The Ones Who Stabbed Their Fathers

by Sketchy-O

Rating: teen
Tags: Crossover, Dark
Length: 1154

A gentlecolt views the world around him and what it's coming to.

A southern psychologist returns to his fair home of Manehattan to dive into his own opinions about the equines that surround him.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2013-08-10 03:31:15 UTC

THE ONLY ONE

THE ONES WHO STABBED THEIR FATHERS

He could see it.

He could see it all around him. It was everywhere. It was right in front of him, staring him in the muzzle with its big, thick, black eyes. It was sopping and bubbling and churning and gurgling all over his field of unbounded vision, like a sloppy stew of all that it was made of.

A worse part was that it was growing. This behemoth of sloth-like filth was crawling up and up and up the sides of whatever object it could possibly grasp. It was lying and bubbling on top of its polar opposite like a fat snobby parent.

It was piling up and polluting all of the beautiful, fresh, organic deity that was all he could possibly lust for. If that wasn’t bad enough, the filthy grime was climbing up the sad, pitiful characters that lay scattered around him, entering every orifice and opening that it could pass into. He saw it in them, formulating, growing stronger with every sign of emotional weakness that they had the woeful nerve to spew out.

The groveling filth covering the floor was a skin.

A skin to mask the true, magnificent, pure, overwhelming emotion that they were too scared to deal with, so they cast her away like a poor, innocent child. A child, who was only a little less than satisfactory, stowed away like a dying houseplant, with a similar fate imminently awaiting their submission. Meaning death, and death was one of the many things that made up what he craved under the shield.

What was under the skin was something more powerful than any other force in the universe, the only true force of nature that this pitiful race could actually recognize, but they could not use the power properly.

The everlasting power was the almighty power of absolute, inescapable, pure, everlasting fear.

Fear was the treasure that lay below the filthy flesh.

Fear was the only constant in the ever changing world of variables. Fear drives absolutely everything. No decision is ever made without the consideration of how it could inevitably go wrong and turn out for the absolute worse. That is how he knew he had the superior mental strength to everyone around him. He had no fear.

The poor bastards.

He couldn’t stand to make eye contact with them. They were insufferable, ignorant, ingrates. How they cast away fear like a sick animal was a worse sin than murder.

They did not deserve to kiss our hooves, my dear. None of the squirming worms could possibly see her for how smooth, how slinky, how loving that fear actually was. There was so much to admire that the fools couldn’t see past their little skin made of pure ignorance. Though they didn’t know the skin existed, no, they thought there was such a thing as an absence of fear. This was pure fantasy. Fear is always with us, lurking just below the surface of our undying stupidity.

He was an agent of fear. He was the only one who could grasp the courage to embrace fear and free her from her endless imprisonment.

He could no longer stand to look at their painted on smiles and forced nervous laughter, it made him just reek with self-pride. He could just tell that he was better than these ponies. After all, HE had proven himself to fear.

These ponies had the AUDACITY to think that fear was something that they could just put away and forget; he was living proof of that. He was an agent of fear.

Fear was his crop, his hard work and salvage, the thing that he thrived on, and then these pitiful, loud creatures came and defiled what he held dearest. No! He would not stand by while everything he had worked for goes to waste! He had to scare away the parasites once and for all! He had to protect his crop, and oh, would he protect it! He would stand guard for it day and night! Anything that the weather could throw at him! Nothing will stop him!

He will never stop keeping the crows from his crop! He will never let them destroy its glory! He would be the scarecrow of his field!

This is when he whipped out the Enfield No.2 that he had been stowing in his trench coat. He just remembered that he was in a bank; the teller had just said that he was next in line. Now the teller was staring down the barrel of a revolver pistol.

“Boo” He whispered. He then fired.

The bullet split the teller’s glasses in half as it passed through the soft tissue of his useless brain. The force had caused the teller to shoot back on his wheelie stool and crashed into the gray filing cabinets behind him (which had been recently redecorated with the insides of his skull).

He drank it in, the screaming and cringing of the squirmy little troglodytes. The skin began to violently quiver and shriek in pain, yes, he was breaking it.

There was a strange hissing noise.

He nearly giggled with glee.

You see, contained in the bullet had been a small gas pellet that expanded and broke when exposed to moisture. Contained in the pellet was something that he had been designing for years. He had always had a little gift with chemicals.

A colorless gas began to creep its way up the noses and down the throats of every creature in the building that had the need to breath. The toxin dug its merry way into the minds of the writhing idiots and started to pump away on the adrenalin and shaking and rattling away at the subconscious as horrific pictures of what frightened the victim the most. The results were quite entertaining.

Finally, our hero could apply the finishing touch. Something to top off the sundae, an accelerator. Finally, he thought, he could shed his own skin.

He slid a burlap sack out of his coat pocket and hung it over his head. On the sack he had sewn his true face, his true form, his proof that he was an incarnation of fear itself. He then gave a shuddering sigh.

The burlap forced down his mane and warmed his cold face. The burlap nurtured him like no one else could.

He pulled out two last objects, a pencil and a note pad. He looked over the amount of ponies he had scared mad and gave an honest, gleeful smile. He pulled a chair up to the closest character; a mare with a green coat and a blue mane.

“I’m s-sorry, daddy, I w-won’t go into the basement again!! I p-promise! PLEASE DON’T HIT ME AGAIN!” she sobbed.

“Hmm… interesting.” Said the scarecrow, as he scribbled what she had said onto the pad. “Let’s expand on that, shall we?”

END