One in the morning. Nopony is around at this time of night. The streets are dead. I avoid the streetlights anyway; force of habit. The black body suit I'm wearing will keep me from being spotted. The alley behind the tavern is one of my favorite hiding spots. It is, once again, the location I've chosen to wait for my two latest targets. Come out, come out, wherever you are...
The doors swing open, and out stumble Flim and Flam, the cider peddling vaudeville parody whose crimes have gone unpunished. Until tonight. They walk in the direction of the Ponyville Inn. It's time to make my move. I dart back and forth across the street as I close the distance. Even if they ran, I'd catch them. Applecore made sure that I was faster. Than anything.
I tread lightly, too, and my hooves don't make a sound. I wrap my arms around their necks and shove the rags I soaked with chloroform against their muzzles. They struggle for a moment, mumbling something as their eyelids droop. Their forms go limp. They're mine. Clean and surgical. Now comes the fun part...
***
They awaken, restrained by two layers of rope, seated upon bales of hay, as is my style. I can tell by the looks on their faces that they aren't quite aware of their predicament yet.
"We've been shanghaied!" Flam shouts. Guess they are aware.
"What's the meaning of this!" Flim adds, struggling in place. He won't get free, I've been working with rope since I was a colt. Not to brag, or anything. I decide to show myself.
"I wanted to give you gentlemen a front-row seat," I say to them. I don't fake the country accent when I'm working. For obvious reasons. I approach them out of the darkness, butcher knife in-hoof. Before they can react, I strike, cutting off large chunks of both of their manes. I stuff my trophies into my saddle bag.
"My word," Flim exclaims, "an alicorn?!" Applecore taught me a lot of tricks. The fake wings and horn under the jump suit, however, were my own brilliant idea. Again, not meaning to brag.
"Front-row seats to what?" Flam, the eldest, asks me. Actions speak louder than words. I flip a switch and the floodlights activate, illuminating their vehicle, the Super Speedy Cider Squeezy Six-Thousand. Parked inside the compactor of the Ponyville scrap yard.
"...you wouldn't..." Flim hisses, his eyes growing as wide as his brother's.
"Vandalism is wrong, dear boy!" Flam shouts. "Untie us and we'll pretend this whole thing never happened." That was the last straw. I grab their bindings and hoist them up to eye level.
"Is that so?!" I'm yelling at them now. The hypocrisy has become more than I can bear. "Where was that sentiment when you were tearing up Sweet Apple Acres?! Knocking over fences, ripping trees out of the ground, destroying an entire field?!"
"The Apples said we could!" Flim protests.
"That's right," Flam adds. "It was part of our competition!"
"That's what you'd like everypony to believe," I say. "But I know the truth. I know all about the trail of destruction you've left in your wake as you journey across Equestria. The water tower you 'accidentally' knocked over in Manehattan, flooding a residential area and causing millions of bits worth of damage to middle-class homes. The hospital in Vanhoover, the only one they had, losing the support beams of its right wing due to a 'mishap' with your device's suctioning function." See, I do my homework, like a good boy. I'm still bragging, aren't I? I'll work on that, honest.
"We—" Flam stops short, sighing and lowering his head. "We just can't help ourselves."
"It's sick, we know," Flim adds with a frown. "But destruction is just so..."
"Intoxicating. I understand," I say to them, patting them on the shoulders. "I definitely understand." I shove the gags in their mouths as they renew their muffled protest. I walk over to the control panel for the compactor, and their screaming intensifies. I flip another switch, and the machine comes to life.
Tears stream down my victims' faces as their baby crumbles, the gnashing of metal and cracking of molded plastic forming the night's ambience. Beautiful!
Minutes later, their mode of locomotion is a small, red cube, they're still crying, and I'm walking away. Leaving them tied up in the scrap yard isn't as barbaric as it sounds, they'll be discovered by morning, and the Foal Free Press will be able to report that the Hay Barber Butcher, as Ponyvillians have come to call me, struck again. The monster inside me is satisfied, and the Code of Applecore, my father, is left intact.
***
The rooster crows, jarring me out of my dreamless sleep. Morning already? I can barely hoist myself out of bed, but I guess that's to be expected seeing as how I stayed out all night. "Little Macintosh," my mother used to say to me, "you can't expect to grow up big and strong if you don't get your eight hours!" Shows what she knew. She was a smart lady for the most part, though. Not as smart as my father...
"You're different, aren't you, Mac?" my father asks me, sitting me down on a log next to him. "You cause a lot of damage for a four-year-old."
"I don't know what you're talking about," I lie.
"I saw the graffiti you painted onto the town hall."
"That could have been anypony!" It was me, but how could he know that?
"My can of red spray paint is missing. I found it buried in the garden outside your bedroom." Uh oh. "And it was empty."
"I just... I couldn't help myself..." That part was true.
"Last month it was the mailboxes in the Ponyville suburbs, and before you ask, yes, I found the bat you used to knock them down. Then there was the fire in your treehouse. What do you have to say for yourself, son?"
"I... I don't know." It's true, I can't explain myself. "Am I a bad pony, dad?"
"No, son," he says, placing his forehoof around me. "You're... troubled. Something happened to you when you were very little."
"I don't remember anything bad happening," I say.
"You blocked it out. It left you with this... drive to destroy. No one can help you, I've already accepted that."
"So what do I do?" I ask him, trembling.
"We channel your urges. We use them for good."
"How could this ever be good?" I hiss, bowing my head.
"There are ponies out there," he explains to me. "Bad ponies who steal, destroy, and even take the lives of other ponies. The cops can't catch them all. They have very nice things, Mac. You'll be the one who destroys those things."
"You'll be the equalizer, inconveniencing the wicked and parting them with their most valuable possessions. With the time I spent as a police officer, I know all the ins and outs, how investigations are done, and, more importantly, the mistakes vandals make that get them caught. I'll teach the secrets to you."
"This all seems kinda sudden, pa," I say. "Maybe I could talk to, like, a therapist... or something?"
"Therapists are bullshit," Applecore says to me, nodding. "This equalizing thing, that's our deal from now on, got it?"
"I guess..." I don't really understand it, but I'll get to break things, so what the hay?
Walking through Ponyville, I reflect on how blending in is the key. I don't put a whole lot of effort into it, though. Really, it doesn't take much to remain inconspicuous in Ponyville. An "eeyup" here and a "nope" there, and everyone assumes I'm shy or, at the very least, simple.
"Morning, Big Mac!" Pinkie Pie practically screams in my ear.
"Howdy, Miss Pinkie Pie," I reply, employing my mother's accent. My father never had one, and I took after him more.
"Heading down to the hardware store again?" She asks me, tilting her head and widening her eyes. "You sure do go there a lot!"
"Eeyup." I nod. She seems satisfied by my response and skips away, singing softly to herself. Pinkie Pie is one of Applejack's friends. My sister, Applejack, is a good mare. Strong, dependable, and always willing to lend a helping hoof to anyone in need. Apple Bloom, my youngest sibling, takes after her a lot.
They both learned how to treat ponies from our Granny Smith, whose Zap Apple Jam was responsible for the founding of Ponyville. My family and Applejack's friends are unique. They love me unconditionally. I think that's nice. I don't have any real feelings, but if I did, I'd have them for those ponies.
"Big Macintosh!" a voice shouts behind me. I turn to see little Apple Bloom galloping toward me. She looks worried.
"Where's the fire, lil' sis?" I ask her.
"It's the pumpkin patch!" she's practically crying. For some reason I don't like seeing my little sister cry. Maybe I have a subconscious aversion to moisture. I'll save it for that therapy session I never schedule. "It's been torn to pieces!" she adds.
I really need to get to the hardware store, they're having a buy-one-get-one-free deal on sledgehammers. And you can never have too many sledgehammers. Still, the pumpkin patch is where we grow pumpkins, and they make for a delicious pie, so it's in my immediate best interest to investigate.
At this point I've been staring silently at my sister for about forty seconds, and she's starting to look concerned. Guess I should say something.
"Not good." Did I mention I'm really, really lazy when it comes to faking social interactions? Good enough for her though, she gives me a small nod and we're off to the pumpkin patch.
***
Damn, every last pumpkin has been ruined. All those delicious pies that Granny Smith always bakes just right? Gone. Candle sticks that were melted away before ever being lit. Is this what sadness feels like?
"What do ya suppose happened here?" Applejack asks me. I study the skid marks in the dirt. They're everywhere.
"I reckon somepony with an automobile was doin' what the teens call 'donuts' in our field," I explain.
"Donuts?" Apple Bloom asks.
"Eeyup," I tell them, "it's where ya press down on the accelerator while cuttin' the steering wheel, and it makes your ride spin and skid around real nice." It's fun, to be sure. But at the cost of pumpkin pies? Even I'm not that twisted.
"Shouldn't be too hard to track down the hooligan what did this, then!" Granny Smith says, inspecting the tire tracks cutting through each orange pile of wasted potential.
"Not too many folks 'round Ponyville even own cars, right?" Applejack asks. I don't know of any. In fact, in the entire time I've lived in Ponyville, I've never seen a single car, truck, or even a motorized scooter. Organic motors like Apple Bloom's friend, Scootaloo, don't count.
That reminds me, I'm running low on gasoline as well. For those nights that I want to destroy something and be kept warm while doing it.
***
I fiddle with the knob on my bedroom door. I never did make it to the hardware store. Seeing all those smushed pumpkins was... difficult. And if the monster that did this has a vehicle, he's probably long gone. I may never catch him. I may never get to destroy his house, garden, or even that fancy gas-powered pumpkin-smasher of his. Life isn't fair.
I open the door, and my hope is restored. Resting upon the nightstand is a small, plastic replica of a pumpkin. Tire tracks are expertly painted all over it. Whoever did this, they know where I sleep. They know what I am. They're still in Ponyville.
I suppose I should feel violated, but I don't. I don't think this was meant to be a taunt, perhaps more of a friendly invitation. Like, "Hey! Wanna play?" And yes, I do. I really do. En guard, pumpkin-smasher.
