Chapter 2:
Previously on: Battlestar Galactica.
“Doctor House! He has ten fractured ribs, fourteen spelunked kidneys, and a brain tremor of 9.3 on the richter scale!”
“Give me IT!”
“He’s dead. He died of death.”
“Sir, if we were to say we replaced your head with a turnip, do you think your insurance company could buy us a car.”
(And now, back to our regularly scheduled program.)
“... And so da deep da herp da derp und dep da hep da dep,” the pudgy foal finished
raising hooves to add emphasis to his heroic tale.
The young filly’s room was a disaster of epic proportions. All the books were put away neatly in her wittle draws, her toys were in their respective labeled bins, her clothes were ironed, pressed and stacked eloquently in her wooden drawers. None of the objects were in their proper spots. You know; on the floor, under the bed, or on the cat. The victim of this atrocity and the evildoer sat on the filly’s bed--which was NOT covered with a potpourri of items no thanks to that devil of a colt. The former laying on her hooves in a sloppy fashion and the later squatting on a neat white cloth--devoid of stains or other things that could hint at the pony not being a robot.
Babs stared skeptically at her uninvited guest. The part about skating out of a burning building made out of mercury was believable, but fashioning a fanny pack to fly down to safety? Now that’s just plain crazy without proper swimwear. All in all she thought the plot should have been more drawn out. And the authors should stop getting sidetracked with useless filler that takes up the readers’ time. But I just started the last two sentences with conjunctions, so I think you already know the quality of this story. “I just asked what your name was... ” the rust-colored filly uttered.
The unicorn foal stared at her blankly before finally beating his chest and pointing toward himself. “Me Orderly Borderly. You Jane,” he deadpanned, poking a hoof at Babs’ side.
“Ohhhhh. Then why didn’t you just say so?” Babs inquired, tilting her head slightly.
Orderly shook his head, floating off the bed to examine his hoofwork in the room. “As I was antecedently endeavoring to parlay in our aforementioned conversation, I do presume my intellect is immeasurable for an elementary muggle like you to fathom; I am profoundly keen to employing your fine services, madam,” the portly unicorn explained.
Monocles everywhere dropped. “...addur,” Babs--now plastered against the wall from the shear force of that statement--managed to utter. Let’s face it, that was all sorts of fancy. You might as well give up reading now.
The highly sophisticated intruder rolled his eyes. “Fine. Allow me to convey this to you in a more simplistic manner. You see-”
“RUFFIAN SENSES TINGLING! DETECTING HOSTILE PRESENCE WITHIN THE VICINITY OF LADY BABS SEED!” Byttler shouted from beyond the door. Immediately following the outburst, the door exploded into pieces of wooden shrapnel; reverting Babs’ room to its original state and shattering her window with an outward force that of a bear. “I MUST PURGE THIS DWELLING!”
Before the pair could even blink, the elder-turned-warmachine butler stampeded into the room. His eyes seemed to radiate with a unnatural fire that burned with the power of a thousand suns. Without further explanation, he used his magic to lift Orderly into the air.
Surprisingly though, the pudgy foal seemed to keep his composure. “Vifil yor er iz gegangn oyf di fis zol er geyn af di hent un di iberike zol er zikh sharn oyf di hintn,” he responded calmly.
“THE LANGUAGE OF THE PICKLES! BE GONE, SATAN!” Byttler explained, promptly hurling Orderly out of the newly-broken window. It was an impressive throw to say the least, daresay matching with the caliber of professional hoofballer Neighton Manning. Babs could only watch the scene in petrified confusion, as this new acquaintance was suddenly ejected by her family’s butler.
However, it would seem that Orderly had a date planned with destiny rather than falling to a painful death. Just when gravity was starting to take its’ toll upon the foal, he unbuckled the large fanny packs around his barrel. To both Babs and Byttler’s surprise, he somehow twisted the two bulging bags into a makeshift parachute, catching adrift on a light breeze.
“I shall be contacting you in the near future, Babs. Adieu!” the pudgy colt shouted, slowly gliding away with his fanny packs.
Babs and Byttler stood rooted for several minutes, not even sure how to process what had just transpired. Finally, the butler shook his head and trotted away, muttering, “Last time I’ll ever drink that scotch.”
As the elderly stallion exited the room, a much younger, but teenaged mare stopped by the doorway. “Hey, Byttler!” she excitedly called out. When the butler didn’t respond and continued by, the mare shrugged. “Bye, Byttler.”
“Orange Burst!” Babs exclaimed in joy. The ecstatic filly bounded across the room in nary a blink of an eye.
Orange bursted and everyone died.
Fin.