//------------------------------// // Chapter 8 // Story: Extra Equestrial Mayhem // by kudzuhaiku //------------------------------// “Who has pyjamas in a cockroach print?” Rhubarb said. “I do.” Buttermilk replied rancidly. “I like cockroaches.” “Gross.” Rhubarb said. “This is a pyjama party. Plus, I don’t like how Doctor Broadneck has been looking at me lately. This should irritate his entomophobia.” Buttermilk said with sarcasm. Three foals ran around the room wildly, wearing adorable little pyjamas. “Egads!” The doctor cried, seeing Buttermilk’s plot plastered with bugs. “I’m out of here.” The doctor said, leaving the room, his Princess Twilight Sparkle pyjamas only visible briefly. “Meh.” Said Buttermilk blandly. The three foals were up past their bedtime, having been properly stimulated with all manner of chemicals. Sugar, chocolate, caffeine from a sugary chocolate soda, and more recently, chlorpromazine. Buttermilk regretted that it was sometimes necessary. For her to keep her sanity. Besides, the foals loved the sedative laced s’mores just as much as any other foal would. Suddenly, the foals stopped running around the room and settled down upon the floor, well behaved, if somewhat limp. “I’m sleepy.” Bon Mot announced, her eyes pointing in different directions as she yawned, her pony ears flopping down oddly. She was wearing pyjamas covered in dictionary definitions. “I feel funny. Like I usually do when Buttermilk is cranky.” Cafe Mocha said, settling to the floor in a puddle, suddenly feeling more liquid than solid. Her pyjamas were little cups of espresso. Betelgeuse blew a raspberry. “I didn’t eat my s’mores.” She said, rising up on her hooves, giggling, and returning to running around the room, flapping her wings. “I gave mine to Bon Mot.” Her pyjamas were covered in little starbursts, and she began peeling them off to run around the room naked. Buttermilk shrugged. “Bon Mot has remarkable tolerance she’s built up.” Rhubarb looked a little worried. “She’ll be fine.” Buttermilk said. “Look at her, she’s a champ.” Bon Mot, realising she was being looked at, stuck out her lip and let loose an enormous flood of drool. She wiggled an equine ear. And smiled dopily. Round and round Betelgeuse ran, flapping her wings and arms, wiggling her fingers grossly at the two mares. As she ran she made flatulent noises with her lips. Buttermilk raised her eyebrow. Betelgeuse wiggled her naked torso and beat her belly like a drum, punctuating her flatulent noises with popping sounds from her lips. “This is the pyjama party that just won’t end. What time is it?” Buttermilk asked. “A little past one am.” Rhubarb said, yawning, suddenly a lot less concerned about Bon Mot. “Usually you slumber at a slumber party, at some point.” Buttermilk said. “Also, I can’t remember when it was that I had some time off last. Working here twenty four seven and always being on duty is really wearing me down.” “So hard, being a full time surrogate mother.” Rhubarb reflected. “I want a pickle!” Betelgeuse shouted, streaking around the room. “Look at me, I’m a naked pony!” “Hard to believe that she has an IQ over two hundred.” Rhubarb said, a faint hint of pride in her voice. “Pickle! Pickle! Pickle! Pickle! Pickle! Pickle! Pickle!” Betelgeuse said, trying to make her point. “No.” Said Rhubarb gently. Betelgeuse froze. “Don’t you dare…” Rhubarb hissed. Buttermilk flinched and turned away, shielding her eyes. Betelgeuse's lower lip protruded in a pout. “Don’t make me do it.” She warned. Rhubarb shook her head no. “Do it for us!” Cafe Mocha said sluggishly. “Forshush!” Bon Mot added. Betelgeuse’s pout intensified. Eyes wide, lower lip nearly curling down to her chin, her horrifying human face contorting into pure abominable evil. Her pink and purple hair fell dramatically on to her face, and her pearlescent white coat seemed to shine with inner light, shimmering like a soap bubble. “Oh, make it stop!” Buttermilk cried, feeling sick. “I’ll get you a pickle. Just make it stop.” Buttermilk stormed out of the room to get a pickle. “You're a bad foal.” Rhubarb said in her most motherly voice. They had tested it. Miss Sparkle had invented a machine that measured motherly tones. Rhubarb was almost off the charts, her voice dipping into the red on the dial during the long testing and calibration phase. Betelgeuse sagged. “Still worth it.” She said dejectedly. “I’m getting my pickle.” Buttermilk returned with a pickle in her teeth. “Oh gross, Buttermilk cooties!” Betelgeuse said, snatching away her pickle. “I do not have cooties!” Buttermilk said. “For the last time, do you see any cooties?” Betelgeuse said nothing, but reached out and touched a cockroach with her finger. “Why you little…” Buttermilk growled. Rhubarb watched Buttermilk chasing the naked pickle eating foal around the room in a circle. Betelgeuse had made a valid point. Buttermilk was, in fact, covered in cooties at the moment, wearing the cockroach pyjamas. IQ over two hundred and the body of a kinesthetically perfect pegasus athlete as well. Buttermilk took to the air, an unfair advantage that Betelgeuse immediately protested as being unfair. “Cooties cooties cooties cooties cooties!” Betelgeuse shouted. Bon Mot slumbered in a puddle of drool. Rhubarb lifted her and carried her to bed, ignoring the chase. Then, she lifted Cafe Mocha, the extra pudgy foal felt oddly heavy. She’s built like an earth pony, Rhubarb thought to herself. Buttermilk finally tackled Betelgeuse, pinning her down. Betelgeuse used the dirtiest trick in her book. She grabbed Buttermilk by both ears, pulled her in, and planted a puckery pickle flavoured kiss on Buttermilk’s lips. “GAH!” Buttermilk said, letting go and scooting away, spitting. “Mouthwash!” She demanded. Betelgeuse lay on the floor, giggling dementedly. “Where is Luna, I need my mind scrubbed.” Buttermilk said, flying in a panicked circle. Rhubarb gently lifted the still giggling Betelgeuse. “Come on you, time for bed.” “Okay.” Betelgeuse said, shrugging, yawning, and immediately dropping into a slumber in mid air. “How?” Buttermilk asked, flummoxed, still spitting out a pickle flavoured kiss.