Last One To See Me Dies

When I came to, I was lying on the ground with my hooves and muzzle free. I looked around and saw that I was in the front lawn of my grandmare’s old house.

When I say “old,” I mean “OLD”. The wooden planks of the front porch were rotten and brittle. The roof was on the verge of caving in. The shutters were all but either loosely on a single hinge, or had fallen off completely. Some street thugs had spray painted, “The old hag is finally dead!” on one side of the building, and on the other, random graffiti had appeared.

Such disrespect! My grandmare had done nothing to upset anypony in her entire life, and here were some drug dealing, worthless, stupid, uneducated assholes who treated her like she threatened little fillies who walked on her lawn! It made my blood boil.

My deep seething hatred for poorly raised bums was interrupted by the honking of a car. I spun around so fast that my mane flew into my face, blocking my view of part of the world by a curtain of red hair. After I blew my mane out of my face, I realized that I knew who’s car had pulled up. It was my dad’s van. I was dead for sure this time. “Shadow?” he called out from the driveway, not sounding angry at all. That was what worried me the most. “Yes father?” I called back, hoping to stay on his (relatively) good side.

“You know I don’t demand any formality son. Come down here and give your dad a hug!” Okay, so now I was confused. I had killed my mom, the pony my dad loved as much as I loved my grandmare, and he was being friendly? Why had he not killed me on sight? I was cautious, but I did as I was told. I hugged my dad. But still, it made no sense why he was being so nice.

“The rest of us tried to call you after your therapy, but nopony could get ahold of you. Did you lose your phone or something?” Lose my phone? Nopony I knew tried to call me. Why would he say……...wait, “the rest of us”? Who was he talking about?

My question was answered when half a dozen other cars pulled up. My other relatives. If I was dead before, I was fifteen times that amount of dead now. I recognised some of the faces. There was my cousin Binder, my aunt Trailblazer, and “Smelly Old” Grandpa Pickle. What confused me the most wasn’t the fact that even my oldest and most distant relatives had shown up, it was that they were all smiling and waving. I was sure at least some of them knew about my mom’s death (or rather bloody murder by my own hooves), so why weren’t they beating the everloving shit out of me?

I braced for impact when Grandpa Pickle walked up to me. Mostly because he was once arrested for beating his wife, but also because I had killed his sister. So imagine my surprise when, instead of hitting me, he gave me the strongest bear hug he could. “Come here you little-” his sentence was interrupted by a burp before he continued. “-Piece of washed up shit.”

Grandpa Pickle had a history of insulting everyone around him, no matter who it was. He had terrible manners and couldn't care less about it. He also had a……. Very vulgar way with words. Why anyone would invite him, I had a hard time understanding. Either that, or he had invited himself as usual.

“That’s about enough Pickle. Let the poor kid breathe. He’s been through a lot,” my dad ordered his own father. Usually, my grandpa cared very little for his son-in-law. What made matters worse was that Grandpa Pickle was from my mother’s side of the family, so I could even begin to try to comprehend what was going through my grandfather’s head right about now. Another burp escaped his mouth as he let me go.

“Aaaalright, fine. But I take what’s rightfully mine. None of you touch what my now dead wife said would be passed to me, which is pretty much all of this stuff, be feel free to take what’s left.”

Good old stinky Grandpa Pickle. Still thinking that just because he was married to my grandmare, that meant everything was his. Was he drunk? Of course he was drunk. Grandpa Pickle was always drunk. In fact, I couldn’t think of a time when I’d seen Grandpa Pickle that he wasn’t drunk.

The rest of my relatives had now gathered in my grandmare’s driveway and surrounding streets, and were now collected by the front door. Grandpa Pickle was fumbling with the keys in his magic. “And that’s the waaaaaay the door clicks!” he exclaimed just as he unlocked the door, and everypony spilled into my grandmare’s house, dragging Grandpa Pickle and myself with them.