Blue Frosting

Delayed onset petit post-partum psychosis. It didn't matter what the doctor whispered to her husband. More sleep; that's what Mrs. Cup Cake's pillow whispered to her. Literally. The doctor said she needed peace and quiet and no aggravating stress. What could possibly be aggraving her?

Certainly not Carrot drooling over that pretty young slut from the spa every second she's in the store.

And it couldn't be worrying about the twins flying out the window or levitating the door off its hinges.

And it surely wasn't Carrot screwing up more in general, because she found herself screaming at him more and more often for nothing specific.

And it certainly was not Pinkie being more agravating than usual, because she found herself screaming at her more and more.

And it certainly wouldn't be that the cake display case was dirtier than usual, because she found herself screaming at it more and more.

And the thing that was definately not any aggravation of all was that cellar. She hated it. And she knew it hated her back. It was nothing but a eye sore. From the stench it obviously was a health hazard. And one day soon it would likely be a death trap for the twins. And she was sure griffons were nesting in it. She had been telling Carrot for years how dangerous the cellar was, but he would always find some way to put it off or poo-poo her concerns.

Not any more. If he wouldn't take care of the cellar, she would. Today. Now. That would be one less source of aggravation in her life. Her pillow would approve.

She pulled open the cellar door and almost vomited from the smell. Below she could hear the vermin scurrying around, knocking things over, clanking. She pulled the bottle of cleaning solution out of her saddle pack, lit the rag on top and gently nudged it down the stairs. It bumped its way down until it hit the ground where it shattered, creating a lake of flammable liquid that ignited instantly.  As she slammed the cellar door shut she caught sight of a pair of huge eyes peering from behind the couch, confirmation of how extreme the vermin problem was.

Mrs. Cake sat on the garden bench, waiting for the first tongues of flame to show through the cellar door. Then she rubbed her hooves in her hair until it was a total mess, smeared a little dirt on her face, and ran as fast as she could toward town hall. "Fire!" she yelled, triumphantly. "My cellar's on fire!"