My Little Pony: Storm Raiders

“From the fields of yonder, three new biped deliverers will come to deliver Equestria from the forces of evil!” Pinkie Pie's cry echoed around Equestria.

The young pink earth pony was known for her prophetic foresight, which most called her “Pinkie Sense"; but this particular prophecy seemed to be all but lip-service for once. For this time, Equestria had become all but desolation; a group of nationalistic socialist human invaders had hijacked their way into Equestria from earth via way of a portal and practically ravaged most of Ponyville and Canterlot. Many innocent ponies had been killed; but thankfully, the majority of the ponies — at least 85% of what had once been the total population of Equestria — had survived by fleeing into the mountains in the Frozen North. The rulers, Princess Celestia and her sister Princess Luna, had both been captured by the invaders and taken into custody in Estrela del Mar in Argentina; somehow with their technology, the captors had managed to render the two alicorn princesses’ horns harmless.

These invaders were Spanish-speakers, largely from Argentina and Colombia, with a few from Bolivia and Guatemala; there were some also from the Soviet Union, who could speak Spanish fluently. Because of their advancement in technology (thanks mainly to the aid they’d received from their Soviet comrades), they were most certainly by no means afraid of just about anything, even Princess Celestia and Princess Luna could not fight them. Their leader was a tall, smoldering Argentinian man who called himself Professor Smith; he was a ruthless fighter who did not care about life in the least, furthermore he was extremely well-versed in nearly all known technological advances of the time.

It was the year 2023 AD, the year of the Rabbit; and this invasion had been largely unplanned. However, according to Princess Twilight Sparkle, who was hiding in the library of Canterlot Castle with her pet dragon Spike doing historical research, this was apparently the fulfillment of a prophecy by the late Eva Peron, former dictatoress of Argentina and the second wife of Juan Peron, who had died of cancer more than 70 years before and made the said prophecy on her deathbed; according to Eva’s prophecy, “socialism will soon expose the weaknesses of capitalism”.

Spike was shocked upon hearing this. “Don’t tell me…. she already foretold this long ago??” he cried.

“‘Fraid so, Spike,” said Princess Twilight, as she slowly walked to the balcony; “we never once expected that the biped race could just hack into the land of Equestria without any help from us ponies. Now everypony has been captured by that group of socialist bipeds led by that scum Professor Smith. We’re the only ones left now.”

“Not for long, Senorita!” came a Latin-accented masculine voice from above. Suddenly, a human on a hang-glider swooped down and picked up Princess Twilight in his arms, grabbing her horn and covering it with a cloth that contained some chemical that could render harmless any form of black magic.

“AAAAH!!” screamed Princess Twilight.

“No! Twilight! NOOOOOO!” screamed Spike.

“Take care of the dragon too!” yelled the man on the hang-glider.

“Si, Senor Bajaran!” shouted some other Spaniards who had been hiding in the hallways of the castle. They ran out and grabbed Spike, put chains on him, and led him away into custody.

“Let me go!” yelled Spike. “I will KILL you all!"

“So you are trying to be another Alberto Garcia is it?” said General Taddeo Spettro, the leader of the group that had been hiding in the castle halls. “Better think twice before you end up amigo-less like him! Men, gag the dragon and take him away!”

“Si, Senor Spettro!” shouted the other Spaniards.

Considered by many to be one of the strongest of the Peronistas, the young Argentinian general Jovento Bajaran was one of the employees of Professor Smith. He himself was a socialist, the grandson of one of Juan Peron’s aides-de-camp; and was married to a Soviet-Hispanic woman, Berlinella Barievna Ramerrez, who herself was the granddaughter of a Bolshevik veteran and had greatly encouraged Jovento to become more socialist than ever. With Bajaran as general of these bipeds, and with Professor Smith as Commander In Chief, the ponies were little — if at all — of a match for the socialists.

So what about Pinkie’s prophecy? Was it to be for real?

* * *

Well, it so happened that around the same time in three different parts of the human world, i.e. earth, three young men were busy with their stuff when they found out about this incident.

“GUZMAN ESCAPES PRISON”, screamed the headlines worldwide. Although he had been sentenced to maximum security prison for life, Benedicto Lee-Guzman, better known as Benz Guzman, had somehow managed to escape from the dungeons of the top-security prison in Washington DC, where he had been doing time for the past five years. Guzman, 27, was a terrorist and a socialist from Estrela del Mar in Argentina; he was extremely dangerous and had been at the top of the FBI’s Most Wanted list for many years. His capture in 2018 AD by a group of young Bolivian capitalists, with the help of our pony friends, had been hailed by many as a major victory against international terrorism.

This very incident, as mentioned earlier, was read in the news by three different young men in three different parts of the world. The first was in London, England, in a little kopi tiam along London Bridge. James Bond, the well-known detective best remembered for his daredevil stunting feats, was taking his break from work when he read the article and was taken aback by the news. “What is this!” he cried. “Just when I am sitting down and having a cup of tea, this has to come. Work calls me again!” He stood up and called for the manager. “Check, please!” he shouted. “And make it snappy! I’ve got work to do!”

After paying the check, Bond immediately ran to his Toyota Crown car and drove off into the night. It was already quite late — 10pm — and Bond had to drive up to his armory, which was further north in Liverpool.

Halfway along the highway, Bond noticed that there was a white Toyota which had following him for the last few minutes. He was a little scared — perhaps for the first time in his life — but he drove on.

The white Toyota sped up and kept abreast with Bond’s car. Bond tried to slow down to let the white Toyota overtake him. It didn’t.

He tried accelerating to avoid it. The white Toyota accelerated at exactly the same velocity and instant as Bond did.

Bond took a glance at the Toyota. He could not make out the driver due to the poor visibility. However he did note that there was a distinct picture of a big white unicorn stallion with a blue mane and a shield-shaped cutie mark, on the white Toyota’s front doors.

This is weird, said Bond to himself, just when I am rushing to Liverpool to get stuff down to London Heathrow Airport so that I can rush to Washington and find out what exactly happened to that cunt. In all his years of service in the local CID, the 56-year-old cop had never seen any sight as weird as this.

The lights ahead got dimmer and dimmer; it was beginning to rain cats and dogs. Visibility before Bond’s eyes began to drop gradually but steadily. The white Toyota kept on keeping abreast with Bond, annoying him all the more and making his driving less smooth; but shortly after he entered into the district of Banbury, the white Toyota disappeared from sight.

By this time, Bond had had enough. He drove to the nearest police station to make a police report. The detectives in Banbury were a little surprised at Bond’s report. Bond appealed to the Deputy Superintendent of Police (DSP) in charge of Banbury, who came out and heard his story, and then began to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” snapped Bond.

“This is the first time it has been described as a Toyota,” laughed the DSP.

“Explain yourself,” said Bond, getting a little curious.

“Welp,” said the DSP, now looking grave, "apparently many here have been followed by a mysterious white car with the picture of the unicorn that you described on either of its front doors. And this car, it is always the same make as the car it is following. If it is a Mercedes, it will be followed by a white Mercedes. If it is a Chrysler, or a Proton, or a Lamborghini, or whatever else, same thing. We have actually received quite a few reports about this, Inspector Bond. But we have never been able to find this car ourselves. I suggest you go and find a motel and rest, and then be on your way with morning light.”

“Yes sir,” said Bond, knowing that he was but a puny inspector and hence much more inferior to a DSP in rank.

Going back to his car, Bond started off again. It was raining very heavily still. Visibility was still very poor; thunder and lightning were flashing across the English skyline. Bond drove on without stopping. About a few miles ahead, the white Toyota appeared again, diagonally in front of him, apparently parked and stationary this time.

Bond drove on, without uttering a word, completely silent. The sky and surroundings grew darker and darker. The white Toyota was coming closer and closer into view. Somehow it did not get dark, not even in this darkest of nights.

Bond didn’t stop.

And that was arguably the fatal decision he made that would lead him into one of his biggest commitments ever as a police inspector with the CID of Britain.  For as he drove on, he suddenly heard no sounds from his car, even though it seemed to be driving faster and faster. The surroundings were so dark, and visibility was so damn poor, he could not see what was ahead of him. He began to say a silent prayer for his heir and nephew, also called James Bond, who was attending Warfield Academy in Banbury…..

And within a few more minutes, James Bond remembered nothing more.

* * *

Meanwhile, miles away across the globe,  in the township of South Park in Colorado, USA,  young Eric Cartman, a 12-year-old grade school kid, was playing Team Fortress 2 in a game arcade with his BFF’s Kenny McCormick, Kyle Broslofski, Stanley Marsh, and Butters Stotch. The five friends were playing on a koth_lakeside_event server, all on BLU; apparently there were already five others in the same arcade playing on RED.

“5. 4. 3. 2. 1. Control point enabled. MOVE!” came the TF2 administrator’s Welsh-accented and reverberant voice. The five boys started moving their respective classes over to the control point.

The five boys were all normally extremely strong TF2 players; but unfortunately for them that day, the players on RED were far too strong for them. In just two rounds flat, the five boys lost big time without inflicting very much damage on the opponent. Embittered by their loss, they decided to leave the gaming arcade. Cartman paid the arcade manager and took his friends to the nearby Macdonalds for food.

While the five boys were discussing what to do next over some burgers and fries, they were approached by five burly Latinos; they were Ramon Prada, from Chaco in Bolivia; Jose de la Cruz, from Dunedain in Colombia; Justeno Alvarado Coleda, from La Paz in Bolivia; Jaime Lozada, from Callao in Bolivia; and Rafael Ruiz, from Rio de la Plata in Argentina.

“Hola senor!” said Lozada. “You still haven’t paid up yet!”

“I’ve paid your manager,” said Cartman. “Here is the receipt to prove it!” He produced the receipt which he had acquired upon payment for arcade time.

“Si, you paid him, but you didn’t pay us!” said Cruz. “You lost to us earlier on; now you must pay for it!”

Young Kyle Broslofski stood up and gave the five Latino men a severe glare. “You don’t come and give us that bullshit!” he yelled. “You did not tell us anything about this until after the game was over! If you want to make any bets, you jolly well make sure you let your opponents know BEFORE you start any games!”

“You…!” began Coleda.

“Forget it, Justeno; I’ll finish this young muchacho off!” shouted Ruiz, and he put his hand in his pocket, and took out a revolver.

The five boys knew that the best they could do at this point was to hit the road. And that is just what they did; they literally beat it and ran out of the Macdonalds as fast as their legs would take them.

“Let’s split up!” shouted Cartman, after they were sure they were far enough from the five Latinos. “We’ll rush on home; those bandits will never be able to get us!”

“Righto!” Butters shouted back. “Guys, let’s go home; we’ll talk more about this on Facebook!”

And so the five young boys went on their ways home. After Cartman reached home, he realised something very unusual. It was only 8pm, but that night it was especially dark — for some unknown reason. Also, it was unusually windy; the wind was howling in his ears, even on ground floor.

I think, said Cartman to himself, I should have simply played Team Fortress 2 with Kyle and the others from home rather than go to that stupid fateful gaming center.

He was right in a way. For that day was to be one of the most fateful days of his life; the day that would change his life forever. Cartman continued walking into the hilly forest, while the darkness grew deeper.

It was then that he realised what was going on. It was a tornado!

“A tornado! Quick! I’d better get everything covered up!” yelled Cartman. He immediately began putting his house in order.

But it was too late. The tornado came and picked up his house and everything around it. Cartman screamed in vain for help.

Then he lost consciousness and remembered nothing more…..

* * *

And meanwhile at Garcia Manor, in the township of La Paz in Bolivia, 38-year-old Aymara businessman Alberto Garcia was in a jubilant mood; it was the fifth anniversary of his victory against the forces of socialism, which had been led by his biological father, the late Don Francisco Juan Perez. The war had cost a lot of lives, including that of Alberto’s mestizo wife Donita, as well as his best friend Huascar Leon, the Inca who had once been a priest of the sun-god Pachacamac Viracocha at the temple in Machu Pichu.

Alberto knew that he owed this victory to the ponies, who had practically changed his life forever; now he was a successful businessman and the current owner of the Brony Pony Enterprises, which he had inherited from his in-laws. Brony Pony Enterprises was now a major household name in most of Latin America; many nightclubs were now constructed under that Brony Pony brand name, and as such, in order to give credit where due, Alberto had practically decorated his whole house — a 3-storey mansion with an attic, in which he was practically the sole resident — with photos that he had taken together with the ponies, both on Earth as well as in Equestria.

He was also now the Bolivian Team Fortress 2 Champion, and had held the title for the past five years; however there was to be another titular tournament in three months’ time. Alberto knew he needed time and practice to get ready so that he could retain his title.

That day however was very different. After he had offered sacrifices at the tombstones of his wife and his BFF, both of which were in the gardens of Garcia Manor, Alberto went up to his computer to practice on a cp_gorge bot server. However it was already raining cats and dogs outside; thunder and lightning were rampant.

Alberto booted up his computer. First things first: He had to check his email for any work-related problems. Surprisingly, there were no such emails; however, he did see an important news flash — apparently a top terrorist from Argentina had escaped a maximum-security prison in Washington DC.

“L’estupido,” said Alberto…. and then he saw that it was none other than his old enemy Benz Guzman!! Guzman had apparently been sentenced to life by a jury in Washington, and had already served five years in solitary confinement; but somehow, he had managed to escape; and even the prison police were unable to explain how such an unfortunate miracle could have happened. His whereabouts at present, it turned out, were unknown; however, word had it that Guzman was raising up a neo-Bolshevik army — wherever he was — to return to South America and fight a war therein in similar fashion to the “Long March” of China.

“Caramba! This has to stop!” declared Alberto. He knew just what to do — he had to go to the airport and fly to Washington and find out what exactly had happened; he was prepared to stop Guzman and company at all costs, even to the point of laying down his very life, not to mention anything less.

Later that evening, Alberto put his house in order, took his AWPer Hand rifle, and then went to his car and drove off to the airport in Sucre; he knew he had to be quick about this, as it was late at night and it was raining cats and dogs.

Visibility was so poor that Alberto lost his way to Sucre. Unknown to him, he had taken a wrong turn by accident and ended up on the infamous Yungas Road, on which he had once been saved from a fall by Derpy, the cute grey mare with the wall-eyed stare. He continued driving ahead…. and plummetted down the ravine……