The Life and Times of Literary Scroll

by Freedom Flash

Chapter 3 - Job Odding.

I was happy. Meeting Spectrum’s friends had finally destroyed the last of my writers block, and I had a job with the local paper doing a column on new book releases (which required reading brand new books as soon as they were on the shelves, for free, such hardship). I was now siting in the lounge drafting a review of a new title by the illustrious Skywriter, as my landmare held a conversation with Hoofcraft.

It couldn’t last.

“Aye! Ya wan’ a job?”

I looked across at Hoofcraft, who was sitting on the opposite side of the coffee table that presided over the living room.

“What?”

“De ya wan’ a job?”

I raised an eyebrow at him quizzically. “What kind of job?”

“A fetch quest iffin ya will. Ah wan’ ya to go an’ get me a ring o’ volumite crystal fro’ that mad ol’ badger wa runs the Trade Shack.” Hoofcraft shook his head. “Ah’d go mysel’ but ah need ta talk to a mare ‘bout a hammer.”

I raised my eyebrow again. “It’s a big hammer,” he shrugged.

I sighed. “Alright,” I agreed.

* * *

As I left (with a small bag of bits from Hoof to pay for the volumite), Spectrum looked askance at Hoofcraft. “That was evil,” she commented.

Hoof shrugged. “Ya were the one that said he didne get oot enough.”

* * *

It didn’t take long for me to find the Trade Shack. Everypony I asked about it rolled their eyes and pointed without looking in the general direction of a building with ‘Trade Shack’ hammered over the door with random pieces of board. I could have found it myself of course, but for some reason the building had been built facing an alley way.

Well, this should be good, I thought to myself as I entered.

The shop was dingy, not for lack of windows, but because the entire place was filled floor to ceiling with seemingly randomly stacked objects. Piles of totally random mess were everywhere, spilling out of cupboards and off shelves that themselves were piled on drifts so thick that it was impossible to see how big the room actually was. There only seemed to be one clearly maintained path, leading under archways of stacked detritus to a counter on the far side of the room.

I gaped at my surroundings for a minute before carefully making my way to the counter through the mishmash tunnel of stuff. Marvelling at the way the space, despite it’s wide range of colours, still managed to appear brown, I rung the bell on the counter.

“Yes?” said a voice, directly behind me.

I whipped round and was confronted with mane. A lot of mane. It almost engulfed the stallions head, as if it had been confused as to which way to grow, and had simply decided on everywhere at once. It also seemed to have been confused about wether to be black or white, because it was covered in splashes of each, making his head more striped than a zebra’s. The only thing keeping him from being blinded by his own hair was a HUGE pair of lenses in solid brass frames, revealing shockingly over-magnified blue eyes. The rest of his coat was a light grey, and his cutie mark showed a red targeting reticle over a pile of nondescript items. I could see a teddybear sticking out near the top.

“Well?” the stallion asked. He stood almost immobile, moving only those parts that were required for the word. Yet his voice carried an exited energy that, if released, would surely carry him through the nearest wall.

“Uhh…” I managed, scrambling wildly for a moment before finding my hoofing. “Hoofcraft sent me to get a ring of volumite?”

“AH!” the stallion cried, making me jump. He then dove headlong into the wall of detritus which swallowed him whole. I could hear him rummaging about in the pile, muttering to himself.

“SlpingsplangslpingsplangslpingsplangslpingsplangslpingsplangSPLONG!” with the last sentiment he exploded out of the wall, carrying a three hoof wide ring of blue crystal.

“Great!” I said, “Thanks Mr…”

“Spangler, Sir! Spangler!”

“Thanks Mr Spangler,” I grinned. “How much?”

Spangler suddenly hugged the ring protectively to his chest, shaking his head. “Not for sale!”

“What?” I balked.

Spangler suddenly stuck his hoof out at me. “We trade!”

I gave a sigh of relief. “Ok, so what do you want for it?”

Spangler didn’t reply, he just rammed his hoof into the wall of objects beside him, not taking his eyes off me, and retrieved a snow globe.

“This,” he said, face radiating seriousness.

“But you already have that?” I asked, confused. Spangler grinned.

“If Spangler have thing Sir wants to trade with Spangler to get thing Spangler has, Sir must trade Spangler for thing that Spangler has that Sir wants to trade with Spangler for thing Spangler has.” Spangler then sat triumphantly on his haunches as if what he had just said made perfect sense. Which, in a way, it did.

“I think I understood that,” I said. “So what do you want for the snow globe?”

* * *

“So let me get this straight,” I said ten minutes later, somewhat haggard. “You want the intricate ceramic vase for the sledge hammer which you want for the cracked bowling ball which you want for the fire tongs which you want for the brass monkey which you want for the golf clubs which you want for the golf balls which you want for the signed Fallout: Equestria hardbacks which you want for the complete set of five-hundred-year-old Summer Sun celebration commemorative mugs which were made last week in the Hoof which you want for the scrappy note book which you want for the snow globe which you want for the volumite ring.”

Spangler nodded enthusiastically from his upside-down position hanging and half buried in the detritus arch where he had found the last item.

I sighed. “And what do you want for the intricate ceramic vase?” Spangler grinned again.

“Sixty bits.”

* * *

I trotted towards Hoofcraft’s huge barn-like shed, the volumite ring hanging around my neck. It had taken over an hour to actually make the trade for the blasted thing, constantly passing items back and forth across the table to Spangler, who had insisted on inspecting each one to see if it was worthy of trade.

All in all, I was going to have some very choice words for Hoofcraft when I saw him.

There was a great clanking noise as I approached the shed, like falling anvils. I waited for a gap before knocking on the door. It was answered by a suit of military-grade black kevlar barding. I gaped at it for a moment before the helmet was removed, revealing a smiling but much less mysterious Hoofcraft.

“Great! Ya got th’ volumite,” he said, stepping aside. “Put it o’er on tha’ bench wouldya?”

I gazed round at the workshop. It was full of objects covered with lights and gears, circuits and clockwork. In one corner was a huge pile of old horse shoes, right next to a structure clearly being made out of them. Across the room was a plexiglass safety wall in front of an anvil with some dark metal framework on it. But, taking centre stage in the middle of the space, was a huge mixing table, with speakers two metres high and made from dark metal. One of the speakers was half disassembled, its frame missing and one of the basses removed.

“Like it?” Hoofcraft asked, watching me examine the system. “It belongs ta Waveform, ‘e got me ta build it for ‘im.” Turning back to the bench he added: “ ‘e didne think it’d be as powerful as it was, though.”

Picking up the ring and the missing bass he continued. “Th’ speakers use th’ natural resonance o’ th’ volumite t’ magically enhance themselves.” He clipped them together. “Puts a ‘zing’ in ya tweeter an’ a ‘thrum’ in ya bass.” He tinkered with the wires on the back and the speaker let out a low throb that I could feel pas through me. “Lovely.”

“OK,” I said. “Hey, I’d better get back to writing that review.”

“OK.”

I was about to leave when Hoofcraft retrieved his helmet and picked up a sledgehammer. The end shone with talismans as he lifted it into the air. He noticed my pause. “Big hammer.” He grinned through the helmet and brought the hammer down in an arc onto the frame on the anvil. The magically magnified impact blurred the anvil as it tried to escape the bolts holding it to the floor. The perspex flexed as a pressure wave hit it. Suddenly the need for the heavy-duty barding was almost painfully obvious. Hoofcraft lifted the hammer again, the frame had barely indented.

As I left, one thought passed through my head again and again. Why the Tartarus would you need a speaker frame that strong?

Author's Note:

The Hoof is a Fallout Equestria: Project Horizons reference, which belongs to Somber, FoE belongs to Kkat, and MLP:FIM belongs to Hazbro. All OCs are mine.

Shout out to Skywriter: love your work, fimfiction page Here.

P.S. It is possible to say the ‘trade list’ sentence in one breath if you try hard enough.