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.