A Wholesome Romance With Mr. Tingles

You wake up as you usually do in the morning: tired, depressed, and hung over. All that booze and coke last night only put off your problems for Morning Anon to deal with. Within five minutes you’re already pounding vodka.

It’s not that you’re an alcoholic, or that you’re some kind of sad little emo pussy faggot, but that… well… living in a magical land of talking pastel horses that can fly and live for thousands of years and stuff is kind of, like, boring. You’re bored, dude. How could anyone not be bored in a land that can’t do anything at all without attaching a horse pun to it?

Also, you might also be drinking to forget all the mares you dated who sort of died or left you and eventually ruined your hopes for finding romance in the world of Equestria. As you pour yourself some cereal with vodka in it, you can’t help but remember them.

The first was Redheart. You were so in love with her. But now you only remember her in embarrassment and disgust, since it was actually Fluttershy trying to figure out if long-term identity theft was your fetish.

You cry harder and drain a bottle of wine. It doesn’t help. It only reminds you of more lost love.

There was Berry, of course, and you loved her very much even though she was a wet-brained alcoholic kook. But then she died in that tragic distilling accident. You’re still not sure how the Cutie Mark Crusaders managed to squeeze her entire upper half into a wine bottle without realizing it might be a bad idea. And you don’t think you’d ever want to know what kind of cutie mark they thought they’d earn from that.

Then there was Ditzy. Ditzy was so sweet and so kind and you just couldn’t help but fall in love with her as she comforted you in the aftermath of Berry’s death, despite your attempts to resist tarnishing your love for the earth mare. But then Ditzy accidentally drank a bottle of highly radioactive poison and died of multiple cancers in the span of about a week. You still have a pending lawsuit against the company responsible for not labeling that bottle properly.

Speaking of bottles, you down an entire bottle of vintage absinthe, but it does nothing to dull the pain because you’re more of a heavyweight than anyone in this land of horses.

You dated Applejack, of course. She was smoking hot, could almost keep up with your alcoholism, and she couldn’t die because she was one of the Bearers of the Elements of Harmony and a main character in the show, so she was invincible. But in the end you found out you were actually dating a changeling, and you’re terrified of insects because they’re creepy and crawly and disgusting, and also you kept expecting the changeling to then turn into Fluttershy and ask, “Are changelings your fetish, Anon?”

So then you tried dating Twilight Sparkle. That didn’t go so well either, because it turned out she was also a changeling. Specifically, she sort of tried to confess that she was a changeling and you sort of had a flashback to the previous relationship and beat up the changeling. Then you had a hate mob come and torture her to find out where the real Twilight was. Only it turned out to actually be Twilight Sparkle and she was a changeling all along and this was her version of coming out of the closet. And then she broke up with you. So that sucked.

After that you began to wonder if the universe had it out for you… so you hooked up with a mare who felt like the universe had it out for her, too. Her name was Starlight Glimmer. She was beautiful and powerful and clever as all hell. But nopony really liked her because she was sort of a huge cunt to everypony for a while.

You smile wistfully. Ah, Starlight… the two of you had had so much in common, particularly the evil, twisted sense of humor. Long hours you two did spend mocking the inabilities of your peers to measure up. And then one day Starlight slipped and fell in the bathtub and broke her neck like a skrub.

And then you were alone again. But you did not despair! You hung out and chilled for a while because you didn’t need no bitches because at that point you certainly weren’t desperate for companionship in a world where you’d beaten up the local princess, certainly not.

You lurch over to the fridge, leaving twin trails of tears behind, and grab some clear liquid, which you drink. It might be water. It could also be pure liquid LSD. You’re not sure. Your vision is too blurred from limpid tears of suffering to make out the label.

The day after Starlight died you’d started looking for companionship because you were desperate and lonely and pathetic. You hooked up with Cheerilee, who was honestly the only pony you’d enjoyed talking to after Starlight’s demise. She was witty and clever, and though she lacked the biting causticness that Starlight could put forth at a moment’s notice, she was able to put up with your bullshit pretty well.

But then one of the many curses that had been placed upon your head by God himself for some unknown sin of immeasurable magnitude made herself known while you were having a romantic picnic with Cheerilee on a scenic hilltop one beautiful day.

It is surprising, you suddenly think to yourself as you consume an entire ounce of shrooms, that it took you this long to figure out that God has a hateboner for you. I mean, what loving god would make a priest who sends wave after wave of fetish-spouting cutepone stalkers after you?

You sniff a pile of suspicious white powder that might be horse tranquilizer. You’re rolling in ketamine like Tony Montana rolls in cocaine. The events of your curse suddenly flood back into your mind as a hallucination/flashback due to all the drugs and alcohol.

“Another cherry, my love?” you ask, holding one up between your thumb and forefinger.

Cheerilee giggles. “Oh, if you insist,” she says playfully, and opens her mouth wide.

Yeah, it’s one of those romances. Fuck off with your judgment.

Just as you’re about to place the cherry on her waiting tongue, you stop. You have a strange sense that you’re being watched… But when nothing happens, you shrug and move in for the kill.

“ANERN THER YUO AR!”

You scream a very un-manly scream, scared shitless by the screeching voice just inches from your ear. With a panicked and confused Cheerilee clinging to you, you whirl around and glare at the very unwelcome intruder. You knew exactly who it was before you even looked, because there are only two ponies in Equestria that make you want to punch your own balls to distract yourself from them, and one of them is practically mute and kind of okay when she’s not spouting off horrible fetish ideas.

“Lyler what the fuck are you doing here go away I’m busy,” you say in what you feel is a reasonably calm tone of voice.

“I LIKE A PICNIC TOO!” yells Lyler. “FOOD! TENDIES!”

“This is for me and Cheerilee only. Lyler pls go.”

“TENDIES TENDIES TENDIES!” Lyler starts jumping up and down. “MY PICNIC TOO!”

Apparently, Cheerilee has some experience dealing with Lyler, because she’s not freaking out. It’s either that or she’s just come to accept that this kind of shit is normal in Ponyville. Either or, really.

Or maybe, just maybe, the horrendous stench of unwashed horse vaginal discharge has put her in a momentary coma. The more you think about it, the more you realize it’s probably that one. Lyler and Rainbom tried to barbeque Lyra’s firehose last week and Lyra hasn’t found a replacement yet, so Lyler smells like death.

“Listen,” you say, pushing the comatose Cheerilee’s ears down so she won’t have to hear your foul language, “I put up with a lot of your shit, but I’m trying to get laid with my one true love tonight, okay? Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve had sex?”

“I WANT DICKIE AND PICNIC TENDIES.”

“Oh, Lyra, it’s you,” says Cheerilee, brought back to the world of the living quite suddenly. You were wrong; she has no experience with Lyler, the lucky mare.

Predictably, Lyler gets right up in her face and pitches a fit. “NOT LYRA! LYLER! LLLLYYYYYYYYLLLLERRRRRR! LYLER ANERRRNNNN!”

“Lyler stop this shit.” You put your finger on her nose and roll her back onto her haunches. “Leave Cheerilee alone. Go have your own picnic somewhere else and let us enjoy ours.”

Her face scrunches up. She picks up a plastic bottle in her hooves and jabs it at you like it’s a weapon.

“MY PICNIC!” she howls, and squirts some of the sauce in it onto your shirt.

“Maybe we should just go,” Cheerilee says, sounding unsure. “It’s just food…”

You snort, unable to believe that anyone could say these words and believe them. “Like hell it’s just food. That’s my super-secret homemade tabasco sauce she just stained all over my shirt. I worked pretty damn hard to make that just for this occasion, and I’m not gonna give it up without a fight. Lyler, gimme back my picnic or else.”

“NOPE.” She starts drinking the tabasco sauce straight from the bottle. Apparently this does not bother her. “IT MAKES MY TUMMY WARM AND CUDDLY.”

“Fuck off gimme back my stuff you crazy bag of grass clippings.”

“THIS MEANS WAR ANERN.”

“Seriously I’m not kidding.”

Lyler then unprovokedly squeezes the bottle of tabasco sauce at you and Cheerilee, dousing both of you with it. While you merely get more stains on your shirt, Cheerilee manages to get most of it in her eyes.

“OH MY GOD!” Cheerilee screams. “IT BURNS! AAAAAAAUUGHHHHH!”

Shrieking, she first claws at her eyes with her hooves, then loses it completely and gallops blindly off in a desperate attempt to escape the pain.

“No!” you cry, reaching helplessly towards her. “Cheerilee, look out!”

If only you hadn’t tried to go for a scenic and romantic ‘hilltop’ picnic on a hundred-foot-high cliff. But you did. So Cheerilee falls a hundred feet to a gruesome and terrible death. Then rabid starving timberwolves set upon her corpse and consume it in a matter of seconds, eliminating all possibility of necromancy.

“WHERE DID CHEERY GO,” says Lyler as you stare at the place where Cheerilee disappeared.

“God fucking damn it Lyler,” is all you can manage.

You shake your head and sigh sadly, remembering the event. It wasn’t a total loss, at least: at least you learned that God really, really hates you. There is no one in the world who loves you. Not even Derpy’s radioactive mutant zombie corpse is around anymore. It died from starvation when you wouldn’t let it eat brains.

Perhaps…

Perhaps you will have to go…

...to see Fluttershy…

The thought fills you with horror and dread. You would be betraying your very humanity! Your very soul! You dare not think… and yet, the loneliness crushes you like a tiny cell, forcing you to make a choice.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad...

“Fear not, Anon!” cries a sexy, courageous voice as the door bursts open. “For I have come to save you!”

“Mr. Tingles?” you say stupidly. “Fuck I’m not high enough for this yet hang on.”

After drinking an entire bottle of adrenochrome, you try this again.

Your front door bursts open a second time and you see… Mr. Tingles. The piece of glass that got stuck in Lyler’s head in the chapter that had Berry Punch in it (whatever that chapter was; you’re too fucked up to remember). He is looking sexy and gallant, wearing a tiny suit of armor and waving a flag of broken glass as trumpets play and holy light beams behind him.

You conclude that Mr. Tingles is the piece of broken glass you have been lusting after in your dreams all your life, as you are in fact not a human male named Anon but a flesh-shaped section of the floor with 1,000 eyes and 1,000 mouths that can see into the past, present, and future.

“Make love to me,” you beg him. “You are my hero, Satan. I want to feel you in every molecule of my carbon.”

Mr. Tingles then obliges you and makes love to you. You have ten thousand children right there on the spot even as you spontaneously orgasm from his glassy touch. He turns into a harpsichord and you play him and make beautiful music and all your children applaud.

“Remember me always!” Mr. Tingles cries. “Even when I pass beyond the void of memory and into the land of shadows. I am alive.”

“You must stay,” you protest. “I have never loved a tingle so much as I love your tingles. We shall get married and have children and name them all Cheerilee for the boys and Ketamine for the girls.”

All your glass horse human children are named Joyce though and you go skydiving with them. You yell at Mr. Tingles while you are in the air because it pisses you off. Your body twists into grotesque shapes.

“Why Joyce? Where is that book of horse baby names? I thought we agreed on Spiders Coming Out of Their Eyes.”

Indeed, spiders do come out of their eyes. You scream and run, only to crash into your wall and fall down. The room is a cage. You are caged. The cage is getting smaller. Your flesh is being crushed. Crushed like in one of Fluttershy’s terrible fetishes. You are alone. Alone!

You are the lone human of the universe. Sad, lonely, and alone. Deconstructed, but not dead. Eternal. Time is irrelevant. Space is an eternity. Is eternity your--No, fuck off. Nothing is everything, and everything is nothing. You are one with the void.

But then you remember that you have always been at war with Griffonia. You throw Rarity in the bathtub. Mr. Tingles crawls into your sanguine head and your hands learn the languages of the ancients. Suddenly the entire universal landscape is open to you, and it is made of Fluttershy. Infinite Fluttershy everywhere. So many Fluttershys.

An endless corridor of Fluttershys.

“Hey Anon,” they all say at once. “Are horrendously bad trips your fetish?”

You scream louder than you ever have in your life.

Eventually you wake up in a pile of vomit.

There is no Lyler. You have no dead ex-girlfriends. There are no drugs in your house except for whatever weird horse drug Fluttershy gave you, which seems to have lasted for several days. You’d been snorting ground-up wheaties thinking it was coke. It gave you a bloody nose.

“God damn it Fluttershy,” you say.

Then you hear that god-awful knocking. Christ, can’t she wait and let you relax before dropping her next awful fetish guess on you?

You open the door. “If this even slightly annoys me, I’m calling the police about what you gave me on whatever day it was. And it will annoy me.”

“O-Okay,” says Fluttershy cutely. “I’m pretty sure I’m right this time, though.”

“Well, let’s hear it so I can get around to calling the cops.”

She takes a deep breath and asks, “Are never-ending horrendously bad trips your fetish, Anon?”

That’s when you notice that the sky is raining blood and Fluttershy’s face is melting. Two mares are literally fucking a polar bear right behind her.

“Nope,” you say, and promptly slam the door in her face. “Fuck this shit I’m out.”

“Drat,” comes Fluttershy’s muffled voice as you chug a half a bottle of vodka in about three seconds.

Author's Notes:

https://www.fimfiction.net/user/56485/the+parasprite

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