Just Another Pony

That fleeting moment of self-indulging glee now passed, I canter along as the cobblestone beneath me is painted gold by the day’s dying light. The lesbian continues to buzz about above like a singular annoying fly, while the ponies walk along the street like a whole fleet of annoying flies.

I try to press my way against them, but their might is a collective force, knocking me about like I’m built of sticks. Meaningless words born from meaningless conversations all mash into one another and become a mosh pit of bothersome noises; fleets of hooves embark on eager journeys to nowhere; I am trampled and assaulted by thoughtless shoving and invasive sound.

Once again, the world around me seeks to become the pink thing—and the hick—and the freak—and the lesbian—becoming everything everything everything I hate. After bumbling through throng after throng of inconsiderate meat-beasts, I find myself losing my balance. I fall forward, thrusting a foreleg out in a misguided attempt at stopping my fall. Stopping something unavoidable. Stopping that which cannot be stopped or avoided.

My foreleg completely misses its mark and I hit the ground face-first. The contents of my saddlebag are jarred and for a second I worry for my paints and my canvas and my lovely bill-less duckling. I get up and immediately rummage through my saddlebag—

And, shit. Shit, shit, shit on a bagel. I had been in such haste to depart from the pond, I’d placed my small jars of paint in the same bag as the canvas. My ducklings and my pond had been smattered with splatters of blue, ruining the innocent image. Ruining the world I was carefully crafting every day after a boring job I wanted no part of.

Suddenly, behind me comes a gentle voice, asking if this hat belongs to me. I turn to see who is widely considered the prettiest mare in Ponyville. Honestly, she looks like a painted whore. A porcelain prostitute whose lips move and whose eyes can follow you as you walk by. There’s no way to convince me she’s no whore—how else could she afford to keep her fashion business afloat? I’ve never seen her get more than one or two customers a day. Well, one or two that look like they come in to ask for dresses or suits instead of sex.

But either way, she gives me back my hat and begins talking about my painting. She laments its loss. Idiot. How could she understand the pain of losing a world you put together yourself one hour at a time? As she talks, I blink. I want my imagination to take me away from here—away from the senseless yammering of this idiot whore who pretends to know art as I know it. But unfortunately, my imagination fills me for a brief glimpse—a quickie, shall we say.

It doesn’t pass as quickly or as unnoticeably as the snake-noose when I was dealing with the pink thing. Instead, I have to go for it one step at a time. One blink at a time. One escape at a time.

She talks about the painting. I blink, and I am exhibiting my duck painting to a posse of art critics—all again played by yours truly. They look it over with earnest interest, being drawn into this serene scene of young water fowls at play. One asks me how I put together such a clever composition of colors.

I open my eyes and the mare keeps prattling, this time about dealing with disappointment—as if she’d understand something like that—as if she looked at her flank one day and found a lollipop staring back. Laughing at you. Laughing at her. Laughing at me and becoming everything everything everything I hate.

I blink, my imagination giving me another quickie, another brief reprieve from the whore’s persisting nuisance. The critics marvel at my painting of ducks, their own honking horns expressing their approval as I explain the composition. The ducks symbolize my escape from a grim reality. They are my last bastion of comfort. They are the only place where I can find joy. They might represent a number of things to other ponies, but to me—for in this tiny, claustrophobic dreamworld, there is only ever room for its dreamer—the ducks represent freedom of a kind I doubt we’ll ever fully seize in our lifetimes.

As the critics ooh and ahh, my eyes open again. I try to excuse myself, putting away my ruined artificial world of freedom, planning on demolishing it later and starting over. The whore offers to buy me a coffee over at the Starkicks just across the street. I decline. I blink.

One critic looks closer at what I imagine my glimpse of unreachable freedom would have looked like upon completion, then looks at me and comments on why I used so much red. I smile as I lead them to my next exhibit. It is a sculpture I just thought of—for this is my imagination, thank you, and I’ll do as I please.

I open my eyes. Again I find myself trying to get past this pest in her fake, fluttering eyelashes—in her deep blue eyes—in her supple, beautiful lips—in her curvy flanks—as she shamelessly throws herself at me. The nerve. Attempting to conduct myself in a way that’s civil has never weighed so heavily upon me as it has today—or at this moment. The temptation to smash this whore in the mouth—mash her in the mush—put my wrench in her gears—snap flat her claptrap—silence her—so—so very—

I blink.

So I lead my group of critics to my latest exhibit. It is a mound of flesh— a puzzle pearl-white, except where I had to cut and shear. It’s a body, pulled apart, then stuck back together again. The reconstruction may be haphazard, but I feel its shape truly appeals to a keen set of eyes—like the pair dangling out of what might have been her anus at one point. The purple mane and tail tie it all together into a neat little bow. The critic from before asks what this all has to do with the previous question—to which I merely answer, “Why, my dear me, I used too much red for this one; so I used the extra to finish my painting.” To which my good-humored, adoring critics laughed. Another critic piped up, asking what I call this piece.

“Shut Up, Will You? I’m Trying To Go Home.”

The whore looks shocked. It’s only then I realize I named my masterpiece out loud. I could take this moment to apologize, but before a word is said, she huffs and storms away, clearly offended. If she doesn’t want herself offended by others, I think she should avoid offending others herself. What stupidity—and she can keep her curvy flanks.

My home is not far away and I make it just as the sun begins to set. I plunk my bag down by the couch and turn on the light. My apartment is threadbare and flavorless—like the rest of my life. Just some furnishings and a number of small paintings lining the walls. Over there is the bedroom; and over there is the washroom. There’s our tour, finished.

But wait! Egads! There, on the coffee table! A book! And not any book, oh no! It’s a book from the library—and one I’d forgotten to return! I curse aloud at all Princesses who have ever walked this earth and grab the book. I shove it into my saddlebags and refasten them, not taking the time to remove any of my art things. I belt out my door and into the darkness of the rising moon outside.

My hooves beat against the cobblestone, the streets now clearer since everypony’s gone home. After a few minutes, it comes into view—the library. But as fate will have it—and have it always—I am too late. The library is closed. But this book—it’s due today! I can’t be slapped with library fines! I’ve never been slapped with library fines, ever, and I’d rather not start!

I knock at the door, hoping for a chance that the librarian who lives here is at least still awake. I’ve heard stories of how legendary a night owl she is, staying awake for days at a stretch. She must still be awake—after all it’s only eight—er, eight-thirty.

After a moment, the door opens and I am greeted by the small dragon. He looks at me and hides a yawn. He’s only been in my presence and I bore him already. Before I can summon my imagination to exact any retribution, he asks me what it is I need. I tell him I need to return a book. He tells me the library’s been closed for the past three hours. I tell him I already know that, but since they live at the library, this shouldn’t really be a problem.

From inside the library comes a voice. It’s a… rather marvelous voice. A rather marvelous voice for a rather marvelous mare, if I do say so. She is beautiful and intelligent, with a color scheme that reminds me of the lovely, starry evening going on outside. As she comes into view, my eyes cannot help but fixate on her horn—that beautiful horn that protrudes from her head like an engorged penis. Her mane travels down her head and neck like a mysterious black cloak—and how I want to run my hoof through that mane, to drink deeply her scent. She is everything everything everything I want.

I blink.

I am in the same room as the librarian—just like now—but unlike now, the room is a bedroom. My bedroom. I play some soft jazz over the radio as I invite her to my bed. We kiss.

I open my eyes as the librarian asks what it is I want. I repeat my demand. She’s more reasonable than her assistant, and agrees to take back the book before it’s due.

I blink as the librarian asks what it is I want. I repeat my demand. She’s very open and eager to please me—very willing to let me ravage her however I wish. I began tracing the contour of her curves with my lips, nipping with teeth when I reach the round, pronounced swell of her thigh. I run a hoof across her ass, settling it over her moist pussy.

I open my eyes and rummage through my saddlebags—only to find, horror of horrors…

…the blue paint from before has struck yet again!

The book’s cover is not the only victim: when I’d shoved the book into the saddlebag, I’d done so in such a way that it—that is, the blue paint—managed to splatter several pages. The trip here had given the paint enough time to dry, causing the whole book to stick together. The librarian looks it over forlornly and sighs as her eyes—those perfect, nighttime eyes—come back to me. She shakes her head and says, “I’m sorry, but since you damaged the book, that means you’ll have to pay a fine for damages.”

I blink.

My fantasy changes. We are no longer in my bed making love. We are in a sterilized environment—perhaps a laboratory, perhaps a hospital—and she is strapped to a table and I am glaring down at her. I look behind me and find a watching audience—the entire scientific community has gathered to watch my groundbreaking discovery. I’d recently discovered something about this mare, you see—how she's just the same as her friends—how they’re all annoying and how they’re dumb and how they’re traitors who’ll stab you the moment they think they can get away with it. It’s an incredible discovery and the scientists in their seats get their pens at the ready, preparing to take note of my intellectual achievement. Truly, I shall go down in history.

They watch in awe as I tighten the table’s straps, applying pressure to the librarian's limbs and torso—pointing out where and how she hurt me, and where and how I’m going to hurt her.

I open my eyes.

“H-How much?” I ask timidly.

She looks over the book with her perfect lips pursed. “Well,” she says, “we can’t use this copy at all. We’ll need to order a new one.”

“Well th-that, uh… shouldn’t be a problem,” I say. “Nuh-Not at all.”

The librarian shakes her head. “I’m sorry, but this is a rare, out-of-print book. It’s going to cost you thirty bits.”

I blink.

I take the hacksaw.

I open my eyes. I am in stunned silence.

I blink.

The hacksaw is set aside for now. The floor in front of the table is painted with blood. The librarian’s hind leg dangles by some sinew as she begs for me to stop.

I go for the drill.

I open my eyes. I try to find words. Struggle. Struggle as I always have. I feel myself become cold. I’ve been slapped with a library fine—like I promised myself I never would—like I promised…

I blink.

The drill’s screams drown out the librarian’s as it digs into her curvaceous thigh. I aim it directly for the center of her cutie mark, removing that emblem of equine caste, removing that offensive tattoo that implies she is somehow better than a candymaker.

I open my eyes.

“I’m sorry,” the librarian says. “It’s late, and I have a lot of things to do in the morning. I don’t mean to sound like I’m pushing you away, but can you return tomorrow afternoon? I’d really appreciate it.”

I breathe deep. Swallow. Deep down, I feel like crying. The desire—no—the need to shed tears over another wasted day and lost savings. To weep over a pointless, drab existence that was only proven by the ruination of a rare book.

I blink.

I forsake the drill, it’s not doing the job—I want hammer—aim for the head—aim for her fucking head to stop the screams—

I open my eyes. Sigh. Nod. “Ruh-rur-r-r,” I stutter before my sentence collapses completely. Whatever I’m going to say—Right then, I’ll be back tomorrow, for those curious—dissolves into something unintelligible. The dragon looks at me strangely as I turn to leave. The librarian asks me what I was trying to say. I stop.

I blink.

The hammer falls to the ground with a loud noise. I breathe heavily from my exertion. I look at the librarian—what’s left of her hind leg, her thigh, her face. She is a bleeding, pathetic mess—now just as ugly on the outside as she really is on the inside. But there’s only one way to show how badly she betrayed me, how badly she hurt me. Only one way to show the scientific community how heartless she is, with her horrible demands and thoughtlessness.

I go for the knife.

I open my eyes.

I sigh.

“Nothing,” I say. “Nuh-n-ner-nev-nevermind.”

With that I amble away. I feel my lips grow hot and my eyes water and my nostrils run. It’s like my whole face is boiling—only heartbreak can turn up the heat of your face. As I walk away from the library, I hear the librarian call out, apologizing to me once more—but rules are rules and she can’t bend them.

As I continue my trek home, I blink. This time I keep my eyelids shut as long as I can, letting the tears creep beneath the curtains of my eyelids.

The scientific community watches, scribbling notes as I sob hysterically, pulling the librarian—now dead and mutilated—off the examination table. I press her remains against my body as my vision becomes hot and blurry, apologizing to her with words that, like hers, really don’t mean anything—that rules are rules and I can’t bend them. I stroke her mane and drink deeply her scent as I look down at the linoleum floor, more specifically at her heart. I’d carved it out. The knife is still between my teeth even as I cry.

The heart thuds. It thuds. It thuds. Rhythmic. A heart. Hers beats. Hers beats still, even without its owner. It continues to pump, even though there’s no blood, little more than just making little… sounds. Little sounds like honking horns.

Like ducks.

Like freedom.

I open my eyes.

And I walk home.

And I enter my apartment.

And I put my saddlebags aside.

And I walk to my bed.

And I close my eyes.

And I go to sleep.

And I prepare myself to do the exact same shit tomorrow.

I'm a pony like any other. Just another pony, with hopes crushed and dreams lost and nothing to look forward to. Look in any crowd and you will see me. Look down an alley, and you will see me. Look over your shoulder, and you will see me. How will you know which pony I am?

I'll be the one holding the knife between my teeth.