THE PERSONAL DIARY OF FILTHY RICH
(Not be used as evidence in any potential future court cases involving familial homicide. Thanking you kindly.)
Day 1- Monday.
Tonight's the night.
It's taken me literally years to pluck up the courage to carry out what I should have done a long time ago, but there's no stopping me now, just as soon as I've finished my cup of tea.
For, tonight's the night... I murder my wife.
Some may call me a monster. Others might think me a hero.
Me? I don't really care what anypony believes. All I know is... it has to be done.
If you've never met her before, you wouldn't understand. Trust me on this. And think of yourself as exceedingly lucky.
I make sure I have everything ready. Chainsaw, check. Body bags, got 'em. Bloodstain remover, yup.
Want me to paint you a picture? I'm going to brutalise her, mutilate her, dismember her limb from limb.
Her, and that big, fat, ugly mouth she has. It'll be more like a enclave by the time I'm finished.
Should be fun, and a better stress release than indoor golf any day.
I put on my ski mask, grab my serrated appliance of death, and delicately tip-hoof towards our shared bedroom. I slowly open the...
"Daddy, are we going somewhere cold this year on our holidays? BO-RING!! And you know I don't ski, I can't even do that stupid pizza/fries thing..."
Oops, there's my parched daughter, Diamond Tiara, a glass of water in her hoof. I love her with all my heart, but right now she's stopping me from eviscerating her dear mother's.
I explain to my little angel that Barnyard Bargains are exhibiting a new range of protective winter-ware, and I'm testing it out in the middle of the night for no particular reason.
I also start to tell her that I'm about to give the periphery of the hedge a late evening trim, but she'd already nodded off by this point.
The ingenuity I expended creating these falsehoods wasted. Oh well. I'm used to being unappreciated.
I delicately carry her to her queen-size bed, give her a kiss on the forehead, then it's back to very messy business.
Damnit. The Evil One has turned over onto her front. I want to see her face while I'm reducing her to magenta confetti.
Oh well, as they say... tomorrow is another day. I postpone the disembowelment for now, and climb under the quilt next to her with great reluctance. With enough imagination, perhaps I can pretend it's Sapphire Shores...
...
...!
...Nope, ain't working. Sigh
Day 2- Tuesday
No unforeseen disturbances from my precious child tonight, but I was foiled once again.
I'd gotten as far as the bedside table, ready to pull the cord on the chainsaw, barely able to restrain my wicked leer...
When the accursed creature let out the most frightening, terrifying, hideous howl ever known to ponykind in the midst of her hibernation.
"zzzz...Filthy, these yak coats at the counter are 5% off, this week only, and they're simply divine. Could I have one, pretty please? Or maybe, several dozen...zzzzzzz"
NNNNOOOOO!!
I spent the rest of the night holed up in the wardrobe, sporadically rocking back and forth while turning a flashlight on and off.
For those who think of me a testosterone free-wimp... imagine an anguished cry straight from the very pits of Tartarus, multiplied by a million Pinkie Pies screaming in your earhole.
Sound appealing? Thought not. More whopping therapy bills to look forward to in the future. Great...
Day 3- Wednesday
I decide to go retro in my murderous methodology today... I'm going to bury my 'sweetheart' alive.
I discard my earlier paraphernalia, this time sticking with the classic dishcloth-and-chloroform combo.
No fuss, no muss.
The first act goes like a dream. I knock her out during one of her rare quiet moments of slumber, and drag the body outside where a specially prepared coffin is ready to go.
Not only will I be free of her imperious tyranny forever, she'll also experience excruciating agony, before slowly rotting to death.
She might even get a small taste of the intense suffering I've kept bottled up for years.
This is absolutely perfect... apart from for those poor little wormies, who'll no doubt have nausea all round after nibbling and ingesting her diseased carcass.
I feel for ya, little buddies...
Hold on, we have a slight problem. No matter which angle I try to squeeze her into the big wooden box, her freakishly huge nose stops me from depositing her inside.
It's not much of a surprise I guess, you don't meet many mares like Spoiled with such pronounced schnoz's. Darn it, I knew I should've had this thing custom-made.
Or would that have aroused too many suspicions...
Oh well, too late to do anything about it now. With an elongated sigh, I pull her floppy frame back to her bed and place her under the covers, pausing only to dip her hoof in a basin of cold water before I drop off adjacently.
Let's see if the rumours are true...
Day 4- Thursday
This is it. No more Mr Nice Pony.
I hired a truck earlier in the day, into which I now fling her comatose form (it's amazing what a week's worth of sleeping pills can do when dissolved in honeysuckle coffee)
I drive fifty miles out of town, stopping only to tip my hat to Rarity en route. As soon as I'm finished with this behemoth, I'm going to start wooing that charming lil cutie. Wait for me, my love...
I reach my destination, stop the lorry, and take out my drugged-to-the-gills soon to be ex-spouse, who I then proceed to throw into a massive hole. Job done.
Subtlety... who needs it?
But, as I'm slowly trotting away, dusting my hooves off, thinking of all the wonderful things I'm going to do when I get home (such as burning Spoiled's entire wardrobe, smashing up her cosmetics, tearing up my will), a macho voice pierces the blackness.
"Oi, what do you think you're doing, mate?!"
I spin around in the middle of my euphoria, to see a muscular workpony, elevated above the earth by a crane, wearing a nice yellow luminous vest.
And he doesn't look happy. At all.
"You can't dump your rubbish down here!!" he lectures, pointing at the still napping form of my 'beautiful' wife next to him on his seat. "If you don't remove it this instant, I'll be forced to ask you to pay a fine of three bits!!"
Obviously the money was no issue, but the bad headlines generated by a pillar of the community being a litterbug could be, so I halted my daring plan there and then.
Those darn bureaucrats. Everything's red tape these days.
Day 5- Friday
Well, it's official, folks. I'm totally out of ideas.
I tried slicing her... no dice. I tried interring her... that plan is dead and gone. I tried hurling her into an abyss... that scheme had to be tossed out.
My final strategy tonight revolved around casting her out to open sea in a small boat. I figured the fates might be kinder with me this time, seeing as how this is by far the most benign of my methods of utterly destroying her.
Needless to say, fortune vomited on my eiderdown once more. Her gale-like snores soon caught the mast sail, and blew her craft safely back to the shore, without so much as one vulture peck.
Looks like there's nothing else to it. I'll either die, a miserable, broken stallion... or try some of my failed murderous techniques out on myself.
Knowing my luck, they'd probably fall flat then, too... and I couldn't leave my blessed daughter all alone in the accursed hooves of that... that...
Oh dear. 'Megabitch' doesn't seem to have an entry in the thesaurus.
It's at this juncture that my loyal lickspittle Randolph totters into the room to ask where the coleslaw is for dinner, and in a fit of pure exasperation I relay to him the entire sorry saga.
The aged servant listens with one eyebrow raised the whole time , and as soon as I've finished my extended tirade, has some counsel of his own to offer.
"Sir, if I might be as so bold as to make a suggestion..."
"What is it, Randolph"? I said, still as immersed in grandiose self-pity as before.
"A point-blank shotgun blast to the head, sir. It'll spill her brains all over the place. No chance of her getting back up from that..."
I immediately stopped my aimless lamentations and turned to face my suddenly very scary butler, a look of pure shock decorating my features. "What?!"
"Then, after the clean-up crew arrives, just dip the remains in acid. It'll melt skin and bone alike in no time at all, sir..." I don't know which was creepier, his graphic description, or the fact he could say all that as if he was just reciting a shopping list. "If you don't mind me saying so sir, you're just a bit out of practice. I'm sure a stallion as resourceful and enterprising as you though, would take to it like a duck to water..."
"W-wait j-just a-a s-second..." My entire system was on the verge of panic mode, especially when he tried to 'guide' me upstairs.
"Come and have a look at my personal armoury, sir..." He said enthusiastically, as I found myself being dragged off. " I got some good stuff, ex-military, that you won't have even heard of. What did you say you were using? Chainsaws? Chloroform? That's amateur hour! Try machetes, grenades, missile launchers... it'll blow you away, sir. In some cases, quite literally. Hee Hee!!"
I must've had a million things going through my head at that stage, but I could only splutter two words. "H-how l-long..."
"Well, I have lived rather a long life..." Randolph told me with a knowing wink. "I've served my country, and done a lot of things I'm not proud of. One thing though, that I'm sure I won't regret, is ridding the world of that horror you call a wife. It was just going to be a solo project, but now I know we're on the same page, that makes it so much easier! Here's what we'll do: We'll wait for her to get home, then you get her in a headlock, I'll grab a blunt instrument, and then..."
On and on he droned, and I suddenly realised three things.
1: I was now in for keeps, whether I liked it or not.
2. I really should review my procedure for staff background checks...
3. I'm never, ever firing this guy.