• Published 6th Jul 2014
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The Trying Times of Ahuizotl - Rego



The fearsome Ahuizotl finds himself without a bit to his name as his more recent failures start catching up to his wallet. His diabolical debt quickly piling around him, the villain has no choice but to do the unthinkable: find a normal job.

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Chapter 01: Sobering Circumstances

At long last, I, the great Ahuizotl shall finally have my revenge on that accursed Daring Do! Far too long has that meddling mare been a thorn in my side, but with the Bracer of Azarock upon my wrist, she will have no choice but to face me in fierce paw to hoof combat. However, this time I shall prevail. I have developed the ultimate death traps of my own design to ensnare the little dungeon-delver, you know: spike pits, pressure plates, air-pressure plates in case she flies in, ensnarement nets, multi-channel lava flows, cryptograph puzzles that kill if you mess up, the works! Even if she manages to get past my traps, I will break her myself and she will beg for mercy where there is none!

Taking my gaze away from the deadly antechamber, I took solace in admiring the ancient temple walls with malicious delight. This, this was the moment that it was all going to turn around in the ancient, forgotten halls of the Shrine of the Maddened Manticore, a lesser known ruin than my standard fare. The main chamber of the temple was not the usual grandiose meticulous makings of careful craftsmares designing the most hallowed of their halls into a baffling wonder of old world stone working. Instead, the dank dungeon felt more akin to an archaic rush job. It hit all the right marks though, the layout was fashioned in the main entryway from the south leading through varying winding halls with a myriad of ancient traps, or in this case modern refurbished ones, placed strategically to ward off any intruders into its most revered of places.

The throne of Azarock, which was more of an ornate stump, was the final resting place for the relic I had taken for myself, rather easily I might add. Sure, this little armband isn’t that much when compared to the Ring of Destiny or even Brack’s Butter Bowl from the second age of Equestria, but money has been kind of tight since I spent so much on the gadgetry, and with travel expenses and membership dues piling up behind loans from… great, now I’m even derailing my own internal monologues.

“Scuzzbuckle, Smalltime!” I yelled to beckon my hired henchponies.

“Yeah, Ali? What’s up?” Scuzzbuckle replied with far less conviction than I demand of my lackies.

“What did you just call me?” I replied, boiling indignantly at my most-hated nickname. Once I hear his pitiable excuse, it’ll be time to fire up the old lungs for a good old-fashion evil tirade. Just what I need to take my mind off of things.

“Yeah bro, Alizabluh is kinda hard to say, so I just shortened it a bit, you know, ‘cuz we’re like ‘compadres’ or something, or whatever you Technoteelanders say.”

I... I don’t even know where to start with this one. Gods know I do not stand for disrespect of my great name, but this is just ridiculous. From the moment I met this purple waste of space, I knew he was going to be trouble. Coupled with his cutie mark, a colorful paint splatter on his flank made him out to be some sort of free-spirit, something I would usually never even consider putting up with before. Even if they claim it is just one aspect of their being, you always check a pony’s cutie mark, discrimination claims be damned.

I wanted to hire his father, Brass Buckles, one of my regulars, but no, he had to call in a favor from me to give a disheveled sham of a unicorn he calls a son a chance to “continue the family legacy” of miniondom. I have a screening process to weed out such insolence on a job, why did I let this bucket hat wearing teenager get a free ride on his father’s resume! Raiding, looting, and pilfering tombs and lost cities requires everything, pony or otherwise, to be at their absolute best, and I will be damned if I am going to let some outlandish want-to-be punk colt ruin it with a lackluster effort! Adventurer archaeology is a serious business after all.

“No, you incompetent equine!” I boomed with all the ire I could muster. “Firstly, you will call me Ahuizotl, secondly, we are not bros, compadres or anything of the sort, and lastly, my home is the Tenochtitlan Basin! Didn’t your father teach you anything?!” Now pause for effect while keeping the fangs bared and he should—

“Hey, hey, no need to get all hos-tay my Mexicoltan hombre,” he replied so lukewarmly, I’m uncertain if his tone quantified as inflection at all. I command by fear and this little upstart is… wait, what is that smell? I looked at the stallion’s amber eyes and noticed quite the red-webbing cracking about his narrow irises.

“Scuzz, are… have you been you smoking on the job?!”

“Uhh, no way Ali-boss-bro,” he chuckled back. I rolled my eyes, relieved that he was at least smart enough to not to get high on the—

“I took a hit on my break.”

“We do NOT take breaks when we’re raiding a gods-forsaken ancient ruin, you stupid colt!” I barked back, nearly letting my voice crack. Calm down Ahuizotl. He is Brass’ son, he is Brass’ son, you like Brass Buckles, and if you want to hire him again you CANNOT murder his son. I kept it on seething repeat in my mind, kneading my forehead with my fingers as to cap my ire so I do not eviscerate him on the spot. I should’ve listened to myself and gone with basic lava flows and hired some good henchmen, lesson learned. I don’t have time to try lecturing this boy. “Just… just don’t say anything, don’t touch anything, or do ANYTHING until Daring Do gets here.”

“Woah, Daring Do is coming?!” Smalltime, the other useless discount henchpony chimed in. I was hoping his two years of field experience would make him worth the investment in his presence, but I guess there is a reason why the yellow pegasus bore the name. “Do you think she’ll sign my book?”

Why gods, why?! What have I done to deserve this? I nearly lost myself to sorrow until I heard the alarm gong ring signaling the last trap being set off.

“I don’t think anypony’s gonna get any books signed today, Ahuizotl!” a voice rang out confidently from the end of my hallway of traps—correction, my hallway of useless traps—but that will have to wait as I turned to face my old nemesis.

“Ah yes, Daring Do, once again you have…” I trailed letting my mouth hang slack as I met the gaze of an unfamiliar earth pony sizing me up with a two-bit smirk plastered across his smug mug. “Wait, who are you?”

“What’s goin’ on, bub! I’m Trailbrazen, archeologist extraordinaire, and I have come to stop your evil plans, you filthy monkey,” he shot back brimming with an over-extended egotistical voice of a proud dungeon-delving newbie. He was a four-gallon hat adorning, pickaxe wielding, sunglasses wearing stereotype I hadn’t seen in almost twenty years. It was like the young earth stallion plucked his looks right out of a slipshod catalog of thrift store cowboy and climbing apparel. He even made the novice mistake of calling me a monkey. I do not even look like a monkey!

“Release the ancient wristband, pal, or would you rather face me and Kevin here, first.”

Oh, for the love of all that is malevolent, please tell me he did not name his pickaxe—

“Hey, who’s Kevin, bro?” asked Scuzzbuckle with painfully genuine curiosity as he looked around the room for the brash adventurer’s partner.

Of course, without even the slightest hesitation, the fool proudly brandished his glinting green pickaxe of his with an over dramatic flourish before pointing it at the three of us. “Fellas, I’d like you to meet Kevin Krusher Pickaxe the Fifth!”

“Hi Kevin!” Smalltime greeted with a kindhearted wave. Next time I do one of these robberies on a budget, I’ll need to make a mental note to bring extra-strength ibuprofen.

“So Daring Do is not coming?” I asked with disbelief lacing my every word.

“Not this time, Ahuizotl! You will face me, Trailbrazen and my trusty partner in... hey! W-wait, where ya goin’, buckaroo?”

That was the final straw, the FINAL STRAW! I may have lost a few more times than I care to recall in recent memory, but Daring Do does NOT stand me up on a crypt raid! I knew this job stank to high heaven right from the start. The artifact was already dubious at best with the buyer only wanting it stolen for a few hundred bits. I may be a more in the red than I'd like as of late, but this is just… degrading.

I ripped the useless bracer off of my arm, I wasn’t feeling anything with it on anyway. A rule of thumb, when wearing an ancient accessory, it’s never a good sign if you don’t feel anything emitting from it within the first twenty minutes. Furthermore, nothing happened when we stole it from its resting place. Scuzzbuckle tripped and knocked it off of the pedestal which did a grand total of nothing to the temple’s superstructure. No ceiling collapses, no trapdoors, no evil spirits, if anything the air smelled like mint for some reason. Do not ask me to explain why, it just did. Maybe the bracer makes your arm smell nicer, I don’t know, but I am NOT going to wait around here with Trailbust and his little toothpick to try to best one as great as I.

“Stop right there you mean-spirited marsupial!”

“MONKEYS ARE NOT MARSUPIALS YOU FOOLISH—Oh, never mind!” I muttered angrily as I callously chucked a rock at his stupid hat-wearing head. He promptly deflected the projectile with his trusty weapon, a cocky grin crossing his face from ear to ear, that was until the second rock I had surreptitiously tossed with my tail knocked his pompous polished whites out of his stupid sassy smile. He collapsed in a heap to the floor, concussed and bruised whimpering like a foal.

I quickly located the obligatory escape trapdoor—every ruin worth its masonry has one—and triggered it, thrusting the hidden passage open with wild abandon. Just like the rest of this half-baked ruin, the trapdoor was less "trap" and more a plain "door" with nothing deadly springing to life upon forcing entry. It wasn’t even that hard to find. What a lazy ancient temple! I heard my henchponies ask where I was going, but I didn’t care. Storming out of the chamber, I tossed them their joke of a payment I had wrapped in little baggies at the foot of the throne and sealed the door behind me, leaving the trio of pony nonsense to their own devices.


“Well, it could be worse, Ahuizotl. I mean, at least he’s published, right?” Kirth offered as a slight comfort to my shame.

“You must be joking. Have you even read this trite?” I snapped back to the changeling barkeeper. “His style is slipshod, descriptions uninspired, and he clearly is too absorbed with his own smug sense of self-importance to get to his own actions in a timely manner!” I snatched the book, and I use that term very loosely, and slammed the infernal thing shut before throwing it to the back of the bar. “This isn’t a novel, it’s a two-hundred page waste of paper nearly as terrible as a Daring Do fan-fiction!”

“Hey, my cousin writes fan-fiction!” Kirth retorted back to me angrily with a frown.

“Kirth, you ARE your cousin.”

Kirth shrugged as purple fire engulfed the indifferent barkeeper changing him into slightly taller, glasses wearing shape-shifter with an errant incisor sticking out from the side of his lip. “And let me tell you, my work is leaps and bounds beyond that piece of barely readable rubbish you littered the floor with.”

“You don’t say, Marby,” I sighed as I gazed long and hard into my reflection bouncing off the vile liquor I was forcing down. The low lighting was comforting as I could barely see my worn face in my booze, only the neon signs beamed brightly off its side.

The Shifty Saloon was quickly becoming a little home away from home as of late. It was an unassuming tavern tucked away at the edge of the Leota Forest, one of the few dives welcoming anything into its doors, and I do mean anything. If it had bits, it could get service regardless of its ability to communicate. If a wild illumibear burst through the front with bits in its maw, I'm sure Kirth would be offering it honeyed moonshine.

Speaking of drinks, Kirth’s booze was usually good, with the exception of the cheap drink I was forcing down now. I couldn’t argue with the prices considering my stream of failures coming one after the other lately. If you can get past his multiple personalities, he was really a good bad-guy to talk to. As long as Lacerunner stays locked away in that little Saddle Arabian brain of his… or hers… damn changelings. I can grab a drink and a bite to eat in peace for a few bits and a little of emotional energy when I can spare it. Love is kind of scarce among the less-than-savory souls of the world.

I looked to where I had thrown the “borrowed” paperback from the bookstore, Trailbrazen’s Trailing Tales: The Lost Parka of Pickle Peaks. I had barely gotten past the second chapter when I couldn’t take anymore of his gods forsaken scribbles. The only thing worse than his lousy, no-style prattling is the fact that I was almost the villain of one of his little excisions into two-bit literature. He is a low D-Lister at best, where did he get the gall to think that he could hold a candle to the mighty Ahuizotl?

“This is ridiculous! The whole situation reeks of failure. I don’t even know how he got past all my traps when I took him down myself without a second thought! Do you know how much I spent on those?” I lashed out trying to reconcile the whole raid. My brow furrowed as I took a long quaff of my drink before tapping the rim for a refill. “Marby, get Lesterloof out for me.”

“Sure thing, Sir Ahuizotl,” the changeling shifted again to an older, pale blue gentlepony with a stubbly beard and pocket watch cutie-mark. The salt-and-pepper maned unicorn picked up my glass to polish as he always refused to pour a refill into a dirty container while he eyed me expectantly waiting for me to start the conversation.

“Lester, do you think I’m… washed up?” I quavered weakly, starting to feel the effect of the alcohol.

The wise, stoic stallion stood there, idly rubbing his cloth methodically over the carefully crafted glass tankard. I watched as he spun it around, looking for any dirty spots to smudge out before he poured lager into it, filling to the brim before setting it down in front of me with a loud clank. “Don’t be botherin’ me ta answer stupid questions ya can answer yarself, laddy. If ya think yar a has-been, then ya be a has-been.”

I shook my head, but I didn’t know to what I was disagreeing. Sure, I still thought I was the finest force to be reckoned with, the ranking Epitome of Evil within the Association for Harrowing Archaeology, but the other members of the AHA were probably thinking differently now. I had to admit, I was behind in my dues which probably what landed me the bad lead on the stupid bracer to begin with. I haven’t been garnering the same fearful respect I had grown so fond of over the years since word got out that I was stopped by some rainbow-maned upstart from some Podunk village in Equestria. The bits I was pulling in from side jobs and commissioned thievery was keeping me afloat, but I barely had enough to afford travel fare and hirelings, not including hotel stays, food, and other expenses. The payout from this little bracer excursion barely covered the initial investment.

“I don’t know Lester, it’s so hard when you get a bad rep from all of Daring Do’s novels. At first, she didn’t win EVERY encounter we had, but her recent victories over me have really put me in a bind.”

“I guess that’s why yer runnin’ a tab ‘ere now?”

I sighed as I drowned my gullet into more debt-building drinks. Right now, I didn’t want to remember Scuzzbuckle, Smalltime, Trailbrazen, Daring Do, or anything else. I simply desired to stew on my stool and sink my sorrows into my little liquid friend. My eyes felt heavy and warm as I wanted to scream at the world to give me the power I so rightly deserved. I was known throughout the globe as the dreaded delver of ancient places, the one you will meet at the furthest corners of the world to pillage and burn for my own pleasure. Now, I am a laughing stock only worthy of lousy henchman and addling adventurers who don’t know an ahuizotl when he sees one! Of course, the guys down at AHA refuse to let me call myself my own species because it’s also my name, so they keep putting me down as a chimera when I am clearly much more than a simple… Curses! I am derailing myself, again!

A purple flare caught my attention as Kirth burned back into existence, pursing his lips and letting his buggy eyes wander, letting me know he had a stupid idea he wanted to share with me. “What is it, Kirth?” I sighed with annoyance to solicit his advice while resting my face in my palm.

“Well, you said you got a degree in Archaeology from a griffon university back in the day, right?”

I ran my fingers around the rim of the tankard, producing a low hum. “Without going into the littler details, yes, and a minor in Histories of Ancient Races,” I looked up from my playful drink. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“This is kind of a silly idea, and you’re probably not gonna like it, but with those credentials under your paw, why doncha go straight and narrow for a while? You know, just until you’re solvent again?”

Oh gods. Not that, he could have said anything but that. Okay Ahuizotl, don’t falter now. You have an image to maintain.

“Do I seem that desperate to you, Kirth?” I said, standing to my hind legs, a little more wobbly from intoxication than I had hoped. “You don’t think I can afford my own excursions anymore do you? That I have fallen so far that I have to resort to EARNING money through an… an HONEST living of all things?!”

He bit his lip a bit before tepidly sighing and averting his eyes from me. “Well… you did kinda open a tab tonight on the cheapest rum I’ve got,” he offered in a fastidious reply as he buzzed over to a cabinet door, revealing over twenty rather large bottles of the nasty liquor. “To be honest, I was about to start throwing the stuff out. I usually can’t even give this swill away.”

My knees buckled from under me as I lost my footing, flopped back onto the bar stool, and slammed my head against the cold, callous table with a depressed murmur and lip quaver. My eyes felt moist as what little pride I had left my soul, forming into tiny water droplets to drip away from my broken face. I had hit rock bottom.


After several more drinks and what I perceived as a momentary blackout, I found myself blearily following Kirth as he led me out the door of the Shifty Saloon in the late morning hours of what I was hoping to be the following day. I tried to focus to test my vision by reading the sign of the store at the edge of the Leota Forest. “The Shifty Saloon: A vicious hive catering to scum and villainy,” good, regaining that level of cognition meant the world would probably stop spinning soon, but I still wasn’t sure. All I needed was to keep my paws on the ground and try to get some water in me to help stem the hangover. Above all, I must maintain my focus. It was such a blur why I was out here, but I think he had mentioned some plan about introducing me to some pony from far away to help me get resettled somewhere.

“So remind me Kirth, who is this friend of yours that can help me?” I asked, trying to get myself thinking about something else other than the bright sunlight burning into my eyes.

“I guess you could say she’s my friend, but she’s not really MY friend,” he corrected with a nervous tone, never a good sign when talking to Kirth. It was usually followed up by something terrible.

“Wait, she isn’t another you is she?”

“No! Well, at least I don’t think so. It’s more that she’s a friend of, well, she-who-you-don’t-like-to-be-named.”

“WHAT?! It’s a friend of that useless Lacerunner isn't it? Oh sh—” before I could stop myself, Kirth burst into purple flames revealing the slender, pink-maned Saddle Arabian barrel dancer. By all rights and accounts, her sleek frame draped in a faintly magenta coat was an entrancing vision of beauty reminiscent to depictions of wondrous genies of Saddle Arabian folklore, but knowing behind that tantalizing tail was also Kirth, Marby, and old Lesterloof, just to name a few of the extended mental family Kirth had built himself… or herself… damn changelings! Where was I going with this? Come to think of it, I’m not sure if Kirth is the original one under that myriad of personae. Gah! Never mind that, focus, focus!

“Did someone call for my special brand of loveliness?” she asked her unknown audience, only to flutter open her opal eyes to see me meeting her gaze. “Oh! My luscious Ali, you have returned to me!” I winced at hearing the little nickname she’d given me as the over-stimulating mare cantered over to me, wrapping her silken sash around the back of my neck to pull me into a kiss, which I would have resisted if not for my inebriation. “To what do I owe the pleasure, my rajil mutheer?” Lacerunner purred with a saunter, sashay, and a flourish. She does make me wonder if an actual Saddle Arabian would be offended by this flashy stereotype.

I sighed as I was forced to deal with the mixed-up mare. She is one of the few personalities of Kirth’s that was not aware of being a changeling underneath what little clothing she covered herself in. With this one, it is always with the careful wording to not cause an existential crisis. “Kirth mentioned to me that you had a friend from some pony town that stops by the Saloon every-so-often.”

She furrowed her brow and pursed her lips, disappointed by my continued disinterest in her. “Oh, you mean little Lyra,” she huffed with an eye roll and a pout. “Why do you not want to see me, my precious pilferer of powerful pleasures? Do you not find one such as I,” she stood to her hind legs and spun around once, punctuating her rotation cessation with hip gyration, “appealing?” How equine barrel dancers balance on their wobbly hind legs is simply beyond me.

“I’d rather not talk about it. I need to…” I can’t believe I am saying this to her of all creatures, “lay low for a while. Get a fresh start to get me back on my paws.”

She immediately sparkled at my statement, pressing her hooves against her face, bursting with excitement. “I’ve got it! We could talk to Mister Kirth to see if you and I could form a dance duo on stage! Think about it, Lacerunner and Prince Ali, dancing upon the dunes under the midnight sky, captivating the entire world with our divine movements upon the heavens…”

Is that what she sees herself as when she is parading for bits in that crummy bar? Aye yai yai, this delusional dancer is going to give me a migraine. “No, no, no. That is the very opposite of laying low. Besides, I can’t afford such… extravagance as of late.”

“Really?” the dancer replied in disbelief. “You can’t be that bad off. You’re a world-famous thief stealing gems and relics worth millions upon millions of bits from the most dangerous places, ever!”

“It takes money to make money,” I offered back with the cliched line. She stared back at me with those big, pleading eyes of hers, begging for an answer, but I was not about to get into a spiel about the intricacies of villainous dungeon-delving finances. Commission fees, lead deposits, the all important “don’t kill me if you find a relic that lets you dominate the world” fund we all pay into—you know, just in case one of them proves to be really powerful—and so many other little expenses along the way that keeps our organization going. At least they pay stipends for a while if a plan is thwarted and published by one of our rival's books, archaeologists or otherwise. However, my most recent “failure checks” are going straight into repaying the advances I had taken out to put those unsuccessful plans in place. It's student loans all over again.

She huffed realizing I was not going to elaborate and changed the subject to revive our dead conversation. “Fine, then why do you want to go with Lyra anyway? What is there to be gained in her little place of Ponyville?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? A peaceful little village in the heart of Equestria was no place for an evil mastermind such as I. However, being a fugitive the world over narrows your options when seeking asylum. The AHA and its members always take great care to hide its actions from the eternal diarchs of that land. After all, getting on the wrong side of two ponies who can craft the heavens on a whim is not good for business. Our members may be known the across the globe for their foul deeds and nefarious schemes, but none of us were ever wanted by the Equestrian crown. The ancient castle of the two sisters is one of the best untouched plundering spots known the world over, but stealing from the still-living owners of that ruin is begging to be banished to the sun. With my criminal record practically nonexistent in the civil areas of Equestria, save Daring Do's accursed best-sellers, I may, at the very least, be able to get some, ugh, decent work.

“It is nothing for you to concern yourself with, dancer!” I’ll be damned before I find comfort in her miserable company. “I am more surprised you even know any pony being all the way out here.”

“I do have other friends aside from the scoundrels Lesterloof and Skyline keep up with. I met Lyra when I was on tour for Mister Kirth on one of his Lovebug Tours as he calls them. She was interested in learning to barrel dance after watching one of my performances,” she bubbled with a hip sway into my side. “I must say that she is quite the jadhab hurma on stage being double-jointed in all the right places. Such a shame she’s so attached to her little harp and that Bonny Bon of hers, I would have taken the mare to tour the world with me. Lucky for you, I am meeting her today in a quaint little town at the edge of Flame Geyser Swamp.”

If I was recalling my maps right, the trek from the nowhere bar to such a place would take roughly half a day with no distractions. I prayed deeply as we started along the rough path that something, anything within that tiny changeling brain of hers would spark a personality swap. I can barely handle the flamboyant horse sober, and I’d rather not resort to killing my guide to get a moments peace.

“I know! To pass the time, let’s play Name that Tune. I’ll start,” she bubbled before immediately beginning to hum an annoying pop song while dancing around me.

“I give up,” I deadpanned.

“Oh come now, you have to at least make a guess, I haven’t even hit the chorus yet.”

“Okay, Garbled Messes by the Filladelies, now shut up.”

“Nope, wrong! Delight in Starlight by Dahlia Westerhoof,” she cooed victoriously. “Don’t worry Ali, I’ve memorized the tunes of over seven-hundred songs known the world over, surely you will guess one right!”

She began humming another ditty accompanied by a different dance as she spun in along the dirt path through the outskirts of the forest. Only being fifteen minutes into our excursion, I had a feeling that today was going to be a very, very long day.

Author's Note:

This story is dedicated to the ever important "Audience of One". The one whose life may be made better with a momentary escape from reality. Whoever that one happens to be, I hope you enjoy this story. I will do my best to tell it. - Lord Regulus

As par for the course, let me know if me or my editor missed anything as far as GSP errors (grammar, spelling and punctuation) are concerned.