//------------------------------// // Simon and Twilight: Bacon // Story: Not another Pony on Earth // by Admiral Biscuit //------------------------------// Not Another Pony on Earth Simon and Twilight: Bacon Admiral Biscuit Simon shut off his Escort and looked at the house with mixed emotions. Every day had been an adventure since the purple terror arrived, and while thus far they'd narrowly escaped discovery, some of it had come at the cost of spending a half-hour handcuffed in the back of a police car before Twilight worked her mojo on the cop. Still, he could be in jail, so there was that. He reached over on the passenger seat and grabbed the plastic grocery bag that was chock-full of vegetables for her, and the case of beer for him. If she asked really nicely, he might give her one. Simon slid them across as he got out of the car, kicked the door closed behind him, and headed into the apartment. It took a moment of fumbling to get the keys out of his pocket, but in practically no time at all he had the front door open. He sidestepped Ms. Fletcher and her yapping dust-mop, dropped the keys when he tried to put them into the lock on his apartment door, nearly dropped the beer when he went to pick them back up, and finally let himself into his sanctum sanctorum. His nose wrinkled as soon as he stepped into the living room. There was an acrid smell permeating the whole apartment, yet it had a rather pleasing undertone. Did I leave the stove on? A moment later: Was Twilight trying to cook? There were enough cooking shows on during the day it was a real possibility. A terrifying possibility. In his haste to get into the kitchen, Simon dropped the grocery bag, but he had the presence of mind to keep a good grip on the beer. Lettuce wouldn't be hurt by being dropped on the floor; beer bottles could break. It was a simple matter of prioritizing. The kitchen was a mess. That wasn't actually unusual. And the stove was off, although the frying pan on the front burner was still hot to the touch: something Simon had verified by touching it, much to his regret. The oily smoke still drifting out of the pan should have been enough of a clue. Luckily, the beer was still cold, and it also provided perfect reason to open a bottle. It cooled his burned palm, and it also provided refreshment. Twilight wasn't in the kitchen proudly showing off her creation. She wasn't in front of the TV, either, although it was still on. Simon groaned as the commercials ended, and it went back to Amish Mafia. Then he finished his beer and headed down the hallway. He knew right where to find Twilight. •        •        • “You know,” he said through the bathroom door. “Amish Mafia isn't a documentary. There aren't Amish who go around beating up zipper-sellers, or whatever the TV says they do. It's all made-up.” He took a drink of his beer and leaned up against the wall. “In fact, it's probably safe to assume anything on the TV is fake. Except for Mythbusters and How It's Made. Those are legit. Oh, and Penn and Teller's real, too. But that's pretty much it.” “Not really thinking about that right now.” “I only bring this up,” Simon said casually, “because of the predicament you now find yourself in. There's a lesson which you might be able to report to your Princess, in fact.” “I am not—“ “Specifically, I can only assume that in your enthusiasm to recreate something which you saw on the TV, you never stopped to consider that you're a herbivore, and you cooked yourself a whole pound of bacon.” Simon took another drink of his beer. “What on Earth possessed you to do that? What made you think you could eat bacon without any consequences?” “You told me I could.” He could hear her accusing stare through the bathroom door. “You said that if I was hungry I could have whatever I wanted to eat in the fridge.” “I did?” “Yes! The first night I was here. You were sitting on the couch watching a musical documentary about heavy airships, and smoking your skunkweed, and you told me that I could eat whatever I wanted in the fridge.” “I was stoned, okay. I say lots of things when I'm stoned. You shouldn't listen to them, or . . . well, this happens.” Simon finished his beer and rolled the empty bottle down the hall, to be picked up later. “How was it, by the way?” Twilight groaned. “It was really salty, but after I got used to that, I liked it. There was kind of a weird aftertaste in my mouth, though, and my burps tasted weird. I was looking through your icebox for something that might get the taste out of my mouth, when my stomach started cramping.” “On the bright side, you made it to the bathroom,” Simon said. “Good for you.” “I am not some filly who still wets the bed.” “Never said that you were. Hey, look, you're probably going to be there for a while. Do you want me to slide a magazine or something under the door?” “Yes!” Simon flinched away from the door, and the desperation in Twilight's voice. “Anything.” “Be right back.” Simon looked around his apartment. There weren't all that many magazines scattered about—he wasn't much of a reader. But Twilight considered any glossy publication to be a magazine, which did marginally broaden his search. He found a copy of High Times poking out from under the couch, and then two issues of Newsweek that were probably an artifact from the former tenant. Or else he'd subscribed while stoned. As luck would have it, he also found a small pamphlet titled “The Man's Guide to Grilling Bacon.” Simon tucked that neatly into one of the magazines, slid the whole collection under the bathroom door, and then went back into the living room. He switched the TV to America's Funniest Home Videos and rolled a joint. Five minutes later came the distinct sound of a pamphlet being flung against a bathroom wall with extreme prejudice, accompanied by an angry diatribe. Simon didn't notice; he was too enthralled by the montage of crotch shots.