The Leaders and the Lead II

>You keep this up for a week, feeding the ponies the bare minimum necessary for peace and quiet.

>You also allow them no exercise, to cut down on the calorie requirements.

>After meals it's right into a set of boxes you've made for them that are too narrow for the ponies to even turn around.

>Except for Cometface.

>After securing all your fragile stuff and cleaning up the glass, you let him have the run of the house.

>So you can watch him run into shit and then apologize to it.

>Fucking hilarious.

>You also left the dead fluffy in the front room, after cutting out its muscles and organs and spraying the skin with Lysol.

>Fluffy jerky is shaping up great, by the way.

>Cometface bumps into the skin sometimes and tries to play with it.

>He was sleeping each night nuzzled against it, until the smell became too much to take.

>All his complaining got on your nerves though; "Whewe Cometface?" and "When daywight?" got tired real quick.

>Eventually you muzzled him with one of those fat rubberbands off of a head of broccoli.

>Now he runs into shit and says "Mmmmf."

>Still hilarious.

 

>The fluffy dam gets as much food as she asks for, however.

>It's always 'seasoned' with one of Grandpa's lead sinkers.

>Her coat starts to take on a pallid, leaden hue as the old fluff sheds and is replaced with new growth.

>Five days into the regime, she foals.

>You make sure every pony watches that's able, even taking them out of the boxes.

>They try to run around but it's difficult for them after almost a week of hardly moving.

>And you still them by announcing that the babies are coming and every good fluffy needs to be careful and help with the birth.

>The pink unicorn looks at you warily, still up himself about being the smarty friend.

>You hear him sometimes, trying to rally the fluffies to give up your food and warm house and follow him out.

>As if he could get out of his box.

>The other fluffies forget all about him as they help the dam give birth by squeezing her, and eventually he joins them.

>"Behbies mow 'portant than munsta," he says, as if to justify his concession to you.

>As the dam cries weakly, six foals slide easily out of her and into the towel you hold under her vagina.

>You pull them away and inspect them as she pushes out the afterbirth.

>They are so tiny.

 

>They're barely two-thirds the size of normal fluffy foals.

>Their coats are even more grey-tinted than their mother's, without old growth to give color.

>As they open their mouths to begin mewling, no sound comes out, but you can see the bluish-grey shade of their toothless gums.

>No... wait... you can BARELY hear them squeaking.

>God, their lungs must be so underdeveloped.

>You set them down next to the dam's face and she weakly crawls over to them and starts to clean off the placenta.

>"Behbies..." she pants.

>"That's right," you say, "those are your babies."

>You round on the pink unicorn. "Congratulations! You're a daddy!"

>I mean, he's probably the sire, being the alpha and all.

>They're mostly unicorns and several are shades of pink.

>Fuck it anyway, power of suggestion is a god to these things.

>The pink unicorn blinks at you, then steps unsurely over to the foals and begins examining one, turning it over with his nose.

>"Dis... my behbie?"

>"Wuv... behbies!" squeaks the exhausted dam, as if in affirmation. "Dwink now!"

 

>The premature foals have been trying to crawl over to the dam's teats for a while already, but their dystrophic legs can barely move.

>"Why behbies no come? Why no dwink?" whines the dam. "Behbies no wuv?"

>The pink unicorn huffs a bit and says, "Behbie need miwk! Dwink!"

>Having said so, he pushes one with his hoof.

>The foal starts crying with its tiny, tiny voice and he pushes it again. "No cwy! Dwink!"

>Its back legs aren't even moving a little now, while its front legs scrabble as fast as it can swing them.

>You bend down and pick it up.

>Balancing it gently between thumb and finger, you let its flanks dangle.

>The back half doesn't move at all; it's completely paralyzed from the middle down.

>He must have crushed its softened bones, spine and all, with just those two pushes.

>"Jesus," you say. "You have to be more careful with your babies! You broke this one's spine!"

>He looks at you, irritated. "What spine? Behbie no dwink when mumma say."

>Ergh... dumb it down.

>You lean down and point to the foal's limp, useless bottom half

>"You pushed it too hard, and now its back legs won't work. Ever. They'll never work now. It was just a baby, you have to be gentle."

>His eyes go wide. "Fwuffy sowwy, behbie! Fwuffy no bwake weggies!"

>He scoops the foal out of your hand and hugs it tightly to his chest, moaning "Fwuffy sowwy!" over and over.

>Derp.

 

>The foal stops crying, it doesn't take a genius to figure out why.

>He notices and says, "Good behbie. Qwiet and dwink."

>He pushes the foal into the dam's teats, but it flops off and lies on the floor, still.

>"Bad fwuffy!" he barks. "Why no dwink stiww?!"

>You make a pretense of looking at him somberly and say, "Because you just hugged it so hard it died. It's dead."

>"Dead?"

>"It will never move again at all, now."

>You make a mental note of how fragile these little things are, at this point.

>He steps backwards, completely shocked at your words and shaking his head. "No! No! Behbie no dead!"

>And steps on another foal.

>"Oh my God!" you say. "You just stepped on another baby!"

>You sweep him away from the foals with your hand as he babbles miserably.

>The dam's wailing the whole time, too weak from birth (and lead poisoning) to even get to her feet and challenge him or see to the foals.

>"Why fwuffy huwt behbies..." she whimpers between sobs.

>You pick up the little blue-grey foal he stepped on.

>Everything below the neck is crushed.

>But the little mouth still works open and closed.

>Quadriplegic fluffy pony.

>Severing its neck completely would be a mercy.

>You set it up against the dam's teats, instead.

 

>"It's not dead, but none of its legs will ever work now," you announce.

>The dam wails louder.

>The other fluffies have retreated to the corner and are crying in sympathy.

>The pink unicorn is a sobbing wreck.

>"No mean... beh... sowwy... no..." he blubbers, unable to complete even a fluffy pony-level thought.

>The blue foal is drinking weakly.

>Life finds a way? Too stupid to give up? Whatever.

>You turn to the pink unicorn.

>"You have to be gentle with babies! You can't hug them or push them! You must pick them up gently!"

>He nods at your every word with a wide-open, teary eye.

>Breaking complete.

>You pick him up by the neck and set him down in front of the babies; he cringes away in fear of harming another.

>You hold his head and force him to look at them, and say, "You pick them up gently, like this. Use your mouth. Gently."

>Demonstrating with finger and thumb, you pick a foal up and set it on the dam's other teat.

>The blue cripple has stopped sucking, so you pull it away.

>"Now you help one," you order.

>Flinchingly, the pink unicorn bears down on a baby, repeating "Gentwy... gentwy..." like a mantra.

>He gets one in his mouth and guides it over to the unoccupied teat.

>The foal squeaks minutely and begins drinking.

>Time to instill some paternal pride.

>"Good job!" you say. "That's how you have to handle your babies until they get bigger! Keep doing it like that and you'll be a great dad!"

>He looks nervously at the crippled foal and murmurs, "Fwuffy be gweat dad..."