Pinkie Floyd: The Wall

PINKIE FLOYD: THE WALL

...We Came In?

Pinkie Floyd sat alone with her television, quiet music playing throughout the hotel she was staying in. She knew that she had heard the song somewhere before, sometime a long time ago. Pink was sitting not-so-comfortably in an arm chair. The television in front of her eyes was a bit too bright and intense pain rocked her entire body. However, Pinkie Pie didn't care. No. Pinkie couldn't feel a thing, not really. She was watching an old war movie, a movie that made her father's death seem lighthearted and fun. How she ached for anything lighthearted and fun. Pinkie knew that she wouldn't be able to enjoy a thing now, though.

Pinkie Pie stared blankly at the television set, holding an ashy cigarette. She couldn't remember exactly when she'd begun to smoke it, and she wasn't sure she was going to finish it. Thoughts of the father she never knew, Clyde Pie, filled her mind. She had grown up poor and fatherless, thanks to the exact war they were making to look like a fun little game on the television set.

Clyde Pie was just a regular old man with a loving wife and a child on the way when he was pulled off to war. Bleak and cold mornings had filled his last year of life. Pinkie could only imagine those black dawns filled with anticipation and fear. Her father was among those men, those poor, miserable men. A few hundred ordinary lives, to be exact. Her own father, lighting his cigarette as sounds of gunfire and bombs crashed around him; loading his gun in preparation of death.

The pink mare sat in awe of the television, gripping his cigarette just as tightly as the chair she was sitting in. She needed every ounce of comfort possible. The vacuum once more sounded, loud and droning. Pinkie's eyes widened as the hotel's maid attempted to enter her room, which was padlocked. The sound of jangling chains immediately spiraled her into a violent flashback, and she gripped the seat tighter than ever.

Screaming guitars and a booming pipe organ welcomed Pinkie to the stage, thick bass and slamming drums accompanying her every hoofstep. She was birthing a concert, a powerful concert. Her straight pink mane blew slightly in the wind and the feeling of chaos was empowering on every single level. Audience members sat in awe below her hooves, and on that tall stage she could feel the warmth and glow of the alienating spotlight. Equestria's true nature was not love.

It was violence.

Lights flashed onstage and sound effects shattered the ears of audience members. Spectators sat in gaping surprise as they stared at the solemn, dark Pinkie Floyd. Pinkie looked at her audience members, hoping to preach to them the message of her ways. Her life was before her, bright and exposed. She leaned into the microphone, staring into the audience.

"So ya thought ya might like to go to the show?" she asked the audience members, who clearly did, "to feel the warm thrill of confusion, that space cadet glow.Tell me, is something eluding you, sunshine? Is this not what you expected to see? If you wanna find out what's behind these cold eyes you'll just have to claw your way through this disguise!"

Pinkie spoke to an eager audience who drank her words like a newborn baby drank it's mothers milk. Pinkie was going to teach them about reality, hardened and faceless.

After that particular show, at a Las Pegasus venue, a huge riot had broken out. Audience members had been beaten and searched for tickets. Thanks to a local police force's hatred of rock and roll, fans were badly injured. The frantic outbreak had left many fans absolutely dumb-founded. It was outbreaks like that, "protective measures" by forces, that made Pinkie hate Equestrian government. After all, they were just fans of music, mostly young people with no intention of violence.

People always died in cold blood, and were always born in warm blood. Pinkie was certain.