Anonpencil Writes Drunk: I Get a Kick Out of You (oneshit)

“Hey Anon, want to play football?”
>You lower your comic book and look down at your small purple equine roommate’s smiling face. You give her a sullen glare as you glance between the purple jersey she’s wearing and the very small soccer ball in her hooves.
“No,” you say flatly. “And it’s called soccer, not football. You can at least get that right.”
>Even as you move to raise your comic book again, you can see that she’s beginning to frown.
“Um, I don’t think so Anon. Most ponies and nations here call it football, so…”
>Your comic book lowers again and you narrow your eyes at her. The act silences her mid-word, and you see her throat move as she swallows hard.
“Look, I don’t want to play,” you say slowly and coldly. “And I’ll say it again. You have to call it. Fucking. Soccer. Not football. Is that clear?”
>Twilight steps away from you a little, seeming to cringe with each of your almost-spat words. As you finish speaking, she wipes a fleck of rage-induced spittle from one cheer with her hoof. She still grips the ball tightly in one arm.
“Well, ok, but I don’t know why you’re getting so defensive about it.”
>This is all too much. You start up from your chair, and she lets out an impulsive yelp as you loom over her much smaller form. You take a few, heavy, stomping strides towards her, and she shuffles back along the floor like some kind of jersey-wearing crab.
“Oh, I don’t have to get defensive about it?”
“N-no, I don’t think-“
“That’s right, you don’t!” you shout. "You never think for a minute what this means, do you?"
>Her eyes look like they’re almost brimming with tears.
“B-but why are you so angry?” she manages to stutter out.
>You feel a growl rise in your throat, and you begin to pace the wooden floor, drinking your nails so hard into your palm that it feels like they’ll begin to bleed. Twilight watches you in silence, her grip on the small black and white ball tightening.
“Ever since I got here,” you begin in a low, quivering voice. “I’ve heard ponies talking about their sports. Their games. Derby racing, olympic-style relays and shit, basketball, flying competitions…and then I start hearing about you all playing football. You have this big stupid football league. You play against other nations, and they all seem to hate you for basically no reason, and you’re the best, you’re the best sports team, and all the other teams better get ready to die, right? I hear about it from every fucking pony I talk to it seems like.”
>You know your breathing is growing heavier, but it’s too late for you to calm down now. You’re off on another tirade, and Twilight knows it. Her eyes flick back and forth, following your pacing.
“And every pony just keeps talking about it, and the whole time I just want to start screaming at you all that you just can’t fucking call it football. You CAN’T! You guys should call it soccer and be done with it, and every time you dare to call it football it makes me want to murder every last one of you! And I haven’t been able to say anything because I’m afraid I’ll offend one of you little pansy asses and start some sort of international incident!”
“Th-this has been bothering you for a while, hasn’t it?” Twilight squeaks out.
>You spin to face her, shoulders shaking with held-back rage.
“Fuck yeah I have.”
“B-but why can’t we call it Football?” she barely murmurs.
>You close the distance between you in barely two strides. Your hands shoot down to grab Princess Twilight by the front of her jersey, and you raise her, kicking and shrieking into the air. The whole thing is such a surprise, she seems to have forgotten she even has wings or magic. She’s just too shocked. You hold her close to you, bringing her nose up almost against yours.
“You want to know fucking why?!”
“Y-yes?”
“You want to know why you fuckers can’t call it football?”
>You shake her vigorously with every word.
“…y-yes.”
>Then, with trembling fists grinding into the cloth of her jersey, you draw the princess up alongside your face. You reach out with your lips until you can feel the gentle tickle of the fur beside her ear. You wet your lips with your tongue, take a slow, steady breath in, and let the words form in your throat before they come hissing out, like gas from a balloon.
“Because you’re fucking horses. You have hooves. You don’t have feet. So it’s not. Fucking. Football.”
>You drop the pony heavily back onto the floor and storm to the doorway. As you slam the stone door back, shaking the whole room, you again level your gaze at Twilight where she sits, dazed on the castle floor. She blinks at you, still trying to see straight, and you sneer at her confusion.
“Feet is my thing,” you say coldly. “Stop appropriating my culture.”
>Then you slam the door behind you, and leave her alone in her insensitive ignorance.

-End-

Congrats on the second star /mlp/. You earned it, and now the world will burn. Enjoy the saltlick while you can because, remember, Winter is coming.