My Little Scootaloo

     I awoke this morning as I usually do…reeking of booze with a massive hangover and a half-finished cigarette in my mouth. I was cradling a handle of gin, most of which I’d spilled on myself. The apartment was oddly silent…for the past six months I’d usually hear Scootaloo watching TV or weeping in a corner somewhere. Oh fuckballs…the door was open. I’d been so drunk I forgot to lock it. Well, I thought, I guess this is the day bitches die. I staggered drunkenly over to my gun rack. Hmm…I carefully selected a shotgun from my collection and loaded it up with bird shot. I hadn’t been asleep long so she couldn’t have gotten far. I went over to the corner Scootaloo usually cowered in once I was done with her and felt the carpet…still warm.

     In the dead of night I stalked the streets of Eugene, clad in black, every one of my senses at highest acuity. It was time to play hide and seek. Scoots had never been outside since I found her; she had no knowledge of the terrain so I figured, being alone and frightened, she’d make for somewhere familiar. I slunk down thirteenth street, hiding behind cars, making for the little alleyway where I’d originally found the Pegasus. When I arrived I saw exactly what I was hoping for. One of the bar denizens had already found her while smoking a cigarette.

     “It’s okay,” the woman cooed to the trembling little filly, “you’re safe now, nobody’s ever going to hurt you again.”

     “Excuse me miss,” I began politely, “but it appears you’ve found my pony! Scootaloo, that’s a naughty girl, running away like that.”

     “She talks…” the woman said, sizing me up, her eyes betraying unease, “she said a man was hurting…”

     “That’s him!” the little bitch squeaked, calling me out, “he hurts me!”

     I rolled my eyes, “I just rape her every now and then…”

     “You sick fuck,” the woman looked at me in disgust, “I’m calling the police and letting the…”

     WHAP!

     I pulled my rifle out from under my coat and cracked her upside the head with the stock. She fell to the ground unconscious, blood dribbling from her mouth. I’d managed to catch her mid-sentence and when my gun slammed into her jaw she’d bitten off part of her tongue. Scootaloo squealed and bolted, taking to the air. I sprinted after her. Now it was time to play tag, and boy was I it. Scoot couldn’t fly high enough yet to clear most of the buildings, so she was forced to weave through the dark, empty streets. That is, until she hit a dead end. The silly filly had taken a wrong turn and now I had her cornered in a cul de sac.

     “Tag, you’re it”

     KABLAM!

     I gave the filly a healthy dose of birdshot and she hit the ground, a pool of blood quickly forming around her mangled little body. She cried out in pain, sobbing and thrashing.

     “OWIE OWIE OWWW! MOMMY! I WANT MY MOMMY,” the shock had reduced her to screaming for her mother like a lost child. I went and picked her up, holding her under my arm like a sack of potatoes. Blood ran down my trenchcoat.

     “That’s a bad filly willy! Naughty naughty! Now you’re going to get punished.”

     When we arrived back at my apartment, I tied the bleeding Scootaloo down to my card table and headed up to the tool shed on the roof, returning with a hammer.

     “Now now,” I said, “we can’t have you flying off like that again, can we?” I smiled at her. She was shivering and she tucked her bloodied wings in as tight as she could. I easily overpowered her tiny little muscles and pulled her left wing out to its full extent. I raised the hammer.

     “WAIT WAIT WAIT PLEASE! PLEASE NOT MY WING!” she pleaded.

     “Aww, are we scared for our little wingsies?” I put the hammer down and held the feathery little appendage, stroking it and scratching underneath it. Scootaloo blushed in spite of herself, looking away shamefully. So this is arousing, I thought. I began massaging more vigorously and she let slip a soft moan. I took my other hand and slid it into her tight little filly slit, rubbing her clit with my thumb. Her adolescent, hormone-saturated instincts took over and she began grinding against my hand. After a minute or two I could tell she was going to come. Scootaloo began to climax. She didn’t even notice when I took my hand off her wing and picked up the hammer.

     CRUNCH!

     Right at the point of peak sensitivity, when every nerve in her body was on overdrive, I crushed the little wing. The ensuing shriek could’ve woken the dead. I clamped my hand over her mouth. I could feel it vibrate from the force of the muffled screaming.

     “Well, you’re never going to fly again!” upon hearing this she stopped screaming and began sobbing. I got sick of the noise and cracked her over the head with the hammer, splitting her scalp open and knocking her unconscious. I know it takes two wings to fly, but just, you know, purely for good measure I broke the other one, tiny little bones snapping under the hammer fall. Hmm…she could still run, I reasoned. I’ll have to do something about that…