REGARDING PUDDING CUPS
Months onto the job, I was fairly certain everyone in Canterlot hated me. It was obvious, really. They’d pass by my desk and look in any direction besides my workstation. If they needed assistance in finding a certain wing in the large palace, most would choose to get lost rather than bother to share a word with me.
Not that I was complaining. It was nice. Obviously, it was. At least they weren’t fawning for my attention like all those foolish simpletons that attempted to chat me up to look good in the eyes of Celestia.
So what does this negative diatribe have to do with pudding cups, exactly?
I consider myself the absolute worst and nastiest villain in Equestrian history—past, present, and future. They truly believe I can be changed? Brought to the side of good and bask in the warm and toasty rays of friendship? Never going to happen, I’m afraid. The series of events leading to such a miraculous deviation from the norm would need to occur over a series of months and have several serious character revelations alongside humorous misunderstandings.
I couldn’t see it happening.
Or perhaps a brick would fall atop my head and I’d spend the rest of my days strapped to a chair, drooling out the mouth. Celestia could place me at the entrance of the castle and every time someone entered, I could shout, “Will you be my friend?” and I highly doubt I’d ever be denied. In a matter of days I would have more friends than even Twilight Sparkle herself. Princess of Friendship, indeed.
I’d always wondered what would have happened if a seventh friend tried to join their little ragtag group. “What’s that, Twilight? You brought another friend with you? Well, how ‘bout she sits in the corner for a while and doesn’t say anything. Afraid there’s already one too many friends here.”
So what does this diatribe have to do with pudding cups?
I am a villain of the highest caliber, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy the simple taste of confectionary sweets. From noon until one, I’m allowed in the castle cafeteria along with the rest of the staff and guards. Bolt sits next to me and everyone else in the room silently ignores my existence. Here’s a quick rundown of the weekly specials:
Monday: cold vegetable.
Tuesday: cold vegetable.
Wednesday: warm vegetable.
Thursday: warm starch.
Friday: four-pounds of hay fries with ketchup. (It’s a miracle anyone stays awake after lunch on most Fridays with this amount of heavy starch.)
Each day I’m served the same variation of vegetables and each day I grimace and chew and request bacon along with my lackluster meal. The cooks behind the sneeze-guard laugh each time and I growl in that way that used to be threatening, but I suspect had become little more than background noise.
Most of my meal is substandard and nowhere near fit for a King. But my dessert is an entirely different matter. My pudding cup.
Everyday I carefully peel off its plastic top and take my time licking off the excess of gooey dessert that sticks to the lid. The sight must have been utterly bizarre—a full grown, black stallion closing his eyes and sensually licking his food—but, honestly, my dark image had been damaged beyond repair a long time ago.
“You want mine?” asked Bolt, holding this pudding cup out to me.
Before he had a chance to realize his stupendous mistake, I snatched it from his hooves and devoured the tasty treat as fast as my clumsy hooves could manage. It’s times like those that I was tempted to use the small amount of magic I had left. I would, but writing in this holds precedence over all, and even the slight movements of a quill over an hour is enough to drain me dry.
When I rule over them again, it will be from this book that I will read; each horrible and deplorable thing they did to me and made me do. I doubt many will laugh when I read to them from this journal—every page and every sentence, every injustice done to my character.
Let it be known that my life is no laughing matter.
After finishing Bolt’s offered pudding cup, I stared back at him, muzzle coated with dessert and tongue anxiously searching for what remained. I tipped my head in the slightest of nods and said, “Thank you, Bolt,” in something close to a whisper. I didn’t realize what I was saying until it popped out.
For the longest time, Bolt looked at me as if I’d just cursed each one of his family members. (Which I had done by that point. Repeatedly.) His cheeks flushed red and he glanced around, curious if anyone else had heard those few choice words exit my nefarious lips.
It seemed none had. Yet that didn’t stop the events that followed.
“Here you go, Sombra. Another pudding cup.”
I was sitting and writing at my desk, when a unicorn guard slid a sealed dessert over to me. If it was a trap, I didn’t care. I took it and placed it to my side for careful consumption later. As long as it meant more pudding, I’d bear whatever ramifications.
I went back to my journal.
The unicorn remained in front of my desk.
“You, uh…” he started. “You going to say something now?”
Keeping my head lowered, I glared at him, filling the green and red of my eyes with a pulsing light that was merely for show. It was about the limits of my squashed magical abilities.
The unicorn swallowed dryly and fidgeted.
I told him thickly, “Thank you, guard, for the pudding cup.”
In an instant he relaxed and waved a hoof in the air. “Oh, it was nothing. We’ve all been eating the same crap for years, so most of the guards are pretty sick of them, tell you the truth.”
He waited for a reply. It never came.
Eventually, he left, and before departing from the castle’s foyer, he stopped and spoke with another guard strolling around the castle. One hoof in my direction told me I might have made a mistake in my overabundance of nicety.
Nice Sombra. I didn’t like the sound of it.
REGARDING BEAUTIFUL, TASTY TEARS
On one of my neverending night shifts, two guards scooted a small wheelbarrow to the side of my desk. Inside must have been close to a hundred chocolate pudding cups, all eagerly waiting to be opened and given a tour of my gut.
I sucked back the newfound saliva in my mouth. “What’s this?”
It was the unicorn guard from before. “This is for you, Sombra.”
I started to leave my seat to begin the feast, but realized there had to be a second half to all this. I rolled my eyes. “Why is this for me?”
The Earth pony that had accompanied the unicorn leaned across my desk. He clearly had no issues with personal space, and that mine was paramount over everyone else’s.
He whispered to me, “We want you to do something for us. All that pudding? That’s what most of the guards have been saving up for the last couple of days. And it’s all yours, Sombra, as long as you do a little favor for us.”
I was tempted to lunge forward and chew his smarmy muzzle off. It wouldn’t taste as good as a hundred and one pudding cups, but I thought the sight alone might be worth the loss. What stopped me was the fact that they wanted me for a job; meaning that none of them had the gall to do it themselves… or simply weren’t allowed to. I must admit I was curious.
I also had absolutely nothing better to do.
I pursed my lips. “What kind of favor? You must know I carry no magic or strength at all anymore. It was robbed from me by your ruler and her like-minded alicorn cronies.”
He grinned. “We know that. And all we’re asking is for you to read something to someone. A very special someone. He visits often and I’m pretty sure you’ve met him by now. If you’d served on the guard for as long as I have, you might even despise him as much as the rest of the staff here. All we want is a message delivered. A rather long one. Only words.”
I thought for a moment. “Painful words?”
His smile widened. “Very.”
I shoved my journal aside. “You had me at pudding cup.”
The next day, the trap was set. One of the guards took my place at the desk and I was escorted up the stairs and to a wing of the castle I had only been to once before. The Earth pony pointed in the direction of a single door by the end of the hall and I went to it, hobbling due to the lengthy scroll tucked under one leg.
When I got to the door, I turned and found the hallway behind me empty. I could sense several guards hiding around the corners.
Through the door, I heard someone yawn and rise out of bed. A minute later, the door opened and someone I scarcely remembered strolled out. I had to glance at my long note to make sure of the name.
“Prince Blueblood?” I asked.
Below his carefully styled mane, his eyes narrowed. “Yes?”
I glanced at my note again, pondering what to say first.
Blueblood put a hoof to his chin. “Aren’t you my aunt’s little pet project or something? That pony at the desk? Somber Stallion?”
I grinned at him, complete with fangs. He was making this a lot easier than it should have been. “Sombra, if you’d be so kind. And I’m only here until I escape or find a way to rip your auntie’s throat open. After that, perhaps I’ll carve my name into your forehead. That way, it couldn’t possibly slip your mind again.”
Blueblood yawned. “I didn’t really catch any of that. You started talking and I immediately started thinking about lunch. Could you get out of my way now?”
He made to walk past me, but I stepped in front of him. When he tried to do the same in the other direction, I followed, causing him to huff out angrily.
“Will you move, you idiot?” he blurted, cheeks flushed.
I smiled again. “Oh, I’m sorry. How clumsy of me. How’s this?”
I took a step towards him, making him take a step back. After a second step, his rump collided with the door behind him.
I asked pleasantly, “You’re not scared of me, are you?”
He couldn’t meet my eyes. “No. Why would I be? You’re nothing but a leech on this castle, and if it was up to me, I’d throw you out on your plot the moment I could. You’re only lucky my aunt’s such a wonderful—”
I put my hoof to his lips. “Shh. Shh. You’ve said plenty. Only now do I understand just why I’m about to do what I’m about to do. And my, oh, my do you deserve it. I won’t sugarcoat it, my prince. It’s going to hurt. Very much so.”
His eyes widened and his chin quivered. “What are you going to do?”
My shadow crossed over his face. “I’m going to destroy you, fully and completely, using a string of words.”
I lifted my scroll and let the end patter to the floor.
“Let’s begin. Did you know not a single guard likes you? Not even in the slightest? And when I say ‘single guard,’ that’s not merely a figure of speech. They took a survey. It took hours. And the vote came back that nobody likes you. Not even the night guards. How’s that even possible? You don’t even see them. What in Tartarus did you do to them?”
He replied stubbornly, “I don’t care! They work for my aunt so in turn they work for me. If they want to whisper behind my back, then that just shows how petty they are. Their words don’t mean a single thing to me.”
I leaned in, finally smelling the faint aroma of fear. “But their words do, my prince. I know they do.” I went back to the list. “Next: your mane. It’s silly and it’s dyed that color. Your natural color actually is—”
“You shut your mouth, you peasant!”
I looked at him. “I thought you didn’t care about the opinions of others?”
He hesitated. “I don’t. But that doesn’t mean I want to waste my time hearing—”
I pressed on. “It’s also well known that the one mare you’ve fallen for thinks you’re a complete fool.”
His chin quivered. “It’s her loss!”
“To date, you’ve written her twenty letters, four poems, two short stories, and a single drawing you threw into the trash after completion.”
“How can you possibly know all that?
I rolled my eyes. “I told you everyone hates you. That includes those ‘peasants’ that throw out your trash.”
“I’ll have them all fired!” he shouted.
I went back to the list. “Let’s see what happened when you tried asking her for a date, shall we? Was that the time you borrowed the castle band to play outside her window?”
“Say no more! Please!”
Already tears were forming in his eyes.
I scowled at him. “But we’ve only just begun.”
Twenty minutes later, I no longer viewed a fully grown stallion, but something akin to a leaking pipe. Half-way through the guards’ lengthy list, Blueblood collapsed to the ground and rocked himself back and forth, shaking his head as each new grizzly detail was fed to him.
When the list ran dry, I tossed it behind me, and for close to a minute I soaked up my masterpiece; the complete breakdown of a creature only using the power of words. It was overwhelmingly beautiful. I wished the sight could last forever.
I knelt to the floor and wrapped my legs around him. He was making me feel so evil; I felt I owed him a little.
I whispered into his ear, “You might think this is the part when I tell you everything I said was made up and that I’m sorry or something, but that’s not going to happen. You deserve each one of those words and more. I’m starting to believe you might be the most hated pony in all of Canterlot. That’s pretty bad, my prince. I enslaved an entire Empire and murdered thousands, and do you know what your guards did? They gave me pudding. What does that tell you?”
He turned his tearstained face to me. “Leave me alone! You’ve said enough!”
I patted his back, hopeful to squeeze out a few more drops.
“Maybe I have.”
Before I left him alone on the floor, I licked both of his cheeks and swallowed his tears.
They were almost as delicious as the gargantuan amount of pudding that followed.
REGARDING PUNISHMENTS
It wasn’t long before I was royally punished for what I’d done to Blueblood. For close to three days, he stayed in his room, demanding bowl after bowl of strawberry ice cream and recently fluffed pillows. I would have pitied the poor soul, but that had never been in my nature. Above all, I pitied myself.
“This place smells,” I mumbled to myself, precariously balanced on a rickety stool near the corner.
I glanced around the stallion’s washroom again, simmering quietly and silently cursing each and every pony that dared enter and use the facilities.
I was told to hoof out candy and mints and small towels.
I was also told the janitor would be getting the day off, meaning I could expect a long night of mopping and lemon scented chemicals.
Less than two minutes into the job, I ate all the candy and mints and threw the towels into the toilet.
When the first stallion of the day entered, I suddenly missed my old reception job.
When the fourth stallion of the day entered, I began thinking of non-lethal ways of chopping off my snout.
By the twelfth stallion, I was honestly contemplating apologizing to Blueblood for my list of remarks, but if I did that I’d need to apologize to Celestia, as well. So with that in mind, I tried not to breathe and listened to the music of the washroom. I wouldn’t recommend the experience.
Then I thought of something else I’d recently done to Celestia.
Two days prior to Blueblood’s verbal assault, I was delivered a package by a mail mare. My duties told me that I was to pass any such mail directly to whom it was addressed, but how could I resist opening something sent to the Princess of the Sun?
Using my quill, I ripped open the thin package and found a hundred or so identical pages of scroll. At the top was printed the royal Canterlot seal, and near the bottom was Princess Celestia’s personal signature, as official as could be. She must have been a busy Princess, indeed, not even having the time to scribble her own name.
Suddenly, I found myself with the overwhelming desire to send a few “official” letters.
From Royal Canterlot Castle:
Dearest Donut Joe,
I have watched you from a distance for some time now, but no longer can I keep my feelings quiet. You are a dedicated pastry connoisseur and at night, alone in my bed, I imagine holding you next to me. I imagine your hooves, messy with flour and dough, grabbing at me in heated passion, our tongues clashing for muzzle supremacy. The taste of your honey glaze so lovingly coating each one of your decadent treats has spread throughout the castle like wildfire and no longer can I remain silent about what I want from you.
I want you, Donut Joe. And I want your honey glaze poured overtop of me.
I don’t mind getting messy, as long as I have someone with skill to help clean it off.
Patiently waiting whenever you’re ready, Princess Celestia.
The next day, a red faced Donut Joe pushed through the castle doors, dropping a sealed bucket to the floor.
“Which way is Celestia’s room?” he asked, breathing heavy.
I pointed towards the stairs. “Three doors down and to the left. Don’t bother knocking. She doesn’t like that.”
He nodded. “Thanks.” Then he was off up the stairs, teeth wrapped tight around his bucket of glaze.
One splash and one scream later, I laughed myself to the floor.
While I thought of cheerier times and glazed Celestias, I barely noticed a Crystal Empire stallion enter the washroom. One look in my direction, he stopped and stared. After a brief chuckle, he left.
When the door closed, my stomach did a flip.
I had a very bad feeling about this.
A few minutes later, the same stallion returned, but not alone. Trailing behind him was another dozen crystal stallions, chuckling and murmuring. I had completely forgotten about the yearly “Canterlot Crystal Ponies Tour.”
Over the next few hours, the horrors and atrocities done in that washroom made me rethink my entire duration as King of the Crystal Empire. Perhaps I should’ve gone a tad easier on all of them.