Not another Pony on Earthby Admiral BiscuitChaptersSimon and Twilight: Arrested with TwilightSimon and Twilight: BaconLyra Cosplays HerselfA Visionary Flood of AlcoholThe Shortest PoE Story EverBandageBig Mac eats a Big MacSimon and Twilight: Arrested with TwilightNot Another Pony on Earth Arrested with Twilight Admiral Biscuit “What does that sign mean, Simon?” “Huh?” I glanced back to see where Twilight was pointing, before looking back to the road. “It means hospital. That's a place where people go when they're sick.” “I know what a hospital is, thank you very much,” she huffed. “Ponyville isn't a primitive town.” No internet, no cable tv, and no cars? And you say it isn't primitive. “Of course not,” I reassured her. “I know what you're thinking,” she muttered. A moment later all the coins in my ashtray began to float up towards the windshield. “Can you primitive humans do that?” “We've been over this,” I muttered. “Again and again. Humans don't have magic.” “But I watched a documentary with Criss Angel, and—“ “That wasn't a documentary.” I sighed, and glanced in the rearview mirror to make sure it was safe to change lanes. “That's all show. He can't really levitate.” “I can,” Twilight said brightly. “I know gravity spells. Maybe if you'd let me, we could—“ “No!” I looked at her in the mirror. “The world isn't ready for you yet. In fact, we really shouldn't be out in public like this. If something happened . . . well, and someone saw you—someone else—there would be all sorts of issues to deal with.” I ought to know; I was the one who had a purple terror materialize in his living room for no reason whatsoever. I mean, of the seven billion living rooms she could have appeared in, why mine? “I'm not cut out to handle this kind of thing. I'm a college dropout who smokes too much pot and works a boring job at a web hosting company. I'm hardly qualified to introduce an alien ambassador to Earth.” “You're no fun,” she muttered, and looked back out the window at the scenery flying by. “Gah, I can't believe I said that. I must sound like Pinkie Pie.” “Is that the one who boasts about her Sonic Rainboom?” I interpreted the brief silence which followed as an eyeroll. Despite her complete . . . well, alienness, I'd actually managed to figure out nearly half of Twilight's habitual expressions, and the eyeroll was high on the list. It was hardly my fault; nobody had said there was going to be a test, and I was way to busy freaking out about the talking flying unicorn which had suddenly determined that I was a gateway to interstellar friendship or whatever she'd said when she first arrived. “She's an Earth pony; she can't fly. Rainbow Dash is the one who does the Rainboom. Really, Simon, how you manage to confuse ponies like you do is beyond me.” Brake lights flashed in front of me, and I flicked the cruise off and tapped on my brake pedal to signal the car behind me. “They just sound so weird.” “I am so going to make you a chart,” she mumbled. “Why does that car have a bar on its roof and a big sign on the side? Is it a contractor's car?” “It's a cop car,” I told her. “What's a cop?” “They enforce the laws. A policeman—ah, policepony? You do have those, right?” “We have the Royal Guard, which defends Equestria from threats. My brother is captain of the Guard,” she said proudly. “Do they stop muggings and purse-snatchings, and solve murders?” “I . . . guess so? We don't really have those in Equestria.” “Aha!” I took my eyes off the road to glare at her. “You know what those are, so you must have them in Equestria, despite your desire to have me believe that you live in a perfect society.” “Your television had been very informative. I watched three hours of a documentary called Law and Order which explained in great detail how your legal system works." Yeah. Law and Order. That's just the kind of thing that will make a good impression on a foreign diplomat. Self, why did you teach her how to work a TV remote? Because you were stoned, idiot. Oh yeah, right. “That's not a documentary, Twilight. Most of TV isn't. It's a bunch of actors putting on a play . . . you do have plays, right?” “We have pageants. Are plays where somepony dresses up and pretends to be somepony else, to teach a moral to foals and adults who still think like foals?” “That's essentially it.” I tapped the turn signal stalk briefly before merging in front of a Freightliner. “I suppose they have morals.” “I played Clover the Clever in Canterlot,” Twilight said proudly. “Of course you did.” I looked back in the rearview mirror just in time to see the Crown Vic slide neatly behind me. I kept nervously looking back as I repeated the driver's mantra: Keep driving keep driving keep driving. Every automotive sin I'd committed in the past few miles was replaying itself in my head as I debated if he'd noticed when I was 5 mph over the speed limit, or if he'd seen my halfassed stop back in town. Like always, it didn't work. He slowed and then accelerated, and just as he got on the throttle, he lit up the overheads. My foot was halfway to the accelerator pedal before my rational brain informed if of the folly of that choice. A Ford Escort with two hundred thousand on the odometer was no racehorse. I turned on the hazard flashers and took a deep breath, wracking my brain to remember if I'd put the most recent insurance certificate in my glove box. I was pretty sure there weren't any warrants out for me, but those had a habit of sneaking up on a person. As I headed towards the shoulder, I looked back in the mirror, and he was still there, big as life. Too late I remembered that the right turn signal didn't work, so maybe he was just going to give me a warning for changing lanes without signalling. If I acted properly apologetic, he'd just let me go . . . unless he saw the winged unicorn in the back seat, of course. Who talked. That was something I wasn't going to be able to explain away. “In your research,” I began, “did you learn a, ah, spell which would allow you to look like a human?” “Yes?” “Use it.” “Why should—“ I turned my head and looked her right in the eye. “I will tell you all about it later. After Officer Friendly has gone on his way. But for now, I need you to do your spell. Believe me, things will go much more smoothly if you do.” “Okay. I trust you, Simon.” I looked back forward just in time to only catch a slight purple flash in the corner of my eye, then I was distracted by the slowing brrt brrrrt brrrrrrrt of the rumble strips on the shoulder. “Crash course, Twilight.” I snatched open the glove box and began frantically searching for the important papers among the chaos of unimportant papers. “Don't volunteer information, and tell him as little as possibile, and only in response to a specific question. If you pretend to be asleep, that might make things go more smoothly.” “Got it.” Her voice was a little different, no doubt as a result of her spell. “I'm already cold. I don't know how you humans—“ “Keep your mouth shut,” I advised as I rolled down my window. “Unless he asks.” I kept my hands on the steering wheel, so he could see them. I was totally focused in the image in my mirror, and I watched how he was acting as he swaggered towards my door. Sir, do you know why I pulled you over? I was already mulling over a response in my head, but he surprised me by stopping short of my window and taking an aggressive stance. “Ma'am, how old are you?” “I'm a guy,” I mumbled. “I know the long hair might be confusing, but—“ “I wasn't talking to you.” He glanced into the car. “Well, by your reckoning, fifteen,” Twilight said brightly. “I'm much smarter than an average fifteen-year-old, though. I was a student at Celestia's School for, um. . .” As she spoke, I instinctively turned my head to look at her, and as quickly looked away. Her transformation had been perfect . . . which was obvious, since she'd neglected to include a single stitch of clothing. “Sir, put your hands outside the vehicle, where I can see them.” Wordlessly, I complied. Author's Note I had this idea as I was driving back from Baltimore today. Stay tuned; more stories will be added to the collection. Simon and Twilight: BaconNot Another Pony on Earth Simon and Twilight: Bacon Admiral Biscuit Simon shut off his Escort and looked at the house with mixed emotions. Every day had been an adventure since the purple terror arrived, and while thus far they'd narrowly escaped discovery, some of it had come at the cost of spending a half-hour handcuffed in the back of a police car before Twilight worked her mojo on the cop. Still, he could be in jail, so there was that. He reached over on the passenger seat and grabbed the plastic grocery bag that was chock-full of vegetables for her, and the case of beer for him. If she asked really nicely, he might give her one. Simon slid them across as he got out of the car, kicked the door closed behind him, and headed into the apartment. It took a moment of fumbling to get the keys out of his pocket, but in practically no time at all he had the front door open. He sidestepped Ms. Fletcher and her yapping dust-mop, dropped the keys when he tried to put them into the lock on his apartment door, nearly dropped the beer when he went to pick them back up, and finally let himself into his sanctum sanctorum. His nose wrinkled as soon as he stepped into the living room. There was an acrid smell permeating the whole apartment, yet it had a rather pleasing undertone. Did I leave the stove on? A moment later: Was Twilight trying to cook? There were enough cooking shows on during the day it was a real possibility. A terrifying possibility. In his haste to get into the kitchen, Simon dropped the grocery bag, but he had the presence of mind to keep a good grip on the beer. Lettuce wouldn't be hurt by being dropped on the floor; beer bottles could break. It was a simple matter of prioritizing. The kitchen was a mess. That wasn't actually unusual. And the stove was off, although the frying pan on the front burner was still hot to the touch: something Simon had verified by touching it, much to his regret. The oily smoke still drifting out of the pan should have been enough of a clue. Luckily, the beer was still cold, and it also provided perfect reason to open a bottle. It cooled his burned palm, and it also provided refreshment. Twilight wasn't in the kitchen proudly showing off her creation. She wasn't in front of the TV, either, although it was still on. Simon groaned as the commercials ended, and it went back to Amish Mafia. Then he finished his beer and headed down the hallway. He knew right where to find Twilight. • • • “You know,” he said through the bathroom door. “Amish Mafia isn't a documentary. There aren't Amish who go around beating up zipper-sellers, or whatever the TV says they do. It's all made-up.” He took a drink of his beer and leaned up against the wall. “In fact, it's probably safe to assume anything on the TV is fake. Except for Mythbusters and How It's Made. Those are legit. Oh, and Penn and Teller's real, too. But that's pretty much it.” “Not really thinking about that right now.” “I only bring this up,” Simon said casually, “because of the predicament you now find yourself in. There's a lesson which you might be able to report to your Princess, in fact.” “I am not—“ “Specifically, I can only assume that in your enthusiasm to recreate something which you saw on the TV, you never stopped to consider that you're a herbivore, and you cooked yourself a whole pound of bacon.” Simon took another drink of his beer. “What on Earth possessed you to do that? What made you think you could eat bacon without any consequences?” “You told me I could.” He could hear her accusing stare through the bathroom door. “You said that if I was hungry I could have whatever I wanted to eat in the fridge.” “I did?” “Yes! The first night I was here. You were sitting on the couch watching a musical documentary about heavy airships, and smoking your skunkweed, and you told me that I could eat whatever I wanted in the fridge.” “I was stoned, okay. I say lots of things when I'm stoned. You shouldn't listen to them, or . . . well, this happens.” Simon finished his beer and rolled the empty bottle down the hall, to be picked up later. “How was it, by the way?” Twilight groaned. “It was really salty, but after I got used to that, I liked it. There was kind of a weird aftertaste in my mouth, though, and my burps tasted weird. I was looking through your icebox for something that might get the taste out of my mouth, when my stomach started cramping.” “On the bright side, you made it to the bathroom,” Simon said. “Good for you.” “I am not some filly who still wets the bed.” “Never said that you were. Hey, look, you're probably going to be there for a while. Do you want me to slide a magazine or something under the door?” “Yes!” Simon flinched away from the door, and the desperation in Twilight's voice. “Anything.” “Be right back.” Simon looked around his apartment. There weren't all that many magazines scattered about—he wasn't much of a reader. But Twilight considered any glossy publication to be a magazine, which did marginally broaden his search. He found a copy of High Times poking out from under the couch, and then two issues of Newsweek that were probably an artifact from the former tenant. Or else he'd subscribed while stoned. As luck would have it, he also found a small pamphlet titled “The Man's Guide to Grilling Bacon.” Simon tucked that neatly into one of the magazines, slid the whole collection under the bathroom door, and then went back into the living room. He switched the TV to America's Funniest Home Videos and rolled a joint. Five minutes later came the distinct sound of a pamphlet being flung against a bathroom wall with extreme prejudice, accompanied by an angry diatribe. Simon didn't notice; he was too enthralled by the montage of crotch shots. Author's Note Story notes HERE! Lyra Cosplays HerselfNot another Pony on Earth Lyra Cosplays Herself Admiral Biscuit Lyra pranced giddily around her hotel room. It wasn't a very big room—it was smaller than the bedroom she and Bon Bon shared—but it was human. Distinctively, unmistakably human, from the too-tall chair at the desk, to the miniscule button-matrix on the telephone, which was like a telegraph but faster. Even the wastebasket was foreign. She had been slightly disturbed to learn that they were made of plastic, which came from a dinosaur, but she didn't personally know any dinosaurs, so it was hard to judge how they felt about it. Certainly the cows in town were willing to sell their milk, so maybe dinosaurs sold their plastic to humans. Her prancing took her to the window of her hotel room again. Lyra pressed her muzzle up against the floor-to-ceiling glass and gazed downwards at the tiny human figures moving around on the sidewalk, even though it was well after dark. This was the highest building she'd ever been in, and the view was simply magnificent. Even long after sunset, the humans were out on the sidewalks and in the streets, doing human things like driving cars or clustering together and passing around a smoking stick or selling ice-cream from boxy wheeled stalls. She yawned and jerked her head, forcing her eyes back open. She was unbelievably tired—world-hopping would do that to a mare—yet she didn't want to miss a single moment of the spectacle. A look at the clock over on the bedside table told her that it was one a.m., and while she still hadn't completely wrapped her mind around the human concept of time, she ought to be in bed, especially if she wanted to be at the convention center bright and early in the morning. Lyra staggered into the bathroom, blinking in surprise at the drawn look on the mare in the mirror. Her mane hung limply down her neck, and there were big bags under her golden eyes. She levitated the small tube of toothpaste the hotel had provided onto her toothbrush and mechanically brushed her teeth, her tongue tingling from the spicy-cool paste. A quick rinse of her mouth later, and she was ready for bed. Unfortunately, the bed was too high for her. She could imagine how a human might stand at the edge of the bed and let herself fall forward into the pure white softness of the mattress, but her legs were shorter and the bed practically came up to her chin. Even on her hind legs, it was just above her midpoint, and she couldn't quite get enough traction to pull herself up. She finally took a running leap at it, nearly bouncing completely off again. The sheets were tucked in maddeningly tight, but she finally managed to pull them loose—a process not aided by her body on top of them—and pulled them over herself. She spent a moment arranging the pillows to her liking: two under her head and a third between her forelegs. Once she was situated, she let out a blissful sigh and closed her eyes, waiting for the sandmare to take her to Luna's realm. Lyra blinked awake, panicking as the inevitable disorientation hit her. It wasn't her bed, it wasn't her pillows, there was no Bon Bon, and everything she saw in the room was foreign to her. The feeling passed, replaced by an eagerness to get going. She lay on her back for a minute, planning out her morning routine. Humans were addicted to coffee—she'd learned that on another trip—and her hotel room had a machine which made it. After a few false starts, she managed to make the machine work for her without filling a cup of coffee grounds or covering the entire desk with liquid, and left it alone as she went into the bathroom and prepared for her new day. The shower was enclosed by a floor-to-ceiling glass wall, a feature beyond the skill of any craftsmare in Ponyville. Lyra spent a frustrating minute figuring out how to make the water the temperature she liked and how to aim the head properly before finally stepping inside, letting the pulsing beat of the warm slippery water wash over her. She quickly ran out of the shampoo the hotel had provided, but the hot water seemed inexhaustible. The hot water heater they had at home could—at best—provide a lukewarm flow for five minutes; this one kept going with water hot enough to scald a mare, and as far as she'd seen, there was no firebox which needed to be filled. She'd heard of luxury hotels in Manehattan which provided a similar amenity, but had never experienced it for herself. By the time the whole bathroom was filled with fog, she felt decadent, and still the hot water came. Refreshed, she shut off the flow and got out of the shower, placing her hooves carefully on the the bathmat. The slippery floors and horseshoes were not a good combination. Two minutes later, Lyra left the bathroom, leaving a pile of sodden towels in her wake. She wasn't completely dry yet, but her coat would dry the rest of the way on its own. She could hardly groom herself while the bathroom mirror was fogged up, so she settled on drinking a cup of coffee which the machine had made while she was in the bathroom. Below her, the streets were as lively as ever. A flood of humans was streaming into and out of the convention center, many of them dressed in costumes. Soon she would be among them, in her own body for the very first time. It had been magnificent to spend time among the humans, but being stuck in one of their bodies to blend in meant that she'd spent much of her time trying to accomplish simple tasks, like walking upright. For once, she could be herself, and nopony—nohuman—would remark upon it. After final grooming and three checks to make sure she had the badges for her hotel room and the convention, Lyra closed the hotel door behind her and made her way to the elevator. It was like a coach, but it went up and down instead of forward, and it had two large windows that were open to the outside. As she descended from the fourteenth floor to the ground, she watched the activity in the harbor, where tiny boats zoomed to and fro without needing any sails at all. Like the cars the humans loved so much, spells were hidden in them that made them go. The convention center was a pressing mass of humanity, and Lyra drank it all in like a dehydrated camel in an oasis. Her ears were flicking back and forth, picking up snatches of conversation here and there, most of them addressed at somepony else. Still, she got her fair share of demands for photographs, and it wasn't too long before her face hurt from the nearly constant grin she maintained. The crowd began to become a featureless pink blur, and despite her love of all things human, she'd had enough for a while, and flopped onto one of the chairs, leaning back human-style. Her hind legs were aching from hours walking bipedal, and her brain was filled with snatches of conversation gleaned from the endless babel of the crowd. Just the same, she wouldn't have traded the burning in her thighs for the world. She'd never seen this many ponies in one place at one time, and it was nearly incomprehensible how so many humans could gather together. The traffic outside had actually increased while she was here, which lead her to the inescapable conclusion that there must be a lot of humans on Earth. Millions of them, most likely. “Hey, are you entering a cosplay contest? Because if you aren't, you totally should. You look just like a pony from that show.” Lyra glanced up at the stallion who'd spoken. He was wearing a brown robe and carrying a plastic sword, and speaking with a funny accent. “That's what I'm going to do,” Lyra replied. Humans liked it when she agreed with them, even if she wasn't sure what they were saying. “I just . . . the names of the places are kind of weird,” she temporized, “Could you show me where to go?” “I'm headed that way myself,” he informed her. “We've got to hurry; the contest starts in a few minutes. Do you like my Aragron costume?” “It's great!” Lyra said. “Not as good as yours,” he mumbled. “How did you get the fur to look so natural?” “I, ah, just spend a lot of time with it, you know?” “It looks great.” He reached out a hand for her hoof, and Lyra let him take hold and pull her to her hind hooves. “Best I've seen, although there is a Flufflepuff that could give you a run for your money.” “Lead me on,” she told him. What in Equestria is a Flufflepuff? She staggered to her hind hooves. As he walked, a mare fell in step beside them. Lyra knew it was a mare, because she smelled nicer than a stallion and had a curvier body. “It's right this way,” he told her. “Seriously, you've got about the best costume I've seen.” Lyra blushed. “It's nothing, really. I just, um, worked really hard.” • • • Ten minutes later, Lyra was in a room full of people, all of them in what she presumed were costumes. The officials had sorted them into groups, and she found herself standing next to a tall pink character of a pony who only said “Pbbth” when spoken to. Lyra gave it a death stare and shifted around on her hooves as the judges examined her in an overly personal manner, even going as far as running their fingers through her fur—a move which both excited and offended her. After an indomitable amount of time, and a few friendly nuzzles and licks from the Flufflepuff, the judges finally reached their verdict. Lyra returned home with a strange twisting, inside-out feeling, and promptly staggered to the nearest point of respite, which happened to be the living room couch. Bon Bon rushed over to her, the candies in the kitchen briefly forgotten, and kissed her on the cheek. “How was it?” “Fantastic,” Lyra said. “I couldn't have asked for a better weekend.” She kissed Bon Bon on the lips, an image of the earth pony in the hotel shower while she watched crossing her mind. “Everypony was very polite, and some stallion even asked me if I wanted to enter a contest!” “How did that go?” Bon Bon ran a hoof through Lyra's mane. “Well . . . “ Lyra flattened her ears. “I got a red ribbon.” “Is that good?” “No.” She let out a long-suffering sigh. “The judges said that my costume smelled funny, and didn't feel right.” She absently touched a hoof to her barrel. “One of them took away points for damage to my coat, can you imagine? And the colors 'weren't quite right.' A judge even said that I was 'overdone.' I don’t even know what that means!” “But you got to see a hoofful of humans in their natural environment,” Bon Bon reminded her. “Surely that's worth something.” “You're right.” Lyra perked her ears. “So what if I didn't win a prize, and a Flufflepuff did?” She looked into Bon Bon's eyes. “And I got all sorts of cool human stuff.” She glanced back at her saddlebags. “You're not using all of the curio cabinet, right?” A Visionary Flood of AlcoholNot another Pony on Earth A Visionary Flood of Alcohol Admiral Biscuit Berry Punch leaned into her wardrobe. She was sure that somewhere behind her formal dress was a bottle of brandy. She'd taken to hiding the bottles after her supply began disappearing in what she could only assume were suspicious circumstances. Why, just the day before, the half-full bottle on her bedside table had become empty for no reason she could discern, and now the bottle in her kitchen—which was safely kept behind jars of spices she'd never use—had become mysteriously empty. I don't even remember going in the kitchen yesterday. Berry pushed aside her one formal dress and began rummaging around in the pile of blankets and towels on the wardrobe floor, which were piled nearly to her chest. She wasn't sure why she had so many towels and blankets. She craned her neck and stretched out, trying to get to a familiar-looking threadbare wool blanket at the very back. It was wadded up in such a way that her missing bottle might just be in there, and if she could only reach out a little further, she could claim her prize. Her hindhooves scrabbled against the floor before she hooked the edge of the wardrobe and pushed herself forward, grabbing a mouthful of blanket just as the entire pile shifted and pitched her tail-over-muzzle toward the back wall. She crashed into wood, and a moment later it shifted under her weight, toppling her and a rainbow of blankets across a lush beige carpet. Berry spat out the blanket and rolled upright, reaching and pulling to get at the treasure within. When the neck came in sight, she grabbed it in her teeth and pulled it out of its confines, her ears falling as she saw it was empty. She whimpered and set it back down on the blanket pile. Somepony had found this bottle, too. Now what was she going to drink? Market wouldn't open for hours, and she wasn't sure she could wait until then. She could hardly go door-to-door though, asking her neighbors to loan her a bottle. For the first time, Berry noticed that the room she was in wasn't a part of her house—unless the pony who had been taking her alcohol had also redecorated. It was too fancy. The couch was huge, big enough to sleep three or four ponies. Frames on the wall held lithographs of hot-air balloons, of all things, and to her left a cherrywood cabinet which was taller than her gleamed in the sunlight which streamed through a huge window. Behind her, a open door revealed a closet that had a few nice-looking coats hung on a clothesrod which was so high she probably couldn't reach it even on tiphooves. The cabinet drew her eye. Glassware was neatly arranged on the top, and where there was glassware there might be something to drink. She licked her lips and struggled off the blanket pile, making her way over to it. She reverently ran a hoof across the smooth surface and contemplated the way in. On all fours, she couldn't reach the small knob on the door. She could just get it on her hind legs, but with her forelegs braced against the door, she couldn't pull it open. But she wasn't going to give up that easily, oh no. She could practically hear the bottles that must be inside calling out to her, begging her to taste their sweet ambrosia. She crouched back down at the bottom of the door. There was a slight ledge, and it was just barely tall enough for her to scoot a hoof underneath. The thought crossed her mind that if she wasn't careful she might get stuck, and for one heart-stopping moment she thought she had, but then the door swung open and she slid her hoof out from under it, leaving a small patch of hair behind. And then she just stared, mouth agape. The contents were beyond her wildest dreams. Dozens of bottles were neatly arranged, their shape foreign but the contents oh so clear. Wines, from a deep burgundy to yellow-white. Above that, every kind of liquor she could imagine. A rich caramel whiskey on one side, all the way down to the clearer-than-springwater vodka at the other end. She had to try them all. It wouldn't be fair to pick just one bottle. Her task was Herculean, but she was the mare for the job. Berry wasted no time in selecting a bottle, but getting it opened proved to be a challenge. Whoever had made the slippery cap had not had a pony in mind and it took what felt like forever to get it open. She had to sit on her rump and cradle the bottle in her forelegs, while twisting the cap just a little bit at a time. Once she brought it to her lips, though, her struggle was forgotten as the whiskey numbed her mouth and burned down her throat. She took a second swig, this time rolling it around and letting the flavors seep into her. It was so smooth, much nicer than the rye stuff that had recently started coming down from the Crystal Empire. She let its warmth suffuse her body as she looked into the cabinet for the next bottle to try. • • • Berry swayed across the room towards the couch, a determined look on her face. A blanket was gripped tightly in her teeth, and it trailed under her body. She walked carefully to avoid stepping on it, but she did anyway. Each time her head jerked downward and she came to a stop, looking back to see which hoof had betrayed her. Normally, she would have tossed it on her back, but the twisting motion that required had already proven to be a terrible idea. Fortunately, she was numb enough that the resulting tumble hadn't hurt at all. With three more trips, she had finally arranged a suitable pile of blankets on the couch, now all that remained was to get up there herself. A nearby bookshelf provided a solution, and she began stacking hardcover books into a makeshift set of stairs. It seemed to take an eternity, especially since she decided to keep fortifying herself with more whiskey. Two more trips to the liquor cabinet provided her with a duo of bottles in case she got thirsty and didn't want to get off the couch, and she also had to stop and violate a houseplant—but water was water, after all, so it would surely be fine. She snuggled into the blankets, and rolled towards the back of the couch, away from the hateful sun. Her two bottles were protectively cradled between her forelegs, where they would be safe from the mysterious alcohol thief. She fleetingly thought that she ought to find her way home before somepony discovered her, but then she would have to get back off the couch, and then find her way back through the closet and that was all far too much effort, especially since she'd just gotten comfortable. Instead, she closed her eyes and let herself drift away. • • • Matthew hung his overcoat in the hall closet and peeled off his loafers. It had been a long day at the office, and he was ready to sit in front of the TV and relax for a few hours. He could catch the tail end of the baseball game, and then watch a movie. He put on his slippers and walked into the kitchen, grabbing a random Lean Cuisine on his way towards the microwave. Without even thinking, he punched the buttons on the appliance and went back over to the fridge to grab a cold beer when a strange noise caught his attention. For a second, he thought it was the microwave, or maybe he'd left the TV or a radio on. But there was a pause and it came again. Memories of a thousand horror movies came to the forefront of his brain, and he reached for a weapon—any weapon. Before his dinner was even done microwaving, he was prepared, a meat tenderizer in one hand and his cell phone—with 911 pre-dialed and just waiting for him to push the send button. He shuffled out of the kitchen and towards the source of the noise, his Minnetonka moccasins barely a whisper above the impatient beep of the microwave. He'd seen how it was done in action movies, and moved stealthily through his house, phone and weapon gripped in sweaty hands. The harsh florescent in the bathroom cast no shadow, and the shower curtain was pulled back, so no one could be hiding there. The office was as spotless as he'd left it, and while he'd foolishly swung his tenderizer at a coat in the hall closet, it too was unoccupied. In short, nothing seemed out of the ordinary until he looked into the lounge. A pile of dingy blankets was spread out in front of his liquor cabinet, along with what appeared—at first glance—to be all of his alcohol. Half the bottles were lying on their sides, and it was pretty obvious that the level in all of them was less than it had been when he left for work. His bottle of Bushmills 1608 had been completely killed, and his 2003 Domaine Robert Arnoux was nearly gone, too. And to add insult to injury, whoever had done it had stripped his ficus of all its leaves and spilled something all over his shag carpet. He clenched his meat tenderizer tightly and crept up to the couch, ready to catch the perpetrator in the act. As he leaned over the couch, he brought his arm back, ready for the downswing—all he had to do was identify a vital part of the malefactor, and he could just . . . . • • • A rude shove on her shoulder woke Berry, and she came to her senses just as she tumbled off the couch in a tangle of blankets. She hit the floor hard and tried to get her hooves under her, but her hind legs were entrapped. Fortunately, her forehooves were free, and she'd managed to protect the precious alcohol with her body. Her mouth was dry and her head was pounding, and she knew what made that go away—she was cradling the antidote in her hooves. Never one to question small favors, she expertly twisted the cap off and took a deep drink. She had a vague memory of this once having been a difficult task, but she'd adapted—had she ever! Now it was simpler than walking in a straight line. A distant voice was gibbering at her, but she paid it no mind. Once she could think clearly, then she'd look around and see what was going on, but right now the only thing that mattered was the sweet nectar flowing down her throat. Once she'd drained half the bottle, she spun the cap back on and looked at the source of the noise. The tall monkey in the fancy suit behind the couch seemed the most likely candidate, if the way it was waving its arms was any indication. “Chill,” she said, holding out the bottle. “There's enough to go around.” Matthew took a step back. When he'd first seen her, he'd assumed that she was some wild animal that had gotten into his house. He didn't have the number for animal control memorized—he'd never needed to call them before—and he spent an inordinately long time googling on his phone before he finally gave up. It was just a weird horse and there was no reason to flip out. I'm a grown man—I can deal with this. He poked it on the shoulder until it fell off of the bed, and he took up a defensive stance, just in case it decided to come at him. Instead, he watched in amazement as it held a bottle of Grey Goose in its leg, spun the top off, and took a long swig without ever disturbing the cap clenched between its lips. And then it spoke. “What—“ “Seriously.” Berry waved the bottle in front of his face, motioning at the couch with her other hoof. “Sit down, take a load off. I'll share.” She snickered at him. “You look like you've seen a ghost.” Matthew lowered his phone and glared at her. “You're a horse! I'm not drinking with a trespassing horse!” “I am not.” She crossed her forelegs indignantly. “I've never ever . . . well, maybe once or twice, my memory's not real clear. You shouldn't insult ponies!” She squinted at him. “Why are you in my house?” “It's my house!” “Oh.” Berry looked over at the ficus guiltily. “Sorry. I just . . . was hungry.” “Why is there a horse in my house drinking my vodka?” “I could ask you the same,” Berry said smugly. “That's no reason to yell.” She worked the top off the bottle and took another drink before looking back at him. “Do you know where to get an omelet? Or maybe some toast? I think I need to eat something. This bar doesn't have any food left.” “It isn't a bar!” Matthew lowered his voice. “It's my house and you're trespassing and I'm going to call the cops or animal control or something and you're gonna pay for all the alcohol you drank and for my ficus!” “Uh-huh.” Berry looked over to the plant. “'Scuse me. Nature calls.” I'm burning that plant. And the rug, for good measure. He picked up the half-empty bottle of Kahlua she'd left on the couch, turning it back and forth in his hands, feeling the weight shift as the liquid moved from end to end. He waited until she'd come back to the couch before speaking again. “What are you doing here?” “I just . . . I. . . .” Her ears fell, and she looked down at the carpet. “That's not an easy question, y'know? What are any of us doing here?” She glanced back down at the mostly-empty bottle of vodka she was still carrying. “Are we just—“ Her words were cut off as she opened the bottle again. “—or not?” She finished the bottle and tossed it into the pile of blankets. “That's the most important question, isn't it?” “It . . . yes?” “Are you going to drink that?” She pointed at the bottle he was holding. His eyes narrowed. “Yes.” He opened it and proceeded to drain the bottle completely as she watched him closely. • • • “And that's when I told him, 'you forgot to carry the ten on page two!'” Matthew slapped his hand against the kitchen table. “He'd spent a week on that financial report and it was all wrong!” “Yeah!” Berry poured each of them generous shots of . . . well, she wasn't sure what anymore. She estimated that she'd lost the ability to focus on letters at least an hour ago, and it was only muscle memory that enabled her to fill their tumblers without spilling a drop. All evening, she'd had a nagging feeling that something was off, but the pink monkey was drinking with her and laughing with her, and she'd finally gotten to eat something that came in a cardboard box. It was like a big open round sandwich, covered in melted cheese and tomato sauce and all shapes of red things. “I once dated a unicorn,” she told him, leaning across the table in case anypony else was listening. “He was okay in bed, but he didn’t have a very big . . . you know. It was hardly adi—ade—average.” “My last girlfriend wasn't bad, either,” Matthew muttered, taking a drink. “I miss her sometimes, but she was crazy. You know? Always wanted to change me. Thought I worked too long—but how else am I going to get ahead?” He waved a hand around the room. “Would I have this if I worked as a garbageman?” “Nope!” She took a drink. “I . . . what were we talking about?” “I don't remember.” “Yeah.” She swirled her cup before grasping the rim and leaning her head back. “Is there any more of the, um, pita?” “Pizza? No, we ate all of that. I might have some pop tarts.” “Pity.” She reached for the bottle. “I'm getting kind of sleepy. You know, I think I slept all day, and now I'm tired again. It's dark, that means that Celestia has put the sun to bed for the night.” “Sure.” Matthew took another drink. The level in the bottle was alarmingly low, and he had a vague sense of having to work in the morning. “I . . . I should get to bed. I think I—“ Berry shook her head. “It's no trouble at all. I was thinking the same thing. But we've gotta have one toast before, before we part ways, right? It's like a tradition. One for the road, eh?” “Yeah. One for . . . one.” He grabbed the kitchen table as his chair shifted under him alarmingly. “Pour it, talking horse.” “I'm not . . . never mind.” Berry filled their tumblers to the brim, killing yet another bottle. They held them aloft and clinked them together, then drank them down with a grim determination. • • • Matthew awoke with a pounding head, aching bladder, and a warm body draped over his bare chest. Author's Note Author's notes! You know the drill! LINK The Shortest PoE Story EverThe Shortest PoE Story Ever Admiral Biscuit I stumbled out of the forest and into civilization—at least, what I imagined was civilization. The roads were neat and tidy, and there were homes. It looked like a future version of Equestria, the kind of thing which only existed in sci-fi films, World's Fair exhibits, and Whinnyland. Still, it was better than being in a monster-filled forest. I'd seen a tawny quadruped with a white tail and vicious horns on his head who obviously wanted to run me through, and the ivy on the trees made my tongue itch when I tried to eat it. I scrambled over a wooden fence that separated me from civilization and went off to meet one of the locals. I'd seen them rushing down the road, and while I shouted at a few of them, they were too busy to talk to me, I guess. They'd just whip past, growling. Everypony—everyone I'd seen so far outside of the miserable forest was brightly colored, with a hard, glossy coat. Their eyes glowed yellow or orange, which vaguely reminded me of changelings, but changelings weren't that big. One of them was standing outside of his house. I wasn't sure what passed for cutie marks on these strange creatures, but he had a broad black stripe with a ram's head on his flank. I knew it was a he, because I could see brassy balls dangling under his backside. "Excuse me," I began, but he gave no sign of noticing me. I was having a really hard time picking out specific anatomical details. Some creatures didn't have very good hearing; everypony knew that. I didn't see any ears turning my way, so I gave him wide berth, and walked around to his front. His eyes were dark, and his mouth was chrome. His nostrils were huge, and I wondered if maybe his type had poor eyesight and hearing, but made up for it with a big nose. I stood patiently in front of him, to let him get my scent, but he didn't respond. Just when I'd given it up as a lost cause, I heard a noise behind me, and spun around. A weird pale biped was standing in the door of the house, holding a long stick in his hands. "Hey—what are you doing with my truck?" They're called trucks, I thought. That's good to know. "Nothing," I said reassuringly. "I was just trying to introduce myself." He was taken aback by my declaration. The truck didn't say anything, so I went closer to the house. "Don't come any closer," he warned, pointing the stick at me. "Look," I said disarmingly. "I don't mean any trouble. If you could just tell me where I am. . . ." "Man." He rubbed his eyes with a talon. "I'm seeing things and hearing things." He looked up and down the street, his eyes narrowing. "If you're real, you've got a name, right?" "I do," I said proudly. "I'm Anonymous, but you can just call me Anon for short." "Yeah." He pulled a silver flask out of his back pocket and put it to his mouth. "That's about the dumbest thing I ever heard. You're some kind of Commie." "I don't know what that is." He pointed to my ass. I turned, and looked at the red star and sickle proudly displayed thereon. "Oh . . . is that what you call nighttime reapers? If so, I am. Anon, the Commie." "Thought so." He looked up and down the street again, then pointed the stick at me. "Any last words?" Author's Note I'm so, so sorry. I just commented on a thread about anon fics, realized I'd never parodied one, and wrote this. BandageBandage Admiral Biscuit Rainbow Dash wasn't the worst roommate I'd had, but she did have a bad habit of not putting things back when she was done. I'd lived with some girls that were complete slobs, and that wasn't the case with Rainbow. Obviously, she didn't leave her clothes or underwear scattered around, since she didn't bother to wear anything except for a baseball cap on occasion. And what few dishes she used, she washed when she was done with, which was nice. She did often forget to put them back in the cupboards, though. At first, I'd thought it was because she always seemed to be rushing off somewhere. Her default speed seemed to be hurried, and she was also a somewhat late sleeper, so I'd chalked it up to her rushing her morning routine so that she could get to class in time. But after a while, it just seemed that no matter what, she wouldn't remember to put things back where she'd gotten them from. It wasn't something I really wanted to call her out on. It was a little bit annoying; my mother had always told me to put things away, and it grated at me that she didn't, but I wasn't her mother, and it mostly was Rainbow's stuff anyways. And she would move it if I told her to. Maybe pony houses don't have cabinets, I thought. I wasn't sure—Rainbow said that she lived in a cloudhouse and I got the impression that it was actually made of clouds. I couldn't figure out what she'd wanted under the bathroom vanity. The toilet paper roll was mostly full, but it wasn't fresh, and it didn't seem like her to suddenly decide to clean the toilet, but most of the contents were piled outside of the cupboard. She'd left the medicine cabinet slightly ajar as well, and as soon as I'd stuck everything back under the sink, I pushed it shut. Since I didn't have anything I had to do, I got a glass of Brita water and sat down in front of the TV. I probably should have been doing homework, but I'd just finished up a rather nasty mid-term and didn't feel up to it. I was almost completely lost in Game of Thrones when I heard the front door click open, and I changed the channel really quickly. Maybe I was being overly sensitive, but it didn't feel right to show fighting and bloodshed in front of a pony. And there was no harm in it; the DVR loyally recorded the episodes for me. Not that she'd ever complained about it when she happened to catch me by surprise, but still. . . . “Hey, Sarah. Whatcha watching?” “Ah, I, um.” What was I watching? “Just a football game, I guess.” Damn it, why did ESPN have to be so close to HBO? “Who's playing?” I squinted at the screen. It seemed like every year they added more stats boxes and crawler banners that made it confusing to have any idea who was actually playing the game, and I wasn't enough of a football fan to recognize any team by their uniforms. “Uh, the Seahawks and the Redskins.” “Are the Seahawks winning?” Her voice was slightly muffled, and I figured that she was in the kitchen making herself another peanut butter sandwich. “No, sorry.” Rainbow Dash preferred for teams with bird names to win, which I thought was really funny and cute. I hadn't seen yet how she'd react to two teams with bird names playing each other. “They've got the ball, though, and they're only one touchdown behind.” “That's good.” She turned on the sink and I could hear water splashing as she rinsed off the knife, then she shut the sink off and opened the refrigerator door, in search of another Angry Orchard. When she came into the living room, she had a plate with a sandwich balanced on her back, and the hard cider bottle cradled under one wing. She liked for me to open them when I was home, because I could do it more easily than she could. I was distracted enough by her getting up on the couch and giving me the cider and trying to focus at least a little bit on the TV that I didn't notice her leg right away, and it wasn't until I gave her back the cider that I saw the big bandage on her foreleg. That, in and of itself would have been unusual. Rainbow was an active enough pony that she got lots of cuts and scrapes all the time, but normally she didn't worry too much about them. There'd been a few times that she'd needed a bandage, though, and that was when we both figured out that while the ones in Equestria might stick to her coat, Earth bandages didn't, and so the next time we were shopping I got some of that thin white medical tape as extra insurance. She saw where I was looking, and blushed. “I kinda misjudged a landing, and there was a sharp rock . . . I wasn't gonna worry about it but it kept bleeding a little bit. I didn't want to get blood on the carpet or furniture. I know I should have asked, but you weren't home.” “That's a maxi pad.” Rainbow nodded. “For an awesome cut. I would have had to use a dozen normal Band-Aids.” My brain went on temporary hiatus as Rainbow continued talking, completely oblivious to my reaction. “It was kind of annoying that it didn't have any glue on it to hold it in place. I thought the little ears off to the side would have the glue, like those butterfly bandages do.” “Do you know what those are supposed to be used for?” Her ears dropped. “Bandages? Why else would they have been in the bathroom?” “Do you know what a period is?” She nodded. “Duh. It's the little dot at the end of a sentence.” I really didn't want to have this conversation with Rainbow, so I flopped back down on the couch and tried to watch the game. Rainbow didn't pester me again until she'd finished her sandwich and had balanced the plate on the arm of the couch. It was plastic, so even if it got knocked off, it wouldn't break. “I should have asked if I could use your maxi bandaids, Sarah. I'll buy you some more next time we go shopping.” “It's not that,” I said, turning back to face her. “It's just—“ Then my eyes happened to see her bandage again, and I started snickering. “Did anybody give you weird looks when they saw it?” Now she was suspicious, I could tell. She leaned down and lipped at the end of the tape for a moment before pulling her head back up. “Maybe?” “Do you know what menstrual cycles are?” “I guess.” Rainbow fluttered her wings for a moment as she thought about the answer. “Like, you come into heat right around Winter Wrap-Up, and then if you don't get pregnant, the egg dies and then somehow your, um, uterus like pushes it away and then gets ready for another one. I don't remember exactly how all that works, 'cause it's been a while since I learned that. But, there's like a week where you can get pregnant if you have sex, 'cause the egg is in the right place, and than after that, it's not any more and you can't get pregnant until the next time you come into heat. I thought humans didn't come into heat, though.” “I don't think that we do.” Although some of the girls in college made me wonder. “So I guess it's pretty much the same for us, otherwise. Anyway, when the egg doesn't get fertilized, the uterus sheds its lining, and it comes out, kinda like blood, and that's what the pad is for.” I could see she was still thinking about that, so I decided I'd help her out a little bit. “The pad goes in your panties.” “Oh.” She ran her hoof down the makeshift bandage. “I thought that maybe since you shaved the coat off your legs you sometimes cut yourself with the razor and that's what they were for. Because it's shaped kind of like the finger bandages, but a lot bigger.” “I wish.” I clicked off the TV—neither of us really cared too much about the game. Rainbow's cider was empty, so I got up and got her another one, and one for myself as well. When I got back to the couch, Rainbow had peeled back her bandage to look at her leg, and I got a glance myself. There was a raw red cut running almost diagonally down the side of her leg, and the coat around it was all matted down with blood. “It looks worse than it is,” she said. “I wouldn't have put anything on it, but I didn't want to bleed all over everything.” Rainbow stuck the bandage back on before taking the cider from me. “So you really bleed when you go off estrus? You're not making that up?” I shook my head. “Scout's honor, Rainbow.” “Seems like that would attract predators.” Big Mac eats a Big MacBig Mac eats a Big Mac Admiral Biscuit You had to do it. There were no two ways about it. "So, what do you think?" you ask him, as he thoughtfully chews a mouthful of two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, and onions on a sesame seed bun. He swallows. "It's not bad." "Made out of beef, you know." Big Mac gives a laconic shrug that speaks volumes. "Eeyup." He takes another bite. Author's Note I couldn't help myself.
Simon and Twilight: Arrested with TwilightNot Another Pony on Earth Arrested with Twilight Admiral Biscuit “What does that sign mean, Simon?” “Huh?” I glanced back to see where Twilight was pointing, before looking back to the road. “It means hospital. That's a place where people go when they're sick.” “I know what a hospital is, thank you very much,” she huffed. “Ponyville isn't a primitive town.” No internet, no cable tv, and no cars? And you say it isn't primitive. “Of course not,” I reassured her. “I know what you're thinking,” she muttered. A moment later all the coins in my ashtray began to float up towards the windshield. “Can you primitive humans do that?” “We've been over this,” I muttered. “Again and again. Humans don't have magic.” “But I watched a documentary with Criss Angel, and—“ “That wasn't a documentary.” I sighed, and glanced in the rearview mirror to make sure it was safe to change lanes. “That's all show. He can't really levitate.” “I can,” Twilight said brightly. “I know gravity spells. Maybe if you'd let me, we could—“ “No!” I looked at her in the mirror. “The world isn't ready for you yet. In fact, we really shouldn't be out in public like this. If something happened . . . well, and someone saw you—someone else—there would be all sorts of issues to deal with.” I ought to know; I was the one who had a purple terror materialize in his living room for no reason whatsoever. I mean, of the seven billion living rooms she could have appeared in, why mine? “I'm not cut out to handle this kind of thing. I'm a college dropout who smokes too much pot and works a boring job at a web hosting company. I'm hardly qualified to introduce an alien ambassador to Earth.” “You're no fun,” she muttered, and looked back out the window at the scenery flying by. “Gah, I can't believe I said that. I must sound like Pinkie Pie.” “Is that the one who boasts about her Sonic Rainboom?” I interpreted the brief silence which followed as an eyeroll. Despite her complete . . . well, alienness, I'd actually managed to figure out nearly half of Twilight's habitual expressions, and the eyeroll was high on the list. It was hardly my fault; nobody had said there was going to be a test, and I was way to busy freaking out about the talking flying unicorn which had suddenly determined that I was a gateway to interstellar friendship or whatever she'd said when she first arrived. “She's an Earth pony; she can't fly. Rainbow Dash is the one who does the Rainboom. Really, Simon, how you manage to confuse ponies like you do is beyond me.” Brake lights flashed in front of me, and I flicked the cruise off and tapped on my brake pedal to signal the car behind me. “They just sound so weird.” “I am so going to make you a chart,” she mumbled. “Why does that car have a bar on its roof and a big sign on the side? Is it a contractor's car?” “It's a cop car,” I told her. “What's a cop?” “They enforce the laws. A policeman—ah, policepony? You do have those, right?” “We have the Royal Guard, which defends Equestria from threats. My brother is captain of the Guard,” she said proudly. “Do they stop muggings and purse-snatchings, and solve murders?” “I . . . guess so? We don't really have those in Equestria.” “Aha!” I took my eyes off the road to glare at her. “You know what those are, so you must have them in Equestria, despite your desire to have me believe that you live in a perfect society.” “Your television had been very informative. I watched three hours of a documentary called Law and Order which explained in great detail how your legal system works." Yeah. Law and Order. That's just the kind of thing that will make a good impression on a foreign diplomat. Self, why did you teach her how to work a TV remote? Because you were stoned, idiot. Oh yeah, right. “That's not a documentary, Twilight. Most of TV isn't. It's a bunch of actors putting on a play . . . you do have plays, right?” “We have pageants. Are plays where somepony dresses up and pretends to be somepony else, to teach a moral to foals and adults who still think like foals?” “That's essentially it.” I tapped the turn signal stalk briefly before merging in front of a Freightliner. “I suppose they have morals.” “I played Clover the Clever in Canterlot,” Twilight said proudly. “Of course you did.” I looked back in the rearview mirror just in time to see the Crown Vic slide neatly behind me. I kept nervously looking back as I repeated the driver's mantra: Keep driving keep driving keep driving. Every automotive sin I'd committed in the past few miles was replaying itself in my head as I debated if he'd noticed when I was 5 mph over the speed limit, or if he'd seen my halfassed stop back in town. Like always, it didn't work. He slowed and then accelerated, and just as he got on the throttle, he lit up the overheads. My foot was halfway to the accelerator pedal before my rational brain informed if of the folly of that choice. A Ford Escort with two hundred thousand on the odometer was no racehorse. I turned on the hazard flashers and took a deep breath, wracking my brain to remember if I'd put the most recent insurance certificate in my glove box. I was pretty sure there weren't any warrants out for me, but those had a habit of sneaking up on a person. As I headed towards the shoulder, I looked back in the mirror, and he was still there, big as life. Too late I remembered that the right turn signal didn't work, so maybe he was just going to give me a warning for changing lanes without signalling. If I acted properly apologetic, he'd just let me go . . . unless he saw the winged unicorn in the back seat, of course. Who talked. That was something I wasn't going to be able to explain away. “In your research,” I began, “did you learn a, ah, spell which would allow you to look like a human?” “Yes?” “Use it.” “Why should—“ I turned my head and looked her right in the eye. “I will tell you all about it later. After Officer Friendly has gone on his way. But for now, I need you to do your spell. Believe me, things will go much more smoothly if you do.” “Okay. I trust you, Simon.” I looked back forward just in time to only catch a slight purple flash in the corner of my eye, then I was distracted by the slowing brrt brrrrt brrrrrrrt of the rumble strips on the shoulder. “Crash course, Twilight.” I snatched open the glove box and began frantically searching for the important papers among the chaos of unimportant papers. “Don't volunteer information, and tell him as little as possibile, and only in response to a specific question. If you pretend to be asleep, that might make things go more smoothly.” “Got it.” Her voice was a little different, no doubt as a result of her spell. “I'm already cold. I don't know how you humans—“ “Keep your mouth shut,” I advised as I rolled down my window. “Unless he asks.” I kept my hands on the steering wheel, so he could see them. I was totally focused in the image in my mirror, and I watched how he was acting as he swaggered towards my door. Sir, do you know why I pulled you over? I was already mulling over a response in my head, but he surprised me by stopping short of my window and taking an aggressive stance. “Ma'am, how old are you?” “I'm a guy,” I mumbled. “I know the long hair might be confusing, but—“ “I wasn't talking to you.” He glanced into the car. “Well, by your reckoning, fifteen,” Twilight said brightly. “I'm much smarter than an average fifteen-year-old, though. I was a student at Celestia's School for, um. . .” As she spoke, I instinctively turned my head to look at her, and as quickly looked away. Her transformation had been perfect . . . which was obvious, since she'd neglected to include a single stitch of clothing. “Sir, put your hands outside the vehicle, where I can see them.” Wordlessly, I complied. Author's Note I had this idea as I was driving back from Baltimore today. Stay tuned; more stories will be added to the collection.
Simon and Twilight: BaconNot Another Pony on Earth Simon and Twilight: Bacon Admiral Biscuit Simon shut off his Escort and looked at the house with mixed emotions. Every day had been an adventure since the purple terror arrived, and while thus far they'd narrowly escaped discovery, some of it had come at the cost of spending a half-hour handcuffed in the back of a police car before Twilight worked her mojo on the cop. Still, he could be in jail, so there was that. He reached over on the passenger seat and grabbed the plastic grocery bag that was chock-full of vegetables for her, and the case of beer for him. If she asked really nicely, he might give her one. Simon slid them across as he got out of the car, kicked the door closed behind him, and headed into the apartment. It took a moment of fumbling to get the keys out of his pocket, but in practically no time at all he had the front door open. He sidestepped Ms. Fletcher and her yapping dust-mop, dropped the keys when he tried to put them into the lock on his apartment door, nearly dropped the beer when he went to pick them back up, and finally let himself into his sanctum sanctorum. His nose wrinkled as soon as he stepped into the living room. There was an acrid smell permeating the whole apartment, yet it had a rather pleasing undertone. Did I leave the stove on? A moment later: Was Twilight trying to cook? There were enough cooking shows on during the day it was a real possibility. A terrifying possibility. In his haste to get into the kitchen, Simon dropped the grocery bag, but he had the presence of mind to keep a good grip on the beer. Lettuce wouldn't be hurt by being dropped on the floor; beer bottles could break. It was a simple matter of prioritizing. The kitchen was a mess. That wasn't actually unusual. And the stove was off, although the frying pan on the front burner was still hot to the touch: something Simon had verified by touching it, much to his regret. The oily smoke still drifting out of the pan should have been enough of a clue. Luckily, the beer was still cold, and it also provided perfect reason to open a bottle. It cooled his burned palm, and it also provided refreshment. Twilight wasn't in the kitchen proudly showing off her creation. She wasn't in front of the TV, either, although it was still on. Simon groaned as the commercials ended, and it went back to Amish Mafia. Then he finished his beer and headed down the hallway. He knew right where to find Twilight. • • • “You know,” he said through the bathroom door. “Amish Mafia isn't a documentary. There aren't Amish who go around beating up zipper-sellers, or whatever the TV says they do. It's all made-up.” He took a drink of his beer and leaned up against the wall. “In fact, it's probably safe to assume anything on the TV is fake. Except for Mythbusters and How It's Made. Those are legit. Oh, and Penn and Teller's real, too. But that's pretty much it.” “Not really thinking about that right now.” “I only bring this up,” Simon said casually, “because of the predicament you now find yourself in. There's a lesson which you might be able to report to your Princess, in fact.” “I am not—“ “Specifically, I can only assume that in your enthusiasm to recreate something which you saw on the TV, you never stopped to consider that you're a herbivore, and you cooked yourself a whole pound of bacon.” Simon took another drink of his beer. “What on Earth possessed you to do that? What made you think you could eat bacon without any consequences?” “You told me I could.” He could hear her accusing stare through the bathroom door. “You said that if I was hungry I could have whatever I wanted to eat in the fridge.” “I did?” “Yes! The first night I was here. You were sitting on the couch watching a musical documentary about heavy airships, and smoking your skunkweed, and you told me that I could eat whatever I wanted in the fridge.” “I was stoned, okay. I say lots of things when I'm stoned. You shouldn't listen to them, or . . . well, this happens.” Simon finished his beer and rolled the empty bottle down the hall, to be picked up later. “How was it, by the way?” Twilight groaned. “It was really salty, but after I got used to that, I liked it. There was kind of a weird aftertaste in my mouth, though, and my burps tasted weird. I was looking through your icebox for something that might get the taste out of my mouth, when my stomach started cramping.” “On the bright side, you made it to the bathroom,” Simon said. “Good for you.” “I am not some filly who still wets the bed.” “Never said that you were. Hey, look, you're probably going to be there for a while. Do you want me to slide a magazine or something under the door?” “Yes!” Simon flinched away from the door, and the desperation in Twilight's voice. “Anything.” “Be right back.” Simon looked around his apartment. There weren't all that many magazines scattered about—he wasn't much of a reader. But Twilight considered any glossy publication to be a magazine, which did marginally broaden his search. He found a copy of High Times poking out from under the couch, and then two issues of Newsweek that were probably an artifact from the former tenant. Or else he'd subscribed while stoned. As luck would have it, he also found a small pamphlet titled “The Man's Guide to Grilling Bacon.” Simon tucked that neatly into one of the magazines, slid the whole collection under the bathroom door, and then went back into the living room. He switched the TV to America's Funniest Home Videos and rolled a joint. Five minutes later came the distinct sound of a pamphlet being flung against a bathroom wall with extreme prejudice, accompanied by an angry diatribe. Simon didn't notice; he was too enthralled by the montage of crotch shots. Author's Note Story notes HERE!
Lyra Cosplays HerselfNot another Pony on Earth Lyra Cosplays Herself Admiral Biscuit Lyra pranced giddily around her hotel room. It wasn't a very big room—it was smaller than the bedroom she and Bon Bon shared—but it was human. Distinctively, unmistakably human, from the too-tall chair at the desk, to the miniscule button-matrix on the telephone, which was like a telegraph but faster. Even the wastebasket was foreign. She had been slightly disturbed to learn that they were made of plastic, which came from a dinosaur, but she didn't personally know any dinosaurs, so it was hard to judge how they felt about it. Certainly the cows in town were willing to sell their milk, so maybe dinosaurs sold their plastic to humans. Her prancing took her to the window of her hotel room again. Lyra pressed her muzzle up against the floor-to-ceiling glass and gazed downwards at the tiny human figures moving around on the sidewalk, even though it was well after dark. This was the highest building she'd ever been in, and the view was simply magnificent. Even long after sunset, the humans were out on the sidewalks and in the streets, doing human things like driving cars or clustering together and passing around a smoking stick or selling ice-cream from boxy wheeled stalls. She yawned and jerked her head, forcing her eyes back open. She was unbelievably tired—world-hopping would do that to a mare—yet she didn't want to miss a single moment of the spectacle. A look at the clock over on the bedside table told her that it was one a.m., and while she still hadn't completely wrapped her mind around the human concept of time, she ought to be in bed, especially if she wanted to be at the convention center bright and early in the morning. Lyra staggered into the bathroom, blinking in surprise at the drawn look on the mare in the mirror. Her mane hung limply down her neck, and there were big bags under her golden eyes. She levitated the small tube of toothpaste the hotel had provided onto her toothbrush and mechanically brushed her teeth, her tongue tingling from the spicy-cool paste. A quick rinse of her mouth later, and she was ready for bed. Unfortunately, the bed was too high for her. She could imagine how a human might stand at the edge of the bed and let herself fall forward into the pure white softness of the mattress, but her legs were shorter and the bed practically came up to her chin. Even on her hind legs, it was just above her midpoint, and she couldn't quite get enough traction to pull herself up. She finally took a running leap at it, nearly bouncing completely off again. The sheets were tucked in maddeningly tight, but she finally managed to pull them loose—a process not aided by her body on top of them—and pulled them over herself. She spent a moment arranging the pillows to her liking: two under her head and a third between her forelegs. Once she was situated, she let out a blissful sigh and closed her eyes, waiting for the sandmare to take her to Luna's realm. Lyra blinked awake, panicking as the inevitable disorientation hit her. It wasn't her bed, it wasn't her pillows, there was no Bon Bon, and everything she saw in the room was foreign to her. The feeling passed, replaced by an eagerness to get going. She lay on her back for a minute, planning out her morning routine. Humans were addicted to coffee—she'd learned that on another trip—and her hotel room had a machine which made it. After a few false starts, she managed to make the machine work for her without filling a cup of coffee grounds or covering the entire desk with liquid, and left it alone as she went into the bathroom and prepared for her new day. The shower was enclosed by a floor-to-ceiling glass wall, a feature beyond the skill of any craftsmare in Ponyville. Lyra spent a frustrating minute figuring out how to make the water the temperature she liked and how to aim the head properly before finally stepping inside, letting the pulsing beat of the warm slippery water wash over her. She quickly ran out of the shampoo the hotel had provided, but the hot water seemed inexhaustible. The hot water heater they had at home could—at best—provide a lukewarm flow for five minutes; this one kept going with water hot enough to scald a mare, and as far as she'd seen, there was no firebox which needed to be filled. She'd heard of luxury hotels in Manehattan which provided a similar amenity, but had never experienced it for herself. By the time the whole bathroom was filled with fog, she felt decadent, and still the hot water came. Refreshed, she shut off the flow and got out of the shower, placing her hooves carefully on the the bathmat. The slippery floors and horseshoes were not a good combination. Two minutes later, Lyra left the bathroom, leaving a pile of sodden towels in her wake. She wasn't completely dry yet, but her coat would dry the rest of the way on its own. She could hardly groom herself while the bathroom mirror was fogged up, so she settled on drinking a cup of coffee which the machine had made while she was in the bathroom. Below her, the streets were as lively as ever. A flood of humans was streaming into and out of the convention center, many of them dressed in costumes. Soon she would be among them, in her own body for the very first time. It had been magnificent to spend time among the humans, but being stuck in one of their bodies to blend in meant that she'd spent much of her time trying to accomplish simple tasks, like walking upright. For once, she could be herself, and nopony—nohuman—would remark upon it. After final grooming and three checks to make sure she had the badges for her hotel room and the convention, Lyra closed the hotel door behind her and made her way to the elevator. It was like a coach, but it went up and down instead of forward, and it had two large windows that were open to the outside. As she descended from the fourteenth floor to the ground, she watched the activity in the harbor, where tiny boats zoomed to and fro without needing any sails at all. Like the cars the humans loved so much, spells were hidden in them that made them go. The convention center was a pressing mass of humanity, and Lyra drank it all in like a dehydrated camel in an oasis. Her ears were flicking back and forth, picking up snatches of conversation here and there, most of them addressed at somepony else. Still, she got her fair share of demands for photographs, and it wasn't too long before her face hurt from the nearly constant grin she maintained. The crowd began to become a featureless pink blur, and despite her love of all things human, she'd had enough for a while, and flopped onto one of the chairs, leaning back human-style. Her hind legs were aching from hours walking bipedal, and her brain was filled with snatches of conversation gleaned from the endless babel of the crowd. Just the same, she wouldn't have traded the burning in her thighs for the world. She'd never seen this many ponies in one place at one time, and it was nearly incomprehensible how so many humans could gather together. The traffic outside had actually increased while she was here, which lead her to the inescapable conclusion that there must be a lot of humans on Earth. Millions of them, most likely. “Hey, are you entering a cosplay contest? Because if you aren't, you totally should. You look just like a pony from that show.” Lyra glanced up at the stallion who'd spoken. He was wearing a brown robe and carrying a plastic sword, and speaking with a funny accent. “That's what I'm going to do,” Lyra replied. Humans liked it when she agreed with them, even if she wasn't sure what they were saying. “I just . . . the names of the places are kind of weird,” she temporized, “Could you show me where to go?” “I'm headed that way myself,” he informed her. “We've got to hurry; the contest starts in a few minutes. Do you like my Aragron costume?” “It's great!” Lyra said. “Not as good as yours,” he mumbled. “How did you get the fur to look so natural?” “I, ah, just spend a lot of time with it, you know?” “It looks great.” He reached out a hand for her hoof, and Lyra let him take hold and pull her to her hind hooves. “Best I've seen, although there is a Flufflepuff that could give you a run for your money.” “Lead me on,” she told him. What in Equestria is a Flufflepuff? She staggered to her hind hooves. As he walked, a mare fell in step beside them. Lyra knew it was a mare, because she smelled nicer than a stallion and had a curvier body. “It's right this way,” he told her. “Seriously, you've got about the best costume I've seen.” Lyra blushed. “It's nothing, really. I just, um, worked really hard.” • • • Ten minutes later, Lyra was in a room full of people, all of them in what she presumed were costumes. The officials had sorted them into groups, and she found herself standing next to a tall pink character of a pony who only said “Pbbth” when spoken to. Lyra gave it a death stare and shifted around on her hooves as the judges examined her in an overly personal manner, even going as far as running their fingers through her fur—a move which both excited and offended her. After an indomitable amount of time, and a few friendly nuzzles and licks from the Flufflepuff, the judges finally reached their verdict. Lyra returned home with a strange twisting, inside-out feeling, and promptly staggered to the nearest point of respite, which happened to be the living room couch. Bon Bon rushed over to her, the candies in the kitchen briefly forgotten, and kissed her on the cheek. “How was it?” “Fantastic,” Lyra said. “I couldn't have asked for a better weekend.” She kissed Bon Bon on the lips, an image of the earth pony in the hotel shower while she watched crossing her mind. “Everypony was very polite, and some stallion even asked me if I wanted to enter a contest!” “How did that go?” Bon Bon ran a hoof through Lyra's mane. “Well . . . “ Lyra flattened her ears. “I got a red ribbon.” “Is that good?” “No.” She let out a long-suffering sigh. “The judges said that my costume smelled funny, and didn't feel right.” She absently touched a hoof to her barrel. “One of them took away points for damage to my coat, can you imagine? And the colors 'weren't quite right.' A judge even said that I was 'overdone.' I don’t even know what that means!” “But you got to see a hoofful of humans in their natural environment,” Bon Bon reminded her. “Surely that's worth something.” “You're right.” Lyra perked her ears. “So what if I didn't win a prize, and a Flufflepuff did?” She looked into Bon Bon's eyes. “And I got all sorts of cool human stuff.” She glanced back at her saddlebags. “You're not using all of the curio cabinet, right?”
A Visionary Flood of AlcoholNot another Pony on Earth A Visionary Flood of Alcohol Admiral Biscuit Berry Punch leaned into her wardrobe. She was sure that somewhere behind her formal dress was a bottle of brandy. She'd taken to hiding the bottles after her supply began disappearing in what she could only assume were suspicious circumstances. Why, just the day before, the half-full bottle on her bedside table had become empty for no reason she could discern, and now the bottle in her kitchen—which was safely kept behind jars of spices she'd never use—had become mysteriously empty. I don't even remember going in the kitchen yesterday. Berry pushed aside her one formal dress and began rummaging around in the pile of blankets and towels on the wardrobe floor, which were piled nearly to her chest. She wasn't sure why she had so many towels and blankets. She craned her neck and stretched out, trying to get to a familiar-looking threadbare wool blanket at the very back. It was wadded up in such a way that her missing bottle might just be in there, and if she could only reach out a little further, she could claim her prize. Her hindhooves scrabbled against the floor before she hooked the edge of the wardrobe and pushed herself forward, grabbing a mouthful of blanket just as the entire pile shifted and pitched her tail-over-muzzle toward the back wall. She crashed into wood, and a moment later it shifted under her weight, toppling her and a rainbow of blankets across a lush beige carpet. Berry spat out the blanket and rolled upright, reaching and pulling to get at the treasure within. When the neck came in sight, she grabbed it in her teeth and pulled it out of its confines, her ears falling as she saw it was empty. She whimpered and set it back down on the blanket pile. Somepony had found this bottle, too. Now what was she going to drink? Market wouldn't open for hours, and she wasn't sure she could wait until then. She could hardly go door-to-door though, asking her neighbors to loan her a bottle. For the first time, Berry noticed that the room she was in wasn't a part of her house—unless the pony who had been taking her alcohol had also redecorated. It was too fancy. The couch was huge, big enough to sleep three or four ponies. Frames on the wall held lithographs of hot-air balloons, of all things, and to her left a cherrywood cabinet which was taller than her gleamed in the sunlight which streamed through a huge window. Behind her, a open door revealed a closet that had a few nice-looking coats hung on a clothesrod which was so high she probably couldn't reach it even on tiphooves. The cabinet drew her eye. Glassware was neatly arranged on the top, and where there was glassware there might be something to drink. She licked her lips and struggled off the blanket pile, making her way over to it. She reverently ran a hoof across the smooth surface and contemplated the way in. On all fours, she couldn't reach the small knob on the door. She could just get it on her hind legs, but with her forelegs braced against the door, she couldn't pull it open. But she wasn't going to give up that easily, oh no. She could practically hear the bottles that must be inside calling out to her, begging her to taste their sweet ambrosia. She crouched back down at the bottom of the door. There was a slight ledge, and it was just barely tall enough for her to scoot a hoof underneath. The thought crossed her mind that if she wasn't careful she might get stuck, and for one heart-stopping moment she thought she had, but then the door swung open and she slid her hoof out from under it, leaving a small patch of hair behind. And then she just stared, mouth agape. The contents were beyond her wildest dreams. Dozens of bottles were neatly arranged, their shape foreign but the contents oh so clear. Wines, from a deep burgundy to yellow-white. Above that, every kind of liquor she could imagine. A rich caramel whiskey on one side, all the way down to the clearer-than-springwater vodka at the other end. She had to try them all. It wouldn't be fair to pick just one bottle. Her task was Herculean, but she was the mare for the job. Berry wasted no time in selecting a bottle, but getting it opened proved to be a challenge. Whoever had made the slippery cap had not had a pony in mind and it took what felt like forever to get it open. She had to sit on her rump and cradle the bottle in her forelegs, while twisting the cap just a little bit at a time. Once she brought it to her lips, though, her struggle was forgotten as the whiskey numbed her mouth and burned down her throat. She took a second swig, this time rolling it around and letting the flavors seep into her. It was so smooth, much nicer than the rye stuff that had recently started coming down from the Crystal Empire. She let its warmth suffuse her body as she looked into the cabinet for the next bottle to try. • • • Berry swayed across the room towards the couch, a determined look on her face. A blanket was gripped tightly in her teeth, and it trailed under her body. She walked carefully to avoid stepping on it, but she did anyway. Each time her head jerked downward and she came to a stop, looking back to see which hoof had betrayed her. Normally, she would have tossed it on her back, but the twisting motion that required had already proven to be a terrible idea. Fortunately, she was numb enough that the resulting tumble hadn't hurt at all. With three more trips, she had finally arranged a suitable pile of blankets on the couch, now all that remained was to get up there herself. A nearby bookshelf provided a solution, and she began stacking hardcover books into a makeshift set of stairs. It seemed to take an eternity, especially since she decided to keep fortifying herself with more whiskey. Two more trips to the liquor cabinet provided her with a duo of bottles in case she got thirsty and didn't want to get off the couch, and she also had to stop and violate a houseplant—but water was water, after all, so it would surely be fine. She snuggled into the blankets, and rolled towards the back of the couch, away from the hateful sun. Her two bottles were protectively cradled between her forelegs, where they would be safe from the mysterious alcohol thief. She fleetingly thought that she ought to find her way home before somepony discovered her, but then she would have to get back off the couch, and then find her way back through the closet and that was all far too much effort, especially since she'd just gotten comfortable. Instead, she closed her eyes and let herself drift away. • • • Matthew hung his overcoat in the hall closet and peeled off his loafers. It had been a long day at the office, and he was ready to sit in front of the TV and relax for a few hours. He could catch the tail end of the baseball game, and then watch a movie. He put on his slippers and walked into the kitchen, grabbing a random Lean Cuisine on his way towards the microwave. Without even thinking, he punched the buttons on the appliance and went back over to the fridge to grab a cold beer when a strange noise caught his attention. For a second, he thought it was the microwave, or maybe he'd left the TV or a radio on. But there was a pause and it came again. Memories of a thousand horror movies came to the forefront of his brain, and he reached for a weapon—any weapon. Before his dinner was even done microwaving, he was prepared, a meat tenderizer in one hand and his cell phone—with 911 pre-dialed and just waiting for him to push the send button. He shuffled out of the kitchen and towards the source of the noise, his Minnetonka moccasins barely a whisper above the impatient beep of the microwave. He'd seen how it was done in action movies, and moved stealthily through his house, phone and weapon gripped in sweaty hands. The harsh florescent in the bathroom cast no shadow, and the shower curtain was pulled back, so no one could be hiding there. The office was as spotless as he'd left it, and while he'd foolishly swung his tenderizer at a coat in the hall closet, it too was unoccupied. In short, nothing seemed out of the ordinary until he looked into the lounge. A pile of dingy blankets was spread out in front of his liquor cabinet, along with what appeared—at first glance—to be all of his alcohol. Half the bottles were lying on their sides, and it was pretty obvious that the level in all of them was less than it had been when he left for work. His bottle of Bushmills 1608 had been completely killed, and his 2003 Domaine Robert Arnoux was nearly gone, too. And to add insult to injury, whoever had done it had stripped his ficus of all its leaves and spilled something all over his shag carpet. He clenched his meat tenderizer tightly and crept up to the couch, ready to catch the perpetrator in the act. As he leaned over the couch, he brought his arm back, ready for the downswing—all he had to do was identify a vital part of the malefactor, and he could just . . . . • • • A rude shove on her shoulder woke Berry, and she came to her senses just as she tumbled off the couch in a tangle of blankets. She hit the floor hard and tried to get her hooves under her, but her hind legs were entrapped. Fortunately, her forehooves were free, and she'd managed to protect the precious alcohol with her body. Her mouth was dry and her head was pounding, and she knew what made that go away—she was cradling the antidote in her hooves. Never one to question small favors, she expertly twisted the cap off and took a deep drink. She had a vague memory of this once having been a difficult task, but she'd adapted—had she ever! Now it was simpler than walking in a straight line. A distant voice was gibbering at her, but she paid it no mind. Once she could think clearly, then she'd look around and see what was going on, but right now the only thing that mattered was the sweet nectar flowing down her throat. Once she'd drained half the bottle, she spun the cap back on and looked at the source of the noise. The tall monkey in the fancy suit behind the couch seemed the most likely candidate, if the way it was waving its arms was any indication. “Chill,” she said, holding out the bottle. “There's enough to go around.” Matthew took a step back. When he'd first seen her, he'd assumed that she was some wild animal that had gotten into his house. He didn't have the number for animal control memorized—he'd never needed to call them before—and he spent an inordinately long time googling on his phone before he finally gave up. It was just a weird horse and there was no reason to flip out. I'm a grown man—I can deal with this. He poked it on the shoulder until it fell off of the bed, and he took up a defensive stance, just in case it decided to come at him. Instead, he watched in amazement as it held a bottle of Grey Goose in its leg, spun the top off, and took a long swig without ever disturbing the cap clenched between its lips. And then it spoke. “What—“ “Seriously.” Berry waved the bottle in front of his face, motioning at the couch with her other hoof. “Sit down, take a load off. I'll share.” She snickered at him. “You look like you've seen a ghost.” Matthew lowered his phone and glared at her. “You're a horse! I'm not drinking with a trespassing horse!” “I am not.” She crossed her forelegs indignantly. “I've never ever . . . well, maybe once or twice, my memory's not real clear. You shouldn't insult ponies!” She squinted at him. “Why are you in my house?” “It's my house!” “Oh.” Berry looked over at the ficus guiltily. “Sorry. I just . . . was hungry.” “Why is there a horse in my house drinking my vodka?” “I could ask you the same,” Berry said smugly. “That's no reason to yell.” She worked the top off the bottle and took another drink before looking back at him. “Do you know where to get an omelet? Or maybe some toast? I think I need to eat something. This bar doesn't have any food left.” “It isn't a bar!” Matthew lowered his voice. “It's my house and you're trespassing and I'm going to call the cops or animal control or something and you're gonna pay for all the alcohol you drank and for my ficus!” “Uh-huh.” Berry looked over to the plant. “'Scuse me. Nature calls.” I'm burning that plant. And the rug, for good measure. He picked up the half-empty bottle of Kahlua she'd left on the couch, turning it back and forth in his hands, feeling the weight shift as the liquid moved from end to end. He waited until she'd come back to the couch before speaking again. “What are you doing here?” “I just . . . I. . . .” Her ears fell, and she looked down at the carpet. “That's not an easy question, y'know? What are any of us doing here?” She glanced back down at the mostly-empty bottle of vodka she was still carrying. “Are we just—“ Her words were cut off as she opened the bottle again. “—or not?” She finished the bottle and tossed it into the pile of blankets. “That's the most important question, isn't it?” “It . . . yes?” “Are you going to drink that?” She pointed at the bottle he was holding. His eyes narrowed. “Yes.” He opened it and proceeded to drain the bottle completely as she watched him closely. • • • “And that's when I told him, 'you forgot to carry the ten on page two!'” Matthew slapped his hand against the kitchen table. “He'd spent a week on that financial report and it was all wrong!” “Yeah!” Berry poured each of them generous shots of . . . well, she wasn't sure what anymore. She estimated that she'd lost the ability to focus on letters at least an hour ago, and it was only muscle memory that enabled her to fill their tumblers without spilling a drop. All evening, she'd had a nagging feeling that something was off, but the pink monkey was drinking with her and laughing with her, and she'd finally gotten to eat something that came in a cardboard box. It was like a big open round sandwich, covered in melted cheese and tomato sauce and all shapes of red things. “I once dated a unicorn,” she told him, leaning across the table in case anypony else was listening. “He was okay in bed, but he didn’t have a very big . . . you know. It was hardly adi—ade—average.” “My last girlfriend wasn't bad, either,” Matthew muttered, taking a drink. “I miss her sometimes, but she was crazy. You know? Always wanted to change me. Thought I worked too long—but how else am I going to get ahead?” He waved a hand around the room. “Would I have this if I worked as a garbageman?” “Nope!” She took a drink. “I . . . what were we talking about?” “I don't remember.” “Yeah.” She swirled her cup before grasping the rim and leaning her head back. “Is there any more of the, um, pita?” “Pizza? No, we ate all of that. I might have some pop tarts.” “Pity.” She reached for the bottle. “I'm getting kind of sleepy. You know, I think I slept all day, and now I'm tired again. It's dark, that means that Celestia has put the sun to bed for the night.” “Sure.” Matthew took another drink. The level in the bottle was alarmingly low, and he had a vague sense of having to work in the morning. “I . . . I should get to bed. I think I—“ Berry shook her head. “It's no trouble at all. I was thinking the same thing. But we've gotta have one toast before, before we part ways, right? It's like a tradition. One for the road, eh?” “Yeah. One for . . . one.” He grabbed the kitchen table as his chair shifted under him alarmingly. “Pour it, talking horse.” “I'm not . . . never mind.” Berry filled their tumblers to the brim, killing yet another bottle. They held them aloft and clinked them together, then drank them down with a grim determination. • • • Matthew awoke with a pounding head, aching bladder, and a warm body draped over his bare chest. Author's Note Author's notes! You know the drill! LINK
The Shortest PoE Story EverThe Shortest PoE Story Ever Admiral Biscuit I stumbled out of the forest and into civilization—at least, what I imagined was civilization. The roads were neat and tidy, and there were homes. It looked like a future version of Equestria, the kind of thing which only existed in sci-fi films, World's Fair exhibits, and Whinnyland. Still, it was better than being in a monster-filled forest. I'd seen a tawny quadruped with a white tail and vicious horns on his head who obviously wanted to run me through, and the ivy on the trees made my tongue itch when I tried to eat it. I scrambled over a wooden fence that separated me from civilization and went off to meet one of the locals. I'd seen them rushing down the road, and while I shouted at a few of them, they were too busy to talk to me, I guess. They'd just whip past, growling. Everypony—everyone I'd seen so far outside of the miserable forest was brightly colored, with a hard, glossy coat. Their eyes glowed yellow or orange, which vaguely reminded me of changelings, but changelings weren't that big. One of them was standing outside of his house. I wasn't sure what passed for cutie marks on these strange creatures, but he had a broad black stripe with a ram's head on his flank. I knew it was a he, because I could see brassy balls dangling under his backside. "Excuse me," I began, but he gave no sign of noticing me. I was having a really hard time picking out specific anatomical details. Some creatures didn't have very good hearing; everypony knew that. I didn't see any ears turning my way, so I gave him wide berth, and walked around to his front. His eyes were dark, and his mouth was chrome. His nostrils were huge, and I wondered if maybe his type had poor eyesight and hearing, but made up for it with a big nose. I stood patiently in front of him, to let him get my scent, but he didn't respond. Just when I'd given it up as a lost cause, I heard a noise behind me, and spun around. A weird pale biped was standing in the door of the house, holding a long stick in his hands. "Hey—what are you doing with my truck?" They're called trucks, I thought. That's good to know. "Nothing," I said reassuringly. "I was just trying to introduce myself." He was taken aback by my declaration. The truck didn't say anything, so I went closer to the house. "Don't come any closer," he warned, pointing the stick at me. "Look," I said disarmingly. "I don't mean any trouble. If you could just tell me where I am. . . ." "Man." He rubbed his eyes with a talon. "I'm seeing things and hearing things." He looked up and down the street, his eyes narrowing. "If you're real, you've got a name, right?" "I do," I said proudly. "I'm Anonymous, but you can just call me Anon for short." "Yeah." He pulled a silver flask out of his back pocket and put it to his mouth. "That's about the dumbest thing I ever heard. You're some kind of Commie." "I don't know what that is." He pointed to my ass. I turned, and looked at the red star and sickle proudly displayed thereon. "Oh . . . is that what you call nighttime reapers? If so, I am. Anon, the Commie." "Thought so." He looked up and down the street again, then pointed the stick at me. "Any last words?" Author's Note I'm so, so sorry. I just commented on a thread about anon fics, realized I'd never parodied one, and wrote this.
BandageBandage Admiral Biscuit Rainbow Dash wasn't the worst roommate I'd had, but she did have a bad habit of not putting things back when she was done. I'd lived with some girls that were complete slobs, and that wasn't the case with Rainbow. Obviously, she didn't leave her clothes or underwear scattered around, since she didn't bother to wear anything except for a baseball cap on occasion. And what few dishes she used, she washed when she was done with, which was nice. She did often forget to put them back in the cupboards, though. At first, I'd thought it was because she always seemed to be rushing off somewhere. Her default speed seemed to be hurried, and she was also a somewhat late sleeper, so I'd chalked it up to her rushing her morning routine so that she could get to class in time. But after a while, it just seemed that no matter what, she wouldn't remember to put things back where she'd gotten them from. It wasn't something I really wanted to call her out on. It was a little bit annoying; my mother had always told me to put things away, and it grated at me that she didn't, but I wasn't her mother, and it mostly was Rainbow's stuff anyways. And she would move it if I told her to. Maybe pony houses don't have cabinets, I thought. I wasn't sure—Rainbow said that she lived in a cloudhouse and I got the impression that it was actually made of clouds. I couldn't figure out what she'd wanted under the bathroom vanity. The toilet paper roll was mostly full, but it wasn't fresh, and it didn't seem like her to suddenly decide to clean the toilet, but most of the contents were piled outside of the cupboard. She'd left the medicine cabinet slightly ajar as well, and as soon as I'd stuck everything back under the sink, I pushed it shut. Since I didn't have anything I had to do, I got a glass of Brita water and sat down in front of the TV. I probably should have been doing homework, but I'd just finished up a rather nasty mid-term and didn't feel up to it. I was almost completely lost in Game of Thrones when I heard the front door click open, and I changed the channel really quickly. Maybe I was being overly sensitive, but it didn't feel right to show fighting and bloodshed in front of a pony. And there was no harm in it; the DVR loyally recorded the episodes for me. Not that she'd ever complained about it when she happened to catch me by surprise, but still. . . . “Hey, Sarah. Whatcha watching?” “Ah, I, um.” What was I watching? “Just a football game, I guess.” Damn it, why did ESPN have to be so close to HBO? “Who's playing?” I squinted at the screen. It seemed like every year they added more stats boxes and crawler banners that made it confusing to have any idea who was actually playing the game, and I wasn't enough of a football fan to recognize any team by their uniforms. “Uh, the Seahawks and the Redskins.” “Are the Seahawks winning?” Her voice was slightly muffled, and I figured that she was in the kitchen making herself another peanut butter sandwich. “No, sorry.” Rainbow Dash preferred for teams with bird names to win, which I thought was really funny and cute. I hadn't seen yet how she'd react to two teams with bird names playing each other. “They've got the ball, though, and they're only one touchdown behind.” “That's good.” She turned on the sink and I could hear water splashing as she rinsed off the knife, then she shut the sink off and opened the refrigerator door, in search of another Angry Orchard. When she came into the living room, she had a plate with a sandwich balanced on her back, and the hard cider bottle cradled under one wing. She liked for me to open them when I was home, because I could do it more easily than she could. I was distracted enough by her getting up on the couch and giving me the cider and trying to focus at least a little bit on the TV that I didn't notice her leg right away, and it wasn't until I gave her back the cider that I saw the big bandage on her foreleg. That, in and of itself would have been unusual. Rainbow was an active enough pony that she got lots of cuts and scrapes all the time, but normally she didn't worry too much about them. There'd been a few times that she'd needed a bandage, though, and that was when we both figured out that while the ones in Equestria might stick to her coat, Earth bandages didn't, and so the next time we were shopping I got some of that thin white medical tape as extra insurance. She saw where I was looking, and blushed. “I kinda misjudged a landing, and there was a sharp rock . . . I wasn't gonna worry about it but it kept bleeding a little bit. I didn't want to get blood on the carpet or furniture. I know I should have asked, but you weren't home.” “That's a maxi pad.” Rainbow nodded. “For an awesome cut. I would have had to use a dozen normal Band-Aids.” My brain went on temporary hiatus as Rainbow continued talking, completely oblivious to my reaction. “It was kind of annoying that it didn't have any glue on it to hold it in place. I thought the little ears off to the side would have the glue, like those butterfly bandages do.” “Do you know what those are supposed to be used for?” Her ears dropped. “Bandages? Why else would they have been in the bathroom?” “Do you know what a period is?” She nodded. “Duh. It's the little dot at the end of a sentence.” I really didn't want to have this conversation with Rainbow, so I flopped back down on the couch and tried to watch the game. Rainbow didn't pester me again until she'd finished her sandwich and had balanced the plate on the arm of the couch. It was plastic, so even if it got knocked off, it wouldn't break. “I should have asked if I could use your maxi bandaids, Sarah. I'll buy you some more next time we go shopping.” “It's not that,” I said, turning back to face her. “It's just—“ Then my eyes happened to see her bandage again, and I started snickering. “Did anybody give you weird looks when they saw it?” Now she was suspicious, I could tell. She leaned down and lipped at the end of the tape for a moment before pulling her head back up. “Maybe?” “Do you know what menstrual cycles are?” “I guess.” Rainbow fluttered her wings for a moment as she thought about the answer. “Like, you come into heat right around Winter Wrap-Up, and then if you don't get pregnant, the egg dies and then somehow your, um, uterus like pushes it away and then gets ready for another one. I don't remember exactly how all that works, 'cause it's been a while since I learned that. But, there's like a week where you can get pregnant if you have sex, 'cause the egg is in the right place, and than after that, it's not any more and you can't get pregnant until the next time you come into heat. I thought humans didn't come into heat, though.” “I don't think that we do.” Although some of the girls in college made me wonder. “So I guess it's pretty much the same for us, otherwise. Anyway, when the egg doesn't get fertilized, the uterus sheds its lining, and it comes out, kinda like blood, and that's what the pad is for.” I could see she was still thinking about that, so I decided I'd help her out a little bit. “The pad goes in your panties.” “Oh.” She ran her hoof down the makeshift bandage. “I thought that maybe since you shaved the coat off your legs you sometimes cut yourself with the razor and that's what they were for. Because it's shaped kind of like the finger bandages, but a lot bigger.” “I wish.” I clicked off the TV—neither of us really cared too much about the game. Rainbow's cider was empty, so I got up and got her another one, and one for myself as well. When I got back to the couch, Rainbow had peeled back her bandage to look at her leg, and I got a glance myself. There was a raw red cut running almost diagonally down the side of her leg, and the coat around it was all matted down with blood. “It looks worse than it is,” she said. “I wouldn't have put anything on it, but I didn't want to bleed all over everything.” Rainbow stuck the bandage back on before taking the cider from me. “So you really bleed when you go off estrus? You're not making that up?” I shook my head. “Scout's honor, Rainbow.” “Seems like that would attract predators.”
Big Mac eats a Big MacBig Mac eats a Big Mac Admiral Biscuit You had to do it. There were no two ways about it. "So, what do you think?" you ask him, as he thoughtfully chews a mouthful of two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, and onions on a sesame seed bun. He swallows. "It's not bad." "Made out of beef, you know." Big Mac gives a laconic shrug that speaks volumes. "Eeyup." He takes another bite. Author's Note I couldn't help myself.
