The house is boring, conventional, uninspired. A one-story square, white aluminum siding that’s dated, and two minivans in the driveway. That author really likes minivans.

Hoofprints in the squelchy mud, and the front door is closed but not locked. After knocking and getting no response our intrepid archivist opened the door and beheld a scene of violence.

That was a matter for the detectives. The sheets of paper arrayed on the desk, that was what the People wanted and demanded, and he gingerly removed them, then himself.

He closed the door and vanished as if he had never been there.

The Wizard of Whitetail Woods
Chapter 69 (nice!): Death of the Author
Admiral Biscuit

Eight P.M. in an ordinary country home. Birds at the feeder, the sky darkening as night fast approaches. Serj Tankian is singing on the radio, and the author is sitting at his keyboard, pondering what new indignity to subject KitKat to.

Suddenly, a gentle knock at the door.

The author turns his head in surprise. He isn’t expecting a visitor or a pizza delivery or a package from Amazon.

Did one of my neighbors wreck their car in my driveway again? he wonders.

The knocking becomes more insistent, rattling the door.

“I’m coming.” Ctrl+S was instinctive, and he leaves his lonely writer’s garret and makes his way through the living room to the front door. “Better be the pope,” he mutters under his breath.

It’s probably someone at the wrong house. There was a sign out front with the address on it, but the neighbor knocked it down when she wrecked, and he hasn’t bothered to put it back up yet.

A quick glance out the window, there’s no car in the driveway. And nobody visible by the door, either.

He opens it just the same, and it isn’t Amazon or Jet’s Pizza; it’s not a Jehovah’s Witness or a door-to-door knife salesman; it’s a pony.

A MLP pony.

A very familiar MLP pony.

ƱƱƱ

The author rubbed his eyes in disbelief. How could this be?

Up close, she was not exactly like he imagined. Bulkier; the show had all three tribes looking basically the same, but KitKat was built like a mini draft horse, if a draft horse was mastiff-sized. Saddlebags slung across her back, a sturdy duck canvas, stained with grass and dirt and the rust-colored spots were probably blood.

Her coat was well looked after, but showed some wear. A few small scars here and there, even a healing wound across her rump. One ear had a notch out of it, and the author tried to remember if she’d gotten hit by any of the shotgun pellets the Kum and Go clerk fired at her.

Across her back, in easy mouth reach, is a strange sheath with an axe in it: the tabarzin.

Her eyes are mesmerizing, boring into him as her nostrils flare, taking in his scent or the scent of the house, marking it and memorizing it.

He guiltily looked back at his writing desk (which was not like a raven) and the bottle of liquid muse—bottled in Lynchburg, Tenn.—wondering if it was a hallucination. A waking dream, of sorts.

He had no idea how wrong he was.

“Are you Admiral Biscuit?”

“Huh?”

“Of course you are, well since you're so fond of putting me through Tartarus, let me tell you what I think about you in a language you oh so love:

“Het verbaast me eigenlijk niks dat je hetzelfde ras bent als die godverdomde tovenaar, natuurlijk is de klootzak die me bedacht heeft de zelfde haarloze aap als hem, vond je het leuk om me te vernederen jij waardeloos excuus van een schrijver? Ik durf te wedden dat je mijn taal niet eens spreekt Ik weet dat onze taal in Europa gesproken word en het zou me niks verbazen als je zo zielig bent geweest om een van je vrienden daar te vragen om onze taal voor je te vertalen.”

“What?”

“I said you don’t even speak Ponish. You’ve got to get someone to translate it for you. It’s been your headcanon for years and you can’t be bothered to learn a single word.”

“It was based on a meme, who takes that seriously?”

“You should have. Am I based on a meme?”

“I—”

“Don’t answer that.” She let herself in, and would have sat on the couch, but he didn’t have one. “Why did you do it? Did you think it was funny?”

“Yes?”

“The Wizard kind of was, at first. Then he got tiresome and then he turned me into a Playboy model. I suppose you think it was funny, too? Me wandering around on wobbly human legs, cold and bouncy? That some kind of a fetish?” She wrinkled her muzzle. “Don’t answer that.”

Admiral Biscuit sighed. “I suppose it’s too late to say I’m sorry?”

“You should have thought about what you were doing years ago.”

“Yeah, I should have. There’s a lot of things I would have done differently if I knew then what I know now.”

“Me, too.” She eyed the bottle of Jack Daniels, and Biscuit nodded.

KitKat took a deep swig and closed her eyes as the burn went down her throat and the suffused her, and for a moment she was relaxed, calm, at ease.

“Do you know how I got here?”

The author shook his head.

“Shouldn’t have let the Wizard create a portal. You went for the cheap Kum and Go joke, and I was thinking that if I jerked him off while he slept, I might be able to make a portal of my own. And I did.”

“I see.” That had been a terrible idea, and all in service of a cheap Corona joke that never got published the first time around. “So what’s next?” Biscuit took a cautious step towards her, maybe with an irresistible urge to pet her.

“You created me, you tell me.”

“I . . . I don’t know.”

“I do.” KitKat reached back and pulled her tabarzin out of its sheath.

B̸̢̬̠͕̼͓̺͉͈̱̲̥͊̋̑̃͒͆́̓̅̈́̉͘͘͝ͅi̴̛̺͖̠̬͈̊͆̀͗̿̓̈͋̆̈́̏̚̕͘͠͝͝s̸̢̛̹̦̺̱̠͇̜͙̱̠̠̱͇͕͈̬̿̌̿͂̃͛̃͌̓͑̑̀͛͘͜͝͝c̴̨̨̢̛̟͉͔̰͈͓͍͉̦̒̓̄́̀̓̑͜u̴̟̦̟̼͌̋̀̎̒̑̓̅̔́̓̿̔͝i̴̗̗̝̙̍̃͌t̵̛͖͉̣̞̻̮̃̔̔̄̏͛̉̌̾͗̅͒͌̕ ̸̜͙̰͙͔͇͕͔̦͒̓̂́̎̀̋̈́̕t̸̤͍̗̮̖̓͊̅́̊͐́̎͛̇ơ̸̧̛̰̥͉̟̞͔͊́̀̿̔͂̓͆̍̋̃́̂͝õ̷̰̫͙̠͉͉̘͕̺̳̯̤̰̩̥̓ḵ̴̪̼̼̝̞͖̣̦̮̅̌ͅ ̶̧̛̩̥͔͚͕̘͙͉̭͔͕̯̻̮̠̂̿̌̓͊́̅̍̓̇̑̂̄ͅe̵͉̟̭͎̜͎̩̼̟̹̪̔x̷̮̤͓̤̭̃͝ą̵̡̡̗͔͚̺͈̟̹̪̪͇̐͘c̵̢̩̖̣̘̬̓̋̋̌̅̋͛́͌ţ̷̡̺̹̥̣͖͓͉̥͖̈́̀̂̔̈́͌͑͋̓̌͑̉͊̍̆̍̽͝ḻ̶̡̢̙̤͚̪͓̺̘̰̩̗̞͍̈́͜͜y̷̨̨̹͇̲̪̳̫̱͍̬͍͇͋̅̈́̏̽̒̃̚͜͠͝ ̴͙̼͔͕̫̜͓̦͎͉̭̩̀͑ͅo̶̳͓͖͈̾̀̒̅̌̑̎̆̇͗̈̈́͘̕͝͠ṉ̴̰̮̠͓̃̉e̸̡̙̣͊̐̒̎̈̂̓̋̔͆̊̌̚ ̸̧̢̢̪͇̖̪̳̩̙̳͙̖̻̘̦͓͓̌͛̂̈́̍̍̾̌̒̓s̴̡̠͔̦̗̗̮̦̪̟̗̘̯̆̈́̊͗̓̑͌̔͆̂͒̂̔́͠t̷̢̗̍e̴̳̪̦̘͓̙̣͎̝͓̐̌̇͜p̶̢̨͔̝̖̫̦̮͚̙͍̼̠̖̙̃̎̇̽̔͋́́̌̇̎͐͗̏̕̕ ̸̫̯̳͚̻̯̹̈͋̎̾͋̋̋̂̓̃͋̋̎͂͌͘̕͝b̵̧̡̛̙̗͈̳̣̠̻͍̟̟̱̗̹̳̻́̆̌͛́́̇̀͐̔̃͝a̶̢̡̨̙̳̤̬̤̙͔͕̖̖̣̞̒͑̍͌̎̔̓̽̑̎ç̵̡̗̙̯̪̱͕͎̼̣̜͙̠̞̮͆̈́̈́̏̎͆̽ͅķ̶̛̩̝̩͕͕̼̯̘̘̻̪̩̔̈́́̒͂͐͋̃̇͛͛͘ ̴̛̹̪̮̀̍̑̇̄́b̵̢̢̼̫̺͍͕͉̦̝͍͓̾̃͌̀̇̇̓̄͐͒̔̆̉̔̌͘̕͝ḛ̴̡̯̼̈́̏̄͛̓͋̃͗̆͋͋̀͌̕f̴̡̗̝͕̣̬̗̿̏ọ̶̳͎̮͇͓̝̝̒́̎̑̌̔͊͋̾͑̓̀̏̉͌͘r̵̨̫̦̦͖̹̍ͅę̵̗̻̩̩̟͔̩̠̲̂̀̍́͛͊ ̴̢̯̜̻̙͚̥̋͌̀̇͂̐͜s̷͓̭͉͉̼͇̤̳̼͍̪̪̤͂̍̉̄̄͂͂̏͌̓͑̋͂̕͝ͅͅh̸͖̣̦͔̤̼͚̭̮̖̀̉̽͐͋̓̈́̒̈̓́̾͛͛̕̚̕͘e̸̹͎͈̖͎͂͛̄̑̉̂̇́̽ ̸̟̗͈̮̃͛̓̿͜s̶̛̗̯̤̹̟̪̦͕̠͛̀̓́͌̇̀̒͒̅̓͐̈ẁ̸̧̡̗̥͖̻̓̋̍̎͛̍̄̀̆̆́͗̍͜͜͠͝u̴̹̘͙͍͗̑͊̃̎͊͠ń̷̢̥̥̘̫̝̯͑̋̄͆̽͂̿͒͆̎̊̚͠͝g̶̯̗̳̀͗̽͗̈́͐͗̓̃͗ͅ.̵̪͇͇͙̤̟̯̞̏͆͗̒̆̈́̎͑͂̈́͆̊̀͋̎̉̕ͅ

ƱƱƱ

There was nothing in the house that she needed or wanted, so when she was finished, KitKat closed the door behind her.

Author's Note

Special thanks to Snowliason for the Dutch!

I legit have no idea whatsoever what it says.