The Most Important Meal

It's just another Saturday morning in your house. It's awfully quiet behind the safe room door; the ponies behind it must not be awake yet. Not wishing to disturb them and shatter the peace, you ignore the door for now and wander into the kitchen. You heard from Whitney before leaving Friday night that Lucy was going to start at the shop Monday morning.

Yeah, right. Someone like her would never work in Sarah's fluffy factory.

Your stomach growls quietly. You begin scrounging through the cabinets for food, but it doesn't take long for you to realize that you forgot to go grocery shopping this week. Annoyed, you open the refrigerator door, only to find that it is just as empty as the cabinets around you.

"Dammit, what the hell am I gonna eat?"

Sure, you could just get dressed and head into town, but as the minutes pass your stomach's protesting gets louder, and you don't feel like fighting the traffic for an hour both ways just to get breakfast. After trying to ignore your stomach on the couch in your living room for a few minutes, you get up, go back to the kitchen, and start looking again just to make sure you didn't miss anything in the cabinets. Your second search proves fruitless, so you go back to the living room, grumbling. After about another hour trying to ignore your stomach, you've become resigned to your fate; you're going to have to go into town, like it or not. As you walk up the hallway past the safe room door, however, it becomes apparent that its occupants are awake. With a groan, you collect yourself for a moment before opening the door.

"Good morning, kids."

Your execution stock is small today; just two adult ponies are in the safe room. One of them, a stately grayish blue unicorn named Winston, approaches you after you open the door.

“Mommy, wan' nummies!” he complains. "Fwiend Wuna nee' nummies fo' babehs!”

The Luna he's referring to is his mate, a deep purple Pegasus that is almost exactly the same color as her namesake pony in the TV show, lying in the big soft bed in the corner of the safe room. She isn't awake yet, but her foals are, tiny, chirping puffs of yellow, orange, gray, and white crawling around in her fluff.

"Yeah, she isn't the only one that's hungry," you reply, ruffling his white mane. "Hold on a second, I'll bring ya some food.”

You shuffle back out of the safe room, closing the door. When you get to the hall closet where the bags of food are, an idea suddenly occurs to you; maybe you won't have to go out this morning. After getting two scoops of chow out of the bag on the floor, you walk back into the safe room and deposit the kibble into the plastic bowls on the floor.

"Fank you mommy!” Winston cries happily, furiously chowing down on his food. Luna, now awake, just looks up at you with a tired, but happy smile. She eats much more quietly than Winston, but her food is gone just as fast. As you watch them eat, your stomach again demands food of its own.

“Mommy haf tummy owwies!” Winston cries, waddling over to hug your leg. Winston always was perceptive for a fluffy pony, although that's still not saying much. Luna, being the more polite of the two, offers you the remains of her kibble in a quiet voice.

"No thanks, Luna, I'll find something of my own to eat."

Luna only nods in reply, lying down on her side and closing her eyes so the process of making milk for her babies can begin. While Winston begins quietly playing with his blocks, you gently close the door and go back to the living room. You make a mental note of the time on the wall clock.

45 minutes later, you've put your plan into action. You have your laptop on the kitchen table, a frying pan on the glass cooktop, and Luna's sleeping yellow earth fluffy foal in a plastic container beside your computer.

"This can't be that fuckin' hard,” you say browsing the Internet for recipes. The foal in the plastic box begins to stir; upon not finding his mother's fluff, he begins to chirp with fear.

"Oh, shut up already. Your mom ain't findin' you out here.”

He doesn't shut up, of course. His cries only grow louder as he squirms around in the box. After finding a simple looking recipe, you take your laptop and the foal over to the counter by the sink. The recipe calls for peeling the foal first, so you look in the drawers for a knife. Since this is going to be messy you set the foal into the sink; the cold metal makes him chirp loudly. He writhes around desperately, looking for something warm to cling to. The very moment you take the sharp blade to his tiny body, he begins screeching as loud as his tiny lungs will let him, a stream of brown and yellow coming out of his rear end. His thrashing makes it hard to peel him, so you hold him firmly by the neck and take strokes at his torso. After fighting with him for about five minutes, he is mostly bald below his neck – and bearing no small amount of bloody cuts. You're not going to bother trying to shave his head, so you skip that step in the recipe and just proceed to washing him off with hot water. After you're satisfied that he's clean on the outside, you give him one last good squeeze over the sink to make sure he's clean on the inside, too. Nothing comes out, so you take the foal, now wheezing with agony, over to the frying pan. You add a little butter to the pan, then look at your laptop to see how long the foal is supposed to cook. When the butter starts sizzling, you toss him into the pan.

About seven minutes later, you sit at the table, waiting for the now headless, golden brown foal to cool. You stab him with a fork, blow on him to cool him off, then consume half of his body with one bite. For a moment, you consider the flavor.

"Ha. Kinda tastes like rabbit.”

Another bite finishes him off; just then, you hear a cry from the open safe room.

“Whewe babeh?!” Luna yells. Her child was delicious; perhaps you'll take another one before lunch. For now, however, you have bigger fish to fry – if you'll pardon the pun. You leave the kitchen, going into the living room to get the cordless phone. After returning to your laptop, you double check the number on the ad and dial it. After three rings you hear a man's voice on the other end.

"Hello? Yeah, this is Tiffany… I was calling about those two alicorn fluffy ponies ya had for sale.”