Schadenfreude Gets Pizza

Ever have one of those days where everything just gets super weird for absolutely no reason? I mean, without Discord. Just… a day that, no matter what, everything seems to just go completel sideways?

Usually that “what” is me. Pleasure to see you again. It’s me, Schadenfreude.

Like today. I’m taking a tour of the less classy places in Canterlot, at the behest of my employer (another ploy with which to get me out of his mane, no doubt). He requested that I find him some more… common faire to eat for dinner tonight, so that he might prove to his Auntie that he indeed can stomach food from a restaurant with less than 3 stars. So I have taken it upon myself to find the worse possible thing and bring it to him.

Which has led me to a rather peculiar restaurant, called Red Wings Pizza. I don’t know much about it, beyond the fact that the owner is a particularly… snipey mare.. Literally anything beyond that is foreign territory to me, and honestly, I’m both a little excited and a little scared to learn more.

The outside of the restaurant itself isn’t very outlandish, and gives no indication supporting the disquieting rumors about the place. The logo on the window is a big pepperoni pizza flying away on Pheonix wings, presumably to be delivered post haste and properly cooked to… some poor soul. Stepping through the doorway, I’m instantly assaulted by two extremely familiar smells, and a voice I’ve never heard before shouting things I hear almost every day.

“Welcome to Red Wings Pizza the fuck you want?” says a somewhat dangerous-looking Earth Pony mare behind the counter, as the distinct odors of basil and Merlot waft through the air. Wait… Merlot?

“Nice to meet you!” I start, putting on a distinctly cheerful demeanor. I’ve found the best way to deal with overly-assertive/aggressive/stabby types is to be polite to a fault and acutely aware of your surroundings, including all entrances. “My name’s Schadenfreude. I’ve come to order a pizza for myself and his Royal High-Horseness, Prince Blueblood!”

Her eyes go wide for a moment as I hear the distinct sound of glass crashing. “SHIT!” she yells. “You made me drop my drink! But seriously, PRINCE Blueblood? The Prince wants to order a pizza?!”

I shake my head. “No. I want to order a pizza. For him. He’s under the impression that pizza is miserable poor people food with no merits and I intend to prove him wrong.” As she collects some glass from the floor, the scent of alcohol becomes stronger. “Are you… drinking on the job?” I ask cautiously.

“Duh! I always drink at work. And home. And anywhere else that serves alcohol.”

“Wait, you serve alcohol-”

“To ME.”

I really shouldn’t judge, as I have seen many a pony perform their duties while well and thoroughly sloshed, and honestly, if not for the smell, I wouldn’t have know. “Right, fair enough. OH! I forgot to ask your name! How rude of me.”

She drops the glass in the trashcan, and pulls another in-tact glass from… somewhere, pouring herself a new drink on the counter. “Name’s Marenara,” she says, propping herself up a little so I can get a good look at her. She’s got a light, almost pastel green mane in shoulder-length locks, and a similarly pastel pink coat. Well, almost pink. A little darker. I angle my head a bit, and find that her cutie mark is a tomato. Appropriate. “And who the actual fuck are you that you can just order the Prince a pizza and he’ll eat it?”

“I’m his butler-slash-babysitter-slash-pony’s-Exhibit-A,” I explain. “We’re kind of stuck with each other until the heat death of the universe, so I try to have fun where I can.”

She takes a deep swig of something that smells distinctly like Merlot’s arresting officer, and raises an eyebrow and corner of her mouth. “A snazzy, what… Trottingham bloke with some Royal muscle to throw around? How come I haven’t hit on you before?”

“Likely because I tend to be a rather annoying fuckwit to anyone within breathing radius on a regular basis, and the concept of anyone outside of my adorably optimistic girlfriend hitting on me might actually cause more than a few ponies to have a stroke. SO. Pizza?”

She blinks a few times, not likely having been rebuked in such a manner before, and seems to remember just now that she is, in fact, in a pizzeria, and on the employee side of the counter. “Oh, right. Food. That’s a thing I make. For other ponies. What kind?”

“What’s the worse possible thing you can do to somepony with a pizza without committing a misdemeanor or felony?”

“Without?! Lemme think...” she looks around her counter, one of those plastic-shielded deals with individual compartments for toppings. “Anchovies and pineapple with goat cheese.”

“What about the sauce?”

“What ABOUT the sauce?!” she asks dangerously.

“Do you have… more than one kind?” I ask politely, hearing a knife sharpener somewhere in the distance.

She blinks again. “OH. No. Just the… regular tomato sauce. I mean, I can do spices and stuff, but that’s about it.”

“That’s fair,” I muse. “So let’s do that. And could you like… make it weirdly unbalanced? Like where it doesn’t cook properly in some places, and all the bites taste different, and it’s not ok?”

That gets a couple of raised eyebrows. “Why… the FUCK… would I do that to a pizza? Let alone a pony?”

Good to know where your priorities lie. “Because the person we’re feeding this to insulted my girlfriend’s cooking and I want to watch him cry,” I say sweetly.

“...that’s kinda hot. Ok, no, really hot. I mean like, you should totally fuck me over this pizza after I destroy it hot.”

“That is absolutely not going to happen. For a wide variety of very polite reasons that have nothing to do with the very awkward boner I have right now,” I explain.

“Suit yourself. Imma go fuck up this pizza something awful. Then maybe take a wine bottle up a couple of holes. It’ll be like… gimme half an hour.”

“...gladly.”

---------------------

Never have I wanted to go back to a restaurant both more and less at the same time. Individually? Absolutely. But this was a new combination for me. I waited about thirty five minutes, because I know sometimes it can take a little bit to get there, if you know what I mean, and trot cautiously back into Red Wing Pizza. “Marenara? You done?”

“Yup! Pizza, too!” she calls from the back, sounding a little out of breath.

I march up to the counter to find a fresh disaster pizza laid out on the counter in a rather neat cardboard box, with the slogan “Earn Your Red Wings” printed on the side. “Thank you! What do I owe you?”

“A good plowing. Barring that, eighteen bits.”

“Twenty it is.”

“Smart boy,” she says, closing the box as she takes my money. She wraps it up in a carrier so I can actually pick it up, one of those rope cross-tie things that let you just hold a bit in your mouth it hangs off of. “I like these ties. It’s like pizza bondage.”

“...I will never get that sentence out of my head for the rest of my life.”

“Yeah, that’ll happen.”

I take my pizza and make for the door, calling out a muffled “Thank you” through the bit.

“You’re welcome! I also may or may not have masturbated over or near the pizza, so that’s a thing!”

I’m probably never coming back here again.

---------

Watching Blueblood eat the most disgusting pizza I have ever seen has to be the happiest I have ever been. Dinner this evening is a mixed affair, with the Princesses both present to settle the bet, Blueblood, obviously, myself, and a rather concerned-looking Twilight Sparkle to act as Commissioner.

The Princess of Friendship cringes with each bite she watches her cousin-in-law take, as he cries through his second slice. Even Celestia looks a little remorseful, although Luna seems to be enjoying this on a deep, emotional level. To each their own, I guess.

“I… I can’t do it!” Blueblood cries. “It’s so terrible! Please!”

I look to Twilight, who nods sympathetically. “Fair enough. But you know the alternative. If you can’t finish the entire pizza before bed, you have to pick between ten slaps now or five from here to eternity,” she explains, glaring at me.

“Hey, don’t look at me like that, you were the one who wanted to be Slap Bet Commissioner.”

“We think perhaps it would be best to take the five from here to eternity. Not only do you endure less slaps, but you do not have to endure so many in a row immediately after suffering such… pedestrian food,” Luna offers her opinion.

Celestia shakes her head. “I disagree. I could never walk around all day knowing that at any time one of my employees had the right to slap me anytime, anywhere, for any reason.”

“I’ll take the five!” Blueblood says.

“Wonderful!” I cheer, reaching for a slice of pizza. He flinches. “Oh, this is going to be a LOT of fun.”

“You’re a monster,” Blueblood cries.

“You should meet the mare who made this thing.”