It was a moist and humid night as Buttery Snake crossed the soggy, damp ground, his hooves sinking slowly into the verdant and squishy moss. He shuddered at the thought of how many water bears would soon rise from it, crawling up his body to suck his precious juices clean out of his body.

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Buttery Snake, if he could be convincingly called a pony at this point to a degree beyond serving as a personification of the author’s own inner monologue, sounded quite peculiar wearing a gas mask.

“I’m wearing it,” he explained, to you, the reader, “because somebody stunk up the place. Real bad.”

He turned slowly to Unwhole Hole, sitting ashamed across from him.

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It was a dark and stormy night. Dark, ominous clouds loomed where clouds were apt to loom, namely the sky. The trees lay bare, the last of their leaves having departed in the cold winds of the dying year. What little light came through the damp sky was gray and cold.

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Butterford Ignatius Thomathy “The Snake” XVII approached the door carefully. The smell was peculiar, a must something akin to the scent of a damp basement. He had ignored all the signs to beware the chrupo, and was pretty sure he saw a small horde of them churping from the various grimy windows of the house he approached.

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The lights went up over a cobweb-covered stage. Someone poked the host with a stick, waking him up. Then the blog post began.

“Huh? What? How?” Buttery Snake looked around bleary eyed, then squeaked in terror as he saw that his guest was lurking in the overstuffed floral chair beside him. That his guest had, in fact, never left.

“What in the name of Celestia’s huggable butt are you still doing here?!”

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Buttery Snake slowly revolved in his chair, looking over his pitted, slightly burned stage-desk at the overstuffed, floral-upholstered abomination that had largely swallowed a rather sallow, peculiar-smelling fellow named Unwhole Hole.
“So,” he said, glaring. “You’re leaving.”
“No.”
Buttery Snake groaned and threw his hooves (recall that he is, in fact, a pony). “So why am I even here?!”
“Because I pay you to be.”
“You don’t pay me!”
“Because I have no money.”

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Slowly- -and very carefully- -Buttery Snake crawled out from under his on-stage desk.
“Is it over?” he asked.
“I’m not dead,” replied Unwhole Hole. “So I guess not.”
Buttery Snake slowly climbed into his chair and looked suspiciously at the person sitting in his interview chair. Living in it, in fact, based on how few other guests he got. But that just probably meant that the purpose of the format had diverged from its original intentions.

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Buttery Snake looked at the manuscript on his desk. Then he looked up at the guest, one Unwhole Hole, who was sitting in a chair across the stage from him. Then he looked down at the manuscript again before bending under his desk and spilling his oats.

            “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said, wiping his mouth. “Pulling my leg, yanking my chain, squeezing my hot-dog…”

            “I don’t think the last one is a real expression.”

            “Quiet you!”

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Buttery Snake sat on the stage. Or, more specifically, on a chair at a rickety desk stained by some brown substance that was not coffee. He looked out at you, the audience.

            “Yes. Yes I can see you,” he said. “But you have to wonder. When you’re not reading, where do I go? Do I just disappear? Do I stay here?” He grinned widely. “No. I don’t.”

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The house lights went up, and the curtain pulled away. The spotlight was immediately focused on Buttery Snake.

            “ACK!” he screamed. “HOT!”

            He leapt out of his chair and hid under the desk that had been found for him in a dumpster outside of a local Del Taco. “This is what happens when we use the BRIGHT halogens! Stop, stop, put it the other way!”

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