So when you come to our house, we'll have some fun
Well, I can't tell ya much about 'em. The Pie Family've lived 'round these parts fer as long as anypony can remember, but there ain't that much ta tell.
I was a foal when Old Clyde Pie, that's Igneous Pie's pa, who passed on a while back, built the house them-all're tearin up now, but they was 'round these parts afore that. We always figured they was decent folks. Quiet, that's fer sure. Didn't cause nopony no trouble. 'Round here that's probably 'bout as good as it gets. My nephew, he lives jus' down the river a mite, he ain't quiet and I'm near ready to march down there an' put a shoe-print er two over his cutie mark, he's jus' no end of trouble and noise and bother. Many's the time I wished he was as quiet as the Pies.
So I was right satisfied with them as neighbors. Could do worse, I always figgered. Jus' goes ta show, ya never can tell, I figger.
The summer sun is hot on Curry Comb's back as he walks along the dusty road. The dust has caked his already drab brown coat with a layer of even more drab gray. He's come a long way, and has a long way yet to go. The rock farm ahead isn't his destination, but he never misses a chance to make a sale, so he turns aside and approaches the front door. One hoof lifts to knock, a firm, cheery rat-tat-tat that he's done so often the motion is automatic.
There's a long enough pause that he wonders if anypony is home, then the door finally swings open. The pony on the other side is as gray as the dust, drab and uninteresting, half-hiding behind a fall of long, straight hair. Though he can't help but notice that her eyes are purple, a captivating color, peering out from behind that dull gray.
"Good afternoon, ma'am. Are you the mare of the house?"
The mare shifts her hooves, not meeting his eyes, but says softly, "No, Ma is out in the mine."
"Well, little lady, would it be alright if I came in for just a minute or two? I would like to tell you about a marvelous opportunity to modernize your home that is downright economical. It's a lovely place," he waves his hoof at the farmhouse and smiles sincerely, though he doesn't mean a word of it, "but a few modern comforts surely wouldn't go amiss."
"Uhm. You can come in, yes."
She retreats inside and he follows, stepping confidently, his eyes taking in everything, looking for any opportunity to enhance his pitch. The place is unremarkable, like dozens of other farmhouses he's seen. He is not surprised when the shy mare leads him into the kitchen, the kitchen tends to be the social center of a house like this.
He helps himself to a seat at the kitchen table, still looking around, noting every detail. The mare goes to an old-fashioned ice box. "Would you like some lemonade?" she asks.
"Don't mind if I do!" he says. His throat is nearly as covered in dust as his coat is.
She gives him a strangely satisfied smile as she pours with the startling dexterity so many earth ponies have. Curry Comb is a unicorn, so he is nowhere near so good with his hooves. He lifts the glass in his magic and takes a long, deep swig.
"Thank you, little lady. Though this would be even colder and more refreshing if you had a modern refrigerator. Let me tell you all about-"
What's that? Did I notice anythin' strange? Not so's I could mention. Like I said, they was mostly quiet. I remember the pink one, I forget her name, came over a few times 'fore she left to borrow sugar or somesuch. She weren't quiet at all! Could talk the ears right offa ya. But she didn't bother us none most o' the time, and the rest of them... Ya nod when ya pass on the road, ya know? That was 'bout it, most days. They kept ta themselves, an' we kept ta ourselves. Which I guess includes my nephew, 'cause he's my kin, but Celestia Almighty I wish he would just stop askin' me fer bits every month. He ain't got the sense Celestia gave sparrows, that boy. Can't manage money worth beans. Shoulda' jus' gone ta the city like most o' the fillies an' colts 'round here do. He ain't cut out fer farmin'.
Most of 'em leave, and sometimes it's a mite sad, but the ones that stay, mostly them's the ones that have the love of it, ya know? The ones that get their cutie marks in somethin' to do with their farms an' what they raise. They stay. My nephew got a cutie mark in fishin', the daft fool. An' he spends as much time on the river as he does on the farm! He'd'a done better ta move down ta' the coast and find work fishin', that boy, 'cept I suspect his mark's actually in bein' lazy, 'cause that's what fishin' is 'round these parts. Farmin' ain't a job fer the lazy.
It's hard work, lemme tell ya. Rocks more n' most, truth be told. I mean, a rock harvest, you weigh it by the ton even on a small farm. Those fillies is stronger than most stallions I know. We do wheat, mostly. Somepony's got to, an' most years it does well enough. I wouldn't want ta do rocks. That's a job for the patient, too, lemme tell ya. Maybe that's why? I dunno, I'm jus' ramblin' here. Maybe they was bored? That's a daft reason to do what they gone and done, but maybe the rocks jus'... drove 'em crazy. Rocks... Ya gotta work and work and work, turnin' an' fussin' an' frettin' at 'em fer years before ya get a harvest worth botherin' with. Wheat ya jus' put it in the ground, an' then you pray that some idiot fool pegasus don't leave the fields dry jus' when they need rain most, or flood 'em out when rain's the last thing ya want. But mostly they do good work 'round here, an everythin' turns out fine without havin' ta break yer back fer it. I mean sure, ya' gotta plow an' fertilize an' all, which ain't easy, it's work an' plenty of it! But it ain't like rocks.
Hemp has to trot a little bit to keep up with the stallion in front of him as they both head down a dusty dirt road in the middle of nowhere. She doesn't mind, though. The prospect of a hot meal and somewhere to sleep is pretty appealing. She's been out on her own without any real job or roots for a couple of years now, and she's learned to take these moments where she can get them. She shifts the guitar case slung over her back and hurries her steps.
The old stallion glances over his shoulder. "Art keeping thy pace well? I can slacken my own at need."
Hemp tries not to laugh, the old guy's speech is quite a trip. "Nah, it's all good." They've come quite a ways since she ran into the stallion in a little spot you could hardly call a town, but at least life on the road has gotten her used to walking.
"Be it good, then," says the old guy, and Hemp just smiles and nods.
Before long they reach the farm. Hemp looks around. She thought maybe the stallion was having a laugh when he said they farmed rocks, but there's nothing but rocks to be seen anywhere, so maybe it's true. The farmhouse isn't anything much, but Hemp doesn't mind. She follows her benefactor inside.
"Ma!" the stallion calls out. "I have brought one for thy dinner."
"Praise and bless," Hemp hears a mare's voice say.
"Uh, hi," calls out Hemp, peering towards the kitchen. She can just see through the door, and she gets a glimpse of a mare, about the same age as the stallion, moving around there. She is silver-gray, and wears glasses.
A heavy, scraping sound behind him makes Hemp turn around, and her eyes fly wide open.
The old stallion is up on his hind legs, and his forelegs are grasping a sledgehammer. The scrape as he picked it up was the sound that Hemp heard.
"What the hay, dude?!" is all she has time to say before the hammer comes down.
I figger it's jus' natural that they was quiet. Rocks are quiet, ya know? But you'd'a thought they'd be hard an' mean an' cruel, 'cause I feel like rocks is like that, but they wasn't. They was the nicest folks. Always happy ta help out a stranger.
An' come ta think of it, that's a mite odd. We take care o' our own, but we ain't much interested in folks from elsewhere, ya know? Jus' how it is 'round these parts. I figger that's farm country all over. Farmin' takes so much outa' ya, that ya jus' ain't got enough left fer anypony who ain't yer own. But they was always welcomin' of strangers. I heard Igneous say that anypony comin' through town that needed a place ta stay could come 'round his place anytime.
At the time I just figgered they was bein' welcomin', ya know? Bein' kind. Gives me the willies now, knowin' why they was so invitin'. It ain't right, ta ask strangers over an' then do what they done to 'em. Ain't right ta do that ta anypony. Even city folks. Whatever's wrong with my stars-be-damned nephew, he'd never do somethin' like that, ya know? Just ain't right.
Ya'll'a been fulla questions, but I gotta ask one o' my own. Does anypony know how many yet? I know them ponies from the guard are still pullin' up the floorboards an' all, but maybe somepony has some idea how many there were?
Oh.
That... That's an awfully big number. More'n I'd'a thought, even knowin' now that most o' those out'a towners never left again. That's... a lot.
I dunno what ta' even say 'bout that.
Maude looks up at the sound of a whistle. Her expression remains neutral as she takes in the pegasus stallion lounging against the nearby fence. He wiggles his eyebrows at her in a way that is likely meant to be suggestive and whistles again. "Howdy there, pretty lady."
Maude's eyebrows rise the tiniest fraction. He appears to be attempting to come on to her, in a rather crude fashion. And he is a stranger, not a pony she might expect to wish to court her.
The stallion vaults over the fence in what is admittedly a fairly impressive display of coordination. He trots over to where Maude has been working in the rock field, heedless of the way his hooves disturb the careful placement of the stones. Maude frowns ever so slightly at this.
"So, pretty lady, how's about you and me find somewhere private to get to know each other?"
Maude's frown turns into the smallest possible smile as the appropriate course of action comes to her. "The mine is private," she says simply, and gestures with one hoof towards the black mouth of the nearby crystal mine.
"Well that sounds just perfect." The stallion gives her a wink. Maude doesn't react, she simply turns and begins walking toward the mine. The stallion frowns, a little puzzled. This is not quite going to script, the mare should be flirting back. Still, even if she's a bit of a cold fish, she seems eager enough. And perhaps he can warm her a little. He follows her, and reaches out to give her rump a nip as he does.
She twitches, but there is no giggle or jump. He frowns. A moment later, though, they are inside the mine. Maude picks up a lantern in her teeth and proceeds deeper, with the stallion still following. Eventually they are out of sight of the mine entrance. Maude proceeds a little bit further, to where she has previously left a rock pick sitting against the wall of the mine. She sets down the lantern and halts.
The stallion halts too, and sidles up close to her. "So, now that we're alone, about that getting to know each other thing..."
He gives her another wink, but she ignores that and turns to retrieve the pick. The stallion seems puzzled as she turns back to him. She ignores his expression, concentrating instead on finding just the right spot.
There is a line that one can draw on a pony, which passes from the center of one eye to the base of the opposite ear. She mentally draws two of these lines and notes the spot where they meet. She must hit that spot exactly dead center to achieve the results she desires, but Maude is quite precise with her frequently-used tool.
She lifts it higher, keeping her eyes on the spot she has marked in her mind.
The stallion is puzzled, and beginning to feel that something is wrong. "What... what are you doing?"
"Getting to know you," replies Maude, and she swings the pick.
It lands with perfect speed and precision, the tip sinking several inches into the stallion's forehead with an audible crunch.
He drops instantly, killed before he even knows he is in danger. Maude allows herself one tiny smile at how neat and nearly bloodless the killing strike was. She prides herself on precision and accuracy in her work. Then she cleans the tip of the pick off on the stallion's coat and sets it aside.
Next she bends down, grips the stallion's tail in her teeth, and starts pulling. Time to take him to Ma, where they can indeed get to know what this particular stallion is like, inside and out.
Jus' incredible, that somepony ya knew, that ya saw 'most every day, could do such a thing. An' not jus one of 'em, the whole lot of 'em.
I read it in the papers, ya know. Would'a been what, almost a year gone now? Read all about the pink one. Oh yeah, her name was Pinkie. Ha! Fancy me forgettin' that the pink one was named Pinkie! Anyhow, I read all about it, an' I was pretty damn surprised, lemme tell ya! But I always figgered it was somethin' she learned out there, somethin' she picked up from cityfolk.
I know, I know, Ponyville ain't a city. But it's a fair bit bigger'n anything we got here. Biggest thing 'round these parts is over by the train station, where there's the feed store an' five houses.
Oh, right, there's six now, since the Herbs moved there an' built a new place couple o' years back. I forget ta count 'em sometimes because they ain't our folk, ya know? They ain't from here, an' don't quite belong. They're kinda' a strange bunch, the Herbs. Ha! Strange buncha' herbs! But they ain't real farmers, they ain't our kind. They grow their little plots o' herbs all organic an' sell it off ta some high-falutin' grocery place in Manehattan. I don't hold none with organic farmin'. Buncha' nonsense. Not usin' pesticides is jus' askin' ta have most o' your crop eaten by critters o' one sort or another. Most folks 'round here feel the same way, so we never much warmed to the Herbs. They wasn't our people. But hell, the Pies was our people, or at least we thought they was, an' look what they done! I'd'a thought the Herbs woulda' done somethin' like this before I'd'a suspected the Pies of it. Mebbe where you come from don't matter so much as I thought it did.
I guess the Pies thought it mattered some, though, what with them only murderin' ponies that came from elsewhere. Somethin' about that makes my skin crawl. I ain't sure if it's worse ta think that it was all cold an' calculated, that they only killed ponies what wouldn't be missed, or if'n they left us neighbors alone 'cause they liked us. Ponies like them, likin' ponies like me... It's enough ta make a body feel more'n a little sick.
I can't even figger what ta think 'bout all the times they was so nice, now. It's jus' plum crazy! They was so kindly an carin' when push came ta shove. When ol' mistress Thresher's roof fell in, they was first up ta volunteer for the bake sale so's we could raise the bits ta have it replaced, ya know?
"Hallo the house! Anypony there?" Limestone looks up from the kitchen garden where she's been pulling weeds to see a mare looking around the corner. She's a sturdy blue earth pony, probably a little older than Limestone, but not by that much. Her coat is a little bit sun-bleached and there are faint wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, the kind that come from spending a lot of time outdoors.
Limestone scowls a bit, not pleased to be interrupted, but says, "Hi."
"Hey there. I'm Bramble Bush. Looking for work. I've got tons of experience harvesting, though I haven't done rocks before. But I've done some landscaping, so I know how to move dirt, at least. You-all need a hoof just now?"
Limestone suddenly smiles. It's not exactly a warm smile, but she nods at Bramble. "We can always use help, sure. Come on over and I'll show you around." She picks up the trowel she was using to dig out stubborn weeds. The point of the blade-like implement is sharp enough to glint faintly in the morning sun.
Bramble steps around the house and walks into the garden plot. Limestone moves to meet her, her smile widening, the trowel held casually in her hoof. As she draws closer to the unsuspecting pony she suddenly lunges forward, the trowel lashing out at Bramble's face. It scrapes across the mare's eye and Bramble shrieks, stumbling backwards onto her rump, both front hooves coming up to clutch at her face.
With her smile hardening into a fierce, maniacal grin, Limestone strikes again, the trowel seeking Bramble's throat, but instead leaving a gash along her foreleg as she jerks back. Lying almost on her back now, blood streaming down her face, one eye ruined and the other wide in terror, Bramble scrambles away from Limestone awkwardly.
"Wh-what are you doing? Help! Somepony help!"
Limestone stabs at her with the trowel again, this time managing to get past her forelegs and gouge her neck. Blood splatters over both of them liberally, but the cut is not quite deep enough or in the right spot to be fatal. Bramble screams louder and kicks at Limestone with her back hooves. Limestone winces, but keeps stabbing, the trowel rising and falling repeatedly on the struggling, frantic pony beneath her.
"Help!" screams Bramble again, and suddenly a head pokes out the back kitchen door.
Ma Pie regards the pair and says, "Land sakes, child, what art thou playing at?"
"She's gone mad! Please, help!" Bramble is still on her back, scooting further away from Limestone, who drops the trowel and looks abashed.
"Sorry, Ma."
Ma Pie emerges. She is holding a large kitchen knife in one hoof, and the relief on Bramble's face begins to turn to confusion. This still is somehow not right. The old mare doesn't look nearly as horrified as she should be. Ma trots swiftly over to Bramble, knife still in hoof.
"Thou shouldst know better than to toy thus, child. Hast torn the garden half the shreds with thy foolishness. Be swift and give heaven's mercy to this poor soul." And with that she holds the knife out to Limestone, who takes it.
"Sorry, Ma. I just got carried away."
Before Bramble can even register what just happened, Limestone has jumped at her again. With one strong foreleg the young rock farmer pins her down, hoof on her chest, and with the other she draws the knife across her throat in one swift, clean cut. Blood gushes out, flooding over the dry garden soil, and the light in Bramble's remaining eye dims swiftly, then goes out.
"Better. Now, lend thine aid and we shall do what is needful."
"Yes Ma."
Mother and daughter work together to hoist the mare's body up onto a wooden cross-tree that normally has clotheslines strung from it. They leave her there for some time, blood slowly draining from her corpse. Limestone begins working to set the garden back to rights while Ma returns to her baking.
The garden is fenced and behind the house, so a passer-by is unlikely to see anything of the former Bramble. Any who gets close enough is likely to share her fate. But the farm is isolated, and none chance by before Ma returns and Limestone helps her lower the drained corpse.
Then they haul the body into the kitchen, and the butchering proper begins.
They was always first up when it came ta bake sales an' such. Ma Pie baked a mean pie, which didn't surprise nopony, as ya might expect. They did cookies sometimes, an' even cupcakes, but mostly it was pies.
I remember havin' a slice o' her mince pie come holiday season more'n once. It was some o' the best mince pie I ever had. You could tell she did it the old-fashioned way, the way my granny did, with chicken fat in the mince. Lotta younguns these days think that earth ponies is meant ta be nothin' but vegetarians, but we never was. Ponies talk 'bout pegasi with their fish and actin' like they's half griffon, but a lot o' 'em forget that earth ponies always did things like those old mince pies, with the fat mixed in, that made 'em better'n anything you ever tasted.
'Course it's a bloody business, but if'n you're keeping chickens for the eggs an' a hen goes off layin', you might as well get some use out'a her. I never had much stomach for it, but my granny did, and I guess Ma Pie too. Well, she must'a had a lotta stomach for blood, considerin' what she...
Oh stars.
Oh sweet Celestia.
They said in the paper that Pinkie...
Stars above.
I ate so many o' those pies. Sweet merciful sun above. I... I... I'm gonna be sick. I gotta go.