The Over-Horseshoe and Other Short Stories

by MarxyHooves

Rating: teen
Tags: Comedy, Random, Slice of Life
Length: 4021

Ivan is a simple working-pony from the Hooviat Union. Upon immigrating to Equestria, however, Ivan soon learns that the 'Magic of Communism' is something best left to Party officials...

Ivan is a simple, mostly-honest, working-pony. More accurately, Ivan is a pretty stupid working-pony and in no way honest. He could, therefore, be regarded as a pretty average citizen of the Hooviat Union. Still, it's a fresh start here in Equestria, and Ivan is a pretty practical working-pony. That is, as far practical working-ponies go where he's from…

This is the first of a series of short stories I am writing about a pony from the Hooviet Union named Ivan Durakovich Ponihuiplet as he tries to adapt to life in Equestria. Most are short, humorous slices of Ivan's life as he tries to figure out how things work in his new homeland of Equestria, and usually meets with little success.

These are heavily based upon the stories of the Soviet satirist Zoshchenko, an excellent collection of whose works may be found here….
http://www.amazon.com/The-Galosh-And-Other-Stories/dp/1590202112

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2013-05-19 05:59:02 UTC

A Burglar-Pony

When I first arrived in Caterlot comrades, I confess, I was a pickpocket by profession. I was mainly active on the trains.

But don’t condemn me comrade-reader, I was desperate, and it’s a worthless profession besides. You go through one saddle bag – govno: a train schedule, maybe; you go through another – more govno: a handkerchief, or a bag of hayfries say, or maybe even worse, an electricity bill!

It’s a joke, not a profession.

And as for more worthwhile things, like watches or wallets, not chertov likely.

It’s a mystery where passengers keep them these days.

And ponies have become so damned mean. You’ve got to keep your eyes open, or it’ll be your saddle-bag they’ll clean out. And they really will clean you out. It’s easily done. You’re eying out the conductor’s bag and that’s it, they’ve already cleaned you out. For crying out loud…

And as for their valuables, the passengers are so mean they probably wear them on their chests or maybe their stomachs. Places like that are tender, you see, and you can’t tickle them at all. You hardly need scratch them with your hoof and there’ll be shouting: They’ve robbed me. A disgusting sight.

It’s chertovskiy, a worthless profession.

A semi-respectable old pro, a train robber, advised me to change profession for my own good. To change trades.

‘It’s now summer-time,’ he said. ‘Look Ivan, my friend, why don’t you take a trip,’ he said, ‘to the villages. Pick out a cottage and turn the place over. And while you’re at it breathe the air. We could any one of us fall ill with the feather-flu. It’s easily done.’

‘He’s right,’ thought I. ‘I work like an elephant, without the slightest gratitude or word of thanks. Yes, why don’t I go down to a village? After all, there’s the air and a change of job. What’s more, I’m completely worn out, I could catch the feather-flu!'

It hadn’t occurred to me at the time that honest, hardworking, earth-ponies such as myself could not catch the feather-flu.

So that’s what I did. I went to Ponyville.

There I was walking about the main road and the streets. The air really was wonderful, it was village air, it was perfect, but I couldn’t make a living here. And with all this air; I really felt like a bite to eat, I wanted it all the time, as if I had a hole in my belly: as soon as I’d eaten I wanted more.

I started to pick out a cottage. I saw one inhabited cottage, it looked superb. On the fence was a notice: ‘Dr. Colgate – Dentist’.

‘If he’s a doctor,’ thought I, ‘so much the better. These doctors always keep some silver in the sideboard.’

So that day, I climbed into the shrubs that grew behind the flowerbeds in the doctor’s garden and started to watch what was going on. And what was going on was that some sort of foal-sitter, a mare with a pinkish-plum coloured coat and a mulberry mane, she even had some grapes for a cutie mark, had come outside with the five-year-old bourgeois foal. The mare was strolling around in the heat of the sun, and the little filly was running around playing with her toys. She had heaps of these toys: puppets, clockwork fly-wheels, trains… And one toy was really interesting, it looked like a spinning-top. You wound it up with a winder and it made a frightening whistling noise and spun round on the ground by itself like a merry-go-round.

And I became so intrigued by this toy he nearly fell out of the bushes. Just controlled myself in time.

‘They haven’t wound it up all the way, the stupid idiots,’ I thought, ‘If they wound it up all the way, then it would really spin.’

But the nanny had flaked out in the heat of the sun. She’d had enough of winding it up you see. She also looked like she’d had a bit too much to drink.

‘Wind it up, wind it all the way up,’ I whispered to myself. ‘Wind it up, tee karova… Damn you.’

The foal-sitter and the little filly disappeared. So I came out of the bushes. I went into the yard and looked at what was where. You’ve got to know every tiny detail: where the chimney is, and where the kitchen is too. Then I presented myself at the kitchen. Offered my services. I was turned down.

‘Get out of here,’ the pinkish-purple mare and a light blue unicorn said. ‘You’ll try and steal something. It’s written all over your face.’

They’re right, they guessed, for crying out loud – and I stole a punch bowl on my way out. Well, they said it…

The next day, I was in the bushes again. I lay there trying to think where I should begin.

‘I’ve got to climb,’ I thought, ‘in the window. Into the dining room. If the window’s not open today, that’s not the end of the world. I can wait. Maybe they’ll forget to close it tomorrow. I’m in no hurry.’

That night I went over to the house and tried the window to see if it would give. And it did! They’d forgotten to close it, zaebis`!

I slipped out of my jacket to make myself lighter, calmed down the grumbling in my stomach and climbed up.

‘There’s a table on the left,’ I thought, ‘and a sideboard on the right. The silver’s in the sideboard.’

I climbed into the room: it was dark. Though it was a clear night, it’s always hard to see what you’re doing in other pony’s residences. I felt around with my hooves – was that the cupboard? I opened a box – govno: children’s toys. Dammit. Yes – puppets and fly wheels…

‘For crying out loud!’ thought I. ‘I’ve got into the wrong room. Blow me if I’m not in the nursery. For crying out loud.’

I lost heart. I thought about going into the next room, but was scared. I’d lost my bearings. If you end up in the dentist’s room, she’ll stick a drill in you just out of habit!

‘For crying out loud,’ I thought. ‘I may as well take some of these toys. Toys cost bits too you know.’

So I started to get the toys out of the box. I came across the spinning-top. The same one they had been playing with the other day in the garden.

I smiled.

‘It’s the same one,’ I thought. ‘I’ll certainly give it a spin later. Definitely. I’ll wind it up all the way. But right now I’m in a bit of hurry comrades.’

I started to hurry and dropped something; it clanged as it hit the floor.

Then I saw that the little filly was stirring on the bed. She got up and went over to me on uncertain hooves.

At first I was startled.

‘Go to sleep,’ I said. ‘Go to sleep for crying out loud.’

‘Take your hands off!’ shouted the foal. ‘Take your hands off my toys.’

‘You little…’ thought I, ‘I could get caught.’

Meanwhile the foal was bawling and starting to cry.

‘Go to sleep you little squirt!’ said I. ‘I’ll crush you like a louse.’

‘Get your hands off. They’re my toys…’

‘Wrong,’ said I, shoving the toys into my sack. ‘They were yours it’s true, but now you can whistle for them…’

‘What?’

‘You can, I said, whistle for them.’

I threw the sack out of the window and then jumped out myself. I jumped out awkwardly and bruised my chest.

‘For crying out loud,’ I thought. ‘I could catch the feather-flu from this.’

I sat down in a flowerbed, rubbed my chest and caught my breath.

‘I’d better,’ I thought, ‘gallop as fast as I can.’

I pulled the sack up to my shoulder, and was about to start running when I remembered the spinning-top.

‘Stop!’ thought I. ‘Where’s the spinning top? I haven’t forgotten the spinning-top have I? For crying out loud.’

I felt the sack, it was there. I took the spinning-top out. I really wanted to give it a spin. I just couldn’t wait.

‘Why not?’ I thought, ‘I’ll wind it up just to see.’

I wound it up all the way and let it spin. The spinning-top buzzed and rocked from side to side.

I burst out laughing. I fell over on the ground laughing.

‘That’s what it’s like,’ I said to nopony in particular, ‘when it’s at full tilt. For crying out loud.’

‘I know isn’t it great? I love spinning tops!’

I looked up and was shocked to see a bright pink mare with a mane that looked like that confectionary… What’s it called? Candy cotton! That’s it! I was shocked to see a pink mare with a candy cotton mane. Sookin syn! Where had she come from?!!

The spinning-top hadn’t even finished spinning when suddenly somepony in the house shouted:

‘Theif!...Stop burglar-pony!’

The pink pony in front of me gasped in surprise:

‘So these aren’t your toys after all! BURGLER-PONY! HE’S OVER HERE!’

I jumped up, and was about to run somewhere when somepony whacked me on the head. But they didn’t hit me full on. Amateur. Though I crashed to the ground, I jumped straight back up.

‘Was that a rubber chicken that hit me?’ I thought, ‘What kind of loh pony carries around a rubber chicken?!!’

So I ran off, doing my best to cover my head with my hooves.

I ran for a mile, and then remembered I’d forgotten my jacket.

I was so upset I was nearly in tears. I sat down in a ditch.

‘For crying out loud. I’d better change professions. This is a worthless profession, it’s worse than the first. I’ve been deprived of my last jacket. I think I’ll try train robbery instead. For crying out loud.’

And I set off for the train station.

A Speech About Bribery

It turns out, comrades, that robbing trains is no simple matter! They are chertov fast! It’s nearly impossible for a pony to catch up with one of them, and you barely have the energy to pay the conductor for a ticket when you get there!

So I, cunning pony that I am, decided that there were plenty of other opportunities around, and, conscious of a slight throbbing on my head as a result of my experience with the rubber chicken, decided it best to pursue some honest, working, profession!

As luck would have it, as soon as I got off the train I saw a notice asking for qualified, honest, ponies to apply for the position of manager to a new railway line they were building. They even stated on the poster that the position was created specifically for dealing with bribes! Why a position like that, hardly any work, and with plenty of kickbacks, that would suit me just fine.

Needless to say, the stallion giving the interview hired me on the spot. I merely had to show him my Hero of the Hooviat Union medal for him to realize that I was a working-pony of outstanding moral character.

For my part, I was simply glad I hadn’t pawned the piece of govno before I left Canterlot. It would hardly been worth anything considering that everypony back home, including myself, was given one for completing last year’s One-Year-Plan.

Of course it was the same plan as every year, to continue working until it was time to introduce the next One-Year-Plan. Naturally, those ponies who had passed away during the year were awarded their medals posthumously.

With that little thing in my hoof, the interview had gone so well I almost regretted I had not stayed to receive this year’s award, The Bearer of the Element of Hooviat Labour! I’d have to write to see if any of my relatives had been given any extra ones accidentally they could sent me.

‘Now then,’ stated the official looking cow-pony across the desk from me, ‘Ah am abso-tively certain, in light of your outstanding qualifications, and Ah never thought we would get a gen-u-ine hero apply for this here job mah golly, that you are the pony to manage this here line Mr. uh…’

He squinted as he moved his hoof to fill my name in on the form, ‘Excuse me fer askin’ but, uh, how’d ya spell that name o’ yours?’

‘It is as it sounds Commissar Silverstar,’ I replied.

‘Right, right, o’ course it is, although, Ah’d be a mite more comfortable if ya’ll call me sheriff.’

‘Of course, Commissar Sheriff!’ I replied with tact. These public officials can be very particular about how you address them you know.

‘You needn’t fear, under my management bribery will be unheard of!’ I replied with the supreme confidence I had learned back home was to be expected of managers and the like when addressing Party Officials on the subject of productivity.

And so, later that same week, the new manager of the Appleloosa Line, I, engineer Ivan Durakovich Ponihuiplet, stood up from the table. Raising my glass, I said, in what was I now recall, a somewhat unsteady voice:

‘So, dear comrades, please allow me to propose a toast to the total eradication of bribery on our beloved Appleloosa line…’

‘Hip, hip…’ shouted engineer Smokestack.

‘Hooray!’ chorused the railway ponies.

So I, the line manager, Ivan Durakovich Ponihuiplet, made a sign with my hoof, and everything went quiet.

'I could certainly get used to this!' I thought proudly.

‘I am very happy,’ I said, ‘to hear your unanimous shouts… Now permit me to make you happy in turn. Dear friends, on our line this week, bribes have gone down by fifty per cent…’

‘Hip, hip…’ shouted engineer Smokestack.

‘Excuse me,’ I said, ‘don’t interrupt…Yes… This evil has been reduced by fifty per cent, this evil which must be completely eradicated in the very near future. But I am going to be stern and implacable… Bribery… The word alone drives me mad with indignation… Dear friends, now that we are gathered in this close comradely company, permit me, your new manager, whose coat is thick with dust, blackened with soot, from working the railway alongside you, to say a few words about bribery…’

‘Go on! Go on!’ shouted the railway ponies. They loved it!

‘Dear friends,’ I said, swaying only slightly, ‘there is no crime worse than this. Burglary, exceeding one’s authority, they’re nothing compared with this evil. And if I had my way I’d introduce the most terrible forms of punishment. Send them to a labour camp, send them to the moon, or, uh, send them to a labour camp on the moon! And have them build it while they’re there! So far as I’m concerned those are the right punishments for this crime… But here I should add that if we take a glance at the contemporary situation, we see that there are two types of bribe: monetary bribes, and bribes in kind. The monetary form is of course far nicer… Oh I mean, excuse me, what am I saying?... Yes, so the monetary bribe, I was saying, is more convenient. More portable, if you like… That is, from the point of view of the criminal… Imagine some Appleloosan comes to see you… and you’re waving your arms: “No I can’t” you’re saying, “don’t even bother asking comrade…”

‘But the sly stallion, he’ll slip his hoof into his side pocket… he gets out a big bag of bits… And meanwhile you’re staring at his ugly, thieving face, trying to guess how much that buffalo-nose is going to take out…'

‘Oh, I mean, excuse me, what am I saying? So yes, you, um… get really indignant.'

‘”Excuse me,” you say, “my dear comrade what’s this, a bribe, an insult?”

‘And the bits are jingling sweetly on the criminal’s hoof… you know, that lovely unforgettable jingling bits make when they bump into each other… You count them with your eyes: two, three, five, come on, hurry up. Then into your waistcoat pocket… Oh I mean, what am I saying?’

‘So, yes, so you shout: “I’m pressing charges,” you shout, “your sort, esteemed comrade should be sent to the moon!”

‘But you can feel a kind of beating in your waistcoat pocket, a trembling, you can feel a pulsation… Hm, hmm… What was I talking about, can anypony remember?’

‘Bribery,’ said engineer Smokestack.

‘Yes,’ said, as you may have guessed by this point comrade-reader, the soon-to-be-ex-manager Ivan Durakovich Ponihuiplet, ‘bribery. Hm, the pulsation… hm, hmm… But a bribe in kind, that’s much worse… It’s unwieldy, and you can get ripped off. Like when they sent me a bushel of apples, but they were all rotten and bloody thing stank to high heaven, you remember that comrade Smokestack…’

‘Hip, hip…’ shouted engineer Smokestack.

‘Hooray!’ chorused the railway ponies.

The now most-definitely-ex-line-manager Ivan Durakovich Ponihuiplet, that is to say I, swayed, sat down, and emptied a glass of hard apple cider in one gulp, casting an affectionate eye over my former staff, not noticing the look I was receiving from Smokestack. I never did like apples much anyway…

A Classy Mare

Comrades, I can’t stand mares in hats. If a mare’s got a hat on and a silk dress, or she’s carrying some sort of miserable little cat, or if’s she’s got diamonds or something like on her flank, then if you ask me, that kind of classy mare isn’t a mare at all, but a waste of space.

In my time I’ve fallen for one of these classy mares of course. I went out with her and took her to the theatre. And it was in the theatre that it all came out. It was in the theatre that she exposed the full extent of her bourgeois generosity!

I met her in the castle; I was working there at the time. As I was making my way across the courtyard I saw her standing there. Hat on her head and diamonds on her rump.

‘Where are you from, miss?’ I asked, ‘What room?’

‘I’m,’ she said, ‘staying in the tower.’

‘All right,’ I said, ‘well, enjoy your stay.’

And straight away I liked her really badly. I started going round there regularly. To the tower. I would go round there in my official capacity. I’d say, so how are things miss, I see your cat is wet, have you had any problems with the plumbing or the toilet? Or, is everything working?

‘Yes,’ she’d say. ‘Everything’s working.’

And she’d just pull on her scarf around her and not a word more. She’d just make eyes at me, And those diamonds flashed on her flank. After I’d been going round there for a week, she got used to me. Starting answering in more detail: saying ‘The pumbing’s working fine, thank you, Ivan Durakovich.’

Time passed and we saw more of each other, and began to go for little canters together. We’d get outside and she’d tell me to open the door and this and that. And I’d open the door and trot along after, like a manticore after its prey. And I didn’t know what to say, I felt embarrassed in front of all the ponies.

Then one day she said to me:

‘Why are you,’ she said, ‘always following me round the streets? It’s making me dizzy. Since you’re, I’m sure, a very important pony in your own way, and you want to take me out,’ she said, ‘you should take me, say, to the theatre.’

‘If you want,’ I said.

As it happened, the next day the staff at the castle were sent some opera tickets. I got one, and Steampunk the boilerpony gave me his.

I didn’t check the tickets but they weren’t together. Mine was downstairs and Steampunk’s was up in the gallery.

So off we went. We sat down in our places. She sat in my seat, and I sat in Steampunk’s. I was sitting at the very back and couldn’t see a thing. But if I leant over the safety-rail I could see her. Not very well though. I felt bored, really bored, so I went downstairs. I saw it was the interval. And she walked about during the interval.

‘Hello,’ I said.

‘Hello.’

‘I wonder,’ I said, ‘if the plumbing works here?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said.

She made for the buffet. I followed her. She walked along the buffet looking at the counter. There was a plate on the counter. It had cakes on it.

She was strutting like a parasprite, one of those dratted things we had in Fillydelphia when I was there. I hovered next to her.

‘If you wish,’ I offered, ‘to eat one of those cakes, go ahead, I’ll pay.’

‘Merci,’ she said.

And suddenly she walked over to the plate in her decadent way, levitated a cream cake, and fed it to her tolstyak cat!

But I didn’t have enough bits to feed a cat! At the most I could afford three cakes. She was eating, and I was feeling round in my saddle-bag, worrying, trying to see how many bits I had left. What I had you could easily fit up a griffon’s nose.

She’d fed one cake to the cat, and took another! I was starting to wheeze, but I kept quiet. I suddenly felt some bourgeois embarrassment. She’d say: he wants to take me out and he hasn’t got any money!

I was circling round her like a cockerel. While she was giggling and fishing for compliments.

I said:

‘Isn’t it about time we took our seats? I think the bell’s rung.’

But she said:

‘No.’

And took a third cake!

I said:

‘Don’t you think that’s a lot on an empty stomach? You might feel sick.’

But she laughed and said:

‘It’s alright, I’m used to it, you should see the cake at the parties my friend throws!’

And took a forth.

Then the blood went to my head.

‘Put it,’ I said, ‘back!’

She was frightened. Opening her mouth. Diamonds shining on her flank.

But I completely lost it. Whatever happens, I thought, I won’t be going out with her anymore.

‘Put,’ I said, ‘the chertov thing back!’

She put it back. Then I said to the pony behind the counter:

‘How much is that for the three cakes we’ve eaten?’

But the stallion was indifferent. Pretending he didn’t understand.

‘For the four cakes you’ve eaten, that’ll be such and such.’

‘What do you mean,’ I said, ‘four, when the forth is there on the plate?!’

‘No,’ he answered, ‘it might be situated on the plate, but there’s a nibble taken out of it and it’s got hoof-marks on it.’

‘What do you mean,’ I said, ‘a nibble taken out of it! Excuse me, but that’s just your ridiculous fantasies.’

But the stallion was indifferent. Waving his hooves all over the place making a fuss.

Well then a crowd gathered of course.  Umnik experts!

Some reckoned a nibble had been taken, others didn’t.

So I turned out my saddle bag: all sorts of rubbish fell out on the floor. Ponies were laughing. But I wasn’t laughing. I was counting my bits.

I finished counting. Just enough for four cakes. I needn’t have gotten into a f...lipping argument.

I paid. I turned to the mare.

‘You may finish it,’ I said, ‘miss, it’s paid for.’

But the mare didn’t move. She was too embarrassed to finish it.

Then some fellow poked his muzzle in, reeking of turnips!

‘Give it here,’ he said, ‘I’ll finish it!’

And he finished it, the ublyudok! On my money.

We went back to our seats. Finished watching the opera. Then went back to the castle.

By the door, she said:

‘That was rather lousy of you, if you can’t afford to be even a little generous you shouldn’t go out with ladies.’

I replied:

‘Generosity cannot buy happiness miss! If you’ll pardon the expression.’

And that’s how we split up.

I don’t like classy mares.