//------------------------------// // Pinkie Pie’s Kitchen // Story: No Going Back // by ferret //------------------------------// The pink baker is hard at work, humming a tuneless song, as she zips between counter, oven and cupboard. She’s not like zip zipping, but just sort of smoothly skipping around in a well practiced rhythm. Meanwhile I’m a wobbly, sore little pony mare, not sure of all four of my hooves underneath me. “Oh, hey ...you!” Pinkie says, upon seeing me struggle into the kitchen, not pausing in the slightest, “You’re all up and about, huh?” “Just curious what you... get up to back here,” I say, “I hope I’m not getting in the way.” “Not at all!” Pinkie declared, a brown egg briefly balanced on her nose before falling onto the edge of a bowl, whereupon her hoof whisks away the two halves of shell just in time for the egg’s contents to fall. “I actually talk to myself all the time, so it’s nice to have some company!” “Huh,” say I. “Well I’ll... just stay out of the way then.” “What were you curious about?” she says amiably, using sort of a ladle to scoop sugar out of a burlap bag. If having a handle in her mouth encumbers her speech, it’s not very obvious. And holy shit am I curious about just everything. I don’t know where to start! She’s rolling dough out with what looks like a golden rolling pin, just right on the counter, flattening out the dough. Not on a board or anything, but it doesn’t seem to be sticking... “What are your counters made out of?” I ask curiously, looking at the enigmatic smooth blue smooth surfaces. They’re like a solid form of sky, with little white streaks throughout them like clouds. “Are they painted?” There’s actually a central table that isn’t that odd shade of blue, but is warm and wooden, with images of fruits and candies painted all along the cabinets underneath it. “The cabinets are painted, but the countertop is colored marble,” Pinkie says, using a dough scraper, and then her nose to fold the dough up, before rolling it out again. She does this a few times, while I think for a moment, then ask, “What does it mean when something’s colored? Is it like a dye you add?” “No, it grows blue,” Pinkie explains, while rolling, “You have to rotate it 30% during the spring thaws, and coat it with fluorite, which adjusts the crystalline structure to absorb red and some green light, but not blue.” “Oh, that... rock farm wasn’t a joke then,” I say, feeling even more confused than before I asked. “Maybe it was?” Pinkie replies accomodatingly, at last dividing the pastry dough into thick strips. With her mouth, she pulls a box with a bunch of off white bricks in it, and dumps them into a pastry bag, sealing it shut in her hooves and then squeezing it under her arm to dispense the contents in long, thick trails on top of each pastry. “Was somepony making a joke about a rock farm?” “No, it’s fine, it’s just...” I feel a blush creeping up and say with a quaver in my soft voice, “Y-you just know a lot about rocks, that’s all.” Pinkie doesn’t reply to that per se, but does start humming in a pleased tone, a wordless tune that I can’t quite place. She actually does consult a recipe book just briefly, before rolling up the strips of dough by hoof, one after the other. Placing them on a tray, she does it a second time, spreading dough out on her counter, dividing into strips, coating, and rolling up, after glancing at the recipe book. Curious I look at what she’s reading—oh right, I can’t read. There’s a pretty picture of a toasty pastry with sort of slices through it though, and what clearly is an ingredients list, from the way it’s bulleted. If I squint, it looks kind of like cursive, but no recognizeable letters present themselves, and like cursive, it’s just impossible to tell where one letter stops and another starts, if these are even sequences of letters. For all I know they could be short, wide ideograms. The title though, the title of the recipe (on the page) is almost legible! It’s just gibberish and all, but it’s in more of a printed style, with letters like “EIPKWPDINWF” but of course... not exactly those letters. The “E” has a longer middle stem for instance, and the first “W” runs into the “P” before finishing, whereas the last one is almost doubled before running into the “F.” “Whatcha lookin’ at?” Pinkie says curiously, and I look up from the cookbook to see she’s paused in her baking to watch me er... “reading.” “This is a cookbook, right?” I ask her. Pinkie nods, looking a little concerned. Blushing, I toe the wooden floor, saying, “See, I can’t really... read your language.” “But you can speak my language?” Pinkie asks, looking from me to book. “Yes, it’s really weird,” I reply, shaking my head in confusion, “It sounds like you’re speaking in my language.” “Which is?” Pinkie prompts. “It’s a language called Equish,” I answer easily. Wait. “Equ...ish,” I repeat slowly, trying to work out what my mouth is saying. It doesn’t seem different from what I... always say, but I know that the name of my language isn’t a horse pun! “I guess my uh... s-spoken language changed to yours,” I admit to her cautiously, “But it didn’t come with any ability to read.” “Oh, that’s too bad!” Pinkie declares in sympathetic shock, “Are you gonna have to learn to read all over again?” “I guess so...” I say, looking forlornly at her cookbook, “I can’t even tell exactly what letters you use.” “Well, this one is ‘be’,” she says, pointing with a hoof at the big letters of the title, “And that’s ‘air’. The next one is ‘e’.” “D-don’t you have baking to do?” I ask worriedly, looking over at her trays covered in— “Eep, you’re right!” Pinkie squeaks interrupting my train of thought and darting over there. “Okay, okay let’s see, cinnamon...” she mumbles, taking a shaker and generously dusting over all the things. “What are you making?” I call over, as Pinkie lays the finishing touches to whatever they are. “Bear claws,” she says idly. “What’re bear claws?” I ask curiously. “These are bear claws!” she declares cheerfully, picking up a tray of them in her mouth, and depositing it on her rump. Effortlessly balancing the metal tray there, she heads over to the ovens. Pinkie approaches not just one, but what looks more like a wall of ovens. Heat blasts out when she opens the oven door (with her mouth), and slides a tray of pastries into it (with her mouth). “That’s a lot of ovens!” I declare. I resist saying that it’s more than I remember from the show, but maybe they just didn’t show this room, or this wall. “I guess that’s why it’s so warm in here.” “Yup,” Pinkie chirps, trotting back to the baking area, where she starts mixing more ingredients, “It’s a nice perk in the winter, not so great in the summer.” “How do they... I mean, how do ovens work in your world?” I ask her, looking over her shoulder at the mixing bowl full of white powders, like flour and sugar and... well I really don’t know since it all looks just white. “Do they... have um... fire, somehow?” I try to specify, struggling to remember what ponies could possibly use for technology. Would they have electric heating coils? “Don’t be silly, they use heating coils!” Pinkie says, answering that question once and for all. Is she psychic or something? “They use the sunlight gathered every day, to put that special bit of sunlight into everything we bake!” “So like, solar panels?” I ask, limping back to the ovens to peer inside at what clearly are glowing red heating coils. “‘Scuze me,” Pinkie says, coming by with another tray of unbaked treats. I have trouble ‘scuzing, but she gently nudges me aside. She slides that into another oven, and... oh hey, each oven has a timer next to the temperature dial, which she sets for 13 minutes. “I guess you could call them panels?” she says thoughtfully, “It’s just the luminous wood. Most buildings around here have that.” “Luminous wood?” “Yeah!” Pinkie cheers, “Around the windows and corners of the buildings. Sugarcube Corner needs extra sunlight though, so its roof is shingled with the stuff!” “How does the um... sunlight get from the roof to the ovens?” I ask, tilting my nose overhead, “Don’t you have problems on cloudy days?” Pinkie canters off, and returns with another tray. Pushes me a little further aside then, to put her treats in another oven. Then as if I wasn’t terribly in the way, she says amiably, “We’ve got a pretty good amount of light stored under the bakery. It’s usually not a problem. And as for how it gets to the ovens, I don’t actually know!” I look at Pinkie seriously, and she shrugs, saying, “I’m a baker, not a construction worker. All I know is they put the wires in the right places, to feed the light into the heating coils, and then the ovens just magically bake the treats!” “Wires, huh,” I reply seriously, rubbing the side of my face with a hoof. Heh... I have a snout. “Guess I’ll have to talk to some construction workers, then,” I conclude a little sheepishly. “Can’t win ‘em all,” Pinkie quips, “But I’ll answer any questions that I can answer! Like how many ponies do we feed a day?” “How many... ponies do you feed a day?” I cautiously prompt. “It’s usually a pony every oneoh minutes or so,” Pinkie rattles off, “But during a rush we’ll get ponies lining up to get seen every minute! So... two rushes of about 220 ponies... three hours in the morning, midday, and evening... I’d say about 3200 ponies!” “Two... twoh?” I say in utter bafflement. “You know, two-two-ohh?” she replies. "Two hundred twenty?" A laugh bursts out of Pinkie Pie at that. Mightily swallowing the laugh, she looks aside and says, “Sorry, I...” She giggles again, “Sorry, it’s just... I’m not making fun of you or anything. Really, I’m not!” Blinking cluelessly, I stare at the pink horse, replying bemusedly, “Fun of me? What’d I say?” “Well,” Pinkie wavers, “Two-hundred is four times more than two-ee-two, but it’s an easy mistake to make if you forgot to carry the zero. What’s twin-ty supposed to be?” “Twenty is... two times ten?” I try uneasily. “Huh... well it’s pronounced two-oh,” she replies, “Or just twoh. Don’t worry, it’s okay if you’re just not good at math. Lots of ponies aren’t!” “No, I... two... oh,” I realize, eyes widening. “Yes, two-oh,” Pinkie says with a gentle smile, “And ten times two-oh-oh is two hundred, or hundreds two. You probably should stick with smaller numbers though, until you get better at counting.” “I’ll... remember to do that, yeah,” I tell her honestly, “There’s a lot I have to learn about your world. So...” Looking from where I’m standing by the ovens, I can see the dining area in front, where a line of ponies is already gathering. Some are sitting around on the tables out there, and Mrs. Cake is handing a box of goodies to a green and white pegasus mare, who takes the string of the pink box in her mouth, and trots off with it, tail bouncing up happily as she does. Mr. Cake trots past me entering the kitchen where he starts working with stuff, with... maybe not quite as much enthusiasm as Pinkie Pie. “So a lot of ponies come here,” I say. “More than three... oh-oh-oh.” “You can also say three-nee-three,” Pinkie chirps, then takes a sort of padded folding clip in her mouth, a pot holder just like in the show, and pulls open one of the oven doors, snaking her neck in and pulling out a tray of golden steaming... things which I guess are called bear claws. She puts them on a prettier plate, with a spatula, then picks up the whole plate and trots off past me, to the front, where some of the seated ponies immediately brighten up, smiling and cheering to see Pinkie Pie arrive. Eventually she trots back with an empty plate, and immediately goes about making more. Looking at the next batch of bear claws passing my nose, they smell absolutely incredible, but just looking at them I have to exclaim, “Oh! They do look sort of like bear claws!” Pinkie snorts, but doesn’t lose the plate in her mouth, continuing on past into the dining area. Mrs. Cake passes her on the way back to the kitchen area, and passes me too, saying, “Scuze me, dear.” I try to keep out of the way, while also watching in fascination the ponies just going about their ordinary day. Mrs. Cake snags some more pre-prepared treats in her mouth and prances back to the front. She continues in that practiced rhythm, moving goods steadily that ponies apparently ordered yesterday or some time before, pausing to sell others the fresh treats that Pinkie’s bringing forward, now that Mr. Cake’s taken over a majority of the mixing and preparation. They’ve clearly been at this for years. They all work together seamlessly, even Pinkie Pie, like oiled gears in a pastry producing machine. I feel like a sore thumb, myself. Just a dirty little fake pony stuck in the back here. Pinkie even seems to notice my unease, pausing at one point to give me an apologetic grimace on her way back into the kitchen. “Sorry if I seem reeeally busy,” she says, “I just love getting these morning ponies all happy and fed!” “No, it’s great. It’s a real honor, to even see this,” I tell her honestly, looking around at the increasingly messy kitchen, “I doubt most ponies get to see you back here making this stuff.” “It happens now and again,” Pinkie replies noncommitally, “So, did you have any more questions, or do you just want to keep watching us baking?” Huh, Pinkie even noticed what I was doing. I guess I’m not as invisible as I’d hoped. It’s starting to get really weird being on this side of the screen. I can’t just sit there and watch the ponies anymore, because they can watch me! Thinking on that while Pinkie works, I take a look over at the warmly dressed, well brushed, finely combed ponies sitting around the dining area, and then take a look at my own dirt-stained hoof. “Oh, there is one more thing I really should ask,” I call over to Pinkie shyly, with that hoof curling leerily to my chest, “I don’t suppose I could take a shower?” Two busy mares and one busy stallion turn to look at me, and their eyes all get really big. Relative to the size of their irises, at least. “Go on honey cakes, I’ll handle the display prep,” Mr. Cake says, trotting towards the storefront, while Mrs. Cake clops off a few steps in another direction, turns back to look at me and says, “I’ll just go get the bathtub ...cleaned up, bathroom is this way.” The big pink and blue pony trots off into the back of the store, while I look on curiously, glancing at the stairs that she passes by. “Your bathtub isn’t upstairs?” I ask Pinkie Pie in confusion. “Not usually, no,” Pinkie remarks, leaning out the kitchen doorway and giving me a puzzled look. “Not usually?” I ask, giving Pinkie Pie one right back. Raising her eyebrows, Pinkie lifts a hoof and shrugs, saying, “It’s usually not a bathtub at all! It’s Gummy’s tubquarium.” A surprised laugh escapes me. “Sorry,” I say to a confused Pinkie Pie, “I just can’t believe I never thought of that before.” Oh great, now I confused her even more. “Okay, you can come back!” Mrs. Cake calls out, saving the day and everypony’s dignity. Wincing as I try to move again, I nevertheless follow her, hoof after hoof. A shower sounds incredible right now. Like everything in this town, the Cakes’ bathroom is a fascinating slice of pony society. The first thing I notice are the bath toys, piled into a basket by the door, that Mrs. Cake slides aside with her rear hoof. The floors aren’t shiny smooth, but the tiles have a texture to them as I hesitantly place my hooves on them, walking into the bathroom. “Shower’s all yours,” she says, waving a hoof in the direction of a porcelain bathtub with a shower pole coming out of it. I wonder how ponies build those. I take a look at the spigots, and there’s two of them, with a twistable lever in the middle that I assume switches from the shower to the bathtub faucet. “You need any help?” she asks with an oddly adoring look at me. “I’ll let you know, but I want to try to figure this out myself,” I remark, walking up to the tub, and just... lifting my right arm up and hooking it over the tub, followed by my left arm. With those hooves planted, I’m basically standing, with the edge of the tub pushing my belly up. “Almost got it, hold on,” I say, lifting a stiff hind leg and... uh oh. I can’t... exactly get my hind hoof to reach the edge of the tub. “Hup!” I say, jumping my back legs off the floor, but it’s a pitiful little hop. And then I’m just briefly scrabbling with my back feet, before they sink to the floor, leaving me still draped over the tub’s edge, groaning as my butt muscles protest the abuse. “Let me help you with that, dear,” Mrs. Cake says behind me, and then her hoof feels kind of... soft as she sticks it between my legs, and lifts under my thigh, which hooks over her, the barest sqeak of protest escaping me as I tumble into the tub with a clatter of hooves. “Perfect ten,” I mumble into the porcelain. Mrs. Cake makes to leave while I climb wincing to my hooves again. The bottom of the tub has a rough surface, a no-slip grip thing I guess. I call out before she leaves, “Wait, one question! Which is the hot and which is the cold?” She turns and gives me a curious look, then turns her body, and trots back to the tub I’m standing in. “This one’s the hot and cold,” she says, pointing a forehoof at the left spigot. “This one switches to the shower,” she remarks of the lever, “And this one turns the water on and off.” I stare at the faucets, dumbfounded. “Uhm, be sure to give a few minutes for the water to heat up, before you turn on the shower,” Mrs. Cake says, seeming a little disconcerted as she looks over my faucet fascination, “If you move the temperature knob, try to turn it back when you get finished. We have it set to just the right temperature, for our tastes at least.” “Sure, I can do that,” I tell her with a warm smile, “Thanks so much for helping me out like this.” “Oh it’s no trouble, dearie!” Mrs. Cake declares, caught almost by surprise by my thanks, “Just get yourself cleaned up, and dried off. Don’t push yourself too hard though. If there’s anything any of us can do to help, you let us know.” “I actually don’t know much about getting dried,” I have to admit, my smile growing sheepish. “Ponies don’t just... shake off, do they?” “Proper ponies don’t, I imagine,” the blue mare replies with a twinkle in her eye, “But you probably don’t want to get water all over everything in there, so you should use the dryer.” “The... dryer?” Mrs. Cake gestures to a... a thing. It looks kind of like it came out of a Dr. Suess book. A flexible tube going to a conical mouthpiece that looks to be made out of... brass? Sort of? It goes into a series of pipes mounted on the wall beside a large grating with a fan behind it. It’s got a big pink button and a dial for what I assume is either heat or wind speed, and a few other odd switches, all helpfully labeled in a language I can’t read. “I might need help with that, after the shower,” I say with a nervous laugh, “Hot air I understand, but it looks kind of... tricky.” “Okay then!” Mrs. Cake says brightly, “You just let me know and if there’s anything else you need I’ll be happy to take care of it!” She trots off, and I’m free to figure out the bathtub shower. It’s ridiculously easy to adjust, and when the water warms up, I swing the lever with the side of my hoof, as the water from the faucet trickles to a stop, and the shower gutters its way on. It lands on my... butt, which is a thing that I have. Huh. It’s actually kind of fascinating, because this is the first time I’ve really been free to really feel my body, outside of aches and pains. I’m not dying of exposure which is nice, and what’s so fascinating is that when the shower comes on, it arcs over my head, and lands behind me, on me. It doesn’t feel like I’m crouching, or bent forward, just standing here, and my butt’s behind me. The dirty white fur back there immediately becomes soaked, and the water runs down the slicked surface, right into my tail. I still haven’t even tried to move my tail. Um... hm. I can feel the water running through my tail hairs that lose their natural clumping into thick, curled locks, to relax limply in the warm water. I can feel the tail... slide on the bottom of the shower, when I shift my butt to move it around. Can’t figure out how to lift it though. Clumsily backing away from the faucets, my entire head enters the warm shower of water, and it feels so immensely good. My bouncy mane also slicks down, and I just stand in the shower, eyes closed, just feeling that warmth pouring down on me. Then, lowering my head beyond the stream of water droplets, I look around for whatever it is I’d use to scrub fur... oh, that looks promising. I hope it’s not a toilet brush. Well, I find a stiff bristled brush, that has a handle I can get my mouth around. I can’t help but think that manipulating things with my mouth can’t possibly be sanitary. How many other ponies wrapped their lips and tongue around this brush handle? ...three, probably, but still. There’s uh... soap, but I really don’t know how I’d pick it up, so I just use the bristly brush as a sort of fine toothed comb, stroking it down my own hide, where there are streaks of dirt that don’t just wash out. It doesn’t work very well though, because my mouth and neck are too sore to apply much pressure, and my furry horse hide is too sore to scrub much at all. I’m pretty much hurting all over, and the shower is blessedly warm, but I still wince painfully with every little movement. My hooves feel outright ragged at the water’s touch. “So, how you doin’?” Pinkie Pie asks, startling me in place. “Oops, sorry!” she says from where she’s standing like right there beside me. “Pinkie!” I say in cautious surprise, “Nice to see you. Here in the shower. With me.” “I’m not in the shower with you silly, I’m next to the shower,” she says with a pleased nicker, just like the horses we are, apparently. I can nicker now? “I guess it’s not any sort of private thing here,” I venture, “Just... standing around with other ponies in the shower.” “Well I could try, but our shower’s not really big enough for two ponies to stand in it at once,” Pinkie says, looking over the bathtub with an appraising frown, while I stand there with warm water cascading down around me in the shower. I have to laugh at that, and say, “Okay, you have a point. So... mind helping me with this brush here? I’m still too... sore to really lean into it much.” “No problemo!” Pinkie says, tonguing up the... the brush into her mouth. I’m not sure if she wants me to tell her where, but Pinkie interprets my silence as consent, squirting a dollop of soap onto my side, from a bottle she picked up sometime back there. Just the right width to be squeezed with a hoof finger... thing. Then she sets about scrubbing and oh my stars is it luxurious. I wasn’t pushing hard enough it seems, and the stiff bristles had been poking my skin, but as Pinkie really leans into it, the brush scrubs my skin with a thick and deep ache of satisfaction. The water turns muddy with all the crud that was dried onto me melting off my hide, and freeing the hairs of my fur to be brushed smoothly again. I’m not hurting if I don’t try to move a muscle, so I’m just standing here in bliss, while Pinkie works me over like a wise-cracking mother hen. I don’t even notice Mrs. Cake approaching until I hear her bouncy voice saying, “Well somepony is enjoying herself!” Herself. With a swelling gratitude again rising in my chest, I look to my left where Mrs. Cake has joined with Pinkie Pie. The rather large blue mare, with the pink frosting hair, she says, “Just coming by to check if everything’s going okay with you.” “Oh, it’s fine, thank you,” I say warmly, half closing my eyes before Mrs. Cake adds a little nervously, “I also was kind of curious just what brings you to... Ponyville.” I give Mrs. Cake another look, and her face is smiling pleasantly, but her eyes are shining with curiosity. “It’s just you were in an awful way, and it must have been terribly urgent for you to brave that storm, exposed, just to get here?” Pinkie’s here, but... it couldn’t hurt to tell my tale, maybe with a few... details omitted, could it? “When I grew up, I never felt like myself, because...,” I say and oh good I’m off to a rousing start. Maybe I should just stuff my foot in my mouth and call it a day. “...for personal reasons,” I finally settle on, “I just had some serious problems with my life. The worst thing is, there was nothing I could do about them. Nothing that would work, at least.” Pinkie Pie shuts off the water, and remarks, “Well, you’re about as clean as the shower can get. What was wrong that you couldn’t do anything about? Somepony didn’t like you?” “No, it...” I say, trying to think while also being distracted by the feeling of my belly fur dripping. “I didn’t like myself, and there was no way to change it, or make it better, or anything. I just had to live with it, every day, for the rest of my entire life.” Well, I have their attention now. “I wanted to be a—a pony, just like you Pinkie, and... and nobody in all of history had ever done anything like that before,” I tell her. “My world was full of that: things people wanted to do, that they just couldn’t do. There were things that could never be made better, and I was one of those things.” With a bit of unease, I lift a hoof and say, “Um... so, I get out of the tub now, or...?” “Oh! Yes, right,” Mrs. Cake says, shaking herself out of whatever she was imagining, and trotting up to me as well. I’m not much help, since all I can think to do is tilt my head so Pinkie has an easier time wringing out my mane. Mrs. Cake uses a sort of... rubbery towel thing, to get most of the water out of the fur on my back and belly with two clean swipes. “There you go, dear!” Mrs. Cake says pleasantly, “You’re not dripping anymore, so you can head on over to the dryer.” I climb out of the tub, much in the same way I climbed into the tub, except this time Mrs. Cake hooks my forehooves and heaves my butt over the edge. The hot water has done wonders for my sore muscles, which is to say they’re still sore as a burr, and it hurts to move. Once I’m out of the tub, something grabs me and yanks from behind, and I look in surprise, to see Pinkie Pie wringing out my tail, by hugging it in a hoof and squeezing the water out all along it to the tip. It’s amazing, and I watch in shock, because I’m not just watching that happen. I’m feeling Pinkie Pie squeezing and sliding along the wet fur of my tail. I’m actually feeling my tail! I never really felt it until that, but I could feel the strong pulling on my back, and the sliding, and how it gets lighter with the water pouring out of it. “A tail, for instance!” I exclaim still looking back at it, trying to move it. “Has anypony ever been born without a tail?” “That’d be pretty weird...” Pinkie says frankly. Mrs. Cake’s a little more lenient, saying, “I’ve seen ponies with very short tails. I suppose at least somepony has to be missing one entirely.” “Well I was,” I tell her, “I didn’t have a tail, and... and nothing I could do would ever give me one. But now I...” I look back at my tail again, saying in wonder, “Now I do. That’s the kind of world I’m in.” “Huh, so you mean other ponies without tails could get them?” Pinkie asked thoughtfully. “Sure, let’s go with that,” I tell her distractedly, watching in fascination as with the turn of a knob, a smooth, hot wind comes out from the vents in the wall, washing over my whole body. If I thought I was warm from the shower, this. This just floods warmth into every inch of me. It feels so good it’s shocking. “Oh wow, I love the dryer,” I say adoringly, leaning against it... and then pulling away, so that it could blow over me better. “How does it heat the air?” “Heating coils, you mean?” Pinkie asks, right next to me but thankfully downwind of the dryer. “Oh, so like a real hair dryer,” I say, rolling my eyes at my own cluelessness. “Not just like,” Pinkie chides me, “It really is a real hair dryer! Even if it feels like a dream~” “R-right, of course it’s real,” I say with the conviction of a wet pony standing in the path of a full body hair dryer. Which is to say, slightly out of it, and insecure about losing her position next to the thing, before she’s finished drying off. “This is all... completely and totally... real. Ponies have towns, walls have dryers, magic is real...” “Not every bathroom has a dryer,” Mrs. Cake explains with a bashful blush, “But with the foals, we’re sure glad we invested in one!” Pinkie tosses a towel at my face, and asks curiously, “So, how did you get your tail?” “Would you believe my T.V. exploded?” I tell her, looking down at the towel and realizing that I just unconsciously caught it with a forehoof, and sandwiched it against my shoulders. It’s a fluffy, peach colored towel, that I guess I can... drape over my back, or something? A number of towels, and ponies, descend on me then, with Pinkie asking, “What’s a tee-vee?” as Mrs. Cake’s hooves ruffle the towel around on my mane. “It’s a... a little box that plays movies on it,” I tell her, “And it exploded, and I guess it made the movie real! And then uh...” Oh hayfeathers, I do recall at least attempting to say I woke up like this. “I don’t exactly remember what happened after that,” I tell Pinkie cagily, “Until I woke up in the middle of the woods, with a tail, as a mare. I feel another tugging on my tail, pokey, and repeated, looking down to see Mrs. Cake bent over with a brush, combing my poor tangled locks free of any extra twigs and leaves. “Oo go on,” she says around the brush, “Don’t mine me.” “I don’t mind at all,” I tell her, with even more warmth in my heart, “In fact, I can’t believe you’re both treating me so amazingly.” The blue matron blushes at that, but continues dedicatedly brushing, while Pinkie’s brush starts sliding through my mane. “I didn’t know where I was,” I tell the both of them, trying not to move my head too much as I squat there on my quite certainly female haunches. Or my tail, for that matter. “So I went searching in circles, but I couldn’t find anything. It had to be the most boring, unremarkable forest ever.” “Which forest was it?” Mrs. Cake asks distractedly. Blinking a moment, I reply uneasily, “I actually don’t know the area very well... if you... face the front of town hall and walk past the left of it, a few blocks later there’s a square called Hay... something.” Mrs. Cake pauses from brushing for a moment. “Hayfield square, if I’m picturing it right,” the big blue pony ponders pleasantly. Then she goes back to it. Wow, that brush is really working. My hairs just relax right around it, and all the tangles just spool out. “Right, Hayfield... square,” I say, distracted from watching and feeling a pony combing my own tail, “And then you take a... left from there. That’s the direction I was coming from, when I came into town.” Pinkie Pie snorts a giggle. I look at her curiously, and around my sodden, pink bangs, I can see she has the most amused smile on her face. “It’s just funny because you’re right,” she says, “The White Tail Woods is probably the most boring, unremarkable forest in all of Equestria!” I guess my head hair is done, because Pinkie falls back and holds her tummy, laughing to herself so lightly, I just have to laugh along with her. My chuckle comes out more like a soft giggle, and I say, “Remind me not to get lost in there again.” “Oh I dunno,” Mrs. Cake says in amusement too, “The White Tail does get a bit interesting once you start getting to the dragon mountains. But it is pretty plain. Most ponies like it that way!” “I’m not most ponies,” I fail to resist quipping. Pinkie Pie finds this (along with many other things) terribly amusing. “So, I was lost in the White Tail Woods,” I continue, blowing my bangs away from my face as Pinkie continues eagerly brushing my mane, “And the first night was the hardest, because I didn’t know if I was gonna wake up. But I did, and I kept searching. I found a creek finally, and followed it downstream, not before another night had passed though. But once I followed the creek, it led to a path, and that path led to Ponyville!” Shaking my head, I sigh, and add, “I don’t know anything about how ponies work, so I guess I would have been okay. It felt like it was pretty close for a while though. “Oh my, that does sound like quite an ordeal!” Mrs. Cake says, rubbing the towel around my neck to get the last of the dampness out. “Well, it was the closest I’ve ever come to dying,” I have to admit, blowing my bangs out of the way again. “But that’s just because I haven’t done anything really daring before then. I’m sure other ponies go through stuff like this all the time. I made it to Ponyville okay, and I’m here now, so... so I’m okay with getting lost in the woods for a while.” “Still, you shouldn’t be getting into those situations,” Mrs. Cake fusses, pulling me over to the dryer again. I guess she’s not quite satisfied with the state of my fur, which makes sense considering how cold it is outside. She and Pinkie both rub me until I’m blushing from how much my fur is sticking out. Who knew ponies could be this... fluffy? You can’t see the heating coils inside the dryer vents. Whatever secrets it contains seem to be hidden in darkness behind the metal slits. “I hope you’re not planning to do anything like this ever again,” Mrs. Cake’s voice says warningly. “Oh,” I say, tearing my eyes away from inspecting the deliverer-of-bliss. “Oh I definitely agree,” I tell the blue cake maker enthusiastically, shuddering inwardly at the very thought of being out in the cold like that, or of going back. “I won’t ever do anything like that again,” I solemnly swear to her. It might have been taken more seriously, if my bangs hadn’t fallen over my eyes again. Mrs. Cake tsks, while I lift them on the side of my hoof, so I can see her approaching me with what look like a few hairpins in her mouth. Her hoof takes over the task of lifting my bangs, and she snakes her head forward, pushing pins into my hair with an enviable deftness. Once she’s done, Pinkie Pie holds up a mirror for me to look at, and it’s pretty amazing. My hair’s a little bouncier than I’d expect, but the pins hold it up quite nicely. I’m a cute little pink haired earth pony, whose hair looks bouncier and more full bodied, instead of floopy now. “Say, you’re good at this!” I exclaim, looking at myself in the mirror. “You can’t even see the pins!” Looking at Mrs. Cake appreciatively, I have to say... um... Actually you know, Mrs. Cake’s hair really does look like cupcake frosting. It’s in thick ripples on top of itself held together with... hairpins, somehow? “Is that how you get your hair to...” I wave a hoof uncertainly, not sure how to politely tell a pony her hair looks like cupcake frosting. Mrs. Cake gives a soft laugh, and replies, “Not entirely, dearie. I do use a bit of mousse, and glitter on occasion, but I’ll let you in on the secret...” As she speaks, she lifts her hoof up to her head, and hooks the edge of it onto something, pulling a long hair stick out of her hair. Then her ripples of frosting unripple, and her pink hair flops right down over her eyes. Like entirely over her eyes. She’s got huge bangs! Pinkie Pie’s laughter is infectious as Mrs. Cake tries in vain to see the two of us. Her snout is even poking through her bangs! The cake matron sort of folds her hair back up then, pushing the hair stick back in to hold it in place. And once again, her mane has that trademark ripply frosting look to it. “That’s so neat!” I have to gush to her, sounding more like a fangirl than a grateful refugee. “I didn’t even know you could do that with a mane!” “Oh ask around,” Mrs. Cake says with a knowing chuckle, “You’ll find a lot of mares have their own tricks to a well behaved mane. You can’t always keep your mane in top shape, from a positive attitude alone!” The blue missus gets an uncomfortable look on her face though, as Pinkie Pie starts looking at her expectantly, then leaning reeeeeally close. “Well, unless you’re Pinkie Pie,” Mrs. Cake admits, with a roll of her eyes. Pinkie with her cotton candy mane... that’s so funny. It’s not tangled. It’s self cleaning! “Some ponies even dye their manes different colors,” Mrs. Cake advises, overlooking my amusement, “Or have them permed!” Permed, huh? I heard of that before... something people do with their hair, that’s all I know. And heh... dyed. “Like the mayor dyes her hair grey?” I ask with a subtle smirk. Mrs. Cake actually blushes at that though, lifting a hoof and murmuring, “Oh, well... we try not to talk about that anymore.” Oh. Uh... yeah, that... was kind of dickish of me. “It’s the mayor’s private business,” Mrs. Cake lightly chides me, but then another smile breaks out, and she leans closer to me saying excitedly, “But between you and me, I think she does it to be more dignified.” Mrs. Cake sounds quite indulgent when she says, “There was a bit of a scandal about the mayor’s mane a while ago, involving some scamps you might see around town, the Story Mark Seekers?” And just like that, my whole worldview exploded... again.