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// Just a few things, first. 
// Story: Nothing Left to Do 
// by flecdorbee 
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	As you can imagine, hot-knifing hash without fingers or claws is exceedingly difficult. In Equestria, it's nigh impossible without the aid of magic, or some kind of buddy, for normal ponies. 

Pollen Press was not a normal pony.

P2, as his friends referred to him, had been experimenting with cannabis from a very early age. This passion for discovery had branched off, sure. He'd learned to use his outermost feathers as digits, turning him into the best Pegasus bassist Manehatten had ever birthed. He'd studied how plants were affected by the presence of ponies with certain auras, and had become the first armchair-Aurobotanicist. He'd even created one of the best, most trichome-packed strains of cannabis in the area, Manehatten Special. His intellectual prize though, was the completely revolutionary method of smoking hash: The Frozen Hotknife. 

The Frozen Hotknife was not hard to do at all. In fact, he was just as surprised as the ponies he had shown it to, that nopony had thought of it before. By utilizing basic zebra rituals, he was able to turn the scorching, throat-ripping heat of the hot-knifed hash smoke into a calming, soothing mist, which actually carried a danger of brain-freeze with it. The only thing nopony could agree on was how He managed to do it on his own, wihtout the aid of magic. He would never tell, but the perceptive would assume he used his wings, which was in fact the case.

In a regular session, P2 would smoke up to 5 grams of hash at a time, with various other methods if ingesting THC given attention throughout, but tonight he was taking a much heavier dose. Because tonight was special. Tonight, he planned on dying.

It wasn't as though he was depressed to the point of suicide, or had some unreconcilelable problem, and the only escape was killing himself. Actually, he was just done. He had made his mark, and he was proud of it. Tonight was his grand finale. The show that would end his awesome and full life. Of course, there would be those who would blame the pot, or his upbringing, or whatever they could blame instead of him. He left a note, but he knew it was possible for such a thing to be overlooked. Either way, he would have get fucking destroyed tonight, go out there and play the best show he had ever played, and would ever play. 

But first, some more Frozen Hotknives. In order to get destroyed, P2 would have to smoke more than he had in a good while. That could take a bit of time.


 * * * 


P2 was officially, sufficiently, rediculously high. Every movement he made was shadowed by himself, and most sensical input made absolutely no sense, so it was blocked by his conscious mind. The only thing he could focus on was the musical playlist in his mind, recounting his years with the Sole Survivors, his band. He laughed at the innate joke of the name. Sole Survivors. As in "One". As in, there were four of them. He found it utterly hysterical every time he thought about it, and was thrown into a laughing fit in the hall on his way to the tech room, where his beautiful bass, Widow, was waiting patiently to begin their pre-suicide ritual.

By some feat of willpower, he managed to make his way inside without knocking down any equipment or techies that were blocking his way. He stared at Widow for a couple minutes, admiring how pristine she still was after all these years. The way her ass curved, the way her neck stayed straight but pliant after years of teasing and pulling, the way her coat shone in the light; It was too much, he had to do it. He let his tongue roll out of his mouth and placed it at the base of her neck, and brought it along it's length, dragging his lower lip behind it. The other ponies in the room didn't pay this behavior any attention. This wasn't the first time P2 had tried to make out with Widow. He didn't care either way if they stared, or thought of him weirdly. He had Widow, and that was awesome. 

He teased a tuning key with his tongue for a bit, before planting a loving kiss on the back of her neck. "Let's play a good show baby." He slung her carefully around his barrel, running a wing along her strings tenderly. He only treated Widow with this much affection. Widow was his old lady. All the other basses in his life were just groupies, rentals. No other bass could compare to Widow, in his glossy eyes. The bond between Master and Tool was sacred, and nopony showed it more than P2 and Widow.

The crowd roared, the techies picked up pace. The show was starting. He made his way to the sidestage, careful not to bump Willow on anything. Not that she couldn't take it; He had dropped her many a time during shows, when he first started playing live and adding that extra spice to his style that the live shows demanded. He wanted her to look nice though, for their big day. 

The arena was completely packed. At least, it seemed packed. He couldn't really see to the end of the venue, not without losing his balance. From his vantage point in stage left, he could see the techies desperately trying to wrap things up. One dropped a bundle of cords she had been carrying. P2 laughed. Hard. He lost his balance and fell forward, revealing himself to the crowd. They burst into laughter and cheers with the force of an atomic bomb, while P2 just lay there, laughing hysterically and trying to catch his breath. After a couple minutes, he finally found himself and brought his body up, finding his balance along the way. He inspected Widow for damage. Spotless, save for a small scratch on her ass. She's be fine, he only needed her for one more show anyways. He finally adressed the crowd with a wave, and started another fit of applause and cheering. He walked carefully up to one of the microphones onstage, careful not to bump it or get too close. 

"How is everypony doin' tonight?" The crowd's previous responses paled compared to this one. He smiled his biggest smile, against his will, and nodded his head in affirmative. "That's what I'm fuckin' talkin' about! Whoo!" They cheered and cheered, giving their idol even more praise. He looked to the techies to his side, and motioned for a cord. The one that had dropped them before came running, plugging Widow into the system with an audible *Pop-fizzle...*

This was the moment that he waited for every time they did a show. The first note. He chose it carefully, second string down,  open. Low "A". He plucked the string, and it resounded wonderfully. Those guitar techs really knew how to tune a fucking bass. From the open "A" he moved to the third fret, then the fifth. The crowd went wild. He felt it then. The blues had come to him, as it always did when he opened up for he band. He moved with the rhythm, letting the usually complex and strange-sounding licks sound off in time, hearing the audience's reactions to every note. Sometimes he deviated from the lows, and teased them with a high pluck, sending shivers down his spine. It never failed to impress. He finished his solo when he noticed his band-mates on the sidestage, ready to come out and rock it. He finished an incomplete tune with a high tease, and brought his feathers down the length of the strings, to the end of the neck. He held a hoof out to the crowd, receiving the usual screaming and cheering. Somepony even threw their socks onstage. He watched them land, captivated. Upon further inspection, he saw that they were emblazoned with the letters "PJ" and a pot-leaf pattern. He grasped them with a wing and tossed them to stage left for safekeeping. "Thanks for that! I'll wear them later tonight!" He winked at them, eliciting a collective school-filly squeal the likes of which had never been witnessed by pony ears. 

As the others took their places, P2 looked once again at the crowd, feeling the warmth radiating from them, embracing him. 

This was gonna be one kick-ass show.