I am tired. I am injured. There is a gash on my shoulder and my leg is hanging limply at my side like a fish in a Gryphonian market. My body aches and there are fresh bruises blossoming all over me like morbid flowers. I am, despite my training, annoyed, and so I will only say this once. Take notes, or don’t; I do not care. I will speak regardless.
My name is Blank Slate. Do not bother to look that up in your records; even the most secret would show no results. Blank Slate does not exist; I do not exist. I am a ghost, a phantom that stays in the world of the living to wreak the vengeance of others. I only exist when I am hunting my prey, and they will be dead before they notice me.
Well, normally...
I will start from the beginning. Pick up your quill, interrogator, and write quickly. You are about to be the first pony to take down the chronicle of how I failed Princess Celestia.
Lower Canterlot stunk worse than the ass of a dysentery-addled hog, the stench hanging in the air like a suffocating blanket. The streets were filled with a fetid slurry of mud, trash, and shit, smeared across the stained cobblestones by the recent rains that poured upon the city. Ponies shuffled along the narrow streets, eyeing each other warily and clutching their saddlebags close to their flanks, while wild-eyed salesponies hawked their wares from rickety stalls, trying to sell the scraps of nobleponies like they were exotic treasures. Lower Canterlot, the dark underside of Equestria's shining city, was where I would find my work.
The Salty Sailor was a typical bar in this dirty district: dark, muggy, and smelling strongly of the sweet aroma of alcohol that does not match its bitter flavor. The cramped space roared with the jocular voices of stallions telling stories, playing pool, or harassing the few mares in the bar. In a cheap but elegant dress that accentuated my body in all the ways that these stallions like, I sat demurely on a barstool and nursed a glass of cheap liquor that the bartender - a grimy colt who had been sending me lecherous looks all night - had all too readily served me free of charge. The fool did not realize I could outdrink most of the stallions in the bar, but why ruin his attempts at ‘romance’? I giggled and sent him flirty winks and blown kisses from across the bar, and over the course of his shift, his sickening smile grew wider and wider. As business slowed down and the rowdy crowd gradually thinned to a few drunken barflies, the bartender not-so-subtly made his way over to me, leaning on the bar in a way he likely thought was sauve.
“Now,” His voice was gravelly and rough, with a subtle undertone that set one on edge, “what’s a pretty mare like you doing in a shithole like this?”
“My, my,” I purred, placing my chin in my hoof, “what a flatterer you are! Here’s a stallion who knows how to treat a lady.”
“Lady,” He huffed, looking me up and down. “You ain’t much of a lady, and this ain’t the high courts with their rituals and shit.”
“No, I suppose not,” I chewed my bottom lip and subtly brought my hoof over to his own, lightly tapping on keratin that was sticky with the residue of alcohol. “Which means there are fewer… obstacles.”
The shine in his eyes made it clear that he had caught my implication and was more than ready to act upon it. Easy, too easy. Many stallions only need the idea of sex dangled before them like a worm on a hook. They, in their arrogance, assume that all mares naturally want to sleep with them, that every filly would love the opportunity to have a turn in their bed. It never occurs to them to be suspicious of a virtual stranger offering a night of carnal pleasure. Hedons make the game far too easy, taking away the thrill of the chase.
“You know,” He leaned in, whispering conspiratorially. “I could always close the bar a little early. One more obstacle out of the way.”
“Ohhhh,” I giggled, making sure to sound a bit tipsy. “Well, that would be wonderful…”
“Barley, Miss…”
“Wilted Petal, but you can just call me Petal.” Another flirty wink that only served to entice him more. Yes, he was firmly caught in the strands of my web.
“Petal,” He tried the unfamiliar name on his tongue. “Well, Petal, why don’t you relax for a second while I clear the bar out? And here,” he reached under the bar and drew out a small glass bottle filled with a clear liquid, “take a swig of this. It helps deal with the alcohol.”
I hummed appreciatively as he walked off to yell the remaining drunks out of the bar. Popping the cork off the bottle, I nonchalantly took a swig. Bitter. Quite bitter, and it burned my throat as it went down. Swallowing rubbing alcohol would have been preferable. But Barley would be happy to see that the pretty filly he was taking home had drunk her medicine.
It took only a few minutes - and a couple of arguments - to clear out the bar. Barley, eager and smiling that sick, sick smile, sighed as the last pony left and turned on his heel to face me.
“I’m just going to clean up a little. You can head upstairs and… get ready.”
“I’ll be waiting.” I gave him a coy smile and made sure to put a sashay in my step as I made my way to the small living space upstairs.
It was dirty and cluttered, but far from the worst I had seen. The bar was quite low, admittedly. Honestly, the apartment and whatever was in it did not quite matter to me right now. I had more important things to worry about, and with that in mind, I began to take my clothes off. This was partly to appear enticing and seductive when Barley came upstairs; partly, I did not want to feel fumbling hooves try clumsily to remove my dress.
I am not conventionally attractive, though I am not unattractive either. My face is often called elegant and regal; my proportions are rather small, likely due to my limited diet growing up; the gentle slope of my flanks has often been complimented; my body is toned in a way that is unusual for mares but that stallions seem to love. In other words, it was not at all difficult to attract my prey.
Heavy hoosteps were coming up the stairs. I positioned myself in a way that could be considered tasteful, wonderfully tempting but still appropriately modest. It worked like a charm; Barley paused as he walked in, his eyes roving around my body. Then, like a fire was burning inside him, he started tearing off his work clothes as he made a beeline for me. Rough, dry lips pressed harshly against my neck as I prepared myself for an unsatisfying encounter. Playing along, I dug my hooves into his back in an expert simulacrum of pleasure and gave myself over to self-absorbed lust.
I will give Barley credit: the aftermath of his all-consuming lust was considerably better than most. He actually wanted to cuddle with me, a rare occurrence in such dalliances, but a welcome one. We lay next to each other, our bodies pressed together and limbs tangled. It was oddly comforting.
“That was great,” He whispered into my ear, punctuating his sentence by nibbling on my earlobe.
“Mmmmm,” I mumbled. It was honestly not as bad as I had been expecting. Barley was far from a good lover, but he was not bad either and seemed to have at least a vague concept of a ‘mare's pleasure’, more than could be said of most stallions.
“It’s a shame it has to end.” He had a hoof on my flank, squeezing. He seemed to like that part of me quite a bit.
“Agreed.”
“The drug should be activating by now. My mercy to you is that you won’t even feel as you are being dismembered,” He whispered into my ear. He paused for a moment before releasing a sigh, and his voice became genuinely remorseful. “You might not believe me, but I am truly sorry, Petal.”
In response to his admittance of his intentions to murder me, I simply chuckled. I snuggled further into his chest. “Don’t be silly, Barley.”
Another sigh. “You won’t feel it, Petal.”
“You’re right, I don’t feel it.” It took him a moment to process the subtle hint in my words. I felt the second that his muscles tensed. “Relax, Barley. There’s no point in worrying about it now. Enjoy the last few moments of peace as you slip away.”
He jumped from the bed, almost certainly rushing for some sort of weapon he kept hidden in the room. I did not even stir because I knew he wouldn’t make it; he crumpled on the ground a few feet from the bed when his legs gave out from under him. He moaned and groaned on the floor.
“You could have died cuddling me,” I clicked my tongue, disappointed. “Instead, you die on the floor. Unfortunate.”
“Why,” He groaned.
I settled further into the bed, finding the perfect spot where it was most broken in with a sigh of contentment. “Why? Did you think killing all those fillies wasn’t going to come back to bite you in the ass? Oh, you were careful with your victims, picking prostitutes and mares who were obviously alone…. except the one victim who had a family that actually cared about her. A family that had enough money to pay someone like me.”
“How?” His voice was barely a whisper now.
“So many questions. Can’t you let a mare sleep!” I teased. “You could be asking a few things with that simple question, so I’ll answer a few. How did I not succumb to your drug? I’ve been trained to be resistant to most common drugs. You would need something esoteric to get me. How did I poison you? Well,” I licked my lips, glossed over with a special polish that made them shine in the waning light of the moon. “I have my ways.”
He was seizing at this point; he would be dead in another few seconds. Good riddance. That’s all I could feel for him, knowing that he killed his victims without remorse. Was I better? Maybe not, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t look down on him.
I yawned. It was late, and I had not slept much. I pulled the covers further over my body and drifted off to sleep, looking out upon the crenelated towers and golden roofs of Canterlot Castle, paying no heed to the dead stallion only a few feet away.
