I preface my first-ever story post with this: Don’t expect much.
What you are about to read is an egotistical, slovenly mess of self-indulgence and pointless anger. This story came from thoughts not of myself, but of others. A seed that sprouted from complex emotions I had not yet found a way to rein in.
So I started writing. I wrote and I wrote and I wrote, and the words kept flowing. I look back on it now, and I see... Imperfection after imperfection, over and over and over, and I hate it. I hate not just the imperfections, but the fact that I absolutely must find every last one and scour them from my work.
Will that not make it stale and boring?
So listen up: I tried. I tried really hard. Too hard, probably. Everything in the following attempt at Fallout: Equestria-based pony horror will probably have an amount of that “try-hard” feel to it. But you know what?
It’s my first damn work. It’s the first thing I’ve ever cared to publish. It’s the first piece of work that I had an editor for, for christ’s sake.
But I can tell there will be imperfections. Over-explanations, continuity errors, overused/crutch words, OP OC Syndrome, “OH HEY LOOK AT ME IM SO COOL” syndrome, but... Guys, I feel something from this one.
While I can bash the shit out of myself, while I can mentally burn myself for even coming close to the thought of posting this work... I’m proud. I did my god-damned best, even after a horrible bout with disillusionment.
The purpose of my work changed halfway into making it, and I thought it ended. But it never fucking gave up. It stayed and it urged me to go on. I had no choice in the matter.
So... Even if it sucks, guys, please try to enjoy it if you enjoy horror. I’d love to have constructive feedback, too. Or even just feedback.
A warning, though. This is as dark as I could muster. A lot of strange, painful feelings went into writing this little piece, so if it somehow turns out to be well-written, then have a look at the tags and avoid if any of them are not in your taste.
Written by: Scribbles von Belfry
Copy Editor: Lorna Ightormens
Story after the break.
As a high pitched cackle resonated up and down the sparse, dingy alleyway, a stout, cerulean unicorn practically leapt backward like a frightened feline, scooting his hind legs as he toppled the only trash can within 30 feet.
With a stumble and a particularly loud cuss, he halted himself and stared back at his garbage-soaked leg, fetid liquid coating halfway toward the decorative red crosshair adorning his flank. A bounty hunter’s mark, if ever there was one.
With great disdain, he raised his dyed-black tail skyward and kicked the great tin pail aside, confusion crossing his oft-stoic visage as the bin tumbled away. A nervous hoof slipped up to adjust the ragged poncho his associates often mistook for a stack of old carpets.
He raised his chin, his amber eyes peering across at what could only be the unmoving body of a lanky, beige stallion, curled up right in the middle of the alley. Were it not for the bloodstains soaked into that particular earth pony’s white dinner jacket, one could swear that he was just a well-dressed vagrant who couldn’t find a place for the night. The unicorn’s issue was baffling, though.
Corpses don’t laugh.
After a long, silent pause, he shook his head. “... Nah. I’m hearing things. Yeesh…”
With a contemptful grunt, a shake of his soiled leg and a nervous stroke through his greasy black mane, he took a few cautious steps back toward his victim. “Three shots in the heart… Nobody survives that. No pony, no griffon, no nothing’.” He mumbled as he peered over to his silver-haired target’s face, discomfort quickly dressing the apparent assassin’s lightly-scarred features. “Why’d he have to die smiling, though…?”
Indeed, the corpse bore a great toothy gash of a grin, as if cleaved from ear to ear with a rusty razor. Each and every chomper was stained yellow and bore its own unique crack or chip. While dental hygiene was a commodity in the wasteland, the sheer contrast served to make the observing killer’s skin crawl.
Adjusting his dusty drapings once again, the hitman willed himself to thoroughly inspect his target anew. The contract wanted this guy dead, so he was going to be delivered dead.
And he was pretty sure this skinny stallion was dead.
He commenced a slightly-fearful survey, his focus hanging upon the gravity-defying mass of silvery hair sprouting from his quarry’s skull, then shifting to the dinner jacket, and finally heeding the spindly, cream-white hindquarters that bore an elegant alpha-symbol for a buttstamp.
“Wonder what the ‘a’ stands for...” the hesitant hunter quipped, slipping a teal hoof amongst the many layers of his shoulder-carpets and drawing his trusty foldaway rifle. He swung it by its hinge and snapped it into form with a flick of his hoof, then let his dull orange aura embrace the firearm. Reaching the barrel down, he prodded into one of the holes in his target’s mucky, formerly white clothing. Concern soon spread about his already-disconcerted face as he shifted the punctured fabric about…
“No holes? There were holes. There has to be-”
He froze, instantly regretting the very moment he chose to peer back at the beaming cadaver. Cold, dead, dark-grey eyes stared right back up at him from over their owner’s shoulder, its formerly-resting noggin held high. His accursed smile remained, the off-yellow teeth glinting in the low light as his bleak, void-like irises latched onto those of his living counterpart.
Seconds passed, the unicorn’s brows practically adhering to his hairline as he tried desperately to process what he beheld…
A familiar guffaw then resounded, echoing down the alley once again as the dead grin somehow spread itself further across the muzzle of the supposed corpse.
“... Boo!”
Crack! Crack crack crack crack crack!
Round after round fired and casing after casing scattered about the concrete, the contract killer laying rounds into his target’s neck, shoulder, torso, two in the hip, then one in the torso again. Anything to put the corpse back where it belonged. But the frizzy silver strands that made up the cadaver’s mane stayed skyward, his haunting eyes still locked directly to the horrified hitman’s.
Silence reigned for a few moments, the air tainted with gunsmoke. The freakish form of the lanky earth pony remained so still it seemed like he had given up the ghost with his head still raised. A peculiar case of rigor mortis, or so the gunpony hoped. He almost let himself feel relief, but all it took was one simple, “Hmm?” from between the sterling maned stallion’s filthy fangs to shatter any sense of safety.
The unicorn gave up on his firearm, instead slipping a hoof into yet another fold in his dusty drapes and withdrawing a long, well-used war knife. With a great roar, he reared back and buried the blade, tip to hilt, directly into his target’s eye. Holding tight upon the handle, he panted and shuddered, staring his bleeding quarry down. With creased brow and bared teeth, he waited, nay, dared for any sign of movement... Or worse, laughter.
The very moment the unicorn thought to twist the blade, however, fulminous giggling once again rattled through the alleyway, both seeping from between rotting teeth and gurgling through the hole in the undying stallion’s long neck.
Letting fear get the best of him, the sharpshooter backpedaled once again, but soon tripped on the lid of the toppled trash can, falling backwards onto his rump. From there, he had the perfect seat to witness the cackling carcass rising. And witness he did, frozen in fear and awe as the undead stallion straightened up, stretched his giraffine neck skyward and sneered down at him. Blood flowed copiously from the creeper’s numerous wounds, but he didn’t seem to care.
Lidding his lead-grey eyes, the beige, suited spire of a stallion began to quiver on the spot. His audience, confused at first, peered about his quaking body, trying to discern the cause. It took its time in manifesting, but soon the stunned onlooker witnessed why, exactly, his initial survey yielded no wounds.
Each and every visible hole began to heal before his very eyes. The blood that once drained from his elongated jugular slowed to a trickle, then halted completely. Soon after, the crimson dot that marked bullet-entry drew thinner, and by the time it was gone, taupe fuzz had already sprouted atop it to cap it all off. All that was left was a thick red line trailing down his overgrown neck.
As the sanguine cascade slowed, one of his spindly forelegs rose, his hoof gripping the handle jutting from his eye socket. With a few light tugs, followed by a great twisting wrench, it came free, painting a crimson spatter across the alley wall.
“... What the fuck are you!?” the gaping gunner questioned.
The self-mending stallion’s head whipped around to face his former assailant, his gashed eye twitching and shifting, though its bleeding had already halted. The other, though, locked to the armed unicorn once again, yet another chuckle ringing forth…
“Wh-CAUGHLPH!”
Before his lengthy throat could voice its reply, the revived one’s visage contorted. He doubled over, wrestling with his lungs until a “clack” could be heard upon his yellowed teeth. Peering about, he laid eyes on the overturned wastebin, then angled his chin and spat a small, hard little something. It sailed through the air, arcing perfectly and landing inside with a noise reminiscent of a tin spitoon. “Sorry. Bullet.” He simpered, before raising the bloodied brow borne above his wounded eye. “In fact, one moment…”
His long, tan neck tilted downward, both maimed and untouched eyelids shutting tight. Then, still bearing his trademark beam, he whipped his body to and fro like a mutt straight out of a watering hole. Many more chunks of shattered, flattened lead loosed from his hide and shirt, only to clatter to the concrete below. The cartoonish corpse then halted, his inquisitive brow ever quirked.
Slowly, he canted his head to the side, raising a hind hoof to meet his marvelously messy mane. Then, with surprising authenticity, he scratched and jostled the mass of silvery hair, continuing to channel his inner canine. Finally, one last bullet loosed from his grey locks, rolling for a spell as it met with its brethren.
“How that got there, I’ll never know…” He chirped.
The taupe terror then met eyes with his fearful audience. As best he could, at least.
“Thank you for waiting! Now, to your question... What am I, then?” He cooed, slowly turning on the spot, his steps marked with the sound of a bloodstained knife dragging along the concrete.
“Why… I am your penance~.” The answer echoed down the empty alley, his foppish accent curling around each slowly articulated word.
“My penance...?” Is all the seated unicorn could manage, his own black brow quirking. “... The hell do you mean by that?”
The smiley beige stallion soon bowed, his hoof sweeping from below and meeting his shoulder, the knife in it flicking yet more crimson to the nearby bricks. “At your service~.” He teased, ignoring his former killer’s counter-query. He kept his neck held low, his head shaking visibly for a few scant seconds.
As his second twitching fit of the day subsided, he hefted his skull skyward once more, grinning loftily down at his ‘inquisitive’ observer. Both monotone eyes were on display, whole and un-wounded. “And you would be Straight Shooter, correct? Such a contrast you’ve taken to your name… Tut tut tut~.”
A spark flared in the gunner’s eyes. Clearly, this had been brought to his attention before.
“... My name ain’t my demeanor, y’fuckin’ freak.” He growled, letting his quick temper melt away fear’s icy tendrils. With lightning speed, his rifle lifted from the ancient pavement, then pointed straight to the looming almost-giraffe’s grinning mug, glimmering with the poncho-clad stallion’s magic. “It’s my speciality.”
“HAH-”Crack!
The shot hit home, exactly where Straight Shooter wanted it, right between the freak’s parted teeth as the he tried to cackle. The placement was so perfect, in fact, that his former quarry’s head snapped backward and lifted a tad. His skull had come free from his spine.
As his freakish former-target’s chin thrusted skyward, Straight Shooter took the opportunity to leap and run. Even if his shot was more-than-fatal, Shooter wasn’t going to take any chances, having just watched a dead pony come back to life. He fled up the abandoned alley, folding his rifle and tucking it away, out of ammo by his count. The moment the firearm was secure, though, his ears flicked as he noticed the sound of steel tapping to cement not too far behind. He couldn’t resist the urge to peek…
“Oh, fuck me in half, are you shittin’ me!?"
With his head hanging backward and chin still in the air, the bloody-suited river mutt was in hot pursuit. His neck was held upward, his back just as straight, his legs galloping along in an oddly efficient manner. Everything was in perfect working order, save for the fact that his skull flailed behind him like some sort of grotesque pennant. Each and every step shook his unhinged, bleeding noggin, causing it to flick forward once in a while.
He was still grinning, of course.
It soon became clear to the gunstallion that he wasn’t going to escape the crazed cadaver. Even without a functioning brain, the thing behind him was catching up fast.
In a last ditch effort, his horn glimmered once more and he whipped himself around, revealing a sizeable six-shooter from one of his many carpet-folds.
His last loaded weapon.
Crack!
To Straight’s surprise, the bullet met only air… Not because he missed, but because the corpse-pony had shifted to the side at the very last possible moment.
Crack!
Another dodge, something of a leap toward the opposite wall. The creeper’s movements seemed robotic, overly calculated, only shifting and leaping precisely when he needed to.
Crack!
Progress. Aiming for a hoof caused the demon to stop for a moment, the shot embedding in the concrete before him. Shooter’s pistol quickly raised, and-
Crack!
His pursuer crouched beneath the hurtling slug, just in the nick of time once again. His mocking smile came into view for a moment, just in time for another shot.
Crack!
His freakishly spindly legs sprung upward, catapulting the cadaver over the next bullet. With fresh momentum, he barreled toward the living stallion once again.
Shooter, known for counting his shots, took a deep, shuddered breath. Last one. He needed to slow the zombie down, at least. As his coal-black brows furrowed, he took every moment he could to line up.
The sound of the hammer cocking seemed to trigger something in his pursuer, as while the near-headless horse closed in, he suddenly whipped his towering nape, snapping his head right back into position. A move akin to a pre-war candy dispenser. His grin glinted, ever vigilant, much like his renewed gaze upon the contract killer as the hammer fell.
Crack!
“Hah-HAH!”
With an effort-laden laugh, his lanky body launched skyward once again, curving in the air past the chunk of hurtling lead. His back was arched, his legs were stiff, and his unsettlingly idiotic smile shone wide and proud as he arced down toward the empty-gunned hitman. It seemed less like he was pouncing upon his fleeing prey, and more like he was playing a simple game of chase, bounding like an antelope among his kin. One last giggle sounded as he bore down on the now-unarmed stallion, his last moments of freedom playing back in slow motion as the leaping lunatic’s vibrant, yet somehow still lifeless, eyes drew closer and closer…
With a series of loud yelps and muffled grunts, the pair of them tumbled out into the abandoned street, not a single other soul in sight. Straight Shooter picked the perfect place to hide a corpse, it seemed.
Before he knew it, the disarmed assassin was in a vice-like headlock, his throat compressed a tad as all four spindly limbs wrapped right around him.
“Guh-! LEMME GO! FUCKIN’ FREAK! GET OFF!” He bellowed, writhing and wrenching his shoulders against his captor’s unexpectedly unbreakable grip. For such a weak frame, he sure had some power behind him.
“Harsh words, little sir! But, fair, as well. After all…” He replied, before letting his voice lower to a deep, raspy whisper, his stony eyes peering over Shooter’s shoulder… The closest they had ever been. “It takes one to know one~.”
The beige limb strapped across the contract killer’s chest slowly dragged itself out of view, the familiar knife it gripped painting a dull, streaky red line across his dusty trappings. A moment later, the blood-warmed steel found itself nestled neatly between the two, resting on its flat against the quivering unicorn’s spine.
“Now, you won’t be needing this…” The spider-giraffe stated as he reached into Straight’s clothes, pulling his folded rifle free and tossing it aside to join its revolving brother. While empty, it seemed the slender stallion didn’t like to take chances. He even searched about within the carpeted folds for a few moments, before resuming his headlock.
The anti-corpse’s whimsical, dandy voice soon breezed over his prey’s shoulder. “Now that I’ve caught you, Mister Straight Shooter, let us discuss why you’ve found yourself in my giddy clutches.” With little warning, the spiderly stallion rolled atop his wriggling fly, quickly pressing the writhing captive’s head directly to the cracked cement below. “Sixteen. Does that number mean anything to you?”
The gunstallion continued his silent squirming, both of his hooves soon lifting to grip the slender one pressing him down. Alas, the grinning lunatic didn’t budge, even as Shooter wrenched and pulled with all of his might.
“I don’t hear an answer, Mister Shooter.”
“FUCK, I don’t know, the number of foals you ate last week!?”
“HAH! Nasty, but no.” With a shift of the hips, the corpse put all of his weight down, drawing a grunt from his newfound quarry. “... Sixteen would be the number of innocent ponies and gryphons you’ve killed.” Having found Shooter’s blade again, his unburdened, spindly hoof drew abstract circles in the air, letting blood flick about as he recounted. “Though that’s just by my count. Even I am not perfect. Who knows how many more you’ve popped for your amusement...” From above, he quivered, though the reason wasn’t apparent, especially when the unicorn could barely turn his head to look.
“‘Innocent’ is the key word here. To define, I refer to ponies and griffons who had nothing to do with your contracts. By my research, 16 bodies is about a quarter of your career, which means you’re still liable to sin again and again and again-”
“What’s your fuckin’ point!?” Shooter shot, grunting amidst his attempts to shift his aggressor’s unmoving limb.
After a one more moment of silent squirming, he felt a breath whisk past his cyan ear that practically wilted his fur. How a pony can heave air so cold, he had no clue. Then, the ex-corpse’s tan lips loosed what seemed to be their favourite word yet again.
“Penance. Remember?” The word made the captive killer’s azure-furred skin crawl anew, the towering stallion simply relishing in the resulting shiver.
“Now. Upsy-daisy~!”
In one swift movement, the unicorn’s forelegs were wrenched upward, and his messy trappings were lifted off and unceremoniously tossed aside. He could have sworn his ear came off with them.
Before he could think to attempt an escape, the unshakable tan hoof pressed down again, this time a little lower; to the back of Shooter’s neck. As if on cue, he gripped at the spindly limb again, wrenching and writhing anew. He froze a moment later, however, as he finally met with his trusty blade again, the sicko planted atop him making a game of dancing the very tip up and down his quaking spine.
“Now, then,” the undead hunter mumbled. “Let me see…” The flat of the blade soon pressed to Shooter’s frozen foreleg, slowly-yet-firmly wiping across it. His captor grunted from above, having leaned in to inspect the results.
“Out of ink. One moment~.”
The noise that followed could only be described as that of a pitchfork plunging into a bale of rain-soaked hay. The captive killer quickly writhed and shook, worried he had taken a stealthily-placed stab. “Shit... What the hell...” He murmured after a moment’s pause, feeling nothing.
“Ahh… There we are~!” Not a hint of pain could be heard in the now-likely-bleeding earth stallion’s tone. It should have come as no surprise, given the fact he could take bullets with a smile. Soon, the ensnared unicorn felt wet steel press lightly upon his back, keeping deathly still as it traced a great, wide, measured circle. A trickle of what Straight could only presume was blood soon trailed down from his captor’s foreleg, dressing his pinned neck in an unsightly crimson cascade.
“Outer ring...” the loon sung out, lifting the blade away. “Tell me, is what I’m doing obvious, yet?”
“Fuck you.” Shooter spat.
Down it came again, dancing in a tighter, daintier circle within its streaky red predecessor.
“Inner ring… Come, now! It has to be!”
“SHUT UP! STOP! WHATEVER THE FUCK YOU’RE DOING-”
“That is not a guess, Mister Shooter.” Cooed the nut, silencing his captive with a quick press of his hoof.
The knife’s edge daintily lifted away once more, returning to trace a quick, rough ring dead-center amidst the other two. Then, with a pair course-yet-purposeful swipes, he colored in the center of his little piece of art. “And… Bull’s eye.”
The hitman could practically feel the grin burning upon his mane.
“... What the fuck are you doing?”
“Playing with my food~.” He declared, audibly licking his chops, if just for effect. “Feels different having a target on your back this time, doesn’t it? HAH!” Again, the knife disappeared, the pinned stallion left only to imagine what came next.
It definitely felt that now was the time for diplomacy. Shooter soon halted his resistance, drawing a deep, calming breath as he began his appeal. “Okay, listen buddy. Stop. I’ll do what you want. Let’s be reasonable.” He began..
“Reasonable!?” The shrill cackle that followed echoed through the alleyway behind them. “I stood up after being shot thrice in the heart! What makes you think I’m going to be reasonable!?” He chuckled to himself for another moment or two, before he let the haughty smirk he wore become evident in his tone.
“Alas, you are giving me what I want, little killer... Such emotion! A polar shift from mere moments ago~.” With a shift of the hips, the knife-wielding maniac adjusted his position… And it was then that things went a few steps beyond less-than-reasonable.
The lanky vengeant squeezed his thighs tighter as he shifted about, loosing a dark chuckle as his hips angled back. If it wasn’t clear how much the screwball was enjoying himself, the weight that found itself pressed to his captor’s lower back spelled everything out.
It was warm, too. Not warm enough to thaw the chill that draped over the unicorn’s very being, but warm enough to let his captor’s grotesque desires be known.
“... What the fuck is that? What are you doing back there!?” Shooter’s accusatory tone could barely mask his sudden, intense panic, his head trying its hardest to twist back and see if what he felt was real.
While the madpony’s tone remained whimsical, a savagery weaved itself amongst his words, low, dark and gravelly. “You have no idea how hard it is to find a fellow like yourself, you know. I can’t just do this to any old hunk of walking filth.”
Cyan hooves began dragging and scraping at the busted pavement all around them, scrabbling for purchase, for leverage, for a weapon, anything.
“I mean, goodness, I love sowing fear, I adore weaving pain, but this time…” The creeper’s rotting tone inched closer overhead, until Shooter could practically feel yellowed teeth nestling to his flicking ear. “Oh, this time I get to truly appreciate it.” The last three words billowed forth in a shadowy whisper, dribbling with pure vitriol. “On this day, little killer… You are mine.”
“You… You fuckin’ freak! You psychopath!” the shocked Shooter yelped, gripping the pinning limb once again and wrenching at it with all his might. The hitman’s fighting spirit only seemed to make his captor more excited, however, as the aforementioned warmth snaked up his spine.
“... A psychopath? Moi?” Shooter’s molester pressed the neck-borne hoof down a tad more. “Do you even know the meaning of the word, you vile, contemptible swine?” He spat, his tone belying his blatantly obvious enjoyment. “I am bringing you your penance. I am here as compensation for the pain of which you have wrought, to pick the produce of the seeds that you’ve sown and stuff them down your wretched gullet.”
A cold breath swept over Shooter’s ear once again as he felt his spindly subjugator lean back down.
“I saw what you did to her.”
The killer’s already-chilled heart almost stopped then and there, his body stock still. “Whuh… Who…?” was all he could manage.
With a somehow-still-whimsical air, the twisted creeper elaborated “Her. The subject of your debauchery. The one you decorated the wall with.”
The unicorn couldn’t move. Not just from the thorough pinning, but also from absolute, unfathomable dread. “... H… How do you know that was me...?”
“I have eyes everywhere, you bubbling, seeping cyst of a stallion! I prowl for demented bags of vomit like you. I prey on you.” Somehow, the air around them grew colder. “Seeing what was left of that poor mare, spread-eagle, all on display... The centerpiece to your little piece of demonic art...” The slim stallion’s hoof ground into the teal neck-fuzz beneath. “It was painful. You made sure to leave as little of yourself as possible, but also made absolutely sure the pain of her final moments was obvious to those who would find her.”
Harder he ground, drawing a gag from Shooter’s slowly-shutting throat. “Yes, I found it infuriating, yet also found it oh-so-very, mmm…” He ground and ground, pressed and pressed, adoring the pained gurgling as Shooter fought for air. Then, before the murderer could escape consciousness, the pressure released and he drew a deep, desperate gasp.
“Mmm... Alluring~.” the smiling stallion cooed.
“You’re… Fucking sick…” Shooter gasped.
“Seeing the carnage you wrought meant I had finally found someone to let loose upon! To unload every feeling, every emotion I’ve harbored, stored and saved!” The demented lunatic shifted his hips, just to highlight his captive’s predicament.
“Oh, gracious, I think it’s been years!” His sing-song tone returned, the spindly leg on the back of the hitman’s neck soon grinding about as much as his spindly hips were. Among the pitiful noises of a rapist’s throat being forcefully closed and reopened, he added “I fancy myself a bit of an empath, actually.”
“BULLSHIT!” The tormented unicorn screamed, his contempt echoing through the empty streets. He found himself gasping once again, though, as an equally contemptful hoof squeezed at his neck.
“Not bullshit, you feckless imp. Think about it. Who better to dole out true retribution than one who yearns to feel everyone else’s pain?” With another audible lick of the chops, followed by another horrid grind, he continued, “And I will certainly be feeling yours, Straight Shooter. Your penance shall taste so sweet~.”
Suddenly, knife and owner united once again, a good quarter of it embedding itself right in the contract killer's shoulder blade like a dart in a board. A pained howl rang out, quickly stifled as the earth stallion pressed his panicked prey’s throat closed once more, resulting in a near-silent gurgle of which the torturer utterly relished.
“Hah~... Oops! What a miss! Good thing you keep this thing sharp, though. Goodness, I only dropped it a foot and a half!” The demented torturer confessed, applying the slightest of pressure to the hilt.
“Though I must admit, that was delightful! A veritable sonnet to my ears. Let’s see how far we can take a scream like yours.”
“You’re gonna burn, fuh-... Freak! They’re gonna come looking-”
Shooter found himself quickly interrupted. “Oh, no way! You’re letting me say my favourite line! Oh, I shan’t pass this up. Ahem…” Familiar, ice-cold breath soon draped over the unicorn’s shoulder, the spindly hunter’s tone carrying just as much whimsy as it did the boiling venom he loved so much…
“Let them come. I hunger.”
He then plunged the buried bolo further, scraping past bone, slicing muscle and severing sinew. The titillated torturer simply soaked in the high pitched squeals and shaky wails his captive rewarded him with, a certain eager heat inching up the singing sniper’s spine all the while.
In time, the torturer tired, and he wrenched the knife free, at which the shuddering mass of pain and torment below spluttered insult after insult through his rough, ragged breaths.
“F… Fuck you. Fuck you, you fucking sick, mutant fr-EAK.”
He had little time to loose his anger, mere seconds having passed as the falling blade’s tip hit his barrel once again. This time, it found itself caught deftly between a pair of ribs. “Oops, again! I’m so bad at this game!” The buzzy bloodletter admitted, shifting his ever-eager flanks. “Oh well, at least I got a lung.”
Reacting instantaneously, the pinned unicorn took a deep breath, as if to test his subjugator’s theory. He held his lungs full for a few slow, painful moments, but soon turned his head the iota it was allowed, the grinning goon witnessing an inquisitive black brow.
“What the fuck are you ta-”
He interrupted himself with his shortest-lived scream yet, his taupe tormentor having lovingly timed a deep, hard push to both interrupt and answer his question. The pain of a blade dulling itself upon one’s bones and severing every muscle that stood in its way was soon matched by the sharp, searing sensation that could only come from a punctured lung.
A series of hard, hacking coughs followed, the equine pin-cushion met only with great discomfort and irritation as he painted a picturesque spatter of blood and saliva across the cement. His forelegs, once fighting fruitlessly for his freedom, began to writhe and scrape at the ground desperately, though their strength waned as their owner lost precious oxygen. Each cough his body forced him to loose only allowed the invading weapon to cut more tissue, adding to the crimson spatter across the concrete canvas before the two.
But what hurt the most, above all else…? The entire time, while the pathetic, punctured unicorn writhed and suffered, the freakish undead retributivist throbbed against him.
“Oohoohoohoo… Yeeees…” the former bullet-sponge purred, his hips practically dancing upon Shooter’s writhing body. “Oh, it has been a while! It sounds like you’re almost done, too.” Shooter felt it coming. Chilly breath was to dress his blackened mane once more.
“I know I am~.” The toothy taupe terror mocked, his defenseless killer’s desperate wheezing only fueling further presses and grinds. Just when Shooter thought he could compensate for lost air, his sadistic torturer wrenched the blade sideways, tearing the puncture wider, just to milk him for more sweet music.
The burdened wail the unicorn let forth was akin to to a child in tears. Long, anguished and split by blood-sodden hacks and splutters. Yet all the deranged desecrator gave in return was a high-pitched, quivered grunt, as if a long-standing itch had finally been scratched.
After he had his fill, the manic maimer gave a merry jiggle of the protruding handle, loosening the embedded steel from sawed bone and stiffened muscle. Then, with nary a thought to be gentle, he yanked it free and lifted it high above, letting one more sanguine line spatter itself across the his already-thoroughly-bloodied jacket. The resulting coughs and gurgles sent another delighted shiver up and down his sadistic spine. “Such little struggle you provide, now! Have I struck a chord, I wonder?” He mocked. “If not, don’t worry! Soon I’ll be fiddling with your heartstrings~.”
Shooter’s blood-drenched body convulsed as the blade dripped overhead, its wielder clearly cheating as he lined the little crimson droplets up. “Now, one more try…” The slender stallion took his time, letting each red glob land closer and closer to the mark. His thighs squeezed tight to urge their captive to keep still.
One last globule spattered directly upon the now-dried bullseye as a somewhat-childish giggle emanated from above. Out of the corner of Shooter’s sunken, golden eye, he saw a flash, a glint of sodden steel slicing down through the air. The moment it slipped out of view, however, his back was forced once again to greet the blade he had once trusted with his life. He would have wailed, screamed, begged and pleaded for help, but he couldn’t. Weak, gurgling gasps were the only thing that escaped his overburdened chest.
“HAH! Booyah! Perfect~. Dead-centre. Bull’s-eye!” The giraffe of a stallion celebrated, lifting his pinning hoof up for a few quick claps. Not a moment after, he leaned right down, craning his neck to have his eyes meet a sullen, despaired pair below. “Oh, gracious... If only you could see your face…” He let his words hang for far too long, shifting his head about as he scanned Shooter’s sullen features. “I wonder if this is how she looked.” He teased, holding his grievous, endless smile. “I couldn’t tell. You didn’t leave much more than a chin.” His eyelids narrowed. “A scattergun? Really?”
A moment passed, Shooter staring right back into the cold, lifeless eyes before him. Then, without warning, the torturer’s teeth parted and a long, draconic tongue slipped forth. It dragged itself from the moribund unicorn’s blood-spattered lips, all the way up his exposed cheek. Shortly after, that familiar gust of arctic wind wrestled a flicking ear. “Worry not, little killer… Soon, I will find comfort in your deadened stare.”
“Puh… Please...” Shooter croaked, barely registering a whisper.
To his surprise, the beige assailant stopped short, staring incredulously down at him.
“Please? You must be joking.” He dismissed, forcing each word through grin-bared teeth. Nonetheless, his grey eyes bore the slightest hint of genuine confusion. “You only thought to beg now, did you?”
As he was met with nothing but a wheeze and an expression of desperate torment, his silver brows furrowed, the foppish freak taking an unfamiliarly thoughtful tone. “... No, no, this is often when they beg for it all to end. When it’s become too much, and they wish for a push into the painless depths of demise.” He leaned an inch closer, squinting as he inspected the dying stallion’s expression, chatting his thoughts out along the way. “Are you asking for me to end things quickly? Or are you possibly showing… Remorse?”
“I… I’m sorry…” Came another choked, pathetic whisper, borne after a long, labored pause.
The unholy hunter’s cold, steely eyes widened at the very gesture. “... Sorry? You’re sorry?” His tone evolved from inquisitive to downright bewildered. “You’re telling me that you’re sorry for the pain you caused? The lives you forever changed, the hell you wrought upon entirely innocent souls?”
“Y… Yes…” the unicorn wheezed, gulping down a throatful of blood to do so.
For a few moments they simply stared each other down, a one-sided standoff if ever there was one. Then, finally, the fellow on top opened his strangely uncloven lips to speak.
“... You know, I do have the means to nurse you back to health, even with a punctured lung left to bleed this long. Were I to will it, I could make it so.”
It was Straight Shooter’s turn to widen his darkened eyes, the prospect of living past the ordeal kindling something akin to hope in his expression. It all stopped short, though, when the maniac closed his own eyes, and his chaotic grin re-emerged.
“But then, hah hah…” Venom dripped once again. “Then, I remember her again. I remember what you did, and I remember how much you enjoyed it…” He reminisced. “You chose a soundproof room, you put her through what looked like hours upon hours of beating, you fucked the living daylights out of her…” His cold eyes tore open once again, gazing into Shooter’s very soul. “... You placed the barrel in her maw and pulled the trigger, right in the middle of the act. What got me, though, you freak of nature, nnngh... PAH!”
The slim sadist spat, spraying the unicorn’s cheek as he laid bare the torment Shooter had caused. Even through such vitriol, the creep still smiled, framing the intensity in his countenance with pure contrast. After a short pause for a calming breath, his yellowed teeth parted and he went on,
“... What got me was the cigarette. Lit post-mortem, then doused upon her exposed tongue. Somehow, after displaying that you are the worst kind of sapient being imaginable, you were still proud of yourself” he hissed right into Straight Shooter’s ears, his words borne on an bitter, arctic tide. “Pride is your downfall, Mister Shooter. For such disrespect, there will be no remorse. No mercy. You do not deserve anything of the sort.” He practically mashed his muzzle directly into an ear, delivering his final verdict. “You deserve only pain, torment and death.”
It was then that the hitman finally noticed that his own blade was aimed directly at his heart, having already pared a rib from his spine where it lay. Meekly, his hooves began their desperate struggle again, but while drowning in blood, he surely could not hope to find the strength to free himself.
Straight’s bleeding barrel twitched once again as the embedded blade twisted ever so slightly, his captor’s grinning mug pulling itself from view just in time for another burdened cough to paint the broken sidewalk.
From above, a certain dandy voice declared its master’s victory. “You now get the greatest gift of all, my dear Straight Shooter! You get to ride your own blade right into death’s comforting bosom... Oh, you lucky dog~!” The contractor could feel his knife jostling as the nutcase leaned down once again, gripping the handle with both hooves. “I suppose I should take this nice and slow, then, hmm? Let us both savour the journey.”
With that, the reddened steel began its leisurely plunge, sinking millimeter by millimeter into the spluttering Straight Shooter. His muscles tightened in an attempt to halt his impending doom. Yet he knew, deep down, that it wouldn’t be enough. He had sharpened every millimetre himself, intending for it to cut bone like paper. It did its job well.
“Come now, just let it happen…” The giraffe-stallion mocked from overhead, his off-white hips angling back to allow him a few deeper, heartier grinds. The dying killer couldn’t take much more. Such revelry in the fact that he was in pain, such merriment in the prospect of his death…
Despair painted itself across his visage. His muscles loosened, his eyes lost focus, his burdened wheezes began to slow and… Silently, he wept.
Yet the knife never stopped. “Thaaat’s it… Good boy~...”
Deeper, deeper, deeper it crept, muscle and bone acting only as a curtain before his pounding heart. The fiend dragged his warmth about the unicorn’s back and held a bated breath as he drew his victim’s last moments out as long as he possibly could. Soon, the teary teal transgressor could practically feel the edge prodding at his ticker, his head attempting one final twist, throwing his last fearful, pleading stare…
“Oh, look at those eyes, little killer… Rich with fear and despair!” came yet another chilly whisper from between the unhallowed hunter’s stained teeth. “Mais non. There is a little bit more to be said.” Unbeknownst to the ‘killer pony’, the vengeant who strummed at his heartstrings shifted his muzzle to the pommel of his commandeered murder weapon, as if to address a microphone. “Take your last breath knowing that your actions lead to this. Live with what you’ve done, little killer…”
There, Shooter managed to drag his head upward to meet his tormentor’s gaze, searching amongst the iron-hued irises bearing down upon him, trying to make a desperate appeal to the maniac’s very soul. But all he was met with was emptiness. To him, it made no sense for such a vivid and animated being to bear eyes so very dead.
Through it all, one thing remained. That smile. That fucking smile.
“Oh, don’t give me that look, psychopath. Deep down, you know this is what you deserve. Live with what you’ve done... “ The taupe terror repeated. “... And die by it.”
His words echoed in the dying stallion’s mind, the last he would ever hear, as his former target made a rough thrust and buried the knife down to its hilt. Shooter’s heart was practically sliced in half.
In his the last moments of his consciousness, as his lungs drained in a forlorn, gurgled rale through his blood-painted maw, Straight Shooter felt the steel buried in his barrel shake and shift as his ungodly hunter painted his back with streak after streak of…
No. He wished not to imagine.
Minutes passed as the hot wasteland air dragged wave after wave of dust along the long-forgotten streets. The giraffine predator panted amidst the sudden winds, staring down at a certain messy, black mane. His teeth glinted to the slowly waning sunlight, his lanky form poised like a cat upon a mouse.
“Hah… Surprising! You took a lot out of me, dear lad~.” He huffed as he stood, adjusting his gait with a shake of a hind leg. His stance soon wavered, though, as he began to quake on the spot. “Oh, this is so exciting! The conditions have never been so perfect!” he exclaimed, clearly quite thrilled.
Drawing his hoof away from the firmly-embedded knife, the lunatic retributivist quickly peered about the desolate burg. Nopony for miles, ever still. Then, with a strangely-childish giggle and a leap for joy, he clicked his hooves in the air, landing beside the unfortunate unicorn with a dainty flourish.
His shoulders gyrated in a little victory dance as he peered down upon the hitman-turned-cadaver. “Oooh, I’ll bet it’s perfect! I’ll bet you learned everything I sought to teach! I’ll bet you regretted every single sin in your last few moments!” His eyes squeezed shut as his grim grin widened once again. “Oooooh, a fake death, a devilishly creepy chase, the whole target-on-your-back schtick, a punctured lung... AND I got to truly unleash for the first time in, um…” He quirked a pondering brow. “Mmm… Two years? Two years!” he tittered, glancing back to Shooter’s corpse.
“How could he be holding anything other than a face of pure and utter regret~?”
He sauntered around the front of his unfortunate captive, admiring his handiwork along the way with a raised brow and a hearty chuckle. But the moment the painbringer could get an angle on his victim’s face, his dead-grey eyes snapped shut. “I must relish this… The big reveal!” He declared, marching on the spot to straighten his stance. “Now… On the count of three.” He cleared his throat, giddy with anticipation.
“One… Two… Three!”
His head quickly canted down, and he laid eyes upon the broken, lifeless visage that once spoke for Straight Shooter. After a few moments study, however, the vengeful undead stallion furrowed his silver brows once again, his grin slowly fading.
“Wait… Why- No. No.” He craned his neck downward, disbelief striking his token grin away as he studied his victim closely.
“You… You little prick.”
The cerulean fur coating Shooter’s once-vivid golden eyes had taken a much darker tone, framing the faraway half-stare in a suffocated navy blue, one of them loosely lidded the moment his time came. His lips were pursed, but still hung down a tad, the muscles having loosened upon his last breath. A stream of deep-red blood trickled down from his nostril, joining the one trailing from his lower lip, his lungs having found some space in his maw within which to drain their burden.
However, none of those particular features seemed to interest the revenge-killer. He soon focused primarily upon the open, but still half-lidded eye, framed by a set of blackened, comparatively-relaxed brows.
“No remorse…” He whispered, summing up the entire expression. “No bloody remorse. Can't any of you psychopathic freaks realize what you've done?" The irony of the statement drowned in the whirls of dust below him.
“You daft, sullen fool… I make it so obvious, so blatantly bloody obvious, and you just give up, or worse, find relief.” A bloody taupe hoof began grinding into the pavement, the first freakish frown of the night plastered across the disgruntled faux-zombie’s face. And what a frown it was, seething with the venom he had weaved not so long ago.
“Selfish to the bloody end, you prick. You cowardly prick.” Upon his last spiteful expression, the formerly-grindy hoof whipped forth and struck the bleeding carcass across the chin.
And what a strike it was. The meaty “THOCK” resonated down the ruined street as Shooter’s jaw pulled clean from its hinge, breaking in multiple places and settling horizontal to his skull. Were it not for the skin and sinew packaging his chops, the deceased assassin may just have lost half of his teeth.
“I will have it… I will teach you wretched fucking raiders at least an ounce of remorse if it’s the last bloody thing I do,” he growled, bitter to the very core. Then, he paused, as if listening to the lifeless unicorn’s reply.
“... No, you were not a professional. There is nothing professional about your wretched craft.” He bickered. “You were a stroke of feces, a bloody skid-mark on the bowl of the outhouse of which this world has become. I come to clean, to purify, and you see nothing but your own filthy desires. You see to your wretched, demonic evil all as I try my bloody hardest do my duty.”
He then leaned nose-to-nose with the clearly-inattentive, broken body. “You wretch… You filth… You-you... Drug-addled, psychopathic SCUM.” He let fly, as if to send his disdain to the afterlife with the ex-unicorn.
His tan cheeks twitched as dead eye met dead eye in yet another fruitless stare-down. Minutes passed, it seemed, as he practically willed Shooter to take a leaf from his own necromantic book. But, as time went on, the angered cadaver’s expression softened, and he heaved a defeated sigh.
“Fine. FINE.” He huffed, lifting his head high into the air, staring down at Shooter with the utmost of contempt. “Come. You’ve a date with a giant blender.” The taupe terror quipped as he extracted the overly-sharp bolo from its great, red target. With a grunt, he then hoisted his prey across his back, teal jaw swaying in the air.
With a thoughtful hum, the exceptionally-strong, gangly stallion sidled over to the killed killer’s neck-kilt, quickly draping it over its former wearer. “A trophy, at least. Not something I normally do, but I’ve been needing a new doormat.” He loosed a light chuckle, letting his soured mood shift gears. With a dainty wiggle of his hips, he took a merry stride, draping himself in the fresh shadows of the evening.
“I thought I had it that time…” He sighed. “Oh well. Plenty more hitmen out there.”
His smile was soon vivid once more. So much so, it weaved itself back into his tone as his voice echoed into the night.
So... I won. People passed me Green/White again, and I fucking won. I was all like: "Well, I'm going the same colors again, and every time I've tried to fit into that, I've dropped at least one match." But then, like... I dunno. I countered that line of logic. I said "Well, fuck, I've not even tried, yet. What do I know?" And FUCK. The deck was BULLSHIT. In all 6 winning games, I never gave them a chance. I just had gigantic creatures out. They'd kill one. Hey look, 3 more next turn. HAVE FUN, BUDDY! No matter how hard they tried to shoot me down, I just took it to the chest and kept fucking swinging. I love this game, I love winning, I love sharing the cheer around. So I dedicated the win to a certain person who's been drowning in doubt, burning themself out. Perhaps you know who you are, perhaps not. I know I'm pretty much a creeper-fan of you at this point, but hey, I owe you. Hardcore. Hope that at least dries up some of the weirdness I've been showing around yah, man. And, look, I know what you're thinking. "Man, it's just a game! What's so special about it?" It's the principle, it's the message it gets across. Like... I dunno. See what you can do when you just believe?
Hiding. Hiding, hiding, hiding. I don’t understand why I do it. It’s like I’m afraid to see the results of my efforts and abilities, pass or fail. It’s like the unknown burns me, or the self-hatred I’ve been battling wants me to go no further in life than where I am.
I surround myself with images of what failure will bring. The moment I make a decision to try to break through one of my walls, I begin to pull away from it. So I will speak to the person I’ve been afraid to speak to, then disappear from them for 3-4 days out of pure, senseless fear.
What am I afraid of, truly…?
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