Just Another Pony

A lot of ponies want to leave their marks on the world. Some want to write a play that challenges its readers into thinking outside the box, or make a movie that dares its viewers to travel a bit out of their comfort zones. Others might want to impress the artist community, maybe even the scientific community. Or perhaps they'd want to achieve more humble goals. Again, maybe they want to change the world completely. But alas! I am none of those things.

See, when I received my cutie mark—nothing more than a candy lollipop—I was pretty disappointed. I often wondered if there were other ponies like myself who felt mis-categorized by their own talents. This was my destiny? To be a candymaker? To spin caramel into a cuter shape? To chisel peppermint until it is just so?

No. No, my destiny would be one I would not accept.

But no matter what I did—no matter how I pleaded, or begged, or bargained—it was clear what my path was, and fate would see to it that my reluctant hooves would walk it. I became so good at crafting candies so quickly, that boredom was only a blink away.

I want to leave an impression upon Equestria, and there’s no way to do that with butterscotch or chocolate. No number of lollipops or licorice sticks would change the way a pony thinks. They pop it into their greedy mouths and suck or lick or chew, then swallow and forget. Mine is a thankless and shallow profession. Lonely, too—nopony I meet shares my opinion or passions or interests. To them, I am just another pony.

Perhaps that is what drives me to despair—my clients. Other ponies. The entirety of my career, my destiny, my calling, is about impressing ponies who do not interest me in the slightest. To make ends meet, I must put up with wailing children and their wailing mothers, and their incessant demands and their whining voices, and their ungrateful patronage, and their undisciplined behavior, and their hideous smells and their disgusting looks and their everything else.

Since moving here to Ponyville, I find that these demeaning reprobates truly are everywhere. I regret moving here. At least I was used to the Manehattenites who frequented my candy shop. The worst is that unruly pink pony. All she seems to thrive off of is a combination of sugar and annoying every other living thing in her vicinity. She seems to spend all her earnings on my wares. She is drawn to my chocolates like flies to excrement. Irresponsible and loud and everything, everything, everything I hate.

She goes on and on about her day as I close my eyes as I close my latest sale to her. It’s a blink, lasting only a fraction of a second—but there it is. A rope. A noose. A device meant for strangling and asphyxiation. It snakes its way around this partying pest and her neck. Cobralike, it lips around her neck and strikes, jerking backwards so suddenly it cuts her off midsentence. She gags. Her eyes widen in shock and terror. The other half of the noose, attached to the ceiling, lifts her off her hooves—off of my nice clean floor she messes up with her muddy, muddy hooves. After a few seconds of struggling wildly to no avail, the pink thing dies with one last, lingering gasp—drool crawling spiderlike from one corner of her mouth—her bowels evacuating with the urine splashing down her legs—and she is no more.

I open my eyes and there she is, safe and sound and loud and annoying and everything, everything, everything I hate. She gives me her bits, takes her chocolate and does not even wait to leave my store before shoving the treats down her gullet. It’s a disgusting sound and sight that would make a pig wince. Then she leaves, no doubt intent on annoying the rest of the world outside—and good riddance! Let somepony else deal with her today!

It’s only then I realize what just happened. My blink. My split-second of fantasy. There was such satisfaction in it. The noose. The strangling. The struggling end of the pink thing. Such satisfaction. For a split-second, I was finally filled—like a lubricating vagina eagerly slurping the penis lodged inside it. My phallus fantasy plunged into my soul again and again, greater attention to each detail of the imaginary murder delivered with every thrust: the noose. The strangling. The struggling end of the pink thing. It’s all in my mind, but it’s as if I were there, the more I think about it.

And with a choking groan, the pink thing dies. Finally, the orgasm. The climax. The fulfillment. The moment of release, followed by an afterglow.

I closed up shop that day in better spirits than I’d been in a while. Normally, I spend my evening before bed relaxing at a pond, painting. Usually ducks. I was never sure why, but the duck is my favorite animal—quite likely because they have nothing to do with artificial fruit flavorings or the screaming children they attract, and therefore a means of escape from a dreary destiny. But as I make my way to the pond, something else happens.

The pond sits just a ways past the local apple orchard. When I walk by there, I am accosted by these three hideous foals, none with cutie marks. I feel they are fortunate, for they have yet to be doomed to fate. They are in constant search of their purpose—like me, I suppose—and in this way I feel more charitable towards them than to the rest of their filthy ilk.

I do not meet those three today. Instead, I pass by the orchard and find an orange mare hard at work kicking the trees. If memory serves, she is both the sister to one of the hideous foals and a friend of the pink thing. She, like her sister, speaks like an idiot: her voice drawling like a stumbling drunk through a swamp, with her double-negatives and her ain’ts and her y’alls and her everything, everything, everything I hate.

I stop for a moment and observe her at work. One kick. Then two. The apples fall, filling the baskets she’d left at the tree’s base. And again, I blink—and again, I’m drawn back to my split-second fantasy world.

In it, I am now taking direct part of the action. Unlike the noose from before, which behaved independent to anything, the hick’s means of death is held in my hooves from my loft in the tree above her. What a funny prank I’m about to pull! The heavy weight I am about to push as she shakes the tree with her mighty kicks. One kick. Then two. The weight falls, landing square on her neck. Her neck breaks. No sound escapes her. No cry, no lingering gasp as the life leaves her. Unlike the pink thing, the hick is quiet and dies with a soundless dignity—the ground around her nethers wetted by her released bowels, robbing her of the dignity she quit the earth with.

My fantasy fills me again, hard and erect, and pulls out only to be pushed back in harder than it was before. Again, I analyze my mental scene, the details of this imagined animalistic carnage.

Another thrust—the kicks. Another thrust—the weight falls. Another thrust—the silent thud of metal against flesh. Another thrust—her neck is bent. Another thrust—her head is crushed, the hat landing gently beside her corpse. Another thrust—her family is standing around her, having found her long after the fact. Another thrust—the big brother holds a gasp of despair. Another thrust—the hideous hick foal holds onto her grandmother and bawls. Unlike the awful children who frequent my candy store, her cries are music to my ears—and the perfect climax as my fantasy comes inside me, filling me with glory and satisfaction.

I sigh, pleased and content. The hick stops her work and stares at me. I blush as I realize my initial blink must have lasted longer than I intended. I tip my hat to her, then mosey along to the pond—to the pond of paintings and evenings and ducks and escapism.