The Fluffy Factory: Color Barrier

“Ergh, why do I have to do this...”

>You are Whitney, the top floor supervisor.

>”Owwies!  No huwt fiwwy!”

>You're standing before the playpen, which is loaded with fluffy foals.

>It's still dark; in fact, it's about four in the morning.

>”Sweepy!  No wan' pway time!”

>A cacophony of squeaky voices fills the air.

>One of your duties as the supervisor is to make sure unpurchased stock doesn't clog up the inventory chain.

>While the basement guys do most of the color sorting for you, sometimes a color will just fall out of favor.

>That color is said to be overstocked.

>This gets much worse during the summer, when the inventory of foals swells to massive levels.

>Even though most foals fly out the door, there can still be a backlog of colors.

>Because of the high sales rate, the color gluts can be easily identified.

>Since you're up here so much, you have a better idea about which colors will move and which won't.

>Yesterday, Sarah asked you to clear the backlog.

>Usually, you tell her what's not selling and she does it, along with her lunatic cousin.

>Today, however, she'll be busy elsewhere and won't be in until lunchtime.

>The task has fallen to you.

>”Why dawk?  Cowt no wike dawk, scawy!”

>You tun one one bank of overhead lights.

>”New mommy!  Pick fwuffy!”

>Some of the dimmer foals have forgotten who you are, as usual.

>The others ask you to play, or give hugs.

>With a sigh, you adjust your glasses and look at the clipboard.

>Pink is not selling very well at all.

>You scan the squirming, giggling mass of foals.

>Beside you is a large wooden crate.

>You begin plucking pink foals out of the mass and putting them in it.

>”Whee, fwy game!”

>”Wan' huggies mommy!”

>”Pway now?”

>”Whewe go fwuffy?”

>Soon, you have about twenty pink foals, waddling around and hugging each other.

>You look down at the clipboard for the next unwanted color.

>Green.  Not as unpopular as pink, but still not selling fast.

>You pick up green foals as you see them.

>”Yay!  Pick fwuffy!  Wuv you!”

>”Nuuuuu, fiwwy wan' fwiends!”

>”Huggies!”

>”No wike dis, scawy pwace...”

>The green and pink foals mix among themselves.

>The clump looks like a fuzzy watermelon.

>All the other colors on your list are selling well, but you're not done.

>The most difficult part comes now; in the rush to provide product, tons of off-color foals get sent up.

>As the rush continues, these foals take up space and resources, and must go.

>You gently push aside foals to get to the unwanted.

>”Nuuu, pwayin'!” a brown pegasus cries, trying to hug his red playmate as you take him away.

>There are some truly atrocious looking foals in this bunch.

>Some look like living piles of crap.  Or vomit...or both.

>Others are pastel shades of popular colors, so faded they looked like they've been bleached.

>If they were actually white, they'd be treated like tiny kings and queens.

>As the gene pool has expanded and been recycled, multicolors have been showing up.

>Green and brown?  Never going to go.  Into the crate.

>Blue and red?  Should be sold by day's end.

>Pink and green?  Not today, unfortunately.  She goes in, wings flapping with fear.

>You have to make judgment calls on some of the multis.

>A pair of yellow and white unicorn twins, clinging to each other as you take their friends, is spared.

>Some of the earth fluffy brown and tans, that look like cows, are also kept.

>They could be good novelty fluffies.

>Most anything with white should sell, but pastel multis are doomed.

>The public wants bright colors.  School bus yellow, candy apple red.

>They want monotone white and black, even though the latter is nearly impossible to get.

>”Pwayin' wif new fwiends!” the foals in the crate chirp.

>”Nuuuu, make bad poopies!” one screams.

>Doesn't matter.  The crate floor is lined.

>The foals back away from the smell as you continue to judge the ones in the pen.

>You desperately hate this task.

>”Why fwuffy go in bocks, am ba'?” a faintly grey unicorn asks with teary red eyes.

>What are you supposed to say?  Wordlessly, you put her in.

>By five, you've thinned out the foal stock immensely.

>The ones in the crate are now cramped and piled on top of each other.

>”Mommy, hewp!  Fiwwy haf owwies!”

>”No smeww pwetty, wet out!  Fwuffy sowwy!”

>”Owwies!  Why weggies on cowt taiw?!”

>The ones in the pen are scared, already babbling about the 'scary box'.

>They will see another day of happiness.

>You glance out the plate glass windows when car lights appear.

>It's Tiffany with the company truck.  You gulp audibly, but put on a polite face when she comes in.

>”What's up?” she asks, cracking her knuckles.  “You done sorting?”

“Yes,  I'm done.  Did Sarah want me to count them before you go?”

>She shakes her head, smoothing down her scruffy blonde hair.

>”Doesn't matter.  They'll get counted when I get there.”

>”All right.  Do you need help with the--”

>Of course she doesn't need help with the crate.  Tiffany is the most physically terrifying woman you know.

“Right...well, see you in a few hours, I guess...”

>”Nah, I'm off today.”

>Thank god.

>You hold the door open as she carries the crate out.

>The foals within are scared stiff.

>”Scawy bumpies!  No wike muv!”

>”Pwease stop, fwuffy sowwy!  Fwuffy haf owwies!”

>”Hewp!  Mommy!”

>You watch her set it in the truckbed.

>When she leaves, you put the foals that passed muster back in their cages, and make notes on your clipboard about which colors need to be restocked.

>The giggling of an hour ago has become a scattered chant of 'whewe fwiends go?”

>'Sissy come back!' and 'No mo' bwuva...?' are interspersed in it too.

>You take off your glasses and rub your nose with a long, loud sigh.

>Since you won't be opening for three hours yet, you decide to head back home.

>Have to make sure the three foals Sarah got from Lucy are still doing well.

>She doesn't tell you where the unwanted foals go, but you know it's bad.

>The five fuzzy darlings at home are the only way you can live with yourself.

>Maybe you should ask Lucy if she needs an employee.

------

>”Seventy-one.  The usual rate still apply?”

”Far as I know.”

>”All right, I'll cut you a check when I get them into the back.”

>You look down into the crate at the unhappy foals.

>The truck ride out here has made most of them dirty with fearful shit and urine.

>Pwease hewp, no smeww pwetty!”

>”Owwies!  No can muv!”

>The guy looks at you with a wry smile.

>”Wanna toss one in?”

“Ya know I do.”

>He grabs a clean-looking foal and examines it.  It's a puke green pegasus.

>”You wuv fwuffy?  Gif huggies?” she asks hesitantly.

>”This one's good to go,” he says, handing her to you.

>”New fwiend?” she asks, hugging your wrist.

>”Oh, wait!” he blurts out, producing a small folding knife from his overalls.

>Taking the foal back, he cuts off her wings before returning her.

>”There we go, have it at.”

>”OWWIIIIIEEEEEES!” she screams, her body thrashing.

>You toss her gracefully into the massive saltwater tank.

>The salt entering her wounds causes her to scream shrilly as she flails about.

>You wait a few seconds.

>”They're a bit sluggish, that's why I put in the order.”

>Suddenly, the water around the foal explodes in a bloom of foam as a zebra shark pup rises up to take its prey.

>”Good girl, you'll be feeling better when that fluff cleans you out.  Wanna do a few more?”

“Nah, I wanna get back home.  Kinda sleepy.”

>”All right then.  I'll haul these to the back and we'll get that check written.”

>The foals in the crate are soiling themselves and screaming with new found fear as he carries them off.