A lot of things have changed since that fateful day with Twilight.

Punching that coffee moocher in the schnoz; never before has such catharsis been experienced. Though, over the past week, you’ve had plenty of opportunity for experiencing the pure carnal pleasure that can only be derived through broken teeth and fractured skulls.

Initially, you thought you’d have more qualms with what basically amounts to non-lethal genocide, but after an hour or so of giving horses the business, any traces of a regret in your soul was dissipated into nothing. After all, these horses can really take a punch...probably because they exist within a cartoon and were literally designed to withstand cartoonish levels of slapstick humor for the sake of entertaining millions of psychopaths-to-be, but maybe also because they’re all magic or some shit like that.

But it’s almost over, and it’s only getting easier. After clobbering Applejack, slamjamming Rainbow Dash, and doing some frankly terrible things to Fluttershy, you’ve started to notice that all of this magic macguffin crap has an effect on you. With every bit of magic that attaches itself to you, lighting up your skin like a sexually-repressed disco ball, you’ve gotten stronger.

After the first hundred or so ponies, you started to do some ridiculous shiz. Like that one time when you punted Applebloom into the stratosphere.

Thinking back on it, she’s a child and has a family, yadda yadda yadda, you’re a horrible human being with a fucked up near sociopathic mind derived from a childhood with too little hugging and too many late night outings with that one uncle, you know the one, but whatever, you moved on, and all of her family members were in the ICU anyways, so it’s not like it even matters, because people in comas don’t have feelings.

Point being, it’s day seven of your punching spree, almost your entire body is engulfed in pony-magic-light-plot-device-shit, and currently, at this very moment, you are a few thousand feet in the air above Canterlot. You just jumped out of the observatory by way of the lens of the giant-ass telescope thingy, and have Princess Luna’s head under your arm.

...And you’re both about to plummet into a certain Princess’ throne room.

“Did you just suplex my sister through my window?”

You stand with your hands on your hips, looking back and forth between a deeply unamused princess and a deeply concussed princess.

“Don’t forget about the coffee table,” you point out to Celestia, gesturing at the wooden fragments surrounding Luna’s form. “And may I say, I know it wasn’t here for this purpose, but I am really glad that it was. I can check, like, six things off my bucket list now.”

Celestia raises an eyebrow. “Six?”

“A lot of them involved coffee tables,” you explain with a frightening lack of self-awareness and regard for rationality. “And suplexing.” You pause for thought. “Most of the recent ones involved horses, but I think this was the last one...wait, I think I’m forgetting one…”

“I’m afraid you won’t have time to remember it,” Celestia says calmly, stepping down from her throne and towards you with a beautiful combination of grace and malevolence. Her horn glows a bright gold, and determination glints in her eyes. “After all the chaos you have wrought, your complete disregard for the law, and your consistent lack of repentance or empathy, I’m afraid that the only option I’m left with is-”

You’ll never know what she was about to say, because at that very instant, Celestia was punched with such force and speed that she was sent through multiple dimensions, eventually ending up unconscious in the reality of a fantasy novel written by Peter. S. Beagle.

“Oh, right,” you finally recall. “That was, uh, that was it. What I just did. Whatever it was, that was the thing I sought out to do today. Good job, uh...me.”

With the last of the magical signatures or whatever the fuck it is you needed to get out of this dimension, a big-ass wormhole to Earth opens up directly in front of you.

“Oh. That’s convenient.”

And then you stepped through and wrote all about your adventures in a marginally successful novel before being staked to a burning cross on your front lawn by a mob of neck bearded man-children.