5: A Dreadfully Uneasy Day
Obligations, I understand. However, I cannot say that I’ve ever enjoyed them. Truth be told, the need to keep the world intact aside, the only obligations I consider worth upholding are those that immediately enrich my existence. As far as it concerns me, the arbitrary duties of romantic partnership exist solely to butter up otherwise tight-fisted and prudish people into bestowing upon their significant other what said other desires most. Excuse the lowbrow quotation but Nickelback really did sum it up rather well; my greatest desire honestly is “a credit card that’s got no limit” although come to think of it, I would not entirely be opposed to “a Playboy bunny with her bleach blonde hair.”
And, as Lyra is currently busy mourning her dead horse – and the girl is likely also naturally blonde, come to think of it – such obligations had me paying a visit to a hospital today. That is, after Sunny coerced me out of bed with the promise of a slap-up meal tonight in some downtown 5-Star restaurant.
Keeping in mind that I do not cook, Sunny can’t – as far as I know – and her servants won’t return until Monday, I begrudgingly agreed to accompany her to visit the most recent victim of a shooting in this dreary town, Indigo Zap. It was either that or going home after all and, to be frank, I’d rather suck the syphilitic snot out of a sleeping tramp’s nose than listen to another second of my sister blather about how she’ll marry Tom Holland if ever when she grows up.
Good grief, I’m rambling, aren’t it?
I suppose it is forgivable; I have had quite the stressful last couple of days, murdering people and all.
In my defence, they were annoying me.
Anyhow, to significantly shorten a longer story, Sunny was obedient enough to bankroll a day out on the town. Brunch at quite the charming little hole in the wall Maghrebi bistro started off the day. Casablanca Café, I believe it was.
About halfway through sharing a plate of shakshuka and a pot of strong coffee – keeping Halal, they alas did not serve anything that kicked harder than Arabica – Sunny must’ve noticed that I was feeling somewhat down.
I wasn’t feeling down.
I was feeling nervous.
A uniformed man had walked by our table a second back and he most certainly was not a waiter. But the swine in human clothing merely waddled along, and placed an order at the counter – fortunately oblivious to what I had been getting up to.
“Earth to Rarity, Dearie,” Sunny said, waving a manicured hand in front of my face, snapping me out of my monologue.
“Oh, yes, terribly sorry about that, Darling. I’m not much of a morning person, you see,” I replied.
“Clearly. Though why are you so twitchy? You keep looking over your shoulder or at your phone. Are you expecting a call?”
Frowning, I returned the little outdated device to Twilight’s my handbag. I cleared my throat. “This coffee must be stronger than I thought.”
“Well, they usually serve tea in Morocco, not coffee. Why don’t we get a pot of that?” Sunny suggested.
“Darling, I hardly think more caffeine is going to be of any help here.”
“Eh, you never know.” My girlfriend shrugged, exposing a svelte cyan shoulder from beneath her coat – with it being a cool day, we’d both bundled up rather well. Her in a lavender-pattern silk scarf and pastel green parka over high-waisted jeans and low-cut sweatshirt bearing the logo of some or other video game and myself in a charcoal-grey cashmere cardigan, button-down scarlet blouse and black pencil skirt, beneath which were a pair of nude stockings and modest heels.
“Bint!” Sunny called over a nearby waitress, “A cup of tea for myself and,” she turned to me, “for you, Dearie?”
Sunny continued jabbering at the waitress. I traced a crust of toast through the breakfast’s rapidly-congealing tomato sauce. Perhaps the same sweater, albeit in navy would suit her better? White is not her colour but, then again, I’d have to do something about that ridiculously gaudy orange logo too. It isn’t Halloween for another, what three months?
“Rares? Some dessert?”
I picked up at the sound of my name. “Oh? Dessert? Well, a lady should never refuse a slice of cake,” I said to the waitress glaring down at me. Really, that headscarf does not suit her.
As such, I decided against tipping.
Beauty is a rarity in this world, a truly sublime thing; those who disregard it so blatantly, by mixing eggshell and aubergine for instance, should be punished for it.
“No offence, but you seem really out of it this morning.”
“I’m quite alright, Darling,” I shot back, “just a little tired.”
Resting her chin on her hand, pushing the plate aside, Sunny asked, “You sure there isn’t something on your mind? I mean, I’d be happy to listen. Like, you put up with me venting about my life for hours. It’s the least I could do, really.”
Ah, yes. Normal people do that – they talk about their feelings. If only there was somebody I could talk to, somebody who’d understand. Alas, as Sunny is, for all intents and purposes, completely unremarkable, I doubt I’ll be telling her anytime soon about my more… illicit endeavours. But if only; a confidant would be a true pleasure.
“Not really,” I lied. “You don’t need to worry about me.”
“If you say so?” Sunny, confused, raised an eyebrow.
“I do, Darling, I do.” I kept lying. “The closest thing to a concern I have is what to do for my next project.”
Her face lit up like a spotlight wired directly into a power line. “Well, I’ve got a few ideas. I mean, if you wouldn’t mind, like, collaborating? Like we used to do.”
“Not at all, Darling,” I said.
Come to think of it, offloading one or two commissions onto Sunny would be an excellent use of her more practical talents. That and she’d stay out of my hair for a while, at least. My, she is as pretty as she is dependant and you, being me, know all too well my feelings on obligations lasting anything more than a half-day at most.
“That’s great. Let me pull up my sketchbook then!” Sunny said, producing her own phone, tapping open an app, and proceeding to bore me with the most insipid design’s I’ve seen since last year’s Coachella. Honestly, nobody in their right mind can even begin to tolerate a shirt dress, let alone attempt to glamourize one.
However, arrive her tea and my dessert eventually did and, with them, the cheque Sunny had called for. I washed down the baklava with another cup of coffee – black as night, sweet as sin – while she rummaged out a stack of notes to placate our dowdy waitress with.
Seriously, her skin is pink – that shade of eggplant purple could do her fewer benefits, certainly, but it’d have to be laced with cyanide in order to do so. Although considering the mess that passes for service in this place, a good poisoning might actually expedite the praxis.
The sooner I get out of here, the better.
The sooner I escape this establishment, the faster I can return to deflowering my girlfriend, drinking her mother’s cabinet of scotch, and figuring out how to distance myself from the pair of corpses currently decomposing in the trunk of my latest nemesis’ husband’s pursuit vehicle.
“Rares, mind tipping her? I didn’t, y’know, draw as much as I thought I did and I totally do not want to keep Indy waiting.”
Pardon my French but if I wanted to pay for my own meals, I wouldn’t be having an affair right now.
Still, face must be saved – especially after this last week’s mayhem. I smiled and extricated the last of the notes from Twilight’s purse and handed them to the woman, who stared at me in mild disgust.
Oh, what now?
Somebody’s parka-clad elbow jabbed in the ribs for my efforts.
Sunny so help me I’ll stab you in the jugular with a fork if you ever attempt that outside of a boudoir ever again!
“Yes, Darling?” I whispered, dropping the fork back in the shakshuka before it wound up in anyone’s neck.
“Wrong hand. You use your right hand for business and meals. Left hand for, ah, bathroom stuff.”
Now this is why I am so tired; it takes enough effort to keep in the know the manners of one culture, let alone more. Transferring the bills to my other hand, I again gave them to the waitress, who accepted them with a nod and a smile, before taking the bill and walking off.
Then, after downing the remains of her tea, Sunny led me out the restaurant and back to her Porsche. Just as we stepped out the door, a Minnesotan accent cheered from inside the restaurant.
“Check this out, Aisha! Those two lesbians tipped us $300!”
Sunny grasped my hand a little tighter after that, and I don’t think it was solely because the cold bit us like a junkyard dog the second we stepped out the door and into the street.
“That,” she smiled, “that is why I like you, Rares. You’re honest to hope the nicest girl I’ve ever met.”
“Oh, I suppose I am.”
“Come on, Dearie, need to be modest about that. She gave us crappy service and you tip her like ten times the cost of our meal? That’s really sweet of you!” Sunny said, pulling me into a hug.
I responded with a peck on the lips. Thank Chanel for cherry-flavoured lip gloss. “You are no slouch in that regard yourself, Darling. Now let’s hurry up and pay a visit to Miss Zap, shall we?”
The sooner we finish up feigning condolences the sooner we can get back to downing drinks, sewing satin, polishing pearls and the like.
Proper, cultured things.
Beautiful things.
Alas, the hospital was not a beautiful thing. It was a stunning testament to my policy of disrespecting architects. Honestly, the dreadful thing arose from the surrounding suburbs like some kind of cubical concrete pimple and that shade of red for the neon cross glowing on its outer façade couldn’t be gaudier unless it has some Coachella VIP ticket that I’m unaware of. An ugly building indeed; if I could, I might even consider pitying those sots unfortunate enough to be caught ill or injured within its uninspired halls.
Feeling sick just looking at it, actually entering the building did nothing to ease my butterfly-laden stomach. Distaste for these establishments runs in the family – ironic considering how often my sister and her group of mentally-incapable moviegoer friends land themselves in it attempting to discover some or other mystical talent that they all supposedly possess.
I know what their talent is and I make a point to avoid Sweetie Belle like the plague because of it. It’s being a pest, that’s what it is.
Putting thoughts of pestilence aside, I allowed Sunny to lead me into the giftshop of the ground floor of the hospital. Row upon row of inedible confection and insipid stuffed animal greeted us open entry, as did the irksome tinkling of a storefront bell. A few patrons mumbled about, making pointless decisions between this or that heart-shaped balloon and a get-well card.
Also greeting us, oddly enough, was Lemon Zest. The musician of Sunny’s friend group and a self-proclaimed music critic – she has a blog on Tumblr where she rants about the apparent soullessness of the industry to her seventeen followers – spun around to greet us, brushing a lock of acid green hair from a flushed-pink face that was trying, and clearly failing, to keep up a smile.
“Hey Sunny. Hey Rarity. What brings you guys here?” she asked.
Sunny started a response. Then she stopped.
I clicked my fingers in front of her face.
“Ah! Oh, sorry. Wait, weren’t you arrested, Lemon?”
Lemon rolled her eyes. “No? No, I wasn’t. I hopped a fence the second the cops rolled up and they were too busy being jackasses and tasering my friends to follow me. Pretty convenient too. I couldn’t really visit my mom if I was spending a weekend in jail.”
Do not mention those words, please.
“No, Darling, you most certainly could not,” I replied.
“So, yeah,” Lemon continued, sticking a card in her jacket while the clerk was busy sorting out change to a distraught couple, “why are you two here? And why are you here together?”
“That hardly counts as your business-”
“We’re back together!” Sunny declared, cutting me off by crushing me in a hug. At least this time she smelled like cherries and not half-digested rice wine.
“Oh, good for you. You always used to make such a cute couple.”
I frowned at Sunny. She released me.
“Yes, I suppose you could say that. Don’t feel the need to tell anyone though.” I narrowed my eyes at Lemon. “The blog posts can come later. A great deal later.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Your romance is your romance. Anyway, been nice seeing you two but I’ve gotta get going.”
“Well, Dearie, why don’t you tag along with us? We’re going to visit Indy and I’m sure she’d love to see you as well.”
Emotions flashed across Lemon’s face. As far as I could tell, confusion, fear, concern, and the sneaking suspicion that this all might be a joke were all present.
“Wait, what?” Lemon asked. “Indigo’s in hospital? Again?”
“No, Darling, she’s landed an internship cleaning the windows outside. Do try to keep up.”
Lemon glared at me. As did Sunny.
“Yes,” I continued, “she is in the hospital. According to Sugarcoat, somebody shot her. Terribly unfortunate.”
“Wait. What!” The rocker balked.
“Happens to the best of us, Darling. Police brutality, that is. Why, I remember when some bottom-feeding boor cracked a truncheon across my right hand,” I said, raising the limb in question.
A scar was faintly visible against the aristocratic white complexion. Adjusting a bangle over it solved that problem rather well.
“Can we, like, go back to the point in the conversation where my best friend gets shot and everyone just up and forgets to tell me?” Lemon tentatively asked.
Sunny blinked. “I’m really sorry, I thought somebody told you.”
“As did I,” I lied, “if Sugarcoat informed me of this… tragedy then, surely, she must’ve told you, her classmate.”
“Actually, she hasn’t been answering her phone ever since the party. Kinda weird. She’s normally super OCD about stuff like that.”
“Ah, yes. Sunny was sick in her handbag. Terrible waste of a good satchel, in my opinion. As well as a Samsung. But I suppose that’s what happens if you down a half a bottle of Bombay Sapphire over the course of a single hour.”
It was Sunny’s turn to balk. “I was? Wait, I did that?”
“Apparently. So, then how did she tell you, Rarity?” Lemon asked.
Good grief, my entire week is going to be like this, isn’t it?
“She told me in person, Darling. Before I gave her a life home. Anyhow, let’s just get Indigo a gift and depart. I’m not terribly fond of hospitals and I’d much rather have this conversation somewhere else.”
Or not at all. Preferably not at all. Your views on music never fail to aggravate me, Lemon. Seriously, who in their right mind tries to mix hardbass with a harpsichord?
Still, plebeians enjoy it, if the fact that her band actually turns a profit is anything to go off.
“Sure thing then. Mom gets kinda worried if I’m not on time for my visits anyway and this time I gotta let her convince me to go to Italy for a week. Guess I’ll figure out where Indy is after that then,” Lemon said, starting for the door.
“Dearie, does your mother have leukaemia or does she have Alzheimer’s? Besides, we haven’t told you what room Indigo is in.” Sunny sniped at her.
Lemon turned, rolling her eyes, her voice heavier than steel with exasperation, “For the last time, Sunny, my mom has lupus.”
What, like in House MD? I thought they made that one up for the show.
“She’s also just… needy, okay?” Lemon continued, “She really likes her routines and stuff and I don’t like being late either.”
“Sorry to pry, Dearie. Indy’s in Room 619, the one with the policemen guarding it,” Sunny said.
“Yes, let’s not keep you, or us, any longer than need be.”
With that, Lemon departed, at last, and Sunny set about the supposedly vital process of selecting the right teddy bear to gift to her friend. Again, sentimentality is one of those things that truly confounds me – why ever do people care so much for arbitrary trinkets and knick knacks? I only do for things that have actual value to me; signed records and sapphire rings, for instance. Being concerned about bundles of pillow stuffing and plush fur is truthfully a waste of emotion. Still, if it brings Sunny joy, I might as well put up with it.
“How about this one, Dearie?” Sunny asked, presenting me with a completely unremarkable teddy bear, devoid of any bespoke craftsmanship or marks of real talent.
“She’ll love it!”
“Awesome. Say, since I covered breakfast, would you mind doing this one?” Sunny asked.
Of course, I mind, you twit – she’s your friend, not mine. If it hadn’t been for Cadance mass-emailing her school about the incident, I’d still be in bed right now.
“Oh, not at all. I’d be happy to,” I said, taking the bear and walking over to the counter. There I produced Twilight’s credit card and paid for the gift.
Or, rather, I attempted to.
The card had been declined. Deactivated, even.
“Good grief,” I said, “that is bizarre.”
“Sure is,” agreed the clerk, eyeing the card for dirt or something, “Ms… Twilight Sparkle.”
“Rares, Dearie, is everything okay of there?” Sunny, oblivious, asked.
The clerk stopped eyeing the card and started eyeing me. “This is your card, right?”
Of all the days to be potentially arrested for credit card fraud, it had to be today.
I leaned on the counter and gave the man a more than generous view of certain parts of my torso. “It’s her card,” I whispered and pointed over to Sunny, “but you’ll look over this just this once, right? I’ve had the most terrible day.”
The brute snorted, “What do I look like to you, a charity store?”
Judging from the mess this place is in, I would say so, yes.
I sighed to no avail. Then, to some avail, I called over Sunny. “Darling, that card’s been declined,” I explained, “would you be so kind as to try one of the others?”
“No problem,” Sunny said, paying for the gift at last.
And that, as they tend to say, was that.
Now to ascend the bowels of this wretchedly vile place and give a psychotic inmate-to-be a teddy bear.
In my life, I’ve come to expect many things. However, the unexpected always manages to sneak up on me – be it a parallel universe of sapient ponies, demon-possessed girlfriends-to-be, the Spanish Inquisition, etcetera etcetera. Today said unexpected thing was none of the above, fortunately; I have no desire to be put to the rack anytime soon, save for possibly in the boudoir.
What I actually failed to expect was the identity of the policeman keeping Indigo safe and captive.
The first time I’d met the oaf was in middle school, when he apprehended me for the theft of a particularly nice fountain pen. Said meeting ended with a broken hand on my part and a thigh with a pair of sewing scissors sticking out of it on his.
As such, I was about as fond of Officer Billy Club as I was of being impaled on a rusty spike while children danced ribbons around me like I was some kind of gory maypole.
However, the latter has not and hopefully will never happen. Running into policemen, however, is inevitable.
Especially when obligations come into play.
“Something the matter, Dearie?” Sunny asked as we approached the room with the humanoid lump of distastefulness stationed outside it.
“I’m a bit scared of hospitals, that’s all. It runs in the family,” I whispered back.
“Well, let’s be quick then. I’m sure Indy isn’t exactly feeling fantastic herself. Did you know her sister was incarcerated though? Strange right, two siblings arrested in one night?”
I nodded along.
“Yeah. Apparently Lightning Dust beat a guy half to death for calling her mother a war criminal. Her bail was, like, literally a million bucks. Her dad paid it too.”
“Is that so?” I mumbled.
“Sure is. At least, that’s what I read online.”
“Since when do you read the news, Darling?” I asked, trying to change the subject, “I don’t mean to offend, but you do not exactly strike me as the type to bury her pretty head in tabloids.
Sunny stopped. Crossing her arms, one homemade computer bracelet over the other, she raised an eyebrow. “And ‘type’ would that be?”
“Ladies, in my opinion, have more pressing matters to attend to than senseless trivia, like who the current Pope is or whatever war there is in the Middle East this month.”
“Francis and Sudan, in case you were wondering. Indigo’s mom is actually on peacekeeping detail in Khartoum as we speak. Hence the whole… beating thing.”
Good for her. I couldn’t care less.
“I see,” I said.
“Besides, when Lens dies, I inherit her shares in the business. And, like, I kinda want to know how to run that business properly. And if that means playing stocks, so be it,” Sunny continued.
“How… proactive of you.”
Sunny smiled. “Thank you. We’ll overtake Armani, just you wait.”
If I weren’t the most impatient person I knew, I’d wait.
“I’m sure you will, Darling. Now let us get this visit over with, shall we?” I said, taking my technical girlfriend’s hand and starting again towards the door.
To my surprise, Club greeted us before we greeted him, tipping his hat and grinning faintly – if I didn’t know better, I’d say almost fatherly.
“Sunny. Fleur. Come to visit your friends?” grunted the oaf.
“Yes, Billy. This isn’t Fleur, by the way. This is my new girlfriend, Rarity Belle.”
I curtseyed.
“Oh, and Rarity, this is my father, Billy Club.”
What the fuck?
What the everdiscordant fuck have I wandered into?
“Nice to meet you, kid,” the oaf said, extending a hand. I merely nodded and kept mine to myself.
“I could say the same to you, Officer,” I curtly replied before dragging Sunny into the hospital room before any more Dickensian antics could erupt around me.
How fortunate he didn’t remember me. Then again, I have filled out quite nicely since my childhood years.
To my relief, Lemon had gotten to the room already, and was currently engrossed with discussing snowboarding with a particularly wilted Indigo Zap. Judging by how the wounded girl’s eyes were glazed over, I’d judge that she’d helped herself to more than just a single dose of painkillers.
Come to think of it, if I were ever unlucky enough to receive a bullet, I would be taking every opportunity to do the same.
“Sunny,” I whispered as we stood against the wall furthest from the hated policeman.
“Yeah, Rares?” she whispered back.
“Darling, did you not think it prudent to inform me that your father was an officer of the law?”
“I think I did mention it. We aren’t really close or anything. Lens won full custody like, two months after I was born. Besides, what’s that got to do with anything?”
I showed her the scar on my arm – usually its concealed with makeup but Fleur’s I’d already trashed and I hadn’t thought to pick myself up anymore when I had the chance shopping yesterday afternoon.
“Still not getting it, Darling. Haven’t you had that since you were like thirteen or something?”
“I have. Your utter pig of a father gave it to me!” I hissed.
Sunny let out a breath. “Huh. He did?”
“Yes. I remember his name. If you hadn’t noticed, they have nametags. They’d probably forget their own names otherwise.”
“What did you do for that to happen?” Sunny asked.
“What I did is quite beside the point, Sunny Flare,” I replied, swiping the conciliatory teddy from her and marching over to Indigo.
After a few seconds, she looked up and flashed me a peace sign.
“Yo. Hey Fleur. Didn’t think you’d… be here. Did you do something with your… hair? It’s not normally so eggplanty,” Indigo droned.
“Firstly, my name is Rarity Belle. We met at the Friendship Games, Indigo. I beat you in the English quiz.”
“Oh. You’re her-”
“Secondly,” I interrupted, “my hair is perfectly natural and the shade it is is called amethyst, not aubergine.”
Indigo nodded again. She looked about as well as a tangerine would if one dropped it off a six-storey building. Similar colouration too.
“Anyhow, Sunny and I have come to visit. But seeing as you’re more drugged up than your average child star two decades into her career, I’ll give you this teddy bear and depart in peace,” I said, placing the teddy bear next to the identical make of it on her nightstand.
It was about then that Sunny came over and decided to attempt to have a conversation with Indigo. I took a step back and considered waiting downstairs, or somewhere else. But, seeing as I’m flat broke again and I doubt Sunny would appreciate me borrowing her car twice in as many days, I merely sat back on a nearby chair and tapped open a game on my phone to pass the time.
Now, unlike my girlfriend – either of them – I lack the patience for most games and I lack the commitment to get good at them either. However, blackjack is relatively fast-paced and, more importantly, its free to play.
I was about to start a hand against the computer when Lemon accosted me. Good grief woman, what now?
“Ah, yes?” I looked up at her, “What is it, Darling?”
“You got a minute?” Lemon asked, sitting down beside me.
“I suppose Sunny will be busy for quite a while, likely trying to wrangle a sponsorship deal out of Clan Zap, so yes, I do.”
“Great. How’s the band doing?”
“Yours or mine?”
“Yours, duh. I know how mine’s doing because I’m the drummer. We’re going to play in Italy actually. Cagliari, Naples, Rome, Venice, the whole shebang. Vinyl got the idea after reading Vento Aureo.”
“Oh, yes. How wonderful! Quite a fetching performance last Fall Formal, might I add.”
Lemon blinked. “I was sick that week. Pinkie filled in for me.”
“I meant in general, Darling. From one musician to another, you do have quite the talent for it and your bandmates are no slouches either in that regard. I mean, touring professionally at your age…”
She shrugged. How rude. “Eh, thanks, I guess? I mean, just between you and we, we could be doing way better. Bon-Bon and Lyra are having this big breakup right now and its making practice impossible because they keep arguing! Do you know how hard it is to keep a rhythm under those conditions?”
“Darling, I’m in a band with both Rainbow Dash and Applejack. I can more than imagine what it’s like to be surrounded by belligerent morons.”
“So, yeah,” Lemon winced with apprehension, twirling a lock of toxic-waste neon hair between chipped nails, “You know where I can, like, find either a harpist or pianist in, like, a month?”
“Why so soon, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Well, Heavy Metal Ümlat is supposed go on tour next month, as we’ve said. And I’d kinda to perform, y’know, our songs. Something Vinyl and I can’t really do alone. I know it's short notice but you’re, well, you and I know you would really mind helping too much.”
“I suppose I could ask around. My own band isn’t really doing that well either, honestly.”
A pair of lime eyebrows shot up. “No? What’s it this time? Another magical nutjob?”
“I’m afraid it’s just the mundane clash of personalities this month. Fluttershy wanted to quit so she could have more time to, ah, forgive me it honestly has been a nightmare of a week,” more for Sugarcoat than myself though, “Yes, Fluttershy quit to spend more time doing conservation work. Or, at least, she tried to. Sunset had to browbeat her back in line.”
“Sheesh. That bad?”
“Sunset has quite the temper, believe me. As reformed as she claims to be, I don’t buy it for a minute. I’m considering quitting myself actually. After all, ladies do not take orders.”
Lemon slipped off her earphones. I could hear the synths from here and I was seated three feet away. “Really?” she asked.
“Might as well. A lady is not a sedentary creature, not when that means tolerating pop-loving ingrates.”
“I hear you sister. Pop can stuff it.” She held up a hand, expecting a high-five. Begrudgingly, I gave her one.
“So, yes,” I said, spotting Sunny about finishing up, “I’ll look around for some substitutes for you. Come to think of it, my sister is learning to play the harp as we speak.”
“Nice!” cheered Lemon. “Also, don’t you actually play piano? Or like, at least, keytar?”
“I hypothetically can but my schedule is rather busy at the moment. Perhaps, once I clear a few things up, I might be able to take Bon-Bon’s place.”
Preferably, I’d take her place in bed beside her absurdly flexible and horse-obsessed musical heiress of a girlfriend, but joining an actually-competent band would be a good vehicle with which to see the world. Besides, getting into a Swiss business school is unlikely to exactly happen given my marks in the vast array of exams.
“Awesome,” Lemon said, “thanks so much Rarity. You’re a lifesaver.”
“Indeed, I am,” I lied, standing up and starting over to join Sunny by the door.
Now to see about that dinner.
Oh, and what a dinner it could have been.
The relevant word there being “could” unfortunately.
For I ate very little dinner that night and events, as you – me – can tell, most definitely transpired. Alas, the winds of fate, being notoriously fickle, blew against a certain fashionista tonight. Now it is evening, about 8PM, and I am standing in the parking lot of a magnificently upscale African-styled restaurant waiting for an Uber to get my well-sculpted posterior out of here before it freezes to death or Twilight’s father cracks my skull open on the nearby curb.
It turns out that being a “white knight” of sorts runs in the family. As does a temper to which a berth wider than a blue whale at an all-you-can-eat krill diner must be steered.
After pulling my coat tight over my dress, I lit myself another cigarillo; the last of Sunny’s mother’s stash of the charming little Rhodesian constructions. I’m sure she won’t mind – she is, after all, dreadfully boring and probably smokes one a year, if and only if her company turns a profit.
I puffed a smoke ring into the freezing air. It wafted through it, gracing the parking lot’s oily fumes with the laidback scents of Turkish rosewater and Salisbury tobacco. However, I did not feel laid back in the slightest. I noticed a shiver in my left hand, and it wasn’t just because the chill makes the bones ache.
They’ve done that ever since I was fourteen.
Another draw on the smoke. I can do this.
The taxi will be here any minute now and I’ll go right back to Sunny’s manor and explain everything once she returns home.
She’ll understand; she always does.
A third draw. The smoke tickled my lungs and I coughed faintly.
How unladylike.
But I do suppose time need be passed and I cannot exactly play phone blackjack with my hands in this state and my teeth all a-clattering. An explanation might as well be in order.
Sunny and I arrived at the Ndlovu Restaurant at roughly seven. Of course, we hadn’t driven straight there from the hospital. We had gone home, undressed, enjoyed each other’s company, shared a glass or two of Amarula Gold – lovely beverage, shame it was discontinued – and only then did we dress for the evening and set about doing the necessary preparations for a night out.
Again, throwing Fleur’s makeup in a garbage bag and then throwing that out the window was dreadfully foolish – especially when it landed in a pond and was, thus, rendered unsalvageable lest I wish to wade through waist-high muck.
And I did wish that in the slightest.
It isn’t like I’m not naturally beautiful, because of course I am, but it is that I am a great deal more fetching when done up in the proper array of cosmetics and the like.
To her credit, however, Sunny informed me, correctly, that I looked gorgeous and then, incorrectly, that our dinner would be excellent.
I had gotten about one bite of salad down before who, might you ask, decides to arrive at the same restaurant as I did?
You know the answer to that – you’re me and I talk to myself when nobody’s around because, alas, I have nobody else to talk to. I really should get to work on that – perhaps acquiring a pen pal might be wise, perhaps I ought to change the names and post this on some writer’s forum, or perhaps I should take Sunset up on her offer to visit Equestria and meet my counterpart?
Actually, that last one is a genuinely grand idea.
From what I can tell from the similarities between my Twilight Sparkle and her regal counterpart, certain features of personality definitely carry across dimensions, even if occupations do not. Oh, how I would like to own a chain of department stores in all major cities of the country. What fun I could have then…
Anyhow, I’m digressing again. Twilight and her parents appeared for dinner just about the time Sunny and I had received our starters.
To say I felt panic would be an understatement. Out from my chair which had an awfully charming cowhide cover, I bolted and headed straight to the washroom, claiming some or another sort of emergency, if I claimed anything at all. Sunny, of course, was rather confused.
I doubt she’s seen me run in heels before.
Anyhow, watching from a crack in the doorway, there my technical girlfriend sat, alone and picking at a plate of springbok carpaccio and sipping at a glass of sparkling Pinotage while desperately hoping that I’d return swiftly and continue humouring her dreadful dress ideas.
I swear, for the child of a fashion designer and the stepchild of a computer mogul, Sunny cannot actually design anything to save her life. For instance, she was wearing one of her own creations tonight – I hesitate to bestow the word “dress” upon that hideous amalgam of taffeta and computer buses. A bus, for those who might be wondering, Sunny explained as a stretch of tape inside a computer that transmits data – they’re generally dark green and shiny in colour and the generally fail totally and utterly to accent a little black shirt dress and stockings with the kind of failure only middle-aged journalistically-minded fathers can aspire to.
The times her bracelet devices have nearly blown her arms off too…
So, there she sat, nervously tapping a text on one of those bracelets after a while, peeking over her shoulder at the direction I had escaped in while her wine settled and a waiter sidled over suggesting a main course, if mademoiselle would be so inclined?
Then Twilight, my actual girlfriend, walked over. As did her father. Fortunately, I have had little interaction with the man. He’s a university professor by nature, as well as a fairly successful author – having a whole collection of hard science fiction novels under his belt. Needless to say, the only “hard” thing I found about them was not, in fact, their plausibility – it was the writing itself. Night Light has all the talent of a dyslexic porcupine when it comes to the literary arts and he was dressed tonight in a powder blue suit to boot.
It may come as a surprise to you, me, but I can’t say he’d make an exactly pleasant father-in-law. However, I was planning to break up with Twilight anyhow and, after the events of tonight, I suppose that plan may be enacted sooner than expected.
From what I understood, Twilight thought Sunny was dating Fleur. In fact, she was insistent that Miss Flare and Miss de Lis were still together. After all, she was dating me, Rarity Belle fashionista extraordinaire – therefore, her logical mind utterly failed to comprehend the idea that Sunny might be, pardon the French, a side chick to yours truly.
Then Night Light went on a tirade about how much a bitch Fleur was, his words not mind, for standing her up like this and making her eat dinner alone. The gall of that girl, let him tell you – after all, that wretched Quebecois isn’t even actually French and, furthermore and probably more importantly, she nearly bullied his darling daughter Twilight to suicide.
Obviously, Twilight was blushing a shade pinker than the rose wine I’d ordered by this point in the conversation from the embarrassment of it all.
That I can understand - as useful as he can be, I hate my own father too, the lowbrow oaf.
Peculiarly, Twilight had never told me she also hated Fleur either. But, then again, I do suppose the late and frumpy Sugarcoat might have actually had a point there – we don’t talk much about that sort of thing. Well, she talks but I’m afraid I can’t honestly that I listen.
Who would want to, about such distasteful things?
Death and the potential for it to occur, ideally should be kept in the dark, where nobody can find out you did it.
After Night Light had coerced Sunny into forgetting about her girlfriend, whose true identity remained a mystery, he invited her to sit at his family’s table and enjoy the company that no doubt immediately devolved into some dreadful discourse about the dismal state of thermodynamic research, or the like.
No doubt Sunny stopped crying after a while.
Once she’d stopped trying to figure out where I was, only then did I emerge from the lavatory and I headed straight down to the parking lot and such was my haste that I did not even look at the boutique on the way down.
Alright, I can’t myself, I spared a glance or two.
When I have somebody else’s money again, I really must get those pumps. They’d match wonderfully with this dress.
And now I am here again, smoking and waiting.
And beginning to fear that I may have made one mistake too many this month. Oh, if only I hadn’t hit Twilight. Then Cadance wouldn’t have interrogated me, I wouldn’t have found Shining’s car unoccupied, I wouldn’t have driven some lout over with it and I wouldn’t have had to then kill Sugarcoat to cover the last murder up.
If only…
However, sex has been glorious lately. Perhaps it’s the thrill, the fear of being caught, that really seals that proverbial deal, ah?
Still though, sometimes I wish I was normal.
But then I’d just be Rarity Belle, keytarist of a high school pop band, child of Middle America, doomed to spend her life squandering her potential in the Pacific’s backwater state as a mildly successful seamstress.
Ugh – the thought of that gives me nightmares.
I’d rather stay a sociopath.
I’m sure, I’m positive, I am certain that I can figure this all out yet and come out on top. Except possibly in the boudoir; Twilight, Sunny, or Lyra, or whoever’s rich and beautiful really, can stay on top there.
Stats
Page generated in 0.016 seconds
Total duration
710 users online
1,025,698 hits today, 2,561,572 yesterday
FIMFiction
My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic Fanfiction
Designed and coded by knighty & Xaquseg - © 2011-2024
Follow & Support Us
Support us
SubStar
Chat!
Discord
Follow us
Twitter
MLP: Friendship is Magic® - © 2024 Hasbro Inc.®
Fimfiction is in no way affiliated with or endorsed by Hasbro Inc.®
To be fair, that is a good reason to kill someone (even if they're doing it by accident and not intending to annoy you, especially if they're not even talking to you).
i.pinimg.com/originals/a6/65/ea/a665ea5522ecb63c16ca2cbae286f21c.jpg
this is snowballing into madness and i love it , how much more can she weasel the fuck out of dodge? this is thrilling love it