There are in this world some truly decadent ways to spend a morning. Most of those ways involve either oral sex or brunch. Alas, neither of those were currently on the table right now; actually, I doubt I’d be overly inclined to try the former on a table, how uncomfortable. What I had wasted much of my morning doing was dangling Sunny’s head by the hair over the lavatory and letting her deposit her innard’s contents into it without the fear of her accidently slipping and cracking open her skull on the porcelain bowl.
That would be deeply unhelpful.
And it would make quite the mess.
Once done, again, Sunny pushed herself to shaking feet. Before she could speak, I handed her a towel. I had quite the headache already and I had no doubts that smelling her breath would turn it into a migraine. She dabbed at her mouth and chin with it and managed to remove the worst of the mess.
Then she looked down, around, and then back up at myself. Sunny shrugged - she looked like the living dead and she smelled about half as pleasant. While she was thinking, presumably of whether or not to be ill again, I opened a window and sprayed the remains of a can of antiperspirant into the air. Much better.
“Thanks,” she said, bashfully, pulling close the collar of the cotton button-down pajamas she’d donned at some point during the night.
“You’re welcome, Darling,” I replied, “I couldn’t possibly leave you here, all alone, in your current condition.”
She nodded. “Yeah. I was being really stupid, wasn’t I? Like, supremely stupid. I didn’t know what I was thinking.”
I honestly doubt you were.
“I could’ve frozen to death!”
“Yes, you could have. I would’ve been distraught if that were to happen. How fortunate then that I just so happened to be in the area.”
Yes, in the area, about 85 miles down the road. And I still cannot get the reek of blood and chocolate milk out of my nose at all!
“Don’t suppose I can ask another favour, maybe?”
“For you, anything,” I lied.
“Can you make me breakfast, Dearie? Please? I feel really bad right now and I haven’t eaten in hours.”
Oh! How much I dislike cooking. It is the business of people who are incapable of smelling nice on their own, and must resort to the odour of spices and herbs to mask that of their own. If good perfume were accessible to the masses, well, I doubt it would be good anymore, but this fracas people have over good food would certainly disappear.
Of course, pastries are an exception. A good French pastry is delicious. I would live of those if I’d live longer than a year.
But baking is not cooking, alas. Though the calibre of most bakers I’ve met isn’t exactly top-notch either - Pinkie Pie, for instance.
I sighed. “Very well, my dear. Let me make myself presentable, kindly do the same, and we can dine… oh,” what the cleanest part of the house at this point, the porch? “out on the veranda.”
Sunny grinned. She had stuff in her teeth. Disgusting. Worse too, she hugged me. Seeing as I needed a shower anyhow, I hugged her back.
“Thanks again, Rares. You’re great.”
“Indeed I am, Darling. And you’re no second place yourself.”
A minute or so later, I was busying myself with -looting- inspecting the guest bedroom’s wardrobes for a suitable outfit. To my surprise, I discovered that, judging from the accumulation of Quebecois memorabilia it held, this was Fleur’s room; her former room, at this rate. Eventually, I decided upon a simple sunrise-yellow blouse and a charcoal pencil skirt, both of which fitted me to a satisfactory degree. Those were then complemented with a gold bangle - gold-plated, presumably, unless Sunny is more generous than even myself - and a delicate pair of silver hoop earrings. Yes, excuse the faux pas of wearing the latter during the daytime, but they were very pretty and I did not want to forget them in Twilight’s handbag when I returned said accessory to her.
That might raise questions.
And I fear I have enough of those to worry about already.
After freshening up, and throwing all of Fleur’s makeup in the garbage can once I was finished with it, and then dressing up, I braced myself for the worst, heaved aside the barricade of furniture from in front of the door and headed downstairs.
The first thing I noticed was the smell. Its awfulness was indescribable and a nigh-solid wave of it collided with me like a frat boy’s first Ferrari does with a stray dog on party night. Luckily, I was not ill. Contrary to what I have claimed, I do possess somewhat of a strong stomach. Anyone who had grown up on my mother’s cooking would need one lest they be dead of bulimia by the eve of their fourteenth birthday. That and I hadn’t eaten a bite in literally days, having skipped yesterday’s breakfast as per tradition and having my lunch cut short by a rather unpleasant confrontation. Simply put, aside from a glass of martini, there was nothing left to be ill with.
The second thing I discovered was the carnage. Daylight had not been kind to the Flare Manor. Neither had its guests; debris of all kinds, forsaken clothes, and broken furniture, and shattered glass littered the floor while liquids of varying toxicity lay stagnant atop it. While travelling the staircase, I could’ve sworn that I saw a splatter of blood across a wall, and a brass casing beside it. But it might’ve just been a spill of Rosso and a shard of bottle - it was right next to the pool-table-cum-bar, along with the deflated remains of a cleat-stuffed pillowcase. How bizarre.
On the floor beneath it, a flash of orange caught my eye. A pair of glasses, how strange. Stranger still that they resembled my own pair with unerring accuracy. They must’ve slipped from my purse when I went to retrieve the drinks shaker. I knelt down and returned them to my bag.
Never let it be said that I do not clean up after myself.
Then I walked, gingerly, onward. Ruined paintings sagged off the walls, busts were cracked until their subjects were unrecognizable lumps of shattered clay, and the cloying rank aftermath of narcotic induced sex was sporadically splattered across torn-up couches, broken chairs, slashed pillows. One room had a pool table in it. A rather large and rather inaccurate depiction of male genitalia was carved into it. A pair of violet sunglasses sat beside it, over the image’s head. Those too, I pocketed, but only after wrapping my fingers in a handkerchief.
After all, the best gifts to give are those which were hers in the first place.
Peculiarly, what I then encountered within the kitchen was not, in fact, total carnage. Instead, it was the faintly alluring scent of bacon. My first idea, obviously, was that Sunset Shimmer had elected to crash this party, eight hours too late. My second was that my first was a rather foolish idea and that the culprit had, in fact, cleaned up the kitchen somewhat. To a sigh of relief, I could cross it without one of my heels squelching into something vile.
Doing so, I came face to face with Sugarcoat. Not only was she free of the pantry, she had saved me from cooking; I’ve gone nearly eighteen years without doing it and I wasn’t about to start now and, if it were up to me, Sunny would be dining on buttered toast. Needless to say, I was almost happy to see Sugarcoat. Needless to say, I smiled from ear to ear.
“Ah! Darling, I didn’t expect to see you here.” I greeted her.
She turned to me and squinted ferociously. Beside her, a cracked pair of burgundy spectacles lay on the counter. Behind her, upon the stovetop, there fried a panful of bacon and french toast; a refreshing change from having to breathe the alcoholic reek of this soiree and its aftermath.
“Rarity,” she noted, “You’re still here. I thought you’d have been arrested. But then again, you could’ve flirted your way out of that quite easily.”
I feigned dismay. “Why? Arrested! Whatever for? Excuse me saying so, but I am a picture of grace and responsibility.”
“Some genius tipped them off about the kind of stuff Vinyl brought over. Serves her right for selling it at prices that’d make the people who give out free samples jealous. But hey, hindsight’s twenty-twenty.”
“Even if you yourself aren’t,” I said, starting past her and plating two plates of food. She scowled.
“I’m impressed. You’ve learned to make basic observations. Do you want a prize?”
“Normally, I’d be flattered but, alas, I doubt that in your current state you’d be able to find where you stashed it. Anyhow, how did you of all people come out of that encounter unscathed?” I asked, and then I noticed the bruise on her arm, “well, relatively unscathed.”
Breaking her squint long enough to roll her eyes, Sugarcoat said, “One, I was the only sober person here. Two, Pinkie Pie, in a fit of sheer brilliance, had locked me in the pantry. By the time I jiggered the door open, they were gone.”
“And they took everyone else with them?”
She nodded, draining her cup of coffee and clanking it on the marble countertop. “Yeah. The rest of those idiots decided to have a riot. As far as I can tell, Indigo screamed ‘fuck the police’ and charged one of them so they shot her... Don’t worry, she lived and is probably cooling off in hospital as we speak. I heard her screaming. I’d reckon the rest of our moronic cohort is cooling off of jail.”
“Oh my. That is quite unfortunate.”
“Yeah. But they’ll only make that mistake once. Besides, it's what you get for pulling shit like this. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. That’s what I say.”
I managed to scrounge two sets of usable cutlery from a drawer. Mismatched, I’m afraid, but clean nonetheless. “Don’t you think that’s a little, oh I don’t know, extreme?”
Sugarcoat shrugged. “Probably. That’s life though. Don’t mess with policemen. Don’t do LSD. Don’t go to house parties where the two might come into contact with each-other. That’s how lives are destroyed, remember?”
“Are you implying something, Darling?” I said, after taking a bite of the french toast. It needed a dash of syrup, honestly.
“No, I’m not. If I actually thought you, particularly, had the guts to do anything that stupid, I’d have called them here myself. But you don’t because you act like an outdated stereotype of what the Victorians wanted their women to be. And last time I checked, crime isn’t ladylike.”
“Correct. It isn’t. Hence why I would never do it,” I lied.
Well, nobody is perfect, alas. If Sugarcoat was, she’d know not to try and fry bacon in mayonnaise. If I was, I wouldn’t be having one affair and be trying to engineer a second.
“Anyway, are you just going to eat everything I’ve cooked?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. A lady must watch her weight, you know. The other plate’s for Sunny. I must compliment you on the french toast though. It's so tough, I almost mistook it for an omelette.”
“That... that doesn’t even make sense. Omelettes are softer than french toast because they don’t have any bread in them. And if you hadn’t noticed, this place isn’t exactly a Lyonnaise deli right now.”
“Clearly. And you aren’t exactly a Lyonnaise chef.”
“And you aren’t exactly entitled to my breakfast.”
I put the fork down. The knife I held onto a second longer, before realizing that more murder was probably not the appropriate solution to this conversation. The final solution? Perhaps. But I always preferred Chanel’s later work anyhow. I dropped the knife.
It was blunt anyway.
“Isn’t it about time you were leaving, Darling?” I asked Sugarcoat.
“I don’t know, is it? If you can’t tell, my glasses are busted, I lost my other pair and there isn’t an intact clock in this house. Not like I could see it anyway. Besides, some bright spark tried drinking Laijiu neat and threw up in my handbag so now I can’t exactly call a taxi or anything,” she explained, pointing in the vague direction of a ruined, and cheap, item that was more faux leather satchel than actual handbag. Beside it sat a half-empty bottle of cooking wine.
“No need to get snippy, Darling. It suits you about as well as,” I gestured to her outfit – a markedly flirtatious coupling of a crop top and short shorts – “as about as well as that does.”
Sugarcoat frowned harder than she usually does. “Sunny and Sour picked it out for me last time we went shopping.”
“Mind if I ask, but did you spill coffee on one of them or something of the like? Because that outfit on you looks more like a punishment than a genuine attempt at finding you a partner. I always imagined you as more of a slacks sort of girl.”
“We’ve met outside of school before,” Sugarcoat paused for a deep breath, “Multiple times, in fact. You know I usually wear leggings.”
“Yes, and you wear them with your school uniform, Darling. That’s hardly the height of fashion.”
“Fair enough. It's about time I was getting home anyway. I’d promised my mother I’d be home by eleven. Last night.”
She still has a curfew? If I wasn’t currently chewing on a piece of rubberised bacon, I’d be laughing.
“So, mind if I borrow your phone, Rarity?” she continued.
“Ah, I’m afraid you can’t. As much as I would want to,” and I do not want to because you are annoying me, “I can’t lend it to you because the battery’s flat, Darling.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I thought you’d left it in the Uber?”
I blinked. “Then why ever did you ask?”
“You were lying to drum sympathy so that I’d let you in so that you could cheat on Twilight with my best friend.”
“Yet you let me in, didn’t you?”
“I remembered that I’d asked you to come here, against what was clearly my better judgement. I didn’t actually expect Sunny to hit “send” on that text. But I’m seeing Twilight on Monday anyway. I’ll just tell her over snooker.”
“She plays snooker? With you?” No wonder she has so many waistcoats.
“Yeah? I thought you’d know that, being her girlfriend and all. But then again, it's not like you’re a good friend, let alone a girlfriend.”
“And you’d come to such a conclusion how exactly?” I asked her, my hand tightening itself around the butterknife.
“Because I overheard you trying to get Bon-Bon to break up with Lyra and then you tried to steal her anniversary present. That and, unlike you clearly, Twilight and I actually talk. Really, I thought you’d know what her favourite sport is.”
“Nobody is perfect, Darling. And besides, snooker is hardly a sport. You can put on weight playing it, as you’ve clearly found out. Anyhow, I assure you that I have nothing but the best of intentions for both girls and that I am certainly not having some sort of illicit affair.”
“Then why are you tensing up every time I mention it? Then why was Sunny talking about how she liked you so much and was planning to dump Fleur the second she stepped foot in the country again?”
“I’m not omniscient, Darling. Besides, what she wants isn’t necessarily what she gets. I’m a decent person.”
“You’re a narcissist.”
“You’re autistic.”
“You’re a relic of a culture that should’ve died last millennium.”
“You’re clearly head over heels infatuated with her and perniciously jealous that she prefers me to you,” I said, crossing my arms.
She glared vaguely at me. Then sighed. I finished my plate of food and then used a napkin to wipe the gunk off the kettle, filled it, and set it on. Sugarcoat sighed again.
The kettle whistled. I poured myself a cup of instant coffee - yes, yes, I know but these are dire times and mornings are not my forte.
“I suppose that was somewhat harsh,” I said, checking my nails - red they were still but, in this light, the colour better resembled fresh blood than Garnet Sunrise. “After all, a lady should be generous. What say I offer you a ride home then?”
Sugarcoat looked up from trying to fit a broken lens back into its frame with nothing more than sheer determination and a total ignorance to the intricacies of lens grinding - I had an opportunity to actually meet Sunny’s mother once and, alas, she was tremendously boring; nattering on and on about economic practices and glassworking. So now my brain is full of that, instead of prudent mathematical knowledge that would’ve kept my grade above the proverbial sea level.
“Didn’t you walk here?” she, Sugarcoat, asked.
“There was a misunderstanding between myself and the taxi driver,” I replied. Said misunderstanding was that I hadn’t expected an escaped mental patient to drive me here.
“So, how are you going to drive me if you don’t have a car, Rarity? No offence, but you don’t look like the type to summon motor vehicles out of thin air.”
Well, I probably could do such a thing if I had my geode on me, but that dreadful thing clashes with the rest of my wardrobe so I take to leaving it in my safe, along with the rest of my valuable jewellery.
“Sunny leant me her car keys,” I declared, “We can take her car. Besides, I was awfully rude to you last evening and, being locked in a cupboard the whole night and all, I would just feel terrible if I couldn’t do you right.”
Sugarcoat shrugged and pocketed her ruined glasses. “Fine, I won’t look a gifthorse in the mouth. Just let me find my other pair of glasses and we can leave. My parents are probably about to call the cops themselves if I don’t turn up in the next hour.”
“What, in your current condition, Darling? Searching for anything could take weeks in this house! I know you can’t, but just look at what a state this house is in. Your spares, if you even brought them, could be anywhere!” I replied; she was already beginning to grate. The sooner she was out of my affairs, the sooner I could get to doing what I came here to do, namely Sunny Flare in a king-size bed.
“I’m longsighted, not shortsighted. I can look for stuff just fine as I am and I don’t want to have to impose on Sunny for another pair. It won’t take long, just a minute or two.”
So that’s how she came into ownership of a now-shattered pair of Ray-Bans. How interesting; come to think of it, I could use a new pair myself. My sewing spectacles have been getting awfully blurry lately.
“Very well, Darling. I suppose it’ll give me an excuse to enjoy my coffee anyhow. Shall I meet you at the garage, in fifteen minutes or so?”
“Sounds good,” Sugarcoat stared off into the living room. Then she paused. “Sorry for implying you were fat, by the way. I hate parties. I only came because Sunny wouldn’t stop texting me until I finally agreed to attend this stupid thing.”
“Thank you ever so much for that well-deserved apology. I could say the same thing to you,” I lied. “I suppose that accusing your mother of being a woman of the night was uncalled for as well. Don’t tell a soul, but I had quite the horrid afternoon as well, not to mention more than a single glass before coming here.”
Sugarcoat nodded and left the room. After using a terrycloth to wipe the grim from a stool, I sat back and enjoyed my drink in peace. Unlike a certain stage magician, I wasn’t feeling particularly great nor particularly powerful this morning and I was still feeling spectacularly jumpy to boot. Yes, the sooner Sugarcoat is gone, the better. If being nice to her is what it takes to keep my life intact, so be it.
Fortunately, there was a half-eaten pack of biscuits beside the kettle. Not very nice biscuits, being no-name brand hobnobs and whatnot, but better than poisoning oneself on greasy breakfast foodstuffs. I doubt the cook would be overjoyed to find them gone but I doubt that I’ll still be here by the time he’s returned from vacation. That and the carnage the rest of the house is in currently in should prove more than distraction enough.
To pass the time, I scrolled through Twilight’s phone.
Alas, there were still no games upon it.
There were, however, a number of greatly interesting exchanges in its text message folder. One detailed her brother’s complaints about his new partner – apparently, Billy is a “violent old bastard who should’ve retired after Jim Crow got repealed.” That name rang a bell for some reason, but I hesitated to wonder why it did so.
Mornings, after all, are not my forte.
I also found a back and forth between her and Cadance. Bless her soul, Twilight had actually attempted to defend me from her sister-in-law’s slanderous, albeit true, accusations. According to Twilight, I was not in fact a “deceptive bully” and a “manipulative prat” – what a relief to know she thought that highly of me.
What a tragedy to know that I was going to have to break up with her.
I best buy myself something with her credit card before that happens.
Once the allocated amount of time had passed, I took one of the napkins and scrawled with my eye pencil a brief explanation as to my whereabouts on it. Tucking that under Sunny’s now-cold plate of food, I deposited it on the porch - where I’d promised to meet her. Then I navigated around the house to find Sugarcoat already waiting by the garage, scowl on her face and precisely zero orange spectacles in hand.
“They’re gone. My guess is that some dickhead thought they’d make a good chair,” she said.
“I never,” I said, “the thoughtlessness of some people. Does it not make you weep for the future?”
“No? Because, unlike you, I gave up on trying to see the good in people a while ago, sometime after my house got broken into for the third time. Most people are idiots, Rarity. If you plan for them to screw up, you’ll be a lot less sad when they do. Then again, you’d probably cry over a chipped nail anyway, so take my advice with a pinch of salt.”
“I always do, Darling,” I said, unlocking the car – a rather charming vintage Porsche convertible. Sunny had left her keys on her nightstand and the confused moan she made when I asked to borrow them was more than enough of an invite for me to do so. I always wanted to drive this car. I imagine that it could go rather fast.
Sugarcoat rode shotgun and, to my disappointment, Sunny’s car was so vintage that it lacked a radio - an excuse to turn the dour girl’s complaining out and listen to an actually tolerable noise for the proceeding hour. Then, in between periods of whining about the devastating effects of the internet on the standard of literature, the general political state of the nation, the economy’s rising inflation rate, and other unladylike topics, Sugarcoat mentioned Fleur dis Lis.
Now, I have made it particularly clear that I am about as fond of Fleur as I would be of getting my feet pedicured by a tank of half-starved, blood-crazed piranhas. I have not, however, made clear my reasons for such antipathy. So, let me do so; they are threefold:
Firstly, Fleur did not invite me to her birthday party, all the way back in seventh grade when we shared a middle school. Now, this might seem petty and it would be on its own, but every girl who was invited attended Crystal Prep the following year. I was obliged to attend the public high school instead; with the sort of people I was beginning to make pains not to be associated with.
Secondly, she cheated me out of a modelling contract with the then-up-and-coming fashion designer, Hoity Toity. Silly name, I know, but he had been one of my idols for three years at that point and I wanted little more than to meet him and learn how, exactly how, he managed to bring skirts back in vogue with such incredible efficiency. Fleur’s mother just so happened to work in the suburb the contest was to be held in, and she worked as an anaesthetist no less! and she just so happened to drop Fleur off at the agency on her commute that day. Yesterday being Sweetie Belle’s turn to choose the takeaway fast food slop my family would order and subsequently devour in front of the football game that week, she had chosen Indian on a whim because the flier the man on the street corner handed her had pretty lettering on it. Only the next day, spending more time in the lavatory than I would like to, did I find that I have remarkably little fondness or capacity for the cuisine of the subcontinent. Fleur had taken my place in line while I was off being ill, and she now models for the man in her spare time and makes a tremendous amount of money doing so.
She has her name in magazines, damnit!
Thirdly, she bought the last Within Temptation record in the local music store one time. Petty again, I know but, as I was single back then and everyone wanted Hoity Toity’s designs that month, instead of my own, I was unable to conjure the funds to order one for myself for another term or so. Yes, I suppose I could’ve simply downloaded an online copy of Resist but Sugarcoat is right; I am an old-fashioned sort – I count value in tangible things, that I can see and touch and smell and savour, not unbecoming bits of programmed data like Sunny or Twilight does.
As such, when Sugarcoat brought up Fleur, in regards to some banal discourse on the intricacies of modern feminism; the glass elevator I do believe, whatever that is; my hands clenched themselves on the wheel and I made a valiantly but ultimately futile attempt not to grimace. Grimacing is terribly unladylike.
“… but of course, if you want to look at a contemporary example of the glass ceiling you don’t have to look far. In fact, just look at your own girlfriend, Twilight Sparkle. I know for a fact that Micro Chips can’t program a location service to save his life, Sunny told me that in IT class one day, but he still gets the contract for the precinct tracking device. Doesn’t that really annoy you? He’s a useless hack of an incompetent splatter-faced socially-inept wanker, but he gets the tender because he’s got a penis between his legs. I bet its tiny. Like, three inches, at most. With the car he drives, he must be compensating for something, and he certainly isn’t compensating for his lack of low self-esteem.”
“That’s nice,” I muttered.
“No, it literally isn’t. It's why affirmative action is not, in fact ‘ruining this country’ as your idiot father whined the last time he had a check-up,” Sugarcoat shot back.
“Ah yes, your father’s a dentist.”
“And you’re clearly smarter than you look. Anybody who could design twelve dresses from scratch in a week would have to be. Why do you keep pretending to be stupid like this? As I’ve explained, it sure isn’t actually helping you get anywhere.”
How I wish this car was a convertible - then I could disable the roof and listen to the wind’s howl over Sugarcoat’s droning.
“Darling, I’m precisely where I want to be right now,” I lied, taking the turn off to Sugarcoat’s neighbourhood, a terribly dull and classless suburb that reminds me intimately of my own.
“And where’s that? Lounging around Sunny’s house while your actual girlfriend keeps wondering why you don’t return her calls?”
It's times like this when I truly do wish Pinkie had accidentally tumbled off the roof too, during her ill-advised attempt to stop Pastel Palette jumping to her death. Alas, she did not – fall, I mean, not save the girl – and she now insists on blathering details concerning my personal life to anyone nearby. In fact, back during that Anon-a-Miss fiasco, I had good money riding on her being the culprit. Until, of course, it turned out that my own sister was. I ran Sweetie Belle’s favourite comic book through the shredder that week – well, I pretended to and merely shredded some blank paper with a photocopy of its cover taped on the front; the original, it being a first issue, I sold on Ebay for quite the attractive sum.
I bought myself a Within Temptation record with it - a signed one.
Ah, the look on Fleur’s face when I texted her a picture of it; it must’ve been positively glorious.
“Sugarcoat,” I told her, “a lady’s personal affairs are her own business.”
“Yeah, that’d work except this isn’t just you doing something like playing Poker in your free time here.”
“Of course, it isn’t. Ladies play bridge, for starters.”
“And that’s beside the point and you know it.”
Pardon my French, but damn you to Tartarus, Sugarcoat! Could you not honestly see that what I am doing isn’t hurting anyone? Besides, I was planning to break up with Twilight sooner or later; as far as I know, Sunny’s family wouldn’t care less if I accidentally slapped her for accidentally ruining my favourite skirt.
“Darling, I do believe that you are not seeing the full picture here,” I replied, trying my hardest to remain calm, just for a little while.
“Seriously, that’s your response? Obviously, I am. Sunny’s still got a crush on you. Even if you play dumb, its clear from the way she made me ask for you to keep her company. That and you’re dating Twilight. She told me herself after you asked her out. So yeah, thank you for the ride as soon as I get my phone, I’m going to tell both of them and let you sort out the mess.”
So, she did. Here I presumed Twilight possessed some sense in her skull and had gone and severed her ties with her former bullies classmates.
How bothersome.
Ladies do not like to be bothered.
As such, I halted the car and turned it around and started off in the direction of the diner where I’d stashed the stolen car. I hadn’t the faintest if it was still there or not, or if Canterlot City had dispatched a cadre of men to apprehend whoever came to investigate it, but I wasn’t thinking clearly.
Rather, I was something I prefer never to be.
I was furious.
How dare she impose herself on my life? I have never liked her but that was the final straw. A lady’s affairs are hers and hers alone, and I am not an exception to that rule. Her poking her ridiculously snub and oft looked-down nose into my relationships is deeply uncalled for and, unlike Cadance, there aren’t any well-armed policeman watching in the wings in case of any unforeseen violence.
And Sugarcoat definitely did not see it coming.
Yes, she complained about the missed turn off and how late she was going to be and how irked her parents would be with her. I simply told her that she was failing to understand the exact nature of my romances and then I informed her that monogamy was, in fact, a social construct of the heteronormative patriarchy.
That got quite a reaction out of her. Her complexion changed from plum grey to apple red and her ponytail, her usual elaborate hairstyle being seemingly impossible to tie half-blind, gained more than a few split ends. Good.
Now, I hadn’t the faintest what “a social construct of the heteronormative patriarchy” actually is; Twilight explained it to me once, but I was trying to ignore her, as I usually attempt to do whenever she starts uttering names that have nothing to do with high-society and everything to do with irrelevant philosophies. However, judging from Sugarcoat’s expression, it must’ve been quite the heinous accusation indeed.
Perhaps I ought to add it to my repertoire?
The rest of the drive from where we were to the abandoned diner was filled with an admittedly one-sided argument. Sugarcoat spouted jargon at me and I either brushed it off, threw back fictitious claims, or simply insulted her.
I know that’s a faux pas in debating – ad hominem – but, then again, if one looks at most debaters, genuinely and critically looks at them, then one would realize that, if debating their points makes one look as they are, the least-unsightly debater is obviously correct. Which I was. I hadn’t a clue as to what I was right about but by the time we stepped still bickering out of the Porsche and started over to the thankfully-undiscovered police car, the argument had served its purpose and I had won it too.
Namely as I had the last word of the whole tiff.
“I told you that there was more to my life than just wine, women, and song.” For instance, there are, from time to time and if they’re handsome and cultured enough, men in my life. There are also outfits – never forget the outfits.
Upon seeing the police car. Sugarcoat’s jaw scraped the bottom of the canyon. I considered shoving her in it.
But then I had a better idea.
I have been wanting to test that taser for ever so long now.
“How… did you get this?” she gawked.
“A lady never kisses and tells, Darling. But that’s not all.”
“Why-why how does it… is that blood on it?”
Oh dear. The poor girl’s brain has obviously and finally overheated. Come to think of it, mine may too if I spend any longer stewing in this desert. Really, who in their right mind constructs the state capital in the world’s least liveable region? Starswirl the Bearded, that’s who.
“Rarity. Why’s the trunk covered in blood?” Sugarcoat asked, turning to me, her face having gone a shade whiter than her hair.
I produced the car keys and unlocked it. Then I walked over to the trunk and placed a hand upon it. “Come and see, Darling.”
To my surprise, she actually walked over - numbly, but still - and looked.
“You didn’t kill anyone, did you?”
I opened the boot. Sugarcoat screamed. I tased her. What a sight that was. I daresay she leaped a good fifteen feet into the air, shivering and jabbering incoherently all the while. Upon landing, her jaw smacked quite soundly against the bumper of the car.
For lack of a better word, she was out. Cold. I might fault many things about Twilight, such as her fashion sense and her personality, but I cannot fault her engineering. Up went Sugarcoat into the trunk and the boot slammed shut behind her.
Let that be a lesson!
Never impose upon a lady’s private life. They do not appreciate it in the slightest and may be inclined to respond in a most unladylike way.
I put the car’s keys in the ignition and I was just about to drop a stone on the accelerator and let the vehicle go flying off the cliff when my phone rang. Actually, no. Twilight’s phone rang.
From out of her bag, I took it and flipped open the cover. To my relief, neither Shining Armor nor Cadance were attempting to telephone her. Rather, Lyra Heartstrings was.
After lighting a cigarette, I exited the car again.
I took a long draw on the menthol and my sigh of relief was audible. So was Sugarcoat’s moaning. The fifth kick I delivered to the trunk rendered it not so. Taking my third gamble of the day, I moved a short distance away, back to the Porsche, and I answered the phone.
Sound blasted me. “Twilight! Can you resurrect a horse?”
After moving the phone a safe distance away from my eardrums, I replied, “Terribly sorry, Lyra, but Twilight’s somewhat busy right now.”
“Wait, Rarity? Why do you have Twilight’s phone?”
“I’m her girlfriend, Darling.”
“Oh, yeah. Bon-Bon and I used to answer each-other’s phones too. But then she said she was getting tired of us not going anywhere! Like, where does she want to us go? I mean, we’re eighteen! Sure, we’ve been dating for, like, five years, but we started when we were, like, thirteen. I’m not getting married now. I’ve got a whole life ahead of me and it isn’t even legal in this state. I wanted to be jockey, not somebody’s wife, for fuck’s sake!”
“Lyra. Darling.”
“Oh. Sorry. I’m ranting again, aren’t I?”
“You are but I really do find it quite endearing. Besides, I suspect Twilight will be quite a while, so feel free to go on. It's ever so important to talk about such things.”
It's important because I plan to ravish you and would very much like to know the best method of doing so.
“Really?” Lyra gasped, “You wouldn’t mind?”
“Not at all, Darling. You’re my friend.” Ah, what was that term Bon-Bon used to use? “In fact, I’d count you among one of my best friends.” I said, reclining in the antique car.
“Thanks Rarity. Like, thank you so much I have been having the worst week. Mr Twinkletoes died! He’s my polo pony, by the way. My favourite one. Well, my former favourite one, I guess. I mean, I tried to talk to Fluttershy about this but no, she said that I was being too bossy? And that I was interrupting her. And that she was trying to put the kittens to sleep! Me? Bossy? Tell me I’m not, right?”
“Not at all. You’re assertive. And assertiveness is vitally important in fighting the um…. heteronormative patriarchy and all that.”
“Uh, yeah? Totally. I think. So, as I was saying…”
Sometimes, I wish I was normal.
I suspect I’ll start wishing again once I’ve figured out how I’m going to wrangle myself out this scenario now. The murder, that is, not having to listen to Lyra complain about… whatever she’s complaining about now.
“... Rares, Why’s there somebody screaming?” Lyra asked.
Pardon my French but, fuck.
“Ah. That. Twilight’s watching a movie, Lyra. Saw 2, I think.”
“Oh, that’s my favourite!” Lyra said, “but wait, didn’t you say that Twilight was, like, trying to cure anatidaephobia or something?”
“She’s multitasking, Darling. Really, she is monstrously talented. If not, well, tell not a soul, but not exactly the world’s most attentive lover.”
“Tell me about it. This one time, Bon-Bon nearly hit me because I spilled oats on her dress…”