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My Experience with Fluffies

When fluffies first got out of the labs thanks to PETA, the first signs were relatively subtle. Eventually, shit hit the fan when the little things spread across North America. Because it was cold up here in New England at the time, fluffies first got in when Spring came. The first signs I saw in my yard up in the woods of New Hampshire were unsubtle, but just made me assume wild animals came in during the night. Random piles of crap in the backyard. Patches of missing grass. The occasional skeletons or rotting carcasses of foals. And the rare straggler that I didn’t really pay any attention to because it was on the opposite side from me in the yard. Eventually, these signs became more and more frequent as time went on, becoming more and more noticeable.

At one point, everything came to a head when a herd strutted up.

I was actually kind of impressed by the smarty’s boastfulness, shouting to his herd of thirty-something fluffies that they had found new land. That land being my backyard. Complete with a barn, a chicken pen and coop, an empty, overgrown horse paddock, a large sandbox with a large play set I used to use when I was a kid, a couple gardens, one with blooming foxglove, a mound of sand, an enormous sugar maple tree, a large bonfire pit, and a campfire pit with sticks on it piled into a mound. I didn’t mind their presence at first, but I obviously didn’t want these creatures in my yard. Given the amount of green in my yard, these colorful creatures stuck out like a sore thumb.

Getting the smarty’s attention, I tried to tell them to get out of my yard since it was MY land, not his and the herd’s. But he insisted, puffing up his cheeks and telling me to leave or I would get ‘sorry poopies’. After much conversation on my end, I relented, saying that he and his herd could stay in my yard as long as they did not touch the sandbox or garden. If they touched any of those, they would be given a warning. If they did it again, there would be consequences. The smarty (I called him Genghis in my head) seemed satisfied with my answer and told his herd to make a nest, but I guess my rules didn’t quite get though to him or the rest of his herd, because as I was climbing up the play set to observe the herd and it’s activities, I caught one of the toughies (I called them soldiers) snacking on the foxglove. Seeing this, I jumped down and made a loud, fake ‘AH HEM’ noise to alert the entire herd. The smarty got the herd together, with the toughie that ate the foxglove noticeably lagging behind.

With the herd gathered, I reminded them that if they touched any of the gardens or the sandbox, there would be a warning. The smarty didn’t believe me, walking right up to me and started stepping on my feet. I was wearing flip-flops, so I was expecting pain. Instead, all I got was the equivalent of a toddler trying to fight a blue whale. I felt absolutely nothing. I shooed him away, got a large blue horse ball with a handle, and lobbed it at the herd. It landed right next to them with the first bounce, coming to a rest behind them. It was kind of amusing seeing the fluffies closest to where the ball first landed crap themselves, but I resisted the urge to laugh. With that, I told the herd that if it or its leader misbehaved again, I wouldn’t miss. The smarty went into battle mode when I said that, turning around, lifting his tail, and sprayed a stream of liquid shit at me. I just barely got out of the way, but the sugar maple tree got the brunt of the dung fu as a result.

And no one messes with that tree. No one.

Seeing the shit-stained leaves and bark, I got pissed. I got that ball again and threw it right at the smarty. That ball hit him dead on, and since I didn’t realize how fragile fluffies were at the time, it completely crushed his skull and upper body, leaving behind a red paste on the ground and the ball. The herd immediately went into a panic, scattering in the opposite direction of the dead smarty and me. Not realizing the damage I had done to the poor bastard, I started going ham on the rest of the herd with that ball, tossing it to and fro, demolishing fluffies and their foals with every impact. I even got up close and personal with some of them, crushing skulls underfoot, punching heads right off the body, and kicking them into the metal bars of the empty paddock. While I just call it going ham, I’m entirely sure that some people, mostly teenagers, would call what I had done going sicko mode. I’m sure this massacre took about ten minutes until my rage subsided, with some of the breeder stallions and their mares escaping into the woods along with some foals, never to return.

I later found the toughie that ate the foxglove laying dead in the paddock about an hour later, foaming at the mouth and steadily leaking shit. While nowadays I mostly beat the everloving shit out of fluffies that deserve what’s coming to them, that experience was my first taste of fluffies and their immense fragility.


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Anonymous1: When in doubt, just use enough barb wire to make the Maginot line look like a joke by comparison.

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Veej: Plant enough foxglove around your house & it would create an anti-fluffy barrier.
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Theotherguy121: I would have pursued the survivors into the woods and slammed them against the trees.
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Anonymous2: I would have excavated a small bunker for the ponies to rest