Chapter One: Demon's Day Out
First thing I did was, I stole a body. I could have made my own, but I wasn't in an artistic frame of mind.
I was just fed up, you know; fed up with being a cog in a vast machine, with doing my pointless, demeaning job. It's not like I was the only one who could do it- anybody could do it. Tormenting the damned- it practically does itself, no lie. And it's depressing; I can't tell you how depressing it is.
I didn't tell the Boss, I didn't tell anyone I was going. No, Hell could get along just fine without me.
As for the Creator, the One- if you ask me, He hasn't ever paid the place much notice. He wound the watch up, set the hands, and let it start ticking.
Really the Creator is the one I have the grievance with, not the Boss. The Boss is just doing his job like the rest of us, just fulfilling his function. The Creator is the one who set up all the rules, and now He never checks in, doesn't seem to know or care whether the peons of Hell are getting overworked and fed up. I've never been a fool enough to expect redemption, but even a tiny spark of recognition of my drudging toil- or even my mere existence- would have been nice. For thousands upon thousands of years I've labored under a slowly fading hope.
After a while, it was just too much. Even a being like me- no, especially a being like me- has its breaking point.
So, the hard part was picking a body. I wanted keep it simple, start small. Slip into a life that was already taking place. Something with all the synapses in working condition. A body that was carefree, insulated from earthly considerations like hunger; a protected place to try out physical existence. A body without responsibilities- no job or family to care for; someone who had time to experience the things I wanted to experience. Not too protected. Someone who wasn’t watched every second of the day. Someone who had a little time on their hands, but also a safe place to go every night.
I knew I wanted all this, so I decided to take an older pony, already free of their adolescent ties. I looked around for a bit and found a few that I observed closely, waiting until one turned up good to go.The actual hijacking of the mare took place about one second before the guy was about to step out from behind a parked carriage into the street, and get iced, as they say, by a speeding pegasi-pulled drag racer. My candidates were all dependable mares and stallions, each with their own unique pros and cons. This particular one was thinking about a thousand different recipes and cooking jobs she had planned for the day, and stepped off the curb without even so much as a glance down either direction- or at least, began to. The fact that this pink-maned pony missed the last two seconds of her life didn’t really matter; I could see exactly what was going to happen. Although technically there’s free will and anything could have interfered with her death, like a timely muscle cramp to make her pause on the curb- or heck, a bird could have been flying overhead and suddenly taken ill in midair and falled on her head, knocking her out the second before she stepped out into the street- there are laws of physics, and trust me, after millions of millennia, I can spot an inevitability.
Body-snatching is pretty rare amongst my kind. Technically speaking, I broke a few rules, but what are they gonna do? Send me to Hell, ha ha?
Anyway, she stepped out into space and I jerked her hoof back, and there I was on the curb while she was making her whooshy tunnel-of-light way to the hereafter.
All at once I was in this brand-new, slightly used body. It was a fast-motion fill-up, like pouring myself all at once into a too-tight vessel. I’m not used to boundaries, and to be suddenly constricted- to need to breathe, to have a beginning and an end- gave me a feeling of… well, almost panic.
But then everything else flooded in and I was swimming in a vast sea of sensory information. I wasn’t expecting it, and it threw me into confusion. I’d been expecting to just take over, smooth and unnoticed- it looks so easy to be a pony, considering they’re all a little dim- but suddenly I could see, hear, feel. It was beautiful.
Everything was beautiful.
“Pinkie, are you alright?” said Pinkie Pie’s almost god-mother, Mrs. Cake, from the still-open doorway into Sugarcube Corner. I looked at her through Pinkie’s eyes, and it was the weirdest thing.
I have never been anything but spirit- anywhere and everywhere I wanted to be, just never in a physical sense. This was the first time I was ever in exactly one place. Before, I could have known what anybody on Equus was doing, if I’d felt like it. I wouldn’t have been able to see or hear what they were doing, but I would have been aware of it. Sort of an amorphous cloud with the ability to inhabit many discrete sites at once.
But now, in an equine body, I was immersed in an ocean of details. Every single one of them was crisp, clear, and distinct. I was overwhelmed, so even though I had exactly one pony- Mrs. Cake- in my field of vision, I only had a dim, muffled idea of what her facial expression and body language might mean, and I had to think really hard to try and remember an equine word for what I thought Mrs. Cake might be feeling right now.
Taking on a body, it seemed was constricting in more ways than one.
“I’m okay,” I answered, feeling the sound rolling out of my throat like a wave. It was so thrilling, I did it again. “I’m okay,” I told Mrs. Cake, as I looked at the way her irises had a bright color, a brilliant rose. Color- what a concept! What a wonderful thing to see, what a great creation! I had to give the Creator a tip of the hat on that one.
Maybe that’s why He never checks on Hell. I didn’t realize how intricate, how rich, earthly perception was. Could be He was busy with the day-to-day here; either that or He was still resting up from setting all this into motion.
Now I was starting to grasp even more of the details. As I looked around at all the movement, heard noises big and small, felt the warmth of the sun- what coup. the sun! What a terrifyingly beautiful thing to come up with! Again, a tip of the hat!- and the faint coolness of a breeze that I couldn’t see, I knew I couldn’t just pick up in the middle of Pinkie’s day and carry on as Pinkie planned.
No, instead, I desired to find out everything I could about the interesting cacophony I now found myself a part of. I made Pinkie stand up, marvelling at the feel of physical strain put onto her lower limbs as she arose. “Are you sure, darling?” The other, much older mare questioned of Pinkie. “Yes, of course.” I remarked in Pinkie’s voice once more, the initial buzz of excitement still fresh on my mind.
I wanted to go someplace- nopony, I believe the term was- could see, and do stuff like make different noises come from my throat and tongue, and look at the bottoms of my hooves and genitalia.
“I’m not feeling too good,” I told Mrs. Cake. “My stomach hurts.” I thought that was quite a realistic touch. Ponies do have stomachaches; they have them all the time. “I’m going to go back in and lie down for a minute.”
“Want me to bring you up some soup, honey?”
“No, no,” I said, and in a flash of brilliance I added, “Must have been the cupcakes.” Because that was what Pinkie had for lunch, and nearly two dozen of the devils- pardon the pun, Boss.
“Oh, deary, I warned you eating all of those at once would be bad for you.”
“I know!” I said happily.
“Well,” Mrs. Cake said, turning away, “if you get to feeling better, your friends were wanting you to come visit them later on today.”
“Okay,” I said, still happy, and started walking back into the sweets store.
Or tried to. Pinkie’s legs went to rubber, a confusion of too many joints, too many muscles and tendons that had to be placed at exact angles. All while keeping her body upright, her head at the very top of her moving jangle of flesh.
I found myself dipping and weaving and, for a moment, stumbling forward in an effort to remain on Pinkie’s hooves and earn her name Equus ferus caballus at the very least.
It took a good half-minute for me to get into the motion, but it was pure fun trying. Having sight didn’t help at first, because everything around me rushed toward and past Pinkie’s eyes at varying rates, depending on its distance from her body. Finally I fixed her gaze on the top step of the incline leading into the store, and concentrated on how it felt to move her legs. Once I got them going, I marveled at the way they were able to coordinate in perfect rhythm- one miscue and she’d go down in a heap, but no, it was as smooth as if she’d been born walking, so smooth it was downright miraculous.
I was walking!
Creator, I thought, I’m sorry I didn’t understand what a bang-up job You did on this place.
He didn’t answer, of course.
I turned Pinkie’s head from side to side, taking in all my surroundings, and soon I found that fast movement of this kind made Pinkie’s eyes perceive things as a blur. So I stopped on the sidewalk and turned around a few times to watch the world lose its form as it passed by. When I stopped, I had a wild sensation that I was still spinning, so much so that I lost my balance again and staggered, When I finally was able to stand up straight and focus, I found that I was facing towards a passing pony on the sidewalk.
The stallion wasn’t looking at me; he was heading up the hill to an unknown destination.
I watched his back for a moment, the way he walked. I’d never understood before that ponies trotted in differing ways, even though their speed and length of stride might be essentially the same. Mrs. Cake had a prim and proper, almost rigid sort of step.
It was clear to me, now.
As I stood there, watching with great interest, I realized I could identify what Mrs. Cake had been feeling when I took over Pinkie’s body.
Concern, that’s what it was.
Chapter Two: New Experiences
I don’t like the term “demon”. It carries quite the bit of negativity with it. It implies a pointy tail and cloven hooves. I prefer the term “fallen angel”. That is, indeed, what we are. The difference between us and the angels who don’t fall from grace is that the Unfallen were, are, and always will be faithful, stalwart, and obedient. That is their nature, just as it is their nature to rejoice in worship and contemplation of the vastness of the Creator’s perfection. We, the Fallen, wondered, questioned, confronted, eventually demanded, and in general pushed the edges of the envelope till the envelope burst.
Since the Creator knows all in the vastness of time, you may ask yourself whether we the Fallen are merely carrying out our part in His plan. That is a question.Good luck getting an answer. His thoughts, His ultimate designs are mysteries. Except to- maybe- the Unfallen. I’ve never been sure about that because the Unfallen don’t hang with us peons much anymore.
I’ve never liked those guys.
I went to Pinkie’s home, eager to check out this body that was now mine. On the way, I kept looking up at the vastness of sky. Oh, what a blue! The clouds moved, not just in one direction, but rushing, tumbling, rolling, redefining themselves every second.
I felt Pinkie’s muzzle stretching and lifted her hooves to touch her face. The appendages encountered small, squarish hard things.
Teeth. I was grinning! That was wonderful, too- facial muscles reflecting emotions, which are some of the most intangible things in existence. What an exquisite world this was! I should have come here sooner.
‘ On Pinkie’s front steps, I pushed open the door to the bakery.
Pinkie’s parents had disappeared or abandoned her long before she came to live with this couple. She lived in an orphanage as far back as she could remember, before being “adopted” by her new caretakers. Mr. Cake, her father-figure, was out of town at the moment, helping build relations with the other sweets shops scattered throughout Equestria. Mrs. Cake was currently on the job, attending to ponies who come looking for a little sweetness in their day. There was also two younger “siblings”, foals to her foster parents. The female, Pumpkin Cake, was away for a few weeks at a spring retreat, visiting Canterlot. Pound Cake, the male, still remains in the house, already home from school. I knew the young stallion, of course, as I knew everypony Pinkie came into contact with, but I couldn’t wait to see him through physical eyes.
Not that Pound Cake would think twice about Pinkie. I’d been watching her quite closely for a while, and it was obvious that when Pound Cake felt anything about his sister at all, it was annoyance at the “pain in the flank” and the “overhappy weirdo”. Pinkie’s little sibling often expressed anger at Pinkie for being “giddy” and “too excited”.
I already knew more than I wanted to know about equine annoyance and anger. I’d spent most of my existence buried under endless drone of negativity that envelops every one of the billions of my, shall we say, clients. Most of them are in my charge not because of what they did, but because of what they didn’t do. There’s some kind of interaction with the Creator- which of course, I’m not privy to- and the souls come, slathered in guilt and regrets. There they remain, to agonize and anguish.
The only uplifting times are when, usually after millennia of suffering, a single soul suddenly, for no reason apparent to me, decides it’s had enough, that it’s paid the price for its wrongs, and sort of twists itself out, shedding its misery to go free. It’s a beautiful, memorable, and very rare event. It’s a cool rush, a sweet atom of a moment in an eternity of heavy dark. But, even that fine a moment has its bitterness. In Hell, nothing is pure joy. There’s sorrow in the moment of release, when the soul realizes that a true sin, once committed, can never be undone, and thus in one respect, never be paid for.
How the length of the soul’s stay is decided, I have no idea. I’ve wondered often enough. I know the kind of reckoning I had, after the Rebellion. It wasn’t a trial with judgement pronounced from on high. More like the peeling back of the outer layers of one’s being, all protections ripped off, leaving one with an excruciating, painfully naked self-appraisal. When it was all over, I knew what my punishment was. I knew it would have no end. No one told me. I just knew.
Is it the same way with souls? Do they have to serve a prearranged sentence imposed on them by the Creator? Or do they know on their own when they’ve atoned for whatever they did or neglected to do?
Whatever the reason, they punish themselves. I merely oversee; I don’t actively do anything about anything.
Mine is a useless occupation.
As I let myself into the Sugar-filled bakery shoppe, I pondered how long it’d take the powers that be to care that I was no longer doing my job. In any case, I was going to enjoy every second of this holiday while I could.
I pulled the door shut behind me. Pinkie’s alligator was in the entry, next to the front door, watching with a blank stare at all who entered. I was instantly curious; many ponies love their pets more than they love other equine, and I’ve always wondered why.
As far as I have been able to see, animals don’t give much to their owners; they let themselves be fed and petted, which has always seemed to me to be entirely a matter of self-interest. Now I observed that this reptile did look rather pliable, despite it’s rough exterior. It might feel pleasing on a hoof. Perhaps stroking it might be the key to the pet-owner relationship.
However, as I approached, the alligator- its name was Gummy- backed away, baring non-existent teeth in my direction. I stopped. “Gummygummygummy,” I called, as PInkie was often to do, while bending slightly, extending one hoof out for the alligator to inspect.
The alligator turned and scuttled away. It disappeared down the hall.
Did it know I wasn’t Pinkie Pie?
I stood up. I didn’t see how the reptile could know. It wasn’t as if I smelled different. I’d have to try again later.
I stepped out of the entryway, into the main foyer. The shelves and tables were lined with a wide array of sweets and pastries, each one another shade of the rainbow, with toppings and icing to match. Cakes, cupcakes, sweet buns, pies, chocolate bars, milk chocolate, syrup, all of these things could be seen in the one little instance of true a candyland. I moved beyond the room into the living section, where Pinkie’s sibling, Pound Cake, was sitting on the floor in front of the TV, playing a video game. He was a compact and complex bundle, in a pony. The hairs on his head were smooth and appeared to be shining entity, when I knew there had to be hundreds of thousands of them. His body was relaxed except for his hooves and wings, which gripped a controller. The wings held it firm, while his hooves seemed to spasm in tiny movements: tapping, pushing, pulling, circling.
Pinkie has grown to seldom approach her foster-brother, simply due to his ill-treatment of her. But I wanted to interact, and I liked the feel of Pinkie’s voice rumbling out of her chest, and I enjoyed making the changes in tongue, throat, and lips that enable speech.
“Hey, Poundy,” I said pleasantly, because this was how Pinkie always addressed the young pegasus.
“Shut up,” said Pound Cake without looking around. He did not say it with the same vibrant, enthusiastic meaning that Pinkie and her friends used. He loaded the two syllables with loathing and resentment.
I was glad to have been able to exchange speech with another equine, and went humming up the stairs to Pinkie’s attic room.
There I stopped in the doorway to take it all in. Or tried to.
Pinkie’s foster-mother says her room is one big pit without any organization whatsoever, but the truth is that Pinkie has a system. She drops any used costumes on the floor when she takes them off, and tosses the clean ones on the bed and stool and doorknob. She does not make her bed because, she says, she will only mess it up again that night. Her CDs are not in order, and they are on the floor rather than in the rack her foster-father bought her, but they are in stacks. Mostly. She knows where they are in general, if not specifically. Dirty dishes lie on the bedside table because Pinkie only makes a dish run whenever her trash can is full. Then she takes all her plates and glasses to the kitchen as she carries the trash out.
However, there is no question that Pinkie’s room i s a mess. In fact, I only fully comprehended what a “mess” was when I saw Pinkie’s room. Everything blurred and seemed to run together- the colors, the textures, the shapes. It was… unpleasant. Not in and of itself, but because I couldn’t separate out something to experience.
Finally, I bent and picked up a T-shirt. The words on the front were faded, and scaling from having been washed. I drew the shirt over her hooves and fore-legs, feeling the slight stretch of the material. Wonderful. Soft. I crumpled the shirt in Pinkie’s hooves and watched it take on shadows in the folds. Then I lifted it and gently brushed the material against Pinkie’s cheek. It felt even softer- interesting, how the more sensitive hooves have slightly different perceptions from the face, which has fewer nerve endings.
The lips have almost as many nerve endings as the hooves. I shut Pinkie’s eyes and rubbed the shirt against her lips. Now it didn’t really feel soft at all, but rough, and as I held it there, a sour stench rose into my borrowed nostrils and I realized that this shirt smelled like three-day-old sweat from Pinkie’s armpits.
“What are you doing?”
I jumped. It’s the startle reflex; even infants have it. I didn’t know how disagreeable it was.
I looked up to see Pinkie’s brother in the open doorway. Pound Cake’s eyes were a lovely color, sort of a pale green. I doubted that many ponies had observed this; Pound Cake was renowned for his lack of eye-contact.
Then I realized that what Pound Cake saw just now was Pinkie standing in the middle of the room, eyes shut, while she slowly rubbed a stinky T-shirt over her mouth.
I would have known, even if I hadn’t seen the expression on Pound Cake’s face, that he thought this behavior odd.
“Nothing,” I told him. That’s what Pinkie would have said, even if Pinkie would never have been feeling his own clothes with his lips. “Silly-head.” I added as an afterthought. Somehow, though, I had missed the rhythm of conversation. Pound Cake did not say “Shut up”. He did not move.
“Are you making out with your shirt?”
I wasn’t interested in what Pound Cake thought of me. What I was interested in was Pinkie’s tongue.
The tongue has even more nerve endings that the hooves or lips. I wondered what the material would feel like against my tongue, how it would differ from what I’d already experienced.
Still, I thought carefully, to reason out what Pinkie would have done about Pound Cake. I hoped to lie low during my sojourn, whether it ended up being minutes or hours.
“Get out of my room,” I told him, as Pinkie might have done, and stepped toward the door.
“I’m not in your room.”
“Get out of my doorway.” I told him, and shut the door in his face.
