After a long day of being painfully fashionable and selling black market Avon products in the bathrooms at school to the flat-chested girls at Canterlot High, Rarity retired to her abode. She wanted to get the stress out of her shoulders, and what better way than to practice some mad piano.
She was rich so she could afford a piano teacher. Her piano teacher was Miss Sharpe, a mousy little flat-chested woman who also liked to dress fashionably. Rarity didn't like her but pretended to like her. A lot of days they would go back and forth for hours exchanging catty backhanded compliments. It never got old.
"You know, the black-key pentatonic scale really is the perfect scale for you," Rarity would say.
"Why is that? Because it's all... sharp?" Ms. Sharpe would giggle.
"No. Because it's all flat."
Then Rarity would physically hold a stiff wooden board up to Ms. Sharpe's flat little chest, and laugh out loud at how rectilinear both of those items were. Not little feminine giggles, either, but big coarse guffaws. "Haa! Haaaaaw!" Like that.
Crazy female mind games, I'm telling you.
So Miss Sharpe came over as expected again on this evening, and Rarity was psyched up to the blood creep for some mad sick piano practice. "Got the ivory fever tonight," Rarity would say, walking in the door, and Sweetie Belle would know she had better giddyup on over to Scootaloo's pad for the night.
When Miss Sharpe rung the doorbell, Rarity answered the door with a bone-chilling look, one that Miss Sharpe was very familiar with. "Come in."
Miss Sharpe was like, "Okay, Rarity, did you practice the Chopin I assigned you last week?" And Rarity was like, "My soul is too large for that little shit-munching fuckstain Chopin to contain me." Then she sat down and pounded that shit out, first try.
So Miss Sharpe said, "Two to make it true." And Rarity did it again.
So Miss Sharpe said, "Oooh, ooooooh, but can you do it switch?" And Rarity turned around on the piano bench and played it facing backwards, and landed bolts.
Then Rarity shot up off the bench and shouted, "SAY I LAND BOLTS, NIGGA!" Then she started doing the Bernie.
So Miss Sharpe was like, "Okay, all right, I getcha. Settle down. Now run through your major chords." So Rarity played five octaves of major chords, two handed, with octaves above the root, ascending and descending, both chromatically and by circle-of-fifths, at 420 beats per minute. And it was so fucking major it was even more major than that Kanye song We Major.
"Minor."
Boom. Done. Full combo.
"Diminished."
God damn she played those chords like she was god damn Zeus spittin red hot thunderbolts down from Olympus.
"Good, good..." Miss Sharpe pursed her hands very evilly, and donned an evil grin as well. "How about... augmented?"
"You cold bitch," whispered Rarity.
Meanwhile at Scootaloo's mad cool dugout beneath the state line bridge, the Crusaders were gradually learning to become adults.
"Hey Sweetie Belle. I got my cousin Sonny to buy us a fifth of Burnett's."
"Sick. I saved my allowance and got an O of skunk at the skate park."
"Awesome." Scootaloo reached down and picked up a glass pipe that was also a dildo. "Wanna smoke?"
"Nah," said Sweetie Belle. "For some reason, I don't really care about anything any more."
"Mmmmm... I feel ya." Scootaloo whipped out an AK-47 and fired off a few rounds. "Wanna commit a murder-suicide? We could get on the news."
Sweetie Belle considered the offer for a minute. "Nah. I wanna lose my virginity first. Preferably to more than one guy at once. Also I want to get a tattoo."
Scootaloo broke open the vodka bottle and promptly swallowed an amount that was way too much, considering her age. "What kind of tat?"
"I want GOD IS DEAD beneath a Nazi Reichsadler, on my forehead."
Scootaloo took another swig from the bottle, and didn't put it down until it was half gone. "Sick."
Rarity was sweating bullets, but she had the fully stiff mental erection that she always got from playing some mad sick piano.
Miss Sharpe began her dramatic speech. "Rarity. Every challenge I've thrown at you, you've conquered effortlessly. I've never seen the likes. You're one bad bottom bitch, and you should know that."
Rarity humbly folded her hands and lowered her head in silence.
Miss Sharpe continued. "At this point, I'm afraid the student, as they say, has surpassed the master. There's nothing more that I can teach you." Miss Sharpe suppressed a chuckle here. "Everything, that is, except one thing."
Rarity looked up, with an intense look, but still said nothing.
"Rarity... have you heard of the flaccid chord?
"No..." Rarity's interest was instantly piqued. Her imagination began to race.
"It is a legendary chord," Miss Sharpe said, as her chest and abdomen were fluttering with the effort of suppressing laughter, "which supposedly sounds very flaccid when played. Unfortunately, the exact composition of this chord has been lost to history. If it were ever to be rediscovered... its discoverer would be in possession of a genuinely legendary, one-of-a-kind musical tool."
Rarity's eyes widened, and her vulva twitched.
"Well," Miss Sharpe got up from her seat and gathered her belongings, "that's how the story goes, anyway. But I think, if it's real, if anyone can find it... you are that person." She opened the front door dramatically. "Well, goodbye forever." Then she left.
Outside she laughed her ass off.
Meanwhile Rarity spent 148 years and 8 months trying to find the flaccid chord. Her search left her impoverished, unmarried, and childless.
But, at last, Rarity found the flaccid chord!
And it sounded flaccid as shit. And she said, "Wow, this is flaccid as shit. Why would I ever use this chord for anything?" And then she died.
It was only in the afterlife that Rarity fully realized the extent to which she had thrown away her life on earth chasing a pointless dream.
