Opalescence Whines

by GlazenDew

Rating: teen
Tags: Opalescence, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Comedy, Rarity, Romance, Slice of Life
Length: 1486

Opal complains. A lot. Using lots of italics.

Venture into the wonderful land of a cat who hates Rarity, and most other things. Mostly Rarity.

The 1st chapter is meant as a standalone for Equestria Daily's Outside Insight Summer Fanfic Contest, though depending of the reception, I might continue the story (as if I'd get reception). Enjoy! But I'm terrible, so you probably won't.

Published 2014-08-15 13:50:03 UTC
Last updated 2014-08-15 13:50:03 UTC

On boredom, Rarity, "Wittle", and veterinarians.

A drip.

Not a stream, or even a current, but just a drip, saturating my nose. The leak in the ceiling seems to have dissipated from the gushing rapid it was when I first woke up this morning, leaving a singular curve of grey water to fall upon my snoz. As it spreads, it flows within the cracks of my cartilage, seeping into the cavernous depths of my nasal irrigation system, effectively swelling up the tissue to its normal consistency.

And that's it. That is the entire summation of the most enthralling tidbits of my day.

Lazy days are very prolific for me. I can be up from dawn 'till dusk, tossing my head at the ire of my body's perpetual need for sleep, and still not find a single thing to do. A piece of yarn underneath the door, waving in the soft wave of chilled air disinterestedly in my direction; a bit of fabric hanging precariously off the table, as if trying to remove itself from this mundane-ity; a tea biscuit with two neatly- torn bays bitten off and- a fly? No, a moth! Something exciting!

I trained my eyes on it, sashaying my tail through the air as though it was a ribbon to show my new-found interest. It still hadn't noticed me as I attempted to slither with a very arched back. Needless to say, it didn't notice the master hunter until it was but a dark tinge in my lurking shadow. It moved of course, but I was planning for this, blocking all possible leads of escape with my tufted body. I raised my arm with clear intention: twinge the wing. Trap it. Strain it. Do not kill- no, that would come later, after I milked it for all my pleasure. For now, I held content in simply making it crack under the whip of my whim.

And yet, I was still unconvinced. I had already brought my furred- wrath upon it, of course. No second thought would had saved him from the dilapidating injury. He'd be limping for a week… if he was lucky.

No, I was excited; my body told me that much, from my wiggly butt to my perked whiskers. But I didn't feel that way. It didn't get me roused. It was 2 minutes (at most) of entertainment in which my attention would still be half idle. Afterwards, I would be right back where I had began the arduous task to quell my sickness. I hate to say it. Everyday, I struggle to avoid saying those 3 words. An uphill battle, always leaving me exhausted and defeated of all hope as soon as that truly maleficent phrase is uttered: I… AM… BORRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRED!

"OOOAPALL!"

Ugh. Great. That singsong jingle could only be her. All that yowling expended, no, wasted on a visit from Mallowbutt? I will admit that it wasn't the most fool-proof plan in that the bawling would inevitably attract attention (purely a byproduct, I assure you- I don't need their adoration to entertain me), but why did it have to be her? Why couldn't it be the squeaky one? At least she'd play with me…

"Ooo, there you are, my wittle Scrunch Bunch! Is somekitty feeling a wittle grump pants? Ah, I'll go get your wittle designer sweater. I know how much you wuv its wittle designs! Wittle wittle wittle!"

Yep, that's what she just said. No exaggeration.

More pressing, though, is the fact that I'm about to be suffocated by another one of her hideous "artisan" garments. I had once thought, in my foolish kitten days, that someday, maybe, she'd finaly pick up on the struggled signals I keep broadcasting and stop trying to fit me with pompous clothing. Oh, how naïve I once was. Nowadays, I've ceded to simple bitching at her about the absurd double-standard that she sets. She has me wear clothes constantly (especially that dammed hair bow- if it hadn't gone lopsided and constantly nipped at my ear, I'd be able to possibly tolerate it) to protect my vanity like some kind of satin wündershield, but ho ho, whenever there's a stallion around, she just "happens" to be caught bearing it all in-the-fur, her smoothly curvaceous haunches in sharp contrast to her ditzy, revealing tail flicking. And the men hardly help, egging her on with those glassy eyes, brains hazed by her svelte candy flank. She truly is a whore.

Think that's too strong? Well, I'd beg to differ. Case in point, last Thursday:

We had just headed out of the boutique to meet up with her fellow compatriots and my "wittle friends", as she affectionately calls them. My problem is deciding on which word should be abhorred more- "wittle" or "friends". Actually, as much as I hate her situational vocabulary for me, I think the fact she had the utter tenacity to even attempt to call those beasts my "chums" takes the cake. I guess they're a… colorful group, but with the unsuccessfully murderous one, the accidentally murderous one, the obliviously murderous one, and that bucking rabbit, I think you can see why I have a hard time making nice with these imbeciles. And the rabbit. The bucking rabbit.

Good catch to all those in the studio audience who realized I'd left out someone.

Someowl?

Sure, why not.

Owlicious, I can stand. Actually, he and I get along surprisingly well for two predators hunting from the same prey pool. Actually, if I recall correctly, we had partaken in a casual- yet-focused conversation on the ethics of hedge fund-operated broker-equine stand-ins in the Appleloosan stock market. I went home that day enlightened, stimulated, and slightly sticky from that canine's saliva, mixed with whatever she had scavenged up from that filthy barn she calls home.

Should I be pretending now that I forgot my place in the story amidst my ranting? Of course not; when I tangent, I do it well.

As I had explicitly stated before, we were out on the town, fresh door prints indented on our rears, when the perpetually- inebriated mask she usually reserves for stallions reared its ugly [masked] head, at which point I began to wonder if this was the real façade throughout.

-She had forgotten the cake.

Nay, she neglected the cake, for she was too busy making whoopee pies that previous night.

Say, did you feel that little gust that passed us by not a few seconds ago?

…

No? You're reading this from a remote location?

…

Look, buddy. I know I'm curious and all that (that one cat killed by that industrial-sized hairdryer has forever given us the imposition of that adage), but I make no claim in ever having tried to make sense out of this lunacy.

Luna knows I must've hit that rogue trash barrel harder than I had initially thought.

…

Oh buck it, I really did forget this time. We were at 'Rarity is a whore', correct?

So we (she) had decided upon going to Sugarcube corner to get, well, a cake. She obviously wasn't going to see the loud one, if that is what you were thinking. And no sooner had she walked in had that little waste of a pony yanked my tail. And then hit me. Several times. I think pound might be a better description, though. Either way, he did a number on me. Six. Six times.

After I had recovered from my PTSD, I regrouped up with my enslaver, who seemed to have caught upon another flamboyant whiff of her floozy side when caught inconspicuously without the proper amount of bits to buy it. The victim? Carrot Cake. And he was buying what she was selling: the pouty lips, extended rear, the works- with his own children and wife present in the room! Granted, I believe that Cup was taking care of some routine cleaning tasks and was therefore turned to face the shelves, but nevertheless, I feel as though she is deserving of the title I bestow upon her.

And this harlot has the nerve to scoop me up, put on my sweater and-

Oh god.

Sweet, merciful god.

It's the cat carrier.

The vet.

Oh god.

...Get a grip Opalescence! You will not cower in the face of fear, even when said face belongs to that of a 100-pound pit bull who just happens to be the pet of a certain Mr. Luck, who had the "great honor" of being "Miss" Rarity's date for the night... forcing me to stay- in the same house as a killer dog for an entire night.

No, it will be good this time! Hopefully, it will be an uneventful visit to the veterinarian in which no flirting of any type will occur. Yes, calm thoughts.

Calm thoughts.

Wait-

Is that cage closed already?

Is there something inside?

And who is...

Is that- Tender Hooves...

...our veterinarian.

Goddamnit, Rarity.