Derpy Accidentally a Portal Gun VI: My Little Amethyst

Chapters

In Which Frederick Discovers A Box With A Pony In It
In Which Frederick and Amethyst Get Accustomed To Living Together And Frederick Says Too Much At A Bar
In Which Amethyst Gets Ambushed And Then Single-Hoofedly Defends Herself From Multiple Assailants
In Which Frederick Stumbles Upon The Aftermath And Hastily Departs

In Which Frederick Discovers A Box With A Pony In It

My Little Amethyst
Admiral Biscuit

Flint is a crappy, dying city. Actually, scratch that. Flint died decades ago, when General Motors closed the Buick factory. The city just hasn't realized it yet and keeps lumbering on like some mortally-wounded monster.

You can't even drink the water in Flint, for Christ's sake.

I lived in Flint through no fault of my own. Well, technically it was my fault; there were other colleges in Michigan than Mott College.

On the plus side, tuition and rent were cheap. I lived in a converted house on Crapo Street. Rent was so cheap, I had the whole place to myself, and that was nice. I didn't have to put pants on unless guests were coming over or I decided to go to class.

Today, I was wearing pants. It was time for the monthly expedition to the grocery store to stock up on beer, peanut butter and jelly, mac and cheese, beer, ramen, and beer.

I hadn't expected there to be a cardboard box sitting on my front porch. As cardboard boxes went, it was pretty solid, solid enough that it sent me sprawling.

“Oof,” I said.

“What the fuck?” the box said.

I might not have been the sharpest tool in the shed (I was going to school in Flint, after all), but I did know that boxes generally didn't curse.

Before I could do more than roll over, a beam of light—like a space laser in Star Trek but more purple—lanced out of the box. Proof that I wasn't imagining it was the distinct smell of burning cardboard.

I stayed well clear of the box until the laser stopped. It was all too easy to imagine what that box-laser could do to my flesh.

The laser winked out, and the smoldering, sundered lid of the box slipped off. Out popped a head.

A pony head. Not a baby horse, but a pony pony like on that TV show.

She—I assumed; her 'What the fuck' had sounded feminine—had purple hair and purple eyes and lighter purple fur. She also had a horn, which made her a unicorn, I guess.

She got out of the box much like a kitten would have and gracelessly tumbled to the porch floor. I wasn't sure if that was innate clumsiness, or if she was just disoriented by her trip from wherever to my front porch, followed by me accidentally kicking her box.

“This isn't Equestria,” she said, looking around. “It's . . . a nightmarish Hellscape. Why do you live here? Is this world filled with your kind?”

I took a moment to answer. I was still processing this turn of events, which I have to admit was odd, even for Flint.

“Uh, yeah. All of the above.”

“Goddammit.” She let out a deep sigh and looked back at the box. “It happened again.”

I probably could have asked her what had happened again, although by context it was somewhat evident.

“I told Derpy it was time to get rid of that portal gun before she accidentally it again. Or at least take it off the top shelf where it could get knocked over and cause . . . this. Right in the middle of getting out the aprilvis, too.” She glanced back at the box for a moment.

“April fish?”

“Yeah, you know.” She turned her attention to the box for a moment and lit her horn. The box glowed, smoked, and then vanished completely with a strange chiming noise. A little drift of sparkles settled to the porch where it had been. “Well, plan one didn't work. Guess I've got to wait for the portal gun to be recalibrated. Unless . . . is there an enrichment center near here?”

“Uh, no.” I was getting mental whiplash trying to follow her train of thought.

“Well, then. I guess I'm stuck with you for the next little bit.”

“You make that sound like a bad thing.”

“Yeah, well. Let's just say up front that no one is going to be happy with how this ultimately turns out.”

“Are you going to leave hoofprints on my floors?” Said floors hadn't been swept or vacuumed since I'd moved in, and probably wouldn't be until I was ready to move out, assuming that I had time and thought there was a non-zero chance of the landlord refunding my damage deposit.

“Probably.” She glanced down at her forehoof for a moment. “Maybe somewhere else, too, 'cause that's how these things always turn out.”

“Woah, there—I don't swing that way.” I considered my words for a second. “Uh, sorry about woah. I didn't mean to imply—”

She chuckled. “You're an idiot.”

“I am. It's just that we don't get many unicorns around here.”

“Wish it had stayed that way. You have no idea how many brownies we get in Equestria.”

“Brownies?”

“Yeah. Well, no matter. What is it that you do here, anyway? I never bothered to do much anthropology research.”

“Go to school. I was going to go shopping, and then you showed up.” My host instincts kicked in, belatedly. “Uh, what do you eat, anyway? The lawn's not great, and the grass is probably poison, anyhow. Everything else here is.”

“You eat grass?”

“Not me, you.” I had a weird sense that this conversation wasn't going where I'd planned. Not that I'd planned it to begin with. “What do you eat?”

“Oh.” She thought for a moment. “Well, genoise, baumkuchen, dacquoise, tiramisu, babka, lamington, sachertorte, spekkoek, pavlova, buccellato, kransekake, kladdkaka, prinzregententorte, punschkrapfen, croquembouche, parkin, ruske kape, bienenstich. . . .” Her voice trailed off. “You don't know what any of those things are, do you?”

“No,” I admitted. “It all sounds foreign to me.”

“It's a good thing I know how to cook,” she muttered. “Is there a market around here?”

“Market? You mean a store?”

“A place to purchase food.”

“Yes. In fact, that's where I was going.”

“Do you mind if I come along?”

“Are you sure that's a good idea? If people see you, they might—”

“Believe me, I know a thing or two about people and blending in.”

“Well, if you insist.”

“Excellent. One more question.”

“Shoot.”

Her eyes darted around for a moment, and I saw her horn light up. “What? Where?”

For a moment I thought she was about to draw a revolver from a holster—she had that kind of look to her face. But she didn't have a holster or a revolver, not that I could see anyway.

“I didn't mean that literally. That's a saying, and now that I think about it a really stupid one. Especially in Flint, formerly the murder capital of the US.”

“Formerly?”

“A lot of people moved out of town. What was your question?”

“Do they take gold?”

“Um, no, but you can give your gold to me, and I can exchange it later.”

I hadn't expected her to suddenly produce a sack full of gold. Maybe just because I'd been thinking about cowboys a moment earlier, but I suddenly saw her with a bandana over her face, holding up a bank at hornpoint. And I have no idea where the sack came from; one moment there was nothing on the porch but a few leftover sparkles from the box, and the next moment there was a sack of gold on the porch.

I didn't open it, but I knew.

It was easily enough to buy the house and pay for the rest of my college tuition. I could tell that without even picking up the sack.

In Which Frederick and Amethyst Get Accustomed To Living Together And Frederick Says Too Much At A Bar

My Little Amethyst
Admiral Biscuit

It didn't take too long for things to get into a routine. She took over one of the bedrooms upstairs that I hadn't been using. Since I didn't have a spare bed for her, I offered her my Yu Ayasaki dakimakura, which she seemed to like.

She didn't bother to close the bathroom door when she showered, which was just awkward for me, despite the fact that she was naked all the time. And she wouldn't go near peanut butter if she could avoid it.

On the weekend, we got blitzed together.

That hadn't really been planned; I'd bought what should have been a month's supply of beer. Friday after classes, I'd gotten home and she was down in the basement putting together some mechanical abomination that looked like it had been rejected from a steampunk movie. I'd seen enough movies with mad scientists to know that this was only going to end badly, and that was before I got a good look at some of the parts she'd been using. The planchette out of my ouija board wasn't even the oddest component in her device. Truth be told, it kind of hurt my eyes to look at it.

I didn't stop her, though. Maybe it was stupidity on my part, or maybe it was just a sense that she was tolerating the rules of the human world and in turn I ought to respect whatever it is she did.

Something that high fantasy novels never seem to deal with is what all the magic creatures do when they're not interacting with the protagonist. How many adventurers came by Shelob's lair, anyways? Maybe when she was bored and waiting for fresh meat, she knitted spider silk rugs or something.

Maybe I was just overthinking things.

I wouldn't say that we were buddy-buddy. I'd lived with roommates before, and when we'd gotten along it had been alright. But the fact that I was paying a little bit more so that I could have my own crapshack a bit off the beaten path showed my true colors when it came to housemates. We got along, but we weren't inseparable, nor were we BFFs. What I mean to say is that we got along when we had to, and the rest of the time we did our own thing.

I was in the kitchen scraping the last of a jar of peanut butter out of the jar and I don't know what possessed me to do it, but I dropped the empty jar over her horn. I didn't really mean anything by it, but you'd've thought I'd stabbed her in the heart. She dropped to her rump and grabbed at it with her front hooves. It was weird; you'd think that watching her do magic was the most amazing thing in the world, but after a while that got kind of routine. Seeing what she could do with her hooves, on the other hand, that was constantly mind-blowing.

“Get it off! Get it off!” There was a little tinge of panic in her voice as she finally got her hooves clasped on the slippery jar and tossed it off her horn. Then it lit, just for an instant, and a few little sparks came off the tip.

She took off at a gallop for the bathroom, and a moment later I heard the water running.

A few minutes later, she came back downstairs and I was still trying to process what had just happened.

Said processing ended abruptly when she smacked me with a hoof.

Ponies aren't very tall. The tallest point on her was her horn, and when she was standing on all fours, it came up to about my breastbone. What I'm saying is that her hoof-strike came close to ending my prospects as a father. As it was, she got me right in the muscle in the thigh and cramped it up instantly. If I hadn't caught myself on the kitchen counter, I think I would have dropped.

“What the hell?”

“What's wrong with you?”

The two of us glared at each other for a moment, each waiting for the other to make another move. And I think if I had, it would not have ended well for me. Luckily, I wasn't much of a fighter when it really came down to it, and I was still processing the fact that my leg suddenly didn't work like it was supposed to.

That gave her time to calm down. It also gave me time to observe that there were soap bubbles clinging to her horn, her mane was soaking wet, and there was literal steam coming from her head even though there was no way she'd gotten hot water out of the shower that fast.

It's weird to come to the sudden realization that you're potentially only a moment away from death, and even weirder when you can't fully process how it might happen. Anything I'd ever seen in a horror movie was a possibility—for example, I didn't know if she could turn me inside out with her magic, but I didn't know that she couldn't.

“I'm sorry,” I finally managed to squeak out. I didn't really know what I was sorry for, but at the moment it didn't matter. I was nonspecifically sorry for every life choice that had brought me to this particular moment.

And those words . . . they were like magic. I could see the tenseness leave her body, not only in the way that her shoulders (or is it shoulders and hips?) settled, but also the fact that the steam was no longer coming from her head. Also the faint glow of her horn ceased and it was probably my imagination but I swear I heard some kind of angry music that also cut off.

“You couldn't have known,” she said, and then I can only attribute the next part to the fact that we'd been drinking. “Peanut butter blocks my magic.”

It turned out that all unicorns had their kryptonite. Some substance—mundane or otherwise—blocked their magic fields completely, and for her it was peanut butter.

That was a useful bit of knowledge, and the more sober me might have thought of it as a trope, something as dumb yet pervasive as a self-destruct button on a spaceship or an evil lair. And more sober me might have also come to the conclusion that she was yanking my chain. But there was no denying the slight panic as she'd galloped off to the bathroom, nor the fact that she'd always given peanut butter a sideways look.

Back in the day, there was a famous poster that said Loose Lips Sink Ships, and while that had been in no way my intention, when I was at the bar, I’d somehow managed to slip that there was a unicorn in my house, that she had access to seemingly unlimited supplies of gold, and that she was vulnerable to peanut butter.

Had I known what would wind up happening, I would have kept my stupid mouth shut.

And that ought to be the background message on my cell phone.

Not that I gave out all that information at once, mind. Nor do I remember saying it at all, but then there are a lot of things that have probably happened when I was drunk that I don't remember. Not that that's an excuse.

In Which Amethyst Gets Ambushed And Then Single-Hoofedly Defends Herself From Multiple Assailants

My Little Amethyst
Admiral Biscuit

iPods and earbuds did not exist in Equestria. Like most bits of technology that don't exist somewhere, the inhabitants of that particular place don't fully understand the advantages or disadvantages of that particular innovation. It's well known what happens when you give a monkey a hand grenade; less well known is what happens when you give a pony earbuds.

Music is nice when you're engaged in a task such as hoof-building a portal gun using whatever scraps you can find in a college student's house. It's less nice when an ambush comes, because it dulls the hearing.

In fact, the first clue that Amethyst Star got that something was not as it should have been was when the jar of peanut butter was jammed onto her horn.

This was no empty jar, either; it was a brand new never-been-opened jar of Jif. The lid had been removed in preparation, much like one might pull the pin from a grenade before tossing it. Her horn, while not alicorn sharp, was plenty sharp enough to pierce the silver foil tamper-proof seal, and from that moment onward, she might as well have been a mundane pony.

Nevertheless, she was a pony with a particular set of skills, and any Equestrian combat instructor worth her salt lick covered non-magical combat, including how to break every single one of the 205 or so bones in the Equine body (this number obviously varies depending on tribe) using only physical attacks.

Humans weren't ponies, but they did have a similar number of bones, and the general principle of breaking them translated across species.

It's also worth mentioning that pony hooves are hard, and pony hooves with shoes are harder.

•••

The poor bastard carrying the jar of peanut butter was the first to go down, victim of two hind hooves lashed out in extreme prejudice. Ponies lacked the 350° vision of Earth equines, and Sparkler had been caught completely by surprise, so her accuracy was somewhat diminished. That, and she had not fully studied human anatomy, so she wasn't aware that the knees were a particularly vulnerable spot, at least when it came to permanently eliminating a human as a moving threat.

A shot to the junk was almost as good (and honestly, might make any red-blooded man wish for a kneecapping) and there Amethyst nearly scored. From a coldly anatomical perspective, she got him in the adductor longus and skidded off the gracilis with enough force to tear through his jeans and boxers.

One thing that's often not appreciated in ponies is their ability to kick and run, something that Amethyst took full advantage of.

Bad guys typically come in clusters, their bumbliness in direct relation to the plot. The second man, unencumbered with a jar of peanut butter had instead a switchblade knife—six inches of potentially lethal stainless steel more or less direct from China. He only had time to make one slash at Amethyst and as attacks went, it was completely ineffective. Earbuds were an unknown; not so much knives. She dodged the thrusting knife, spent one moment mentally debating if it was worth the effort to redirect her antagonist's attack into himself, and instead took the safer option of fleeing the scene of the crime to regroup and plan a proper defense sans horn.

People betray you, she thought as she charged up the stairs, well ahead of the guy with the knife. Sooner or later.

Defending an entire house against an onslaught of baddies was old hat to her. She'd taken in the layout over her brief time as a tenant, and knew where the strengths and weaknesses lay. Admittedly, they were mostly weaknesses; the house had never been designed to withstand a military-style assault, nor had it aged into that particular skillset. Truth was everything in the house was a drywall screw or strip of duct tape away from ultimate failure, a fact which had not gone unobserved by her. The walls were thin, the floors creaked, and doors would stand up to one shoulder check and no more; the less said about the recalcitrant plumbing the better. Over time, it could serve as a biological weapon, but that was more time than she was likely to have. Legionnaires disease wasn't quick.

Nor was lead poisoning.

On the plus side, Amethyst had a more direct way of administering lead poisoning, and since she was a true believer in the Boy Scout motto, her bedroom already contained a Mossberg 12-gauge double barrel shotgun tucked under the mattress. That was something her human host didn't know she had.

Neither, apparently, did her assailants.

The man with the knife kicked down the door; as predicted, it held up to exactly one assault. That was all the time she needed to set the stock firmly against her shoulder and aim it at the center of the door before the second kick blew the cheap latch right out of the doorframe.

There was an instant of recognition as he took in the scene. Looking down the two barrels of the gun must have been like looking down the Lincoln Tunnel, if the Lincoln Tunnel ended in the brimstoney lakes of Hell.

“Wait,” he said, and that was all he said before the gun spoke, because Amethyst played for keepsies.

In a Hollywood movie he would have flown back into the hallway, perhaps sticking to the wall for just a moment before slumping down to the floor, and he might have lived long enough to utter out some poignant last words, such as 'I regret everything,' but this wasn't Hollywood. He tumbled forward into the spread of buckshot and expired on the floor.

She opened the chamber and ejected the spent shells but that was as much a formality as anything; the trigger was complicated with hooves, and reloading moreso. Nowhere did her plans involve getting shot while stuffing shotgun shells in by mouth, and the only thing that would have been a more obvious sign of her current position was a cannon.

The only other way out of the room was through the bathroom, and it wasn't much of a way out. Some houses had bathrooms that connected to a pair of bedrooms, but this wasn't one of them. At best, the shower wall connected to the closet in the bedroom next door via the wall.

She figured rightly that the sound of a shotgun followed by the unmistakable thud of a falling body would be a clear sign to the rest of her assailants that she was not exactly unprepared, and would cause them some delay in charging her current fallback position. That was enough time to use several towels and a curling iron that happened to be in the medicine cabinet as a effective if nasty trap for the first person through the door. It was also a long enough respite for her to pull the offending jar of Jif off her horn and begin the tedious process of scrubbing chunky peanut butter off her horn. Since all the towels had been repurposed as a trap, she had to resort to toilet paper, which, while slightly humiliating, was at least slightly effective. She did not squeeze the TP, since the instructions on the package specifically forbade that.

There wasn't enough time to clean her horn fully, however. She knew that there would be more raiders coming—there always were—and if she stayed in the bathroom, she'd die there. Amethyst had an aversion to dying in a bathroom.

So she grabbed Fredrick’s toothbrush and stuck it in the usual place, then rummaged around under the sink for some supplies to open the wall.

It didn't take her too long to MacGyver a shaped charge using a bottle of Drano, the foil out of a toothpaste tube, and two bottles of shampoo. The bathroom sink was sturdy enough to serve as cover.

She ducked down behind it just in time. The bomb went off with a loud phwoomf and the room instantly smelled like hydrogen and cheap drywall powder.

Her bomb hadn't been effective enough to completely clear the hole, so she punched a hoof through the cardboard backing, praying that there wasn't lath or asbestos insulation behind it.

There wasn't, and in no time at all she'd made a big enough hole to crawl through.

The towel rack had survived mostly intact—it was scorched and bent, but still clinging to the wall—and she draped the bathmat over it to cover her escape hole. That would further delay her assailants, assuming that they were smart enough to know that she had been in the bathroom.

She did not open the closet doors straight away. Instead, she huddled among the hanging clothes, balanced on top of a Xerox box that contained old school papers, bills, and copies of adult magazines. Mostly Dominant Mystique, because Frederick had strange tastes in pornography.

Those weren't of any use to her.

She felt around the closet for something that would serve as a weapon, finally finding an old tub of Legos. She scattered those around the floor, Geneva Convention be damned.

All the while, her ears were swivelling, taking in the noises in the house. There were at least three more of them. The man she'd kicked first was counted in that total; she could hear him limping, and that gave her a small bit of satisfaction.

It would have been nice to clean off her horn, but her hooves were busy knotting T-shirts together. Her next destination was going to be out the window, since that would be unexpected. Ideally, she'd take one of them out with her, although he wasn't going to get the benefit of her makeshift rope. He'd serve to break the window, and provide a bit of a cushion for her landing.

It worked just as she'd planned. They'd seen the body in the hallway and gone around it. Two of them charged into the bedroom. The first went down when he stepped on Legos; the second had thicker shoes and made it across the room, his gun darting around looking for threats.

Bifold doors were no match for a charging unicorn; she tore them off their rollers as she came out of the closet, her rope trailing behind her. She expertly hooked the newel post on the bed with the loop she'd made in the end and then leapt at the poor clueless fool who had only now noticed death coming for him.

He couldn't have been more perfectly situated. She bounded off the floor and caught him with both forehooves right in the middle of his chest. He stumbled backwards, banged against the windowsill, and for just an instant the glass held.

But only for an instant, and then the two of them were falling in a tangle of venetian blinds, bullets whizzing by overhead.

Amethyst's prison-style t-shirt rope pulled her up short, stretching and tearing and absorbing some of the energy of her fall; the rest was spent as she slammed down onto the body of the man she'd put through the window like a ton of bricks.

“Eat your heart out, John McClane,” she muttered. But there was no more time for gloating; any moment his friend would be at the window, shooting down into the backyard. If she stayed in the open, he'd end her.

A spray of gunfire followed her to the back door, peppering her hind legs and tail with sod.

It took her a moment to open the back door—it was locked, and too strong for her to buck over. Luckily, the small porch roof protected her from small arms fire while she got out the key.

She locked the door behind her and went into the kitchen.

She had to work fast. Luckily, the kitchen opened into the laundry room and then the pantry, and that gave her lots of options. A bleach bomb in the oven, the entire contents of the knife block and the spare screws drawer precariously perched on the folding ironing board, and the tried-and-true paint cans on a string over the hall door. Amethyst was a little bit sloppy on the last one; she heard the sound of running footsteps on the stairs and didn't have time to properly measure the rope for an incapacitating strike.

She galloped into the living room and slid under the coffee table.

Three . . . two . . . one . . . the explosion from the kitchen was all that she could have hoped for, and the screams were a good indicator that she'd winged one of them.

That same someone sprinted into the laundry room and found her ironing board trap. It sprang with a meaty, squishy thump, and the screams quickly diminished into a pathetic sort of gurgling which eventually died out.

Any sensible person would have decided that this was a fight that could only end one way, and run off with their (proverbial) tail between their legs. Her final opponent was not sensible. Blinded by greed and perhaps also the thought that now any gold he got from her would be his alone, he persevered.

The paint cans only slowed him for a moment; they missed anything particularly vital. “That the best you got?” he taunted, apparently forgetting that the fight had started out four to one and was now evenly matched.

She didn't rise to his bait; instead, she scrubbed at her horn furiously. She'd snagged a bottle of Dawn from the sink on her way by, and while she wasn't entirely sure that it was horn-safe, she didn't have any better options at the moment.

Given enough time, it might have worked. The bristles of the toothbrush kept getting clogged with chunky peanut butter, and she had no water to rinse the suds off with. Her final opponent began to indiscriminately shoot into the living room in the hopes of either flushing her out or hitting her, and her position quickly became untenable.

Nintendo had foreseen that someone might use the Wiimotes as a makeshift bolo and padded them accordingly; they had not considered that somepony might use the actual console in that manner. While it was neither aerodynamic nor particularly heavy, the strain relief on the power cord performed a hero's task as she whipped it around, letting it sail free at just the right moment.

Her opponent attempted to shoot it out of the air rather than sidestep it, and if he'd been using larger caliber ammunition that might have actually worked. Instead, while it did slow the console somewhat and also unintentionally ejected Alone in the Dark, he still took the bulk of the impact directly to the forehead.

The game, at least, missed him.

Amethyst followed the Wii, charging and screaming like she was mainlining a cocaine and epinephrine cocktail. It turns out that shooting at a unicorn who is charging directly at you with the intent of goring you with her horn is deceptively difficult, and virtually all of the robber's shots went wide. Two did score superficial hits, one gouging a furrow across her rump, and the second ripping a chunk off her left ear.

•••

Unicorns are basically just horses that can stab you.

With training, they can stab you and do a mid air backflip using their horn as a fulcrum and then give the hind hoof version of an uppercut directly into the jawbone. Amethyst had had that training, and while she preferred to not stick her horn into people, needs must when the devil drives.

In Which Frederick Stumbles Upon The Aftermath And Hastily Departs

My Little Amethyst
Admiral Biscuit

I could tell something was wrong the moment I walked up to the house. The front door was shut, but it didn't appear to be sitting right in the frame. Almost as if it had been kicked down and then propped back up into place to give the illusion that nothing was amiss.

When I unlocked it, the door fell back into the hallway, confirming that suspicion. But I had no time to focus on the door. The living room was in a terrible state of disarray: the flat-screen television had fallen off its table, my Wii was shattered on the floor, and there was a disturbing dark stain that went from the couch and into the kitchen.

They say that curiosity killed the cat, but like a damned fool I entered the house anyways.

The oven looked like a bomb had exploded inside it. The entire stovetop was curved upwards, and the oven door was jammed into the cabinets. I could see an ironing board in the hallway . . . I didn't even know that my house had an ironing board.

Amethyst must have had a cooking accident. Given the limited information I currently had, it was the only logical conclusion I could reach, and I called out for her.

“I'm in the backyard,” she said, her voice oddly muffled.

Thank God she's okay. Without a moment's reflection on what I was stepping in, I went to the back door.

I caught just a glimpse through the window and perhaps if I'd turned around then I would have had plausible deniability.

I opened the door and there was a pile of brush with four bodies on top of it. Amethyst was just off to the side, with a can of gasoline lazily floating next to her.

It was something that I couldn't unsee no matter how much I wanted to. I tried my best to look at anything but the bodies because that's what they were. Nobody's neck bent like that and then there was that other guy whose torso was mostly missing for reasons unknown and a third that I swear the rib cage was turned inside out.

They say that the dead look peaceful but none of these guys looked peaceful at all.

Like most people, I’d always assumed that unicorns were peaceful, innocent creatures, not meant for this world. My assumptions were completely wrong. There had been a war inside my house, and the plucky purple unicorn had come out the easy winner.

She paid me no attention, casually splashing gasoline on the pile of bodies and then when she picked up my barbecue lighter with her aura in order to start her funeral pyre, I decided it was about time to nope out of my house and never return.

It was a good bet I wouldn't be getting my security deposit back.

Author's Note

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