Metallicolt

Chapters

Prologue
Chapter 1: No Life 'Till Leather
Chapter 2: Hit The Lights
Chapter 3: The Four Stallions
Chapter 4: Seek & Destroy

Prologue

"Isn't it strange? All these great stories, these... 'literary wonders' of our time seem to share one interesting trait: they are plagued by monologues.

Let it be a foreword, the start of a chapter, the climax of any major segment in the story, with every one it is always the same affair: the creators take a moment to open their very souls and flood our minds with all of their wisdom. Questioning ourselves and our true nature. Questioning our place in this world, our very existence as equines. Leaving us with naught but a lingering, unspoken promise of providing an answer. One that will truly bring enlightenment once the great tale has been told...

...and all such tales are naught but bloated, overflowing heaps of absolutely worthless nonsense!

After all, why should you allow your story to speak for itself? Let it slowly unfold and reach clarity on its own?

No, you should instead make a pathetic attempt to hide your incompetence. Save the effort of writing something meaningful by bombarding the audience with thunderous speeches, as one would cloak something of little value with an expensive veil. Play it loud and unyielding, like the opening chord of the great symphonies, and let nopony hear the foul notes that you hide underneath.

But already we have fallen to the illusion, mesmerized by those magnificent words. Our blissful stupor shall betray us, leaving us numb to the underlying sting: our thirst for true wisdom. When it does return, gaining no satisfaction from the empty rambling, it now drives us merely to continue. Submit to hearing more of the tale in a vain hope of finding what we seek...

Bah! Don't listen to me, Beardy, I speak too much! Let your thirst be the one adversary which troubles you, for tonight we shall vanquish that as well!"

– Star Swirl the Bearded: Tales Between Drinks Between Friends (excerpt)

Could you have ever believed it?

A few years ago you probably would have laughed it off and reached for another bottle from the pack. You were small, insignificant, and no troubles of the world could bother you.

Now, here we stand before an entire ocean of ponies. Roaring, screaming, thrashing about to your every sound and motion.

When you look upon this great mass of unrestrained life, what do you ask yourself?

Perhaps you might wonder how you came to be here?

Maybe it was a gift of some higher order? A random, or perhaps a deliberate choice that fell upon you, granting you the talents one would need to achieve such immeasurable success?

Or was it your own doing all along? No will of some world beyond, no predestined path for your life to take? Only your strength and determination pressing you forward, letting you surpass all others that tried the same path?

Who could ever know? Does it even matter to us now?

Only one thing is certain: something happened on that fateful day almost a decade ago, and your life took an entirely new turn. You stepped forward boldly, embraced the unknown, and went on to shake the very foundations of Equestria.

One could assume it is a story worth being told...

Author's Note

Moved this into its own chapter.

EDIT: This fic originally included the lyrics to some of the songs that it contains. Due to the new site rules, I decided to remove them. My apologies if this led to a decrease in quality...

Chapter 1: No Life 'Till Leather

"What the fuck?"

For the residents of room thirty-two – and of those close enough to it – the day was off to a terrible start. Their usual late morning slumber had just been interrupted by a set of agony inducing screams, along with the sounds of someone violently rearranging the contents of the aforementioned room.

"Dude... what the hell?" one of them moaned half-asleep.

"Where is it?" the loud voice came again.

The victims of the noise groaned and rolled over. Knocked out of their pleasant dreams, they were now trapped in the nightmare of a hangover. Thirsty Thursday was a must-attend for all of Camden College, and the East Wing Dormitories – or "E-block," as they liked to call it – were no exception, famous for being its "night watch". Stay all night, sleep the entire day after.

Today, however, was going to be an exception.

"Where the fuck is it?" it came again, followed by something crashing against the wall.

Oh god... they thought. It's that dumbass rocker kid from thirty-two again. The fuck is his problem?

The culprit was merciless. He kept running up and down his room, not stopping for one second. He screamed at the top of his lungs while occasionally throwing something or moving some heavy piece of furniture.

"Where'd it go? Where? Where the hell is it? What the fuck, man?"

"Calm down, bro!" one of his roommates said.

"Shit, guys... What's with all the shouting? I'm trying to sleep..."

"Where? Where? Where is it?"

There was no mistake. It was gone.

He checked under his bed again and stared at the empty space where it used to be. A large, rectangular clear spot in the sea of dust and trash.

Did those jerkoffs swipe it from me? Is this some sort of shitty prank? he thought.

By now, the room was an absolute mess, even compared to how it usually looked. Still, no amount of destruction he caused has managed to uncover it. His blood boiling, he grabbed whatever item that was close enough to him and smashed it against the walls, despite the protests of his roommates. He then rushed outside and frantically begged whoever happened to pop out of every room he tried if they knew anything. The responses ranged from threats, to pity, to just plain laughter, but not one of them had anything useful to say.

It all seemed hopeless. Slowly, he dragged himself back toward his room while feeling like he was about to cry.

What a perfect fucking start for a perfect fucking day...

As his head started to clear up a bit, he began to notice just how strange it all was. There was no sign of theft in the room – or at least none that he could find – and no one could tell him anything useful. In fact, hardly anyone he asked even knew he had the thing. Aside from that, theft was very rare in the dorms. Respecting the property of another was a sort of unwritten law that they had.

He sat down on his bed, then leaned forward to look under it once more.

Gone. Not even a trace of someone trying to drag it out of there. All the rest of the junk that he had down there was right where he left it. Even the thick layer of dust he kept there was completely undisturbed, save for that one clear spot where it used to be.

Letting out a painful sigh, he thrust his back on the bed.

It's almost as if... it just vanished into thin air...

"Whaaa— OOF!"

Hayfeld groaned as the left side of his face turned into pain.

He wanted to die. Just lie there without moving a muscle and wait for death to take him away.

His limbs were positioned awkwardly by the fall, the joints beginning to throb. Hot gravel cut into his face, and he could feel the noon heat burning his back. None of it was enough to will him to move.

Instead, he looked up to the sky. Bright, blue, and not a single cloud in sight. Celestia's sun traveled slowly along its path in the heavens while giving its warmth unfazed by the gloom that came over Hayfeld's mood.

He sighed and went back to staring at the ground. Today was supposed to have been a perfect day. It certainly seemed to start off that way as he thought back to it: Saturday morning. Sleep in. Maybe have breakfast for a change. Kill some time at home, then get some fresh air by going for a walk. No hurry. Nothing to do today. Nothing to worry about.

By noon it became incredibly hot, which was not uncommon during summer near Los Alicornes. Everypony else in the neighborhood had decided to escape to the beaches nearby, his parents included, meaning he had the whole house to himself for the weekend.

He had trotted down the empty streets and smirked as he noticed the last of the "evacuees" in the distance. Ponies rushed to their carriages with their luggage, then hurried off after the rest of the horde toward the coast while cursing to themselves for waking up so late, which meant having to spend the trip in the unforgiving heat.

For him, a heatwave was not much of a problem. He could easily ignore it and pass it off as a sort of pleasant warmth, not to mention enjoy the peace that it brought: no traffic, no commotion, and no noise. It almost gave him a sense of strength and superiority that he was able to stand his ground here, while everypony else just ran away.

He had left the streets after a while and decided to head for Anaheim Park -- "the woods," as the locals referred to it. It was not a real forest in any way, since it was only two or three acres of ancient oak trees with a dirt path winding through it. Nothing more than a small green island among the endless suburbs.

He always liked to go for a walk here. Plenty of shade, good atmosphere, and with everypony gone there was complete silence, save for the occasional breeze blowing through the trees or a couple of birds singing. It was a place where one could forget all of their troubles and immerse themselves in the beauty and peacefulness of nature.

This heartwarming state of bliss had lasted for about five minutes, until he suddenly felt his legs stumble over something. A harrowing moment of free fall came next, which was concluded by his face making intimate contact with the dirt.

So there he lay, sprawled out on the path and refusing to get up after being robbed of his perfect day. Death was a little slow to come and provide mercy, however, and the pain from his legs was starting to become unbearable. Not wanting to suffer any more before "passing away," he shuffled his legs around a bit in an attempt to arrange them more comfortably.

That was when he felt his hind legs bump against something. Something large.

What the hay? he thought.

He had managed to fall after stumbling over something, that much was certain, and no doubt the object behind him was the source of his misery. Something did not make sense, though. He wanted to turn around, but then hesitated. Doing that would mean getting up, and the ground suddenly felt so much more comfortable.

His curiosity eventually won over, so Hayfeld let out another groan and groggily pulled himself to his hooves. He quickly dusted himself off, spat out a small amount of dirt that was crunching between his teeth, and checked his jaw to make sure it was not broken or had any teeth missing. Finding himself still in one piece, more or less, he took a deep breath and slowly turned around.

In front of him, on the ground, was a large cardboard box.

Hayfeld quickly glanced around. His eyes darted back and forth between the trees as though he hoped to find somepony hiding there after pulling a prank on him.

Nothing. He looked back down at the box with a perplexed look on his face. As caught up as he may have been in the tranquility of the park, the object was not exactly something he would not have noticed while walking straight toward it.

How the hell did I manage to stumble over this thing?

The more he thought about it, the less sense it made: the box was not small enough to blend in, and it definitely was not camouflaged or anything.

Where the hay did this thing come from?

Perhaps a unicorn might have been able to teleport it beneath him. Wait, those kinds of spells usually involved a fair amount of light and noise, right? He could not remember seeing or hearing anything before falling over the object, though.

But... it couldn't have just popped up out of thin air... right?

He walked around the box to inspect it, though he still gave it a wide berth as though it were some sort of cursed object. The box was light brown, the cardboard rather worn and dirty, with several patches of duct tape along the edges. Aside from its miraculous appearance out of nowhere, it showed no symptoms of the supernatural.

Only one side of it featured something out of the ordinary: two lines of unfamiliar, strange-looking symbols written in black.

J O E 'S
S T U F F
3 2

His eyes narrowed as he leaned forward to take a closer look. The symbols were rather crudely drawn – as far as he could tell, at least – the lines rather wobbly and the ink unevenly spread. Although it appeared similar to Equestrian writing, he could derive no meaning from the words, or whatever those shapes were supposed to be.

Is this thing from abroad? Perhaps... from space?

"Oh come on, you idiot!" he muttered to himself, then rolled his eyes at his own stupidity. "Get a hold of yourself!"

Inching a bit closer, he prodded the top of the box with his right forehoof. He paused, then began to wonder if he should take a look inside.

Finders keepers, right?

Finding no resistance, and his curiosity now too strong to hold back, he slowly pulled it open.

The first thing to hit him, oddly enough, was the smell. Though it was not exactly unpleasant, it was mind-numbingly strong, even causing his head to recoil in the first few moments. He quickly took a deep breath and held it for the time being in order to avoid being distracted by it any further.

The right half of the box appeared to be almost empty, with the exception of a few small paper bags at the bottom. Upon closer inspection, they turned out to be the source of the alien fragrance, and by opening one of them he found that they were full of small, green colored clumps of a substance he did not recognize.

Some kind of vegetable or berry perhaps?

Whatever it was, he certainly did not dare try tasting it to find out. Instead, he sniffed at the bag again. The smell reminded him of the herbs he has seen some ponies use as incense, like at those exotic therapy sessions that his mother used to visit. A bit stronger and not nearly as sweet, though the true nature of the aroma was beyond what he could put into words.

He set the little package back down, focusing instead on the other half of the "treasure chest," which was tightly packed with several dozen large, thin, square-shaped pieces of cardboard. Each one sported a wide variety of colors – though mostly dark ones – and their smooth surfaces were polished off to a sheen.

Why do these look so familiar?

He picked one up, then peeked inside when he found one of its edges to be open.

What the... Vinyl records?

Hayfeld sighed in frustration. First, it's somepony's weird hobby, and now this? I managed to stumble over somepony's music collection?

The whole situation was starting to feel rather anti-climactic. Disappointed as he was, he decided to examine his find anyway. The jackets and the records themselves appeared to be in rather good shape, at least compared to the box they came in. He assumed the previous owner must have been very fond of them. That, or simply has not touched them ever since they were left inside.

Sighing again, unimpressed so far, he took a closer look at the jacket he pulled out before, and was instantly taken aback by what he saw.

The cover featured an all-black background with more of the foreign symbols at the top and bottom, this time written in red. Though the shapes appeared to be much less sloppy than the ones he found before, perhaps even somewhat artistic, he did not bother trying to read them. The image on the cover took up all of his attention instead: a blood red painting of what looked like the skull of some creature. A creature that crawled out of a nightmare.

The thing had huge, razor-sharp fangs, all of them on display with its jaw wide open as though it were howling. A pair of huge tusks grew out of the sides of its mouth and pointed upwards. Its eye sockets were large and menacing, and the top of the skull sported a line of short spikes jutting out from the bone. A chain hung from the aforementioned tusks in an arc below the skull with several other ornaments attached to it.

He blinked. What in Celestia's name am I looking at? he thought.

He was no expert on music in Equestria – having only a modest collection of his own – but he was pretty sure no such record existed anywhere near this place. In fact, he was not entirely convinced that it could exist anywhere in this world. No cover art he has ever seen looked anything like this. Ugly, violent, powerful, and even slightly terrifying.

A grin of excitement crept onto his face.

In other words: this looks awesome!

That settled it for him. He would take the box home right away. With the cover art alone being this impressive, he could not wait to find out what the music on the LP would be like. He reinserted the jacket, closed the box, then carefully placed it on his back and made sure it was in balance. Pausing for a moment, he took one last look around just to be sure that whoever might have lost the goods was not suddenly rushing back toward him. Nopony was around, so he just shrugged and took off.

A swift gallop in such heat was not exactly a pleasant thing to do, but Hayfeld did not want to waste any more time. He rushed out of the park and headed for the main road, since that offered the quickest route back to the street where he lived.

The neighborhood was completely devoid of any activity by now. Occasionally, he would see a carriage or two moving down the streets, either out delivering mail, cleaning the streets, or on some other type of official business. The pavement was so hot that he could almost smell his hooves burning, so he did his best to move from shade to shade whenever possible.

"Come on!" he groaned. By now, he was panting, sweating, and thoroughly frustrated. While he was never a big fan of having to hoof it, the feeling of that box bouncing on his back was all the motivation he needed to keep going.

There! That's it! Finally, we're in the home stretch!

Hayfeld cheered in his mind when he noticed the corner two streets ahead and recognized the trees that lined the opening of Sunset street. Just a couple of houses beyond that was his place: a nice, old-fashioned, single-storey home with a modest front lawn. One which he "promised" his mother he would take care of while they were gone.

Well, it was morning, and I was still half-asleep...

He raced past the familiar – and rather disgusting – mix of oak and palm trees, dodged the spray from the sprinkler that had been set up next door, and finally collapsed on the front porch to take a quick breather before going inside. The moment the door closed behind him, he breathed a sigh of relief and slumped down on the floor with his back against it.

"Finally... home... sweet home..." he muttered between gasps. A smile flickered across his face when he noticed just what a huge mess the place was.

I must have "promised" to take care of that, too.

The chores would have to wait, though. He trotted into the living room and slid past the couch toward the far left corner, where the family's old turntable rested on a dusty bookshelf. He picked it up and swiftly headed for his own room, then locked the door behind him. Finally inside his safe haven, he unceremoniously dumped all the items he carried upon his bed and set about putting the ancient device back in working order.

He made sure that the surface was more or less clean, the stylus and the spindle still functioned, and that the crystals powering the machine still had some juice left in them. The worthless things cost only two bits, and their shoddy capacity did not hide that fact, but fortunately they hardly ever used them anyway.

"Okay, all set! Let's fire this bucker up!" he exclaimed to himself. He flicked the power switch on, and the turntable sprang to life, emitting all sorts of metallic noises as the inner machinery was set in motion.

Picking up the infamous sleeve a second time, he was once again amazed by the menacing cover. With an expectant grin, he pulled out the LP itself and placed it on the turntable. After pressing "Play," he leaped back to the center of the room to face the lone speaker connected to the worn device, then rubbed his hooves together in excitement.

Here we go!

The stylus dropped down onto the surface of the disk. There was a loud popping sound, and for a couple of tense heartbeats all Hayfeld could hear was the telltale scratching of the head as it ran through the empty areas of the record. Then, all of a sudden, a low, growl-like sound came out of the speaker.

"Whoa!" he muttered. "I don't remember setting it that loud..."

The very next moment, the whole world tore itself apart.

A titanic wave of sound exploded into Hayfeld's dumbfounded face, then rolled over him like a freight train at full speed. His head snapped back, eyes growing huge at the unexpected sonic assault. Fast-paced drums, the same low, growling noise, accompanied by a similarly distorted, though somewhat higher pitched instrument.

"Is that a bass?" he wondered half-aloud.

While his mind was still trying to piece together what was going on, the vocals started coming in as well. Each line was followed by a change in the melody. The guitar – if his ears did not deceive him – screamed over the low bass and punctuated the end of each line of the verse.

The voice itself was quite clearly male, not to mention incredibly raspy, which made the vocals sound more like screaming than singing. Unlike all the writing he found so far, the voice definitely was not foreign, even if it was not exactly easy to understand.

There was a slight pause in the vocals. Hayfeld felt like he was slugged in the face by an Ursa Major. He clutched his head and sank to the floor slowly as he struggled to come to terms with the assault on his senses.

There was no doubt about it: nothing in the world sounded like this. There was no smoothness in it at all. No pleasant harmony. Only speed, distortion, and rage. He quickly glanced at the turntable itself. The volume knob was barely past "4," but he already felt like his eardrums were about to burst.

If somepony outside hears what's going on—

He reached out to shut the device off before it was too late. That was when he noticed that his left hoof was twitching. He paused and looked down, puzzled by the strange reaction. His puzzlement quickly turned into shock when he realized that it was not twitching at all: it was tapping the floor to the beat of the song.

What the hell am I doing? he thought, almost laughing despite himself. Looking up again, he turned his attention back to the song, which has since reached the second verse.

An awkward feeling crept up his spine. His hoof just would not stop. In fact, it was going at it even harder. A smile began tugging at his lips, and he was now tapping his hoof voluntarily. Something about the intensity of the song felt inviting. Dangerous.

Fun.

His head followed soon after as it bobbed slightly to the beat as well. All of his fear and uncertainty was being replaced by something else. Something new. A feeling that he had no name for, yet somehow knew he has been waiting to feel it his entire life.

By now, he was grinning wildly, stomping on the floor with both of his hooves. He could feel something welling up inside him. Something incredible. The volume, the sound, the speed, the lyrics. All of it worked together to stir up his insides, pumped him full of energy, then waiting for the right moment to release it all.

It felt amazing.

Just as he was about to go fully berserk, the song came to a sudden halt, with only the vocals keeping the onslaught rolling. It then took off again, even stronger than before. The melody shifted, now going to a new, more ominous place. He could feel that something big was coming up.

It's a guitar... It most definitely is a guitar... And right now, it's kicking ass!

Hayfeld lost it. Completely out of control, he started thrashing and throwing himself all around, bouncing off the walls, jumping off the bed, and smashing against the door. Howling in his ecstasy, the only sound he could hear was the electrifying scream of the guitar solo. He could feel his mane flailing about as he banged his head as hard as he could. Every joint, every inch of his body was exhausted or in pain, but he no longer cared. He just wanted the song to last forever. To have this feeling last forever.

The solo finally ended, and the verse riff returned, but that made no difference to him. He kept up his frenzy tirelessly, ready for the next round.

"The Ace of Spades!" he screamed in unison with the voice. He was banging his head so hard now that it was making him nauseous. It did not mean he was going to stop, though.

The tone shifted slightly once more, and the guitar screamed one last time. A final salvo of thunderous beats pounded the air in the room, and the speaker went silent. The song was over.

Hayfeld collapsed on the floor and panted from exhaustion. His whole body felt like he has been struck by lightning, and it was still coursing around through his veins. He closed his eyes and rolled onto his back while struggling to catch his breath.

"Fuck yeah!" he finally managed to cry out.

The young colt was grinning from ear to ear. He had no idea what just happened. No idea what it was that he just listened to, and why it made him act like he was completely out of his mind.

He did not care. This was the best day of his entire life.

Slowly, he opened his eyes, his head now resting on its side. Taking in his surroundings, he noticed that the mysterious box had been knocked off the bed, its contents now spilled all over the floor. One record landed right next to him, the black cover featuring the same foreign symbols in purple, along with what looked like a large diamond in the background.

Behind him, the speaker was starting up again.

Hayfeld let out a small laugh.

The best day of my life, indeed. And it's far from over...

Author's Note

DISCLAIMER: My Little Pony, Metallica, Motörhead, and all related products are properties of their respective owners.

Yes, I suck at writing a disclaimer...

Chapter 2: Hit The Lights

(The song mentioned below can be started here as well.)

History. It contains the word "story," does it not?

So where does this "story" begin?

Contrary to popular belief, very little is known about the true history of Equestria prior to the princesses' reign. Beyond what we could piece together from mere folk tales, or the few surviving works of the great minds of that era, we have no proper documentation of all the events that passed after the three pony races decided to coexist in harmony. Even less is known about the age that preceded it, though all evidence points to the fact that all three were well-developed societies, and that they certainly produced sufficiently educated scholars who could undertake the task of properly chronicling their own history.

Of course, to some extent, the latter problem is understandable. Very few relics of that era have manged to survive all the rigors of time, and those that did had very little to say. If the tale of Hearth's Warming Eve is to be believed, the devastating weather and the great migrations it set off have no doubt erased most of the remains that were left behind.

But what of the age that came to pass afterward? An event of such magnitude as the three races becoming one, not to mention the vital period that would follow? Should that not have been an excellent opportunity for any self-respecting scholar to forever mark their name in pony history by describing this era for all generations to come?

Unfortunately, there is no way to know for sure. The earliest chronicles we have only date back to the very first decrees made by the princesses, some 800 years prior to the appearance of Nightmare Moon. It is unknown whether any official documents from before this date were simply lost to time as well, or were perhaps destroyed intentionally.

"But," one may ask, "what of the princesses themselves? Surely, the immortal rulers possess eternal memory as well?"

Here is where the views are most divided. Can we really trust any information given to us by our two glorious monarchs to be authentic? After all, no question ever posed to them has ever been refused an answer, and no amount of cynicism has ever been met with retribution...

Loud music roared from the much abused speaker, which buzzed slightly as the volume strained it to its limits. The turntable spun the black disk silently under the pin. The aging machine's sides started to heat up after being in use for so long. The bed upon which it rested was carelessly littered with empty record jackets, and the LPs they used to contain were unceremoniously tossed aside in a pile close to the edge.

In front of the bed, on the floor lay Hayfeld, covered in dirt and sweat. Every inch of his body throbbed, completely devoid of any strength. His head was pounding, and his ears felt like somepony was hammering giant nails into them. His mane went from just unkempt to unbelievably messy, sweat-soaked clumps of it sticking to his face and neck, which collected pools of the salty liquid that stung horribly.

"Dead reckoning!"

He mouthed the words of the song silently, while his head nodded to the beat. His voice threatened to give out about three songs ago, so he decided against any more "singing along" for today.

He had managed to go through four albums straight so far, thrashing around like a maniac non-stop. Every new sound, every unexpected twist he discovered made him let loose even more. And whenever the music stopped, he immediately rushed to the turntable to set the next disk under the pin while trembling with anticipation. He wanted to get back into his insane groove. He wanted more.

His body, on the other hand, just could not go at it any further. Halfway into the third album, his muscles simply gave up on him, and he collapsed onto the floor. No matter how much he struggled to get back up, it was no use. He was completely spent.

That did not mean he was going to take a break, though. Not when it came to the music, at least. He simply rolled onto his back, closed his eyes, and let it keep pounding his eardrums mercilessly.

The song ended. Hayfeld smiled once again. Pain, exhaustion, the filth around and upon him; none of that mattered to him anymore. He was in heaven.

Nothing feels better than this. Nothing, except... maybe... well, I can't do that right now, anyway... The thought made him snicker a little.

He grunted as he tried to pull himself upright, but the effort was made somewhat difficult by a sudden onset of nausea. He shook his head slowly and tried to get the stiffness out of his neck, while his eyes painfully struggled to open.

What the hell happened? I feel kinda sick...

A gurgle in his stomach cut off the rest of his thoughts. A moment later, a long, loud burp escaped his mouth, reeking of alcohol.

"Been drinking again, huh? Typical..." he muttered as he looked around. Slowly, he became aware of the dreadful state of his room.

"Whoa, shit..."

The bookcase to his left had toppled over, its contents scattered across the floor. While he did not keep many books there, it did also contain his prized collection of empty bottles. Once proud vessels of rare and expensive beverages, most of them were now reduced to colorful piles of glass shards.

The rug – which used to be held down by several heavy pieces of furniture – now lay all bunched up in the far left corner. He assumed that it must have dragged his desk along with it, since that had moved from the right corner to the center of the room. The entire floor was littered with bottles, most of them empty, and quite a few broken.

The next song began to play, but for once Hayfeld did not notice. He was too busy laughing his flank off.

Oh boy... I really did it this time...

The poster on his wall still appeared to be in the right place. If he remembered correctly, however, there were not supposed to be a bunch of red lines all over it. Or dozens of slash marks. Or a huge tear right down the middle.

He frowned. The sight made him a bit mad. He really liked that poster. It featured a legion of the Royal Guard marching across the Great Plains, the words "PROTECTORS OF EQUESTRIA" emblazoned upon the sky above them, which made him figure it was some sort of "propaganda BS." He just thought it looked cool.

While looking at the poster, he then noticed that the wall itself now sported several large cracks in it.

Now where did those come from? And what are those red stains all over the floor? Or on top of the bookcase? Is that... blood?

Pain shot into his forehead. "What the hell?" He groaned and lifted his hoof to caress the spot, only to freeze when he noticed there was dried blood on the tip. Memories came rushing back to him, and he fell back, laughing hysterically.

Of course! Right after the second disk! Dashed outside to look for booze. Found a case of that cheap Heineighken crap in the kitchen. Tried headbanging while drinking. Almost threw up. Several bottles later, went back to thrashing around. Smashed head against the bookcase after banging head too close to it. Got a nasty gash on forehead. Bled like crazy.

Hayfeld was in tears. The more he remembered, the whole thing became more and more amusing to him.

What happened after that? Oh yeah: got mad as hell. Grabbed the bookcase and shoved it against the floor. Threw almost every bottle at the walls. Leaned out of the window to throw up. Used a glass shard to carve up poster. Wrote "BUCK THE POLICE" on it with the blood from the wound. Stepped on a bottle and fell over, one hoof still holding on to the poster. Almost tore the thing in half.

Minutes passed before he managed to stop laughing and catch his breath. Hayfeld wiped the tears from his eyes, still chortling to himself, then slowly pulled himself to his hooves.

One hell of a party, indeed! he thought, then smiled as he took one more look around. Well, I guess there's no point stopping now!

"Ugh!" he added with a grunt of discomfort. "I better take a piss first..."

With that, he stumbled out of his half-destroyed lair and steered himself toward the bathroom to his left. Behind him, the music was still blasting at full volume, which made the whole house vibrate. Even with the door closed, it managed to drown out the sound of the toilet flushing. Hayfeld chuckled, then burped again.

Boy, the neighbors would be really pissed off at me right now.

After completing his business and making sure that his aim had been precise enough, he started back for his room. His hind hooves swept the toilet brush and a roll of TP out along with him, but he did not even notice. His mind was busy picturing all the amazing things he had planned for the remaining booze.

Oooooh yessss... this party is just getting started!

This small dose of euphoria was suddenly interrupted by a loud bang on the front door.

"What the...?" he muttered half-aloud, then sluggishly turned toward the direction of the noise. Through the cacophony coming from his room, he could faintly hear the sound of somepony shouting outside.

He grumbled to himself in annoyance and began stumbling his way to the front door. The thought did occur to him along the way that maybe this was not such a good idea. The whole house – his room in particular – looked like a disaster area, and he had music playing well above any reasonable volume. He imagined that whoever was outside probably would not take very kindly to all that.

Oh yeah... I'm kinda drunk, too. That might complicate things as well...

However, while his brain was still busy attempting to process all of these thoughts, his forehooves were already gripping the door handle. With great deal of effort and a lot of cursing, he managed to throw the door open, then nearly lost his balance in the process. His eyes squinted at the brightness outside, and he raised a foreleg to shield them. Through the spots that now filled his hazy vision, he could just barely make out the silhouette of a single pony that stood on the front porch.

Okay, he thought, Not my folks, apparently.

Still lost in his stupor, he struggled to think of a diplomatic way to start off the conversation that was inevitably coming up.

"The fuck do you want?" he managed to spit out, then nearly fell forward as he leaned on the door.

"Hey! Whoever is inside, turn that crap down already!"

Ullster was becoming increasingly frustrated. He has been shouting and banging on the door for five minutes now, yet nopony decided to answer him.

"No doubt thanks to that loud 'music,' or whatever they call that manure they're playing in there," he grumbled to himself.

He heard something bump against the door from the inside.

"Finally!" he hissed under his breath, then braced himself as he listened to the sounds of somepony fumbling with the lock. At this point, whoever was on the other side was really going to get a piece of his mind. Maybe even a blow or two from his hooves, just in case they angered him any further.

The door suddenly burst open, and out stumbled a young earth pony stallion. He had a dark grey coat and a long, messy, blond mane, both of which looked like he just survived getting run over by a stampede of angry bulls.

"The fuck do you want?" he slurred as he leaned on the door handle. The kid looked a bit wobbly on his hooves. Ullster felt his anger spike, and he was about to answer when a horrible stench hit his nose and overwhelmed his senses.

"Holy... what the hell is wrong with you? You smell like... ugh!" The rest of his words were cut off as he gagged.

"What?" The kid finally bothered to look up at him. "You got a problem, dick?"

"Yeah, I do!" he shouted. The roar coming from the now exposed interior of the house made him struggle to hear his own voice. "I'm trying to get some bucking sleep, and this shit isn't helping! Turn it down, for the goddess' sake!"

The gray colt stared at him blankly for what seemed like an eternity, his eyes just barely open. Ullster wondered if he even heard anything he just said, or if he could understand what was going on at all. With the kid looking so out of it, and that deafening noise playing constantly, it seemed doubtful at best.

"Whatever," the colt finally muttered. "Just... get lost!"

He then took a couple of steps back, and before Ullster could even react, he slammed the door in his face.

"Hey! What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he bellowed while slamming his hooves on the door. "Don't even think about leaving me here like that!"

Less than a minute passed, and Hayfeld was already bored of the conversation. The young stallion in front of him was still yelling about something, and all he could think about was how much he did not give a damn.

So what if the music is too loud? So what if I'm drunk?

He stepped back and slammed the door shut. While stumbling his way back toward his room, Hayfeld could faintly hear the unwanted visitor scream and pound on the door again.

Seriously... what the fuck was that guy's problem? he thought. Can't take a bit of noise every now and then?

All of a sudden, the pounding stopped. Curious, Hayfeld looked back at the door and waited to see what might happen next. The stallion on the other side must have given up, though, as no further sound came from outside.

Whatever... not my problem.

After finding his way back to his room, he began to search painstakingly for an intact bottle on the floor, desperate to quench his growing thirst.

"No... nope... dammit! Not this one. Ah! Here we go!" Hayfeld exclaimed when he finally managed to pick out an untouched bottle of Heineighken.

Nodding his head to the beat, he pressed the cap against the edge of his toppled bookcase, then began putting his weight on the bottle to try and force the cap off. Success came moments later, along with him spilling a generous amount of the frothing beverage.

"Bottoms up!" he mused to himself, then acted accordingly.

BOOM

Hayfeld could actually feel the impact on the wall he was facing. A heartbeat later, a muffled crashing sound could be heard as well.

"Shut up!" somepony outside roared.

The bottle dropped from his hooves. Slowly, he raised his head, then reached over to flick the power switch off. The turntable sputtered to a halt, which ended the loud music. Hayfeld jumped up and dashed straight to his window, then slid it open to look around.

Outside, the wall now sported a dent the size of his head, a web of cracks surrounding it. In front of it was a large pile of dirt and debris – the remains of what used to be a large flower pot. Hayfeld could feel his temper rising, and his head began to clear slightly. He knew who did this.

"Hey! Get back here, fucker!" he yelled, but the culprit was nowhere in sight. Cursing under his breath, he began to climb out the window in the hope that his soon-to-be-dead visitor did not get much of a head start. After a few seconds of pathetic and fruitless struggling, however, he managed to convince himself that the front door might be a more effective route.

"Oh, now you're going to get it, you dick!" he hissed. With newly found balance and energy, he galloped out of his room, intent on tearing that stallion limb from limb. He threw the front door open, ready to leap from the porch and begin the chase, only to almost bump into his prey who was already there waiting for him.

His surprise only made him hesitate for a moment, but Hayfeld decided to wait and size up his opponent first. The stallion was quite large, easily a head taller than him, not to mention rather muscular.

Workhorse? Bouncer? Wrestler? Off-duty Royal Guard?

Not that any of those would deter him, but the stallion's apparent strength was worthy of mention nonetheless. His coat was jet black, strongly contrasted by his light brown mane, which, to his surprise, was almost as long as his own; the style was not very "hip" these days. While he could not get a good look at his cutie mark, Hayfeld figured he had enough details in case he would ever need them.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he barked.

"Maybe I should ask you the same thing, dumbass!" the stallion yelled back. Hayfeld noticed the slightest hint of a foreign accent in his speech. "I thought I told you clearly to turn that stuff down! And what do you do? Slam the goddess-damned door in my face!"

"Oh yeah? Well why should I give a crap about what you want? And since when do you have the right to break shit around my house?"

"Maybe since it helps getting my message through your thick fucking skull! I'm trying to get some sleep, and it's very, very hard to do that when you keep playing that fucking trash so loud!"

"Trash? Trash? I'll show you some fucking trash!" Hayfeld screamed as he lunged at the trespasser.

Ullster could see him coming. He braced himself, quickly raised his forelegs in front of his face, and waited patiently for that first blow to land.

That's right, he thought. Come and get it, asshole. It'll be the last thing you ever do.

To his surprise, however, the trash-talking colt did not hit him. Instead, he felt a pair of forelegs grab him around his waist, and the next thing he knew, the idiot started dragging and shoving him toward the interior of the house. Ullster was completely dumbfounded, so much that he did not even resist for several seconds, which allowed his opponent to move him several feet despite his inferior size and strength.

"Hey! Hey! What the hell do you think you're doing? Let me go!" he yelled as he regained his composure, then tried to shove the colt off himself.

"Stop whining and get your ass in there!" came the reply between grunts. His opponent kept forcing him into what appeared to be the living room. "Do I have to drag you in like the baby you are?"

Escaping the colt's grasp proved to be surprisingly difficult, and the struggle eventually led to both of them losing their balance, which sent them tumbling to the floor. Ullster quickly rolled back upright, while the kid just kept flailing about and trying to find which way was up.

"You got a death wish, or something?" Ullster yelled. "Don't ever fucking do that again!"

"Aww, boo hoo!" the colt replied. "Cry me a river! Little bitch..." He finally managed to grab hold of the couch next to him and proceeded to drag himself back to his hooves.

"What the hell do you want from me?"

His opponent managed to stand up once more. "You have just insulted the greatest–" BUUURP "–the greatest thing ponykind has ever had the chance to hear," he said. "And I'm not about to let that slide. Now shut up and follow me, dumbass!"

"This kid is out of his bucking mind..." Ullster grumbled silently. While dusting himself off, he decided to take a quick look around to get his bearings. The sight was nothing spectacular. Just an average suburban home in Los Alicornes, albeit suffering from an above-average level of untidy.

Off to the right: the living room. A large couch, a small TV, and a short, ebony colored coffee table in between. A pair of bookcases and a few shelves along the wall next to them, which housed a wide assortment of books, glassware, and other kinds of junk. To his left: the kitchen and a small closet. A couple of pictures hung up on the wall between them. Up front: three more doors that lead further into the house. Bedrooms and bathrooms, no doubt.

The living room floor was an absolute mess, huge chunks of dust and trash strewn all over it. The couch and the coffee table gave home to all sorts of things that did not belong: dinner plates, empty bottles, books left half-open, and even some dirty clothes. Meanwhile, the kitchen was overflowing with unwashed dishes and leftover scraps of food, some of which gave off an incredibly foul smell. It made him wonder just how much trouble this kid would be getting into, since he obviously did not live here on his own.

His parents must be really proud of him...

CRASH

"Fuck!" the colt screamed.

Ullster's thoughts were interrupted by the distinct sound of a large body hitting a pile of glass bottles, breaking several of them in the process. He turned toward the source of the commotion and noticed his "host" sprawled out on the ground behind the half-opened door in the middle. Ullster facehoofed and let out a painful sigh, then reluctantly walked into the room after him.

"Wow..." he muttered. Compared to this, the rest of the house was spick and span.

On better days, it might have looked like the average "rebellious teenager colt's bedroom." Today, however, it was "the keg party at Hoofstock." Everywhere he looked, he found empty beer bottles, shattered glass, piles of junk, furniture moved out of place, and even some damage done to the walls themselves. A horrible stench hung in the air: the unmistakable mix of dust, sweat, and booze.

The gray pony moaned as he dug his way through the mounds of trash on the floor. His hooves dragged him toward the mangled mess that was his bed. Strewn across it was a pile of vinyl records, all sporting a wide array of strange works of art on their front covers. Next to them was a large cardboard box and an old, banged up turntable, which kept making several sharp clicking noises every now and then. The colt removed the disk that was still inside the aging monstrosity, then began sifting through the contents of the box.

"Alright..." he muttered. "Let's see what we've got... I'm willing to gamble you aren't a complete fuckin' wuss, so we're going to need something... special..."

"Fine, whatever. You mind hurrying up? Ugh, I feel like I'm going to throw up," Ullster complained. The nauseating odor of the room was starting to get to him. He had to admit, the kid's strange behavior did make him a bit curious, but he was losing patience rapidly.

"Hang on a minute! Fuck..." the colt spat back in frustration, then continued digging through his collection. "Ah! This should be good!" he finally exclaimed as he retrieved one of the albums from the box. He pulled the LP out of its sleeve and began working it into the player, then discarded the latter upon the bed, which gave the black colt a chance to get a good look at its cover.

This one happened to have a black background – a recurring theme, apparently – with a large, faded yellow circle in the center. Two lines of strange symbols adorned the upper and lower thirds of the circle. Somehow, those symbols looked familiar to him, but he could not quite put his hoof on it. Inside the circle, turned upside-down was a five pointed star, its lines trailing around what appeared to be a large goat's head. The goat's horns and ears filled the space between the top four points, the lowest point occupied by its snout. Its dark, sunken eyes were dead center, staring straight up at him with a menacing gaze.

"Hell yeah, this is going to be awesome!" the gray colt said as the turntable began to spin up.

Five minutes. That's how long you have to impress me. After that, I'll bash your head in with that piece of crap! Ullster thought as he stared daggers into the oblivious pony's back. He sighed once more and turned back toward the lone speaker connected to the worn machine. Nothing happened for several painfully long seconds, save for the annoying colt letting out another long and disgusting belch. Then, without any warning, the speaker roared to life once more.

Ullster's head immediately recoiled as it was hit by a wave of sonic destruction, the thunderous beat feeling like it was going to tear right through his eardrums and pound his brain into mush. He tried to scream over the mayhem of sound at the colt next to him and demand that he turn it down immediately, only to find that he could not even hear his own voice, and that the buffoon was too busy bouncing his head up and down to pay any attention.

The vocals came in soon afterward. What little he could actually make out of the words was horrifying enough. "What in the name of..." the coal colored pony mouthed silently as he tried to comprehend just what exactly this foul barrage of noise was supposed to be.

Is this the product of some evil magic? An elaborate prank? A bad dream?

All of a sudden, his thoughts were cut short when he felt something large slam into his side. While it only managed to nudge him slightly, not being all that massive, it was enough to finally push him over the edge. A quick glance to his right was all it took to confirm his suspicions: the kid went beyond just bouncing his head like a freak. He went completely insane and started throwing himself all around the room without any kind of restraint.

That does it. You're dead, you little shit! he thought and began to move toward his maniacal host. His hooves trembled with anticipation, ready to break the kid into pieces.

"Woohoo! Fuck yeah, dude!" the gray colt hollered over the deafening blast of the speaker. "This song is awesome!"

Ullster stopped dead in his tracks. Just now, he managed to get a glimpse of the kid's expression behind his flailing mess of a mane: eyes squeezed shut, grinning from ear to ear, not caring about anything in the world.

While he did what he did on purpose, there was no sign of any malicious intent, no schadenfreude, as Ullster's folks back home called it. This kid looked like he was simply trying to enjoy some mindless fun, and was perhaps trying a bit too hard at that.

The black coated stallion shrugged and took a couple of deep breaths. While the realization did make him stop, it did not calm him down in the slightest. After all, he was still stuck in a room with a rampaging drunken idiot, listening to some unnameable abomination that threatened to make his head explode.

Then again, in his current mood, the aggressive style of this "music" did not exactly feel inappropriate. He figured it might be the kind of stuff that is supposed to make a pony go crazy, and the kid's actions were a sort of "invitation" to join in on the fun.

All right, Ullster thought and permitted himself a small grin. He had plenty of steam to blow off at this point. You want some action, huh? Then let's go for it!

"Welcome to hell!" Hayfeld screamed.

This, he thought. This is the best song yet. All that other stuff before was just kids shit. This right here is what you call "heavy."

"WELCOME TO HELL!"

He froze, eyes growing wide when he heard his "guest" let out a massive roar to that last line. He just barely managed to turn around and watch, completely dumbfounded, as the huge stallion barreled straight into him.

"Shit..."

Ullster slammed right into the kid's chest, which hurled him across the room. The gray colt slammed against the wall next to the door and sank limply to the floor.

"Boo ya! Welcome to hell, bitch!" Ullster bellowed.

The song came to an end, giving them both a few merciful moments of silence. The colt just sat there, back against the wall, his head slumped forward.

Damn, Ullster thought. The kid still was not moving, which made him feel a bit uneasy. I didn't actually... kill him, right?

BUUUUUUURRRP

"Whew!" the gray colt said. "Damn, that's what I'm talking about! Your balls finally decide to drop?"

"Fuck! Oh, you fucking..." Ullster let out the breath he was unconsciously holding. "You scared the crap out of me!"

"Beats almost getting your spine cracked..." the kid groaned. "Didn't I tell you to stop whining?"

"Asshole!"

"Cunt!"

They stared each other down, breathing heavily, both not quite sure what to do next. Before either had a chance to decide, however, the next song started blasting from the speaker.

The colt brushed some of his messed up mane out of his face and cracked a small grin.

"Ready for round two, dick?" he said.

Ullster blinked. Moments later, he let out a small laugh, shook his head, and returned the grin.

"I'm all yours, punk!"

From that point on, the rest of the weekend became lost in a haze.

As he lay there, with a beer in one hoof and his throbbing forehead in the other, Hayfeld could barely comprehend what was happening. Compared to any other boring weekend, everything was too weird and moving way too fast. That, and he was still incredibly drunk.

After the third song or so – if he remembered correctly – he offered the black stallion some of the leftover beer. To his surprise – not to mention great satisfaction – he did not shy away from the opportunity, and before they knew it, the house suffered the second drinking binge of the day.

They ran out fairly quickly of course, so the big guy offered to hit the liquor store nearby. Meanwhile, Hayfeld searched his collection for their next dose of musical mayhem. No matter what, their ride was not going to stop.

By the evening, they had to take a break. Both of them were exhausted, beaten to a pulp, and thoroughly wasted on all the booze they obtained. They turned the volume down to a more comfortable level, much to the relief of their eardrums, and just started talking.

He could barely recall any of the conversation itself, and most of it probably was not important anyway. He did manage to learn the colt's name, however: Ullster. After the stallion threw a bottle at him for laughing at the name, he also told him about how he moved here from overseas a couple of weeks ago, which explained that little accent.

Taking a sip from the bottle, Hayfeld glanced to his left at the empty spot among the piles of bottles and cans, which was where the the big guy sat just a few minutes ago. He had said something about "getting his ass fired if he shows up like this," and "having to go home and clean himself up." He could not even remember seeing him leave.

Hayfeld chuckled. "Heh heh... pussy..."

The turntable behind him was clicking again, having finished playing the last album over an hour ago. Neither of them bothered to shut it off since then.

"Uuuugh..." Hayfeld groaned. He made one last, desperate attempt to drag his sluggish limbs into place and raise himself off the floor.

One more. Just... one more...

It was all in vain. A wave of nausea and vertigo overtook his consciousness, and the helpless colt fell over, the side of his face hitting the dirty hardwood floor. The whole world began to spin, his stomach churning and grumbling, feeling like it was going to turn itself inside out. He could feel himself slipping away, and was fully aware of the darkness as it slowly consumed his vision.

Moments later, the house on Sunset street found silence once more. It lasted for a whole of thirty-four seconds, upon which a set of mechanical clicks and a long belch pierced it again.

His parents opened the front door seventeen minutes and thirty-one seconds later. They did not notice that the lawn was just as they left it, nor did they notice a broken flower pot and a puddle of vomit in front of their child's bedroom window. Once inside, they continued to remain oblivious to the dreadful state of their home. Spilled fluids, dirt, bottles, cans, packages, scattered and broken contents of the house; none of these things managed to capture their attention.

When they entered their son's room, it was no different. No foul odor, no amount of destruction caused in the last two days was enough to make them take notice. They crept through the remains of the carnage while taking care not to make too much noise, then examined the dirty, sweaty, alcohol-drowned mass of body parts that was their only child.

Both parents watched in complete silence, relieved at the sight of his chest still rising and falling periodically. Moments later, the child gave a loud snort, wriggled around a bit, then went back to wheezing silently. His father stifled a laugh and quickly moved the box and the turntable out of the way, then walked over to help his mother struggle the colt onto the bed.

"Good night, sweetie!" his mother whispered softly into his ear, then nuzzled his forehead. Hayfeld let out a slight moan, mumbled something incoherent, and quickly went back to sleep. His father chuckled again and gave him a few pats on the shoulder.

They tiptoed out of the room and switched off the lights along the way, while their child rolled onto his side and began snoring away peacefully.

One slow and painful awakening later, the next couple of weeks turned into a blur.

Hayfeld lost track of time entirely, barely able to keep track of what was going on around him anymore. Things in his life never got so complicated before. Instead, every single day moved at a snail's pace and followed the same pattern: Wake up. Get cleaned. Grab something to eat. Get to the station. Catch a train. Enter the warehouse. Sit in your little corner. Start packaging. Coffee break. Back to work. Lunch. Back to work. Smoke break. Back to work. Shift's up. Catch a train. Walk home. Find bed. Sleep...

All of that changed now. No longer did he feel as if he were tied to the second hand of the punch clock, which forced him to suffer through every tedious second of his life as they slowly ticked away. Instead, he now seemed to be lost in a strange euphoric haze with nopony around him able to figure out what was on his mind.

His parents took notice of the change as well. Gone was the depressed-looking colt of theirs, the one that trudged home every day without a hint of ambition in his eyes. In a way, it was almost awkward for them. Never before did he seem so eager, so enthusiastic about getting things done, even when it came to his "slave labor" of a job – as he used to refer to it – or doing the worst of the household chores.

Little did they all know that Hayfeld's newly found enthusiasm was centered around a certain little secret of his. He did not really give a hoof about things like "duty," "hard work," or "responsibility." Not since the day he found something so much more important in his life. Something that kept him on edge the entire day as he waited for that precious moment and dreamed about the wonders to come.

The very second his shift was over, he would rush straight back home, not even bothering to say goodbye to anypony. Once he made it back, he would quickly get all of his chores done just to avoid any further interruptions – like another speech from his parents about "being irresponsible." After that, he would retreat to his room, grab his new headphones – which cost him nearly all of last month's pay – plug in, grab a disk from his precious new collection, and let loose the monsters of sound.

As he lay on his bed, head or hoof twitching to the beat, the deafening roar slowly turned into a sort of "safe haven." A way to retreat from the tedious and frustrating nature of the world around him and remind himself of the fact that he was still very much alive.

The best part, however, was the thought that he did not have to be here alone.

Two days after he woke up with a devastating hangover, there was a knock on his bedroom window. Moments later, a large black stallion climbed in, the same one who got so unbelievably drunk with him over the weekend. The strange visit required a second round of introductions, followed by a quick – and rather hilarious – recollection of the past weekend's events. After all, besides dignity and property, alcohol tends to destroy memories as well.

Since they learned that they both shared a great fondness for this new music, the two quickly agreed to further explore the depths that it had to offer. Every now and then – mostly during the weekends – the youngsters would meet at the local store, load up on booze, then dive headfirst into the thunder of the new noise.

Once again, the ponies were able to find bliss in pure, unadulterated chaos. One problem they kept facing, however, was Hayfeld's strange insistence on keeping their escapades between the two of them.

"Come on, you idiot!" Ullster screamed at the gray colt during one such night. "Let's invite some friends! We could throw a killer party with this stuff!"

"No! Fuck no! No way!"

"The hell is your problem?"

"I... I don't know..." Hayfeld said and took another swig from his beer. "I just... I don't think anyone else should know... Not just yet..."

No matter how much his buddy pestered him, Hayfeld refused to allow anypony else in on their little secret. He even asked to move their meetups over to Ullster's place, since he lived on his own.

"Less chance of my parents finding out," Hayfeld muttered. "I really don't need that shit."

"Yeah, well I don't need everypony thinking we do each other in the ass," Ullster spat back. "What the fuck else comes to mind when you see two guys hanging out alone constantly?"

"Shut up, dick!"

As much fun as the music had to offer, it just did not cut it if they had nopony to share it with. Weeks passed, they burned through every LP several times already, and the whole thing was starting to lose its appeal.

"We should start our own band... maybe play some shit like this..." Ullster slurred semi-consciously. He lay propped up against a wall with an empty glass between his hooves.

Hayfeld sat on the opposite side of the room. He looked away and gave a deep sigh.

"Yeah... whatever..." he replied.

"Sweetie, would you mind coming here for a second?"

"Uuuugh... fine, Mom!"

He really did not need this right now. The store would close soon, so he wanted to get going. With a sigh, he set the acoustic down on his bed, then got up and walked out into the living room.

He found his parents sitting on the couch, both of them fixing him with a serious gaze. The gray colt stopped dead in his tracks, and his blood ran cold.

"Son, we need to talk," his father said.

Oh hell...

Hayfeld sat silently on the dirty and worn seats while staring blankly out the window at the retreating scenery. The scenes of the past day and a half kept playing themselves out in his head over and over again.

His mother spoke first. "Listen, honey: you know your father and I both love you very much..."

He sighed. This kind of introduction usually meant a lengthy and boring lecture was waiting for him.

"You never caused any trouble. Never brought shame on yourself or your family. You stayed in school, help out at home, and even found yourself a job. More than what one might expect from a colt your age, and we're both very proud of you for that."

There was a sad smile on her face.

"Remember what we discussed?" his father joined in. "Work hard, play by the rules, and in your free time you may go and do as you please. Your mother and I will never ask what you've been up to..."

"As long as you don't bring it back home," they chanted in unison.

Hayfeld could feel his heart beating faster and faster. He really did not like where this was going.

"You're a good child," his mother said. "The best we could ever have asked for. Whatever makes you happy makes us happy as well, and we'd never want to take anything like that away from you. But the things we've seen recently..."

"We became a little worried," his father spoke again. "These last couple of weeks we often couldn't see you for several days. We had no idea where you were and what you were doing. And let's not even discuss what we saw whenever you finally did decide to come home..."

"We've also been getting complaints. Loud music in the middle of the night. Bad manners. Foul language. Even some property damage. A couple of neighbors talked about you hanging around with some large colt. They talked about you two drinking heavily, making a ruckus on the streets, and blasting some 'strange noise' at ridiculous volumes."

"By the way, who is that kid?" his father asked.

"Just... some guy..." Hayfeld mumbled. "He's alright..."

"Look, Hayfeld," his mother stepped forward and rubbed his shoulder. He wanted to hide. Run away. Disappear. "We know you're young and you just want to have some fun. When we were your age, so did we. But there's a certain limit to such things."

She sighed. It sounded painful.

"We don't want to punish you, or even press you on this matter any further," she went on. "It's none of our business. Besides, you're too old for us to treat like a foal anymore."

"On the other hand," his father added, "we still feel that you've grown far too comfortable with the way things are right now."

He smiled for a moment. An equal amount of sorrow and sympathy resided within the same expression.

"Son, it's easy to be messing around when you have a safe little home to go back to every day. But life won't be that simple forever. We," he emphasized that word, "won't be here to shelter you forever. And we think it's time you learned that as well."

The train shook as it hit a particularly neglected section of tracks, and he wondered if his sack might fall onto his head. He hugged the pack between his hooves even tighter and rested his head on the top. His legs bumped lazily against the box below his seat.

All the arrangements have been made. They found him a place to stay, packed his stuff, bought him a ticket, and called his boss at the warehouse to announce that he would not be coming to work starting next week.

He received three months worth of rent money, plus a little extra to buy food and clothing. Anything beyond that he would have to earn on his own.

The whistle blared as the locomotive rolled through the junction at the edge of Los Alicornes proper. At the station, a friendly conductor helped him carry all of his stuff off the train. He poked a bit about the strange odor coming from the box, but Hayfeld did not reply. He checked the note in his pack, stuffed it back inside, and began searching for the nearest tram stop.

An hour later, he found himself on the third floor of an ancient multi-storey apartment complex and stood before the banged up door of his new home.

"Keys are inside, I keep a spare," announced the old stallion with a raspy voice. He turned out to be the landlord of the place. "Trash goes down the chute, laundry is in the basement. Hot water is a privilege, so don't abuse it."

"Sure..."

Hayfeld could not decide whether the stallion had more teeth or more hair on his head left. For some reason, he never decided to ask the old guy's name.

"Store is two blocks down the street," the stallion said. "Bar is just around the corner in case you feel like getting lubed up."

"Got it..." Hayfeld replied.

The old fart grinned – the sight of which nearly made the colt gag – and patted him on the shoulder. "Play it nice, kid, and we'll get along just fine. Any questions?"

Hayfeld gave a weak smile. "Got something that can play vinyl records?"

Minutes passed like hours. Motionless, he lay submerged in the cushions of a dusty old armchair in the center of the "living room" as he stared at the tangled mess of wires, metal, and plastic at his feet. His hoof clutched an empty beer bottle.

Great... my first trip to the store, and it was a beer run... It made him wonder whether that was a good sign concerning his future.

A chirpy voice on the PA announced that his train was about to leave. Father shook his hoof. Mother hugged him tightly for the eighth and final time. He sluggishly climbed on board and began wandering about to look for an empty seat.

The place barely had any furniture. He even bought the booze in a case just so he could use it as a makeshift table once it was empty. The sun has already set, and while this room did have lights, he did not bother turning them on. Somehow, the dim aura of the blue hour felt more pleasant than any artificial brightness.

He watched his parents wave at him from the platform. His mother blinked away at her tears. Lazily, he lifted a forehoof to wave back. He even managed to force a weak smile.

No need to make them feel any worse about it, he thought.

The armchair was a good thing to have, at least. Soft and warm; it was almost as good as any decent bed.

I might even offer to sleep in it, in case—

No.

He did not want to think about that. Looking around at the walls and the floor did not turn out to be a comfortable distraction, though. Perhaps, for the first time in his life, he felt offended by the sight of such filth and decay.

There was a gentle tap on his door. He ignored it and took another sip from the bottle. The knock repeated, increasing in strength.

Hayfeld closed his eyes as he tried to seal the noise out of his consciousness. The old bastard has a spare key, he thought. If he wants to come in, he can. Anypony else can fuck off...

"Hey! Asshole! You going to leave me out here all night?" came a familiar voice from outside.

No way...

The gray colt jumped up, his mind racing. Either he finally managed to go insane, or he was waking up from this bad dream. As much as he would have liked to know which was the case, however, he also intended to keep that door in one piece. Without any further contemplation, he quickly ran up to it, twisted the key, and threw it open.

Facing him on the other side was the big guy himself, a huge grin on his face. "About time!" he said. "You fall asleep or something?"

"What the..." Hayfeld stammered. "How the hell did you get here?"

"Went looking for you since you never showed up last week," the colt replied. "Heard from the neighbors that your folks decided to put the boot to your ass."

"Yeah..." Hayfeld sighed. "Sucks to be me, huh?"

"You kidding?" Ullster exclaimed and stomped his forehooves excitedly. "A fresh start? Nopony bossing us around? This is the best chance we could ever get!"

Is it?

For a moment, Hayfeld thought again about everything that happened these last few days: leaving home. Breaking away from his parents. Losing his comfortable little corner of the world to a place like this.

He looked back at his friend grinning at him. Somehow, the sight brought a smile to his face and lifted some of the tension that he felt all day.

"Whatever happened to 'ponies thinking we do each other'?" Hayfeld asked sarcastically.

"Nothing will ever separate us again, my love," Ullster replied, then fluttered his eyelashes. They both laughed. "Got the good stuff hooked up?"

"Sure, just as soon as I figure out how to put it back together," Hayfeld said and gestured toward the miserable pile of machine parts that his landlord offered him. He invited his guest inside, then stifled a laugh when the large colt's jaw dropped at the sight of the horrible conditions.

"Thirsty?" Hayfeld asked.

"Damn... well, I definitely need a drink now," Ullster replied, eyes still wide. He snapped the cap off a bottle and quickly took a big swig of the stuff. "At least it won't matter how much we mess it up," he added with a lick of his lips. "Which we definitely will..."

"That's the spirit, fucker!"

With that, they got to work on the dissected machine, all the while praying that their efforts would end up as "repairs" instead of an "autopsy." Less than half an hour later, the first disk began to spin up on the turntable. Hayfeld smiled, then thought for a moment and turned to his friend.

"Hey, Ullster!" he said.

"Yeah?"

"Hit the lights!"

Author's Note

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S0lm_cF7p-I

I understand that 8.5k+ words describing "ponies getting drunk while listening to heavy metal" probably is not the most exciting thing for most readers. So, for those of you who are still interested: Don't worry. I promise things will start getting in motion from here.

Metallica, Diamond Head, Venom and MLP are all properties of their respectful owners, not mine.

Chapter 3: The Four Stallions

(Once again, you can start the song here if you feel like it...)

With all that said, the question still remains: What part of our past can be known at all?

The "official" version of the story goes something like this: After the threat of the windigos had passed, and the warmth of their newfound harmony melted the icy tombs that held them hostage for so long, a great horde of ponies emerged from their impromptu shelters, thoroughly exhausted by the years of aimless wandering in an attempt to escape the curse of the storms.

As the frost and snow began to give way, the light of the Sun broke through the clouds once more and granted them a clear view of their surroundings. All of their bitterness became a thing of the past the moment the three tribes found themselves rejoicing as one great crowd, for they have at last found their promised land. Pristine, welcoming, and beautiful beyond words; it was nothing less than a dream come true.

Unwilling to surrender such an amazing gift to the deadly blizzards ever again, the tribes swiftly came to an agreement, and were ready to set aside their former differences. It was time to give up their constant bickering and distrust before it could tear apart the harmony they all depended upon. Side by side, they would instead work together to create a new home for all of ponykind.

The division of labor was self-explanatory: The pegasi would provide control of the weather, the unicorns would raise the Sun and the Moon, and the earth ponies would cultivate the land. Day and night, the ponies of this new nation worked tirelessly. They struggled to tame the very soil beneath their feet, the sky above their heads, and even the might of the heavens themselves. And it was this tremendous effort that would set in stone the foundations of our great country: Equestria.

One issue that remained unresolved, however, was the question of leadership. The nation was still young and it needed leaders. Leaders who are brave, firm, and effective, thus worthy of the loyalty and hard work of all of their subjects.

"You hear that?"

A soft melody broke through the gentle drone of commotion. Everypony across the chamber went silent, then began turning their heads left and right as they tried to identify the source of the music.

"Yeah... I see him..."

The kid was perched on a stool at the far end of the room, gently plucking away on an acoustic in his hooves. A half-dozen large amplifiers formed a looming semi-circle behind him. They towered over the youngster like a literal wall of sound.

His instrument, however, was not connected to any such device, nor did he seem to be in any need of amplification. Everypony inside could hear what was going on. A hoofful of spectators lined up in front of him to stare at this newly appeared virtuoso with awe. They cheered, whistled, and tapped their hooves as the notes he played flowed from his guitar like the purest stream, resonating gracefully throughout the atmosphere of the place.

The piece slowly built itself to a peak and became more and more intense with every passing measure. The young colt leaned further on his instrument to hug it ever so close, and the motion of his hooves sped up almost to a blur while still maintaining their machinelike precision.

Finally, the melody paused for a split second, then returned to the passage from the beginning. He let the final notes ring out, each one longer than the last, and with one final, magnificent strum he finished the piece.

"Well? What do you think?" Ullster asked.

He had to admit, the kid was not bad. Not bad at all. He even found himself tapping his hooves lazily – a modest addition to the roaring applause from all over the chamber. The kid stood up and gave a large bow, then sat back down to continue fiddling with his guitar.

"Good enough, I guess," Hayfeld replied.

Before he even finished speaking, Ullster was already trotting forward as he tried to cut his way through the small crowd that had now formed before the colt, presumably so he could have a word with him. Hayfeld sighed and decided to stay put, not really in the mood to tag along.

Somepony bumped into him from behind. "Sorry," the perpetrator breathed sheepishly. He kept his head low and quickly disappeared among the other customers wandering about inside.

Hayfeld snorted. Was that a guy? he thought and glanced behind his back. Barely sounded like one... Unable to get a better look, he quickly lost interest in the matter, and instead opted to search for the one good little corner he knew in this gigantic cesspool.

Here they are... he thought. The most magnificent creations of the Guitar Gods themselves. The six-stringed wonders of the world. Row upon row of electric guitars stood before him, his personal weapons of choice, collectively dubbed "ROCK/BLUES" by some bland sign nailed up above them.

Most of them were old fashioned models. The type one could expect to see in any "respectable" musician's hooves. Recently, however, one could also find some of the newer, more futuristic designs. The kind that looked like they would make one's parents beat them within an inch of their life if they saw them playing on one of them.

He could almost hear the old stallion snarl. "You call that a guitar?" It made him chuckle a little. "Looks like some crappy 'modern art' project!"

Licking his lips, he picked up his favorite from the rack: the Flying V. Like so many times before, he kept turning the instrument between his hooves to marvel at the attractive shape, the smooth finish, the gorgeous, shiny pickups, and the well-polished body. Just the mere sight of this small piece of heaven could make him drool from anticipation.

After taking a quick look around to make sure nopony else was near, he slung the instrument over his shoulder, then adjusted the strap so the body would hang a few inches lower. He then closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and with one sudden surge of motion he lifted himself up on his hind legs.

The lights hit the stage, and the crowd went berserk. Screaming, howling, kicking, and biting all around. They thrashed around like some gigantic beast that was desperately trying to break its chains.

He smiled. The pick in his hoof crashed onto the steel strings, letting loose an ear-splitting roar. Almost instantly, the chains of the beast were torn apart.

"Yes... that's right."

This is what he wanted. What he had been waiting for.

This is where he belonged.

A microphone was placed on a stand before him. Never letting up on the ferocity of the riff, he strummed the last few bars with a strange calmness and began to exhale slowly, emptying his lungs just before the final measure. At that point, he quickly took in a huge dose of air and—

"Hey! Hey! Equestria to Hayfeld! You with me, asshole?"

"Huh?" Hayfeld's eyes popped open. He was back in the music store, still standing on his hind legs while strumming away awkwardly on an unplugged electric guitar. A couple of bystanders were giving him strange looks. "What the fuck?"

The big guy rolled his eyes. "I said: 'The kid sounds like he might go for it,'" he repeated. "But first he'll need to come over for a rehearsal to see what he's dealing with."

"Ugh," the colt groaned, not even bothering to hide his frustration. See what 'he's dealing with'? he thought. Another one of those "high and mighty" types with all their arrogant bullshit?

"Hey!" Ullster bumped his shoulder. "Don't be an ass about it! If we're going to take this seriously, we'll need some decent players."

"Yeah, fine, I get it..."

Hayfeld let out another painful sigh. He tapped one of his hooves idly against the body of that wonderful guitar that still hung off his shoulders. He really was not in the mood for any of this. After returning the instrument to its place on the rack, he gazed upon the marvelous collection one last time and dreamed about a better world where all of these axes belonged to him. One look at the price tags, though, was enough to make him avert his eyes before they caused him any more pain inside.

"I hope he likes to drink too," he grumbled beside his friend, "'Cause I certainly need a few now."

"Come on, let's at least try and leave a good impression!" Ullster replied. "Get over there and introduce yourself!"

With that, the two colts began marching through the music store toward its much celebrated new "star." While Ullster seemed to be quite enthusiastic, Hayfeld was not exactly jumping off the walls about the whole thing. With thinly veiled disgust, he mentally prepared himself for a whole lot of BS and brownnosing, all just to get some kid to play lead guitar in their band – which did not even have a name yet, let alone a name for itself.

I hope at least the new guy has some decent gear, he thought and chuckled again. Maybe we could just fire him after a few weeks and steal all his shit.

Disgruntled as he was, he knew that if they expected to have any chance at success, then they needed to recruit good musicians, even if it meant swallowing any pride they had left. So, reluctantly, he trudged after his friend as they fought their way through the crowd and tried to capture the colt's attention.

"Sweet Celestia, blow me!" he cursed to himself as they inched closer and closer. "Even his fucking cutie mark is a guitar! Could this get any more lame?"

Finally, with a substantial amount of effort, they managed to get close enough, and were just a couple of feet away when somepony else started playing.

Their first attempt happened to be the most simple approach possible at the time. The old leaders of each tribe would band together and form a council that could govern the new nation as a single body. Commander Hurricane, Princess Platinum, and Chancellor Puddinghead – a host of advisers by their side – would assemble every week and discuss their plans for Equestria's future.

It was an immediate failure. Once any important decision had to be made, every attempt at progress would only lead to endless debates within the council as each side constantly tried to favor their own kind. Thus, hardly any of these meetings ever concluded with the formation of a consensus, which halted all of the vital government processes the nation required, and ultimately led to the system's demise.

The idea of such autocratic leadership was thus swiftly abandoned, and instead the ponies attempted a more "down-to-earth approach:" A large gathering of representatives, each one elected by the citizens of Equestria, would attend the aforementioned meetings in place of the former leaders, and every decision would be made through majority vote.

The result, unfortunately, was anything but unexpected: each race would simply elect members of their own kind, who would then attend the gatherings only to satisfy the demands of their own voters rather than the needs of the nation as a whole.

Just like its predecessor, this idea was doomed perhaps the very moment it was conceived. And while the conflicts of old did not surface again, it too only served to fuel the suspicion of many that the three pony races could never truly join under one banner.

For several years, countless groups of excellent politicians and scholars tried to find a way around this problem, but none were able to succeed. Was Equestria to be doomed like this forever, left at the mercy of selfish anarchy?

Ullster felt his ears perk up as this new noise cut through all other sound within in the store. Once again, everypony inside suddenly went quiet. They all began turning their heads left and right in confusion as they wondered where in Equestria the noise was coming from, not to mention what it was supposed to be.

Focusing on their goal, he himself simply tried to push it out of his mind, intent on pressing forward.

"Hold up! What the hay is that?" came Hayfeld's voice from behind him.

Grinding his teeth together in annoyance, Ullster quickly turned around, only to watch, baffled, as his friend kept trying to poke his head above the crowd.

"There!" Hayfeld exclaimed and thrust out his hoof as the large colt stepped beside him. "Wait... isn't that the wimp that bumped into me?"

Ullster breathed a sigh of frustration and raised himself up with his hind legs to take a look. At the far end of the chamber, standing next to an old, banged-up looking Fender amplifier, was a slim, young unicorn colt who played on a similarly old and worn Fender Stratoprancer.

It was indeed a sight – not to mention sound – to behold. The kid held himself up using his hind legs – just like Hayfeld did a few mintues ago. He kept his head low, which made his long, curly, jet-black mane cover nearly all of his face, almost like he was trying to hide behind it. He tapped his left hoof to keep track of the beat and occasionally used it to adjust some kind of pedal in front of him. Each time he did, it led to an exotic change in his guitar tone, which – combined with the occasional screaming bends – gave even this sluggish tempo an incredibly powerful sound.

Both colts watched in awe, their jaws literally hanging as this new contender started rocking out full blast. The momentum of the song began to intensify, and his whole body joined in to the beat: pulsing, thrashing around, throwing himself back with every great bend as if each one took him to the very heights of ecstasy.

It was nothing like the performance that preceded it. It was nowhere near that pristine, accurate, almost mechanical sound. It was loud and wild. "Dirty," for lack of a better word. A musical orgasm that left a thoroughly shocked audience in its wake.

"Hey! You there!" somepony yelled from near the entrance.

The shrieking solo ended abruptly as the kid froze. He shrank from the volume and tone directed toward him. Trembling ever so slightly, he turned his head toward the screaming pony, which provided a clear view of his face for the first time.

"Yeah, you! What the buck did I tell you the last time?"

It was the stallion who kept standing next to the cash register, though occasionally he would wander about to offer help to the customers. Most likely the owner of the place. Huh, Ullster thought. I remember him being much more friendly just a few minutes ago.

The colt did not respond, merely hung his head even lower. It did not calm the enraged pony in the slightest.

"I told you: unless you plan on actually buying something, keep that loud shit out of here!" he yelled. "We've got customers in here, too, not just the dumbasses like you that only want to make some noise. Now beat it!"

Sheepishly, he nodded once, unslung the guitar from his shoulders, and flicked the amplifier off, which gave a loud pop. In response, the spectators around him quickly began to disperse while pretending they never noticed anything. Within moments, the store returned to its regular drone.

"Fuck yeah..." Hayfeld muttered, an impressed smirk on his face.

"What?" His friend turned to him with a look of surprise.

"This. This is what we need."

"What, that guy? You're kidding, right?"

"Heck no! That was some wild shit! It's exactly what we need."

Ullster rolled his eyes. Here we go again... he thought. Add a little distortion, play a bit more rough, and instantly you're "hot shit"...

He had to admit it, though: this was indeed a bit closer to the sound they aspired to create. The only question was whether the kid could live up to this performance. For all they knew, this was the only song he knew how to play well.

"Fine, let's give it a shot," he said. At this point, he really needed a drink, too.

This time around, Hayfeld was the one to rush forward, eager to meet this new candidate up close and personal. The kid, on the other hoof, seemed to have other ideas. By the time they made it to the amp that he played on, he was nowhere to be found.

"Shit! Where the hell did he go?" the gray colt exclaimed while twisting his head left and right.

"I think he's leaving," Ullster noted and pointed his hoof toward the exit. Hayfeld followed his gaze and noticed that the brown colt was already halfway through the door.

"Crap..."

The two youngsters galloped after him. They burst out of the store entrance onto the street crowded by the Los Alicornes midday traffic. A wave of burning hot smog rushed into their lungs, fueled by a merciless sun hanging above. The sidewalk had turned into a river of busy ponies who brushed past each other without any ambition or emotion, just like the motorized carriages that rolled past on the tarmac beside them.

"You see him?" Hayfeld yelled as they struggled to stay above the flow.

"Uhh... no. I can't see shit," his friend replied.

"Dammit!" Hayfeld swore and spat on the ground. The nauseating mix of noise, smell, and heat outside was starting to become too much to bear. "Come on," he said while retreating back into the music store, "Maybe somepony in there can help us find this kid."

"Whatever..." Ullster sighed and slowly trotted after him.

The solution, strangely enough, did not spawn from the mind of any great politician, nor any respected cabal of scholars, but from a small town on the borders of the Heartland – which, at the time, barely stretched as far as the edge of the Badlands.

The town began as just another small village, founded and inhabited primarily by earth pony pioneers. Over the years, however, it received a fair share of unicorn and pegasus settlers as well. Unlike most other early settlements of that era, where most of the population consisted of ponies from one of the three races – the other two forming a negligible minority – this town housed a near equal number of all three.

At first, this may seem to be a mere sociological curiosity, but in fact it was a completely unique environment during that age. Aside from having to cope with such an arrangement, when they to elect the local leadership, the town's population faced the exact same problem as the nation itself.

The only difference was that they managed to find a solution...

"Morning, Broke!"

"Morning, Sparkler!"

The exchange of nicknames took care of greetings between the two of them. So... looks like you're sticking to that one, you old bastard, he thought and smirked as he walked past the counter toward the room in the back. The boss gave a curt nod, then lit himself a cigarette and went back to reading the paper. It would be just about all the dialogue between them for the entire day.

Without any reason to make haste, he lazily nudged the door labeled "PRIVATE" open, then closed it behind him once inside. His saddlebag slid off his back at a snail's pace while he was busy sorting through all the junk in his locker. Once it touched the ground, he used one of his forelegs to quickly shove it into a corner.

Out of sight, out of mind...

Moments later, he emerged from the room equipped with a broom in his hoof, a white shirt with thin horizontal red stripes all over it, and a matching cap on his head. The boss popped a cassette into the console behind him, and the music began to drift from the speakers, which signaled the start of a long, boring day of work. Sighing, he leaned on the broom and began cleaning up the customers' hoof filth.

"Hey! Sparkler!"

"Yeah? What is it, Broke?"

This was a harmless little game they played. Obviously, his name was not actually "Sparkler," nor would any well-mannered individual call the aging stallion "Broke," especially if they were not considered a close friend. Golden Record was a well known and respected member of his community, and for decades the quality of his store has been a testament to all of his hard work: always kept well stocked and up to date, ready to supply both the young and old of Los Alicornes with excellent music.

"Got some new deliveries out back, Sparky. I need them in here on the double!"

"You got it, Broke!"

But no matter how much time and effort he put into his work, there was one serious flaw in all of Golden Record's endeavors: he had a pathetic way of handling money. What little profit his business ever managed to yield, he would always find a way to squander it on something – most likely women, if the gossip was to be believed – which brought him back to square one every time. And while it never actually brought him out of business, nor did his store ever have to suffer from this behavior, it did earn him the nickname "Broken Record."

As if they wished to rub it in even further, most ponies – such as himself – shortened it to just "Broke." It was not exactly the most respectful way to treat an old stallion that struggled every day to make a living, to say the least. Still, nopony in the neighborhood would deny that if one possessed a refined taste in music and was in need of a quick fix, then the "Golden Record's Collection" was the place they needed to visit.

I still wish they'd wipe their damn hooves, though... he thought and frowned at the stains left on the gray tiling. He returned the broom to its closet and exchanged it for a bucket and mop. There was still about a half hour until opening time, so he could do a quick wipe before bringing in all the new merchandise.

Ten minutes after the floor began to dry up, he lowered the final box between the corresponding aisles – as each box was marked for its contents – and went back to lock the storage room. A quick peek toward the two large windows facing the street confirmed that it was going to be a busy day: a line of ponies began to form before the entrance, with some of the more restless ones starting to lean against the windows, eyes squinting as they tried to spot the treasures inside.

"Great... here come the fanfoals..." he muttered to himself. Their presence was not much of a surprise to him, especially thanks to the huge sign propped up outside:

NEW MUTTLEY CRÜE ALBUM, NOW AVAILABLE!

(Only 200 bits!)

Shrugging his shoulders, he grabbed the first box, pulled off the duct tape on the top, and began unloading the LPs stored inside. He sorted them by artist and by album into neat little stacks on the floor, then inserted each stack into the correct spot on the shelves, always making sure they ended up in alphabetical order. This was pretty much it: he had to clean up, carry the merchandise, keep the shelves packed, and maybe help the customers out from time to time.

As tedious as such a job might seem, it did come with one huge advantage: he had constant exposure to every imaginable type of music released in Equestria, up to and including a great deal of foreign works. In fact, most of his five minute breaks were spent flipping through the "Imports" section – since those were always brought in by another kid who worked here – in the hope of finding something new. And if he ever found anything that piqued his curiosity, then being a good friend of the boss meant he could always borrow a copy to take a listen at home.

A few minutes later, a sign flipped, a key turned, and the doors popped open, releasing several dozen ponies into the interior of the store so they could swarm the aisles in search of the latest musical "masterpiece." All this commotion served as an opportunity for him to retreat to the back room once more, lock the door, grab a sandwich from his bag, and start flipping through one of his magazines. He was able to do this until noon, upon which came the usual lull in customer traffic, which meant he had to get back to work.

Clean up, carry, stack, catalog, repeat... he thought while busying himself with a second sweep of the floor.

"Hahaha! What, are you kidding?" a voice came from the front door.

Odd... he thought, Usually everypony is busy having lunch right about now.

"No!" another voice replied.

"You mean you seriously don't know what this stuff is?" the first one asked.

He turned his head slightly to glance at the unexpected visitors. They were a pair of colts in their late teens. One of them sported a rather impressive size and held a small paper packet in one hoof, while the other—

His blood ran cold. "No..." he whispered. The mop clattered to the floor. Without thinking, he immediately ducked between the shelves closest to him.

"How the hell should I know?" the gray colt said. "It's green and smells funny. For all I know, it's parasprite shit."

"Shhh! Keep it down!" the big one hissed and quickly stuffed the package into his saddlebag. "Never mind, then. I'll show you when we get back. I promise you won't regret it."

"Whatever..." the other muttered. "Hey! Sir? Could you help us out?"

Trembling slightly, he peeked over the top of the shelves. The two colts now stood before the counter as they waited for the boss to wake up, whose "lunch break" usually meant taking a quick nap.

"Hubblmfwh- wh- what? Huh?" the old stallion mumbled. His eyes slowly fluttered open, and he turned around on his seat to look at the two newcomers. "What can I do for you?" he asked with a yawn.

Biting away at his tongue, he took one last glance at the gray colt, then ducked behind the shelves once more. "What the hell is he doing here?" he whispered to himself.

"We're looking for somepony," Hayfeld spoke up first.

A half-dozen of the new Muttley Crüe LPs cluttered to the floor between the aisles to their right. Both ponies turned toward the source of the noise, a confused look on their faces. "Uhh... I think he might be working here," he went on. An additional three hit the ground, and when they looked again they managed to catch a glimpse of somepony galloping out the door.

"Really? Well, there's more than one kid who works here," Golden Record responded. He leaned out over the counter to search for the colt in question. "Hey! Sparky! Where you at?" he called out.

There was no response. "Huh. Must be out having lunch." The old stallion leaned back in his chair. "D'you happen to know his name?"

"Nope," they replied.

"Damn. Well, let's see: there's this kid called Blue Wave. He works here every other day, mostly handles new deliveries..."

He did not hear the rest of the conversation.

Run. Run run run as fast as you can. RUN!

The words kept flashing through his mind repeatedly, and his legs did their best to comply. Fortunately for him, neither the boss nor those two ponies must have recognized him when he dashed outside, since nopony from the store was galloping after him.

After a few more seconds of running, he figured that the distance was sufficient. He calmly slowed down to a trot and breathed a sigh of relief. Upon reaching the corner of the block, however, he stopped dead in his tracks when he came to a horrifying realization.

My bag... I left it back in the store.

"Oh, buck me!" he screamed, much to the confusion of the surrounding pedestrians. Turning around, he quickly launched into a sprint back the way he came while cursing to himself.

"No, I... I think we're looking for somepony else," the Ullster said and rolled his eyes. The aging stallion's rambling was anything but helpful so far. He was beginning to think this was a waste of time.

"Oh?" Golden Record said. "Well, then there's this other little brat called 'Sparkler.' Well, at least that's what I like to call him. His actual name is—"

A loud sneeze, followed by a thump from the back of the store interrupted his monologue. All three turned to where the noise came from and saw a dark-maned unicorn lying on the floor. He appeared to have been busy trying to sneak between the innermost aisles into a room labeled "PRIVATE." Realizing that all eyes were on him, he froze, then pinned himself to the ground and did his best to hide his face under his mane while hissing all sorts of profanities to himself.

"There you are, Sparky!" the stallion behind the counter exclaimed happily, then turned back to his customers. "He's all yours, gentlecolts!"

Ullster gave his friend a "what the buck is going on?"-look. Hayfeld shrugged, and the two colts began approaching the prone unicorn. He did not try to move away, and instead seemed to shrink together more and more as they drew closer.

Is he freaking curling up into fetal position? Hayfeld thought.

They stopped about a foot before him and exchanged awkward glances, neither of them having any idea what to do next. Oddly enough, it was the pony at their hooves that finally decided to break the uncomfortable silence.

"Uhh... hello?" he said. His voice was muffled by his mane and hooves covering his head.

"Huh? Oh yeah, uh... hi there!" Hayfeld responded and gave his friend another look. The big pony shrugged. "We, uh... we heard you down in the Music Den yesterday... playing guitar... and, uhh..."

"We, umm..." Ullster decided to join in. "We thought you were, um... pretty good, actually."

There was no response.

"Anyway..." Hayfeld said. "We're trying to start our own band, and uh... well, we need a lead guitar player."

The colt before them did not even move a muscle.

"We wanted to ask you back there, but um..." the larger pony added. "Well, anyway... we talked about it, and umm... we think you'd be the right choice for the job."

No response. The whole situation was becoming very uncomfortable for the two.

"So, uh... you interested?" Hayfeld forced a grin, though his confidence in this endeavor was draining rapidly. To him, right now, the scene looked more like the aftermath of "assault & battery" rather than "hiring a guitar player."

Finally, after what felt like minutes had passed, the unicorn before them twitched slightly and let out a barely audible whimper.

"Say again?" Hayfeld asked.

"Sure..." he muttered just barely loud enough for them to hear. After that, he slowly raised his head, and his snout poked out from under his mane.

The two colts blinked in unison.

"Uhh, okay... well, I suppose we'll, uh... leave you an address, then," Hayfeld stammered. "Meet us there this Friday around, uh... after work, I guess..."

With that, they backed away, and the large one walked back to the counter to ask for a piece of paper. That left the gray pony behind, who paused after a taking couple of steps, and turned around to face the one he hoped would become their newest member. He was still there, lying on the floor, muttering to himself.

"My name is Hayfeld, by the way," he said, a genuine smile on his face this time, "and the big guy back there is Ullster." He extended his hoof. "And you are...?"

At that moment, the pony before him raised his head a little more, thus revealing his face completely for the first time. His voice, while much softer, much less "masculine" than Hayfeld's own, was firm and unwavering as he replied.

"Kirkhoof."

It all looked so deceptively simple. No wonder the leadership remained hesitant...

All their situation required was a minor adjustment, while the form of government remained almost exactly the same. Only their voting system required a small, yet groundbreaking alteration: no citizen of Equestria was allowed to vote for any candidate that was of their own kind.

Unicorns could only be elected by earth ponies or pegasi, earth ponies by pegasi and unicorns only, and so on. Every member of the government was to perform their duty to the absolute best of their efforts, or they would face swift and severe punishment.

Such a decree may seem trivial, maybe even laughable to us today, but at the time merely entertaining such a thought was unheard of. When it was first proposed, a restriction of this magnitude bordered on the lines of tyranny to most.

"What kind of democracy tells its voters who they are allowed to elect?" they would ask.

"So, you think he's going to show up at all?"

"Well... it looked like he was about to piss himself, so... I have my doubts..."

*laughter* "Well, keep your hopes up! Never hurts to have a good guitar player."

"Yeah, anyway... so, can you hook us up for that little 'project' of yours?"

"If this new guy means you've got a band together, sure."

"Well, um... yeah... about that..."

"What?"

"We're still short on a bass player."

"That's all?" *laughter* "Don't make such a big deal out of it! Just grab any idiot who can play a few notes to deal with the back end! Who cares about bass, anyway?"

"No way, quit screwing around! This isn't going to be your average shit rock band. You know any good players out there?"

"Well, let me think about it... tell you what: why don't you guys come down to The Whisky tomorrow night? Around 8:00 PM? I think you might find the show interesting."

"Okay..."

"Great! See ya tomorrow, then!"

*click*

*beeep*

"You've got to be kidding me..."

It was half past eight by the time the ambitious duo arrived at their destination. The muffled noise, the piles of litter, the stench of booze and vomit, and the sight of kids limping out the doors or lying knocked out by the entrance were all good indicators of an interesting night ahead of them.

Ullster managed to convince Hayfeld to tag along, even though the latter gave up on these kinds of auditions a good while ago. Besides, even he knew that "the Whisky" was never a bad place to visit, so in the hopes of at least seeing a good show, he was willing to give it a shot again.

So it was that they found themselves standing before that crimson wall again: the infamous Whisky A Go Go; rallying point for every generation's rebellious youth on the West Coast, with quite a reputation built up over the decades since its birth.

The show was already well underway as they entered. The tables and chairs that normally took up most of the floor had been cleared away, which left it open to a few dozen kids to flail about in front of the stage. The stage itself was packed with all sorts of unusual things: strange, occult-looking ornaments, ponies gagged and chained to posts off to the sides, and a mare clad in white robes who lay on her back on a raised platform in the center of the stage, the band itself playing around her frantically.

It was quite a performance, to say the least. Smoke filled the stage as the singer screamed his lungs out while waving around a long, razor sharp dagger above the mare on the platform. The other musicians banged their heads and ran about, and the aforementioned mare suddenly began convulsing like she was in some sort of trance, which was matched only by the ones on either side of the stage who wriggled against their bonds. If it was not for the near deafening blast of music, one could have mistaken it all for a deranged piece of performance art rather than an actual gig.

"Wow..." both ponies muttered in unison.

The drummer just pounded his way through a solo, which he concluded by setting the crash cymbals on fire. A split second later, the solo kicked back into gear. A loud, booming roar took over from the drums, and one of the guitarists took the front of the stage. He banged his head wildly as the instrument shrieked between his hooves.

"Oh my gosh, look at that guy!" somepony next to them exclaimed.

Hayfeld muttered in awe as well. Headbanging was not exactly new to him, but even he had his limits, especially when it came to playing music at the same time.

This particular pony did not seem to share such limitations. His head bounced up and down seemingly out of control as it threw his mop of a red mane all about while he played his strange solo. The crowd cheered in response.

"Not too bad!" Ullster shouted to him over the noise.

"Yeah!" he responded and grinned as he watched the banal scene unfold. His grin then faded when he reminded himself that they were supposed to be doing something important here.

Wait a minute... what the...? he thought. "Hey!" He nudged his friend's shoulder, then pointed with his hoof. "You see that guy's guitar?"

"Yeah! What about..." Ullster stopped mid-sentence, his eyes going wide.

"One, two, three... hey! That's no fucking guitar!"

"Wait... you mean... that guy is their bass player?"

The lead guitarist soon took over, and the crazy gig continued relentlessly. The two colts, however, completely lost interest in the rest of the band and focused all of their attention on the red-maned pony on bass instead.

His playing alone, especially since they mistook it for a lead guitar, was beyond any of their expectations. As for his performance on stage, it spoke for itself. All the way through the rest of the show he went on with his insane headbanging, which never once showed any sign of fatigue or lack of enthusiasm. The intensity of the show seemed to push him into a never ending state of ecstasy, and the energy it gave him exploded out of every inch of his body.

There was no reason to argue about it. They have found their bass player.

After the show ended, the two of had to wait for the band to leave the stage, so they grabbed a few beers and chatted about their experience to pass the time. A couple of minutes later, they headed back across the now empty dance floor, walking past a couple of ponies – including the drummer and one of the "restrained" mares – who were busy dismantling the elaborate stage equipment. A door on the far side had a sign on the wall next to it that read "BACKSTAGE," which prompted the two colts to enter.

The "backstage" hardly lived up to its name's reputation. What must have been unfinished bathroom once, it was no more than a small chamber behind the stage now, repurposed as an unimpressive "ready room" for the performers that visited each night. A single, half-broken light dangled from the ceiling, which illuminated the fifteen or so square yards of tiled floor. A couple of rickety plastic chairs were strewn about to provide seating. There was little commotion in the room, which confirmed their suspicions that, despite the grand display on stage, the band did not have a lot of fans.

They noticed the singer as he argued with the guitar player to their left, while the other half of the room was tightly packed with instruments, packaging, and other sorts of equipment. That left the corner opposite the entrance, where they found the pony that they sought. The combination of better lighting – compared to that on stage, at least – and the lack of any serious movement provided a much clearer picture of this peculiar virtuoso of the bass.

He was a tall, lean, white-coated pegasus stallion with a red mane. He sat on a chair that leaned against the wall, and one of his hooves held what appeared to be a large, oddly-shaped cigarette. There was barely any sort of motion on his part, and he appeared to be completely disinterested in the world around him. If it were not for his eyes staying half-open – though they rarely ever blinked – one could easily have thought he was asleep.

Hayfeld gave a quick nod to the other two members of the band, who suddenly decided to exit the room, and began to approach the colt who sulked in the corner. His friend was right beside him. The moment they took their first step, the colt's eyes darted off the floor and fixed upon them, then began to stare unblinkingly.

"He goes by the name 'Hesher'," one of the kids said after the show, "I think only the ponies close to him know his real name."

"Yeah, that's even how they announced him on stage last week. Holy crap, he was even crazier that night!"

"And that solo! Wicked stuff..."

Without saying a word, he took a long drag from his cigarette, and after a short pause he slowly exhaled a large cloud of smoke that carried a familiar dizzying scent. The motion felt almost sluggish compared to his intensity on stage.

"Anything else we should know?"

"Not sure, really," the kid replied. "Keep your eyes open, though. You can never know where his mind might be with all the stuff he's using."

"He's a weird player and a weird guy," the other added. "I've heard some people saying he might be related to Octavia. You know, that famous mare up in Canterlot? Playing the cello?"

"Okay... so?"

"Well, I believe he replied: 'Yeah, I bucked her up the flank one time...'"

"Are you... Hesher?"

There was a long, pregnant pause as both parties stared each other down without making a sound.

"Yeah, that's me," the pony before them finally replied. He tapped his cigarette slightly to get rid of the ash at the tip.

Well, fuck it. No backing out now... Hayfeld thought. "Okay, I'm just gonna cut out all the BS here: we really liked what we saw tonight, and we want you to play in our band. You interested?"

The pegasus took another long drag of his smoke and did not reply. His face showed no sign of contemplation and made him appear just as disinterested in everything as before.

Nearly a minute passed without a response. "Well?" Hayfeld asked again impatiently.

"I'm waiting," the colt replied curtly.

"For what?"

"For you to give me a time and a place."

Hayfeld glanced at his friend for a moment. Ullster was equally clueless. "Wait... so, that's a 'yes'?" he asked.

"How should I know? I have no idea what you guys want to play."

He opened his mouth to speak again, then decided against it, though somehow he felt the need to challenge the guy for his condescending tone. Right now, however, he figured an argument was the last thing that would convince the pegasus to leave his band and join their own. Instead, he turned back to his friend and gestured toward the pocket on his saddlebag. Ullster nodded and hoofed over a small piece of paper that was folded up inside.

"Here," Hayfeld said and stuck out his forehoof that held the note. "Tomorrow, at 5:00 PM. Third floor, door on the right."

"Meet you there," the pegasus muttered. He did not even bother to look up from the hastily scribbled lines before his face. It was enough to communicate that, as far as he was concerned, the conversation was over.

Desperation, however, eventually drove the squabbling ponies to accept even the most drastic measures. The new law was passed, and while few major laws managed to be produced by the old system before its demise, in the end, the final one ended up as the saving grace of the nation's struggling leadership, and became the first real step in merging the tribes together.

This new system eradicated the possibility of "playing favorites," both for the electorate and the elected. After all, the representatives could not risk working against their own voters by favoring their own kind – and thus end up losing their position – and if they intended their voice to be heard by those above in the chain of command, every voter had to turn to other ponies not of their kind.

Though it took decades of hard work and strict supervision, Equestria finally found its leaders. Over the course of several centuries, this system provided the young nation with much needed stability and led the way for rapid expansion and improvement. Their perfect home was finally beginning to take shape, which marked the beginning of a Golden Age for all of ponykind.

It was, quite simply put, paradise...

Where has it gone today?

"Excuse me! Sir! Could you help me find this place?" Kirkhoof asked.

"Sure!" the pedestrian replied. "It's, uh... two blocks down that way. Look for the landlord, he can guide you to the right door."

The colt thanked him and hurried down the street, his guitar bouncing around on his back. Eventually, he arrived at a large apartment building that looked as though it had seen better days. Taking a deep breath, he stepped inside.

As soon as he explained himself, the old stallion who lived on the ground floor gestured for him to follow. As they walked up the stairs, Kirkhoof became more and more anxious. He could hardly imagine what was waiting for him in a place such as this.

They stopped their ascent upon reaching the third floor, and his guide gestured toward the door on their right. He thanked him and approached the door, a perplexed look appearing on his face when he found it half-open.

"Hello?" Kirkhoof asked sheepishly. There was no response. The lights were turned down, and only the moon and the streetlights outside provided a faint illumination through the open windows. Reluctantly, he walked inside, upon which he found himself standing in the middle of a living room of sorts, though it was hard to see anything clearly.

A loud snore to his left nearly made him jump, and he quickly spun his head around. The dim lighting made things difficult, but eventually he managed to identify the source of the noise: a pair of colts sprawled all over a large couch against the wall. Both of them were fast asleep, or more likely passed out.

After a bit of fumbling around in the dark, he found a light switch and flicked it on, and was relieved to find that they were the same ponies as the ones that invited him here. The sudden burst of light led to another loud snore, and their eyes began to flutter open, followed by some cursing and groans of pain.

Hmm... he thought. Six o'clock at night, and they're just waking up. How rock n' roll...

While the two were busy trying to peel themselves off the couch, another pony walked in from behind: a pegasus stallion with a near-unconscious look on his face. He stopped along the far wall, lowered his guitar— no, a bass —to the floor next to himself, and casually removed a cigarette pack from the case, then lit himself a smoke and leaned against the wall as he watched the scene unfold.

"Aww, shiiit... what time is it?" the gray colt muttered.

"It's, uh... six in the evening," Kirkhoof replied awkwardly.

The colt's reaction was a loud burp, followed by a smile as he observed his guests through puffy red eyes. "Well, let's not waste any more time, then!" he exclaimed and stumbled over to the side of the room. There was a cardboard box, a small guitar amplifier, and a modest drum set stacked in the corner. "Modest," as in "barely equipped," that is.

Hayfeld – if Kirkhoof remembered his name correctly – leaned behind the bass drum and picked up what appeared to be a rusty, banged up turntable, then set it down on top of the amp and plugged its output directly into the speaker. "Okay! So, Hesher and... uh..." he began while working one of the disks from the box into the machine.

"Kirkhoof."

"Right, Kirkhoof! Oh, fuck..." he muttered, then clutched his head and burped again. "Mind if we just call you 'Kirk' instead?"

"Okay... I guess..." Kirk muttered.

"Alright... I'm sure you're both wondering just what the hell is going on here." The bemused look on the pegasus' face didn't give Kirk the same impression. As for him, he was more confused than actually curious. "Well, we're planning to bring some new noise into town!" Hayfeld continued with a grin. Both of their guests' ears perked up at this. "Something that will blow everypony's heads away once we hit the stage. And you two will be the first lucky fuckers to hear it!"

With that, he flicked a switch on the device, and before either of them had a chance to react, the music began blasting from the amp's speaker.

Pain.

That was the first thing to flash through his mind upon waking up. Pain. Endless, merciless pain.

His eyes slowly creaked open, which instantly sent a fresh wave of agony through his skull. The blinding light and the hot sensation on his skin both suggested that he had "overslept," and the pain all over one half of his entire body meant he had done so on the floor. Again.

The pressure mounted on his head. He opened his mouth and desperately tried to let out a groan as if it might offer some relief. What came out was barely a whimper.

He sighed and moved his tongue around a bit to taste the bitter drought inside his mouth. The sigh, in turn, revealed a soreness in his throat that made him cough, almost as if he had a cold. For all he knew, he probably did.

Thirst. Unbelievable thirst came upon him, and every part of him begged him to wash down the horrible taste in his mouth and gullet.

There was no way he could go back to sleep now. He regained too much of his consciousness to hide from the pain any longer. A sudden wave of nausea came over him as he tried to raise himself off the floor, which made him grab his mouth and stomach and start breathing rapidly in order to calm things down. This led to another round of coughing, which sent even more pain shooting through his skull.

Somepony behind him snorted and rolled over. They did not seem to share his problems, since they no doubt had more experience in the game of "how to get drunk when you're low on cash." Last night's weapon of choice was something called "Night Train," if he remembered correctly. Kirkhoof sighed again and painstakingly raised himself onto his hooves to begin the long and perilous journey toward the bathroom.

Needless to say, the outcome of that night was most likely a pleasant one for their hosts, though Kirk himself could not remember anything about it beyond that point. But considering how nearly two months had passed since then, and he was currently dumping the contents of his stomach into the toilet of the very same apartment, one could rightfully assume that his audition had been successful.

He coughed again and blew hard to get the chunks stuck in his nose out as well, then wiped his mouth with his forehoof. A prayer of thanks was sent to Celestia that the building had running water, and he quickly ducked his face under the faucet.

The worst part was yet to come, however: the guilt. Every hangover eventually led to a point where one would start thinking about all of their friends and loved ones, their parents in particular.

What would they say if they could see me now? he thought. 'A mix of fluids, twenty minutes of fun, eighteen years of love, care and guidance, and this is the result?'

The weeks following the "audition" fell into a simple pattern: rehearsal every weekend, starting Friday afternoon. Same apartment. No entry without any booze.

Neither of the two new members had any reason to argue. And just before they left after that fateful night, their hosts even allowed them to select some of the discs from their collection. They were to take them home, listen, adapt, and thus prepare themselves for "the coming storm."

The bass player, Hesher, seemed particularly fond of the stuff that was first played to them, as well as some other strange noise that he came across. Kirk had just decided to pick out a few at random, then spent the next few afternoons immersing himself in the new music.

By the following weekend, both new members of the band were eager to get things up and running. Loaded up with instruments, equipment, and – most importantly – beer, they arrived exactly at the arranged time, which set the stage for three days of non-stop action fueled by alcohol and heavy metal.

"You sure this guy ever played drums before?" Hesher whispered.

He nodded toward Ullster, who was busy picking his cymbal back up for the eighth time that evening. Hayfeld could only shrug in response. The bass player sighed and shook his head.

"Can't really play a song if that happens every time he plays a break," he went on. "Hey!" he called out to the others. For good measure, he even kicked a pair of empty beer cans toward them. "You losers mind if we move on to a different song?"

"Dick..." Ullster muttered as he climbed back onto his seat. "Sure, which one?"

"Anything but the 'motor' one," Hayfeld said with a grin. "I want to play for longer than one minute this time before ya gotta pick shit up again."

"How about that new one?" Kirk chimed in. He ducked away when an empty can flew back at Hayfeld's head, and his hooves shuffled uncomfortably as everypony turned toward him. "Y-you know... That one about 'war machines' or something?"

"Yeah, I guess we could do that one," Hesher said. He bent down, picked up his bottle, and took a quick sip. "Ugh... Gonna need a proper intro..."

The others coughed as he went on to light himself another cigarette, which clogged up the dust, body odor, and smoke-filled air of the room even more.

Hayfeld cursed as he stumbled a bit, his hooves knocking around cans that spilled a few unfinished meals. "Ready?" he asked with a grin. Ullster nodded in response. "Alright. Try not to fuck up the solos this time, Kirk."

He cleared his throat, readied the guitar hanging from his shoulders, and took a deep breath. "Okay... One, two, three, four!"

A dirty electric growl came to life as their hooves crashed against the strings, accompanied by the hollow banging and clanging of Ullster's cheap drum set. The other three shuffled about aimlessly while banging their heads a little, trying to both practice "putting on a show" and not messing up too many notes at the same time. Meanwhile, their drummer had to resist the urge to use the only cymbal in his entire set, since every blow he landed so far had made it topple over.

After struggling through the intro, Hayfeld stepped up to the "microphone," which was just a half-broken music stand Kirk managed to nick from his old guitar teacher. His voice was inaudible even to himself, let alone the others, but he screamed into it anyway, leading to a barrage of weak and false notes over a fuzzy background noise, all of it packed into a tiny room that was filled to the brim with junk and instruments. It was ugly and near-deafening.

They loved every second of it.

Of course, that did not mean they were oblivious to the problems around them. Their gear was substandard, to say the least, and they had a long way to go before anyone would take them seriously as musicians. But before despair could even try to creep up on them, they could instantly comfort themselves with one thought: they managed to book a gig for the following night.

The Whisky was looking forward to another good night.

Well, at least I hope that's what it's going to be, Hayfeld thought. One quick peek from behind the stage and another sip from the bottle, however, quickly dispersed all of his fears.

Right after the "audition," Ullster arranged a meeting with a friend of his to announce that they now had a full band. He returned from the meeting with more than just good news: the date of a concert that was scheduled for the end of the month, and a name for their band.

"'Metallicolt'?" Hayfeld asked

"Yeah!" his friend replied.

"Hmm... Not bad, I suppose," Hayfeld muttered. "It is 'heavy metal,' after all..." When he asked about the origin of the idea, however, Ullster only responded with some awkward mumbling. The gray colt raised an eyebrow, but did not decide to prod him any further.

By next Friday, the rest of the band received the good news. Their excitement could barely be contained, since it gave them all the motivation they needed to stick together and play every single week. In fact, the day before the concert, they even decided to celebrate after practice.

In retrospect, Hayfeld thought that might have been a bad idea.

It was noon by the time they were all awake. Despite the heat and the horrible stench that lingered inside, they spent more than an hour lying motionless right where they woke up, feeling so sick that they actually considered not leaving the house that day, first show or not.

The heat soon became unbearable, however, and one of them suggested they might get beer tickets after the show, so with a great deal of effort they finally managed to extract themselves from the confines of the apartment. They arrived at The Whisky half an hour later, where they were greeted by the overly cheerful owner of the place, whose wide smile did not betray his disgust at their nauseating sight.

All four of them fought the urge to throw up or scream from their throbbing headaches as they set up their gear on stage. The club's gear, that is, since the management was kind enough to lend it to them. Once they were finished and did a quick sound check, they noticed that the bar offered a generous discount on every beverage until 8:00 PM and decided there was no better cure for a hangover than "a good drink."

Hayfeld was having issues with walking in a straight line by the time the first ponies showed up. They invited nearly all of their friends from school and from work in the hope that former classmates and colleagues would still stick together. A surprisingly large amount did show up, and before the band knew it, well over a hundred ponies stood before the stage, all eagerly awaiting the "great show" they have been promised all week by their respective long-maned friends.

At the sides of the stage, the four stallions peeked out from behind the curtains from time to time. Despite their long lost sobriety, they could barely express how the sight of such a crowd made them feel. Then, shortly after 9:00 PM, they held their breath as a member of the club's staff trotted forward and spoke into the microphone at the front of the stage.

"Fillies and gentlecolts! Boys and girls! Young and old! Sober and uneasy! Drunk and weary! So glad to see you all here! Welcome to a night of honest to goddesses rock and roll! The Whisky A Go Go is proud to present: Metallicolt!"

The crowd cheered, stomping their hooves wildly as four young colts awkwardly marched forth. Their hearts pounded as they grabbed their instruments and took their respective positions on stage. After a bit of fumbling around and making sure everything was able to make noise, Hayfeld stumbled up to the microphone, eager to get the show going.

"Hey, everypony!" he screamed. The lights were burning into his eyes, which made it impossible to see anything clearly beyond where the stage ended before his hooves. A couple of stomps and whistles came from the dark void before them. It was hardly the "beast-like roar" from his dreams.

He felt like he needed to say something. "We're, uh... Metallicolt, and uhh... this is our very first show. So, uh... let's have a good night, huh?"

The chamber was silent. Only the echoes from the speakers and the buzz of the amplifiers responded to him.

Whatever... fuck 'em! Fuck it all! he thought and turned back to the others with a grin. Maybe this will get them going...

Ullster grinned back and began smashing his sticks together above his head, which set the tempo for their first song.

His forehoof crashed onto the steel strings. A loud roar burst forth from the amplifiers behind him and rushed past him like a sudden gust of wind. He imagined it blowing their audience right off its hooves. With a wild grin, he gave himself over to the rush the intro was pumping into him, then threw his head forward as he ripped out the main riff.

YEEEEAAAAAAAAAHHH! AWWW YEAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!

All four heads bounced up and down in unison as the song exploded from the stage. Its energy coursed through his veins like electricity. Hayfeld just could not get enough of it. Just before the first verse, he quickly glanced at the others again to see how they were doing. Ullster banged away, while Hesher threw his head all around. Kirk, on the other hand, was apparently messing around with his guitar and cursing.

Did he just break a string? he thought and tried to hold back the urge to laugh in his delirious state. Well... fuck it!

Too pumped up to let anything hold him back, he took a deep breath.

No life 'till leather
We're gonna kick some ass toni-iiight! Yeah!

Through the roar now consuming his entire body, he could faintly hear the whine of an electric guitar.

Looks like he managed to fix the string problem.

There was no way for them to tell how the audience was reacting, though. Then again, he found that he no longer cared either. He did not even care if he was playing the right notes at all. He just wanted to keep going.

Just keep going!

Guitar!

Solo number two. He quickly spat off the stage to get rid of all the saliva channeled up to his teeth. He did not care if he might have managed to hit anypony.

This is it, he thought. This is what I've been waiting for my entire life.

As they played the final bridge section, Hayfeld could barely stand up straight. The whole world was spinning, and every shape around him that he could still see turned into a blurry mess. While struggling to stay together with the others, Hayfeld could hear Kirk start the extended solo, so his headbanging sped up to an even more dizzying pace.

From that point on, the rest of the show faded into a drunken haze.

Author's Note

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ALehqkvxh7g

(Props to the brony that made this PMV, especially for not using that "Rainbow Dash playing guitar" thing I keep seeing all the time...)

First of all, a million thanks to solocitizen for taking his time to read through and dissect my mess of a story, and for providing some much needed feedback. Be sure to check out his stuff here: http://www.fimfiction.net/user/solocitizen

Okay, okay, despite my efforts, this chapter turned out to be yet another round of lengthy exposition, but there is some payoff toward the end (I hope). I could have done away with the whole "getting the band together" in just a few paragraphs, but that's what used to ruin these kinds of stories for me, so I wanted to focus on the details. Trust me, they aren't irrelevant.

Also, as some of you might have noticed, I managed to create some cover art for this story. Yeah, I know... it's a piece of shit. I threw it together in Photoshop while I was supposed to be doing something else entirely. I might commission a better one from someone later, though...

To any offended fans of Mötley Crüe: I have nothing against them. Thrash Metal, on the other hand, is said to have grown out of groups opposed to the whole glam scene, so I wanted to add some kind of reference.

MLP, and the music of Greg Howe, Jimi Hendrix, The Beatles, Mötley Crüe, Black Sabbath, ZZ Top and Metallica are the properties of their respectful owners.

Chapter 4: Seek & Destroy

For the first couple of centuries after the nation's birth, the system worked perfectly. Equestria thrived, its borders growing exponentially, and the citizens within prospered beyond their wildest dreams. No more famine. No more misery. No more threat of a serious conflict. Nopony was to ever have to live through such hardships again.

To ensure that this progress did not lose its spectacular momentum, all three races would lend their own unique talents to assist the whole. Each one had much more to offer beyond their most well-known skills, and all were in great need as they began taming greater and greater portions of the new land that surrounded them.

They were as silent as the dead.

All four of them sat motionless, hunched forward, their heads resting on their hooves. The air itself seemed to weigh down upon them, contaminated by lingering clouds of dust and the warm stench of sweat and spilled alcohol.

Say it!

Ullster coughed a couple of times and moved his head around a bit. Hayfeld was sprawled out next to him on the couch, his hoof shielding the side of his face from the sunlight, and he occasionally gagged when his own scent traveled into his nostrils. He wanted to get up and close the blinds, but the effort required felt beyond his current strength, and he was not even sure they were operable anyway.

Say it!

Kirk was waving one of his hind legs idly, occasionally bumping it against the side of his amplifier. It gave the dull sound of a hyper-slow metronome, calibrated to match the tempo of their spirit.

Just say it, you fucker!

From time to time, one of them would glance at their fourth member, stare for a few seconds, then look away again. He never returned their gaze. He barely even moved at all.

The scene had already played itself out a dozen times in their imagination: he would stand up and let it all out. Tell them that this isn't working. That he's been telling them that for weeks now. That they need to move their gig to a different place. Move it back to where he is from, where they might actually have a chance.

Tell them that they have failed.

"Hello?"

"Hi, sweetie!"

"Oh! Uh... h-hi Mom! How's it, uh... going?"

"Oh, it's so good to hear your voice again! We're doing fine, thanks, but it's been so long since we've heard anything from you. Is everything alright?"

"Yeah! Yeah, uhh... everything's fine! Really, I— Hey! Shut up!"

"What was that?"

"Sorry! I've just got some friends staying over, and uhh..."

"Some friends? Oh, that's so good to hear! Are you getting along?"

"Dammit! Shhhh! Uh... sure! We're doing fine. How's, uh... how are things back home?"

"Well, everything is just as you left it... though a lot more quiet, I'm sure you can imagine."

"Uh-huh."

"We had your cousins over for a few days. Had a little trouble giving them a place to sleep. Your father had to repaint your room after that mess you left in there." *chuckle*

"Uh-huh..."

"We all miss you very much, though. But enough about us. What about you? Is the place okay?"

"The place is fine, Mom, thanks! I, uh..."

"Did you manage to find a job? We did give you that bit of rent money, but after that..."

"Yyyeeeaaahhh... I... did. It kinda... sucks right now, and doesn't pay that well, but..."

"Are you in trouble?"

"Nah, I can manage."

"Well, okay then! I'm glad you've decided to take this seriously. Your father and I are really proud of you, sweetie."

"Thanks, Mom... really! Look, I..."

"In fact, since you've been so good this whole time, we've decided to send you a little... present."

"I, uh... huh? What?"

"We've noticed that you've developed a fondness for loud music lately, and we were told this is the ideal choice if you're into that sort of thing. Well, hopefully at the very least it will keep you from dying of boredom." *chuckle*

"..."

"Sweetie? Are you still there?"

"Yeah! I just... well... thank you!"

"You're very welcome, dear! It should get there sometime tomorrow. We hope you'll enjoy it."

"I'm sure I will..."

"Well, take care until then! Bye! Hope to hear from you soon!"

"Bye, Mom!"

*click*

*beep*

"Thanks for coming down, friends," Hayfeld said sheepishly into the mic. The room was silent, save for the echoes from the speakers and the buzzing of the amps behind him. "Uh... Be sure to wait for us after the show! We, uh... We got some tapes you could buy..."

"Fuck this! This isn't working!"

"Look at 'em!" "Bunch of sissies dressing as mares! What kind of 'rock & roll' is that?"

The pegasi, being the most militaristic of the three, volunteered to take on the responsibility of protecting the young nation from any potential threats, external or internal. This formed the ancestor to what we now know as the Royal Guard. Being also extremely mobile and flexible, the fastest of their fliers formed specialized groups that would go on to explore the uncharted regions of the land, and report back about whatever benefits they had to offer.

The first, not to mention the greatest testament to their skill, however, was the weather factory they have constructed within the Heartland. It was the first of many to provide dominance over the skies for all of ponykind. And as the families of its workers grew, the facility and the simple dwellings attached to it steadily matured into a marvelous city in the clouds, worthy of the legacy of the former Pegasus Empire.

They named it Cloudsdale.

Minutes passed in silence, then turned unto hours, until Hesher gave a frustrated sigh, got up from the dusty armchair, and walked over to his amplifier. Nopony even looked his way. He flicked the power switch on, messed around with the controls a bit, picked up his bass, and started playing.

"The fuck are you doing?" Ullster groaned.

"Playing bass," Hesher replied.

"Uuughh..."

"There a problem?"

"Yeah..." the drummer grunted. "I want to pull out my fucking teeth..."

"So let me get this straight:" the stallion grunted. He leaned over to put out his cigarette, crushing its remains in a small tin ashtray next to his hind hoof that he had propped up on the desk. Nonchalantly, he then placed another in his mouth, but did not light it just yet. "You guys want to sell me... this?"

His thick forehoof gestured toward the box, and his tone carried a not-so-subtle hint of disbelief. Ullster hesitated with the response. The pony before him was a middle-aged stallion with a faded yellow coat and a short-cropped, brown mane with hints of gray at the sides, as well as a look of condescension that seemed to be permanently etched into his face. He sat beside a large desk in the corner and rested his feet on the dark wooden surface while leaning back in his chair. A rather overstuffed belly poked out from under his white shirt which was pockmarked with all kinds of stains. A pair of large headphones hung around his neck, the other end of its cable lost among a whole host of studio equipment that surrounded him. The majority of it was carelessly strewn across the dusty carpeted floor, with only the most expensive-looking items able to find a spot on the desk.

"That's right," the colt mumbled, his voice shaking slightly.

The stallion raised an eyebrow as he brushed the stubble on his chin. "You want to sell me... music."

"Yeah."

"A pile of vinyl records..." he went on. "In a cardboard box... with sharpie markings on it... in a foreign language..."

"Um... yes?"

He sighed. "Look, kid... I don't mean to be rude, but... I mean, especially after our last deal..."

"I know it's unusual, but you have to believe me: We're not just doing a yard sale here. This stuff is incredibly rare, and it absolutely kills. I guarantee that you've never heard anything like this in your entire life."

"Right."

"We're certain this is going to be the next big thing as soon as it gets some distribution. Your place seemed more... open-minded, so we decided to come here. In return for a minor investment, you are almost certain to—"

"Okay, okay, whatever," the stallion said with a sigh. "Skip the BS. How much do you want for it?"

"Um..." the big colt stammered and glanced back toward the others awkwardly. His friends were cramped together on a couch on the far end of what must have been a humble office room once, and they all struggled to breathe due to the poor ventilation. None of them had anything helpful to add beyond a shrug or a shake of the head.

Ullster gulped as he turned back to the obese stallion. "Five hundred... uh..." He trailed off.

The stallion's eyes widened, and his hooves nearly dropped from the desk. "Five hundred... grand?" he finished for him. "Five hundred grand for this? You've got to be fuckin' kidding me." His voice raised slightly. "We're not the Canterlot Central Bank here, dealing with fuckin' antiques! How the hay did you even come up with such a price?"

"It's well below what these are worth," Ullster muttered under his breath. "Cheap bastards..."

"Yeah?" The pony before him got up all of a sudden and stood nose to nose with him. "You think money grows on fucking trees here? You think you know how to negotiate? Why don't you go to one of those big-shot record companies, then? Kiss their asses to pay you instead?" He was almost shouting now. "Oh yeah! That's right: they would never even speak to you little fuckers. They don't deal with a bunch of pathetic amateurs."

The black colt held his breath, and for a couple of tense seconds they just stared at each other, never saying a word or moving a muscle. Finally, the stallion sat back down with another sigh, lit the cigarette in his mouth, and took a long drag before turning back to them.

"Alright... sorry. Let's not get off the wrong hoof here," he said. "You guys need to understand that we aren't exactly ponies of great means."

The youngsters remained silent. He shook his head and rubbed his forehooves against his temples as he continued. "Fine... I'll talk to the boss about it. Come back tomorrow and we'll work out a deal."

Ullster's eyes lit up. He turned back to his friends again, who all raised their heads upon hearing the response. The tiny sliver of hope they felt was already enough to lift their spirits.

Maybe we have a chance after all... he thought, then breathed a sigh of relief as the lead weight in his stomach began to dissolve.

"Thanks a lot!" he told the stallion with a smile and reached for the box. "See you tomorrow, then!"

"Hold up!" he replied, making the colt freeze. "That stays here."

"What?"

"The goods."

"What do you— you said we should come back tomorrow!"

"Yeah. And until then I'm going to need something to show to the boss."

"Okay... we'll leave you behind a couple of records then..."

"Nope, the whole box. Or no deal." He gave a smug grin when he noticed the kid grinding his teeth together. "Think of it as a sign of trust," he went on. "After all, we're the ones who might end up paying you, right?"

Neither of the four colts would reply. One by one, they got up from their seats and sluggishly filed out of the room, heads hung low. His grin widened at their helpless sight. "Pleasure doing business with you!" the stallion called after them with as much smugness in his voice as he could muster. "See you guys tomorrow!"

The door slammed shut behind them as they exited the building. They sat down on the edge of the stairs leading up from the sidewalk, and stared ahead blankly for a minute without saying a word.

"Well..." Hayfeld finally spoke up. "That... could have gone better..."

"Yeah..." Ullster replied. "I guess so..."

"You guess so?" His friend raised his voice. "We're sitting here with no fucking money, and our stuff is back in there like we just gave it away!"

"Yeah. And?"

"And? We just got screwed back there!"

"Oh, well, I'm sorry for fucking up my very first attempt at this shit! The fuck do you expect from me?"

"I don't know... how about: 'trying a bit harder'?" he replied in a mocking tone.

"Fuck you!" Ullster shouted back. "You try it next time! It's not like you're the one who's got the most at stake here. Not all of us get sent Mareshall amps by our mommies!"

"Guys, hey!" Kirk said, the growing tension between his friends making him feel uneasy. "Can't we just... calm down?"

They stood nose to nose and stared into each other's eyes while trembling with rage. Sighing, Kirk turned to Hesher instead, hoping to get some assistance from him at least. The pegasus seemed completely disinterested in the situation, however. He just stared at the bare concrete beneath his hooves, then calmly took out a cigarette from his pocket and lit it.

"So..." he said, just as Kirk was about to scold him. "What do we do now?"

The other two immediately fell silent. Their jaws dropped as they turned around to face him. Hesher just kept staring at the ground, almost as if he spoke to himself. After a long pause, he finally raised his head to look at them. Smoke bled from his nostrils, and a condescending smile was etched into his face.

Hayfeld and Ullster just stood there, baffled. Their friend practically hasn't said a word all day, and hearing him speak up all of a sudden now managed to throw off their rage. The gray colt turned back to his opponent, and they both just shook their heads and sat back down, then buried their faces in their forehooves.

"Now?" Hayfeld said, "I guess we wait..."

Earth ponies were the true pioneers of this era. While the pegasi were quite proficient at exploring the new land, it was the earth ponies who would then have to come along and tame it. As the borders of the nation expanded, more and more families took it upon themselves to venture into the new, uninhabited territories, all hoping to build themselves a prosperous future. They would pay any price in sweat and tears – and perhaps even blood – that was necessary until the soil beneath their hooves was ready to provide for them, whether by them growing crops on it, or mining the riches buried beneath the surface.

Nearly all of the settlements that exist today were founded in such a manner. These smaller hamlets, built by dozens of ambitious families, soon began to attract other settlers as well, eventually growing into such giants as Manehatten, Fillydelphia, and Baltimare. While these cities have long since abandoned their humble roots, the true essence of earth pony culture can still be found today, quietly sustaining itself in the rural parts of Equestria.

"Hey friends!" Hayfeld shouted into the mic. His hoof pointed out to his right. "That there on the four string fucker is our old friend Hesher!"

The cheers of the audience clashed against the roar of the final sustained chords and the whining feedback.

"But enough fuckin' bass for tonight!" he went on. "So, you guys ready?"

"Yeah!" the crowd screamed back in unison.

"Fuck yeah, let's go!"

The sustained roar was replaced by a series of short bursts from the snare and the guitars. They then gave way to another explosive power chord, but this time the drums held their ground as Ullster began to build up a frantic rhythm on the toms.

"This one is entitled Whiplash..." Hayfeld grunted into the microphone, and the screams of the audience intensified. He smiled and banged his head gently to the beat as he waited for the right moment. The sound of the amplifiers have all but faded by the time the final bar came up.

"One... two... one, two, three, go!"

The band's hooves slammed against their instruments in unison, unleashing wave after wave of destructive volume. Grinning, Hayfeld leaned out toward the kids in the front row as he ripped out the main riff, then ran back to the mic and let out an animal-like roar once the others followed suit.

Four heads banged in unison on stage. Four ponies were adrift in a sea of dry ice and blinding red and white lights, all the while letting loose an ear-splitting assault of heavy metal. In response, the audience turned into something akin to an exploding nest of angry hornets. Colts and fillies howled their lungs out, thrashed around, pulled on their own manes, and slammed their entire bodies against whatever was closest to them: somepony else, the fence before the stage, the floor, and even the front door.

Hayfeld swayed a little and struggled to keep his balance. The last two bottles he drank that night suddenly did not seem like such a good idea anymore. His body was nearing its limit as the adrenaline and alcohol burned him from the inside out.

That didn't matter to him anymore, though. His grin felt like it could rip his face in two. He just couldn't believe it. This had to be a dream.

But even if it was, then he never wanted to wake up from it. Instead, he took in a large dose of air, then sang the first line.

-

"Whiplash!" Hayfeld screamed in unison with the crowd.

The main riff started blasting once more, and the four colts went back to their frantic dance. Less than a week ago, this song was starting to feel stale for them, since they've been playing it non-stop for almost a year now. All it took was a good audience for them to feel its true energy.

And if it was this powerful for them, then they couldn't even imagine what all those kids in the crowd were going through. The sight of the front row certainly gave a good impression, though.

-

"Whiplash!"

Hayfeld screamed into the mic, then moved away to bang his head again, just in time to dodge another one of the dozens of kids that climbed onto the stage. He lost count less than halfway into the song, and that just made him enjoy it even more.

The youngsters didn't linger for long. They thrashed about for a few seconds on stage, then quickly jumped back into the fray. Instead of hitting the ground, however, they found themselves drifting around upon the hooves of all the other kids that were lining up to jump.

Nopony was left behind that night.

They reached the bridge section. Hayfeld was in a daze. Every cell in his body felt ready to explode. He could barely stay on his hooves, but not even the word of the princesses could make him stop now.

Don't you dare fuck it up this time! he thought and glanced to his left. As if responding to his thoughts, Kirk throttled back his movement a bit and braced himself on his guitar in preparation for the solo.

Hayfeld grinned as he stumbled back to the mic. Oh, who the fuck cares anyway... he thought. Even a messed up guitar solo couldn't ruin the song for him now.

"HERE WE GO!"

Kirk's guitar screamed over the roar of the other instruments as the colt released a furious barrage of notes, their speed and ferocity mimicking that of the audience's rampage that night. The movement of the crowd itself, on the other hand, reached a momentary lull as everypony savored their strength for the best part. With their limbs twitching, they all stared in awe and anticipation at the lead guitarist as he unleashed his own voice for the band.

Sweet Celestia, blow me! And he's not fucking it up...

Hayfeld couldn't hold back a giggle from the excitement he felt, though it wasn't as if anypony could have heard it. Not that he would have cared, either.

This was it. This was the moment they've been dreaming about for so long. Everything was working exactly as the way it should, and it was about to pay off.

Kirk held the final note for a while, then, for only a split second, the whole room went silent.

"WHIPLASH!"

The room exploded. Every ounce of energy that was held back up to that point was released all at once, both from the audience and from the band. Their limbs all but flew apart as their bodies tried to keep up with the insane power of the music. Hundreds of voices rose in sync with the scream of the solo as it peaked toward the end.

The song itself, however, wasn't over just yet.

-

The final chords rang out, along with one last scream from Hayfeld, and the song came to an end. The thunder of the instruments gave way to the roaring and screaming of the crowd. Hundreds of hooves clopped together and stomped on the ground. Dozens of half-empty cups of beer were raised in a toast to the four colts on stage.

"Thanks alot, all you crazy fucks!" Hayfeld said between gasps for breath. His joints were all sore, and his sweat-soaked mane clung to his face and neck. It burned his eyes and poured salt into his mouth every time he opened them. But the minor discomfort was nothing compared to how the sight of their audience made him feel.

"And don't forget, friends:" He grinned, and his hoof pointed toward his chest. "We are Metallicolt..." he said, then extended his hoof out toward the crowd. "You are Metallicolt!"

"Good morning, everypony! This is Dove Dale, bringing the residents of the lovely City by the Bay the latest news in rock & roll—"

"Hey! Shut up for a sec, guys! And turn up the radio! This might be it!"

"Ugh... get your hoof out of my face, you idiot!"

"Can't get comfy, ya little sissy? Why don't you take a ride in the back then?"

"Cause your worthless fucking drums are back there! You saying I get to throw them out?"

"Will you two shut up already?"

"...and the latest sensation we have for you is the hot new rock n' roll— or should I say 'metal' band from LA called 'Metallicolt'. They just got done playing a show here in our own lovely little town, and now I got to exchange a few words with them..."

"Hell yeah, they're even playing our song!"

"Wow... we played like shit..." *burp*

"So how long has the band been together?"

"Well, uh... since we started, I guess..."

"Heh, check it out, Hayfeld! Recognize that sissy girl voice? That's what the rest of us gotta live through every time we practice..."

"Any plans for the future of the group?"

"We gotta pack up here for now, get the stuff in the van, then uh... we're going back to LA to get some sleep..." *chuckle*

"Actually, we're probably gonna move here. We like this place..."

"Fuck you! And turn that shit off already! We all sound like a bunch of retards..."

"...there you have it: Metallicolt. And now we bring you the latest tunes from the mysterious 'secret collection' of the up and coming LA label 'Crush Records.' This is 'Highway Star' by Deep Purple, and I'm Dove Dale, signing off!"

Unicorns, the masters of the sciences and the arcane, were never famous for their contributions when it came to hard labor. Nonetheless, they worked with just as much effort and dedication as the other two, not resting until all of their endeavors resulted in absolute perfection. Having the most educated scholars, not to mention being the most persistent when it came to academic progress, their most important responsibility during this time became organization. Their best minds worked tirelessly as they planned all the necessary projects, developed new methods, and provided guidance for all the other ponies involved.

Even their lesser-ranked entrepreneurs had a significant effect on their environment. While the earth ponies were the ones to lay the foundations, it was only when the unicorns began to move in that the humble settlements of old started showing any real signs of progress, and managed to develop into the giant cities of our time.

Their finest masterpiece, however, is without a doubt the city they have erected on their own. After settling down in this land, their first order of business was to find a suitable vantage point for their most proficient wielders of magic, from where they would be able to perform the daily task of raising the sun and the moon efficiently.

Their choice fell upon Crystal Mountain, the majestic peak at the very center of the Heartland. Due to its advantageous position, the area was already in use as the temporary rallying point for the country's leadership. Besides magnitude and beauty, this added practicality to their decision as well. Piece by piece, through unprecedented effort and precision, the great castle emerged from the side of the mountain, its every detail the purest essence of Unicornian design.

This was the birth of Canterlot.

"Who gives a shit?" Hesher said without even looking up. He flipped a page on the magazine he was reading, which featured a story about some stuck up musician in Canterlot who was apparently tired of everypony thinking she was going out with some crazy DJ.

"I'm telling ya!" Ullster exclaimed. "She must have been the hottest... the..." The rest of his sentence was delayed by a loud belch that erupted from his belly. "Ugh... the most beautiful flank I've ever seen. And she was shaking it in the front row all night! Best payment I ever got for a show..."

"Try telling that to her," Kirk chimed in with a laugh. "She'd shove those sticks up your plot before you'd open your mouth..."

Ullster responded by chucking one of said sticks at his friend. It missed its intended target by several feet and instead managed to hit Hayfeld, which almost made him choke on the mouthful of beer he was busy pouring down his throat.

*cough* *cough* "Fuck! Stupid little..." The gray colt broke the stick in two, then tossed the remains out the window behind him. "Try playing on it now, dick!"

Ullster just chuckled. "Nah, it's okay... on the way back, I'll throw your guitar out to find it."

"Alright, gentlecolts, listen up!" a voice boomed from the far end of the cabin. The door slid open, and a short pegasus stallion with a blue coat and dark purple mane stepped in. "I just want you to... uh..."

His voice trailed off, and his eyes went wide as he took in the scene before him. Four young and very drunk stallions, as well as a whole case of beer and various other beverages, were spread out in ridiculous poses all over the public coach. The youngsters drank non-stop, wandered about, and climbed all over the seats and the floor. They yelled, chanted, or just let out all sorts of loud and incoherent noises, much to the dismay of over a dozen other ponies who tried to occupy the very same part of the train.

"Oh for Celestia's sake, you've got to be kidding me!" the newcomer said and facehoofed.

"Aww, shit!" Kirk moaned. He swayed on the edge of his seat and almost fell off when the train hit a large bump. "Mr. Party Pooper is here..."

"I'm very sorry about this, everypony." The pegasus quickly ran up to the rest of the passengers, who now turned their enraged expressions against him. "They're just very excited. They're musicians, and... well, you know... there's a rough night ahead of them..."

He spent about five minutes trying to calm them down and explain everything. In the end, the others just decided to abandon the coach altogether. As they left, the blue pegasus put on his best apologetic smile and kept repeating how sorry he was for the inconvenience.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he yelled at the band after the final pony closed the door behind him. "Are you guys trying to get us thrown off the train?"

"Nooooo..." Ullster's braying was cut off by another loud belch. "Don't spoil the party! Come ooonn..." He rolled over onto his back on the seat. "Just sit down and have a beer with us. It'll be fun!"

"Knock it off!" the newcomer snapped, then gave a deep sigh. "Ugh, they don't pay me enough for this... Look, guys... we're about to arrive at the very first gig of your first real tour, so could you please try to keep it together? Just this once?"

His snout wrinkled as the thick stench of booze broke his concentration. He shook his head, then proceeded to open every window in the car that was still closed. "Anyway..." he went on. "After we get off, you'll have some time to explore the place and mingle with the locals."

"Nothing crazy, though!" he added in a serious tone. "Just a little sightseeing, then it's time for the show."

Hayfeld laughed and waved it off. "Hell, you know us, Strider," he said and took another sip from the bottle. "We're all good little foals. Aren't we, guys?" He burped, then winked at his friends, and they all laughed heartily.

"Yep," Hesher said as he opened a bottle of liquor for himself. "We're a group of little angels. We won't do anything wrong..."

As all things seemed, they have achieved perfection. Peace, prosperity, happiness; all under the guidance of an ever-vigilant leadership.

But no system is perfect. And as good as the one these ambitious ponies have developed, it was no exception. Though it did manage to solve the nation's difficulties in the short-term, it was still a hastily enacted policy, and as the ponies involved had the chance to enjoy all the weight dropping from their shoulders, its more subtle flaws would remain unnoticed.

A large society is unpredictable, not unlike a giant body of water. It contains all sorts of tides and currents, far too many to adequately keep track of, its shape and consistency changing at a pace that only becomes striking over the course of centuries.

Though there was no more animosity between them, the three races slowly began to drift apart. The pegasi took up residence in the clouds, the earth ponies thrived in the countryside, while the cities became the unicorns' domain. An understandable development, since it followed a natural flow within their society. Each race simply moved into the environment that they were best suited for. And even so, there was still plenty of "middle ground" left. Over time, however, such polarization could easily become dangerous to the well-being of the nation, especially if it had to face a more serious threat once again.

"Hey there! Welcome to AAAAAAA-pple-LOO-sa!"

The stallion before them had a grin a mile wide, and it seemed as though nothing in the world could ever make it shrink. Not even the sight of four very drunk colts as they stumbled at the door and fell off the train, then groggily tried to get back up while cursing and spitting out mouthfuls of dust.

"Wh-wha... what the fuck?" Ullster mumbled as he tried to raise his head. "Who the hell are— ugh!" The heat he was now exposed to brought on a strong wave of nausea, making him double over.

"Mah name is Braeburn!" their reception announced proudly and tipped his hat. "And y'all are?"

The only response he got was laughter, more groans of discomfort, and a loud burp.

"Oh, for Celestia's sake..." Strider facehoofed, then quickly hopped off the train and trotted up to the pile of flailing limbs that was the band. "I apologize for the trouble," he said to the light-brown stallion as he knelt next to the closest member. "They're just a little, uh... tired."

"Fuck off me, dick!" Hayfeld groaned as the blue pegasus tried to push him off Kirk's back. The lead guitarist had complaints of his own, but he was too busy belching and trying to stop himself from throwing up.

"Well, y'all seem to be a cheerful bunch," Braeburn replied, seemingly oblivious. With the ever present grin on his face, he walked up to them and helped Strider get every drunk colt back onto their hooves. "And that's good news for all of us, 'cause nopony should ever have to feel down when they visit..." He reared up and raised his head to the sky to yell once more. "...AAAAAAA-pple-LOO-sa!"

The colts could only give stupid-looking grins in response as they struggled to hold back their laughter. Braeburn's smile, his speech, his movements, his hat; pretty much every part of him and his act was hilarious to them. They swayed on their hooves and giggled uncontrollably as the strange earth pony kept rambling about all the wonderful things that awaited them in the town.

Braeburn did not mind, or at least he showed no sign of it. If anything, he seemed delighted that such a merry group came to visit, so he wasted no time introducing the rest of the town to them. The four could barely react as their host eagerly pushed them from one attraction to the next. When asked to share their impression of each one, they just babbled incoherently. The only place that really caught their attention was the saloon, especially the sign outside that read: "Today's special offer: hard ciders at half price!!!"

However, they only had a few moments to bask in its beauty before Braeburn dragged them onward once more. They spent over half an hour moving back and forth through the town, up to and including its outskirts. Another ten minutes were spent trying to find Kirk, who managed to get lost after wandering off into one of the alleys for a quick bathroom stop. The whole time, Strider desperately tried to keep the rest of the band in one spot, not to mention keep up with the insane pace of Braeburn's little tour.

Eventually, they stumbled upon a passed out and dirt-covered Kirk among a couple of empty barrels behind the saloon. Everypony was starting to sober up a little at this point, so the tour of the town began to seem more annoying than funny. Their eager guide, on the other hand, wanted to get moving again as soon as they dragged their fourth member out of his napping spot.

"Hey Braeburn, come on..." somepony called out just as they would have begun to complain. They turned to look and saw another earth pony approach them. This one had a red coat and golden mane, and – like almost every other local – he wore a large Stetson, though his was bright white instead of the more common earth and dirt colors they noticed so far. "Give 'em a break already," he said with a compassionate smile. "Can't ya see these folk ain't too steady on their hooves? They must be dead tired, not ta mention thirsty."

He winked at the colts after that last remark, and they all cheered in response. Braeburn shrugged with a smile. "Oh, alright then..." he replied. "Ah guess that's enough for one day. What say you take 'em for a visit to the saloon?" When the newcomer nodded, the light brown stallion turned to the band once more. "Just don't forget: there's never a shortage of good things to find in... AAAAAAA-pple-LOO-sa!"

When his forehooves finally landed, Braeburn tipped his hat to say goodbye, then galloped off to attend to whatever business awaited him elsewhere.

"Sorry 'bout that. Ah hope Braeburn didn't leave a bad impression on ya," the red coated stallion began as he led them toward the entrance of the saloon. "He means well, but he can get a little carried away sometimes."

"Hey, don't sweat it," Hayfeld said with a laugh. "As long as we can get drunk, we don't give a fuck..."

The stallion chuckled. "Ah'm sure. Anyway, mah name's Mirage. And y'all are...?"

As they stepped onto the porch, the four clumsily managed to introduce themselves, followed by their manager, who was still trying to decide whether to feel relieved or embarrassed. The pony named Mirage just laughed at their antics, however, then walked through the saloon doors and gestured for the others to enter.

The interior of the place was a large chamber filled by a half-lit haze, with tables on the left side and the bar with stools in front of it on the other. The air was hot and heavy from dust and the smell of sweaty and inebriated ponies. The dozen or so patrons inside were mostly middle-aged or elderly gentlecolts, either hunched over their drinks on their own, or tightly huddled together in small groups.

The band members could only smile, since the atmosphere matched their desires perfectly. They quickly marched forward and sat down at the bar. The few whispers the other patrons shared among one another died down immediately, and everypony raised their heads to take a peek at the newcomers.

Mirage took a seat next to the four colts and their manager. "Five hard ciders, please," he said to the bartender while gesturing at the guests.

"Hey, come on!" Ullster moaned. "Aren't you going to have a drink with us?"

"Yeah!" Kirk added. "Come on, it's on us!"

"Nope, sorry," Mirage replied with a smile. "Got a lot of work ta do, and I gotta stay sober ta do it."

"Well, it's good ta know ya got at least that much common sense!" a scratchy voice called out.

The colts' ears perked up, and they all began to turn their heads left and right in search of whoever just spoke to them. Almost everypony else in the room was giving them strange, even unwelcoming looks. But there was one old stallion in particular, half-obscured by the shadows in the far corner of the chamber, whose expression looked as though the four before him were the spawn of Tirek himself.

"Wish ya had enough not ta let such a freakshow into town!" he grumbled.

"What the— who the hay is that?" Ullster asked as he turned back to their host.

"Oh, don't mind him," Mirage replied. "That's only Dust Bowl... though we like to call him Ol' Dusty." He turned toward the offender. "Come on, Dusty! Be nice to them. They're guests, not to mention musicians, and they're gonna play tonight."

Upon hearing his nickname, Dusty let out a frustrated snort. "Ah don't care if you say they're the goddess-damned Canterlot Orchestra," he spat back. "They're trouble and nothin' more."

"Hey, we're not gonna cause any trouble, sir," Hesher said.

"What kinda music do y'all even play?" somepony else spoke up.

"Oh, we're actually a, uh... a gospel act," the pegasus replied with a devilish smile.

The other three giggled, then bumped his shoulder to make him stop before things got messy. At the same time, though, all of them were secretly curious where this was going.

"Say what?" another patron joined in. "Ya mean you're Sun Cultists?"

"Yep." Hesher leaned back on his stool and beamed proudly. "Here to spread the word of the goddesses themselves. Our name is Meet-Al-Leecolt."

"'Meet-Al-Leecolt'?" the second pony repeated. "Hmm... that sounds... interesting..."

Hesher's friends could not hold it back any longer. They burst into laughter, then patted his back while cheering for him wildly, almost falling off their stools in the process. The first round of drinks arrived, and Hayfeld quickly proposed a toast to Hesher and his bravery. He followed that up with a toast to the colt's mother as well, whom he claimed "gave him the best head of his entire life."

The old stallion ground his teeth together. "Look at 'em," he growled. "A bunch o' spoiled brats who like to make a ruckus. Always know it when Ah see it."

Eventually, the nation found its borders as well. The high rate of its growth did not meet a friendly reception by the time it reached the countries that surrounded it, who all viewed the expansion as far too aggressive, if not as an invasion outright.

Of course, they had more selfish reasons in mind as well. A nation as young and untouched, not to mention as large as Equestria became at this point, was nothing more than a huge target for any who desired to take it as a prize. With its population not having seen military action in centuries, their peers also found it unlikely that the ponies could mount any serious resistance.

While this external threat loomed on the horizon, tensions were growing within Equestria as well. The question of leadership once again came into debate. Although their new system was excellent in guiding them through the developmental stages, in times of crisis, it was too slow to respond, and with the high risk of them facing war soon, there was no time for complicated bureaucracy to stall them.

The natural reaction was to temporarily disband their government and hand over all control to a dictatorship of sorts. One that was quick to react, and its every command would be carried out without delay, though only until the crisis has been solved. This part of the solution was unanimously accepted.

Who to give all this power to, however, was the question they could not agree upon.

Two hours. That's how long it took for the band to anger the saloon's owner enough that he decided to kick them out. Strider looked about ready to kill his own clients, but he was too busy apologizing to everypony again. Plus even he had to admit that it was a pretty long stay compared to how they usually performed, especially before such an uptight audience.

The colts thus found themselves on the street again. To their great fortune, however, Mirage was kind enough to talk the irate bartender into selling them a barrel of hard cider, so they did not have to spend the rest of the night without any booze. But there was no time to celebrate. Against their protests, Strider quickly forced them into a nearby carriage and whisked them away to do their soundcheck while they could still stand up straight.

After a five minute trip spent cramped together, the band found itself in an old, abandoned warehouse just beyond the outskirts of the town. Inside, there was a hastily assembled stage made of wooden pallets for support with plywood sheets on top. A pair of young stallions were busy unpacking amplifiers and other gear from a truck parked outside. At Strider's urging, the colts quickly stumbled forth to get to work.

"So who we doin' this show for, anyway?" Ullster asked in a dizzy trance behind his drum set. "We're in the middle of nowhere, and all I could see back in town was a bunch of old pricks..."

"We're doing it way out here because of the noise," Strider replied. He shook his head and sighed when he realized that the band could barely stay on their hooves, let alone pay attention. "The gig itself is for all the kids in the entire province. Appleloosa is just the 'train station,' so to speak."

He quickly trotted to the edge of the stage to help Kirk get his amp onto it. After a few moments of struggling, he ended up having to carry the whole thing by himself, while the guitarist collapsed in a fit of drunken giggling. "Don't worry," the manager grunted between gasps for breath. "It's been announced weeks ahead. You're going to have plenty of an audience."

With all their gear set up, and over an hour left before the show, Hayfeld decided to take a quick walk to clear his head a little. He told Strider he was taking a break, to which the stallion reluctantly agreed. After giving the roadies a hoof bump each, he trotted out through one of the side doors and began to wander back toward the town.

Along the way, it turned out that their manager was not exaggerating after all. Hayfeld noticed several young ponies already emerging from the train station's exit and slowly making their way toward the scene of the upcoming gig. His presence did not cause much of a stir, no doubt thanks to his appearance so closely matching their own: long mane, torn and dirty denim, worn leather, sweat-soaked shirt, and plenty of alcohol. For all they knew, he was just another youngster waiting to see the big show.

Though the sun was almost gone beneath the horizon, the lingering heat still managed to drain him toward the end of his walk. As Hayfeld searched in the dim and warm twilight for a place to rest, he noticed a colt sitting all alone on the front porch of the saloon.

The young stallion paused and turned to take a better look. The little guy had a gray coat, only slightly darker than his own, a short brown mane, and a blank flank. He was just sitting there, eyes trained on the ground, head resting on his forehooves, and a somber expression on his face.

Without thinking, Hayfeld trotted up to an empty spot next to the colt, then turned around and slumped down onto his haunches. "Hey," he muttered.

The colt gave a tiny gasp, and his eyes grew wide as he turned to look up at him. Hayfeld just smiled as he returned his gaze.

"Don't be scared," he went on. "Not gonna hurt ya. I just..." He paused to let out a small burp. "Just wanted to talk to somepony... somepony else... for a change..."

The kid did not reply. Shuddering and breathing a little faster now, he just turned away and went back to staring at the ground.

"A colt of few words, huh?" Hayfeld asked with a chuckle, then looked away as well. "Well, that's alright... didn't really know what to talk about anyway..."

The crowd of youngsters migrating toward the edge of town was becoming thicker every minute. The whole settlement was now loud with the noises of kids celebrating their youth. A single glance at them displayed a wide palette of rebellious appearance and behavior. The main street was quickly becoming littered with bottles, cans, and even a couple of ponies who managed to pass out from their binge.

It's gonna be one hell of a night... Hayfeld thought and chuckled again.

"Comin' to see the show?" he asked the colt next to him.

There was no response. Hayfeld did not look, but he knew the kid was still there. He frowned. Something was wrong. Something told him that none of this made sense. That this kid was not supposed to be out here.

He shook his head. The thoughts swimming around in his mind only served to make him dizzy, and trying to figure them all out just made his head hurt. Instead, the two of them just sat there, staring silently at the crowd as they noisily ventured toward the gig.

"Thank Celestia, finally..." a familiar voice called out. "You alright there, Hayfeld?"

Hayfeld turned to look and noticed Strider trotting up to them, a mix of worry and annoyance on his face. "Just checking up on ya," he went on. "We've got about twenty minutes left before the show."

"Yeah, we're fine, thanks..." Hayfeld muttered. "Time to go?"

"Well, normally I'd say 'not yet', but..." Strider crouched before them to get a good look at his client's face. "Yeah, in your case, I think it is."

Hayfeld sighed. "Alright..." he said and slowly climbed off the porch. Just before trotting away, he turned back to the colt one last time.

"See ya later, kid," he said and waved with his forehoof. The colt looked up and stared into his eyes again. He still did not reply, but there seemed to be a slight shift in his expression. Hayfeld could not tell what it was, but it made him smile.

"Come on," Strider urged him and tugged on his shoulder. "Let's go."

The two of them marched off into the thick of the crowd, doing their best to not let its current drag them away and prevent them from breaking off toward the end. The last thing they needed was for the audience to find out about the "staff entrance." But the stormy sea of dirty, sweaty, and inebriated ponies did not give way without a struggle.

Strider muttered curses and shook his head, while Hayfeld just grinned. The energy radiated by the crowd made him experience bliss. At this point, things went beyond just a foal's dream come true. He could never have imagined being able to see and feel such wonders.

"Go back ta where ya came from, dumb kids!" he faintly heard a scratchy voice call out. It sounded familiar, which pulled him out of his brief trance. "Good for nothing, worthless runts! Get lost! All of you!"

"Shut up, you old fuck!" somepony eventually shouted back. Hayfeld giggled like a foal as he leaned on his manager, who groaned in frustration as the pair stumbled onward.

The earth ponies demanded superiority through sheer numbers, especially in the rural and outlying areas of Equestria, although here their most vocal advocates had little to no experience with the other two kind, let alone the knowledge to guide a nation with all three in mind.

Pegasi demanded it due to their control over the skies, not to mention their legacy as warriors, even though that custom was little more than fantasy among them at this point. The only exception was the Equestrian Militia, which remained loyal to the central authority.

The unicorns felt it natural that the role should fall upon them, since – according to them – they have held the most prestigious position since the beginning: helping all of Equestria's great cities rise, being the masters of all magic, and being by far the most schooled and most experienced in leadership. Then again, the best of the best among them all objected against any sort of rift between the three races. It was their rivals, the ones left out of the top ranks, that united under the banner of "unicorn superiority."

The enemy was at the gates, and those who were supposed to guard the walls were too busy bickering with one another.

"This one's entitled... Seek... And... Destroy!"

Every word of the title was screamed by the crowd in unison with him. Hayfeld stepped back with a wide grin, then started banging his head as he and Kirk began the intro riff. The rest of the band followed shortly afterward.

"Let's see some fucking action!" Hayfeld screamed once they got to the main riff. The audience gladly obliged. Within seconds, everypony before the stage clashed in a furious dance once more. The intensity of their reaction to the music never seemed to let up, not even after ten songs with the same frenzy all the way through.

Standing off to the side and out of view, Strider gave a long sigh, followed by a weak smile as he watched the colts play.

"This is where it all pays off..." he muttered to himself.

For all intents and purposes, the show went off without a hitch. Though he could just barely stop the band from knocking themselves out on their booze, as soon as he marched them onto the stage, the gears were in motion once more, to the point that they almost spun out of control.

It took the colts over a year to get to this point. The move to San Prancisco was but the first step on a long road, and there were plenty of speed bumps. Dozens of shows and hundreds – if not thousands – of demo tapes trading hooves. The harrowing trip to a record store owner in Manehattan to make their first album. So many sleepless nights. So much booze. So much noise.

None of this would have brought success were the nation not prepared for it all. Crush Records distributed their "secret collection," and the youth of Equestria began to discover heavy metal. They lived it, loved it, and wanted more.

Soon enough, there were plenty of songs and plenty of bands, all of them immensely popular upon release, but there were never any tangible musicians. To some, it seemed as though the new material just popped up out of thin air somehow, then turned into a free money machine for the label that first got its hooves on it.

To the new "disciples of metal," however, none of that mattered. The new music had everypony pumped up, and all they needed to find release was for a band to bring the noise to them in the flesh. And although many contenders popped up all over the map, the first real answer to their prayers was none other than a quartet of youngsters from the West Coast:

Metallicolt.

"Searching... seek and destroy!" Hayfeld screamed, then decided to taunt the crowd a little. "Searching... come on! Louder!"

The ponies in the crowd were already howling their lungs out, but the command seemed to push them even further. Every time he spoke to them, they thrashed harder, jumped higher, and screamed louder than before.

Despite all the difficulties in working with the four, Strider considered himself one very lucky stallion. When he first got the assignment, he almost resigned after less than a week of having to tolerate the youngsters' reckless behavior. In fact, even to this day he was constantly pushed to his own limits, with only his sense of duty keeping him by their side.

It was the times when everypony got to work that made him stay. The times when he could see the colts show off their true talent. Those made it worth having to endure. After all, it was not every day one got to watch a band make a crowd of ponies react this way, let alone be their manager at the same time.

"Fuck yeah!" Hayfeld screamed after the song ended. The crowd's cheers were almost deafening, making him grin. "Alright... this next one's gonna kill all the fake ponies out there. All the posers. We fucking hate them!"

He paused for a moment. "Uh... I'm not supposed to say 'fuck'..." he muttered, then laughed. "Anyway, this is called No Remorse!"

"Hey Hayfeld!" Kirk said. "We're off to pick up a few more beers. You coming?"

"Nah, I'm okay..." the young stallion replied. "Go on."

His friend nodded, and the rest of the band marched off into the darkness toward the interior of the town, while Hayfeld stayed behind to sit on a large log next to the fire they made. He took a sip from the bottle in his hoof, then slowly turned to his left.

"You alright?" he asked.

The colt did not reply. His body was half obscured in the dim light, so for all the musician knew, he did not move either.

"Heh... still not talking?" Hayfeld chuckled. "That's okay..."

They sat there silently for a while, just taking in in the warmth and the dying light of the fire. The gray colt sloshed what was left in his bottle around lazily, then leaned back to turn his gaze toward the night sky. His eyes widened at the sight, and for a few moments, the faint buzz he felt from the alcohol dissolved from his head.

With no bright lights of a city anywhere near, there were infinitely more stars in the sky than he was used to. More than he ever saw in his entire life. If he focused his vision, he could even catch a glimpse of a dark, cloud-like band across the sky, which he recognized as the Milky Way from an old book he once read.

The beauty of it all brought a smile to his face. He sighed and leaned a little further back. His body felt like it was becoming lighter. The light of the stars seemed to be calling to him. He knew they were far away. Too far. At this moment, however, he was convinced that whatever he could see was well within reach. He felt like he could just leap off the face of the earth, and his body would drift through space all the way to those wonders above.

His gaze eventually sank back down, and he turned to the colt again.

"Good show, huh?" he said. "I'm glad you came along..."

For a moment, there was no response. Then he faintly heard the colt shuffle around a bit. A pair of whites appeared against the darkness as he lifted his head and looked back at him. Hayfeld squinted when he noticed what looked like a tiny smile on his face.

He chuckled and reached out to pat the kid's back. "Well, here's to you!" he said, then raised the bottle and began to chug it down.

There was a quick series of hoofsteps, followed by a gasp and a few muffled squeals. The crunching noises on the dirt reminded Hayfeld of the sounds of a struggle. He sluggishly glanced to his left.

The colt's eyes were wide as a pair of forehooves grasped him from behind. One held his mouth shut, while the other grasped him around his chest. He flailed violently, until Hayfeld saw an odd flash above his head, after which the colt went limp, and his eyes fluttered closed. The hooves released him, and he collapsed gently to the ground.

An odd feeling crept up Hayfeld's spine. It made its way into his brain, where it became lost in the mire of booze he pumped into himself all day. All he could do was sit motionless and stare as the pony behind the kid gestured at something in the darkness. Moments later, he heard more hoofsteps approach from all around him. The light of the fireplace was blotted out by something, and when he turned to look, he found another pony standing there. He leaned down in front of him, then reached out with his hoof to hold the colt's face into the dim light.

"Yeah, he's one of 'em," the pony said in a familiar voice. Hayfeld tried to remember, but the name just would not come to him, and it was too dark to recognize any of his features. Moments later, the hoof under his chin retreated.

"Leave the kid," he went on. There was a short pause, and he gestured at the colt on the ground. "Will he be okay? Didn't want nopony ta get hurt."

"Just a stun spell," came another voice. Hayfeld did not recognize this one. "He'll wake up in a few hours. Won't remember a thing."

The pony gestured at him now. "Use it on this one?"

"Nah, we need him awake. The spell would mess things up."

"Good," said the familiar voice. He glanced behind him at the noise and light emanating from just beyond the nearby houses. "Let's go then. A lotta folk in town tonight."

Hayfeld breathed hard, and his heart started to beat a little faster. He felt dizzy. He wanted to get up. He wanted to yell for help. He wanted to kindly ask the ponies around him what was going on. He tried to do all of these things at once.

A pair of hooves grabbed him from behind.

Author's Note

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sa8oxSiE24k

Well, this took forever... again. I hope it was good enough as "the song of my return," though...

Bonus points if you spot all the references... :raritywink: