20 years.
20 goddamn years he had been stuck in this Technicolor hellhole; with no sign of a reprieve. Admittedly, it had gotten better after the first few years, fame and fortune being what they were. How long had it been since he’d walked on two legs? How long since he’d used his real hands, not these magical facsimiles? How long since he’d had a Twinkie, for god’s sake? At least everything wasn’t sweetness and light like he’d feared; he probably would have offed himself after the first month if that had been the case.
He snapped out of his ruminations as the timer on his oven went off. Carefully, he withdrew his dinner; something he had not had in years. A whole roasted chicken, just like his mom used to make. He’d managed to “acquire” a chicken from one of the local farmers, and now his Christmas dinner would be complete. Let the ponies celebrate Hearths Warming Eve, an old-fashioned political lie used to subjugate the populace; he’d rather have Santa then ham-fisted allegories and prayers to a false equine god.
He made a plate and sat in front of the television. How glad he was some of these ponies were idiot savants! A cutie mark involving electricity, an explanation of television and the concepts behind it, and six months later you had an entirely new industry. At least this way, the ponies were finally waking up to the reality that the rest of the world existed. How surprised they had been when they had learned that there were races besides zebras and griffons; the sheer ignorance made him think back to his experiences with the Deep South, but he quickly shut those memories away. No one should be reminded of sadness or anger on Christmas; it was a day for happiness and celebration, not despair.
He switched the channel over to ITV 3 and settled in to watch some movies. Taking a bite of his chicken he was transported back through his memories to a happier time, a simpler time, and a time when his only concerns were graduating, not whether someone would find out his secrets and disappear him. He remembered times past and a tear rolled down his cheek.
He had cleaned the dishes and boxed the leftovers, and was sitting in front of the fire with a glass of scotch. Not that they called it scotch here, here they called it Trottingham whiskey or “trots.” He found that hilarious as “the trots” was slang for diarrhea. He stared into the fire and tried to forget. He had tried for years to forget the things he had done. The average pony had no conception of the things he and his soldiers had done in the war. They had been ostracized after they returned in triumph; a number of them had accepted the griffon’s offer of citizenship and moved away, others had disappeared into the criminal underworld or the far away frontier. He had not; he had responsibilities and duties which could not be ignored. His employees needed him, the nobility had to be fought, and the underground needed to be organized in preparation for the inevitable struggle; it would not be long now. This was the last year of Celestial domination; now dawned a new age, an age of enlightenment and freedom.