Thirty Minute Ponies

by Arcainum

A STORY I DON'T KNOW

The Prompt: The minotaurs are coming. (Or the minotaurs are here; I’ll accept either one.)

The first sign came at midnight.

A couple lies asleep, nestled in each other’s unconscious embrace. He snores, she sniffs. A cry rends the near-silence and they bolt upright. She throws aside her blanket, galloping into the hall and to the baby’s room. She can hear it coughing, and a mother’s fear grips her. Almost leaping the side of the cot, she peers desperately in. Her baby looks up at her, tears welling in its tiny eyes, as it struggles with the bushy moustache hanging over its mouth. Panicking, she cries “Scissors!" He bolts to the kitchen, magic catching hold of the first pair he sees. Within moments he is back, blades deftly clearing the ferocious face fuzz with fearful precision. The baby breathes deep as the soup strainer slips away, instinctively revelling in survival. She opens the cot and holds the baby tight, tears of relief staining its blanket. Her relief is short-lived. She sees him pointing, quaking with fear, and looks down to see the beard engulf her baby’s body. The baby coos as the hair tickles it, and its parents meet each other’s eyes. As one, their gaze turns west.

Legends had told of their coming. Brophecies carved long in slabs of ancient nacho.

"I’m going as fast as I can!"

"Then go faster!"

Two Bob concentrates, sending the clippers racing across his customer’s chin, but the beard is a feisty one, unwilling to go without a fight. It twists and turns, shifting as much of itself as possible out of the path of the whirring blades while forming hairy fists in an effort to punch it away. The customer can only cry out impatiently as Bob wrestles with the chin champion. He calls over his shoulder while feinting to make the beard drop its guard.

"How many are there out there?"

"You don’t want to know!"

Bob’s boss is replying through gritted teeth, sweat beading on his forehead as he trapped a brace of bristles under one hoof before snipping fully half its length with a pair of industrial-strength Power Scissors(r). He glances out the window, and sees the line of ponies down the street and out of sight. He sees them tapping their hooves, occasionally slapping down a hoof-full of hysterical hair, and, sometimes, looking west.

There was nothing we could do. Even the potential of their coming was enough to change things, to change US.

Ponyville is in chaos. Every living creature in a sixty-nine mile radius is now equipped with luscious facial hair and a chin that could snap necks. The rippling of pectorals has caused several minor seismic events. The barbell industry quadruples in size overnight. A unicorn spontaneously declares it is going to eat the Apple Family barn whole, and within moments is surrounded by a crowd of animals imploring it to “get it down yer, yer Zulu warrior." The Mayor, benchpressing a pig with each hoof, decrees that steaks are now legal tender. Within a week, the town is renamed Biglarge McHardchunk, after its most popular resident. Sugarcube Corner grows a single, giant, muscley arm, with which it punches other buildings that look at it funny. And then it looks west.

And then they arrived.

The sun beats down on bowed heads, gleaming form polished horns.

"Dude, I am POWER HUNGRY." The minotaur wipes sweat from his forehead, glancing up and wincing at the fierce Equestrian sun.

"I feel you, bro. We gotta get some serious BROTEIN up in here."

"Man, if we end up blowing it with these Bronyville chicks because we ain’t got no EATS, I think I might just die of lame."

"The HARSHEST of shames, mang."

The minotaurs crest the hill that they were told overlooks their destination, and they look down. Their breath catches in their throat.

"Broseph…I don’t want to sound like a nerd here, but… where’s the TOWN?"

"I DO NOT know, broujo. But one thing I do know is…whatever happened here…it was truly radical."

They stare for a while, letting the sight fill them with some emotion or another. And then they leave, because the moment was getting a little gay.

This is the story of our destruction. Of our brossimiliation. Of Beefstrumentality. I have held on for as long as I can, though it calls me even now, a pulsing roar of blood and violence and ninjas and NO I will finish my warning. I can barely summon the magic to write, and now that I look at it I realise my pen is made of bacon. In fact, I think I’m writing on a pizza box. I don’t even know anymore. There is nothing left of me but the Call, and my warning. If you find this, traveller, heed well. They are coming.

A scrap of cardboard skips across the grass, almost fluttering in the wind.

And should you fail to heed this warning, and somehow we meet within the Call, I will cry out in anguish.

The wind picks up, lifting the scrap higher and higher.

I warned you about minotaurs, bro.

The scrap settles on the tip of a knuckle, but before long the wind, strong at these heights, dashes it away to wherever it may go.

I told you, dog.

As the last words of Ponyville fade into the distance, the sun beats down. Bathing in its rays, a thousand feet high and two hundred wide, The Fist punches the sky right back.

And IT KEEPS HAPPENING.

Author's Note:

I could have written this story all day. Seriously.

Comments

[Psykosis]

Sugarcube Corner grows a single, giant, muscley arm, with which it punches other buildings that look at it funny.

Alright, that absolutely killed me. Also, I hope I'm not the only one who thought of Gravity Falls while reading this.

[Firebirdbtops]

You misspelled a word. dog is properly spelled Dawg, or alternately Dhauge.

[RTStephens]

The Sugarcube Corner arm makes me think of a certain dragon that likes to set fire to peasants and thatch-roof cottages alike.

Also, I could read something like this all day long. Long live the beards!