DJ PON-3 and Octavia vs Event Horizon

Event Horizon scanned behind the counters.

“Hmm…” he rested his claws on the glass counter, tapping, “These are all so expensive.”

The stallion helping him sighed,

“Sir, you’ve been staring at those for an hour. Are you going to buy something, or not?”

Horizon looked shocked, “What? Buy something? I’m a music producer, I don’t have any money. I just came here to stare at all the VSTs I can’t buy. Hmm…” he continued. The earth pony looked like he was about to explode, before Horizon pointed at something.

“Oh, what’s that over there? Luna Beats?” It was a dark blue box with a whole lot of special effects added to a still audio spectrum in white, wrapped in thin plastic.

“Luna Beats are a 10 gig sample pack of drum and percussion loops.”

“Why in the name of Celestia would I pay 199 bits for loops I could most likely make myself?”

“Look, I just work he-”

“Why are they even called Luna Beats?”

“I don-”

“How are ponies even buying this? You’re telling me they can’t spend 10 minutes EQing their drums, but they can drop 200 big ones on-”

“BRO,” the ponies said, loudly, “I don’t know!” Somepony with loud headphones introduced themselves into the store. There was a lot of screeching, and the smack of a high snare drum on every other beat. Horizon turned to look quickly to see the face he wanted to see the least. The face behind those stupid glasses, sealed with those customized headphones.

“HEY WHAT’S UP TWO HART,” she yelled over the volume in her ears, “GOOD DAY TODAY, RIGHT?” Horizon looked down at her in absolute disgust.

“Yeah Vinyl,” the pony behind the counter responded, completely forgetting about Event Horizon, “Pretty chill.”

Vinyl didn’t hear a thing he said and just stared at him silently, snare still bursting at the seams. Horizon couldn’t help himself as he pulled one of the headphones from her ear and yelled,

“HE SAID IT’S PRETTY CHILL!” All the synths and high screeching exploded from her headset once the headphone was lifted up, catching attention throughout the store.

“Oh, whoa there dude,” she said, pulling her headphones down, “Chill out man.”

“Oh please,” Horizon started, “I can’t possibly relax with that screeching nonsense in my presence.” Vinyl raised an eyebrow,

“Bro…?”

“You’re that dubstep mare, right? DJ PON-3? Please.” He crossed his arms and looked away from her.

Vinyl huffed, “Yeah, I’d like to see you try and make some.”

“As a matter of fact,” he looked back down at her, “I can’t. It’s too nonsensical.” She snorted, pulling down her shades for a second.

“Why is it you make dubstep a ‘2 feel’? Why not just put it in… I dunno… 2?” he started up again, “Also, in the world of music, the genre that restricts itself to a permanent BPM dies first.”

“Pfft, keep talking. Whatever it is you do, I’m sure doesn’t compare in complexity.”

“Thankfully; progressive and electro house is the music of the future,” he said, placing a claw on his chest, “A stable 4/4 beat can make anypony’s day from here to the moon.”

“HA!” Vinyl threw her shades back up, “I thought you said death comes to the music that restricts its BPM!”

Horizon narrowed his eyes, “House music, isn’t restric-”

“So tell me why everything is at 130.”

“It doesn’t have to-”

Vinyl flicked her tail, “Neither does dubstep ya know. Besides, it hardly matters when-” there was a flash that blinded the entire room’s populace that revealed a fresh figure in the room.

“Um, guys?” Princess Celestia asked them, levitating a scroll, “I hate to interrupt, but, unfortunately with the way this story is going, I’m afraid we’re going to alienate the readers.”

“What, who cares, that’s there problem,” Horizon huffed, “It’s not even for them anyway.”

“*their,” corrected Celestia, “and if it’s not for the readers, who is it for?”

“It’s for the people who understand this stuff, you know? Music production…”

“Yeah, it’s just cool beats all around,” Vinyl said, bouncing her head.

Celestia laughed,

“Silly ponies, music producers can’t read; they can barely do math and they count for a living. Either switch up the pace, or, end the story quickly, while you still have them smiling in mild amusement. They were patient enough to read it this far without going, 'I have no idea what the hell is happening or about anything they’re talking about'.”

“How do you speak in italics?”

“I’m gonna choose to continue this story until the idea gets old and no longer funny,” Horizon declared, “So let’s; get; lame!” Vinyl Scratch lit up her horn and plopped a grey earth pony by her side from her magic. A filthy, dirty, lowly, earth pony. She was clean, well groomed and dressed, but, she was an earth pony… who cares?

“Octy,” Vinyl started, “Our boy here is a house producer hatin on another genre of music... school him.”

“Pfft,” Octavia began her song, “Electronic music… spare me. You throw four chords on a chart and you call it a song.”

Horizon lifted a claw, “Actually a number of Zett’s songs are-”

“And don’t get me started on those… oh what does Vinyl call them… ‘presets’! That’s right! You take data somepony else has already made, and you use it OVER AND OVER again!”

Vinyl Scratch smirked, clearly unaware that Octavia was insulting her music too.

“Last I recall,” Horizon countered, “Every instrument you use is already a preset. Somepony else made it, and you use the same tuning scale too! EVERY SINGLE SONG.”

“They’re not called songs,” she responded, “Unless they vocals in them. Everything else is works or pieces, from the orchestral Symphony, to the Piano Sonata. All has countless hours of meditation and precise, evolving melody which flows in a structure much more free than four blocky chords.”

“Precise?!” Horizon exclaimed, outraged, “You play more Mendelsun Cello Sonatas than any real composers.”

Octavia gasped, “How dare you? Like you know any ‘real’ composers?”

Horizon smirked, “I know all the ones that don’t sound like they’re having a seizure at their instrument and it just so happened to be in a key signature.” Before Octavia could continue, he kept pushing,

“Isn’t it funny that everypony in the 19th Century sounds like a bumble bee’s wings randomly distributed a bunch of notes on a page? Forgive me, Beetroten,” he mumbled.

“The Romantic Era was about expression and passion. Why, Hoofgang Amaluneus Coatzart just wants silly tricks and clever accidentals rather than expression.”

“... and that’s still more organized than Alkan’s Klavierstucks.”

“THAT’S TIME,” Celestia announced, waving a flag in between the heated… beings, “WHO WON? WHO’S NEXT? YOU DECIDE!”