Furby's Revenge

In case you forgot to buy your Valentine that plush $39 teddy bear, Chris Rhatigan has a present you can give.

Nothing says "I love you" like a cute, murderous monster. Take a bite out of Furby's Revenge

Furby's Revenge by Chris Rhatigan

Furby slung the machine gun over his back and clamped the razorblade in his beak. He climbed the gutter to the second floor with surprising grace, especially considering that he had no arms.

He’d cased this house for a week. A chest full of toys grown fat and lazy. A twelve-year-old Master didn’t pay attention to them anymore—except for Pup Pup, a raggedy stuffed Golden Retriever who was his sentimental favorite. Master would be asleep at this hour anyway, making for easy pickings.

Furby reached the window, left open to let in the summer night’s breeze. He razored a slit in the screen and dropped silently to the hardwood floor.

No one noticed him. Toys everywhere but focused on one thing—partying. A bunch of action heroes doing tequila shots, stuffed animals playing poker, few Playmobile figures doing rails of coke off Barbie’s nippleless tits. Furby remembered days like these. Days when he had all his fur and life was easy.

Before Furby could get too wistful, a LEGO cop held up his hand and approached, legs snapping back and forth mechanically. “Excuse me, sir,” he said. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Furby popped off LEGO cop’s head with a swipe of his razor.

Figured that’d set the tone just fine.

Toys started screaming; a crowd of Bratz dolls scattered and revealed Pup Pup, reclining in a Fisher Price hammock, smoking a joint.

Furby said, “All your cash, jewelry, and drugs. In the bag. Do it nice and slow, and nobody gets hurt.”

Silence. Then a Playmobile Davy Crockett pointed at the LEGO cop. “What about him?”

“Er, nobody else gets hurt,” Furby said.

The sack filled up quick. Furby glanced into it. Haul looked pretty good—like he thought, these were some privileged-ass toys.

The Incredible Hulk decided to be a hero. He pointed a big green finger at Furby. “This doesn’t have to do with our money or our jewelry or our drugs. You’re doing this because you used to be popular, but now you’re not. Nobody loves you anymore. You’re simply jealous and taking it out on us.”

Furby shot him twelve times. Full auto. “Anyone else have an inspirational speech?” He waved the gun around. “Anyone? Good. Now Pup Pup, I’m gonna need all your weed.”

“Aw, c’mon,” Pup Pup said. “You used to be cool.”

Nothing got Furby going quite like the phrase used to be. He ran straight for one of Pup Pup’s hoes and stabbed her where you’d assume her heart would be.

As Furby dislodged the knife, footsteps echoed down the hall. Human footsteps. “What the hell, Sara?” Master said. “I thought I told you not to play with any of my toys!”

The door swung open. “Sara?”


The boy was perplexed—he’d heard a bunch of noise and thought it was his sister, but no one was around. He turned on the light and found toys scattered wildly across the room.

Wanting to avoid his mother’s wrath, he began stuffing them back in the chest by the handful. Maybe he should just throw them in the trash. If anyone from school saw how many toys he had, he’d get the shit kicked out of him.

“Ugh, Furby? How do I still have this?”

“Wee-tah-kah-wee-loo,” Furby robotically cooed.

“What the hell does that mean?”

He kicked the plush toy to the corner.

He was about to shut the toy chest, but he hesitated. Pulled out Pup Pup. He could get rid of the rest of them, but not Pup Pup.

He left the room hugging the stuffed animal to his chest.


Soon as he was gone, Furby brushed himself off.

Kick him to a corner, eh? Time to teach that little punk a lesson. Nobody dicks around on Furby and gets away with it.

He weighed his option. Of course, he could slit the kid’s throat or riddle his body with miniature bullets.

But that seemed a light punishment.


Kid woke up the next morning, screaming.

Pup Pup’s eyes had been ripped out, two x-shaped scars left behind. Tail had been severed, shoved into his open mouth.

In the next room, Furby heard the screams and laughed. The other toys were white with horror.

He swung the sack over his shoulder. “See you bitches later,” he said.

Chris Rhatigan is the editor of the All Due Respect anthology. His novella, The Kind of Friends Who Murder Each Other, will be released by KUBOA Press in April. He blogs about short fiction at Death by Killing.