Arc TWO: Chapter 4

Blue-green smoke plumed from Digger’s nostrils, rising and dissolving before it reached the ceiling of a drug den he hadn’t visited in years. Discarded needles littered the dirt floor. Here and there, scraps of sheet metal covered holes in termite-eaten' walls, like rust-colored patches sewn into tarnished denim.

Digger was lying on a cot that reeked of urine and lovemaking. It smelled almost as bad as the crystal pegasus passed out in the corner, his coat as dingy as his clothing. He was young and pretty, likely a junkie turned prostitute. The Daughters were well known for dolling up addicts and pimping them to wealthy uptowners. They paid their whores with fixes instead of money, if they paid them at all.

The crystal pegasus lay curled in a ball, shivering.

Something foreign plucked at Digger's heartstrings. Maybe it was the drugs. Rising from the cot, he crawled to the corner, took off his leather vest and draped it across the pony's back. Seeing it on the stallion, he realized how ratty his own clothing looked. He pawed at the collar around his neck and considered discarding it as well; he had removed its gemstones before coming here, fearful that some knife-wielding junkie might try to rob him.

“You gonna give him a kiss and read him a bloody bedtime story?” Lying beside the cot, Crest rolled to his back and folded both forelegs against his chest, flirting with half-lidded eyes. “Come here and gimme a kiss then.” He ran his tongue over the snake bites in his bottom lip, then beckoned Digger with a blown kiss.

“Digger isn't high enough to kiss Crest.” Digger smiled to appease the Daughter as he returned to his resting place. He was feeling looser now—so loose he didn't mind that Crest had stripped down to just panties and fishnets and made himself comfy beside the cot. “When is Crest going to give Digger new drug? Old stuff doesn't work on Digger anymore. Too weak.”

“Not one for foreplay, huh?” Crest rolled to his stomach and rested his chin on two crossed forearms, kicking his hinds like a filly lounging on her bed. “We'll get to that soon enough. First I want to know what brought me best customer back to the Kitchen.”

“Stress,” answered Digger. “Sober life is overrated.”

“Running from your problems? That's no way to live.”

Digger laughed without humor. “Wow, Digger has fallen far. Cross-dressing drug dealer is telling Digger how to live.”

“Ain't nopony telling you how to live. I'm just telling you that problems are faster than mutts.”

Digger lifted his pipe and lighter off the cot. He had smoked most of the poison joke Crest had sold him. “Tell Digger something Crest,” he said, sparking his lighter and inhaling. “What else are drugs good for but running away?”

“How about running to. That's why me and me sisters get blown, lovely. It takes you someplace.” Smiling, Crest licked his lips a second time, then raised his tongue to reveal a tiny plastic bag underneath. “Give me your paw.”

Digger obliged, cringing as Crest's tongue lapped at his open palm. The Daughter took two furry fingers into his mouth, slowly, eyes shut as he suckled. Digger humored him, and when the sucking and lapping came to an end, the bag was resting in his open palm. It was full of seeds.

“Is this it?” he rasped, sounding unimpressed. He lifted the bag to his snout and sniffed. “What are they?”

“Poison joke seeds, lovely. Each of them is laced with a special brew. It's zebra voodoo.”

Zebra voodoo? Suddenly Digger wasn't so sure about this.

“It effects everyone differently,” Crest went on, reading the reluctance in Digger's features. “Think of it as a custom high. If you're looking to escape, nothing will get you further away than those beauties. You'll be on the moon, lovely. Just you and the dust and the stars.”

The moon? Digger liked the sound of that; he wouldn't find The Prankster or Grift or Crest on the moon. He wouldn't find her either—the faceless monster with the glowing gaze. He would be safely away from Manehattan. Alone—with nothing but the stars for company.

But could he trust Crest? Probably not, but his desire to escape had long ago overruled his common sense. He opened the bag and dropped one seed into his palm.

Crest extended an upturned forehoof. “No need to go it alone.”

Digger hesitated, then flipped the bag upside down and dropped a seed onto Crest's hoof. He pinched his own seed between index finger and thumb, tilting his head back as he lowered his bottom jaw.

He paused and glanced down at Crest. “How much?”

“First one's on the house,” said Crest. “The next will cost your bloody arm. And trust me, you'll be coming back for more.”

Digger dropped the seed on his tongue and swallowed it dry, wishing he had something to wash it down with.

A second later he was on the moon.

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The moon was cold and silent. It looked similar to the drug den in a remote way that confused Digger. Everything was still in the same place: the cot, the napping crystal pegasus, Digger himself. Only Crest had gone missing, and he seemed to take a certain... something with him. Digger wasn't sure what that something was, but he felt more at ease now that it and Crest were gone.

The energy was different. Digger's mildew-ridden cot suddenly had all the makings of a memory-foam mattress. It cradled him with cloud-palms, bearing his modest weight.

Bearing weight? Yes, weight... he liked the sound of that word. Not long ago, while living in a cage as one of Blood Orange's pets, Digger had longed for weight, his emaciated frame crying out for fat, for pounds, for flesh to fortify his brittle bones. Blood had nearly starved him to death, as he did all his pets, and Digger knew of no death worse than starvation.

As a famished mutt he had endured a tiny death every day. He died in the morning, woken and murdered by the scent of servants preparing his master's breakfast: scrambled eggs, pancakes, hash-browns cooked to golden perfection. He died a new death later in the afternoon—the training hours—his nutrient starved limbs screaming as they endured hunting exercises that taught him to pounce, to rip, to devour—though there was never much devour. And he died again in the evening; he drowned beneath the floods of bellows pouring from his fellow slaves, the pleas to be sent to bed with full stomachs, the rattling cages, the barks, and then the lash—crack, crack, crack—the din of cruelty itself, of evil as callous as it was unchecked.

He suffered a hundred deaths—a thousand!—a thousand petite and agonal ends. But worse than the deaths were the rebirths, the scraps of stale meat and bread crusts delivered on rusted trays, morsels of hope shoved between iron bars. It was never enough to fill or satisfy, but the survival instinct is a strange and powerful thing. Even in a lowly mutt like Digger, it was strong.

A feeling of triumph accompanied the memory. Digger was full now. Wholly satisfied. He recalled the night when he and his fellow Carnies feasted on Blitzkrieg, almost laughing at what a meager meal he had been. And now, where pounds of raw flesh had left him wanting, a seed and a few puffs of smoke had filled his gut to bursting. He tried to lift his pipe and inhale another plume of poison joke, but the seed had paralyzed him. And he was fine with that.

After several minutes of idly trying to sit up, he settled for rolling to his side. The cot was wider than he remembered, and lying on it, nestled beside him, was a mare, a pegasus, her body stretched long like that of a lazy cat, or perhaps a feline of greater majesty, a panther, her back hooves near Digger's head, fetlocks crossed, croup turned up toward the ceiling. The cutie mark on her left flank—the flank that faced him—had been crossed out and replaced with a tattoo that read “D.O.D.” in bold letters.

Eying the mare’s flank woke the beast in Digger’s gut, whetting a different kind of appetite. It was naked, covered in nothing but coarse cyan fur and a fine speckling of dirt. Like her flanks, the rest of her was toned and streamlined. Muscles like frozen-in-time pond ripples rested beneath her coat, intermittently gathering whenever she stirred in her sleep, which was often.

He ogled the mare for so long he fell asleep. He napped pleasantly, then woke to find the mare was staring into his face, her cyan cheek pillowed atop a cyan hoof. Rebellious strands of multicolored mane cascaded before her violet eyes. Digger counted three colors in all: red, blue, yellow.

“There’s me favorite little blighter,” said the mare, smiling with jewelry studded lips. “You have yourself a proper nap then?” Her voice was rough and masculine, her accent Trottingham, and she must have been high on something strong, because she spoke with long, slow lip-flaps.

Digger opened his mouth to speak, but a low canine thrum came instead. The mare had reached behind his ear and begun stroking: a pleasure center that could reduce even the toughest diamond dog to a panting, slobbering mass of whines and pleasure-growls. Digger was soft to begin with; he couldn’t resist melting under the mare’s strokes.

“Something wrong, little Pipsqueak? You haven’t said a word since you woke up.” The mare’s hoof trailed from ear to neck, from neck to stomach, then halted its descent and began massaging. It rubbed back and forth. Up and down. Made little circles. “You’re not still sore about our little spat, are you?”

Digger shook his head no. It was the only gesture he could manage, though the drug’s paralyzing effects were beginning to wear off.

“That was an accident,” she insisted. “Just an accident, lovely. You know I’d never hurt you that bad on purpose… right?”

Digger nodded in agreement.

“Good. That’s good.” She crawled atop him, slowly, her muscles gathering as she straddled his waist with toned thighs. “But what happened that day was just as much your fault as it was mine. I don’t like putting me hooves on you, Pip, but when I tell you to do something I expect it to get done.” Her hooves reached down to pin his paws to the cot. “Well don’t just bloody lie there, you twit. Start making it up to me.”

The brush of her thighs against his side, and the weight of her, the strength, warmed Digger's blood and stood him up straight. The curve of his erection rose to cup her backside.

“Well, well, look who’s all bloody grown up,” she said with an impish laugh. “We been doing this a long time now. ‘Fraid you’re getting too old for me, lovely.” She laughed for a spell longer, then brought her face closer and whispered, “Come here,” her voice dropping to a seductive growl. Her lips mashed against Digger’s, quickening his pulse, but his chest didn’t flutter with new life until he tasted the bead of jewelry jammed through the mare’s tongue. It tunneled into his mouth, exploring with the familiarity of a long-time lover. Whoever this ‘Pipsqueak’ character was, the mare had kissed him before, on many occasions.

Digger kissed back, biceps and triceps flexing as he fought to peel his arms off the cot. He wanted to hold the mare, to hug her body tight to his chest and squeeze her, envelope her, crush her if he could—but forehooves denser than anvils drove down into his palms, pinning him. The mare smiled against his lips and flared her hinds, fortifying her base. Her lap bore down on his pelvis, and her already taut abdomen flexed against Digger’s torso. She was strong, heavy, in complete control.

Their kiss broke, and the mare jerked her head back in time to dodge the mutt’s snapping jaws. “Feisty tonight, are you?” she taunted, smiling down. Her grin became a grimace as Digger’s maw jolted up to claim her bottom lip, and a shriek flew from her. He growled and tugged, but, to his amazement, failed to draw blood.

“Fucking cunt!” she shouted after yanking her lip free. “Bloody fucking cunt!” An elbow strike accented that final syllable—cunt!—and Digger’s teeth rattled as the bone cracked his jaw.

Another curse rang out, followed by a headbutt that blunted the bridge of Digger’s nose. Dizzy, he roped his arms around the mare’s barrel and rolled, trying to pin her. Two strong cyan forelegs found his neck, coiled, tugged, pulling his muzzle close to hers—and then they were kissing again, roughly, tongues lapping, teeth biting.

Digger’s shaft ached as it brushed the bottom of the mare’s croup. The beast was awake now, hungry, and for once he was grateful for its company. He, or perhaps it, cupped the underside of a cyan thigh and lifted the mare's hind leg. She squealed as he forced her onto her side, spread her hinds—hugging one to his chest—and shoved his way in, breaching her entrance, sieging her.

"Slow... down... Pip..." the mare moaned, her words separated by breathy sucking sounds. But Pip wasn't there, only Digger and his beast, their shared tongue lolling out of a drug addled skull as they rutted her. She urged him to slow down a second time, then laughed through pants as the mutt prematurely blew his load, filling her with his seed.

Spent, Digger released the mare's hind and collapsed on her, his fur warm and sticky with sweat.

“See, now what'd I tell you?” Smiling, the mare rolled back to her stomach, her wings folded beneath Digger’s chest. “You're lucky I don't rip off your little wanker for making a mess of me fine linens. Now catch your fucking breath and give me a proper rutting, or I'll call Crest in here and have him give you a proper rutting.” Her tone was at once imperious and playful; she gave orders with the nonchalant air of a mare accustomed to having her way. Digger nibbled her ear, growling with pleasure as he sampled the metallic taste of numerous piercings.

Moving languidly, he plunged his snout into the mare's mane, sucking back a lungful of her ashen scent. She was a smoker; the smell of old tobacco perfumed her multicolored hair. It was bizarre, this rainbow that reeked of ash and vice, but Digger was high enough to revel in it. His snout traveled from mane to neck, teeth grazing skin as he nibbled and gnawed on his way down.

The taste of her rekindled his hunger, and the closeness pumped new blood into his semi-flaccid length. Feeling his arousal, the mare purred and spread her hinds. The words “Slowly now,” slid off her tongue, made silky by her prurient tone. Digger wasn't sure he could take it slow—the monster was thrashing about in his belly, urging him to slam away as he had before.

He bit her neck as he made his second entrance, plowing past lips turned slick and puffy. Teeth flirted with skin, drew blood, reminding Digger and his beast what a thrill it was crush a pony's throat, to rend a trachea and swallow buckets scarlet life. He fought the impulse to eat and bucked his hips instead, staving off one primal drive with another. His arm roped around the mare's neck, and his paw gripped her shoulder, held her, pinned her—his excitement building as she squirmed beneath his weight.

The mare moaned her lover's name—“Oh Pip, oh Pip, oh Pip”—again and again and again, like a chant to some Zebrican god of fertility and fornication. Digger loved the sound of it, so rich, so full pleasure. The name seemed to fill her up, to satisfy her in ways Digger's cock couldn't, and it pacified the beast as well, calming the bluster and haste in his strokes.

As he settled into a slower rocking motion, Digger realized the mare was no longer moving against him, but with him—finding his rhythm and making it her own. Panting now, her words long dissolved by the sweet release of being taken, she curled the bend of one knee around his forearm and squeezed. Her wings twitched against Digger's chest, as if meaning to unfurl but repeatedly failing.

Neither of them lasted much longer. The mare came first, moaning and clenching, and the tightness brought on by squeezing muscles flung Digger over the edge shortly after. He finished inside her for the second time.

“Better?” Digger rasped.

“Much.”

The mare craned her neck to kiss him, her tongue slipping past his lips, and soon they were at it again. Minutes became hours as they rutted the night away. Try as he might, Digger failed to keep count of how many climaxes his partner enjoyed as he took her every way she ordered him too. He gave little thought to his own pleasure, and instead fixated on hers, enjoying the faces and noises she made in the throes of her lovemaking. In seeking to fill himself he had accidentally filled another, and he found it more rewarding than the escape he had come searching for.

With their frantic kissing and humping at an end, Digger fell to his back and pulled the mare onto his chest. “What is pretty pony's name?” he rasped, knowing that it didn't matter. Once her drug induced haze wore off and she realized he wasn't Pip, Digger knew he would never see this mare again. But that didn't matter, he wanted her name. It was the most precious gem he’d ever found; he wanted to pluck it from her mouth and add it to the lesser stones adorning his collar. “Tell Digger your name,” he prodded again, earning a bemused look from his one-night lover

“I do believe I've finally fucked your brains out,” she said with a laugh. “Though, you have seemed a bit off all night. You weren't so afraid of me... like you usually are. Not that I blame you any. I've been... right awful to you, little Pip.” She smiled wistfully and planted a longing kiss on Digger's mouth. No tongue or slurping noises this time, just desire and passion. Maybe a dollop of love. “I don't mean to be the way I am,” she went on. “Just wired bad, I guess. You know how it is in Manehattan, Pip. Some of us are just wired bad.”

“Digger knows, and he isn't angry.” He placed a paw on her cheek, stroking fur with his thumb. “Just tell Digger your name.”

“You know me bloody—”

“Humor Digger.”

The mare smiled down at him, strands of rainbow mane falling to veil one of her eyes. He was on the moon. All was peaceful and quiet.

“Alright, alright,” she said. “Me name's Primary, lovely.”

“Mmmm, Primary.” Digger swished the name on his tongue, as though it were a fine wine. “Primary...” It sounded even better the second time. And familiar, too. Where had heard it before...

He blinked. “Wait, Primary?” By the third uttering his fine wine had soured. He did know that name. Damn Crest. Damn him and his fucking drugs. Fucking Primary. He would have noticed the mane if he hadn't been so high. Fucking Primary. Primary was Big Sis, and Big Sis was the title given to the leader of the Daughters of Discord.

The moon tilted to roll Digger off its surface, and the return to earth was harrowing.

Well shit; this was a fine mess. He eyed Primary’s neck, and the beast in his gut knew what needed doing. When the leader of the Daughters came to her senses and discovered that some mangy mutt had taken advantage of her, she would…

The business end of Crest’s wrench popped into Digger’s mind. He pictured it swinging down to shatter his collar bone, then rising and swinging again, aiming lower to burst his stomach and free the beast from its prison of ribs. A tempting reprieve. Without Digger serving as its host, the beast would spill out in a tangle of blood-soaked entrails, flopping as it died like a fetus ripped from its mother's womb.

For a lowly mutt like Digger, death would have proven the sweetest relief. But the survival instinct is a strange and irrational thing; despite the misery he would surely endure under the Prankster’s rule, Digger wanted to live. He knew what needed to be done.

Seizing her shoulders, gently, gently now… he pulled her closer and kissed her neck one last time. Her giggle made him hesitate, and a wild thought skittered through his mind, one that would surely get him killed. Once the drugs in her system had worn off, maybe she wouldn’t remember this moment at all. Or maybe she would. Maybe she would recall it fondly in her private moments, and maybe she would come to him one night—come with playful curses on her tongue and pleasure in her lap and Digger’s name on her lips. Not Pip, whoever he was, but Digger. Digger, Digger, Digger…

His lips formed a wistful smile against her neck. Mad. A mad thought for the mad city.

He whispered an apology, bared his fangs... and then a loud rumbling and pounding echoed from outside, the footfalls of a lumbering giant. Primary looked toward the door, frightened, and a new instinct came over Digger. He rolled atop her as the floor began to shake, hoping to shield her from whatever nightmare was marching their way.

Boom… boom… boom… went the footfalls, so loud and heavy they roused the crystal junkie from his stupor. He looked all around at the trembling hovel, more confused than scared, and Digger looked with him, wondering if he should take Primary and flee. He knew Shanty Alley well enough to beat a hasty escape, but if the monster stomping around outside spotted them…

There was no time to linger on that thought; his face snapped up as three massive, pointed shafts of wood stabbed through the ceiling.

Wooden shafts? Digger gawked in astonishment, wondering if the poison in his blood was still playing its joke. The shafts flexed like fingers, or perhaps claws, gripping one edge of the ceiling and tearing it away like the top of cereal box. One canine snarl met another as Digger growled up at the face of gargantuan timberwolf, likely a fusing of five or six of the wooden beasts.

Regretting his decision to not flee, he yanked Primary to her hooves and tried it now, but a wooden limb—an entire adult elm tree it seemed—stomped down to block the only exit. Primary shook where she stood, and Digger stood over her, snarling as the beast of lumber lowered its head into the room, crouching until its chin nearly touched the floor.

With the massive face closer now, Digger noticed, for the first time, an earth stallion perched atop its head. Swathed all in black, the stallion beat a slow descent down the monster’s snout, his gaunt frame creaking under tattered robes, iron shoes clanking, blood-shot eyes half-lidded and glaring. His mane was unclean and unkempt, different from the sleek perfection Digger remembered, but the deep maroon color was exactly the same. It was him: the tamer of all creatures that flew in the sky and swam through the sea and crawled on the ground. Digger’s old master. The mutt swallowed a lump in his throat, resisting an urge to run away and hide. After all these years, he had hoped a day would come when he could stand before Blood Orange without trembling.

Standing on the wolf’s snout, Blood pressed a button on the metal collar-like device fastened to his neck. The button blinked red, and, assisted by the device, he spoke with a robotic voice.

“Two of your companions kidnapped my pets: a muscle-bound earth mare and a mutt like yourself.” He leaned closer, his breath reeking of carrion. The buzz in his next words sounded especially mechanical. “Where. Are. They?”