Rarity Gets Flavorblasted

Rarity Gets Flavorblasted
The crinkle sold it, but by god the product Delivered.  The little sachet - she called it that to herself, 'bag' was just uncouth - rustled in the sole convenience-store bag- VALISE she held close to her chest.  Passersby weren't to see the prise inside or hear the tell-tale tumbles of hard grain against the foil lining.

The Carousel Boutique's lock took in a faintly trembling key and let it roll all the same.  God she could taste some faint sharp salt on her tongue, a phantom tinge from last time.  The bag rustled all on its own, one forehoof not quite knowing what to do - but shooting out and turning the knob all the same.  She bolted through the door and slammed it as inconspicuously as possible.

All the lights were down low to conserve oil.  Rarity bounded through the hallway to the kitchen all the same, the cat who ate the canary.

Well ... the cat who would soon eat her very favorite canary.  She chuckled as this came to her, taking off the bulky oversized glasses and kerchief around her neck.  The things a lady did for a modicum of anonymity in this town!

The bag tilted in its convenience-store purveyance and absolutely eked against the marble of the kitchen.  Maybe it was the low light, maybe it was the sharp tang of the dish soap she used to truly strip away the street filth, but it was the most cunning pure note.

She strained.  Sweetie wasn't home.  Opal was slinking off somewhere, certainly.

No one would know.

Newly clean white hooves grasped.

They pulled sucker-style - as they were wont to do - and positively tore at the thin crinkly packaging from two sides. The waft was tremendous, an onslaught of salt and the worst sort of red pepper and something not unlike red yeast extract all swirled around her nose and screamed 'orange.'

She let out such a low deep sigh, bringing her nose closer. It was like bobbing an aeroplane closer to a city center, all the little details coming to the fore. Little triangular skyscrapers, all ridged and bubbled from their industrial frying, tabby-cat orange with black flecks. And the aroma - g-god that close it was as if she was snout-deep in an airy cheese wheel.

Somehow she'd found herself nearly belly-length over the cold marble. The cool was such an anchor for the EXTREME FLAVOR described on the foil, she didn't bother sliding her gut back down. It'd ruffle her white Marilyn button-up, so what?

The first chip hovered just out of her lips' reach. So what?

She didn't allow herself to "snarf," not just yet - just the thinnest edge of one tri-corner of cheese passed her teeth and a clean dry bite. The crunch was not the titanic slap of back teeth, nossir - this was the first nibble of a watercress.

A very - very intense watercress that had the mouthfeel and taste of that first nasty box of nachos snuck behind the bleachers at a Canterlot U game all rolled up in salt and fried and everything BAD FOR HER --

The whole chip rammed in her mouth, the back teeth already turning it to mush. So much mush. It was mushy and orange and salt and fat and she immediately replaced it with three thin crisp brothers in arms.

The chips were not nachos, not quite. Nachos meant slowing down, rolling sideways with her long flat Equestrian tongue to suck away a melted cheese or a chive or sour cream. No, this was a biscuit that made its own gravy. Her growing saliva merged with the salt and produced something almost exactly like the flavor, the sheer FORCE of eating nachos with none of the inconsistency or lack of purpose. Her first swallow was the satisfied gulp of half a tray of nachos and hardly four crisps had gone down.

Another two - it filled the trough in under her tongue again, so filling and contenting, like a good half-potato but rioting with flavor. She could almost hear the newscaster belting scores that first game day. Without thinking she gulped it down, a little streak of -- garlic? riding down her gullet.

Tearing the bag wider she practically groaned. So many left - and so much flavor to replace on her lips tongue throat mouth teeth. She ploughed into them, biting halves of the "Doritos" and positively lapping them with her mounting drool. She chased and chased the orange rabbit. Each little chip seemed to offer barely a fraction of that first explosion but filled up that mouthfeel, from the hard rough first flicks of her tongue to the mealy peaty concoction in the back.

It was not dietic. It was not probiotic. According to her friends it probably contained real animal products.

Rarity didn't give a flying fuck, she was flying Air Dorito, First Class Nacho Cheese.

Her smacking, almost growling filled the quiet kitchen. Only after some minutes did she realize it was all wet lapping and not crunching and some distressingly sexual groans here and there. It was strange to her own ears.

The cool of the marble against her tawny flat stomach brought her down again. The foil was entirely around her snout, nose touching the seam at the bottom. A furtive stab of her tongue and a bit of "digging" with her magic showed no sign of a chip hiding tucked in some corner.

Rarity closed her eyes and huffed in the scent. Despite herself she rolled, feeling like a cat on 'nip. Humans made the most wonderful things, the most gobstoppingly awful empty-calorie things.

She chuckled, lapping at her nose even as she pulled the bag away. An orange pixie-dust fell away. After weeks of strict dieting this was her "second star on the left," and if she'd bought the jumbo perhaps on until morning.

She luxuriated in the cool against her back now. It was like rolling onto a cool dry pillow. A cool white pillow. She rubbed her eyes. Sleep sounded awfully good now-

It was then she noticed just how ... orange everything had gotten. How silly! Messy food made for messy messes, she supposed.

She alighted for the sink again, scrubbing diligently at her hooves, looking at the inspirational calendar on the ledge. Something about 'courage.' That rhymed with 'orange,' sort of-

The orange that was clearly not coming off of her fur. Or the inside of her hooves. Or, she realized to her horror after a glance in the mirror and some hard scrubbing - her eyelids when closed. An uncomfortable hour's soaking in vinegar later showed the same fate for her cute white button-up.

Rarity decided then the cost was too high to fly Air Dorito. From here on it would surely be Nacho Cheese Frito Airlines or bust.