Foal-Juggle

Foal-Juggle

>Be a juggler.
>No, not professionally, it's just your hobby.
>Although some weekends in summer you do go out and perform in the park for tips.
>Last month you made almost two hundred bucks!
>Normally you don't juggle dangerous stuff, that's how you get cops to hassle you and then they have to get a percentage to lay off.
>Today you've got prop knives though, they're rather blunt on the blades, but you still make a show out of only catching them by the handles.
>For some reason though, nobody's biting.
>Everybody's off enjoying the flowers that have suddenly bloomed in the public garden.
>Fucking rehabilitation of our nation's public parks, cutting into your profits.
>Still, keep at it, stay focused, the longer you can sustain a cycle the more people take note...
>"WAH! Yay!"
>Whoa shit!
>Some yelling kid you didn't see sneak up makes you nearly drop your knife!
>Even if it's not sharp, it's pointy, you could have pricked yourself!
>Look around, maybe you can give this kid the stink-eye without his mom noticing...
>... oh.
>It's a goddamn stray fluffy pony family.
>"So much fwowahs!"
>The momma-fluffy is a bright blue pegasus.
>Her mate is a red earth fluffy.
>The three foals on her back are blue, red and purple - interesting how that sometimes happens.
>They look a bit too young to walk on their own, but the nice weather and plentiful growth of the park haven't malnourished these little fluffies.
>It's also so busy around here these days they don't fear humans.
>They waddle right around your legs, the daddy fluffy even saying "Fwuffies nee' come dis way, hoomin!"
>They hit the foot-high concrete separator that keeps people off the flowerbeds, though, and are confounded.
>"Why waww in fwuffies' way?" the momma asks it.
>Holy shit, she thinks it's going to respond to her, these things are fucking stupid.
>"Mummah fwy ovah waww!" she announces, wiggling her tiny and useless wings, which are covered in fuzz rather than feathers.
>She looks depressed when it doesn't work. "Mummah too big wif' baybehs on backie!"
>"Pwease go 'way, waww, fwuffies wan' pwetty-smeww nummies!" the father adds.
>"Hey," you say, "You can't eat those. Those are paid for by taxes and shit."
>The fluffy ponies look at you.
>Naturally, they don't understand at all, but you want them gone, people don't like fluffy ponies and you'd like to make a little cash.
>As though you said nothing, the momma fluffy asks, "Mistah hewp fwuffies an' baybehs to nummies?"
>"No. Go away."
>"Pwease hewp," urges the father. "Baybehs get tummy-owwies if nuu haf nummies!"
>"You'll be fine, there's grass everywhere."
>Do they not remember they just came from a perfectly good field full of food?
>One of the babies peeps, "Nummies!"
>Now the mother begins to become frantic. "Hoomin, hewp! Mumma nee' pwetty-smeww nummies fow baybeh miwkies!"
>"I said go away!"
>Your tone of voice is threatening enough to make her cower and her babies begin to chirp in alarm.
>The daddy-fluffy reacts with anger. "Nu huwt speciaw fwiend an' baybehs, meanie mistah!"
>"What would you do if I did hurt them?"
>"Fwuffy gif meanie hoomin owwies!"
>Oh, fuck this thing.
>Your quick, trained hand darts out, and then you're holding one of his babies, the blue one.
>It's a pegasus.
>"Got'cher baby, you little prick."
>"Baybeh!" the momma squeals, immediately puttering up to your leg to reach up, even though she could never hope to make it. "Gif back baybeh!"
>Her wings are fluttering, she really thinks flying'll get her up to it!
>"No, your man here said he would hurt me if I caused trouble."
>You begin to do a one-handed toss-and-catch with the foal.
>It only does one rotation, and its fluff seems to prevent it from smacking your palm too hard when it impacts, but its intermittent peeps soon turn into a constant wail broken only by its small supply of words.
>"Nuuuu! Nuuuu! Mummah! Hewp! Mummah! Nuuuu!"
>"Baybeh! Mummah comin'!"
>But of course no matter how she tries to scale your pant leg all that happens is that she rocks her other babies, who squeal in fear.
>And her attempts to fly are even more pathetic, serving mostly to frighten the foals off her back with her wing-fidgets.
>"Wingies, pwease hewp mummah get baybeh!"
>Why does she treat them like they're alive independent of her?
>That really pisses you off for some reason.
>It takes you a few seconds to realize that the stallion is trying to bite you, although all he succeeds in doing is untying your shoelace.
>"Gif back baybeh!" he grunts, pounding his marshmallowy hooves on your ankle.
>"No. In fact, I'll try another."
>Suddenly you're holding his red baby, also a pegasus.
>Then you begin transferring them from hand to hand, crossing them over in midair.
>The mother screams. "BAYBEHS! TOO HIGH, HOOMIN, BAYBEHS FAWW! DIS BAD GAME FOW BAYBEHS!"
>The foals keep up their constant stream of "Mummah! Hewp!" and add "Bad game!" to imitate her.
>One of them poops in midair and the little round turd falls onto the stallion's face.
>It bounces off his eye and he says, "Baybeh, nuu make sowwy-poopies on daddeh...!"
>"Maybe it knows you should apologize," you suggest, increasing the height of your juggle.
>"Nuu! Bad hoomin say bad hoomin sowwy, an' gif baybehs an' fwowahs!"
>Bzzzt, wrong answer.
>"Gather round and feast your eyes!" you yell, more at the fluffies than the two or three people who've started watching. "Three fluffy foals are going for a spin!"
>You see the mother's wet eyes squinch up as she tries to work out what you mean, struggling with all her brainpower to understand numbers even slightly - but that just means she's all the more surprised when you nick her last foal and are juggling them all.
>"BAYBEHS! PWEASE GIF BACK!"
>"Mummah! Hewp! Owwies!"
>Juggling them as fast as you are is probably banging them up a bit.
>You don't give a shit, although you'll wash your hands later, these vermin are probably filthy!
>"BAYBEHS NEE' MIWKIES, NUU HIGH GAME! NUU HUWTIES!"
>"P-pwease, hoomin," the stallion finally mutters, defeated, "Gif back speciaw fwiend's baybehs... nee' huggies an' wuv..."
>"Make me," you taunt while you switch to figure eights. "Oh yeah, and aren't these all pegasuse... pegasi... pegasus ponies? They should want to fly!"
>"BAYBEHS TOO WITTOW FOW FWY!" the momma yowls, as though she's in any way capable of flying herself. "BAYBEHS GON' FAWW!"
>"No, I'm a pretty good juggler. Check it out."
>And you snatch up your prop knives, to begin interspersing them with the foals.
>Six objects can be hard, but you only have to worry about where you grip the knives.
>It's not like you care if you're too tough with the foals.
>"NUU, SHAWPY-STICKS HUWT BAYBEHS!"
>"Pwease nuu huwty baybehs, hoomin! Fwuffies wuv baybehs!"
>Finally, they're both begging outright.
>Once you've listened to enough of their pleading and feel like you've had a good juggle out of them, you say "Admit they can't fly."
>"OKEY! OKEY! PWEASE GIF BAYBEHS BACK! BAYBEHS NUU FWY EVAH 'GAIN! MUMMAH NUU WAN' BAYBEHS FWY!"
>Aha!
>You kill the circuit such that you've got your three prop knives in one hand and the babies resting clutched in the other.
>They're just shivering now - one burying its eyes in its sibling's fluff and another hugging your finger for dear life, afraid to fall.
>The last one seems to be catatonic.
>"Nuu mowe bad game fow baybehs?"
>The fluffy parents don't look completely relieved, of course, but they've stopped their panicked yelling.
>Then you take one of the dull knives and begin hacking off the wings of the foals.
>It's not clean or painless, you're really breaking them off as much as anything.
>It's almost upsetting to hear, actually, but you remind yourself these things are basically colorful rats in your town, there are even bounties on them. "Ahhhh! Mummah! Huwty! Nee' huggies! Mummah!"
>"Baybeh wingie! Nuuu!"
>"It doesn't need wings. It can't fly and neither can you."
>"You put it down in front of her, and she hugs it, which actually does have the effect of stanching the bleeding a bit.
>The father-fluffy has sort of shut down, weeping and watching, saying, "Nuu can stawp meanie hoomin... twy gif owwies, owwies nuu wowk..."
>Now he gets it.
>You still de-wing the other fluffy foals before giving back to the mother, who is wailing, "Baybeh wingies go 'way! Baybehs haf nuu wingies, onwy boo-boo jooce! Baybehs nee' wingies fow fwy!"
>"They can't fly, you moron! They never would have, me juggling them was the closest they'll ever get! Now get the hell out of here or I'll light your asses on fire and juggle all of you!"
>You give a smooth Three Stooges style slap to the two fluffies and they squeal and begin shuffling away as fast as they can manage, each with a baby on their back crying and still dripping small amounts of blood into their fluff.
>You sigh and drop the one they forgot onto one of them - you sure don't need it around here.
>They make it back to the grass, still weeping and hiccuping with sadness, and slow down to give each other consoling hugs.
>"Fwuffy so sowwy, speciaw fwiend... so sowwy, baybehs..."
>"Baybehs nuu fwy...!" the momma wails, looking up at the sky. "Baybehs nuu can fwy wif mummah!"
>It was probably the greatest thing her little mind ever dreamed of for them, the only exercise of imagination she could muster.
>And you took it away from them.
>It felt good.
>"Oh man, that shit was tight!" a bro-y looking fellow proclaims.
>Turns out there were like five people watching you by now.
>They all drop some money, ranging from pocket change to a ten!
>A guy in a suit you didn't see observing says, "I wish you'd taken the mother's wings, too. Made her give up her own belief in flying."
>You grin.
>While you were learning to juggle the prop knives, you also learned the basics of knife-throwing.
>You reverse your grip on the blade - it's dull, but you've got three tries.
>"Betcha I can get one from here."
>The suited guy pulls out his wallet.
>You see it's full of fifties.
>"You're on!"
>You roll your arm back for the throw...

END