//------------------------------//
// Hey, mister. 
// Story: Did somepony order a large ham 
// by Admiral Biscuit 
//------------------------------//

Did Somepony order a Large Ham?
Admiral Biscuit


The door to the office burst open and a dark green mare with a roast-pig cutie mark shouted: “Did somepony order a large ham?”

I set my pen down carefully and folded my hands across my blotter.

I considered my words with care. A situation like this was unprecedented in my time at the company. For starters, nobody had ever ordered a ham. Nobody had ordered flowers. Nobody had ordered a singing telegram, dancing clown, or anything more disruptive than Post-It notes. 

The forms for requisitioning Post-It notes were notoriously difficult to fill out, and one often had to make due with Post-Its of the wrong color or type. Once, I spent an entire week writing on lavender Post-It notes, as I had failed to mark the proper box on the second page of the requisition form.

While the pony stood silent sentry, I mentally reviewed my last few Post-It orders. Some were outstanding; this time of the year the yellow notes gained in popularity, so they were back-ordered. At least, that’s what upper-level management told me. I cannot attest to the veracity of that statement.

Was there, I wondered, a box which I could have inadvertently checked which might have lead to a pony delivering a ham to my office? None I could think of, but it was best to review the form to be certain.

Meanwhile the pony became increasingly agitated. “Hey mister,” she finally said. “Your ham is getting cold.”

I ignored her. The form was too complex to allow oneself to become distracted. 

Inside my left desk drawer—next to a bottle of gin I keep on hand for particularly difficult days—was an official Post-It color swatch chart. Each color had its own particular coding, you see. The requisition forms were pre-printed, but if they did not exactly correspond with a color swatch, it was possible the wrong thing could be ordered. At the last company meeting, we had been somberly informed that Smith was taking an unintended two-week vacation in Terra Del Fuego due to a misprinted form.

Not only were the forms correct in all respects, but checking the carbons for the last year—conveniently kept in my right lower desk drawer—revealed that I had checked the box for color # 1Z4D-458RU-AB every time—except, of course, for the lavender incident, when I had checked the box for color # 1Z4D-485RU-AB.

“Hey, mister, do you want me to just set it down somewhere? I’ve got other deliveries, you know.” She snapped her gum. I hate that.

I took a minute to examine her with the same scrutiny I would devote to a fresh pad of Post-Its. Her coat was a nearly uniform dark green, very similar to 3M’s Hunter Green Post-It color, #1Z4D-548RU-AB. Her mane was a pleasant mint color—about halfway between #1Z4D-845RU-AB and #1Z4D-448RU-AB. 

Even with her bored expression, her irises were still a brilliant blue. Not quite cornflower; more of a cerulean blue. Inspection of my color swatch showed nothing even close, I am sorry to say. I debated cutting up the swatch and trying to match up some colors, but it would take forever to requisition a pair of scissors strong enough to cut through genuine 3M Post-It Note Color Swatch Backing Material, so I did not. I did what any sane person in my situation would have done.

I poured myself a full measure of gin. My coffee cup—the one personal decoration I’d been allowed to add to my office—was pressed into service, filled to the very brim, and the contents quaffed in one long swallow.

“I did not order a ham,” I informed the pony. “I believe you have made a mistake.”

At this, she became quite upset. She shifted around on her hooves a little bit, perhaps contemplating the fickle nature of a bureaucracy which would lead her—in company with a ham—to my humble office. In a rare moment of solidarity, I poured her a glass of gin as well. The level in the bottle was getting distressingly low, I noted. I wrote myself a note to bring in another bottle.

I watched her drink it. She made a face when the alcohol first touched her tongue, but bravely managed to down the entire contents of the cup. As she set the cup back down, her wide eyes were closed, and I feared I had somehow offended her.

I need not have worried. With a polite belch, she opened her eyes again and nodded at me as if she was seeing me for the first time.

“If you didn’t order the ham,” she slurred, “who did?”

“There, I cannot help you.” I spread my hands wide over the blotter on my desk. “As you can see, I am alone in my office. Perhaps someone has sent you on a fool’s errand. One hears stories of prank calls—often to food establishments. You and I could be the innocent victims of such a jape.”

“I got a form and everything,” she said. “What kinda joke has a form?”

She reached down into a stained apron and pulled forth a wrinkled form. Even across the gulf that separated us, I could clearly recognize the backside of a Post-It requisition form. The stains indicated maltreatment, and the crumpled ridges and frayed edges raised my hackles. Who could treat a form with such callous disregard? As soon as she turned it over, though, I knew full well who had been the cause of the unpleasantness.

“Harlowe,” I hissed. I would recognize his handiwork anywhere. The broad checks which crossed outside the neat little boxes, applied with a felt-tipped Flair pen held with the same careless grasp a child might use on a crayon. And the ink—a shocking blue. All forms were to be filled out in black ink, now and ever shall be, world without end, amen.

“I fear you misread the sign on the door,” I informed her. “It is an understandable mistake. Harlowe’s penmanship is deplorable. Atrocious. We all knew something like this would happen sooner or later.” I smiled disarmingly. “You see, this is room eight-zero-five. He is in room eight-oh-five. A simple misunderstanding. You’ll find him on the other side of the courtyard. Good day.”