Iron Moon

by Princess Carlestia

Rating: teen
Tags: Comedy, Romance, Random, Adventure, Iron Will, Gore, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark
Length: 3732

Epic narrative of the decripit, pitheless life of Iron Will, as told in poetic form.

Iron Will's life was in shambles. A broken bull, left to his own devices, is forced to face a dark era in his former life filled with the iniquities he tries to forget. As he seeks to both heal his shame and mend his broken ways, he discovers that love can fill the void in his heart. Terrifyingly, the bloodlust of his past life may be his downfall: can the love of his life fill his heart before the blood of his foes fills his four stomachs?

Published 2012-10-28 00:50:01 UTC
Last updated 2013-08-04 08:58:09 UTC

Chapter 1: The Beginnening

Iron Will slowly drew his breath as the air around him froze his skin. Through the scope of his .500 Nitro Express, he saw the hair on the back of Rarity’s mane bristle.

“Something is awry... but what?” thought the clueless equestrian as the full metal jacket shell instantaneously evacuated her brain of all neurological material. The splatter of gray matter against the east wall of her now gore -filled abode left naught but the reeking smell of death.

“Yes..." he snarled, and lips curled into a lustful smile. "Another trophy to add to my rape wall, and she’ll do just nicely.”

As his stomping hooves approached the door, the handle turned to ash.

“The fuck?" he demanded, whipping the rifle around. "But I want her warm cadaver for...” he mumbled as the walls of the cottage begin to swirl into a purplish-brown vortex on the ground. The world dissolved into it, and he snapped awake in a cold sweat.

“Oh god, another nightmare.” He rolled over in bed as the chills ran up his spine. Murderous rampages were a thing of his tormented past that he had tried to forget, but there was not enough cider in the world to dull the throbbing of his horns. Next to him, another form stirred.

“What’s the matter, honey?" said Luna in a tender whisper, curling herself around Iron Will's muscular form. He snapped awake, the flush of adrenaline quickly fading.

“Damn dreams, like Inception," he muttered angrily. "At least it wasn’t a wet one.” He rolled over, his dick deflating like a spent balloon animal in the hands of a tired carny.

“Wasn’t a wet what, dearie?" asked Luna, still half-asleep, rolling to face away from the husk of a bull she used to know.

Iron Will woke up a third time staring Luna in the face. His eye twitched once, though he could have imagined it like everything else tonight.

“Tell me you’re real," he said quietly.

"Let me run my hooves through your flowing mane one more time…” he sadly said to her sleeping form.

Without saying a word, she inched closer to his postrate body, seeking the warmth of two souls bound in a fiery and chaotic passion fueled bond. As Iron Will felt reality finally setting in, he realized that he had been wrong to question this relationship. Maybe there was hope for a damaged soul like his, embittered to the world that he had shunned so long ago. The gentle neighing of Luna in her sleeping led him to believe all was right with the world. He had just began to feel relaxed when the purple vortex opened on the floor of the room.

“NOOooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo………….”

He cried, now a heart-broken bull at this last mental betrayal.

Iron Will woke up, opening his eyes to see the sun peeking through holes in the tattered ceiling. There was no pony beside him, and the ground felt colder than ever.

“Fuck this; I'm going to college,” Iron Will quipped through gritted teeth. It was indeed time for a change. It was time for Iron Will to start his life-changing quest for poon.

It was a chilly morning as Iron Will opened the flap to the tent his meager wages afforded him. Such a long time had passed since he had had a good night of sleep that the zombie mentality was full-blown now. Time had no meaning anymore… only the lust of poon.

Chapter 2: Bloodlust

As the sun broke the horizon, the different ways that Iron Will's life had gone to many and varied kinds of shit like a crap taco in a microwave began to flash before his eyes. The body count alone... Iron Will shuddered.

"No, I can't think about those things. That was the old me. That was.. before my 'operation'. I thought these dreams would be gone!"

As soon as he collected himself, he began the slow process of building a fire. Early springtime was still chilly after all. The worst part of this living situation was the endless clopping of hooves on the main street; having set up his rudimentary home in the middle of the town. At least the monsters that lurked in the Everfree Forest were not an issue... not anymore, at least. Not for thirty years....

He shook his head. Here he at least felt the commonality of being a part of society.

The damned clock tower chimed its two piercing tones indicating the afternoon was full blown. I lied about it being morning. Iron Will's life had become an abomination. A traveling show to "bolster the confidences of the down-trot-den"? What kind of bullshit was this?

Iron Will reached into his tattered khaki shorts, finding a small pouch of poison joke mushrooms from the night before. He had enough to last at least a week, if he kept a regular schedule. The rest of the town would never accept him if they knew the real source of his booming voice and strong-arm tactics. But they would never need to know, and Iron Will would kick the bucket and some heads in before they knew.

As he stumbled around tiredly, he thought about what needs he would have to complete before the day's end. Food, he thought, would be the utmost priority now. His stomach grumbled; Gilda's fried wings had fed him for long enough, but the consumption of her innards raw in a fit of rage had left him queasy and dehydrated. How had no one heard the caws and cries of Gilda as he cooked her over the volcano's edge? How had the pleading and begging fallen on Iron Will's deaf ears as he slowly pulled her feathers to fill his broken mat?

Never mind that. Now, the bloodlust was full borne. Someone would die tonight, and their body would vanish into the four stomachs that already eagerly awaited their arrival.

For the longest time, Iron Will stood with his arms cocked behind him, staring at his own reflection in the water at the bottom of the well. He remembered how Luna had gently wrapped her arm around his, the sweet times they had. How her stanky ass queef during the Thanksgiving dinner had abruptly ruined an otherwise jovial occasion. They had no true romances between them, but the lustful thoughts never left his mind.

He shook his head and tried to think about who would be the easiest to "make disappear," Who would go unmissed?

Iron Will suddenly realized who.

Blueblood's mom.

Celestia.

Chapter 3: The Debonaire Deviance

The walk over to the palace was a dreary one, even though the sun shone brightly down on Iron Will's worn hide. The sense of fearsome anticipation seeped into his thoughts, toying with his perceptions. As he ran through his plot once again, he tried to think of any subtle nuances that might betray him. The guards would be dealt with swiftly, but they couldn't be killed. That would be far too suspicious.

Instead, a distraction would be required; exotic dancing by none other than the queen, Pinky herself. Long having abandoned the role of a genteel and gracious pony, her own fleshy needs had led her to the dark path of self-effacing dance. A payment of half a mushroom was all that it took to give her the inspiration that she needed to join Iron Will's twisted plan. Half a mushroom was a half mushroom that he could use himself, but this was worth it.

"But Iron Will!" she had exclaimed, her usually chipper voice tinged with concern. "You sell drugs to the community!"

"Be that as it may, but that's all that I can pay; I am Iron Will, so shut-up and take your pill!"

Reluctantly, the pink party pony accepted the half mushroom of poison joke without any further objection. To make it as a successful exotic dancer in a decrepit little town like Ponyville sometimes required cutting a repeat customer a deal. And Iron Will was about as repeat as they came.

"But the guards! What if they try to interfere with my erotic dancing?"

"Simple" replied Iron Will, arching into a split kick mere inches from her muzzle. "If somepony tries to block; kick them in the cock!"

Their intercourse now completed, they went their separate ways. The afternoon faded into evening, and the moon's reflection on the still puddle of water in front of the entrance to the castle showed the night's young age. Pinkie Pie crested the hill, wearing her ruby tiara and her sluttiest pony attire: a flowing cape and wizard robe.

The guards were caught off guard by the appearance of such beauty; Iron Will made his entrance into the castle grounds unnoticed. He crept around the grounds, looking for the royal bedroom, and his next meal. Finally finding it, he noticed the door was slightly ajar despite the light being out.

Carefully pushing his frame through the doorway, Iron Will was frozen in place by what he saw. Next to Celestia’s sleeping form was the alicorn that had gone through his dreams so many times before, but never was this imagined.

The hunched figure was emptying a syringe of an unknown substance into the eyelid of the princess of the land. Overcome with lustful passion, Iron Will tiptoed up behind the figure, shaggy hips swaying sensuously. Withdrawing the empty syringe, the alicorn threw it out the window. Which was saying something, wih the castle on top of a cliff; Iron will approved of this method of disposing of evidence.

The syringe's faint shatter went unnoticed by the guards, still entirely enthralled by the not fully erotic but entirely entrancing dancing of Pinkie Pie. The mood now set, Iron Will shimmied up to the alicorn to make his move.

“Are you a paleontologist?" he whispered in Luna's ear. "Because you can explore my topsoil until you find my massive bones.”

As she spun around, Iron Will quickly flexed, striking a pose to showcase the muscles that had atrophied in recent years but still were capable of pulling bitches on the regular. Luna clopped backwards, awestruck and fearing reprisal. In a second she came to her senses, turning immediately to fly out the nearest window.

Not entirely able to follow her in flight, Iron Will flexed his deltoids as hard as he could, attempting to sprout his wings. However, realizing he was coming off a mushroom high and that time was of the essence, Iron Will simply sat down on the corner of the bed, dejected.

His mood suddenly improved when he realized his next meal was laying next to him, and was also conveniently immobile.

Groggily, Celestia opened her eyes to see a heavy breathing bull leaning over from between her loins and staring her in the face. Thoroughly horrified, she tried to roll away from him, but his strong grasp held her down against the bed.

"C-Nasty!" cried Iron Will. "We meet again! And this time, under less sexual circumstances!"

Celestia's eyes snapped wide.

“THE FUCK ARE YOU DO-“

“SURPRISE! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” yelled Iron Will, turning on the lights and revealing the crowd of people around the room. Twilight Sparkle, Rarity, Fluttershy, Applejack, the one blue one with wings, and even the stripper Pinkie Pie were all there with cake and presents.

“Everything is going to plan” thought Iron Will. "Except one thing… where did I stash that damn detonator?”

Chapter 4: Malfeasance Involving a Quart of Oil

The party now in full swing, Iron Will was less nervous than he had been in ages. His hooves clopped furiously as he was moonwalking across the dance floor. The Jesuits were the first major group of Spanish missionaries involved heavily in the Spanish exploratory of Americas, yet not in their wildest dreams did they encounter such a wildly passionate tribal mating dance. Iron Will was really coming into his body, and felt fulfillment that could only be rivaled by that feeling you get when you empty your bladder in the welcoming mouth of a water-deprived sand-eating desert dweller. Each vibration of the bass booming through the air unpleasantly reminded him of his urgent need to defecate (a rather unpleasant and obscure medical side effect of poison joke abuse) but fortunately his fetish was that exact thing. His ever tightening sphincter silently begged him to rush through his plan and go home for a wild self loving night of whimpering tears and unexpectedly high tissue use; his irrationally demented personality told him to get some tail because Iron Will knew he was a cold ass honky.

Every moment felt like an eternity because Iron Will was high as a mother fucker, and the DJ only played Credence Clearwater Revival tracks. Not that CCR is bad music; CCR fucking rocks like pyrite shines like gold. The time dilation had more to do with the complex repercussions of the sonic rain-booms that bluejob with wings kept doing. In fact, the speed at which blue fang McTittles had been rocketing by caused the whole of time to sadly say "Fuck this, I'm going home."

In spite of this, the night wore on when the slowly ambling tendrils of time were enveloping the prancing pony population and dragging them onwards. Despite the unusually painful pelvic cramping that Iron Will felt, it only served to strengthen his steely demeanor to find and fornicate with a Mo' Bitches Variety Pack. This presented a dilemma only solvable with the application of gratuitous amounts of puss.

In an unfortunately hilarious turn of events, Mystique (the one who lives on the moon) was watching from afar.

"I only need for the poison to set in! And then I will win! At monopol-opony!" she said, buying Baltic Avenue.

Who the fuck buys Baltic Avenue? That ho does.

Back to reality: the clitter clatter of clinking cups was dying down to to the frequency of popped popcorn when Iron Will next slipped back to major consciousness. He was slaying bitches like poets break iambic pentameter to express cunning linguist's fantasies; his latest conquest of standing fornication was none other than Celestia, who had only managed to resist his masculine charms with tragic realization of a venereal disease.

Always overly eager to sow his wild oats and completely clueless to the soil being tilled by hundreds of farmers a million times before, Iron Will felt a rise he seldom felt.

"This is my moment." he thought to himself. "I can become the king. I didn't fly too close the sun... instead, I stared it down."

As Iron Will excitedly gyrated his pelvis up and down the marble exterior he felt like Hemaphrodite (Author's note: check wikipedia later to verify Greek dudes name) after a sweaty exertion.

Across the town in Poonville, however, a lurking evil unveiled itself: swamp gas. The pond's bacteria levels had reached critical mass and caused the turnover of the murkiest and muckiest parts of the fetid basin. As the slowly build poison cloud drifted out, the local fauna began dying in droves.

Eager Beaver, the absurdly whorish beaver gasped his last and died sexless. His wife Bucktooth Barbara was similarly dispatched. The swamp gas then retreated because [deus ex machina here]. Vodka can be used to sterilize most small abrasions.

Iron Will's great mood was suddenly burst as he felt the earth topple beneath him.

"I will certainly be swallowed whole," he thought. Gasping for breath, a smile curled on his lips. "That's what she said."

His knees buckled and he grasped his now throbbing stomach. When it came, the shart was forceful and unstoppable. As he skidded forward, scraping his knees on the tile floor, the other ponies looked on in horror. Much to his chagrin, Iron Will's ordeal had only just begun. His innards gurgled like onion rings in a hot fryer as his bowels suddenly and immediately evacuated. Slipping uncontrollably about in the midst of his own filth, Iron Will braced for the ride.

The brown-reddish bursts painted the walls with feces and fear which no latex paint could ever fully paint over. The mire rose to a height of a centimeter off the floor, pooling mostly into a puddle six meters in diameter. With the last of the reverberations, Iron Will rolled over, slipped, and began to cry loudly.

He reached his disgusting hand down to prop himself up and was just about to say "Sorry my Queen but I just -" as he fell face first back into the filth open-mouthed, jarring his teeth into the stone floor and traipsing unexpectedly out of this reality.

Chapter 5: Apooncalypse Now

The reverberations of the sonic rainboom had not only shattered the fragile integrity of the space time continuum but what was left of Iron Will’s sanity. His drug addled thought process began shifting away from the immediate necessity to evacuate his bowels to deeper, darker memories that he had thought to be long forgotten. As he stood somewhere halfway through the electric slide and the funky chicken Iron Will found that his body was no longer responsive and that his eyes were focused not on the numerous bitches that were trying to grind against his prodigious girth but instead a point far away and past even the most distant horizon. Despite the handful of sessions of cut-rate, unlicensed therapy and decades of heavy drinking and significant drug abuse, Iron Will was slowly slipping away from not only Equestria but from reality itself.

It was to his utter horror that he found himself no longer on the dance floor but two thousand feet above a hot, steamy section of the Everfree delta some thirty-odd years in the past. Regular clusters of laser light to his left and right exploded in clusters of stars, a thousand party cannons loaded for bear assaulted the dazed minotaur with glowing white phosphorous streamers. The indistinct murmur of the various partygoers now lost behind the incessant drone of the plane’s engines, the screams of the dying, and the silence of the dead.

“Get hit with flak, better watch your back!” he roared at the purple and green dragon at the controls. The hell was he doing up there anyway? No matter – he peered down the sights, watching an orange-red sea of flames whip by below. Every few moments a flaming mane, but it was already too late for them.

The regular beat of the music grew deeper, shaking him to suddenly-numb bones, regular flashes of orange-red light in the darkness heralding the death of a thousand hopes and dreams of soon-to-be dead orange chicken. The quivering form hunched up next to him threw her head back to the beat of the distance artillery and suddenly it was gone, spray of electric blue blood gently warming his body like a Faustian mishap at a glow stick factory.

Suddenly the bombsight moved a yard to his left, the rest of the plane following suit, and his head slammed into the side of the fuselage as the plane dove into a sharp right roll.

“How’m I supposed to exterminate when you keep makin’ this bucket reverberate?” he shouted in the cockpit’s general direction, before realizing he had gotten his horn stuck in the rustbucket’s skin. Just the tip, though just for second; with a shudder of how it felt, he suddenly realized why the mares didn’t like the phrase. He could feel the horn peeling away, and with a guttural roar he yanked it loose, just in time to be slammed into the left bulkhead.

“Asshole! Buck! My Shit!”

But Spike wasn’t there anymore; directly in front of him the plane opened onto a hole in the sky, pinpoints of light and hot streamers whipping past as the plane broke into a thousand points of light, and he was falling

“Gimme that mic!” he shouted, grabbing at the bundle on the still-twitching mass next to him. He wiped off a spray of hot liquid and mashed buttons. “Talk to me, Spike!”

Sticking his head around the corpse, he caught a glimpse of the enemy line, a glowing series of flashes in the dark, vague screams of the damned floating over no man’s land. “This is no mirage!” he declared, eyeballing it at a thousand yards. “I need a barrage!”

“You are the plane,” growled Spike, his voice faint and distant as if was carried aloft upon a soft summer breeze from someplace far away.

A hail of glowing-hot party streamers took off the tree a few inches above his head.

“I look like a plane, you little shit stain?”

“You are the air support!” again answered the voice.

And then everything made sense. He was the plane. He was the air support. There was no back-up, no air support, and no rescue. He was alone up here. It was just him, some two thousand feet above the ground, in a flak riddled plane surrounded by the mangled husks of his former comrades in arms. He shielded his eyes as another burst of flak tore itself through the fuselage of the plane like a hot knife through butter, a single shard of white hot metal grazed his god-like physique but he felt no pain.

Damn, he looked good.

No longer were there any doubts in his mind as to what his ultimate purpose was. He would die here just everyone else. Just like Scoots, just like Spike, just like the rest of the air wing, and just like the hundreds of faceless enemies that he and his unit had bombed to tartarus and back. And that deadbeat bitch Applejack, that man stealing foal.

As the plane spiraled downward, wreathed in red flame, Iron Will closed his eyes for what he thought would be the last time. The tree line now no more than thirty feet away he braced himself for the afterlife.

But the sweet release that Iron Will so longed for would elude him once again as the world abruptly snapped back into focus. As he regained his bearings he found himself off to the corner of the dance floor, his chiseled, manly face covered in tears and fecal matter as he sobbed into a pillar, his legs covered in shit, and a hundred faceless souls wept bitter tears as their sobs faded into nothing more than dust and echoes on the now silent dance floor.