The Binding of Fluffy

>Be a good Christian.
>Go to church and bakesales and stuff.
>You’re watching the 700 Club one day.
>Pat Robertson is a righteous dude.
>Commercial comes on. Really sad music.
>See video footage of adorable fluffies with huge, sad eyes.
>Many lie on the street, emaciated.
>Some are missing large segments of fluff, revealing irritated skin.
>All are covered in filth to the point that their normally bright fluff is dull and limp.
>Some singer chick you don’t know appears on screen cradling a yellow fluffy like a baby.
>”Today millions of fluffies are starving in the streets and wasting away in overcrowded shelters. These innocent children want only to love and be loved. You can make a difference by adopting a fluffy.”
>Close up on the yellow fluffy’s face.
>”Pwease hewp fwuffy.”
>Breaks your heart. You love all God’s creatures.
>Go online and do a little research.
>Your apartment is small, so you can only get one.
>Show up at your local adoption center the next day.
>Tell the lady at the front desk you want to get an adult, since they’re less likely to be adopted.
>Not looking for a cute little pal, want to save a hard luck case.
>She nods and takes you on back.
>Even these fluffies that have shelter look miserable.
>At least five fluffies to cages that can barely hold two.
>Silently walk the room, gazing into cages.
>As you go, day-glo fluffballs paw at the doors and cry out to you.
>”Pick fwuffy!” “Wan new daddy!” “Huggies!” “Fwuffy no can move!”
>Such sorrow. You can only choose one.
>On your second pass, you notice a little peach colored fluffy being suffocated under five cellmates.
>Ask the lady to see it.
>She opens the cage, moves the others aside, lifts the peach fluffy, and hands it to you.
>You hold it in your arms a moment.
>It’s so light.
>You and the fluffy silently stare at each other a moment.
>”New daddy?”
>Judging by its voice, it is male.
>You don’t know how to answer, so you turn to the lady and ask if knows anything about the fluffy.
>Apparently, he was dropped off at the shelter by a former owner.
>The little guy had been there for months.
>He doesn’t even remember his former name.
>”I’ll take this one.”
>Go up front and do the paperwork.
>Also buy a little bed, litter box, food, bowls, a couple toys. It adds up.
>Doing the Lord’s work isn’t easy.
>The fluffy hugs you all the way to the car.
>”Fwuffy wuv new daddy!”
>D’aaw.
>Take him home, place him on the carpet.
>Set his things in the safe room you made out of the tiny storage room.
>He wanders everywhere, ecstatic to have a home again.
>Pick him up.
>Stare at the content pony in your arms
>”Fwuffy wike new home, daddy!”
>He needs a name.
>”From now on, your name will be Ishmael. Do you like that, little guy?”
>”Izmaw. Wike name! Fwuffy am Izmaw!”
>Things go well for the next few weeks.
>Ishmael is a well behaved fluffy.
>Quickly learns to use his litter box.
>Every night, Ishmael curls up on your lap while you read the Bible to him.
>He doesn’t understand most of it, but he knows the name of a few apostles.
>You sing Biblical songs to Ishmael.
>His favorite is “Jesus Loves Me.”
>He has learned to love Jesus.
>You may very well have saved his soul.
>Go onto Christian fluffy-enthusiast websites and talk about how much you love Ishmael.
>One day, you are sitting in your recliner, watching Christian broadcasting.
>Ishmael is lying on your lap.
>He doesn’t understand the program, but you stroke his fluff, so he doesn’t care.
>Everything’s cool.
>Suddenly, you hear a voice.
>It isn’t your fluffy’s voice.
>It isn’t Pat Robinson’s voice.
>It is a voice in your head.
>”Anon, this your God. You have done much good in my name, but I still question your devotion to my word.”
>Holy shit
>”O-okay.”
>Your fluffy hears your voice and looks up at you.
>”A great mockery has arisen. Wicked men have played God and created unnatural beings against my will.”
>Your heart starts beating terribly fast.
>God doesn’t talk to people anymore.
>Does he?
>”That’s pretty bad…my Lord.”
>Ishmael looks confused.
>”Who daddy talkin too?”
>”These abominations run contrary to my plan. As they spread through the world, they serve only to devour and spoil. None who encourage this sacrilege may enter my kingdom.”
>”Sounds reasonable, God.”
>Ishmael  stands up and puts his front hooves on your chest.
>”Daddy siwwy. Who daddy talk to?”
>”You have led your life according to my word. Now I ask you to pass this final test of faith. The vile weed that grows through the world is known by men as the fluffy pony. Even you have been tempted by blasphemy. I ask you to slay your fluffy pony as an offering to me.”
>You cannot breath. How could something so cute and loving be an abomination?
>Gently, you remove Ishmael from your lap and shut yourself into your room.
>Ishmael paws on the door.
>”Wan in! Izmaw wan pway wif daddy!”
>He gets bored and leaves after a few minutes.
>You sob for hours as you try to make sense of this happening.
>You tell yourself that you were just hallucinating, but you’ve never had any psychological problems before.
>The voice was so clear, like God was in the room, right there with you.
>Why would God want to hurt you so badly?  Why would he want you to be like those terrible abusers?
>You love Ishmael like a son.
>Hours pass. You open your bedroom door.
>You look like hell.
>Your skin is covered in sweat, your eyes are red from constant crying, and your hair is frayed from pulling.
>After a brief search, you find Ishmael asleep in his safe room.
>Very gently, you pick up your fluffy pony and cradle him in your arms.
>He wakes and looks at you.
>”Why daddy cwyin? Daddy need huggies?”
>”No, Ishmael. Daddy is just fine.”
>You take him to your tiny kitchen and set him belly-down on the counter.
>You select a butcher knife from the rack of kitchen tools.
>Not letting Ishmael see the knife, you hand hold on to his tiny body and set the blade above the back of his neck.
>Your hands shake and you breath in short bursts.
>”I’m glad I gave you a happy life, Ishmael. You are very loved.”
>“Izmaw wuv daddy!”
>As swiftly as you can manage, you lift the butcher knife high and drive it into the fluffy’s neck.
>His body tenses and he defecates powerfully into your sink.
>The knife didn’t make it through the spine.
>Ishmael shrieks. “Ooooowiiies! Why daddy make huwties!”
>Much more quickly, but with terrible roughness, you rise and chop once more into your pony.
>This time the head separates from the body.
>You feel absolutely nothing. Your mind won’t allow you to feel.
>After a trip to your garage, you return to the kitchen with a small box, in which you put Ishmael’s remains.
>As you bury Ishmael in your backyard, your senses return and you wish to die.
>Somehow, you manage to finish the job and stumble back into your home.
>You vomit into a toilet and spend hours praying.
>No word from God.
>Sleep on the floor.
>Get two hours of rest.
>Next morning, you still want to die.
>Before doing anything rash, you clean the blood and feces from your kitchen.
>As you wipe the terror-diarrhea from the sink, your vision fails and you drop to the floor.
>You gasp for breath and feel your soul separate from your body.
>Turns out today is the Apocalypse.
>You are among the first raptured.
>The skies become fire as the atmosphere  itself ignites.
>City streets crack open and blood seeps from the wounds.
>All the world over, a deafening roar is heard as reality splits open.
>An army of demons from beyond the mortal plane of existence appear from seemingly nowhere and slay the unsaved.
>The dead rise and feast on the living.
>Fluffy ponies drown in blood.
>Leviathan and Asmodeus and Megaleg pull themselves out of the briny deep and lay waste to the cities of Man.
>And then there is darkness.
>In retrospect, you’re glad you killed the fluffy.