The Bottom Shelf

by JakeAndDollars

Granny Smith Kicks The Bucket

Granny Smith Kicks the Bucket

Today’s episode performed by, Granny Smith and family. Don’t worry, no Braeburn so you can all breath normally. Unless of course you like that bozo, then sorry.
Rated “can’t you ask somebody else? I have something going on right now,” by this guy I know down at the sporting goods store, he seemed to be having a really bad day for some reason. I didn’t ask, but he had this look of dark brooding or something. Should we be concerned?
Also, I’m beginning to suspect that all these people are just figments of my imagination, especially the ones with the funny little tinfoil hats… Dollars

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With a croaking yawn the elderly mare turned away from the warm glow of light at the end of the tunnel and allowed her eyes to slowly flutter open, smirking slyly to herself as she stretched in her cozy bed. “Ohh tha kidder,” Granny Smith chuckled softly to herself. “Some Gatekeeper, can't even beat an ol' hen at a stare down. What a yokel.”
Smiling broadly at yet another outsmarting of fate, the old mare climbed down from her bed, and promptly collapsed to the floor, the dull thud accompanying her was drowned out a moment later in cackling laughter. “Oh righty, you ol’ kidder you,” Granny said with a humorous grin, giving her cutie mark a couple of smacks. The hip creaked in response as it attempted once again to support her weight. “Come on ya lazy git, there be chores ta do!”
Emitting a sound not unlike a rusty spring, Granny Smith rose from her prone position just in time for her bedroom door to burst open. An anxious Applejack strode inside. “You alright Granny? I heard a noise like somepony fallin’ over,” she said, glancing around for a moment in search of anything amiss.
“Never you mind youngin,” Granny replied as she strolled past, intent on getting on with her day. That old rocking chair couldn’t have her fall asleep mid-sentence without her. “That old coot Cthulhu ain’t managed to collect just yet.”
Leaving a speechless Applejack behind, Granny Smith approached the first thing to make its daily attempt at her life. “Well good mornin’, stairs,” She muttered warily. She eyed each one down the flight, trying to discern which traitorous plank of wood would make a grab at her soul today. “Which one a y’all is feelin’ lucky, huh, punks?” And with that, she closed her eyes tight, and took a step, unflinching as the galactic die was cast.

It rolled a nat twenty…

Reaching the base of the stairs Granny Smith took a quick, measured look around the family room. She took pause as she noted the presence of an all too familiar cloaked figure sitting in an antique armchair. His signature scythe leaning against the wall behind him, a newspaper held open before the empty void where a face should be. Upon noticing the newcomer the hooded figure lowered the paper in means of gaining a better view.
“Splendid mornin’ to yah,” Granny said cheerfully, her voice warbling out the warm greeting. “Sorry Josh, not today,” She sing songed, noticing the chill in the air at the others indignation.
Letting out a sigh as he stood, the newspaper falling to ash in his hands as he did so. The cloaked apparition snapped his fingers, the scythe flying into his grasp. With a curt nod and a stamp from the weapon upon the wood floor, he was gone. He had been thwarted for another day, his stairs defeated.
“Lousy cotton picker, serves him right fer not havin the yams ta do it himself,” Granny muttered, turning towards her beloved kitchen, and promptly stepped down on an all too familiar scooter… “Sweet aunt Bonnie and great uncle Clyde!”
With seeming supernatural speed the little death machine sped forward under the unfamiliar weight, careening down the hall and into the kitchen, slamming into the counter and dumping the old mare across the flat surface. The impact dislodged hanging items and upset the contents of multiple cupboards, the well worn doors flopping open to allow their contents to plummet toward the dazed pony below.
The first wave of the incoming attack came in the form of a large frying pan, an old cast iron affair that sported more than enough bulk to perform ANY task. Within reason of course, like sword fighting a dog brained horse… Perhaps.

Again the dice were cast, a pair this time. They came up seven…

The pan landed with a resounding clatter, slamming onto the counter mere inches from Granny’s head, the heavy utensil spun a few times before coming to rest, perfectly intercepting a fine stream of pancake mix as the bag high above leaned out of its cupboard.
“Ahh, horse pucky,” Granny Smith muttered as she sat up. She paid the large vegetable knife that stabbed the table where her head had been a moment later no mind. “Darn foals an them death machines, somepony could’ve broke a leg. An ahm git’n too big a hitch in mah giddyup to be diggen holes out back all uh tha time.”
Not missing a beat Granny slid down from the table, a hoof bumping the dial on the stove and turning it on. Catching sight of the mess strewn atop the table she clicked her tongue in annoyance before reaching a hoof into the pan full of pancake mix, catching some on the tip and giving it an inspecting lick. “Poor Jackie, that lil filly never could cook nothin. Bless her heart fer tryin,” glancing around to make sure no one saw she discreetly reached over and added some ground pepper to the mix. “There now, maybe that’ll help keep them omelets down,” she said, turning away with a merry chuckle at a job well done. And promptly set hoof on the little wood death machine again…

/ / / / / / / / / / / /

So thirsty, so parched, so tied up…

Winona strained forward, pulling with all her collie might, the length of invincible old rope looped around her throat stretched taught, unyielding and unforgiving in its loathsome ropeness.
She whined, nearing the edge of despair as her paws scraped against the aging wood of the farmhouse porch. It had been all of five whole minutes since the little food bringers had rushed by, knocking her offerings bowl of wonderful aside like so much dust in the wind. They were laughing and whispering conspiratorially as they had dragged her fourth favorite sleep cozy out of the house, and then had the gall to simply lay it in the dirt! They had laid it in the dirt just out of her reach. Then then the whelps just took off and left it, taunting her with that horrid noise.
Now here she was, unjustly detained by this wretched excuse for a chew toy! And for what?! Having the decency to bring her ponies a dead bird as a sign of her gratitude for the things they should be doing for her regardless? Absurd! Clearly this would not stand, for she was Winona! Mightiest collie in all the land!
With a low growl Winona put the last of her considerable collie power into her efforts to reach the glistening salvation that was the water bowl of merciful hydration, either she would overcome these shackles, or be doomed to eternal thirst for the rest of the morning. Clearly, this was a special kind of hell.
Inches, mere inches were all that separated Winona from sweet savory victory. Tonsils scraped, boards creaked, rope stretched. The screen door burst open…

/ / / / / / / / / / / /

Hollering like a thing possessed Granny sailed out the door at improbable speed, hooves flailing madly as she scrambled to remain balanced atop her impromptu mode of transportation. “This don seem physically possible!” She hollered, eyes going round at the sight that greeted her on the porch. There, straining with all her might to reach an already empty water dish, was Winona.
The family dog having apparently taken notice of the sudden situation did the only sensible thing a fine canine could do, given her options. She pulled harder; putting her back into it and straining the rope taught, clearly the best choice.
“With my last breath, I curse Zoi-” with a yip and a screech the pair collided, Granny flipping up over the rope as the scooter decided it no longer wished to cater to a passenger. The old mare flew through the air, a shrill warbling scream following in her wake as she was catapulted across the porch, nothing before her but the dirt, and a nasty fall, and an old dog bed…
In a tangle of limbs and a dull thump Granny Smith came to a surprisingly gentle rest, piled up atop the musty mound of cotton and polyester. With a dusty heave and a croak she rolled over and gave the dazed dog a scowl. “Et too Winona? I expect this from the rest of umm, specially since Mac found out I wrote em all outta the will. But you?”
“What’s a will Granny?” Asked an all too innocent voice from someplace just above the sprawled elder. Granny Smith pulled her head back, squinting into the light as the sun peeked over the roof.
“Never you mind, youngin,” Granny replied, somewhat miffed at the tiny filly leaning over the edge of the roof. Oh sure, she climbs up there with her old loom and everyone loses their manure, Applebloom does it? Nopony says nuthin’, just chalk it up to her bein a filly what knows nuthin’. “What in the sam hill you doin up there anyhow?”
Slinking back from the edge to hide the beginnings of a blush Applebloom was about to engineer the perfect cover for the current crusade. Unfortunately Scootaloo beat her to the punch, the orange filly pushing past her friend to lean over and give Granny a big grin.
“She got the idea from a colt at school who just got his Cutie mark,” Scoots explained sagely, grabbing Applebloom’s leg and hauling her forward. “And now she wants one just like his! On account of them being sweet on each other,”
“Are not!” Applebloom shouted on the defensive, her blush turning redder than her family’s finest red delicious. “Why, I barely even know im’, he’s weird, and talks funny,”
“He doesn’t talk funny,” Scootaloo insisted, her grin stretching ever further across her face. “He’s just Cajun.”
“You would know!” Applebloom fired back, desperate to turn the conversation away from herself. “Now can we please just git back to hurlin ourselves off ah this here roof?! I don’ wanna hear anythin’ more about Dusty!”
A positively evil smirk replaced the ear to ear grin that had covered Scootaloos face. “Fine. Whatever you say, Sugarbloom,” she said dreamily, elbowing Applebloom’s ribs.
“Now hold on one convolutin’ minute!,” Granny Smith hollered up at the girls, her eye landing on her granddaughter with an intensity bordering on interested. “Did ya’ll say, Dusty? As in, Dusty Nugget? Son o that potato-diggin’ varmint Rusty Nugget! An a no good pear farmer ta boot! Ahh might a known he’d try something like this!” In a fit of anger the aging mare bucked a hind leg, the strike grazing an old metal bucket that fell to its side, bringing many face palms from all the people who bothered to read this…