"Well hello fluffos!"
YAY NICE MISTAH!
GUD MOWNIN NICE MISTAH!
"How you guys doing today?"
Tim is the owner of this small fluffy store. At just 23 years-old he managed to put this together with the help of a bank loan and using his college fund.
"Hey Misty! you finally had your foals!"
Yus mistah! - the mare responded. All the fluffies called him by this name since Tim learned that letting them call him 'daddeh' could mess up their imprinting features and cause separation anxiety when they are sold. These are the early days of amateur fluffy bredding so most of the knowledge comes from forums, rumors and some leaked Hasbio manuals from their production installations.
Am mummah nao! hav 1 pointy babbeh, 1 wingie babbeh and 2 earf babbehs!
"Very good Misty! remember to feed them!"
Yus mistah! aww babbehs jus hav miwkies!
Tim went to the next pen, inside was another mare, this one with older foals who were about to be weaned.
"Hello Lilly, hows the gang?"
Hewwo nice mistah! babbehs am gwowin big an' stwong! am awmost weady fo' kibbwe nummies!
"Good to know!......and what about....you know" -he said as he pointed towards Tomato, a red unicorn colt with a green tail and the beginning of a green mane, hence the name.
NU WAN KIBBWE NUMMIES! WAN MIWKIES!
Nuh be bad babbeh! nice mistah sez u mus' eat kibbwe! nu gwow big an' stwong wike sissies and bruddahs! -said another foal, a pink eathie filly with a white tail.
NU NU! WAN MIWKIES! HUUUHU!
"Come on Tomato don't be like that"
At this Tomato began to puff his tiny cheeks. Even though Tim was still learning the ropes of fluffy breeding he knew what this meant. After all Tomato had been a difficult foal since day one. But given the still high prices of fluffies at the time he couldn't just give up on the foal.
As the foal kept his smarty stance Tim decided to stop it before it got worse.
".....you don't want to get the sorry box again do you?"
*PFFFF* - was the sound of the air coming out of the foal's mouth as his cheeks deflated.
"Good, now go and try the kibble, its not that bad"
Come on bwuddah! am gud nummies! - said another colt, a blue pegasus
Is not that the sorry box was really that bad, just an old nike sneakers box, but with a consistent approach Tim's had managed to little by little de-smartify Tomato and turn him into a foal that could be sold and go to a good home.
And it did: 2 weeks after being moved into the weaned foals' pen Tomato's new positive attitude got him a new daddeh, a 10 year old kid called Mauricio. He would still bring Tomato some times to the store to buy new toys and he would visit his mummah Lilly and meet his new brothers and sisters.
Truth is Tim loved fluffies, he was 18 when they were launched and was instantly fascinated by the little biotoys. He considered them to be a true wonder of the future, living plush toys, always happy and playful. Even their limited speech patterns seemed amazing to him. Sure the initial high prices meant that the only way he could even interact with fluffies was by getting a job at an official Hasbio store, which he did. And even though he could barely even touch the things since they were both fragile and incredibly expensive he still enjoyed every minute there.
However his big shot came when Hasbio's installation 04 in Georgia went haywire and all the fluffies got out. The moment the first bootleg fluffies began to show up for sale on the dark web Tim cashed out all his saving and bought enough bitcoin to get a pair. He met with a guy on an empty parking lot. In hindsight Tim was very stupid since that guy might as well have knifed him, but as it turns out despite his shady appearance he was good on his word: off the back of his pickup truck was a plastic dog carrier and inside were two fluffies, a gray pegasus stallion and a pink earthie mare, both young and barely out of foal stage, same as the pictures he saw on the marketplace.
He first started in his garage but as time went on and sales of foals became less restricted as Hasbio went down in flames Tim was able to raise enough cash to buy more fluffies for his breeding operation and eventually could convince the local bank and get a loan to set up his own fluffy store. While his dad was not exactly okay with Tim deciding to stay in the fluffy business instead of getting a proper career his mom seeing all the news about fluffy entrepreneurs going from rags to riches supported her son's idea.
"Well now is time to check on Barry and Jack" said Tim. They were his two studs, a black pegasus and an orange eathie.
"Fellas! how you doing today?"
Hewwo nice mistah! am vewy gud-
Waking up in a shabby apartment in the bad part of town was Tim, now 36 years old.
"Huh, another trip down memory lane..." -he said to himself as he got out of bed.
Good times don't last forever, and while Tim got pretty early into the fluffy biz he was at the same time too late to adapt to the changing market trends. It all began when the first industrial-scale operations went online, flooding the market with all kinds of fluffies. After this prices spiraled down. Sure, the abundance of garage breeders and even the odd (at the time) fluffy mill before that did impact the prices negatively but not like industrial breeders did. Almost overnight prices crashed, the price of a foal went from the mid hundreds into the tens of dollars, sometimes even less.
Tim wasn't dumb, his mistake was having a heart.
Fluffies were becoming a commodity, not pets but toys. These new mass production facilities were nothing like Tim's fluffy store. In there fluffies led miserable lives, foals were threated like garbage, attrition rates were off the charts.
But while it took Tim lots of time, patience and specially money to raise each one of his fluffies these companies were able to cut costs and time down to the bone.
They didn't raise fluffies.
They churned them out.
Tim counted each of his fluffies when they were born.
These companies just weighted them by the load.
Tim gave them names.
The companies laser-etched serial numbers on them.
And so Tim eventually went out of business, his refusal to treat fluffies as a product and nothing more meant that he just couldn't compete. His fluffies were good but not great, nice but not rare. He didn't have the money to buy alicorns or even designers and breed them.
After a personal bankruptcy he was in desperate need to find a job, any job.
Without a proper career there wasn't much to choose from, automation had destroyed a lot of well paid trades.
Ironically the only place that would hire him was the only one Tim truly hated to be in.
An industrial fluffy mill.
Tyane Meadows, one of the worst ones.
One of the his most traumatic experiences was his first day at the job. Sure he knew mills were bad but one thing is hearing rumors from forums and social media and another very different one is being there and seeing the carnage in first person, the stench of fear and blood from the biotoys, the cries of pain, the endless crick-crack sounds of foal bones being crushed in an industrial grinder.
Despite his knowledge of fluffies management still decided he had to start from the bottom. And so Tim now in his early 30's was in charge of cleaning and feeding the mares.
"Yo language rookie! they get altered if you talk like that"
Tim knew that, he just wasn't prepared for what he saw on his first day.
Pwease mistah take fwuffy home! nu wan mowe babbehs...
There were rows and rows of tiny cages, each had a mare. Some were pregnant, other already had their foals.
What really got to Tim were the legs: all of the mares got their hind legs removed.
"Yeah some guy up in management came up with that a while ago-" said James his supervisor who was showing Tim around.
"-he analyzed dam behavior and figured we could save something like 28% of space on the pens if we just cut the mare's hind legs. We leave the front ones so they can take care of their foals but since the cages are so small they don't need legs if they can't walk around. They can still crawl into the 'poopie grill' to take a dump tho..."
Tim was horrified, rows and rows of mutilated mares in stinking cages...
"Collection time!" yelled another worker.
NU! NU TAKE BABBEHS AGEN! PWEASE! - said a cyan pegasus mare
The worker didn't bother to reply, simply opened the cage...
...and proceded to collect the foals into a square padded bucket with a sticker that showed which cage and mare the foals came from.
The worker stopped, then looked at the mare in a way that showed a mix between disgust, anger and annoyance.
"Come on, give it to me..."
"Don't waste my time, give.me.the.foal"
Nuuu....pwease...nu take wast-
The worker pulled a sorry stick and hit the mare straight in the face. Tim had never had to use a stick in his store, he felt it was simply too much so he used a water spray bottle instead. And besides it could hurt the fluffies and lower their value.
But this was a factory, and these were production units crippled on purpose to save space.
GIVE ME THE FOAL!
P-pwe-ase nu tak-
Mummah! -yelled the tiny pure-orange unicorn filly
"Stupid..thing..."-said the worker as the pried open the mare's forelegs and grabbed the filly
"There! you better not pull this crap again"
Huuu-*kaf!*-so..sowwy babbeh*kaf!* -said the mare, nose bleeding and left eye swollen-shut due to the constant hits of the sorry stick.
"Heh, stupid things never learn" -said James- "well you can find your cleaning tools in the station down that hallway, the food bins are over there, one cup per mare per shift, no more no less, get it?"
"Y-yes" -said Tim still a bit shocked by the whole situation.
"Good, tomorrow I'll show you the stud section"
After James left Tim went to the cage of the crying cyan mare. He opened the gate to check on her. As he was about to touch it the mare screamed
NUUU! PWEASE NU MOWE!
"Easy girl I just want to-"
NUU MOWE HUWTIES! NU HAVE MOWE BABBEHS! AM MUMMAH NU-MOWE! NU HUWTIES HUUUUUHUUUUUUUU!
Tim looked down at the filthy stainless steel floor of the cage. His fluffies had wooden pens with carpets, toys, pictures and stickers. This fluffy lived in a metal box and probably never saw a toy in its entire miserable life.
It was broken...
The next day was even worse for Tim. He got a tour of the stud section which were just bigger cages with several stallions sharing space. Their living space was as devoid of comfort as that of the mares but at least they were not mutilated and could still run around. Still between the overcrowded conditions and hormone injections to increase their performance the stallions were extremely aggressive for a fluffy. They would fight constantly, many had scars from the constant beatings, missing fluff from bites and horn attacks wounds.
But what really got to him was a red stallion being sodomized by another bigger purple one.
And when he got closer he recognized who that stallion was...
And the stallion, looking up between tears, recognized him as well.
NICE MISTAH! NICE MISTAH PWEASE SAVE TOMATO! AM GUD FWUFFY!
ENF ENF ENF! SHUDDUP DUMMEH FAGGIT!
It was tomato, full of scars, missing all 4 legs, covered in specs of dry shit, its green tail bitten off.
"Wu-what the hell is this?!"
"Relax! sometimes we run out of spare mares so we use some low-value stallion so the studs can relieve themselves and not be so aggressive that they could damage the breeding stock, alright?"
"But-but why?! why not use a sex toy or something? this is horrible!"
"Sextoys are more expensive dude, and besides if this ugly guy wasn't getting pounded he would be useless, you know what happens to useless fluffies? they get mulched, or grinded and turned into cheap kibble."
"Jesus..." -said Tim before turning around and leaving. As he walked away he could still hear Tomato's desperate pleas.
NU WEAVE! PWASE!
ENF ENF ENF!
WHY NICE MISTAH NU HEWP?! WAN...DIE, WAN DIE! WAN DIEEEEEE!
He had invested so much time on Tomato to turn him into a good fluffy, only for the owners to get tired of him and leave Tomato in a shelter after which he got bought in bulk with tens of other fluffies by this mill. And after some bad batches of foals he was downgraded from a grade-C stud to a fuck toy for other more valuable stallions.
As the years went by Tim got transfered to other areas. When he first started foal classification and quality control was done by hand, tens of workers would pour the square buckets on tables and sort the foals according to color.
Now the process was more streamlined. The mill had bought some machines from the poultry industry. Foals were now thrown into conveyor belts originally made to transport chicks but foals being more fragile could barely survive the trip. Tyane Mills could've ordered a more 'sensible' machine but an accountant said a custom design would be more expensive than just letting a few of the foals die in the process.
And so the foals would simply die.
Tim got to work on the conveyor, he and many others had to stand there for hours and pick up foals all day. Great colors went into another belt, 'good' on another, regulars on another.....but bad colors and defected/damaged foals were thrown into the trash to be mulched later.
NUU! NUU! PEEP!
A worker carelessly threw a brown earthie filly at a big red dumpster instead of simply tossing the foal inside. As such it hit the hard plastic cover. As other foals who were simply tossed against the dumpster it would die in agony, slowly instead of being shredded in a second. Some did, they were the lucky ones.
Huuu, y meanie hoomins put babbeh in trashies?
Am gud cowow! am gud fwuffy!
Mumman sed am nu poopie, huuuhu
Babbeh am ugly, buh-but am stiww gud babbeh!
Sometimes Tim would simply let his hand hover over the infinite technicolor carpet of foals being moved around and around in the sorting conveyor belt. He did this as a small gesture of comfort to these poor foals. Some would react to this, surprised by this seemingly small but still rare act of kindness.
Weeeeee....huuu nu weave mistah!
It was just a second, and they were gone, some to other belts, others to their deaths.
One time a red pegasus foal, same hue as Tomato, hugged one of his fingers and wouldn't let go. Like a person holding to a rock on a river this desperate foal tried to survive the endless stream of fluffies on the belt by holding to something, anything.
Pwease mistah! pwease! save babbeh! peep! -the foal yelled as he grabbed Tim's index finger with all the strenght his tiny forelegs could muster.
"Just shake that thing off..." said a coworker next to Tim, a black woman in her 50s.
But Tim just stood there. The foal reminded him of Tomato, the fluffy he left to be raped to death so many years ago. He felt guilty, he felt he had abandoned these creatures, that maybe he could do something, even...
*sigh* "I'll give you a hand"
The woman struck the tiny foal's nose with her finger.
HUWTIES! whu...NUUUUUUU! -the foal screamed as he let go of Tim's finger to hug his muzzle, in the process being dragged away by the endless stream of foals around him.
By chance another worker picked him up...
"...damaged nose, defective"
Tim froze for a minute: because of that flick the foal didn't pass QC and was disposed of. He felt angry, but then he realized his coworkers didn't do this on purpose. They were working almost automatically, used to foals pleading and grabbing their hands all the time looking for salvation.
Eventually you become dull to this, you stop thinking about it and just do your job.
If anything Tim realized the only one at fault was him: had he let go of the red foal in the first place it would have gone into the good color belt since its bright red color was good enough to pass. It had a shot at getting into a store and then maybe a house.
Instead a bleeding nose got it into the dumpster.
This foal's entire life lasted only a few days, maybe a week, that's all.
A few hours ago it was playing with its siblings and his mummah making the best of the tiny miserable cage into which it had been born. Now it was bleeding to death in a dumpster, its only company being mountains of other crippled and dead foals. Eventually it would be covered by layers and layers of other discarded foals.
Later that day when Tim was walking back to another section...
Tim turned around then looked down and there on the concrete floor he saw a cyan pegasus filly, between chirpie and 'talkie' stage but with its eyes barely open. It probably fell from one of the collection buckets in the way to the sorting area.
Huuhuu! -it wimpered as it waddled around in a circle, its stubby front legs poking around as if trying to find the warmth and comfort of the mare that birthed it, or at least other foals.
It suddenly hugs Tim's shoes, the old stained fabric still softer than the concrete below.
M-mummah? - its says, probably picking the scent of the mares Tim handled before.
Huuuu - it says after it detaches and keeps waddling around aimlessly.
It gets tired rather quickly, but what can be expected from such a young foal?
Shivering it raises its tiny muzzle the size of a pen's eraser tip and cries.
Cowd! mummah! miwk-*SQUISH*
Another employee who was walking behind Tim simply stepped on the filly and crushed it with his left foot, then twisted the tip of his boot to really make sure the filly was ground into nothing.
"Damn fake animals..."- he said as he scrapped the blood and guts from the sole of his shoe against the wheel of one of the carts they used to move the buckets -"we should exterminate them all"