Derpy hooves is doing a dance and singing her song. Bringing death and destruction to all the ponies, black smog and burning buildings rising into the air, death all around and corpses at her feet. “‘I hate you,” screams Derpy with sentimental emotions and bitter tears.
“I never cared much for you either,” replies the town mayor. Her glasses are on backwards and have little crabs pasted to them. Her hair is grey like a crows nest with rat droppings, and it serves as a motel for pelicans during the off season. THey get very cheap rates there, cheapest this side of the equator brags on advertisement that was written by Fancypants himself. He likes to write the advertisements sometimes and the mayor lets him. She has self confidence because her sweater is brushy brushy red and was knitted by her daughter as a mother's day gift and isn’t that just precious. Precious like her fancy mayor bracelets that come with the job, or rather come with the money she embezzled from the town during the job because mayor doesn’t have such a clear conscience herself. This is why even though she says she doesn’t care much for Derpy, she doesn’t really mind the pegasus burning down the town and killing all the little ponies. And she won’t even have to answer to Celestia for it either because her bags are all already packed and whacked set splickety lit for the hills, the little old mayor is skipping town with the crown jewels. Yes she stole those too last time Celestia was in town. Not many meaning any ponies know it but before the mayor pursued a career in politics she was an ace pickpocket picking the pockets and lockets and picking the pants and pickets off all the town ponies. That was actually how she funded her campaign. THere aren’t many laws in Equestria, because they rely on all the ponies following the rules and being nice which is pretty fucking stupid, so the mayor was able to get away with it without anybody wondering or seriously looking into where she got the money.
Derpy gives her a strange look while all of this is thought, thought not by derpy, she doesn’t think much, little as able, that is preferred. Her burning desire at the moment was burning. She wanted to burn the mayor, and she looked at the mayor, and she wanted to burn the mayor, and she looked at the mayor, and she wanted to see a burning screaming husk. Protect me, Maria. The fires of hell are for this one, it’ll be her eternal taste, the charred tongue and searing teeth, her lips gone, she will burn. She will burn and there will be no mercy. The red black flames licking up to the heavens, claiming all within reach, burning all, pulling down, dragging down to hell with it. No court of miracles here, not for Derpy Hooves, her fate was sealed, these were the thoughts she thought when she thought. It wasn’t much a cause for fright, not anymore, she was largely used to it, but still it was more unpleasant than thinking nothing at all. Much rather think nothing at all, nothing but the brushy brushy teeth scrubby, dab of toothpaste, back in the gums, over the molars, careful round the cavities. Derpy looks up and notices she is back in her bathroom brushing her teeth. No hell here, right now, at this moment, only the pleasant bathroom with calm white tile and bubbly bath in the corner, warm and ready. She could just sink in right now, so warm, warm as hell, as Tartarus, Hades runs the Tartarus, the underworld, hates all, will take any soul to claim and corrupt and burn and decay. All will sink to hell and rot, nothing more nothing better nothing wanted, eternal hellfire torment and bitter frigid cold so much frostbite her hooves falling off, little bubble butt freezing solid and breaking right off, petty but I hate to let them live. Let them climb up their bloody trees, works for her, they can have their hell. No far off place.
Derpy does not get in the bubble bath. She grabs the lighter, precious flaming fire she sets the bath on fire, laughs, sweet laugh floating to the heavens, drums of war. She flees out the town, torches in hooves.
They see her, they see, eyes. They may not say it to my face, but I know what they're thinking. They see me as an animal. A savage beast. A barbarian ... I'm feared and hated by my enemies, Woad, Saxon and Roman alike and my reputation as a cold, ruthless death-dealer precedes me. Unlike the other Sarmatian knights, I've developed a taste for killing and I do not shy away from it. To me, death is an art form which I've an aptitude for. I appreciate its wild, primitive beauty. Its mysticism.
I freely admit that I've embraced my bloodlust. That I thrive in battle. I live for my opponent's challenge and come alive with every life that I take. Most of my kills are swift, clinical even graceful, but some - the bloodier ones - are often the most satisfying. The sweet, metallic tang of blood which fills the air enslaves and beguiles me. There's a feral beauty to the crimson spray which freely spatters my face and hands. It's power. It's life. It's what inspires me to stay alive. You could almost claim it to be a vital, ingrained instinct to survive. It's also why I loathe to see any precious, essential drop go to waste ... And that's why I'm perceived as an animal. A beast ... and a savage barbarian ...
That is what she knows. Derpy Knows. The flicker, the flame lives on. Her eyes narrow in anticipation. Derpy Hooves thrives in battle.
