Judgment: In Marinara We Trust

>You are a worker for the Department of Fish and Wildlife's Division of Fluffy Pony Management.
>Otherwise known as the 'Fluffy Pony Judgment Squad'.
>Today has not been kind to you.
>Four feral herds required assessments, and you had to annihilate three of them.
>The good herd, a little pack of thirty, was your first assignment.
>The other three were annoying as all hell to terminate.
>It took you almost six hours.
>Six hours of wading through waves of self-defense shit.
>Six hours of hunting down and killing stragglers.
>Six hours of dealing with agitated fluffy mares, screaming at you to leave their foals alone.
>You are in no mood to see another fluffy pony today.
>So, of course, your supervisor calls just before your shift ends.
>You're the closest to a report from a gated community having a problem with, you guessed it, a feral herd.
>One of those fancy cliffside places.
>If it's gated, how the hell did the fluffy ponies get in?
>Whatever.
>You grit your teeth and drive up there.
>When you arrive, you have to drive around for a bit to find them.
>It's drizzling, too!  Fucking wonderful.
>You see a couple of fluffy ponies beside a house, apparently acting as scouts.
>When you park and get out, they waddle around back, babbling about your presence.
>You follow them.
>Roughly forty fluffies are wrecking some yuppie's vegetable garden.
>You see five pregnant dams off to the side, being fed by a few attendants.
>Three dams have already foaled, and are busy tending to their kids.
>They all become nervous upon seeing you.
>A bright red pegasus approaches, the two scouts from earlier flanking it.
>”Go 'way, dis fwuffy pwace now!  Fwuffies gif yummy nummies to mummas, hewp make nummies fo' babehs!”
>The smarty friend.
>You resist picking him up and punching him in the face until his skull collapses into a fuzzy, decorative ashtray.
>Gotta follow the protocol.  Assessment first.
>The herd, made restless by your presence, enters a defensive stance.
>Bloated dams are rolled into a tighter clump, and surrounded by puffy-cheeked males.
>Attendants help put foals on their mother's backs, then escort the families to a position near the dams.
>The other females waddle along to the rear of the herd, trying to comfort the nervous dams, while also making sure the foals stay with their mares and feel safe.
>The rest of the males flank their smarty friend, who continues to babble threats at you that you could give less than a shit about at this juncture.
>From all this, you know the herd is highly organized.
>You look down at the pegasus smarty.
“Why are you messing up people's gardens?”
>”Dese ow nummies now, gif to babehs an' mummas, make stwong fwuffies!”
“You can't take people's food.”
>”No cawe, take aww hooman nummies!  Nummies fo' fwuffies now!”
>The herd anxiously agrees with him, their huge, shining eyes never leaving you.
>That's enough assessment.
>God damn it, now you're going to be out here for hours killing all of these damn things.
>You look off to your left.
>Fifty yards away is the edge of the cliff; beyond is a sheer drop into a canyon of nearly six hundred feet.
>There's no fence here.  The property seems to run all the way to the precipice.
>Gated community, huh.
>These fools deserve to have their petunias raped.
>You've got a job to do, though, and it's going to get done.
>Suddenly, a thought occurs to you.
>You point to over to the cliff's edge.  Some of the fluffies look that way.
“You know, there's a ton of spaghetti over there.”
>”No wissen to hooman!  Haf nummies hewe!” the smarty pegasus huffs.
“Spaghetti.  Dripping with marinara.  Think about it.”
>Some of the fluffies are drooling; they soon start bleating about 'sgettis'.
>”Why munsta hewp fwuffies?” the smarty asks.
“Hey, I don't like these people either.  If you took their secret spaghetti...”
>The smarty looks up at you with bated breath, awaiting the rest of your words.
“...why, you'd be the best smarty friend ever.  You are the best, aren't you?”
>He begins jumping around, fluttering his wings and nodding fiercely.
>”Munsta wight!  Smawty am bes' smawty eva!  Fank you fo' hewp fwuffies, munsta!”
>He hugs your legs and barks commands.
>”Fwuffies go!  We ge' sgettis fo' aww fwuffies, be bes' fwuffies eva!”
>The herd charges the cliff, shouting with glee about the secret spaghetti.
>They're in such a hurry, they leave the swollen dams behind.
>Foals fall off their greedy mothers' backs, chirping wordlessly or crying out in terror.
>You walk slowly after the herd to monitor the impending carnage.
>The fluffies slide and stumble as they run.
>Their hooves cannot get grip on the wet grass.
>By the time they realize they've been had, inertia sends them flying off into the canyon.
>Fluffies in the back slam into those that managed to stop short, causing both parties to fall to their doom.
>Every single mobile adult fluffy just ran off a cliff because you said spaghetti was there.
>You'd compare them to lemmings, but that would be a grave insult to lemmings.
>You walk over to the five bloated dams amidst a fading chorus of screams as the herd plummets to its doom.
>”Why fwiends weave?  Come back, gif sgettis to mumma?” a dam asks you.
>You just shrug at her.
“I'll take you to them, if you want.”
>”Fank you!  Hooman nice to mumma, hewp ge' sgettis!”
>Two at a time, you carry them to the cliffside.
>They continue to thank you for helping them get the 'seequet sgettis'.
>Their praise dies the moment you toss them into the void, morphing into abject terror.
>You go back to collect the now-orphaned foals.
>The larger ones squeak words at you, mostly a cacophony of 'hewp', 'wuv', 'mumma', and 'dadda'.
>The smaller ones just chirp frantically, terrified chants of 'yeep' that make them sound rather birdlike.
>With a flourish, you launch them into the air and turn around, not even bothering to witness their fall.
>Tomorrow morning, you're going to hate yourself.
>You'll regret being so callous, lying, and throwing innocent babies to their deaths.
>Right now, however?
>You're fresh out of fucks to give.