I was drunk
Admiral Biscuit
Ponyville looked exactly like it did in the show. That had been a pleasant surprise.
The residents of Ponyville were essentially the same as the show, too: an even better surprise. True, there were some problems, mostly with names. Those who were seen in the show as major characters were accurately named; the minor characters often were not.
While this was annoying—at least as far as my headcanon went—it wasn’t really a deal breaker, since I’d tried my best to not admit knowledge of the show. There were two major reasons: first, I figured that if I told them that they were all characters in a television show on a different world, they’d mostly freak out. More importantly, if I used my freaky knowledge of them, I might get a Pinkie-esque reputation around town, and I didn’t want that, either.
I wasn’t sure exactly when I was in the show’s timeline (or if the show’s timeline coincided with their reality), although some discrete asking around had revealed that Twilight Sparkle was the librarian; unfortunately, she and the rest of the Element Bearers were up in the Crystal Empire for some sort of event.
I had seen no sign of Spike, nor the Cutie Mark Crusaders, so one possibility was that they were engaged in attempting to persuade Miss Harshwhinny to hold the Canterlot Games there. Of course, it could just as easily have been something else.
I learned, fairly quickly, that while the ponies were generally accepting of strange creatures, they were not so generous as to provide me with a place to stay. After much asking around, I found an inn, but the innkeep was not willing to extend me credit, since I had no visible means of support. In all honestly, I couldn’t blame her. Still, I figured that hands could be useful for something; indeed, by the afternoon I’d landed two part-time jobs. Both involved fairly backbreaking labor: in the morning I got to help unload the daily freight train, and then I spent all afternoon moving barrels of grain into the windmill, and sacks of flour out. The job was made more difficult by watching my supervisor tie grain bags shut with mouth and hooves better than I could with my hands. Still, it paid well enough that I could afford a room at the inn and three meals a day, with a little bit left over.
My next major discovery—a week into my stay—was that Ponyville had a jail. I was escorted there by Twilight Sparkle—who had returned from the Crystal Empire—personally. By escorted, I mean floated along in her aura.
It had happened like this: I had gone by the library on my way home from work and seen that the lights were on. I’d knocked on the door, just to see if she was home,and she’d opened the door. When she saw me, she took a step back and flared her wings out. Whatever I had been about to say had been replaced with pure gibberish as I ran forwards and glomped her furiously. She was so cute, I couldn’t help myself. I was still grinning as she marched me through the street, floating me about five feet in front of her.
She left me in the holding cell, saying that she didn’t want to deal with me tonight, and then departed.
About an hour later, the cell door opened and another pony was helped in. She was swaying side-to-side on her hooves, and reeked of alcohol. I’d seen Berry Punch around (the fans were right about her name), but we’d never really talked.
She flopped down unceremoniously on the floor and looked at me warily.
“What’d they pinch you for?”
“Uh.” I considered the question carefully. Twilight hadn’t really said why I was in jail. “Glomping a princess? How about you.”
Her cheeks reddened a little—I have no idea how the ponies do that. “Indecent exposure.”
“I . . . what?”
She looked at me flatly, muttering, “Hay, I’m drunk, what’s your excuse?”
“Twilight was too cute. But wait, back up a bit. You’re nude. You’re all nude. How did you even. . . .”
She smiled a little bit. “I did a pressed ham on the mayor’s window.”
“Oh.” That seemed reasonably offensive, I thought. But then her words hit home. “Wait, how do ponies even know what that is?”
“A pressed ham?” Berry looked at me like I was an idiot. “It’s where you lift your tail up and press your rump against a window.”
“I know what it is,” I sputtered. “But how do you? Why do you call it that?”
She flopped down on the single bunk, grabbed the covers in her hooves, and rolled into a pony-burrito. “Because your rump looks like a ham, pressed up against the window, duh.”
That certainly cleared things up.