Memoirs of an Equestrian Psychopath
Memoirs of an Equestrian Psychopath – Prologue
Let me get one thing straight. This world isn’t the world you know. It isn’t sunshine and rainbows and friendship. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve nothing against you humans and the way you watch us. My regards to Twilight Sparkle and the rest for their performance on camera. But there’s something about Equestria that you need to know. Underneath the happiness and kindness, festering beneath the surface with it’s ugly head of pain and misery, is the dark underside to Equestrian life.
I work in the apex of disgust. Here in Manehattan, things are bad. Very bad. You see, what the show doesn’t tell you is all the shit that happens behind the scenes. From drug rings to major homicides, Manehattan has it all. While life out there in Ponyville or Canterlot might seem ideal, trust me, it’s not. Those are actors. Putting on a show. Out here, off the cameras, things aren’t so ideal. As a detective, I’ve seen it all.
Or at least I thought I had. Now, I was standing in the midst of any detective’s nightmare, looking at the most gruesome thing I had seen in my entire life, and trying very, very hard not to vomit.
“Detective? Are you okay?” One of the coroners laid a hoof on my shoulder. I glanced at her briefly, praying to everything under the sun I didn’t lose it in front of her.
“Fine.” I managed to choke at her.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” She said quietly. Her tone was sincere, but I caught the undertone behind it. Detectives that couldn’t handle gruesome scenes typically didn’t last long. I clenched my abdomen muscles and grimaced at her.
“Just trying to wrap my mind around this is all.” I returned. She nodded and turned back to her task. It looked to me like they were photographing all the bits. There were a lot of them. I turned my own attention back to the task at hand, and gripped my camera with my magic.
The scene took up an entire Manehattan apartment, with evidence strewn from the kitchen to the bedroom and back again. It seemed the killer had gone all-out, and taken all four of the residents one after the other. Victim number one was a young unicorn, couldn’t have been that long out of high school, and she had been the first to go. The nature of her wounds were quick and severe. Half of her skull had been caved in with a vicious kick, and she had multiple stab wounds to her abdomen. I couldn’t count all of the holes in her. Leave that to the coroners. I snapped my photos, added her body to the diagram, and moved on.
The second victim was also a unicorn, but much older. He had been the victim of strangulation, and his bloated tongue swelled from his mouth grotesquely. We hadn’t found the tool utilized, so he had either been strangled with magic, indicating a unicorn suspect, or the instrument of his murder had been moved afterwards. In addition to the dark marks around his neck, his entire back half lay at an odd angle. As I nudged him with a hoof, I could feel the bones in his spine shifting oddly. Sometime during the encounter, the assailant had shattered his spine. Again, I documented what I could and moved on.
The third victim was probably the worst. It was apparent the killer had taken their time here. With the fourth incapacitated one way or another, the killer had really thought out each detail with this murder. They worked slowly. Meticulously. Almost like they enjoyed each precise cut. All the screams of torment and pain. The victim was male, pegasus, and just under middle-aged. Blue coat, white mane, and a slender build. Only both of his wings were pinned to the wall, over a foot away from his shoulders. His forelegs were stretched out above his head, wound together with a sturdy-looking rope, and draped over a light fixture. His coat had been cut open from his genitals to his throat, peeled aside, and pinned to the wall like his wings were. His insides had been removed and scattered about haphazardly. His intestines lay draped over his neck like some grotesque charm.
“Detective.” The same coroner said softly. Only then I realized I had been snapping the same picture over and over. My magic gripped the camera’s shutter button firmly. With a soft breath, I released the button and tucked the camera away.
“Sorry.” I grumbled at her. “You said there were four victims. Where’s the last one?”
“Bedroom, down the hall. Follow the blood stains.” She clipped at me. I shot her another sympathetic look before hoisting my saddlebags over my flank and plodding down the hall. She was right. All I had to do was follow the blood stains. There was a long, thick red streak with little flecks flung as far as the wall, leading from the living room to the bedroom. I tried to steel myself mentally as I made my way down the hall, preparing myself for what I might find.
Nopony could have been prepared for that.
“Sweet Celestia.” My eyes went wide at the scene before me. It was gruesome. It was horrifying. It was sanguine. It was sickening. It was nightmarish.
But it was familiar.
“You doing okay, Beat? You look awful.” The commissioner leaned against my desk, a concerned look on his face. I looked up from the crime scene diagram I was working on, blinking at him a few times.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I responded, furrowing my brow. “Why, do I look like I’m not?”
“Heh. I guess not. There’s the old fire I love to see.” His horn lit up as he levitated a clear bag onto my desk. I looked at the contents, noting the blood-spattered book held within.
“What’s this, then?”
“Preliminary observations say it’s the killer’s journal. We found it at the scene after you ran off like you did.” I swallowed and laid a hoof on the bag, moving it around to look over the cover.
“You don’t think…?”
“In all likelihood, this is the same serial killer that killed your wife six years ago. Beat, I know this isn’t going to be easy for you, but you have more experience investigating these crimes than anypony else in the department. Now we have this fucker’s journal. I want you to read it. Pick their brain. See what you can find out. Is this the same bastard we’ve been running after for six years? Are there any clues between this journal and old cases? See what you can find. We’re counting on you, Beat. Take all the time you need. We’re gonna catch them.” The commissioner’s voice sparked something in me that I hadn’t felt in a long time. Something old and long-forgotten. Something buried behind layers of cold, dead indifference.
Righteousness.
I opened the bag and levitated the journal out. The bloodstains were dried and crusty, the cover worn with what I was assuming was years of use. My heart was hammering in my ears. My hooves shook as I slowly opened the cover.
2/14/7765
Monday
So this is the first entry. My therapist tells me keeping a journal will help me with my psychosis. She says that if I can convince myself to sit down, pen in hoof, and just write my thoughts, it’ll help me… I don’t fucking know. It took me twenty minutes to write the first bit of this. Twenty fucking minutes. That’s twenty minutes I could have spent walking around outside. Reading a good book. Getting laid.
Whatever. I have to do what the bitch says, or they’ll throw me back in the loony bin. So, here it is. I know you’re gonna be reading this, bitch. I hope you choke.
Fuck this. I can’t write anymore. I’m going for a walk.
The writing, save for it’s condescending tone, was really well-penned. I knew from experience that there was a marked difference between pegasus, earth pony, and unicorn writing. Unicorns, using magic, tended to have very good penmanship and could write eloquently. Pegasi less so, but not as bad as earth ponies. This was either a very skilled pegasus or a mediocre unicorn. The first entry was short, and led me to believe the writer was just plain bored. The mention of the ‘loony bin’ had me intrigued, though. Maybe we could find a record with one of the local hospitals. I read on. The date bothered me, though… 7765 was fifteen years ago.
2/26/7765
Friday
I had my last session yesterday. I showed her my journal entry, and she flipped shit. Said I was supposed to have one for each day. Yeah, fuck that shit. She picked up the phone right then and there, started to call me in, get the fucking orderlies to drag me back to the crazy house. I fucking dashed outta there faster than you could imagine. Called her back an hour later, and told her what I really thought of her. I might have said something I shouldn’t have…
Which brings me to today. Right now, actually… I found where she lived. Alone in some pathetic apartment. Poor bitch. Nice bathroom towels, though. And a nice kitchen knife set. She even had a cleaver. Not every day you meet a pony with a cleaver in their kitchen knife set. And the steak knives were unserrated. Can you imagine?
Anywho, I found a new place to put them. The steak knives held her dirty grey coat aside for the juicy bits. For all the shit she was spouting from her mouth, I half-expected the bitch to be chock-full of feces. Turns out she wasn’t. There’s lots of guts and stuff in here. These long, ropy things are probably intestines. Hmm. Makes a funny noise when I shake them.
Well, she’s getting cold. I think I’m gonna leave now. Wait. How much did I just write? Well fuck. Whaddaya know? Writing DOES help calm me down. Way to go, bitch. You said something right for once.
My heart hammered in my chest. My eyes were wide. There, at the bottom of the page, was a small lock of hair. Taped to the page.
It was grey.
Author's Note
This is just an idea I had in my head, some half-formulated plotline that I felt needed to be shared. I'm looking for a little bit of feedback on this story. Whether or not I continue it depends on what the readers think.
I have much of the plot laid out in my head, and chances are I'll end up writing it in one form or another along the way, but I figured I'd share this. Last time I shared a half-brained idea, I got a lot of VERY negative reviews. Granted, it's because the work was utter shit. This is something I feel could develop into a solid story. If given the right chance.
Thoughts? Questions? Concerns about my mental health? Leave a comment or shoot me a PM. I usually reply.
