Friday
28th of the 5th New Moon, 1021 Sol Solis
Dear Diary,
Future’s funeral was today and throngs of fans, business partners, and co-workers came to pay their respects to the memory of the greatest reporter Equestria has ever known. Or so they say, but I know why they really came: to make jest of the gulled widow of that amorous, foolish stallion. His diary was published unedited “to maintain the integrity of the horrendous act”. What filthy lies. I’ve known of Future’s gallivanting, carousing with other mares, and lust for control since the beginning and tolerated his foolish antics with mild annoyance until they came back to haunt me! I had always planned to use his indiscretions to my advantage in divorce court where I could paint him as the manipulative slime he was while simultaneously making myself the victimized, demure wife who had no idea of his true nature. Not that I thought it would come to that, but having a scapegoat is always preferable when dignity is on the line. They came to me with their false emotions blatant and obtuse as they wished me well and spoke kind words of my departed husband.
By my own hoof,
P.P.
Friday
28th of the 5th New Moon, 1021 Sol Solis
Dear Diary,
I must apologize. I was in a dreadful mood when I wrote those things about Future and his colleagues. In the heat of anger one forgets one’s sense of propriety. Future was a fine stallion. Those with whom he associated are upstanding gentlecolts and fillies, every one. I hope you will forgive me for any lack of grace or proper etiquette.
By my own hoof,
P.P.
Ms. Vocative Perfect
11 Flourbucket Lane
Ponyville
31st of the 5th N.M., 1021 SS
Dearest Vocative,
I am writing in regard to the unfortunate matter that concerns us both. As you are well aware, your father, in preparation for his noble effort to ferret out the vile Fiend of the Everfree, made known his wishes should he meet with ~~a bad end~~ destiny. It will console you to learn that the sum of 5,000 bits and one 5 carat ruby has been transferred to your Manehattan petty cash vault. An additional 500, the china heirloom set you fancied, and three autographed copies of Immortal Incest: The Secret Trysts of Celestia and Luna have been sent to the above address by standard post, due to arrive in four business days. As I deem this transaction settled, I will consider further inquiries to be an invasion of privacy and will respond with legal action. Should your sisters contact you challenging your portion of the estate, refer them to your solicitor as you see fit. Identical missives will be sent to them presently.
Signed,
Poignant Perfect
Ms. Poignant Perfect
1000 Matriarch Way
Flower District
Canterlot
5th of the 6th N.M., 1021 SS
Dear Ms. Poignant Perfect,
At the request of my council, I hereby acknowledge the payment in full of my inheritance as set forth in the documents registered by my father, Future Perfect (may the stars shine gently on his soul), in a timely and convenient manner. I understand that the house of the late Mr. Perfect (which he built with his own two hooves to shelter us all) and all that remains in it belongs to you. I too consider this transaction completed and will not pursue further legal action.
Yours,
Vocative Perfect
P.S. Mother, please do not think ill of me or my sisters. We loved Father passionately, as you did, and the reward he bestowed on us is a recognition of our devotion. Each time I gaze upon his fine bone china set, now mine, I remember his loving embrace. If you have a change of heart, the door of my home is open.
Mr. Creme Torte, Esquire
Chief Attorney
Torte, Cane, Cane and Swizzle
354 Bitsworth Ave.
Manehattan, Equestria
14th of the 6th N.M., 1021 SS
Dear Mr. Torte,
Following the closing of my fourth husband’s estate transactions, please transfer all cash bits to my Canterlot Central Bank account (number 4998326651, routing number 3334547). Please also arrange for the sale of my suites at The Stables residential towers and Riverfront Cloudiminiums, and forward all proceeds to the same. As I am permanently moving my residence to Canterlot, I will no longer require the Manehattan properties.
There is also the matter of bringing my late husband’s perfidious, sub-equine killer to justice. As the State is moving with all the speed of a crippled mule in apprehending her, I hereby formally request an indictment of Pinkamena Diane Pie (it pains me even to pen the abhorrent name). I trust there will be no trouble in obtaining a warrant. I will await your acknowledgment and processing of the documentation, and immediately give supplication in the Day Court thereafter, that a task force of Royal Guards might be granted to me to assist in the monster’s arrest. The Princess will hear the plight of a thrice-widower and be moved.
Cordially,
Poignant Perfect
Wednesday
3rd of the 7th New Moon, 1021 Sol Solis
Dear Diary,
A curse on this heat, a curse on this city, and a curse each for my blood-sucking daughters. I would call them Changelings, except it is not their mother’s love they leech, but her gold. At least the business concerning Vocative is done, though I expect Aporia and Phoneme have yet to do their worst. And why is the water warm? Blast it to Tartarus! Cannot a mare of means obtain for herself a cool drink when she wishes? Is the most affluent city in Equestria unable to support ice stores beyond the snowmelt? It’s the maid. Any more of her incompetence and it will be a new job I send her to fetch. The cretin.
She’s still out there, Diary. Snickering in her den of madness. Mark me, I’ll not have it. Here I am, a poor widower, suffering in this boiling city of debauchery and crime, innocent as the rain, and that harlot—that monster—is still free to plot her murders and bake her vile sweets. She took my Future from me, and so I will have my satisfaction upon her.
It grows red outside. The guard is out, lighting the lamps so the thieves and swindlers can better do their work. A curse on them all.
Our day of justice draws near, dearest Diary.
By my own hoof,
P.P.
Ms. Exquisite Starch
367 Softshoe St.
Fillydelphia
8th of the 7th N.M., 1021 SS
Dear Exquisite,
My word, how long has it been? I have not corresponded with you since the funeral, I believe. Firstly, let me thank you for the beautiful bouquet you brought for Future’s memorial stone. The violet reminded me of his eyes.
It’s been difficult without him. I know what you’re thinking, and you needn’t worry about that. I will not be nightwalking (imagine me flipping my tail at the studs from the alleyways at my age!) or begging for scraps at the patisseries. It’s the silence. Although Future was often abroad chasing the latest expose or blowing the whistle on corruption, when he was here at home with me, he talked. And oh the yarns he could spin! When I was down in the dumps it was the tale of the seasick sailors. When I was railing at him for his long absence, he’d tell the one about the Vanhoover orphanage being run by the orphans. Who could be angry after that?
And there’s her. You know of whom I speak. She took him from me. She took him, and mocked me with her lies! My Future wouldn’t so much as glance at something as dirty as her, let alone be lured to her bed to be—I will go no further. He was a good stallion, and noble. The craven wretch ambushed him in the Everfree and struck him down: that is all there is to the matter.
I meant what I said at the ceremony, Exquisite. She belongs in the Dungeons. Just today I received word that the lawyers have posted the indictment letter at the edge of the Everfree, and had several copies air dropped within by pegasus courier. I do so wish they were bombarding her with something harder than paper! But I digress. I’ll not wait for the warrant to be presented to the Guard. Before the ink is dry on this page, I will be on my way to the Day Court to make my plea before Celestia herself. If there is any righteousness in her, she will not hesitate to lend me a band of her elite warriors to capture the beast, by force if necessary.
Always your sister,
Poignant
Ms. Poignant Perfect
1000 Matriarch Way
Flower District
Canterlot
12th of the 7th N.M., 1021 SS
Dear Poignant,
You poor thing! Why don’t you take the morning train to Fillydelphia and spend the weekend with us? We’ll unearth a bottle or two of our homemade cherry wine from the cellar and drink to Future, may he find Elysium warm and bright. I’ll fire up the oven too and make us all a proper dinner. How does that sound? Much better than a slog through a muddy forest. Yuck! Think of the skunkweed. Think of the wet who-knows-what squelching on your hooves, dear. That murk doesn’t come out of the coat easily. We’d prefer to see you clean and well-fed.
Lovingly yours,
Exquisite Starch
Tuesday
16th of the 7th New Moon, 1021 Sol Solis
Dear Diary,
I have never felt such outrage! If I had not been in the Day Court itself, surrounded by Guards and the Princesses themselves, I would have, oh, I don’t know. I would have pulled down their tapestries and smashed their pretty little trinkets to bits.
They refused me! They denied a poor, helpless widow her day of justice. As soon as I saw her face, that self-righteous deviant standing beside her stunted minion of a sister, I knew my plea would fall on deaf ears. And I know why. They all but said it. It was because of what honest, noble Future wrote. They are supposed to be impartial; above the pettiness and extravagances of mortal ponies. But even they could not countenance the facts of their—I shall not say diseased (they are Royals after all)—their esoteric dealings being aired for public digestion.
The dark one was silent the whole time. Probably daydreaming about her sister’s backside. Disgusting.
There is more than one way to peel a potato. I will have my satisfaction. If the Princesses are content to let a murderess roam free, then Canterlot itself will act. The Council, at least, cares for the welfare of Equestria’s citizens.
When the time comes, part of me hopes she resists. She used treachery to deceive her victims, but there will be no conniving with cold, hard steel. Just imagine her, spitted on a Royal Guard’s spear, writhing and begging for mercy the like of which she never gave. Red would be an excellent color for her.
By my own hoof,
P.P.
Canterlot City Council
5000 Avenue of the Sun
Demesnes of the Keep
Outer Wall
Canterlot
17th of the 7th N.M., 1021 SS
To Whom It May Concern,
My name is Poignant Perfect, widow of the late Future Perfect, the champion reporter of the Canterlot Herald. I am writing to request the aid of the City in capturing his killer, the infamous seductress and psychopath Pinkamena Diane Pie. In particular, I demand the services of no less than twelve warriors of the Royal Guard: seasoned veterans who will not balk at the grim details of the criminal’s habits. This is to be done for the public benefit, and will not be understood to incur any expense for which I will be liable.
I wish to make clear my intense dissatisfaction that the Princesses have refused to help. They are neglecting their duties in pursuit of their private, special interests, which my late husband fought so valiantly to bring to light. Although I have made so bold as to send them a final appeal, I do not pretend to hope that they will reconsider.
And so I turn to you. I remind you of your own duty to serve and protect the residents of Canterlot, and that of the Guard to defend Equestria from its enemies. I have no need to convince you, I’m sure, that Pie is the enemy of the entire Kingdom, and deserves permanent incarceration in the Dungeons at the very least.
I await your response. I will be available to assist your designated squad in any way that would be beneficial.
Sincerely,
Poignant Perfect
Ms. Poignant Perfect
1000 Matriarch Way
Flower District
Canterlot
22nd of the 7th N.M., 1021 SS
Sister,
I’m hearing the most worrisome rumors. I beg you, abandon this mad quest. Remember what Mother taught us: revenge is a dish best not served at all. You have done well. Owing to your wise selection of sentimental old stallions, you can afford to live in ease and comfort for the rest of your days. Not all can, I assure you. Not that I’m jealous, of course. We each have our path to tread.
Future was a catch, do not misunderstand. Handsome, famous and deliciously wealthy. A real racehorse to bet the bank on. And look at the purse he won you! But the ride is over, dear. Time to stir the pot in steaming Canterlot and see what bubbles to the surface.
He can’t be the only colt there with a deft, mighty pen.
Lovingly yours,
Exquisite Starch
My Dearest Sister, Luna,
Due to our alternating schedules, I am leaving this note by your bedside (I know how grumpy you get after such an exhilarating evening) with great elation. This afternoon I received a letter of some importance from a very special pony. To our mutual enjoyment, the author was none other than the widow of that repugnant slanderer Future Perfect. Poignant (such an elegant name for a mundane, classless pony) asked again for our royal aid in the search and capture of the vicious slayer of her husband. You recall, as keenly as I do, the backlash of Future’s article of our close familial bond, and recollect vividly the scandal, parade of litigation experts, and immense monetary (and physical) cost associated with the excessive (yet pleasurable) wagging of your silky tongue. It is only now, after what seems like years, that I may enter your chambers without questioning or scornful eyes following. How many evenings have we lost to never regain, my dear? Perhaps it is petty obstinance or even a vindictive side of myself that I did not know burdened my heart, but I have gleefully dismissed the request.
Is it wrong to harbor such latent feelings of aggression towards the dead? The lives of our subjects are so short compared to our own that it seems that in the blink of an eye our most loyal retainers are replaced with a new line of recruits. Because of this mortality I realize that leaving a lasting memory or legacy is of great importance to them; they do not wish to simply die and be forgotten. Still, the audacity that Future Perfect exhibited in guile and trickery to pry our royal needs from your gentle lips and display them for all of our loyal subjects to see has left such a sour taste with me that I fervently enjoyed crumpling the request for aid from his wife. I can still see its ashes, in the hearth, I think. The problems that Pinkamena have caused this kingdom, for me at least, are forgiven with the eradication (and hopefully live dissection) of Future Perfect.
With any luck, Poignant Perfect will meet a fate as dark as his.
Love, Celestia
P.S.-- Despite how quickly years pass for us, the time we had that little tiff and you relocated to the moon was very difficult for me. Mortal ponies simply do not have the energy or time to truly appreciate how to serve a Princess. I do NOT want to be without you again even if you can’t keep your mouth shut.
Dear Diary,
She broke my ribs last night, while I was paying her that odd respect she always demands. I showed her where they were, and she broke every single one. I tried to help her, to press her hoof in so the ragged bone could tear my lungs, but by then I was too weak. I love it when she makes of my neck a fountain, and bathes in the spray until her coat is rose red. But it makes me passing weak, and I can no longer help her. Help her crush Luna. Help her burn Luna. Help her thrash Luna against the walls.
There was a meeting in court yesterday. Or perhaps it was last week. I can no longer tell and care not. Some wild-eyed mare Sister spoke of in a note some time ago. I cannot recall her name. They are all so earnest, the mortals, thinking nothing of the death that awaits them all. There will be no death for Luna. Not like theirs.
I awoke late this morning, groggy and healed as always. Sister’s touch can be gentle when she wishes. I have never been so ~~happy~~ ~~content~~. To think, for centuries I dreamt of her giving me what I truly deserve, and here I am now in her castle, receiving her raging vengeance every night. I can think of nothing, and want nothing but that look of ecstasy on her face, the one I see every time I pass out from the correction her crushing hooves dispense.
I hope she kills me soon so I can suffer in Tartarus where I belong.
~Luna
Mr. Poignant Prefects
1000 Matriarch Way
Flower District
Canterlot
From the Office of the Secretary of City Affairs
Dear Mr. Prefects
On behalf of Pig Barrel, Officer of Peacekeeping, we regret to inform you that your request for 5 Royal Guards has been declined. The request was deemed to neither hoof-shake nor align splendidly with the interests of Canterlot City at this time. If you wish to take further action, please send a formal inquiry to the Royal Court Administrator for consideration for an audience with Her Royal Highness Princess Celestia.
Be advised, however, that a Royal consultation has already taken place. Another request for appeal will not be reviewed for another 120 business days.
Her Will Be Done.
Best wishes,
Eye Candy
Assistant to the Officer of Peacekeeping
Monday
29th of the 7th New Moon, 1021 Sol Solis
Dear Diary,
Sometimes a mare must resort to desperate measures. None would help. None would hear the plea for justice. None would aid me in my time of need. I had no recourse. I’m not a bad mare, am I, Diary? She’s a killer, and she will kill again if she is not stopped.
Ponies are all the same. Quid pro quo.
I must say, it was not all bad. I found two who had been away training on Canterlot Mountain for far too long, starved for a mare’s affections. I took them both on the same night, and would have at the same time if there had been a need. They were so hungry for it.
I will do anything to put an end to the miserable harlot. And now I have exactly what I need.
By my own hoof,
P.P.
Sir Imperative Mood and the Lady Irrealis
6100 Los Pegasus Boulevard
Crown District
Canterlot
30th of the 7th New Moon, 1021 Sol Solis
Dear Sir Knight and Lady,
It is my sincerest wish that you both are able to find some measure of solace, even in these dark days. I am writing to speed you toward that end. I am about to embark on a quest to apprehend our vile enemy and see her punished for her misdeeds. I have procured the services of two worthies of Canterlot Mountain Barracks. Together on the morrow we shall penetrate the darkness of the Everfree Forest like a ray of starlight and search out the viper’s nest. With Justice and Right on our side, we shall return with her in shackles.
I will gain vengeance for your son, my beloved husband, so that posterity might honor him as the cause of the Butcher’s downfall.
With kindest regards,
Poignant Perfect
From the Desk of Pen E. Pilcher, Defense Attorney
3120 Vandercolt Street
Crown District
Canterlot
Dear Lunk-headed Mule,
What did I tell you the last time we spoke about Future Perfect’s wife’s claim on personal property? I understand that an enchanted journal that transcribes thoughts is a valuable asset to the Canterlot Herald but your inability, or stupidity, to not grant Poignant Perfect the item is not only theft by the newspaper, and punishable by sizeable fines, but has allowed a secondary civil suit for damages to be filed with the magistrates. Instead of simply cutting your losses and losing an enchanted diary, you will also lose tens of thousands of bits unless you stop interfering with my job as your lawyer and settle with Poignant!
I am offering the journal and a hefty sum of bits in the hopes that this does not drag out any longer than it already has and costs your company, you, and myself anymore embarrassment. If you drag your hooves this time, I will not continue to represent you in this case and further losses without me are sure to be excessive.
Signed,
P. Pilcher
JOURNAL OF THE APPREHENSION OF PINKAMENA DIANE PIE
Entry 1
Is this working? Yes, it is! Excellent. Even now my darling Future provides for me. I will do my utmost to keep my thoughts organized. I want this account to document the capture of the fiend in perfect detail, so that afterward I and any who might wish to know of her final defeat and ruin may relive the moment. I, for one, will cherish it. Perhaps it will do as a last tribute to Future: a final chapter for the Herald to print to the public. Let them read and rejoice. Let them celebrate the downfall of the vile murderess.
We are passing the treeline that marks the edge of the Everfree. I confess I felt a shiver, a thrill of fear, or perhaps anticipation. It is easy to see that no pony’s hoof has touched these miserable boughs. The trunks and limbs are gnarled and twisted, heavy with vines and frantic with flies. The birds flee from us wild and quick. I find it all repulsive. Truly a monster makes its home here.
The Guards, Sturdy Haft and Brass Buckler, do not seem impressed. I walk between them, safe behind living walls of armor and muscle. Brass gave the ugly trees a snort and not a moment’s thought, the brave lad. Celestia knows what deprivations they’ve endured in their training. The harlot is cunning. The harlot is sly. But a warrior she is not.
Yes, this book is a gift, brought to me by fate. It is fitting that Future’s last writ will be the tool of her defamation. My darling Future. The hard red stain that mars the bottom corner is a reminder of why we are here. She will pay.
Entry 2
It grows cool. The light is failing quickly here below the over-reaching pines, so I do not have much time to write. We are not to catch her this night, for Sturdy has hatched a plan. Find her house—the candy one of which Future wrote—find it first, spy out her comings and goings, then seize her by surprise. And if she remains hidden in her den of filth, then we are to break in her doors and trap her. It is a simple plan, but one that leaves no room for escape or trickery.
They are good colts, bonding over the lady they are protecting like schoolyard pals, glad to have a role to play. That is the way of stallions and soldiers.They are sitting with their broad backs to me, watching the undergrowth for movement. They know as well as I the danger of an ambush, because that is how the coward does her hateful work.
I will describe these two heroes for you, reader. Surely you will wish to know more about the character of the ones who were horse enough to put their own lives in peril to answer the plea of a mare whom the high and mighty have forgotten. I had occasion to speak with them before we embarked, so let me share their stories with you so that they may be immortalized.
Sturdy hails from a family of straw farmers (which would explain his indomitable strength), owners of vast acres in the sun-scorched valleys between Appleloosa and the Macintosh Hills. The eldest of eleven brothers and sisters, he could have chosen to succeed his father as head of the family and run the business. Who wouldn’t want that, reader? Who wouldn’t take the fortune that fate had granted; the wealth, the power and the prestige?
Sturdy Haft, that’s who. It was out of a sense of duty—a feeling of responsibility that no doubt came from his upbringing as the older brother—that he left the farm to his kin and made the journey to Canterlot to enlist as a Royal Guard. He has kept the peace through the Changeling invasion, the escape of Cerberus, Tirek’s reign of terror and more.
And so his sacrifice continues. His lovely wife Strawberry Star and daughter Golden Fleece are waiting for him with bated breath back at the barracks. Be sure to pay them a visit, reader, when this business is done, and do them the honor they deserve.
Brass Buckler’s is a different tale. He is a career soldier, bred for defending the honor and interests of Equestria. Like his father, and his father before him, and his father before him, he has borne the shield of honor for his country, scarred but unbroken. For twenty years he has trained in the shadow of Canterlot Mountain, suffering bone-chilling cold, roaring winds, and drills that would exhaust the stoutest gryphon. He has no family, but never fear, reader. One can still honor him. When we return in triumph, perhaps a parade is in order, or at least an arch of flowers in memorial to his service?
As for their quarry, how should she be greeted when the victors deliver her to the Dungeon keepers? What was it she said in her note, the one she left when she returned this very journal in her arrogance? ‘Murder implies that you are all living, thinking beings. You are not, therefore I am not a murderer.’ You see the madness, reader. One such as she cannot comprehend what it means to live; to have a family and a history such as these noble stallions. She does not belong in Equestria, or anywhere else in the world. We press onward to see her chained, tried, and punished to the extremes of the law. Greet her with a noose.
Entry 3
I know I shouldn’t be afraid, reader, but I am. Sturdy and Brass say we will reach the cabin by midday. There is cause for trepidation when one knows for certain that there will be a conflict, is there not? Heaven knows what we will find. I imagine her lair to be like a morbid carnival fun house; a crypt mocked up as a child’s sweet treat to disrespect her victims. No doubt she has built new wings to her grim abode, having a fresh supply of bones and flesh owing to the cowardice of the authorities and the petulance of the Princesses, who would rather cavort in shame than protect their people. Curse them all.
I am sick of the heat.
Entry 4
We have found the blackened heart of this miserable place. Except, faithful reader, that it is not black, but the pale beige of gingerbread, washed in glaze. It is as if a giant filly had glued together a candy house—gumdrops, sour jellies, candy canes—all of the sweet delights of childhood, and dropped it into the middle of the forest. It is the most hideous thing I have ever laid eyes upon.
It is no larger than when Future saw it, bless his soul. It seems the hour of devilry has passed for the Butcher of Ponyville. Or perhaps she has fled, terrified by the torrent of indictment letters I rained on her, terrified that justice was coming for her at last! Or maybe, praise Celestia if we should be so lucky, maybe she has turned the knife on herself. That would be a fitting end to her. The high road to Tartarus.
My stars the door is opening. I see her! I see the fiend! Reader I assure you it is taking all of my strength not to leap from these bushes and assault her. Words escape me. I cannot describe how much I hate ...
She is carrying something … a sack as of flour or wheat, whistling a merry lilt like she was off to the grocery to buy her breakfast oats. Except that … I saw it even from here, I’m certain. Yes, it’s moving. Something within the bag is squirming to break free. The monster has trapped an animal, and is off to slaughter it in lieu of the ponies she can no longer snare.
She’s coming this way, the ant wandering straight into the spider’s funnel. It is fate! Brass has already circled around under the brush. Soon he will spring with his rope, ready to bind her, muzzle and limb. Sturdy is crouched with his spear behind a boulder just ahead of me. He waits for the signal from Brass.
The hour is upon us! And here am I, reader, able to see history as it is wrought by these brave ...
She spoke! We are found out! How could she have known?
“Hi there!” she called, I think to Sturdy. She is standing there on her hind legs midway between where the two stallions are hiding, squeezing the struggling sack to her shoulder. Now I can hear a muted voice coming from inside. A child!
Sturdy has come out to face her. He’s already taking control of the situation, the polished steel tip of his spear less than two paces from the monster’s throat. “Stay where you are, release your prisoner, and lay down on the ground. In the name of the ponies of Equestria we are here to arrest you for serial equicide, cannibalism, foalnapping, failure to respond to summons, disharmonic conduct, and thirty-seven other crimes against the Kingdom, equinity and the common good. Yield.”
Brass has leapt from the bushes. “You’re surrounded,” he is saying, inching forward with his rope and proud shield, “so you best come easy. Like a field mouse, you contemptible nag.”
“The ponies of Equestria? Aren’t I a pony of Equestria?” The filth is playing innocent. She has the supreme audacity to put herself on a level with real ponies. Decent ponies.
“We ask the questions! I commanded you to release your prisoner. Now comply, or we will use force!” That’s right Sturdy! Her time has come.
Yet there she stands, smiling like the gregarious baker she deceived us into believing she was, her cruelty betrayed by the pointy, filed teeth that disfigure her grin. One can hardly expect a creature of this degree of depravity to have any concept of life or death, or even her own mortality. And so she waits in the shifting shade of the trees, utterly beaten, utterly unrepentant. The forest has gone silent.
“If you say so,” she says, and unwinds the drawstring from the sack. She reaches in and pulls out a shivering, white-coated filly with the crook of her elbow.
“Daddy!” she screams, reaching for Sturdy. The vile harlot cuts off her cries with her foreleg.
“You ever nibble your daughter’s ears, Sturdy? Cause I have, and wow are they scrumptious!”
Reader … I … this is more than I can bear. The child’s ears are shredded to bits. This is a dark development, to be sure, but I have no doubt that ...
“I’ll make you a deal. I bet your ingredients taste just as sweet as hers, and you’ve got, like, ten times as much!”
She reaches back into the bag and pulls out a wicker picnic basket. Brass, where are you? Take her while she is distracted! Do something!
“Fill this up, and I’ll let her go. But keep up the fearless leader long arm of the law act, and …”
She is rubbing the child’s belly, like she’s testing a fruit for rot.
“I’ll just have to make due with what little your daughter has to offer.”
Say something Sturdy! Use your spear! You have an excuse. You can strike her down before … What are you doing? Turn your spear around!
“Close your eyes, pumpkin. Can you do that for daddy? Please?”
No! Stop crying! Don’t give up! Don’t let her win! What are you doing?
“No, daddy, I don’t wanna close my eyes! I wanna go with you.”
Too fast! I can’t catch everything. She’s … biting into poor Golden … slurping around her squirming shoulder … oh stars I see the teeth going in.
“Stop! Stop it. Please. I’m sorry, sweetie. I’m so sorry. Daddy’s gotta …”
What is he doing? He’s turned away I can’t see. He’s doing something to his stomach. There’s … there’s blood! Golden Fleece is screaming, “Daddy! Stop Daddy!”
I can hear Sturdy’s teeth grinding, stifling his groans. Brass is shouting ‘No! No!’
The fiend is talking, her mouth a black mess. “Geez Louise this is taking way too long. Hey, you, Brassy. Get over there and help your compadre dig out the good stuff. You know, the sweetmeats. Or is it the sweetbreads? Whatever. You get the picture.”
Brass is lunging at her with the rope! But the vile mare has stepped to the side, and now has Golden Fleece’s neck twisted to the breaking point. The brave filly is kicking. Even at the point of a gruesome demise she is her father’s daughter, the poor, sweet kitten.
“Let me go! Let me go! Daddy needs help!”
Sturdy groans mightily behind them. Something red and soft plops into the basket. It was a fruit, no doubt. There’s a breeze. The tree branches are sighing, and one dropped a fruit. An overripe apple, nothing more.
Brass saw it too. There is doubt in his eyes, reader, but he is not yet vanquished. He has faced down worse than this. He has served his Kingdom with unwavering bravery for years, and not even …
“I swear by Celestia, if you harm the filly any further, I’ll …”
“Celestia? You wanna know what Celestia’s doing right now, Brassy? Do ya? Right now she’s got her sparkly golden shoe rammed so far down Luna’s throat she could hoof-bump the Tantabus, and Luna’s gurgling for more. They would clap and throw bits at me if I snap this little tyke’s candy cane, same as they would for you if you string me up. They don’t care. They don’t care because I harvested them years ago. I made them sing every day and every night for months. Endless fun, alicorns. Now come on!”
This has descended into absurdity. She is far more diseased than anypony realized, unable to see the contradictions in her own babbling. Brass, you pick up your shield and your rope this instant and … No! Get away from Sturdy! He’s … he’s put his hooves inside … there’s a hole in Sturdy and Brass is helping him tear out … tear ...
“C’mon Brassy! You’re not gonna see anything from out there. Get your snoot in the loot!”
She’s pushed Brass’s head inside and he’s scrambling to rip the hole bigger because he’s smothering and Sturdy’s roaring and tearing at himself and Golden is crying for daddy to stop and and the sky has turned red it’s sunset already …
“Ah ah ah! No cheating!”
… it’s sunset already? She’s picked up the spear she’s skewered them oh stars I failed no way to save them I must get away she’ll murder me but Golden is still fighting. I can rescue her, but how? I could throw a stone, distract …
“... and I thought the Cake twins were loud! You want your daddy, don’t cha? What’s a matter? Aunt Pinkie’s no fun? I know! Let’s play pin the pony on the pony!”
She’s going to die she knows she’s going to die her white velvet chest is bulging outward the head of the spear is blossoming like a magic red rose slipping out of its bud she’s crying mommy mommy mommy mommy ...
“Hey kiddo! Ya like balloons?”
She … she’s giggling. Giggling in the poor sweet filly’s face as she slides her back to back with her father.
Celestia help me … I can’t look anymore. I don’t want to see it anymore …
But I still see them, even with my eyes closed, tripping over themselves, Brass limp with his face inside, Sturdy pawing at his back trying to save … what was that?
She’s here. I can tell by how the sound of the forest is shadowed in front of me. I don’t want to look at her. I don’t want to look. I ...
I’ve opened my eyes. She’s here in front of me, smiling in a way that would make me smile too if we were in her shop, in the quiet, joyful Ponyville that I think existed once. If her chin weren’t caked with rust, and the pink of her hide wasn’t scored with the deeper reds of scars of her design. Her eyes are taking me in so I … no longer have to pretend I can’t see poor, poor Sturdy and Brass and Golden Fleece, lurching like some awkward twelve-legged beast dripping red drool all over the meadow. Their screams have become like the roar of a machine the fall of water over a dam the last tortured note drawn out far too long from the snapping strings of a fainting symphony I’m ...
Everything is red. Horrid, horrid red. It is the sun that has fallen below the trees, and the blood that makes it so.
“Do you know my name?”
Her voice is soft. I think she’s trying not to frighten me.
“Yes, you filthy harlot! You monster! Every pony knows you. You are the Butcher. The Baker. The Ponycake Maker!”
“Yeah, yeah. The Fiend of the Everfree. The Ponyville Cannibal. The Disgrace of Canterlot. My name. Do you know my name? Say it.”
Her name her cursed name I hate she’ll murder me if I don’t ...
“Your name is Pinkamena Diane Pie, and you murdered my husband! You took my Future away, and ... and ... I’ll see you chained in the deepest pit in Tartarus, you animal!”
“Nice try. I’ll give ya half credit. Future, was it? Future Perfect was your hubby? What a blast he was! Top notch goodies. His colon made a great chocolate dispenser. Almost as good as his mouth was at spewing horsey squirts when he was alive and kickin’. Well, I guess he kept yapping even after he stopped kicking, what with my knife through his spine. All sorts of promises and reasons. I’d say he had a silver tongue, but it was more of an orange-red, like a plump, juicy persimmon. All the way down to the roots. Isn’t it funny how tongues have roots? I planted it hoping it would grow a tongue tree, but no luck. Go figure.”
I should spit in her face for saying such things about my Future. It is wrong to mock the dead. And yet … were there not times when he’d come home reeking of another mare that I’d dream of … I shan’t think it.
She is next to me now, pulling at my foreleg, bidding me to stand. I obey, fearing her infamous strength. I am going to die, reader, but I will try to continue so that my final moments might stir pity in your heart, and contempt for the monster such that you cannot but take up the fight, and succeed where I failed.
“There you go, easy now. I’m not gonna hurt ya. Perfect you say. Is that what you’re calling yourself nowadays? I’ve always wondered, what is ‘perfect’?”
I take a long moment to brush off my skirt. My sun hat has slipped; I must right it. I will have dignity in my last hour.
“It means devoid of flaws. You of all ponies would never understand the concept.”
“Oh. OK. So then, who decides what the flaws are?”
Should I answer her? Should I carry on this conversation with a mad mare? Yes. While there is hope, while there is still a chance some wandering woodspony will happen upon us and bury his axe in her skull. There is still a chance ...
“We decide. We all agree, and that’s what makes it true. That's what makes it real. What I perceive is real. I think, therefore I am, and you and everypony else for all I know are but dreams. Ghosts in my head.”
She smiles at this, as if I were a yearling filly caught with her hoof stuck in the cookie jar.
“Nuh-uh, Ms. Perfect. The clog in my noggin is steering this toboggan.”
She has drawn close. Her greasy hair is against my cheek, and my every breath is of sugar. Now she is going to kill me.
“With those perfect thoughts of yours, you’d think you’d be able to imagine somepony with a view clearer than your own; to admit of a stronger will, a more faithful reflection of the train wreck, one whose perception shoves little you into the corner, and not the other way around.”
Her mouth splits wide, revealing those teeth misshapened for shredding coats and cutting meat. I dare not look down into the blackness of her throat, for if I do I will put my neck between the cruel jaws and have it over and done. I look instead into her eyes, and cry out. Their white-blue shade pushes me away.
She sighs, and her smile fades. “If it weren’t for the ghosties you dream up every day, how would you know who you are?”
Her eyes are an exit. Nothing can get in. I can’t read her feelings or her thoughts. I can’t understand. And I hate how much they are like my own. She is dirt. She is nothing like me. I hate her.
“Can you be sure you’re not the fantasy? How do you know you’re not just an illusion with delusions? The steaming center of some other mare’s lava cake? The delicious sweet heart of somepony else’s daydreams?”
She sweeps a hoof at her house of flesh and candy, at the reddened sky flashing heat lightning in the twilight, at the thousands of eyes strewn like stars in the buzzing darkness of the forest.
“I did all of this for you. I need you. I wish ...”
Her hoof glides up to my chin and turns my face. We stand embracing, cheek-to-cheek, watching the three suffering ponies I have doomed.
“So what do you think?”
What do I think? I think, therefore I … think.
I
Freedom … freedom … freedom … freedom …
take take me yes Yes!
blood
Ms. Poignant Perfect
Canterlot General Hospital
Intensive Care and Recovery Unit
Room 214
Oh my poor, brave sister! May Celestia speed you on your path back to vim and vigor. I was so worried when I got word that you’d decided to go ahead with your expedition—against my advice, I can’t help but remind you—that I almost almost charged out into the Everfree Forest myself! Had a lunch packed and everything. Clover loaf with sesame seeds. You know me. But what could an old laundry mare hope to accomplish that two of the finest Royal Guards could not, may the stars give them rest?
You’ll find the diary that you requested (not to worry, I couldn’t read your chicken scratch even if I wanted to), and the magic journal that recorded your time of travail in the Everfree, accompanying this letter. If they are missing, please notify the hospital staff. I also sent what’s left of my clover loaf (forgive an old mare her weaknesses!) and a jelly donut for dessert. The nurse said it was alright, but do mind the powder and filling.
Get well soon!
Love,
Exquisite
Dear Diary,
It is Saturday. That is what the calendar above my headrest says. Saturday. The New Moon has passed. August.
I can’t recall anything before laying eyes on that hateful house. I wish I knew the fate of Sturdy, Brass and - was there somepony else? The hospital staff don’t know or won’t tell me. Most of what the journal recorded is unbearable, and so I avoid it and remain willfully ignorant of what transpired. I begin to fear the worst. The final entry—the only one I can bring myself to read—gives but the barest clue:
Entry 5
I failed I failed I failed
I ran. Ran like filly from a snake. There was so much … too much blood and the filly was screaming. Her father … Sturdy … was still screaming.
A filly? I must have run and found somewhere to hide after I—
Darkness tends to be forgotten. Indeed, it deserves to be so. I must concentrate now on the positives in life, on putting one hoof in front of the other. That is how we live. I pray that I never remember.
Ms. Poignant Perfect
Canterlot General Hospital
Intensive Care and Recovery Unit
Room 214
6th of the 8th N.M., 1021 SS
My Dear Poignant,
Warmest greetings from all here at Valediction Estate: myself, Irrealis, and all the staff. This old grandfather’s heart swelled with pride when we received your letter describing your noble quest to restore honor to Future’s name.
I hope you find some comfort in the care package we have sent. A bit of vintage perfume, a stirring new history of the Great Gryphon Quarrel of 693 to pass the time, and a photo of Future as a young colt. He was a dapper lad, was he not? A father’s joy. He made us all proud.
As have you. When you feel well enough, please call on us whenever you wish; morning, afternoon or evening. We look forward to reclining with you beside our hearth, to recount together our fond memories of Future, and to grieve as we all so sorely need to grieve.
With love,
Sir Imperative Mood
Dear Diary
Something strange. I felt something.
It was when she ran her hooftip down my spine, to the base of my tail like Future would of a drunken night, and pulled me tight against her heat. The heat of her face and her chest and her paunch and her limp, tangled mane. She is indeed as strong as the stories tell.
I felt something. When she opened her vicious mouth as if to kiss me or swallow me whole. When I heard the click of her tongue separating from the back of her throat. When her icy dead half-moon eyes drew close—
Who wouldn’t feel something, so near such an engine, its pump hammering heat into me and into the air around me. I looked away, away from the depths of her gullet between those wolvish fangs, and could smell the mix of sugar and carrion on her hot breath that belied her unwholesome diet.
Her eyes were exactly like mine. Is that why my Future faltered?
Who wouldn’t feel something?
Ms. Exquisite Starch
367 Softshoe St.
Fillydelphia
26th of the 8th N.M., 1021 SS
My Dear Exquisite,
Again I must thank you for remembering me in my time of need. I have done well over the past two weeks, and am very much myself. I feel that the events of the recent past are behind me. I promise that I shall take heed of your counsel and abandon my all too perilous quest for revenge. This mare’s days as a vigilante are over!
Tomorrow the doctor is granting me leave to return home. I am still to convalesce in solitude, so I’m afraid a visit will unfortunately have to be postponed. Not that I wouldn’t be delighted to see your face, but I’m told that an excess of social stimulation might bring on an episode.
Let us plan for a picnic in a month’s time, if your schedule will allow it. In the meantime, please address future correspondence to my Canterlot residence.
Always your sister,
Poignant
P.S. And please do write often! A mare feels lonesome with naught but her ninny servants in the White City.
Canterlot General Hospital
Physician’s Report
5th of the 8th N.M., 1021 SS
Confidential: to be viewed by full staff members of CGH only, excepting court summons and Royal decree.
Physician in Charge: Triage Trickle, M.D.
Specialization of Physician in Charge (omit if none): PFP
Patient Name: Perfect, Poignant
Patient Gender: Female
Patient Current Residence: Canterlot
Patient DOB: 1st of the 11th N. M., 978
Patient Marital Status: Widow
Race: Earth Pony
Coat Color: Rose
Mane/Tail Color: Champagne (rose) with goldtone streak
Eye Color: Clear Blue
Cutie Mark: Statuette
Patient Height: 1.43 Horns (standard Royal units)
Patient Weight: 3.2 deciCel (standard Royal units)
Patient known illnesses/conditions and corrective measures: Rheumatoid arthritis (hocks, front and rear): bi-monthly poultice (salveberry); stomach ulcer: ginger-root infusion, magic-enhanced, thrice daily; chronic migraines: sensory deprivation, 1 hour daily.
Patient Known Allergies/Medicinal Reactions: Thistlebalm ointment results in weeping pustules; avoid application in sensitive areas. Excessive sucrose aggravates noted peptic ulcer. Dust.
Reason for Last Visit: Urinary tract infection.
Reason for Hospitalization: Patient was found in a semi-catatonic state after unknown period of exposure in the Everfree Forest. Possible witness to multiple equicide. Blood antigen tests of samples found on patient’s clothing and coat were not a match for her type. Tests indicated samples are of equine origin: three individuals. Patient referred for PFP examination and analysis in anticipation of future legal hearings.
Findings of Examination: Patient response to images of known carnivorous forest fauna (timberwolves, cragadiles, manticores, etc.): none. Patient response to images of known carnivorous forest flora (sicklevines, skullflute, etc.): none. Patient ability to communicate: mildly impaired. Patient self-awareness: present as indicated by response to reflection in mirror (bruxism, umbrage). Patient long-term memory: excellent. Patient short-term memory: fully impaired.
Legal review revealed patient had recently requested, and was granted, indictment of killer-at-large Pinkamena Diane Pie. Patient response to photograph of same was mixed: smiling, mumbling, weeping.
Diagnosis: Short-term amnesia brought on by recent traumatic event. Shock is primary determination, but will monitor for PTSD during follow-up examinations.
Prognosis: Fit to leave hospital in three weeks. Fit to stand trial as needed pending follow-up examinations.
Sunday
29th of the 8th New Moon, 1021 Sol Solis
Dear Diary,
Here I am, back with my lukewarm water, shiftless attendants and a stomachful of bile. My mirror I see is smudged. That is not as I left it. Somepony has been in here mucking about, pressing their greasy cheek against the glass admiring themselves too closely. Idiot servants. I’ll have what’s-his-name wash it five times. Ten times! So he learns his lesson.
A mirror is a mare’s key to the world. How else is she to create her face? Her image in the public eye? Her identity? It was a mirror that won me my dear Future, and all the rest.
I am nothing like her.
Thursday
3rd of the 9th New Moon, 1021 Sol Solis
Dear Diary,
I am starting to remember, and I am frightened. She’s coming for me. I listen for her voice in the babbling I hear from my window every sweltering, contemptible day. I pretend to adjust the curtains now and then, so I may search for her face in the crowds that pass below. I bested her, and now she desires revenge. She despises me for resisting her. For escaping her. For living when she wanted me dead, mixed into one of her Tartaran confections. Even as a write, I am reading what took place so that I might prepare. Yes, I found the courage. My life is in danger, so I do what I must to protect myself, even if it means remembering.
What I must do is kill her before she kills me. But where is she?
Ms. Poignant Perfect
1000 Matriarch Way
Flower District
Canterlot
7th of the 9th N.M., 1021 SS
Dear Poignant,
You should have heard me squeal when I got your letter. Just like a filly in a field of strawberries! Stars alive, that reminds me; remember the jam mother taught us to make that time we came home with blouses full of wild raspberries, and those little strawberries that grew by the lake? Could we make that again when I come to see you? I’m so excited.
Love,
Exquisite
Ms. Poignant Perfect
1000 Matriarch Way
Flower District
Canterlot
9th of the 9th N.M., 1021 SS
Mother,
Why won’t you write to me? I heard of your accident in the Everfree, and that you were in the hospital for almost a month. Now there’s talk of missing Guards, and lost fillies, and blood! They say you were soaked in it when they found you. What’s wrong? If there’s anything I can do to help, you know I will.
Please send some word. Anything. I still love you no matter what.
Sincerely,
Vocative
Ms. Poignant Perfect
1000 Matriarch Way
Flower District
Canterlot
13th of the 9th N.M., 1021 SS
Evaluation Results and Invoice
Originated From: Canterlot General Hospital
Care Provider: Trickle, Triage, M.D.
Results of Examination: Severe shock due to traumatic experience. Effects reversed over three week inpatient rest and rehabilitation period.
Itemized list of expenses:
-Room and Board 3 WK: 12,000 bits
-Inpatient Meal Plan 3 WK: 3,000 bits
-Damage to Room Furnishings (mirror): 100 bits
-Physical Examination: 1,000 bits
-Psychiatric Examination: 2,000 bits
-Processing Fee: 50 bits
Subtotal: 18,150 bits
-Royal Tax (10%): 1,815 bits
Grand Total (balance due): 19,965 bits Thank you!
Payable by: 27th of the 9th N.M., 1021 SS
(Late payments will be referred to collections agency)
Thank you for choosing Canterlot General Hospital as your source for Primary Care
Canterlot General Hospital. Serving the Greater Canterlot Metropolitan Area Since Year 205 SS.
JOURNAL OF THE APPREHENSION OF PINKAMENA DIANE PIE
Entry 6
Filthy, greedy pigs! Royal tax? What for, a night’s worth of ~~gluttony and prurience~~ extravagance? Practically stealing from a helpless widow in her time of bereavement, ~~the vultures~~.
Pardon my enthusiasm, reader. I recently received a rather exorbitant bill from the Hospital for the trials I endured in the Everfree. And I admit, I am still gravely disappointed due to the apathy of our exalted diarchs.
The fiend’s days are numbered. I have decided to record my return to the hunt in this journal as before, as I count her death as her apprehension.
Yes, I am committed to it. I will end her by my own means. If not for the sake of justice, then for self-preservation. Because she’s one of them. The monster is stalking me. Drawing it out for her sadistic pleasure. I don’t know whom, but there is no doubt. If I were her, that’s how I would get to me. Pretend to be somepony my target trusts: a family member, a lawyer, a nurse, I don’t know what. Then strike when I know she’s let her guard down.
There must be a clue as to the identity of the imposter. I can’t risk traveling to meet any of them; that would merely be to invite an early demise. I’m not that eager to become a scone on her tea platter. Where can I search?
That’s it! Their correspondence! I will use it to turn the harlot’s probing for my weakness back on her!
Let us see. Vocative was the most recent. That in itself warrants suspicion, though there’s nothing in her last letter that would suggest trickery. Lost Guards, a splash on my outfit, love you, blah blah. What about the older ones? Here, when she wrote her response after dear Future’s funeral:
I understand that the house of the late Mr. Perfect (which he built with his own two hooves to shelter us all) and all that remains in it belongs to you.
And here!
We loved Father passionately, as you did, and the reward he bestowed on us is a recognition of our devotion. Each time I gaze upon his fine bone china set, now mine, I remember his loving embrace.
The fool gives herself away in her arrogance! “The house of the late Mr. Perfect”, “his own two hooves to shelter us”: she is saying she built his poor sweet hooves into the walls of her wretched house. And even more flagrant, “We loved Father passionately ...”. I’m sure you did you disgusting alley walker. I’m sure you got the best possible view of his bones after you stripped them bare! After you stole his loving embrace.
I will kill you. I will find a way to do it so no one will know. I have far more than 20,000 bits I assure you.
To “Summer Sweet”,
She will be alone by the waterfall tonight. 9 PM. 40,000 will be waiting in the trashcan by the marble bench next to the fountain. Leave her ears in a bag where the money was.
Make her suffer.
-Client 6-28-496
!!Ω!!Canterlot Herald Exclusive!!Ω!!
Daughter of the Late Future Perfect, Celebrated CH Reporter, Found Dead in Canterlot Park
The remains of Vocative Perfect, Ponyville resident and eldest daughter of former Canterlot Herald expose writer Future Perfect and Canterlot heiress Poignant Perfect, were discovered yesterday at the bottom of a waterfall pool in the nature preserve. Authorities have been contacted and an investigation is underway. Residents are advised to remain calm and to report suspicious behavior.
It was 11:30 AM Thursday when park officials were notified of a foul smell coming from the normally pristine waters of Looking Glass Pool. City maintenance arrived at approximately 12 PM and began a routine dredging operation. It wasn’t until 4 PM that they snagged what they at first thought was a bag of rotten vegetables, but which turned out to be the bloated cadaver of Ms. Perfect, who had been a tour guide at the Canterlot Fine Arts Museum.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” one eyewitness to the dredging said. “I nearly fainted at the sight. It’s a shame. So young.”
“It was enough to make me sick,” said another witness. “Her body was covered with bruises, and her skin looked like it’d been burned or chewed up or something. And the look on the poor thing’s face.”
Mother of the deceased, Poignant Perfect, declined to comment, citing emotional distress. The investigation continues, and has been turned over to the Royal Guard.
Entry 7
Confound it all to Tartarus, the ears were yellow!! Vocative’s coat was yellow, like fresh corn. A mother never forgets. It may be that I have murdered my first born foal. Stars, I’m in it thick now.
Do ears lose their color when they’re bled dry? Maybe that’s it. Maybe it really was the harlot, and this exhausting affair is finally done. Maybe.
Maybe isn’t good enough for you though, is it? No not at all. As long as there’s a chance that she’s alive, however small, I am in danger, and so are you. I have seen it with my own eyes. She will kill anyone, at any time.
Only one of us will remain by the time this is over, dear reader. Rest assured.
Vanhoover Sun
OBITUARIES
Beach Comb, 46. Skin cancer.
Mom, we love you and will always remember the days we spent by the ocean, soaking up the sun and body boarding while you built your world-famous castles. We’ll totally meet again at the great concession stand in the sky.
A wake has been scheduled to be held on the Gentle Sands beachfront at dawn. The remains of Ms. Comb will be consigned to the sea thereafter.
Dainty Lace, nee Doily, 84. Natural causes.
Dainty loved everything that could be woven with needles. Knitting, crocheting, needlepoint, you name it. She was employed as the city’s premier embroiderer of state linens for 43 years, and her leisure works adorn most of the senior centers and coffee shops in the East Side. She is survived by 5 children, 14 grandchildren, and 2 great-grandchildren, all of whom love her dearly and will miss her warmth and wisdom. May she rest in Celestia’s pure light.
A funeral will be held on Friday at the First Reformed Temple of Celestia, 2671 Victory Ave. Vanhoover. Dainty will be laid to rest in White Wings Cemetery the following morning.
Aporia Sourdough, nee Perfect, 20. Restauranteur. Food poisoning.
Phoneme Perfect, 21. Restauranteur. Food poisoning.
Copper Bolt, 35. Fell to his death after safety harness failed.
Copper was a good lad. Worked with the crew for 20 years. Started as an apprentice bricklayer, worked his way up to crane operator. Enough said. We’ll miss you, bud.
Entry 8
Aporia and Phoneme are no more. I would check to see whether one of them was the fiend, but I have no time to travel to Vanhoover. Besides, I become vulnerable as soon as I step out the door. It would not do to climb aboard a train only to find out midway that she’s the engineer.
That leaves who else? The doctor, the lawyer, Future’s parents, and Exquisite. Which is it? When they are gone, I will be free. We will be free. Isn’t that encouraging, reader? The world will be free of her reign of terror.
To “Summer Sweet”
Review the enclosed ledger. 40,000 each. Play with them as you like.
-Client 6-28-496
!!Ω!!Canterlot Herald Exclusive!!Ω!!
Body Count Rises, Guards Suspect The Ponyville Cannibal
More ponies connected to the late Future Perfect and his bereaved widow Poignant Perfect have been found dead across Equestria. Royal Guard officials are baffled by the killer’s ability to take victims hundreds of miles apart within days of each other.
“It’s that black-souled pony eater, Pinkamena Diane Pie, no question,” said Light Brigade, lead investigator. “It’s like she’s everywhere at once.”
“If this continues, we’ll be forced to impose a curfew. That’ll make her real easy to spot,” added assistant lead investigator Bludgeon Brightly. “We’ll get her folks, don’t you worry. By Celestia’s sacred name, we’ll get her. She’ll be out one night, looking for mischief, then next thing you know she’ll find herself surrounded by spears. Royal spears. Then bang! In the slammer she goes with the rest of the riffraff.”
Creme Torte, Esq. of Manehattan, 49, was an estate attorney for the Perfect family. He was seen falling from the 53rd floor of his apartment tower, and was pronounced dead on the scene. Triage Trickle, M.D. of Canterlot, 35, was the Perfect family doctor. He went missing last Monday, and was later found inside a morgue locker in the Canterlot General Hospital mortuary. His tongue had been removed, and he had been gagged, presumably to prevent him from alerting anypony to his plight. It is assumed that he suffocated in the unvented locker. Aporia (Perfect) Sourdough and Phoneme Perfect, 20 and 21 respectively of Vanhoover, were daughters of Mr. and Mrs. Perfect, and sisters to the late Vocative Perfect who tragically met her end last week (see Ed. 21, No. 312). Aporia and Phoneme were evacuated from the restaurant they owned and operated three weeks ago when they began vomiting during a celebrity hosting event. When medications failed to subdue their apparent food poisoning, they collapsed and never regained consciousness (photo courtesy of Vanhoover Sun newspaper). Sir Imperative Mood, Order of the Sun, and his wife of 38 years, Lady Irrealis, parents of Future Perfect and well-known grandees of Canterlot’s academic community, were sought after by the Royal Guard after they failed to attend the 1435th Annual Equestria University Fundraiser Gala. Their bodies were discovered in an undisclosed state of degradation in a public toilet.
Princesses Celestia and Luna were not available for comment.
Entry 9
Exquisite is the last, and now that I’ve looked back at her letters, I know it is her. I waste no time for you: even as I write, I am reading them again. She is the murderess. Now I’ve come to understand that she always was. You will too, reader, when you consider the clues. Here, I will present them so that you may attain a sufficient level of comfort with what I intend to do.
Here at the first: We’ll unearth a bottle or two of our homemade cherry wine from the cellar and drink to Future, may he find Elysium warm and bright. I’ll fire up the oven and make us all a proper dinner.
Unearth her cherry wine, is it? So she speaks of the legion of corpses she has buried beneath her red hooves and bleeding them into her goblet. Do you see it? The craven, remorseless cannibal. Good thing I never made the trip, or it would be my blood she’d use to toast poor Future. And I don’t have to explain that it was her blazing oven she meant when she spewed her blasphemy about Elysium.
Not enough, reader? Now I shall pound the final nails into her coffin:
I also sent what’s left of my clover loaf (forgive an old mare her weaknesses!) and a jelly donut for dessert. The nurse said it was alright, but do mind the powder and filling.
Only she would use this image, and after my torment in the Everfree. Have you perchance taken note, reader, of the way the red filling oozes from the white cake of your donut as you sip your morning tea? You’ve read what happened to Sturdy Haft. But if that doesn’t convince you:
You should have heard me squeal when I got your letter. Just like a filly in a field of strawberries! Stars alive ...
Read it this way: strawberries! Stars alive. Strawberries Stars alive. Strawberry Star’s alive! Who else would know the name of Sturdy’s poor widow? Oh, how I feel for her. I know her agony. And I know who caused it.
Put a pink marble into a bag of whites, and what do you do to find it? Pluck one out and inspect it, turning it this way and that in your hoof under a bright light until you’re satisfied it’s color is not deceiving you, then reach back in for the next? No. You dump the bag out, all at once. You will agree that in this matter, the ends have justified the means. I am nothing like her. My motives are just. I will have sacrificed eight lives to save how many? Hundreds? Thousands? And my Future will finally be avenged.
I go now to see it done.
Coroner’s Report
Name of Physician: Shrift, Short, M.D.
Name of Deceased (if known): Starch, Exquisite
Confirmed by: Perfect, Poignant (sister of subject)
Date/Time of Examination: 8th of the 10th N.M., 1021 SS
Date/Time of Death: 7th of the 10th N.M., 1021 SS
Cause of Death: Asphyxiation or brain hemorrhage (cannot be determined)
Results of Examination: Subject exhibits horseshoe-patterned contusions around her throat. Blunt force trauma is evident from base of skull to crown. Multiple skull fractures. Facial features are unrecognizable. Indentations in face and skull are also horseshoe-patterned. Extent of deformation of the neurocranium indicates that death would have occurred regardless of neck injuries.
Autopsy did not reveal significant internal injuries. Trace amounts of white powder, consisting primarily of sucrose, were found in subject’s mouth, nasal cavity and tracheal passage. Gastrectomy revealed that the subject’s last meal consisted of fruit and pastry.
!!Ω!!Canterlot Herald Exclusive!!Ω!!
Fillydelphia Mare Killed in Broad Daylight, Latest in Pinkamena Murders
Another name was added to the list of alleged victims of at-large murderess Pinkamena Diane Pie. Exquisite Starch, Fillydelphia homemaker, was visiting her sister Poignant Perfect yesterday when she was brutally assaulted on Snowberry Green. A group of schoolchildren found the body and alerted their chaperone, who contacted the Royal Guard.
Mrs. Perfect released a statement this morning: “It’s finished. Now I am alone here, with nothing but their ghosts to haunt me. Now will I have peace? Now will I have freedom?” When asked whether she saw the perpetrator or had any information, she replied, “It was her. It was always her. I hate her.”
The remains of Mrs. Starch will be returned to Fillydelphia for burial.
Dear Diary,
I’ve killed my sister. I’ve killed my sister. I’ve killed my only sister.
No! It was her! I know it was her!
Public Notice
Effective Immediately
All tourists, visitors and residents of Canterlot are to be indoors by nightfall until further notice. Under no circumstances is anypony to venture within one mile of the Everfree Forest, under penalty of a taxable fee of 100 bits. In the interest of order, no pony is to refer to the person or exploits of the Ponyville Cannibal. She is to be erased from public discourse, as gossip and rumor-mongering only serve to increase her popularity, and invite copycat behavior.
Darkness has no place in the light of Celestia’s White City. And the light will drive it to the edges of the Kingdom, so that all who walk under the sun might flourish without fear or despair. So let it be done in her name.
Official Notice of the Royal Guard, Division of Decrees and Edicts
Motto
“Sunshine Forever”
Entry 10
Am I a bad mare?
Without my future, I’m alone. I am always alone, here with memories and mirages of the past that I’ve done my best to capture so you and I can know them. Inside and outside, nothing to hide. Even as we read, we are writing, creating, and all of them are real. Just as real as I am.
The quill is scratching. Dancing in the mirror below the face of the mare I’ve always seen there, the blue of her eyes as empty as her future. I cannot describe how much I hate her. Art imitates life they say. Art imitates life imitates art imitates murder imitates his love deep inside her imitates my knife deep inside him until they run out of blood or breath or both and the party’s over and i’m here all alone.
Even as we read, we are writing.
Isn’t that right, reader?
