The wasteland was a great place to make money. Drug smuggling, pimping, slavery, gun manufacturing, there was no shortage of morally grey, or downright black, ways of making a quick fortune within this magically tainted wasteland.

However, no revenue source was more lucrative than good old fashion mercenary work. Some called prostitution the world’s oldest profession, however Rifled Recoil bet that the forefathers of Equine society probably had more interest in killing one another than fucking one another.

The prospect of money was what kept him crawling through the muddy hills that flanked the raider encampment. That sweet paycheque, for just one measly kill. It’d be enough to keep him drowning in whiskey and hookers for a year.

Okay, so maybe assassinations weren’t quite mercenary work, but they were adjacent. Both involved killing, money, and everyone trying to frantically justify their motives.

For this mission, he even got to pretend to be a good guy. His target was a raider boss after all. Those guys were never good. Probably had an affinity for drug abuse, non-consensual intercourse, and good old fashioned sadomasochism.

As he crested the next hill, he was in position, overlooking the encampment. Even from this range, he could see all the little ponies scurrying about, probably readying themselves to launch a raid or something.

Rifled Recoil smirked as he shrugged the contraption off his back.

He wasn’t going to let that happen, however. Not that he liked to brag or anything, but he was damn good at his job of putting scumbags and degenerates in the ground. Not only that, but he had a certain calling card, a little trademark that made his work highly sought after.

Rifled took pleasure in killing ponies in the most ridiculous ways possible.

It was the reason his weapon of choice today wasn’t a gun but a haphazardly thrown together pile of metallic components that included a vacuum cleaner, leaf blower, firehose nozzle, and enough superglue and duck tape to stop the stupid thing from imploding.

This was going to be the masterpiece of assassinations, the crème de la crème of contracted killings. This was what would put his name on the map and leave his legacy on the world. Littlepip may have restored the beacons and Security was… well Security, but this night would be Rifled’s crowning jewel of fame.

A smile graced his muzzle as he began to load his munitions into the contraption. Memories of far tamer kills were coming back to him.

There was his first, you always remembered your first. His target was an unfortunate mercenary captain who slipped on a strategically placed banana peel and fell down a flight of stairs. His neck was broken before he was even halfway down.

Or how about that mayor who really liked sleeping with stuffed animals. Too bad she didn’t pay close enough attention and realize one had been slit open and stuffed with a proximity mine. Rifled still remember the shower of debris and fluff that came from that kill.

Now, some might call him psychotic for what he did. However, the only crazy ponies were those who never had a little fun on the job. Like, really farmer Lily Leaf, are you honestly going to call a pony out for having some morally questionable fun when you’re probably sticking your dick in livestock?

With his munitions loaded, Rifled peered through his scope.

The camp was now crystal clear and he could make out the manes and coats of the tribal raider he was scouting.

Yep, just like he thought. They had mohawks and shaved sides. These were raiders and that alone was enough to know they deserved death.

He snorted, remembering the first time he killed a raider boss. Shot him with a dart that dispersed Yaogaui pheromones. He’d never seen a pony gallop so fast in his life. Not that it did him any good against Yaoguais. Those fuckers could clock in at close to thirty kilometers per hour if they wanted to and, oh boy, with that much pheromones in the air, you better believe they wanted to.

Though honestly, his favourite kill still had to be the time he left a rake in a grassy field and stuck a landmine to the top of it. One wrong hoofstep and bam, that pastor was missing a head and half his body.

But that was all about to erased, as this would be the kill that marked the peak of Rifled’s career. A shot from half a mile away.

All he needed to do was stay put as those raiders came together, waiting for their nefarious leader to take the stage.

Consul Equis Gracchi stood upon his platform, looking out upon his legionaries.

“Friends, Roamens, Countrymares, lend me your ear. I come to bury Julius Canter.” He bowed his head. “As our beloved leader, he dedicated his entire life to fighting those despots from the village of Veii. They took our children, raided our lands, and raped and plundered with no remorse.”

He watched the row of heads bob and the attitude of the crowd embolden. He witnessed anger, desperation, and sadness in the gathered eyes.

“However, as a great statespony, he wished for nothing but peace. As your new Consul, I will continue with his goal in mind. Trying to bridge the hatred of our two tribes as per the scripture of harmony. It is what Goddess Venus Fluttershy would’ve wanted.”

There was a crack in the distance and all eyes turned towards the hills.

For a moment, Gracchi stood tall and proud. The next, his headless body tumbled to the earth, broken and battered.

A few metres away his head crashed against the wall, gore splattering against the temple of Jupiter Celestia.

His horrified expression was obscured by the pink suction cup of a plunger that protruded from his face.

I may have just finished reading Mary Beard's SPQR while writing this chapter. Also this was inspired by a story from Bubblegum.

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