Ponk Rock

by Super Trampoline

Rating: teen
Tags: Slice of Life
Length: 440

One night while she was very drunk and I was almost drunk, Rarity bet me 10,000 bits I couldn't form a successful punk rock band. In the end, we both were right.

My name is Pinkie Pie. I'm forty-three.

I am an entertainer, a protector, a comedian, a wife, an organizer, a baker, and a mom. I am even on occasions a musician.

Since the first portal opened seventeen years ago, ponies have discovered a lot of human creations we never bothered to invent. One of these is punk.

Beyond the fact that guitars work very differently here is the more pressing matter that none of us are actually angry enough to make punk music. Equestria is no utopia, but our list of things to complain about is much smaller than a typical human's. Our rulers are far too pleasant to muster any anti-establishment energy towards, and our protest songs remain cordoned safely within the folk genre. Ponies, it seems, are not punk.

Three years ago, my good friend Rarity dared me to change that. On a whim, I actually did.

My name is Pinkie Pie, I'm forty-three, and this is the story of Ponk Rock.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2016-02-05 09:00:02 UTC

Every Story Has to Start Somewhere, and This One Starts About Fifty Minutes Before Rarity Throws Up

"Pinkie, you could never fucking do punk rock, darling."

My ears pin back. I'll never get used to Rarity cussing. The human world does strange things to a mare, it seems.

Even after six glasses, she picks up on my discomfort, looking puzzled for the slightest of seconds before realizing her (as she'd call it) faux pas. "Oh, oh, oh, how ever did I forget. My sin... sin-sin-sincere apologies, Pink one. I know how you don't like the naughty human words, as it were. Oh

Okay, but why punk rock?

I d-dunno. It's just so so so romantic!

Forty-five minutes later, Rarity throws up all over the floor about a yard from the bathroom. A patron rushes over to help her, and I steal a glance at the wall clock. 12: 52. I slide from my seat and find Twilight a few stools over, writing a to-do list on a napkin, because Cheese Crust, she's freaking Twilight Sparkle and no matter how fast things evolve in this brave new world of ours, she'll still always be a dweeb. I tap her shoulder and she whips her head up, startled by the prospect of social interaction at a bar. A bar we meet at every fourth Thursday, I might add. She sees that it's only me and leans in for a hug. I accept it, then point to the clock and then Rarity. She covers her mouth at the sight of her friend hobbled like that, and I watch with a bit of schadenfreude as her eyes grow big as she realizes the gravity of the situation. "It's before one. Pay up," I smirk.

Twilight groans and unzips a small hole in space with her magic. A wing reaches in and feels around for a ten-bit note, which is promptly winged over to me, accompanied by an exasperated sigh. "You would think Rarity would have learned not to drink too much by now. I swear this happens every time!"

She set this one up way too easy. Like a griffin (or a human, if the news is to be believed) I go in for the kill: "I would think you have learned not to bet against Pinkie Sense by now. Yet, here we are."

She laughs mirthfully, momentarily forgetting her security napkin. "Oh, Pinkie, never change!"

"Okie dokie!" I reply, and hop back to seat.

"Too late," I mutter under my breath once I get there.

I spend the whole trot home, all seven minutes of it, thinking about Rarity's words.