After leaving the library behind him, Ernest took a deep breath. “Good ole country air; they don’t make it like they used to. You know what I mean?”
Rimshot nodded in agreement as they took off down the road toward the Apple Farm. On the way, the dog and human saw several familiar pony faces from Pinkie’s party. All of them were pointing at Ernest and laughing. The Troll Fighter didn’t mind. In fact, he was enjoying the attention immensely.
“Ah, my adoring fans,” Ernest said as he waved back. “You know, Rimshot, these are some good people, even if they’re not people. I’m gonna miss this little corner of England.”
The beagle whimpered a little in reply.
Ernest looked down at his pet in sympathy. “Hey, cheer up. Maybe Princess Twilight will let us visit.”
The beagle’s tail wagged at the thought.
“Next time we gotta bring some roast beef or pork chops along. I don’t know about you, but I could use a steak.”
Rimshot gave his master a curious glance and barked.
“Yeah, I know they don’t eat meat, but that’s because I bet they’ve never had it. Trust me, they’ll come around after a good Kansas City barbecue. Remind me to ask the Princess if we can do that next time we’re here.”
Rimshot shook his head. They kept walking until they reached an apple tree covered hill that overlooked the rest of the orchards. Standing underneath the trees, Ernest took in the view. He could see the Apple family’s homestead and a tree house off in the distance. For some reason, Ernest’s eyes kept drifting back to the tree house.
The Troll Fighter picked up Rimshot. “Hey, buddy, does that look familiar?” He pointed to the tree house.
The dog yipped.
“Yep, that was our finest hour,” Ernest agreed. “It was you, me . . . even though you were turned to wood, and some scrappy kids and their parents against a whole army of trolls on Halloween night.”
The aircraft gunner in Ernest spoke suddenly. “Yeah, them troll devils were coming up the very flanks of the tree itself. There was nowhere to go. We were surrounded with nothing but milk, our guts, and a few inches of bark in-between us and them.”
The lumberjack personality chimed in. “You got it, boss. Lucky we built that tree fort so well. We was lucky we had a tree to begin with cause there aren’t any trees in Botswana. I know. I am a Botswananian lumberjack and ain’t ever had a job.”
“Trees and forts are for sissies who aren’t man enough to get slaughtered by us, the Ottomans. I was rooting for the trolls the entire time.”
By this point Rimshot had jumped down from his master’s arms. He had a feeling that it was high time for his owner to give voice to his other personalities. They hadn’t talked for a while. The beagle was very thankful that this did not happen at the party. That would have looked bad.
“Are you crazy? Forts are great. Pillow forts, chocolate forts, cotton forts. You can fort anything.”
Rimshot paused as he was looking around. That didn’t sound like his master.
“Oh, I agree totally, honey. You can’t go wrong with a chocolate fort smothered in caramel sauce. By the way, who does your mane? It’s just sooooo gorgeous.”
The beagle whirled around to see Pinkie Pie balancing an apple basket on her head. Currently she was talking to the hair dresser side of Ernest.
“Nopony does my mane. I just comb it with pink frosting everyday, and it keeps it nice, pink, and tasty,” Pinkie replied as she began to suck on her own hair.
Ernest’s girlish demeanor vanished as he said in Aunty Nelda’s voice, “Pink frosting you say? That’s the problem with you children today. You don’t know how good you have it. Fifty years ago during the depression, we couldn’t afford frosting to comb our hair with. Back then you were lucky you weren’t selling your hair to wig factories. When I was your age we were lucky to comb our make-believe hair with mud. And by Jove, we were happy to do it.”
“Oh my gosh, it’s true!” Pinkie exclaimed. “Granny Smith says the same thing. I thought those were just stories.”
Rimshot was watching the two interact in amazement. This was the first animal or human to take Ernest’s multiple personality condition so well.
Without skipping a beat, Ernest (the regular Ernest) asked the pink pony, “Why do you have an apple basket on your head?”
“I’m just helping Applejack harvest apples for the day. The Apple family is gearing up for their apple cider festival after Nightmare Night. Every pony looooves apples!”
“Do you need some help?” Ernest offered.
“Naw, I think we got it.” A thought occurred to Pinkie just then, and she gave the human an appraising glare. “Hey, what are you doing, buster? Did Rainbow Dash send you out here to spy on us? You can tell her that she’ll get her cider when everypony else does.”
Ernest backed up against the tree. “I swear, I don’t know anything about cider. I- I didn’t even know you could make cider out of apples. I thought the cider fairy made it and gave you some whenever you left an apple core under your pillow.”
Pinkie’s eyes lit up happily. “Hmmmm, I never thought about trying that, but if that works for cakes, why not apples?” A few seconds later she started to vibrate, then stopped just as abruptly. “I believe you, Ernest, but my Pinkie sense tells me I should send you to Apple Farm Security just in case you’re a Rainbow spy.” The pony’s eyes shifted conspicuously. “Rainbow has spies everywhere.”
The human puffed up his chest as his Julius Caesar personality. “A spy is a petty coward who is afraid of the light of justice. I have nothing to fear but trolls, Ottomans, and piñatas. Tell me, citizen, where is this farm security so that I may prove my obvious innocence?”
Pinkie turned around and pointed to the tree house.
“Of course, the high ground,” Ernest continued in his Roman voice. As he began to walk toward his objective, he said to Rimshot, “Come my faithful legionnaire, we make for yon tree bastion.”
The pink mare waved. “See ya later, Ernest. Tell the Cutie Mark Crusaders I said Hi.”
This snapped Ernest out of his current personality quicker than a bucket of cold water to the face. He pivoted on his heel.
“The who?” he asked. But he was too late. Pinkie Pie was already bounding down the road to the apple farm.
Looking down at his dog, Ernest shrugged his shoulders and kept on walking. As the garbage man and Rimshot came closer to the tree house, Ernest began to notice a few eerie things. It looked like the tree fort had been under siege, and the defenders had lost. Several holes had been blown into the fort’s walls and roof, and all of the windows had their glass shattered.
Ernest paused to take this in. “Maybe they’re decorating for Halloween, er, I mean Nightmare Night,” he pondered aloud. But he didn’t believe his own words. If the fort had been assaulted then, it had happened recently. The scorch marks all along the edifice of the building were very fresh. Something was wrong.
The human swallowed nervously and kept going, but his senses screamed at him to turn around. He knew he couldn’t do that. He had to find out what had happened and if he could help. Ernest found himself walking up the ramp to the club house door. Rimshot whimpered as Ernest raised his arm to knock.
The human put on a brave face and laughed. “Eh-heh-heh-heh. Come on, boy, there’s nothing to be scared of. It’s just a tree house. I mean, it’s not like there are trolls or anything hiding inside.”
Before the beagle could reply, Ernest rapped his knuckles on the door. He did this once, twice, and on the third time, a lance of moss-colored energy exploded from inside, just above his fingers. The hole in the door was three times as big as Worrell’s fist.
Panicking, the Troll Fighter yelled, “Hit the deck, Rimshot!” With that, Ernest launched himself out of the way. Unfortunately, he forgot that he had marched two stories above the ground as he plummeted to the grass below.
“WHHAAAAA------!!!!” Ernest’s scream was cut short as he landed head first in a gopher hole.
Despite the situation, Rimshot couldn’t help but snicker at his master’s predicament. If he had a camera, he would have taken a picture of Ernest’s body sticking feet first straight up a lodged arrow.
Rimshot was about to go assist him, when he heard something crash land behind him.
“Ooof. Hey, I remember you. You’re that guy’s pet, aren’t ya?” asked a voice behind Rimshot.
The beagle whirled around and recoiled in surprise. He remembered the three costumed fillies he and Ernest had run into while fixing the truck. This was one of them. But instead of sporting a troll costume, the filly now possessed a pair of wings the size of massive dinner tables. The wings looked very heavy and gangly as they spread out beside the pegasus. Despite this, the little pony was smiling and reaching out to pet him. But the beagle would have none it as he took off running away from the freakish filly.
Rimshot looked behind him. To his utter terror, the pony raised its gargantuan wings and beat them once. In an instant the pony shot skyward out of sight, then suddenly was right on top of him, despite the dog’s considerable lead.
“Gotcha!” the pony cried as she grabbed the beagle and took clumsily to the skies.
Meanwhile, a dazed and confused Ernest moaned in pain and confusion. “Hey . . . who turned out the lights?” he asked no one in particular.
He was answered by the very irate inhabitant of the gopher hole, who began to attack his head with a vengeance.
Ernest yelled again. “WHAAAAAA! Somebody get me out of here! I’m sorry! If I’d known your home was here, I’d of landed somewhere else! Stop that! It hurts!”
The Troll Fighter flailed uselessly in the air. Moments later, he felt a pair of very strong hooves wrap around his legs like a vice. One solid pull was all it took to unstick the human. After the deed was done, Ernest was dropped to the ground with a dull thud.
After prying the gopher off his face, Ernest wiped the dirt and grime away from his eyes. “Boy, am I glad to see you, Big Mac. I think someone’s in that club house armed with a laser cannon or at least a Dr. Death emerald flame thrower.”
“Eyup, ” came the terse reply.
As Ernest climbed to his feet, he fixed his gaze on the tree fort. “This isn’t going to be easy. He’s got the high ground, and we can’t use the ramp. He’ll be expecting that.” A plan began to form in the garbage man’s mind.
“We’re going to have to dig a tunnel up to the tree, wait until it’s dark, and then throw a scarecrow laden with termites through that window,” Ernest said pointing. “It’s the classic way to destroy a tree fort. I think the Canadian’s used it against the Egyptians at the battle of Chickamauga.” The Troll Fighter smiled. “We got him right where we want him.”
“How do ya know it’s a he up there?”
Ernest blinked and turned around to look at the pony. What he saw made him scratch his head in confusion. For some reason, Big Mac now had yellow fur and was wearing an obnoxiously large bow in his mane. “Uh, I don’t know, I just thought . . . Big Mac, why are you yellow?”
“I ain’t my brother, ya stupid moron,” replied the irate pony in a deep masculine tone.
Ernest’s eyes grew big as dinner plates. “Wow, Apple Jack. I didn’t recognize you without your hat on. You sure look different.”
The pony’s nostrils flared angrily.
From the tree house a familiar voice called down to Ernest. “Oh, for the love of Cadence, that’s Apple Bloom, not Applejack.”
Looking back up at the tree house, Ernest saw a tiny pony with an enormously long horn walking very carefully down the ramp. The horn stretched out before her so far that she was obviously struggling to keep her balance.
Ernest’s mouth dropped when he saw her. All of a sudden the huge mare in front of him and the tiny unicorn looked very familiar. “Sweetie Belle?” Ernest asked tentatively.
With all the patience she could muster, the unicorn nodded.
From above the group another voice yelled, “Look out below!”
Ernest had just enough time to turn and see the tiny pegasus with enormous wings fill his vision. Ernest was about ready to scream, but it was too late. The little pony collided with the human, smashing him to the ground.
Moaning in pain, Ernest heard the newcomer say, “Hey, thanks for breaking my fall, Ernest. And for this set of killer wings.”
Rimshot squirmed out of Scootaloo’s hooves and climbed onto his master’s chest. He inspected his owner for any major damage. As usual, Ernest was unharmed.
Ernest groaned in agony. “Killer wings is right. . . Those things nearly did me in.”
Scootaloo’s cheeks turned scarlet beneath her fur as she helped the groggy human to his feet.
Ernest shook his head to stop the world from spinning and studied the three mutated ponies. “I think I liked you three better in your troll costumes.”
“Buck you!” yelled Sweetie Belle. Her enormously long horn was pulsating with magic. “You’re the reason we look like this.”
The garbage man cringed and took a step back.
Apple Bloom moved to place herself between her unicorn friend and the human. To the huge earth pony, it looked like her fellow crusader wanted to either impale Ernest with her spear-horn or blast him to a million pieces.
“Sweetie Belle, I don’t think this is his fault. We shouldn’t have been messing with his things,” Apple Bloom said calmly.
“How can you take his side?” Sweetie Belle asked as she pointed her long horn away from her friend. “I bet the pedofile left those three bottles there for us to drink. Don’t you think it’s weird that he had a bottle of magic potion for each kind of pony?”
“Wait a second,” Ernest said. “I don’t have any magic potions. I promised my health class teacher I wouldn’t touch the stuff. He said it would be bad for me in the long run.”
Rimshot pawed at Ernest’s leg and yipped up at his master.
“What do you mean they’re not talking about steroids? What else could it be? I’m telling you this is a classic case of over juicing.”
Scootaloo stretched her bulbous wings to the sky but fell over to the side in the process. “Your dog’s right. I got these sweet wings from drinking that pegasus potion you had in your bag.”
“And I became a Clydesdale when I drank the earth pony potion,” declared Apple Bloom.
Sweetie Belle just glared at Ernest, too mad to speak.
Ernest just stared blankly at the three, still trying to piece together how he was responsible for this.
Rimshot too was having a hard time seeing how his master could . . . The dog’s ears stood on end as he remembered what they had done the night before. Rimshot quickly turned to his owner and barked up to his master.
“Sports drinks, what sports . . . oh.” Ernest now recalled when he and Rimshot had entered Zacora’s hut and had taken three vials from a cavity in a wall, hidden by a mask.
“Eh-heh-heh-heh. I’m glad I didn’t try those.” Rubbing the back of his neck, Ernest asked, “Have you three ever heard of a witch named Zecora?”
The three ponies gaped at the human.
“You stole those potions from Zecora, didn’t you?” the unicorn bellowed.
“I didn’t steal them, I paid for them,” Ernest replied quickly.
“Where’s your receipt then?” asked Scootaloo.
“Right here,” Ernest replied as he dug into his jeans pockets with his hands. Not finding anything, he started to pat himself down. Starting o become nervous, he even looked underneath his brand new hat. When he put his hat back on his head, it came to him. He never got a receipt because Zecora was not there at the time when he paid for the sports drinks. He had just left the money on a table.
When he shared this revelation with the Crusaders, they were not happy.
Pointing a hoof at him, Sweetie Belle declared, “You and your pet are now prisoners of the Cutie Mark Crusaders until we get this sorted out.”
The human swallowed nervously, while Rimshot covered his eyes with his ears.
“What are you thinking, Sweetie?” the pegasus asked.
“I think we need to visit Zecora.”
“But how are all of us going to get past my family? Plus it’ll be dark by the time we get there and back. Everypony will be suspicious about where we’ve been.”
Sweetie Belle stared at the huge filly. It was uncanny how much she sounded like her brother.
“You two just keep an eye on Stupid and Rimshot.”
Ernest frowned indignantly. “Hey, there’s no need for name calling. We’re all friends here . . . right?”
Scootaloo looked at Ernest’s hat and back to Ernest. “Have you taken a look at your hat recently?”
“No. Why?”
“You might want to do that,” replied Scootaloo. “It looks like Rarity left you a message on it.”
“A message? What does it say?” Ernest asked excitedly as he took off his hat.
“Aw, why’d you have to tell him that, Scoots? He could have gone for weeks without knowing,” declared Apple Bloom.
At that moment though, a cloud blocked the sunlight coming down on the group.
“What message? Is it invisible? I didn’t know you ponies could write in invisible ink.”
Apple Bloom frowned. “Huh, weird, the message disappeared.” Knowing they were getting off topic, the unicorn declared, “I’m going to teleport all of us to Zecora’s house. She’ll fix us up and then we high tail it back to the club house.”
“Can you do that?” asked Apple Bloom.
“Um, I think so.”
“I don’t know, guys. I think I’d rather walk,” Ernest pleaded. “You know what happens if you don’t exercise? You look like my friend Chuck. Not that I’m saying he’s fat . . . cause he is. But the point is, I think we should stretch our legs a little.”
“Apple Bloom, grab him,” Sweetie Belle commanded.
Ernest froze as the enormous mare placed a heavy hoof on his shoulder, rooting him to the ground. Rimshot kept glancing over his shoulder for any sign of help from just about anyone. There was none.
“Okay, here we go,” Sweetie Bell announced.
Moss colored magic surrounded the group, and moments later they were gone.