Pinkie The Mighty

Pinkie the Mighty

Chapter 1

B.Lulaoon

The great and powerful Trixie, was not feeling so great and powerful at the moment. In fact, she was feeling rather melancholy. “Ah- CHOO!” Trixie readjusted the helmet so that she could once again see out of her liquid visor. The helmet, of course, being a testament to the engineering of nano-biotechnology…using the viscous spit bubbles of  tentacle monsters that consume boogers, brainwaves, and gelatin while farting oxygen to create an economical life support modules was pure genius… especially when said spit bubble sort of inflated like a balloon  when you sneezed.

“Ohmygosh!” Pinkie Squee’d “Even your sneezes are adorable.” Describing the helmet as resembling something like a bubble with four tentacles lining up along one’s lower mandible, with two additional tentacles wrapped around one’s ears like the horns of a ram would still be a horribly vague description of the ovoid bubble shaped bunny eared device that was her space helmet.

“Dam’mit Pinkie! You‘re not helping” The sulking unicorn huffed indignantly. An extra set of long flat tentacles that resembled antenna, often described as bunny ears because they were so long and flat (despite being closer to eyestalks), pulled back to reflect Trixie’s grouchy mood. Pinkie, naturally, was not wearing a space helmet as her species apparently did not follow the normal laws of physics when it came to breathing… Still, in this case, it was probably safe to assume there was air (if not a breathable atmosphere) based on the fact that Pinkie Pie was still talking.

“Awe! But you’re so cute Bloo.” Pinkie was anxious, it wasn’t often she found herself  resisting the urge to pick her partner up and hold her, squeeze her, and play with her like she was kewpie doll. But, thanks to those seminars on boundaries, sexual harassment, inappropriate touching, and affirmative action she was forced to take back at the home office [for the twelfth time] she knew better. . . When it came to little kids.

“Trixie told you to stop calling her that!” The young unicorn grumbled. Although she had to admit it was better than ‘Suicidal’ or ‘Berserker Buddy.’

“I ‘ll bet you need a hug.” Pinkie’s voice was phishing for approval. And, it promised a curry comb through her mane and a hair brush  through Trixie’s tail if she gave in to the pink pony’s veiled desire for physical contact.

“No. YOU need a hug. __We__ need to track down Borf, Revi, Geega, and that infanto-ray thingie before they use it to take over the galax-SEE” it was then that the transformation induced by the infanto-ray wore off as Trixie was restored to her former glory. Faster than a lightning bolt, in half a filly second, Pinkie latched on to Trixie like white on rice and glommed onto her partner with the force of accretion known only to the gods of plushie dolls and puppy dogs. “Yes. Yes. Trixie knows she’s bestest pony,” Trixie stated as she tried to pry, wedge, and dislodge her partner. “But, if you don‘t let Trixie go right now, Trixie will hurt you and have you thrown in a rubber room.”

“That‘s okay, I like balloons.” Pinkie Replied. This, of course, was followed by another tight squeeze which incidentally forced all the air out of Trixie’s lungs; Effectively inflating her helmet further beyond the dioxide per square inch rating it was intended to endure. Immediately, and with a wet pop, the clear gelatin like substance that comprised the face shield of  her squid turned bascinet exploded in a way that only a slime (with the viscosity of paraffin wax and ky jelly) can.  Naturally the word “Ick!” accompanied this loud splurt of explosive flatulence and both space ponies were coated in the sludge of an onomatopoeic silly putty.

That is to say two things happened to Trixie in that very moment. Pinkie let her partner go in order to shake the transparent ice blue slime out of her fur like a strigil slaking oil, and Trixie took in the largest, deepest, and shortest gasp of breath she could before holding her breath like an ocean blossom. Hoping that her helmet had enough ink left in its reserve to fart out a new respirator just before she suffocated like a fish with no water, which was unlikely given any form of symbiosis and sentience the squid had was tied into their spaceship’s A. I., and calling the downed patrol shuttle a ship was a generous description of the now totaled spacecraft before it was wreckage.

Bellatrix Lulamoon was about ten seconds from panic. Of course, for Trixie, breathing in the chemicals through every available orifice as expediently as possible _without resorting to sewing her lips to the anus of a genetically engineered invertebrate_ meant that her nostrils burned with the fire of polluted monoxide and with a subtle hint of pine and apples. Oh sweet juniper berries, she hoped the atmosphere here, on this planet, wasn’t too oxygen rich. She’d either be higher than Pinkie Pie or look quite the fool if she had to kiss a swollen jellyfish’s ass all day…

A short while earlier, and a rather fortunate coincidence for the two galaxy federation police officers (because Trixie could no longer reach the buttons or pedals necessary to pull it off), Pinkie managed to land most of the doomed spacecraft in a bog on the outskirts of a large forest that bordered a nearby village. It didn’t keep the ship from breaking apart or exploding, but the trees of the mostly evergreen forest managed to brake down the speed of the craft just long enough to eject the control module. Which, ideally, could have been used as a rather limited two seat habitation module with a cloaking device and radio (to use an anachronism) capable of transmitting their location back to headquarters. That was assuming said module had not gone into a barrel roll, released the parachute upside down, caught fire, or decided this would be the day the airbags, safety foam, and safety belts would all malfunction spectacularly. . . At least they wouldn’t starve with all the potatoes, sweet or otherwise, those contemptible engineers had the foresight to use as packing peanuts. Because, clearly, being stoned to death with a hailstorm of tribble sized potatoes was the ultimate back up to the backup's, buck-up plan should all the safety features of the vehicle stop working at once.

Granted, Trixie would have preferred fewer nuts both preceding and following the current disaster. A disaster involving intergalactic criminals _setting up something slightly less spectacular than a probability advantaged shell game_ that had apparently stranded both her and her partner in some godforsaken forest (in the middle of a gravity well), on some backwater blue drop [orbited by a sun of all things,] in the horsehead nebula (surrounded by worthless potatoes). Shockingly, the only reason Pinkie survived after the fall was her body was made out of rubber and  her horseshoes were made out of springs.  It goes without saying those springs were made up of highly woven nano-fibers, and by rubber one means something analogous to living bubblegum. Again, Bellatrix in her diminutive state, used telekinesis to wrap herself with a ball of metaphorical bubble wrap; but this more or less had the effect of converting the blue unicorn into a rubber wrapped hamster ball filled with glass putty. Soon,  Both Pinkie and Trixie were bouncing off the walls and destroying whatever electronics and consoles the potatoes failed to ruin with the force of a bowling ball striking nine pins.

However, rather than contemplate why the administrators at headquarters insisted on pairing up a schizo with a psyknic (beyond  the fact they were good at pooping…that is to say denying the virtue of cartoon physics) Trixie should have held her tongue as she looked at the damage that she had wrought upon the module with the assistance of her playful partner, but didn’t, before screaming a sting of incomprehensible obscenities in every language she knew.

Knowing full well her survival would be meaningless if she died. Trixie was once again holding her breath, praying for some miracle or magical solution to her current dilemma. As what was left of her sanity seemed to evaporate, mostly due to hypoxia, she stared off into the burning forest and started hiccupping like a squeaky toy or dolphin. Her body clearly wanted to breathe, badly, and her diaphragm was letting her know it. She figured she had a minute of air left. Six minutes holding, and one minute of lucid consciousness after exasperating. As long as she kept her mouth shut and didn’t-“Ah- CHOO!”