Button Nash
He didn’t know how he knew. He just knew.
Button Mash didn’t used to be a pony. At least, not before he died. His previous species was unimportant - it was his destiny that filled his mind and soul, consumed his every waking moment. He was born for one purpose, and one purpose only. A higher calling.
And if he could just manage to begin his holy work, he knew that he would earn his cutie mark, and surpass even the height of his fame back in Nashville. He could change the world. In so many ways.
Most of his classmates already had their cutie marks; in fact, he was pretty sure that it was just him and those three caped fillies who still lacked one. Thankfully, his blank flank had not yet drawn the ire of Diamond Tiara. After running a successful restaurant for more than two decades, living through gradeschool drama again was, well, painful. He hoped to just keep his head down and pretend to be normal until he regained the fame that he deserved.
GAME OVER
Button Mash realized that he had been staring at the GAME OVER screen for several minutes. He’d been out of bits for a while now, but nopony bothered him when he was sitting in front of an arcade box. With a scowl, he shoved the impotent joystick to the side as he clambered off of the stool and listened to it flop back to its neutral position.
As he tossed his saddlebag over his shoulder he caught a whiff of pungent black pepper, instantly lifting the sour mood off his back. He smiled, thinking that just as the glass jar couldn’t stop the spices from reaching out and making the world a better place, nothing could stop him from doing the same.
The road home passed in a blur of irrelevance, the glass spice jars clinking with each step and the heavy flour and butter doing nothing to drag him down. He had long perfected his breading recipe, and deep-frying technique. A pony doesn’t just forget a world-famous recipe; not even death can take that away.
But nothing was working. Potatoes were just potatoes, and everypony fried them. Eggplant turned into little more than congealed snot, and no amount of breading or spices could salvage that. So many other vegetables had stepped up and failed. None could get the right consistency. He had even tried that fermented bean curd the Japoneighs ponies brought from across the sea. You just couldn’t add enough grease to get the right mouthfeel for that.
Still, that was all good practice, allowed him to adjust for Equestrian spices, and it had earned a bit of respect from his parents. All of which had been lost when he fried fish. There were lots of ponies who ate fish. And his parents were not among them. He didn’t understand what the big deal was. Even Fluttershy killed fish to feed that giant bear she took care of.
Rarity had enjoyed the spicy fried fish. He had enjoyed cooking it, and it was better than anything else he had tried to make. But it still just wasn’t the same.
Nopony was interested in eating fried chicken. But he knew, he just knew, that if somepony was to taste his Nashville-style hot chicken, they would love it. Not that anypony had ever heard of Nashville.
He walked past his front door. He wasn’t going home. In fact, he was going to borrow a restaurant kitchen. Turns out, lots of ponies were willing to help out a colt trying to earn his cutie mark. Rarity had helped him come up with an invitation list - ponies who eat fish, ponies who are on the cutting edge of fashion and style. Ponies who may be open to… unconventional culinary adventures. She had no idea what exactly would be served, only that it would be similar to the fried fish she had liked so much.
The restaurant’s back door stood in front of him, rising like an obelisk into the unseen heights above. Mash took one deep breath, then stepped inside.
Cold sterile stainless gleamed at him from every surface. The counters and friers stood above his head, with empty milk crates upturned in front of each station he would use. He hopped up onto the crate in front of the prep station, and pulled ingredients out of his saddlebags, one at a time, setting them on the counter. Flour. Milk. Salt. Pepper. Butter. Brown sugar. Cayenne. White bread and pickle slices.
One ingredient was conspicuously missing. He peeked out into the dining area and waved to the few ponies who were setting up for tonight’s fashionable shindig. They smiled and waved back. He closed the kitchen door, and pushed a heavy box in front of it.
He had a few hours yet. But the cayenne needed time to mellow in the butter, and the friers needed to warm up, so he began his food prep. These motions he had practiced a million times, and he could do without the least bit of thought.
Which left him to his own thoughts. The rhythmic tinking of the whisk against the glass bowl provided a backdrop for the storm in his head. He couldn’t think of even one villain, not in the story books or in extremely tumultuous recent history, who had killed animals. Enslaved ponies? Sure. Stolen their magic? Yep. Turned woodland creatures into spider-like abominations? Reversibly, but yeah. Chopped the head off of an innocent chicken? Nope.
Did that mean that he was about to become the single most evil creature in all of Equestria? He didn’t like to think so. Back in Nashville, chickens died by the millions to feed the residents. Along with cows, pigs, and assorted other animals. Not here, though. Lots of ponies ate eggs. What was the difference between that and a fully grown chicken?
Time passed too quickly. There was nothing left to do but that. Mash unrolled the canvas knife case and looked at each of the instruments in turn, remembering the purpose of each one. Bone, skin, flesh. Flour, fry, flavor.
He propped open the back door, and slowly rolled the wagon inside. It felt like a funeral. His funeral. What would they do to him? Would they realize what was beneath that crusty, spicy coating before they took a bite, or would they recoil in disgust when they discovered the bones?
Before pulling the blanket off of the chicken cages, Mash peeked into the dining room one more time. The decorations were finished, just like he had requested.
There was only one thing left to do. And it would be delicious.
