Filled out symptom form in hand - and another sucker from Bosco's in Trixie's mouth since both Sam and Max felt the need to spoil her after hearing her dream - the trio made their way back to Brady Culture's Home for Former Child Stars. Once the gate was open, Sam readied himself for battle. "Come on, little buddies. There's justice to be served."
"Can we get ice cream after?" Max asked. "Justice makes me hungry."
"Ice cream sounds good to Trixie," Trixie added, having finished her sucker.
With a chuckle and a nod, Sam led them inside.
After a bit of dialogue that went over Trixie's head, Brady Culture rose out of the ground playing a piano. "Pulchritude above doubts, this is Culture's Clubhouse..." he sang.
"Jumping Lon Chaney in a Boffo fright wig!" Sam gasped. "Brady Culture, I presume."
"And what a terrible song!" Trixie proclaimed, shuddering. "And what a horrible singing voice."
Brady frowned. "You know, I was going to explain my motives and evil plan first, but after that insult, I think I'll just skip to the execution of it!"
"Good job, Trixie!" Max praised. "You skipped the exposition!"
"Trixie is just awesome like that," she replied modestly.
Yanking out a pair of glasses with spiral designs on the lenses, Brady Culture leaned forward. Beams of green light shot out of the lenses, enveloping all three Freelance Policemen. The light then faded.
"Hey, that tickles!" Max said happily.
"That made Trixie's horn hurt," Trixie grumbled, rubbing the afflicted appendage.
Sam, however, wandered off in a hypnotized daze. Before either Max or Trixie could respond, Brady Culture had them both tied up and hanging from the ceiling.
"It seems the two of you are immune to my hypnosis," he pointed out. "Well, no matter. It just means I have an audience to whom I can explain my evil plan and motivations!"
"Daddy!" Trixie complained. "I thought you said Trixie skipped the exposition!"
"Sorry, schnookums. Guess you just sequence broke."
Brady cleared his throat. "I never wanted much. Just to be universally adored," he began.
Trixie shuddered internally, not liking the mental comparisons she found herself making between herself and the big haired idiot.
"That's all," Brady continued. "And to be number one in the TV ratings for the 1971 fall season. But no-o-o! Those worthless hacks, the Soda Poppers, with their matching shirts, and their cute little jingles, they came on opposite me and stole my audience! I was never offered another role!"
Trixie found herself shuddering again, her dream becoming more vivid in her mind. The purple pony upstaging her...never performing again...the rage...the amulet...
"And now you three vigilantes wouldn't even let a poor, down-on-his-luck former child star-"
"No!" Trixie yelled out, closing her eyes tight. "Trixie is not like you no talent hack!" In her rage at denying the comparison, she fired a huge blast of magic that obliterated the piano Brady had been playing, blasting bits of wire, wood, and ivory keys across the room.
Brady Culture, unfortunately, managed to avoid the explosion. "Whoa!" he exclaimed. "I'd seen your magic, but I didn't expect it to be that strong." He smirked. "Still, I did prepare for it." Lunging forward, he stuck a cork on the tip of Trixie's horn.
Trixie winced, not liking the sensation of anything stuck to the tip of her horn. "You think this will stop the Great and Powerful Trixie?" she demanded, once more charging her magic. The glow of her spell flowed up her horn...only to bounce off the cork.
"Your magic won't do you any good if you can't release it!" Brady proclaimed.
Furious, Trixie tried to force her magic past the cork. Without warning, the spell backfired, the magic shooting back into her body and along her nervous system. With a sudden scream of pain, her magic dissipated and she blacked out. The last thing she heard was her Daddy calling out to her.
When Trixie regained consciousness, the first thing she noticed was the absence of the feeling of blockage on her horn. Immediately after that was the sensation of her Daddy's arms cradling her. "...Daddy?" she mumbled. "What...what happened?"
"Dunno what happened with you," Max said calmly. "You blacked out not long after Brady stuck that cork on your horn. As for Brady, Sam got some anti-hypnosis headgear and came back to fight Brady. Turned into a hypnosis competition between him and Brady to control the Soda Poppers. Sam eventually tricked Culture into ordering an attack on himself, and the Poppers beat him to a pulp. Then I shaved his head, and we dehypnotized them again."
"Oh..." As Trixie shifted her body around to get feeling back, she felt the vibrations of the Desoto. "Where are we going?"
"Well, since you weren't waking up, Sam was going to drive us to the hospital to get you looked at," Max explained. "But once I felt you stirring, he turned around to head for the office. We should be home soon."
"That's good..." Trixie mumbled. "Trixie doesn't feel so good..."
"From what Max described of what happened to you," Sam spoke up, "it sounds like the cork caused your magic to backfire into you. Now, I won't pretend to be an expert on magical symptoms and illnesses, but we don't actually know anyone we can turn to who would be."
"Somehow I doubt Sybil will pick Witch Doctor for her next job," Max pointed out.
"Quite unlikely," Sam agreed. "However, all my research indicates that a good night's rest fixes most magical ailments, so we'll try that and hope it works."
"Sam, your 'research' is about sleeping at the Inn in video games," Max pointed out.
"They haven't failed me yet," Sam countered. He then pulled the Desoto to a halt outside the office.
Max lifted Trixie carefully to carry her into the apartment on the first floor. For her part, she snuggled into his embrace. Carrying her to the bed, he tucked her in. "Sam and I are gonna go upstairs so we don't disturb your rest while you start to recover," he told her softly.
"Daddy..." Trixie whimpered. "Trixie doesn't feel so good...please stay..."
Max smiled softly, sitting down beside the bed. "Alright, I'll stay," he whispered, reaching out to stroke her mane. "How about a lullaby? Would that help?"
A soft smile greeted that suggestion. "Trixie likes the sound of that."
Max nodded. "Alright, let me think..." He put his hand to his chin for a time. Then, with a soft smile as he stroked her mane, he began to sing.
"Hush little pony, don't say a word,
Daddy's gonna buy you a mockingbird.
And if that mockingbird don't sing,
Daddy'll let you shoot it with a sling.
And if that sling stone don't fly true,
Daddy will still make you some mockingbird stew.
And if that stew doesn't make you feel right,
Then Daddy will stay by you all through the night.
So hush, little Trixie, don't you cry,
As Daddy sings you a special lullaby."
Max smiled down at the now peacefully slumbering filly. "Sleep well, Trixie," he whispered.