drawn to my house like flies to a dog turd. I can’t stop the little buggers from coming in, but I can at least try to deter them. Hopefully the sight of dead fluffies on sticks is enough to overpower the subconscious urge to follow the scent and scare them off. Or at least the stench of rotting fluffies will mask the scent. Or maybe nothing will work, and I’ll have to deal with this for the rest of Lavender’s life.
This isn’t the best life for her, I know. She won’t ever be able to have a special friend, or babies, because I don’t know that they won’t want to rip her (or each other) to shreds when she has an episode. But I can keep her well-fed, and warm, and entertained, and I can keep her company.
And I can keep her safe, in a saferoom with thick, sound-proofed walls. And she can play at the park with her friends, and she can play in the garden, though of course, I’ll have to make sure she only plays in the front garden from now on. I can’t ever let her see what’s in the back garden now. She won’t understand.
I’m doing this all for her.