Falling Apart to Songs About Hips and Hearts
“It’s just another boring day out here in Afghanistan,” Brad Kyle, US navy SEAL and the lead singer/guitarist of the indie band ‘The Yorkeshire Thoms’ and current driver of an army jeep deep in the Afghanistan desert said in a dull tone. “I’m sick of murdering school children and blaming it on the terrorists! When are we gonna get to actually kill the people who deserve it?”
“Private Kyle, I’m not sure you quite understand the situation here,” General Chuckles said. “We gotta kill the children before they grow up to be terrorists!”
General Chuckles was a hardened war veteran who had his face replaced with a smiley face mask after having it ripped off by a Afghani stripper he refused to pay. Nothing besides his name and face reconstruction was to chuckle at, however. Except his incontinent bowels. Now that’s funny.
“Well, I guess that makes sense,” Brad said, shrugging. “Guess I’ve always been a ‘we’ll cross that bridge when we get there’ kinda guy.”
“Don’t worry, the army will soon beat that outta you!” General chuckles reassured. “Along with your hope, dignity, and sense of direction!”
“Sense of direction?”
“You know how many head injuries people sustain out here from explosions and angry exotic dancers and the like! The sense of direction is the first thing to go.”
Brad thought about questioning the scientific evidence behind that when a loud noise suddenly alerted the him and his superior. The two army men looked over to see a thin middle eastern man shouting at them and preparing his arm to throw something. Brad lifted his gun with his right hand, using hi sleft one to hold the steering wheel down, preparing to shoot. General Chuckles had other plan, however.
“Don’t shoot just yet! He could be friendly. What’s he saying, Private?”
“Hold on, let me check.” Private Kyle put down his gun and pulled out his handy dandy Afghan-to-English Dictionary. Putting his feet up to the wheel to steer, he put on his reeding glasses and flicked through the pages, deciphering the crazy foreign mumbo-jumbo.
“I think he’s saying ‘Come and cook a falafel with me,’” Private Kyle told General Chuckles after a moment.
“Excellent! Steer us right over towards him, I’ve been jonesing for falafel ever since I was deployed here four years ago.”
Private Brad looked over at his commanding officer. “Wow sir, you’ve been here for four years and haven’t had falafel even once?”
“I don’t know, I guess I was too busy DEFENDING FREEDOM!” Chuckles spat into Brad’s face. Before Brad could begin to cry, something bounced off of his head and landed in Chuckle’s lap.
Chuckles picked up the object, and got a good hard look at. “Yup, it’s definitely a grenade,” he concluded, shaking his head. The jeep shuddered as it collided with the terrorist, killing him.
“Shit! You just ran over our chance for free falafel!” General Chuckles roared.
Private Brad slapped his head. “Oh! Silly me! I must have mixed up the words for “cook falafel” and “die American scum”! They’ve got the same looking letters in them,” Brad explained. “Also, DEAR CHRIST A GRENADE! WE’RE GONNA DIE!”
“Calm your mammary glands, soldier, and that’s an order!” General Chuckles barked. “That no-good falafel hogger forgot to pull the pin! Look, see?” The general yanked out the pin, and held up the primed grenade. “Yup, these sand niggers sure are dumb—”
There was a colossal explosion, and bits of gore and happy face mask shot everywhere. When the cloud cleared, General Chuckles was gone. The rest of the jeep was intact, however. Even Private Kyle was little more than a bit shaken by the detonation.
“Damn, I’ll miss that crazy son of a bitch,” Brad said, shedding a single tear. Brad should have been looking where he was going instead of tear shedding, because right at that moment he smashed into a large stone bluff.
The jeep caught fire, and once it hit the gas tank, the entire machine was engulfed in yet another fiery explosion. Once the acred black smoke cleared, Private Kyle crawled from the twisted mess.
“Jeez, it’s a good thing I was wearing my seat belt!” Brad commented. Unfortunately, the collision and subsequent explosion of the army jeep against the stone bluff has dislodged a very large piece of rock from the top. And no amount of belted seat would save the poor army man and aspiring indie rock artist from the three tons of rock that crushed him to an unsightly smudge against the desert sands.
When Private Brad awoke, he was not the least bit surprised he had done so. You see, the moronic american soldier had invested so much faith into his seat belt, that he had known that he would have survived anything while safely in its leather grasp.
He, however, did not survive the crash. Instead he had perished, his body crushed underneath the stone rock in Afghanistan.
Yet, as his soul left his body, a transaction error while cataloguing his soul in the soul bank sent him to the magical land of Equestria.
Laying on the ground in the soft grass of Equestria, he took a good look around. The sun was chirping, the grass was shining, and the birds were birds. Everything seemed pretty much like it had been on earth. With one major difference.
“By my Aunt’s nipples, what is this hideous abomination?”
Brad got to his feet, scowling. “Hey, no one calls me that except my mother!”
“Oh, it makes crude attempts at humor as well,” the voice continued. “That wasn’t nearly as funny of a joke as I’m sure you thought it was.”
Brad looked completely bewildered by this statement. “Joke?”
The voice paused. “What are you anyway?”
Brad looked around for the source of the voice. Finding it, his jaw dropped. “Y-you’re...”
The speaker was a rather posh pony, with a slicked back blonde mane, eyes so blue that Hitler would jizz in his pants, and an ugly smirk plastered on his muzzle.
“Y-you’re... you’re..” Brad continued to stutter. The next words came out all hushed-like. “Fabulous.”
The pony stopped dead. He blushed. “Well, do you you really think so?”
“I do...” Brad motioned his head, beckoning for info.
“Blueblood.”
“I do, Blueblood-sama.”
The two gazed into each other’s eyes lovingly for a few moments before Brad scooped up the stallion and began to furiously make out with him. Their kissing was fast and furious (way better than those gay movies), and it was so sloppy that a small squirrel drowned from the saliva produced.
“I’m not even gay,” Brad confessed. “You’re just so freaking fabulous I fell in love immediately.”
“What’s your name, charming creature?” Blueblood asked, completely seduced.
“I’m Brad Kyle, U.S. Soldier and frontman of the indie rock band ‘The Yorkeshire Thoms,” Brad announced. “The must underground indie band ever.”
“What records have you released?”
“None,” Brad said, staring deep into the eyes of Blueblood. “That’s just how underground we are.”
“TAKE ME RIGHT NOW!” Blueblood bellowed. Brad was only far too happy to oblige, throwing down the stallion and spreading his back legs. He admired the large balls on the pony, and let his eyes wander to the white anal ring of the pony. Shoving his middle and pointer fingers of either hand inside, he stretched the bunghole as to prepare it for the entering.
Bloodblood screamed in delight as the human elasticized his anus. Private Kyle smiled as he readied his Private Johnson for deployment. Sticking his four-inch dick into the pony, he grinned in orgasmic pleasure.
Private Kyle pounded away furiously, smashing Blueblood’s colon black and blue. Blueblood would usually hate such an uncooth activity; hell, the only reason he was in this field was because his aunties had wanted him to get some fresh air. It was all worth it though, because he had met the most underground person ever, and now he was having sex with him!
“Dammit, I’m gonna cum!” Private Kyle said.
“After only fourteen seconds?” Blueblood asked.
“Shut up!” Brad blubbered, his bottom lip quivering. He was very sensitive about his short lasting time.
“It doesn’t matter!” Blueblood shouted. “Fill me with your seed!”
Brad didn’t answer. Instead, he just ground his meat furiously in the butcher shop of Blueblood’s rectum.
“Nyes!” Blueblood moaned in orgasmic pleasure. “Fill my anal cunt with your humanic marshmallow paste!”
Brad did just that. With one final thrust, he shot his load into the stallion. Exactly one cubic centimeter of cum was produced; his new personal best!
The two flopped onto the grass, sweaty and basking in afterglow. “That was great,” Brad said, kissing the forehead of Blueblood.
Suddenly, a constricting feeling came upon Brad’s throat. Looking down, he saw his seatbelt from the jeep that had sent him here.
“I thought you loved me!” the leather strap screamed.
“I did,” Brad said, a single tear falling. “But that was in another world, and in another life.”
The belt drew tighter. “Then we’ll both die! And be together forever, in death!”
Brad gasped as the belt choked the last breath out of him. Blueblood jumped to his hooves, and performed one of the most fantastic slow “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO”’s I have ever had the pleasure of writing about.
When Brad awoke for the third time that day, he was staring up at General Chuckle’s smily face.
“Chuckles?” Brad whispered. “I thought you died! I saw the grenade blow you to bits!”
“Ha!” The general laughed. “It’ll take a little more than a grenade to finish me off! It was you who we thought was gonna be a goner! Crushed under three tons of rock. Thankfully, we had the best medical tool available here at our disposal!” The general held up a bike pump. “Fixed you right up good, but the higher-ups demand you spend some time in a hospital for legal purposes. Have a nice nap?”
“If only you knew, sir.” Brad sighed dreamily. “If only you knew...”
