//------------------------------// // The Werewolves Came on a Friday pt 5 // Story: Short Scraps and Explosions // by shortskirtsandexplosions //------------------------------// The Werewolves Came on a Friday a novel by Pony Riley Chapter Fifteen:  Of Love and Dancing The sound of howling wolves sounded off outside with a woeful sound.  Yori Bits trotted through the decrepit hallway of a ten story building, unaware of the noise.  Maybe she was deaf, or perhaps she was just too pretty to care.         “So many ponies are gone,” she mumbled in exposition.  Her glittering shiny immaculate aquamarine hair was tousled.  A frumpy hoodie clung to her curvaceous equine figure in all the right places, and she was sweating just to pass the time.  “I never got to close their eyes and kiss them goodbye.  It would be like giving a lullaby, only more gangrene.”         She stumbled into an abandoned ballet studio.  The mirrors along the balance bars shined moonlight all around like an inverse eggshell prism kaleidoscope.  Yori Bits heard the haunted giggles of tiny foals in leotards, only she didn’t, because they were ghost fillies.         “I was allowed to go to ballet recitals once,” Yori Bits said.  “I could never balance on two hooves the way I was asked to.  And then everypony died.”         Just then, glass shattered all across the room.  Alan Whinnie dove in through one of the mirrors, somersaulted, and shook the shards off.  “I found some friggin’ food,” he grunted, tossing her canned spinach.  “Friggin’ vending machine is running off of solar power.”         Yori Bits blinked awkwardly at that.  Her coat turned a gentle mahogany as she fumbled with her can before ultimately reaching for a baton from a nearby closet and using it to smash the thing open.  “But... How can solar panels get power from the moonlight of endless lycannight?”         “It’s all part of the friggin’ prophecy of this friggin’ generation of ours,” Alan grunted, adjusting his emerald beret and pivoting his cigarette to the opposite side of the mouth from the toothpick.  “Even the friggin’ vending machine was giving me friggin’ attitude.”  He popped a beer can open and took a sip.  “So I killed its children.”         “You are so amazingly brave, Alan Whinnie,” Yori said between spinaching.  “I can’t believe that you took out a mermathrope all on your own.”         “It burns the colon grease straight out of me that they’ve learned to friggin’ swim!” he spat.  “And here I was hoping that we’d escape the continent by friggin’ boat.”  He leered towards the shadows, twirling a shotgun as he gulped the last of his beer and flicked his cigarette.  “Not that it would have made any friggin’ difference.  With our luck, they’ll have taken over Chyneigh by now.  Yellow River ponies make the best friggin’ werewolves, on account of stocking up on gold instead of friggin’ silver.”         “You strike me as very old, Alan,” Yori throated, “Even though you are totally a hunk of delectable stallion sausage.”         “I’ve fought the Chyneigh ponies before,” he slurred, his eyes shrinking into the abysmal chasm shadows of his soul.  The ballet studio flexed around him and turned into a canvas of his waking nightmares.  “They came out of the holes like friggin’ cacti during spawning season.  Every friggin’ palm tree belonged to them.  Why not?  They’d already pissed on every bush.”  His irises shrunk even further, turning into dagger sharp machete fangs of contemplation.  “And then there was this one village, the village that was on fire.  There was a pony dancing there, in the village, the village that was on fire...”         “Why, Alan, have you read ‘The Things They Semi-Autobiographically Carried With Poetic License’ by Trot O’Brien?’”         “What the crap, kid?  Did they make a friggin’ movie out of that or what?”  By that point, Alan Whinnie’s irises had shrunk so far that they disappeared.  There was a disgusting pop sound, and his head jolted back as with sniper fire.  The explanation became apparent when his beret fell off his hat and clung to the wall without falling off.”         “Oh no!”  Yori Bits shrieked and pointed at the article, shrieking.  “Mr. Whinnie!  Your hat!  It’s a lycanthrope!”         Reflexively, the beret sprouted eight furry legs, howled, and crawled up the wall.         “I friggin’ knew it!”  Alan pulled a grenade launcher out from his armpit and took aim at the archniwolf.  “Eat forty-odd years of pent up, retired, genocidal asswhoop!”  He pulled the trigger.  “With a side order of die!”         He launched the grenade.  The explosive didn’t reach the monster, or if it did, it wasn’t very effective.  Whatever the case, the beretwolfspider was obviously not in the mood, so it scurried out of the way of the blast, crawled up the ceiling, yanked a ventilation shaft open, reached into the insulation, pulled out a long length of fiberglass, rolled it up real tight, created a pink bludgeon, leapt down off the ceiling, and slapped viciously it across Alan Whinnie’s fetlocks.         “Crud cereal!” He grunted as he fell towards the ground.  “I hate reloading!”         “Oh no!”  Yori Bits shrieked, her hoodie hanging diagonally off from her slick velvety blue shoulders in the pale gossamer moonlight of horrific night.  “I should have paid more attention when we were fighting the werewolfipede in the Equestrian Hat Repository!”         “Get with the friggin’ program!” Alan Whinnie shouted.  Before he could ready his grenade launcher, the beretspidercanine leapt atop him.  Alan struggled, wrestling against the thing’s drooling fangs and mandibles with his bare hooves.  “Graaaaaaaarrauuuugggghuuuuuraaaah!”         “If only there was a divine spirit of intervention that would respond to my desperate cue!” Yori Bits murmured.         Just then, quite divinely, the sound of creepy piano music wafted through the abandoned ballet studio.  It sounded like it was being performed under water; that’s why it was creepy.  However, the ghosts that appeared were not under water.  They were in the dance studio, and they were foals, and smoke was coming out of their black eyes that matched the color of their leotards.  Also it was still Friday.         “We have sensed the Werewolfing with our heavenly granted lycantennae.  As part of the prophecy, we must intervene upon the Chosen Filly of Beautiful Destiny.”         “Oh my stars!” Yori cooed.  “They are ghost ballet fillies, bound to the quest of fighting canine evil out of their immeasurable love of the dance!”         “Graaaaalluugaaaaaagaaa!” Alan replied with his legs full of spider.         “Please!”  Yori pointed and pleaded and sobbed and smiled.  “Save them with your love!”         “We are enamored!”  And the ghost foals joined hooves and slippers and more or less... rotated towards the monster in a blurred fashion.  “Buhhhhh!”         The fillies’ soft, pink, translucent bodies ripped through the abdomen of the spiderhat like a satin buzz saw.  It wasn’t until its legs started to melt that it realized it was being lacerated.  So, to cover all bases, it exploded.         “Fraaaaaarrauuulluuuugh!”  Alan Whinnie shouted as the blast wave blew a hole in the wall and sent him and the two ghost ballet fillies sailing into the grimy street full of werewolves below.  “Graaaaaaaugh--Meet me in the friggin’ arcade on the far end of town!”         “Alan Whinnie, wait!” Yori shrieked, reaching out towards him with a shivering hoof.  She paused, blinked, and stammered, “I’m the Chosen Filly?”         And then Alan hit concrete.