Humble Beginnings

JULY 16th 2016

Here I am. I'm sitting in my Las Pegasus high-rise, the sun shining in through the opened skylight. We're too far into the city and way too high up to hear the tweeting of birds and the rustling of trees, but not quite high up enough to miss the precociously timed blaring of car horns below, just like in all the movies. It’s a clear and swelteringly hot day in July and from my vantage point I can see the entire expanse of the city before it reached the hills where it met the large, white and dominating Applewood sign. ‘Las Pegasus was where all the stars lived,’ that was the conventional wisdom I shared with many of my peers back during my glorious youth in Canterlot. But there was place not far beyond where I can see called The San Ferneighndo Valley, and the Valley was the place where all the losers or ponies that tried to hard and failed went. I was never going to live there, I wouldn’t allow myself.

Now I’m waking up every morning, excited to look beyond the expanse, knowing it’ll be as glorious this morning as it was the last, and I hope to experience that everyday, until my last. My morning reverie is interrupted by a knock on the door. I trot over to open it and there stands a beautiful mare. She enters the room; a black saddlebag flung over her back and begins to set up her equipment in my living room. Her preparations complete, she dons sterile rubber hoof gloves and then sits next to me on the couch. She wore large, thick mahogany rimmed glasses, which complimented her sandy coat and red hair wonderfully. The mark on her hind simply being a red cross, with ivy vines wrapping around. She never looked into my eyes. It was hot. She prepares a syringe. It’s attached to a single spaghetti shaped tube of plastic that contains a small micro-filter so no impurities will pass and enter into my bloodstream. The needle is brand- new, completely sterilized micro fine butterfly variant.

Today, my beautiful friend here forgot her normal medical tourniquet, so she made do with removing one of her leggings and using the rough yet elasticised material to tie my arm.

Eventually, her preparations done, she dabs my exposed vein with a swab of alcohol and proceeds to prick me with the long syringe, a syringe of Prench decent and make. It was so thin I could hardly feel it until it reached the bone in my foreleg. Then it hurt. A lot. I see my blood come oozing up into the spaghetti tube before she slowly pushes the contents of the syringe into my arm. And then I begin to feel it. I immediately experience a familiar weight in the centre of my chest, so I just lie back and relax. She removes the syringe and repeats the process with a second dose. I used to let her go at me four times.

After the second needle is removed, she holds down on my puncture wounds with a swab of alcohol, to avoid marks and bruising. Finally, she attaches it to my arm with a strand of electric tape.

And then, we sit and talk about how good it feels to be sober.

About three years ago there probably would have been a hallucinogenic in that syringe, or some cocktail of drugs that was completely beyond me or which I simply didn’t care about so long as it got me high and I could see all the pretty lights and feel weightless and invincible again.

For years of my life, whether it be cocaine, LSD or speed, I’d want it in my bloodstream. I can describe how thankful I am that I stayed away from that heroin shit, although there were some very close calls. But my beautiful nurse, what she injects me with is pure. I feel it course through my veins, cleansing and forgiving all my mistakes. It’s known as Ozone, and it’s the only thing that I intend to have injected into my blood stream for now. You see, somewhere down the line of my drug experimentation I contracted Hepatitis C. The big C. My liver was practically shrivelling and it is only because of this ‘Ozone’ that I can regulate it and prevent it from causing me too much grief. So every week, I get my injections from my beautiful nurse and try and carry on.

I’m not sure what needle it was that eventually dropped that ball on me. Maybe it was at the orgies I attended, or from the manager who wanted to keep me under his wing, or the company I kept on all those many nights out to clubs and bars. Whenever, whomever, or whatever it was, I didn’t care. This view is far too good to care.

But one thing I don’t regret is all of my youthful indescretions. I spent the majority of my life looking for the quick fix and the deep kick. I shot and smoked drugs under freeways and in one-thousand bit hotels with my musical idols and in the backs of strangers vans and… I could go on. But now I drink vitamin water, and seek wild as opposed the farm-raised salmon. I’m not even 30. For almost 10 years I have channelled my love for music and performing and been able to tap into the universal slipstream of appreciation and adoration and I love it. On stage, performing to 17,000 ponies, that’s what this all led to. This is where I am now. This is my account of those times and well as the story of how a kid who was born in Canterlot migrated to Manehatten, then Prance, then Las Pegasus and found more than she could handle at the end of the rainbow.

What follows from these little prologues is the story of my life, for better and for worse. The good times, the bad times and the shit times. The times I almost gave up, the times and situations which led to me forming some of my greatest friendships and the times which almost killed me. My name is DJ Pon-3; Vinyl Scratch... and I approve this tale.