My Little Pony: The Next Generation?

Chapters

Episode One: In Which Alan Gets A Roommate, Part One.

Episode One: In Which Alan Gets A Roommate, Part One.

This is your final warning. Please do not read this.

May 3, 2031
Cloudsdale, Equestria

Alan walked into the lobby. This was normal. Another thing that was normal was the fact that he was absolutely rank with the odor of fresh fish. The receptionist was absolutely sick of this, but didn't say anything because Alan was currently carrying a newspaper. Alan did not read the news. The way he saw it, if the world were predicted to end (and it usually was), he would not want to know about it. The only reason a man (Stallion?) as intelligent as Alan would ever be seen with a newspaper was if it was for someone (Somepony?) else.

'Hey Dave.'

'Oh, hey, Alan, got the papers?' replied the receptionist (also the building manager), now known to be called Dave.

'Yee,' answered Alan, placing the papers on Dave's desk. 'That's 1.79.'

'You what?'

'Yeah, sorry, prices went up again.'

Dave tilted his head to one side and handed over two bits. 'Here, keep the change.'

'Fuck yeah,' replied Alan.

Dave looked back at his newspaper. 'River pirates up north,' he said.

Alan shot Dave (or the paper, it was hard to tell) a condescending glare and said, 'That's old news.'

Dave was shocked. 'What?!'

'It's all I've been hearing about for weeks,' replied Alan, 'Honestly, they should've been caught by now.'

Dave ceased to be shocked with the response: 'Really? I don't watch the TV news.'

'I don't either;' replied Alan, 'I found out from the online news.'

'Really?' questioned Dave, 'wouldn't've thought you'd be interested in that kind of thing.'

'I'm not,' replied Alan (again), 'It's just that there's no avoiding it.' There was a brief pause. 'Anyway, I'd better get going.' Alan turned and made his way towards the elevator. 'And insult Fat Jeff for me, would yeh?'

'I'll see what I can do,' replied Dave.

Several minutes later, Alan was walking into his penthouse apartment when his phone rang.

'Cake,' said Alan as he answered his phone.

'Hey, Alan, what do you want me to say to Fat Jeff?'

'Aw, I don't know, something along the lines of, "Oh, so you're a landlord? Who'd you suck off to get that job, you fat bastard?"' answered Alan.

'Sounds good to me.' And with that, Dave hung up.

Alan locked the door and made his way to the center of the room. He then walked over to the couch and immediately stripped to his waist. This was normal. He rather enjoyed stripping off after a hard day at work. It was dark enough outside that he could clearly see his reflection in the window, biting one wing and provocatively stroking the other. The picture of narcissism if ever there was one. He snapped himself rather forcefully out of this perverse observation of his own bare chest and turned in a vaguely kitchen-ward direction to take stock of the beer chiller.

Anyone who knew Alan could tell you that he did not drink. It was not a matter of alcoholism; he simply felt that it was more trouble than it was worth. His beer chiller was instead reserved for his stock of soft drinks, which had to be constantly monitored or Alan would go insane from withdrawl of one chemical or another. And today was stock day.

'Let's see... Eleven cans of Choke-a-Cola, no trouble there... Two cans of Diet Choke, that I can live without... Five cans of grape Santa, six cans of strawberry Santa...' Alan looked towards his favorite outrageously expensive imported root beer. 'Four bottles...' he said. This was fine. The damn stuff was so expensive, he was lucky to even have that much. But there was one very important thing he had to check at the bottom of the cooler. 'Only three cans of Munster left. Better get some more tomorrow.' He made a note of this and left the room.

Having taken stock of the Soda Cache, Alan retrieved his shirt from the couch and brought it to the nearest laundry hamper. He then immediately stripped down to his underwear and put his discarded clothes in the hamper. He then walked into the bathroom and removed his underwear.

Alan looked in the bathroom mirror. He might've been called nondescript were the average pegasus not so brightly colored.
Instead, the reflection he saw staring back could only be described as drab.

It took me a great deal of time to recover from the ensuing bout of writer's block, but I ultimately decided that the best course of action would be to simply remove the fourth wall from the equation entirely. The effects of this will become apparent later. But for now, on with the story.

Alan kicked his close-fitting black boxer shorts to the corner of the room and stepped into the somewhat-overpriced shower stall. Alan liked shower stalls; they always seemed so much warmer that bathtubs and contributed to the inner-city aesthetic that he liked so much. After some time wondering when the narrative was going, Alan simply started his shower and began to wash his hair. The scented shampoo he was using for this purpose was the only item in the bathroom that brought his masculinity into question, but this would never become relevant to the plot. After succesfully rinsing his mane, he retrieved a small, cheap plastic cup from the shower floor and relieved himself into it, before attempting to drink the result. Needless to say, he failed miserably.

Alan spent the next hour attempting to self-pleasure, before deciding that it was a fruitless endeavor and ending his shower. He wrapped a towel around his waist (Girth? Barrel?) and stepped out into the hallway. As he walked through the door, however, he was hit with the sudden realisation that he was, for want of a better term, a foul bachelor. As he prepared to dry his long, dark hair, only one thought crossed his mind.