I came home late and drunk. Actually, very drunk.
My birthday had been two days ago and any celebratory activity had been postponed until tonight, basically for a single one of my so-called “friends” at work to remember and comment on it. I really shouldn’t be too bitter about the fact that no one remembered. I still got wasted, I had a stomach full of hot wings and, briefly feeling my pockets, I still had my wallet and cell phone in hand. Plus, I’d made it home without puking or soiling myself.
In the mundane life that was mine, that counted as a win.
I stumbled into my darkened condo, throwing my jacket on the couch and my keys against a wall. Entering the kitchen, I opened every cabinet in search of something edible and easy to prepare. In my currently inebriated state, I thought I might kill myself attempting Top Ramen, so I settled on an English muffin on the verge of going bad.
Into the toaster it went. Into the bathroom I went, aiming poorly and spilling on the rim of the toilet and the floor. I made myself a mental note to clean it up… later.
Click!
My toaster went off in the kitchen.
Smack!
Something heavy hit something metallic.
I poked my head out of the washroom. “Hello?”
I chuckled to myself. Like the robber was going to answer me. ‘Oh, hello, Steve. Didn’t mean to disturb you, only stealing all your worldly possessions and pictures of your family. I also plan on stealing your warm and toasty English muffin when it’s done, just as a way of rubbing salt into the wound.’
Two sights greeted me upon reentering the kitchen. Both were of the negative variety.
Firstly, my English muffin had been scorched into a blackened crisp, smoke tendrils curling towards the ceiling.
Secondly, there was now an unconscious animal on my floor, its head grazing the front of my dishwasher.
I went to the more important item first—my muffin—to see if anything might be salvageable. Nope. I even burned my fingers prying it from the toaster. I then turned to the thing on the floor, squinting my eyes to try and keep it in focus. It looked like something crossed between a dog and a horse, roughly three and a half feet long. Its coat was dark grey and its tail and mane were jet black—the mane so long and perfectly curved, I thought it could even make Fabio jealous.
I poked at it with a toe. When it didn’t move, I knelt down and felt for a pulse. Nothing, although the body wasn’t cold. Up close, I finally noticed its warped red horn, as well as the strange markings along its face. If it was actually a small horse, it must’ve been hit by the ugly truck some time ago and dragged under its wheels for blocks.
I flicked its horn with a finger. Maybe some kids had been cruel to their pet and super-glued a papier-mâché art project to its head. Maybe that’s why it ran away and decided the best place to die was on my kitchen floor. But if that was the case, then just how the hell did it get inside here in the first place?
“Damn it,” I muttered, out of pure sympathy for myself and not the dead twisted abomination before me. “Do I even have any garbage bags left?”
I got back to my feet and touched the dent on my dishwasher. Had the horse-thing made that? If so, how? And right before dying? My eyes went from the toaster to the dent and finally to the animal on the floor. I laughed drunkenly. “Maybe it flew out of the toaster.”
It took close to six minutes, but I finally managed to cram the hairy beast into a garbage bag. If I could’ve double-bagged it I would’ve, but since I had no more bags in the house, I had to make due with the half-full garbage bag from below the sink. Inside were twenty-six dried hunks of pizza crusts, four empty yogurt containers, and a rotten piece of lasagna that sat in the fridge until the smell became too much. I doubted the deceased weirdo would care all too much about the smell.
As I tried to decide between the condo’s dumpster bins or the old fashioned rushing river option to get rid of a dead body, the tied garbage twitched along the floor.
If I’d been sober, I might’ve screamed. Drunk, I merely raised a brow and took a careful step back.
The thing inside the garbage bag poked at its side while shuffling around. From where I stood, I could hear the bits of leftover food mashing within. Sluggishly, the small horse sat up, and I was left to stare at a living, breathing bag of trash. Not for too long, I thought.
I grabbed a rolling pin from atop the counter and held it over my head.
Wild animals could be dangerous, I tried to rationalize, discovering just how little I actually wanted to bludgeon the thing. It might have rabies, or be crazy, or be in pain and in need of a swift end.
I almost dropped the pin to the floor once it started speaking.
“No,” it moaned out, sending a small shiver up my spine. “It can’t be. It just can’t. I lost? How did I lose? I was so close and everything was going my way. That insipid dragon and those meddling mares! Were they truly the ones that bested me?”
His voice was deep and a bit raspy, his tone sounding like someone that talked to themselves a lot. He turned his head from side to side, his muzzle mashing against the tightly knotted bag.
“Did I die? Is that what happened? What did the white light do to me? Could this really be all that awaits me?” He almost sounded sad. “I don’t deserve this. What did I do wrong? I’m not a bad pony. Why am I being punished? The afterlife is terrible!” He sniffed at his surroundings. “And it smells! The afterlife smells!” He belched, then gagged. “And now it’s only worse! I hate it! I hate this hell I’m in!”
I softly set down my rolling pin to free up my hands. Then I slapped myself across the face as hard as I could. My cheek went numb and warm, but I didn’t feel any more awake.
Then I understood. “One of my friends put something in my drink. A drug. A hallucinogenic drug. That’s what happened. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be wasting my time watching a bag full of talking pony.”
The bag turned in my direction. “Who said that? Are you in purgatory, too? What did you do? Enslave a race? Torch a village? Make light of Celestia’s wide posterior?”
“Please stop talking,” I said, rubbing a shaking hand through my hair.
“Why?” He angled his head to the side. “If we’re to share the pitch black depths of purgatory together, I’d figured we’d better find a good way to pass the time. Here’s a good one. I’m thinking of a number between one and three billion. Guess which number.”
I lightly slapped my face again. “Seven.”
The pony was silent for a moment. “Okay, next game. I’m thinking of a pony who’s purple and would look splendid caught on fire. Hint: her name rhymes with Smeshlight Smorkle.”
I’d had enough. My drugged brain needed sleep and I needed to stop listening to the talking trash bag. Scooping the bag off the floor with both hands, I tried to rush from the kitchen, only for the pony inside to start thrashing around.
“What’s happening? What’s going on? I don’t like this! It’s making me sick!”
A sharp red horn pierced through the side of the bag, spilling a banana peel and a used coffee filter to the ground.
“Damn it, damn it, damn it,” I mumbled, watching the contents of the bag ruin my floor.
“A light!” the pony cried, cackling widely. “A way out! Who says purgatory lasts forever anymore?”
He whirled his horn in a circle, widening the hole. When it was large enough, he stuck his head through and quickly eyed up the kitchen, a few french-fries stuck in his mane and a blotch of strawberry yogurt on his chin. My eyes locked onto his—eyes that were red and green and seemed to glow from the inside. He bared his teeth and growled.
“You!” he screamed. “Put me down!”
I yelped and dropped the bag. The pony hit the linoleum hard enough to bang his head against the floor. It only stunned him for a moment, as he energetically slithered out of the bag and stood.
“Eww!”
He glanced at his trash-covered coat, shaking his body to try and rid himself of what he could. “I knew I couldn’t have been defeated so easily. Twilight Sparkle besting a King? Bah! Only a minor setback. I will return. I will conquer and control them all. I will—”
He looked at me again and grinned, showing fangs. It wasn’t a happy kind of grin.
“You must work for Twilight Sparkle, mustn’t you? She didn’t wish to get her own hooves dirty disposing of me, so she gave you the job. How pathetic. And just what are you supposed to be, anyways? Another abomination never meant to glimpse the light of day?”
“I… uh…” My throat had gone dry. I’d never spoken to a pony before and found the entire thing a bit bizarre. My eyes went from the pony’s sharp teeth to the rolling pin on the counter. “I’m Steve.”
He raised a brow. “And what do Steves do, exactly?”
I took a step towards the kitchen and the rolling pin. “I work, and I live in a condo. That’s pretty much it.”
He nodded. “I see. Are there other Steves to be found, or are you the only one of your kind?”
Obviously, I should’ve used the term “human” when describing myself to the pony, but my head was still too busy drowning in a fresh sea of suds to think all that clearly.
I took another step towards the kitchen. “Actually, I think Steve’s a pretty popular name.”
He grinned again. “That’s good to hear. So when I rip out your throat with my teeth, the Steve population will not be irreparably damaged due to lack of Steves.”
I blinked. “Come again?”
The pony lunged for me the moment I grabbed the rolling pin from the counter. As I brought it to my chest, he jumped up and shoved me backwards, causing me to lose my balance and stumble back. The instant I landed on the hardwood floor, he stood on my chest and attempted to bite at my face; the only thing stopping him being the rolling pin pushing against the bottom of his jaw.
He snapped his mouth shut centimeters from the tip of my nose. He growled out, “Stop struggling and let me eat your face!”
“No!” I managed to push him back a few inches, making him visibly shake in anger. The empty yogurt cup stuck on his ear finally fell away.
He glared at me madly. “I’m going to devour your flesh! And then your soul! I’ve never dined on Steve before; what type of wine do you think would go?”
Bang-bang-bang!
The neighbor behind my place banged on the wall connecting our condos.
“Whatever kind of weird shit you got going on in there, Steve, knock it off! Some people are trying to sleep!”
“Sorry, Mrs. Pemberton!” I shouted back. Upon reflection, I could’ve yelled for help, but what would I have even said? Being attacked by a deranged talking pony, please send police force and team of shrinks?
The pony stopped snapping at me and instead straightened his back. He rolled his eyes. “Fine. If I cannot feast on your face, then maybe I’ll just crush your head using magic. I’ll let you decide which direction to squish: horizontal or vertical?”
“What?”
“Too late!” He pointed his horn at me as I grimaced. While he grunted, a bead of sweat rolled down his face. When nothing happened, he knocked on the side of his horn. “What’s wrong with this thing? What in Tartarus did you do to it?”
I took this opportunity to glance around the living room. A newspaper had fallen off the coffee table (probably when I fell to the floor) and I grabbed it, rolling it tight.
The pony hit his horn again. “Work, damn you! Work!”
I whapped him hard on the snout with the newspaper roll. His pupils shrunk and I almost thought I saw his eyes begin to water.
“Ow!” He grabbed at his nose with both hooves. “What did you do that for?”
I hit him again, this time square on the head.
“Ow! Stop it!” He stepped off of me and retreated a few steps. “I only tried to kill you! Stop hitting me with that. That really hurts!”
It was weird. I almost felt pity for the ugly thing. There must’ve been a part of me that still believed drugs were the reason for all this.
“Good,” I told him, pointing the paper roll at him. “Now maybe we can settle down and figure out just what the hell’s going on here.”
The pony nodded. “That sounds like a very smart idea.”
I furrowed my brows. “Really?”
“No.”
He came at me again and I hurried to take a step back, my socks momentarily slipping on the floor. My head hit the coffee table and the world went black.
***
Someone was whistling. Poorly.
“Let me just… okay, stay there for a moment and I’ll… hold it like this…”
Something clattered to the ground.
“No! Come on. You can’t be serious. How do those other ponies make it look so easy?”
I opened my eyes and found the pony standing over my head. Precariously balanced between two hooves was the butcher’s knife from the kitchen. As he tried to get the best grip on the knife between two flat hooves, he grimaced in concentration. His face was already wet with sweat and he bit the tip of his tongue in focus.
I wasted no time and slapped the knife away, sending it flying to the other end of the room.
By the look he gave me, it was almost as if I’d just ripped out his still beating heart.
His jaw quivered. “What did you do that for? You know how long it took me to pick that up with these stupid hooves? Like forty minutes, you cumbersome nitwit!” He exhaled noisily. “Just lay there and let me kill you already!”
My head felt clearer than before. Not by much, but enough that I knew I had to end this now.
As he went to retrieve the knife, I got up and roughly hooked both hands into his sides, pulling him up and shoving him against a wall.
“Put me down,” he growled.
“Or you’ll do what? I’m like twice your size.”
He tried kicking out with his legs. I took a step back and held him where he was. Even when one of his hooves connected with flesh, I found it hardly hurt at all. When he got the better of me earlier, it might’ve been the element of surprise that had aided him.
“Put me down this instant! No one touches the King without permission!”
I shook my head. “Too bad. At the moment I’m not too sure just what else you are, but I can safely say you’re a dick. One that calls himself a king for some reason. Don’t kings usually wear crowns?”
The pony stopped trying to hit me with his legs and went limp. He turned to his side with his head lowered. “First, King Sombra’s beaten by a mare, and now by a Steve. I don’t think things could possibly get any worse for me.”
He sniffled. At that, I rolled my eyes and carried him down the hall.
I opened the door to my storage room and set him down next to the washer and dryer.
He looked at the room cautiously. “What are you doing?”
I placed a hand on the doorknob. “Locking you in. There’s still a chance you’re nothing more than a terrible acid trip, so I’m going to sleep first and then deal with you tomorrow.”
He glared at me. “So that’s it, then? I’m your prisoner now? Forced to live off moldy bread and brown water?”
“Too good for bread and water? I have Goldfish crackers or Doritos if you’d want those instead. Do you drink Sprite?” I shook my head to clear my thoughts. “Why am I asking you this? You’re a pony. Why am I still talking to you?”
He frowned. “I will escape. This place cannot hold me for long.”
“Good. I’ll be looking up phone numbers in the morning for zoos or collectors of rare animals. How much do you reckon you’re worth?”
“A King’s ransom!”
“So twenty bucks?” I scratched my chin. “I wonder if the zoo would give me a lifetime pass for handing over a talking pony? How does something like that sound? A life behind glass, ogled by strangers forever and ever?”
He huffed out angrily. “As long as the ones watching aren’t anything like Steves, I’d welcome it willingly.”
“All right. Enough of this. Good night. If you try to kill me in my sleep again, I won’t hesitate hitting you with the paper some more—this time hard enough to read the imprinted text on your nose.”
“You repugnant tool!” he exclaimed, as I closed the door on him, wedging a chair underneath the knob to keep it shut.
I soon crawled into bed, first locking my bedroom door and shoving the dresser in front of it. Sleep came fast. My last thought being how much I’d laugh the next day, discovering how I’d had a fight to the death with a bag of trash while stoned out of my mind.
“Worst belated birthday ever,” I muttered, before blacking out.
***
SURVIVOR’S JOURNAL: FIRST ENTRY
Your benevolent King has found himself in a rather bizarre situation. At the moment, I am locked in a room beside two metal contraptions I am sure are a type of Steve-ian torture device. One reads “spin cycle” and the other has “temperature settings” and “load size,” although I can’t seem to find a “boiling pony” option. Maybe that Steve has something worse in store for me.
All I know is that I shall have my revenge, both on that Twilight Sparkle and the one that placed me here. My only worry is whether I’m still in Equestria at all. This whole place feels so much less colorful than usual—more grey, more plain—although I’m not about to complain about the lack of hideous pinks and purples burning my sight.
Let it be stated now for those that read this to understand:
I will not be staying here for long.