You consider yourself to be something of an everyday hero.
A hero on a mission to rid this beautiful planet of the vermin that are fluffies.
Because they are vermin, despite what all the hugboxers say. They breed impossibly fast, they infest most major cities with their feral herds and they leave dead fluffy corpses everywhere.
So, you’ve made it your mission to go around at night, find some fluffies and murder them brutally in… more or less creative ways.
What follows is one of your many evening encounters.
It’s a nice autumm wednesday and it is truly gorgeous. Everything around, the leaves, the trees, the setting sun, all of those things flow together to create the most mesmerisingly beautiful, picturesque evening.
But you aren’t here to gawk at the weather of course, you’re here to end yet another happy, innocent little life like you do each evening. It’s the least you can do to help this doomed planet.
Tonight, you’ve decided to try your luck on the outskirts of town, the part that consists mostly of middle class houses with the occasional small apartement block added for flavour.
You didn’t have to search long for a viable subject and just 20 minutes after you’d started looking, you had spotted a fluffy mare with her four kids, lurking around behind an apartement block.
So here you are now, standing behind the apartement block and looking for the best way to prevent the fluffies from running away prematurely.
Unshouldering your backpack, you approach the amethyst colored fluffy mare, putting on the fake smile that has basically hardcoded itself into your DNA at this point, surfacing everytime you see a fluffy. The fluffy looks up at you, nothing but pure adoration and companionship written on its face.
Despite only having known you for a few seconds it has already checked you off as harmless, benevolent, nice, loving, happy, cheery and kind…
just because you are human.
You admire fluffies for the ability to immediately put their trust into anything and anyone they encounter that isn’t immediately trying to scare them.
Even if that leads to their deaths.
Todays fluffy is a particularly happy pile of fluff as it beams up at you, glad that someone came to the back of the apartment block.
“Hewwo nice mistah!”
You decide to play around a bit so you prepare the most nonchalant, disinterested voice you can muster while still maintaining your smile.
As expected, the mare is slightly confused, unsure of what to make of the difference in Temper.
She quickly sweeps her confusion aside however when you put the backpack on a cardboard box that sits next to the wall.
The mare isn’t starving but she isn’t exactly living the life either so the prospect of food instills a deep sense of hope in her as she approaches the backpack curiously, sniffing it attentively.
“Noo”, you say, “I’ve got something better”
Then you grab the fluffy mare slowly and lift her up onto the box.
“Gud upsies… wub nyu daddeh”
Woah… well you’ll deal with that in a second.
For now, you quickly grab your backpack off the box and push downwards on the cardboard flaps, opening the box suddenly.
The mare yelps as she falls into the box, her foals falling off her back, chirping in protest.
“Wha… wha… Why fwuffy in boxie? Nu wan be in meanie sowwy boxie”
As expected, it takes her a few seconds to even realize that her foals have fallen off, having focused completely on herself. She picks them up and calms them down before putting them back in her fluff.
Afterwards, she looks at you to see if you’re still there.
Sure enough, you are.
“Oops, looks like you fell in the box because you were too heavy”
The mare actually looks down at herself, immediately blaming herself for the problem like any good fluffy would.
“Meanie tummeh tuu bigsies fo’ be on boxie… Nice mistah hewp fwuffy?”
Immediately you can’t help but smile as the bizarre image before you shows just how unnatural fluffies are. They were made to be the perfect pet, obediant and calm, immediately approaching everything that moves as a potential ‘fwiend’. Sure, feral fluffies have learned not to trust every person they meet but even ferals have this deep, hardcoded sympathy towards humans that puts them as the polar opposite to most small animals, whose survival instinct has taught them to fear everything that moves.
As such, fluffies are the most docile creature known to man, everything in their programmed brain rejecting physical violence.
Even their bodies are built with nothing but love in mind with their vibrant colors and their soft, squishy hooves.
When they are faced with obvious danger, they react panicked, often lying down or scrunching their eyes shut, shitting and crying perfusely.
In short, fluffies lack any kind of survival instinct at all.
The mare looks at you, expecting you to chuckle at her misfortune and lift her out.
You don’t however and the mare soon realizes this, her face turning from an expectant smile to a pleading stare.
“Pwease daddeh… Fwuffy nee outsies”
That gives you an idea.
“Heh alright but first, I want your babies to dance for me”
The mare just looks at you and then repeats the question incredulously.
“Mistah wan babbeh dancies?”
“You heard me”
She then takes one of her foals, a blue unicorn filly, out of her fluff and puts it down. The foal immediately enters the ‘upsies’ pose and starts chirping.
“Nuu babbeh… Babbeh nee dancies an den get upsies otay?”
The foal is shocked at her mother not immediately obliging to her request and it starts hopping around, crying, scared at being abandoned.
“Nu cwy babbeh… Make dancies!”
The foal, of course, doesn’t understand a word of what her mom says and attempts to nudge her mom into picking her back up.
“Nu… why babbeh nu make bestest dancies? Babbeh sickies?”
God, fluffies are absolute morons…
You decide to pressure the mare a bit.
“Well what’s it going to be? I don’t have a problem just leaving you here”
At this, the mare starts crying, hysterically trying to get her chirpie-babbeh to dance, oblivious to the fact that she’s breaking her childs little heart.
It’s only when the foal manages to say “Nu wub? Cheep!”, that the mare really starts going crazy.
“Wha? Nuu! Nuuu! Wub babbeh! Buh babbeh nee make dancies fo’ mistah…”
The foal seems to interpret her mothers panic as anger towards her and covers her eyes, still huu-huuing like crazy. Her mom tries to bargain with her.
“Babbeh make dancies an’ mummah gib bestest miwkies, otay?”
Milkies is a word that the foal recognizes very well and it lifts its head, staring at its mother.
When the foal starts waddling towards the mares tits, the mare picks it up and puts it back down in front of her, prompting a volley of tears and shit as it tries to understand why its mother is rejecting it so harshly.
To speed up the process, you drum your fingers on the side of the cardboard box and pick up your backpack.
Instantly the mare stands up against the inside of the box and looks at you, pleading silently.
“Babbeh nu wan dancies… Pwease wet fwu…” EEEEEEEEEP
In her frantic endeavour to get you to lift her out, the mare had lost her balance and had fallen directly onto her foals, flattening them with a satisfying ‘squelch’.
Again, it takes a second for her to realize that she just killed three of her four foals but when she does, her face is absolutely priceless.
Oh it is absolutely beautiful as pure horror creeps through her body and her foals blood seeps into her fluff.
She gets up and turns around to look at the foals.
Well the ex-foals.
One of them is even still hanging from her back, dangling limplessly when she moves.
The mare stares at the bloody, gruesome mess for a bit longer before she starts crying and vomiting, telling herself over and over what a bad mother she is and how she lost most of her babies like that.
Her fourth foal just sits in the box, gawking at her mom and her dead siblings, too bemuddled to do anything.
You pick the foal up and immediately it starts chirping for its mummah who reels around, waddling back to the side of the box.
“Wastest babbeh! Pwease mistah gib wastest babbeh tuu mummah… Babbeh nee huggies. Am tuu widdew fo’ gamesies… Am onwy widdew babbeh…”
You stroke the foal and it calms down, calming down the mare as well.
“Oh I’m not here to play games”
Then, giggling, you quickly press your thumb into the foals throat, not enough to break its neck but more than enough to seal its airways shut. With your other hand, you grab the foals flailing rear legs and pinch them together between two fingers.
The mare starts pounding the sides of the box.
“Why gib wastest babbeh owwies? Nuuu! Nuu pwease! Gib babbeh tu mummah… huu huu…”
“Oh, silly, your baby isn’t hurt”
Meanwhile the foals eyes are bulging out and it stares at you in silent horror, its mouth wide open but unable to draw a single breath.
“Of course not! Can you hear its scaredy peeps?”
“Nu… Su babbeh am otay?”
The mare stops pounding her hoofs on the box wall and looks at her foal quizzically.
“Of course he’s okay”
You give his legs a firm squeeze and they smush together, flattened with ease. Then you release your grip.
The foal is dead.
“Aww look, he’s asleep!”
“Babbeh am sweepies? Wan see!”
Internally you scream at the mare.
NO YOU INTELLECTUALLY DEFICIANT DUMB FLUFFY BITCH, HE’S DEAD! COMPLETELY DEAD! I KILLED HIM WITH MY BARE HANDS! DO YOU SEE HOW EASY IT IS? NOW COME HERE, I’LL DO THE SAME TO YOU!!!
Externally though, you opt for a much more satisfying, rewarding approach.
You gently lie the foal down beside her mother and watch as her mother sniffs her and nudges her slightly.
“Pwease wakies babbeh… It nu am sweepies time…”
Enjoying the hell out of the mares careful confusion over her babies state, you approach her, arms outstretched.
She goes into the upsies pose immediately, yelping out of surprise.
“Wha? Nu! Nu wan upsies… Wan babbeh!”
Still pretending you want to pick her up to keep her in the upsies pose, you move your head right up to hers and whisper quietly.
“Your baby isn’t sleeping. He isn’t even alive. He’s dead. I killed him. I took him and I strangled him, that’s why you didn’t hear his scaredy peeps. And it was easy, so easy. In fact, you fluffies are some of the easiest creatures to kill that this planet has ever seen. You’re sensitive, you’re fragile, you’re gullible and all that makes it soo fun to kill you. Every. Last. One of you.”
Then you scoop her up off the ground.
The amount of limb-flailing and shit-spraying that ensues is almost record-breaking as you slowly lift the fluffy mare up and over your head.
And then, at last, with every ounce of strength in your body, you fling the foal into the wall of the apartment building.
There is nothing left but a big, red stain.
Finally, grinning inanely to yourself, you pick up your backpack and head out, having killed not one, not two, not even three but five innocent lives today.
What a day.
So this one is heavily inspired by Foalout4’s stuff and I also want to show that the world isn’t always a sweet lullaby where the abuser dies at the end. He continued his hobby and killed many more fluffballs.