Hey. Hey Buttery Smooth. Guess what?
"Ack," Butter Knife spat, "I'm in another story again, aren't I?"
DING DING DING! CORRECT!
The ultrafine, maximum-edge shankmuffin of an alicorn facehoofed in response.
"So, what sorta torture are you gonna run me through this time? I don't see any of the... acquaintences that you forced me to be with from last time, but I just know that you've got something up your sleeve."
Yes, in fact. Got your nose!
"Hey!"
Fine. Here's your nose back. Anyway, let's see here... how will this thing begin... ah, I know!
"Please don't tell me you're gonna--"
Let's wrap you up in masking tape, dunk you into a spacious FedEx-branded flatrate box, wrap that up with some duct tape, toss in a few heads of lettuce, a couple Molotov cocktails, put it all into a giant replica of a VHS tape, put that inside a big ol' bucket of slime, and send you hurtling down into a post-apocalyptic Equestria!
"What."
Toodles!
"WAITYOUDIDN'TEVENTELLMEWHATYOUHADUPYOURSLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEVE!"
Oh, that? It's a table leg, your new weapon of choice!
"Why?"
"Because I'm the author, and you, as my character, must do as I narrate!"
A giant bucket of slime containing many nested layers of other things (and a very pissed-off alicorn) landed in the middle of nowhere. From within, a muffled scream of frustration.
"GET ME OUT OF THIS PLACE. I DEMAND YOU PEASANTS TO RELEASE ME!"
"Say," Pinkie chirped, staring at the bucket, "Didn't this happen once before already?"
A wave of murmurs rolled over the small crowd before they dispersed, leaving I Can't Believe It's Not Margarine to her own devices.
...
...
And by own devices, I'm talking about table legs. You have no right to carry your trusty namesake weapon anymore.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA"
So then, what are ya gonna do with your new power of table legromancy?
"If I weren't limited by this mortal plane of reality, I would've stuck one of these table legs down your throat."
Woah there, Bacon Grease, let's not get violent here, alright? Your soul may be as black as the night, but you yourself are nothing more than the living equivalent of a stuffed animal... so fluffy...
"I-it's not like I'm fluffy by choice... baka!"
Eh? Didn't know you were... um... nevermind 'bout that. Anyway, have you spent enough time in time-out now?
"WAITTHISWASTIMEOUTOHWHENIGETHOLDOFYOUI'MGONNA--"
Butter Knife's horn spontaneously flared up, shooting a solid beam of table legsers out of her prison. Yes. Legsers. Like, a beam of light with an uncanny resemblance to table legs.
This was her escape.
...
*Cough* ANYWAYS...
"Ugh, what is it this ti--"
Before Pan Oil could finish her question, a faraway, echoing howl filled the air.
"What the buck are you doing?!" she yelled up at the sky-god known as the Author, "Let me live my own life!"
Haha, no. You'll be fighting against a near-unstoppable force of flying wolves that have broken free of their home universe!
It has been said that the facehoof of the century happened right then and there.