As Ernest and Rimshot left the tree hut, it soon became apparent to the little dog that his master was not well. The lemon-colored Troll Fighter babbled to his faithful companion about random topics as they walked. Every now and then Ernest would sway unsteadily but managed to right himself each time just before tipping over.
Rimshot kept plodding forward, silently praying that the effects of the cursed Mellow Yellow potion would wear off sooner rather than later. The dog did not know how much more of this he could take without snapping.
Much to Rimshot’s annoyance, he heard his master say, “Rimshot, have I ever told you how handsome you look when the moon hits your collar just right?”
This time the dog whirled on Ernest, giving him a stern look and a sterner bark.
“No, Rimshot. Of course I’m not coming on to you. I know you’re seeing a nice bit-- I mean, girlfriend, back home. I’m just saying, any female dog would be lucky to have such a fine pup like you. I mean with your soft white fur, and your nice white teeth, and—”
Rimshot growled at Ernest.
The garbage man blinked slowly and took the hint. “Sorry, boy. Let’s talk about something else.”
The pair continued walking and Ernest began, “Now, what was I saying before we started talking about how nice you look?. . . Oh, yeah, the tree-shack. Anyways, you remember that one time at the bank in Tennessee where I was floating off the ground?”
Rimshot yipped quietly in acknowledgment.
“Yeah, well the same thing happened in that voodoo shack way back when.”
Rimshot rolled his eyes.
Ernest continued, oblivious to his dog’s exasperation, “Except I wasn’t being electrocuted. I was dreaming. I was floating above myself--I mean my real self, you know what I mean? And those masks . . . them masks that we saw were alive and talking. But man, those masks were pretty hard to understand. And they wanted to say everything in Dr. Suess, just like that note on the door.”
Rimshot shook his head as his master continued talking.
“Now this is where it gets weird.”
Despite Ernest’s obvious aliments, Rimshot snickered a little and barked.
“Yeah, well, I know this is already weird, but it’s the truth . . . maybe. Those masks said we weren’t in Missouri anymore but someplace called Equestria. And that this place was . . . inhabited by ponies . . . and other things. I’ll be honest. I kind of tuned ‘em out after they said that.”
The beagle looked up at his master dubiously.
“Don’t look at me like that boy,” Ernest defended. “It was more than a dream, and I know masks can’t talk. Or at least they couldn’t last I checked, but this was different.”
Rimshot gaped up at Ernest. The beagle could stand it no more. Rimshot looked Ernest in the eye while he gave several loud, scolding barks.
“What do you mean none of that was real, and I’m higher than Sputnik?” Ernest asked incredulously. He stood up and grabbed an overhead pinecone dangling above his head and began munching on it. “I’m just fine,” he said spraying pine cone chunks as he spoke. “Except this apple needs more sugar.”
Rimshot considered chomping Ernest on the leg to make him stop eating but decided that his human companion had ingested worse things than pinecones in the past. The wooden fruit also had the added benefit of keeping the human quiet as they slowly made their way to a little stream.
“Good boy, Rimshot,” Ernest declared, gulping the last of his pine cone treat. “We can get the smell of anchovies and pickles out of this thing and later give it back to Zecora.” Ernest thought about this for a moment. “I just hope she isn’t too upset at us for borrowing it and that she doesn’t decide to turn our faces into masks. You don’t think she holds a grudge, do you, boy?”
Rimshot just shrugged his shoulders as Ernest dumped out the contents of the pot and began to wash out the cauldron.
The beagle was relieved that his master seemed to be feeling better. Ernest’s speech had improved . . . well, it was back to normal at least, and he had stopped swaying like he was on a boat about to capsize.
Rimshot had wandered off a little way and was looking around the immediate area when he heard his master’s trademark scream.
“WWHHHAAAAAA! Rimshot! Rimshot, help! Come quick!”
Immediately the dog rushed to where Ernest was, ready to pounce on the nearest threat. Instead, he saw his owner gazing into the water with a soaked head.
“How long have I’ve been like this?” the sopping wet Ernest asked.
The replying bark did not make Ernest happy.
“Could I be more specific?” Ernest repeated, “You know you can be pretty mean sometimes for a dog, Rimshot. You know what I’m talking about! How long have I’ve been the color of a banana?”
After another bark, the Troll Slayer said, “Yeah, I noticed my hand was yellow, but . . . I thought it was just moon light bouncing off the tree leaves and making it look that way. I tried just now to wash it real good, you know what I mean? And it doesn’t come off. How did this happen?”
Rimshot just shook his head and barked nonchalantly a few times.
When the canine was done, Ernest pointed a finger at him and said, “Ah ha! This is your fault! I knew it. If you hadn’t made me drink that . . . not Mellow Yellow stuff, I wouldn’t look like a fruit. The kind you eat, not the other kind.”
Faithfully, the dog did not make a reply but sat patiently waiting for his master’s next words.
Ernest let out a long sigh. “I’m sorry, buddy. You’re right. It’s my own fault. That container did look different than your average Coke product bottle. Can ya forgive me?”
The beagle, after hearing his owner’s apology, just smiled and nodded.
Troll Fighter One grinned back and said in his best cowboy voice, “Buddy, I wouldn’t trade ya for a flying horse with a rainbow mane. Now come on. Let’s get back to the truck.”
Shortly after the tender moment between man and dog, the two friends were reunited with the Chevy.
Ernest ran up to his beloved vehicle and said, “See, I told you we would be back for you, my little troll crusher.” He patted the truck’s hood affectionately. “We didn’t find a tow truck . . . or a town, but I think we can fix ya.”
With that, Rimshot climbed into the driver’s seat and popped the hood, chasing off a few bats that had made the truck cab their home.
As Ernest lifted the hood, he leaned up against the truck and said to his dog smugly, “Now, I bet you’re wondering how I’m going to fix our battle wagon with stuff we borrowed from a witch.”
The beagle was by Ernest’s side, nodding his head dubiously.
“I can see you’re a little skeptical, but have no fear, Rimshot. After all, I am Ernest P. Worrell. If I am anything, I am resourceful and tenacious with a capital T. You just sit right there and let the master work.”
As he said this, the hinges holding the hood up snapped. The hood slammed down on Ernest’s right hand. Ernest looked at his hand and then at Rimshot, not quite comprehending what just happened. He looked from the hood to his dog three more times until he finally screamed, “WWWHHHHAAAAAA!!!!!”
Minutes later after bandaging his hand, Ernest got to work. Every single thing that the sanitation engineer took from the tree house was nailed, taped, beaten, and wired into place. Being the flexible man that he was, the Troll Fighter was working literally in the engine compartment. His legs stuck straight up out of the gap between the engine block and the radiator. Rimshot, to his dying day, never could figure out how his master managed to fit himself in there, much less how he got out. Rimshot helped by handing Ernest tools and whatever else he needed. The rest of the time Rimshot spent holding a flashlight between his teeth so Ernest could see.
Finally, as the first light of dawn was cresting the ocean of surrounding trees, Troll Fighter One untangled himself from the engine. Despite being covered from head to toe with grease, he was grinning from ear to ear.
“Well, Rimshot, I think we did it. Come up here and take a look.”
The agile beagle scampered up the front of the Chevy and beheld his master’s handiwork.
“What do you think, boy?” Ernest asked eagerly.
Rimshot took one look at the “fixed” innards of the Chevy and puked.
“Oh, come on! It doesn’t look that bad!” Ernest scoffed.
When his pet was done dry heaving, Rimshot hopped down from the truck and barked weakly at his master.
Ernest nodded his head excitedly, “Yeah, I fixed the starter with some sofa stuffing and a quill pen. It’s over there next to the wooden teapot by the battery. Do you want to see?”
The dog shook his head and grumbled about his owner’s farfetched mechanical skills.
“Trust me, boy. I know this looks rough, but it will work. It’s not supposed to be a permanent fix, you know what I mean? Just enough to get us out of the forest. Speaking of which . . .”Ernest looked all around them. He couldn’t see a clear path to drive his truck out. The gaps between the trees were too narrow.
“How in the heck are we . . .”
Ernest never completed the sentence as three small figures burst out of cover mere feet away.
“BOO!!!” they yelled.
The surprise was complete.
“WWWHHHHAAAAAA!!!!!”
Ernest had never screamed so loud in his life. Rimshot’s fur stood on end as he howled right along with his master. The sheer volume of the yells and howls caught the newcomers off guard as they screamed a much higher pitched feminine wail.
The sanitation worker was first to recover as he frantically rummaged around the caldron for his water gun full of milk. As he brought the weapon to bear on the unknown foes, he got a good look at what he was facing. Three small trolls clad in black were before him, crouching on their hands and knees.
Ernest proceeded to drench the tiny trolls in milk, wondering where they had come from. The only answer that came to him was that the troll he had dispatched earlier had broken into three smaller vicious versions of itself, like an evil Russian nesting doll.
The trolls sputtered and coughed and wiped the milk from their faces.
Ernest laughed at their discomfort, “Eh-heh-heh-heh-heh! That’s what you get you nasty trolls.”
The Troll Slayer looked down at his dog. “Remember, Rimshot, this is why you never leave home without your weaponized Braum’s dairy products. Braum’s is not only delicious, it’s lethal.”
Ernest then squirted some of the milk down this throat, smacking his lips as he did so. The sanitation engineer’s confidence evaporated as the milk-drenched trolls began to laugh and giggle like little school girls.
“Oh man, you should have seen your face,” the troll said in-between heaves of laughter pointing at Ernest. “I didn’t know ponies could scream that loud.”
“Scootaloo, I told you this was a bad idea! We could have given this poor pony a heart attack. We’re really sorry,” the troll in the middle said.
The last troll finally stopped laughing and replied in a southern twang, “Aw, lighten up, Sweetie Belle. We were just foolin around. I’m sure he understands. He fought back just fine, if ya ask me. Besides, it’s only a few days till Nightmare Night. How are we gonna get our Cutie Marks in scariest costume makers if we don’t practice?”
The troll apparently named Sweetie Belle replied, “Hmmm, you got a point, Apple Bloom. But I just think maybe we should go about this in a less heart attack inducing way. I mean, look at him. We scared him so bad, it looks like he drank a whole bottle of Mellow Yellow. Are you alright?”
Ernest’s head nodded on its own accord while his anxiety and confusion mounted. He stared with terrified eyes at the tiny trolls. Questions poured into Ernest’s mind so quickly that he was compelled to give voice to them through his legion of personalities.
“Why ain’t them little troll doggies dead?” he asked in cowboy.
“Is the milk bad? It wouldn’t surprise me; my son always did have poor taste when it came to dairy,” Auntie Nelda said, sniffing the milk gun in disgust.
The aircraft gunner in him looked down the weapon’s sights. “Are Russian commies milk proof?”
“Where’s the high ground?” Julius Caesar asked.
“Why are they so small? Do you smell fish?” the hair stylist side of Ernest asked.
Auntie Nelda sighed, “A woman’s work is never done. It looks like I shall have to do my parental duty and kiss one. That should kill them.”
The troll called Scootaloo looked worriedly at the tall biped.
“Uh, guys?” she asked addressing her fellow trolls. “I think we might want to leave now.”
The human’s nervous breakdown came to an end suddenly. He dropped his toy gun and slowly came forward to the fearful trolls. His arms were outstretched wide in a gesture of friendship. A crazy smile was plastered on his face. “Come mere, little fellas. Who wants a hug?”
Screaming, the three small trolls took off running on all fours into the forest.
Ernest chased after them saying sweetly, “Come back my friends! I love you!”
He took off after them at a loping jog, Rimshot hot on his heels.
Sweetie Belle, not watching where her hooves were taking her, tripped over a tree branch and fell heavily to the grass.
“Wait!” she yelled to her friends. “Come back! Don’t leave me with--”
Sweetie Belle squeaked in surprise as she was picked up by the tall yellow biped.
“Aw, just wook at you!” Ernest exclaimed. “You’re so cute.”
Ernest then began to dance with the squirming, protesting little troll, hugging her to his chest.
The troll squeaked angrily, trying to push him away. “What are you doing?! Put me down right now! Are you some kind of pedophile?”
Ernest’s eyes grew big. “What? NO! That’s disgusting. You’re a sick little troll.”
He then returned to talking gently and sweetly. “Ahem. No, my sweet little troll. I am loving you to death. Now, pucker up sweetling and say goodnight.”
The troll let out a piercing scream as the tall pedophile kissed her on the lips, good and long.
Ernest then set the nasty thing on the ground, expecting her to explode spectacularly. The troll continued to scream and sob.
“Sweetie Belle! Are you alright?” Apple Bloom raced to join her. She tore off her ugly troll costume and pulled off Sweetie Belle’s disguise as well.
Ernest took a step back.
Ponies. They were ponies. Cute and adorable tiny ponies.
Scootaloo tossed aside her costume and shrieked at Ernest, “What the BUCK is the matter with you?”
The tiny white unicorn continued to scream and sob. The yellow pony tried to calm her down. And the orange-winged pony . . . well, that one looked like she wanted to kill him.
Not knowing what to make of this changing situation, Ernest just stared dumbfounded. A moment ago they were all trolls. But now . . . ? Ernest looked down at Rimshot for an answer. Instead, he found the dog to be looking up at him for the same thing.
Ernest turned away and ran screaming, “Horse-Trolls! There’s talking horse-troll mutants in the forest! We can’t kill em! Run for your lives!”
Fleeing in a blind panic, Ernest didn’t see the sturdy tree limb hanging at eye level. He ran straight into it. Groaning in pain, Ernest crossed his eyes and slumped face forward onto the forest floor. Rimshot kept on running, knowing there was nothing he could do for his master against the troll ponies. He’d just have to come for him later if he was still alive. Like his owner, he would not leave his friends behind for long.