"So, let's talk about you now," said Pound, having already discussed his personal life too much for his liking.

"Oh, alright," said the inmate. "If we must."

"Tell me a bit about yourself," requested Pound.

"Well, let's see here," the inmate said as she tapped her chin with a hoof. "I used to wear so many hats. I held so many titles. I suppose we should start with a simple one: foalsitter."

The idea of this pony's title card being so full was close to humorous to Pound, but the idea of a murderer foalsitting threw him for a loop.

"You see," continued the inmate, undeterred by the thoughts she could not hear, "I was the foalsitter for a couple. They had two kids, and I loved them like they were my own. I really did. I would always be responsible when I foalsat them, but they were quite the handful, you know?"

Pound nodded in agreement. He'd tried foalsitting a few years back, so he knew how hard it could be.

"Nonetheless," she continued, "I'd always try to make them laugh. That was the most important thing to me: giving people what they want."

"Ponies," interrupted Pound.

"What?"

"You mean ponies, right?"

"Oh, yes, right. Ponies. Giving ponies what they want."

She shook her head a little bit, as if shaking something out of her mind.

"Anyways," she resumed after a moment, "I would always try to make them laugh. I had a song I sang to them sometimes, but they almost never laughed at it."

"A song?" Pound asked, now genuinely curious in where the inmate was going with this.

"Sure," she said, "it went something like this..."

She began to sing in an eerily slow and steady tone that chilled Pound to his core:

First you wiggle your tail
Oink. Oink. Oink.

Then you wiggle your snout
Oink. Oink. Oink.

Then you wiggle you rump
Oink. Oink. Oink.

"Then shout it out," Pound found himself saying. "I know this song. An old friend used to sing it to me."

"How interesting," the inmate said as a small smile crept across her lips.

"How so?"

"We also had a game we used to play," she said, continuing her story instead of answering his question. "I'd hide behind a door, and then I'd pop my head through and surprise them."

Once again, Pound was reminded of his childhood. A terrifying puzzle was piecing itself together in his mind, and he didn't like it one bit.

"It was a lot like Peek-A-Boo," continued the now startlingly familiar inmate. "Only, we didn't call it that. We called it..."

"Where's Pinkie Pie," Pound finished for her.

He received a broad smile in response as she uttered three words that would haunt his dreams for days to come.

"Here I am."

Author's Note