Hell is Fluffy Ponies

Inspired by the cutebright story, "Fluffy Heaven".
>You're living it up on an ice fishing trip in Alaska with your buddies
>destroying two cases of beer in a matter of hours
>fucking fluffy ponies causing a ruckus
>you're sure they're not scaring the fish away, but they still piss you off
>occasionally you toss an empty beer bottle at them, sometimes killing one and scattering the rest
>but they always come back
>what the fuck are a pack of stray ponies doing on a lake, anyway
>eventually, their mewling and sputtering pisses you off, and you get up off your lawn chair and charge at them, screaming at them in an inarticulate, drunken rage
>Too stupid to realize you're hostile, the fluffies stampede towards you, expecting huggies and playtime
>you collide with them, they knock you on your ass
>As you hit the ground, you can feel the ice giving, and you plunge into the freezing depths
>the last thing you see before everything goes dark is a dozen fluffy ponies drowning almost instantly as they hit the water.

>As you come to, you realize you are in some old, run-down building
>a rusty tractor, some stables and a big ole' pile of hay with a pitchfork sticking out
>it's a barn
>for some reason there's a chute endlessly feeding a pile of spaghetti, with fluffies chowing down continuously
>you wonder who saved you, but are certain the fluffies would have no clue
>"New fwien'?" yelps something at your feet. You look down and see an orange fluffy clinging to your pant leg
>peeling it off, you chuck it against the side of the barn in disgust
>a little too hard, you can hear its neck snapping from here
>you can only stare, hyperventilating a little
>suddenly you lock up as you notice it's still moving
>you get a little closer and you see its neck is realigning itself
>as it snaps into place, the fluffly blinks for a moment, looks at you, then says, "Hewwo! New fwien'?"
>oh god
>you were never rescued
>by some sick cosmic joke you are now trapped for eternity in the fluffy afterlife
>you collapse, beating your fists into the ground as tears stream down your face
>you run aimlessly around the barn, kicking out boards, tripping over the pitchfork
>tripping over the pitchfork
>the pitchfork
>THE PITCHFORK
>IT BEGINS

>a couple eons later
>the best you could muster is a red coat with some horns and a fake spaded tail
>you look like you just came back from Party City
>at least the pitchfork has seen enough abuse now to be red to match
>God doesn't even give a fuck, these things weren't even supposed to exist in the first place
>Belphegor even loans you some fallen angels so long as you mow his lawn on Tuesdays
>the fluffies can't understand the concept of a sentient being as non-animal, so the flaming swords and winged wheels of eyes can move about unmolested
>the cherubs are not so lucky
>you're pretty much the closest thing these abominations will ever get to their own Satan
>Eh, it could have been worse