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// After-Show (Aagayah gah aah AARGH) 
// Story: MLP: TCR 
// by Omlliw 
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Sorry for the troll ending in the last chapter, I was trying to throw you milky-lickers off the scent.
This is the real ending, or rather the continuation of the plot (oh, my!).
Enjoy again.


When Ghost awoke, he was still in his studio. He glanced around and took a big sniff. A VERY burnt mike was laying on the floor, and the stench of stale Johnny Walker hung in the air like a thick cloud of fog. Ghost idly noticed the gaping hole in his studio wall, and dimly wondered if his insurer would pay for it. Groggily, the capitalist stumbled up off of the floor, dragged a hand across his face, rubbed his eyes and stumbled over to the control panel, slumping down in his seat, one of the few things in the room that wasn't totalled. Ghost could feel a faint breeze blowing on his face, reviving him a little. He limply reached down with one hand and grabbed the microphone off of the floor, and with the other he grabbed a full can of Blue Label and pulled off the ring in one quick motion, like he was used to. He took a swig, basking in its pleasure, grateful to taste the precious amber he'd been rationing the days before.
Wait a minute. Where was the breeze coming from?
Hastily swallowing his mouthful of booze, Ghost stood up and licked his finger before putting it up in the air. It worked in the cartoons, he figured, so it should work here.
Oh, the window.
The window!
Ghost took a stride over to the window and braced himself. For all he knew the trolls could still be there.
Craning his neck out of the window he saw nothing. It was a beautiful day, though. Barely a cloud in the sky. And not a fruitbowl in sight! He turned around and took a look at his computer. It was working fine. Thank god! That was a very expensive PC he won in an epic nine-hour karaoke match with a Mexican guy named Darrell. Who says capitalism doesn't pay? Morons, that's who.
He loaded up Twitter, and found a couple of persistent trolls dedicated listeners that were tweeting him non-stop for answers on where he was. Amongst them were UnclePooptickle, NoteParty, PrivatePoopMcTickle, AlexTheDJ, CelestiaRadio and CapitalistBrony.
Ghost wondered if True Capitalist Radio would ever work again since his visit to Ponyland. Hesitantly pushing a button, he wondered if the trolls had thought him dead. The clock on the wall read four minutes past three in the afternoon. If just one person was listening to his broadcast...
"Uh, testing. Testing." Ghost spoke. He didn't slur his words, although they lacked any sort of real motivation. "Am I on the air here?"
Ghost waited for about a minute before determining that nobody was there. He idly drummed his fingers on his desk and sighed. When you're by yourself, you get really bored. No trolls. No ponies. Just him. Well, him and the Engineer, but he's not much for conversation. Peeved, Ghost typed "Might as well make the most of my #BallerFriday: Join me now for the return of True Capitalist Radio! #Capitalism" and hit send, before regretting what he just did.
"Aw, crap. Look at the time, fer Christ's sake! It's dollar you call it day on Sixth Street!" But the chatroom was slowly filling up, and Ghost knew he was already in too deep, even with just one caller. "Oh, great. 508, Radio Graffiti," Ghost grumbled with a resigned tone of voice.
"Hey Ghost," a male voice said, "I know you're a BRONY!"
"I'm not a goddamn brony. I know you idiots wish, I-I know that you're probably, you know, putting a couple of pieces of large furniture in your anal passage, you know, fantasizing about me, uh, potentially being a brony but eh-no. ABSOLUTELY NOT. EVER. 612, what's up, Radio goddamn Graffiti."
"I think you need to learn about the magic of friendship," said another male voice with even more bass in his voice than Ghost himself.
"Eh, you know, you know what? You can take your goddamn brony friendship and you can shove it back in that 1979 San Fransisco bathhouse WHERE IT BELONGS!" Ghost snarled. "Uh, we got KingOKhan, Radio Graffiti."
"Sweet Caroline...fruitcake never tasted so great...I've been inclined...better than anything Ghost's gran-ny used to-" sang a fruity voice.
"Shut up, you idiots, alright? And I hate that broad's fruitcake, I HATE CAROLINE'S FRUITCAKE and stop throwing it in my face; I don't have to see that skank until next year so shut it. 512, Radio Graffiti."
"OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO-" droned 512.
"Austin Vibrator for Christ's sake, goddammit. 619, Radio Graffiti."
"-legal in Texas to shoot niggers from helicopters, which sounds fun to me." A splice.
"You son of a bitch. I never said that, you splicing prick, alright? 540, Radio Graffiti." Ghost took a swig of beer.
"Eh, you know what, I don't really give a crap what you say about my grandmother, alright; you ain't gonna hurt my feelings about that bitch." It was a splice, but a splice done by a great troll, so well done that it sounded as if Ghost himself had said it. Well, he had, but you know what I mean.
"You STUPID SORRY SACKS O-" Ghost ploughed his fists into his can supply, and noticed a yellow tint to the building's walls. Within seconds of noticing it, however, the building once again vanished into thin air, leaving nothing but the smell of the rotting carcass of a small animal in its place. Ghost had a sickening feeling he knew where he'd end up this time.