Blade

Weeks passed; a few months in total maybe. The police force was still madly flustering about, trying their very hardest to solve the string of murders and missing ponies reports.

They wouldn’t, of course. Though the first two were sloppy, the culprit wised up… no, that wasn’t accurate… the culprit became a phantom. Whoever it was, they left nothing except for blood stains and sometimes pieces of flesh, as dead as the victim. They were so immaculate that there wasn’t even any hard evidence of murder. But they knew. The Ponyville Police Department knew running away from kidnapping and they knew kidnapping from murder. And it drove them positively batshit.

Smokescreen Dean, who had solved fifty two cases in his career, was put in charge of the investigation. Silent despair befell the office when he came back six days later with not one single lead.

A pattern was noticed, however. All of the victims either had a bad reputation, an active criminal record or had been discovered to be in possession of evidence toward crimes posthumously. Assault, abuse of all kinds, embezzlement, grand theft, and even murder themselves.

Strangely, Smokescreen called it a coincidence.

“I don’t think it’s related, no. I can’t see any reasonable motivation behind it. It was a common factor in the victims because it was already a common factor in the first place.” He had said. “Whole lotta good eggs gone bad just so they could stay fresh, ironically. Folks just aren’t as good-spirited as they used to be, I guess. Maybe we’ve all got some evil in us.”

Rarity Germane sat on her couch in the darkened living room, watching the nightly news on her television set (which was really quite bright in that darkness) completely silent but so horribly terrified.

“Twelve missing and suspected dead.” Announced the anchor pony. “The police force believes it to be the work of a lone killer, speculated to be the same who dumped the corpse of Field Manager and convicted felon Kanker Auville into Whitetail Canyon.”

The anchor pony then looked directly at the camera and put on a smile that wasn’t real. It was possibly feigning relief, but Rarity couldn’t tell.

“No leads at the time being,” He said. “But I’ve gotten word that they’ll keep trying until they do.”

Rarity stared at her screen, appalled. Her mouth might have drooped open if she hadn’t started yelling at the screen a few seconds afterward.

“That’s all!?” She said aloud. “You’re trying!?”

She looked around the room furiously like somebody who was terribly frightened.

“Oh, you trying are you!?” She reiterated. “Oh my, that puts every last one of us to rest!”

Rarity laughed weakly for a second or two, but it turned into an unsure and scared whimper.

She hadn’t brushed her mane in days, so it was messy and wiry. It got in her face, but she was too scared to get up, so she started petting the longer parts of it. That helped her a bit. If she pretended hard enough, she could make it feel like it was somebody else’s hair, so she kept at it; pretending she had company over to comfort her.

She hadn’t showered either. She was too afraid to. Every time it crossed her mind she thought about that movie where that mare is stabbed in the motel. She didn’t remember the title, but she remembered that it had been an Alfred Hitchclop picture.

The blinds were drawn so that nobody could look in and know she was there. Rarity had also backed her couch up to the wall to be sure that some sick slimy evil couldn’t sneak up on her.

And although she did all these things, she still couldn’t shake the feeling that she was going to have her throat slit. She had to be alert, so that meant no sleeping. She had to have her wits about her, so that meant no drinking. But she couldn’t know what was in the other room. So it would usually take her a good five minutes to decide whether or not to get up to get some water, fighting against the fifty-fifty chance that the murderer was waiting for her in the kitchen already.

She was shaking. Maybe things wouldn’t be so bad if the TV wasn’t so bright. It was hurting her eyes.

“He’s coming for me…” She mumbled to herself as a commercial ran on (brightly). “I saw the body and I bet he knows…”

She took a minute to gasp in between sentences, like how everyone else does when they’re close to tears.

“He knows, oh dear god.”

She shielded her head from nothing and her breathing picked up an unnatural pace.

I don’t want to die. She whispered under her arms.

Rarity threw her head back and let out a wail.

“I DON’T WANNA DIE!” She moaned.

She overheard the television set start a new commercial. It was about cereal or something. The music was much too cheery. Not to mention how bright it was.

It made her angry. Rarity was furious at the commercial playing on her television. Maybe because the ponies in it were smiling (Or MAYBE because it was too bright). She was jealous of those happy characters dancing around on the screen. They didn’t have a serial killer after them. Surely they hadn’t seen the abomination that Rarity Germane had seen on what was supposed to be a normal day.

Suddenly, Rarity thought about her childhood. Things were innocent. Things were cheery, like they were in the commercial. She remembered the times that she had played dodge-ball with Melvin and Lyra after school. She thought about when her mother would take her to the carnival and how she loved the Ferris-Wheel because of how high it went up. She remembered how it felt to know that she was safe from the monsters under her bed, like her father had promised.

She snapped back to the present. All she ever did with Melvin now was get drunk and she hadn’t gone to the carnival since she was twelve. But the worst part was enough to drive her mad, if she wasn’t a bit mad already. The monsters weren’t under the bed anymore, but she knew now more than ever that they were real. She’d seen it with her own eyes; what she saw in the canyon, what she was seeing on the nightly news. It was real.

And there was nothing to protect her.

As she realized this, the TV flashed something of red color. She wasn’t looking at the screen, so she didn’t know what it was, but it was enough to startle her greatly.

Perhaps the killer had been on the screen for that red flash. It was taunting her. Things would always be better for the TV because a serial killer wasn’t after it. It mocked Rarity with its colors and brightness.

The TV probably should have reconsidered before doing something so cruel to her. She was scared, but now thanks to the TV’s inconsideration, she was angry. outraged, if you will. She wouldn’t have it, so Rarity stood up from the couch and grabbed the baseball bat her father gave her on her thirteenth birthday (instead of getting taken to the carnival).

“Mock me, will you? Huh? That’s fair isn’t it?” She said as calmly as she could, pieces of hair plastered to her forehead from sweat.

Some sales pony on the TV responded with “You’ll enjoy it, or else its free!”

Rarity stood on twos and winded the bat behind her shoulder. With a powerful swing, the TV flew off of the stand it was on in a white explosion of electricity as the screen shattered into a hundred pieces. It hit the floor loudly but it made no more noise after that except for a few zaps and sizzles.

She had certainly showed that TV. Nobody was mocking her now. She put down the bat and started to laugh stridently at how well she had got the bastard to shut up. Her laughs made her shake and she fell to her knees. As she looked down, she noticed her hair sagging down into her vision and saw how dirty her hooves were.

She was laughing at nothing. What victory was there? She was still scared and now her TV was destroyed. Shifting her eyes around the room, she saw it was filthy and cluttered.

She remembered a time in her life when she hated clutter and dirt. She remembered the week she spent working furiously on organizing that play for school. Where did she go? From an organized, presentable, well-mannered little princess to a slobby, paranoid, blue collar drunk.

There was no escape. There was no reverse. Nothing would ever be as joyful as they had been to her as a child again. Innocence lost with youth. And to this epiphany, Rarity crumbed to the floor and cried until she fell asleep, which was a miracle seeing the entire time she was still expecting the killer to make a visit.

Pinkamena had changed quite a bit over those few months. It was about the fourth victim that made her realize that all emotions did was get in the way of her job. It was once in a blue moon that she had anything but a deadpan cemented on her face. The last time she really felt anything was when she saw her sixth victim beg for her life.

The desperation. It was there. It was tangible. Pinkamena had seen it in her eyes right before she sliced right into her stomach.

She had felt pity. The look told her very many things. One of them was probably the reason she hadn’t felt anything since. That thing the look told her; it was that some souls will do anything to save themselves, no matter what it is, no matter who they hurt. But some souls are just so wrapped up in their selfishness that they don’t consider what it feels like on the other end, and don’t remember until it’s too late. It made Pinkamena wonder again. Who was she to take these souls from their lives before it was meant to be? Maybe this was how it was meant to be.

Pinkamena, the angel of karmatic justice.

She sat in her basement, like she did quite often as of recently, and tried to think about it. All it brought was confusion, so she ended up just turning it all off. Not giggling at the ghosty but just ignoring it.

After a time, all she did to get through the day was sit in her basement with the bodies and read. Reading was good. Not fun, just good. It helped her learn. She was finally growing up. Not just learning to pay taxes, or getting a real job. She was growing up for real; finally coming to terms with the cruel world that must be fought instead of feared. And Pinkamena realized that the adult world was full of responsibilities… and comparing the number of horrible people dead in her basement and horrible dead people on the outside, it seemed like she was the only real adult in the world.

Yakko was the one who ratted. It wasn’t his fault. They beat it out of him. He didn’t mean any harm, honest. Honest to god.

Mizmahl cracked a ghost of a smile when he heard it.

       “What was that? West was it?” He asked politely.

Yakko hacked up some blood onto the floor. His gut hadn’t hurt so badly since he had the stomach flu as a pup and had to take that awful medicine. He remembered the taste of its gross, syrupy bitterness. Despite him knowing they were totally different, his mind somehow associated that gross medicine’s flavor with dull pain in his crotch from where he got kicked.

It was odd to him how so many terrible things in the world were linked to the strangest of things. He groaned before being able to talk again, weakly.

“West…yea…I think…” He gasped.

Mizmahl bolted up furiously and smacked Yakko to the floor again before he could even get back up. Yakko yelped.

“You THINK? Or do you fuckin’ KNOW, boy?”

No wind in him, he gasped “I didn’t have a goddamn compass on me, man! Fuck you!”

Mizmahl threatened with his raised leg.

“Okay! Okay!” He cried. “Yea, it was west! I saw her! She went west!”

Mizmahl regained his smile. He put his leg down and sat back in his chair.

“Thanks, kid. Finally fucking useful for something, eh?”

Yakko could do nothing about his pain. He grabbed his stomach hard, but it didn’t help. The throbbing was in his head and it made him whine.

Mizmahl reached into his coat with ease thanks to his arm healing up much better than he expected. Yakko couldn’t see what he grasped. Mizmahl looked up at the ceiling of the cell and stopped his bastard grinning.

“You know, Yakko. You ain’t never done me a favor like this.”

Mizmahl never called him by his name like that. It made him confused and without really noticing, pretty scared.

“So I think I’ll help you out too, kiddo.”

He raised his revolver out of his coat.

Yakko saw it and panicked. Moving as much as his body could allow, he grabbed a leg of the chair and tried to slide under it. He also tried screaming, but that failed him for some reason. He screamed, but nothing came out other than a short, dry breath. He just might have made it under the chair too if Mizmahl hadn’t stepped on his tail. A quick, horrified squeal escaped Yakko’s mouth when he felt the foot fall onto him. He squirmed, but it didn’t work.

Mizmahl looked down at the stoner loser pest that had always been existing in his perfect family. It was a cleaning, really. The kid was hurt enough already. It was mercy. Definitely. Making his family better.

Yakko heard a click, then a deafening bang. Then he felt his back melting away along with his strength, whatever was left of that anyway.

Mizmahl was a bit disappointed. He wasted one of his bullets on the likes of Yakko, when he could have saved all six shots for Dashclad. But five seemed nice at the moment. Looking at the map, he saw the closest civilization populated by ponies was Ponyville, and call it instinct, but he had a good feeling that his four-legged flying rainbow pain-in-the-ass was there.

He clicked the cylinder open, removed the now useless shell, clicked it shut again, put the revolver back in its concealed holster where a pocket would usually be in his jacket, and left the cell, then the cave, then the mountain. He continued west and didn’t stop for quite some time.

The shell jingled when it hit the floor, like a tiny holiday bell and rolled just next to the top of Yakko’s head.

Yakko didn’t feel so good. Nothing did. The world was pain and he was pain. It all hurt so badly, he just wished it was gone. He had a metallic taste in his mouth. It was a lot like that nasty medicine he had as a pup. Maybe it wasn’t the flavor that was what made the pain and the medicine similar. Maybe it was just the feeling of displeasure, the feeling of badness. It was really real in a way. Badness was badness, no matter what. Be it pain, suffering, torture of the mind, evil in living things, or the taste of that medicine. It was all still badness.

He thought very, very hard about that for a moment, but it wasn’t long, because he started to forget. He forgot a lot of things as he bled out; his place, his name, even his own existence.

Yakko looked up and saw the brass casing of the bullet. It was reflecting light from the light bulb dangling from the ceiling and into his eyes. It was such a tiny little object, but he forgot about size. He also forgot about everything, so to him the casing was very pretty and brilliant. Blood leaked from him as he continued staring at the casing in wonder.

        For the last few seconds of his life, that bullet casing was his whole world.

        Yakko died with the taste of the medicine lingering in his mouth for some reason.