March of the Fluffies - Cotton Fluffies

Vanner, January 22, 2014; 19:37 / FB 16835
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March of the Fluffies: Cotton Fluffies
>Home from work again.
>You fluffy pony is in front of the TV, running in a circle and screeching.
>”Tee bee! Tee bee!” she's shouting.
>”Do we yell in the house?” you demand in your sternest voice.
>”Nu, daddee...” she says, cowering from your voice.
>”Do we run around in the house?” you demand again. “Or do we run outside?”
>”Wun outside,” she says backing away from you.
>”Do you want the sorry box? Bad fluffies who yell and run in the house get the sorry box.”
>”Pwease nuu sowwy bawx!” she sobs. “be gud, pwomise!”
>Well it it Wednesday, and it is time for her favorite show.
>Turn on the TV
>The velvety smooth voice of Morgan Freeman wafts through your speakers like pipe tobacco through a smoking jacket.
>"Spaghetti Warehouse presents… March of the Fluffies."
>Cue montage of fluffies drowning, walking off cliffs, pummeling each other with ineffective, marshmallow like hooves.
>You fluffy plops down on the floor and watches in wide eyed wonder as the camera slowly focuses on a pile of white fluff.
>It's another moment before one of the blobs of fluff wanders into the focus of the camera to reveal two dark eyes and a vaguely fluffy pony shape.
>It's no larger than a ladybug,
>It waves at the camera a moment before being snatched up in the jaws of another white blob nearly twice its size.
>”No larger than a strawberry, the cotton fluffy is a most peculiar breed of the fluffy pony,” says Morgan Freeman.
>The camera cuts to a disheveled scientist, sitting in a filthy warehouse with a dozen fluffy ponies
behind him.
>They all lay on their side, tongues hanging out, and eyes staring in opposite directions.
>”Back when we first started with fluffies, what we got wound up looking like cat sized horse,” says the scientist.
>”They couldn't talk, but they were fluffy, and pretty smart, for animals. Still, that's not what Hasbio wanted, and we wound up scrapping that whole genetic line.”
>He swivels in his chair to show off the monitor behind him.
>The monitor shows a small swarm of clumpy white creatures scrambling around the petri dish.
>”We wound up creating these organic nanomachines to do some of the heavier cognitive processing for the fluffies. They worked like clustered processors, and gave the brain enough electrical stimulation to make the fluffies able to speak.”
>The white clumps, bump into each other and float away as he's talking.
>”You probably think self replicating organic nanomachines are a terrible idea,” says the scientist. “But since they couldn't survive without the host fluffy, they were the perfect solution.”
>He stands and picks up a needle that looks more like a drill bit.
>The camera follows as he walks to the cages, and grabs one of the brain dead fluffies.
>”Why fwuffy no move?” asks your fluffy.
>”He's got bad owies,” you tell her.
>”Hu hu hu...” she sobs, covering her eyes with her hooves. “Nu wike fwuffies haf bad owies.”
>You're sort of glad she chose then to have her little pity party because the scientist is busy jamming the drill needle into the back of the fluffies head.
>”The nano-fluffies are highly susceptible to electrical pulses,” he explains, screwing the drill bit into the fluffies head. “Which is why you can reset their memories with a shock.
>”Exposure to a electomagnetic pulse, or just strapping them to a generator for a few days will cause the nano-fluffies to die off, leaving you with what you see here.”
>The fluffy doesn't seem to respond the to fact that its brain is currently being pierced with a drill bit.
>The scientist pushes in the plunger of the needle, and unscrews it from the fluffies head.
>A moment later, he jabs the hole with a soldering iron, as the fluffy struggles to its feet.
>Its eyes uncross.
>He blinks.
>And drops a huge load in his cage.
>”Fwuffy make bad poopies!” your fluffy cries in panic.
>”It's TV,” you say. “It's not real.”
>”Pway?” says the fluffy on the TV. “Huggies? Nu daddeh?”
>”And just like that,” says Morgan freeman, “The nano-fluffy and the fluffy are one again.”
>The scene changes to a pile of cotton fluffies wandering around an aquarium.
>In the background, a man wearing a trucker's cap just shakes his head.
>”Asshowe!” yells your fluffy.
>Man, what the shit? Every time you've seen this guy, every fluffy in the room yells that at him.
>”Organic programing sucks, big time,” he says. “It's like coding in binary, only worse because the programing can get scrambled by chemicals, radiation, or dozens of other mutagenic processes.”
>”So after we made them self replicating, we made them self correcting as well,” he continues, showing off the tank full of cotton fluffies.
>Every so often, the cotton fluffies start tearing apart another cotton fluffy, leaving only a smear of red behind to mark their passing.
>”Unfortunately, the nano-fluffies genetic code got messed up, and they started getting bigger.”
>He picks up a cotton fluffy with a pair of tweezers to show it off to the camera.
>Its tiny legs walk in the air as he holds it upside down. Otherwise it doesn't seem to notice that it's been picked up.
>”Luckily,” he continues, “the problem is self limiting because they're so damn fragile.”
>He emphasizes the point by crushing the nano-fluffy with barely any pressure.
>It falls back into the aquarium, where it is quickly devoured by the other cotton fluffies.
>The biggest cotton fluffy, one the size of a half dollar, stomps through the crowd of cotton fluffies to claim a bite for himself.
>”That big one is Tom,” says the man. “He's big enough to be heard if you get close.
>The camera man moves the microphone closer. A tiny voice repeats itself in a high pitched chirp.
>”Hugs. Pway. Nummies. Skettis. Pway. Fwuffy. Wuv. Huggies. Nummies. Pway.”
>”Of course,” says the man. “Cotton fluffies have absolutely nothing interesting or intelligent to say.”
>The scene shifts over to a clearing where a dozen fluffy ponies are playing, eating, or sleeping.
>A patch of white fluff comes into the meadow view before rolling over an ant hill.
>”In the wild,” says Morgan Freeman, “Cotton fluffies travel in herds of hundreds, moving like a fluffy sheet across the ground and eating anything that doesn't move.”
>The patch grows black spots for a moment, and the sheet continues on with slightly fewer members that before as the ants dismember the smaller cotton fluffies.
>”Such staggering losses would stymie lesser creatures, but the cotton fluffy doesn't know the meaning of the word.”
>A focus on the cotton fluffies reveals a fluffy the size of a quarter that drops out a half a dozen rice sized cotton fluffy foals.
>It's less than a minute later that the cotton fluffies are up and eating whatever detritus is left around their birth site.
>The mother cotton fluffy has wandered off, only to be snatched up by a spider a few moments later.
>”They are completely independent by the time they're born,” says Morgan Freeman. “And they will grow as big two inches in some cases.”
>The camera pans to a massive cotton fluffy, waddling it's willowy white fluffy and dead black eyes near a regular fluffy pony.
>”Of course,” he continues, “Fluffies and cotton fluffies have been known to interact.”
>”Pway. Nummies. Wuv.” chirps the cotton fluffy.
>”Babeh?” asks the fluffy pony. “How babeh get heh?”
>”Huggies. Skettis. Wuv.”
>””Mummah wuv babeh!” says the fluffy pony before putting the cotton fluffy on her back. “Babeh be gud, mumma make miwkes fow babehs!”
>”Wuv. Hugs. Pway.”
>It's only a few minutes later the cotton fluffy herd maneuvers itself into a puddle and drowns, leaving the big cotton puff with the fluffy herd.
>”It will be a week before the mother realizes her mistake,” says Mr. Freeman, and invariably, she'll leave the cotton fluffy to die somewhere for being a runt.”
>”But for now, he'll be safe.”
>A four legged, winged shadow darkens the fluffy mother's back before the scene snaps to black.
>”Or at least, as safe a fluffy can be with certain predators around.”
>The camera returns to Morgan Freeman, sitting in a wing back chair, with a twenty foot fluffy pelt behind him.
>”Join us next week when we discover the puffy griffons. Here, on March of the Fluffies.”