“Greetings, my friends.”
The gaunt pony stared into his webcam. Or maybe he was talking in his sleep. It was hard to tell with the aviator shades.
“Raz̃orHoof here to talk to you about the lack of activity on Eiggengrau’s epic hate magnet, Twilight Sparkle & the Stupid Original Pony. (Don’t arrest me, Princess, I didn’t make up the title.) Now, I don’t know if Eiggengrau took a month off to refresh her creative juices or if she’s under my desk at this moment to refresh some entirely different fluids. Ahem! But in the mean time I guess she’s working on a short side project. I’ve pre-read the first couple chapters and personally I’m hoping that Vingent ends up spit roasted between the butler and Carren’s sire. What a buckin’ wussy.”
“Back to the TwiTan universe, this character has been stuck on Earth, for— what?”
Raz̃orHoof peers at somepony off camera.
“I mean stuck on dam bucking Terra, for eight years with no action except for one brutal, horrific, non-con and a dreamy clop scene that I still don’t pretend to understand, and something’s gotta give. My balls would be bluer than the one single county that seems to control Washington State’s electoral votes, but I guess he left his in Equestria. At least leaving your testes in Ponyville is better than leaving your heart in San Francisco these days. I hear pericardial sewage is bad for your health. Of course having a homeless, illegal, addict take a crap in your thoracic cavity is still preferable than staring into Governor Newsome’s blinding smile. Clearly the rays coming off those synthetic pearly whites function as some kind of Men In Black-esque neuralyzer, because no matter how many times he screws them, Californians keep voting for him.”
“So here we are, or more to the point, there the Tanna formerly known as Tangent is, doing the approach avoidance thing with poor Isha. And that’s just what we’ve been told about – who can guess what’s been going on between chapters. Sweet, pie creaming, innuendo, I don’t know how much longer any of us can take this – me, the readers, or Isha. If we don’t get some resolution –or at least some kind of bucking relationship progress– soon, I’m gonna write the next chapter myself. ‘And then everypony had sex with everypony. The end.’ See? How bucking hard was that? Not nearly as hard as I am just thinking about it. (I want a percentage if you use that, okay, Eiggy?)”
“Hold on, I may be having a bigger teleprompter fail than Brandon himself, but I know for a fact that the crazy mare writing my dialog for today’s show is typing one-hoofed with her other hoof up her skirt, spanking her junk harder than Big Mac grinding on a a bale of hay dressed up as his sister. Honestly, I’d be doing the same if I had as much me-x-Batman porn as she does.”
(beat)
“Of course if I could stay on the wagon I might remember some of those poses, so I’m blaming it all on A.I. forgeries.”
“What’s this, I have a question on the stream. Is that PopPipper137 or PipPopper137? I’m pretty sure Pip got popped at least a hundred and thirty seven episodes before you came on the scene, buddy. Anyway, Peepee137 asks: aren’t I drawed (nice grammar there, dude) kind of old school G4 on the cover of this story? What the buck? Hel yeah, you can bet your apple slapping fifth leg, I am! I’ve never even seen an episode of G5, everything I know about the G5 cast, I learned from a good friend whom my lawyers won’t let me name without written authorization, at one of his infamous parties.”
Cough, "AtomicClop," cough.
An icon appears on the corner of the screen.
“I didn't say that, take that down!”
The icon vanishes.
“We’ll put the link up at the end. Anyway, I’m talking about the type of party where they ask for your food allergies and proctologist’s phone number when you RSVP. So there I was, three sheets to the wind, and wearing a crotchless Izzy Moonbow costume. The trouble is, I asked for one with the strategically placed hole in the front.”
Raz̃orHoof shifts in his chair in an exaggerated display of discomfort.
“But, no, the thing you need to know about my pal the red porno panda is that he play-tests all those stories of his with live actors, no lie. Personally, I’ll never get the smell of burning coconut oil out of my mane and I’m going to murder the next pony who calls me Cadance. Of course, those actors don’t necessarily leave alive, and those of us who do, might wish we didn’t.”
(Cut to canned clip of Raz̃orHoof looking slightly lost sitting at a drumset. Realizing that the camera is rolling, he plays a sting on the kicker and snare drum, and points into the camera. In the clip he’s wearing a Trötley Crüe shirt instead of the Rolling Pones shirt he wears today.)
(Cut back to the live cam.)
“And I really don’t mean to pick on G5, I mean it’s not as bad as G2, I still have nightmares about G2. Of course, consent would have made a world of difference.”
(beat)
“But first I would have needed to have reached the age of consent.”
“Enough about me. What I’ve been wondering for a while is what kind of name is Eiggengrau? ‘Cos she can totally get down on her knees and be my Gaggen-frau. Of course, if half of what I read on the bathroom wall is true, she should be able to handle me without gagging at all. On another hoof, if you find a 70cm baguette with lipstick marks at the halfway mark you might want to give that one a pass, just sayin’.”
“As to whether I really have Eiggengrau as my very special guest under the desk or not (swallow, sweetie) you’ll never know unless I forget the cut the feed. Put that link back up on the screen—” a FIMfimction user’s icon re-appears in the corner “—and it’s Raz̃orHoof out.”
He points one forehoof directly into the camera.
“Equus’ bucking speed, my friends.”
(Fade to Chariots of Fire and a slow motion low angle video of Raz̃orHoof galloping down the highway. Secretariat, he isn’t.)
Author's Note
Colophon: the tilde should appear above the zed in Raz̃orHoof, but it seems that some web engines do not compose this properly.
