I asked questions. I found it a habit that was rather hard to break. Some had called me an inquisitive fellow that looked in places nobody else did, but most had called me annoying and obnoxious.
But I don't think I've ever asked this many questions all at once. Why was I a tiny, disproportionate white horse? How could that zebra talk? How were these wolves made of wood? What the hell was the 'Everfree' and why were people so scared of it? Why were there talking horse cultists similar to me that used magic? Why did the purple horse keep insisting I use magic? Where the hell was I? What the fuck was Equestria and why had I never noticed it on a globe before?
And most importantly, how in the world was I not dead yet?
Now thrust—not to mention without my consent—into a world that hated me, with magical ponies and annoying, impressionable children, with nothing but my love for my adoration appertaining to the amazing art of alliteration, my mind that was holding on by a thread and downright eldritch changes to my body, how was I ever going to get an uninterrupted session of sleep that actually left me feeling rested?
I'm going to get a better cover image someday, I swear.
Don't like it? Tell me about it. Your banter, insults, compliments and criticism, both justified and not so justified, are all appreciated and welcome in the comment section of this story.
The Gore tag is for… well, gore. The sex tag and Profanity tag's there because the protagonist can't keep his mouth shut.
Thou hast been warned, reader. Good day to you!