Good Daddeh 6

Swindle, April 1, 2014; 18:04 / FB 19934
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Good Daddeh

Part 6

You're Gene, short for Eugene. Your kids have all grown up and gotten kids of your own. You don't feel like you're old enough to be a grandpa; you always remembered your grandpa as being ancient. Then you did some math and realized you're actually a few years older than your grandpa was when you were the same age as your oldest grandson.

Perspective is a bitch.

Your wife, Louise, has been sort of depressed lately. She misses the kids, and the grandkids live too far away to visit on a regular basis. You got her one of those fluffy ponies about ten years back, to take her mind off things; unlike a dog, fluffies can talk and are basically fuzzy children, so they hit it off great. Maybelle, the fluffy, lived a good seven years before dying of old age; they didn't live as long as a dog, but you got some good years out of it. Pissed you off for the first two years you had it since it shit everywhere, hated baths, and was dumber than a bag of hammers, but you eventually took to it and it figured out how you wanted it to behave, so you're not afraid to admit you kinda liked it.

After Maybelle passed, you let your wife grieve for a few months and get her a new fluffy, a gelding this time. Baxter was, incredibly, even dumber than Maybelle, but he was easier to train and he became your little buddy. He followed you down to the river and sat next to you babbling about stupid things while you fished. He was annoying at times, but you got pretty fond of the little guy, and Louise adored him just as much as she had Maybelle.

Baxter was just shy of three years old when that damn kid shot him with a BB gun. Kid had no business being on your property to begin with; there was a reason you moved out of city limits! You tanned his hide good, then when the kid's dad showed up and swung a fist at you, you tanned his hide too. Broke the stock of the BB gun over his head when he threatened to kill you. You may be old, but you ain't out of the race yet. You filed charges for assault, trespassing, and property damage, and later when Baxter died from the infected BB wound you sued him. Hopefully that stupid brat learned a lesson about coming onto other people's property and harming their pets. His dad sure did.

You buried Baxter in the corner of the garden, which you fenced off from the rest of the property, next to Maybelle. It's been six months, and every time you go fishing you stop at the gate to wait for him to catch up. But he never comes. Dammit. You're getting soft in your old age.

You're returning from another fishing trip, two decent-sized catfish in your bucket, and roll your eyes when you see you left the gate open again. You're getting so forgetful these days. Just one more symptom of being old, you guess. You briefly brush a hand over the trumpet vine that completely covers the chainlink fence and remember how Maybelle always said it was so pretty every time it bloomed. Baxter liked it too, but he wasn't as impressed by pretty things as Maybelle had been.

Sighing and stretching your bad knee so it pops, you pull the gate shut behind you and latch it with a clank. Then you turn and see there's a bunch of fluffies laying in the grass.

"Well now, what's all this?" you ask in surprise. "A herd of ferals in my backyard?"

You've gotten ferals wandering around the property before, but they're usually the sort who avoid humans as much as possible. They only ever came up to the house when they were desperate for food (you had to shoo them away while Louise wasn't looking or she'd feel sorry for them and feed them, which only encouraged them to stick around and destroy your lawn.) or when they could smell that Maybelle was in heat. None of them ever gave two shits about Baxter, and since he literally didn't have any balls or sex drive he didn't give a shit about them either.

A large red fluffy with brown mane and tail jumps to its feet and glares at you. It's shaking so badly it looks like it's going to collapse any moment, but it puffs its cheeks up in that stupid way fluffies think is intimidating and stomps his little feet on your lawn.

"Nu huwt famiwy!"

You sigh. Dammit, you're not in the mood for demanding, pushy ferals today.

"And you must be the smarty, huh?"

The big red fluffy pauses a second, scrunching his forehead in that adorable look of confusion all fluffies inevitably get, then shakes his head emphatically.

"Nu am smawty!"

Then he glances back at the others nervously and you see that most of this herd consists of foals, and they're huddling under the other two adult fluffies. Then, still shaking, he turns back and gives you that defiant look again.

"Nu huwt famiwy! Fwuffies nu wan twubwe, we weave! Nu cum back! Hoomin nu haf huwt famiwy!"

Geez, these things are terrified of you. You've seen Baxter do the tough guy routine enough to know when a fluffy is bluffing and when he really intends to duke it out; this one is scared shitless (literally, he just took a dump on your grass.), but you can tell he's serious. He'll fight if you come after the others.

Wait, what was that about leaving?"

"Come again?"

"Huh?"

"Repeat what you said."

"Uh. Yoo nu haf tu huwt famiwy, fwuffies weave and nu cum back!"

"You'll leave? You don't want my land?"

"Nu! Nu wan twubwe wif hoomin munsta!"

You're a monster now, apparently. These guys must have run into some folks who seriously didn't like fluffies. You notice one of the other adults, a blue one with green mane and tail (the other is a different shade of blue with grey mane and tail; maybe they're siblings.), looks seriously messed up; his back legs are both crooked, he has dried blood in his fluff, and he just doesn't look healthy.

You point and ask, "What's wrong with him?"

The red one glances in the direction you're pointing, then quickly glares at you again. He's clearly afraid to take his eyes off you. Geez, what happened to them?

"What wrong with him? Is he hurt?"

The red one is shaking harder and there's foam in his fluff; he's clearly on the verge of collapse. He doesn't answer you. The injured one finally speaks up.

"Hoomin munsta gif wowstest huwties tu fwuffy. Dun know why. Den hoomin munsta gif fowevuh sweepies tu fwuffy's babbehs. Fwuffy... fwuffy say he take babbehs if hoomin nu wan dem, buh... buh he..."

He starts sobbing. The one next to him, a mare you suspect, is also crying but she's singing to her foals about how brave daddy is and how daddy will keep the monsters away. The foals are all crying and telling their mother they don't want owies or forever sleepies "wike sissie".

Geez, this whole family's fucked up.

"All right, fine. If you want to leave, you can leave. I ain't gonna hurt you. But you don't have to leave. I'll let you stay here for a day or two, rest a while."

The trembling red fluffy says nothing and continues staring you down. Little guy has balls, you'll give him that. You could kick his ass with one foot and he probably knows it, but he's not gonna back down. You pull your cell phone out and text Louise that you have guests in the backyard and need a big bowl of spaghetti ASAP, then you sit down on a large rock, wincing at the pain in your knee and back. The catfish in your bucket twitch once as you set it down beside you.

"You guys hungry? I'll let you have some good food before you go. And you're welcome to spend the night here if you want; it's safe, nobody's gonna hurt you."

"Wan weave. Nu wan twubwe. Nu wan huwties."

"I'm not gonna hurt you, I promise. Now why don't you tell me where you came from and what happened to you?"

The red fluffy's legs won't hold him anymore and he plops down on his haunches, still eyeing you warily. You're not going according to script, you assume. The mare moves to press herself against him and all four foals soon join in, hugging up against him like they're trying to merge with him via osmosis. The other blue one, you're not sure if it's a mare or stallion, just lays where he is. He's probably a cripple, as bad as his legs look; you have no idea how he could have gotten far, and you hope this doesn't mean there's some asshole trespassing on your land again and attacking fluffies or the herd of deer Louise likes to watch in the morning.

Then the red fluffy starts telling you his story, from start to finish. Louise comes outside with a large bowl of microwave spaghetti a few minutes into the story and fusses over the fluffies, telling the mare how pretty her babies are; both the mare and the red fluffy (her 'special friend' you assume) try to hide the foals under their bodies and the mare begs your wife not to hurt the babies. Louise tries to reassure them that she won't harm their babies, then sets the bowl of spaghetti down.

None of the fluffies move toward it. You've never seen a fluffy that wouldn't dive right into a bowl of spaghetti, and none of them will move an inch toward it. Louise gives you a concerned look and then, being a little more spry than yourself, sits in the grass next to you, giving the fluffies some room so they feel less threatened.

"I'm sorry, uh, Rock? You were telling me about the bad man that found your home?"

Rock continues his story in a weary monotone and Louise leans against you, hand over her mouth and tears in her eyes as she listens to his tale of woe and courage.

After about an hour, Rock has finished his story. It was pretty simple, being told by a fluffy with a limited vocabulary and limited understanding of the world around him, but you only had to get him to clarify things a few times when you had difficulty understanding his baby talk or one of his fluffy euphemisms. You've got a pretty good handle on fluffspeak, having owned a couple.

"Well Rock, that is a very sad story. I'm sorry all those bad things happened to you and your family. But you're safe here; you're free to leave if you want, or you can stay a while if you want, get some rest. And you're more than welcome to the, uh, skettis there if you want them."

Rock stands on unsteady feet and cautiously approaches the bowl of spaghetti, watching you as if expecting you to lunge at him at any moment. He pushes one of the foals away from the bowl and sticks his head in first, a look of pleasant surprise on his face as he takes his first bite. Heh; typical greedy smarty, always has to get first dibs and the most- huh.

He only ate a few bites and then laid down again, staring at you suspiciously. He refuses to let the others approach the spaghetti, but he isn't eating anymore himself. Why...

The awkward silence and staredown continue for two full minutes before you suddenly understand what he's doing.

He's waiting to see if you've poisoned the food.

What the hell have these poor creatures been through? You just heard his story, but still!

You awkwardly get to your feet and Louise helps you get steady once you're upright, the fluffies all backing away nervously. You gesture at the spaghetti and tell the fluffies, "You're welcome to eat all you want."

Then Louise helps you up the steps and into the house, where you both watch them through the back door. Rock is watching the house intently.

"Oh, Gene! Those poor things! We can keep them, can't we? That one certainly needs to see a vet!"

"I dunno about keeping them, but they're welcome to stay a few days if they want. Lord knows they need it after all they've been through. And yeah, that one fluffy probably won't make it if he isn't taken care of."

"Gene, let's keep the poor little dears! You know how much I've missed having a fluffy around since Baxter... You know."

"I know, I know, I wouldn't mind having one either. But a whole passle of 'em? Louise, we can't keep a whole herd."

"It's not a whole herd, it's just one family! And if it turns out we can't look after them all, I'm sure the kids and grandkids wouldn't mind a free fluffy or two. Especially that little pink one, she is just gorgeous!"

You grunt and shake your head. Rock is still watching the house and he isn't letting the other fluffies near the spaghetti. He's still waiting to see if it kills him. The crippled fluffy has managed to drag himself over to lay next to the others and is hugging a yellow foal of indeterminate gender.

"Louise, I don't think the things would trust us enough to stick around, much less let us hand their children off to complete strangers. They've been through a lot."

Your wife concedes the point and sighs, shaking her head and wandering off toward the living room, muttering to herself about "those poor babies". And you know she isn't speaking strictly about the foals.

You sit at the kitchen table and watch the fluffies for an hour before Rock finally announces, "Dese gud nummies" and lets the others dig into the spaghetti. He waits to eat last, you notice, helping the cripple get his share before he eats any more himself.

For a little fuzzball, he's good people.

Once the fluffies have eaten their fill (the bowl was licked so clean, you can't even tell it was ever used; they must have been starving.), you slowly trod across the lawn, watching them out of the corner of your eye. The two blue ones hide the foals under their bodies (unsuccessfully, since the foals are only a couple weeks shy of being full grown) and Rock stands in a fighting stance, placing himself between you and his family again.

You shuffle over to the gate, pausing to pop your knee again, unlatch it, and open the gate wide. Then you gesture toward it.

"There you go. You fluffies can leave if you want. Any time you want to come back, it's ok with us. You can sleep here, get some nummies, whatever. It's safe. Nobody will ever hurt you here."

Then you slowly shuffle back into the house, feeling Rock's eyes on you the whole way, watching in case you veer toward his family to attack, and you join Louise at the back door.

She's crying as you watch Rock heft the crippled fluffy onto his back, stagger under his load, then lead his family through the gate and out into the howling wilderness again.

Good luck, little guy.

***

You're Rock. The nameless stallion is HEAVY, and you're still tired, but you feel better after getting to rest for a while and your belly is full of really good nummies; you've never had nummies like that before.

Dusty nudges the babies to keep them walking while they all complain about sore hoofsies and being tired, then presses her cheek against your scarred shoulder.

"Dose gud hoomins," she says.

You look at her in surprise and ask, "How yoo know?"

Surely she wasn't taken in by their seeming kindness and the delicious nummies.

"Dey cwy when Wock teww bout owange babbeh."

You grunt in acknowledgement and shake your head; it's certainly the first positive interaction you've had with hoomin monsters. But they can't be trusted; their motivations are beyond your understanding. Who knows why they do anything they do, good or bad.

You pause to get your breath, then forge ahead, laboring under your heavy load.

You have to find a safe place for the night before the monsters come.