Chapters I’m there. The late afternoon sun begins to taint the sky a withering orange as Celestia’s ball of fire threatens to sink beyond the horizon. I set up my art things. I might have only an hour at most before the sun fully sets and therefore only forty minutes before it’s too dark to finish my painting. I hear the ducks converse amongst each other, gossiping with sounds like honking horns.
As I put the paintbrush to the canvas, filling in the bill of a duckling, I look out to the pond to spy on a duck to get a better idea of the beak's color. I instead catch glimpse of a dainty yellow pegasus on the other side of the pond. She leads a family of ducks into the water, where she tells them to enjoy the rest of their evening.
I remember her. She’s a freak—a pegasus who either cannot fly or refuses to. She speaks in a voice that reminds me of kittens cuddling under a blanket, using only tones you hear out of a patient mother. She doesn’t ever visit my shop, which is fine by me, but there’s something about her I just dislike.
Then it hits me. I dislike her because she is willingly friends with the pink thing. Or—no! —I dislike her because she spends more time with animals than she does with other ponies, trading socializing for playing with stupid pets. Or—no, better yet! —I dislike her because she is a pegasus that does not honor her own species. Pegasi belong in the sky. For her to disobey nature itself is just—just— just—!!!
She is a creature that refuses to be studied. I cannot understand her odd quirks or her odd looks or her everything, everything, everything I hate.
My paintbrush gets set down. The duckling on the canvas can live without a beak for today. Instead, I blink. Again, I enter my fantasy world.
In it, I’m once again playing the starring role. My fantasy becomes more of a stage play—no one in the audience but me—and me—and me—and me—and me, row after row after row. They watch, interested, as I sneak up behind the pegasus freak. She bids her ducks to enjoy the rest of their day in that soft, downy voice of hers.
Before she has a chance to turn around, up goes my hoof, into the back of her head, right where her head meets her neck. With my other hoof, I reach up and shove her head downward, into the water. And there, I hold her. Her body spasms as she bounces out of her spell, and she begins to struggle—and I feel her squirm—and it feels delicious . It’s a response, a plea for her tormentor to let go and let her live and breathe again. The fun part is that I could. But I don’t. I keep her there, under my power, under my ignored option to save her.
Finally, after the thrashing and confusion, there's one last choke and her body goes limp. That feeling of everything this mare was—the freak of nature who wouldn’t fly and lived amongst dumb beasts—finally coming to an abrupt final stop. I let go, her body falling into water with a loud splash and floating about, being carried along by the malleable pond. I breathe deep. My audience of clones applaud my performance, their cheering a series of sounds like honking horns.
I open my eyes, and the freak walks away, back to her lonely cottage on that lonely hill where she’s probably lonely without any pony companionship. She’ll die alone in that cottage—or perhaps she’ll die in my fantasies, where she is a victim in my stage play. But either way, she’ll die, she'll die alone, and she’ll do it a million times—to the sound of thunderous applause and honking horns, she’ll die .
I blink, and once again I allow my imagination to fill me. I feel my walls contract and open, allowing its thickness inside me. Filling me up. Thrusting inside me. Fucking me with details. The initial impact of my hoof against her neck—grabbing her mane and forcing her downward—the thrashing—the splashes of water as she fights—the sudden limpness—and as my imagination climaxes, screaming at the ceiling and seeing blinking stars dance before his ecstatic eyes, filling me with his hot seed, I hear the honking horns of ducks as I settle into a state of afterglow.
The sun is on her way down now. Guess I better pack my art things and go home.
So I’m on my way home. The art things are in my backpack. The apple orchard is quiet—and I suppose the hick has retired for the evening. But my apartment lies deep within Ponyville, past all the obnoxious bags of useless flesh and whining voices. I sigh in dismay as I begin my trek towards this hive of inconvenience and bustling bodies.
I hear a sound above me, a whoosh, a tear against the sky above. I look up and catch a glimpse of prismatic colors zipping about like a lightning bolt. She stops for only a second, and I recognize her as that pegasus who hangs out with the freak and the pink thing occasionally.
I remember her. Her voice. That awful squealing noise that her vocal chords routinely offend the world with. Her unwarranted self-importance. She treasures her wings and her misplaced awesomeness. I can tell from the glances she gives her friends that she’s a lesbian. She streaks across the sky, her colors trailing behind her like a comet tail as she dips and doodles and chucks and dives and cheers in that voice —that squealing noise —that everything everything everything I hate.
I blink, and I once again let my fantasies take me away. I am once again in the lead role, the main character, the star. Instead of a stage play, I am cast in a movie. I can see the grain upon the silver screen as I walk up to the lesbian as she performs, waving a hoof to call her down. In the seats are once again rows of me, and I can smell the butter of popcorn as I earn their rapt attention with each masterful movement I make.
I call the lesbian down. She lands and asks me, with her horrendously screeching voice, what it is I want. Change camera. New shot. Focus on the saddlebag at my sides as I pull out some spare paper I keep for sketching. Move the camera upwards, following me as I ask her for an autograph. Close-up on the lesbian. She slips into an ego-stroking monologue as she gladly signs the sketch-page, misspelling her own name.
She looks up to me with a smile on her face as she pushes the sketch page back to me. Her monologue ends abruptly. She looks down.
The camera angle changes again, this time a close-up of the lesbian's chest. Focus on the knife I keep in my saddlebags—the knife I drew while the lesbian was not looking—the knife I drew while the cameramare was not looking—the knife that’s stuck in her chest now—the knife that cuts through her flesh so easily and pierces her heart.
All right, another camera angle shift. This time I want something a little more intimidating—an edgy artistic statement, if you will. I want my audience to be here with me on the other side of the silver screen—to understand that they are here, right here , with me, with the lesbian, with the knife.
I want them to see the paling look on the lesbian’s face as her breath is stolen right out of her lungs and I want them to smell her as she urinates in fear, that acidic and salty odor filling their lungs. I want them to hear her final, choked gasps as she falls to her side, as the knife slips from her flesh and onto the ground and I want them to feel the knife as it clatters to the ground between myself and the lesbian. But most of all, I want them to taste everything, in order—the lost breath, the urine running down her legs, the cold metal of the knife, the warm thickness of the blood as it spills and spills and spills.
I want the camera to zoom in at each of those points—to zoom in and violate every single one of my audience’s five senses, as if they were there themselves, watching me as I cut open the lesbian’s chest.
But most of all, I want them to stand and cheer—which they do with thundering hooves that rattle the entire theater, and the honking horns erupt from their lungs as they praise my artistic vision. As they appreciate me.
I open my eyes. Then once more, I blink. I'm now in the very back rows of the theater watching my movie. I am making bedroom eyes with my imagination, and he is ravenous. His member stiff and hot, it finds its way from the vagina of my soul to my asshole. Without any preparations, without any pretense, he penetrates me from a commonly-assumed exit.
It thrusts with monstrous force this time, eliciting a whine from my soul as I’m brought back to each detail. The knife—the blood—the silenced gasp—it clatters—on the ground—and—oh—oh—oh my—uhhhhhhh …
My imagination sighs as he feels the tight vacuum of my mental anus sucking at his member. He’s a beast, but for now he’s content—his seed spilling into my anus and causing my soul to cry out half in animalistic ecstasy, half in unbelievable pain. We both climax as the knife hits the floor. The afterglow comes as the credits roll and the lesbian lies dead. I breathe deep and smile.
Cut. Print. That’s a wrap.
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.
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.
