Ernest Saves Equestria

by Emerald Harp

Troll Safari

“Alright, Rimshot,” Ernest said excitedly. “We only got a few more trolls left to kill. Then we can go home and dine on a sumptuous dish of prune juice and chocolate. How does that sound?”

Rimshot gave a disapproving whimper as he scurried beside Ernest.

The Great Redneck Hope frowned down at his dog. “Now what’s wrong with that? They taste great together.” Then a light bulb came on in his head. “Oh, right. Last time I fed you that we had to put in fresh carpet, new wall paper, repaint the ceiling . . . How about a biscuit for you instead?”

This seemed to placate the dog, and he gave a happy bark. Ernest smiled down at Rimshot, “That’s the spirit, boy. It’s good to have ya back.”

Ernest strolled around the oak tree that was literally the root of all the troll problems. As he walked at a leisurely pace, he sang “What is Love,” a tune that was also perfect for exterminating trolls. Ernest bobbed his head rhythmically to the music that came from the radio in his truck. He rounded the tree and used his Super Soaker to shoot an extremely fat troll in the face with a stream of milk. The spawn of Trantor convulsed and dissolved into a stinking pile of goo and bone.

Ernest stopped singing and asked his dog, “How many does that make tonight, boy? I lost count.”

The beagle barked and scratched the ground a few times.

“That sounds about right,” Ernest said smugly. “After all, I am Ernest P. Worrell, the Troll Slayer of Briarville, Missouri.”

As he said this, another pod from the oak tree hit the ground a few feet away from him. Ernest rolled his eyes and sighed as the pod sank deep into the ground. “I wish those dang brussel sprouts would stop falling from great-grandpappy’s tree. I haven’t gotten to go trick-or-treating tonight, and I am starving.”

The former sanitation engineer pretended he was a graceful ballerina as he made his way over to where the pod had fallen. He hummed along with the radio all the while as he clumsily pirouetted. A shrieking troll erupted from the earth where the pod had sunk into the dirt. The stinking troll wielded two massive wood-splitting mauls like they were children’s toys and roared a battle cry.

Unimpressed, Ernest stopped humming and said to the monster, “Yeah, yeah, quit your yelling. I got your lunch right here, Squid Lips.”

He was about to shoot the hulking troll, but someone else had beat him to it. Behind the dissolving beast was a twelve-year-old girl with a carton of milk.

In a winey voice Ernest said, “Aw, you stole my kill, Elizabeth. I need every kill I can get if I’m going to beat Kenny’s score.”

Elizabeth shrugged and said, “Sorry Ernest, but I wanted to get one for myself before they were all gone. Being a wooden doll wasn’t fun.”

Ernest nodded. “The most delectable revenge, is fresh troll served dead with a glass of milk on the side, ya know what I mean?”

Elizabeth grinned. “I think I do. By the way, Ernest, who sings that tune you were performing earlier?”

“Haddaway. Why?”

“Let’s keep it that way, okay?” Elizabeth replied gently.

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As the massacre went on around the oak tree, Rotnart, a lone troll was fumbling and cursing at a large hide-bound book. For the past twenty minutes he had tried to decipher the scrawl on the pages but could not for the life of him figure out which way was up on the ancient tome. From what little Rotnart could understand, it was a spell to get him away from here, and right now that was exactly what he needed. Unfortunately, most of it was in some sort of old demonic language that he didn’t quite understand. Rotnart was starting to get scared because the noise of battle from the oak tree had become suddenly quiet.

Panicking, the four-foot troll finally said, “#&%@ this paper. I need to go!”

The ugly beast in frustration tore the page in half, and to his utter surprise, a grey swirling vortex opened in front of him. The doorway’s manifestation flung the newborn troll backwards with the force of a gale. Rotnart somersaulted in the air and landed painfully on his face. He spat out dirt, and still swearing, the monster got to his feet and gazed in wonder at the new door. The troll’s beady eyes grew as wide as dinner plates as he wiped a large handful of snot from his face. Rotnart grinned to himself and marveled at his apparent cleverness. Only a troll as cunning as he would have been able to create a portal by ripping up spells instead of casting them.

Before the genius troll stepped through the new doorway, he felt a sinking feeling in his gut. Or maybe that was gas. He wasn’t entirely sure. Either way, he had no clue where this portal would take him. Hopefully, it would be a new place without that thrice-damned milk the humans were so fond of. The tall, ugly freaks had just gotten lucky when they found out that the white substance was so incredibly deadly to trolls. Rotnart reasoned that he wasn’t really running away; he would be back. This was just a tactical withdrawal to . . . somewhere else.

Rotnart knew that wherever he went, he would rebuild the troll nation. Of course, he would do it better than his father, Trantor Double Nose. After all, Rotnart had been one of the first to drop from the tree and thus had inherited all of Trantor’s cunning and ruthlessness. Rotnart’s brothers and sisters who dropped after him were about as wise and cunning as domestic turkeys sniffing markers in a thunderstorm.

Rotnart had also inherited a great mistrust of authority. Instead of attacking the humans right off the bat like his father had ordered, he had slipped inside the oak tree and stole his dad’s bug out bag. Rotnart then got the heck out of there, just before the Great Red Neck Hope and his kind showed up. If his father were still around, he probably would be cursing Rotnart’s name right now. Oh well. That beats the hell out of dying by milk or being kissed. Rotnart shuddered at that thought as he made sure that he had everything for his journey. The bag he carried contained his father’s spell book, short sword, and three pods that had landed inside the tree and not on the ground. Rotnart nodded in satisfaction, and before the troll stepped forward into the portal, he turned around and flipped the bird to the humans with both hands, then disappeared.

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As the last of the trolls were put down, Ernest asked Old Lady Hackmore, “Is that all of them, ma’am?”

The witch closed her eyes and concentrated. “There is one left that carries the blood of Trantor in his veins and smells like burnt skunk.”

She and Ernest sniffed the air to pinpoint the source of the stench. Ernest smelled his armpits.

Old Lady Hackmore pointed into the night and yelled, “He’s over there!”

At that moment a huge portal opened where Hackmore was pointing. Standing in front of the shimmering doorway of light was a single squat being with a bag slung over his shoulder. Ernest’s blood boiled as he saw the troll raise his middle fingers in salute before vanishing into the light. He tried to cover Rimshot’s eyes, but it was too late. The dog had seen it and could never unsee it.

In a fit of rage, Ernest pointed at the portal and declared, “You can’t just do that in front of my dog and get away with it! You, sir, are getting a big fat kiss from me! So, pucker up, Crater Face, and get ready to die!”

Then he changed his demeanor and said in a Scottish accent to the old woman, “Stay here, me lady, and tell the rest of the lads and lassies that Troll Fighter One is going on a bloody Safari.”

Ernest and Rimshot took off back to his truck. Before he could chase after the errant troll, Old Lady Hackmore opened the passenger-side door.

She placed a book on the floor boards. “This will help you on your quest, Worrell. I don’t know where that Troll has gone, but you must destroy him. No one is safe until you do.”

Ernest tipped his hat to the witch and said in a western accent, “Much obliged, senoriter. Now close the door. I got a trail to blaze into the heart of destiny . . . and a troll to mess up.”

As soon as the witch closed the door, Ernest drove the Chevy pickup straight into the portal at full speed and disappeared.

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From the other side of the portal, things were not going as planned.

“Close! Damn you! Close! Aw &%^# me!” Rotnart screamed.

But no matter how much he pleaded and yelled at the magical doorway, it would not shut. Those stupid humans would find his portal any minute now. He just had to close it. Then an idea came to the troll. Still standing in front of the portal, he quickly dug his father’s spell book from the bag and hysterically tried to find something about how to close a stubborn portal in the book’s index. Mercifully the index was in troll and not demonic. “Where, the hell is it? Doors, gateways . . . Ah, here we go, portals.”

Hearing something coming from the other side of the portal, Rotnart slowly looked up from the book. It was a loud rumbling noise that was drawing closer and closer. It was too loud to be a human, so allowing his curiosity to get the better of him, he stuck his head through the gateway. What the young troll saw caused his heart to stop beating.

“Oh, SH--!"

He was abruptly cut off as a speeding half-ton truck slammed into him. Inside the cab of the vehicle, it felt like Ernest and Rimshot had run over the world’s largest speed bump as they were jostled around inside. “I think we found the troll, Rimshot . . . Either that or it was the ugliest two-legged deer I’ve ever seen.”

Meanwhile the troll lay still for a few seconds on his back. Somehow he had managed to hang on to his precious bag and the spell book.

Rising to a sitting position he said, “Well, at least that cleared my sinuses.”

He got painfully back to his feet. The truck had disappeared over a nearby hill and from the sound of it, was coming back to check on him.

Quickly looking around at his new environment, the troll realized that he was in a clearing with a forest surrounding him. Rotnart scowled angrily. The blasted gate had finally closed after letting Worrell and his machine through. Thinking quickly, he placed a pod that contained one of his siblings on the ground and took off into the dark trees, running blindly into the night.

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As the truck reversed at the top of the hill, Ernest was elated. “We got him, Rimshot! We got the last of the ugly, stupid, fat, hairy, snot-nosed . . . What are you looking at?”

Rimshot was staring into the passenger-side rearview mirror. Curious, Ernest looked into the mirror and saw the troll illuminated in his brake lights. It had survived being hit by the truck and was walking slowly towards the vehicle. “Aw, rats! You gotta admit, boy, these stunties are tough. Keep the engine warm. I’ve a troll to plant six feet under.”

Ernest grabbed his Super Soaker and exited the truck. He walked around to the tail-end of his vehicle and waited for the troll to get closer. As the troll approached, Ernest noticed that the beast had a loaded crossbow cradled between his snot-encrusted hands.

When the troll was twenty feet away, the beast stopped, pointed the weapon at the ground, and glared at Ernest. In reply, having a great flare for the dramatic, Ernest narrowed his eyes and nodded in understanding.

“Alright, Hammer Head, your move,” Ernest drawled.

He then stuck his water gun in his pocket, his right hand hovering above the plastic grip of the deadly milk weapon in anticipation.

For fifteen seconds the combatants stared at each other with mutual loathing. A gust of wind blew a tumble weed from out of nowhere to pass in-between them. Finally, the troll blinked and raised his crossbow to his shoulder with deadly intent. The whole scene seemed to play out in slow motion, as Ernest went for his water gun. As the opponents leveled their weapons and took aim at each other, they fired at the same time.

The stream of milk caught the troll in the throat, causing him to dissolve instantly. The crossbow bolt meanwhile missed Ernest’s left arm by centimeters but struck the left tail light of his truck. The arrow bounced off the red plastic, ricocheted off a tree, glanced off a stone, and hit the back of Ernest’s head.

Ernest staggered under the blow but didn’t fall. He slowly and tenderly placed a hand on the bolt and yanked it out. The head of the crossbow bolt had only pierced his cap. He looked at the blunted head of the arrow, whistled, and said, “I’m glad it hit the hard end.”

Comments

[redskin122004]

[Captain-Brony]

AHA!! ERNEST!!

[touyamod]

Yeah! Ernest is off to save the world again, never can get enough of the Ernest movies!

[Jake The Army Guy]

Did... did y... did you seriously just write a crossover with one of my favorite movies?>!?!

i luv u, bby.

[oscar2323]

milk..well theres another use for it now that we never expected

[the dobermans]

If there's one human who truly belongs in Equestria, it's Ernest.

Perfect.

[StarzGecko]

No way... I never thought someone would write a cross over of Ernest in Equestria! Thanks man!

[Redwolf777sg]

[bkam]

I fear for the day Ernest meets Pinky Pie.