The Death of Fluffies stalks into a breeding farm, unseen by the eyes of the living, through the dark shadowy world on the other side of life.
Once again, the DUTY calls.
The Death of Fluffies passes rows of pillowed stallions, being milked for their precious, life-giving bodily fluids, yet simultaneously being deprived of the “good feels” they crave.
Most of these stallions have a good few nuts to bust left in them, but one of them has just nutted for the final time.
A grey earthie, with a bad case of walleye. The milking machine is still affixed to his genitals, and dutifully, but now futilely sucking away. His heart gave out as he was ranting, demanding to be released and given mares to enf.
The humans have already harvested all that they needed from him. His semen will be used for artificial insemination. Despite his dingy appearance, this stallion has sired a lot of high quality foals. Rare foals, too.
However, he was far too rough with the mares, hence the predicament he spent the last three months of his life in.
Above his corpse, the stallion’s ghost hovers to and fro, trying to leave, but still bound to his former vessel by a silvery thread. While his spectral form has the legs that were removed in life, the stallion hasn’t noticed, because it’s a different part of his body that concerns him.
“Dug wan mawe! Dug wan speciaw huggies! Dummeh stwingy wet Dug gu su Dug can fine pwetti mawe!”
Some bad habits die hard.
The Death of Fluffies sighs, and clears his throat to get Dug’s attention.
And he gets Dug’s attention. The horny ghostly stallion falls silent.
YU HAF ENFED FOW DA WAST TIME. WHEWE YU AM GUIN, YU AM PWOB-AB-WEE GUNNA BE AWN DA WEE-SEE-VIN END.
The Death of Fluffies summons his scythe, the handle held in his teeth, and cuts the thread.
And Dug, once freed, immediately flies at the Death of Fluffies.
“WAN SPECIAW HUG–”
But his spirit passes on to the next world before he gets close.
DAT WUZ A CWOSE WUN. GHOST POOPIES AM BAD ENUFF.
The Death of Fluffies moves on.
Elsewhere in the world, the Death of Squirrels reaps his latest client, in the middle of a suburban street.
The poor thing was run over by a Prius.
The Death of Squirrels doesn’t look like a squirrel skeleton, as you might expect. Instead, he looks humanoid. On the very short side, but his scythe is, comically enough, normal size. For some reason, he has a gold tooth and a British accent.
BLOODY SUNDAY DRIVERS.
“Chitter?”
YOU’RE GETTING ANOTHER CHANCE, MATEY. SQUIRRELS GET AS MANY CHANCES AS THEY THINK THEY CAN GET AWAY WITH, Y’SEE. CHRIST, AND THE DEATH OF CATS THINKS HE HAS IT BAD.
“Chitter.”
RIGHT. ON YER BIKE, MATE. I’LL SEE YOU LATER. LOOK BOTH WAYS BEFORE YOU CROSS THE STREET FROM NOW ON, YA DAFT WANKER.
snap
With a snap of the Death of Squirrels’ bony fingers, the ghostly squirrel is sucked back into its body, which starts putting itself back together.
Perhaps it would be best not to describe what that looks like.
A cheerful, flamboyant voice chimes in from a nearby fire hydrant.
“I never get tired of seeing that, Gregg.”
The Death of Squirrels glares at the fire hydrant.
SOD OFF, CHAOS. I TOLD YOU NOT TO CALL ME THAT.
The Death of Fluffies arrives at his next destination, finding one of his coworkers already here.
In the jungles of Primal Earth, the Death of Dinotites stands over the corpse of a dinotite who choked to death on a fluffy, reprimanding the ghost of the dinotite, the ghost of the fluffy obviously thinking very amused as he watches this.
YOU IDIOTS DON’T EVEN LIKE THE TASTE OF FLUFFIES, WHY DID YOU BOTHER?
“Fluffies? So that’s what those fuzzballs are called?”
ARE YOU TRYING TO BE AS STUPID AS POSSIBLE? IT’S REALLY GETTING ON MY NERVES, AND I DON’T EVEN HAVE THOSE.
The Death of Dinotites promptly reaps his client, turning to the Death of Fluffies as he waddles up to his new client.
I’VE GOT TO BE HONEST: SOMETIMES I WISH THOSE MORONS WOULD GO EXTINCT, SO I WOULDN’T HAVE TO PUT UP WITH THEM ANYMORE.
DAT NU WUZ WUN OF ZHAWA JOO-NYUH’S DINOTITES, WUZ IT?
WHAT DO YOU THINK, DEATH OF FLUFFIES? ZHALA JR.'S ALRIGHT, THOUGH. I HOPE I DON’T HAVE TO COME FOR HIM FOR A LONG TIME YET. HE’S THE ONLY ONE WHO MIGHT BE ABLE TO WHIP THE REST OF HIS KIND INTO SHAPE.
WEWW, WE NU CAN BE SUW-TUN ANEEMOWE.
“Su wut nao?”
NAO AM TIME FOW YU TU GU, FWUFFY.
YEAH, AND I’LL BE HONEST AGAIN: YOU’RE LUCKY YOU LASTED THIS LONG ON PRIMAL EARTH BY YOURSELF.
“Fwuffy had a hewd.”
DEATH OF FWUFFIES KNU. CUZ DEATH OF FWUFFIES CAME FOW DEM TUU. NU WOH-WEE, YU WIWW BE SEEIN DEM AGAIN SOON.
The Death of Fluffies severs his client’s ties to his chewed-up vessel, and ushers him into the black desert.
Later, so to speak, the Death of Fluffies returns to the domain he and the Death of Humans share.
Under black skies, in the black garden, the Death of Humans reclines in a black deckchair, next to a black folding table, under a black parasol, and Albert, the Death of Fluffies’ manservant, or rather, stallionservant,, is reclining on the black grass, next to a black pond. The fish aren’t black, but they’re awfully bony.
Albert doesn’t have to stay in the Death of Fluffies’ saferoom. He can still go outside. But if he leaves this domain, and goes back to the world, he’ll start aging again.
And considering that his death of old age was very imminent, you can probably guess what happens next.
WUZ YU AWW DUN AWWEADY, DEATH OF HOOMINS?
I’VE GOT MORE WORK LATER. YOU KNOW HOW IT IS. BUSY, BUSY, BUSY. BUT I THOUGHT, WHY NOT TAKE A QUICK BREAK? TIME IS MEANINGLESS HERE, AFTER ALL.
Someone emerges from the black cottage.
An older human man in a grey robe, with a long beard, a significant bald spot, and a handrolled cigarette hanging loosely from his mouth. He’s carrying a black tray, with a pitcher of lemonade and a glass on it.
The lemonade is yellow, like lemonade usually is. The lemons used to make it came from the living world.
He places the tray on the table, pouring out a glass of lemonade for his master.
THANK YOU, PHILIP.
Philip Pringle nods.
“It’s what I do, Master.”
Yes, the Death of Humans has his own manservant.
And like the Death of Fluffies, he didn’t really need a servant.
But he needed the company.
It’s quite a story, how Philip Pringle came to work for the Death of Humans.
However…
There aren’t a lot of fluffies in that story.
Alas.
Sometimes, the greatest story is the story that’s never told.
