Of Toasters and Time Ponies

Chapters

The First Day...
...The Rest of Your Life
Car Troubles
The Impossible Tailor Shop - Part 1
Prologue

The First Day...

Ace’s eyes opened slowly on that particularly bright morning, the last remnants of the peculiar dream that had awakened him faded away into the ether. Try as he might, he couldn’t remember what it had been about.

“Stupid dreams,” he grunted. Rolling over, he saw that his alarm clock read 10:47 AM. He lay there for several minutes, debating whether or not to go back to sleep. The pressure in his bladder decided for him.

Half stumbling out of bed, Ace walked across the room fully intent on answering nature’s call. Then he noticed his reflection in the mirror hanging on door. He blinked and stared at what his bleary blue eyes were reporting now stood before him.

“I need to shave,” he murmured, rubbing his stubbly chin. Running a hand through his thick brown hair, he continued on to the bathroom to complete his morning ritual.

Forty-five minutes later, having relieved himself, showered, shaved and returned to his room, Ace emerged dressed in jeans, a black t-shirt and black tennis shoes. He walked down the hall into the living room and turned on the television.

“…pony problem is increasing and it doesn’t seem to be going away anytime soon,” the news anchor dutifully reported.

“Great,” Ace groaned as he walked into the kitchen, half listening to the moderately attractive blonde, “more ponies.”

Moving around the island, he opened the refrigerator and had a small debate with himself on how badly he wanted bacon for breakfast.

“…have 57 confirmed cases…”

His lazy side won out. He pulled a slice of cold pizza out of the box and put it on a slightly used plate. Then he grabbed the apple cider and set both on the island.

“…rate the numbers will increase exponentially…”

Ace opened a cupboard and pulled out a glass. He filled the glass with cider and put the jug back in the refrigerator and closed it. After that, he took the glass and the plate back to the living room to eat.

“…the worst national disaster since 9-11…”

“Hey now,” Ace shouted at the TV as he sat down on the couch. “That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”

Ace munched his pizza and sipped his cider as the news anchor rambled on. Suddenly an aide ran onto the screen and gave the blonde a piece of paper. The anchor’s eye widened as she read the note she had been handed.

“Breaking news,” the anchor reported. “We have just received word on the condition of the President.”

“There was something wrong with the President?” Ace blinked and gave the program his full attention.

“President Barak Obama collapsed Wednesday evening at a banquet held by several of his supporters and was rushed to the hospital,” she stated, as the clip of the incident played. “He will hold a press conference regarding his current condition and the pony situation at twelve o’clock eastern time.”

“But that’s in two minutes,” Ace’s brow furrowed as he glanced at the clock.

There was a knock on the front door. It opened and a man with cropped blonde hair, square glasses, gray Nittany Lions hoodie, black jeans and red tennis shoes entered.

“Sup Ace,” he greeted, taking a seat on the couch.

“Brian,” Ace replied. “You’re early, for once.”

“One time,” Brian threw his arms up in the air. “I was late one time and you won’t shut up about it.”

“Nope.”

“I hate you.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, we now go live to Boulder, Colorado,” the anchor stated as the camera cut away to a room shot of a whispering crowd in front of the Presidential Podium, “And the President…” She trailed off at the image before her. The two on the couch were just as shocked as she was.

“Why is Flam behind the podium?” Ace wondered aloud, his voice possessing a slight dazed quality.

“Maybe it’s an aide?” Brian suggested.

“My fellow Americans,” the mustached unicorn began, “I am President Barak Obama.”

“And there goes the election,” Ace quipped.

“As you can see,” the President continued, the odd combination of Flam’s arrogance and Obama’s slightly stilted ‘college professor’ voice produced a sound that was not entirely dissimilar from that of William Shatner, “I have been effected by the same phenomenon that has caused so many in this great nation, and around the world, to have their natural forms so cruelly stripped from them. This incident has given me a new understanding of the confusion these unfortunate individuals are going through and in response, I have started a new program. The Equestrian Assistance Initiative is a voluntary service to help those who have lost the capacity to care for themselves due to this life changing event. The website and number will be made available shortly. Thank you.”

Ace and Brian looked at each other as the ponified President walked off stage.

“Do you know what this means?” Brian asked, grabbing his friend’s shoulders.

“It’d be hilarious if Romney was Flim?” Ace suggested.

“It means,” Brian continued, ignoring Ace, “That Obama is a brony.”

“Or that Discord has a sense of humor,” Ace grabbed the remote and shut off the TV.

“Why are you so sure it’s that Dis-whatever guy?”

“Because a week’s now 365 days long,” Ace explained as he took his dishes to the kitchen. “He’s the only My Little Pony villain that could do that.”

“And it has to be a My Little Pony villain because…?” Brian prompted, following him.

“Look, it doesn’t matter,” Ace sighed in frustration, depositing the plate and glass in the sink. “Just forget…” He trailed off as the silver toaster on the counter caught his attention. It was a simple number; two bread slots, a black plunger with an identical handle opposite it and a small grey timer knob. He had glanced over it hundreds of times over the past several years, and used it more than a few, but now it was as if he was seeing it for the first time. The longer he looked at it, the more he began to realize that it wasn’t the toaster he was seeing, but something else. Something important…

“Ace, Earth to Ace!” Brian called out, shaking him. Ace groaned and rubbed his eyes.

“You’ve been staring at that toaster for five minutes,” Brian informed him, concern evident in his voice. Ace was silent for a moment and then turned to his friend.

“Yeah, I’m going to need to borrow some tools.”

XXXXXXX

“What the hell did I just spend eight hours making?” Brian asked softly, laying on the couch, his eyes slightly glazed. Ace shrugged silently from his place on the floor, sipping a glass of water, content to merely marvel their creation, which now set proudly on his coffee table.

“We tore apart two alarm clocks, a VHS player, a weed whacker and a door knob,” Brian counted off their destructive rampage one innocent bystander at a time. “Then crammed, taped and soldered all of the interesting bits into and onto your toaster and topped it all off with a periscopic spatula weathervane.”

“I think I’ll call it ‘Franken-toaster’,” Ace decided finally.

“Please don’t name it,” Brian groaned, sitting up. “What’s it do anyway?”

Ace set his drink on the table, slowly reached over to the contraption and pressed down on the black plunger, which clicked into place. For a moment nothing happened. Then the spatula began to leisurely spin, counter-clockwise. Brian watched in disbelief.

“I need a drink,” he stated firmly. He stood up, barely registering Ace slumping to the ground, walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Grabbing a beer, he moved back into the living room and was utterly shocked by what he found there.

Where the slumped Ace had been, a small brown pony now lay; black shirt and blue jeans draped over its unconscious form like a child who had fallen asleep while playing dress up with their parent’s clothes.

...The Rest of Your Life

Brian stood frozen for a time, glancing at the beer occasionally to ensure that he had not consumed it without knowing, then crept over to the prone pony and carefully nudged it with his sneaker. When it didn’t respond he grabbed the shaft of the weed whacker from the pile of leftover parts, crouched down and began to prod it gently. The pony groaned and opened one eye.

“Um, Brian,” the pony rolled its eye to look at him, “why are you poking me with a stick?”

“Ace?” Brian probed, keeping the shaft at the ready.

“Oh Lord,” the pony, presumably Ace, noticed the beer in Brian’s hand. “You’ve been drinking, haven’t you?”

“Not yet,” Brian denied, setting the pole down and standing up. “But I might start.”

“You know the rule,” Pony Ace sighed, sitting up. “No drinking in my house while I’m…” He trailed off, realizing his eye level was significantly lower than it should be. His gazed slowly rose to meet Brian’s.

“When did you get so tall?” he asked, blinking.

“Look, I’m not really sure how to tell you this,” Brian began cautiously. “But you’re kind of…sort of…” Ace stared silently.

“A pony,” he finished. Awkward silence followed.

“A pony,” Ace repeated blankly.

“Yeah,” Brian acknowledged, rubbing the back of his neck. Ace looked down at the furry brown stumps that were his hands not five minutes ago. He examined his right hoof carefully for a moment.

“You know,” Ace sighed, “I was half expecting this.” He tried to stand but the jeans got in the way. A few good kicks and a decent amount of undignified flailing solved that problem.

“Aren’t you going to freak out or something?” Brian asked, dropping cross-legged to the floor.

“I only freak out in private,” Ace stated firmly. “Which pony am I anyway?”

“Doctor Whooves,” Brian motioned to the hourglass cutie mark. Ace turned his head to look.

“Well that’s interest…” Ace trailed off, then whipped his head around to glare at his friend. “Wait a second. How did you know that? You’ve always said you weren’t a Brony!”

“Sometimes I watch it with my sister,” Brian explained nervously.

“She’s thirty,” Ace deadpanned, taking an ominous step forward.

“I, I meant my niece,” Brian stammered and leaned away from the newly minted Equestrian.

“But Doctor Whooves is never named in the show,” Ace countered menacingly, continuing his advance. “He’s entirely fanon.”

“Uh…” Brian struggled feebly for an excuse. He was saved when Ace’s back foot caught the hem of his shirt, causing him to face plant with a yelp.

“Maybe we should get you out of that shirt,” Brian chuckled, helping his friend up.

“Yeah,” Ace sighed, letting the shirt be taken off. “But seriously, how did you know?”

“After this whole pony thing started, I finally got curious enough to check it out,” Brian explained, tossing the shirt aside. “I found that there was a ‘Doctor Who’ pony and it just stuck with me.”

“Ah,” Ace said, sitting down. “So, what did you think?”

“Of the show?” Brian asked. “I haven’t watched it.”

“What?” Ace exclaimed. “Why not?”

“If I watch it and like it,” Brian explained, crossing his arms, “I’ll become a Brony. And if I become a Brony…”

“You’ll become a pony,” Ace finished.

“I figure one of us will need hands,” Brian quipped, opening his beer with said hands.

“I don’t have hands,” Ace realized suddenly, staring at his missing appendages. “How will I play the piano now?”

“You don’t play the piano now,” Brian pointed out, taking a drink.

“But what if I want to?” Ace challenged.

“Do you?”

“No.”

“Problem solved,” Brian took another sip.

“So,” he continued, “What now?”

“Want to watch TV?” Ace suggested.

“…You just turned into a magical talking Time Pony, and you want to watch TV,” Brian deadpanned. Ace pondered this for a moment.

“You’re right,” Ace agreed, standing up. “I should eat something first.”

Brian stared in disbelief as Ace walked into the kitchen. After a moment, his mind caught up with the situation and he followed. He found Ace with his head shoved into the refrigerator, searching around for something to eat.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Brian admonished. “And how’d you get the fridge open?”

“A wizard did it,” the muffled reply came. “Hey look, fried chicken!”

“That’s not an…; Ponies don’t eat meat!”

“Bullfit,” Ace attempted to swear around the KFC bucket clench between his teeth. He closed the door with a kick and walked back to the living room. He was halted when Brian snatched the bucket away from him.

“Hey!” Ace shouted, glaring up at the thief.

“Dude, what’s your problem?” Brian asked, holding the bucket out of reach.

“I don’t have a problem,” Ace denied.

“You just turned into a pony and you’re barely even acknowledging it,” Brian pointed out.

“I’m fine,” Ace stated firmly.

“No, you’re not,” Brian countered. “You’re acting like a jerk.”

“Let it go, Brian,” Ace warned.

“If you don’t deal with this now then it’s going to bite you in the ass later,” Brian rationalized.

“There’s nothing to deal with,” Ace growled through gritted teeth.

“Oh sure,” Brian mocked. “The whole growling and glaring thing proves that there is nothing…”

“I’m terrified, OK!?” Ace snapped suddenly. “Is that what you wanted to hear? I just got used to being me and now I have to be someone else. And worse, I’m not even human. I’m a horse; a God-damned pony! I’m short, I don’t have hands, but it gets even better. Everyone’s going to look at me and they’re not going to see Ace. They’re not even going to see some guy who turned into a pony. They’re going to see the Doctor! They’re going to expect me to suddenly know all kinds of Time Lord Bullshit and show up and save the day with a clever trick and a fucking bowtie!”

Brian stood silent as Ace vented.

“And I can’t,” he continued softer, looking away. “Because I’m not him. I’m just some guy; I can’t save the world. I’m not super smart. I don’t have any fancy gadgets.” He turned his head back to Brian.

“And if I’m supposed to be the Doctor; then where is my TARDIS?”

Ka-Chung.

The pair whipped their heads around to the source of the sound. The toaster’s plunger had sprung back up and the spatula had stopped spinning. It now pointed to the living room window, towards the last rays of the setting sun.

“No way,” Brian breathed, breaking the silence that had filled the room.

“Maybe it’s a coincidence,” Ace suggested, walking slowly over to the coffee table.

“I thought you didn’t believe in coincidences,” Brian reminded him, following.

“There’s only one way to find out,” Ace reasoned and pressed the plunger down once more. The spatula resumed its counter-clockwise rotation.

“Toaster,” Ace began with a deep breath, “Where is the TARDIS?”

The spatula continued to spin.

“You said it wrong,” Brian argued, crouching down in front of the table. “Toaster, where is his TARDIS?”

The plunger sprang back up and the spatula snapped around to the window.

“So we spent over eight hour building a TARDIS compass out of my toaster and finished mere moments before I turned into Doctor Whooves,” Ace summed up. “I think the Universe is trying to tell us something.”

“Oh no,” Brian groaned in realization, falling back onto the couch.

“Oh yes!” Ace countered energetically. “Pack your bags; we’ve got a TARDIS to find!”

“And what about the whole ‘I’m not the Doctor’ spiel you just gave?” Brian wondered aloud.

“That was before,” Ace waved off his concerns. “Now I have a goal.”

“You’re just going to ignore it, aren’t you?” Brian more stated than asked.

“Yes!” Ace pumped his hoof into the air.

“You know that’s not healthy.”

“You know I’m not listening.”

“Maybe your more like the Doctor than you thought,” Brian grumbled under his breath.

“What was that?” Ace cocked his head.

“Nothing,” Brian sighed, lacing his fingers behind his head. “So are we really going to do this?”

“We have to,” Ace confirmed. “What if someone else finds it first?”

“A road trip,” Brian murmured, laying down and gazing at the ceiling. “A great big road trip West; I’m glad I just got my car inspected.”

XXXXXXX

At the same time, a rather strange sight was to be seen in Central Park. Discord sat calmly at one of the many chessboards littered around the park. Across from him was his opponent, whose name was Frank. Discord was studying the pieces intently when his noes twitched.

“Frank,” Discord looked up at his opponent, inhaling deeply, “do you smell that?”

Frank said nothing, for he was a skeleton.

“I smell,” he explained to his silent companion, taking another sniff, “a road trip. Yet another road trip; I do so love them! A pair of friends sets off on a noble quest for some obscure, pointless goal; practically begging for someone to come along and spice things up with a little chaos.”

“Unfortunately,” he sighed, leaning back and lacing his claws behind his head, “when the new Princess No-Fun put out a call for the Elements of Harmony, proving she’s just as boring and predictable as the old Princess, every Brony seemed to think it was a personal invitation. Yes, there are lots and lots of helpless little ponies out on the open road, but they’re all going to the same place! What’s the fun of coloring outside of the lines if all the pictures have the same…?”

Discord trailed off when something caught his attention. He rose from his seat and moved away from the table, gazing off into the night sky. After a moment, he stuck out his tongue and gave the air a slow dramatic lick.

“What’s this?” he asked rhetorically, a sinister smile growing on his misshapen face. “It seems that this newest pair of road trippers isn’t going to see their precious princess after all. They don’t even know where they’re going! I haven’t had an opportunity like this in millennia! Oh, the possibilities are just endless! What do you think should I do first?”

He spun around to inquire of his opponent and was startled to find that his tremendous joy had lifted him high into the air. A thought occurred to him as he floated gently to the ground.

“Damn,” Discord swore, returning to Earth. “As much as I want to oversee this terribly tempting project personally, I just can’t leave Princess Faust and her band of merry do-gooders unsupervised for that long. I mean, who knows what kind of horribly harmonious trouble they could get into without their caring babysitter watching over them? Life’s just so unfair sometimes!” He stomped back over to the table.

“I guess I could give them a chaos filled path to follow,” he conceded, slumping into his seat. “But I’ll be too busy to watch and chaos is no fun if I’m not there to see it. What to do, what to do?” Discord’s opponent caught his eye.

“Say Frank,” Discord began casually, leaning over the table, “Are you doing anything after this game?”

Frank said nothing, for he was a skeleton.

“Then I don’t suppose you’d mind watching over the pair and reporting back all of the juicy details?”

Frank said nothing, for he was a skeleton.

“Excellent!” Discord snapped his fingers. “There, the path is set and you are my official eyes and ears. Now, back to the…” He looked down at the game board and saw that Frank’s dragon had moved to B21, placing Discord’s thimble into an inescapable Double Jeopardy.

“You’re better than I thought,” Discord grumbled, stroking his goatee in contemplation.

Frank said nothing, for he was a skeleton.

Car Troubles

“When you said you just had your car inspected…”

Brian moaned; his face buried in his hands. The pair were seated on a bench in front of Eric’s Automotive Repair Shop, as their journey west had come to an unexpected halt just outside of Cleveland, Ohio.

“So what if your engine block fell out,” Ace attempted to cheer up his depressed companion. “And resized its bolt holes; and added two and a half pistons; and is now made of Gruyère; and…”

“You’re not helping,” Brian growled, glaring.

“Sorry,” Ace apologized, sheepishly.

“…You were going to say something positive and uplifting,” Brian prompted.

“I just saved…”

“No.”

“Alright,” Ace conceded. “How about, ‘This block is delicious’?”

“Yeah, that works,” Brian agreed, biting into a slice of the former steel.

They sat in silence for a time, occasionally consuming a piece of the relatively small portion of the block they had elected to keep. After about ten minutes, a yellow taxi cab rolled up to them. Brian wrapped up the remaining cheese, stood and walked over to the cab. He had opened the door to get in when he realized the Ace wasn’t following.

“Dude, you coming?” Brian asked. Ace shook his head

“The back of your car was bad enough,” Ace revealed. “I’m not getting into a cab. No offense.”

“None taken,” the driver called back.

“Besides,” Ace continued, clambering down off of the bench, “I want to stretch my legs.”

“So you’re just going to wander off?”

“When don’t I?”

“True,” Brian sighed. “Just don’t get lost.”

“I don’t get lost,” Ace stated. “I always know exactly where I am. It’s everybody else that’s lost.”

“What about Kiski?” Brian challenged.

“That was driving,” Ace defended. “It doesn’t count.”

“Just keep telling yourself that.”

“Jackass.”

“So back here in an hour, then?” Brian suggested, climbing into the cab.

“Sure,” Ace grumbled. Brian closed the door and the cab sped away. Ace turned towards the city and trotted off.

It took approximately ten minutes for him to realize that he didn’t have a watch.

Ace wandered aimlessly around the city, eagerly soaking up the sights and sounds of a place he had never been before. He weaved expertly through the throngs of Clevelandites, past striking historic landmarks and restaurants of all flavors in search of his quarry; those shops and oddities that are tucked away in the nooks and crannies of the world and can only be found by locals and the experienced hunter. Unfortunately, the only moderately interesting thing he came across was a prominently featured bizarrely unlabeled solid bronze life-size statue of a man who looked very familiar, but he couldn’t put a name to.

He continued rambling around the city when he was surprised to find something he hadn’t expected. Another pony, seated at a table outside an Italian restaurant in front of a plate of spaghetti.

She was a muted green unicorn with a bright red mane; her cutie mark was a pair of golden bells with crossed red handles and she wore a fitted white windbreaker. Her eyes were clenched shut and her face contorted in concentration. A small red light flickered into existence on the end of her horn. The fork next to her plate was encompassed by the same glow and began to rise. It hovered about three inches above the table for a few moments, then both of the lights vanished and it clattered back down.

“Why can’t I get this,” she moaned, resting her chin on the table.

“Excuse me,” Ace interrupted, trotting over to her. She groaned and sat up.

“Yes, I’m a pony,” she stated firmly, “And no, you can’t…” She trailed off as she caught sight of whom, or rather what, she was looking at.

“Sorry,” Ace apologized. “Is this a bad time?”

“No; I mean yes; I mean,” she closed her eyes and took a deep breath before continuing. “I thought you were a Brony.”

“I was, until yesterday,” Ace joked.

“That’s not what I meant,” she sighed, then went on to explain. “I’m sorry I snapped at you, but it seems like every five minutes someone is in my face; wanting to examine me, or take pictures or,” she shuddered, “pet me.”

“Ugh,” Ace mirrored her shuddering, taking the seat across from her. “Well, I know what tonight’s nightmare is going to be about.”

“But what’s worse is little kids,” she continued, leaning forward. “I went to help pick up my cousin from preschool yesterday. Worst. Mistake. Ever.”

“…And that’s tomorrow’s,” Ace stated. “Now, before we continue swapping horror stories, I believe introductions are in order.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to unload on you like that,” she recoiled. Ace waved a hoof.

“It’s alright. There can’t be many people around here who understand what it’s like.”

“Not many Ponies, you mean,” she corrected, half smiling. “I’m Janet Michaels.”

“Ace Benson,” he introduced himself. “And I want to apologize for startling you like that. I’d just never seen a real Pony before.”

“Have you tried looking in the mirror?” Janet quipped.

“Yeah I did,” Ace confirmed, “Freaked me out pretty good.”

“So you changed this morning?” Janet questioned. Ace shook his head.

“No, it was last night,” he clarified. “I passed out around eight o’clock; my friend Brian said he had left the room for ten seconds tops and when he came back in I had changed. You?”

“It was Wednesday,” Janet explained. “I knew something was wrong the moment I set all four feet out of bed.”

“You know, the four legs thing isn’t as weird as I thought it would be,” Ace pointed out.

“Yeah,” Janet agreed. “But I would still like my hands back.”

“I’ll second that,” Ace concurred. “So, know anyone else who’s changed?”

“Gloria’s the only other one I know of,” Janet divulged. “She works at a Taylor’s Tailor’s.”

“Taylor’s Tailor’s?” Ace repeated, disbelieving.

“Yep,” Janet confirmed, “Taylor’s really good at what she does, one of the best. That’s actually where I got this blazer.”

“She made you a pony-fitted, custom jacket in four days?” Ace marveled.

“No, she didn’t make it just for me,” Janet denied. “She has dozens of pieces, all kinds of stuff.”

“Interesting,” Ace mused. “Where is the store, anyway? I could really use something with pockets.”

“It’s not far,” Janet revealed. “You just head straight down this street and turn left onto Third. She’s on the right. There’s a big pony clothing sign in the window, you can’t miss it.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” she waved him off.

“No, I really mean it,” he interrupted. “Thank you for not kicking me out and for the conversation and for, well, just being here. It’s nice to know I’m not alone. I mean, I knew there were others out there but…”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Janet smiled. “I’ll see you later?”

“Definitely,” Ace confirmed, climbing down off the seat. “I’ll swing by on my way back.”

“Well, bye,” she waved.

“Bye,” Ace bid farewell to Janet and set off down the road in search of the elusive tailor’s shop.

The Impossible Tailor Shop - Part 1

The shop, as it so happened, was not as elusive as Ace had feared. Taylor’s Tailor’s was one of many connected brick shops, flanked by a sushi bar on one side and an alley on the other. The "Pony Clothing Sold Here" sign was unnecessary, as a pair of his and hers pony shaped mannequins, clothed in an impressively adapted approximation of the current fashion trends, were positioned prominently in the front window. The door was propped open, so Ace let himself in.

Inside, Ace was surprised by the bizarre dichotomy of the store. On the left, a collection of mid to high end men's and women's apparel was displayed neatly across several wooden tables and metal racks. In stark contrast, the right side was overflowing with hundreds of articles of clothing designed for the equestrian form. Jackets and dresses, cloaks and gowns, pieces of all shapes and sizes were crammed, stacked and stuffed into every available space.

"Why, hello darling," a feminine voice greeted. Ace turned and was shocked to find himself face to face with an extremely familiar cyan furred, rainbow maned pony.

"Welcome to Taylor's Tailor's," she continued cheerfully, "the greatest repository of pony clothing on Earth!"

Ace was too stunned to respond.

"Like what you see?" she teased with a flirtatious smile and a wink.

"Sorry, I didn’t mean...”

“Oh don’t worry about it darling,” she waved him off. “With a mane as gorgeous as mine, one comes to expect a bit of staring.”

"And the whole ‘being Rainbow Dash’ thing has nothing to do with it then?"

"Well I suppose at first,” she conceded, “but after the interested party finds that I lack a pair of rather crucial appendages,” she turned to show her smooth wingless back, “my beautiful mane and tail are more than enough to hold their attention."

"Ah,” he nodded.

"Now then, what can I help you with?"

"Well, I was..."

"Wait,” she interrupted, “don't tell me. I know exactly what you need."

The wingless Rainbow Dash lookalike grabbed Ace and pulled him deep into the bowels of the store. Standing him in a mirrored alcove, she began to gather clothing off of the racks and pile them next to him.

"So," Ace began, "you're Gloria then?"

"Hm?" she paused for a moment. "Yes, I am. How did you know?"

"A friend told me," he explained. "She's the one who recommended your store."

"Well I suppose word of mouth really is the best advertising there is," she commented idly, before returning to her work. Ace watched in mild horror as Gloria continued to toss a never ending stream of outfits onto the pile.

"Out of curiosity," he continued, anxious to delay the inevitable, "if this is Taylor's Tailor's, then where's Taylor the tailor?" Gloria froze.

"Why, she's in the back," she explained sweetly, resuming her piling. "Earlier today there were a couple of problems that she's been dealing with."

"Does she need any help?" Ace asked, eager to avoid the towering mountain of material that awaited him. "I happen to be very good at problem solving."

"I'm sure she's fine," Gloria countered, quickly.

"Are you..." Ace was cut off by a loud crash coming from a the back of the store.

"Please excuse me for a moment," Gloria said politely, setting down the garment she was holding and hurried through the open doorway behind the register.

"Hmm, I wonder what that's all about," he said, attempting to stroke his chin thoughtfully, then pouted when he remembered he lacked the fingers to do so. His eyes turn to the doorway.

"Do I, or don't I?" Ace debated. He pondered this until he caught sight of the soul crushing mountain of clothing next to him. One eyebrow rose when, upon closer examination, he discovered that the top layer was primarily pink dresses.

“Well that’s just insulting,” he muttered, walking to the doorway. “I’d look awful in pink.”

Author's Note

It was my plan, this whole time, to publish this chapter on the same day that Doctor Who started up again. Yep, totally planned.

Prologue

There is an ancient Chinese curse: ‘May you live in interesting times.” It is a curse of such horrible magnitude that it is only handed down by the old men who meditate on mountain tops to the most sinister of criminals. Or I just made that up. Regardless, it appears that the entire world has successfully pissed off every mountain top martial artist to ever live.

Let us start at the beginning.

This is the story of a man named Ace. Don’t believe me? Good, you’re not supposed to, but that is the pseudonym I shall be using as I recount a small part of the madness that was the Long October.

His story is one amongst hundreds. This is the part where the teller of tales would normally regale the audience with many large and impressive sounding adjectives in an attempt to convince them how… special their story is and that they shouldn’t just wander off and find something better to do. A silly tradition, as you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t interested in the first place.

The story begins on the last Saturday morning anyone would experience for a long, long time…