Fallout: Equestria (Ghetto Abridged Version)

Chapter Four: Perspective

"I don’t know why it took a interest up in you yo, but I’d be careful. It’s never muthafuckin helped mah playas before."

Stupid!

A blast of lightnin fired past me, shatterin a oldschool clock all up in tha back of tha overview crib I was cowerin in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  Da Wasteland Survival Guide was full of all sortz of muthafuckin helpful tips.  Scavengin guides.  A whole chapter on mines.  And mo' biaaatch!   And then there was tha not-so-helpful ones.  After havin read tha chapter on "Makin Pre-Battle Ghetto Pony Technologizzle Work For You", mah first thought when I came across tha ruinz of Ironshod Firearms was ta take a peek inside n' peep if there was any technologizzle I could make work fo' mah dirty ass.

Instead, I gots mah dirty ass trapped up in a maze full of ponicidal robots n' automated turrets, fleein until I managed ta back mah dirty ass tha fuck into a cold-ass lil corner here up in a crib box high above tha factory floor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  Almost outta ammo.  If I hadn’t found dat medicinal box up in tha hommie bathroom, I would have took a dirt nap tryin ta git across tha second floor.

How tha fuck could I possibly done been so straight-up stupid?

Below, three of dem robots was rollin about, lookin fo' mah dirty ass.  They was tracked things, built ta somewhat resemble ponies, wit clear domed headz dat housed real domes.  I refused ta be thinkin dat tha ponies whoz ass built dem might have used other ponies’ domes up in tha construction. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  Da thought was just too horrible.  Even bustin dat ta a animal’s dome was awful.  And clearly, two-hundred muthafuckin yearz of continuous operation had done not a god damn thang fo' they sanity.

"Come on out.  Our thugged-out asses only wanna bust a cap up in you fo' trespassing!"

Case up in point.

Da fact dat tha voice sounded like a lil' filly, despite bein clearly artificial, just made dem dat much freakier. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  Fortunately, tha railin on tha catstrutts leadin up ta dis crib was too narrow fo' tha dome-bots ta git up here.

A much deeper, authoritatizzle voice boomed across tha room.  "Surrender up in tha name of tha Ministry of Technologizzle, zebra scum!"

I cringed behind a line of metal filin cabinets as tha room filled wit a rush of flame!

Unfortunately, tha same stupid-ass could not be holla'd fo' tha other type of guard robot I’d crossed paths wit up in dis biatch.  Da multi-limbed thangs looked like giant metal spiders, nuff of its arms seemed ta end up in weapons, includin a funky-ass buzzsaw n' a gangbangin' flamethrower. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  And worse, tha damn thangs could fly!

I slipped both of mah grenades outta mah saddlebags n' waited until tha flames took a dirt nap away.  Da metal cabinets was beginnin ta git unpleasantly warm against mah back, n' tha heat up in tha air seared mah lungs.  Da second tha flamethrower cut off, I turned mah head around tha corner n' levitated dem both right up ta tha metal monster, pullin up tha stems on tha way.  Da moment it saw me, tha robot raised a pulsin chronicweapon dat looked like a unicorn’s horn. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  Eldritch fire erupted from it, shootin past me close enough ta singe mah cheek.  Da blast struck a oldschool hustla chillin on tha desk behind me; it glowed chronicfor a moment, then melted hommie biaaatch!  I ducked back as I dropped tha grenades.

Da explosion rocked tha crib.  I heard a gangbangin' fearsome twang as part of tha catstrutt outside gave.  Lookin back, tha robot was up in a non-functionizzle heap.  Da struttway outside was still mostly intact yo, but saggin badly.  I wasn’t shizzle it could hold mah weight.

Strippin what tha fuck I could from tha fallen spider-bot, I considered mah options.  I couldn’t stay up here all up in dis biatch.  If I moved straight-up fast, I could run tha struttway without tha dome-bots below gettin mah dirty ass.  Their weaponry did not seem straight-up accurate.  But tha straight-up original gangsta few yardz of tha catstrutt had partially torn free, n' sagged alarmingly.  Da mo' I looked at it, tha less I wanted ta put a hoof on dat shit.

I’d never tried levitatin mah dirty ass before.  In theory, it should work yo, but I’d never peeped a pony do dat shit. Focusing, I tried. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  I could feel tha glow from mah horn stretch up ta envelop mah entire body.  Brighter it glowed as I tried ta lift mah dirty ass.  I was shinin like a thugged-out dozen lanterns when I felt mah body lift, just slightly, from tha ground. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  I was sweatin.  This was as far as I could go yo, but I was bustin dat shit.  Now one step forward…  n' another… n' another…

I was halfway across when tha dome-bots started firin lightnin up in mah general direction. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. One of tha bolts struck tha catstrutt, arcin along dat shit.  I felt straight-up dirty I wasn’t muthafuckin touchin dat shit.  But I was also almost spent.  Ahead of me, tha catstrutt stopped right before tha big-ass windows dat let twice-filtered sunlight (once by tha cloudz n' once by tha dirty glass itself) onto tha factory floor, supplementin tha light from heavy fixtures hangin above.  Da catstrutt blasted off up in both directions, hustlin parallel ta tha wall.  One was tha direction I had come from.  Da other lead ta a thugged-out door which had been locked. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  Only dat door didn’t gots a lock ta pick.  Instead, it could only be opened by command from a terminal.

Another blasted of lightnin missed cleanly, shootin all up in one of tha shattered windowz of tha observation crib n' fryin tha terminal I had just used, not five minutes ago, ta unlock holla'd door.

It was a shitload of metal catstrutt.  And tha damn bots beneath me blasted lightning.  I grunted wit tha effort dat kept me aloft, feelin mah vision darken all up in tha edges.  I had ta stop, or I’d pass out.  And dat would be tha end of mah dirty ass.

Releasin tha magic, I dropped onto tha catstrutt.  It wavered yo, but held. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  I let go of a funky-ass breath I didn’t realize I was holding, n' started ta gallop.

"Don’t run!  Our thugged-out asses wanna be yo' playa!"

Mo' blasts.  I tensed, expectin ta feel paralyzin electricitizzle rip up mah body, startin at mah hooves.  Instead, I heard a cold-ass lil crash a funky-ass bangin pop n' a twang from somewhere above.  Lookin up as I ran, I saw dat one of tha bolts had hit tha hangin lamp above, causin its softly buzzin light ta explode.  And that, freakishly, was tha last straw: it snapped loose from tha badly aged, cracked ceilin above n' swung down, crashin tha fuck into tha catstrutt behind mah dirty ass.  Da whole struttway shook.  And then tha section behind mah crazy ass tore away wit a rendin scream of played metal.

Oh fuck me wit Celestia’s forehooves!

I’ll admit, mah repertoire of colorful descriptions had grown mo' profane from mah experience wit tha raiders; but as I galloped down tha struttways at heart-tearin speed, tryin ta keep ahead as tha sectionz of catstrutt fuckin started ta fall down onto tha factory floor like a thunderous, lethal game of dominos, I felt tha sentiment entirely appropriate.

I was almost ta tha door when tha metal struttway dropped up from under mah dirty ass.  I threw mah dirty ass forward, carried only on momentum, n' caught tha final section wit only mah forelegs.  I hung there, mah hindhooves danglin nuff muthafuckin stories over a ancient rifle assembly line dat had been crushed by tha fallen catstrutt.  I struggled, tryin ta inch mah dirty ass up.  I used mah magic ta try ta tug on mah saddlebags n' drag mah dirty ass forward. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  I be a gangsta yo, but y'all knew dat n' mah ass was pounding.  I fought ta keep visionz of fallin from dominatin mah imagination -- tried not ta be thinkin of mah back breakin as I landed on tha conveyor belt below.  At least tha damned dome-bots weren’t shootin all up in mah grill anymore, havin scurried fo' cover.

It seemed ta take forever yo, but inch-by-inch I pulled mah dirty ass onto dat final section of catstrutt.  It wobbled threateningly beneath me, stickin up from tha wall like a thugged-out divin board, held up in place by bolts dat wiggled up in wear-widened holes.  Cautiously, I gots mah hooves under me n' stepped lightly towardz tha door.

A blast of lightnin hit tha catstrutt, shootin up mah hairy-ass legs n' bustin  me tha fuck into fucked up convulsions.  I collapsed, bobbin, on tha struttway, mah mane n' tailhairs standin on end yo, but it ain't no stoppin cause I be still poppin'.  Da struttway responded wit a metallic cry n' tilted nuff muthafuckin inches, threatenin ta dump me tha fuck into tha gulf below.

I struggled shakily ta mah feet.  Another blast blasted up from almost directly beneath me, missin tha struttway by less than a gangbangin' foot n' strikin tha ceilin above.  Bitz of singed plasta drizzled down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  I gave tha door a push, n' was vastly relieved when it swung open. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  Then tha catstrutt gave further. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  I lurched, rappin bout ma forelegs around tha door frame ta keep from slidin down tha now like steep metal platform.  A third electrical blast ripped all up in tha air, strikin another strip of industrial lightin whose light also blew up like a muthafucka, makin it swin perilously.

Grunting, I pulled mah dirty ass tha fuck into tha room.  I turned n' sat up in tha doorway, lookin down all up in tha dome-bot rollin up in circlez directly below, tryin ta figure up how tha fuck ta git mah dirty ass.  Then, wit a phat kick of mah forehooves, I knocked tha last of tha catstrutt loose.  It fell, scrapin down tha wall, until it smashed all up in tha robot’s dome-case, pulpin tha organ inside n' continuin down, rippin tha machine roughly up in half.  I must admit dat I found tha crunch immensely satisfying.

***     ***     ***

I realize dat if tha room I had successfully accessed at such pimped out underground risk had not offered another way out, I would done been up in deep shit.

Closin tha door behind me, I felt immediately mo' comfortable.  Da room had been painted up in what tha fuck had once been a funky-ass bright orange, n' tha paint had not lost all its warmth over time.  Da wood panelin probably brought a pleasant, homey feel ta what tha fuck I believed was clearly tha factory overmare’s crib.  Now dat wood was rotted n' crumbling.  On tha back wall above tha desk was a oversized logo up in deeply tarnished bronze:

IRONSHOD FIREARMS

How tha fuck do you like dem apples?

I didn’t git dat shit.

Ignorin it, I looked around. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  Phat, fancy desk.  Chair. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  Filin cabinets.  A posta up in a funky-ass backlit frame -- tha same stupid-ass posta I had peeped nuff muthafuckin other times up in tha factory yo, but dis one up in mo' betta condition, showin graceful pegasus ponies soarin all up in tha sky, rainbows explodin behind dem as they blasted down on dark, demonic striped figures wit evil, glowin eyes.  (Better Wiped than Striped hommie biaaatch!  Join tha Equestrian Forces Today!)  A wardrobe.

I be a gangsta yo, but y'all knew dat n' mah eyes barely touched these, movin ta tha blingin thangs first.  Da crib held a terminal I could hack, a wall safe I could pick, n' a underground elevator that, if it worked, would git me safely ta tha straight-up original gangsta floor n' outta dis dirtnaptrap.  There was a ammo box under tha desk.  Then mah eyes fell on suttin' unique.  Mounted on tha opposite wall was a glass case.  And up in tha case was a funky-ass dope n' perfectly preserved revolver. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  A similar model ta mine yo, but crafted wit what tha fuck must have approached love.  It had a scope, n' a ivory bit molded fo' extra-comfortable fit up in tha grill n' ease of trigger. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  On tha handle was a emblem, three apples.

I tried mah hoof (so ta speak) all up in tha safe first.  It was tough, takin a gangbangin' few attempts yo, but afta breakin one bobby pin I hustled mo' betta how tha fuck ta prevent further losses.  Da safe opened wit a generous click.  Da impressive amount of objects made me wonder if mah excursion tha fuck into Ironshod Firearms hadn’t been worthwhile afta all.  I started sortin tha treasure from tha rubbish.  Inside was sack full of pre-war coins, a cold-ass lil copy of Equestrian Army Today, a whole bunch of finizzle papers dat ceased ta mean anythang hundredz of muthafuckin years ago, a funky-ass box of what tha fuck looked like bubble gum (I couldn’t decipher tha freestylin on it), a Spark o’ Magic battery n' finally a odd hoof-strapped arcano-tech device dat looked like it was meant ta intercourse wit mah PipBuck.  Curious, I slid it on n' let mah PipBuck analyze dat shit.

StealthBuck.  Invisiblitizzle Spell.  One charge.

Hot damn!

Next was tha terminal. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack.  Pullin up mah utilitizzle suit, I slid up mah access tool n' started ta work.  This terminal was tougher ta crack than tha previous ones.  Even wit mah tools, I had ta abort nuff muthafuckin times ta avoid gettin locked out.  I pulled another apple from mah bag n' bit tha fuck into it, intent on tha screen, only ta hit suttin' painfully hard. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  Levitatin tha apple up ta eye level, I saw a funky-ass cap embedded up in dat shit.  Lookin down at mah saddlebags, there was indeed a lil' small-ass hole, although it took me a gangbangin' few minutes ta remember when dat had happened.

Once in, I discovered a whole mess of oldschool notes,lyrics n' a cold-ass lil couple schematics.  In addition, tha terminal had a shutdown key fo' all tha robotic security.  And it could remotely open both tha safe n' tha display case.  I rolled mah eyes, thankin tha universe eva so much fo' givin me dis potentially life-savin option only now dat I’d already fought mah way ta tha finish n' no longer needed dat shit.  I also realized dat I could have saved mah dirty ass a funky-ass bobby pin if I had hit dat shizzle on tha computer first.

I downlizzleed tha schematics then,

holla'd all up in tha terminal ta open tha display case.  Bustin so triggered a message.

"Cousin Braeburn, Ah know we ain’t talked up in some time yo, but tha war effort’s takin’ a twist fo' tha scary, n' Ah might not gots a cold-ass lil chizzle t’ peep ya again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  Ah want t’ mend fences.  Now, Ah ain’t gonna muck dis up wit lyrics.  Our thugged-out asses all know how tha fuck well dat went last time.  Instead, Ah’m sendin’ ya Lil’ Macintosh as a gift n' as a apologizzle.  T’sheezy you I’m sincere.  Keep ‘im safe fo' me, will ya?"

Da accent was straight-up much like dat of tha voice I found on Velvet Remedy’s PipBuck, although dis time it was clearly not from tha same stupid-ass pony.  But it was tha earnest tone of tha recordin dat made me pause.  Two hundred muthafuckin years ago, some pony had given dis glock as a token of apologizzle n' as a effort ta rehook tha fuck up wit family.  And dat some pony’s cousin had done just as she axed, preservin tha weapon fo' generations afta his own dirtnap.

I wasn’t goin ta leave it there, untouched by anypony until tha buildin collapsed on dat shit.  But when I took it, I removed it respectfully.

All dat was left was goin all up in tha rest of tha crib.  Da ammo box held bullets fo' Little Macintosh, n' not a shy amount.  In tha wardrobe, I found some oldschool maintenizzle suit dat I could bust ta repair tha holez up in mah own utilitizzle barding, n' other garments dat I left behind.

Eventually, I turned ta tha elevator n' pushed tha button. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  Nothing.

Of course it didn’t work.  Da wasteland just couldn’t give me a funky-ass break.  Pullin up mah tools, I opened up tha side panel n' tried ta figure up what tha fuck was wack n' if I could fix it from here.

To mah pimped out relief, I could. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  Da elevator proved ta be up in impressive condition, particularly thankin bout tha rest of tha building.  But tha battery fo' tha intercourse was dead as fuckin fried chicken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  As Celestia’s mercy would have it, there had been a replacement up in tha safe.  One swappin of batteries later, I was on mah way.  As tha doors slid shut,another message started

"here is tha schematics fo' Sergeant RL-3 n' ED-E up in return fo' what tha fuck Macintosh did protectin mah sister..at least tha pimpin' muthafucka tried..." tha thought crossed mah mind, "Macintosh, biatch?  Wasn’t that…"

***     ***     ***

I trotted between tha collapsed buildings dat littered tha area around Ironshod Firearms, not havin any particular direction ta go.  Aimless.  I hadn’t found any signz of civilization… civilized civilization, mind yo thugged-out ass.  I had kinda given up on findin Velvet Remedy.  For now, I was satisfyin mah dirty ass wit random exploration, although dat had just proven exceptionally dangerous.

In Stable Two, I knew exactly what tha fuck mah future would be (as unbearably dull as it would have been).  Out here, up in tha big-ass open outside, I was strugglin wit just tha opposite.  I never considered dat havin a assigned place might be as much a relief as it was a funky-ass burden.

I be a gangsta yo, but y'all knew dat n' mah ears perked all up in tha sound of overwrought, triumphant beatz. Drop dis like itz hot!  I watched as a sprite-bot fluttered down a cold-ass lil cross street.   Hustlin up ta it, I drew mah dirty ass around up in front of dat shit.  "Watcher?"

It just floated by.

I dashed up in front of it again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  "Hello?"  Da noize just kept playing.  I waved a hoof right up in front of its lack of face.  It danced around mah crazy ass n' kept going.

Well, dat was muthafuckin helpful.

I picked a random direction n' started trottin again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  I thought of Watcher’s lyrics.  Armor, check.  Weapon, double-check.  Guidance, biatch?  I looked back all up in tha Ironshod building.  A bit iffy yo, but check.  Hommies?

"It’s kinda hard ta make playaz where there don’t seem ta be anypony around!"  I be a gangsta yo, but y'all knew dat n' mah exasperated voice echoed off crumblin wallz of concrete.  If dis was a quest, it was a lame one.  I seriously needed ta find suttin' ta do.  Preferably other than "dodge" n' "duck".  In Stable Two, I felt painfully ordinary.  I yearned ta be special; now I yearned ta be anything.

I be a gangsta yo, but y'all knew dat n' mah downcast eyes chanced upon a Red Rider scooter amidst tha ruins.  Reachin up a hoof, I flipped it back onto its wheels n' prodded it back n' forth a gangbangin' few times.  Three of tha wheels was locked wit rust; but ta mah surprise, one still turned.

Lookin up, I found mah dirty ass all up in tha edge of a playground. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  Da swings n' slide jutted tha fuck into tha oddly-colored air, blackened by ancient spellfire, like bonez of a pimped out dead beast.  Da merry-go-round was warped n' canted. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shizzle happens all tha time.  Da skeleton of a funky-ass baby pony was still curled at one end.

Sadnizz n' immense shame flooded mah dirty ass.  I had been feelin sorry fo' mah dirty ass up in tha midst of all this!, biatch?  Another tiny skeleton lay against tha burnt husk of a tree, three rolla skates up in tha dirt near its hooves.  Da fourth, biatch?  I doubted mah playas would eva know, nahmeean?

I plodded on, movin all up in tha silent impromptu graveyard.

At tha far end, sheltered by walls dat was mostly still intact, I found a oldschool vendin machine.  "Sparkle~Cola" tha machine still advertised all up in tha muthafuckin yearz of grime.  It featured a funky-ass backlit emblem of stylized carrots.  Surprisingly, tha machine still looked functional. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack.  Fishin up a gangbangin' few pre-war coins, I fed dem tha fuck into tha machine.  I didn’t muthafuckin expect dat it would still have soda afta all these years.  I was astonished when a funky-ass forty rolled up dutifully.  I suddenly realized how tha fuck awfully thirsty I was!

Da Sparkle~Cola was luke-warm yo, but muthafuckin rather delicious, wit a thugged-out delightfully carroty aftertaste.  Da clickin of mah PipBuck warned mah crazy ass dat I was ingestin trace amountz of radiation wit each swallow yo, but not enough ta be harmful.  I’d taken mo' harm standin around at Sweet Applez Acres.  And besides, if it reached a point where mah radiation intake fuckin started makin me sick, I had a cold-ass lil couple RadAway potions -- tha only supplies from tha Ironshod medicinal box dat I hadn’t needed ta bust just ta survive tha building.

I spotted a funky-ass bench just around tha side of tha buildin n' decided ta take a load off mah legs, possibly read a shitload of tha Equestrian Army Todizzle book I had picked up.  As I turned tha corner, mah gaze fell upon a old, torn posta affixed ta tha wall.  Da image was tha grill of a coffin dodgin' pony of almost obtrusively pink coloration. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  Her mane was streaked wit grey.  (On some ponies, grey afro make dem look distinguished; on most, it just make dem look old. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Hers made her look like a cold-ass lil candy cane.)  Her eyes was huge, staring.  I could swear, posta or not, dat dat biiiiatch was lookin right tha fuck into mah dirty ass.  Some pony had ripped tha posta right all up in tha middle; I had no idea what tha fuck her expression was supposed ta be yo, but I couldn’t muthafuckin help but feel like I was bustin suttin' wrong.  Bold lyrics above n' below tha image, now deeply faded, announced: PINKIE PIE IS WATCHING YOU FOREVER!  There was additionizzle lyrics, straight-up tiny, beneath, so lil' small-ass n' faded dat I had ta lean close n' strain ta read em.

"…a aiiight reminder from tha Ministry of Morale."  I stepped back, tiltin mah head as I looked all up in tha posta again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  "What’s tha Ministry of Morale?"

Watcher’s voice erupted from over mah shoulder, makin me jump high enough mah horn whacked tha ceiling.  "Another well-meanin idea dat was so much mo' betta on scroll."

I gasped, willin mah ass ta beat regularly again, n' felt a gangbangin' fleetin empathy wit Sawed-Off.  Da sprite-bot was hoverin right next ta mah dirty ass.  Celestia, dem thangs was silent when they weren’t playin music!  "Is you tryin ta give me a ass attack?!"

"Oh.  Sorry."  I gave tha flyin orb a glare.

I forgot bout tha bench n' started strutting, tryin ta smoke up tha rest of mah Sparkle~Cola.  Da sprite-bot followed.

"I peep you’ve gots some armor…"  Da mechanical voice seemed hesitant.  I didn’t ask why.  Watcher either didn’t care enough ta explain or thought mo' betta of dat shit.  Maybe tha fact dat I was struttin all up in tha Equestrian Wasteland up in a tracksuit coated inside n' up wit dryin blood gave it pause.

I could probably go up ta any Stable pony n' go "I be evil, bad, nightmare pony.  Arrrr!" and, even despite mah size, they would take one look n' flee.

I sipped mah cola n' wished desperately fo' someplace decent ta bathe.  Problem was, any gin n juice clean n' radiation-free enough ta take a funky-ass bath up in would be too precious ta pollute.  One of mah canteens was empty n' tha second nearly so.

"Maybe tha reason you’re havin shizzle findin yo' place is dat you haven’t discovered yo' virtue yet," Watcher offered outta thin air.

I stopped. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  "What, biatch?  How tha fuck did you know… oh, nevermind."  Then, "What do you mean, mah virtue?"

"Well," tha flyin bizzle fuckin started, "Da top billin heroez of Equestria, ponies wit lifelong bondz of unbreakable thang n' strength, was each known fo' exemplifyin one of tha pimped out virtuez of ponykind. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  Kindness, honesty, laughter…"

"Laughter be a virtue?" I axed dubiously.

"Roll wit me on this," tha sprite-bot continued without breakin stride. "Generosity, loyalty n' magic.  They straight-up didn’t know themselves, or each other, until one pony came ta realize dat her playaz represented these virtues, n' together they grew ta live by em.  Now, I’m not sayin dem is tha only virtues, they is just a…"  Now tha bot paused as if searchin fo' lyrics.  "…particularly blingin set.  I’m just sayin dat like if you learn ta recognize tha dominant virtue up in yo' own heart, yo big-ass booty is ghon find yo ass.  And you won’t need mah playas or anythang else ta rap  yo' place up in the"  Watcher’s voice cut up wit a abrupt pop n' noize once again n' again n' again poured from tha bot.

"Buckwild."  I watched as tha sprite-bot slowly sailed away.

Well, if dat wasn’t a load of ponypies, I didn’t know what tha fuck was.  Finishin mah soda, I tossed tha empty forty amidst a pile of others.  Empty fortyz littered tha Equestrian Wasteland like weeds.

A freshly smoked up thought was occurrin ta mah dirty ass.  Bout Watcher. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  Da Wasteland Survival Guide had ta be freestyled afta tha megaspells drizzled down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  Long after, thankin bout its sound lyrics on scavenging.  So dat book wouldn’t done been up in tha Ponyville Library as part of tha original, pre-war library.  It found its way up in there later; from tha lack of bein burned, defaced or covered up in blood, I was guessin recently.  Which made me wonder: did Watcher know bout dem skanky ponies tha raidaz held captive, biatch?  And if so, is dat why I was talked tha fuck into goin there, biatch?  Was I manipulated tha fuck into struttin tha fuck into dat horror cuz Watcher hoped I would free them, biatch?  I couldn’t be sure.  And thankin bout dat Watcher saved me, I should give tha benefit of tha doubt. But I couldn’t muthafuckin help tha nigglin sense dat Watcher had played me, n' I don’t like bein tricked.

I be a gangsta yo, but y'all knew dat n' mah ears perked as tha noize stopped again, replaced by a voice.  But dis wasn’t Watcher’s voice.  This was somepony else.  This voice wasn’t metallic.  It was tha voice of a smooth thug pony wit a greasy as fuck  charisma.

"Hommies, ponies, rejoice biaaatch!  Although tha ghetto bout you is bleak, scarred n' poisoned by tha war of honorless, thoughtless, inferior poniez of tha past, our phat asses aint gots ta live up in tha shadow of they greed n' wickedness.  Together, we can raise Equestria back ta its forma beauty dawwwwg!  Together, we can build a freshly smoked up kingdom where all live together up in slick unitizzle dawwwwg!   It’s already happening, mah phat ponies.  Already, tha foundation fo' a freshly smoked up n' straight-up dope age is bein built.  Yes, it’s hard work yo, but don’t we owe it ta ourselves, n' ta future generationz of ponies, ta be better, biatch?  Fuck dat shit, ta be tha dopest we can possibly be, biatch?  I’m spittin some lyrics ta you now, as yo' playa, as yo' leader, dat we can. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  Our thugged-out asses must.  And we WILL!"

What up in a gangbangin' fever trip was that??

Da noize had resumed -- not poppin back up in tha middle of a cold lil' woo wop like when Watcher seized control of a sprite-bot yo, but all up in tha beginnin of a freshly smoked up song, like dis was how tha fuck tha bot was supposed ta work.

Wait, ponies gots a leader now, biatch?  That was straight-up shizzle ta mah dirty ass.  As far as I could see, our phat asses didn’t even gots a cold-ass lil ghetto.  Hell, I’d settle fo' a town!  Even just a gangbangin' few shacks built within vague proximitizzle of each other, so long as they had ponies livin there up in peace.  Or as close ta peace as tha wasteland allowed.

If our crazy asses had a leader, our crazy asses had ta have at least one town, right?

Trottin fasta now, I found a ruin wit enough intact stairs fo' me ta git up ta what tha fuck was left of a second floor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  I brought up tha binoculars n' looked about.  Sheezy enough, up in tha distance, I saw smoke.  Enough plumes, close enough together, ta suggest some sort of settlement.  I prayed ta Celestia dat tha smoke was from cookin fires, not raidaz burnin it ta tha ground.

There was a path leadin up towardz tha settlement.  That would keep me from losin mah way.  And there was movement on dat path.  I be a gangsta yo, but y'all knew dat n' mah horn glowed as I focused tha binoculars, brangin a lil' small-ass crew of ponies tha fuck into view.  Two of dem was pullin a heavily laden wagon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  A lil' pony rode on its back, apparently rappin' wit two others whoz ass was guidin equally-burdened two-headed beasts.  Da crew was headed towardz me, away from tha theoretical town. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  But they didn’t look like they was fleeing, n' none of dem was wounded, all of which I took fo' a phat sign. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  A straight-up phat sign indeed.

I looked up tha fuck into tha thick, broilin clouds, up ta where tha disk of tha sun done cooked up a funky-ass brighter spot up in tha cloudy ceiling, n' busted a prayer of props ta Celestia.

***     ***     ***

Da path wasn’t a road, exactly.  Rather, it was a long, arcin swath cuttin all up in tha Equestrian Wasteland. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  Two parallel metal lines reinforced wit badly-aged cross-plankz of wood. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg!  Half-an-hour back, it had crossed over a gully on a rickety bridge.  After mah funk wit catstrutts, I chose ta brave tha gully rather than put mah hooves on suttin' else dat was surely holdin off its inevitable collapse until it could take me wit dat shit.

It turned up ta be a phat decision, despite tha wounds.  Da gully had been home ta a funky-ass bunch of large, bloated pig-things wit mad nasty front teeth.  One of dem gots ahold of mah left hindleg, bitin clean all up in mah armor n' cuttin a thugged-out deep gash.

Little Macintosh is neither on tha down-low nor subtle.  A single blasted from dat dope lil glock tore tha head clean off tha pig-thang attackin me biaaatch!  And it fires quickly enough dat I was able ta slay tha three others before mah targetin spell ran out.

Beneath tha bridge was somepony’s camp.  It had a long-abandoned feel ta it yo, but there was scattered supplies, includin a gangbangin' few casez of shotgun ammo, a single can of chicken amidst a litter of tin cans ("Magical Fruit" tha label boasted yo, but it turned up just ta be beans), n' a locked medicinal box.  I picked tha lock easily, findin a healin potion which I swiftly drank, breathang a sigh of relief as tha nasty gash mended gently, tha pain ebbin away.  There was magical bandages, nowhere as bangin as a potion but phat fo' flesh wounds, n' a funky-ass box of… mints, biatch?  ("Mint-als muthafucka!  Refresh yo' mind n' yo' breath!"  I had been surprised ta peep a smilin zebra on tha front of tha box, tha straight-up original gangsta depiction of a zebra I’d peeped dat didn’t look like a storybook villain.)

Now I figured I was over halfway ta tha settlement, maybe two-thirds.  I tried ta keep mah dirty ass from imaginin what tha fuck I would find. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  (A whole hood of civilized n' aiiight ponies, maybe.)  I didn’t wanna ta set mah dirty ass up fo' a letdown. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  "Even a gangbangin' few shacks" I holla'd at mah dirty ass.  I picked up tha pace of mah trot.

I heard a gunshot blasted up in tha same stupid-ass instant dat I felt a funky-ass cap tear clean all up in mah right hindleg n' another clang off tha metal casin of tha sniper rifle strapped ta mah back.  I screamed up in agony, collapsin ta a skiddin halt on tha rocky ground, clutchin at mah hindleg.  I was bleedin profusely all up in tha hole torn all up in dat shit.  Da cap missed tha bone, n' I could tell dat sickeningly cuz I could peep it son!  I tossed mah head back n' screamed again.

Desperately, I dragged mah dirty ass around a big-ass mound of rocks, tryin ta take shelter from a shooter I never saw.  Focusin as much as I could all up in tha terrible pain, I pulled tha magic-laced medicinal bandages from mah pack.  I tried rappin bout ma bleedin hindleg yo, but tha bandages was meant fo' cuts n' gashes, not gapin holes.  It was soaked wit blood n' slidin off almost before I had finished wrappin dat shit.  I tossed tha bandage n' tried again, dis time pullin tha bandage much tighter. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  It too soaked bright red yo, but at least it stayed.

Shakin wit fear n' pain, knowin from tha sudden chills dat mah body was goin tha fuck into shock, I looked up n' tried ta spy tha pony whoz ass beat down mah dirty ass.  I looked all around yo, but no one was there biaaatch!  And there wasn’t a whole lot of cover ta be hidin in; these hillz of dirt n' rock was mostly barren. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  I felt like mah ass swallowed a ice cube when tha image hit me dat there was a pony up there wit a StealthBuck!  Biatch could be right next ta me, pointin her glock at mah head, n' I wouldn’t even know!

But then I looked upward, n' there up in tha sky was a rust-coated pegasus pony wit a orange mane under a funky-ass black desperado hat, n' what tha fuck looked like two rifles, one strapped beneath each wing.  Da pony had just finished circlin back around n' was aimin right at me!

With panicked instinct, I levitated a big-ass rock up in front of mah grill as a shield. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  A crack rang up in tha air, two riflez fired simultaneously dawwwwg!  Da first cap struck tha rock, bustin  chipz of stone flying, n' ricocheted, lodgin up in mah canteen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  Da last of mah gin n juice burbled up at mah hooves.  Da second punched all up in mah armor n' embedded itself up in mah left shoulder, bustin  me reeling.  Again, I collapsed, tha pain peakin n' then beginnin ta bleed off, which I knew wasn’t a phat sign. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  This time, I didn’t be thinkin I would be gettin back up again.

So, dis is what tha fuck it was like ta die, biatch?  So overrated.

I be a gangsta yo, but y'all knew dat n' mah eyes felt heavy.  I closed them, I don’t be thinkin fo' long.  But when I opened dem again, I spotted tha ponies drawin they wagon, comin over tha hill.  Behind dem would mah crazy ass mo' ponies, guidin pack... two-headed cattle-things.  I remembered tha lil' pony up in tha back of tha wagon.

I doubted any of dem would be lookin up.

Forcin mah dirty ass ta mah hooves, I fuckin started draggin mah dirty ass tha fuck into tha open. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  If I was goin ta die, it wasn’t goin ta be layin down, watchin these playas git slaughtered hommie biaaatch!  I be a gangsta yo, but y'all knew dat n' mah body screamed agony tha fuck into mah head yo, but I kept going, marchin mah dirty ass on lame hairy-ass legs until I was standin up in tha path right up in front of tha approachin group.  Turning, n' focusin all up in tha hammerin up in mah head, I lifted Little Macintosh tha fuck into tha air n' pointed it all up in tha rust-colored pegasus whoz ass had whipped back around n' was again n' again n' again flyin right all up in mah face.

I stood directly between his ass n' tha travelaz.  I be a gangsta yo, but y'all knew dat n' mah vision was blurry from tears n' trauma.  I wasn’t sure, even wit S.A.T.S., dat I could hit his muthafuckin ass.  And I stood no chizzle against his thugged-out aim.  Dude was a dunkadelic shot; technically, dat schmoooove muthafucka hadn’t missed mah crazy ass yet.

Puttin every last muthafuckin ounce ta tha bounce of me tha fuck into it, I growled as menacingly as I could. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  And hoped dat a pony whoz ass had survived four shots would be mistaken fo' a pony ta be reckoned with.  "Shoot all up in mah grill all you want yo, but if you battle dat family, I will! End hommie biaaatch! You!"

To mah surprise, tha pegasus’s eyes widened, n' instead of firing, his thugged-out lil' punk-ass backflapped his wings, comin ta a halt up in front of mah dirty ass.  "Whoa nelly!"

Levitatin Little Macintosh was gettin straight-up hard. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  I’d lost all feelin up in mah blasted leg, n' fell onto mah haunches without realizing.

"Ah ain’t tha one attackin’ dat caravan!  Yo ass are!"

What!, biatch? Black was seepin tha fuck into mah vision from all sides.  I be a gangsta yo, but y'all knew dat n' mah head was swimming.  Da conversation wasn’t makin any sense.  But at least da thug was conversin rather than cappin' mah dirty ass.  Weakly, "…not attacking.  Yo ass blasted mah dirty ass."

"Well of course ah blasted you, nahmean biiiatch, biatch?  Ah peep a raider headin’ at a cold-ass lil caravan, ah’m gonna perforate her till she ain’t movin’ no more!"  Da rust-colored pony glared all up in mah face.  Then, wit a strangely proud as a muthafucka look, "It’s muh policy."

I felt mah forelegs beginnin ta give.  I was near collapse.  But tha lyricz of tha pony caused a gangbangin' fire ta flash up in mah head. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  Little Macintosh had begun ta sink towardz tha ground yo, but now it swung back up, pointed right between mah attacker’s eyes.  "I’m not a raider!"

Da pony pointed all up in mah grill argumentatively.  "Y’sure look like a raider!"

Seemingly from outta nowhere, tha colt from tha wagon galloped tha fuck into view.  I tried ta raise mah voice up in warnin yo, but not a god damn thang came out.  Da blacknizz fightin ta overtake mah vision finally won, n' I collapsed, sinkin tha fuck into what tha fuck felt like a thugged-out deep chill.

Da last thang I heard was tha colt whinnying, "Calamity, what tha fuck have you done?!"

Footnote: Level Up.

New Perk: Egghead - Yo ass will add +2 skill points each time you bust a freshly smoked up experience level.