The trailer out on Fiddle Road was a sad sight. Ramshackle aluminum that’d been pressed out sometime in the seventies, rust pocketed over the slats of corrugated metal. It’d once had siding though now only a few strips remained, bleached a nicotine brown by years of being out in the sun and hanging limply in a few areas. Yard wasn’t much better: Overgrown, filled with old children’s toys and assorted trash.
Current owner of the trailer wasn’t a bad person. Pressed for time and lacking a whole lot of dough didn’t make you so bad. Yeah, she was a bit trashy but had a good heart. Her name happened to be Shirley Gardener. Curly brown hair, a slightly doughy face, a smile that never seemed quite assured of itself. Everyone in town knew Shirley was a good enough young lady, a bit quiet though. Worked down the Starlight Diner as a waitress, only place to eat in town.
Now everyone in town knew Missus Gardener had been through a tough stretch in life. Her father had been known as the town bully for God knew how long before his death. Yup, Hank Gardener shipped off to Vietnam where everyone had hoped he’d died rather than come back. Return he did though, meaner than ever and bragging about all the gooks he’d got over there. Who knew how many children he had. Hard to say, though when he was an old man he’d knocked up a woman to make Shirley. Had terrorized said woman to the point where she ditched their child at the trailer and fled.
Hank had been a terrible, ominous presence in Shirley’s life. Growing up she’d lived in terror, always second-guessing whatever decisions she made or walking on eggshells. A lifetime spent around such a man had made her grown sadly accustomed to them. And so…
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Carefully picking her way through the trashed living room in her trailer, Shirley silently shoved ruined objects into a big black trash bag. Photo frames, shards of the porcelain animals she loved to pick up at the thrift shop or yardsales, the remnants of a coffee cup. Yeller dutifully followed alongside her, trying to help by picking up stuff and clumsily depositing it into the bag.
Yeller was, of course, her fluffy. A runt by stallion standards, mustard yellow with a shaggy brown mane and tail. Not exactly a winner by most color standards but he was a special guy.
“Yeller, you don’t hafta help.” His owner told the stallion with a look of concern. Last thing she needed was for him to cut his hooves up on a shard of glass. Not to mention, he was already hurt.
Her boyfriend (ex-boyfriend) Nick was the one who had destroyed the place. Why? Because she’d gotten him the wrong brand of cigarettes after she’d gotten off of work. It’d thrown him into a whirlwind of rage. Breaking all her pretty knick-knacks, slamming the coffee table up on the wall, tossing her around like a ragdoll. Yeller had jumped in and tried to bite him to protect her though what could a fluffy do? They weren’t exactly tough. For his trouble, the stallion now had one of his eyes swollen completely shut from a slap across the face.
“Wan hewp, mummah.” He said with a stubborn tone, tail whipping side to side. This hadn’t been the first time he’d helped clean up after meanie daddeh made everything and mess and hurt mummah.
Instead of arguing with him, Shirley just dragged the garbage bag open so he could fit a beer bottle into it.
Sighing a bit, she looked toward the clock which now hung askew on the wall. Time to go. Patting a hand against her apron, she leaned in to smooch Yeller on top of his fuzzy lil head. “I’ll finish cleanin’ when I get back from work. Sorry about the TV…” She mumbled, knowing that was his primary form of entertainment. It was destroyed, a remote having been sight right into the screen.
Looking over her shoulder, sore body not wanting to go to work, she knew that they needed the cash more than ever now. This world wasn’t kind to folks like Shirley. It wasn’t like a Lifetime movie where a handsome man from the big city would descend on the misery and pull her out from mire.
“Wub yew mummah!” The (admittedly) ugly fluffy chirruped up to her. Well, he might be ugly but that look of love sparklin’ in his one good eye was all she needed in life.
“Love you too. I’ll bring you back some fries.” With that she took one last look at the sundered living room, felt her shoulders sink, went out the front door. It’d take her awhile to walk all the way to town. Fiddle Road was out in the sticks. It’s previous owner had loved his privacy.
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Nicholas Ditch was a complete loser who happened to think himself the coolest guy in the county. Scrawny with rather ratlike features, arms that were a chaotic scribble of mismatched tattoos.
His bitch of a girlfriend had called the cops on him because he’d decided to enact a bit of authority over her. Wasn’t that a man’s lot in life? To lay down the lay when their woman got a bit out of hand? He thought so. Of course, his mother did too. She’d paid his bail and felt nothing but sympathy for her poor baby boy who was no doubt being unfairly treated. Just as he had countless times before when he’d been brought in for domestics.
Currently, she was driving him out to Fiddle Road.
“Just going to pick up my shit, ma.” Nick told his mother as he hung out of the passenger side window slightly, a cigarette curled against his lips.
Nose scrunching up, his mother waved a hand. “Want me to pick you up afterwards? We don’t want that hussy to call the law on you again, making things up.”
As the trailer got into view, he’d spit his cigarette out and grin crookedly. “Naw. I’ll walk back into town. Thanks, ma.”
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There wasn’t much else to do so Yeller was trying to pick up as much of the living room as he could for mummah when she got home. There was big stuff that he couldn’t hope to grasp in his mouth though the bigger shards of porcelain and such were something that he could manage.
Once he did everything he could to help, he went waddling off to his ‘safe room’, which really didn’t amount to much more than a closet. He didn’t live in there, don’t worry! It’s mostly where his toys were kept, though there was a small cushion bed he could relax on if he wanted peace and quiet. It was a cozy space to say the least.
Squishing into the closet and tipping forward in his toy bin, Yeller scrounched around and found two of his favorite things. A knockoff GI Joe and a dollar star Barbie that he’d chewed the blonde hair mostly off of. Dragging the two out onto a rug in the living room, he flopped down and clumsily manuevered the two figures around.
“Am daddeh an’ am goan tu da stowe ‘fo bestest skettis!” He said in his gruffest voice, barely able to grip onto the soldier figure. Letting it topple over, he selected the bedraggled Barbie and waggled it around too.
“Am mummah an’ wub skettis an’ am goan tu da stowe ‘fo skettis.” The doll got waggled over to the area on the rug which Yeller had designated in his imagination as ‘The Sketti Store’.
Now was the hard part: Propping up both figures by curling his front weggies around each so they leaned up.
“Yew wub skettis tu?” He asked in his gruff voice, then made the two dolls kiss. This was very cool. One day, he’d kiss a pretty mare at the Sketti Store. Daydreaming on this while making the dolls kiss, he screeched in surprise and jumped up to a defensive position when the front door came crashing in hard.
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There was Nick. Or, more appropriately, ‘Meanie Munstah’ as Yeller knew the guy to be. He was not a daddeh. Daddeh’s were nice and helped, they made you smile. This man did the opposite of that. Always giving mummah huwties, always making HIM hurt too. Breaking stuff, yelling, constantly making the nice poweece people show up.
Last time they’d shown up as not too long ago and Mister Shewiff had given Yeller his very own police badge for protecting mummah. Running off to find it, the fluffy cradled this incredibly special artifact against himself then thrust it out so that Nick could see.
Glancing down to the fluffy holding up it’s newly acquired plastic deputy’s badge, the man sneered. “What’s that, faggot? Figures a little queer-boy like you would love the police.” To say Nick was unimpressed went without saying. Trying to make his way further into the trailer, Yeller positioned himself right in front of him like a roadblock.
“Meanie Munstah nu awwowed in housie! Gu way! Wite naow!” Again, he held up the toy badge as if it were the real thing. Nick was exactly the kind of guy who’d turn into a simpering puppy if a real badge was flashed in his face. Yes sirs, no ma’ms, Jesus blessed and all that. Oh yes, he could be a real choir boy when the cops were around. A fluffy was right his speed though.
Walking toward the fluffy, he sent the tip of his shoe right into it’s ribs with a harsh kick. Squealing in pain, Yeller went twisting back and flopped. Shook on the floor, hooves scrabbling around.
Going to stand over him, Nick gave his best crooked grin. “I’m allowed to go wherever I damn well please! Why don’t you learn a lesson from your fat-ass owner and shut your mouth before you get into real trouble?”
Sniffling, pinning his ears back, the stallion had perhaps been willing to keep laying on his side as Nick did whatever he wanted to in the trailer. After all, he was just a fluffy. Fluffies were for huggies an’ wub, not meanies. Even if they wanted to do meanies, they weren’t very good at it. Yet when the meanie munstah mentioned ‘his owner’, Yeller picked himself up off the ground and glared up at Nick.
The expression on the fluffy’s face was unlike anything he’d ever seen one of these retarded toys make. Staring forward with extreme malice and resentment, the eye which remained functional defied Nick in every way. Ears which were normally cocked back bent down like knives, and his hooves stamped on the floor.
“WEAB!” Yeller began, stamping forward and bowing his head.
“MUMMAH!” Launching himself out, the fluffy’s head collided with Nick’s knee. Did it hurt? Not even a little bit. It was impressive how little it did.
“AWONE!” Hollered the fluffy, now beginning to bite and pull back on Nick’s pants as if he could drag him over to the door.
The only thing going through Yeller’s head right now was Shirley. How she cried and cried and how THIS bad person always hurt her. Shirley was the very most important person in his life. Nobody had ever really been nice to him before her. Just an ugly fluffy that nobody ever wanted, not even his fluffy mummah. Then one day Shirley had found him outside the alley, stuck inside a foam takeaway cup and scared about everything.
Even if he wasn’t as big or pretty as other fluffies, everyone said he was brave. Mummah did. Mr. Shewiff had. Puffing out his cheeks, he’d come to the conclusion he wouldn’t let this munstah hurt anyone.
Eyes narrowing, Nick couldn’t believe what he was seeing. A fluffy actually attempting to fight or do anything? Funny shit. Real gutbuster material.
“I just wanted my shit and some quick cash. Was gonna leave you alone. But fine.” He told the stallion with a big grin, stomping across the debris of the living room. The broken television was an old model, back from when Shirley’s father had still been alive. Grasping the antenna up at the top, Nick twisted and wrenched the thin metal rod away and gave it an ominous swish through the air.
Not much time to react before Nick gave a flick of his wrist and walloped Yeller right across the face with it, tearing off a ribbon of fur attached to flesh. Screaming, the fluffy attempted to shield himself with his front legs as Nick stomped him to the floor.
Leaning over the fluffy and continuing to reel back and slap the antenna against his face, Nick gave spats of cruel laughter. “Feeling big now, fuckface!? I’m the king around here!” Ribbons of blood slicked out across the carpet and even to the wall as the onslaught continued. Whish, slap, whish, CRACK! Some of Yeller’s teeth got knocked out in gore-encrusted clumps with nerves still attached to them, and his gums were being scraped apart by the beating.
After a few more strikes, Nick released his foot from the fluffy’s side and tossed the TV antenna to clatter against one corner. Turning toward the bedroom, he planned to resume exactly what he’d come here for. Shirley had a Mason jar filled with dough that she kept babbling about saving up to go to Dollywood with. Fuck Dolly Parton, that’d be repurposed for beer money.
He stopped short as he felt something dragging on his pantleg. Just a small force. Could even easily drag it along, like a small dog, if he wanted. Turning, his eyes glint with pure disbelief.
That fucking fluffy had just received a royal ass whoopin’ and here he was begging for me. Dragging on his pants and making small growls, slicking his clothes with blood from the long gashes on it’s face.
“The fuck is your problem, shitheel!?” Nick hollered at the fluffy, dragging him up by his shit-hued mane so they were eye level.
It hurt so bad to be alive right now. Yeller felt only pain in his existence. Both his face and side hurt with throbbing, aching stabs. What had once been his good eye was now nicked and battered, threatening to swell up just like the other yet. Yet he gave a defiant look.
“Haechu.” Was what he said, breath rasping out in a bloodied mist. He did. Fluffies were for huggies and wub but all he felt was a hate deep down inside him for Nick. Every single time he’d hurt mummah. Every time he had been here just to cause terror in both of them. Mummah had tried her best to be nice to this man. She tried to be nice to EVERYONE. All he ever gave her was meanies. For that, Yeller would never and could never forgive him.
Nick gave a cant of his head, brought the fluffy in closer. “What’s that? Huh? I’m hard of hearing. Tell me again.”
Shaking in his grip, Yeller began shouting as hard as he could. “FWUFFY HAECHU! MUMMAH HAECHU! YEW AM POOPIES! YELLEH DUN CAW BOU’ HUWTIES, NU AM SCAWDIES OB YEW!”
Though, he was scared. Deeply frightened, in fact. Heart beating quick in his little chest, he could no longer even hide just how much this cast him in a deep and abject terror. Piddle began to dribble down his leg, Nick noticing it and giving a cackle of laughter.
“Not scared of me, huh? You little pissbaby. Come on, let’s see if we can change that.”
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Yeller lay on the now blood and shit covered carpeting of the trailer out on Fiddle Road. Where was Nick? Gone with those Dollywood savings stuffed into his pockets.
There wasn’t a sorrier sight than what this stallion had been reduced to. His tail had been grabbed and he’d gotten slammed into walls until it was most certain that all of his bones had been broken. Nick had held him by his throat against the couch and used a light to burn off most of the flesh on his snout, which had been reduced to a charred and twisted mess of meat.
His balls had been cut off, the lighter once more used to burn the location so he wouldn’t bleed out. At one point, Nick had cinched him up on the wonky ceiling fan and sent it to it’s quickest setting, watching the broken fluffy shake and go slinging along the wind. Each time he passed by, Nick swung back with the TV antenna which had started all of this and struck him as if fanning a homerun in the big leagues. Finally, the added weight and the fact that it was barely even attached to the ceiling in the first place sent the fan crashing to the floor.
That was the end of it. All that pain and for what?
The fluffy hadn’t won. Laying there on the floor, belt still looped around his abdomen, it would be difficult to call that winning. His mummah had been robbed. He wasn’t dead yet but blood had flooded through his cracked skull awhile ago and left him in an unconscious heap. Laying there covered in his own shit, legs bent each way in unnatural angles, he’d suffered without being able to do anything.
Every fluffy sees the world through their own distinct way. Often seperated from reality, shaped by flights of fancy and imagination.
Yeller might have had the heart of a lion but he had the body of a fluffy.
