//------------------------------// // Let's start it (And let's start it RIGHT NOW!) // Story: MLP: TCR // by Omlliw //------------------------------// I'm making fun of Ghost. If this doesn't get me shitlisted nothing will. True Capitalist Radio belongs to Ghost. Blogtalk Radio belongs to whoever it belongs to. MLP belongs to Hasbro. All Twitter names and most calls actually happened. But now, he'll take it from here. The prognosticator of prognosticators; the man they call... GHOST. It was a bright, sunny day on Sixth Street. Not that Ghost would care. He was huddled in his office, over his desk, with a few Johnny Walker Blue Label beer cans lying in a small pile on the floor. "I think what I'm gonna do now," Ghost groaned, "is I'm gonna give some Twitter shoutouts." Ghost casually pushed his chair back with his feet, gently knocking a can in the progress. At that, he began to read off Twitter names. "We got SnakeKings in the house, what's going on, man? StoneColdGhost, what's up, man? Uh, who else have we got going on here? RyanTS45, what's going on, man?" Ghost was surprised that no trolls had popped up yet, and cracked a smile. "We'reNiceGuys, what..." Ghost let out a short laugh. "What's up, you stupid sack of crap, trying to make fun of me, man? I know what you're doing. I know what you're doing for Christ's sake you milky-lickers." Ghost was, by this point, deadly serious, his happy streak wiped. "Anyway, let's see who else we got going on over here. Uh, we've got BradyHender. He's calling me a racist. Well, you know, you look like a fruity bastard from where I'm sitting." "We got PocoHamster. Uh, we've got, uh, that's about it, that's about it for right now. Anyway, I think it's time for everyone's favourite part of the broadcast, and I'm talking about RADIO GRAFFITI!" Ghost's grin had returned. "281, Radio Graffiti." No answer. "Alright, 401, Radio Graffiti!" "...Fat fuckin' pig." "Your mother. Your mother's a fat slob. 520, Radio Graffiti." "When you suck a nigga's dick, does it taste like a watermelon?" Asked another voice. "Oh, man, are you kidding me with that, because I think it's time to play GUESS THE MINORITY!" Instantly the theme tune from 'The Price Is Right' flared up, and Ghost started laughing for a good 20 seconds before shutting it off. "Are you there?" "Yeah." "What's your favourite food?" Ghost asked. "I really like...watermelon," 520 replied. "Are you black?" "Yeah." "Yeah, you're black? I knew it. YES! YES! I KNEW IT! I LOVE THIS GAME! I FREAKIN' LOVE THIS GAME! I'M GREAT AT IT! Hey, and don't call me racist, asshole, alright? Call me racist if I was wrong, but let me tell you, every time I do this show, and every time I play this game, I'm always right. I FRICKIN' LOVE THIS GAME!" Ghost burst into laughter. "901, Radio Graffiti." No answer. "Why call if you're not going to say anything?" Ghost shouted. "Where are all my regular trolls for that matter? Where's PoopTickler? Where's GhettoCapitalist? Where's NavyHuskie when you need him? Are they on the list, there, Engineer?" Ghost scooted back a bit before spouting out some "Engineerish". "Well, the Engineer thinks there isn't a single troll in here, I'm taking his word for it, so I'm going to take some more calls here. 224, Radio Graffiti." "Fuck you Texas, and fuck your Lonestar beer..." A song was being played on the other end. "Goddammit with this sorry sack of crap song, for Christ's sake. 703, Radio Graffiti!" There was a troll on the other end, one with a soundboard and a very shoddy phone, as the message coming through was very crackly. "My ass bleeds. My ass bleeds. My-" Suddenly Ghost heard a sound not unlike a pebble dropped upon a tin roof. "What the crap?" Ghost shouted. He opened the his blind, quickly adjusting his eyes to the bright light outside. The next thing he saw was a can hitting into the window. Instantly, Ghost recognised it as Johnny Walker Blue Label. He had completely forgotten that 703 was still playing the 2 second clip. "What are you doing, throwing beer cans at my office?" Ghost bellowed, throwing the window open. The next can hit him on the forehead. Ghost looked down angrily, microphone still in hand, to see a small crowd had formed next to the building, all facing him. Ghost couldn't put a name to most of the faces; there were several teenagers each of which was either shouting or thinking of derogatory statements to say to Ghost, an eight-year-old Mexican with a Justin Bieber haircut, a clown with a horn in his hand, a teenager in a bowler hat carrying a sign saying "Down With Goofy Bone", a man in a bathtub, somebody wearing drag (Ghost couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman), a Russian and a man playing a piano. "What the...ASHO!? What are you doing here, you stupid bean-and-cheese Mexican?" "Ghost, we just came to wish you a happy birthday!" Asho shouted back. "Goddammit, it's not my birthday, Ashole! And who the hell are these people, your retarded friends?" Ghost scowled. "No, they're YOUR retarded friends!" Asho laughed. "Over there is Tubguy and Trisha, Xarahox is behind me, there's Horny the Clown, Nikolai and Tzeki up there, and of course some troll terrorists behind Tzeki, thinking up new splices to troll you with!" "Could this day get any worse?" Ghost's knuckles were turning white. "Probably, we also have GhettoCapitalist and the Suck My Dick Guy on the phone as well!" At that, Asho held up two phones, one blaring "SUCK MAH DICK! SUCK MAH DICK!", the other speaking casually with a toddler screaming in the background. A vein had begun pulsing in Ghost's forehead. "Ready, guys? 1, 2, 3, go!" Xarahox shouted. Xarahox played his piano, Horny just honked away, one of the phones just shouted "SUCK MAH DICK!", 703 kept saying "My ass bleeds", and the rest just sang... "Happy birthday to you You shapeshifting Jew Your granny's a hambone And you look like one too!" At this, Ghost lost it. "GODDAMMIT ENGINEER GET THEM OUT OF HERE GET THEM OUT OF HERE GET THEM AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" The capitalist can-smasher then channelled his energy into his right hand, where he threw the microphone so hard across the studio that a small rift was opened up by the force. Ghost was sucked inside, along with the small pile of cans, the microphone itself and the whole studio. Everyone outside remained outside, though noticeably more shocked, having just seen one angry capitalist, 3 empty beer cans, one fully-functioning microphone and a radio room disappear into thin air. All the trolls were quiet, even SMD Guy. Except for one. "Oh, my!"