Davenport Sells You a Bed
Alaborn

You sigh as you work your keys free from your pocket. You try not to drop the three heavy bags from the grocery store as you fight to get the key to turn. The landlord keeps saying he’s going to fix the lock, but you know how that goes.

Your bags include bread, muffins, and a variety of vegetables. There are some spices as well, but you don’t know if you’re going to be able to make dinner. Every Monday, you come home and find somepony in your bed. Maybe they’ll be able to help you in the kitchen. You’re not much of a cook.

Maybe you should have bought red meat instead. Anything to stop these incursions.

You open the door, and see that nopony will be found in your bed. That’s because the pony is already waiting for you in the living room. He’s a tan earth pony stallion with a combed brown mane. You don’t immediately recognize him, but on the blue vest he wears over his collared white shirt, he has a nametag.

Davenport.

And with a cutie mark of a quill and a sofa, you remember him.

“A good evening to you, sir. I hear you’re in need of a new bed,” Davenport says.

“Yes. My bed has been physically abused, set on fire, sent to another dimension, and cursed.” So much has happened to your bed, you can’t keep it straight. And no amount of detergent can get that horse smell out of your sheets.

“Well, have I got a deal for you!” Davenport says.

You drop your bags. Dinner will have to wait until you can convince this pony that you don’t need a sofa. “I thought you only sold quills and sofas,” you say.

“What if I told you that I have a sofa that also works as a bed?”

“You mean a sofa bed?” you say.

“Not just a sofa bed. It’s the height of Equestrian comfort technology. Sir, let me introduce you to your new bed.”

Davenport heads to your bedroom. It figures he knows the way there, since he probably appeared there earlier. You follow him.

You gape. Your bed is gone. So are your pillows, and your sheets. And your newest collection of … specialized periodicals. You really should have stored them somewhere else.

In its place is a sofa, still wrapped in plastic. The back and seat are one large surface, with the fabric dotted with those fabric buttons that probably have a name, but you never studied interior design. It looks adjustable, like the back of the sofa could be lowered to make a flat surface.

“This, good sir, is what we call a….”

“Futon,” you interrupt.

“Why, yes. How did you know?” Davenport asks.

That summer job was a great opportunity, but it was in another city. Too far to commute. But one of your college friends said he’d put you up. “We don’t have a lot of space, but we have a place for you to sleep,” he said.

That place was a futon. The cushions were simultaneously uncomfortably hard while not giving your back any support. You tossed and turned every night. Every morning you dragged yourself to that job like you were the walking dead. The Starbucks employees knew you by name after four days.

You realize that Davenport is looking at you. That’s right, he asked a question. “Let’s just say that futons are not the height of Earth comfort technology.” That title probably belongs to memory foam mattresses. Or maybe that mattress with the comfort numbers. Whatever that is.

“Give it a try,” Davenport says.

You sit down on the futon. It’s actually pretty comfortable. But it’s lacking the nice springs of your mattress.

Wait. Where is your mattress? Where is your bed?

“What did you do with my bed?” you ask Davenport.

“Removal of your old furniture is a standard service provided with each purchase from Quills and Sofas,” Davenport says. “With each sofa purchase, I should say. Now, I do have an assortment of quills if you’re in need.”

“No, thanks,” you say. It’s probably best not to mention how ballpoint pens are dirt cheap and a heck of a lot more convenient. You think. You haven’t used a quill pen, but movies always made them look like a pain to use.

And then you realized you got distracted again. “But I didn’t buy anything yet,” you say.

“I’m confident that you’ll be making a purchase today,” Davenport says.

Remembering the condition of your old bed, you realize he’s right. You have to replace it. You’re pretty sure your old bed is radioactive by now.

You might as well get the new bed. You figure you have three weeks, tops, before something else destroys it. And your old bed will probably reappear through a dimensional portal.

“Great!” Davenport says. “That will be 249 bits.”

That’s actually quite the bargain, you think, until you remember that he said bits. If bits really were made from gold, then 249 bits would be enough to pay off your remaining college loans, with enough left over to buy a new bed.

You would buy a memory foam mattress and put it on top of a sleep number mattress. Like a boss.

“Look, I don’t know if they told you, but humans don’t have bits.” They. You really don’t know who they are, the ones that started this. You have some choice words for them if you ever see them. And a few physical gestures.

So, bits. Humans do have bits, but the bits you’re thinking of would probably be some kind of fetish gear in Equestria. Best not to think about that right now. Especially when the pony in the room is Davenport.

“So, do you take cash?” you say, pulling out your wallet. You show him your paper currency.

“I don’t know anypony who would take worthless paper for such a high quality futon,” Davenport says.

“MasterCard?”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“Discover?”

“Sorry, sir. Quills and Sofas doesn’t take the Discover card.”

Figures.

You sigh and put your wallet away. “Maybe you can ask Princess Twilight Sparkle to pay for it.” She’s always been helpful, and she probably has some kind of royal stipend, right? Besides, she owes you.

“Don’t worry, sir. I’m happy to set up a tab for my repeat customers,” Davenport says helpfully.

You smile a fake smile.

You really don’t want to be a repeat customer.