Paper Girl

by leeroy_gIBZ

1: A Murderously Fast Car

I didn’t begin the day planning to steal this police cruiser and drive, lights flashing cherry red and propane blue and sirens blaring their dirge wail and a corpse stuffed in the boot, flying across the desert at breakneck speed, swerving occasionally to avoid oncoming traffic and also swerving frequently because I am somewhat tipsy. But not drunk.

That would be tremendously unladylike.

Furthermore, I would be terrifically impressed if I were ever to actually wake up with the genuine intention to include such a bizarre and depraved act in day-to-day vacation routine. Normally, said routine involves rising at noontime or later, whenever last night’s alcohol-induced lurgy has been slept off basically, and then contemplating my outfit, bathing, and then putting said outfit on and enjoying a cup of black tea while arranging the day’s amusements. That usually tends to involve either frantic fits of artistic inspiration, dramatic fits of romance, or eclectic fits of shopping – making the best out of whatever, or whoever, I happen to have on hand at the time.

I wonder which of those three categories stealing Shining Armor’s patrol car and using it to crush a skateboarder to death would count as? If the Marquis de Sade; dreadful man by the way, never read his work on a full stomach; is to be believed, then it would count as art. Personally, I don’t see the appeal in having a man’s blood splattered across the blacks and whites of the bonnet of my vehicle – it gives me the impression that I am piloting a murderous penguin, not a Chevrolet.

Still, a lady has whims – places to be, if you will – and I, Rarity Belle fashionista extraordinaire, am no exception to that state of affairs; in fact, some may accuse me of being its exemplar. I did, after all, just spend a horrid amount of money on Irish Coffees. $420 or so, give or take a cent. May I add that letting darling Twilight foot the bill was definitely a wise choice.

Or perhaps Cadance footed it.

Or perhaps the number of texts blowing up on my phone are proof of her intent for me to pay for one of my own drinks, for once.

In hindsight, that all may have had something to do with my decision to purloin this car…

The drinks I drank, that is, not my refusal to afford them.

My phone trilled again and, to my surprise, it was not to the generic bing of an unknown number either. For I make an attempt to at least arrange my life’s mayhem into something resembling organized chaos, I had in fact set the text and ringtones of all my lovers to a specific tune. Of course, having the attention span of a gnat when it comes to everything but fashion and trashy romantic novels, I generally forget to actually remove that tone once the inevitable breakup actually occurs – brilliant yes, but I have an excuse past sentimentality, namely as I have remarkably little of that, and said excuse is my mental condition; that all I have already explained today and now, while driving far faster than one should in a stolen car, is not the time to repeat that explanation.

Knowing that it wasn’t Twilight messaging me – namely as I had accidentally taken along her purse and, thusly, her phone with me on this grand adventure, I decided to check who exactly it was beseeching me at this hour. I pulled the car over, beside and then behind an abandoned gas station – likely abandoned for its misunderstood genius of an architect built it dangerously close to a cliff edge. However, I was on the safe side – for now, at least – so I flicked off the sirens and checked my phone.

Keep in mind that I might be a sociopath, but I’m not an idiot. Drunk Tipsy driving is dangerous enough as is; no need to add phone misuse to that unless one wants a conniption and possibly a car crash on their now-crumpled up platter.

To my surprise, it was Sunny Flare.

My ex-girlfriend, Sunny Flare.

Ex due to… ah, I haven’t the faintest mote of an idea why I ended that relationship but I do suspect alcohol may have been involved; that and the darling girl has issues, significant ones. I cannot for the life of me remember what they were though.

Anyhow, this is what she said:

Flare, Sunny – 17::13

· Hey raretea its been a while hasn’t it? How aare you doing? Stlil dating Octavia right I hope. Shes cool you know. you r one lucky gril.

· Anyhow oh damn sorry! I forgot to send you the invite forget that message okay???

· Sheesh what is it 5pm and I can’t typ alreadyyy? damn this Bombay saffire is gooood stuff.

· Hello Rarity, this is Sugarcoat speaking/texting. As you can tell, Sunny is drunk. Don’t worry, this isn’t just because she’s an alcoholic with no self-control.

Well, I can’t say that I was worried…

· It’s actually because she’s currently on her fifth martini of the evening. At this point, I think she’s just whispering “vermouth” at glasses of gin before downing them in a futile attempt to make her deadbeat father come home and make her mother pay attention to her. Also, she says to tell you that that’s called the Churchill Method and its what its namesake prime minister used to do during the War.

Good to know I suppose…

· Anyway, its her 18^th birthday today and she’s feeling sad because she forgot to invite you to her house party or something. So here’s your invitation. Be there, for whatever reason she actually wants to see you of all people, or I’ll drag you there myself just so that she shuts up and stops spouting historical trivia at me.

Well then, the nerve of that girl…

· Thanx suga! Loveyabye!

She, Sunny presumably unless Sugarcoat’s forgotten her self-awareness on the wrong side of the bed where she woke up this morning, does realise that I can’t actually hear their conversation, right? Not that I particularly want to…

· Also I want you. (this is Sunny again btw)

· Here at my partyyyy! Duh.

· 2 drunk to type 2day.

· Fleur’s in Geneva rn vistng family

· Jus thought u should know

· Asgfgjhsfdg Im super lonely

· Gimme a sec brb soursweets made white russian

Finally, my phone stopped chiming. What a relief, I was getting terribly tired of that bell’s tingle.

Anyhow, what did she say? Ah, yes! Fleur’s in Geneva, is she? Well, more arousing words have been spoken, but I have a feeling that that is about as good as Sunny is going to get given her current condition – or at all, given her insipid personality. Originally, I was merely planning to dump this car – cargo still within – and call myself an Uber back home in time to catch the NASCAR relay and, infinitely more importantly, help myself to the case of Namibian beer my dear father imported.

Yes, I know beer isn’t a terribly ladylike beverage. However, foreign things, even Windhoek Lager, are classy and foreign things from Africa are also exotic. It’s also my favourite and I would rather be stripped nude and then dressed like a hillbilly than miss out on it – even if it means putting up with my father hollering at the television for an hour or two.

However, given Sunny’s awfully enticing offer, I may have to reconsider my plans. The address of the Uber, I mean, not what I intend to do with the body and the stolen car. The former is, pardon the French, dead and the latter is dying from a debilitating lack of gasoline and had about another seven miles in it, anyhow.

Producing my phone, I realized that Twilight’s likely had more credit on it – credit I would not have to recompense, knowing that she’d be wanting the IPhone X back at some point; if only for the science-themed notes within it, not because the little device was worth more than I have legitimately made in my entire life of seventeen years, eleven months and twelve days.

I called the Uber. The driver had a long and ridiculous name and, more importantly, more recognizably, his plates simply read “Q” – tacky as a box of pins in thigh-highs and white denim, I know.

Then I began to wait. Mr de Klerk would be arriving within the hour. That gave me an amount of time, time I could be spending enjoying a heart-pounding illicit romance, I’d rather not be burdened with. And, seeing as Twilight’s phone lacked any apps immediately and obviously recognizable as games and seeing as mine, last year’s model – I plan to ask her for a new one for a birthday present, if we’re still together in a fortnight – was on 4% battery, there was only one thing for it.

Monologuing.

I hope you, read: me, do not mind. I really ought not make a habit of this – I understand that ladies are, after all, preferred when they appear not to think at all, at least, not in public.

And there’s nothing more public than a roadside diner, even an abandoned one.

As my father’s Namibian contact once said, “Civilization is using a butterknife in the bosveld.” Now, I haven’t the faintest what a bosveld is or why it requires a butterknife but the phrase stuck with me like a warm tongue to a cold ice pole and so I carry one just in case – a butterknife, that is, not a bosveld. As a matter of fact, I also carry a taser, custom made by Twilight herself to ensure instant yet long-lasting electrified debilitation to whoever I jab with it.

Very convenient – I think; I haven’t, fortunately, had the opportunity to test it out yet.

Anyhow, where was I? Oh, yes, I hadn’t really begun anything significant yet. Well, let me begin something significant then. Let me explain how one ends up stealing a car and slaughtering a man like he was nothing more than a pet cat.

The short answer is called Antisocial Personality Disorder.

However, I personally consider myself a competent enough conversationalist to avoid the refuge of the laconic epigram, so let me now revisit the long answer.

About two hours ago, upon reaching the ground floor of the building of the hotel from whose rooftop restaurant I had purchased my dreadfully expensive – not to mention deliciously good – coffee, I was faced with a choice. This one did not, however, involve a car and the disputed ownership thereof. It did, however, involve Twilight.

Twilight Sparkle my girlfriend. Possibly my former girlfriend now, considering how much of an uproar Cadance produced this afternoon concerning my hands and the rather unladylike method in which I had applied them to her sister-in-law. In fact, she ordered me to apologize to Twilight, perhaps even ending the relationship and, worst of all, return all that which I had convinced her to purchase for me.

The gall of that woman. She ought to know better.

Ladies do not take orders.

I specifically find such coarse coercion to be incredibly degrading and I do make quite the effort never to have to deign to follow any such commands that do not personally and immediately enrich my life. That all and I did not particularly want to relinquish my wardrobe to any soul, let alone one who wouldn’t even know how to carry off the vast majority of it.

As such, I had at the time every intention of keeping Twilight and myself together – it was the only rational choice when doing elsewise would likely strip me, both figuratively and literally, of a great deal of what made me, me. Clothes, after all, do make the woman. So, after milling about in the foyer after a while, pretending to enjoy a complementary cup of black coffee and trying to get my heartbeat back down to a rate per minute lower than the speed at which I had flown through the city’s outskirts, I decided that something would need to be done.

What said something is, in its entirety, I have no clue.

Staying with Twilight would be preferable. However, I know myself too well to pretend that that is a performable option. In knowing myself, I realized that I am, alas, a somewhat flawed human being; no empathy, little self-control, few scruples and all that; and I was bound to make a mistake sooner or later and bring Cadance’s proverbial wrath down upon myself yet again.

Next time, I fear, she might not be so accommodating as to let her sister-in-law decide the fate of her own relationship.

She might tell people.

Tell them about me – and my little secret.

And I still have two terms of school to spend listlessly withering of boredom in this dreadful town. Before, that is, I bid my friends and family farewell and travel off to greener pastures in search of wine, women, and song. And outfits – never forget the outfits.

But let me digress for a minute – on the topic of my departure. It was inevitable, even after Cadance threatened to expose my dirty little secret to the masses. Under no condition whatsoever was I going to squander the rest of my life, and my potential, in Canterlot City. If the world was going to be my oyster, I was going to enjoy it somewhere more conducive to the electrifying flashes of inspiration from which the vast majority of my work bears its ancestry. I was going to enjoy it somewhere more enabling to my lifestyle than a pathetic little mockery of an American state jammed in between southern Oregon and northern California.

Lucerne! – that was where I was planning to emigrate to. The Swiss city has the most prestigious business schools on the planet and I would have felt filthy patronizing any lesser of an establishment in order to acquire the relevant knowledge required to transform my charitable predilections into a reliable source of revenue. Then I planned to go somewhere sunny. Preferably a small Caribbean, or Italian, island with lax taxation laws, several good department stores, and an overabundance of attractive men and women for me to pluck off the proverbial grapevine as if they were, well, grapes. Martinique sounded promising right about now.

As a matter of fact, as did Hong Kong and, perhaps, Venice.

Sunset Shimmer, of course, was not entirely on board with that idea. Then again, she was never entirely on board with me in the first place. Yes, we were technically the only thing standing in between this planet and its domination by the dark and terrible forces of evil magics but I was getting somewhat tired of that whole affair and I was reasonably confident our magic pendants were perfectly capable of functioning on their own; Sunset’s own little adventure at the music festival was proof enough of that, unless she too is a compulsive liar.

Which I doubt she is; things might be interesting enough to keep me in the city if that were the case.

After all, the Rainbooms did produce pop music.

Pop music is as about as proletarian one can get while not hanging one’s trousers about one’s thighs.

I personally prefer symphonic metal.

Yes, you heard me properly – you are me and, if I do know one thing at all, I know what I like. Now it might not seem at first glance the most ladylike of musical genres but nobody can be perfect – not Cadance and certainly not myself given the day’s progression. Anyhow, I do quite enjoy the operatic and classic elements of the style and I find that they grant the genre a certain level of gravitas otherwise unseen in the metal family – the distorted riffs and gooseflesh-giving growls only serve to enhance the otherwise majestic instrumentation present in its discography. Liken it to a foil, if you will; the piece of silver a jeweller worth his salt invariably places beneath a gemstone in order to highlight its qualities.

Hoping for the best I flicked on the radio.

I take it back.

I flicked off the radio.

Rap is far more proletarian than pop. At least, with pop and symphonic metal, there exists some overlap – namely Delain or Within Temptation, maybe Ghost on a good day. But with rap? Such a thing is nonsensical with rap, and I can barely hear myself monologue with the unintelligible jabbering of some or other egoist spewing forth from the radio like pus from a septic wound.

Anyhow, oh what a digression this is becoming, I was planning to leave before this series of events transpired over an otherwise-delectable cup of civet coffee. Sunset protested and she did so under a mistaken belief that my disappearance would somehow cause the rest of their magical pendants to malfunction or, worse yet, cease to function entirely. Personally, as previously stated, I thought that that was nonsense.

Furthermore, Canterlot City’s tendency towards the supernal is so due to its location about the portal to Equestria; if anything would disable dear Sunset’s telepathic abilities, it would be that. Myself being in Switzerland would have no effect, not while the rest of the Rainbooms are still growing old in the state, anyhow.

Well, save for Fluttershy.

For whatever reason, likely environmental, she wanted to come to Brazil. But, being herself – buxom, bashful, brainless and, unfortunately, straight, and, relevantly, spineless – Sunset henpecked her into casting aside her travel plans in order to keep her around in case of any marauding mythical monsters – manticores and cockatrices and bugbears, oh my – that required her abilities to tame.

So, as I awaited my Uber and enjoyed a cigarette from the pack I’d found in Shining Armor’s glovebox, I attempted to calm down somewhat. This little disappearance of mine could be rationalized as nothing more than simply an acceleration of plans already put in motion. Hopefully, nobody would realize – and then subsequently blame me for the vehicle’s, or the man’s, change of location and or state of being from alive to… elsewise. Alas, the specifics of how I was going to get to Lucerne at this point were still up in the air, but at least I wasn’t currently having a conniption.

Never have a conniption, unless you were planning on it beforehand.

And, as for the explanation, now where did I leave off? Ah, yes, around about my entrance and subsequent drink in the lobby I do suppose; yes, that does seem like a suitable point from which to digress. Now, after finishing off a rather disappointing cup of filter coffee given to me by a rather disappointing-looking concierge, I started outside.

In Shining Armor’s car, parked on the sidewalk next to a rapidly-running-up meter, was darling Twilight. She hadn’t seen me yet, due to her adorably sweet face being buried in a disgustingly sour book – she mentioned that she was interested in, read: over-obsessing about, Zen Buddhism, or was it the so-called “art” of motorcycle maintenance? that week, so I suppose that was what she was ruining her already dreadful eyesight over.

Honestly, it is not ladylike to read in public, especially not when one’s relatives are awaiting one’s presence upstairs.

Doing what I do best to avert that dreadful state of affairs by being the most charming individual in said state of affairs, I approached the vehicle, thinking of what to say and how to salvage my crumbling reputation without being forced to live as the lower middle class did again.

I would rather die, naked and splattered with barbeque sauce, than be forced to buy another piece of apparel from Walmart.

Tapping ever-so-gently on the window, I caught her attention. Twilight froze and snapped her head towards me and gave me a dually surprised and expectant sort of look. I gave her my best, my most optimistic, smile and mimed the opening of the car door. She obliged, nodding and reaching over to the driver’s seat and unlocking the door beside myself. That I then opened and I sat down next to her.

“Rarity,” she said, somewhat apprehensively, making way for me to sit down by putting her handbag on her lap. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Indeed, it is, Darling. Beautifully cute,” I nodded to her, “as always.”

Twilight blushed; she must’ve thought that I was talking about her. I continued, “Terribly charming and truly sublime. Alas, your sister-in-law is none of those things.”

“Cadance? Oh! Did you like her? I thought she made a good first impression on you. For some reason, she didn’t seem to really be that impressed when I told her about you though.”

No doubt she recalled my juvenile delinquency of years past. She was, after all, my primary school’s guidance counsellor around about the time I nearly bullied a paraplegic off a rooftop.

But enough about that.

“Oh no, you didn’t tell me that she was so beautiful, that was all,” I said, with a wave of my hand, “I felt quite underdressed in there. If you had informed me that your brother’s wife was a supermodel, I might’ve taken a coat and my soiree jewels.”

Twilight blushed and stuck a bookmark in her textbook. Putting it aside, between us, she looked up at me.

For the record and that alone, I was dressed at the time in a halter dress and kitten heels, both black, both designer, both bought for me by Twilight herself. Do you see the issue here? The one involved in me returning a veritable wardrobe of clothes to her, that is.

Also, for the record and for I enjoy describing outfits, even drab ones, Twilight was dressed in a blue Denim skirt which covered partially a pair of white and purple striped leggings. Her t-shirt, Pinkie Pie had gotten her into the business of wearing them and I was unable to get her out of said proletarian practice, was black and it bore the face of some highly regarded philosopher – Spinoza, apparently – ugly fellow, but the obviously intelligent always are. Completing the ensemble was the jasmine-pattern silk scarf I had gifted her a week prior to today, just after my unfortunate act of punching her; an act, might I add, she had incensed me to commit with a dreadfully turgid day out. She took me to a science museum.

“Well, to me,” Twilight continued, “she’s just Cady, my babysitter. I forgot that she used to model before going into education.”

“Ah, how interesting,” I lied. “Now, I’m afraid that we had a rather unpleasant conversation. Yes, a tremendously unpleasant conversation. Deeply unfortunate and all.”

“She warned me that that might happen, actually.”

“Well, it did. Apparently, she found out about our little accident, you know the one. And she was none too pleased with that realization, let me tell you. She gave me quite the earful.”

Twilight nodded. “Yeah, I’m really sorry about that, Rarity. I didn’t want to tell her or anything, I promise. But,” her eyes glanced over to her shoulder where, beneath her shirt and scarf, lay a rather nasty bruise, “but I’d accidentally forgotten about what happened and she noticed that I was a bit sore during our weekly tennis match. One thing led to another and, well… she insisted on seeing you. Alone.”

“Alone? I seem to recall her spouse being there. That brute had a gun, you know.”

An MP-25, to be specific; commonly known as a Saturday Night Special. And no, I did not learn that out of my own volition; my father drags me to his NRA meetings to show me off to the resident crowd of thin-blue-line-Punisher-skull-patch-wearing buffoons. That and teach me self defence. At least, he used to before the organization’s alcohol policy was changed and the chairman figured out that I was sixteen, at the time.

“Well, he is a policeman,” Twilight continued, “But I didn’t know he was coming along to lunch or anything. I thought that Shiny was just giving us a lift, that’s all. But he’s really not that bad, Rarity, I think you’d like him if you got to know him. You know, he has a really great sense of humour.”

“I do not plan on such a thing, Darling. He could be the nicest man in the world-”

To my surprise, she actually dared to cut me off there. “Really, Shiny is. He’s the best brother a girl could ask for.”

I glared at Twilight. She looked down at her feet.

“As I was saying, it was very intimidating having him, an office of the law, stare over my shoulder while Cadance complained at me. I thought I was going to be apprehended. And do you know what she, this Cady, said? Honestly, the gall of that woman! It drives me to drink! I could faint. I nearly did too; she might be beautiful but she’s got the tongue of monster, that woman.”

Twilight blinked. “What? No, she doesn’t! What could possibly have been said to you, Rarity?”

Ah. I had presumed that Cadance had given Twilight the full explanation of my condition. Such was not the case, clearly, or Twilight had somehow grown a sense of subterfuge since the day I had seen her last, two days ago when school let out for the term.

Still, I didn’t doubt for a second that Cadance would happily do so given my failure to comply with her requests. As such, some discretion was still advised. Now, how could I spin this so that I came out on top, where I did so very much enjoy being?

“She called me a psycho, Twilight.”

Technically true.

Twilight, to her credit, gasped and put a hand to her heart – I must be rubbing off on her. “She didn’t! Why’d she say that?”

“She had misunderstood the exact nature of how you acquired that little injury. She had thought me some marauding carnivore, intent on molesting you and your finances!”

Beneath a set of spectacles, a pair of plum-dark eyebrows shot up, nearly blowing a hole in the car’s roof. Outside, a man skateboarded past and did a kickflip. “That’s awful. You’re not like that at all! It was a mistake,” Twilight cried, “anyone could’ve done that.”

“She insisted we have a talk,” I said gravely.

Twilight impersonated a goldfish for a few seconds, popping open and closed her mouth a few times before finally remembering that it’s only a conversation if two or more people actually speak. “A talk?” she asked, confused.

“Indeed. She was most displeased with what really was just a simple accident, I’m sure you’ll agree. However, she did insist that we discuss our relationship somewhat and perhaps reconsider a few things.”

Somewhat true.

Cadance actually asked that I just discuss my relationship with Twilight and see what she wanted to do. However, I do suspect that, given the way that dreadful woman stared at me, Cadance intended for her sister to call said relationship to an end.

I know how it is with these unassertive types; you have to do everything for them.

And, true to said type, all of Twilight’s gorm, what little of it she had in the first place, sapped right out of her like the juice from a squeezed lemon. My statement had left her thoroughly gormless, staring wide eyed at me as if I had just admitted that I wished to lop off my own breasts with nothing more than a rusty garden hoe and a bottle of cheap scotch, for anaesthetic purposes.

There are so few perfect pairs of breasts in this world. It would be such a shame to ruin mine.

Besides, I only drink expensive whisky – Monkey Shoulder, for instance. Anything less is bottled poison and is such the domain of men who paint their chests before attending a sporting event shirtless and carrying a keg of the stuff, like my father, the dreadful oaf that he is.

Now tears were forming about the corners of Twilight’s eyes, like frost may on a pane of amethyst-tinted glass come midwinter.

“She-she doesn’t want us to break up, does she?” she mumbled.

“Think about it, Darling,” I put a hand on her shoulder, the unbruised one, saying, “You saw how furious she was.”

Morose, Twilight nodded.

I continued, “However, I can’t possibly make you choose between me and her, right now. That would be incredibly cruel, not to mention dreadfully impractical. Besides, such a decision should not be made on the fly and it certainly ought not be made in a police cruiser.”

Another nod. What is that, the fourth one of the afternoon?

“I guess… I guess that does make sense, Rarity.”

“Of course, it does. A lady does not make nonsensical statements, and she most certainly does not lie where romance is involved. However, there is more to what our conversation entailed. She made some rather horrid accusations, calling me, Rarity Belle fashionista extraordinaire, a ‘psycho’, of all things.”

“I can imagine her doing that,” Twilight said, sourly, “She did the same to Timber. You remember him, right? he was the camp counsellor. We dated. Briefly.”

Nothing bores me more than other peoples’ past romances, as much as my ladylike persona would, unfortunately, suggest otherwise; one can’t care about only their own lives unless one wishes to be seen as a narcissist. “Twilight,” I lied, “Dearest, you’re rambling.”

“Oh! Sorry. But surely if none of what she said is true, then it wouldn’t matter what she thinks. I really don’t want to have to choose between the two of you, but if I really had to, I would choose you.”

How flattering. It is nice to be reminded how adorably delightful you are every so often, darling Twilight.

I sighed; it was a sigh for the ages, filled with just the right amount of breathy moaning, just enough to suggest that the sigher, myself, would be very entertaining in bed, which she is, while also possessing the appropriate quantity of eyelash fluttering and head turning. That there was a sigh that, if made, would instantly endear me to whoever was victim of it.

As I was, I was already very endearing.

Now it was Twilight’s turn to comfort me.

She shoved her book aside and drew me into a hug. I hesitated for the expected amount of time, before morosely laying a hand atop one of her arms. Outside, the man with the skateboard hooted. Beast.

While Twilight was distracted, I made a very unladylike gesture in his general direction.

“Now, Twily,” I continued, “if only you could choose me.”

“If only?”

“It’s just that,” I paused, and sniffled slightly, “its… just… that,” another sniffle, “she wasn’t lying with what she said!”

I sobbed and went like spaghetti in her arms. Being slightly larger than her, that resulted in her being a bit squished. Sacrifices, though, must be made and it really is times like this that not possessing a shred of empathy can be somewhat helpful.

To her credit, she maneuvered me into a position where my head was balanced upon her lap; she took the opportunity to stroke my hair. If she was good at it, I might have enjoyed it. I pretended to enjoy it very much, just as I always did.

“What do you mean, Rarity? You aren’t a ‘psycho’, you’re the loveliest, kindest, most generous person I’ve ever met.”

My normal reaction to the chance to tell somebody I have Antisocial Personality Disorder is to avoid said chance with the same vehemence I typically use to avoid stepping barefoot into somebody else’s vomit. However, today had not been normal and Cadance was going to tell Twilight all this herself sooner or later, the next time I inevitably lost control and did something foolish so I might as well at least paint myself in the best light possible before she tries to drag my name through the mud. Again.

I sighed for a second time. “Twilight, Love of My Life, Owner of the Key to my Heart, ah not to mention my Boudoir, Darling. You flatter me, you really do. While you aren’t wrong about any of that, there’s a bit more to my story. Something I haven’t told you.”

Twilight paused mid-stroke. “Uh… what? You… ah, you aren’t cheating on me are you?”

I had considered it but no, I was not currently doing as such. Namely as all eligible persons were either out of town or busy. Pardon my French, but damn you to Tartarus, Octavia Melody, damn you for vacationing in the Pyrenees and leaving me all alone when Twilight and her folks went on that cruise. Damn you.

“Not at all, my dear,” I said.

“Then what? Are you gay?”

Sometimes, one encounters a person who is spectacularly intelligent. Sometimes, one encounters a person who is extraordinarily stupid. Rarely, one encounters a person who embodies both of those aspects at once. Twilight was like that; she could do trigonometry in her head, or remember the lines of succession for the Saudi aristocracy or build a time machine or, in this case, comfort me, but in all cases common sense was often beyond her. Not because she was medically incapable of having any, no, but because she was too preoccupied with trying to do trigonometry in her head.

“No, Twilight, we’ve been over that. I’m bisexual, most sociopaths are for some or other reason.”

Another pause. Her hand went tight around a lock of my hair. “Pardon, Rarity, I don’t think I heard you right there. Not properly.”

“Bisexual, Twilight. I am attracted to both men and women. As were Julius Caesar, Frida Kahlo, and Lord Byron and a sizeable number of other great personalities.”

“Not that, Rarity, the other thing. What did you say?”

“Oh yes. That. Well, that is what I am. A sociopath.”

“Are you telling me that you have Antisocial Personality Disorder?”

Oh my. Give it to Twilight to hit the proverbial nail on her proverbial head, one must, and give it to her to do so with a blunt and unseemly and clumsy descriptor.

I nodded. Doing that with your head in somebody else’s lap is not the easiest thing in the world but I do it, I did and I was practiced in the art of doing so. “I am afraid so, Twilight. I’m not as perfect as you thought I were.”

Twilight went quiet for a bit. Pardon my French, but drat. This is not going as well as I hoped and I had not expected it to go very well at all. At this rate, I may very well lose this dress. And not, again pardon my French, in the sexy way I tend to lose items of clothing.

At about the time when the silence was getting awkward, I spoke up again, “Yes, so Cadance is not entirely without ground to stand on.”

“But you’re… you! You’re not a murderer or a thief or an axe-wielding maniac or anything like that. You’re Rarity. You’re great, you’re nice and you’re patient and you’re a great listener. You’re a good person.”

Apparently.

I would’ve thought I am a great actress, first and foremost. But, then again, very little save for sincerity itself separates reality from the greatest of plays. Truly fantastic actors die unrecognized. I do believe Oscar Wilde had quite a bit to say about that, but he was gay, not bisexual and this tangent is getting nowhere.

Sighing again, I buried my face in her skirt and pretended to cry a bit. Outside, a man clapped his hands.

Do not fault him; my rear end tends to have that effect on people of his calibre – a functionally debased and, if you’ll pardon my French, functionally retarded calibre.

However, one can only spend so much time with her head pressed against somebody else’s thighs before something interesting happens. Preferably more exciting forms of foreplay should happen but, then again, that would be a very unladylike thing to do in the back seat of a police cruiser parked in downtown Canterlot. That and that stain by the armrest is telling me that Cadance already does such a thing on a regular basis.

Oh, if I could be Shining Armor right now and make that piggish schlub get me out of here while I go off and deflower his wife. Alas, that sort of magic isn’t real – not when I need it, anyway – and I doubt he is anywhere near silver-tongued enough to actually do so to any reasonable regard.

Holding my head in my hands and jabbing my elbows into her thighs, I stared upwards at Twilight. “Darling,” I began, “I know that I’m not any of those monstrous things and I’m very relieved you know that I’m not. However, Cadance is under the sound belief that I am for some or other reason. In fact, she threatened to tell the whole world of my unfortunate condition.”

Twilight gasped. “She wouldn’t!”

Well, she didn’t outright say that she would.

“We both know her too well to think that highly of her, I’m afraid. Hence, her commanded for you, specifically you, to reconsider our affair and whatnot.”

“What do you mean? She doesn’t want us to break up, does she?”

“She does,” I said, voice graver than a tombstone.

“Why?” Another gasp. “It’s not because of me, is it?”

Good girl; realizing who is really at fault here.

“It is,” I said, voice graver than a mausoleum.

Finding a new reserve of gorm with which to lose, Twilight’s jaw sagged. She blinked away tears – genuine ones. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know! I’m so clumsy, aren’t I?” She sobbed.

“Yes, you are and now it’s getting our relationship destroyed.”

Twilight cried.

Contrary to popular misinterpretation of my condition, I am not actually a sadist. I’m not a masochist either, in case you were wondering whether or not my life story included me in any degrading yet arousing leather-clad positions. Seeing Twilight cry, however, although it didn’t rouse any compassion in me, was bothersome.

Ladies do not like to be bothered.

“Come, now,” I said, placing a hand on her shoulder, the sore one, not letting go when she flinched, “this is not the end of the world. At least, it doesn’t have to be. Listen, Darling, I have a plan.”

A beat.

Rubbing her eyes, Twilight’s weeping paused. Good. Now we are getting somewhere, somewhere I’d like to be going for once.

I pulled her close and I told her what we were going to do.

And, as this is still an explanation – albeit a fairly engrossing one, or so I hope – this is what I told her, “Twilight, now, before you ask, I do still love you.”

A nod, fragile. Teary.

“I have loved you since the first time we met, since I laid my eyes upon you. It was love at first sight,” I lied.

Another nod, tentative. Unsure.

“And I love you more than I love anyone else in the whole world. My condition doesn’t change that; I’m still a human being. One who adores you more than anything,” I kept lying.

A third nod, nervous. Hopeful.

“And I know what to do about Cadance. She’s smart but, together,” or alone in terms of myself, “we’re smarter. This is what you’ll do, Darling. You’re going to go up there, to Café del Sade on the penthouse floor, and you’re going to tell Cadance that I apologized for whatever slight I committed, don’t say exactly that by the way, and that, although we’re still together, I am determined to change and you are going to take the lead from now on,” hopefully that shouldn’t be too hard for her, lacking a backbone and all, “And, as proof of my change of heart, look, you can even take my handbag.”

After emptying it of its valuables, I handed her the bag, a pretty watermelon shaped affair from Gucci. She accepted it with reddened eyes and shaking hands. A small price to pay for salvation. Interestingly enough, I do believe that is a movie quote – Sweetie Belle kept saying it over dinner last week. Also, let it be known that doing the dishes before dessert is not, as the franchise’s villain would say, “a small price to pay for salvation.”

Anyhow, Twilight took the bag. I continued, “I’ll likely come up shortly, and I’ll agree with you. Then, once she’s calmed down again, we can finally enjoy ourselves some tea and have our date in peace. Then once we’ve given it a week or so, we can meet up again, for coffee, although we must do it somewhere else because the service here is awful, and then we can discuss what to do next from then onward. Don’t fret, Darling, we’ll be fine.”

Apprehensive yet lacking a better idea, for such a thing did not currently exist, Twilight nodded and sniffed away her tears. “Okay, Rarity. I’ll do that.”

With that, we kissed. She tasted like I suppose all nerdy teenage girls do – like lip gloss and useless trivia and crippling insecurity. Though, in terms of the crippling power of said insecurities and the uselessness of said trivia and the glossiness of said lips, Sunny Flare tasted better. Far, far better.

If only she didn’t date that wretched Fleur dis Lis, the things I would do to her…

But that is beside the point, honestly.

Twilight then clambered out of the vehicle. The man, skateboard under one arm, accosted her. Empowered by my speech, I suppose, she managed to brush him off with only the most minimal of apologies before hurrying off into the building.

And then I stole Shining Armor’s car.

Now, while redoing my makeup and running a brush through my hair and the like, I spotted the dashboard in my hand mirror. There, dangling like the Forbidden Fruit itself, was the car key. In fact, it was still keyed into the ignition.

A smile, a real one, spread across my face.

Once adequately enthralling again, I exited the vehicle. Then I returned to it, this time sitting in the driver’s seat. It was a markedly comfortable chair, leather embossed and with a warmer built in. Taped to the windscreen was a picture of Cadance and a smiling baby. The air freshener was shaped like a set of twenty-sided dice and it smelled like raspberries. Being an impulsive sort of lady, I proceeded to press the big red button on the dashboard.

The siren gave me quite a jolt, let me tell you. I nearly fainted.

I pressed the button again to turn the noise and the flashing red and blue lights off. And then I turned the key; the engine roared like a lion atop a mountain peak. I placed a foot onto the accelerator; the petal was shaped like a metallic foot for whatever reason. I checked my mirrors; all clear, save for the ingrate man on his skateboard dithering about in front of me.

It occurred to me that he had been very mean to my girlfriend today.

It also occurred to me that nobody of consequence had seen me get into Shining Armor’s car. Not into the driver’s seat, anyhow. As far as Twilight knows, I cannot actually drive. I’ve known how to drive since I was fourteen; my father taught me after his favourite racer won the Monaco Grand Prix.

Furthermore, I had a deeply unpleasant day and would very much like to feel in control, proper control, of something again. Although not ideal, a police cruiser would do.

My hands clasped themselves over the steering wheel.

Nobody would know.

I’m not a sadist but I do oh so enjoy a good bit of revenge. I would just scare him.

That’s all.

Anyhow, he should be more scared, perhaps then he wouldn’t go about harassing my girlfriend, somebody who’s chequebook and physical appearance I enjoy very much.

Nobody would know.

Apart from him, but what could he say, honestly? That a beautiful young woman clambered into the front seat of somebody else’s pursuit car and chased him around a bit, before driving off into the sunset?

Nobody would believe that.

I put the car in gear and turned on the siren again and started towards him. At first, he was too busy scratching his unmentionables to notice the advance. Then, he turned to me and did a funny little jump and let go of his skateboard, which had an image of a paper doll spray-painted onto its underside.

Crunch.

My foot remained on the accelerator. The car sped up. So did he, and I ran him like a whippet down to the end of the block.

It wasn’t my fault.

He tripped over his shoelace and he fell.

Backwards.

Towards the vehicle.

I was going too fast, and I was a little tipsy from the equivalent of four glasses of scotch, and I wasn’t that fond of him anyhow.

Crunch.

It began with a crunch. And then he emitted the most dreadful scream, followed by a gurgling whimper. The vehicle thumped and rumbled and squelched over him as if it were a mallet tenderizing a particularly bony piece of chicken.

A bolt of fear actually flashed through me. Somebody would likely care about that, possibly finding out about my little crime and doing something about it. Let it be known that I despise policemen and I very much would not want a single one of them doing anything to me; once was more than enough, honestly.

Reaching over to the backseat, I retrieved my pair of gloves and donned them fast enough to tear one by the right ring finger. Drat. Nevertheless, I then exited the vehicle, looked around and, to my relief, nobody was around that particular slice of downtown Canterlot; save for myself and the thing smeared across the road.

I popped open the trunk and, gritting my teeth and taking a monstrously deep breath, I hoisted up the most intact portion of him and tossed it into the trunk and slammed it shut before the smell got to me and I was ill from the hideous stench of motor oil, cheaply-priced and licentiously-advertised body spray, and fresh blood.

Then I decided to go for a drive; I took the scenic route.

Lacking a car myself, rarely ever do I get the opportunity to just drive. I told an Uber driver to do that once though, to just drive; I wound up in Fresno, and I was down $800.86. Never again.

Down were rolled the windows. I breathed a sigh of relief as the wipers got the blood off the windscreen. Outside, the world went by at quite the rate and the sunset rapidly approached. Ah! My mind felt clearer already.

I spritzed myself again with perfume and then I tugged my gloves off, one by one, and tossed them out the open window. They fluttered away like a pair of particularly-operatic silver ravens. Out of interest, I clicked open Shining Armor’s glovebox. No gloves, opera or otherwise, lay within. However, there was a crumpled half-pack of Menthols there. One I removed and lit with the lighter built into the car.

Another sigh. A puff of smoke blitzing away behind me. How clear my mind felt, how still my heart was. Nobody would know about this.

Sometimes, I wish I was normal.

But not right now.

Author's Note:

Good morning readers, and welcome to my newest story. As Rarity's a Sociopath was so well received, I've decided to write a sequel for it and finish off this Rarity's tale. I'm aware that this might lack some of the nuance that made the original what it was - as well as shifting Rarity's character from functional sociopath to dysfunctional sociopath - but I felt this route was warranted, namely because I like a bit of action in my stories as well as a bit more intrigue. Seeing Rarity just win and fixing her relationship with Sci-Twi wouldn't have been as interesting in my opinion, nor would it really have been the kind of thing I'd want to write. As such, enjoy Paper Girl and, as per usual, feedback is appreciated immensely.

Comments

[Orrm]

She's too wild, has no control, and is going to get caught for her bullshit. Sooner or later she's going to meet someone who she can't use, someone who will kill her without a shred of hesitation.

We have a saying where I come from. It goes like this,"Never take a psycho into the gang,
Why?
Because they don't know when to stop, and sooner or later, you'll have to make them."

[Jhoira]

Anti-social disorder is not the same as psychopathy.

[Orrm]

9770351
Exactly, she's not a sociopath, she's a psychopath

[Deynarth]

Besides, I only drink expensive whisky – Monkey Shoulder, for instance

Ha. Sorry Rarity , but that one is still cheap whisky. Not trash tier , mind , but still near the bottom of the middle range whiskies in the grand scheme of things.
To get something good , you have to , at the very least , go to twice the price of the Monkey Shoulder.

Also , that little indiscretion , namely murder , at the end here wasn't a very smart thing to do , especially since you didn't wear you gloves while at the wheel , had people waiting for you that could attest of you being there , and your girlfriend being able to say you were in that car.

Talking about Twilight , she need to think thing through more. She seemed to know about Rarity's condition , that the later admited having , but still believed her wholeheartedly in the following conversation. That's a very big mistake to make given that her condition makes her girlfriend a pathological liar (I was actually surprised that Rarity told her the truth about that.)... and also makes her litteraly unable of "loving" Twilight in the traditional sense of the term.

[leeroy_gIBZ]

9771050
I'm trying to portray Rarity as somebody who is nowhere near as cultured/knowledgeable as she thinks she is. Good catch though.

[Ice Star]

Okay now I really wanna read more

[MrGhoul]

i like the story so far

[Blood Rarity]

[leeroy_gIBZ]

9770351
Neither psychopathy or sociopathy are medically recognized terms, as far as I know. The definitions also vary from country to country but both tend to describe somebody with antisocial personality disorder. For simplicity's sake, the story regards all three as describing the same condition.

[dragonus85]

I am liking this rarity
I have a feeling cadence somehow saw her take the cruiser
And shame on shiney for leaving his keys in his cruiser

[witegrlninja]

Oh, Rarity... I've seen enough forensic TV shows to know you dun fucked up.

[giantesslover413]

I'm a sucker for a murder story, especially from the killer's perspective. Such a fascinating look at how someone could commit such a heinous crime and just not care.

[giantesslover413]

9779394
3 people knew Rarity was in that cruiser before it disappeared, so there's really no need for any of them to have seen it. The car disappeared and at the same time so did Rarity. That's not proof that she stole it, but it's certainly a very good lead, and if they find the car forensics will have her pinned down in minutes.

[dvdspires]

“As I was saying, it was very intimidating having him, an office of the law, stare over my shoulder while Cadance complained at me. I thought I was going to be apprehended. And do you know what she, this Cady, said? Honestly, the gall of that woman! It drives me to drink! I could faint. I nearly did too; she might be beautiful but she’s got the tongue of monster, that woman.”

Officer.