//------------------------------// // The First Day... // Story: Of Toasters and Time Ponies // by Doctor Geagle //------------------------------// 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.