Chapter 1: The Road Less Traveled
Vinyl Scratch, the infamous DJ Pon3, was sleeping.
Her neon-blue mane was messier than usual and she was laying face-down on her pillow. Her signature purple-lensed shades sat on her bedside table, the left lens resting beside them.
After stumbling home from a particularly late-running gig, where a significant amount of alcohol had been consumed, she had crashed into the doorframe, knocking the lens out. She had made a clumsy effort to replace it before giving up and passing out.
Suddenly, a wave of house-shaking wubbage from the dishwasher crashed into her ears, and she woke with a pained yelp.
Teeth gritted in agony as the throbbing bass speared through her hangover, she mashed her pillow over her ears and staggered awkwardly towards the stairs on her hind legs.
At the top of the stairs she tripped and, with a yell, tumbled down.
When she hit the bottom of the stairs her horn bit into the floor and bit into it, sticking her there.
“Turn it off Tavi! Turn it off!” She hollered as the renewed bass sent spikes of pain into her brain.
There was a pause and then, mercifully, the bass cut out.
With a grunt Vinyl tugged herself free of the floorboards and straightened up.
“Where were you last night?” Octavia demanded, her normally glossy mane in total disarray, and wearing an old pink bathrobe, “You said you’d be back by ten.”
“Some encores were called, requests made, remixes improvised, and alcohol shotgunned,” Vinyl said thickly.
She cast about with bleary eyes, and spotted the coffee pot beside the sink.
She made her way over to it and, without bothering to grab a cup, she chugged the entire pot.
It by no means made a dent in her headache, but it cut through the fog and cleared out the god-awful taste of cheap vodka and vomit out of her mouth.
“You do know that this is not a healthy lifestyle, right?”
Vinyl spat out a mouthful of filter paper and coffee grounds into the sink.
“Gotta pay the mortgage somehow. Only two years left!”
Octavia sighed.
“I’m only saying that I’m worried for you as your friend,” she said softly, watching Vinyl hunt through the fridge for breakfast.
X X X X X X X X X X X X X
Meanwhile, on the road from Phillydelphia, a lone unicorn wearing a stained traveling cloak and hauling a covered cart crested the hill and paused.
He had a sandy tan coat, a shaggy crimson mane with streaks of gold, and he was wearing pair of red-lensed shades.
Well, Power Chord, he thought to himself, You’d better pray to Celestia that the trip was worth it.
Power Chord unhitched himself from the cart and carefully rolled up his cloak, revealing his Cutie Mark, an electric guitar being struck by a bolt of lightning.
He tossed the cloak into the cart and his horn flared as he lifted a small bag of Bits and a battered studded leather jacket out.
He donned the jacket, savoring the comfortable feeling of the soft leather, and stuck the Bits into a pocket before hitching himself up again and continued towards Ponyville.
He gritted his teeth as he coaxed his aching muscles back into motion.
He had been traveling for almost six days now. Ever since an accidental fire had left him homeless, he had been steadily making his way to Ponyville. Along the way he had braved storms, potholes, and cheap inn rooms.
Once, he had stumbled upon a group of timber wolves, and barely escaped with his life.
Another time he had come across a group of parasprites, but a little classic Filly Hendrix had been enough to avoid a swarm like the one that had hit Phillydelphia a few years back.
He grinned as he remembered the incident, for it had been that swarm that had enabled him to get his Cutie Mark.
The parasprites had, bizarrely, ignored the ample food supplies and instead attacked all the patently non-edible objects. Lampposts, carts, buckets, clothes, and even houses.
The situation had gotten so bad that Princess Celestia herself had come down to push back the pests, but they were too fast for her and multiplied faster than she could burn them.
He himself had been hiding in a bookstore. Before the attack had come he had been scouring the shelves for something, anything, that felt like it would get him his Cutie Mark.
Then the manager had run past his hiding spot, screaming as parasprites tore at her sweater and hat, and had knocked a stack of books down on top of him.
Whether through divine conspiracy or just freak chance, one of the books had been a menagerie of exotic pests and when it fell in front of him it fell open to the page on parasprites.
And how to deal with them., but not before he had read the key to stopping them.
He had burst out of the shop, dodging a wayward blast of Celestia’s magic, and beelined towards the nearest shop.
Feeling extraordinarily guilty, he had smooshed a parasprite that had been trying to eat a brick, then chucked it through the store window.
Making his way through the powdered glass, he cast about for something that he could use.
His gaze had fallen upon a glossy red electric guitar resting atop a polished black portable amp, and immediately fell in love.
By the time he figured out how to hook everything up and lugged the setup back onto the street, the situation had deteriorated alarmingly.
Celestia was completely hidden by clouds of swarming parasprites, although great beams of golden energy occasionally seared through.
Mane Street had looked like a war zone, with panicked townspeople each trying to run four different directions at the same time, law enforcement and security fighting back to the best of their ability, and parasprites. Every. Fucking. Where!
He had set down the amp, turned the volume up to full, leapt, then slammed out a power chord that had shattered every window on the block. All the parasprites had immediately frozen and turned to him as he played his heart out. Every rock song he had ever learned or heard. Green ‘n Bay, Filly Hendrix, Van Hay-len, all the classic masters.
While the parasprites were distracted, Princess Celestia had been able to vaporize every last one of the bugs.
The townspeople had cheered for him, obviously, but the praise that meant the most to him had come from the Princess herself.
She had landed in the middle of Mane Street, and he had tried to bow like the others, but his forelegs were too sore from almost three hours of nonstop playing, so all he could manage was a graceless flop onto the paving stones.
“Well done young musician,” she had said, the pride in her regal voice filling his chest with warmth, “Your city is in your debt. You have done us all proud.”
Then, turning to leave, she had looked around and smiled at him.
“One more thing,” she had said, then nodded at his flank, “Look.”
He had complied and seen, to his utter elation, his brand new Cutie Mark.
His smile turned slightly rueful as he remembered the events that had transpired afterwards.
After a few weeks in the limelight, much to is relief, all the attention had died down as new crises had brought around new heroes. He had endured another small stint of fame after he joined the popular rock band the Mustangs as the lead guitar, but he had quit the band soon after and gladly faded into the background.
Then one thing had led to another, and here he was, with all his surviving possessions loaded into his cart, and bound for a new start in Ponyville.
He hoped nopony there owned the Mustangs album “Dragonhearted”.
