Bad Trip Diaries

by The Boorywooch

Chapter 4, or Oi, 'ere Goes The Fun Part...

?, ?th + 3

Today my cover was blown.

Well, really, there was nothing to be much sorry about – I now dwell in this tree, not under, and may roam free – limited only by the walls of the library. Though I'm in the dry, well-lit place, where I am fed and have someone to talk with.

Or, at least, attempt talking.

Of course, this may seem funny to anyone, who's not in my position right now, but what do you know? Morgan would agree on that, since he was one of the accomplices of my cover-blowing operation – this lump of feathers and a small, purple-ish, scaly... giant bipedal reptilian weirdo? Or a <text here is mercilessly blacked out, with force enough to scratch the paper>?

Of course, it isn't: even HERE such things are impossible. Not even the chatting livestock and sarcastically hooting (pretending to converse, doubtless) owl won't convince me that DRAGONS do exist.

Nuh-uh.

So, I hid behind the barrels as soon as I've heard the screak of doorhinges: however, there was enough light shed from upstairs for me to see this... reptilian... thing? entering the cellar, mumbling in boyish voice, rummaging through the shelves: I sat quiet, enticed to see what's going to be next.

The reptilian entity (gog, I finally made that out) procured a bottle from the rack, that I was shamelessly using to quench my thirst – and surely he noticed that some bottles laid uncorked and emptied. However, shrugging off the essential clue to finding me – presuming, I reckon, that some other tenant of the household helped himself to some beverages, stored here – he proceeded to another rack – the one I was croughing behind.

Needless to say – my heart skipped quite a few beats, blood pressure skyrocketing, preparing to either curl myself into a ball even tighter to become as stealthy as possible, or to jumpscare the reptile in a somewhat suicidal attempt to escape.

Of course, the latter option was never considered – all my experience with snakes, lizards and so on was mostly... painful and fueled the awareness of how quick the sumbitches are.

So I held my breath, sinking my head into the shoulders even deeper, trying to drown into the shadows.

Of course, it was of no avail. I can be tad bit clumsy at the time – especially when I'm locked in a confined space with no room to move a limb.

Heedless twitch of a knee tipped the balance of the rack, making it shake and pouring down a rain of various utensils, mostly glass, that shattered itself and my cover.

The reptilian entity jumped up in surprise – and locked gazes with me.

That was an awkward moment. However, I managed to muster enough courage to gain the upper hand – and I bellowed on top of my lungs, which was rather astonishing in the confined space of the cellar, resonating around and effectively deafening every other sound in its sheer terror power.

However, this seemed to work just fine – the reptile, emanating the same, though way more high-pitched, childish cry of fear and calling someone or something – a repeated word I couldn't understand due to the ringing in my head, caused with all the shouting – hightailed upstairs, leaving me triumphant. The triumph was short-living, however, since as I shook off the confusion of an acoustic attack and gathered whatever belongings I stored, I decided to move out and seek a more suitable cover – though, to my shock, I was stopped short with some sort of pink-ish bubble; I tried to punch, kick, even claw my way through – of no avail, sadly, so I was content with the overlooking my shoulder, finding another pony, and Morgan, sitting on her back.

I knew that bloody feathermop would sell me out, oi, I knew it in me gut.

The pony, however, was not irated of bemused by my presence; more of an interested look painted her features, and the horn she was sporting glowed slightly; such was the purpose of the horn, I presumed, emanating some sort of electromagnetic waves and whatnot; the concept of magic I declined dead away.

As I was escorted (or rather, flown) upstairs, away from the cellar into some brightly lit hall, the unicorn responsible for keeping me in custody plopped down on the floor, adressing me with the same alien gibberish them ponyfolk used; I gestured as hard as I could, trying to explain the fact that 'no comprendo, amigo', switching to what various languages I could have: I tried good ol' English, German, Spanish – gog, even Latin – but the little equine was still befuddled with the noises I emanated.

After a while we've reached a consensus – the language of gestures was there to save the day, and I tried hard to explain that I never meant no harm, just being lost, tired and hungry (which was true, by the way), and that I posed absolutely no threat at the time.

The small equine shrugged – I SWEAR TO GOG SHE DID – and went away, pulling my containment bubble with her. I only had to sit down and wait for my destiny to come.

April?, ?th + 7?

Actually, I am forced to say that living with a pony is not that bad. I've come to know that her name is Twilight Sparkle (she managed to make it through to me, carefully enunciating each letter), and, in fact, I was considered as some kind of free tenant. Of course, I've never considered an opportunity of being held as a prisoner, hostage or pet – prisoners don't just roam free in their containment, and no one actually tries to talk with their pets. Well, safe for my grandmother – she talks to her cat all the time, but can a feline reply?

I am fed, bedded and kept safe, so I can keep on with my plans of escape and returning to the realm I call home. Or, at least, I think so.

Twilight lives in a library – literally. As I've noticed beforehand, her domain lies in the trunk of a gargantuan oak, that still seems alive – some scientific mystery that I yet have to solve, no doubt, and I will. And, being a librarian, she seems to be the best illustration for the foolish stereotype of the 'bluestocking' – buried her nose at the book all the time, secluded in her library and sociophobic – are a qualities I sure approve of. Bookworms rule, jocks drool, as they say. Wheee.

Morgan – the treacherous feather powder puff – seems to be Twilight's pet and, if I can possibly apply that judgment – an assistant of sort. Well, no wonder he had accompliced in a blow of my undercover position. Bloody jerkface.