Marigold Blueblood blinked her ruby-flooded gaze and smiled like a pumpkin damn near split open on Nightmare Night.
“Oh my,” she cooed. “How lovely my new toy is!”
The teenager itched with the urge to slip a frolic into her step, but the skirt she wore today was rather stiff, and she did not want to risk tearing another. Seamstresses were nothing but slavers with the rates they charged, entirely undeserving of what they charged on a service deserved by all. Many were also uppity unicorns or earth ponies managing ludicrously fancy sewing machines that they insisted needed this upkeep and that, daring to treat Marigold Blueblood as if she were not a fellow earth pony, but instead a mere customer. Those were traitors to the earth pony cause if there ever were any. Despite all the power she had received from her dear artifact, the delicacy needed for sewing was still something quite beyond her capabilities.
Marigold pawed at the hard lump under her shawl, letting the horn-less aura from it flare briefly and tugged at her stiff, hock-length skirt. The ruffled edge of the underskirt poking out looked too bright and starched in the coming dusk. Gaudiness attracted Marigold like a fly was drawn to sugar water, but tonight she wanted just a smidge of secrecy.
Marigold’s brow furrowed as if in pain. She squeezed her eyes shut to hide the light and focus on the throbbing ache that drummed in her skull as she demanded magic do its work. A plain black rain cloak rested over her golden attire, half-translucent with the suddenness of the conjuration and never solidifying entirely due to Marigold’s weak newness to the art. By the gods so rotten, she was still such an amateur. No matter how fantastical her precious artifact was, she still was on shaky leaps and bounds. It still covered all of her perfect ensembles and gave her shaky telekinesis a place to conceal her weapon. The paleness she suffered from after her feat was well-hidden by the dark accessory, as was Marigold’s disgust when she felt the heel of her glamorous laced-up boot squelched into something dreadful.
Hissing through gritted teeth, she jammed her pistol into her saddlebags harshly, her magic losing the peculiar sense of the inner mechanics of the strange contraption, fading from the bizarre way where they traced themselves under her skull. Lately, any time she grabbed at something with magic, the unthought-of complexities of the process produced such an effect and buzzed in her skull differently each time she gripped something. This caused some bizarre sixth sense, one adjacent to touch to create the queerest series of pressure, as though something was worming around in her brain. Was this how unicorn filth felt? Did they get the sensation that there was something picking at their brains and working with them to make their magic happen?
Lifting up her hoof, Marigold could see that what was stuck to the sole of her hoof might have excrement mixed in with it, at least judging by the foul order. Equine excrement. There was also the noxious scent of something that smelled suspiciously like what the older fillies who loitered too much in the bathroom liked to sip out of the stupidest looking jug when they thought Marigold had left. She couldn't hide her gag.
What could she really expect in this part of town? There were efforts to keep all of Manehattan clean, from rottenness and rotten ponies alike, but parts of the city were not patrolled by Celestia’s gold-clad army as much as they should have been. Bad routes and other mortal failings gave way to pockets of corruption and isolation so perfect for one Miss Marigold Blueblood.
Thick, dirty windows always had the curtains drawn in this part of town. Those who had such windows would place large furniture in front of them and stuff gaps with rags to block out the sound. Boards were often hammered carelessly to the interior sides as well, and it was always junk wood or some horribly smelly driftwood pulled from the bay harbor surrounding Manehattan Island — though, that was less common since the harbors were not crawling with any criminals except the odd smuggler. Marigold knew that the Royal Guard always patrolled the docks carefully and that the only kind of whores that lurked there were the ones that would be arrested quickly or the kind that their water-logged remains pulled out of the sea.
Trash was piled high and overflowing from the bins it was carelessly stuffed in, each barrel more terrible in its stench than the last. The shadow of the Liberty Mare was far from here, and rightfully so. No liberty dwelt here, only perversions and the ponies who fell to them. To Marigold Blueblood, it was exactly what she needed, and she happily quickened her step to a canter.
These ugly streets with apartment blocks that bleed and lumped into one another instead of merely being a wall-to-wall sprawl held the perfect ponies for her plans. There were no scrubbed bricks, balconies, businesses, or neighbors here. Center Park was distant and unheard of among the small-minded, secluded residents. Those that snagged spaces in these half-abandoned flats were transient and without community. The nearest schools were beyond blocks away, but they had to be because Princess Celestia declared it so. When the sun peeked over this particular web of streets and alleys, they would be empty and the rich rolling hills of the Continent would go unseen; only the shadows of despairing apartment rises would be cast upon this space.
Marigold approached one such building, marveling at the scent of wet plaster that spilled out. The building itself seemed to creak as she rapped her hoof on the door.
No response. Marigold let out a hissing breath through her teeth. Impatience was making her blood run hot.
She knocked again, and the sound of hooves stomping came from inside. Rusted chains rattled and the door was pulled, then slammed again. A wheezing voice cursed from inside. More chains rattled and the sound of fumbling hooves followed. Eventually, Marigold caught sight of a leg through a crack, and the door was pulled open.
The sight of a mare once-healthy greeted her. Purple eyeshadow was applied thicker than paste to blend in with recent bruising around her eyes. She made a face that Marigold learned was called a prostitute's smile: yellowed teeth, thin unnaturally black spots on the gums, a few brown molars peeking through, and the stench of gods-knew-what escaping her mouth like a miasma.
Once, on a trip to a boardwalk with her mother, Marigold had found a dead fish that had been dropped by a gull or some other sea-bird. The heat had ensured the sun-bleached, half-rotted beast smelled as terrible as possible. That fish still wasn't nearly as awful as the odor of this mare.
The sleeves of her dress were ragged and showed rings of rope burn around her legs. The bruises on her throat peeked out from the high collar of her dress. Once, its expensive and fashionable state would have been obvious. Now, it had fallen into a state of skimpy alterations and ruined which made it unwearable in public.
The mare angled herself so she blocked the door horizontally. Weird blackish wounds stretched across her legs, clearly some kind of infection from the excessive chafing of her ridiculous fishnets. Even though her cheeks were thin under the incorrectly colored makeup palette dumped on her scabby face, her hindquarters looked swollen with ugly red marks. They peeked out from beneath the crisscross of her cheap, ugly fishnets.
Marigold felt a fidgety feeling making her forehooves itch.
All in all, she was fairly healthy as far as most mares and stallions in her criminal field. The distinct signs of other illnesses appeared to be absent from her.
Her dull, glassy eyes looked over Marigold, visibly confused.
“'ow old ye?” she hissed, voice thin with what was left of the youth her appearance lacked.
“Fourteen,” Marigold answered honestly, sweetly. “But that rarely matters to a whore like you, does it?”
The nameless mare narrowed her eyes. And really, they were all nameless. If the pony was not a lone participator in self-exploitation, as the law dubbed that branch of crimes, they would be nothing more than the nameless chattel under a pimp or madam running their own multi-pony criminal establishment. That was what all the library's criminal history books said, as well as the word on the street that Marigold had picked up.
It was only those chattel sorts that might carry a name. But for a pony like this? A mare disconnected from any family for years, without a lover, who slaps a vulgar name on herself to make up for being a worthless grown blankflank and sells herself, desperate for any bits as and caught up in a horrible cycle of letting anypony who buys her do anything to her? She was utterly nameless. A cog in a pattern that only Marigold and any who committed the crime of purchasing a pony knew. Nopony had to know what she might have really been called, or the little innuendo she gave herself. They just had to pay her by the hour and take the risk she would not be as sick as another mare or stallion that might be in the same building, or caught up in the identical cycle of self-destruction.
She would not do anything if her buyer beat her too bad, or had their vicious way with her, not as long as she had the bits in the end. Both of them were familiar with the sides of the crime they participated in. It was not like this mare could run to the Royal Guard without being held on charges of her own — that was a shred of leverage Marigold absolutely treasured. Yes, they would lock any buyers up if they were successfully caught and tried for such a thing. None of that changed that this whore-mare would have to pay in time with a side trial of her own, for there was no immunity from certain severe kinds of offense… and her regular, sexual offense aside, statutory rape cost any creature their head. Why did any of that matter? Because it gave Marigold her much-craved power; because the thought of mutual sabotage was just that tantalizing.
“Ye bet'er 'ave bits!” demanded the mare with as much force as a whore like her could have. When what stood over Marigold looked like she was three steps away from being a skeleton, that wasn't much.
“Oh, I do,” Marigold whispered, tugging her shawl under her cloak to ward off the night’s chill. “One might ask how old you are as well. Come on, tell me. Does anypony ever ask?”
“'ourse naw,” scoffed the mare, “they pay and be done. I ‘m nin’een, t'ough.” She was too dumb to lie, really, and the obviousness of that was painfully clear. Most were like that, or so Marigold had learned. Even at her ripe old age — if whores had a ripe old age — gathered a few years of experience.
When Marigold slipped a hoof under her cloak, she flipped it over and showed off the coin purses spilling bits upon bits inside. “I think I have more than enough.”
When the whore caught a peek of the shine of bits in the dark, her expression went into a limp, drooling, sort of dullard's bliss. “Y-Ye d-o.”
Marigold wanted to smirk; this was always what got them. Bits overrode dignity, paving the path to whatever villainy Marigold wished.
“How much for three hours?”
“Ye ken 'ave t'ree days wi' bits 'ike 'at.” Only the most psychotic of buyers would try to spend three days straight with their purchase.
“No. Three hours.” Marigold fixed the whore with a cruel stare until the malnourished mare was quavering. “Nothing more. I am the buyer, am I not?”
“Ye be buyin’, missy,” whimpered the whore. “Bits get ye whae’er ye wan's.”
“Of course it does,” Marigold said breathily, her tone filled with the floaty, unaggressive girlishness nopony would ever think to question. After all, there was no such thing as one of these kinds with standards; they could not make money unless they let buyers do whatever they wanted. Ponies wouldn't risk their dignity to be branded a sex offender by touching such filth as her unless there were an absolute condition to solidify their allure. “Now, I think it is best I actually get what I aim to pay for, yes?”
The prostitute lowered her ears in surrender, taking a hoof and patting her gelled-solid streaks that passed for an imitation of curls. The strands that strayed from that encasement were frizzy from telltale abuse of cheap dyes. Such was a habit rarely done by ponies outside of costumes and parties, but mares and stallions like the mare before Marigold would get cheap stuff for their manes and coats to hide their true identity. It was just another way to ruin themselves. All the packages said that drug store and over the sink dyes were harmful in excess... and to have ponies who were stupid enough to re-apply it weekly were going far, far beyond whatever the dye creators had in mind.
Marigold followed her inside, paying half a mind to how the door was locked for when she alone would need it later. Her pistol was a pleasant weight in the saddlebag opposite of her coins. She watched the whore hobble up the stairs; the distinct quality to her limp only meant one thing: certain mares of her crime were known to acquire that gait when they fell to a certain condition — and were able to survive without dying from the final struggle with the ‘consequence’ alone, eleven months later. That was, of course, provided they had not managed a homemade attempt at termination — one that they also had to survive, of course. That came with its own complications too, and Marigold had saved the newspaper clippings that told of the horror stories: unsuspecting landlords and neighbors following a scent to its ghastly source.
Marigold could only give her sweetest smile, letting her roving eyes devour the sign of obvious weakness. Even if she was too good for these dusty, narrow hallways that tilted down at her with their narrowness, there was a chance that she might be rewarded doubly tonight. If the owners only knew the horrors that went on in the homes they struggled to keep well — the newspaper headlines only made it so much more obvious that the up and coming landlords who got stuck with these places had no idea that they rented to bottom of the barrel ponies. Those that did know would later have to face criminal charges for facilitating sexual offenders.
The sound of ponies in pain all accompanied by the occasional thud reached the filly’s ears. She suspected that a few of the higher sounds might be sobs, and there was a chance they could belong to somepony her age or younger. But Marigold's reading and dealings told her that was no surprise. What did spark her curiosity was that this apartment was probably a brothel-by-night and the first she had come across. Marigold knew what it sounded like to strike a pony as hard as possible through the thin walls of these places by now. She was not the kind of filly to cringe from the degrading language or sounds of violence she heard. In fact, it put a skip in her trot as she bounded up the stairs.
Her imagination swirled with the thought of what this wretched building might pass as during the daytime. Was it just another dour low-rent bloc the Royal Guard had yet to haul evil out of? Or perhaps something more sinister? Was the landlord — or lady, Marigold suspected either worked — somepony who came by often or even endorsed the depravity that happened behind these doors as soon as the sun sank below the horizon?
Eventually, Marigold and the whore came to a weathered wooden door that had known better days, but was otherwise quite sturdy once one saw past the weathered face. Two battered bronze numbers reading ‘75’ could no longer shine, even if all the drifting clouds of dust had let them.
The whore was wheezing from the climb alone. Her thin hooves clumsily fumbled with her key a dozen times before she managed to use her disgusting mouth to twist the cold, heavy iron. Then she drove her wither hard into the wood to budge it open, wincing with pain from the impact. Marigold figured that she probably had at least some splinters stuck in her skin beneath the torn dress she wore.
Marigold made no effort to hide the noise she made or how she sucked in one big breath to prepare for the smell. Her cheeks pushed out, the sparkling freckles she painted on her face moved with her, like gaudy constellations. After making sure her boots would be safe from more damage, she stepped inside, following her whore.
[This edition of the Manehattan Times appeared in 8XX of the Solar Millenium, during the early murders of the Manehattan Blood Mage. It can be found at many locations including the Times archives, Manehattan public libraries, and the Canterlot Archives. The subject matter of sexual offenses and violence meant that this content could not make the front page. Princess Celestia had decreed during the dawn of newspapers that ponies were to be faced with the good news first and that displaying material that was disturbing, sexual, or violent in public was a crime almost as severe as knowingly giving a minor explicit content.]
BORDELLO BANISHED! GHASTLY DOUBLE MURDER UNCOVERED! FOALS RESCUED!
by Front Feature
Two days ago, a series of ghastly discoveries were made in an apartment bloc bordering Tartarus’ Kitchen and Fjordham. An anonymous mail-stallion was delivering packages in the neighborhood when he noticed a most horrendous smell coming from one of the seventh-story windows as he was dropping a package off at a fourth-story balcony. The window was reportedly open and he flew inside. The stallion told Times staff that he wished to ensure that the resident was safe from any noxious chemical spills that may have happened and that he had ‘never smelled anything so sun-forsaken before’ in my interview with him.
I had asked him what made him so eager to do such a thing.
“Back in my hometown of [REDACTED],” he explained, “neighbors check up on each other. The community cares. It is just something you do. Goodness knows that it is something Princess Celestia would want us all to do too. I know that Fjordham has a problem with self-exploitation and it only felt right to make sure nopony had been hurt by some gods-forsaken whores.”
I nodded at the time, asking him to describe his findings as tactfully as possible.
“Sweet Celestia, I have never seen anything so ghastly!” he told me, having wiped his eyes of tears again. “They were like rags and moldy food just left to rot! Birds and other critters had gotten in and done a number on them. Nopony forgets a sight like that! Oh, the blood! All the blood! I was ready to faint, for I saw they had no eyes! The birds took them!”
He explains to me between tears that he felt himself snap after the sight, flying around the neighborhood until he found a Royal Guard. The guard, whose identity shall not be disclosed, said the pegasus approaching them was ‘hysterical and terrified’ and went on to add ‘like all of Tartarus was after him’.
It does appear that Tartarus was closer than they thought. As soon as the Royal Guard arrived at the scene, the answer to why such heinous violence went unreported became obvious. The following apartment complex located at West Sunburst Way and Fifth-On-Sunrise. Royal Guard had to enter by force and determined that the bodies had been there for over forty-eight hours. When the guards knocked upon the doors of neighbors, they discovered a greater horror: the building was being abused as a brothel to facilitate self-exploitation.
The information released so far has at least seventeen confirmed prostitutes that have now been brought under the Royal Guard’s custody for property crimes, health violations, illegal acquisition of rental services, self-exploitation, violating antisocial laws, and more. All of them are mares. According to the Times’ legal consultant, each prostitute is facing up to forty years in prison as a minimum, with all possible pleas and parole revoked due to the severity of self-exploitation. Those that have any potential to ever be released one day will have all their records made public and be forced to register as sex offenders, as well as the mandatory sterilization for such despicable criminals at the Gelding Grotto facilities in accordance with the Equestrian Law on the Regulation and Management with Sapient Monsters and international agreements on how to punish sexual offenders. A further article will be published when that step in the case is reached.
During the bust, at least three foals were rescued. They are safe in Royal Guard custody, but far from healthy. Each is older than the estimated age of the deceased, unidentified foal found slain in the seventh-floor apartment. The oldest is estimated to be around four years old. I was unable to secure an interview directly with her. Instead, I was able to speak with a pediatrician who has been evaluating the filly and gave the following information:
- She is an unregistered foal, born to one of the wicked mares captured in the bust.
- She has yet to be able to eat solid foods. She is highly malnourished.
- Her speech capabilities are minimal and mostly manifest as crying, whimpering, or repeating the vulgarities she was addressed with by her excuse for a mother.
- The filly was indeed sold out by the mother.
- One of her legs will need to be amputated due to how she was kept.
- Her eyesight is poor due to being found restrained in a closet.
- Her dental decay is pronounced.
- Among the few things she knows how to say is making a curious booming noise that is always followed by a shriek.
- She is reported to have had surgery to correct scars around her neck left by a pet collar.
- The respiratory issues from said collar could be corrected with further surgery as she gets older.
- The hope for her ever being able to read is slim.
The filly currently resides in an unspecified foal’s hospital in the Bucklyn Bay Area. She is not receiving visitors that are not professionals. To find out how you can donate to this young filly and other foals in need of charity because of the horror of self-exploitation, please turn to page 14 in the third panel.
One of the other foals rescued is an infant colt. There is evidence showing that he has severe cranial and brain damage from where the monstrous prostitute keeping him tried to damage his horn. The injury is consistent with if the baby was dropped many times or had his head slammed upon something. The doctors attending to him have pronounced it unlikely he will ever be able to even perform telekinesis due to his chipped, deformed horn. His dental records are consistent with a pony who has had access to dentistry and his physical condition is reportedly suggestive that he may have been foalnapped by the vicious pervert whose clutches he was found in. The Royal Guard will be accepting any and all tips related to missing and abducted foals.
The last foal is another colt whose condition, while atrocious, is less severe than the other two. The wings of the young pegasus were tied together, permanently disfiguring them. This colt has been described as only a few weeks old and bears the same signs of malnutrition on the filly. While there is no evidence he was sold, there is extensive bruising across the body that indicate severe physical abuse and starvation were presented. The doctors responsible for this little one also confirmed that he is also unregistered and the monster who birthed him confessed to plans of future trafficking.
If convicted, she and the others responsible for the torture and violation of these foals will be facing charges for foal abuse, neglect, foal trafficking, attempting to retain a minor as a sex offender, and enough to ensure that on top of self-exploitation they will find themselves in one place. That place is kneeling at the hooves of Her Royal Highness, the Morning Star, Princess Celestia with an execution hood on each of their heads. The Manehattan Times have already been flooded with many letters containing prayers for the death of these monsters and that justice is served for the damage they have done to Manehattan and their young victims.
All the bits seized from the complex will be evaluated to see if any evidence can point the Royal Guard in the direction of the villains who purchased these ponies so that they may be brought into guard custody too. Once they have been sufficiently analyzed, the bits will be used to pay for the destruction of the apartment complex and fund rebuilding it. Please turn to page 15 to find out how you can donate to help rebuild this community into one safe from self-exploitation with homes for all Princess Celestia’s law-abiding subjects. The landlord is currently under investigation and the guard has currently not released word on whether they have played any part in the evil deeds done within the walls of their property.
The only word that the Times has been able to learn about the double-slaying is that the adult murdered was involved in self-exploitation. The murdered colt was her offspring and victim. Royal Guards has currently released the statement that the scene was indicative of a brief struggle. Reddish crystals found at the scene suggest ties to other recent Manehattan slayings, though no confirmation exists yet. All bits exchanged were taken, and so far the Royal Guards are only willing to release that it is likely the slaying was motivated by perverse lusts and robbery.
The Royal Guard has urged all law-abiding ponies of Manehattan to follow these cases as closely as possible. While the reports from the autopsy of the two slain are not yet finished, there is much a pony can do to halt the spread of self-exploitation. Please turn to page 16 to find out ways to identify a possible prostitute, where to donate, your local Mares Against Monsters chapters, and all the ways to turn in sexual offenders and prevent them from thriving within your community. Mayor-Stallion Fair Heart has decreed that the request for higher deployment from the most gracious Princess Celestia has been accepted. New troops will begin patrolling the streets of all neighborhoods that have been having higher rates of self-exploitation shortly.
[Excerpts from the original notes of coroner Ebony Henbane of the Morgue of the City of Manehattan and Fort Barnacle to aid in the investigation of a string of serial murders spanning two and a half years, made to be used by the Royal Guard with the official autopsies of the victims. Taken in the year 8XX of the Solar Millennium. All notes were used in the investigation of the Blood Mage of Manehattan. At the time, only three other murders were known. The following victims have no known identity, even in the present day and are referred to with the format given to all unknown victims following the pattern established after the slaying of another one of the Blood Mage's victims later on...]
Blood Mage Jane Doe #4
The first victim is an adult mare recovered from an apartment complex in Tartarus' Kitchen, along with the second victim's corpse. The adult female is believed to have been anywhere from sixteen to twenty-five years of age. She has no evidence of any sex-altering treatments or surgeries. She was an earth pony with no marks suggesting strong magical capabilities in life.
Severe decay in her tooth and gums meant she was unlikely to be able to speak without a severe speech problem. Her windpipe was damaged long before death from repeated abuse. While recent bruises were evident, her autopsy revealed her windpipe and many veins under jaw were damaged from abuse suffered in life. The mare would not have been able to breathe properly, and any who knew her would likely describe her as having asthma-like problems. Substantial internal damage was untreated, as were the rest of the mare's health problems, and the majority of damage to her throat and neck area were done through repeated attempts at choking with either hooves or foreign objects. The same bruises continued onto much of her back area.
Severe rope burn marred every one of the mare's legs and lower neck. The wounds were left untreated and reopened repeatedly from a period of at least two months prior to the mare's death. Other exterior signs of injury included various bald patches and whole-body skin infections from excessive chafing...
...obvious malnutrition left the mare close to skeletal... when weighed... scored a '1' on the Body Condition Scoring Scale, though all emaciation was noticeable.
...thighs, hips, and hindquarters were almost flayed from abuse in areas. Repeated scar tissue was mutilated in life and left incapable of healing. Numerous splinters were located beneath torn areas and scars made with an illegal item (likely a crop). Everything else was gored postmortem, providing very little details due to the condition of the body...
... the second victim is a positive match as an offspring to this victim using all available methods we have at hoof.
...repeated trauma suffered from a home birth and general carelessness and mistreatment would have left the mare with a strong limp. Unfortunately, 'mother' is too generous a term for what is very evidently a whore. I rule her cause of death is from the same kind of magical crystal lodged in her head. Unlike the first mare with these found in her, this was a relatively easy death compared to the unknown mare in Bali-Shet.
This mare could barely eat and was restrained before death. Whoever killed her was trusted enough (a term used lightly in the case of these wicked criminals) that they were let in and were able to pay. A unicorn buyer is the most likely due to the crystal and involvement of a foreign weapon not able to be determined as wing blades, anything hoof-held, or...
Though damaged by repeated use of poor products, the mare's coat color appeared to be a dark pink.
With all her conditions taken into consideration and the circumstances of her death, I believe that this mare was slain by a buyer who used her frequently. One of the severe illnesses of this mare was likely spread to her buyer, who took out their hateful nature on her when they learned of their condition.
Blood Mage Colt Doe #1
I care little that the murder of these two ponies led to that terrible apartment block being condemned. The arrests of so many terrible ponies in those walls mean little when I have to prepare what is left of a dead colt who never got to see his second birthday.
He barely had a head left, and what was left was still enough to tell me she sold him too. Gods. May his whore of a parent burn in Tartarus for her evils and the one who killed him join her. Elysium, take this little scrap to Paradise; I think I shall be ill if I note anything on this poor babe much longer.
His cause of death was identical to his parent's. The crystal was found. There was not much left to inflict post-mortem damage on.