Pinkie Floyd: The Wall

The show had ended, and Pinkie Floyd was hardly worn out. She'd really put her heart into her performance, but it didn't change how she felt. She wanted to do something crazy and new. She felt young. The only thing that had brought her any real pleasure that day was Thunderlane. She'd even nicknamed him Lane after their fun, and was fond of him now.

So Pinkie invited him over to her hotel room.

Pinkie coughed as she opened the door to her room, still wearing her classic black outfit with chic sunglasses. Her mane was a mess, but it looked just fine so kinky and wild. Thunderlane followed her obediantly, but stopped in the doorway as Pinkie entered. He looked around, his mouth agape in surprise.

"Oh my Celestia," he said, giving in to the luxury, "what a fabulous room!"

Pinkie stepped forward, took off her tie and coat, then turned on a lamp. It was dim, so it hardly lit up the room, but it did give the place a sort of romantic atmosphere. She took a seat in her comfortable yellow chair, and lounged in it. Something about her mood had changed, and suddenly she felt less adventurous. Thunderlane stepped further into the room, gazing around with wonder.

"Are all these your guitars?" he asked, staring at the rack that Pinkie had several on. Yes, they were all her guitars, but she didn't answer him. With anxiety, she turned on the television. Lane stroked their necks and felt their strings, lightly playing a few. The music didn't fill Pinkie with any happiness. She suddenly thought of Braeburn, and her eyes almost swam with tears. She couldn't let Lane see that, though.

She took her sunglasses off, yawning lazily, and stared blankly at the television before her. An old war movie was playing, as some sort of anniversary was coming up soon or whatever. Pinkie could care less. But she also couldn't help thinking about her father, and Braeburn. She had left her life behind so suddenly, and for what? There was nothing left but misery. She rubbed her eyes. He'd cheated on her.

"Celestia..." Lane sighed, looking all around, "This place is bigger than our apartment."

Pinkie lightly tapped the remote control on her leg, the soft, cold sensation making hardly an impact. She watched as ponies in uniform trotted forward and plotted their outings for that day. Thunderlane stared at her, awkwardly, and shuffled his hooves a little.

"You like the tube, huh?" he asked, standing up straight as to look appealing. After a moment, he asked, "Can I get a drink of water?"

Pinkie still did not reply, lost in her own thoughts.

"Can I get you a drink of water?" Lane asked, confused. He and Pinkie were supposed to have some fun! Or something like that. Maybe this cool rockstar was actually just another bore. He walked into the adjoined bedroom, then into the bathroom. He got imaginative, seeing the tub. It wasn't anything spectacular, but she was getting impatient.

"Oh wow, look at this tub! Wanna take a bath?" he asked, playfully. No response. He walked back into the room, frowning, and approached the occupied Pinkie Floyd. He sat beside her, trying to give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe what she was watching truly was exciting.

"What are you watching?" he asked. A bead of sweat appeared on Pinkie's forehead, and she blinked away a tear. She was losing herself, again.

"Hello?"

Lane waved a hoof in front of Pinkie's face, trying to get her attention. Was something wrong, he wondered? Pinkie brought her hooves up to her head and gently rubbed her temples.

"Are you feeling okay?" Lane asked, truly feeling for the pink pony next to him. Something was wrong, evidently. He decided to comfort Pinkie as comforted anyone...sensually. He gently took a hoof away from Pinkie's temple and began to gently lick it and kiss it. Every once and a while she would bite it gently, but never aggressively. Just enough for her to feel teeth. He peered up at her, his already big eyes looking innocent and droopy, wondering if it affected her at all. Hopefully she would break free of this fog.

Pinkie felt the sensation, but her thoughts were on another stallion. Braeburn... oh, Braeburn. Day after day, their love had turned as gray as the skin on a dying man. And night after night, they had pretended that everything was alright. But Pinkie had grown older. Her youth was fading fast, and she no longer had the same beauty or energy. Meanwhile, Braeburn had become colder. Truly he didn't feel the same way about her as he once had. Nothing was very much fun anymore.

Pinkie took her hoof away from Lane, and placed it upon her chest gently. Something began to stir inside her. Lane turned, and sat next to her without touching her. The carpeted floor beneath him wasn't as comfortable as he had hoped it would be. He turned and walked away. He sat over by Pinkie's guitars, and gently wrapped up any loose patches or straps she could find.

She frowned, blinked, and felt something. She could feel one of her turns coming on. She felt as cold as a razor blade, as tight as a tourniquet, and as dry as a funeral drum. A slight smile broke out onto her face, but she wasn't feeling any joy.

Then she broke.

Pinkie howled threateningly, as she often did onstage, and leaped from her chair. On her way up she put out a hoof and knocked over a nearby lamp. She stood, growling, and swept everything off of a nearby coffee table. The contents crashed to the floor, and something made of glass shattered. Lane looked up at Pinkie, calmly backing up against the wall and trying to make himself as small as possible. Inside, he was filled with fear.

Pinkie slammed a hoof down on the glass coffee table, shattering the cover. She stepped her hoof through it defiantly, in her mind cursing every brick in her forsaken wall. She lifted a nearby camera off the floor, one that contained pictures of her and Braeburn, and she slammed it down on the table. Film flew out from it as it broke, and Pinkie stared at it with pleasure. Take that, she said in her mind, take that, you son of a bitch!

Lane pressed himself against the wall as far as his body would let him, and then inched to the right as to get away from the glass shattering. Pinkie looked up at him, and something had changed about her appearance. Her mane was usually bouncy and cute, but now it was pin-straight. Her big blue eyes suddenly looked a bit dilated and off-center. Lane began to flee in panic, racing towards the door of the hotel room, but Pinkie chased him down.

Lane screamed loudly, running to another wall for safety. Pinkie pursued him, so Lane leaped to another area of the room. Pinkie paused by her guitars, then picked up one of the pedals. She quickly turned and threw it with all her might at a nearby mirror. The mirror shattered, and the pedal broke. She then lifted a nearby lamp off the ground and used it to smash a nearby picture on the wall. Lane covered his ears, and backed into a corner. Pinkie tore the picture off the wall and tossed it behind him in fury.

She then picked up one of her favorite acoustic guitars- one she had saved up for and spent meticulous hours playing and caring for- and without hesitation smashed it on the floor. It broke from the neck, and the body of the guitar dangled dangerously by it's strings. Pinkie held onto it's neck, and the precious instrument swayed back and forth as if a pendulum. She turned to Lane, holding her guitar, and ran towards him. Lane screamed, covering his head, and ducked behind a chair. He began to cry. Was he truly in danger? He heard the hollow body of the guitar slam against the chair above his head, so he crawled underneath a table seeking safety. Pinkie smashed another mirror with her once beloved instrument.

Pinkie eyed her room-service cart, which he had called to be delivered in advance for after the show. She had ordered it for herself, and she had planned to share it with Lane. She didn't feel the least bit hungry, and discarded her broken guitar. She threw one plate after another at a nearby wall. The dishes fell to pieces, and food splattered against the wall. Juices and sauces raced one another, dripping down the blue paint, and little solid pieces slowly fell to the ground in defeat. Deliberately, Pinkie lifted the entire cart and slammed it down upon the table Lane was under. The stallion screamed in panic, afraid that the table would cave, and watched as all around him food, dishes, and silverware fell. Quickly he escaped from under the table, scrambling to his feet, and he ran forward.

Pinkie, still thinking of her wrath towards the cheating Braeburn, lifted a bottle of expensive red wine and gripped it fiercely. Lane cowered away from her, covering his head and face with his hooves, and Pinkie threw the near-full bottle against the wall. Glass and alcohol flew from the source, dangerously covering the floor. The room smelled of fine wine and uneaten dinner. Lane thanked Celestia that he was still wearing his boots, and blindly ran forward. With sharp pain and surprise he felt wine splash his back and lower mane, then a shard of glass flew closeby and cut his back open. He yelped in pain, afraid for his very life and wondering if Pinkie truly did want to kill him.

Lane ran to the kitchen, and Pinkie followed close behind. She lifted a chair and knocked over all of the bottles of cider on the counter, then flung the chair. She threw herself over the counter, and chased a wailing Lane into the bedroom.

"Run to the bedroom!" she screamed, throwing a vase of flowers against a mirror. Lane did as he was told, running into the bedroom and scrambling over Pinkie's Canterlot King-sized bed. It was covered in many sheets, and Lane tripped over them several times. He got down on the ground beside the huge bed, and shook, whimpering to himself. Pinkie entered, hurling the small television she kept in that room at the wall without even unplugging it. With a few sparks from the wire as it left the socket it belonged to, the television flew fast and dented the wall it was thrown at. Pinkie quickly knocked over a dresser, her own strength surprising her.

"Would you like to watch TV, Lane? Or get between the sheets?" she asked, breathing heavily and slowly stepping with purpose around the bed, "Maybe contemplate the silent freeway? Would you like something to eat?"

Pinkie was suddenly at Lane's side and gripped his sides. Pure terror took hold of the stallion.

"Would you like to learn to fly?" Pinkie whispered, gesturing towards a nearby window. Lane was too horrified to speak, so stuck in his place. Beneath the window were hundreds of feet of air. He would hit the ground hard and fast, with hardly time to feel any pain unless he was "lucky" enough to survive the torturous fall.

"WOULD YA?!" Pinkie shouted in his ear, interrogating him for answers he didn't have.

"Ohh! No!!" Lane wailed, openly weeping.

Pinkie left his side, ripping another picture from the wall, and threw it like a frisbee down the little hall it belonged to. She lifted a huge board that had fallen from the dresser and she smashed a mirror to bits. While she was distracted, Lane sprinted from the room, gasping for breath.

"Would you like to see me try, Braeburn?" Pinkie asked her former husband, stepping on their wedding picture with her front-left hoof. She stared at his shattered face and smiled. She'd done to him now what he had done to her heart. She had broken him as much as he'd broken her.

"Would you like to call the cops?" Pinkie shouted to Lane, sensing that he was still around. She kicked through the wicker closet door, finalizing her violence in the bedroom, and ran into the main living space with her precious TV.

"Do you think it's time I stopped?" Pinkie screamed, running to the open windows. Lane, who was standing at the door and making sure he was all in one piece, fled. He didn't want to see Pinkie jump, and he had a feeling she would. He slammed the door behind him, and was as gone as Pinkie's virginity.

"Why are you running away?" Pinkie howled like a banshee. Too late. He was gone. She threw herself onto the Venetian blinds, and pulled them down with her body weight, openly moaning in emotional agony. Screaming, she picked up the large television that she had once loved, and threw it out the window. The glass shattered suddenly, and the television fell to the streets below with shocking and dangerous force. Pinkie was very high up, standing the top floor of the grand hotel. She felt the cool night breeze on her face, and placed one hoof onto the window's frame. Glass pierced into her hoof, but she could barely feel the pain. She was completely numb. The television landed at it's maximum velocity and the pieces flew. Glass shattered, tubes rolled and bounced off the pavement, plastic became brittle and cracked. Sparks flew, and even from her height Pinkie could hear and see the devastation. Pinkie supported herself with one hoof, stood upright, placed a back hoof on the screen, and leaned far out the window, swinging recklessly off a top-floor windowsill.

"TAKE THAT, FUCKERS!!" she screamed, ripping her jacket off with one foreleg and waving it out the window. She screamed maniacally into the night, her hoof bleeding profusely, her head dizzying. She looked at all the lights below her, city lights, and heard the cars beeping at her direction. The night belonged to Pinkie Floyd.