“Never to suffer would never to have been blessed.”
Nevermore
Revolver
Poe had been drinking. It shamed him to admit it, but indeed he was intoxicated. He could barely remember what it was that had set him upon the drunkard’s path earlier that morn, but it had definitely consumed him entirely.
He meandered along, vaguely attempting to stay aside the road and not on it.
“ ‘Twould be nice to off the road, you drunkard!”
Poe heard similar cries of anger ever now and then, all ending with a synonym for ‘drunkard’, (and indeed he once even heard ‘too far off the edge’) but all Poe could do was try not to fall over himself as he wandered in the opposite direction.
The edge of town swiftly approached, and Poe would have been happy to leave it were it not for his lodgings remained. He didn’t know what to do; he had been ambling along for too long now to stop. He looked to his coat, hoping to find his pocket watch there.
‘Damn,’ Poe thought to himself as he felt around his coat, ‘I’ve not lost it, have I?’
And that’s when he realised that his coat was a different colour.
‘Strange, had I taken another’s coat on the way out of that tavern?’
He then realised he had stepped out into the road once again, and took a quick glance behind himself to assure that he hadn’t been standing in anyone’s way.
However, this glance went unrewarded, for a carriage came toward his person in a fashion that the stagecoach hadn’t seen him.
Poe, as deftly as an intoxicated man could, flung himself into the nearest ditch to avoid being trampled by the horses.
A dull pain resided in his head as great, black spots began to cloud his vision.
Pinkie Pie’s elation was, as per usual, unrivalled. She half trot, half skipped out of the building that functioned both as her residence and her workplace, and began toward her friend’s residence, which also happened to be a library. It was a rather cool evening, though not too unusual for Ponyville’s location. Pinkie Pie rather liked the cool weather- it allowed for her to not get so tired and hot at her own parties.
Betwixt a quill and sofa shop and a party favour store, however, she stopped, spotting a rather rare shade of black.
Pinkie didn’t like black. It reminded her of too many things she didn’t like. Other than the night sky, of course. She adored the night sky. However, as her good friend Twilight had once told her, ‘Never judge a book by its cover’, which is also incidentally why she never brought a gavel within the same room as a book unless she had to.
The same peculiar shade of black sat at the far edge of the road, shaded by the pastel coloured building behind it. It didn’t appear to be anything Pinkie regularly encountered, and she would know, because the things she regularly encountered weren’t black.
She half trot, half skipped over the the black shade in the shade, fascinated in its rather shady nature, being black and shady in its shade withal. Pinkie’s curiosity in the shady shade grew as she then spotted non-shady bits of the shade in the shade.
“Hiya, Mr. Shady Shade!”
The shade stirred, and at that moment Pinkie discerned that the shady shade was indeed not a shade at all- -but a creature, the skin of whom was paler than Pinkie had perhaps ever seen previously. Pinkie then thought that the thing- -whatever it was- -could use some sun. Or, now that Pinkie had thought it over, a party.
Yes, definitely. A party. But what kind of party? It couldn’t be a ‘Mr. Shady Shade Needs More Sun’ party, because she wasn’t sure what kind of party games that would require. She never really had given any thought to throwing a party about the sun before. Well, bar the time she had thrown a party for Celestia, because that was entirely about the sun.
Maybe she could throw Mr. Shady a Celestia party.
She looked upon Mr. Shady once again, who hadn’t moved any more than he had shuddered, and bounced over his slim form, attempting to look at the front side of him.
Mr. Shady, as Pinkie had thusly taken a liking to, wore a rather shabbily-tailored black coat- -she had begun to notice the quality of such clothes thanks to her friend, Rarity- -complemented by an equally shabbily-made waistcoat of the same shady black colour. Mr. Shady’s cravat- -again a term she had taken from Rarity- -was hastily tied and unstarched, and a dull stained white colour.
It seemed that Mr. Shady liked older fashioned ties, for his tie was that of a high-collar mail-coach. She thusly prided herself on recognising the type of tie she was wearing.
However, the most odd thing about Mr. Shady was not his clothing- indeed, it was his face. Mr. Shady’s shady face- -that was in the shade no less- -was deeply wrinkled, especially about the eyes. His forehead was high, his brow thin and rather close to the eyes. His hair was messily parted on the left side and rather curly toward the end.
She also noticed that Mr. Shady had a moustache. Pinkie Pie adored moustaches. They were always so... hairy. However, Mr. Shady’s moustache was black, and Pinkie quickly realised she didn’t adore all moustaches.
In fact, something then dawned on her. Mr. Shady looked exactly like those at the Rock Farm had. Not physically, but she could see it in Mr. Shady’s face. She could see years of hardship and adversity- -something she thought she had left behind years ago- -in Mr. Shady. Particularly in his moustache.
Mr. Shady definitely needed a party.
Poe felt sick. Not physically- -well, entirely physically as well, but this wasn’t what he was focusing on- -but mentally. He was sick and tired of his own life. It had been especially worse than normal recently, and if he could bring himself to simply roll over and die, he was beginning to think that he wouldn’t mind it. And, furthermore, he didn’t care what he had told himself, he wanted a Cognac.
Now that he mentioned drinks, he realised himself sober.
‘That’s good,’ he thought to himself, ‘and thusly I can truly begin to fuel my own demise again.’
He decided that then would be a pertinent time to return to his own residence- -and not the side of the road- -and begin to write to one of his many acquaintances on the matter of his internment.
Upon his stirring, however, a vague intuitive doubt of his surroundings began to set in. He heard no conversation of gentlemen- -and ladies- -passing by, no rhythmic trot of stagecoach or rider, and he was fairly certain that Baltimore was never this dark. He looked about, and saw that, indeed, there were horses.
But no riders.
“Heya, Mr. Shady!”
A particular bizarrely-shaded horse spoke to him in a female’s voice; if the horse’s mouth hadn’t been moving in such a passionate fashion, he would have looked around for the owner of the words that were spoken.
“H-Hello, madam... If it is indeed ‘madam’...” He spoke cautiously in fear that he might incite this bizarre nightmare’s anger. However, the ludicrous pink horse seemed fascinated with his voice, with a wide-eyed innocence that Poe wished he could take with him into the world of facts, and not talking horses.
Suddenly, as if it had popped into the horse’s mind ever-so-suddenly, she bounced rather comically into the air, and dashed off around the corner.
Now that that oddity had presented itself and thusly took its leave, Poe examined his surroundings. It appeared to be standard nineteenth century architecture, though the style of which the buildings were made and seemed reminded him of a far earlier year.
Poe got to his feet, attempting to shake off the pain of stiffness of his limbs.
The coolness of the late evening was comforting, and as he took a few steps further, he began noticing things that made him feel more out of place than he knew he was.
The entire town, it seemed, was populated entirely by congruently bizarre horses.
Poe walked faster. Whatever had taken him to this fever-dream of perhaps his own demise was going to interrupt the peace in but a few scant seconds- Poe could feel it-
“HEEEY!”
Poe jumped, and very nearly screamed. Wide eyed, he frantically turned on his heels to face his attacker.
“HEY! Mr Shady! Over here!” The little pink horse had returned, perhaps this time to violently murder him. She appeared to be on top of some sort of horrible pastel-coloured machinery, which Poe was sure contained some sort of candy-themed dissection kit.
Upon inspection, however, Poe observed that it might less be a candy-themed dissection kit and more a musical themed one. From the back stemmed trumpets, flags and one instrument Poe didn’t even recognise jut forth from the side that faced him.
“Welcome welcome welcome
A fine welcome to you
Welcome, welcome, welcome,
I say ‘how do you do’?
Welcome, welcome, welcome,
I say ‘hip hip hurray’
Welcome, welcome, welcome,
To Ponyville today!”
The horse sung with enthusiasm and fervor, bouncing up and down, hither and thither, as the instruments played their song with no apparent musician to play them.
The horse was then down on her hind legs in a position that Poe recognised as kneeling, with her forehooves in the air.
“Wait for it....!”
A ‘ding’ sound rang through the cool evening air, almost on the horse’s command. She then bounced onto her hooves and wentertrieve whatever it was that had rang.
Poe wasn’t sure what to make of the situation. A large part of him wanted to run, to escape whatever horrible fate must be in store for him, for there was no possible good outcome, but part of him wanted to stay. He wasn’t sure which part- possibly the one which still admired the admittedly farcical being he beheld pulling something out of the strange ‘ding’ing device he didn’t recognise.
The horse pulled its head out of the machinery, and began to trot to Poe, a pie in her mouth.
She then set it in Poe’s hands, and sat down on the ground, perhaps fully expecting him to finish the entire pie on the spot.
Poe lifted a slice out of the tin, and into his mouth, against his better judgment. The following sensation his mouth experienced was quite unlike any other. Poe had had plenty of apple pie in his years, but all of them were quite unlike the one he had just inserted into his mouth.
First of all, he had never quite had apples of good quality, and indeed now Poe could see this clearly; secondly, he had never had such a perfect blend of cinnamon and normal, brown sugars before.
Poe savoured the flavour for many a second, until finally he opened his eyes to find the strange horse and her machine gone, with a card sitting on the empty slice of the pie.
He strode- -stopping only to take a bite of the pie- -and sat down on the closest bench. Poe finished the slice of pie, and began to read the card.
It listed some sort of address and a name;
‘Pinkie Pie -
Sugarcube Corner, Ponyville’
Poe thought it over before deciding on anything or attempting to read the rest, but the only conclusion Poe could come to was that he had entirely and completely gone insane; that Poe had, quite congruent to what the worst possible scenario at the time was, had gone absolutely mad at the least pertinent time, and thusly had been somehow inducted into some nightmare waiting to happen; a nightmare that simply waited to swallow Poe whole into its mad maw.
‘Please come to your party tomorrow, Mr. Shady!’
Poe wasn’t entirely certain, but....
He thought he had just gotten invited to a party.
Poe wasn’t sure where to begin, especially taking the situation into consideration.
He had just been given a pie and an invitation to a party, two things that Poe hadn’t been given in a very long time, and definitely never together.
And, should he have been given the two together, he would have at the very least expected it to be over a dinner, and Poe should have thusly expected to be having the pie as a good end to a better meal. However, this was not the case, and instead, Poe had received both standing in the middle of the road. He even spied one or two onlookers looking up from similar evening dishes to gawk at his rather unusual bipedal stature.
Furthermore, there was the oddity of the pink, rather petit horse. She had addressed him as- Poe struggled to bring it to the forefront of his memory- ‘Mister Shady’. Poe, being completely oblivious to any sort of connotation that the title was attempting to convey, was entirely flummoxed thusly.
Should he take culture into account, it could have been entirely possible that ‘Mister Shady’ would be an entirely acceptable epithet for a person- or, rather, horse, in this case- to retain. Thusly, Poe concluded, ‘Mister Shady’ would suffice as a proper pseudonym, should he require one.
However, Poe conceded, ‘Mister Shady’ was ridiculous, and Poe vehemently desired not to ever come in contact with that sobriquet ever.
Poe looked west, to the setting sun, and wondered precisely where ‘Sugar Cube Corner’ was. He thusly started in that direction, for he spotted a place to polish off the remaining three slices of pie.
As he walked, he began to notice, in the dim -- indeed, now moonlit-- night, some of the shops- or at least what Poe assumed to be shops- ran the whole gamut from sensical to ridiculous. One store he spotted featured some sort of padded chair and a quill on the sign adorning its low thatched roof.
He looked to that card again, and remarked upon the place name. ‘Sugarcube Corner’. Beyond the uncannily fitting name, he reasoned that the culture must’ve dictated it to be some form of sweets shop, due to the ‘sugar’ part of it’s name. As he rounded the next bend, Poe found he was gazing upon a seemingly lighter street than the others.
It resounded oddly, almost chillingly within the man, as if his very spirit warned him from this place. It was as if this particular street hearkened to spirits unseen in such a way to have them lift the place’s essence and make it some pariah of darkness -- as a Kami to a Shinto shrine.
Were it not illusion -- the stubborn notion Poe vehemently swore to -- then it was assuredly cloud cover, or some other natural catalyst. However, Poe could not explain the ague placed upon his presence -- the feverish twitch settling in unnaturally on his person, which he could neither give a permissible vindictive account toward, nor gloss over with a semi-permeable artifice; it was at this that Poe decided he must rest his qualm, and continued on in spite of his vacillation.
Poe’s eyes glazed over the various shops, his demeanour suddenly nigh feverish and agitated, a fact that served only to embitter him further. His prudent faculty began suddenly and all at once to take leave of itself in a manner that he could forbear no longer; Poe began to fitfully lurch forward in a sickly manner, his mind set only on continuing onward. His fists he clasped closely to his person, as if overcome by some horrible panic and cold together -- and consumed in his horror, he thought it fit to seek some sort of shelter, and demanded of the world only solace -- for, at this very moment, he required more than anything in the world respite from the outside, and peace. He would wish hell, for one moment, on the black -- but alas, still light! -- night.
He stole into the nearest shop thusly, profusely muttering under his breath an apology. He backed into the corner of what appeared to be storefront, and kept himself -- albeit barely -- quiet enough as to be unheard for the moment.
The store -- for Poe assured himself it indeed was a store -- was dark, and so natural a dark was it that Poe likened it to ink; a good, natural dark that could never coalesce with the thuggish succession of normality that was the street. It was this natural dark that Poe felt he could be at ease, and thusly at peace.
Indeed, Poe noted, it was an oddity that he had reacted so in the beginning; upon turning a bend he had lost all sagacious being -- or so it seemed -- and that he had gravely and direly overreacted. He had set upon himself the terrible ague that had embittered him so, and it was nothing more than illusion, as Poe had thought. Poe concluded that he must give himself further credit in the foreseeable future.
In fact, Poe -- he here stood to take his leave -- began to think that he could, after all, defeat this terrible nightmare and return to his home. He had justly proved to himself that he may win victories over it, and perhaps, with enough effort, battles may give way to war; which he would win.
He strode, in the ink-like darkness, to what he assumed the door, giving cause to more than a few heavy footsteps in his regained confidence. As here he opened the door, gazing upon the street it gave way to, he remarked that indeed he had been correct in assuming that there was no change in colour of the lighting of the street, and he had only fooled himself into that horrid illusionary thinking.
There came a sudden ‘click’, however, as Poe’s eyes shut suddenly tight -- light flooded them as a hurricane to a dyke -- and a cacophony of shrill, raspy non-human voices assaulted his ears, the noise making Poe bring his hands to his ears in defense. Poe suddenly regret every statement he had said previously -- even the one about giving himself credit. Especially that one.
--
Pinkie Pie’s eyes had been shut incredibly tight as she blew upon the noisemaker. In fact, she had blown upon the noisemaker incredibly tightly. No, wait. Hard -- yes, that was the word -- Pinkie had blown on the noisemaker incredibly hard, because Pinkie Pie had almost given up hope that the emergency party she had arranged would be effectual. She could recant to herself the tale -- and indeed a tale it was, though Pinkie would have likened it much moreso to a tail -- of gathering her friends, telling them it was a matter of the utmost urgency and that they must, if at all possible, attend.
In the end, however, all of her friends had managed to come. Those who did attend -- of course, the five of her friends -- consisted of Rainbow Dash, who Pinkie had just managed to wake up, and furthermore how she was able to convince her to actually come with her was a complete mystery to Pinkie -- perhaps it was through her copious use of the word ‘really’ -- and Twilight, who was going to be still awake late into the warm summer night, for this was in her nature.. Pinkie had Twilight agree through, again, copious use of the word ‘really’. Though, Pinkie admitted, it wasn’t as if it was uncalled for -- indeed, Pinkie placed a very high priority on this excursion -- but perhaps she had overstated it to a certain degree. Applejack hadn’t been hard to convince to leave her normal cycle of winding down, Rarity she had told of her previous fashion-identification feat, and Fluttershy she hadn’t told about Mr. Shady at all, for fear of scaring her. She would be scared nonetheless, but this was a necessary evil.
Furthermore, Pinkie now felt the consequences of her hard work -- that is to say, a wonderful emergency party for Mr. Shady -- and her jubilation resounded throughout Sugarcube corner like a noisemaker. Pinkie’s hypothesis thus far was that this was due to the fact she was blowing on a noisemaker.
As Pinkie opened her eyes, she was greeted to the sight of Mr. Shady quite enjoying the surprise. He had a hand over his heart and he appeared to be breathing rather heavily. Pinkie concluded that he must have been even more surprised than Pinkie would have previously thought he would have been. Clearly this was an indicator that Mr. Shady will enjoy the party even more than expected as well.
Pinkie bounced in place whilst turning to her two other friends to introduce her possible new friend. “Ohmygosh -- Twilight, Rainbow, this was who I was telling you about!”
Twilight’s demeanour then changed from mildly annoyed that Pinkie had dragged her to Sugarcube Corner while she was studying to intent curiosity on the matter. She walked forth and -- as she bore eyes that bored into the man as intensely as his suit was black -- threw off her boredom, Pinkie Pie carting out various food items.while carrying more than her fair share of streamers -- most of which she carried not conventionally -- and spoke a greeting the the black-suited man.
“Hello! My name’s Twilight Sparkle. No, wait, that wasn’t any good- no yes it w- ah! Just... what’s yours?” Twilight’s tongue tripped over itself as she failed yet another introduction -- just as she thought she had improved, too! -- and extended her hoof toward the suited man.
Said man shook for a moment, swallowed what Twilight felt was fear, and spoke.
“Mister Shady. Mister... Shady is what she calls me.”
