abortion author:deathcap feral feral-herd foal foal_in_a_can foals miscarriage pregnant questionable soon-mummah trapped


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Of Foals and Men Part 2
by Deathcap

You’re Michelle. You’re driving your 5 year old son Benny home from school. He usually just messes around with his friends in the nearby park while you drive from the high school where you work to pick him up. Your husband, Jorge, is out of work after all of his company’s upper management was arrested from being part of a sacrificial sex cult. That shut him up about never being invited to all those private Tuesday night “poker” games.

You turn into your neighborhood and look at Benny through your rear view mirror. He’s bound to be disappointed by the death of his foal… well, assuming Jorge didn’t pussy out like he does when you ask him to kill other pests.

“Hey Benny?”

He looked up from his Nintendo Switch. He placed cotton balls on each joystick so he can feel their softness as he plays. Unlike Jorge, you’ve always found his condition mildly disturbing since you’re 70% sure he gets off on it or something. Still, he insists you let him as to not “alienate” him.


“You, uh, wanna go see Avengers this weekend?”

Benny nodded.

“Ooo, Michael saw it and said it was awesome! Also, I think he was sick so I tried to stay away from him.”

“Well how’d you know? Did he have a cough? I hope strep doesn’t pick back up...”

“Nah, he just kept saying ‘I don’t feel so good’.”

“Huh. I wonder what that’s all about.”


You pull into your driveway and see Jorge sitting on the porch with a deadpan face.

Benny runs ahead inside to do… whatever he does, you suppose. You try to follow him in when Jorge grabs your wrist. You jump from surprise and turn to him.

“So… did you do it?”

Jorge continues to stare through you.

“Uh, honey-”

“D-do we still have the warranty on the microwave?”

“The microwave…?”

You look around to make sure Benny isn’t near and then lower your voice.

“Jesus, I said kill it, not fucking-”

“I didn’t- *sigh* Look, if he asks, it was left in the sun and died. I place it in the terrarium I don’t think he’ll know it’s a bullshit explanation.”

“That makes more sense than ‘it’s living on a farm upstate’. God, he’s gonna be devastated…”

“There’s a baby sitter inside. I told her to tell him they’re going to the park like they do every time she’s here when he walks in the door. Figured the longer he’s gone, the more believable it’ll be that his unattended fluffy got scorched.”

“All right, so what do-”

He raised his finger up indicating for you to stop talking. He goes over to the bush and throws up. Well, it was closer to a dry heave, but still, he was spewing.

“That’s the… 4th time now? I think that’s the last of it.”

You can see that he’s shaking.

“Hey, uh, how about I help you to bed.”

Jorge swallowed.

“Yeah. Bed. That… that’s a good idea.”

Benny and the babysitter waved you goodbye as you helped him in.


It’s 4 PM, but you and your spouse are laying in bed atop the covers. He’s staring up at the ceiling fan trying to keep track of a single blade. You occasionally tell him something that happens at work hoping to prompt a conversation, but he only replies in half hearted mumbles.

You shift yourself so you’re on your side resting your head on your arm.

“So… why the microwave?”

He turns his head towards you slowly and processes his thoughts for a second.

“...it was an accident.”

“What? How?”

His face became puzzled.

“To be 100% honest, I’m not exactly sure myself. My mind was on autopilot while I was talking to myself and ended up nuking the little thing when I went to heat up his food.”

“Christ. Why didn’t you just get a pair of scissors and chop its head off or something? And why were you talking to it?”

“Well, I wasn’t really talking to it, per se… you know what, it’s no big deal. I was careless, that’s all. And Michelle… do you think they know what’s happening when they die?”

You could tell he was trying to deflect your question.

“I don’t know where this is coming from, but probably not. They’re just simply biotoys, I don’t think they’d sell very well if they were prefixed on death. Hence the lack of survival instincts. Though I guess they have some understanding of it once introduced, but the fact that they combine ‘fowevah’ and ‘sweepies’, two concepts preprogrammed into their brains, kinda indicates that they weren’t intended to be around as much death as they are in the wild.”

Jorge was satisfied with the answer. You’d say you’re an “expert” on fluffies, but their innerworkings are pretty simple. Like a computer, you can have a very in depth grasp on all the components and have an explanation for every issue and where it stems, but once you start researching the components of the components, the only one who fully understands iHERE

“But seriously Jorge, why the hell were you talking to it?”

Jorge sighed and sat up.

“I was using it as a little mini-therapist, ok? A man needs someone to talk to sometimes… well, I’d be equally well off with a Furby, but my point still stands.”

You laugh caustically.

“I think ‘stress ball’ would be the better term given its current status.”

Jorge groaned.

“You think this is hilarious, don’t you? You fucking love watching me squirm. It’s like a show for you.”

“I’m sorry, sheesh… lighten up a little, it’s just a toy.”

You get up to go to the bathroom and turn back to face him when you remember something.

“And how the hell did you break it?”


A couple hours passed and you heard the sitter’s car pull up to the driveway. You were in the kitchen preparing a shepards pie for dinner. For the 4th time since your son left, you rehearse with your husband what “happened” to the foal.

“Remember, if he doesn’t come to us immediately, we come to him. He really wants that puppy, so he might try to hide it.”

“Well that’s a bit disturbing to think about. If he killed it and not me, he’d probably stuff it somewhere where it’d stink up the house for weeks.”

“Oh. Oh Christ, we didn’t think this one out, did we? Well, hindsight is 20/20. Anyways, I’ll go into his room to talk to him about… I don’t know, schoolwork I guess. Then, I’ll make mention of his foal and get this whole thing over with. Got it?”

“Got it.”

Benny walks through the door, pushing it open with his elbows while he feels on the inside of his jacket with his hands like he always does.

“Hey hon, I made mac. I know you already ate when you were out, but if you’re still hungry-”

“No thanks. I’m gonna go upstairs and watch TV.”

Your shoulders tensed up and you could tell the same was true for Jorge who was eating dinner. You thought you’d have more time to mentally prepare. Looks like this is it.

“O-oh. Just, uh… just make sure you have bath before bedtime, ok?”

He didn’t respond since he’s clearly fixated on getting upstairs, likely to see his foal.

You sigh and look at Jorge.

“Well… showtime.”


It’s been a couple of minutes according the the clock on the wall that you’ve been fixated on.

Jorge is trying to carefully peer up the stairwell, hoping that Benny will come running out with crocodile tears running down his face.

A few more minutes passed and Jorge stands up.

“Yeah, I think it’s clear that he’s up there panicking or simply doesn't notice. I think it’s in our best interests to take control of things.”

“Alright then. The anticipation was killing me anyways.”

You follow Jorge upstairs and notice he’s ascending rather slowly to try and stall. You reach the top of the staircase and Jorge moves his hand up to knock his door and freezes. He spins around and begins to whisper.

“You do it! I don’t want to be associated with this!”

You match his “whisper yelling” volume.

“Why should I be the bad guy?! You killed it!”

“What the-? Because you told me too! Alright, to hell with it. Rock-paper-scissors for it.”

You play a round, and just like an Iranian who discovered their neighbor is gay, you beat him with rock.

He breathes in, prepared to meet Benny’s watering eyes, and enters. You listen outside for 30 seconds not hearing anything and then jump when he suddenly returns. His face looked like he’s seen a ghost. You both move into your room directly across the hall and shut the door.

“What’s wrong? What happened.”

“It was, uh… there. Alive. Like, the same one.”

“Wait, what?”

“It was there, Michelle! A little foal was running around the terrarium giggling it’s guts out at the ‘fun’ music playing on his iPad’s youtube app.”

“Wait, but I thought- well was it still injured?”

“No, it’s like it just got back up and healed like a saiyan or something.”
“A what?”

“It’s from this old TV show from when I was-”

“Yeah, forget I asked.”

You took an advil… wait, make that 4 advils and tried to think things through.

“Alright… are you trying to fuck with me?”

Jorge was in the bathroom starting to shave. He dropped his razor and turned towards you.

“Michelle, please. If you’re really trying to imply-”

“Look, all I’m saying is, could you have just… imagined that it died? I never saw the body, so maybe-”

“Michonne! It. Was. Dead! I got the bloody microwave plate that I hid in the shed to prove it!”

“Well there it is then, proof! Let’s go make sure, then.”

“Look, you’re not gonna drag me down there at 9 PM-”

“You seem pretty reluctant-”

“Ok, fine! We’ll go to the goddamn shed…”


Jorge mumbled the entire time as you both walked out to the shed in the backyard. You say “shed” but it’s really like a garage without a garage door given its size. It originally had steps that led down about 4.5 feet into the depressed floor, but Jorge did some construction and made a raised floor that’s ground level with wooden supports keeping it up.

He opened the door and walked over to a glass microwave dish that was sitting atop an old dresser under a tarp next to the full appliance which was missing its handle.


He raised the dish and pointed at a little red and blue stain before handing it off to you.

“There’s even singed skin and fluff. But I’m telling you, it was the same fo-”

Jorge stumbled as he tried to leave. He caught on the dresser himself before falling face first into a metal rate.

“Woah. That could’ve been bad.”

You look where he tripped and noticed a loose plank. You bend down and lift it up.

“Honey, look at this… this panel is completely loose.”

“Bet it’s the damn termites again. Surely we’ve got some bug gas bombs around here…”

You notice a glint and attempt to look down but your eyes can’t adjust.

“Damn, I can’t see a thing. Could you turn on the overhead light?”

“Oh, uh, sure.”

He searched his pocket and pulled out a mini MagLite and searched the wall for a light switch. He wiped off some cobwebs that covered it and flicked it on. The light buzzed and illuminated the room.

You look down the hole and notice something with a bit of luster.

“There’s something down there… wait, what the hell?”

You feel the board next to the hole where the first one went and notice that not only is it loose, it’s not even nailed in. The same is next for the next two.

You peer down and see a pile of shiny, cylindrical objects.

“Are those… cans? Jorge, have you been tossing trash down there during barbec- Jorge?”

He was looking down in the hole and smiling. He begins to laugh.


“Now things are starting to make sense. That little…”

“What is it?”

“Help me remove these boards, then you’ll see.”


Jorge refused to tell you what was on the original concrete floor below and somehow managed to convince you to hop down into it. You had to duck down, but it was more comfortable for you than George.

The air was surprisingly hot and moist for a dark area at night yet cool on the concrete itself from the draft. There was an awful smell that you noticed a bit up above but figured it was just musky tools. Jorge picked up one of the objects and tossed it to you.

It looked like…

“A Foal-In-A-Can?”

“Yep. A shit ton of them at that.”

The puzzle began piecing together in your head.

The park which he visits commonly (and is also right next to his school) has a couple of vending machines, one of them being a 75 cent Foal-In-A-Can machine. Based on the few cans that had dead foals in them, he’s been buying and accidentally strangling blue foals and covering it up by hiding the cans here.

While you were thinking over how much money is in his allowance, Jorge was asking himself two questions that have the same answer.



“I’ve found the source of the smell… and where he put the dead foals.”

A bit further back in the underfloor area was a pile of rotting infant fluffies. Jorge carefully steps towards the pile and inspects it. He laughs as he recognizes a familiar foal. He picks and holds it towards you so you can see. It was completely crushed. You’ve seen these things get run over by semi trucks and those weren’t nearly as flat as this one. It was like piece of thin cardboard.

“Ohhh, I remember this one. You know it’s funny. I remember when he was making this little foal run away from his books which he was dropping near it I swore that he was gonna end up killing it. I would’ve intervened, but I figured it’d be an easy way out of the deal. I guess tha- AH!”

He jumped as there was movement from the corner near the pile.

A small, fluffy mass was huddled in a “fluffpile” underneath where the radiator was. A scrawny blue male stirred and looked at you and Jorge with shock. He did an awkward waddle turn to the pile and began speaking to it.

“Fwends! Wakesies! Meanie hoomins am hewe fo giv huwties ‘gain!”

The group all rolled awake. Instantly, a few females started to cry and peeping arose from their backfluff.

“Wha-? EEP! Fwuffy am gud, nu gif huwties ‘gain!”

“Nu!!! Gud mummah am nu fo huwties! Pwease nu gif huwties tu babbeh-eh-ehsss… HUUU!”

“*Gasp* Fwuffies nee sabe soon mummahs an’ babbehs!”

The one that awoke began instructing the herd that they need to hide and they began to feebly wobble towards nothing in particular as if totally unaware that you and your husband noticed them and would’ve still done so from their commotion.

Jorge shines the light at them and they whimper, stop, huddle down, and tightly shut their eyes.

“Oh, shit, it’s just a… would they be called herds? I dunno, but I thought it was like a racoon or something. On the other hand, fuck it’s a herd! How do you think they got down here? Little bastards will tear up the yard...”

You look at the adults- 7 of them, 4 females and 3 males with all the mares either pregnant, carrying foals, or both- and notice a pattern: they’re all blue and have some sort of injury. One stallion appears to be limping, a mare with foals both on her back and in her belly wheezes, and another mare who hasn’t spoken a word appears to be drooling continuously with one eye looking up at the ceiling… or is it the floor? They’re also all scrawny and malnourished.

“I don’t think they ‘got’ down here at all. Looks like some of them didn’t quite die yet so he tossed them down here thinking they’d kick the can eventually. Hell, perhaps he didn’t even know they weren’t dead. See, I told you we should’ve put a lock on the door!”

“Oh. Brutal. And now that you mention it, there seems to be more cans than there are dead foals, so I guess I know what their food source is. Bet you they tried to drink the milk from the bottles until they couldn’t fit. Damn, there has got to be like… what, 70 cans here? 70 cans time half a dollar… well I guess I could see him coming up with that much given he hasn’t spent his allowance.”

One of the stallions, the same malnourished slightly-larger-than-weanling size as the others, becomes less apprehensive and approaches you.

“Am-am yu daddeh’s mummah an’ daddeh’s daddeh? G-gif huggies an’ wuv? Nu huwt mummahs an babbehs?”

“Hey, this one knows us. I assume he talks them through who we are else they’d spill the beans. Does he have a picture of us in his room or something?”

“His iPad, probably. Remember when he kept going around taking pictures with it and said it was for a school project?”

“Ah. Wish I was that clever when I was his age.”

The stallion went back to his group and babbled about how they and their babies were going to get “bestest housie” or some other shit that fluffies instinctively expect from humans. They followed back and gathered around your and Jorge’s legs as if you were the fluffy messiahs.

“Hey, get off-”

“Don’t give them attention, Jorge. They’re not people.”

“Sorry. So what are we going to do about them?”

“I guess just leave them here. They’ll die eventually.”

The fluffies began panicking when they hear this and began trying to stand on their hind legs using your shins to balance. One mare raised a red foal up to you.

“PWEASE NU WEAVE! B-Babbehs wiww have fowevah sweepies! Dewe gun be nu fowevah sweepie nummy babbehs! Pwease, babbbehs am fo’ gif miwkies an wuv, nu fo’ fowevah sweepies! E-eben jus wed babbeh? PWEASE!”

The foal was peeping rapidly from the distress in its mother’s voice and from being raised so high (no more than a foot and a quarter) off the ground in its mother’s shaky marshmallow hooves.


Her starvation from nursing her foals proved to much for her and she lost her footing. The foal she was holding crashed into the concrete. It and it began screeching in pain when the soft ribs and leg bones snap as it hits the cold floor.


A startled dam recoils from the shriek that it recognizes as a baby in pain that needs to be saved and ironicalls tramples it while trying to locate it. The foal’s mother wails and the dam turns towards her waddling to reveal a flattened, tiny red foal.

“B-babbeh? Why b-babbeh nu peepsies nu mowe? Make peepsies fo’ mummah, babbeh!”

“Nu-huu-huu! Nu hab huwties babbeh, soon mummah am sowwy!”


The mare turns to the sobbing dam and squares up to look big and puffs up her cheeks


The tearful mare bucked up her front legs and brought them down on the dam’s belly. She repeated the motion, lifting off of the dams belly each time as if she was trying to fit oversized luggage in the back of car trunk. Her light body made quiet thuds on each impact which was followed by a curse of “meanie” or “bad soon mummah”.

You and Jorge watch awkwardly as the other fluffies are preoccupied with trying to hug your legs.


“Yu am stupi bad MEANIE fwuffy! Hab MEANIE tummeh babbehs! Nu wan meanie babbehs tu huwt GUD babbehs! Ha-tchu!”

“Nu-hu-huu! Speciaw fwend! HEWP! EEP!”

The crowd of fluffies on your legs back off and turns toward the screaming confused. The three males began to notice the scuffle and didn’t seem to react to the phrase instinctively as there are only 3 males and 4 females. Despite the fact that one of them did pump semen into the dam, fluffies only understood “speciaw fwend” as being a singular opposite sexed fluffie that they see as a mate that needs protecting.

The dam is helpless as each blow pushes to the floor and there’s no special friend to protect her vulnerable self.

When one stallion, the grieving mother’s special friend, noticed the crushed red foal and that his mate was giving the perpetrator an impromptu abortion, he let out a sad wail and angrily tried to adjust to a threatening stance.

“BABBEH HAV FOWEVAH SWEEPIES?! NUUUU! Huu, daddeh am ‘spose tu pwotect babbehs, am su widdwe! Am wostest daddeh! Meanie soon mummah gif gud babbeh huwties! Gif meanie soon mummah owies!”

His special friend finishes her assault and waddles off crying so she can console her remaining frightened foals burrowed into her back fluff and try to hug the corpse of the flat red foal dangling from her mouth back to life.

The foal’s father begins biting and tugging on the dams ear, tearing off pieces as if he was tearing off pieces of beef jerky. He begins giving “stompies” to her snout which causes the mare to snort and scream. He tears at everything, her fluff, one of her legs, and her tail which he snaps in his mouth.

The whole scene wasn’t nearly as animalistic as you thought a fluffy fight would be. It was more like stiff stuffed animals awkwardly pulling or pushing at each other while screaming about their injuries and feelings, though in this case the fight was rather one sided.

The stallion moves to the screaming dam’s side and presses down on her abdomen with all of his might. The dam feels what’s happening inside of her and tries to ask the stallion to stop.

“Gib bad meanie tummeh babbehs fowevah sweepies!”


“We should probably go before things get anymore pathet-”


“Aaand that’s our cue.”

“Yeah… not sure if I wanna see this.”

You and Jorge begin to crawl out from the hole in the floor. Jorge, being visibly relieved from the ability to stand up again, looks down the hole where the fluffies are still gathered all crying at the loss of a baby.

“Never thought I’d ever get to play the role of a fluffy Sherlock Holmes. But seriously, what are we gonna do with them?”

“Eh. Do what I said earlier and leave them to starve. They’re just a few fluffies trapped 4 feet under the ground with limited food, way too many mouths to feed with more on the way, and infighting. The problem will fix itself.”

The unoccupied sets of blue mares and stallions tearfully run up to the opening when they realize their only hope for the survival for their precious children is leaving without even speaking a word to them.

“Nu, pwease! Sabe fwuffies an babbehs! O-ow eben jus babbehs! Babbehs am fo’ huggies an’ wuv an’ wun an’ pway a-a-an’ outsies! Nu fo’ be fowevah stuckies! Nu wan babbehs tu go foweva-”

You place down the last loose floorboard back into its starting location while Jorge drags a piece of furniture over the planks, permanently sealing the fluffies’ fates.

You feel no sympathy for their plight, born into a world that hates them yet only wanting to give love to humans, each other, and their precious babies. Every interaction you’ve had with a fluffy recently reflects that. When fluffies started to become common, you would’ve valued them like you would innocent children. I mean afterall, how could something so infantile that speaks be justifiably harmed? But after seeing far to many pregnant dams innards spread across the road or limp foals in mouth of a cat, you valued them as much as something like an opossum, for your sanity’s sake. Though in the past few months where you can find them infesting everywhere, all alike and holding no individual value, you might give more sympathy to an ant.

You turn towards Jorge who looks at the floorboard with a face that tells you he’s beginning to feel the same about fluffies.

“Now… what are we gonna do with Benny?”


- Reply
Deathcap: Aaaaaaaand I forgot to sign in.

Oh well. C'est la vie.
- Reply
Vanguard: Someone better pick up the phone because I fucking called it!

I would have grabbed some pics to show the little tard how he prolonged a biotoy's suffering so when he asks for a puppy again you can throw it in his face and shut down the arguement instantly.
- Reply
Arazur: Honestly I was also wondering if you were writing a story where this kid somehow got one of Foalout4's immortal foals
- Reply
Gardel: 75 cents? the can business went to shit...

BTW these guys are acting way too casual at this, their spergy kid just recreated that scene from the cannibals of The Road but with fluffies and they're okay with that?
- Reply
Arazur: @Gardel: I mean it almost seems like they were kinda expecting this, especially in the first chapter where the dad says the kid would straight up kill a puppy

- Reply
IGotIdeas: Aww shit this brings back memories.

- Reply
Deathcap: @Gardel:

I like to portray fluffies as originally being seen as having lots of worth but quickly devolved into people simply not caring for them at all. Not like a common hatred where every single citizen will go out of their way to hurt them, but they're seen little more than a gnat that buzzes in your ear.

The idea is that they're so common yet die so often that people get desensitized to it. They have to, after all. Imagine seeing them as having the same worth as a human and you watch a group of them die from an extermination effort or teenagers fucking them up on social media. You'd go mad from the constant death and hell that these little artificial creatures endure.

- Reply
Veej: "out of work after all of his company’s upper management was arrested from being part of a sacrificial sex cult"
I hate it when this happens! But I love the time off...

"like an Iranian who discovered their neighbor is gay, you beat him with rock"
hee hee Aloha snackbar!

Good story - imagine the stench in that barn! Phew - looks like Benny may have invented foal jerky with that one that was squashed under a huge book (hopefully not a library book).
- Reply
Fluffus: Fun read. The fluffy garbage herd was surprisingly disturbing!
- Reply
Gardel: @Deathcap: Nah I get you, my themes are similar, "banality of evil" and all that, I'm just saying the kid is a psycho and their parents seem okay with that, not saying they should care about the fluffies themselves.
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