A Farewell to the Arms, a Welcome to the Hooves

by psp7master

Rating: teen
Tags: Human, Comedy, Random
Length: 5973

Zebras are like ponies, almost at least 20 percent cooler!

18+ Lemme tell you something. I am a brony. And, as any respectable member of the community, I'm sick and tired of Human in Equestria stories. So, when I ended up in Equestria, I promised myself not to write a story about it. Let it forever remain lost in the depths of history.

But damn it, I'm such a hypocrite! What I learned in Equestria is something worth telling. The main thing I learned in Equestria was that zebras are cool. And being a zebra is cool. And that, apparently, those ponies can't do anything without our, zebras', help.

Listen, if you're interested, read on. If you're a hater, much like I used to be, trot by and have a pleasant day/night/evening/whatever you humans tend to consider pleasant. Peace unto you all.

A little disclaimer. This story will, at some point, make fun of:
1) Zebras
2) Labourists
3) Biochemists
4) Delivery services
5) Students
6) Professors
7) People who hate people
8) People who hate people who hate people
9) ZEBRAS!
10) Et cetera
If you fall into one the following categories (especially the tenth one), you may experience a displeasant feeling at the bottom of your back. Please take it easy.

*I tend to use swearing words, so, for the sake of the children, keep them away from the screen*

/A story written at the request of tytyvm. Please direct your praise and encouragement towards him. Direct your hate and disapprovement towards yours faithfully.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2013-07-20 21:09:08 UTC

Chapter One. That One Chapter Where I Give Some Background Information

A Farewell to the Arms, a Welcome to the Hooves

Chapter One

That One Chapter Where I Give Some Background Information

***

The name's Josh. I mean, my name. Sure, Josh is a name, not the name. Still, that's what my parents called me, and that's what everybody calls me, so let it officially be my name.

And no, I'm not a grammar expert; far from it. I mean, sure, we all have been in school, learning grammar, along with other boring genuinely exciting and thrilling subjects, but I'd be surprised if anybody really remembered a single thing from that cold and dreary place shrine of knowledge.

I'm a biochemist. Awesome, right? Like, spending days and nights at the lab, conducting experiments on the edge of transcendence, which will help humanity overcome disease and help establish a firm foundation for the future generations - what can be more exciting?

Well, leave that explanation to science fiction. Or average fiction. Or, even better, crappy fiction that you can pick up at a train station for five quid, making a difficult choice whether to buy a crappy book or a pack of cigarettes. Go for cigarettes, I say. Sure, they harm your lungs, but those books do much more damage to your brain than an ice axe shoved through your skull.

So, where was I? Oh, right, biochemistry. In our dull and unwelcoming reality, biochemistry is one of the most boring subjects in the word, sharing first place with a game of cricket played by inebriated walruses. You get the idea.

My primary job is to give lectures to the new generation of biochemists, young people who, apparently, had mistaken the course for Law, or Political Science, or something just as interesting. Two times a week, I come to the Cambridge University and tell those people about the beauty of phosphates and sulphates, and the development of medicine and various drugs (in the good sense of the word!), the names of which you wouldn't be able to pronounce anyway.

I mean, what is wrong with youngsters these days? When I studied at the Uni, all I cared about was the mass production of ammonium hydrate for my professors, and the beauty of C2H5OH. Oh, and I also graduated from Oxford, if you're interested. Cambridge is for pussies!

So... remember my telling you I was no grammar expert? Well, here you go: I derped with the tense. I used to give lectures at Cambridge. I used to be a biochemist. What I'm going to tell you now, is how I became a zebra.

Now, don't get me wrong. You see, I'm a brony. Yes, those kind of people who watch that one amazing cartoon - My Little Pony. The key word here is pony. If it were called My Little Zebra, I highly doubt I would have ever ended up watching it. I mean... Ponies are cool, you see. Not that I hold anything against zebras - perish the thought! Just... Ponies are cooler in my book. At least 20 percent cooler. And they are, well, ponies; amazing colourful pastel ponies. And zebras are, well, zebras.

Now that we've dispatched with the obvious, let me tell you about the day I turned into a zebra.

It was probably a beautiful morning in Ponyville, but in London, it was an ordinary dull rainy morning. And yes, I live in London. ...Used to live in London. While the incovenience of travelling by train may be considered unpleasant by some, I am one of the people who actually enjoy their time on a train.

I should have noticed something was wrong when I asked for a two-way ticket and received a one-way one, being told that "I wouldn't need a two-way ticket". I decided to blame the obscurity on the stupidity of the cashier; I mean, London's full of strange people, you know? Like, Jehowah witnesses, or MPs, or labourists... Cashiers can be pretty out of their thinking box, too.

So, the train ride was pleasant, and I even had time to read through the latest Guardian issue. Yes, I know it's a Labour paper. No, I vote Conservative. I just like the style.

So, to cut the long story short, in some two hours and a half I was sitting in my office - if that shadow of a room they mercifully lend to professors can qualify as an office - and reading through the notes I had prepared, smoking a pipe and taking an occasional sip from my tea mug. Yes, I know it is not allowed to smoke indoors. Just... don't tell the dean, okay?

As I was enjoying myself in the last few minutes before stepping into a darkened lecture hall, which strangely reminded me of a cage full of hungry tigers, I heard a knock at the door. I quickly put out the fire and rose to open the door, only to see a delivery man standing before me, a bemused expression of idleness and ignorance resting upon his face.

I envy such people, in a way. I mean, they don't have to worry about global problems, or metaphysics, or biochemistry, or stuff like that. They live their lives, much like behind their invisible walls of stupidity, and don't care about mind and matter, and whatever else matters.

Ignorance is truly bliss. Don't get me wrong - I hold nothing against couriers. I used to be one in the days of my youth. I used to perform manual labour as well... Good times...

But I'm really getting sidetracked here, right? So, I looked at the man, and he looked at me. We exchanged glances, much like pistols at dawn, and he handed me a bouquet of blue flowers.

I looked at the bouquet, my expression curious, the delivery man's expression firm and unwavering. It seemed that, shall there be a full-blown nuclear conflict, he still would have bore the same look on his face.

"May I enquire from whom I am receiving this package?" I wondered, asking myself if my phrasing was too much for him to handle.

"Anon," came the reply, during which the facial expression of the courier turned from pathetic idleness to unamused idleness - a drastic change, if you ask me.

"Anon?" I repeated. Don't get me wrong - I'm young at heart and everything, and the Internet is right up my street and what-not. But... Anon? Really.

The delivery man sighed and shook his head, most probably thinking how dumb Cambridge professors can be at times, and went away, leaving me with the mystery of the enigmatic bouquet. I had no time to inspect the blue flowers, so, deciding that it was probably a pitiful attempt at bribery from one my students, lay it on the table. Just as I turned away, directing my feet towards the entrance, where I had just had a pleasant little chat with the delivery man, I felt an urge to give in to an obvious human weakness. I sniffed the flowers.

And, well, as cliche as it may seem, the world turned black.

Chapter Two. Stars and Stripes, Emphasis on Stripes

A Farewell to the Arms, a Welcome to the Hooves

Chapter Two

Stars and Stripes, Emphasis on Stripes

***

Let me clarify something. No, it's not connected to your attitude towards bananas. It's about species.

For example, dragons are cool. That's a decision to which I had come through dedicated scrutiny and reading fantasy novels. Dragons can breathe fire and have shitloads of gold and what-not.

Zombies are cool. If playing Fallout had taught me anything, it's the fact that ghouls are amazing beings that have those awesome moves and skills, making everybody envious.

Ponies are cool. I guess that goes without saying, but if you do not belong to the brighter side of the human race, let me outline the basic points for you. Ponies are cute, loving creatures who brighten up your day and make you smile in spite of yourself, whatever your current mood may be.

Damn it, even dolphins are cool, even though they are real! They are just as smart as people - sometimes way smarter than people. And yes, I know ponies are real too. But we're talking about awesome sentient ponies, not some crappy sub-horses.

Zebras are not cool. They are dull, boring creatures who speak in rhyme that would make Shakespeare cringe and shake in fear. They aren't bad; they're just creepy. At least judging by this Zecora.

Now that we've got this issue clear, let me move on with the narration.

As I woke up, after quite a troublesome dream full of biochemistry students trying to poison me with walrus meat (don't ask me... Just don't ask), I immediately realised something was amiss. And I'm not talking about that kind of 'amiss' when you forget to put on your tie or something.

If you have ever been on drugs, you must know that feeling when everything around you looks like an excerpt from a cartoon - colourful, shiny and very unreal. If you haven't been on drugs (good for you!), you will have a difficult time adjusting to what I saw right after opening my eyes.

While the ceiling didn't pique my interest that much, the surroundings certainly did. I found myself in a hut, strange masks and pots of something-or-the-other lying round and about, and countless herbs and... Wait a minute.

Wait a minute.

Wait a minute!

I have totally seen this before! Reminiscing all the times I've been high, very high, immensely high, and higher than Everest, I still couldn't get a slightest grip at how this acid-awoken image of a primeval hut had left an imprint on my mind. I rose to my hooves and trotted towards the pot that was royally sitting in the middle of the only room, curiously inspecting a strange green liquid inside. Crucifying my desire to give it an experimental gulp, and burning it on the cross afterwards, I resolved to take a look around. Still, my hooves-

My hooves.

My sweet-satan-fucking-beavers-in-hell hooves!

Now, you are probably familiar with fangasms. I mean, you must have experienced the feeling in some way, like while meeting your idol like Justin Bieber or Skrillex or whatever you youngsters listen to nowadays. Me? Jazz and Classical do the job for me. I'm twenty-eight, for Fuck's sake! ...I wonder if I needed to capitalise that letter.

So, fangasming. The process is quite pleasant, and can be compared to a weekly sex-session with Natalie Portman or Freddie Mercury - whatever way your door swings. As a huge fan of ponies (ImmaponyImmaponyImmaponyImmaponyImmaponyImmaponyImmaponyImmaponyImmaponyYAY!!!), the feeling certainly did not avoid me, as I began jumping all about the hut, yelling happily and breaking some values (nah) as a side dish.

Then, two thoughts occupied my head. (Two at once! I know, right?!)

The first one could be loosely formed as, Oh my fucking God I'm a pony I must be dreaming I'm a pony this is a dream I'm a pony I don't wanna wake up I'm a fucking pony!, while the second delivered the following information, Oh my fucking God I'm really a pony I need to see myself I'm a pony what is my cutie mark I'm a pony I wanna be a unicorn NEED A MIRROR!

Don't get me wrong - I'm no racist. I pretty much appreciate pegasi (because Rainbow Dash) and earth ponies (because Octavia). Just... unicorns can cast magic. Magic, all right? In my discouraging scientifically-outlined life, all I needed was a little bit of magic.

Frantically running around the room and making a laughing-stock of myself in my own eyes (not that I cared, at the moment), I realised that there was no mirror to look into and adore my awesome pony looks! Damn it, what hut doesn't have a mirror, I wonder?

Thinking over the matter (not ceasing my running practice, of course), I decided that, if it was all but a dream, I could easily imagine a mirror and if would appear with a puff or a screech or something. I stopped dead in my tracks and imagined a large rectangular mirror, with wooden mount and whatever usually comes with a standard mirror complectation.

To my surprrise, when I opened my eyes, I found no mirror. Not even a little one, without the mount and what-not. No puffs. No screeches. No magic. I felt cheated by the Dream Fairy.

By the way, it seems that Fairies and I have some sort of misuderstanding. For instance, the Tooth Fairy never brought me money in exchange for my teeth. Stupid Jewish Labourist Fairy. Oh, and I don't mind Jews - I have a Jewish friend, you know! (Always works, that excuse!) The Fairy's cruel betrayal was one of the main reasons as to why I pledged my allegiance to science and gave up on trying to understand religion.

As I made the rusty wheels in my head reel, I came to a conclusion that, though the liquid in the pot - the one in the middle of the room - was green, it still possessed the qualities of all liquids. And one of them was to reflect one's identity on the surface.

Praising myself for knowing the basics of physics, I reached the pot and took a look inside. Good, I could see hooves... and my muzzle... A little peculiar mane... and what the fuck was that?!

Stripes?!

I staggered back and sat down on my bottom, which was actually quite a feat, given the equine anatomy and everything.

I am having the most wonderful dream and I am a fucking zebra?!

Just as I tried to comprehend this fact - I swear I could hear the Dream Fairy's laughter from above! - the door to the hut opened.

I turned my head towards the source of the sound and saw another zebra (another zebra?! Have I really come to terms with the fact I was one?), who was looking at me, wide-eyed.

As my eyes drifted to her flank (don't judge me! I was only searching for the cutie mark, I swear!), I immediately realised where I was. I was in the very hut of Zecora, and the mare in question was standing in the doorway.

I said I didn't much like zebras. But seriously, guys... Zecora? From My Little Pony? Needless to say, I felt another fangasm approaching me as my whole body shook furiously and I jumped to my hooves to greet her.

Just as I ran towards the mare, an expression of sheer bliss on my face, Zecora staggered back a little and slammed the door shut. Right in front of my muzzle.

The blow was so fierce that it sent me flying backwards, my poor head hitting the pot that had just been the substitute for a mirror for me.

And this, ladies and gentlemen, was the moment when shiny stars of confusion entered my brain and I fainted, darkness laying its blanket all over me.

Chapter Three. Hearts, Hooves, and Other Body Parts

A Farewell to the Arms, a Welcome to the Hooves

Chapter Three

Hearts, Hooves, and Other Body Parts

***

If years of studying biology and anatomy (What have I spent my life on?!) have taught me anything, it is the fact that human body is, in fact, extremely fragile. The skull, compared to other body parts, is probably one of the most breakable ones. Apparently, zebra's skulls are much, much more enduring.

Were I still a human being at a time (great, now I finally reached the last stage of grief - acceptance - while skipping the other ones), my future would have been far from bright and, I am sure, would have definitely included something to do with sleepless nights, unwelcoming hospital corridors, countless paychecks and potential idiocy. Still, as things were, hitting a sturdy pot made of lead right after having an unfortunate tete-a-tete encounter with a door did absolutely no serious harm to my head. Yay, I guess?

So, on with the story! That's what I'm supposed to do, right?

As the breezest light fell upon my closed eyelids, I woke up but promptly decided against opening my eyes. You see, there are times when you have a sweetest dream, which ends in a rather abrupt and unusual way, and then you realise it was all, well, nothing more than a mere dream. Like, if you are having an amazing time kicking someone Blair (let's not reveal the name, for the sake of security) up his labourist ass while seeing all of your students partake in a mass exodus from your course, and the next moment - puff - you wake up, and someone Blair is still PM and you have to give a few lectures to the ever-curious young biochemists who come straight from the very depths of Hell.

So, I lay on my back, refusing to let the grim reality take its turn and prolonging the wonderful moments of being a pony... erm... zebra for a little more.

"Do you have any intention of waking up?"

My ears perked at the sound of an exotic voice, which source was presumably quite nearby, and my eyes shot wide open. Above me stood the very zebra that had caused the whole inconvenience, which had occurred to yours faithfully, - the one and only, rhyming, rapping, potion-brewing "Steely-hoof" Zeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeecora!

Now, they say that males can orgasm only once at a time, in contrast to females, who aren't limited by such restrictions. Well, either they are wrong or such limitations do not apply to fangasms. Double fangasms are 20... 200 percent cooler than regular fangasms, believe me - I've had experience.

I jumped up in bed, my skull sending signals of pain and worry to my brain, and did what any sane person in my place would have done in such a situation: I threw my hooves around the zebra's neck, yelling something indistinct, something between ohmygoshZecoraohmygoshZecoraohmygoshyou'reREAL!!! and sweetJesusbeaversIcan'tbelieveit'snotadreamZecorayou'reFUCKINGREAL!!!

"Jenuar... Please... Can't... Breathe..."

I immediately let go of her, not in fear of strangling the mare (seriously, she's a cartoon character! They even can't die... can they?), but in shock of her bizarre phrasing. Jenuar? Was that some zebra slang? Like... um... weed? ...My infinite ken never ceases to amaze me.

"Who?" I blinked in surprise, staggering back a little, hitting my head against the wall. Ouch. Who puts a bed by the wall, I wonder?

"You." She pointed her hoof (striped hooves... still not used to those...) at me, reagaining her breath. "Jenuar, what's gotten into you?"

Okay, here are a few things that I need to share.

First. Gotten? Are all zebras American? Either that, or they come straight from the nineteen century. Which is not a bad thing, if you ask me.

Second. Jenuar is a name. And, since you can't hear what I'm saying (oh, the disadvantages of reading!), it's pronounced Henuar. Not with a J as in Jesus, but with a  H as in... Hamish. Okay, maybe that was a crappy example. But you still get it, right?

Third. Apparently, Jenuar - Henuar is my name, for some reason. At least, Zecora thinks so.

Four. What the fuck? Jenuar? Oh really?

"Um... What?" I replied, dumbfounded.

Okay, now I know all those years spent on studying the beauty of the English language haven't been in vain. As you can clearly see, my vocabulary would have made Charles Dickens green with envy.

"Jenuar... What's wrong?" Zecora's eyes widened in fear. "Did I hit your head hard? Oh, I'm so sorry!"

After a quick inner fangasm (an MLP character apologising to me?! Gimme two!), I shook my head.

"I'm sorry, Zecora, you must have mistaken me for somebo... somepony... somezebra else."

Now it was time for her to embrace me, and that was exactly what she did, stroking my mane.

Okay, I'm sure this many fangasms a day can seriously degrade your usual endorphine tolerance.

"Jenuar, my poor, poor brother... I'm so sorry... You must have amnesia..."

Wait, what?! Brother?! As in, this type of relaive who's a direct descendant of the same parents? I can say that the amount of shock upon my hearing this could be compared only to the moment when I learned that Darth Wader was Luke's father. Only this was twice as shocking and was apparently happening to me.

Of course, in such a situation I asked the only question that was bothering me at the moment.

"Say, Zecora, why aren't you talking in rhyme?"

A tear crawled down the zebra's cheek, instantly making me feel bad for asking.

"Jenuar... What are you talking about? I've never talked in rhyme..."

Oh, well, crap. Of course, I knew better than to tell about what I learned from a cartoon, which she  was a part of. I mean, what would you feel if a pony appeared in your world and began asking, for example, about why you conceal yourself in the bathroom every few times a week, with a strange magazine/laptop with pictures of naked mares?

"At least you still remember my name..." She sighed and began trotting about the room. "Don't worry. Just stay here, and I'll bring Twilight - I'm sure she will help."

Twilight? As in, Twilight Sparkle? The Twilight Sparkle, Saviour of Equestria, also known as Best Pony? Yes, Twilight is best pony, by the way. No argument here.

And she was going to bring Twilight in here? And I would meet her? In person?!

Now, they may say that passing out from a fangasm is pretty much impossible. That's bullshit, people. Not only is this possible, but very, very real. Because that's exactly what I did.

Chapter Four. A Pony Walks into the Bar...

A Farewell to the Arms, a Welcome to the Hooves

Chapter Four

A Pony Walks into the Bar...

***

All right, here's a joke for you. I'm generous, you know?

A horse - let it be a pony - walks into a bar. Yes, I know they aren't usually allowed in bars, but I can name at least one pub on the outskirts of London where they would serve a five-year old moose, should it have enough quid. So, this horse - pony - somehow gets past the security (it's a high-grade bar) and enters the bar. It comes up to the barman with a clear intention of taking a shot or two of the good stuff and asks (see? That's why it's a pony, and not a horse: ponies can talk), "A glass of Scotch, please." As we can clearly see from this example, ponies are very polite when it comes down to booze requests. So, this one barman - a Jewish labourist who also studies biochemistry, no doubt - wonders, instead of serving the drink as he should, "Hey, why the long face, pal?" We can assume that the barman isn't familiar with equine anatomy at all, since, well, you know, their muzzles are long. And, well, the pony replies, "Because I just lost a blackjack game and now I have no money to pay rent."

The moral of the story? Sometimes you have to keep your questions to yourself. I've learned this moral well and, not to boast, have always tried to follow it. So, when Zecora (ohmygoshshe'sreallyREAL!) returned (I was so glad I came round in advance), a certain lavender unicorn by her side (ohmyfuckingwalrusesruttingbeaverssheisREALTOO!), I resolved to act calmly and buried another fangasm into the pillow.

Pillows. Ever so convenient. Reminds me to buy a few more when I get home. ...If I ever get home, that is. But hey, this strange neverending dream (coma? nirvana? carma loop? hallucination?) comes with free ponies! And, well, zebras.

I watched Twilight approach the bed out of the corner of my eye, afraid that, shall she touch me, I would die of fangasming, thus establishing the first known case.

Fortunately, she only eyed me at first and turned towards Zecora.

"So, Zecora, this is your brother?" she asked, giving an example of a terrible habit when one re-asks something that they have been just told. Like, when you introduce your special someone to your family and say, "Mother, Father, this is Madeline and she is my girlfriend", one of your parents (if not both) will almost certainly ask, "Oh, so she is your girlfriend?' and maybe add, "is she?"

How shall one reply? "No, guys. She's a goddamn beaver in disguise and I've just brought her home to tell you about my attraction to beavers"?

"This is my brother, yes, indeed,

And he is now in time of need."

Wait, what? I blinked in surprise, rubbing my eyes (though I should have been rubbing my ears instead). Didn't she tell me, like, an hour ago, that she didn't speak in rhyme?

Okay, so, maybe, this was occasional rhyming. Shit happens, you know? It's a proven fact.

"All right. As I recall, he is in a state of partial amnesia. Is that right, mister Jenuar?" she asked, turning towards me, looking at me with concern in her eyes.

As I crucified another fangasm (and burned it on a cross afterwards), I came up with the only reply that was suitable for the moment.

"Can I touch your horn, please?"

All right, maybe that was dumb. But seriously, who wouldn't have wanted to touch a real horn of a real unicorn, not to mention best pony? Well, yeah, maybe some wouldn't. Stupid Earth Pony and Pegasi chauvenists. I bet they vote Labour, or (God forbid!) Lib-Dem.

"I guess his thinking abilities have been degraded as well?" Twilight addressed Zecora, not missing a beat.

The zebra simply shook her head.

"I don't believe that you are right.

My brother never has been bright."

Okaaaay. Now this was for certain. She did speak in rhyme. And damn it, she even messed with grammar for it! I mean, never goes after has! Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not a grammar nazi. I'm more of a grammar commie. I believe in equal rights for all people, the main one being the right to FUCKING USE GRAMMAR CORRECTLY. Equally.

Oh, and now this zebra was calling me stupid! Me, a goddamn biochemistry professor! Something had to be done. Drastic steps, people. They were screaming to be taken.

"Forgive my interrupting, but I presume that your description of my wit is highly underrated, not to mention rather degrading," I said with dignity in my voice. Or, better, tried to say. What I really said, was something like, "I'm... not... stooopid!"

Confound those concussions and everything they stand for! I've always known they were a Labour invention to degrade the sensitive masses.

"But of course you aren't!" Twilight cooed, ss if she were talking to a foal, and leaned over me, eyeing my head and inspecting something - probably, the bruises which I couldn't see, but could very well feel. "Now, let me perform a simple inspection." She paused for a second. "An in-spec-tion is an-"

"I know," I interrupted her explanation. "I'm not stupid." And here I pronounced it as 'stoopid' again. Hooray for me!

"Of course." She nodded and her horn lit (magic! Magic is real!) with lavender light and, in a second, a look of concern and disapproval made its way to her face.

"He's hit the head really hard." She shook her head sadly. "I"m afraid he'll have to stay in bed for a while."

I sighed in content. Finally, I could afford to give in to sheer laziness. No students. No stupid people around me. No people, as in, humans, around me, whatsoever. The only thing to make this complete was...

"Say, Twilight, where can I buy a tin of tobacco?"

The lavender mare looked at me in lack of understanding. I think it was the first time Twilight had ever not understood something. Well, there is a first time for everything, I guess?

Before Twilight could degrade herself by admitting her lack of knowledge (the horror!), I explained, "You know, tobacco? This one weed that contains nicotine?"

Both the pony and the zebra's eyes widened in fear.

"Nicotine?" Twilight asked, instnatly reminding me of that awful habit of restatingthe obviosness. "Why would you need such a deadly poison?"

A... poison? Oh, but of course. A drop of nicotine can kill a horse, so, of course, it would kill a pony. For the first time, I praised myself for turning into a zebra, and not a pony. Zebras are not technically ponies, or horses... right?

"I tend to have a terrible habit of consuming it on a daily basis," I said nonchalantly. Great, now I could form clear thoughts. I was no longer 'stoopid'! Hooray for me, and FUCK YOU!

Twilight was in the edge of fainting, while Zecora just began shaking back and forth, much like a thin tree caught in a snowstorm.

"What are you talking about?!" Zecora finally let out.

I threw my hoof in the air triumphantly. "Aha! I knew you were just pretending to be talking in rhyme! Case closed, Watson, we can smoke a pipe now." I nodded to myself and closed my eyes.

"Nicotine is illegal. And she was never speaking in rhyme," Twilight said, a dumbfounded expression reigning over her face.

"Has never been. You meant, has never been. Grammar, Twilight!" My grammar commie senses were kicking in brutaly.

"Whatever..."

I sighed. If nicotine was illegal... Well, I just had to break the law.

That's simple... right?

No. It is not.

Chapter Five. And If They Don't Drink, They Are No Friends of Mine

A Farewell to the Arms, a Welcome to the Hooves

Chapter Five

And If They Don't Drink, They Are No Friends of Mine

***

You know what's a fine way to call it a day when you have just been turned into a zebra, have a headache that's pounding your brain like a thousand ballet-dancing mammoths, and are obliged to stay in bed? That's right - escaping into town. That's the way. And that's exactly what I did.

Just as Zecora fell asleep (8 pm? Really? I would've sworn she graduated from Cambridge, being such a pussy and stuff), I, reminiscing all stealth techniques I'd learned through Metal Gear Solid (thank you, Hideo Kodjima!), turned into a ninja... pony ninja... zebra ninja and, taking each step carefully and thoroughly, left the hut. I sent a mental prayer to Sir Winston Churchill (hey, I'm an atheist! I have to pray on someone!), for the surroundings were completely familiar to me. Thank you, MLP, for letting me know every corner of the EverFree Forest! Cheers to you.

So, Stealth Mode activated, I galloped towards Ponyville, not stopping much to admire the surrounding scenery and what-not. 'Cause, you know? Nicotine withdrawal and stuff? That surely doesn't set you in a bright and all-observing mood. Like... don't smoke, guys. I'm sure you will regret it.

As I ran through the streets of Ponyville, I speculated. Nicotine is illegal; therefore, it is considered a drug; therefore, I could get it at the nearest bar, if London experience could be applied to Ponyville. I very much prayed it could, for my breath had already become shallow, and I was experiencing light dizziness. Well, what did I expect? Bad addiction is bad.

...My logical skills, as you have already guessed, are one of the few things I really take pride in. I'm a genius of deduction... if deduction is the word I want. I'm like a fucking Sherlock Holmes - only a zebra at that!

Fortunately, my brainstorming skills led me to a small pub on the outskirts - exactly the one place I needed. Pubs are the most desired form of entertainment people (or ponies, in this case) have ever created. Just imagine - a drinking place, a dancing place, a boxing (and kickboxing and at-the-hair-gripping) place - all in one!

My hooves merrily trotted through the door and I felt myself disperse in the atmosphere of the old good drinking palace. The ponies around me gifted me with quick glances. Some of them returned to their time-consuming activity. Some sat futrther from me. Fucking racist Zebra haters. And no, I'm not a zebra hater, I told you. Dammit, I'm a fucking zebra myself!

As the thoughts about how exactly I ended up in Equestria, and why Zecora was/was not speaking in rhyme, and why I was  a zebra, and who was this Jenuar, and why the fuck I was a fucking zebra (among other things), I instantly occupied a stool next to a brown earth pony and ordered a whisky. That's right - drunk head doesn't think; drunk head is light, happy and tranquil. I needed to get rid of those thoughts, for now.

"Wow. We don't usually have many zebras round here," a voice came from the left. I turned my head towards the source to tell that particular brown earth pony source that he may just as well shut the fuck up, but then realised whom I was going to address.

"No way..." I whispered, eyeing the hourglass cutie mark on his flank. "You're Doctor Whooves, aren't you?!" I pointed a hoof at him, forgetting about any trances of politeness.

"The one and only." He nodded with dignity. "However... There's been, like, eleven other ones before me... Oh well." He emptied his glass and reached for his saddlebag, taking two shiny bits from it.

Bits.

Crap. Bits. Now, as you can imagine, I woke up as a zebra and, if you haven't yet realised, completely naked. One part of being naked is that you don't have pockets; ergo, you don't have money.

And even if I did, I would have had a few quid, which they would never accept. I imagined a particular crowned face looking at me disapprovingly from a fiver.

Aww, dammit.

"Hey, Doctor?" I wondered as the pony stood up to take his leave. "Do you have any idea where a human... erm... zebra like me can earn a few bits?"

The brown pony blinked. "Human?" He leaned over my ear and whispered. "You said human, did you?"

"Didn't you. You wanted to say, didn't you."

Confound my grammar communism and everything it stands for!

"Hey, I'm British, too," he said, looking at me sternly. "I can play with my language in any way I want."

"'Too'?"  I wondered wearily. Dizziness was gradually overcoming me.

"The accent," The Doctor pointed out. "Actually, it makes sense: zebras don't usually go around talking like "hAve" and "mei"," he chuckled, mimicking our mutual accent.

I felt the world around me become muddled, as if I were looking at it from the centre of a jigsaw puzzle. Yeah, that was a rather crappy metaphor, lacking colour and what-not. But you get the idea, right?

"Doctor..." I stood up shaking. "Please... For the love of the Conservative party... I... need... tobacco..." I staggered towards the earth pony, who offered me his shoulder.

"Not so loud!" he hissed. "Those humans..." He sighed and began slowly leading me towards the exit. "Listen, I may have what you need in the TARDIS. Let's go."

As we left the room, I glanced back over my shoulder. A gruff unicorn, the bartender, appeared with a glass of whisky in his magical grip.

I waved at him dreamily, on the verge of fainting.

He just shook his head and muttered, "What is always wrong with this Doctor? He always attracts the weirdest people..."

Indefinite hiatus

This is a standard announcement: This fic, as well as all other fics of mine, is going on an indefinite hiatus. For more information, please follow this link.

Thank you for your attention.

~Josh