You open up your eyes. It’s another bright-time, and that means it’s time for milkies!
“Mummah! Babbeh hungwy! Nee miwkies!”
Your mummah is still sound asleep, snoring pretty loud for a fluffy. It’s something that makes her different from other fluffies,
and you love her for it. Well, you’d love your mummah for anything, she’s the bestest mummah there is!
“Mummah! Mummah! Nee’ miwkies! Haf wowstest tummeh owwies!”
“Sn- Whu? Oh. Hewwo wastest babbeh. Yu nee’ miwkies?”
Thankfully, you’ve succeeded in rousing your mummah. She rolls over onto her side, and you latch on and start to suckle immediately.
Her miwkies taste icky when she wakes up, but it’s just because she hasn’t eaten any really good nummies yet, so you put up with it.
After her first miwkie pwace is empty, you move onto the next one until you burp.
“Fank yu mummah. Mummah is bestest mummah!”, you exclaim quietly as you nuzzle into her fluff.
It’s true, she really is. She’s got a nice purple fluff, and a deep blue mane. Your fluff is the same color as her mane, which is good,
because you’re a stallion, and stallions with filly colors get bad special huggies from the smarty. That’s what happened to your bruddah.
You don’t like the smarty very much, he has ugly fluff too, it’s a poopie brown with a gray mane and tail.
By this time, everyone has started getting up, and going through the morning rounds. You spend a lot of this time hiding in your mummah’s
fluff, she’s the only one you really trust. All the other fluffies can be really mean in the morning, since there aren’t a lot of nummies
to go around, and it’s hard finding more. You’ve just crawled down your mummah’s fluff to go make poopies near the big nummies bin, when you
see something big walk into the sunlight.
It takes a moment before your eyes adjust so you can see more than just his outline, but when they do, you almost wish they hadn’t. You’re
staring a munstah right in the face. He’s got an angry look, and pieces of metal all over him. There’s also a picture of a dead fluffy, drawn
on his arm, the same one holding a metal bat.
“Hey you dumbfuck fluffies, guess what time it is?”
One of the dummehs in the group speaks up.
“Time fo skettis fwum nice mistah?”
“Nope, wrong answer, Shitlord.”
“SHITWOWD WUV NYU N-” *SPLAT*
The meanie munsta brought his bat down, right onto Shitlord’s head! There’s boo-boo juice splattered everywhere, along with some mushy bits.
His body clenches, then fires a ton of scaredy poopies. Everyone else in the herd quickly follows suit, engaging the munsta in nasal warfare.
“Who wants to go next?”
You panick. You don’t want to take the forever sleepies like Shitlord! You run underneath the big nummies bin, and hug your tail. You’re near
the edge of the bin, so you get a clear view of everyone else running, hiding, screaming, making scaredy poopies, and taking forever sleepies.
The munsta keeps on hitting more and more fluffies. What he can't hit, he yells at, and he even made sorry poopies on one of the pretty mares!
It feels as though you’ve been hiding and hugging your tail for a forever, when it all finally calms down. The munsta steps back, and admires
the grisly scene he's created. Looking at the devastation all around, you can’t take it anymore. You make sicky-wawas and start to huu-huu.
“Sniff… Huu… Pwease mistah munsta, weave nice fwuffies awone… fwuffies do nuffin' wong…”
You quickly realize your mistake, when you see the munsta’s face right in front of you.
“Oh, sweet! My favorite, a sad foal! C’mere, you little bugger”
He reaches out at you with his not hoofsie, but accidentally hits part of the nummies bin, giving you just enough time to run away.
Right into the wall.
Oh, god… your head. It feels as if you got hit with a train, truck and racecar all at the same time. You raise your hands to your temples,
and begin to rub. The headache is starting to go away, but… something’s not right. You pull your hands away from your head and open your eyes
to look at them. What? These aren’t hands. These are tiny hooves. On top of that, they’re not even GOOD hooves, they’re only as hard as a
callous. Regular hooves are supposed to be tough and hard, and they go on horses, not humans.
“Eugh… What happen to fwuffy?”
The moment the words leave your mouth, you cover it with your hooves. Was that you talking? Why are you so bad at it? Why is your mouth fuzzy?
What’s going on? You stand up, and look at your body the best you can. You’re a tiny blue horse, underneath a dumpster, with a headache. Someone
has some explaining to do. Racking your brain for an answer, you remember what you called yourself earlier. Fluffy? Was that it? Are you a fluffy?
That doesn’t make sense. Fluffies are dumb, and can hardly even speak, let alone think. Oh, god… Why does your head hurt so much?
Taking a look at the wall, you can see a small spot of blood spattered onto it. Right on cue, a drop of blood rolls down your face
and off your nose. You suppose you hit your head off that wall, but why would that make you think like a human? Just thinking about it is making
your head spin. Or maybe that’s the concussion. Either way, you need help.
You turn around from the wall, and start on your way out of the dumpster. Walking on all fours feels alien to you, now that your brain is wired
like that of a human’s. You stumble and trip a couple times, but just get back up, and continue your journey. It's not helping that your vision
likes to double up and defocus at random. Again, probably the self-imposed concussion. You hope.
“Babbeh? BABBEH! WASTEST BABBEH COME TU MUMMAH! GIF BABBEH HUGGIES TO STOP OWWIES!”
After reaching the edge of the dumpster, you hear a very concerned fluffy shouting at you. You get one whiff of her scent, and feel immediately
relaxed, and why wouldn’t you, she’s your mother. Wait, how’d you come to that conclusion? Do you still have some leftover instinct? Forgetting
about that for now, you run into the… arms? Fuck it, that’s what you’re calling the forelegs. You run into the warm, soft and loving arms of your mother.
Her arms wrapped around you make you feel whole, and happy, but only for a moment. Then the pounding in your head takes you out of the moment. This overrated
headache's really starting to piss you off.
“Babbeh mus be hungwy, haf bestest mummah miwkies.”
Your mother takes you and plops you down near her side, then rolls over, giving you some full-frontal crotch-boob. You sit there, staring down
her breasts, as your instincts tell you to hurry up and drink, where your conscious mind is in full denial of the action. Your lack of haste seems to be
getting on your mother's nerves. In this case, as little as you want to, you have to drink her milk, since your mouth has a severe lack of teeth.
You steel yourself, as you open up, and clamp onto her nipple. An experimental suckle sends milk squirting into your mouth. It tastes horrible, seeing as
she’s only eaten trash all her life, but you put up with it. After all, that’s all you’re getting to eat. Satiated, but with the taste of putrid leftovers
in your mouth, you crawl into your mother’s back fluff, and pass out.
“...’s a lot of fucking flu…”
“...know, we’re gonna hav…”
You’re awakened by voices, and look up to see two men standing by your alleyway wearing sanitation clothes. A quick look around reveals that
you’re the only one that’s currently awake, so you pretend not to be, to keep safe.
“Well, if we’re gonna clear them out, let’s wait until tomorrow afternoon.”
“What? Why don’t we just kill them all now? It’d be so much easier, they’re all asleep.”
“Look, I’m fucking tired. Last thing I want is to be covered in shit listening to tiny retard horses cry about “hurties”.”
“Hmm… I guess you’ve got a point. I’m not exactly eager to deal with their bullshit either. Tomorrow afternoon it is, bring the weed whacker.”
The men walk away, chuckling. You know what a weed whacker is, what their plans are, and you’re not having any of it. Hopping down from the sleeping fluffy
you were perched upon, you start to walk off in search of somewhere safer, when your stomach growls. It’s then that it occurs to you, if you’re going
to have any chance of survival out there, you can’t be alone. With a grimace, you look over your shoulder at the other fluffies, and begin plodding back.
Survival’s hard enough without a rag-tag group of retarded horses, but you’ve got no choice.