Prologue
If you’re to know the story of my little slice of life, how I ended up where I ended up, alongside the ponies I ended up with, and how it all goes on from here, I should probably start with my cutie mark. My name’s Reginald. Reginald Kush, but if you know me at all, you’d also know that I hate that name. You can call me Reggie. Where was I? That’s right, cutie mark.
Y’know, cutie marks. The thing fillies and colts get branded with when they find out what they’re good at and stick to it. I of course, was a bit of a late bloomer. Really late. Fifteen to be precise, so… freshpony in high school. You ought to know from experience; whether you were one of the bullies or the pony on the receiving end, other ponies tend to give us late bloomers a rough time. Damn was I glad to be outta there. That place was hell. Sure I had friends, but I’m more of an anti social pony anyway. I tend to only make friends with similar interests and only if they were dependable. At least, that’s what the free personality test I took says.
I suppose I’m babbling nonsense again. So, my cutie mark. A perfectly symmetrical Ivy Green Marijuana leaf. And how did I feel about it? In my eyes, I couldn’t be prouder of it. In the eyes of everypony else, I was a talentless lazy bum. In that assumption, they were wrong. But I guess those ponies don’t know that when you assume you make an ass out of you, and me. Truth be told I had many talents. Cooking, drawing, persuasion, writing, (duh) and I have to say, I’m not too bad with the mares either. My true special talent; however, just so happens to be cannabis cultivation. Am I good at it? You bet your ass I am. I know everything that there is to know about the perfect little plant, and to me, that’s a talent worth having.
I’m a 19 year old unicorn with a light forest green coat. My mane is a blood red mohawk with neon yellow roots and dark purple streaks. Although, contrary to most mohawks mine was not shaved on the sides of my head, and stuck straight up rather than hang off to the side. My tail looks about the same. I work at a place called Welcome to Paradise. A cheesy little hole in the wall restaraunt in West Ponyville. While I don’t think it comes close to paradise, I don’t think an A from the Health Inspector every time is too shabby. The boss was a nice guy, a family man. But he worked his employees like Changeling Slaves. If you worked there, you didn’t have one position, no sir. There was no head chef, no hostess, no bus boy. Nope. If you worked there, you’d be required to do it all. Can’t say I blame him. He has a wife and 4 kids to support for. Not that his wife didn’t support. In fact I bet they split their profits 50/50. She was a professor at Ponyville Community College, and a part timer who made the occasional business trip to Canterlot University. Not sure what she teaches, she’s quite the looker though. His kids are… all right. More or less. Two in their late teens, one in middle school, and one was still in diapers. The two oldest worked whenever they felt like making a quick bit. And I had to supervise them. That sure as hell wasn’t paradise. By the way, did I mention who the restaurant used to belong to? My father, who by the way was much more shallow than the new owner. Aside from school being hell, working there wasn’t much better. So my child hood wasn’t all sunshine and lollipops.
Aside from that; even though I still work my flank off, I don’t make much. That being the reason I live in a house in a more ghetto part of town with at least 6 roommates. Neighbors too. The only thing those ponies were good for were the parties they threw. Which; to be honest, were pretty fun. When you’re not trying to enjoy the peace and quiet that is. This, my friend, is the tale of a pony named Reggie Kush.
BACK FROM PARADISE