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Da Gweat God Badpoopie, Part 3

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Da Gweat God Badpoopie
Part 3
>Bruno, your brother’s fluffy pony, has been quite good for the past three days.
>Mainly because he is terrified of The Great God Badpoopie and his curses.
>But fluffy pony memory is notoriously bad.
>Even repetition doesn’t always work.
>Religion might be the only way.
>So you ritualize it!
>You get one of your old college notebooks full of economics notes.
>Take a photo of the mask, print it, glue it to the front cover
>With a magic marker cross out “Econ 102” and write “The Book of Badpoopie” on the cover.
>Fluffy can’t read, anyway.
>Hang the Badpoopie mask in a prominent spot in the dining room, a couple of feet off the floor, near Bruno’s eye level.
>Consider putting it in the saferoom, but figure that’s too cruel. Besides, you want the little shit to sleep and not whine.
>He stares fearfully as you finish hanging it up.
>”N…no wan’ scawy Badpoopie hewe…”
>You shake your head. ”I want you to remember him, Bruno. Since you’re a bad fluffy, you have to stay on Badpoopie’s good side.”
>”Bwuno not bad fwuffy…”
>“Bruno!” you hiss, and roll your eyes toward the mask. “All fluffies are bad fluffies. You’re all born with poopies on your soul.”
>You turn to a random page, point to some scribbles about supply-side economics.
>”It says so right here, Bruno.”
>Bruno’s eyes get big.
>”Bwuno no wan’ poopies on souw.”
>You nod sagely, heft the notebook… er, Book of Badpoopie. “Then listen to me and I’ll help you clean them off.”
>Bruno nods so hard he bangs his jaw on the floor.
>”Bwuno wan’ be good fwuffy! Wan’ cwean souw!”
>So you pull some rituals out of your ass.
>You place his bowl and water dish in front of the Badpoopie mask.
>Set aside a smaller pair of dishes next to them.
>Tell Bruno that these are for Badpoopie’s offerings.
>Before Bruno can eat, he must take a mouthful of Pone-chow and place it in the little red dish.
>He must also take a mouthful of water and spit it out in the blue dish.
>You’re there every night to remind him of this and why he does it.
>He’s still noisy sometimes, but warning him about the curses is enough to get him to say “sowwy”.
>You also are going to break him of his “accidents”
>He must always make poopies in the litterbox, no matter what!
>”Badpoopie hates bad poopies most of all, Bruno.” You tell him, over and over.
>He always nods, nervously.
>You’re pleased to see him make an effort.
>After eating, or just any time his stomach growls or makes any other noise, he rushes to his litterbox and stands there, shivering, until he either really has to poop or the feeling passes.
>Sometimes he stands there for an hour just to be sure.
>You increase the pressure.
>Sneak up behind him and bang a couple of pots together, or just shout “BOO!”
>The first couple of times, he shits.
>When he does, you kneel in front of the mask and ask for guidance while Bruno cries and whines and covers his eyes with his little hoofsies.
>You keep the punishments mild- sorry, Badpoopie keeps the punishments mild- stuff like “no DVDs today” or early bedtime.
>After the first few scares, he no longer shits reflexively.
>However, after a few days of these religious ritual and tests, Bruno isn’t quite his old self.
>He’s quieter, sure, but more nervous and high-strung.
>Always glancing fearfully at the mask, or stopping in the middle of play to look behind him.
>Occasionally you catch him, hiding around the corner, whispering “No wike scawy god” to himself.
>Once he’s done with dinner he usually likes to get out of the dining room and go back to his saferoom.
>Bugs you far less.
>You feel bad enough at the trauma you’re causing to make an effort to visit him and play with him.
>Saferoom still smells vaguely like a shit explosion at the poop factory, but it’s fading every day.
>No worse than a barnyard, maybe.
>You roll the ball around with Bruno.
>You build block cities with him.
>You rub and tickle his tummy. He whirrs his little leggies in delight.
>You even tell him a story or two.
>”I wuv yoo, daddy.” Bruno says one night as you tuck him in.
>”I’m not your daddy, Bruno. I’m your uncle Anon. Your daddy’s coming back in a week and a half.”
>”D…daddy? Othew daddy?”
>”Yes. I mean, no. Your daddy.” You pull out your wallet, show Bruno a picture of your brother. “Remember?”
>Bruno squints and cocks his head at the photo.
>”Who dat, daddy?” He asks.
>Facepalm.
>The little shit has actually forgotten about his owner.
>Well, fine then… he’ll surely forget about you, too.
>…and Badpoopie.
>Which is inevitable.
>Fluffies are fluffies, after all.
>And Bruno, you guess, is not the sharpest knife in the pony drawer.
>It’s only a matter of time before he regresses.
>Which he does, spectacularly, the following Sunday.
>You’re going to meet your editor to show him some stuff.
>Bruno sits in front of the TV as you run around getting ready, watching one of his DVDs.
>For the past month, all you’ve watched on TV are the same three damn DVDs that Bruno likes.
>The fucking ending theme song is stuck in your head again.
>You click off the player, select TV.
>”Watch again, pwease!” Bruno shouts.
>”No, Bruno. You’re going in your room. I have to go out.”
>Bruno sighs, crestfallen. “Wanna watch ‘gain.”
>Ignore him.
>Suddenly, a bouncy tune comes blaring out of the speakers.
>It’s an ad for Fluff-TV.
>It’s a new network they started up aimed at fluffy ponies.
>It promises to entertain and educate, but mostly it seems to have stuff to just keep the amused and transfixed for a few hours… in short, a babysitting tool.
>We’re talking Teletubby-level shit here, folks.
>They do have PSAs that remind fluffies to always poop in the litterbox, though.
>”Daddy!”
>”I’m not your daddy, Bruno. I’m your uncle Anon.”
>”Daddy! Bwuno wanna watch Fwuff-TV! Make on Fwuff-TV, pwease!”
>You sigh. You have basic channels, and you don’t even think your provider carries Fluff-TV.
>”I don’t have that channel, Bruno. Sorry.”
>”But Bwuno jus’ see it!” He taps the remote with his hoof. “Make Fwuff-TV, pwease!”
>”I can’t Bruno. Look, I have to…”
>”Fwuff-TV!” Bruno begins to hop up and down on the sofa. “Bwuno wan’ Fwuff-TV! Why daddy no give? I good fwuffy!”
>”Bruno, I don’t have the channel. Would you please…”
>”Bwuno saw! Daddy wiar!”
>”What?” You snap.
>”Waah! Daddy mean to fwuffy!”
>”I’m not your daddy!”
>He gasps. “D…daddy don’ wuv fwuffy no mo?”
>”Bruno, get to your room, now!”
>”No! Bwuno good fwuffy! Wan’ Fwuffy TV!”
>”Bruno!”
>” Wan’ Fwuff-TV! Wan’ Fwuff-TV! Wan’ Fwuff-TV!” He’s completely lost it, again. He’s jumping up and down, finally hops onto the coffee table, skids into the candy bowl, bumping it and sending Skittles everywhere.
>You’re about to lay down the law… the BadPoopie law… when your cell rings. You left it on the bed. You run to answer it.
>It’s your editor. He’ll be there, just going to be about an hour late. No problem. You chat a bit.
>Bruno is still yammering about Fluffy-TV in the other room when everything grows suspiciously quiet.
>Then there’s a loud thump, and a quiet “Wuh-oh…”
>You excuse yourself, hang up, run out.
>Bruno is standing on the coffee table, looking down at your laptop, which he managed to open and push off the table.
>Your life’s work flashes before your eyes.
>”What did you do?” You yell, picking up your laptop. The screen is cracked. It landed on the screen edge, on the hardwood floor.
>”Bwuno twy to see Fwuff-TV on wittle TV.” He says.
>The hard drive whirs, it seems to boot, but the screen is gone.
>You close it, look down at Bruno. Your face is calm.
>Eye of the hurricane.
>Bruno blinks at you. “Bwuno hungwy. Nummies, pwease?”
>”Bruno.” You say, keeping your voice steady. “You broke the laptop.”
>”Wha’ waptop?”
>”THIS!” You shake it in his face.
>”Wha?” He blinks. “No wook bwoken.”
>”It’s broken, Bruno. Do you know whose this is?”
>Bruno tilts his head. He’s starting to shiver. A droplet of drool falls from his mouth onto the coffee table.
>”This… is… BADPOOPIE’S laptop!”
>Eyes go wide, pupils grow enormous.
>”Nuuu! No mean bweak!” Bruno’s feet begin to whirr, slipping on the polished table, but he gets enough momentum to push himself off and land clumsily on the floor.
>”Owwies!” Bruno cries. He limps as fast as he can over to the mask hanging low on the wall in the dining room.
>”Bwuno sowwy! Not mean to bweak it!” He looks desperately to his bowls, but both are empty. He turns as you enter. “Pwese, daddy, gif nummies, Bwuno gif to Badpoopie! No wan’ cuwse! No wike cuwse!”
>”Bruno, it’s not a gift if you need me to get it for you.”
>Bruno processes this, then limps toward the kitchen. “Bwuno get nummies, den! Wheah nummies, daddy?”
> “Bruno, it’s too late, and this is really bad. You were a VERY bad fluffy!”
>Bruno is shaking like a leaf, making little mewling sounds.
>”You have to hide. I’m going to go and try to get Badpoopie a new computer. If you’re lucky, he won’t get you.”
>Bruno bleats and begins running in circles. “Wheah hide? Hewp, daddy!”
>”Saferoom!”
>Bruno goes tearing off. You pull the blinds, making it dark, turn off the lights.
>”N…no wike dawk, daddy. Wights, p…pwease…”
>”You need to hide, Bruno. Dark is better. Hang tight, I’ll be back as fast as I can!”
>You slam the door, ignoring Bruno’s cries.
>Go to your closet
>Put on black shirt and pants. Red socks.
>Get out that old vampire cape you wore to a Halloween party two years ago.
>In the kitchen, red rubber gloves and the big straw broom.
>Finally, lift the mask from the wall and put it on.
>Check in the mirror.
>You are The Great God Badpoopie, punisher of stupid and naughty fluffies everywhere.
>Approach saferoom door.
>You hear Bruno, whimpering and babbling to himself, very faintly.
>”No wan’ cuwse… No wike dis… why weggie huwt…”
>You bang your fist on the door and growl.
>Bruno screeches in terror. Clopping of little fluffy hooves, running in a circle.
>You burst in, roaring.
>Bruno, to his credit, does not shit or pee.
>He does, however, freeze in place.
>That’s no fun.
>You wind up and whack him with the bristle end of the broom. Fore!
>POMF goes his fluff, and Bruno goes skidding toward the door. His leggies churn and he’s off into the house.
>”WHO BROKE MY LAPTOP? I THINK IT WAS A FLUFFY! NWAHAHAHAHAAAA!”
>You stomp through the house. Hard to see through the mask.
>Where’s Bruno?
>Stalk around a bit.
>Find him in the kitchen, trying to hide between the garbage can and cabinet.
>Not very effective, as his fluffy butt is hanging out.
>He’s whimpering and trembling.
>Grab a pencil.
>Lift his tail and poke his fluffy butthole!
>(With the eraser end, not the point. You’re not a sick fucker. Well, not totally…)
>Bruno screams and flails, knocking the garbage over, fleeing into the dining room.
>”I SEE A BAD FLUFFY!”
>”Nuuuuu! Not bad fwuffy! Hewp, daddy! Dadddeeeee!”
>You grab him. He’s surprisingly strong when desperate, but not strong enough.
>Hold him in your hands, before your terrifying godly visage.
>”YOU HAVE BEEN VERY BAD, FLUFFY BRUNO! YOU HAVE MANY POOPIES ON YOUR SOUL!”
>Tears roll down Bruno’s cheeks. You’ve never seen eyes so big on anything outside of anime.
>”N…no mean to bweak… no wan’ poopies on souw… pwease no huwt…“
>”HURT? NO… NOT IF YOU PASS THE FLUFFY TEST OF DOOOOOM!”
>”Wh… wha’ dat?”
>You laugh maniacally and begin to squeeze.
>Bruno gasps for breath, squinches his eyes shut.
>”BAD FLUFFIES GO POOPIE ON THE FLOOR. ARE YOU A BAD FLUFFY?”
>”Naw… Not b…bad… fwuffy…”
>You can see the skin around his lips and eyes flushing. His legs whir desperately and uselessly.
>You squeeze harder.
>”Pwease…wet go… pwease… no wike… dese huggies…”
>”I THINK YOU’RE A BAD FLUFFY, BRUNO.”
>Bruno struggles, puffing, gasping for breath.
>”W… wittahbox… pwe… pwease go… wittahbox…”
>”WHY? DOES BAD FLUFFY HAVE TO MAKE POOPIES?”
>You slowly squeeze harder.
>Bruno makes a gargling sound. You feel something move inside him.
>There’s a brief, sharp kazoo sound and the smell of fermented alfalfa.
>Then the shit hits the floor.
>At least you’ve had him on Pone-chow for the past week and his poop is back to being horse pellets.
>A stream of hot pony piss hits you square in the chest. It just fuels your madness.
>Bruno screeches and bawls, eyes squinched shut.
“I KNEW IT! BAD FLUFFY! BAD POOPIES! BAD PEEPEES!”
>Bruno is blowing snot bubbles and hiccupping.
>”So…sowwy…”
>You flip him over, face down. He howls in panic.
>”YOU MADE…”
>You lower him toward his mess. His legs wiggle and he cries harder.
>“BAD POOPIES!”
>You squash his nose in the shit.
>”Waah! Nuuuu! No smeww pwetty! Pwease, nuu…”
>You hold him by the back legs, lifting and mashing his snout into every single pellet.
>”BAD POOPIES! BAD POOPIES! BAD POOPIES!” You dance and sing, imitating the rhythm of Bruno’s tantrum chants.
>”BAD BAD FLUFFY’S GOT POOPIES ON HIS SOUL! BAD BAD FLUFFY’S GOT POOPIES ON HIS SOUL!”
>Bruno screams and begs. You keep dancing.
>Finally, you tire. You lift and toss Bruno, catching him right-side up, holding him once more before your vengeful face.
>Bruno’s snout is smeared with shit. He’s drooling and coughing. His left nostril is plugged and he tries to blow through it. Fresh tears stream down his face.
>”I, THE GREAT GOD BADPOOPIE, DECLARE YOU A VERY VERY BAD FLUFFY! DO YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENS TO VERY VERY BAD FLUFFIES?”
>Bruno might be trying to say something, but he can only softly wheeze.
>”YOU GO TO FLUFFY HELL, WHERE THERE ARE NO SKETTIES, EVER!”
>Bruno gulps. “No… sketties… evah?” He says, very faintly.
>”NO! BECAUSE BAD FLUFFIES EAT POOPIES AND DRINK PEEPIES FOREVER!!!”
>Bruno’s eyes, already maxed out, look like they’re going to pop out like ping pong balls. He finds his voice.
>”Nuuu! No wan’! Nu wan’ eat poopies an dwink peepies! Bwuno sowwy! Sowwy!”
>You laugh maniacally. Your throat is sore and you’ll regret this later, but…
>You take Bruno to the bathroom.
>Open the toilet.
>Shove him in, butt-first.
>”HAVE FUN IN FLUFFY HELL!
>Flush.
>Of course, Bruno is way too big to fit down the pipe, but he doesn’t know that.
>Last burst of energy from Bruno. His front hooves flail and pound against the rim of the toilet bowl.
>”Nuu! No wanna go fwuffy heww! Hewp!”
>He gets his hooves on the rim, but his fluff is so heavy with water that he can’t push himself up.
>Toilet overflows. Whoops, didn’t see that coming.
>Bruno’s hooves slip off as he sinks back, a quivering, broken mess.
>”Hewp daddy… daddy… hewp… pwease…”
>Okay, that’s enough. More than enough.
>”WHAT? WHAT’S THAT? CURSES! THE HUMAN RETURNS!”
>You dash out of the bathroom.
>Stow mask in closet.
>Change clothes.
>Run into the bathroom.
>Bruno is still stuck in the toilet, head lolling back, his tongue hanging out, staring at the ceiling.
>For a brief moment, your heart clenches as you think you’ve killed him.
>But then he sees you and moans weakly.
>”Bruno! Buddy! What happened?”
TO BE CONCLUDED…

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Da Gweat God Badpoopie
Part 3

>Bruno, your brother’s fluffy pony, has been quite good for the past three days.
>Mainly because he is terrified of The Great God Badpoopie and his curses. 
>But fluffy pony memory is notoriously bad.
>Even repetition doesn’t always work.
>Religion might be the only way.  
>So you ritualize it!  
>You get one of your old college notebooks full of economics notes.
>Take a photo of the mask, print it, glue it to the front cover
>With a magic marker cross out “Econ 102” and write “The Book of Badpoopie” on the cover.
>Fluffy can’t read, anyway.
>Hang the Badpoopie mask in a prominent spot in the dining room, a couple of feet off the floor, near Bruno’s eye level.  
>Consider putting it in the saferoom, but figure that’s too cruel.  Besides, you want the little shit to sleep and not whine.  
>He stares fearfully as you finish hanging it up.
>”N…no wan’ scawy Badpoopie hewe…”
>You shake your head.  ”I want you to remember him, Bruno.  Since you’re a bad fluffy, you have to stay on Badpoopie’s good side.”
>”Bwuno not bad fwuffy…”
>“Bruno!”  you hiss, and roll your eyes toward the mask.  “All fluffies are bad fluffies.  You’re all born with poopies on your soul.”  
>You turn to a random page, point to some scribbles about supply-side economics.
>”It says so right here, Bruno.”
>Bruno’s eyes get big.
>”Bwuno no wan’ poopies on souw.”
>You nod sagely, heft the notebook… er, Book of Badpoopie.  “Then listen to me and I’ll help you clean them off.”
>Bruno nods so hard he bangs his jaw on the floor.
>”Bwuno wan’ be good fwuffy!  Wan’ cwean souw!”
>So you pull some rituals out of your ass.
>You place his bowl and water dish in front of the Badpoopie mask.
>Set aside a smaller pair of dishes next to them.
>Tell Bruno that these are for Badpoopie’s offerings.
>Before Bruno can eat, he must take a mouthful of Pone-chow and place it in the little red dish.
>He must also take a mouthful of water and spit it out in the blue dish.
>You’re there every night to remind him of this and why he does it.
>He’s still noisy sometimes, but warning him about the curses is enough to get him to say “sowwy”.
>You also are going to break him of his “accidents”
>He must always make poopies in the litterbox, no matter what!
>”Badpoopie hates bad poopies most of all, Bruno.”  You tell him, over and over.
>He always nods, nervously.  
>You’re pleased to see him make an effort.
>After eating, or just any time his stomach growls or makes any other noise, he rushes to his litterbox and stands there, shivering, until he either really has to poop or the feeling passes.  
>Sometimes he stands there for an hour just to be sure.  
>You increase the pressure.
>Sneak up behind him and bang a couple of pots together, or just shout “BOO!”
>The first couple of times, he shits.
>When he does, you kneel in front of the mask and ask for guidance while Bruno cries and whines and covers his eyes with his little hoofsies.
>You keep the punishments mild-  sorry, Badpoopie keeps the punishments mild- stuff like “no DVDs today” or early bedtime.  
>After the first few scares, he no longer shits reflexively.
>However, after a few days of these religious ritual and tests, Bruno isn’t quite his old self.  
>He’s quieter, sure, but more nervous and high-strung.
>Always glancing fearfully at the mask, or stopping in the middle of play to look behind him.
>Occasionally you catch him, hiding around the corner, whispering “No wike scawy god” to himself.
>Once he’s done with dinner he usually likes to get out of the dining room and go back to his saferoom.
>Bugs you far less.
>You feel bad enough at the trauma you’re causing to make an effort to visit him and play with him.
>Saferoom still smells vaguely like a shit explosion at the poop factory, but it’s fading every day.
>No worse than a barnyard, maybe.
>You roll the ball around with Bruno.
>You build block cities with him.
>You rub and tickle his tummy.  He whirrs his little leggies in delight.
>You even tell him a story or two.
>”I wuv yoo, daddy.”  Bruno says one night as you tuck him in.
>”I’m not your daddy, Bruno.  I’m your uncle Anon.  Your daddy’s coming back in a week and a half.”
>”D…daddy?  Othew daddy?”
>”Yes.  I mean, no.  Your daddy.”  You pull out your wallet, show Bruno a picture of your brother.  “Remember?”
>Bruno squints and cocks his head at the photo.  
>”Who dat, daddy?”  He asks.
>Facepalm.
>The little shit has actually forgotten about his owner.  
>Well, fine then… he’ll surely forget about you, too.
>…and Badpoopie.
>Which is inevitable.
>Fluffies are fluffies, after all.
>And Bruno, you guess, is not the sharpest knife in the pony drawer.  
>It’s only a matter of time before he regresses.
>Which he does, spectacularly, the following Sunday.
>You’re going to meet your editor to show him some stuff.  
>Bruno sits in front of the TV as you run around getting ready, watching one of his DVDs.
>For the past month, all you’ve watched on TV are the same three damn DVDs that Bruno likes. 
>The fucking ending theme song is stuck in your head again. 
>You click off the player, select TV.
>”Watch again, pwease!”  Bruno shouts.
>”No, Bruno.  You’re going in your room.  I have to go out.”
>Bruno sighs, crestfallen.  “Wanna watch ‘gain.”
>Ignore him. 
>Suddenly, a bouncy tune comes blaring out of the speakers.
>It’s an ad for Fluff-TV.
>It’s a new network they started up aimed at fluffy ponies.
>It promises to entertain and educate, but mostly it seems to have stuff to just keep the amused and transfixed for a few hours… in short, a babysitting tool.
>We’re talking Teletubby-level shit here, folks.  
>They do have PSAs that remind fluffies to always poop in the litterbox, though.
>”Daddy!”
>”I’m not your daddy, Bruno.  I’m your uncle Anon.”
>”Daddy!  Bwuno wanna watch Fwuff-TV!  Make on Fwuff-TV, pwease!”
>You sigh.  You have basic channels, and you don’t even think your provider carries Fluff-TV.
>”I don’t have that channel, Bruno.  Sorry.”
>”But Bwuno jus’ see it!”  He taps the remote with his hoof.  “Make Fwuff-TV, pwease!”
>”I can’t Bruno.  Look, I have to…”
>”Fwuff-TV!”   Bruno begins to hop up and down on the sofa.  “Bwuno wan’ Fwuff-TV!  Why daddy no give?  I good fwuffy!”
>”Bruno, I don’t have the channel.  Would you please…”
>”Bwuno saw!  Daddy wiar!”
>”What?”  You snap.
>”Waah!  Daddy mean to fwuffy!”
>”I’m not your daddy!”
>He gasps.  “D…daddy don’ wuv fwuffy no mo?”
>”Bruno, get to your room, now!”
>”No!  Bwuno good fwuffy!  Wan’ Fwuffy TV!”
>”Bruno!”
>” Wan’ Fwuff-TV!  Wan’ Fwuff-TV!  Wan’ Fwuff-TV!”  He’s completely lost it, again.  He’s jumping up and down, finally hops onto the coffee table, skids into the candy bowl, bumping it and sending Skittles everywhere.
>You’re about to lay down the law… the BadPoopie law… when your cell rings.  You left it on the bed.  You run to answer it. 
>It’s your editor.  He’ll be there, just going to be about an hour late.  No problem.  You chat a bit.
>Bruno is still yammering about Fluffy-TV in the other room when everything grows suspiciously quiet.
>Then there’s a loud thump, and a quiet “Wuh-oh…”
>You excuse yourself, hang up, run out.
>Bruno is standing on the coffee table, looking down at your laptop, which he managed to open and push off the table.
>Your life’s work flashes before your eyes.  
>”What did you do?”  You yell, picking up your laptop.  The screen is cracked.  It landed on the screen edge, on the hardwood floor.
>”Bwuno twy to see Fwuff-TV on wittle TV.”  He says.
>The hard drive whirs, it seems to boot, but the screen is gone.  
>You close it, look down at Bruno.  Your face is calm.
>Eye of the hurricane.
>Bruno blinks at you.  “Bwuno hungwy.  Nummies, pwease?”
>”Bruno.”  You say, keeping your voice steady.  “You broke the laptop.”
>”Wha’ waptop?”
>”THIS!”  You shake it in his face.  
>”Wha?”  He blinks.  “No wook bwoken.”
>”It’s broken, Bruno.  Do you know whose this is?”
>Bruno tilts his head.  He’s starting to shiver.  A droplet of drool falls from his mouth onto the coffee table.  
>”This… is… BADPOOPIE’S laptop!”
>Eyes go wide, pupils grow enormous.
>”Nuuu!  No mean bweak!”  Bruno’s feet begin to whirr, slipping on the polished table, but he gets enough momentum to push himself off and land clumsily on the floor.
>”Owwies!”  Bruno cries.  He limps as fast as he can over to the mask hanging low on the wall in the dining room.
>”Bwuno sowwy!  Not mean to bweak it!”  He looks desperately to his bowls, but both are empty.  He turns as you enter.  “Pwese, daddy, gif nummies, Bwuno gif to Badpoopie!  No wan’ cuwse!  No wike cuwse!”
>”Bruno, it’s not a gift if you need me to get it for you.”
>Bruno processes this, then limps toward the kitchen.  “Bwuno get nummies, den!  Wheah nummies, daddy?”
> “Bruno, it’s too late, and this is really bad.  You were a VERY bad fluffy!”
>Bruno is shaking like a leaf, making little mewling sounds.  
>”You have to hide.  I’m going to go and try to get Badpoopie a new computer.  If you’re lucky, he won’t get you.”
>Bruno bleats and begins running in circles.  “Wheah hide?  Hewp, daddy!”
>”Saferoom!”  
>Bruno goes tearing off.  You pull the blinds, making it dark, turn off the lights.
>”N…no wike dawk, daddy.  Wights, p…pwease…”
>”You need to hide, Bruno.  Dark is better.  Hang tight, I’ll be back as fast as I can!”
>You slam the door, ignoring Bruno’s cries.
>Go to your closet
>Put on black shirt and pants.  Red socks.
>Get out that old vampire cape you wore to a Halloween party two years ago.
>In the kitchen, red rubber gloves and the big straw broom.
>Finally, lift the mask from the wall and put it on.
>Check in the mirror.
>You are The Great God Badpoopie, punisher of stupid and naughty fluffies everywhere.
>Approach saferoom door.
>You hear Bruno, whimpering and babbling to himself, very faintly.   
>”No wan’ cuwse… No wike dis… why weggie huwt…”
>You bang your fist on the door and growl.
>Bruno screeches in terror.  Clopping of little fluffy hooves, running in a circle.
>You burst in, roaring.  
>Bruno, to his credit, does not shit or pee.
>He does, however, freeze in place.
>That’s no fun.
>You wind up and whack him with the bristle end of the broom.  Fore!
>POMF goes his fluff, and Bruno goes skidding toward the door.  His leggies churn and he’s off into the house.
>”WHO BROKE MY LAPTOP?  I THINK IT WAS A FLUFFY!  NWAHAHAHAHAAAA!”
>You stomp through the house.  Hard to see through the mask.
>Where’s Bruno?
>Stalk around a bit.
>Find him in the kitchen, trying to hide between the garbage can and cabinet.
>Not very effective, as his fluffy butt is hanging out.  
>He’s whimpering and trembling.
>Grab a pencil.
>Lift his tail and poke his fluffy butthole!
>(With the eraser end, not the point.  You’re not a sick fucker.  Well, not totally…)
>Bruno screams and flails, knocking the garbage over, fleeing into the dining room.
>”I SEE A BAD FLUFFY!”
>”Nuuuuu!  Not bad fwuffy!  Hewp, daddy!  Dadddeeeee!”
>You grab him.  He’s surprisingly strong when desperate, but not strong enough.
>Hold him in your hands, before your terrifying godly visage.
>”YOU HAVE BEEN VERY BAD, FLUFFY BRUNO!  YOU HAVE MANY POOPIES ON YOUR SOUL!”
>Tears roll down Bruno’s cheeks.  You’ve never seen eyes so big on anything outside of anime.
>”N…no mean to bweak… no wan’ poopies on souw… pwease no huwt…“
>”HURT?  NO… NOT IF YOU PASS THE FLUFFY TEST OF DOOOOOM!”
>”Wh… wha’ dat?”
>You laugh maniacally and begin to squeeze.
>Bruno gasps for breath, squinches his eyes shut.
>”BAD FLUFFIES GO POOPIE ON THE FLOOR.  ARE YOU A BAD FLUFFY?”
>”Naw… Not b…bad… fwuffy…”
>You can see the skin around his lips and eyes flushing.  His legs whir desperately and uselessly.  
>You squeeze harder.
>”Pwease…wet go… pwease… no wike… dese huggies…”
>”I THINK YOU’RE A BAD FLUFFY, BRUNO.”
>Bruno struggles, puffing, gasping for breath.  
>”W… wittahbox… pwe… pwease go… wittahbox…”
>”WHY?  DOES BAD FLUFFY HAVE TO MAKE POOPIES?”
>You slowly squeeze harder.   
>Bruno makes a gargling sound.  You feel something move inside him.
>There’s a brief, sharp kazoo sound and the smell of fermented alfalfa.
>Then the shit hits the floor.
>At least you’ve had him on Pone-chow for the past week and his poop is back to being horse pellets. 
>A stream of hot pony piss hits you square in the chest.  It just fuels your madness.
>Bruno screeches and bawls, eyes squinched shut.
“I KNEW IT!  BAD FLUFFY!  BAD POOPIES!  BAD PEEPEES!”
>Bruno is blowing snot bubbles and hiccupping.
>”So…sowwy…”
>You flip him over, face down.  He howls in panic.
>”YOU MADE…”
>You lower him toward his mess.  His legs wiggle and he cries harder.
>“BAD POOPIES!”
>You squash his nose in the shit.
>”Waah!  Nuuuu!  No smeww pwetty!  Pwease, nuu…”
>You hold him by the back legs, lifting and mashing his snout into every single pellet.  
>”BAD POOPIES!  BAD POOPIES!  BAD POOPIES!” You dance and sing, imitating the rhythm of Bruno’s tantrum chants.
>”BAD BAD FLUFFY’S GOT POOPIES ON HIS SOUL!  BAD BAD FLUFFY’S GOT POOPIES ON HIS SOUL!”
>Bruno screams and begs.  You keep dancing.
>Finally, you tire.  You lift and toss Bruno, catching him right-side up, holding him once more before your vengeful face.
>Bruno’s snout is smeared with shit.  He’s drooling and coughing.  His left nostril is plugged and he tries to blow through it.  Fresh tears stream down his face.
>”I, THE GREAT GOD BADPOOPIE, DECLARE YOU A VERY VERY BAD FLUFFY!  DO YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENS TO VERY VERY BAD FLUFFIES?”
>Bruno might be trying to say something, but he can only softly wheeze.
>”YOU GO TO FLUFFY HELL, WHERE THERE ARE NO SKETTIES, EVER!”
>Bruno gulps.  “No… sketties… evah?”  He says, very faintly.
>”NO!  BECAUSE BAD FLUFFIES EAT POOPIES AND DRINK PEEPIES FOREVER!!!”
>Bruno’s eyes, already maxed out, look like they’re going to pop out like ping pong balls.  He finds his voice.  
>”Nuuu!  No wan’!  Nu wan’ eat poopies an dwink peepies!  Bwuno sowwy!  Sowwy!”
>You laugh maniacally.  Your throat is sore and you’ll regret this later, but…
>You take Bruno to the bathroom.
>Open the toilet.
>Shove him in, butt-first.  
>”HAVE FUN IN FLUFFY HELL! 
>Flush.
>Of course, Bruno is way too big to fit down the pipe, but he doesn’t know that.
>Last burst of energy from Bruno.  His front hooves flail and pound against the rim of the toilet bowl.
>”Nuu!  No wanna go fwuffy heww!  Hewp!”
>He gets his hooves on the rim, but his fluff is so heavy with water that he can’t push himself up.
>Toilet overflows.  Whoops, didn’t see that coming.
>Bruno’s hooves slip off as he sinks back, a quivering, broken mess.
>”Hewp daddy… daddy… hewp… pwease…”
>Okay, that’s enough.  More than enough.
>”WHAT?  WHAT’S THAT?  CURSES!  THE HUMAN RETURNS!”
>You dash out of the bathroom.
>Stow mask in closet.
>Change clothes.
>Run into the bathroom.  
>Bruno is still stuck in the toilet, head lolling back, his tongue hanging out, staring at the ceiling.
>For a brief moment, your heart clenches as you think you’ve killed him.
>But then he sees you and moans weakly.
>”Bruno!  Buddy!  What happened?”

TO BE CONCLUDED…

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