• Published 13th Sep 2012
  • 3,882 Views, 133 Comments

Of Course - RavensDagger



You see things and ask 'why', I dream things that never were, and ask 'why not?'

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Three After Her Plot

Thank Heaven! the crisis —The danger, is past, and the lingering illness, is over at last —, and the fever called ''Living'' is conquered at last.
Edgar Allan Poe


She was beautiful.

Or at least, that’s what every single pony in the building had been told. That telling had cost a considerable amount of bits. Not that she cared much for bits.

Fortunately, she was beautiful, and the male guard pony on the other side of the thick metal door could very easily see that.

From within the slit, she could see his eyes following her round, homely face. His eyes slid down her sharp features before dropping to the supple leather outfit she wore over her golden coat and curved flanks. Her lithe wing stretched out, blocking his line of sight to her rear end.

At her side were two objects: a large black duffel bag and an equally black briefcase. Her white-and-gold-streaked tail fluttered a little, rubbing against the two bags. “Um, excuse me, Mister, but my eyes are, um, up here.” She smiled timidly at the slit in the door.

The guard pony’s eyes snapped back to the mare’s. “Right, name and pass?”

“Oh.” Nervously, the mare looked up and down the dark roadway. From afar, the sounds of a few lively parties were resonating over the tall brick building and into the alcove cut into the wall.

Across the street, a few stallions were jesting with each other, the stench of cider reaching all the way through the tight alleyway. At the opposite end, a mare dressed in tattered and once seductive clothing was trying her best to look appetizing, and failing miserably.

This club, unlike the ones around from it, was exclusive, hard to get into, and once in, anything could happen. Its location, on the other hoof, left a lot to be desired. It wasn’t the place for a beautiful timid mare to walk around at night unaccompanied. However, she had a mission to accomplish, one that had been dreamed and planned.

“My name is Executor,” she said, her face reddening in a blush, almost as if she was ashamed of her name.

“...And your pass?” the guard insisted in his gruff voice.

Another voice chimed in with a harsh whisper. “Dude, don’t you know who she is?”

“Of course I do; I’m not an idiot, but if she doesn’t have her pass, we could allow her to enter in exchange for a favour or two...” the first pony whispered. Executor perked her delicate ears at the snide understone.

“Nuh-huh, mate. She might be cute and all, but I like having all my bodyparts. She’s one of them.”

Executor lifted one of her long wings and rang the doorbell, hushing the conversation within with the out-of-place sound of synthesised bells. “Um, I have my pass right here,” she said, lifting a slip of laminated paper and holding it above the slit.

The guard’s eyes blinked twice at the sheet before disappearing. With hardly a sound, the well-oiled door swung inwards and allowed easy access to the darkened halls of the club.

Two ponies stood on either side of the entrance, both bowing their heads respectfully. “I’m sorry for the interruption, madam,” the gruff-voiced guard to her left said .

“It is an honour. Welcome to Tartarus,” the other said.

Slowly, methodically, and with a grace hardly befitting of the inelegant entrance, Executor stepped in, briefcase held between white teeth. “Could one of you, um, please carry my bag?”

They blinked and looked at each other, communicating in the way that those who had worked together for a long time could. “O-of course, madam. We are surprised and appalled that you carried them this far. You could have flown to the entrance on the upper floor and asked one of the staff members there...” He let the implication that she was dense linger. After all, this was the back entrance, not the luxuriously decorated hall reserved for the usual prestigious clientele.

“Oh, but my bag is much too heavy to fly with, and I would never leave it behind. It’s really precious you see.” She looked down, one hoof idly pawing the cement flooring while a lock of her short hair slid in front of her eyes. She had practised long and hard to accomplish that simple gesture.

It worked. Both of the burly and tough guards reddened, their mouths filling with cotton as they fought hard to remain decent. “I-I’ll gladly care for your bags.”

“Oh, thank you so much!” She sighed. Leaning forward, she pecked the volunteer on the cheek, setting his face aflame. “Follow me, please.”

Turning, she pranced away, the black briefcase bouncing in between her golden wings. Grabbing the heavy duffel bag in a quick swoop, the guard trotted after her, back cracking after every thundering step. His partner, swearing under his breath at his friend's fortune, slammed the door shut.

Mare and stallion reached a tall, winding staircase and began climbing, his hoofsteps echoing above as his breath came in short rasps. Executor, on the other hoof, was fine, her wings beating rhythmically as she easily flew up to the fifth floor of the building.

With a thump, the briefcase landed on the ground and stood in place, handle side up, as Executor hovered beside it. She waited, eventually sitting down on the grated steel flooring while waiting for the guard to pant his way up the stairwell.

He arrived minutes later, covered in a sheen of sweat, but smiling gently as he laid the bag at her hooves. “Is that all, madam?”

The room brightened considerably as she gave him a sweet smile, cheeks blushing red. “Yes, thank you so much Mister Guard-pony.” She leaned forward, and so did he, eyes closed in expectation. Instead of planting a quick peck on his awaiting cheek, however, she ducked down and pulled a latch on the duffel bag, revealing a fold-away handle. “Thanks again,” she said as she pulled the wheeled bag out of the room.

Leaving the disappointed stallion behind, Executor pushed open the exit door and wheeled into the luxuriously decorated grand-hall. The coasters on her bag skidded lightly across the polished marble floors that reflected her presence through its sheen.

With keen eyes, she surveyed the room, from the thick tapestries that hung from every wall, to the woven drapes that hid the entrances and exits used by the countless servants. The patrons of the establishment walked around in pairs or in small groups, chatting amiably of vacations, tax breaks, and the toys they had recently bought with their superfluous bits.

The music wasn’t the usual bass-heavy dubtrot heard in the lesser clubs. Instead, a single grey earth pony stood on a short stage, rearing on her hind legs to weave a bow across the strings of her counter-bass. The haunting refrain echoed across the room.

Executor watched, enthralled, as a few pairs danced across the polished floor, their reflections dancing with them on the ceiling above. She smiled, allowing herself to believe, even just for a moment, in the lie that this place was safe.

But her sheepish grin faded when her target came in sight.

Filthy Rich was talking and sipping a drink procured from one of the many servants. The other business ponies of lesser caliber around him laughed and joked with him, hoping to gain his friendship and access to his bank account.

She started towards him, duffel bag clicking behind her. The ponies around him noticed her first and they timidly stepped away. “Um, hello, Mister Rich,” she said upon gently depositing her briefcase. “We, um, had an appointment today?”

The stallion blushed a little and coughed. That was not the kind of information he wanted spread around; he prefered that kind of rendezvous to be a little more discrete. After all, it might reach the ears of one of his wives. “I-I’ll be right there, miss. How about you descend to my, um, room by yourself?” He reached into his vest and pulled out a card. Stretching forwards, Executor took the card, her lips brushing against his.

“Um, okay, see you there...” Blushing madly, the pegasus turned around and hovered away, bags trailing behind her.

The layout of the Tartarus Club was rather simple, with the main area on the top floor while the fourth floor had the penthouses, private rooms, and areas where transactions could be made with a reasonable amount of secrecy. The third floor held questionable entertainment, the type that could land a lot of ponies in jail for a long time if it became public. The second held the servants, guards, and kitchens. On that day, her goal led her to the fourth.

A short ride down an enclosed elevator later, and the pegasus mare was looking down a carpeted hallway. Decorative light fixtures placed at intervals lit up the passageway with a bright, welcoming light, one that didn’t seem to reach the alcoves where doors were recessed. As she walked past those doors, she took note of the numbered plaques engraved on each one until, finally, she reached Filthy Rich’s room.

In the alcove next to his, a stallion wearing half a business suit was busy sticking his tongue down a well-paid mare’s throat when he caught sight of her. He pushed the wanting mare away and stared at her with sparkling eyes. “Whoa, how much to spend a night with you?” he asked.

“Wh-why I, I ought to...” she fumbled, both with her words and with the keycard. The door unlocked itself, and, in a split second, she and her bags were in the room.

It only took a few moments for her to cross the simple yet elegant room, tossing her duffel bag on the fluffy bed with a great heave as she did so. Executor smiled to herself as she opened the black bag and began sorting through her equipment with speed and efficiency.

Straps, a riding crop, spiked necklaces, and long lengths of cord flopped onto the bed when she flipped the bag over. With a contented sigh, she placed the tools of her trade in neat rows before stepping back and admiring her work.

Looking around, she found the dimmer-switch controlled lights and darkened the room, casting long, thin shadows against the mahogany inlaid walls and gemstone studded furniture.

Satisfied, Executor sat a few meters away from the entrance and waited, patiently staring at the uncaring door for her target to willingly walk in. Lots of bits had been paid to a few well placed ponies to make her services known and coveted. Hints had been slipped to Filthy Rich over the past few weeks and months, each promising the time of his life, and a few pleasurably painful bruises that would last a long, long time.

Unfortunately, if everything went according to plan, he wasn’t going to live a long, long time.

The door cracked open silently, and Filthy Rich slipped in, sheepish grin twisting his wrinkling features. “Hello? Miss Executor?” he asked as his eyes roamed across the room. Finally, they landed on her, standing dead centre with a rough riding crop held in her muzzle. “Oh, there you are!” he exclaimed excitedly.

She noticed that his voice wasn’t the only excited part of him. “Get on the bed.”

He blinked twice. The cute, clumsy little pegasus he’d met in the grand hall was gone. Her eyes glinted with malice and menace and her smile transformed into a violent sneer. “Now.”

Gulping nervously, yet still smiling, Filthy Rich climbed onto the bed and lay onto his belly. “Now what?”

Slowly, luxuriously, Executor walked over to him, lifted the crop into the air, and slapped it across his face with a snap that reverberated across the room. “You shall address me as Miss Executor. Do you understand?”

A hoof rubbing against the quickly forming welt on his cheek, Filthy nodded demurely. “Ye-yes. Yes, Miss Executor.”

Then, she did something he hadn't expected. She put her front hooves on the bed, then lifted herself up to walk over him. He could feel the subtle shifts in the springy bed as she turned around to breathe down his neck. “Don’t move, not even an inch.”

She reached across from him, the soft fur of her belly rubbing against his back as she picked up a strap with a wing-tip. Within seconds, each one of his limbs was tied to one of the bed’s sturdy posts.

It creaked when she hopped off lightly, wings fluttering to land gracefully. Turning, she faced him once more, and picked up her crop. “You’ve been a bad pony, Mister Rich.”

He sighed, the cords straining. “Really, that line? Of all the lines you could have chosen? There are less cheesy ones you kn—” The crop slapped against his face, this time with full force. The bindings held him in place as he jerked around. “Be careful! You could have broken a tooth! I ought to su—” She hit him again, this time drawing blood.

Abandoning her tool, she walked over to the black briefcase and dragged it into his line of sight. Under his watchful and curious eye, she opened the box and pulled out a small, silver tank of compressed air. It was labeled Truth.

His eyes widened.

“You’ve been a very, very bad pony, Mister Rich. We had to dream about you, and plan about you, and now, I’m here.” She held the tank in one dextrous wing and pulled out a tape-recorder with the other.

“No, you can’t be. Please don’t,” he began to plead as he fought against the bindings. “I have a daughter: a cute little filly. She’s a real princess.”

Executor shook her head and placed the device on one corner of the mattress. She tapped it on, and the tiny tape began to register.

“You have more than one daughter, Mister Rich,” she said. His brow creased in confusion. “Don’t you remember Happy Hoof? She has a little foal now. His name is Happy Rich. And Sugar Song, your secretary? Or should I say ex...”

“Look, I didn’t mean it... C’mon, let me go. I won’t tell anypony... Is it cash? You need bits? I can give you bits. Hundreds. Thousands. Name your price!”

“We don’t want money, Mister Rich. We want the truth.” She backed away and reached into the briefcase. The black mask she pulled out was both comforting to her and distressing to him. With a snap, she clicked its straps in place and strutted towards him, her wings holding one more implement. It was another mask, this one with a long tube jutting out of its side.

She jammed it on his face and connected the tube to the canister of Truth. Her hoof reached out and touched the release when he sobbed. “Why? Why are you doing this!?”

“Why not?”


The tortuous screams coming from room number 501 were heard by many, and more than one jealous stallion stared at the door with lust-filled eyes.

An hour went by, then a brief second more, before the door opened up. Out of it stepped what many described as the most arousing mare they had ever seen. She was visibly tired, hair in disarray and her dress crumpled and wrinkled. However, she smiled contentedly as she walked to the nearest elevator and the fifth floor. The exit guards ogled her for a few moments, but said nothing, not even bothering to search her briefcase. After all, they only cared about what came in.

It took an entire day until a cleaning mare discovered the mess left in room 501. For the first time in the exclusive club’s history, the long arm of the law reached in and inspected. Some called it murder, but most were reluctant to call it anything more than a sad accident.

Some, those who were beginning to watch over their backs and sleep with one eye open, suspected something entirely different.


Edited by:
-Frederick the Saiyan
-Your Antagonist
-Cpl Hooves
-StapleCactus