• Published 27th May 2015
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⇩ Please Downvote! ⇩ - Super Trampoline



My OC, Super Trampoline, is dating all of the Elements of Harmony plus the princesses plus the major antagonists plus the minor antagonists too! That's a lot of work! Also, he's obviously the seventh element. Read on for his many amazing adventures!

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"Crushed By Foals" by the dobermans: Guest Author Week Day 1

Author's Note:

Welcome to Guest Author Week, running from Monday, 4/20/2020 (blaze it!) to Sunday, 4/26/2020, or whenever I run out of guest chapters! To kick things off, we have this wonderful doozy by the dobermans! Want to get in on the fun? Send me your own guest chapter! Blog with all the details here!

Note
This guest chapter features one use of ableist language. That this appears in this guest chapter should not in any way be taken to mean that I, Super Trampoline, endorse or condone this type of language. One of my many special talents is not using ableist slurs.

“ ‘…This is preposterous!” FoalKrusher roared. Because FoalKrusher did not ‘say’ anything. It was his habit and birthright, rather, to bellow forth with all the might and majesty of the Canterlot cataracts colliding in cataclysmic cascades co-impulsively with the quartzy cliffs that constituted the capitol’s colossal cloud-topped crown, when stalking his prey. And he was always in search of prey.

He possessed the sagacity of a winged ant tracking the pheromone trails of its clonal hivemates, in particular, when the matter in question was the pursuit of foals to whom to apply his singular talent: the overwhelming defeat of the structural integrity of the corporal carriage of juvenile equids. And it was three such that he had brought to bay of a misty Saturday morning before the pastoral labors practiced at Sweet Apple Acres had been taken up; before hoof had been set to plow, before sweat, dabbed with already moist bandanna, and before the swine, swilled.

“I shall have none of your brunch, nor your lunch, nor your cider. The three of you shall descend from your tree at once, to suffer the fate of all your ilk, should my ferocious will be enacted to its fullest!”

“No way, mister,” came the dulcet reply to his demand. “My sister said never to go anywhere with strangers. Ain’t that right, girls?”

Two voices meekly assented.

“Reluctant to feel fate’s heavy hoof, are you?” intoned ravenous FoalKrusher. “You are not the first, and nor shall you be the last. Allow me then to tell you a story: one that will curdle your very lifeblood and yield you too demoralized—nay—too disgusted to resist. It begins thusly …’”

“ ‘…This is preposterous!” FoalKrusher roared. Because Foalkrusher did not ‘say’ anything. It was his habit and birthright, rather, to bellow forth with all the might and majesty of the Canterlot cataracts colliding in cataclysmic cascades co-impulsively with the quartzy cliffs that constituted the capitol’s colossal cloud-topped crown, when stalking his prey. And he was always in search of prey.

He possessed the sagacity of a winged ant tracking the pheromone trails of its clonal hivemates, in particular, when the matter in question was the pursuit of foals to whom to apply his singular talent: the overwhelming defeat of the structural integrity of the corporal carriage of juvenile equids. And it was three such that he had brought to bay of a misty Saturday morning before the pastoral labors practiced at Sweet Apple Acres had been taken up; before hoof had been set to plow, before sweat, dabbed with already moist bandanna, and before the swine, swilled.

“I shall have none of your brunch, nor your lunch, nor your cider. The three of you shall descend from your tree at once, to suffer the fate of all your ilk, should my ferocious will be enacted to its fullest!”

“No way, mister,” came the dulcet reply to his demand. “My sister said never to go anywhere with strangers. Ain’t that right, girls?”

Two voices meekly assented.

“Reluctant to feel fate’s heavy hoof, are you?” intoned ravenous FoalKrusher. “You are not the first, and nor shall you be the last. Allow me then to tell you a story: one that will curdle your very lifeblood and yield you too demoralized—nay—too disgusted to resist. It begins thusly …’”

“ ‘…This is preposterous!” FoalKrusher roared. Because Foalkrusher did not ‘say’ anything. It was his habit and birthright, rather, to bellow forth with all the might and majesty of the Canterlot cataracts colliding in cataclysmic cascades co-impulsively with the quartzy cliffs that constituted the capitol’s colossal cloud-topped crown, when stalking his prey. And he was always in search of prey.

He possessed the sagacity of a winged ant tracking the pheromone trails of its clonal hivemates, in particular, when the matter in question was the pursuit of foals to whom to apply his singular talent: the overwhelming defeat of the structural integrity of the corporal carriage of juvenile equids. And it was three such that he had brought to bay of a misty Saturday morning before the pastoral labors practiced at Sweet Apple Acres had been taken up; before hoof had been set to plow, before sweat, dabbed with already moist bandanna, and before the swine, swilled.

“I shall have none of your brunch, nor your lunch, nor your cider. The three of you shall descend from your tree at once, to suffer the fate of all your ilk, should my ferocious will be enacted to its fullest!”

“No way, mister,” came the dulcet reply to his demand. “My sister said never to go anywhere with strangers. Ain’t that right, girls?”

Two voices meekly assented.

“Reluctant to feel fate’s heavy hoof, are you?” intoned ravenous FoalKrusher. “You are not the first, and nor shall you be the last. Allow me then to tell you a story: one that will curdle your very lifeblood and yield you too demoralized—nay—too disgusted to resist. It begins thusly …’”

***

The SuperTrampoline appeared in a ray of birthday glory, because he is the hero and centerpiece of this story, and it might be said all stories, come to deliver suffering readers from the woes of asinine writing.

“This chapter is f****** retarded,” he justly and correctly proclaimed, with no intentional offense directed at persons with atypical abilities. Now that attention has been drawn to the outmoded word, it is advised that any and all ire, umbrage, offense, or otherwise desire to dismember should be focused on the author, and NOT under any circumstances on SuperTrampoline, who is only trying to enjoy a birthday treat.

“Apple Bloom, Sweetie Belle, Scootaloo,” he called, “come out of there. Use not the stairs. Leap as you are faithful in my word.”

The erstwhile Crusaders of Cutie Marks trepidatiously trod to the edge of their treehouse, and, believers in the writ and veracity of SuperTrampoline’s wisdom, leapt.

FoalKrusher trumpeted in triumph, certain that his yearning to render three dimensions two would soon be satisfied. What he did not know—what he could not know—was that the specific gravity of foal matter doubled, redoubled and redoubled again when SuperTrampoline so ordained.

And so the tables were turned: FoalKrusher, scourge of the fillies and colts of Equestria and beyond, was crushed by foals.

the dobermans' Note

Physically, mentally, and spiritually.

Don’t forget to mash that downvote button.

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