The party now in full swing, Iron Will was less nervous than he had been in ages. His hooves clopped furiously as he was moonwalking across the dance floor. The Jesuits were the first major group of Spanish missionaries involved heavily in the Spanish exploratory of Americas, yet not in their wildest dreams did they encounter such a wildly passionate tribal mating dance. Iron Will was really coming into his body, and felt fulfillment that could only be rivaled by that feeling you get when you empty your bladder in the welcoming mouth of a water-deprived sand-eating desert dweller. Each vibration of the bass booming through the air unpleasantly reminded him of his urgent need to defecate (a rather unpleasant and obscure medical side effect of poison joke abuse) but fortunately his fetish was that exact thing. His ever tightening sphincter silently begged him to rush through his plan and go home for a wild self loving night of whimpering tears and unexpectedly high tissue use; his irrationally demented personality told him to get some tail because Iron Will knew he was a cold ass honky.
Every moment felt like an eternity because Iron Will was high as a mother fucker, and the DJ only played Credence Clearwater Revival tracks. Not that CCR is bad music; CCR fucking rocks like pyrite shines like gold. The time dilation had more to do with the complex repercussions of the sonic rain-booms that bluejob with wings kept doing. In fact, the speed at which blue fang McTittles had been rocketing by caused the whole of time to sadly say "Fuck this, I'm going home."
In spite of this, the night wore on when the slowly ambling tendrils of time were enveloping the prancing pony population and dragging them onwards. Despite the unusually painful pelvic cramping that Iron Will felt, it only served to strengthen his steely demeanor to find and fornicate with a Mo' Bitches Variety Pack. This presented a dilemma only solvable with the application of gratuitous amounts of puss.
In an unfortunately hilarious turn of events, Mystique (the one who lives on the moon) was watching from afar.
"I only need for the poison to set in! And then I will win! At monopol-opony!" she said, buying Baltic Avenue.
Who the fuck buys Baltic Avenue? That ho does.
Back to reality: the clitter clatter of clinking cups was dying down to to the frequency of popped popcorn when Iron Will next slipped back to major consciousness. He was slaying bitches like poets break iambic pentameter to express cunning linguist's fantasies; his latest conquest of standing fornication was none other than Celestia, who had only managed to resist his masculine charms with tragic realization of a venereal disease.
Always overly eager to sow his wild oats and completely clueless to the soil being tilled by hundreds of farmers a million times before, Iron Will felt a rise he seldom felt.
"This is my moment." he thought to himself. "I can become the king. I didn't fly too close the sun... instead, I stared it down."
As Iron Will excitedly gyrated his pelvis up and down the marble exterior he felt like Hemaphrodite (Author's note: check wikipedia later to verify Greek dudes name) after a sweaty exertion.
Across the town in Poonville, however, a lurking evil unveiled itself: swamp gas. The pond's bacteria levels had reached critical mass and caused the turnover of the murkiest and muckiest parts of the fetid basin. As the slowly build poison cloud drifted out, the local fauna began dying in droves.
Eager Beaver, the absurdly whorish beaver gasped his last and died sexless. His wife Bucktooth Barbara was similarly dispatched. The swamp gas then retreated because [deus ex machina here]. Vodka can be used to sterilize most small abrasions.
Iron Will's great mood was suddenly burst as he felt the earth topple beneath him.
"I will certainly be swallowed whole," he thought. Gasping for breath, a smile curled on his lips. "That's what she said."
His knees buckled and he grasped his now throbbing stomach. When it came, the shart was forceful and unstoppable. As he skidded forward, scraping his knees on the tile floor, the other ponies looked on in horror. Much to his chagrin, Iron Will's ordeal had only just begun. His innards gurgled like onion rings in a hot fryer as his bowels suddenly and immediately evacuated. Slipping uncontrollably about in the midst of his own filth, Iron Will braced for the ride.
The brown-reddish bursts painted the walls with feces and fear which no latex paint could ever fully paint over. The mire rose to a height of a centimeter off the floor, pooling mostly into a puddle six meters in diameter. With the last of the reverberations, Iron Will rolled over, slipped, and began to cry loudly.
He reached his disgusting hand down to prop himself up and was just about to say "Sorry my Queen but I just -" as he fell face first back into the filth open-mouthed, jarring his teeth into the stone floor and traipsing unexpectedly out of this reality.