Trixie's Machine


                                            >The night began with you outside the wagon of Ponyville’s favorite stage magician

                                            >”Please, Anonymous! Trixie is prostating herself before you!”

                                            >You stared down at the floor, looking at the small blue showpony sprawled in the dust

                                            Firstly, it’s prostrate. Second, you shouldn’t have told me about it if you didn’t want me to try it. Third, I have the cash for it.

                                            >”But I don’t want you to! You’re Trixie’s only friend!”

                                            Wow. Imagine how Glimmer will feel when I tell her that you don’t think she’s your friend.

                                            >”But that’s not-Fine! Trixie will retrieve her machine. But keep your bits, and don’t say Trixie didn’t warn you.”

                                            >It’s been a week since that night, and you’ve yet to leave your house

                                            >You’ve never been one to believe in fate, really

                                            >Even as Trixie gabbed on about her accidental invention, you refused to believe in it

                                            >”Trixie did not wish to believe in it either, but the machine has been correct every time.”

                                            >She told you she had only wanted to make a simple fortune telling machine, something to entertain the ponies who would show up early to her shows

                                            >”It was supposed to be harmless and silly; like the cookies you get after dinner in those foreign restaurants, but before.”

                                            >Instead, she stumbled on something unheard of: a death teller


                                            >”Trixie enjoys the money it brings in from the more…excitable ponies, but Trixie regrets making it.”

                                            >From what she told you, she was the first to test the machine

                                            >”Old age, surrounded by loved ones. Trixie wishes some of the other ponies could have been as lucky.”

                                            >She even pulled the paper out from under the brim of her hat to show you

                                            >But you, now, have your paper crumpled in the palm of your hand

                                            >If the ink weren’t magical, it likely would have been warped from sweat by now

                                            >But it still reads just as clearly as when it first printed off the machine

                                            >Rape.

                                            >One word

                                            >You demanded Trixie explain the joke, but she refused to even look at your ‘fortune’

                                            >”Goodnight, Anonymous!” was all she would say before she slammed the door on you


                                            >The next week was a paranoid blur of hallucinations, every sound a knock on the front door

                                            >You knew Fluttershy was out of town on a friendship mission, but you had no idea when she would be back

                                            >And with what the paper says…

                                            No, no! I’m punting her ass across the lawn the instant she shows her face around here. I control my life! Not some dumb machine!

                                            >You declare to the ceiling beams, thrusting your finger at them triumphantly

                                            In fact, I’m going to go to the store and buy some ice cream-

                                            >A ripe smell wafts into the air, singeing your nose-hairs

                                            -right after a quick shower.

                                            >Sometime later, as planned, you found yourself at the grocery store

                                            >You could already taste the butter pecan you picked out: smooth, cool, and rich. Life, it felt, was firmly back in your contr-

                                            >”Anon?”

                                            Oh no.

                                            >She goes into a canter towards you from the end of the aisle

                                            >”Anon, hi! M-me and Rarity just got back from our-“

                                            >You whip the ice cream tub into her face in a panic

                                            >She falls to the ground hard, wings clutching at her face, and you make a break for the backroom

                                            >Once through the backroom, you made your way to what you thought was the loading bay door

                                            >Only after forcing your way through did you find it was a service door for the grocery grain silo

                                            >"The manager, [REDACTED], was able to turn off the screw lift before the body got mangled, thank goodness", one of the stockers you pushed past would later tell investigators

                                            >"Never a good funeral with a mangled body. Then again I don't think I've ever been to a good funeral, haha."

                                            >"Do I think he was trying to kill himself? I don't think so. He did seemed pretty terrified of something, but there's gotta be better ways to go out than drowning in rape seed.”