I knew it would happen someday. It was it's own special version of inevitable, despite how impossible it was. An odd combination, that... inevitable and impossible.
But that's Pinkie. No better way to describe her.
Actually, I'm not sure it's Pinkie. I catch an occasional glimpse of pink hair, mysterious giggles follow me every time I do something remotely funny, and I keep getting the feeling that I'm being watched.
It sounds crazy, even to me. What would a pony be doing in Portland? Nobody believes me. They think it's some kind of joke. I don't know if I believe me.
I didn't even know what it was, not at first, until I told my friend John.
John lives by his own rules. He lives in a house he – mostly – built himself, but it's not quite finished. Livable, but there's still bare particle board everywhere. He's the one who suggested it was Pinkie Pie.
Before then, I had never heard of ponies. The kind that stands in a pasture and you feed carrots to, sure, but not colorful cartoon ones. I didn't really have much interest in all that internet culture, had better things to do, I thought.
Needless to say, after a beer-soaked evening talking to him about it — I didn't partake — I took all that much more seriously. He was even able to predict the hoofprints.
Yes, hoofprints. Why won't anyone believe me, even when I have proof. I even made a cast of them and brought it to an expert. He told me not to waste his time. They were obvious forgeries: too round to be from a real horse.
But it's not strictly a 'real' horse that's stalking me, is it? Or maybe I should insist that she's real... When I say she's not real, that just makes me sound crazier, doesn't it?
She's there, though. She's always there. Behind a corner, peeking out of a trash can, hiding under my bed. I shudder to think what she might do while I sleep. I haven't slept well recently.
No locked door can keep her out, and no matter how fast I drive — or even fly — away, she always stays right with me. I flew out to Boston once, going to my grandma's funeral. Pinkie was on the plane. How did she get on board with all the airport security these days? Did she have a ticket? She came to the funeral too. At least there she had the decency to wear black. She didn't even giggle... much.
I can never catch her, though, and believe me, I've tried. I've set out traps, locked her in rooms, stalked her for miles and miles. Every time I think I have her, she's just not there again.
I can hear the trash can rustling outside. She isn't eating out of there, is she? Probably not. She's probably just hiding behind it, watching me through the window. I don't think she eats trash. John said she liked sweets, and now I can't keep any in the house — not for long, anyway.
No matter how much I buy, any cookies, candy, donuts... any sweets at all. By morning, they'll all be gone. Kelly at work says I probably have some kind of sleepwalking syndrome where I wake up at night and eat sweets, but don't remember it. She says she had the same thing once. I doubt it. She says she's envious that I can eat all that without gaining any weight. Even if she was right, what would be the point if I couldn't remember eating it?
But I know what's really going on. I glance into the convex mirror taped to my computer monitor — I've grown fond of mirrors lately, not out of vanity, but because they help me watch my back. The trash can in my mirror is moving a little. There! I catch a tuft of pink hair for a moment.
I could go out and chase her, try to confront her... but what would be the point? I know she'll be gone by the time I get out there.
Maybe I should get professional help? Not a psychologist or anything, but a private eye, or a security guard or something... They probably wouldn't laugh me away if I paid them enough.
But... do I want to catch her? That's the most disturbing part of all. Somehow, I don't know why — some kind of Stockholm syndrome, maybe? — I've become used to her being around. I think I might even be lonely if she left.
Now I know I'm crazy.
But I have a plan.
I yawn luxuriantly, now that I know for sure she's watching me. I stand up, tiptoe around the bell ropes — an earlier failed attempt at Pinkie detection — and turn off the lights. One theatrical stumble into bed, and I'm ready.
Minutes pass, then hours, but I'm dedicated. I don't move a muscle. I keep my eyes almost entirely shut, and I breathe heavy and deep. I know I can't fake a convincing snore, so I won't try.
Something clatters in the kitchen. She must have been hungry. I hear the freezer door.
So much for my ice cream. At least I got one good bowl out of it.
More minutes pass quietly, and nothing seems to happen. But I know she's there. She's always there.
A footstep! Inside the room! But the door never opened... How?
I don't break my cover. It doesn't matter how she got in. What matters is catching her.
There she is! I can only see a dim blur with the lights off and eyes almost closed, but there's the bright pink fur I know so well! I can see two huge blue eyes, and I know she's staring right at me. I don't move a muscle.
Her head is turning around, taking in my room. She can tell something's changed. It will only be a moment before she notices.
There. She turns away from me, going for my distraction — on loan from John — a stuffed toy of Twilight Sparkle, without wings. I only mention the lack of wings because John seemed to think that was very important. I don't really get it.
Pinkie turns toward the closet door to take a closer look at the toy just inside... exactly according to my plan.
I allow myself a little grin as big, fluffy tail sticks up right in front of me. Perfect.
I make a grab for it.
God, she's fast! Even caught totally by surprise, I almost didn't get hold of her. Almost.
I manage to snag the tip of her tail, and I instantly wrap it around. She isn't getting away this time.
She nearly jerks my arm off. I keep on it though, even as she drags me out of my bed. This time, she opens the door — how does she do that with hooves, anyway? Did she open the door just so she could drag me through it, or can she no longer just flit from place to place now that I've got a hold on her?
I'm not letting go. I have my proof now.
But she's not stopping, either. She drags me through the hall and out of the front door.
Great. Now I'm being pulled through the street by a cartoon horse — while in my pajamas! My legs can barely keep up, but I do my best. I'm not letting her go, and I don't want to be dragged.
“Where is it? Where is it?” I can hear her talking. It's the first time I've ever been able to hear her voice. “There's got to be one around here somewhere!” She stops suddenly, making me crash into her. “Aha! Perfect!”
She takes off again, and I'm being pulled — straight toward John's house. She bursts in, with me still attached. John should really lock his doors. Or maybe it wouldn't do any good against Pinkie. I don't know.
She rushes through his house, into a back room.
There's John. He's sitting on his recliner and watching a big TV. The TV is playing My Little Pony. That's probably not good.
“Holy Sh—” John stands up and points at her. “She's real!”
I have no time to reply. Pinkie pulls me right past him. She's running at the TV. Not good! Not good!
She jumps.
I'm pulled along with her. Instead of crashes and sparks when I hit the TV, everything glows. It feels weird, like I'm falling, but there's no wind.
I slam into the ground. Oh, I guess I was falling. I blink my eyes and shake my head. I don't have Pinkie's tail in my hand anymore, and... Woah. Everything around me looks crudely drawn. Like some artwork of a house. Like a... Like a TV show backdrop!
All the walls, even the floor and ceiling are made of solid wood. There are a lot of books around, and not much else. Where did Pinkie go?
Am I stuck in a TV show now? How will I get home?
Maybe it was a mistake to catch Pinkie, but... If anyone knows how to get back where I came from, it must be her. She's been there before.
So, if I ever want to get back, I need to find her.
Author's Note
Be sure to read the sequel, Revenge of the Following!
Photos by The Red Scarecrow.
Proofreading by RaylanKrios.
