Dat's Our Ragamuffin!

by PresentPerfect

Rating: teen
Tags: Other, Romance, Equestria Girls, Comedy, Profanity, Random, Main 7 (EqG)
Length: 5071

Oh, that zany Ragamuffin! What hilariously inappropriate thing will he stick in his mouth next?

Babies put objects in their mouths so they can learn about the world with their sensitive lips.

Why mention babies in the description of a story about Ragamuffin, everyone's favorite new character from Hasbro.com?

Probably no reason.

Published 2019-04-19 20:30:01 UTC
Last updated 2019-04-19 20:30:01 UTC

Two

Dat's Our Ragamuffin!
by Present Perfect

Two

A long, viscous trail of green snot ran from Maud's left nostril to the pile of tissues on the table. She had long since given up trying to actually throw them in the wastebasket, just ever so slightly out of reach down and to her left. She was making the most of her will to get them to clean themselves up, but her telekinesis wasn't working any better than her throwing arm.

Her whole body felt like a mud puddle. And mud puddles were not good at throwing or telekinesis. That had to be the explanation.

"Gee, Maud," said her directly younger sister. "I sure hope this 'Feel Better Maud' cake makes you feel better!"

Pinkie was clad in a batter-stained apron. Her hair was tied up in twin pom-poms, also inexplicably stained with batter. She whirled about the kitchen with a metal mixing bowl, in which she was gamely whisking more of said batter.

"I always bake when I'm feeling bad, and it usually cheers me right up! But I also tend to get snot in everything, and Mr. and Mrs. Cake told me that's a health hazard, so that's why I didn't offer to let you help out. I hope you're not upset!"

Maud snuffled. "Dat's ogay." Gingerly, she prodded the pile of wadded tissues until one of them inched toward the edge of the table. Maybe it would get the hint and go for a little jog.

"Oooh!"

Pinkie put her face uncomfortably close to Maud's. Maud would have jumped backward to save her sister from potential infection, but she was simply too mud to be able to.

"Whatcha got there?"

Sitting beneath the tissues, which Pinkie had somehow been able to see through, was a chunk of rock half the size of Maud's fist. It was mottled brown and grey, with a smooth end and a rough end, and otherwise completely nondescript.

"Id's a rogk."

"Ohhhh!" Pinkie nodded, and some batter dropped from her hair onto the table with a soft plip. "What kiiiind of rock?"

That was the question, was it not? Something about the rock's smooth brown surface tugged at the back of Maud's head, but she was, quite frankly, too sick to figure it out. She had tried sniffing the rock, though breathing alone made her nose ache from all the blowing. She had poked at the rock, even though the lightest touch to her disease-sensitized skin felt like fire. She had even licked the rock, for all that she herself had to admit that was super-gross.

"I dunno." Maud sniffed again. "By Baud Sense isn'd worging righd now."

"Poor Maud!"

Maud had to give her sister credit: she knew just how much sympathy to put into an exclamation to bridge the boundary between pitying and sincere.

"I'm sure this get well cake will be just the ticket to get you well again! And then you'll be able to identify all the rocks you could ever want! Super-promise!"

A cough wrenched its way out of Maud's chest, scraping along her throat. She sighed and laid her head on the table. "Thangs, Pingie."

Pinkie went back to mixing and humming. Maud closed her eyes.

All the women in her family had had the Sense, for as far back as she knew. Hers and Limestone's were tied inexorably to rock-related things. Pinkie's let her forecast disasters. Marble's... was best left unmentioned. There was a reason the girl was so quiet.

The Sense was inexplicable. It was finicky. Its origins were a mystery and its effects unpredictable.

But somehow, some tiny portion of her Maud Sense must have still been able to soldier through the haze of cold and flu. Even with her eyes closed, she knew someone had just picked up the rock.

A part of her didn't care. Just falling asleep here, bent in half over the kitchen table, was her true destiny.

She peeled her eyes a crack. What she saw startled them fully open.

An orange-skinned boy with a blond crew cut was holding the rock between his teeth. It looked like he had just tried to bite into it. Instantly, Maud knew that, whatever kind of rock it was, it was assuredly higher on the hardness scale than bone.

"Dat's real coprolite, dat is!" he proclaimed.

Pinkie shrieked and dropped her bowl. Batter flew everywhere.

"Wow!" she cried, turning around, her hair frizzed out of its poms and into a unified globe. "You just totally snuck up on me without setting off my Pinkie Sense and that's really really creepy!"

Maud only had eyes for the boy. Her heart fluttered in her chest, pumping blood throughout her veins. It had never been some disease keeping her Sense in check; it simply wasn't a rock at all! Stymied by poop again.

"Oi'm Ragamuffin, Oi am!" shouted the boy. He tossed the rock in one hand, caught it, and set it back on the table. Then, shoving his hands in his pressed white pants pockets, he strolled out the back door.

"Ha ha," said Pinkie, a crazed smile on her face. "It's really great meeting you, creepy stealth boy, never come back, okay?"

She retrieved her bowl. Maud ignored the rock.

"I like him," she said.

Their older sister came charging out from elsewhere in the house. She tore through the kitchen without so much as a by-your-shut-it and made for the back door, shouting, "Stop chewing on Holder's Boulder!"

Neither Maud nor Pinkie felt the need to comment. You couldn't explain Pie Sense.

Three

Dat's Our Ragamuffin!
by Present Perfect

Three

"Aaaand... there!"

Rarity sat back in her chair, wiping a delicate bead of perspiration from her brow. Ladies, after all, did not sweat.

Regardless, all of her toil had been worth it. At last, she had brought this dress from design to fruition, from concept to finished product! It was her magnum opus, her pièce de résistance, and from it would spring the fashion empire she knew was rightfully hers.

Every stitch was hand-sewn. Every sequin, painstakingly placed with tweezers and head lamp. Every ruffle had been arranged just so, every ribbon cut to exacting angles. It was absolute perfection in dress form.

And why?

Because she had gotten there far sooner than she had a right to. And it was all Princess Twilight Sparkle's fault.

Well, no, no, it wasn't Twilight's fault in the least. Twilight had only been the bearer of bad news, after all, and a lady did not shoot the messenger. Twilight had merely expressed offhanded dismay at Rarity's lack of financial independence from her parents and conquest of the fashion market in this world, heedless of the expectations of human family and school.

Nevermind she had to save the world from Equestrian magic every other month. Nevermind she was actually performing well above where a girl her age should be in the "able to run a successful design business while also attending high school" department.

Knowing that her pony-world counterpart had not one but three successful fashion boutiques in as many cities had been the heaviest onus under which she had to work.

But now, things would be different. Now, Rarity, the human Rarity, would take her rightful place in the fashion industry, in this dimension or any other!

She didn't realize she was cackling like a madwoman until her phone buzzed with a text message. Rarity reached for her phone, but it wasn't there.

Confused, she turned around, only to see it dangling, drool-soaked, out of the mouth of a familiar orange-skinned boy. Noticing her looking at him, he popped the phone out of his mouth with a goofy grin.

"Dat's real foive gee cuv'rige, dat is!" he declared.

Rarity was, in a word, confused. Things with Ragamuffin during the cruise hadn't exactly worked out, and the last thing he'd said to her had left with quite a lot to wonder about. She had chalked him up to a fateful summer fling that was fated never to be, a replacement for the things Applejack made her feel that she absolutely did not wish to confront. But seeing him again sent a flutter of twitterpated palpitations through her bloodstream, feelings she wasn't exactly prepared to face again.

Especially since he was still drooling.

"Darling," she said, finding her voice at last, "are you quite all right?"

"Oi'm Ragamuffin!" he said.

"Yes. I know." Rarity frowned. "We met this summer."

There was a long silence.

"Would it be too much to ask for you to hand me my phone back?"

"Oi'm Ragamuffin!"

That palpitation suddenly felt a lot less twitterpated.

"I know, darling. Give me my phone!"

The boy cocked his hips jauntily, pointing a thumb under his chin. "Oi'm Ragamuffin!"

"Oh for the love of--" Channelling energy into her hair clip, Rarity formed a large crystal shield in front of her and with it, pushed Ragamuffin brusquely out her front door. She caught the cell phone in her hand. It was wet.

"Of all the nerve!" she huffed, wiping the phone on a nearby towel. "Stupid palpitations... I may as well just call Applejack."

Four

Dat's Our Ragamuffin!
by Present Perfect

Four

Rainbow Dash sighed and hung her head.

It was not easy being the most awesome student at Canterlot High School. Awesomeness came naturally to her, sure, but even the most talented, say, piano player would get tired of expending the effort needed to play the piano the best now and again. Probably. She'd never played piano.

Okay, maybe this was more like taking a break after a game. You spent a lot of time practicing, hyping yourself up, then had a big game with a big victory, and it took a lot out of you. It would take a lot out of anyone! And so that awesome, victorious athlete did what was best for her body and took a break. Had a little downtime, a big meal and a good night's rest before getting up to do it all over again. Doing otherwise was risking injury and a decrease in future awesomeness, and that wasn't cool.

So if feeling sorry for herself at a time like this could be thought of as a rest for the awesome-making part of her brain, or body, or wherever it was awesome was produced in a person, then it was okay.

Because Rainbow Dash was feeling really, really sorry for herself right now.

Heck, if she looked at the midterm test clutched in her hand again, she might very well feel like crying.

It wasn't a failure to be awesome. It was just awesome downtime. A little break from being awesome 24/7 so she didn't burn herself out. That was definitely what this was and not a sign from above that Rainbow Dash was about the stupidest girl at her school.

She'd studied really hard for that midterm. Sunset and Twilight had even helped her. It wasn't the most important class in the world, just history. Dash didn't even like history. But not liking something and letting something beat you were two very different things.

The history midterm had beaten Rainbow Dash.

It was another checkmark on the list of reasons why Rainbow Dash was just another dumb jock like everyone at school said she was.

She pulled her legs up to her chest and rested her arms on them. Her face followed. She wasn't crying. It was too quiet here behind the school. Someone would hear.

The sky was mostly clear of clouds; nothing hid the sun. Birds in the trees behind the school quieted their songs, content to flit silently between tree branches. In the distance, the chatter and laughter of high schoolers done with another day of study was but a faint murmur. No one was nearby to watch Rainbow Dash at her lowest moment.

Except whoever owned the orange hand that had just appeared.

Rainbow jumped, dropping her midterm and scrubbing her sleeves across her face. "Who? What? I wasn't crying, I'll punch you!"

The hand belonged to a boy about her age. He smiled and reached out for her. Her heart fluttered; was this stranger the knight in shining armor for her hour of greatest need? Some angel sent from above to bring solace to her darkest hour? She extended a tremulous hand; Rainbow Dash had never been tremulous in ever.

The boy's hand dipped down below Rainbow's. She followed it with her eyes as he mimed scooping something up. He brought his hand to his mouth and again mimed, as though he were taking a big bite of the whatever it was. Though not biting into it, not like you would an apple or something; more like biting at it.

"Dat's real existential despair, dat is!" he proclaimed.

Dash stared at him. "W-what?"

"Oi'm Ragamuffin!" He curled his arms, swinging them left and right. "Wakka wakka!"

And then, as silently as he came, he left. The birds began to sing again.

Rainbow frowned. "This is exactly why I prefer girls."

Author's Note

I'm pretty sure show staff just don't believe British people exist.

Like, there's this whole island of people who talk funny and eat weird food and really like tea, and they just have to wonder when those folks are gonna knock that crazy crap off.

Five

Dat's Our Ragamuffin!
by Present Perfect

Five

"Thanks again for coming over, Sunset," Twilight said, wiping her brow. "Not only do these experiments go faster with someone to help, I'm just... Well, I'm glad to have someone else here, helping or not."

She gave her friend a lopsided smile that was returned in kind. Sunset took another sip of her soda. All around them, the results of their in-progress experiments bubbled, sparked and foamed, their setup well complete.

Fidgeting, Twilight looked down at her fingers. Her cheeks flushed. Suddenly, her lab coat was really insulating.

"Sunset? Can I ask you a question... about Equestria?"

Sunset gave her a searching look, but otherwise remained innocent. "Sure, Twilight."

"I know, um, that a lot of things are different there." Twilight swallowed. "Where you're from."

"Yeahhhh..." Sunset raised an eyebrow.

"It's, um, just, uh..." Twilight sucked in a breath through her teeth, closed her eyes and let it out. "Are there lesbians in Equestria?"

When Sunset responded with a sharp bark of laughter, Twilight's guts froze. It didn't last long, but that initial tremor of fear was all too familiar.

"What kind of a question is that? Of course there are lesbians in Equestria. You're talking to one!"

What had moments ago been ice turned quickly into lava. Twilight had to avert her eyes from Sunset, lest she burst into flame.

"O-oh. That's... that's good to know."

She felt a soft hand gently take hers. When she looked up, she saw Sunset regarding her with a warm smirk.

"Twilight, is there maybe something else you'd like to ask me?"

Twilight's heart hammered in her chest. She could all but measure her own blood pressure internally. Her fingers were clammy, and her skin tingled with neverending lightning.

This was it. This was the moment she'd been waiting for. The moment when she could tell Sunset those four little words. And if she were reading the situation correctly -- and there was an eighty-seven-point-six percent chance she was -- Sunset was in a mood to reciprocate them.

I'm a lesbian, too.

"Sunset..." Twilight leaned in toward her.

Then an orange hand at the end of a white-clad arm shot between them and plucked a test tube from the nearby rack.

"What?" Twilight shrieked. Sunset reeled back, her eyes wide.

A strange boy had just shown up out of nowhere, right here in the middle of the laboratory that was technically not supposed to be on school grounds. He lifted the test tube to his lips and tested it with his teeth.

"Wait!" cried Twilight, stretching her arms out in futility. "Stop, that's--"

Unfortunately, he must have bitten down too hard, because the tube shattered, sending glass shards and the colorless liquid inside plummetting down his throat.

"Dat's real (RS)-Propan-2-yl methylphosphonofluoridate, dat is!" he said, though the glass sticking in his gums garbled his speech somewhat. He began to drool.

"...Extremely dangerous," said Twilight listlessly. Her hands flew to her mouth. "Oh my god, you're gonna die horribly and it's all my fault!"

Wheezing, the boy clutched at his chest. He collapsed to one knee, vomiting a chunk of apple, a circuit board, a piece of brown rock and something shapeless and invisible onto the floor. They could tell where it was by the stomach acid it displaced.

"Oi'm Rag--" was as far as he got before he spasmed and collapsed on the ground. Both girls covered their noses as his bowels voided.

They looked at each other. Twilight's eyes were clouded by tears.

"Oh my god," she said, her voice tiny and frail, "he's dead! I just killed someone!"

She sprang forward and latched onto Sunset's shoulders, her voice growing louder and shriller with each word as she shook her friend violently. "What are we gonna do, Sunset? What are we gonna do?"

"Twilight, stop, calm down!" Sunset extricated herself from Twilight's grip. She regarded her with a calm, almost cold expression.

"I've got experience with this kind of thing. I'll go get trash bags and duct tape. You need to find a chainsaw and some quicklime. Meet me back here and we'll get rid of him before anyone notices." She tapped her chin for a second. "Do you have any strong acids handy? We'll need to clean up as well."

"Sunset!"

Twilight's horror showed through in her voice. For a moment, Sunset seemed to reconsider. She gazed at Twilight with what Twilight could only identify as pity. Maybe she was sorry Twilight had gotten caught up in... whatever this was.

Twilight steeled herself. She gave Sunset what she hoped was a firm, confident nod. If they were going to be thrust into a world of questionable actions and immoral outcomes, then she would stand side-by-side with Sunset, mustering as much dignity and intestinal fortitude as she could. She would do it for Sunset. She would do it for herself. She would do it for all the lesbians in--

"--amuffin!"

Twilight and Sunset screamed and clung to each other.

The boy, none the worse for wear, stood beside them, smiling gormlessly. Beneath him lay a crumpled thing that looked like his own skin and uniform. Despite this, he was currently wearing both.

He spun on his heel, slipped a little bit in the vomit, and tottered out of the lab.

Shivering, the two girls hugged each other for a few minutes more. They blinked, looked at one another, looked away, and released each other, rubbing their arms.

"Twilight, I don't mean to be accusatory, but why were you working with nerve gas?"

Twilight snorted. "Don't judge me, I have a permit! But while we're busy not being accusatory, what was that about having experience disposing of bodies?"

Sunset looked away and coughed. "We're still going to need to clean this up. Let's just agree not to talk about this."

Twilight looked down at the thing that Ragamuffin had been wearing.

"Yeah. Let's."

Author's Note

Ever get most of the way through a story only to realize it's not worth writing? Yeah, me neither.

Six

Dat's Our Ragamuffin!
by Present Perfect

Six

"All right, class," said Miss Cheerilee, "now that we've arrived in Neighgypt, Miss Somnambula will take over our history lesson. Remember, don't break anything without permission!"

It was a really good thing they built the old pyramids so close to the airport, thought Fluttershy. They literally just got off the plane and walked over here. There was nothing else in Neighgypt, either. Had there been, they could have wasted valuable time wandering around, or even getting lost.

"Hello, class."

The woman who addressed them was tall and lithe, with rosy orange skin and dual-tone green-striped hair. She wore thick black mascara and a white headdress that complimented her traditional dress. The stares of many of the students stood in testament to one fact: she was gorgeous.

"Today, I will be leading you in an up close, personal tour of the Great Pyramids!" The woman smiled, and Fluttershy could swear the sun shone a little brighter behind her.

"But first," she continued, holding up a finger, "I must ask each and every one of you to respect our ancient artifacts. Please, keep your eyes and ears open, but your hands to yourselves!" She tittered demurely. "Now, please, everyone follow me!"

The pyramid loomed above them, enormous and uncanny. Sure, some might say it was just a huge stone triangle, but how many huge stone triangles had those people made in their lives? Probably not many.

"I want to start our tour by dispelling myths some of you may have heard," Somnambula said, a smile evident in her voice. "For instance, these pyramids were created by human hands, not by aliens."

At least one student let out a disappointed "aww". Another raised a hand and was called on.

"What about mummy curses?"

Miss Somnambula smiled beatifically. "Also superstition, though mummies are very real. Ancient kings, queens and other people of great important were mummified after death and entombed in the pyramids to preserve their legacies forevermore."

Another hand. "Will we see any mummies on this trip?"

She shook her head. "I am afraid not, though if we make good time, there is a priceless if empty sarcophagus inside this pyramid. Now, some facts to make up for the lack of mystery..."

Fluttershy zoned out a bit as Somnambula gave a very detailed discussion of ramps and pulleys. One might think Miss Somnambula had actually been there herself, so detailed were her descriptions, but mechanical stuff didn't really interest Fluttershy. Even if it was amazing to think that ancient people had moved giant stone blocks without electrical machines.

Mostly, she was just wondering what sorts of animal friends might be around. Cute snakes lived in the desert, the ones who so cleverly travelled by rippling their long bodies. So too did scorpions; she was such a fan of the way they had venomous stinger-tails hovering above their heads. It was such a clever defense, and she adored their little claws. Maybe she could make friends with a scorpion using her animal speech powers. Oh, if only none of the other students noticed... She was sure none of them would really understand.

"Stop!"

The pyramid had snuck up on them, as far as she could tell. It was now more a huge wall than a huge triangle, rising up in a point directly at the sun. She looked around, trying to figure out who was being yelled at.

Miss Somnambula held a shocked hand to her mouth, pointing to where pyramid met sand. There, the blond head of an orange-skinned boy could just be seen above the stone. He had both hands on the edge of the pyramid, and as Fluttershy watched, he reared back, opened his mouth, and lunged forward, biting down.

"What are you doing?"

Fluttershy sighed and facepalmed. "Goddammit to hell, Ragamuffin."

Her friends had been texting her all week, sharing their 'experiences' with this strange boy. She hadn't seen him before -- truthfully, none of them knew where he'd come from in the first place, whether he went to their school or not -- but there was no one else it could possibly be.

"Excuse me, Miss Somnambula?" Fluttershy moved up to the teacher's side. "I don't exactly know who that boy is, but his name is Ragamuffin and apparently, he does this sort of thing all the time. He's harmless, if creepy." She crossed her arms over her chest and frowned. "And in just a minute, I'm sure he'll declare it's a real pyramid or something and take off to wherever he came from."

Only he didn't.

As the class watched, Ragamuffin began to convulse, teeth still latched onto the ancient stone. A red mist started to accumulate around him. He lifted up off the sand, literally floating, and his eyes rolled back in his head, turning a deep, viscous black.

Fluttershy became consumed in the dark, churning void where Ragamuffin's eyes had been. He saw, not just through her skin and into her organs, but deep into her mind, her very soul, and the history of moments that made up her meek, pathetic life. He opened a mouth as black as death and as wide as creation, and spoke in a voice as old as time.

W͇͙̫̖h̫̫a̮͓͎̗̞̞t ̧̼̭i̧̱̩͚̤̰ͅn̝͓͢ t̜̤̹̘h̺̝̲̠̮͕͉e͎̭̜̻ ̙̱n̥̝̭͍͠i͙n̙͖̪̗̻͠e͈̪̮̠̪͈̳ ̥̬͎̺͍ḩ̗e҉͎̞͉l̝̗̤̲͖̤ḽ̴̯̟ṣ̬̙͈̳̗̼́ ͖͕̫͇̭̠d̻͎i̗̥͎͞d̛͉̲̖s̢̰̙̪̺̤t͚̱͍͇́ t̢͖͔̜̯̹̯h͓̖͈̙͝o̺͜u ̘͟j͙̖̯͇̦u̻s̜̻͘t̝̻̲̤̟̠͝ ҉̲̪̟̠̠̣ͅs̝̲̗̲a͙͢y̬ ̵̟t͍͓̫̤ͅo̥ ̡̞͚̰̜̭̦ṳ̰̫s,̺̼̝͙̬͓̰̕ ̻̲̩͉̙̬̙t̯̝̖̩̳h̲͈͇̙̰o̶̻̱̦̘ͅu̢̻ ̡̱w̧̬͙̬̯̘o̗r̛̦͚̠͕ț̘͖͞h̝̩̳̭̬̟̳l̟e̴͉͈şs̸̲͓̮̤̜͇̬ ̭̖̯͕̠́m̼̩̠ơ͔̲͔̥̦r̸̭̭͓͔̣̻̲ta̢͍̺̼̲̦͉l̙ ̣̼w̥͖̹̩̙ò͕͚r͔̱̭̦̱̺͍m҉̬ͅ?̱̟
͕̞̗̦̥̺̬
͏W̵̦e̖̤͎̖̩͍ ̬̹͙̞̘͟a͎̻̮̥̝̰̜r͈̕e̙ ͏͇̜̥̲̝̘̖án̷̹͇̜ ̹̦͎̙̤u̘͖̯̠̣̙̟ņk̳̻̫̗n̷͖o͉͇̼̹̻͙̤͢w̥͙̲͔a̱̫͚̯͢b̩̻̣̘͇͉l̲͓͡e̺̤͉̱͙͞ ̥̤̳͢e̯͓̦n̻̟̕ţ̼̜i͎͖͍ͅt͖̯͞ͅy̖͉̜̬̲,͏̮ ͍̜̥̪͠b̮͈i͈̗r͉͎t̙̰̙̟̪h̦̪̗̝̰̱̘͞e̛̝d͕̲̟̟ ̼̰f̸̩̟̦͚̜͕r̲o̡͈̗̹ͅm̘͖̯̞̫̻͡ͅ ̥̗͈̩͍͟t̗̦̬͡ḥ̥͖ẹ̞̠̮̺ ̻͖̮͙ͅd̡͖̪e̺̹̕ẹ͍̪̲p̱͚e͔̮̦̙̙̞͞s̲̺̫̞̤͜ț̢ ͏̝̠̰͔̳̮e͇̳̱̤c̖̟̗̰ͅh͔͙͈̝e͕͖̲̭̫͉ͅl̙͓̘o̮̭̱͓̫͓n̪̞̮̜̟̱̞s͎̥͇ ̛͎̳̳̗͇̦ͅo͉̙̼̕f͎͍̝̰ ̭̻̥͍͔͓͎͡àn͔͔͟c̩̭̥̕i̝̱̹̕e̢̫̺͕n̹̫̙̮̝̣t̷͕͔̲̮ ̻͔̪̖̫kn̙̳͠o̝̻̠͎͙w̘̙̙i̺͎̮̠̙̤n͍̹͎͟g,̮̘͢ a̼n̲͉d ҉͙͚͉w̥̫è͇ ̵̯͉̥̺͈̺h̭̦̤̤̹͎̰av͔̬͓͉̞̖ͅe͍ ͏b̘̣̘́ȩ͎̞ͅe̲͚̼̬̪͇̼n̳̣͍̭ ̡͎s͏u̙͇̹̭̗͠m̴̗̥mon̞̥ͅͅe̜d̳͔͇ ̹̜in c̱ͅo̶̗̻̰̗̖͓̤u̶̠̹̲n̵͍t҉̬̩̗̘ͅl͈ę̼̲͔̰̬s̥̖̠͓̱s̹͈͎̻͡ ̙b̨la̶̟̩̲͙͉̰͙c͇͍̭͈̭̟̘̀k͕̘ ̢̮̜̙r͇͔̕i̧t͖͖͙͉u̼̻͇a͍͕͇̺͔l̨̩̦͇̩̦̲͖s͉̲͓̰̺,̥̲ ͟a͡n͙̠̞̭̯̞͞d̢̝̟͙͕̩̳͕ ̪͓̤w͉̗͉̠e̩̞͇̩̰͎ ̱͖̫̜̯͈͇h͚̼̖̥̹͖a̧̳̲͇̜̤v̯͕͖̜̲̘̝e̲ ̵̝̥̗̮̬̞̜t̼̬̪͞a̛̲̖k̶̞̰̳̬͍̣̟e̜̻͟n͍̳ ̴̠̹̘̬̳o̖̘͖v̗̭̫̱͓͠é̳̘̺r̖ ̡͉̠̲͖ͅ30̹͔͍͇0̷ͅ ̘̝̝͍b̵͙͇̤͕i̞l͘l͏̮̜̰̙͙i̙o͉͚͇n̦̞̺̜͎ ̯̪s͎̫̣̭͖͜o͘u̪̘͇̪͓͉l̵͈s̴̬͚̺͕̩̬̬.̦̪̣͈̰̜
̕
̛̤W͈̲̫͓̲̠̟e͚̳̣͕͕̣̺ a̝̗̪̙̠r̠̰̦̜̮̹̖͟ẹ̟̟ ̗̭͎͝p̝̱̞̘o͇̰s̬s̛e̱͍̩̙s͓̪̘s̘̻̤͇̬̰̘e̸̖̥̬̪d̺͉͎̹̮̝̱ ̴͔̭̟̝͔̮ǫ̣f̰ ̹̯u̧̞̺̭͙̻n̥̜̫f̥͚̱̹̟̠̺a͈̣̤t̗͝h͎̲͎͠o͓͞m̛̗̪̼̯̙̲a͓̠͚͡b̗̱̰̤̻̙͜l̳̝̟̝e̪͍̤̩̣̜̰͡ ̶̼͎̹̯p̡͓̙̺o̰w̬͇̗̭̥ͅe͏̤̟̙̗̦ͅr̴ ͉͔̩̟̹̙͝ͅa̸͚͕͈̜̗̣n̖̱͙̫͡d͓̝̀ ̜͎͇͚̦̦͝w̗̳̟̭e̙ ͚̤̰̹͜a͚͉̫͈͖ŗ̙e̷ ̤t̺͉h̷̪è̯̦͙̭̹̟ ̮̬̟̤̠̪s̴̜̹̥͖̲̣t͞r͖͓͡o͔͕̣̝̭̮̦n̦̺̻̬͕̜̕g̤̩̦̖̼eş̤̰t̮͇ ̼̥̗̦̙̠̮e̛̩̪̳̯͓l̥̙̞̲d͏̮̱̖̝̠̳ͅe̢͔͔r̶͖̩̹̯̙̮ ̸̻̭̰̰b̻̘̰̼e̸̱̥͎̱̝̼ͅi̙͕̺n͓͓̟̰̬g͇̫̭̜͖ ͔͈̪i̲̲͚͈̻̪n̛̳ ̨̼̯͓͎̰̠o͢u̪̻̕r̦̘ ̖ẹ̘͘ldr̮̝͇i̛͉̙̳͕̝̩t͖̱̲͚̦ͅc̼̞̭̟̤̜͎̀h̙̱̩̞̞̪̝ ̢͇̭̟̹p̮͠a̹̞̦͔̝̳n͉̖͍͟t͖̣̞̫h͇͉e̗ơ̘̥n̯.̸̟̱͚̙̯̞ ̖͓̪̱ ̖̗͙̻̳Ț̠͍͓͙͙h͏̲͓̠͚̯o̻͎̤͚u̝̲̩͙̮͙ a̖͕͙ŕ͙̼͎͚̼t̳̯̟̝ ͍́n҉͓̦̖̦̹ͅo̶͔͓t̤͉̼h̭͚͓̟i͍̲̖̘ͅn̴͓g̦͙̫̥̙ ͇t̢͇͉̜͙o͎͉̠̠͉ ͎u҉͚̺̭͓̖̼s̞̜̝̰ b͙͇̖̩̠͓u͉͘t j̛̰̼̝̳͉̮̝u͚s͓͓̺̗̞̣̹͞t̫͉̖̱͟ ͖̞̞̬a҉̬ṋ̞͉o͏͍̖ṭ̹̹̥̤̥ẖe͟r̹̜̞͇̹̝ ͈̤̼̬̞t̩̟̤̭̫i͚͓͙̟̥̕n͍̦y͚̟͠ ͖̪͞s̯͔̣̪̬p͚͜é̺͉͓̗̟c͏͔̹̼͓͇̣͙k̵͎͚̣ ̲̺̫̮o̷̦̠̖f̮̘ ̪̥̬̟̹̦̤i҉̰n͔̰͜s̞͚ͅi̳g͇̫ni̮̝̭̜̮f̴͕͙͇̻̮i̫c̘̰͔a̙̬̠͔̳͘nt̢͇ ͈͇͕͓̠d̛uṣ̺̫t͔̗.̖͍̟̩̺̘ͅ
̝̪̪̳͎̩͕
͕̲͉̙̻̦̦W̡̦̪̞̤̺͕ͅe̛̞͇͍̭̘̮̙ ̱͙͖̞̕ͅw҉̻̺il̷̳ḽ̖ ̦͇͙r̩̹̻͙̞̠e̛̼͍͕̤n͕̯̳d͏̘̫̭̟ ͙̱͓̥y̡͔͔͎̠̟̙̬o͖u̴̘̩̘̘̟r̤͈̰͙̲ ̹͕̫s̖̤̰̩̺̥̫͠o̮̰̭͇͘u̩̞̜l̦ ͅf̫̜͎͈̟̺̳r̛͎̮o͏̯̫̙̼͔̠m҉͔̫͇͇ ̜̥͔̘̤̲y͓̲o̙͚͉ͅu͘r̥̣ ̺̬̪̝̩̞m̗͎̠͝o̭͔̪̖̘̭͙r͓͓̰̗̣̱̀t̷a̷̠͎l̼̪̘̕ ̥͖̜̜̫̬̣bo̵͉̥d̼̝̰͖̞͈̮y̤̯͜ͅ ͔̗͇w̧̝̮̻i̖̣̟͖̹t̗̪̹͔͙̺̯h͝ ҉̬̠ḍ͕̣̥̰͎a͉̦̻̜͉͍͢r͇̫̫̪͔̰k̘̫̜͝ͅ ̛̲͉p͉̘̰͖̖̙o̥͕̗w͖͚e̟͡ŗ̭̯̝s̠ ̷͎ṵ̵̩̳̬̝̲n̴̼̥̱̱͓̝s̱̥e̘̬͙̰͉̻͉e̸̺̗̹̹̮͙n̢̫̹̫̩̭̲ͅ ̷̩̥o̠̼̖͘n̝͎̻͖ t͈h̖̲̖i̵̠͇̩͙̰̪͈s ͇̜̹̥p̵̣̘̥͍͍̭u͔͍͙̭͕n͉͖̣̪y̩͖͢ ̗̰̖͉͔̣͞p̠̟̲̝͍͔̫l͏̦à̗̘̖̯n̖͈̗̟̖͡e̺̮̼̣̦̰ṭ̲̝͔͜ ̀i̢̭͉͎̮̫n̜̝̥̱͖̞ ̼̼̲͙̬m̠̜̳̻͍̜i͍͇̣̦͎l̡͉̘͔̘̘̟̰l̡e͚̥͚͉n̜̟̤̖̲͝n̼͈̮͖i̥̖̠̰̦̤̱a̛̭̣̥͎̣, ̜̙͚̹͙̘̭h̰̲͔e̯̲̰̭̯̦e̡͓̜̘̙ḍ̘̖͓̪̮̰ ͖̖̣̜̲o̤̳̹͈͙̠͝u͖͕̼͙̘̮̝r̼̝͈̠̱͈ͅ ̯̭̟̠͟p̨u̳i̩̩̹̫̖͜ss̶̮̞͇̱a̝͠n̩ͅt͉̫̳͢ ͏̣͖͈͚̪̖w̩͕͍̳̖̱̫͠o͏̳͓̫̻͔̬̩r̝̳d̘̫̣̼̙͟s̴͔̘̣̟̼.̼̭̹̜̬̯͔
͕͓
̭̦͕̹Th̥̩̻i͇͇͙̫̥͔͞n̷k̛̟̣̥e͉̬̦̩s̰̝̼͉̳̥t ҉̞̥̞̫̫̘t̲͈̞̗̹͚h̵̙̺̙͇͎͈ò͓̘u͈̮̳̮̫ ̼̲̟̤͔̳t̟̗̟͙̯h̷̙̬̪̮̭o͓͙̖͚͎̟ų̘͓͕͖̲̬ͅ ̵͎͕̝͇͍c̘̻͙̮̕a̮̝͚̤̬̱̱n͔͉̳s̢̜̳͉̪t̯͎ ̳̙̜͟s̻͇̮̣̩̭ͅp̠̞̥͙͉̀e̝͢a̸̫k̶̻͖̭͉ s̗͍͟o̘͖̩ ̴t͉̪̩ò ̢͍̯̮ț̖̘̱͇h͉̘i̦̮̭͉̳s͙̣̲ ̺̰̀mo͔̤͉r̬͢t̰͔͕a͓͔̗͇̣̫l͏ v̪̱̲̟͢e͜s̡̺̬ͅse̛̬̻̞͉͇͍l̯̥͕̠̹͜ ͕̣̗̼̫̠̥͘w͡i̻̘t͜h͔͇͙͓͉̭̣ơ̤u̜̻̘͍t̟̟̬̫̻ͅ ͈̱̜͓̝̻͞c̙͈͔͞o̭̞͔̳ͅn̩̝̣͎ś̖̞̟̙̻̜̱ę̗̯q̳̱̮̻͚̰ṳ̷̟͇̼̮e̘̻̮͙̬̖ǹ̳̝c͏e̮͔̩̜͔͔̮͘?
̼͘
͎͉̞̳͎R̨̘͚͇͔̼̺e͚̪̳̻c̵̬̜o̳̳̳n̴̝̭s̴̟̮i̴͔̠̜ͅḍ͙͞ͅe̥͎͍͔̼̜͈͡r͔͞ ̞͕̲̙̙͍̫t̫̘̫̝ḫ͠ỵ͕̥̮͕ ̳͎l̵͔͇i̜̣͈̳f͓̺e͎ ̫̠͔͚c͈̱̯̺͟h͚͈o̼͉i̺̞͎͇͔̱c̜̞͘e̬͎̹͚͎̥s̶,̵̝͔̪ ̤̼̩̙̲ma̡̘͕̬g̯̳̯̗g̱̞ot͚̙͎͝.̣
̯̲͕̥̬͚̳
̞A͏̱͍̥̰̟t͉͍͖̗͢ ͔͉̞̘̭͟t̶h͏̫̰i͖̘s ̡͚͎̜̹ͅm̢̺̬̫om̰e̟͈n͎͓̕t̥̩̕,͈͟ͅ ̡͓̙̼̘͈̟w͚ḙ̸̗͖̘ ̵̬̙͕ͅạ̷̻͍͖͕̦̙r̠͔̦̙̗̗̮e̢̞͚̝̩̩̯͙ ̲̲g̙͈a͈̟͖̰t̠̹͔̺͙̘̣ẖ̟͎͙e̷̻̝͍̳̳͈̼r̖̮͖͢i̱n̸̼͙̮̺̩̙̭g͖͇̼̻̻ ̨̹o͏̳̜̮̺̹u̶̗r̡̦ ̘̼͓̼͍̗̬͝l̹͚̯̩̤̮ͅe̝̫͉̗̼̼͝g͏̤͙̜͓̦i̡̩̣o̧̯̥̳̞̤n̠̥̬̭̱̩ ̰̝̟̝͍o̢͈͎ͅf̹͉̺̝̯̦ ̨͙͓͍̰m̧̟̟̤̲i̱̫̣̣̺͍n̹̮̤̖̘̗͇͡i̮o̴͚̤n̜͇̥͓̞s̺͠ ̧̩͎͇f̩̮͝r͕͝o̧̞̟̗̗̙͚̟m̼̱̝ ̛̗̠͙̗a̵̖͍̻͍̰̠c͚̬͍̘͚ͅr̵͓o̪̼͇̻s̜s͙̹͎͖͚͉ͅ ̙̜̟̟̱͈̭t̷h҉̱̙͚e ̨̳̘̙̺̪̰̠cọ̱̻͘s̶͈̯̗͕̥̬ͅm̱̬̫͓̳o̼̪̦̱̲͢s̯̟͖̭͉͚͖ ̖̝͙ͅa̷̺͖̹̹͙n̖̯̼̝̦̞̖d҉ ̩̻̥͇̻t̯̪͔͖̝̞͠r͍͠a͔͓̝͖̩̘ͅc̵̥͎͍̞i̭̺͓n̪ͅģ͍̝̱̯̘ͅ ̦̗̟̖͙̥͓t̗̝̟h̢e͓͙̼̲ ͉̖̼͎̤ͅth͙̭̱r̖̤͝eͅa҉d̴͙̤͇̞s̪̦̼͕ t̳͙h͈a̢̘̻̼͈̞͖t f͈̙̭o͕̗͙̬̪̦ͅr҉͖m̯̲͈̦̩̱̯ ̘̙̳̘̜͎̖ṭ͉̙̕h̜͈͙̝͠e͏̗̮ ̻͍w̩̞̳̜͔̙ͅo̤͓͇̙̖ͅr̡͓̫t҉͇̻̱̻̪̻͕h̰l̹̰̹͇̰͖͍e̞̙̮͈̘̘s͖̼̳̱͖͇̖s̻̫̗͞ ̶͎̝̙̗͉ͅn̢̥̤e̢͍̯͎͈̼t̜̖̣ͅw̨̜̜̠̦͉o̩̠̲̤r͔̖͔̞̱̮̤k̼͉̤͓̙͈ ̷t͔̦̩̭̺h̳̗͚͈̙͉͈o̻̟̝͚͙͍̘͠u̧͕̼̰̳͕̠ ̱̖̻c̟̞̜͍a̛̤̲͕̜l͍̮̻͓͍̝͎l͏̞ṣ̮͍t̗̫̳̞̼͎͈ ̗̬̭̤̺͙̘a͏̫̳̬̞̳̗͈ ͘m̷̞̻̖̟̭̪̝in̼̺̖͖͖̰͓d͇ ͚̼͡s̠͖͖̩o͍̞̬̙̦̥̝ ̨p̴̯̳̦r͕̥̻e̷̝̺̣p͚͡a̛͓̘̳̼͖̦r̷̝̘e͕̙͘ ̠ṯhy̶͙͚s̡̲e̴̲̼̱l̬̦̗̮͉͠f̛ ̝͔f̱̯̯̻͈̦o͘r̖̙͉̙̞̗ ̴̠͈t̞̻̻̹̜̻h̥̞̭ę̥ ̦͓͢c̴͇͔̤o̻m͓̳͢ͅi̸̱̖̣̟̦n̥̭̮̲̝̠g̼͖̬͍̞ ̫̦̩̤͔͞ͅm̟̺͔a̮̦̙̖̳̦e͔̜l͔s̘̱̦̺͎t͏͚͇͎͕r͓͠o̬m͓̖̗͇̥͚,̪͙̹ͅ ͔̯̟̬͜í͉͓̥̮̩̭n̵̥͓̪̗s͍̹̗ḙ̻c̺̮̝̥t̜̺͓̹̰̦͞.̜̱̱̟̜̤̻
͈̺
̼'̩T͎̟ͅw̢͉̼͍̥ͅi͓̗̮̲͡ļ̠̟̼l̡ ͕̼͍̗̘͍̭b̝̤͈̼e a͚̺̝̱̫͞ ̷̭̗ș̬̹͓̱͇ͅt͟o̷̘ṛ̭͎͉̖͙ͅm̻͈͖̭̹̀ ͈̟̱͕t͔͎͎̫͎͞h͖͚̞̬a̴̫̻̥t̯ ͔̰̗͔̫͠a̩̖n͙̼̝̥̭̪n̬̫i҉̤̟̰̝̲̟h̥̝̯̳i̝̤̪͕͉̳̠l͎̼̳̜̠̖̟a̘̦̰̩t̸̮e͇̱̻̜̺s̤̻͓͖̟͔ ̹͕͈̞͉t҉̻͚h̳̻̮̺̰y̧ ̞l͖̩̪̪̭͙͟i͓̲̳̟͖f̧̫̲̞͓̰̤̬e ̩̭s͙p̤ar̢k͓͖.̘̻̝
͏̖
҉͈͇̠̪̫̱͖T̫͔͎ͅh͇̹̜̝̲͎̦o̰̼̗͍̯ͅų ͕͇͈͘ar̡̘̘t̘͕̬͉͍̞̖ ̰͖̙̻̯̜̺͡a̵̱l͎̦̼̮̖͉r̻e҉ad̞̪y̸̼̺ ͇͇̘͇̜p̯͈̺̭̝̻͔e͖͔͙̹͖̭̳r̞̫is͓h͏̱̞͕̼͎e̦͕̣͘d̢̞͍̩͚̬̪.̤͖̥̰̼͔͉
̪͔̝ͅ
̶̹̫̤͕̹W͇̫̩e̻̦͔͘ ́a̺r̖͙͇̙͟e ̳͍͔͔e͝v҉̳e̞̰̻̭͉̹͡ry̞̱w̞̻͙̭͍h̩͎͙̪ę̟̜̙̹r̸̜̗̜͇̳̹̩e҉̬̗̫,̧ ͉͇̺̖a̵̟͍̖ͅt҉̠͇ ̪̺̘̟͠e̤̘̞͙̻̼ve͈̩̹̠̙̜̟r҉̣͔̝y҉͇ ̲͈̯t͔͍̼̼̻̱i͈̰̥͚̻͟m͕̤͙͚̮̬̕ͅe̶̦̪͖̰̩̝͔,̨̗͈̜̮ ̵͓͓̥a͙̝͎̤n҉͓̪̥̪͉d̩̖͔͓͈̻̭ ̭̠̮̹we̹͎̬̩̤̞ ͖͍͍c̼̘̺͖̱̻͠a̠͈n̘̬ ̮̼̰̥̲̙̲͝ḍ̮̤͜e͏̪̤͉̮ş͓͉̭̳tṛ̷̻͕͎͎o͔̺̘͉͟y̪̥ ̸̘̘̲̜t̶̲̫͇̞̥̪̞h͏͖̫͔̤̖ee̗̻ ͓̖̼̰͍͖̦i̫̩̼͎n̡͔̫̣̖ o͉̬v̛͎̙̗̰̜̩̮ę͚r̛̖̣̙̹͈ ̰͇͉s̰̤̲͟e͕̭̯̲͇͚̙v̶̯̳e̜̗̪̗̩͚n̢ ̯t͏̘̝̝̝̻̺ͅh͉̯͝o̢̺̤̟̹͍͈͈u̷̙͈͇̦ş̯͓a̰̲̳̩̩̟̙n̶̠̤̯̬̫ͅd͍̖̤͕̝̭͘ ͎ẃ͕̯̟ạ̹͝y̨͇s̮̗̫͉̖̗͔̕,̷̺̠ ̙̩̜͍̭̜͍͝ąn̲̝̗̳̕d̞̼͡ ̠̼͇͍̖̥͟w͓̲̗̩̞i̼̭̺̺̗̭̕ͅt̳̹̹̺͓͖͟h͖̦͚̣͎͝ ̻̻̣̬͍͠on̗̼̯ͅly͉͙͍̰ ̖ṱ͈̠͝h̖̹e̤̲̺͓̳̦͜ m̢͎̘͍͓͍e͍̩̗͙̜͟r̦͈e͏͇̮͇͕s̜̱̲͎ṭ͖͙ i̖͙o͚̫̥̯͙̤ͅt̮̙̘aͅ ̶̦̣̞̳̘̠o̻̳̙̝̣̬f̜ ̷͉̱̺̖p͇̰̝̕o͕͙͍̠̺w͙̳̻ͅe̝̬͙̭̺̟r͢ ̶i͚̳̺n̞͚̪̣̯̝̙ ͎̣͟ọ̲͖̙̤́u̫͚͙͙r͓̦͙ v҉͎̲̯̺̼e̢̤̹͙̞̩s̠̫̞̻͙̤͟s̶̥e̗͎͈̝͡l̳.̰̩̖̮̻́
̩̥͠
̭N̩̹͓̕o̖̗̘t̥̭̲̱̗̣̫͡ ͈͢o̶n͚̞̖͎l̶͈̦y͜ ͚̮a̭͉͙̗̥̪̫r̝̠̫̫͘e̡͍̱̹͓ ̸̳̼̲͙͓͕w͙̭̱̪͡e a ͕d̶̦̰̱̘r̗̻͝e͔̦͙̱̫̘ͅa͈̼͙d̠ ̡̹̮̰̱͎̩ͅw̢̦̟̳iz͈̟̺͇̯̼̤a̴̘͚̲̺͎r̵͙̥̘͙͖d̦̙̥,͚ ̶̺̩̲͔b̩͓̦ųt̷̝ ҉̞̜̳̯̺w͎̣̭͝e͏ ͕̙̟̰̯h҉͚̗a͖̪͍̺̱v̷̦͚e̗͞ ̷̰̱a̛̪͙̝̜c͖͖̳̦̗͕c͕̥e͍͍̬̤͔ͅs̗̖̳̣̦s̨̞̺̩̠̹̮̤ ̜t͕̗͔͍͉͎o̪͡ ͍̱̩̹̥̗ͅt̡̺̣̤h̶̫͉̦o͚̬us̥͇̤͞á̘̰̞̞̖̩n̞͉̟̲͍͝d̼̩͙s͙̲̹̲͇͞ o͎̬͚̗͠f̟̜́ ͔̻͖͍̤͈̗c̹̻͚͙̀re̬͕̰̖͕͇̜at̛͕u̯̱r͏̪̪̙e̸͕̖͇͎̞̞s̤͈ ̹͘fr͕̼̹o̼͖̻̰̟͉m̲̩̩ ̯̼͈̪͖̹̰͢b̗̩͍͙̩͍e̖͇̺̱̠͔̕ͅyond̥ͅ ̹̰̖̖ͅt҉̹͓̤̪̱͉ͅo̜̰̱̤͓̱ ̖̖̝̩͢s͖̟̟̙͠t̲͙ar͞s̭͇̦͎͇ ̞̻̖̝̣͓̜a̦̹͚̜̙͓n̘̣̪̫̭͔̞d̖͇͚ ̗̪͉̀I̜̗͍̰͘ ̫̜w̯̼̺̮̜ͅi͍̳͚̳͟l̬͕l̝̮̲͚ ̲̙̫̙͈̖͕u͔s̗̹̗̫̱͚̦ḛ̥͔̤͙̙̯͢ ̻̩̜̱̲̬t̸h҉e͉͙̫͉͈̦ir̴͖͚̞̹̘̫͔ ̞̲̮m̧͔̘ig̴̤h҉̩̬̝̰̱t͜ ̸̭̗̯̳͓̪t̤̙̰͍̩̗͡o͕͍͡ ͓̩̺͉̝it̙͉̮̝͉s ̨f̧̭̩̟͎̥̦̙u̲̫͇͕͖͍̬l̯̰͇͚̲̦ͅl͈̀ ̢̥e̱̦͚x̬̟̬̟̙̣t͕͉͈̥͢e̹͇͚̬̘̺͞n̨̼͇t͉ ̵͉̹t̡̜̭̤̱͖̝̱ò̜ ͙̰̟w̢̬̲͎͙ͅi͞p̠̦̗̣͎̼̟͞e̷̲̰͔̜̣̫ ̟̮̬̥̠̼t̵̥͙h͔͞y̞̣̳͇͖̘ ̷m҉̦ͅi̝̝͍̙̙̖s̮͈̝̹̭̖er̨̙̩͚a̛̗͕b̬͕l͎̖̞e̤̲͕̘̩̫ ̧̪̼̟͓ͅe͏̱̗̖̮̗̖x͍̩̙ͅi̘͇̳̼s̡̮̫̘͓̭t̼̝̜̱̤̪̣e̦̜͈̣͜n͍̫̖͘c̰͖e̼̥̱̮̦ ҉̪͎̤f͏̙̻͕r̡̫ọ̘͓͚̥̞̼̕m̱̪ ̹͓̗̣̥̹̟t̷͔h͔̗̣̯̝ͅi̻s̱̣̖̳ ̱̳̖̻̹ͅu̵n̤͍̥i͙̻͔̗ͅv҉̣ḛ͍̣̻̹rs̺̗e͍̟,̬͎͈̺ ̟̖̞͕th̗͖͉̙̯o̡̩u̞̣̬ ̡͉̱m͎̹͢i҉̰͈̹͍̭s̫̪̮͎̯̕e̲̫͞r̳̙a̧̗̠͕̤̤̙͖b̥̫͞le̳̳̱̹͢ͅ ̷c̶̩̯u̠r̶̹͉̫̦̳̭̝.̢̜̦̲̩͈̬̼
̺̮̙̤͙
̺̺̱͙̪̮͘I̳̠̥͜f̯̫̖̜͖͇ ͉̻̀ͅo̲̖͚̤̪̘n̫̭l̥͇͘ͅy̬͚ ̦̩͓̲͟ţ̦h͖͔̳o̦̭̦̤̹̟͉u̯̮̯ ̵̯̣̩̝̫c̛̤̟̠o͝u͓̭̦̠l̲d͏̲̭s̷͉̜͙t͟ ̩̬̰ḥ̴a͉̜̥͇̙͕ve̴͕͔̥ ̠̠̘̪̣c͔̞̲͉̙̫͙͟o̜̦̞͓͚m̳̩̭p̟͖̜̖͇͢r̮̫̮͞ͅe̲̜͍̘͖ͅͅh҉͕̦̲̻e̝̰n̞͓͖̫͢ͅd̻̮̱̩̖e̙d͍̯͍͚̼ͅͅ ̛̙͕͖t̶͈h͍͈e̫ ͕̲u̟̦̬̩̫͉͡n̴̲h̴̫̟̗̘͓͍ò̰l̙̟̺͟y̗͇͎͚̫̟͢ͅ ̫̮͍̹̣̲re͈̤͈̬͖t̬̪̫ͅr̳̪̯̺̠͖͕i̜̞͕͚̼̤b͜ụ̫̠̱̮t̶̞̼̼͙̻̣͙i̯o̧̹n̯͔̖͍̱̺͇ ̯̖͓̗th͚̜̝̬̣y ̵̭̤̬̱p̣͚̬͓̹͇̥i̞̻̲̟̝̜t͟i̻f̛̠u̗̯l̘͎͓͕͠ ̝wo̡r̬d͏͉̤s̷̭͕̹ ̡̤̦͍̯̙̘w̭͍͇͕̮̞ḙ͓͎̤̤re̺̕ ̲̯͓͓͠àb̧̜o̞̻̫͡u̥͉̠̜t͔̗ ̷͈̯̲̗t̡̥o͈͓̞ ͠b̦̲̤r̦̳̙̙̳͈̳̕įn͓̦̫͟g̖̥͍̱̺̩ͅ ͕̦̲͓̞͕̜d̵̯͕̠ͅo̘̙̲̳̲͜w̱͞ͅn̝ ̖̩͎̺̮̮́u̷͓̝̝̪͙͚ͅpo̙͕̦̖̝̫͕n̼̱̯̦͢ ̼̲̲̻͜t͞h̸̘͇͈̱̙̜e̫͎̭͔͙̥͉e̸̜̰̖̲͙̪̫,̨̻̮̗̯ ̖̥ḿ̠̗͍̹̤͈̫a̡̬͖̰̮͎̤̳y̧̦̺̩̠̺b͕͔̪̳e̦͍̞̯͘ ̭̜̼̙̟t̷̻̲h͓͉̟ơ̱u̸̜̙̦̺̯͉̜ ̭̥̲͇̪̮w̯̖͈͉̫̜o̺̖̝̣ͅu͚l̶̟̭ͅd̳st̹͈̥ͅ h̻̖̦̲͝a̼̺͓̞̯̲v̘̖͎͙͘e̵ ̶̠̭̳h̤͓e̬̳̮̦̣̦͡l̥͙̮̼d ̴t͙͔̻̻̣̬ͅh̩̞̰͚y̨ ̺͇͉̲͚͓̹w̥̜͔r̻͇̼͟e̠̥̖̻̮t̹̭͉̟c̴̼̩͍͎h͉̟͚̟̟̳̯e̞̪͟d̲̝̙̞ ̺͕͢ṭ̩̗̼̭̮̖ó̬n͉̪̪g̪͉̘̗͕͢u̝͉̫̹̬͓̬e͖̭̱̪̪̻̹.̖͖̠
̲̮̗̪͙͇̮͘
̥̰̘̮̩B̭u͍͎t̀ ͉̘̺̫̱̹̮t̶̪̘̱͇̦̺ḩ͍͎̱̺͓̣o̫ͅṷ ͚̥͎͕͕̙͉c̘͈͈͚̻̘͞o̬u͏̺̣̤̪͇̮̩l̠ḍ̷͈͇̻̬͓̝s̤͇̳ͅt̳̲̞̣͔̣̯̕ ͕ṉ͜o͖͉̞ț,̫̞̰͟ ͇̗̰̙̪ͅt͙̪̠̗̩͍h̜̱̗͇̺̱͠o͕͍̯̳͟u͚͖͚̯̞͞ ̧d͓̼̤̞͘i҉̟̤̣d͖̬͖̥̲͖̕s̘̖̩̭̹̪̥̕t̜̞̤̹̪̪̗͞ ̴͉̙̙n̷̬̺̺o̖͔͖̖̩̲t̨͙͓,͎ ͏͉̙a͕͚̣̯̰̤ṇ̢̰̖̣͚d̙̭ ̘̪͈͕̩ͅn̡̝̣̬̙̦̭ow̜̲̟̥̩͕ͅ ̬͍̖t̬̤̗̗̠͞ͅh̤̯̣̹o̢̖u̳̩̩͔ w͈̤̻̮͙i̢lt̘͇̰͖ ̜̞̮̻p͎͞a̗͚̼̻y̷̻͓̠̯̜ͅ ̛͎̩̦̭̙t̤͓̺ḥ͙̱e͇͍̹ ̴͙̱̲͖̰̩̮u̴̗̗̝̟̜̖̩l͔̣ṭ̪͕̟̮i͚͍̩͈̤̖m̤a̠͈̫̖̱͢ț̘é̙̺̰̦̥̜̝ ̥̰̪͖̤͈͜ͅp͇͎͠r͔i̦̼̼̩cé͖̭͖͓̩,͎̼̖̥͕ ̺̦ͅț̷ͅh̯̯̭͙̕o͍͞ͅu̺̦̬ ̵͖̱̪̳̹i͔͖d̶̪͓͇͓͉͕͕i̯̬̼o̤t̥̲̘͚̤̪ ͞a̶̖͍ ͓t̫̮͙͔̗̮͡ho҉͉͚̳̯̻u҉̲͕̱͇ͅͅs̸͖̗͙̗a̹̘n̦̫͝d͙̤̩̯ ̹̭̬͍̜̼̘t̺̮͙͠i̬͔̰m͍̳͇e̷͇͇̰͖̺s̴̞̮͚̯ ̠̫͔͍̟d̗̮͈̭͘ͅḁ͕̮͖͈́m̲̖̟̯͙n̳̹e̱̹͉͓̠̜d̟͓͉̮̝͎̕.̞̖͙͎̙̜̥
̨̪̺͙
͖̻͝W̱̖̘͕͡e̟̰̮ ̰̼̥͟w̡͔̰̗̭͉̦i̧͔̱̳̗͎͕̜l̮̳̰͔̘̻ͅl͓͇͈͉̤̙͖ ̻̺̦̮͙ͅb̺̙r҉͈͙i̫̟͡n̙͍g̙̭͖̥ ̷̤͉͕t̟̞͖̙͉̩͔͟h̳̠̘̝ę̻ ͏̤͎f̜̖͓͉̹̱̫͡u̧̻r̹̦͈͎͝y̵̯̦̳ ͉͚̣̲̭̜̤o̹̙̗̫̘f̼ a̤͕̩̝̟͚̟ ͏̲͚̫͚̗͕̩m͎͉̮̻̲͇̭i̫̙ͅl͇̲͙̘͙ͅl͈̙̤í̳̪̯͖̞̩o͖̰ņ̱͍͎ͅ ̘ra̘̬͙̱͜ͅg͉͎̙̟̣̤i̟͎̲͍̭̬n̜͍̳̣ͅg̥̙̮̯͝ ̵̫̮̠͎͙s̞̯̜͈u̢ṋ̜̯̰s̠̭̼̺̙͕ ̱̜͕͕̼͕d̬͔͎o̳͓̪w̳n̮̗̼̲͜ ̷̰u̝̥̰̯̺p͇̮̩͙̘ͅon̸̟ ̰̜͖̯̦̬ͅt͇̙̻h̠̀e̸e̬̙̙͚̣ ̜͇̤͕̜͘a̹̣ͅn̮̗̠̣d҉ ͙̙̺͓͈̤̟t̠̙̫̹͢ho͏u̝͎ ̬̳̰̳͙̯͡w̫̲͕̬̭i͍̘̭͚͞l̺̣̪͎t̲͈ ͎͔̘̝̦ͅb̖͍̞u͏̹r̢̝͍̹̟̥n̖͚͚̫͓.͕̣͍͖̟͓̤
̱
̸̤͈T̛̼̖̖̠h̡̠y̧̟͙̦͈̳ ͏̦l̶i̦͍̻̣͇̺͔f̲̀ȩ̫̭͚̭͙ ҉̭̞ͅì͖̟̖͙̰̩͖s͇̗ ̝͚̞f̷̦̰̱̰̳̩o̗̱̥r̝̣͎̰̙̼f̴̜͓̟͕e̴̤̻̗͇̖̩i̞̟̣͓͔͉t̰̤̦,̝̥͔̰̥͓̗͜ ҉c͈̯͓hi̷̪̖̹͈̘̘l͍d̻̣̮̺̟̮̫.

Most of the students by this point were writhing in agony, vomiting or suffering from boils. Octavia loosened her bow tie and said, without any trace of her usual posh accent:

"As I live and breathe, I shall never be British again."

Miss Somnambula fainted.

Fluttershy turned her head away and clucked her tongue. "Ragamuffin, you're such a creepy motherfucker."

Ragamuffin, restored to his usual, mortal self, swung his arms left and right. "Wakka wakka!"

And that's how we learned the pyramids were not built by aliens after all.

THE END

Author's Note

And that's the end of my fic!

Donk.

One

Dat's Our Ragamuffin!
by Present Perfect

One

Applejack took off her boot and rubbed her sore heel, hoping none of her family members had heard her pained cry. So much for her hypothesis that super strength would let her kick apples out of trees, the way Sunset had said it worked in Equestria. And now the darn tree had a big chunk taken out of it, too.

Well, Twilight would be proud of her for trying science, anyway. Not that Applejack was likely to tell anyone about this little mishap.

"Ow!"

...Maybe she'd been too hasty.

Sure enough, a ripe red apple had fallen out of the tree, conking her on the noggin. She took her hat off and rubbed at the new sore spot as she observed the apple lying on the ground. She was gonna end up in traction at this rate if she wasn't careful.

Putting one hand on her hip and shading her eyes with the other, she gazed up at the tree, as though daring it to drop more on her. Its other fruits seemed content to remain in their branchy homes for the moment, at least. Thank goodness for that.

Chuckling to herself, she donned her hat and put her boot back on. No sense wandering around the orchard half-undressed.

She smiled down at the apple. "Least I got somethin' fer all my trouble."

But just as she reached down to scoop it up, a hand the same shade as her own darted in and swiped it.

Reeling, Applejack nearly toppled over as she tried to get a look at the apple thief. Who could have possibly snuck up on her like that on her own farm?

The answer was a boy around her age, thin, orange-skinned, with short blond hair and bright green eyes. He wore a starched white uniform with a black star and green swash logo that seemed somehow familiar.

The boy whisked the apple up toward his mouth. Applejack was suddenly struck by the thought that the apple hadn't been washed yet. Not that the ground was particularly dirty. But as Rarity might say, there are some things that are simply not done, darling.

The boy bit the apple.

Which is not to say he bit into it. This also struck Applejack as odd. Who bites an apple without taking a bite out of it? And for that matter, how? It was too early in the darn morning for her to be pondering questions of material existentialism!

"What in the sam hill?" was all Applejack could think to say.

"Dat's real apple, dat is!" exclaimed the boy in an accent at least as thick as Applejack's own.

Applejack stared for a moment. The boy stared at the apple, a vapid grin on his face. She smacked her forehead.

"Congratu-human-lations," she deadpanned. "You can identify an apple by bitin' it."

The boy tossed the apple blithely over his shoulder. "Oi'm Ragamuffin!"

Applejack, staring shook her head. "Okay?"

Ragamuffin leaned in closer to her. His smile, plastic, never wavered. "Oi'm Ragamuffin."

And with that, he about-faced, arms akimbo, and tootled off.

Applejack stared after him.

"What?"

Author's Note

Escape now while you still can.