2: Planet of the Ponies

Gribble's Log
Date: Unknown
Location: Unknown
Time: Approximately 1600 hours

With each passing moment, my situation grows more dire. I have decided to keep a journal to record my thoughts. If you are reading this, I have no doubt been taken prisoner and/or killed. Please deliver this notebook to the Arlen Gun Club so that they may record my exploits for posterity, or failing that, to Mr. Hank R. Hill of Rainy Street. Arlen, TX. Earth. Milky Way Galaxy.

If you are an agent of the United States government, this journal is not about anything important. Please disregard everything it contains.

It has now been nearly 60 minutes since my last smoke. Already I can feel the madness taking hold. Soon I will be incapacitated beyond rational thought. It is only due to my extensive training as a licensed professional bounty hunter that I have managed to thus far remain calm.

The small equine creature that greeted me has taken me back to her lair, a crudely constructed treehouse, where I was introduced to two creatures of the same species. The little yellow one calls herself "Apple Bloom," and her friend is "Scootaloo." The possibility that these may be CIA-assigned codenames has not escaped me.

I have seen no familiar landmarks, and no sign of human presence. My current location is unknown, though I now believe that I have left Earth entirely.

Fortunately, my training allows me to project the appearance of perfect nonchalance. I don't think my tiny horse companions suspect that anything is amiss...

"What's he writin' about?" one of the little ponies, the one called Apple Bloom, whispered to Sweetie Belle. Sweetie shrugged helplessly.

"I don't know," she whispered back. "It looks important, though."

I ignored them both and continued scribbling furiously into my notebook. I could feel the early stages of nicotine madness coming on, and I knew I didn't have much time. Wherever I was, I knew that I might not make it out of this alive. I had to record my thoughts and observations while I still could.

"He's sweating an awful lot," observed a third pony, the little orange one with wings. Scootaloo. Sweetie Belle said nothing, but kept watching me with a concerned expression on her face.

"Uh, Mr. Rusty?" said Apple Bloom hesitantly. "Are you okay?"

I glared suspiciously at the three ponies for a moment, cupped a hand over the page so they couldn't read it, and continued scribbling:

These pony creatures resemble no form of extraterrestrial life with which I am familiar, and other than lost time, I have experienced no phenomena consistent with alien abduction. Also unusual is that these "ponies" have mastered the English language, and seem to possess technology similar to ours.

My hands were twitching uncontrollably; it was all I could do to keep my pen straight. I could feel a familiar queasiness in my stomach. My head was swimming. I noticed that Scootaloo was watching my movements closely. I felt the cold icy fingers of paranoia creeping up my spine. What was it about this one that was bothering me?

Suddenly, I remembered something I'd noticed earlier, and wrote hastily in my journal:

Observed that "Scootaloo" arrived at the treehouse on a scooter similar to the kind an Earth child might use. She was also wearing a crash helmet. Why would a race of four-legged creatures develop a mode of transport that would be incredibly awkward for them to use? Why would a pony with wings need to use a scooter to get around in the first place? How did she get that helmet on? How did she get it off? I have more questions than answers.

Have I truly left Earth, as I suspect? Or have I traveled through time to some grim distant future, in which hyper-evolved ponies have risen up and slain their former masters?

Or, what if it's even simpler than that? What if I never left Arlen, but instead Arlen was invaded and rapidly terraformed by invaders from some far-off Planet of the Ponies?

The dizziness and nausea were getting worse. It was getting harder and harder to think. My hand was by now shaking uncontrollably, and I realized that writing was a wasted effort. I stuffed the notebook and pencil back into the pocket of my exterminator jumpsuit.

"Uh... Mr. Rusty?"

Sweetie Belle was watching me with concern. The little treehouse felt hot and stifling. I took off my baseball cap and wiped my brow; my hand came back soaked with sweat. I didn't have much time.

"Smokes..." I croaked out, my voice barely audible.

"Huh?" asked Scootaloo, wrinkling her brow in confusion.

"SMOKES!!"

I had meant that to be a sentence. It came out more like a girlish shriek. The three ponies stepped back in alarm.

"Wow, he looks really sick," Scootaloo remarked.

"Yeah..." Sweetie Belle sounded worried. "He's been talking about something called 'smokes' an awful lot. Do either of you know what those are?"

Apple Bloom and Scootaloo shook their heads.

I tried to swallow, but my mouth was dry. Things were looking bad. The three ponies had picked up on my weakness. If they were hostile, they could pounce at any second. In any event, it was clear that they didn't have any smokes.

I decided to make a break for the door. I stood up, doing my best to appear nonchalant. Unfortunately, I stood up too fast; my coordination was off. Also, I had forgotten I was in a treehouse built for very small ponies. My head slammed against the ceiling, and I fell backward through the door.

I tumbled head over heels and out into empty space. Suddenly, I was rolling down a flight of stairs. I saw blue sky above me, and then wood, then blue sky, then wood; over and over. Occasionally I caught glimpses of a treehouse getting further and further away.

The back of my head connected with a rock or something as I hit the ground. Through my blurred vision I could see the heads of the three ponies poking out over the edge of the treehouse entrance.

"Uh, maybe we should get my sister."

Apple Bloom's voice floated through a fog of confusion as I struggled to maintain consciousness. Dimly I wondered who this "sister" might be. Had this been their plan all along? Now that they'd successfully incapacitated me with nicotine withdrawal, would the alien queen harvest my organs? Was this how the story of Dale Gribble was going to end?

I reached for my emergency cyanide pill, but then I remembered it was with my smokes. Then, I remembered that I didn't actually have an emergency cyanide pill. I had tried to order one, but there was some kind of problem with the international shipping. Damned internet.

Just my luck, isn't it?

My vision went black, and I remembered no more.