Based on a horrible drawing that activated some sort of fucked-up emotions somewhere deep in my stupid tranny faggot brain. I'll try to leave it at this.
>Dead Drop was a pornstar.
>He hadn't been born that way, but now she was.
>The powers that be, doctors and accountants and engineers looked over the frail little human body on the operating table and decided for her
>"The only way this one can make a return on investment is by selling the body we are about to give her."
>Her cutie mark was changed from a package under a bush to a butt plug, and the female genitalia, an eighth of the reason she had agreed to do this, was left as male.
>She wore a skirt and thick underwear to conceal both when she wasn't in the studio, at first it was nice.
>The work paid well, it wasn't very difficult for a slut, and she only had to work three nights a week at the studio
>She still considered herself a girl, as did the lab.
>Such pornography had a lucrative market, after all.
>There was a place to stay, a little hole in the wall where she could do her makeup and shower and store her clothes
>She didn't have any friends
>The studio would've been well and good to stay open if this weren't LA.
>The profits were fine, but most of them went up producer noses
>And into penis enlargement pills and other stupid shit that didn't work or make the customer any happier
>But nobody told Dead Drop when the studio closed down for good, she simply showed at the front door all dolled up and saw the notice that she was out of a job
>The agency/lab that did her medical evaluations was angry with her
>They probably didn't truly blame her, but they screamed at her over the phone all the same
>A new address was given, and the words hissed through the flip phone speaker
>"You'd better get it right this time."
>She had a new job the same day. Dead Drop looked pretty after all, like a mare if a mare had a dick and balls instead of a vagina.
>The new studio was immediately different.
>The pay was a little higher, but the sheets were never washed and Dead Drop sometimes felt like the stallions and men she had to fuck were pervier and uglier than they used to be
>But she chalked this up to some sort of jadedness
>The other change was the offers at gigs.
>Dead Drop had fans by now, customers that were willing to pay through the muzzle to have her do things to them or to do things to her.
>She was still filmed by studio crew, but the locations were constantly changing.
>One regular, a real freak, liked to push her face into the muddy water under an overpass while he fucked her ponut
>Another requested to put out cigarettes on her. The studio agent refused until he raised his price by one-hundred thousand dollars.
>Her fur was manicured by a professional from then on to make sure the scars weren't visible.
>She got commission thank god, all of these things would've been horrible if not for that
>She went from being alone in a tiny apartment to alone in a big apartment with a plasma TV and a game console she couldn't work with her hooves
>She had ordered it by phone while high, she started getting high a lot
>Her employers even encouraged her to get high before work
>It almost always was a net benefit, there were very few that viewed a prostitute campony not being a bit zonked out of her gourd as a positive
>and it wasn't like anyone was watching her for her philosophical insights or ideas on science
>Though maybe she could've been a philosopher in a different life
>She sometimes wrote poetry and cried, at home, when the substances wore off
>Sometimes, stories
>She was never the hero in them, if she appeared at all it was a side character or a cameo
>and when she was around early enough to catch the evening news she knew that she wasn't the hero either
>Many of her clients were... at least according to the media
>The underpass guy was a philanthropist who gave money to feed starving children in Africa
>The cigarette guy was a big name HIV researcher
>It was said that he could have the antivirals good enough for complete eradication of the disease through treatment within just a few short years
>Dead Drop simply hummed and ate her microwave meals on the couch in front of the plasma screen
>If she was a concubine to saints, she was doing good right?
>That was also around the time she realized that the footage filmed with such clients wasn't released on her page, and was kept on hard drives for the purpose of /blackmail/.
>It was getting colder, and so her winter coat started to come in.
>After the studio talked to the lab, she was given drugs to revert it to her summer coat. Her look had become a part of her trademark.
>She bought a nice puffy jacket for mares, wore it over her barrel and wore a pair of thick sweats until she got to work
>Then she'd get undressed, shoot once or twice per day or night, and be sent home
>Her schedule wasn't important, and conformed to the clientele schedule. She was on call constantly at this point and whenever she got a call, no matter where she was, she was expected to be at the studio within an hour
>The pay was great, she was one of the top earners now, and got some preferential treatment because of it
>For instance, due to how much she'd come to love MDMA, whenever they got some in and she was tired after a call-in it was as good as hers.
>The closest person she had to a friend was the manicurist.
>She genuinely seemed to like Dead Drop, and actually treated her like a girl.
>At first she just dealt with concealing the various scrapes, burns, and sores that were a part of the job; but as the two got closer she began to give her client some much needed relief in the form of massages, belly rubs, and sometimes even hugs
>She had thought it was a bit weird when Dead Drop started crying after the first hug though, so she didn't hug her often
>Thankfully most of the mare's tests for STDs came back negative, and the few positives were curable ones from other actors or clients, who were swiftly let go
>If she contracted something like HIV, her career was essentially over
>And the studio would also be essentially over
>And she would probably lose it all, her life included
>She tried not to think about how that made her feel
>Thankfully, she only had sex for work. Reducing the act to a commodity really kills the libido outside of the workplace.
>One day, a man with an eye tattooed on his sternum appeared
>Said he was a fan, said he had something special in mind
>Said that for a night where he could do anything with the mare, he would pay the studio one million dollars
>Dead Drop was given her first out, after the man had left the studio. His demeanor left even the sadomasochistic head director uneasy
>The way he put it, in a rare moment of clarity was:
>"Your commission on this job may be the price upon your soul or your neck. Step out if you wish, there will be no blame passed upon you."
>She went through with it.
>The location initially seemed fine, a mansion high on a mountain
>Her and the cameraman made idle chitchat as they walked to it, speaking about the news and the weather
>She liked him well enough, and he liked her in turn. There was nothing special about their professional relationship.
>The man greeted them at the door, led them to the basement
>Then the sub-basement.
>It was a snuff dungeon.
>Before the cameraman had time to react, an unseen figure had shot him in the back of the head.
>Dead Drop tried to run, shockingly they didn't drop her dead
>She was captured, alive.
>The man, it turned out, was a rival director at a different studio.
>To ensure monopoly, he had to either kill the mare or employ her. She was getting too popular.
>Everyone in LA, it seemed, was a film junkie
>Dead Drop was terrified, but hardly surprised, when he aped the Chigurh bit and flipped a coin to decide her fate
>It landed tails.
>After the executioner had his way with her in multiple senses, she was left on a mattress to bleed out.
>The door was locked, and she was left to spend her final moments in the dark.
>If the sound of her heartbeat hadn't started to slow to a crawl, if the rivers of blood hadn't started to become viscous as molasses
>Something appeared in the dark, made its way to her
>She didn't even have the energy to recoil as it touched her, wiped her of blood, picked her up and held her
>"It's almost your time."
>Despite the ball gag in her mouth, she was somehow able to speak freely
>"Who are you?"
>It stroked her mane, carefully
>"I hitch rides. Cling on to unseen passers-by. I saw you on my way to Venus."
>"Can you save me?"
>It sighed
>"No, unfortunately. Maybe if you weren't so damaged, I... I'm not a doctor. All I can really do is dull your pain for a bit."
>"Will I get to go where there are only other ponies when I die?"
>It smiled in a way that wasn't quite a smile
>"I'll put in a good word. God lives on Venus, you know."
>"Really? This whole time?"
>"It's his favorite. He doesn't much like people."
>"That's... funny..."
>She began to drew in a ragged, almost infinitely slow breath
>"I always thought he lived in the sky as a kid. I guess I know better now."
>"He doesn't mind whatever anyone thinks about him. He's beyond caring about most things unless you go out of your way to pester him."
>Dead drop chortled
>"Ants."
>"Yeah. Are you ready?"
>"I guess. As I'll ever be."
>It planted something like a kiss on her forehead and left her to bleed out, without the pain.
End of line.