It is hard to describe myself at times, for it is often that I do not even know what I am feeling. There are days where the illusion of normality is over me and others when I know I am truly a different breed from anypony else. It is on a day like this, that I contemplate whether or not I am of ponykind. Perhaps I came from another dimension or a planet of cannibals and I fell to Equestria disguised as an asteroid. When I curled up on the streets and cried for nourishment, my mother would then take pity on me – mistakenly believing me to be her son. An alien, that is how I felt – no other feeling of absolute isolation from others could better be described. My upbringing, for the most part, was considerably normal. In the far east of the lands of Equestria, a different state stood in opposition to the Solar Empire. This being long before the reunification of the Alicorn sisters, back when the white Mare of the Sun was the sole ruler. The land was a federal subject of a larger joining of numerous states and territories now known as the former ESSR.
In my little cold, somewhat forgettable republic called Kustanair, the concepts of friendship and unity were paired together under socialism, rather than a monarcho-theocracy like today. Religion was mostly absent, however most of us were culturally holding onto the appreciation and praise of the Sun and Moon as the most obedient students of the Universe. We inherited it from the Saddle Arabians who once traded with our ancestors often, but hardly any of us took it as seriously as them. The Hooviet Union did not seem too bothered by our moderate beliefs, as long as they were mostly kept to ourselves and only talked about in the vicinity of few. My people were closely related to the Khans – a short, but strong breed of stallions who held the land ages ago. Personally, I always considered myself a Khan over a Hooviet and over anything else. My features were slight, my jaw and otherwise solid features outshined my somewhat narrow eyes. But as a Kustanair, we all shared the ethnic characteristic of the Khan breed – specifically our average to medium, yet sturdy and strong builds engineered toward stamina and endurance. Traditionally, our black mane and tails are kept well-trimmed and cut. It was a militant, warrior appearance – now dissolved and apostrophed into a common style. What a shame, our ancestors would be disappointed.
My family itself was international – my father a normal Kustanair farmer and my mother a fair mare from the mainland of the ESSR. Once married, they settled down in my small home village for nine years before my birth. I was the only colt out of their kin, the rest were four sisters who preferred to terrorize me in youth. I cared for them, but more out of instinct and survival, rather than any actual emotional, family bonds. At a young age, one of my siblings had disappeared and their body was never found. I can assure that this is completely irrelevant to me and my condition. In my own opinion, I believe she ran away and started a new life. Around this time, I had grown to develop some anti-social tendencies but in reality I was just emotionally daft. I had a hard time comprehending certain things, specifically how to empathize with people and think my own actions through. Sometimes I am calculating and organized, but I have a tendency to be unpredictably spontaneous if the situation allowed for it.
It was these behaviours that eventually lead to the demise of my teeth. You see, I have earned the name “Metal Fang” for a reason. I did not name myself, of course – I personally hate the name and at any chance I get, I am glad to denounce such a ridiculous title. There was a time I took pride in it, but this being before my reformation and rehabilitation process. In the ESSR, we were given simple, single names to replace the personalized names common within the Solar Empire. I was Nikolai, I will always be Nikolai – but to the media, to the family of my victims – I will forever be Metal Fang to them. In my family, weak teeth were already an inherited trait among other smaller things, but it affected me the most. With an urge to chew on things otherwise not edible as a tiny colt, I had degraded them past practical use. Growing up in this region of the Hooviet Union – I lost most of them in a fight. Here, the young hardly have much to do besides unpaid labour for food and their daily chores or education. One of the few foalhood friends I had introduced me to someone my size and merely said “Here he is, now fight!” You can predict what happened from there. I came home with several hoof prints on my face, a swollen eye and bleeding mouth. The first time I ever tasted blood and it was mine. Luckily, for as brief as it was, I already began to get accustomed to the steel-like taste.
ESSR dentists announced that my mouth looked like a war zone and if I were to able to eat anything but paste again, I would need a permanent set of dentures. It would be free, naturally – but in Kustanair, the only true cost is that of the wait. For several weeks, I lived off of just liquid and pre-chewed grass. That was when I first began to endure intense hunger pains, the same kinds that hit me now every once and again. When the day came, my life changed forever – the added weight in my mouth strengthened my jaw and caused my face to protrude slightly outward. It made my face appear more chiseled and sharp than it actually was, thus I looked more like my mother than my Khan father. This affected my self-esteem immensely - matters were only made worse with my continued education at a school and the ridicule of some. But what confused me the most was the intrigue and interest it brought from others, specifically that of the opposite sex.
One of the hardest things to adapt to was relearning how to speak and drink without causing the most painful mouthaches you could imagine. In my homeland, we were very secluded and ignorant from the outside world. We lived with counterfeit and knock off brand items, the same went for food. If it was not made by the communists’ hands, we could not have it – so we were forced to settle for the hilariously inferior Hooviet-approved variants. We did not have bananas, but we did have the occasional orange that was basically worshiped for its flavor and fun ‘unwrapping’ accessory. Coffee was considered too much of a luxury and it was evidently used culturally in the west over the use of tea. But it would be cruel to deny a creature of something so delicious, so unfortunately we had Nechezol – some strange brown concoction made to look like coffee, but like the fake, refined soy oil we used for cooking and cheese fluffed with artificial flour – it was glorified garbage. That did not stop me from drinking it, it would occasionally seep into my infected gums, which rejected the false teeth for the longest time – the anguish resulted in many sleepless nights where I first began to have night terrors.
I constantly hid my teeth from others, due to their distinctive features, to this day I talk with my lips protecting the unique device behind my cheeks. The Hooviets had the common courtesy to paint them white, they looked natural enough and the paint never did chip like expected. But anyone who was close enough could see what they were made out of. I did not like the attention, it made me uncomfortable – but near the end of schooling my confidence was boosted significantly due to the kind of prey it would soon attract. I was having relationships by 16 and I had lost my virginity by 18. I never had trouble getting fillyfriends, they always loved me and I never understood why. I tried to preoccupy myself as much as possible, as I soon found myself having deviant thoughts, mostly sexual fantasies mixed with violence. Perhaps it was the literature I used to indulge in so frequently. I signed up for night school and started my education during the day for the ESSR’s railways. I managed to graduate college while keeping my most carnal and darkest desires suppressed. You see, it was a curse, whether I was unique or merely handsome – perhaps I was exotic for being naturally well built yet lean and still slender. These mares felt like a prison and being with them gave me the impression I was doing some crime, as if I was taking advantage of them even at a young age.
Instead of immediately jumping into the professions I trained for, I was conscripted into the Hooviet Union’s Red Army where I served as a chemical defense trooper and helped in counter-changeling operations. I was the only person in basic training without a cutiemark, rather than being scolded – it was greatly appreciated and they said it was preferable to be great at everything, rather than just one thing. That has followed me all of my life as blankflank. After my mandatory two years were up, I returned to my native village and worked mindless jobs for a few months, only to find that I have otherwise wasted my education and my military training left me with little civilian opportunities. I attempted to join the Geological Department for Rock Farming, but my admissions were turned down twice. I took up some volunteer expeditions for experience and did some minor jobs as a survivalist instructor’s assistant. In the end, the salary was small and the work was difficult. Finally, I found a home and a calling in the local Firehouse – where I became a Firefighter for two years. It was also here, where I reached the peak of my physical fitness and became especially skilled with an ax.
To make extra money, I exploited the fact I lived very close to the local wildlife and the wooded areas that blotted the map of Kustanair. People in the land were starving and as we all know, eating meat of any animal is taboo as we are all sentient – as we all have souls. Or at least, that is what I believed. But the opportunity came and I took it. Originally, I was almost like a hunter for hire – the region had a tremendous population of Timber Wolves and I was fearless enough to go head hunting. Their corpses also made it easy to keep the fire going on colder nights. As my experience with a rifle grew, small game became my prey – usually rabbits and occasionally fish. I would sell these to locals and even hold parties with my hungry friends. Within a year, I was excellent at both hunting and cooking. You never forget the first time you eat something that was once living. Everypony lives off a vegetarian diet, but if they tried otherwise – they would never go back willingly. I think we have lost touch with our ancestors, in my case – the Khans, who ate meat often only to be labeled ‘barbarians’ today – savoured every meal for a living creature died so that they may harvest new life from the soulless body.
I asked a local who was in the same craft as me how I should have my first meat meal. It was a small fish I had caught at the creek near my home, soft blue with green stripes and black, beady eyes. The pony told me to eat the cheeks with some mushrooms, that the cheeks were often the most delicate part of any creature and often the most delicious. I would remember that much later. I started to drink frequently by 21, my alcoholism was rampant and greatly hindered me at times. To this day, I still find solace in the bottom of a bottle. It helped me cope with the culture shock I returned home to everyday, there were mares that simply rubbed me the wrong way. These agitations soon became utter hatreds – for which I am now ashamed. When I first killed, it was ideologically and emotion driven, less complex, more embarrassing and amateur. It was not out of hunger or the addiction for the familiar taste I have grown accustomed to, I shamefully preyed on what I thought to be the infidel matriarchy my society had fallen into. I graduated to prostitutes and unfaithful spouses in due time, I thought that I was cleaning the world of creatures no one would want or miss. I was so selfish back then, so self-centered – less driven but so much more enthusiastic about it too.
I felt that an evil penetrated my home, making it broken, tired and sickly. I was under the impression that if I started now, by the time society has healed – I’d be regarded as an anonymous hero and not the monster I was. The first murder came out of my passion to hunt. I held back the temptations and desires for years, but my fetish and fantasy now became an obligation. I found a lonely young wench while I patrolled around in the dark near a path in my village, a bestial, terrible desire overcame me once I noticed she was alone and vulnerable. I approached her with the worst of intent, my teeth hidden behind my lips – she heard me, somehow. Usually I was so quiet, so prestigious when hunting game big and small – but this new prey gave me such a rush as she ran. I gave chase eagerly - the thumping in my chest was so profound I thought it may have broken my ribs. When I finally caught up with her, I grabbed her by the clothing with my artificial mandibles and carried her toward the nearby landfill. She resisted but I easily over powered her, even I was surprised by my strength. I stood above her and remembered a book I have been addicted to as of that time. It was called “Black Mist”, but it could also be translated as “The Dark Fog”. It discussed the numerous beliefs and traditions of ancient Earth Pony tribes. The old Pagans of the North used to believe that the soul was in the blood of the body. That was why, if you were to slit the throat of your enemy and stare into their eyes – you would see their life pass through them.
Without hesitation, I placed my teeth into her throat and bit down - ripping out whatever meat I could cling on to. The taste was strange, the texture of her coat even worse against my tongue, I spat out the raw throat into the ground. It appeared pink and slick on the inside, but the coat on that small glob of organic matter was very much so red with her blood. Every time she tried to breathe, I placed my hoof down on her chest. I was disappointed to see that there was no soul leaving her eyes, so instead I carried on with the rest of the rituals I read. My lips against her neck, I guzzled the blood and drank it feverishly – my whole body shook with ecstasy the first time. I would be trying to recreate this moment and feeling for the rest of my ‘career’ as a killer. Suddenly, from the village came a bus and I hid down inside the landfill with the corpse. My hooves grew deathly cold, so I warmed them in her still fresh blood. When the bus left and everything was in the clear, I retrieved my survival satchel I got from the Firehouse. Inside it was tools for saving lives, but I would use them for malice.
I cut off her hips and took a fatty layer from her stomach area. From there I spread her legs and removed them from her pelvis, so I could have easier access to her thigh meat – which I carved. It would have been so much easier to be a unicorn at this time, for I had managed to do this entirely with just my hooves and mouth. I felt like a surgeon or a doctor – somepony with importance, somepony with power and dominance. I placed the meat, fat and a few other body parts into the satchel before I returned home with them. With the portions divided, I melted down the fat and pickled the meat. I labeled her breast and thighs as pork and chicken. The next morning, I returned to the landfill and realized I had to hide the body better. I brought several bags from my college days, Hooviet made, very durable and would be perfect for toating a body around. But being young and stupid, of course my first mistake was not simply leaving her there to be found.
I hailed for a cab-trolley and one of the ponies helped place my bags into the back. They joked, “These are heavy! What is inside, a corpse?” Thankfully, the sheets from a spare guest bed I brought padded the insides of them and prevented the blood from seeping through the decorative fabric. I stopped by a pond in the park, for some reason – it was the first place I thought about soon after the murder. I had underestimated the time it would still stay light outside and there were still people around, but I came so far and was not willing to give up now. I carried the bags over to the artificial lake and for an unknown reason, got sentimental upon starring at the beautiful lowering of the sun in the reflection of the water. I remembered my religion and instead of keeping me calm, it only reassured me of my ill-suited jihad. I did not even notice the fact I left the bags several meters behind me. After a few seconds of mindless self-indulgence into the water, I heard a loud gasp behind me.
Turning, there was somepony opening my bags – they only saw the bloody sheets and not the carved up corpse inside just yet. “Is this your’s?!” They asked me - obviously I said no and quickly began walking away. The stranger must have believed me, as they did not attempt to stop me nor did they even mention me in the police report in the paper the next evening. I ran home in full sprint once I heard the bag opened in its entirety, the zipper’s sound felt like a blade being sharpened against another in my brain – that was when I realized how hungry I truly was. “Murderer! Somepony, get help!” They yelped to someone across the pond, they had found what the sheets hid and what was revealed did not sit well with their stomach. The last sound I remember before becoming deafened by my own frantic trotting was the stallion losing his supper on the grass. It was one of the most stressful scenarios I ever endured.
At home, I tried my first taste of fellow pony flesh. No matter how I cooked it, the meal was always a bit dry with some saltyness to it. The after taste reminded me of wild game and the meat itself had the texture of long, stretched pork. Surprisingly, there was not a lot of blood left inside – even when ill cooked. I twice fried and cooked the heart and kidneys, it was hard to stomach even with the additional vegetables and sauces I spiced it up with. I grilled the thighs and breast until they were both really well done, yet it still remained chewy and caused discomfort against my artificial teeth. It was terrible, I was eating that poor mare for almost a month – it was the only way to get rid of the rest of the evidence. I forced myself to do it, but after that – it became commonplace.
I continued killing and eating mares, even within my dreams. I would sleep and all I could see for miles were floating hooves, legs and torsos. I then preyed on an elderly mare and killed her within a factory. She was returning home from evening prayers at her temple – where she had reverence toward Princess Celestia of the Solar Empire. I felt it was heretical, living in the Hooviet Union and myself, the hypocrite as always – being a strict Sun and Moon monotheist did not appreciate this apostate. A few months later, I killed a younger mare and her mother in their own home. Harvesting their meat to devour – I would cook it up into an ethnic ditch and serve it to my unknowing friends and lovers at dinner parties. My illegal hunting already gave me a positive reputation with the locals – the authorities were oblivious. If only either knew that the special rabbit-sandwich was one hundred percent equine.
Eventually, my profound hatred for the opposite sex disappeared and I returned to loving them as much as they loved me. I had a frequent fillyfriend named Tatiana, it was around the time I slept with her frequently that I became more and more deviantly deranged myself. I was no longer a predator, but a sexual predator – my desire to cannibalize had become a way to satisfy and null my now abundant sex drive. But, as still a young stallion, I had commitment issues alongside anger ones and the insatiable love of my fellow ponies’ meat. A friend of Tatiana’s named Valentina had stolen some of her belongings, she reported them stolen to the police and then, for some reason, dropped my name. The officers came to my door and interrogated me with questions that bombarded my somewhat hungover mind at the time. My answers were quick and blunt, but thankfully my natural charisma and seeming normality prevented me from having to invite them inside. I do not know what I would have to do if they were to open my fridge for a beer, only to find horse meat falsely labeled as chicken broth. I was angered and turned to vodka to soothe my nerves. While Tatiana tagged along somewhere with my youngest sister, I trailed out in the night and confronted Valentina myself.
It did not go as expected - as it was evident she was more attracted to me than she was intimidated. It was with her consent and all, she undressed and we partook in carnal pleasures not too far outside of her family’s barn. I found myself still not satisfied, so I picked her up and brought her inside the barn for another round. Once I was finished, my curiosity grew and I decided to strangle her with my bare hooves. Our eyes met intently like never before, but no soul was spotted – it was almost heartbreaking. I then bit out her throat and drank her blood, as par the ritual I have practiced for months now. I was seized by sexual arousal and attempted her again – only to realize she was already dead. I butchered her corpse, dissected it and placed the meat in a barrel – the rest were to be buried in her garden. By morning, she was gone and would not be found for several months. She was assumed missing and dubbed a run away or a defector. Her mother accused me, my own sister accused me – but these were all accusations cast off as unfair prejudice and bias towards me. No one thought I was capable of such evil deeds. Those were the days.
After a good run, I was bound to get in trouble due to my alcoholism. A friend and fellow firefighter was drinking with me in my home, when I decided to show him my prized Timber Wolf head and hunting rifle. In a drunken stupor, I managed to fatally wound my comrade with an accidental discharge. I looked into his eyes and wished him peace. I looked and looked for his soul, but saw nothing. After being arrested, they put me under psychiatric evaluation and determined I was mentally unfit to stand trial as a sane pony. This was mostly because during a lie detecting test, I had virtually no reaction to anything – not even the grim photos of the crimescene soon after. My diagnosis was schizophrenia and I was sentenced to eight years in a mental asylum. I was out in only six months, declared cure and utterly applicable for the civilian world yet again. I was back home and everyone treated me the same, as they all knew me as the nice pony, the good colt and the friendly neighbor who helped feed everyone’s foals. Little did they know, there was a corpse buried only twenty yards away from my property. I would dig her up one night, so I could use her neck bone as an envelope opener.
Tatiana had long since left the village after the disappearance of her friend and my brief rehabilitation. Within a week of being home, I had gotten drunk and brought somepony back to their bedroom. I had an uncanny ability of attracting people to me, although when I was in kill-mode – I would lure them into my territory, where everything was in my advantage. For once, I was legitimately trying to start anew and have a normal relationship like I once did Tatiana. After some drunken sex, I woke up next to my sleeping partner and said aloud, “What am I doing wrong? I am sorry…” I do not know who I was speaking to or what I was referring to exactly, I like to think I apologized to myself for trying to change because someone stated I was ‘cured’ for good behavior. The doctors and psychiatrics at that time did not know what my true illness was. So naturally, I ripped out her throat and drank her blood – it was routine now more than ritual.
Life continued on normally, well – normally enough for somepony like me with such peculiar habits. It was the peak of my ‘career ‘and I felt invincible. The sad thing is, pride cometh before the fall and I was about to fall hard for the first time, with no one to pick me up. I was up all night with friends and a few mares, it was a matter of hours before I managed to bring one in the back room with me. Apparently, whenever I became sexually satisfied with normal intercourse, I had the urge to experiment. Intoxicated and enticed by her body, as she slept – I hit her with a blunt object. Specs of blood painted small triangles on my face until I was sure she was dead. As I then began to bathe in her blood, to fulfill the prophecies I once read about in the Black Mist, my friends in the room over had called the cops. They never suspected anything from me before, but the smell of the red body-ocean that I took mouthfuls of must have alerted them to what had happened if not the loud bludgeoning.
The police found me on the bed - they had such fear and disgust in their eyes. They had witnessed me carving a future meal with my metal teeth. Shocked, they were unable to stop me as I managed to propel myself through my own window. I headed into the mountains where I hunted - it was my terrain and my rules up there. But they would come looking for me in due time, so I got in contact with a cousin of mine and stated I was framed. By now, the media knew my name – it was in the newspapers. But it wasn’t written down as “Nikolai”, oh no – the entire Hooviet Union was terrified at the demented crimes of “Metal Fang”. The thing that upset me the most was when they took my last jar of pickled horse meat from my fridge and placed it into some evidence locker. It also had been salted with an expensive product I bargained with somepony over for an entire afternoon. That would have been a fantastic appetizer to the stuffed heart casserole.
The Ministry of Hooviet Affairs tracked me down to my cousin’s house, where they bucked down the door and saw some suspicious new nails in the floor boards. Underneath I was hiding – soon brought into custody and forced in front of a judge who I prayed would give me the death penalty. Because of my existing diagnosis as a schizophrenic, she could not legally send me to the firing range or the gulag. I was to be put into psychiatric care with extreme solitary confinement for personality studies. Before she came to the final verdict, she was curious to hear my motives. So I gave them the best motives that court ever heard. “At first, I killed mares for many reasons. But now, I kill because I am utterly fascinated by their bodies and I am too often sexually satisfied with ease. I have been eager to know their bodies from inside and out, from their texture to their taste. Once a zealot, I am now a predator who preys on those he loves most.” I finally saw someone’s soul leave from their eyes – it was that day the judge lost whatever innocence that was left in her. I do believe she retired soon after. The judge wanted the full story and I was going to deliver it to her, every last detail – so I continued. “When I read the book ‘Black Mist’, it was told that you could predict the future by the prophesy that is through one’s blood. So I drank blood and from that, I have predicted this very day. The future now, however – I will admit I see dimly.”
A smile came across my face, there was no shame – the entire ESSR saw my teeth that day. They never forgot what they looked like. “I did not kill because of a single reason, but because of many complex reasons – like how I killed Valentina on the 100th anniversary of my grandfather’s death or my own fillyfriend on my grandmother’s 75th birthday. I killed because I am a predator and there is something inside me that has hunted down every last bit of my innocence…” The guards now tugged at me and pulled me away from the proceeding, the judge had enough of the fact that I turned her court room into my own personal spotlight for fame. “And every last bit of my innocence has been devoured – now my mission is to kill all mares that violate the laws of nature. I will continue to sacrifice them to my ancestors.” With that, they sentenced me to at least eight years of psychiatric care. What a joke, everyone was disgruntled that they did not execute me in front of everypony right there at the trial.
For the next two years, I was stuck inside a mental institution that constantly fed me drugs and beat me. I was reduced to stuttering and my walking was stiff, an uncoordinated shuffle. They put me through various shock therapy treatments and the occasional sit down, ‘how does this make you feel?’ ink blot test. I tried to kill myself twice while inside, I yearned for freedom, even though I have no idea what to do with freedom. I was raised a prisoner to my own desires and when I was set free, I only became more of a slave to them. This did not stop me from escaping for the first time, however – during a routine transportation from one clinic to the other, I jumped out of the vehicle and ran into the woods. They were unable to even catch up to me, let alone follow my tracks. Instead of two officers, they merely dispatched a medic and a nurse to bring me to my new destination. I have been underestimated my entire life and now the whole world paid for it.
For awhile, I wandered around the ESSR and continued to murder occasionally. But for the most part, I stuck to myself. I lived in the mountains and sold whatever I could harvest or hunt to the locals of villages who did not recognize me. When I was in Canterlot, I had caught up with a good friend and before he could say good bye to me formally, I left him a letter and I departed on my own terms. It simply read, “I must soon return, but for now – there are many pretty mares, no one will notice them having gone missing.” Said ‘friend’, turned in the message to the police. They determined I was still somewhere around the capitol and searched for me daily. I threw them off my track by adopting numerous identities. I identified as a Khan pony and refused to speak my mother tongue. Being a blankflank with many skills, I did everything from herb retrieval, secured hunting trips, cooking, small arms repair and firearm maintenance classes. Odd job to odd job, the authorities thought I disappeared into thin air or that I was truly a changeling the entire time. But, the emotional stress got to me and I attempted to turn myself in for stealing under a presumed identity. Indeed it worked, however the three weeks inside a jail cell was short lived – when a ‘generous’ diplomat decided to bail out the entire block.
Within a year I was recaptured and to my surprise, they grew tired of me and announced that I was once again ‘cured’. There was public outrage, death threats and many ugly protests outside my temporary residence – but the worst was in my home village. The mares avoided me, ponies have spat in my face and I returned to my home one evening to find it vandalized, with broken windows and crude messages on my wall. No longer welcome, I fled and tried to resubmit myself to the asylum two times. The second time was successful, once back in a comfortable bed and away from judgmental eyes, I pleaded for the death penalty. They said I was delusional and revoked some of my privileges. Despite my condition, there was still optimism from the servants you appointed over me – Celestia. As they said and here I quote: “The behavior of the patient is organized and calm. Willing to work in the office and assist staff whenever he can. On the grounds of him being dangerous, he could easily be observed in society or a public hospital.”
And that is why I am here, right now, is it not? In your Canterlot castle, under your own personal psychiatric care. You took the doctors’ words to heart, observing me whenever you can and forcing me to write this letter to you. So now, I assume you are curious how I have spent my first night? Let me tell you this first, Princess Celestia – I appreciate the freedom, but there is nothing here for me. I am willing to try and work toward a cure, but I feel safe inside the asylum walls. Here, I see your guards stare at me and flick their tongues viciously in gossip. You told them I am harmless and I think you have indirectly made me a target. I think your next big mistake was that you did not lock me in here with them, but them in here with me. I will be the first to admit I still have the hunger and the tendencies.
Just today, I was eating lunch in the barracks with everypony else. They all knew full well who I was, so I simply sat alone and ate. I’ve been eating vegetarian for months now, but I still cannot help but see the small tomatoes as eyes and the clovers of cabbage and lettuce to be a bad substitute for a slab of meat. I am as eager as anyone else to change, perhaps this will be my first few steps – but I must warn you Princess, it is really hard when your subjects are attractive to my eye. I saw the green maid earlier, the way she looked at me – it was prideful, she was arrogant. She was truly a mare that worked for her position and when not on the job, appointed herself over the stallions. That angered me – but the look in her eyes, the frizzy mane and the long ears, I find her strangely adorable as well. I am sure you cannot relate, Celestia – but I am hungry for her in more ways than one. If you would like a statement of honesty, I am deeply considering eating her. Or perhaps, with an attitude like her’s, she will attempt to eat me first.
I must sleep now, as I have been writing for hours. I am expecting some dream-therapy with Princess Luna tonight, correct? I sure do hope that she is accustomed to the nightmares of other’s, otherwise – I may be quiet the challenge to stomach. May you have a good night, Celestia. Praise the sun.
~Your faithful patient, Nikolai AKA “Metal Fang”
Author's Note
The backstory to the blog: http://askmetalfang.tumblr.com/
First off, this is obviously a character and I do not endorse any of their views or ambitions in the slightest
Now that is out of the way
Let us get down to business
Metal Fang, who prefers to be called Nikolai - is based off a serial killer very few westerners knows
You see, in the Soviet Union, the authorities thought that the serial murdering epidemic was a result of the 'decadent western culture' and often refused to acknowledge such things existed in their utopia
As a result, murders like the Rostov Ripper has killed what may very well be nearing a hundred people
Nikolai Dzhumagaliev - a moderate muslim and cannibal from the Soviet controlled federal subject of Kazakhstan - is one of the most infamous cases
Metal Fang was the actual name the media adopted for him, referring to his metal, white-painted dentures that replaced his original teeth due to unknown reasons
English sources on the man are pretty pathetic and full of falsehood
So the inspiration for this pony's entire history is actually delicately placed together from various Russian and formerly-Soviet sources
It is safe to say I really did a lot of research into this guy
He was handsome, average in build yet also very strong
He preyed on women and a profound hatred for what he perceived as a 'matriarchy' at war with the secular and patriarchal muslim culture of Kazakhstan
Eventually, he graduated to prostitutes and his own personal lovers
On numerous occasions, he was deemed sane while in psychiatric care - only to return to the world and start killing again
His entire timeline is summarized, ponyized and dramatized through out this writing
Meaning that to a certain extent, almost all of this is true and based off of actual events
There are segments inspired by the story of famous Japanese cannibal and celebrity Issei Sagawa - who has a lot more documentation into his personality and desires for flesh which served as a basis for plugging the holes in what I did not know about Nikolai
Which only disturbs me more to know that I did this for fun and to introduce a character into a new askblog which I will be updating the description with soon - when it is eventually finished
I know that it seems like a mistake at first, but the indirect way how Nikolai refers to the Solar Empire and the Alicorn sisters, despite being under their care currently is intentional
Because I thought it would be interesting to reveal that this was in fact a written interview for Celestia
And I think that the impact would have been removed if this was evident from the beginning
Metal Fang, at least moderately being a follower of the Saddle Arabian religion also holds reverence toward the sun and moon in a monotheistic sense
So the way he looks at Celestia is far detached and with little to no reverence whatsoever
Did I intend to try and out do Cupcakes?
Not exactly, but I feel like I handle the subject matter better
It is not so much shock horror as it is deeply disturbing and his description almost casual
In an actual interview with Nikolai Dzhumagaliev, we see how well this man has aged and how almost timid he is with his teeth
But also at the verge of laughing at some points, at the verge of tears at others
Since this is a first person perspective, we do not see this
But I like to think that the readers can almost hear Nikolai's accented voice describe his acts with slight ambition and enthusiasm
In the same way someone would recall their first kiss or their first lay
This was originally a 2,000 little mini story written in Russian
Instead of simply translating it, I rewrote the entire thing to my liking and built an entirely new construct out of the narrative which I am more satisfied with
