Death Is In Your Bed
Admiral Biscuit
It's Monday again. It happens every week.
You trudge home like a man on the way to the gallows. Dinner is a simple affair; a fully-loaded deep dish pizza, washed down with Jim Beam straight from the bottle. Maybe that'll help numb the pain you know you're going to suffer.
You don't know what kind of pain, of course. That's one of they ways they get you. It might be physical, or emotional, or psychological. It could be financial; you've lost count of how many beds you've gone through, but you're on a first-name basis with the guy at the bed store. You put the three-quarters empty fifth of bourbon to your mouth and drink deeply.
Hell, it could be a combo.
Those Mondays are the worst.
You listlessly shove your way into your bedroom, holding your free hand against the door to steady it, stagger across the room, and drop into bed. It's pony free. For now.
"Get it over with," you shout at the ceiling.
The ceiling doesn't answer, so you take another drink.
☠ ☠ ☠
You're not sure what time it is. The power seems to have gone out, which is undoubtedly a pony's doing. You paw at the covers, but you're still all alone in bed. That means that the pony is somewhere else. Eating your food, maybe, or burning down your kitchen. Maybe it got lost, and it's raiding your neighbor's fridge. That would serve him right.
You check the living room. No pony.
You check the kitchen. No pony. But you do find another bottle of bourbon, and since you're down here anyway, you might as well take a drink.
Or maybe two.
You stagger back to your bedroom, caroming off the walls like a billiard ball, until you finally reach your bedroom. Through your blurry vision, you spot a lump in the bed—tonight's pony is hiding under the covers.
Were your coordination more certain, you would have strode boldly over to the bed and yanked the covers off; the tiny part of your brain that's still sober reminds you that your drunken gait isn't impressive at all. But it doesn't matter: you get the duvet on your second attempt and yank it free.
Time stops completely. Up until now, you'd believed that it took a while for alcohol to wear off despite what the whisky-devil in your head might insist—but at the sight of your visitor you reach a state of 100% stone-cold sobriety in a tenth of a second. That's followed by a shriek which would do a six-year-old girl proud.
In your bed, staring at you with empty eyesockets, is Death.
Pony death.
He's wearing a black robe, and holding—somehow—a pony-sized scythe. All you can see of him is his skull and if he weren't in your bed and staring at you with his not-eyes, you might think he's cute.
He opens his mouth and lifts a hoof—no surprise that his hoof is also just bones—and at that moment you remember that you have urgent business anywhere but here and sprint out of the bedroom door like Usain Bolt mainlining epinephrine. It's possible you just set fire to your carpet with your feet, but you're not going to look back and see.
You fly down the stairs . . . especially after you hit the skateboard which is there for no apparent reason. At that point, your figurative flight becomes more literal. However, unlike those pesky pegasus ponies, you have no control in the air, and your windmilling arms do nothing to alter your tragic headfirst arc into the floor.
Out of the corner of your eye, you can see your visitor coming down the stairs, and he leans over you and then everything goes black.
☠ ☠ ☠
Time passes in a weird staccato montage. An ambulance crew is putting you on a gurney, and then you're in a hospital bed, dimly aware of a doctor shaking his head. Then the blanket is pulled up over your head, and you realize that you're dead.
You've never been dead before, so you don't know quite what to expect. It's peaceful, but kind of boring.
Having a front-row seat at your own funeral—literally—wasn't something you'd ever anticipated, but the lid's open for the service, and everyone says nice things, even your boss. You're surprised he showed up. Maybe he thought it was a good excuse to skip work. It does make you wonder who's going to get your last paycheck.
The saddest man at the whole funeral is the salesman from Mattress World. If only they'd branched out into coffins, he could have made one more sale.
As you hear the first shovelful of dirt rattle against the lid of your casket, your face breaks into a broad grin. At least there won't be any more ponies.
☠ ☠ ☠
You feel a heavy weight on your chest. It was crowded in here before; now it's intolerable. A horsey, hay-ey smell assaults your nostrils, and you feel the weight shifting around.
"Where am I?" a girlish voice says. You can hear a faint tone of alarm in her voice.
You should have seen this coming. Even death won't keep the ponies away.
Oh how you wish you'd been cremated.
“What are you doing here?” you ask. Your voice is harsh and dry. Makes sense, you haven't had anything to drink in a week.
“It's a Monday,” she says. “But this isn't a bed.” Her tone is accusatory, and you almost recognize it—you know her. She's visited before.
Then a hoof jabs into your groin, and you discover that you can still feel pain. You sit bolt upright and open your eyes
only to find yourself back in your bedroom, sprawled out over your bed. You're still in your clothes, and there's a mostly-empty bottle of bourbon clutched in your left hand like an adult's teddy bear.
You're covered in cold sweat, and you just look at the ceiling for a minute, to get your bearings back. Then you feel that stabbing pain again, and it's not a hoof in your groin, it's what Wacko would call a potty emergency. The pizza and bourbon isn't sitting right at all.
You launch yourself out of bed, and carom against the hallway wall as you skid towards the bathroom. You're already shucking your pants as you hobble into the bathroom and the salvation of the porcelain god.
You make it, but only just. Your head's spinning, your gut's clenching, and you're sure it's going to take the whole can of Febreeze to make the bathroom habitable again, but at least it can't get any worse.
Which, of course is when the shower curtain's pushed back by a hoof, and a familiar wall-eyed pegasus sticks her head out.
You jerk back in surprise, cracking your head against the cabinet above the toilet. You lean forward, fight down a wave of nausea, and sidearm a roll of toilet paper at her, striking her right in the muzzle. Her hooves skitter on the bathtub, and you hear a heavy thud as she loses her footing and crashes. She catches the shower curtain, and it falls down on top of her, shrouding her completely.
"Serves you right," you mumble. "Catching me by surprise like that."
And then two thoughts occur simultaneously. She might be hurt, and you'd actually feel pretty bad if she was. But more importantly, that was the only roll of toilet paper.
From under the shower curtain, you hear her mutter, “I just don't know what went wrong.”
You hold your head in your hands. “Neither do I, sister. Neither do I.”
The End
A brilliant ending!
6039611
Thanks!
*Applause*
reactiongifs.com/r/srcstc.gif 31.media.tumblr.com/3840e4ad775110be9d1e8a8de6780519/tumblr_inline_n2wyhzJXN81qe4ieh.gif i.imgur.com/5LzCEmQ.gif
Awesome. Unfortunately, this now falls out of my Tracking list, but I just got another to take its place, so the universe balances out.
At last, the wild collab fic called Fimfic Authors Are In Your Bed is finally over. Now we can put this whole thing to bed.
Have a credits song:
To Admiral Bisquit and all the other brilliant authors:
I can't do much more, as I already upvoted and faved the story.
So let me just add: Thanks for this awesome ride.
6040089
"You're welcome!"
Discord.
"What?"
What did I say about going on my computer?
"But I was just thank--"
No, Discord. OFF. NOW.
I can be awfully blunt but let me say I didn't enjoy every chapter. Mostly the nonsensical ones. They're funny I suppose, but eventually they're just...kinda awful. Like throwing everything into a bucket and taking a peek to see if it can make someone laugh.
That's not to say they're all bad, there are some great ones there too!
I must say the ending is good though. It's a nice closing with a similar style to the opening.
Good or bad, thanks for the ride. I may not have liked everything, but I cannot deny I enjoyed it
'till next time.
http://img3.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20130210210545/adventuretimewithfinnandjake/images/b/be/Shutterflyes_derpy_clap_by_mihaaaa-d3j84c6.gif
So we're agreed that this whole thing was Ocalhoun's fault.
6040441
Yes.
Welp. It's had its run. Let it rest in peace, I say.
Nice one, though
I'll just leave this here:
corepoweryoga.com/sites/default/files/IMCE/CPYBlog/Peach%20WIDE.jpg
*silently feeds on pile of downvotes*
And it's done! Woot!
Nice.
Well, that's one way to end the story. Poor Derpy.
I HEAR A CALL
A CALL TO ACTION!
I'm glad to have been a part of this madness while it lasted. It's been fun!
the stories may be over but one thing still remains. mondays suck.
and he'll still face ponies alone
6104008
It's not over over; people can still send chapters and I'll just slot 'em in before the final chapter.
After all, even death can't stop the ponies.
Death? Skateboard?
awesome-skateboard.com/images/Blind_Skateboard_Logo.jpg
6132489
Yes. Thank goodness she was oblivious to its purpose.
Are any of these hosted on the author's pages as well? At this point it seems like making a group for these stories would've been easier.
6133883
I have no idea if that's the right number or not--I certainly never counted.
6171363
To the best of my knowledge, only one, and I think there was an author's note link on it. Not 100% sure on that, though.
It would have been. Absolutely. Had the thing been thought out from the beginning, I might have done that. However, the genesis of the project is that it was inspired by a blog post, I actually went ahead and started the story (because sometimes I have very poor impulse control), and figured maybe a half-dozen people would ultimately send me stories, and that would be that.
As you can see, that's not what happened at all. It wasn't until a week into the project that there was even a uniform method of story submission.
6181084 That's true anatomically, but what I meant was this:
ts1.mm.bing.net/th?&id=JN.OZfKGwW4A3%2b3Fh3erwQhFg&w=300&h=300&c=0&pid=1.9&rs=0&p=0
This reminds me of Welcome To Night Vale's A Story About You, and I absolutely love it!
6105026
What are you talking about? He didn't actually die! (I know what you ment, I'm just picky.)
That was quite an interesting and amusing ride while it lasted.
Most excellent.
6269795
Or did he? Then Derpy screwed it up. . . .
6418595
Thanks! It might not quite be over; there's a chance a few more chapters might trickle in here and there.
6432201 seriously? All that chating we did and you respond to that old comment 6 weeks later? Lulz
6432271
Triplewordscore just commented on the story, and I realized that I'd missed a few replies.
6432276 oh don't mind me, I'm just being a "bishcuit"
6432201 I will look forward to the possibility of such.
One year ago today. . . .
6786546
Ocalhoun has started a contest.
He wants a sequel to one of his fics.
He wrote the first Pony in your bed fic.
If time permits . . . by tomorrow morning, expect to see Princess Celestia Eats a Peach in Your Bed.
It's the least I can do for him.
EDIT: I have to finish one that's supposed to be done by midnight CST, or else I'd be on it already.
EDIT EDIT: It'll be later than tomorrow morning. Took longer than I thought to finish the other one.
6786559
pinkie.mylittlefacewhen.com/media/f/rsz/mlfw496_medium.jpg
6786603
And it is now in the approval queue. All I can say is ocalhoun should have seen this coming.
6790442
Cue the music!
7110552 Scarheart, you Magnificent Bastard!
6039727
Sometimes stories come back from the dead. . .
7387249 Well then, keep me posted
7387274
It is up right meow.
Isn't the title 'Fimfic authors in your bed' a bit inaccurate since it's the characters, not the authors in your bed?
7389819
Picture it like this: you're sitting in your bed, minding your own business, and a FimFic author gets in with you and tells you a story about your bed.
Like me, for example.
4.bp.blogspot.com/-BO51yB-reac/UC_7tuFwDMI/AAAAAAAAF9Y/nV0B2IDKzQs/s1600/Letters+from+the+big+man+03.jpg
7389917 Huh. Is it a coincidence that I just published a story like this? Only it's a pony being summoned in bed?
7390287
Yes. The story was first published on Jan 1, 2015, and it was a parody of an older story (Aug, 2014). As for this particular chapter, I 'won' it in a fiction contest 5 weeks ago.
7390342 What I mean is, I just happened to see this in the popular stories sidebar after I published my story.
7390351
That's either very good timing or very bad timing, then. Incidentally, there's a ponies in beds group if you think your story'd fit there.