It was a perfectly lovely and charming day in Ponyville. The birds were singing, the sun was shining, and the ever-present permeating stench of sloppy manure was at a bearable level. If one were to look down the cobblestone street, they would see Pinkie Pie prancing along, happy as could be. Yes, it seemed that everything was going her way that morning.
Until, that is, she arrived at the bakery. Before her stood a new door, made of powerful elm planks strapped together with an iron belt. Affixed to this door was a large, iron door handle. Cast to look like a horseshoe, it glistened in the morning sun, inviting all passers-by to come in, and enjoy the delicious baked goods which were being offered. Everyone, that is, except Pinkie, who regarded this handle with a rapidly decreased levity.
The static in her mane fizzed as she took a step backwards. It was a consequence of being as poofy and wild as it was, especially during a seasonal change. The sparks had already flown in years prior, and Pinkie had no difficulty remembering it. But the bakery had always been a safe haven, a place of wood, plastic, and non-conductive metals. Had been until today, at least.
Inside her head, Rational P. Pie was tearing around at a frantic pace, bucking the urge to Flee! Flee and escape the terrible atrocities which would surely occur if she touched that awful, forsaken handle. But, the smells flowing out of the bakery soon flooded her mind, drowning reason and pushing the urge to flee 20,000 leagues under aroma.
All it would take is bravery. Pinkie smiled, a little too wide, and reached towards the door. Just one grab, that's all it would take. Get the shock over with, and then everything can be happy and peppy again. No worries, just relax. You can do this. Nobody is going to get in the way of these cakes. Not a door, or any other metallic object.
Pinkie stood there, at the precipice, for what seemed like ten million eternities. But the hoof just wavered in front of the handle, just out of static zapping range. A single bead of sweat swelled on her brow, and slowly, but surely, flowed down to the tippity-tip of her nose, at which point it fell, impacting the ground.
A few sparks playfully danced through her hair, seeming to act as an audience for the drama now playing out between the mare and the door. On on hand, the sudden discharge of who knows how many jiggawatts of electricity might be bad. Then again, there was some pretty yummy cake on the other side of that door. Choices, choices...
Suddenly, an idea popped into her head. The electric light-bulb of inspiration whispered in Pinkie's ear. "Flip a bit" it said, dancing coyly through her charged, anxious mind. "Let luck decide what happens."
Before a moment had passed, the bit was in hoof, and then it was in the air, spinning and twinkling in the sunlight. Then, gravity took hold, and it fell to the earth. Impacting on the very same spot the sweat of Pinkie's brow lay.
It was at this point that Pinkie realized she had never decided whether heads or tails would decide the outcome. Probably should've done that before the coin got tossed.
Sighing, Pinkie looked down into the dirt, feeling more than a little ridiculous. As she stooped down to pick up the bit, there was a clattering calamitous sound zipping and zapping from her head. She could feel her mane, long and curly, as it was sucked towards the door with pure static force.
But, Pinkie would not be defeated so easily. Gritting her usually grinning gaze into a grimly-grimmish grimace, she dug her hooves into the dirt and held out against the electric onslaught, for what seemed like an eternity. That door handle seemed to mock her, as individual strands of hair leaned forward, seeming to be grasping at the metal object.
This was the point of no return. Every strand of her cotton-candy styled hair was being pulled with the force of all the day's static accumulation. Zapping and crackling, it stretched as far as it could go, straining and pulling with all their might, to reach this iron horseshoe of doom.
To those watching, and they were watching, it seemed that Pinkie was playing another one of her silly games. Surely, this would be something they would ask her about later, and get some silly, cryptic answer in response. Pinkie knew this, and thus knew that no help would be coming soon. It was either this door zippity-zapper her, or she could get away.
One strand of hair nearly reached it. Pinkie knew that if she gave one iota of ground, all would be lost. Her hair would loose any poof it now held, and Celestia knows how much zappy-power would be released. So, teeth were grit, ground was held, and not one inch was given.
Then, a step back was taken. It took every ounce of fiber in her being, but still she pulled. Soon, she was out of the harms gate. Her hair, while not exactly poofy as much as over-poofed, was still running with thunderous sparks. And once again, the door was before her.
As she considered her now substantially less-threatening conundrum, her tail began to twitch. Once... twice... thrice... and a quadrant of involuntary bushy tail spasms. Pinkie's relieved pallor turned a more somber expression of shock. This could only mean one thing.
The one thing it could mean suddenly burst forth in front of her. The door, once a static embodiment of shocking strength, was suddenly thrust towards her with dauntless speed.
Briefly, she saw the cheerful and slightly confused face of an anonymous pony staring towards her.
Then, there was a cacophony of calamitous crackling.
A low, rippling rumble.
Then, silence.
...
It was still a perfectly lovely day in Ponyville, if slightly diminished for the average individual pony. There would be many small zaps, zips, and sparks over the next few days, and there's always the feeling that the bakery door was never quite safe to carelessly grab again. Pinkie Pie herself found that the shock of de-poofination had been quite, well, shocking, and for many moons after she was spooked by the sight of horseshoes. The door itself was pleased, and would forever admire the pink hairs and gold bit now embedded in its form.
