The Worst Possible Thing

by Mandroid

Rating: mature
Tags: Horror, Other, Romance, Sex, Tragedy, Dark, Human, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Spike, Comedy
Length: 2912

Spike lives with the worst person imaginable.

Written for the Make Spike Suffer Contest over at The Barcast.

Technically a one shot for fun, I may relocate this to my Clop and One Shots "story" at a later date if the contest holders are okay with that.

Published 2017-06-27 20:20:06 UTC
Last updated 2017-06-27 20:20:06 UTC

We All Know She's Just Playing Hard-to-get.

You loved Sleep.

Life was Hell and sleep was your escape, the place you could hide away in a world of your own imagination where she couldn’t get you. Where you weren’t forced to take care of-

“SPIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIKE!” someone yells through the house, jolting you awake with stuttering heart.

“Uhg...what is it, Pencil?”

“GET THA’ BUCKET!”

The near-cripple dread at what that would mean this morning settles in on you like a heavy blanket and an icy hand around your heart and for a moment you consider just laying face down in bed and letting fate take the wheel.

Fate, however, was a bitch and was the reason you were in this position in the first place. Plus, you knew it was going to happen no matter what, at least the bucket let you get rid of it.

“Coming...” you groan and throw your feet over the side of the bed. The early morning light seeped in through the windows of the house and head down, down into the depths of the cavernous basement your charge resided in. Outside the door to her domain rested a well worn and well washed metal bucket which you grabbed on the way in.

“Another all-nighter, Pencil?”

All three hundred pounds of her bounced up and down in a frantic barrage as she pounded away on the board of her computing machine. Her wheelchair creaked back and forth on a neglected frame and trash from a thousand ravenous, carb-filled meals rested at the end of the nubs that were once her legs, long since atrophied and removed.

“What the fuck you you expect me to do? These fuckin’ stories suck.” She continued to hit her machine and wiped a bit of spittle from the side of her mouth without turning to face you. “You get it?”

With a sigh, you walk over to the small gap behind her wheelchair and grab her stiff trousers. You turn away as you pull them down and hold the bucket forward.

“Alright...” you say.

Pencil adjusts her heaving ass and leans herself forward in her chair. The pressure on her stomach sense a gurgling ripple through her body that you can hear over her grunts from back here. You close your eyes and start to breath through your mouth.

About maybe two third of the ensuing cascade got into the bucket. The remainder became a semi-solid deluge that spattered in the air from the sheer force of Pencil’s ass-crack thundering against itself, one that spattered against your turned side. Your eyes glaze over for the first time today and you just stand there, the room filled with Pencil’s continued typing and the loud BRRRRRRRRRRAP of the atrocity she was committing to that poor bucket. Diapers were not enough to handle this kind of fecal torrent, they’d fill up in a few hours and you’d have to change her, which would be even harder. She refused to relocate to another room and she couldn’t get out of that chair, so your visits several times a day were the only thing you could think of.

Several times a day...every day...

A momentary silence filled the basement once the barrage was done and Pencil released a satisfied sigh before wiggling in her seat to hike her pants back up. It didn’t matter, no pants could spread across so colossal and doughy an ass, but she tried anyway before returning to her furious typing.

You look down at your claws, one clean and the other covered in chicken-based horror, and contemplate burning the house down for a moment.

Pencil interrupts your train of thought with a sniff and a command.

“Go make me some breakfast, cunt.”

You wash off the poop with a quick shower and quickly make up the awful food Pencil eats. You bring it down to her in a bowl the minute it’s done.

“Uhh...Pencil, your tendies are ready.”

“Get that shit over here! I need it in my face!” she hollars while slapping away at the computer.

You carry the bowl around to her side and grab one.

“Alright, are you ready?” you ask.

She nods without looking at you and opens her gaping maw.

With a flick of your wrist, you begin tossing the food into Pencil’s mouth. She doesn’t close to chew, not until her mouth is halfway full when all at once she slaps it shut and munches away, eventually swallowing the entire greasy load down her throat in one unholy ball.

You retch inside your mouth and wish that one of you would have a stroke then and there.

Instead what you get is the churning and gurgling sound of Pencil’s insides protesting what they were just subjected to, culminating with a loud BRRRRAP escaping out the back of her.

“Woof!” she says “That one was a bitch. You’re gonna have your work cut out for you, dickless.”

“You wouldn’t have such bad sharts if you ate something beside chicken tenders, y’know.”

Pencil wipes some spittle from the side of her mouth before returning to her keyboard, still not deigning to take her eyes off the things she was reading and writing to acknowledge you.

“You wouldn’t have to watch yer fuckin’ girlfriend blow faggy stallions if you weren’t such a little bitch all the time, you worthless sack’a shit.”

You feel your blood pressure rise and grind your teeth. “I don’t know why I even bother.”

“Me either, she’s clearly only into gay guys like you as a social thing.”

You throw your hands up and walk away from her to the door.

“HOLD UP, BUTTERCUP!” Pencil cries.

Your charge opens up her mouth again and points between the bucket of chicken and her throat. “I aint done, get back here and finish the job.”

You feel your blood pressure rising even higher and start thinking of how you could give her that stroke yourself.

After feeding time and another bowel movement and shower, it was time to clean Pencil's cave. There were three types of trash on the ground in the cave at any given time. The most plentiful was by far beer bottles, covering the floor in the dozens and impossible to avoid kicking as you walked around. You could only guess why Pencil was constantly drunk, but you bet that it had something to do with escaping the soul shattering nature of her life.

Maybe you could pick up drinking...

After beer bottles was discarded food. Either due to Pencil's mobility issues or just plain stubbornness, she would never pick up any of the food that didn't find its way into her mouth, just demanding that you make more to replace it. Once it was on the floor, it was out of her mind and would just stay there. If you didn't pass by daily then the amount of rotting food would just pile up.

The food also attracted the third type of trash in the room, rats. Dead rats specifically.

Despite her lack of movement, Pencil had a strong arm and sharp eyes, and each of the corpses you had to pick up and toss in the trash back had died from a beer bottle shaped indent crushing their forehead.

You gasp in surprise and pain as something hits you hard on the back of the head.

"Ouch!"

Pencil laughs her snorty laugh as the beer bottle shatters on the ground. "Hehehehe! Bullseye!"

"That hurt, Pencil!"

She spits on the floor. "Suck it up, you pussy. I thought you were a rat."

You rub the back of your scalp and sweep the shattered glass into the bag, you'd have to check if you were bleeding later. "You only think that because you have rats in the first place! Throw your food in the garbage and they wouldn't show up!"

"OH MY GOD will you quit BITCHING?" Pencil says, typing more furiously on the keyboard. "Just toss them in the oven and be done with it! That's what grandpappy did!"

Oven?

"...What?" you ask.

Pencil continues ranting and you feel uncomfortable, even though you can't place her meaning. "I mean that's what he SAID he did, but I never bought into his weepy crap. No way you could burn through six million people in under a decade with those old-ass ovens. It's all bullshit, Spike!"

"R-right..." you stammer out. "I'm just gonna go dump this then."

You drag the bag of trash to the door, but pause when Pencil says "Hey, wait".

Your head turns just in time to catch sight of Pencil's bare ass hanging over the edge of her wheelchair before Mount Poopsuvius erupts again in a beer fueled mess. "Clean that up before you go!"

You hurry to clean yourself off from the torrent of feces and crawl into bed for the night. While you loved sleep, you hated GOING to sleep because it was so hard for you. The rigors of being Pencil's caretaker had taken their toll on your psyche and it now took you over an hour to fall asleep. Images flash at your mind and tug you away from your slumber by the moment.

A sea of pockmarked and stretched dough stretches out in your mind endlessly, forming waves of gas that toss you end over end. You fight in vain against the current of the ripples with only a soap on a rope in your hand as aid.

"REMEMBER TO GET BETWEEN THE CREASES, SPIKEY-BOY!" a booming thunder roars across the horizon.

You feel yourself starting to sink and scrub the waves of fat with all your might, hoping maybe it would make you slick enough to escape the cellulite ocean's death grip, but you feel it pulling you under with its own mass. The crushing pressure builds against your chest and you feel what's like a thousand tiny hands wrap around your feet and pull you ever inexorably towards your crushing death.

"Haw haw haw...gonna have dragon meat tonight!"

In this time, your thoughts turn to your friends as the hands creep up your leg.

"Gonna get me some..."

The tiny hands gently caress your inner thigh and your eyes bulge open back in reality.

"PENCIL!?"

She hoists herself onto the bed with her powerful arms like some sort of unholy rotund demon but never moves her other hand from between your legs. In the light of the moon, you can see a hint of blush on her face and smell cheap beer on her breath.

"C'mere Spike!"

"OH MY GOD!"

Pencil half-lunges half-falls on top of you, pressing her considerably weight down on your face while she paws around south of your boarder. "C'mon...c'mon, where is it!? Erryone online says dragons got two, how come I can't even find ONE?!"

"Pencil!...NO!" you cry.

"PENCIL GO!"

You claw at her hand, but like the dough that almost consumed you in your dream, your tiny mitts can't find any purchase against it. Her finger brushes against something down there and an icy grip wraps itself around your heart.

"N-NO! THIS ISN'T RIGHT!!"

Your attacker pauses for a brief moment and seems to collect herself. "...Yer right."

Thank the heavens above, she seemed to-

In an instant Pencil moves faster than you've ever seen her move and straddles you with her rolling planet of a body and stumpy legs, leaning down and puckering her crusted lips like the unwanted aunt at the holidays.

"Don' wanna skip the foreplay, eh little man? Yer so shweet..."

It goes without saying that you avoid those lips like Applejack avoids zebras, holding both hands against her face and scrambling back with your legs.

"PENCIL! PENCIL LISTEN TO ME, DON'T DO THIS!"

"C'mon Spikey, you know we both been lookin' forward to this..." she says with an ever widening grin.

A foul smelling globule of saliva seeped through the gabs in her remaining teeth and settled itself on your forehead. If you looked closely through he scuffle when Pencil leaned in close, you could see the jet black pupils behind her glasses that made you think of a lifeless doll.

You could see your own fear in them reflected back at you.

The thought of belonging to those eyes summons the draconic fire in your gut just as you free your legs from under Pencil. With all your strength, you plant them against her stomach and push as hard as you can.

"Get...OFF!" you cry.

"I'M TRYING TO-OOOFFF!" Pencil shouts as she is thrust off you back into a seated position. Her arms go limp and hang down at her side and you see her looking down at her stomach where you struck her, almost dumbfounded.

You push yourself back against your pillow and pant wildly, keeping both eyes locked on Pencil at all times in case she tried something. A long silence fills the room and your adrenaline begins to dull.

"...Pencil, I-"

Nothing else escapes your mouth, but something does hers. A torrent of off-white milky liquid that somehow smelled even worse than she did gushes out of her mouth in a projectile arc across the bed and straight into your face.

All you hear is a loud "HOOOOOOOOOOOOOORD!" while you gasp for air through a closed mouth and struggle against the tide of partially digested chicken tenders that assaults every one of your senses and seeps into your bedsheets.

Hours or minutes, you cannot tell which anymore, pass and the bile geyser ceases from Pencil's mouth. She wobbles back and forth before falling off the side of the bed with a splat and lays prone on the floor.

As you lay there, spread-eagle and covered in vomit, staring at the ceiling fan and listening to Pencil snore or complain about some juice taking all her money, you finally understand why some ponies kill themselves.

Sleep was your one escape and you'd had none of it. No rest could be had with what your bed had endured the night before and you had to fix it before you could even think about purging yourself of the memories. You had worked like the restless dead throughout the night, cleaning up the vomit on both you and her, replacing your mattress, changing the sheets and burning the old ones and before you could enjoy the fruits of your labor, the sun began to rise like Celestia's grace in the sky.

Pencil rouses herself when the first rays of her mortal enemy, natural light and joy, touch her skin.

"...You gonna get my chair or just gawk at me all day?" she asks, pushing herself up off the hardwood floor.

The only respond to her you have is with a hollow stare.

You go down to her decrepit basement and find it reeking of chicken and covered in beer bottles and rat corpses again after you had last seen it, making all your hard work yesterday nothing but a distant memory. Somehow the bucket was full again too.

Pencil's wheelchair hadn't moved from the desk you find it at and drag it up to your room where she was busy wiping her nose on your blanket. "What took you so damn long?"

You respond with silence again.

"Awww...are you giving me the Treatment? Buck up you fucking pussy, life won't take the silent treatment. Get me into my chair."

Fifteen minutes of swearing and sweating was what it took to get Pencil back into her wheelchair and you silently pushed her back towards her basement, she hit her own breaks at the edge of the stairs.

"Get me down easy, alright Spike? You fucked it up last time and made me shit out all the tenders I'd been storing in my stomach." Once again, she didn't even look at you when she talked to you.

You slowly push her to the edge of the first step, but something overtakes you there.

There you summon all your strength and push the chair down the stairs as hard as you can.

"WHAOSHIT!"

In the moment where Pencil becomes airborne and looks back at you, you see your reflection in her glasses. The dead, hollow eyes you now wore reminded you of the ones she saw you with last night.

As Pencil bounces and rolls down the stairs and her wheelchair smashes itself to pieces next to her, you think back to every toilet bucket, deep cleaning, feeding, and housekeeping you had done since you had been tasked with watching over her and wonder how much of your soul each individual service had cost.

How much had she taken from you when all was said and done?

No answer came, all that did was the loud cracking sound of Pencil landing on her head at the stone bottom of the steps.

You stand there, as motionless as she now was, and think of nothing to do but stare. You continue to stare as you sit on the edge of the step and rest your chin in your hands.

They would jail you for this, probably, but you weren't able to find within you the ability to care about that anymore, you couldn't find it within yourself to care about anything anymore.

As you think about the last thing taken from you, you can do nothing but resign yourself to the cold reality that she just loved seeing you as miserable as she must have been.

Author's Note

My actual face while writing this.