Pinkie Pie Vs. the TSAby Admiral BiscuitChaptersDepartureFlightArrivalDeparturePinkie Pie vs the TSA Departure Admiral Biscuit "Final checklist time. Have—" "You sound just like Twilight." Pinkie straightened her back and started marching around the room with her knees stiff. "Before you eat that cake, Pinkie, have you made a cake-eating checklist? Do you. . . ." She sighed and looked back at the unamused face of Chuck, her American host. "Sorry." "Have you got your bags packed?" Pinkie nodded eagerly. "My carry on and my checked bag." "And you've gone over the list of prohibited items." "Yes—let's go!" The pink pony started bouncing eagerly for the door. "Pinkie. This is very important. You checked the list, and you did not pack any of the prohibited items." "Well. . . ." "No party cannon." "But . . . what if there's a party emergency on the airplane?" "You'll just have to improvise." "Fine." Pinkie opened her carry-on bag and extracted the cannon. It dwarfed the bag, but Chuck wasn't about to ask how she'd fit it in. "No gunpowder, aerosols, car batteries . . ." As Chuck went through the list, Pinkie continued unpacking. By the time she'd finished, a pile of prohibited goods which would have looked more at home in the back of a U-Haul sat beside her bag. The bag itself looked no emptier than it had been before. "Okay. You've got your ticket receipts and ID, right?" Pinkie nodded and touched a hoof to the bag around her neck. "And you've got—" an impatient honking cut him off. "I'll be fine. I'm an adult." "Follow the TSA's instructions exactly, okay?" "Thanks, Chuckie." Pinkie leaned in and gave him a nuzzle, flipped her checked bag up onto her back, grabbed her carry-on with her mouth, and pronked out the door to the waiting taxi. As soon as it roared down the street, Chuck looked at the clock. He figured he had about two hours before Pinkie's Airport Adventure was a news story. He wasn't far wrong. • • • Pinkie paid off the cabbie and headed into the airport. It took so long that the porters and TSAgents were giving her looks of annoyance, but it wasn't her fault. American money was dumb—the bills all looked the same, the coins were hard to manipulate with mouth or hoof, and the plastic money stopped working after about ten minutes of exposure to a pony's field. Things didn't improve at the check-in. The touch-screen kiosk wasn't hoof friendly, and after a few dozen aborted attempts, the counter agent had to help her fill out her boarding pass. "Just take your checked bag over there," the agent instructed. "Yes, ma'am!" Pinkie picked her checked bag up, being careful to avoid the tag on the bag's handle. "I'm going to YAM!" The TSAgent wasn't impressed by that announcement. He held out a latex-gloved hand for the bag, and Pinkie pushed it over to him with her nose. "Where do I go now?" she asked. "I don't see any airplanes." "That gate's that way," he said gruffly as he struggled to get her bag into the scanning machine. "Oh, thanks!" She leaned forward for a nuzzle, but he held up a hand to forestall her. Pinkie bumped uncomfortably into his blue latex glove. It wasn't pleasant to nuzzle at all. • • • She followed the direction he'd indicated, quickly coming up to a very long line. Pinkie hopped happily to the end of the line—while she was no fan of waiting in line, long queues meant there was something fun at the end of them. Nopony would wait in line for the dentist, while everypony waited in line for some of Sweet Apple Acres' cider. Besides, it was fun to see so many people all in one place. They weren't as colorful as ponies, but their clothes were fascinating. Maybe Rarity could make sense of it all, but to her eye there wasn't one coherent style. Somepeople were wearing as little as shorts and a t-shirt, while others had dresses and robes which covered their entire bodies. And the colors! They made up for their lack of skintone diversity with a rainbow of fabric choices. Even their bags were often brightly colored. She turned her head as she felt a hand brushing against her side. A young girl, only withers-high, was touching her barrel. Pinkie grinned and stuck her nose under the rope barrier, leaning low enough that her new friend could pet her muzzle. "Mommy, mommy, look, there's a pony!" "Yes, dear." Pinkie rolled her eyes up to see a heavyset woman who was staring intently at her phone and not paying any attention to her daughter at all. It was probably for the best; some parents yelled at their children when they petted her. Pinkie didn't understand why—ponies loved being petted, and kids loved petting ponies. It was a mutually-beneficial situation. Adults were always going on about subjects like impropriety. She stretched just a little bit further and gave the child a gentle nose-boop. "Mommy, it kissed me!" "Of course it did." • • • An hour later, and her sense of anticipation was only growing. This was obviously why Chuck had insisted she get to the airport early. If she stood on her hind hooves, she could see the head of the line, where uniformed men and women were looking at each traveller's bag, and then talking to them. Probably giving last-minute advice, or making sure that they had remembered everything on the checklist. When she went to Manehattan with Rarity and the rest of the girls, she'd forgotten to pack toothpaste. To her disappointment, frosting hadn't been a good substitute, and she'd had to borrow some of Twilight's. I've got toothpaste this time. She bounced happily forward another six inches as the line moved. • • • She could clearly see the head of the line now. People were emptying their pockets, taking their shoes off and putting everything in little trays. Those trays—and their bags—were pushed along rollers into a machine that looked very much like the pizza oven at Chuckie Cheese's. Chuck had taken her there once, even though it turned out he wasn't related to Chuckie Cheese. Only a few more minutes of waiting, and then she'd get to talk to one of the nice humans. • • • "Place your carry-on bag in the tray." The TSAgent didn't even look at her as he gave his instructions in a bored monotone. “Yeppers.” Pinkie twisted her neck and tossed her bag up into the waiting tray. “Put your shoes on in the next tray, along with all metallic objects in your pockets.” He sounded almost like a robot, and robots didn't have emotion or empathy or a love of partying. Pinkie's mane began to flatten. She lifted up her hoof. “Can I borrow a pair of pliers? Chuck said I wasn't supposed to take pliers on the plane. They were on the list of 'prohibited items.'” She made air-quotes with her hooves, to emphasize her point. “All passengers must remove . . . their . . . shoes. . . .” His voice trailed off as he noticed her for the first time. “But they're nailed on,” Pinkie protested. “And I'm a plier-less pink party pony.” He scratched his head. “Ah, wait right here. Let me get a supervisor.” The TSAgent, looking a little less cocky than he had a moment ago, scurried off. A moment later, he was back with another man. It was obvious from the amount of gold trim on his navy blue blazer that he was a very high-ranking official. Pinkie had never seen anything quite like it, although the original Wonderbolts costume came close. The two men carried on a brief conversation of hushed whispers and occasional gestures, before the bedazzled senior TSAgent came over. “I'm sorry, we don't get a lot of ponies through here,” he said. Even to Pinkie, his apology felt insincere—but he had said he was sorry, and that was what counted. “Of course you don't have to take your shoes off.” “Phew.” She theatrically rubbed a fetlock under her forelock. “So what now?” He pointed towards a vertical tube. It reminded Pinkie Pie of the pneumatic tubes at the Earth-bank where she was storing her bits. Unlike the bank-tubes, though, people stepped inside, and rather than being whisked off to their destination, they just exited out the other side of the tube. It actually looked kind of boring, but if it was between her and an airplane flight, she was all for it. Besides, it might be funner than it looked. People wouldn't be waiting in such a long line if there wasn't some reward at the end. She pronked happily into the tube, and did her utmost to duplicate the position shown on the little placard. A moment later, she heard a strange electronic thunk, and her whole body began tingling. It wasn't a feeling like her Pinkie-sense; it felt more like her entire coat had turned inside out. She looked down to make sure it hadn't, then at a nod from the TSAgent on the other side of the backscatter machine, she stepped out. “Take your bag and go that way,” he said, a fake grin on his face. He pointed towards the senior agent. “We need to do a hand search.” “I don't have any hands,” she reminded him. “Just hoofsies.” “Of course.” His crocodile grin got a little bigger. “Just follow that guy, Miss, um.” “Pie! Pinkamena Diane Pie!” “Of course, Miss Pie. If you'd just follow him. Make sure to bring all your personal belongings.” Her ears perked as she grabbed her bag out of its little tray. She was getting special treatment! All the other people had to leave once they were done with the tube, but she was getting a personal session with a Very Important Person. She bounced happily past the steel door and into the windowless cement cubicle. “I'll just leave you with Agent Pommelhorse,” the senior agent said. “She'll take good care of you.” Pinkie swallowed a lump in her throat as she looked at the imposing visage of Agent Pommelhorse. The woman's expressionless face could have been carved from granite. She looked at Pinkie, looked down at a computer screen, then looked back up at Pinkie. With an almost audible snap, she yanked a wand out of her pants. “X-ray machine doesn't work on horses,” she muttered. “Gotta do it the old-fashioned way. Stand still, please.” With no further warning, Mrs. Pommelhorse invaded Pinkie's personal space with her wand. Pinkie looked back at it—the TSAgent's brow was furrowed as she watched the little blinking lights and listened to the strange mechanical beeps and whistles the thing gave off. Each time it made a high-pitched scree, a red light would illuminate, and Agent Pommelhorse's eyebrow would twitch upward. Since she had nothing better to do, Pinkie decided to see if she could change her magical fields to make the wand go off. After all, the game was more fun that way. It was boring to be looking for things and never find them—that was undoubtedly why Pommelhorse looked like she was sucking on a lemon. Her face broke out in a broad grin as she made the yellow light blink. The TSAgent swept the wand back, and Pinkie concentrated a little bit harder. Success! The wand screeched loudly, the red light blinked, and Pommelhorse's eyebrow went up. The game went on for five minutes before the agent finally put the wand down. “I don't think this works,” she muttered. “Do you have anything in your pockets? Or surgical implants?” “Nope and nope!” Pinkie blinked at her. “No pockets on my coat!” She patted her flank lightly. “Hmm. I'd better do a pat-down, just to be safe. Have you been patted down before?” Pinkie thought about the kid in line and nodded. “All the time—practically whenever I go out.” “Really.” Pommelhorse's eyebrow twitched again. “Well, I guess you're a pro at this, then.” She snapped on a pair of latex gloves and began groping the hapless pony. She told herself it was like being petted by a child. Or maybe like seeing a doctor—there wasn't any love in those hands, only cold clinical detachment. And she didn't take offense, not at first. Ponies, after all, were a very touchy species, much more so than humans. She grimaced as the agent's fingers ran around the underside of her hooves, and she winced as the agent's hand slid along her belly. She twitched when a finger touched her cutie mark, and her ears folded down as the finger touched her dock. Then Pommelhorse made a classic mistake. She stepped behind Pinkie and took the pony's poofy tail in her hand, anticipating perhaps finding some contraband concealed therein. As she lifted the mass of pink, her other hand fell just a little too far down Pinkie's rump. Pinkie instinctively bucked Pommelhorse back, sending her crashing across the desk. The TSAgent landed in a pile, her fall only marginally cushioned by the shattered remains of her computer. Before she could even get to her feet, the door slammed open, and three more agents rushed into the room. One of them hurried to Pommelhorse's aid, while the other two grappled Pinkie Pie to the ground. • • • “I'm really sorry about this, Miss Pie. Do you need another icepack?” She nodded, and he handed one over. He waited until she had put it up against her black eye before continuing. “Most of our agents don't know how to properly search an equine.” He sighed. “I wish they'd consulted me first.” “I'm sorry I kicked her. I didn't mean to, but—” “She's fine.” It wasn't quite true—she had two cracked ribs and a mild concussion—but things could have turned out much worse. He was under strict orders to make sure that human/pony interactions went smoothly, and while it was disappointing that he hadn't been contacted before things went south, he'd come down on airport administration with the full weight of the Federal Government behind him and explained in no uncertain terms how they would be treating ponies henceforth. There had been a few meek protests, and he was likely to receive a few scathing emails, but that was no skin off his back. “Now, as for the contents of your carry-on bag.” He motioned to the pile of belongings. “I'm afraid you were misinformed—you can take liquids and gels in small quantities, true, but you must understand our position: for public safety, this is not acceptable.” “It's just toothpaste.” “Five hundred tubes!” “I thought I might run out?” “And this?” He motioned to a slender black cylinder. “You weren't planning on using it on the plane, were you?” “Maybe if I got bored.” “Keep that in your bag,” he advised. He sighed, and then leaned forward. “I talked to the airline. They've agreed to upgrade you to first class, if you still want to go on your flight.” She looked up hopefully. “There's still time to make it?” He nodded. “If we hurry.” Pinkie's mane poofed back up. “Let's go! YAM is waiting!” Author's Note I (probably foolishly) chose not to utilize pre-readers. FlightPinkie Pie vs the TSA Flight Admiral Biscuit He led her through the airport, carrying her bag in his left hand, while she trotted on his right side. He moved with a purposeful gait, and she almost had to trot to keep up. “Be careful on the moving walkway,” he warned her. “We're about to get to one—it's the fastest way through the terminal, unless you'd rather not attempt it.” “I can do it,” she insisted. “Alright.” He angled to his right. “It's just like an escalator, except it doesn't go up.” “Or the magic belts in the supermarket,” Pinkie chimed in. “That move the food to the magic beeping scale that knows what you want.” Her voice dropped slightly. “Beep! Pickles, sixteen ounces, two ninety-nine. Enriched flour, five pounds, four ninety-nine. K-y—“ “Yes, just like that,” he said hastily. “That's a funny name,” she said. “Sometimes I have trouble pronouncing funny names. Should it be Ki—“ “We're here. Step carefully onto the walkway—watch how I do it. Make sure you keep your hands . . . ah, nevermind.” Pinkie nodded and watched his feet. He took one step, then another, and then he was zooming away from her, propelled by the not-an-escalator. It looked incredibly fun. Following his lead, she put on one hoof, then another. Then another and another, and pretty soon the walkway was pulling her along, too. She looked up from her hooves, and for the first time noticed that some people were walking on the walkway. She tentatively moved forward, discovering that it was just like boring normal ground. “Whee!” He looked up as Pinkie pronked past, then started jogging to keep up with her. “Be ready to stop at the flashing lights,” he huffed. Even with her relatively stubby legs, she had no trouble outpacing him, and he shuddered to think what kind of speed she might be able to accomplish if she decided to gallop. Unfortunately, Pinkie tried just that on the next walkway. Luckily, there weren't any other people on it. This time he didn't even try to keep up, just watched as she somehow kept her forward momentum across the stretch of carpet, and hit the second walkway running . . . well, pronking. Which turned into a canter, and then a full-on gallop. This is amazing! Pinkie tore down the moving sidewalk, her shoes skidding ever so slightly on the metal grid. It's like those dreams I have where I can gallop forever and never get tired. I could do this forever! But she couldn't, because the walkway came to an end. Unlike her slower, more adaptable pronking speed, at a full-on gallop, she tripped on the carpet and tumbled end-over-end, finally coming to a stop sprawled out just in front of the boarding plank for the next walkway. Her guide was there before she struggled back to her hooves, and he just gave her a small sympathetic smile, but she could tell he really wanted to laugh at her predicament. “I'm okay,” she assured him. “We've got two more to go. Are you going to just stand still like a good mare?” She nodded soberly. • • • When they got to the gate, Pinkie looked eagerly at the sea of bored faces sitting in chairs. Some of them were reading newspapers, most of them were looking at their phones, and one guy that thought nobody was looking was picking his nose. In short, it was a place in need of a party! The wheels in Pinkie's head started turning. She didn't have her cannon, but there were other options. If they hadn't been confiscated, she could have had a toothpaste party. No, that's a silly idea. Nopony would like a toothpaste party. Except Minuette. “Pinkie?” She turned her head and blinked up at her escort. “Sorry.” “No, it's no problem. You need to show your boarding passes to the gate agent, and she'll make the changes to put you in first class. I'll stay here until your flight leaves, in case you've got any questions.” Or in case I'm needed to defuse another situation, he didn't add. “Those are the papers that the computer kiosk spit out, right?” “Yes. You'll need to show her your passport, too.” “Ooh, okay. Those are in my neck-bag.” She deftly pulled the zipper down, and tilted her head back so that most of the confetti explosion cleared her mane. The gate agent dove behind her desk in an attempt at self-preservation, while half the passengers looked up at the source of the disturbance. The rest of them kept their focus on their phones. “Does it do that every time?” he asked, as the gate agent peered above her desk. Pinkie nodded. “Perhaps it would be prudent to use a different bag.” “It's not the bag, it's me.” Her ears went back. “I party so much, I sneeze confetti.” “Of course.” His placid face was back on, and he efficiently sorted her boarding passes out from the wad of cake recipes that had also been in her neck-bag. He brushed a few stray bits of confetti off them and handed them over to the gate agent. “Do you mind if we wait in the VIP lounge until the flight is called?” he told her. It wasn't a question. “Not at all.” She scanned the boarding pass and wrote down Pinkie's passport number. “You can use the manual keycode—it's 999.” “Thank you.” He took the documents back and handed them to Pinkie, who stuffed them back in her document bag. “Come this way—we can wait in the lounge. Free drinks, if you want them . . . and a great view of the tarmac.” “This isn't like the special room they had me go in before, is it? I didn't like that room very much.” “No, this is just like a bar, or a restaurant.” He turned to head towards the lounge, when a familiar icon caught his eye. “Ah, you might want to make sure you use the bathroom before you get on the plane.” “Why? Aren't there bathrooms on the plane?” “Yes, but they're small. I'm not sure how you'd use one.” “Oh.” Pinkie looked back at her hindquarters, then up at him. “Well, normally, I'd—“ He held up a hand and shook his head. “I don't want to know. Just get in there, do your business, and meet me back out here, okay?” • • • Pinkie waved him a fond farewell as she stepped forward on the jetway. He'd been sooo helpful, not at all like the Meanie McMeaniepants TSAgents. Halfway down the jetway, she stopped to give him another wave—just to make sure he saw it—and then happily pronked the rest of the way to the plane. A willowy blonde woman in a short dress and uniform cap showed Pinkie to her seat and helped her stow her carry-on bag, then went off to assist another passenger. Pinkie got into her seat and pulled the instruction sheet out of the pocket. Twilight had told her in a computer telegram that they were there, and that she should read them. They weren't all that helpful. The little yellow cups weren't hanging from the ceiling, so she couldn't put hers on, and her rummaging hadn't found a lifejacket, either. By her reckoning, except for the door people were coming through, the other exits were a lie, as were the rafts. Maybe the rafts come out later. There isn't any water here, so they'd just be in the way. I hope the plane lands in the water so we can do some rafting. Overhead, a lighted sign told her to put out her cigarette and fasten her seatbelt. The cigarette was actually a challenge. She'd never used one before, and had to reach really deep into her hammerspace to find one, but every now and then, Rarity smoked, and she kept some on hoof just in case the fashionista had the need. She was so proud of herself for putting it out before the flight attendant told her to, she decided to try the seat belt for herself. It was complicated, and not hoof-friendly. The instructions only showed how it worked on a human, although the principle ought to be the same for a pony. “Will you be needing any help with your seatbelt, ma'am?” “Maybe?” Pinkie looked up from the tangle of nylon webbing. She wasn't sure quite how it had happened, but she was upside down, with one hind leg strapped to the armrest of her seat, and the other securely fastened to the seat in front of her. “Just let me reach in here,” the stewardess began as her hand went towards Pinkie's rump. • • • Fortunately for all parties involved, the seat belts worked as designed, and the stewardess had the reflexes of a cat. While she may have tightened the belt a little tighter than was strictly necessary, there was no doubt that Pinkie was securely fastened to her seat. Immovably so. “Thank you,” she said cheerfully. “It was no trouble,” the stewardess lied, smoothing her skirt. “Your panties are pretty.” Her smile faltered. “I saw them when you were getting my hind leg free.” Pinkie reached into the seat pocket and pulled out a SkyMall catalog. “Can I read this?” “Yes.” The stewardess brushed a lock of hair out of her face. “Please do.” • • • The next half hour was boring. She could see out the window, which was nice—but there wasn't anything down there to see except for little tractors zooming around the sea of concrete. The magazine was only vaguely interesting; it had lots of pictures of stuff that anypony could buy with plastic money, but not much in the way of party supplies, unless she wanted to have a London phone-booth themed party. The passengers boarding the plane weren't very talkative, and acted bored or frustrated with the whole process, and the stewardess made a point of avoiding her. Just the same, she wasn't overly bored. She'd been warned that the boarding process was . . . well, boring, hence the name. And she'd learned that sometimes you had to be patient for good stuff, so she kept looking out the window which wouldn't even open and waited until it was time to go flying. • • • The actual departure, when it came, was a total surprise. Everypony on the plane acted like they'd done it before, but for her it was a new experience. The front door was closed, the lights flickered, and then the airplane bumped backwards. Some guy in a bright yellow vest on the ground was waving around glowy sticks, and she focused on him until the stewardess started speaking safety instructions. She began by explaining the seat belts, and Pinkie could attest that she was an expert on them. No amount of squirming had managed to loosen her from her seat. Then she explained how the oxygen masks might fall from the ceiling, that the seat cushions could be used as flotation devices, and where the exits were. By the time she'd finished, Pinkie had waved her last goodbyes to the airport terminal, and was looking out the window in undisguised fascination as the airplane passed by mysterious signs that said things like 2340M and 1-19 and FBO. Other airplanes were crawling about, and there were more of the little tractors zooming around. She wondered if she could drive one—it looked like a lot of fun. Her ears perked up as she heard a crackling noise above her. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain. We're next in line for departure. We expect a two-hour flight to Sault Ste. Marie. The skies will be overcast for the duration of the flight. We have reports of mild turbulence, so please keep your seat belts fastened at all times.” Pinkie looked down at her seat belt. That wouldn't be a problem. “It's a pleasant 75 degrees—24 Celsius—in Sault Ste. Marie. On behalf of Continental Airlines, I'd like to thank you for flying with us.” He paused for a moment and then came back on the intercom. “We, ah, we really move our tails for you.” Pinkie wagged her tail appreciatively. As, much as she could, with her straightjacket-like seatbelt. When the takeoff came, it was unexpected. The whine from the back of the airplane increased to a shrill pitch, and she suddenly felt herself pushed back into her seat. Outside the window, the ground began to blur by, and she kept her muzzle pushed into the glass as the nose pitched up—something her pedal-powered gyrocopter didn't do—and the airplane left the ground. As it flew higher and higher, she looked down at the streets zipping by below, trying to find Chuck's house. She had a pretty good sense of direction, and was sure it should be visible outside her window—but it wasn't long before the airplane had reached an altitude she'd never dreamed of. It was scary, watching the houses become tinier and tinier, until they were barely visible. She kept her eyes glued to the glass as the first bits of wispy fog began sliding through her view, and suddenly the plane was in a bumpy whiteness. It felt like forever, but the plane finally broke through, treating her to a puffy white view as far as she could see. She hoped that the pilot would stop to let people out. Surely somewhere between here and YAM they'd take a brief break. ArrivalPinkie Pie vs the TSA Arrival Admiral Biscuit “We are beginning our descent to Sault Ste. Marie,” the intercom informed her, “and we expect to be on the ground in thirty minutes. Please return to your seats at this time, put your seatbacks and tray tables in the upright position, and fasten your seat belts. Stewardesses, prepare the cabin for landing.” Pinkie looked down at her seatbelt in frustration. Despite all her efforts, it remained securely fastened. It was a pity; she'd studied the airplane instructions some more, and was fairly certain she could get a side-door open if they flew back close enough to the clouds to hop out. The stewardess went by, cleared the empty plastic glasses off her tray, and pushed it up for her. Pinkie had availed herself of the free drinks—possibly to excess, but the flight was almost over and she could hold it just a bit longer. As the plane closed in on the clouds, she began to wonder if Sault Ste. Marie was a cloud city, and her ears perked up as the plane reached cloud level. To her disappointment, it passed through, and spent a boring ten minutes in the white fog. But when it came out the bottom of the cloud, the view took her breath away. Even with the overcast sky, Lake Superior was glittering like a jewel below her, surrounded on both sides by the dark green of pine forests. It felt like forever before she saw the first sign of civilization. • • • The landing took longer than she thought it would, but when it happened, it was unexpected. It was hard to judge altitude as the plane zipped over the pines, and even when she thought they were close, they just kept flying on. She was sure she'd see a big city before they landed, and then all of a sudden she felt a sharp screeching jolt, and then there were buildings flashing by level with her window. She was jerked forwards as the scream of the engines became nearly superaudible, and the whole aircraft shuddered and bumped down the runway, finally coming to a nearly complete stop. It turned to her right, passed several incomprehensible signs, and presently stopped completely. She heard the clicks of seat belts being unfastened, and her stewardess finally took mercy on her and let her out of her seat, handing her her carry-on bag. “Passengers with checked bags, please proceed to the 2B conveyor,” the intercom announced. Pinkie shook her head. She wasn't going to follow instructions. She had important business in the nearest bathroom first. As soon as she could, she trotted up the jetway, then started looking around for the familiar signs. It took her a moment to figure them out. According to Chuck, signs in America were written in English and Illegal Immigrant. Twilight had told her those in Canada were written in Canadien English and Canadien French—which Twilight had assured her were not the same as American English and French French. Still, the silhouette-people for the bathrooms were pretty much the same in American and Canadien, and she trotted into a stall, making sure to keep her carry-on bag with her, as the airport frequently advised. It's weird how I can party all night long and never have to pee, but when I'm in a place where I can't easily get to a bathroom—like a train or an airplane or Chuck's car—it feels like I have to go all the time. She wasn't the only traveler so inclined; by the time she was at the sink and washing her hooves, there was a short line of women waiting to use the facilities. Weird how the men's room never has much of a line. Pinkie walked back out to the main part of the terminal and glanced up and down the hallways for clues where baggage claim 2B might be located. This airport was lacking in the moving walkways, which was unfortunate. They'd been a lot of fun, and she hoped when she flew back, she'd have time to play with the walkways again. It didn't take her long to figure out where to go—the airport signage was very good, and she thus far hadn't been able to notice any differences between American English and Canadien English. Unless things meant the opposite, and she was supposed to not go where the arrows pointed. Chuck had told her that was the case in Australia, where they walked upside-down and talked backwards. She could fly there next, now that she knew the process. She backed onto the down escalator. Going down forwards made her too muzzle-heavy—the steps were steeper than anypony sensible would design. Maybe if she stood on her hind hooves—but that was hard to do on a moving conveyance. • • • Downstairs was another moving conveyor, although signs very clearly indicated she wasn't supposed to ride it. She recognized some of the people who had been on her flight, and they were all patiently waiting, looking at the conveyor, so she did the same, hoping it was like the ones in the supermarket. She moved close to a family, and it was only a moment before the children noticed her approach. They looked up at their mother questioningly, and she turned her ears in that direction. “No,” the mother said firmly. “It's not polite to pet strangers, eh?” “I don't mind,” Pinkie assured her. “Really, I'm used to it.” “Are you sure?” Pinkie nodded. “Oh, thank you. That means so much to them. You know, we see ponies like you on TV sometimes, but to actually see one here in the flesh—you were all they talked about on the flight. Do you mind if I take a selfie?” “Nopers!” Pinkie shifted around, next to the woman. Her two children were already running their hands across her muzzle, and she crouched down beside them, instructed them to face her cell phone, and then took a picture. “I wanna take one, too,” Pinkie said, reaching back and pulling out a camera. “Your foals . . . uh, kids are cute. Are they both sired by the same stallion?” Her eyes flicked to the left, her smile faltered for a second, and then came back full-force. “Of course. I'm married.” “Ah.” Pinkie grinned at her camera. “Everypony say picklebarrel kumquat.” “Huh?” Click Once the selfies were taken, she leaned down to give the children better access to her mane and ears. That was one of her biggest weaknesses—there was a little spot behind her ears that was super sensitive to a finger's touch, and the towheaded boy found it. A moment later, her ears jerked back up as she heard a clanging bell, and the conveyor jerked into motion. The woman went to the conveyor belt, while her children kept pawing Pinkie. A moment later, bags began appearing through a curtain. Pinkie waited patiently where she was. Her bag hadn't shown up yet. Even if it had, she was far too happy to be in any hurry to move. She could have stayed there being petted for hours, but the mother finally came back with three bags—one was a boring black bag, the second had a picture of a happy race car on it, and the third showed a trio of skinny teens that vaguely looked like the bipeds Twilight had described at Canterlot High, although these were more monster-y. Now with no further motivation to wait by the bag conveyor, Pinkie darted forward to grab her suitcase, and dragged it off the track. The TSA-approved lock was missing, she noticed, but that was a small thing to worry about. She'd had trouble with the combination anyway—it was by no means hoof-friendly. More arrows pointed her towards immigration, so she headed that way. Once again, there was a queue trailing around the ropes. Pinkie sighed. She'd thought that as soon as she got her bag, she'd be able to meet up with Twilight and her host, but apparently there was still another inspection to endure. She looked back at her hind legs. “Be good, you two.” • • • When she got to the head of the line, she went up to a little cubicle. A bored-looking man was sitting there. He held out his hand. “Passport, please.” She nodded, and unzipped her bag. The confetti explosion was spectacular. • • • “It just does that,” Pinkie insisted. “Everything I touch does that after a while.” “So you say.” She was in a private area, with three Canadian immigration officials studying her intently. A fourth was gingerly inspecting her neck bag. So far he'd shaken out a wastebasket of confetti, and it kept coming. One of the agents looked away from his computer and whispered in another's ear. That agent—who Pinkie had nicknamed 'Curly' for his curly hair—leaned forward and tapped her passport. “Do you have any other documentation?” “Like what?” “Driver's license?” “Nope.” “Birth certificate?” She scrunched her forehead. “Silly, nopony gets an award for being born.” She pointed a hoof up at the passport. “Twilight said that was all I needed.” “It's just . . . not as secure as we prefer, eh.” He flicked at the edge of the photo, which had been taped on with scotch tape. “This could be anybody's passport, and just be your photo.” “It smells like me,” she offered. To his credit, Curly sniffed the passport, then leaned forward and sniffed her. Mow—nicknamed because of his short manecut—gently smacked Curly on the back of the head before turning his attention back to Pinkie. “Does your embassy put any security provisions in your passports?” “Solar and Lunar magic.” Her pupils shrank, and she began reciting by rote. “Presenting a fraudulent passport will cause the bearer's cutie mark to be replaced by a black X, and she will be banished from the herd for a period of no less than ten moons.” The two immigration officials looked at each other, and then back at Pinkie. “Well, all right. It matches up with your record, I guess. Perhaps you should suggest that your embassy laminate the photographs.” “The Ovis embassy does that, I think.” Pinkie snatched her passport back and stuck it into her mane, since the fourth official was still de-confettiing her identification bag. “Are we done?” “No.” The third agent spoke up for the first time. She decided to call him 'Larry,' since he looked kind of like a hoe with a perforated blade for working with plaster or cement. It was bit of a stretch, but she was getting tired. “No?” Her ears fell. “Have you ever been arrested?” She wrinkled her muzzle. “Here or in Equestria?” The three officers leaned forward. “Let's start with here,” Larry began. “I want to know about this felony on your record.” “Felony?” He nodded. “According to the FBI database, you have a felony. Do you mind telling me what it's aboot?” “I . . . I got kicked out of an Olive Garden once.” “That's it?” She shook her head. “I got taken out by a policepony, and they made me go down to the station and took my picture and tried to take hoofprints but their inkpad wasn't big enough and so they kept me in a little room while they decided what to do and they took all my bits and made me take off my saddlebags and went through them and made me put on an orange suit that didn't fit right and I kept tripping over the back legs 'cause it wouldn't go over my tail and kept falling down and they thought that was funny but in a mean way and then after a couple of hours a nice woman in a pantsuit that fit a lot better than my pantsuit came and said she was a Dee-eh and that they weren't going to file charges and I could go but I wasn't allowed to go back to that Olive Garden again.” She rose up and leaned towards the counter. “Which is fine, because their service wasn't very good and the breadsticks were hardly unlimited and the pasta wasn't cooked with enough salt and the lady in the next booth over kept complaining that I was immodest and flashing her boyfriend.” “Well, it says that you were arrested for indecent exposure.” Larry looked up from the computer screen. “Since there's no disposition of your crime on the record, we have to look up what we'd do had you committed the crime in Canada.” He turned to Mow. “You got the book?” Mow nodded, and pulled it out from under the counter and handed it to Larry. Then Mow and Curly looked at each other. “How does a pony get arrested for indecent exposure?” “I have no idea. Dumb American cops, eh?” Pinkie gave no sign she'd understood, but she was actually really good at reading lips. “Why don't you go wait on one of those benches,” Curly suggested. “It'll be more comfortable than sitting here, waiting on us.” “How long is it going to take? Twilight's waiting for me.” “Shouldn't take too long,” he assured her. • • • “Miss Pie?” Curly waved to her. She jumped to her hooves. She could only imagine how deep a hole Twilight was wearing in the rug outside. The clock had ticked off three-quarters of an hour while her agents had consulted their giant red book, and everybody else in the room who had been waiting had already been cleared. “Yes!” “How old would you say the gentleman and lady at Olive Garden were?” “I dunno. I'm not good at guessing people's ages.” “Well, did they give any sign of their ages? Were they smoking? Drinking?” “Did either of them have a handgun?” “Who brings a handgun to an Olive Garden?” “In America? Probably every Republican.” “I don't think Republicans go to Olive Garden, eh?” “They had wine,” Pinkie said. “Both of them?” Curly looked over the counter. “Yes.” “Well.” He gave a smug look at Larry. “Then it's not illegal here, eh?” Looking back at Pinkie, he explained. “In Canada, you wouldn't have broken any laws.” He snapped the book shut. “So no foul.” “Is that it?” “Almost. We'd just like to examine your luggage.” Pinkie sighed. The three officers carried her bags over to a small table, helpfully gave her a stool to sit on, and opened her carry-on bag. It was mostly empty. Five hundred tubes of toothpaste had taken up a lot of space, and now four hundred ninety-nine of them were gone. Between that, and all the prohibited items Chuck had made her remove, there wasn't much left. Still, the immigration agents were thorough, and emptied the few contents of her bag out on the table, before poking around at her bag, checking for secret compartments. Satisfied that there were none, he lifted a long, black cylinder off the table. It had one hemispherical end, a battery compartment near the back, and was about twenty inches long. It had been loosely wrapped in a towel, along with its remote control. “This isn't the kind of thing most people have in their carry-on luggage,” he commented. “Were you expecting to use it on the airplane?” “I didn't know if I would. But I thought I might get bored.” “So you figured . . . what? That you'd head into the bathroom?” Pinkie nodded. “Would it even fit?” Her face colored slightly. “I was worried about that, but I didn't have a chance to test it out before the flight. I did bring that, just in case it was too tight.” She pointed to a flat package on the table. “It would keep the bathroom from getting all wet, too.” “That's a little extreme,” Larry said, examining the package. “I mean, for an airplane. At home . . . well, that's your business.” “My friend Twilight has one just like it. She uses it all the time. She says it's lots of fun.” “I'm sure it would be.” Curly began packing her things back in her carry-on. “But trust me, an airplane bathroom is way too small for a remote-controlled submarine, even if you do have a wading pool with you.” He zipped the bag shut, and turned to her checked bag. “I get why you didn't pack any clothes,” Curly said as he looked inside the bag. “And—I'll be honest—I can even see why you'd want that much shampoo. But what's up with all the toothpaste? Have you got a toothbrushing fetish?” • • • “So that's it, then?” The three nodded, and slid the suitcases to her. “Unless you've got anything on your person,” Mow chuckled. Pinkie froze. “You mean like my camera?” All three agents looked at her, and at her bags. There had been no camera. Mow narrowed his eyes. “Where's your camera?” “It's right here, silly!” Pinkie reached back into her hammerspace and pulled out her camera. Larry looked at her, mouth agape. “Where. . . .” “What else have you got?” “Oh, lots of stuff.” Pinke reached back and began pulling forth objects. “Let's see, a couple of rubber balls in case Cerberus gets loose again, an umbrella hat, a half-dozen eyepatches, in case of eyepatch emergency—“ “Eyepatch emergency?” “Look at the size of these eyes, buster. Trust me, eyepatches are handy to have.” She reached back again. “Ah: a spare horseshoe, two of AJ's extra hair-ties, a bow for Apple Bloom, binoculars, a microscope for itty-bitty stuff, a Skymall catalog, rubber chicken, a pin-the-tail-on-the-pony board with no tails 'cause the pins in them were prohibited, croquet mallet, a greatest hits of the Ponytones record—you should listen to it, they're really good. Keep it, I'm sure I have another somewhere. Ooh, let's see. Other side. Hm, here's a normal umbrella for normal rain or Mary Poppins emergencies, three quills and an inkwell for Twilight, an emergency hoof-mirror for Rarity and a second unbreakable one for after she throws the first and stomps on it and then apologizes but did you see the state of my mane, darling, and oh there's that other croquet mallet—can't have a game with just one. Oh, and I have a birthday card for you, Curly.” She presented it with a flourish. “I hope you don't mind if I wrote that in the card. It's way more personal than Immigration Officer Penna, don't you think?” The three agents stared dumbfounded at the pile in front of them. For a moment all was silent. Then Curly reached forward and took the card from Pinkie's grasp. “Is . . . is that it?” he asked cautiously. “Well, there was a cake, but Chuck said it was prohibited, so I didn't bring it.” She let out a sigh. “But that's all you have . . . on you.” Mow insisted. “Yup.” Larry looked down at the pile and shrugged. “None of it's contraband. Let her go.” “Thanks!” The three watched in undisguised fascination as she made all the objects disappear back into her hammerspace. Then she grabbed the bags off the table, and happily pronked out the door. “Twilight!” As the doors closed, the three agents heard an unmistakable glomping noise, and then a concerned voice—Twilight's, they assumed—began asking Pinkie what had taken her so long. They did not hear what her answer was, because Immigration Officer William 'Curly' Penna opened his birthday card, and the confetti explosion and accompanying kazoo fanfare was loud enough to temporarily deafen them. Author's Note Story notes here!
DeparturePinkie Pie vs the TSA Departure Admiral Biscuit "Final checklist time. Have—" "You sound just like Twilight." Pinkie straightened her back and started marching around the room with her knees stiff. "Before you eat that cake, Pinkie, have you made a cake-eating checklist? Do you. . . ." She sighed and looked back at the unamused face of Chuck, her American host. "Sorry." "Have you got your bags packed?" Pinkie nodded eagerly. "My carry on and my checked bag." "And you've gone over the list of prohibited items." "Yes—let's go!" The pink pony started bouncing eagerly for the door. "Pinkie. This is very important. You checked the list, and you did not pack any of the prohibited items." "Well. . . ." "No party cannon." "But . . . what if there's a party emergency on the airplane?" "You'll just have to improvise." "Fine." Pinkie opened her carry-on bag and extracted the cannon. It dwarfed the bag, but Chuck wasn't about to ask how she'd fit it in. "No gunpowder, aerosols, car batteries . . ." As Chuck went through the list, Pinkie continued unpacking. By the time she'd finished, a pile of prohibited goods which would have looked more at home in the back of a U-Haul sat beside her bag. The bag itself looked no emptier than it had been before. "Okay. You've got your ticket receipts and ID, right?" Pinkie nodded and touched a hoof to the bag around her neck. "And you've got—" an impatient honking cut him off. "I'll be fine. I'm an adult." "Follow the TSA's instructions exactly, okay?" "Thanks, Chuckie." Pinkie leaned in and gave him a nuzzle, flipped her checked bag up onto her back, grabbed her carry-on with her mouth, and pronked out the door to the waiting taxi. As soon as it roared down the street, Chuck looked at the clock. He figured he had about two hours before Pinkie's Airport Adventure was a news story. He wasn't far wrong. • • • Pinkie paid off the cabbie and headed into the airport. It took so long that the porters and TSAgents were giving her looks of annoyance, but it wasn't her fault. American money was dumb—the bills all looked the same, the coins were hard to manipulate with mouth or hoof, and the plastic money stopped working after about ten minutes of exposure to a pony's field. Things didn't improve at the check-in. The touch-screen kiosk wasn't hoof friendly, and after a few dozen aborted attempts, the counter agent had to help her fill out her boarding pass. "Just take your checked bag over there," the agent instructed. "Yes, ma'am!" Pinkie picked her checked bag up, being careful to avoid the tag on the bag's handle. "I'm going to YAM!" The TSAgent wasn't impressed by that announcement. He held out a latex-gloved hand for the bag, and Pinkie pushed it over to him with her nose. "Where do I go now?" she asked. "I don't see any airplanes." "That gate's that way," he said gruffly as he struggled to get her bag into the scanning machine. "Oh, thanks!" She leaned forward for a nuzzle, but he held up a hand to forestall her. Pinkie bumped uncomfortably into his blue latex glove. It wasn't pleasant to nuzzle at all. • • • She followed the direction he'd indicated, quickly coming up to a very long line. Pinkie hopped happily to the end of the line—while she was no fan of waiting in line, long queues meant there was something fun at the end of them. Nopony would wait in line for the dentist, while everypony waited in line for some of Sweet Apple Acres' cider. Besides, it was fun to see so many people all in one place. They weren't as colorful as ponies, but their clothes were fascinating. Maybe Rarity could make sense of it all, but to her eye there wasn't one coherent style. Somepeople were wearing as little as shorts and a t-shirt, while others had dresses and robes which covered their entire bodies. And the colors! They made up for their lack of skintone diversity with a rainbow of fabric choices. Even their bags were often brightly colored. She turned her head as she felt a hand brushing against her side. A young girl, only withers-high, was touching her barrel. Pinkie grinned and stuck her nose under the rope barrier, leaning low enough that her new friend could pet her muzzle. "Mommy, mommy, look, there's a pony!" "Yes, dear." Pinkie rolled her eyes up to see a heavyset woman who was staring intently at her phone and not paying any attention to her daughter at all. It was probably for the best; some parents yelled at their children when they petted her. Pinkie didn't understand why—ponies loved being petted, and kids loved petting ponies. It was a mutually-beneficial situation. Adults were always going on about subjects like impropriety. She stretched just a little bit further and gave the child a gentle nose-boop. "Mommy, it kissed me!" "Of course it did." • • • An hour later, and her sense of anticipation was only growing. This was obviously why Chuck had insisted she get to the airport early. If she stood on her hind hooves, she could see the head of the line, where uniformed men and women were looking at each traveller's bag, and then talking to them. Probably giving last-minute advice, or making sure that they had remembered everything on the checklist. When she went to Manehattan with Rarity and the rest of the girls, she'd forgotten to pack toothpaste. To her disappointment, frosting hadn't been a good substitute, and she'd had to borrow some of Twilight's. I've got toothpaste this time. She bounced happily forward another six inches as the line moved. • • • She could clearly see the head of the line now. People were emptying their pockets, taking their shoes off and putting everything in little trays. Those trays—and their bags—were pushed along rollers into a machine that looked very much like the pizza oven at Chuckie Cheese's. Chuck had taken her there once, even though it turned out he wasn't related to Chuckie Cheese. Only a few more minutes of waiting, and then she'd get to talk to one of the nice humans. • • • "Place your carry-on bag in the tray." The TSAgent didn't even look at her as he gave his instructions in a bored monotone. “Yeppers.” Pinkie twisted her neck and tossed her bag up into the waiting tray. “Put your shoes on in the next tray, along with all metallic objects in your pockets.” He sounded almost like a robot, and robots didn't have emotion or empathy or a love of partying. Pinkie's mane began to flatten. She lifted up her hoof. “Can I borrow a pair of pliers? Chuck said I wasn't supposed to take pliers on the plane. They were on the list of 'prohibited items.'” She made air-quotes with her hooves, to emphasize her point. “All passengers must remove . . . their . . . shoes. . . .” His voice trailed off as he noticed her for the first time. “But they're nailed on,” Pinkie protested. “And I'm a plier-less pink party pony.” He scratched his head. “Ah, wait right here. Let me get a supervisor.” The TSAgent, looking a little less cocky than he had a moment ago, scurried off. A moment later, he was back with another man. It was obvious from the amount of gold trim on his navy blue blazer that he was a very high-ranking official. Pinkie had never seen anything quite like it, although the original Wonderbolts costume came close. The two men carried on a brief conversation of hushed whispers and occasional gestures, before the bedazzled senior TSAgent came over. “I'm sorry, we don't get a lot of ponies through here,” he said. Even to Pinkie, his apology felt insincere—but he had said he was sorry, and that was what counted. “Of course you don't have to take your shoes off.” “Phew.” She theatrically rubbed a fetlock under her forelock. “So what now?” He pointed towards a vertical tube. It reminded Pinkie Pie of the pneumatic tubes at the Earth-bank where she was storing her bits. Unlike the bank-tubes, though, people stepped inside, and rather than being whisked off to their destination, they just exited out the other side of the tube. It actually looked kind of boring, but if it was between her and an airplane flight, she was all for it. Besides, it might be funner than it looked. People wouldn't be waiting in such a long line if there wasn't some reward at the end. She pronked happily into the tube, and did her utmost to duplicate the position shown on the little placard. A moment later, she heard a strange electronic thunk, and her whole body began tingling. It wasn't a feeling like her Pinkie-sense; it felt more like her entire coat had turned inside out. She looked down to make sure it hadn't, then at a nod from the TSAgent on the other side of the backscatter machine, she stepped out. “Take your bag and go that way,” he said, a fake grin on his face. He pointed towards the senior agent. “We need to do a hand search.” “I don't have any hands,” she reminded him. “Just hoofsies.” “Of course.” His crocodile grin got a little bigger. “Just follow that guy, Miss, um.” “Pie! Pinkamena Diane Pie!” “Of course, Miss Pie. If you'd just follow him. Make sure to bring all your personal belongings.” Her ears perked as she grabbed her bag out of its little tray. She was getting special treatment! All the other people had to leave once they were done with the tube, but she was getting a personal session with a Very Important Person. She bounced happily past the steel door and into the windowless cement cubicle. “I'll just leave you with Agent Pommelhorse,” the senior agent said. “She'll take good care of you.” Pinkie swallowed a lump in her throat as she looked at the imposing visage of Agent Pommelhorse. The woman's expressionless face could have been carved from granite. She looked at Pinkie, looked down at a computer screen, then looked back up at Pinkie. With an almost audible snap, she yanked a wand out of her pants. “X-ray machine doesn't work on horses,” she muttered. “Gotta do it the old-fashioned way. Stand still, please.” With no further warning, Mrs. Pommelhorse invaded Pinkie's personal space with her wand. Pinkie looked back at it—the TSAgent's brow was furrowed as she watched the little blinking lights and listened to the strange mechanical beeps and whistles the thing gave off. Each time it made a high-pitched scree, a red light would illuminate, and Agent Pommelhorse's eyebrow would twitch upward. Since she had nothing better to do, Pinkie decided to see if she could change her magical fields to make the wand go off. After all, the game was more fun that way. It was boring to be looking for things and never find them—that was undoubtedly why Pommelhorse looked like she was sucking on a lemon. Her face broke out in a broad grin as she made the yellow light blink. The TSAgent swept the wand back, and Pinkie concentrated a little bit harder. Success! The wand screeched loudly, the red light blinked, and Pommelhorse's eyebrow went up. The game went on for five minutes before the agent finally put the wand down. “I don't think this works,” she muttered. “Do you have anything in your pockets? Or surgical implants?” “Nope and nope!” Pinkie blinked at her. “No pockets on my coat!” She patted her flank lightly. “Hmm. I'd better do a pat-down, just to be safe. Have you been patted down before?” Pinkie thought about the kid in line and nodded. “All the time—practically whenever I go out.” “Really.” Pommelhorse's eyebrow twitched again. “Well, I guess you're a pro at this, then.” She snapped on a pair of latex gloves and began groping the hapless pony. She told herself it was like being petted by a child. Or maybe like seeing a doctor—there wasn't any love in those hands, only cold clinical detachment. And she didn't take offense, not at first. Ponies, after all, were a very touchy species, much more so than humans. She grimaced as the agent's fingers ran around the underside of her hooves, and she winced as the agent's hand slid along her belly. She twitched when a finger touched her cutie mark, and her ears folded down as the finger touched her dock. Then Pommelhorse made a classic mistake. She stepped behind Pinkie and took the pony's poofy tail in her hand, anticipating perhaps finding some contraband concealed therein. As she lifted the mass of pink, her other hand fell just a little too far down Pinkie's rump. Pinkie instinctively bucked Pommelhorse back, sending her crashing across the desk. The TSAgent landed in a pile, her fall only marginally cushioned by the shattered remains of her computer. Before she could even get to her feet, the door slammed open, and three more agents rushed into the room. One of them hurried to Pommelhorse's aid, while the other two grappled Pinkie Pie to the ground. • • • “I'm really sorry about this, Miss Pie. Do you need another icepack?” She nodded, and he handed one over. He waited until she had put it up against her black eye before continuing. “Most of our agents don't know how to properly search an equine.” He sighed. “I wish they'd consulted me first.” “I'm sorry I kicked her. I didn't mean to, but—” “She's fine.” It wasn't quite true—she had two cracked ribs and a mild concussion—but things could have turned out much worse. He was under strict orders to make sure that human/pony interactions went smoothly, and while it was disappointing that he hadn't been contacted before things went south, he'd come down on airport administration with the full weight of the Federal Government behind him and explained in no uncertain terms how they would be treating ponies henceforth. There had been a few meek protests, and he was likely to receive a few scathing emails, but that was no skin off his back. “Now, as for the contents of your carry-on bag.” He motioned to the pile of belongings. “I'm afraid you were misinformed—you can take liquids and gels in small quantities, true, but you must understand our position: for public safety, this is not acceptable.” “It's just toothpaste.” “Five hundred tubes!” “I thought I might run out?” “And this?” He motioned to a slender black cylinder. “You weren't planning on using it on the plane, were you?” “Maybe if I got bored.” “Keep that in your bag,” he advised. He sighed, and then leaned forward. “I talked to the airline. They've agreed to upgrade you to first class, if you still want to go on your flight.” She looked up hopefully. “There's still time to make it?” He nodded. “If we hurry.” Pinkie's mane poofed back up. “Let's go! YAM is waiting!” Author's Note I (probably foolishly) chose not to utilize pre-readers.
FlightPinkie Pie vs the TSA Flight Admiral Biscuit He led her through the airport, carrying her bag in his left hand, while she trotted on his right side. He moved with a purposeful gait, and she almost had to trot to keep up. “Be careful on the moving walkway,” he warned her. “We're about to get to one—it's the fastest way through the terminal, unless you'd rather not attempt it.” “I can do it,” she insisted. “Alright.” He angled to his right. “It's just like an escalator, except it doesn't go up.” “Or the magic belts in the supermarket,” Pinkie chimed in. “That move the food to the magic beeping scale that knows what you want.” Her voice dropped slightly. “Beep! Pickles, sixteen ounces, two ninety-nine. Enriched flour, five pounds, four ninety-nine. K-y—“ “Yes, just like that,” he said hastily. “That's a funny name,” she said. “Sometimes I have trouble pronouncing funny names. Should it be Ki—“ “We're here. Step carefully onto the walkway—watch how I do it. Make sure you keep your hands . . . ah, nevermind.” Pinkie nodded and watched his feet. He took one step, then another, and then he was zooming away from her, propelled by the not-an-escalator. It looked incredibly fun. Following his lead, she put on one hoof, then another. Then another and another, and pretty soon the walkway was pulling her along, too. She looked up from her hooves, and for the first time noticed that some people were walking on the walkway. She tentatively moved forward, discovering that it was just like boring normal ground. “Whee!” He looked up as Pinkie pronked past, then started jogging to keep up with her. “Be ready to stop at the flashing lights,” he huffed. Even with her relatively stubby legs, she had no trouble outpacing him, and he shuddered to think what kind of speed she might be able to accomplish if she decided to gallop. Unfortunately, Pinkie tried just that on the next walkway. Luckily, there weren't any other people on it. This time he didn't even try to keep up, just watched as she somehow kept her forward momentum across the stretch of carpet, and hit the second walkway running . . . well, pronking. Which turned into a canter, and then a full-on gallop. This is amazing! Pinkie tore down the moving sidewalk, her shoes skidding ever so slightly on the metal grid. It's like those dreams I have where I can gallop forever and never get tired. I could do this forever! But she couldn't, because the walkway came to an end. Unlike her slower, more adaptable pronking speed, at a full-on gallop, she tripped on the carpet and tumbled end-over-end, finally coming to a stop sprawled out just in front of the boarding plank for the next walkway. Her guide was there before she struggled back to her hooves, and he just gave her a small sympathetic smile, but she could tell he really wanted to laugh at her predicament. “I'm okay,” she assured him. “We've got two more to go. Are you going to just stand still like a good mare?” She nodded soberly. • • • When they got to the gate, Pinkie looked eagerly at the sea of bored faces sitting in chairs. Some of them were reading newspapers, most of them were looking at their phones, and one guy that thought nobody was looking was picking his nose. In short, it was a place in need of a party! The wheels in Pinkie's head started turning. She didn't have her cannon, but there were other options. If they hadn't been confiscated, she could have had a toothpaste party. No, that's a silly idea. Nopony would like a toothpaste party. Except Minuette. “Pinkie?” She turned her head and blinked up at her escort. “Sorry.” “No, it's no problem. You need to show your boarding passes to the gate agent, and she'll make the changes to put you in first class. I'll stay here until your flight leaves, in case you've got any questions.” Or in case I'm needed to defuse another situation, he didn't add. “Those are the papers that the computer kiosk spit out, right?” “Yes. You'll need to show her your passport, too.” “Ooh, okay. Those are in my neck-bag.” She deftly pulled the zipper down, and tilted her head back so that most of the confetti explosion cleared her mane. The gate agent dove behind her desk in an attempt at self-preservation, while half the passengers looked up at the source of the disturbance. The rest of them kept their focus on their phones. “Does it do that every time?” he asked, as the gate agent peered above her desk. Pinkie nodded. “Perhaps it would be prudent to use a different bag.” “It's not the bag, it's me.” Her ears went back. “I party so much, I sneeze confetti.” “Of course.” His placid face was back on, and he efficiently sorted her boarding passes out from the wad of cake recipes that had also been in her neck-bag. He brushed a few stray bits of confetti off them and handed them over to the gate agent. “Do you mind if we wait in the VIP lounge until the flight is called?” he told her. It wasn't a question. “Not at all.” She scanned the boarding pass and wrote down Pinkie's passport number. “You can use the manual keycode—it's 999.” “Thank you.” He took the documents back and handed them to Pinkie, who stuffed them back in her document bag. “Come this way—we can wait in the lounge. Free drinks, if you want them . . . and a great view of the tarmac.” “This isn't like the special room they had me go in before, is it? I didn't like that room very much.” “No, this is just like a bar, or a restaurant.” He turned to head towards the lounge, when a familiar icon caught his eye. “Ah, you might want to make sure you use the bathroom before you get on the plane.” “Why? Aren't there bathrooms on the plane?” “Yes, but they're small. I'm not sure how you'd use one.” “Oh.” Pinkie looked back at her hindquarters, then up at him. “Well, normally, I'd—“ He held up a hand and shook his head. “I don't want to know. Just get in there, do your business, and meet me back out here, okay?” • • • Pinkie waved him a fond farewell as she stepped forward on the jetway. He'd been sooo helpful, not at all like the Meanie McMeaniepants TSAgents. Halfway down the jetway, she stopped to give him another wave—just to make sure he saw it—and then happily pronked the rest of the way to the plane. A willowy blonde woman in a short dress and uniform cap showed Pinkie to her seat and helped her stow her carry-on bag, then went off to assist another passenger. Pinkie got into her seat and pulled the instruction sheet out of the pocket. Twilight had told her in a computer telegram that they were there, and that she should read them. They weren't all that helpful. The little yellow cups weren't hanging from the ceiling, so she couldn't put hers on, and her rummaging hadn't found a lifejacket, either. By her reckoning, except for the door people were coming through, the other exits were a lie, as were the rafts. Maybe the rafts come out later. There isn't any water here, so they'd just be in the way. I hope the plane lands in the water so we can do some rafting. Overhead, a lighted sign told her to put out her cigarette and fasten her seatbelt. The cigarette was actually a challenge. She'd never used one before, and had to reach really deep into her hammerspace to find one, but every now and then, Rarity smoked, and she kept some on hoof just in case the fashionista had the need. She was so proud of herself for putting it out before the flight attendant told her to, she decided to try the seat belt for herself. It was complicated, and not hoof-friendly. The instructions only showed how it worked on a human, although the principle ought to be the same for a pony. “Will you be needing any help with your seatbelt, ma'am?” “Maybe?” Pinkie looked up from the tangle of nylon webbing. She wasn't sure quite how it had happened, but she was upside down, with one hind leg strapped to the armrest of her seat, and the other securely fastened to the seat in front of her. “Just let me reach in here,” the stewardess began as her hand went towards Pinkie's rump. • • • Fortunately for all parties involved, the seat belts worked as designed, and the stewardess had the reflexes of a cat. While she may have tightened the belt a little tighter than was strictly necessary, there was no doubt that Pinkie was securely fastened to her seat. Immovably so. “Thank you,” she said cheerfully. “It was no trouble,” the stewardess lied, smoothing her skirt. “Your panties are pretty.” Her smile faltered. “I saw them when you were getting my hind leg free.” Pinkie reached into the seat pocket and pulled out a SkyMall catalog. “Can I read this?” “Yes.” The stewardess brushed a lock of hair out of her face. “Please do.” • • • The next half hour was boring. She could see out the window, which was nice—but there wasn't anything down there to see except for little tractors zooming around the sea of concrete. The magazine was only vaguely interesting; it had lots of pictures of stuff that anypony could buy with plastic money, but not much in the way of party supplies, unless she wanted to have a London phone-booth themed party. The passengers boarding the plane weren't very talkative, and acted bored or frustrated with the whole process, and the stewardess made a point of avoiding her. Just the same, she wasn't overly bored. She'd been warned that the boarding process was . . . well, boring, hence the name. And she'd learned that sometimes you had to be patient for good stuff, so she kept looking out the window which wouldn't even open and waited until it was time to go flying. • • • The actual departure, when it came, was a total surprise. Everypony on the plane acted like they'd done it before, but for her it was a new experience. The front door was closed, the lights flickered, and then the airplane bumped backwards. Some guy in a bright yellow vest on the ground was waving around glowy sticks, and she focused on him until the stewardess started speaking safety instructions. She began by explaining the seat belts, and Pinkie could attest that she was an expert on them. No amount of squirming had managed to loosen her from her seat. Then she explained how the oxygen masks might fall from the ceiling, that the seat cushions could be used as flotation devices, and where the exits were. By the time she'd finished, Pinkie had waved her last goodbyes to the airport terminal, and was looking out the window in undisguised fascination as the airplane passed by mysterious signs that said things like 2340M and 1-19 and FBO. Other airplanes were crawling about, and there were more of the little tractors zooming around. She wondered if she could drive one—it looked like a lot of fun. Her ears perked up as she heard a crackling noise above her. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain. We're next in line for departure. We expect a two-hour flight to Sault Ste. Marie. The skies will be overcast for the duration of the flight. We have reports of mild turbulence, so please keep your seat belts fastened at all times.” Pinkie looked down at her seat belt. That wouldn't be a problem. “It's a pleasant 75 degrees—24 Celsius—in Sault Ste. Marie. On behalf of Continental Airlines, I'd like to thank you for flying with us.” He paused for a moment and then came back on the intercom. “We, ah, we really move our tails for you.” Pinkie wagged her tail appreciatively. As, much as she could, with her straightjacket-like seatbelt. When the takeoff came, it was unexpected. The whine from the back of the airplane increased to a shrill pitch, and she suddenly felt herself pushed back into her seat. Outside the window, the ground began to blur by, and she kept her muzzle pushed into the glass as the nose pitched up—something her pedal-powered gyrocopter didn't do—and the airplane left the ground. As it flew higher and higher, she looked down at the streets zipping by below, trying to find Chuck's house. She had a pretty good sense of direction, and was sure it should be visible outside her window—but it wasn't long before the airplane had reached an altitude she'd never dreamed of. It was scary, watching the houses become tinier and tinier, until they were barely visible. She kept her eyes glued to the glass as the first bits of wispy fog began sliding through her view, and suddenly the plane was in a bumpy whiteness. It felt like forever, but the plane finally broke through, treating her to a puffy white view as far as she could see. She hoped that the pilot would stop to let people out. Surely somewhere between here and YAM they'd take a brief break.
ArrivalPinkie Pie vs the TSA Arrival Admiral Biscuit “We are beginning our descent to Sault Ste. Marie,” the intercom informed her, “and we expect to be on the ground in thirty minutes. Please return to your seats at this time, put your seatbacks and tray tables in the upright position, and fasten your seat belts. Stewardesses, prepare the cabin for landing.” Pinkie looked down at her seatbelt in frustration. Despite all her efforts, it remained securely fastened. It was a pity; she'd studied the airplane instructions some more, and was fairly certain she could get a side-door open if they flew back close enough to the clouds to hop out. The stewardess went by, cleared the empty plastic glasses off her tray, and pushed it up for her. Pinkie had availed herself of the free drinks—possibly to excess, but the flight was almost over and she could hold it just a bit longer. As the plane closed in on the clouds, she began to wonder if Sault Ste. Marie was a cloud city, and her ears perked up as the plane reached cloud level. To her disappointment, it passed through, and spent a boring ten minutes in the white fog. But when it came out the bottom of the cloud, the view took her breath away. Even with the overcast sky, Lake Superior was glittering like a jewel below her, surrounded on both sides by the dark green of pine forests. It felt like forever before she saw the first sign of civilization. • • • The landing took longer than she thought it would, but when it happened, it was unexpected. It was hard to judge altitude as the plane zipped over the pines, and even when she thought they were close, they just kept flying on. She was sure she'd see a big city before they landed, and then all of a sudden she felt a sharp screeching jolt, and then there were buildings flashing by level with her window. She was jerked forwards as the scream of the engines became nearly superaudible, and the whole aircraft shuddered and bumped down the runway, finally coming to a nearly complete stop. It turned to her right, passed several incomprehensible signs, and presently stopped completely. She heard the clicks of seat belts being unfastened, and her stewardess finally took mercy on her and let her out of her seat, handing her her carry-on bag. “Passengers with checked bags, please proceed to the 2B conveyor,” the intercom announced. Pinkie shook her head. She wasn't going to follow instructions. She had important business in the nearest bathroom first. As soon as she could, she trotted up the jetway, then started looking around for the familiar signs. It took her a moment to figure them out. According to Chuck, signs in America were written in English and Illegal Immigrant. Twilight had told her those in Canada were written in Canadien English and Canadien French—which Twilight had assured her were not the same as American English and French French. Still, the silhouette-people for the bathrooms were pretty much the same in American and Canadien, and she trotted into a stall, making sure to keep her carry-on bag with her, as the airport frequently advised. It's weird how I can party all night long and never have to pee, but when I'm in a place where I can't easily get to a bathroom—like a train or an airplane or Chuck's car—it feels like I have to go all the time. She wasn't the only traveler so inclined; by the time she was at the sink and washing her hooves, there was a short line of women waiting to use the facilities. Weird how the men's room never has much of a line. Pinkie walked back out to the main part of the terminal and glanced up and down the hallways for clues where baggage claim 2B might be located. This airport was lacking in the moving walkways, which was unfortunate. They'd been a lot of fun, and she hoped when she flew back, she'd have time to play with the walkways again. It didn't take her long to figure out where to go—the airport signage was very good, and she thus far hadn't been able to notice any differences between American English and Canadien English. Unless things meant the opposite, and she was supposed to not go where the arrows pointed. Chuck had told her that was the case in Australia, where they walked upside-down and talked backwards. She could fly there next, now that she knew the process. She backed onto the down escalator. Going down forwards made her too muzzle-heavy—the steps were steeper than anypony sensible would design. Maybe if she stood on her hind hooves—but that was hard to do on a moving conveyance. • • • Downstairs was another moving conveyor, although signs very clearly indicated she wasn't supposed to ride it. She recognized some of the people who had been on her flight, and they were all patiently waiting, looking at the conveyor, so she did the same, hoping it was like the ones in the supermarket. She moved close to a family, and it was only a moment before the children noticed her approach. They looked up at their mother questioningly, and she turned her ears in that direction. “No,” the mother said firmly. “It's not polite to pet strangers, eh?” “I don't mind,” Pinkie assured her. “Really, I'm used to it.” “Are you sure?” Pinkie nodded. “Oh, thank you. That means so much to them. You know, we see ponies like you on TV sometimes, but to actually see one here in the flesh—you were all they talked about on the flight. Do you mind if I take a selfie?” “Nopers!” Pinkie shifted around, next to the woman. Her two children were already running their hands across her muzzle, and she crouched down beside them, instructed them to face her cell phone, and then took a picture. “I wanna take one, too,” Pinkie said, reaching back and pulling out a camera. “Your foals . . . uh, kids are cute. Are they both sired by the same stallion?” Her eyes flicked to the left, her smile faltered for a second, and then came back full-force. “Of course. I'm married.” “Ah.” Pinkie grinned at her camera. “Everypony say picklebarrel kumquat.” “Huh?” Click Once the selfies were taken, she leaned down to give the children better access to her mane and ears. That was one of her biggest weaknesses—there was a little spot behind her ears that was super sensitive to a finger's touch, and the towheaded boy found it. A moment later, her ears jerked back up as she heard a clanging bell, and the conveyor jerked into motion. The woman went to the conveyor belt, while her children kept pawing Pinkie. A moment later, bags began appearing through a curtain. Pinkie waited patiently where she was. Her bag hadn't shown up yet. Even if it had, she was far too happy to be in any hurry to move. She could have stayed there being petted for hours, but the mother finally came back with three bags—one was a boring black bag, the second had a picture of a happy race car on it, and the third showed a trio of skinny teens that vaguely looked like the bipeds Twilight had described at Canterlot High, although these were more monster-y. Now with no further motivation to wait by the bag conveyor, Pinkie darted forward to grab her suitcase, and dragged it off the track. The TSA-approved lock was missing, she noticed, but that was a small thing to worry about. She'd had trouble with the combination anyway—it was by no means hoof-friendly. More arrows pointed her towards immigration, so she headed that way. Once again, there was a queue trailing around the ropes. Pinkie sighed. She'd thought that as soon as she got her bag, she'd be able to meet up with Twilight and her host, but apparently there was still another inspection to endure. She looked back at her hind legs. “Be good, you two.” • • • When she got to the head of the line, she went up to a little cubicle. A bored-looking man was sitting there. He held out his hand. “Passport, please.” She nodded, and unzipped her bag. The confetti explosion was spectacular. • • • “It just does that,” Pinkie insisted. “Everything I touch does that after a while.” “So you say.” She was in a private area, with three Canadian immigration officials studying her intently. A fourth was gingerly inspecting her neck bag. So far he'd shaken out a wastebasket of confetti, and it kept coming. One of the agents looked away from his computer and whispered in another's ear. That agent—who Pinkie had nicknamed 'Curly' for his curly hair—leaned forward and tapped her passport. “Do you have any other documentation?” “Like what?” “Driver's license?” “Nope.” “Birth certificate?” She scrunched her forehead. “Silly, nopony gets an award for being born.” She pointed a hoof up at the passport. “Twilight said that was all I needed.” “It's just . . . not as secure as we prefer, eh.” He flicked at the edge of the photo, which had been taped on with scotch tape. “This could be anybody's passport, and just be your photo.” “It smells like me,” she offered. To his credit, Curly sniffed the passport, then leaned forward and sniffed her. Mow—nicknamed because of his short manecut—gently smacked Curly on the back of the head before turning his attention back to Pinkie. “Does your embassy put any security provisions in your passports?” “Solar and Lunar magic.” Her pupils shrank, and she began reciting by rote. “Presenting a fraudulent passport will cause the bearer's cutie mark to be replaced by a black X, and she will be banished from the herd for a period of no less than ten moons.” The two immigration officials looked at each other, and then back at Pinkie. “Well, all right. It matches up with your record, I guess. Perhaps you should suggest that your embassy laminate the photographs.” “The Ovis embassy does that, I think.” Pinkie snatched her passport back and stuck it into her mane, since the fourth official was still de-confettiing her identification bag. “Are we done?” “No.” The third agent spoke up for the first time. She decided to call him 'Larry,' since he looked kind of like a hoe with a perforated blade for working with plaster or cement. It was bit of a stretch, but she was getting tired. “No?” Her ears fell. “Have you ever been arrested?” She wrinkled her muzzle. “Here or in Equestria?” The three officers leaned forward. “Let's start with here,” Larry began. “I want to know about this felony on your record.” “Felony?” He nodded. “According to the FBI database, you have a felony. Do you mind telling me what it's aboot?” “I . . . I got kicked out of an Olive Garden once.” “That's it?” She shook her head. “I got taken out by a policepony, and they made me go down to the station and took my picture and tried to take hoofprints but their inkpad wasn't big enough and so they kept me in a little room while they decided what to do and they took all my bits and made me take off my saddlebags and went through them and made me put on an orange suit that didn't fit right and I kept tripping over the back legs 'cause it wouldn't go over my tail and kept falling down and they thought that was funny but in a mean way and then after a couple of hours a nice woman in a pantsuit that fit a lot better than my pantsuit came and said she was a Dee-eh and that they weren't going to file charges and I could go but I wasn't allowed to go back to that Olive Garden again.” She rose up and leaned towards the counter. “Which is fine, because their service wasn't very good and the breadsticks were hardly unlimited and the pasta wasn't cooked with enough salt and the lady in the next booth over kept complaining that I was immodest and flashing her boyfriend.” “Well, it says that you were arrested for indecent exposure.” Larry looked up from the computer screen. “Since there's no disposition of your crime on the record, we have to look up what we'd do had you committed the crime in Canada.” He turned to Mow. “You got the book?” Mow nodded, and pulled it out from under the counter and handed it to Larry. Then Mow and Curly looked at each other. “How does a pony get arrested for indecent exposure?” “I have no idea. Dumb American cops, eh?” Pinkie gave no sign she'd understood, but she was actually really good at reading lips. “Why don't you go wait on one of those benches,” Curly suggested. “It'll be more comfortable than sitting here, waiting on us.” “How long is it going to take? Twilight's waiting for me.” “Shouldn't take too long,” he assured her. • • • “Miss Pie?” Curly waved to her. She jumped to her hooves. She could only imagine how deep a hole Twilight was wearing in the rug outside. The clock had ticked off three-quarters of an hour while her agents had consulted their giant red book, and everybody else in the room who had been waiting had already been cleared. “Yes!” “How old would you say the gentleman and lady at Olive Garden were?” “I dunno. I'm not good at guessing people's ages.” “Well, did they give any sign of their ages? Were they smoking? Drinking?” “Did either of them have a handgun?” “Who brings a handgun to an Olive Garden?” “In America? Probably every Republican.” “I don't think Republicans go to Olive Garden, eh?” “They had wine,” Pinkie said. “Both of them?” Curly looked over the counter. “Yes.” “Well.” He gave a smug look at Larry. “Then it's not illegal here, eh?” Looking back at Pinkie, he explained. “In Canada, you wouldn't have broken any laws.” He snapped the book shut. “So no foul.” “Is that it?” “Almost. We'd just like to examine your luggage.” Pinkie sighed. The three officers carried her bags over to a small table, helpfully gave her a stool to sit on, and opened her carry-on bag. It was mostly empty. Five hundred tubes of toothpaste had taken up a lot of space, and now four hundred ninety-nine of them were gone. Between that, and all the prohibited items Chuck had made her remove, there wasn't much left. Still, the immigration agents were thorough, and emptied the few contents of her bag out on the table, before poking around at her bag, checking for secret compartments. Satisfied that there were none, he lifted a long, black cylinder off the table. It had one hemispherical end, a battery compartment near the back, and was about twenty inches long. It had been loosely wrapped in a towel, along with its remote control. “This isn't the kind of thing most people have in their carry-on luggage,” he commented. “Were you expecting to use it on the airplane?” “I didn't know if I would. But I thought I might get bored.” “So you figured . . . what? That you'd head into the bathroom?” Pinkie nodded. “Would it even fit?” Her face colored slightly. “I was worried about that, but I didn't have a chance to test it out before the flight. I did bring that, just in case it was too tight.” She pointed to a flat package on the table. “It would keep the bathroom from getting all wet, too.” “That's a little extreme,” Larry said, examining the package. “I mean, for an airplane. At home . . . well, that's your business.” “My friend Twilight has one just like it. She uses it all the time. She says it's lots of fun.” “I'm sure it would be.” Curly began packing her things back in her carry-on. “But trust me, an airplane bathroom is way too small for a remote-controlled submarine, even if you do have a wading pool with you.” He zipped the bag shut, and turned to her checked bag. “I get why you didn't pack any clothes,” Curly said as he looked inside the bag. “And—I'll be honest—I can even see why you'd want that much shampoo. But what's up with all the toothpaste? Have you got a toothbrushing fetish?” • • • “So that's it, then?” The three nodded, and slid the suitcases to her. “Unless you've got anything on your person,” Mow chuckled. Pinkie froze. “You mean like my camera?” All three agents looked at her, and at her bags. There had been no camera. Mow narrowed his eyes. “Where's your camera?” “It's right here, silly!” Pinkie reached back into her hammerspace and pulled out her camera. Larry looked at her, mouth agape. “Where. . . .” “What else have you got?” “Oh, lots of stuff.” Pinke reached back and began pulling forth objects. “Let's see, a couple of rubber balls in case Cerberus gets loose again, an umbrella hat, a half-dozen eyepatches, in case of eyepatch emergency—“ “Eyepatch emergency?” “Look at the size of these eyes, buster. Trust me, eyepatches are handy to have.” She reached back again. “Ah: a spare horseshoe, two of AJ's extra hair-ties, a bow for Apple Bloom, binoculars, a microscope for itty-bitty stuff, a Skymall catalog, rubber chicken, a pin-the-tail-on-the-pony board with no tails 'cause the pins in them were prohibited, croquet mallet, a greatest hits of the Ponytones record—you should listen to it, they're really good. Keep it, I'm sure I have another somewhere. Ooh, let's see. Other side. Hm, here's a normal umbrella for normal rain or Mary Poppins emergencies, three quills and an inkwell for Twilight, an emergency hoof-mirror for Rarity and a second unbreakable one for after she throws the first and stomps on it and then apologizes but did you see the state of my mane, darling, and oh there's that other croquet mallet—can't have a game with just one. Oh, and I have a birthday card for you, Curly.” She presented it with a flourish. “I hope you don't mind if I wrote that in the card. It's way more personal than Immigration Officer Penna, don't you think?” The three agents stared dumbfounded at the pile in front of them. For a moment all was silent. Then Curly reached forward and took the card from Pinkie's grasp. “Is . . . is that it?” he asked cautiously. “Well, there was a cake, but Chuck said it was prohibited, so I didn't bring it.” She let out a sigh. “But that's all you have . . . on you.” Mow insisted. “Yup.” Larry looked down at the pile and shrugged. “None of it's contraband. Let her go.” “Thanks!” The three watched in undisguised fascination as she made all the objects disappear back into her hammerspace. Then she grabbed the bags off the table, and happily pronked out the door. “Twilight!” As the doors closed, the three agents heard an unmistakable glomping noise, and then a concerned voice—Twilight's, they assumed—began asking Pinkie what had taken her so long. They did not hear what her answer was, because Immigration Officer William 'Curly' Penna opened his birthday card, and the confetti explosion and accompanying kazoo fanfare was loud enough to temporarily deafen them. Author's Note Story notes here!
