Old Man Henderson was always a little crazy, and blamed his life's misfortunes on Vietnam.

Although he never went to Vietnam, 'cause he was 12 in 74.

Old Man Henderson wore combat boots, cargo shorts, and an open-front Hawaiian shirt with a wife-beater underneath.

He was dyslexic, and had a lesser case of Schizophrenia, allowing him to assume that the reason he saw crazy shit was because he WAS a little bit crazy.

He had a grizzly Adam's beard and wore his hair in a mohawk.

He never took off his aviator shades, for any reason.

He had a stuffed parrot on his shoulder named Rupert that he constantly asked for advice, while ignoring the other peoole, assuming they were hallucinations.

He had an Automatic combat shot-gun he knew how to use.

He also had MEMORIZED the anarchist's cookbook.

He had a pre-existing hatred of religion, cutlery, and books.

And he was about to add one more item to that list.

Ponies.

Henderson was sitting in a lawn-chair in his house, smoking a bong, staring at a wall he painted to look like a Hawaiian beach. "You know, Rupert?" He addresses the stuffed parrot currently resting on the arm of his chair. "You're a good friend. Most people would've asked for a hit, but you know how much I love this shit. Way better than what we had back in 'Nam." he chuckles, and then begins reminiscing "You know, I still remember the first time I got high. Back of my older brother's van. Know it musta been some good shit too, because I'm an only child. Ain't that right, Charles?" He looks over to an empty corner of the room.

".... Charlie?" He then gets up, mildly concerned. "Man, what the hell?" He begins to search the house in earnest, before sitting down on a chair in his kitchen. "Where the fuck are my lawn gnomes? I mean, did somebody steal them? Who the fuck would steal them? Yeah, they're worth a lot, but come on." He then pulls out a sharpie and begins to scribble on the table. "Alright, 215 gnomes, total weight about 800 pounds, total value approaching 40 k. Not a one man job. Need help to carry them, need help to sell them. I'm looking at a large and well organized group of assholes."

He looks into the middle distance. "Like those guys down the street? They're Mormons, right? Large religious group, come around in the early morning like those damned charlies.... Rupes, I think we've got a lead." And then he poured a bottle of Jack Daniel's in a large go-cup, and went and got in his car.

At the nearby Conversion Bureau, Poor Bastard the pegasus was in the middle of orientation with a bunch of stinking humans waiting to be sacrific- he meant converted in the name of ponykind. It was difficult though. Most of the people here were smelly, overweight slobs who had nothing going for them in life. If Poor Bastard was in charge of things, he would have left these humans to a painful death via the ever expanding shield that kept the unclean out of Equestria. The only reason he could even stand to stay in the same room as them was for the fact that they absolutely worshiped ponies. Well... maybe worshiped wasn't the right word. He had heard things about this kind of human. The THINGS they would do to lone mares if they even had half the chance. Not to mention what some would do to stallions as well. And the looks he was getting from some of them gave credence to the hearsay.

Either way soon they would no longer be these disgusting wastes of air, food and evolution. Once conversion was complete, they would be perfectly normal, obedient New Foals ready to carry out any request he had in the name of "harmony" and "friendship". Not that he would ever take advantage of that. Ever. Especially not in a sexual way.

So enraptured in his brief fantasies of helping the soon to be mares with getting used to showering as a pony in a totally platonic fashion, the battered '92 Buick Century cruising in front of the building blasting Creedence Clearwater Revival fails to get his attention when it suddenly executes a perfect handbrake turn and parks at the curb.

Back to Henderson's point of view, he's blasting Creedence Clearwater Revival when suddenly he sniffs the air and says 'Mormons' before whipping around and parking out front of the Bureau and killing the car.

He then gets out of the car and pops the trunk. In full view of the daycare center across the street, he then shoves 'Lurid Lucy', an inflatable sex toy of exceptional quality, to one side and pulls out some sort of Israeli-made combat shotgun and starts walking towards the front doors of the Bureau.

He then kicks open the door while the converts and Poor Bastard's mouths are agape and shouts the words that would forever be a call of chaos and destruction to all ponykind.

"MUCKLE DARMED CULTISTS! 'AIR YOU NAMBLIES KEEPIN' ME WEE MEN?!?"

Back to Poor Bastard- he's freaking out right now. So we'll pass the narrative over to John Doe.

John Doe was a native Wherever The Hell This Setting Is In. It should be noted that the town's founders were prolific users of Reaper, Crack, Smack, Horse, EX, Shrooms, Dust, and Meth. Whom John Doe is a descendant of. He had come to the Conversion Bureau because he heard that Equestria had crystals everywhere. It sounded like that trip he had. Except there he wouldn't get arrested. Because who would leave all that meth lying around if it wasn't free? Anyways, these pleasant thoughts buzzed around his mind, mixing with the dust he snorted earlier that morning. Right up until his drinking and drug buddy Henderson busted open the door without even knocking. Talk about rude. He was also holding a that novelty pipe that looked like a shotgun. Maybe he just wanted to share one last smoke before he went to paradi-

Henderson was shocked. He had busted in thinking he was going to interrogate some Mormons. Instead he finds some strangely dressed people sitting in front of some weird looking poodle. The things that cultists get up too. But he only gave pause for a second, having gotten over walking in on a bunch of poodle worshiping freaks proceeds to shoot the closest cultist in the face. The face looked familiar, but if said owner of face was a part of this cult then he was dead to Henderson figuratively speaking. And now literally. Then he shot the poodle. Then he shot another cultist, then he pissed on the poodle that looked like a pony's corpse since everyone else is too busy losing their shit in a panic over the deranged Human Liberation Front gunman, and casually sets the brochure rack on fire with his cigar as he walks out the door.

So then everyone still alive runs the fuck away from the burning building before the cops show up. Henderson makes it home (about three blocks away) when he realizes something horrible.

He totally fucking forgot about the lawn gnomes.

He RUNS back to the still burning building, only to see the fire department has already arrived. They inform him that no gnomes were in the building that they can tell.

On the one hand, he's relieved as fuck since he didn't lose the gnomes, and killing that many little people would probably constitute a hate crime.

Never mind that he totally just leveled a Conversion Bureau full of ponies and ponies-to-be with the speed and brutality of the fucking Spetsnaz.

On the other hand, no gnomes were here so somebody else must have taken them.

Anyway he goes to try and cook up where they could have gone at the local pub.

And that's when things start getting really interesting.

Author's Note

In an attempt to get my creative juices flowing, I'm rewriting Henderson's life story into the Conversion Bureau universe. I reiterate. This is not meant to be taken seriously. This is crack, pure and simple. I'm just posting it on here so that people can critique my changes to the story. And I want to see if something like this can get into the featured box. Stranger things have happened.