Rarity's Pinworm Adventure (AKA "What the Hell, man?"

(Author's note:  Don't read this.  I have no idea why I wrote this, but it wouldn't go away until I did.  I'm a degenerate and this is something for other degenerates, so go read something that's actually, y'know, *wholesome.*  Seriously, guys, what the hell was I even THINKING?)





>Be Rarity, Ponyville's resident--and Equestria's greatest--fashionista
>And no "arguably" to it.  You'll throw down with anypony who says otherwise
>And you have.  Fleur de Lis, you're on notice, bitch, her designer stole half his designs from you anyway.
>Except...for the last few days, you've felt substantially less, err...fashionable than usual.
>For one thing, you haven't gotten a wink of sleep, so the bags under your eyes are sporting bags under THEIR eyes.  You're exhausted.  You have been, since the date with Anon.
>Dear, sweet Anon.  Strange, quirky creature that he is.  Impish, funy, unpredictable
>And an absolute beast in the boudoir. You've sort of made him your project.
>Most of his wardrobe is your design.
>You kept waking up, restless, without knowing exactly why or how, but you haven't been able to get down where the batteries really recharge, and no amount of chamomile and peppermint tea has done anything to help.
>If anything, it's just made you more tired.
>And then, yesterday morning, the other shoe dropped.  You woke up well before dawn with an absolutely unbearable, and completely unscratchable itch in your...err...fundament.
>Okay, no.  Your ass itches, okay?  It's like it's literally on fire.
>You spent the first half-hour of your morning frantically fighting, and then unsuccessfully trying to ignore, the burning, insane, all-encompassing ITCH blooming inside of your plot, and scratching with hooves, hairbrush andanything else you can get your hooves on until you've damn near scratched the poor thing bloody, for only split seconds of relief.
>Showers didn't help.  Creams didn't help.  Literally nothing whatsoever helped
>You'd prepared Sweetie's breakfast, giving thanks that most of it can be done via unicorn magic.  You didn't realize she'd walked into the kitchen until after you'd spent nearly five minutes scratching your backside against the edge of a cabinet.
>"Uh...sis?  Is something wrong?"
>"HAHAHA!  NO, E-EVERYTHING IS FINE JUST FINE!" you'd screamed.  Your butt aches and itches, and is that a splinter? You glance at the cabinet and realize you've succeeded in wearing the paint down to the wood, and the wood down to fuzz. Your disgusting itch has caused you to wreck your home's furniture, dammit.
>You laugh again.  "NOTHING IS WRONG!  WAFFLES!  I MADE WAFFLES!"
>Sweetie Belle's eyebrows climb almost to her maneline.
>You realize you're still scratching your backside against the cabinet edge.  You force yourself to stop, and almost immediately the ludicrous burning itch trebles. You sling plates with with hash browns, eggs and waffles onto the table with your magic and sit down.
>You make a point of forcing yourself to eat.
>She isnt' eating.  You realize she's staring at you with her head cocked and her mouth open, both eyebrows raised. You also realize with a start that you're squirming in the seat like you have ants.  Which is a really, really good analogy for how your butt presently feels.
>"Yeaaaah," she says, slowly pushing her plate away.  "I'm, uh...not really that hungry, sis, so...uh...yeah.  I heard you last night.  And the night before..."  She studies you closely.  "I know you don't like to talk about this stuff, but...just a thought, maybe you should see a doctor?"
>"D-d-doctor, hahah, me, no, not sick, whatever gave you that idea?" you babble.  One hoof is under you, hopefully not being too obvious about what you're doing with it down there.  Except you are, apparently, but Luna--dammit, you can't STOP. SCRITCH-SCRITCH-SCRITCH-SCRITCH.
>Your hoof has to be bloody, it HAS to be.  Your other forehoof has joined it. You're frantically trying to get both of your rear hooves in on it, because literally nothing else is working and you're pretty much past caring at this point.
>"Look, sis we just covered STDs in school," she says.  "I'm not uh, implying anything here, I'm just saying that maybe it would be a good idea to get checked, maybe?" she finishes hopefully. It doesn't register on you.  SCRTICH SCRITCH SCRITCH SCRITCH.
>You no longer care if she can see you.  Celestia help you, she's right.  This can't go on. You can't go on like this. "HAVEANICEDAYATSCHOOLOKAYBYE!" you scream, as you tear out of the kitchen, through the boutique and out of the front door.
>Sweetie looks down at her ignored plate.  It looks great, but...yeah, no way she's touching that.  No way in Tartarus.  With a sigh, she drops it in the garbage and raids the pantry for a Pop Tart.
>Meanwhile, you're dithering between taking the shortest possible route to Redheart's clinic, but...at the same time, you can't let yourself be seen in this state.  You're never going to live this down if you DO.
>A renewed wave of the ludicrous, insane, all-encompassing, all-engulfing itch hits you, and suddenly all modesty is forgotten.  Shortest route it is, then, because you CAN'T BUCKING STAND THIS ANY LONGER.
>At a full gallop, you're darting across town as if all the demons of Tartarus are chewing on your tail.
>Instinct hits you as you're cutting across the park.  You find you're sitting on your ass, dragging your backside across the cool, dewy grass by your forehooves, wailing like a banshee.  And for several blessed, glorious seconds, the itch fades to almost normal.
>Finally able to think, you look around.  There's a banner overhead:  "4TH ANNUAL PONYVILLE CELESTIAL WITNESSES CHURCH SOCIAL AND PICNIC." You're sitting on your plot in the grass between half a dozen tables, and literally dozens of ponies of all ages are staring at you with their mouths agape.
>Mortification hits you in a slow wave.  You open your mouth to say something, ANYTHING, but before you can, the squirming, burning itch is back, worse than ever.  Wailing in misery, you're up and bolting away.
>You finally reach the clinic, thank Luna and the Friendship express.  You're through the door--was that Anon leaving? You were moving too fast to tell, and you were distracted, but you thought he was trying to stop you for some reason.
>Not a good idea.  Not right now.
>You'll figure out some way to apologize to him later, but right now you have OTHER priorities, like a cure for this itch.  Or maybe a beheading.  Yeah, that works too..  >mercifully, the place is empty right now.  You're at the counter, your forehooves grabbing the secretary by her shoulders, your mane a dirty, sweaty, disheveled mess, eyes wide, bloodshot and staring like a madpony.  "Please pleasepleaseplease," you hiss right in her face, "You have to help me, or kill me, I don't care which, I can't take this for one second longer, not for one instant--"
>You fall to the floor, contorting like a Prench circus acrobat, clawing at your reddened, swollen plot with all four hooves.
>Your rear half is dancing a jig, and it's not helping, nothing is helping.  You scream in frustration and misery.
>Before the secretary can say anything, Redheart is standing there. "It's okay, Sterling," she sighs.  "I can take her back now." She guides you into the back, and sits down.  You sit on a stool, barely resisting the urge to claw yourself bloody. Well, bloodier. Your hooves are actually a bit bloody at this point.
>"Let me guess," she says.  "Just playing a hunch here, but...anal itch?"
>"The very torments of Tartarus," you snap.
>"Right.  So, turn around, would you?"  You stand up and comply.  And suddenly there's an unfamiliar prickling sensation across your plot.  Redheart studies the strip of clear sticky tape curiously, and then sticks it under a microscope, hmmm'ing to herself.
>"Yeah, I thought so," she says.  "The good news is that it's not terminal.  The bad news is...it's not terminal."
>"WHAT IS IT?" you screech, fighting the urge to claw at yourself.
>She hoofs you a small booklet and a single pill, which you swallow dry.  "In your case, the tape-test was pretty much just a formality," she says.  "You've got a bumper crop, and they're REALLY healthy and active.  Frisky." she snorts.
>You look down at the booklet.  "PINWORMS AND YOU," the cover says.
>"I have WORMS?" you wail.
>"They're just about harmless, and they're not particularly common in Equestria, fortunately," says Redheart. "One pill usually does the trick, but I'll prescribe another for a followup in a week or so, a course for your sister just in case, and maybe an anesthetic cream for your, er, problem area there.
>"You'll want to wash  any bedding you have in hot water, anything that might have come into contact with your, uh, backside, and make doubly sure you practice good restroom hygiene--use medicated pads, wash your hooves THOROUGHLY in soap and water, maybe use hoof sanitizer after, that kind of thing.  They emerge at night to lay their eggs on the rim of the anus, and you can reinfect yourself by accidentally ingesting them.  They're sticky and cling to anything they touch. Just read the booklet there and do what it recommends." She pauses.
>"We don't see them much, nowadays.  interesting that I had two patients with them in one day...
>You're about to stay something, when you suddenly remember who you'd seen emerging from the clinic just before you.  Had he looked a bit..uncomfortable?
>And then it hits you.  Anon...your last date...
>You snarl.  "I'll kill him" you hiss.  "I'll...bucking...kill him."
>"Vermiflex works pretty quickly," says Redheard, oblivious.  "You'll want to be near a restroom for a few hours though."
>You're still ranting to yourself when suddenly a rumble in your gut catches your attention.  You look at the nurse with a panicked expression, and she points down the hall.  "first door on the--."
>But you're gone before she finishes. "Left," she says, looking after you, curses trailing in your wake.

>be Anon.
>No one's seen Rarity for the last three days now, and you haven't seen her or heard from her since you went to the clinic the other day.  The pills Redheart gave you seem to have done the trick, which was nice, since it had been getting kind of annoying.
>There were some interesting pictures in the Foal Free Press.  You wonder what was up with Rarity, since she'd been photographed at a church social, dragging her backside along the ground.
>Did ponies even DO that?  You'd never seen it, but there was the photographic evidence right there.
>You'd bought a bouquet of roses, some chocolates, and a book of poetry.  You weren't completely sure what was up, but you were going to find out.
>You stepped up to the door of Rarity's boutique, and knocked.  It had been closed and locked for at least the last three days.  After a few seconds, you heard the sound of the peephole opening, and after a few more seconds, the door unlocks.  Rarity is sitting there, smiling at you.
>Funny, that wide smile doesn't seem to touch her twitching eyes.
>"Anon," she croons.  "So NICE to see you," she coos.
>You start to say something, but before you can get a sound out, she's jumping at you, that smile never breaking, her left forehoof cocked back like a fist.
>It connects with the point of your chin with a loud CLOP sound.  You're staring at the sky, your head ringing.  How did you get here on the ground so fast?
>"Tossed salad my ASS," she snarls.
>The door to the boutique is closing.  A few seconds later, it opens again.  A hoof reaches out and snatches the box of chocolates, and retreats, and the door closes and locks once again.
>You sit up, staring at the door, rubbing your aching jaw.  Some of your teeth are loose.
>Crazy fucking mares, man.