> The Roommate From Tartarus
>  by naturalbornderpy
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> The Toaster Pony
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

I came home late and drunk. Actually, very drunk.
                
My birthday had been two days ago and any celebratory activity had been postponed until tonight, basically for a single one of my so-called “friends” at work to remember and comment on it. I really shouldn’t be too bitter about the fact that no one remembered. I still got wasted, I had a stomach full of hot wings and, briefly feeling my pockets, I still had my wallet and cell phone in hand. Plus, I’d made it home without puking or soiling myself.

In the mundane life that was mine, that counted as a win.
                
I stumbled into my darkened condo, throwing my jacket on the couch and my keys against a wall. Entering the kitchen, I opened every cabinet in search of something edible and easy to prepare. In my currently inebriated state, I thought I might kill myself attempting Top Ramen, so I settled on an English muffin on the verge of going bad.
                
Into the toaster it went. Into the bathroom I went, aiming poorly and spilling on the rim of the toilet and the floor. I made myself a mental note to clean it up… later.
                
Click!
                
My toaster went off in the kitchen.
                
Smack!
                
Something heavy hit something metallic.
                
I poked my head out of the washroom. “Hello?”
                
I chuckled to myself. Like the robber was going to answer me. ‘Oh, hello, Steve. Didn’t mean to disturb you, only stealing all your worldly possessions and pictures of your family. I also plan on stealing your warm and toasty English muffin when it’s done, just as a way of rubbing salt into the wound.’
                
Two sights greeted me upon reentering the kitchen. Both were of the negative variety.
                
Firstly, my English muffin had been scorched into a blackened crisp, smoke tendrils curling towards the ceiling.
                
Secondly, there was now an unconscious animal on my floor, its head grazing the front of my dishwasher.
                
I went to the more important item first—my muffin—to see if anything might be salvageable. Nope. I even burned my fingers prying it from the toaster. I then turned to the thing on the floor, squinting my eyes to try and keep it in focus. It looked like something crossed between a dog and a horse, roughly three and a half feet long. Its coat was dark grey and its tail and mane were jet black—the mane so long and perfectly curved, I thought it could even make Fabio jealous.
                
I poked at it with a toe. When it didn’t move, I knelt down and felt for a pulse. Nothing, although the body wasn’t cold. Up close, I finally noticed its warped red horn, as well as the strange markings along its face. If it was actually a small horse, it must’ve been hit by the ugly truck some time ago and dragged under its wheels for blocks.
                
I flicked its horn with a finger. Maybe some kids had been cruel to their pet and super-glued a papier-mâché art project to its head. Maybe that’s why it ran away and decided the best place to die was on my kitchen floor. But if that was the case, then just how the hell did it get inside here in the first place?
                
“Damn it,” I muttered, out of pure sympathy for myself and not the dead twisted abomination before me. “Do I even have any garbage bags left?”
                
I got back to my feet and touched the dent on my dishwasher. Had the horse-thing made that? If so, how? And right before dying? My eyes went from the toaster to the dent and finally to the animal on the floor. I laughed drunkenly. “Maybe it flew out of the toaster.”
                
It took close to six minutes, but I finally managed to cram the hairy beast into a garbage bag. If I could’ve double-bagged it I would’ve, but since I had no more bags in the house, I had to make due with the half-full garbage bag from below the sink. Inside were twenty-six dried hunks of pizza crusts, four empty yogurt containers, and a rotten piece of lasagna that sat in the fridge until the smell became too much. I doubted the deceased weirdo would care all too much about the smell.
                
As I tried to decide between the condo’s dumpster bins or the old fashioned rushing river option to get rid of a dead body, the tied garbage twitched along the floor.
                
If I’d been sober, I might’ve screamed. Drunk, I merely raised a brow and took a careful step back.
                
The thing inside the garbage bag poked at its side while shuffling around. From where I stood, I could hear the bits of leftover food mashing within. Sluggishly, the small horse sat up, and I was left to stare at a living, breathing bag of trash. Not for too long, I thought.
                
I grabbed a rolling pin from atop the counter and held it over my head.
                
Wild animals could be dangerous, I tried to rationalize, discovering just how little I actually wanted to bludgeon the thing. It might have rabies, or be crazy, or be in pain and in need of a swift end.
                
I almost dropped the pin to the floor once it started speaking.
                
“No,” it moaned out, sending a small shiver up my spine. “It can’t be. It just can’t. I lost? How did I lose? I was so close and everything was going my way. That insipid dragon and those meddling mares! Were they truly the ones that bested me?”
                
His voice was deep and a bit raspy, his tone sounding like someone that talked to themselves a lot. He turned his head from side to side, his muzzle mashing against the tightly knotted bag.
                
“Did I die? Is that what happened? What did the white light do to me? Could this really be all that awaits me?” He almost sounded sad. “I don’t deserve this. What did I do wrong? I’m not a bad pony. Why am I being punished? The afterlife is terrible!” He sniffed at his surroundings. “And it smells! The afterlife smells!” He belched, then gagged. “And now it’s only worse! I hate it! I hate this hell I’m in!”
                
I softly set down my rolling pin to free up my hands. Then I slapped myself across the face as hard as I could. My cheek went numb and warm, but I didn’t feel any more awake.
                
Then I understood. “One of my friends put something in my drink. A drug. A hallucinogenic drug. That’s what happened. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be wasting my time watching a bag full of talking pony.”
                
The bag turned in my direction. “Who said that? Are you in purgatory, too? What did you do? Enslave a race? Torch a village? Make light of Celestia’s wide posterior?”
                
“Please stop talking,” I said, rubbing a shaking hand through my hair.
                
“Why?” He angled his head to the side. “If we’re to share the pitch black depths of purgatory together, I’d figured we’d better find a good way to pass the time. Here’s a good one. I’m thinking of a number between one and three billion. Guess which number.”
                
I lightly slapped my face again. “Seven.”
                
The pony was silent for a moment. “Okay, next game. I’m thinking of a pony who’s purple and would look splendid caught on fire. Hint: her name rhymes with Smeshlight Smorkle.”
                
I’d had enough. My drugged brain needed sleep and I needed to stop listening to the talking trash bag. Scooping the bag off the floor with both hands, I tried to rush from the kitchen, only for the pony inside to start thrashing around.
                
“What’s happening? What’s going on? I don’t like this! It’s making me sick!”
                
A sharp red horn pierced through the side of the bag, spilling a banana peel and a used coffee filter to the ground.
                
“Damn it, damn it, damn it,” I mumbled, watching the contents of the bag ruin my floor.
                
“A light!” the pony cried, cackling widely. “A way out! Who says purgatory lasts forever anymore?”
                
He whirled his horn in a circle, widening the hole. When it was large enough, he stuck his head through and quickly eyed up the kitchen, a few french-fries stuck in his mane and a blotch of strawberry yogurt on his chin. My eyes locked onto his—eyes that were red and green and seemed to glow from the inside. He bared his teeth and growled.
                
“You!” he screamed. “Put me down!”
                
I yelped and dropped the bag. The pony hit the linoleum hard enough to bang his head against the floor. It only stunned him for a moment, as he energetically slithered out of the bag and stood.
                
“Eww!”

He glanced at his trash-covered coat, shaking his body to try and rid himself of what he could. “I knew I couldn’t have been defeated so easily. Twilight Sparkle besting a King? Bah! Only a minor setback. I will return. I will conquer and control them all. I will—”
                
He looked at me again and grinned, showing fangs. It wasn’t a happy kind of grin.
                
“You must work for Twilight Sparkle, mustn’t you? She didn’t wish to get her own hooves dirty disposing of me, so she gave you the job. How pathetic. And just what are you supposed to be, anyways? Another abomination never meant to glimpse the light of day?”
                
“I… uh…” My throat had gone dry. I’d never spoken to a pony before and found the entire thing a bit bizarre. My eyes went from the pony’s sharp teeth to the rolling pin on the counter. “I’m Steve.”
                
He raised a brow. “And what do Steves do, exactly?”
                
I took a step towards the kitchen and the rolling pin. “I work, and I live in a condo. That’s pretty much it.”
                
He nodded. “I see. Are there other Steves to be found, or are you the only one of your kind?”
                
Obviously, I should’ve used the term “human” when describing myself to the pony, but my head was still too busy drowning in a fresh sea of suds to think all that clearly.
                
I took another step towards the kitchen. “Actually, I think Steve’s a pretty popular name.”
                
He grinned again. “That’s good to hear. So when I rip out your throat with my teeth, the Steve population will not be irreparably damaged due to lack of Steves.”
                
I blinked. “Come again?”
                
The pony lunged for me the moment I grabbed the rolling pin from the counter. As I brought it to my chest, he jumped up and shoved me backwards, causing me to lose my balance and stumble back. The instant I landed on the hardwood floor, he stood on my chest and attempted to bite at my face; the only thing stopping him being the rolling pin pushing against the bottom of his jaw.
                
He snapped his mouth shut centimeters from the tip of my nose. He growled out, “Stop struggling and let me eat your face!”
                
“No!” I managed to push him back a few inches, making him visibly shake in anger. The empty yogurt cup stuck on his ear finally fell away.
                
He glared at me madly. “I’m going to devour your flesh! And then your soul! I’ve never dined on Steve before; what type of wine do you think would go?”

Bang-bang-bang!
                
The neighbor behind my place banged on the wall connecting our condos.
                
“Whatever kind of weird shit you got going on in there, Steve, knock it off! Some people are trying to sleep!”
                
“Sorry, Mrs. Pemberton!” I shouted back. Upon reflection, I could’ve yelled for help, but what would I have even said? Being attacked by a deranged talking pony, please send police force and team of shrinks?
                
The pony stopped snapping at me and instead straightened his back. He rolled his eyes. “Fine. If I cannot feast on your face, then maybe I’ll just crush your head using magic. I’ll let you decide which direction to squish: horizontal or vertical?”
                
“What?”
                
“Too late!” He pointed his horn at me as I grimaced. While he grunted, a bead of sweat rolled down his face. When nothing happened, he knocked on the side of his horn. “What’s wrong with this thing? What in Tartarus did you do to it?”
                
I took this opportunity to glance around the living room. A newspaper had fallen off the coffee table (probably when I fell to the floor) and I grabbed it, rolling it tight.
                
The pony hit his horn again. “Work, damn you! Work!”
                
I whapped him hard on the snout with the newspaper roll. His pupils shrunk and I almost thought I saw his eyes begin to water.
                
“Ow!” He grabbed at his nose with both hooves. “What did you do that for?”
                
I hit him again, this time square on the head.
                
“Ow! Stop it!” He stepped off of me and retreated a few steps. “I only tried to kill you! Stop hitting me with that. That really hurts!”
                
It was weird. I almost felt pity for the ugly thing. There must’ve been a part of me that still believed drugs were the reason for all this.
                
“Good,” I told him, pointing the paper roll at him. “Now maybe we can settle down and figure out just what the hell’s going on here.”
                
The pony nodded. “That sounds like a very smart idea.”
                
I furrowed my brows. “Really?”
                
“No.”
                
He came at me again and I hurried to take a step back, my socks momentarily slipping on the floor. My head hit the coffee table and the world went black.
 

***


 

Someone was whistling. Poorly.
                
“Let me just… okay, stay there for a moment and I’ll… hold it like this…”
                
Something clattered to the ground.
                
“No! Come on. You can’t be serious. How do those other ponies make it look so easy?”
                
I opened my eyes and found the pony standing over my head. Precariously balanced between two hooves was the butcher’s knife from the kitchen. As he tried to get the best grip on the knife between two flat hooves, he grimaced in concentration. His face was already wet with sweat and he bit the tip of his tongue in focus.
                
I wasted no time and slapped the knife away, sending it flying to the other end of the room.
                
By the look he gave me, it was almost as if I’d just ripped out his still beating heart.
                
His jaw quivered. “What did you do that for? You know how long it took me to pick that up with these stupid hooves? Like forty minutes, you cumbersome nitwit!” He exhaled noisily. “Just lay there and let me kill you already!”
                
My head felt clearer than before. Not by much, but enough that I knew I had to end this now.
                
As he went to retrieve the knife, I got up and roughly hooked both hands into his sides, pulling him up and shoving him against a wall.
                
“Put me down,” he growled.
                
“Or you’ll do what? I’m like twice your size.”
                
He tried kicking out with his legs. I took a step back and held him where he was. Even when one of his hooves connected with flesh, I found it hardly hurt at all. When he got the better of me earlier, it might’ve been the element of surprise that had aided him.
                
“Put me down this instant! No one touches the King without permission!”
                
I shook my head. “Too bad. At the moment I’m not too sure just what else you are, but I can safely say you’re a dick. One that calls himself a king for some reason. Don’t kings usually wear crowns?”
                
The pony stopped trying to hit me with his legs and went limp. He turned to his side with his head lowered. “First, King Sombra’s beaten by a mare, and now by a Steve. I don’t think things could possibly get any worse for me.”

He sniffled. At that, I rolled my eyes and carried him down the hall.

I opened the door to my storage room and set him down next to the washer and dryer.

He looked at the room cautiously. “What are you doing?”

I placed a hand on the doorknob. “Locking you in. There’s still a chance you’re nothing more than a terrible acid trip, so I’m going to sleep first and then deal with you tomorrow.”

He glared at me. “So that’s it, then? I’m your prisoner now? Forced to live off moldy bread and brown water?”

“Too good for bread and water? I have Goldfish crackers or Doritos if you’d want those instead. Do you drink Sprite?” I shook my head to clear my thoughts. “Why am I asking you this? You’re a pony. Why am I still talking to you?”

He frowned. “I will escape. This place cannot hold me for long.”

“Good. I’ll be looking up phone numbers in the morning for zoos or collectors of rare animals. How much do you reckon you’re worth?”

“A King’s ransom!”

“So twenty bucks?” I scratched my chin. “I wonder if the zoo would give me a lifetime pass for handing over a talking pony? How does something like that sound? A life behind glass, ogled by strangers forever and ever?”

He huffed out angrily. “As long as the ones watching aren’t anything like Steves, I’d welcome it willingly.”

“All right. Enough of this. Good night. If you try to kill me in my sleep again, I won’t hesitate hitting you with the paper some more—this time hard enough to read the imprinted text on your nose.”

“You repugnant tool!” he exclaimed, as I closed the door on him, wedging a chair underneath the knob to keep it shut.

I soon crawled into bed, first locking my bedroom door and shoving the dresser in front of it. Sleep came fast. My last thought being how much I’d laugh the next day, discovering how I’d had a fight to the death with a bag of trash while stoned out of my mind.

“Worst belated birthday ever,” I muttered, before blacking out.
 

***


 


SURVIVOR’S JOURNAL: FIRST ENTRY


 

Your benevolent King has found himself in a rather bizarre situation. At the moment, I am locked in a room beside two metal contraptions I am sure are a type of Steve-ian torture device. One reads “spin cycle” and the other has “temperature settings” and “load size,” although I can’t seem to find a “boiling pony” option. Maybe that Steve has something worse in store for me.
                
All I know is that I shall have my revenge, both on that Twilight Sparkle and the one that placed me here. My only worry is whether I’m still in Equestria at all. This whole place feels so much less colorful than usual—more grey, more plain—although I’m not about to complain about the lack of hideous pinks and purples burning my sight.
                
Let it be stated now for those that read this to understand:

I will not be staying here for long.
> The Bubble Bath
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

I awoke with a head feeling three sizes too big and a stomach loaded with acid. These things wouldn’t have bothered me so much—most mid-twenty year old males were more than accustomed to the stereotypical bad hangover—but the blurry images that came to me from the night before overtook my thoughts like a splash of ice water to the brain.
                
“Pony…” I muttered out through dry and cracked lips, before deciding it was worthy of a chuckle.
                
That’s right. It had been a pony. A dark one that yelled at me and tried to bite my face off with his teeth.
                
“No more shots for Steve, I think.”
                
I rubbed a hand along my forehead and noticed something odd. Thick black hairs were stuck to my fingers, far darker than the hair atop my head.
                
I exhaled a shaky breath and tried to chuckle again. The dresser jammed in front of my door killed them quick.
                
“Oh, now I remember.”
                
Thinking quickly, I went to the closet and got what I needed.
 

***


 

The pony was already awake before I removed the chair from the door and opened my storage room; in the exact same place I recalled he’d been the previous night. He sat on the floor, propped up on two legs. His eyes never left mine, nor ever seemed to blink.
                
For a pony, he had an odd amount of facial expression. This morning’s expression I’d label as stoic annoyance.
                
“What are you wearing?” he asked.
                
I took a quick glance at myself. “My old hockey equipment. I played a year and a bit on defense before realizing how much I sucked.” The equipment in question was a few sizes too small in the years since I’d played and already stifling. Still, I felt safer behind a few inches of heavy rubber and foam. “This is also to keep your teeth away from me. You plan on trying to snack on me again?”
                
“Yes.”
                
“At least you’re honest.”
                
“But not while you’re clad in that. That material might be poisonous.”
                
I rolled my eyes. “Maybe from a buildup of sweat, but honestly, I’m not trying to kill you. Not unless you force me to. Last night was… a mistake, I think on both our parts.”
                
He grinned thinly. “You trapped me in a bag and tried to throw me away.”
                
“I thought you were dead.”
                
“I’m sure many think that right now. Twilight Sparkle included.”
                
“Twilight Sparkle? What is that? A type of candy bar?”
                
He kept silent, staring daggers at me. It was hard to take him seriously with a mane full of French fries and a tomato slice stuck to his side of his stomach.
                
“What’s your name? I thought it started with an ‘s.’”
                
“Starts with an ‘s’ and ends with an ‘ombra,’” he replied thickly. “King Sombra. You would do well to remember that.”
                
“Gotcha. I’m Steve.”
                
I held out a padded hand. I’m still not sure why, maybe reflex.
                
Sombra looked at the outstretched hand as if it were a rock.
                
I raised a brow. “No one taught you to shake?”
                
He pursed his lips. “What is your endgame, Steve? Why am I here? What have you done with my powers?”
                
I held up a finger. “I don’t have a good answer for any of those, but that doesn’t matter right now. You smell. Bad. Like hot garbage bad.”
                
“I care not about my current state. You reek of fear. A fear that can be manipulated and used against you. Tell me and speak truthfully: what is it you fear most?”
                
I sighed. “Conversations without end.”
                
“What else?”
                
“Smelly ponies.”
                
I yanked him off the floor and carried him out.
 

***


 

“I don’t like this! Cease at once!”
                
I held him close to my chest, pinning his legs against me so he couldn’t lash out. The trip to the washroom from the storage room was only a couple of steps, but he made it seem like a whole lot more.
                
He turned his head to glance into the washroom, spotting the tub full of water and bubbles. “So that’s it, then? You plan on drowning me?”
                
I held him over the water. “If I wanted to drown you, I wouldn’t have wasted all my good bubbles on you. You would’ve gone head first into the toilet, although I’m sure that would only end up clogging it.”
                
I lowered him into the tub, his tail grazing the surface of the water.
                		
“Stop! It’s too hot!”
                
“It’s hardly lukewarm, you crybaby.”
                
His flailing legs connected with my arm pads, doing next to nothing. When his rump hit the water, his pupils dilated and he looked up at me with pity.

I had none. He stunk.

When he came to rest at the bottom of the tub, he stopped fighting and merely sat, a frown on his muzzle that was soon to be his trademark scowl. He absently flicked at the water with a hoof. “I guess it’s not too hot.”

I grabbed a large brush from underneath the sink and a cup. I used the cup to dump water over his head before brushing out the bits of leftover food. I kept on the tips of my toes in case he tried to bite at me again. Head to toe in pads and a helmet, I didn’t think he had a chance of doing much damage.

I awkwardly mashed a glove full of shampoo into his curvy mane. “You’re lucky I’m used to taking care of big dogs.”

Sombra remained focused on the silver tub handle, ignoring my existence. “Where is this mutt? Perhaps I can convince him to side with me and devour your corpse.”

“He’s not here,” was all I said to that.

I spotted the plastic toy next to the conditioner bottle—a joke housewarming gift from my mom.

I grabbed it and gave it a squeeze in front of his face. “You want to play with the rubber ducky?”

Somehow he managed to frown harder. “What makes you think I’d want something so juvenile?”

I squeezed it again. “So no ducky?”

He grabbed it from me and gave it a squeeze himself. “I never said I didn’t want it.” He set it in the water and shoved it from side to side and around small mounds of bubbles. “I think in some ways, this rubber duck represents me. It’s all alone and stuck in very hot water, yet it continues to float on and rise to the occasion.”

I dumped more of my good shampoo on his head. If this pony stayed here more than a week, it was going to be hell on my hair care bill.

I nodded. “I completely agree. Knowing you for the last handful of hours has already shown me how much you’re like a rubber duck. Completely empty inside, and every time you open your mouth, all I hear are a bunch of squeaky noises.”

Sombra seemed unperturbed, floating the duck around in circles. “You think you’re humorous, don’t you?”

“That’s what my mother told me.”

He slowly crushed the duck between his hooves. “The only reason I’m not actively trying to hurt you or escape is because I’m still not sure where I am. There’s still the strong possibility this is purgatory after all, and I’m merely being subjected to an eternity with you.” He turned to me and smirked. “All I did was enslave a race and murder thousands. I honestly had no idea I deserved such a punishment—trapped with you.”

I snatched the duck from his grip and set it on the counter. “You know, you’d come off a lot scarier if you weren’t in the middle of a bubble bath right now.”

He grumbled. “So what if the water feels good? You only remind me of my old slaves. Except in my old castle I used to be bathed by dozens of mares, not weird Steves.”

I dried my gloves with a towel. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Get out. Time to dry.”
 

***


 

“I don’t like this.”
                
Sombra looked at the device in my hands, the trigger resting underneath my finger and the nozzle pointed right at his head.
                
“You keep saying that and yet it hasn’t changed anything I do.”
                
He honestly looked petrified. “What is that? Some type of torture instrument?”
                
“A hair dryer. Or in your case, a mane dryer. Hold still.”
                
I held him by the scruff of the neck with one hand and started the dryer with the other. The moment it started, he screamed and tried to step back. I tightened my grip and angled the dryer around his mane and sides; the hot air from the nozzle pushing back his lips to give me a horrible view of his many sharp teeth. Oddly white and polished, I might add. A minute later, I put the dryer away and held Sombra up in front of the mirror. He angled his head from side to side and nodded a single time.
                
“It’ll do, I guess.”
                
I sighed and dropped him to the floor.
                
What a dick.
 

***


 

I ignored the mess still left in the kitchen and made myself a big plate of toast and bacon. I would’ve made an egg to go along with it, but my hangover told me the two would do. I still had a mentally disturbed pony on the brain and I doubted those type of thoughts would go away anytime soon.
                
After Sombra was clean, I took the time to reason with him. I had no intention of wearing hockey pads around the place for however long he was here, but I also didn’t want to constantly watch my ass for homicidal ponies, either. I told him if he tried anything—anything at all—I’d bop him on the nose as hard as I could, PETA be damned.
                
Even though the joke flew well over his head, he begrudgingly agreed, whatever that amounted to.
                
While I made myself breakfast, Sombra busied himself strolling around the condo. It shouldn’t have taken him very long considering the place had six rooms altogether (and even that’s debatable considering the living room and kitchen connect), but every time he entered a room, he’d yell to me.
                
“Where’s the upstairs?”
                
I munched on my greasy bacon. “There is none.”
                
“Downstairs?”
                
“It’s one level.”
                
“Servant’s quarters?”
                
“In your imagination.”
                
“Spiral staircase?”
                
“Look in the closet.”
                
I heard him open another set of doors.
                
“I can’t find it, Steve!”
                
I ate some of my toast and ignored him. Something rubbed against my leg and I looked down. It was my cat, Mittens, walking underneath the table and into the kitchen. How’d he’d so far remained completely oblivious to the moody pony up the hall, I had no idea.
                
I got a tin of cat food out of the drawer and dropped it into his bowl. That job accomplished, he left me alone to eat.
                
Sombra exited the hall and glanced around the living room. His small tour didn’t appear to have put him in a better mood.

“This is it?”
                
I held up a hand. “What did you expect? This is a one-income home. It’s a good size.”
                
He lifted his chin. “Maybe for you, but not for Kings. This place is barely the size of a single room in my old castle.”
                
“I’ll make sure to add a second level tomorrow after I pick up some marble from the castle store.”
                
“Good.” He crossed into the kitchen and eyed my plate. “What are you eating? That smells good.”
                
“Breakfast.”
                
“I will eat it, then.”
                
Before I had a chance to react, he stuck his tongue to a piece of bacon and brought it back to his mouth, chewing noisily. Bits of burnt meat fell to the floor.
                
“That was supposed to be mine,” I started, before I noticed what was happening to him.
                
In mid-chew, Sombra stopped, a thick line of drool cascading down his chin. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and his entire body twitched. He took one last deep inhale before collapsing to the floor, eyes closed and body limp. His chest remained still.
                
I took my time finishing my toast and dabbed my mouth with a napkin. When that was done, I stood and poked him with a fork.
                
“Well, I guess that ends that odd adventure.” I put my hands on my hips. “Now to see if Walmart’s having a sale on garbage bags.”
                
Sombra inhaled again and his eyes darted open. He leaped to his hooves and hurried towards me, causing me to stumble back into my chair.
                
“More,” he said bluntly.
                
“More what?”
                
“Of whatever that was. More.”
                
He wasn’t even blinking. One of his lower eyelids twitched irregularly.
                
“It’s called bacon. And that was microwave bacon because I’m lazy. But I think you’ve had enough.”
                
He shook his head. “Then you’d be wrong. I have not had enough. Not nearly. So give. Now.”
                
I crossed my arms. “What do I get out of it?”
                
“Nothing. This doesn’t concern you, actually. I get more bacon and that’s it.”
                
I pretended to ponder. “Hmm. As tempting as that sounds, I’d rather not give you bacon because you’re kind of a jerk.”
                
He bared his teeth. “That’s not very nice of you, Steve.”
                
“I’ll make sure to see a priest as soon as possible to absolve me of my pony-bacon related sins.”
                
Sombra thought for awhile, another drop of drool giving way from his lips. “What do you want?”
                
“An apology.”
                
“For what?”
                
“Attempted murder, for a start.”
                
He cocked a brow. “I really don’t consider that a negative thing.”
                
I grabbed my plate and placed it out of reach from him on the counter, then I grabbed a piece of bacon from it and held it between us.
                
“Every time you say something that isn’t an apology, half of your possible bacon strip goes in my mouth.”
                
His eyes widened. “You wouldn’t dare!”
                
I tore the bacon in half and ate a piece.
                
Sombra’s jaw quivered. “Why would you be so cruel? Why would you—”
                
I tore it and ate again.
                
I thought I saw his eyes water. He began dancing on the spot, his mouth opening and closing, figuring out what to say.
                
He pleaded, “But you’ve had your fill.”
                
I ate another part, watching the little pony ripping apart from the inside. I know I shouldn’t have taken such malicious glee from watching the hungry pony nearly dance on the spot in pure anguish, but attempted murder can sometimes have that effect on people.
                
Sombra glanced from side to side, almost as if for someone to witness this horror. Eventually, he lowered his head and muttered, “I apologize.” It was little more than a whisper.
                
“For what?”
                
He grumbled. “For trying to end your very sad and desperate existence. You must understand, I was only trying to help.”
                
As terrible an apology as it was, I figured it would have to do.
                
I stood up and held the remaining piece of bacon above my head. “Fine. I’m sure at this rate we’ll become the best of friends in a hundred years or so.” I shook the bit of meat above me. “You want the bacon, hmm? You want it?”
                
He stared at me quizzically. “Of course that’s what I want! We had a whole conversation pertaining to it. What is wrong with you? Why are you holding it up so high? I can’t reach it like that.”
                
I didn’t lower the bacon. “Jump for it. You can do it.”
                
He got on his hindlegs and reached up with his hooves. He was nowhere close. When that didn’t work, he balanced a hoof on my chest and reached up with the other. Still nowhere close.
                
A moment later, I put the poor pony out of his misery and tossed the morsel to him. He caught it a second later and gobbled it down, sitting on the floor when it was gone with a small smile of satisfaction.
                
Watching him, I made myself a mental note: keep bacon stocks full at all times.
 

***


 

“What is that pile of fluff on your lap?”
                
I turned from the TV to see Sombra standing by the kitchen. He seemed unsure whether he wanted to enter the living room where I sat or stay where he was.
                
I looked at Mittens, asleep and content on my leg. “This is my cat, Mittens.”
                
“Seems like a poor excuse for a cat.”
                
I scratched my cat on the top of the head. “He keeps the couch from flying away while I’m at work, so he does enough.”
                
Sombra took a step closer. “Why are you touching it like that?”
                
I removed my hand from Mittens. “What? Scratching his head? It’s my pet cat. So I pet the cat. Most animals like being petted.”
                
Sombra glared at Mittens. “I think it looks stupid.”
                
“Ponies don’t like being petted?”
                
“You try to touch me again and I’ll eat your hands.”
                
“Noted.”
                
I went back to the TV. Sombra didn’t budge from his spot, but I could feel his eyes burning the side of my head. I looked back.
                
“What do you want?”
                
“Food.”
                
“You just had food. And I don’t think I have anything suitable for ponies. Unless you want cat food.”
                
Sombra took a moment to sniff at the contents of Mitten’s food bowl in the kitchen. He gagged and held a hoof to his nose.
                
“You’re a cruel monster, Steve. Forcing that animal to eat such repulsive mush.”
                
“It’s Fancy Feast. Cats love that crap.”
                
Sombra stepped into the living room again. “I’ve tended many feasts in my time, but have yet to see one as disgusting as that.”
                
I ran a hand down my cat’s back, quietly grumbling. “Fine. I’ll buy you some dog food or something later.”
                
“I’m not a dog. I’m a pony.”
                
“Well, sorry, but I don’t think my local grocery store carries pony chow, so you might have to make due. What do ponies eat, anyways? Hay? I think my neighbors would get worried seeing me hauling up bales of hay into the condo.”
                
Sombra came to stand next to the couch. “I don’t want hay. I want bacon.”
                
“A diet of nothing but bacon would kill you.”
                
He grinned. “At least I’d die happy.”
                
I couldn’t argue with him about that. “True.”
                
He waited half a minute before loudly clearing his throat. “Why won’t you look at me?”
                
I pointed at the screen. “Because I’m watching TV and it’s my day off. And on my days off, I watch TV, whether or not sentient ponies miraculously spring forth from my toaster.”
                
Sombra loudly stomped to the area in front of the TV, obscuring my view. “Why don’t you stop petting that ball of fluff and pay attention to me?”
                
I leaned to the side to look around him. He moved to counter it.
                
I pointed the remote at him. “You’re the type that needs constant attention, aren’t you?”
                
He frowned. “Why would you say that?”
                
“Because you haven’t taken your eyes off my cat since you entered the room and now you’re blocking the TV.”
                
“I’m only doing what’s right. I’m important and you should be paying attention to me. Also, I still have no idea why I’m here or how I got here. And I still have little idea of what you are exactly.”
                
“We can worry about all that on Monday. I have a hangover right now, so any important conversation between alien races should probably wait until then.” I patted the spot on the couch next to me. “Sit down and stop fidgeting around. You’re making me nervous.”
                
He looked at the couch wearily. “And then what do we do?”
                
“Watch TV.”
                
“You mean this weird image machine you keep looking at?”
                
“Yes.”
                
“And after that?”
                
“Watch more TV, depending on what’s on.”
                
The pony weighed his options for a moment, taking first a step towards the kitchen before climbing atop the couch. It took him a couple leaps to finally get on.
                
He gripped the armrest nervously with two hooves. “It feels like I’m sinking into this thing.”
                
I turned to him. “That’s how you know it’s a good couch; when it feels like it’s trying to eat you.”
                
“I’m not sure if I like this.”
                
“It’ll grow on you.”
 

***


 


SURVIVOR’S JOURNAL: SECOND ENTRY


 

I have gained the trust of the simpleton that rules over this small plot of land. I have come to the conclusion that an outright attack might lead to my end, but a slow and steady strategy might prove the surer course.
                
I do not like this Steve. He treats me like someone lower than him—like some animal. That cannot be allowed. I am a King and should be respected as such.
                
When I find the source of his bacon supply, I will devour as much as is needed to regain my strength. Until then, I will be patient. I will think and plan… although there is a part of me that oddly wants to return to Steve’s couch. It is made from a much softer material than I am accustomed to. Perhaps once Steve is dead and gone, I will pull it apart and form it into my new throne.
                
Yes. That sounds nice.
                
Also, something must be done about Steve’s cat. Soon.
> The Mittens Incident
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

As tired as I was, I couldn’t help but giggle each time Sombra gasped and brought a hoof up to his mouth. Each time he’d do so, he’d turn in my direction with both eyes wide and mouth wholly dropped. When I didn’t pay him any mind, he’d look back to the TV and tap his hooves together excitedly. For a pony that claimed he was hundreds of years old and made entirely out of nightmares and paper cuts, he sure could act like an elated little child when the mood struck him just right.
                
It would’ve been cute. Honestly, it would have. If what we’d been watching for the last ten hours hadn’t consisted mostly of blood, death, boobs, and midgets.
                
I flipped off the TV and placed both hands behind my head. “So what did you think? That was the whole first season of Game of Thrones.”
                
Sombra couldn’t keep his excitement contained as his face lit up in a grin. He placed two hooves to the sides of his face, Home Alone style. “I think that was the greatest thing I’ve ever seen in my life! So much death! So much blood! And betrayal and thrones and kings and kings vying for thrones!” He thought for a moment. “It would’ve been nice, perhaps, if we knew what the race of ponies over there were planning on doing, but otherwise I absolutely loved it.”
                
The pony looked so joyful, I almost thought he’d squee at any moment. I’m sure if he had, I’d never be able to shake off that misplaced guttural sound for the rest of my life.
                
I cocked a brow. “I’ve known you for about a day and I can safely say this is the nicest you’ve ever been. Was all that attempted face munching before just an act? Or do you just need to be buttered up before you stop being such a moody grump?”
                
Sombra’s smile faded as a fresh scowl took its place. He roughly coughed into a hoof and looked away from me. “I only liked what I saw, Steve. Every time someone died, I automatically replaced their face with yours to make it more fun. It also happened to remind me of my old home—castles and battles, crowns and thrones.”
                
“Don’t forget the nudity. That’s Game of Thrones selling point.”
                
Sombra climbed off the couch. “Naked Steves do little for me. In my kingdom, I was the only pony that wore clothes.”
                
I held up a finger. “Humans, Sombra. We’ve gone over this. My name is Steve, but I am not a Steve. I am a human. One of the greatest ever created, if someone might ask.”
                
“I highly doubt someone will inquire about that.”
                
Sombra stepped in front of the TV, lifting his chin and closing his eyes. “After careful consideration, Steve, I’ve decided to toss my name into the ring. That throne there looked wonderfully sharp and now I wish to sit on it. Permanently.”
                	
I managed to suppress my giggles. “Come again?”
                
He crossed a leg over his chest. “I, King Sombra, proud ruler of the Crystal Empire, hereby put forth my name and title towards ownership of the Iron Throne. After watching most of those Steves—humans—bicker amongst themselves about who has the right to rule over that land, I’ve decided it should be me.”
                
I stared at him. “A pony. Sitting atop the Iron Throne and ruling over all seven kingdoms. I don’t think you’d have much luck. Plus, you have no ties to that throne.”
                
Sombra snorted. “Bah! I will simply kill all those that lay claim to it until none are left.”
                
“I think you’d have more luck being the dwarf character’s personal riding pony. Wouldn’t that be a match made in heaven? A pony that won’t shut up and a dwarf much the same.”
                
Sombra bared his teeth and narrowed his eyes at me. “This is no time for attempts at mockery, Steve! Don’t you understand how this could be beneficial to you, too? If I become king, you could be my—I don’t know—cupbearer! How does that sound? You already brought me some of that bubbly liquid today—”
                
“Pop.”
                
“—whatever. So now all you’d do is bring me wine. And bacon. And perhaps a mare every other night.”
                
“You’re not even part of a house, Sombra.” I held up a hand and started counting. “Stark. Bolton. Lannister. House Sombra? What would your slogan even be? No crumb left unclaimed?”
                
Sombra balked. “You want your carpets full of fried potato parts? I did you a favor picking those up with my tongue.”
                
“Chips.”
                
“Whatever.” Sombra paced along the hardwood. “So will you or will you not get me to Westeros to lay claim to the throne? I will ask only once. Otherwise, I will find it myself and when I claim this small land of yours, I will not hesitate to banish you beyond the wall for treason against your King.”
                
I chuckled underneath a hand. A part of me wanted to continue the game—make Sombra believe he had a chance of ruling a make-belief world—but the longer it went on, the more I knew the reveal would pain him. Also, the harder it would be to strip the idea from his mind.
                
I got up off the couch, wincing at the aches in my knees. “Sorry to break the news to you, but everything you just watched was fake. They were all actors reading off a script, based off the books of a sadomasochist. There’s no Iron Throne and there’s no Westeros, either, meaning there’s no king job up for grabs.”
                
Sombra’s ears flattened against his head and he looked down. “You’re not just saying that because you don’t want me to rule over you, are you?”
                
“Afraid not.”
                
“So that wasn’t real, what I saw?”
                
I shook my head. “No. Taped years ago and saved onto discs for all time.”
                
He sighed. “A throne made of iron would’ve been uncomfortable anyways.”
                
I eyed up the wall clock near the kitchen. It was already late and I had to work in the morning. But I also didn’t want to leave Sombra in the dumps after just popping his blood-thirsty fantasy bubble.
                
I flipped the TV back on. “You want to watch another episode, at least?”
                
Sombra answered this by uncontrollably wagging his tail.
 

***


 

Before I left for work on Monday morning, Sombra and I had ourselves a serious chat. This was to be the first time leaving him alone in the condo and I needed to find out what sort of ground we stood on. Thus far, I’d known him for only a day and a bit and he’d already tried to kill me. He knew my name was Steve (as much as he’d rather call me slave) and I knew his name was Sombra, sometimes with a “King” before it.
                
He was a talking pony. I was a talking Steve. Understandably, this left a lot I still didn’t know.
                
“What do you plan on doing?” I asked him, standing in the doorway with my bag slung over a shoulder.
                
Sombra raised a brow, sitting in front of the TV. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll view more of your image machine, or search for your hidden bacon supply.”
                
I shook my head. “No. I mean, you can’t stay in my house forever, so what do you plan on doing in the long run?”
                
He raised his chin. “Take over Equestria, obviously.”
                
“The place you came from? The place you were before you shot out, piping hot, right out of the toaster?”
                
“Yes.”
                
“And how do you plan on getting there again? I don’t even know how you got here to begin with, and I doubt it’s something that can be replicated with a series of toaster-slash-English muffin experiments.”
                
Sombra scratched the side of his face. “Umm. Maybe there’s a spell I could try, once my powers return to me.”
                
I shifted my bag’s weight to my other shoulder. “Got an ETA on that?”
                
“A what?”
                
“When do you think you’ll get your powers back?”
                
He sneered at me. “You’ll know it when you spontaneously combust.”
                
I was tempted to bop him on the snout. “I hope you’re kidding.”
                
“I never kid.”
                
My cat Mittens strolled between my legs and purred, so I reached down and ran a hand along his back.
                
Sombra’s lip curled on one side as he glared at my cat.
                
I sighed. “What’s your deal with Mittens? Do you have a cat phobia or something?”
                
Sombra looked from the cat to me. “It’s only your cat is so fat, it blocks my view of your window.” He nodded to the covered window behind me. “What is out there, Steve? Say I should leave, what should I expect to find out there?”
                
I smirked. “You really want to know?”
                
“Can’t be any worse than what’s in here.”
                
I held up a finger. “Inside this condo is one human and one human only. Beyond my front door is another seven billion of them. All more or less like me. A whole planet of them; Steves everywhere you look.”
                
Sombra gulped dryly. “They can’t all be as idiotic as you, can they?”
                
“Worse.” I knelt to the floor to whisper to him, cupping my mouth with a hand. “And some of them don’t even know they’re that stupid.” I smiled. “You can leave; believe me, I won’t stop you. But boy, oh boy, will you ever be a sight for eyes that may or may not be sore.”
                
Sombra took a step back. “What do you mean?”
                
“The police might try to catch you and put you down; a bunch of bratty children might try and pet you with fingers coated with sticky crap.”
                
His pupils shrunk and he held a hoof over his mouth. “But I hate sticky crap!”
                
I stood up and sighed. “Well, just letting you know what’s out there. Up to you what you wanna do. But like I told you last night, I gotta go to work. I’ll be back later, and there’s a plate of food in the kitchen. Just try and make it last all day, all right?”
                
Sombra chuckled. “Think I have no self control, Steve?”
                
“Nope.” I went to the entryway and stopped. “Also, don’t touch my cat. And don’t let him out, either. He loves bolting for the door when it’s open.” I glanced at the doorknob in my hand. “Then again, you might actually need fingers and a thumb to work this thing. How goes the re-adjustment to just hooves, Hairy Plotter?”
                
I laughed. Only to myself. The name was something I thought of last night and waited until morning to say.
                
My chuckles dried.

God. I’m actually preparing material ahead of time to make fun of my talking pony roommate. Where’s the closest assisted suicide clinic again?
                
Sombra lifted a leg to stare at. He mumbled, “The moment I have my powers back, you will know. So far, hooves leave a lot to be desired. Imagine balling your hands into fists and trying to properly use toilet paper.”
                
I opened the door. “No. That’s all right. Have a good one. Try not to choke and die. That might only help our situation here.”
                
Closing the door behind me, I let the morning sun wash over my face. It was nice to get away from him—even if that meant leaving him alone in my house. I made a mental note to spend that day’s lunch break searching online.
                
Just how much could I make off a talking pony? If I got him to shut his trap for a few minutes.
 

***


 


SURVIVOR’S JOURNAL: THIRD ENTRY


 

The human known as Steve has finally left me alone. I would like to believe it’s because he’s preparing to inform Twilight Sparkle of how my continued punishment moves forward, but alas, I’m beginning to suspect Steve is just a Steve and nothing more. Meaning…
                
Meaning that I’m not in Equestria anymore.
                
Meaning that I’ll need to find a way back to seek revenge.
                
Also meaning that Steve has kept me here for other reasons than orders from others.
                
This has me worried, but all that can wait for now. Today is the day I deal with a pest that has become increasingly annoying to me.
                
Mittens the cat paws at the door Steve just left from. He turns to me and comes over, eyeing me curiously. I display my fangs, but it does little to affect him. This cat is stupid like all cats—also like all things related to Steve.
                
I have never been much of an animal killer, but my control over my current residence and my control over Steve now rests upon the death of Mittens. Clearly, Steve receives joy from this creature, meaning that I must take that joy away from him—slowly rot him from the inside out until all that is left is a husk of a human, ready to do my bidding and aid me in my rightful return to Equestria.
                
Steve spends too much time with that cat, as is. Time much better spent with me.
                
Not that I actually want to spend time with him. No. No, Celestia, no. It’s only… it’s only what needs to be done in order to fully grasp just what goes on behind Steve’s clueless eyes. If I have any hope of taking control, it is what must be done.
                
I also don’t like it when he pets him. Why would anyone take pleasure in such stupidity? Maybe I should try it—no, scratch that out. Where was I? Oh, yes: Mittens.
                
In the living room, Mittens sits on the ground in front of me, head tilted to the side. He meows and I giggle in return. Then he walks past me while brushing into my side like he did with Steve.
                
Granted, it’s cute. But such dirty tactics will not save him today.
 

***


 

I go through my short list of ways to devour cat, finding few I truly like. Boiled. Sautéed. Diced. Minced. As a side dish. As an entrée. Raw and warm, blood fresh and hot. Baked. Breaded and deep fried with a lemon wedge on top.
                
My mouth waters, but these dishes are all out of my range. These were all meals my highly trained chefs were able to prepare for me in my Crystal Empire. Having never cared about how my food made its way to my plate, I honestly have little idea what I’m doing, as I stand atop Steve’s metal heating box.
                
I awkwardly twist a dial near the clock on top. With just two hooves it takes much longer than I like.
                
“Come on, damn you!”
                
I wait for something—anything—to tell me it’s working.
                
“Steve’s used this thing twice yesterday to make macaroni and now you’re telling me it won’t work?”
                
A searing pain erupts under my butt and I scream, looking down just long enough to find the metal coil underneath me turn a crimson red. I topple off the metal box and bang my head against the ground, tiny stars shooting across my vision.
                
I blow on my plot as best I can—which also means not very well.
                
I lay on the cool kitchen floor for some time, until the pain steadily slithers away. Mittens enters the kitchen and nuzzles his head against my cheek while I grumble about my poor burnt butt. Again, Mittens meows as if asking me a question. I shoot him daggers and pry myself up.
                
I decide to go with something easier.
 

***


 

I squeeze out the forth condiment onto his head and he blinks the mayonnaise out from his eyes. Once he’s properly coated, I place six slices of bread from the counter onto his back and attach them to the ones underneath his stomach using toothpicks. I even stab a pickle at the very top.
                
I stand back to admire my sloppily-made cat sandwich, who in turn turns to me with a bewildered expression and meows.
                
I nod in mock understanding. “You’re right. You do look delicious.”
                
As much as I might’ve wanted a toasted Mittens sandwich, my exploration of Steve’s oven contraption has left me uneasy. I’ve seen him use the smaller metal hot box often enough—the one with the numbers on its front and the one that goes bing! once its contents are warm enough—but there’s no way in Tartarus I’m lifting that fat cat up there.
                
So a cat sandwich on the floor it is.
                
I place a napkin on my lap; pour out a sizeable portion of chips onto the floor and fill a cup with some of Steve’s pop. It’s almost a meal fit for a King.
                
I bring Mittens off the floor in his bread-suit and nearly unhinge my jaw trying to open wide enough. Mittens turns and looks into the abyss known as my throat and meows again, tilting his head.
                
Annoyed, I close my mouth with a snap. “Aren’t you afraid of anything?”
                
He snuggles his face into my cheek.
                
I point a hoof at him. “Don’t think you can escape your fate by acting cute!”
                
He purrs, nudging further into me. My appetite shrinks.
                
I sigh and slump. “Well, I can’t let you stay, you know. Steve is mine and mine alone to break. No more cuddles between you two.”
                
I set my cat sandwich back on the floor and he shakes off his bread-suit. I grab the pickle and eat it, wincing when I forget about the toothpick.
                
I eat the rest of the chips spread on the ground and ponder.
                
“You’re getting soft,” I tell myself.
 

***


 

Eight-and-a-half hours later, Steve returns home. He throws his bag into the closet and calls for his cat. He doesn’t come. Mittens went out the door several hours ago and I made sure he didn’t come back. Once denied reentry, Mittens spun on his fat heels and strolled his fat ass in the opposite direction. With luck, towards an entity far worse than myself.
                
Steve sees me on the couch and stops. I’m coated head to tail in something red (watered down ketchup) and bits of fur rest on my lips and muzzle (a few strands of hair I clipped off Mittens’ back). I belch, to add to the scene, then stretch out on the sofa, rubbing at my belly.
                
“Good afternoon, sla—” is as far as I get before Steve’s hands close around my neck.
                
Even as I black out due to lack of oxygen, I can’t help but grin.
                
Steve and I are off to a great start, it seems.
> The Price Of Kings
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

I let Sombra’s unconscious body fall to the hardwood before noticing my hands were shaking. I looked at the blood—the oddly thick blood still left on my fingers and palm. One quick sniff told me it wasn’t blood at all, but some ketchup mixed with water.
                
Sombra had been coated with the stuff head to tail. So just what the hell had happened here since I’d left?
                
The fur clinging to his muzzle still caused me worry. I yelled for my cat again and then ran around the condo in search of him, finding a mound of chips on the kitchen floor and three empty containers of condiments alongside them.
                
Seriously. What the hell happened here?
                
Before leaving the condo, I filled my bathtub to the brim with cold water and added two bags worth of ice from my freezer into the mix. The motionless Sombra went in the tub next, coughing and thrashing around the moment his body hit the ice.
                
“Argh! Cold!” he screamed.
                
I dunked his head under the icy surface as he tried to talk; watched as he blew large bubbles under the water. Every handful of seconds, I gave him a moment to breathe before dunking him again.
                
“Where’s my cat!?” I yelled into his ear, doing my best Batman impression. “Where’s Mittens, you sadistic prick?”
                
He spat out some water. “Dead… I ate him…”
                
I submerged him again. “I don’t believe you.”
                
Sombra tried paddling against the edges of the tub with his hooves. “Admit defeat, Steve. You cannot win… not when it is only the two of us here now…”
                
I let go of his head and left him in the tub, closing the door behind me and grabbing the keys to my car. Something felt so very wrong about all this.
 

***


 

I found my cat less than three minutes later, on the side of the road and slowly making his way towards the downtown area. He kept close to the curb and well away from oncoming traffic. Much like Sombra, his fur was covered in a variety of crap that looked like every liquid-based ingredient in my fridge. A few chunks of bread stuck to his back and head.
                
Sombra had tried to make himself a cat sandwich while I was out.
                
My Goddamn stupid, murderous pet pony tried to make a sandwich out of my cat.
                
I pulled my car over and scooped him up quick, dropping him once due to the excess mess on his fur. Back in the car, I put him on the floor in the back and thought for a while.
                
I knew I couldn’t bring him back to the condo while Sombra was there. Either Sombra had tried to eat Mittens while I was gone and Mittens ran away, or Sombra had had a change of heart and let him go. Either way, Sombra had wanted him gone. Had he pretended to gobble my cat simply to save face? Or had it been a vengeful attack on me personally, in a bid to anger and annoy and hurt?
                
Or was there something else I wasn’t getting?
                
Since the moment Sombra watched me play with my cat, he scowled and commented on its sheer stupidity. When it was just Sombra and I, he never said a word about my cat; only when I was touching Mittens or calling for him did he critique. Was it jealousy that had provoked Sombra’s wrath that day? Or did he honestly feel that all my attention and thought should be directed towards him?
                
Probably, I thought. Given how much of a self-centered dick he’d been so far.
                
Weighing my options for the immediate future, I drove a half-mile to my sister’s place that she shared with her boyfriend. Before knocking, I used their garden hose to wash out most of the goop off Mittens (who was busily trying to twist and claw at me while I sprayed him with the water). My sister answered the door and I roughly shoved the cat into her hands. She’d always loved Mittens when she visited my house. I figured a few weeks at her place couldn’t hurt.
                
When she asked what was going on, I told her she wouldn’t understand.
                
“Does it involve someone?” she asked curiously.
                
“Yes.”
                
“A girl?”
                
“No.”
                
She raised a brow. “A guy?”
                
“I wish it were that simple.”
                
I left her to ponder the other possibilities as I climbed back into my car and found the number I’d written down while at work. It took all of my lunch break and more, but I’d managed to track down someone that sort-of believed in my story. Or would if I could give them the proof.
                
And now more than ever was I ready to do that.
 

***


 

The following two weeks went by more quiet than most. Most of that time, I spent either locked in my bedroom with my computer or sitting perfectly still on the couch next to Sombra. For the most part, he continued with his usual gloomy disposition, but every few minutes I thought I’d see the hints of a grin on his face, as if he just knew what I was thinking about.
                
Did he want me to be mad at him? Did he always want confrontation?
                
Sombra still believed I thought Mittens to be dead. If that had truly been the case, he never would’ve woken up in a bath full of ice. In fact, he never would’ve woken up at all.
                
“You’re not still mad, are you?” he teased, only slightly taking his eyes off the TV.
                
I checked the wall clock in the kitchen. Any minute now.
                
I told him, “I hope your new home gives you lots and lots of bacon, Sombra.”
                
He furrowed his brows and opened his mouth to reply, when a knock interrupted him.
                
I slapped my cheek. “I wonder who that could be?”
                
I left the couch to answer the door, a small smirk on my lips. Outside was an older man in grey suit pants and a left open white-collared shirt. The simplicity of the clothes might’ve taken me for a loop, but a quick glance at his gold rings and silver watch told me he was the right guy after all.
                
I shook his hand and let him inside. By this point, I could hardly keep the big goofy grin off my face.
                
Sombra rose a couple inches off the couch, eyes slowly tracking from me to our guest.
                
I held an arm out. “Sombra, this is Mr. Roland, who has come to talk to you this afternoon. Mr. Roland, this is Sombra, or as he likes to be known, King Sombra.”
                
Roland chuckled, scratching his unshaven chin. “King, you say? Wow. I had no idea ponies even had kings.”
                
I chuckled along. “Neither did I, until this weird guy shot out my toaster and into my kitchen.”
                
Roland turned to me. “You know, such talk would make you a madman, Steve. But I guess the proof is in the pudding.” He put both hands on his thighs and looked at Sombra on the couch. “Hello, Sombra. Think you’d want to come live with me? I promise people from all over the world would just love to pay to come and hear your stories, if what Steve here tells me proves true.”
                
Sombra looked at Roland for a moment, before turning to me and holding my sight. As he narrowed his eyes, I could tell something rather dark was sliding into place. It wasn’t the greatest of feelings.
                
Thankfully I knew Sombra liked to talk.
                
I walked to the couch. “Go ahead, Sombra. Tell him about yourself. The castle and the Empire and the slaves and all that. I’m sure Mr. Roland would be very interested in it.”
                
Sombra stared at me as if I were a difficult math problem, tilting his head while lifting one ear and lowering the other.
                
I pursed my lips. “You know, all that kingly stuff you used to do? The blood and the beheadings and all that?”
                
Slowly, Sombra opened his mouth, elongating the motion as much as he could. He coughed quietly.
                
Roland pinched the bridge of his nose. “And here I told myself no more crazies. But then again, I must be a little crazy too, trying to believe something so asinine.” He shook his head and chuckled. “I guess I liked the sound of ‘King Pony’ a little too much. Although, I’ll give you credit for dressing him up for the part—the horn and the weird hair and everything. But I wouldn’t leave him on the couch for long; knowing ponies, a shit stain might be coming your way soon.”

He made for the door as I held out a hand to him. “Wait! Wait just a minute! You might think I’ve lost some marbles, but his little bastard honestly shot out my toaster and now won’t leave me alone. He even ate my cat a few weeks ago!”
                
Roland stopped by the door. “I think that’s why cats and barnyard animals aren’t supposed to live together. Or with people, for that matter.”
                
I glared at Sombra. “Say something, damn it! Say anything! Don’t you want out of this tiny place? I thought you hated me!” I thought for a moment. “You want bacon? Say just a single word and I’ll give you all the bacon you want.”
                
Without warning, Sombra jumped off the couch and wrapped his forelegs around my waist, burying his head into my stomach while keeping his eyes shut. Startled by the sudden movement, I lifted both hands well away from his mouth.
                
Roland glanced back and chuckled. “Seems like your pony really likes you. Why would you want to get rid of him so bad?”
                
As Sombra squeezed my body tighter, I felt my original elation float away.
                
Somehow Sombra had taken the act of being cute and adorable and turned into something cruel. I shouldn’t have been surprised.
                
“But… he’s not even from here. He’s from Equestria, a whole land of talking ponies and…”
                
My words hung in the air like ugly balloons—ones I wished I could’ve taken back or popped entirely. Sombra was making me look like a jackass and there was nothing I could do about it. Upon reflection, I should’ve videotaped the talkative pony and then suggested the meeting, although Sombra might’ve gotten wise when I tried to shove a small black recording device into his face.
                
“That all sounds well and good, Steve,” Roland told me, “but I should really be on my way. Good luck with the pony. Maybe write a book about your ideas. ‘Sombra the Pony King.’ Good children’s fiction, perhaps.”
                
Sombra turned up to me, his eyes much brighter than I’d ever seen them before. His grip around me tightened, painfully so. He whispered to me with a sneer, “You’ll never get me to leave. You’re stuck with me, Steve, forever. I have become a plague upon your home.”
                
I’d never been more horrified while being hugged before.
                
I shuddered as Sombra kicked off the floor to lick at my face. Successfully dragging his tongue from my chin to my eye, he left me alone and made his way to Roland.
                
“Wait! Don’t touch him!” I yelled, to no avail.
                
Sombra did the same mid-level embrace on Roland, continually shifting his head from side to side like dogs sometimes did when they pressed into someone. Maybe he’d learned that from that Animal Planet marathon last week.
                
With both hands, Roland scratched Sombra’s head and back, giving him a couple playful pats. He laughed. “Maybe you should’ve gotten a less friendly pony, Steve. Could’ve solidified the evil overlord premise more.”
                
I rolled my eyes. “He’s never been this friendly before.”
                
Sombra tried to lick Roland’s face. “Could’ve fooled me. But I really must be going. Good bye, Steve. Good luck with whatever this is.”
                
He pushed Sombra away as the pony came back to me, a toothy smile on his face. He mouthed the words “Watch this” before clearing his throat.
                
“My name is Steve and I eat the same bowl of cereal every morning before work with two-percent milk.”
                
The voice was mine, but the body was not. Sombra had somehow spoken aloud and channeled my voice with complete perfection. It was odder than odd. Old recordings of my voice tended to make me vow never to speak again. Seeing someone’s lips move and have your own voice come out of them was something else altogether. That particular scene from The Exorcist came to mind.
                
I looked at Sombra sitting on the floor, not able to keep the worry off my face. He saw my emotions plainly and ate it up, his Cheshire cat grin preparing to split his muzzle. He opened his mouth again.
                
“My name is Steve and I think Mr. Roland should go fuck himself with something sharp and dry.”
                
Hand still on the doorknob, Roland took a step back into the house. He shook his head and exhaled. “Now that’s uncalled for. I’ve already wasted half a day reading your emails and visiting your so-called ‘King,’ so there’s no reason to have a hissy fit when all I see before me is bullshit. I feel bad enough already for you, Steve, because I think you might actually believe what you’re going on about. Add to that the fact you live in a condo with a pony, and…” He stopped himself. “Never mind. I’m done. The very least, this’ll make a good story next time I get drunk at the bar.” He looked at Sombra and hooked a thumb towards me. “Good luck, king. You’re going to need it with that one.”
                
Roland shut the door behind him, descending the stairs behind the curtains over the window.
                
A plethora of emotion swam over me—ones of annoyance, anger, and fright. As much as I wanted to start throwing stuff around by the fact I was still living with a weird pony in my house, what took forefront in my mind was what had changed with my weird pony houseguest.
                
I looked down to him. Sombra was sitting on the floor with an innocent expression.
                
“How did you do that?” I asked.
                
Sombra lifted a hoof by his head and brought it up and down to match the movement of his words. My upper and lower lips rose up and down with his hoof.
                
“How did you do that?” he echoed back, again in my voice.
                
I screamed for a second before covering my mouth with a hand. I immediately knew it had been the wrong thing to do as Sombra startled chuckling deep within his throat. That act of cowardice wouldn’t sit well. A deep red aura started at the tip of his horn and swirled around it until reached his head. His red and green eyes burned brilliantly like colored crystal heated with fire.
                
A splash of ice hit my gut. “You’ve gotten your magic back, haven’t you?”
                
He nodded.
                
I steeled myself. “This doesn’t change anything.”
                
He raised a brow. “It might.”
                
Something struck the back of my head and I looked to find a floating newspaper roll, wrapped in the same light from Sombra’s horn.
                
He laughed. “Doesn’t feel good, does it, Steve?”
                
“This still doesn’t change anything.”
                
My couch, recliner, end tables and coffee table all levitated off the floor. Sombra barely even seem to notice.
                
I chewed on my tongue. “You want bacon, don’t you?”
                
“Obviously.”
                
“Fine. I’ll be sure to make enough that you choke.”
                
I walked to the kitchen and pulled the package out of the fridge, trying to keep my hands from trembling.
                
Sombra sniffed at the air. “There’s a new aroma here. Do you smell it? It must be fear. But you can’t be scared of little ol’ me, can you? The same pony you put in a trash bag? The same pony you threw into an icy bath?”
                
I grimaced. “Not scared. Just annoyed. As far as I’m concerned, this is just a minor inconvenience.”
                
“Keep telling yourself that. Soon I’ll know everything it is that you fear and will manipulate you accordingly.”
                
I set the over-stacked plate of bacon into the microwave. “What if I told you my biggest fear is a condo with no pony in it?”
                
Another rolled up newspaper struck me from behind. I grabbed it and tore it to pieces.
                
Sombra snarled. “Rule number one: no more Steve jokes. They are not funny! And just because you laugh at them doesn’t somehow make them funny. Don’t get me wrong. You are a clown, Steve, no doubt about that. Just not the right type of clown.”
                
“You’re giving me rules now?”
                
A third paper struck my head.
                
“Ouch! Damn it!” I put a hand where I’d been hit. “Where do you keep getting those?”
                
Sombra opened a cabinet near the fridge, showcasing a thick stack of old newspapers. “I’ve been collecting.”
                
“What’s rule number two, then?”
                
“I…” Sombra paused. “I haven’t thought that far in advance. So, for now, rule number two is don’t question the rules!”
                
I set the plate of bacon on the floor and Sombra made quick work of it, wincing each time a bit of hot bacon grease struck his face. He barely gave the bacon a single second to cool.
                
As I watched him, I tried to formulate a plan of how best to deal with an angry, violent, moody pony with untold magical powers. My first idea was to run, before I realized I still had a lot of stuff that I liked here, my computer holding highest priority.
                
My second idea was nowhere to be found.
                
Shit.
 

SURVIVOR’S JOURNAL: FOURTH ENTRY


 

(Fourteen lines of incomprehensible HAHAHAs and HEHEHEs later…)
                
Sorry. Sorry about that. Sometimes your emotions run away from you and you can’t help but write them down. Needless to say, I’m feeling rather joyous at the moment. My belly is full of warm meat and my jailer has suddenly become my slave in less than a day.
                
Tonight I will start delving into Steve’s mind, locating that which makes him tick and that which hides in the very dark center of his being. We all have fears—that which scares us. I am no different, and neither is Steve. So now comes the time to discover exactly what makes him mumble out and whimper while he sleeps. Besides little ol’ me of course.
                
Oh, the times, how they are a-changing.
> The Burger Run
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

I’d awoken that morning in an odd state. I was pretty sure something had been in my bed just a minute ago and after I’d been jostled awake, I found myself coughing on something smoky. Either I’d just miraculously saved myself from some painful face-munching by Sombra, or something even worse had just been going on.
                
I got out of bed and ran a hand through my hair, finding it soaked through. (This wasn’t all that bizarre, mind you; I’ve had a reoccurring dream where that happens.) When I stepped out into the hall, I almost impaled my foot on a pair of keys left on the floor. Further up the hall sat a half-dozen discarded, greasy wrappers from the closest fast food joint.
                
“What the hell?” I mumbled.
                
I hadn’t gone anywhere last night—hadn’t even gone to Burger Bonanza in the last week. So just what had happened here last night?
                
I went to the living room and found the front door open. Standing on the balcony, I spotted my car, parked at a slant with a brand new dent on the front bumper. It didn’t look as if I hit any other cars belonging to any other condo owners, though.
                
I went back inside and glared down at Sombra, snuggled up on the couch and snoozing peacefully. More discarded burger wrappers littered the coffee table and floor, amongst a small army of thrown-around fries.
                
Instantly, I could tell Sombra wasn’t actually asleep, but just pretending to be. I’d spent enough nights listening to his ragged snores to know when it was the real thing. Still, even knowing that, I didn’t feel like bothering him yet. Also, why did his face look so wet?
                
I really needed more sleep before I got to the bottom of all this.
 

SURVIVOR’S JOURNAL: FIFTH ENTRY


 

The mind is a fragile thing; soft and malleable, controlled by basic emotions and different chemicals within the body. If one is stressed, the mind and its accompanying thoughts can turn into a blur, whirling around ideas both bad and good in a desperate effort to elevate such stress. If one is happy and joyous, the mind can think clearly and push all negativity aside. If one is scared and afraid, they often do anything to get rid of such feelings.
                
Tonight, I want burgers. Several of them, in fact.

To get to said burgers, I must go through Steve. Use Steve as the simple tool he is. I could have asked him hours ago to fetch me my food, but I fear he would put up a fight over it. Money, time, gas, the fact that he hates my guts and everything that surrounds my guts and lets me continue to exist and annoy him—he’s used these excuses before to deny me what I want and I’m sure he’ll use them again.

I thought my rediscovered powers would grant me ownership over the human. It seems his spirit is not yet broken enough to submit defeat. Maybe I’ll ask him next week to sign over his soul.

I creep into his room in the darkness of the night. Each evening, he leaves me on the couch and barricades himself inside his bedroom, locking the door and blocking it with heavy furniture. With a mere thought, I turn into smoke and drift under the door, becoming whole once on the other side.

Steve sleeps a sleep without dreams.

I could kill him now—end both of our suffering—but, from experience, I’ve always compared physiological torture to that of a fine wine. The longer you let it sit, the greater the final product.

I direct my horn to him, giving it the faintest of glows. I open his mind and find a never-ending sea of black inside. Within this space, I place a cluster of unease and misery, a swirling vortex of paranoia and terror around a ball of fear that only wishes to grow and consume, to devour and drive the human to his knees.

Once I release the growing emotion inside his head, Steve turns to his side and whimpers, clutching at his covers. Now I only need to attach that fear to what I want—make it a life or death scenario.

Less than thirty seconds later, Steve leaps out of bed and we begin our journey.
 

***


 

“Holy shit! I need to eat six burgers in the next ten minutes or else I’ll die!”
                
I turn to Steve, one hoof covering the ear closest to him. I mentally make him lower his voice and stare out the large curved window in front of me. What flashed in Steve’s brain after grabbing his keys was the metal traveling device I currently sit in—something called a “car” or “vehicle.” As he pulls out of his condo’s parking lot, an image of fire and twisted heaps of metal enter my mind through Steve’s. I return a modicum amount of control back to him and he pulls a length of fabric across his chest and connects it into a slot with a click.
                
A “seatbelt.”
                
Since anything that’s good enough for a human should go doubly so for a pony, I grab my own seat’s “seatbelt” and do the same. Then I lean back and enjoy the ride.
                
Back in Steve’s bedroom, I turned the fear that I’d lodged into his cranium into a horrific notion—that Steve had been poisoned by something most foul and the only cure was the swift ingestion of burgers and fries and greasy bits of meat.
                
It’s been weeks since I ate my first burger. It hadn’t been meant for me, mind you, but when Steve left the couch to use the washroom, into my mouth the meaty morsel went and in my heart blossomed a memory not to be forgotten anytime soon.
                
Steve whips his head in my direction, the tips of his hair wet with sweat. “You think I should go to the hospital? They might have burgers there. Maybe they have a standby burger supply incase someone gets poisoned and needs them and—”
                
I silence him with my horn. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that, Steve. Your only hope now rests in the assured hands of those working the overnight shift at…” I take a moment to peruse inside his mind. “…Burger Bonanza, just as long as they have those burnt potato pieces, too. I’ll definitely be having some of those.”
                
I lick my lips. The thoughts of warm meat and salty potatoes was already causing me to salivate.
                
I tighten my hold on Steve, directing his attention to our destination. He presses his foot against a lever near the floor and our vehicle lunges forward. We weave in and out of oncoming cars; the blast of horns and the squeal of tires sounding off all around us.
                
Since we’d left the condo, I’d allowed Steve enough mental freewill to guide our vehicle himself. As he watches the dark road ahead, he barely blinks—hitching in small batches of air as another drop of sweat falls from his head. He really thinks he’s dying, doesn’t he?
                
I almost feel bad for him. That’s why he gets to eat some burgers, too. It’s only fair.
                
Steve spots a red-and-white building to the side of the road and his mind informs me that’s the place. I guide him to the side a little prematurely and our vehicle bumps into a piece of cement. I try to shrug it off. It’s been a long time since I’ve controlled someone mentally.
                
As we enter the “drive-thru,” Steve slows our speed and stops before a large box of metal with colorful pictures adorning every inch of it. Burgers and potato pieces and bowls full of lettuce are placed alongside a list of numbers. As I view over the massive selection of burgers, some with meat stacked on top of meat with bits of bacon barely held inside, I drool onto the floor and I find my thoughts hard to control. Without telling him to, Steve rolls down his window.
                
“I wasn’t ready for this,” I whisper, eyes zooming from one meaty creation to the next.
                
Do I want all of them or just several of one? Which one did Steve have that other day?
                
“… phppph…ph…phphpp….phhph…please…”
                
A voice speaks from inside the metal box. Metallic, barely comprehensible.
                
I remove my seatbelt to stand on the armrest, leaning over Steve.
                
Steve pushes me out of the way. “Hello in there! Oh, god, I need some burgers quick! I’ve been poisoned and—”
                
I put a hoof to his lips, silencing him. “Allow me, Steve. You’re in no state to be making such big and important decisions.”
                
“...did someone say they’ve been poisoned?” the metal box inquires.
                
I chuckle. “No. All is well. Ignore my foolish human here. We are after burgers. Many of them, if you’d be so kind.”
                
“You want, like… a meal? If so, which meal?”
                
I’m momentarily stumped. “The one with the most meat.”
                
“I’ll give you a number seven, then—the Meat-nificent Burger. You want fries with that?”
                
“You mean burnt potato wedges?”
                
The metal box is silent for a time. “It’s two in the morning and you’re asking questions like that? You’re stoned, aren’t you?”
                
I frown. “No. Not at the moment. My subjects tried to stone me once during a short revolution, but I saw to the end of that pretty fast.”
                
They sigh. “You want that super-sized?”
                
“What does that mean?”
                
“It means everything gets bigger—burger, fries, drink… stomach, love handles.”
                
I gasp. “Everything? Could I get more meat, too?”
                
“If you’re willing to pay for it, sure.”
                
What a fantastic world I’ve found myself in; talking metal contraptions that dispensed warm meat-filled meals with just a command.
                
“I also want twelve of those meals.”
                
“So was that a ‘yes’ on the being stoned part?”
                

***


 

I make Steve pull our vehicle to the side of the burger building, next to a sliding window. Before we left the talking metal box, they gave us a total cost and I searched through Steve’s mind to make sure we’d have the correct amount of funds. At the moment, Steve’s wallet is full of green bits of paper I’m informed will grant us access to burgers and most everything else on Earth.
                
As Steve gives over the money silently, I sense a pang of regret emanating off of him. In the blackened void known as Steve’s brain, the words “Grandma” and “birthday” spring forth. Perhaps that stack of papers in Steve’s wallet was supposed to go to them.
                
Too bad. Burgers trump whatever the hell “Grandmas” are any day.
                	
A younger human far thinner than Steve hands us our bounty of food in four grease-stained bags, then looks up in wide-eyed alarm as he notices me in the passenger seat. He rubs at one eye and blinks repeatedly.
                
He places a hand on the edge of the window. “You sure you should be driving with that thing in the front?”
                
I chuckle deeply. “I wouldn’t worry too much about him. This human is well trained and very obedient.” I smirk. “Thanks for the meat, thin human! When I conquer all of Earth and enslave your race, I shall remember your quick and pleasant service. Good night!”
                
Steve puts the car in drive and we inch out of the drive-thru. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the thin burger-serving human turn around and shout to someone else.
                
“Mr. Ferguson! I’m going on a break! I’m seeing talking ponies over here!”
 

***


 

I find the art of human studying slow, but fun.
                
After departing Burger Bonanza, I instruct Steve to take us home as I unwrap my first burger and give it a tour of my gut in two sizeable bites. It causes my heart to lurch for a moment, so I pat my chest to get things moving again.
                
It seems my body has yet to adjust to such high doses of meat.
                
“Stop! Hold on! I want to see this!”
                
While chewing on some salty potato pieces, I spot a couple of human males sharing a brown paper bag between them. They both stand at the front of an alley, both with torn up pants and jackets in need of repair. The one closest to us looks more off balance than the other.
                
I roll down my window and watch them for a while. The stumbling one brings the bag to his lips and drinks from it, sighing contently. When he hands it back, he does a little dance and giggles.
                
I prop my head on a hoof. “Humans… fascinating. They’re all so very, very stupid.”
                
I turn to Steve, who’s still chewing on a large mouthful of “antidote” burger.
                
“What type of humans are those?”
                
He doesn’t even look in my direction. “Bums. Alcoholics. Homeless. Degenerates. Smelly.”
                
I nod. “I see.” I stick my head out the window to yell at them. “Hey! You smelly, homeless, alcoholic, degenerate bums! You want a fry?”
                
The one closer to us looks our way. “What did you just say to me?”
                
“I asked if you wanted a fry!”

I say to Steve, “You didn’t tell me they were deaf, too.”
                
When I turn back, the dirty human is standing right outside the car. Like the burger serving human, he rubs his palms into his eyes as he gives me a once over.
                
“Whoa. A pony. I didn’t think I was that far gone yet.”
                
I hover the box of fries towards him. “Fry?”
                
He shrugs. “Well, I haven’t turned down a talking pony yet, so I guess I’m not about to start.”
                
He takes two fries and I smack his hand with a hoof.
                
“I said fry, you imbecile! Not fries!”
                
He holds his wounded hand. “Man, you’re one mean little pony. Captain bringdown over here.”
                
I roll my eyes. “Fine. Try again. One fry.”
                
He takes one and eats it, closing his eyes. When he’s done, he holds his paper bag to me. “Want a sip, pony guy? I promise it’s the good stuff.”
                
“I think I’ll be the judge of that, thank you.” I sniff at the glass bottle in the bag. Whatever’s inside has a sharp, bitter quality. “Alcohol?”
                
The bum smiles brightly, neither pupil staring in the same direction. “The finest! Alley-made absinthe.”
                
“I don’t know what that is.”
                
He shakes the bottle. “And after you take a sip, you won’t have a clue what anything is anymore!”
                
I look to Steve, who even under my control shakes his head. Since so far I try to do the exact opposite of what he wants, I think it best if I drink from the smelly stranger’s bottle of unknown liquid.
                
This is a mistake.
 

***


 

I watch as Steve strolls along a street, the edges of the frame blurry and unfocused. He’s much shorter than usual—perhaps ten or twelve years old at most. This is a dream from his childhood. From what his mind is telling me, this is a dream he has quite often, as much as he’d wish he didn’t.
                
After conversing with the man with no home on the street, Steve and I returned to the condo and gorged ourselves on burgers and fries. Twice my heart told me to stop and twice I told my heart it better stop disobeying me and start loving the meat I was treating it to.
                
Burger gathering accomplished, I put Steve to bed and unhook him from the spark of fear I first instilled within him. He’s unconscious almost instantly and grabs at his covers. Curious if I’d find myself in his nightmares already, I pry him open a bit and take a look inside.
                
If my head wasn’t floating around in a shot of mystery alcohol, I might’ve rethought about my actions.
                
I don’t like what I find inside Steve’s dream.
                
Traveling alongside Steve’s child-sized counterpart is a large black dog, almost the size of me. He runs close to Steve and nudges into him until he hooks a hand around his head. From the touch, the dog lolls out his tongue and buries his head into Steve’s side.
                
I get a minor flashback to the evening Steve invited Mr. Roland over to the condo. To annoy Steve, I’d jumped up on his friend and he’d patted me in much the same way.
                
Inside Steve’s dream, he and his dog are halted on the sidewalk by another group of kids the same age. By the spike in fear I feel inside Steve’s head, I’m told these are not his friends.
                
Steve’s dog lowers to the ground and growls, baring his teeth.
                
Words are said between the two groups, but the dream only offers me visions, hazy as they are.
                
The dream leaps forward in time and Steve has a bloody lip and bruised cheek. His dog has his jaws clamped around another kid’s wrist, twisting it from side to side as specks of blood drip down his arm. As the other kids flee, Steve tries to pry his dog away. The only problem is the dog is much bigger than he is.
                
The dream goes black and just when I think it will not continue further, I’m given a sight of a young Steve, alone on a small bed inside his house. His face is stained with tears and he’s holding a picture to his chest. Inside his head are conflicting emotions—heated and pained, angry and sad.
                
A moment ago, Steve’s father had spoken to him, tried to explain what had happened and why it had to. Steve did not see it the same way his father had and now he hates him almost as much as the bullies that had attacked him and his dog.
                
I search through the vision and find Steve’s dog nowhere to be found.
                
I exit the dream and stand before Steve’s bed. Tears have escaped his eyes and he whimpers softly. Soon I find tears of my own on my face and hurriedly remove them.
                
I wouldn’t include this next portion into my journal, but since I highly doubt anyone besides me will even read it, I’ll include it anyways.
                
After thoroughly checking the living room, washroom, outside steps, parking lot, storage room, and scan the condo for both extra humans or ponies or spirits from beyond the grave, I climb atop Steve’s bed and lay down next to him. I use my horn to stick his hand on my head like Mr. Roland had before and find I can’t stop from tearing up again.

I hold little pity for Steve—his dream has not changed my mind about the human. It’s only being so swept away in the emotions of the evening that have caused me to act in such a pathetic way. Each emotion I’d forced into Steve, I’d also felt in return.
                
Fear.
                
Fear that I may never return to Equestria. Fear that when and if I do, I may not be able to regain control of what I’d lost. Fear that since my defeat, all respect I may have commanded had effortlessly been stripped from me. Fear that I may not be as powerful as I think I am.
                
Sorrow.
                
Sorrow that when I was thrown out of Equestria by the doings of six colorful mares, I had been thrown away because of hate. Burning, passionate hate. Ponies hated me. They loathed me, and for good reason. So why was it that I felt such sorrow now by that same overwhelming wave of hatred? Had I finally become sick of it all? Sick of having no one on my side? No one I could talk to or laugh with or to be happy with?
                
It’s hard to be hated by everyone all the time. Even for someone like me.
                
Lying next to Steve, I remember the first few days here—the hours spent watching his image machine and snacking on delicious foods. Hadn’t I found a type of joy then? A small type of happiness—albeit a different kind than any before?
                
When you spent all your life trying your best to push ponies away, you become especially good at it. Was it finally time for me to try something else?
                	
I rub Steve’s hand through my mane again and sniffle.
                
“But who would ever be friends with you?” I ask myself.
                
The hand on my head stops suddenly.

“…Sombra?” Steve asks sleepily.
                
I yelp and disappear into smoke, retreating from the room and reconfiguring on the couch. As Steve exits his bedroom, I try my best to appear asleep.
                
I can still feel the tears under my eyes. I hope he doesn’t notice.