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Have you ever imagined what Hell looks like?

I know most people picture Hell as a place of burning bodies, brimstone, fire – you know, the works. Screams of agony unending, woe and suffering for all eternity with plenty of angry red muscular demons in body suits with pointy tails to jab you with pitchforks until the end of time.
Hell is nothing like that, my friend. Not even close.
No, Hell is coated in a thin layer of vanilla frosting.

“Aw, come on, Brucey-Wucey!”
“No.”
“You’ll like it!”
"No."
"It's great!"
“I said no, Missus Pinkie Pie.”
“Pretty please, Brucey-Wucey?”
“I swear to God, Pinkie, if you don’t stop calling me that, I will do unspeakable things to you with a crowbar.”

Pinkie gasped in displeasure at my… well, less than pleasant method of communication. “Bruce!” the bubbly pink mare dropped the cupcake on the table before me, and to my dim surprise, it actually bounced a little when it hit the tabletop. Seriously; like, an entire foot into the air. Sometimes, I wonder if she bakes with rubber.
“That’s an awful thing to say to somepony!”
“I’m not eating any more cupcakes. They're starting to constipate me.” And, honestly, it was pretty difficult to say that with a straight face.

Don’t get me wrong; it’s not because I thought the situation was funny, or anything. It was more of a keep-a-straight-face-while-Pinkie’s-hair-goes-flat-and-try-not-to-wet-myself kind of situation. She stared at me over the table in the Cake’s little kitchen, or as I prefer to remember it as, the place where nothing good ever happens, ever. In case you hadn’t figured it out yet, (and I feel pity for you if you haven’t) my name is Bruce. I have a very difficult time looking intimidating, what with being under two and a half feet tall now.
“If you don’t eat your breakfast, how can you grow up to be a big, strong pony?” Pinkie asked, tantalizingly waving the frosted cupcake in front of me.
“Goddammit, Pinkie. For the billionth time, I’m human. Not pony.”

Yeah, there’s that, too. I’m a thirty-one year old man. Or at least, I used to be. I used to have a job, I used to have friends, I used to have a home. I used to have a wife. All in all, I kind of liked my old life. Finally settled down, I worked hard and made good decisions (where it counted), and I finally started getting my act together.
And then, ponies.
Fucking ponies.
“Of course you are, Brucey-Wucey.” Pinkie Pie smiled kindly, patting me on the top of the head. For the record, just because those hooves look soft doesn’t necessarily mean that they are. I swear, it sounded like she was thumping a hollow log. “I believe you.”
She sounded pretty dubious, though. Then again, suddenly awakening in a bright blue foal’s body left me feeling pretty doubtful about a few things, too.

You know, like ‘the universe isn’t really out to get me’.
“I call bullshit,” I grumbled viciously under my breath, both at the party-addicted madmare and my own personal vendetta against everything. I mean it, too. The universe hates me, just for existing. In my defense, what else am I supposed to do besides hate it right back? Roll over?
“And I’m going to get the soap if you don’t stop that outhouse language right now.” Pinkie’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, and I think I accidentally swallowed part of my tongue.

I… haven’t had many good experiences with soap.
Like I said, the universe hates me.
I couldn’t help it – any time I even think about soap anymore, I reflexively cringe. Pinkie saw me shrinking into myself pitifully and apparently felt some measure of guilt over the last time she tried washing the filthy language out of me; and, of course, she looked absolutely miserable.
Way to go, ‘Brucey’. You are officially worst pony.
“Er…” I began uncomfortably, desperate not to be forever known as the horrible person/pony that made Pinkie cry.
Again.
Shut up, brain!

“Y-you know…” I shifted in my oddly shaped wooden seat, trying to look Pinkie in the eyes. “I’d gladly have some more of your wonderful cupcakes…”
“Really?” she perked up immediately, frizzy pink hair quivering slightly.
“Uh, sure, sure.” I nodded quickly. “Just not… this one. Probably going to need a whole new batch f-“
“SAY NO MORE!” Pinkie shrieked ecstatically, springs of bubbly mane bursting violently upward into a bizarre pattern of curls at her excitement. “You stay right here, Brucey-Wucey! Your Auntie Pinkie Pie is going to make the bestest best batch of cupcakes EVER!”
And with that, she promptly darted about the room and sprang into the action, creating an enormous racket.

“You’re… not my Aunt…” I trailed off as she nearly bowled over the Cake twins on her way through the enclosed space, and I picked my opportunity to sneak away while I could. Hell, I almost broke down and cried like a little bitch like Mister Cake when I finally crept out of that god-awful torture room before Pinkie shoved any more ‘extra-special deliciously dandy delectables’ down my esophagus pipe.
And, as is always my luck, both of the twins silently followed me out.
I couldn’t blame them, really; Pinkie was making an awful lot of racket. So much, in fact, that she didn’t even notice me creeping away. I briefly considered slipping out the door, but frankly, I’ve seen how fast Pinkie can move – even faster than Rainbow Dash. She’d have me pinned down in a matter of moments and why are the twins still following me?

“… What.”
Yeah, I probably sounded a little grumpy. They’re probably used to that by now, considering the fact that I’ve been forced to live with them. Besides, I hate kids.
They smell.
“Watch’a doin’, Brucey?” Pound asked, little wings fluttering slightly as I struggled to heave myself up onto the Cake’s living room sofa. God, I hate being trapped in such a physically incompetent body. Almost as much as I was starting to hate a certain amount of snickering I was pretty certain was coming from directly behind me. Pumpkin, the little unicornian sadist, simply sat there watching me flail about as I strained every muscle in my tiny blue body attempting to gain footing on the damned couch.
“Getting away from Pinkie.” I responded bluntly, having finally scrabbled to the (quite comfortable, actually) seat of the sofa. “Duh. What’s it look like I was doing?”

“How come you wanted ta’ get ‘way from Pinkie?” Pumpkin inquired, leaping with ease (shut up, I’m not jealous) onto the sofa next to me. I seriously considered falling back off (because, let’s face it, that’s the only way I can get off of furniture here) just to escape the little monster. But I’d put effort into my escape from Satan’s Pink Advocate, and I was going to enjoy my slight reprieve from cupcakes, dammit.
“Yeah, Brucey!” Pound said nosily, taking a seat directly next to me. Fantastic. Every day, I’m a little more convinced that these two are planning to kill me; they’ve already gotten their flanking tactics down pat, I see.

“Fuck, would you wanna eat cupcakes all day?” I spat sarcastically. I could almost taste the ‘fresh’ batch of cupcakes. Speaking of which, I don’t know how she managed to snag it without me seeing it, but Pumpkin was munching heavily on the same rubbery vanilla one from the kitchen. Have you ever seen a pony eat? It’s disgusting.
ESPECIALLY pony children. Foals. Whatever.
“Well, sure!” Pound agreed enthusiastically, nodding. “I really like Pinkie’s cupcakes! Don’tcha like ‘em, Brucey?”
“Motherf – blow ME. What are you, deaf?”

Pound shook his head happily. “Nu-uh, I’m not deaf! I got checked!” he said proudly, before furrowing his brows. “… What’s ‘blow me’ mean?”
… Uh oh. THINK FAST, ASSHOLE!
I did not want to go giving these kids any more ‘linguistic extensions’; at least, no more than I already had. I didn’t really look forward to finding out what would happen should the twins go using that kind of language again.
NOT THE SOAP, NOT THE SOAP!
I shuddered, and god bless that little unicorn.

“He’s talkin’ ‘bout rasphberriesh, shilly pantsh!” Pumpkin said through a mouthful of cupcake. She swiftly leaned behind me and blew a massive raspberry into Pound’s ear and blasted crumbs all over his head, who screeched and fell off the couch. Hey, at least I wasn’t the one falling off of furniture this time. It’s always funnier when it’s not happening to you, and seeing Pound fling himself away with such force was much more entertaining.
Got to admit, that one almost made me laugh.
I really had to fight to keep the grin off my face when her winged brother toppled over the edge, but I did manage. For a second, he didn’t come back up again. Pound did eventually resurface from the floor, though.
After having snuck beneath the couch and exploding with a loud raspberry of his own directly behind his sister.

Pumpkin shrieked in terror, falling off the couch with a loud fwump and rolling across the floor. Pound cackled hysterically, along with his manically giggling sister. The two of them chased each other across the room, each attempting to have the last raspberry-meet-ear and escape while laughing madly.
It was loud.
It was obnoxious.
It was even more noise than Pinkie Pie was making.
In short, it was fucking adorable.

… What? I’m not a complete heartless monster.
They eventually chased each other out of the room and up the stairs, leaving me to finally sink against the sofa cushions in blessed silence. Of course, that was before my yellow-gold eyes were forced to yank right back open as soon as I realized something important.
It was quiet.
Meaning that Pinkie-
“CUPCAKES!”
“AAAAAAAAAGH!”

I really shouldn’t have been too surprised when I fell off the couch and introduced my face to the floor. By the way, pony floors are pretty cold. I guess they must have crappy central heating, or something. Which is weird, because they have working lights and all. On that particular note, flaming candles outside wooden thatched roofs for lighting? I look forward to watching one of these houses burst into flames and leaving absolutely everybody surprised at how it could have possibly happened.

“Guess who brought cup~ca~akes?” Pinkie asked in a sing-song voice, extending one hoof to help me up while her other held aloft a tray of freshly baked sugar-infested abominations. I still can’t figure out how the hell she manages to do anything with that much agility and poise without falling over. It’s kind of impressive, really.
“The cold, icy figure of Death, ideally.” I grumbled sullenly, taking a gander at the steaming platter of steaming cupcakes. I didn’t think my stomach could take any more, even with the small amount of time I’d had to let the first batch settle.
“Brucey!” Pinkie scolded, dangling the plate of icing coated pastries away from me. Like I actually wanted them. “What did we talk about? Language, first of all!”
“Suck my di-“
“Soap.”
“-iiiiiiiphtheria. Feeling much better now.”

Hey, you’d have pussied out, too, were you in my position. I’m telling you, Pinkie Pie can be scary. She was completely prepared to begin stuffing cupcakes down my throat hole again, leaving me pondering the upsides of seppuku via sugary sweets when my savior arrived.
I swear, I have never felt more gratitude toward Carrot when he trotted through the front door, laden down with woven grocery bags.

“Hullo, Pinkie!” the scruffy stallion said cheerily as he closed the wooden door behind him, latching it firmly with his mouth. By the way, pony hygienics obviously work a bit differently than human standards. But, still. Ew.
“Hiya, Mister Cake!” Pinkie bounced in a chipper fashion, swinging the tray of edible diabetic repellant around toward him. “Just made a fresh, tasty batch!”
“That’s great, Pinkie.” He smiled a little distractedly, leaving the bags in the kitchen with a huff. You know, instead of rescuing me. “Po~und, Pu~mpk~in!” he called out, cupping one hoof around his mouth as he trotted over to the stairs. “Wash up for dinner, okay?”

“That means you too, Bruce,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Cup will be here soon – she picked up some dessert that I couldn’t find anywhere else for us. Honestly, do you have any idea how much cherries cost these days? I mean, really, some ponies can just be ridiculous. Twelve bits.” Carrot gossiped absentmindedly, deftly preparing the night’s meal. “… Bruce, aren’t you going to go wash up?”

I blanched, realizing that I’d been staring. It’s hard enough figuring out how in the hell ponies manage to balance on three legs, let alone the two Pinkie managed with.
“I, uh… already ate.” I mumbled, glancing toward the cupcakes.
“Pinkie, you didn’t let Bruce spoil his appetite, did you?” Carrot asked fretfully, elbow deep (at least, I think it’s called an elbow. I’m still freaked out by the whole ‘ponies have eye-plates’ thing, I don’t really want to learn any more about pony anatomy than I have to) in a salad bowl.
“Nopie-dopie-lopie!” Pinkie shook her head furiously. “Brucey-Wucey here only had a couple!”

“What!?” I barked, tiny muscles tensing defensively. That had to have been enough sugar to kill a fully grown bull elephant!
“Well, I... suppose that’s alright…” Carrot nodded pensively. “Pumpkin, Pound – are you still washing up?” he raised his voice slightly, going back to preparing their supper. The only thing I’m sicker of than cupcakes are the fucking vegetables. Besides, Pinkie was going to wind up killing me, eventually.
Which I decided to voice an opinion on.
“Jesus H. Christ, I am so sick of this cu-“ I started as I glared at Pinkie, stopping abruptly when I noticed that Carrot had suddenly become very interested in a small bar of soap by the kitchen sink.
“-uuuupcake smell. On... me. Yeah. Yeesh, maybe I need to… wash up, too?” I finished weakly.

Well, that settles it. They have officially begun to break my mind.
Through sadistic rituals of forcibly attending to my every need and seeing to it that I wasn’t left homeless or starving, they somehow managed to turn that into torture. I miss booze. I miss cigarettes. I miss steak. Most of all, though, I miss not living in constant fear of my inability to properly censor myself.
“There you two are,” Mister Cake said warmly as the twins trotted side by side into the kitchen, peering about at the collected groceries and beginnings of a large meal. “What took you so long?”
“We were busy blowing each other!”

I think Pinkie Pie’s face went a couple of shades paler at that moment.
Carrot didn’t so much as blink. He just sort of… stood there, like he’d suddenly been frozen in place. And forget the blinking thing, I’m pretty certain one of his eyes started twitching.
“… I’m sorry, what... was that?” he asked feebly, trying to clear out one of his ears with his other hoof busy holding the salad bowl.
“We were busy blowing each other!” Pumpkin reiterated, giggling. “That’s how come we took so long washin’ up!”
Mister Cake looked halfway between being ill and passing out on the spot.
“Yeah, but it took me longer, ‘cause Pumpkin got it all over my face.”

And I swear to god, the poor stallion just fainted on the spot.
No sooner had Carrot collapsed that Pinkie’s chalk white face ever-so-slowly turned toward me with such a grinding force that I could hear her neck fucking squeaking.
“… Brucey.”

Damn Pinkie-speed all to hell, there was nothing that could have possibly kept me from barreling out the door like a miniature blue cannonball.
And, just to prove that the universe really does hate me, directly into a very surprised Mrs. Cake.

Just for the record, the fury of Pinkie Pie doubles remarkably unmatched as a constipation aid.

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“NOT THE SOAP, NOT THE SOAP!”

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Author's Notes:

We here at FiMFicion.net do NOT condone the use of child violence for entertainment.
...
We do, however, find it HIGHLY amusing.