M for Mare-Do-Well

by theycallmejub

Rating: everyone
Tags: Pipsqueak, Mare Do Well, Random, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Alternate Universe
Length: 1116

Pipsqueak runs into trouble on his way home, but is saved by a daring, albeit a bit odd hero.

Pipsqueak wanders down the wrong backstreet and runs into trouble, only to be saved by a mysterious masked hero who may not be entirely of sound mind.

(Something light and fun and full of alliteration.)

Published 2012-01-26 19:13:17 UTC
Last updated 2012-01-27 17:12:41 UTC

A Most Mysterious Mare Wearing a Menacing Mask

M for Mare-Do-Well

Pipsqueak dashed like a colt possessed, his heart racing in his chest almost as quickly as his short legs. The cobblestone street beneath him came alive with the clop, clop, clop of heavy hooves at his back. Stallion hooves. Hooves belonging to muggers, or murders, or rapists or worse. Hooves that pursued with a haunting relentlessness that rivaled the legendary Headless Horse himself.

Pursuing and gaining fast.

His mane standing on end, Pipsqueak darted off the street and, unthinkingly, sprinted blindly into the mouth of the nearest alley. The stallions at his back followed, stumbling clumsy over trashcans as the distance between them and their prey shrank. They chased him into a dead end. The wall at the end of the alley was high, much to high to climb. Little Pipsqueak had no choice but to turn and face the villains. The two of them laughed as they drew near.

“He’s a right cute little thing, he is,” said one of the thugs, his lips slipping into a smirk.

“That he is mate, that he is,” answered the other. “Figure it’s our lucky day, coming across such a pretty little colt on night dreary as this one.”

“Gonna have fun with this one, are we mate?”

“Gonna have ourselves a time.”

They closed in slowly, savoring the moment, their wicked grins barely visible under the moonlight.

Pipsqueak closed his eyes, waiting.

Then he heard a loud thump. Sounds of a struggle. When finally he opened his eyes, Pipsqueak found his would-be attackers lying face down on the cobblestone street. Confused, he took a step forward, but paused upon hearing a voice.

“The night is young my dear little colt, but I’m afraid it’s much too advanced in age for one such as yourself to be prowling the streets alone.” The voice was light and confident, and it spoke with an almost forced eloquence.

“Who…who’s there,” squeaked the little colt. “Come out or…or else.”

“Or else, you say? Or else? Why that is quite to proposition is it not? So vague and yet so full of potential. Or else? Or else indeed…” said the voice.

And then it's owner appeared without warning and as if from nowhere. A figure spun itself out of the night. At first it seemed but a silhouette, fashioned in the shape of pony but lacking certain details. Then it stepped completely out of the shadows, and Pipsqueak saw that it was just a pony after all, though he could not tell if it was and earth pony, a pegasus, or a unicorn. It wore a wide brimmed hat that concealed the horn that might be on its head, and a cape that hid the wings that may have been on its back. And a mask. It wore a mask, and it’s eyes glinted in the moonlight like polished pearls.

“Who are you,” asked the little colt.

“Who? Who is not the correct question my dear little colt. The correct question is what, and to answer it, what I am is a mare in a mask.”

“Well I can see that much.”

“I have no doubt you’re powers of perception are up to snuff. I am merely curious as to what you hope to gain by questioning a masked mare on the particulars of her identity."

Pipsqueak arched an eyebrow. “You’re saying I’m stupid, are you?” At this the masked mare laughed lightheartedly.

“No, no, I wouldn't dream of questioning the intellectual capabilities of one I have exchanged so few words with. So please, let us exchange more. Allow me to expand upon your original quarry – exchanging who and what for a deeper elaboration of this shadowy visage.”

The masked mare stepped to her left and vanished, melting into the shadows once again. Pipsqueak twisted his head to and fro in search of her.

“Magnifique!” she shouted, suddenly reappearing behind the little colt and causing him to spin around with a start.

“To some she is but a madmare, a malison, a manic masked marauding maverick only masquerading as hero, but in truth leaving not but a mire of mayhem and melancholy in her wake. No magnanimous minister of righteousness, but a mistake, a malefactor, a mere moron making mockery of justice, liberty, and the multitude of ideals held by the moral and the magniloquently just!” she exclaimed, before pausing a moment.

“…Oh but she is more. Much, much more.

In truth, she is a mirror. A monstrous reflection of this malefic city. A maven. Appearing only in midnight – never morning – she maps the missteps of those malevolent miscreants who merrily partake in malicious acts of murder and massacre: whose messy misconduct fill mortuaries with countless mourning mothers. She marks those who worship money and the material, taking note the magnitude of their many misdeeds.

In darkness she watches them, monitoring their motion under Luna’s morose moon. And from the shadows she does materialize, manifesting as if by some magic. Her mission? Modification. To mold this misshapen miasma of mangled villainy into something manageable. A meeting place of much mirth, mayhap?"

She paused again, this time laughing to herself as if remembering some private joke.

"Ah but to carry out this magnificent plan, this monumental milestone in virtuous musing, she must be merciless. And It is with miraculous might that she hounds those markedly responsible; sending the masses of criminal masterminds to meet their makers. With no mild, minor, or meek frame of mind does she seek to cast out the myriad of those malignant manipulative mischievous perpetrators of malice, murk, and every method, mode, and medium of vile misbehavior!”

In a flash she drew a long knife from somewhere on her person and, in one fluent motion, carved a capital “M” into the alley wall.

“Her fury is a maelstrom. She means to maul. To maim. The motive and motivation of her movement is matchless, stalwart, and cannot be made mutable, nor malleable. Not until this morbid city has been medicated of its malady, its malaise...

...Ha, ha, ha, but listen to me carrying on. I’ve forgotten my manners. You must find my incessant morass of methodical and meticulous mulling more than a mite mundane – so please allow me to conclude by saying it is has been most marvelous to make your acquaintance, and that you may call me the Mysterious Mare-Do-Well,” she concluded with a tip of her hat and a bow.

The little colt's eyebrow arched, his expression a cocktail confusion and amusement. “Are you like, some kind of crazy pony, then?”

“I’m quite certain that is what they would have you believe...”

~Fin~