Good Fluffies Get Wishes

Feyascia, January 22, 2015; 17:36 / FB 29214
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Good Fluffies Get Wishes

A fluffy mare walks down an empty urban sidewalk.  She moves over trash and skirts around larger debris with an ungainly waddle.  The mare's mangy orange fluff and dulled rainbow mane carry a precious cargo of multicolored, winged fuzzballs, many of whom are calling out in subdued chirps and one-word pleas for sustenance or 'Wuv'.

"Nu wowwies, babbehs."  The mare pauses to nose over an upturned takeout carton but resumes on once she determines that the food boxie is empty.  "Mummah wiww fin` wost speshuw fwiend an` wawm pwace an` nummies fo` bestest miwkies.  Mummah wuvs babbehs."

"Mummah!  Chirp!  Mummah!"
"Hungies!  Owwies!  Mummah!"
"Chirp!  Wuv!"
"Chirp!  Chirp!  Mabe Poopies!"

And so things continue while the great, warm-huggies sky-ball travels from the tops of the towers in front of the mare to the tops of the towers behind her.  The mare finds not a scrap nor a safe place nor even another soul until she hobbles up to the edge of another dark alley.

A thing emerges out of the sharp shadows between the city hollow and the walkway.  It is a thing made of colors and poof and clash and volume.  Giant, shiny red hooves flop along in front of it.  Its two walking legs balloon out as they grow up into a ball-like torso.  A fat, stubby arm ending in thick white fingers sprouts from either side.  Everything but the fingers and hooves is made of stitchwork and patches of every pattern and color the mare had ever seen.  The body of chaos follows after the movement of the appendages in a breezy, sloshing motion, seeming to have a life of its own.

Set precariously over the spherical body is a human face as white and immobile as marble.  It is smooth and white all around except for a smile so big and so red that it seems almost burned on from one cheek to the other.  The head sails the rainbow of chaos on a neck made of poofy black ruffles, and a tall, opal-black capuchon sits on its crown.

The creature bubbles out of the shadows and turns to face a bewildered fluffy.  Limbs spread wide, body wobbling, and plastic grin glued to a stone face, the creature speaks.

"HEEEEEEEY, FLUUUUUUUUUUUUUFFY!"

The fear-struck fluffy responds first with a spray of rancid shit behind her.  Several seconds later she finds the presence of mind to open her mouth.  "Wh-whu am yu?  Nice mistah?"  His smile is so big and so persistent; he just has to be a very nice person.

"I'm BOZO THE CLOWN!"

His voice has a cadence in the middleground between a raven's screech and a fart that lingers in an empty elevator.

"Bo-bo-bozd-"

"NO!  No.  Don't say that, you retarded shit-sack.  It's 'Bo'-'Zo'.  I'm the magical clown that grants wishes to GOOD FLUFFIES!  Have you seen any GOOD FLUFFIES around here?"  The self-proclaimed clown raises a fan of fingers to its brow and makes an exaggerated show of twisting around to scan the dingy surroundings.

"Nice mistah?  Nice mistah Bozo?  Fwuffy am-"

"Bozo THE CLOWN."

"Nice mistah Bozo da Cwown, Fwuffy am fwuffy.  Fwuffy am gud fwuffy an` have gud babbehs."

"Why...SO YOU ARE!  What a fortunate day for us!  Who wants..."   Bozo swings his fingers skyward.  When the jiggling puff of his arms catches up, confetti bursts into the air.  "TO FLY?"  Colored patches drift back down to become lost along Bozo's shoulders and the mare's back.

The mare's eyes light up.  "Fwuffy get fwy?  If fwuffy fwy, den fwuffy can cawwy babbehs tu Skettiwand!  Fwuffy wan fwy!  Fwuffy wuv-"

"No, no, NO.  You can't fly, you ignorant bitch-nothatisnotyourname.  You don't have any WINGS for flying.  You are also far too OLD AND FAT to get off the ground.  Besides, BOZO THE CLOWN has already given you your wish."

The mare cocks her head to the side "Nice mistah haf?"
"Fwy!  Wuv!  Fwy!"
"Mummah!  Hungy!  Fwy!"
"Sketti!  Wan!  Chirp!"

"Of course.  Don't you remember when YOU wanted to have babbehs oooh SOOO MUCH?"

"Fwuffy `member!  Den Fwuffy fin` speshuw fwiend an`-"

"The Great ### ### BOZO THE CLOWN heard your WISHIES and sent you a special friend so that YOU could have your wish."

"Whewe am speshuw fwiend nao?"

"Shut up.  Do your babbehs want to FLY?  In a few more days they will be TOO BIG for their WINGS to lift them up, even with MAGIC.  They can fly NOW or NEVER EVER fly."

"Mummah!  Fwy!  Babbeh Fwy!"
"Mabe Poopies!  Wan Fwy!"

"Pwease, nice mistah Bozo da Cwown.  Pwease gif Mummah's wingeh babbehs wishies an` make fwy?  Babbehs am good babbehs."

"If they really are GOOD BABBEHS, then their WISH shall be granted."  Bozo reaches into the shadows and wheels out a beige street-vendor's cart.  He then squats his round body down to the ground and reaches his fingers out towards the mare.

"Mummah get upsies?!"  The mare gasps happily and bounds over to the waiting not-hoofies.  "Mummah nu evah haf upsies befo`!"

Bozo smiles the same smile he always smiles.  He grasps the mare and rises.  "BESTEST UPSIES are a small wish to grant, so YOU get this one for FREE."  He stands again but keeps raising the fluffy parent up, not stopping until she is eye-to-eye with his featureless, white shields.  "But if you or any of your fuzzy cock-warmers get shit on me, I'll shove a foal in your ass."  The mare doesn't understand all the words that the nice mistah uses, but his message comes through clearly.  She just gulps and tucks her tail down.

The mare is then set into a worn, wooden leggies holder that is affixed to the top of the cart.  "What am dis?  Why Fwuffy weggies nu move?"

"Pay attention, it's a leggies holder."

The mare whines deep in her throat and vainly paddles her front leggies.  "Mummah nu wike dis.  Nu wike!  Wan wun an` pway wif fwyin` babbehs.  Nee` weggies!"

"I have to make sure you stay PERFECTLY STILL while I work my MAGICKS.  Last time a mummah tried to stop me, her foal accidentally EXPLODED."  On cue, a hole set in the top of the cart pumps out another gust of confetti.  The mare lets loose more scaredy poopies off the side of the cart.  She's too shocked to notice her foals being taken from her back and placed into a bin set into the top of the cart.

"Nuuuu.  Nu wan babbehs expwodies!  Nu wan... whewe am babbehs?!"  She looks straight ahead and slightly down.  "Babbehs!  Why yu ovah dewe?  Babbehs nee` Mummah fo` miwkies an` wuv.  Come back, babbehs!"  The loving mother waggles her hoofies uselessly in the air, puffing her cheeks out from the tremendous effort.

Bozo scritches under the mare's chin.  "DON'T PANIC, LITTLE MUMMAH.  I've just take them to my WORKSHOP, dear.  I'll FIX THEM up there.  Then I'll bring them BACK HERE.  Now shut up.  It's time.....for....M~A~G~I~C."

The so-called-clown opens a compartment set in the top of the cart and reaches his fingers in.  He pulls out a red balloon.  He stretches and tests the balloon before holding the end over a spigot set into the top of the cart.  HISSSSS.  The balloon springs up like a rocket, taking a shape both long and full.  Bozo ties off the end and gives the middle a flick.  It wobbles slightly but remains sound.

"LISTEN UP!  This is very important.  Wishes only work for GOOD FLUFFIES and GOOD BABBEHS.  Do you have any bad babbehs?  HORRIBLE things happen to bad babbehs that get WISHES!  This is your LAST CHANCE to save any nu-good babbehs."

"Aww Mummah's babbehs am good babbehs!  Weww... bwown babbeh nu am vewy gud, but am `nough gud fo` ugwy babbeh."

"Good enough for BOZO!"  Bozo grasps the balloon and the red foal.  "Meka-leka-YEYS, meka-hiney-ho, meka-leka-YEYS, meka-hiney-ho...," one abomination of rainbow colors chants as he twists and ties the balloon securely around the foal.  Lastly, he ties a string to the nub at the end of the balloon and to a hook secured to the top of the cart.  He does this with each foal, wrapping each in a balloon with color matching their fluff.

First in line is an orange foal riding at the point of an orange lightning bolt.
Second is a purple filly trapped in the maw of a similarly-colored alligator.
Third is a yellow foal perched in the belly of a balloon shaped into a bird.
Fourth foal is clamped inside the head of a red viper.
Fifth is sealed inside a green seal.
Sixth foal sits in a blue, egg-shaped cage
Seventh is a brown foal bisected by a five-point star.

His work finished, Bozo takes the orange foal's balloon string and tugs it off its hook.  He carefully pulls the lightning-bolt-shaped balloon and the babbeh towards the mother.
"Mummah!  Babbeh Mabe Poopies!  Babbeh Fwy!  Wuv Fwy!"

"Bestest Babbeh am fwyin` babbeh nao?!"  The mare's leggies waggle pointlessly in the air once again.  "Mummah am suuu happy!  Mummah wuv Bestest Babbeh mostest dan evah!"

Bozo drags the string within inches of the mother's face then lets go.  "Oh no.  Stop.  Don't.  Come Back.  Babbehs shouldn't fly away like that."

"Babbeh gu su high.  Whewe Mumma's Bestest Babbeh goin`?"

A sad sigh comes from Bozo's smile.  "I'm sorry, but your BESTEST BABBEH doesn't love you any more.  Now that she...he..it...shit can fly, shit is going to SKETTILAND without you."

"Nuuuu!  Dat nu twu!  Bestest Babbeh wuv Mummah da mostest!"

"Shit only loved you because shit got so much love from you, but shit can get much much more love in Skettiland.  Why else would shit be flying away right now?  Shit doesn't need your love anymore"

"Huuhuuhuu...Nu, babbeh, nu weave Mummah.  Bestest Babbeh can haf aww Mummah's wuvs.  Nu gu`way fwom Mummah!"

"Nope, shit is still leaving."  A mild vortex pulls the balloon around in a circle above the street.  Eddies in the airflow keep pulling the balloon down when it rises too far.  The 'best' babbeh chirps and laughs and congratulates itself on being so 'bestest' at flying.  Its little wingies buzz with an effort that the foal has never before exerted.  "Oh... and what does it mean when a babbeh runs away and won't listen to its mother?"

"Means" -sniffle- "Means...Nu!  Be bad babbeh!  Bestest Babbeh nu be bad babbeh!  Bad babbeh nu can fwy!"  The mare calls out desperately and bucks her frame against the restraints.

Bozo leans down, putting his white-as-pure-snow face level with the mare's.  He nearly purrs as he speaks.  "Let's watch."  He turns the cart so the mare is facing the lazily drifting orange babbeh.

The mare is in hysterics now, babbling pointlessly, but her maternal instincts won't let her take her eyes off the babbeh (at least while she is actively aware of it).  A sudden gust arcs the giggling balloon up up up up to tangle amongst the shoddily maintained powerlines.

There's a spark and a crackle before the blinding light.  After vision returns, all that is left of the foal is a charred goop and the sting of ozone.

The mare bawls.  Bozo tsks.  "That was one BAAAD babbeh.  Oh well.  Good thing you still have PLENTY MORE good ones.  Or else!  Heeeeeeey, Little Mummah, I'm not so good with numbers.  How many babbehs do you have now?"

The mare does not respond quickly.  In fact, it takes quite a lot of time, encouragement, and juggling to get the fluffy coherent enough to attempt counting.  "Fwuffy haf...Fwuffy haf onwy fife babbehs now... huuhuuhuu."

"Ah, WONDERFUL.  Five GOOD babbehs comin` RIGHT UP!"  Bozo fastens a collar around the fluffy's neck and starts tying the balloon strings to the loop.  Five balloon-born babbehs soon bob and bounce above the mare's noggin

Still left on a hook is a purple alligator balloon carrying the royal-purple filly.
"Milkies!  Fwy!  Wuv!"

The balloon sways after a flick from Bozo.  "I seem to have an EXTRA foal...  You have all FIVE you your foals, but there is still ONE LEFT OVER"

"Dat Mummah's babbeh.  Pwease gif tu Mummah.  Babbeh nee` Mummah."

"No, no, no.  You silly shit-sucker.  You said that you have FIVE babbehs, and I gave you ALL FIVE back.  This has to be MY BABBEH."

"Nuuu!  Gif babbeh tu Mummah!  Gif Babbeh Nao!  Mummah's Babbeh!"

Bozo pinches the mare's sensitive ear and gives it a hard twist, eliciting a yelp of pain from the fluffy.  "You told Bozo that you had five foals left.  Now you tell Bozo that you have six foals?  Did you LIE to BOZO?  Bozo granted YOUR WISH, and you go and LIE TO BOZO.  You KNOW what happens to BAD FLUFFIES with WISHES!"

"Huuhuuhuu.  Mummah am sowwiiieee!  Nu mean wie.  Nu wan be bad fwuffy.  Babbeh am Bozo's babbeh!  Huuhuuhuu!  Pwease wet Mummah keep oddah babbehs..."

The grip on her ear twists further and further and further until...he lets her ear go.  "BOZO THE CLOWN can forgive you this time.  You were JUST DISTRAUGHT after finding out your Bestest Babbeh HATED you.  Perfectly understandable."  He turns his attention back to the purple foal.  "I really NEEDED one of these.  What a FORTUNATE day."  He grasps the foal firmly by the upper torso and pinches the head.

"Mummah!  Owwies!  Hewt-"

With less effort than needed to unwrap a tootsie roll, Bozo twists the foal's head right off of its neck.  He drops the tiny head into a compartment set in the top of the cart, and the grape-sized head lands with a wet -plop-.  Bozo releases the purple alligator to carry its headless cargo over the decaying buildings.

Nothing but a high-pitched whine escapes the mare's mouth.  Bozo the Magical Clown that Grants Wishes to Good Fluffies picks her up out of the leggie holder and places her just inside the alley.  He pushes the cart down the sidewalk, singing to himself, "It's your birthday, it's your birthday.  WHOOP-DE-DOO, WHOOP-DE-DOO.  May your day be pleasant.  Open up your PRESENT.  Just for you, just for you.  It's your birthday..."

****************

The nameless mare watches until Bozo and the sky ball move out of view.  Then, tears still dripping from her damp cheeks, she shuffles into the alley.  "C'mon, good fwyin` babbehs.  Mummah fin` safe pwace fo` sweepies.  Wiww gif songies den aftew sweepies Mummah fin` nummies an` speshuw fwiend."  The mare moves towards an overturned cardboard box laying near the end of the brick-backed alley.  As she moves, the collar effortlessly pulls the giggling, oblivious balloon babbehs behind her.  "Good babbehs...good babbehs fowwow, stay wif Mummah."

Halfway to the shelter, the mare's quiet grief is pierced by an unholy shriek.  "SKREEEEEEEEE!"

The mummah gasps and looks up just in time to see a big, puffy birdie-friend skewering her yellow foal's poopie-place onto a rusty television antenna.  "Nuuuuu!  Baaaabbeeeeh!"  Needing safety for her remaining children, the mare dashes for the boxie safe place and hunkers down inside.  She covers her see-places and whispers reassurances to her wonderful babbehs.

Her reassurances never reach the young ears, however.  Still floating far above the mare, the balloon babbehs didn't get pulled into the boxie with their mummah.  The wails of their sister as her legs, tail, ears, and wings are each torn off (and devoured) drown out any shaky placations coming from their terrified mother.  The unharmed babbehs peep and chirp in terror, what little language they know forgotten.  They paw uselessly at their buoyant prisons; their wings hum in the air but do nothing to carry them away from the song of pain.

After some time, the screams and the cries finally taper off.  The mare unhides her eyes, and her gaze soon follows the strings up out of the box.

"Mummah!  Hungie!  Gif Miwkies!  Mummah!  Tummy Hewties!"

"Hungwy babbehs come down tu Mummmah.  Come down tu safe pwace fo` miwkies an` wawms."  She taps a front hoof against the floor of her shelter then turns onto her side.

"Hewp!  Chirp!  Nee` Miwkies!  Wan Mummah!"

"Babbehs fwy down tu Mummah!  Nu be ba-."  The mare stops herself.  She gulps.  "Nu...nu be siwwy babbehs.  Nu moa pway time.  Am time fo` miwkies noa, su come tu Mummah."

"How Fwy!  Mummah!  How Fwy Babbeh!  Babbeh Wan Down!  Gif Babbeh Down!

"Babbeh nu can fwy?  But onwy bad babbeh nu can... huuhuuhuu."  The mare slithers down to hide her eyes under her leggies again.

The starving red foal buzzes his wings in a vain effort to obey his mother and fly down.  He merely burns through his stores of sugar even faster for his trouble.  Desperate, the little red suckles on his matching latex zeppelin.  As his hunger grows, so does the force of his little mouth.  He continuously sucks and gums and kneads at the same spot in a fruitless effort to make his hunger go away.

Then, suddenly, something fills his mouth up.  Before the little guy can even register the sensation, it pushes down his throat and into his tummy.  His windpipe dilates, his lungs swell, his eyes bulge, and what little matter had remained in his digestive track flushes out his anus.

The last the mare hears of her little colt is a sharp -pop- and a sickening squelch right outside her box.

When she opens her eyes again, the mare sees a deflated red hide, like a discarded glove, splayed out in front of the box.  Behind it is a string of organs and viscera stretching back three feet.  In front is the round head, eyes dangling against the cheeks by the optic nerves; a foamy, pink paste dribbles out the empty sockets.

The mare closes her eyes and babbles her thoughts away until sleepies come for her.

****************

The mare hardly feels like she has slept once her eyes open, but the sky-ball is spilling much more light into the alley now.  She averts her eyes from the ground as soon as she spots the empty pouch of red fluff laying on the grey cement.  "Huuhuuhuu."  The Mare pushes herself up and steps gingerly out into the alley.  "Huuhuu.  How many gud babbehs am stiww wit Mummah?"
"Bwue Babbeh!  Wuv Mummah!  Hungies!"
"Chirp Chirp!  Bown Babbeh!  Cowd!"

She closes her eyes again, focusing on counting and uncounting.  "Whewe am...am gween babbeh?  Babbehs, whewe am yu gween bwudda?"
"Mummah!  Wuv Milkies!  Gween bwubba here!"
"Bwubba Nu Move!  Nu Chirpies!  Wan Miwkies!"

"Gween babbeh, gween babbeh!  Ansah Mummah!  Mummah wuv gween babbeh, pwease make noisies!  Yu nu am bad babbeh!  Am good, widdwe tawkie babbeh!  Huuhuuhuuhuu."

The Shrike has been awoken by the high-pitched wails echoing up from below its perch.  It makes a morning snack out of the yellow foal's eyes, and when the foal open its mouth to gargle out a raspy scream, the early bird manages to snag the meaty tongue as well.  Much of the foal's blood, pus, and shit had leaked from its imploded colon overnight, and the butcher bird's larder has begun to smell noxious.  With a few tugs by its beak, the bird sends the foal heaving and tumbling back towards its mother.

The little yellow basket case "HHREEEEEEEEAH"s for the entirety of the four-floor drop.  At the bottom of the drop, the yellow foal miraculously strikes the green balloon dead center.  The balloon dips, absorbing the kinetic energy nearly fully before depositing her in front of her concerned mother.

Less miraculously, the clubbing to its head causes the green seal to shit out it immobile payload.  The green foal hits the ground unbuffered and makes a solid "thwack"ing sound.  Its desiccated skin cracks and splinters away from his now-operable but now-exposed muscles.

The pain of the event forces the green foal out of its hypothermic stupor.  The foal screeches and wiggles to escape the pain, but every flex of its tender muscles causes more and more of its brittle skin to peel away.  The green foal soon becomes a pink mass of wet, quivering muscle, grinding into the grit and cement of the alley floor.

Their mother looks on in horror as the two babbehs squirm before her, gasping out mangled cries for relief she could not give them.  "Mummah sowwy, mah babbehs...but yu am bad babbehs noa, su yu nu fwy.  ...But Mummah fo`gives hew widdwe babbehs fo` be bad."

Whether responding to her words or only to the sound of their mother's voice, the two damaged foals cry out harder until they burn their throats raw.

"Yu babbehs am awso dummeh babbehs noa.  Yu am dummeh usewess babbehs.  Yu nu can grow big an` stwong, so yu nu mowe can haf Mummah's miwkies an` hugs.  Dose am onwy fo` gud babbehs,  huuuuuhuuuuu.  Mummah wouwd fo`give babbehs fo` be dummeh too, but Mummah nu can wuv dummeh babbehs.  Mummah nu can fo`give if nu wuv.  Ba-bad, usewess babbehs made Mummah waste miwkies an` hugs an` wuvs dat should have gone to gud babbehs fo` gwow big an` stwong...  Yu hewt gud babbehs; Mummah haychu."

The mummah cries deeply but chokes down her sobs so that her precious, broken children would not know how much her heart ached with love for them.  She had learned from her own mother that baddest babbehs are to be disposed of publicly and with much fanfare.  The weak are culled, given final purpose as an example to good fluffies of the price of failure.  The mare would never come to understand this lesson during her short life.

Still, the mare is a good fluffy.  She always listened to her mummah.

And so the mother watches the two foals.
She watches as their lungs take their last breaths.
She watches as their muscles make their last spasms.
She watches as their bodies perform their last act in this world, releasing their bowels into small, fetid piles behind them.

****************

One foal does notice his mummah's tears, though.  The blue foal, whose see-places have matched hers drop-for-drop until they could cry no more.  He calls down from high above.
"Mummah!  Nu Saddies!  Wuk!  Babbeh Dancies!  Gud Babbeh!  Gif Happies!"

The babbeh had never danced before.  He doesn't even know how to dance.  But yesterday he did not know how to fly, and that has been going well.

So the helpful blue foal twists his torso and flails his limbs in a manner that is almost, but not quite, entirely without coordination.

The spasm causes the foal to wiggle out of his seat.

He slips from the balloon.

He falls head-first.

He strikes the hard ground.

His head bursts as though an overripe tomato.

His body stays perfectly upright, like a talented dancie-babbeh, except that his back leggies jut up at awkward angles, and his front leggies rest limply on the ground.

His last poopies push out and roll down his blue fluff.

The mare can only stare.


...


"HEEEEEEEY, FLUUUUUUUUUUUUUFFY!"

The mare jumps up in fright!  A stream of scaredy poopies erupts behind her.

"Mi-mi-mistah, nice mistah Bozo da Cwown.  ...Fwuffy am sorry fo` bad poopies."

"Don't worry your LITTLE head, chucklefuck.  That's not my HOBO, so I DON'T CARE."

Said box-swelling hobo just grumbles in the back of his shelter.  The veteran pulls his jacket tighter around him, trying to ignore the technicolor nightmares right outside his box.  If only he could afford his meds, these delusions would vanish.  Then he could rejoin society instead of scrounging a living out of the wastes.  Better yet, if he could just figure out the problem with his time machine...

"SO, Taint Muncher-nostillnotyourname, how are our LUCKY Flyin` Ryan's holding up?"

"Huuhhuuhuuuuuu.  Nice mistah Bozo da Cwown, Awwww Mummahs babbehs be bad!  Dey aww nu fwy gud an` take fowevah sweepies!  Huuhuuhuu, Mummah just wan haf gud babbehs `gain."

"If you wanted to have BETTER BABBEHS, all you had to do is be a BETTER MOTHER."

"Mummah nu bad!  Babbehs be bad...be bad an' take fowevah sleepies."

"No no NNNOOOOOO."  Bozo plucks the chirping brown foal from its balloon and shows it to the mare.  He rolls it around with his fingers, and the little fuzzsack can do nothing but peep and tumble.  "Look at this LITTLE thing.  Shit can't do ANYTHING on shits own.  CAN'T eat, CAN'T make good poopies, CAN'T stay warm, CAN'T drag shitself across the FUCKING STREET."

Bozo begins to juggle the foal at the end of one arm.  His other arm produce knives of various shapes and sizes through simple prestidigitation then tosses the sharp owwies into the tight juggling arc.  "See here?  Completely helpless.  Completely at the MERCY of OTHERS and of the UNIVERSE in general."  Both arms are now working in tandem to juggle the lone foal and a kitchen's worth of cutlery, which ranges from pocket knives to machetes to flaming daggers.  "A foal like THIS FUCKER couldn't possibly be GOOD or BAD on shits own.  No no no.  Shit can ONLY take after shits MOTHER."

The mare watches, trembling.  Shiny, sharpie owwies buzz all around her last living foal, the blades spinning so close that the flats are polished on the soft foal fuzz.

"Oh, HEY!  You still have one GOOD BABBEH left.  Maybe you aren't a complete FAILURE of a mother AFTER ALL!"  The brown foal makes sickie wawas on Bozo, but the sickly splatter is soon lost in the riot of his haphazard clothing.  "Does MUMMAH want her BABY BACK?"

"Mummah wan back Bestest Babbeh, pwease.  Mummah teach Bestest Babbeh be gud babbeh `gain.  Mummah pwomise."

"Bestest Babbeh is DEAD, dickless.  Dead FOREVER.  You can have this good little cutie, though."

"Nuuuuu...pwease Bestest Babbeh.  Pwease suuu muchies?  Nu wan have onwy poopie babbeh."

Bozo's eternal smile never wavers never flickers.  "What did you call THIS babbeh?"

"...Dat babbeh am poopies.  It am poopie, weast-favowite babbeh."

With nary a pause nor a hesitant tremor, Bozo reaches between the twirling blades and grabs the teddy-bear-brown foal from the apex of its arc.  Bozo grasps the foal tightly and leans down to present the foal to its mother.  Blades bounce and clatter against the cement all around the three actors.  "Excuse me, MADAM, but did you say that this babbeh right here is POOPIES, that shit is a SHIT BABBEH?"

"Y-yus, Mummah-" The mare is silenced by a vice of white fingers gripping her face and muzzle.  She's lifted off her feet and brought up to Bozo's dull, white eyes once again.

"I TOLD YOU NOT TO GET YOUR SHIT ON ME YOU RETARDCUMGARGLERPOOPIELOVERBABBEHLICKERASRGLKARGLQARIBRBVGUOV"

****************

The mare wakes up with a throbbing in her head and a burning ache in her poopie place.  She stands up slowly.

Bozo the Clown that Grants Wishes to Good Fluffies is no where to be seen.  The only remnants of his juggling act are nicks in the floor of man-made stone and scorch marks where the flaming daggers had burned away.

"Chirp!"

"Babbeh?  Mummah's babbeh?!"

"Chirp!  Mummah!  Bigges Owwies!  Bweafy Hewties!  Chirp!  Help!"

"Babbeh!  Babbeh!  Whewe Babbeh!  Come Mummah!"  The mangy mare stomped around in circles, trying to follow the sound of her child's weakening voice.

"Chirp!  Chirp!  Owwies!  Nee` Wuv!  Nee` Huggies!  Chirp..."

With aches at either end, the mare can hardly concentrate on the sounds.  She falls back onto her poofy rump and grinds her poopie place against the cold ground in hopes of relief.  There are odd crunching and cracking and squelching sounds, and a large mass squeezes out of her poopie place, but she feels much better afterwards.

The mare stands and looks back.  Red and brown...that makes sense.  It was not the first time she had suffered a bout of boo-boo poopies.  With renewed vigor, the mare trots out of the alley and down the sidewalk again.  She calls out for her lost babbeh and lost special friend.

****************

Later that evening, a solitary, all-pink mare pokes her head into the shaded alley.  "Hewwo.  Anyfwuffy hewe?  Any nice hoomans?  Am nice fwuffy..."  As usual, there is no response.  There is, however, the rare scent of fresh red-nummies.  The cautious filly trots down the alley; her eyes scan from side to side and up between the buildings for movement.  When she reaches the boxie house near the back of the alley, she finds the remains of seven dead foals laid out neatly in front of the boxie's opening.  Some have fluff or body parts or belly sketties missing.  Some of them have their missing parts or entrails piled ontop of the remains of their hide.

"Wh-who du dis?  N-nu fwuffy hewe, am dey?"  She looks from the end of the alley to the entrance, but all is still and quiet save for her thumping heart.  Tired, cold, and hungry, the mare steps into the boxie and sidles up to the nu-smeww-pwetty pile of rags heaped inside.  After a tearful "sowwy, pwetty babbehs", she closes her eyes tight and scarfs down the first four little bodies.

She doesn't know that the nu-smell-pretty mass of rags in the back of the box is a human, nor does she know that the human has recently died from an excessive number of stab wounds.  All the same, the warmth leeching from the corpse will keep her alive through the night's impending cold snap.

The red nummies make her tummy grumble and rumble, but the little pink fluffball bites down on her lip to keep the sustenance down.  This is the first time that she has felt truly full and warm in days.  She feels terrible about numming babbehs, even forever-sleepies babbehs, but staying alive is more important than respecting the dead now.

She has responsibilities, after all; she's a soon-mummah.

The little pink filly lays her head down on her front leggies.  As her eyes close, a trio of rounds balloons, one yellow and two blue, drifts past the opening of her safe place.