Susan Storm, Toru Hagakure, John Cena, and a Herd of Thestrals Visit Sugarcube Corner
Crossover Convention Confetti Clown Cake
It was not a dark and stormy night.
Morning rays of sunlight wafted through the rose-tinted windows of Sugarcube Corner. Songbirds flitted back and forth outside, laying their nests for a verdant spring. Inside—the bakery was still relatively empty. It was barely an hour past opening, after all. Nevertheless, a few bleary-eyed patrons had made their way in. No more than four ponies sat scattered across random tables, sipping morning coffee and enjoying a lightly-frosted danish while reading the local paper.
All was silent. Mostly silent, that is. The rustic building's air conditioning kicked in at some point, bringing a low hum that resonated between the walls. Off in the kitchen—beyond a pink painted partition—an oven could be heard dinging, signifying the end of a breaded snack's baking cycle. Metal hinges creaked as a certain fluffy somepony opened the appliance, and the atmosphere of Sugarcube Corner was enriched by yet another layer of scrumptious aroma.
Silence resumed.
One pony coughed.
Another turned the page of their newspaper, kissing the air with a light paper rustling sound.
A chair creaked... or perhaps it was the floorboards settling... … or maybe it was an old oak tree swaying in the morning breeze just beyond the northeast windows... … …
The unused tables were cleanly set: their utensils sterilized and symmetrically arranged for incoming patrons yet to be seated.
A long neglected bookcase lingered against the north wall, positioned perpendicular to the entrance. It was in sore need of dusting.
A clock ticked in the corner. The second hand lurched lazily towards the half-way mark, then lurched beyond.
One pony coughed again.
Another customer cracked the joints in his neck before brushing her mane back and taking another bite of their danish.
There was a flushing sound. A few ponies looked over. The door to the unisex bathroom opened up and a random pony stepped out, stifling a yawn. She paused at the front counter to drop a few bits for her meal then briskly trotted out of the establishment. The front door exit jingled with her departure.
The clock ticked its way into another revolution.
Newspapers rustled.
Outside one window, a wayward dragonfly zipped into view, flew blindly into the glass, did so three more times, then finally flitted off towards some unseen destination.
At some point—either a few seconds or few minutes past the dragonfly incident—the aroma of baked bread intensified. A pink shape trotted backwards out of the main kitchen, passing through a pair of squeaky swinging doors. In a happy canter, Pinkie Pie carried a sugary loaf atop a plate balanced across her flank.
“Okie dokie lokie!” the ecstatic party planner bounced over to a patron's table and laid the meal down before the mare. “There you go~!” Pinkie beamed from ear to ear as she stood, gazing down at the patron. “My special patented Banana Bread Bonanza~! Just like you ordered overnight!”
“Splendid,” droned the customer, putting down her newspaper. “What do I owe you?”
“Pffft! I'll put it on your tab! Early discount!” Pinkie winked. “It's my special policy for ponies who are enjoying their birthday this week!”
The mare couldn't help but shudder. “How'd you know that?”
“Five days from now at two thirty-two in the morning!” Pinkie giggled, blushing with pride. “That might explain why you're such a night mare! Erm... figuratively speaking.”
The pony sighed and started carving the first slice of delicious banana bread. “I've lived in this town for six years, Miss Pie. I still can't get over how you've somehow managed to memorize the birthday of every pony who lives here.”
“Ehhhhh—It's a grift!” Pinkie Pie blinked, then squinted into some event horizon somewhere. “Er... gift? Bah~” She waved a hoof. “One of those two.”
The front door jingled.
“Merry Magical Morning~!” Pinkie swiveled to smile and wave at the entrance. “Welcome to Sugarcube Corner—oh... false alarm!”
The door shut on its own, just as quickly as it opened.
“Eh. Must be the breeze.” Pinkie Pie turned back to the patron. “Anyhonkers! Come back in five days and you'll get a Birthday Caramel Cupcake Platter! On the house!”
“And then I get to mark yet another notch on my inescapable plunge towards death,” the mare droned, took a bite of banana bread, and swallowed. “How joyous~”
“Mmmmmmmmmm...” Pinkie Pie's muzzle was already scrunching. “Don't think of age as approaching death... but rather...” She smiled brilliantly. “...think of it as getting further away from body-porking your mom!”
“... … … … … … you did say that was going on a tab, right?”
From two tables over, an old stallion raised his hoof. “Say—Miss Pie?”
“Whoopsies poopsies! Gotta scootsies!” Pinkie curtsied to the mare before blurring backwards and spinning to face the senior citizen with a bright-eyed grin. “Yessireebobbers?”
“My brain is all sorts of fuzzied out...” Chewing on his bottom lip, the stallion tapped a pencil repeatedly against a partially-filled crossword puzzle in the center of his paper. “What's an eight-letter word for 'nothingness?'”
Pinkie squinted. She pondered. She thought long and hard: “'Butts?'”
“No no no...” The stallion traced the empty column with his pencil. “It's gotta start with an 'O.'”
Pinkie squinted some more. “'Oops! Butts!'”
“I'm... not sure that fits.”
“Well, if it means nothing, then anything could fit!” Pinkie performed a proud pirouette. “Allllll the butts! Heeheehee!”
“Heh...” The old stallion smirked. “I think you should stick to baking, Miss Pie.”
“Funny. I've never put a butt in the oven before.” Pinkie tapped her chin and blinked. “No. Wait. That's a fib. Dashie once flew through a hailstorm and needed help warding off hypothermia—”
The door jingled again. This time, a pony trotted through. None other than Best Pony, full of freckles and drawl.
“Hey! Applejack!” Pinkie called out without looking. “You've got a better memory than mesa! Remember two summers ago when we got hail? So... like... did we stuff Dashie into the oven head-first or plot-first?”
“Sorry, sugarcube,” Applejack said, sweating from the weight of saddlebags full of apples. “No time for gabbin'. Gotta make this here delivery and skedaddle. While I'm here—though—reckon you could fetch me a tall bottle of yer finest—?”
Suddenly, Applejack froze in place. Her eyes locked rigidly on a large empty spot in the corner of the establishment. A pale sheen washed over the mare—until her freckles nearly disappeared. By the time the farm filly's green pupils had shrunk to pinpricks, she was backtrotting the way she came.
“Nope!” she said. “Eeeenope!”
Applejack turned completely around and marched firmly, purposefully out of the building altogther.
“Nope nope nope nope nope nope nope...!”
The door jingled and she was gone.
“Heh... silly pony.” Pinkie Pie snickered to herself. “I figured if anyone was an expert on thawing Rainbow's flank, it'd be her~”
“'Ostrich!'” the stallion chanted in victory—then almost as quickly blanched. “Wait. No. That's seven.” Frustrated, he resumed tapping the paper with his pencil.
“Anypony need more OJ??” Pinkie called out, bouncing back towards the kitchen. “Get it while it's fresh and ice cold and not outracing police on the highway!”
“I'll have some, thank you,” said the banana bread mare, waving.
“Coming right up!” Pinkie hummed to herself. At some point, a bell jingled. She frowned towards the entrance. “Sassafras and molasses! I really need to get a new door stop...!”
