The pink pony, recognizing my confusion, sat next to me. I shifted away uncomfortably. “You see,” she said, “everybody here used to be a bad person before Mama taught us to be good little ponies!”
She pointed (as far as hooves can point) at a white pony curled up in the corner. Tattooed on her thigh was the image of a razor blade. “For example, Snowshiver used to sell cocaine!”
“Not anymore!” Snowshiver piped up. “Mama taught me that drugs are bad!”
A yellowish-gold pony with a picture of black lace panties on her thigh piped up next. “And I used to be a pimp!”
“But you’re a better pony now since Mama taught you the error of your ways! Right, Clopping Cunt?” The gold pony nodded.
The pink pony kept going around the room. “Everybody here has benefited from Mama’s lessons! Trotting Twat over there used to be in a gang, and Deceitful Kinevel used to steal cars and street-race them! Bitchslap used to abuse his wife, Bucking Bastard robbed several convenience stores and Ill-Gotten Pains was a financial fraudster!”
“And I,” she said, placing a hoof proudly on her chest, “am Prancing Prick! I used to be Mama’s boyfriend.”
Shakily, I pointed at a shy pony under the nightstand. “W-What about her?”
“Oh, that’s Fuck You. She used to be a serial killer.”
This was all way too much to absorb. Had all these ex-criminals been turned into cartoon ponies with ironic, insulting names as some form of twisted vigilante punishment? “What’s w-w-with your weird names?” I asked.
The pink pony stared at me uncomprehendingly. “Huh? What’s wrong with our names?” The other ponies muttered in mutual confusion.
I had to get out of here.
As I desperately tried to force the locked door, Prancing Prick trotted up next to me. “So, what’s the bad thing you did?”
Sudden laughter rang out.