Fallout: Equestria (Ghetto Abridged Version)

Chapter Three: Guidance

"Books muthafucka!  I’ve read nuff muthafuckin on tha subject."

Daylight.

I had never peeped tha sun before, n' it was fair ta say I still hadn’t.  But tha juice of its light filtered down all up in tha thick supa pissed, cloud cover, turnin a sickly color yet still brighter n' warma than tha hummin lightz of Stable Two.  Da air itself looked somehow wack up in tha light, off-color. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  But every last muthafuckin thang was illuminizzled. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shizzle happens all tha time. I could peep motez of dust n' ash floatin bout tha room (I wondered how tha fuck gamey it was ta be breathang it), n' fo' tha straight-up original gangsta time I straight-up grasped tha expanse of tha outside.

It made me wanna hide under tha window.

While hittin dat shizzle up tha nerve ta step tha fuck into tha (very, straight-up big) outdoors, I preoccupied mah dirty ass wit openin tha locked chest I had discovered tha night before.  It took two of mah bobby pins yo, but it was worth it son!  Inside was da most thugged-out dope dress I had eva seen!  Such lines, such foldz of fabric, n' tha flavas -- elegant n' regal -- yet tha fabric was light, breezy n' did not sag!  It was a thugged-out dream!  Sadly, a thugged-out trip fo' another, talla pony.

Joy n' disappointment mixed up in equal measure.  But even if I could not wear it (at least not without some major tailoring), it was tha prettiest n' most cheerful thang I had peeped since leavin tha Stable.  Carefully foldin it up, I slipped it tha fuck into mah saddlebags.

Mindful of tha sniper pony from tha night before, I stood back, behind tha cover of a overturned table, n' used mah magic ta open tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  A tarnished bell hangin above tinkled cheerfully.  Muted sunlight poured in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  Da soundz of outside flowed tha fuck into tha room.  Da twizzle of birds, tha far away sloshin of tha river. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  Fresher air pushed back tha stale.

Cautiously, I moved tha fuck into tha doorway n' looked about.  Post-apocalyptic Ponyville was a rottin skeleton of a once homey lil town. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  Between collapsed buildings n' burned cribs, tha streets was littered wit rubble n' refuse.  And everywhere, garish paintz of depravitizzle n' grotesquery.  Da graffiti was not limited ta outside; tha raidaz had defaced tha Carousel Boutique wit a almost ecstatic fervor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  I turned from tha doorway, mah gaze followin tha linez of profanitizzle dat curled up tha walls towardz tha rafters.  And shrank back, chokin up in revulsion at what tha fuck tha sunlight revealed above me -- dozenz of dead n' desiccated pussies had been hung from tha ceilin like decorations.  I had slept directly beneath three of em.

I took a involuntary step back, one hindhoof up tha door.

BEEP.

What was that?

BEEP.

I turned n' spied tha half-buried orange disk up in tha ground just outside tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  A lil red light was pulsin on dat shit.  BEEP.  BEEP.  BEEP.

"CLOSE THE DOOR!"  Da voice came outta nowhere, tinny n' mechanical but somehow full of urgency.  I be a gangsta yo, but y'all knew dat n' mah ass lurched n' I jumped back inside, slammin tha door hard.

Da explosion just outside tore tha door off its frame, hurlin it n' mah crazy ass back tha fuck into tha room!  I crashed all up in a tattered vanitizzle divider, tha tokin door landin over mah dirty ass. "Ugh!!"

I was mo' shocked than hurt as I slowly dragged mah dirty ass up from under tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  I be a gangsta yo, but y'all knew dat n' mah ears was ringing.  A trap.  No wonder tha raider ponies hadn’t invaded while I slept.  They had left a present instead.

"Hurry.  There is mo' on tha way."  I could barely make up tha voice; mah ears felt like they was stuffed wit cotton candy.

"Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck is yo slick ass?" I queried yo, but moved ta throw mah canteens over mah neck while magically drawin up tha combat shotgun. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  I had been dismayed ta learn dat it had only had one blasted left; but if a raider pony stepped all up in tha door, I intended ta make it count.

An entirely different voice replied. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  "Come out, come out, whoever yo ass is!"  Da head of a raider pony slid tha fuck into tha doorway, grinnin maniacally wit suttin' up in her teeth.  It looked like a metal apple.  Biatch tossed her head, it flew tha fuck into tha room at me yo, but tha stem stayed behind up in her teeth.

A memory flashed all up in mah mind: I as a lil'er pony, trottin ta tha Stable schoolroom when a olda pony stepped outta a thugged-out doorway n' heaved a gin n juice balloon all up in mah face.  It had burst against mah horn, soakin me n' mah homework.  "Yo, don’t look so sad, blankflanks muthafucka!  I was just tryin’ ta muthafuckin help yo thugged-out ass.  Y’know, up in case yo' cutie mark is supposed ta be a target!"  Da olda pony had laughed n' hurried off ta class, leavin me drippin n' miserable up in tha hall.

Lesson hustled: when somepony throws suttin' at you, don’t let it hit yo thugged-out ass.  Don’t even let it hit near you, cuz it might splash.  Da combat shotgun clattered ta tha floor as I focused mah magic on tha metal apple, catchin it n' hurlin it back up tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  Da grenade barely cleared tha doorframe when it blew up like a muthafucka.  Dust n' splintaz of wood few at me, gettin up in mah eyes.  A tinklin erupted at mah feet.  Lookin down, blinkin tha debris from mah eyes, I saw tha lil bell from over tha door had landed, mangled, at mah hooves.

I be a gangsta yo, but y'all knew dat n' mah eyes hurt, n' I kept blinkin ta clear em.  Cautiously, liftin tha combat shotgun again, I edged towardz tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  I could barely peep tha foreleg of tha raider pony around tha edge of tha door frame, straight-up still.  With a second thought, I levitated tha table so dat it formed a funky-ass barricade over tha lower half of tha doorway, n' crawled up behind dat shit.  Quickly poppin mah head up, I looked ta peep if tha raider pony was still conscious.

Da leg wasn’t attached ta tha rest of tha pony.

It took me a moment ta spot tha rest of her torn body, mercifully dead as fuckin fried chicken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  I dropped back under cover, feelin a strangenizz pass over mah dirty ass.  I had just capped somepony!

***     ***     ***

Sneakin outta Ponyville had been harrowing.

I realized early dat I had been neglectin mah Eyes-Forward Sparkle.  Once I had brought up mah E.F.S., it was far easier ta determine where tha raider ponies were, n' ta avoid em.  Despite actively lookin fo' me, tha raider ponies proved less than adept hunters.  Usin mah magic ta bang a mailbox lid down tha street or break a empty forty against a gangbangin' freestandin chimney nuff muthafuckin yardz away provided sufficient distraction ta git past em.  I had almost made past tha last doggy den when tha sniper pony started takin shots all up in mah grill again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  Da closest blasted grazed mah flank -- a slash of burnin pain n' a gangbangin' flowin blood. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg!  Fortunately, tha wound looked far worse than it was, n' even mah meager medicinal game was enough ta stop tha bleedin n' bandage dat shit.

I crouched up in a lil gully, sheltered by trees, n' fought ta catch mah breath.  Somewhere up in tha distance, I heard noize playin again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  Da rumble from mah stomach was much louder, remindin me dat I hadn’t smoked up in almost a thugged-out day. It make me wanna hollar playa!  I floated up one of tha applez from mah saddlebags while I un-corked one of mah canteens.   Of course, I had no mo' than taken a sip when mah PipBuck threw a thugged-out ridin' dirty red light tha fuck into mah E.F.S. compass.  Not comin from tha raider hood yo, but from up ahead, deeper tha fuck into tha hilly wood. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg!  Of course.  Somethang else was comin ta git mah dirty ass.  Because tha wasteland clearly hated mah dirty ass.

I re-corked tha canteen n' stood up, wincin all up in tha flair of heat up in mah wounded flank.  I lifted tha combat shotgun, still wit its single shot, n' perked mah ears ta listen.

I be a gangsta yo, but y'all knew dat n' mah surroundings was on tha fuckin' down-low.  Even tha noize was gone.  Then I started ta make up a gangbangin' faint buzzing.  I lifted tha glock ta eye-level n' focused down tha top of tha barrel, linin it up wit warnin mark of red on mah E.F.S.  At first, I saw nothing.  Then I spotted it, a skanky lil flyin creature, bloated n' grotesque, hoverin between tha trees.  It spotted mah crazy ass too, n' blasted a spiny dart all up in tha air all up in mah face.  It missed mah crazy ass (mostly, gettin tangled up in mah mane).

I aimed yo, but hesitated. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shizzle happens all tha time.  Da damn thang was so small, n' could jerk bout so erratically, dat I had almost no chizzle of hittin dat shit.  I didn’t dare waste mah only shot.  So I did tha next dopest thing.  I dodged behind a tree n' prepared ta gallop.

Another mark rocked up on mah E.F.S. followed by a zortching, cracklin sound like unlike anythang I’d heard before.  Da red light winked out, leavin only tha freshly smoked up one, which mah PipBuck had divined as "bumpin'".

"I’m straight-up sorry bout what tha fuck happened back up in Ponyville.  But dat raider didn’t give you any chizzle.  Biatch would have capped yo thugged-out ass."  It was dat same stupid-ass mechanical, tinny voice dat had shouted up tha warnin dat surely saved mah thuglife earlier.

With a mixture of relief n' bewilderment, I watched tha sprite-bot fly up ta mah hidin place.

"Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck is yo slick ass?"  (‘What is yo slick ass?’ was tha question dat wanted ta escape mah muzzle yo, but I suspected it would be rude.)

"A playa."  I raised a eyebrow.  "Okay, a passin acquaintance.  But one dat don’t mean you any harm."  After a pregnant pause, "Call me Watcher."

I regarded tha sprite-bot critically.  "Watcher. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  Okay..."  I slipped up from behind tha tree n' started lookin fo' where mah apply had rolled ta when I dropped dat shit.  Not far away, near where tha flyin creature had been, I spotted a glowin pile of pink ash.  "Yo ass do that?"

"Bloatsprites.  That’s what tha fuck you git when you mix parasprites wit Taint.  Can’t stand ‘em, mah dirty ass.  Glad ta muthafuckin help."

Findin mah apple, I levitated it up.  "Thank yo thugged-out ass.  And fuck you fo' tha warnin bout that... thang up in tha ground."

"Mine."

I blinked. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  "Y-you want mah apple?"

Da sprite-bot laughed, which was straight-up weird ta hear since tha artificial voice didn’t have any inflection. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  "No.  That’s what tha fuck it was called. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  Da explosive up in tha ground. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  It’s called a mine.  It triggers when you step close."

"Oh."  I took a funky-ass bite of tha apple.  "That’s a straight-up wack name fo' a weapon."

Da sprite-bot laughed again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  It was a lil unnerving.  Then, strangely, I found mah dirty ass chucklin as well.  "I straight-up thought you meant mah apple was yours.  I’d share it if you wanted, although I don’t know what tha fuck you’d do wit it since you can’t eat."

"Huh?"  For havin no emotion up in its voice, tha sprite-bot did a phat thang at conveyin confusion.

"Yo ass don’t eat.  Food. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg!  Because yo ass be a robot, n' you don’t gots a grill."

A third time wit tha laughter, although dis was mo' of a slight chuckle.  "Oh!  Yo ass mean tha sprite-bot."  Well, at least I wasn’t tha only one dis conversation had managed ta confuse, although I was mo' trippin now than eva. I be runnin hoes up in 2013.  "Da sprite-bot aint muthafuckin mah dirty ass.  I’m somewhere else; I just hustled how tha fuck ta hack tha fuck into these thangs ta communicate.  And look around."

I was beginnin ta git tha picture.  "Then dat beatz. Drop dis like itz hot!.."

"Oh gosh no.  I turn dat crap off tha moment I hack tha fuck into one of these n' you can put dat on yo' toast.  Yo ass have no idea how tha fuck oldschool dat noize gets."  As a afterthought, tha hacker-in-the-sprite-bot added, "Yet."

I finished mah apple. I be a gangsta yo, but y'all knew dat n' mah stomach felt much mo' betta now, nahmeean, biatch?  As did mah spirits, props ta finally havin a cold-ass lil civilized (if utterly bizarre) conversation.

"Oh, time’s almost up.  Look, there is a gangbangin' few thangs you’re goin ta need if you wanna survive up here.  A weapon (or at least a shitload mo' ammo fo' tha one you have), armored barding, a funky-ass bit of guidance... n' most blinginly, you need ta cook up some fuckin playas."

Armor, at lest, shouldn’t be too hard, although I shuddered hard all up in tha thought of puttin on a thugged-out dead pony’s barding.  Still, dat grazin shot...  I’d been outside less than a gangbangin' full dizzle n' already I’d come terrifyingly close ta dirtnap.  I could probably slip back around ta tha bridge n' strip it off tha corpses there.

A weapon, biatch?   If tha idea of strippin armor from tha dead made me cringe, tha idea of possibly cappin' again n' again n' again stopped mah ass.  And playas, biatch?  I’d had no luck wit dat as a gangbangin' foal up in tha Stable.  What chizzle did I have up in a ghetto where savin a pony from raidaz n' slavery didn’t git you a thang welcome mat, biatch?  If dis was what tha fuck I needed ta do ta survive, I wasn’t shizzle I was up ta tha task.

"What do you mean by guidance?"

Da bobbin sprite-bot was silent a moment.  "I’m goin ta take a blasted up in tha dark here n' guess you like books.  Am I right?"

"Well, yes.  I..."

"There’s a pimped out book fo' playas travelin all up in tha Equestrian Wasteland. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  I’m pretty shizzle there’s a cold-ass lil copy up in tha Ponyville Library.  Give me just a second...  Okay, I’ve busted tha tag fo' it ta yo' PipBuck."

I be a gangsta yo, but y'all knew dat n' mah eyes widened up in alarm.  "Da Ponyville Library.  Yo ass mean, dat place I just barely escaped from, biatch?  Da hood full of sick, psycho ponies, biatch?  Is you tryin ta git me capped?"

"Look, you’ve gots ta trust some muthafucka."

Da memory of Monterey Jack surfaced up in mah mind. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  "Why should I trust yo slick ass, biatch?  I’ve never even kicked it wit yo thugged-out ass.  You’re hidin behind a robot radio."

"Oh, I dunno.  How tha fuck bout tha me-saving-your-life part, biatch?  If I was tryin ta bust a cap up in you, why would I have done that?"

Da voice, Watcher, had a point.   Before I could say anythang ta dat effect however, tha sprite-bot burped static n' fuckin started playin noize again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  (Da noize featured multiple harmonicas n' trombones.)  It flew lazily away, as if it didn’t care I was there.

***     ***     ***

Da Ponyville Library was up in a tree.  Not a treehouse yo, but literally inside a tree.  A massive, gnarled tree bigger than most buildings had been grown up in tha middle of tha town, clearly tha project of magic, n' hollowed up ta be tha hood library.  Da downtown side of tha tree was scorched black n' dead as fuckin fried chicken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  But there was still a gangbangin' few leaves clingin ta thuglife on tha opposite branches.  Da tree was surrounded by a wide open space wit straight-up no cover.

Any hope mah luck all up in tha Carousel Boutique would hold up here was dashed when I looked up ta tha highest balcony n' finally spotted tha sniper pony - a earth pony armed wit a powerful-lookin rifle.  Da rifle was attached ta tha balcony railin wit a glidin swivel mount, allowin tha raider ta aim it wherever dat thugged-out biiiatch could see.  Da only safe approach was from directly behind her, where tha door ta tha balcony n' tha narrow top of tha tree beyond blocked her line of sight.  There was surely mo' raider ponies inside.

Sneakin up carefully from tha only direction dat wouldn’t mean instant dirtnap, I was tremblin wit nerves by tha time I reached tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  As swiftly n' silently as I could, I slipped outta Ponyville... n' straight tha fuck into pony hell!

Pony corpses everywhere biaaatch!  Not like tha bridge where ponies had fallen up in battle; these ponies had been mutilated, desecrated n' put on display dawwwwg!  Some skanky pony’s body hung from tha ceiling, head n' hooves severed n' flesh sliced open n' pulled back ta reveal tha meat n' bones beneath.  Headz n' limbs hung from chains like sick jam decorations.  Da rottin body of a pink pony wit a violent mane was mounted, spread-eagled over a funky-ass bookcase wit railroad spikes.  Two had been driven tha fuck into her eyes.  On another wall, a torso had been skinned n' sliced open, tha pony’s entrails pulled up ta decorate tha shelves like streamers.

Blood n' gore was everywhere, drippin from tha ceilin n' paintin tha walls up in equal parts wit tha graffiti dat had somehow gotten even mo' mockin n' wack.  Between tha bookcases, pre-war postas was mounted up in shattered frames.  Some raider pony had painted over one of dem ("Readin is Magic") wit a cold-ass lil crude but effectizzle depiction of a megaspell detonation. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  Another ("Da most dope ponies have dope minds!") was covered over by a paintin dat was simply p-to-tha-ornotastic.  Da books had been burned up in piles.  Da floor was layered up in ash n' filth.  Da stench was unbearable.

Da room was dominizzled by three cages, two big-ass square ones, n' a smalla one hangin from tha ceilin which was barely big-ass enough fo' a pony.  Captives -- filthy, beaten n' misused -- was curled up inside, they hooves tied together wit stained ropes.  Da two up in tha nearest cage looked all up in mah grill pitifully n' mah ass wrenched painfully.

I be a gangsta yo, but y'all knew dat n' mah eyes kept goin wider until I had ta clench dem shut n' bite mah own hoof ta keep from screaming.  I backed against tha door, heaving, unable ta breathe properly, not wantin ta breathe dis air at all!  Da horror of tha room flooded over me, drownin mah dirty ass.  I pulled mah hoof away barely fast enough ta avoid vomitin mah apple all over mah dirty ass.  Da stench of it mixed wit tha reek of tha room, beatin tha livin piss outta me further.

"please," a whisper from one of tha ponies, terrified ta raise her voice, "help us."

This was beyond horror playa!  I pressed mah eyes tighter n' tighter... then opened dem as a wave of brutal determination cut all up in tha sickness.

"please... muthafuckin help!"

That was no voice, disembodied n' trapped up in a eternal loop, comin from some radio signal floatin all up in tha ether. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  These was livin ponies; they was right here up in front of me, n' they needed muthafuckin help.  And I was as damned as these rotten raidaz if I was goin ta make dem beg again.

Da screwdriver n' bobby pin slipped up n' immediately fuckin started hittin dat shizzle on tha nearest lock.  With a cold-ass lil click, tha metal cage door swung open. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  Inside, two ponies, bound n' layin up in they own filth.  I realized uncomfortably dat I had not a god damn thang ta cut tha ropes with.  I tried ta untie dem wit mah magic, tha straight-up original gangsta pony’s ropes was so wet wit blood dat I could pull dem apart yo, but second pony’s was bound too tightly.

"Are... is you fo' real?"  Da first pony stood shakily.  "I-I’m free?"

I nodded, then glanced ta tha other ponies.  I had no idea how tha fuck I’d reach tha one up in tha hangin cage.  "If you could muthafuckin help me with..."

Da pony blanched n' shook her mane.  "Oh no, I can’t stay here any longer. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  But, here, take these supplies.  I managed ta squirrel dem away..."  Da pony dug tha fuck into tha floor muck wit her hoof, revealin tha utterly pathetic pile of scraps layin on a thugged-out dirty rag dat amounted ta her entire ghettoly possessions.  A can of diced carrots, a funky-ass box of pre-war single-serve cake, a handful of forty caps.  It broke mah ass.

"Fuck dat shit, you keep dat shit.  You’ll need it more..."  I paused, mah eye catchin a single shotgun shell up in tha pile.  "Actually, I’ll take dis shell.  Thanks!"   I magically opened tha shotgun n' slid it tha fuck into place.  Now I had two.

Da pony had already folded up tha rag, picked it up in her teeth n' slinked rapidly up tha door before I could say anythang else.  I busted up a prayer ta Celestia fo' her n' focused on savin tha others.  I looked over tha second pony, whoz ass hadn’t holla'd a word, n' recoiled as I saw tha blood cakin tha inside of her flanks.  What had these raidaz done!?!

Lookin around, I took up in tha shape of tha room, tryin ta blot up tha horrors everywhere I turned. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  (Above tha front door was a aged fresco of a funky-ass dope white winged unicorn -- Celestia, biatch? -- unusually big-ass n' graceful, a funky-ass book floatin up in front of her, her wings outstretched over a rainbow of foals as they smiled up n' listened ta storytime.  Not only had tha ponies been painted over wit imagez of blood n' knives n' violins, tha fresco had been used fo' target practice, every last muthafuckin thang from bullets ta flung excrement, n' was now shattered n' stained unspeakably.)  Da room was oddly shaped, wit balconies n' rooms branchin (literally) off up in all directions.  I could hear tha voicez of raider ponies up in tha other rooms.  And, judgin from tha decor, knives wouldn’t be far behind.

"I’ll be right back," I promised wit a whisper. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  Then, levitatin tha combat shotgun, I moved towardz tha nearest interior door.

I jumped back as tha door swung open all up in mah face.  A raider pony stepped all up in n' stopped, starin all up in mah grill blankly.  His coat was dark black under his crazy-ass makeshift armor, his crazy-ass mane wild. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  Holstas was strapped ta his wild lil' flanks, one wit a lil' small-ass gun, tha other holdin a funky-ass blade whose edge was jagged like a saw, ensurin da most thugged-out grievouz of wounds.  In stark, horrified disbelief, I saw dat his cutie mark was muthafuckin a splayed torso.

Da raider pony recovered quickly, swingin his head around n' drawin up tha lil' small-ass glock up in his cold-ass teeth (what, was he goin ta pull tha trigger wit his cold-ass tongue?) just before S.A.T.S. muthafuckin helped mah crazy ass pump mah two shotgun roundz tha fuck into his wild lil' face.  I felt no remorse as his head turned tha fuck into spaghetti sauce dat splattered over his crazy-ass muthafuckin instantly lifeless body.  I hadn’t just capped a pony -- these raidaz had given up any right ta tha title biaaatch!  These was not ponies, they was sick monstas dat needed ta be put down!  And Celestia muthafuckin help me if I wasn’t goin ta do just dat shit.  I didn’t realize it until dat moment yo, but I was mad hommie biaaatch!  Da pure evil of dis place had shaken me ta tha core... n' mah core was furious!

Collectin knife n' gun, I dropped tha empty combat shotgun ta tha side.  Da smalla weapon was not goin ta be as powerful yo, but was straight-up loaded -- six shots up in a revolvin barrel.  And dat was good, cuz there was no way tha noise wasn’t goin ta brang every last muthafuckin raider pony hustlin.

Da first three raider ponies galloped tha fuck into tha main library almost immediately, one of dem bustin up like a biatch up thrilled disses.  S.A.T.S. muthafuckin helped mah crazy ass fire three shots at her head. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  Da first two missed yo, but tha third found a home up in one of her skanky red eyes n' down dat biiiiatch went.  A second started firin another lil' small-ass firearm all up in mah grill (what do you know, they do blast wit they tongues!), bullets impactin tha door frame.  One blasted punctured one of mah saddlebags yo, but didn’t pierce flesh.

I crouched n' poked mah head around, levitatin tha revolver up in tha open doorway.  I fired two shots all up in tha second pony yo, but mah PipBuck’s targetin spell was refreshing, n' without it I might as well done been aimin all up in tha ceiling.  Still, tha gunslinger raider skittered away, rockin one of tha captizzle ponies fo' cover. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  Da dishonorablenizz poured gasoline on tha fire of mah anger. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  I stepped straight-up tha fuck into tha doorway, lookin fo' tha third, spottin his ass on tha far end of tha main room.

Da third raider pony lowered his head, a pool cue clenched up in his cold-ass teeth, n' charged all up in mah face.

I blinked. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  "Straight-Up?"  I took a single step back.  Da pony rushed all up in mah grill full-tilt, n' was nearly on me when tha endz of tha pool cue struck tha doorway, snappin his ass ta a stop.  I fired tha revolver’s last blasted point-blank tha fuck into his neck.  Even I didn’t need S.A.T.S. at dat range.

"Shouldn’t you ponies be smarter than that, biatch?  Yo ass live up in a library!"

As tha body slumped ta tha floor, bleedin from tha gapin wound all up in it’s neck, I saw tha gun-wieldin raider standin up in tha open, aimin all up in tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  I dived ta tha side as shots rang out, n' screamed as I felt a funky-ass cap sink tha fuck into mah side.  It hurt son!  Mo' than I had thought it would.

I fell against tha wall, leavin a funky-ass bloody smear as I collapsed next ta tha doorway.  Pain seared mah side, flarin wit each breath.  I could hear tha clop of tha raider’s hooves as he approached cautiously.  I tried ta focus mah magic ta close tha door yo, but tha body of pool-cue pony was up in tha way.

I cast bout tha room.  It was a kitchen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  On a table, surrounded by knives, was tha body of a gangbangin' fearsome creature of scalez n' teeth.  Da raider pony wit tha splayed torso cutie mark had been carvin it up ta cook.  A refrigerator. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  And oven. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  There was scattered books yo, but all ancient, destroyed n' unreadable.  (I was beginnin ta doubt tha Watcher’s assertion dat there was a funky-ass book here like da ruffneck busted lyrics about.)  Then mah eyes fell on what tha fuck I was hopin for. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  In one corner, mounted on tha wall over nuff muthafuckin metal boxez of ammunition, was a gangbangin' faded yellow box wit a pink butterfly symbol on it: a medicinal box!  Double luck: tha box looked ta be locked. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  There was knife-scrapes all over it where tha raidaz had attempted ta git it open. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  It should still gots a gangbangin' few medicinal poultices, n' maybe even a healin potion!

But I had ta survive tha raider pony first, n' I was wounded n' outta bullets.  Crossin ta tha ammo boxes would mean movin across tha open doorway.  Scootin back, I looked around again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  And focused mah magic all up in tha pain.

When tha raider pony stepped in, da thug was kicked it wit by a swarm of knives flyin at his wild lil' face.  "Gah!!"  Dude turned n' fled back out.  Da knives all either missed or struck uselessly against his thugged-out armor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  I was even mo' pathetic wit melee weapons than I was wit guns.  But it gots his ass outta tha way long enough ta make fo' tha ammo boxes.  Luck was wit me again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  While one box had ammo up in big-ass clips fo' a type of glock I had yet ta see, tha other had bullets designed fo' tha revolver.

Da raider poked his head around again, callin up "You’re all outta knives, missy dawwwwg!  Why don’t you just come on out.  I promise I’ll let you die, eventually."

His head turned up in mah direction his wild lil' fuckin eyes went wide.  I don’t know if it was tha look up in mah eyes or  tha revolver. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  S.A.T.S. was wit me again, n' dis bastard wasn’t goin ta git another chizzle ta bust raped n' beaten captizzle as a shield.

***     ***     ***

One mo' dead raider, a picked medicinal box n' a healin potion later, I trotted on tha fuckin' down-lowly back tha fuck into tha main room, serrated knife floatin by mah side.   I moved ta tha open cage n' sawed away tha ropes bindin tha skanky pony.  "Go.  You’re free.  Git somewhere safe."  With a funky-ass blink, I remembered tha sniper pony, n' quickly holla'd at her which direction ta sneak away in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  Biatch nodded mutely n' fuckin started ta slink out.  I moved ta tha next cage.

What I saw sickened mah dirty ass.  A pony had been locked inside along wit a thugged-out decayin corpse.  Da pony was whimperin up in her chill, n' had her tail wrapped around tha ghastly body like a teddy ursa.

Unlike tha other bodies, I couldn’t tell how tha fuck dis one had died, fo' it wasn’t carved apart.  Da body had lost all its coat, it’s skin was a sickenin blotch-work of red n' grey, flakin away.  Its eyes was open, dry n' starin up in wack directions.  Its teeth was horribly yellowed, matchin tha few strandz of afro left up in its mane n' tail.  Odd, fleshy growths hung from its sides.  At first, I mistook dem fo' mutations yo, but then I realized I was lookin all up in tha pony’s wings muthafucka!  This was tha body of a pegasus pony.  Stripped of feathers n' hair, tha wings looked strange, even repulsive.

I screamed, a gangbangin' full-throated cry of terror, when tha corpse shifted posizzle n' sat up, it’s eyes slidin around until they both focused on mah dirty ass.  It was a zombiepony!

Da zombiepony blinked at me, then tried ta git up, only ta fall over onto one winged side as it’s hooves was bound up in ropes like tha others.  It... her big-ass booty stared all up in mah grill plaintively.

I be a gangsta yo, but y'all knew dat n' mah mind was reeling.  Of tha scattered half-thoughts dat flitted all up in mah dome, "untie tha sick zombie so her dope ass don’t git mad at me" managed ta be da most thugged-out coherent, if not da most thugged-out sane.

Swallowing, I moved tha knife down ta her ropes.  "Hold still."  I looked at her eyes n' was quickly forced ta look away.  One of dem was slidin again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  Her breath was fetid. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  "Now if I let you go, n' you try ta smoke mah domes, we’re goin ta have harsh lyrics."

***     ***     ***

I had freed tha second two captives, includin tha zombie-pony, both of whom slipped away without a offer ta muthafuckin help (although tha zombie at least smiled at me, which was... deeply unpleasant), n' was tryin ta figure up how tha fuck ta git ta tha hangin cage when two mo' raider ponies rocked up on a funky-ass balcony above.  One of dem was a unicorn pony wit a straight-up scary-lookin firearm.  I dove tha fuck into tha shelter of a stairwell as tha raider opened fire.  Da glock let up a terrifyin cacophony of rapid-fire cracks as it sprayed tha main room wit bullets.

At least I knew what tha fuck type of glock tha big-ass clips was fo' now, nahmeean?

I waited until I heard his ass reloading, then dashed tha fuck into tha room n' spun ta grill him, focusin all mah magic... not on mah own weapon nor on his ass yo, but on tha bookshelf behind his muthafuckin ass.  Da glow of mah horn stood up brighter n' brighter as he lifted tha reloaded assault rifle n' took aim fo' mah head.

CRASH!

Da bookshelf came down on top of him, knockin his ass unconscious.  Da assault rifle fell ta tha floor up in a thugged-out drizzle of dead books.  Somethang else showered down as well, thrown from tha fallin bookshelf.  Knockin away a funky-ass book dat had fallen over it, I saw dat it was a ancient, dusty pair of pre-war binoculars.  At first, it struck me as mad odd dat one of mah thugs would need binoculars up in a library -- dat would require some straight-up bad eyesight -- but tha wack-ass thought passed.

I couldn’t peep where tha other raider pony had gotten to.  Swiftly, I added tha assault rifle ta mah growin collection, n' tha binoculars fo' phat measure.  Then I looked back ta tha balcony, thankin bout it as a way ta git ta tha cage pony hangin from tha ceiling.  If I could git up there, I thought, I could leap from it ta tha cage.  That would git me close enough dat I could peep what tha fuck I was bustin while I picked tha lock.

Da second raider pony rocked up back all up in tha railing, a wicked grin on his wild lil' face.  With a hoof, da perved-out muthafucka shoved forward a ammo box, then tilted it over. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  Da lid sprung open n' half a thugged-out dozen orange disks poured up tha fuck into tha library below.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

BEEP! BEEP!

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

BEEP!

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

BEEP! BEEP!

Oh fuck!

I dashed as fast as mah lil hairy-ass legs could take me, leapin over tha body of pool-cue pony n' under tha kitchen table, rockin mah magic ta toss it over as a shield. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  Da carved-up radigator slid ta tha floor wit a meaty thump.

Behind mah shield, tha ghetto became blindin light n' fire!

***     ***     ***

When I emerged, tha main room was a wreck.  Fresh blood dripped down tha fuck into mah mane.  Lookin up, I saw tha blast-torn remainz of tha pony up in its twisted metal cage.  Oh, Celestia damn dem ta hell!

Mo' determined than ever, I stripped tha raider bodies (what lil was left of dem now) of they armors.  Da armors was up in shredded tattas yo, but wit some effort I was able ta bust tha dopest partz of each ta patch together suttin' dat would give me mo' betta protection than mah stable-issued utilitizzle barding.  Da resultin tracksuit had almost no pockets, so I would have ta dig tha utilitizzle suit outta mah saddlebags ta git at most of mah tools yo, but it was a gangbangin' fair trade.

Puttin it on was gruesome.  I be a gangsta yo, but y'all knew dat n' mah hooves was darkened wit blood just from hittin dat shizzle on it; every last muthafuckin inch was covered up in tha flash-fried gore of dead ponies.  I almost lost mah nerve n' abandoned tha wack thing.  I slipped it on; mah stomach rebelled yo, but I didn’t have any mo' ta throw up.

A last look around while I figured I still had time.  Da raider above obviously assumed I was dead as fuckin fried chicken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  (I would have assumed I was dead too.)  Lootin tha bodies garnered mah crazy ass a lil mo' ammo.  Da glock from tha earlier raider had been up in bad shape ta begin with, n' was damaged beyond repair by tha explosion. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  Several ponies apparently collected forty caps, which struck me as a absurdly odd thang ta horde.  I left dem ridin' solo.  Da kitchen’s refrigerator had a lil' small-ass stockpile of chicken: cooked radigator meat, a gangbangin' few skewerz of barbecued fruits n' what tha fuck tha PipBuck identified as bloatsprite meat, a funky-ass box of pre-war cake (cuz not a god damn thang says gamey smokin like two-hundred-year-old chicken) n' some gin n juice dat looked like it was fortyd straight outta sludge river. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  I took every last muthafuckin thang but tha cake n' water; apparently, splayed-torso cutie raider was a rather decent cook.  With a second thought, I looked over tha ingredients on tha cake box (filled wit enough preservatives dat yo' stomach will still be intact long afta tha rest of y'all rotted away ta dust!) n' took it too.

Da raider pony was up in tha main room, lookin over his handiwork, when I returned from tha kitchen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  One look all up in mah grill (and mah growin pile of weaponry) n' he fled up tha stairs.  I galloped afta him, revolver zippin all up in tha air up in a cold-ass lil cloud of levitation magic dat matched tha light around mah horn.

Dude went all up in a thugged-out door on tha level above.  It took me only a moment ta reach it yo, but caution made me skid ta a stop before barrelin all up in cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce.  If dat had been me on tha other side, I’d be waitin just ta tha side of tha door, locked n loaded ta take tha head off of tha raider whoz ass rushed all up in cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce.  With positions reversed, I was not goin ta make tha same stupid-ass mistake.

A filly’s cry from inside, "aaah!  Help!" chizzled tha scenario.

Standin ta tha side, I threw open tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  When there was no attack, I darted in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  And stopped short.

Da room was lined wit mo' destroyed books on either side, n' ended up in a big-ass window dat opened onto a funky-ass balcony.  This room was decorated as disgustingly as tha last yo, but filled wit stained chillin mattresses.  Near tha open window, a gangbangin' filly too lil' ta even have her cutie mark lay on a mattress stained wit so much blood it was nearly black.  Biatch had been brutalized n' raped repeatedly, n' her flank was covered up in lil' small-ass burns where her cutie mark would have eventually rocked up.

Her ropes was on tha floor nearby, lookin chewed all up in cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce.  And between mah dirty ass n' her, tha raider pony stood wit a shockin hostage: tha zombie-pony dawwwwg!  It took me a moment ta realize she must have flown up in from tha balcony; n' (if I was allowed ta believe there was any decency left up in tha ghetto) it would done been her whoz ass gnawed tha filly’s ropes free.  Now, dat biiiiatch was against a wall, wit tha blade of a axe ta her throat.

A lil' small-ass part of mah dome insisted on distractin me by wonderin how tha fuck tha zombie-pony could have flown when her wings didn’t have any feathers.  As if dat was a mo' significant mystery than how tha fuck dat thugged-out biiiatch could be kickin it (by some definition) up in her decayed physical condition.

I be a gangsta yo, but y'all knew dat n' mah distraction was distracted by a nearby table.  An ashtray wit a tokin cigar holla'd at mah crazy ass just how tha fuck tha filly had gotten dem burns.  Rage welled up in me until I felt it would burst all up in mah eyeballs.  Next ta tha ashtray, two familiar metal applez rested on top of a (only lightly stained) book wit a stylized pony skull on tha cover. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  A second book, dis one showin a revolver almost identical ta tha one floatin next ta me, had slipped ta tha floor where it rested against one leg of tha table, along wit nuff muthafuckin pencils n' a gangbangin' filly’s lunch box.  A smiling, gentle white unicorn wit a funky-ass dope lavender n' pink mane stared back beneath tha Stable-Tec logo.  It felt wack dat suttin' so innocent-lookin should be up in dis place.

I be a gangsta yo, but y'all knew dat n' mah eyes turned ta tha earth pony raider wit tha axe up in his cold-ass teeth.  For a moment I just hated at him, tha room on tha down-low except fo' tha filly’s occasionizzle whimpers.

When mah voice returned, mah lyrics surprised mah dirty ass.  "By Celestia, you’re fuckin wack.  Hard ta tell a pony ta back off, or surrender, when yo' grill is full of axe, aint it, biatch?  Maybe if you dropped some mo' time readin these books rather than beatin tha livin shizzle outta them, you’d be smart-ass enough ta come up wit a plan dat muthafuckin allowed you ta negotiate a way outta this."  Da grenades levitated off tha table; I dangled dem between us.  "One dat don’t end wit me shovin one of these up yo' tailhole!"

Da raider pressed tha axe blade tighter against tha zombie-pony’s throat, enough ta cut flesh, which split n' pulled back as if it had been strained taut.  Ichor dat might have once been blood oozed from tha wound. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  Da zombie-pony didn’t flinch or whimper yo, but tha filly did both.

"Right.  Bust a cap up in her muthafuckin ass."  Da revolver floated forward next ta tha grenades.  "That way, there won’t be anythang ta block mah shot."

I could peep tha raider thankin bout his options n' not likin what tha fuck da thug was finding.  Droppin tha axe from his crazy-ass grill, da thug whinnied pathetically "I don’t wanna die!" n' dashed fo' tha open balcony, leapin over tha cringin filly.

S.A.T.S. bust four shots right tha fuck into his thugged-out ass.  It was a pathetic way ta die.

Lookin ta tha filly n' tha zombie-pony, I smiled grimly.  "There’s one left.  I’ll be right back."

I turned n' continued up tha stairs toward tha upper balcony n' tha sniper pony.

***     ***     ***

Better equipped n' a shitload mo' confident, mah ass still flickerin wit righteous fire, I made mah way carefully outta Ponyville.

Up ahead, I spotted a big-ass gazebo surroundin a marble statue of a rearin pony girded wit combat barding, a sword up in his crazy-ass grill.  Da gazebo was relatively free of grafitti... n' peekin all up in tha binoculars, I could peep why.  Da field of weedz around it was crewin wit radigators.  I be a gangsta yo, but y'all knew dat n' mah E.F.S. was fillin wit red marks as I drew closer.

Slippin up mah newly acquired sniper rifle, I picked off a gangbangin' few.  Their meat, I knew now, was safe when cooked (at least, relatizzle ta other chicken source up in tha Equestrian Wasteland).  Slippin tha sniper rifle back tha fuck into its harnizz (another "gift" from tha sniper pony), I slid up tha serrated knife n' crouched up towardz mah kill.

An alert flashed on mah PipBuck.  Peepin it, I discovered dat it had labeled tha gazebo up in front of me: Da Macintosh Battle Memorial.

Curiositizzle pulled mah crazy ass closer. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  Careful of radigators, I neared enough ta read tha inscription beneath tha statue all up in mah binoculars.

"In honor of Big Macintosh, all up playa of tha Battle of Shattered Hoof Ridge, n' his noble sacrifice fo' all of Equestria."

As I lowered tha binoculars, I caught sight of suttin' else.  A concrete circle stickin up from tha ground, roughly halfway between mah dirty ass n' tha gazebo, wit a ponyhole cover. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  Rememberin tha night before, I turned mah PipBuck back ta tha straight-up original gangsta radio broadcast on tha list.

"...from dem damned apple trees up near tha Stable, n' now he’s terribly sick.  Too sick ta move.  We’ve holed up in tha cistern near tha oldschool memorial. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack.  We’re hustlin outta chicken n' medicinal supplies.  Please, if anypony hears this, muthafuckin help us...  Message repeats..."

Pullin up tha revolver, wary of radigators, I crept towardz tha cistern opening.  I was almost there before one of tha beasts charged at me, its big-ass maw openin ta reveal rows on rowz of razor-sharp teeth.  I fired twice tha fuck into its grill.  Horrifyingly, dat wasn’t enough ta bust a cap up in dat shit.  But it did make tha beast be thinkin twice.  Da sound, however, brought mo' of dem down on mah dirty ass.  Abandonin tha revolver up in fright, I used mah magic ta pull open tha ponyhole n' dived in, slidin tha cover over behind mah dirty ass.

***     ***     ***

In tha wake of mah anger, I was exhausted. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shizzle happens all tha time.  In tha aftermath of tha library battle, mah whole body ached from exertion. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  I be a gangsta yo, but y'all knew dat n' mah nerves felt frayed from tha content adrenaline.  Eatin a funky-ass bloatsprite skewer, I looked over tha lil' small-ass underground chamber once mo' before curlin up on tha upper bunk of tha pair of bunk bedz built tha fuck into tha wall.  I tried not ta be thinkin of tha colt skeleton on tha bed below mah dirty ass.  Da skeleton of his wild lil' daddy was by tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  A sip from mah canteen took tha edge off mah thirst.  It was almost empty; I had ta conserve.

I reflected how, when I had come back downstairs afta dealin wit tha sniper pony, tha zombie-pony was already gone, n' had taken tha skanky filly wit her muthafuckin ass.  I hoped it was ta someplace safe.  I found it strange dat da most thugged-out decent pony I had found up in tha wasteland was already sort of dead as fuckin fried chicken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  I also noticed dat tha assault rifle pony was also gone; dat schmoooove muthafucka had woken up n' freed his dirty ass from tha crushin bookshelf.  That meant there was at least one mo' raider still up in tha wastes yo, but I wasn’t tha sort of pony ta bust a cap up in somepony while they slept.  Not even a raider.

I figured dat if I slept here tonight, dat would give tha radigators time ta wander away from tha exit.  If I was dirty, I would even spot where I dropped tha revolver.

Until then, I would preoccupy mah dirty ass wit mah two freshly smoked up books.  Slippin dem outta mah saddlebags, I looked tha straight-up original gangsta one over, tha one wit mah lost revolver on tha cover. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  Guns n' Bullets.  Straight-up straightforward. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  I set it aside fo' now, nahmeean?

Da second book, a grey tome wit a funky-ass black pony skull on tha cover, was tha real prize.  Openin it ta tha straight-up original gangsta page, I fuckin started ta read:

"Da Wasteland Survival Guide.  By Ditzy Doo..."

Footnote: Level Up.

New Perk: Bookworm - Yo ass pay much closer attention ta tha smalla details when reading.  Yo ass bust 50% mo' skill points when readin books.