I'm Not Here To Sell Ya, Or Tell Ya To Go To Hell
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I'm Not Here To Sell Ya, Or Tell Ya To Go To Hell
Welcome to the land of ~~Equestria~~ excess, grab a keg, a six-pack, a handle, a fifth, a case--doesn’t matter where it came from because we pour it all into the same sewer--all goes into the same punch bowl decorated with hearts and filled with the petty post-modern fruits of some mad scientist's laboratory where he labors ever to destroy himself.
Twilight (Equestria Girls Humanized) awoke into a semi-conscious, rolling nightmare. Her head kick-throbbed from each slow, solemn movement of the barely present brain--much abused root of the soul confused with the heart--which is, you see, by her rib cage barely contained as each beat-slam-tick hurtles forward, pressing between as a third tit exposed as everything else on her cum-coated, purple corpulence. White shirts wrapped around the waist and skirts, what are they good for? A frame for a picture you’ll never see, but heard about third or fourth hand from someone who’s brother’s mother had a vagina.
Your mother and mine did not love us, we’re products of something greater than ourselves, for something greater than ourselves. The end demands the beginning, and everything in between, what is it for? A mountain of corpses becomes our history, and if you dare burn it everyone tries to tell you no.
Twilight thought that, of course she did, she thought it and fought it down with her nausea as she lurched upward from the ground in stubborn rebellion against the womb of earth and the tomb of her fathers and the gravity which drags both offerings toward the same place, never known on this planet, but similar analogues existed elsewhere to be found in yourself and beyond or within.
Think about her, please, think about her for a minute. That one. Got away because you weren’t even fishing at the moment, but her black hair still swirls around her pale face in your memories as you try to walk away from her freckles spread as a constellation from cheek to cheek and over the nose. Sure, her poems about motorcycles or whatever the Hell it was, sure, they were shit. Corny as hell and fake as her daddy’s money tits filling out her daddy’s money bra, and you might as well drag her father--who you never met--but you may as well drag him along the earth with you as you drag the faint scent of her lilac existence. A flower so deep in fertilizer that her brown, cow’s eyes probably never knew the light of day. Ah well, we’ll say, everything’s shit, but her skin was probably so soft ...
Now, her in mind, we hold Twilight feeling each cracking step as flakes of white and yellow rained from her glossed form, an entire nation of potential lost in a bukkake spurt over her prone, non-pone, body. Ew, gross, but so it still goes as she proceeds like a beast, like a dog, drooling and begging for more even as she’s all used up until you might as well wipe her up with a tissue and toss her in a toilet.
Her clothes hanging like rags off the half-dead form of a corpse, so crusty that they plate like armor against her or swing free like doors on hinges remote. Purple tongue hangs out, brain-damaged and self-effaced into oblivion, she can almost taste her shame as her rent and flowering asshole leaks the proud sperm of friendship.
This is how camaraderie happens. Sexual abuse and penises and locking daughters up into closets. It is ok, because in the end you were a nice guy, and that made you better than the average, so you see it and tell yourself, unaware of the mirror in front of your face, pouring your own hate back onto you. Reasons are excuses are just that and useless and your birth was a miserable accident.
Someone else should have passed through the portal, Twilight knows that, but she can’t remember or think or feel who else might have been there. There was one, so pink and supple, and another white and pure, and another blue and strong, but instead there has only been this craven, weakened, stupid bitch.
Words don’t matter as she sets out from the gym room floor to feel the staggering, drunken rebellion of the leg muscles--calves molded from running and veiny from use in the day and age of the hateful malefactor--she stumbles, falls, tumbles, crawls. Her tits drag the earth in the manner of her equestrian forefactors, barely does she understand the commandment forward.
Smell of sweat, taste of jizz flake coated onto her teeth, her hair pulling painfully from the root as she dragged each movement forward another gesture, futile movement of the flesh which decays as it borrows itself from the future.
“Brah, you okay there?” Rainbow “Cunt Shit Fucker” Dash (Equestria Girls Humanized) asked, expended concern hovering before her in the air as a ward against thoughts of herself. Her enormous, cum spewing penis dribbled now, releasing a train wreck of future thought into the earth from which she was born as protein tendencies a few million years ago.
Twilight had forgotten, of course why not, what Dash had said.
“I’m sorry,” she moaned, releasing a tide of acid rain upon the earth to dissolve the flesh of the earth mother, “I missed what you were saying because of all the narration about your enormous, cum spewing penis and etcetera.”
“I said,” Dash paused, a momentary stop on the rapid process from nothing to nothing, “I probably said something, brah. Something to understand, are you feeling alright?”
“You mean, has your hot and salty gangrape negatively impacted me anyway psychological, is there any reason in my being to feel guilt about what has been or what will be? You mean that? Because I’m certain you’re an asshole and I’d rather have died than stepped into this rolling Hellword.”
“You’ve quit saying Tartarus(Tartaros)!” Dash shouted in success at her linguistic accomplishment. Ignore the face presented forward toward you, it is the subtleties--it is the hands that matter, ultimately, that is how body language works.
A useful tip for you. Live in a minute, we’ve got a minuet more to learn.
Twilight’s useless tip throbbed slightly at the exposure to the ground. Her penis dragging along the ground, like masturbating with your mother’s bra in the house where it all went to Hell in the culturally significant way.
“We have to ... something ... Sunset ... Shimmer ...” Twilight moaned, suddenly remembering that it was proximity to the source material that merited inclusion in the universal passing.
“Oh, that, we did it while you were passed out from the resolution of the flesh orgy,” Pinkie Pie appeared for reasons undisclosed and urged, “have you considered raping Sunset Shimmer?”
Twilight stared at the mare, women, whatever she was now. Defeated and passive, she was available and easy. This is how human relations work, I’m certain, and a hole is a hole, might as well be the one in your wall or you create with your hands against the keyboard. Business to be discharged.
“I am a momentary unwilling party in this sexual transaction,” Sunset muttered into the floor beneath her.
Ignoring non-existent resistance, Twilight dragged Sunset’s jaundiced leg up, knocking her throbbing breasts for another turn on the wheel of fortune. Instincts pressed up to the fore, and she felt it brewing. An it that demanded expression but could never be verbalized. An animal id loose upon the world, unchained ignorance free of its fetters.
Her futadick reminded her that she was a man now, and a rational animal. Well, fuck that, let’s get back to basics.
Basically, it is all just empty space. Try that, ok.
...
Well, damn then nothing. Celestia never intended cells to feel their hollows and bones can’t taste the marrow, so we’ll try another way. Somethings gotta be better than that, gotta fill the space demanded by the absence of presence presented by old women and the fatal futility of ages of nothing gone past into the area beyond itself.
Return to Twilight's dick and her body decays as her hard femasculinity firms, firms as the other’s frail femininity squirms, her penis pressing forward and the three tit tock of her chest kick-swaying with each lunge into the earth, the one earth that has borne all her and her ilk.
Miles away, old men are sitting at bars, whining over shameful champagnes about how it all went wrong, ignorant as well, but at least they aren’t girls. Give them all the penis award, and share it with the purple dickgirl diving now into the sunset-shaded cunt.
Twilight turned skyward and away, her face splitting with a grin, driven to the profound sense of excess joy, the face of god descending against her own and she was aware, suddenly aware, of her place within the moment. Every second of the two universes she knew as her home had been leading up to this, to the latest second in profound solipsist glee.
Her being soared, singing praises of divine godheads who bestow divine cockheads to the divided dickheads that dictate (hurr) the mournful turnings of modern life. Pointless but for the fresh, throbbing meat ploughing through the curtains into the voluminous space of her womb. Feeble woman, so dejected and battered she can afford to be vicious and spiteful.
“Twilight, it hurts.”
The meek shall inherit the self-authored self-righteousness of the self-enslaved.
Twilight shoved herself forward with a kick of her hips against the bizarre position, demanding herself to be and deny every other pony that could have walked through the door, could have done the same but better. She was here now, here eager to impregnate the failed dictator of two worlds.
Crimson tricklings decorated the floor beneath her, displaying the virginal pride--only recognized in its theft--of Sunset.
“It hurts,” it hurts, it burns, it scourges and scrapes as it comes out fresh and vile hate of self of position of being and existence.
Twilight, however, had no eyes for the piece of meat beneath her. What did it matter, if Sunset Shimmer or Trixie or even, perhaps someday, Rainbow Dash--the flat-chested futarape queen herself--there were no justifications beyond momentary pleasure, and why not? Why not? Why not at all.
Why not, Twilight repeated, slamming herself forward again. Why not in the moment of bliss, as those child bearing hips stretched out around her legs. Sunset’s washboard abs, disappearing into herself as herself disappeared into the moment of forbidden ecstasy.
Why not. Why not. Why not. Her breasts, heaving in a size FFF, her breasts scraping along the filthy floor beside her face, gaped mouth drooling. Her face, the face of everything that said no, but now it can’t. Can’t say no lodged so deep in the mouth of the lion that there is no longer anyway out.
Twilight--so brilliant, so perfect, so full of herself that she has no trouble casting judgment upon the rest of the creation for sins that only exist within herself--she felt a sudden slam. An explosion within her flesh that pressed at the edges as she held the corner of her mouth.
The lavender (former) unicorn emptied her scrotal contents deep within Sunset Shimmer (Equestria Girls Humanized) spattering walls white with jizz paint. A brush she wielded against the world, hurling insults deep against the cervix as she impaled the bitch to the floor.
The sudden rush of purple colored jizz poured through the pussy of Sunset, ripping her to pieces and spilling upon the ground around them. Deep, dark and spiteful red dissolved the floor of the gymnasium. Dash screamed, ripping at her face as fragments of bone and acidic blood destroyed her poorly kept features. There have been others, unnamed, who died in this time, but we have not named them and so they are worth less than the usual nothing.
Explosive in her self-indulgence Twilight rent the world around them to pieces, proceeding until there was nothing left but the purple mare, her spreading wings, and the hole wrapped around her shaft.
“Well, time to go home,” Twilight heaved to herself and proceeded back through the portal.
It is finished, we all are.
Until the next time.
So it goes, let’s take a roll in the hay, cut it short and don’t worry about the business end of the barrel under your lip, click, click, click, click--so barren. You’re an evolutionary dead-end, aintcha?
Welcome to the morning after, shove down two tylenol and a few crystals from the little baggy. Wake and bake, worship the porcelain goddess. Let it all out, and so it goes.
