Fluffy Garments - The Foreman part 2

Fluffy Garments - The Foreman part 2

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Warning:  This story contains fluffies suffering and death.  Viewer discretion is advised.


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* A tired looking, slightly overweight, slightly balding man of about 40 walks past the camera and sits down on the edge of a bed, facing it. *

Where the hell was I?  It's been three days since my last confession, and yeah, I've sinned.  So fucking what, haven't you?  I shoulda looked at the last file... where'd we leave off?  Lesse... covered the startup, covered day to day shit... milk bags... hated those fuckin' things...  I didn't say nothin' 'bout production yet did I?

Simple shit, I barely had a hand in it.  An order would come in from building two and we'd fish out the fluffies that fit the bill, with a color sample and everything.  So lets say you need four blue ones.  We'd get the file and one of those paint sample things with a number picked out.  Then someone'd go an' grab four blue fluffies that matched the color closest, that's why we needed a lotta every color.  You'd toss 'em into the cart and wheel it over to the electric chair.

Wasn't an actual chair of course.  It was mostly wood with holes where you'd thread the legs in so they couldn't get out an' a board you'd clamp down to hold their head still.  Then the executioner on duty would hold two metal prods against it's temples and step on a foot pedal, zap!  Dunno how many volts it was but the lights in that part of the building dimmed every time he fried one.  Took about four or five seconds of that to make sure they were gone but the funny part was how they'd always dump ass and the crazy sounds they'd make.

Every one of 'em would be whinin' and bichin' by the time you got 'em in the electric chair.  When he poured on the juice, for some fucked up reason they'd keep on makin' the last sound they made the whole time they got zapped.  So if it was makin' an N sound it'd go nnnnnnnnn 'till he stopped.  Or aaaaaaa or whatever.  Hilarious the first couple times ya see it but gets old real fast.

One executioner was a real prick too, sometimes he'd give 'em just two or three seconds so when the skinners got their hands on 'em they'd start thrashin' an' screechin' like mad half way through the fuckin' job!  Asshole.  He'd always wave an' say sorry but you could tell it was on purpose by that shit eatin' grin.

It took me a while to figure out why he was bein' such a prick, but as it turns out the answer was the races.  He always bet on the ponies come payday and if things worked out, every fluffy got fried right.  If not he'd fuck with 'em.  Not zap 'em long enough, or do it through their hooves so they'd scream instead of die, shit like that.

You're probably thinkin' we'd have a hard time findin' guys fucked up enough to kill those little bastards, lookin' up at you with those gigantic eyes an' beggin' for their lives.  And you'd be fuckin' wrong.  This is the Big Apple, we got fluffies up to our asses and a fuckton of whackjobs that should be on medication.  Hell, yer' probably lookin' at one right now.

And that shithead I mentioned earlier?  I'da fired his ass for making the skinners job harder but the son of a bitch was friends with Mikhailo himself!  Supposedly even asked for that very job.  One of those types.

So they get zapped right if they're lucky and eat it right there.  Then he tosses the corpse onto a conveyor that runs it down to the skinners.  These are the guys that got the big bucks, it takes some skill to skin a fluffy in fifteen seconds and not put a hole where you don't want it.  After they're peeled like a banana the skin goes one way while the body goes another.  They got chopped up and shipped off to some dog food place, I think I mentioned that last time.  The skin gets sent into the chemical vats for tanning an' processing, then hung out to dry.  After a couple days it's ready to go, the file gets sent back to building two along with however many pelts they wanted and that's it.  Wash, rinse, repeat.

Thing is the cage row closest to our electric chair an' the skinnin' tables can see everything that's goin' on behind 'em, there's no wall or anything.  Heh, those ones always acted a little "different" than the rest, I mean they all could hear the screams when the executioner fucked up, probably on purpose, but only the third row could really see what was happening.  And you know what?  Once we put a fluffy into that row they'd develop this habit of always facing forward all the time.  They'd NEVER turn around, not for nothin'.  I should say most of 'em never looked, those that did usually went nuts.  After a few dams cracked and shit out their kids early we had to switch things so breeders were against the far wall, milk bags an' foals in the middle an' the freshly weaned ones we were fattenin' up for skinnin' went to row three.  After two weeks of all the milk they could drink that is.  Doesn't take fluffies much longer'n that to reach full size, especially on the hormone and vitamin enriched stuff the mlik bags dished out.

By then most of 'em knew the score, they knew there was lotsa fluffies gettin' killed and skinned right behind 'em.  Just to keep the whining down we told 'em only bad fluffies got taken away cuz' they knew what that meant.  When someone came callin' for the right shade they'd all push and shove each other to the front, tryin' to get their friends picked instead of themselves.  The night before they'd slept layin' on top of each other, all hugs and playin' an' shit but when we rolled the cart in, it's every fluffy for themselves.  So much for friends, hugs and love like those shitty commercials said huh?  Remember that?  The ads Hasbro flooded the airwaves with those first few months during the official launch?  Anyone that's spent time with the little fuckers knows the real score, most don't give two shits about their "friends".  They'd sell each other out for another day, a shitty ball or the promise of spaghetti that, of course, never came.

Well that was the process, and it went good for a couple years.  We had our shit down to a science; on the off chance we didn't have the right colors that moment then someone'd go to the breeders or shelters and find it.  Never once did we have to tell the boss no, not in two years.  And speak of the devil, he's like a fuckin' hero.  Those fashion tv shows even toured his "studio" where they put the clothes together.  Funny how they never came 'round to Attica, our neck of the woods.  Not that I give two shits, even my mom said I had a face made for radio.  Watchin' fluffies screech while some mook ripped their skin off mighta' turned off john Q public.  Heh.

Okay, we're chuggin' along, everythings fine, no worries.  But the boss is never happy, he's always tinkerin' with shit, like a scab ya can't stop pickin' at.  Yakiv's pleased as a pig in shit but Mikhailo wants the spotlight back.  He wants the next big thing, again.  After a few months of fartin' around and getting jack done he hops a plane back home to the Ukraine, has all his people in building two fill the orders and we don't hear diddly for months.  It's like half a year or somethin' before he's back in the U.S. and I swear to God nobody, NOBODY could've seen what was coming next.