My Little Scootaloo

by Rolai Eckolo

Rating: mature
Tags: Slice of Life, Sex, Human, Gore, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark, Other, Romance, Scootaloo
Length: 9783

One harsh winter in Eugene, a man finds a reason to live.

In a world where escape lies at the bottom of a bottle, a cute pegasus filly is all one lonely man could ever ask for.

Published 2017-08-02 15:00:06 UTC
Last updated 2017-08-02 15:00:06 UTC

My Little Scootaloo

My Little Scootaloo

Most times, life gives you lemons. When this happens to me, I like to stomp on those lemons screaming “FUCK YOU LIFE! FUCK YOU!” Sometimes, however, life gives you a delicious orange. Let me tell you about the most delicious orange I ever got. Orange and purple, that is.

I was drunk as fuck, I don’t even know what day it was, but I was wandering around Thirteenth Street. It was the middle of winter and the streets of Eugene had seen some snow. It was cold as balls. I was staggering around, looking for someone to bum a cigarette off of. I’d just been fired from my job at the liquor store for being drunk. Do you know how drunk you have to be to get fired from a liquor store? Pretty motherfuckin’ drunk. I just needed a goddamn cigarette, but there was nobody around. I didn’t have a dime to my name… spent it all on booze, so goddammit why couldn’t I just find someone with some cigarettes?! Each second that ticked by drove me closer to madness as my nicotine jones got stronger and stronger.

In desperation, I walked down a side alley hoping to find some snipes on the ground. It was a long shot seeing as everything was wet from the snow, but maybe I could find something smokable under a dumpster or whatever. Sure enough there was a big dumpster at the end of the alley. Through the wall next to me I could hear the bumping of music and a muted cacophony of voices. I was behind a bar! People probably smoked out here all the time, there had to be something for me.

You’d think a grade A alcoholic such as myself would’ve known where every bar in town was, but I prefer to drink alone. I kick it with Jack Daniels and that St. Pauli bitch, I don’t need friends.

That’s when I saw it: a discarded pack of Pall Mall menthols. Maybe, just maybe there was one left. Maybe someone as drunk as me had dropped his smokes! My heart pounded as I approached the crumpled box and opened it. Pay dirt! Inside was a single cigarette, bent but not broken. It was squashed flat, but it would do the job. I picked it out and stuck it between my teeth, searching my pockets for a lighter. I pulled out my old zippo, but in my excitement I fumbled it and dropped it. Drunk fucking klutz. It bounced off the toe of my boot and went sliding under the trash dumpster. I tucked the cigarette behind my ear and got down on my hands and knees, feeling under the large metal can for my lighter. Got it!

Holy shit! Something came scampering out from under the bin right past my face. All I saw was a blur of orange and purple. Had I found the fucking Cheshire cat or something? Nope. It was something way fucking weirder. It had run and hid behind a busted up bar stool that somebody had tossed out here, but I could see its purple tail and little orange ears poking out.

“Hey, come on out,” I cooed gently, “I ain’t gonna hurt you little guy.” Ever so slowly it peeked over the seat of the stool, meeting my gaze with two giant lavender eyes. What the hell was this thing? It was orange with purple hair! What the fuck is that?! It was… some kind of… equine creature, like if you took toy pony and upped the cuteness factor by a freakin’ bazillion. It was adorable!

“What in the world are you?” I asked what I thought was a rhetorical question as I slowly approached the little creature. I didn’t expect an answer.

“I… I’m S… Scootaloo.” It squeaked.

“Holy shit you can talk! What the fuck is a Scootaloo?” I was dumbfounded.

“I… I’m a Pegasus,” it told me, as if this fact should’ve been obvious. Then I realized that it indeed had wings… tiny little wings, but wings nonetheless; the feathery appendages that jutted out from its back were unmistakeable.

“What are you doin’ out here in the cold?” I asked. The little thing was shivering something awful. “C’mere,” I beckoned, taking off my jacket and offering it up as a blanket. Cautiously, the tiny pony stepped out from behind the bar stool and trotted over to me. I wrapped it… er her I figured once I could see the creature’s anatomy… up in my jacket and cradled her in my arms. “There ya go! Better?”

She let out a blissful little peep and burrowed deeper into the jacket. I took that as a “yes”.

“So… Scoota… sorry what was it?”

“Scootaloo!” she squeaked.

“Scootaloo… what are you doing out in the cold then?” Worry suddenly creased her brow.

“I… I dunno!” she lamented. “I don’t know how to get home!”

“Well, let’s get you somewhere warmer before we try and figure that out.”

I was positively jolly as I walked home… practically skipping down the familiar route that I would normally trudge dejectedly. I had found a little friend! We would have so much fun together! “Don’t worry about a thing little Scootaloo, we’re gonna have a fun day!” For the first time, she smiled up at me, nuzzling my neck with her itty bitty snout. It tickled and I laughed. And to think just a little while ago I had been so pissed off! Sometimes life just does a 180 like that.

When we arrived at my apartment I set Scootaloo carefully down on the couch and gave her a minute to get acclimated while I made myself a drink. I got to thinking… what could we do for entertainment. Hmm… aha! I suddenly remembered I had some firecrackers! I bet she would think those were cool. I rummaged around in the top cupboard and found the fourth of July leftovers.

“Scootaloo, do you like fireworks?” I asked as I walked back into the living room where she was snuggled up on the couch.

“Yeah!” I could see her eyes light up. I could tell she was the tomboyish type – she probably loved explosions.

“Do you like them up your ass?”

“Yea… wait what?” Before she could even process that statement I grabbed her by the tail and held her up, jamming a firecracker into her virgin anus and lighting the fuse with my zippo. She screamed and a little bit of blood trickled out of her backside. This was gonna be great! With all my strength I lobbed her across the room. She hit the wall so hard her head made a dent. Just before she landed on the floor there was a muted POP as the firecracker went off. Blood sprayed everywhere as her asshole was blown open, ejecting the contents of her bowels. She shrieked when she landed on her back. A fountain of urine went shooting up in the air as she lost bladder control. Scootaloo writhed in pain as a pool of blood slowly accumulated around her.

“WHY MISTER WHY?!” she wailed.

“Because silly, your tiny ass would have been way too tight to fuck. I had to make the hole bigger!” I explained as I picked the bleeding filly up off the ground and pulled out my erect penis. All that blood had made me hard. I jammed her down onto my member. Her insides were so soft and squishy it was heavenly.

“OWIE OWIE OWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!” she hollered as I rammed her ruined anal cavity.

“Shush,” I said, “I’m about to come.” I clapped my hand over her mouth to shut her up. SHE BIT ME. “Ouch! That’s a bad filly!” I punched her in the face a couple of times, bloodying her nose. Right before I came I grabbed one of her tiny wings and twisted hard. When she opened her mouth to scream I jammed my dick down her throat and fucked it until I blew my load. She instantly vomited all over herself. I punched her again and then threw her on the floor in her own puddle of puke. She tried to stand up but the pain from her destroyed ass caused her to let out an agonized squeak and fall over again, landing face first in the puddle of spew.

“Wow! That was fun, huh Scootaloo!” I smiled warmly at her. She didn’t answer. She’d begun to cry, her whole body trembling as she wept. I kicked her in the throat and she wretched again. “C’mon wasn’t that fun?” I asked once more.

“Wh… why?” was all she could manage.

“Because!” I laughed. She sobbed. “Aww, are you a sad pony? I know what will cheer you..."

BLAM!

The door to my apartment went flying off its hinges. Standing in the doorway was another pony! She was much bigger than Scootaloo and different colored: blue with a rainbow mane.

“Scootaloo! I heard… I’ve been looking… OH CELESTIA!” she cried out in horror when she saw the little one bleeding on the floor.

“Rainbow Dash help me! HELP ME!”

“Oh wow! Another friend!” I exclaimed, “This will be great!”

The blue pony was a pegasus, I could plainly see, as she had taken a defensive stance in front of Scootaloo, with her wings flared out, trying to look as big and fearsome as possible. She glared daggers at me. “You’re gonna pay for this you bastard,” she growled.

“Alright!” I shouted gleefully. “Hit me with your best shot!” She launched herself at me, cracking me in the jaw with her hoof. I stumbled backward a little, tasting blood. But she was so small there just wasn’t enough weight behind the blow to do any significant damage. “Ow, that was pretty good,” I told her as she stared at me in bewilderment, “but not good enough. Try again!” She looked confused, but then the ire crept back into her eyes and she came at me again. This time I decided it would be more fun to fight back. I let her punch me again and I fell over backwards, faking a cry of pain. She got cocky. When she pounced on me thinking I was floored I easily grabbed her hoovsies and subdued her.

“Naughty naughty pony!” I said as she struggled to escape the choke hold I’d put her in. “Time for you to learn a lesson!” I took her into the kitchen and selected a large knife from my collection. I slammed Rainbow Dash down on the little card table where I usually ate. She struggled so hard, kicking and buzzing her wings, but she couldn’t have weighed more than 30 pounds so she simply wasn’t a match for me. I positioned the knife right in front of her little pony slit, then jammed it in and began fucking her with it. She shrieked at every thrust as the blade tore up her insides, blood and urine dribbling out of her vagina. When I got bored with that I noticed I had a boner again, so I whipped it out once again and began plowing her slashed up gash. She vomited up some blood – the knife must have pierced all the way through to her stomach! She was bleeding profusely out of pretty much every orifice in her body; I must have really diced up her little organs. The blood made her hole slick and wet. It felt fantastic. I pulled out and came on her face, then punched her lights out. I dragged her unconscious body back into the living room and picked up Scootaloo as well, who had been inching her way toward the open door. She’d only made it a few feet.

“Please please don’t hurt Rainbow! Please! PLEASE!” she begged.

“I won’t, I promise. You will! We’re gonna play a game!” I took my two new friends up to the roof of my building. There was a shed up there with some tools that all the tenants shared. I opened it up and found exactly what I was looking for: a hacksaw and a length of rope.

“Wakie wakie," I whispered in Rainbow Dash’s ear, slapping her until she opened her eyes. She coughed up more blood and made a feeble attempt to push away from me, but I could feel her trembling as I held her; she was hurt bad. She flapped her wings, taking to the air, but her wounds made her slow and I easily grabbed her by the tail, slamming her onto the ground.

“P-please just let us go!” she beseeched me.

“I’m about to!” I told her, positioning the saw at the base of one of her wings. I began cutting and she started thrashing and pounding the ground with her hooves. Her shrieks slowly turned to sobs when I hit the bone. The saw was dull but it did the job eventually. When I got about half way through I grabbed the wing and twisted, breaking it off with brute force. She was in shock, quaking, her breathing shallow. I smacked her a few times to make sure she was fully conscious before I took the rope and tied it tight around her neck. Then I took out my pocket knife and slit her belly open. I planted my foot firmly on the other end of the rope and tossed Rainbow off the edge of the roof. “Scootaloo, catch!” I laughed. The little Pegasus rocketed into the air with all the speed she could muster and dove after her friend. Surprisingly she caught the larger pony before the slack ran out. She grunted and buzzed her wings furiously, trying to hold Rainbow Dash up.

“Scoot! Don’t let me die! Please!” Dash moaned, but I could already see the little Pegasus was soaked with sweat and tiring fast. The futile struggle went on for another minute or two as Scootaloo put every ounce of strength she had into saving her friend. “Scoot please! Please! Remember everything I taught you! You can do it!” Rainbow cried… she didn’t sound too confident. To my amazement the little pony began flapping even harder and the two slowly began to rise back up to the rooftop. It was a herculean feat! They were only inches from salvation when it happened. Scootaloo’s wings gave out and they fell. When the rope went taught Dash’s intestines spilled out of the slit in her belly, slopping onto the ground below. Her neck didn’t break though; she was too light, so she would have to choke. I held the rope and looked over the edge, watching the drama unfold. Scootaloo was clinging to her older counterpart, bawling.

“NO RAINBOW NO! DON’T LEAVE ME PLEASE! I’M SO SORRY! DON’T LEAVE ME!” The little pony cried, but Dash was on her way out, her remaining wing buzzing spasmodically, little squeaks and choking noises coming from her throat. Her wing buzzed furiously for a few more seconds and then she went limp. I hauled her body back up to the roof. Scootaloo clung to it still, crestfallen and weeping.

“Tsk tsk,” I chided, “You killed her! Too bad you were too weak to save her, because now she’s dead and it’s all your fault.” The little filly began shivering and bawling even harder.

“I’M SO SORRY RAINBOW DASH!” she squealed to the gutted corpse, hugging it tight. I pulled her off the body and undid the noose, then kicked the corpse off of the roof. There was a satisfying crunch when it hit the ground. Scootaloo cried harder still. I tucked her under my arm and headed back down to my apartment.

“Time for more fun!” I told her. This day was turning out delightful!

Playing Tag

Playing Tag

I awoke this morning as I usually do… reeking of booze with a massive hangover and a half-finished cigarette in my mouth. I was cradling a handle of gin, most of which I’d spilled on myself. The apartment was oddly silent… for the past six months I’d usually hear Scootaloo watching TV or weeping in a corner somewhere. Oh fuckballs… the door was open. I’d been so drunk I forgot to lock it. Well, I thought, I guess this is the day bitches die. I staggered drunkenly over to my gun rack. Hmm… I carefully selected a shotgun from my collection and loaded it up with bird shot. I hadn’t been asleep long so she couldn’t have gotten far. I went over to the corner Scootaloo usually cowered in once I was done with her and felt the carpet… still warm.

In the dead of night I stalked the streets of Eugene, clad in black, every one of my senses at highest acuity. It was time to play hide and seek. Scoots had never been outside since I found her; she had no knowledge of the terrain so I figured, being alone and frightened, she’d make for somewhere familiar. I slunk down thirteenth street, hiding behind cars, making for the little alleyway where I’d originally found the Pegasus. When I arrived I saw exactly what I was hoping for. One of the bar denizens had already found her while smoking a cigarette.

“It’s okay,” the woman cooed to the trembling little filly, “you’re safe now, nobody’s ever going to hurt you again.”

“Excuse me miss,” I began politely, “but it appears you’ve found my pony! Scootaloo, that’s a naughty girl, running away like that.”

“She talks…” the woman said, sizing me up, her eyes betraying unease, “she said a man was hurting…”

“That’s him!” the little bitch squeaked, calling me out, “he hurts me!”

I rolled my eyes, “I just rape her every now and then…”

“You sick fuck,” the woman looked at me in disgust, “I’m calling the police and letting the--”

WHAP!

I pulled my rifle out from under my coat and cracked her upside the head with the stock. She fell to the ground unconscious, blood dribbling from her mouth. I’d managed to catch her mid-sentence and when my gun slammed into her jaw she’d bitten off part of her tongue. Scootaloo squealed and bolted, taking to the air. I sprinted after her. Now it was time to play tag, and boy was I it. Scoot couldn’t fly high enough yet to clear most of the buildings, so she was forced to weave through the dark, empty streets. That is, until she hit a dead end. The silly filly had taken a wrong turn and now I had her cornered in a cul de sac.

“Tag, you’re it.”

KABLAM!

I gave the filly a healthy dose of birdshot and she hit the ground, a pool of blood quickly forming around her mangled little body. She cried out in pain, sobbing and thrashing.

“OWIE OWIE OWWW! MOMMY! I WANT MY MOMMY,” the shock had reduced her to screaming for her mother like a lost child. I went and picked her up, holding her under my arm like a sack of potatoes. Blood ran down my trenchcoat.

“That’s a bad filly willy! Naughty naughty! Now you’re going to get punished.”

When we arrived back at my apartment, I tied the bleeding Scootaloo down to my card table and headed up to the tool shed on the roof, returning with a hammer.

“Now now,” I said, “we can’t have you flying off like that again, can we?” I smiled at her. She was shivering and she tucked her bloodied wings in as tight as she could. I easily overpowered her tiny little muscles and pulled her left wing out to its full extent. I raised the hammer.

“WAIT WAIT WAIT PLEASE! PLEASE NOT MY WING!” she pleaded.

“Aww, are we scared for our little wingsies?” I put the hammer down and held the feathery little appendage, stroking it and scratching underneath it. Scootaloo blushed in spite of herself, looking away shamefully. So this is arousing, I thought. I began massaging more vigorously and she let slip a soft moan. I took my other hand and slid it into her tight little filly slit, rubbing her clit with my thumb. Her adolescent, hormone-saturated instincts took over and she began grinding against my hand. After a minute or two I could tell she was going to come. Scootaloo began to climax. She didn’t even notice when I took my hand off her wing and picked up the hammer.

CRUNCH!

Right at the point of peak sensitivity, when every nerve in her body was on overdrive, I crushed the little wing. The ensuing shriek could’ve woken the dead. I clamped my hand over her mouth. I could feel it vibrate from the force of the muffled screaming.

“Well, you’re never going to fly again!” upon hearing this she stopped screaming and began sobbing. I got sick of the noise and cracked her over the head with the hammer, splitting her scalp open and knocking her unconscious. I know it takes two wings to fly, but just, you know, purely for good measure I broke the other one, tiny little bones snapping under the hammer fall. Hmm… she could still run, I reasoned. I’ll have to do something about that…

Punishment

Punishment

After her little escape attempt I decided to give little Scoots the benefit of the doubt. All I did was break her wings and give her a little warning that things would be worst next time. For the first few weeks I could hear her crying every night in her corner, desperately preening and massaging the feathery appendages, hoping she might save them, yet slowly but surely they healed into broken, useless things. If she buzzes them hard she can sometimes make it a few inches off the ground, but she seems to have accepted she will never fly. I was foolish enough to think that meant she had accepted her fate as my play toy.

About two weeks after her first flight, she tried again. Tracking her down on foot was easy.

“Remember I said if you tried that again you’d get punished?” I asked her.

“Wh… What are you gonna do?” she whimpered, cowering in her corner.

“Just wait,” I grinned. I went up to the tool shed on the roof. When I came back I had with me a hack saw and a roll of duct tape.

“Please Daddy,” she’s taken to calling me that seeing as I’m the closest thing to a parent she has… quite pathetic, “don’t hurt me anymore!”

“Now Scoots, if I didn’t stick to my word where would we be?” I grabbed at her but she dodged between my legs and hid under my futon couch. This is a common occurrence. I got down on my stomach and tried to reach for her, but she was backed all the way up against the wall. I went to move the couch but she had already darted back to her corner, curled up into a little ball, hiding her lavender eyes behind her purple mop of a tail. She was letting out long, guttural sobs. The sound of her crying irritated me.

“You want something to cry about? I’ll give you something to cry about you naughty filly!" She started to tremble. That either meant she was a fucking idiot or really smart, because she was either just realizing that I was angry, or she knew exactly what was coming. I think it was the latter. I was on her before she could run again. I grabbed her by the mane, lifting her up to my eye level as she kicked and struggled, buzzing her wings desperately. My other hand grabbed her by the ear and twisted, forcing her to stop squirming and look at me. I smacked her hard across the cheek. I gripped her mane by the very roots with one hand and with the other I plucked a metal picture frame off the wall – me and an old friend I never talked to anymore – and began beating her over the head with it. The glass shattered on the first whack, little shards embedding themselves in her forehead. She screeched and tried to wrench free of my grip, but I held fast. I struck her over and over and over, driving the glass shards in, then turning the now bent-up frame and slashing her across the cheek with its edge. Blood splattered all over me as I beat her with absolutely no mercy. I cackled, reveling in the sadism of it all.

As my weapon started to bend and give out, I rained down one final series of blows so savage that the hair by which I held her tore out and she fell to the floor, her face an unrecognizable, battered hunk of meat. Her eyes were swollen shut, black and blue. Both top and bottom lip were split open. There was a ragged strip of the tender scruff of her neck attached to the chunk of mane I had ripped out. She lay motionless on the carpet a few feet from me. I grabbed my handle of gin and downed half the remaining contents in one long series of gulps, then lobbed the bottle at her with all my drunk, enraged might. It shattered when it connected with her skull, driving more splinters of glass into her head and dousing her in alcohol. She was shocked back to consciousness as the booze seeped into her cuts and gashes, burning like hellfire. She tried to move but she was blind and spinning in a world of hurt. I was upon her in an instant, stomping on her ribcage. I could feel the bones flex, then crack, one of them perforating the skin, coming to stick out the side of her belly. Finally I got tired and stopped. Scoot’s body looked like her face now, a bloody, quivering, barely recognizable mass of flesh. A soft whine escaped her lips. I gave her face one last kick. She shuddered violently and soiled herself.

I picked her up again and took her into the kitchen, slamming her down on the table. Rainbow Dash watched us silently, her head mounted on the wall. I kept it there to remind Scootaloo both of her failure and what happens to naughty ponies.

When she heard me unzip my fly she stared bawling at the top of her lungs, “NO! PLEASE! PLEASE DADDY NOT AGAIN!” as she screamed I rammed my throbbing member into her backside as hard as I could. She screeched and blood began trickling out of her ruined anus. She banged her little hoovsies on the table and wailed in agony as I fucked her. I could feel her whole body vibrate as she shook with fear and shock, and it felt wonderful. It wasn’t long before I came, pulling out and ejaculating in her eyes. She flailed about, blinded trying to escape but I held her down. “WHY WHY WHY?” she lamented. I just grabbed the duct tape and wrapped some around her muzzle, muting her pleas for mercy.

“Now now,” I said, shaking my finger at her, “we can’t have you trying to run off again, can we?” I lined the hacksaw up with the Achilles tendon on one of her back legs and with a swift ripping motion, severed it.

“MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMRRRRRRRRRRRGHHHHHHHHHHHH,” came the muted, throat-tearing wail. I did the same to her other leg and it elicited a similar reaction.

“There,” I smiled in satisfaction, now you’re not going anywhere. The mutilated filly had stopped hollering and was now sobbing quietly, her entire body mangled.

“I told you I’d give you something to cry about. Cry. About. That!” I spat the words at her, then went and sat down on my futon and drank until I blacked out.

My Solution

My Solution

I woke up to another glorious hangover. I immediately checked the corner – no Scoots. I looked around the still messed up room, eyeing the busted picture frame and accompanying blood spatter with only a slight twinge of guilt. The piece of her mane and skin I’d torn out lay on the floor.

I got up to make some eggs and as I walked to the kitchen, saw it, a trail of blood and filth leading to my small bathroom. I followed it, and found what remained of the little Pegasus curled up behind the door in a pool of her own blood and urine, sharp, shallow, uneven breaths the only sign she was alive. I stretched and cracked my neck, shaking my head. “It’s your own fault, you know.” I left momentarily, going to the kitchen, my little shred of a conscience demanding that I at least give her food and water. I set a bowl and a couple slices of bread down next to her. “When you can move, you better clean up the mess you made, or I’ll beat you the rest of the way to an early grave, you hear me Scoots?”

To my amazement, two barely audible words escaped her swollen lips.

“S-sowwy Daddy.”

For the first few days she could only lift her head just enough to sip the water. Then eventually she nibbled on the bread, though it had gone stale at that point. Somehow she was alive and recovering. How unexpected! I don’t know if it was magic, or simply the resilience of her youthful body but there’s nothing up to which I can chalk Scoot’s recovery. The only thing that required my attention was fixing her ribs, which I set without too much trouble despite having next to no medical knowledge whatsoever. The rest healed with time. I wasn’t quite sure why I was keeping her alive, but it was something to do, and if I failed, oh well!

I woke up one fine February morning to another agonizing hangover chorus line, drowning myself in gin to stop the pain. I looked at the calendar across the wall but it was a blur. I reached for my glasses and put those on but nothing changed – I was just wasted. I couldn’t be a hundred percent sure, and it wasn’t worth me getting up to look yet, but I believed it had been exactly a year since I found Scoots.

Since her last punishment she’d finally come to accept her fate, and had made no attempts to run away or slip out. She’d even warmed up to me, an exemplary case of Stockholm syndrome.

As usual I pulled her out from under my pillow - that’s where she sleeps now - and tossed her onto the floor, rolling over to go back to sleep. She always cries when I do that, but these days only out of sadness and dejection, not physical pain. Her wounds were all healed up, and all but the two largest scars – the gash on her cheek and the tear on the back of her neck – had faded and the velvety orange fur had regrown. Even the torn out chunk of mane was growing back, covering her neck scar. She looked unkempt, her mane (and tail) had gotten long and matted during her stay with me, and the shorter part where it had been ripped out didn’t help her appearance any. I guessed I’d have to give her a haircut? That sounded like too much effort for something I didn’t give a flaming fuck about. I was also almost certain she was several inches taller than when I first found her. I don’t know much about pony life cycles but she seemed to be in the midst of a growth spurt. That also may have accounted for her rapid recovery.

It was remarkable. Despite that savage beatings and the smaller daily cruelties and humiliations she suffered at my hands, she remained attached to me like some pathetically faithful pet that blames its master for nothing.

“Daddy!” she whined – I HATED that she’d started calling me that, “bed pleeease?”. She stood on her back legs, her forehooves up on the futon grabbing at me as she begged me to let her back in bed.

“Fine,” I grumbled, “just stay still and keep your trap shut. If you poke me with those bony little wings I’m throwing you outside.”

*Squee* She squeaked happily as she jumped back up and burrowed under the comforter, snuggling up against me.

“Don’t fidget,” I growled. She held perfectly still. Sootaloo did as she was told, asked for little, and was sickeningly eager to please. I was still baffled by her misguided affection. Despite all the “games” I’d played with her it seemed as though, lacking any other parental figure, she’d gone through some kind of strange imprinting or bonding process and now considered herself my “daughter”. I considered her my solution…my solution to the problem that I was usually drunk, horny, and pissed off.

Haircuts and Funny Feelings

Haircuts and Funny Feelings

I told you I had a story to tell. Pretty fucked up, isn’t it? Anyway, that’s more or less how Scoot and I came to be. A lot of shit has happened since. I’m not some sappy emo twat who writes in a journal every day, nevertheless, here’s an update since the mood struck me.

It’s been about three years since I found Scoot. I’ve never stopped abusing her, but I have accepted the fact that I need to perform some basic routines to care for her if I want her alive. Giving her food, that’s a big one, food and water. She’s so energetic that when I forget for a few days she starts to get pretty thin. Still, she never asks or reminds me. It’s one of her most pathetic qualities.

I don’t know her exact birth date, and neither does she, so I’ve figured that she was roughly around eight years old when I found her on that cold February night. We consider that her birthday. I don’t give her much but usually on that day I refrain from any serious beatings or tirades and I buy her a cupcake or a donut or something. A simple proffered pastry can reduce her to tears of joy. I suppose because she knows no life other than constant rejection and derision at my hands these small gifts must seem like acts of adoration by comparison. I have to resist pounding her face in when she jumps up and hugs me tight just because I gave her a bloody muffin or something.

She’s gotten big – she’s about a two feet in height and a good twenty pounds or so; not as easy to throw around anymore. Still, I manage.

This morning I was laughing at her hysterically because she tripped over her own long, curly mane, faceplanting like a rockstar failing a stage dive. “Daddy I need a haircut,” she said.

“Here’s ten bucks, run down to the barber shop,” I guffawed, tossing her a wadded-up bill. She lowered her head sadly. She does that a lot.

“But I can’t…”

“Damn right you can’t, unless you want to end up in some government lab on a dissection table.” She stared at me blankly. “Go cut your own damn mane,” I said finally.

“You know I can’t,” she lamented again, her lip quivering. Goddamn I’m getting soft… something about that quivery lip thing jabs at my otherwise Scootaloo-proof heart.

“Fine you little punk ass, go get me some scissors.” She trotted off happily to her room.

Oh yeah, that’s another thing, we moved. I’m now the proud manager of my own liquor store and I make pretty damn decent money, not to mention what I save now that I get free booze. I moved from my old one bedroom apartment into a little condo with a nice living room slash kitchen area, and two bedrooms – one for me and one to house my ever growing collection of alcohol and junk – and a storage closet that functions as Scoot’s room when she wants some privacy and a place to keep her few treasured personal items. I’ve also got a garage, but no car. When Scootaloo pisses me off I make her sleep in there, that’s pretty much its only function.

I’m no hair stylist but I’m enough of an artist that I would call Scootaloo’s haircut a success. I also clipped her tail, which had gotten so long it dragged on the ground even when she held it aloft. She regarded herself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the corner of the living room, shaking her newly trimmed locks in delight and waggling her bum about, swishing her tail.

“Thanks Daddy!” She galloped over to embrace me but I brushed her away. As usual she hung her head. “No hug?”

“No hug. You’re covered in loose hair, go take a bath.” She could wash herself now, but it wasn’t always so. About three months after I’d found her I finally accepted that she was utterly filthy. I conceded that I had to teach her how to take a bath. It was an epic struggle – she thought I was trying to kill her, and frankly at certain times I was. Anyway now that she was roughly eleven years old she could do it herself, thank god. I wasn’t sure how many more times I could bathe her and resist the urge to drown her. She hobbled off to the bathroom. I passed out, cradling a handle of booze in my arms.

When I awoke, Scoot, all fresh and clean, was lying next to me, a funny look on her face as she stared at the bottle.

“Oooh no, this is my gin, punk,” I held my precious bottle like one might hold an infant, “none for you… not till you’re older. You’d just puke and piss yourself… again.” Her face turned red and she looked away. I’d never let her forget about her accidents, it’s another way to keep her in her place. Slowly, however, she turned back, looking at the bottle again.

“Daddy”

“Whaaaaat?”

“Why don’t you ever hold me like that?”

“Because you don’t get me drunk,” I laughed. She was jealous of a bottle! But hey, that’s the hierarchy of value in this house: Me, then the bottle, then pretty much everything else, then Scootaloo.

“I could make you more happier than that dumb ol’ bottle!” she declared.

“No, you make me angry, like when you use double superlatives! “More happier” is a grammatical mistake!” I bopped her on the head. As always she began to tear up. “You want to make me more happier? Stop crying, shut up, and make me a sandwich!”

“I-I’m s-sorry…” she began to stutter, but I cut her off.

“Ugh, at least stop your blubbering and watch the TV, Daddy needs his fucking sleepies!” Eager as ever to please, she practically sucked the tears back into her eyes and turned toward the TV with a stoic expression.

“Make it go?” she glanced back at me after a moment. Spongebob – her favorite show - was still on pause from earlier. I took a swig of gin and handed her the remote, pointing out the ‘play’ button.

“Do it yourself,” I told her, “I’m going to sleep, and if you wake me up, no dinner tonight.” She heard the finality of my tone and didn’t protest. I pretended to go to sleep, trying not to laugh as she struggled to operate the remote with her big clumsy hooves, poking it with her wings as well. Eventually, whether by practice or luck, she managed to hit the button. She was so concentrated on working the remote that when the TV finally came to life the sound startled her and she let out a little squeak. I chuckled quietly and finally passed out in earnest.

I awoke in the afternoon to a loud crash and a pounding headache. Fortunately I had my gin; I took a massive gulp. The door to the porch was open and I knew exactly what had happened: she’d tried to fly again. She wasn’t trying to escape; lately she’d just wanted to learn to fly, but her busted up wings wouldn’t allow it. I waited. Sure enough about five minutes later there was a little hoof tap on the front door. I didn’t feel like getting up. I took another pull of gin and fell back asleep.

I awoke all lit up. Apparently I’d had more to drink than I thought, either that or I’d been drinking in my sleep… it’s been known to happen. My stomach roiled and I ran to the bathroom and puked my guts out into the toilet. Too much gin.

My head was foggy and pounding like a jackhammer. I stumbled over to the kitchen and opened the fridge, removing a bottle of barelywine. I smacked the cap off on the counter and downed the contents, the cool liquid quenching the fire in my stomach and soothing my headache. I looked at the clock… it was blurry but I could make out the time – 7:28. I had half an hour to get my head straight and go to work. As manager I had to supervise the night shift closely. Back when I just worked the register at the old liquor store I didn’t give a fuck if I sold to underage kids – I’d just get fired and the store would lose its liquor license. Now that I had a good job and a good income I didn’t want the graveyard guys fucking things up for me. I’d advised them under threat of firing their asses to card everyone, but they were lazy bastards just like I’d been, so unless I was around my store could be in danger. Hey, said the clearer half of my brain, where’s Scoot?

Oh, right.

I opened the front door and there she lay, balled up and shivering in the cold, covered in twigs and sap, her muzzle and face all bloody, both eyes black and blue, one wing sticking out at an even more mawkward angle than usual. I prodded her with my foot and she moaned, her injured wing twitching. I bent down and grabbed her by her matted purple mane, dragging her inside. She left a trail of blood in her wake, far too much for just a bloody nose. Upon closer examination I found the source of the bleeding: it looked as though she’d landed on a sharp stick or rock and it had punched a hole in her flank. The wound wasn’t too deep - she’d be fine if I cleaned her up, but I had to get to work. I threw a towel on the couch and then laid her gently on it. She whined and buzzed her “good” wing. I hoped the blood wouldn’t soak through, but then again my futon is black so what did I really care. I found an old hoodie and covered her up so she wouldn’t freeze while I was gone. Her blackened right eye fluttered open; the pupil was dilated and the white was stained crimson from a burst capillary. She tried to open the other eye but it was swollen firmly shut. I just shook my head at her. “You can’t fly, why do you keep doing this?”

Scoot began to cry, “But I want to fly!”

“Well, too bad. If you hadn’t been a naughty pony and tried to fly away, your wings would still work. It’s your own fault. Now watch TV, Daddy has to go to work. I’ll patch your sorry ass up when I get back.” I turned to walk out the door but a little squeak stopped me.

“Daddy?”

“What?!”

“I love you.”

I felt funny.

Love

Love

It’s a hard thing to touch the heart of a psychopath. That is what I am, and I’ve never had any regrets.

I awoke in the dead of the night, still pretty damn drunk. It was the middle of summer. Scoot wasn’t curled up beside me like usual – she had long since grown too large to sleep at the head of the couch under my pillow, and had begun sleeping next to me, but tonight she wasn’t in her usual spot. I looked out the sliding glass doors to the patio, and there, silhouetted against a hunter’s moon was the little pony – relatively little, anyway. At the age of 14 she was physically matured, standing about three and a half feet. I wanted to have another drink and go back to sleep, but something, I didn’t know what, made me stagger to my feet to go join her.

“Hi Dad,” she said without looking at me. Her voice had dropped an octave since she hit puberty; it was low and raspy yet feminine… think Tara Reid or Fairuza Balk.

“What are you doing, Scoots?”

“Thinking…”

“About what?” I was genuinely curious.

“You haven’t touched me in a while.” It was true; I’d been drinking so much lately that I’d scarcely been coherent enough to raise a hand at her.

“Little Scootie misses her playtime?” I condescended to her. She was silent for a long time, but at length she spoke.

“We’re all we have…”

“What do you mean?”

“You have no friends, you have no lover. I have nothing but you, whatever you may do to me…”

“Your point?” I took a swig of gin… this conversation was getting weird, even by my standards. I didn’t feel right.

“Do you love me?” Her words were slow, deliberate, and careful… clearly premeditated. I was dumbfounded. I felt really funny.

“I…”

“Do you love me?” She turned around, her violet eyes were smoldering, full of anger, confusion, and something I couldn’t put my finger on. “You may have broken me but you’ve never killed me… you patch me up, you keep me around; you use me and abuse me but you’ve never let me die and every night we lie together… do you not love me?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I… I don’t know how to say it because everything this world has ever taught me says it’s wrong but it feels so right and… I can’t… I need…” she paused, her gaze was momentarily distant, but then it snapped back into mine, fire raging within those purple orbs. She lunged forward, pinning me to my chair, her lips meeting mine with crushing force, forelegs wrapping around me as tight as could be, forcing me to return the embrace. Suddenly it all made some fucked up kind of sense and I was kissing her just as passionately, gripping her mane, pulling her against me so tight that we might have melded into one being. My mind dispensed with all the silly reasons why this shouldn’t be or that it was wrong; there was only my soul and hers intertwined, burning together into a single entity. Our bodies continued to wrap round one another; she was on top of me now, her hind legs around my waist, my arm around hers. She was bearing down on me, her lips and tongue making love to mine with reckless abandon. The moment was an eternity and an instant. When our lips parted and our eyes opened I could see her face was flushed, her tongue still hanging out of a mouth that curled into a breathless, lustful grin. She licked my cheek, planted a kiss on it, then dove into my neck, kissing, nipping, licking, sucking… my body went limp. She owned me. My head lolled back, my eyes half-lidded; I was putty, and it felt so right in an impossible, bizarre, macabre and beautiful way. I… I loved Scootaloo.

We fucked like animals on that porch.

“If you’re going to help me, we need to get those wings fixed,” I told Scootaloo.

“How…?”

It was one in the morning. The veterinarian’s office was closed but the light was on inside… somebody was still in there. Too bad for them.

I kicked down the door and in an instant a woman was there, pointing a revolver at me. I wasn’t surprised, vet clinics in Eugene got robbed all the time for tranquilizers and opiates.

“Hello… Maggie…” I said, looking at her name tag.

“If you’re here for drugs, we keep them in the safe, and I’m not saying shit… now you can either leave or I can blow your fucking brains out!”

“Slow your roll honey, I’ve got something you’ll want to see,” I told the nurse. “I’m just a customer… let me show you what’s in my pack…”

She cocked the hammer and nodded her head. I unshouldered the large camping pack I was carrying and unzipped the top flap, letting Scoot hop out. She looked up at the lady and smiled the cute little smile I’d taught her. Nurse Maggie was jelly in an instant. “Oh my goodness what is it? It’s ador--”

“Lights out!” I jammed a syringe filled with M-99 into the distracted nurse’s jugular, knocking her out in an instant. I removed the revolver from her hands, uncocked it, and shoved it in my belt. We had work to do, and we didn’t waste any time.

I’ve spent the past few weeks reading up on the anatomy of wings – bird’s wings, specifically. They seemed to be quite akin to Pegasus wings. I gave Scoots her own, pony-sized dose of M-99 and went to work. First I stripped the feathers from her wings, leaving behind only two badly bent skinny appendages. I then went about re-breaking the bones, using the veterinary supplies at my disposal to set them correctly. When all was said and done they were all splinted up. I then injected her with a heavy dose of morphine to kill the pain and then jabbed her with an epi pen to wake her up. Her eyes fluttered groggily. Suddenly, as she remembered the purpose of our little mission, she whipped her head back to look at her wings. Scootaloo gasped.

“I know it looks ugly kid, but trust me, once they heal up they’ll work.” She nodded solemnly when I told her this. “Now, help me move this bitch,” I said, walking back out into the hall and indicating the unconscious nurse. We each took one end of the body and, with some effort, managed to cram her in the trunk of my new car.

“What are we gonna do with her?” Scoots inquired excitedly as we drove home.

“Play.”

Waltz

Waltz

“Wh… where…” I heard the voice coming from my living room as I puttered about the kitchen, gathering various implements. “H… Hey you! Little one! Help me. Y-You’ll help me, right sweetheart?”

“Daaaaddy, she’s awaaaaake!” Scoots called to me, ignoring the nurse’s pleas. She still called me Daddy, but it now held very different connotations. I came out of the kitchen to a delicious sight. The pretty nurse was trussed up, arms and legs bound, hanging from the ceiling fan. Her makeup was running down her forehead as panicked tears streamed from her eyes.

“Please let me go! PLEASE! I won’t te--”

WHAM! I kicked her in the head dazing her, but I was sure she was lucid enough to understand me when I said “You’re not going anywhere,” because she tried to scream. She couldn’t, however, because of the ball-gag little Scoots was fastening around her head. “Good girl,” I told the pony, patting her on the head. She nuzzled my hand an kissed it, smiling eagerly up at me.

“What do we do now Daddy?”

“Whatever we want, my sweet.”

“C… can I try something?” She asked timidly.

“Go for it!” I said with gusto.

“I need… um… a knife! A sharp one!” She beamed. I handed her a scalpel from the tray of carefully selected surgical implements I had brought from the kitchen. She took it in her mouth. By now the nurse’s eyes were wide and her breathing heavy. A series of muffled sounds came from her gagged mouth. Scoots gave me one last look and I nodded reassuringly. She plunged the scalpel into the woman’s chin and began to cut around the edge of her face. What an ambitious little girl!

“MMMMMMMPGH!! MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMPHG!!” Nurse Maggie was probably screeching as loud as any human being could, but the gag assured nobody would hear her. Scootaloo cut carefully, making sure to avoid the arteries. She needed a little help getting underneath the straps of the gag, but otherwise she did a lovely job removing the woman’s face. When she was done she put the floppy mask of flesh over her own face and laughed.

“Look Daddy! Now I’m a human too!” She danced about the room wearing Nurse Maggie’s face, standing on her hind legs and trying to look as humanlike as possible. I couldn’t help but giggle as I shared in her sadistic joy, grabbing her forehooves and leading her in a demented waltz around our mutilated victim. Her lidless, bloodshot eyes followed us, her skinless face a visage of pure horror.

All this was turning me on immensely, and I could see Scoots was dripping wet. I picked up my little pony lover and tossed her onto the couch. Without a word she spread her legs, inviting me in. We made love to the sound of muted screams.

When I opened my eyes Scoots and I were snuggled up together, our bodies intertwined, remnants of our passionate reverie. I carefully disentangeled myself from her, taking special care not to bother her delicately splinted wings. When I’d extricated myself from her embrace I went down to the garage and grabbed a bucket. Nurse Maggie was still awake, those lidless eyes bulging and staring with terror. I slashed her throat, letting her ichor slowly drain into the bucket. I had no specific plans for it, but you never know when you’ll need a bucket full of blood! Her body spasmed and shook in a violent death rattle and then she was still. When she stopped moving I began carefully removing her epidermis… I had a present to make for my little Scootaloo.

Marked In Blood

Marked in Blood

“Daddy it’s beautiful!” Scoot said, turning around in front the big mirror in our living room, admiring my work. I couldn’t let all that soft, supple skin go to waste, now could I, and I’d felt like doing something special for my little darling to celebrate her first time. When I was a boy my mother had taught me how to sew, and she’d taught me well. Scoot’s new dress was a testament to that. Suddenly she looked at me quizzically. “What did you do with the rest of her?”

“I saved her. You see Scoots, life is full of fun things to do, but after we have fun, sometimes we have to clean up…”

“Otherwise we could get in trouble, huh?”

“Exactly,” I said sagely, “so now I’m going to show you how to clean up.”

“Okay!” she was as enthusiastic as ever. I went to the large freezer and opened it up. Nurse Maggie’s skinless body was wedged in there with some TV dinners, part of a pot roast I was never going to eat, and a few bags of frozen peas. Always freeze them; a rigid body is much easier to deal with than a limp one. With some effort I lifted the slight woman’s body out of the freezer and laid her down on a plastic tarp I’d set up on the living room floor.

“Now Scoots, we need to cut her up. Little pieces, nothing bigger than an arm.”

“Okay Daddy!”

I went back to the kitchen and opened my knife drawer, selecting a large cleaver for myself, and a smaller one for my little darling.

“Think you can hack it?” I asked jocularly as I handed it to her. She giggled. I love a girl with a good sense of humor. So we set about cutting up the body into little pieces. Scootaloo, eager to please, was chopping wildly at anything within her reach. “Cut at the joints,” I told her, “It’ll make things easier.”

“Damn boy,” the plumber had said when he’d finished installing my industrial strength garbage disposal, “what ya gonna do with this thing, grind up bodies?”

“Yes, actually,” I had replied. He was the first one to go down the chute.

Once the body was in properly sized pieces, Scoots and I began feeding body parts into the garbage disposal. She really seemed to enjoy this part, the sounds of tearing flesh and snapping bones making her positively giddy. I watched her chuckle as she stood on the counter and fed an arm into the whirring blades, marveling at what I’d created. The scared little filly had grown up to be a party animal just like me! She was beautiful; long sleek legs, those big lavender eyes, one of them partly covered by her once short and spiky mane that was now long and wavy, a forelock draped over one side of her face in a devil-may-care sort of way.

When all was said and done we were both covered in blood. “Aww! My pretty dress is all stained! So is my fur!”

“Don’t worry kid, I’ll clean you right up,” I smiled. I got a we rag and began wiping her down.

“Hey don’t rub my butt so hard, I’m getting all horny.”

“Sorry darling, but this bit of blood won’t come off. Suddenly she went rigid, jumping off the counter and running to the big mirror in the living room.”

“MY CUTIE MARK!”

“Your what now?”

“My cutie mark! It’s what a pony gets when she finds her special talent! Look!” Upon closer examination I could see that the spot was in a perfect blood-drop shape. And she had one on either flank I could see as she danced around jovially, stopping every so often to admire the mark in the mirror.

“I may not be familiar with cutie marks, but I’m proud of you kid,” I said, tousling her mane and kissing her on the cheek. She kissed me back and pretty soon we were going at it, rolling around on the floor and making a bloody mess. I didn’t care, I was just so happy for her.

“I love you, my little Scootaloo,” I said, smiling as I picked a stray bit of bone out of her hair.

“I love you too Daddy.”