Pinkie Pie Hijacks an Entenmann's Truck
Admiral Biscuit
The heist had been planned for weeks. Every detail had been gone over time and again, in order to ensure that everything went exactly according to plan.
Actually, no. That wasn't true at all, because it was a Pinkie Pie heist. The thought of it—that had been somewhat in Pinkie Pie's mind since the first time she saw the Entenmann's delivery truck drive by, but the total planning time for the operation was however long it took for Pinkie to slip on her ninja suit and jump on her Vespa.
When Pinkie kicked the scooter to life, the 50cc motor let out a plume of blue smoke and a noise not unlike a prolonged fart.
She cut diagonally across the CHS parking lot, in hot pursuit of the bakery truck. Inasmuch as a Vespa can be said to be in hot pursuit of anything, that is. Maybe a superannuated dog with arthritis, I don't know.
Fortunately for Pinkie's not-so-much-a-plan-but-more-of-an-impulsive-action, delivery trucks generally aren't terribly fast, either. They're more designed for functionality.
It only took her a half hour to catch up to the truck (remember, she's on a Vespa), and as she tailed it she started to re-think her plan. She'd seen movies where people jumped off motorcycles and onto the backs of moving semi trucks, but if she missed she'd fall off her scooter, and she knew from experience that that hurt a lot.
Even if she were successful, how would she get inside? The back doors were surely locked to keep the tasty treats contained, and the driver was unlikely to hear her over the truck's engine.
He wouldn't be able to see her, either. As the sign on the back of the truck so helpfully informed her, if she couldn't see his mirrors, he couldn't see her.
Ultimately, a full frontal assault was the best course of action.
Getting ahead of the truck was an exercise in patience, skill, and good fortune. Mostly good fortune—the truck stopped to make a delivery while Pinkie Pie waited impatiently for it to resume its journey.
When it finally had, Pinkie Pie was ready for it.
She led him a few blocks through town, much like an Australian Kelpie might herd a flock of sheep . . . except much slower.
When the duo finally got to a narrow, vaguely secluded stretch of road, Pinkie Pie pounced. Not literally—she stopped her Vespa, blocking the road. Well, as much of the road as a Vespa can block.
As she'd hoped, the Entenmann's truck stopped. Whether that was because he was intimidated by her ferocious expression or just had a thing for girls in skin-tight ninja suits is hard to say. I'll let the reader decide.
The front door of the truck was slid open, since that was all the air conditioning the delivery truck had.
She smelled the enticing treats as soon as she put her foot on the aluminum step of the truck and got right down to business: “Give me your truck.”
He finally looked her right in the eye. “No.”
“Why not?” Pinkie stomped her foot.
“Your baked goods smell scrum-diddly-umptious! I want them. I need them. I want your sweet treats inside me.”
“What do I get?”
“Huh?”
“If you take my truck and all my cargo, what do I have left? Nothing. Sounds pretty unfair to me.”
Pinkie considered this. She hadn't given it much thought (along with everything else in her cockamamie plan).
He'd made a good point, she decided. It wasn't fair to leave him with nothing. “You can have my Vespa,” she offered. “I can't drive both.”
He squinted through the windshield, trying to make out details. “Is that a 1957 Vespa V9A?”
“Yuppers! And it's got the optional glove box!”
“You've got a deal, Miss—“
“Pie. Pinkie Pie.”
They shook hands, and just like that, Pinkie Pie became the proud owner of an Entenman's bakery truck with a nearly full cargo of delicious doughnuts, rollup twinkie-like things, and pound cake.
As eager as she was to get going, she had to wait long enough for her former scooter to clear the way. While backing up was theoretically an option, Entenmann's had cheaped out and put really tiny mirrors on the truck, giving it essentially zero rearward visibility.
She drove her prize back to CHS, and after changing back into her pink skirt and white t-shirt with the heart on it she went inside to tell her friends what she'd done.
The next few weeks were wondrous. Whenever any of her friends was down, Pinkie Pie always had a delicious Entenmann's nut-covered doughnut or one of those weird crepe things that I can never remember the name of.
After all, she wasn't a greedy girl. Let's face it, though—she probably ate the bulk of those snacks herself.
All good things must come to an end, and finally one day, the last pound cake got consumed, and the truck was left completely empty.
Pinkie Pie moped most of that morning, until a brilliant thought occurred to her—if she took the truck back to the distribution warehouse, they'd probably refill it with more delicious treats.
The End