My Name Is Hatred

by kildeez

Rating: mature
Tags: Crossover, Dark, Human, Lyra, Gore, Original Character, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Carrot Top, Sex, Cheerilee
Length: 2699

My name is not important...

My name is not important. It's what I'm about to do that is.

I hate this new world with a passion, and though I've been hiding, I'm ready to take on the sniveling parasites that created it.

Edit: Sex tag is for sexual themes in the second half. No clop.

Editing 2: Electric Boogaloo: Featured 7/25/17! Holy hell, you guys are messed up!

Published 2017-07-24 13:30:06 UTC
Last updated 2017-07-24 13:30:06 UTC

Not Important.

My name is not important. It’s what I’m about to do that is.

I peer between the slats of my venetian blinds, my mouth twisted into a hateful sneer at the pathetic creatures outside. It’s been two years since I came to this…place. This land, full of magic and wonder and so much friendship I can choke on it, and things have never been easy. Despite my best efforts, I can barely afford to scrape by on wages to keep the lights on in the little house I own. But none of that matters anymore. I’ve been cowering in here, staying in the dark, and I’ve finally come to a conclusion. I fucking hate this new world, and the little parasites feasting on its bloated, fetid carcass.

Snarling, I turn away from the blinds, to the tools I have. Leftovers of an old life I left behind two years ago. The old AR-15, modified for full-auto fire. A few explosives improvised from chemicals under my sink. A Russian Army-surplus gas mask. A Glock-19 pistol. A heavy trench coat with enough ammo crammed into it to take on an army. And finally, an old hunting knife, sharpened to a razor’s edge.

This is the time of vengeance. Their lives aren’t worth saving, not a single one. I wish I could say I had a plan here, but honestly, I’m just in this for the blood. I don the trench coat and wipe away a few greasy tendrils of long, black hair from my forehead. Scooping up the rifle, I load a fresh magazine into it and drop the loaded pistol in a pocket. Finally, I strap on the gas mask, pulling the straps tight around my face. I smile as my breath wheezes through the air filter.

For too long, I’ve been cowering in the dark. Now, the pathetic piles of shit outside are going to pay in blood. I will put as many bodies in the grave as I can. It’s time for me to kill, and it’s time for me to die. This is not about sending a message, this is just about taking as many with me as possible.

My grip closes around the rifle as I clip the improvised explosives to my belt, under the coat. Despite this being the last day of my life, I can’t help the massive grin spreading across my face.

I stride towards the front door, heavy combat boots thumping on the hardwood floors, but I stop just short of turning the door handle. On the little table next to the door is the only photo I have in a frame. Rarity, Pinkie, Fluttershy, Twilight, Rainbow, and Applejack, all gathered up in a single group, all with big, wide smiles on their little faces. And then there’s me, standing off to the side, glaring at the camera from under a greasy mop of hair. Not a part of their group, but not being shooed off either. I tower over them. Despite them being anthro-ponies, teenage girls in some of the best shape an anthro mare can be in (some of them, at least) I stand a foot taller than their tallest, Fluttershy. That one was a model once, I heard. I believe it.

My anger only grows with the photo, as it’s been simmering since I reached this point, since I first closed up my house weeks ago. They’re all gonna pay for the world they took from me, every last one of them.

I twist the handle, step outside, and lock the door behind me, though I have no need for anything inside. The idiocy of the gesture is the only bump on the path I’ve set myself on. The streets are full of the parasites, milling about in their stupid, sheep-like way, their empty non-lives filled with the routine they’ve set for themselves.

One of them looks up. “Hey, isn’t that one of the old princess’s pets?”

His companion looks up. “Oh yeah, I was wondering when he was gonna come out.”

“Why didn’t anybody deal with him yet?”

“Magic doesn’t work on him apparently, but he’s just been in his house the whole time, so who cares?”

I glare at the parasites in the streets, half-hearing the conversation. What appears before me is like a buffet, almost overwhelming me with choices. I feel like the first ones should have some meaning, should represent something, but there’s so many to choose from, so many who’s deaths would have some sort of impact on the other parasites. But which one to choose?

“Hey, freak!”

I turn, my glare levelling on the wastes of skin that spoke up earlier. The parasites stand, leaning on the fence surrounding my house, their dirty, fuzzy hands contaminating my home with their mere presence. A snarky grin stretched over a fuzzy muzzle greets me as I look up, and suddenly I want nothing more than to rip that smile right off the flesh. “You lookin’ for the princesses, freak?” This one speaks. “They’re not around to protect you anymore, not any—“

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence as I raise the rifle and fire two shots. The first one nails his lower jaw, shattering it, splitting it in half, his tongue now a blackened hunk of meat waggling in place. The second shot goes through his throat, turning his voice box into a mass of gore and hamburger, exposing his spine for me to see. It’s gorgeous. I leave him like that and focus on his partner.

“What the fuck!?” The second waste of life gasps. “What the actual fu—“

My third shot catches him between the eyes. He falls back at the same time as his partner, dead before his body can even settle on the ground. The first parasite continues choking, trying to call for help with a voice box that is pulverized and a tongue that looks like it just came off my grill. Hey, there’s an idea. Been a while since I ran out of meat inside, maybe these things can provide me with a new source.

I walk along my path, the echoes from my shots now bouncing off the buildings around me. “Hey!” I turn at the voice. One of the little parasites has found the balls to track down a spear, and he has a few buddies with swords and clubs. The group of them advance en masse.

I grin, raise the rifle, and squeeze the trigger.

A single magazine’s worth of full-auto rounds later, and the group that tried to attack me is now scattered over my front lawn, bleeding into it, dying at my feet. Some lie still, others cry out, their screams mixing with the beautiful symphony of fear filling the air, others remain silent, totally focused on holding their hands over their bleeding arms, legs, and stomachs, trying pitifully to hold onto what little life they can.

I pull out the Glock, and take my time, executing each up close and personal. No need to conserve ammo, I have plenty. Each life ends with a pathetic wail before a single shot rings out from the pistol. I finally reach the last of the parasites, the one with the audacity to lead that idiotic charge against me. He lies where he fell, trying to hold his intestines in despite the massive hole blown in his stomach. He gazes fearfully up at me. It’s a good look.

“Why?” He whimpers. “We were just trying to help you.”

That gives me pause. I lower the pistol. “How?” I growl.

“You were slaves,” he gasps between grunts of pain. “All men were! Serving that whore of the sun, and her cunting minions! Women are not meant to rule, its men who nature has deemed superior! We were showing the worthless cunts their rightful place! We were—“

I shut him up with another shot to his stomach. He falls quiet, clenching at fresh wounds. His moans and whimpering aren’t worth addressing. I say nothing as I raise my boot over his face and stomp his worthless life out. I lift my boot. The parasite’s brown fur, caked with blood, stains the heel, his head now little more than a large mass of antlers atop a scraggly, tan-furred head.

These parasites, these…caribou…they’re not worth saving.

I raise my head, drinking in the wide, fearful eyes staring back at me. Across the street, I spy a mare, Carrots? Is that her name? She’s standing with her head and wrists locked into a stockade, staring at me from behind a mass of semen clotted into her mane. In front of her, one of the parasites still stands, his cock poking out from behind the loincloth, eyes also on me, and behind her, another parasite still balls-deep in her anus.

I glower. I raise my rifle. I fire.

A bit of blood gets on Carrots from where the filthy cock in front of her explodes, and she looks up in shock as the parasite falls back, wailing in agony while clenching the growing blood stain on the front of his crotch. My next shot sends his partner back against the wall, looking in surprise at the angry blossom of blood growing on his chest, his cock flopping out. Panic in the streets now. Parasites running, abandoning the collared mares they were either leading in chains around town, or raping out in public for all to see. I stride forward, taking my time. I have all the time in the world after all, and all the ammo to make this last.

A lanky parasite shoves a collared mare at my feet, then turns to run, screaming for me to take her and spare him. A single shot later, and he falls with blood coating the back of his vest.

Another parasite comes at me from the side, a knife in his trembling fingers. I go for the Glock this time, and BANG!

A parasite sinks to his knees, begging for his life, telling me he’ll let his mares go if I do the same with him. BANG!

A parasite stands up from his table at a café. BANG!

One of them turns a corner, running at me, spear in BANG!

A parasite pulls up his pants to run, at his feet, a mare in BANG!

A filthy parasite raises his hands to- BANG!

A parasite BANG!

One of BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG DIE BANG BANG BANG…

…

The red mist clears from my vision. I turn to gaze back at my path of destruction. Dozens of bodies litter the way. Some of the mares, the ones with red bands around their necks, are at their fallen masters’ sides. They mewl pathetically for their slavers to get up, trying to shake them awake. The others, the ones with black around their necks, just look up at me, stunned. I notice that Carrots is still in the stocks.

I point to one of the Blacks, a tan mare with a shock of rose-red mane, Rosebuck? Whatever her name is, she cringes back, teeth clenched in fear. I point her towards the stocks. Rose keeps her eyes on me for a second, but then follows my finger, and rushes over to the imprisoned mare with a gasp, hurriedly undoing her bonds. I nod my approval.

“Little cuck!”

The scream from up the street makes me whirl around. Peering around the next corner, I find a lone parasite, his shaking fingers holding a ridiculously-long blade to a mint-green mare’s throat. I actually remember her name: Lyra. Lyra Heartstrings. Her golden eyes plead with me as the pathetic worm presses the blade against her neck until blood oozes around its edge. Around them are a few mares, but they can do nothing except sit and stare. I don’t blame them, those damned collars won’t allow anything else.

“You look here, freak,” the parasite hisses. “You want to protect your precious bitches so much!? You better put your weapons down and your hands up!”

I say nothing. I just step out into the street, glaring levelly. I raise my rifle.

The cowardly shitstain backs up, his false bravado evaporating as I advance, the rifle focused on him. “I-I mean it! I’ll—“

“If you do it, I will hurt you.” I growl.

Those beady, little eyes widen in piteous fear. He looks around, but all he gets are hateful glares from the mares around him, and wide, blank stares from his dead fellows.

“Do it,” Lyra speaking up. Tears are in those big, golden eyes, but they remain locked on me, cold defiance creeping out of them. “Do it.”

“Last chance!” I bark. “I will hurt you!”

The worthless excuse for life looks fearfully up at me, then turns to the mare in his grasp. In a single, impressively-fluid motion, he opens her throat, twists, and run. A wave of crimson fills my vision as Lyra crashes to the ground, leaving the back of the running parasite perfectly exposed…

BANG!

The thing crashes to the ground, screaming, grasping the knee I just shot out from under him. The poor bastard hasn’t even begun to experience pain.

Kneeling, I press my knee over his, working it over the wound. He screams in agony, the knife flying from his hands. I force him over on his back, look into his pitiful, snot-covered, simpering face.

“Please…” he moans. “They’re just little cunts--”

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence before I set the rifle aside, pull out the hunting knife, and dig its blade deep into his crotch. His screams are music in my ears. I work the blade through his ball sack, slicing off the shaft of his penis. Sheathing the knife, I scramble up his body, leaning my full weight on his chest while digging my thumbs into his eye sockets. His screams fall on my deaf ears, a cold sensation of nothingness filling me as I slowly increase the pressure, digging deeper until a pair of squelching sounds fill the air. His screams fall silent.

I stand, glare down the roadway. Far off, I can hear more screams. The high-pitched screams of mares being tortured and raped for fun, being used in ways not fit for dogs. I grimace. I turn to one of the mares on the street, and realize I’d almost forgotten Lyra.

I point to a random mare, a dark pink one whose name completely escapes me. She flinches at my finger, but then pauses as I reach into my pocket and toss her a roll of gauze. I point to Lyra, who by now is only making little choking noises, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water while blood covers the cobblestone. The mare nods, then dives for her, hurrying to wrap up the wound. Maybe Lyra will survive. Maybe she’ll become another victim of the parasites. But every one of them that I kill is another mare saved.

These parasites, these caribou, took a world of friendship and wonder from me and twisted it into a deviant fantasy full of atrocities that leave me awake in the middle of the night. I may have taken cover in my home, cowering in fear these last few weeks since they came to Ponyville, but no more. I hate this new world far too much to let it go unanswered, to let the parasites keep feasting on the dying corpse of the beautiful old world I once knew. The ones the little mares in the photo showed me, even if it took a while.

I’m not a hero. I’m just a man who wants as much blood on his hands as he can get before he goes to hell.

My genocide crusade begins here.

Author's Note

Yeah, I dunno where this came from. Nowhere good, I'm sure. Obvious crossover with that game which was made to be just controversial enough to get a good buzz going around it, but not controversial enough to get it banned in every circle possible, from the creative minds behind "IS Defense" (no seriously, that's a thing that exists).