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CHAPTER II Deux belle oiseaux vomissements éternellement

"Nothing feels as real as it does when our bodies are exposed. When I find myself in a room full of naked people all staring at me, it feels like waking up." - Morgan Freeman

High above the small lights of Ponyville, She soared. Thin clouds divided like flesh severed by Her razor wings, the air itself parting before Her Majesty.

The Celestia.

Her ethereal mane cascaded down the slope of Her back, spilled across the darkness, glittering against the starless night. Her form of light, falsely consumed by the feathered corsairs who fell dead in their reverence of Her terrible beauty. She flew above them, Her gaze cast downward. She, the Allseeing.

A lime green stallion with a dull silver mane stumbled gracelessly out of a tavern and collapsed sideways in the gutter. Moe Jito. The Celestia knew him.

Between the walls of a dilapidated apartment building a block down the street, two ponies argued. Meager Willie and Rosy Flo. The Celestia watched them, felt him pound his hoof against a table, heard her scream the truth of her hatred. She of Eyes Beyond Sight saw the couple in their rage--them and their infant foal, crying alone in his crib.

On the outskirts of the town sprawled beneath Her piercing gaze, puddles of rainwater and hobo urine dripped down through rust holes scattered across the roof of a burnt-out warehouse. Inside, Snails grunted as he mounted Pinkie Pie. His chest chafed against her back in an awkward series of jerking bucks, frustration warping his features until at last his hunting phallus hit the mark. As he hilted Pinkie in a single triumphant thrust, the remnants of other ponies' loads squelched around his meat plug, overflowing in thick streams down his hind legs.

"Oh, wow. There's, like, a lot in there for sloppy seconds."

Pinkie laughed. "Silly, I said sloppy sevensh. Sh-- Sevenths. Sorry, I have a shlight speech impademanent. It's called beer-itis." She laughed again before gripping the neck of an amber bottle with her teeth and turning it upside-down above her head. When the last of its contents drained into her throat, she flicked her neck to send the empty bottle flying. It smashed against a wall in the middle of a crudely-painted target, the shards of glass joining an impressive accumulation on the floor. "Booyah!"

Snails crossed his front legs beneath Pinkie as he humped her, his snaily salami impaling her soggy sluice in wild, clumsy thrusts. "Ah! You smell s-so good...!"

"D'aw. You're a sweetie." Pinkie belched before snapping the cap off a new beer. She downed the lukewarm beverage in a series of thirsty swigs, then repeated the action of flinging the empty bottle to nail the dead center of the target. Before the shattered glass touched the ground, tiny cracks began to shoot through the bricks behind the bullseye.

Within seconds, a net of widening fissures bloomed across several yards of brickwork. A large section of the inner wall collapsed, releasing a flood of sparkling treasure. Hundreds of gold doubloons and precious gems spilled over the floor. With them came the skeleton of a pony dressed in striped breeches and a black hat emblazoned with a skull and crossbones.

Pinkie narrowed her eyes and stared hard at the skeleton's empty sockets. "S'at you, Grandma?"

Snails grit his teeth as he ramped up the force of his thrusts, his leathery scrotum swinging like a sack of shaved gophers left to dangle from a tree limb in the winds of a hurricane. His lower lip quivered as he approached the threshold of climax, only to fall short. Surrendering to fatigue, the young stallion slumped forward and grunted in disappointment. "Sorry," he wheezed. "I... I don't think I can finish."

"It's okay," Pinkie said, her voice as soft as the interior of her cavernous vagina. "I know you're still sad about your friend. Uhhh, wuwuzz his name? Wesley Snipes?"

"Snips."

"Yeah, Wesley Snips. Mm'mm. I woulda liked to ride one outta that chubby choad. How'd ya say he died, again?"

Snails drew in a long, shaky breath. "Snips, he... he got some dank kush and said we should spark one up, but he was worried about cops, so we..." His legs crossed tighter beneath Pinkie's cum-soaked belly. "We... went down to the lake. And while we were blazin' it... the crabs got him." Snails shut his eyes as fat tears rolled over his freckled cheeks. "They j-just kept pinching him. Even after he was dead, they just kept pinching!" He hiccupped a sob and buried his face in the dense frizz of Pinkie's mane.

She nodded solemnly. "Yep. Crabs'll do that. Like the, um, that pizza place. 'Pincha, pincha.'"

Muffled weeping from the lanky unicorn echoed throughout the warehouse, resounding between stacks of blackened rebar and discarded Big Mouth Billy Basses. Pinkie chugged her last remaining beer and flung the bottle into a cluster of jars filled with rancid Thousand Island dressing, knocking them down like bowling pins. She lazily rolled her head to stare at the shadows occupying every corner of the ruined building. "Hey. Are we in Appleloosa right now?"

The quiet of the outside night gave way to a faint sound like galloping hooves, except squeakier. The noise rose above Snails and his girlish crying, gradually becoming louder until it reached one of the side doors. Brittle and decayed, the rotting wood collapsed against a forceful kick to reveal a stallion in full clown makeup.

The clown pony staggered into the room on comically oversized inflatable horseshoes. His expression was an incongruous jumble of panic and delight, his painted-on grin conflicting with the shape of his mouth twisted into a terrified grimace. "P-Please," he stammered. "You've got to help me! I need somewhere to hide!"

"We're definitely not in Appleloosha," Pinkie giggled. "More like downtown Town Clown! Wait..."

The stranger moved closer, his colorful wig shedding confetti with each step. "Please! They-- They're going to kill me!"

"No can doooooo Mr. Frowny Clowny. You know the rules. Tonight ish Hunters' Night, and that means you gotta run!"

"Sorry," Snails said, sniffing back tears. "It's tradition."

The clown's eyes grew enormous with fear. The ground beneath him rumbled with the tremors of an army's charge into battle, the weight of hooves and wheels shaking the earth as a cacophony of raucous shouting filled the air.

Suddenly, an entire wall of the warehouse crumbled against the battering charge of a group of hunters. A herd of ponies clad in black spandex and shutter shades emerged from a cloud of dust, all of them carrying weapons stained with the blood of their annual harvest. The leader of the gang bellowed laughter when his eyes fell upon his prey. "Found ya, you rubber-chicken-fuckin' freak!"

The clown pony wailed in terror and took off running toward a window in the far wall. A deafening BANG ripped through the fabric of space behind him as he leapt toward his only chance for escape. The cloudy pane of glass exploded an inch in front of him, shattered by the tip of a harpoon lodged in his abdomen. His body stopped in midair, jerked violently backward by a chain attached to the hot barrel of a smoking cannon. The clown felt no pain as he hit the concrete floor. In his final moments of consciousness, he saw melting shapes of vivid crimson framing a rectangle of perfect black sky.

Every hunter shouted victoriously as their leader hauled in the fresh kill, links of chain clutched betwixt his grinning teeth. The veins in his neck bulging obscenely, he gave a mighty heave and sent the clown corpse sailing onto the mound of bodies stacked atop the death wagon. "Whew! That there makes a new record!" Deranged laughter ensued as the stallion drank in the intoxicating aroma of blood.

"Cuntgratumalations," Pinkie said.

Snails watched the scene of carnage and felt his shriveled member swell into an almighty fuck bone. Fueled by the visceral energy of the murder, he drove into Pinkie Pie ravenously, becoming the very image of raw masculine sexuality. "Uh! Take it," he whined. "Gonna mess up your slutty holes, s-slut!"

The homicidal gang bid the couple a merry Hunters' Night as they departed. No sooner had they disappeared from view than Snails at last conquered the hill of his virginity. His every muscle twitched and tightened as he filled Pinkie's squish mitten with a flood of slimy seed. Regret overcame him almost instantly, the shame of his own depravity sickening him to the pit of his stomach.

Pinkie gleefully stamped her hooves against the floor. "Woohoo! Pinkie creampie! Ha ha, get it? 'Cause my name!?" Both ponies nearly toppled over as her legs buckled during a fit of delirious laughter. "Holy moly, I am so shitting wasted right now!"

A din of profanity and cracking whips accompanied the gang of hunters as they stampeded through the empty streets. Their incredible speed sent sparks pouring from the axle brackets of the death wagon, and still its driver angrily whipped the eight clown ponies who pulled its load--slaves who had bargained for their lives by agreeing to help massacre their brethren. When the morbid parade reached the center of Ponyville, the bodies of those slain were dumped into a mass grave dug beside the town hall. A bulbous red nose detached from the muzzle of one corpse tumbling into the pit and rolled into the shadow of a hunter, who promptly smashed it beneath his hoof. He rejoined his comrades as they set out once more in search of fresh bodies to enlarge the heap. Nearby, more ponies dressed in black gathered around a bonfire in the town square and listened in reverential silence as a mariachi band played the theme song to Charles in Charge.

High, high up above them, She soared, circling the tiny town like a raptor stalking her prey. She, the First Hunter, long forgotten amid the advance of their modern rituals.

She soared and watched as the ponies performed their bizarre dance of being. They lived and died beneath the veil of their ignorance, blind to the unreal splendor of the realm in which She existed. She had loved them, once. She, who possessed the knowledge of Menrva and Neith. She, the Lady of Nine Houses.

The Celestia.

Heir to the throne those below Her had destroyed in their greed.

Her tendrilous wings beat the air, white mist swirling around Her center to part like the petals of a water lily blooming in the first light of dawn.

She watched the little ponies crawling far below, peered into their souls as they laughed and wept and wondered what truth would define their legacy. She knew each of them in all their pain, their confusion, their anger, their lust. She walked the jeweled labyrinths of their memories and swam the pellucid waters of their spirits. In Her tireless hunt, nowhere could She find a trace of ethics in their video games journalism.

She whispered softly to the night, "Thou art sin itself."