The church spire rose gallantly over the surrounding buildings, a giant among the decrepit, diseased midgets that comprised its companions, buildings no more than rubble and crumbling death-traps now in the iced grip of winter. The church itself was an example of the orthodox style so common to the central Ponisibirsk, the blinding white visage of the simple gothic structure a phallic silhouette against the grey sky. Damaged and chipped in peculiar places, one side had a new entrance created, a wall collapsing from the force of bombardment. Above the two main ballrooms towered the shaft, dominating the very fabric of winter, its tip a golden beacon in the shape of a delicious glistening onion, making the shaft look larger than reality. From the skies above this beacon, waves upon waves of white substance flowed and floated onto every surface, slippery yet wet, covering the land like icing on a cake.
Inside the tip lived a guard in white khaki, an immovable figure, a gun in his grip, ready to fire if sufficiently aroused from his withered slumber. The mark on his flank was that of a bottle filled with clear liquid, a label adorning it. A patch on his armour spelled out the name: Gregori. Beside this man was the bell, silent now, though years ago it would liven up when pulled on by the priesthood, its gong a celebration of Celestia’s orgasmic glory. Now, the occupants of the tip were comrades in eternal silence, waiting for a time when they are needed, until then tucked away and hidden, as if seen the consequences would be dire.
Splat. Splat. Splat. The silence was broken as the white colt listened, the faint sound of hooves on the creamy ice of winter bouncing from building to building, reaching the ears of the sniper, whom shifted, moving his weapon ever so slightly, the glint of the scope the only hint of its existence. Soon appeared three soldiers, coming quickly and loudly onto the street, dressed in an unfamiliar uniform undoubtedly insufficient for the climate. Two of the soldiers appeared to wear only a jockstrap and cowboy hat, a peculiar combo evoking an Apple family reunion. The third wore what appeared to be a pink robe adorned with a floral pattern, its length abruptly ending above the knees. Gregori could only assume this was the group homosexual, as studies had shown that one in three colts enjoy dick. He could only wonder whether the robed soldier was wearing undergarments, but he didn’t intend to wait long enough to find out.
Silence fell. Another shift, then crackling thunder. Then again, as the white man released his load -
of bullets into the faces of his jock-strapped enemies. Click, click! The sniper pulsed the trigger, but there was no ammo to consume. Coming out of a stupor, the robed soldier ran into a nearby building. "When I was a little filly and the sun was going down…!” exclaimed Gregori, his bulbous, toad-like eyes indicating he was more than a little insane. Still muttering, the colt left the tip, descending towards the ballrooms through the tower shaft and exiting into the icy air of the snow-covered street. As he reached the corpses of his victims he observed their jock-straps, the skimpy leather hardly concealing anything at all. He kept staring, entranced.
A bullet whizzed past, the air disturbance ruffling the white guard’s face-pubes, similar to the swinging hair in Canterlot shampoo commercials. Like a thundercat the colt leaped behind the first cover he could find, a dirty mattress undoubtedly bound for incineration. No choice left to him, he hid before the shooter could fire again. "The darkness and the shadows, they would always make me frown,” he murmured intently, his face twitching as he listened to the voices in his head. The white guard considered the situation. He was out of ammo and pinned down behind a soiled mattress 10 feet from a homosexual wearing a pink and unusually revealing robe, probably equipped with a full clip of ammo. The only advantage to be had was the element of surprise. Suddenly, a brainwave, more like a brain-tsunami, hit the guard as a plan formed in his mind. He was ready.
He ducked, his legs to either side of him, knees bent at square angles, and waddled out of his position, moving sideways like some sort of squid-based crab doctor, his velocity increasing with every step, his muzzle waving and snapping. His jaw unhinged, and he emitted a high-pitched whooping sound, the cry of a battle-charge, his face like a human Sarah Jessica Parker as he bounced and hobbled towards his opponent. Gregori slapped and groped the soldier (whom it turns out wasn’t equipped with underwear), a fight to the death punctuated by giggling and the occasional moan.
Gregori, in a moment of unparalleled hip strength, began strangling his opponent with his thighs, the soldier's face going from yellow to orange, from orange to red, from red to purple then from purple to blue, a kaleidoscope of colour that nearly induced rave fever in the guard. Momentarily distracted, the soldier was able to free himself, reaching into his robe and unveiling a savage breadstick. He stared into the white guard’s eyes, his hatred like laser beams of hatred. His face was that of a drowning dolphin, and he flapped his mouth, roaring:
“You stupid! You so stupid!”
The proud Russian could not take that lying down. His Siberian honour, while requiring him to sacrifice three fillies to the dark god Azmodius once a full moon, also forced him to respond to this indignity. A movement, as the guard tensed his face, appearing to attempt to shit a brick. But something even more amazing occurred. His large beard, filled with scraps of food and some livestock, trembled and quaked upon his face, tension building as the energy rose to critical levels. Then, in an explosion of light, the hairs came alive, each a muscled arm that grew out of an old and tired face, a forest of small fists waving at their intended target. Leaning forward, and the arms began to pummel the bemused soldier, the tiny hands leaving small bruises that compounded as the army beat and beat. After mere seconds, nothing was left of the soldier’s face but a fine rib-eye steak. The arms shrivelled and turned back into their original, pube-like form, a full beard reappearing on the Russian’s face. Rising to stand over the tasty corpse of his opponent, Gregori bellowed in laughter, yelling in his booming voice:
“Pinkie, you gotta stand up tall, learn to face your fears! You’ll see that they can’t hurt you, just laugh and make them disappear."
“Ha! Ha! Ha!”
Stumbling towards the mattress, he found the rucksack he had left behind, and reached inside, hoping in desperation that he would find that crystal magic that empowered him to fight. He grasped at a bottle, and pulled it out, and on it was written “Russian Standard Vodka.” He chugged the contents down, the magical fluid flowing down his gullet. He looked up, holding his rucksack full of vodka tightly, and yelled into the sky:
“Vodka... POWER!” Achieving liftoff, Grigori rose above the city, his alcoholic powers giving him the eyesight of an eagle. As he rose, the spell cast upon him began to fade, and beneath the fading clothes and body of the white guard was a cutie mark of a flaming sun, majestic wings sprouting from either side as the full glory of Celestia herself was revealed to the world. She revelled in her victory, soaring above the clouds, ducking and weaving among the migrating geese, imitating their honking.
Princess Celestia twirled and twisted into the sunset, having saved the day yet another time.
