And you thought my regular "books" were bad...
Moosetasm had lovingly locked his gaze upon the sensuous bright purple eyes of the strangely alluring figure who stared back at him from the circular aperture. His own eyes couldn't help but drink in the intoxicating sight. Pristine pearly white coat, mane blacker than Luna's blackest night, horn. He was only vaguely aware that he was looking into a mirror, staring at his own reflection, ogling it, one might say if they were so inclined, which they were, and still are, to this day.
"Oh yeah." His own voice lilted in such a manner that the mirror shattered from the sheer tenor of it.
He was the sexiest, awesomest, broke-back-mountainingest OC he knew. Some of the lesser ponies around referred to him as a Ponysona, whatever in Tartarus that was. He knew the truth, though, nopony could take away his OC status. Even if they tried to tear it forcibly from him, with fleshy hooks, which he actually was looking forward to with the Mrs. this weekend. He was OC through and through, nothing was ever gonna change that. Speaking of change, why was he wearing a diaper?
He didn't allow such droll considerations to enter his vacuous, solipsistic, mind, well, at least not for very long. He had an offensive (and we do mean offensive here) to carry out. Without any consideration for story pacing or scenery transition at all, he was suddenly leading a small platoon, neigh, a company, neigh, a battalion of ponies against the symbol of total equality that was the bastion of the red menace.
By red menace, he meant none other than the Communist leader to lead all other communist leaders, Starlight Glimmer. She was such a communist that she practically wore a red cape and held a hammer an sickle across her barrel like the Neighgyptian Pharaohs of old. Moosetasm was so distraught by the blasted commies that he tried to commission Pinkie Pie to write a song about it. The Pink Party Pony just raised an eyebrow in confusion and pointed him towards a group of liberal slanted media.
"Where are the changelings?" he bellowed in a dying wail that rivaled the flaming screech of the wreckage of the Hindenburg as he was joined on one side by a red earth pony and the other blue pegasus. The red, white, and blue, All American, trio caterwauled through the press, knocking cameras, flash bulbs, notepads, and fedoras everywhere.
With their intricate well designed disguises forcibly removed, like a newborn foal stolen from it's crib in the Australian Outback by a pack of Frisky Dingoes, the press ponies lamented their misfortune and knew that they could not keep up the laughable charade, at least not any longer than a triple decker chocolate fudge cake could survive in the presence of the ravenous Princess of the Sun, and morphed back into their true, changeling forms.
It should be noted at this point that the idiot crazy guy author compared the writing of this "epic novel for the ages" to the process of sawing one's own gangrenous limb off to prevent infection. "You don't want to do it, but you know you have to. And you can't just ignore the pain. Or the grating of... You know know what, I'm done with this metaphor."
As we return to the story, already in progress, we can see that the changelings have begun to bask the strange almost smokey haze given off by a group of ponies led by none other than the indomitable Tree Hugger. With the changelings able to feed off of the "free love" provided, they would undoubtedly ally themselves with the forces of... erm not Communism.
Moosetasm knew that they were in a bind and would need to take drastic action in order to remedy their sudden stroke of good luck. He wrapped a long, extremely gangly, hoof into a crushing vice of a bear hug around the suddenly rigid form of the unexpectant pegagus Miranda Laufeyson. Her face contorted into a mixture of horror, embarrassment, and unrepentant rage.
"You see that?" He whispered wistfully, in a gruff baritone that was reminiscent of a roofing tile factory caught in a category 4 tornado.
The pegasus tried to frantically extricate herself from the strangely soothing, like being lovingly dragged into the briny depths by an octopus masseuse, iron kung-fu grip while trying to blatantly ignore Moosetasm's other hoof as it pointed with a deep watery longing into the sky.
"Somepony needs hugs," he wept into the stupid cactus from the Twilight works of art that had somehow replaced his erstwhile companion. With a muzzle full of quills, which left no lasting consequences beyond that moment, Moosetasm knew his new goal was to reach unparalleled heights and comfort the Princess of the night in her darkest hour.
Suddenly, like a balloon animal popping at five year old's birthday party, there was a scene transition that would leave even the most avid roller coaster enthusiast rolling uncontrollably in a puddle of their own tossed cookies. And I'm talking like Chips-Ahoy and Oreos here, not that store brand garbage that tastes like cardboard and leaves you with a feeling of emptiness and abandonment, like when you spend a bit at a vending machine and you know that you'll never see that bit again. It makes me feel an unquenchable thirst, one that can only be quenched by the sweet sweet taste of K-1 17 octane kerosene.
Sonata Dusk followed the trail of Tacos out of the unhygienic non country specific restaurant. With her staggeringly vast intellect, on par with AM, the Allied Mastercomputer, she knew that the cornflour wrapped spiced mystery meat substitute gifts were a trap meant to ensnare her, like a pegasus in an animal trap designed for small animals. Still, she could not resist the lure of the mouth wateringly scrumptious meat packages.
Before she knew what was going on, and in the interest of time and the author's sanity, she found herself being offered an unlimited quantity of her beloved, most favorite thing in the known universe. All that was required of her was that she use her siren powers to call the moon of the past to the earth of present so that some bizarre small talking horse could do something involving hugs. When she was alone again, she realized that she now had no way to collect the proffered foodstuffs. She fell to the ground and cried, like a certain prince at all known weddings.
Princess Luna was ever regal, even in her banishment, as Princess of the Night. She observed the painstakingly beautiful blue marble that was the Earth through tear streaked eyes. She was filled with a crippling despair that could only only be paralleled by the very void that surrounded her annoyingly desolate prison. Without warning, a pair of creamy alabaster limbs embraced her in what could only be called the most awkward embrace that she had ever experienced. Not the least of the reasons for her consternation forced a strangled vocalization to form in her throat.
"Art thou wearing a diaper?"
End, thank Cthulhu
