smarty-boss

>Be a park ranger.
>Get report of a feral fluffy pony herd in the northern area of the park.
>God dammit not those little shits again.
>Get in pickup to go investigate
>Arrive at the spot they were last seen.
>Grab shotgun. Ready for a routine extermination.
>Instead of a herd of mewling balls of hair as expected, you only find the corpse of a brown bear.
>Whatthefuck.jpg
>Upon closer inspection, The bear appears to be covered in small, flat-toothed bite marks over the ankles and face, even the occasional shallow puncture wound not looking like any sort of tooth.
>You put the pieces together.
>Death by a thousand fluffies.
>Shit. Of all the times to think up a CSI joke, you can’t right now.
>You even had sunglasses with you.
>Regardless, you follow the trail of fluffy bowel movements in your pickup.
>Eventually, you find the fluffy herd. About 50 in all. All doing the usual crap fluffies do. Playing, hugging, “special” hugging, you know the drill.
>Soon enough, one spots you, but doesn’t hide or call for help as usual.
>”Oi smawty-boss! We’z got a yewmie munsta over ‘ewe!”
>Funny. Of all the herds you’ve dealt with, you’ve never encountered a fluffy who spoke like a football hooligan. But the dialect seems oddly familiar too.
>This “boss” does indeed come out to see you. A green unicorn male with pointed sticks sticking out of his fur in multiple places. They look like they were put there intentionally.
>”Get outa’ ‘ewe ya git! Dis ‘ewe’s fwuffy wands now!”
>Typical. The smarty never wants to back down.
>”Listen here. We can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way. The easy way is you getting out of this park unharmed.”
>The smarty friend stomps his hooves. “Iz’ da smawty fwiend, I sez you’z get outa’ ‘ewe befowe da boyz give you big ouchies!”
>Oh God. they think they’re orks from that Warhammer game you played back in college. A far cry if you may say so yourself.
>You grab the shotgun and load it up. “Are you asking for the hard way? Because that’s what it sounds like.”
>With another stomp of the puny hooves, the boss screams “Stomp ‘im fwat, boyz!”
>All but about ten of the herd begin to swarm you.
>It’s a tiny, fluffy WAAAGH!
>They kick uselessly at you with their tiny hooves and wind up trampling on each other in the process.
>As you ignore their pathetic assault, you notice the boss berating the ten who aren’t attacking.
>”Why izn’t you kwumpin’ da humie?”
>”Smawty teww da BOYZ to, not da giwlz.”
>The boss smacks the talking mare over the head with both hooves. “Dat meant you too ya gitz! Now get stowmpin’!”
>After some mewling from the struck mare, they too join the assault.
>By now about 5 have fallen to friendly fire, but you feel a sharp pain in your shin.
>The boss just came out of nowhere and stabbed you in the shin with a stick.
>Only a tactical genius could...
>CREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEED!
>Right about now, instincts from your college years of playing Inquisition forces kick in.
>Grab the bosspony.
>Shove hand up fluffy ass and grab on to something tight. Probably a rib.
>Acquire Smarty Boxing Glove of Fluffy Annihilation +3
>The herd’s already pathetic morale is further damaged by seeing their smarty friend giving them ouchies.
>”Why smawty giff ouchies?”
>Stupid shits.
>The remaining 15 or so try and break for it.
>Not on your watch.
>You release the boss and pump the runners full of buckshot.
>Seeing his WAAGH!/herd reduced to nothing and his boyz lying dead around you, the boss curls up and sobs his tiny heart out.
>You pick him up by the horn and look him dead in the eye.
>”Why kiww my fwiends?”
>Your voice is measured and stoic.
>”Suffer not the unclean to live.”
>Snap the fluffy boss’ neck and toss his corpse aside.
>The Emperor protects.