There's a reason they're called Gastro-pods...
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Fluttershy Doesn't Like Slugs
There's a reason they're called Gastro-pods...
~*~
In all your time since you came to the land of Equestria, you’ve never known the kind of peace and tranquility you find in Fluttershy’s garden. And no, that’s not some kind of weird euphemism or hidden motive. Really and honestly, working with Fluttershy in her garden sets you at ease. Difficult memories fade away, various frustrations ebb. Again, not a euphemism.
She’s a cute pony, sure, but garden time is a pure, sacred time. You will sully it with nothing dirty but… well, dirt.
You feel the moisture from the soil seeping through your pants against your knees in a pleasant way. Your fingernails feel caked with dirt and bits of plant matter. Sweat drips down your temples as it collects under the brim of your straw sunhat. It’s all absolutely heavenly, and really makes you feel connected to the earth. You can’t help but look up at Fluttershy with a smile on your face.
“What a lovely day,” you tell her, “don’t you think?”
She looks up from a patch of squash, a peaceful grin on her own face. She’d been humming something before, and she lets the note fade out before speaking.
“It really is,” she says, “and I’m so glad you chose to spend it with me.”
“Fluttershy, spending time in the garden with you is one of my favorite things in the world.”
“I’m so glad then.”
She lowers her head and begins to go back to pulling weeds, and you’re about to do the same when you hear a sudden gasp. It’s an obviously distressed one, too. You leap up to your feet, trowel up and ready to slay any creature that made Flutters sound so upset. She lets out a small squeal, only increasing your concern.
“What is it?” you demand, “what’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“I-its…”
“What?”
“I-it’s…”
“WHAT?”
“...IT’S…”
This isn’t getting you anywhere, so you rush over to where she is and stare down at the patch of earth in front of her. Immediately, all the tension leaves your body. Your shoulders slump, and you’re almost a little upset that you don’t get to play the big hero.
“Oh,” you say quietly, “that.”
Before you, on the butternut squash vine, are a series of short, fat, black slugs. They glisten in the early afternoon sunlight as they lengthen and retract to move across the stem’s surface. They’re not a great thing to have in a garden, but you’re surprised by how very nearly afraid Fluttershy sounded.
“Y-yes,” she mumbles, “that.”
“Well, it looks like you have a slug problem,” you say with a sigh, “probably to be expected considering you grow organically. But, not completely unsolvable. My grandma used to put out these little dishes of beer, and snails and slugs would fall right into th-”
A slug moves slightly towards Fluttershy and she jerks back sharply with another gasp. You’ve never seen the pony so unnerved by an animal before, and the sight of it actually renders you speechless for a moment. You wait, trying to piece a few things together in your mind, and try starting the conversation again.
“Fluttershy,” you say slowly, “are you… afraid of slugs?”
Her eyes immediately widen, and she gives you a look as if you’ve slapped her. You instantly feel terrible, like you’re the owner of a parakeet and you just accidentally stepped on it. With a crunch.
“Oh, goodness no!” she says, “I’m not truly afraid of any creature. They all have a place in this world, and they all have a purpose.”
“So. Then, what’s your problem with slugs? Is it just them messing with your garden or…?”
She stands up and brushes the loose earth from her forelegs. As she does, her eyes dart quickly back to the alien-looking black animals on the vine.
“Not exactly,” she says at last. “I just… well, them and I, we… we have this history and…”
“And you don’t like slugs?”
“Yes!” she suddenly bursts out, voice sounding almost a little relieved, “Th-that’s it! I don’t like them! They’re black and slimy and they mess up my vegetables and they’re gross and I can’t understand why anypony would like them, and they’re just awful!”
You blink as all this registers. This is definitely the very first time you’ve heard of Fluttershy not liking an animal. Even scorpions, spiders, rats, snakes, and everything else that people find frightening or icky is welcome in her home and zoo. But the obvious repulsion she’s showing now is way over the top. Especially considering they’re just a few relatively harmless gastropods.
“I see,” you say haltingly.
Fluttershy’s posture sags, and she looks up at you with pleading eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she says quickly, “I know it’s not their fault that they are what they are. They’re not causing too much damage. I should just accept them and let them live but… even having them here. It’s too much for me!”
“Hey,” you say, holding up your hands to show you’re not planning on making any argument, “I get it, we all have things we don’t like.”
“But I’m supposed to love all animals! It’s even in my cutie mark!”
“There are exceptions to any rule,” you say with a shrug, “and I’m not going to judge you for it, okay?”
“But if anypony knew, what would they think!”
“I’m not planning on telling a soul,” you assure her, “I really don’t think this is a huge deal, but if it bothers you that much, I promise I won’t say a word to anyone about anything to do with you and slugs.”
This seems to cheer her slightly, and she blushes with relief. Then she steps forward to rest her head against your stomach. She lets out a muffled groan and you pat the top of her head patiently while she lets the embarrassment and frustration subside.
“I really tried,” she mutters into your shirt, “I tried to see them like other animals. I just couldn’t. They don’t even talk to me.”
“Don’t worry,” you tell her, “It’s all okay. What we have to focus on now isn’t trying to shake you of your dislike for slugs. It’s how to shake them off of your garden.”
She steps back from you and looks up with a determined expression on her face. She nods decisively.
“You know, you’re right! I have to protect my squash and lettuce and other plants. My animal sanctuary needs it, and so does Angel bunny.”
“And you too, right?”
She blushes a little and shrugs sheepishly.
“I suppose so. Herbivore and all that.”
Now is your time to shine, you realize. Sure, you didn’t get to play the big hero before, but you now get to give her solutions to her problems. They won’t be pretty. They won’t be the most wholesome solutions. But they will be effective, so you’ll get to be her savior after all.
“So,” you say, already sounding somewhat triumphant, “here’s what you do. First things first, we put out some plates of beer. Some of the snails will fall in and get drunk. We don’t have to make it so deep that they drown, of course, but they’ll be fat and lazy and you can shoo them away before they nibble all your plants.”
“Beer…” she says thoughtfully, “Interesting. And… this won’t kill them?”
“Not if it’s shallow, no. Usually my family would just let them drown, but I’m assuming you want these things gone, not dead, right?”
“Y-yeah,” she stutters out in that cute way she does, “right.”
“If that doesn’t work,” you go on, “we have to break out the salt.”
“Salt?”
“It hurts them,” you explain, “so you have to be careful not to use too much. A lot can kill them, and painfully too. But a few grains on a slug might make it think twice about coming to your garden. Hell, for all I know slugs have their own language and they’ll tell their friends and stay out forever.”
“That sounds… nice.”
“Yep! I know it’s a lot to take in, but what do you think? It still lets you stay organic and everything.”
You beam at the little pony, and she stares thoughtfully down at the slugs. You see her squint her eyes at them, as if sizing them up. Then, she slowly begins to nod, and turns to face you once more.
“Yes, this sounds right,” she says, “Beer and salt. You’ve certainly given me a lot to think about.”
“I’m just happy to help,” you say with a warm smile.
She smiles back, then stands up as straight as her little form can manage.
“You mark my words,” she declares, “that come tomorrow there will be no more slugs in my garden!”
As you putter around your rental cottage that night, you can’t help feeling good about yourself. The way Fluttershy’s chest swelled with pride, the way she looked so grateful. You don’t often think of yourself as a good person for… many undisclosed reasons that were sealed away in your juvenile record. But today, you’re pretty sure you were a damn decent human being.
You go to the fridge and, as you open it, spot a half-finished sixpack of beer. It’s the cheap stuff, but you tried it because you were low on bits this month. Beer here kinda sucks anyway, it’s much more of a cider town. Thanks Applejack, make a lager for once, jeez.
The mere sight of the liquid makes you think back to your advice to Fluttershy. You aren’t honestly sure what kind of beer she planned to use, and you probably should have given her a tip with that. Yeasty tasting and smelling ones, not hoppy, are best. They just attract slugs and snails more effectively. The beer in your fridge would fit the bill nicely, and frankly you’re looking for an excuse to not drink it. You just don’t want to waste alcohol. College instilled that value in you well.
With a tender smile and a further swelling of good feelings, you pull out the three beers and put them into a shopping bag. Fluttershy’s cottage is only a few blocks away, half a mile at most. It’s an easy walk, and a beautiful night for it. Besides, Fluttershy lets you work in her garden, and that sort of peace of mind is worth repaying.
You pull on a light jacket, lock your door behind you, and set off for the cottage. Just as you suspected, the evening is near perfect. The wind is light and crisp, and smells of early autumn leaves. There’s no dampness or chill to the air, and the moon is just rising over the trees. To light your way. You don’t even need a flashlight. You make your way past the rows of cottages and small businesses, then turn left to wind down the hilly path to Fluttershy’s home and sanctuary. In the distance, you can hear soft sounds of nocturnal animals waking up to begin their nightly activities. Truly, you feel at one with the world around you.
The soft lamplight of her cottage beckons you forward. As you approach, you see that her door is open just a crack, casting a line of pale light out across the garden and her walkway. You grin. It’s such a nice night out, she’s probably propped the door open to let in a bit of evening air. She’s such a pure, sweet creature, and you again feel a warmth for the good deed you’re about to do.
You stride up to her door, and so as not to startle the fearful pony, push the door open a little wider. Then you put your head just inside and put on your gentlest voice to call out to her.
“Knock knock!” you say, “Hey, it’s me. I just wanted to drop off some beer to help you with your slug probl-”
The word goes dry in your mouth as your body is shocked into silence. You stare, unable to move, think, or even breathe. You’re simply too struck by the unexpected horrifying scene you see before you.
Fluttershy stands at her kitchen table, Angel bunny nowhere to be seen. In front of her is a large glass jar filled with what looks like slugs and amber beer. Next to that is a salt shaker, and a large white plate with a few small brownish splatters on it. As you watch, Fluttershy lifts a still alive, very much wriggling snail, and shakes some of the beer off of it. Then, she holds it over the plate, and sprinkles a healthy dose of salt across it. She stares intently as it writhes in her hooves, then she holds it above her head.
“Well,” she says with a wide smile, “that tip about the beer and salt was definitely correct! This is much better than having them unseasoned!”
Before you can say a word, she opens her mouth and drops the still living, tortured creature into her mouth. She swallows hard, then lets out a contented sigh.
“I know they’re animals,” she says to herself, “but if they didn’t want to get eaten, they shouldn’t have been so tasty.”
“Oh god…” you finally say in a hollow, shaking voice from the doorway.
Fluttershy’s eyes dart to the door, and they lock with yours. You stare at each other in a deep, aching silence. After what feels like an eternity, you finally get your mouth to wheeze out a few more words.
“You said you didn’t like slugs.”
“I don’t!” she says, “...as animals. As food? Well. That’s another matter.”
“But they’re alive. They’re suffering. They’re living creatures.”
“...not once they reach my stomach? B-besides, they’re only slugs.”
“Only slugs?”
“What?” she snaps suddenly, “you kill them. You eat meat all the time! Why is it only bad when I do, it, huh? I mean… is it really so wrong? And they wiggle so good when you swallow them. Really, if you tried one, you’d understand. Here! Have a bite!”
You watch in horror as she takes out another beer-soaked snail, pours salt on it, and holds it out to you. It squirms and foams, to the point where you’re pretty sure you can hear its tiny, mollusk cries. And behind it, you see the yellow pony smiling at you proudly. Expectantly.
Yeah. That’s so not happening.
The image of the animal-loving, peaceful Fluttershy in your mind shatters into a million pieces. You feel numb. You feel broken. You feel betrayed. You told her about beer and salt. You thought you’d done a good deed. But instead… this. Unable to say another word, you turn from the scene and slowly begin to pull her cottage door shut.
“Hey, just remember,” she calls to you urgently as you shut the door, “you promised me you’d never talk about me and slugs to anyone, so you can’t report me for a-salt!”
You never work in Fluttershy’s garden ever again.
-END-
Author's Note
You know what? I don't particularly like slugs either.
Snails, on the other hand, taste great with garlic butter!
-pencil
