Once again, dear reader, the foremost reporter of this great country is bringing to you the most in-depth and exclusive of interviews. Future Perfect, of The Canterlot Herald, the pony who brought to you the personal grievances of King Sombra after the Crystal Kingdom fiasco, the personal accounts of Princess Luna’s incestuous relationship for her sister, Princess Celestia, and discovered the corruption that led to the banning of Cloudsdale from further Equestrian Games due to anabolic steroid abuse, bribery, coercion, and attempted murder, is saddling up for an exclusive so rare and sought after that only one with his particular talents could ever be worthy of such an interview; a discussion with the infamous Cupcake Killer, Pinkamena Diane Pie.
Pinkamena Diane Pie, or Pinkie Pie to her former friends, is the suspected murderer of an unknown amount of ponies and fugitive from justice for over one year. Though her current whereabouts are unknown, even to your faithful reporter, her infamy originates in that most intriguing of small towns; Ponyville. While Ponyville has brought many interesting characters into the spotlight for various deeds, none are as ineffable as who many young ponies colorfully call “the butcher, the baker, the ponycake maker”. While this reference to foal literature is a cleverly humorous attempt to rationalize what may be the single most reviled and deranged serial killer in recent centuries, the rationalization falls flat when stacked against the list of ponies who have gone missing or were found mutilated beyond visual means of recognition that is attributed to Ms. Pie.
An estimation of Pinkamena’s victims vary vastly as the remains are rarely discovered and are usually comprised of only the fractured fragments of skeletons bearing the hallmark nicks and cuts of carving knives. As even the least-read ponies know, Ms. Pie is a suspected, that term being used loosely, cannibal. As previously mentioned, the bodily remains of her victims are skeletal and, though time will routinely strip the easily decomposable soft tissues of flesh and muscle, the musculature is often discovered to be relatively recently removed from the remains. In other, more demented words, Ms. Pie strips her victims of their flesh for her own special brand of baking.
Ms. Pie, a former party hostess, is truly a sociopathic degenerate who ill-abides the notion of cannibalistic isolation. I will hence abandon the word “suspected” as the only cause for usage in the legal sense is the lack of trial and sentencing. Ms. Pie operated subtly in her disgusting game of feeding pony-meat-laced baked goods from Sugar Cube Corner, Ponyville’s local delicatessen, at which she worked. It is unknown how many ponies she caught, killed, and cooked before her discovery, but the skins of the shop’s owners, as well as the revered athletic pegasus, Rainbow Dash, were found adorning ponnequins in the basement. The Cakes had been visiting family in another town was the lie Ms. Pie told while she distributed their bodies to the local citizenry disguised within sugary icing and warm, fluffy baked goods. It was not until nearly a month had passed did the town begin to question the disappearance when several ponies were admitted to Ponyville General Hospital with sudden signs of food poisoning. The medical professionals finding the sudden rash of illness to be caused by ingestion of spoiled meat.
Of course, meat in a pony’s diet is strange enough but spoiled meat in so many cases alarmed quite a few officials of local and federal government. It did not take long for the commonality of Sugar Cube Corner to be discovered. Unfortunately, Ms. Pie had already made her escape by the time Royal Guard inspectors and detectives converged on the bakery. What was found was the terrible secret Ms. Pie had been hiding. Numerous counselors and psychiatrists have since been working tirelessly for the mental health of Ponyville’s citizenry with mixed results. Ponyville’s suicide rate, once non-existent, has skyrocketed to a horrifying 13 percent over the past year with depression rates and mental warding by the state also rising sharply.
Many of these unfortunate ponies have left cryptic suicide notes depicting the knowledge of having eaten loved ones. As the recent, tragic suicide note of the filly, Apple Bloom, dictates, “I ate the dulce de leche cupcakes, something Pinkie had never served before, right after cousin Caramel disappeared. Little morsels of bursting flavor kept sticking in my teeth and I thought it was thick globs of sugar but I know what it was now … it makes worms crawl through my stomach and brain. Every night and day they wiggle, crawl, and feed on me. I don’t know how to make this stop any other way … I’m sorry. Goodbye everyone.”
One must ask themselves, what kind of a monster could create confections from the corpses of others and serve them to their friends? What could derange and dement someone who once danced in the delight of arranging the most wonderful parties of Ponyville? That’s just what your reporter is going to ask straight from the nightmare who walks in the playful pink hide of a party pony.
Ms. Pie contacted me personally to confess and discuss her heinous atrocities, proving that even the severely detached recognize Equestria’s greatest reporter and ask for him by name when their guilt has become too much for to bear. A letter, addressed to my personal residence, asked me to come deep into the sprawling Everfree forest alone and to meet our mare of mayhem for what she called, “my final confession”. It detailed her desire to discuss her story before “the end”. One can only wonder at the implied crypticism. Has Ms. Pie decided to turn herself in, is she dying of some disease, or has she grown a conscience and decided to eliminate herself before the state can exact the punishment she so richly deserves? Will she turn herself over to the authorities?
The letter itself was yellow with thin, ochre lines spreading from the edges to the center, hoof-made if my assumptions are correct, and incredibly durable and thick. It was only after reading the rust-colored signature at the bottom that I realized what it was made from. I dare not detail the duress which disturbed my mind when the realization that I held the tanned flesh of some unfortunate pony whom the Cupcake Killer had captured, killed, and consumed. Even the hacks over at The Daily Equestrian don’t deserve such a fate as that. While I must omit the contents of the letter, I will share that the penmanship was exquisite and the diction nearly surrealistic in mannerism and professionalism. Had it not been for the design of the letter itself, I would have dismissed the notion that such literary finesse could have come from the descriptions given by Ms. Pie’s former friends. Her words, poignant and piercing, were excellently chosen and glimpsed the intelligence of the author.
With haste, yours truly exited Canterlot and made for the specified meeting place for the rendezvous that is to take place this very night.
The introduction is finished and everything from this point will be written as it happens for later editing after the interview has concluded. I must stop now as I have far to travel before night falls.
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I wait in the darkness, the shrill cries of creatures unseen unsettling me as I await the coming of something far worse than the gnashing jaws of timberwolves, the rending claws of grizzly bears, or the venomous fangs of slithering vipers. The irony forces a chuckle from my lips despite the seemingly grave situation. However, it is not the maniac that I fear, even through her insanity Ms. Pie will respect Equestria’s greatest reporter. Her tale is not yet told and that is what she desires most; to be given voice through my pen and skill. No, I have no fear of such an intelligent being; it is the beasts of the forest who do not know upon whose blood they feast that frightens me. They do not know who I am, nor care, in their instinctual routines of prey and predator that gives me cause to fret.
A thick fog has rolled in and obfuscates the forest rendering anything outside of a ten foot radius invisible. This does little to calm my nerves as the beasts continue their frightening symphony. The light from my horn controlling the pen and paper pad are the primary sources of vision and I burn them as lowly as possible to detract the attention of the forest dwellers.
The moon is strange this night, though why I cannot tell. I can narrowly see the sphere cascading in the sky through the barren branches of the Everfree forest and yet it feels preternaturally wrong. Had I but thought to dress more warmly in this winter weather, but such exclusive news must be acted upon quickly and while opportunity seems to persistently linger outside of my door knocking, the aforementioned time hastened my action. The chill is not so severe as I wait in the middle of this road long disused. Hidden and many miles from the main path through the forest, this overgrown road was found only through great skill and, dare I say, luck. The clues, symbols left on the occasional tree, that of a widely grinning pony face, were sparse and dimly alluded to the patch of earth upon which I now tread. I can only assume this is the area I am supposed to wait by the circle of smiling faces painted upon the trunks of the withered copse surrounding me. Like skeletons the withered limbs sway in the wind to the night’s cacophany. The grinning faces almost seem alive.
The faces are, upon closer inspection, simple shapes: circle, triangle, warped rectangle, and slanted lines that culminate into a smiling visage that seems quite joyous in their creation. It’s as if the act of being alive is almost more happiness than the face can take and nearly all of the lower half is split by the giant, toothy smile. They are cartoonish replicas of the killer herself. I have been waiting here for a long time, the sun was nearly down when I arrived. It’s only to occupy my mind from the terrible baying and howling to the glowing moon surrounding me that I inspect the artwork so closely. As I climbed the hills towards this place, I had noticed the color of the faces before all else, crimson red, like the lifeblood that runs deep within each living thing; the blood that spreads quickly and signifies the rapid succumb to death. I shudder to think of where it may have come and the smiling, joyful faces seem to hide far more than they tell. Perhaps that is why they grin so wickedly?
I was to come alone, which I have, and I believe the creatures who fraternize in this forest are watching me as I write. It begs the question, why have they not come for me yet? For certain, I would pose little fight to a pack of hungry timberwolves. The answer, I believe, is as ominous as the full moon hanging nearly directly over my head; because they know and are afraid. Instinct, that throwback to times before cerebral development, keeps them at a distance because, I am certain, another set of eyes are stalking me unseen.
She wants to be sure, absolutely certain, that I have come alone. Whether she fears being captured before her story can be told or for some other purpose, I know not, but the gelid feel in my bones, almost unnaturalistic, warns me of the presence of something devoid of a heart or a soul. Something worse than the children of the night, for they are predators by natural law, hunts me now; the monster now prowling the forest stalking me is a predator by choice.
Perhaps something in my demeanor has changed, some discomforted step or perhaps she just wants to make herself known, but I can hear a distant giggling that sends my heart racing and sluices ice water through my veins. Though I know I have nothing to fear, fear grips me regardlessly as that sound enters my ears. I am what she wants and she is coming for me. That knowledge is difficult to shake even for me, the esteemed reporter who has braved many a challenge and hazard for his stories, and it is only that grandeur of achievement that weaves protection and calms my emotions. Thankfully, I do not need to stop writing now due to my unicorn magic as I hear her steps somewhere near, somewhere … behind.
I can hear the shuffling, creeping as it inches ever closer and suspect that she is putting on a show to bewilder my emotions for, as I have already stated, I am certain she has been here the whole time, watching, waiting until she was certain. I remain stalwart, having regained my emotions from moments ago, but the cold still douses the fire of my will.
The sound ceases as does my heart, the last audible noise being only a few feet away but visionless due to the oppression of the fog and abyssal blackness. In quiet desperation I ignite my horn, if for no other reason that to educate myself of the immediate surroundings and coerce my heart into regaining a rhythmic pattern, to discover the angular features of the serial killer’s face grinning delightfully through me close enough to touch.
Fear broke through me and, shamefully, I made a bit of a shocked grunt at the apparition so near to myself. I had not dreamed she was so close.
“Future Perfect, how delightful it is to lay my eyes upon you. I trust that your trip was scenic? I doubt that you routinely view such raw, natural beauty as the forest often?” she asked, a wry grin betraying her politeness as she, no doubt, enjoyed the minor gasp that she had claimed from me. I return the courteous mannerism and attempt to gather a better view of this pony. I am foiled by the darkness however as she moves slightly away and deeper into the night than my meager magical byproduct can muster. She giggles playfully, a note of discordant glee in her laughter reminds me of the sound a scythe makes slicing through the air. It’s the sound many have heard as she began cutting into them, growing steadily louder and more shrill as the knives dug deeper into their flesh. It’s almost like hooves on a chalkboard, the way it causes you to tense, singing hell into your ears.
The giggling is thankfully broken as she speaks again, “Let’s not dawdle, my friend. Those who dwell in this forest are not to be underestimated.” As she spoke in the darkness, I could just catch the light refract in her eyes; harsh and dead like pools of blue poison, they peered into me, suggesting naught that I can fathom from the eternal well of insanity dwelling within.
She is very quiet as we travel together. She leads me across unseen ground and more than once I feel the earth angle as we travel into the obscure darkness, the cool clouds of fog embrace me and give a lingering sense of dread. I follow more by the sound of her hooves than the weak light of my magic, catching only glimpses of deep pink now and again at the edge of my vision. It is not until we have been walking for nearly two hours, though I suspect over the same ground to confuse me of my location and distance. Finally, after an insipid bout of giggling that chills my spine, does she speak. “Just over this hill, Mr. Perfect. I do hope you are hungry. Dinner should be just about ready.”
My stomach immediately twists into a fine knot at the thought of what Pinkamena may have prepared. Visions of thickly sliced roasts, rare and oozing, corrupt my thoughts as we broach the hill and I am treated to a spectacle I had not dreamed of seeing. Sitting on a flat piece of land, seen by the wealth of light ushering from the windows, is a remarkable house. While not large, it is a wonder of construction as it is built entirely from confectionary delights. The walls are gingerbread, the supports are long sticks of woven licorice, and the thatched roof made of brownies, lemon bars, and many other square treats. The windows are braced by peppermint sticks and all over are sprinkles, jelly beans, and gumdrops of every color variety. Though I am astounded, I am reminded of that old fable of the foals who discover a witch in the woods living in a candy house. I can’t help but wonder how many colts and fillies lost in these dangerous woods have fallen victim to this picture of foalhood delight to be cooked and devoured by this cannibal standing beside me.
As if reading my mind, she says, “Poetic isn’t it?” I cannot disagree and simply nod in agreement, moving towards the candy house and taking in the small details of its construction: icing cementing pieces of gingerbread together, some sort of varnish or non-osmotic coating that glistens and protects the flour-based marvel from rain.
Once inside, I am assaulted by the heavy scent of baked goods and it is only the knowledge of what surprises may be inside that keeps my stomach knotted and tight instead of growling from the sweet, dare I say delicious, smell. There are no walls save for those on each quadrant that make the rectangular design of the house. From any part of the house one can see clear to the other side. While there are distinguishing articles of furniture that designate one area from another, I can see everything from the one, and only, entrance. The furniture is similarly constructed of baked goods; chairs, tables, and steps leading up a few feet to a large, open kitchen are all various desserts or snacks somehow manufactured into furnishings. The only items not fashioned from sweets are the giant stone oven and multitude of kitchen utensils, many of which look suspicious for a baker. There are a collection of knives of various length and I can only assume that they each have a specific purpose. While most seem designed for slicing, one or two are serrated and seem more akin to saws than knives. There are also a pair of heavy, rectangular knives that remind me of axes and I can only assume they are meant to use their weight to cleave through stubborn materials. I try not to think of the words ‘tissue’ or ‘flesh’ but these are the tools of a butcher, not a baker.
“Please, sit down, Mr. Perfect. You are my guest and have traveled a long distance. May I offer you some refreshment?” Ms. Pie’s words sound sincere but I cannot help but notice the almost teasing tone in her voice and the devilish look of concealed glee dancing in those death orbs of hers. I answer her, refusing the refreshment as I get a look at her for the first time.
She is lithe but bordering on plump with a definite curve to her trunk, hips, and rump. Her coat is a salmon pink, the color is slightly cold in contrast to her mane which is a rosier shade that hangs in a single, long curtain down one side of her head while tucking back beyond her ear on the other. She stands, lips together in an awkward smile as I quickly look her over, something she seems to notice, appreciate, and enjoy. Her legs are long and meet her hips with a delicate, enticing curve. Her facial features are angular in most places with an almost aquiline quality to her muzzle but her cheeks round just beneath her eyes and give an odd quality that only adds to her the prominence of her eyes. In most terms she is beautiful and any stallion would fall over themselves with joy if she acquiesced to accompany them for a meal or concert, but her eyes betray the beauty of her body.The round under-cheekbones are tight and slanted above, causing the skin to sink back a bit before becoming an eyelid. This causes the shadows to darken and gives the flickering blue death-orbs a dark pit to lay and only enhances the apparent insanity that seethes within them. Her gaze is like that of a serpent and I am unnerved by her direct, unflinching demeanor. Even now, with my reputation to protect me, I can see a million conflicting thoughts warring behind those soulless pools.
She seems to be waiting for something and I can feel it only polite to comment upon her appearance positively to relieve the sudden awkwardness that fills the space between us.
“I did not expect you to be so beautiful, Ms. Pie.”
It is now that Pinkamena reveals the most terrifying feature of her appearance. She answers, “Thank you, Mr. Perfect. It has been a very long time since someone has complimented me. You are quite handsome as well, but someone of your renown should be.” The compliment goes unnoticed for a moment as she reveals the jagged grin of glowing, sharpened teeth. It is apparent that she has used some tool to file each and every one of her teeth into vicious, tearing points that only remind me of her collection of serrated knives. I gasp suddenly and her smile widens as she giggles and offers me a chair at a small table made completely out of jumbo piece of hard candy held upright by peppermint sticks. Uncomfortably, I sit and reel from her terrifying eyes and teeth to which she only issues another bout of bubbly laughter.
“I know you must be tired. Might I offer you a place to sleep for the night before we address the business to which you have come?” Her voice is high and mirthless. Her insipid little giggles are similar and that is what is the most unnerving. Her voice is cold and frigid, her laughter is a mockery of mirth, a cruel joke to joy, false. That is not to say that she does not take joy from my apparent nervousness, she revels in it, but the glee is devoid of friendship or amicability and replaced with predatorial teasing as if she is baiting me. Which, of course, she is. Playing on her own reputation as a serial killer and cannibal to cause discordance and anxiety in me and watching the discomfort rise brings her a great wealth of happiness. If it were not for her unknown reaction, I would relieve myself of this demeaning situation. I, Equestria’s greatest reporter, will endure it for the prestige that this article will bring.
I answer her negatively and smile into those dead eyes while asking, “Did you sharpen your teeth to better eat the flesh of your victims?” I prod gently with my words to show her that I am not afraid of her or of asking the tough questions.
“Do you like them?” She seems determined to split her head in half with the smile she gives before continuing her sentence. “I would think a stallion would find themselves rather vulnerable to a mouth like this.” Her politeness breaks as she suggests the sexual act and I can’t help but think that I may have gotten under her skin a little with my remark.
“Is that why you did it, then? To deter oral sex? Has that been an issue in the past?” I ask, beginning to find comfort as I verbally spar with her. She giggles gently before answering, deflecting the conversational lead.
“I believe the answer to that question is an affair of the final confession and is, therefore, business. Let me attend to the refreshments before we begin.”
I watch her ascend the few steps to the platformed kitchen and my eyes watch her rump sway. Maybe it is the implied oral sex or the strange opportunity of being a protected pony in the company of a fiend, but I can’t help but think that she would be a rather large trophy to collect. If the opportunity reveals itself, I may seize it. Whatever the ‘final’ portion of her confession was meant to suggest, it offers an enticing chapter for the autobiography I will someday write.
She glances back at me now and again as she uses a mitton to pull something brown from the immense oven. Laying it down she lifts a brush dripping with yellowish liquid and strokes it liberally across the food. I am both interested and horrified at the prospect at what may be in that pan. With a flick of her tail she lifts a steaming kettle and uses a knife to section the food before laying it in a plate and nimbly descending the stairs. As she has attempted to frighten me twice already, I prepare for the severed head of a filly, a plate of steaming intestines, or a pile of pegasus wings. I am, however, both surprised and somewhat disappointed when she lays a plate of brownies before me and begins pouring a tall glass of tea. She pours another for herself and sets the kettle down on the table before taking the chair opposite me.
She must have noticed the look I gave the brownies because she grinned and asked, “Something wrong?”
“No,” I answer, “but I wasn’t certain what to expect. I’m not very hungry, thank you.” Overtly the treats seem fine, looking and smelling delicious, but how many has she tricked in this same method?
One of her eyebrows tilt slightly as if she can barely contain the sickness in her next statement. “Would it make you feel more hungry if I Pinkie-promised there was nothing,” she pauses to giggle a she corrects herself, “ … no one in them?”
I crack the most embryotic beginnings of a smile because, despite it all, she is admitting to her carnivorous activities and reveling in them. “I’m sorry, Ms. Pie, but I just don’t think I can ingest something you have created. I hope you understand,” I say politely but the look she gives is disconcerting to say the least. Her eyebrows knit and her smile falters, drooping until only a few of her dagger-like teeth can be seen.
“I see.” Her words are as cold as the grave and her eyes promise something more terrifying than I can describe. In this instant I realize that she is in control, as badly as I detest it, and her restraint is shallow at best. “You are a guest in my home, Future Perfect, and I insist that you eat. There is nothing in those treats that I have prepared especially for you that you would not get in any of the bakeries of Canterlot. But, if you refuse,” her grin begins to reestablish itself and it grows, creeping like a tentacle up her slanting jaws. Her pupils tighten and she resembles the worst nightmares I’ve ever had the misfortune to dream. She is picturesque, a study of madness and violence. “If you refuse, then I will be offended. If you offend me, I may decide that I want to discuss my story with someone else. Then, I wouldn’t feel so compelled to treat you nicely.”
I quickly take one of the brownies in my magic and float it up for inspection. It passes the visual test and I take a bite. I am squeamish at the thought of what may be inside but the taste is exquisite. I chew far longer than it takes to masticate the food but I can’t help but probe for bits of what I dread to find. My eyes lock into Pinkamena’s and she watches me, all traces of the violence whirling in her sickening imagination have gone, replaced with curiosity. She waits patiently as I chew and search her face for signs of sick joy which could bely her promise that this is not a pony-meat brownie. I cannot ascertain even a hint of deranged joy as I swallow the first bite and begin the second. By the end of the confection my stomach has threatened to cast its contents onto the table and it is only through my immense will that it does not. She seems pleased as she leans on her forelegs and gauges my reaction.
“So … was it good?” She knows her talent but wants to hear me say it. I will admit that she is very skilled and it is simple to see why her occupation was a baker. If it were not for the unknown in the situation, I would recommend her sweets over anyone in Canterlot. However deserving of praise the treats may be, I cannot shake the feeling that I may have just eaten someone. I nearly regurgitate as I answer her.
“Your merits in confectionary delights are only exceeded by the temerity of your crimes, Ms. Pie. May we now get to the business at hoof?” I want to leave this place sooner rather than later as I do not trust her ability to contain herself in the event that sleep overtakes me before I can leave.
I see a slight hint of disappointment in her eyes and I wonder if she is disapproving of my all-business approach. Though she does not deserve sympathy, the madness that infects Ms. Pie must be ravaging during this isolation. Of course, anyone who might have visited her is most likely nothing but a sun-bleached pile of bones lying in the forest at this point, the rest long since digested.
“As you wish, Future Perfect. You are ushering your expedition from my home. Do you find me so distasteful?” her eyes are prisms of shattered sanity seething in her homemade hell. I begin to speak but she cuts me off, “I promise I must taste quite good.”
Toying with me again. She sees this all as a game and I have to wonder if she made these little jokes to all of those she killed. How long did their torment endure before she finished them off? Forensics on the recovered carcasses have proved that the damage sustained was over several hours in the shortest cases and over days in the longest. She continues after a short burst of laughter, “With my diet of sugar and wonderful pony flesh, I am willing to wager that my own meat is rich, virile, and supple; a true gourmet meal.” Incredulously I look upon this disturbed mare and let my silence speak for me.
Ms. Pie recoils, relaxing in her seat with one leg flung carelessly, hopelessly above her head and behind the back of the chair. She is upset that her tasteless joke did not provoke me and the slight grimace pulling her at her lips and cheeks says everything of her state; she is perturbed and somewhat hurt by my lack of interest in her sick game. It’s how I win. By not reacting to her, she is forced to slither back into the darkness of her mind and sulk. The dark circles under her eyes and the way those gelid discs of intense azure turn downward in that sultry manner gives me a thrill that I feel in my loins and stallionhood as I outsmart the disturbed mare. It leads my thoughts away from the article for a moment as I wonder exactly how vicious she is to mount. I am willing to bet that it would be unforgettable. She is not as intelligent as she thinks she is and forcing her ego to run down her leg like urine only to rub her nose in it affects me greatly. I love dueling intellects because I always win. And to the winner go the spoils.
But, I need the story before any extracurricular fun can begin. I tuck the thought away and hope for the chance where I can sprawl and ball her out.
“Ms. Pie, how many ponies have you murdered?”
She seems not to hear my question for a moment and then, like a machine warming up, comes back from the plight of her mind. Her mane obstructs part of her face but a devilish grin spreads like a gash as she begins to answer. “Murdered? Such a foul word. Murder is usually indicative of passion. One pony finds themselves in the throes of an event so decidedly unwieldy that a savage instinct wakes from deep within them and flares to life, taking control of their actions for just long enough to let that instinct play out. Like Mr. Cake.” She stops deliberately and looks away as if something has caught her attention but she is only baiting my question. I appease her.
“What happened with Mr. Cake? He was one of your victims, correct?”
She only laughs that chalkboard squeal for a moment but it tears at my sanity. “No, silly. Well, yes, but the rest of his family wasn’t. They were all HIS victims. He did a wonderful job, by the way. All the blood. All the raw passion. The gurgling noise choking from his foals as he wrung the life from their cute, little bodies.” I can faintly hear notes of arousal in her words and I can’t help but wonder if she is moistening as she recants the memories in her mind. I also wonder if this event is even true, and if it is, is this what broke her?
“Mr. Cake murdered his family?”
She chuckles playfully, “Yes. Now that was murder. The heartbreak was too much for him to handle.”
“Heartbreak? All of the sources from Ponyville claimed that the Cakes had a perfect marriage. They had been together for 15 years and just had their first foals, had they not?” I ask, watching her for signs of misdirection.
“Oh, they had been together for a long time. They had also been trying to have foals since they were married and yet it just never seemed to happen. Maybe that’s why Mrs. Cake began having her affairs.” Pinkamena licked her lips luridly as if gathering the last sweet remnants of something too delicious to waste.
“Are you suggesting the foals were not Mr. Cake’s?”
“Of course they weren’t. They weren’t even earth ponies. The lies that that poor stallion told himself to disprove what he knew to be true were pathetic and far-fetched. Their marriage, never happy for as long as I lived with them, turned devastating. They argued almost every night.” I let her go on, quickly writing down her story with my magic. “I suppose that Mrs. Cake had finally had enough. She told him she wanted a divorce and that she was going to take everything from him. And he said ‘you won’t take my foals from me, you fat heffer.’ and she replied,’they’re not even yours, you limp-dicked eunuch!’. Ooh, that set him off.” The look in Pinkamena’s eyes become wild and she wiggles her round rump in her seat as she speaks.
“And he killed her and his foals?”
She nods emphatically and giggles. “He beat her to death right there in the kitchen. His words weren’t even understandable, like he was speaking a different language. She barely got out a single cry before his hooves splintered her skull and knocked her unconscious. That wasn’t nearly good enough for him though, as full of rage as he was. He stomped on her head over and over and over, the way it came apart bit by bit was gorgeous. Her fucking head just fucking broke like a watermelon full of blood and brains until it was just a pile on the floor next to a twitching, jerking body. It was like she was trying to run away, her muscle memory causing her legs to quiver and kick, doing the best it could without its central command.”
“You saw all of this?” The details are sickening and the simile is vividly dancing before my eyes.
“I think I came. It’s hard to remember how I felt exactly but I watched it all from the stairs. I used to peek when they would argue because I found it hilarious. I used to bite my lips until I had to swallow whole mouthfuls of blood to keep from laughing where they might hear.”
I observe her free foreleg motioning gently as it leads below the table where I can’t see. Her mane obscures half of her face but the one eyelid twitches as the eye rolls back. It’s obvious what she is doing and I enjoy it but must press on with the interview before anything else can come from this.
“Seeing Mr. Cake murder his wife gave you sexual pleasure? Weren’t they your surrogate family?”
She seems to snap from her reverie and fixes her eyes on me after brushing the mane to the side. There is desire in her features and her nimble tongue scathes across those rows of jagged teeth. I see the pointed tips stain red as they saw the soft flesh rolling back and forth. She tucks her tongue back in and grins with a cute little chuckle. “Yes.”
“Do you have similar experiences when you murder?”
“I don’t murder, Mr. perfect. Let’s get that clear, but yes. I do get a serious sexual thrill from it. It churns my gear and grinds my butter.” She giggles at the obvious transition of words.
“But you do become aroused when you slay?”
She eyes me hard up and down and grins as she slips her hoof back down to where I cannot see. It’s as though she is sizing me up and the seductive wayher lips tilt whets my own desires.
“I always orgasm, Mr. Perfect.” Her words are like bloody silk and I have to change the subject back to the Cakes.
“What did Mr. Cake do then?”
“He cried. He just kneeled down, pulled the mush to him, and cried. It really killed the mood, but I think that was when he went completely off the deep end. He tried scooping the mess back into what was left of Mrs. Cake’s head and kept whispering how much he loved her. Then he started laughing and began to climb the stairs. I barely had enough time to hide in a nearby closet before he was squeezing the throats of his children. He wasn’t so violent with them. He just pressed on their throats until the gurgling stopped. And then he came for me. He went up into the attic where my room was and I stabbed him in the spine from behind with a bread cutting knife.”
“Was he your first victim?”
She looks at me incredulously. “Of course not.”
I had hoped that this event may have been the root of her insanity but that theory crumbles as she finishes her sentence.
“So how many victims have you had, Ms. Pie.”
“I love how polite you are, Future Perfect. I don’t think anyone has ever called me ‘Ms.Pie’ in my entire life and it’s after I have killed so many. Shouldn’t that garner less respect? It seems that being a baker is a less respectable occupation than a serial killer. Isn’t that ironic?” She nearly falls from her chair as she rolls with laughter, her forelegs holding her supple sides as thin tears stream from the corners of her eyes. I wonder if the memory of the massacre at Sugar Cube Corner recalled some faint glimmer of morality within the pink mare. From all reports of Pinkamena’s former friends and neighbors she was perhaps the friendliest, jolliest pony in Equestria. This indicates that something changed suddenly, some event in her past warped her to a breaking point and created the monster before me. Pinkamena calms down enough to talk again and sits up, brushing at her coat with her hooves before answering, “112.”
She said it so matter-of-factly, as though she were answering a simple question and not how many lives she had taken, how many she had tortured and devoured. The number is staggering and it stops me cold for a moment. It seems far too high a number/ It is as if she is trying to play with me again but her expression is very real and honest. It takes a moment to process before I can speak again. “Let’s talk about why, Ms. Pie. Why do you slaughter ponies now? Your former friends have been quoted as saying that this is completely out of your character, that you were a beacon of friendship and happiness. If this is true, what happened to alter who you were?”
Tilting her head to the side in a quizzical manner, Ms. Pie seems to discern if she was ever any other way. After a moment, it seems as though she has hit upon something as the questioning expression is replaced with a sudden burst of toothy grin and then she looks away coyly, demurely. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“What about life on the rock farm? How was your fillyhood, Ms. Pie?” Theories have run all manner of extremes in order to explain Pinkamena’s motives and I mean to dig into them.
“It was fine, a little boring at times, but nothing bad ever happened.” She seems not to be unable to look me in the eyes, a warning sign that there could be treasure buried beneath the layers of denial she is working hard to retain.
“Nothing? Your parents always treated you nicely?” I bait her somewhat. “Studies suggest that conflicts with parents and offspring during certain formative years can lead to marked behavioral issues in later life for …”
“My Daddy loved me!” she exclaims, her eyes already moist and I know that I have struck something that will prove of great worth.
“He loved you? Are you sure?”
“He loved me the best of the entire family, moe than my mother or sisters. I know he did because of all the things we did together that he never did with my sisters.” Her motions become frenetic and quick, jerking awkwardly as she rationalizes something to herself.
“What did you two do?” I’ve seen this before and know what happened even before she tells me.
“He would take me into the woods to our ‘special place’ and he would kiss me and hug me in ways that he did my mom. He said that it was a special love and I must never let the rest of the family know because they would be jealous.” Ms. Pie shirks slightly as if dodging imaginary embraces. “That’s how he showed me how much he loved me. He said that love always hurts a little and I should be a good filly and let daddy show me how much he loved me.”
She searches me with a deep sadness in her eyes and her voice trembles, a frown breaking across her face as a couple tears drip down her cheeks. And yet, for just a moment, I think I see something else, something off-kilter, as if she is checking something.
“He loved me, Mr. Perfect. He loved me so much … didn’t he? That’s why he sent me away when mom found out? To spare me from their covetous want of the love we shared?” I can see her shell cracking as she is pleading me for affirmation of what she has lied to herself about for all these years. I don’t feel it to be intelligent to burst her bubble.
“I’m sure that’s why you were sent to Ponyville, Ms. Pie.”
“I … I thought so. He loved me. I knew he did.” She consoles herself despite knowing on a deeper level that she was a sexual abuse victim. It’s a common tactic for those who have been raped as foals to associate the act with love and not lust. It’s also quite common for those victims to seek affection from everyone around them and to demonstrate their own lack of emotion through sexual favors. I am reminded of her probing gaze earlier and recognize a route to exploit. I’ve got enough from this avenue of question and I quickly steer the conversation away.
“Why don’t you tell me about Ponyville and your former friends, Ms. Pie?”
Pinkamena seems to consider this question, her head tilts up slightly, showing her long neck. Smooth and soft with a cascade of deep pink mane flowing in a curtain behind it, I can almost feel the velvety coat. Her eyes twitch and search the ceiling for nothing but memories in their deep, dark sockets. Perhaps it is the dramatist inside of me that wishes for something sinister in her past, something to paint her a victim instead of a villain. Her thin lips are pressed together tightly as she peruses her memories. What a tangled web her mind must be.
“My former friends …”, she speaks solemnly, still gazing into the well of time that is her memories. “ How apt a term for them.”
“What do you mean, Ms. Pie?” Her tone is sorrowful and I can see sadness hiding within her eyes, glittering with fresh tears that she struggles to keep from spilling.
“They abandoned me, left me alone. They just used stupid old Pinkie Pie. She doesn’t matter, she’s not smart enough to know we don’t want to go to her parties. They … pretended to care. That’s all they ever did.” Her voice tremors and she refuses to meet my gaze as she struggles to hide the first few rolling beads of salty water from the corners of her eyes.
“What do you mean they used you?”
She flickers her pupils to me for a brief moment and then looks down, a deep, roiling sob breaking her voice as she attempts to speak. “They only … pretended to like … m … me because they thought I … they thought I was retarded.”
It strikes me as odd that anyone could think Ms. Pie is short on intelligence given her abilities but I did not know her before she became a wanton criminal. “How do you know they thought that? Certainly nobody thinks that now. I surely don’t.”
She looks up and a slender smile makes an attempt at purchase but fails and falls as flat as her mane. “I heard them. They would say, ‘she’s a few bricks short’ or, ‘don’t try to reason with that one, everything’s over her head’. Twilight was always pretty nice but the others were cruel with their jokes and pranks. They would dress me up in ridiculous costumes and then laugh when the whole town began to make fun of me.”
“I thought you liked to make others laugh?”
“Not when they are laughing at me. I was nothing but a joke. A stupid, walking joke to be made fun of. ‘Don’t worry, she’s too ignorant to know we make fun of her. She thinks we like her and that she’s doing us a service’. I heard Rainbow Dash say that.”
“Why did you put up with it if you knew the truth?”
She is quiet again and a couple of tears drip from her muzzle as she is now leaning completely over in her chair and facing the floor. “I had never had friends before coming to Ponyville. I just wanted everyone to like me. I thought that if I just kept playing the part of the fool they would eventually stop making fun of me. I just wanted them to like me. That’s why it hurt so badly, Future Perfect.” She looks straight into my eyes, the watery graves of vision peering into me, begging me for help, for understanding. And I want to give it. I want to hold her and whisper into her ear that it was all alright … and then fuck her like the animal she is.
Her voice suddenly cracks again and her teeth snap shut, gritting tightly in a scowl as she lifts her head angrily. “That Rainbow Dash was the worst of them. Applejack was an ignorant hick, Rarity was a better-than-thou snob, and Fluttershy, always a doormat, wanted someone she could laugh at and feel better about herself, but Rainbow Dash, the cunt, was by far the worst of them. She had it all! She was the pride of Cloudsdale, an incredible athlete with her own fan club, and yet she still had to achieve her egotism by picking on someone trying so hard to please everyone.” Tears seem to painfully squeeze from her eyelids so tightly clenched and she is close to hyperventilating. “Fuck you, Rainbow Dash! You deserved everything you got, you bitch! I wish you were still alive so I could gut you again. All those finely toned muscles did nothing but fill my stomach and the bellies of everyone else in Ponyville! If only you were as strong as you thought … I’d still be finding ways to persecute you!”
The outburst was far more than I expected and I dared not interrupt but Pinkamena is now seething quietly and I feel that I can once again ask her questions. “What did she do to you, Ms. Pie?”
She seems to drift back into her mind again but she is left in the physical realm with a scowl and a distant look to her eyes that chills me deeply. Her voice is hollow when she speaks unblinkingly staring into the ceiling again. “She would find me alone and push me around. She saw me as the ultimate inferior being and that gave her the right to abuse me. ‘Hey Feeb, what are you doing? Making pies? Here’s a good one for you, a nice big mud pie. Now eat it. Eat it! Retard, you are going to eat it unless you want me to kick your ass again. That’s right. Now isn’t that better than … what the fuck is this? Cotton candy pies? You really are stupid, Pinkie. Why don’t you just go back to that stupid fucking rock farm you are always talking about. Your head is full of rocks, take them home already and stay there. When I come back I’m going to make you clean my shoes with your tongue.’ She wouldn’t do it in front of the others, I don’t know why, they all hated me …”
“So you killed her.”
“I’m not retarded. I never was. I just wanted them to accept me … how foolish I was. How naive to think anyone would like me.” Her tears stream down her cheeks and make pattering sounds upon the wafers that are her floorboards. “She … they … all deserved it.”
“Did you enjoy slicing Rainbow Dash apart while she begged you for forgiveness?”
Her head pops up and she wipes the tears from her eyes, a savage grin tearing across her face.”More than anyone else I have ever stripped, clipped, and killed, Rainbow Dash was the best. She wasn’t the first. I had to practice to make sure I knew what I was doing, but she was by far the best. I listened to her howls of pain and felt my thighs drip. I had her pleading for her life at the beginning and then pleading for death by the end. If only she wouldn’t have given up like the quitter she was. She showed her true colors in her final hours; a weak, pathetic quitter. Her heart gave out, both metaphorically and literally long before many others.” She looks at me with eyes that are far more evil than even King Sombra’s.
“So you wrought revenge on Rainbow Dash and Equestria for treating you so badly.”
“Yes … I wanted to make them pay. I wanted to swallow their suffering. I wanted to taste their fear.” Her tongue flicks out again and rolls across her lips. I can see several minor cuts along the prehensile appendage. It looks so soft, so tender, so pleasurable.
“And that’s why you turned to cannibalism?”
“It seemed fitting. Fear releases adrenaline into the bloodstream and it spurs the body into action but it also fills the meat full of a wonderful sweetness. Perhaps I began eating them to satisfy my longing for revenge. I not only was slaughtering them but desecrating their bodies as well. It is a fate worse than death. I let them know well before they died what I planned to do. I would carve little pieces of their flesh and meat free and let them sample it first, let them savor their own delicious sweetness. I would then eat small portions while I used my tools to break bones and draw them from the muscle, explore their organs, or just draw out their pain until it was so immense that they succumbed so fully to their fate that they simply gave up. Of course, I tried to wait until the very end to do that. The most fun part was making them eat parts of themselves, opening their stomach cavity, and making them ingest that same piece again.” She breaks to howl with laughter before continuing, “It only seemed right that something that tasted so good to me should be shared with my ‘friends’. I could pay them all back a little at a time until it was their turn to become the tasty treats everyone else was enjoying.”
My stomach lurched and I pushed the tray of brownies back a little further. “How did they not notice the difference?”
Sadistically, Ms. Pie smiled and leaned over the brownies, lifting one up directly in front of her mouth to lick it long and hard, gobs of icing bunching on her tongue as she swept it into her mouth with a satisfied moan of delight before responding. “They did. As I said, fear makes pony meat so sweet. I could blend it into a paste and pour it into almost anything as an ingredient. I mean, you didn’t notice anything wrong did you?” She takes a bite of the treat as she asks and my stomach twists so violently that I think I may throw up right here. I look harshly at her and begin to stand up when one side of her grin lifts higher than the other and she winks. “Gotcha, Mr. Perfect.”
I hate her little game. I can feel the rippling waves of nausea echoing throughout my torso and I can only stare angrily into her as she chews another piece of the brown brick. She finishes as I calm back down and she begins speaking again. “Do you want to know something sinister?” It’s almost like a trick question. Of course I don’t but I need it for the article and she would most likely tell me anyway.”Sugar Cube Corner’s sales increased by 84 percent while I was feeding them their friends. Like I said, it really adds a delicious flavor to the product.”
I can’t help but wonder if she’s messing with me or not; her demeanor is difficult to decipher. I watch her and wonder about the theory of split personalities as she has changed many times in her kinesics. I can’t help but feel pangs of guilt for the plan I am constructing for her. She is smiling almost foal-like and waiting for her next question but her cheeks are still wet from tears and her eyes glow with a tenacity that is simultaneously arousing and repulsive, a dangerous light hidden behind the abyssal blackness of her pupils.
“112 is quite a large figure. I would imagine that the majority of that number came from Ponyville and the wandering you did after your flight from Ponyville.”
She regards me as she nods. “About 87 came from that time period.”
“Based on the reported findings of your victims, the Royal Guard has only estimated your
body count at 26.”
“Then they haven’t found quite a lot of my victims have they?” She answered matter-of-factly.
I smirk at her and wonder if she has inflated the number for show again. “So where are the others?” She smiles and spreads her forelegs out, grinning a very toothy smirk. It takes a moment as I realize what she is referring to and I looks at the gingerbread walls again. “Here?” I suddenly remember wondering how baked goods could have the durability to stand upright.
“You don’t expect me to believe that the bodies of so many are baked into these walls, do you?” I ask, believing she is once again attempting her game with me. She seems offended, a great furrowing of her brows and scowling taking her features as she stood and retrieved a hammer before coming towards me with a malicious expression.
I leap to my hooves as she closes the distance supernaturally fast. I hear a loud cracking sound as the hammer makes contact with something and, for a second, I believe I have overstepped my boundaries and that pain is going to become my only emotion in the next beating of my heart. I clench my eyes but the pain doesn’t come.
“Stop acting like a colt and pen your eyes and look, Perfect!” She demands and I squeamishly open one eye. One of the peppermint legs of the chair I had been sitting in lay crumbled and broken across the floor. From what remained of the leg I could see the leg bones of a pony, complete with hoof arranged at the bottom and encased in peppermint. I gasp and take a few steps back, unable to believe what she has just revealed.
“This whole house is made from the bones of the dead?”
“I don’t just have skeletons in my closet, Mr. Perfect,” she giggles at her joke and I have to take a second to accept the horror. Everywhere I look I begin to see slight imperfections in the walls, places where various bones are arranged to support the confectionary construction. Here and there I can see cleverly concealed skulls coated in chocolate and the more I search, the more unobservant I feel as many skulls are interwoven with primary supports. It’s a harrowing experience, discovering you are in a mausoleum with a maniac, the catacombs of a killer. “I’ll have to repair this chair before it’s suitable for bearing weight again. How about we retire over there?”
I feel her touch and it is cold as she tugs me. I still haven’t recovered as the chocolate skulls blindly stare from each corner of the house. The lighting only helps to reveal them as the whole house is well lit with candles. It makes me wonder what has been rendered to create them. I know, but I won’t admit it.
“Sit down, Mr. Perfect. You are becoming an impolite guest.” I am pulled down to sit and find the furniture extremely soft and comfortable. I finally realize that I am now positioned on Pinkamena’s bed with the psychotic mare smiling amiably to me, our forelegs touching gently. She is cold to the touch and, though I am still recuperating from the shock, I find a sudden warmth in my groin. In some strange, terrible way the skulls excite me as I sit with the beautiful, insane mare. The dirty thoughts that had been pouring through my brain suddenly return and I regard the bed.
It is of similar peppermint stick design, concealing legs and spines, no doubt, with a single skull on the headboard directly above where one would lie there head. This one is a creamy white with swirling orange and green colors. The blanket is finely crafted and warm and many patterns adorn it in square patches about 8 inches wide and tall. Each of these patches have a … cutie mark in the center. I feel a rush of sickness in my gut but also a sudden, sick lust. Pinkamena smiles at me and I am certain she suspects that I am. “Ooh, Mr. perfect, what’s happening here? Are you suddenly uncomfortable? They are only replicas. The real ones fade and fall apart so easily. This way I can always keep them as a reminder.”
I am relieved on one level and yet, that lust is displeased. Yes, I plan to fuck Ms. Pie before I leave this night. That’s nothing new, I have taken advantage of many mares over the years who found my reputation arousing. Some of whom held high rank in this, and other, kingdoms. While princesses or queens hold a position of importance and adding them to my conquests only reaffirms my stature, I’ve never felt the kind of intensity that Pinkamena is giving me. I’ve often heard that death and sex have a definite link and I can now agree with that. Ms. Pie’s shifting emotions and tragic past are wreaking havoc upon my gentialia and the frequent disruptions as more and more terrifying, sick revelations are stumbled upon only seem to add to the arousal. While morality and ethics are raging within the back of my mind about sitting on what may or may not be the hides of victims on a bed made from their bones, that deeply rooted lust grows with each second and taking her right here on an altar of cannibalistic death becomes more rationalized. “You are lying, Pinkamena.”
She looks at me quizzically, as if something is amiss and she withdraws from me a few inches. “What do you mean?”
I sweep my hooves across the blanket and look back to her. “These aren’t replicas, are they?” The sinister smile spreads and I get my answer. Damn this article. I need more information before I can get what I really want.
“How do you get your victims now, Ms. Pie?”
“You can call me Pinkamena, Mr. Perfect. I always hated that name as a filly, but, when you say it, I kind of like it.” She moves closer and one of her hooves brush against my leg. There’s a new look dancing in her eyes, a look of wanton lust. She’s been leading me, I believe. This is one time that I don’t mind being led.
“Tell me about how you get your victims now, Pinkamena. I want to hear you tell me.” I need to hear it now.
She chuckles and recoils slightly, the fluttering of her eyes promising ecstasy. I will continue to write on autopilot for the enduring memory of what happens here. Our words being magically written down as they spill from our mouths. I want to read it later and remember the savagery of it all. “I have to trap them.”
“Trap them?”
“Yes. I have to find ways to lure them here, exploit some little chink in their armor. It’s not always easy but the reward is far more worth it when some stupid, blundering pony comes to my home against their better judgment.” She gives me a wry smile and I return it as she presses against me a little, her lithe body slipping up against mine as she shows those sublime teeth again, forming them into her creepy, seductive smile. I can’t help but think of the fools who fall for her trick and become her playthings.
“Ooh, I see. Would you like to tell me about it?” I’m obviously titillated by the mare and she is just as into me as she leans forward and presses her lips to mine.
“You are naughty, Mr. Perfect. Do you get turned on by what I do? Do you liked hearing about how I open up my victims while they are alive and harvest their organs before their wide, screaming eyes? That their misery makes me wet?”
I feel her tongue probing against my lips and I open my mouth for it gratefully. The soft organ frolicks back and forth across my lips, teeth, and tongue and I eagerly suck playfully on the pink, rolling muscle. She sucks back and I let my tongue slip into her mouth as my stallionhood grows fully erect and stands painfully, begging for the plunge into this conquest's body. My mind is frantic and as I roll with her onto her back, I can’t help but feel like a hero conquering a foul demon. Here, before me, is the most sadistic murderer in the history of Equestria and she is subjugating to me and my desires. If this doesn’t prove my greatness, nothing does.
She breaks the kiss and nibbles my ear a bit too hard, but the sudden warm spill of blood is so arousing that I don’t mind, I invite more. She speaks gently into my bleeding ear. “Hubris, Mr. Perfect.”
The words are odd, edged in a cold hilarity that I can’t place. I answer her, a bit displeased with this sudden question as my hooves and forelegs caress her cool body and my passion reaches heights it has never before been privileged to. “What, Pinkamena?”
“That’s how I lure them here, my dear. Their hubris; their overblown sense of ego. Pride cometh before a fall, Mr. Perfect, and you have been the most foolish of them all.” She gazes up at me with madness in her eyes, that wicked grin splitting her head in jagged teeth and malicious intent. Her embrace tightens and I can’t help but wonder …………
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Dear Canterlot Herald,
I am pleased to inform you that the star of the Equestrian media has written his last article. Beginning with the knife I slid into his spinal column just above his hips (Oh how his erection waned and fell flacidly to the side as his nerves ceased to transmit signals to that infected lump of feces he called a brain) and terminating in a wonderful batch of cupcakes, Future Perfect’s time here has ended. I will spare you the details but it has been a full 48 hours since he arrived in my home and his screams of persistent agony have only recently become naught but giddy memories dancing within my dreams. He, as much as I despised him, must be given credit for his endurance. Both mentally and physically, Future Perfect excelled at attempting to survive. His groveling pleas for mercy only abated when I devoured his tongue raw before his eyes.
I wish to thank you for employing and breeding such an arrogant fool so blinded by his own ego that he could not , as it is said, see the forest for the trees. It is not often that I get to play with someone so deserving the fate I gave him and reading this document that he has written only strengthens that conclusion. He was nearly as sick as you believe me to be. It did not take me long to understand the type of pony he was and discern what was the best bait with which to ensnare him. His egotistical pride and lust for power led him to want to dominate and control all around him. I know that he bullied his way around Canterlot under the influence of his enormous hubris and quickly read his intentions with me. To a stallion such as he, mares are naught but trophies, things to be mounted and occasionally bragged, or paraded, about during games of “who has the biggest penis”.
As a reward, I will grant to you some details of my past, to do with what you will, that the late Mr. Perfect asked.
I will be succinct as I care little for the desires of you mockeries of life infecting the world in which I live.
My victims were 112, now 113. I truly have built a new home from confectionary goods and the skeletons of those I have so mercilessly slaughtered. I admit to be the cause each and every one of their deaths and plan to increase that number exponentially before I am finished.
The “Massacre at Sugar Cube Corner” was a lie. Mr. Cake never went mad and crushed the life from his family; I did that for him, right in front of him, where he could see the life leave the eyes of his beloved wife and foals. He, unfortunately, died from a ruptured stomach after being forced to eat a variety of sugary treats containing a great deal of his family. It was a lot of fun to watch him slip into insanity as he consumed more and more of his foals and wife. By the end, he seemed to think that they were alive in his head and asking him to devour them so that they could always be together. He willingly ate himself to death in the basement of Sugar Cube Corner.
My friends never bullied me or made me feel unloved. There is nothing in this world but me that can truly give love and the idea that you shadows, you figments of my world, could ever arouse any emotion in me is perhaps the most hilarious thing I have ever considered. Do you really think you are real, like me? Do you not understand the facade that is the life I gave you in order to play this game? My “friends” meant no more to me than the excrement of a maggot, except as pieces on the board that is the game we play. Rainbow Dash was the first to fall due to her ignorance. The others are still alive because I have not decided the time is right to shelve their respective avatars yet.
My father never touched me or my sisters. Or did he? Am I crazy because of him? Am I crazy? I’m not the false one who believes themselves to be real.
Why do I kill? As I told the late Mr. Perfect, I do not murder. Murder implies that you are all living, thinking beings. You are not, therefore I am not a murderer. I am a butcher, a baker, a ponycake maker and you are my ingredients. The only difference between the other flavorings and you is that the others do not deign to believe they are anything more than food and do not scream in pain or beg for their useless lives when I begin preparing them for the feast. In a way, they are more noble than any of you have ever been.
What changed me from the fun-loving, prancing, practical joking, party pony to what I am now? That is perhaps the simplest question. Pinkie Pie did not become Pinkamena. Pinkie Pie never existed. I have always been the way I am but I used to have compassion for you worthless creatures. I hoped that you would one day transcend to become like me, that I might not be alone forever in this lightless world. I held back my disgust of you for years in an attempt to cure the dreadful loneliness that I feel. None of you understand what it is like to know, without a shadow of a doubt, that you are the only being in existence and that the walking farces that surround you are mere puppets, shadows, figments of your own imagination. Since none of you will ever become more than nothing, I have embraced the solitude that is my life and will exterminate you one by one until there are none left. If I am to be alone, I will not suffer you mockeries to pretend to live. I will kill and consume you all until there is nothing left and then I will, most likely, slit my own throat.
Until then, the game continues…
By the time you lies of life over at the Canterlot Herald discover this letter cleverly hidden beneath the final layer of wax paper at the bottom of the box (of three delicious layers!) of cupcakes attached to Mr. Perfect’s final confession of lust, pride, and power-hungry desire, you will have partaken of what soft tissue remained of Future Perfect. I hope he was as delicious to you as he was to me.
With warm regards,
Pinkamena Diane Pie
