Judgment: Silver Bullet

You are a worker for the Department of Fish and Wildlife's Fluffy Pony Management Division, otherwise known as the 'Fluffy Pony Judgment Squad'.  And your first call on this cloudy Monday morning is unlike anything you've ever gotten before.  For one, it was labeled as an emergency, even though the scene is a small farm up in the foothills.  For another, you have a police escort, a cruiser ahead of you with lights and siren on, helping you punch through the morning traffic.  For another still, it involves dead people.

You reach the farm in short order, and find that the sole crop here appears to be raspberries.  Tall bushes form long, narrow rows, and you and the police officer have to check each one before eventually finding the source of the problem.  One row contains about twenty feral fluffy ponies, happily bleating about the fruit that has fallen off the bushes.  Some of them waddle around and buck at the plants to urge more fruit down.  Past them, you see two bodies, one older man and a woman, lying face down in the dirt.

“The fuck?” the cop says.  He walks into the herd and kicks a few of the ponies aside, trying to reach the bodies.  One of the ponies he boots is a swollen dam, which begins to bleat in pain and beg for help.

“Fwuffies gif bigges' owwies!” a pinkish-gray unicorn with blue mane and eyes threatens, but he doesn't try to bite the cop.  Instead, he runs over and eats a huge clump of berries, then waddles quickly over to the officer.

“You're kiddin',” the cop says, laughing at the puffy-cheeked smarty.  Suddenly, the smarty blows up to an enormous size, bigger even than any pregnant dam you've ever seen.

“BIGOWWIESBIGOWWIESHEWPFWUFFYHEWPFWUFFYHUGGIESOWWIESOWWIESOWWIES!” he shrieks all in one breath, and only pauses to inhale again before repeating his screams.  The cop is too freaked out to move the fluffy, or even to move away himself.  After about thirty seconds, the smarty begins to make an odd hissing noise.  He literally deflates back to his normal size, glaring up at the cop with haughty eyes.

The cop is not terribly impressed, folding his arms and laughing.  “Oh, wow, I'm so terrified.  You're gonna kill me with your fa--”

And then he falls down, foaming at the mouth and jerking violently.  By the time he stops, he's face down on the ground and motionless.

“Smawty gif bigges' owwies 'gain!  Wuv smawty fwiend!” his herd cheers, waddling over and giving him hugs.  He looks at you while this goes on and glares.

“Dis fwuffy pwace!  Go 'way o haf bigges' owwies!” he snarls adorably.

Well, what in the fuck have you gotten into now?  You step out of sight and into the row to your left, pulling out your phone to call the county office.

“County, we've got a serious problem.  I just watched this smarty friend kill a guy.”

They don't actually believe you at first, but once you've convinced them you all try to work out a plan of action until more people can arrive.  Your role in this ends up being bait; you get to taunt the smarty friend into blowing up again and trying to murder you.  Of course, you're going to kick him away when he does blow up.  Hopefully he won't explode and kill you anyway.

“I don't get paid enough for this shit,” you say, ending the call and walking back over to confront the fluffy horde.

“Munsta!” they squeal, hiding behind their mighty leader.  Once again, he gobbles up a huge pile of the fallen fruit and waddles in your direction, cheeks puffed and tail swishing angrily.  He blows up right as he gets to your feet, and that's when you smell the almonds.

Wait, almonds?  Your mind tears through what things would smell like almonds, besides almonds, and you remember a TV show you saw once about...

...cyanide.  Once that word appears in your head, you pick the bloated fluffy up and punt him high into the sky.  He tumbles through the air, spraying shit and deflating loudly before crashing unseen behind a tall row of bushes.

“Nuuuuu!  No huwt fwuffy fwiend!” some of the males growl, waddling over to clumps of the berries in an attempt to replicate the attack.  These ponies get kicked in whatever critical area is closest to your foot, be it face, sides, or little fluffy genitals.  By the time you're done killing ponies, only three are left.  They all babble in squeaky voices about the 'meanie munsta' and hide, covering their eyes as they huddle together in the middle of the row.  You pick these up and dump them in your truck's bed, ignoring their cries to be let out as you call the county office again.

An hour later, another truck arrives, along with two more police cars and the coroner.  Inside is another person from the Division, along with a chemist carrying a cyanide detector.  Neither of them believe your story.

“These are boysenberries,” the chemist says, smirking as she looks in on the ferals you've captured, “They make great pies, but not weapons of mass destruction.”

“Tell that to the three dead people back there,” you reply, thumbing over your shoulder.  While waiting, you gathered up a large amount of the berries.  The chemist sets her equipment in your truck bed, and you feed the berries to the crying fluffies.

“Pwease no huwt, nummies, jus' wan' tummy happy, nummies pwease make munstas go 'way,” one pleads around a mouthful.  They gorge themselves on the fruit, and about two minutes later they all blow up like fuzzy, stupid balloons.

“Jesus!” the chemist exclaims, slamming her hands over her ears to reduce the shrillness of their cries.  A minute later, they all deflate, and the detector in the bed with them goes insane.  “Cyanide!  Get back!” she warns.  You wait five minutes for the air to clear before going back over and looking down at the again normally sized fluffy ponies, bleating in pain and laying on their sides.  “I don't understand...”

The chemist whips out her smartphone and begins searching while you and your co-worker discuss what to do about the fluffy ponies.  Since they seem harmless unless fed the berries, you both elect to leave them be.  Besides, if they can make cyanide, the federal government is probably going to want to examine them.

“Cyanidin!” the chemist suddenly blurts out, drawing blanks looks from the both of you.  “It's an anthocyanin.”  More blank looks, and she makes an annoyed face.  “Boysenberry skin has a high amount of pure cyanidin.  Fluffy pony guts must be able to turn it into cyanide, somehow, like they can convert garbage into methane.  This is some serious shit.  We'd better crate these guys up and take them in for testing.”

The media is arriving, and you allow your co-worker to carry the fluffy survivors back to the county office while the police interview you briefly about what you saw.  Once this hits the news, it'll be utter chaos.  Fluffy ponies will die by the thousands, slaughtered by paranoid citizens declaring them to be chemical weapons. You get back in your truck and sigh, preparing mentally for long, hard weeks of work ahead.

You can't help but wonder how many of the potential victims also know about this silver bullet, and how many of the 'meanie munstas' might end up meeting their own fates instead.