Ghost: Fruit Meister Extreme

"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.