Title:           Applejack Must Die
Author:          RPBN
Pastebin link:   http://pastebin.com/D9eyTTph
First Edit:      Saturday 23rd of March 2013 03:45:06 PM CDT
Last Edit:       Saturday 23rd of March 2013 03:45:06 PM CDT

>You spent all night digging that pit trap in front of the barn.
>And the day before was spent sharpening stakes to place at the bottom.
>But it'll all be worth it to get that wily apple farmer.
>Her and her stupid orange fur and that fucking hat.
>You are so going to jack off into that thing when she's dead.
>Applejack walks towards the barn and over the concealed pit.
>This is it! You reach into your pants and grab your throbbing erection in anticipation.
>And she walks across the stick and hay covering like it was solid ground.
NO!!!
>You run from your hiding place ready to throttle the hick pöny.
>The pit gives way to you.
>Pain. Lots of pain.
>There are wooden stakes piercing your body in several places.
>The last thing you see is Applejack shaking her head.
>”Macintosh get the shovel. He’s done it again.”
>You wake up in your bed again. The number on your wrist has changed to 21.
Someday Applejack, someday.
 
 
>You managed to borrow/steal Pinkie’s party cannon.
>Instead of cake you filled with nails, rocks and Scootaloo.
>You told her she’d get a ballistics cutie mark.
>You wheel the cannon out to the orchard where your target is busy kicking trees.
>Big Macintosh spots you, but all he does is sigh heavily and walk towards the house.
Well that was weird.
>”What was?”
Quiet Scootaloo, ammunition can’t talk.
>You spot the orange apple pöny in the south fields.
Range 1500 yards.
Wind SE 5mph.
All set.
>You light the fuse and cover your ears.
>The fuse burns down into the cannon…nothing happens.
>You know what’s coming.
>You knew when you got the idea this morning.
>Just like you know how it will go every time you try to kill Applejack.
>It doesn’t stop the urges. You need to kill her. Just like you need to eat, sleep and shit.
>With a resigned sigh you step in front of the cannon…nothing happens.
>Against your better judgment you look inside.
>Nails and rocks, but no Scootaloo.
>You look up over the barrel and get a face full of chicken butt.
>She’s messing with the fuse.
>One loud noise and gaping chest wound later you wake up in your bed.
>The number on your wrist is now 22.
>You crawl out of bed and begin writing apology notes.
>One for Pinkie, one for Macintosh, and one for Scootaloo’s parents.
>But not Applejack because fuck her.