//------------------------------// // Sometimes Problems are Blessings // Story: Of Mischief and Ponies // by Astral //------------------------------// “How much did you pour into the pot?” whispered a small shadow. “Well, the bottle slipped a little and uhh, maybe like a quarter? Is that bad?” replied another silhouette. “BAD?!” exclaimed the shadow, “Well captain oblivious, of course it… he’s coming!” At a frenzied pace, Angelcake rushed in with a spatula in mouth and a black box on back. He quickly positioned the small package onto a wooden table, and with a satisfying click, popped it open to reveal a variety of metal piping tools and small frosting containers. “Oh dear, I have little time! To bake the cake, layer the cake, dress the cake…,” he rambled on. “Wait Angel, you hae something else to do, think, THINK! What was that something? That elusive something that always gets away from me, ah ha! The frosting of the wedding cake, of course you silly bumpkin you!” he exclaimed. *** “Uh, did we stumble into the kitchen of some crazy schitzo-pony or a chef?” whispered the silhouette. “What about shh didn’t you get?” bluntly stated the shadow, tapping the dark figure on the head. Silence temporarily grasped the cabinet to, abruptly strewn away by another whisper. “Ohhh, I get it, be quiet!” expressed the silhouette. If looks could kill, the ones you cannot see are the worst as the shadow deadpanned at the silhouette, knocking it on the head once more for good measure. *** Anglecake stood astute beside the table carefully eyeing the cake. His hooves stroked his goatee, contemplating the work that stood before him. Pacing indignantly around the cake table, he curled his brow into deep concentration, a dead light in his eyes as he stared beyond the cake and into its soul. Hooves left the floor when his face suddenly exploded into an expression of exuberance. The scowl returned as he began to digress. “Some strands of frosting here, no I should use the leaf tip, how about polka dots? Ah, that’s it! I’ll make it look like sun-shades draping over the surface of the cake, with maybe a little red showing though!” he said cheerfully, quickly eyeing the cake once more. His latest masterpiece, a towering three tier, blood red frosted, vanilla cake emphasized simplicity and elegance in an eccentric package. The red conflicted with the white slate that held domain to the exterior of the cake, as if a small war is waging between two indomitable sides. Smalls splashes of blood red frosting splashed onto the white, unwilling to shift to proving their dominance of the battlefield. White drapes overcame larger portions of the red, overcoming the efforts to stain the halcyon surface overland. Skipping over to cylindrical vats of frosting, he scooped a dollop of his favorite blend of white chocolate ganache into a small ceramic bowl. By the commander’s choice, today, the whites were going to prevail over the reds. A small keg filled with ground cinnamon was tilted into a small vat and began to siphon out. Piping above the container dripped goat’s butter as he slowly mixed the two ingredients together. Divots were pressed into the moist base, filled with reservoirs of vanilla extract; a film of sugar was briskly sprinkled on top. He kneaded the mixture together with his hooves, making sure to granulate the ingredients just enough to blend with the ganache properly or unappealing clumps of spice would remain. So much trouble was gone through just to kick taste buds into scrumptious submission. “It will be something to remember, as a prince or princess will hopefully revel in its very existence, slowly enjoying each molecule of mystery and perfection!” he gleefully asserted while kneading the blend of spices into the ganache. He drew in a sharp breath, taking note of his surroundings. Baggies formerly filled with flour and sugar lay strewn across the tile floor as batter dripped slowly into the basin where he had mixed the cake earlier. Paying no attention to the mess, he turned towards the towering cake. Intended for the officer currently operating the North Cloudsdale Pegasus Brigade outpost, he hoped to capture the conflict and bloodshed of war with the layering of the frosting. Any mistakes he made with red frosting were deliberate, to signify that even with the greatest protectors, they too are flawed in existence. “Why the deep thought my old friend, it’s only a cake. The art of the cake won’t be appreciated by the consumer, just eaten and tossed away.” He moped. “Still, I must forge on to make sure that pony is happy, for that I hope he is, or I cannot call myself a chef!” refuting his previous grim assumption. He whipped out the small pouch and plopped in a scoop of ganache, but stopped dead before laying the first of many four pointed stars across the cake’s surface. To ensure all was not to go to waste, he remembered to taste the toppings to ensure they are, c’est magnifique, so he immediately scarfed down a small spoonful of icing. The effect was immediate. Words of bloody murder burst out from the Cloudshed Bakery, shaking loose the morning dew strewn on the tops of cottages littering the Cloudsdale skyline. The dew that collected into puddles reverberated as the onslaught of guttural insults continued. “By Celestia’s flaming tits! My tongue feels like it is in the crematory for the apocalypse! Oh the humanity, what on Equestria is this infernal torrent of sun and flame?!” squealed the baker. Snorts and giggles erupted from the cupboard and caught the ear of the stallion. Carefully sneaking over to the cabinet with frosting spatula in hoof, the stallion threw open the doors to find two cheery fillies holding a can of drake-root powder. How the small children came across such a potent blend of leaves and spices escaped him as he brandished his club of delicious tenderization with fury. “Get out of my bakery, or I’m going to make you two my next delicious pastry, soufflé ailé de caramel!” shouted Angelcake. “This is bad.” stated the silhouette. “You don’t say?” the shadow put bluntly. It was a scene of chaos, powdered sugar flew, cakes crushed, pastries popped, pies pounded, and windows fragmented. Blur of light brown and teal zipped around the room as they deftly evaded the flying debris. Frosting slapped the teal pony square on the face as it flew out the shattered window. The beige pony was not as fortunate, as it decided to be a thorn in his side that much longer. She hid behind pots and pans as Angelcake flung copious amount of ganache her direction. Hitting her head on the low ceiling, she drunkenly flew into the wall before attempting to vacate the premises. However hard he tried, Angelcake hooves found no purchase as he attempted to grab the flying pony as she slid out of his grasp. The scrumptious destruction came to a close as Angelcake took account of his extreme kitchen makeover. All of which, from the time they stepped foot into the fortress of treats, to stop the pranksters from rigging his shop. A sigh escaped his lips as he picked up broom and dustpan, scooping up the remains of his elegantly crafted desserts. “Well at least they have good taste in food…” exhaled Angelcake as he continued to sweep up the remains. He gazed over to the right to see the droopy remains of his newest cake slump down the wall, collecting in a murky puddle of syrup and frosting. Red pooled over white, staining the regal gild a bright red, claiming victory to the embarrassment of the whites. “Sacrebleu! Oh not the cake, my chance, strewn in the void once again…” he moped as he slumped to the floor in escaping sobs of his newly desecrated pastry. *** It was not a successful day by any pranking pony standards, as the good old spicy powder trick left not a window of time for neither of the fillies to escape. Butterscotch and her friend Fleetfoot flew homeward; the sun raised high into the sky, catching the fleeting shadows of the two. As they made haste, it was to their fortune that the streets lay quiet as they weaved in and out of street corners. A small cottage rose in the horizon as the two approached it with fevered pace. Busting down doors, they exhaustively collapsed in Butterscotch’s room and began to lick their wounds. Laughter erupted into the air as they recollected their latest endeavor. “Did you see the look on his face? He looked like he ate a thundercloud!” laughed Butterscotch as she licked frosting off her mane. “I think the best part was when he ate the spicy stuff, he made so many funny noises!” guffawed Fleetfoot, washing her head in the sink. They were many things according to peers, among them, pranksters, vandals, insolent ponies, innocents just trying to have fun. It was almost a match made in the heavens, as the two fillies shared one key interest, lots and lots of pranking. More often than not, it is an absurd display of ingenuity with who to prank and why. Why prank the baker with spicy-powder? To Butterscotch, the consensus was because he bakes and likes to eat cakes of course. Fleetfoot’s assumptions were rather blunt, as Angelcake is bogard and acrocentric with how he treats desserts as opposed to ponies. Butterscotch gazed over at her friend, contemplating the cutie mark that dominated her flank. It was nothing special, just a wing with small wisps of wind around it. Although, with the cutie mark on Butterscotch’s flank, slightly obscured by frosting, told an ominous tale. An obsidian scythe with a small femur laid across would be regarded as a death sentence from the princesses themselves, but how it came to be was even more unusual. The simple pranks she engaged from day to day did not yield a cutie mark, but when her father was stuck down by a bucket to the head from the “water bucket on the door,” trick, the mark burst through to the relief and shock of the filly. She treated it like a sore, a disease, a plague, a part of her that hung around like a stray wolf at the door. It made her think, had her actions escalate to irreparable consequences? Pain of others, suffering and disheartening prose, none of this pay heed to her actions. Pleasure from such an act disgusted her; to hurt another pony maliciously makes the punisher guilty, not the initial bully. She heard muffled sounds from the outside of her mind. “Oh wait, someone is talking, I guess I should pay attention.” She pondered as her conscience wandered the vast expanse of her mind. “You know, I feel like Angelcake was angry at us…” Fleetfoot contemplated, “do you think he wants some sort of apology? We might of actually hurt his feelings or his shop or somethi...” “Apologies are for sprite-heads Fleetfoot!” Interjected Butterscotch, “Have you seen any pony get far in this world by just apologizing for every mistake that they made? It’s a sob story at best, and for sure, and it’s going to stay the way it is right now.” “Well just because we can run away from the problem doesn't solve it Butterscotch!” shot back Fleetfoot. Storm clouds brew between the two fillies, but before any tussling could begin, Butterscotch’s father yelled up the stairs. “Girls! Fleet and Butters! It’s almost time for the tour of the academy!! Are either of you girls even remotely close to being prepared?” “Oh no!” thought Butterscotch. She had completely forgotten about the tour of the flight-academy today, and of all the things she had done for herself, nothing mattered more, to her parents anyways, than being on time to this meeting. Her father was punctual, her mother was punctual, even her family and old Grannie Scotch was punctual, but she is the plague of punctuality for all that any nurse-pony cared. Being late was the last thing she wanted to incur upon her already strained relationship with her father. She hastily grabbed satchel, and friend in hoof, she descended the stairs straight into her father. “Oomph!” Mr. Scotch exclaimed. “You think by now I've broken my back because of these shenanigans, Butterscotch. And for what explanation do you have this time?” “Soreee pa, wasn't looking. I’ll make sure it won’t happen again…” sighed Butterscotch, “unlike the other fifty-bazillion other times” she muttered under her breath. “What was that Butters? I didn't quite catch you.” Accused Mr. Scotch “I said nothing dad, as I've ‘hurt’ my back too.” “Well fantastic Butterscotch, you've done it again, it’s not like he enjoys the regular hug or hello,” She thought. “Never mind that, we have to get going now or we will be late! And you know what happens to fillies that are late right?” pondered her father. “A pony late to rise is a pony early to die, I know that crappy nursery rhyme, dad.” Sneered Butterscotch. “That’s your own rendition Butterscotch, it actually goes, A pony late…” rambled her father. Blatantly ignoring her punitive parent, she peeked at the clock, and to her dismay, it was already half past noon. As flight school held no reservation for delinquent ponies, they needed to hurry. It was her easiest shot at making her father the slightest bit proud, and curbing her habitual pranking as a bonus. “Tally ho, we must take flight now Butterscotch… stop staring at the fourth wall like Ditzy and move!” her father said exasperated. “Coming!” yelled Butterscotch, snapping back into focus as she and company rushed off towards the horizon. *** To her, pranking was nothing short of a drug, euphoric pleasure in just hampering the daily lives of ponies around her. She felt guilty about it, but why would it hurt anyone? It’s all in good fun, and the other ponies know it right? “Maybe Angelcake was really mad at us,” she wondered, “nah, he probably knew we were just having good fun at all. Besides, we didn’t hurt him or anything, right?” She jostled the contemplative thoughts on how she should lead her life to the back of her head as she focused on the rush of air through her wings. Ice crystals wisped skyward as the three floated past, melting as they wandered sun bound. Melting into nothing more than harmless rain, they fell towards the sodden earth, landing on the pink lilac that gently caressed the droplet as it rolled toward the ground. “Simple, so simple the job of a weather pony. All they have to do is move the clouds and clear the skies, and anypony could do that in their sleep, you have to be derpy not to be able to do so.” Reassuring herself. “Maybe I should be a weather pony… nah not enough action, but I can prank things with lighting and rain, action? Pranks. Action…” waging a war internally as she and company flew past the pastry shop. *** He was pissed, but not because he had lost feeling in his tongue, or even the mess that he had to clean up for half an hour. They touched his elegant cake, and nopony, not even his clients can touch art in progress. Peering out the window of his shop, he caught a glimpse of a light-brown colored pony with two others gliding down the street. “Well, 'tis a nice day to go for a walk.” He contemplated. “For show!” he exclaimed, “the ponies that thrashed my cake today!” taking arms with a rolling pin in hand, he knocked down the door with the force of an anvil hitting the ground, and with a chef’s dexterity, hurled the pin right at the light-brown pony. The pin whipped through the air with malicious intent, turning head over handle, plowing through the tinges of ice and frost in the air as it reached deadly velocity. A satisfying *thunk* rung out, and with something that resembled a fist pump and unintelligible remark later, the chef pranced indoors to celebrate his small victory against the forces of destruction. *** Black, the ground was black, the sky was black, everything turned to black as she felt the pain leave her cranium. On her stomach, she opened her eyes eagerly greeted by exploding nebulae, what might as well be a zap-apple extract trip. Gazing to her left, she saw what caused her dilemma. The rolling pin, of the utmost quality straight from the heartwood of the walnut tree, can hurt when used as a weapon. Of course, of all the people to find this out, she just had to be the one as she rolled over onto her back, her wings poking out beneath the clouds in happy relief. “You okay Butters?” asked Fleetfoot as she glided over to her friend, “I saw you randomly fall into the cloud, what happened? Did it hurt? Can you see my hoof? How about colors, is this cloud white to you?” rambled Fleetfoot at a word per millisecond. “Gee, she never shuts up does she… well I guess I should get up to let her know that she doesn’t have to faint on me again.” Butterscotch considered as she rose to her hooves. “Oh YAY!! You’re okay! How’s your head, there’s a bump on it, kinda looks like a strawberry, I like strawberries, they’re sweet and delicious and might be my favorite fruit! Oh wait, do you like strawber…” Fleetfoot excitedly listing off her own rendition of how fruit takes a larger priority than her dazed friend does. “Good grief, I better shut her up quickly, before she goes into pomology,” thought Butterscotch. “Naw, it doesn’t hurt at all,” she sarcastically remarked. “Huzza! That means we can still be on time for the school…” stated Fleetfoot. “I was being sarcastic Fleetfoot, of course it hurts, like someone dropped a tree on me.” Interjected Butterscotch. She gazed over to the clock tower, “time, what’s the time?” she wondered as she squinted her eyes in focus. 11:00, no… 1:00 the clock read, the arms ticking happily along as if nothing had occurred within the past couple of minutes. “Could you two fillies hurry up? We have to be at the school in less than fifteen minutes, and lying around doesn’t help with that, doesn’t it?” Mr. Scotch glared. “Whee.” Replied the fillies as they picked up their hooves and flew towards the school offset in the horizon. “So… it did hurt?” Fleetfoot asked as innocently as possible. Butterscotch said nothing, she only glared with her best “not impressed” face. This seemed to do the trick as Fleetfoot went full circle and clamped her mouth shut. *** I'd like to give thanks to Ed2481 as he is the crazy pony, in spirit the Crazy Wasteland Son of a Bitch, Ethan, who decided to steer me into this grand scheme and convince me to actually write something fun for a change. Go out and level a few citadels on the way you crazy man.