M0RN1NGR3M1X3D

by Owlor

Rating: teen
Tags: Sex, DJ P0N-3, Slice of Life, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark
Length: 2170

Morning comes for Vinyl, and the excitement of the party turns to hangover and headache.

[One-shot]
"Heh, in the tracks I play, the breakdown is supposed to be the good part. Most ponies love a good beat, but they are all waiting for the drop. However, now that I've arrived at the breakdown of my own song, I'm not sure I'm quite ready for it..."

Based on “Morning...” by Lucefudu. Art by DerpyDooReviews.

Published 2012-11-17 19:40:01 UTC
Last updated 2012-11-17 19:40:01 UTC

Morning Glory

M0RN1NGR3M1X3D

Story by Owlor
Based on “Morning...” by Lucefudu

Soundtracks:
Original
Remix

Ten years ago, somepony first realized that you could compose music by chopping up phonograph cylinders and loop only the most danceable parts of old disco tunes. Five years ago, a nervous Vinyl Scratch first put the needle down onto her first acetate plate, broadcasting a mixture of sampled beats and a newly recorded synth lead to an awaiting audience. Ten minutes ago, Vinyl was lost in the land of near-orgasm. Her breath was loud, her heart was pounding, and all her troubles were far away.

Then her legs gave way, she was pushed down onto the mattress for the last vigorous thrusts. She could feel herself getting filled up. She had to strain hard in order to forget the face of the balding, middle-aged stallion that was her lay for this night. A pity, if you could’ve held out for a second longer, you could’ve been my friend.

The stallion dismounted and laid down beside her, teasing her spine with a hoof that quickly got rejected. He took this in stride and promptly turned over to sleep off three and a half shots of apple brandy. Vinyl gave out a displeased snort. You should’ve used that tenderness to stimulate my clit, not to try and warm me up for seconds.

With every other stimulation gone, she could only take in her surroundings. With the ceiling being nothing but a spackled void, her eyes where drawn to the wallpaper. It was surprisingly vivid for an old bachelor, and happened to have the exact right shade of yellow that could drive her insane. The rest of the room was a haze, but seemed to mostly consist of Pia Ikea-cruft, augumented with soy milk crates or cinderblocks. Probably both, unless they made gray milk crates and blue cinderblocks.

The cramped apartment disabused notions of life as a slow but steady rise towards your goals; notions that she’d rather cling on to at the moment. She turned around and sank into a trance. She struggled to keep herself in the small space between wakefulness and sleep where she was too far away from consciousness for her mind to ache, but not far away enough for her to actually fall asleep. In this zone, the nonverbal part of her brain was allowed to run wild and created brief flashes out of disjointed memories.

There may have been a sheep, which may or may not have been forced into the barn and taken advantage of. But there had definitely been rain, and it had been striking the roof with the ferocity of a repeating crossbow. There had been plenty of space between the tiles for the rain to break in, creating a puddle out of the dirt floor. I remember it, but it still doesn’t seem real!

There had been a pounding beat, reaching down into the lower register where pony ears can’t pick it up— tough they can feel it like a horse hoe to the gut. Some of the frequencies were still ringing in her ears, so this part had to be real if nothing else. There had been a small paper square dissolving on her tounge, and, soon afterwards, the tasteless chemicals wandered off to do their duty. Crap! How long ago was this? Either the walls will start breathing at any moment or this an old memory.

After a drawn-out wait, the walls still failed to attack her. The yellow wallpaper continued to be hideous, but stationary. No flickering lights, no fractal patterns or reptile zoos. So it was and old memory then, moldy leftovers. So where are last night’s party then? Sifting trough the mud inside her skull rendered nothing except a vague notion that there had also been a barn, puddles of mud and a sheep. Something inside her burned, at least some of last nights junk seemed displeased with their final resting place. Oh shi—

Her horn began to glow with a silent command and retrieved the mirrorshades resting beside the bed on a broken “Birchland” drawer, with the paint half peeled off. Once she got them on, her world turned darker and a shade of purple, but the haze that had clouded her vision before disappeared. Yup, three cinderblocks and five crates total, what a classy fellow.

She walked towards the bathroom with deliberate motions, a concentrated look and a riot in the back of her throat. The tapping of her hooves was just quiet enough to be drowned out by the snoring of her pity-fuck. She reached the toilet right before the critical point where the contents of her stomach demanded immediate evacuation.

Coughing out the last moist pieces of half-digested carrots, she found a few memories hidden in the goo. Dandelions, goosefoot, snow-on-the-mountain; all weeds, all encrusted with semen and all fried with too much rapeseed oil. Bachelor cooking... I think I remember this dinner. And I also think I remember crying... I knew this was a pity fuck, but whose pithy was it?

Cold water washed out the acidic taste in her mouth, and a few splashes of it to her face helped her gather her thoughts. Looking at the mirror, she tried to see herself from an outsiders perspective. She consisted of elements that would be striking on its own, but combined just left an impression that she tried too hard; the wild mane and daring sunglasses made promises the rest of her just looked too weak to keep, and the eyes underneath the shades where never as fiery or fierce as ponies would assume.

“So tell me,” she whispered to her reflection.” How did a nice girl like you end up like this?”

Why would I not end up like this? she thought of herself replying. Our fate was sealed when we first put the needle to our first chopped up phonograph cylinder. The music industry lied to us, made it look easy and fun, we weren’t prepared for reality.

Then came an echo:
Why would I not end up like this? Your fate was sealed when you first put the needle to your razor-cut front hoof. You lied to yourself, made yourself look happy and carefree. You weren't prepared for reality.

The room suddenly seemed a little bit darker, and a little bit colder. She let out a snicker to break the silence, mirrored perfectly by her reflection. What did I expect, anyway? That I’d be rich and famous? That I’d get tons of friends locked inside a booth all night while everypony else is dancing? That my life would be a big party? There was indeed mud, and she was wallowing in it.

She heard a loud snort from the bedroom, triggering a dash of panic. She had almost forgotten that she wasn’t at home, but at some strangers place. She hadn’t bothered to access the stallion’s motivations because the plan had always been to be out of here before he woke up. If he did, she’d be trapped in here. Sentenced to face an awkward post-coitus conversation.

Does he want a relationship? Oh crap, I hope not! He’s more than half my age, from his perspective, I’m still a filly! Oh Luna... what am I doing here? As the thought circled the thick fog of doubt clouding her mind, the unconscious urge to double-check if her stomach had still anything left in it made the back of her tongue taste bitter.

Something burst inside her and she could feel a liquid oozing down her snout. She wiped herself with a forehoof before fully realizing what it was and jumped when the hoof returned to her field of vision bloodied. The little seed of panic had grown into a large, uncontrollable kudzu and she scrambled out into the kitchen, hoping to find a dash of salt or anything to calm her mind.

The cupboards were empty, except for a small stack of baked beans. The door ‘thudded’ slightly as she closed it. The refrigerator was empty, apart from last night’s leftover stuffed into a box. It slammed shut. And much to her dismay, the spice rack was completely empty, save for the empty line of glass jars. Impatiently, she pushed the whole rack to the floor, crashing all of the jars upon impact.

The way she kept slamming the doors and raking down the shelves threatened to wake her lover, but even his increasingly restless snores and mumbles failed to hold back her desperation.

As the need became more urgent, the kitchen knives started to look more and more appealing. With her magic, she could hold a knife steady and let it run across her skin. The pain would soon be masked by a rush of endorphins, and if she did it right, the scar wouldn’t be visible under her coat.

As she neared the knife rack, however, she noticed something tucked away underneath it. Magicking it out, she recognized it as a dime bag of witches’ weed. She had her ‘medicine’ now and the front door was calling her; she needed to be long gone before the guy realized she’d taken his weed. Before hurrying towards the door, she tore away part of the newspaper, enough for a makeshift joint and disappeared into the night.

Well, ponies say that, but they never really disappear, don’t they? They just find themselves outside, with a cold wind against their face and a vast world waiting for them to pick a destination and promising nothing in terms of safety or shelter once they get there.

She took a few steps and felt from her slight wobble that she might not have all the salt from yesterday out of her system. Her desire for love and company had apparently led her to the newly built part of Canterlot, where the city’s normal arabesque architecture had to give way for ugly boxes with the occasional minaret as the only token acknowledgement of the city’s official style.

Her steps led her towards the business district, more abandoned than most places at this hour of the morning. In only a few hours however, it’d be filled with ponies coming in early for work; mares and stallions who had actually done something with their lives.

The buildings looked like cathedrals and she couldn’t help but picture the two princesses judging her, even tough she’s long ago abandoned the idea of Celestia and Luna as omnipotent goddesses with all her other childhood delusions. She held the joint uselessly between her teeth and with the darkness still closing in around her, she cursed herself for not knowing any fire-based magic.

Inching closer to the sterile corporate park that made up lynchpin of the business district, she saw a trail of low-mounted gas lamps that lined a bridge that separated a small stream of dark water from the fountain that was its source. The lights reached around it, following the paths to trace a snowflake-like pattern.

The soft white noise of the water helped mask the noise of her hoof steps and made her feel a little more comfortable with the vandalism she was about to commit. With her levitation, she picked up a stone and threw it towards the first gas lamp, breaking its glass cover effortlessly.

She used the flame to light up her joint and trotted towards the nearest park bench. Just seeing the smoke calmed her down, even tough she was faintly aware that it was just a placebo effect. A broken mind did not heal that easily.

She inhaled a puff or several and waited for its effect. In the meantime, more memories bubbled up from inside her with the same urgency as last nights dinner had done. Let it happen, this time I’m prepared.

There hadn't been a barn, there had been an abandoned warehouse. And instead of mud there had been plently of foam that copulating ponies could roll around in, lost in a drunken haze. But there had definitely been a sheep, and the sheep had been her...

All things considered, it really was a lovely morning. Sunrise this time of year rarely had the same blood-red dramathurgy as a sunset, but the soft fade towards a brighter day was a very welcome one. Even if the promise of a brand new day seemed to ring hollow to her, it was still enough to force her to stagger up from the park bench. She thought back to the creature she had last seen staring back at her in the mirror, and with slow, but deliberate steps, she began to trot away from herself.

In a month, she’d force herself into rehab. In ten month she’d be back in the underground rave scene, wilder and more self destructive than ever. In a year, her home would be foreclosed and in ten years, some new musical craze would sweep the nation and the genre Vinyl Scratch loved would be relegated to nostalgia-infused compilation releases.

The End