death decapitation neutral police shit tagme text title:the_fuzz


Disclaimer: First time ever writing about these things, so if I fuck up some common trope, well, it’s either because I’m new to this or I changed it on purpose. In the canon of this particular story, the Hasbio incident occurred in 1988 and fluffies have existed until present day, 31 years later. I wanted to write something that involved them having been around for a long time without trying to make something futuristic/speculative. This’ll be a multi-part thing, if I can help it. Please enjoy.
“No matter how many times I walk into this building, I’m always surprised at how it feels even colder inside than it does outside.”
Detective Michael York, a tall white man with fine black hair and a clean-shaven face, pulled his gloves off and crammed them into his trenchcoat pocket while Detective Willie Olson, his partner, a taller black man with splotches of gray in his thin beard, nodded.
“Well, yeah, what do you expect?” Olson replied. “The rate they pay us, they’re gonna turn up the goddamn heater?”
“Right. But you’d at least think—”
“Yeah, yeah. What you think ain’t what you get. This goddamn place is haunted.”
“No matter how many times you say it, I still agree with it,” said York with a grin playing at his lips. “We are moving in on that fluffy sex dungeon on Fifth today, right?”
Olson opened the door to their shared office and, as he stepped in, looked gormlessly at his partner. “Can I at least get some coffee in me before we talk about that shit?”
“I figured you’d want the coffee afterwards,” York replied with a smirk. “You’d have less chance of puking.”
Olson grumbled and draped his trenchcoat over a desk chair. “Oh,” he said, “today’s definitely the day we’re supposed to get the new guy in.”
“Damn, I completely forgot about him,” said York. “I’d have picked him up a Hallmark card.”
“I don’t know what’ll make him sick first,” said Olson, taking a tin of coffee out of a cabinet, “the work or your sense of humor.”
York’s mouth stretched into a grin only describable as shit-eating. “I think, today, it’s gonna be the work.”
The building they were in, a shoddy police department on the corner of Marcus and Eastland, gave anyone who knew its history a sense of great unease. It had been a shelter for fluffy ponies until the PCR—Pony Civil Rights--bills passed 15 years ago, in 2004, one of which eliminated all non-government sanctioned fluffy shelters in the country. The shelter was closed and all the fluffies were moved to a newly-opened state-run shelter. A few weeks later, the former owners of the shelter were charged for the making of fluffy gore-porn videos that were traced back to the basement of that very building. The recorded murders, shoddy bootlegs of which were made available on the Internet, came to be known as the Marcus-Eastland killings, serving as a historical pivot point between the former era of rampant pony abuse and a current, more progressive era of trying desperately to curb it.
The place was goddamn haunted.
“You ever wish we got more cases?” asked York. A couple hours had passed in the cold, sterile office, waiting until either the phone rang or it was time to take down the fluffy sex dungeon that evening.
“Don’t fucking jinx it,” replied Olson, nose stuck in a newspaper.
The precinct they covered was a mostly poor subsection of the city. Most folks didn’t own fluffies. Even fewer liked them. When crimes were committed against fluffies, most of the time, it wasn’t called in, and if it was, a strict “no-snitching” policy among residents made the task of gathering evidence and witness corroboration near impossible. People were literally getting away with murder.
The phone—a quaint wired model—rang. Olson lowered his newspaper, gave his partner a dirty look, and answered the phone. “Fluffy Crime Division, this is Detective Olson…”
Olson started scribbling on a notepad next to the phone. “We’re on it. And—hey, you have any clue when the new help’s getting here? …Okay. Fine. We’ll be right down.”
Olson sat the phone down, sighed, and lifted himself off his chair with his long, thin legs. “Down in the slums. Some dumb bastard’s using a decapitated pony head on a stick to ward off ferals from his yard.”
York followed Olson out of the office and down the hall leading to the double front doors. “Is it real?” York asked.
“Officers on the scene confirmed it was. Guy who owns the house took off in his car as soon as he saw someone calling 911 across the street.”
“Right. The officers are trying to track him down, but they probably won’t find him unless we find someone who knows the guy and shake some shit out of ‘em.”
“No plates?”
“I don’t know. Uni didn’t mention any.”
The detectives stepped outside. Both separated immediately to go to their own cars, then stopped and turned to each other.
“We taking your car today?” Olson asked. “Thought you were still having transmission trouble.”
“Yeah, but we can at least listen to the radio in mine.”
“My company not good enough for you these days?”
York just smiled. “Alright, fine. Hell, maybe your old 8-track player will work today.”
Detectives York and Olson pulled up to the residence on Miller Drive in a rundown red Ford pickup from the ‘90s. York had probably never met a bigger cheapskate than Willie Olson, so it was no surprise to him that his partner would still drive something so ancient. And, of course, the 8-track player did not work that day.
“Do they even make tires for this thing anymore?” York asked as Olson shut off the ignition.
“’Course they do,” Olson said. “You’re the one who’s on his second car since we started working together.”
“Wasn’t my fault, man. I don’t know when a suspect’s going to take a pickaxe to my engine. All over a fucking alicorn, too. Not even alicorns’ own mothers like alicorns.”
They walked across the street to the house with the head-on-a-stick jutting out of the ground at an angle. It was as close to the curb as possible.
“Whoever did this wanted to make damn sure it could be seen in advance,” remarked Olson. “Even a little-ass fluffy foal couldn’t miss this thing.”
Detective York pulled a notepad out of his jacket pocket and scribbled some notes on a fresh page. “It already smells,” said York. “It’s not just the regular fluffy shit-musk either, that’s rot.” York would never forget the first time he caught a smell of rotting fluffy. It was somehow worse than dead human, and had this terrible sweetness undercurrent to the smell, like someone mixed durian fruit and cotton candy.
Olson put a hand over his nose to mask the death smell and got closer to the head. It was sky blue with a dark blue mane originally, but the matted blood and effects of decomposition had dulled its fur. The eyes had been chewed out of the skull by maggots, which were also in the animal’s mouth, gnawing its tongue. He examined the stick, noting the blood that had run most of the way down its length was dried. “Must have put it up days ago,” muttered Olson, “even a week.”
“They waited to call this in.”
“Looks like it.”
York put away his pad. “I’m going to take a walk around the neighborhood to talk to these people and see if I can’t find the person who called this in.”
“Let on that they could get in trouble for waiting on calling us. Pressure them with that, but leave them an opening to wiggle out. We still gotta find the guy who did this.”
Olson took a small device out of his coat pocket. It was a scanner with a touchscreen. He ran it over the fluffy head a few times, and it didn’t beep. “Great,” Olson sighed, “it was chipped in the body.”
He continued examining the head, taking a small flashlight out. As he investigated, he muttered to himself, listening to his own thoughts spoken aloud for any signs of inconsistency. “No other signs of abuse… killer may’ve done this spur of the moment. Maybe it was a smarty with a herd… but wait…” He looked around the stick, on the sidewalk outside the man’s home as well as leading up to his front porch. “Just maggots that fell out. No blood or shit or signs of struggle. Killer probably had this head in his house until it started drying out, then jammed it on a stick and took it out here. This may be a kidnap. Rest of the body’s probably in that house somewhere. If there were other ponies, maybe they fled… but normally they shit everywhere when they’re afraid, and I don’t see any traces of feces… did he clean up?”
Meanwhile, Detective York had already knocked two doors, with little assistance from either. Just like any other neighborhood, most folks had seen it all before, and weren’t much interested in what happened to some stray fluffy. “Maybe it took a big ol’ shit in his house,” one person said with a sneer, “and he went nuts. That shit smell, I tell you what, when it’s in, it ain’t ever gonna come out, man. It’s nasty.”
“Thank you for your time,” York replied with a thin smile. The guy slammed the door in his face in response. York had to swallow the urge to kick the door down. As he walked away, a woman ran across the street to speak with him.
“You guys got here fast!” The woman said. She was middle-aged and black, overweight, wearing a black tank top that barely contained her large breasts. “Man gets shot around here, a cop don’t show up for thirty minutes!”
“We have more free time than regular patrol officers, ma’am,” Detective York replied. “I take it you called this in?”
“Yes, sir,” she said proudly, extending her hand for York to shake. “Lana Jones, at your service.”
“Detective Michael York,” he introduced himself, taking her hand in a curt handshake. “Ma’am, did you have a chance to speak with those uniformed officers who were here before us?”
“I must’ve just missed them,” the woman said, shrugging. “They couldn’t have been here long. One of my babies was throwin’ a fit, I had to get it to stop fussin’. Looked out the window and noticed y’all out here. Man, that was fast!”
“Well,” said Detective York with a smirk, “we do try. Is there anything you can tell us about the man who lives at this house?”
“He’s a nice enough fella. Or, I thought he was, before he did this crazy ass shit. Always outside on his porch, sittin’ in a rockin’ chair like an old man, but he can’t be any older than 30, I think.”
“I’ll just cut straight to the point, Ms. Jones. What places do you think this guy would go if he were running away from the police?”
“Now that, sir, I just don’t know. To be honest, I’ve never seen him talk to anyone in the neighborhood neither. He’s a real loner. Doesn’t seem to like being bothered, even though he’s outside all the time.”
York was ready to ask another question when he was interrupted by Detective Olson’s sauntering over. A light whiff of the fluffy’s decay could be smelled on Olson, so York turned his head away slightly. York could tell by the look on Ms. Jones’ face that she could smell it too—her nose had tensed up and her lips tightened like she was trying not to heave. “Hello. Ma’am, I’m Detective Willie Olson, it’s nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” she replied, still frowning because of the terrible scent. She offered her hand to him, but he ignored it.
“I’m gonna be more blunt than my partner here. That head on a stick over there has been sitting out for a week, maybe longer. It’s chock full of bugs. Why did it take so long for you to call this in?”
“Well,” said Lana, putting her hands on her hips, “ain’t that the thanks I get? At least I did call it in!”
Detective Olson gradually closed space between himself and Lana, maintaining eye contact with her. “A guy puts up the severed head of an animal in front of his house, people around here just let it happen? When did you notice this thing?”
“I--I saw it just a couple hours ago—”
“You didn’t leave your house at all between the time this was put up and the time you noticed it?”
“I did, but I didn’t notice it those other times! It ain’t like I’m spying on that guy all the time, you know!”
“Bullshit, ma’am. You could get into a lot of trouble for sitting on this information for as long as you did. The only way you didn’t see this at all is if you and your children stayed in your house for a week. And you have… how many children?”
Lana stared angrily at Olson, her jaw slightly slack. She looked over at York, then back at Olson. “Whatchu tryna say?!”
“I’m saying you’re a liar, ma’am—”
“Motherfucker, I been gone for this last week and just now got back and noticed it!”
“Calm down. If I went to talk to your neighbors, could they corroborate that?”
“The fuck you think, I’m a liar now?! I don’t have to put up with this shit—”
“Wait, wait, ma’am, wait,” York said quickly as Lana turned to walk away. Olson shook his head. He knew he couldn’t really arrest her, but the woman was sure shaken anyway.
York stepped in front of Lana and spoke to her in a calm, easy tone. “I’m sorry, my partner and I are just trying to get this worked out the best we can.”
“And I was trying to help y’all with that, until that stanky asshole started in, talkin’ ‘bout ‘you a fuckin’ liar!’”
“I know, I know. Just… look, all we really need to know is, where would this guy run off to? Ballpark guess.”
A few minutes and a ‘talk to the other neighbors’ later, York and Olson were back in Olson’s pickup, nearing the station with a single number they could call of a bar their suspect liked to frequent.
“Are you starting to think our whole ‘nice cop, asshole cop’ routine isn’t actually netting us any results?” asked York.
“Most of the time, it isn’t. But when it works, it works. These people aren’t gonna be too helpful unless they think they could get in trouble. I’ve talked to too many women like Lara Jones to not know bullshitting when I hear it.”
York yawned. It was just now turning twelve in the morning. “If this bar thing doesn’t pan out, I guess all we can do is let a couple unis stake his house out.”
“If we can keep them out there long enough to catch him. Unis are busy fuckers. If not, we’ll have to hope Lana happens to feel like calling his ass in again.”
York shook his head, his own limited experience casting a shadow of deep doubt. In the three years he had been partnered with Olson in this division, rarely had a fluffy’s murder been solved more than 12 hours after it happened.
“You know that fluffy’s death is only being investigated because the guy decided to make a production out of it, right?” Olson said as he parked across the street from the precinct house. “It’s pretty disgusting. If he just killed the thing and moved on, no one would give a fuck.”
“I know, yeah. That guy’s an idiot.”
When York and Olson walked in, the first sight that greeted them was that of a stout, short, square-headed man with a thick brown mustache sitting in a chair next to their office door. The man spotted them and his face lit up immediately. “You the guys I’m lookin’ for?”
“You the guy they have assigned to us as of today?” Olson asked, knowing already who he was because he recognized him from their picture of him.
The square-headed man with the jovial grin stood and extended his beefy, pink-white hand to Olson. “I’m Vince. It’s good to meet you both!”
“I’m Detective York,” York said, taking his hand first. Olson saw York wince in pain.
“Detective Willie Olson,” Olson said, shaking his hand next. Olson knew right away, from the first handshake, what he and his partner were going to be dealing with for the foreseeable future. “And you are, of course, Detective Vincent Ulrich.”
“That’s a little more formal than I like, but yeah, that’s me.”
Olson opened the office door and walked in as York patted their new partner on the shoulder. “I hope we didn’t keep you waiting too long out here.”
“Eh, I wasn’t there any more’n ten minutes, I’d say,” said Vince. “Anyway, what’s the news? Are we knockin’ over an illegal pet shop today, or what?”
“Actually,” said Detective Olson, “it’s sexual enslavement of possibly up to 20 fluffy ponies in a basement behind a bar on Fifth avenue. We have a few more hours before we move on them, so I’ll get you briefed the best I can in the meantime, not just on today’s bust, but on what we do here and how we do those things.”
Vince sat down in the chair on the opposite side of the table from Olson, and York took the seat next to him. “Okay. No problem. Hit me with your best shot.”
“To start with,” Olson continued, “a lot of detectives who get moved to this detail are moved here because they either got in trouble or their case work wasn’t up to snuff in what’s considered the big leagues. It’s a last chance hotel, and people who sink here have no place else to go. I see from your history at the precinct you’ve committed two assaults on suspects, the last of whom turned out to be innocent and settled out of court with the chief. Now, you probably don’t need me to tell you that’s no good, you’ve heard that whole spiel already, but I will say there’s no chance in hell you’re gonna get anywhere on this detail through physical coercion.”
Vince shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “Okay. Okay, I see.”
“I hope so,” York jumped in. He knew Olson could be slightly intimidating, having sat across from him once just like Ulrich was doing, getting almost the same speech. “These fluffy ponies, they’re very fragile. A solid punch to the jaw like the one you gave Mike Stanson can kill one, and you might laugh, but we’ve had to deal with putting a few of these things through the system.”
“Shit. Through the system?” asked Vince, laughing. “Do they cuff ‘em too? Whatever happened to just taking the bad ones outside and stomping ‘em to death?”
“The United States government happened,” replied Olson dryly. “Exactly how long have you known you were going to be assigned to this division?”
“Exactly? Uh… I don’t know, about three days. Four?”
“And you didn’t research or bother to ask anyone about the kinds of laws that have been passed recently for fluffy ponies? FASA? Or FRIA?”
Vince screwed his face up a bit trying to think. Olson was hating him a little more with every minute they spent in the same room together. “That second one, the FRIA, is that the one where they uh… where—”
Olson didn’t give him a chance to guess. “Fluffy Registration and Identification Act. It’s a bill which states that all fluffies, feral or domestic, have to be chipped, vaccinated, and checked at least once a year for health issues, twice yearly if they live out in the wild.”
“How the hell do they actually do that?” Vince asked.
“It’s not as hard as it sounds. When they’re chipped, they enter a database that allows the state to track them down and give them a mandatory check-up. It’s always the second week of July when it gets started.”
York added, “Because of July 9th. The anniversary of the Hasbio bombing. You know about that one?”
“Sure I do, I’m not retarded!” Ulrich looked back over at Olson. “There must be thousands of the bastards, how do they do it? It’s like Santa Claus delivering all the presents in one night!”
Olson smiled at the metaphor, but his eyes were still hard. “They do what they can. Law’s only been in place a decade, and in a bureaucracy that’s practically a day. And as for FASA, that is the Fluffy Anti-Subjugation Act. You can think of it like a Bill of Rights for fluffies. They can’t be abused, psychologically or physically, by any human or any other fluffy for any reason. Any severe misbehavior on their part, killing their own young, trying to steal, has to be dealt with lawfully.”
“People have to call 911 when a fluffy tries to eat their flower garden?” asked Vince. “The fuck?”
“No, not 911, just one of the nearest fluffy shelters,” Olson said, “or they can run it off their property themselves without committing grievous bodily harm against it. They can use a sorry stick or whatever, but no, for instance, kicking the shit out of it or breaking its hooves.”
“It’s not easy to enforce these laws,” York said. “You’re gonna find that out through experience first week on this job, easy. People still don’t respect fluffies that much, even if they dislike abuse. Most folks are content to look the other way instead of call something in. But when they do call in, try and take it as seriously as you’d take crime against a human.”
“And we have the same expectations of restraint and professionalism as the other divisions,” added Olson. “Meaning, you deal with a fluffy, you treat it like it’s a thing with rights. Don’t just pick it up by its scruff and throw it around like it’s a dirty sweater.”
“I’m not some ape, you guys,” Vince said, his face reddening a bit. “I got mad a couple times and I hit some people. That’s all. Doesn’t mean you’ve got to treat me like I’m a crazy gorilla.”
“Listen, son,” said Olson, “maybe you aren’t as bad as they told us up in the Chief’s office, but if you fuck something up, you don’t just blow what’s left of your career, you fuck up the entire division you’re in. That Mike Stanson fiasco, the Chief and the Captain both had to bend over backwards to keep the heat away from this station. For as long as you’re riding with myself and Detective York, we are keeping you on the shortest leash possible until we’re ready to trust you with any of the delicate work we do.”
“It means you’d better have a nice car,” added York. “You’ll be chauffeuring us a lot.”
Vince shook his head. “Gotta hand it to ya, Olson. You really are everything they said you were back in homicide division.”
Olson cocked an eyebrow. “That supposed to bother me? I’ve heard all that shit before, from smarter guys than you. Now come on, it’s time to debrief you on the bust tonight.”
But before they could get started, there was a sharp knock at the door.
“What?” called Olson.
A uni opened the door. “Detective, we apprehended the suspect in the fluffy beheading incident. Guy isn’t saying a word, though.”
“Figured as much,” said Olson, getting up. The other two detectives stayed seated.
“Should I just go ahead with the debriefing since you’re gonna be busy upstairs for a while?” York asked.
“It’s your case. I was going to let you explain it anyway.” Olson said on the way out the door, leaving York and Vince to stare awkwardly at each other for a couple of moments.
Both of them drank in each others’ appearances. Vince Ulrich was stocky, stout, muscular. He was angular both in the shape of his head and the way his body was decidedly horizontal, all right angles and wide berths wrapped in an ill-fitting tan suit. He seemed, to York, to be the kind of man who made up for his height deficiency with a healthy amount of muscle building.
And then there was Detective York. Thin, gangly, fair-skinned. The kind of guy who might be able to pass as a woman with the right kind of make-up and hair job. York did what he could to make up for his deficiency in physical strength by carrying himself the way a tough guy would, and with his big, heavy overcoat obscuring the truth about his body shape, it usually worked. Ulrich was far from ready to form any kind of opinion on him. He tried to give people the benefit of the doubt, despite what he had heard about them, and while that didn’t work with Olson, maybe it would work with this guy.
“So,” said Ulrich, ending the painful quiet, “we gonna get down to business or what?”
Later that evening, the three detectives were seated in Ulrich’s white SUV, parked down the block from the target of that night’s bust: a bar that contained severely sexually abused fluffies in the basement, used weekly by the sort of sick bastards who were into that. Though he drove them, Ulrich sat in the back so Olson and York could keep watch from the front seats.
“You don’t seem like the SUV type, Detective Ulrich,” said York. “Are you a family man?”
“Nah. Bachelor all the way. The SUV is a hand-me-down from my parents. It’s a piece of shit.”
“27 years old and you’re a bachelor? Shit, man, I’m sorry to hear that. The dating scene isn’t going to get any easier for you.”
“Oh, thanks for the vote of confidence, asshole,” Vince said jokingly.
“How many unis we have at our disposal?” Olson asked. “Just the two?”
“Just the two. But, hey, I think I can see our snitch,” said York, looking through binoculars to get a better look at the miscreants beneath the streetlight near the bar. “He’s the little trembly fucker in the white shirt. God, could he make it more obvious he’s up to something? I’m glad we didn’t waste a wire on the bastard.”
Olson scoffed. “The other guys with him are probably too busy thinking about fluffy snatch to care about someone else.”
“Jesus Christ, man,” Ulrich said. “That’s fucking nasty.”
“It’s the job, Detective Ulrich.”
“Yeah, but did you have to say ‘fluffy snatch?’”
Olson lowered his binoculars and looked at Ulrich, raising an eyebrow. “Now you care about not being vulgar?”
Ulrich opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by York.
“They’re all going in,” said York. “We’re going in too, let the unis know.”
“You sure we aren’t jumping the gun?” Olson asked.
“Trust me.” York opened the door. “The longer we let these guys go, the worse it’ll get for the fluffies. Come on.”
The three hopped out of Ulrich’s SUV and walked down the sidewalk opposite the side of the street the bar was located. It was paramount they made themselves look natural—all three of the men were dressed in pedestrian wear.
“Remember the password?” York asked the other two in a voice just above a whisper.
“Yeah,” replied the other two simultaneously.
The three men crossed the street. A large, burly man, balding but with a ponytail, stood guard at the door wearing a white hoodie with a big pink fluffy on the front. The bar was one of those “fluffy-friendly” establishments that allowed a certain number of ferals to come in as long as they occupied their own space in the building so as not to dirty the main part. Fluffies couldn’t drink alcohol, it was mostly a kindness gesture to allow ferals in off the street during the cold months in a neighborhood where it was hard to find any other place willing or able to take them in. Of course, in the case of this bar, some of the ferals that came in wound up… staying.
“Oodles of noodles,” said Olson. The burly man acknowledged the password and opened the door to the bar for them. The place had closed to the general public an hour ago, unless one was a fluffy or someone looking to use them. 11 pm struck York as an odd time for a bar to close, but it was a weekday.
“Hey, pal,” said Ulrich jovially, “how’s tricks?”
Olson and York gave each other a look as the burly bouncer grunted and shrugged. The detectives entered the club without issue. No one else was in the room except the other man they were supposed to talk to, standing near the door leading to where the non-sexual use fluffies frolicked and played like normal. He was there in case someone came in claiming to own one of the fluffies the bar had taken in. He was also there to guide people to the “downstairs room.”
York, Olson and Ulrich approached the man. “Oodles of noodles,” said York. The man nodded and lead the men to a separate door, a stock room door behind where the bartenders worked.
“You three enjoy yourselves,” the gentleman said, politely opening the door for them. The smell of spaghetti smacked them immediately. York and Olson could already hear slight weeping sounds coming from the bottom of the stairs. York glanced at Ulrich’s face. He was stoic, the usual confident expression gone.
They walked down the stairs. As soon as they were far down enough to view what was happening, Ulrich let out an audible groan of disgust, immediately endangering their cover. There was a row of six men laying face-down on the floor, towels beneath them, their heads propped up with pillows. They were naked from the waist down, and each one of them had a severely malnourished and crudely pillowed fluffy laying behind them with its face in the human’s ass, eating spaghetti-o’s that had been poured into the crevice between the mens’ cheeks.
The fluffies were audibly sobbing, choking, wheezing for air in their tinny, reedy little voices, torn between their desperate need to eat and the equally desperate need for air. One of the men farted and shit audibly into his respective fluffy’s mouth, causing Ulrich to cover his mouth and retch. In the corner were a couple of dead fluffies with sauce and noodles (and in some cases, human shit) around their mouths. At the other side of the narrow room were a group of nine more men with their dicks in their hands, rubbing fiercely, and York and Olson judged by the white cum streaks on the backs of the fluffies eating the spaghetti-o’s that this had been going on for a while. The tip York had gotten about them starting at 11 was evidently wrong.
Some of the men took their eyes away from the show to see the three detectives coming down the stairs. One of them got a good look at Olson and his hand left his dick. “Fuck! Those are cops!”
The detectives pulled their guns as the place descended into pandemonium. A man standing guard at the bottom of the stairs scurried over to the nearest fluffy and yanked it, crying and gasping for air, from its place at the nearest man’s ass. He motioned as if to throw it at the wall, but Ulrich drew his gun directly at the man’s head. Olson glared over at him, debating internally whether or not Ulrich might go through with shooting the man.
“Put it down, motherfucker,” Ulrich growled. The man dropped the fluffy on the floor, and it yelped in pain. “WEGGIES HUWT!” it squeaked, rolling around in its own small blood spatters. The two unis assigned to assist the detectives came running down the stairs. They helped Olson corral the rest of the fluffy predators against the wall as Ulrich arrested the guard and York helped the abused fluffies.
“Poopie sketties nu taste pwetty,” sobbed one of the fluffies as York picked it up and caressed its head to soothe it away from having a full-blown heart attack. It burped up a fetid cocktail of feces and tomato sauce on York’s shirt, gasping and weeping.
Ulrich sat on the porch outside of the bar two hours later. He had been ordered outside right after cuffing the guard, because he threw up all over the bottom of the stairs. The smell of canned spaghetti and shit—both human and fluffy--was too thick for him. Everyone had been carted away who needed carting away and York was finishing up with the investigation in the basement. He heard somebody walk up behind him.
“Today was one of the nastier days,” Olson said, “but you’d better get used to seeing shit like that on this detail.”
“I don’t get it,” said Ulrich. “What were they even getting out of that?”
“Lot of things,” said Olson. “Some of them are just sexually attracted to fluffies. Some of them hate fluffies and get off doing anything they need to do to degrade them. And still more of them just wanted to know what it felt like.”
“What it felt like?”
“To be bigger and stronger than something that can beg for its life, but can’t put them in prison forever like a kid could. These guys aren’t gonna face but maybe 2 years of time, maximum. Some of them might not see any time behind bars, if they get a slick enough lawyer. One of those guys was someone I arrested a while back. They were found with their dick in a bleeding feral’s mouth behind a convenience store at 3 o’clock in the morning. Feral died receiving urgent care, guy got probation for 12 months. Wasn’t even the guy’s first offence.”
Olson put his hand on the detective’s shoulder. “It’s gonna be hard, but you’d better get used to how cheap fluffy lives are. Most folks think they’re equal now, but they aren’t even close.”
It was 2 am and Detective York entered his apartment. He threw his overcoat to the corner next to the door and trudged up to his room, too tired for dinner. There were about three or four hours of sleep to catch, if he was lucky.
At the foot of his bed was a sky-blue bundle with a lime green mane. This was the one-month anniversary of when it had started living here. York nudged it and it stirred.
“Daddeh,” it said with a grin. Its wings started to twitch a bit, but the beast was clearly exhausted.
“Hi, Blue,” York said, then yawned. He had taken to calling the thing Blue as a bit of a tease when he’d first picked it up, and the name wound up sticking, which annoyed him. He mussed the fluffy’s mane a bit. “How was your day?”
“Bwue miss you,” the fluffy said sadly. “Bwue twy an’ stay upsies, bu—”
“It’s fine. Sometimes it’s like that. Today was a long day.”
York laid down in the bed. The fluffy got up shakily and planted itself right at York’s side, nuzzling up. The creature immediately fell back to sleep. York rested his hand on the fluffy’s back, feeling the softness of the fur and being only too aware of the brittle bones just underneath.
“You know,” said York before he drifted off to sleep, “I’d get into a load of trouble if the guys at the office knew I had you here.”
To Be Continued
Uploader Caiman,
Tags death decapitation neutral police shit tagme text title:the_fuzz
Locked No
Parent None
Rating Explicit


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Caiman: Sorry about the formatting, I tried to upload this as .docx and it didn't take so I went with .txt and that worked, but at the expense of my paragraph breaks. First time uploading here, still learning the mechanics.
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Anonymous1: I actually was born in 1988.
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Anonymous2: Outstanding writing