Warning: spoilers for “Wun Wub, Wun Heawt” and the Order of Darkness and Demonic Doppelgangers Sagas.
You’re a fluffy. Your name is Cleo. You don’t have a mummah, or a daddeh, or a housie. You live, like many fluffies, in an awwey-way, in a big sitty. Your housie is a big boxie, and you live there with your special friend Julius, and your babbehs.
You used to have a mummah, but you ran away. You had seen Babies! on FluffTV, and seeing all the happy mummahs and their babbehs made you want to be a mummah, and have babbehs.
But your mummah said no.
“We don’t have room in the house for an entire litter, Cleo. Ugh, I knew I should have gone with TFN.”
So you left. As soon as you could. Your mummah forgot to close your saferoom door, while she was in the kit-chin, and you got out. The door to the front garden was open, and you escaped.
You didn’t want to go, but if your mummah wouldn’t let you have babbehs, you would have to go get babbehs.
You were sure you could find your way back when you were done. And by the time your dummeh mummah found out, it would be too late.
I put the last of the groceries away, and walked out to close… the… front… door.
Awwwww, fuck. I left the saferoom door open, too. I checked. Yup. Cleo got out.
I checked outside, and she was already gone.
If Cleo wanted to run off and get knocked up, it was her problem now.
I decided to head out to Flufftopia, like I should have done in the first place, and also get TFN.
Fuck FluffTV. Fuck FluffCo.
As it turned out, you couldn’t find your way home. But, you found another fluffy.
He’d been dumped in an awwey-way by his daddeh.
And he was happy to take you in.
“You want sketties, you little shit? Fine. Here. This is an Italian restaurant. They throw out pasta all the damn time. Have fun digging it out from the trash, because you’re not my problem anymore, Julius. Pray they don’t kill you for stealing their trash.”
As it turned out, the funny-talkie hoomins in the wes-taw-want actually like Julius. They give him any sketties that the hoomins they make it for don’t num, after the wes-taw-want is closed, instead of putting it in the twashie can. And when he brought you home, they were happy to meet you too.
So, you and Julius enjoy a somewhat comfortable life together.
You and Julius quickly fell in wub.
And you know what that leads to.
Yes, you two didn’t waste any time.
Now, you’re a proud mummah, and you love your babbehs. Even the brown one, and the hownie-wingie one.
Julius has gone out to get some nummies. The wes-taw-want is still open, so you won’t be getting any sketties yet. And you need to make miwkies for your babbehs.
You hope he’ll be back soon.
Unfortunately, Julius has gotten into trouble. And trouble’s name is Kevin, Boris, and Larry, a trio of diehard abusers.
Kevin, the smartest of the trio, or so he thinks, and the leader of these three stooges, grabs Julius by the scruff of his neck, which fluffies notoriously hate, and the three of them walk into another alleyway with their victim, for some privacy.
“Gotcha, you little bastard!”
“Pwease wet gu of Juwius! Juwius nu knu wut Juwius du, but Juwius sowwy!”
“Shut it, shitrat. You wanna know what you did? You were born. That’s what.”
“Huuuu… pwease wet gu… Juwius nee fine nummies… speciaw fwend nee make miwkies fow babbehs…”
“Oh. Ooohhh. There’s more of you? You’ve been getting busy, huh? Where are they?”
“Ju… Juwius nu say!”
“Oh wow, I’m actually impressed. Usually a shitrat will sell his mate out immediately. But I think we can convince you to talk. Boris, get the shears ready.”
Boris, a husky Russian man, holds up a big pair of shears.
Boris is actually quite intelligent, and eloquent, and fluent in English, too, but he plays the part of the big tough stupid guy who can barely speak English, because it means people underestimate him.
Kevin and Larry haven’t caught on yet.
Kevin and Larry hold the fluffy, and Boris gets ready to cut.
Boris stuffs a ball of dirty rags into Julius’ mouth.
“If дерьмовая крыса spit out ball of rag, it am being of very bad for you, да?”
Julius, despite not knowing a word of Russian, gets the point, and nods.
“Last chance to keep all your legs, shitrat. You gonna talk?”
Julius shakes his head in defiance.
“Alright. Boris? Take that leg off.”
Julius’ leg falls to the ground.
Boris picks up the leg, and shoves it up Julius’ anus.
As Julius screams through the rags in his mouth, Larry finally speaks up.
“Y’know, I think I might know where the shitrat’s family is.”
Kevin sighs, rubbing his temple.
Julius’s eyes widen.
“And you didn’t tell us, Larry?”
“We were busy.”
“Well that’s true. But where do you think they are?”
“Behind Mario’s. I heard from a buddy that the greaseball wops running the joint have a soft spot for shitrats. Those hugboxing wops let a family of them live out back, my buddy said. They actually give the shitrats food.”
“Disgusting. I’m willing to bet it’s this bag of shit’s family. He’s got three-day-old tomato sauce smeared all over his face. I’m not eating at that dump ever again. Fucking dago bastards.”
“They am of using too much of чеснок.”
“I don’t know what the fuck a shiz-knock is, but you’re probably right, Boris. Let’s roll, boys.”
As the trio of abusers make their way through the alleyways to Mario’s, two other men spot the three stooges and their victim, and start following them via the rooftops.
One of them has long brown hair, tied back into a ponytail.
The other is covered in scars.
Neither of them looks happy about what they’ve just seen.