MINTY'S REVENGE

FractalFluff, June 3, 2014; 08:03 / FB 22352
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(Kind of hugbox, but not really, because of the whole evil-'fluence part. One thing you should be clear on: nothing that happens in this story is "karma". Everything that happens to pretty much everyone is unfair or messed up in some way... Anyhow, if abuse is more your thing, you should probably go and read someone else's stuff. I'm just saying.)

MINTY'S REVENGE

You're Cnporelfdtasmatdqdkfqvvpeisadv, a Revenge Demon. Definitely a Revenge demon. Not a Vengeance Demon. A Revenge Demon is a totally different thing and not even a bit like the demons from Buffy. Which you've never even SEEN, actually. Shut up.

Anyway. You're a minor demon from one of the more hierarchical infernal planes, working your way diligently up the ladder. You're in an especially good mood just now; you've recently been promoted, and this is your first day in your new role. You have spent the last 35 million years attaining your current status, which is... well, if your plane was a company, you'd be working in the mailroom.

It might not seem like much, but promotions are so hard to earn. You can only progress up the demonic ranks by tempting a certain number of creatures into Revenge — easy enough for those jammy bastards in Human Resources, humans never stop thinking about revenge, often for the most petty of slights — but you've been doing invertebrates for the last couple of aeons. You'd like to see one of those HR putzes persuade an earwig into giving a small nip to a gardener's fingertip with its pincers. That took finesse.

But now you were on your way. A new creature had become known to your plane. Flesh and blood, yet created by humans; animal, yet endowed with rudimentary thinking processes... yes, these "fluffy ponies" could well be your ticket to bigger and better things. For what lives must crave, and what thinks — however haltingly — must dream. To know desire is to know disappointment; to know disappointment is to know anger; and to know anger is to know vengefulness.

And fuck it — anything's got to be better than earwigs.

Your first two customers are disappointing. The first is a mare in the throes of childbirth; instead of a nice, juicy revenge against the stallion who got her in the family way (or better still, her innocent foals!), she only wants revenge on her "meany peshow pwace". You check with the Superiors, but they tell you that revenge against the subjects own genitals wouldn't count.

The next is a stallion, grieving over the body of his mate. She's been splattered over an impressively large area of the M25. He's scraped together what he can and is trying to hug it better on the hard shoulder, but all he's huuhuuing into is a mandible, a few vertebrae and a single crotchboob. He's eager enough for revenge, but against the car that hit her. The Superiors are a little more interested; they say it might work if you fuck up the car in such a way as to harm the occupants. You gleefully manifest alongside the vehicle — only to discover that it's at the business end of an eight-car pileup.

The only thing showing signs of life is the driver's iPhone 32.5, which displays a half-finished text: "OMG SOOOOOOO MUCH TRAFIC RITE EVRY1 GOIN SOOOOO FAS"

You grind your venom-dripping fangs. If only they'd let you take revenge for humans! You could clean up around here. Just tell the multitude of leaking meatbags that they owe their new condition to a clown with a text fixation, and they'd be wishing death and destruction on everyone from the driver's grandmother on down. Revenge against humans on behalf of other creatures, sure; but if you so much as touch the smorgasbord of recently bereaved, amputated, paralyzed and impaled humanity all around you, they'll bump you down so far that an earwig'd look like Richard Feynman.

Your next potential is a large mauve fluffy. She's a unicorn, although her crumpled-looking horn only just peeks out of her charcoal mane. She's making it glow, her violently off-kilter grey eyes swivelling with the effort. She's currently dying of hypothermia, having been boxed up and thrown into the freezer by her owner.

"My poor friend," you say solicitously. "What a dreadful act. If only I could save you — but alas! I only have the power to offer... REVENGE!"

"Fbewnd," she responds goodnaturedly.

"Your own beloved human daddy, who you adored and trusted since you were a foal, has condemned you to an icy doom! Don't you crave... REVENGE?"

"Wamb," disagrees the fluffy. "Dnu cod. Wamb dao."

"'Wamb'? How can she be..."

You faceclaw. Paradoxical hyperthermia: the tiny muscles constricting the creature's veins to conserve warmth are giving out, allowing hot blood to flow to the surface of her skin. She can't even feel the cold anymore; if anything, she probably feels overly warm. She's moments from unconsciousness, and as happy as can be.

For form's sake, you give it one last try. "Oh fluffy but what of your wicked daddy, blah blah, revenge."

"Dabbeh blay hibey gamb. Id gud gamb. Fbewn wad blay?"

"No, thanks. I think I'll give sharing a freezing grave with a wall-eyed bag of fleas and inanity a miss for now," you tell her

"Fbwen tawg fubby," she informs you kindly, and dies.

Fuck.

You think you've lucked out when you glide into an unlicenced foal mill and stumble upon a room full of pillow-breeders and amputee milkbags.

"Ahh, my poor, sweet fluffy mummahs! Who has done this terrible thing to you? I shall find them at once, and grant you your... REVENGE! Just tell me, sweet fluffy dams — what is it you want?"

The staff are oblivious to you, of course; but they can hardly fail to notice when dozens of eyeless fluffy heads all turn as one and stare blindly at a single point in the room. Nor can they ignore the chorus of voices, some shrill with filly-hood, some faint with disuse or husky with screaming, all chanting in unison: "Wan die... wan die... wan die... WAN DIE!"

(With the exception of a single mare, who asks: "Wai'... am abengies wike sketties?"

"No."

"Oh. Den wan die.")

One of the staff members crosses himself. Another pukes. A third doesn't do anything except stare, apparently heedless of the dark stain spreading at the crotch of her jeans.

You run this past the Superiors. They crunch the numbers and get back to you. Their verdict: technically, this could count as a request for revenge, since losing all the mares at once will put the mill out of business. You gasp as the Superiors imbue you temporarily with the dark energies of your realm. You raise your claw and make a small gesture, as of dismissal.

As one, the fluffies slump in their bowls and harnesses. The air fills with their death-rattles and the stink of fresh waste. One of them, a small pink filly who can barely have entered her first oestrus, manages to whisper: "Fankoo..." You understand the reason for her gratitude from her dying mind: she will now die painlessly and without having been subjected to the "bad spesha huggies" she's been dreading, yadda yadda yadda. You roll your eyes. Whatever.

Then the Superiors tell you that the dozens of fluffy mares will be counted as a single unit.

"Ah... your... your wisdom exceeds my puny intellect, oh Most Putrescent Ones," you stammer, dry-washing your claws. "Please, bless your ignorant servant with... with the reason... for this?"

Because the mill was failing anyway, one tells you. It only had about six months left.

And because that was really boring, says another.

A third concludes: And because fuck you, that's why.

"Th-thank you, oh Impurest of Impurities," you manage.

The next prospect is a foal. It's a pretty little unicorn colt, with mint-green fluff and the beginnings of a cyan mane. Its horn is a cute little nubbin, barely there, and its eyes are still closed. It's lying inside a transparent tube, full of perforations — both the tube and the fluffy. The unfortunate creature's owner, a boy of 13 or 14, has appropriated a metal skewer from his mother's kitchen. Currently he's engaged in pushing it slowly through the walls of the container, through the spongy bedding, through the foal, and out the other side. He twists it, and giggles at the muffled "Skreeeeeeeeeeeeee!"

"George! Supper!" calls a female voice. Oblivious to your presence, the boy thunders off down the stairs.

You bend over the foal. It can't really speak yet, but when you touch its tiny mind, its thoughts are surprisingly clear.

Nice Mistah? Nice Mistah saf Babbeh?

"No, young one. You are dying. I am here to give you... REVENGE."

"Huuhuuhuu..." sobs the baby. In your mind, you hear: Nu wan fowewbah sweepies! Jus wan gif huggies an wub tu nyu Daddeh!

"But he is a cruel child. A wicked child! He has slain you! Even now, you bleed to death from the wounds inflicted by his hand. Would you not have... REVENGE?"

*chirp* Nice Mistah saf Babbeh? Den Babbeh gif wub an huggies tu Daddeh, an Daddeh wub Babbeh, an...

"But he doesn't love you back! Here you are, an innocent foal, only a few days old, bleeding your life away in agony! You must surely seek... REVENGE?"

"Huuhuu ..." *cof* *chirp* Nu wan abengies, nice Mistah. Am jus wittew chiwpy babbeh. Babbeh... Babbeh jus wan gif huggies an wub... tu Daddeh... Babbeh jus wan Daddeh gif wub tu babbeh... *cof* *chirp* *cof* *cof*

What's going on over there? demands one of the Superiors. Are you losing another one?

You grind your fangs some more.

"Oh Wellsprings of Feculence, I —"

Shut up, Cnporelfdtasmatdqdkfqvvpeisavd.

You shut up, trying not to react to the glaring mispronunciation of your name.

Thanks to you, our ratings are through the floor. You have one job, Cnporelfdtasmatdqdkfqvvpeisavd: bring us revenge. Revenge, Cnporelfdtasmatdqdkfqvvpeisavd. The Hunger that Devours the Hungry and Shits Guilt. Not sadness, not gratitude, not — gah — friendship. Nobody wants to watch friendship. If this one doesn't work out, we're putting you back on earwigs and giving your position to Tdrjpttdtojacjddrseaqhfyemmrwb.

"Tdrjpttdtojacjddrseaqhfyemmrwb..?"

Or possibly Smedly.

"Smedly!"

Foal's dying. Tick tock.

"Wait! Wait!" You scream, racking your brain.

Babbeh jus wan gif huggies an wub... jus wan Daddeh gif wub tu babbeh...

And then you have it. You run your idea past the Superiors, who harrumph but agree.

As if a film were being run backwards, the baby's blood unclots and flows back into its body. It chirps in astonishment as the puncture-wounds shrink and vanish.

Footsteps thunder back upstairs, accompanied by an anxious voice chanting "pleasebeokaypleasebeokaypleasebeokay..."

The door burst open, the boy almost falling over himself to get to the foal. "You're okay!" he coos. "I must have... maybe I... I must have missed you. Gone through the pillow, or something. Come on, little fellah. Let's get you out of there!"

He unscrews the top of the can and gently shimmies the foal out onto his palm. One fingertip strokes its tiny head. "Daddy's sowwy, baby! Daddy's never going to huwt 'oo again..."

He leaves, carrying the foal. From downstairs, you hear the voice of an older boy say "Hey, is that your new foal-in-a-can? I thought you were going to leave it in there, see how long it took to die?"

"DON'T YOU TOUCH HIM! YOU KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF MINTY!"

"'Minty'? What the hell, George, I just —"

"STAY AWAY FROM MY FOAL! HE'S JUST A BABY!"

"...Wait. You're serious?"

"STAY AWAY FROM HIM, YOU SICK FUCK!"

"GYAHHHHHHH! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? MUM, HE JUST STUCK A SKEWER IN MY LEG!"

***

You're George, and it's your first day back at school after the summer holidays. It's been tough this last couple of weeks, trying to take care of Minty with your brother being all weird and stuff. You're looking forward to seeing your two best mates, Phil and Ethan. They'll get it. You know they will! You've done everything together since you were little kids. They'll see what a great little dude Minty is, and back you up.

You stash your gear in your locker, placing your brand new mint-green fedora with its white-and-cyan band on top. You're even singing to yourself as you tape up your best pictures of you and Minty together.

"My little Minty... used to wonder what friendship could be... My little Minty... Until Minty shared its magic with me..."

"Hey, George!" says a voice from behind you. "How's it hangin'?"

"Hey, Eth," you say, turning round with a smile. Ethan and Phil are standing behind you. "Hey Phil!"

Phil is like half a head taller now, and Ethan has a serious mustache starting to happen. Last term, you'd have been envious; but right now, you're okay. You've changed too!

Phil looks you up and down. "So... what happened? Didja lose a bet?"

"Huh?"

"The shirt, dude. What happened to Slipknot, Inc.?"

"Oh! This. Yeah, see, I got a new fluffy over the summer!" You beam, swinging the locker door open all the way so they can see your treasured snapshots.

"A fluffy."

"Yeah! His name's Minty, and he —"

"Is that a... are you a brony now?"

"A brony? Hah! No. No, I just watch the show with Minty. See, this character's called Lyra, or Heartstrings, and she's got virtually exactly the same colours as Minty. She's our best pony —"

You're interrupted by a few notes of the FiM theme from the circular object hanging round your neck on a lanyard. "Oops," you say. "Got to take this."

"Dude, what is that?"

"This? This is my Pony-Go. See, it's like a regular SmartDallion, but instead of a bunch of useless stuff, it just connects me to Minty's pony-cam." You click the answer button, and Minty's happy face appears on the tiny screen. "Hey, Min-Min! How's daddy's baby?"

"Minty otay! How time tiww Daddeh?"

"I'll see you this afternoon, little guy. We can talk over the magic box if you need me. Did my widdwe Minty dwink his miwkies and make good poopies?"

"Babbeh did!"

"Bestest baby! Okay, Min-Min. Why don't you go have nappies, and I'll check in with you later."

"Otay! Minty wub 'oo!"

"Daddy wub 'oo too-oo!"

You look up into your friends' faces. "Isn't he great?" you beam.

After a couple of hours, the janitor discovers you. It takes another hour to extract you from your locker; even so, you can still taste your fedora.

You just don't understand what went wrong. Why couldn't they see how amazing Minty is?

***

You're a Revenge Demon, and you just got a commendation for the Minty case. Everything's coming up Cnporelfdtasmatdqdkfqvvpeisadv!

[end]