Pizza Box

FractalFluff, September 10, 2014; 11:42 / FB 25693
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Pizza Box

You're a fluffy mummah. The bestest mummah, in fact. Unfortunately, your dummy Daddy didn't recognize your obvious brilliance; he refused point-blank to let you have babies. You showed him, though. You waited till he left the back door open a bit, then ran 'way when he wasn't looking.

Because you're such a pretty mare, you soon had a special friend to give you tummy babies. Your special friend turned out not to be so great, though. He kept bringing you the wrong nummies. No matter how many times you shouted at him to bring you hot sketties, he kept bringing you trashie nummies. He never understood that you were the bestest fluffy mummah and should get bestest nummies! He huuhuued and made saddies and went on about how he didn't have sketties, but you remained firm on the matter. You shouted in his ear every time he brought you trashie nummies, and booped his nosie if he came within range of your leggies.

You were big and rolly and uncomfortable for a while, but eventually your tummy-babies came out. Despite the trashie nummies, they were the bestest babies ever! You wasted no time in sorting them from the bestest bestest baby to the least bestest. One was lavender, like you, so she was clearly the bestest. Another was blue, and you rather liked blue, so he was the next bestest. Then there was a yellow baby and a browny-grey baby. While you didn't think yellow was a very interesting colour, the browny-grey baby was the same colour as your stuuuuupie special friend; thus, the yellow baby was next-next-bestest and the browny-grey baby was worstest.

A couple of bright times after your babies came, your stuuuuupie special friend went to get nummies and didn't come back. You don't care. He was a dummy anyway. But now it's getting colder and colder and your babies really don't like the cold. You give huggies for warmies, and that sort of works, but you still have a problem; you find that you can look for nummies, or you can hug your babies, but not both. You can't go very far from the nestie because the babies start to shiver and make scaredy-peeps, which means you can't get very good nummies. You remain positive that hot sketties are just around the corner, but you can't leave your babies alone long enough to find them.

You try shouting at the sky-ball to give you better huggies, but the sky-ball is a dummy too.

You're sitting with your babies hugged in your leggies, getting your breath back after a good long shout at the sky-ball (and then at some dummy hoomins who yelled out of a window at you to shut up). "Dummeh cowdies," you grumble. "Dummeh tummeh-owwies. Guh 'way." Neither the tummy-owwies nor the coldies go 'way, though.

You become aware of a further uncomfortable sensation. You try to ignore it, shifting your bum on the pile of raggies that is your nestie, but eventually the urge is too great. Grumbling, you wriggle out of the nestie and trot to the empty pizza-box that you've designated as your wittabawx. You still make good poopies, even though you don't live in a housie anymore. You have _standards._

As you turn to flip the lid of the pizza-box back down over the poopies, you notice something. Steamies are coming from your poopies and peepee. Steamies mean... steamies mean hot! You remember steamies coming from hot sketties when you lived with Daddy. You know your peepee feels hot when you go in the cold... your poopies must be hot too.

You look back towards your nestie, where your babies are already starting to peep. You look back at your steaming poop.

Poopies... poopies are bad for babies. You know that. But they're your poopies, which means they must be bestest poopies. Surely bestest poopies won't hurt babies?

You trot back to the nestie and inspect your babies. There probably aren't enough peepees or poopies to keep them all warm. You decide that the worstest baby doesn't need as many warmies as the better babies; you just shove some of the raggies on top of him. He peeps and wriggles, but you ignore him.

You carry the least-bestest-but-not-worstest yellow baby over to the wittabawx, and dunk her in the puddle of peepee pooling in the corner. The superior blue baby gets the heap of poop, which you reckon will be the warmest; he makes a lot of fuss, but you push him down firmly until only his head is poking out. There!

You look speculatively at your very bestest baby. It seems a shame to get poopies on her pretty lavender fluff. You think and think and think.

Peepee and poopies are warm... and they come from inside you... and your mouthie is warm... so you must be warm inside! The babies never fussed or made scaredy peeps when they were tummy-babies... You smile happily as you think of the bestest, safest, warmest place for your lavendar baby.

Even though she's small, it's a bit difficult to swallow her. Her little leggies kick and wriggle and make you cough. But after a couple of goes, you have her safely back in your belly.

Now to find those sketties! You bet there's some on the other side of that big black rocky place that your stuuupie special friend was so scared of...

***

"Yep, you were right. Fluffies have definitely been nesting here. Looks like they were using this pizza box as a latrine..."

"Oh my God... are those foals?"

"Yep. Looks like they were alive when they went into the crap. Poor little buggers."

"Why the hell would a fluffy dump its babies in the shit like that?"

"Rival male, perhaps. Or they were defective in some way. Or their mother didn't like their colours. Who the fuck knows with fluffies?"

"Well, no sign of the parents now. Shame they didn't hang around — could've had a new home. We can do another sweep later, but frankly they're probably road pizza."

*speep?*

"Hey! Over here! I think I've found a live one!"

"Really? Damn, you're right."

*nummm*

"Aww, look at him hugging your finger. Heh."

*suk-suk-suk-suk*

"He thinks you're his mum, Doug."

"Come on, little guy. Let's get you back to the shelter."

"'Nother peeper? Bandit'll be happy..."

"Hah!"

- end -