Your days are numbered. Absolutely numbered. Heck, maybe “days” is a bit generous. More like hours.
When I find you – and I will – what you did to her will pale in comparison to what I'm going to do to you.
You hurt her. My friend. You hurt her and you didn't count on being hunted down by a chaos god, did you? I can smell you. I can feel you in the air. It's not that hard to track down scum. One can smell their fear. They reek of it, and in a few hours you'll wish you had any sense of smell left. You'll wish you had any of your working senses left.
I wonder if you've ever pondered what it would feel like to leave this world; and by that I mean leave this reality and fall into a pit of pure chaos. I am chaos. I love chaos. But I also know most little feeble pony minds couldn't handle falling down a hole of pure chaos. You might get torn apart and put back together again. Or not. You might disintegrate and become star dust. You might lose all sense of time and feel like you're falling through infinity. And the whole time you might never age.
I wonder if you've ever considered the possibility that there are things in this universe that are beyond your realm of understanding—that to look at them would drive you mad as your mind tries to comprehend the incomprehensible. Ponies look at me and they see a strange, mismatched creature. How do you know what I really am? I mean, really?
Heh. I've heard many theories, but that's for another time. Not that you're going to have one of those.
You think I'm going to tear you to pieces with my teeth and claws? While that's certainly tempting, and it's true that I have the characteristics of a predator and can be quite frightening to you herd animals, I prefer to think my most potent weapon is my brain.
You see, I'm not entirely sane. And when you hurt the ones I love I can't be bothered trying to reign in my power, and my brain gets very, very creative.
When you've spent one thousand years in stone, trust me; Your brain is all you can be creative with. So I've honed it like a fine craft, but for all the discipline I've endured while doing so--that still doesn't make me sane. (Boo hoo for you!) You wouldn't be sane either if you were a statue for that long. How fortunate for you.
Don't you worry about whether that's true or not. I have it on good authority that I have several screws loose. I'm pretty sure the Princesses of the Sun and Moon could tell you everything. At least they could if you were ever going to see them again. You won't see anyone again, except little ol' me. We're gonna be real pals.
Chaos has teeth.
It also has lightning bolts, black holes, super novas and never-ending patterns, not all of which are pretty to gaze upon. Do you know what it's like to see into forever? Perhaps you'll find out...
When I found her she was broken like a foal's rag doll. Bruised and whimpering in agony. I put her back together of course, but the permanent damage isn't what's physical. And I think you knew that. In fact I'm sure you knew that.
All manure of your ilk know that when you set out to do what you do. You'll formulate stories about how the mare led you on and how you just couldn't control yourself, but you could. I am living proof you could. If the Lord of Chaos can control himself then you certainly can. Yet somehow I'm the one people cower from.
But people often think that, don't they? That charming, mild-mannered stallions could never do such a thing. I mean you were such a nice colt in school, weren't you?
Did you think you were a big, bad stallion when you did it? Picking on nice, gentle mares? How utterly daring and gallant of you. You big macho man. Did you laugh when you held her down and she struggled? Because I'm going to laugh at you. You're going to suffer. Oh, boy. How you're going to suffer, ma petite victime.
Oh, I'm not going to kill you. No, no no. Don't be silly!
I'm going to make you wish you were dead. The minute you looked at her, the minute that evil thought came into your brain when you first set eyes on her pretty, yellow coat; that's when your fate was decided. You will beg me for the sweet release of death.
I won't be merciful. Ha! Not one iota. Not a sausage. You can beg all you like but do you really think I give a crap? It's not like you were merciful when she begged you to stop, were you? No, and that's why soon you'll wish you never existed. And trust me, your existence isn't something anyone is going to miss or notice. I will make sure of that.
You're closer now. Your scent...or should I say...“stench” is stronger here. I might even find you within minutes, and then you'll wish you could have stretched out those minutes a bit longer. You'll wish you lived your life differently. Only there are no second chances for you. You'll wish you'd never set eyes on her. You'll wish you'd never set eyes on me.
Your number's up, boy.
You're going to learn that you never hurt the ones I love.
