My Fluffies and Me - Chapter 4: Atom Heart Mother (part 1)

>“We have to do something”, Gene says, his voice tensed. You’re currently sitting on a plastic chair in his living room, along with Audrey, Michelle and half of your neighbourhood. “Since Arnie found the first one, we had eleven cases of brutally abused fluffies in a month and a half. This is not a good thing for the reputation of the area”.
>“As much as I despise those pests, the way they are getting exterminated is overly barbaric”, Mrs. Collins chimes in. She’s a retired middle school teacher, with a composed, sweet demeanour – except towards fluffies. She does have a good reason to dislike them, though: last July a feral herd, lead by a particularly nasty smarty friend, devastated her usually pristine front yard, and when she tries to shoo them away, they made her trip. She had a leg broken, and before Audrey could call an ambulance the fluffies had made “sorry poopies” all over Mrs. Collins and had eaten all her beloved begonias.
>You clear your throat. “Personally, I don’t think whoever is killing those ponies is trying to pay the neighbourhood a favour. We’re dealing with a fluffy abuser here”.
>Gene nods gravely. He’s a man in his forties and has an hardware store a couple blocks from your houses. He’s a pretty cool guy, even if his ex-wife isn’t of the same opinion. “Arnie is most probably right”, he says, looking at the fifteen people reunited in his living room. “It’s not as spread a phenomenon as it is in the US, but there are indeed many people that enjoy brutalizing fluffies”.
>Mrs. Zabrinski shudders, then raises her hand. “So… Is there something we can do? My daughter has a fluffy, and I know doctor Layne has a bunch of them”.
>You frown, thinking about Echoes and the others. They must be playing in the safe room right now. “Well, technically the abuser only targeted feral fluffies or unchipped strays. He never abused someone’s pet… And that’s why we can do nothing about it”.
>“Feral fluffies are vermin, according to the law”, Michelle intervenes. “You don’t go to jail or even pay a fee if you kill a rat, for example. But should he or she kill a chipped fluffy, well… that’s criminal damage”.
>“So that’s what you’re suggesting, Miss Crane?”, Mrs. Zabrinski sounds almost disgusted. “We just have to wait  until this sicko kills someone’s pet?”.
>Gene shakes his head. “All we can do for now is to keep our eyes open, especially if someone sees a suspicious person, a herd of ferals, or both”.
“So, are we assuming that the abuser is someone that doesn’t live here, right?”, Audrey asks nervously.
>You all start looking at each other. Yeah, that’s what you’re assuming.
>The alternative would be too unsettling.

>“Nuuuu! Dahdeh, no wan’! Why haf do dis to Pink?”
>“You know this moment was going to arrive, Pink. Crying won’t safe you”.
>“Pink no wan’ huwties! Pink no wan’ bwushie stick!”
>You sigh, while squeezing a bit of toothpaste on the toothbrush. Every week the same story… Okay, you’re probably one of the few fluffy owners that washes his pets’ teeth on a weekly basis, but what can you say? As a dentist, you feel obliged to give your ponies a proper dental healthcare.
>“Pink, stop being such a whiner. Look at the others, they haven’t complained once”. You’re sitting on the sofa, Pink onto your lap and the other five fluffies sitting on the floor, licking their own gums and teeth and babbling about “fweshy toothies!”.
>You lower the toothbrush towards Pink’s mouth. The mare whines a little bit, but then lets you start brushing. After a few seconds, she tries to squirm away. “Nuuuu! No mintie tuu’peis! Wan’ stwabewwy! Mintie yucky!”.
>You sigh. “Okay, I got it. You don’t want your special treat…”, you tell her.
>The unicorn panics. “Nuuuu! P-Pink wan’ special tweat! Pink gud fwuffy, wet dahdeh cwean toothies wiff yucky mintie!”.
>Less than a minute later you let Pink go. She scampers on the floor and goes hugging Oasis, who is now the biggest of the little herd by far. “Pink nu wike cwean toothies…”, she murmurs, her face buried in her favourite nephew’s fluff.
>“Okay, so… What do you guys want for you special dinner?”. You and your fluffies have a deal: they let you wash their teeth once a week and then you make them whatever they want for dinner.
>All of them always ask for spaghettis anyway.
>“Puwpwe wan’ buwghy!”
>Well… Almost all of them.
>You shrug. Deep Purple is one of the very few fluffies that actually like eating meat. You don’t know if Mrs. Hartman was the one to blame – maybe she gave her cat food sometimes? – or if she’s simply born this way, but once in a while you buy her a hamburger and then she shares the French fries – or, in fluffspeak, “stick chippies” – with the rest of the herd, so everyone’s happy.
>After putting the six fluffies in the safe room and telling them you’ll see them again when dinner time comes, you put on your coat. Pink obviously asks if she can come with you, but you tell her to go play tags with her nephews.
>While you’re walking to the nearest fast-food – no point in going there by car, it’s maybe ten minutes by feet – your mind keeps drifting to the impromptu neighbourhood association meeting… and to all those abused fluffies. After Star, you were the one who found the fourth victim: it was a pregnant pegasus, probably ready to give birth in days. Someone had driven three long iron nails through her abdomen, and had torn her little, delicate wings. When you found her, she was bleeding to death and crying her little heart out. “Sowwy bahbes, mumma bad fwuffy… N-nu feew bahbes muv in bewwy no mo’…”. She sighed, blood trickling from her mouth and nose, her watery eyes staring at the sky. “Mumma onwy w-wan’ fwy wif bahbes… Bu’ bahbes go ‘way, no wan’ be wif mumma…”.
>You just stood there dumb-founded, petting her mechanically. You tried to give her a name, tried to make her feel loved in her last moments like you had done with Star, but the dam never acknowledged your presence. She died a couple of minutes later, while asking her foals for forgiveness and mourning upon a simple, impossible dream.
>Whoever the hell this abuser is… you know you have to stop them.
>You don’t want to see a scene like that ever again.

>There’s someone standing in your front yard; it’s a woman with dark skin, wearing a light blue suit that looks ridiculously expensive even from afar. You initially mistook her for Michelle, but the woman is taller, and older, and…
>Oh, for fuck’s sake, no.
>The Wrinkled Bitch stares at you coldly.
>“It’s about time”, she tells you. “I don’t like waiting, Mr. Layne”.
>You look at her in disbelief. “Waiting? For who?”.
>You hear the woman’s tongue clicking with impatience in her mouth; it’s like being whipped by a metaphorical lash. “For you, obviously. My daughter told me you have some of those so-called fluffy ponies”.
>Could she… could she be the abuser?, you can’t help thinking. According to Audrey, she’s beyond evil, so could it be that…
>Nah, don’t be stupid, the rational side of your brain bickers. If she was the abuser, she certainly wouldn’t have straight-up asked you about your pets. “Yeah, I do have six of them. Why?”.
>“I want to see them”, she replies curtly.
>“May… may I ask you why?”
>The woman stares at you with her cold, dark eyes. Your fluffies must feel the same way whenever you threaten them with the dreaded “water box”. “I guess Ned hasn’t called you, right?”.
>“Ned?”, you repeat. “You mean Ned Hartman?”. He’s the only “Ned” you know, after all.
>“From Hartman & Crane”, she adds, nodding. “I am Crane, actually”.
>What?! The Wrinkled Bitch is Ned Hartman’s associate? Talking about a small world!
>“Oh. I see. But, yeah, I was at one of my neighbours’ home earlier today, Ned probably called when I was there, and…”.
>You start sounding like you’re apologizing for something. And why the hell should you be apologizing in the first place anyway? You haven’t done anything wrong!
>“So… do you plan on inviting me inside or are we staying here waiting until whatever disgusting high-calorie travesty for food you have in that bag will inevitably start rotting?”, she asks you, arms crossed on her chest.
> You sigh and lower your eyes. Okay, Wrinkled Bitch, you win this round.
>“Sorry, the living room is a mess. The ponies have been playing here, and…”. You start saying while inviting Mrs. Crane in.
>The woman just darts inside your house and sits on your armchair, staring at you like she’s Queen Elizabeth or something. “I’ve seen much worse”, she promptly tells you.
>You imagine this is what passes for a compliment for her, so you nod. “Do you… do you want something to drink?”, you ask her. “’cause I have to go to the kitchen and prepare dinner for the fluffies, and I thought that maybe…”.
>She keep staring at you, and you feel the words dying in your mouth. “Just do whatever you planned on doing. I’ll wait here. I could use some rest, after all…”.
>Ten minutes later, though, when you finished cooking the spaghetti and turn around with the pot in your hands, you find the Wrinkled Bitch at maybe fifteen centimetres from your face. You let out a surprised, choked gasp and do your best not to drop the pot full of hot spaghetti on your legs.
>The fuck? She ninja-ed me?
>The woman, in the meantime, is eyeing at the pasta with clinical eye. “You cook for them every day?”, she asks.
>Why don’t you mind your own business, lady? “No, just once a week. It’s a sort of reward, they let me clean their teeth and I cook for them what they ask, even if it’s always spaghetti. I don’t cook pasta for them otherwise, they know that and never ask”. And why the hell do I keep answering your questions?
>The Wrinkled Bitch nods. She seems… satisfied, all of a sudden? “Relatively well behaved and with a good healthcare. Commendable”.
>In the meantime, you placed the pot on the table and started pouring the pasta portions in the colorful plastic bowls. In the sixth one you place the now at room temperature hamburger, and keep the French fries for later. You then put the bowls on a tray and look at the woman silently observing your every move. “The fluffies eat in their safe room, ‘cause they can be pretty messy. When they’ll finish, you can see them. Is it okay for you to wait another five minutes?”.
>She just nods curtly and leave the kitchen. When you walk across the living room to reach the safe room, she’s already sitting on the armchair, just staring at the wall. Creepy…, you can’t help thinking.
>Fluffies are obviously overjoyed when you place their bowls on the safe room floor. They immediately start stuffing themselves with pasta – or bread and meat, in Purple’s case; you tossed the pickles away, they give them diarrhea – and making the strangely adorable sound every fluffy does when they eat.
>“Nomnomnomnom… Thankies dahdeh… Nomnomnomnom”.
>It usually takes your pets much less than five minutes to wolf down their “special dinner”; after a round of litterbox, you clear your throat and they sit on their haunches, looking at you… except for Green Day, who starts pushing around a ball and babbling joyfully. After you take the toy away from him he joins his family, frowning. “There’s something really important I have to say, fluffies. You have to listen very, very carefully. Okay?”. Talking with fluffies and – most importantly – making sure they understand is an acquired art: you speak slowly, try and use words that they know the meaning of, and underline the important parts with a lot of “really” and “very”. “Good fluffies listen to daddy, right?”. And tell them they’re good fluffies, that’s usually the key.
>An excited cacophony of “Gud fwuffy!”, “Gween Day wissen!” and “Wuv dahdeh!” follows your words. “Okay, here’s the important thing”, you say after the babbling has died down. “There’s someone in the living room that wants to know you. A, um… nice lady” Whew, that’s a lie.
>The fluffies are visibly excited at the prospect to meet someone new. “New fwend?”, “Pink gif huggies!”, “Wan pway wif nice wady!”. Green Day tries to dart outside the safe room to go and meet the new “friend”, but he just bumps into the closed door; Deep Purple, fulfilling her double role of smarty friend and mother, grabs the pegasus by the ear with her mouth and forces him back with the others, while muttering: “Nu be bad fwuffy, nu be stupit, wissen to dahdeh”.
>“Okay, um… You remember aunt Michelle, right?”. Echoes nods at you, and Pink squeaks “Chokwit!” for good measure. “The lady in the living room is aunt Michelle’s mother”.
>Pink frowns. She looks confused. “Aun’ ‘Chewwe mumma? Dis mean wady aun’ too?”.
>“Mmh… Yeah, I guess so. Why?”
>“Yay!”. Pink starts wagging her tail and dancing on the spot. “Aun’ bwing chokwit to fwuffies! Pink tummy happeh!”.
>“Wait! No, no, she doesn’t have chocolate!”. Or maybe she does, but I bet it’s poisoned. “She has… um… the stick chippies! Right!”.
>Echoes’ eyes light up. “Wight! When special fwend Puwpwe haf buwghy fwuffies get stick chippies!”.
>The moment you open the door of the safe room, the six ponies swarm to the living room giggling and babbling excitedly, despite having told them to be quiet. When they see Sandra, they look confused… for maybe half a second; then Pink hugs her shin tightly. “Wuv aun’ ‘Chewwe mumma! Gif stick chippies, pwease?”.
>The woman stares at the unicorn suspiciously, then looks at you. “Is she… trying to bribe me? And what are those ‘stick chippies’ she’s talking about?”.
>“Pink, stop pestering Mrs. Crane and go sit with the others, or you won’t get the stick chippies”. You tell the fluffy; amazingly, she actually does that, and without complaining. She must be really excited for the new “friend”. You then show the Wrinkled Bitch the small bag of French fries. “They’re talking about these. They share them like good fluffies, right?”.
>“Gud fwuffy!”, “Oasis wait tuwn!”, “Wuv stick chippies!”. The six fluffies now sit diligently on their haunches around the feet of Mrs. Crane. Sleepyhead is drooling, but you don’t know if that’s because she wants the French fries or because she’s already tripping balls.
>You pick a French fries from the paper bag: it’s all warm and soggy, pretty inedible for a human being now. Needless to say, fluffies love them: they are soft, salty and not too hot to burn their sensitive tongue and mouth. You give the potato chip to Sleepyhead, and she snaps out of her drowsiness and starts munching happily.
>After the first round of French fries, while the six fluffies are busy licking their lips, you offer the paper bag to Sandra. She looks at you, frowning. “Do you really think I’d eat one of those?”.
>You look back at her. “Obviously not. Do you want to try and give some to them?”.
>She seems very surprised. “Oh”. She takes a French fries between the left thumb and index finger with the disgusted expression of someone holding a tumor in their hands, and tentatively throws it at Pink Floyd. She readily accepts the present. “Wuv aun’ Chewwe mumma!”, she exclaims. “Aun’ Chewwe an’ aun’ Audwey awways gif Pink yummy nummies!”.
>Hearing the name of her… well, daughter-in-law has an amusing effect on the woman’s lips: it’s like a small bomb just exploded in her mouth, coating her entire palate and tongue with lemon juice. You can’t help but snicker at her disgusted expression, but luckily she doesn’t see it. “Want to pet one?”, you ask her casually. You still don’t know why she wanted to see your pets, but – despite clearly having a bad temper – the Wrinkled Bitch seems decidedly less… bitchy then you thought. Well, at least less bitchy then Audrey’s stories depicted her.
>Sandra seems to ponder on the question. “Why not?”.
>You pick Sleepyhead up, despite Pink’s protests. “Nuuuu! Pink wan huggies wiff nice wady!”. “She loves to cuddle”, you explain to Sandra. Sleepyhead just stares at her with vacant eyes, a small, dopey smile on her tiny lips.
>Mrs. Crane doesn’t seem amused. “Is she mentally challenged?”, she asks.
>“What? N-no, no, Sleepyhead, she… she just love to sleep, that’s all!”, you stutter in reply.
>The earth filly lifts one of her forehooves. “Sweepihead wuv nappies!”, she repeats in a dreamy tone. “Nappies make Sweepihead happeh!”.
>“Well, she doesn’t seem particularly bright”, it’s Sandra’s sharp conclusion. She stares at Green Day for a couple of seconds: the colt is playing with Echoes, trying to make him fall on the ground by jokingly hitting him with his head while giggling like a madman. “And that one is way too lively”. Her eyes finally come to rest on Oasis, who’s tenderly nuzzling with Pink and Deep Purple. “Can I see that one?”.
>“Mmh… Okay?”. You put Sleepyhead on the ground (where she falls asleep no more than three seconds later) and pick Oasis up. The Wrinkled Bitch is holding out her hands, and you – quite reluctantly – give the fluffy to her.
>“He’s stout!”, she exclaims, weighing the earth colt in her hands. He giggles, clearly appreciating the attention. “What’s your name, big boy?”.
>“Oasis!”, he answers. “Fwuffy name Oasis!”.
>“He’s the biggest of the herd”, you explain. “He’s one of the sons of Echoes and Deep Purple, and Sleepyhead and Green Day are his sister and brother”. You point at the fluffies while you call them.
>Pink, feeling excluded, gestures to you to be picked up. “Nu fowget Pink! Pink Oasis aun’!”.
>“Oasis wuv aun’ Pink!”, the colt babble, waving a hoof in her direction.
>“My name is Sandra, Oasis”, the woman tells the fluffy. “Can you say it?”.
>“S-Sandwa! Oasis wuv Sandwa, gif huggies!”. And he does, putting his leathery hooves around Mrs. Crane’s neck and nuzzling against her cheek. You take a step forward, ready to intervene in case the woman tries to punch your pet in the stomach for his insolence or something like that, but then you freeze on the spot.
>The Wrinkled Bitch is smiling.
>“You are a very good fluffy”, she tells Oasis after the hug is over. The other five ponies (well, four, because Sleepyhead is still snoring) obviously protest that they’re good fluffies too.
>“Thankies Sandwa!”. The colt is clearly having the time of his life. You usually have to split your attention between six fluffies, and so being suddenly in the spotlight must be amazing for him. “Sandwa wuv Oasis?”.
>“I… I guess so”. It’s the first time you’ve heard the woman stutter, and this makes her seem more humane and less of a snarky, haughty cyborg in a really expensive dress. You start to take a sigh of relief, seeing the woman petting Oasis and scratching him behind his ears; but then she says something that nearly make you drop Pink on the ground.
>Something unexpected.
>Something horrible.
>“I’ll take this one, doctor Layne”