MLP: Murderous Laughing Ponies 2 featuring Twilight Sparkle: Revenge of the Twilight
Not necessity, not desire - no, the love of power is the demon within us all. Let us have everything - health, food, a place to live, entertainment - they are unhappy and low-spirited, they remain unhappy and low-spirited: for the demon waits and waits and will be satisfied.
Deep within a cruelly twisted and grim city, the concrete and glass spires were like funeral pyres lamenting the deaths of the Equestrian ruins surrounding them. A shattered pale moon stood over the sickly green smog of the city like a hung innocent. Where Celestia's Castle once stood, three curved spines of glass and concrete rose above the skyline like a demonic claw grasping up at the ruined moon.
“At the Young Offenders Rehabilitation Program...” A lavender Unicorn growled, voice raspy from years of abuse. “I was Subject MLP-FIM-M6-01. That's what they called me.”
Deeply inhaling through an unfiltered cigarette, an older Twilight Sparkle in an eyepatch exhaled black smoke into the sky above her. Scarred, bruised, tired, malnourished, messy, smelly, in ragged jeans and an off-white shirt under a black trenchcoat, she looked like a crackhead who had just lost a fight with another crackhead over crack. Vicious masses of black ink tendrils armoured in shattered ceramic doll pieces surrounded her. Demons, ready to strike.
After another inhale, Twilight pressed her lit cigarette into the eye of a writhing Demon caught in her armpit, savouring the way it screamed and flailed before she crushed it, snapped that Demon Puppet's neck.
Charging right at three puppets, she whipped two black handguns out of her black trenchcoat, posing and firing like a trained Gun Kata expert, shooting two demons in their cocks and balls before backflipping over the third, blowing its brains out from behind in midair with her two bullets in slow motion. Fuck You had been engraved onto each bullet.
“I will ask you again,” The voice of hell itself whispered, and Twilight remembered having her arms bound to the sides of the walls of an observation room, cameras trained on her, rusty meathooks securing her scarred wrists.
Cruel memories tore at her sanity before she was galloping again, parkouring backflips over twisted demonic Anarcho-Capitalist Gothic Megacity rooftops, gunning down more Demon Puppets before holstering her weapons and pulling out a dark oak staff tipped with a fanged wolf skull. Letting the living weapon snap its jaws down on her neck and drink her blood, she twitched and writhed for a second, before pulling the oak staff away, now forming a crimson blade from her own blood. Healing, her burning, smoking wounds simmered and shimmered. She glared hatefully at each demon, as each one ran at her, crying blood from ceramic eyes and slobbering ink from countless white-toothed mouths.
Spinning her weapon around her like a flag, she rested the blade on her shoulder, before driving it deep into the earth. Blood rose from beneath the earth, geysers of crimson sending demons high into the air, where Twilight leapt up and slowed time with her broken horn, before slicing the demons around her into a million pieces each.
Screaming, Twilight endured the pain as a consequence of using magic with a broken horn, a geyser of blood erupting from her horn like a gallon of jizz from an overexcited Stallion touching his first ever mare anus. But she had more blood, and she was used to pain. Pain meant nothing to one driven by vengeance.
Landing on the skull of another Demon Puppet, she crushed its balls beneath her rear hooves like a dominatrix with over a thousand hours spent practicing the art of CBT.
Leaping away from the Demon before it exploded into a fountain of blood, she backflipped twice as demons swarmed around her, emerging from the eldritch shadows cast by eldritch buildings around her eldritchly. She planted her scythe into the ground and twisted around it like a pole dancer, kicking Demons in the face before landing gracefully with another twist of her weapon, beheading them all.
More demons rose to meet her, and her scythe of blood shifted its liquid, becoming an Axe Sword twice her size, which she struggled to lift and proceeded to swing wildly. She didn't need finesse, she needed power. It didn't matter if she had to cleave through demons and the wrecked cars behind them. It didn't matter if she had to cleave through buildings full of demons and throw them at her enemies with her bloody telekinesis, she needed power. Power like the power her evil sister achieved only once she had thrown Equestria into chaos and murdered all her friends and loved ones.
Twilight screamed, recalling the decades of torture she endured as a child in the loving care of the demon-controlled orphanage that raised her. Blades, poisons, electrocution, fire, she had endured it all. Even when they started to molest her hourly after the very second she turned sixteen and was technically no longer a child according to Equestrian law, she would never give in. They drained the magic from her body, but Darkness offered her a darker power in return for her soul. She would endure anything to kill her sister.
And that damn voice, the voice of the demon in charge of the orphanage, kept asking her...
“What... is... your... name?”
Flipping off the demons around her using the mechanical hands that replaced her forelimbs, she swan dived off the building she had been fighting demons on.
Riding her sword of her own blood like a surfboard down the building she wrecked, leaving behind a trail of burning Cyber-Alicorn blood, she backflipped away from the building and glared right at you.
“My name is Twilight Sparkle, bitch!”
Twilight Sparkle turned to glance at the horrified Fluttershy, the enraged Rainbow Dash and Applejack, the laughing Pinkie Pie, and the disgusted Rarity, before staring right at the Hollyhoof Griffon responsible for this trainwreck.
“Do you like it?” Grinned the beaky bird. “An edgy reboot of FIM is exactly what you superstars need to get you all back in the limelight!”
“What is wrong with you?” Applejack wondered.
The Griffon rolled his eyes. “Oh, forgive me for not making you a gay cowboy. Or worse, black. We're heading in a Griffon direction here, modernizing your intellectual property for the global market.”
“What's intellectual about this?” Twilight laughed. “You turned me into a chain-smoking crackhead who looks like she just lost a fight with another crackhead over some crack!”
“How do you even know what crack is?” Asked the Griffon.
“And what does that stupid movie name even mean? FIM: Friendship Is Murder? Why did you start the title with an acronym, only to follow it up with what the acronym stands for? And what does friendship have to do with murder?”
“Well, uh... it sounded kind of cool at the time, and... Maybe you'd kill to protect your friends?”
“They're already dead in that movie!”
“Look, I'm really just doing what my boss tells me, so blame him if you want somepony to yell at, I'll give you his number.”
“Good!”
Twilight took the number to yell at and stormed out of the room.
But the number turned out to be a phone sex hotline.
That Griffon had produced a shit movie with 10% of the budget he was given, before fleeing with the rest to the Baahamas to live out his days as a rich bastard preying upon subservient Sheep servants, who toiled loyally and tasted delicious when barbecued.
Alternate Ending - Friendship Isn't Murder
"This is the worst movie of all time," Rarity told the Griffon, after Twilight and her friends were done roasting the film for two hours straight.
The Griffon looked as though he was about to cry. "Don't you want to shoehorn in an awkward reference to that time you said 'Of all the worst things that could possibly happen, this is... The! Worst! Possible! Thing!'?"
Rarity shook her head gracefully.
"Do you have Lavender Unicorn Syndrome or something?" Twilight asked.
Rarity gasped.
"What? I'm allowed to call it that. What else would you call that thing where amateur writers write us saying awkward things like 'As the element of Honesty I Honestly think you are right', or write us saying things we said once or twice before even if it makes no sense for us to say it again right now? Not to mention the amateur writer's habit of shoving fanservice where it doesn't belong, at the story's expense. It's like a mental disorder that makes you more focused on pandering to your audience than writing for them. Furthermore-"
The Griffon started to cry, and everypony's hearts melted as they tried to help him in their own way. Comforting him, patting his head, trying to cheer him up or tell stories similar to his experience...
The Griffon was shocked. Stunned. Without words. The wisdom of these ponies, and their kindness, and their optimism... It was hard to put into words.
"B-But I was told friendship is a dumb baby thing for dumb babies!" Said he.
And he was wrong.
For that day, the mane six said words that convinced him to try writing something else, and never give up, or allow what he thought the audience wanted to see to dictate what he felt he could write.
And so, rather than trying to write fanservice-infested panderfics with random headcanons and fanon names crammed in for no reason, he chose to write original fiction about a character who began life as the idealized version of himself he wished he could be, only to be changed and transformed into a complex and layered multifaceted hero with his own stories to tell and his own world to save.
