Canterlot Seven

by LightOfTriumph

Rating: teen
Tags: Dark
Length: 1006

So every Sunday I pick up the paper, and every Sunday I regret it. This is the story of a mare who wanted to be a star.

I have a morning ritual, and every day the newspaper spoils it.

I keep on hearing about these Mares who've been killed. And it really starts to get upsetting.

She just wanted to sing… Probably would have made it too….

Damn.

SEX TAG ADDED FOR SUGGESTIVE THEMES.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2014-08-18 15:10:06 UTC

Rooms for Rent, Until Your Name Goes Up in Lights

Celestia damn it!

I'm sorry. I don't mean to go off... It's just the paper.

I have a routine. It's something I take comfort in. Every Saturday night I get home late. That's fine. I don't have to work on Sunday. I climb into bed, being careful not to wake my wife. Kiss her on the cheek and get some shut eye. Sunday morning I wake up. My son tries to make be breakfast. (He hasn't got his cutie mark yet, but he's convinced it's going to be for cooking.) Luckily his mom helps out, and I have a decent meal. And then I do something stupid.

I pick up the Canterlot Gazette.

I really should know better by now. There's never anything in it I wanna read. But like a goober I pick it up and it ruins my Sunday.

You see, for the past three months there have been murders around Canterlot. Every one of them was committed by a unicorn, (doesn't narrow it down much, the city was founded by unicorns) who uses his magic to snap the victims neck. Of course the royal guard has absolutely no idea who's causing it. So there have been nine victims so far.

Okay, ten if you count what happened last night.

Alright. Listen to this.

Her name was Golden Pipes. Her talent was singing. Her cutie mark was a golden heralds bugle. She was apparently very talented just... unlucky.

She had come here from this little Podunk... Ponyville? Whatever. She had come here to be a singing star. She was convinced that all she had to do was come to Canterlot and she'd be discovered. She rented a cheap little apartment in a building that called itself Canterlot Seven. She went on audition after audition and she sat there waiting for the call that would propel her to super-stardom!

So of course the call never came. (The call never ever comes.) Now, she had saved up a fair amount of bits before she came, it was good for a couple of months. But soon... Soon it started to ware thin. She had to go out and find a job. She looked and looked but nopony was hiring. She was completely out of luck so...

So this is where Clop Avenue comes into the picture.

Listen. Nopony goes to Clop Ave. without being up to something illegal and sleazy. It's the nature of the neighborhood. If you're not up to anything just stay away. This is not the place for you.

This is a damn shame, because apparently her voice was very good. Apparently she used to practice on a neighbor of hers who describes her voice as "immaculate." Actually from the way he talks in this article it's fairly obvious the colt had a crush on her. Sad really. Not very bright, this kid, but he seems like a good soul. Probably could have helped her out of the jam she was in. Whatever he tried to do couldn't be any worse than her idea.

Yeah... She started turning tricks on Clop Ave.

Every night she'd bring a stranger home. Every night they'd have a great big smile on their faces and she'd be fifty bits richer. She still waited for the call. Still rehearsed. Still auditioned. Still practiced on neighbor-colt. And every night she walked down to Clop Ave. and met a greasy stallion who'd pay some good money for her to not use her voice.

This isn't anything abnormal. I've seen it a dozen times. Most ponies who come to Canterlot to try to "make it," end up here. It's almost inevitable. The problem is you end up meeting a lot of unsavory characters. People you wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley at night.

This is where I met Golden Pipes.

Of course I didn't know her name then. I didn't care. I just wanted to get done what I needed to get done. So I walked up to her, I payed her the fifty bits, and we went up to Canterlot Seven.

I had done this at least a dozen times before, if not even more than that. This was a curveball though. They don't usually take me up to their place. Usually it's a motel, or the back of a cart. I had never been in another mare's private house before. It was a nice little place. I remember being surprised how clean she kept it.

Anyway, I get there and first things first, she earns her money. After it was over we talked for a little while. She may have said something about wanting to be a singer, but I wasn't really paying attention. I went to the restroom, washed up, snapped her neck, and headed home. I may not work on Sunday but I don't like to keep my wife waiting too long.

And that was it. All in all, it was a pretty successful night. It's certainly been more difficult. Especially with other unicorns (They tend to fight back more efficiently. Magic versus magic and all that.) But yeah. No harm done, right?

No. I couldn't let sleeping dogs lie. I had to read the paper this morning.

You see, last night she was a nameless faceless hooker. She had no background, no identity, no real life to lose. She was just there. There for me to have my fun with and then throw away. No harm. no foul.

But this goddam article says that she was important to somepony! Neighbor boy was definitely crushing on the filly! She had parents back in Ponyville who were probably upset! She had a name. She had a background. She had goals, aspirations, dreams. She was flesh and blood.

She was alive. She existed.

And this makes my Saturday night recreation far more difficult to enjoy. This has to stop. I can't go on like this anymore.

No more reading the paper on Sunday, it's just too depressing.