Fluffy Garments - the foreman part 1

Fluffy Garments - The Foreman part 1

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Warning:  This story contains abuse and other creepy things.  Viewer discretion is advised.


* Click *

* A slightly overweight, slightly balding man of around 40 walks to a chair facing the camera he just turned on and sits *

... All right, here we go.  I've had some phone calls lately, hangups an' shit like that.  Then a note under the front door about good little boys keeping their mouths shut.  There's lots of dickhead teenagers in the area so I didn't think anything of it until today.  I open my mailbox and find a black rose, broken in half *Shows rose to camera*.  Four years ago I'd have no clue what it meant, but after my stint working for a Ukrainian fashion designer I'm four years smarter about the Ukrainian mob.

It's what you'd call a bad fucking sign.

I dunno what they think I saw or did or whatever but I ain't goin' down like some alleyway bitch for a twenty.  So I'm gonna record everything I know about the "business" I was in while working for Mikhailo Domovoi and hand it off to a couple friends I know I can trust.  Every gruesome detail, every fucked up business practice, and of course some names and dates the cops would be real interested in.  Once word of this spreads around, hopefully they'll back off.  If that's why they're fucking with me in the first place. I mean, its not like I can just look 'em up in the phone book and ask.

That'd be nice though.  I've been running it over and over in my head, what is it they think I know?  Could be a lotta things, I saw some serious shit in that factory after four years.  Bodies?  Rumors about palettes of money?  Shit, whoever ends up watchin' this, you've got no idea what I've seen.

Let's see...  For me, the whole dirty business started out with fluffy ponies of all fuckin' things.  Those annoying, loudmouth assholes that annoying, loudmouth assholes think are cute.  Who'd have thought there'd be money in the damn irritating pricks?  Not selling 'em, not hunting 'em.  Fashion.

Fucking.  Fashion.

Heh, now what do you think of when I say that?  Talking hairballs wearing little coats and booties, shitty plastic sunglasses and the like?  You've got it all wrong.  When I say fluffy fashion, I mean fashion made FROM fluffies.  They've got pelts just like any other animal, you cut 'em off right, treat 'em chemically right and there ya' go, fabric.

I doubt anyone would've guessed it from looking at 'em though, not in the beginning.  They were just talking pets back then, or were supposed to be.  I heard something about a breakout or shipping accident or something and boom!  Fluffies fucking everywhere.  It was like one day there was nothing, the next?  Can't drive down the street without crushing the brakes to avoid the stupid shits.  If you bother.  I did at first, but with so many in the city I think you'd be hard pressed to find anyone who hasn't squished at least one or two by now.  Why can't they be like squirrels and fuckin' move their asses?

Before my deal with the devil I was a factory worker without a factory.  No job, economy in the toilet, rent creeping up on me, same story as everybody else right?  Had a friend I'd drink with sometimes, he said something about a new place opening up, but real hush hush shit.  He drove a van for some fancy ass fashion company, delivering straight from the factory to the rack.  He says they need guys with strong stomachs and he'd put in a good word if I wanted.  I haven't seen him since the whole thing blew up in our faces, ain't hard to figure out why.

So he makes good on his promise and before you know it, I'm in front of the man himself.  Mikhailo Domovoi, Ukrainian immigrant turned fashion designer.  Kinda.  He had an idea, something new and I guess back then they were really jonesing for different.  Well it doesn't get more different than what this guy had in mind and I had the chance to get on board, ground floor.  I ask what the deal is, he tells me it's gonna be those things, the fluffy ponies.  At first I didn't know what he meant.  Then he opens a closet and pulls out a coat that'd make any pimp on the streets of New York stand up and fucking salute.  Purple, blue, yellow, and all of it made from fluffy pelts.  Didn't see that shit coming AT ALL.

So he's the man with the plan, but needs a few people to round up the "raw materials".  That was my first job for Domovoi.  Goin' round to all the shelters an' breeders, picking up as many fluffies as I could fit in the van and slipping the guys or gals at the front desk a few bucks to keep quiet.  They didn't give a damn about what we needed 'em for, so long as their wallets were a little fatter come quittin' time.

There were, and probably still are, breeders who'd give ya one hell of a deal if you take their fucked up ones, the retards and gimps and the like.  You'll get some birth defects if you're breeding them fast chemically.  Found out about that the hard way later on.  I even had contacts with hunters for when I needed a very specific color.  Ned or Nate or something like that, he'd usually pull through if I didn't mind finding a collar or that the fluffy was chipped.  I didn't.

So Mikhailo starts makin' coats and hats and all kinds of stuff, shit hits the fan from day one.  Fur is murder, they aren't pets, fluffies are people too, what a load.  Remember, this was back when they were still new and exciting.  That changed in a hurry when they started causing traffic accidents, blocking up sewers and wrecking crops.  All of a sudden the whole "fluffies are people too" thing starts to fade.

Then one day everything goes apeshit. They found an alleyway herd that taught itself how to trip people with grocery bags down a flight a' stairs to get at the eats.  Now they're a public menace and I don't even have to use the back door anymore. No one gives a shit about what happens to 'em except the few hardcore hippie pricks left.

So I'm doin' my part, getting the boss the colors he needs, keeping a bunch around in cages, it's a nice little setup.  We called the place Attica, no riots but a hell of a lot of killings!  Things aren't all sunshine and roses though, Mikhailo made a lotta noise, got a lotta of press, but wasn't making a lotta cash.  That's kinda important.  Everyone knew about the coats made from fluffies, but nobody was buying.  Looked like I was back to the unemployment line when the boss makes himself a new friend.  A fellow Ukrainian fashion designer called Yakiv Komar.  The difference between the two?  Yakiv's clothes were popular and he sold a fuckton to celebrities, models and the rich housewives of New York.  You know the type, more money than brains.  But the two hit it off, thick as thieves just like that.  Yakiv said Mikhailo "inspired him to be more daring" or some such bullshit.  And our money troubles?  Disappeared overnight like a fluffy from their owners back yard.  If I'd known he was all mobbed up I'da quit right there and then.

Well... I probably would've.  Before then I'd never heard of a Ukrainian mob, have you?  Almost sounds funny saying it out loud, but those mother fuckers play for keeps.  The fluffy bodies were chopped up and shipped off to dog an' cat food factories after skinning .  Let's just say every once in a while they got a little something extra in the mix.  Like one or two or eight times that I *might* have seen out the corner of my eye depending on who's asking.

So now we've got the dream team together and things are finally happening.  The coats, thanks to Yakiv's "input" are selling and they start making damn near anything out of fluffy pelts.  Boots, gloves, hats, vests, belts, underwear, you name it.  You should have seen how the ones at the factory reacted.

Ok, I guess I should go over that part as well.  We had two buildings, about half a football field apart.  In one we kept the fluffies, skinned 'em, treated 'em, and stored 'em for when building two needed a pelt.  That's where they actually put the clothes together, building two.  It was like black and white, their place was clean, well lit, decorated, you get the idea.  Ours, where the fluffies lived and died is a different story entirely.  Bare concrete, shitty lighting, blood drains and holy shit the smell.  In the beginning it wasn't nearly that bad, a few dozen cages, one van, no worries.  Me and one other guy took care of the hairballs while a couple more did the skinning and prep work.  But now things are happening, Yakiv's designs actually selling and we gotta keep up with orders in triple digits!

Finding feral herds around town wasn't reliable when you needed eight of the same color to make one coat.  So alongside checking out the breeders, shelters and the like, we start breeding them ourselves.  I went from knowing nothing but how to shovel their shit to fluffy breeder extraordinaire in a God damn day.  We bought a LOT of old cages from anywhere we could get them, even built some ourselves, and stacked 'em five high.  They were less than a foot high themselves and about two wide by two deep, so you could get five or six in one cage if you didn't mind squeezing a bit.  Even had a system set up where a sheet of plastic between cage layers caught their piss and shit so it didn't rain down on the little bastards below.  Things were tight but we needed that fluff in good shape.

Now we're hiring more and more people just to feed and clean the fuckers and we've got several vans set up special just for picking up fluffies.  Horizontal sheet metal dividers every ten inches high, you could make six or seven layers in the back of a normal van and just stuff it full of fluffies all the way to the roof.  Ya they couldn't stand up straight but we didn't need 'em to.  I'd bring 'em to Attica, unload with gloves and coveralls so I didn't get covered in shit and toss 'em out the back.  One of the other guys would hose 'em off and pass it on to the right colored cage.  That's how they were stored, by color.  At any time we could have more than two hundred red ones alone, an' tons of different shades.

Things could get kinda grim working there, as damn near everyone's senior there I had to come up with shit to keep morale up.  We'd all get a kick out of grabbing one from the cages and dropping it into the sex pits right beside a coat or boot or something made from a fluffy the same color.  They'd get the weirdest look on their faces and sniff the hell out of the thing, but ya' never knew how it'd react in the end.  Some of 'em would ignore it, others were too busy crying to care an' some wanted to sleep on the soft, fuzzy thing.  Others though... heh, others sorta got it.  They knew on some level what they were lookin' at.  You'd get fluffies who'd ask a boot to play, then get mad and call it a bad fluffy for not giving hugs back!  HA!  Man, that was some crazy shit.

Not often, but sometimes one really would figure it out, and every once in a while we just told 'em the truth to see what'd happen.  Even then, you never knew how it'd go.  A lot would cry, like hysterical, terrified crying and hug it, calling it friend or some shit.  Or they'd just drop in place, cover their faces and wail while saying fluffies aren't clothes, heh.  Plenty freaked and begged us not to do the same to them... I remember a mother offering up her foals if we didn't skin her in return.  And they could surprise you too, like this one that went berserk and started screaming fluffy insults at us, he charged me and damn near broke his own neck trying to spear my leg with his horn.  It was like being hit with a nerf ball but the fucker gave it his all.  Jabbing, biting, kicking, he totally lost his shit.  Damn near broke the sorry stick on his ass though and by the end, he was apologizing for being a bad fluffy and told all the others in his cage not to be mean to the nice humans.  He gave me a pretty good idea.

They're funny little fuzzballs, mostly the same but with little bits of personality here and there.  Some would reach through the bars desperately trying to hug the workers, while others blew raspberries and called us names.  They met the sorry stick of course, you NEVER let that kinda thing slide in Attica.  The little shits learn by example and if we let one get away with something, they were all gonna try it.  Like that fluffy I mentioned before that went nuts, he wound up being pretty useful to me.

I made a few into special projects of my own.  Whooped 'em, scared 'em, played good cop, whatever it took to make them totally loyal.  Then I'd put them in their own cage, alone.  In the one beside we'd place the really badly behaved bastards and over time my good guys would work on 'em.  Try to convince them the humans were in charge and good fluffies listen to the humans.  And hey, sometimes it even worked.  Isolating a fluffy is like the worst thing you can do to it, they HATE being alone so my loyal little fluffies were always happy to make a new friend next door.  They'd talk up a storm, reach through the bars so they could touch their hooves together, real sentimental shit.  All the while the fluffy needing an attitude adjustment is being taught and converted by my fluffy good guys.  Since they were breeders and not raw material we needed to keep them around for as  long as they could put out.  I had this red one who was like a fucking jedi, he could convince anything but a smarty friend to be good and do as it's told.  Good old Arnold...

Well...  The fluffies designated for skinning were caged together, fed a little and given as much water as they wanted.  We wanted their skin to get looser, it's easier for the skinners so we'd starve 'em a bit.  Not a ton, they just needed to lose about half a pound since a lot don't weigh over five or six.  Unless you "found" a domestic fatass, they weighted a bit more.  And FUCK they were loud!  It was non stop crying all day, every day.I refuse to believe the workers in building two didn't hear what was going on with all the begging and sobbing and yelling and shit.

It really got to me sometimes, so I'd haul a misbehaving one out where lots could see and give it a good, LONG dose of the sorry stick.  I'd leave a rear end raw and bloody by the time it was over and when they saw ME coming, the chatter suddenly died down.  Little fuckers knew who was in charge and the smarty friends?  Not so smart without legs, wings, horns, whatever.  A pair of tin snips and a blowtorch was all you needed.  They got the picture real fast, or went straight to the skinners.  It'd suck to lose a rare color for breeding's sake, but you never let them get away with back talk.  That's a one way ticket to losing control of the whole damn show.  And we were tryin' to make money, it wasn't a shelter.  Ya' know, just in case I haven't made it clear yet.

Eh.... back to that later.  Business is booming, Mikhailo is in the papers and everything's great right? Not quite.  We were constantly almost out of fluffies by then so that's when the breeding program really ramps up.  By now I knew a bit about breeding but the boss says we need to turbo charge this shit NOW.  He even makes me official foreman of the entire building;  I was running the damn thing anyway so I guess having the title was nice.  A raise would'a been better.

I went to one of the most crooked breeders you'll ever meet, creepy bastard named Jay and paid him like a fucking king to give me the rundown.  The mares were bred every month, two to three weeks of gestation and one week of recovery time.  We had long, thin play pens, which is what we called the sexing pits, between cage rows.  Plywood dividers every five feet or so made sure the colors didn't mix.

Now it never was a guarantee that two green fluffies would make green babies, but the chances were much, much higher than random fucking and hoping for the best.  Stallions normally weren't hard to convince and if either fluffy gave any kind of attitude the workers had permission to whip the fuck out of their asses until they got with the enfing.  Once a mare was knocked up she'd drink her own body weight in water and balloon up like a fucking cartoon character on helium.  That's how you know when a mare is preggo, they drink like a fish to build up amniotic fluid.  Yep, I learned all kindsa' big words as a fluffy breeder.

Jay taught me a lot about high volume breeding, how to get the biggest litters in the shortest time, what chemicals to inject who with, all the good shit.  There were a couple problems, as you'd expect considering how fast we set everything up.  You wouldn't believe how many mothers killed their own babies rather than hand them over to us.  After the third or fourth litter was cranked out they started catching on and trying to keep it quiet when they were about to pop.  It's not hard to tell when a mare is going into labor though, they'd complain about needing to take a big shit or ask to be moved somewhere softer, not realizing they're giving themselves away.  To fix the whole "murder" problem we always took 'em to an open pen with other mares about to give birth, the floor was sloped linoleum and even had a drain for all the damn fluid they gush while delivering.

The whole thing was one wide open area with low plywood walls, its not like they were gonna walk away right?  If a dam has only one baby there's a chance she won't swell enough to stop her from walking entirely, but the fertility treatments made sure litters were no less than four, even if we got a few more runts that way.  Runts still had fluff, so they still had value.  Someone would be watching 'em 24/7, the second mommy squeezes one out, he'd be right there to make sure she didn't kill the thing, cut the cord, make her clean it and then it was off to the milk bag incubator cages despite the begging.  Afterwards mommy goes back to her cage, gets another shot and five or six days later its right back to the sex pits for another round.  Now that's sustainable high volume breeding.

The mothers tried all kinds of shit with us.  Like not eating (we'd force feed 'em with a funnel and tube), constant lying about damn near anything, or hiding the babies in their fluff the moment she could move again.  Nothing worked of course, even when we got multiple runts they were cleaned and given to a milk bag.  A lot of 'em went nuts, tried to kill the babies as they were giving birth, insisting they weren't pregnant and really believing it, all kinds of fucked up stuff.  Oh yeah! There was this legless breeder who cracked;  all she'd do is wiggle in place, what she called dancing, and sing.  Could actually carry a bit of a tune.  It isn't hard to break a fluffy mind, believe me I know.

Now milk bags were mares chemically treated to constantly produce milk with bi-weekly injections.  Babies went straight from their mothers to these fucking monstrous fluffies.  The shit they got pumped up with made them so fucking fat it was like they didn't even have legs, just huge, floppy teats and a head.   Oh, and four teat mares only, that way two babies can feed since they lay on their right side all the time.  They cranked out so much milk it didn't matter that no one rotated the six or eight babies in there with 'em, every fluffy got enough.

Their cages had rubberized heating blankets so the babies didn't freeze, and we strapped the milk bags down so they couldn't "accidentally" roll over them.  Didn't stop the bitches from trying though, they hated the babies and kept on screaming about stealing their good babies milk.  Fat fucks always thought they were pregnant!  Even when they could SEE mares that were giving birth every month, stupid milk bags were always talking to their bellies, asking the babies to please come out.  Or scream at them for being bad babies and making mommy so huge, either way it was worth a laugh.  They had the worst attitudes of the bunch, whining about their bed sores, not being able to move, where their babies were and especially the bad babies stealing their precious milk.

Despite being as close to perfectly round as a living animal can be a few managed to kill some foals.  They convinced them to come up to their heads to get a hug, and instead were bit on the neck and thrashed to death.  I personally fixed that.  Found some plexiglass on the cheap and cut in holes just big enough for the milk bag's heads.  Then popped them in place, wired it in and there you go, still had feeding access with none of the infanticide.  With their heads completely separate from the rest of the world all they could do is cry and bitch, made it even easier to shove the feeding tube down their throats too.  And when they finally dried up and couldn't give milk?  Starvation 'till their flesh wasn't so stretched and skinned if enough fluff was intact.  Usually one side was absolutely covered in bed sores but they were truly massive for a fluffy, there was still enough viable material for a hat or something.  If not, soccer in the back lot got pretty popular.

Oh shit ya, almost forgot the family, listen to this it's a riot.  One time we skinned down a mom, this was before we took the babies away keep in mind, they all lived in the same cage for a month.  Anyway we skin and treat her, and building two sends back a vest with Mikhailo and Yakiv's latest and greatest, fluffy clothing with the faces still there.  You'd have holes where the mouth, nose, ears and nose were but they could fix it so the face still stuck out a bit, like a fluffy face that'd been flattened with a frying pan.  It's fuckin' eerie, but fluffy hate was at an all time high and some folk didn't mind standing out in a crowd.  Actually, that was kinda the point wasn't it?

So we've got this vest with two faces on the back, mommy's mug on the bottom half.  I toss it in the cage with her kids and we all gathered 'round to watch.  Took 'em a minute but once they really sniffed it good and caught on, man you've never heard a sound like that in your life.  They recognized her and absolutely flipped their shit!  We even took turns sticking their heads into the mouth hole, working it like a puppet and I kid you not, one of 'em died of fright right there.  The other two were so fucked up we had to skin 'em early, they kept trying to kill themselves and that coulda' damaged the fluff.  Can't have that, it was a business after all.

Not really makin' myself out to be a hero huh?  Like I could give a damn.  YOU work with those screaming, shitting, crying, bitching hairballs for FOUR YEARS and we'll see how much you like 'em after.  Besides, that's just the appetizer.  If you missed the boat before, what came next'll blow your fucking mind.

End part 1