Throwing Up

by str8aura

Rating: teen
Tags: My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark, Comedy, Other, Suicide / Self Harm, Profanity, Random, Violence, Death
Length: 4112

Skye Silver, Background pony extraordinaire whose name you didn't know until now, has a bad day.

WARNING: THIS STORY HAS BEEN DEEMED AN OLD SHAME. IT DOES NOT REFLECT THE AUTHOR'S CURRENT WORK, AND IN FACT SUCKS ASS. FOR PRESERVATION PURPOSES IT WILL REMAIN.

Skye Silver, Background pony extraordinaire whose name you didn't know until now, has a bad day. That makes everything he does afterwards okay.

Fun fact: the first draft of this story used actual guns. I replaced them with cartoon violence because I didn't want another Modernity, but i kept in a bazooka. Why? Because bazookas are over the top cartoon violence. ESRB has taught me well.

An entry in Shrink Laureate's G5 Bingo Contest. Bicyclette, I'm coming for you next! Happy new year 2003!

Published 2022-01-01 01:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2022-01-01 01:00:00 UTC

Kind of Love

"Now to Skye for the Sportscast."

"Thank you, Jim. Good Morning Zephyr Heights, It's another Gorgeous, Sunny Monday, so naturally what the whole city wants is to hear about a bunch of sweaty idiots tackling each other last night. We'll be wrapping up week 16, proving to me yet again the undeniable effect of TV on today's youth, as the ratings show how willing they are to watch the same exact thing for 16 weeks in a row. Let's pull up the feeds, Chuck!

"Wings versus the Currents, very creative names there. Wings beat out, taking control of AFC East- Haven, is this a gang war? 1410 on third, down 14, 432, I'm just reading off a cue card, Chuck, and if you understand any of what I'm saying right now, you must have really hit the goalpost back in High School. College cost a bit too much for you folks?

"Great defense, they really know how to hold out, much like I've been holding out for 14 years tackling sportscast. Miss Aileron knows her agility, knows how to manuever around the court like nobody's business, I'll bet she lasts ten seconds in- Okay, I'm getting word I can't talk about that, dialing it back because I still need money. Feed me more numbers, Chuck, pump them into my brain!

"We hired one of our statisticians to draw up this board for us. I think those are some excellent numbers from an excellent mathematician. Great work, Stevens, maybe someday you'll be covering the spread of disease or gender ratios, but for now you're staring at this guy's sweaty butt for ten hours a day and turning his movements into data that will do absolutely nothing for the planet. Maybe College really isn't that great.

"The Currents, meanwhile, have a record six touchdowns. Look at this chart. Seasons, INT, Fumb, TDs. Congratulations, you have reinvented DND and called it Manly. I hope you're proud of yourself. I hope we beat the Currents out next week. I hope the entire stadium collapses in on itself and we all die. I hope we really go far in 2022. Go Currents!

"I'm getting carried away. This has been Skye Silver with Sportscast. Back to you, Jim."

Hell, Let's Watch Horse Movies: Falling Down

Quick wikipedia search. And begin.

Falling Down is a 1993 film about

"Skye."

Skye Silver, 56 year old sportscast reporter at ZNN local news, quickly minimized the tab he had opened on his laptop and looked up with a smile at his coworker. "Jim. It's always a pleasure."

Jimathan Jangles, co-sportscaster returned the smile. "Hell of an interesting report you gave today."

"Thank you. I consider it one of my best. Nothing less for a game like last night's." Skye had been bored to tears last night.

"Hell of a turnout for the Currents, isn't it? Seems like their luck will never end."

"That's one way to put it."

Jim rapped his hooves on the side of the cubicle. "Only... if I didn't know any better, I'd wonder if you didn't enjoy it."

Skye suddenly remembered a funny joke, which helped sell the act. "I wouldn't worry about it."

"Oh, no, of course not. But the boss might." Jim did that annoying thing where you tap the side of the cubicle one more time to push off while flattening his mouth and widening his eyes. Skye instantly opened the tab again and continued typing as soon as he could be sure his coworker was gone.

Falling Down is a 1993 film about a man who crosses the country in the hopes of

"Skye."

Skye Silver rested his head on his keyboard, but quickly brought it up with his winning teeth flash. "Good morning, sir."

Skye's boss still wore khakis, and that was all anyone needed to know about him. Wearing clothes at all was one thing- even Skye occasionally indulged in a tie. but to choose to do something like that to show status, and then wear khakis, was near unforgivable.

Skye liked to think he had a good smile, one worth mentioning seven times in a manner of paragraphs. If not, at least he could appreciate that it was better than his boss' cheek splitting gash.

"Good morning, Skye. Woke up on the wrong side of the bed today?" His boss gave a barking laugh.

"I sleep with a corner bed, sir."

"Ha! Then perhaps that explains why your performance today was... lacking."

"Last night was rather uneventful, sir."

"Wouldn't know! Never watch sports myself. But it really does seem like there's no good excuse for belittling our viewers, now does it?"

"No, sir."

"Good, good." His boss slapped him on the back. "I won't be firing you this time. Do better, superstar."

With aching hooves from gripping the underside of his desk so hard, Skye returned to typing.

Falling Down is a 1993 film about a man who crosses the country in the hopes of finding his daughter, wreaking mayhem and making snide commentary on the economy and the state of the world as he does.

The protagonist

"Oh, and one more thing. I changed my mind, actually, I will be firing you, because, ha... I can do that."

"Pardon?"

"Sorry, sorry, I'm still getting used to this position, even after decades sitting in it. I'm not great with firings, I just... Ah, I hate to see them go. But I don't want to see you. Don't make this hard for me. Have your stuff packed by closing time. That seems generous, doesn't it?"

Skye looked him dead in the eyes, betraying nothing. "Very good, sir."

Another back pat. His boss was gone. With the shock of an emotion not quite settled in, but worming through the pipes to his brain, he began to comprehend the situation as he typed.

Falling Down is a 1993 film about a man who crosses the country in the hopes of finding his daughter, wreaking mayhem and making snide commentary on the economy and the state of the world as he does.

The protagonist is a fucking pussy. He's a loser, and that's good. Nobody takes you seriously if your protagonist isn't somewhat of a loser, and the script knows he's a loser. But some-fucking-how, the audience doesn't. People cherish this guy, think he's some genius who knows what society's really like, like he's the only one of us who has his shit together, like he's some superhero. He's a racist, sexist, abusive asshole, but you know what redeeming quality he has? He's polite, and he's sexy, so naturally everybody thinks that makes up for everything. Whoop de doo. And the worst part? He's just lame. He goes on a rampage because what, he had a bad day at his cushy defense job? I have ten million bad days. I spent thirty years here working Sportscast. I walked into this job with bright pink hair and I'll come out of it silvering, if not in a coffin. I spent half of my life having my dreams of being a film critic smashed in this fucking cubicle, and I never fucking committed murd

Skye paused. Hmm.

"Oh, sorry, real quick, before you leave I actually need you to-" his boss turned the corner, beginning.

Before another word could leave his lips, Skye locked eyes with him. "Dinner."

"What?"

"Dinner. Uh, at my place. You've done a lot for me. I want to thank you. Come over for dinner tonight, I'll pop the wine and we can celebrate my leaving." Skye stuttered, keeping his face locked straight.

His boss erupted into a joyful expression. "That sounds chief. What's your wife cooking?"

"I'm not married, sir. I'll be sure to put on something nice."

"Excellent, excellent. I'll put on my sunday best, ha!"

For the first time in thirty years Skye's smile was genuine. "I'll make sure you're served exactly what you deserve, sir."

See, that's the problem with making your main character an asshole. All the assholes see themselves in it, and they don't bother to look at how this character is treated by the narrative. They don't see the character ruining their lives, and eventually it mutates out of the director's control. When the queen is bludgeoned with a golf trophy by one of her subjects, it won't be because of an opposing belief. It will be because a movie told them bludgeoning the queen would be sick as hell.

"The ZBS has been wracked with grief lately as our very own head of staff has been found murdered. The 40 year old Richard Energy's body was found dumped off the side of a building with multiple wounds suggesting a hacking with a bladed weapon, and multiple phallic symbols drawn on his corpse. Information is still coming in as the Royal Guard begins investigating one of the first murders in twenty years..."

Should've dumped it off the side of Zephyr Heights, to roll down the mountain. Stupid hindsight.

It had been a few days by now. Skye was sipping his morning tea at a local coffee shop, watching the news crew finally discover the body he had wondered what to do with for so long. Axes were a lot messier than he expected.

Whatever. It mattered not. The body had been found, the high was over. He had danced and celebrated his boss' untimely death for a few days, and was burnt out. The only thing now was to turn himself in, enjoy a few years of prison vacation, die peacefully in his cell... Sounded like a good final act. He began to gather his papers and cup, and-

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

"And tragic."

"Tragically beautiful."

"Or is it beautifully tragic?"

Skye craned his head around. Two pegasi were sitting at the table behind him, equally transfixed by the tv, a pair of much younger women gossiping amongst themselves.

"No, it's... just mean. You know. Somebody killed a man." Skye clarified.

"Oh, of course, it's horrible." The first woman nodded sagely. "But isn't it beautiful?"

Skye's eyes narrowed. "You're losing me."

"Just think about it! In our modern society, the journalism industry is controlled by our monarchs."

"That's true." Skye nodded.

"Nothing they don't like gets out! And that means the head of a newsroom has to be the one who carries out those censorships, preventing certain stories from being reported."

"Of course."

"And of course the reporters are going to get disgruntled! The very top of the system is against them!"

"I'm following you."

"So it only makes sense to murder the head of the newsroom!"

"And I'm lost. Maybe we should break this down a bit more."

The women glanced between each other confusedly, moving their heads sharply and suddenly like birds. "What's left to break down?"

"First of all, I worked that newsroom."

The second woman gasped. "Oh, Haven! You might have known the murderer!"

"I- Yeah, maybe I did."

"Did anybody you know hate their job?"

"Point is," Skye cleared his throat, cup trembling in his hoof, "They shot the messenger. If you want change in society, you don't just... start murdering people."

"Tragically." The first woman reminded.

"Beautifully." The second woman reminded.

"Murderifically!" Skye reminded, aggravated.

"Yes, tragically."

Skye sputtered, turning around completely in his chair now. "The murderer- what, are you proud of this guy?"

"Oh, of course not, what he did was terrible."

"Good!"

"But isn't he kind of a martyr?"

"What- he's still at large!" Skye spat.

"Yes, yes, of course, but he's taking down a corrupt system!"

Skye looked back to the TV, as if expecting a sudden influx of news changing the story completely. "By murdering?"

"Of course!"

"I- What do you think martyr means? Nevermind, point is, I'm part of that corrupt society. I'm the one the murderer is helping, and I think he's a murderer who deserves to be locked up."

"But such a beautiful murderer. Think about it this way; your boss is dead, thoughts and prayers. Now you can tell the stories you want to tell!" The first woman beamed.

"Yeah." Skye breathed, nose flared in bafflement, "Until they replace him. With someone who is still in the Queen's pocket. Because nothing's changed. Except one man is dead."

"And the Queen will see what an impact her control has had! Fear struck into her heart! Why, we practically have a superhero! And gosh, he could be working with you!"

Skye was almost impressed with the audacity, and half expected her to be jumped by a passing guard for blatant threats against the crown. He had worked so hard to get away with that murder, and this was what was being openly discussed on the streets? Nothing was getting through, and in a bid to speak their language, Skye fell to pettiness. "I'll bet... He sucks."

"No!" The women gasped in unison.

"I do! I think he's a pathetic little twerp of a man. And I'll bet... I'll bet he holds up a bank next. No- a McWings. Because he's a murderer. A horrible, terrible, no-good criminal."

They thought his grand new opinion over, quietly convening until reaching a unanimous consensus.

"But do you think he's sexy?"

Skye used to think conversations with his family during the holidays were bad. If anything, this really put things into perspective. A conversation with his family during the holidays had never ended in an armed robbery of a McWings.

He shook his head. "Sorry, I spaced out. What was that?"

"I-I asked what you wanted!"

Shit. Demands. Robberies always required demands. He looked with a gaping mouth between the newly purchased beanbag cannon- price tag still on- and the cowering stallion in the red uniform behind the counter it was pointed at, then again to the rest of the restaurant weighing their chances at making a run for it.

"Alright, this is a stickup." He repeated. They knew that much. Say something new. "I want the contents of the cash register or I shoot."

The cashier nodded slowly, reaching towards the register carefully. "O-of course. Thank you for being so polite, sir."

Fuck.

"I-I mean put the money in the fucking bag! Go, right now!"

"Even better. I like it when men are forceful."

Skye moaned into a hoof. Force was needed. Evil force. He scanned the room, zeroing in on an elderly stallion enjoying his breakfast. One pump shot a bag of bean sailing across the room in an arc that clobbered the old man on the head, who gave one choked breath before falling forward into his pancakes. The teenager he was sitting with checked his pulse.

"Oh, cool." the teen commented. "I'm getting my inheritance early. Thanks, mister!"

"Shut up Stop complimenting me!" Skye demanded frustratedly, swinging the weapon wildly. "Shut up, you... insult, insult, insult... Uh, pussy! Stupid pussy!"

The teen boy froze, one hoof going to his mouth. "Oh... My..."

Skye snorted in appreciation. Finally.

"I..." The teen looked down at himself. "I think I'm a girl."

Another customer took the teen's shoulder encouragingly. "I support you."

Skye Silver screamed.

At one point the movie offers its stunning commentary on violence in television. The guy's trying to work a bazooka, which he got from another racist by the way, and a kid comes up and tells him how to fire it. How does the kid know? Well, according to him, he learned it from TV. Excellent message. 10/10. Only problem is, look at that. You taught everyone else how to fire a bazooka. Commentary doesn't work if you're the thing you're talking down against. It's like shooting someone and lamenting the amount of shooters. Congrats! Excellent fucking commentary! Now I know how to use a bazooka. That's a kneeslapper!

"The criminal is believed to be the same who recently murdered the head of the ZNN Newsroom, a local many are beginning to call 'The Reporter'. Theories abound as to who he is or where he came from, but confuddling police testimony further is the slew of copycats committing similar crimes Zephyr Heights hasn't seen the likes of in years, seemingly spurred on by this new, violent expression of thought."

"Terrible, isn't it?" The owner of the store commented, eyes trained on the TV hung over the checkout counter.

"You have no idea." Skye's gaze tore away to look back at the shopkeep.

"You know what I'd do if I came across that guy?" The shopkeep asked in amusement, fumbling under the counter.

"Yeah, what's that?" Skye slid his bits across the table.

"Flying kick across the room, cave his skull in. Easy as that." The shopkeep proudly boasted, before lifting a long black barrel from under the counter. "Here's your bazooka, sir."

"Thank you." Skye slid it over his shoulder.

"Hey, keep an eye out. People are going crazy." The shopkeep advised with a smile on Skye's way out, making his path towards the nearby train station with the bazooka slung on his back comfortably.

It's amazing how quickly society can adapt to large scale changes. Earth ponies and unicorns are real? Sure, why not. Magic is also real, and we have it now? Sounds like a fun change of pace. All of our propaganda is wrong, the monarchy is now being run under a checks and balances system to give power back to the people, and cross-continental trade is underway? Yeah, I'm cool with that.

But nooo, commit one murder- two, there was the old man- two murders, and the news doesn't stop yapping about you for a week.

But it wasn't the news that drove Skye Silver to enter the Canterlogic building two fateful days after magic returned, no, no. He was getting used to that. What drove him overboard for what would be the final time was nothing more than a simple comment from an Anon on a HorseChan board, screenshotted and posted to Horsedit, before finally landing on his Horsefeed feed.

Anonymous 07/01/18(Sun)12:50:12 No.12414900

>>12414890

what a fucking sigma male tbh. nobody is more redpilled than The Reporter.

That did it.

Upon entering through the red archway, he was immediately apprehended by a beaming representative of Canterlogic.

"Hello! Got any qu-"

Skye whipped the wet floor sign off the ground and chucked it with all of his old man energy into the mans face, collapsing him instantly. Another smiling earth pony ran up behind him.

"Sorry about that! Misunderstandings hap-"

Skye grabbed her shoulders and headbutted her back into the ground. Several days later, his doctor would awe at the new dent in his skull. Another representative swooped in.

"Hey! You're the guy from TV! I love your-"

He punched her in the face. He felt bad about it afterwards, but that was probably the attack that took the least exertion: hammers were practically built into a pony's legs, even for one of his age.

Another representative popped out, seemingly out of nowhere. This clearly wasn't working.

"Hi! Can I help you?" He beamed. Lilac coat with light violet hair and fetlocks. Skye stared at him, trying to think of a new and creative way to attack him, before returning the smile.

"Hi! What's your name?" Skye offered his hoof, awkwardly stepping over the pile of bodies around them.

"Sparkle Chaser!"

"Sparkle! Pretty name. Can you follow me for a second, I need to show you something."

"Good to see you all today! Lovely turnout. I... I admit, I'm blanking a little on what I have to say. I prepared a whole speech for you all. I hope you excuse me, I'm getting older, these things happen."

Sparkle cleared her throat, and Skye looked down to where he was holding a hoof tightly around her neck.

"Right, right." Skye cleared his throat and looked out to the audience again. "I have a hostage."

Panic swept through the royal guards gathered on the ground floor, miles below where Skye stood, bracing himself against the giant pair of pink glasses that adorned the Canterlogic building. His bazooka was aimed point blank at Sparkle's ear, but she kept happily beaming and occasionally waving to the growing number of cops gathering below, spears trained and ready for throwing at a moment's notice.

"And so do all of you!" He continued. "You hold my dignity, my intelligence, my pride hostage by continuing to sully my good name with compliments. I have an actual, live hostage who is going to die, but you guys have a man's soul in your hooves. And when you think about it, that's equally tragic. My hostage a little more, though, considering the bazooka will likely collapse the roof and kill everyone who hasn't evacuated."

"Please, sir, you don't have to do this. What are your demands?" A megaphone's call reached him from down below.

"I demand..." Skye suddenly blinked, squinting closer at the crowd gathered below. Reporters... Cameras... Civilians... All looking at him. "I want..." On this day, on this rooftop, he would live a myth or die a legend. What did he want?

"I want... you to shut up about me for once." He breathed. "We're closer to world peace than we have been in centuries. I'm standing on the tallest soapbox for miles. Please, for the love of Haven, and whoever rules the other tribes, I'm really not sure. Just report on something else going on in Equestria for once."

There was a beat before the megaphone was raised.

"That's kinda hard when you have a bazooka trained at an industry center, sir."

"Yeah. I'm gathering that. I-I didn't think this out too well."

Sparkle cleared her throat from under his leg. "If it's all the same to you, sir, I'd like to remind you that Canterlogic has forms and documents for the act of taking one of our employees Hostage. They were actually prepared years in advance in the event a pegasus or unicorn decided to do something like this. None for earth ponies, though. You know, for obvious reasons."

Skye spoke from the corner of his mouth bemusedly. "You're taking this rather well."

"Of course!" Like an innocent puppy, Sparkle turned to him with beaming eyes and a dopey grin.

"I'm your biggest fan!"

The world stopped, and with shaky breaths, Skye looked over the side of the building. He couldn't take it anymore. Haven help him.

There was one way to end this. Skye leaned forward, closing his eyes, and let the wind catch him. As he fell towards the ground, as police screamed and cameras flashed and the news rolled live, as hundreds everywhere held their breath, he felt fear for the very last time.

And then he felt the wind fill his wings, and he gently drifted to the ground, landing flat on his nose.

"Ow."

With a clatter, his bazooka fell next to him. The police closed in on him, and groaning, Skye lifted the barrel and pulled the trigger.

"Suck me dry." Was all he muttered as thousands of pounds and glass and steel collapsed in front of him.

The police chief took a deep sigh, feeling the weight of the eyes pouring into him from both sides: The crowd gathered in front of him, cameras flashing and questions clamoring, and the photos behind him of the victims who lost their lives in this terrible tragedy, begging him for justice.

Finally, he took the stand, locking his gaze with desperation at those who looked to him as a pillar of strength.

"We are gathered here to commemorate this great loss on all of our shoulders, and to look forward to the future. We do not know what compelled the man, still currently at large, to take hostages in the Canterlogic building yesterday, and execute them as he did. We do not know what could ever drive a man to do something so horrible, so depraved. But we do know two things: One, that all we can do is breathe a weary sigh and move ahead, for the world is a little quieter."

He looked up to the sun, a tear swelling in his eye.

"And two, that he looked sick as all hell doing it."

A murmur passed through the crowd in agreement as he continued.

"I mean, did you see that shit with the wet floor sign? I'll throw videos up on my youtube channel when I get home. It was rad as fuck, man."

8/10 all the way.

That concludes todays review of Falling Down. If you liked this and want to see more, please drop a like, follow, and leave a comment. This has been Skye Silver, signing off until next time.