"Hors D'oeuvres" (AiE)


                                            This is a really, really, reaaaally odd green I've written. It's pretty short, but might be the weirdest thing I've written in a bit. It's shit. Don't read it. I've plenty of other greens you could read instead. This one is just icky. I literally don't know why or how this happened. Please, kill me.


                                            >Be Anonymous.

                                            >Be Day No. 1-800-YOU-JUST-SUCK in Equestria.

                                            >Jk, it’s the Grand Galloping Gala, a friday night in Canterlot with the stars twinkling along the moonlight horizon.

                                            >One skips along the sky, then disappears— call it a would-be wish forgotten.

                                            >Such beauty as it once was, stays forgotten this evening, for below Princess Luna’s canvas do the ponies of high society disregard her work; as expected for they are privy to prattle at the royal palace, congregating in ballrooms, bickering in the courtyards, perusing the royal gardens with cocktails galore.

                                            >They are clouds, these ponies— condensed beings of vapidities, herding together, migrating to and fro amidst the glow of mood-lighting and live musical accompaniment.

                                            >It is simply the aristocratic way of the wealthy pony, the only *true* attendees of the Grand Galloping Gala which they believe in.

                                            >And although you walk among these many influential ponies on this oh-so famous evening, and perhaps you may occasionally happen to talk with some of them with the rest of their wealthy ilk— make no mistake, not even for a second, in thinking that a single one of these ponies might stand to like you.

                                            >Because they don’t.

                                            >Not even in your dreams.

                                            >And how could they?

                                            >After all, you are nothing to them but…

                                            >...A caterer.

                                            >CueDramaticSting.mp3

                                            >Carrying a tray of hors d'oeuvres, you “patrol” the royal gardens in your typically over-done butler apparel (white wing collared dress shirt, black tie, grey vest, black mourning coat, cufflinks, white gloves, grey-striped trousers, pocket watch that no one will likely ever see…) which by the lords of fine tastes’ needs for excess of course just *had* to be tailor-suited to your “alien” physique.

                                            >And yes, it *did* come out of your paycheck, thank you very much.

                                            >But hey, just as the neither-late-nor-great Hulk Hogan once said— “Whatchoo gonna do, brothurrrrr?”

                                            >Answer: Suffer, probably.

                                            >But that’s how it goes being part of the cog of the great and wonderful and luxurious and saccharine city of Canterlot’s locus of the elite.

                                            >And then, hiding behind a rose bush, right as you are about to sneak a drinkeroo from the whiskey stowed in your vest…

                                            >You hear a panic.

                                            >“Oh! Fritters! Dumplings! Caramel apples! My royal lips have touched common carnival fare! I'm going to the buffet for some... hors d'oeuvres.”

                                            >You peep up from behind the rose bush.

                                            >What do you know?

                                            >It’s Prince Blueblood.

                                            >He’s storming off from some food stand with a mare in-tow.

                                            >No surprise there except for the fact that this one is legal.

                                            >You would be happy that he would merely satiate his urges on this fine looking mare instead of a child if there weren’t going to be seventeen other children having to suffer as this one legal mare would later this evening.

                                            >No one will believe what happened to them tomorrow anyhow.

                                            >It’s Canterlot.

                                            >It’s rich ponies at the Gala.

                                            >Happens all the time.

                                            >All you can do is see the fucker and the poor lady pony now as the rich smug fucks they are, rush up to them with the one thing you hear they want and the one thing you know you have to give them— Hors D'oeuvres, baby.

                                            >So, you accost them, specifically Blueblood (you always treat stallions as people and their mares as accessories in Canterlot), and greet the two with the forced smile a caterer has since caterers aren’t ponies (read: people).

                                            “Hello, Prince Blueblood,” you say to him, “and good evening, Madam,” you say, acknowledging the mare. “Did I just happen to hear you were in the mood for some…hors d’oeuvres?”

                                            >You immediately pique Blueblood’s interest (or rather your tray’s offerings do), but as for the beautiful, rare legal-aged and elegant-looking mare?

                                            >Another surprise: her eyes do not shift from her prior aggravation — whatever that must have involved; something about commoner food that made ol’ Bluebitch mad?

                                            >It makes your heart sink realizing they don’t, because you realize this mare is not a bimbo or a slut or a gold-digger-socialite.

                                            >She looks rich and classy like one, dressed like she too is a part of the cog of the great and wonderfully luxurious and saccharine city of Canterlot’s locus of the elite with her nice dress — must be from a 1% boutique you haven’t heard of in Canterlot yet; no way a normal pony from some place like Ponyville would make that — except those eyes are, in fact, Ponyville eyes, and not Canterlot ones, so she is not a stray gold-digging wife or socialite tramp bitch, but something worse.

                                            >She’s a real person.

                                            >She’s just a girl.

                                            >Yeah, maybe a girl with a big head and stars that shimmer like wishes, shooting across those deep blue sapphires behind shadowy curtains of those dark lashes…but she’s that’s what a girl’s eyes should have.

                                            >Canterlot mares, rich mares, they don’t have that.

                                            >It tells you everything.

                                            >She’s just a girl who wanted to meet a prince this evening, somehow invited to the gala, and now she knows how fucking awful it is, but she won’t give up that dream of canoolding with the fine life and its regal stallion true-loves a-plenty (there’s no such thing, no such thing in Canterlot, you poor mare!) and will in turn get to have her beautiful fucking face bashed up and mashed in against her prince’s fucking groin later tonight while getting gangbanged three-ways into the fifth fucking dimension by fifteen other rich and royal psychos all taking turns on her, even if she’d go into into cardiac arrest.

                                            >Tomorrow, she’s going to be blurbling through spit bubbles and thick oozing globs of cum dripping down her bruised and battered face trying to say that she’s ready to stop (and no one will, because the next morning, no one will believe her because she’s either a gold-digging whore looking to have a reason to live off hard-working rich people’s well-earned money for alimony when she has their bastards, or she’s just a stupid out-of-town cunt).

                                            >And you won’t stop this.

                                            >It’s Canterlot.

                                            >It’s the Grand Galloping Gala.

                                            >IT HAPPENS.

                                            >God, at least she’s legal.

                                            >Rather her than a kid.

                                            >But who do YOU kid?

                                            >Right now, a buncha kids at this stupid Gala are gonna have this happen to them anyway this evening.

                                            >Progress is a funny thing, even backwards.

                                            > :’)

                                            >“Ugh! Finally,” huffs Blueblood, eying your platter. “Something befitting for a more cultured palette!”

                                            >His lifts your entire tray out of your hands as he takes it for himself, and the mare — oh, poor thing — mouths ‘Sorry!’ at you.

                                            >You feel bad for her, and ignore her with a smile.

                                            >Meanwhile, Blueblood’s popping each little snack into his rich fucking mouth.

                                            >“Mmf, thithf itfh wondefrfulltfh!” He swallows. “What is this?”

                                            “Artisanal Apple Fritters, sir. Made by the palace’s very own artisans.” You scratch your nose. “They’re my favorite.”

                                            >“Ha! The hoo-man has taste!” he laughs, nudging you with his elbow.

                                            >Of course, you know to laugh with him even though he might as well just call you pretty fine for a stupid Nigger while you laugh with each whip crack and say ‘I lub youse, Massa! I lub youse, Massa!’

                                            >The mare tries not to sneer at her Prince Charming, that good ol’ Blueblood.

                                            >“A-apple fritters…?” she says through a slight tone. “But he doesn’t like—”

                                            “They’re artisanal,” you tell her. “Very different, you see.”

                                            >She looks off behind her at the food stand they were just at (a pretty nice looking country mare’s — an earth pony — is there operating it; you wonder if she had to suck cock or do anal to get a ticket to set it up here at the Gala) before slowly turning back to study her princely companion, eating artisanal fritter after artisanal fritter...

                                            >“Ah, yes,” she says.

                                            >You see her left eye twitch.

                                            >“They’re…*artisinal* apple fritters. Of course. Yes. Absolutely.”

                                            >A strand of her mane bounces out of place.

                                            >“How…silly of me not to notice the, ah, OBVIOUS difference!”

                                            >Once Prince Blueblood has devoured them all, he tosses your tray into the rose bushes, wordlessly walking off.

                                            >The mare look to him, gobsmacked at his audacity.

                                            >“I can’t believe—!”

                                            “Tip?”

                                            >She shifts that same look to you, now.

                                            >Sneers.

                                            >Then, she’s off following her prince again.

                                            >Poor girl.

                                            >Welcome to high society…

                                            >She had her chance.

                                            >...


                                            End. Plz forgib me. D: