The Lawnmower Man - By Hornlarry (Booru ID 45102)

The Lawnmower Man

By Hornlarry

Daryl sat on his riding mower, and turned the key in the ignition, feeling the engine roar into life, and the high pitched “Whurrrr” of the mower blades as they span, faster than the eye could see. It was a beautiful summer day, and Daryl was prepared to do his favourite thing in the whole world; mowing lawns.

Today would be the biggest job he had ever done - the principal at his old elementary school had heard how good he was at lawnmowing, and had asked his dad if Daryl could take over the “contract”. Daryl’s dad said that it meant if he did a good job, he could mow the lawns there every couple of weeks! Daryl had never mowed such a big lawn before, and he was really, really excited.

“Now son,” his dad was telling him, having to half-shout over the sounds of the engine and mower blades, “Remember, just like we said, up and down, nice and slow, and be careful around the trees and edges.”

“Yuh dad,” Daryl said, saluting his father, “Dawyl mow da wawns weaw cawefuw. Up an down. Nice an swow.”

His dad straightened up and saluted him back, “Good going son, you get this done and they’ll pay us good. Then you can have ice-cream.”

“Yey! Yey! Ice-cweam! Dawyl wuv ice-cweam!”

Daryl shifted the mower and took off the brake, laughing as the mower started moving forwards, beginning the day’s work. In moments the air smelled of freshly mown grass, and Daryl was blissfully happy, looking at the neat lines of short grass his mower was making in the long grass.

“Up an down,” Daryl said to himself, remembering what his father had told him, “Nice an swow.”

Daryl just knew he was going to have a brilliant day.

“Well I’ll be damned,” said the principal, mopping the sweat from his brow with his hankerchief, “That boy of your’s is doing a real good job Lou.”

Lou looked back at his friend, “Sure he is, you think he can’t mow a lawn? Just because he…”

“Aww heck no Lou, that’s not what I mean,” the principal said, looking at Lou with a hurt look in his eyes, “Its just that… well, Daryl has struggled to find… gainful employment, and now he’s doing a great job.”

“He sure is. And he’ll do a darn sight better than those damned mexicans you’ve been employing.”

“He sure will,” agreed the principal, “He sure will.”

Daryl was loving every minute of the job. His dad let him stop every hour or so, to drink some water, although Daryl prefered mountain dew. But to be honest, if he had his way, Daryl would just mow and mow, all day long, without stopping. His mom said that he had to stop though. Something about “de-hi-drayshun”, whatever that was.

Looking at the sports pitch, Daryl giggled with excitement. His ride on mower would turn the messy, wavey grass into neatly mown patterns. Daryl really liked making the lawns into lines of straight, mown grass. Up and down, nice and slow. He could even see which way he had mowed the grass, so that there were alternating patterns. Daryl liked patterns. They made his head feel fuzzy.

Daryl also liked the mower. It was big. A big machine, but his dad let him control it. Not like a car. Daryl had crashed the car in his driver’s Ed. class. Daryl wasn’t allowed to drive a car.

The mower was all his though. It was a gleaming green plastic mower, and he washed and polished it clean for hours, every night. Even after his dad told him to stop. Daryl loved it. He loved the look of it, he loved the smell of it. The musty grass, the gasoline, the oil in the gears. Daryl loved the feel of it. The vibrations of the engine. Sometimes the vibrations made him feel all funny down below.

“Hey look!” yelled a voice from the other side of the football field, “Its the TARD! And he’s riding on his TARD mobile!”

Daryl’s heart sank. It was Jonathan. Jonathan was a really mean bully that Daryl had gone to school with. For some reason, Jonathan seemed to really like being mean to Daryl. Especially in front of his friends. Especially in front of girls. Daryl did not like Jonathan.

“Watcha doin’ tard?” Jonathan asked him, in a mocking tone of voice. Daryl could see that Jonathan was with a couple of the cheerleaders from the high school team. They were really pretty.

“Mowing wawn,” said Daryl, trying to ignore him.

“What?” said Jonathan, unable to hear over the sounds of the mower.

“I MOWING WAWN,” yelled back Daryl, “IT MY JOB. I HAVE JOB NOW!”

“You have a job?” replied Jonathan, disbelievingly, “I didn’t think retards were allowed to have jobs.”

“Yuh,” said Daryl, keeping his eyes ahead of him, watching the lines, up and down, nice and slow. “Dawyl got job now.”

Jonathan yelled a few more things, but Daryl just ignored him. Even a bully couldn’t stop his special day. It was the biggest lawn ever, and Daryl was going to mow it all.

“Hey, TARD! Watch out for that football!” Jonathan yelled.

Suddenly, there was an old leather football, right in front of the mower blades. Daryl flinched. His dad had taught him to brake, or even swerve, if there was a big rock, or a barking dog stood in front of his mower. But this time, it was too late, the mower ran straight over the football, and… and… it totally shredded it!

“Hahaha!” laughed Daryl, “Hahahaha! Hahahah!”

Jonathan looked really mad.

“You can’t stop me Jonafan! Dis Wawnmowew too big! Hahahaha!”

Jonathan stormed off, his two cheerleader girls in tow. Daryl just kept laughing. It was a great day to be alive.

Daryl stopped for sangwiches and mountain dew. His mom said that he had to do that too, but he didn’t mind stopping for lunch. His dad said he had to put on more sunblock, and wear a floppy hat. Daryl hated the hat, but his mom said he would get sunstroke if he didn’t, whatever that was.

After lunch, he had to do the baseball field, and then all the tricky bits around the back of the school, and the sides, and around the flower beds. Those bits were the hard parts, and he had to be really careful, but Daryl knew it was important, if he and his dad were going to get the “contract” away from the mexicans. Daryl hated mexicans.

Once lunch was over, Daryl got back onto his mower. He pulled his floppy hat on to shade his head. It did make it feel less hot. Then, he rode over to the baseball field.

Once he got there, Daryl started to mow again. Up and down. Nice and slow. Avoid the bases, the seats and the light posts. He was just turning around to start the second nice, neat line when he saw them. Fluffies. A whole bunch of fluffies. There was five, no six, no… ten… no… a whole bunch of them. A bunch of fluffies was called a herd. Thats what his dad had called them.

Daryl hated fluffies. He hated the look of them. He hated the sound of them. He hated that they begged for food. He hated that they shat everywhere. He hated running over their poop with the mower, spreading semi-liquid crap all over everything. But mainly he hated the way that they talked. He hated the fact that they sounded like he did.

“Fluffy-Tard!” he could still rememember the other kids at his school calling him, “Fluffy-Tard!” they had taunted him “Are YOU a fluffy? Tard?” they had asked him, “Are you half-fluffy?”, “Is your dad secretly a fluffy?”, “Did your MOM FUCK a fluffy?”

“Fluffy-tard! Fluffy-tard! Fluffy-tard!”

Daryl could still remember the ring of children dancing around him while he sat down and cried, snot dribbling down his nose, until the teacher made them stop.

Later, he could still remember the wide eyed shock his classmates had shown when he took the class fluffy, pregnant with foals, and jumped up and down on her until her bloody babies were strewn across the carpet. The screams of the fluffy mummah. The yelling of the teacher.

Daryl hated fluffies. And now there was a herd. Trying to ruin the best day ever.

“Fwuffies gonna die,” Daryl promised himself.

“Dis am Smawty wand,” the herd leader told the others, beaming with joy at finding so much land for his herd. “Dewe wots of gwassy nummies heaw. Woom fow aww fwuffies. An back hewe, safe-pwace for hide. An hoomins dwop popcorn nummies, and cown dog nummies, an hotdog nummies. An when da dawk tiem, dewe night-wights, jus’ wike in daddah homie.”

The smarty’s herd looked up at him approvingly. There were three mares, all pregnant with his babies, and some with big babies following them already. Some babies were his, others belonged to his toughies. Then there were his toughies, and their mares and babies. Then there were a few nummy finders and old fluffies, who were allowed in the herd so long as they found more food than they ate. One of them had led him here. But the smarty pretended it was his idea all along.

“Hewe am gud pwace fow hewd. Stay hewe wong tiem. Eat nummies. Hab huggies. Sweep in fwuff-piwe. Hab speciaw-huggies. Wots of babbehs. Gwow, up, big an stwong.”

The smarty looked at some of the older fillies. They would be big enough for special huggies too soon. Then smarty would get more gooood feels.

“Sm-smawty!” yelped one of the nummy finders, “Dewe am… metaw munstah!”

“Munsta! Munsta!” squeaked the herd, suddenly afraid.

“Stoopid fwuffy!” scolded the smarty, “Dewe nu am metaw munstah hewe… Dis am smawty wand! Dis am…”

But then he heard it. The growling. The snarling. He looked over his shoulder and saw it, a large, green, metal monster, with a hoomin riding on its back. The hoomin was grinning. It was a mean grin.

“FWUFFIES!” roared the human over the din of the monster’s snarls.

“Wun!” yelped the smarty, shitting himself so hard he almost disembowelled himself. “WUN!”

“Fwuffies GON DIE!” growled Daryl, as the lawnmower inched towards them. It was impossible for the mower to catch a cat or dog. Squirrels and rabbits were far to quick, and even frogs could hop away, most of the time.

But fluffies were different. Fluffies were too slow to run away, even from little kids. His dad said that their short legs meant they couldn’t run very fast. Daryl had short legs too. It meant he was bad at sports. The fluffies and their pathetic little short legs just made him hate them even more.

“Dawyl gonna GET you fwuffies!” he laughed maniacally. “Gonna mush you UP!”

“Wun!” he heard the fluffies cry.

“Quick! Babbehs!” cried one fluffy mummah, “On to mummahs back! Quick!”

Daryl drew closer to them, but most of the herd was running away now. It would be much quicker to get off the mower and kill them all with a shovel. Daryl had done that before. His dad had even helped. But Daryl didn’t want them to die quickly. Daryl wanted them to flee in terror before his mighty engine. Daryl wanted them to shit themselves and cry for their babies. Daryl wanted them to be utterly minced to a fluffy, bloody paste, like the fluffy mummah’s belly had been once he’d finished jumping up and down on her. Only this time, there would be no teachers to tell him off.

“WUN FWUFFIES!” Daryl laughed, “WUN OW DIE!”

“Wu… Whewe wastest babbeh?” the fluffy mummah asked, looking over her shoulder “Wastest babbeh?”

“Mummah!” the lastest baby squealed, flapping its tiny wings and crying its little eyes out as it sat in the sea of grass, the metal monster and its demon rider bearing down on it.

“Wingy-Babbeh!” the fluffy mother said, and started running towards it as fast as her stumpy little legs could carry her. On her back, her other babies cried and wailed and shat themselves, clinging to her back fluff in abject terror as the snarling monster grew closer.

“Mummah! Mummah! Huu huu huu…” the baby wailed.

The fluffy mummah ran as fast as she could “Come on weggies!” she spoke to her legs, “Wun fastew… pwease!”

“Mummah! Mummah! Eeep!”

The fluffy mummah wailed in despair as the metal monster reached down and nummed her baby right up from the grass!

“Hahaha!” laughed the demon hoomin on its back, “YOU BABBEH AM DEAD!”

“NUUUUUUUUUUU!” the mummah wailed again, “NUUUUUUUUU!”

The metal monster just kept on growling, and pooped out a mixture of grass and blood, mixed with the bright blue fluff of her wingy baby.

“HAHAHAHA!” laughed the evil hoomin.

Daryl was LOVING it. The fluffies all ran away, but instead of scattering in all different directions, they clung together like a herd of zebra being pursued by lions. It meant chasing them was far easier than it otherwise would have been. The adult fluffies were actually a bit faster than the mower, when they ran as fast as they could. At first, Darly thought he wouldn’t be able to catch them, but then he saw a baby fluffy shrieking for its mummah, and he eviscerated it with the blades of death. Daryl felt a sweet, sweet pleasure in mincing the baby. It made him feel big. It made him feel powerful.

“DIE FWUFFIES!” he laughed again, his jowls flapping in the breeze. “DIEEEEE!”

Daryl realised that he could catch the baby fluffies, the older fluffies, and those fluffies unfortunate enough only to have three legs. First, he caught some of the bigger babies, too old and too big to ride on their mother’s backs, but loved enough to make their mummahs weep and wail as his mower turned them into chunks of gore which it shat out of its rear end.

“Babbehs! NuuuU!” the mummahs screamed in terror and emotional agony.

“Hahahah!” he simply laughed, “Hahahah!”

Later, he caught an older fluffy, too quickly tired from all the running. Then, he caught a three legged fluffy, unable to keep up with the herd. Every so often, a tiny baby would fall from its mother’s back. Sometimes, the mother would manage to pick the baby up again, but quite often it was too late. The mower would “num” the baby, often right in front of the begging mother, before she would turn and run away, with her remaining babies, wailing in terror.

Then, he caught a soon-mummah, fat with tummy-babies, too tired to run any more.

“Nuuu!” cried a nearby stallion, “Speciaw-fwiend! Babbehs!”

The mower stuttered for a half-second, before it ripped the pregnant mare into a hundred different pieces. Blood and gore erupted from its rear end, the grass mixed crimson with bone and guts and fluff. Daryl put his hand into the spray, feeling the warm blood splatter onto his flesh.

“Hahahha!” he laughed, “Hahahah!”

“Well Lou, lets see how your boy is doing,” said the principal, holding up his binoculars to his eyes, “He should be near about done with the baseball field by now.”

“I told you he’d do a good job,” Daryls father said, before he noticed the look on the principal’s face.

“What?” he asked, “What is it?”

“Oh my god Lou…” the principal began, “We’d better head over there. Right now.”

“Hahahahahaahah!” laughed Daryl, his face covered in blood. “DIE FWUFFIES! DIEEEEEE!”

The fluffies had ran and ran. At first, he was afraid that they would run straight for the trees, meaning most of them would have escaped. But instead, they ran aimlessly and in circles, all over the baseball field, stopping to quake and shit themselves with fear, or running back to save a “bestest-babbeh!” or “lastest-babbeh!”

At one point, they had tried hiding under the seating, where Daryl couldn’t get them. But as Daryl drew closer, his shouting and the roar of the engine had scared them so badly that they broke cover, fleeing the one safe place they had, and leading him in a merry chase, all over the field. Daryl pursued them in circles, mowing a pattern of red-gory death all over the field. Daryl liked this pattern much more than the lines he normally mowed.

By now, the fluffies were tiring. They could only run for so long, without becoming exhausted. Daryl on the other hand, had plenty of gas, and the mower never tired. One by one, he caught up with them all, turning them onto fluffy paste. One of them, he just half caught, ripping off its back legs and half of its ass and belly, leaving it crawling away with its guts hanging out. Daryl found that especially hilarious.

Now he was bearing down on a Blue Unicorn with a purple mane. It had been yelling at the other fluffies, and Daryl was sure it must be the “smarty”. With it were two pregnant mares, exhausted from running. They simply lay down to die.

“Nuuu! Dummeh-mawe! Mus get up and wun fwum metaw-munstah! Sabe babbehs! Sabe tummeh-babbehs!” the smarty yelled.

But the mare just lay there, exhausted and panting. She could do nothing as the mower devoured her.

“Hahaha!” cried Daryl.

“SPECIAW-FWIEND!” cried the smarty.

Now, there were just a few fluffies left. So few in fact, that self-preservation took over, and they all ran in different directions, instead of herding together. Daryl decided to chase after the smarty.

To be fair to the smarty, he could run faster than the others. Daryl chased him, and though he nearly got away, eventually Daryl cornered him, close to one of the boundary walls.

“Nuuu! Munstah! Pwease nu kiww smawty! Am onwy wittew fwuffy!”

Daryl closed in for the kill, and then, disaster struck. The mower made a metal grinding noise, and the sound of metal snapping made Daryl realise he must have run something over. Something bad. Then, he saw the hose trailing out from underneath the mower. He must have run over a sprinkler! The damn fluffy had led him into a trap!

“Hahah!” shouted the fluffy, “Metaw-munstah nu wike num metal fingy!”

Daryl just growled, and got off of the mower, leaving the enging running, even as the mower blades clattered and ground against the mangled sprinkler. The fluffy was going to pay for what it had done.

“Wha? Nu! Hoomin! Pwease! Nu huwt fwuffy! Nu huwt! Nuuuuu! Bad upsies!”

The smarty begged him to stop as Daryl lifted him above his head, took a tight hold of the fluffies balls, and ripped them clean from his body, before executing a perfect backbreaker wrestling throw, snapping the fluffy’s spine on his knee. It was glorious.

“SCREEEEEEEEE!” the fluffy wailed, before its back was snapped in half.

Daryl just stood there, panting. His fluffy murder spree now at an end. His mower was ruined, his face covered in gore, and his left hand held all the smarties dreams of land, love and babies, in two lumps of bleeding flesh.

“Huu huu huu…” wept the fluffy, “Speciaw WUMPS!”

“What in the DARNATION are you doin’ boy?” asked the principal, looking absolutely furious.

Daryl turned to face him. He saw his father stood behind him, looking no less furious.

“DAWYL KIWW FWUFFIES!” he roared, before he strangled the smarty to death.

Link to Index of Hornlarry Stories


in the title
preferably on both of your posts


Again no name


Are you saying I should add - By Hornlarry - in the title?




OK - still figuring this site out, its different from the Booru. I’ll upload one more story tonight


Most go through this. Btw, welcome back to the fandom and welcome to the community!


Oof, poor Daryl having that racist father.


Oh shit, you’re the @Hornlarry ?
We have so many uploads to put back into your possession.
Welcome to FluffyCommunity
It’s really different from Fluffybooru, but we’re working to make this a place worthy of sticking around in.


Dude, this is fucking epic.

I’ve enjoyed a lot this tale of rage and menial work woe

1 Like

Yup, I’m the Hornlarry. Do you have an archive of my stories then? I have about 50% of them I think. The rest might have died with my old hard disk, and I never bothered to download copies of the from the Booru


We’ve got quite a bit of your work archived. I’ll start putting a file together with what I’ve got on hand. Other archivists may have pieces that I do not. We’ll get those to you ASAP.


Half expected him to eat the balls at the end. xD

1 Like




My god, I can’t believe I missed this. I know you haven’t been around in a while, Hornlarry, but I just wanted to reiterate how much I love your writing. You have a real talent for this and this story was spectacular like all of your others that I’ve ready. Amazing job, as always!

Lawnmower man did nothing wrong! The principal should have thanked him for dealing with the herd, and for no extra cost.