Fluffkins.
Some of you may have heard of him.
He came from a long line of dragonslayers—the Sirfetch’d dynasty. Their order was a bit like a Hollywood movie franchise: each one worse than the last.
But the franchise didn’t die until Fluffkins came along. A Farfetch’d, Galarian in blood true-and-true. With feathers as brown as an Ursaring’s bottom, he complimented the look with his toilet tissue-white belly down. And his eyes—hah! They’re so often scrunched in an angry look, village folk would often point him in the direction of the nearest chamber pot to relieve his presumably painful constipation.
...Why all the toilet talk? You see—Fluffkins indelibly stained his legacy by being a little shit. He thought he was the shit, smack talked a dragon, and found himself up *expletive* creek without a paddle. In an act of fury, a Dynamaxed Flygon gave him a wonderful in and out trip of dragon ass. In short, he was a duck with a date with a dragon’s derriere. Perhaps you’ve heard of the tale?
Afterwards, he tromped back to the village--a little browner than usual. River water hardly cleansed his feathers of the brown muck. And it most certainly didn’t wash away his embarrassment. Pokemon scruffed their noses and turned tail the moment they smelled him. Fluffkins couldn’t tell them the truth. It was too far fetched. But his own shattered pride of being the undeniable worst dragonslayer—ever—nearly made him hang up his leek forever.
But misfortune fell upon him the next day! The town was abuzz with talk of the new monster hunting profession. Dragon slaying was old news. But shadow hunting? That’s way past cool.
A buzzing, excited crowd was gathered around the town crier: a Whismur dressed in a simple brown cape. He shouts were cannon blasts, shooting terrifying stories of ginormous Dark-types—storm-sized Mandibuzz that eclipsed entire villages in the shadow of her wings. Or ferocious Tyranitar rampaging through cities—as big as a mountain! With a stage whisper as loud as crashing cymbals, Whismur leaned toward the crowd.
The crowd drew in.
Whismur told the tale of a Zoruark, with hair green as the rolling hills and eyes of gold—and a strange toxic marking above her paws. He said the wind ushered from the swing of her step blew away the trees! And the pound of her feet could crack the earth like an egg.
Fluffkins was another face in the crowd. He stuck out like a sore thumb. Or rather, a hand with nothing but a thumb. All the other fingers, crowd members, were giving the still-smelly duck a wide berth. But the duck didn’t care. Slaying a shadow—redemption—it was right before his eyes! In the theatre of his mind, he watched the scene play out: him, standing over the Zoroark--toppled like a tree. Leek held high, he looked down to see a crowd of grateful Pokemon standing around him. They were chanting his name.
Fluffkins! Fluffkins!
Dreamily, the bird's starry eyes stared into space. A smile slowly crept up his beak. His perpetually furrowed brow relaxed.
He knew what he had to do. What could go wrong?

Fluffkins regretted everything.
The duck was rattling like a leaf in the wind. His knees were practically knocking as trudged through pine needles—his footsteps muted. Fluffkins hadn’t a clue of the name of the dark woodland he tromped through. The village folk were scared to even mention its name. Hosting a frightening number of Ghost-types, the shady wood was a familiar hideaway for many Dark-types. The “peasantry”, as Fluffkins called them, claimed speaking the wood’s name would somehow catch the ear of one of its denizens—and the last thing a village Pokemon wanted was a ghost or a prankster at their doorstep.
The brave Pokemon who did wander in quickly found themselves scurrying away with their tail between their legs—and a Ghastly or Haunter hot on their trail. Dark-types, however, had little to fear. Ghost-types were typically running away from them, thanks to the whole Dark-beats-Ghost thing.
But Fluffkins was on a mission. No amount of trepidation would make him turn tail. He stuck his shaking wingfeathers into the underbrush, peeling it apart and stepping inside. His feathers itched as wispy leaves and branches scratched his skin. Just as his beak broke through the other side, Fluffkins hurtled toward the ground as his webbed foot caught on a root. He tumbled out into a moonlight clearing, rolling across the grass. Green fibers sticking from his down, the Farfetch'd groggily raised his head--still spinning from his rollabout.
And two eyes stared back.
Fluffkins was warmed by a feeble light as the creature’s amber eyes surveyed at him from above. The duck locked on. His head shaking, body trembling in fear—his pupils dilated, growing thrice in size. He took in the body of the great monster before him.
It was a Zoroark.
They’re on all fours crouched close to the ground. The Pokemon’s dark-furred head loomed—their canine muzzle pointed and angular. Soft gray fur carpeted the creature’s face—a perfect canvas for the green highlights that lined their fur. On the corners of the Zoroark’s mouth, green circles of colored fur popped from the corners of their cheeks—painting a Cheshire smile. Green also striped by their eyes like eyeliner. And their hair—wild and shaped into a crude ponytail—was a similar color. With a gulp, Fluffkins realized that everywhere that was red on a normal Zoroark, was green on this one.
That could only mean…
“Y-you’re,” Fluffkins stuttered, “you’re that Zoroark!” He wheezed a waverly breath of air as his heart clawed into his throat. He didn’t expect the Zoroak to see him! What was he going to do without a sneak attack!?
“Sorry, err, sir!” Fluffkins said.
The Zoroark’s painted lips slipped into a smile. Fluffkins didn’t like that look.
“I’ll… just be going now,” Fluffkins tentatively crawled backwards, pushing his wings forward as his feet shuffled back. He didn’t dare to break eye contact, “it was nice meeting you. You won’t be seeing me ever again! Promise, promise!”
Just when Fluffkins thought the Zoroark was going to let him crawl away scott free, the Dark-type lifted a massive claw, twirled it around, and placed it on Fluffkins’s leek. With a terrified squawk, Fluffkins’s wings fumbled as they slid off his oversized weapon. The vegetable clunked to the ground, floating in a sea of grass.
The Zoroark opened their mouth—and a sultry smooth feminine voice came out, “‘sir’? Ugh, don’t you know me?”
Fluffkins gulped, swallowing the frog in his throat, “w-well… yes. I heard a story—”
“And the bard said I was a man? Ugh. What. A. Drag. Spoony bards, good for nothing. My bad for letting him get away alive. Not making that mistake again, doncha think?”
Fluffkins went white as paper, “alive? Get away—oh! No, no, no! You should! You should!”
The Zoroark tilted her head, smiling smugly, “oh? Am I scaring you?”
Sweat beaded on Fluffkins brow as his pupils bounced around his eyes like marbles—trembling in fear as he nervously flicked his gaze about, searching for the right answer. He settled on the negative, “no ma’am!”
“Then why are you shaking?”
“I-it’s chilly!”
“Hm,” she hummed, “that’s what the bard said too.” Fluffkins cringed as the Zoroark rolled her foreclaw on the ground, smushing his leek into the dirt. She clicked her tongue, “I’m sure he didn’t say my name. How ‘bout I tell you?”
“Yes! Tell me!”
She absentmindedly brushed her other claw through her puffy neck fur, “make sure you don’t laugh. I’m proud of my name. I get quite upset when Pokemon make fun of it.”
Fluffkins flushed, “your name is probably the most m-m-magnificent name ever uttered—”
“My name is Burrito.”
“Ha!” Fluffkins squeaked like a chew toy when he realized what left his yap. He slapped his wingfeathers against his beak. The light around him dimmed. Burrito’s eyes were half closed, glaring. She did not look amused.
“Rude,” she scoffs. A burst of hot, angry air puffed from her mouth. Fluffkins gagged as he breathed it in. The fumes were like the breath of a dragon. His wing fanning the air, he looked up to see the Zoroark speaking again, “you’re lucky you brought me lunch. Or I’d have to, y’know,” Burrito shoved her face close, dipping her muzzle to the ground, letting it scrape across the grass—all so she could push her eyes just that much closer to the fear-stricken bird, “make a bit of my favorite food: burrito. With duck meat.”
“Haha…” Fluffkins let out his dying, bottled up laugh with a wheeze. He pulls a little at his pinned-down leek, “you’re not eating me… right?”
“Oh, you’re not on the menu. But I’m tickled pink that you brought me this leek.”
Fluffkins suddenly swept into the air. The vegetable he was clinging to lifted into the air bristles-first. Pinched between two of Burrito’s claws, Fluffkins dangled from the stem. Burrito stood up. The ground grew small. The trees became matchsticks. As Fluffkins rapidly left the earth behind, wind whisking his feathers, he slowly began to slide down the slick green stalk. But one look down prompted the duck to scramble higher. He slapped his wings against the green stick as he clambered closer to the top. The stem wobbled in the night breeze before ending its journey in front of Burrito’s nose. She breathed in—then out. Fluffkins held on for dear life, blabbering as he was nearly stripped from his leek. Then—body-warm steam whipped past Fluffkins. The warm air, flecked with moisture, beat his feathers and bent his leek back like a tree in a hurricane.
Burrito spoke again, “a girl's gotta eat her greens, right?"
Fluffkins squawked, dangling from the stem, "you wouldn't want to eat this! It was my father's! It's at least five years old! It's probably all moldy on the inside and--"
“Hm? It’s moldy on the inside? That’s no fun.” Burrito said in a singsong, taunting voice. Fluffkins shivered, shrinking into his feathers—trying to appear as small as possible. He did not like the sound of her voice…
The Zoroark flipped the leek horizontally. The stem, and Fluffkins, pointed towards her snout—now open as she spoke. Breath, muggy—reeking with the gut-curdling scent of wild, never-washed mouth, poured over Fluffkins. It was a fog. The air was almost opaque with evaporating steam.
“Guess I won’t eat the insides then. You might want to jump off, though.”
Fluffkins looked down. The ground was 200 feet below.
“I can’t jump! I’ll fall! Like, really, really far!”
Burrito smirked. “Really? Sucks to be you.” The Zoroak’s face twisted into a sneer, “don’t worry though! My belly’s nice. I don’t digest anything alive.”
The Zoroark opened her mouth. Her gums lifted, baring her fangs and green gums. There wasn’t a fleck of red to be seen inside the mammoth creature’s mouth. Her flesh was as green as her hair.
But Fluffkins didn’t exactly care about the color of his soon-to-be-devourer’s flesh. He had more pressing issues to worry about. He was being ferried towards Burrito’s mouth. The stalk of his leek came closer and closer—approaching the Zoroark’s mouth with a leisurely pace. The entire time, Fluffkins struggled to breathe. His chest was tight. His ribs were constricting his lungs like a serpent around a tree. He blubbered incoherently: gibberish that was both wavering and, quite frankly, pathetic. His bravery had long evaporated. He backed up against the bristle of his own leek, barely balancing on the stem as Burrito’s lips closed around the base.
Zoroark’s claw cradled the leek’s bristles, slowly pushing it forward. Her lips approached inches at a time—a pace glacial by the Zoroark’s standards—while Fluffkins cowered. The Zoroark’s claws gripped the stem below him. And when Burrito’s lips were but a foot away, he saw her claws tighten—digging into the stem. Juices began to seep out of the vegetable. She was getting excited, Fluffkins realized with ice-cold blood. Her black lips touched Fluffkin’s webbed feet. The duck didn’t waste a second before reeling them up to his chest, desperately vying to escape. 
He only bought himself a few seconds. The fuzz of her snout tickled the Farfetch’d as her lips stopped in front of him. He was outside—safe for now.
But his leek, nearly all of it was inside.
Crunch. Zoroark bit down on the hard skin of the vegetable. Fluffkins was physically unharmed. But he felt his soul shatter.
“My leek!’ He cried, “you ate it! You ruined it! You said you wouldn’t!”
If Burrito heard him, she didn’t care to answer. Three chomps—that was all it took to mash his leek to goo. She swallowed, tilting her head up so the teary duck could see his prized possession tumble down her throat. Her Adam’s apple bobbed. Her dreadful eyes returned. Her green maw yawned.
And Fluffkins was flung in with a flick of a claw.
He splatted onto a gooey tongue; the stalk of his leek landed next to him. Musty, meaty breath rolled over him—thick with heat and saturated with humidity. Fluffkins groaned as the Zoroark’s tongue wormed below him—popping him up as the rear of the organ rose, forming a hill that sent Fluffkins’s squat body tumbling down. He splattered into a puddle of drool cupped near the tip of Burrito’s tongue. The liquid was thick, murky, and it strung between his feathers and clung to his body like a sticky second skin. Just as he was rising from the puddle, the tip of Burrito’s tongue bent back. A waterfall of saliva pounded Fluffkins, bashing him to the plappy floor. Throat tight, he eked out a strained, squeaking noo…! as he attempted to shield himself with his soaked wings. He rose with the tongue, rolling head-over-heels as he toppled backward. Vision spinning, nostrils burning, heart pounding—Fluffkins’s sopping world was a blur of black and green as he fumbled for a handhold. Eventually, he flopped on his belly. He glanced backwards. Burrito’s throat was behind him—pulsing slightly as saliva cascaded down the wrinkled flesh. Burrito’s tongue continued to rise. Gooey liquid stuck to its sides as other portions dripped into the saliva-ridden basin below—as if it was a monster rising from the sea. His wingfeathers, lacking fingers, were not able to grip the bumpy taste buds that pocked the Zoroark’s tongue. He flailed and babbled as he slid down Burrito’s taster, passing by the green-fleshed arch that outlined her throat. Momentarily, Fluffkins’s legs dangled over the pit of her throat.
And then he fell in.
Burrito’s throat mashed into him immediately, snagging him—restraining him—making sure the Zoroark’s prey didn’t escape. Fluffkins croaked as moist muscle, topped with bubbling spittle, smeared against his form. Spit poured down from above, soaking the bird—filling his little pocket of air with nasty-smelling water. Burrito’s esophagus rippled around him. A monstrous gulp echoed around him—followed by a bone-crushing smash of her throat muscles. As Fluffkins warbled in the watery bubble he was scrunched in—up above, he heard Burrito’s teeth pulverize the leafy stalk of his leek. Fluffkins eyes went watery. His tears soaked into the mouth-goo around him.
And suddenly—Fluffkins was flying. Or rather, falling. With a sputtering belch of air, the esophageal sphincter opened—ejecting the bird into the stomach sky. Down below, a bubbling frothing mix churned as thick bubbles burst—burping choking gases in a splattering pop of stomach gruel. The atmosphere was so thick it hit Fluffkins like a wall. Fetid—meaty: a rotting odor rife with the scent of moldering meat, rancid milk, and putrefying, acrid greens. A metallic, nickel-scented tang hung in the air. The instant before Fluffkins hit the gloppy surface of her belly, he spotted the source of the irony smell—the steeple of a clocktower, torn from the building, sitting in an ocean of shifting muck. Its metal shell was half-eaten away. The brass hands of the clock looked akin to shiny melted plastic.
And with that, bird hit belly.
Splash. Fluffkins smashed into half-digested gloop. Spit followed him, pouring down in murky rain. And while Fluffkins waded his wings in viscid skin-crawling soup, the mushed-up remains of his family treasure slopped down as green jelly—splattering above him. Fighting for survival, not daring to expose his eyes in the underwater gluck, Fluffkins blindly floundered. By luck or by fate, he found the surface. Bursting through, starved for air, Fluffkins retched when the spoiled air burned its throat—not with acid—but with the unfiltered horribleness that was the myriad of stenches that broiled together in the Zoroark’s gut.
Fluffkins tried to slap his wingfeathers over his beak once again, but only managed to splash his puke-sodden form with more half-solid gluck. The mushy, pulpy stuff was everywhere! It crawled beneath his armpits, cloyed beneath his legs and between his toes. It mushed against his breast, tangled in his headfeathers. Looking around with vile curiosity, he saw the wooden planks of a broken wagon floating like the smashed hull of a ship. Boulder-like pieces of a town-hall statue—a Greninja knight in a heroic pose, sword aloft—lay in ruins. The pieces rolled around, bouncing off each and the stomach walls. Some dipped under the surface, sinking to the bottom of the belly. Meanwhile, others rose. The insides of the rock eaten out by acid, they became buoyant once again—bobbing like porous, air-filled pebbles in a sizzling lake.
Her meal settled, Burrito’s gut rolled. Outside, her stomach clenched in a rippling motion—starting below her ribs and ending beneath her belly button. The motion reversed, and a throat-quaking belch erupted from the Zoroark’s mouth. Her lips vibrated as her gut rattled, drenching the poor duck inside with wave after wave of slimy glop—only ending after the Farfetch’d nearly drowned—leaving him with ringing ears.

Fluffkins had a long time to lose himself in his thoughts. Not completely, however. No matter how much he wished to dissociate and float among fuzzy thoughts, he couldn’t. The horrid environment of Burrito’s stomach was too disgusting to ignore. Just when he thought the organ had run out of surprises to share, he was subjicated to a new torture. The stomach gasses would burp up a new rotting stench—putrid egg from hen houses Burrito raided—or the nose-curdling yuckiness that was 100 gallons of milk: the entirety of Mil-Milk’s Farm’s stockpile—swallowed in ten hearty gulps.
As rancid sour waves batted against the duck—flinging him around like a fly on the water—Fluffkins grew tired. His eyes fluttered, slowly closing. Soon, they shut. And as he began to drift into dreamland, he heard an odd sound. The stomach gurgled—a watery pop came from below him. It sounded like… something unplugging.

An ungodly stench punched Fluffkins out of his dreams.
His eyes snapped open, faster than the crack of a whip. The stomach was gone. The vast sea of belly slop had vanished. A horrified cry bubbled in Fluffkins throat when he saw what replaced it—something far, far worse. He was half-submerged in a swampy pastelike brown goo. One leg is sunken in fully; the other coasts atop the bog. The mushy syrup oozed over his body. His head remains free, but the quaggy substance claimed much of the rest—with only portions of his form poking from the semisolid mix. Fluffkins’s right wing was nowhere to be seen, hidden under surface. His left wing dipped above and under the sticky, slimy stuff like a threaded needle. He grunted, trying to move. Yet he didn’t budge an inch. He was frozen in place—like a fish frozen in an ice cube. In a panic, Fluffkins turned his head upwards, looking wildly around as he scrambled to make sense of his surroundings. Sounds like popping mud echoed across the dark fleshy tube that housed the duck. In tandem, the tube writhed—pulsing inwards and outwards in a rhythmic fashion. The brown jelly churned under the great organs pressure, slopping over itself like well-mixed, viscous batter.
Fluffkins gagged after he took a long, panicky breath. The smell—he had smelt it before. It was horribly familiar. It was worse than the Rapidash stables. Worse yet, it dwarfed the time Lord Sandbert, a rather portly Hippopotas with an unending appetite, blasted the outhouse after his dinner disagreed with him. This gut-wrenching smell brings back memories less than a week old—the time he was lost up that Flygon’s ass.
The duck gagged. He was literally swimming in shit.
The disgusting popping sounds returned again. Burrito’s intestines continued to clench and stir the vile slop that broiled and bubbled in the farthest reaches of the Dark-type’s tract. Fluffkins noticed they slowly began to pick up speed, churning faster at almost an imperceptibly quicker rate. An ominous groan burbled from around him, causing the revolting mud he was in the shimmer and shudder. His nose, already burning with the stench of unrefined excrement, began to pick up a new odor: an eggy scent that was slowly creeping into the gross prison the duck was wedged in.
Fluffkins felt like there was an apple in his throat. His little duck mind put it together. That sound: it was her guts burbling. The deep rich bass was familiar: it was the same sound the Hippopotas noble’s belly made minutes before his dining guests learned how bad Hippopotas gas could really stink.
It seemed milk and eggs weren’t a normal part of this Zoroark’s diet.
Her guts began to up their complaints—growing louder as the evil air truly made itself known. Snaking into the duck’s nostrils, Fluffkins couldn’t even lift a wing to protect himself as the stench grew worse. All the while, more fresh sludge began to pile in behind him. The duck squirmed as the muck level raised. Watery, horrible slush began to crawl up his neck—surrounding him as it soaked into the slowly hardening muck below him.
“H-help!” Fluffkins shouted to no one in particular. His voice was drowned out by the groans and sloshing of the fox’s belly. He shot a panicky glance at the mushy stuff around him, “I don’t want to go through this again!” Burrito’s body answered with a drawn-out groan. A horrible gurgling growled behind Fluffkins. Apprehensive fear pierced the duck’s heart like a needle. He gave one last struggle—one last desperate attempt to free himself. He barely moved an inch.
A trumpet of shit-stink air crashed into Fluffkins. It instantly dislodged him, sending him flying away in a whirlwind of semi-processed feces. Its sheer sound deafened him. To Fluffkins, it was as if he stuck his head down the horn of a blaring tuba. The sound rocked him, rattling his hollow bones as he skipped across the sludge like a tossed stone. He’s tossed through the intestines, traveling deeper at breakneck speeds. Twirling and spinning, his chaotic jaunt ended abruptly when he smashed into a solid, mushy object. The duck groaned. It wasn’t hard to guess what it was…
The release of Burrito’s gas dying off, Fluffkins heard the deep, rich groan of the Zoroark boom from what felt like every direction at once. Fluffkin squinted in an attempt to prevent the muck that was splattered and caked over his face from getting in his eyes. He saw he was lodged in a log of scat tall as a building. The frightful abomination dripped with wet goo—as if it was melting from the torrid heat of the Dark-type’s bowels.
Burrito’s guts grumbled. Fluffkins smelt egg.
“Dear Arceus…,” he muttered, “not again…”

For the next three hours, life was hell—to put it lightly. Fluffkins was the unhappiest duck in the world. Burning air and scorching scents cooked him like the smelliest Christmas dinner. Burrito’s horrid passes of gas were ceaseless and frightfully random. Fluffkins was perpetually on edge, never sure when the fuse was lit—and the gas-filled chamber would erupt into earth shattering flatulence. And with every fart, the eye-watering winds would push Fluffkins just a little bit further into the mush—and the bird would frantically attempt to dig himself out the instant the whirlwind would die down. He took his wing, scraping off bits of the yuck that encased him. But any time he would get close to absolute freedom, another billow of fumes would smash him right back in.
Morning came—eventually. Or perhaps it was afternoon. Fluffkins didn’t know. But when his stomach leapt into his chest as the mass of brown dung fell into the rectum, he knew that freedom was one bathroom break away.
Ghastly squelching, pounding stomping—with every step of the massive Zoroark, the greasy walls would clamp in, mashing Fluffkins and kneading the clump of scat into a rounded, rectum-shaped obloid. Beak, wing, and head were one step away from being devoured by slick sludge—Fluffkins whimpered when he heard Burrito breathe in.
Instantly, her guts clenched. Coupled with a pert grunt, her rectum smeared its slime-ridden surface against the mushed remains of her dinner. Fluffkins didn’t have time to scream before he was pushed inside. The dim light of her rectum vanished as he was plunged into total darkness. Slimy, gooey horribleness dripped all around him as the log bent under the grip of her colon—bending and contorting as the organ rippled—the peristalsis slowly driving the grisly thing out. Fluffkins thrashed, barely able to move. He could feel the mass around him shifting; the disgusting shit around him driving past his body and face in different directions—compacting and spreading with the intestines’s touch. Desperate for air, he dared to take a breath. He nearly vomited. But the stench was so bad, his own vomit refused to travel up his throat—lest it come in contact with whatever produced the vile odor.
And as he Fluffkins floundered, he sensed himself going down—slower than a sloth. Ten seconds of blind, fetid-smelling, suffering—and Fluffkins began to fall once more. His organs floated as he plummeted several stories. His terror was smothered by his disgust—his screams wouldn’t even leave his beak. Two seconds of falling, and he hit the ground. Two hundred pounds of fecal matter dumped over him. The duck only survived by the virtue of his little crap-chamber forming a sturdy shell around him, absorbing the force of impact. Head rattling, ducks flying around his head, Fluffkins hears the plunk of another wad of shit piling on top of him. Then another. And ‘nother.
He finally shrieked. The ceiling was beginning to collapse.
With one last thunk, the roof came crashing down. Mud rushed in as Fluffkins sank like quicksand, flailing his wings as he tried to slap away to rockslide of encroaching scat.
“Please! Arceus!” Fluffkins internally screamed—so loud, he was sure every Legend could hear his plea, “or anyone really! Help! I’ll do anything; suffer any embarrassment! Please don’t let me die here!”
And almost die he did. Just when he was about to be overwhelmed, there came a tiny voice in Fluffkins head. It came in clear as a bell—as if someone was right next to him, talking in his ear. And yet he wasn’t entirely sure if it was real or not.
It simply said, “anything?”
“Yes, anything! I just said that!” The duck shouted in his mind.
Silence.
And then—there was light. To Fluffkins, it was heavenly. But in reality, the roof just finished collapsing and the sun was shining through. Buried up to his little duck neck, Fluffkins basks in the smelly light of a new day.
“Uh,” Fluffkins said, nose burning, “Mr. Voice? Hello? Thank you for saving me. But, um, can you get me out?”
Silence.
“...Thanks anyway.”