(Un)Healthy Obsession

by Ponky

Rating: everyone
Tags: Slice of Life, Dark, Human
Length: 10887

Two men's lives are changed by My Little Pony. Can they ever change back?

My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic does things to people. It inspires people. It helps them hold to new faith in life, love, and humanity. It urges them to live better, to create more, and to change.

But change is not always a good thing. MLP:FiM does things to people.

And once they have changed… can they ever change back?

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2015-04-23 23:30:02 UTC

Chapter One

I stared at the number in disbelief for a very long time.

30.

An incredulous grin pulled at the corners of my mouth, but I didn’t want to smile yet.  I just wanted to stare and gape and praise Celestia.  Maybe it was sacrilegious to direct most of my prayers to a fictional pony-goddess, but I didn’t mean it to be.  It’s not like I knelt at my bedside at night and thanked her for my daily bread, but whenever something incredible happened—something wonderful that I could hardly believe or explain—my thoughts went straight to the Sun Princess and her lovable subjects.  After all, it was almost always thanks to them in one way or another.

“Honey?” I heard my wife call through the fitting room door.  “Are you all right in there?”

Her voice broke my trance; I glanced at the mirror for a moment and chortled at my own appearance.  As of that morning, my blonde hair was cropped pretty short, but long enough to be styled.  Whatever paste the hairdresser had used gave it a great look.  I had no idea my hair could even look like that.  Following my reflection downward, I briefly examined my face—was that handsome thing really my face?  Were those my blue eyes behind those wireframe spectacles?  Was that my barely crooked nose and straight, gleaming teeth?  Was that my clean-shaven, angular jawline?—and admired my lean torso, covered by a white t-shirt proudly bearing Rainbow Dash’s cutie mark.  Beyond that was the comical bit: I wasn’t wearing pants at the moment.  The pair that had recently hugged my waist was grasped in my white-knuckled hands with the inner tag shining its embroidered size into my sparkling eyes.

30.  I had dropped down to a size 30.

“I… I’m fine, Crystal,” I choked, only then noticing the emotional lump in my throat.

“You sure?” she asked with growing concern.

I brushed the embarrassing tears from my eyes and cleared my throat.  “Yeah, really, I’m fine.  I’m great, actually.  Just, uh… just zoned out for a bit.”

Crystal laughed at me; even through the door I could make out the resonant chime at the top of her laugh.  “Thinking about that show of yours again, huh?”

“It’s not that show of mine,” I teased, pulling the baggy sweatpants I had worn into the fitting room back over my skinny white legs.  Skinny!  “You introduced me to it, after all.”

“And I’m so glad I did,” she said sarcastically, although I knew she really meant it.  “So, have you tried on all those jeans yet?  Which ones fit best?  Thirty-six?  Thirty-four?”

I opened the door and pushed my soon-to-be-new pair of Levi’s into her beautiful face.

She gasped.  I cried a little.  We hugged.

30.

Three stories up, eight rooms down and to the left from the elevator.  That’s where he was staying.  For now.

He read the directions one more time and staggered down the hallway.  Eight rooms down and to the left… eight rooms down and to the left…

He stuck his key into the handle and tried to open the door.  It didn’t work.  Angrily, he clasped the knob between his shaking hands and rattled the whole door on its hinges, growling like a dog.  To his surprise, somebody opened it from the inside.

“Can I help you?” asked an old, silver-haired woman in a bright pink bath robe.

Bright pink.

The man stared at the soft robe for a long time—too long, apparently.  With a disgruntled huff, the old woman wrapped her robe tighter around her body and slammed the door.  Dazed, the man only blinked at the noise and continued to stare mindlessly.

He heard a giggle to his right.  “You silly!  You tried to open the wrong door!  Again!”

With a painful hiccup, he slowly turned his head to the cheery visitor, annoyed by her volume and vigor.

“Not now, Pinkie Pie,” he grumbled, dragging his feet toward the animated pony.  She bounced backward and led him to the correct keyhole, pointing at it energetically with a springy sort of noise that ground against the man’s sensitive ears.

“Thanks, Pinkster,” he mumbled, reaching out to pat the chest-high horse’s head.  But, of course, his hand passed through open air for the millionth time, and his colorful illusion disappeared.  He sighed, already missing his obnoxious friend, and made his way slowly to the bed.  On his pillow sat his laptop, right where he had left it.  Grunting with effort and squinting at the piercing light of its screen, the drunken man kicked off his shoes and flopped onto the bed, wriggling toward the laptop on his belly.  Netflix was already open.  All he had to do was click “Next Episode.”

Season 2, Episode 13.  He smiled.  He liked this one.  Pinkie featured.

Chapter Two

I bought three new pairs of waist-size 30 jeans that day: the dark Levi’s that had made me cry, a lighter pair my wife picked out from Buckle, and an expensive pair of stylish Hudsons from Nordstrom’s.  I had never owned a pair of Hudsons before, although I could remember wanting them since July of ’09 when my dad wore a pair to an Independence Day family gathering.  “I’m a slave to fashion,” he repeated whenever they were complimented.  It was an old line, however true; my dad obsessed over style until the day he died—on July 5, 2009.  Sudden heart attack.  Unexpected.  Devastating.

That party was the last time I saw him alive, and those jeans were the last things I remember him wearing.  My new Hudsons reminded me of him, and that was reason enough for me to ignore the price tag.  But not reason enough for Crystal.

“Those are way too expensive,” she criticized as I swiped my credit card.

“Says Miss BKE,” I shot back playfully, making her eyelids droop.  The employee gave me an odd look.  “Besides, these things are so durable.  They’ll last for years.  If you break the price down to a daily basis, I’m only paying a couple of cents a day!”

The woman ringing me up at Nordstrom’s raised an eyebrow, but eventually laughed.  “I’ve never thought about it that way before,” she said in a raspy voice that made me think of a middle-aged Rainbow Dash.  “I’ll have to use that one when I go shopping with my husband.”

“It’s something my dad taught me,” I recalled with a nostalgic smile.  Crystal placed a loving hand on my shoulder.

“He’s a smart man,” the woman chatted obliviously.

I didn’t mind.  “Yes, he is."  She had me sign a tiny receipt and then handed me the bag with my brand new jeans.

My wife and I found an empty corner of the store and I sneakily changed into the soft denim.  We got a good laugh from our silliness, keeping watch for any approaching customers as I clumsily switched pairs, hopping around on one foot while trying to stay inconspicuous.  We left the baggy sweatpants on the ground rebelliously and hurried out of the store, giggling at ourselves like a couple of teenagers.  Being in our late twenties, the uncharacteristic behavior was especially tickling.

We walked out of the mall holding hands.  I don’t remember at what point our fingers found each other and lovingly interlocked, but sometime between the Nordstrom entrance and mall exit they did.  Crystal and I hadn’t held hands for a long time, but not because of spite.  Since our marriage in 2010, largely thanks to our Applejack-ish personalities, we very rarely fought and never argued seriously.  Good-natured debate popped into almost all of our conversations, but we both recognized it as an agent of our love: a manifestation of our mutual comfort, never a malicious attempt to debase.  Our friends often expressed how jealous they were of our relationship, and I considered myself the luckiest man in the world.

But, even in two short years, our initial giddy love began to fade into a more casual companionship.  I never thought there was anything wrong with that, although I did miss cuddling with her and giving/receiving random kisses on the cheek.  That stuff sort of disappeared as I gained more and more weight through ’10 and ’11.

And then, in the last three months, I lost seventy pounds.  It seemed to me like every bit of weight I lost was a bit of that newlywed excitement coming back.  I could see how proud of me she was.  It shone in her eyes, despite that she never once asked me to lose weight, not even while we were dating.  I never quite understood how a beauty queen like Crystal fell in love with a chub-bub like me.  She attributed it to my personality, but I didn’t believe her.  One way or another, Crystal decided to give me a chance and brought the two best possible things into my life: her, and My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic.

It seems stupid putting it like that, as if my incredible wife and the show are somehow on the same level.  But Friendship changed my life just as much as Crystal did—and really, Crystal was responsible for my bronyism, anyway.  So it all leads back to the most wonderful woman ever to grace the Earth, and I was holding her hand as we left the mall together with three new pairs of size 30 jeans.

“…until you all shared its magic with me!  Big adventure – tons of fun! – a beautiful heart – faithful and strong – ”

“Sharing kindness,” he mumbled blearily as the theme song started to wake him up.  His face was pressed against the keys of the laptop, holding several of them down.  Somehow it hadn’t paused the show.  Due to his settings, the rest of the second season had played through the night, and as the sun’s morning rays peeked through his hotel window, the season finale was beginning.

“Do you know you’re all my very best frieeeeeEEEEEAAAA,” he tried to sing while sitting up, but it had turned into more of a loud yawn.  Rubbing his eyes and checkered face with the back of his hand, the man slid from his bed and flipped on the light switch, letting the episode play on from his pillow.

Even when intoxicated, he had always been a morning person.  All he needed was a bit of sunlight to smack against his eyelids and the rest of his body was ready to go, even when his brain wasn’t.  Still in a slight stupor, he shed his clothes and climbed groggily into the shower, forgetting to close the curtain for a good twenty seconds, leaving a nice puddle around the toilet.

“Great,” he mumbled to himself, pulling the plastic barrier between himself and the rest of the bathroom.  “Another mess to clean up.”

After about five minutes, the warm water revived the man’s senses.  He tried to remember the details of last night, but they escaped him.  As he rubbed his swollen lip, he was pretty confident that he had done exactly what he did every Friday night: go to the nearest bar, drink himself silly, loudly advertise the beauty of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic to anyone near, fight with someone who criticized the show and/or his love for it, get kicked out, stumble home, watch a few episodes, and fall asleep.  Straining his brain, he vaguely remembered Pinkie Pie tending to the Cake’s children.

“Episode thirteen,” he mumbled aloud, massaging shampoo into his shaggy, dark hair.  After some quick mental calculations, he figured he’d clocked about four hours of sleep.  Not bad.

With a heavy sigh, he snatched a tiny cardboard box from the rack behind his head, knowing it contained a miniature bar of soap.  With practiced hands, he popped the box open and let the bar fall into his palm.  It was usually a nice cream color that smelled of vanilla, but this bar happened to be orange.  He was about to lift it to his nose and test its scent—he certainly didn’t want to smell like oranges—when his leafy-green eyes lost their natural glint to a far-away, glazed expression.

Orange.

He snapped out of his trance, rubbing the soap over his bony body as quickly as he could.  Once the suds were rinsed away, he slammed the shower’s handle into its OFF position and tore open the curtain to grab one of the fresh towels hanging across from the mirror.

She was already there, poking at the puddle that had seeped halfway across the floor.

“D’ja miss the toilet?” she asked peevishly, offering him a friendly wink.

“Applejack!” he yelped, trying too quickly to reclose the shower curtain.  The jerky motion sent him off balance and he slipped on the slick bathtub’s bottom, slamming into the wall behind him with enough force to rattle the rack hanging from the showerhead.

“Oops!” the pony said, lifting a hoof to her mouth to hide a smile.  “Ah’m more than a mite sorry, sugarcube.  You okay?”

He groaned and rubbed the back of his head with his left hand, using the other to snatch a towel.  “You startled me,” he complained, wrapping the linen around his middle.  “You can’t sneak up on me like that, especially when I’m naked.”

The earth pony laughed and backed out of the bathroom, giving him a clear path to his bed and the open suitcase on the chair by the window.  The blinds were drawn just enough to let the sunlight in without allowing anyone to see inside his room—not that anyone would be looking closely at a third story hotel window.

“Like Ah said, Ah’m real sorry,” Applejack assured as he slid on a pair of grey boxer briefs under his towel.  “Won’t happen again, you have my word.  Pinkie promise.”  She went through the motions; he had to smile as she pressed her hoof against her eyelids.

“I saw her last night,” he remembered, rubbing the towel through his dripping hair.  “She helped me find my room.”

“Who, Pinkie Pie?  Sounds like her.  She loves helpin’ folks.”

He nodded thoughtfully, pulling on a pair of tight grey skinny jeans.  Applejack made a disapproving click with her mouth.

“Don’t you ever wear anythin’ colorful?” she asked critically.  He gave her a shocked glance.

“Well, well, well.  Look who’s been spending too much time with Rarity.”

Applejack sneered at him, but crossed her front legs casually.  “Ah only mean, you’re a right handsome feller and you’d be doin’ good fer yerself if ya spiced up yer wardrobe a bit, dontcha think?”

He reached into a pocket of his suitcase and brought out a stick of deodorant—the blue kind that didn’t leave any marks on clothes.  Applejack’s kind words brought a blush to his face as he applied the stuff to his underarms, tossing it carelessly onto the bed when he was done.

“Aw, AJ,” he cooed exaggeratedly, lifting a black V-neck from the top of his shirt pile.  “That was nice of you to say.”

She shrugged modestly.  “Just bein’ honest.”

“How apt,” he noted, ignoring her fashion advice and donning the plain black top.  After pulling on a dark set of tight grey Vans, he skipped back into the bathroom and started to brush his teeth.  Applejack stayed in the main room, squinting at the words on his laptop.  Apparently a season had recently ended.

“You been watchin’ our show again?” she asked over the sound of his brushing.

“Uh-huh,” he answered simply.

“Ponyfeathers!  Ain’t this the sixth or seventh time you’ve watched ‘em all?”

“I di-n’t wah ‘em ah,” he explained past the foam before spitting it into the sink.  “It played through the night.  I’m on episode fourteen, now, of season two.  And it’s only the fifth time.”

Applejack shook her head.  “No wonder we’re all makin’ visits so often these days.  You must be thinkin’ about us all the time!”

“Yup!” he called out over the faucet water cleaning off the bristles.  “Twenty-four seven.  Call it a curse, if you must, but I can’t get you guys out of my head.”

“Why not?”

“No clue,” he lied, setting down the toothbrush and coming back into her presence.  He sat the end of his bed and looked into her great green eyes, nearly the same color as his.  “The show really is amazing.  You should watch it sometime.”

She caught the joke, laughing again.  He loved her laugh.

“As flattered as Ah am,” she said, tilting her eyes into a genuinely concerned expression, “Ah gotta say Ah don’t like it.  Don’t you think that’s a bit… unhealthy?  Shouldn’t you be out spendin’ time with yer friends, or… Ah don’t know, buckin’ apples?”

His turn to laugh.  “We don’t buck apples around here, AJ,” he said, “but I do have a job.”

“Yeah, Ah remember,” she said unconvincingly, rubbing the back of her neck.  “You write up advertisements fer websites to make sure they hit more people, or somethin’.”

“To help them receive more hits from search engines,” He corrected.  “It’s called, uh… it’s called…”  He rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration.  “Horseapples.”

“There’s that anomia actin’ up again,” Applejack teased.  “You get worse at rememberin’ words every time I visit.”

He snorted, followed by a heavy sigh.  “I love when you visit, though.  Same goes for all the girls.  Let them know for me, will you?  Please come by anytime.”  He pointed a warning finger at her nose and added, “As long as I’m clothed.”

“Ah’ll pass it along,” she said with a characteristic smirk.  He blinked once, and she was gone.  He tousled his hair, sighed again, and got to work writing search engine optimizations.

Chapter Three

My wife and I decided to stop at Olive Garden for an impromptu dinner before heading home.  It was just down the street from the mall and caught both of our attentions at the same time.  We treated the simultaneous glances as a sign and snagged a parking spot near the front door, hurrying inside for no reason other than to burn a bit of our uncommon energy.

A very young waiter, probably ten years younger than me, led us to a table for two in the back of the restaurant.  We hadn’t eaten out for a very long time, even longer than we had gone without holding hands.  But there we sat at a chain restaurant, commenting on the décor as our hands played over each other at the center of the tiny table.  I couldn’t imagine feeling any happier.

We ordered a plate of grilled chicken parmesan pasta to share.  She had never been one to eat much, and I was being careful.  It was easier than ever to eat only what I needed.

Well, that’s not exactly true.  The temptation to eat more and more was just as prevalent as it had always been, ever since elementary school.  But I had the means and desire to control it now; to bridle my passions, if you’ll pardon the pony pun.

“I am so proud of you,” Crystal suddenly said, adding a vocal witness to the approving gleam I often noticed in her eye.

“I know you are,” I admitted.  “Thank you.”

“Really, though, Tom,” she said emphatically, clasping one of my hands between both of hers, “you amaze me.  Who would have thought that a show for little girls—”

“Hey!”

“—could be just what you needed to make a change?”

“It’s not for little girls,” I quipped automatically before donning a heartfelt smile of gratitude.  “And don’t give all the credit to the show.  You’ve been my inspiration all along.”

She slapped my wrist and rolled her eyes.  “Oh, don’t give me that.  We dated for nearly a year before the show even aired, and you seemed perfectly happy with the way you looked back then.”

“Then call it a catalyst,” I offered with a shrug, “but you’re the rising action.”

She smirked at my filmmaker’s lingo.  “Can’t I be the climax?”

I pulled an apologetic face.  “Sorry, babe, I think Rarity already called dibs on that one.”

Crystal choked on a laugh and pulled her hands away from mine.  “That is disgusting, Tom.”

“I’m joking!” I said in a high pitched voice, lifting my hands innocently.  She shook her head while she laughed, letting her short blonde curls bounce beautifully around her face.  We continued to banter and flirt while I paid for the meal and we left the Olive Garden happily and healthily full.

The drive home was quiet and comfortable.  My wife and I had a way of avoiding “awkward moments,” as the annoying saying goes.  Both of us were perfectly at ease with silence.  It had been one of the first similarities we noticed that we shared.  Neither of us said a word until we had pulled into the garage and unbuckled our seatbelts, at which point she asked how much work I had that night.

“I’d like to write a good ten pages,” I said worriedly.  Writer’s block had been cruel to me for the past week or so; my goal of six pages a day was faltering.  “Maybe edit the fourth scene.  It might take three hours.”

We slid out of the car and walked up three cement steps.  I opened the door to our rented house for Crystal; she nodded in thanks for my “chivalry.”  That’s what she called it, anyway.

“Well, try not to take too long,” she cooed in a sultry tone as I shut the door behind me.  Unexpectedly, she pressed herself against my left side and whispered into my ear, so close that I could feel her lips brush against its skin.  If I had wings, they would have risen.

“I think I’ll just skip work tomorrow morning.”

I gulped as she pulled away, teasing me further with an expert wink.  She was in another room and out of sight before my body finally relaxed enough to move.  That’s what I had missed.  Sexy Crystal.  The Crystal who wanted me as husband; not just as a best friend or constant companion, though I loved being both, but as a husband.  Wink-wink included.

I stumbled to my tiny office, trying desperately to turn my mind back to the screenplay at hand.  It was my third attempt at a feature-length manuscript.  Up to that point, I had made my living writing short films, many of which won awards and publicity at festivals around the world.  My first feature-length work was purchased and heavily revised by an indie group in Utah.  The produced film had garnered surprising success in Australia; its sequel, my second feature-length screenplay, brought in enough money to rent our house.

And now, a real agent from California had asked me, specifically, to put together an original adventure film in six months.  The due date was only two months away, and I was struggling to wrap up the second act.  Most of the third act was already written, however—I knew how I wanted the story to end, but for one reason or another, the middle wouldn’t click.

I sat in front of my iMac and opened the digital document.  Halfheartedly, I read through the last two completed pages of the second act for what must have been the thousandth time, wracking my mind for a creative burst.  The rusty gears of imagination ground fruitlessly inside my skull.  Breathing deeply from my flattened abdomen, I closed my eyes and tried to envision the established action…

There stood the young police officer, hateful tears dripping from his eyes onto the warehouse floor.  His mother was screaming from the other side of the vast, empty room, held in the clutches of the film’s eponymous antagonist, Sam O'Thell.  Sam was one of my favorite characters: I created him at a very young age, before elementary school, as the exact opposite of me.  He was bone thin with thick dark hair sprouting out of his head in spiky tufts; his dark green eyes shone with madness, his mouth twisted eternally into a wide, wicked grin.

Movies about villains were growing in popularity, ever since Heath Ledger’s onscreen portrayal of the Joker.  Sam O'Thell had always been a terribly fun character for me to draw or write about, but it wasn’t until My Little Pony’s Season 2 introduction of Discord that I got the idea to create an entire story based on Sam’s background and descent into madness.  The agent from California had fallen in love with the idea when I presented it to him over the phone; the samples of the script I had sent him over the months were lauded with praise.  But writing a meaningful, consistently entertaining, two-hour film about a man’s brilliant insanity was difficult to say the least.

Back in the realm of my imagination, Sam cackled with glee.  “Choose wisely, Officer.  We wouldn’t want anypony to get hurt, now, would we?”

Anypony?  I shook my head and let Sam repeat his line.

“…anybody to get hurt, now, would we?”

“Let her go!  Please, I’ll do anything!”

“Call them off!” Sam chirped, widening his glossy eyes.  “Make them all go away!  Let me escape without one of your men touching a hair of my mane, and I promise from the bottom of my heart to…”

Mane?  I grunted at myself, opening my eyes and staring at the written line of Sam’s dialogue.

“Hair of my head,” I read aloud, sighing heavily through my nose.  My thoughts were obviously somewhere else.

I couldn’t blame them, though.  Some of the reasons I loved Friendship is Magic so much was its brilliant storyline, its in-universe consistency, its believable dialogue.  Weight-loss wasn’t the only field the show had inspired for me.  My writing was becoming more and more influenced by MLP’s.  I knew it, and I liked it.  The team of writers behind the show was far more talented than me, anyway.

I shut my eyes again, letting my mind off the leash.  Almost instantly, I was in Ponyville.  The artistic landscape and abstract buildings brought a dreamy smile to my face.

With a disappointed grunt directed at myself, I minimized the Sam Oht document and opened Google Chrome, clicking on the EqD bookmark along the top of my screen.  Just a few fanfics, I told myself.  For inspiration.  Don’t get carried away.

Three hours later, I dragged myself miserably out of my office.  Although I had ended up editing the fourth scene, I still hadn’t decided how Officer Guillone was going to react to Sam’s demands.  What would he really do?  I kept asking myself.  Would he order the squadron surrounding the warehouse to stand down and let Sam escape unscathed, or would he risk his mother’s life to arrest the elusive villain?  Either way, how would it lead to the ending I had already written?

Crystal was reading a magazine in our bed.  I squinted through the dim light to read the title, but she hid it under her pillow before I got a good look.

I smirked.  “Keeping secrets?” I asked unthreateningly.

She wiggled her head in a so-so way.  “Not for long,” she promised, slinking out from under the covers and fluidly crossing the room to where I stood.  She kissed me under my right ear.  “How did writing go?”

“Not great,” I mumbled, shuddering as her fingers danced over my ribcage.

“Well, you can’t be great at everything,” she said.  “Now that you’ve hit your target weight—”

“Passed it, actually.”

“—you can go back to writing every…”  Kiss.  “…single…”  Kiss.  “…day…”

“Crystal,” I barely whimpered.  She put a dainty finger over my lips while an excited smile twitched at the corners of hers.

“Let’s see what that new waist of yours can do.”

The man closed his laptop with a content sigh.  Another day, another dollar.

“And if I keep staying in these kinds of hotels,” he reminded himself, “that’s not gonna be enough.”

Of course, he was a good enough writer to get several jobs a week, and each optimization paid very well for what it was.  Even then, hotels weren’t cheap.  Well, cheap hotels were cheap, but he refused to stay in those.  If he wanted to pursue a normal life, sooner or later he’d have to settle down in an apartment or something.

“Hotels are easier,” he told himself, rising from the king size bed and stretching noisily toward the ceiling.  After a jaw-popping yawn, he glanced at the digital clock on his bedside counter.  11:31.

“Cool,” he mumbled, scratching the scalp beneath his chocolate-brown hair.  “Still morning.”  Maybe he’d get another visit.  Two in one day?  That had never happened before.

After going to the bathroom, he decided to go out and have an early lunch.  Or late breakfast.  Whatever.  He wasn’t even that hungry—he was never very hungry—but his lips were starting to chap and his pee was getting painfully dark, and he wasn’t about to spend his life’s savings on the hotel room’s bottled water.  He spread a clumping wax through his hair, straightened out his grey skinny jeans, realigned the V of his black shirt, and swung the door open on his way to the elevator.

As he was stepping through the doorway from his room to the hall, his hands automatically checked all four of his pockets—if anything was missing, he would have spun around on his heels and found it.  As it were, all pockets were properly filled: his front-right saved his cell phone, front-left held his headphones, back-right watched his wallet, and back-left kept his key.  Donning a subconsciously satisfied grin, he walked down the hallway and requested the elevator with a push of a button.

The round button had been used so many times its down arrow had faded away completely, if it ever had one.  When pressed, a white backlight softly illuminated the plastic.  The man’s eyes studied the brightened button for a moment as the elevator came down from the fifth floor.  It sort of looked like a glowing marshmallow that had been shoved 5/6 of the way into a hole in the wall.  He chuckled at the imagery of a mischievous janitor cramming a sugary treat into the surrounding silver plate.

The backlight disappeared as the elevator drew near.  The man’s eyes widened as the white plastic took on an even more marshmallowy appearance without the glow.

White.

The elevator doors opened just as the man slapped himself in the face, trying to stop the triggered visit.  Not her!  Not now!  Not in this outfit!

“Well, I never!” cried a voice from inside the elevator.  The man groaned.

“Please go away.  Send Twilight instead.  I haven’t seen her in ages.”

“What?  Young man, what are you talking about?”

His eyes darted up to meet the speaker’s.  A plump woman in a furry, brownish coat stood indignantly against the back wall of the elevator.

“Oh!” he cried excitedly, strangely accompanied by a relieved sigh.  “Sorry, lady, I thought you were someone else.”

He boarded the moving box with a silly grin, rubbing his reddened right cheek sheepishly.

“What did you do that for?” the other passenger asked with a hint of distress in her voice.  She was pressed firmly against the wall now, keeping as far from the skeletal, self-abusive boy as she could.

“What, the slap?” he clarified with a single burst of laughter.  “I was trying to stay focused.  Looks like it worked.”

Visibly flustered, the woman straightened her coat and averted her eyes to the ceiling without a reply.  He didn’t mind.  She seemed like a really annoying person that he probably wouldn’t like.

“Well, that’s not very nice,” chided a second womanly voice from behind the man.  His smile drooped as his eyebrows rose toward his hairline.  “You seem quite untaken with the notion of my arrival.”

Nearly petrified with shock, the man slowly turned his neck to peek at the space behind him.  Sure enough, a small, white unicorn with a dazzlingly styled violet mane stood proudly in his shadow, shooting him a stern look with her giant eyes of royal blue.

“What the hay are you doing here?” he accidentally asked aloud.

“I beg your pardon?” asked the woman in the corner.

“I’m paying a visit to a dear friend of mine who I thought would be even the teensiest bit excited to see me as well, but it seems very apparent to me now that I was ever so wrong about that.  Hmmf.”  Rarity plopped onto her hindquarters and crossed her front legs, sticking out her bottom lip in a dramatic pout.

The man apologized succinctly to the woman.  The elevator doors opened and she hurried out in a huff.

“Well,” Rarity commented, “either she has someplace to be, or you have a knack for insulting women.”

The man bounced on his heels as he waited for the elevator doors to close again, praying that no one would climb aboard.  Finally, the doors slid shut and he found himself alone.  With an imaginary magical horse.

He spun around and glared furiously at the suddenly startled unicorn.  “WHAT IN LUNA’S NAME DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?” he screamed.

Rarity’s pupils shrunk as she scooted away from the man.  “My goodness, there’s no need to get so upset…”

“HOW DID YOU DO THAT?” he bellowed.  The veins of his neck began to swell.

“Do what, darling?”

“HOW DID YOU SHOW UP WITH SOMEONE ELSE IN HERE?”  He gestured to the elevator all around them erratically.

Rarity scoffed.  “Is that what you’re getting so worked up about?  Well, you can hardly blame me for that, now, can you?  It’s not as if I have much of a say in the matter.  In fact, I was just about to retrieve Opalescence from Fluttershy when you requested a visit.  And of course, being the selfless and generous pony that I am, I simply couldn’t ignore the invitation.”

A guttural screech wiggled through his clenched teeth as his eyes seethed over the figment.  “I didn’t invite you, Rarity.  I never invite any of you.  You just show up!  Out of NOWHERE!”

“Oh, please, Ryker, we both know that’s not true,” she went on with a casual flick of her hoof.  “Besides, Applejack just finished telling me that you told her that you love our visits and want us to come more often.”

“I… wasn’t really…”  He squeezed his eyelids shut and took a deep breath, trying to calm down.  After a painful punch on the wall to his left, he released the air and looked back to Rarity with significantly calmer features.

“Sorry, Rarity,” he said sincerely.  “I’ve never seen any of you while other people are around before.  It just scared me.”

“Oh, Ryker, I understand,” the elegant pony assured, rising to all fours.  “I’m sure it must be very difficult to come to terms with one’s own insanity.  Perhaps I should let somepony else take my place, one who better understands your predicament.  Pinkie Pie comes to mind.”

He laughed at the expression of good-natured mischief she had slowly donned through her spiel.  “No, why don’t you stay a while,” he encouraged.  “Especially now that you can stick around when other people are watching.”

“I would be honored,” she said with a dainty smile.

Ryker reopened the elevator doors and stepped into the hotel lobby, glancing back to see if his pony friend was following.  Indeed, Rarity trotted along behind him, ogling the overhead chandeliers with radiant fascination.

“Where should we eat this morning?” he asked her quietly, careful not to draw attention to himself from the hotel’s other patrons.

“Well, this is the equivalent of Manehattan, is it not?” she reminded him with a toss of her mane.  “We simply must go somewhere dignified and original.  Perhaps a nice French-themed café.  Oh, and darling, we simply must go shopping before I leave.  These outfits of yours are always so drab…”

Chapter Four

I always hated mirrors.  All through my early years, and especially high school, they had only served as cruel reminders of my problem.

Yet there I stood in my bathroom, gawking at the lean, muscular man shining with shower water and wrapped in a fluffy striped bath towel.  Who knew this hunk was hiding under all that fat?  Experimentally, I angled my body this way and that, flexing different muscles and noting the new shadows beneath my chest and crisscrossing over my abdomen.

The changes seemed so sudden.  I could hardly believe that only three months had gone by since I started to cut back on food and exercise four times a week.  Was that really all it took?  Three measly months?  That’s what had been standing between me and self-confidence for twenty-eight years?

“Lookin’ good, Tom,” I said to my reflection, lifting my arms and admiring the bulge of bicep.  “Lookin’ real good.”

“You almost done in there, Spike?” my wife asked croakily from outside the door.

“Honey!”  My voice cracked as I scrambled to open the bathroom door.  “You’re awake!”

She was laughing as I pulled it open.  “I guess I can’t blame you,” she admitted, running her eyes over my bare upper half.  “You look so good.”

“Who knew?” I asked, kissing her on the forehead as she squeezed past me.

“I did,” she said with a wink, leaving the door open as she got ready to shower.  I sighed happily; Crystal was truly incredible in every way.

“Do you remember what you were dreaming about?” she suddenly asked as the water turned on.

I focused for a moment.  “Not really… why?”

“You were mumbling something at five in the morning,” she answered over the stream, “loud enough to wake me up.  Sounded like you were talking to someone.”

An embarrassed grin tugged at my mouth as one dream reentered my memory.

“Well, I don’t know if this was the same dream,” I loudly replied, swapping my towel for a pair of red checkered boxers, “but I remember something about Discord.”

My wife cackled for a full ten seconds.  “Oh, gosh, Tom.  You seriously need to stop thinking about that show all the time.”

“I can’t help it!” I confessed.  “It’s so good!”

“I know it is,” she agreed, “and I know it’s been very helpful for both of us, but you have to remember that too much of anything is bad.  Moderation in all things, yeah?”

“Yeah, I guess,” I muttered, guiltily remembering my Equestria Daily hit the night before.

“What was the dream about?” Crystal asked.  Rhythmic splashes told me she was rinsing out her hair.

I fingered through the new t-shirts hanging in my closet, picking out a grey-ish green one with a target on the chest that I had never worn before.  Crystal must have bought it for me.

I pulled the shirt over my head as I began to recall the dream.  “Uh… I can only see bits and pieces.  Something about Discord escaping again.  I actually think it was in the real world though.”

“Oh?  Like, on Earth, you mean?”

“Yeah.  I’m pretty sure.  Anyway, I remember something about a museum… he got really angry at some point and started breaking stuff.  I was trying to clean it up, even while he was still rampaging.”  I chuckled at the stupidity that must have made sense in the dream.  “Anyway, I don’t really remember how, but the clearest part of the dream was at the end when he turned good.”

“Turned good?  What do you mean?”

“I think he was helping out some… police regiment.  NYPD.  I don’t know.  Can’t really remember.”

“Hm.  Sounds like a weird dream.”

I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me.  My new Hudsons were lying in a heap at my feet and I was trying to decide whether or not to wear them again that day.  Eventually I went for it, thinking of my dad as I pulled on one pant leg at a time.  He had been the only one to bluntly criticize my weight, really.  To see those size 30s rest so comfortably around my waist would have made him very proud.  His only two addictions in life were style and exercise, both of which I was starting to adopt.  And I said a quiet prayer of thanks to Celestia for that.

Rarity vanished when he almost got hit by a taxi.  Nothing a flip of the bird couldn’t rectify, but startling enough to expel his companion.  The sudden loneliness made him sad; they had been in the middle of a very complimentary conversation regarding clothes.  She had promised to design him something fabulously flattering to replace his greyscale wardrobe, and even if the offer was hollow, he appreciated the generosity.

He walked into the corner coffee shop—the only one he knew of that specialized in French pastries—and stood in line for several minutes, wishing his beautiful friend would return.  Despite staring hard at every white object in the room, she didn’t reappear.  Ryker knew it didn’t work like that, but it didn’t hurt to try and summon the poised, generous pony, especially standing in a slow, noisy line of selfish New Yorkers.

“I hate this place,” he grumbled under his breath, even though it wasn’t true.  He loved New York.  He’d been bouncing from hotel to hotel there for nearly half a year.  But maybe that was long enough… maybe it was time to save up for a one way plane ticket to Chicago or Philadelphia.

“Or Ponyville,” he mused, chuckling sadly through his nose.

“Can I he’p you, sar?” snapped the bored-looking teen behind the cash register.

Ryker glared at her hatefully.  “Watch the attitude,” he growled, tossing a five dollar bill onto the countertop between them.  “A croissant and a water.”

“That’s six fitty,” she said with a defiant tilt of her head, never breaking eye contact with the increasingly angry customer.

“Six fifty?” he asked slowly.  “No, it’s not.  I come here, like, every week.  It’s four ninety five.”

“Not with the water, s’not.”  She raised her eyebrows challengingly.

His jaw clenched as he whipped the wallet from his back-right pocket, pulling out another two dollars and slamming them on top of the five.

“Keep the bucking change,” he snarled before lifting his hands.  The girl pulled her head back questioningly.

“Bucking?” she repeated with a mocking snort.  “Did’ju just say bucking?”

Ryker breathed deeply through his nose, trying to school his temper.  He hung his head, trying to imagine Mrs. Cake in place of the rude employee.  “Please give me my food.”

“Sure thing, deary,” he made himself hear, refusing to look up until a brown paper bag and bottle of water were pushed under his face.  He snatched them both in his right hand and stormed out of the shop, furiously grinding his teeth.

After walking around town for a good ten minutes, Ryker had calmed down.  He was getting better and better at controlling his temper, even if he had quite a ways to go.  And it was all thanks to his good friends from Equestria with all their sensible, sound advice and loving help.  He smiled as he thought of them: his six infrequent visitors… well, perhaps “infrequent” didn’t apply anymore, considering he had seen three of them within twelve hours.

He knew they weren’t real.  Even the first time Twilight Sparkle appeared in his dorm room almost a year ago, he was well aware of their true nature: illusions.  Delusions.  Hallucinations.

Ryker had made his fair share of mistakes in high school.  He blamed his uncaring parents for most of them, an argument that could be well defended.  Regardless of whose fault it was, recreational drugs had made their way into Ryker’s bloodstream.  Only a few times—he didn’t like the lack of control—but enough to remember the effects.  Those hallucinations were chaotic, confusing, terrifying.  The ponies were calm, collected… even sentient.  They seemed to have ideas and persuasions all of their own.  Ryker was often amazed at the detail projected by his own defunct brain.

He hadn’t always been so comfortable with their visits, though.  As he walked down unfamiliar streets of New York, he slipped his hands into his jacket pockets and gazed thoughtfully toward the clouds rolling lazily overhead.  All on their own.  Far from the ground.  He smiled absentmindedly at memories that seemed to swirl with the distant mists…

Twenty-one year old Ryker sat at his desk in a tiny room that he shared with some body building weirdo named Shane who was hardly ever around.  His laptop was open and he was studying for Physical Science 101, his least favorite class.  Ryker had always been more of a creative-type; he got 5s on both English based AP tests in high school.  Unfortunately, that meant he could skip Writing 101 and had to take Phys. Sci. instead to fill up his schedule.  Boo.

Ryker graduated high school at nineteen due to his early June birthday and spent two years saving up money for college tuition.  He refused to go into any amount of debt—he learned from his estranged father’s mistakes.  His mother was an alcoholic smoker who blew all her cash to feed her addictions, so he wasn’t planning on monetary aid from her, either.  When he felt like he had built up a large enough reserve to live comfortably, the Portland-born young adult applied to the University of Oregon and moved into its on-campus housing.

Fall semester passed too quickly for his liking.  He loved college: being away from his mom and the idiots at his high school was synonymous in his mind with heaven.  Add a daily increase of applicable knowledge, and Ryker’s green eyes practically glowed with joy.

Winter semester was no different, besides the awful Physical Science class he struggled through.  And as twenty-one year old Ryker poured over a Google Doc dedicated to its Final’s material, his lifelong inklings of OCD were never clearer.  His face was mere inches from the laptop screen; his breathing had synchronized with a subconscious tap of his right foot.  Finally he reached the last page of the document, sighing with relief.  Though most of it continued to pass over his head, Ryker felt confident that he would at least pass the upcoming, all-important exam.

Just as he was about to exit the window, his eyes flitted to the bottom corner of the screen.  Oddly enough, the position of the scroll bar seemed to suggest there was one more page to the Document, although the last unit’s material had clearly ended.  Curiously, Ryker used the mousepad to grab the dark gray bar, pulling it closer to the bottom of his browser.

The final page was nearly blank.  A single sentence at the top of the page drew Ryker’s attention immediately.  The size of its print was squint-worthy, but even then it made little sense to the freshman:

“Rarity is best pony.”

Ryker leaned away from the screen and scratched his head.  Rarity is best pony?  What on earth did that mean?

With practiced ease, he highlighted the words with the mouse and copied them, opening a new tab and pasting the unusual phrase into Google’s search bar.  Millions of hits arrived in a fraction of a second, dominated by images of a white, stylized, cartoon pony with elegantly curling purple hair.  Ryker had scoffed at the images at first but, mostly out of habit, continued to browse through the suggested websites and images.

It didn’t take long to find Friendship is Magic’s Wikipedia page.  From there, Netflix gave him his first taste of Equestria.

He didn’t stop watching for almost eight hours.  It was the first of many Pony-centered all-nighters awaiting in his near future.

Ryker embraced the show like a long lost sibling.  He spent every waking moment with the ponies on his mind, even while studying for the upcoming Finals Week.  The overpowering distraction threatened to lower his grades, but he struggled to uphold his study schedule while squeezing another episode into every conceivable window.

Only four days after his discovery, Ryker finished as much of the second season as he could; according to Wikipedia, the two-part Season Finale was yet to be released.  With over eighteen hours of active viewing under his belt, his mind practically vibrated with uncannily constant consideration of the colorful equines.  Why did they affect him so, he wondered?  What about them was so loveable and so addicting?  An unprecedented tingle warmed the cockles of his heart whenever he envisioned the ponies of Ponyville at play, but he never expected to see one outside his head.

Which is why he screamed so loudly when Twilight Sparkle appeared below his dorm window.

“Hello!” she had said, flashing a genuine smile and offering a little wave with her hoof.  “I’m Twilight Sparkle.”

Ryker leapt onto his meager bed and squeezed himself tightly into the corner, eyeing the grinning figure with terror.  She continued talking before he could conjure any stereotypical excuses.

“Whoa there, mister.  No need to get overexcited.  I assure you, I am completely and entirely scientifically possible.  I checked the book on extreme involuntary auditory and visual hallucinations twice.”  She smiled again, closing her eyes proudly.

Ryker shivered speechlessly.  Twilight popped open one eye and took in his fetal position before dropping her head toward the ground with an impatient sigh.

“Ryker, I’m not here to watch you cower,” she grumbled.

Finding his voice—or a squeaky, shaken version of it—Ryker asked, “Then why are you here?”

Twilight gave him an almost offended look.  “To help you, of course!  To teach you about the Magic of Friendship, just like Princess Celestia taught me.”  She seemed to rethink the statement, pawing at the ground innocently as she added, “Or, is currently teaching me.”

He still didn’t move.  Her eyelids drooped.

“Hey, Mister Lonely.  Don’t bother acknowledging my perfectly explained answer to your question.  You’re already welcome,” she droned sarcastically.

Nervously, Ryker shifted a little, blinking rapidly in hopes she would disappear.  Despite not having consumed a drug of any kind for more than four years, he worried this apparition was a long-term side effect ignited by his recent pony binge.  At least Shane wasn’t there to see it.  As if Ryker’s thinness wasn’t enough to tease him about.

“I don’t want you here,” Ryker found himself saying.  “Go away.”

Twilight shook her head happily.  Her pink-streaked bangs swung along with her movements.  For a moment, Ryker was shocked at the fluidness of its motion, just as impressed by his own mind’s mirage as he was with the show’s animation.

“I’ll leave when your roommate comes home,” she said, pointing to the empty bed at her side.  “Until then, we have a lot to talk about.”

Ryker gulped.  “We do?”

“We do,” she repeated adamantly, taking four or five steps across the narrow room to Ryker’s open laptop.  He watched her move with waxing fascination, already taking note of the hallucination’s ridiculous detail.  How was this possible?

Ryker’s memory was interrupted by a sudden smattering of raindrops against his face.  He was surprised to find himself in the middle of Central Park, still gazing reminiscently into the darkening sky.  A distant roar of thunder preceded a drenching downpour by a matter of seconds.  Disoriented, Ryker pulled his jacket’s hood over his head and sprinted through the infamous New York rain, trying to get his bearings.  Where was his hotel?  How long had he been walking?

Despite the storm, New York’s streets and sidewalks were nearly as busy as ever.  He pushed through the slickened crowds uncaringly, ignoring their annoyed shouts of protests dulled mostly by the encompassing drum of rain.  He peered through its veil for a recognized street sign.  Suddenly he found himself across the street from the same café he had purchased his breakfast from that morning.  Knowing now that he was a good five minute’s run from his hotel and perturbed by the thickening sheets of bitter rain, Ryker weaved through the grid of cars waiting for a green light and practically dove into the shelter of the small café.

His gaze passed warily over the counter.  To his physical relief, a large bald man had replaced the disrespectful cashier from before.  The scents of coffee and sweet croissants caught his attention as he took a seat at an elevated table for two, wondering at what point he had eaten his own baked good.  The clock on the wall read 6:18, meaning that nearly six hours had passed by unnoticed.  Was it safe to add “fugue state” to the signs of his deteriorating mind?  He had to laugh at his own strange behavior; otherwise he would start crying.

“E’scuse me, sir?” he heard the large cashier call out.  Ryker waited until the man repeated it to pay him any attention.  “Sir, in the grey.  You mind comin’ up here for a minute?”

Ryker caught a growl in his throat, dropping from his perch and shuffling stubbornly to the register.

“Yes?” he asked in a low, forced voice.

“Sorry to bother you, sir, but did’ju happen to come in earlier today?”

Ryker gave him a blank look.

“You ordered from Destiny, yeah?  The short brat with the gum?”

The description broke Ryker’s scowl.  “Yeah, that was me,” he answered.

The fat man shook his head with a pop of his tongue.  “I am so sorry about that, sir.  Really, I am.  I know it’s no excuse, but she got in a fight with her parents this morning… anyway, just so you know, I saw all that go down.  She shouldn’t o’ charged you that much for a bottle when you clearly just wanted a cup of free water.  I fired her, if it means anything to ya.  Hope this makes up for it.”  He tossed Ryker another water bottle and grinned briefly before turning toward another project.

Dumbstruck, Ryker held the plastic bottle limply in his right hand and blinked a few times.  “Uh…” he attempted, clearing his throat.  “Thanks, man.  I’m sorry too, shouldn’t have let something so little make me so angry.  Trying to work on that.  Croissants here are great, by the way.  I’ll definitely be around again.”

The employee—or maybe, Ryker thought, the café’s owner—twisted around just enough to give Ryker a meaningful smile and nod.  Feeling warmer inside, Ryker resumed his seat at the tiny table, spinning the water bottle between his hands while he watched a billion raindrops pound endlessly against the shop’s large window.  The streaming water made it hard to see outside, although the blurs of yellow taxis were still easy to identify.  He considered trying to flag one down but figured that would be nigh impossible in this weather.  Rainy days were gold mines for taxi drivers.

“Bright side,” Ryker mumbled wisely, cracking open the bottle’s cap and taking a healthy swig.

Chapter Five

I felt like pounding my head against the keyboard.  After staring idly at a blinking cursor for almost a full hour my hope for inspiration completely wore away.  I growled furiously and wiggled the mouse across the screen in a vain attempt to release some anger.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid story,” I mumbled at the monitor.

Immediately, I regretted my insults.  Here was something I had been putting my heart and soul into for what seemed like an eternity.  The viscosity of my creative juices had little to do with its quality.  Obviously it was good enough to attract some attention.  I just needed to exercise a little faith, and a lot of patience.

With a heavy sigh, I rose from the swivel chair in my office and dragged myself into the hallway.  Crystal had already left for work (late), so I was alone as I opened the fridge and poured myself a glass of milk.  Several other edible items caught my schooled eye but I expertly ignored them, consuming only what I came into the kitchen to consume.

Somehow I got thinking about the mail.  Maybe the milk made me think of milkmen which made me think of mailmen; one way or another I found myself outside opening the mailbox.  There were a few bills, a bit of junk mail, but a small square envelope addressed to me caught my eye.  I tore it open as I went inside and snorted at my sister’s familiar, curly handwriting.

Hello, Tommy!  It’s been ages since I heard from you.  How are things?  No need to reply in a letter—I’m inviting you to mom’s seventieth birthday party!  Can you believe she’s that OLD?  I really hope you come!  The whole family will be there, and you’ll get to meet my newest daughter Charity!  She looks just like YOU did when you were a baby, if I remember right.  We’re having the party at Mom’s house on her birthday.  Bring a gift!

Love, Henrietta

I frowned and read the card again.  She didn’t even mention Crystal.  That was more than a bit offensive in my opinion.  She didn’t mind talking about her brand new daughter, but she couldn’t take the time to write “your wife is invited, too”?  That was just like Hentrietta, and one of the reasons I hadn’t seen her for three years.

Suddenly it hit me.  Had she even met Crystal?  Did she even know I’d gotten married?  Why hadn’t she been at the wedding?

I tried to go back to the wedding in my head, but my brain overshot by a few months.  Instead, I found myself fondly reliving the first time I met my beloved wife.  It was during my sophomore year of college.  My roommates and I were attending a casual party hosted at her apartment.  The first thing I noticed was the stuffed animal wrapped tightly in her arms.

“That’s cute,” I complimented, sitting next to her on the couch and pointing at the doll.  I was far more nervous than I let on, seeing as the sturdy couch creaked and shifted under my weight.  I tried to keep my cool as I talked to this pretty girl with a plush, green horse.

“Thanks,” she said, giving it a quick hug.  “I made it.”

I couldn’t help but laugh.  “Uh… how old are you?”

“Twenty-one,” she answered unabashedly.

“And… you’re cuddling with a stuffed horse?  At a party?”

She laughed—a bubbly, whimsical laugh I’d forever hear in my sweetest daydreams.  “It’s not a horse.  She’s a pony.”

“Oh.  My bad,” I said, lifting my hands in sarcastic defense.

She sneered playfully.  “She’s my OC—Original Character, you know?  She’s me, but ponified.”

“Ponified?”

“Yeah.  You know, ‘My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic’.  Heard of it?”

I shook my head, trying hard not to snicker.  “Why would I have heard of it?”

“Lots of college boys watch it,” she said with a shrug.  “More boys than girls, actually.  We’re called Bronies, although I guess I’m better classified as a Pegasister.”

Very confused, I lifted one eyebrow.  “College boys watch My Little Pony?” I questioned critically.

“Friendship is Magic,” she added emphatically.  “It’s the fourth generation of Hasbro’s toy line, reimagined by Lauren Faust.  She worked on ‘Powerpuff Girls’ and ‘Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends’.”

That impressed me.  I had loved ‘Foster’s Home’ when I was younger, and seemed to remember watching 'Powerpuff Girls' without cringing.  “That’s pretty cool, I guess.”

“It’s twenty percent cooler than any show you’ve ever watched,” she said.  Obviously I missed the reference at the time.

“I doubt that,” I said, thinking of the latest ‘Breaking Bad’ episode.

“You should give it a try,” she encouraged me with a genuine smile.  “At least watch the first two episodes.  I’m sure you can find them on YouTube.  We’re only getting to the end of the first season, but it’s seriously the greatest show I’ve ever seen.”

So call me crazy, or call me enamored with this cute blonde, but I did.  And as the first season made its wondrous conclusion, I joined the herd.  It was hard for someone like me not to.  I was studying film, I loved animation, good storytelling caught me by the heart and wouldn't let go, and those characters!  The characters are what really gets people, I think, beyond the world building and the music and the great villains.

She reminded me of Fluttershy at first, but the more I got to know her the more I saw Applejack in her.  We started to spend lots of time together, watching the show, talking about it, watching as the community grew and flourished and exploded online.  But as exciting as it was to be a brony back then, being with Crystal really got my heart pumping.  I fell fast.  She fell slower.

"But she fell," I said, grinning.  The smile went away when I remembered my sister's invitation on my hands.  I dropped it onto the kitchen counter and went back to the computer, checking through my email archives for some evidence of having told my family about Crystal.  I couldn't find any.  The longer I looked, the more worried I became.  "That's weird...."  I sat back in my chair and folded my hands over my belly.  It was also weird how close to me they felt.

But not nearly as weird as this discovery.  How could something like this happen?  I rubbed my brow in concentration.  There seemed to be a big hole in my brain, some missing piece that promised all the answers from a great distance.  I ground my teeth for a moment and stood up, moving to find my cell phone.  Crystal would have some light to shed, at least.  Surely we had told my family.  I was just... experiencing a massive brain fart.  Yeah.  Sure.

Red.  Orange.  Green.

The stoplight was broken.  The yellow was faded, yeah, but beyond that the whole thing was just blinking together.  Ryker stared at it for a long time.  The intersection had been blocked.  He'd been walking for a while, didn't know this part of New York.  His hands were in his pockets, but his eyes hovered above the workmen backing up a truck.

Red hair.  Orange coat.  Green eyes.

"Watch out!"

He acted fast, pressing himself against the side of the poorly painted building to his left.  Just in time.  The Cutie Mark Crusaders barreled past him on the sidewalk, screeching to a halt on the corner of the closed intersection.

"Finally," Ryker said under his breath, smirking as he shoved his hands back in his jeans' pockets.

"You almost hit him!" Sweetie Belle squeaked.

"I did not!  He's quick, he moved way out the way."

"Doesn't look like there's much way to move 'round here," Apple Bloom said, cringing at the buildings' heights.  "I don't much like city life."

"Then why'd you come?" asked Ryker, approaching.

Sweetie beamed.  "Hi, Ryker!  Rarity told me to say hello."

"Back at her," Ryker nodded.  "Why'd you come, Apple Bloom?"

Her face was adorable.  Defensive, but not in an angry or even an unsure way.  Just cute.  "Well, 'cause it's been a while!  I wanted to see ya."

He laughed through his nose and stole a humble glance at the truck.  It started making noise as a weird lift carried one man to the broken stoplight.  "Let's get out of here," he said to the fillies.  "I want to hear you while I can."

He turned left and walked fast.  Scootaloo resumed her position on her scooter while Sweetie made sure her helmet was secure from behind.  A motorlike buzz carried the Crusaders to Ryker's right.

"It really has been a while," Ryker said.  "I got three visits in twenty four hours, and then nothing for a whole week.  Honestly, what's your schedule like over there?  Can't we settle for something a bit more consistent?"

"Sorry, man."  Scootaloo shrugged.  "Stuff comes up."

"Stuff comes up?  What does that even mean?"  He shook his head.  "Can't you explain it more to me?  How does it work?"

"Yer the one that should know," Apple Bloom said.  "It's all in yer head, ain't it?"

He sighed.  "Yeah.  I guess so."

"Don't be sad!" Sweetie Belle said.  "That just means you have the best head ever!"

Ryker grinned.  "If I could pat you on the head right now, I would."

"Go ahead," Sweetie said, removing her helmet.  "What's the worst that could happen?"

Ryker's smile saddened.  "You disappear."

"I won't.  Promise."  Sweetie looked up at him with those big green eyes and offered a humble smile.  Scootaloo stopped the cart.

Skeptical, Ryker stood still with his hands in his pockets for a long time.  Sweetie leaned toward him, stretching out her neck.  He laughed a little and, slowly, pulled his hand out of his pocket and moved to rest it on Sweetie Belle's curls.  His fingers hovered above the place his mind projected her to be, and then dropped.

Ryker gasped and jumped back, slamming into the brick of the building behind him.  The Crusaders laughed.

"What?" Sweetie asked, feeling her own hair.  "Do I have something in my mane?"

"You..."  Ryker could hardly breathe.  "I felt you."

Sweetie beamed.  "Barely!  Come on, give me a good pat!"

Scootaloo and Apple Bloom laughed hysterically as Ryker reacquired his balance and stepped toward them.  They stifled their laughter when he knelt beside them, eye to eye with a smiling Sweetie Belle.  His jaw hung open a little as he brought his shaking hand up and cupped it along the side of her face.

"No way..." he whispered.

Sweetie's hoof raised and pressed against the back of his hand.  He gasped.

"That's what took us so long," Scootaloo explained.  "We got Twilight to up the ante."

"I can..."  A smile threatened to break over Ryker's shocked face.  "I can feel you."

Sweetie nodded.  The way her short fur rubbed against his palm and fingertips sent shivers down his spine.  He laughed -- a high pitched, childish sound that hadn't come from Ryker's gut for longer than he could remember.  He raised his other hand and felt her ears, then ran his fingers through her curly mane.  "You're real," he said.

"My turn!" Apple Bloom shouted, pushing Sweetie Belle out of the way.  She beamed and leaned over the edge of the wagon.  Ryker laughed again and felt her bright red mane, very different from the thick texture of Sweetie Belle's.  "It's so soft," he muttered.

"Feel my bow!" she said.  He did, and its silk was as real as any he had touched in his life.

"This is incredible," he said.  "Am I dreaming?"

"Kind of, I guess," Scootaloo said with a shrug.

Ryker put his hands around the back of Apple Bloom's neck and felt her shoulders, her back.  Sweetie jumped back into reach and he felt their ears at the same time.  They giggled.

"I can't believe this," he said breathily.  "Can I... can I hug you?"

"Of course!" Sweetie yelled, and leapt out of the wagon.  She wrapped her little forelegs around Ryker's neck.  He stumbled back and caught himself with one arm, then adjusted his knees and folded his arms around the tiny pony.  Tears jumped to his eyes at the clean smell of her mane and the way it brushed against his cheek.  They began to stream down his face when he realized her could feel her heartbeat against his collarbone.

"Group hug!" Apple Bloom chirped, jumping out of the wagon and grabbing his other side.  He laughed heartily and held both of them close.

"Ew, that's gross," Scootaloo said, but Ryker didn't buy it.

"Get in here, Scoots!" he said through the manes in his face, and opened her arms wide.  The next thing he knew, a third body was pressed against his own, and the laughter of four voices in the air was the most authentic thing he'd ever heard.

And then suddenly it was all gone.  He alone was laughing, kneeling on a New York sidewalk, crying with joy and staring into the empty space between himself and the empty road.  He stood up, still chuckling, and leaned against the bricks.

"What the hell was that?"

Chapter Six?

And now this story takes a brand new turn.  We'll briefly leave our pony-loving friends to their antics and turn our attention to someone even more interesting than either of them: you.

You've read five chapters of a very unique pair of bronies, Tom and Ryker.  Perhaps you've picked up on some interesting coincidences between their stories, or maybe you still aren't sure exactly how they weave together.  Will they ever meet?  Do their lives have anything to do with each other?  Or are they just two bronies set on living their individual and diversely unusual lives?

That's for you to decide, dear readers.  Is Tom just a normal graduate, writing scripts, making love, and losing weight?  Are the ponies really in Ryker's head, or are they visiting from another plane of existence?  What do you think, and most importantly, why?

We shall continue shortly.