albuquerque-stories bad-enfies bad-mummah bestest_babbeh_dies breeder extermination foals foals-die headshot milkbag_in_progress new-stock questionable rapist runt soon-mummah this-is-texas


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One Shots: New Stock Day
By The WestMesaFluffCollector

All was quiet at Five Bar Ranch. for the most part, all the occupants of the home were snoozing. It was only when the distinctive sound of an Android alarm clock going off that Sam Paxson stirred from his bed.

Sam swung his legs from the full size bed, wincing as chill of the morning aggravated his once broken ankle. The alarm had rung at six a.m., which gave him some quiet time before he had to feed his stock.

Pulling on some clothing, Sam set the coffee to brew while he went to check on the nursery room that was next door to his own room. Cracking open the door, he saw that the head of his nursery mares, Banana Nut, was already up. Delighted, she trotted over to greet him.

“Gud mowning, Daddeh!” Banana Nut said happily. The brown and yellow maned mare had been one of the first ponies he had ever adopted, and the only one of the original three to still be alive. It was largely she that would train the other nursery mares in his herd. Nearby, Siouxsie, and the other three mares, Millie, Betsey, and Carrie all had begun to stir.

“Gif wots of heawt happies tu daddeh!” She said cheerfully. “It am time for nummies?”

Sam smiled, bending down to pet the mare. “Almost girlie. How are the babies doing?”

Banana Nut perked up. “Dey am doin’ su gud! Dwink wots o’ miwkies! Dey su hungwie!”

Sam took a look over to the small fluff pile that had been nestled near Siouxsie, who was gentling nuzzling each one away with a greeting “Gud mownin’ babbehs!” They were already starting to get chunky, thanks to the milk he gave the mares, a mixture of oats, local grasses and hay, dried fruit, and other supplements to make them a bit more hardier. It was a large number of foals for him to have at this time of year, 25 in all, mostly from the result of using the last of Braxton, his unicorn that had served as his first stud, seed. Braxton had perished in the fall after he had lost a fight to a pack of wild dogs that had made it onto the property.

He checked over the foals, noting the no deformities thus far. There was a unicorn that was an exact copy of Braxton, who had been a beautiful midnight blue with a grey, almost silver mane. He sexed it. It was a filly. He might hold onto her, in hopes of crossing Braxton’s genes with Stratus, his lone stud at the moment, an alicorn, who he was about to start breeding in the summer.

Leaving the mares after feeding them, he checked in on Stratus, who was doing his morning exercise by walking around his safe room and noting each lap by knocking a block off of his stack that he had built. The Alicorn, a Grey alicorn with a muted rainbow mane, was proud of his morning laps, pointing out he had already made ‘twu an’ twu and twu’ trips around his room. He fed him, and later promised to let in Siouxsie to play later.

Finally, he checked in on the breeding mares, of which he was down to about four, low for his usual number due to the wild dog attack and attrition due to age. While the nursery mares raised most of the foals, their focus was mainly on raising the high value stock; the breeding mares were primarily used only for breeding purposes, and usually didn’t keep their foals unless he was over the limits of his nursery dams. It was here that he had Rufus, his gelded unicorn, to stand guard.

“Good morning, Rufus.” Sam asked, as he placed his bowl down. The unicorn gave a head nod in acknowledgement. “How were the mares, Rufus?”

Rufus didn’t touch his food, giving some extra urgency to what he like had to say. “Two of da soon mummahs nu hab pwoblems. One of da soon mummahs had babbehs. Bu, had to gif dat one and da oddah soon mummah huwties.”

Sam frowned. Rufus had been trained not to give ‘huwties’, unless there was a valid reason. “What happened?”

“Cum see.” Rufus replied, walking over to his bedding.

There, tucked away, was a small, runty foal, light blue, with white dappling, and a vivid purple mane. She was a pegasus, and was asleep. She smelled vaguely of Rufus, meaning that he had likely been the one who had given her her first ‘wickie cweanies.’

“Dummeh soon mummah sey dat dat was a dummeh babbeh, twied to gif sowwy hoofsies. Wufus had tu gif huwties, den mak dat mummah gif miwkies tu babbeh fiwst. Haf tu du dat, ow nu wouwd gif miwkies any oddah wey. Oddah soon mummah twied to num dis babbeh, so had to gif sowwy hoofies tu.”

“I see.” Sam replied, giving a glare to the two mares, a green pegasus and a red earthy, both of whom were alternating nervous glances at him and hate filled glances at Rufus. He was guessing that the foal was emitting a ‘runt smell’, which caused them to immediately to try and destroy it. Judging by the fact that it was holding down the milk, and had no obvious deformities, he was guessing she had a shot.

“You did a good thing, Rufus. I’ll give her to Banana Nut, and tell her you said hello.”

Rufus nodded, a smile creeping on his face. Both Banana Nut and Rufus were sterile, the former due to her previous usage as the ‘enfie mare’ by her herd, the latter due to him serving as the smarty’s toughie in his last herd. Both had latched on to one another, and would spend time nuzzling each other when they had off duty time.

“Hold the fort for a second, Rufus, I’ll be back.”

Rufus nodded, entering into a fighting stance in front of the two mares in case they tried to charge him.

Hurrying back to the nursery room, Sam was met by Millie and Banana Nut.

“I have a special filly that needs lots of ‘huggies and wub’ so she can grow up ‘big and stwong.’ Her mummah tried to give her ‘sowwy hoofies’ and ‘fowebbah sweepies.’”

Siouxsie was scandalized, the more experienced mares not surprised. “Dat am bad mummah, nu desewbe babbehs!” Millie, in the meantime, had already placed the runty filly on her back and was singing to her.

Banana Nut knew what this meant. “Mowe babbehs cummin?”

Sam nodded. Banana Nut turned to the other mares. “Dewe be mowe babbehs cumin! Siouxsie, yu am goin’ to take cawe of dem, xcept fo’ when dey nee’ miwkies.”

Siouxsie was happy, satisfied she was going to get a litter of her own to care for. Because she had yet to be impregnated, waiting for permission from Sam, she wasn’t able to lactate yet.

“Think she’s ready, girl?” Sam asked, grinning.

Banana Nut gave him a nod of approval. “She am gud fwuffeh. Goin’ to be gud mummah tu.”

Sam nodded, them headed back, grabbing one of his “foal baskets” on the way over.


Rufus was near the mare that had foaled, the green pegasus, who was now sporting a black eye from where she had tried to charge him. Though she was missing her back legs, like all of the breeding mares were, that hadn’t stopped her from trying to get revenge.

“Stand down, Rufus, I’ve got this.” Sam said as he squatted near the mare,

“NU! Munstah daddeh nu am goin’ to take awai babbehs dis time!” The mare yelled. Sam smiled. He had a candidate for a milk bag. The red earthy would be joining her soon too, judging by the way she was looking at him.

He inspected each and every one of her foals. She had had a big litter, fortunately for him. There were a pair of brown earthies, which would likely be earmarked for his connection in Lubbock, a exotic jerky maker that raised foals for food, a pink earthy colt, a green pegasus filly, and a cream colored filly with strands of blue for a tail and mane. Not too bad, but nothing to get thrilled about.

“Nu! Nu tak’ babbehs!” The mare thrashed.

Sam sighed, and then, calmly, seized the mare by the scruff, her foals being held in the other hand in the basket, and calmly proceeded to the garage. There, in about twenty minutes, he had removed her remaining limbs, severed her vocal cords, and blinded her. He set her up next to the milk bag station, empty after his previous one had perished, and left her there with the two brown foals. He proceeded to head back to the nursery, where an ecstatic Siouxsie received the litter. He smiled. She would make a good mother soon.


Not long after tending to the Mares, Sam received a call on his phone. He had been online, seeing if there had been any sightings of feral herds, when he had received a call on one of his fliers that he had posted up, offering “Low Cost Herd Extermination”, at half the rate that some of the big boys charged.

From the sound on the phone, Sam had his first taker. It sounded like an older woman, practically screaming for him to get over there, as the little fuckers had already made it to one of her okra fields. He smiled. It sounded like a big herd, necessary for what he needed.

After writing down the address, Sam was there in about twenty minutes. After introducing himself to the woman, she pointed out the location of the herd. “Just get rid of them, they are disgusting. They shot...they actually shot their shit at me….”

Sam nodded. “No worries. I got this.” He felt a twinge of pity of the lady, who looked at least 80.

“Please, just..just get rid of them.” She replied.

Sam drove to the back towards the fields, where, after stopping, he looked around and quickly evaluated the situation.

It wasn’t a huge herd, but there were enough foals there to at least pad his total until he could ascertain which ones would be suitable for breeding or not. There was about 12 full grown ponies in the field, with an assortment of foals that were around, asking for “miwkies” or “nummies.” Some of them were on their mother’s backs, but others were at least ‘wawkie babbehs’, meaning they might be a month old, at least. Sam made a mental note on these, as these would be sequestered until they reached appropriate breeding age in about a month.

Fortunately for Sam, they hadn’t spotted him yet. He tried to determine the male to female ratio of adults.

Of the 12, two were very pregnant mares and looked near fit to burst. Two were in some stage of pregnancy, and another two had foals on their backs, and were spouting the usual fluffy nonsense about, “best nummies fo bestest miwkies.” Another mare was nursing in the field, with a couple of older foals nearby. The rest were stallions, and therefore, were expendable.

Satisfied, Sam checked the rounds on his rifle. He was good for about 15 shots, more than enough for most of the adults and the stallions in the herd. He looked down the sites, and went ahead and scouted for the herd’s smarty. After some searching, Sam found a dirty red asshole, with an equally dirty red mane that was bossing around the toughies, demanding more “bestest nummies” for “bestest smarty.”

If this were New Mexico, there were laws against what he was about to do. Feral herds were to be treated humanely, and to not do so was punishable by law. As such, these ferals would have been subject to Bureau of Land Management, or local Fluff Patrols to take care of business.

Sam’s finger found the trigger.

But this wasn’t New Mexico. This was Texas.

And that meant that all rules had changed.

Sam had had enough of the prattling asshole, and pulled the trigger. He immediately cursed, as one of the toughies had moved into the shot, causing his head to explode like a watermelon. The bullet was slowed and it’s angle changed enough that it instead blew off part of the smarty’s tail.

The smarty had made him, and had he had a lick of common sense, he would have gathered his herd as best as possible and tried to have gotten away. Unfortunately to him, and to Sam’s fortune, he had none.

Instead, the little red asshole puffed his cheeks up, and, with his remaining two toughies, charged towards Sam.

"Dis am hewd wand nao! Dummeh hoomin gu away ow smawty an' tuffies gib wowstest huwties an' sowwy poopies!" Sam pumped in a new round, took aim, and fired. Another toughie’s head vanished. He reloaded, and took aim. The remaining toughie had stopped dead in his tracks when his herd mate met his maker. He had decided, a little too late, that it wasn’t worth following the smarty anymore, when Sam pulled the trigger, hitting the toughie in the spinal cord, causing him to drop and shit himself at the same time.

The smarty, by this time, had reached Sam, and began to barrage his leg with a fury of hooves. “Smawty am gonna gif ‘ou wowstest huwties ebbah!” Sam felt like he was being assaulted by a pair of Rock’Em Sock’Em Robots. Sighing, he picked up the little freak, and walked him over to one of the storage containers that he had nearby. He had special plans for this little asshole.

“Stoopie hoomin. Put smawty downie now, or get sowwy poopies.” He turned to spray shit at Sam, but had managed to drop him into the container before he could hit him. The smarty let out a “Reeeeee!!!!” as he hit the bottom of the plastic container, coating the interior of the tupperware with shit, as he landed on his front foreleg, breaking it like a twig. “Nuuu! Wowstest weggie owies!” Sam had enough, and promptly sealed the container, regretting that he had drilled in air holes.

Sam ran ahead, carrying a pair of containers. He closed the distance between himself and the two mares with foals on their backs, who were attempting to waddle away as quickly as possible. They were both a bright neon pink, with one sporting a matching mane, the other with a neon green one. Both had a pair of foals on their backs, although in his hurry, Sam wasn’t paying attention to what they had on them.

Dropping the containers in front, Sam seized each one, hearing them scream bloody murder, one of them even saying “pwease nu huwt soon mummah, wiww gif yu babbehs if wet mummah gu.” Sam chuckled. Not likely. And he would be taking both sets of babies anyway. He placed one in a separate container, and closed them up. Running back, Sam spotted the nursing mother, colored a light blue, with her own trio of foals riding on her back, trying to move the small herd of foals, about fourteen, out of the way. A smart one, he thought. Too bad she won’t be smart enough for this.

Sam grabbed a couple of empty containers and yelled out “Hey fluffies, I have some tasty sketties for good fluffies!”

Almost immediately, the foals’ goldfish like attention span shatters.


“Yay, sketties!”

“Whewe bestest sketties?”

“Gif sketties nao!”

Before the mare is able to get the little ones’ attention and restore discipline, Sam was upon them. “Nuuu, bad upsies!” The mare yelled, as she was tossed into a container, before Sam began to shoveling in foals as quickly as possible.

They immediately screech in a mixture of confusion and fear, as one after the other, they get tossed into a fluff pile. Before long, Sam had the entirety of the small group of goals with the exception of a shit red colt, who is still demanding sketties like an idiot. Sam picked him up, causing it to threaten to give him ‘sowwy poopies.” Sam smiled.

He immediately poked the colt’s stomach, putting pressure onto him before he unloaded a torrent of shit onto the already dirty foals and mare below.

“Eeeee, why babbeh gif sowwy poopsies?”

“Why sowwy poopies, am gud babbeh?”

“Nu smeww pwetty.”

“Dummeah aweady nu smeww pwetty.”

The mare, meanwhile, is going apeshit. “Why gif hurties to bestest babbeh? Gif bestest babbeh back nao!” She yelled, puffing out her cheeks.

“Bestest babbeh, huh?” Sam replied nonchalantly, while taking a good look at the foal. I look closely at him and see that he is a near carbon copy of the smarty. Which means that that little blue brat in the container is probably the smarty’s “spechuw friend.” Useful knowledge for later.

“Here you go. Hope you enjoy being in the dark.” Sam replied, the red foal into the container with the mother before sealing it shut. The sudden immersion in total darkness prompted another round of screams from the mare and foal alike. Sam made sure to give the container a good kick before he loaded it, checking around for any other remaining foals he may have missed.

Sam soon found out that during his initial round of shots, it looked like a couple of the mares may have panicked, causing them to try and flee. In their fear, they had tripped over a collapsed gopher burrow, breaking their front legs.

He frowned as he took a look at each one. There was something like hoof marks over each one’s head? Did the Smarty’s Special Friend try and finish them off? In either case, neither one was going to make it. It was a pity, as one of them was a really nice shade of key lime. The other one, a dirty and dull purple, had miscarried during the stress of the incident. There were six thumb shaped foals writhing in the grass behind her. Both were muttering “wan die.”

Sam cursed himself, but it wasn’t a shocker. The only thing more dangerous to fluffies than humans was probably fluffies themselves. He was probably quite lucky that he had only lost two out of the seven mares. In any case, there was no sense in letting these two suffer any further.

Taking out his knife, a large 18 inch Bowie knife he had picked up in Amarillo one weekend, Sam stabbed each one in the head. No great loss.

He spotted three more foals attempting to hide behind a small rock with their hooves in front of their eyes, with the ringleader, a light purple with a dark pink fluffy mane saying “Shhh. Munstah nu see in bestest hidey spot. Nu tawkies, and munstah nu fin babbehs.”

Sam rolled my eyes. “Oh, for fuck’s sakes.” He scooped up the three foals and toss them in with the rest. The container was at capacity, and that was probably the most he could fit into his remaining available containers, without damaging the foals. He sealed the containers, causing another round of screeching due to the darkness, and return both to the bed of his Mazda.

Sam had saved the two heavily pregnant dams for last, as both were immobile, and were bawling up a storm as he approached them. Both had already shit themselves in fear, and were trying to move their useless limbs in order to save themselves. Both were a dark orange, with green manes. He would compare them to pumpkins, except pumpkins are infinitely more useful.

“Nyu huwt soon mummah. Gif ou othaw soon mummah if nu huwties.”

“Soon mummah am bad fwuffy! Gif othaw mummah huwties.”

Sam picked up both by the tails, causing more shit to come out of them, with it trickling down their bodies like the world’s worst science fair volcano. None of these mares would be joining Banana Nut and the others in the nursery, they were too far gone. Safe to say, they would be joining Rufus in the Breeding room, with a pair of them being marked for milk bag duty, and the Smarty’s special friend for pillowing.

Putting them into the final two containers, Sam sealed them shut, then began to grab the other two containers. He encountered another foal along the way, who was asking for help looking for it’s mother. He tossed it into the foal container before placing it back in the Mazda. He would be checking them individually back at the ranch.

As Sam began to head back to the truck, he did a quick headcount recall.

The three toughies.

The Smarty.

The two brood mares.

The two mares with foals.

The Smarty’s Special Friend.

The two dead mares.

Sam cursed, grabbed the rifle, loaded it, and closed the door to the truck.

He was missing one...


It didn’t take too long to find the missing asshole. You could hear the rhythmic sounds of fluffy sex echoing across the partially ruined field.

Sam lowered my rifle, cautious about his next move. If the remaining fluffy was good colored, he might decide to offer him a chance to be a stud, at least until he found or bred a suitable replacement. A second one would be necessary, as Stratus would probably be a bit disturbed at the potential for mating with a milk bag. If he wasn’t, well, than a bullet would be all the future he would have.

Parting the long grass behind the okra field, I saw a orange and brown stallion railing away at something in the midst of a large pile of shit. Sam frowned. What the hell was he humping? All the mares were either in containers or dead, not unless he somehow discovered some stallion with a scat kink to him.

Sam soon realized what he was fucking was not shit, but rather, another fluffy. The female fluffy was screaming bloody murder, while the orange fucker was furiously continuing, with the sound, “enf-enf-enf” seeming to get quicker.

“ wan spechuw huggies….”

“Enf-enf-enf….dummeh poopie mawe….gif gud fews to fwuffy…..”

“Nuuu….nu wan….nu wan….”

Something in the last part made Sam’s blood boil. Fluffies aren’t really creatures, more genetically modified collections of all kinds of critters. Still, seeing this one getting violated was enough to trigger his sensibilities, especially considering his history with Banana Nut.

Sam put down his rifle, and took out his knife. This was going to be personal. Striding over, he reached out and seized the orange rapist right as he moaned “GUD FEWES!”

“I sure fucking hope it was, you orange son of a bitch.” Sam snarled, sticking the orange bastard hard, causing him to shoot both blood and jizz from his wounds and pecker as Sam stabbed him through.

“Nuuuu! Gif back poopie enfie mawe.” Orange said.

Sam was pissed. He was bleeding out, and all he wanted was to continue fucking. “You want me to give her back? Here!” Sam let the orange fucker drop, hearing a crack come from his two hind legs.

The orange rapist cried, curling up into a ball. “Huuu huuu….why gif owies? It am onwy poopie fwuffy.”

Sam smiled, but the smile didn’t touch his eyes. He was enraged at the audacity of this little asshole.

“So, just because she’s a color you don’t like, means that you can just treat her like shit?” Sam’s smile got wider. “I got news for you, buddy. Underneath all of this fluff…” I sunk the bowie knife into his genitals, hearing one of his testicales pop like a grape “’re all the same color.” He began to open him up, sending his insides, his organs, and popping open his rib cage like a walnut.

“Nuuu….nuuu….mowe...huwties….” The orange stallion said as he died.

Sam wiped the knife clean on his fluff, before spitting on his corpse.

Sheathing my knife, Sam turned toward the brown colored mare, who was still silently crying. She was all brown, not a bad thing by horse standards, but the kiss of death when it came to fluffies. He went ahead and knelt down next to her.

“It’s okay. I ain’t gonna hurtcha.” He said, extending a hand.

“Screee!” She screamed, backing away. “Am munstah.”

Sam shook my head. “No.” He pointed to the orange fluffy. “That’s a monster. I’m a person that hurts other monsters. So they won’t hurt good people or fluffies.”

This seemed to calm her down some. She began to walk over to him. She was incredibly thin, and her eyes were slightly yellow. She was likely the herd’s “poopie mawe”, who’s only job was to eat their shit, and clean the herd while the rest went on to life their happy, idiot lives. Nature is cruel. Fluffies might be crueler.

“Owange fwuffy com and tewww poopie mawe dat munstah kiww hewd, and dat owange nee stawt nuu hewd. Nu wan babbehs. Nu wan babbehs wike dis.” She immediately started crying.

Sam started to pet her, thanking all the Gods, Christian, Pagan, and Spaghetti Monster that I was wearing gloves. “It’s alright, little one. You are safe now. Your herd won’t hurt you any more.”

The fluffy sniffed. “Am fwuffy goiwg to haf babbehs?”

Sam sighed. “Oh honey, I think you probably will.”

The brown fluffy suddenly smiled. “Fwuffy namsie am howney? Fwuffy wuv nyu namsie!”

Oh Jesus Christ, Sam thought. He hadn’t meant to name her. Oh well. In any case, she might be nursery mare material. She was a brown fluffy, which meant that she likely wouldn’t be asking or demanding anything. Anything Honey got would probably be a lot better than what she had already got. Plus, she she had potential as a breeder, than maybe she might be worthwhile, long term. It was worth a shot.

“Tell you what, Honey.” Sam said, looking back at her. “How about I take you home? You can have a safe room, friends, babies, and all the food and toys you want.”

Honey smiled a small smile. “Otay. Howney gu wif nyu daddeh!”

“That’s the spirit.” Sam said, standing up. “Come on. Let’s get you back to the ranch.”

Honey began to walk, with a slight limp, Sam noticed, as the pair headed back to the Mazda. He was hoping he hadn’t missed any other foals, but, at this point, Sam counted his blessings. He had some potential additions to the operation, and potentially, a new nursery mare.

In his mind, he had already come out ahead.


The white and grey foal watched the huge ‘metauw munstah’ leave. He had gone to hide when the bad hoomin munstah had starting giving fowebbah sweepies to the rest of the herd. And he stayed in his hidey spot when the munstah took away his mummah and all his bwuddahs and sissy’s away. He had thought about going with the orange fluffy, but then he saw the munstah come back with the herd’s poopie mawe, and decided to stay hiding. Now that the metauw munstah was gone, he was ready to come out.

He wasn’t prepared for when he saw the dead mummahs lying in the field, and the herd’s toughies close to where Smarty had tried to fight the munstah. Deep inside, the small foal got angry. He promised he was going to run away, join a herd, and become a huge toughie fluffy.

Then he was going to find the munstah and get all of his bruddahs, sissys, and his mummah out, before he gave the munstah fowebbah sweepies. Yes, that was how he was going to get revenge.

The small foal was so taken up with his fantasy that he hadn’t noticed the vultures had come to start picking at the corpses of the fluffies. He didn’t notice as one vulture spotted him and decided to give live meat a try for a change.

Sam Paxton was wrong when he had mused about fluffies being crueler than nature.

“Squawk!” The vulture plunged it’s beak into the foals eyeball, killing it instantly.

Mother Nature is a cruel bitch, and mother nature always wins.


Author’s Notes:
The Accidental Breeder Saga was originally Sam’s story, and my attempt to write a western. I began it along the same time as “The North Valley Lawn Invasion,” and around the same time as “The Family” was finishing up.

However, as time passed, the story began to fall apart. Part of it was that parts of the story no longer fit Sam’s character as established from the beginning of the story, or had found its way into other stories I was writing, such as “The Family”, “The Foundlings”, and even in “The North Valley Lawn Invasion.”

However, there was enough parts of the story that could be cut into little side stories, while whatever could be incorporated into “The Accidental Breeder” will used. There probably will be more ‘Sam Paxton’ stories told later, but they’ll largely be stand alone, slice of life stories.


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Papa_Khorne: Sam seems like a pretty good guy. As for weapon if choice, while everyone jokes that .22 LR is enough for fucking up a fluffy, I'd say .223 would be used and preferred.
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WestMesaFluffCollector: @Papa_Khorne: That's more or less what I had in mind. I had originally written this part with the Remington 7615P Pump-Action in mind.

Also found a typo. God damn it.
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Anonymous1: what a beautiful day to wake up early, started the day reading a magnificent abuse to that horrendous creatures called fluffy, I miss more abuse to the smart babeh, smart babeh abuse is the best abuse :)
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Anonymous2: Texas Forever!
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Fluffy_Angst: I love your writing so much.

“I got news for you, buddy. Underneath all of this fluff…” I sunk the bowie knife into his genitals, hearing one of his testicales pop like a grape “’re all the same color."

hee hee
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Researcher_7201: Really like slice of life tales. That said I also really like your series so please dont stop :)
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Anonymous3: @Papa_Khorne: 223 is classic varmint ammo, fluffies are indeed the same size as varmints but have none of their elusiveness calling for long range, Still it would work well, 22 would be cheap and probably effective too, but not nearly as much, even better tho as fluffies would die in long agony with much pitiful squealing and begging for "nu moaw wowstest huwties"
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Nuuu: Thanks for the story.
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Anonymous4: >Sam Paxton was wrong when he had mused about fluffies being crueler than nature.

>“Squawk!” The vulture plunged it’s beak into the foals eyeball, killing it instantly.

Umm, that sounds very much humane, instakill, compared to starving poopie babbehs, feeding them feces, raping, breaking limbs.