Fear and Loathing In Skirtsland
Box Cutter’s hooves scuffled to a stop against the dusty mountaintop. With thin eyes, he squinted through the frosty mists towards the shape situated on the absolute summit.
An equine figure squatted there. Waiting. Meditating.
With a sharp inhale, Box Cutter stood up straight. A maid’s miniskirt billowed around his flank, laced with petticoats and frills. He trotted forward: a bold march into the frigid pinnacle of the land.
The waiting figure made no motion, even upon Box Cutter’s approach. From afar, the mountain climber could spot the tell-tale muscles of an aged stallion in repose. This was only ever so slightly off-set by the pink tutu sported around his flank.
Seconds grinded by like melting glaciers. It was just a matter of heartbeats before Box Cutter would be within ear-biting distance of the dormant pony. His young eyes rose to the tall, metallic, and slightly bent pole erected behind the pile of rocks that the elder was sitting on. Something dangled from up high, billowing in the breeze. Fitted with two lengthy tubes of neatly-sewn cloth, slightly frayed with age.
But before Box Cutter could even encroach upon the shadow of the high flying banner...
”Halt.”
The visitor’s hooves slid to a stop.
Not only had the elder spoken, but he had lifted his raised face from his otherwise catatonic state. There were very few gray hairs left upon his liver-spotted scalp. The only thing that moved were his lips and the taffeta layers of his tutu in the wind.
“Whoever comes to claim it…” the elder spoke. “They must risk their very own lives.”
Box Cutter cleared his throat, if only to stave off the frightful lilt in his youthful vocal chords. “I am willing to challenge you for them, o Guardian.”
“To what end?” The guardian’s nostrils flared, and even from afar Box Cutter could sense the untold strength brimming within his well-coiled limbs. “You do not know the power that they wield. The sheer destruction. The threat to all ponies everywhere. It is for good reason that they have been planted upon the roof of the world. And I have been blessed with immortal strength and wisdom: to see to it that they never be claimed again.”
Box Cutter had long-prepared himself for this monologue. He tightened his limbs, gritting his teeth to the point of gnashing. “May I ask you a question, Guardian?”
“As your life may be soon to end, then I will grant you such liberty,” the old stallion rumbled.
The challenger’s tail flicked, upsetting the windblown flow of his skirt and petticoats. “If pants were so detrimental to the safety and peace of Equestria, then why weren’t they destroyed completely?” Box Cutter nodded to the flagpole. “Why do the Last Pants In the World still reside here? Under guard?”
The wrinkles in the elder’s face hardened. “Did anypony ever tell you the story of Flash Sentry the Girded?”
Box Cutter blinked in confusion. “No, sir… my…” He coughed delicately. “The elders of my Skirtscommune did not teach me about him.”
“It is a name that time itself has worked to forget,” the Guardian rumbled. “At the cost of many souls…”
“Once upon a time, there was a wise and talented Princess. She claimed her place on the throne through friendship, magic, and mental tenacity.”
A faded sepia tapestry displays a lavender alicorn hovering over the denizens of Equestria. Ponies bow and prostrate themselves before her regal splendor.
“She was blessed with immortality. But for her: it was a curse. For she knew that she would out-live her friends. The very friends who imbued her with the power to claim that crown to begin with.”
The tapestry unveils the alicorn sifting through a laboratory full of potions, vials, and smoldering concoctions.
“So, to avoid a fate of perpetual sorrow and loneliness, the Princess sought out an alchemic cure to her friends’ mortal fates. If she could make them live forever, then perhaps she wouldn’t spend the extent of her rule by herself. It was a noble idea, but also a selfish one. And soon it dawned upon her that making all of them live forever would curse them equally as she herself had been cursed.”
The lavender alicorn sits in a shadowed corner, levitating a singular goblet before her face.
“As it turned out, she only had enough ingredients to make one immortality potion. If she wanted to, she could make a friend of hers live forever. But only one friend. During the time it took to create this quaff, she had already philosophized over the accursed nature of the brew. So, in the end, she decided to give up her friends--peacefully--to the hooves of death. And, instead, she would use the potion for purely selfish reasons. Which meant…”
The tapestry shows an elaborate ceremony. The alicorn is wearing a fabulous wedding down, standing at the altar besides a blue-mane’d guard one-third her size… and sweating.
“...she used it on her prized guard, assigning him the role of concubine for life. An eternal life. If only one soul had to be damned, then she might as well use it for her own benefits. Besides, her friends were all doomed to pass away. Who would be left to judge her.”
The Princess and her husband stand side by side on a balcony, surrounded by many many many children, some with wings, others with horns, all bearing the likeness of their mother and father.
“And so it came to pass that Princess and her breed-stallion, Flash Sentry the Girded, lived for many many generations, strengthening the core of the Equestrian gene pool with their healthy, wealthy, and wise offspring…”
“From then on,” spoke the Guardian, “All who came into contact with the Princess became known as the ‘second husbands,’ for none could ever hope to compete with the love, adoration, and lust she had for her chosen mate.”
“But… wait a second…” Box Cutter’s lips pursed. He leaned forward, exhaling cold vapors into the mountainous air. “That doesn’t explain a thing…!”
“What do you mean, challenger?”
“What does the Tale of Flash Sentry the Girded have to do with the fact that pants have been outlawed in all of Equestria?!” The youth swung his fetlock towards the flagpole. “And why only this pair remains!”
“These pants?” The elder’s graying ears flicked. “They serve as a reminder… to keep the likes of you far away… lest you die at my hooves for attempting to re-introduce this banal evil back into the world.”
“But… why??” Box Cutter gnashed his teeth. “I’ve trained all my life for this moment! To challenge you and re-introduce pants into the world! Why are they so evil in the first place?! I just don’t understand!”
There was a momentary lapse of noise. Even the winds died down to allow silence to cocoon this most sacred instance.
Then, at last, the elder spoke: “Well… jeez, kid…” His eyes twinkled under those heavy lids. “They kinda buckin’ ruin panty flashes, don’t they?”
A beat.
“Oh. Right. But of course.” With a flick of his tail, Box Cutter blessed the heavens with lacy pink. He turned right around and trotted back down the mountain top. “So long, elder. You win.” A vaporous sigh. “I suppose I’ll pick up knitting.”
“That you will, young one~” the elder said. “That you will.” There was a hint of a smile.
Then--behind him--issuing out of a dank, dark cave: “Flaaaaaaaash?” A regal, bookwormy voice sang along the winds. “It’s time for your regular session!”
The elder sighed, ears drooping, and he turned away from his post to march into the cave. “Yes, honey.~”
Author's Note
I blame him.
