Nothing Nice Grows Here Anymore
Nothing Nice Grows Here Anymore
“Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.”
Shady Daze screwed his eyes shut. His chest, tight and burning, and his heart fought madly to break out of it’s cage and seek solace miles and miles away from here. A hard swallow that stung his throat, and he checked his breathing. Slow, and steady. He needed to remember Nurse Redheart, and all the advice she’d ever given him to cope with being prone to hyperventilating.
“Breath slowly, and count backwards from one hundred,” she’d told him, “And everything will be okay.”
His heart kicked up again, crashing into his chest and burning. Hot streaks of wet rolled out from the corners of his eyes and fell down his cheeks.
It sure didn't feel like everything was going to be okay.
He remembered the knife, and Brolly, and the noise that they made when they joined together. How the knife pushed through fur and skin in Brolly’s thigh, how bit by bit the steel disappeared into him. How shiny all of Brolly’s blood looked against the light while it came pouring out from the wound. How cold and alone he felt when he heard Brolly slump over and fall to the ground.
More hot wetness rolled down his cheeks and dripped onto the floor.
As if karma hadn’t asked him to bend over and grab his ankles enough already...
His throat was dry and it hurt just to swallow. Every inch of his coat felt wet and heavy, and a smell worse than the dirty gym clothes buried under a pile of unfinished homework assignments in Rumble’s locker seemed to have worked its way into every fibre of his being. Each time he pulled his hooves through his mane, more strands of wet, stinking, Shady updo came attached with them.
Nothing was going to be okay.
“Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fu-uh-uh-uck.”
All he could think about was the knife… and Brolly… and how gross, and nasty, it had been hearing them connect… and how cold he felt watching Brolly’s face twist up into that awful, awful, expression… and all the blood dripping down his leg… and all the colour draining from his face…
And all of the blood...
Oh, Luna, Celestia, and the stars above. There was so much blood in the kitchen.
Air. He needed air. And space. And a strong drink. And a cigarette. And to be a thousand miles away, on the beach someplace warm, with palm trees, straw huts, hammocks, a nice view of the ocean, an endless supply of maremosas, and the rock hard rear of someone straight and well built to stare at from behind a pair of oversized novelty sunglasses, and...
“Shady Daze. You stupid fucking faggot.”
Praise be to Luna, Celestia, the sun, stars, and everything in Equestria good and wholesome. There was a higher power, and he/she/they/it — however it chose to self identify — still cared enough about him and all of his ministrations to answer a few of his prayers (Still no sign of a ruggedly handsome grey pegasus to come carry Brolly to safety, and then Shady into his bed. But the night was still young…)
Absolutely drunk on his relief, Shady Daze giggled in the flightiest tone his voice had ever taken. His giddiness was quickly corrected by the still very much alive Brolly;
“I’m going to murder you and skull-fuck your corpse.”
Shady frowned and slowly peeled his eyes open. Brolly was flat on his ass, and looked incredibly stupid doing it. His back was pushed against the door of the wooden cupboard. He had his eyes opened wide, with his brows high up his forehead. His jaw was quivering and his left leg beat the floor.
Brolly was scared, which was bad because Shady was scared too. So very, very, scared.
Without thinking he let his eyes wander from Brolly’s contorted, scowling face, down past his rapidly rising and falling chest, to his sturdy waist where the black handle of the most dangerous kitchen knife in all of Equestria stuck pointing out from Brolly’s right thigh like an insult.
Shady swallowed.
Three inches higher and a little more to the left and Brolly would have been a eunuch. He giggled foolheartedly. Brolly probably would have been a lot less angry that way...
The nervous giggle Shady Daze gave came out sounding high pitched and effeminate. Brolly grumbled.
“Yes. Yes. You’re alive!” Shady cackled, ignorant to the now murderous gaze coming from Brolly. “Oh, you’re not dead, Brolly! This is good. Very good. I could just k— ”
“Don’t you dare finish that fucking sentence, Shady.”
Shady’s face fell. Brolly’s brief brush with mortality hadn’t done much to change him for the better. He was still an angry dick-wad. The flip side, of course, was that the higher powers — in all of their divine and infinite wisdom — saw fit to ensure that Brolly could still spawn a brood of asshole Jr's in the future.
“You just killed my dick, faggot.”
It came on swiftly that Shady realized the shock and awe of being stabbed (accidentally, of course) really would be messing with Brolly’s mind. Shock was funny like that. A soft and gentle approach — like taming a wild animal — was definitely needed from here on out if either of them were going to make it out of this alive. Shady Daze especially.
“W-what? No, Brolly. No. I didn’t,” he stammered, tapping at the ground with his legs, “I-it was an accident.”
“I cannot believe this fucking bullshit. You stabbed me. You. Not Rumble. Not Thunderlane. Not some prick in a barfight. Mother fucking, faggot-ass, Shady ‘I-Suck-Cocks’ Daze… This is fucking bullshit." his eyebrows dropped down his forehead, "I’m going to die now. Probably,” he slammed the counter with his left hoof, “You fucking little turd-licker. There is a mother fucking kitchen knife stabbed into my mother fucking thigh, three fucking inches from my fucking cock— “
“Accidentally.”
“No. It’s your fucking fault that it’s there, Shady. I swear to Celestia if I survive this I’m going to drive a nine iron right up your— ”
“Y-you pushed me, Brolly. You were gonna do things…” Shady rubbed his hind legs together, “With a broom… t-to my ass... You said you were going to rape me with a broom handle, and—”
“Oh, and so that makes it okay that you just tried to fucking murder me?”
“M-m-murder?” Shady blurted, “N-n-no, Brolly. I would never, and— You have to listen to me, Brolly. Please just listen to me.”
Brolly sneered and spat at Shady, “Eat shit.”
“Brolly, if you don’t listen to me this is only going to get worse— ”
“Is that a fucking threat?” Brolly said, “You’re threatening me now?”
“What? No. Are you… Are you dense, Brolly? I’m trying to save your life here.”
“Oh bull-fucking-shit. Why in the fuck was there ever a kitchen knife out in the first place, huh?” begged Brolly, “You set this whole thing up. I know you did. You were probably sitting here, alone, waiting for a chance to sneak into my bedroom and stab me in the face, weren’t you? I swear-to-fuck that if I survive this shit… You’re gonna spend the rest of your life bending over to pick up the soap in a dark jail cell. But, seeing how you’re such a fag, I’m sure you’re just going to eat it up—”
“Brolly. That- That literally makes absolutely no sense. You, uh, you do realize that right? Why would I ever try to, what? To murder you? Is that… Brolly, can you not see how psycho that sounds? Are you, like… Are you really that paranoid?”
“Oh, like you don’t have any reasons to want to kill me? Like all the times that I’ve put slapped you around haven’t made you want to— ”
“Enough, Brolly. Please…”
“What?
“I-I’m… I’m a little scared, okay? I don’t want anyone to die. Not even you, and… I don’t want you to hit me anymore— And I’m… I don’t do well with blood, and body injuries— I can’t even watch The Dodge Junction Hedgeclipper Massacre all the way through. I-I get squeamish... And, I really don’t want you to hit me again. And… And...”
“Spit it out you fucking retard.”
“Just… Can you please stop yelling at me? I’m trying to work this out in my head, alright? It’s really bad right now, Brolly. I totally get that. B-but, I can fix this. I can. And then… I’m going to save your life, and, maybe after that you won’t want to hurt me anymore?”
“Oh. You don’t even want to know about all the shitkicking I’m going to put on you, Shady. First I’m gonna shove that broom all the way up your ass, then I’m going to get all those little faggot friends of yours, and make ‘em watch you try and pull it out—”
Shady winced, “Please, Brolly. Just give me two seconds, here? Can you, please, for two fucking seconds, be quiet and reasonable enough to stop talking and let me think? I… I really need to think, so I can try and fix this.”
“You are so dead, Shady. I’m going to drag you by your ballsack into the street and make you eat pavement. Then I’m going to curb stomp your faggot ass—”
“I said let me think!”
“I’ll strangle—”
“Do you have a kit?”
“What?”
“A first aid kit? Do you have one in the house?”
“How in the fuck should I know?”
“Because you live here? Every house in Equestria should have a first aid kid… It’s— It’ll be upstairs, I bet. Cloud Kicker, yeah, she’s responsible enough to keep one,” he mumbled, tearing his eyes off of Brolly, “Gotta be upstairs...”
He stood up, dusted himself off and went for the open doorway to the hall when a firm tug on his tail spurned a girlish squeal from his throat and brought him tumbling back to the floor so that he landed flat on his finely toned ass. He whipped his head backwards to catch sight of Brolly with a mouth full of Shady-tail stuck between his pursed black lips. The injured stallion spat the tail out of his mouth with all the indignity he would to a truffle he’d found to have a cow-pie filling.
“Where are you going you little fucktard?” snarled Brolly.
Shady Daze eyed the knife handle… and the blood streaming, slowly, from the wound. The way that Brolly tensed his muscles forced a small part of silver to spit from his leg. Shady Daze caught a mess of sick in his throat before he had a chance to upchuck.
Blood. Of all the things to be deathly fearful of it had to be blood. Blood, and gore, and wounds caused by the accidental lodging of deadly household kitchenware into the body parts of angry ponies who hated him with a passion bordering on madness.
Shady swallowed down his sick, blinked his eyes and opened his mouth, “U-upstairs, Brolly. If there’s a first aid kit it’s gotta be in the bathroom… or in Cloud Kicker and Thunderlane’s room, and, I need it to…”
“Fat-fucking-chance, Shady,” Brolly spat, “You’re gonna split the second you’re out of my sight. Leave me here to fucking bleed to death...”
Shady blinked. “Brolly, that’s ridiculous,” he stuttered, then tightened his jaw and stood upright, “I know that it’s probably not what you want to hear, but I’m kind of your only chance of, you know… not bleeding to death all across your kitchen floor tonight.”
A growl rolled off Brolly’s tongue, “What the fuck are you gonna do exactly, Shady? Put a little bandage over my boo-boo? It’s a knife you gigantic fucking retard. It’s going take a little more than some gauze and a few band-aids.”
“I… Well,” stuttering again, Shady felt his legs loosen and his firm grip on his spine slack until he found he was slouching, “Brolly. You need to get to a hospital. ASAP. Now, I… have no idea how we’re going to get you there…”
A whimper from Shady made Brolly’s right ear twitch. The lines across the older pony’s hard and worn face softened. His brows shrunk. He flattened his ears against his head and puffed out his cheeks.
Shady took a pause and scratched hard against his forehead, “Um, but for now… If we can stop the bleeding and clean the wound— Uh, preferably without, um, removing the knife… Somehow,” he clicked his tongue, “See, okay. I took… uh, I did first aid training as part of, um,” he fumbled with his hooves. Brolly cocked an eyebrow, “It was for the babysitting course. But I passed my first aid level one exam with the top marks… Er, well, third highest behind Pipsqueak, and Applebloom—”
“You are such a homo.”
“Hey. I really wanted to earn some money that summer, alright?”
“I swear, Shady,” Brolly grumbled, “Each time you speak I feel myself get a little more stupid.”
“Just… Brolly, please. Stay put for, like, thirty seconds? I’ll get some bandages, and some rubbing alcohol, and, uh,” he scratched at his mane as he tried to shake off the fire burning in Brolly’s eyes, “Maybe some real alcohol for me…”
Time passed slowly. Brolly, who was remarkably resistant to showing even the slightest hint of hurt from his wound, stared back and forth between the sad smile on the younger pony’s face and the knife stuck in his leg. After a minute of this, he shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.
“If you’re not back in two minutes, Shady...” he began, then realizing he didn’t have much weight to put behind his threat, he sighed, “Just… Don’t you dare leave me like this.”
It occurred to Shady that, maybe, just maybe, Brolly was more afraid than he would ever let on. It made him feel funny on the inside. It wasn’t sympathy for the older stallion — he had none of that for Brolly — but seeing him as close to weak and vulnerable as he’d ever looked before brought a frown to his face. He let himself smile, if only to show Brolly he was confident enough in his abilities, “I promise.”
“Get-fucking-going then, Shady.”
Shady nodded, “Right.”
And then he was off, scampering madly through the hallways and up the crooked wooden staircase on a half-assured quest to find ailment for Brolly’s wounds. The trip up the stairs was remarkably short, but, then he was in a hurry. Like always they cracked and shook under his weight. The fourth stair up, like every other time, dipped when he put weight on it. The seventh and eighth stairs did that familiar wobble thing that never really made him comfortable. Past them he felt confident and kept his steady pace.
Thunderlane and Cloud Kicker’s room was just up ahead.
Prying wasn’t anything he cared to do, but the situation did call for it and he felt no shame when he butt-checked the door wide open.
Cocksure, drunk on adrenaline and desperate, he didn’t bother to double-check his steps as he entered, and was quickly made to feel stupid for not. The first step he took into the room landed uncomfortably on something wet, squishy and cold. He lost his balance when he drew his hoof back, the slight made him slip forwards, pushing his weight up from his backside and then he face-planted onto a pile of sheets.
He took in a breath of air and the want to be sick from his stomach came back stronger than ever. One whiff and he caught all the traces of musk, sweat, dried body wash... and sex. Filthy sex. The ‘Thunderlane and Cloud Kicker had totally made time for a quickie just before leaving home, but not enough time to wash the sheets so they threw them on a pile by the hamper, and, oh-sweet-Celestia where did lube end and sweat begin? And, oh geez, there was a very wet, rather sticky stain where his cheek had touched’ kind of sex. Someone in the not too distant future had to burn these sheets.
Shady’s resolve broke.
The whiskey, and the tequila, and vodka, and beer, and everything he’d shot back in the last four hours surged up from his stomach and into his mouth. He blinked hot tears out of his eyelids, wiped wetness he hoped wasn’t what he knew it was off his cheek, and swallowed back all of his vomit.
The room really didn’t need to be made into any more of a mess, he figured.
He looked away. He had too. Only, now he saw the thing that he slipped on coming into the room. Between the door and a tiny waste basket was what could have passed for a dehydrated jellyfish, but was actually just a condom.
Shady Daze squinted his eyes and his stomach kicked up again.
A used condom.
Maybe if he started crying now, by the time he came down his eyes would be dry enough that Brolly wouldn’t make fun of him for it. No. Brolly would. He’d see the puffy cheeks and the redness in his eyes and be mean, and cruel. Crying was pointless. He still had a job to do. There was still a first aid kit to find. Maybe.
He got to his hooves and moved around the rest of the room on the hard tips of his fetlocks. The floor was lava. Sacred ground. Something not to be touched.
He floated to the closet and ignored the desire to critique Thunderlane’s wardrobe (Did anyone really need that much flannel?)
Inside there were comic books, video game cartridges, a broken water-bong and one that worked. In the corner, a plant of highly questionable legal status grew under heat lamps. There were magazines on body building, kung-fu tapes, porno, cans of spray paint…
… All of it exactly what Shady Daze expected to find, just, maybe also with a first aid kit in pristine condition. Somewhere past all the jars of protein powder, the empty packs of menthol cigarettes, the roses growing out of beer bottles and all of the stained band shirts there had to be one?
Only, there wasn’t.
It had to happen this way. Anything else and he might have assumed he still stood a chance at being happy.
Shady scrambled out of the room as quickly as he’d entered with the hope that his shame would wash out later, and that he’d never be forced inside that pit of suck and despair again.
Next he thought to try the bathroom. Hopefully in the cupboard behind the mirror there would be something? There had to be. Cloud Kicker wouldn’t possibly allow three stallions like Rumble, Brolly and Thunderlane to co-exist in the same house without planning ahead.
Right?
He didn’t have to prepare himself for what lay in the bathroom. Cloud Kicker’s influence, and even her upstanding adherence to the art of cleanliness weren’t strong enough to change the fact that she lived in a household with three unclean, uncouth and uncultured stallions, and the bathroom suffered the worst for it. Pubic hairs clung bunched together against the edges of the toilet seat. Bits of soap, and dry, crusted, body wash were streaked across the mirror. There was a wet towel growing a culture of mould squished against a corner that acted as a sponge to soak up drops of clean water that leaked from a rusted over pipe in the small corner of the room that lacked a ceiling tile.
Shady Daze had never been a fan of using the washroom at Rumble’s home, and this latest adventure inside did nothing to change his opinion on it.
He walked into the room gracefully, spun on his hooves, tore open the mirrored door of the bathroom cubby and was astonished that aside from un-labeled pill bottles, worn out toothbrushes, razors, shears, eyeliner brushes, mane brushes, and combs, there was also very much a first aid kit.
Shady Daze leapt at the comforting sight, clicked his heels together, landed and grabbed for the it. As quickly as he could, he pulled it from the cupboard, held it in his mouth and left the washroom without ever stopping to look backwards. In the shortest time possible everything would be back to as close to normal as it had felt all night. Which really was saying something of him, the company he kept and the situations he found himself in, but that was a moot point by now.
Sooner, rather than later, the nightmare of dipping his hooves in the wading pool of unfiltered bull’s shit that made up his luck would be over for long enough that if he could just close his eyes — without having to worry about Brolly making sure he never opened them again — he could still get a nice six or seven hour nap in before dawn came calling for him, or the royal guards did. Whichever came first.
“Brolly, Brolly, Brolly,” he called out in a falsetto sing-song, “Everything’s gonna be fine, and—”
In the kitchen in place of a pegasus, or the fresh corpse of one, there was the kitchen knife on the floor, and un even streaks of fresh blood leading into the living room.
Shady Daze chewed on his lower lip.
Why was it that every single thing Brolly did had to be polished with a fresh coat of extra-stupid?
Red. In his hasty getaway — the logic of which Shady failed to understand — Brolly had painted a path across the floor with fresh blood. It began where he’d once been sitting, continued along the floor and out of the doorway leading towards the living room.
Idly chewing his lips and cursing his dumb luck, Shady followed where the all the redness led him.
Groaning and curses half moaned and half mumbled came from the spot where Shady had earlier imbibed. This was when Shady realized what had happened; Brolly, in some kind of idiotic wisdom, had decided to find a more comfortable spot to let unconsciousness seep in. The couch was where he found Brolly, laying flat on his back and with his face nestled between two couch cushions. Blood from the wound in his thigh leaking out into a quickly growing stain on the couch.
Shady fought every impulse he had to scream, cry and abandon all hope of resolve.
Quietly, in the softest, kindest and most approachable whisper he could muster, he spoke, “B-Brolly?”
The pegasus moaned, “I'm really... tired…”
Shady approached slowly, moving forwards on the tips of his fetlocks so that his steps made little sound and barely carried weight with them.
“Brolly,” he said again, “I really, really, really, need you to get up.”
“Fuck off... homo.” Brolly groaned, “Just… need to rest… my eyes.”
Shady whimpered, “Please, Brolly.”
Brolly turned. His head twitched, and so did his wings, “Gargle... my…fuckin’ balls, cuntf—”
Brolly didn’t have to finish the sentence for Shady to piece the rest together. Pouting his lips, and blowing air through his nostrils, he trotted up to a wide enough distance from the couch that any of Brolly’s jabs would still miss. He stood upright, arched his back until his body formed a lowercase ‘R’ and, putting his hooves on Brolly’s chest — which he was half ashamed to admit felt much firmer than he’d have thought — he rolled the massive pegasus onto his back.
Brolly’s eyes flew open. They were wide and filled with fear, and in his half-cocked, drunken blind panic, he swung at Shady. Desperate to hit anything, he only made contact with the empty space between Shady’s chest and where his reach ended. Disappointment shone across his face, then a few seconds later he gave up and allowed his limbs to fall limply onto the couch.
With a saggy jaw mawing open, he spoke softly, “What’re you doing?”
Shady spat air through his teeth, “Trying to save your life.”
“Already done... homo.” Brolly said, “I took the knife out.”
“Yeah. I saw,” he scrunched his nose and slapped a hoof into his forehead, “Why did you do that, Brolly?”
Brolly’s wings rose and fell in a lazy shrug, “Saw it… in a movie.”
“That’s stupid,” Shady told him, “B-but, listen. I found the first aid kit you guys have. So it should be okay… ish. Um, I really, really need to disinfect that wound. And I still need to get you to a hospital. You’re, uh—” he paused to look at the leaking red from his leg, and the steadily growing stain it left on the couch cushions, “Bleeding all over everything.”
“I’ll be... fine,” Brolly said, “Just need to… sleep it off.”
Shady dropped the first aid kit onto the coffee table, right beside the knife. The table shook. “Yeah,” he said, “That’s not a very smart idea, Brolly.”
Brolly’s coat was fantastically pale, and where his cheeks had once burned red with inexpressible rage, his face was now bleak and lifeless. Blood loss, probably. He’d already lost more than Shady imagined he should have, and from the endless way it still spilled out of his wound, he didn’t expect it to stop anytime soon. Not without intervention, of course.
It was time for Shady to be a hero.
Maybe one day in a future when he hadn’t bled to death in his own home, Brolly would sit before a roaring fire and the adoring gaze of a brood of his own making and reiterate the tale of how his life had been saved, and how he’d come to find respect and admiration in the gay community after that.
Shady chuckled. Of all the bullshit lies he’d had to tell himself to stay strong, that was quite possibly the heaviest.
“I feel… cold.”
Shady turned his eyes to Brolly and frowned, though his resolve never broke. There was still work that needed doing.
The first aid kit wasn’t really a kit, more of a metal box, poorly crafted from thin sheet metal that had maybe earned Rumble, Thunderlane, or Brolly a ‘C-’ at best in metals class. No surprise there. There weren’t locks holding it closed, but tiny rusted latches. Once Shady flipped them and opened the box he almost wanted to laugh at what he found inside. He would have too, if it didn’t make him want to cry.
The empty wrappers of Wonderbolts band-aids, a roll of duct tape, three thin cotton swabs, tampons, unwashed yellow sponges, and a note written on the back of a torn microwave vegetarian burrito box explaining that Rumble was due to replace everything inside with fresh products. Dated three years back.
Brolly was doomed.
Shady bit his tongue. With the few hours he had before the sun came up, and with the money he’d hidden under the floorboards in his room, he could probably make it as far as Tall Tale and live in extreme poverty under an assumed name for at least two weeks before he was caught. Prison probably wouldn’t be that bad either. Three meals a day, a cot to sleep in, a pot for his waste, a roommate, free access to a gym, an all night long buffet of unwanted anal-sex.
No.
Giving up was stupid and pointless. If he showed enough effort now, and if through some miraculous twist of fate enough ponies witnessed him putting in effort, there was a good chance of having his sentence reduced from First to Second Degree Murder. With good behaviour he could be released at eighty-five.
“Shady?”
The younger pony blinked, “Y-yeah?”
“Thought… you were gonna… fix this?”
Rumble, and Thunderlane, and Flitter owed him, but none of them anymore than what life owed him after this was over.
He bit onto lower lip and nodded, “Yeah...”
From the first aid kit he pulled out the duct-tape, set it down on the table, got to his hooves and dashed towards the kitchen. His left hoof touched against something warm and wet which his mind refused to process as blood, and the slight moment of mental collapse made his limbs turn to jelly. He tripped over himself, his speed gave him momentum and his crash had him sliding through more of the wet, sticky wetness across the floor until a cupboard broke his movement. His weight pressing against it split the wood in half.
Typical.
He shook himself out as he stood up. It hurt. His ass, and his chest, were all swollen and sharp from the other times he’d tripped, or been pushed over. His cheek stung. His lungs burned. But Brolly hurt so much more.
From the countertop Shady pulled as many clean and dirty rags as he could find and shoved them into his pocket. That would take care of the blood, and the bleeding, but the knife had probably come out of the drawer crawling with germs, so he needed something to disinfect the wound with. Antiseptic, of course, was the best option, but the few splashes left in a bottle of Partymelon flavoured Skynoff was what he had, so he grabbed it.
On his way back to the living room Shady chose to be slower, methodical, and attentive enough to step over the wetness. Tripping once was an accident, tripping twice was Equestrian, tripping over the same exact thing thrice was lowbrow comedy.
Without incident Shady made it back to the couch, and back beside Brolly. He didn’t dare to look at the mess, but kept his eyes trained on his own doings while he unscrewed the lid to the bottle.
“This is going to hurt,” he said to Brolly, “Like… a lot.”
Brolly snorted, “Do it already, faggot.”
Swallowing, Shady took the bottle and raised it over the spot his gaze dared not wander. He shut his eyes, steadied his hooves and shifted around the weight in the bottle from the buttend to the head.
There was no going back now.
A horrible noise born in the furthest pits of Tartarus and raised by Tirek came out from Brolly’s throat. He thrashed like a spastic seizure patient. He twisted his waist, kicked his lower legs against the couch, spat, cursed, and shrieked.
And Shady panted, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
A groan rolled out from Brolly’s mouth, and silence followed. His thrashing ceased. His body fell limp. He chewed his teeth together, and the lines across his face came across thick and strong, “H-hurts like a fuckin’ bitch.”
Shady bowed his head so that his eyes met the floor, “I know. I’m sorry.”
Tears. Actual, honest to Celestia, tears made from salty wetness ran out of Brolly’s eyelids and rolled across his cheeks and left behind black stains in his fur. Shady reached forwards with a heavy, trembling, hoof and lay it flat against Brolly’s chest. He surprised himself to find that Brolly’s coat was soft, and felt nothing like petting a pony made out of rusted razor blades, or diseased hypodermic needles.
He gave the older pony’s chest a pat, “I… You’re really brave, Brolly. I, uh—”
With his second most violent jab, Brolly slapped Shady’s hoof away from his chest, “Stop fucking talking.”
Shady killed a nervous giggle before he could give it life, and pulled his hoof tight against his chest, “S-sorry.”
Eyes back to his waist. From his pocket Shady pulled out rags, and in his lap he sorted them into two piles. There were ones fit to maintain the bleeding. Those ones went to his left. And there were ones that would probably give Brolly sepsis, or typhoid. Those ones went in a pile to his right. Tempted as he was to finally get something as close to revenge as he could on Brolly, he slighted and reached towards the clean rags.
And he paused.
This next bit was going to be the worst of it, if only because he’d be doing it willingly blind. In his head it made sense that enough rags tied to Brolly’s thigh would, eventually, stop all of th bleeding. Maybe. He’d done repairs to the pipes back at home the same way, and while Brolly’s leg wasn’t the D grade plumbing his father had opted for, nothing about patching him up was too far removed from fixing pipework.
Slow melodramatic sigh from Shady.
If only there wasn’t so much blood to deal with...
He rolled a few of the rags together in his left hoof, and held the tape tight with his right. If he squinted just hard enough it was just like patching up pipes. A large, twitching, furry pipe. And that all the blood leaking from it? Well, that was just really dirty water...
The dopiest, most unbecoming sort of smile came crawling lazily up the sides of his face. Yeah. That worked... Sort of.
He reached forward with the hoof holding the rags, let it hover over where he was sure Brolly’s thigh and injury were, then pressed down. He cocked his jaw. Something wasn’t right. Brolly’s thigh felt way too thin… And soft, and fleshy. Why wasn’t it furry? Why was it twitching so much? Why in Equestria did it feel like he had a coin purse hooked under his leg?
“Shady!”
“Y-yeah?”
“That’s not my thigh...”
“Oh?” his eyebrows shot up his forehead, “Oh... Oh geez.”
Brolly snapped his tongue and spit at the floor, “Could you please... get your filthy fucking hoof off of my cock?”
“Yes! Yup! Got it. Done and done,” Shady pulled his hoof back, and sought to laugh away all the tension in the room. He giggled and smiled in a way that looked crooked and mad, “Um, so, uh… I won’t tell Flitter if you don’t?”
Brolly snorted hard through his nostrils. Hot air blew apart fur across Shady’s neck. The younger boy swallowed.
“Shady...”
“Mhmm?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
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You know Shady, nobody would have known about that and Brolly could have died like the waste of an individual he is, had you just walked away. But no, you stayed and helped him. He still might die, so there's that.
Why must I respect you so, now of all times? A hero indeed.
Methinks Shady s just going to quit everything except Button Mash after this is over. Because this feels like the prelude to a "fuck everything" situation.
Ah, this fic. Very nice. I still have a recommendation, and it's like, a really simple fix.
Every time Dinky has been mentioned, replace her with Sweetie Belle, and vice versa.
Suddenly, it would go from an 8/10 to a 9/10. ButtonBelle does wonders, no?
6520440 that is what I would of done, there seems to be no hope or redeeming qualities from rumble or anyone he knows. All of them are going to die young at this rate. And the only mare in that household that could do something better with her life's flitter if she could get away from all these bad influences. Shady is a true stallion and my heart hurts see him in agony like this. I really hope he can find a nice colt to settle down with that is sane and stable.
Rub some dirt on it, Shady.
Why didn't Shady call an ambulance? And please don't tell me that phones don't exist in your version of Equestria, because if something like video games exist, than phones or some other similar kind of communications device should also exist.
*Sigh*
In a world, where there is no public sector...
6522260
The problem is that no one issued any ambulance drivers licenses in Equestria... Or Ambulances.
6524304
Well, Equestria needs to get its shit together if it doesn't have any accessible medical services for times like these.
C'mon man! Where's the next chapter?! I'm dying over here!
Still waiting...
I think he's dead guys. We won't get anymore updates on this story.
Ahh here we go, follow-up on the knife incident.
C'mon, Shady, focus. Now really isn't the time to panic. Same for Brolly, actually. Either/or, really, at the very least we need someone who isn't.
Wait, never mind, Brolly isn't panicking, he's just continuing to set the bar for worst pony ever.
Wow. I honestly wouldn't have thought this situation could get worse for Shady, but here we are.
This is the most disgusting house ever.
Yeah, he's too stupid to live.
Now that seems really, really unlikely.
Flavored vodka and duct tape. Well, that really is better than nothing.
7048603 Sometimes, reading in-progress fanfiction requires a lot of patience.
7048975
What sucks is that all the best Fics get updated at the same time so I have to wait...
And I'm not really good at that
For f*cks sake man come on! Finish the damn story!
All caught up now, and it only took me 2 years
Phew, good thing I didn't miss the conclusion of this story, or that would be pretty embarrassing.
Yep... Still waiting...
This is looking pretty dead...
7048603 Nah, he's been online recently (thanks, FimFic, for that little speck of data) and I believe the issue rests with his motivations for writing being largely diminished.
7298744
7265698
Hi.
So, I'm not dead, just incredibly busy. I don't want to kick up a fuss or anything, but the last six/seven months have been pretty crazy. It's all for the best, I promise, but most of it involves slipping into big-boy pants every morning and doesn't give me a lot of time to write stories about silly gay horses.
It really means a lot to me that you're still invested in this, and the other stories I've done about talking horses. I'm still trying to fit a healthy dose of gay horse tom-foolery into my schedule, and, I have a few things in the mix that I wanna bang-out just for kicks. Colts is up there, as are endings to like every other thing I've started and never finished.
I have some time to sorta mellow and just fuck around for a while, which is dope. I'll try, to try, to finish Colts, and try even harder to make the ending not suck butt.
7299935 Holy Shit! Word of God! Whoohoo!
Good story. I always enjoy reading your stories because they're so polar opposite of my experiences.
Wow that's an awesome first aid kit.
7299935
I adore this story, but also understand that writers can be quite busy. (I would know, I am one!)
I hope that a new chapter comes out sometime, but of course, whenever you're able to do so. :D
There was a travesty of a comment that used to be here.
You're welcome
Will there be any update to this?
So, I'm going to take a wild guess and say this story is discontinued?
9040604
i still pray that One day i will receive a notification saying that a new chapter is out
9065628
SAME.
I still have hope that this masterpiece will return one day