Spike could feel the asphalt cracking underneath him as he bore a weight so tremendous, the titan Atlas may have come to mind. Spike was drenched in sweat, which was highly irregular, considering his species. The only thing keeping his dying feet, slowly and deliberately pummeling into the ground, one after the other in an exhausting fight for survival, were the prospects of sweet sentiment from his adored Rarity, and yet it never came. To romance her would be the pipe dream of shining seraphs, and Spike’s load likened him to a languishing soul, punished ironically for some unspeakable crime. The outside world faded beneath the burden. All words spoken were mere mumbles when obstructed by the hellish bundle, ever so precariously balancing atop his armor-plated head. Yet, he alone would be the one to bear it, and only he could bear it. Agony faded as newfound strength filled his tiny, reptilian body. He could feel his neurotransmitters firing complex signals, calling for a rush of adrenaline to fight the problem above him. Shuffles turned to steps, which tuned to a near sprint as new vitality coursed through his unstoppable self. Then, disaster struck.
“Spikey-wikey, would you be a dear and slow down? We wouldn’t want you to overexert yourself.”
Words from Her were carried out as if they were words from God. As Spike slowed, he could feel the strength ebbing from his claws. It was better like this, no one and nothing should help him. This was his cross to bear.
The weight pressed deeply into his shoulders, sinking so far, that the dragon began to fear that he would soon become a part of this sprawling, cancerous mass that consumed his every iota of motivation like a gluttonous devil, taunting him until death. Oh, the solace of death would surely free him from these vile chains. Yet, to break at this point would be a coward’s expiration, for the strong forged on, and became stronger still. Then, from beyond his weighty prison, he heard it. The philharmonic resonance cascaded his ears. A song sang by his love, the work of angels. A smile crept upon his lips as tears streamed down his cheeks. This tune was a blessing. It said that now was the time to perish in a viking death for the centuries. He would die in the heat of this unending battle, only to be swept off by valkyries. His soul began to fade, as the pile of clothing slowly entombed him.
Then, he realized that he could simply set it down for a moment, catch his breath, and listen to Rarity. So he did.
His sweet love, the mortal vision of Aphrodite herself was approaching! Spike clung to every utterance from her sweet vocal chords.
“If some are grouchy, pay no mind. Surprise instead with something kind!”
In addition to this divine poetry, she bestowed a favour of the utmost perfection! This gleaming ambrosia, crafted by the hooves of the denizens of Manehattan, known by the layman as a “Carrot Dog”. His draconic digestive system would rebel, but he slowly lowered this angelic favor to his welcoming maws, but then, tragedy of tragedies! As unexpected as the death of an unborn child, an avian fiend snatched the gift from his unwitting hands! Spike could no longer hear the blessed song of Rarity as an internal monologue brewed within the gleaming echelons of his furious mind.
“Dastardly harpy! Nefarious foe!
Why must you torment me, in such a way?
Before you struck-est, I was at my low,
You took my only glimmer, my one ray.
Your wings may save you, my feathery friend,
But not for eternity, you shall see.
And I will be there, laughing, in the end!
Life’s ebb, will be revenge enough for me.
The newfound darkness, that consumes my heart
Came from your fallacy, soaring scum!
And when your death toll, commences to start,
I celebrate, as you beat your last drum.
You will find it was pointless in the end.
When your soul, I will personally rend.”
His thought was interrupted by a purple horse.
“Spike? Spike! Are you alright? Stop zoning out.”
The dragon responded with a simple “Yes, Twilight.”
Reshouldering the damnable burden, Spike could feel it snigger in pure cruelty. It wanted him to suffer, and he knew it. His gasps for air became even more strained as the seconds passed seemed to stretch into epochs capable of creating and killing universes, lives, and grand stories; acted out through generations as to tell something as insignificant as mere words on a page. He looked up, to find that the final leg of his grand journey was nearing its consummate completion.
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A shining trolley, carved from sheer gossamer, yet strong enough to bear the sin of all ponykind stood before him. The ornate carvings of mass production and injection molding seemed to beckon him, asking him to place his load upon the unerring platform, so that the wheel-one of the first creations that the ponies proved to the gods that they, and they alone, were ready to ascend to a higher plane of existence-could support the unholy burden that he had chosen to bear. Oh, the sight of that trolley, that holiest of trolleys! It would have been at home in the blessed halls of elysium! The sartorial burden fought against him, weighing down his steps with newfound weight, but the promise of deliverance was too compelling a force. With the conviction of a being with the end in sight, Spike forged on.
Twenty feet…
Ten feet…
Five feet…
Destination.
With the force of all equinity, divinity, and determination that he could channel through his mortal body, he brought the pile to a rest upon the trolley. All was right with the world now. He was free. The world was free. This moment in time was entirely perfect, until-
“Spike, you wouldn’t mind carrying those bags to the train once we leave?”
Never ending, is the struggle to please Her.
