A Different Batch of Cupcakes
A Different Batch of Cupcakes
A Grimdark Tale by Mister Gunpowder
I grin. It’s happening again, as it always has, and as it always will.
I sit at a table at the Golden Chest Café, looking onwards over a newspaper, the headline reads “Golden Rig, known associate of the Flim-Flams, escapes multiple rape and murder charges due to lack of evidence.” I am inside the café itself, which gives an air of sophistication in its décor. Moonlight floods in from the windows in the front. There are about fifteen tables, with me in the one in the back right corner, the other back corner occupied by the desk and register that’s operated by the staff. Over at the table in the opposite corner from me is Golden Rig himself, laughing and cheering at the waitresses and making sexual passes at every mare who passes by him. Everypony here in the café shows fear of the nearly-convicted stallion sitting amongst them. The monster I’ve been observing just escaped charges of rape and murder, despite the fact that there was so much evidence against him and two witnesses. But he’s got connections to the Flim-Flam family. And with them, evidence can just disappear, and witnesses can suddenly become silent. But I dug the evidence up. I know what he’s done. That poor mare went through so much before he killed her. And now, he’s almost walked away from his crime, free. Almost.
He’s a normal-sized stallion, in a cheap-looking blue suit. I know little about fashion, but it still looks like a very, very cheap suit. Probably mass produced. He has a copper coat, and a golden mane, matching his name. His eyes are a deep orange. I just watch him, drinking my peppermint mocha, as I have been for the past hour. I’ve already gone through two others in the past hour, and I’m getting a caffeine rush now, even with the low caffeine. I guess my low caffeine tolerance doesn’t much care about the low amount. I’d better calm down. Next one will be a decaf.
Rig keeps making passes, things like “Hey, honey, let’s go back to my place and do the deed to celebrate my freedom!” and “Mare, the things I’d do to you…” It almost makes me gag, but then I remember what I’m there for.
Now, I watch as a waitress walks by and he sticks a hoof out, causing her to stumble and fall, the drink she was carrying splashing over one of the legs of his suit.
He roars out, “Bucking dammit! You clumsy bitch! Do you know how much this suit costs?! More than your life!”--I resist the urge to laugh at that--“I’m not paying a damn thing. I’m gone.” He gets up and moves towards the door, but not before spitting on the waitress he tripped.
I stand up, pull out the bits I owe the café from my coat and lay them on my table. I move to the mare he tripped and help her up off the ground, also giving her a napkin to clean up. After that, I start following him.
He hasn’t gone far, and I follow him down the main street of Ponyville, keeping about fifteen feet between us. He walks nearly five blocks before turning into an alleyway. I catch up to him, putting on my best innocent yet seductive voice.
“Hey.” I say, cooing as best I could.
Golden Rig turns around, startled. “Wha-what?” He forces out. “Hey…who are you?”
“Oh, my name is Crimson Cupcake.” I tell him, lying. “But you. You look like a bad colt. I like bad colts a lot, you know.”
He smiles. “So my charms have worked their wonders on yet another mare. A red one, too. I like the red ones.” He licks his lips. “Well, let’s head back to my place, sweet cheeks, and get it on.”
I step back, winking. “Oh, no. You see, I have a good place for us to meet and do the deed. Meet me behind Sugarcube Corner in an hour, and I’ll make you writhe like you never have before.”
He smiles wider. “Oh, playing a game now, are we? Alright, sweets, I’ll be there.” He turns and continues walking.
I smile. Joke’s on you, Golden Rig, and soon enough, I’ll be laughing. But I doubt you will be.
* * *
I stand in the alley behind Sugarcube Corner, an L shaped alley with only two points of entrance, one of which I’ve blocked with a large dumpster. Only one way for him to enter: The other entrance around the corner of where I stand. Next to me is a hatch to the basement of Sugarcube Corner, unlocked. And now, after fifty-five minutes, I hear the hoofsteps coming down the alleyway. I look around it, and see him coming. He sees me, and I wink before pulling my head back. I smile as the rate of the hoofsteps increases. Soon, he rounds the corner.
“Well, sweet muffin, here I am.” He says, smiling like a wolf. “Where’re we going?”
I smile, and make a gesture towards the hatch to the basement. “Down there. It’s my personal nest.”
He whistles suggestively, and I lift the hatch, letting a faint light come out of the basement, with stairs leading down. I head down, with my catch following.
There is a light already down there, in the center of the room. I wait for him to get down here before I head up and close the hatch with a slam, then quietly locking it. “Just stand in the middle of the light while I find the switch. It’ll give the full effect.”
He complies, standing there in the light, completely oblivious to my intentions.
I move towards the corner to the right of the hatch, lifting the long, hollow stick I left there, pulling out and depositing the dart that I had in my pocket into it as I aim it at Golden Rig.
He looks around. “Well?” He says, impatience obvious.
I grin, and tell him, “Just another moment.” And then, I blow into one end of the stick, and the dart, filled with an agent that would render him unconscious almost instantaneously, flies out of the other and hits him square in the neck. He wobbles for a mere second, then falls over without a sound from his lips. I giggle at the thud he makes.
I reach over to the wall, finding the switch I told him I was looking for and flip it, turning the lights on, showing the basic, square room with a door across from the staircase and nothing else but.
I go over to my catch, and drag him towards the door with my mouth, kicking it open and dragging him in, the preparations all ready, and the shower running…
* * *
I stand in front of the table my catch is laid across, having just finished my nice, long shower. He is chained down, his legs held at each corner by hoof cuffs and a strap across his stomach. The cuffs on his legs go up far beyond the hoof itself, holding him in the middle of the leg. I’ve found that this holds them down better. I have most of the lights off, save for the one over the table, and I’m standing just outside of the light.
Suddenly, he stirs. I smile.
“Wha…what happened…?” He mumbles out, still dazed from the potent agent I put into his system.
“Oh, I shot you with a dart that had a chemical combination that knocked you out as soon as I hit you with it.” I giggle. “You made the funniest noise when you hit the ground!”
“Is… is that you…Cupcake…?” He asks, confusion lining his words.
I burst out laughing. After I stop, I speak up. “Oh, my name isn’t Crimson Cupcake! That was an alias! I’m not even red, though I’m close.” I step into the light, showing my face and true colors to him, my hair straight thanks to the shower washing out the gel that was curling it. Literally, too, of course. “Let me reintroduce myself. My name is Pinkamena Diane Pie. It’s nice to finally meet you, Golden Rig.”
His eyes go wide in shock, and I burst out laughing. “But…you said…”
“Haha! You honestly thought a mare would actually show interest in you after what you’ve done? That’s just adorable!” I start laughing harder, and clap my front hooves together as I do.
He roars out, the tries to get up, but the hoof cuffs and the belt hold him down. “Oh, do you really think that after all of the trouble I went through to get you down here that I’d just throw you on a table and not restrain you?” I shake my head. “That's just silly.”
He looks at me in a seething rage. He yells out, “YOU BITCH! SOMEONE, HELP!”
I giggle. “Oh, no one’s going to hear you. This entire room is soundproof.” I start laughing again. “And, somehow, I don’t think anyone would help you if they knew what was going on!”
He looks at me again, rage growing, and he spits in my face.
I frown, then reach over into the darkness, grab a cloth and wipe my face off. “Now, that was rude. You know, that’s one thing I hate.” I reach over again, and wrap my hoof around the handle of one of my favorite tools. “When ponies--” I lift it up off the rack “--are--” I start the swing. “--RUDE!” And the cleaver goes straight through his right hoof, cutting it off and causing it to fall to the ground below the table, blood gushing out from where it used to be, the leg only three quarters as long as it used to be.
He screams out in anguish for a good minute. I savor the sound.
“MY HOOF!” He yells out. “YOU CUT OFF MY HOOF!”
“Well, duh.” I say, giggling. “Now, let’s stop the bleeding. We don’t want you bleeding out, do we?” I lean over to a bucket next to the table, and pull out a bunch of ice that was sitting in saltwater. I then shove the bundle into the wound. He screams out again.
“That should do it!” I say, giggling.
“YOU PSYCHOTIC BITCH!” He yells out again, still writhing in pain.
“Well, that isn’t very nice. You still haven’t learned your lesson.” I sigh. “Well, I’ll have to teach you some manners, won’t I?”
I place the cleaver back on the rack where it was, and grab the handle of another one of my favorite tools. “Or,” I pull it off the rack and turn around, laying the crowbar across my other hoof like a blacksmith lays a sword across his hooves for the inspection of a customer. “I could just start hitting you with this crowbar. Both are good options.” At that, I start pounding him with the crowbar. During my fun little beating that lasts about five minutes, I hear about four cracks, and throughout, the delightful screams of my catch.
Soon, I stop, panting. My catch is groaning, his skin split at several places, a bone poking out of his left back leg, his left front leg is bending at a funny angle, and part of his chest looks like it’s collapsed.
“Whoopsie. Looks like I overdid it again.” I burst out laughing.
“Why…why…are you…doing…this…?” He rasps out. His breathing has gotten shallow.
“Oh, because you’re a horrible, murderous monster that I hate.” I say with a completely straight face.
“Then…what…are…you…?” He turns his eyes to me.
I look at him, smiling.
“Oh, I am a monster, yes. But what makes me different from you is that I’m a monster who preys on other monsters, like you.” I laugh. “Oh, I’ve been doing this for years. And you? You’re just another monster to me, with a number to add to my list. You, mister Golden Rig, are number three-hundred-fifty-seven.” I grin.
His eyes go wider than they have before, fear filling them like a flash flood. “Oh…Oh Celestia.”
“Oh, yes.” I smile as wide as I can. And I lift the crowbar again. “And this one? This one will just kill me.” I bring it down on his crotch, as hard as I can.
The splitting scream is one of the most wonderful sounds I’ve ever heard.
I begin laughing. “This is what you get!” I drop the crowbar, which lands on the concrete floor with a loud clank as I laugh very, very hard.
As my laughter ceases, I reach over to my rack, and grab the handle of my favorite knife. I keep giggling. I start humming a tune. I then cut a deep wound into the carcass of my catch, blood spilling out and onto the table. Dip my hoof a little into the wound, covering a bit of it with blood, and bring it to my mouth and lick it. “Ooh, nice, thick blood! Type B, if I’m not mistaken.” I take some more ice and stuff it into the new wound. No scream. He’s too busy being in horrible pain from the last hit with the crowbar.
I start feeling artsy. I begin cutting various things into his flesh. A party balloon here, a rendition of the Manehattan skyline where all of the buildings have party hats there. I begin singing, too.
I put the knife down on the table, and reach over and grab my blowtorch off the rack, a pair of goggles hanging from the nozzle. “Now, let’s see what that flesh tastes like.” I take the goggles and put them on, then turn the torch on, illuminating the room a little. By now, he could probably see all of my toys. The hammers, axes, giant screws, handheld meat grinders, my wide collection of cutlery and, of course, my drills and saws, some of the chain variety. Oh, but I won’t bore you with the details, my wonderful reader, I have some flesh to cook.
I set to work on a bit of flesh from the right flank, blasting it with fire from the torch, cooking it. I hum as I do it, and, about a minute in, he starts screaming again. Oh, how I love those candy-coated screams.
I turn off the blowtorch, and grab the knife again, and start cutting out the bit of flesh that I cooked. He starts wheezing as I do. When I’m finished cutting it out, I check it over. All cooked. I take a bite.
“Ooh, crispy. But that’s to be expected. A bit gamey, too. Not that great. But it’s better than Blueblood, that’s for sure.”
He looks over at me. “Blue…blood? Why…?”
I laugh. “Oh, right. No one ever did find a lead as to why he disappeared. You must be asking: ‘Why would the psychotic pink vigilante serial killer kill Prince Blueblood, Equestria-renowned philanthropist?’ Because that was a ruse.” I shake my head. “You see, Prince Blueblood had an unhealthy…taste for little colts and fillies. Plus, he had very little security. It was almost too easy to make him number one-hundred-fifty-eight.” I giggle as his eyes go wide again. He just remembered that Blueblood went missing only four years ago. I’m a fast worker, you see. And there are so many monsters, too. I just know I won’t go hungry. “But, by Celestia did he taste baaaaad! Stringy and no flavor at all!” I stick my tongue out. “Just remembering it almost makes me sick. But that's not important!”
I pick up the knife again. “Now, I take souvenirs of everypony I kill. And what better souvenir than their pretty, pretty faces?”
I start laughing as he starts screaming “NO!” over and over.
As I move behind his head, I run a hoof along his face. Oh, this will certainly be a nice face. I set to work, cut along the edges of his face as he screams out, making sure I don’t cut any muscle.
As I finish, I lift it off, my catch still screaming out. I hold it up in front of my face and lean over where it used to be. “‘Lookit me, I’m sick rapist and murderer! Hohohohoho!’” I throw the face onto the table as I laugh. “Oh, and I have one last thing for you before I must kill you.” I bring up a bottle from under the table. “Alcohol with several tablespoons of salt mixed in!” I laugh as I pour it over where his face used to be.
The gurgling scream he lets out is so indescribably wonderful.
As he starts to go into a pain-induced coma, I whisper a line to him. “Now, Golden Rig, it is time for this to end. Good night.” And, I bring the knife to his throat, and slowly, oh so slowly, I slit it, and rub my hoof against the side of his head as blood seeps from the wound, Golden Rig slowly dying.
And soon, Golden Rig lays in front of me, no life remaining in his body.
I set to the task of…“appropriating” his corpse.
* * *
I sigh, finally finished with the final touches of my cupcakes, happy with them.
Almost immediately after I do, I am besieged by Mr. and Mrs. Cake, who each take one.
Mrs. Cake finishes hers first. “Oh, Pinkie, how do you keep making these wonderful, wonderful cupcakes?” She asks me, eating another one of my cupcakes, her husband eating another next to her.
“I wish I could tell you, Mrs. Cake, but it’s a Pie Family secret.” I tell her, grinning as wide as I can.
Oh, yes. And it’s quite the secret, too. Isn’t it, dear reader? Want one? They’re gluten-free!
