Da Gweat God Badpoopie
Part 4 (The conclusion)
 
>You pull Bruno from the toilet, let the water run back into the bowl.    
>His breathing is fast and shallow.  
>His eyes seem to be focusing on something very far away.
>You run a nice warm bath and carefully, almost tenderly, bathe him.
>Use this opportunity to sponge pony piss off your chest.  
>Bruno doesn’t say anything, he just shivers, even though you know the water is hot.
>Blow-dry his fluff, cooing at him all the time.
>Carry him to the kitchen, get the bag of Pone-treats.
>Carry him to your bedroom, sit on the bed, cradling and rocking him.
>Try to give him a Pone-treat.  You press it against his quivering lips.  
>When you let go, it just falls to the bed.    
>”Bruno, buddy, he’s gone now.  Talk to me!”
>The best he can manage is slow babble.
>”B…bu…ba…b…bad….buh…ba…”
>Great.  You went too far, didn’t you?  
>Check the time.  You need to go meet your editor.  Cancel?
>Sigh.  Nothing you can do about Bruno anyway, not right now.  Maybe what he needs is sleep.
>You tuck him gently into his bed.  
>Leave a nightlight on.
>As you pass through the dining room, the smell of pony shit assails your nostrils.  
>Gotta clean that up… what came over, you anyway?
>Plug your laptop into an external monitor.  
>It works.  Whew.  Put files on a thumb drive.  
>You feel a little less bad about your actions, knowing this is gonna cost a mint to fix, a mint you don’t have.  
>Your cheapskate brother better be ready with his checkbook.
>* * *
>The meeting goes okay.
>Your editor chews you out a bit about the quality of your last article.  
>You explain that you’ve been distracted.
>Family troubles.  Broken computer.
>He’s sympathetic, at least.
>Return home, clean up dining room, crack the windows.
>Hesitate outside saferoom door.  Do fluffies commit suicide?  Or die of trauma?    
>Screw up courage, open door.
>Bruno, thankfully, is asleep, though it seems fitful.
>Sigh, plug laptop into external monitor, do a bit of research online.
>Seems most authorities believe that fluffy ponies have terrible memories.
>Except for three things:  remembering sources of food, very happy experiences, and very traumatic experiences.  
>Great.
>* * *
>The next morning, you awaken to the sound of silence.
>No whining or bucking or pawing at the saferoom door.
>No cries of “Hungwy.” or “Wet out, pwease.”  
>You open the door and peek in.
>Bruno is standing in his litterbox, shivering slightly, staring straight ahead.
>”Good morning, Bruno.”
>He just whimpers.
>Walk over to him.  “Ready for breakfast?”
>He looks up at you fearfully.
>”Come on, I’ll make oatmeal with maple syrup.”
>You pick him up.  
>He panics, squealing and thrashing in your grip.
>”Nuu!  Wet down!  Hafta make poopies in wittabox!”
>You look.
>There’s a little pile in the litterbox.  Fresh, too.
>”It looks like you went, Bruno.”
>He breathes heavily.  “Onwy good poopies… pwease…”
>Well, at least he can talk.
>You carry him into the kitchen.  He whines and whirs his legs but you tuck him under your arm and he gives up.
>He walks in nervous little circles as you make breakfast.
>You put his bowl on the floor.
>He grabs a mouthful and trots toward the dining room.
>”Where are you going, Bruno?”
>”Gwta gff fddi tw bwdpippi…”  
>Oatmeal sprays everywhere.
>Fluffy trying to talk with his mouth full is hilarious, as well as messy.
>”No, Bruno.  It’s okay, Badpoopie is gone.”  You step into the dining room and point to the empty nail on the wall where you hung the mask before.  “See?”
>He sees, but he puts the mouthful in the dish anyway.
>* * *
>Bring computer to shop.
>Drag crappy old laptop out of closet.  Still boots up.
>Bruno is very quiet.
>Before, you would have given a lot for this kind of silence, but now…
>Maybe out of guilt, and maybe out of concern, you set up shop in his saferoom.  
>He’s actually quiet enough that you can work with him in the same room.
>He noses his ball around a bit.
>Bats at his legos half-heartedly, breaking up what he built before, not making anything new.
>Doesn’t snuggle with his teddy bear.
>Spends most of the time either standing and staring in random directions, lying down in the middle of the floor, or standing in the litterbox, softly grunting.
>”Hey, Bruno.  Let’s go watch TV.”
>He whines and cries.  Doesn’t want to leave his litterbox.
>You put in his favorite of his three DVDs, but he watches listlessly.
>Finally, you stop it, grab him, cuddle him to your chest.  You rub and tickle his belly.
>He loved it before, and he does squeak a little, but even that doesn’t get much of a reaction.
>”Bruno… talk to me.  What’s wrong?”
>Bruno sniffles.  Big tears roll down his cheeks, off the end of his nose.
>”Bwuno… go to… fwuffy heww.”  He sobs.
>”Why do you say that, Bruno?”
>”B…Badpoopie say.”  He hiccups.  “Bwuno faiw test.  Make… bad poopies… on fwoor.”  He cries harder.  “Nu wanna… eat poopies, dwink peepees… fowevah…”  
>I’m, er, pretty sure he was kidding, Bruno.”
>”Nuu… He no kidding.  He… Gweat god… Badpoopie.”
>Good job, fuckface.  You permanently damaged a fluffy.  And for what?  He didn’t know any better.  He’s dim as a doorknob.  He didn’t TRY to bug you, or break shit, or crap all over.  It’s just his nature.  
>Well, okay, Bruno was also a spoiled brat fluffy.  But that’s your damn brother’s fault, not his.  If the dog bites, it’s on the owner, not the dog.  
>Fwuffy bwoken.  Er, the fluffy is broken.  Now you have to figure out how to fix it.
>* * *
>Your hopes that Bruno will simply forget are in vain.
>He seems to improve slightly the next day.  
>But then you wake up at 4 am to the sound of blood-chilling screams.
>Burst into the saferoom.  
>You find a ball of fluff crammed into the corner, eyes squeezed shut behind trembling hooves.
>”Nuuu!  Wet down!  Bwuno sowwy!  Nu mean make bad poopies!  Nu mean bweak widdle TV!”
>You wake him from his nightmare.
>You catch him the next day, listlessly wandering the house, bloodshot eyes staring, whispering “Nu wan’ go fwuffy heww… nu wanna eat poopies…”
>Your brother will be home tomorrow.  Think, damn it…
>Bingo.
>Two thrift stores later, you have what you need.  
>That night, tuck Bruno in, wait until you’re sure he’s asleep.
>Unpack the bags.
>Adult male-size party dress (either from a really big girl or a tranny), ratty blonde wig (you hope it doesn’t have fleas), an old pair of shoes that you paint with glue and dump glitter on.  
>Plastic magic wand.
>And the crowning glory… a Disney princess mask from a kid’s Halloween costume.
>Check in the mirror.  
>If anything, you think you look more terrifying in this get-up than the Badpoopie one.  But at this point, you got no choice.
>Start singing in the hallway…  “La la la la la!”  in as high-pitched a voice as you can muster.
>You hear Bruno’s voice from behind the door.  “Wha… who dat?”
>Open the door, click on the light.
>Bruno’s eyes go wide.
>”Nuuuuu!  Munsta!”  He shrieks.  “Hewp, daddy!  Hewp!”
>”I am not a monster!”  You try to squeak, but it comes out as a banshee wail.  “I am your friend!”
>Bruno is shaking, making his little basket bed creak.  “N…no huwt fwuffy… pwease…”
>”Darling Bruno, I would never harm you!  I am… The Great Goddess Goodpoopie!”
>Bruno stops shaking so much.  “G…Goodpoopie?”
>”Yes!  I reward good fluffies and give them nummies and toys!  And you are a very good fluffy. Bruno!”
>You’ve never felt so stupid in your life… but you remind yourself it’s your own damn fault.
>”B…Bwuno not good fwuffy.  Bwuno bad fwuffy.  Bwuno faiw poopie test, an’ bweak thing…”  He starts to cry.
>”But you have been very good since then, so all is forgiven!”
>”Nuu… Gweat God Badpoopie say Bwuno go to fwuffy heww an’ eat poopies…”
>Sigh.  You sure planted it deep, moron.  One more shot.
>You cock your head, hand to ear.
>”Hark!  Badpoopie comes!”
>Bruno shrieks and spins in his bed, trying to hide under his blanket.
>”Stay here, Bruno!  I will dispatch him!”
>You close the door.  
>”WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?  I HAVE COME TO GET BRUNO AND TAKE HIM TO FLUFFY HELL!”
>”Oh, no you don’t, you big bad meanie monster!  Take that!”
>You slam against the wall.  
>”OW!”
>”And that!”
>Throw yourself into the bathroom door.
>”AAARGH!  CURSES!  FOILED AGAIN!”
>You run to the front door and slam it.
>Run back to the saferoom and gently open the door.
>”He is gone, Bruno!”
>Bruno peeks out from under the blanket.
>”Weawy?”  He chirps.
>”Yes.  I gave him big ouchies!”  You wave your wand.  “And I have cleaned your soul!  You are a good fluffy, Bruno, and you will go to fluffy heaven and eat sketties forever!”
>Bruno charges out of his basket and hugs your leg.
>”Fank ‘oo, Gweat Goddess Goodpoopie…”
>He shivers.
>Farts.
>Thunk!  As a turd lands on the floor.
>Bruno turns and looks at it.
>”Sowwy.”
>* * *
>Bruno is his usual self the next morning.
>He babbles on and on through breakfast about how he met the Great Goddess Goodpoopie.
>Runs through your legs, almost tripping you.
>Bounds around the house, running into things.
>Plays loudly with his toys.
>You’re actually glad.
>But even gladder that your brother is finally coming to take the little shit off your hands.
>He arrives just after dinner.
>He has a tan and looks beat.
>”Hey, little bro.”  He hugs you.  He sniffs.  “Why does your house smell like shit?”
>”I fucking wonder.”  You growl.
>Your bro sees Bruno.  He kneels down.  “Hey, there’s my big guy!”
>Bruno trots over, looking at your brother cautiously.  
>”Hewwo, hooman.”  He says.  
>Your brother laughs.
>Bruno looks at you.  “Who dat, daddy?”  He turns back to your brother.  “Hoomin new fwend?  Pway?”
>”Ha ha, you’re such a kidder.”  
>Clear your throat.
>Explain about your computer, the extra supplies you had to buy, etc. etc.  
>Your brother tries to laugh it off.
>You shove him against the wall.
>He gets the message.  He signs a blank check and gives you a big fancy box.
>”Souvenir.”  He says.  “Come on, Bruno.”
>Bruno blinks.  “Why go wif new fwend?”
>”He’s your daddy.”  You say.
>”New fwend… daddy?”  
>He’ll figure it out.  
>Watch the lights as they drive off into the night.
>Go inside.
>Open the box, unwrap tissue paper.
>It’s a mask.
 
>THE END