Another Hole in the Dough - Part I
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You sit the book down on the display case, letting out a sigh as you slump back into the chair’s wooden frame. This story is getting good. The main character, Palomino, had just infiltrated Professor Marestrom’s secret lab. Everything was going ever so smoothly. He almost had the little foals located, but one of Marestrom’s malformed “Misfits” discovered his whereabouts. Now he’s tied hoof to hoof, completely at the lunatic stallion’s mercy. All looks grim, as no possible escape is foreseeable, but you know better. Palomino can’t just die. He’s much too awesome for such a simple demise!
You envy Palomino. A renegade Guard with a dark past, he constantly seeks vengeance for the death of his partner by eradicating Equestria's cesspool of villainy completely on his own accord. There's no schedule for him. He has no boss to tell him what to do. He just does it. Now that’s an interesting life... compared to yours at least. Aside from your large stature, you contain nearly none of the qualities that make Palomino a tough cookie. Finesse, brains, charm, and wings. All of them are words you wish could be used as your own descriptors.
But as exalting as a life like that would be, it’s just an idealistic hope that you contain, not a realistic truth. You make doughnuts, and as unexciting as that may be to some ponies, you put your heart into crafting the sugary sweet delicacies. Be you rags or riches, unheard of or known throughout, you enjoy doughnuts. Even Princess Celestia herself enjoys them. At least you think she does, as you've never seen her enjoy them in person. She sends an errand colt to get her a baker’s dozen every Monday. It just goes to show that no matter your social status, some amazing doughnuts make for a stupefying treat. And for that reason alone, you love your job.
That doesn’t mean it can't get boring.
Business was unusual today. Normally, the day consists of a fluctuating stream of folks trickling through your front door. You would make the most money in the mornings for obvious reasons, least around noon and early evening hours as most people didn’t think doughnuts fit under the title of “lunchy” foods, and a comfortable average between the two during the late evenings. Today seems to be the exception however, as not a single Equestrial being stepped into your shop.
It is lunch hour, and it's usually the time in which you prepare for the evening rush of ponies with a fresh selection of pastries. Due to the lack of customers however, you still have quite a number still ready for consumption. You know why. Glancing sideways and out to the Canterlot boulevard, you look to the skies, still colored purple by the Captain’s protective shield.
“So they haven’t decided on divorce yet. I’m not goin’ to get a hint of business all day. Royal Shmucks”.
Every time. Every time something happens that involves the princesses, your business suffers. All of Canterlot goes into “kiss their royal behinds” mode, and frolics to the castle for celebrations. But not you. Heck, you think you were the only one that doesn't. You respect your rulers, as one of them is an avid consumer of your renowned “Long John” (no odd innuendo implied), but it doesn't mean you like them. You for one never participate in the royal happenings.
Today is the marriage of the Captain of the Royal Guard, and Ma Emori Badenza, or something ridiculous like that, and heavens, do they ever want it to be perfect. You counted at least three dozen guards patrolling past your street corner shop today! Over-reaction at its finest you suppose. It makes you chuckle. You think your job is boring? These poor saps walk the streets of Canterlot endlessly, following their highness’ royal word to a tee. They probably long for some action, something unheard of in Equestria’s capital. You don’t blame them, and you even feel a tad empathetic towards them.
You could do with some action as well...
Even if weddings brought out some odd folk, is this really necessary? They can’t expect that many bad apples.
Then again, Equestria is an odd place.
You suppose you had to be ready for anything. You cringe as images of the past flash through your thoughts.
It was an oddly cloudy day for Canterlot. You read your weather schedule, and clouds weren’t supposed to be present for at least another week. You were en-route to the Canterlot Café, delivering a shipment of your finest when a single drop of brown rain plops right onto your brow. Before you can process what fell from the clouds, a cascade of sweet chocolate moo-juice begins to splash down, drenching your unprotected shipment until it was a sticky, brown, mush. You would’ve been okay with chocolate rain any other time. Any other time.
Well, that was your luck for you.
You eye the glass top case from where you sit. Just out of hoofs reach was your book, marked almost halfway through with an aged marigold. A problem arises. Should you continue reading the story? You are curious about Palomino’s fate, but you really want to savor the tale until you return to the coziness of your own home. A single drop of sweat rolls down your head out of intense thinking. You are so out of shape, even thought processes wear you out.
The internal conflict wages on, but it seems that the side favoring to continue the story is winning. Much as you always do, you join with the prevailing team. You wipe the sweat from your brow, a contempt look written on your face. Though the book is clearly too far for your short reach, you try anyways. You slowly inch your way to the end of the seat, getting ever so close to its warped pages. Nearly there, your flank begins to slide off the wooden chair.
“Ohoho no!”
Out of shock, you grab the nearest thing to you. A… broomstick? This isn't going to end well. It’s a novel attempt, really. You at least try to prevent your dramatic fall to the oaken floor, a dramatic fall that whilst doing, flings the broom sideways and into a shelf lined with food coloring. Your face did an excellent job of sticking the landing. You’re already picturing the black eye.
One by one, bottles of every chromatic pigment to count topple down and shatter on your helpless body. You’ve heard of insult to injury. This is injustice to injury. You question how you’re still alive, as this is the third accident this week. It was Tuesday.
You really need to start using your horn.
Accidents aside, you feel something odd while you are sprawled out vulnerably on the floor. Consecutive tremors from outside the shop jiggle your plump belly. The kind of tremors that you familiarized with coming storms. Jars and cases begin to shake and rattle with each rumble, gradually getting louder. Thunder? But the weather schedule said…
The bell hanging above the door jingles, a tell-tale sign of a customer passing through your unused entry. Great, now they decide to come in when the weathers bad.
Mooches…
“You’re goin’ to have to…*grunt*… wait a sec. I’m in a… situation.”
Your eyes have been closed for the longevity of the fall. You’re shaken, but nothing feels broken, aside from the bottles.There is a slight irritation on your stomach, but you think not of it, as it is probably a bruise from the food dye’s impact. You cautiously open your eyes, only to grimace at the scene before you.
Your underside is completely coated in multi-hued dye. It looks like Cloudsdale’s entire rainbow reserves were dumped on you, your tan coat now indiscernible from the vibrant palette. This is expensive stuff, and it won’t come out easy. Upon a closer examination of your mess, you notice something off about your midsection. A small gash is present there, and a negligible amount of blood is pooling to the surface, at least not enough for you to care. It’s a clean cut, and doesn’t hurt much. As you stare in wonderment at your catastrophe, the maroon ichor begins to seep into the blue food coloring neighboring the wound, fusing to make a dark purple. You always liked purple. Something positive in this situation at least.
Suddenly, a foul scent drifts from the abrasion. You knew the positivity wouldn't last long. Your only assumption is that the chemicals in the dye are reacting with your blood, making some vile odor as a byproduct. Of course, your assumptions are probably wrong as hematology isn't your strong suite.
You are thankful you have a hardy stomach. Years of sampling failed doughnut experiments raised your tolerance for things some would consider sickening or nasty. Placing your hooves on either side of you, you begin your slow rise from the floor, joints popping from your prolonged sedentary position. You can only imagine what the customer will think of your current state. If he’s a local, he might start dry heaving due to my repulsive appearance. Their standards on everything are unparalleled to normal ponies.
“I’m going to apologize in advance for my…”
You stop your courteous excuse upon looking through the windowpanes that advertise your trade. Faint flashes of light radiate through them, casting a ghostly green glow throughout your shop. And as the brightness of lightning shows the flash, the thunder it releases shakes the earth. Every time the green brightens your store, a deep shaking of the ground occurs. You think you now know the culprit of the sights and roars, as small green comet-like objects plop to down in the street. Great, the sky is falling and you haven’t made a single sale all day. Outside, ponies are running frantic, attempting to dodge the hellfire. It is complete pandemonium. You begin to make final amends to the ones you’ve done wrong, but are cut short by yet another odd sight.
The pony that had trotted in is now staring maliciously at you, almost through you. And my, you’ve seen some rough folk, but this gentlecolt looks bad. Your looks obviously aren't up to par with Canterlot’s finest, but sweet Celestia did this stallion ever let himself go. His coat is an abyssal shade of black, hardly reflecting back any of the light it absorbs. And is that a blue saddle he has on? You presume the Canterlot residing fashion critic “Hoity Toity” would have a heart attack from his obvious ill taste. And the holes in his legs are a clear sign of unsanitary… wait, holes? You double take to verify that you are indeed staring through this guy’s legs. You can see the “Welcome to Joe’s Doughnuts!” mat through his right foreleg. He's not from around here...
Great. The worst possible scenario. You haven’t sold a thing, you fell into a mess of polychromatic fun, and the sky is falling. Now you had to deal with your worst fear.
Foreigners.
Author's Note
Please notify me of any grammatical mistakes in the story by commenting. I don't have a proofreader.
