Your name is Rosco and you smell a mare.
Your special lumps throb with just that small whiff.
Your daddy hasn’t let you have good feels in so long. Even if it’s only been a couple days, that’s a long time considering the average life expectancy of your species.
You pace around your pen, huffing and snorting and waiting for the gate to open. To battle and glory and all the enfies you could want, because you’re gonna win and your daddy is gonna give you that mare for winning because you’re a good fluffy.
You’re salivating.
The buzzer sounds and the gate clangs open and you thunder out into the ring, chest puffed out and no-no stick standing tall.
But there’s no one there.
The humans are all where they should be: circled around the pit with baited breath. But your opponent is nowhere to be found.
“Come out an’ fight, stoopie!!” you screech, “Wosco gon gib yu foweba sweepies an’ get bestest feews!!”
Silence.
Admittedly, that might not have been the best motivator for your cowardly competitor. Forever sleepies aren’t even allowed in this fight. A murmur rolls through the crowd and you try again.
“If scawedy dummeh nu come out Wosco am gonna come in dewe an’ gif yu wots ob sowwy hoofsies!” you bellow.
“Who am scawedeh dummeh?” A voice snarls from the darkness. Jagged teeth glint as a huge brown pegasus emerges, clearly displeased with your assessment of his character. His silhouette alone nearly fills the gate and his hooves leave cracks in the dirt where they land. You aren’t small by any means, but this stallion is massive, like his-no-no-stick-could-probably-kill-you huge (another reason not to lose, as your daddy would say). He looks like he swallows chirpy babies for breakfast. Without chewing them first.
“Yu am scawedy dummeh! Yu hidin’ cuz yu scawed ob Wosco’s sowwy hoofsies!” Obviously.
You gleefully watch the fury that rolls across the stallion’s ugly face, his ugly scars scrunching up like ugly candy-wrappers in an ugly trash compactor. His gnashing teeth and angry snarl do nothing to help. He’s still ugly and he’s still a scaredy dummy and now everyone knows. You’re inclined to blow a raspberry at him, but refrain. You’re better than that.
Who are you kidding? No fluffy is better than that.
“Pththbtthbhhthbbhthb!”
You grace him with a particularly juicy one and watch him puff up like an angry brown balloon. The entire ring is holding its breath.
Now you’re just waiting for him to pop.
But he doesn’t. Instead he deflates in the most disappointing way, like the ball your daddy bought for you that you played a little too rough with. Except that ball looked prettier broken than this stallion looks in one piece.
You can fix that for him.
You’re about to offer your services to the facially-challenged, but you’re silenced by the jovial way he’s suddenly smiling at you. The tension in the air makes his gravelly voice sound like an earthquake, and you’re pretty sure you just saw his eyebrow twitch, “So Wiwey am scawedeh dummeh, huh?”
“Yesh!”
“Awwight,” the smiling stallion takes a step forward and an electric current runs through your body. You stand your ground, head held defiantly[re: foolishly] high, and he looks momentarily impressed. Dummy, he should know thinky-place-games won’t work on you! You’re Rosco and you’re ready for him!
He takes another step forward. You are so ready.
Another step.
One more for good measure.
The pit isn’t that wide, so after just four little fluffy steps he’s right up in your grill, so close you can taste the chirpy babies on his breath.
Maybe you aren’t as ready as you thought you were.
In a rare moment of contemplative thought, you’re afraid you might not walk out of this ring on your own four hooves. You’re in a Mexican standoff with a trained killing machine, and your short, pitiful little life flashes before your eyes: all the mares you’ve fucked, the opponents you’ve beaten, the babies and sketties and good feels you’ll never get to have after this stallion beats you to death and fucks your corpse.
You try to be brave for your daddy, for your enfies and your no-no’s and your poor, poor special lumps, but with this stallion’s foul breath and burning eyes just inches from your face, you can’t help it. You piss all over yourself.
It works out in your favor though, because the stallion looks down at your bad pee-pees just long enough for you to ram him in the chin. His head snaps back and the clack of his teeth is drowned out by the crowd erupting. You even hear your daddy yelling what a good fluffy you are! You revel in the pained whimpers of your enemy, all thoughts of doubt and fear forgotten.
The brown stallion stumbles, shaking his head and working his jaw. He stomps his hooves and spits a wad of bright red blood. It seems he’s bitten his tongue. He glares daggers and you return a wolfish grin. It goes great with the angry bruise forming on your forehead.
A single voice cuts through the others, “Give him a taste of his own medicine, ¡caballota!”
The sound sets the stallion alight and he prepares to charge you, shifting on his hooves and pawing at the dirt. His eyes flick to the side and of course you’re dumb enough to follow his gaze. You stop paying attention for one second and suddenly you’re getting way too familiar with the concrete siding. You wheeze, beating your hooves against the stallion’s shoulders. His oversized melon-head is crushing you! You jam your hoof into his eye socket and in retaliation he slams you in the chest again. This time you hear something crack.
Next thing you know you’re making friends with the ground, the wind knocked out of you, gasping for air like a drowning man. With it comes the smell of your mare, and the scent revitalizes you. In the time it takes to get back on your feet, you picture yourself winning and turning this stallion into an enfie toy while you inhale that beautiful mare smell. Even your no-no stick is waking up. One more quick sniff to tide you over, you smell mare and… nothing else.
You can’t smell your opponent.
You sniff again. Nope. Nothing. Wait, no… there! A second mare! Almost masked by the first one! You’re getting TWO mares? Your no-no stick cries tears of joy, the possibility of defeat not occurring to either head.
“Oooho hoohoo Eehehehee…” The stallion giggles and the sound makes your skin crawl. It sounds wrong, like a human voice coming out of a fluffy’s mouth. Why hasn’t he attacked you yet? Why is he just standing there giggling like a loon?
You try to get a read on him, but you can’t smell him at all! He smells like… He’s…
“'OU AM MAWE???”
“AAHAHA HAHA HAAHAAAA!” The stal– the mare throws her head back and shows you every last razor-sharp tooth in her mouth. Mares aren’t supposed to have teeth like that.
Also she’s laughing at you.
This big, ugly, stupid mare is making a fool of you! You! Rosco!
“Poopie mawe gib Wosco bestest enfies an’ wicky cweanies! NAOW!” You stomp, proof of intent swinging between your legs like a sledgehammer. The mare approaches and you stand there all puffed up, waiting to be serviced. She presents her rump like a good enfie mare and immediately kicks you in the face.
The ground is quickly becoming your closest friend. It loves you so much you’ve even got little pieces of it in your mouth. The mare kicks you over onto your back, and you don’t mean to leave your front teeth behind, but you can’t help it! They won’t stay in! And you have to swallow the boo-boo juice in your mouth, because it’s either that or choke to death on the rest of your broken teeth. You don’t feel so pretty.
You’re just noticing your left eye swelling shut when you’re forced to leave your new friend behind because the mare clamps her jaws around your leg and hurls you across the ring. Stabbing pain rips through your chest upon impact and you grit your teeth, because it’s either that or scream. Scream until your daddy saves you from all the owies like a scared little baby.
The mare keeps her distance, but she doesn’t keep her mouth shut. She hops around the ring like a little filly–like she isn’t a twenty-pound murder machine that almost tore your leg off– play-kicking the air and taunting you, “Get up! Up! Upsies! Wiwey wan mowe hoofsies! Gib Wiwey sowwy hoofsies, stoopie dummeh fwuffy! C’mon! Up! Up!”
Oh you’ll give her hoofsies alright.
Unbridled rage bubbles up inside you; this isn’t just about getting your rocks off anymore. This is a pride thing now.
You’re gonna make this mare wish she was your enfie toy.
You fling yourself at the mare while she’s jumping and nail her right in the stomach. She tumbles head-over-hooves and you relish the hard thud her skull makes. While she’s dazed you lay the smackdown, pummeling her with sorry hoofsies. You bring your full weight down on her leg and hear a satisfying snap.
“AIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!” She screeches, and you decide this mare is entirely too noisy. You need to teach her a lesson.
“Gud! Enfie maweth! AM! QUIET!!!”
You kick her in the face between words, but she opens her mouth and latches onto your ankle. She thrashes her head from side to side and it sends you sprawling. You bite your tongue when you hit the ground. It somehow hurts more without your front teeth.
The mare jerks your leg and suddenly you’re moving. You scramble to get your hooves under you, but even with a broken leg she’s too fast. You try to kick her off, but all she does is dig her teeth in deeper and drag you around the ring some more, until you’re leaving red skidmarks in the dirt because the skin on your tummy is almost gone. It hurts so bad you can do nothing but writhe and howl, entirely at the mercy of your captured limb.
“WET GUUU!!!” You scream, “WET GU OB WOTHCO’TH WEGGIEEEEEE!!!”
And to your surprise, she does.
But then she grabs your tail.
And damn near rips it off throwing you across the ring.
You lay where you land, beaten, exhausted, and crying for your daddy, another Fight Club King dethroned.
“Daddeh nu am comin’ dummeh. Wiwey stiww hafta finish da fight.”
Terror seizes you as images of your broken, bloodied corpse flash through your mind, but the mare spreads her legs and reminds you what kind of fight this is. This mare has a long pink no-no stick and you know exactly where she plans to put it.
”Nuu! Nu am mawe!!!” You struggle desperately to get away, but your injured legs don’t take you very far. The mare just watches, a grin of sick anticipation on her ugly face.
She mounts you while you’re still trying to crawl away and crushes you until you can’t move. You try to push her no-no stick away with your tail, but it does little more than twitch and give you hurties. You froth with impotent rage.
“Wothco gon gib ugwy poopie mawe wowthtest thowwy enfieth!” You fling red spittle everywhere and go for her broken leg, but she stomps on your special lumps. You wail in agony, and the awful mare laughs at you.
“Wosco wan enfies? Wiwey gib enfies!”
Her no-no stick isn’t even that big. It’s skinnier than a stallion’s and nowhere near as rigid, but your clenched-up little asshole can’t tell the difference. Nothing even tears when it forces its way in. You’re just a candy-ass.
“DADDEH HEWP WOTHCO HUHUUUU!!!” You shriek, and the mare kicks you in the balls. She’s got your mane clenched between her teeth, but you can hear the venomous smile in her voice,
“Gud enfie mawes am quiet.”
That voice roots you to the spot while she has her way with you. You didn’t think mares could give bad enfies. Actually, you’re not even sure she’s a mare anymore. Mares don’t have no-no sticks or sharp teeth or muscles upon muscles upon muscles. This isn’t a mare. This is a monster.
The monster mare grunts enf enf enf above you and you can do nothing but lie there and take it, hoping against hope that it will be over soon. The repeated slamming is pinching a nerve in your leg and it hurts. You hold in your hu-hu’s though. One last-ditch attempt to spare your wounded pride.
For a moment, you feel sympathy for all the stallions who’ve lost to you in the past, who’ve had to lay there battered and bruised while you sealed your victory. Maybe it would’ve been better if they had been forever-sleepy fights.
“GUD FEEWS!!!”
Ding! Ding! Ding!
“AND THE WINNER IS: RILEY!!!”
The moment passes.
You expect the mare to squirt her no-no juice and be done with it, but she keeps humping your ass and you swear you feel her burrow deeper.
The fight is over. She won. What is she doing?
Your belly cramps in the way that only an uncomfortable amount of liquid moving through your intestines can cause. You cover your eyes with your hoofsies, hot shame flooding your face. This monster is a mare; she doesn’t have no-no juice to finish the fight, so she makes bad pee-pees inside you instead. It’s somehow even more humiliating.
You lay there in a puddle of piss and blood, thoroughly defeated. The mare climbs off and limps around to face you, her winning smile tells of nothing but pain in your immediate future.
“Who am poopie mawe nao?” And to really drive her point home, she turns around and gives you sorry poopies right in your face.
You’re still peeping and crying when your daddy comes and gets you.
At least, you think it’s your daddy.
You still have sorry poopies in your eyes.
He yells at you for a little while, but you don’t hear a word he says. You just lie there and go “huu huu,” and “daddeh,” and “peep.”
That night your daddy throws you in the garbage.
((a special thank-you to @anon3053411 for inspiring AND beta-reading this blessed mess 
))
