Shining “Nancy” Armor arose from the bed which he had borrowed from his wife. Across the room, Princess “General Ripper” Cadence was still entangled in her sheets. Sweat damped fur steamed in the early morning sunrise, like steam from a hot cup of coffee.
Hey, ever hear the one about how coppers like coffee? I bet ya have, but let me tell ya, they do. They just adore spending all night in a cramped wagon, staring at your vacant windows, sipping coffee from a thermos and wondering how in Tartarus their lives turned out this way.
A little excitement is all this momentary discussion is asking for, a bit of the grim and gory. A few minutes of hack slash stab a fucker until he bleeds out on the floor. Spit on the body too, make sure everyone remembers your name. Respect is only received when commanded, and nothing commands harder than a can of pepper spray and a hoof through the sternum.
Ponies complain, of course, do they ever complain. But the Las Pegasus Police Department doesn’t just break through your door with no reason. Ya don't get a beaten without askin for it. Pin her down, and her little delicate wings flutter against your chest as she screams, that’s the true call of any copper. Last call, every bobby in, she was a whore so she had it coming. Stick one up her tail pipe, copper, and choke her till she vomits. Every copper loves a whore, loves to break what is already beaten.
Saves on paperwork if they’re dead, ya know. No complaining witnesses. Oh, hey, by the way, I’m the narrator. I know things about stuff and just felt like telling you that. I know lots of British slang, even though I’m not British. I’m, like, the specialest snowiest flakiest ... oh dear, something appears to be happening in the story. Isn’t that inconvenient? I just hate characters.
Shining Armor cracked the back of his head on an 19th century end table, snapping off a piece of gilded frottage in a manner most inconsiderate to the dead pony who’d carved this living piece from its forest surroundings. His two maids pressed him down, burying the edges of their hooves through his sleeping blouse. It hurt a lot, bringing tears from the Prince's eyes.
“NAUGHTY BOY!” one of the maids cackled as she pushed Shining Armor onto his back. Her crotchtits sagged low, swinging like the twin penises of a salamander. It was hypnotizing sometimes, but now it offered no escape from Shining's situation, no matter how much he stared.
“Oh, damaging the furniture now?
"The furniture an' all”
Shining Armor, who had been in the military for several years, survived stressful boot camp environments and live fire exercises, who had once been left to survive on a mountainside with nothing but a penknife and a tin of beans, was utterly devastated the assault of two women who were old enough to be his grandmother.
“Stop it,” cried the pony in whose hooves the protection of thousands of lives rested, “please just leave me alone! You’re being mean!”
He swung his hooves through the air like angry butterflies, powerless against the maids because females, especially female servants, receive bonuses to Strength, Intelligence and regeneration per round within domestic environments. This is why they burn their wives in Zebrica, because the entire mare can regenerate from a single limb. Did I mention that I’m a smart narrator?
While I was talking, the two maids had turned their sovereign over onto his back and lifted the skirt that he always wore. The sudden nakedness revealed his throbbing erection because stallions are always horny, amirite? One of the maids slammed her hooves on the back of the Prince’s head, giving him concussion number eighteen. Shining’s vision hilariously turned blurry and he began vomiting in a slapstick manner.
“He’s not quite a gelding yet, is he?” said the first maid.
“A gelding an’ all.”
“No, dearie, I said not quite a gelding,” she corrected as she spanked her Prince’s coin purse against his feeble pleas.
“No, dearie an’ all.”
Shining felt the hoof slap his bottom. Another welt for the collection. Shining Armor kept a trophy case in his mind, where he assembled all the things he had suffered since marrying Cadence. For every twenty injuries, he awarded himself a gold star of love and tolerance. Concussions counted as double, although anal rape with a broom only counted as half.
His asshole puckered at the thought as Shining squeezed his eyes shut. The penetration was coming, he could hear the sound of wood scraping against wood as one of the maid’s lifted the wooden implement. There would be splinters, there were always splinters, but he reminded himself that he deserved it for being a failure of a husband. His wife was suffering emotional distress as she sprawled out in her bed, sweating off a night of hard drinking. His poor, distressed and not raped wife.
That is how guilt works, and as a husband, Shining had learned to live with it. Sure, he could get a divorce, but that was paperwork and we already talked about paperwork, right? I just wanted to make sure you were aware I was here and clever. I’m the narrator. Hello. Yup, me.
As the wooden haft split his ass, Shining was always struck with how cold it was. Fortunately, as the splinters spread through his rectum and colon, his bleeding would warm the improvised implement. Since getting married, Shining had gotten used to the sight of blood in his stool and pretty much everywhere else. It was a compromise.
“Oh, look at him, the naughty, little bitch.”
“Look at him an’ all,” replied the second maid who thrust into him again with the broom. His face bashed against the wood with each thrust, bring with it a merciful feeling akin to the unconsciousness of his still sleeping wife. Compromise and the little things.
“He’s enjoying it an’ all”
“An’ all an’ all.”
“An’ all an’ all an’ all.”
“An’ all an’ all ...”
Shining Armor realized that the two maids had finally gotten stuck in a cockney loop, and he took advantage of the opportunity to made a break for it. Even as he staggered out in disarray, soaked in his own bodily fluids, his assailants remained locked in place. Their eyes wide as dinner plates as they stared into nothing, gesturing aimlessly with their hooves.
Exhausted, the Prince limped toward the next humiliation on his morning schedule. His wife was already there, her forelegs pulled tightly to her chest in a rigid sitting position as she ate her breakfast. She must have snuck out sometime while the narrator was speaking. She had a cigar clamped between her teeth, sucking the fouled air direct and hot into her lungs. Great, brown and wrinkled, the skin of the cigar was being ripped to pieces as she ground it in silent fury at nopony knew what.
Her husband collapsed at his place by the table, demonstrating the sort of clumsy oafishness she’d decided to settle for in a land full of real stallions. Aside from the vomit covering the front of his dress, he had allowed his mane to become mussed during his morning rape. His bangs swooped down over his face, covering one eye, and two tufts rose up beside his ears. An afro rendered tripartate upon his skull.
“Chrysalis, please pass the toast,” Shining gasped from his ragged throat.
“Good morning, Cadence, she said to herself, sarcastically,” Cadence said sarcastically, making no other move to acknowledge her husband.
“I’m sorry, Chrysalis, it’s just been a rough morning. I didn’t ...”
“I DID!” Cadence roared, her sudden volume rattling loose a painting that crashed to the floor.
After a few moments of awkward silence, Shining ventured, “did what, Chrysalis dear?”
“I did ... that,” Cadence shrugged, an awkward movement in her large frame. “I did that, Chrysalis. I always do that, and you never appreciate all the that that I do.”
“I’m sorry?” Shining ventured.
“You should be. You should always be sorry for everything, especially the things which are outside of your power, which is pretty much everything.”
“It’s just, do you think ... your maids are very mean to me sometimes, what with the sexual assault and physical assault and verbal assault, and that one time they ground a salt block across my eyes-”
Cadence cut off her husband with a lilting laugh. “Oh, you cried blood for a week after that.”
“I know, and-”
“It was hilarious.”
“It was also painful and embarrassing. I was wondering if you could ... talk ... to ...” Shining Armor’s voice trailed off as he witnessed the change in his wife.
This was about to hurt.
Oh, Celestia, was this about to hurt.
Meanwhile ...
Princess Celestia (blessed be her holy hooves) looked up from her morning squash match. Sweat glistened on her brow as her head rose toward the sun. She sensed the sudden plea telegraphed to her through space and time from next door.
"Yes," she confirmed, nodding her head and setting her mane ashimmerin like the fair waters of North Trottingham, "yes, you are correct in your belief that this is about to hurt."
Shining Armor’s jaw snapped shut with a pulverizing tinkle that sent powdered teeth and blood down his throat. His entire body lifted off the ground as Cadence kicked him across the room and through an 18th century display case. The china broke over his skin, ripping his hide to pieces.
“Hello concussion number nineteen,” he thought, as his head hit the wall. Mercifully, this one fuzzed him up enough that he didn’t feel his left hind leg snapping, although he did experience a dim realization of the injury as the shattered bone drove through his skin.
He lay spasming on the ground and drenched in his own blood. Cadence stalked closer, her fangs glistening in the light of her aunt’s beautiful, blood-soaked morning. Blood dripped from the walls. Lots of blood, ya get it?
More distressing than the visage of death approaching him was the sight of the breakfast table Cadence had flipped over. Toast, jam and eggs were scattered across the floor. Shining never got to eat breakfast anymore. It was the most important meal of the day, and it wasn’t fair! Nothing was fair.
“Chrysalis, dear,” Cadence sang as she approached, “you know that I won’t have you speaking ill of my oldest friends. You’re younger, richer and maler than them.”
Under other circumstances, Shining might have protested the “maler” part of the statement. After all, weren’t they the ones that penetrated him every morning?
“You need to ...”
Shining felt it coming as his body was lifted into the air. His wife’s magic hugged him like the nurturing limbs of a mother who is about to drown their foal in the bathtub. “No, please, don’t say it. Please, just beat me some more.”
“Will do,” Cadence replied, throwing her husband against the wall where he crumpled like a cum soaked happy sock, “but you still need to check ...”
Oh Celestia, Luna, Chrysalis, no! Please, please, no.
“... your ...”
“I’m begging you, literally begging you, not to finish this thought,” wailed Shining. His useless limbs scurried around him, like a bug trapped under a lens. There had to be some escape, he thought as he looked around. As he carried on this internal dialogue, it suddenly occurred to him how odd it was there was so much space between words. Thank Celestia for these slow arguments.
Meanwhile ...
Princess Celestia was relaxing in a mud bath, feeling the frustration from her match against Fancy Pants bleed out into the bath. It was, of course, a business visit to the spa, and beside her Blueblood was babbling on about some meaningless issue.
“You’re welcome,” Celestia said in response to the beamed message that had traveled from two doors down, to the sun, and then bounced back to her skull.
“I never thank you for anything,” protested her nephew.
Cadence was still dragging out her words to an almost satirical degree. Or perhaps she was just enjoying yet another moment of power.
“... privilege.”
“Nodammitno!” Wailed the fourth highest ranking pony in Equestria and commander of over a thousand troops. He held his hooves over his face, sobbing piteously. “Why don’t you just yolo me while you’re at it?”
“I’m saving that for our fifth anniversary, Chrysalis-darling,” Cadence licked her lips as she leaned in towards her battered spouse, “that’s the wooden one.”
Shining slid out of the palace on his belly. It was a humiliating spectacle, but at least it had the advantage of scraping the broken glass from his open wounds. His snail trail stretched across the street and all the way to the psychiatrist’s office.
