Might I interest you in a fanfic today?
Caramel’s head hung low as he walked through Ponyville. The evening sun sunk over the horizon as night fell upon the town. The rain poured down all around Caramel, soaking his fur. He opened the door, wiping his hooves on the mat.
“You’re late again, Caramel!” his obese, mustachioed boss scolded. Yeah, there’s actually obese ponies. I didn’t know, either.
Caramel raised his hooves in the air. “Sorry, the rain--”
“The rain what? Nopony else had trouble getting here on time. This is your final warning, Caramel. Now get to the phones before I change my mind.”
“Right away, sir,” muttered Caramel. He was going to say that the rain had flooded his basement and he had just spent the past two hours bailing the water out with a bucket and attempting to save his photo albums, but he didn’t think his boss would understand. He had threatened to fire Caramel for attending a funeral once.
Caramel trudged along through the countless rows and rows of cubicles. A deep weight of depression hung around him, weighing down his every step like cement horseshoes.
Is this really what I’ve been reduced to? he wondered.
As he walked, he heard the voices of countless other ponies droning around him.
“Hi, would you be interested in purchasing some volcano insurance?” asked one mare in an enthusiastic voice. But Caramel knew that it was only a ruse. Deep down, she was dead inside.
Just like him.
“How would you like to sign up for the Canterlot Record Club?” asked another.
Ponyville’s bad economy for the past several years had meant that Caramel was out of his manufacturing job at the candy factory where, true to his name, he had made caramel. He had desperately looked for another job, but couldn’t find one. Eventually, he had to settle for a job in telephone marketing. Thanks, Celestia!
Finally, he reached his cubicle. He looked for the day’s script, and picked it up.
“You’ve gotta be bucking kidding me,” he muttered. “I have to sell this?”
The pamphlet was an investment service offered by Jet Set Mutual. As usual, it promised great wealth and millions of bits to ponies who invested in it. But he knew better. Nevertheless, the promise of commission on policies he sold kept him selling.
He reached over to the phone book and opened it up to a random page. He ran his hoof down the page until he reached a random name.
“I hope you aren’t at home, Tweeny Spackle.” he said. Of course, we all know what he meant to say, but he had forgotten his glasses that day.
He reached over to the phone and dialed the number.
“Carry the seven… times three… that should give me the result--”
A loud ringing broke the silence of the library.
“Ugh! Who’s calling at this hour, anyway?” Twilight groaned. She left her equations on the blackboard and ran downstairs. The phone continued to ring.
Twilight looked around for Spike, to see if she could get him to answer it for her, but he was nowhere to be found. She recoiled in horror at the prospect of having to do something herself for once. But then, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a sleeping horned owl.
“Hey, Owlouiscious, could you get that?” she called out to him, waking him from his slumber. Eh, he was nocturnal, so he would have been waking up soon, anyway.
“Who,” he hooted back in acknowledgement. The owl reached over off of his perch and grabbed the phone off of the wall.
Caramel spoke from the other line. “Hello, is a miss Tweeny Spackle here?”
“Who,” said Owlouiscious.
“Tweeny Spackle. That’s the name that I have on record for this address.
“Who,” Owlouiscious repeated.
Caramel stuck his head down at the page and glanced at the word up close. Of course! He had mispronounced her name.
“Ah, my apologies. I was actually looking for Twilight Sparkle.”
“Aha!” Twilight yelled from upstairs, having figured out the complex equation she was working on. Caramel, thinking that she was on the line, spoke.
“Ah, nice to speak with you, Miss Sparkle. How would you like to earn thousands of dollars and be just like Fancy Pants or Filthy Rich?”
“Who,” said Owlouiscious, still holding the phone up to his ear with his wing.
“They’re really rich, and you can be rich too, if you try my product!”
“Who,” said Owlouiscious.
“Yes, ‘ooh’ indeed. As well as ‘ah.’ You too can have wealth like them! You can be… do I seriously have to say this? You can be ‘rollin in da dough, dawg.’ Dear Celestia, how do they expect me to sell things when I have to talk like that...”
Caramel pounded his head into the desk over and over again.
“Who,” said Owlousicious.
“What do you mean, who? Do you not know who the princess is?”
“Who,” Owlouiscious repeated.
“She’s the alicorn who raises the sun everyday? Are you living under a rock or something? Anyway, if you want to be filthy rich, you should invest into a Jet Set Mutual Fund.
“Who,” said Owlouiscious.
“Jet Set. He’s a high-profile investor in Canterlot. He’s sure…” Caramel groaned at what the paper told him to say next, “Flyin’ high with the pegasi.”
“You can have a consultation and investment guide to help you know exactly where to place your money. Now for just ten thousand bits.”
“HOO,” Owlouiscious exclaimed at the investment’s enormous price.
“Now, now, you can earn the money back soon enough,” said Caramel.
“Look, buddy,” said Owlouiscious, “Twilight and I are trying to enjoy a nice evening at home, and here you are, just calling us and disrupting our family. Do me a favor and please just kindly buck off.”
Owlouiscious slammed the phone back onto the receiver, then turned towards the camera and winked with one eye.
