(The song mentioned below can be started here as well.)

-----

History. It contains the word "story," does it not?

So where does this "story" begin?

Contrary to popular belief, very little is known about the true history of Equestria prior to the princesses' reign. Beyond what we could piece together from mere folk tales, or the few surviving works of the great minds of that era, we have no proper documentation of all the events that passed after the three pony races decided to coexist in harmony. Even less is known about the age that preceded it, though all evidence points to the fact that all three were well-developed societies, and that they certainly produced sufficiently educated scholars who could undertake the task of properly chronicling their own history.

Of course, to some extent, the latter problem is understandable. Very few relics of that era have manged to survive all the rigors of time, and those that did had very little to say. If the tale of Hearth's Warming Eve is to be believed, the devastating weather and the great migrations it set off have no doubt erased most of the remains that were left behind.

But what of the age that came to pass afterward? An event of such magnitude as the three races becoming one, not to mention the vital period that would follow? Should that not have been an excellent opportunity for any self-respecting scholar to forever mark their name in pony history by describing this era for all generations to come?

Unfortunately, there is no way to know for sure. The earliest chronicles we have only date back to the very first decrees made by the princesses, some 800 years prior to the appearance of Nightmare Moon. It is unknown whether any official documents from before this date were simply lost to time as well, or were perhaps destroyed intentionally.

"But," one may ask, "what of the princesses themselves? Surely, the immortal rulers possess eternal memory as well?"

Here is where the views are most divided. Can we really trust any information given to us by our two glorious monarchs to be authentic? After all, no question ever posed to them has ever been refused an answer, and no amount of cynicism has ever been met with retribution...

-----

Loud music roared from the much abused speaker, which buzzed slightly as the volume strained it to its limits. The turntable spun the black disk silently under the pin. The aging machine's sides started to heat up after being in use for so long. The bed upon which it rested was carelessly littered with empty record jackets, and the LPs they used to contain were unceremoniously tossed aside in a pile close to the edge.

In front of the bed, on the floor lay Hayfeld, covered in dirt and sweat. Every inch of his body throbbed, completely devoid of any strength. His head was pounding, and his ears felt like somepony was hammering giant nails into them. His mane went from just unkempt to unbelievably messy, sweat-soaked clumps of it sticking to his face and neck, which collected pools of the salty liquid that stung horribly.

"Dead reckoning!"

He mouthed the words of the song silently, while his head nodded to the beat. His voice threatened to give out about three songs ago, so he decided against any more "singing along" for today.

He had managed to go through four albums straight so far, thrashing around like a maniac non-stop. Every new sound, every unexpected twist he discovered made him let loose even more. And whenever the music stopped, he immediately rushed to the turntable to set the next disk under the pin while trembling with anticipation. He wanted to get back into his insane groove. He wanted more.

His body, on the other hand, just could not go at it any further. Halfway into the third album, his muscles simply gave up on him, and he collapsed onto the floor. No matter how much he struggled to get back up, it was no use. He was completely spent.

That did not mean he was going to take a break, though. Not when it came to the music, at least. He simply rolled onto his back, closed his eyes, and let it keep pounding his eardrums mercilessly.

The song ended. Hayfeld smiled once again. Pain, exhaustion, the filth around and upon him; none of that mattered to him anymore. He was in heaven.

Nothing feels better than this. Nothing, except... maybe... well, I can't do that right now, anyway... The thought made him snicker a little.

He grunted as he tried to pull himself upright, but the effort was made somewhat difficult by a sudden onset of nausea. He shook his head slowly and tried to get the stiffness out of his neck, while his eyes painfully struggled to open.

What the hell happened? I feel kinda sick...

A gurgle in his stomach cut off the rest of his thoughts. A moment later, a long, loud burp escaped his mouth, reeking of alcohol.

"Been drinking again, huh? Typical..." he muttered as he looked around. Slowly, he became aware of the dreadful state of his room.

"Whoa, shit..."

The bookcase to his left had toppled over, its contents scattered across the floor. While he did not keep many books there, it did also contain his prized collection of empty bottles. Once proud vessels of rare and expensive beverages, most of them were now reduced to colorful piles of glass shards.

The rug – which used to be held down by several heavy pieces of furniture – now lay all bunched up in the far left corner. He assumed that it must have dragged his desk along with it, since that had moved from the right corner to the center of the room. The entire floor was littered with bottles, most of them empty, and quite a few broken.

The next song began to play, but for once Hayfeld did not notice. He was too busy laughing his flank off.

Oh boy... I really did it this time...

The poster on his wall still appeared to be in the right place. If he remembered correctly, however, there were not supposed to be a bunch of red lines all over it. Or dozens of slash marks. Or a huge tear right down the middle.

He frowned. The sight made him a bit mad. He really liked that poster. It featured a legion of the Royal Guard marching across the Great Plains, the words "PROTECTORS OF EQUESTRIA" emblazoned upon the sky above them, which made him figure it was some sort of "propaganda BS." He just thought it looked cool.

While looking at the poster, he then noticed that the wall itself now sported several large cracks in it.

Now where did those come from? And what are those red stains all over the floor? Or on top of the bookcase? Is that... blood?

Pain shot into his forehead. "What the hell?" He groaned and lifted his hoof to caress the spot, only to freeze when he noticed there was dried blood on the tip. Memories came rushing back to him, and he fell back, laughing hysterically.

Of course! Right after the second disk! Dashed outside to look for booze. Found a case of that cheap Heineighken crap in the kitchen. Tried headbanging while drinking. Almost threw up. Several bottles later, went back to thrashing around. Smashed head against the bookcase after banging head too close to it. Got a nasty gash on forehead. Bled like crazy.

Hayfeld was in tears. The more he remembered, the whole thing became more and more amusing to him.

What happened after that? Oh yeah: got mad as hell. Grabbed the bookcase and shoved it against the floor. Threw almost every bottle at the walls. Leaned out of the window to throw up. Used a glass shard to carve up poster. Wrote "BUCK THE POLICE" on it with the blood from the wound. Stepped on a bottle and fell over, one hoof still holding on to the poster. Almost tore the thing in half.

Minutes passed before he managed to stop laughing and catch his breath. Hayfeld wiped the tears from his eyes, still chortling to himself, then slowly pulled himself to his hooves.

One hell of a party, indeed! he thought, then smiled as he took one more look around. Well, I guess there's no point stopping now!

"Ugh!" he added with a grunt of discomfort. "I better take a piss first..."

With that, he stumbled out of his half-destroyed lair and steered himself toward the bathroom to his left. Behind him, the music was still blasting at full volume, which made the whole house vibrate. Even with the door closed, it managed to drown out the sound of the toilet flushing. Hayfeld chuckled, then burped again.

Boy, the neighbors would be really pissed off at me right now.

After completing his business and making sure that his aim had been precise enough, he started back for his room. His hind hooves swept the toilet brush and a roll of TP out along with him, but he did not even notice. His mind was busy picturing all the amazing things he had planned for the remaining booze.

Oooooh yessss... this party is just getting started!

This small dose of euphoria was suddenly interrupted by a loud bang on the front door.

"What the...?" he muttered half-aloud, then sluggishly turned toward the direction of the noise. Through the cacophony coming from his room, he could faintly hear the sound of somepony shouting outside.

He grumbled to himself in annoyance and began stumbling his way to the front door. The thought did occur to him along the way that maybe this was not such a good idea. The whole house – his room in particular – looked like a disaster area, and he had music playing well above any reasonable volume. He imagined that whoever was outside probably would not take very kindly to all that.

Oh yeah... I'm kinda drunk, too. That might complicate things as well...

However, while his brain was still busy attempting to process all of these thoughts, his forehooves were already gripping the door handle. With great deal of effort and a lot of cursing, he managed to throw the door open, then nearly lost his balance in the process. His eyes squinted at the brightness outside, and he raised a foreleg to shield them. Through the spots that now filled his hazy vision, he could just barely make out the silhouette of a single pony that stood on the front porch.

Okay, he thought, Not my folks, apparently.

Still lost in his stupor, he struggled to think of a diplomatic way to start off the conversation that was inevitably coming up.

"The fuck do you want?" he managed to spit out, then nearly fell forward as he leaned on the door.

-----

"Hey! Whoever is inside, turn that crap down already!"

Ullster was becoming increasingly frustrated. He has been shouting and banging on the door for five minutes now, yet nopony decided to answer him.

"No doubt thanks to that loud 'music,' or whatever they call that manure they're playing in there," he grumbled to himself.

He heard something bump against the door from the inside.

"Finally!" he hissed under his breath, then braced himself as he listened to the sounds of somepony fumbling with the lock. At this point, whoever was on the other side was really going to get a piece of his mind. Maybe even a blow or two from his hooves, just in case they angered him any further.

The door suddenly burst open, and out stumbled a young earth pony stallion. He had a dark grey coat and a long, messy, blond mane, both of which looked like he just survived getting run over by a stampede of angry bulls.

"The fuck do you want?" he slurred as he leaned on the door handle. The kid looked a bit wobbly on his hooves. Ullster felt his anger spike, and he was about to answer when a horrible stench hit his nose and overwhelmed his senses.

"Holy... what the hell is wrong with you? You smell like... ugh!" The rest of his words were cut off as he gagged.

"What?" The kid finally bothered to look up at him. "You got a problem, dick?"

"Yeah, I do!" he shouted. The roar coming from the now exposed interior of the house made him struggle to hear his own voice. "I'm trying to get some bucking sleep, and this shit isn't helping! Turn it down, for the goddess' sake!"

The gray colt stared at him blankly for what seemed like an eternity, his eyes just barely open. Ullster wondered if he even heard anything he just said, or if he could understand what was going on at all. With the kid looking so out of it, and that deafening noise playing constantly, it seemed doubtful at best.

"Whatever," the colt finally muttered. "Just... get lost!"

He then took a couple of steps back, and before Ullster could even react, he slammed the door in his face.

"Hey! What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he bellowed while slamming his hooves on the door. "Don't even think about leaving me here like that!"

-----

Less than a minute passed, and Hayfeld was already bored of the conversation. The young stallion in front of him was still yelling about something, and all he could think about was how much he did not give a damn.

So what if the music is too loud? So what if I'm drunk?

He stepped back and slammed the door shut. While stumbling his way back toward his room, Hayfeld could faintly hear the unwanted visitor scream and pound on the door again.

Seriously... what the fuck was that guy's problem? he thought. Can't take a bit of noise every now and then?

All of a sudden, the pounding stopped. Curious, Hayfeld looked back at the door and waited to see what might happen next. The stallion on the other side must have given up, though, as no further sound came from outside.

Whatever... not my problem.

After finding his way back to his room, he began to search painstakingly for an intact bottle on the floor, desperate to quench his growing thirst.

"No... nope... dammit! Not this one. Ah! Here we go!" Hayfeld exclaimed when he finally managed to pick out an untouched bottle of Heineighken.

Nodding his head to the beat, he pressed the cap against the edge of his toppled bookcase, then began putting his weight on the bottle to try and force the cap off. Success came moments later, along with him spilling a generous amount of the frothing beverage.

"Bottoms up!" he mused to himself, then acted accordingly.

BOOM

Hayfeld could actually feel the impact on the wall he was facing. A heartbeat later, a muffled crashing sound could be heard as well.

"Shut up!" somepony outside roared.

The bottle dropped from his hooves. Slowly, he raised his head, then reached over to flick the power switch off. The turntable sputtered to a halt, which ended the loud music. Hayfeld jumped up and dashed straight to his window, then slid it open to look around.

Outside, the wall now sported a dent the size of his head, a web of cracks surrounding it. In front of it was a large pile of dirt and debris – the remains of what used to be a large flower pot. Hayfeld could feel his temper rising, and his head began to clear slightly. He knew who did this.

"Hey! Get back here, fucker!" he yelled, but the culprit was nowhere in sight. Cursing under his breath, he began to climb out the window in the hope that his soon-to-be-dead visitor did not get much of a head start. After a few seconds of pathetic and fruitless struggling, however, he managed to convince himself that the front door might be a more effective route.

"Oh, now you're going to get it, you dick!" he hissed. With newly found balance and energy, he galloped out of his room, intent on tearing that stallion limb from limb. He threw the front door open, ready to leap from the porch and begin the chase, only to almost bump into his prey who was already there waiting for him.

His surprise only made him hesitate for a moment, but Hayfeld decided to wait and size up his opponent first. The stallion was quite large, easily a head taller than him, not to mention rather muscular.

Workhorse? Bouncer? Wrestler? Off-duty Royal Guard?

Not that any of those would deter him, but the stallion's apparent strength was worthy of mention nonetheless. His coat was jet black, strongly contrasted by his light brown mane, which, to his surprise, was almost as long as his own; the style was not very "hip" these days. While he could not get a good look at his cutie mark, Hayfeld figured he had enough details in case he would ever need them.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he barked.

"Maybe I should ask you the same thing, dumbass!" the stallion yelled back. Hayfeld noticed the slightest hint of a foreign accent in his speech. "I thought I told you clearly to turn that stuff down! And what do you do? Slam the goddess-damned door in my face!"

"Oh yeah? Well why should I give a crap about what you want? And since when do you have the right to break shit around my house?"

"Maybe since it helps getting my message through your thick fucking skull! I'm trying to get some sleep, and it's very, very hard to do that when you keep playing that fucking trash so loud!"

"Trash? Trash? I'll show you some fucking trash!" Hayfeld screamed as he lunged at the trespasser.

-----

Ullster could see him coming. He braced himself, quickly raised his forelegs in front of his face, and waited patiently for that first blow to land.

That's right, he thought. Come and get it, asshole. It'll be the last thing you ever do.

To his surprise, however, the trash-talking colt did not hit him. Instead, he felt a pair of forelegs grab him around his waist, and the next thing he knew, the idiot started dragging and shoving him toward the interior of the house. Ullster was completely dumbfounded, so much that he did not even resist for several seconds, which allowed his opponent to move him several feet despite his inferior size and strength.

"Hey! Hey! What the hell do you think you're doing? Let me go!" he yelled as he regained his composure, then tried to shove the colt off himself.

"Stop whining and get your ass in there!" came the reply between grunts. His opponent kept forcing him into what appeared to be the living room. "Do I have to drag you in like the baby you are?"

Escaping the colt's grasp proved to be surprisingly difficult, and the struggle eventually led to both of them losing their balance, which sent them tumbling to the floor. Ullster quickly rolled back upright, while the kid just kept flailing about and trying to find which way was up.

"You got a death wish, or something?" Ullster yelled. "Don't ever fucking do that again!"

"Aww, boo hoo!" the colt replied. "Cry me a river! Little bitch..." He finally managed to grab hold of the couch next to him and proceeded to drag himself back to his hooves.

"What the hell do you want from me?"

His opponent managed to stand up once more. "You have just insulted the greatest–" BUUURP "–the greatest thing ponykind has ever had the chance to hear," he said. "And I'm not about to let that slide. Now shut up and follow me, dumbass!"

"This kid is out of his bucking mind..." Ullster grumbled silently. While dusting himself off, he decided to take a quick look around to get his bearings. The sight was nothing spectacular. Just an average suburban home in Los Alicornes, albeit suffering from an above-average level of untidy.

Off to the right: the living room. A large couch, a small TV, and a short, ebony colored coffee table in between. A pair of bookcases and a few shelves along the wall next to them, which housed a wide assortment of books, glassware, and other kinds of junk. To his left: the kitchen and a small closet. A couple of pictures hung up on the wall between them. Up front: three more doors that lead further into the house. Bedrooms and bathrooms, no doubt.

The living room floor was an absolute mess, huge chunks of dust and trash strewn all over it. The couch and the coffee table gave home to all sorts of things that did not belong: dinner plates, empty bottles, books left half-open, and even some dirty clothes. Meanwhile, the kitchen was overflowing with unwashed dishes and leftover scraps of food, some of which gave off an incredibly foul smell. It made him wonder just how much trouble this kid would be getting into, since he obviously did not live here on his own.

His parents must be really proud of him...

CRASH

"Fuck!" the colt screamed.

Ullster's thoughts were interrupted by the distinct sound of a large body hitting a pile of glass bottles, breaking several of them in the process. He turned toward the source of the commotion and noticed his "host" sprawled out on the ground behind the half-opened door in the middle. Ullster facehoofed and let out a painful sigh, then reluctantly walked into the room after him.

"Wow..." he muttered. Compared to this, the rest of the house was spick and span.

On better days, it might have looked like the average "rebellious teenager colt's bedroom." Today, however, it was "the keg party at Hoofstock." Everywhere he looked, he found empty beer bottles, shattered glass, piles of junk, furniture moved out of place, and even some damage done to the walls themselves. A horrible stench hung in the air: the unmistakable mix of dust, sweat, and booze.

The gray pony moaned as he dug his way through the mounds of trash on the floor. His hooves dragged him toward the mangled mess that was his bed. Strewn across it was a pile of vinyl records, all sporting a wide array of strange works of art on their front covers. Next to them was a large cardboard box and an old, banged up turntable, which kept making several sharp clicking noises every now and then. The colt removed the disk that was still inside the aging monstrosity, then began sifting through the contents of the box.

"Alright..." he muttered. "Let's see what we've got... I'm willing to gamble you aren't a complete fuckin' wuss, so we're going to need something... special..."

"Fine, whatever. You mind hurrying up? Ugh, I feel like I'm going to throw up," Ullster complained. The nauseating odor of the room was starting to get to him. He had to admit, the kid's strange behavior did make him a bit curious, but he was losing patience rapidly.

"Hang on a minute! Fuck..." the colt spat back in frustration, then continued digging through his collection. "Ah! This should be good!" he finally exclaimed as he retrieved one of the albums from the box. He pulled the LP out of its sleeve and began working it into the player, then discarded the latter upon the bed, which gave the black colt a chance to get a good look at its cover.

This one happened to have a black background – a recurring theme, apparently – with a large, faded yellow circle in the center. Two lines of strange symbols adorned the upper and lower thirds of the circle. Somehow, those symbols looked familiar to him, but he could not quite put his hoof on it. Inside the circle, turned upside-down was a five pointed star, its lines trailing around what appeared to be a large goat's head. The goat's horns and ears filled the space between the top four points, the lowest point occupied by its snout. Its dark, sunken eyes were dead center, staring straight up at him with a menacing gaze.

"Hell yeah, this is going to be awesome!" the gray colt said as the turntable began to spin up.

Five minutes. That's how long you have to impress me. After that, I'll bash your head in with that piece of crap! Ullster thought as he stared daggers into the oblivious pony's back. He sighed once more and turned back toward the lone speaker connected to the worn machine. Nothing happened for several painfully long seconds, save for the annoying colt letting out another long and disgusting belch. Then, without any warning, the speaker roared to life once more.

Ullster's head immediately recoiled as it was hit by a wave of sonic destruction, the thunderous beat feeling like it was going to tear right through his eardrums and pound his brain into mush. He tried to scream over the mayhem of sound at the colt next to him and demand that he turn it down immediately, only to find that he could not even hear his own voice, and that the buffoon was too busy bouncing his head up and down to pay any attention.

The vocals came in soon afterward. What little he could actually make out of the words was horrifying enough. "What in the name of..." the coal colored pony mouthed silently as he tried to comprehend just what exactly this foul barrage of noise was supposed to be.

Is this the product of some evil magic? An elaborate prank? A bad dream?

All of a sudden, his thoughts were cut short when he felt something large slam into his side. While it only managed to nudge him slightly, not being all that massive, it was enough to finally push him over the edge. A quick glance to his right was all it took to confirm his suspicions: the kid went beyond just bouncing his head like a freak. He went completely insane and started throwing himself all around the room without any kind of restraint.

That does it. You're dead, you little shit! he thought and began to move toward his maniacal host. His hooves trembled with anticipation, ready to break the kid into pieces.

"Woohoo! Fuck yeah, dude!" the gray colt hollered over the deafening blast of the speaker. "This song is awesome!"

Ullster stopped dead in his tracks. Just now, he managed to get a glimpse of the kid's expression behind his flailing mess of a mane: eyes squeezed shut, grinning from ear to ear, not caring about anything in the world.

While he did what he did on purpose, there was no sign of any malicious intent, no schadenfreude, as Ullster's folks back home called it. This kid looked like he was simply trying to enjoy some mindless fun, and was perhaps trying a bit too hard at that.

The black coated stallion shrugged and took a couple of deep breaths. While the realization did make him stop, it did not calm him down in the slightest. After all, he was still stuck in a room with a rampaging drunken idiot, listening to some unnameable abomination that threatened to make his head explode.

Then again, in his current mood, the aggressive style of this "music" did not exactly feel inappropriate. He figured it might be the kind of stuff that is supposed to make a pony go crazy, and the kid's actions were a sort of "invitation" to join in on the fun.

All right, Ullster thought and permitted himself a small grin. He had plenty of steam to blow off at this point. You want some action, huh? Then let's go for it!

-----

"Welcome to hell!" Hayfeld screamed.

This, he thought. This is the best song yet. All that other stuff before was just kids shit. This right here is what you call "heavy."

"WELCOME TO HELL!"

He froze, eyes growing wide when he heard his "guest" let out a massive roar to that last line. He just barely managed to turn around and watch, completely dumbfounded, as the huge stallion barreled straight into him.

"Shit..."

-----

Ullster slammed right into the kid's chest, which hurled him across the room. The gray colt slammed against the wall next to the door and sank limply to the floor.

"Boo ya! Welcome to hell, bitch!" Ullster bellowed.

The song came to an end, giving them both a few merciful moments of silence. The colt just sat there, back against the wall, his head slumped forward.

Damn, Ullster thought. The kid still was not moving, which made him feel a bit uneasy. I didn't actually... kill him, right?

BUUUUUUURRRP

"Whew!" the gray colt said. "Damn, that's what I'm talking about! Your balls finally decide to drop?"

"Fuck! Oh, you fucking..." Ullster let out the breath he was unconsciously holding. "You scared the crap out of me!"

"Beats almost getting your spine cracked..." the kid groaned. "Didn't I tell you to stop whining?"

"Asshole!"

"Cunt!"

They stared each other down, breathing heavily, both not quite sure what to do next. Before either had a chance to decide, however, the next song started blasting from the speaker.

The colt brushed some of his messed up mane out of his face and cracked a small grin.

"Ready for round two, dick?" he said.

Ullster blinked. Moments later, he let out a small laugh, shook his head, and returned the grin.

"I'm all yours, punk!"

-----

From that point on, the rest of the weekend became lost in a haze.

As he lay there, with a beer in one hoof and his throbbing forehead in the other, Hayfeld could barely comprehend what was happening. Compared to any other boring weekend, everything was too weird and moving way too fast. That, and he was still incredibly drunk.

After the third song or so – if he remembered correctly – he offered the black stallion some of the leftover beer. To his surprise – not to mention great satisfaction – he did not shy away from the opportunity, and before they knew it, the house suffered the second drinking binge of the day.

They ran out fairly quickly of course, so the big guy offered to hit the liquor store nearby. Meanwhile, Hayfeld searched his collection for their next dose of musical mayhem. No matter what, their ride was not going to stop.

By the evening, they had to take a break. Both of them were exhausted, beaten to a pulp, and thoroughly wasted on all the booze they obtained. They turned the volume down to a more comfortable level, much to the relief of their eardrums, and just started talking.

He could barely recall any of the conversation itself, and most of it probably was not important anyway. He did manage to learn the colt's name, however: Ullster. After the stallion threw a bottle at him for laughing at the name, he also told him about how he moved here from overseas a couple of weeks ago, which explained that little accent.

Taking a sip from the bottle, Hayfeld glanced to his left at the empty spot among the piles of bottles and cans, which was where the the big guy sat just a few minutes ago. He had said something about "getting his ass fired if he shows up like this," and "having to go home and clean himself up." He could not even remember seeing him leave.

Hayfeld chuckled. "Heh heh... pussy..."

The turntable behind him was clicking again, having finished playing the last album over an hour ago. Neither of them bothered to shut it off since then.

"Uuuugh..." Hayfeld groaned. He made one last, desperate attempt to drag his sluggish limbs into place and raise himself off the floor.

One more. Just... one more...

It was all in vain. A wave of nausea and vertigo overtook his consciousness, and the helpless colt fell over, the side of his face hitting the dirty hardwood floor. The whole world began to spin, his stomach churning and grumbling, feeling like it was going to turn itself inside out. He could feel himself slipping away, and was fully aware of the darkness as it slowly consumed his vision.

Moments later, the house on Sunset street found silence once more. It lasted for a whole of thirty-four seconds, upon which a set of mechanical clicks and a long belch pierced it again.

-----

His parents opened the front door seventeen minutes and thirty-one seconds later. They did not notice that the lawn was just as they left it, nor did they notice a broken flower pot and a puddle of vomit in front of their child's bedroom window. Once inside, they continued to remain oblivious to the dreadful state of their home. Spilled fluids, dirt, bottles, cans, packages, scattered and broken contents of the house; none of these things managed to capture their attention.

When they entered their son's room, it was no different. No foul odor, no amount of destruction caused in the last two days was enough to make them take notice. They crept through the remains of the carnage while taking care not to make too much noise, then examined the dirty, sweaty, alcohol-drowned mass of body parts that was their only child.

Both parents watched in complete silence, relieved at the sight of his chest still rising and falling periodically. Moments later, the child gave a loud snort, wriggled around a bit, then went back to wheezing silently. His father stifled a laugh and quickly moved the box and the turntable out of the way, then walked over to help his mother struggle the colt onto the bed.

"Good night, sweetie!" his mother whispered softly into his ear, then nuzzled his forehead. Hayfeld let out a slight moan, mumbled something incoherent, and quickly went back to sleep. His father chuckled again and gave him a few pats on the shoulder.

They tiptoed out of the room and switched off the lights along the way, while their child rolled onto his side and began snoring away peacefully.

-----

One slow and painful awakening later, the next couple of weeks turned into a blur.

Hayfeld lost track of time entirely, barely able to keep track of what was going on around him anymore. Things in his life never got so complicated before. Instead, every single day moved at a snail's pace and followed the same pattern: Wake up. Get cleaned. Grab something to eat. Get to the station. Catch a train. Enter the warehouse. Sit in your little corner. Start packaging. Coffee break. Back to work. Lunch. Back to work. Smoke break. Back to work. Shift's up. Catch a train. Walk home. Find bed. Sleep...

All of that changed now. No longer did he feel as if he were tied to the second hand of the punch clock, which forced him to suffer through every tedious second of his life as they slowly ticked away. Instead, he now seemed to be lost in a strange euphoric haze with nopony around him able to figure out what was on his mind.

His parents took notice of the change as well. Gone was the depressed-looking colt of theirs, the one that trudged home every day without a hint of ambition in his eyes. In a way, it was almost awkward for them. Never before did he seem so eager, so enthusiastic about getting things done, even when it came to his "slave labor" of a job – as he used to refer to it – or doing the worst of the household chores.

Little did they all know that Hayfeld's newly found enthusiasm was centered around a certain little secret of his. He did not really give a hoof about things like "duty," "hard work," or "responsibility." Not since the day he found something so much more important in his life. Something that kept him on edge the entire day as he waited for that precious moment and dreamed about the wonders to come.

The very second his shift was over, he would rush straight back home, not even bothering to say goodbye to anypony. Once he made it back, he would quickly get all of his chores done just to avoid any further interruptions – like another speech from his parents about "being irresponsible." After that, he would retreat to his room, grab his new headphones – which cost him nearly all of last month's pay – plug in, grab a disk from his precious new collection, and let loose the monsters of sound.

As he lay on his bed, head or hoof twitching to the beat, the deafening roar slowly turned into a sort of "safe haven." A way to retreat from the tedious and frustrating nature of the world around him and remind himself of the fact that he was still very much alive.

The best part, however, was the thought that he did not have to be here alone.

Two days after he woke up with a devastating hangover, there was a knock on his bedroom window. Moments later, a large black stallion climbed in, the same one who got so unbelievably drunk with him over the weekend. The strange visit required a second round of introductions, followed by a quick – and rather hilarious – recollection of the past weekend's events. After all, besides dignity and property, alcohol tends to destroy memories as well.

Since they learned that they both shared a great fondness for this new music, the two quickly agreed to further explore the depths that it had to offer. Every now and then – mostly during the weekends – the youngsters would meet at the local store, load up on booze, then dive headfirst into the thunder of the new noise.

Once again, the ponies were able to find bliss in pure, unadulterated chaos. One problem they kept facing, however, was Hayfeld's strange insistence on keeping their escapades between the two of them.

"Come on, you idiot!" Ullster screamed at the gray colt during one such night. "Let's invite some friends! We could throw a killer party with this stuff!"

"No! Fuck no! No way!"

"The hell is your problem?"

"I... I don't know..." Hayfeld said and took another swig from his beer. "I just... I don't think anyone else should know... Not just yet..."

No matter how much his buddy pestered him, Hayfeld refused to allow anypony else in on their little secret. He even asked to move their meetups over to Ullster's place, since he lived on his own.

"Less chance of my parents finding out," Hayfeld muttered. "I really don't need that shit."

"Yeah, well I don't need everypony thinking we do each other in the ass," Ullster spat back. "What the fuck else comes to mind when you see two guys hanging out alone constantly?"

"Shut up, dick!"

As much fun as the music had to offer, it just did not cut it if they had nopony to share it with. Weeks passed, they burned through every LP several times already, and the whole thing was starting to lose its appeal.

"We should start our own band... maybe play some shit like this..." Ullster slurred semi-consciously. He lay propped up against a wall with an empty glass between his hooves.

Hayfeld sat on the opposite side of the room. He looked away and gave a deep sigh.

"Yeah... whatever..." he replied.

-----

"Sweetie, would you mind coming here for a second?"

"Uuuugh... fine, Mom!"

He really did not need this right now. The store would close soon, so he wanted to get going. With a sigh, he set the acoustic down on his bed, then got up and walked out into the living room.

He found his parents sitting on the couch, both of them fixing him with a serious gaze. The gray colt stopped dead in his tracks, and his blood ran cold.

"Son, we need to talk," his father said.

Oh hell...

-----

Hayfeld sat silently on the dirty and worn seats while staring blankly out the window at the retreating scenery. The scenes of the past day and a half kept playing themselves out in his head over and over again.

His mother spoke first. "Listen, honey: you know your father and I both love you very much..."

He sighed. This kind of introduction usually meant a lengthy and boring lecture was waiting for him.

"You never caused any trouble. Never brought shame on yourself or your family. You stayed in school, help out at home, and even found yourself a job. More than what one might expect from a colt your age, and we're both very proud of you for that."

There was a sad smile on her face.

"Remember what we discussed?" his father joined in. "Work hard, play by the rules, and in your free time you may go and do as you please. Your mother and I will never ask what you've been up to..."

"As long as you don't bring it back home," they chanted in unison.

Hayfeld could feel his heart beating faster and faster. He really did not like where this was going.

"You're a good child," his mother said. "The best we could ever have asked for. Whatever makes you happy makes us happy as well, and we'd never want to take anything like that away from you. But the things we've seen recently..."

"We became a little worried," his father spoke again. "These last couple of weeks we often couldn't see you for several days. We had no idea where you were and what you were doing. And let's not even discuss what we saw whenever you finally did decide to come home..."

"We've also been getting complaints. Loud music in the middle of the night. Bad manners. Foul language. Even some property damage. A couple of neighbors talked about you hanging around with some large colt. They talked about you two drinking heavily, making a ruckus on the streets, and blasting some 'strange noise' at ridiculous volumes."

"By the way, who is that kid?" his father asked.

"Just... some guy..." Hayfeld mumbled. "He's alright..."

"Look, Hayfeld," his mother stepped forward and rubbed his shoulder. He wanted to hide. Run away. Disappear. "We know you're young and you just want to have some fun. When we were your age, so did we. But there's a certain limit to such things."

She sighed. It sounded painful.

"We don't want to punish you, or even press you on this matter any further," she went on. "It's none of our business. Besides, you're too old for us to treat like a foal anymore."

"On the other hand," his father added, "we still feel that you've grown far too comfortable with the way things are right now."

He smiled for a moment. An equal amount of sorrow and sympathy resided within the same expression.

"Son, it's easy to be messing around when you have a safe little home to go back to every day. But life won't be that simple forever. We," he emphasized that word, "won't be here to shelter you forever. And we think it's time you learned that as well."

The train shook as it hit a particularly neglected section of tracks, and he wondered if his sack might fall onto his head. He hugged the pack between his hooves even tighter and rested his head on the top. His legs bumped lazily against the box below his seat.

All the arrangements have been made. They found him a place to stay, packed his stuff, bought him a ticket, and called his boss at the warehouse to announce that he would not be coming to work starting next week.

He received three months worth of rent money, plus a little extra to buy food and clothing. Anything beyond that he would have to earn on his own.

The whistle blared as the locomotive rolled through the junction at the edge of Los Alicornes proper. At the station, a friendly conductor helped him carry all of his stuff off the train. He poked a bit about the strange odor coming from the box, but Hayfeld did not reply. He checked the note in his pack, stuffed it back inside, and began searching for the nearest tram stop.

An hour later, he found himself on the third floor of an ancient multi-storey apartment complex and stood before the banged up door of his new home.

"Keys are inside, I keep a spare," announced the old stallion with a raspy voice. He turned out to be the landlord of the place. "Trash goes down the chute, laundry is in the basement. Hot water is a privilege, so don't abuse it."

"Sure..."

Hayfeld could not decide whether the stallion had more teeth or more hair on his head left. For some reason, he never decided to ask the old guy's name.

"Store is two blocks down the street," the stallion said. "Bar is just around the corner in case you feel like getting lubed up."

"Got it..." Hayfeld replied.

The old fart grinned – the sight of which nearly made the colt gag – and patted him on the shoulder. "Play it nice, kid, and we'll get along just fine. Any questions?"

Hayfeld gave a weak smile. "Got something that can play vinyl records?"

-----

Minutes passed like hours. Motionless, he lay submerged in the cushions of a dusty old armchair in the center of the "living room" as he stared at the tangled mess of wires, metal, and plastic at his feet. His hoof clutched an empty beer bottle.

Great... my first trip to the store, and it was a beer run... It made him wonder whether that was a good sign concerning his future.

A chirpy voice on the PA announced that his train was about to leave. Father shook his hoof. Mother hugged him tightly for the eighth and final time. He sluggishly climbed on board and began wandering about to look for an empty seat.

The place barely had any furniture. He even bought the booze in a case just so he could use it as a makeshift table once it was empty. The sun has already set, and while this room did have lights, he did not bother turning them on. Somehow, the dim aura of the blue hour felt more pleasant than any artificial brightness.

He watched his parents wave at him from the platform. His mother blinked away at her tears. Lazily, he lifted a forehoof to wave back. He even managed to force a weak smile.

No need to make them feel any worse about it, he thought.

The armchair was a good thing to have, at least. Soft and warm; it was almost as good as any decent bed.

I might even offer to sleep in it, in case—

No.

He did not want to think about that. Looking around at the walls and the floor did not turn out to be a comfortable distraction, though. Perhaps, for the first time in his life, he felt offended by the sight of such filth and decay.

There was a gentle tap on his door. He ignored it and took another sip from the bottle. The knock repeated, increasing in strength.

Hayfeld closed his eyes as he tried to seal the noise out of his consciousness. The old bastard has a spare key, he thought. If he wants to come in, he can. Anypony else can fuck off...

"Hey! Asshole! You going to leave me out here all night?" came a familiar voice from outside.

No way...

The gray colt jumped up, his mind racing. Either he finally managed to go insane, or he was waking up from this bad dream. As much as he would have liked to know which was the case, however, he also intended to keep that door in one piece. Without any further contemplation, he quickly ran up to it, twisted the key, and threw it open.

Facing him on the other side was the big guy himself, a huge grin on his face. "About time!" he said. "You fall asleep or something?"

"What the..." Hayfeld stammered. "How the hell did you get here?"

"Went looking for you since you never showed up last week," the colt replied. "Heard from the neighbors that your folks decided to put the boot to your ass."

"Yeah..." Hayfeld sighed. "Sucks to be me, huh?"

"You kidding?" Ullster exclaimed and stomped his forehooves excitedly. "A fresh start? Nopony bossing us around? This is the best chance we could ever get!"

Is it?

For a moment, Hayfeld thought again about everything that happened these last few days: leaving home. Breaking away from his parents. Losing his comfortable little corner of the world to a place like this.

He looked back at his friend grinning at him. Somehow, the sight brought a smile to his face and lifted some of the tension that he felt all day.

"Whatever happened to 'ponies thinking we do each other'?" Hayfeld asked sarcastically.

"Nothing will ever separate us again, my love," Ullster replied, then fluttered his eyelashes. They both laughed. "Got the good stuff hooked up?"

"Sure, just as soon as I figure out how to put it back together," Hayfeld said and gestured toward the miserable pile of machine parts that his landlord offered him. He invited his guest inside, then stifled a laugh when the large colt's jaw dropped at the sight of the horrible conditions.

"Thirsty?" Hayfeld asked.

"Damn... well, I definitely need a drink now," Ullster replied, eyes still wide. He snapped the cap off a bottle and quickly took a big swig of the stuff. "At least it won't matter how much we mess it up," he added with a lick of his lips. "Which we definitely will..."

"That's the spirit, fucker!"

With that, they got to work on the dissected machine, all the while praying that their efforts would end up as "repairs" instead of an "autopsy." Less than half an hour later, the first disk began to spin up on the turntable. Hayfeld smiled, then thought for a moment and turned to his friend.

"Hey, Ullster!" he said.

"Yeah?"

"Hit the lights!"

Author's Notes:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S0lm_cF7p-I

I understand that 8.5k+ words describing "ponies getting drunk while listening to heavy metal" probably is not the most exciting thing for most readers. So, for those of you who are still interested: Don't worry. I promise things will start getting in motion from here.

Metallica, Diamond Head, Venom and MLP are all properties of their respectful owners, not mine.