//------------------------------// // Chapter 2: Pinkie Pie's Peculiar Party // Story: Twilight Sparkle and the Witch Baby // by Brony_Fife //------------------------------// CHAPTER 2—Pinkie Pie’s Peculiar Party Happy Birthday to Youuuu, Happy Birthday to Youuuu, Happy Birthday dear Perky Piiiiiiie, Happy Birthday to youuuu. Singing. Voice, off-key, squealy, like a child’s. Breath, hot, ugly, go away. Pinkie Pie suddenly snapped awake as she realized what was going on. Her eyes were as wide as the time she went “GASP!” when she met Twilight Sparkle for the first time and threw her that party where she talked Twilight’s ears off explaining how she got this idea to throw her a party because she thought Twilight was lonely because she was new and—and—and—and and here she was, in a chair. Tied to it, in fact. In the middle of a dingy room decorated with confetti and streamers. In front of her was a table, and at this table were other ponies, tied to the same kinds of chairs she was. The ponies all wore masks—one a white rabbit, one a donkey’s, one a dormouse, and the last a cat with an unnerving grin. In front of her was a white birthday cake with the words “Happy Umpteenth, Porkie Pie” spelled out in loopy letters and pink frosting. Candles stuck out of it in a bizarre fashion—a few of the candles were even stuck in the ice cream next to the cake! The room outside the birthday trappings was grungy and smelly. The smell reminded Pinkie Pie of the outhouse on the rock farm where she was raised. Nostalgic but gross. The wood and metal used to build this place were exceedingly rotten and rusted—Pinkie wondered if this place was even sanitary—possibly condemned. Then it hit her. She was tied up onna chair in the middle of a creepy room with other ponies tied up onna chair in the middle of the creepy room, and they were having a birthday party even though it wasn’t her birthday and the cake was all whoopsie-daisy loopy-goofy with the candles! She was in the middle of the worst birthday party ever! Oh, and she might have been kidnapped or something. She tried to start conversations with the other guests, but the white rabbit was a snorty-pants who didn’t wanna talk; the donkey went face-down on the table; the dormouse gurgled like he had a tummy ache; and the smiley-cat screamed and sobbed. Pinkie was not the least deterred by any of this. She just knew these guys needed to know how to party hardy! Suddenly, the cake began to expand. It grew and grew and grew, like a big white and pink tomato, only tomatoes don’t grow that fast, and then—poof!—the cake exploded into a shower of confetti! Wow! Pinkie Pie wanted to applaud, but she was tied up because somepony kidnapped her. Or something. Where the cake had been now stood a stallion Earth pony with a round body and crazy-long legs. He wore funny, bright, mismatching colors, and his face was painted white on one side, blue on the other, with bright red around his eyes and lips. His hat was a long, red-and-white-striped cap—like a sleeping cap—and under it was a swirly-whirly bright blue mane! He giggled a high-pitched giggle, and Pinkie couldn’t help but join in. They were having so much fun! Suddenly, the Clown put his face against Pinkie Pie’s and screamed like Nightmare Moon had grabbed him by the boy-parts Pinkie wasn’t allowed to talk about when she was little. Pinkie Pie was struck silent. The Clown had stopped screaming, but he was still right in front of her face. His smile was gone. After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, Pinkie decided she ought to say something. “Um,” she began, “N-Nice party you got here, Mr. Clown.” The Clown immediately lit up, as if overjoyed that someone was enjoying herself. After all, that’s what clowns were for, right? Their job was to bring smiles and laughter to everypony they met. But for some reason, Pinkie Pie didn’t feel that with this Clown. There was something weird and false about his performance that she couldn’t quite put her hoof on. He danced on the table, to no particular rhythm, and began to sing. Pinkie winced, since he was totally off-key, but attempted to remain polite. Hello, Hello, Hello! And a very happy birthday to you! May everything today Always, always go your way No matter what it is you do! Pinkie Pie giggled at the goofy verse. “Silly! It’s not MY birthday today! It must be one of your other guests.” Suddenly, the Clown stopped dancing. Suddenly the Clown stopped smiling again. Suddenly the Clown looked very upset. His eyes bulged from their sockets. His legs were bent in such a way that Pinkie thought they were going to break. “Yes! It! IS!” The Clown insisted. He stomped the table he was standing on angrily. Pinkie Pie didn’t approve of this behavior. Not one little bit. She frowned at him, the way a mother glowers at a disobedient foal. “No it’s not, and it’s no reason to be so angry.” “Yes it IS, yes it IS, yes! It! IS! Your birthday,” the Clown shouted. “You’re turning one year old today! A whole year! And you’re gonna like it, by golly!” “Who’s Golly?” Pinkie Pie asked innocently. She turned to the dormouse. “Are YOU Golly?” “No he’s not!” said the Clown, still angry. Pinkie Pie turned to the smiling cat. “Are YOU Golly?” “He’s not, either!” said the Clown, even angrier. Pinkie Pie smiled at the Clown. “Well, then, are YOU Golly?” “My name’s not Golly!” the Clown spat, furious. “Golly isn’t here! Golly is dead! I sat on him and he’s dead!” Pinkie Pie’s face fell. Poor Golly. “Anyway! You’re turning fifteen today—” “I thought I was turning one!” “Fifteen! You’re fifteen! And you’re gonna get a present—but only ONE!” Pinkie Pie liked this Clown less and less the more he talked. Clowns were supposed to be cheerful and funny, but this guy was whiny and irritating. And only ONE present on a birthday? What kind of nonsense screwy-patooey was that? Before she could protest, the Clown jumped off the table. He stamped on the floor. “Presents UP!” As if on command, each one of the other ponies lifted up wrapped boxes and set them on the table. “Now, my dear Plinky, you may choose one of these gifts. But only one!” Pinkie Pie didn’t know what to do. Four presents to choose from, but she could only get one. The other three’s feelings would be so hurt! And Pinkie Pie was not the kind of pony to hurt another pony’s feelings. Not at all. But that was the rule, just one present. So after carefully looking over each of the gift boxes, she came to a decision. “I don’t want any presents.” The Clown’s facial expression was made even more hideous by his makeup. “WHY NOT?!?!” Pinkie Pie looked into his eyes, as if explaining in childlike innocence. “If I choose only one, all the other guests’ feelings would be hurt. And I don’t want anypony to feel like I’m snubbing them.” She added a small smile at the end, then looked around at the other guests. “I’m sorry guys, I don’t mean to hurt your feelings.” The Clown now seemed more furious than he had ever been. Or at least, since Pinkie met him, which was not very long ago. “You’re SUPPOSED to pick ONE! That’s the rule of the game!” Pinkie lit up. “OHHH, so it’s a game!” She was more excited now. “OK, I like games! So I’m just supposed to pick one, and not to be mean, but just to choose?” The Clown had grown exasperated. It was apparent this party was not going as planned. “YES,” he growled. “Just pick one of the boxes. Nopony’s feelings are going to be hurt.” Pinkie looked over the boxes again. Then she looked at the guests. She was disappointed that she couldn’t see their faces past those dirty masks. They must be very expectant and hopeful that she’ll pick their gift. She looked back at the presents, and bit her lower lip in thought. “Hmmm.” Silence. “Hmmm.” More silence. “Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.” “OH FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!” The Clown had finally lost his patience. He flipped over the table in a rage, knocking over Pinkie Pie, the presents, and the other guests in the process. He began stomping on the overturned table, breaking it. Pinkie Pie, now that the Clown was busy venting his rage, bit at the rope holding her to the chair, pulled it slightly, then slightly again, then to the left, undoing the rope. Because she can. She got up and stretched. “Yup! MUCH better! Those chairs are SO not-booty-friendly!” The Clown stopped his rage for a second and saw that his birthday girl had broken out of her bonds. He stared with wide, angry eyes and a deep frown. His makeup made him seem even angrier. Pinkie Pie paid him no mind as she opened up each present. He glared at her as she opened the first box. Inside was a hammer. “Ooh! A hammer!” she beamed, “Perfect for building houses! Not that I DO build houses, but it’s the thought that counts!” She set the hammer aside. As she went for the next gift, the Clown picked up the hammer. He smiled, but it was hard since, as a pony, he had to hold the hammer between his teeth. He raised it over Pinkie Pie, and brought it down, aiming squarely for her neck. She turned her head at the last minute (apparently she was having difficulty with the bow), and the Clown missed, hitting the ground so hard, the head of the hammer broke off. He growled. Pinkie Pie opened the next present. Inside was a knife. “Oh, a knife?” Pinkie Pie looked it over uneasily. “I’m sorry, Mr. Donkey-Head, but I think you’ve been reading too many fanfics! But thanks anyway!” So Pinkie Pie made her way to the next present. The Clown saw his chance and picked up the knife. This time, he didn’t smile—for he felt that was what messed up his aim the last time. He aimed it squarely at Pinkie Pie’s back and gave it a good throw. She ducked, picking up the present in her teeth to undo the ribbon, and the knife sunk into the wall behind her. He groaned. Pinkie Pie opened her next gift. Inside was a noose. “Oh, my! Some rope!” Pinkie Pie giggled. “You guys are giving me so many practical presents. That’s so sweet of you! I’ll put this to some good use later.” She put the rope over to one side to collect it later. The Clown saw his chance. He tip-toed over to Pinkie Pie as she trotted toward her last present. As she looked down at the present, he clasped his teeth around the end of the noose and attempted to put it around Pinkie’s neck. But before he did, he waited until she was already opening the package. No bobbing head, no strategic dodge. He smiled, and threw the rope. Pinkie Pie laughed, throwing her head back. The Clown’s aim was off, and the noose bounced off her frizzy hair. He sizzled. Pinkie Pie opened her last present. It was a time-bomb. As she removed the lid from the box, the pin was pulled from the bomb’s back and the countdown began. “Ooh! A fancy clock!” Pinkie positively glowed. “I could always use a clock! I’m always losing track of time!” She put down her last present. The Clown, now seeing the bomb (He had forgotten about it earlier), ran out the door. He ran until he was safely out of the building. Outside was an abandoned slum, the only potential witnesses around were homeless Machina who, predictably, paid a clown running out of an abandoned building no attention at all. He stood on the other side of the street and waited eagerly for the bomb to go off. Inside the building, Pinkie Pie gathered the guests together and gave them a big group hug. Mr. Smiley-Cat was being a poop-head though, and struggled and screamed as she hugged them. “Thank you, all! You’ll all be sweeties in my book!” As she did, she looked at the time on the bomb. “Oh, my goodness!” she gasped. “Is it that time already?” She let go of her fellow partiers and looked around for her other presents. After she picked up the noose, she noted that the others were going to be a pain to carry. Temporarily forgetting her innate gift of hammerspace (After all, what happened next was just bound to be uproarious), she decided to leave the other objects here. She WAS told she could only keep one, after all, and the rope was pretty! And off she bounded, singing her goodbyes, out the door and into an unfamiliar place. She looked about, surprised at first. After a few seconds of looking around and taking everything in, she breathed and tried not to panic. She had already learned about how being xenophobic was wrong in her experiences with Zecora, but this place… Here, everything was clock-ish steam-ish punk-ish. Even the people: most were bipedal, with two or more arms while others had wheels for feet. All had gears and switches and chains and pipes and were entirely metal. The streets were just meshes of metal beneath her hooves, the buildings like giant grandfather clocks, jukeboxes, and radios long since put into disuse. The sky seemed a rusty red, casting a morbid and uncertain shadow upon this place. Pinkie Pie geared herself up and smirked. She had looked at that clock before. What time was it? “ADVENTURE TIME!” Pinkie Pie cheered, and leapt from the door just as the “clock” in the building exploded—sending the entire building ablaze. Pinkie Pie looked behind herself at the wreckage and smiled. They finally learned how to party. * * * * * The Clown gazed upon his burning building. It was merely a stage, like any other place he knew, a stage for his show. For life was a show, all it ever was was a show. Everybody was an actor, him, the pink thing, the Judge, his drones, you, and me. His pupils dilated as he watched the fire dancing into the sky, the bristling crackles sounding in his ears like a witch cackling over her latest stew. As some of the bums ran to and fro, the Clown took a moment to look at them. Filthy, fallen-apart, old pieces of junk. For that was what they were, literally: they were people of various machinery, whether it were clockwork, steam-powered, or diesel-fueled. (Of course, only those who could afford it were able to use diesel.) These bums had replaced legs that had either fallen off long ago or were stolen (getting one’s leg stolen was actually pretty common—and much more worrisome if the victim was not a Machina, either). He smiled and jeered as the bums and worthless heaps ran about in a panic. They were a perfect painting of life in a nutshell. They were bums: no place in life or society, no money, no purpose. Yet here they were, running around screaming as if they deserved to be heard. As if they deserved to live. As if they expected society to allow them to live. Looking about, the Clown spied a manhole cover that was only lazily half-covering a hole. He picked it up and held it between his hooves (He refrained again from using his mouth, mostly because he hated the taste of metal). His eyes scanned the screaming bums, tripping over each other, stealing from each other, beating each other up in the chaos. His gaze fell on one particular bum whose leg was torn from him by another. This guy was crawling along, likely trying to find someplace to hide, in case anyone got the idea to take the rest of his parts. The Clown got that idea, and twisted it into something more sinister. Getting up on his hind legs, the Clown lifted the manhole above his head and reared back, getting the attention of his victim. The bum’s eyes, glass bulbs really, lit up in a dim light, as if realizing his time on this earth was over. He used his one good arm to shield his face in one last futile act of self-preservation. He did not scream, which the Clown hadn’t expected; but the Clown smiled anyway, for his victim had figured out, all by himself, that living wasn’t worth it anymore anyway. With a clang, the bum’s hand was crushed and his head knocked off his body. The Clown watched the dented head with a broken eye bounce along the street, ricocheting off a street light. As it rolled to a stop, the Clown saw another bum making a go for the head. The Clown took aim and threw the manhole at the sneaky bum, and got him dead-center, knocking him onto his side with a crash. He got back down on all fours and walked over to the severed head. He picked it up and placed it in his sash. He looked at the bum, now cowering, his entire lower half a messy image. “I-I’m sorry,” he pleaded, “Didn’t—didn’t know it was yers!” “Oh it isn’t,” replied the Clown. And with that, the Clown pounced, crushing the bum’s head and arms. He jumped up and down, stomped, and then alternated between the two actions repeatedly until the bum’s parts were all over the street. He laughed as he did it. As the other Machina ran by, as if not caring, the Clown began to sing. It was a merry tune, although once again followed no real rhythm or structure; and as it reached the burning building, the fire began to dance even more seductively than it had before. When you’re feeling worn down When you’re feeling kind of blue When you know you’re gonna drown Laugh, Clown, Laugh!! When your friends no longer make a sound When their love is no longer true When you put their bodies in the ground, Laugh, Clown, Laugh!! At this stanza, the Clown leapt from his prey and spun around a lamppost. He slid down its side, landing in front of a female Machina, who began to back off in fear. His gaze matched hers. She was pretty, for a machine. Her gears seemed well-oiled for a homeless girl—in all likeliness she was still quite young. The bronze on her body still had some hue, although much of it was stained and caked with filth like all the other bums. Her face was well-sculpted, set into a round little head with a pigtail made of wire on either side. The Clown drew closer. His song approached a slowing point, almost somber in tone. All I want to do is smile Feel better for a little while Remember what I was like, as a child He reached into his sash and pulled out the severed head. The clockwork girl screamed and fell backward. The Clown moved the mouth as if it were a puppet. WHAT I LOOKED LIKE WHEN I SMILED!!! The Clown laughed as the clockwork girl scrambled back up to her feet and ran away in terror. He threw the head down, relishing in the sound of the thick smack against the street. He got back into the original mood of his song and began to jig as he pranced down the street. When your heart is devoured by doubt When you can’t take it anymore When your heart bursts and you thrash about Laugh, Clown, Laugh!! When the candle’s flame goes out When death himself is at your door Well, There’s no need to pout Just Laugh, Clown! LAUGH!!! And with that, the Clown’s voice dissolved into the most horrendous, wretched, cruel, twisted, gnarled, vicious, squealy, shrieking laughter that any creature could ever be unfortunate enough to hear. The fire burning brightly behind him began to roar in applause. He kept on with his cackle even as he walked onward into the night in search of another playmate, another shadow returning to the darkness. By the time the fire fighters had arrived, the shrill sounds of the Clown’s laughter haunted the place like a ghost—with its owner nowhere to be found.