• Published 7th Oct 2024
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Unwilling Reincarnation - SleepyBear

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Be honored, peasant.

I follow the tiny orange pony through what has to be the most colorful, bizarre town I’ve ever seen. I’ve been out of the forest for maybe ten minutes or so, and already it’s like I’ve walked straight into a fever dream. Everything is too bright, too... colorful, painfully so. The buildings look like they’ve been pulled straight out of a Saturday morning cartoon, and not the good kind either—the kind that makes you wonder if the creators were hopped up on sugar and glitter.

Scootaloo aka, tiny orange, is bouncing around, pointing at different spots excitedly like she’s my personal tour guide. “And that’s Sugarcube Corner! It’s where they make the best cupcakes and cakes in Ponyville!” she says, gesturing to what looks like a house-sized gingerbread cookie.

“Sugarcube... Corner,” I repeat, deadpan. I’m starting to sense a theme with the names around here. “Of course it is.”

She doesn’t notice my lack of enthusiasm. In fact, nothing seems to dampen her energy. “Yeah! And over there, that’s the market where ponies sell all kinds of cool stuff!” Scootaloo waves her hoof toward a bunch of stalls lined up in the middle of town, with brightly colored ponies browsing and chatting like this is the most normal thing in the world.

I narrow my eyes, watching a bright pink pony with... is that a cotton candy mane? Seriously, what is going on here? Everything looks like it was designed by a six-year-old girl high on drugs who only had crayons in pastel shades. I’m starting to feel like I’ve been thrown into one of those cutesy shows where nothing bad ever happens and everyone is overly cheerful.

As the tour continues, Scootaloo bounces ahead of me, rambling on about different landmarks. But honestly, I don’t think the tour is helping me, everywhere I look, it’s the same thing. Happy little ponies with bright smiles, pastel-colored houses, rinse and repeat, in fact, I think I saw the same pink pony six times already.

By this point, I half-expect a rainbow to shoot out of the sky and explode into glitter at any moment.

As Scootaloo keeps talking, I glance up at the sky. Sure enough, there’s a rainbow. Well, not actually a rainbow, but an actual pony flying across the sky, who just happens to have all the colors of the rainbow in their mane. “I will take a wild guess, and say that’s the Rainbow Dash you were talking about.”

Scootaloo notices where I’m looking and grins. “Yes! She’s the coolest pony in all of Equestria! Fastest flyer, too!” At this, she pauses for a moment. “How did you know it was her? Have you two met each other? WAIT? DO ALL COOL PEOPLE KNOW EACH OTHER?!”

Is… she really asking how I know the flying rainbow colored pony is Rainbow?

“No, I don’t know her… it was just a guess.”

Scootaloo beams up at the sky, completely starstruck. “Oh, well, that’s a pretty good guess. But yeah, she’s soooo cool, she’s my hero! I wanna fly just like her when I grow up!”

I don’t bother responding to that. Going back to trying to wrap my head around what kind of acid trip this place is. It’s like someone mashed together every kid’s show from the 90s and cranked the saturation up to maximum.

“Hey, do you like apples?” Scootaloo asks suddenly, turning back to me.

“Apples?” I repeat, caught off guard by the random question.

“Yeah! We can go to Sweet Apple Acres next! It’s the best farm in Ponyville, and they have the best apples ever!”

“Sure, why not.” I mean, it’s not like I have anything better to do than follow this hyperactive kid around. And apples don’t sound bad right now. I haven’t eaten anything since I got here, and while my go to option is usually a burger, an apple would do just fine.

Wait…

I don't have any money.

How will I eat, without money? Unless this acid trip of a town is also an utopia where money is no longer a thing?

I won’t get my hopes up for that…

I wonder if allowances are a thing here, and if they are, I wonder if tiny orange has an allowance, and if she does… I wonder if it's enough for a burger with some fries.

Wait, am I really considering exploiting a kid for food?

Wait… something suddenly feels wrong… and is not the fact I am really considering the food thing. It wasn’t the bright colors or the overly cheerful ponies. No, it was something… else, something… dangerous.

Then, as if waiting for the perfect time, I heard it.

Music.

“Is… that music?” I mutter, looking around, finding no band, instruments, music player or anything even remotely similar to that.

“This is going to be awesome!” Scootaloo grins, and before I can figure out what she meant by that, a pink blur zooms into my line of sight, grinning wide enough to make my teeth hurt.

“Welcome-welcome-WELCOOOOOME!” she bursts out, on a full blown music number, in a tone that’s definitely too loud for this hour of the day. “To Ponyville, my friend! You’re new, you’re fresh, and just in time—For all the FUN we send!”

Oh dear lord, I’m in a musical world.

I glance around—ponies are watching, smiling like this is completely normal. Even tiny orange is clapping. As the pink thing bounced, literally bounces, around me in these huge, ridiculous hops, like some sort of hyperactive spring toy.

“Fuck…” I sigh.

Her voice escalates as she hops higher, somehow singing and flailing her hooves at the same time. “We’ve got cake! And pie! And balloons that FLYYYY! Streamers all around—And hey, LOOK, is that a confetti cloud!?”

Right on cue, there’s a poof, and suddenly I’m covered in confetti. I blink through the multicolored mess, trying not to gag on a piece of paper.

Okay. This is happening. This is real. And I want to die.

I rub my temples, already feeling the headache forming. “Yeah, uh, I’m good, thanks. Where’s the exit?”

She’s not listening. She’s spinning around me, eyes wide with excitement as she belts out, “No time to leave, it’s time to CHEER! You’ll love it here, no need to fear! We’ve got music, friends, and cakes and TREATS! Now dance, and MOVE, and shake your FLANKS!”

Her movements are… chaotic, like she’s barely in control of her own body, it’s like she’s this world’s version of the Joker, but without the killing for rating reasons. One minute she’s spinning, the next she’s flailing her legs out like she’s trying to take flight. It’s like she’s everywhere at once, and somehow, nowhere.

My brain can’t keep up.

I try walking away—just to escape whatever madness this is—but she materializes in front of me again, beaming that same, too big smile.

“Spin around and clap your HOOVES! There’s no way you can lose! Fun and chaos, that’s Pinkie’s style! Come on, Jax, stay awhile!”

Jax... She knows my name. I freeze in my tracks. How does she know my name?

“Wait, how do you—?”

She ignores me completely, zipping around like gravity means nothing to her. “Names are easy! You’re new, you see! And I know EVERYPONY!”

Now she’s jumping from spot to spot—one second she’s on the ground, the next she’s balancing on a fencepost. Is she defying physics? I look around for hidden wires, anything to explain this insanity. Nothing.

My head is starting to hurt.

“So smile, my friend, don’t be so BLUE! I’ve got a party planned for you! CUPCAKES, CANDY, GUMDROPS TOO, AND A PIÑATA YOU CAN HIT RIGHT THROUGH!”

Somehow, she pulls a piñata out of nowhere, shaking it at me like I’m supposed to be excited about it. The music blares louder, more instruments joining in the madness. Is that a trumpet? A tuba? How is this still happening?

I rub my temples harder. “Seriously, where is this music even coming from?”

The pink demon doesn’t even pause, singing louder as she leaps onto a table and starts dancing on top of it. “The music’s from the air, my friend! It’s all around, it never ends! Can’t you feel it in your hooves? Come on, Jax, bust some mooooves!”

Bust some moves. Right. I can barely walk, let alone dance.

She grabs a kazoo from… somewhere, by now I have stopped questioning this, and starts playing it, badly, as ponies are gathering around, watching like this is some kind of show.

Why is no one stopping her?

Oh, no… is this a normal occurrence around here?!

“I need a drink,” I mutter, more to myself than anyone else.

But the pink demon is not done. “No time for that, there’s cake to eat! Cupcakes, sprinkles, and things so sweet! Don’t be grumpy, don’t be sour! It’s PINKIE TIME, the PARTY HOUR!”

Now the music changes, somehow getting worse. More drums, a crashing cymbal—where are the cymbals even coming from? She’s leaping from one table to another, spinning in circles.

Before I can react, she grabs my hoof, spinning me into the chaos. I stumble back, my world a swirl of pink, confetti, sugar and loud music.

I manage to catch my breath. “Okay. Fine. One cupcake. Then I’m leaving.”

The music stops. Just like that. Dead silence. I blink at her, who’s now standing calmly, her face a picture of innocence, like none of that madness just happened.

I glance around. No more confetti. No more music. What…?

I stare at her, utterly baffled. “Where did the music go?”

She giggles, tapping her nose playfully. “Oh, it’s always there! You just have to listen with your tail!” she pauses, humming. “Or is it with your belly?”

I blink. “Right. Sure. That makes sense.”

“Anyway, be at the park at 5 for your party, or I will find you!” And with that, she was gone.

“That’s Pinkie for ya,” Scootaloo chuckles.


After the whole musical number debacle, I’m more than ready to leave this world—and the rest of this pastel fever dream—behind me. I’m still not sure how she knew my name or how she made music appear out of thin air, but I’m not sticking around to find out.

Scootaloo, for her part, is still bouncing along beside me, talking a mile a minute about how “awesome” that was.

“Wasn’t Pinkie amazing? She throws the best parties!” Scootaloo chirps, clearly oblivious to my slowly decaying mental state.

“Yeah, she’s... something,” I mutter, trying not to think too hard about the fact that I just survived an impromptu musical ambush.

“Sweet Apple Acres is just up ahead!” she says, trotting ahead of me as we head toward the next stop on this never-ending tour of insanity.

I sigh, following her through the winding path out of town, wondering what else this place has in store for me. Surely, nothing can top a pink pony who breaks the laws of physics and sings about cupcakes.

Just as I think that, I hear a voice behind me—a smooth, sophisticated voice that sounds like it came straight out of a Victorian drama.

“Ah, yes... the time has come at last.”

I stop in my tracks, slowly turning around. Standing in the middle of the road is... a cat. A fluffy, sleek, dark gray cat with bright green eyes. But this isn’t just any cat—this one is wearing a little vest, a bowtie, and looks like he should be sipping tea at some fancy party.

Scootaloo stops too, blinking in surprise. “Uh... where’d the cat come from?”

I don’t have an answer, but before I can process the absurdity of what’s happening, the cat clears his throat and speaks again, in the most posh, sophisticated accent I’ve ever heard.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” the cat says, raising a paw like he’s about to give some grand speech. “I am Lord Whiskerington Fluffytail the Third, Grand Duke of Purrington, and future ruler of all I survey.” He pauses, looking me up and down with a critical eye. “And you, my good sir, shall be my chosen pony.”

I blink. Once. Twice. “Excuse me?”

Lord Whisker-whatever raises his nose in the air, clearly unimpressed by my confusion. “It is quite simple. I have been traveling this world in search of a suitable servant... ahem, I mean, companion. And after careful consideration, I have decided that you shall be the one to serve me.”

Scootaloo snorts. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

The cat’s eyes narrow. “I assure you, young peasant, I do not ‘kid.’ This is a matter of the utmost importance. My pony must be strong, capable, and above all, obedient. And I have deemed this one—” he gestures to me with a flick of his tail— “as the best option available.”

I stand there, completely dumbfounded. “So, let me get this straight,” I say slowly, trying to process the ridiculousness of the situation. I mean, this place keeps getting worse and worse, it’s like I’m jumping from one fever dream to the other. “You’re a talking cat—”

“Lord Whiskerington Fluffytail the Third,” the cat corrects, looking offended.

“Right,” I say, rolling my eyes. “And you’ve decided I’m your... what? Your pet?”

“Servant,” he corrects again, his tone regal. “You will attend to my every need. In return, I shall allow you the privilege of basking in my presence.”

I blink at him. “Wow, uh... I’m honored?”

To be honest, this is how I always imagined cats actually were.

The cat’s tail swishes, clearly not detecting the sarcasm dripping from my words. “Of course, you are. Now, let us be off. I require a comfortable pillow and perhaps some freshly caught fish for my afternoon nap.”

Scootaloo is barely holding back laughter at this point. “This is hilarious.”

The cat sits back on his haunches, looking pleased with himself. “Excellent. Now, where is my carriage? I do hope you have a suitable mode of transportation for one of my stature.”

“Carriage?” I repeat, incredulous.

He raises an eyebrow. “Hmph, no carriage. Well, we shall work on that. For now, I suppose I shall allow you to walk beside me. But do try not to embarrass yourself, dear boy.”

Is it bad that I want to pet this obnoxious cat?

“Now then,” the cat says, not even looking back at me, “I have a very specific set of rules that you must follow if you wish to remain in my service. First and foremost, you are to address me as ‘My Lord.’ Or by my full name, none of this ‘buddy’ nonsense. Understood?”

I snort, but the cat continues unabated.

“Secondly,” he continues, “I expect to be groomed at least twice a day, preferably with a brush made from the finest silk and gems. My fur must remain in pristine condition at all times.”

Scootaloo snorts with me this time, but the cat ignores her.

“And thirdly,” the cat goes on, his voice getting more smug by the second, “I require at least three meals a day, with a variety of flavors and textures. I do hope you have access to fine dining.”

“Ha, no,” I snort. I didn't have access to a single penny, let alone fine dining.

The cat stops in his tracks, turning to look at me with a horrified expression. “You... are poor?!” he gasps, his eyes widening in disbelief. “What kind of servant are you?”

“The not serving kind,” I reply.

The fancy cat huffs, clearly unimpressed. “Well, we shall work on that as well. I suppose I will have to teach you the finer points of servitude. Such is my burden as your master, I suppose.”