//------------------------------// // Seaponies Are Inside Your Bed. Inside It. It's A Waterbed. (Humanoid) // Story: Fimfic Authors Are In Your Bed // by Admiral Biscuit //------------------------------// Seaponies are in your bed. Inside it. It's a waterbed. It's been another long, long day at work. It's a funny thing. You used to sit at home and dread going to your job. But lately you've been sitting in your cubicle at work, dreading coming home. And you've promised yourself that if you find ponies in your apartment one more time, you're going to call Animal Control. But now you've just walked the twenty blocks from the bus stop. You've just come home, locked and deadbolted the front door, and trudged into the kitchen to make a sandwich. You are, to your great annoyance, all out of peanut butter, and the only thing left in the cupboard is a loaf of rye bread and a can of sardines. You mutter under your breath and construct a rather smelly sandwich. The TV fails to distract you, and you go into your bedroom. You put down your sandwich and sit down on the edge of the bed, almost falling over onto your back as the mattress sloshes back and forth behind you. “Waugh!” you yell as you regain your balance. You recall now that you bought a waterbed, in the hopes that crazy ponies would be less able to set it on fire or otherwise demolish it.  It’s certainly a change.  That, and it’s also singing. Wait a minute.  Why is it singing? You can hear faint voices coming, seemingly, out of the mattress itself. Is there a speaker underneath it?  You can’t make out the words but you can definitely hear music coming from the mattress. You poke the sloshing mattress firmly with the tip of your index finger, and you are rewarded with a faint, distant giggle. “Who's there?” “Shoo bee doo! Shoo shoo bee doo!” “What.” Suddenly your bedroom is illuminated by blinding, flashing colored lights from all directions. “Shoo bee doo! Shoo shoo bee doo!” Your waterbed's mattress splits open, gushing hundreds of gallons of water all over your apartment's floors, flooding your bedroom and kitchen. At least a dozen very strange, vaguely pony-ish creatures come pouring out of it to form a circle around you, hovering in midair. And they're performing a musical number, in the flooded ruins of your bedroom. “Call upon the Sea-Ponies, when you're in distress!” They resemble sea-horse versions of your previous adorable yet bizarre pony visitors. You are agog. You stagger backwards and collapse into your still-intact beanbag chair, covering your face with your hands. “What is all this? Why are you doing this to me?” There is a long awkward pause, which stretches a while. You look up, to see a pink, yellow-maned creature floating about four feet off the ground, looking at you with an expression of concern. “Are you in distress?” “Now I am, sure.” “Well, you can send an S-O-S and--” “And what? Can you clean up the flood damage? My landlord's going to evict me for this.” “Sure.” She starts singing again. “We're the helpful-as-can be ponies--” “Stop that. Stop singing. Also, why are you in my apartment?” She extends a bundle of paper towards you with one of her forefins—a bundle of paper you're pretty sure she didn't have five seconds ago. It's marked 'Script.' You begin leafing through it. INT. GRUBBY APARTMENT ENTRANCE – DAY YOU wearily trudge through the door, locking it behind you. YOU survey the room for a moment, then walk into the kitchen. YOU         Where's the peanut butter? Dammit! I thought I still had half a jar left. YOU search through the kitchen cabinets, finding only a loaf of bread and a can of sardines. You make a sandwich, mumbling irritably. YOU         Mumble mumble grr. Rhubarb rhubarb mumble mumble grr. Dammit. At a remove of several conceptual levels, you stare at your adorable pink visitor, who is still floating inexplicably in the air, and hand her back the script, your hands shaking. “What is all this? Is my life being written by Philip K. Dick now?” “You're not in distress, or anything like that, now, are you, sweetie?” she asks, tossing the script over her shoulder and hitting the fourth wall with it. “Stop that. Also, how are you doing that?” “Doing what?” “That... that levitation thing. You're just floating there in midair with no visible means of support.” “I'll have you know--” “This isn't going to be a pun about your acting contract, or an undergarment with wires in it, is it?” “...how'd you know?” “You're not the first ponies to visit me.” “oh.” “You're not even the first ponies to destroy my bed.” “oh.” “You're the first ones to flood my apartment, though.” You look up to see her wearing a manic grin, with an enormous foam rubber hand with extended finger stuck over one of her forefins, with “#1” printed on both sides in enormous letters. You facepalm again. “Seriously. Does reality just warp itself to your whims in your presence, or something?” “Well, duh. We're toons.” Several other sea-ponies fly into your room and begin singing. “Toon bee doo! Toon toon bee doo!” “That explains... well, no, actually, it doesn't.” “Toon union rules supersede other applicable laws, such as laws of nature.” “I had to ask.” “You did.” “And... since one of you has already eaten my dinner,” you say, noting the empty plate floating across the room and the delicate, ladylike burp from one of the backup singers, “will you at least help me clean up the mess?” “You can hardly expect seaponies to resist sardine sandwiches. They have both alimentary and alliterative appeal.” “Stop changing the subject.” “Well, okay.” The flying seaponies busy themselves magically conjuring the water out of your apartment's flooring and reassemble the ruptured waterbed. As one by one they dive back into it, your irritation recedes somewhat. “One last thing,” says the pink one. “Yes?” “Could you chlorinate this thing once in a while? I don't want to criticize a gracious host, but...” You smile. “Sure thing.” You wonder how much pool chlorine would be required to be an effective seapony repellent.