Hot Pockets

Dirtbiker989, November 3, 2016; 21:25 / FB 42418
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Hot Pockets
(By Dirtbiker989)
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Monty is my Fluffy, and he's my best friend.

Hell, he's one of the best things that's happened to me-

Well, that's getting a little carried away. Anyways, he's the luckiest reach into the bargain bin at the pet store I could've ever hoped for. Yeah, we'll leave it at that.

He was originally purposed as live snake food that would provide your slithery pet a challenge for their meal. No, I didn't buy Monty with the intentions of killing him and later grow on him. My landlord is picky in the sense that she doesn't let tennants own reptiles, arachnids, or insects, or any animal that in general cannot be tamed or will wreak havoc if it gets loose. A Fluffy fits into all of these categories, with two added bonuses. One, it can talk, so I at least have some social interaction, and two, since I'm fresh out of college and working a low-paying job, if the cold hands of neglect kill a Fluffy, you can just get another one without half the county flipping their shit, unlike they would if that were to happen to a cat or dog.

Seriously, you could buy as many Fluffies as there were Dukes of Bavaria named Henry in a single week, and nobody would bat an eye. Hell, our mayor had a Fluffy named "Second Try the 10th" up until last week when he accidentally stepped on her while drukenly stumbling about. But the moment you roll up a newspaper and swat your dog for breaking out of the house at 3 in the morning, people are signing petitions to have you chemically castrated.

I bought Monty as a young foal, his eyes barely open. Our eyes met, and as he suckled his hoof, he cheeped frantically, saying "Snakey scawy! Scawy! Nu snakie!"

When I told him I didn't plan on feeding him to a snake, he started peeping and crying tears of joy as he hugged my hand tight, and I knew who I was gonna buy. Boy did we cause a desperate uproar in the discount pen that day. Whoever had to clean that up probably has a picture of my face on a dartboard.

Anyways, about a week and a half passed by, and despite living off of tortilla chips and off-tasting tap water, he was growing. At that point I realized that he didn't have a name, and he had been pestering me about giving him a name, so I thought "Why the hell not" and sat down to brainstorm.

HAHAHAHA, just kidding. I totally forgot and instead decided to get shitfaced and decided to go on a nostalgia trip with whatever old DVDs didn't get smudged by my greasy Pizza Roll hands so hard that the player couldn't even recognize them. Unbeknownst to me, I spilled my beer onto the hardwood floor, which Monty didn't hesitate to lap up, as I'd forgotten to give him dinner.

Now lemme tell you this, a young Fluffy on an empty stomach gets drunk hard and fast. He came stumbling into the living room giggling about random shit. I didn't know the first thing about Fluffy behavior, and I was too drunk to notice a difference in how he acted, so I thought "Fluffies will be Fluffies" and I hoisted him up onto the couch to watch movies with me.

We started watching Monty Python's the Meaning of Life, and during the intro sequence, he muttered something.

*HIC* "Dat am a wot of nu-nu's an' miwky pwaces..." *HIIIC*

I have no idea how I was able to understand him. Imagine one of those little fluffballs babbling in your ear in broken English, and now imagine it babbling that broken English blind-stinking drunk.

After about five minutes of loud hiccuping, inability to sit straight, and lots of laughing and crying, gears finally turned in my brain. But the one thing that pretty much revealed it to me was what he said next.

"Teeheehee! *HIC* Siwwy wawas taste gud, daddeh!" *HIC-GAG*

"Wait, did you drink my beer?"

"Heeheeheeheehee... yus."

"Shhhhheeeeeeeeeeeeeit, hahahahaha!"

The next morning, his very young and fragile Fluffy self didn't die from alcohol poisoning, what a little trooper, so I decided it was a good a time as any to give him a name, which would be Monty.

And the rest was history.

Time went on, and Monty, probably the strongest Fluffy ever, continued to grow and never got brain damage from being blackout drunk as a child. However, just as any Fluffy does, he reached his pubescent age, and with that came some understandable urges.

Now don't get me wrong, just because Monty didn't become reduced to a cross-eyed vegetable Fluffy, didn't mean he grew up to be dull. Even Fluffies would consider him an idiot. He always had this complex and senseless logic to everything, and that proved to be his Achilles' heel.

I microwaved a Hot Pocket one day, and he sniffed it saying "Wawm... pwetty..." before trying to mount it. I picked him up and put him on the couch, away from my brunch that I didn't want to contain more mystery ingredients. He could still easily jump onto the table, but I didn't think him smart enough to do that. I went for a piss, telling him it wasn't for him to eat, which is probably what made the situation worse.

See, he'd seen my "toy" before, and he knows it's called a pocket pussy. He's also seen me staring at pictures of women, calling them "hot". His flawless logic thought that my Hot Pocket was a cross between a hot girl and a pocket pussy. Hot and pocket. Not hard to grasp. It was pleasurably warm to the touch, and when he saw one of the holes that had been blown open during microwaving, his mind was made up. It just sucks that I was in the bathroom, and I couldn't stop him.

Too bad the warmth he felt on the outside of the Hot Pocket couldn't prepare him for the inside that was as hot as Satan's diarrhea after eating Indian food and three bags of Takis.

"...And I just wanna let you know, IIIIIIIIIIIII'VE GOT MY FINGER ON THE TRIGGER! LOOOOOOOOOOOOVE IS IN CONTROL! IIIIIIIIIIIII'VE GOT MY FINGER ON THE TRIGGER! IIIIIIIIIIIII AIN'T LETTIN' GO-"

"SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSCRRRRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! WOWSTES' BUWNIE HUWTIES! DADDEH, *CHEEP*, HEWP! HUUUUHUUUUHUUUUUUUUUUUU!"

"Oh shit," I exclaimed as I ran from the bathroom and into the livingroom, where I found Monty. He was on the ground, not too far from my hot pocket, and he was cradling his crotch.

I started laughing, until I noticed that the entirety of his genitals were bright-red with peeling skin and welts everywhere. I noticed that it was actually pretty serious, so I rushed him to the vet.

Turns out they had to amputate. Nothing could save his crotch from infection or necrosis.

After the incident, he didn't blame me for what happened, and I had to reassure him that I wouldn't love him any less just because he was half a man. I thought things would relatively be okay, but ever since the accident, he's been really bummed out. He never wanted to do the things he used to love. He didn't find the same joy in scaring off dams who would happen by the yard to eat the grass by hollaring really sexual remarks at them. He didn't stride around with the same pride and energy of a horse that he used to. A lot of blame and anger that I thought he'd lash out on me or hot foods, he ended up directing towards himself. More importantly, he started begging me for beer. He wanted those silly feelings he felt when he was drunk. I looked it up one night, and unsurprisingly, I learned that Fluffies value their reproductive organs like cats value their claws. They provide confidence, power, and are a small part of who they are. Without them, they can become severely depressed, less confident, and can even be bullied.

One night I decided to pour a small amount of beer in his water dish, which he gulped down so quickly he almost drowned. Even though he was drunk, it was the first time I'd seen him smile since the accident.

We both knew the alcohol was causing more pain than good, and that it would quickly kill him, so he went cold turkey. It was a struggle, but he managed to get by.

Fluffies are really social, so I sprouted an idea. I went back to the pet store, and...

*Creeeeeak*

"Monty, I have a surprise for you!"

"Wha'? *Sniff* Monty wub suwpwises, bu' am weawwy sad. It pwobabwy nu make Monty feew bettah anyway... huu huu huu..." *Sniff*

"Cheer up, sport. Look what I got for you!"

"Wha' am-"

Then, another Fluffy greeted him, squeaking with happiness.

"HEWWO! Nyu fwiend? Am Cupcake, wha' 'ou name? 'Ou say Monty? Monty weawwy gud name! Monty an' Cupcake gud fwiends!"

"Hewwo! 'Ou am pwetty mawe," Monty beamed with the only joy I'd seen him produce in a month that wasn't alcohol-induced. Then, he crashed back down to reality.

*Sigh* "Bu' Monty am dummeh Fwuffy wifout nu-nu stick. Nyu fwiend Cupcake pwobabwy hate Monty nao. *Sniff* Monty undastand'... huuhuhuuuuu..."

He sulked back to the living room, but she stopped him.

"Cupcake nu fink Monty am dummeh jus' because nu hab nu-nu stick. Cupcake dun' haf nu-nu stick eithew. Besides, dewe am a wot mowe to bein' fwiends dan nu-nu's an' speshow huggies! 'Ou hab bwockies ow baww? We can pway bwockies an' baww! An' can hab nummies togethew! An' sweepies togethew in fwuffpiwe duwing scawy dawk-tiems!"

"We-WEAWWY!?"

"Yus, weawwy!"

"Otay! Come, Monty gon' show 'ou safewoom!" They went off to my spare closet and their voices trailed off.

"Dewe am bwockies. Wotsa bwockies! Monty can onwy make stackies of thwee bwockies, bu' Monty an' Cupcake can pwobabwy make fouw! An' dewe am baww! An' wawm nestie, an'..."

Then, after a few minutes of giggling, I heard him talk to her in a serious tone.

"Bu' whatevew Cupcake do, DUN' TOUCH DADDEH HOT POCKETS WIF MOUFIE OW NU-NU'S. Twust Monty."

That little rascal!
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