It’s a lazy afternoon, and you’re spending it the best way you know how: on the couch, playing video games, listening to some Bob Marley and getting high as a kite. Hey, it’s legal here.
You can afford to spend your days like this thanks to a generous inheritance from your dear departed parents, and your expenses aren’t that much, so you figure you’re set for life.
You decide to take a break from Retro City Rampage (a most radical and tubular game) to see what’s on TV. You flick through the channels and suddenly see something that catches your eye on the news.
Some guy, you weren’t sure it was a guy at first, apparently took in a bunch of fluffies, some of which were missing various body parts, and apparently he’s an inventor, and made some kind of little cars that help them get around. It’s a very interesting article, but you’re stoned and your conscious mind isn’t really paying attention.
As you’re laying on the couch, half-watching the news, half-listening to One Love, an idea races into your brain at the speed of weed.
You should get a fluffy!
Yeah!
You should get one right now!
You’ve always wanted one since they first appeared, but you never got around to it.
You’ve got an empty room you’re not using. You were gonna make it into a workshop, but then you got high and forgot all about the idea.
You don’t have a car, but there’s a new store that opened nearby and anything you can’t carry home can probably be delivered, right?
You get up, walk out of your apartment, and make your way down to the store. You’ll probably be sober by the time you get there.
You’re working at the counter of Flufftopia, one of the first of a brand new chain of fluffy stores. The goal of Flufftopia is simple; to provide the best damn products on the market, at the best price possible. No poorly-trained fluffies or cheap kibble made of fluffies here, recent studies have shown the adverse effects of eating fluffies. Just high-quality fluffies, and high-quality products, at a reasonable price.
The doors open and the stench of weed billows in.
In walks the source of the smell. A guy with long messy hair, quickly tied back into a ponytail, shorts with more pockets than you’ve ever seen, a T-shirt with “HOPE RIDES ALONE” on it, and… ugh, Crocs? Really, dude? And his eyes are red as fuck.
The guy walks up to the counter. This is going to be interesting.
You probably shouldn’t have burned one on the way over here, but oh well, spilled milk and all that.
You sidle forwards towards the counter. Yes, you can actually sidle forwards. It’s quite impressive how you do it.
You think for a moment, taking in the smell of fluffies, and then you remember why you’re here.
“My radical dude, it would be totally bodacious if you could–” you say, before breaking into laughter.
“Hahaha why am I talking like that? Man, this is some good shit. I should call John and get some more. Anyway, I’m here to get myself a fluffy. This is my first time, so I’m gonna need, y’know, the whole package, toys and beds and a litterbox and shit, ha, and don’t worry, money is not a problem. So can you hook me up?”
The guy, the tag on his shirt says his name is Mark, tells you that they have an excellent starter kit for fluffies: toys, a bed, a litterbox, everything you need to set up a saferoom, and that they even offer a service to set everything up for you. You are way too high to do everything yourself, especially if it involves any tools, so you decide to get the saferoom ready first, you can keep an eye on the workers, and then you can come back and pick out a fluffy.
A week later you return, and Mark is working again, so you greet him. Miraculously, you’ve remembered what you were doing. You had to have the dudes working on the new saferoom remind you a couple of times, great guys, professionals, but you remembered that you still had to actually get the fluffy.
The saferoom is ready, you’ve got an ample amount of supplies, now there’s one thing left to do: pick out your fluffy. And of course, you’ll be assisted by your good friend Mary-Jane, having successfully acquired more of that good shit from your dealer and burned one on the way over.
You’re now standing in front of the pens, the fluffies being separated by gender, type, and age. You figured you’d start with a foal. The foals here have been weaned, and trained, and you want to watch the little dude grow up. You’re looking through the foal pens, trying to find one you like, and then you see it.
A green fluffy, with a yellow and red mane. An earthie colt, looks like he was only recently weaned, and the little guy has the chillest look you’ve ever seen on someone sober.
Rasta fluffy! Score!
You decide right then and there that you’re taking the little guy home.
“Hey little guy, do you want me to be your new daddy?”
“Nice mistah be nyu daddeh? Babbeh wub nyu daddeh! Chirp!”
You can tell he’s thrilled by the prospect, but he’s not going completely insane like most fluffies do when they get a new daddy. Yeah, he’s gonna be perfect. You pet him as he’s placed in a small carrier, not so small that he thinks it’s a “sorry box” and you take him to the counter to get everything registered and pay up, petting him gently as you do.
The fluffies they sell here are all chipped, so entering your details into the system is a snap.
Mark asks you if you’ve got a name for the little dude. You knew what you were going to call him the moment you saw him. You couldn’t choose any other name.
“Marley.”
And that’s my second story. A bit of experimenting with different POVs, and second person narrative instead of first person.
