Cause Of Iceby ProbableSarcasmChaptersTwo Slices |Cake Twins|The Diner Incident |Pipsqueak|One Bad Trip, Two Worrying Details, No Answers |Detective Rumble|Two Slices |Cake Twins|Author's Note These chapters are not in chronological order, like Pulp Fiction Two Slices |Cake Twins| I’m already half-buzzed, but I have no intention of going home until I do this. This ‘job’ is something that will potentially screw me. I’m leaning over a toilet, my stomach cramping intensely. I felt my belly burn, as if pressure pushed into my stomach. I tried to vomit, but nothing comes out except a small retching noise and even more red-hot tendrils digging into my abdomen. “We’re actually doing this…” There’s secret that I want to tell you: I’m really scared. I’m really tired; I just want to go home and bake a pie or something—take a nap, a shower, go to the bar. I want to do something other than what I’m doing now, I don’t want to use my sister as bait for this guy, but this guy can’t get away with what he’s done. He has no more legal loopholes to jump through, it’s time for him to pay. “Need more? We don’t exactly have all night.” My stomach hurts and I know why it does, it’s not from any physical damage or anything. It feels like I’m going to vomit but every time I try has been just dry gagging noises and a gnawing void in my stomach; I haven’t ate and I can feel my stomach tearing my inner walls. I’m hungry, really hungry, but I can’t bring myself to eat. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I don’t know what’s going south right now. I have stomached it with sociopathic ease every time we practiced it, but now: I can’t even comprehend that it’s going to happen tonight. “Not enough, give it.” “Take it easy, you’re supposed to be drinking to nullify your credibility—if it comes to that, not getting crunk with your buddies.” She’s not calm, I know she’s not. Me neither. “Those ‘buddies’ are my alibi, you retard. I don’t hear yours.” I’m not calm, I’m almost on the verge of smashing this bottle over his head and stabbing him with the glass shards. “I got it handled, calm down.” No I don’t, what am I even doing without an alibi? I just slipped out of my bed and snuck out the window, the only alibi I have is that I was in bed asleep and the only two who can confirm are our parents. I glare, then I shove him. His physic is so sturdy, that I barely even nudge him every time I attempt to push him. If it wasn’t for the fact he doesn’t work out, he could be as big as Big Mac, but even then: he’s broad not to be confused with hard muscles. “Don’t tell me to calm down, you scornful bellend, I had to spend weeks setting up this date. It’s almost impossible to get a date with a noble, especially with the diplomat meetings and such!” It was so hard to do, and he doesn’t even appreciate the hard work that I had to do to even get this noble to notice my bloody shadow. I’m not the best courter, because I never exactly had to be, but this was the best opportunity to get the noble’s attention. All this useless stallion next to me had to do was literally nothing while I do the hard work. She just has to be physical, make this even more difficult than it has to be. I give her the instructions and it goes over her orange mane, and I hate how dense she can be when under pressure. I understand its hard pressure, with what we’re doing, but I cannot afford her to be stubborn. One screw up—no… fuck being nice. It only takes one goddess damned fuck up for us both to go down; and I would rather go to jail being caught by one fatal flaw in my plan rather than one of us catching a conscious—I’ll fucking be a donkey if I rot in a cell because this bloody mare can’t do the simple task a whore can do, and a whore would be even better than how she’s doing. “You need to calm down, sis, you can’t walk out of here looking like you caught Featherweight sniffing some dust off of some two bit, crack-whore mare.” I rub my temples before settling it back into my head, he’s going to pay today. He’s not slipping through this time. I have him right where I want him and I’m going to give him what he deserves, he will not get away from us. He won’t get away from me, and Celestia help him with what he has coming to him. This is personal. This is revenge. “You come home, suddenly become invested into my relationships, you threaten every single love life possible for me, and then you turn into a criminal mastermind.” I worry about him, he’s not in his right mind. His mental status has been questioned for a long time since Pinkie disappeared, which was a couple of months ago. “Excuse me if I’m not exactly peachy about this situation, but I actually seduced that narcissistic slob. That thing wants to have his way with me in a motel!” “Pumpkin, if you can hear yourself right now; you’d smack the shit out of yourself. How many times do I have to say this—Pumpkin, look at me. Stop turning your head. Look at me, just look at me.” I move her chin back up with my hoof, forcing her to meet my eyes. “Nothing’s going to happen, this will be behind us in the morning, like a bad dream. It’ll be business as usual. Hell—we don’t even live in Canterlot! All you have to do your part, Pumpkin, and this will be over quicker than you think.” The nerve on this idiot. “You don’t have to be groped like some slut! I can take a hint, Pound! I’m in a relationship already!” “Lower your voice before somepony hears us, we don’t get the luxury of being loud.” I look to my left, and open the door to peek. I peer around the corner to assure that no one was coming into the bathroom. I already have twelve stallions jeer and woo me for going into a restroom with a mare, I don’t need them deciding to be perverts and try listening in. “It’s not like your colt-toy’s going to know you’re here anyways.” “Hey! If you want me to break it off with Featherweight; just say so and I’ll explain to you in one hundred different ways and languages that I can to tell you to go gob yourself.” I wolf down the bottle of hard whisky, and goddesses know that I desperately need it. If I don’t have the alcohol going through my veins now, to the point where doctors will wonder why there’s blood in my alcohol system, I’m going to lose my mind if I hadn’t already done so already. Doing this whole thing, it just seems too surreal for me. I finish the bottle, groaning as the fiery liquid melt down my throat. I want to feel the warmth alcohol usually brings, but I don’t feel it. I do feel the cold anxiety tear at my bowels and turn my hooves cold, a vice clamped over my chest as an icicle slowly moves its way inside. I press my forehead against his, careful not to stab him with my horn. I can feel the alcohol going through my system now and fighting against the tendrils on my body. “Okay… okay… I’m ready…” “Okay, just breathe… remember, this is for her.” I press my forehead against hers, avoiding her horn like the plague. Unicorn horns are either very sharp or very rounded, and Pumpkin’s horn was like a dagger taped to an Earth Pony’s body. The bottle I gave Pumpkin wasn’t even alcohol, or it is alcohol but not enough of it to disorientate her. I need her off her edge, so a little psychology and a little booze will help. “Yeah, for her.” He’s right, this is exactly for her. This noble snob killed her, and now, we’re going to exact our revenge. He will feel what Pinkie felt, and his death shall be our way of letting go. We’re going to make sure he never sees the light of day, he’s going to go straight to hell. And we’ll meet him there, in due time. Pumpkin Cake and I left the restroom, after splashing some water on our faces and pumping ourselves. There’s no turning back now, this has to happen and it happens tonight. Regrets can be dealt with later, but not now. The little corridor the males and females bathroom are in had one way in, through the bar. I can’t risk showing my face in the bar again, because it only takes one partial facial recognition for somepony to put me under the microscope. There was a window to my left, and the bar to my right. I take a left and climb through, careful not to leave any marks or noise, I shut the window quietly. A few minutes pass, and I finally see Pumpkin coming close to the motel with our suspect. Our killer. Our little visitor in my court of death. His verdict: Guilty as Charge His punishment: The Death Penalty I watch them walk together, and I can see the noble drunkenly flirt with Pumpkin. He kept his eyes trained onto her flanks, always trying to peer under her tail. My insides rumble, and I shake in rage. No pony’s going to look at my sister like she’s some whore in magazines before I start snapping some necks. I keep my distance from the window, I don't want to be spotted and spook him. I slip into the bathroom of the motel, everything that I need in a in the walls. I pull the fake wall from just above the tub and then pull out a saddlebag, I replace the wall and like a foal on Christmas Eve: I eagerly open the saddlebag and pull out my tools of the trade. I chuckle in a dark manner before turning off the light in the bathroom, waiting for my signal. The door opens, not the bathroom door, but the front door. The drunken voice of the noble, or I should say formal Prime Minister Fancy Pants, spoke out slurred compliments. I’m not sure if he called her sexy, or if he called her hot, but either way: I’m going to end him. “Mmhmm, my big, strong stallion~.” The seductive voice of Pumpkin Cake almost made me gag in revulsion, I mean, she’s my sister for goddess sake and she’s talking to him like some sort of porn-star. If I don’t feel some sort of creep-ed out sound from hearing my own twin dirty talk a stallion that’s about to be slayed, I’ll do the world a favor and off myself right n—oh shit, that was the signal! I quietly open the door and crept up to Fancy Pants, whom was on the bed licking the neck of my sister. No marks, no marks, no marks, no marks, no marks, no fucking marks. I want to bash the brain of this stallion so hard, that the carpet will be jealous it’s not part of the brain matter on the floor. I slip the plastic bag over his head and held it down tight, I tighten the vice around his neck and then pull the asshole off of my sister before he decides to get rutty. Pumpkin Cake gave me a look of gratitude before sputtering and coughing. Fancy Pants fought back, struggling against my grip around him, but I quickly over-power Fancy Pants onto the ground. I hold down on Fancy Pants’ neck while Pumpkin consumes his hind legs in magic and holds them still so he can’t buck me off. Fancy Pants movement grew weaker and weaker, and this is where I take the bag off of his face before he dies. I lifted the bag but kept my grip on his neck. “Look at me, Fancy Pants, look at me.” I slap him with my free hoof, hard enough to sting but not hard enough to be considered a smack. Or at least by my standards, because I saw Pumpkin Cake flinch at the slap/smack. Fancy Pants was dead drunk, but he was fully aware of what’s happening. I say ‘was’ because he will no longer be with us shortly. He’s dead meat. “If you scream, if you make a noise, if you try to run, or—and Goddess forbids you do this—try and fight back: you’re going to die a very painful and slow death, do you understand?” Fancy Pants nods, and then furiously nods with much more vigor. I take his tie off of his neck and wrap it around his mouth and jaw, being used as a light but tight gag. I get off of Fancy Pants, but his hooves are still wrapped in Pumpkin’s magical glow. “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen; you’re going to get up, you’re going to make yourself a bath. You’re going to take a whole bottle of aspirin. You’re going to get into the tub. You’re going to slit your wrists when you’re in your bath, and I don’t like repeating myself.” Fancy Pants’ breathing quicken, as if he was running a marathon away from an Ursa Minor. He looks over to Pumpkin Cake, his eyes pleading for any sort of assistance from my sister. I don’t see any emotion behind Pumpkin Cake’s face. She looks dead—or rather, she looks like she’s looking at roadkill. Whatever helps her sleep better at night, I guess. “Don’t look at her; she’s not going to help you, no one’s going to help you. You’re in a motel, you’re not going to get help for a while.” “This is what’s happening: you’re going to die.” I hear Pumpkin’s voice, smooth like butter but edged like a steak-knife. Fancy Pants’ eyes start watering up as fear finally struck him, he’s hyperventilating, and that’s what I want him to do. He hyperventilates, his suicide looks more convincing. The way it’s going to be, we need him to cooperate with his death. He doesn’t really have a choice in the matter. “You won’t die in your bed, like the rich fad you are, you’re going to die drunk and cowardly in a dirty motel bathroom.” Fancy Pants had lashed at me with the razor and I end up breaking his wrist, I just potentially screwed us both. Pumpkin Cake and I took each side of his body and plunged him under the water, Pound Cake holding his hooves while I keep his shoulders placed down firmly. I won’t go into detail, because quite frankly: I would rather forget it. Let’s just hypothetically say, that Pound Cake stole a pair of handcuffs from some couple next door and tied out little friend’s broken hoof to the faucet. It was done, however. This guy paid for his sins. I feel the rush in my veins, my veins pulsing with adrenaline. I feel something inside of me, like an inner dragon has just awoken. It didn’t feel good. Not one bit. If you think I feel good about any of the events that just happened, think again. Pound Cake looks distant, he has this far away gaze in his eyes as he stared at his coffee. Killing Fancy Pants was one thing, but killing that other mare? We were attacked by some white unicorn, she was much slender than any other mare I've seen, but she was absolutely on a rampage. Wielding a sort of rapier, I'm guessing because I don't know my swords, that mare killed a couple of paparazzi and came for us, either out of a raging blood lust or she came for us specifically. Either or, she's no longer with us. We’re at a diner, the morning sun had rose while we were trying to wait for the train. We decided to send a courier with a letter to Mum and Dad explaining where we were and what we’re waiting for. They’ll be livid at the fact we took a trip without letting them know first. Pound Cake and I are grown adults, we can do as we please, but we still have the responsibility of the bakery. Without Pinkie, the bakery needs to be worked on almost Twenty-Four/Seven. That bakery is Mum and Dad’s only source of income, and they are too old and frail to work. Pound Cake doesn’t mind, as far as I seen, and I definitely don’t mind helping around the bakery. Pound Cake would barely touch his breakfast, he kept nudging his hay waffles and tore up his onion strips. I don’t blame him, with what he’s had to do, but I’m starving right now and the pain in my stomach won’t go away until I eat. It was five minutes until I looked up at him, and he was eating. I don’t rightly know if it’s because I keep looking at him play with his food, or if it’s because he’s as hungry as I am. He looks back up at me and flashes me a stupid smile. I playfully roll my eyes and mess up his mane with my hoof, we’re going back to business as usual. Who knows, maybe we might forget the whole mess. “You think Feather-nerd is going to like your hair like that?” He starts, looking over my mostly messy mane. “You’re very interested in my relationship, want to be my second boyfriend?” “Aw, don’t make it weird.” He chuckles, taking a sip of his coffee. “I heard you and Rumble broke it off,” I prop my head onto my hooves, breaking every etiquette rules known to pony-kind. I was actually curious in this matter, because somepony told me about it and I can’t actually believe that they split apart. “You two were so cute together, my little gay brother.” “Who told you that we split up, or even together in the first place?” “A little birdy—or something like that.” “It was that stalker, Feather-nerd, wasn’t it?” I try to suppress a giggle, but to no avail. “No?” “Note to self: strangle Featherweight.” That was a little soon, and we both knew it. I force myself to chuckle, and Pound Cake follow suit. I guess it’s our way of coping right now, forcing ourselves to laugh it off. I know communication is key in this sort of situation, and that’s exactly what we both need to do to avoid being eaten away by all this. Well, I don’t know about Pound Cake and how he stands on all this but just talking to him helps ease the digging tendrils. Not by a lot, but any relief is better than none. I guess I feel the tendrils because I’m on my breaking point, and I couldn’t agree with myself any further. I want to cry, vomit, and cry some more. But for Pound’s sake, I’ll stay strong. The Diner Incident |Pipsqueak|Author's Note Fans of Pulp Fiction be damned, I probably ruined a good movie with this scene. The Diner Incident |Pipsqueak| Holy Faust on a bloody type-writer, am I sitting on one confusing goldmine! I mean; how do I even put my confusion into words, with the whole murder spree that just happened, the murder of former Prime Minister Fancy Pants, and now with this whole fiasco with these idiots in the parliament building being accused of taking bribes? Think of all the imports I can smuggle across the border of Equestria now with the Royal Guards off of us. Thank the Goddesses for serial killers, because I wouldn't be so sucessful without it. “More tea, luv’?” Twist-a-Loo offers. “Please.” “Sugar and cream?” “You how I like it, Twisty.” The gray, rather cold early morning isn’t exactly one that I would be proud of being awoken into, but I usually don’t sleep when Pumpkin isn’t around. Besides, and don’t quote me on this because you didn’t hear it from me, in my line of work: if you take a wink at the wrong mare you’ll get that eyelid cut out. Goddess help you if you decide to flirt with the wrong mare, because you’ll wake up with your tongue in a glass of water. I guess I’ve been staring at my blank crossword-puzzle with a pencil in my mouth for more than a moment, I take a sip of the mug next to me and nearly spat the unsweetened tea across the table-bar and get liquid all over a chef and some on-grill food. I gag and just accept my internal disgust to settle for cold tea, I can already hear my mum chastising me already for not drinking my tea while it’s hot. TO be honest, I wasn't staring at my paper: I see Pumpkin Cake and her probably a sociopath brother, Pound Cake. I was staring at Pumpkin Cake, because to truth's be honest: I miss her. A lot more than I thought I would. “Puzzle’s a mind-bender, huh?” I look to my right and find a white stallion with a yellow mane that barely goes past his ears (and tail so low, I questioned how useful it was to keeping flies away from his No-Man’s-Zone), wearing a leather jacket with an assortments of medals on them. There’s no mistake, with that handlebar mustache and that Platinum Cross, this is the stallion I was looking for. “Right that is, Sarge.” I quietly say, my mind processing the fact he just walked into a public diner, sat right next to me, and I can see his little minions outside with their ballsy hooves on their sheaves. I don’t get a complete look on them, but I know Sarge’s M.O when it comes to training his little street soldiers: raise them young and give them a taste for the enemy’s blood, and you got a loyal little Earth Pony. “So how was your weekend? I heard you and Pumpkin broke it off, such a shame for a lad like you, she was a good looker,” Sarge looks up and orders a coffee, and he stiffs me the bill by not throwing down a couple of bits. Even my own ‘stable’ relationship with Sarge doesn’t prevent me from falling under his greed, to not pay for his own shit. “For a unicorn.” “That shit was two months ago, she’s like a fucking writer with ADHD—she never knows what she wants.” “Typical unicorns.” “You know, that whole racial-purity shit is the reason why that bastard of a Princess we have now placed a mandatory curfew,” Sarge is Post-Treaty Retaliation Activists of Earth Pony Rule, or in a shorten term, R.A.E.P, and no: I did not make that up to be some sort of sick joke. They’re literal terrorists and my club doesn’t deal with terrorists unless they have some cold hard bit, because my services get expensive when threats against all Pegasus and Unicorns are being issued. “It would not kill you to just drop the racist fuckery, and tell me why you decided to meet me in such a crowded place.” “Oh, don’t worry about them Pappy-Boy!” Sarge loudly laughs and smacks my back, I flinch from the impact. I’m not the fit Earth Pony around, not in a sense of being morbidly gluttonous and becoming fat—my own crew would force a liposuction on me after their down cutting off my hooves, more in a sense of being the runt of my own litter and the butt-end of the usual short jokes. “I got them all taken care of, quickly, since I’m in a good mood.” “You’re just going to massacre them? Have you fucking gone senile, you fucking crazy old man?” I lean in closer to him, using my irises to point at the now growing worried families in the diner who decided to have themselves a nice and decent breakfast. The deal of our trade was, no one and their family has to be dealt with the outcome of our decision unless personally done. “Listen here, this isn’t the desert of Zebrica, you don’t just cut down whatever sod you want. These are ponies, Sarge, with their family and kids.” “Do I look like I give a shit, Pappy-boy?” Sarge grins at me, as if he dares me to stand up and do anything. There were now these colts, guarding the exits, wearing leather jackets with considerably less medallions than Sarge but exactly the same appearance as Sarge—well maybe a lot younger than Sarge. The colts look no younger than unlucky number thirteen. “You fucked up, you fucked with a lot of ponies, and worst of it all: you fucked with me personally. I don’t think you realize who exactly the hell you fucked with.” “What are you talking about?” I turn my whole body to him, giving him the best look I can give him. When I see him shoot up in indignation, I firmly put my hoof onto his shoulder and push him back into his seat: hissing at his ear. “Oi! Before you do anything to the President of the Lost Crossbones, it’s got be approved of the Council or your whole operation of R.A.E.P goes up in flames!” “Get your damn hoof off of me before it becomes more of a tree stump than that coward Fluttershy being cut in half.” I remove my hoof in a heartbeat, and he turns back to Twist-a-Loo with his hoof slamming on the bar. “God dammit, mare, where is my bloody coffee!” “I’m on my union break.” “You little bit—Pappy-Boy, if you enjoy living; you’ll fucking stay still and let me go, you impure shite.” I grip my fork hard, pressing it under his neck and on his jugular. I hold his left foreleg across the table, preventing use of his right foreleg. I stand up and hold the old stallion in a hostage hold, half-nelson with a fork to his neck--although pretty primal: it seems to work. “One more millimeter of that bloody sword, I’ll make sure he lives long enough to say ‘fuck’ one more time.” One Bad Trip, Two Worrying Details, No Answers |Detective Rumble|Author's Note Trigger warnings, because this chapter's a bit messy but it won't span this far out without warning next time. Promise. Torture, Self-Harm, Graphic Violence, Night-terrors, ECT Reader Discretion is advised. Changing rating to mature. One Bad Trip, Two Worrying Details, No Answers |Detective Rumble| I’m an unstable mind in a very stable mind, in a very unstable city, but with a very stable home. The addiction, I have an addiction to something so addictive that I feel unstable every time I’m not on it. Don’t worry, its not drugs or something dangerous to my health. It’s just the powerful feeling of being able to bring justice down onto criminal scum. I deal with it in a very normal way, or should I say abnormal? Because trying to quit Opium is like pulling teeth from a mule, it takes some aggression and some god damn persistence. I only do this because I’m blaming my problems on criminals. Because it was those, who took what I wanted in life away from me. That’s why I spent so much time on job. But I have something to confess to myself. I overdo it, and I don’t even realize. “Oh lookie, lookie! So they send a fucking lapdog rookie to try and scuffle some information out of me here instead of being a stallion worth his cup and balls to do any of the shit they promise?” Here, you can observe the most annoying criminal scum since that prohibition-thing that happened. “I hope ya brought more than threats, me boy-o, because I ain’t giving shite worth a dime.” “What can you tell me about Sarge, Bulb Seed?” I click the hoof-cuffs to the table, and he snorts. I was willing on giving him the benefit of the doubt, but now: I’m not so sure anymore. “You might as well stroke off me Bilbo Baggins right here, right now, ya bloody git!” Where the worst of the worst, the molesters, the serial killers, the murderers, and the arsonists go is jail so ponies can be safe at night. I had to give my dream job—my prestige job as Wonderbolt rookie to be some bent cop who got lucky enough to make detective. “You coppers don’t do shit, that is why we businessmen successes!” “Shut your whore-fucking mouth, right now.” I close the door behind me, the locks clicking and the pressure hissed from the steel door. I was in my domain now, this interrogation office is my territory. Every millimeter of the floor is mine, every millimeter of the walls are mine, every millimeter of the ceiling is mine—the table is mine, the handcuffs is mine, that fucking chair this asshole doesn’t deserve is mine. Best of all: his ass isn’t going anywhere today. “Or what, ya golden shit-pot? You going to ruffle me feathers? You going to threaten me with more time on the inside, me laddy?” The stallion has an Irish/Scotland accent, I presumed that because of the slang and the pitch of voice he uses. I don’t know if it’s fake or if it’s real but I honestly don’t care, because this scumbag is nothing to be cared about. “Mind tellin’ me that again, when I’m not in hoof-cuffs, and then you’ll see a true fucking pussy when you look in the mirror and see that pretty-face all fucked up—aye?” “I FUCKING SAID: SHUT YOUR MOUTH, YOU DEAF COCK-NOBBLER.” I shrilly scream, slamming my hooves onto the table. I see him flinch from the sheer volume of my voice, but he’s quick to recover his smug smile and confident look. So if the ‘crazy psycho’ fear tactic isn’t working, maybe I’ll dwell deeper into my own troubles and fully unleash them onto this guy. Bring out the Hannibal Lector inside of me, except I don’t eat ponies. “Whoa, this lad’s got some bulls (balls) on him. I’d applaud that if me wrists were chained to the table, ya’ fucking guppy.” I go around the table and twist his left wing a good ninety degrees, being a Pegasus myself I know just how painful it is to get your wings twisted. I, however, don’t care about this pony and he can fucking know just how powerful of an investigator I am. Because I devote a lot of emotions into my cases over the years and I don’t feel exactly too stable. “AGH, YOU FUCKING PSYCHO! THAT WAS MY WING!” Bulbs screams in pain, trying to wither away from me. He rattles against his foreleg restraints as he tries to leap away from the chair, in fact, he’s so determined to get out of the chair that I decide to help him with his wish and buck the chair from under him. He could collapse onto the ground, but the hoof-cuffs keeps his upper body upright. I still hold the wing in a vice, watching him coldly as he writhers in pain as I twist the wing further. Bulbs’ screams echoes the room, but will never make it out of the interrogation room. I know I’m about to snap his wing in a twister, which is the most painful way to get a bone broken besides pressure. I watch him scream, his eyes tearing up in pain; so Bulbs is really sensitive on the wings, huh? “Watch what you say, Bulbs, because it’ll blow back on your face quicker than the explosion that killed your mom.” I coolly say, my voice absent from any evidence of me screaming. I feel my expressions fading from my face, a more piercing glare dominate my main facial region, I make my eyes widen, to add to the fear tactic. This isn’t a play, or some kind of ploy. I use my inner demons and my dark emotions to play out my sick fantasies of completely ruining somepony, I want to see how deep my roots can dig into them. When I’m leeched in, I can get the truth. “W—what did you just say?” That seemed to stun him, and I offer small smile but it quickly disappears. I won’t bore you with specifics, but I interviewed his buddies about the day Rose Luck went missing and it seems that the Lost Crossbones were not so honest about their activities in that warehouse on a specific hour of a Mother’s Day. “Your mom, Bulb, I know about your moms.” I let the wing go, before I send this scum into shock from pure pain. I grab Bulbs by the other, untwisted, wing upwards sharply. “I know you killed her, because she was a whore. “YOU KNOW NOTHING, I DIDN’T KILL MY MA, I LOVE ME MA!” Bulbs frantically shouts before he freezes in pure pain and horror. I know his brain is putting him into shock, which is the one thing I tried to avoid. He let out the worst blood-curdling scream I’ve thought could only come out of a banshee in heat before his head hung low rendering him unconscious. Hours and hours later, he’s back in his chair and awaken. Every question, he deflects or lie. I know he lies, so I give him a couple of good jabs, hooks (actual fishhooks) to his cheeks to see if he’ll talk out of pain. As it turns out, I’m resorting to driving him mad. Leaving him in the white room, only returning to ask him some more and to kick the crap out of him. Reminding him that it could it be all over if he just simply cooperates. I simply stare at him, watching his chest rise and falls. He looks fearful to wake up, as if his body knows what awaits him if he does wakes up to me. Too bad that was only a taste of what I can do, twisting a wing is nothing special. “All you have to do is tell me who the leader of the Real R.A.E.P, then I’ll think about playing nice.” I press again, holding his bruised eye before flinging his head away. I took my seat across from him and watch him, he’s exhausted—I’m not. I deprive him of sleep all I want, and I don’t give a shit if he stays up all night. “Look, I’m not a fucking rat… I’ll never give up my family…” He tiredly says, requiring me to smack him sharply to wake up. His face is bruised and swollen beyond recognition, I sure did a number on this kid. He’s not even seventeen, and he’s this resilient. “No, Bulbs.” I calmly say back, leaning my head on my hoof. I stand up and walk around the table, putting my forelegs around the back of his neck and push his head in my direction. I force him to look at me, as my colors don’t align in the white room. I’m his only differential of perception, and if I leave: he has nothing to look at. “You see, there’s no family in crime since the fucking crusade back in 200 BC.” “We both know that family bollocks they try is a lie. You have no family. That gang is nothing more than it is, a gang. I don’t care if its democracy, if it’s barely legal, I don’t even care if you touch little fillies; it’s still a fucking gang.” “Shut up… you don’t understand brotherhood…” “So you brotherhood, hmm?” Bulbs weakly continues, his words somehow like a hot prodding iron stick into my neck. I feel my head shake with rage as he says these words. “I’ll never rat against Patchy…” “I DON’T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT PATCHY OR YOUR BULLSHIT GANG.” I scream, grabbing his neck into a vice and slamming his snout into the table. Blood spurts out of his nose and mouth, onto the table and dripping down to the marble floor. There’s a large gash on across his snout, which helps the bleeding effect. His carmine pool the table, as his head is just lying on the table; his eyes wide and awoken, but his pupils only condensed to pinpricks. “I want the fucking name of Sarge. I want his real name, you will give me his name.” Days pass now, and I kept him in isolation in my interrogation room. No one knows he’s in there, and no one will care either, he’s a no body. No body’s coming to help this smug son of a bitch. My roots are in deeper, I basically control this stallion. Everything he eats is white, what he eats off of is a white plate, he hasn’t slept in days. I dug into his history, and apparently he was Sarge’s infantry member. They were trained from the womb to be resilient to interrogation, so I’m resorting to psychological and physical harm. This sixteen year old pony is even tougher than any fucking griffon I ever interrogated. This was a kid, but already with the mindset and the colorful language of a veteran soldier. I sit down across from him, my eyes never diverting his and only blinking when I feel them strain. I know I am making him uncomfortable, but that’s exactly what I want. I want him to squirm. He’s trying his damned hardest attempt to keep eye contact away from me, but that only allows him to stare at the white table, the white floor, or even the white walls. “You don’t know shit, you fucking pig!” Bulbs finally musters up the courage to reply back, after a good few seconds of uncomfortable silence. This is going to be even easier than I thought, this stallion is an easy win. But I’m done with this kid’s attitude, time to adjust it. I stand up, holding a single razor blade in my hooves. I keep the colt still as I drag the razor up his foreleg, causing him to screech and resist against the restraints. I then go under his right hoof and cut the tendon slowly and sadistically, a cold and numb feeling coming across my chest as the Bulb- no, the fucking kid under me continue to drain his voice. “You want to know how fear affects our sense of pain, because it’s quite simpler than you’d think.” I say, as I continue to cut along his hoof, creating a spiral circle on the base of his hoof. I didn’t cut deep enough to gash, but I cut deep enough for the skin to be sliced partially so it was random when blood dripped down his racking foreleg. “Fear grips our hearts, they cloud our judgement, make the most rational pony the most impulsive and skittish shit I’ve ever seen.” I work on cutting the other hoof, the colt seethes and pulls but I know he’s not going anywhere anytime soon. Which is a shame for him, because I—for one—am actually growing impatient. “Fear can be anything, but the worst thing for a pony to fear is pain.” “Fear of pain instantly makes all of your senses on alert, because you’re focused on staying alive—” Bulbs screamed for help, screaming for anyone to save him. “—that makes so many chemicals run in your brain, I don’t know what because I’m not a nerd.” “AGHH!! PLEASE! STAY AWAY! HELP ME SOMEBODY PLEASE!" “THAT'S RIGHT! KEEP YELLING! MAYBE SOMEONE WILL COME HELP!” “HELP ME! PLEASE! THIS GUY'S GOING TO FUCKING KILL ME!” “HERE, LET ME JOIN! HELP ME SOMEBODY PLEASE, THE DEMONS ARE KILLING ME!” “OH GODDESSES, PLEASE SAVE ME!” I stop yelling as my face drain from emotion except for a face a psychotic killer would give to his victims, one that a serial killer would give to his victims. I feel my eyes widen as my eyes twitched occasionally, my snout pressed up against his as I start to cut his ear with delicate slices. I, with a chillingly fatherly voice, begin my speech. "You see, nothing in this room matters to you. It's all white.” “It's all boring to you, but you it's the main reason why I'm so far “Under your skin. Why I'm so deep into your fucking skull. “Because this room is designed to drive you fucking mad. “Everything here is white. “The Chair-- “The Table-- “These Walls-- “The Door-- “The Floor-- “Even your fucking hoof-cuffs are white.-- “They all blend out, leaving you without any sense of originality.-- “They're all you know at this point, because I want it like that.-- “I'm the only thing that matters in this room.-- “This is my room.-- “And in my room, you're my fucking bitch.-- “AND IN MY ROOM, YOU DON'T FUCKING SPEAK-- “WHAT DID I JUST FUCKING SAY?!-- “YOU DON'T SPEAK YOU SHIT-EATING FUCKER.-- “I AM YOUR FUCKING GOD HERE.-- “I CAN KILL YOU AND NO ONE WILL CARE-- “NO ONE WILL GO TO YOUR FUNERAL-- “BECAUSE YOU HAVE NO FUCKING FAMILY-- “YOU REALLY THINK THOSE IN THE GANG THINK OF YOU AS BROTHERS-- “FUCK NO-- “IN A HEARTBEAT, THEY'LL FUCKING KILL YOU OFF TO PROTECT THEMSELVES-- “THEY'RE GREEDY-- “THEY'RE THUGS-- “AND YOU'RE JUST LIKE THEM-- “YOU’RE GREEDY-- “YOU’RE A THUG-- “YOU KNOW WHAT THUGS GET-- “A KNIFE IN THE GOD DAMN CHEST-- “NOW IF YOU DON'T TELL ME EVERYTHING YOU FUCKING KNOW, RIGHT FUCKING NOW, I'LL FUCKING CUT OUT YOUR HEART AND FEED IT TO THE GRIFFON ORPHANS!!” “OKAY OKAY! THERE’S THIS JOURNELIST! OKAY! THERE’S THIS JOURNELIST WHO POKES HIS BUSINESS INTO POLITICS, OKAY?! HE MIGHT KNOW SOMETHING, BECAUSE SARGE IS OFFERING THEM DONATIONS IN TO KEEP THE HEAT OFF OF HIM. THAT’S ALL I FUCKING I KNOW, I SWEAR IT ON MY LIFE!” “SWEAR IT TO ME!” “I SWEAR!” “I now find your life is meaningless.” “What . . . NO WAIT—I’LL TELL YOU EVERYTHING I KNO—” I held his neck down, exposing the arteries behind the muscle, slicing his neck ear from ear with the razor. Blood shot from his mouth as blood spilled out of his neck, he choked on his own blood as he tried to stare at me but I simply unchain him and buck the chair from under the chair. Blood pooled around the teen’s body, as he laid on the ground—silently dying in pain. I felt my eyes widen at my actions, watching the stallion bleed out while I desperately try to use my hooves to keep the blood inside of the teen. I couldn’t believe what I have done, it just shocked me how cold-blooded the killing was. Just how I did it so subtly, like I knew what I was doing. I didn’t know what was happening, this had to be some sort of nightmare. And thankfully, it is. Bathroom stalls, vulgar writing, cold white floor, white ceiling… did I almost OD? I shoot my whole body up, a cold sweat drenches my body and was pooling onto the bathroom floor. I find the the toilet and open the lid to vomit into it, my throat burned as I expel the tension from my stomach into the bowl. I refuse to look into the toilet, instead pushing the lever and hearing the water—along with the vile liquid—drain itself away. I looked at the lever and saw a fresh blood smear, which prompted me to look at my hooves. Blood covered my forelegs and they started to sting horribly, I found toilet paper next to the toilet and started to wrap my hooves into the toilet paper. I looked around me to find bottles of upon bottles of medication scattered on the floor, a couple of pills on the ground, some still in bottles, and my only assumption that I can safely make is that I ingested them and got a really bad trip. I check my neck to find any sort of damage, but was relieved to find none. I stand up, my forelegs shaky, and exit the bathroom stall. I look into the mirror to address myself, and I look like a junky who just lost his colt-friend and just had a nightmare about killing someone. I take my bandage off and wash my hooves into the sink, I wash myself, and then fix myself up to appear as normal as possible. I don’t know how long I’ve been in here, but I need to go to work. I can’t be late to my new case on the Homicide Division. It’ll be a bad rep’ if I show up late on the first day, and unlike high-school, I don’t just get a slide from that. People actually pay bits for my absence. After work, I’m looking for a goddess damned shrink. Because I don’t know if that shit was a bad-trip, or a bad omen, but I want nothing to do with it. I don’t kill ponies, I don’t even kill bugs, much less teenagers! However, the two names haunt me—especially with how vivid they were slaughtered. It was too real, but the pony wasn’t me. For goddess’s sake, I’m no killer. I open the bathroom door and then close it again, there were ponies armed with swords guarding the exits. I look back to the bathroom stall I was just in and noticed the red stained razor, my hooves stinging again as I remember that I just self-harmed. I feel myself drop in motivation, but I have to save the ponies from this guy. It’s my legal obligation. I took the razor and hid it under my maw, keeping it above my tongue and clenched between my teeth. I calmly walk towards a corner seat and sit, but I feel myself freeze when I see one of the stallions guarding the exit. It was Bulb Seeds, or whatever his name, but I dreamed about him. All of a sudden, one pony held one of the service ponies into a hold with a fork to his jugular. Being new to the Homicide Detective-thing, because I was just a cop before this, I didn’t know who they were. They were pretty new faces, except that Trottingham-sounding one. He looks familiar, maybe I met him before in a bar. But all I know is, that Bulb Seeds and this ‘Sarge’ character sound very important to me. But why?
Two Slices |Cake Twins|Author's Note These chapters are not in chronological order, like Pulp Fiction Two Slices |Cake Twins| I’m already half-buzzed, but I have no intention of going home until I do this. This ‘job’ is something that will potentially screw me. I’m leaning over a toilet, my stomach cramping intensely. I felt my belly burn, as if pressure pushed into my stomach. I tried to vomit, but nothing comes out except a small retching noise and even more red-hot tendrils digging into my abdomen. “We’re actually doing this…” There’s secret that I want to tell you: I’m really scared. I’m really tired; I just want to go home and bake a pie or something—take a nap, a shower, go to the bar. I want to do something other than what I’m doing now, I don’t want to use my sister as bait for this guy, but this guy can’t get away with what he’s done. He has no more legal loopholes to jump through, it’s time for him to pay. “Need more? We don’t exactly have all night.” My stomach hurts and I know why it does, it’s not from any physical damage or anything. It feels like I’m going to vomit but every time I try has been just dry gagging noises and a gnawing void in my stomach; I haven’t ate and I can feel my stomach tearing my inner walls. I’m hungry, really hungry, but I can’t bring myself to eat. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I don’t know what’s going south right now. I have stomached it with sociopathic ease every time we practiced it, but now: I can’t even comprehend that it’s going to happen tonight. “Not enough, give it.” “Take it easy, you’re supposed to be drinking to nullify your credibility—if it comes to that, not getting crunk with your buddies.” She’s not calm, I know she’s not. Me neither. “Those ‘buddies’ are my alibi, you retard. I don’t hear yours.” I’m not calm, I’m almost on the verge of smashing this bottle over his head and stabbing him with the glass shards. “I got it handled, calm down.” No I don’t, what am I even doing without an alibi? I just slipped out of my bed and snuck out the window, the only alibi I have is that I was in bed asleep and the only two who can confirm are our parents. I glare, then I shove him. His physic is so sturdy, that I barely even nudge him every time I attempt to push him. If it wasn’t for the fact he doesn’t work out, he could be as big as Big Mac, but even then: he’s broad not to be confused with hard muscles. “Don’t tell me to calm down, you scornful bellend, I had to spend weeks setting up this date. It’s almost impossible to get a date with a noble, especially with the diplomat meetings and such!” It was so hard to do, and he doesn’t even appreciate the hard work that I had to do to even get this noble to notice my bloody shadow. I’m not the best courter, because I never exactly had to be, but this was the best opportunity to get the noble’s attention. All this useless stallion next to me had to do was literally nothing while I do the hard work. She just has to be physical, make this even more difficult than it has to be. I give her the instructions and it goes over her orange mane, and I hate how dense she can be when under pressure. I understand its hard pressure, with what we’re doing, but I cannot afford her to be stubborn. One screw up—no… fuck being nice. It only takes one goddess damned fuck up for us both to go down; and I would rather go to jail being caught by one fatal flaw in my plan rather than one of us catching a conscious—I’ll fucking be a donkey if I rot in a cell because this bloody mare can’t do the simple task a whore can do, and a whore would be even better than how she’s doing. “You need to calm down, sis, you can’t walk out of here looking like you caught Featherweight sniffing some dust off of some two bit, crack-whore mare.” I rub my temples before settling it back into my head, he’s going to pay today. He’s not slipping through this time. I have him right where I want him and I’m going to give him what he deserves, he will not get away from us. He won’t get away from me, and Celestia help him with what he has coming to him. This is personal. This is revenge. “You come home, suddenly become invested into my relationships, you threaten every single love life possible for me, and then you turn into a criminal mastermind.” I worry about him, he’s not in his right mind. His mental status has been questioned for a long time since Pinkie disappeared, which was a couple of months ago. “Excuse me if I’m not exactly peachy about this situation, but I actually seduced that narcissistic slob. That thing wants to have his way with me in a motel!” “Pumpkin, if you can hear yourself right now; you’d smack the shit out of yourself. How many times do I have to say this—Pumpkin, look at me. Stop turning your head. Look at me, just look at me.” I move her chin back up with my hoof, forcing her to meet my eyes. “Nothing’s going to happen, this will be behind us in the morning, like a bad dream. It’ll be business as usual. Hell—we don’t even live in Canterlot! All you have to do your part, Pumpkin, and this will be over quicker than you think.” The nerve on this idiot. “You don’t have to be groped like some slut! I can take a hint, Pound! I’m in a relationship already!” “Lower your voice before somepony hears us, we don’t get the luxury of being loud.” I look to my left, and open the door to peek. I peer around the corner to assure that no one was coming into the bathroom. I already have twelve stallions jeer and woo me for going into a restroom with a mare, I don’t need them deciding to be perverts and try listening in. “It’s not like your colt-toy’s going to know you’re here anyways.” “Hey! If you want me to break it off with Featherweight; just say so and I’ll explain to you in one hundred different ways and languages that I can to tell you to go gob yourself.” I wolf down the bottle of hard whisky, and goddesses know that I desperately need it. If I don’t have the alcohol going through my veins now, to the point where doctors will wonder why there’s blood in my alcohol system, I’m going to lose my mind if I hadn’t already done so already. Doing this whole thing, it just seems too surreal for me. I finish the bottle, groaning as the fiery liquid melt down my throat. I want to feel the warmth alcohol usually brings, but I don’t feel it. I do feel the cold anxiety tear at my bowels and turn my hooves cold, a vice clamped over my chest as an icicle slowly moves its way inside. I press my forehead against his, careful not to stab him with my horn. I can feel the alcohol going through my system now and fighting against the tendrils on my body. “Okay… okay… I’m ready…” “Okay, just breathe… remember, this is for her.” I press my forehead against hers, avoiding her horn like the plague. Unicorn horns are either very sharp or very rounded, and Pumpkin’s horn was like a dagger taped to an Earth Pony’s body. The bottle I gave Pumpkin wasn’t even alcohol, or it is alcohol but not enough of it to disorientate her. I need her off her edge, so a little psychology and a little booze will help. “Yeah, for her.” He’s right, this is exactly for her. This noble snob killed her, and now, we’re going to exact our revenge. He will feel what Pinkie felt, and his death shall be our way of letting go. We’re going to make sure he never sees the light of day, he’s going to go straight to hell. And we’ll meet him there, in due time. Pumpkin Cake and I left the restroom, after splashing some water on our faces and pumping ourselves. There’s no turning back now, this has to happen and it happens tonight. Regrets can be dealt with later, but not now. The little corridor the males and females bathroom are in had one way in, through the bar. I can’t risk showing my face in the bar again, because it only takes one partial facial recognition for somepony to put me under the microscope. There was a window to my left, and the bar to my right. I take a left and climb through, careful not to leave any marks or noise, I shut the window quietly. A few minutes pass, and I finally see Pumpkin coming close to the motel with our suspect. Our killer. Our little visitor in my court of death. His verdict: Guilty as Charge His punishment: The Death Penalty I watch them walk together, and I can see the noble drunkenly flirt with Pumpkin. He kept his eyes trained onto her flanks, always trying to peer under her tail. My insides rumble, and I shake in rage. No pony’s going to look at my sister like she’s some whore in magazines before I start snapping some necks. I keep my distance from the window, I don't want to be spotted and spook him. I slip into the bathroom of the motel, everything that I need in a in the walls. I pull the fake wall from just above the tub and then pull out a saddlebag, I replace the wall and like a foal on Christmas Eve: I eagerly open the saddlebag and pull out my tools of the trade. I chuckle in a dark manner before turning off the light in the bathroom, waiting for my signal. The door opens, not the bathroom door, but the front door. The drunken voice of the noble, or I should say formal Prime Minister Fancy Pants, spoke out slurred compliments. I’m not sure if he called her sexy, or if he called her hot, but either way: I’m going to end him. “Mmhmm, my big, strong stallion~.” The seductive voice of Pumpkin Cake almost made me gag in revulsion, I mean, she’s my sister for goddess sake and she’s talking to him like some sort of porn-star. If I don’t feel some sort of creep-ed out sound from hearing my own twin dirty talk a stallion that’s about to be slayed, I’ll do the world a favor and off myself right n—oh shit, that was the signal! I quietly open the door and crept up to Fancy Pants, whom was on the bed licking the neck of my sister. No marks, no marks, no marks, no marks, no marks, no fucking marks. I want to bash the brain of this stallion so hard, that the carpet will be jealous it’s not part of the brain matter on the floor. I slip the plastic bag over his head and held it down tight, I tighten the vice around his neck and then pull the asshole off of my sister before he decides to get rutty. Pumpkin Cake gave me a look of gratitude before sputtering and coughing. Fancy Pants fought back, struggling against my grip around him, but I quickly over-power Fancy Pants onto the ground. I hold down on Fancy Pants’ neck while Pumpkin consumes his hind legs in magic and holds them still so he can’t buck me off. Fancy Pants movement grew weaker and weaker, and this is where I take the bag off of his face before he dies. I lifted the bag but kept my grip on his neck. “Look at me, Fancy Pants, look at me.” I slap him with my free hoof, hard enough to sting but not hard enough to be considered a smack. Or at least by my standards, because I saw Pumpkin Cake flinch at the slap/smack. Fancy Pants was dead drunk, but he was fully aware of what’s happening. I say ‘was’ because he will no longer be with us shortly. He’s dead meat. “If you scream, if you make a noise, if you try to run, or—and Goddess forbids you do this—try and fight back: you’re going to die a very painful and slow death, do you understand?” Fancy Pants nods, and then furiously nods with much more vigor. I take his tie off of his neck and wrap it around his mouth and jaw, being used as a light but tight gag. I get off of Fancy Pants, but his hooves are still wrapped in Pumpkin’s magical glow. “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen; you’re going to get up, you’re going to make yourself a bath. You’re going to take a whole bottle of aspirin. You’re going to get into the tub. You’re going to slit your wrists when you’re in your bath, and I don’t like repeating myself.” Fancy Pants’ breathing quicken, as if he was running a marathon away from an Ursa Minor. He looks over to Pumpkin Cake, his eyes pleading for any sort of assistance from my sister. I don’t see any emotion behind Pumpkin Cake’s face. She looks dead—or rather, she looks like she’s looking at roadkill. Whatever helps her sleep better at night, I guess. “Don’t look at her; she’s not going to help you, no one’s going to help you. You’re in a motel, you’re not going to get help for a while.” “This is what’s happening: you’re going to die.” I hear Pumpkin’s voice, smooth like butter but edged like a steak-knife. Fancy Pants’ eyes start watering up as fear finally struck him, he’s hyperventilating, and that’s what I want him to do. He hyperventilates, his suicide looks more convincing. The way it’s going to be, we need him to cooperate with his death. He doesn’t really have a choice in the matter. “You won’t die in your bed, like the rich fad you are, you’re going to die drunk and cowardly in a dirty motel bathroom.” Fancy Pants had lashed at me with the razor and I end up breaking his wrist, I just potentially screwed us both. Pumpkin Cake and I took each side of his body and plunged him under the water, Pound Cake holding his hooves while I keep his shoulders placed down firmly. I won’t go into detail, because quite frankly: I would rather forget it. Let’s just hypothetically say, that Pound Cake stole a pair of handcuffs from some couple next door and tied out little friend’s broken hoof to the faucet. It was done, however. This guy paid for his sins. I feel the rush in my veins, my veins pulsing with adrenaline. I feel something inside of me, like an inner dragon has just awoken. It didn’t feel good. Not one bit. If you think I feel good about any of the events that just happened, think again. Pound Cake looks distant, he has this far away gaze in his eyes as he stared at his coffee. Killing Fancy Pants was one thing, but killing that other mare? We were attacked by some white unicorn, she was much slender than any other mare I've seen, but she was absolutely on a rampage. Wielding a sort of rapier, I'm guessing because I don't know my swords, that mare killed a couple of paparazzi and came for us, either out of a raging blood lust or she came for us specifically. Either or, she's no longer with us. We’re at a diner, the morning sun had rose while we were trying to wait for the train. We decided to send a courier with a letter to Mum and Dad explaining where we were and what we’re waiting for. They’ll be livid at the fact we took a trip without letting them know first. Pound Cake and I are grown adults, we can do as we please, but we still have the responsibility of the bakery. Without Pinkie, the bakery needs to be worked on almost Twenty-Four/Seven. That bakery is Mum and Dad’s only source of income, and they are too old and frail to work. Pound Cake doesn’t mind, as far as I seen, and I definitely don’t mind helping around the bakery. Pound Cake would barely touch his breakfast, he kept nudging his hay waffles and tore up his onion strips. I don’t blame him, with what he’s had to do, but I’m starving right now and the pain in my stomach won’t go away until I eat. It was five minutes until I looked up at him, and he was eating. I don’t rightly know if it’s because I keep looking at him play with his food, or if it’s because he’s as hungry as I am. He looks back up at me and flashes me a stupid smile. I playfully roll my eyes and mess up his mane with my hoof, we’re going back to business as usual. Who knows, maybe we might forget the whole mess. “You think Feather-nerd is going to like your hair like that?” He starts, looking over my mostly messy mane. “You’re very interested in my relationship, want to be my second boyfriend?” “Aw, don’t make it weird.” He chuckles, taking a sip of his coffee. “I heard you and Rumble broke it off,” I prop my head onto my hooves, breaking every etiquette rules known to pony-kind. I was actually curious in this matter, because somepony told me about it and I can’t actually believe that they split apart. “You two were so cute together, my little gay brother.” “Who told you that we split up, or even together in the first place?” “A little birdy—or something like that.” “It was that stalker, Feather-nerd, wasn’t it?” I try to suppress a giggle, but to no avail. “No?” “Note to self: strangle Featherweight.” That was a little soon, and we both knew it. I force myself to chuckle, and Pound Cake follow suit. I guess it’s our way of coping right now, forcing ourselves to laugh it off. I know communication is key in this sort of situation, and that’s exactly what we both need to do to avoid being eaten away by all this. Well, I don’t know about Pound Cake and how he stands on all this but just talking to him helps ease the digging tendrils. Not by a lot, but any relief is better than none. I guess I feel the tendrils because I’m on my breaking point, and I couldn’t agree with myself any further. I want to cry, vomit, and cry some more. But for Pound’s sake, I’ll stay strong.
The Diner Incident |Pipsqueak|Author's Note Fans of Pulp Fiction be damned, I probably ruined a good movie with this scene. The Diner Incident |Pipsqueak| Holy Faust on a bloody type-writer, am I sitting on one confusing goldmine! I mean; how do I even put my confusion into words, with the whole murder spree that just happened, the murder of former Prime Minister Fancy Pants, and now with this whole fiasco with these idiots in the parliament building being accused of taking bribes? Think of all the imports I can smuggle across the border of Equestria now with the Royal Guards off of us. Thank the Goddesses for serial killers, because I wouldn't be so sucessful without it. “More tea, luv’?” Twist-a-Loo offers. “Please.” “Sugar and cream?” “You how I like it, Twisty.” The gray, rather cold early morning isn’t exactly one that I would be proud of being awoken into, but I usually don’t sleep when Pumpkin isn’t around. Besides, and don’t quote me on this because you didn’t hear it from me, in my line of work: if you take a wink at the wrong mare you’ll get that eyelid cut out. Goddess help you if you decide to flirt with the wrong mare, because you’ll wake up with your tongue in a glass of water. I guess I’ve been staring at my blank crossword-puzzle with a pencil in my mouth for more than a moment, I take a sip of the mug next to me and nearly spat the unsweetened tea across the table-bar and get liquid all over a chef and some on-grill food. I gag and just accept my internal disgust to settle for cold tea, I can already hear my mum chastising me already for not drinking my tea while it’s hot. TO be honest, I wasn't staring at my paper: I see Pumpkin Cake and her probably a sociopath brother, Pound Cake. I was staring at Pumpkin Cake, because to truth's be honest: I miss her. A lot more than I thought I would. “Puzzle’s a mind-bender, huh?” I look to my right and find a white stallion with a yellow mane that barely goes past his ears (and tail so low, I questioned how useful it was to keeping flies away from his No-Man’s-Zone), wearing a leather jacket with an assortments of medals on them. There’s no mistake, with that handlebar mustache and that Platinum Cross, this is the stallion I was looking for. “Right that is, Sarge.” I quietly say, my mind processing the fact he just walked into a public diner, sat right next to me, and I can see his little minions outside with their ballsy hooves on their sheaves. I don’t get a complete look on them, but I know Sarge’s M.O when it comes to training his little street soldiers: raise them young and give them a taste for the enemy’s blood, and you got a loyal little Earth Pony. “So how was your weekend? I heard you and Pumpkin broke it off, such a shame for a lad like you, she was a good looker,” Sarge looks up and orders a coffee, and he stiffs me the bill by not throwing down a couple of bits. Even my own ‘stable’ relationship with Sarge doesn’t prevent me from falling under his greed, to not pay for his own shit. “For a unicorn.” “That shit was two months ago, she’s like a fucking writer with ADHD—she never knows what she wants.” “Typical unicorns.” “You know, that whole racial-purity shit is the reason why that bastard of a Princess we have now placed a mandatory curfew,” Sarge is Post-Treaty Retaliation Activists of Earth Pony Rule, or in a shorten term, R.A.E.P, and no: I did not make that up to be some sort of sick joke. They’re literal terrorists and my club doesn’t deal with terrorists unless they have some cold hard bit, because my services get expensive when threats against all Pegasus and Unicorns are being issued. “It would not kill you to just drop the racist fuckery, and tell me why you decided to meet me in such a crowded place.” “Oh, don’t worry about them Pappy-Boy!” Sarge loudly laughs and smacks my back, I flinch from the impact. I’m not the fit Earth Pony around, not in a sense of being morbidly gluttonous and becoming fat—my own crew would force a liposuction on me after their down cutting off my hooves, more in a sense of being the runt of my own litter and the butt-end of the usual short jokes. “I got them all taken care of, quickly, since I’m in a good mood.” “You’re just going to massacre them? Have you fucking gone senile, you fucking crazy old man?” I lean in closer to him, using my irises to point at the now growing worried families in the diner who decided to have themselves a nice and decent breakfast. The deal of our trade was, no one and their family has to be dealt with the outcome of our decision unless personally done. “Listen here, this isn’t the desert of Zebrica, you don’t just cut down whatever sod you want. These are ponies, Sarge, with their family and kids.” “Do I look like I give a shit, Pappy-boy?” Sarge grins at me, as if he dares me to stand up and do anything. There were now these colts, guarding the exits, wearing leather jackets with considerably less medallions than Sarge but exactly the same appearance as Sarge—well maybe a lot younger than Sarge. The colts look no younger than unlucky number thirteen. “You fucked up, you fucked with a lot of ponies, and worst of it all: you fucked with me personally. I don’t think you realize who exactly the hell you fucked with.” “What are you talking about?” I turn my whole body to him, giving him the best look I can give him. When I see him shoot up in indignation, I firmly put my hoof onto his shoulder and push him back into his seat: hissing at his ear. “Oi! Before you do anything to the President of the Lost Crossbones, it’s got be approved of the Council or your whole operation of R.A.E.P goes up in flames!” “Get your damn hoof off of me before it becomes more of a tree stump than that coward Fluttershy being cut in half.” I remove my hoof in a heartbeat, and he turns back to Twist-a-Loo with his hoof slamming on the bar. “God dammit, mare, where is my bloody coffee!” “I’m on my union break.” “You little bit—Pappy-Boy, if you enjoy living; you’ll fucking stay still and let me go, you impure shite.” I grip my fork hard, pressing it under his neck and on his jugular. I hold his left foreleg across the table, preventing use of his right foreleg. I stand up and hold the old stallion in a hostage hold, half-nelson with a fork to his neck--although pretty primal: it seems to work. “One more millimeter of that bloody sword, I’ll make sure he lives long enough to say ‘fuck’ one more time.”
One Bad Trip, Two Worrying Details, No Answers |Detective Rumble|Author's Note Trigger warnings, because this chapter's a bit messy but it won't span this far out without warning next time. Promise. Torture, Self-Harm, Graphic Violence, Night-terrors, ECT Reader Discretion is advised. Changing rating to mature. One Bad Trip, Two Worrying Details, No Answers |Detective Rumble| I’m an unstable mind in a very stable mind, in a very unstable city, but with a very stable home. The addiction, I have an addiction to something so addictive that I feel unstable every time I’m not on it. Don’t worry, its not drugs or something dangerous to my health. It’s just the powerful feeling of being able to bring justice down onto criminal scum. I deal with it in a very normal way, or should I say abnormal? Because trying to quit Opium is like pulling teeth from a mule, it takes some aggression and some god damn persistence. I only do this because I’m blaming my problems on criminals. Because it was those, who took what I wanted in life away from me. That’s why I spent so much time on job. But I have something to confess to myself. I overdo it, and I don’t even realize. “Oh lookie, lookie! So they send a fucking lapdog rookie to try and scuffle some information out of me here instead of being a stallion worth his cup and balls to do any of the shit they promise?” Here, you can observe the most annoying criminal scum since that prohibition-thing that happened. “I hope ya brought more than threats, me boy-o, because I ain’t giving shite worth a dime.” “What can you tell me about Sarge, Bulb Seed?” I click the hoof-cuffs to the table, and he snorts. I was willing on giving him the benefit of the doubt, but now: I’m not so sure anymore. “You might as well stroke off me Bilbo Baggins right here, right now, ya bloody git!” Where the worst of the worst, the molesters, the serial killers, the murderers, and the arsonists go is jail so ponies can be safe at night. I had to give my dream job—my prestige job as Wonderbolt rookie to be some bent cop who got lucky enough to make detective. “You coppers don’t do shit, that is why we businessmen successes!” “Shut your whore-fucking mouth, right now.” I close the door behind me, the locks clicking and the pressure hissed from the steel door. I was in my domain now, this interrogation office is my territory. Every millimeter of the floor is mine, every millimeter of the walls are mine, every millimeter of the ceiling is mine—the table is mine, the handcuffs is mine, that fucking chair this asshole doesn’t deserve is mine. Best of all: his ass isn’t going anywhere today. “Or what, ya golden shit-pot? You going to ruffle me feathers? You going to threaten me with more time on the inside, me laddy?” The stallion has an Irish/Scotland accent, I presumed that because of the slang and the pitch of voice he uses. I don’t know if it’s fake or if it’s real but I honestly don’t care, because this scumbag is nothing to be cared about. “Mind tellin’ me that again, when I’m not in hoof-cuffs, and then you’ll see a true fucking pussy when you look in the mirror and see that pretty-face all fucked up—aye?” “I FUCKING SAID: SHUT YOUR MOUTH, YOU DEAF COCK-NOBBLER.” I shrilly scream, slamming my hooves onto the table. I see him flinch from the sheer volume of my voice, but he’s quick to recover his smug smile and confident look. So if the ‘crazy psycho’ fear tactic isn’t working, maybe I’ll dwell deeper into my own troubles and fully unleash them onto this guy. Bring out the Hannibal Lector inside of me, except I don’t eat ponies. “Whoa, this lad’s got some bulls (balls) on him. I’d applaud that if me wrists were chained to the table, ya’ fucking guppy.” I go around the table and twist his left wing a good ninety degrees, being a Pegasus myself I know just how painful it is to get your wings twisted. I, however, don’t care about this pony and he can fucking know just how powerful of an investigator I am. Because I devote a lot of emotions into my cases over the years and I don’t feel exactly too stable. “AGH, YOU FUCKING PSYCHO! THAT WAS MY WING!” Bulbs screams in pain, trying to wither away from me. He rattles against his foreleg restraints as he tries to leap away from the chair, in fact, he’s so determined to get out of the chair that I decide to help him with his wish and buck the chair from under him. He could collapse onto the ground, but the hoof-cuffs keeps his upper body upright. I still hold the wing in a vice, watching him coldly as he writhers in pain as I twist the wing further. Bulbs’ screams echoes the room, but will never make it out of the interrogation room. I know I’m about to snap his wing in a twister, which is the most painful way to get a bone broken besides pressure. I watch him scream, his eyes tearing up in pain; so Bulbs is really sensitive on the wings, huh? “Watch what you say, Bulbs, because it’ll blow back on your face quicker than the explosion that killed your mom.” I coolly say, my voice absent from any evidence of me screaming. I feel my expressions fading from my face, a more piercing glare dominate my main facial region, I make my eyes widen, to add to the fear tactic. This isn’t a play, or some kind of ploy. I use my inner demons and my dark emotions to play out my sick fantasies of completely ruining somepony, I want to see how deep my roots can dig into them. When I’m leeched in, I can get the truth. “W—what did you just say?” That seemed to stun him, and I offer small smile but it quickly disappears. I won’t bore you with specifics, but I interviewed his buddies about the day Rose Luck went missing and it seems that the Lost Crossbones were not so honest about their activities in that warehouse on a specific hour of a Mother’s Day. “Your mom, Bulb, I know about your moms.” I let the wing go, before I send this scum into shock from pure pain. I grab Bulbs by the other, untwisted, wing upwards sharply. “I know you killed her, because she was a whore. “YOU KNOW NOTHING, I DIDN’T KILL MY MA, I LOVE ME MA!” Bulbs frantically shouts before he freezes in pure pain and horror. I know his brain is putting him into shock, which is the one thing I tried to avoid. He let out the worst blood-curdling scream I’ve thought could only come out of a banshee in heat before his head hung low rendering him unconscious. Hours and hours later, he’s back in his chair and awaken. Every question, he deflects or lie. I know he lies, so I give him a couple of good jabs, hooks (actual fishhooks) to his cheeks to see if he’ll talk out of pain. As it turns out, I’m resorting to driving him mad. Leaving him in the white room, only returning to ask him some more and to kick the crap out of him. Reminding him that it could it be all over if he just simply cooperates. I simply stare at him, watching his chest rise and falls. He looks fearful to wake up, as if his body knows what awaits him if he does wakes up to me. Too bad that was only a taste of what I can do, twisting a wing is nothing special. “All you have to do is tell me who the leader of the Real R.A.E.P, then I’ll think about playing nice.” I press again, holding his bruised eye before flinging his head away. I took my seat across from him and watch him, he’s exhausted—I’m not. I deprive him of sleep all I want, and I don’t give a shit if he stays up all night. “Look, I’m not a fucking rat… I’ll never give up my family…” He tiredly says, requiring me to smack him sharply to wake up. His face is bruised and swollen beyond recognition, I sure did a number on this kid. He’s not even seventeen, and he’s this resilient. “No, Bulbs.” I calmly say back, leaning my head on my hoof. I stand up and walk around the table, putting my forelegs around the back of his neck and push his head in my direction. I force him to look at me, as my colors don’t align in the white room. I’m his only differential of perception, and if I leave: he has nothing to look at. “You see, there’s no family in crime since the fucking crusade back in 200 BC.” “We both know that family bollocks they try is a lie. You have no family. That gang is nothing more than it is, a gang. I don’t care if its democracy, if it’s barely legal, I don’t even care if you touch little fillies; it’s still a fucking gang.” “Shut up… you don’t understand brotherhood…” “So you brotherhood, hmm?” Bulbs weakly continues, his words somehow like a hot prodding iron stick into my neck. I feel my head shake with rage as he says these words. “I’ll never rat against Patchy…” “I DON’T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT PATCHY OR YOUR BULLSHIT GANG.” I scream, grabbing his neck into a vice and slamming his snout into the table. Blood spurts out of his nose and mouth, onto the table and dripping down to the marble floor. There’s a large gash on across his snout, which helps the bleeding effect. His carmine pool the table, as his head is just lying on the table; his eyes wide and awoken, but his pupils only condensed to pinpricks. “I want the fucking name of Sarge. I want his real name, you will give me his name.” Days pass now, and I kept him in isolation in my interrogation room. No one knows he’s in there, and no one will care either, he’s a no body. No body’s coming to help this smug son of a bitch. My roots are in deeper, I basically control this stallion. Everything he eats is white, what he eats off of is a white plate, he hasn’t slept in days. I dug into his history, and apparently he was Sarge’s infantry member. They were trained from the womb to be resilient to interrogation, so I’m resorting to psychological and physical harm. This sixteen year old pony is even tougher than any fucking griffon I ever interrogated. This was a kid, but already with the mindset and the colorful language of a veteran soldier. I sit down across from him, my eyes never diverting his and only blinking when I feel them strain. I know I am making him uncomfortable, but that’s exactly what I want. I want him to squirm. He’s trying his damned hardest attempt to keep eye contact away from me, but that only allows him to stare at the white table, the white floor, or even the white walls. “You don’t know shit, you fucking pig!” Bulbs finally musters up the courage to reply back, after a good few seconds of uncomfortable silence. This is going to be even easier than I thought, this stallion is an easy win. But I’m done with this kid’s attitude, time to adjust it. I stand up, holding a single razor blade in my hooves. I keep the colt still as I drag the razor up his foreleg, causing him to screech and resist against the restraints. I then go under his right hoof and cut the tendon slowly and sadistically, a cold and numb feeling coming across my chest as the Bulb- no, the fucking kid under me continue to drain his voice. “You want to know how fear affects our sense of pain, because it’s quite simpler than you’d think.” I say, as I continue to cut along his hoof, creating a spiral circle on the base of his hoof. I didn’t cut deep enough to gash, but I cut deep enough for the skin to be sliced partially so it was random when blood dripped down his racking foreleg. “Fear grips our hearts, they cloud our judgement, make the most rational pony the most impulsive and skittish shit I’ve ever seen.” I work on cutting the other hoof, the colt seethes and pulls but I know he’s not going anywhere anytime soon. Which is a shame for him, because I—for one—am actually growing impatient. “Fear can be anything, but the worst thing for a pony to fear is pain.” “Fear of pain instantly makes all of your senses on alert, because you’re focused on staying alive—” Bulbs screamed for help, screaming for anyone to save him. “—that makes so many chemicals run in your brain, I don’t know what because I’m not a nerd.” “AGHH!! PLEASE! STAY AWAY! HELP ME SOMEBODY PLEASE!" “THAT'S RIGHT! KEEP YELLING! MAYBE SOMEONE WILL COME HELP!” “HELP ME! PLEASE! THIS GUY'S GOING TO FUCKING KILL ME!” “HERE, LET ME JOIN! HELP ME SOMEBODY PLEASE, THE DEMONS ARE KILLING ME!” “OH GODDESSES, PLEASE SAVE ME!” I stop yelling as my face drain from emotion except for a face a psychotic killer would give to his victims, one that a serial killer would give to his victims. I feel my eyes widen as my eyes twitched occasionally, my snout pressed up against his as I start to cut his ear with delicate slices. I, with a chillingly fatherly voice, begin my speech. "You see, nothing in this room matters to you. It's all white.” “It's all boring to you, but you it's the main reason why I'm so far “Under your skin. Why I'm so deep into your fucking skull. “Because this room is designed to drive you fucking mad. “Everything here is white. “The Chair-- “The Table-- “These Walls-- “The Door-- “The Floor-- “Even your fucking hoof-cuffs are white.-- “They all blend out, leaving you without any sense of originality.-- “They're all you know at this point, because I want it like that.-- “I'm the only thing that matters in this room.-- “This is my room.-- “And in my room, you're my fucking bitch.-- “AND IN MY ROOM, YOU DON'T FUCKING SPEAK-- “WHAT DID I JUST FUCKING SAY?!-- “YOU DON'T SPEAK YOU SHIT-EATING FUCKER.-- “I AM YOUR FUCKING GOD HERE.-- “I CAN KILL YOU AND NO ONE WILL CARE-- “NO ONE WILL GO TO YOUR FUNERAL-- “BECAUSE YOU HAVE NO FUCKING FAMILY-- “YOU REALLY THINK THOSE IN THE GANG THINK OF YOU AS BROTHERS-- “FUCK NO-- “IN A HEARTBEAT, THEY'LL FUCKING KILL YOU OFF TO PROTECT THEMSELVES-- “THEY'RE GREEDY-- “THEY'RE THUGS-- “AND YOU'RE JUST LIKE THEM-- “YOU’RE GREEDY-- “YOU’RE A THUG-- “YOU KNOW WHAT THUGS GET-- “A KNIFE IN THE GOD DAMN CHEST-- “NOW IF YOU DON'T TELL ME EVERYTHING YOU FUCKING KNOW, RIGHT FUCKING NOW, I'LL FUCKING CUT OUT YOUR HEART AND FEED IT TO THE GRIFFON ORPHANS!!” “OKAY OKAY! THERE’S THIS JOURNELIST! OKAY! THERE’S THIS JOURNELIST WHO POKES HIS BUSINESS INTO POLITICS, OKAY?! HE MIGHT KNOW SOMETHING, BECAUSE SARGE IS OFFERING THEM DONATIONS IN TO KEEP THE HEAT OFF OF HIM. THAT’S ALL I FUCKING I KNOW, I SWEAR IT ON MY LIFE!” “SWEAR IT TO ME!” “I SWEAR!” “I now find your life is meaningless.” “What . . . NO WAIT—I’LL TELL YOU EVERYTHING I KNO—” I held his neck down, exposing the arteries behind the muscle, slicing his neck ear from ear with the razor. Blood shot from his mouth as blood spilled out of his neck, he choked on his own blood as he tried to stare at me but I simply unchain him and buck the chair from under the chair. Blood pooled around the teen’s body, as he laid on the ground—silently dying in pain. I felt my eyes widen at my actions, watching the stallion bleed out while I desperately try to use my hooves to keep the blood inside of the teen. I couldn’t believe what I have done, it just shocked me how cold-blooded the killing was. Just how I did it so subtly, like I knew what I was doing. I didn’t know what was happening, this had to be some sort of nightmare. And thankfully, it is. Bathroom stalls, vulgar writing, cold white floor, white ceiling… did I almost OD? I shoot my whole body up, a cold sweat drenches my body and was pooling onto the bathroom floor. I find the the toilet and open the lid to vomit into it, my throat burned as I expel the tension from my stomach into the bowl. I refuse to look into the toilet, instead pushing the lever and hearing the water—along with the vile liquid—drain itself away. I looked at the lever and saw a fresh blood smear, which prompted me to look at my hooves. Blood covered my forelegs and they started to sting horribly, I found toilet paper next to the toilet and started to wrap my hooves into the toilet paper. I looked around me to find bottles of upon bottles of medication scattered on the floor, a couple of pills on the ground, some still in bottles, and my only assumption that I can safely make is that I ingested them and got a really bad trip. I check my neck to find any sort of damage, but was relieved to find none. I stand up, my forelegs shaky, and exit the bathroom stall. I look into the mirror to address myself, and I look like a junky who just lost his colt-friend and just had a nightmare about killing someone. I take my bandage off and wash my hooves into the sink, I wash myself, and then fix myself up to appear as normal as possible. I don’t know how long I’ve been in here, but I need to go to work. I can’t be late to my new case on the Homicide Division. It’ll be a bad rep’ if I show up late on the first day, and unlike high-school, I don’t just get a slide from that. People actually pay bits for my absence. After work, I’m looking for a goddess damned shrink. Because I don’t know if that shit was a bad-trip, or a bad omen, but I want nothing to do with it. I don’t kill ponies, I don’t even kill bugs, much less teenagers! However, the two names haunt me—especially with how vivid they were slaughtered. It was too real, but the pony wasn’t me. For goddess’s sake, I’m no killer. I open the bathroom door and then close it again, there were ponies armed with swords guarding the exits. I look back to the bathroom stall I was just in and noticed the red stained razor, my hooves stinging again as I remember that I just self-harmed. I feel myself drop in motivation, but I have to save the ponies from this guy. It’s my legal obligation. I took the razor and hid it under my maw, keeping it above my tongue and clenched between my teeth. I calmly walk towards a corner seat and sit, but I feel myself freeze when I see one of the stallions guarding the exit. It was Bulb Seeds, or whatever his name, but I dreamed about him. All of a sudden, one pony held one of the service ponies into a hold with a fork to his jugular. Being new to the Homicide Detective-thing, because I was just a cop before this, I didn’t know who they were. They were pretty new faces, except that Trottingham-sounding one. He looks familiar, maybe I met him before in a bar. But all I know is, that Bulb Seeds and this ‘Sarge’ character sound very important to me. But why?
