ANOTHER GODDAMN CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE THING
FLUFFY NOT-BREEDER MAN GUY PART XII:
Good, whatever hit you last time appears to have passed. You look at your fluffies and immediately recognize them as:
ORANGE: Colt. Pink. Unicorn. Hungry. Missing a 1" square patch of fluff on his back and his entire penis. He's been cathetered, and his catheter bag is taped to his back on his baldspot. Sitting in the saferoom staring in disbelief at you. Is shocked you'd be so mean. But hey, he's cool with his brother now!
PINKY: Colt. Orange. Unicorn. Very hungry as he did not eat yesterday nor today yet. Down a left hindleg, both testicles and paralyzed from the neck down, but hooked to a bitchin' RC Car body that can go forward and steer. Also missing a patch of fur. Sitting in the saferoom staring in disbelief at you. Is shocked you'd be so mean.
You've just revealed that you've been fucking with them with the whole ghost car thing, and are looking to make it up to them.
"Look, I'm sorry, I went too far. How can I make it up to you?"
Orange looks at you and says ".....hookews?"
"OK, first I'm curious where you learned that word. You're only a few days old. But beyond that, no. Not only does it break one of the rules — no special huggies — it wouldn't matter anyway. Your dick is completely missing, his doesn't work, and he's paralyzed besides. So while I appreciate that you're helping out, that's a big ol' no, buddy."
Pinky's stomach rumbles. "...Sketties?"
"That's a good idea, Pinky! And since I'm making it up to you guys, no wrestling needed today! You both get fed!"
"And I'm gonna make 'em extra special!"
"Uh oh," Pinky says.
Whoa, you had no idea these things could pick up on patterns so well. There goes the plan of spiking it with molly to get them to love you again and laxatives, just because. Time for plan b.
"No, I promise! These are going to be great! Not only will it be spaghetti, it'll be deep-fried for that extra deliciousness! And same with the meatballs, sauce and cheese!"
"YAAAAY" Orange says. Sounds like you've won him over.
"An' nu twicks? Nu meatbawws made of bwuddahs and sissies?"
"Shit, Pinky, damn, give me some credit. I promise, I have not made you guys eat any fluffies, jeez. Besides, crows already ate your siblings."
"Ah, shit, shouldn'ta mentioned that part. I mean, your sibs are in Skettiland. Which, to be clear, is 100% separate and has nothing to do with the sketti you're about to get."
"Skettiwand? Yaaay!" Orange is the easiest to fool. But surprisingly, Pinky seems to have bought it as well. You're just that smooth.
You've been experimenting with your Fry Daddy recently, and you've got a pretty good recipe for beer-batter if you don't say so yourself. (Because while you're narrating every friggin' thing you do, you do it INSIDE your head because you're not nutty, after all.)
So, you go to work — first you cook the spaghetti noodles, spoon them out into appropriate serving sizes, batter 'em, and deep fry 'em in the Fry Daddy. Next, you make the meatballs — a mix of seasoning, beef and Jimmy Dean sausage — cook them fully, batter 'em, fry 'em and throw 'em on top.
You've had sauce in the freezer since the last time you made a big batch, and take two bags out. One for you, and one you'll slice in two for the fluffies' portions. Batter the frozen sauce, dump in the Fry Daddy, and fish out when it looks done. You figure by now the sauce inside the batter is probably thawed by now.
Finally, you cut a few slices of paremsean off the block of the fresh stuff you had in your fridge, batter it, fry it, slap it on top, sorta like a square mozzarella stick, only not a stick and not mozzarella.
It actually looks pretty good if you do say so yourself. (You feel your heart shudder. Probably unrelated.)
"Food's ready guys!"
As you carry the spaghetti to the boys, you notice out the window that it's dark now. Shit, that took longer than you expected. Pinky hasn't eaten in two days and Orange only last ate yesterday morning. Well, this will certainly fill 'em up!
You walk into the saferoom and put the bowls down in front of the foals. "Dig in, boys! And, while I'm thinking about it, let me get a ramp for you, Pinky, so you can drive up into the litter box."
"Tank yu, daddeh!!" the foals say in unison and start eating. Such polite fluffies! Maybe you should lay off 'em for a while.
As they start chomping and from the sounds of it, really enjoying the fried sketti, you find an old board and put it up to the litterbox. Good thing Pinky's a unicorn, otherwise he might use the ramp to try some sick jumps to "fwy."
You realize that would have been awesome and make yourself sad.
After that, you go and have your portion of the dinner. Jesus christ, this IS good. You mix everything up with your knife, and sure enough, the cheese has gotten a bit melted (not that parmesan is a super-melty cheese by nature) and the sauce is fully liquified inside the pocket of batter. It's lovely, and you dig in, and once you're done, clean things up, getting rid of the spent oil.
You walk back into the saferoom and see the foals have stuffed themselves. Orange has a distended belly and Pinky is sitting at a strange angle on the RC car body, presumably because he's also got a distended belly. But thankfully, it doesn't seem to be pulling at his sutures, so he's fine.
Suddenly.... your guts start to burble. Oh, dang, too much fried food. Oh well, nothing the bathroom won't solve... RIGHT NOW.
You run to the bathroom and while there will be no further details given, everything worked out a-OK. But you hear something from the saferoom.
* * *
"POOPIES!! POOPIES!! BIGGEST POOPIES!!!" Orange yells and starts waddling as fast as he can to the litterbox.
"NU! BIGGEW POOPIES!!" Pinky yells and smashes his face into the wheel to go at full speed at the litterbox. Pinky, thanks to the wheels, has the speed advantage... but too much of one. He tears up the ramp, launches himself over the litter box and smashes his front wheels into the wall.
Aside from the jolt, he's fine — though he's slammed ass-end deep into the litter. He can't hold it, and shits with great force.
Unfortunately, the force of his oil-shits sprays litter out of the box and into Orange's eyes.
"SCREEEE!!! SEE PWACES HUWTIES!!!"
And with that, Orange is blinded, and runs off in the opposite direction of the litterbox. He runs as fast as he can into the other wall, bops himself against the wall and, though he doesn't derp himself, does knock himself out. After all, he was running at a top speed of .75 mph and all.
As Orange goes down, he lets forth a torrent, which forms a spray of greasy diarrhea a foot and a half out from his asshole.
"daddeh.... daddeh...." Pinky gasps.
* * *
"Damn, that was totally worth it," you say as you head out of the bathroom. You notice that the foals seem awfully quiet.
You pop your head into the saferoom and survey the scene.
"Well, Pinky, you're a good boy, and you made poopies in the litterbox! Good boy!"
Pinky attempts to wag his tail, but it's buried in the shit and litter.
"But uh, next time, try to keep the litter IN the box, okay?"
You look over. "ORANGE! What is this! You made BAD POOPIES! Orange! Orange?"
The pink foal is still passed out, so you walk over and shake him until he stirs."
"Owange.... hab... huwties... gib... huggies?"
He looks up at you with sad, red eyes.
"No, Orange, huggies are for GOOD fluffies. Look at this!" You turn his body around to see the spray of shit.
"YOU MADE BAD POOPIES."
"Nuu! Owange nu mean tu! Had see-pwace hurties!"
"Oh, so your eyes hurt, so you thought, 'oh, i'll just shit all over the floor, that totally makes sense.' Yeah, I don't care. Time for your punishment."
WHAT HAPPENS TO ORANGE?
Your fluffies are:
ORANGE: Colt. Pink. Unicorn. Missing a 1" square patch of fluff on his back and his entire penis. He's been cathetered, and his catheter bag is taped to his back on his baldspot. Is staring at his bad poopies in horror.
PINKY: Colt. Orange. Unicorn. Very hungry as he did not eat yesterday nor today yet. Down a left hindleg, both testicles and paralyzed from the neck down, but hooked to a bitchin' RC Car body that can go forward and steer. Also missing a patch of fur. Still lodged in the litterbox, looking upward while his rear is deep in a mixture of sand and his own shit. Still softly calling out "Daddeh?"