Author's Note

Pre-chapter content warning (for those who want it): rape/prostitution/a minor buying a prostitute, pedophilia, children being exposed to sexually inappropriate situations, indecent horse exposure(?), allusions to illness, abuse (physical/sexual) of a very young child, abuse of an adult, a teenager who breaks Romeo & Juliet laws, also adults that break those too, cutting, allusions to more abuse, lots of scars, a bad pony who likes to degrade and humiliate others, very bad ponies, death, etc. (narcotics/violence/gore/non-con/sex/profanity/death/self-harm)

Post-chapter author's note (read for trivia): For anyone wondering about the details of Marigold's pistol, it's based off a Colt. Why? A few reasons: horse puns, the derpibooru image tag lists is as something way too advanced/out of place so I had to look up stuff regarding that to find something better, flintlocks did not feel particularly appropriate, the sound of a colt firing is rather loud, I say based off of because I know very little about firearms if I got something wrong in the freaking published version I am so sorry

Chapter 4: Gunpowder Gloom

Marigold Blueblood blinked her ruby-flooded gaze and smiled like a pumpkin damn near split open on Nightmare Night.

“Oh my,” she cooed. “How lovely my new toy is!”

The teenager itched with the urge to slip a frolic into her step, but the skirt she wore today was rather stiff, and she did not want to risk tearing another. Seamstresses were nothing but slavers with the rates they charged, entirely undeserving of what they charged on a service deserved by all. Many were also uppity unicorns or earth ponies managing ludicrously fancy sewing machines that they insisted needed this upkeep and that, daring to treat Marigold Blueblood as if she were not a fellow earth pony, but instead a mere customer. Those were traitors to the earth pony cause if there ever were any. Despite all the power she had received from her dear artifact, the delicacy needed for sewing was still something quite beyond her capabilities.

Marigold pawed at the hard lump under her shawl, letting the horn-less aura from it flare briefly and tugged at her stiff, hock-length skirt. The ruffled edge of the underskirt poking out looked too bright and starched in the coming dusk. Gaudiness attracted Marigold like a fly was drawn to sugar water, but tonight she wanted just a smidge of secrecy.

Marigold’s brow furrowed as if in pain. She squeezed her eyes shut to hide the light and focus on the throbbing ache that drummed in her skull as she demanded magic do its work. A plain black rain cloak rested over her golden attire, half-translucent with the suddenness of the conjuration and never solidifying entirely due to Marigold’s weak newness to the art. By the gods so rotten, she was still such an amateur. No matter how fantastical her precious artifact was, she still was on shaky leaps and bounds. It still covered all of her perfect ensembles and gave her shaky telekinesis a place to conceal her weapon. The paleness she suffered from after her feat was well-hidden by the dark accessory, as was Marigold’s disgust when she felt the heel of her glamorous laced-up boot squelched into something dreadful.

Hissing through gritted teeth, she jammed her pistol into her saddlebags harshly, her magic losing the peculiar sense of the inner mechanics of the strange contraption, fading from the bizarre way where they traced themselves under her skull. Lately, any time she grabbed at something with magic, the unthought-of complexities of the process produced such an effect and buzzed in her skull differently each time she gripped something. This caused some bizarre sixth sense, one adjacent to touch to create the queerest series of pressure, as though something was worming around in her brain. Was this how unicorn filth felt? Did they get the sensation that there was something picking at their brains and working with them to make their magic happen?

Lifting up her hoof, Marigold could see that what was stuck to the sole of her hoof might have excrement mixed in with it, at least judging by the foul order. Equine excrement. There was also the noxious scent of something that smelled suspiciously like what the older fillies who loitered too much in the bathroom liked to sip out of the stupidest looking jug when they thought Marigold had left. She couldn't hide her gag.

What could she really expect in this part of town? There were efforts to keep all of Manehattan clean, from rottenness and rotten ponies alike, but parts of the city were not patrolled by Celestia’s gold-clad army as much as they should have been. Bad routes and other mortal failings gave way to pockets of corruption and isolation so perfect for one Miss Marigold Blueblood.

Thick, dirty windows always had the curtains drawn in this part of town. Those who had such windows would place large furniture in front of them and stuff gaps with rags to block out the sound. Boards were often hammered carelessly to the interior sides as well, and it was always junk wood or some horribly smelly driftwood pulled from the bay harbor surrounding Manehattan Island — though, that was less common since the harbors were not crawling with any criminals except the odd smuggler. Marigold knew that the Royal Guard always patrolled the docks carefully and that the only kind of whores that lurked there were the ones that would be arrested quickly or the kind that their water-logged remains pulled out of the sea.

Trash was piled high and overflowing from the bins it was carelessly stuffed in, each barrel more terrible in its stench than the last. The shadow of the Liberty Mare was far from here, and rightfully so. No liberty dwelt here, only perversions and the ponies who fell to them. To Marigold Blueblood, it was exactly what she needed, and she happily quickened her step to a canter.

These ugly streets with apartment blocks that bleed and lumped into one another instead of merely being a wall-to-wall sprawl held the perfect ponies for her plans. There were no scrubbed bricks, balconies, businesses, or neighbors here. Center Park was distant and unheard of among the small-minded, secluded residents. Those that snagged spaces in these half-abandoned flats were transient and without community. The nearest schools were beyond blocks away, but they had to be because Princess Celestia declared it so. When the sun peeked over this particular web of streets and alleys, they would be empty and the rich rolling hills of the Continent would go unseen; only the shadows of despairing apartment rises would be cast upon this space.

Marigold approached one such building, marveling at the scent of wet plaster that spilled out. The building itself seemed to creak as she rapped her hoof on the door.

No response. Marigold let out a hissing breath through her teeth. Impatience was making her blood run hot.

She knocked again, and the sound of hooves stomping came from inside. Rusted chains rattled and the door was pulled, then slammed again. A wheezing voice cursed from inside. More chains rattled and the sound of fumbling hooves followed. Eventually, Marigold caught sight of a leg through a crack, and the door was pulled open.

The sight of a mare once-healthy greeted her. Purple eyeshadow was applied thicker than paste to blend in with recent bruising around her eyes. She made a face that Marigold learned was called a prostitute's smile: yellowed teeth, thin unnaturally black spots on the gums, a few brown molars peeking through, and the stench of gods-knew-what escaping her mouth like a miasma.

Once, on a trip to a boardwalk with her mother, Marigold had found a dead fish that had been dropped by a gull or some other sea-bird. The heat had ensured the sun-bleached, half-rotted beast smelled as terrible as possible. That fish still wasn't nearly as awful as the odor of this mare.

The sleeves of her dress were ragged and showed rings of rope burn around her legs, crusted over with dried blood. The bruises on her throat peeked out from the high collar of her dress. Once, its expensive and fashionable state would have been obvious. Now, it had fallen into a state of skimpy alterations and ruined from too much participation in her crimes, both of which made it unwearable in public.

The mare angled herself so she blocked the door horizontally, and Marigold caught a purposeful flash of a bit too much from her butchered short almost-skirt. Weird blackish wounds stretched across her legs, clearly some kind of infection from the excessive chafing of her ridiculous fishnets. Even though her cheeks were thin under the incorrectly colored makeup palette dumped on her scabby face, her hindquarters looked swollen with ugly red marks streaked with blood residue. They peeked out from beneath the crisscross of her cheap, ugly fishnets. But they weren’t from anything as distinct as the crops and other similar paraphernalia deemed horrid. All of those were made illegal to own in Equestria and other civilized, allied nations.

Maybe she lets her hourly owners beat her with something else, Marigold thought, a fidgety feeling making her forehooves itch.

All in all, she was fairly healthy as far as most mares and stallions in her criminal field. The distinct signs of other illnesses appeared to be absent from her. Usually, these dirty ponies had it wafting with every flick of their tails, clinging to them like bad perfume. This one had the sense to at least ensure her tail was made into a brick of products instead of letting it become a dried tangle, matted with fluids from Celestia-knew-where.

Her dull, glassy eyes looked over Marigold, visibly confused.

“'ow old ye?” she hissed, voice thin with what was left of the youth her appearance lacked.

“Fourteen,” Marigold answered honestly, sweetly. “But that rarely matters to a whore like you, does it?”

The nameless mare narrowed her eyes. And really, they were all nameless. If the pony was not a lone participator in self-exploitation, as the law dubbed that branch of crimes, they would be nothing more than the nameless chattel under a pimp or madam running their own multi-pony criminal establishment. That was what all the library's criminal history books said, as well as the word on the street that Marigold had picked up.

It was only those chattel sorts that might carry a name. But for a pony like this? A mare disconnected from any family for years, without a lover, who slaps a vulgar name on herself to make up for being a worthless grown blankflank and sells herself, desperate for any bits as and caught up in a horrible cycle of letting anypony who buys her do anything to her? She was utterly nameless. A cog in a pattern that only Marigold and any who committed the crime of purchasing a pony knew. Nopony had to know what she might have really been called, or the little innuendo she gave herself. They just had to pay her by the hour and take the risk she would not be as sick as another mare or stallion that might be in the same building, or caught up in the identical cycle of self-destruction.

She would not do anything if her buyer beat her too bad, or had their vicious way with her, not as long as she had the bits in the end. Both of them were familiar with the sides of the crime they participated in. It was not like this mare could run to the Royal Guard without being held on charges of her own — that was a shred of leverage Marigold absolutely treasured. Yes, they would lock any buyers up if they were successfully caught and tried for such a thing. None of that changed that this whore-mare would have to pay in time with a side trial of her own, for there was no immunity from certain severe kinds of offense… and her regular, sexual offense aside, statutory rape cost any creature their head. Why did any of that matter? Because it gave Marigold her much-craved power; because the thought of mutual sabotage was just that tantalizing.

“Ye bet'er 'ave bits!” demanded the mare with as much force as a whore like her could have. When what stood over Marigold looked like she was three steps away from being a skeleton, that wasn't much.

“Oh, I do,” Marigold whispered, tugging her shawl under her cloak to ward off the night’s chill. “One might ask how old you are as well. Come on, tell me. Does anypony ever ask?”

“'ourse naw,” scoffed the mare, “they pay and be done. I ‘m nin’een, t'ough.” She was too dumb to lie, really, and the obviousness of that was painfully clear. Most were like that, or so Marigold had learned. Even at her ripe old age — if whores had a ripe old age — gathered a few years of experience.

When Marigold slipped a hoof under her cloak, she flipped it over and showed off the coin purses spilling bits upon bits inside. “I think I have more than enough.”

When the whore caught a peek of the shine of bits in the dark, her expression went into a limp, drooling, sort of dullard's bliss. “Y-Ye d-o.”

Marigold wanted to smirk; this was always what got them. Bits overrode dignity, paving the path to whatever villainy Marigold wished.

“How much for three hours?”

“Ye ken 'ave t'ree days wi' bits 'ike 'at.” Only the most psychotic of buyers would try to spend three days straight with their purchase — especially considering whatever they gave you to remain awake for so long would either cost extra or be some kind of trick. Even worse, it could be a toxic concoction when it was made by somepony as terrible as her kind.

“No. Three hours.” Marigold fixed the whore with a cruel stare until the malnourished mare was quavering. “Nothing more. I am the buyer, am I not?”

“Ye be buyin’, missy,” whimpered the whore. “Bits get ye whae’er ye wan's.”

“Of course it does,” Marigold said breathily, her tone filled with the floaty, unaggressive girlishness nopony would ever think to question. After all, there was no such thing as one of these kinds with standards; they could not make money unless they let buyers do whatever they wanted. Ponies wouldn't risk their dignity to be branded a sex offender by touching such filth as her unless there were an absolute condition to solidify their allure. “Now, I think it is best I actually get what I aim to pay for, yes?”

The prostitute lowered her ears in surrender, taking a hoof and patting her gelled-solid streaks that passed for an imitation of curls. The strands that strayed from that encasement were frizzy from telltale abuse of cheap dyes. Such was a habit rarely done by ponies outside of costumes and parties, but mares and stallions like the mare before Marigold would get cheap stuff for their manes and coats to hide their true identity. It was just another way to ruin themselves. All the packages said that drug store and over the sink dyes were harmful in excess... and to have ponies who were stupid enough to re-apply it weekly were going far, far beyond whatever the dye creators had in mind.

Marigold followed her inside, paying half a mind to how the door was locked for when she alone would need it later. Her pistol was a pleasant weight in the saddlebag opposite of her coins. She watched the whore hobble up the stairs; the distinct quality to her limp only meant one thing: certain mares of her crime were known to acquire that gait when they fell to a certain condition — and were able to survive without dying from the final struggle with the ‘consequence’ alone, eleven months later. That was, of course, provided they had not managed a homemade attempt at termination — one that they also had to survive, of course. That came with its own complications too, and Marigold had saved the newspaper clippings that told of the horror stories: unsuspecting landlords and neighbors following a scent to its ghastly source.

Marigold could only give her sweetest smile, letting her roving eyes devour the sign of obvious weakness. Even if she was too good for these dusty, narrow hallways that tilted down at her with their narrowness, there was a chance that she might be rewarded doubly tonight. As they climbed floor after shabby floor, Marigold heard the usual array of sounds characteristic of the half-empty apartments frequented by her type. My, my, if the owners only knew the horrors that went on in the homes they struggled to keep well — the newspaper headlines only made it so much more obvious that the up and coming landlords who got stuck with these places had no idea that they rented to bottom of the barrel ponies. Those that did know would later have to face criminal charges for facilitating sexual offenders.

The sound of ponies in pain all accompanied by the occasional thud reached the filly’s ears. She suspected that a few of the higher sounds might be sobs, and there was a chance they could belong to somepony her age or younger. But Marigold's reading and dealings told her that was no surprise. What did spark her curiosity was that this apartment was probably a brothel-by-night and the first she had come across. Marigold knew what it sounded like to strike a pony as hard as possible through the thin walls of these places by now. She was not the kind of filly to cringe from the degrading language or sounds of violence she heard. In fact, it put a skip in her trot as she bounded up the stairs.

Her imagination swirled with the thought of what this wretched building might pass as during the daytime. Was it just another dour low-rent bloc the Royal Guard had yet to haul evil out of? Or perhaps something more sinister? Was the landlord — or lady, Marigold suspected either worked — somepony who came by often or even endorsed the depravity that happened behind these doors as soon as the sun sank below the horizon?

Eventually, Marigold and the whore came to a weathered wooden door that had known better days, but was otherwise quite sturdy once one saw past the weathered face. Two battered bronze numbers reading ‘75’ could no longer shine, even if all the drifting clouds of dust had let them.

The whore was wheezing from the climb alone. Her thin hooves clumsily fumbled with her key a dozen times before she managed to use her disgusting mouth to twist the cold, heavy iron. Then she drove her wither hard into the wood to budge it open, wincing with pain from the impact. Marigold figured that she probably had at least some splinters stuck in her skin beneath the torn dress she wore.

Marigold made no effort to hide the noise she made or how she sucked in one big breath to prepare for the smell. Her cheeks pushed out, the sparkling freckles she painted on her face moved with her, like gaudy constellations. After making sure her boots would be safe from more damage, she stepped inside, following her whore.

The first room was a mess of glass bottles, most broken and shoved aside. Marigold was definitely glad she had boots now. Unknown stains were the gallery upon the peeling, unpatterned wallpaper, though the creaky floors had their share too. Dirty shirts had not even bothered to be pulled over vomit stains. Many had not even been half-scrubbed away. Browned blood spatter decorated many sheets, spelling out the shame of the whore and splattering various other possessions she had.

Though, ‘possessions’ was a kind word for what was little more than coils of rope, a wooden chair, a tired-looking crate, and a sack of dried fruit. Marigold was rather impressed, as most ponies like her ate out of the dumpsters of diners and markets. Being able to afford a whole sack of dried fruit was a sign of popularity, even if half the fruit was likely withered rather than purposely dried.

The only light in this room came from a herd of candles melting on a plate too tarnished for Marigold to tell what it might have been made of. The second room Marigold was led into was less of a room and more of a catch-all space for the whore to dine in and keep general wares. A cracked, stained mirror that was missing quite a few pieces from the flowery wooden frame stood in the corner. Perhaps she had been slammed into it too many times, as the speckles of blood found on it suggested.

Marigold’s greed bubbled to light, and her gaze immediately found the collection of clothes scattered around the mirror room, a clear sign that this was where she primped and preened to the best of her ability. Various articles were spilled around, either piled up, draped over wooden chairs, or hanging from homemade laundry lines strung across the room. Numerous dresses were awaiting the slatternly homemade alterations that left them as parodies of anything that was once pretty, charming, flirtatious, or even tastefully attractive in any sense of the word. More hideously cheap fishnets and assorted scraps of gross lingerie in various states of disrepair were huddled with main pieces.

A few plainer dresses with actual short skirts stuck out, partly because they had actual patterns — or because they simply weren’t lost to abuse yet. Marigold recognized them as having likely been made from feed sacks, and the thought that somepony like her was either dumpster diving for these things or that she had been able to budget for food staples at one point after rent, bribing cronies, and clothes hoarding was absolutely hilarious. There was even an assortment of bland thread colors and scissors — a clear attempt at the sewing kit needed for this fool to try and deter gazes from her hideousness through fancy clothes that were always in need of repair. Along with few the ugly shawls hanging nearby, these were the things Marigold knew the whore would wear when she might risk being seen in public during dusk. She could likely pass as an average grandmother from a distance.

On a teetering stool was a collection of high-end perfumes threatening to fall off from where they were crowded. The bucket of water next to the stool told Marigold that she had to water down most of what she paid a hoof and ear for in order to conserve supplies before she dunked herself in it. Not too far away was a knee-high pile of various cosmetics. Many of the containers were not properly closed and the various powders and paints leaked across each other like they were desperate to escape a mare who would do nothing more than slather them carelessly on her grimy face.

After passing that room, Marigold had the misfortune of getting a whiff of the small bathroom to the side.

“Blegh!” Marigold gagged.

Her whore’s reaction was to hunch her withers forwards in utter humiliation, saying nothing. Could she make it any more obvious she probably just kept buckets in there that she dumped gods knew where?

At last, Marigold’s whore shoved open the last door. Marigold Blueblood stepped inside and beheld what was supposed to be a bedroom. The biggest shock was that this mare had so many pillows lumped around the bare, dirty mattress bleeding its stuffing out from multiple gaping holes. Yes, the pillows were torn and lumpy, but she was a whore that had managed to afford furnishings. That was mind-blowing in its own right.

Marigold plopped down on the mattress, side-stepping all the largest puddles of mixed mystery liquids tainting the floor and a few more coils of ropes and cord. There was a broken table leg a few feet away from her flecked with what Marigold couldn’t mistake for anything else: some clumps of skin and more than enough blood. She noted that over the absolutely nauseating stench — the fecal odor was among the most predominant in this room — that the few hairs distinguishable in that mess matched the whore’s current coat color.

A feeling of gooey warmth spread in Marigold’s chest. None of these sorts had anything in the way of a barrier you could not push except what it took to kill them, and while the table leg was far milder than most things Marigold had seen, it was still a good sign. She would be able to have more of her way before her finale.

As Marigold’s hooves unfastened her cloak, she noticed how her whore bumbled over to an area close to where the lone table leg was. Arranged crookedly on one of the most disgusting towels Marigold Blueblood had seen were the missing pieces of the mirror in the vanity room, each jagged piece well-used and stained with enough beads of blood to discolor the once reflective pieces from a distance.

The cloak fell, and Marigold slipped off her saddlebags and laid them next to her. She fished out a few sacks of bits, eyeing her whore.

“Two-fif'y,” the mare wheezed, “fif'y bits an hour.”

Marigold smiled like her whore had said something clever.

“Very well,” she said, hurriedly grabbing enough pouches and spillover and hoofing them over.

Fifty bits an hour was rather cheap for a Manehattan whore. It was like the imbecile did not realize her prices were just below average. Farm fresh apple cider shipped from the hills was eight bits for six bottles. The law said buying a pony was cruel and a plethora of other ways to reiterate serious crime this and grave offense that.

Marigold Blueblood just found it laughable that you could pay to beat, cut, or restrain a pony in whatever cruel fashion you pleased, if you were afflicted with such an unlawful want, and that it might only happen to cost you as much as enough fine cider for a large rooftop celebration or twenty-five nights at the average rural inn. Someponies, somewhere long ago had invented what was known as 'the world’s oldest crime' and decided a price could be placed upon a living, sapient creature. It was absolutely glorious to Marigold.

Her whore scuttled off for a few moments, thinking that she would be good about hiding her funds. Marigold had to stifle a snicker with a forehoof. Did her whore think that she had not seen her limp away into the bathroom?

Marigold’s whore slammed the door behind her when she returned, and to the annoyance of the former and the mild astonishment of Marigold herself, a whine erupted from nearby.

Before she could be stopped, Marigold dared to stick her boots into the fray of sheets filthier than wherever the souls of whores were kept in Tartarus. She hit something fleshy and the cry came back again, annoying Marigold too. From within the rat’s nest, she revealed a sight more wretched than the whore half-alive upon the mattress: the whore’s own foal.

The colt could not have been past two years old. His few teeth were gray and cracked. Unlike his dyed and poorly painted mother, the whimpering cause behind her limp was unclothed, except for the assorted filth, grime, and more caking his once spring green coat. His mother was obviously selling him as a bonus, as virtually every whore-mother did when they survived their home birth. It was practically synonymous with the mares selling themselves. If they didn’t, they would either be rid of the foal post-birth or take out whatever they pleased upon their spawn in less sexual ways. Marigold had stared at so many public records of the library of those kinds of cases that they all blended together.

Somepony — very likely the whore herself — had burned whatever wings might have adorned the little one’s back. What was left were permanently featherless stumps just enough to leave the back of the colt as a trauma-worthy sight all across his back, but not enough to kill him. No matter how indirect Marigold’s touch was, any contact she made that reached the colt was enough to make the little thing wheeze and whimper. She dug the edge of her forehoof into his skin, pinching it harshly to see if she could get him to shudder.

“Shut up!” screeched his whore-mother, completely unaware that her dental deformities made the ‘t’ in ‘shut’ sound like a ‘d’ instead of totally being cut out this time. Her face was rather monstrous in the room’s candlelight.

Marigold tilted her head to the side, watching wide-eyed as the unregistered foal feebly moved as his mother dove at the mattress. She struck one of his legs once, and before any real noise could happen, she jammed one of her forelegs into his mouth enough that one tooth broke from his soft, pained gums.

“Ugly shit’s al’ays s’eaming!" The slurred shouts of the mare would be enough to have neighbors sending out a cry for the guard in part of honorable society. Here, they fell upon deaf, unwilling ears. "Enough! Enough! Hate the little bastard!”

Marigold blinked her golden eyes coolly. Her expression was airy and bored.

“How much for the both of you? I think that it is quite obvious he is for sale too.”

The whore wrinkled her muzzle.

“Ye seem a bi’ young te be foal fiddler,” was her garbled response, neither refusing Marigold nor sounding shocked. “His price is dou’le.”

Of course, ponies paid for it, at least those weird foal-fiddlers did. Not a single one would be able to get away with so much as looking at a known foal the wrong way. The crown was good about that, and Princess Celestia made sure the ones that had not acted were handled and segregated, while those that dared break their passivity and act on their perversion were met with justice and the ax at Princess Celestia’s hooves. Marigold had found out that from her library trips and newspaper reading too.

But an unregistered foal was a fiddler’s prize, and for the right amount of bits, somepony like Marigold’s whore would participate. Or they developed whatever the crown knew as an evil sickness but Marigold had little care for those silly semantics, especially when she couldn't understand what was so not-evil about a pony who heard voices, a pony who thought courting non-ponies was okay, and then one who wanted to touch foals. Besides that, if it was just another thing that enabled her to find mares and stallions to suit her own desires, what did it matter? She was no filly of the law herself, the complexities of the system to handle the rare monster that lusted for foals was not something that crossed her thoughts all that often.

“Then double I shall pay,” Marigold said lightly, offering the whore more coin pouches.

They were accepted without any second thought, just like how the whore-mother had stricken her own foal with the same carelessness. It was fascinating for Marigold to see, really. As she took her second leave to stash the bits away, Marigold got to work struggling with her elaborate clothes. Next to her, the colt made a sound between dry heaving and a steady whine that Marigold herself was considering striking the little beast, who struggled so pathetically with the tight cuffs of twine cord keeping his frail legs together tight enough that the limbs looked funny.

Marigold’s boots slipped off once she pulled the knots in the laces free, carefully to keep her muzzle away from anything she had stepped in. Slipping out of her ensemble was more work without giving away her magic, and the earth pony was left to the familiar struggle of undoing her outfit. Off came her skirt, blouse, coat, and stockings and the fashionable pieces fell to the edge of the bed. They would no doubt be ruined soon, or she would have to dispose of her glorious garments, as she regrettably did with all of the others from these outings.

When her whore returned, she stared at the heavy piece that remained around Marigold’s neck. The mare looked quite underweight without anything to hide her ugliness. After all, it was neither kept away like Marigold's earrings so neatly kept in the saddlebags that always survived these trips, nor was it close to the colors of her other clothes.

“‘ou ‘onna git that off?”

“This?” Marigold asked, feigning innocence and placing a forehoof upon the piece of red and dark hues. “This is the Alicorn Amulet, and it is my family heirloom. I never will part with it.”

Oh, the family part was a lie, but how was a mare of such ill repute to ever know such a thing?

Her nameless one shrugged and trotted over to where Marigold had laid out a few items from the side of her saddlebags that had not contained bits. She regarded the foreboding cloth hoods without the sense of fear anypony with a mind worth a few bits would. She stared at the other rags laid out beside them with a dull expression.

“Those belts?” she asked, jabbing a forehoof at the strips.

“They are dish rags,” whispered Marigold, pleased at how wise she was to always bring extras. “I like a pony quiet and hurting, and with your little brat that is a necessity.”

Her whore sat down with an unceremonious flopping motion when Marigold motioned for her to, allowing her owner of three hours to secure a dishrag as an impromptu muzzle. There were a variety of things she could command this pony to do that were illegal to solicit for bits from anypony: stripteases, illegal unregulated stud ventures, and other varieties of things that all fell under that vast tree of self-exploitation.

Marigold liked saying that to them at times, to remind them of all the awful things they did, showing them how learned she could appear. Nopony else found her to be very bright, but when somepony was naught but a slut with a mare in gold who bought them, nothing could be questioned. It was a good way to watch anypony be so small and helpless before her, right before she got to do all that she deemed fun. After all, she was not supposed to be the one who was small without all her ornaments?

At least, she did not feel small.

Marigold had usually only sought to purchase a pony more generally selling themselves as a prostitute than anything else tonight, generally due to whore-mares being weaker than the studs and carrying more jewelry. In the few months, she had been doing this, she had gotten quite good at getting whatever she pleased — and keeping such mindless ponies oblivious to her intentions. Of all those who purchased such ponies, an underage buyer was not an intimidating one, if any other than her existed at all.

With a smile on her face, Marigold pulled the gag on her whore tight enough to elicit a dry, sobbing sound. Had this one lost a tooth from the force too? On went the mare’s hood, with the drawstring pulled harshly enough to get a muffled gulp. She was given a well-deserved kick for her disobedience.

Managing the colt was easier. He was already near-dead, and his legs were already tied up. Blood dribbled from his mouth, no doubt dizzying him to the point where he could barely thrash. All this did was increase Marigold Blueblood’s desire to fit the gag right in that gap, where the exposed gum would be rubbed at. Over the sniveling brat’s head went his hood, pulled to the most restricting limit possible to account for size.

Now that all eyes were obscured, Marigold let her magic flow. Luminous red washed over her world with no sound her captives could hear, and she selected a nearby mirror shard with an imitation of the pickiness of somepony sampling a variety of gourmet treats.

Nopony knowing the power she held that little piece of glass in gave her shivers of delight, as did quietly withdrawing the pistol to lay it next to her.

Maybe her whore thought she was jittery, though anypony would if they had no idea four other skeletons of ponies preceded them. Perhaps in her weak mind, the whore was thinking there was any sense of innocence left in Marigold, not knowing that she had purchased whores for their intended purpose before, if one could really say a pony had the same purpose objects could. It was all just to gossip at school that she had done oft-whispered of ‘it’. Marigold found the much-whispered of ‘it’ to only be of gain when it was twisted into a clear power dynamic — which fell so easily into her usual wants that she still indulged her teenage drive on occasion. It certainly let her mother speculate that she might have a special somepony instead of buying un-special noponies.

Without any attempt at restraint, Marigold hooked an edge of the glass in with somewhat overcharged telekinesis. Welling blood dazzled her into letting out a gasp of exclamation at the sight that would be ghastly to anypony in their right mind. Crimson trickled down the back of the shivering whore, who let out a faint pained sound. Oh, now she probably thought Marigold to be the kind of buyer who preferred to enact the usual illegal monstrousness upon her kind without any conventional lustfulness that followed.

A swift kick to the lower back quieted the whore, and Marigold giggled.

“Oh, you bleed so nicely! Your blood just looks so clean! Has anypony ever told you that?”

“Mph hmmph mmph,” was the response Marigold received.

Troubled by the inelegance, she gave her whore a swift kick in the tailbone, her spike of irritation triggering a flash of magic in her eyes. “Answer me! Answer me right when I speak to you! I bought you! I own you!”

The absence of the usual snotty edge Marigold had only produced an odd spasm in response — or perhaps it was because Marigold had sunk the glass into the web of scars on the whore’s back, aiming for flesh that might still be soft. That could also explain the reaction

As the fragment sank faster with the increase in blood flow and the spike in Marigold’s anger, the colt managed to let out a noise of fear. Annoyance twisted its way into Marigold; any brat with the history of usage from birth to now that the whore-son had was usually in a state of total surrender and feral resignation.

Furrowing her brow, Marigold let her magic pulse more greatly. Her pistol rose shakily, grasped crooked, and encased in ruby light before slipping it close to where the whore-mother’s blood was pooling. Marigold lacked the ability to levitate the slippery blood itself, but with discretion, she was able to slip the end with the hole close to where just a little bit could be collected, all without pressing touching the surface to the whore’s flesh.

Enough fell in for Marigold to yank it away. Swallowing, she felt an ache center in her forehead and willed and twisted the blood inside. As with anything else she gripped in her amulet’s magic, the feeling of the object was mirrored palely and peculiarly in her mind. In regards to the blood, it was like something was dripping around in thoughts, sloshing around her own thoughts.

And then…

...the breathtaking cold twist of crystallization, like a momentary frost over her own heart followed.

Gripping the insides of the pistol that drew itself in the phantom image via telekinesis in her mind were now two blood-red crystals.

Marigold lowered the hollow nozzle — she was a lady, and a lady had little need for vulgar vocabulary — right against the hood-bound head of the little colt. He barely squirmed, and as she inhaled deeply, gathering the concentration to conjure the needed spark to propel the crystal with more than just the Alicorn Amulet’s might.

She had to do it this way, all sloppy and terrible, or there was no fun to be had.

Marigold Blueblood fired her weapon for the first time that night.

Her point-blank shot was dreadfully loud, the squeeze of the trigger usually grasped by a talon nowhere close to the thrill she imagined. The magic touch made it more personal, just not personal enough to live up to her expectations. The explosive sound tear from it coupled with the hot splatter hitting her was what sent her heart pounding.

The first thing Marigold realized was that from now on, she could never tie anything without magic, or all her knots would be ineffective. The second thing was that her whore was absolutely howling. “YE DINNIT PAY ENOUGH TO SHOO’ ‘IT!”

“Quiet!” Marigold hissed harshly, snatching up the glass that slipped from her novice magic. Recoil could prove to be a bitch, regardless of her magic.

Before she could receive any further protest, Marigold kicked the weak mare to the ground. With a hoof triumphantly upon the whore’s back, Marigold stomped the breath out of her before wrenching the glass in again.

Then she lowered the nozzle of her pistol again, fiddling with it briefly before it was ready, then firing it a second time. When silence settled over the apartment, at last, Marigold wasted no time in gathering her things. Her head was dizzy with the fuzzy, hot rush of violence, but she knew that the guard could still come. Never tarry around a scene was more of an instinct than a lesson to be learned, and Marigold had a cloak to summon again, clothes to burn, rooms to plunder, and a refund to give herself.

Worst of all, it was still a school night!

[This edition of the Manehattan Times appeared in 8XX of the Solar Millenium, during the early murders of the Manehattan Blood Mage. It can be found at many locations including the Times archives, Manehattan public libraries, and the Canterlot Archives. The subject matter of sexual offenses and violence meant that this content could not make the front page. Princess Celestia had decreed during the dawn of newspapers that ponies were to be faced with the good news first and that displaying material that was disturbing, sexual, or violent in public was a crime almost as severe as knowingly giving a minor explicit content.]

BORDELLO BANISHED! GHASTLY DOUBLE MURDER UNCOVERED! FOALS RESCUED!

by Front Feature

Two days ago, a series of ghastly discoveries were made in an apartment bloc bordering Tartarus’ Kitchen and Fjordham. An anonymous mail-stallion was delivering packages in the neighborhood when he noticed a most horrendous smell coming from one of the seventh-story windows as he was dropping a package off at a fourth-story balcony. The window was reportedly open and he flew inside. The stallion told Times staff that he wished to ensure that the resident was safe from any noxious chemical spills that may have happened and that he had ‘never smelled anything so sun-forsaken before’ in my interview with him.

I had asked him what made him so eager to do such a thing.

“Back in my hometown of [REDACTED],” he explained, “neighbors check up on each other. The community cares. It is just something you do. Goodness knows that it is something Princess Celestia would want us all to do too. I know that Fjordham has a problem with self-exploitation and it only felt right to make sure nopony had been hurt by some gods-forsaken whores.”

I nodded at the time, asking him to describe his findings as tactfully as possible.

“Sweet Celestia, I have never seen anything so ghastly!” he told me, having wiped his eyes of tears again. “They were like rags and moldy food just left to rot! Birds and other critters had gotten in and done a number on them. Nopony forgets a sight like that! Oh, the blood! All the blood! I was ready to faint, for I saw they had no eyes! The birds took them!”

He explains to me between tears that he felt himself snap after the sight, flying around the neighborhood until he found a Royal Guard. The guard, whose identity shall not be disclosed, said the pegasus approaching them was ‘hysterical and terrified’ and went on to add ‘like all of Tartarus was after him’.

It does appear that Tartarus was closer than they thought. As soon as the Royal Guard arrived at the scene, the answer to why such heinous violence went unreported became obvious. The following apartment complex located at West Sunburst Way and Fifth-On-Sunrise. Royal Guard had to enter by force and determined that the bodies had been there for over forty-eight hours. When the guards knocked upon the doors of neighbors, they discovered a greater horror: the building was being abused as a brothel to facilitate self-exploitation.

The information released so far has at least seventeen confirmed prostitutes that have now been brought under the Royal Guard’s custody for property crimes, health violations, illegal acquisition of rental services, self-exploitation, violating antisocial laws, and more. All of them are mares. According to the Times’ legal consultant, each prostitute is facing up to forty years in prison as a minimum, with all possible pleas and parole revoked due to the severity of self-exploitation. Those that have any potential to ever be released one day will have all their records made public and be forced to register as sex offenders, as well as the mandatory sterilization for such despicable criminals at the Gelding Grotto facilities in accordance with the Equestrian Law on the Regulation and Management with Sapient Monsters and international agreements on how to punish sexual offenders. A further article will be published when that step in the case is reached.

During the bust, at least three foals were rescued. They are safe in Royal Guard custody, but far from healthy. Each is older than the estimated age of the deceased, unidentified foal found slain in the seventh-floor apartment. The oldest is estimated to be around four years old. I was unable to secure an interview directly with her. Instead, I was able to speak with a pediatrician who has been evaluating the filly and gave the following information:

• She is an unregistered foal, born to one of the wicked mares captured in the bust.
• She has yet to be able to eat solid foods. She is highly malnourished.
• Her speech capabilities are minimal and mostly manifest as crying, whimpering, or repeating the vulgarities she was addressed with by her excuse for a mother.
• The filly was indeed sold out by the mother.
• One of her legs will need to be amputated due to how she was kept.
• Her eyesight is poor due to being found restrained in a closet.
• Her dental decay is pronounced.
• Among the few things she knows how to say is making a curious booming noise that is always followed by a shriek.
• She is reported to have had surgery to correct scars around her neck left by a pet collar.
• The respiratory issues from said collar could be corrected with further surgery as she gets older.
• The hope for her ever being able to read is slim.

The filly currently resides in an unspecified foal’s hospital in the Bucklyn Bay Area. She is not receiving visitors that are not professionals. To find out how you can donate to this young filly and other foals in need of charity because of the horror of self-exploitation, please turn to page 14 in the third panel.

One of the other foals rescued is an infant colt. There is evidence showing that he has severe cranial and brain damage from where the monstrous prostitute keeping him tried to damage his horn. The injury is consistent with if the baby was dropped many times or had his head slammed upon something. The doctors attending to him have pronounced it unlikely he will ever be able to even perform telekinesis due to his chipped, deformed horn. His dental records are consistent with a pony who has had access to dentistry and his physical condition is reportedly suggestive that he may have been foalnapped by the vicious pervert whose clutches he was found in. The Royal Guard will be accepting any and all tips related to missing and abducted foals.

The last foal is another colt whose condition, while atrocious, is less severe than the other two. The wings of the young pegasus were tied together, permanently disfiguring them. This colt has been described as only a few weeks old and bears the same signs of malnutrition on the filly. While there is no evidence he was sold, there is extensive bruising across the body that indicate severe physical abuse and starvation were presented. The doctors responsible for this little one also confirmed that he is also unregistered and the monster who birthed him confessed to plans of future trafficking.

If convicted, she and the others responsible for the torture and violation of these foals will be facing charges for foal abuse, neglect, foal trafficking, attempting to retain a minor as a sex offender, and enough to ensure that on top of self-exploitation they will find themselves in one place. That place is kneeling at the hooves of Her Royal Highness, the Morning Star, Princess Celestia with an execution hood on each of their heads. The Manehattan Times have already been flooded with many letters containing prayers for the death of these monsters and that justice is served for the damage they have done to Manehattan and their young victims.

All the bits seized from the complex will be evaluated to see if any evidence can point the Royal Guard in the direction of the villains who purchased these ponies so that they may be brought into guard custody too. Once they have been sufficiently analyzed, the bits will be used to pay for the destruction of the apartment complex and fund rebuilding it. Please turn to page 15 to find out how you can donate to help rebuild this community into one safe from self-exploitation with homes for all Princess Celestia’s law-abiding subjects. The landlord is currently under investigation and the guard has currently not released word on whether they have played any part in the evil deeds done within the walls of their property.

The only word that the Times has been able to learn about the double-slaying is that the adult murdered was involved in self-exploitation. The murdered colt was her offspring and victim. Royal Guards has currently released the statement that the scene was indicative of a brief struggle. Reddish crystals found at the scene suggest ties to other recent Manehattan slayings, though no confirmation exists yet. All bits exchanged were taken, and so far the Royal Guards are only willing to release that it is likely the slaying was motivated by perverse lusts and robbery.

The Royal Guard has urged all law-abiding ponies of Manehattan to follow these cases as closely as possible. While the reports from the autopsy of the two slain are not yet finished, there is much a pony can do to halt the spread of self-exploitation. Please turn to page 16 to find out ways to identify a possible prostitute, where to donate, your local Mares Against Monsters chapters, and all the ways to turn in sexual offenders and prevent them from thriving within your community. Mayor-Stallion Fair Heart has decreed that the request for higher deployment from the most gracious Princess Celestia has been accepted. New troops will begin patrolling the streets of all neighborhoods that have been having higher rates of self-exploitation shortly.