>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..."