Bushfires, floods, cyclones and drought. All at the same time. Australia is trying to kill us all.
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Thunderhead and Post Haste staggered in the dark, using each other to stop themselves from hitting the ground. “A-and then! Then we clipped his wings, dyed his mane purple, his tail red and left him on the ground!” Both pegasi roared with laughter. “I - I’ve never seen a pony drink so much,” Thunderhead said, his speech slurred to the point of being nigh incomprehensible.
“That - hic! - that was nothin’!” Postie replied, waving a hoof. “There’s this stallion, back in Ponyville. Big Macintosh. He - hic!- he can down enough cider to knock out a normal pony, and it don’t even get him drunk! Hic!” He was, as was the norm for a drunk male, grossly exaggerating. “H-He’s like a mountain or somethin’!”
The pair devolved into idiotic chuckling as they got to the door of the house. Thunderhead tried to turn the handle but, in his drunken state, failed completely. “Hey!” he hollered, banging on the door. “Tranquil! Open up!”
The door eventually opened and they were greeted not by Tranquil or Rainbow, but a completely unfamiliar orange unicorn colt, who looked about eight years old. His horn was glowing and his yellow mane and tail were messy. “Hello, Mister Thunderhead,” he said sleepily.
The older gray stallion blinked a few times. “Flare? What are you doin’ here?” he asked.
“You got the wrong house again, mister,” Flare the unicorn colt said, suppressing a yawn. “Your house is that one.” he pointed to the house immediately to the left of the house they were standing in front of.
“Oh.” There was a brief pause as he processed this bit of information. “Sorry, Flare.”
“It’s okay,” the colt said with another yawn. He closed the door on the drunken duo, but not before wishing them a good night.
“At least it wasn’t a griffon,” Postie commented.
“Yeah,” the older stallion muttered as they shuffled to the correct house. “They tend to use the claws.” Something in his voice seemed to indicate that he had some first-hoof experience in the matter. Even in his drunken state, Postie was able to pick it up. Unfortunately, his current state of mind made him take it the worst possible way.
“Whassa matter, you walk in on a pair of -hic!- griffons doin’ it?” the blue mailpony asked lewdly.
“No!” the aging weather pony yelled back drunkenly. “Heavens, anything but that! Like the time I walked in on Rainbow getting mounted by - ”
“Woah!” Postie exclaimed loudly, making a wild hoof gesture. “Too much information!” There was a brief pause. “What did he look like?”
“What was that about too much information?” Thunderhead asked just before he walked muzzle-first into the door.
“Well I hope you’re proud of yourself,” Tranquil said disapprovingly as she opened the door and looked at her husband, who was occupying the door mat.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” he asked. “I married you!”
“And I can’t help but wonder why I said yes,” she muttered acidly. She grabbed the stallion’s tail and dragged him inside. Postie followed, covering his mouth with a wing as he yawned.
By the time Thunderhead’s form made it into the living room, he was fast asleep, and snoring like a steam train. Tranquil left him on the floor with a huff.
Postie made his way up the stairs haphazardly, bumping into the wall numerous times. Eventually, he did make it to his room, his entrance waking up Rainbow Dash.
“Huh? Whuh?” She looked around frantically before her eyes settled on the silhouette of her coltfriend. “Oh.” She waved a hoof in front of her face. “Wow, you reek.”
“Of masculini... masculili... mascu...” He stumbled over the word a few more times before giving up. “Of stallion-ness.”
“No, of alcohol,” Rainbow replied. If she had fingers or claws, she would have been pinching her nose. “What did dad do, dump a mug of cider on you?”
“No, Maxwell did.” Postie flopped onto the bed and yawned again. “Boy, did he have some weird stories.”
“Do you mind?” she asked moodily. “I want to get back to sleep.”
“You’re - hic! - you’re no fun,” the stallion grumbled.
To say that Post Haste’s head hurt when he awoke the next morning would be akin to saying that dirt was brown. It was a grave understatement, and a horrible injustice to the brain cells that he had lost the previous night in his quest to better bond with Thunderhead. While he had succeeded, he couldn’t help but question if it had been worth it at all. At least he hadn’t actually paid for any of the drinks. From what little he could remember, that was a small mercy.
A titanic crash rang through the air, bringing his brain to a grinding halt as pain unlike anything he had ever experienced coursed through it. Then, there was another. And another. And another. “Stop!” he yelled out, rolling over to see Rainbow Dash hovering in the doorway, holding a pot with a hoof, a wooden spoon in her mouth and slamming the two together. As he watched, she did it again, smiling sadistically. He covered his ears with his hooves but, due to the general shape of his hooves, succeeded in doing pretty much nothing. It was only then that he realised just how bright the room was, so he pulled one of his wings over his face. To his surprise, it actually did what he wanted.
“Are you awake yet?” Rainbow asked, spitting out the spoon.
“If I asked you to stop, I think that’s a ‘yes’,” the stallion replied angrily. “Just let me sleep, my head is killing me.”
“You think this is bad?” Rainbow asked, dropping the pot onto the gargantuan mattress. “You should see what mom’s gonna do to dad in a second.” She blinked. “Actually, maybe you shouldn’t. You might wanna cover your ears,” she suggested.
“Why?” he asked. A moment later, he got his answer when an airhorn, of all things, went off downstairs, loud enough to mentally sucker-buck his brain. “Oh sweet merciful - ! Where did your mother find one of those?” he exclaimed, cradling his aching head.
“I have no idea,” she replied as she picked up the pot and spoon. “If you want breakfast, you might wanna use some mouthwash first, your breath stinks.” As she left the room, Postie breathed onto his hoof and smelt it, pulling away a moment later and retching.
So, does this count as a minor troll by having nothing really bad happen to them? Unless you count an airhorn to the ear while hung over...
Yeah, that probably counts.
And no, I don’t know if they have mouthwash. They do have steampunk airships and electric turntables, it wouldn’t surprise me.