Da Gweat God Badpoopie, Part 2

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Da Gweat God Badpoopie
Part 2
>Bruno is quiet the next day.
>You actually are able to relax for a bit, get some work done.
>You even are able to play with him a bit, and scratch his belly.
>Maybe feel a bit guilty about last night.
>By evening, though, the terror of yesterday is wearing off, and Bruno is back to his usual bratty self.
>You feed him Pone-Chow.
>He wrinkles his nose.
>”Wan’ sketties.”
>You’ve heard about this. Why the hell would a pony like spaghetti?
>”Eat your Pone-Chow. It’s good for you.”
>”No wan’ Pone-Chow. Yucky.”
>”Too bad. Eat it.”
>”Old daddy gif sketties sometimes.” Bruno pouts.
>Is he talking about his first owner? Or your brother? Does he think he lives HERE, now?
>In any case, your brother warned you about giving him spaghetti. He loves it but it causes nasty diarrhea.
>”Well, your daddy didn’t say you could have spaghetti. Eat.”
>”No wan’! Wan’ sketties!” He whines.
>”You can have a Pone-treat if you eat your dinner.”
>”No wike Pone-tweat.” Bruno does a raspberry. “Pone-tweat yucky.”
>”Bruno…”
>He starts spinning and bucking in a tantrum.
>”Wan’ sketties! Wan’ sketties! Wan’ sketties! Wan’ sketties!”
>He kicks his bowl, sending a shower of Pone-chow across the room. He doesn’t stop.
>You just stare at him.
>He didn’t learn his lesson.
>Phase two, activate.
>”Wan’ sketties! Wan’ sketties! Wan’ sketties! Wan’ sketties!”
>”Okay, Bruno! I’m gonna give you sketties, okay?”
>Bruno stops his tantrum, his eyes lighting up. “Weawy? Yay, sketties! Sketties! Sketties!”
>You go into the kitchen, measure out a huge portion of spaghetti, begin boiling water.
>In the meantime, you take a big sugar cookie, coat it with redi-whip and top it with mini marshmallows and a maraschino cherry.
>You bring the plate with the cookie out into the dining room, where Bruno is still marching in circles, chanting “Sketties!”
>Place the plate with the cookie on the floor.
>Immediately grab Bruno by the scruff of his neck as he charges for it, screaming “Nummies!”
>Hold him up off the floor, panting, little legs whirring.
>”Bruno, that’s not for you.”
>His leggies stop. “Not fow Bwuno?” His lip quivers.
>”No. You get sketties. This isn’t sketties. You mustn’t eat it, okay? Can I trust you?”
>Bruno nods vigorously. “Can twust Bwuno. No eat nummies.”
>”Okay, then.”
>Snicker silently.
>You finish preparing spaghetti, pour the huge portion into Bruno’s bowl.
>You quarter a sleeping pill, crush it finely, sprinkle it on the spaghetti, and bring it out.
>As expected, the cookie is gone. Bruno is still chewing, whipped cream all over his mouth.
>”Bruno!” You gasp.
>He freezes, looks at you.
>”What did you do?”
>He looks confused. “Bwuno eat nummies.”
>”And what did I tell you not to do?”
>Bruno squints and thinks.
>And thinks and thinks and thinks.
>He stares at the plate, at the flecks of whipped cream and crumbs on the floor.
>You can almost see the smoke coming out of his ears.
>”Bwuno… eat nummies. Bwuno… not s’pose eat nummies!”
>He looks up at you, so proud he remembered.
>”But you DID eat the nummies, Bruno.”
>He looks at the plate.
>”You were a bad fluffy, Bruno.”
>His eyes widen. ”Nuuu. Bwuno sowwy. Not bad fwuffy.”
>”Do you know whose nummies those were, Bruno?” You say solemnly.
>He gives you a blank look.
>”That was an offering for the Great God Badpoopie.”
>Bruno shrieks.
>He may be dumb as a doorknob, but he remembers that.
>”Nuuu! Bwuno sowwy! No mean to eat! No wan’ poopie pwace buwnin’!”
>He scrambles in panicked circles, stepping on the edge of the plate, sending it clattering around the floor, running into a chair leg.
>”Don’t worry.” You say.
>Bruno stops. “Why no wowwy?”
>”Because Badpoopie never sends the same curse twice. Maybe this time he didn’t see you. Maybe you’re lucky.”
>The fluffy blinks. “I not wucky. I Bwuno.”
>Facepalm.
>Feed him the enormous bowl of spaghetti.
>Fat little greedy bastard eats every bite.
>He pauses throughout, turning in place, looking worried, trying to look at his asshole.
>But the Great God Badpoopie has other plans.
>After dinner, you play.
>The sleeping pill is taking effect.
>Bruno’s eyes are fluttering.
>Let him sleep on the floor.
>Clear out saferoom, put down tarp, put everything back.
>Go to the desk, get two pairs of small binder clips.
>Remove one handle, link with the other, reattach, so you’ve made a pair of double-ended clips.
>Bruno is fast asleep, snoring lightly and blowing snot bubbles from his nose.
>Attach the clips to his tail, and then clip the other ends to the fluff on his butt.
>Take Bruno to the safe room and tuck him into bed.
>Go to bed.
>Sleep in late the next morning.
>Ignore the frantic whining from the safe room, make coffee.
>You hear Bruno calling you, faintly, through the door.
>”Hewp, pwease. Gotta make poopies… hewp…”
>Open saferoom door.
>Bruno is running in circles, puffing his cheeks out, eyes wide. He stops when he sees you. His little hooves crinkle against the tarp. He looks down at it.
>”Why new fwoah?”
>”I thought you’d like the new floor.”
>Bruno processes this, or tries to, then starts circling and puffing again.
>”What’s wrong, little buddy?”
>”Bw.. Bwuno gotta go poopies…”
>”Well, there’s your litterbox.”
>”But Bwuno… no can wift taiw.” He turns to show you.
>Indeed, the clips have stuck his tail in the “down” position.
>Fluffy is too stupid to figure out the problem, even if he could see the clips, which he can’t past his fat fluffy sides.
>“Well, Bruno, you have to lift your tail. Otherwise you’ll go poopie all over yourself. Then you won’t smell pretty.”
>Bruno gulps.
>”Only bad fluffies go poopie all over themselves, Bruno. You’re not a bad fluffy, are you?”
>”Nuu!” Bruno is gasping now, trying to hold it in. The binder clips rattle and clack but hold firm. “Bwuno good fwuffy! Why no wift taiw?”
>Big, theatrical gasp. “Uh-oh. Must be the new curse from the Great God Badpoopie. You shouldn’t have eaten his nummies, Bruno!”
>“Nuu! No wan’ cuwse! Wan go poopies!”
>He scampers to his litterbox, backs in, looking determined.
>He strains, then tears start to roll down his cheeks.
>”Pwease hewp fwuffy! Wift taiw, pwease…”
>”Sorry, I can’t. Then I might catch the curse.”
>”Tuh… tummy huwt…”
>Bruno’s eyes grow wide.
>Wet, spattery spaghetti fart.
>You hear the bloop and glop of wet shit splashing out.
>”Nuuu… no smeww pwetty!” Bruno cries. He leaps from the litterbox.
>Leaves a trail of shit. It’s plastered all over his ass.
>”Bruno! I thought you knew how to use a litterbox!” You say sharply.
>He trembles ”Bwu… Bwuno sowwy, taiw…”
>”No excuses, Bruno!”
>”P…pwease, no sowwy stick…”
>You smile. ”No sorry stick, Bruno. Hold on, I’ll get you something.”
>Grab another sugar cookie from the jar.
>Load it up with Redi-whip.
>Coat liberally with powdered laxative.
>Make another huge bowl of spaghetti for Bruno.
>Heck, fix another bowl too, with Pone-chow.
>Bruno is standing in the middle of the room, hyperventilating, talking softly to himself.
>”Taiw go upsies, pwease. Pwease taiw go up so Bwuno can make good poopsies…”
>Wrinkle your nose against the stink.
>Give him food and cookie, assure him he’s a good pony for trying.
>Tell him you have things to do.
>”Nuuu! No weave…”
>His cries are muffled by the closing door.
>Grab laptop, go out.
>Sit at coffee shop, write.
>Browse some stores.
>Call up an old pal, meet for lunch.
>Walk through the park.
>Do some shopping.
>Come home as it’s getting dark.
>Put away groceries.
>Hear soft sobbing coming from saferoom.
>Open the door.
>Almost pass out from the smell.
>Bruno is lying on his side, chest heaving.
>His eyes are red and it looks like he’s been crying for hours.
>Cookie is gone, bowl of spaghetti empty, of course. Even the Pone-chow is gone. Even in crisis the little shit couldn’t help but scarf every bite down.
>There is shit everywhere. Literally everywhere.
>The litterbox is almost completely full.
>Poopy fluffy prints all over the floor.
>Random piles of mushy shit.
>He even got some above the tarp, maybe trying to wipe his ass on the walls.
>”N…no… smeww… pwetty…” Bruno moans.
>That’s a fucking understatement.
>Bruno tries to stand.
>It’s hard, as he has what looks like five pounds of shit trapped between his tail and the fluff on his ass weighing him down.
>His body is coated, too, where he rolled or lay down in it.
>”M…Made a wot a’ bad poopies… tummy huwted… pwease no sowwy box…”
>He vomits, spraying bits of spaghetti noodles all over.
>Pick him up in an old towel.
>Toss him in tub.
>Run water.
>Hold him down as he first shrieks about “Cowd wawa!” and soon after about “Hawt wawa!”
>Bathe him thoroughly.
>Remove binder clips from tail, hide them before he can see them.
>Wrap him in towels and put him in a box for safekeeping.
>He doesn’t even complain. He’s just sobbing.
>Thoroughly clean saferoom. Toss tarp and scrub walls.
>You almost lose your cookies twice but you get the job done.
>Your whole house is gonna smell for days.
>Still worth it.
TO BE CONTINUED…

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Da Gweat God Badpoopie
Part 2

>Bruno is quiet the next day.  
>You actually are able to relax for a bit, get some work done.
>You even are able to play with him a bit, and scratch his belly.  
>Maybe feel a bit guilty about last night. 
>By evening, though, the terror of yesterday is wearing off, and Bruno is back to his usual bratty self.      
>You feed him Pone-Chow.
>He wrinkles his nose.
>”Wan’ sketties.”
>You’ve heard about this.  Why the hell would a pony like spaghetti?
>”Eat your Pone-Chow.  It’s good for you.”
>”No wan’ Pone-Chow.  Yucky.”
>”Too bad.  Eat it.”
>”Old daddy gif sketties sometimes.”  Bruno pouts.
>Is he talking about his first owner?  Or your brother?  Does he think he lives HERE, now?
>In any case, your brother warned you about giving him spaghetti.  He loves it but it causes nasty diarrhea.
>”Well, your daddy didn’t say you could have spaghetti.  Eat.”
>”No wan’!  Wan’ sketties!”  He whines.  
>”You can have a Pone-treat if you eat your dinner.”
>”No wike Pone-tweat.”  Bruno does a raspberry.  “Pone-tweat yucky.”
>”Bruno…”
>He starts spinning and bucking in a tantrum.
>”Wan’ sketties!  Wan’ sketties!  Wan’ sketties!  Wan’ sketties!”
>He kicks his bowl, sending a shower of Pone-chow across the room.  He doesn’t stop.
>You just stare at him.  
>He didn’t learn his lesson.
>Phase two, activate.
>”Wan’ sketties!  Wan’ sketties!  Wan’ sketties!  Wan’ sketties!”
>”Okay, Bruno!  I’m gonna give you sketties, okay?”
>Bruno stops his tantrum, his eyes lighting up.  “Weawy?  Yay, sketties!  Sketties!  Sketties!”
>You go into the kitchen, measure out a huge portion of spaghetti, begin boiling water.
>In the meantime, you take a big sugar cookie, coat it with redi-whip and top it with mini marshmallows and a maraschino cherry.
>You bring the plate with the cookie out into the dining room, where Bruno is still marching in circles, chanting “Sketties!”
>Place the plate with the cookie on the floor.
>Immediately grab Bruno by the scruff of his neck as he charges for it, screaming “Nummies!”
>Hold him up off the floor, panting, little legs whirring.
>”Bruno, that’s not for you.”
>His leggies stop.  “Not fow Bwuno?”  His lip quivers.
>”No.  You get sketties.  This isn’t sketties.  You mustn’t eat it, okay?  Can I trust you?”
>Bruno nods vigorously.  “Can twust Bwuno.  No eat nummies.”
>”Okay, then.”   
>Snicker silently.
>You finish preparing spaghetti, pour the huge portion into Bruno’s bowl.
>You quarter a sleeping pill, crush it finely, sprinkle it on the spaghetti, and bring it out.
>As expected, the cookie is gone.  Bruno is still chewing, whipped cream all over his mouth.
>”Bruno!”  You gasp.
>He freezes, looks at you.
>”What did you do?”
>He looks confused.  “Bwuno eat nummies.”
>”And what did I tell you not to do?”
>Bruno squints and thinks.  
>And thinks and thinks and thinks.  
>He stares at the plate, at the flecks of whipped cream and crumbs on the floor.  
>You can almost see the smoke coming out of his ears.
>”Bwuno… eat nummies.  Bwuno… not s’pose eat nummies!”
>He looks up at you, so proud he remembered.
>”But you DID eat the nummies, Bruno.”
>He looks at the plate.
>”You were a bad fluffy, Bruno.”
>His eyes widen.  ”Nuuu.  Bwuno sowwy.  Not bad fwuffy.”
>”Do you know whose nummies those were, Bruno?”  You say solemnly.
>He gives you a blank look.
>”That was an offering for the Great God Badpoopie.”
>Bruno shrieks.  
>He may be dumb as a doorknob, but he remembers that.
>”Nuuu!  Bwuno sowwy!  No mean to eat!  No wan’ poopie pwace buwnin’!”  
>He scrambles in panicked circles, stepping on the edge of the plate, sending it clattering around the floor, running into a chair leg.
>”Don’t worry.”  You say.
>Bruno stops.  “Why no wowwy?”
>”Because Badpoopie never sends the same curse twice.  Maybe this time he didn’t see you.  Maybe you’re lucky.”
>The fluffy blinks.  “I not wucky.  I Bwuno.”
>Facepalm.
>Feed him the enormous bowl of spaghetti.
>Fat little greedy bastard eats every bite.
>He pauses throughout, turning in place, looking worried, trying to look at his asshole.  
>But the Great God Badpoopie has other plans.
>After dinner, you play.
>The sleeping pill is taking effect.  
>Bruno’s eyes are fluttering.
>Let him sleep on the floor.
>Clear out saferoom, put down tarp, put everything back.
>Go to the desk, get two pairs of small binder clips.
>Remove one handle, link with the other, reattach, so you’ve made a pair of double-ended clips.
>Bruno is fast asleep, snoring lightly and blowing snot bubbles from his nose.
>Attach the clips to his tail, and then clip the other ends to the fluff on his butt.
>Take Bruno to the safe room and tuck him into bed.
>Go to bed.
>Sleep in late the next morning.
>Ignore the frantic whining from the safe room, make coffee.
>You hear Bruno calling you, faintly, through the door.
>”Hewp, pwease.  Gotta make poopies… hewp…”
>Open saferoom door.  
>Bruno is running in circles, puffing his cheeks out, eyes wide.  He stops when he sees you.  His little hooves crinkle against the tarp.  He looks down at it.
>”Why new fwoah?”
>”I thought you’d like the new floor.”
>Bruno processes this, or tries to, then starts circling and puffing again.
>”What’s wrong, little buddy?”
>”Bw.. Bwuno gotta go poopies…”
>”Well, there’s your litterbox.”
>”But Bwuno… no can wift taiw.”  He turns to show you.
>Indeed, the clips have stuck his tail in the “down” position.  
>Fluffy is too stupid to figure out the problem, even if he could see the clips, which he can’t past his fat fluffy sides.
>“Well, Bruno, you have to lift your tail.  Otherwise you’ll go poopie all over yourself.  Then you won’t smell pretty.”
>Bruno gulps.
>”Only bad fluffies go poopie all over themselves, Bruno.  You’re not a bad fluffy, are you?”
>”Nuu!”  Bruno is gasping now, trying to hold it in.  The binder clips rattle and clack but hold firm.  “Bwuno good fwuffy!  Why no wift taiw?”
>Big, theatrical gasp.  “Uh-oh.  Must be the new curse from the Great God Badpoopie.  You shouldn’t have eaten his nummies, Bruno!”
>“Nuu!  No wan’ cuwse!  Wan go poopies!” 
>He scampers to his litterbox, backs in, looking determined.
>He strains, then tears start to roll down his cheeks.
>”Pwease hewp fwuffy!  Wift taiw, pwease…”
>”Sorry, I can’t.  Then I might catch the curse.”
>”Tuh… tummy huwt…”
>Bruno’s eyes grow wide.
>Wet, spattery spaghetti fart.
>You hear the bloop and glop of wet shit splashing out.
>”Nuuu… no smeww pwetty!”  Bruno cries.  He leaps from the litterbox.  
>Leaves a trail of shit.  It’s plastered all over his ass.
>”Bruno!  I thought you knew how to use a litterbox!”  You say sharply.
>He trembles  ”Bwu… Bwuno sowwy, taiw…”
>”No excuses, Bruno!”
>”P…pwease, no sowwy stick…”
>You smile.  ”No sorry stick, Bruno.  Hold on, I’ll get you something.”
>Grab another sugar cookie from the jar.
>Load it up with Redi-whip.
>Coat liberally with powdered laxative.
>Make another huge bowl of spaghetti for Bruno.
>Heck, fix another bowl too, with Pone-chow.
>Bruno is standing in the middle of the room, hyperventilating, talking softly to himself.
>”Taiw go upsies, pwease.  Pwease taiw go up so Bwuno can make good poopsies…”
>Wrinkle your nose against the stink.  
>Give him food and cookie, assure him he’s a good pony for trying.
>Tell him you have things to do.
>”Nuuu!  No weave…”
>His cries are muffled by the closing door.
>Grab laptop, go out.
>Sit at coffee shop, write.
>Browse some stores.
>Call up an old pal, meet for lunch.
>Walk through the park.
>Do some shopping.
>Come home as it’s getting dark.
>Put away groceries.
>Hear soft sobbing coming from saferoom.
>Open the door.
>Almost pass out from the smell.
>Bruno is lying on his side, chest heaving.
>His eyes are red and it looks like he’s been crying for hours.
>Cookie is gone, bowl of spaghetti empty, of course.  Even the Pone-chow is gone.  Even in crisis the little shit couldn’t help but scarf every bite down.
>There is shit everywhere.  Literally everywhere.
>The litterbox is almost completely full.
>Poopy fluffy prints all over the floor.
>Random piles of mushy shit.
>He even got some above the tarp, maybe trying to wipe his ass on the walls.
>”N…no… smeww… pwetty…”  Bruno moans.
>That’s a fucking understatement.
>Bruno tries to stand.
>It’s hard, as he has what looks like five pounds of shit trapped between his tail and the fluff on his ass weighing him down.
>His body is coated, too, where he rolled or lay down in it.
>”M…Made a wot a’ bad poopies… tummy huwted… pwease no sowwy box…”
>He vomits, spraying bits of spaghetti noodles all over.  
>Pick him up in an old towel.
>Toss him in tub.
>Run water.
>Hold him down as he first shrieks about “Cowd wawa!” and soon after about “Hawt wawa!”
>Bathe him thoroughly.
>Remove binder clips from tail, hide them before he can see them.
>Wrap him in towels and put him in a box for safekeeping.
>He doesn’t even complain.  He’s just sobbing.
>Thoroughly clean saferoom.  Toss tarp and scrub walls.
>You almost lose your cookies twice but you get the job done.  
>Your whole house is gonna smell for days.
>Still worth it.  

TO BE CONTINUED…

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