Amidst Deception

Bailey tripped meagrely as she disembarked the carriage. Gillyflower followed after her, his eyes full of woe. The coach driver doffed his hole-worn hat and waved as he carried away. The couple laid eyes on what the storm had left in its wake; they held each other softly and started for the Apple homestead.

Gilly noticed the gauge in the door where the nail had been removed and slid the key into the lock. There was no need, the door had been left unlocked and it creaked open weakly. Bailey was itching to faint again but this time her husband caught her and carried her inside.

He set Bailey down on the single armchair, his usual seat, and kissed her sweetly on the lips. She barely reacted; her eyes were still glazed over from the potions she had been injected with. Gilly plonked himself down on the couch and sunk into the canvas. He pulled a disgusted frown as a glistening drip of saline fluid dropped down from between the couch cushions and slithered down his neck.

He wiped the contaminant off and then pushed his weight forward. His back peeled like Velcro from the flytrap of repugnant leavings that still marked most of the couch backrest.

As the last gluey strand let go he fell straight onto his snout. He was about to ignite in a shouting match when he realised his son and his house guest were absent. He went to the cellar and fetched a barrel of rum and returned to the couch with it. He rested the barrel in the crook of the couch corner.

He then hooked his hooves underneath the piece of furniture and dragged it out of the house. In the instant that is was exposed to direct sunlight, the couch let out a bedazzling aura as the semen rich fibres reflected the sun’s rays. He dragged the couch far away from his home, far from the town and further still till he was satisfied that he wouldn’t be seen. He struck a match on his hind hoof and dropped it onto the sticky cum bucket of a love seat.

Much to his dismay, the match went out without lighting the material; the liquid pride spewed about the thing denied any such reaction.

“What are you doing out here pa?” came the voice of the incriminated stallion. Gilly recognised the patter and confronted his son. “What am I doing? Oh I don’t know, burning the family couch again because you can’t keep it limp!”

Braeburn stroked his upper teeth with his tongue and yawned at his wailing father “stow it pa. Just because I’m still young and virile doesn’t mean you get to hate me for it.”

Gillyflower placed his focus back on the couch and remembered the barrel of spirit he had brought with him. He cleaned the weighty receptacle clear of the seat and popped the cap off of it. Dark creamy rum poured from the displaced cork-hole and spread all over the doomed couch.

A second match was struck and was flicked into the accelerant. The blaze kicked up nicely, the tarnished material crisped and blew away as ash. Brae basked in the glow and rolled around, much to the irritation of his father. Gilly closed the matchbook and recapped the rum. “Where’s Rose son?”

Braeburn jumped at the question and tipped his hat forward to hide his shame. Gilly drew his conclusion and swatted the hat off of his son’s head. “What have you done Braeburn? You were entrusted with that cow, now where in Equestria is she?”

He needed no time to think up his lies; he spat in distaste and began “she went back to her people. She was just spying on us pa.” Gilly adjusted his bolo tie and stroked his sandstone cheek. “Are you lying to me boy? You have no chances left, one more hoof wrong and it’s the street for you.”

The fire still raged in the background, each and every ruined thread of it reduced to dust. Braeburn noticed there was not another pony for at least a mile and began to violently transform. At first the holes drilled through the legs, then the horn burst through his head and then his back bore two translucent wings.

Gillyflower shied back towards the towering inferno and turned to run. More creatures from his darkest dreams blocked his escape.

His heart thumped against his ribcage as the cold disfigured creatures closed in. They forced him back toward the fire and he stopped at the flame’s reach. He hiked a leg into his stomach and let out a little whimper. The masses closed in, so close they could reach him with their tongues. Gilly started to lose his balance.

Overlooking Appaloosa>

A changeling infant ripped the last remaining sinew from the handsomely sized carcass. The fibrous tendon stretched like rubber as the changeling chewed it eagerly. One of the larger beasts made a signal at the observer’s post.

“The storm is over! We go in for the kill!” A larger creature stopped the ensuing disorganised panic and loss of life and dragged the other from the precarious point.

“We cannot make our presence known” the one once known as Raging-wonderer declared. His underlings stood to attention, their loyalty unwavering. “Our power is in deception not all out assault, they’ll load us with so much lead we will be unable to fly!” The Raging changeling said, the cheers of his lessers a catalyst to the hard on he was ill-equipped to achieve.

It was only then that the self-appointed leader took a head count. He went over each row and column and doubled checked his findings but the data was irrefutable “why do your numbers fall brothers?”

There was a hushed silence, not a changeling wanted to be the bearer of bad news. The runt was kicked forward from where it was happily chewing on the fresh buffalo jerky. The miniscule changeling fluttered its wings nervously and shook putridly on the spot. “One of our brothers still chases one. He is smarter than the others, faster too. He was heading in the direction of Canterlot.”

The former prize bull ground his sharp teeth and looked towards the gilded towers which floated on the horizon “then we must do all that we can to stop him. When the alicorns hear of our return they will send their dogs and we will be dog food.”

Changelings were a hive like creatures, they flew in swarms and served one queen, they therefore didn’t have names. The smallest changeling saluted its better and poised its wings for flight “I will catch him… I will kill him… And when he is no more I will bring you his heart.”

The bull once renowned for his impatient pursuit of his own sister, bowed to honour the intrepid soul as he sailed so bravely off into the scavenger skies. He detracted from his forlorn gaze, for even though he loved his changeling brother in a measure rather unhealthy, he could not be seen to be choosing favourites.

He faced the changelings that remained in the reservation and bowed once again for their returned respect. “We have lost a few of our brothers to the one they call Bartlett. I didn’t mention it in front of the serf for it wouldn’t fare well against the vile murderer of our kind. We cannot continue to feed the queen if this menace remains alive. He killed our sister in the town, he is a brutal, violent, pest and he is one we must busy ourselves to stamp out.” He chanted.

The adoring, adulating crowd felicitated their self-appointed leader with an incoherent spate of cheers.

The Mayoralty>

Delilah closed the door behind the fatigued stallion and made a seat from books for him to use. Caiman died inside as she asked the question she already knew the answer to. “Did you see Wallace out there?” Bartlett sniffed miserably and stared intently at his touching hooves. “How can it be possible? He died when he was mugged in the big city, Manehatton. Brochures said it was a place where dreams come true…”

“But as it turned out it was a place dreams came to die”.

Wallace Thicket was an untalented, growth-stunted and widely hated stallion in Appaloosa. Though he was held in the light of enmity by a majority of the ponies he happened across, no pony for miles could harbour a grudge like him. But none could understand his hatred of his own father.

Wallace was so much different to his father. In every field Jeremiah excelled in, Wallace failed. Wallace had no love for music or any of the arts; instead he enjoyed numbers and facts.

It was another sweltering midday scene and Wallace stood with his dad on the porch. His father had a single grey hair that dared grow in his mane. The porch was not complete, some of the decking not yet varnished and half of the floor wasn’t even there. Two rocking chairs sat under the sheltered space, Jeremiah’s rump adorned one of them but the other was lacking of anything as warm and fulfilling.

Jeremiah coaxed. “Stop your damned pacing boy!” Wallace gave him none of his time nor attention, he viewed his father out of the corner of his eye and continued to pace. Upon Jeremiah’s crossed legs was an immaculate banjo, it had ravishing details of brass and silver and it was polished to a high shine. He took the stringed instrument into his arms properly and smiled as he strummed the tensioned strings.

Wallace turned at what he perceived to be the worst noise that had ever been made and stomped his hoof down onto the unfinished, rickety porch. The board beneath him sunk below the normal level whilst the other end propelled upwards.

Jeremiah played a sour note as he felt his son’s hatred of his art and then saw the sullied craftsmanship of the porch. He placed the banjo neatly by the rocking feet of the chair and drew his magnificent form up to meet the wondering eyes of his progeny.

Jeremiah slapped his son across the muzzle who cursed at the searing pain “damn it son! When are you gonna do something right? Your mother works all the hours the sisters bless her to run this here home and you just aint pulling your weight. You won’t even learn an instrument or a trade; you’re not much longer a teenager boy! Sort your life out!”

Wallace seethed at the scolding and stared down his father, he held his defiant gaze till the eyes of his father bled with tears. Jeremiah returned to his rocking chair and avoided the spite of his child. Wallace took the other dynamic seat off from its foundations and threw it out into the dusty street. “She works long hours yes. But you don’t do jack shit around here! You sit around talking about your little skiffle band and how you’re reaching for the stars but every night I look up there and the stars stay exactly where they are!”

A stream of tears cascaded down the dreamer’s snout, he reassumed his confident guise and shoved his son back against the half-rumped job he had done. One of the supporting pillars lay in the path of Wallace and it was thusly snapped in half by the lout’s solid frame. The roof above slanted down and the a few slate tiles smashed on the porch steps.

Jeremiah picked his son back up by the lapels of his jacket and brought him in as if he intended to hug him. Only he held his son with less than familial intent, Jeremiah spat a clod of tobacco out onto the whims of the wind and barked “you have to have a dream son! Right now you seem like you’ve given up and it breaks this old fool’s heart. Now, I love you son as does your mother but you need something to aim for. You used to love numbers and counting and all that malarkey, what happened to that bright young foal who corrected teachers on a daily basis? Where did my son go?”

Wallace broke free from the strangle hold and tripped over the folly of his poor workmanship as his hoof clipped the off-kilter floorboard. He landed rump-first in the custard dusted street. He was now able to see the full extent of his morning’s labour as more slates came crashing down to the ground.

He wiped the sweat from his brow and climbed back aloft the porch. Wallace leaned down and pried the proud board out from amongst the rest and threw it down to the broken chair that rocked no more to be buried by nature’s eraser.

He calmed down a smidgen and appealed to his father’s normally docile nature “I guess I lost my way pa. I’m sorry; tell momma I’m sorry too.”

Jeremiah puzzled momentarily at the hasty inflection of the speech, he brushed the mane flat on his son’s pole and looked lovingly over into the distance. “Why don’t you tell her yourself?”

Josephine was a sleeper of the day, her nights were full of toil and strife down in the mines, her sooty appearance reflected her profession. She doffed her torch-lit helmet and scoffed at the subsidence of the roof “you’ll get it next time son, no doubt about it.”

She was dressed in a faded pastel dress of blue and green and her mane was tied up in a bob. She glowed under the midday sun, her coat complimented it perfectly. Her coat was a very bright green and her eyes were a beauteous indigo.

She walked past the nondescript piles of timber and leaped into her husband’s arms. He caught her and they remained entwined until Wallace ruined the moment.  The son of the two placed himself as the centre of attention before unleashing a rabbit punch into his father’s cheek.

Jeremiah swerved from the impact and ended up back in his chair. Wallace went back just inside the door and fetched a few supplies. He returned to the air of discontent and juggled a hammer in his hoof “fine, I’ll fix the damn porch! Now you and Ma head inside, I can’t be dealing with your mithering and her pandering.”

Jeremiah straightened his back and got back to his feet, he took his love by the hoof and the two headed indoors. Before Jeremiah had a chance to close the door, Josephine whinnied. “Can you please try to work things out with him? He hasn’t been the same since…” The sound was cut out by the door’s shutting.

Wallace sucked in air through his teeth as he found himself snowed under the monumental task of fixing the mess he had caused. He fetched a step ladder from the side of the house and propped it under the secure section of roof to the side of the porch.

He continued his vile habit of cribbing and clasped a set of nails in between his pursed lips. He ascended the ladder rung by rung and poked his head over the top of the topsy-turvy roof. He slid the claw under each connecting nail and let the resulting metal spikes fall to the sand below.

Jeremiah craned his neck out of the upstairs window. “Can you try and save some of the nails please?”

Wallace wanted so much to promote his modus operandi of pure laziness but the nails held betwixt his cracked lips made it unfavourable. Instead, he tossed a diminutive scowl at his father before he pulled another nail out and let it plunge into the sand. Something, out of Wallace’s view, tugged Jeremiah away from the open air.

Wallace noticed the precursors of fornication and rolled his eyes at the very thought of the two getting it on together. He kicked a hind leg out into the open window and shut it swiftly before freeing the last of the connecting nails.

The sun beat hard on his neck and back, he looked in the general direction of his otherwise engaged father and thought about how best to go about removing the hefty roof fixture. It was obvious at first sight that the thing was far too heavy for one stallion to haul. The second possibility was to lever the mass away from the supports and let it fall, he decided against this too. With precious few options available, Wallace climbed back up the ladder and let himself in the upstairs window.

Once inside he heard the complaints of the springs and the congratulatory dialogue of his parents. Yesses and other such disturbing phrases passed between the two as if they were absorbed in a fast-paced game of ‘guess who’.

Down the hall the stallion crept, each hoof added to the ambient creaking of the parents in bed. Wallace gulped down a lump stuck in his throat and crept ever closer to the amalgam of shadows. At this distance he could hear the moans of ‘no’ and the demands of ‘harder!’ He crept even closer, his heart in his throat, something welled in his throat.

He poked his head around the door to his parent’s bedroom and noticed the shadowy shapes were cast by a tree outside the parents’ room. Wallace pulled a dumbfounded expression, he had heard his parents at it, but they were not in their bedroom.

The ball dropped, the bile in his throat rose, and he charged into his own bedroom. There within was his defrocked mother and his sweating father; he thrust his hips several more times into her before he noticed the crestfallen stallion at the doorway.

Josephine opened her eyes after her matinee performance and froze as they locked with her son’s. Jeremiah slid his hose from the arched form of his wife, soap spilled copiously from her friction-burned marehood.

Jeremiah’s length swung all over the place and spilled the soapy mixture all over the comic-strip themed bedspread.

Wallace didn’t know why, but the pendulum motion of the member was somehow mesmerising. It took a while for the stallion to form a sentence but when he did it was through not half-measure of concentration. “What are you two doing on my bed?!”

Wallace demanded as his eyes snapped back and forth from the swinging fire-hose and the gaping marehood of his mother.

Josephine tried to defend the lustful act but all that came from her mouth was a small measure of soapy fluid and a low whinny.

Jeremiah lowered his stance and wiped his semen upon the face of a few super-stallion details on the duvet before he drew the same duvet over the rear end of his submitted wife.

He made a path of kisses up the side of her underbelly and stepped down off of the bed. Wallace’s eyes darted in rhythm of the shrinking fellow housed in his father’s crotch. Wallace fought the odd fascination he had with the shape and looked down into the azure carpeted floor.

Jeremiah cleared his throat and arched his back which was paying for the ferocity with which he ploughed Josephine. He waited for his hart’s canter to calm to a walk and made his excuses. “Wallace, I don’t know how much you saw of that but… You understand right? There’s life in me and your mother still son, do you expect us not to express our feelings in this most intimate way?”

The excuse did not hit any of the right notes; Wallace avoided the feigned innocent pose of his father and set his eyes on the sweat clad face of his mother. He swallowed back the bile which made a few further attempts for freedom, he called to his mother “you guys knew I was out there, I shouldn’t have to walk in on this!”

Josephine woke from her pleasure induced coma and rolled her head on to its side “you were meant to be outside for a while so we seized the day, so to speak.”

No amount of Carpe Diem would release the new-found brand of hatred the stallion had found. The begrudging memory scored into his brain as he tapped agitatedly upon the wall “you have a bedroom. I would ask you leave mine free of… of… this.”

Jeremiah’s bruised ego ached more than his weeping cock; he left the room and made his way down the hallway. Wallace moved himself out of the way and then prowled up to his cum sodden sheets and his mare mother who still lay there with her rump hoisted in the air.

He looked down at her submissive form from nearly the same angle as had his father, he gripped the sheets and ripped them from underneath the cosily drawling mare, and she wafted her tail back over her shame.

Josephine stretched and gave her son a sorrowful appeal of puppy-dog eyes before climbing off the bed and going the same direction as the Pater had.

The stench of the accumulated cum filled the unfortunate nostrils of Wallace as he sent the linens off into the hallway. He pulled a look of absolute revolt as he tugged with such force to break away from what bound his fore and hind hooves to the floor.

He tumbled flank over pole into the same feigned innocence his father had tried to fool him with before. Wallace was not so dumb, he still had a task at hoof and the stallion would help him with it now he had been caught.

Wallace walked through the sticky restraints that meant to fasten him to the floor. He soon reached earshot of his spent father and ordered “I need help to remove the roof, you will help me.”

Jeremiah dropped his head and exhibited the shameful walk necessary for the occasion. He followed Wallace out the door and waited with pricked-up ears. Wallace planted his hooves on his hips and cribbed a little, he stopped himself mid-suck since his father hated the habit so much.

He turned to Jeremiah and asked “what happened to that pulley I was using this morning? I was sure I left it near the house.”

Jeremiah pondered the location a mite before discovering another mess up on his part. He grimaced and pointed a hoof towards the main body of the town “I leant it to the Pear’s just down the way there. You think you can get it for me?”

Wallace didn’t want to become his own eco but he also knew how stubborn his father could be, he flushed red and wanted to scream but instead he sent a ruffled brow to his father and set off down the lane. The Pears were awful new to the town and had only since changed the curtains to their new home.

Wallace tapped a hoof on the door and awaited the response. A little time passed before a mare answered the door, she was angular and rigid in appearance and her coat was a delightful shade of pearl-white.

She sucked air through her teeth and struck a hoof upon the forelock of the visitor. She drew the hoof back and smiled gently “you must be Thicket’s boy. I’ll get Wilbur for you.”

The mare left the door unattended for a few moments whilst she fetched her husband. Wallace tapped a hoof with no particular rhythm and tried to whistle a few bars of a song he liked.

The windows and vases of Appaloosa gave a sigh of relief as a broadly built stallion answered the door. He was slightly more tanned than his wife, his coat the palest brown. His muscles rippled as he held the curious contraption out for the other to take.

The block and tackle dangled from his hoof as he addressed the littler stallion “your father said I could give this back in the morning, why the sudden change of heart?” Wallace impatiently thrust his hoof towards the rope of the pulley but was thwarted by a mighty swipe of Wilbur’s.

Wallace nursed the reddened area and backed away slightly, he hated confrontation. He pulled his face awkwardly biased to one side and explained “we need it so I can fix the porch roof” as quietly as he could manage. Wilbur bent an ear down to the mouth of the other. “Can you speak up son? I’ve heard louder mice.”

Wallace scrunched up his nose and reached deep inside and announced as coherently as he would dare as not to patronise the great wall of muscle in front of him “we need it to fix the porch roof!”

The initial fierce look softened on Wilbur’s muzzle, he put a hoof tip to his own lips to hush the stallion. “Okay I don’t want to fight with you. The missus doesn’t quite like me getting into scraps and the little Bartlett doesn’t much appreciate it either.”

Just as the words whispered from his mouth, his mare wife trotted past the gaping door with a lazy yawning colt draped over her back.

Wallace brooded at the sight and calmly took the item from the robust stallion. He waved for Wilbur’s attention just before the door closed completely. “Who’s that?”

Wilbur reopened the door and gazed up the stairs to where the charge slept “that’s little Bartlett, he’s gonna make us all proud someday, when he stops fiddling with himself and getting into trouble.” Wallace bowed and quickly returned back home.

In the present, Bartlett grinned at the memory, it was probably the only time he had seen Wallace.

Twenty years behind him however, a totally different story was about to begin. Wallace arrived back at his demolished homestead and went as close to opening that door that the handle turned on the other side.

His father had since returned to the confines and he dreaded to think what the mustang was up to, the very idea of his father and mother encapsulated in each other like he had seen was something he would forever rue. He left the Pulley and rope at the door and stared dreamily out to the horizon.

He did have a dream but it was one he could not realise in the one-horse town he had grown up in. He cantered away into the town’s bustling street and passed the buskers and the entertainers that graced the middy proceedings.

The music the buskers played, just like the pony dwellers of the town, were varied and rich in the spice of multiculturalism. He passed a small contingent of Southern Carriboon drummers and politely dropped a sum of coinage into the intended hat reciprocal.

As noon faded and evening rolled on by, the stallion leaned up against the town hall with an idea hatching in his mind. He had seen hype and interest in the developed cities of Manehatton and Las Pegasus and knew that within these concrete jungles was where his dream would finally come true. He shoved through the doubled doors of the hall and walked with purpose towards the Mayor’s office.

Mayor Elijah Caiman was a creature much like his daughter, a slithering, sliding, snake. He was, if it was even possible, larger than his daughter would ever grow to be and barely had an inch to move in the office.

Being the questioning sort, Wallace thought to question the practicality of hiring such enormous carnivorous creatures to run a town of herbivores but didn’t dare ask the question. He opened the door to the crowded office and made his plans known to the Mayor Caiman “Mr Caiman Sir? I was kind of hoping I could steal a moment of your time.”

Elijah rattled his tail in annoyance and partly in threat; he lowered his fang filled head down to the highly impractical desk and responded. “Why of course Mr Thicket, what plagues your mind?”

Wallace steered clear of the thought that the basilisk before him might snap and suck out his very substance if the mood took him, he fought the negativity and prepared himself. He had thought about this for a long time and his speech reflected that “I’ve been in this town nary two decades and I still haven’t done anything with my life. I blended in at school. I didn’t wow anyone in College, I’ve had a few jobs in stores and warehouses but this is not who I am. My future awaits me far away from here, far past the Attercanater and the Mohayve deserts and as far flung as the two corners of this wonderful land. New yolk is my calling Mr Mayor. Manehatton, she whispers my name. I was foolish but I am a fool no more, if I am to become the stallion my dad wants me to be then I must leave this here town.”

Caiman yawned at the lengthy filibuster of a speech and smacked his dry scaly lips together. “That wasss quite the speech Missster Thicket. Perhaps join a theatre company, soliloquy such as this rivals anything I’ve heard at the new theatre.”

Wallace forced air out through his shut lips which flapped with the breath; he wondered to the bespoke window and said “my father once told me, in fact he did today, that I used to be obsessed with numbers and facts. The years have tried to change me and in some ways they have prevailed, but I am still that colt inside, I will follow my dream.”

Without the bat of an eyelid, Caiman gave up trying to speak sense “far be it for me to badmouth your dream son, just make sure you make it a reality.” Wallace, invigorated by the support, climbed back through the thick maze of slimy muscle to reach the door.

Just as the stallion turned the handle the Mayor asked one last thing of him “why did you come to me son? This sort of thing is usually discussed between father and child, do you not get along with you father?” Wallace pulled his hoof away from the cold steel handle and turned his previously cold shoulder back around “he doesn’t understand. He wants me to be like him, but I will never be his puppet.”

“Yes son, but what reason did you have for coming here?” The entrapped snake asked with a further tint of potency. Wallace returned his focus to the door and switched the handle down. He minutely rotated his head in the direction of the Mayor “I came to you so that you could say goodbye from me. Tell them ‘I’m finally doing something with my life’.”

Caiman made an expression that only a snake could, he left his mouth open wide and caressed the inner edged of his fangs with his forked tongue. He then undid a few knots in his form and sent his tail to block the door “what kind of son doesn’t say goodbye? I am not being your advocate son!”

Wallace stood up on his hind legs and pushed with all his might at the impeding tail. It didn’t budge. Wallace bucked mercilessly at the door till cracks formed throughout it, he glowered at the snake and then let his gaze soften “then I will write. But only once I have made something of myself and when I can find a unicorn to write for me.”

Caiman knew he would live to regret letting the stallion go but who was he to break the spirit of somepony that wished to be wild and free? He relinquished his hold on the fragmented door and winked at Wallace as he left “get down to the station and take the Canterlot express, once there take the Pacific express to New Yolk. It is a long way son; I wish you the best of luck.”

Wallace was nearly out of range to hear the parting speech and galloped headfirst through the double doors for the very last time. After that he headed north on rail till he reached his final destination.

A couple of days passed with no word, no letter from the capital. His parents were in a state when a knocking sounded on the front door.

Delilah had filled in most of the blanks that Bartlett was too young to understand at the time. She soured her gaze so much she looked as if she might fall asleep. The Mayor crushed her spectacles in her muscular tail and grovelled “if he is no ghost and his is dead then… then we have a problem you see. There are changelings in my town, and I want them gone!”

Bartlett blurted out. “Why don’t you explain this to the Alicorns through a letter?”

Delilah soured at the condescending tone. She shut a window that dared to be open and leaned her full weight against the wall. “I want to deal with this. I don’t want the name of my once prosperous town to be dragged through the mud.”

Enroot for Appaloosa>

Alongside the infinitely stretching rail stumbled a stallion who was ripped and torn from the rage of the storm. His lips were dry and his heart grew weak as his mind raced with doubts about the one he thought he loved. She had the tickets all along, or was it just coincidence the tickets had drifted through the storm?

A tear, the last of his water, splashed and instantly absorbed into the unending yellow expanse. He wept for the loss of his friend, the second part of the unlikely pair; he stopped and looked back at a sign.

‘Sanstone Mining town’

‘Welcome to a brighter tomorrow’

‘Population: 102’

He coughed at the rough quality of his throat and continued to hobble along the rail paved pathway to home. He began to stray from the path however, his eyes glazed over from the aridity of the inhospitable desert. The Attacanter was the largest desert in all of Equestria and its span was so vast, a pegasus such as Rainbow Dash could not cross it in one fell swoop.

He was alone now, there was no friendly rail beside him, and his only company were the littered cacti that thrived in the terrain. A doubtful sight bit him square on the snout as he saw cacti that had withered and died from the struggle.

He ascended a steep dune and as he crested it he could see a rare vision of hope. He could only just make out the mountaintop terrace and the smoke that stemmed from the centre. He stopped again and slid a few metres on the loose ground. He regained his footing and came to rest in a deep gulley.

Braeburn would have bawled great streams of tears if it wasn’t for his dehydration; he knew he would have to tell the chieftain how he had played a part in his daughter’s demise. He swatted a parasprite from his nose and his eyes followed it skywards.

There he saw the many starving buzzards and vultures that plagued the scavenger skies, they must have known something he did not, and he started back up the incline.

In fearing he would become nothing more than a few scraps of meat hanging from a pile of bones, Braeburn broke into a gallop but it didn’t last long. The sun sat huge in the sky, it hanged there as if it were waiting along with vultures and buzzard that conspired in the scavenger skies. He landed in a heap in the depths of the Attacanter and seethed at what was surely his last stand.

A small example of a vulture swooped down close to the sand and shot off over the horizon. He paid the thing no mind, as far as he was concerned it was nothing more than a mirage. His breathing became a chore as the day grew on, even though the sun was on its way to set.

He wondered aimlessly the plain, he knew not where he was headed and could no longer remember where he had started. He picked up his hooves higher as he tried a brief canter but the searing heat as well as his numerous injuries made it a feat he was unable to perform. Minutes ticked by, they felt like hours to Braeburn, he climbed up and over the subtle undulations before him before he could walk no more.

He remained there for a spell and presented himself as a plentiful feast for the hordes of snapping beaks that littered the sky. As he lay there the sun unceremoniously licked its fiery tongue on the bare patches of skin down his back.

He was not so numb that the bane of the daylight didn’t bother him; he rolled onto his back and indecently exposed himself to the hungry pairs of eyes above.  As the sunlight gripped painfully his member he forced himself back up to his feet.

He baked in the heat but could not cool himself down. His every step drained him more and his every fall brought him closer to being vulture guano the following day. He lowered his profile down so he left a trail in the ground with his dry shrivelled cock and tried to get himself away from the feasting ground.

He dragged along for another hour but the creatures above didn’t lag behind. He had felt nothing but superheated sand grains for so long that the next thing his hoof gripped upon made him shudder. It was cold and smooth and curved to a point. He widened his drowsy eyes and ran his hoof up the ivory rib. More of the bones emerged from the heat haze until Braeburn found himself in a buffalo graveyard.

Parasprites engorged themselves off of the remaining bloody spoils. All that was left were a few sinuous strands of muscle and various organs the vultures had spat back out. Brae pulled himself a little further before collapsing to perhaps never wake again.

The Mayoralty>

Bartlett wore a dumbfounded expression as Caiman continued to whine about her beloved town “changelings in my town? I desssspise them so! I thought they were wiped out five years before but no! Bartlett, be true to your word, make my town clean again and cull those freakish demons!”

Bartlett tethered a pair of holsters round his waist in which two revolvers slept. He unclipped the badge housing and yanked it out of his chest. He then grabbed a spare shirt from a drawer in the office and pushed the pin back through the lapel. Delilah slithered out of the office and through the foyer and straight through the double doors. She didn’t push them open, she obliterated them.

Once outside and the others had caught up, Caiman drew up a plan. “The Emerald mare, she was the one who turned out to be a changeling right? We thought it was a freak occurrence, the last of a dying breed. We were wrong, she was fraternizing with Braeburn. Check the Apple place Bartlett”.

Bartlett spat out a little something that welled in his throat and accepted the challenge “Right away mam. Just as a side note, I saw Gillyflower dragging his couch out of town, he’s been out there awful long”. He left Octavia and the Mayor at the steps and made a beeline for the homestead on the other side of town.

He trotted past the musically bereft streets; he enjoyed the silence, and brought up another glob of gunk that had formed in his throat. It didn’t take too long to tick of the metres to the place and as another bonus the door was unlocked. Bartlett tentatively pushed the door open and scanned the innards. The first thing he noticed was a mare, near comatose, sleeping upon the solitary armchair. “Bailey?”

He rushed to her aid and lifted her head back in line with her slumped form. She vomited out on to the carpet but to the stallion’s relief she came to. Bartlett cradled her warmly and gazed back at the cleaner patch of carpet where the couch had stood “you doing some interior designing Bailey?”

It took some time for the mare to reacquaint herself with the reality after her drug induced psychosis. Once she did recognize the stallion she leaped from his arms and hid partially behind the door threshold “Mr Pear! What are you doing in my house?”

Bartlett made a quick visual inspection of his surroundings before clucking his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “Are you feeling alright Bailey? I saw you two coming off of the medical carriage this morning… Can I ask what happened?”

Bailey kept her distance, her memories were a mad fog, and her head was pounding now the drugs were wearing off. She let her guard down and moved to the centre of the threshold before she wearily replied “I don’t quite remember, Gilly was angry, he was really angry.”

She held her head in her hooves as the reality of everything rushed back too quickly and she found herself overwhelmed. She wept silently into the cupped hooves and made a tiny bit of progress back towards the armchair.

Bartlett stood patiently as he ignored the masses of cuts and sores all over his body. Bailey reached the chair and settled back within it, she held her head fast betwixt her hooves. The fear and confusion subsided and was replaced with clarity “Bartlett? What did you want?”

As he thought about the quest at hoof he ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, he winced as his tongue dragged over the sand borne sores which coated evenly his gums. Bartlett cocked an eyebrow “have you seen anything weird happening in this house?”

“The whore from three doors down, she was caught with my son in bed. Gem, I believe she was called. Something indescribable happened to her after you shot her dead.” She fulminated in her rasping tone.

Galling memories course through Bartlett’s head, he had tried to forget the loss but he was forever to be reminded of that regretful day. His mind then wondered through the series of events that lead to the suicide of his beloved. He broke down into a mess reminiscent of the one bailey had been in.

He gathered himself, smartened his tie, and got down to brass tacks “did you notice anything strange leading up to the- Occasion?”

“We found them in each other in the morning. Hold on, are we being accused of something here?” Bailey snapped. Her head was surely clear as she resumed her usual defensive demeanour. Bartlett face hoofed at the rebuttal and leaned up against the wall “You see I knew the Emeralds. Little Gemstone was a truly precious thing at one time. She would seek out adventure wherever it hid. She used to tell me about this hamlet of a town across a section of the Attacanter, Sanstone was the name.”

Bailey retuned the face to hoof gesture and glared at the sheriff “what in Equestria does the old mining town have to do with me? You can look around if you wish, you won’t find anything.”

Bartlett loved a good challenge; he bowed endearingly to the mare and began his search.

Attacanter Outskirts>

Braeburn had been out in the desert so long that his very skin ached. The chorus of squawks were the only noise he could hear besides his rasped breaths. He woke and stretched like it was like any other morning. It was however quite late in the afternoon.

 Much like every morning since he was old enough to breed, the stallion’s member stood to attention and met the seemingly new day with him. Something sharp dug cruelly into his hind pastern, he tossed himself over to fend it off and was successful as he drunkenly swatted the buzzard off of him.

He fought his fatigue for his barrel and stifle were still facing the blaring sky. He tried to turn over but alas he lacked any such strength. He bent one of his hind legs towards and away from him to soothe the nasty deep cut he had suffered.

His attention dwindled and his eyes closed again. The beat of a vulture’s wings came so close to his ear that he was spurred back aloft. As soon as he put weight on his four hooves he collapsed to the floor. He travelled a distance further on his stomach before stopping once more at the pole of a buffalo skull. He was in dire need of a drink.

Somehow he had ended up on his back again and his lengthy partner was but two inches from his chin. The lamina of his hoof was the next part of his anatomy to be targeted by the legions above.

A vulture landed clumsily at his feet and dug its razor sharp teeth into Brae’s hoof. He leaned back on the latter parts of his fore hooves and delivered a kick to the beak of the vulture. It was at his point that the dolt realised he was not being hunted by buzzards and vultures; the thing that was writhing at his feet was a changeling.

The frightened beast then did what was natural to it and assumed the form of another. It would have been fine if it weren’t for the fact that the creature was wearing Rose like a cheap robe.

The Rose imposter clawed its way along Brae’s flat body, it climbed along the length of his member, and it used its new found immunity to get its teeth near to Brae’s eye. Before it could feast, the changeling reverted to its true form. It disjointed its jaw and drove its head towards its prey.

Braeburn thrust his hooves at opposing side of the creature’s maw and threw it off of him. The swarm above dive-bombed the ground in a threatening display as the stallion found his feet and went for the wounded changeling.

It tried to use its horn to gore the stallion but he somehow found the mental wherewithal to avoid the strike. Brae dodged the second attempt also, adrenaline surged him onwards, and he picked a sharp rock up from the sand.

The changeling exhaustedly threw its cloven claws at Braeburn. He brought the stone hard down onto the disfigured head. He drove the implement down again and again until the creature shrieked no more.

Even in death the insect wings twitched. Braeburn shook his hooves to free them of the dark lilac blood the ex-changeling exuded. He collapsed a third time and his head collided with the buffalo skull. A cloud of sandy dust plumed from the floor and shrouded the dark world from Braeburn momentarily.

He felt a warm sensation on one side of his head and he changed how he had it positioned. Still he felt the thick substance and now he tasted it.

He shot his head up and gazed into his rippled reflection in the bloody soup. For now at least, the nightmarish creatures stayed at bay. He saw a fire billowing in the distance and decided the best course of action was to head straight for it much like a moth.

The journey through the last stretch of desert was a blur to Braeburn as he reached the brazier and stopped to catch his breath. He saw a vision of himself, albeit with less injuries and charged towards the mimic. Who was this clown? He didn’t fool Brae for a second and the lothario wasn’t exactly the sharpest knife in the block.

He launched at the neck of the impersonator and sent him tumbling across the sanded plain. Brae stood over the obvious wolf-in-sheep’s–clothing and stamped its face to a pulp.

The ground glowed with the spilled lilac blood and so too did the air with the rich scent of burning carcass. Braeburn was spellbound by the dancing of the flames; he gazed deeply into it then promptly barfed and added a greenish hue to the purple puddle.

“D- Daad?” Braeburn asked of the brazier, it gave no response. His urge to cry was strong but not a drop of water was left in his entire desiccated body. He saw the Tannersee bolo tie lying on what was left of the flame housing. He then cringed at the seaside scent of the blaze, it was the couch, and it was his fault.

The foothills of Mt Cantus>

Singing-wind remained true to his namesake and galloped tirelessly through the dying hours of the day. A war raged in his mind, he escaped a bitter end but he had fled like a coward. He could not shake the terrorized faces of his brothers the night they had been lost.

It was a night like any other, quiet, sublime, and somewhat poetic. With the sky a daunting abyss of blackness, something wicked stalked them without their knowing. The eyes were closed on the approach so that they would not expose the legions of nightmarish creatures.

Singing and his brothers chanted long remembered odes to the great eagle and her works. They sang to her in rounds and in revelry, begging for her to bless them with the guarding shield of her wing for the long dark night ahead.

He stood alone after the others had gone to bed, in the centre of the reservation, the brazier at his side coughed a few plumes of smoke as it died, and the only other soul was the voyeur at the plateau edge.

Singing would often watch the calf as she looked dreamily down to the town below. He knew it to be wrong, he wanted the feeling no more, but his heart, mind, soul and his loins craved her. He never said anything, they would exchange the odd awkward moment across the fire at mealtime or during the morning graze, but he would never make his feelings clear.

But hold his stare he did, never moving, unwavering. His memory hailed from the time long before Little-Strong-Heart had been banished.

He would later find out that during his blissful daze, every sing brother had been culled and replaced. The attacks were calculated, no noise came from the tents. Thundering Hooves would have been a goner if it wasn’t for his prying eye.

“Are you going to eye up my daughter all night Singing-Wind?” Thundering pestered.

The erudite bull broke the gaze and turned to the chieftain. The feathers in the adornment on Thundering’s poll tickled his snout. “I’m sorry father. I merely meant to check up on her.”

Thundering gestured to one glamorous tent in the southern quarter of the encampment circle. “After the death of the clan mother, only Raging-Wonderer shall sire calves with the last of our cows.”

“She is not just a cow and she does not belong to you!” Singing rebuked his father’s possessive nature. He continued to gaze at the dreaming calf. “She is special, and that horny, overgrown, swine won’t ever appreciate her.”

Thundering reined back a laugh to a subdued chuckle. “Are you talking of this love thing again son? You will never learn. I don’t care if Raging does not know my daughter inside and out! He will make strong calves with her!”

Singing struck his father about the bridge of his nose. “Raging is no good for her, genetically superior or not, I will not let him defile her!”

“Then you will die when he seeks his prize” Raging said, blood lust boiled behind his eyes.

Singing gulped before he continued. He walked toward the observer at the precipice and turned back to his enraged father. “I do love our talks, father. I wish for once they would end on a different note. Leave me to my watch…”

“Pervert” Thundering growled as he turned back to his monstrous tent. Just as Thundering-Hooves left, Little-Strong-Heart brushed passed Singing’s tail.

The littlest calf gnawed at an irritation on her flank. She straightened the single feather she had connected to her poll. “I saw something wonderful” She gleamed.

Thundering postponed his slumber and retraced his steps back to the pair. He cajoled his son from his path with his goring horn. “Enough, my daughter, I do not like this thing that you do.”

Strong-Heart geared up to speak but was outspoken by her brother. “I want to hear her story, give her a chance.”

“Give the cow a chance, what fool do you think I am? She will do as she is told” Thundering ordered.

“Why must you fight? I see no call for it. I- I saw a new couple, a love ignited…” Little-Strong-Heart began, her tail whipped excitedly.

“That sounds great” Singing cheered as he ogled her athletic form.

“It’s a fucking travesty, that’s what it is. No more speak of this love.” Thundering said as he crushed the spirit of the calf.

Singing jumped in front of his sister as if his body could block the insults. He summoned a feat of arrogance not too different to the manner of Raging. “Father, I will have no more of this! You don’t like it when she talks about love because you have never had it. You old skeleton, doomed to forever rattle towards your grave, why don’t you save everyone’s time and throw yourself off of the cliff?”

Thundering stood, gobsmacked. He retreated to his straw made bed and lost the battle.

If the three had not bickered in the darkening night, they would have noticed the slaughter. Changelings surgically implanted into the reservation. They knocked off the inhabitants and took their places. Not one of the victims screamed, it was over so quickly.

In the present, Singing could see the gilded towering spires as clear as day. He neared the hallowed scree crusted foothills of Mount Cantus. He stole a look over his shoulder and noticed a fairly persevering crow flying behind him. He journeyed ever closer the sought out city. He also journeyed back into his mind…

Strong-Heart and Singing, for no reason other than curiosity, folded back the cow hide covering on Raging’s tent. Raging wasn’t there. They ventured towards a queer sound which hailed from beyond the other side of the plateau.

They passed the entrance to the chieftain’s wigwam, and Singing’s sister was snatched by an enormous hoof. Singing wanted to help her but the noise, queer, still rang in his ear. He skipped through the dank night and stumbled upon a rather disturbing sight. Raging was masturbating in the most peculiar way. Singing approached the wanking bull and gave him a surprising poke with his horns. “Raging-Boner” Singing teased.

Raging humped against the smooth rock a couple more times before his adrenaline subsided. He leaned the rock hard cock along the rock. “Oh god, how much did you see?” He whined.

Singing tried to look away from the throbbing vision; he smiled mischievously and rolled his eyes. “Only all of it.” He lied.

“Ah, please just go. I haint finished” Raging begged.

“A fitting nickname don’t you think?” Singing jeered. He tore off a leaf from a rare desert flower and impaled it on Raging’s horn. “Remember to clean up when you’re done.”

Singing’s reminiscing was interrupted by a slight pain in his hind leg. He turned to investigate and saw the enterprising crow taking chunks out of him. Singing quickened his place, he tried to outrun the scavenger, but he could not best the beast.

The cruel beak made a further incision in the muscle of Singing’s leg. The fleeing bull threw his weight on to his front hooves and bucked his legs out to scare the crow. The crow swooped under the kicking legs and stabbed its beak into the soft chest of the bull.

Singing lost his balance and went over onto his back. He searched the scape for the bird. He tended to his newly cut wounds in his hind legs and chest and seethed through the pain. The beak skimmed past the back of his neck and caused blood to spill out onto the stony foothills of mount Cantus.

Singing reeled and fetched a stone in his hoof. He threw it up into the air and caught it again, to assess the object’s weight. He had a bead on the bird as it circled in for another go. He launched the stone with unparalleled accuracy and hit the crow dead in the eyes.

The crow plummeted into a plume of dust. From the dust came a diminutive changeling underling. “So you found me?” Singing panted.

The creature gargled and wretched and threw itself towards its prey. Sand and small pebbles scampered to the sides as the changeling hurtled though the breaking evening air. The bull turned his rump to the assailant and bucked again.

In the time it took him to perform his defence, the changeling had changed, through snapped bones and torn flesh, into a parasprite and buzzed past. From the force he exerted, Singing fell flat on his stomach. The changeling reverted to true form and sunk its fangs into the bull’s vulnerable neck. It added to the old wound, blood spilled copiously down Singing’s neck.

With blood quickly leaving his body, Singing flailed a hoof to swat the insect away. “You killed my brothers you over glorified parasite! I’ll see you pay for their lives!”

Singing’s attempts grew weaker as the pool of blood in the stony foothills grew larger. He made one last feeble attempt at saving his own life before bowing his head in defeat. He remained still. The changeling was to enjoy its meal when it resorted to hiding again in its feather clad costume.

A royal pegasus guard descended on the death fraught scene. He was suited poll to pastern in golden armour finished with bold ivory details. He batted the loitering parasprite away and examined the fallen majestic beast. “Oh my, did you run all this way? What would possess a buffalo to travel across the Attacanter? It must have taken days. I shall have to talk with Celestia, this is highly unusual…”

The Apple House>

Bailey slipped around the doorframe and sneaked up behind Bartlett who was searching a cupboard. She tapped him on the shoulder “you find anything incriminating sheriff?”

She may have been married to Gilly but her enthusiasm did not fall to curb the moment she put the shackles of holy matrimony on. She tilted her head slyly and sneaked a peak at Bartlett’s undercarriage. The sheriff turned suddenly but Bailey was able to remove her snout just in time. He scratched his sore forelock and scrunched up his nose “I can’t find anything. I guess you’re off the hook.”

Bailey wafted her tail into Bartlett’s muzzle and pressed an innocent hoof to the corner of her mouth “oh well if I were naughty you’d have to punish me” she giggled.

The schoolmare like behaviour of the mare might well have been due to the mediated state she was in. She made another pass with her tail over Bartlett’s muzzle and left her rump facing his enthralled eyes.

“Maybe you should check under the bed” she swooned as she clenched her rump so that it was pert and well-shaped. He agreed to the odd wager and tucked his head underneath the bed.

Bailey rolled onto her back and inched towards his parted legs. Soon she was underneath his stifle and she was aptly stifled by what she saw. She slowly dragged her tongue over her lips as she gazed into the pair of heavy hanging balls and the flaccid shaft.

Bartlett feigned a look over his shoulder and rose up the frame of the bed only to inspect beneath the duvet and sheets. His manner of investigating involved two factors: the first was his nose and the second was his blind ignorance. He nuzzled his nose deep into the darkness beyond and sniffed something that both intrigued and aroused him.

The arousal was evident from where Bailey was looking. Bartlett’s soft shaft grew as it engorged with blood.

Bartlett noticed the thing wrapped around his nostrils was a phallic plastic thing. He took in more of the scent deep into his olfactory system and made a satisfied noise, the one he might have made after eating something deliciously creamy. He missed his wife, but more than anything his primitive mind missed the company of a mare.

From underneath the fully engorged penis, Bailey pursed her lips over one of the balls a rolled it around with her tongue in her mouth.

Bartlett shook as the feeling shot up his spine; he squinted in the beginnings of pleasure and took the plastic-play-thing between his teeth. He drew his head from under the duvet and dropped the dildo slathered in his phlegm in front of Bailey, much like a Labrador would a Frisbee to it its master.

She let the ball roll from her lower lip and gave it a further lick just to get it swinging again. Her eyebrows sprung up at the impressive girth and length that lay in store for her as well as the veins that stood on-end along his hind legs and barrel. She brought her hoof up to the pulsing beast and stroked it slowly at first. Her mouth opened widely and she used the other hoof to squeeze the swollen bollocks inside.

Bartlett groaned a little and closed his eyes to the lullaby of masturbation that played between his legs. He extended his tail up and outwards from the sheer excitement.

Bailey sucked greedily on the things in her mouth. She placed her other hoof against the purring shaft and put her all into it. She soon became bored of the taste of sweaty balls so she turned her attention to his convulsing arsehole. She let the fellas drop out from her locked lips and moved herself backwards. Bailey let go of the shaft and embraced Bartlett by his sweet rump. She closed one hoof into the palpitating rectum and forced one of the cheeks outwards.

Bartlett shifted his legs uneasily as he noticed the mare doing something he had never had the fortune of experiencing before. He aired his protest through a series of gasps and spurious nonsenses. “Um, I don’t know if I’m ready for that.”

Bailey wriggled her stiff tongue as she rebuked the frigid worries of her lay. “I’m not a filly, you know. Didn’t you and Gilly ever talk about my, uh, my salacious ways?”

Bartlett dropped his guard and accepted the experience he was reluctant to enjoy. He gritted his teeth and braced himself as he felt her clammy breath creep up his yawning rectum. “He never did, but, good for him. Whenever you’re ready Bails, let me have it.”

When her tongue belatedly pierced his rump it was like she had taken his virginity a second time. He dropped his jaw and rolled his eyes skywards as the tongue delicately searched about his cavernous rear.

Bailey withdrew her tongue which dripped with saliva and ran it along the entirety of Bartlett’s well-matured penis.

Bartlett gasped through the joyous feeling and side stepped over the mare. He slid a fore hoof under her kneeling hind legs and forced her to lie on her back. His heart raced as he looked into the forbidden fruit he knew he must not defile. But defile he did, he buried his head in Bailey’s generous thighs and sucked hard at her marehood. She swung her head back at the entry of his tongue and consequential lapping that followed. Her breathing became erratic, her rump tensed and relaxed as she neared the end.

Bailey braced herself as the mighty stud drew his mouth away and aimed his stone hard column into her wanton marehood. She screamed as the two came together, and again they came together and again. The weight of Bartlett on top of her was crushing the very life from her but still she couldn’t hold back her shouts of elation. The stud thrust into her fervently, his balls slapped against her firm behind. She screamed loudly as she came before her finely-hung companion.

Bartlett hadn’t noticed the mare had reached her climax; he viciously shoved his length completely into her over and over until he was about ready to burst. His payload delivered in copious volumes into her being. It meekly dripped from over her pronounced vulva and splashed onto the small elliptical rainbow hued rug on the floor.

Bartlett’s head followed the motion of his retreating cock as it swayed from side to side. He had done something shameful and wrong, he had betrayed the memory of his wife, and he had depleted his previous arguments with his daughter and her beau of merit.

Bailey grabbed his head that dangled so and forced it back towards her moist cunt. She blew a sweaty lock of mane from her muzzle and demanded. “Ravish me, stud! Make me feel something again!”

Bartlett had no clue about the bedroom problems the couple were having. He came to his senses and pulled his head away from the duty he had so much enjoyed before. He buttoned up his shame sodden shirt and checked his guns were still with him.

Bailey produced something from behind her and licked along the cold, murderous barrel.

Bartlett made a grab for the missing revolver but was gifted only with a stern kick to the scrotum.

Bailey sponged the dregs of cum from around her mouth with her tongue. She smiled and smacked her lips in satisfaction before leaning forward and inserting to weapon back into the empty holster.

Bartlett tipped his forelock to his mistress and took his leave.

A pair of tiny colts met him at the door; they had seen the badge and thought he was the stallion for the job. One panted for a moment and then presented the problem “Sheriff, come quickly!” The young colt begged. Bartlett cringed at the coined phrase and lowered a listening ear “what’s the matter kid?”

The other took the reins of the conversation. “It’s- there’s a fire! Come now!”

Again the stallion smirked at the negative connotations the colts spoke with. He hiked up his gun belt and gestured a hoof of encouragement. “Go on ahead, I’ll follow.”

After expending all of his energy and much more besides, Bartlett could scarcely keep up with the rambunctious twins. He lost them after having passed the quill merchant before he lost any go he had left and skidded to a halt. Luckily the spritely duo hanged back as they realised the elder was lagging far behind.

The dominant of the twins turned to his brother and they shared a private joke. They pointed their heads back towards Bartlett and the runt fell back to meet him. Bartlett ached from the short distance he had galloped. He extended his hind legs to alleviate the lame aching that coursed through them.

The runt reached Bartlett and bounded mockingly as if to further concrete the obvious failing of the stallion. Bartlett smiled at the colt, he remembered when he too was that age, thought he was a bit less energetic.

“Come on Mister! The fire! Over there! Come quickly!” The colt exclaimed, bouncing jovially despite the gravity of the situation.

“Did you say fire young colt? Show me.” Bartlett encourage as he adjusted his gun-belt.

“Are you deaf or something? Get a move on!” He hastily squeaked as he set a kinder pace towards the fire.

Bartlett sprung back into a gallop after the shorter yet quicker gait of the youth. He looked uneasily along his flanks as the chase took him past the barrier of houses between the town and the unforgiving desert.

The pursuit continued long into the yellow blanket before the runt and the sheriff saw the domineering twin next to a dying fire. The twins reunited before the dominant one poked a hoof into the side of a road kill impression of sun-kissed flesh.

“He’s dead I think.” He concluded with a further poke of his hoof.

“Did you know him?” The runt asked, bright eyed and bushy tailed.

Bartlett knew the stallion, knew him well. As a priority he kicked a cloud of sand onto the faintly flickering flames. Bartlett bent a knee down and placed a hoof on Braeburn’s neck.

“I do know him. His name is Braeburn.” Bartlett said under his breath as he waited to feel even the subtlest of heartbeat.

“Our sister knew him!” The two excitedly yelled.

“Ha, ha, I don’t doubt it.” Bartlett said with a dulling inflection, his hoof slipped off of the neck in not feeling a pulse. He faced the twins and guided them with his eyes. “You two go back into town and fetch some water”.

“But he’s dead.” The weaker one callously stated.

“He is not dead! Now get me the water!” Bartlett thrust his hoof toward the town.

“He aint moving, I wouldn’t want to play him at sleeping lions.” The younger spoke again, the supposedly dominant brother kept quiet.

“Just go! That’s an order!” He could no longer restrain himself and reared up in threat.

The twins scurried back into town. Bartlett fell to his knees and took another pulse check. He slowly clenched his hoof and screwed up his face. “Were you out in that storm boy? Is that what happened?”

He felt foolish for flogging the dead horse. He looked back expectantly in hopes of seeing the two colts returning with the water. He sat a little closer to the still form of the heartbreaker and smiled. “I’m Constance’s father Brae, when I saw you two in bed together, I just… My little filly was growing up and I wasn’t ready.”

Again he shuddered at the lack of response. Bartlett chortled at a thought he had and relaxed further into the scorching sand. “You though, you broke her heart. You fucking bastard.”

Bartlett playfully thumped Braeburn in the haunch and stole a look behind him. The twins probably wouldn’t return after the way Bartlett talked to them. He gazed back down to the lothario and navigated around to talk to him face to face. Bartlett cocked an evil grin and whispered. “We’re even now. I won’t go into any details. Just leave it at, we’re even.”

Bartlett thought he had seen Brae’s eyelid twitch. He considered the pulse or more the lack of it and lost the thought from his mind.

Behind him, a pair of colts bounded in triumph. They held a gilded trophy filled to the brim with water. The sheriff gave a sly nod to the two who disappeared back into the town. He took the pail of water and brought it to the cracked lips of Braeburn.

Before giving him the drink, Bartlett sat beside the corpse and continued the one-sided conversation. “Who am I kidding?”

Bart began while he folded his hooves into his lap. “I was only fifteen when I met Patience and in the same year, Constance was born. I guess I have grown to hate the stallion I once was. I hate you. I do, because you remind me of me.”

Bartlett cribbed at the vapours from the pail and looked down at this sadistic cutie mark. He drew himself forward and dipped a hoof into the clear water. He wet Braeburn’s cracked lips with the hoof and sat back on his rump. Bartlett shifted his weight over to one side and rested a hoof over the cocked leg. He noticed something glinting in the limp hoof of the other and ventured to unveil it. It was a novel thing, a bolo tie.

“That old Apple fool used to sport one of these.” He chimed. He gently prised the trinket from Brae’s lifeless hoof and settled back at his side.

He examined the souvenir of travelled pastures and feverishly scratched at his virgin wounds. “You know, Gilly. Did you know him that well? I knew him pretty well. I had to seeing as he was my best friend. We were each other’s best steeds. It all seems so long ago now.”

Bartlett pushed the sand fine between his shaken hooves and began work on rushed design of a castle. He constructed a moat and etched in the little crenulations on the basic turret structure.

He ensconced the bolo tie that acted as the baneful aftermath of his departed best friend on to the summit of the rushed construction. “Funny thing is life. We work at it and build it but it’s nothing but sand in the ends. Life is so fragile and fleeting, Braeburn. Although, I’m sure you have a better idea of what the other side looks like than this old fool.”

Bartlett let the tenuous bonds break and the castle came crashing to the ground in a rush of poetic symbolism. He rescued the tie from the rubble if silt and clutched it so tightly that it left an impression in his lamina. “Please wake up buddy. I didn’t mean those cutting words I used. Just wake, wake up, and don’t die on me. I bet you’ve been listening this whole time huh Brae? Braeburn, quit messing around. Wake up Goddess dammit!”