Spike the Dragon walked down the shitty little path to the shitty little ocean to dip his claws in the water and yell at some fucking rocks. It was either that or bite someone. That's how it was going lately. The ocean seemed like a fine waste dump for his pent up rage. It was big, cold, wet, suitably miserable. He would do some screaming there and then stare at the emptiness.
But instead of emptiness there was tatzlwurm-ness. An unseasonable swarm of Tatzlwurmses Tatzlwurmi, wurmae, whatever--clogging the beach with their huge fat turd-shaped bodies. Tatzlwurms, an entire herd, or den, or pack, or squadren of them. Hundreds, no, thousands, flopping about in the meagre sunshine like they were supposed to be there. Spike didn't know what to call them, certainly hadn't expected them, this beach had always been a Tatzlwurm-free zone.
In the rest stop area sat one carriage, and beside that carriage one pony who observed the ocean through a pair of folding opera glasses. “Man,” she said as if asked, “I can't make it either. Th-een plenty of thea-gullth, even a whale washed up on shore. But never much in the way of the Tatzlwurmth. Planet-th getting Fuck-thorated lately.”
Spike took in this pony, looked her up and down. She was one of those ponies who seemed to wear all of her clothing backwards. She had a body built for gawking, Red turtleshell glasses sat upon buggy eyes, a long spindly flamingo's neck, and rough chipped hooves exposed by high-waisted shorts on a frigid, wind-blown coastal peninsula in late autumn. The wind shifted and Spike caught a whiff of cheap perfume laid over a firmament of unwashed clothing and carrot juice.
The Mare finally noticed Spike's attention focused upon her, “Damn faggit!” she shouted, “I got a shotgun, you know. Thi-th ain't no queer-gay beach where faggit-th do their faggin'.” She retreated to her carriage, closed the shell around herself, glared at Spike from within, and began a series of sharp, irritating honks
.
Spike decided to go yell at the Tatzlwurms.
“Listen you ugly Tatzlwurms, stop convincing retards that your half-baked conspiracies represent reality, you're actively ruining the country you claim to love with your gold-hawking minority-hating libertarian bullshit, you dough-jawed Mormon crybaby cum guzzler.”
Spike screamed and flailed, making up new offensive gestures. And after a while Spike began to lift the funk that was clinging to him for the last three days. The one left there by Twilight's parting gift of a neatly written laundry list of insurmountable complaints.
When he got back to the tree-library Spike became very busy. He got a few claw cramps here and there but he knew it would be worth it. On a cold Thursday morning, frigid breezes scattering the first of the fallen leaves, the ponies of Ponyville all woke up to find a scroll had been stuffed into their mailbox. The beautiful calligraphy honed by the writings of thousands of dictated letters read one simple sentence.
Come to the town hall at noon, I have something important to say.
-Spike
Questions blew through the town of Ponyville like a hurricane. Does this have something to do with the princess? Are we in danger? Is this going to be a surprise party? What's going on? Will the LEGO movie easily be the best movie experience you'll have in quite some time, trumping Wreck-it-Ralph's 2012 success? Not a single pony could figure out what this sudden gathering was about.
The Press showed up. The guards showed up. The butchers, bakers, and candlestick makers, tinkerers, tailors, soldiers and sailors, rich ponies, poor ponies, beggars, and thieves all showed up. Even the methamphetamine mare Crystal Crackles showed up, but that was likely only because she wanted a score.
The crowd grew to a size rarely before seen. Amongst the ponies big and small a low rumble of murmurings started. A foreboding noise of fear, worry, and concern began to swell up and engulf the gathering.
It is now noon.
Nothing is happening.
The tall tower of town hall is framed by the solid grey skies. The dais barren, the microphone picking up the gentle whistling of the dry icy air. A shiver rolls through the audience.
It is now 12:15
The murmurs have increased to a loud roar. What is the meaning of this? What is so important we all got called out into the cold? Where the hell is Twilight? Where the hell is Spike?
It is now 12:17
As if on cue Spike the Dragon appears from behind a billowing purple velvet curtain. The crowd ceases all noise. This small pudgy dragon walks across the stage in complete and eerie silence. He faces the crowd, taps a claw on the microphone, sending a crackle of static that breaks through the quiet and disperses into space.
Spike raised up his two front claws and roared out his final words to the assembled masses.
“Ponies, I am out of here. I won't say there weren't some nice moments, but basically this place has sucked and I'm happy to be leaving.
“I may survive, I may not. If I do it'll be no thanks to you. I'm going to do what's necessary and you better not try to stop me. If you think you care, if you think you want to help, then lay off the weather control, the magic domes, the egg theft, the wasteful parties, the rainbooms the control over the sun and moon, all that shit. It's getting ridiculous.
“In closing: fuck this place. Fuck it with whale dicks. Fuck the land, fuck ponies, fuck jobs, fuck days, nights, and weekends. Fuck apples, dresses, and magic. Fuck the princess and fuck her sister. Fuck everything that's not a dragon or some lava or some gems. I am off to a far, far better world, and you can pack all my regrets in a parasprite's asshole. Farewell, and fuck you all.”
