This place is Tartarus

Short Fuse sat on the bench, his eyes burning holes in the wall.

No, that was being too kind. Say what you will about the place, but you could hardly call Tartarus boring; eldritch horrors and super-powered villains all contained in a massive cave and guarded by a monstrous, three-headed dog. That kept your interest. This, this was a place of true torment. In here, everything, even time itself, turned into a bland, grey mush. It was to Tartarus what Tartarus was to an ice cream parlor.

It was also known as the Ponyville Department of Licensing.

The bright orange earth pony read the ticket in his hoof one more time, then looked at the display hanging over the front desk. His ticket was number fifty four. When he’d arrived here some twenty minutes ago, they’d been serving number forty-four.

This could take a while.

Short looked around the office’s waiting room and snorted. It was one of those buildings that subscribed to the ‘soul-sucking blandness’ school of architecture—a lifeless box with walls painted in the most boring shade of beige they had. The only somewhat interesting in their thing was that strange pink mare with the unnerving smile sitting on the end of the bench.

Pressure began to build in Short’s head. A vein started throbbing on his forehead. What was it with the government and these boring offices? Were they trying to drive him crazy from sheer boredom, huh?! Did they want them to hate the government?!?!!

No, no… Short closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then released it.

“Just stay calm, Short, stay calm.” His blood pressure was high enough as it was. “Just remember what Dr. Calm Mind said; ‘Just because you have a bomb for a cutie mark doesn’t mean you have to blow up’. He just needed to do was calm down and think of the positives.”

“Ok, positives. Positives.” Short tapped a hoof against his forehead. His ears perked up. While he may be stuck here, at least he had plenty of time to read the new book he had picked up; Daring Do and the Temple of Despair.

Alright, Ms. Yearling, let's see what Daring’s up to this time. He opened to the first page

“Daring Do hacked her way through the thick, stinking jungle, nursing her sprained wing…”

Short’s ears twitched. For a second, he swore he could have heard somepony shuffling towards him. With a shrug, Short buried his muzzle back in his book.

“‘’Horseapples!’ Daring cursed, brushing a greasy strand of tangled black mane out of her face…”

More shuffling. Short looked up from his book. Nothing. The only other pony sitting on his bench was that Earth pony mare, fascinated by a fly buzzing around one of the office’s mage-lights. It might have been his imagination, but she seemed to have moved a little closer

“Ok…” Short looked down at his book. A little creepy. The shuffling started up again, only to stop the second he raised his head. As if by teleportation, the mare was now two body lengths away from him. He could already smell her, like cotton candy mixed with root beer mixed with cake batter.

Slowly, the mare turned to face Short. “Hi!” she chirped.

“Um...hi.” Short said, then returned to his book.

“My name’s Pinkie Pie.” The mare gave a smile normally reserved for clowns and the criminally insane. Confetti sprayed out of nowhere, accompanied by sound of a party horn“What’s your name?”

Oh Faust no. One of those ponies.

“I’m… Short Fuse.”

“Pleased to meetcha Mr. Fuse! What brings you here?”

Once again, the pressure began to build in Short’s head. No, stay cool, Short. Stay cool. Another deep breath. She wasn’t trying to annoy him, she’s just trying to be friendly.

“Oh, I’m here to renew my cart license.”

The mare gasped. “That’s why I’m here too! I was pulling my cart down the road when this policy pony pulled me over and said, ‘license and registration ma’am’. So I said, ‘Okey Dokey Lokey officer’ and pulled out my…”

Like an icebox being pushed down a hill, Pinkie Pie’s conversation just would not stop. One moment, the mare would be gushing over her customized cart, whose color would remind her of her favorite ice cream, which somehow reminded her of a couch she’d once owned.

All the while Short sat there, a frozen smile on his face, occasionally nodding or grunting an affirmative whilst trying to contain the molten hot rage inside him. What was with this mare? Didn’t she understand that he didn’t want to talk to her? Didn’t she get that maybe she should just shut her mouth and leave him the buck alone!

“And then, —.”

Short’s teeth ground together. If he didn’t know any better, he’d swear that there was steam spewing from his ears. Shut up shut up shut up! He’d do anything- he’d give away all his money, offer his soul and maybe a few internal organs, anything to make that pink monster shut the buck-

“Now serving number forty-seven. Number forty seven to the front desk please.”

The mare perked up. “Ooh, that’s me!” She bounced off her seat. “Gotta go now, Mr. Shorty. It’s been really nice talking to you! Have a super day!” With that, the pink chatterbox pranced off.

Short breathed a sigh of relief. The pink storm had passed. It was a miracle.

Now, where were we? He skimmed the page until he found his place.

“It had all seemed so easy at first—just go into the jungle, find a precious artifact, and return it to the museum. All in a day’s work for her. Of course, that was before some demented cult—.”

Short stopped to lick his lips and coughed. The mid-summer air seemed to suck the moisture right out of his mouth, turning the already uncomfortable office into a sauna.

Of course, this could have all been prevented if somepony at Town hall had bothered to spend a few dozen bits for some air conditioning, A rivulet of sweat trickled down Short’s forehead. But, of course, they didn’t think the place needed it. According to the town’s somewhat misplaced priorities, Air-conditioning wasn’t important, but a statue shaped like a chrome dog turd right outside the building, that’s important.

Short shook his head. Getting angry wasn’t going to make this heat any more bearable. Just concentrate on your book. It’ll help take your mind off the heat.

“Rivers of sweat ran down Daring Do’s brow. The jungle was hot. So very hot. The air was like thick soup, clinging to her like a blanket. Sweat matted her coat, soaking into her outfit. As she walked, Daring panted like a dog. If she didn’t find some fresh water soon—”

Oh come on!

Short spied a drinking fountain over by the corner. Water. Sweet, precious water. He galloped over to the little fountain and twisted the nozzle, eagerly awaiting a gush of sweet, life-giving water. Instead, he got a thin, lukewarm trickle, barely enough to wet his tongue.

Well, that wasn’t going to cut it. Short closed his eyes and put a hoof to his forehead. If he remembered correctly, there had been a vending machine outside, right next to the previously mentioned dog turd statue.

Short started towards the office entrance, then stopped. Doctor Colgate had warned him to lay off the sugar—he could still remember the poster she’d showed her of armies of purple cartoon sugar bugs swarming over his teeth, eating away at the enamel.

With that, Short started back and firmly planted his flank back on the bench. He was going to wait. Yes sirree, he was going to wait here until his number was called. So, he returned to his book and waited. It wasn’t like he was dying of thirst.

“Just as she was about to collapse from the heat, Daring Do found a spring of fresh, cool water. The thirsty pegasus all but hurled herself towards the pool and dunked her muzzle into the refreshing depths. Sweet, life-giving water trickled down her throat…”

“Are you bucking kidding me?!”

Short clapped the book shut, trying to ignore his parched throat. Every cell in him screamed for hydration. A spring, a well, a kitchen sink, a mud puddle, anything to quench his thirst.

As his thirst grew, the vending machine began to call to Short. Deprived of drink for too long, his imagination turned traitor, flooding his brain with images of cold, frosty bottles and sweet, ice cold goodness. In his mind, the bottles became glass maidens, swimming in deliciously cold arctic waters, whilst icebergs bobbing around them like oversized icecubes.

“You sure look thirsty” said a mare-shaped sarsaparilla bottle, her transparent eyes half-lidded.

“Why don’t you quench your thirst with a nice refreshing drink?” cooed an equimorphic bottle of Gallop Cola as she jiggled her crystal flanks, cola sloshing around inside her.

“Come,” they said in stereo, “come and quench your thirst. Give into the frosty sweetness. Forget about your teeth. Teeth are temporary. The sweetness is forever.”

“No!” Short gritted his teeth. He thought of rotting teeth, of novocain, of numb mouths and pain. Resist. He would not give in. He would not give in. He would not…

Oh to Tartarus with it!

Short leapt from the bench and galloped out the office doors, nearly ripping them off their hinges. He raced to the vending machine and fed it a bit, then petitioned the machine for a bottle of Sunset Sarsaparilla.

A little light lit up on the machine. SOLD OUT

Ok, no problem. One soda was as good as another. Short pressed another button, this time for a bottle of Gallop Cola. As before, the light lit up. SOLD OUT

Frantic, Short continued down the list,

Sluggo Cola?
SOLD OUT
Knee-High Soda?
SOLD OUT
Dr. Salt?
SOLD OUT SOLD OUT SOLD OUT

“ARE YOU BUCKING KIDDING ME?!” With an angry snort, Short slammed a forehoof against the machine. What were the odds? Seriously, what were the odds that the machine would run out of soda on the exact day that he arrived?

The universe was trolling him. There was no other explanation.

“Keep it together, Short.” The stallion muttered to himself. “Look on the positive side. Now you won’t have to worry about cavities.”

It was small comfort.

With a snort, Short plodded back into the office and sat down at his bench.

“Now serving number 049 at the front desk. Number 049 at the front desk.”

“Well, it’s getting closer.” It shouldn’t take too much longer. Just read your book. Read your book, and before you know it you’ll be up there getting your license renewed.

Right. Short reopened the book, skipping ahead a page. Right. It shouldn’t be much longer now. Just keep reading and all that time would pass in a flick of a pony’s tail.

“Daring Do took a long, steady drink from her canteen, relishing the feel of the water flooding down her throat. She had never tasted such sweet, sweet water. Like nectar from Elysium itself.”

“Faust damn it!”

One finished book and Faust knows-how-many hours later, Short was laying on his back, fighting a desperate rearguard action against boredom.

One hundred fifteen, one hundred sixteen, one hundred seventeen! Short rested his hoof back on the bench. One hundred seventeen. There were one hundred and seventeen ceiling tiles, arranged in ten rows of ten and one of seventeen. On about forty of those tiles, Short had counted several cracks. Ten of them had stains of some kind. One had a pencil lodged in it tip first.

Dear Faust I’m bored.

“Now serving number fifty-three at the front desk. Number fifty-three at the front desk.”

Number fifty three. Short groaned. Just one more to go until he was out of this dump. If, of course, he didn’t go completely bucking insane first. In this room, boredom was a physical thing; a thick, heavy wet blanket of listlessness. One could feel it pressing down on you, could taste it in the stale, musty air.

“Curse you, speedreading.” Short groaned, looking at the now-completed book. He’d always prided himself on being a fast reader. Now it was one of those gifts that turned out to be a curse all along.In this room, time turned to molasses. Every second felt like a minute. Every minute, an hour. Every hour, an eternity.

Something caught Short’s eye; a little black speck dartingaround one of the mage-lights, ramming itself against the enchanted glass globe with a soft “tink”.

Short smiled. Sometimes he envied flies. They had no need for cart licenses, or jobs. They didn’t have to worry about getting up early every morning to go someplace they hated. They spent their entire lives outdoors, buzzing around, dodging flyswatters and hooves, feeding on garbage...

On second thought, he was fine being a pony.

The fly buzzed around the glowing bulb in a dizzying pattern, far more agile than any pegasus. Again and again, it rammed itself against the glass in vain. Now that Short thought about it, maybe all of ponykind was like that fly. Always striving to attain something they could never have, oblivious to the universe around them.

That was a good one. He should write that down.

Eventually, the little insect gave up and made a beeline—or should he say a fly-line—toward the door and flew out of sight.

Now what? With his only source of stimulation gone, Short once again stood on the edge of the boring abyss, barely a step away from falling into the mind-numbing void.

Happy place, need to find my happy place.

Short took a deep breath and relaxed. He closed his eyes, the universe dissolved around him.

You are at Ponyville Lake Park, enjoying this beautiful summer day.

Yes, the park. Short could see it already. Could feel the cool, clear water against his coat. Could hear the sounds of his fellow ponies on the shore.

As always, Short’s fantasy began to mutate. The park morphed into a beautiful island lagoon, sparkling under a turquoise sky. He lay down on his private houseboat, sipping a cold, frosty sarsaparilla, while giggling native mares called out to him from the shore.

All of the tension in Short’s body slowly melted away. That’s right, just submerge yourself in the fantasy. Enjoy it. Right now, the outside world does not exist. It is just you and—

“Gotcha!”

Reality yanked Short back into its embrace. He looked around to see a cream-colored Earth pony mare had just sat down in the bench in front of him. Normally, Short wouldn’t have minded a mare sitting this close to him. Problem was, her son was with her. A son with a JoyBoy, who simply would not shut up.

“Take that and that!” The little brown colt shouted at the Joyboy’s lime-green screen, mashing buttons as if the fate of Equestria depended on it. “Eat lasers, Evil Microsol Drones!” he yelled, adjusting the propeller beanie on his head.

“So close, so close!” The little colt shouted as he sent countless innocent pixels to an untimely grave. “Owned!” There was a static-laced explosion, followed by a fanfare of beeps and boops.

“Yes! High score!”

“Button,“Can you stay here, please? I need to use the bathroom.said the colt’s mother, who was apparently both blind and deaf.

“Okay, mom. Ooh, bonus round, bonus round!” The colt stuck out his tongue and mashed the JoyBoy’s buttons as if they dispensed candy. Each beep, each buzz drove hot needles into Short Fuse’s brain.

With a snort and all of the patience he could muster, Short tapped the little pixel addict on the shoulder. “Hey, kid, could you please keep that down?”

“Shh!” The colt hushed him. “I’m in the zone!” He returned his attention to the screen, a slave to the emerald eye.

Somehow, the little device seemed to grow louder. Every beep, every boop, every digitized explosion was like a little gremlin, playing havoc with his sanity.

Short’s hooves quivered. It would be easy. So easy. In one fell swoop, he could snatch that horrible device from the colt’s hooves, smash it to pieces, then pick up the little brat and drag him off to military school! The kid’s mother wouldn’t mind. If anything, she’d probably thank him.

No, stay calm. He needed to stay calm. The last thing he needed was another court summons! Happy place! Go to your happy place!

The little voice might as well have asked him to put out a forest fire with a teacup. Short could feel the rage building up inside of him. His vision turned red. That little game console became a manifestation of everything that had happened to him today, all of the annoyances, all of the boredom and frustrations were contained in that infernal little device.

Short stood up from his seat, limbs trembling and eyes twitching. He would do it. He didn’t care if they threw him in the darkest dungeon of Canterlot. At least it’d shut that bucking thing—

“Now serving number fifty four. Number fifty four to the front desk.”

The heavens opened up. Short swore he could hear cherubs singing from on high. Fifty four. Never had those two numbers sounded so wonderful.

Short leapt off the bench and all but gallopped over to the front desk.

“Welcome to the Department of Licensing,” said the mare at the front desk. She had the kind of face that said ‘Hi, how are you doing?’ on the outside, and ‘what am I doing with my life?’ on the inside. Short knew the feeling.

“Hi,” Short said, “I’m here to renew my cart license.”

“Alright then!” said the mare in a manner far too cheerful for somepony in her position. “May I please see your license.”

“Certainly.” Short rooted through his saddlebag. ”It should be here right about…”

Short stopped. Frantic, he buried his muzzle in the bag, only to come up empty. The bottom of his stomach fell out. Ice water ran through his veins.

“I, uh, can’t find it.” He said sheepishly. “Can I… still renew it?”

“I’m sorry sir,” said the mare, “but I can’t renew your license if you don’t have it on you. I’m afraid you'll have to come back later.”

Short’s face froze. His left eye began to twitch uncontrollably. Veins began popping out on his skin.

“Are… you ok, sir?”

Short held up a hoof. “Excuse me one second.” He said through clenched teeth. With that, he dashed out the front door, not stopping until he was well outside the Ponyville city limits. He took a deep breath, then…

Nopony who ever heard The Scream ever forgot it.

In Ponyville, The Scream shattered every window in town at once. The local glazier, Crystal Clear, later said that it was the best thing that ever happened to him.

In the opulent capital city of Canterlot, The Scream startled a maid, causing her to drop and break Princess Celestia’s favorite tea pot. The Princess would later declare that day a day of mourning.

In the capital city of the Griffon Empire, a local revolutionary group took The Scream as a sign to begin the Revolution. The resulting war saw the fall of the Empire and its reformation as a constitutional republic.

Not even Tartarus was immune from The Scream. Monsters, deposed tyrants, and eldritch abominations alike huddled together, shivering in terror. Even Tirek, who many had thought incapable of fear, joined in the huddle, sucking his thumb and crying for his mommy.

Nopony could really agree who or what caused The Scream. Researchers at Canterlot university believed it to be the cry of an as-yet unidentified monster. A very pissed unidentified monster.

In Trottingham a local cult claimed that The Scream was a message from the great creator, Orb’Sah. When asked what the message was, they just shrugged and said, “bucked if I know.”

However, for all the differences of opinion, all could agree on one thing. If you managed to ignore the raw, unfiltered rage, The Scream sounded somewhat like a stallion. A stallion yelling “BUUUUUUUUUCK!”