Author's Note

[Contains: Decapitation, Near death by incineration, Hard Vore, Cock Vore, Rape, Cum Inflation, more rape, implied eye-socket fucking, and more hard vore, as well as the sentence “Whooo-ee! Ain’t never raped a burn victim before, I like it! All crispy on the outside, nice and gooey on the inside!”]

This was originally Part 46 (Bad End).

Please, take a seat in... THE DIE-NING ROOM!

“Optic! Check for survivors. Woody, guard the door with your life. Eissen, Ball Peen, grab a snack, let’s all take a nice breather.”

The metal behemoth that is Optic nods, and stomps through the wreckage, crushing skulls and loosing zaps with her laser rifle on any raider whose corpse looks even mostly intact. Eissen blinks at you, looking back at the door confused, while Ball Peen pokes at a cooked pony, before his attention is caught by movement at the end of the table. “That one’s lookin’ at me funny!”

Woody just sort of stares blankly at the room as a short cough of gunfire echoes through it, just barely audible over the tinny radio. You give her another jab and shove her towards the door. “Woody. Door. Guard it.”

She starts staggering in that direction, and you decide it’s good enough, opting to investigate how that pony that was drowned in jello fared. Eissen trails behind you like a lost puppy, his eyes flicking from Optic to you to Woody and back. “Dusty, what the hell are you doing?”

“Hm? What do you mean?” Yeah, she definitely looks like she died sucking gelatin. Heck of a way to go, but must’ve tasted delicious. Although… “Hey, where do you think they got all this jello, anyway?”

He blinks in confusion. “What- Why are you focusing on the jello and not…” He trails off, then sniffs at the rubbery mass, the air bubbles trailing up from the dead mare’s lips still suspended around her. “Oh Celestia, it’s the Gryphon recipe.”

“What’s that mean?” You take a giant bite of it, and Eissen nearly pukes right there and then.

“Dusty! That’s made from pony-” There’s an earsplitting bang, and he screams, clutching his leg as blood soaks the carpet under him. “My hoof! Buck me, why do ponies keep shooting me in the legs?”

You whirl around, 9mm pistol at the ready with the safety off, and a mouthful of jello. The cool calmness of SATS fills your vision, and you take in the situation with a glance.

Three raiders, one wearing leather barding, another wearing metal, and the last wearing a dirty black duster, are all pointing guns at you. Behind them, you can see one wearing combat armour that appears to be painted with blood, and one last one who’s built a suit of armour entirely out of aluminum beer cans. Both appear to be pointing guns towards Optic and Ball Peen. Behind them is…

Spinning Cylinders. Of course. And he appears to be… talking to Woody? She doesn’t even have a gun pointed at them, did she just let them walk right in?

You’re tempted to target as many as you can, but they all have such a pitifully-low chance to hit, it’s not even worth it. Barely double digits, and none above twenty-five, too far away.

You quit out of SATS, and finally swallow your mouthful of jello, gun still pointed at the new intruders. Licking your lips, you clear your throat. “Alright, nopony move, and definitely nopony else shoot! We already killed your boss, and I’m pretty sure that means one of you guys is the new boss, so you should be thanking us!”

There’s a moment of shocked silence, before the guy in the metal barding, whispers, terrified, “She… she killed The Red Queen?”

A shout from the other end of the room, from Ball Peen, draws everypony’s attention. “Something just moved! Surv-”

He never gets to finish the word. In a moment, the ruins of the table he was standing on explode once more into a hailstorm of splinters and cooked pony, blood, and guts, as the music from the radio hits a crescendo. Black Widow, the Red Queen herself, emerges like an alien parasite through the chest of a curious explorer, holding your ultra-sharp blade. In that same movement, she slashes upwards, and Ball Peen’s head flicks right off his shoulders like a bottle cap off the neck of a bottle of Sparkle-Cola.

It arcs through the air, a spray of blood spiraling through the air beside it, making a beautifully grotesque pattern in the air of the dining room. At the end of his last parabola, his decapitated head bounces off the rug with a wince-inducing crunch, and rolls to a stop at your feet, face turned upwards and looking at you.

The impact broke his nose, and his eyes are rolling, but he’s got bigger problems. The dying stallion’s pupils start to shrink as he realizes he can’t feel his body, and you can see his mouth trying desperately to form words, to scream in anger, or shout for help, but all that comes out of his mouth is blood. After another moment, he stills, eyes rolling back and head flopping to the side as the spray of blood turns to a dribble.

The Red Queen, back at her end of the table, grins psychotically as you look back at her. She flicks the blade, and what little of Ball Peen’s blood remained to stain it is whisked away, disappearing into the already blood-soaked rug. Behind her, the dirty stallion’s corpse twitches, pisses itself, and then flops over.

“So… Dusty Shelf, from Stable 28… We meet, for the first and the last time. I had hoped we could work out a deal, perhaps involving your Pipbuck, but I can see negotiations have somewhat broken down. So I’ll just have to take your Pipbuck and the maps on it mys-”

And then Optic shoots her in the ass with a gatling laser.

She doesn’t even have time to scream as the energy weapon tears her apart at the subatomic level, and barely manages to let out a whimper before she’s vapourized, her burning dress fluttering to the floor alongside your sword, which lands with a ‘thump.’

With a sigh, Spinning Cylinders draws his twin revolvers, and cocks both hammers at once. “Okay, now th’ Red Queen’s dead. Kill the intruders!”

You turn, but it’s already too late, and worse, your hoof sticks in the jello. It’s going to claim another life by sundown, and Spinning draws a bead on you as the now-familiar staccato of laser fire tears the doorframe apart around him. With infinite calm, he pulls one trigger, than the other, alternating fire as he snaps the pistols forward as the recoil fades.

The bullets tear at your legs, your gut, one, hits you in the shoulder, another hits the jello between your legs and splashes that across you, but the killing blow is a single slug that clips the fuel hose on your Shishkebab.

Gasoline goes everywhere, and the very air around you ignites as the sparks from the impact bounce through your mane. You’re char-boiled in an instant, flash-fried by your own choice of weapon. Your fur dries, then crisps, then catches fire, sandy brown turning to scorched black. Your lungs burn as they try to suck in super-heated air, and you desperately try to squeeze your eyes shut. Pain engulfs you a moment after the fire does, and what air you managed to gulp in is released in a shrill, pained keening whine.

You flop backwards into the jello like it’s a semi-solid swimming pool, and slowly sink into it as your head lolls to the side. The most horrible part is that you’re not dead, and your eyes slowly slide open, sluggishly trying to recover from their impromptu cooking.

At the other end of the room, Optic’s doing far better than anypony else was. And if the fact that she’s just lost half her squad in an instant is scaring her, you can’t tell through the armour. Bullets ping off the Titanium-Silver alloy, balls of plasma splash off the ceramic coating harmlessly, and even the lasers simply reflect off the polished armour, the ricochets zapping chunks out of the floor.

Her defensive hail of laser fire ends with a beep, and the Gatling Laser’s battery ejecting out the side. With a growl, she tosses it away, swapping to her personal laser rifle, but she pulls the trigger a few times only to come up dry again.

The realization slowly floats through your heat-stunned head. She never got a chance to reload after she’d been busy executing survivors.
It’s all the opening the Raiders need, and they charge en masse like a swarm of locusts, rolling over the wreckage and leaping through the air. Optic manages to back up half a step before a stallion half your size leapt onto her neck, and another hit her square in the side. Time seems to slow as the Power-Armoured Goliath falls, crushing a few raiders under her weight, but they’re instantly replaced by more at her belly plating, clawing and biting and pulling at the relatively-weak underarmour.

There’s two screams, one of metal, and the other from Optic as her armour is torn off her belly, and they throw it away to start clawing at the frame. Her legs begin flailing and her head flops from side to side as she desperately tries to crawl away from the near-feral raiders all over her.

She screams again, and this time it’s paired with a splatter of crimson as they tear the frame apart and begin literally chewing their way into her belly, the only exposed part of her body. Even from where you’re sitting, you can see part of her armour bulge suddenly as the raider leading the intestinal charge literally starts crawling inside Optic’s exposed chest cavity, to get at what must be “the good bits.”

Optic’s flailing suddenly ceases, and her final scream is cut off with a gurgle as her head jerks downwards, barely twitching as a raider, soaked in blood, runs away from the pack carrying a long tube of flesh. Optic’s esophagus, maybe? A closer one pulls out a liver-shaped lump of flesh and jams it into his mouth, biting down with the glee of a foal biting into a watermelon. It pops like a blood balloon, thoroughly soaking Optic’s white armour in pinkish-red blood.

Closer to your own charred body, you hear a more masculine scream, and manage to lethargically flop your head away from the spectacle of Optic’s death. Eissen has not gone unnoticed, and it seems that Spinning’s taken an interest in him, now that he thinks you’ve died in a blaze of stupidity. “Say, ah recognize you! That Courier Mademoiselle Tête-à-pic dragged in, ain’tcha?”

You have to give Eissen credit; with nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide, the fact that he’s still clutching his fancy shotgun with shaking hooves and pointing it right at Spinning’s head is pretty awesome. Unfortunately, it’s all for naught, and the Cowpony simply grabs the end of the barrel and yanks it out of his hooves.

“Well!” He says with a smirk. “If’n you’re a courier, seems to me you’re obligated to help me with my package, if you get my drift… Hold ‘im down, Buckos.”

Eissen eyes go wide as the leather-barded raider and another one wearing a tutu grab his fores and hinds, and Spinning walks around him, stroking a quickly-growing erection. “No! Fuck’s sake, not like this! Lemme go, dammit, lemme go!”

His screams go unheard as the Spinning sits down, and points his dick toward Eissen’s muzzle. “No foreplay today, mailpony. Push him in.”

The two raiders yank his fores back his head forward, despite Eissen’s struggles to stay back. “No! No, Celestia-dammit, I don’t wanna end up as a load of cum for some crazy hillbilly- Mm mmmm mmm!” An obscene slurp slithers over around the dining hall as his head is pushed forward, slowly but inexorably, into Spinning Cylinder’s cock-slit. The cock shakes from side to side as he struggles, but his head is inside now, and the rest follow shortly.

It doesn’t take long for the two raiders to feed the rest of Eissen into Spinning’s ballsack, at least up to his own half-erect cock. At that point, more of Eissen’s inside the dick than outside, and it starts pulling him in like a Tunnel Snake working its way down a sleeping pony. Even as his legs flailed, one still bleeding profusely at the knee that’d been shot through, he was slowly-but-surely sliding inside, until his hooves disappeared with a slurp.

“Ahh…” Spinning groaned. “Damn, wish Black Widow hadn’t been blown to dust. I’ve been wanting a piece of that ass for years, now would have been a great time to fill her tight, dead asshole…”

Your heart stops as his eyes catch yours, and he grins. “Hey! That bitch, that’s half as good… I still haven’t repaid her for Mercy, but fucking her charred corpse for a week or so should be a good start. Bring that crispy critter over here.”

His two chosen lackeys stomp over, each grabbing a foreleg, and yanking you out of the sticky mess the bowl of jello had turned into. Your skin crackled as they pulled on it, and you nearly screamed as burnt chunks of flesh peeled off your joints, exposing the raw red meat underneath. But you just couldn’t find the strength to whimper.

The raiders notice, though. “Whoa! Boss, she’s not dead yet!” His already-excited eyes light up in glee, and he slowly starts stroking himself. “Well, hot damn… I’m gonna get to repay you proper, looks like.”

They set you down on your flash-fried rump in front of him, facing him, but he waves his hoof at them. “Not that end, ya idgits! It’s still gonna be all bitey. I wanna fuck her cunt.”

They kick your forelegs out from under you, and your chin smacks into the carpet with a thump like you’d fallen onto a cactus, right in front of his churning balls. All of a sudden a face appears in the side of Spinning’s testicles, Eissen’s drowning face, and it’s joined with a pair of hooves straining outwards against the walls of his balls. After a moment, it disappears with a blurbling noise, and Spinning groans, biting his lip. “Aww, yeah, missy… Gonna fill my new Mercy up with some mailpony seed.”

You try and struggle, but every movement feels like your bones have been cooked into place. The lackeys slam your head down and step on it, forcing your skull against the carpet, while Spinning hikes up your ass. He tries to rub his shaft between your thighs, but all it makes is a shuffling noise, like a pony stepping through ashes.

“Hmph. Guess that’s all the lube you’re gettin’.” Then he pushes the head of his cock up against your asshole, and you finally manage a scream.

The fire had raged around you, and apparently had practically fused all the fur and flesh on your ass into a solid, charred skin over your crotch. As Spinning forcefully jams his head, breaking through that crust, it feels like he’s split your clit open after cooking it with a blowtorch, except inside your asshole.

Fresh blood drips through the crust, picking up flecks of grey as it streaks down your hind legs. You’re shaking like an autumn leaf as Spinning slams his toned hips against your cooked ones, and a brand new flash of Tartarus splits you.

“Whooo-ee! Ain’t never raped a burn victim before, I like it! All crispy on the outside, nice and gooey on the inside!”

The very second he thinks you’ve adjusted to the pain (and he’s wrong) he switches holes, this time smashing through the crisp coating over your pussy and plunging inside with a squelch. You want to puke as you can feel him speed up, realizing he’s going to cum, and he’s going to cum out Eissen, or what’s left of him, into you.

It happens before you’re even done parsing the thought, as he hilts himself, and his balls rumble. The feeling of relief when he finally stops and fills you with white-hot liquid cum blanks out everything else, and turns to pain again in an instant when your belly cracks anew, bloating with his load. You slip into blissful unconsciousness as Spinning presses his belly against your back, cuddling your charred body and yelling to his underlings, “Hey, ya mooks! Start cleaning this mess up!”

* * *

“Sir? We’re preparing the fake envoy for the journey to Dodge City. Soon as they let in the ‘crowd of lost Stable-dwellers’, they’ll break rank and start fighting, which will give everypony else the opportunity to hit them while they’re distracted. It should be burning by sundown.”

Spinning Cylinders nodded, still using his hoof to rock you back and forth along his shaft. “Good. ‘Bout fucking time we took that place down.” With a smirk, he pulled you off, and waved to you. “But where would we be without my faithful cocksock? After all, were it not for her, we never would have found a stable full of meals wrapped up nice and tight in Stable suits for our own uses.”

With a cough, you nodded. “Thank you-” Your voice cracked, and you spoke with a lisp, thanks to not having any teeth any more. “T-thank you, sir…”

Your eyes wandered to the pony splayed on Spinning’s plate. You recognized her from your class. Potted Plant. She’d always been a farmer by heart, trying to keep the Stable’s vegetarian option available (but more often just providing garnishes for everypony else.) She had a look of abject terror and fear on her face, the same look she’d had when you watched her being put into the oven. Thank Celestia she hadn’t recognized you… you think.

It’d be kind of tricky for her to do so. All of your burned flesh and fur had flaked off within the first week, leaving only a mass of stiff scar tissue all over. You were “unfit for equine consumption,” according to the chefs, and so Spinning had decided you would serve as a dickwarmer for him instead. But you could tell he was getting sick of your blistered, bleeding lips.

Around you both, Black Widow’s throne room/banquet hall had been somewhat cleaned up when Spinning had made it his own, but now it had a definite raider flair instead of the faux-fancy it had before. Rotting heads on spikes served as decoration, and you winced again as you spotted Optic and Ball Peen’s heads, flanking either side of the door. The rest of the table was already tearing into their dinner of ponies you recognized, and Spinning’s pet hounds, chained to a load-bearing column in the corner, were fighting over some of the less-palatable scraps.

His hoof grabbed your head, and you took a deep breath on instinct as he slammed your throat down on his cock again, bouncing you off his hips a couple times.You gummed his shaft as rolled your throat around it, and you prepared yourself for the inevitable load blown into your mouth.

But it never came. And that scared the piss out of you, because that meant you were useless to him now.

With a frustrated growl, he yanked your head off his cock again, and grabbed a maid. After a long few moments of sucking in air again, you recognized Woody, dressed in a bloodstained maid’s costume and carrying a rump roast. Her new eyepatch looked good on her, but her other eye was still tearstained. “Hey, you. I’m sick of this bitch’s throat. Come here, sit on my lap, and you’re off the grocery list.”

Woody practically jumped at the chance, and was on his cock in an instant, bouncing up and down on him and making fake pleasured noises. A nearby raider grabbed you by what was left of your mane, and pulled you into the air. “What do we do with this one, boss?”

“Make her look over here.” Leaning around Woody’s fattened-up rump, he glared at you. “I ain’t even started on paying you back for what you done… But I’m sick of looking at your fucking gross muzzle. Consider this a… Mercy.” He grinned then waved the guard holding you away. “Throw her to the dogs. Then leave whatever’s left over in the cage with the rest of the Stable ponies, to let them know not to fuck with me!”

He nods and starts dragging you off. Woody paused to watch you go, but only for a moment before Spinning barks at her again. “Hey! Keep at it, short skirt. Unless you want me to start fucking your other eye-hole instead.”

Spinning’s pet hounds were excited to see you, though. You could still remember them from that time he locked you into the kennels while the bitches were in heat. They didn’t look horny this time, though, just hungry.

It was telling that this lackey was scared to get closer than absolutely necessary to make you into dog food. He just tossed your limp, burned body into the pack, and trotted away. You wanted to fight, but you didn’t even have time before the dog’s teeth tore into you, ripping flesh and spraying blood across the others. You were thankful when one grabbed your throat and shook you like a rubber toy, snapping your neck.

* * *

Wooden ladle watched, crying from her left eye as she watched Dusty, her last hope for escape, get torn apart by the hungry dogs. She’d already kind of known it had all gone to shit, but as a dusty-brown hoof flew out of the dogpile and splatted onto the floor, she sighed, and turned her attention fully onto Spinning Cylinders.

The awful pony just smiled. “Hey, don’t look so glum, missy. You keep up the good job, and when you wear out, I’ll put one in your brain, nice and quick. In with the new, out with the old, huh?”