Ghost: Fruit Meister Extreme

Another 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."