Ghost: Fruit Meister Extremeby BloodyBubblegumChaptersHouston, We Have a ProblemButt-RupturedWendigoHouse of the Rising SunHouston, We Have a Problem"I freakin' hate Dave Matthews...!" The Texan growled, becoming a blubbery mess of raging, flailing arms and impossible slow-mo camera angles. His thick, straw-composed rattan hat carried the rage of millions. Whorish trolls ate his composure and moons fell upon the mighty asscrack of Houston, Texas. One, colossal pony-shaped meteor sped it’s way down. It derped in righteous fury, amassing force like speeding thumb-downs to foalcon stories. Ghost, innocent in his foul-mouthed repetition of not being a hambone, barked to Hades-come. Yes, hambone, he growled dramatically. "I'm jaded, for Christ's sake...! I'm depressed!" He grated, sick and crushed inside from mentions of an equine plague. Just then, a wash of bubbles claimed the sky. Gratuitous clown honking flooded the sky and Major League Clowning specialists everywhere tipped their mountain dew fedoras. A scattered panic of epic, butt-ruptured proportions brought waves and waves of bronies far and wide. They chanted songs of neckbeards, legitimate worry and derpy worship. The streets ran red with nothing because why the fuck would that happen. Drunken cowboys walked the expanse of sandy, stereotypical ghost towns despite living there. Unearthly howling hit the world as Ghost, true capitalist in his time, watched the world spin. He watched the comet fall and bombs of friendship wash the world. "In no types of fanfiction does the advantage lie so heavily with the writer." He whispered, consumed by Derpy's titanic, spreading shadow. Though he did understand the inevitable death of a salesman, why, he raged in piercing volume, did the world kill a capitalist. Oh, true fate. Cursed fate and fat taco eating Asho, he cursed, shutting his eyes with bare chest-hair and sweaty mannerisms ape-like, but also bigger in Texas. The world ceased and sweet Celestia stomped her hoof down. A simple wash of light struck his loin and first, he lamented in some deep, formless void: a dark place with constant dubstep remixes of Ghost saying ‘hambone’ for minutes on-end. Because why not. “You fuckin’ splicers! I didn’t say that…!” Ghost wailed, attempting autoasphyxiation with his orange bandana. Except, he realized in horror, he had no hooves and only a raging hate-boner. No fingers. No more carpal tunnel raging at tweeters and ponybros on facebook. A vast echo of ‘fruity bastards...’ filled his mind. Deep in vomiting spaghetti thoughts, he saw the image of Princess More-Money-For-Hasbro, who was actually Twilight Sparkle, newly-appointed alicorn royalty. As a princess should’ve, she started smoking dank hash and used a roll to do so. Eyes pink like they were for two hours prior, she summoned a throne of fedoras, tissues and trenchcoats. Because, though bronies seldom owned anything but copious, lonely tissues, she did like her hats. “Ghost…! You, um… totally haven’t understood the meaning of friendship! Therefore, like the rest of your kind, we banish you to eternal financial security and endless happiness! Don’t you dare try and escape! There are no brakes on the cross-over train…!” Barked Twilight’s imposter, suddenly rearranging his sub-atomic structure. Yes and he am became a pony. The highest level unicorn of all things raging, his eyes were churros and vast, autumn-chilled bowls of fruit. Ghost, in writhing agony, grunt-stormed his cursed existence. “A curse! A curse on both your houses!” He bellowed. “A plague-! A plague on both your houses!” Twilight corrected, banishing him to Equestria. At least, before she lit a joint in his mouth. A weary wake caught his senses. Ghost, then a changed unicorn, rose to all fours. It looked queasy. Everything showed in bubble vision, but, he never knew why. Was it the result of compound eye infrastructures. No, he rehearsed, rubbing all over with inspection. Then, everything’d be split in tiny, structured chaos of innumerable eyes and visionary fragments. His coat was lax beige, followed by strangely smooth, almost velvet-esque brown over his eyes. A stallion, he sighed in relief, knowing a sizable girth and length. The breeze, however, betwixt his hindlegs, was not so comforting. “Damn… naked horses. Better get some pants before I’m attacked by buttstalkers.” He muttered, fixing his hat. All around, he saw falling leaves and wistful spectra dancing autumn. An acre of some sort with apples hanging high betwixt the trees. Though he’d secretly seen the show in desperate grabs for cash, it looked breath-taking. How could anyone not love an undercover plantation- trader of amazing fruit like such. The sun hung graceful about those sprawling fields of green dotted with red. Did he really hate the place, he inquired in edlritch self-evaluation. Just then, trotting through the grass just above a hoof’s height, a blonde horse whinnied and greeted. “Well howdy there, Mr. Prisoner. You like Equestria so far? Come back a season or so and I’m sure we can buck apples together. Don’t be shy now; all the grass-backs are doin’ it.” Applejack chimed, standing one foreleg over the other. “Did you just…” He seethed, but, finding actual grass remnants over his spine. “Did… Did I what?” The mare asked, puzzled to no, visible end. Was a grass-back something else in Humanadia, she contemplated. She’d visited once, but never once learned the native dialogue; especially not the slang of hurtful words and racial hurt. Hm. She looked away, certain it’d turn ugly and he might try to fuck her rectum. Yes. Humans from Humanadia, the mare thought aloud, scratching her copy-pasted chin geometries. “What’s got yer’ rattlesnakes in a bunch, Mr. Prisoner? Ain’t ya ever play a dating sim before? You gotta assert yourself, win the unrealistic, overly-horny girls and do it to every one because who needs commitment.” The background pony rehearsed, looking down at her script. “Okay-! I’m fuckin’ jaded-! I’m depressed…!” Ghost stormed, finally unlocking his greatest form. The trees all over tore and rustled, apples jimmying from little homes previously-glued together by Applebloom. Apples, red and glazed by morning dew just that turn of fall, swarmed the sky above. And, so to lease the beast, Ghost growled against one, novelty headset because he literally didn’t need it. “Ya like that, you fruity texas horse…! You like that…!?” The apples, red, delicious and deep, had pony females to reap and many acres to grow. And many acres to grow. Applejack bleated her hoarse, southern cry. Her face was long because she was a horse, but also due to flashing sentiments of being an unappreciated character. Why did Hasbro hate her so. 'Why, Hasbro gods, why. Why did you make such a horrible commercial with a second-rate impersonation of my voice...' Applejack whispered deep within. Ghost, having lost his station, but not his resolve, became… The Fruit Meister. Butt-RupturedThe sky rumbled and though he stood firm, Ghost felt an utterly inhuman sensation eat his gut away. Weakness. Impotence because he didn't find horses attractive anyway. Royal Princess Twilight Sparkle the Princess of Friendship materialized right above them, genitals-visible and all because who needed clothes. She didn't cover her pussy, but, Princess Do-Good did wear a fine emperor's robe. "Ghost...! What the hell is wrong with you?! Don't you know sucking my dick is punishable by fuck you...?!" Barked the alicorn ruler, her cane gilded and vain. He took a rightful double-take, actually dropping half his ammunition. Ghost, true capitalist and still rather surly for a newly-converted equine, stamped in snorting anger. "I'm a capitalist-! And I deserve more respect than the idiot crap that you're giving me here; D'aaaaaah...!" The Fruit Mesiter bellowed, bombarding his godking with tiny, delicious apples. Princess Amazing Magic used her anti-mainstream barrier to repel all sorts of college-age technology, including weaponized apples. Or, just invasive technology in general . His lip trembled, only a moment's weakness in being so stubborn and country-fried, maybe he needed a dose of hash. So, in great wisdom, she didst bespeckle his muzzle with ultra-rich Major League Stoning vapor. A golden Mary Jane adorned his lips and Ghost, once a hater supreme, became some major fine nachos. "... Is this what happiness is?" The stallion whispered, staring up in warm, red-kissed happiness. Twilight smiled. "Happiness is getting laid every night over a good roleplay. But, weed is fine, too." His overlord answered, adding more to her lecture. "If you want to rage, little Ghost, do it over something important. Like being changed into a horse. Or, even, knowing that, any moment, we could do something completely nonsensical because an overweight author in the sky feels moody or horny." Twilight recited, not even reading her script. An excellent actor, she'd be big in republican politics- Heyooh~! "Wow, that was really stupid." Ghost noted, perplexing her because he looked somewhere distant. "So, uh... Can you keep me on a steady supply of this crap. Because I'm gonna rage at butt-stalkers after this bush wears-off." Ghost posed, knowing they'd have entire ganja farms and mountain dew springs in Horsenadia. Ah. A quaint concept. Feed the beast propanalol and lace his steak with special brownies. Such goodness in subduing an entire race of species brought in for her amusement. The ever-dank trenchlord known as 'SeriouslyNotABraggingPrincess' on gaiaonline, agreed in sweet compromise. Firstly, however, was a trivial and simple question. "Why do you hate effeminate men, by the way? I mean- it's not my place, but, you could sure give me a warning." Ghost, in soft splendor, only died a smidgen inside. He sighed in perfect theatrics, low-set and peering down. Watching Applejack observe his fine, twenty-inch donkey dong. It brought echoed resonance of revolver bullets. Yes. .Snub-nosed and .32. Right after the late-showing of 'Asho: The Masked Beaner'. He hated that movie. But, more- he hated the fruit-bowl that skipped around his parents postmortem. "Oh, uh... My mom and dad took me to a movie about a fencer with a 'z' obsession or something. We were walkin' in an alley and this giant butt-stalker walks up, fucks my dad in the ass and has a train with my mother and she's a real screamer so she made a whole bunch of noise. But, since he forgot a' put on the safety, they all died from accidental discharge. So now I hate bronies." "...What?" "Whaddya mean what? Not everyone's dad is bisexual, but come on-: "N-no, not that. I don't understand. You... hate bronies because a rapist accidentally killed your family?" He rubbed his chin. "Well, uh, he was wearin' an old Pinkie Pie shirt. So, that counts, right...?" WendigoAnother day in the limelight. Ghost himself had that spanking convention around Equestrinadia; mostly near the Cowgari area because steers and queers were familiar things. Though he understood the inevitable slapping of a flank, he couldn't fathom a whole day dedicated to fruity butt-stalking. It gave him great ideas, though. Ghost trotted by a dark, lovely forest. Woods deep and lovely, then dark. However the Robert Frost poem went. His coat rustled with frosted sections, the entirety caked in thin dew and freezing temperatures from snowy mountain heights. It was mid-evening at that time. A poor choice for somepony so barren. Maybe, even, a stallion with just a hat, a neck-hung bandanna and one, four stam, four stud leather belt. Yes. Level eighteen. His ears perked, gifted with unknown receptiveness. As a human, he couldn't hear shit over his own buffoonish raging and messy engineer arguments. And cans waving like ocean thunder, his reptilian, Texan mind conjured a level eighty berserker rage. "That you, Asho...?! Better not be some internet butt-stalkers! It ain't Horny The Clown...! I know that...!" Ghost barked, swet mary juwanna betwixt his lips. He felt based in all that darkness. Unsure, even. A scurried pursuit started and large, stomping signatures struck the grassy ground. Tall, meandering oaks made him panic, each one potentially his culprit. The trees had eyes and faces before he started galloping. As a human, he had rifles and revolvers. .32's weren't a choice in hooved existence. He stormed an eventual, cobblestone main-road.The beast beyond the trees hunted him. Every turn. Every corner, it stalked and rustled every fern and vine patch betwixt them. He followed lantern posts lining the abysmal path, only grieving his lack of company. Maybe friendship did mean something. All those callers. ALl those trolls. He'd have them anyday over that nagging terror of being alone. "Sweet Jebus, save me...!" He cried, reaching the outskirts of Ponyville. A single, grump-laden shack met his gaze. Ghost, addled with trembling, spooky skeletons, knocked a jagged, ear-splitting volume. The door opened outward, slamming his muzzle red. Salty, iron tastes attacked the man they called ghost. Before him, a single ass stood firm and tired. A cranky fellow watching boomstick in-hoof. Somehow. It was Whinneychester, likely a red-oak stock with the usual, protruding sight just below the usual barrel region. Shotguns were ingenious and not ingenious because rounds didn't need magazines or revolving chambers. Just good, old-fashioned stopping power and America. It was a 1300, if Ghost knew his models. Ranger and all that with a birdshot judging from his acquaintance's safe, distanced barrel scope-out. "Who the heck are you...?" The asinus growled, setting his safety off. "Hey, I-I ain't here to do fruity shit, okay? I'm Ghost, from, uh, that stupid apple farm thing. Somethin's chasin' me, so, l-let me in will ya?" He panicked, bolted upright against his haunches. Thunderous, ravaging noise erupted the forest and he knew the meaning of miracles. The donkey, in his sweet, greaser-esque toupee, slicked it back. 'Groovy,' he muttered monotone, pulling his house-guest inside. Whirling winds followed the beast's signature, only adding to hellish, indescribable noise. Ghost, in his rigid staring, heard the door shut. Then, he took that time to breathe... "Wh-what the hell was that?! You have fuckin' monsters in Equestria...?!" Ghost whimpered, keeping his tone low and smokey. "You're welcome." His host replied, offering a bowl of soup. A roaring, cozy fire warmed his bones. Though Ghost could hear them outside, the strange things kept away. Out his cottage; the good man's cottage. "Wait. You're right, I do mean thank you. Thanks, eh..." Ghost trailed, watching the flames lick. He turned back, shotgun shoulder-slung. "Doodle. Cranky Doodle." House of the Rising SunCranky kept his eyes on the oaken barrier. A simple door, it had three locks. One sliding, the other in a knob and one doubling as a beam of wood for improvised self-defense. The asinus kept his boomstick readied, ever-so-expert in knowing where and how to bend his forelegs to make a shot. They watched and listened in silence, not an hour passed. Kindling the fire, Ghost continued their little trip down memory lane. "Oh, uh, I know how you feel, buddy... My father was a gamblin' man. Sold all our taxidermy for his drinks and shined shoes between dinner and breakfast. Real solid American man, you know. Just wish it wasn't games and internet calls these days." He relayed, avoiding eye-contact for manner's sake. Outside, the wind howled and though Ghost couldn't hear it, a whinnied echo breached the night. Before, he'd upset a creature very obscured to tourists of Equestrinadia. Only one in ten got to see the beast. He, luckily, had no memory of it's sickening, crunch-prone maw riddled with thorny teeth; or to know it's features skinless and coated with white-bleached bone. "Workin' man doesn't mean family man, does it." Cranky replied, swigging his flask of whiskey. "Pa told me how to shoot, but, he never did tell me how to love. Never did know a way to kiss a girl and make it all right. Or, even... make a good host if someone ever came in my neck of the woods. Pinkie comes 'round here all the time and I don't really talk much. We're good friends, but, we don't know each other. That's why, whenever I see another pony er' anything else, I keep my gun close. Don't know what ponies'll do these days. Specially not bring a Yeti here." He added, drawing a pipe or something similar from beneath his chair. It was red and velvet, but torn about the sides. As if some creature clawed it's smooth, friction-less surface. What monster would do that. A man's chair was his throne and all who said else were fruits, Ghost knew. A man worked for his station in life and there was no doubt about it. All those bleeding heart liberals could learn a thing or two from his pa, if he were alive. "What's a yeti...?" Ghost murmured, fixing his bandana. "Well..." The donkey started, giving his tobacco some ample time to light. "A yeti's sort of like a wendigo. You went up to Cowgirly and brought somethin' fierce down with you. We could hunt it down if we carried a cinder enchantment or something. But, since we're just two, jaded little mama's boys, nothin's stoppin' it from breaking the door down any minute now. Like this cottage. It's not made of metal." His friend clarified, making several points about their hunger of hatred and resentment, in the Yeti's case. They chatted on about their lives as old-fashioned masculinity. But, eventually, Ghost started to doubt his own prowess as a person. How his cranky companion, though gruff, still had that tinge of decency to him. He was self-taught in everything after his father's death, and somehow, he had sympathy for liberal fucks like Tubguy and transtesticles. Why, Ghost had no idea. But, his rugged companion gave a necessary requiem to hovering insecurities about who he was and America's state of being. Eventually, he asked a single question to break the others. "Said you were drafted...?" "...Yeah, I did." Cranky hushed, grainy and smoke-ridden with memories long-gone. "You ever think they're wrong, all those hippies that said you were wrong for doin' what you did. You ever... you know, get mad about how America remembers the war, but, not you?" It hit him like a backwoods rapist getting his first taste of city boy tush. Though he never reflected much, Cranky'd considered that tiny conundrum about the fields of Equestria. It's sands and cityscapes, but not it's people remembered the Grand War. It was fresh in his mind with pies, clown fetuses and flooding bullet storms from the jungle people. The asinus, deep in thought, waded through his comrades. His stare was drilling and Ghost, knowing it, interrupted with a tiny, averted glance. "Doodle." "Wha... Yes. I do get mad. I just get why they're angry, though. You get all this hype about the movie stars and celebrities and their charities, but never us. Not the boys in uniform toting our rifles, yeah. Because we're part of war, friend. We're soldiers and drafthorses. Not idols or saints. Nopony's gonna thank us when they hear about a G.I burning townsfolk. So-" Cranky recovered, watching the embers crackle. "I can get mad. And I can scream my old fart ass all over about it, but, you know what, Ghost..? Times change. Ponies change and you have your nightmares, but, you're alive. Sure, stallions might be different. Sure, mares'll forget what chivalry means- that's the point of living to see the rain. You come back and see home differently. Now, that bitch Mary Sue doesn't seem like such a bitch anymore. She can get her food without a safety tax. Or, Gary can't beat his kids because he learned pain in the rain-forests. You move on and watch the flowers grow." In his hooves lay a picture of someone lost. Maybe not a girl he wanted gone, but somedonkey different. Young and pretty. Matilda. How long had it been since their last fight. He couldn't remember. But, grief twisted a pony like watching the world blur. Sometimes, you felt old. Too old to do anything. So, you took it out on everyone else and ended-up shouting at some whippersnappers painting along interstate. Life, he learned with Ghost's company, was good. Life was fine the way it was. If anything, he wanted to give back to Equestria for making his service count. Free political immunity from the gun control laws and security from war crime charges, his record set him for simple joys. Simple pleasures in that cold mess of life ponies today knew. When he was growing up, a stallion could take a warehouse job and lift boxes to support his family. They showed-up ten minutes early every morning and came to work with a smile. Theses days, he thought, ponies had to track their schedules with computers and bounce bills and taxes after their mandatory math degree and associate's, then bachelor's to not be in debt their whole lives. "Hmm..." Cranky rumbled, ears-perked. "Yeah?" His friend asked, trotting near his seat. "... The howling stopped."
Houston, We Have a Problem"I freakin' hate Dave Matthews...!" The Texan growled, becoming a blubbery mess of raging, flailing arms and impossible slow-mo camera angles. His thick, straw-composed rattan hat carried the rage of millions. Whorish trolls ate his composure and moons fell upon the mighty asscrack of Houston, Texas. One, colossal pony-shaped meteor sped it’s way down. It derped in righteous fury, amassing force like speeding thumb-downs to foalcon stories. Ghost, innocent in his foul-mouthed repetition of not being a hambone, barked to Hades-come. Yes, hambone, he growled dramatically. "I'm jaded, for Christ's sake...! I'm depressed!" He grated, sick and crushed inside from mentions of an equine plague. Just then, a wash of bubbles claimed the sky. Gratuitous clown honking flooded the sky and Major League Clowning specialists everywhere tipped their mountain dew fedoras. A scattered panic of epic, butt-ruptured proportions brought waves and waves of bronies far and wide. They chanted songs of neckbeards, legitimate worry and derpy worship. The streets ran red with nothing because why the fuck would that happen. Drunken cowboys walked the expanse of sandy, stereotypical ghost towns despite living there. Unearthly howling hit the world as Ghost, true capitalist in his time, watched the world spin. He watched the comet fall and bombs of friendship wash the world. "In no types of fanfiction does the advantage lie so heavily with the writer." He whispered, consumed by Derpy's titanic, spreading shadow. Though he did understand the inevitable death of a salesman, why, he raged in piercing volume, did the world kill a capitalist. Oh, true fate. Cursed fate and fat taco eating Asho, he cursed, shutting his eyes with bare chest-hair and sweaty mannerisms ape-like, but also bigger in Texas. The world ceased and sweet Celestia stomped her hoof down. A simple wash of light struck his loin and first, he lamented in some deep, formless void: a dark place with constant dubstep remixes of Ghost saying ‘hambone’ for minutes on-end. Because why not. “You fuckin’ splicers! I didn’t say that…!” Ghost wailed, attempting autoasphyxiation with his orange bandana. Except, he realized in horror, he had no hooves and only a raging hate-boner. No fingers. No more carpal tunnel raging at tweeters and ponybros on facebook. A vast echo of ‘fruity bastards...’ filled his mind. Deep in vomiting spaghetti thoughts, he saw the image of Princess More-Money-For-Hasbro, who was actually Twilight Sparkle, newly-appointed alicorn royalty. As a princess should’ve, she started smoking dank hash and used a roll to do so. Eyes pink like they were for two hours prior, she summoned a throne of fedoras, tissues and trenchcoats. Because, though bronies seldom owned anything but copious, lonely tissues, she did like her hats. “Ghost…! You, um… totally haven’t understood the meaning of friendship! Therefore, like the rest of your kind, we banish you to eternal financial security and endless happiness! Don’t you dare try and escape! There are no brakes on the cross-over train…!” Barked Twilight’s imposter, suddenly rearranging his sub-atomic structure. Yes and he am became a pony. The highest level unicorn of all things raging, his eyes were churros and vast, autumn-chilled bowls of fruit. Ghost, in writhing agony, grunt-stormed his cursed existence. “A curse! A curse on both your houses!” He bellowed. “A plague-! A plague on both your houses!” Twilight corrected, banishing him to Equestria. At least, before she lit a joint in his mouth. A weary wake caught his senses. Ghost, then a changed unicorn, rose to all fours. It looked queasy. Everything showed in bubble vision, but, he never knew why. Was it the result of compound eye infrastructures. No, he rehearsed, rubbing all over with inspection. Then, everything’d be split in tiny, structured chaos of innumerable eyes and visionary fragments. His coat was lax beige, followed by strangely smooth, almost velvet-esque brown over his eyes. A stallion, he sighed in relief, knowing a sizable girth and length. The breeze, however, betwixt his hindlegs, was not so comforting. “Damn… naked horses. Better get some pants before I’m attacked by buttstalkers.” He muttered, fixing his hat. All around, he saw falling leaves and wistful spectra dancing autumn. An acre of some sort with apples hanging high betwixt the trees. Though he’d secretly seen the show in desperate grabs for cash, it looked breath-taking. How could anyone not love an undercover plantation- trader of amazing fruit like such. The sun hung graceful about those sprawling fields of green dotted with red. Did he really hate the place, he inquired in edlritch self-evaluation. Just then, trotting through the grass just above a hoof’s height, a blonde horse whinnied and greeted. “Well howdy there, Mr. Prisoner. You like Equestria so far? Come back a season or so and I’m sure we can buck apples together. Don’t be shy now; all the grass-backs are doin’ it.” Applejack chimed, standing one foreleg over the other. “Did you just…” He seethed, but, finding actual grass remnants over his spine. “Did… Did I what?” The mare asked, puzzled to no, visible end. Was a grass-back something else in Humanadia, she contemplated. She’d visited once, but never once learned the native dialogue; especially not the slang of hurtful words and racial hurt. Hm. She looked away, certain it’d turn ugly and he might try to fuck her rectum. Yes. Humans from Humanadia, the mare thought aloud, scratching her copy-pasted chin geometries. “What’s got yer’ rattlesnakes in a bunch, Mr. Prisoner? Ain’t ya ever play a dating sim before? You gotta assert yourself, win the unrealistic, overly-horny girls and do it to every one because who needs commitment.” The background pony rehearsed, looking down at her script. “Okay-! I’m fuckin’ jaded-! I’m depressed…!” Ghost stormed, finally unlocking his greatest form. The trees all over tore and rustled, apples jimmying from little homes previously-glued together by Applebloom. Apples, red and glazed by morning dew just that turn of fall, swarmed the sky above. And, so to lease the beast, Ghost growled against one, novelty headset because he literally didn’t need it. “Ya like that, you fruity texas horse…! You like that…!?” The apples, red, delicious and deep, had pony females to reap and many acres to grow. And many acres to grow. Applejack bleated her hoarse, southern cry. Her face was long because she was a horse, but also due to flashing sentiments of being an unappreciated character. Why did Hasbro hate her so. 'Why, Hasbro gods, why. Why did you make such a horrible commercial with a second-rate impersonation of my voice...' Applejack whispered deep within. Ghost, having lost his station, but not his resolve, became… The Fruit Meister.
Butt-RupturedThe sky rumbled and though he stood firm, Ghost felt an utterly inhuman sensation eat his gut away. Weakness. Impotence because he didn't find horses attractive anyway. Royal Princess Twilight Sparkle the Princess of Friendship materialized right above them, genitals-visible and all because who needed clothes. She didn't cover her pussy, but, Princess Do-Good did wear a fine emperor's robe. "Ghost...! What the hell is wrong with you?! Don't you know sucking my dick is punishable by fuck you...?!" Barked the alicorn ruler, her cane gilded and vain. He took a rightful double-take, actually dropping half his ammunition. Ghost, true capitalist and still rather surly for a newly-converted equine, stamped in snorting anger. "I'm a capitalist-! And I deserve more respect than the idiot crap that you're giving me here; D'aaaaaah...!" The Fruit Mesiter bellowed, bombarding his godking with tiny, delicious apples. Princess Amazing Magic used her anti-mainstream barrier to repel all sorts of college-age technology, including weaponized apples. Or, just invasive technology in general . His lip trembled, only a moment's weakness in being so stubborn and country-fried, maybe he needed a dose of hash. So, in great wisdom, she didst bespeckle his muzzle with ultra-rich Major League Stoning vapor. A golden Mary Jane adorned his lips and Ghost, once a hater supreme, became some major fine nachos. "... Is this what happiness is?" The stallion whispered, staring up in warm, red-kissed happiness. Twilight smiled. "Happiness is getting laid every night over a good roleplay. But, weed is fine, too." His overlord answered, adding more to her lecture. "If you want to rage, little Ghost, do it over something important. Like being changed into a horse. Or, even, knowing that, any moment, we could do something completely nonsensical because an overweight author in the sky feels moody or horny." Twilight recited, not even reading her script. An excellent actor, she'd be big in republican politics- Heyooh~! "Wow, that was really stupid." Ghost noted, perplexing her because he looked somewhere distant. "So, uh... Can you keep me on a steady supply of this crap. Because I'm gonna rage at butt-stalkers after this bush wears-off." Ghost posed, knowing they'd have entire ganja farms and mountain dew springs in Horsenadia. Ah. A quaint concept. Feed the beast propanalol and lace his steak with special brownies. Such goodness in subduing an entire race of species brought in for her amusement. The ever-dank trenchlord known as 'SeriouslyNotABraggingPrincess' on gaiaonline, agreed in sweet compromise. Firstly, however, was a trivial and simple question. "Why do you hate effeminate men, by the way? I mean- it's not my place, but, you could sure give me a warning." Ghost, in soft splendor, only died a smidgen inside. He sighed in perfect theatrics, low-set and peering down. Watching Applejack observe his fine, twenty-inch donkey dong. It brought echoed resonance of revolver bullets. Yes. .Snub-nosed and .32. Right after the late-showing of 'Asho: The Masked Beaner'. He hated that movie. But, more- he hated the fruit-bowl that skipped around his parents postmortem. "Oh, uh... My mom and dad took me to a movie about a fencer with a 'z' obsession or something. We were walkin' in an alley and this giant butt-stalker walks up, fucks my dad in the ass and has a train with my mother and she's a real screamer so she made a whole bunch of noise. But, since he forgot a' put on the safety, they all died from accidental discharge. So now I hate bronies." "...What?" "Whaddya mean what? Not everyone's dad is bisexual, but come on-: "N-no, not that. I don't understand. You... hate bronies because a rapist accidentally killed your family?" He rubbed his chin. "Well, uh, he was wearin' an old Pinkie Pie shirt. So, that counts, right...?"
WendigoAnother day in the limelight. Ghost himself had that spanking convention around Equestrinadia; mostly near the Cowgari area because steers and queers were familiar things. Though he understood the inevitable slapping of a flank, he couldn't fathom a whole day dedicated to fruity butt-stalking. It gave him great ideas, though. Ghost trotted by a dark, lovely forest. Woods deep and lovely, then dark. However the Robert Frost poem went. His coat rustled with frosted sections, the entirety caked in thin dew and freezing temperatures from snowy mountain heights. It was mid-evening at that time. A poor choice for somepony so barren. Maybe, even, a stallion with just a hat, a neck-hung bandanna and one, four stam, four stud leather belt. Yes. Level eighteen. His ears perked, gifted with unknown receptiveness. As a human, he couldn't hear shit over his own buffoonish raging and messy engineer arguments. And cans waving like ocean thunder, his reptilian, Texan mind conjured a level eighty berserker rage. "That you, Asho...?! Better not be some internet butt-stalkers! It ain't Horny The Clown...! I know that...!" Ghost barked, swet mary juwanna betwixt his lips. He felt based in all that darkness. Unsure, even. A scurried pursuit started and large, stomping signatures struck the grassy ground. Tall, meandering oaks made him panic, each one potentially his culprit. The trees had eyes and faces before he started galloping. As a human, he had rifles and revolvers. .32's weren't a choice in hooved existence. He stormed an eventual, cobblestone main-road.The beast beyond the trees hunted him. Every turn. Every corner, it stalked and rustled every fern and vine patch betwixt them. He followed lantern posts lining the abysmal path, only grieving his lack of company. Maybe friendship did mean something. All those callers. ALl those trolls. He'd have them anyday over that nagging terror of being alone. "Sweet Jebus, save me...!" He cried, reaching the outskirts of Ponyville. A single, grump-laden shack met his gaze. Ghost, addled with trembling, spooky skeletons, knocked a jagged, ear-splitting volume. The door opened outward, slamming his muzzle red. Salty, iron tastes attacked the man they called ghost. Before him, a single ass stood firm and tired. A cranky fellow watching boomstick in-hoof. Somehow. It was Whinneychester, likely a red-oak stock with the usual, protruding sight just below the usual barrel region. Shotguns were ingenious and not ingenious because rounds didn't need magazines or revolving chambers. Just good, old-fashioned stopping power and America. It was a 1300, if Ghost knew his models. Ranger and all that with a birdshot judging from his acquaintance's safe, distanced barrel scope-out. "Who the heck are you...?" The asinus growled, setting his safety off. "Hey, I-I ain't here to do fruity shit, okay? I'm Ghost, from, uh, that stupid apple farm thing. Somethin's chasin' me, so, l-let me in will ya?" He panicked, bolted upright against his haunches. Thunderous, ravaging noise erupted the forest and he knew the meaning of miracles. The donkey, in his sweet, greaser-esque toupee, slicked it back. 'Groovy,' he muttered monotone, pulling his house-guest inside. Whirling winds followed the beast's signature, only adding to hellish, indescribable noise. Ghost, in his rigid staring, heard the door shut. Then, he took that time to breathe... "Wh-what the hell was that?! You have fuckin' monsters in Equestria...?!" Ghost whimpered, keeping his tone low and smokey. "You're welcome." His host replied, offering a bowl of soup. A roaring, cozy fire warmed his bones. Though Ghost could hear them outside, the strange things kept away. Out his cottage; the good man's cottage. "Wait. You're right, I do mean thank you. Thanks, eh..." Ghost trailed, watching the flames lick. He turned back, shotgun shoulder-slung. "Doodle. Cranky Doodle."
House of the Rising SunCranky kept his eyes on the oaken barrier. A simple door, it had three locks. One sliding, the other in a knob and one doubling as a beam of wood for improvised self-defense. The asinus kept his boomstick readied, ever-so-expert in knowing where and how to bend his forelegs to make a shot. They watched and listened in silence, not an hour passed. Kindling the fire, Ghost continued their little trip down memory lane. "Oh, uh, I know how you feel, buddy... My father was a gamblin' man. Sold all our taxidermy for his drinks and shined shoes between dinner and breakfast. Real solid American man, you know. Just wish it wasn't games and internet calls these days." He relayed, avoiding eye-contact for manner's sake. Outside, the wind howled and though Ghost couldn't hear it, a whinnied echo breached the night. Before, he'd upset a creature very obscured to tourists of Equestrinadia. Only one in ten got to see the beast. He, luckily, had no memory of it's sickening, crunch-prone maw riddled with thorny teeth; or to know it's features skinless and coated with white-bleached bone. "Workin' man doesn't mean family man, does it." Cranky replied, swigging his flask of whiskey. "Pa told me how to shoot, but, he never did tell me how to love. Never did know a way to kiss a girl and make it all right. Or, even... make a good host if someone ever came in my neck of the woods. Pinkie comes 'round here all the time and I don't really talk much. We're good friends, but, we don't know each other. That's why, whenever I see another pony er' anything else, I keep my gun close. Don't know what ponies'll do these days. Specially not bring a Yeti here." He added, drawing a pipe or something similar from beneath his chair. It was red and velvet, but torn about the sides. As if some creature clawed it's smooth, friction-less surface. What monster would do that. A man's chair was his throne and all who said else were fruits, Ghost knew. A man worked for his station in life and there was no doubt about it. All those bleeding heart liberals could learn a thing or two from his pa, if he were alive. "What's a yeti...?" Ghost murmured, fixing his bandana. "Well..." The donkey started, giving his tobacco some ample time to light. "A yeti's sort of like a wendigo. You went up to Cowgirly and brought somethin' fierce down with you. We could hunt it down if we carried a cinder enchantment or something. But, since we're just two, jaded little mama's boys, nothin's stoppin' it from breaking the door down any minute now. Like this cottage. It's not made of metal." His friend clarified, making several points about their hunger of hatred and resentment, in the Yeti's case. They chatted on about their lives as old-fashioned masculinity. But, eventually, Ghost started to doubt his own prowess as a person. How his cranky companion, though gruff, still had that tinge of decency to him. He was self-taught in everything after his father's death, and somehow, he had sympathy for liberal fucks like Tubguy and transtesticles. Why, Ghost had no idea. But, his rugged companion gave a necessary requiem to hovering insecurities about who he was and America's state of being. Eventually, he asked a single question to break the others. "Said you were drafted...?" "...Yeah, I did." Cranky hushed, grainy and smoke-ridden with memories long-gone. "You ever think they're wrong, all those hippies that said you were wrong for doin' what you did. You ever... you know, get mad about how America remembers the war, but, not you?" It hit him like a backwoods rapist getting his first taste of city boy tush. Though he never reflected much, Cranky'd considered that tiny conundrum about the fields of Equestria. It's sands and cityscapes, but not it's people remembered the Grand War. It was fresh in his mind with pies, clown fetuses and flooding bullet storms from the jungle people. The asinus, deep in thought, waded through his comrades. His stare was drilling and Ghost, knowing it, interrupted with a tiny, averted glance. "Doodle." "Wha... Yes. I do get mad. I just get why they're angry, though. You get all this hype about the movie stars and celebrities and their charities, but never us. Not the boys in uniform toting our rifles, yeah. Because we're part of war, friend. We're soldiers and drafthorses. Not idols or saints. Nopony's gonna thank us when they hear about a G.I burning townsfolk. So-" Cranky recovered, watching the embers crackle. "I can get mad. And I can scream my old fart ass all over about it, but, you know what, Ghost..? Times change. Ponies change and you have your nightmares, but, you're alive. Sure, stallions might be different. Sure, mares'll forget what chivalry means- that's the point of living to see the rain. You come back and see home differently. Now, that bitch Mary Sue doesn't seem like such a bitch anymore. She can get her food without a safety tax. Or, Gary can't beat his kids because he learned pain in the rain-forests. You move on and watch the flowers grow." In his hooves lay a picture of someone lost. Maybe not a girl he wanted gone, but somedonkey different. Young and pretty. Matilda. How long had it been since their last fight. He couldn't remember. But, grief twisted a pony like watching the world blur. Sometimes, you felt old. Too old to do anything. So, you took it out on everyone else and ended-up shouting at some whippersnappers painting along interstate. Life, he learned with Ghost's company, was good. Life was fine the way it was. If anything, he wanted to give back to Equestria for making his service count. Free political immunity from the gun control laws and security from war crime charges, his record set him for simple joys. Simple pleasures in that cold mess of life ponies today knew. When he was growing up, a stallion could take a warehouse job and lift boxes to support his family. They showed-up ten minutes early every morning and came to work with a smile. Theses days, he thought, ponies had to track their schedules with computers and bounce bills and taxes after their mandatory math degree and associate's, then bachelor's to not be in debt their whole lives. "Hmm..." Cranky rumbled, ears-perked. "Yeah?" His friend asked, trotting near his seat. "... The howling stopped."
