> Mountie Python's Flying Circus
>  by Locomotion
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> Story 1: The Changeling Inquisition
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

World Comedy Day had always been something of a mixed bag for Shining Armour, and this year was no exception. As much as he appreciated a good joke, he couldn't shake a feeling as he returned from the morning's training exercise that the Crystal Guards had taken their humour a bit too far, especially after the row he had had with the drill sergeant. He entered the parlour to find Cadance indulging in some light reading; Flurry Heart had gone to visit her aunt Twilight for a week, giving the two of them some much-needed time off.

“Hello, Shining,” said Cadance, looking up from her book. “How was guard training?”

Shining Armour sighed heavily and shook his head. “Ludicrous,” he declared wearily. “You wouldn't believe the shambles I had to deal with this morning – the absolute cheek of that sergeant of mine! And I thought he was just as disciplined as all the others.”

Cadance looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“Well...”


Earlier that day, a company of guards were all stood on parade while Shining Armour inspected them, followed closely by his subordinate for the day, Colour Sergeant Stripes. To one side stood the Duke and Duchess of Maretonia with their newborn son, all of whom watched the display with interest.

“Well, Stripes,” announced Shining Armour smartly, “I can see these ponies are on top form today – properly dressed, not one scuff on their uniforms, spears nice and sharp...” He broke off as he heard a stifled giggle from the front rank. Quickly putting two and two together, he turned to the offending pony and snappily addressed him; “Get that innuendo out of your head, soldier! You're in the Royal Guard, not a stand-up comedy club!”

The pony saluted sheepishly. “Sorry, sir. I promise you, the subject of Biggus Prickus won't come up again.”

To Shining Armour's dismay, all the other soldiers suddenly collapsed into laughter themselves, causing the Duke and Duchess to exchange bewildered glances. Even Stripes couldn't help smirking in amusement, something he had been doing all morning for reasons the white unicorn stallion couldn't work out.

“Alright, that's enough!” barked Shining Armour at last. “All of you, pull yourselves together! And as for you, Private Silver Bullet,” he added sternly, “if I hear so much as one more snicker from you, I'm putting you on a charge. Do I make myself clear?”

“As crystal, sir!” The other soldiers only just managed to avoid laughing a second time at Silver Bullet's witty remark.

Shining Armour just rolled his eyes and turned to Stripes. “Right,” he ordered, “now let's see something decent and military – some precision drilling.”

“Sir!” Stripes saluted and turned to the soldiers. “Company – camp it – UP!”

Do what now? Shining Armour was taken aback for a moment – and then all became clear as the soldiers began to swagger and chant in a very camp manner. His eyes almost popped out in shock at what he was seeing, and when he looked towards the Duke and Duchess, he could see they were just as baffled. Barely halfway through the ridiculous routine, a spluttering chuckle from Stripes told him all he needed to know – it wasn't a drill at all, but an elaborate World Comedy Day prank. He shot the Pegasus sergeant an angry glare, which went completely unnoticed.

Only when the soldiers had finished their “drill” and were back to standing at ease did Shining Armour finally manage to put his hoof down. “Right, stop that!” he scolded. “It's silly – and more than a little offensive, I might add.”

“Ah, loosen up, Your Highness,” retorted Stripes. “They're just having a bit of fun.”

“Fun? In the Royal Guard?!” Shining Armour spun on him crossly. “You of all ponies know perfectly well that fun and games should never clash with discipline!”

“Oh, you're no fun anymore!” said Stripes huffily...


“We got into a heated debate after that,” finished Shining Armour back in the present, “and I tried making them march up and down the square to teach them a lesson; but Stripes ended up dismissing the whole company on a bunch of lame excuses about cinemas and books and spending the day at home with family and such.” He sat down with a groan. “I swear to Celestia, those ponies don't seem to have any sense of discipline at the moment.”

Cadance stifled a giggle of her own and nuzzled him reassuringly. “Cheer up, darling,” she soothed. “It's only once a year, after all; and to be fair, the Crystal Ponies' morale could do with a boost after what Sombra put them through.”

“I know,” sighed Shining Armour. “It's just...I really could've done without them embarrassing me in front of the gentry, World Comedy Day or not. And that dressing down I got from the Duke for my alleged 'inability' to keep them in order...I expected a few jokes, fair enough,” he moaned, “but not some sort of changeling inquisition.”

Before Cadance could even begin to wonder whether such an interrogation had ever taken place, the door suddenly flew open, and an ominous musical chord echoed out of nowhere as three changelings seemed to jump out at them. All three were red in colour with matching hats; one of them was a stovepipe hat that seemed to emit smoke from the top, while the tallest of the trio wore a sombrero with a wide brim. He and his sidekicks glowered upon the startled couple as he announced in an intimidating manner, “Nopony expects the Changeling Inquisition!”

Both Shining Armour and Cadance exchanged befuddled glances. They had no idea what these three were doing here, but they had to admit they weren't wrong.

Without letting them get a word in edgeways about what their business was, the tall one – evidently their leader, judging by the way he carried himself – continued his speech. “Our chief weapon is surprise – surprise and agility – agility and...no, wait, that's two weapons!” he rambled, stumbling over his words. “Our two weapons are surprise and agility and ruthless efficiency – no, three, our three weapons are agility, surprise and ruthless efficiency, and an almost inexhaustible mastery of disguise...four weapons...”

There was a very awkward pause as he rethought what he was going to say.

“Amongst our weaponry...” he began again, “...amongst our weaponry are such diverse elements as agility, s...I'll come in again,” and he hastily ushered the other two changelings out of the room, shutting the door behind them.

At last, Cadance found her voice. “What was all that about?” she quizzed.

“Beats me.” Shining Armour gazed back at the door, almost as if he expected the three changelings to come back any second. “I don't question for one moment how they managed to sneak past our guards, especially given how sloppy they were this morning; but why bother with an inquisition? I thought we'd patched things over with them.”

“Perhaps it's just their way of joining in on the World Comedy Day fun,” suggested Cadance thoughtfully.

“What, barging into a castle, rambling on about us not expecting the Changeling Inquisition?”

Once again, any further protest was cut off by the same chord, and the three changelings burst into the room as before. “Nopony expects the Changeling Inquisition!” their leader reiterated. “Amongst our weaponry are such elements as surprise, agility, ruthless efficiency, an almost inexhaustible mastery of disguise,” and then, as if a hasty afterthought, “and nice red carapaces – oh, drat!!”

“And would you care to explain what you're doing here, and by what right?” demanded Shining Armour.

But the lead changeling took no notice. Instead, he whispered something to the changeling in the stovepipe hat, and they hastily filed out of the room again.

Shining Armour let out an exasperated growl. “This is getting ridiculous!” he complained. “How many more times do we have to expect this Changeling Inquisition?!”

“Don't jinx it!” hissed Cadance; but it was too little too late. For the third time in a row, the changelings barged into the room to the sound of the ominous chord which, frankly, was beginning to grate. This time, the changeling in the stovepipe hat took centre stage – and his performance was even more confused!

“Uh...uh, nopony, um...an...uh...”

“Expects,” hissed the leader under his breath.

“Expects, yes – nopony expects the, um...the Changeling...um...”

“Inquisition.”

“I know, I know!” muttered the one in the stovepipe hat, and turned his attention back to the baffled couple. “Nopony expects the Changeling Inquisition; in fact those who do...”

“Our chief weapons are...!”

“Our chief weapons are...um...uh...”

“Surprise.”

“Surprise...”

“Alright, alright, that'll do!” interrupted the leader sharply, and sprang back to the front of the group. “Our chief weapon is surprise – blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Cardinal Syn,” he ordered, “read the charge!”

The third changeling, who had remained silent up to this point, unrolled the scroll he had tucked under his fedora and took centre stage as he began to read. “Princess Cadance, supreme, exalted sovereign of the Crystal Empire – you are hereby charged with inattention to your husband, and failure to show your love to one another.”

“And you three face a trespassing charge if you don't explain yourselves,” Shining Armour threatened; but once again, his words went unheeded as Cardinal Syn began to mutter under his breath, only to be silenced by his leader. He stepped up to Cadance, trying to suppress the smirk on his lips.

“Now – how do you plead?”

If Cadance was confused before, she was now absolutely baffled. “Inattention to...you do realise you're talking to the Princess of Love, don't you?” she asked incredulously. “I've been nothing but faithful to Shiny since before we were married; if anyone's innocent of those so-called 'charges' of yours, it's me.”

Her defence was met with a poor attempt at Diabolical Laughter by the three changelings. The leader waved his hooves at her in what they could only describe as Diabolical Acting; “We'll soon change your mind about THAT – with surprise, agility and ruthless...ooh!!” He turned to the inquisitor in the stovepipe hat. “Cardinal Puff Puff Puff, fetch...THE RACK!!”

Both ponies goggled in alarm. “Now look here,” burst out Shining Armour, “this has gone far...what the...?!” The immense fear they felt suddenly vanished as the stovepipe hatted changeling pulled the “rack” into the room. It wasn't the torture rack they had expected, but a massage table! Cadance was right, they realised – this “inquisition” was nothing more than a World Comedy Day prank, a free spa treatment under the guise of poorly planned terrorism.

Already, the leader could see that they were beginning to catch on, and struggled to stifle a groan as he shook his head in dismay. “Right,” he ordered lamely, “tie her down.”

The other two changelings took Cadance's front hooves and yanked her forcibly over to the “rack”, forcing her down prone as they tied her onto it – with streamers! Not a particularly effective form of restraint, the pink alicorn thought with a barely suppressed smirk, but these three characters seemed to think it adequate, so she decided to play along.

“Right,” the leader spoke up again, “how do you plead?”

“Innocent,” repeated Cadance in a defiant tone.

“Ha! Right!” The leader turned back to Cardinal Puff Puff Puff. “Cardinal – give the rack...oh dear,” he interrupted himself as a sudden realisation hit him, forcing him to fight back a cringe of dismay. “Give the rack...a turn.”

Puff Puff Puff checked the “rack” over for a handle, but couldn't find one. “But I...” he began awkwardly.

“I know, I know you can't,” muttered his leader, gritting his fangs with embarrassment, “I didn't want to say anything – I just wanted to try and ignore our oversight from when we bought this dratted thing in the first place. It makes us all look so stupid!”

“Shall I, er...”

“Oh, grief, just pretend, for crying out loud!” burst out the leader, his frustration getting the better of him.

Only then did Puff Puff Puff notice a pedal at the base of the massage table, and began to realise how it worked. Quickly resuming his charade, he gave another Diabolical Laugh – and began waving one front hoof round in circles as if cranking an imaginary handle, his other hoof pumping rhythmically against the pedal and elevating the table. Cadance struggled half-heartedly against her bonds, trying to maintain the illusion of helplessness.

Within a few seconds, the table was at a more suitable height for a masseur to work on the “victim” more comfortably. By then, the leader was sufficiently recovered to resume his intimidating stance; “Alright, princess,” he growled, “this is your last chance. How do you plead?”

“On my knees, if it weren't for these restraints,” replied Cadance smartly, “but I assure you, I'm still innocent.”

“FINE! IF THAT'S THE WAY YOU WANT IT...!” The leader turned on Shining Armour, who was now so amused that he could hardly keep a straight face. “You!” he barked. “Since you too refuse to confess, you will carry out the torture yourself! Now – you will stand over your princess and smooth out any and all knots in her muscles for the next hour!”

“And if I don't, you fiends...?” asked Shining Armour with a smirk.

“Then we shall strike you down – with the Big Pink Tickling Feather!” No sooner had the leader uttered the last word than the dramatic chord rang out for what Cadance and Shining Armour hoped would be the last time. As if to punctuate it, Syn pulled out a huge pink feather, seemingly from nowhere, and hovered it over to the white stallion who shrank back in mild but genuine fear. The last thing he wanted was for anyone, even a bunch of crazy changelings, to find out how ticklish he was.

“Alright,” he said hastily, “I'll do it.” Without another word, he stood over his wife and gently began running his hooves down her back, earning a moan of bliss from the pink alicorn. This more than satisfied the inquisitors, and after only fifteen minutes of massaging, they quietly slipped away – but not without leaving a note behind with the simple, ominous message:


Remember; nopony expects the Changeling Inquisition!


Of course, Cadance and Shining Armour weren't to be the only victims, but that's another story. And now for something completely different...
> Story 2: Caramel at the Argument Clinic
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“So you think this might be the best solution?”

“Well, frankly, yeah,” said Caramel gravely. “I mean, I do love Applejack more than anything, but I do worry sometimes about falling out with her over little details like how we handle the cider press and where to plant a new apple tree. You know how stubborn she can get at the best of times.”

Lucky Clover nodded gravely. “Only too well,” he murmured. “I can still remember that one time I got into a row with her just because I said something about raspberries.”

“What, did she threaten to release the tiger on you?”

“Tiger?!” spluttered Lucky incredulously. “I didn't even know she had one.”

“She doesn't really,” Caramel reassured him. “It's just a stuffed animal toy on wheels, something Apple Bloom won in a fair a few years ago.”

Before Lucky could inquire further, they were interrupted by the sound of the receptionist calling out for the next pony. Realising he was now at the front of the queue, Caramel stepped forward. “I'd like to have an argument, please.”

“Certainly, sir,” replied the mare. “Have you had one here before?”

“Umm...” Caramel frowned as he remembered being here with a broken back years ago. “...no, this is my first time.”

“I see. Now, would you like to have the full argument, or were you thinking of taking the course?”

Caramel pondered for a moment. “How much will it cost me?”

“Five bits for a five-minute argument, but only 40 for a course of ten; and 20 for a half-hour.”

“Right, well, I think I'll start with the one and see how it goes from there,” decided Caramel.

“Fine,” smiled the receptionist. “I'll see who's free at the moment.” She began leafing through her appointment book for an available slot, murmuring absently; “Um...Mr Debate is free, but he's a bit conciliatory. Uh...” After a few more pages, she looked up again. “Try Mr Bickers, Room 12.”

“Thanks.” Caramel turned and made his way down the hallway, keeping his eyes peeled for the appropriate room number. It wasn't long before he spotted the room in question; but to his dismay, he could already hear voices on the other side. Not wishing to intrude, he opted to stand around while whatever argument was going on in there was over.

He didn't have to wait long. After a mere minute, the chatter within the room came to an end, and he was greeted by the sight of Vinyl Scratch walking out looking oddly hurt and satisfied both at the same time. Caramel couldn't for the life of him understand why anyone would feel pleased to lose an argument so embarrassingly; but Vinyl probably had her reasons, so he just shrugged and entered the room.

“WHAT DO YOU WANT?!!” bellowed the Pegasus stallion sitting behind the desk.

Caramel flinched. This wasn't the response he was expecting, even from argument therapy. “Well, I...the receptionist told me...”

“DON'T GIVE ME THAT, YOU SNOTTY-FACED HEAP OF PARROT DROPPINGS!”

“What?!” Caramel was even more confused at the interruption. “Now hang on just a...”

“SHUT YOUR FESTERING GOB, YOU BASKET CASE!!” screamed the stallion aggressively. He sounded like he was on the warpath with this tan-furred intruder. “YOUR TYPE MAKES ME PUKE, YOU VACUOUS, TOFFEE-NOSED, MALODOROUS PERVERT!!!!”

“LOOK! I CAME HERE FOR AN ARGUMENT!” burst out Caramel, flustered.

“Oh!” The other pony's angry stance was suddenly eclipsed by an awkward tone of apology. “Oh, I'm sorry, this is Abuse,” he explained more calmly.

“Oh, I see!” exclaimed Caramel, beginning to understand. “Well, that explains a lot.”

“No, you want 12A, next door,” continued the therapist helpfully.

“Ah, right. Sorry about that.”

“Not at all. No, that's alright,” answered the therapist as Caramel left the room. No sooner had the tan stallion shut the door, however, than he thought he could hear the Pegasus muttering to himself, “Stupid git!” Again, he shrugged it off – he'd probably caught the poor stallion on a bad day or something; and besides, at least he had the common decency to point him towards the right room. All the same, he made sure to knock before entering, lest he be met with another nasty surprise.

“Is this the right room for an argument?” he asked cautiously.

The unicorn therapist behind the desk gave him a blank look. “Of course it is, I've told you once already.”

Caramel looked perplexed. “No you haven't,” he objected.

“Yes I have,” replied the unicorn in a stern but professional manner.

“When?”

“Just now.”

There was a brief pause.

“No you didn't.” 

“Yes I did.”

“You didn't.”

“I did.”

“You didn't!”

“I'm telling you I did.”

“You did not!”

“I'm sorry,” interjected the therapist, “is this a five-minute argument of the full half-hour?”

Only then did Caramel finally catch on. “Oh! Right! Uh, just the five minutes,” he answered cordially.

“Fine.” The therapist wrote something down in his appointment book as Caramel took a seat. “Anyway, I did,” he continued.

“You most certainly did not.” This wasn't quite the argument Caramel was expecting, but he was already getting himself worked up with anticipation, so he didn't question it.

“Now let's get one thing quite clear,” stated the therapist. “I most definitely told you.

“You did not.”

“Yes I did.”

“You did not.”

“Yes I did.”

“You didn't.”

“Yes I did.”

“You didn't!”

“I told you by way of the signage on the door.”

“That doesn't count,” scoffed Caramel dismissively.

“Yes it does.”

“No it doesn't.”

“Yes it does.”

“No it doesn't.”

“Yes it does.”

“It doesn't.”

“Yes it does.”

“It doesn't!”

“Yes it does.” Incredibly, the therapist was still managing to maintain a professional tone regardless of how childish the argument was becoming.

Caramel, on the other hoof, was growing a little frustrated. “Look, this is meant to be an argument,” he protested.

“Well, of course it's an argument,” said the therapist, feigning confusion.

“No it isn't.”

“Yes it is.”

“No it isn't!”

“Yes it is.”

“No it isn't, it's just contradiction!”

“No it isn't.”

“Yes it is!”

“It is not.”

“It is! You just contradicted me!”

“No, no, no, no, no.”

“You did! Just now!”

“No, no, that's an absolute load of pony feathers,” dismissed the therapist.

“Okay, look, this is getting stupid!” declared Caramel crossly.

“No it isn't.”

“Yes it is!”

“No it isn't.”

“Yes it is!”

“No it isn't.”

“Yes it is, I came in here for a good, solid argument!”

“No you didn't,” the therapist calmly corrected him, “you just came in here for an argument.”

“Well, an argument isn't the same as contradiction,” insisted Caramel.

The therapist shrugged. “Can be.”

“No it can't!” Caramel was beginning to lose his temper. “I know how an argument is really meant to go...”

“No you don't.”

“Yes I do!”

“No you don't.”

“Yes I do!”

“No you don't.”

“Yes I do!”

“No you don't.”

“Yes I do! An argument is a connected series of statements to establish a definite proposition; it isn't just a matter of contradicting others.”

“Look, if I argue with you,” said the therapist reasonably, “I must take up a contrary position. There's no two ways about it.”

“But it isn't just saying 'no it isn't',” retorted Caramel.

“Yes it is.”

“No it isn't!” So annoyed was Caramel that he failed to see the hypocrisy in what he had just said. “An argument is an intellectual process! Contradiction is just the automatic gainsaying of anything the other creature says!”

“No it isn't.”

“Yes it is!”

“Not at all.” How that stallion was managing to stay so calm and collected in the face of a tough customer, Caramel had no idea.

“Now look, I...”

Ding! Almost before Caramel had opened his mouth, the therapist thumped his hoof down on the bell he had sitting on his desk. “Thank you! Good morning!” he announced.

“Say what now?” Caramel, suddenly shaken out of his frustration, gave the therapist a puzzled glance.

“That's it. Good morning.”

“But...we'd only just started,” said Caramel, now completely fogged.

“Sorry,” said the therapist, “five minutes is up.”

Caramel looked up at the clock. “That was never five minutes just now!” he retorted incredulously.

“I'm afraid it was.”

“No it wasn't,” Caramel answered back, hoping to start up a fresh argument.

But to his surprise, the therapist only shook his head. “Sorry, but I'm not allowed to argue anymore.”

“WHAT?!” exclaimed Caramel in dismay.

“If you want to me to go on arguing, you'll have to pay for another five minutes.”

“But we haven't even reached the five-minute mark yet!”

But the therapist simply turned away, leaned back in his chair and began whistling a relaxed tune, pretending not to hear him.

“Aw, come on!” snorted Caramel, exasperated. “This is ridiculous!”

“I'm very sorry,” said the therapist, still averting his gaze, “but I told you, I'm not allowed to argue unless you've paid.”

With a sigh of resignation, Caramel pulled a five-bit note out of his wallet and reluctantly handed it over. The therapist placed it in the top drawer, and immediately went back to acting as if he was the only one in the room.

“Well?” prompted Caramel at last.

“Well what?”

“We hadn't reached the five-minute mark.”

“I told you,” the therapist reiterated patiently, “I'm not allowed to argue unless you've paid.”

“I've just paid!” spluttered Caramel, taken aback once again.

“No you didn't.”

“I did!”

“No you didn't.”

“I did!”

“No you didn't.”

“I DID!”

“No, I'm afraid you did not.”

“Look, I'm not gonna argue about that!”

“Well, I'm terribly sorry, but you haven't paid, and that's that.”

“Aha!” Caramel suddenly saw a chance to claw back some ground. “Well, if I haven't paid, then why are you arguing? Got you!” he smirked triumphantly.

“No you haven't.”

“Yes I have.”

“No you haven't.”

“Yes I have.”

“No you haven't.”

“Yes I have.”

“No you haven't.”

“Yes I have.”

“No you haven't.”

“Yes I have – if you're arguing, I must have paid!” Caramel was sure he had this impossible stallion cornered now.

But alas, the therapist was still just as determined to have the last word in their petty squabble. “Not necessarily,” he replied, looking strangely pleased with himself. “I could be arguing in my spare time.”

That was the last straw for Caramel. All he wanted was to be on the winning side of an argument (and, more to the point, an argument about farming methods instead of this idiotic difference of opinion over what constituted an argument in the first place), and here was a stallion who seemed to have an excuse for his every quibble. “I've had enough of this!” he growled, getting to his hooves.

“No you haven't.”

“Oh, shut up!” Without waiting to listen to another of this obnoxious pony's arguments, Caramel stomped out of the room and back down the corridor before barging into the first room he could find. In his frustration, he didn't even bother to read the signage on the door – if he had, he might not have entered so hastily. “I want to complain!” he demanded angrily.

He was immediately greeted by a grumpy mule slouching in his chair to one side of the room – and not in the most agreeable manner either. “You wanna complain?” he grumbled. “Look at these horseshoes! I've only had 'em three weeks, and they're already rusted away to nothing!”

“No, I want to complain about the...”

“If you complain, nothing ever happens,” interrupted the mule, talking hard and refusing to let Caramel get a word in edgeways, “you might just as well not bother; and my back hurts; and when will we get a fine day? I'm sick and tired of this office...”

Caramel didn't dare stick around to hear the rest of his tirade. Rolling his eyes, he slammed the door shut and made for the next room in the vain hope of finding at least one therapist who would listen to him. “I want to comp...OW!!!” he cried, grabbing hold of his head in pain and surprise; for no sooner had he entered than a mallet came slamming down on him.

“No, no, no.” The unicorn wielding the offending object shook his head head disapprovingly, and placed his front hooves over his temples. “Hold your head like this, and then go, 'WAHHH!' Try again,” and before Caramel could protest, he whacked him over the head once more.

“WHOA!!” shrieked Caramel as the mallet made contact.

“Better, better, but 'WAHHH!' 'WAHHH!'” corrected his assailant, showing him the motions again. “Hold your hooves here!”

“No! I...WAAGH!!!!” Caramel doubled over in terror from the third, painful strike, his hooves shielding the top of his head.

“That's it! That's it! Good!”

“STOP HITTING ME!!” begged Caramel, just in time to prevent this mad pony from giving him yet another blow.

The stallion blinked. “What?”

“Stop hitting me!”

“Well, what did you come in here for, then?” asked the stallion.

“I came in to complain.”

“Oh, sorry, that's next door. It's 'Being Hit on the Head' lessons in here.” The stallion set his mallet down on the desk and pointed to it as if to emphasise his point.

Caramel shook his still aching head in disbelief. “What a stupid concept!” he remarked derisively.

Just then, an Earth mare in a brown suit pushed her way into the room. “Quite right,” she agreed, “absolutely silly; this entire sketch is badly written, and makes no sense whatsoever. I thought it was supposed to be about counselling anyway, not harming others just for the sake of a few cheap laughs. On this basis, Dr Spreaders, you are hereby suspended for extortion, assaulting patients – and this is the real cruncher – multiple offences against the 'Getting Out of Sketches without a Proper Punchline' Act of 1972!”

“Well, fair play, boss...”

“Shut up!” ordered the mare. Before either stallion could react, she snatched the mallet off the desk and gave the unicorn a hard thump on the head, prompting a startled but surprisingly well-executed “WAHHH!” as he grabbed his temples. “He's good,” she murmured to Caramel. “You could learn a thing or two from him. As for you, sir, I'm giving you a full refund of fifteen bits for your mistreatment at the hooves of these idiots.”

“Fifteen?! I only paid five!”

“No you didn't.”

“Yes I did!”

“No you didn't.”

“Yes I did!”

And so on and so on and so on. But they managed to get it sorted out in the end, and despite his best efforts to play fair, Caramel still came out with a substantial refund – of five-hundred bits!
> Story 3: The New Gas Cooker
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Berry Punch sat patiently in the living room, her attention divided between the nearby window and the television set. She had tuned into a very interesting program to pass the time, about a pair of Chicolto griffin gangsters who called themselves the Piranha Brothers; apparently they had commanded a great deal of terror and loyalty amongst their “business associates”, and were feared by the general public.

“Hey, Mom,” called Ruby Pinch as she entered the room. “What's on the TV then?”

Berry Punch looked up. “Looks like a penguin,” she replied casually, gazing at the figurine mounted on top of the set.

“No, I didn't mean what's on the television set!” giggled her daughter. “I meant what sort of program are you watching?”

“Oh...just a little documentary about the Piranha Brothers,” explained Berry Punch. “The Danger and Dread of Doug and Dinsdale, I think it was called.”

“Doug and Dinsdale? Weird choice of names, don't you think?”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” agreed Berry Punch with a wry smile. “But it's even weirder how they managed to command so much terror and loyalty among their associates.”

“Oh right? How come?” asked Ruby, settling down on the sofa next to her mother.

Berry Punch simply nodded back towards the television. By now, an interview had begun with an Earth pony who was talking about how Dinsdale, the younger of the pair, had used comical violence to punish him for an act of betrayal, even going as far as to nail his head to the floor – yet for all the world, he looked perfectly unharmed! Ruby couldn't help wondering whether he had some kind of incredible healing power.

If so, she quickly came to realise, it must have applied to all the other victims too; for while a number of others were also interviewed, not one bore even a single scratch to remind them of Dinsdale Piranha's violent acts. Almost all of them spoke warmly of him; in particular, a classy unicorn mare who had dated him in the past defended him as a charming, affable and perfectly normal creature. The only thing wrong with him, she confided, was that he thought he was being watched by a giant hedgehog whom he called Spiny Norman.

“Funny, that penguin being there,” remarked Berry Punch after a while.

“Funny indeed?” said Ruby dubiously. “Didn't you put it there in the first place, Mom?”

“No, I don't even remember buying it, let alone placing it there. I was too busy tending to the juice bar.”

“Then what's it even doing there?”

“Standing,” answered Berry Punch plainly.

Ruby rolled her eyes. “I can see that, Mom – I mean where did it come from? Next door, maybe?”

“Penguins don't come from next door,” retorted Berry Punch, fighting back a smirk, “they come from the Icy South!”

“Baltimare!!!” burst out Ruby, completely out of the blue.

Berry Punch stopped, blinking in confusion. “Why did you say Baltimare?”

“I, uh...I panicked?” stammered Ruby sheepishly.

“Oh...okay,” murmured Berry Punch, returning her attention to the program. The topic had now turned from Dinsdale to Doug, with a nightclub owner recounting how he had been confronted by the vicious griffin for failing to pay for a fruit machine he had provided. Apparently, even Dinsdale was afraid of Doug, who was said to strike fear into his opponents through all manner of sarcasm. “Perhaps it's from the zoo?” she suggested.

“Which zoo?”

“Baltimare, perhaps? That has a zoo, now I come to think of it.”

“Yeah, but...surely it'd have 'Property of Baltimare Zoo' stamped on it if that were the case,” objected Ruby.

“I doubt it,” said Berry Punch sceptically. “No zoo would just stamp its ownership onto its animals. Imagine trying to stamp a full-grown lion!”

“Well, they stamp them when they're small,” Ruby pointed out.

“What happens when they moult?”

“Lions don't moult.”

“No, but penguins do!” stated Berry Punch triumphantly.

Ruby shrugged and continued to watch the program – but only for a moment, as the presenter announced that there would be a five-minute station break. “And now on ETV1, the penguin on your television set will explode.”

Before mother or daughter could wonder what the presenter was talking about, there was a sudden loud bang as the penguin spontaneously blew itself to pieces. Ruby immediately dashed off to the kitchen to find a dustpan and brush, while Berry Punch was left staring at the remains in disbelief. “How did that guy know...?”

“It was an inspired guess,” said the presenter, seemingly to his baffled watcher. “And as for the Piranha Brothers, we'll be finding out about their tracking and subsequent capture after the break.”

With nary more than a shake of her head, Berry Punch quietly accepted his explanation and went back to gazing out of the window. Almost on cue, she heard the doorbell ringing, and trotted eagerly downstairs to see who it was. “Must be the new gas cooker,” she murmured.

Sure enough, when she opened the door, she found two delivery ponies standing outside with the aforementioned appliance. “Morning,” said one of them. “Miss Berry Shine?”

“No, Berry Punch,” she replied matter-of-factly.

“This is the Mulberry Bush Juice Bar, 46 Foaledo Crescent, isn't it?”

“No, Foaledo Road,” corrected Berry Punch patiently.

The Earth stallion quickly checked his delivery sheet. “Oh yeah, it says Foaledo Road right here. Now then, could I speak to Berry Shine, please?”

Berry Punch looked perplexed. “There's nopony here of that name. It's just me, Berry Punch, and my daughter Ruby Pinch.”

“Well, it says Shine here, don't it, Windsor Lad?”

“Yeah, it's on the invoice,” agreed his unicorn colleague.

“But there must be a mistake,” protested Berry Punch. “The address is right, and that's definitely the cooker I ordered, a blue and white Cook 'n' Eat Plus with pink hearts on it.”

“Hmm...” The first stallion pondered. “Well, we can't let you have it immediately in that case; but we could take it back to the depot, fill out a transfer slip and put it on a special delivery for you.”

“Yeah, that's the best thing for it,” said the second. “We'll get it down there today, put it on a special and it'll be with you in ten weeks.”

“Ten weeks?!” repeated Berry Punch incredulously. “But can't you just leave it here with me?”

“Well, I dunno...I suppose we could leave it on a temporary dispatch note,” decided the first stallion. “That do you?”

“That's fine.” Berry Punch let out a sigh of relief as the two stallions gave her the appropriate form. “Kind of awkward, this, isn't it?”

“Ah well, never mind; at least we've got it sorted. If you could just sign here, Miss Shine?”

“Punch.”

“Punch, sorry.” Only now did another idea occur to the first stallion; “Listen, just for the books, could you sign it as Berry Shine Punch? It should make things easier.”

“Mm-hmm,” hummed Berry Punch as she accepted a pen from the delivery pony and wrote down her name as directed. “Right, well, that's that then.”

“Good, thanks very much; cooker's yours.” With Berry Punch's help, the two stallions carefully carted the cooker into the lounge area. “Sorry about the bother,” grunted the first one under the strain, “but there you go.”

“Nah, that's okay. Now, if we could just get it into the kitchen...”

Both stallions stopped in their tracks, bemused. “Say what now?” asked the first.

“Well, I can't just leave it here in the lounge; I need it connected up if I'm to start cooking.”

“Ah, we didn't know you had an installation invoice,” remarked the first stallion.

“An MI,” chimed in the second.

“We need an MI if we're to connect it, you see,” explained the first.

That was when a third pony, another Earth stallion, came into the lounge and added, “Or an R16, if it's a special.”

“Which one's the installation invoice?” inquired Berry Punch.

“Pink form from Fillydelphia.”

“Ah, okay. Just a second,” and Berry Punch galloped off to find the paperwork. She returned quite shortly, clutching the forms between her teeth. “This the one you're after?” she asked, setting them down on the counter and picking up a pink sheet.

The first stallion read through it to check it was right. “That's it, miss, that's the one we need...hang on – this is for Berry Punch.”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“Well, we've got Berry Shine Punch on the delivery invoice.”

“Oh...” Berry Punch frowned awkwardly. “...well, shall I put the same signature on this one?”

“Nah, not an MI,” said the first.

“That's from Area Service in Fillydelphia,” the second pointed out.

“No, Coltenham, isn't it?” put in a fourth pony, this time a Pegasus mare, who had only just entered.

“Not on this side of Pennsylhaynia.”

Berry Punch was starting to grow a little frustrated. All she wanted was to have her cooker set up and ready for use, and here were a whole bunch of delivery ponies debating how to go about it. “Look, I just want it connected up, what's all the fuss about?!” she complained.

“What about Canterlot Office?” suggested the third pony.

“Nah, they've not got the right tools for the job,” replied the first.

“Well, not now they don't,” commented the second.

“Suffolk Depot?” asked yet another Earth stallion.

“No, they're on standard pressure,” the fourth pony responded.

“Same with Trottingham.” The five delivery ponies were now joined by a light blue changeling stallion in the same uniform.

“But surely they can connect up a gas cooker, can't they?” Berry Punch persisted.

“Yeah, but only in an emergency,” affirmed the first stallion.

“But this is an emergency! I've had to strike a few items off of the menu thanks to the last one breaking down!”

“Sorry, doesn't count. Emergency is a 290 – 'whether there is actual or apparent loss of gaseous substances.'”

“Yeah, like a leak,” the second stallion added.

“Or a 478.” Now there was a donkey offering his own two cents into the matter, thought Berry Punch? Where was this onslaught of delivery creatures going to end?

“No, that's valve adjustment,” the third pony corrected him

“But how can there be a leak if this thing hasn't been connected up?!” insisted Berry Punch, her patience wearing thin.

“Good point,” agreed the first stallion, “we'd have to turn it on.”

“But can't you turn it on and then connect it up?”

“No can-do, I'm afraid. But what we can do – and this is between you and me, I shouldn't really be telling you this – is turn your gas on, make a hole in your pipe, and then you can ring Suffolk Emergency. They'll be round here in two days' time.”

“What?! A house full of gas?!” exclaimed Berry Punch, aghast. “But Ruby and I'll be asphyxiated by then!”

“Oh, well, in that case, you'd have Pennsylhaynia State Area Manager round here quick as a flash; 'one or more creatures overcome by fumes', you'd have Head Office, Delamare, round here. That's murder, you see.”

“Or suicide,” put in the second pony.

“Nah, that's Albaneigh,” said the fifth.

“So...you say they'd be able to connect it up? This very afternoon?” asked Berry Punch more hopefully.

“Well, let's see...what time is it?” The first pony consulted his watch. “10:30...murder...they'd be round here by 2pm at the latest.”

“Oh, well, that's great!” declared Berry Punch.

“Right, well, if you'd like to lie down here?” The first stallion took hold of a pipe at the back of the cooker and hovered it over Berry Punch's mouth as she lay down on her back by the counter. One of the other ponies turned a valve, and gas started spraying out of the pipe. Berry Punch began to experience an odd feeling of wooziness, but she paid it no more attention than the hordes of delivery creatures who were still caught up in their unending discussion. At least they knew what they were doing, she thought; and in any event, it shouldn't come as that much of a shock if someone found her unconscious next to a newly delivered gas cooker. After all, the misconception that she drank heavily still hadn't subsided since she had become pregnant with Ruby.

Outside, a lengthy queue of delivery ponies were passing the word to each other of their colleagues' ploy when suddenly they were interrupted by a news vendor calling out the latest headline.

“Read all about it! Piranha Brothers Escape!”

The reaction of the delivery ponies, and all others in the street, was one of sheer terror. In an instant, everyone yelped in alarm and made a frantic dash for cover – inside their homes, behind the bushes, up in the trees, under traders' carts...until all that was left was an empty thoroughfare, with a gargantuan hedgehog hovering overhead. It was almost eight-hundred yards long, and gazed all around itself as it called out again and again;

“Dinsdale? Dinsdale?”
> Story 4: More of the Changeling Inquisition
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Over on the other side of Ponyville, and completely related to the previous sketch (by no means whatsoever!), Hornette the changeling was cuddling and kissing with her unicorn coltfriend in the living room. World Comedy Day just so happened to be a couple of days before Locomotion's birthday, and he had been given additional time off work while his Motive Power Superintendent organised a surprise party for him. Hornette knew about it herself, of course, but she hadn't had the heart to reveal the details to her stallion.

“Aw, Hornette,” murmured Locomotion, pulling back for what felt like the hundredth time, “how I love spending time with you.”

“Me too,” sighed Hornette dreamily as she affectionately rubbed noses with him. “Anything special you want to do today, Loco?”

The red stallion chuckled. “What could be more special than being with my favourite changeling?” he quipped.

“Yeah...granted,” agreed Hornette with a wry smile. “I meant more along the lines of, say, lunch at the Clover Café, or a trip to the cinema. Or maybe a picnic up on your favourite hill?”

“My thinking spot?”

“Yes, that.”

“Well, I...yeah, that's a possibility. But now you come to mention it, I wouldn't mind a spot of lunch at the Golden Dragon,” decided Locomotion thoughtfully. “They do a really nice buffet, don't forget.”

“Yes, I still can't forget the first time you took me there. Oh, it was so wonderful, all that low lighting, all those beautiful Chineighse lanterns, the food...”

“And all the love you could consume into the bargain,” put in Locomotion, earning a hearty giggle from the young changeling.

“There's more to being a changeling than posing as other creatures and feasting on their love,” she retorted playfully. “I thought you were the one who taught me as much when I first came here – or am I mistaken?”

“Nah, of course not!”

“For all I know, you could just be a jealous changeling colt who's taken Loco hostage and tried to win me over!” Despite her best efforts to put on an accusatory tone, the cheeky grin on Hornette's face spoiled the effect with ease.

“Oh yeah? Well, what does your Empathy Touch tell you, eh? Is this really another changeling sitting next to you? Because I don't remember ever being one – dearest honeybee!” retorted Locomotion smugly.

“I...well, uh...” Hornette stumbled over her words, trying to come up with a smart counterargument. “Ugh, you got me, Loco!” she conceded at last. “You know me far too well to be an imposter.”

“And only too glad of it,” put in her coltfriend, softening his tone again. “I never realised what I was missing from my life until I met you.”

“Nor I you, tender heart,” agreed Hornette, planting yet another smooch on his lips. “Even your love of trains and railways...I can never understand how so few of your friends actively share it with you.”

Locomotion shrugged. “Can't win 'em all, I suppose. Anyway, they do tolerate it at the very least; and let's face it, even if only my marefriend shares my passion for railways, that's more than enough for me. I mean, who else can say their better half is more than willing to learn about how a steam engine works? Or help a guy build a model railway in a shed in his back garden?”

“Hmm...good point. I mean, I'd readily ask, but I doubt most railway enthusiasts would expect a changeling inquisition.” Hornette meant this in jest, of course; but neither she nor Locomotion expected three changeling stallions to burst into the room, let alone the jarring chord that punctuated their sudden arrival.

“Cinders and ashes!!” shrieked Locomotion above the sound of the chord, as he and Hornette sprang apart in alarm. They looked up just in time for the tallest of the three changelings to utter those five ominous words;

“Nopony expects the Changeling Inquisition!”

“The what?! But...but I was joking!” squeaked Hornette, still in a state of shock.

“And nopony jokes about the Changeling Inquisition either!” sneered the tall one. “Now, Locomotion and Hornette...”

“How did you know...?” Locomotion broke off as he suddenly and very awkwardly remembered how he and Hornette had helped overthrow Chrysalis and bring Thorax to power. Of course the other changelings would know them after that event, he thought sheepishly.

“...you're coming with us!” The leader frowned as if a thought had only just occurred to him. “Do you have a suitable dungeon or oubliette we could use?”

“Well...there's our basement, but...”

“Right! Cardinal Syn, Cardinal Puff Puff Puff...”

Hornette and Locomotion looked at each other, bemused by the ridiculous names. The second one in particular sounded more like a drinking game than a genuine cardinal.

“...take these infidels to the basement!”

“What is all this?” wondered Hornette as Syn grabbed her in his magic. Truth be told, she was beginning to feel a little afraid.

That was when a look of sudden realisation crossed Locomotion's face. “This must be something to do with that bit of creative writing High Score did earlier this year!” he remarked.

“What was it?”

“Something about a trio of changeling terrorists from an alternate timeline.” Subtitles rolled in front of them as Locomotion recounted what his gamer friend had written;


In the early years of the New Age of the Changelings, to combat the non-existent threat of rebellion from supporters and sympathisers of Queen Chrysalis the Ruthless and Murderous Pretender, King Thorax of Metamorphia gave Cardinal Butterfly leave to move without let or hindrance throughout the world in a reign of violence, terror and torture that makes a smashing parody. This was the Changeling Inquisition!


“You are well informed, Locomotion,” snapped the leader, whom Hornette guessed must be Cardinal Butterfly, “but your knowledge of the Changeling Inquisition will not save you now!” He and the other two inquisitors dragged the two teenagers into the basement, cackling all the while, and placed them with their backs to the wall on the far side. There they shackled them in place with colourful paper chains, with one end of each chain being held to the wall with sticky tape. “Now, Locomotion,” he continued, “you are accused of lust, greed and heresy against His Gracious Majesty, King Thorax of Metamorphia, on three counts – heresy by thought, heresy by word, heresy by deed and heresy by action...four counts!” he quickly corrected himself.

“Heresy? Against Thorax?” Hornette, forgetting to be scared, looked at the three cardinals as if they had just declared Princess Celestia a certified lunatic. “But...Loco and I are very close friends of his! Why should he...”

“And you, Hornette, are accused of treason against your king and kind, in hogging all the love for yourself, refusing to share said love with other changelings and generally behaving as if you came from another planet!” Cardinal Butterfly leaned in closer, his eyes narrowing. “Do you confess?”

If Locomotion had been afraid himself, that fear had all but worn off by now, and he could only stare in mildly puzzled amusement at the three zealots. “What the flabberwocky kind of accusation is that?!” he spluttered, trying not to laugh. “Look, I don't pretend to understand what this is all about, Cardinal, but somehow I'm not sure you do either!”

“HA! Then we shall make you understand!” Butterfly turned to the changeling in the stovepipe hat. “Cardinal Puff Puff Puff – fetch...THE CUSIONS!”

Cushions?! Okay, now I know these guys are out of their minds, thought Locomotion with a smirk, even as the horrific chord rang out all around them – though where from, he couldn't comprehend. Neither could Hornette, who only seemed all the more bewildered by what was going on.

“Here they are, lord,” declared Puff Puff Puff, pulling two cushions out of nowhere.

“But...what's the good of using cushions?” wondered Hornette under her breath. “Unless they mean to start a pillow fight...”

“Now, infidels, you have one last chance,” stated Butterfly. “Confess to the heinous sins of lust, greed, heresy and treason; reaffirm your allegiance to King Thorax and the Metamorphian Government – two last chances – and you shall be free – three last chances! You have three last chances.”

“Look, you're wasting your time, buster,” retorted Locomotion, still smirking. “We're subjects of Princess Celestia, not King Thorax; and anyway, it's not like he'd accuse us of treason and heresy.”

“RIGHT! IF THAT'S THE WAY YOU WANT IT!!!” Butterfly turned back to his subordinates, each wielding a cushion over their victims. “Cardinals,” he ordered, “poke them with the soft cushions!!”

A brief round of Diabolical Laughter ensued, and the two other changelings began prodding the cushions into their prisoners' barrels as Butterfly screamed at them again and again, “CONFESS! CONFESS! CONFESS!” But no matter how much they poked...

“It doesn't seem to be hurting them, lord,” Puff Puff Puff spoke up, ceasing in his poking.

“Have you got all the stuffing up one end?”

“Yes, lord.”

“Well, of course it won't hurt us, you twits!” taunted Locomotion, who could now think of nothing better than to wind these changeling inquisitors up. “We ponies may be soft, but it takes more than cushions to harm us, you know.”

“Does it indeed?” sneered Butterfly, taking Syn's cushion and examining it carefully. Realising how right Locomotion was, he threw it to one side in disappointment, Puff Puff Puff doing the same. “They're made of harder stuff; we'll have to break out the big guns,” he decided. “Cardinal Syn – fetch...the Comfy Chair!”

The sound of the terrifying chord rang out again as Syn's face took on a look of sheer, untold horror. “The Comfy Chair?!?!” he gasped.

“Yes.”

Syn dashed off upstairs with fear apparent in his eyes; but Hornette was even more baffled, and Locomotion could barely hold back his laughter, even as Butterfly addressed them once again. “So – you think you are strong, because you can survive the soft cushions?! Well, we shall see!”

“It's a rare creature who can't survive soft cushions,” quipped Locomotion flippantly. “And what do you plan to do? Sit us down and drape a few cosy blankets over us?”

“I'm warning you, Locomotion,” growled Butterfly, “you keep mocking us, and we shall put you in the bubble bath – WITH THE RUBBER DUCK!!” He turned to Puff Puff Puff as Syn brought down Steamer's favourite armchair from the living room. “Cardinal Puff Puff Puff – put them in the Comfy Chair!”

Both the other changelings tore the chains off of Locomotion and Hornette's fetlocks (literally!) and pushed them into the armchair. It was a bit of a tight squeeze for the two teenagers, but they were in too much of a state of bemusement to mind – indeed, they quickly made themselves as comfortable as if they were on an ordinary love-seat.

“Now,” thundered Butterfly, “you will stay in the Comfy Chair until lunchtime, with only a cup of coffee at 11!”

“Sounds alright to me,” decided Hornette, “so long as I've got my Loco.”

“I'd rather do without the coffee, thanks,” grumbled Locomotion. “Can't stand the smell; and I doubt the taste will be any better.”

“Alright – apple juice then!” Seeing that this “torture” method didn't seem to be working on the young couple, Butterfly looked across to Puff Puff Puff. “Is that really all there is?”

“Yes, lord.”

“Hmm – I see,” murmured Butterfly thoughtfully. “I suppose we make it a lot worse by shouting at them.”

Unbeknownst to the three changelings, Locomotion gave Hornette a sly wink. He was already beginning to formulate a little tactic of his own.

“Confess, infidels.” Butterfly started off calm and quiet at first, but gradually raised his voice further and further, trying to intimidate the two insolent teenagers in front of him. “Confess! CONFESS! CONFESS! CONFESS!!!”

This worked only too well – but on completely the wrong creature. The louder Butterfly became, the more Puff Puff Puff began to bow under the strain, until at last he threw himself onto the floor and wailed out loud, “I CONFESS!!!”

“NOT YOU!!” screamed Butterfly, exasperated.

“ALRIGHT! ALRIGHT!!!” burst out Locomotion, pretending to lose his temper. “YOU WANT YOUR BLEEDING CONFESSION, YOU'RE GETTING IT!!” He turned to Hornette, gingerly wrapping his arms around her. “You know, honeybee, I never did tell you how much you really mean to me.”

“You told...” began Hornette; but suddenly caught onto Locomotion's ploy, and quickly stopped herself. “Oh...you don't mean...do you?”

“Ever since I first found you, all alone and abandoned in the Everfree Forest...how it pained my heart to see a creature like you so horribly hurt, and so terrified as well. I didn't even realise it back then, but now...” Locomotion leaned in closer until he and Hornette were sharing breath. “You captured my heart, Hornette; and without even having to seduce me like other changelings do.”

“You too, Loco,” whispered Hornette, playing along in a breathy, husky tone. “From the day you saved me from those timberwolves, I'd always felt something for you – but I never truly imagined that it could be anything so strong as this. Now I know...”

Of course, the two teenagers were really bluffing. This was by no means the first time they had shown such strong feelings for each other; but the inquisitors didn't know that. They all three watched in baffled curiosity to see where this would go.

“I love you, Hornette,” murmured Locomotion, and closed the gap between them with a deep moan. Hornette purred as she kissed him back, but secretly kept one eye open a fraction to see what he was about to do. In that moment, a whole montage of suggestive images flashed before the inquisitors' eyes – a factory chimney collapsing in reverse, a space rocket blasting off, an express train plunging into a tunnel, a cow being milked, waves crashing against cliffs, fireworks exploding...

It was all too much for the three changelings. All thoughts of torture and interrogation vanished from their minds, and they ran out of the basement, through the front door and on towards the Buckskin Mountains, screaming in anguish and shouting for somepony to make it stop!

Only when he was sure they were well out of sight did Locomotion decide to break the act. Pulling away and gasping for breath, he whispered to Hornette, “Have they gone?”

Mildly taken aback by the change in Locomotion's tone, Hornette opened her eyes fully, but found no-one in the basement but herself and her beau. “It worked!” she exclaimed in relief and amazement. “Loco, you clever steed! How in Equestria do you do it?”

“Well...let's just say it's a good thing Uncle Steamer still has my granddad's old movie projector down here.” Locomotion chuckled and cocked his head towards the device in question. During their make-out session, he had discretely turned it on with his magic – it was this that had fooled the Changeling Inquisition into thinking things were getting steamy between him and Hornette. “Of course,” he remarked to the world in general, “I don't think I need to emphasise that nothing of the sort ever  really happened.”

“Nah, better to wait until we're married,” agreed Hornette. Deep down, she couldn't help wishing Locomotion would go ahead and pop the question someday, but didn't wish to rush him into it. “After all that, I think I could do with a nice cupcake at Sugarcube Corner. How about you, Loco?”

“I'll say – but we'd better take that armchair back upstairs,” added Locomotion. “Uncle Steamer wouldn't like it if he found it'd been snatched out of his living room.” He picked up the armchair in his magic and, grunting with exertion, hefted it out of the basement and back to its rightful place. “Probably no point in telling him about this, though,” he finished thoughtfully. “I doubt he'd believe such a wild story as that.”

“Yeah, it is pretty weird. Three confused changelings, trying to make us own up to such silly charges with armchairs and cushions? It beggars belief,” observed Hornette.

“And to think they thought all that nonsense would be enough to make us confess!” scoffed Locomotion as he opened the front door. “Honestly, I...”

“I confess!”

Both pony and changeling stopped, looking around like a pair of startled rabbits. “Who was that?!” asked Hornette, a little more abruptly than she intended.

Right outside their front gate stood a unicorn stallion in an outfit that resembled a police uniform. He had to be some kind of street performer, because instead of looking around for criminals, he just stood in place, uttering the words, “I confess!” every few seconds. Every time he did so, a sign hovered above him bearing the words “BE SEATED”, accompanied by the sound of a buzzer. He then attempted to sit down on a chair conveniently placed behind him – only for a disembodied arm to reach out and pull the chair away at the last second, causing him to fall flat on his back as the first few bars of a regal tune played out. Finally, he would stand up again, the arm would put the chair back, and the cycle would repeat.

Both teenagers watched in disbelief until, after the seventh repetition, Locomotion grew disenchanted. As the musical excerpt played out once more, he rolled his eyes and shook his head; and just as it finished, he muttered resignedly to himself;

“I give up.”
> Story 5: The Flimflam Parrot
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Flim was feeling pleased with himself. He had made over ninety successful sales since he and his brother had set up a pet store in Canterlot a week ago, and now that Flam had set up another one in Colton, they were sure to be raking in some decent profits. As far as he could tell, no other pet shop could claim to provide quite the variety of animals that they could – cats, dogs, rabbits, ferrets, hamsters, mice, rats, bats, budgies, terrapins, turtles, tortoises, squirrels, teddy bears, lizards, iguanas, geckos, owls, eagles, falcons, rubber chickens, ravens, frogs, toads, newts...not to mention parrots, of which he had just sold one to a particularly haughty unicorn.

The only thing worrying him at that moment was that the same customer was now approaching the shop, with his very purchase held aloft in his magic and an irritated scowl on his face. Not wishing to get into an argument, Flim ducked behind the counter and tried to look busy.

“Hello, I wish to register a complaint.”

Flim rifled deftly through the cartons of animal feed, pretending not to hear.

“Hello, miss?”

That got Flim's attention. He stood up and stared at the customer, almost indignantly. “What do you mean, ‘miss’?” he inquired.

The stallion looked blankly at him for a moment. “Oh, I'm sorry, I have a cold,” he excused himself lamely. “I wish to enter a complaint.”

“Oh, er...sorry, buddy, we're closing for lunch,” said Flim hastily.

“Never mind that, my lad,” interjected the stallion, “I wish to complain about this parrot, whom I purchased not half an hour ago from this very establishment.” He held up the cage containing his new pet, which lay motionless at the bottom.

“Oh, yes, the Høyland Blue – what's wrong with it?” Truth be told, Flim already had an inkling what was wrong, but didn't wish to admit it.

“I'll tell you what's wrong with it, my lad,” replied the stallion bluntly. “It's dead, that's what's wrong with it.”

“Nah, nah, it's resting,” objected Flim, not even bothering to look at the parrot in question.

“Resting?!” spluttered the stallion incredulously.

“Yeah, resting. Remarkable bird, the Høyland Blue,” added Flim, “beautiful plumage.”

But the stallion clearly wasn't buying it. “Look, my lad, the plumage has nothing to do with it,” he retorted. “I know a dead parrot when I see one, and I'm looking at one right now.”

“Nah, I promise you, it's resting. Cross my heart and hope to fly!”

“Alright then,” declared the stallion, “if it's resting, I'll wake it up.” Lifting up the cage so that he and the parrot were face to face, he shouted at the top of his voice; “HELLO, POLLY! I'VE GOT A NICE CUP OF SUNFLOWER SEEDS FOR YOU WHEN YOU WAKE UP, POLLY PARROT!”

The cage suddenly swayed to one side, prompting him to shoot a dirty look at Flim. “There, it moved!” he lied, even as his glowing horn gave away his ploy.

“No it didn't, that was you pushing the cage!” chided the stallion.

“I did not!”

“Yes you did!” Not willing to let Flim play the fool with him a second time, the stallion withdrew the parrot from its cage and shouted into its ear. “HELLO, POLLY! P-O-L-L-Y!!!!” Getting no response, he thumped the parrot against the counter. “RISE AND SHINE, POLLY PARROT!” Another round of thumping. “THIS IS YOUR NINE O'CLOCK ALARM CALL!!” He thumped the bird again, firstly on the counter, then on both his front legs, and finally on his back before shaking it vigorously and tossing it in the air. Again, the parrot didn't react, dropping onto the floor like a stone. He turned and looked daggers at the sleazy yellow unicorn. “Now that's what I call a dead parrot.”

“Nah,” objected Flim, “it's not dead, it's stunned.”

“Stunned?!” Again, the stallion gave him a look of sheer disbelief.

“You stunned it just as it was waking up,” continued Flim. “The Høyland Blue stuns pretty easily. Gotta be careful how...”

“Look, I've had just about enough of this,” interrupted the stallion, his patience wearing thin. “That bird is definitely deceased – and when I bought it earlier, you assured me that its total lack of movement was due to it being tired and out of breath following an extended squawk.”

Flim paused for a moment. He didn't feel like giving this disgruntled stallion a refund just because some parrot had decided to die on him before he had even sold it, but he was running out of excuses. “Well, it's...it's probably pining for the glaciers,” he stammered, trying hard to sound innocent.

If he thought the stallion couldn't look any more incredulous, he was promptly proven wrong. “Pining for the glaciers?!? What kind of rubbish is that?!” he exclaimed indignantly. “Look, why did it fall flat on its back the moment I brought it home?!”

“Well, the Høyland Blue prefers kipping on its back. Bit unusual, I know,” Flim rambled on, “but it's unusual to find a parrot that enjoys the cold as much as this one does, so what's new? And hey, it's worth it for...”

“Worth it for what? Tiger food?!” snapped the customer. “I took the liberty of examining that parrot, and not only was it stone dead – the only reason it was sitting on its perch in the first place was because it had been nailed there.”

Thank goodness it was a cool day, thought Flim, otherwise he would be sweating profusely by now. “Well, of course it was nailed there,” he tried to defend himself. “If it hadn't been, it would've muscled up to those bars, prised them open with its beak – really strong beak at that – and ZOOM! The bird would've flown,” and he smirked at his own joke.

But the stallion wasn't amused. “Look, mister,” he stated hotly, “this bird wouldn't fly if I put a million volts through it and cast a revival charm on its cadaver! It's bleeding demised!”

“No it's not, it's pining!” insisted Flim.

“It's not pining, it's passed on!” The stallion lost his temper at this point, going into a lengthy rant there and then without letting Flim get a word in edgeways. “This parrot is no more! It has breathed its last and ceased to be! Its metabolic processes are of interest only to taxidermists and historians! It's expired and gone to meet its maker in the great birdcage in the sky! It's a stiff – a late parrot, bereft of life! It rests in peace, extinct in its entirety! If you hadn't nailed it to the perch, it would be lying six hooves underground pushing up the daisies! It's hopped off the twig, kicked the bucket, shuffled off its mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the choir invisible!” Reaching out with his magic, he picked up the little blue corpse and settled it down in front of Flim. “THIS – IS AN EX-PARROT!!!!”

Flim fought back a defeated sigh. He could see there was no getting around this stallion. “Well, I...I'd better replace it then,” he said lamely, and sidled off to the storeroom.

The stallion rolled his eyes impatiently. “If you want to get anything done here in Canterlot,” he grumbled to the world in general, “you've got to complain till you've no breath left.” He gazed back towards the doorway, only to be further frustrated as Flim came straight out again. How long had he been in there? Five seconds?

“Sorry, pal,” he said, “I've had a look round the back; we're fresh out of parrots.”

“I see, I see,” replied the stallion, visibly hacked off, “I get the picture. So not only do you sell me a dead parrot, you refuse to find me a replacement!”

“I've got a slug,” offered Flim in a more hopeful tone.

“Does it talk?”

“Well...not really, no.” Again, Flim looked defeated.

“Well, it's scarcely a replacement then, is it?!”

“Well, look, I tell you what,” suggested Flim, “if you go over to my brother's shop in Colton, he'll replace your parrot for you.”

Only now did the faintest hint of satisfaction begin to register on the other pony's face. “Now that's more like it. Where can I find this other boutique?” he inquired.

“Well, if you go down the road beyond the station, turn left at the first...”





WE INTERRUPT THIS FANFICTION TO ANNOY YOU AND MAKE THINGS GENERALLY IRRITATING FOR YOU





...with a glowing neon sign above it that read “Similar Pet Shop”. Shaking off the confusion at the unimaginative title, the stallion trotted briskly into the shop – only to perform a double-take as he realised that it was almost identical to the one he had just been to in Canterlot. Even the birdcage in front of the counter looked the same as the one he had left behind, while the only thing setting the pony on the other side of the counter apart from his brother was a moustache. It was almost as if he had walked off a film set and straight back again without realising it.

Flam looked on with an innocent expression as the bewildered stallion picked up the cage and examined it carefully. Yes, it was the same in every single detail, right down to the holes in the perch left by the nails. “Uh...excuse me, this is Colton, am I right?” he asked tentatively.

“No, no, it's Baltimare,” replied Flam, fighting back the sly smirk he could feel tugging at the corners of his lips.

The stallion shook his head wearily; “That's rail travel for you,” he muttered, and strode crossly out of the shop as another stallion, a Pegasus this time, entered.

“Good morning,” said the Pegasus, “I would like to buy a cat.”

“Certainly, sir,” said Flam with an ingratiating smile. “I've got a lovely little terrier,” and he pointed to a box on the counter.

“No thanks, I'd rather have a cat if you don't mind.”

“Fine, fine,” murmured Flam. He picked up the box, but no sooner had he brought it down behind the counter than he placed it on top again. “Here you go, sir – how about that?”

The stallion gave him a deadpan look. “That's the terrier you just offered me.”

“Well, it's as near as makes no difference.”

“What do you mean? I was after a cat, not a dog.”

“I tell you what – I'll file its legs down a bit...”





WE INTERRUPT THIS FANFICTION AGAIN, A) TO IRRITATE YOU, AND B) TO POINT OUT THAT THE EQUESTRIAN ANIMAL WELFARE ORGANISATION HAS BANNED ANY AND ALL DISPLAYS OF ANIMAL CRUELTY IN THIS STORY. THEREFORE WE SHALL BE TAKING YOU STRAIGHT TO COLTON STATION





While all this was going on, the unicorn stallion was just entering the Customer Service Desk at Colton Trinity Street Station. If he had taken the time to actually read the station signs, he might not have been so hasty as to immediately walk up to the desk and say, “I wish to complain.”

“I don't have to do this, you know,” grumbled the Earth stallion behind the desk.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I'm a qualified brain surgeon! I only took this job because I like being my own boss,” continued the Earth pony huffily.

The unicorn gave him an odd look. “I...I'm sorry, but isn't this irrelevant?”

“Yeah, well...” The Earth pony shrugged, dropping his disgruntled facade. “...it's not easy to pad these out to six Word Document pages. And it's not irrelevant anyway – it's a hippopotamus.”

“Yes, quite,” muttered the unicorn, unamused. “Anyway, I wish to register a complaint.”

“Hadn't you done that already with the pet shop?”

“This is different, my good sir. I got on the Colton train, and was deposited here in Baltimare – whether by poor labelling of the trains or a mistake on the part of the conductor, I know not, but...”

The Earth pony stared at him as if he were a complete idiot. “What the hay are you talking about?! This is Colton!” he spluttered.

“It's what?!?”

“Yeah, look out there!” The Earth pony pointed outside; and sure enough, the sign clearly read “COLTON TRINITY PARK”.

A look of barely suppressed anger crossed the unicorn's face as he realised... “The pet shop owner's brother was lying to me!” he seethed.

“Well, you can't blame Equestrian National Railways for that,” stated the Earth pony firmly.

“In that case, I shall return to the shop forthwith and give that stallion a piece of my mind!” Not bothering to apologise for his misdemeanour, the unicorn stormed out of the station and back to the shop. It only took a few minutes, but it might as well have been an hour or so because of the time-skip that most stories require. “I understand this is Colton!” he said to Flam accusingly.

“Uh...yes?” Blast it, thought Flam, he's cottoned on already!

“But you told me it was Baltimare!”

Flam fell silent for a few seconds, trying to come up with a suitable explanation. “It was a pun,” he said at last.

“A pun?” repeated the stallion disbelievingly.

“Uh...no, not that,” stuttered Flam, “it was a, er...what the word for something that reads the same backwards as forwards?”

“What, a palindrome?”

“Yes, that!”

“It's not a palindrome!” protested the stallion. “The palindrome of Colton would be ‘Notloc’!”

“Look, what do you want?” Flam fought back a groan of defeat. He could see he wasn't going to be able to weasel his way out of this one, and had all but resigned himself to his fate.

“Well, look, I'm sorry – I'm not prepared to pursue my line of inquiry any further! I come in here to request a replacement for this stiff, and all you can...”

“Who are you calling a stiff?”

The stallion jumped as the “dead” parrot suddenly came to life.

“And why did you thump me against the counter at the last place? That hurt!”

“But...you were dead! You'd snuffed it! You'd given up the ghost and left the waking world behind! You'd...”

Finally satisfied that he had no further complaint to deal with, Flam winked broadly at nopony in particular. “Just as Flim said,” he chortled, “the Høyland Blue is a remarkable bird. It can play dead, and you wouldn't know it was ever alive to begin with!”
> Story 6: Secret Service Confectioners
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Today had been a rather slow day for Bonbon, but given how hectic business had been over the past week, she didn't consider that a bad thing. Indeed, it was a perfect opportunity for her to go and check out the new bookshop in town; she was always on the lookout for new recipes, and was keen to see what this place had to offer. She trotted cheerfully down the street, reminding herself to thank Berry Punch for bringing the place to her attention.

But on her arrival, she found the shop to be eerily quiet. There were no other creatures around save for a pale yellow stallion behind the counter, who gazed awkwardly at her as she examined her surroundings. After a long, uncomfortable silence, Bonbon finally decided to break the ice; “Good morning,” she spoke up. “I'd like to buy a book, please.”

“Oh, well, uh...” The stallion dithered for a moment, almost as if he was trying to hide something. “...we don't have any, I'm afraid.”

“Say what now?” Bonbon was taken aback.

“We don't have any books – haven't even had a chance to place an order. Sorry.”

“Well, what are all these, then?!” objected Bonbon, gesturing to the endless shelves of books all around her.

“All what...oh, these? These, uh...books?” stammered the stallion.

“Exactly – and more to the point, they've still got price tags on them.”

“Ah, right...well...they're all reserved awaiting full payment.”

“All of them?!” Bonbon clearly wasn't buying his act (no pun intended). “By whom?” she demanded.

“Oh...various...” The stallion raised an arm as if to check an invisible watch. “Gosh, is it lunchtime already?!”

“Of course it isn't,” exclaimed Bonbon, eyeing the grandfather clock next to him, “it's only half past ten!”

“Yes, well, I've built up quite an appetite since opening up shop. Don't expect I'll open up again at all today, I'm in the mood for a jolly good feed.” The stallion hastily trotted over to the window and pointed outside. “My goodness, that's a neat little bookshop just across the other side of the road,” he went on, “much better selection than we can offer, and probably at ridiculously low prices! Why don't I show you...”

“But I was told to come here!”

Almost before Bonbon knew what was going on, the stallion grabbed her by the withers and turned her round to face him, a look of sudden realisation crossing his face. “Were you indeed?” he remarked. “Well, why didn't you say so in the first place?” He lowered his hooves again and looked around, as if he expected a spy to be listening in on them. “I was just saying to myself earlier, we've been seeing a lot of peaches on sale in Market Square this spring – same with the mangoes,” and he gave her an exaggerated wink.

“Huh?”

“Peaches,” repeated the stallion. “Rather a lot of them on sale – same with the mangoes.”

Bonbon now looked absolutely lost. “I didn't see any.”

The stallion nodded and waved a hoof in a circle. “Yes, go on.”

“Go on what?”

“You were supposed to say 'I didn't see any, but the Big Cheese has organised a shipment to come in at midnight'.”

“I didn't know that,” protested Bonbon. “I don't even know who this Big Cheese of yours is.”

The stallion paused, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Then who sent you here?” he demanded.

“Berry Punch did,” said Bonbon. “She's the mare who runs the Mulberry Bush juice bar.”

“She didn't have a duelling scar and a patch over one eye?”

“What, Berry Punch?!” spluttered Bonbon in dismay. “She's never duelled with anypony!”

“Ah, well, must be thinking of somepony else then. Thanks for visiting, be sure to come again!” said the stallion in a cheerful tone as he attempted to usher her out of the shop.

But before he could, Bonbon spoke up again in a wary tone; “Hang on a second – there's something strange going on around here.”

The stallion froze. “What do you mean? You didn't see anything, did you?”

“No, but there's definitely something odd going down in this shop,” insisted Bonbon.

“No there isn't! Please believe me, there is absolutely...” As if things couldn't get any stranger, the stallion began waving his hoof frantically at what may as well have been some clandestine assailant. “...nothing going on, AND SHE DIDN'T SEE ANYTHING!!!” he called out at the top of his voice.

Bonbon flinched, rubbing her temples and trying to stem the ringing in her ears. “Then who were you talking to just now?”

The stallion continued to play it off as if nothing was amiss. “My aunt,” he replied hastily. “Look, which book were you after?”

Oh well, thought Bonbon, whatever it is, I'll just have to cross that bridge when I come to it. In the meantime... “Well, I was hoping you might have a copy of Licorice Lace's 'Ultimate Candy Recipe Collection',” she requested.

To her further confection...uh, sorry, confusion...the stallion turned on her with a venomous look. “You're better than I thought,” he snarled, and pulled out a crossbow from under the counter. “Trying to filch information from me, are you?”

“What are you talking about? What information?!” Bonbon edged towards the door, trying to get away from this mad stallion before she got an arrow between her eyes.

“Get away from that door! Stay where you are! You're not leaving this bookshop – ever!”

“Why not?”

“You know too much, my confectioner friend!”

“I don't know anything! I'm just a monster hunter!” Bonbon knew that was no longer true, but she was really clutching straws at this point.

“A monster hunter who just 'happens' to be buying a book on candy! And you expect me to believe that?!” sneered the stallion. “No – I didn't think you would! Say goodbye to your sherbet lemons!”

But just as he was about to pull the trigger, another pony burst into the shop. “Oh no you don't, Goldengrape! Throw down your bow and get against that wall!”

The stallion spun around, dropping the crossbow. “Sweetie Blue!”

“The same!” smirked the pony in question, a svelte blue Earth mare with a two-tone pink mane and tail and a cupcake Cutie Mark. “Now tell me honest, Goldengrape – where has Gumdrop hidden the lollipops?!”

“I...I don't know what you mean.”

“Oh yes you do!” retorted Sweetie Blue. “Two-hundred strawberry flavour, a hundred and sixty cola, a hundred and eighty-five lemon and lime! Now where are they?!” she demanded, holding a pistol to Goldengrape's head. “Remember what happened to Sugar Strand.”

Goldengrape nodded nervously; but Bonbon was still puzzled. “What happened to Sugar Strand?” she whispered.

“Sweetcream Scoops gave her a nitroglycerin acid drop.”

“I knew there was something going on here,” muttered Bonbon to herself.

“Well, there isn't,” protested Goldengrape.

“Then why are you making such a big fuss about it?”

“Come on, Goldengrape,” snapped Sweetie Blue before the stallion could answer, “the lollipops – where are they?!”

Goldengrape gulped. “They're at Sugarcube Corner.”

“Don't toy with me, Goldengrape!” Sweetie Blue rammed the gun barrel into Goldengrape's left eye, causing him to flinch back in pain.

“Alright – they're in the basement level beneath Sugarcube Corner.”

Sweetie Blue smirked again, looking much more pleased with herself. “That's more like it. Now, before I leave...”

“Not so fast, Sweetie Blue!” Now it was the turn of a buff-coated unicorn stallion to enter the scene, this time armed with a sub-machine gun.

Sweetie Blue went pale with dread. “Doughnut Joe!” she shrieked.

“You said it, Blue! Now down with that weapon of yours!” ordered Joe, training his own gun on the terrified mare.

“What's he doing here?” Bonbon asked Goldengrape. She had met this unicorn enough times in Canterlot, but rarely here in Ponyville.

“That's Doughnut Joe,” replied Goldengrape. “He's on our side.”

Both ponies watched as Joe took the pistol and the crossbow into the saddlebag he was wearing. For a moment, Goldengrape felt sure they had outwitted Sweetie Blue – until Joe turned on all three of them. “Right,” he growled, “up against that wall, the lot of you – and that includes you, Goldengrape!”

“Why you...you slimy, double-crossing rat!” burst out Goldengrape, visibly outraged.

“Alright, now that we know about the lollipops,” barked Joe, “I demand to know where the candy canes are!”

Goldengrape sneered at him. “I'll never tell you, Joe!”

“You will, unless you want me to start pumping pear drops from this Chicolto piano of mine!” threatened Joe. “Now tell me, where are the candy canes?!”

“That's for me to know, Joe,” said a squeakier, yet more ominous voice from the doorway.

“PINKIE PIE!!!” Everypony goggled in horror – all except Bonbon, who just stared with interest at the pink party animal's weapon.

“Okay, you sour plums,” jeered Pinkie Pie, “you're all at my mercy now, and the first pony to try anything moves to the great bakery in the sky!” She pointed towards the Party Cannon she had brought with her. “This thing may look harmless, but it can pack a real punch when it needs to! It's loaded with cake batter, and you've just got five seconds to tell me...why did the chicken cross the road?!?!”

“What?!” All four of her captives stared at her in complete bafflement.

“Ah, oops – wrong sketch, sorry,” giggled Pinkie Pie, and began again. “You've got five seconds to tell me...” The look on her face quickly went from threatening to puzzled. “...what was it again?” she asked herself quietly.

“The five seconds haven't started, have they?” inquired Goldengrape tentatively.

“We don't even know the question yet,” put in Joe.

“Was it about Rarity?” suggested Bonbon in an almost blasé manner.

“No, nothing to do with Rarity. No, you have five seconds to tell me...” Pinkie Pie broke off again as she tried to jog her memory.

“About Sugar Strand?” asked Joe.

“Nope.”

“Apple Brown Betty?” added Sweetie Blue.

“Nah, not her.”

“The sprinkles?”

“Yes, that's it, Goldengrape, the sprinkles!” squeaked Pinkie Pie, finally remembering what her line of dialogue was meant to be. “Right – you've got five seconds to tell me, where are the sprinkles?! Five – four – three – two – one – zero!”

The others prepared themselves for the worst, but nothing happened.

“Uh, zero?”

Still nothing. Pinkie Pie looked down at her cannon, wondering why it wasn't firing. “Oh – oops!” she giggled again. “Forgot to light the fuse. Right, so as I was saying, you've got five seconds to tell me...”

“It's no use firing that pop-gun of yours, Pinkie Pie.”

Right before their eyes, one of the walls opened up to reveal an orange Earth pony on a comfortable armchair sliding towards them. On his lap was a laser gun and a rubber chicken, and he wore a pair of intimidating sunglasses.

“THE BIG CHEESE!!!!”

“Yes – or to give me my proper name, Cheese Sandwich,” the pony replied in an unusually oily voice. “I'm glad you could all be here at my little party, and Boneless is pretty excited about it too, aren't you, Boneless?” He looked down at the chicken, but got no response. “Aren't you, Boneless?!” When Boneless still didn't answer, Cheese Sandwich picked him up and fired at him with the laser, leaving a gaping hole in his chest. “That'll teach you to be normal,” he sneered, and turned his attention back to his captives. “There, Boneless is dead, and never even thanked me for the sunflower seeds I gave him. And since I take my acts of silliness most seriously, I hereby sentence you all to...death by chocolate!”

“Couldn't you do that later, Cheese?” interrupted Bonbon. “It's already gone one o'clock.”

“Has it?” said Cheese Sandwich, looking up at the clock. “Oh, so it has. Lunch break, everypony; back here at two!”

With a deep sense of relief, the remaining ponies all followed Cheese Sandwich to a sandwich shop across the road. Bonbon, on the other hoof, stayed behind, and as soon as she was sure all the others had gone, she reached for the telephone on the counter and dialled a number. “Hello, is that the Equestrian Confectioners' Guild? Special Agent Sweetie Drops here – we've got an extortion case at the new bookshop in Ponyville...”







“...so you were right about there being something suspicious about that place, huh?”

“Yes, Lyra, honey. Of course, Cheese Sandwich made two mistakes – firstly, he failed to recognise me as Bonbon, codename Sweetie Drops, of the ECG; and secondly, his lunch break bought me more than enough time to gather all the best secret agents from the guild. By the time he and the others got back, we were all waiting in the broom cupboard to arrest them.” Bonbon smiled knowingly as she sipped at her cocoa.

“You sure know how to lick 'em, Bonnie!” laughed Lyra.
> Story 7: Fancypants and the Dirty Fork
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Today was business as usual for Canterlot's fashionable Restaurant Row. It was already noon, and chefs and waiters alike were diligently going about their work as patrons gathered in the eateries of their choice for a nice, hearty meal out. In one restaurant, the Cuisine du Grand, Fancypants and his wife Fleur-de-Lis had just taken their seats and were quietly chatting as they perused the menus they had been given.

“Quite a nice atmosphere, isn't it, dearest?” commented Fleur.

“Oh, yes,” agreed Fancypants. “None of that plain and uninspiring décor that Zesty Gourmand so strongly insists on; and that's saying nothing of the food. Do you know, I once visited this place with Sealed Scroll and his entourage...”

“Oh, yes, I remember,” Fleur observed. “Only a few months before our wedding – he was seeking funds for the new library extension, wasn't he?”

“Indeed he was; and believe you me, Fleur, I couldn't be happier that he chose for us to dine at this establishment. I've even been given to understand that Culinary Delight gave it a four-star rating.”

“I'm not surprised,” observed Fleur.

Just then, one of the waiters came over. He was a finely dressed unicorn with a neatly combed silver mane, and bowed respectfully as he addressed the couple. “Good evening, sir. Good evening, madam,” he greeted them in a refined Prench tone, “and may I say what a pleasure it is to see you here again, sir.”

“The pleasure's mine, good sir,” smiled Fancypants pleasantly.

“Is everything to your liking, sir?”

“Oh, yes, perfectly. Alas, we haven't decided what we would like to eat yet,” said Fancypants, glancing questioningly across to Fleur who only shrugged in response, “but we would like a bottle of House Red, please.”

“Of course, sir,” replied the waiter. “I shall fetch you a bottle straight away.” He quickly scribbled their order down on his notepad and sauntered briskly away to the kitchen.

Fleur pondered for a moment. “Anything you would recommend, Fancy?” she asked.

“Well, the last time I was here, I had the pleasure of sampling the courgette a la reine. And let me tell you, darling, it was absolutely divine,” remarked Fancypants. “But other than that, I suppose any of these dishes would be worth sampling.” He returned his attention to his own menu, murmuring under his breath as he read through it. “Let's see, what else do we have here – ratatouille au gratin,épi de maïs normand, consomme au pommes d'amour...” It was then that something odd caught his eye. “...lemon curry?!” he repeated incredulously.

“What was that, Fancy?” Fleur looked up from her menu again, mildly perplexed; but before her husband could reply, the waiter came trotting back with their wine.

“Voila, sir, madam,” he said as he set down two glasses, uncorked the bottle and poured some out for them to sample. “Are you enjoying your evening?”

“Oh, yes, very much so,” answered Fancypants, mentally shaking off the confusion from earlier. “Just...trying to make a decision on our main course, that's all.”

“If I may suggest, sir,” offered the waiter, “the chou-fleur du Percheron; the sauce is one of the chef's most famous creations.”

“Hmm...sounds quite enticing,” mused Fancypants. Then his mind turned to a small detail he had noticed out of the corner of his eye whilst studying the menu; “Oh, by the way, I've, er...I've got a bit of a dirty fork. Could I trouble you for another one, please?”

The waiter looked a little taken aback. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh...nothing major – fork's just a bit dirty. Could you get me another one?”

“Oh, sir,” exclaimed the waiter, a look of sheer dismay on his face, “I do apologise!”

Fancypants blithely brushed it off. “No need to apologise, it's only a small...”

“No, no, no, I do apologise.” The way the waiter was talking, one would've thought he had just spilled a full bowl of soup down somepony's finest dinner jacket. “I will fetch the head waiter immediatement.”

“Oh...you needn't do that...” began Fancypants, unsure what to make of the situation.

“No, really, I'm sure the head waiter will want to apologise to you in person. I will fetch him at once,” and the waiter ambled away without waiting for a reply.

Fleur was equally puzzled, but also impressed with the waiter's show of courtesy. “Well, you certainly get good service here,” she remarked.

“Yes, they do look after you very well indeed.” Perhaps a little too well, thought Fancypants. Sure, the staff here had done their utmost to provide a comfortable environ and the finest food they could cook, but to obsess so much over something as small and inconsequential as a dirty fork seemed a little over the top. He looked on as the head waiter, a dark blue Pegasus stallion with a slicked back raven mane, approached their table and took the fork in one wing, examining it carefully. The other waiter cowered behind him as though he was about to face a firing squad.

The head waiter sneered as he spotted the blemish on the fork. “It's filthy!” he snapped. “Flambé, find out who washed this up and give them their cards immediately!”

Fancypants tried to interrupt; “Well, really, I don't...”

“No, no, no,” continued the waiter, ignoring him completely, “better still, can't afford to take any chances – sack the entire washing-up staff!”

“Look, I don't want to cause any trouble,” objected Fancypants.

“Oh, no, please,” replied the head waiter apologetically, “it's no trouble. It's quite right that you should point these things out.” He spun round again; “Flambé,” he ordered sharply, “find the manager and tell him what's happened immediately!”

Flambé nodded timidly and shot off like a jack rabbit.

“Seriously,” insisted Fancypants, “I don't mean to make a fuss over nothing, it's just...”

“Please, it's no fuss,” the Pegasus assured him with the most ingratiating and apologetic smile he could manage. “All we want is to ensure that nothing, absolutely nothing, interferes with your complete enjoyment of your meal.”

“Which it hasn't. It was only a dirty fork.”

“I know – and I'm sorry, bitterly sorry – but that still doesn't alter the fact that, in our restaurant,” the head waiter held up the fork, gazing at it with a look of disgust and remorse, “we have been given a dirty, filthy, smelly piece of cutlery!!!”

“It wasn't smelly!” Even in his confused state, Fancypants managed to exercise just enough decorum not to add that the staff were being oversensitive about the whole issue.

“But it was!!” ranted the head waiter. “It was smelly and obscene and disgusting, and I hate it! I hate it! Nasty, grubby, dirty, mangy, scruffy little...”

“Alright, Croûton, that'll do.” Another unicorn, much more smartly dressed than the others, approached their table in good time to stifle the head waiter's tirade. “Go and see to the other customers; I'll deal with this.”

Still raging under his breath, the head waiter scuttled away as the unicorn addressed Fancypants and Fleur. “Good evening, sir, good evening, madam,” he said. “I am the manager, and I have only just learned about your trouble from Flambé. May I sit down?”

“Oh, of course.” Fancypants magically pulled out a chair, which the manager duly accepted.

“I would like to apologise, humbly, deeply, and sincerely, about the fork...”

“Oh, please,” Fancypants tried to assure him, “it was only a tiny speck. I didn't even notice it at first it was so hard to spot.”

But again, his reassurance fell on deaf ears as the manager gave them a crestfallen look of remorse. “Oh, you're good, kind, fine ponies for saying that,” he continued, “but I can see it.” He took the fork in his aura. “To me, it's like a mountain – a vast bowl of pus! It gets me here!” he stated, emotionally clapping a hoof to his chest.

By now, Fancypants was beginning to wonder if this farce might be a little bit beyond even his own diplomacy. “It...wasn't as bad as that,” he stuttered lamely.

“I can't give you any excuses for it,” the manager went on, trying to maintain his composure even as tears began to prick at his eyes. “There are no excuses. I've been meaning to spend more time in the restaurant recently, to try and ensure things go smoothly and customers get the perfect dining experience, but I haven't been very well and...things haven't been exactly been sunshine and rainbows in the kitchen either.” No matter how hard he tried, however, he could hardly hold back the tremor in his voice, and Fancypants and Fleur couldn't help heeling sorry for him. “The poor chef's son has been put away again; and poor Mrs Tarragon, who prepares the salad, can hardly grip a spoon properly with her poor, withered hooves anymore. And then there's Croûton's head wound from when he punished himself for forgetting to place the napkins one one of the tables a few months back...”

That would explain a lot, thought Fancypants gravely.

“...but they're good creatures,” stammered the manager, “and they're kind creatures. Together, we were beginning to get over this dark patch. There was light at the end of the tunnel...” He held up the fork again, unable to bottle in his emotions any longer as he melted down into tears. “...when this...WHEN THIS...HAPPENED!!” he sobbed in anguish, burying his face in his front hooves.

Baffled, Fancypants looked across to Fleur for help. Fleur responded by laying a tentative hoof on the manager's shoulder. “Could we, uh...can we get you a glass of water?” she offered anxiously.

Her words went unheeded by the inconsolable stallion, who only continued to bawl his eyes out. “It's the end of the road!” he lamented. Both husband and wife shook their heads in dismay, trying to work out how to diffuse the situation before someone else got involved.

“You monsters!!!” snarled a voice. “You vicious, heartless MONSTERS!!

Fancypants and Fleur looked up, startled, and chuckled nervously at the sight of none other than Gustave le Grand standing at their table. He glowered upon the couple with pure rage in his eyes. It was the sort of anger that they had never seen from him before, the sort that belonged to a psychopath seeking to avenge the death of a loved one.

“Look what you've done to him!” bellowed Gustave. “He's worked his hooves to the bone to help me make this place what it is, and you come in here with your petty, feeble quibbling – and you grind him into the dirt!” He choked back a furious sob of his own. “This fine, honourable stallion whose horseshoes you are not worthy to kiss! Oh, it makes me mad! Mad!” To the couple's further shock, he lifted up a cleaver they didn't know he had brought with him and slammed it down onto their table, creating a deep gash through the middle.

“Easy, Gustave, easy!” Croûton, who had seen what had just happened, came rushing over to try and restrain him before he went on the warpath; but hardly had he grabbed hold of Gustave's shoulders when suddenly he began to grimace in pain. “OW! THE WOUND! THE WOUND!” he shrieked, clutching his temples. Gustave, momentarily distracted from his rant, began wailing in distress.

It was most unfortunate that at that very same moment, the manager stood up from his seat, hovering the fork in front of his chest and crying out loud, “IT'S THE END!!!”

“AAAGH, THEY'VE DESTROYED HIM!” screamed Gustave.

“THE END!! AAAAARGH!!!” Right before their eyes, the manager drove the fork straight towards himself and collapsed onto the floor. He didn't actually stab himself (what Fancypants and Fleur didn't know was that it was just a World Comedy Day prank), but the way Gustave reacted, the two unicorn elitists genuinely thought he had committed suicide.

“He's dead! They've killed him!” sobbed Gustave in a hysterical manner, and yanked the cleaver out of the table as if to attack Fancypants with it. “REVENGE!! REVENGE!!!!”

“NO, NO, GUSTAVE!!” Croûton grabbed hold of him again and pulled him back from the table. “Never kill a customer,” he began; only to be gripped by another “twinge” from his “head wound”. Howling in agony, he collapsed onto the floor, at which point Gustave lost control again and raised his cleaver – but he was promptly tackled from behind by Flambé, just in time to prevent him from seemingly slicing Fancypants in half. Both pony and griffin tumbled right over the table, knocking Gustave out cold and filling Flambé with such relief that he promptly fainted.

All the while, Fancypants and Fleur could only watch on in sheer bafflement as the over-the-top display unfolded. They gazed down at Gustave and Flambé lying unconscious on the floor, completely lost for words; they had been through some interesting dining experiences in their time, but this had to be the craziest and most horrific of them all. So crazy, in fact, that when Fancypants eventually broke the silence, he could only think of one thing to say;

“Thank goodness I never mentioned the dirty knife!”
> Intermission
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Right, so while I was writing this, I had a letter sent to me from one Miss Harshwhinny of Canterlot, and...apparently, she didn't much like how I was writing this fanfiction. She said, and I quote;


Dear Sir


Recently, I have noticed a very strong tendency for this collection of short stories to get unashamedly silly. As a highly esteemed civil servant, I do my best to ensure the upkeep of public morale, but I'm not having things getting silly. Those last two stories of yours got very silly indeed, especially the one about the Høyland parrot. Everypony knows that the Frozen North is far too cold for parrots, and the one about the restaurant staff obsessing over a dirty fork was even sillier. Obviously nopony enjoys a good laugh more than I do, except perhaps for my secretary and some of her friends, and Lord Cloud – come to think about it, most creatures like a good laugh more than I do, but that's beside the point. The point is that I must insist that you overhaul the stories as per the list of recommendations provided.


Yours, etc.

Ms A Harshwhinny


Now, of course I am extremely conscious that there are some ponies out there who feel these stories are getting more than a little lowbrow, so I had a good solid browse through Miss Harshwhinny's list of recommendations as to how I should improve on the current format – and have rejected every single one of them. Why?! Because it's Mountie Python, for crying out loud! There's no place for stiff upper lips and serious minds and high brows and all that rubbish in this collection! All these stories are meant to be silly – that's what makes them so enjoyable!

And it seems I'm not the only one who feels that Harshwhinny is coming down too strongly on these stories, because not too long afterwards, I received another letter. This one is from Pinkie Pie, and reads as follows;


Dear Mr Author, Narrator, etc.


As an avid breaker of the fourth wall and a connoisseur of good comedy, I feel I must protest about that last letter. We all live in a cartoon universe, and we're entitled to get as silly as we want. Also, your offer of free cupcakes as recompense for your writing such silly stories is still open.


I'd like to take this opportunity to thank Pinkie Pie for backing me up on this particular point...

“You're welcome.”

...and to add that anypony accusing me of not taking this story writing business seriously needs to re-evaluate their priorities. Just like the writer of this next letter.


Dear Sir


I object strongly to the letters being read out in your short story collection. They are clearly not written by the Equestrian public, and have merely been included for a cheap laugh.


Yours, etc.

Red Botty


Now, personally, I fail to understand why somepony with such an embarrassing name as that feels compelled to complain about others having a sense of humour. However, I soon learned that he was complaining about another fanfiction not written by me involving a great deal of toilet humour, and had written the wrong address on the envelope. Either way, he has been dealt with in the strongest possible terms. Furthermore, another, rather more prolific letter writer has retaliated with a complaint of his own;


Sir


I wish to complain about the previous letter, regardless of whether it was directed to you or not. The writer obviously didn't check the address was right, and should be banned from writing letters for at least the next month or so. As for your incredible story about Shining Armour, I noticed that you didn't allow him enough time in the spotlight like you promised you would, and also refrained from featuring the adorable Flurry Heart. Could you correct this, please?


Yours sincerely,

A potted plant called Steve


Well, frankly, I think he's rather misinterpreted my promise. You see, I was actually looking to give the Changeling Inquisition more of a starring role in this fanfiction than in previous ones where, funnily enough, they didn't appear at all. As for Flurry Heart, it wasn't actually in the job description for me to give her a part in this at all. To quote this next letter from an anonymous writer (called Dizzy Twister);


Dear Sir


I feel the time has come to complain about creatures who make rash complaints without first making sure those complaints are justified.


“Are you referring to me?!”

No, Pinkie, of course I'm not. However, I would like to point out that a potted plant doesn't really make a good critic, and whoever sent that letter should really have come up with a better alias.

“Yeah, I totally agree with that.”

And speaking with agreeing with others...


Dear Sir


I'd like to complain about creatures who complain about other creatures complaining. It's about time something was done about it.


Quite honestly, I could see where the donkey who wrote this letter was coming from, and I couldn't help sympathising with him – so I dropped a piano on his head to shut him up. Anyway, onto the next story.
…
…
…
…lemon curry?!
> Story 8: Business as Unusual
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nitrous Cannister was a perfectly respectable stallion working a perfectly respectable office job in a perfectly respectable area of Chicolto, under a perfectly respectable manager, and with a perfectly respectable home and a perfectly respectable family to boot. His was a perfectly respectable lifestyle all told, and he always made sure his appearance was perfectly respectable too – but there was one small detail that constantly bothered him. Whether he was born with it, or whether some strange genetic mutation had occurred to him later in life, he couldn't seem to work out; all he knew was that he seemed to emit some kind of pheromone that had a very odd effect on all except those closest to him...

It was a cold, damp day in Chicolto, and Nitrous was making his way to work. It had started out like any other – indeed, just as it did with any other family stallion. Having finished his breakfast, he collected his briefcase, kissed his wife goodbye and began picking his way down the street towards the office building where he worked. But that, of course, where his day always became very abnormal, something he was very cruelly reminded of as he passed two stallions headed in the opposite direction.

“Good morning,” he said casually. But instead of returning the greeting, both stallions suddenly burst out laughing uncontrollably. Nitrous frowned and shook his head; this was always happening to him, and he could never fully understand why.

It wasn't just these two ponies either. Upon entering the building ten minutes later, he attempted to greet the receptionist, “Quite a nasty day out there, eh?” The mare at the desk barely opened her mouth to reply before breaking down into a fit of the giggles herself; and when he entered the elevator with a small group of fellow workers, the doors hadn't even closed before they too collapsed into hysterics. Nitrous shrugged it off each time, trying not to look offended, but the laughter was getting increasingly hard to ignore, and he felt all the more hurt by it. He left the elevator, and the other occupants clutching their aching guts as they continued to laugh helplessly, and made his way to the manager's office.

As expected, the manager had already turned up, and was trying hard to keep a straight face as he awaited Nitrous' arrival. Normally, he was very calm and professional, but just like the other ponies working under him, that facade always seemed to break down when Nitrous was in his presence. Upon hearing the knock at the door, he promptly called out, “Come in, Mr Cannister.”

“Good morning, sir,” said Nitrous as he entered. To his complete lack of surprise, the manager spluttered a little in a heroic act of self-restraint.

“Do, uh...do sit down.”

“Thank you, sir.” Nitrous took his seat, silently wondering why his boss should call him up to the office – although from the way he was behaving, he had a worrying hunch as to what it could be.

The manager fought back another snigger before continuing. “Now, as you know, Mr Cannister, you've been working in our Accounts Department for the past twenty years, all without the slightest blemish on your service record.” Nitrous opened his mouth to thank him, but was promptly interrupted; “No, no, please don't say anything – as I was saying, your work has been beyond reproach,” he went on, his voice breaking a little as he almost lost his composure. “However, the effect you're having on your colleagues has undermined...the competence...”

Nitrous frowned anxiously. He had a bad idea where this was leading, and the tone of the manager's voice didn't exactly fill him with any confidence either.

“...has undermined the competence your colleagues to such an extent that I'm afraid I have no option...” With a concerted effort, he choked back yet another laugh. “...but to transfer you to a different role,” he finished in as grave a manner as he could.

“I...I'm sorry to hear that, sir,” said Nitrous, visibly dejected. “I'd been hoping I'd be able to keep this job a while longer, what with the rising cost of the wife's treatment...I'm struggling to find the money as it is, and now I don't see any kind of future...” He almost broke down into tears at this point. “...I just...want to go out and end it all.”

After a surprisingly brief fit of giggles, the manager turned back to him. “No, I-I-I didn't say I was going to sack you,” he managed to choke out. “It's just that...well, I do know another department that requires...” Yet another splutter. “...requires a new manager, and in light of your financial problems, I'm...I'm offering you a job interview for that new role.” He slid a note towards Nitrous, covering his mouth to hide the helpless grin. “That's where the interview is taking place, and the interviewer...” Another voice break. “...has been found to be immune to your...effect, let's say.”

Nitrous perked up at once. “Oh, thank you, sir!” he said, grabbing the note and trotting out of the office without hesitation. The manager completely lost control of himself at that moment and began rolling on the floor with laughter. It wouldn't be for some time that another employee would enter and find him passed out over his desk with a broad smile still plastered on his face!

To his surprise and relief, Nitrous found that once he reached the department in question, other ponies seemed to stop laughing at him. Why, he couldn't comprehend, but it made such a big change that he couldn't care less. He knocked briskly at the door of the office to which he had been directed, and was immediately greeted with a genial, “Come in.” As he entered, he saw a pale green stallion in a blue business suit waiting for him.

“Ah,” said the stallion, “you must be the pony recommended for the management training course. Do sit down.”

Nitrous did as he was told, but somehow he felt a hint of nervousness creep in at that point. He wanted to make sure he could still hold a job here, and worried about giving an answer that would see him laid off.

“Would you mind just standing up again for one moment?”

Again, Nitrous obeyed without question.

“Take a seat.”

“What?” asked Nitrous, taken aback.

“Take a seat,” repeated the interviewer. With a faint, uneasy shrug, Nitrous sat back down as the interviewer wrote something down on a clipboard. Finally, he looked up to Nitrous again and greeted him with, “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” replied Nitrous.

“Good morning,” said the interviewer again, almost as if Nitrous had missed something.

“Good morning.”

The interviewer paused for a moment to write something else down. “Tell me, sir,” he spoke up at last, “why did you say 'good morning' when you know perfectly well it's afternoon?”

“Uh...well, you said 'good morning',” stammered Nitrous.

A smug, knowing grin spread across the other pony's face as he shook his head. “Good afternoon,” he corrected.

“Good afternoon,” said Nitrous hesitantly. In truth, he could see from the wall-mounted clock that it wasn't afternoon yet, but he went along with it all the same.

“Oh, deary me.” The stallion added to his notes with a look of mock dismay. “Good evening,” he added.

“Um...goodbye?” offered Nitrous, now absolutely lost.

The interviewer chuckled, not the rolling with laughter kind of chuckle, but still enough to make Nitrous feel uncomfortable. To Nitrous' utter bafflement, he then reached out with his magic and began ringing a small bell sitting on his desk. There was a long silence.

“Aren't you going to ask me why I rang the bell?” prompted the interviewer.

Nitrous glanced at the bell, and then back towards the interviewer. “Why did you ring the bell?” he asked timidly.

“Why do you think I rang the bell?” The stallion waited, but only for a second before barking at the spineless nitwit in front of him, “Five, four, three, two, one, zero!”

“Well, because...”

“Too late!”

Nitrous looked down at his hooves. This job interview seemed a lot harder – more random, even – than any other he had so far been to; but then he had only been to the one, and they'd given him the job in an instant, so he didn't have much to go on. He opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by the ringing of the bell; and this time, the interviewer was joining in.

“Good night a-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding!” he sang in an obnoxious tone. “Ah, good night a-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding!”

“Um...I'm sorry,” interrupted Nitrous tentatively, “this is the interview for the management training course, isn't it?”

“Yes, this is the interview for the management training course, that's right,” affirmed the stallion, and immediately went back to ringing the bell. “Good night a-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding!”

“Oh dear,” murmured Nitrous, now starting to look freaked out, “I don't think I'm doing very well.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well...I don't know.”

“Do you say it because you don't know?” The interviewer barely gave the stuttering Nitrous a chance to think, let alone reply, before belting out another round of, “Five, four, three, two, one, zero!” Another pause followed as he wrote still further on his clipboard; but when he straightened up again, it wasn't to ask another question. Instead, he just pulled a face and made a comical gargling sound.

But Nitrous failed to see any humour in what was going on. “I...I'm sorry, I'm confused,” he said meekly.

“Well, why do you think I did that, then?”

“I-I-I don't know.”

“Aren't you curious?”

“Yes.” But perhaps “curious” wasn't the right word, thought Nitrous. “Unnerved” would probably be more accurate!

“Then why don't you ask me?” Again, Nitrous didn't get a chance to reply before... “Name?”

“What?”

“Your name, please?” requested the interviewer.

“Oh, uh...Nitrous.”

“Nitrous...” The interviewer pulled out a pen. “Sure?”

“Yes.”

“Nitrous...Sure,” said the interviewer as he began to write.

“No, no, no, no, Cannister!”

“Cannister Sure.”

“No, no, Nitrous Cannister!”

The interviewer shot Nitrous a look of reproach as if he had just misbehaved, and for a moment, Nitrous worried about getting kicked out of the office.

“Good night a-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding!” The bell rang out again tantalisingly. “Good night a-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding!”

Nitrous cringed. “Oh dear, we're back to that again,” he muttered to himself; then, to the interviewer, “I don't know what to do when you do that.”

“Well, do something,” goaded the interviewer, and rang his bell for the umpteenth time. “Good night a-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding! Five, four, three, two, one...”

In a blind panic, Nitrous raised his hooves to his temples and let out a comical squawking noise, pulling an equally comical face in the process.

“Good!”

“Good?” repeated Nitrous, perking up a bit.

“Very good. Do that again.” The interviewer looked on intently as Nitrous repeated his previous actions. “Very good indeed,” he remarked, sounding genuinely impressed. “Quite outstanding.” He turned to another door which had somehow escaped Nitrous' notice; “Right, ready now!”

Right on cue, four mares entered and took up positions either side of the interviewer; what they were doing here, Nitrous couldn't comprehend, but from the serious looks on their faces, he could only assume they must have something to do with the interviewing process.

“Right, once more.” The interviewer picked up his bell one last time, “Good night a-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding,” and pointed towards Nitrous, who again followed the same actions as before – hooves on temples, funny face, squawk.

To Nitrous' complete and utter confusion, the mares pulled out a series of cards with numbers on them, the interviewer taking note of each one. “What's going on?!” he demanded, completely forgetting to be nervous in his indignation.

“You've got good marks,” explained the interviewer.

“I don't care, I want to know what's going on!” ranted Nitrous. “I think you're deliberately trying to humiliate other creatures for your own amusement as if they were nothing more than circus animals, and I'm going straight out of here, and I'm going to tell the police exactly what you do to others, and I'm going to get them to tell Princess Celestia herself, and I'm going to make jolly well sure you never get a chance to do it again! THERE! WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THAT, EH?! WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO SAY TO THAT?!”

The four mares, completely unfazed, promptly swapped over their score cards for much higher numbers, almost up to a hundred each. The interviewer nodded approvingly; “Very good marks indeed.”

“Oh...well...” Nitrous began to calm down again. “...do I get the job?” he asked hopefully.

“Well, quite frankly, you already have it. This interview was only really concocted for the sake of wasting your time. Congratulations, Nitrous Cannister, you're now the Head of the Clowns' Department.”

The look of pure dismay on Nitrous' face as the interviewer and the judges fell about laughing was probably best left to charity!
> Story 9: Clowning Armour
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

After the farce with the morning parade, Shining Armour had been hoping the rest of his day would be a little more quiet and uneventful. Alas, it wasn't to be; for not long after lunch, one of his guards came to see him in his command office.

“Yes, what is it?” asked Shining Armour, without taking his eyes off the paperwork on his desk even as the crystal Pegasus stallion saluted him.

“I'd like to leave the army, please, Your Highness.”

“You what?!” Shining Armour stared at the soldier in absolute disbelief. “Why would you want to do that?”

“It's dangerous!” replied the soldier matter-of-factly. “There are ponies with pikes out there, sire! Real ones, sire – not toy ones, sire – not foam ones, sire – proper ones, sire! They've all got 'em, sire, and some of them have got rifles...”

Shining Armour shook his head wearily. “Emery, they are on our side...”

“...and grenades, sire, and field guns, sire! So I'd like to leave, sire, before I get killed,” the soldier reiterated.

“Emery, you only joined the army yesterday morning!”

“I know, sire, but creatures get killed! Properly dead, sire; no fooling on that score, sire,” continued the soldier. “One guy was telling me only this morning that if you're in the army and there's a war, you have to go and fight.”

“Yes, and?” asked Shining Armour.

“Well, I mean, for crying out loud,” protested Emery, “if it was a big war, somepony could be hurt – badly!”

“Well then why did you bother joining the army in the first place, Emery?!” Shining Armour was starting to lose his patience.

“For the water-skiing and the travel, sire – but not for the sake of killing other creatures, sire,” stated Emery. “I asked them to put it on my form at the recruitment office, sire, no killing.”

Shining Armour gave him a pointed stare, trying to resist the urge to bury his face in his front hooves in dismay. “What are you, Emery, a pacifist?” he demanded.

Emery cocked his head. “A pacifist, sire?”

“Yes.”

“What, like that changeling from Ponyville, sire?”

“Hornette, you mean?”

“Yeah, that's the one.”

“I repeat – are you a pacifist?!”

“No, sire,” said Emery, a hint of amusement creeping into his expression, “I'm not a pacifist, sire – I'm a coward.”

Now Shining Armour really did bury his face in his hooves. “That's an extremely silly line, Emery,” he chided, “and I don't think it particularly amusing. You are dismissed – and not from the army!”

“Yes, sire!” Emery saluted blithely as if he had been through routine questioning, and marched out of the office in such a silly way as to make Shining Armour cringe. He couldn't imagine what the Equestrian military was coming to nowadays, and almost felt ready to give up and disband his army.

But the more he thought about it, the more his face took on a crooked and almost disturbing smile. Sure, his soldiers had been messing him around, not to mention that ridiculous Changeling Inquisition, but if they were going to act up like this, then perhaps he would have to show the citizens of the Crystal Empire in general that he too could live up to the standards of World Comedy Day. After all, if you couldn't beat them, what did you have to lose by joining them?

That was how he found himself waiting patiently (he wished!) in the recruitment office once again – or at least he would have been had the “building” not been a stage set in one of the Crystal Empire's finest theatres. Not that it mattered to him, for he was soon met by a purple crystal unicorn mare with a finely brushed silver mane and tail.

“Good afternoon,” said the mare, bowing politely, “I'd like to join the army, please.”

“I see. Short service, or long service commission?”

“As long as possible, please.”

Shining Armour nodded. “Right, well, I'll just take a few particulars, and then...” That was when a thought occurred to him, and he stepped outside to check the signage in front of the “building”. To his dismay, he noticed that somepony had added a hastily scrawled letter B to the first word, resulting in a sign that read “BARMY RECRUITMENT OFFICE”. He sighed and shook his head disapprovingly as he scrubbed the unwanted addendum away with his magic.

To make the situation even more ridiculous, no sooner had he turned to re-enter the office than he noticed a queue of ponies dressed in clown outfits standing nearby. “Do you mind?!” he snapped indignantly, and stepped pointedly inside as the other ponies sheepishly dispersed. Turning his attention back to the applicant, he continued his speech from earlier; “Then there'll be a few forms to sign – we will of course need references, a full medical examination by the end of...”

“Yes, well, would it be possible for me to join the Entertainment Division?”

Shining Armour shot the mare a puzzled look. “The Royal Military Entertainment Corps?”

“That's right,” affirmed the mare. “You see, I'd thought long and hard on the matter before I came here, and I decided that, given the choice, I'd like to be in the Royal Military Entertainment Corps.”

Yeesh, this is a bit out of the blue, thought Shining Armour; but decided to humour the mare anyway. “Well, it's a bit difficult, I'm afraid,” he said. “You see, creatures who recruit here usually go straight to the Crystal Castle Guard.”

“Which lacks any sense of humour, I suppose?”

“I'm afraid so,” replied Shining Armour gravely.

“Well...are there any regiments that are more...” The mare pondered for a moment. “...more focussed on horsing around than fighting?”

“Hmm...not that I know of. Apart from the Home Guard, they're all stiff upper lips.”

The mare nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, well, I was hoping for a regiment where I could really have fun and indulge myself in creating new routines in dressage and show jumping.”

“Dressage and show jumping?!” spluttered Shining Armour.

“Yes.”

Quickly composing himself before he ended up scolding the mare for being silly, Shining Armour responded almost instantly with, “Oh, well, you'll want the Wonderbolts Ground Force.”

“Really?” said the mare.

“Yes,” continued Shining Armour. “It's the only branch of the army that's really doing something new and exciting with show jumping and dressage and all that jazz.”

“I see.”

“Yes, I mean, they're not on the same level as the Wonderbolts themselves, but their technique when it comes to dressage in particular is in a class of its own,” gushed Shining Armour. “I saw one of their shows the other day, and it was absolutely fantastic – beautiful airs, seamless pirouettes...it really makes you want to shout out, 'This is good! This is the work of real professionals!”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. Sure, the Suffolk Fusiliers and the 8th Whinneapolis Regiment are all well and good if you want something a bit more simple and Baroque, but if you really want a military unit that's really innovative when it comes to dressage, then you've got to go for the Wonderbolts Ground Force!”

By now, the mare was starting to look put out. “Oh, this is rubbish,” she grumbled, “I'm handing in my notice.”

“Huh? What for?!”

“Well, when I applied for this job, I thought I'd get a few decent lines,” answered the mare petulantly, “but you ended up getting the whole thing. All I got for my last few speeches were 'yes', 'really', 'I see' and 'really'! That's not good enough for a diamond dog, let alone a crystal pony.”

“Well, it was supposed to be my time to get the jokes!” retorted Shining Armour crossly.

“Then why did you put in the job description that I was going to get a few funny lines?!”

Shining Armour heaved an exasperated sigh. “Alright, look, I tell you what – let's forget about the Barmy Recruit...Army Recruitment Office sketch,” he stuttered, cringing visibly at his own Freudian slip. “I'll be a train conductor, and you can be a really funny passenger.”







Moments later, the stage was set. The mare who had attempted to “enlist” now sat in something resembling a passenger train compartment, and Shining Armour was dressed in a ticket inspector's uniform with an arrow in one flank. “All aboard!” he called out in a zany, jovial tone. “All aboard the Phoney Express! I've got a chauffeur, and every time I go to the bathroom, he drives me potty! Boom-boom! One in a row! 'Cause I like to see you smile, smile, smile...!”

“Uh...one return to Neigh Haven, please,” interjected the mare.

“That'll be fifty bits, ma'am!” Shining Armour continued to act like a music hall comedian as the mare gave him an obviously fake fifty-bit note. “Fifty beautiful bits, and you are the winner of...one fifty-bit ticket! Be sure to hand it back at the end of your journey – it is a return ticket, after all! Ooh, boy, we're on a roll, tonight,” he announced gleefully, “and so is the train! Get it?!”

If the mare didn't look annoyed earlier, she certainly did now. “Look here...” she began.

“I am looking – it's the only way I can keep my eyelids apart! Bazinga! Didn't see that coming, did you?!”

“But you said I was going to be a funny passenger!!” complained the mare.

“So?!” retorted Shining Armour, losing patience.

“Well, all I said was 'one return to Neigh Haven, please'! You can't call that a funny line!”

“It's the way you say it that's supposed to get the laughs!”

“Oh, don't be ridiculous!” dismissed the mare indignantly. “Nopony can say 'one return to Neigh Haven, please' and make it funny!”

“Can't they? Well, let's ask the audience.” Shining Armour turned towards the crowded auditorium and announced, “One return to Neigh Haven, please,” in a broken sing-song falsetto. The audience promptly collapsed into laughter. “See?! If I can make it funny, anypony can!”

The mare growled with frustration. “Okay, this is getting silly!” she objected. “Here I am, trying to get a few genuine laughs, and all you can think to do is upstage me at every turn!”

“Well, it is my time to shine, you know! What's the good of being called Shining Armour if I can't have my time in the spotlight?!”

“Yes, but I haven't had a single laugh all day! That's why I signed up to this performance in the first place!”

By now, Shining Armour had had enough. “Alright! Alright, fine!” he growled. “If you want laughs, I'll give you a few laughs! Right, get on with it!” He paused for a moment. “Get on with it!!!”







But when the stage had finally been reset, the mare found she was in for a nasty shock. Shining Armour stepped up next to her dressed in a rainbow wig with a red nose and an oversized hat, bowing graciously as the crowd applauded him.

“Thank you! Thank you!” he announced. “And now, for my first act, I give you – the kelp slapping dance!” He pulled out two strands of wet seaweed and began trotting back and forth in front of the mare, slapping her in the face with each strand in turn. “It's your laugh, miss, it's not mine!” he told her pointedly. “It's you who's getting slapped by the kelp – not me getting slapped, it's you getting slapped! And now – the whitewash...over you!” Before the mare could protest, he hefted up a bucket and dumped its load of whitewash all over her. “Not over me, it's over you! You get the laughs! And now – the custard pie in the face!” Splat! The mare suddenly found herself with a face-full of custard. “It's not my face, it's your face – it's your laugh, miss, not mine! You get all the bleeding laughs!”

“And you get the 16-ton weight!” said a voice from somewhere behind him. Shining Armour recognised that voice all too well – but before he could turn around to check, a huge, hollow styrofoam ingot with the legend “16 TONS” fell on top of him, trapping him inside! The crystal mare could only look on in puzzlement, whilst Cadance stepped out from backstage, smirking mischievously. “Gotcha,” she chortled.

Well, that was a good bit of fun. Time enough, I think, for a piece of wood – the larch.
> Story 10: Disorder in the Court
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Mr Jack Hammer, you have heard the case for the prosecution. Is there anything you'd like to say before I pass sentence?” Tall Order waited patiently for the defendant to reply. Today had been an extremely busy day for him and the other magistrates; with so many ponies pulling pranks and telling jokes, some of which had turned out to be quite damaging, there had been a disproportionate number of cases for irresponsible behaviour. How this day could still be called World Comedy Day, he really couldn't understand – let alone how so many of his witnesses, barristers and ushers seemed to be rolling with the punch.

The defendant bowed his head. “Yes, Your Honour – I'm very sorry,” he replied sombrely. “It was a very bad thing to have done, and I'm deeply ashamed of myself. All I can say is that I promise it'll never happen again. To have committed such a dastardly and unforgivable crime on such an event as World Comedy Day is a tragedy and a disgrace unto my good self, and I'm really very sorry that I did it.” He turned to the trio of police officers, all of whom were laying back in a lax, carefree manner as if it was their day off; “I'd like to offer a particularly heartfelt apology to the police for taking up so much of their valuable time, gathering evidence and poring so tirelessly over the sordid details of this senseless felony of mine.”

“Ah, no need to apologise,” said one of them. “We were only doing our job, weren't we?”

“It's good of you to say that,” continued Jack ruefully, “but to have had to go to the trouble of arresting me...”

“Trouble? After you surrendered yourself at the 47th Precinct?” laughed another officer. “It couldn't have been easier!”

“Yes, I...I understand. But sometimes we seem to forget the difficult and often dangerous work involved in tracking down criminals like me, and I'd just like you to know that your fine work is at least appreciated by me. I'd also like to apologise to the prosecuting counsel – and to you, Your Honour – for dragging you in here just for the sake of dealing with such a despicable pony as myself,” added Jack.

“Well...we would have had to come here anyway,” said the counsel matter-of-factly.

“Oh, well...that's a mercy. And what a presentation of a case,” praised Jack. “It's been a real privilege to see you in action.” Turning his attention away from the flattered counsel, he addressed the jury; “And the rest of you...what more can I say? I've called you away from your homes, your jobs, your families, all to hear what a disgusting felon I've been.”

“Ah, it's nothing really,” one of the jurors dismissed cheerfully. “We've had a really good time, and we can't thank you enough.”

Jack smiled humbly and turned back to Tall Order. “So, Your Honour, it only remains for you to pass the most savage sentence on me that the law can provide,” he finished.

Throughout Jack's apologetic speech, Tall Order could only stare disbelievingly, completely lost for words at the disproportionate level of remorse he was displaying. Indeed, it took him a good few seconds to find his voice again. “It's only a parking offence,” he said incredulously.

At that moment, another barrister entered the courtroom. “Sorry I'm late, Your Honour,” he apologised, “I got lost again on the way here.”

“Well, never mind that now, Mr Bencher,” chided Tall Order, “we've got a case to conclude here.”

“Right, well, don't bother to recap, Your Honour,” replied Mr Bencher, “I'll pick it up as we go along. Call Miss Rattling Gossip.”

“Call Miss Rattling Gossip!” announced the clerk.

Almost on cue, a light purple Earth mare with a golden mane and tail and a bored look on her face stepped into the witness box. Without any prompting, she picked up the book and declared, “I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. So anyway...” She set it down again, and immediately began rambling on like she didn't even know what she was meant to be talking about. “...I said to him, I said, they can't afford that on what she earns; I ask you, twenty bits a day, and him with a wooden leg? Anyway, it was a white wedding, much to everypony's surprise; of course, they bought everything on the hire purchase – I think they ought to send them back where they came from, I mean you've got to be cruel to be kind...”

All the while, Mr Bencher tried again and again to interrupt and ask her to confirm her identity to the court. But Rattling Gossip was really living up to her name, and he couldn't get a word in edgeways.

“...and her youngest as thin as a street lamp – and the goldfish, they've got the Guppy Pox, they keep spitting water over the kids; well, they do, don't they? I mean you can't, can you? I mean, they're not even married or anything – they're not even divorced! And he's in league with the Changeling Kingdom, if you ask me; says he's a chartered accountant, but I don't like the sound of his liver – all that squeaking and banging...”

Mr Bencher finally gave up at this point, and gestured discretely towards two aides. Taking the hint, they took Rattling Gossip out of the witness box and ushered her into the hall as she ranted on about whatever random topics she had yet to cover.

“Mr Bencher,” said Tall Order, looking daggers at the dark blue unicorn, “I rather fail to see the relevance of your witness' statement.”

“Well, Your Honour, I can only apologise to the fillies and gentlecolts of the jury,” Mr Bencher replied. “Had I known that she would resort to endless circumlocution, I wouldn't have called her as a witness. However, my next witness should be more than able to settle this case. Call Princess Platinum.”

“Princess who?!” spluttered Tall Order. “Mr Bencher, do you think there's any real relevance in questioning the deceased?!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Well, I mean, Princess Platinum doesn't exactly exist anymore.”

“Maybe not in body, Your Honour, but in spirit.”

The exchange was swiftly interrupted by a fanfare of trumpets as a ghostly mare stepped into the witness box. “Good afternoon, my little ponies,” she announced, “and may I say how touched I am that your defending counsel should invite me to testify for this case.”

“The pleasure is mine, Your Highness.” Mr Bencher bowed reverently before continuing; “Now, just a few formalities – you are Princess Platinum of the Unicorn Tribe?”

“Oh, you're just trying to string this case out!” interrupted Tall Order, exasperated. “Why should a ghost from the dawn of Equestria have anything to do with a common builder?!”

“There are no easy answers in this case, Your Honour,” stated Mr Bencher gravely.

“I think you haven't got slightest idea what this case is about!”

“Your Honour, the strange, incomprehensible, almost diabolical threads of this tangled web of intrigue,” retorted Mr Bencher dramatically, “will shortly reveal a plot so fiendish, so infernal, so heinous...”

“Mr Bencher, your client has already confessed to the parking offence.”

“Parking offence my hoof!” dismissed Mr Bencher. “We must leave no stone unturned! If we could continue, Your Honour?”

“It's only thirty bits,” muttered Tall Order; but he said it to himself.

Without bothering to respond, Mr Bencher turned back to the ghost; “Now, you were saying...?”

“In answer to your question, fair peasant, yes I am.”

Mr Bencher nodded, looking pleased with himself. “Would it be fair to say, then, that you were not only one of the founders of the kingdom of Equestria, but also one of the early ancestors of Princesses Celestia and Luna?”

“I can confirm that to be true.”

“And you also founded what is now the City of Canterlot?”

“Certainly.”

“Princess Platinum,” continued Mr Bencher, “taking into account that the founding of Equestria was more than twelve thousand years ago, I put it to you that you are dead.”

“In body, yes; but not in spirit,” affirmed Princess Platinum. “It takes more than that to get rid of a ghost, after all.”

“So can I take your oath that you saw and heard who was responsible for the parking offence?”

“Since I was in Manehattan at the time, I can say with conscience that I know who did it.”

“And would you be prepared to point out who the real offender is?”

“Yes.” Princess Platinum pointed towards a pale, smartly dressed Earth stallion. “It was the hooligan known to you as Svengallop!”

Everypony else stared at the offending pony in shock, as if they hadn't even realised he was there. “Svengallop?! Consternation! Uproar!!” they all exclaimed in perfect unison.

“Yes,” continued Princess Platinum, glaring at Svengallop through narrow eyes. “When Jack Hammer brought the supply cart to the Rising Star Tower Block construction site, he left it in the parking lot as directed; and this fiend moved it out into the middle of the street so as to make him look irresponsible.”

“Shame! Shame!” echoed the jurors angrily.

Feeling his point had been proven, Mr Bencher turned to Tall Order and said, “Your Honour, in view of this spirit's impeccable character, I would like to ask you to reconsider the case against my client. You can't argue with a ghost, after all.”

“Well, no, I suppose not,” conceded Tall Order.

But before he could finish, one of the police officers spoke up. “Could I ask for an adjournment, please, Your Honour?”

“Adjournment?! When we're just this side of closing this case? Certainly not!”

The officer frowned with embarrassment – and all became clear as he let loose a long, almost comical fart. Princess Platinum tutted and shook her head disapprovingly, and the other officers recoiled in disgust. Even Tall Order seemed a little disturbed. “Why didn't you say why you wanted an adjournment?” he asked.

“I didn't know an acceptable legal phrase, Your Honour,” said the officer meekly.

Tall Order sighed again, this time in a weary manner. “Now then, Svengallop,” he inquired, trying to push the unpleasant turn of events out of his head, “have you anything to say about your misdemeanour – or why you thought it a good idea to pose as a legitimate juror, for that matter?”

Svengallop paused for a moment before scowling in defeat. “Alright, it's a fair cop,” he replied grudgingly, “but society's to blame.”

“You're right about that first point. As for you, Jack Hammer, I do believe the clerk can spell out your verdict...” Tall Order gestured to the clerk, who stomped one hoof twice. “Two words?”

The clerk nodded, and stomped once again as Svengallop was led out of the jury box.

“First word...” said Tall Order attentively as the clerk began to mime. “Rope? String?”

The clerk shook his head, repeating the action of tying up the invisible thread and pointing to it.

“Point?” suggested Mr Bencher.

“Belt?” offered a juror.

“Tie?” put in Tall Order.

He was rewarded by an emphatic nod from the clerk, who pointed again.

Princess Platinum tapped a hoof against her chin. “Cravat? Silk square?”

“Knot!” This came from the jury forepony, and was greeted with another, much more enthusiastic nod as the clerk raised his hoof. A round of applause followed, after which the clerk stomped twice with one hoof, and once with the other.

Tall Order nodded patiently. “Two syllables...first syllable...” He paused as the clerk began making a swimming motion. “...bird?”

“Swimmer?” called the forepony.

“Breast stroke?”

“That's a bit risqué, Your Honour!” exclaimed Mr Bencher.

“I meant the swimming technique!”

“Wait a minute, swim, swim, swim...FISH!” Mr Bencher looked on as the clerk nodded and pointed to his throat. “Fish...fish wheeze? Fish breathe?”

“Fish, breathe, throat...gill!” Tall Order's suggestion was met with another nod, another raised hoof and more excited stomping. “Not gill...”

This time, the clerk raised his arms in the shape of the letter... “T!!!” cheered everypony, and applauded one last time before Tall Order addressed Jack Hammer again.

“Not guilty!” he declared. “You have been found not guilty of the charges brought against you, and you may leave this court a free stallion.”

With nary more than a grateful nod, Jack stepped out of the dock to the strains of “For He's A Jolly Good Fellow”. He couldn't help smiling in dismay as he made his way out of the building – the way things had been going down, he could have sworn he had been facing a court of jesters!

That was a terrible joke, I know, but somepony had to make it. And now for something completely different...wait, hadn't I done that before?
> Story 11: Election Night Special
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Mayor of Ponyville sat in her office, leafing through the papers on her desk as a huge crowd of journalists and news reporters gathered in front of her. As a means of tying in with World Comedy Day, Princesses Celestia and Luna had organised a mock ballot for the election of what they called a Hilarity Government, and the Mayor and a number of aides were waiting to announce the results. After checking through the paperwork, the Mayor looked up and addressed her audience;

“Good evening, and thank you all for coming at such short notice. As you know, the purpose of this election is to decide on the new Hilarity Government, and whether or not it should be allowed to live up to its name,” she announced eagerly. “Excitement is steadily mounting here in Town Hall as we await the first results – we still don't know which constituency it'll come from, the polling has been pretty heavy throughout...wait a moment,” she interrupted herself, “I'm just getting a loud buzzing noise in one ear. Pardon me a second.”

The reporters watched as she held her head over the desk, slapping a hoof against one side again and again until a rather large fly came tumbling out. With a shriek of disgust, the Mayor brushed it off and stomped it flat with a hind hoof. “Anyway, Dr Hooves, what's the first result?” she called out, pretending that nothing had happened.

“Well, Your Worship, this first result comes from here in Ponyville,” replied the brown-furred stallion with equal vigour. “The competition is very much a straight fight between Sensible Party candidate Twilight Sparkle, and Pinkie Pie of the Silly Party who has held this constituency for the last twelve or so years. And the results are – Twilight Sparkle: 10,348...”

The reporters murmured with interest. Twilight may have been a natural leader, but not all of them were convinced that she would be the right pony for a Hilarity Government.

“...and Pinkie Pie: 12,837!”

A chorus of cheers greeted this.

“Well, there you have it,” declared the Mayor, “the first result of the election, and Pinkie Pie has held Ponyville. What do you make of that, Red Tape?”

“Largely as I predicted, Your Worship, except that the Silly Party won!” replied a dull red stallion, his voice equally livid with excitement. “Dare I say, it's probably due to the number of votes cast; after all, we didn't merely restrict the polls to just Ponyville residents. Also, since the last election, a lot of very silly ponies have moved here with the result that sensible voters have moved down the road to...” He quickly leafed through his papers. “...the other side of Puddinghead Lane. Over to you, Amethyst Star.”

To one side of the room stood Amethyst “Sparkler” Star with a chart mounted against the wall, which featured a movable arrow in the centre. “So, there's a swing here to the Silly Party, but I'm not going to tell you how big that swing is,” she responded, “because this is one of three things that should never be discussed in public – money, religion and, most significantly, politics. But I'm sure Cherry Fizzy will be more than happy to share it with you.”

“Yes I am, now you come to mention it,” chimed in Cherry Fizzy, who was standing next to a similar chart and moving the arrow at random, “and the interesting thing here is the big swing to the Silly Party, and of course the equally large swing back to the Sensible Party – and a tendency to wobble up and down in the middle because the screw's loose.”

His attention turned to Royal Riff, who was visibly struggling to think of a response of his own. In the end, he just gave up and said, “I'm afraid I can't think of anything.”

“I can't add anything to that,” stated Vinyl Scratch, who was seated immediately next to him. “What about you, Zephyr Breeze?”

“Can I just interrupt at this point and say this is the first time I've ever appeared in this fanfiction?”

“Sorry, Zephyr,” the Mayor cut in, “but we don't have time. Dr Hooves has just got another result. What about it, Doctor?”

“This one in from Fillydelphia, and this time we're in for a three-way battle between High Brow of the Sensible Party, Horsham Trotter Cattermole Friedrich Sibley McBoing Boing von Livingspace of the Silly Party, and Bouncy Lord Chickasaw of the Slightly Silly Party,” replied Dr Hooves. “And moving onto the results, we have – High Brow: 265,382...”

“Jolly good show,” remarked a particularly haughty reporter, only to be sternly hushed by the others.

“...Bouncy Lord Chickasaw: zero...nought...stuff all...absolute zilch...not a single jot...”

This was met with a round of grumbling and tutting.

“...Horsham Trotter Cattermole Friedrich Sibley McBoing Boing von Livingspace: 680,194.”

“And so the Silly Party has taken Fillydelphia,” declared the Mayor as the reporters raised another cheer, “the first gain of the election! Red Tape, what's your opinion on this?”

“No question about it, Your Worship,” said Red Tape, “this is a highly significant result for this year's election! Normally, Fillydelphia is a very sensible constituency, but now we can see that it's gone completely loco!”

“I heard that!”

“Yes, thank you, Locomotion, and my humble apologies for offending you,” continued the Mayor. “Amethyst, do we have the swing for Fillydelphia?”

“Well, yes and no,” admitted Amethyst. “I've worked out the swing, but due to a pledge of impartiality, I'm obliged to keep it a secret.”

The Mayor paused awkwardly. “Right, well...we'll have to do without the swing then. How about the bling?”

Rarity was also on the panel, and enthusiastically spoke up; “I have the bling right here,” she announced, holding up an extravagant gold necklace with umpteen gemstones, “and my word, does it look magnifique! A full line of 24-carat gold and some of the finest rubies, sapphires, diamonds and ambers have gone into this incredible social and financial statement!”

“And Dr Hooves, do you have anything to say about the sting?”

“Well, it's pH rating is about 5 on the chart, but we've yet to determine whether it contains any specific poisons, so...”

“What do you make of the nylon dot cardigan and plastic mule rest?” asked the Mayor without waiting for him to finish.

“There's no such thing!”

“Thank you, Spike.”

“Might I add at this point,” interjected Rarity, “that the cost of this fine piece of jewellery has skyrocketed over the past few seconds, and now works out at 60 trillion bits!”

“Meanwhile, the election's really beginning to hot up now!” Cherry Fizzy was still playing about with the arrow on his chart, swinging it back and forth and even trying to see how many turns he could get out of it in a single spin.

“I can't add anything to that,” said Vinyl again.

Zephyr Breeze, anxious for a bit of extra dialogue, promptly tried to steal the scene. “Can I just point out that this is only the second time I've ever appeared in this fanfiction?” he asked.

“Not right now, I'm afraid, because another result has just come in.” The Mayor turned to Spike. “Seeing as you haven't had any real role in this story, Spike, would you like to read out the result?”

“My pleasure!” grinned Spike, and took the proffered document. “Right, so we're in Delamare for this one, and this is a key seat, because aside from the usual Sensible and Silly Parties, we have an independent Very Silly candidate who may well split the Silly vote. So far, the Silly Party have held this seat with iron hooves, but tonight...well, we'll just have to see. Giggles McCrowbar, Silly Party: 26,317...”

The reporters applauded.

“...Liberal Cabinet, Sensible Party: 26,318...”

“That was a close one,” observed one of the reporters.

“...Jutland Sable Harrier Dingle Dangle Dongle Frisian Frippery...” Spike made two pops with his lips, “...Cobbler Street Porter Frisian Marmalade Sandwich...” Next, he picked up a kazoo from the table and blew a short tune. “...Morgan Horseradish von Eisenbahnwagen We Are The Champions Norman Trotter...” Next up was a round on a siren whistle that he had also brought with him. “...Shelby Mustang Fjord Ex-Parrot My Past Is Not To...” Bang! Bang! Bang! Three blank shots rang out from the pistol he was now using. “...Gypsy Tinker Faroe...” Finally, he gave a blow on a pea whistle before finishing. “...Spotted Dick Turpin: 2.”

The reporters clamoured in amazement at that final result.

“That's a Sensible gain in Delamare,” said the Mayor. “Red Tape, what have you got to say about that?”

“Well, I've just heard from Delamare...that my aunt has been taken ill. Possibly horn flu, possibly just a case of the sniffles. Amethyst?”

“Well, if this were repeated across the whole country, the results would be very messy, so I'll have to keep you in the dark again.”

“Can I just butt in at this point,” interrupted Zephyr Breeze, “and say that this'll probably be the last time I shall ever appear in any of this author's fanfictions?”

“Too late, Zephyr, because we're almost at the end of the story. Just to bring you up to date with a few results that you might have missed,” continued the Mayor, “Gladmane has lost Las Pegasus to the will of the Equestrian public in general, and because of that, Great Fun has been voted in. Also, despite not standing for election, the Great and Powerful Trixie has taken nearby Portpaddock; that's a gain from Ace Point and the Pointlessly Sporty Party, and Allie Way and Tenpin Strike have just taken Umbrage, so that could mean trouble. Apparently the Crystal Empire isn't swinging at all, but Moseley Orange has taken Manehattan for the Fruity Gossip Party, while a small bale of hay about that big, a cheese mechanic from Rainbow Falls and two frogs – one called Kipper, the other not – have all gone 'Ni, Ni, Ni, Ni, Ni' in Central Canterlot, so at the moment, it looks like we're in for a landslide Silly Party victory and another five years of ridiculous behaviour as the Changeling Inquisition home in on us for one last fling!”

“I didn't expect the Changeling Inquisition!” exclaimed Royal Riff. But evidently everypony in the room did, for they all turned towards the door to await the three changelings' entrance...




	


Some distance away, on the other side of the Everfree Forest, three red changeling sprang into the air and flew in the general direction of Ponyville. They had run a long way, and were so worn out that it came as a relief when a flying chariot came into view. Cardinal Butterfly swooped in and addressed the pony pulling it; “Two...uh, three for Ponyville Town Hall, please,” he requested as his confederates took their seats.

He was just paying the fare when Cardinal Puff Puff Puff pointed frantically ahead of them. “They've started rolling the credits!” he cried.

“Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!” urged the changelings. The chariot pony gathered speed, but nearly three quarters of the credits went by before they were within range. Without waiting to land, they sprang off the chariot and zoomed into the hall, their hooves screeching like rubber tyres as they hit the ground. Butterfly hastily burst through the office door and shouted out loud.

“Nopony expects the cha...”


THE END


“Oh, bugger!”