Sleep, or the Lack Thereof
Sooo tired. Tavi’s gonna kill me. Vinyl Scratch stared at the block of hay in the lounge room of the studio. She had just spent the past fifty-six hours live. Her headphones, normally so comfortable, had left reddish rings around the roots of her ears where they had been pressed securely against her skull.
Light blue sparks shot off her horn, trying to rub her eyes for her. The crimson tone of her normally violet orbs burned, dry from not blinking enough. That contest though, it was so worth losing sleep over. Fifteen thousand bits for the DJ that managed to stay on, and active, for the longest. Caffeine and strangely violent games between her and her only direct competitor had kept both of them awake. Of course, since neither one wanted to give up, even to go take care of basic bodily needs, which were the reason several of the other competitors in the nationwide contest had dropped out; they had learned so much more about each-other that only a few odd listeners would ever know.
For example, Vinyl had learned that Neon Lights was a very picky eater. Especially when she tried to steal his salad. The food fight had kept them busy, even if it was mostly grumbling, for almost three hours, cleaning up the studio. She learned that his tastes in caffeine were limited to Red Bull and Minos energy drinks, while she had set up a Brewmaster 6000 and a mini-fridge full of her personalized wake-up juice, a mixture of Cloud Dew and several teas that she dumped into the Brewmaster with a bag of Octavia’s imported Brazilian Coffee.
Now, the taste made her ill. She had downed almost fifteen cans in the last six hours, and if it weren’t for Neon conceding to have a privacy curtain between them, she would have sat on that bucket right there in front of him. As it was, everypony listening had heard her horrid caterwauling attempt to hide the sound. Neon, of course, had no such qualms. He made a game out of it. She made him clean up the mess he made.
The pillow fight had been fun, even with that brief moment of terror when Neon’s microphone had been launched against the glass. He kept talking on Vinyl’s while they got a new mic in. She stabbed him very intentionally with her horn.
That was all on the first day. Octavia had stopped by on the second day, sometime around noon, to bring them both hayburgers. She had set them at the door, and promptly galloped the other way. Apparently the room stank. After eating, the two had made a great game out of playing X’s and O’s on whatever surface they could write on. Having only permanent markers, and not wanting to get in trouble for intentionally destroying anything, they had resolved to use each-other as the board.
Neon was ticklish. Especially around his chin, where his fur got a little scruffier. Vinyl was worse. Especially after Neon had called Octavia, at nine thirty at night, to ask where Vinyl was ticklish. That fight was more or less a beatdown, and both went back to their microphones soaking blood off split lips and muzzles. Neon had one particularly bad bite on his hoof from trying to stop Vinyl from biting him.
Midnight of day two, Neon decided to try some of Vinyl’s wake-up juice. It worked. Half-drunk sleep-deprived karaoke gained –and promptly lost- a following that night. Vinyl checked on the other competitors, calling around to see which studios were still awake. One, Moosebutter Radio, up in the Caribda, the frozen North, cussed her out in Equestrian and Prench, but finished with a gracious finale. Apparently he had been woken from a half-nodding state by the ringing phone, and had cracked his antlers on the studio wall lurching awake.
The third morning arrived with competitors nodding off left and right. Neon wouldn’t let her fall asleep though. He made a caffeinated declaration at exactly noon. “Vinyl Scratch, my dearest, purest, snowiest friend. After I win this competition, fair and square, I’m going to go out and buy fifteen pounds of the best shit I can find, and we’re gonna get SO baked. ‘Tavi can join. There’s enough of me to go around.”
Vinyl had stared at him, muttering just enough that it was obvious she was still alert-ish. Five minutes later, Neon had stood up, and been dropped immediately by her hoof to his muzzle. Another brawl, though half-hearted. Both were too tired to have a real brawl now.
She swore she wasn’t going to suffer the indignity of having him in the same room again while she used the bucket. Some clever work-around with a rather long cable, and a Pinkie Pie Promise that he wouldn’t unplug her set, and she made a rough beeline to the bathroom. The fan mostly drowned out her half-hearted half-snores as she struggled to stay awake.
Neon kept his promise, and she returned the favor, though she did take the time to fiddle with his mixer while he was out, lowering the pickup volume on his voice, and raising the rest of the pickup. Especially the bass. He noticed, stupid feedback loop, and told her to knock it off. She laughed.
It was a deluded, demanding, somewhat insane laugh, that lasted until Neon returned to the sound-box and knocked her off her chair. They bickered some more as two more stations dropped out. Moosebutter even suffered through calling them up at three-thirty in the afternoon, time for the Caribou’s tea break, to cede victory to whichever of them lasted the longest. He told them he would call back in eight hours to see who won. After he slept.
The battle of wills had grown then. Three cups of Vinyl’s special blend versus four cans of Red Bull. Both fridges were empty, and would be until the janitor came by in four hours to restock them. The bathroom wasn’t an option anymore, since they were directly competing now.
Three-fifty PM. Vinyl jolted up as Neon started laughing. She wasn’t about to cede to him. She licked the inside of the coffee filter, chewed on the grounds. Disgusting.
Three-fifty-eight. Neon dropped. Vinyl said nothing as the stallion hit the floor with a soft thump. She just reached over and switched off his set before grabbing her microphone in her sparking magic and muttering, “I just won Fifteen-thousand Bits.”
The group of judges monitoring every station called her. They confirmed that she had won. Got her address to mail the prize to. She made sure Octavia could sign for it. One last phone call to her marefriend to get a ride home, and she switched off.
Now, she was on the hay bale, struggling to keep alert just long enough to not pass out before she got her headphones off her head.