Well well well, if it wasn't your old arch-enemy, the pungent pony herself: Rachel Ripstink! The eight foot tower of stenchy terror that spent her childhood wrestling pigs in her family's barn until she stank bad enough to make THEM pass out. She eats a sole diet of scraps and garbage that gives her the nastiest digestive tract this side of the Stink Stadium. She snorts, looking down on you.
"Bella."
"Rachel."
"Just so you know, the second that bell rings I'm gonna bash your face with my ass, blow a deadly fart that I fueled with some expired goatmilk this morning, and then shit on you. Got it?"
"Good luck, whore."
The last word slipped from your lips and she swung around, actually moving fast enough to hit you in the jaw with her fat, yet firm, stinkass. She grunted and her tail fluttered in the foul, deadly dairy breeze she promised you. Unfortunately she had knocked you too hard in the head and you couldn't escape the rancid, rotten milk smell. It sent you into a dizzy spiral.
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