Pyrrhic Victory sat in his living room, cuddling in the big chair with his marefriend Jennie Pie. Every so often they’d hear some noise from the storage room upstairs, but paid it no mind.
“Vicky?” Jennie said between brushes.
“Yes?”
“It’s almost Sixteen’s birthday, isn’t it?”
Vic nodded with a soft hum.
“Got anything planned for her?”
“Hmhm,” he hummed again. “I have a cake on order from your sisters. I am working on inviting some other changelings, pretty difficult when you think about it with all those official channels to go through… and for dinner, I have prepared a very special treat. And I do not mean that the way you are no doubt thinking.”
“I’m not, hon. This story isn’t rated M.”
“Good,” Vic smiled. “I just hope she does not find it before then.”
As if getting jinxed was a thing that actually happened, and in Equestria a lot of stupidly predictable things did in fact happen, Vic heard a very specific number of doors open. Being familiar enough with the theory of narrative causality, the scientist gave his marefriend an apologetic smile.
“I should go.”
True to his own badly-chosen words, Vic found his other lover, Sixteen the changeling, with her head and forelegs in his damn refrigerator, trying to pry the freezer section open with her horn.
Just as she’d managed to open it and pull out the thing she was looking for, Vic loudly cleared his throat. “Sixteen, dear? Kindly put the sausages back. It is not your wriggling day yet.”
The changeling didn’t say a word, knowing she was caught green-hooved. Carefully, she released her telekinetic grip on the chain of meat and poked a few links back into the freezer with the tip of her horn.
“Go back to messing with Wil or something,” Vic half-ordered. “I will bring you something nice in an hour or so.”
When Vic returned to the living room, Jennie was still sitting there in the big chair looking attractive.
“Did you say ‘sausages’, hon?” she asked with more than a bit of uncertainty.
“I did.”
“As in, processed flesh?”
“That is correct,” Vic confirmed with a small nod and a lot of hidden doubts he didn’t feel like expressing.
“I thought that was just a rumor,” Jennie said after a few tense seconds, with no obvious disapproval in her tone of voice.
“You would be surprised, dear. Hold on, I think I have a publication on that topic somewhere around here.”
A magazine floated into view as Vic joined his marefriend on the chair, the top edge covered in a purple haze.
“I think it was in the cultural section of this issue,” Vic gathered as he flipped through the pages. Finally, he reached said section.
“An interview on and analysis of griffins, cultural osmosis, and the eating of other animals”, by Open Mind, Cracked Scope, and Cave Lemon.
The article’s header was very clear, even to Jennie. She did honestly believe ponies eating meat was just a rumor, but an inset quote confirmed everything: “Many ponies can’t stomach it, but others…”
“Should be interesting to read,” Vic invited.
“Have you eaten flesh before?”
“It is usually referred to as meat when intended for consumption, dear. Just read the article”, Vic pushed as he grabbed a fine brush and attacked Jennie’s mane with it.
When the griffins closest to the borders of our land became Equestrian citizens, they retained most if not all of their cultural values, including their diet. Griffins are historically known to be notorious meat-eaters, like certain dragons and Everfree creatures beyond the scope of this article.
What most ponies don’t recognize is that despite our vegetarian diet, the pony mouth and stomach are perfectly capable of cutting and digesting many meat products. Some would say it is an acquired taste, and many ponies can’t stomach meat at all, but others are known to engage in meat-eating at special occasions such as parties. This can range from a few ham sandwiches to a cooked sausage, or even the mythical Double Bacon Cheeseburger, which those aware of what it is consider to be the ultimate delectable depravity.
Griffin butchers who became Equestrian citizens were initially shunned by all but their fellow griffins, until after a few difficult years some earth ponies whose names are lost to the mists of badly recorded history – “one was Poor Judgment”, a note in the margin read – approached one of the butchers and did not step back once when the griffin answered their questions. These are reckoned to range from “what are you selling” to “was it someone we’re likely to know”.
Having run out of questions, the two ponies were asked by the butcher if they were going to try and buy some of his wares. They decided on a piece of pre-cooked ham, seeing as they dared not bring it home with them, and tried eating it right there in the store, under the scrutinizing gaze of the butcher’s griffin clientele.
We managed to find and interview a particular rarity among butchers; one that is a pony instead of a griffin.
“Well, y’see,” Mister Red Rash of Maneisota told us, “there’s like, a near-taboo on eating meat, y’know? It’s cos all these ponies, they think we’re meant to be vegetarian or something. Or that ‘meat is murder’ or what have you. And that’s really what makes this such an honorable job. It’s because, to become and stay a legit, certified butcher, you have to make sure of several things regarding your product. Things like, don’t butcher a pony, which seems obvious enough t’me. Or, one of the higher-ranking thingies, that the product is already dead. We’re no killers, sir. I know of at least half my current stock who it’s from and what killed ‘em. Those steaks, for example, were made from a poor ol’ cow that’d gotten stuck in a bog. By the time they’d pulled her out she’d died from hyperventilation. But we don’t just butcher any ol’ cow or pig corpse they drop at our doorstep, sir. We always make sure that whichever farmer looked over ‘em, and the product t’be’s next of kin if they’re sentient, are okay with a good butcherin’. One of ‘em says no? We don’t do it. Of course, there’s always some jerks ruining it for others. There’s word of what we like to call ‘back-alley butchers’ up in Vanhoofer, givin’ us certified butchers a bad rep. Damn shame.”
When asked about other uses for a cow’s remains, Mister Rash told us the following. “I’m no expert on these other things, but their skin, y’know, can make some fine leather products. I’ve been told of a particular hat that’s been a family heirloom for near two hundred years now and still looks as good as new. But we butchers didn’t make it.”
Since we were already there in the store, we decided to sample some of Mister Red Rash’s wares and publish our findings. We bought three servings each of bacon strips, hamburgers, sausage, and ham. Mind and Lens found the bacon and sausage to be very good. Lemon nearly choked on the hamburger and disagreed on the bacon, but found the ham to be “fit for Celestia” whereas Mind and Lens merely thought the ham was good.
So all in all, if you feel like eating meat for a change, make sure your butcher is certified by the Griffin Bureau of Cultural Heritage and Griffin Food Administration, and make sure to follow the instructions for preparation given by your butcher when you take your meat back home for later.
“And that is why I have a chain of sausages in the freezer,” Vic called out as he put the magazine back. “I found out a few months ago that changelings can digest meat about as well as we can, so I thought I’d find a good butcher and make Sixteen’s next wriggling day better than last.”
“Who’d you find?”
“I think his name is Metzger or something? He lives right here in Canterlot, one level up,” Vic recalled, indicating loosely where the butcher’s store was. “I got a nice little discount for removing the graffiti from his door.”
“Did you go back in time and let our resident wannabe superhero cut loose on the vandals?” Jennie asked as an obvious joke.
“Are you cra—oh right yes, you are. No, I just dispersed the paint and collected it in a little glass bottle that was most certainly not blue before then,” Vic explained. “And then I threw it away. There is really no reason to be frivolous with the timeline, especially when you so blatantly suggest causing a grandfather paradox.”
“Guess so. D’you think I’d like a sausage?”
“We will see in seven more days, dear. But just to be sure, I also stocked up on condiments.”
With that, Vic got up and prepared the treat he’d promised.
Author's Note
BACOOOON!!!
