(Once again, you can start the song here if you feel like it...)

---

With all that said, the question still remains: What part of our past can be known at all?

The "official" version of the story goes something like this: After the threat of the windigos had passed, and the warmth of their newfound harmony melted the icy tombs that held them hostage for so long, a great horde of ponies emerged from their impromptu shelters, thoroughly exhausted by the years of aimless wandering in an attempt to escape the curse of the storms.

As the frost and snow began to give way, the light of the Sun broke through the clouds once more and granted them a clear view of their surroundings. All of their bitterness became a thing of the past the moment the three tribes found themselves rejoicing as one great crowd, for they have at last found their promised land. Pristine, welcoming, and beautiful beyond words; it was nothing less than a dream come true.

Unwilling to surrender such an amazing gift to the deadly blizzards ever again, the tribes swiftly came to an agreement, and were ready to set aside their former differences. It was time to give up their constant bickering and distrust before it could tear apart the harmony they all depended upon. Side by side, they would instead work together to create a new home for all of ponykind.

The division of labor was self-explanatory: The pegasi would provide control of the weather, the unicorns would raise the Sun and the Moon, and the earth ponies would cultivate the land. Day and night, the ponies of this new nation worked tirelessly. They struggled to tame the very soil beneath their feet, the sky above their heads, and even the might of the heavens themselves. And it was this tremendous effort that would set in stone the foundations of our great country: Equestria.

One issue that remained unresolved, however, was the question of leadership. The nation was still young and it needed leaders. Leaders who are brave, firm, and effective, thus worthy of the loyalty and hard work of all of their subjects.

-----

"You hear that?"

A soft melody broke through the gentle drone of commotion. Everypony across the chamber went silent, then began turning their heads left and right as they tried to identify the source of the music.

"Yeah... I see him..."

The kid was perched on a stool at the far end of the room, gently plucking away on an acoustic in his hooves. A half-dozen large amplifiers formed a looming semi-circle behind him. They towered over the youngster like a literal wall of sound.

His instrument, however, was not connected to any such device, nor did he seem to be in any need of amplification. Everypony inside could hear what was going on. A hoofful of spectators lined up in front of him to stare at this newly appeared virtuoso with awe. They cheered, whistled, and tapped their hooves as the notes he played flowed from his guitar like the purest stream, resonating gracefully throughout the atmosphere of the place.

The piece slowly built itself to a peak and became more and more intense with every passing measure. The young colt leaned further on his instrument to hug it ever so close, and the motion of his hooves sped up almost to a blur while still maintaining their machinelike precision.

Finally, the melody paused for a split second, then returned to the passage from the beginning. He let the final notes ring out, each one longer than the last, and with one final, magnificent strum he finished the piece.

"Well? What do you think?" Ullster asked.

He had to admit, the kid was not bad. Not bad at all. He even found himself tapping his hooves lazily – a modest addition to the roaring applause from all over the chamber. The kid stood up and gave a large bow, then sat back down to continue fiddling with his guitar.

"Good enough, I guess," Hayfeld replied.

Before he even finished speaking, Ullster was already trotting forward as he tried to cut his way through the small crowd that had now formed before the colt, presumably so he could have a word with him. Hayfeld sighed and decided to stay put, not really in the mood to tag along.

Somepony bumped into him from behind. "Sorry," the perpetrator breathed sheepishly. He kept his head low and quickly disappeared among the other customers wandering about inside.

Hayfeld snorted. Was that a guy? he thought and glanced behind his back. Barely sounded like one... Unable to get a better look, he quickly lost interest in the matter, and instead opted to search for the one good little corner he knew in this gigantic cesspool.

Here they are... he thought. The most magnificent creations of the Guitar Gods themselves. The six-stringed wonders of the world. Row upon row of electric guitars stood before him, his personal weapons of choice, collectively dubbed "ROCK/BLUES" by some bland sign nailed up above them.

Most of them were old fashioned models. The type one could expect to see in any "respectable" musician's hooves. Recently, however, one could also find some of the newer, more futuristic designs. The kind that looked like they would make one's parents beat them within an inch of their life if they saw them playing on one of them.

He could almost hear the old stallion snarl. "You call that a guitar?" It made him chuckle a little. "Looks like some crappy 'modern art' project!"

Licking his lips, he picked up his favorite from the rack: the Flying V. Like so many times before, he kept turning the instrument between his hooves to marvel at the attractive shape, the smooth finish, the gorgeous, shiny pickups, and the well-polished body. Just the mere sight of this small piece of heaven could make him drool from anticipation.

After taking a quick look around to make sure nopony else was near, he slung the instrument over his shoulder, then adjusted the strap so the body would hang a few inches lower. He then closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and with one sudden surge of motion he lifted himself up on his hind legs.

The lights hit the stage, and the crowd went berserk. Screaming, howling, kicking, and biting all around. They thrashed around like some gigantic beast that was desperately trying to break its chains.

He smiled. The pick in his hoof crashed onto the steel strings, letting loose an ear-splitting roar. Almost instantly, the chains of the beast were torn apart.

"Yes... that's right."

This is what he wanted. What he had been waiting for.

This is where he belonged.

A microphone was placed on a stand before him. Never letting up on the ferocity of the riff, he strummed the last few bars with a strange calmness and began to exhale slowly, emptying his lungs just before the final measure. At that point, he quickly took in a huge dose of air and—

"Hey! Hey! Equestria to Hayfeld! You with me, asshole?"

"Huh?" Hayfeld's eyes popped open. He was back in the music store, still standing on his hind legs while strumming away awkwardly on an unplugged electric guitar. A couple of bystanders were giving him strange looks. "What the fuck?"

The big guy rolled his eyes. "I said: 'The kid sounds like he might go for it,'" he repeated. "But first he'll need to come over for a rehearsal to see what he's dealing with."

"Ugh," the colt groaned, not even bothering to hide his frustration. See what 'he's dealing with'? he thought. Another one of those "high and mighty" types with all their arrogant bullshit?

"Hey!" Ullster bumped his shoulder. "Don't be an ass about it! If we're going to take this seriously, we'll need some decent players."

"Yeah, fine, I get it..."

Hayfeld let out another painful sigh. He tapped one of his hooves idly against the body of that wonderful guitar that still hung off his shoulders. He really was not in the mood for any of this. After returning the instrument to its place on the rack, he gazed upon the marvelous collection one last time and dreamed about a better world where all of these axes belonged to him. One look at the price tags, though, was enough to make him avert his eyes before they caused him any more pain inside.

"I hope he likes to drink too," he grumbled beside his friend, "'Cause I certainly need a few now."

"Come on, let's at least try and leave a good impression!" Ullster replied. "Get over there and introduce yourself!"

With that, the two colts began marching through the music store toward its much celebrated new "star." While Ullster seemed to be quite enthusiastic, Hayfeld was not exactly jumping off the walls about the whole thing. With thinly veiled disgust, he mentally prepared himself for a whole lot of BS and brownnosing, all just to get some kid to play lead guitar in their band – which did not even have a name yet, let alone a name for itself.

I hope at least the new guy has some decent gear, he thought and chuckled again. Maybe we could just fire him after a few weeks and steal all his shit.

Disgruntled as he was, he knew that if they expected to have any chance at success, then they needed to recruit good musicians, even if it meant swallowing any pride they had left. So, reluctantly, he trudged after his friend as they fought their way through the crowd and tried to capture the colt's attention.

"Sweet Celestia, blow me!" he cursed to himself as they inched closer and closer. "Even his fucking cutie mark is a guitar! Could this get any more lame?"

Finally, with a substantial amount of effort, they managed to get close enough, and were just a couple of feet away when somepony else started playing.

-----

Their first attempt happened to be the most simple approach possible at the time. The old leaders of each tribe would band together and form a council that could govern the new nation as a single body. Commander Hurricane, Princess Platinum, and Chancellor Puddinghead – a host of advisers by their side – would assemble every week and discuss their plans for Equestria's future.

It was an immediate failure. Once any important decision had to be made, every attempt at progress would only lead to endless debates within the council as each side constantly tried to favor their own kind. Thus, hardly any of these meetings ever concluded with the formation of a consensus, which halted all of the vital government processes the nation required, and ultimately led to the system's demise.

The idea of such autocratic leadership was thus swiftly abandoned, and instead the ponies attempted a more "down-to-earth approach:" A large gathering of representatives, each one elected by the citizens of Equestria, would attend the aforementioned meetings in place of the former leaders, and every decision would be made through majority vote.

The result, unfortunately, was anything but unexpected: each race would simply elect members of their own kind, who would then attend the gatherings only to satisfy the demands of their own voters rather than the needs of the nation as a whole.

Just like its predecessor, this idea was doomed perhaps the very moment it was conceived. And while the conflicts of old did not surface again, it too only served to fuel the suspicion of many that the three pony races could never truly join under one banner.

For several years, countless groups of excellent politicians and scholars tried to find a way around this problem, but none were able to succeed. Was Equestria to be doomed like this forever, left at the mercy of selfish anarchy?

-----

Ullster felt his ears perk up as this new noise cut through all other sound within in the store. Once again, everypony inside suddenly went quiet. They all began turning their heads left and right in confusion as they wondered where in Equestria the noise was coming from, not to mention what it was supposed to be.

Focusing on their goal, he himself simply tried to push it out of his mind, intent on pressing forward.

"Hold up! What the hay is that?" came Hayfeld's voice from behind him.

Grinding his teeth together in annoyance, Ullster quickly turned around, only to watch, baffled, as his friend kept trying to poke his head above the crowd.

"There!" Hayfeld exclaimed and thrust out his hoof as the large colt stepped beside him. "Wait... isn't that the wimp that bumped into me?"

Ullster breathed a sigh of frustration and raised himself up with his hind legs to take a look. At the far end of the chamber, standing next to an old, banged-up looking Fender amplifier, was a slim, young unicorn colt who played on a similarly old and worn Fender Stratoprancer.

It was indeed a sight – not to mention sound – to behold. The kid held himself up using his hind legs – just like Hayfeld did a few mintues ago. He kept his head low, which made his long, curly, jet-black mane cover nearly all of his face, almost like he was trying to hide behind it. He tapped his left hoof to keep track of the beat and occasionally used it to adjust some kind of pedal in front of him. Each time he did, it led to an exotic change in his guitar tone, which – combined with the occasional screaming bends – gave even this sluggish tempo an incredibly powerful sound.

Both colts watched in awe, their jaws literally hanging as this new contender started rocking out full blast. The momentum of the song began to intensify, and his whole body joined in to the beat: pulsing, thrashing around, throwing himself back with every great bend as if each one took him to the very heights of ecstasy.

It was nothing like the performance that preceded it. It was nowhere near that pristine, accurate, almost mechanical sound. It was loud and wild. "Dirty," for lack of a better word. A musical orgasm that left a thoroughly shocked audience in its wake.

"Hey! You there!" somepony yelled from near the entrance.

The shrieking solo ended abruptly as the kid froze. He shrank from the volume and tone directed toward him. Trembling ever so slightly, he turned his head toward the screaming pony, which provided a clear view of his face for the first time.

"Yeah, you! What the buck did I tell you the last time?"

It was the stallion who kept standing next to the cash register, though occasionally he would wander about to offer help to the customers. Most likely the owner of the place. Huh, Ullster thought. I remember him being much more friendly just a few minutes ago.

The colt did not respond, merely hung his head even lower. It did not calm the enraged pony in the slightest.

"I told you: unless you plan on actually buying something, keep that loud shit out of here!" he yelled. "We've got customers in here, too, not just the dumbasses like you that only want to make some noise. Now beat it!"

Sheepishly, he nodded once, unslung the guitar from his shoulders, and flicked the amplifier off, which gave a loud pop. In response, the spectators around him quickly began to disperse while pretending they never noticed anything. Within moments, the store returned to its regular drone.

"Fuck yeah..." Hayfeld muttered, an impressed smirk on his face.

"What?" His friend turned to him with a look of surprise.

"This. This is what we need."

"What, that guy? You're kidding, right?"

"Heck no! That was some wild shit! It's exactly what we need."

Ullster rolled his eyes. Here we go again... he thought. Add a little distortion, play a bit more rough, and instantly you're "hot shit"...

He had to admit it, though: this was indeed a bit closer to the sound they aspired to create. The only question was whether the kid could live up to this performance. For all they knew, this was the only song he knew how to play well.

"Fine, let's give it a shot," he said. At this point, he really needed a drink, too.

This time around, Hayfeld was the one to rush forward, eager to meet this new candidate up close and personal. The kid, on the other hoof, seemed to have other ideas. By the time they made it to the amp that he played on, he was nowhere to be found.

"Shit! Where the hell did he go?" the gray colt exclaimed while twisting his head left and right.

"I think he's leaving," Ullster noted and pointed his hoof toward the exit. Hayfeld followed his gaze and noticed that the brown colt was already halfway through the door.

"Crap..."

The two youngsters galloped after him. They burst out of the store entrance onto the street crowded by the Los Alicornes midday traffic. A wave of burning hot smog rushed into their lungs, fueled by a merciless sun hanging above. The sidewalk had turned into a river of busy ponies who brushed past each other without any ambition or emotion, just like the motorized carriages that rolled past on the tarmac beside them.

"You see him?" Hayfeld yelled as they struggled to stay above the flow.

"Uhh... no. I can't see shit," his friend replied.

"Dammit!" Hayfeld swore and spat on the ground. The nauseating mix of noise, smell, and heat outside was starting to become too much to bear. "Come on," he said while retreating back into the music store, "Maybe somepony in there can help us find this kid."

"Whatever..." Ullster sighed and slowly trotted after him.

-----

The solution, strangely enough, did not spawn from the mind of any great politician, nor any respected cabal of scholars, but from a small town on the borders of the Heartland – which, at the time, barely stretched as far as the edge of the Badlands.

The town began as just another small village, founded and inhabited primarily by earth pony pioneers. Over the years, however, it received a fair share of unicorn and pegasus settlers as well. Unlike most other early settlements of that era, where most of the population consisted of ponies from one of the three races – the other two forming a negligible minority – this town housed a near equal number of all three.

At first, this may seem to be a mere sociological curiosity, but in fact it was a completely unique environment during that age. Aside from having to cope with such an arrangement, when they to elect the local leadership, the town's population faced the exact same problem as the nation itself.

The only difference was that they managed to find a solution...

-----

"Morning, Broke!"

"Morning, Sparkler!"

The exchange of nicknames took care of greetings between the two of them. So... looks like you're sticking to that one, you old bastard, he thought and smirked as he walked past the counter toward the room in the back. The boss gave a curt nod, then lit himself a cigarette and went back to reading the paper. It would be just about all the dialogue between them for the entire day.

Without any reason to make haste, he lazily nudged the door labeled "PRIVATE" open, then closed it behind him once inside. His saddlebag slid off his back at a snail's pace while he was busy sorting through all the junk in his locker. Once it touched the ground, he used one of his forelegs to quickly shove it into a corner.

Out of sight, out of mind...

Moments later, he emerged from the room equipped with a broom in his hoof, a white shirt with thin horizontal red stripes all over it, and a matching cap on his head. The boss popped a cassette into the console behind him, and the music began to drift from the speakers, which signaled the start of a long, boring day of work. Sighing, he leaned on the broom and began cleaning up the customers' hoof filth.

"Hey! Sparkler!"

"Yeah? What is it, Broke?"

This was a harmless little game they played. Obviously, his name was not actually "Sparkler," nor would any well-mannered individual call the aging stallion "Broke," especially if they were not considered a close friend. Golden Record was a well known and respected member of his community, and for decades the quality of his store has been a testament to all of his hard work: always kept well stocked and up to date, ready to supply both the young and old of Los Alicornes with excellent music.

"Got some new deliveries out back, Sparky. I need them in here on the double!"

"You got it, Broke!"

But no matter how much time and effort he put into his work, there was one serious flaw in all of Golden Record's endeavors: he had a pathetic way of handling money. What little profit his business ever managed to yield, he would always find a way to squander it on something – most likely women, if the gossip was to be believed – which brought him back to square one every time. And while it never actually brought him out of business, nor did his store ever have to suffer from this behavior, it did earn him the nickname "Broken Record."

As if they wished to rub it in even further, most ponies – such as himself – shortened it to just "Broke." It was not exactly the most respectful way to treat an old stallion that struggled every day to make a living, to say the least. Still, nopony in the neighborhood would deny that if one possessed a refined taste in music and was in need of a quick fix, then the "Golden Record's Collection" was the place they needed to visit.

I still wish they'd wipe their damn hooves, though... he thought and frowned at the stains left on the gray tiling. He returned the broom to its closet and exchanged it for a bucket and mop. There was still about a half hour until opening time, so he could do a quick wipe before bringing in all the new merchandise.

Ten minutes after the floor began to dry up, he lowered the final box between the corresponding aisles – as each box was marked for its contents – and went back to lock the storage room. A quick peek toward the two large windows facing the street confirmed that it was going to be a busy day: a line of ponies began to form before the entrance, with some of the more restless ones starting to lean against the windows, eyes squinting as they tried to spot the treasures inside.

"Great... here come the fanfoals..." he muttered to himself. Their presence was not much of a surprise to him, especially thanks to the huge sign propped up outside:

Shrugging his shoulders, he grabbed the first box, pulled off the duct tape on the top, and began unloading the LPs stored inside. He sorted them by artist and by album into neat little stacks on the floor, then inserted each stack into the correct spot on the shelves, always making sure they ended up in alphabetical order. This was pretty much it: he had to clean up, carry the merchandise, keep the shelves packed, and maybe help the customers out from time to time.

As tedious as such a job might seem, it did come with one huge advantage: he had constant exposure to every imaginable type of music released in Equestria, up to and including a great deal of foreign works. In fact, most of his five minute breaks were spent flipping through the "Imports" section – since those were always brought in by another kid who worked here – in the hope of finding something new. And if he ever found anything that piqued his curiosity, then being a good friend of the boss meant he could always borrow a copy to take a listen at home.

A few minutes later, a sign flipped, a key turned, and the doors popped open, releasing several dozen ponies into the interior of the store so they could swarm the aisles in search of the latest musical "masterpiece." All this commotion served as an opportunity for him to retreat to the back room once more, lock the door, grab a sandwich from his bag, and start flipping through one of his magazines. He was able to do this until noon, upon which came the usual lull in customer traffic, which meant he had to get back to work.

Clean up, carry, stack, catalog, repeat... he thought while busying himself with a second sweep of the floor.

"Hahaha! What, are you kidding?" a voice came from the front door.

Odd... he thought, Usually everypony is busy having lunch right about now.

"No!" another voice replied.

"You mean you seriously don't know what this stuff is?" the first one asked.

He turned his head slightly to glance at the unexpected visitors. They were a pair of colts in their late teens. One of them sported a rather impressive size and held a small paper packet in one hoof, while the other—

His blood ran cold. "No..." he whispered. The mop clattered to the floor. Without thinking, he immediately ducked between the shelves closest to him.

"How the hell should I know?" the gray colt said. "It's green and smells funny. For all I know, it's parasprite shit."

"Shhh! Keep it down!" the big one hissed and quickly stuffed the package into his saddlebag. "Never mind, then. I'll show you when we get back. I promise you won't regret it."

"Whatever..." the other muttered. "Hey! Sir? Could you help us out?"

Trembling slightly, he peeked over the top of the shelves. The two colts now stood before the counter as they waited for the boss to wake up, whose "lunch break" usually meant taking a quick nap.

"Hubblmfwh- wh- what? Huh?" the old stallion mumbled. His eyes slowly fluttered open, and he turned around on his seat to look at the two newcomers. "What can I do for you?" he asked with a yawn.

Biting away at his tongue, he took one last glance at the gray colt, then ducked behind the shelves once more. "What the hell is he doing here?" he whispered to himself.

-----

"We're looking for somepony," Hayfeld spoke up first.

A half-dozen of the new Muttley Crüe LPs cluttered to the floor between the aisles to their right. Both ponies turned toward the source of the noise, a confused look on their faces. "Uhh... I think he might be working here," he went on. An additional three hit the ground, and when they looked again they managed to catch a glimpse of somepony galloping out the door.

"Really? Well, there's more than one kid who works here," Golden Record responded. He leaned out over the counter to search for the colt in question. "Hey! Sparky! Where you at?" he called out.

There was no response. "Huh. Must be out having lunch." The old stallion leaned back in his chair. "D'you happen to know his name?"

"Nope," they replied.

"Damn. Well, let's see: there's this kid called Blue Wave. He works here every other day, mostly handles new deliveries..."

-----

He did not hear the rest of the conversation.

Run. Run run run as fast as you can. RUN!

The words kept flashing through his mind repeatedly, and his legs did their best to comply. Fortunately for him, neither the boss nor those two ponies must have recognized him when he dashed outside, since nopony from the store was galloping after him.

After a few more seconds of running, he figured that the distance was sufficient. He calmly slowed down to a trot and breathed a sigh of relief. Upon reaching the corner of the block, however, he stopped dead in his tracks when he came to a horrifying realization.

My bag... I left it back in the store.

"Oh, buck me!" he screamed, much to the confusion of the surrounding pedestrians. Turning around, he quickly launched into a sprint back the way he came while cursing to himself.

-----

"No, I... I think we're looking for somepony else," the Ullster said and rolled his eyes. The aging stallion's rambling was anything but helpful so far. He was beginning to think this was a waste of time.

"Oh?" Golden Record said. "Well, then there's this other little brat called 'Sparkler.' Well, at least that's what I like to call him. His actual name is—"

A loud sneeze, followed by a thump from the back of the store interrupted his monologue. All three turned to where the noise came from and saw a dark-maned unicorn lying on the floor. He appeared to have been busy trying to sneak between the innermost aisles into a room labeled "PRIVATE." Realizing that all eyes were on him, he froze, then pinned himself to the ground and did his best to hide his face under his mane while hissing all sorts of profanities to himself.

"There you are, Sparky!" the stallion behind the counter exclaimed happily, then turned back to his customers. "He's all yours, gentlecolts!"

Ullster gave his friend a "what the buck is going on?"-look. Hayfeld shrugged, and the two colts began approaching the prone unicorn. He did not try to move away, and instead seemed to shrink together more and more as they drew closer.

Is he freaking curling up into fetal position? Hayfeld thought.

They stopped about a foot before him and exchanged awkward glances, neither of them having any idea what to do next. Oddly enough, it was the pony at their hooves that finally decided to break the uncomfortable silence.

"Uhh... hello?" he said. His voice was muffled by his mane and hooves covering his head.

"Huh? Oh yeah, uh... hi there!" Hayfeld responded and gave his friend another look. The big pony shrugged. "We, uh... we heard you down in the Music Den yesterday... playing guitar... and, uhh..."

"We, umm..." Ullster decided to join in. "We thought you were, um... pretty good, actually."

There was no response.

"Anyway..." Hayfeld said. "We're trying to start our own band, and uh... well, we need a lead guitar player."

The colt before them did not even move a muscle.

"We wanted to ask you back there, but um..." the larger pony added. "Well, anyway... we talked about it, and umm... we think you'd be the right choice for the job."

No response. The whole situation was becoming very uncomfortable for the two.

"So, uh... you interested?" Hayfeld forced a grin, though his confidence in this endeavor was draining rapidly. To him, right now, the scene looked more like the aftermath of "assault & battery" rather than "hiring a guitar player."

Finally, after what felt like minutes had passed, the unicorn before them twitched slightly and let out a barely audible whimper.

"Say again?" Hayfeld asked.

"Sure..." he muttered just barely loud enough for them to hear. After that, he slowly raised his head, and his snout poked out from under his mane.

The two colts blinked in unison.

"Uhh, okay... well, I suppose we'll, uh... leave you an address, then," Hayfeld stammered. "Meet us there this Friday around, uh... after work, I guess..."

With that, they backed away, and the large one walked back to the counter to ask for a piece of paper. That left the gray pony behind, who paused after a taking couple of steps, and turned around to face the one he hoped would become their newest member. He was still there, lying on the floor, muttering to himself.

"My name is Hayfeld, by the way," he said, a genuine smile on his face this time, "and the big guy back there is Ullster." He extended his hoof. "And you are...?"

At that moment, the pony before him raised his head a little more, thus revealing his face completely for the first time. His voice, while much softer, much less "masculine" than Hayfeld's own, was firm and unwavering as he replied.

"Kirkhoof."

-----

It all looked so deceptively simple. No wonder the leadership remained hesitant...

All their situation required was a minor adjustment, while the form of government remained almost exactly the same. Only their voting system required a small, yet groundbreaking alteration: no citizen of Equestria was allowed to vote for any candidate that was of their own kind.

Unicorns could only be elected by earth ponies or pegasi, earth ponies by pegasi and unicorns only, and so on. Every member of the government was to perform their duty to the absolute best of their efforts, or they would face swift and severe punishment.

Such a decree may seem trivial, maybe even laughable to us today, but at the time merely entertaining such a thought was unheard of. When it was first proposed, a restriction of this magnitude bordered on the lines of tyranny to most.

"What kind of democracy tells its voters who they are allowed to elect?" they would ask.

-----

"So, you think he's going to show up at all?"

"Well... it looked like he was about to piss himself, so... I have my doubts..."

*laughter* "Well, keep your hopes up! Never hurts to have a good guitar player."

"Yeah, anyway... so, can you hook us up for that little 'project' of yours?"

"If this new guy means you've got a band together, sure."

"Well, um... yeah... about that..."

"What?"

"We're still short on a bass player."

"That's all?" *laughter* "Don't make such a big deal out of it! Just grab any idiot who can play a few notes to deal with the back end! Who cares about bass, anyway?"

"No way, quit screwing around! This isn't going to be your average shit rock band. You know any good players out there?"

"Well, let me think about it... tell you what: why don't you guys come down to The Whisky tomorrow night? Around 8:00 PM? I think you might find the show interesting."

"Okay..."

"Great! See ya tomorrow, then!"

*click*

*beeep*

-----

"You've got to be kidding me..."

It was half past eight by the time the ambitious duo arrived at their destination. The muffled noise, the piles of litter, the stench of booze and vomit, and the sight of kids limping out the doors or lying knocked out by the entrance were all good indicators of an interesting night ahead of them.

Ullster managed to convince Hayfeld to tag along, even though the latter gave up on these kinds of auditions a good while ago. Besides, even he knew that "the Whisky" was never a bad place to visit, so in the hopes of at least seeing a good show, he was willing to give it a shot again.

So it was that they found themselves standing before that crimson wall again: the infamous Whisky A Go Go; rallying point for every generation's rebellious youth on the West Coast, with quite a reputation built up over the decades since its birth.

The show was already well underway as they entered. The tables and chairs that normally took up most of the floor had been cleared away, which left it open to a few dozen kids to flail about in front of the stage. The stage itself was packed with all sorts of unusual things: strange, occult-looking ornaments, ponies gagged and chained to posts off to the sides, and a mare clad in white robes who lay on her back on a raised platform in the center of the stage, the band itself playing around her frantically.

It was quite a performance, to say the least. Smoke filled the stage as the singer screamed his lungs out while waving around a long, razor sharp dagger above the mare on the platform. The other musicians banged their heads and ran about, and the aforementioned mare suddenly began convulsing like she was in some sort of trance, which was matched only by the ones on either side of the stage who wriggled against their bonds. If it was not for the near deafening blast of music, one could have mistaken it all for a deranged piece of performance art rather than an actual gig.

"Wow..." both ponies muttered in unison.

The drummer just pounded his way through a solo, which he concluded by setting the crash cymbals on fire. A split second later, the solo kicked back into gear. A loud, booming roar took over from the drums, and one of the guitarists took the front of the stage. He banged his head wildly as the instrument shrieked between his hooves.

"Oh my gosh, look at that guy!" somepony next to them exclaimed.

Hayfeld muttered in awe as well. Headbanging was not exactly new to him, but even he had his limits, especially when it came to playing music at the same time.

This particular pony did not seem to share such limitations. His head bounced up and down seemingly out of control as it threw his mop of a red mane all about while he played his strange solo. The crowd cheered in response.

"Not too bad!" Ullster shouted to him over the noise.

"Yeah!" he responded and grinned as he watched the banal scene unfold. His grin then faded when he reminded himself that they were supposed to be doing something important here.

Wait a minute... what the...? he thought. "Hey!" He nudged his friend's shoulder, then pointed with his hoof. "You see that guy's guitar?"

"Yeah! What about..." Ullster stopped mid-sentence, his eyes going wide.

"One, two, three... hey! That's no fucking guitar!"

"Wait... you mean... that guy is their bass player?"

The lead guitarist soon took over, and the crazy gig continued relentlessly. The two colts, however, completely lost interest in the rest of the band and focused all of their attention on the red-maned pony on bass instead.

His playing alone, especially since they mistook it for a lead guitar, was beyond any of their expectations. As for his performance on stage, it spoke for itself. All the way through the rest of the show he went on with his insane headbanging, which never once showed any sign of fatigue or lack of enthusiasm. The intensity of the show seemed to push him into a never ending state of ecstasy, and the energy it gave him exploded out of every inch of his body.

There was no reason to argue about it. They have found their bass player.

-----

After the show ended, the two of had to wait for the band to leave the stage, so they grabbed a few beers and chatted about their experience to pass the time. A couple of minutes later, they headed back across the now empty dance floor, walking past a couple of ponies – including the drummer and one of the "restrained" mares – who were busy dismantling the elaborate stage equipment. A door on the far side had a sign on the wall next to it that read "BACKSTAGE," which prompted the two colts to enter.

The "backstage" hardly lived up to its name's reputation. What must have been unfinished bathroom once, it was no more than a small chamber behind the stage now, repurposed as an unimpressive "ready room" for the performers that visited each night. A single, half-broken light dangled from the ceiling, which illuminated the fifteen or so square yards of tiled floor. A couple of rickety plastic chairs were strewn about to provide seating. There was little commotion in the room, which confirmed their suspicions that, despite the grand display on stage, the band did not have a lot of fans.

They noticed the singer as he argued with the guitar player to their left, while the other half of the room was tightly packed with instruments, packaging, and other sorts of equipment. That left the corner opposite the entrance, where they found the pony that they sought. The combination of better lighting – compared to that on stage, at least – and the lack of any serious movement provided a much clearer picture of this peculiar virtuoso of the bass.

He was a tall, lean, white-coated pegasus stallion with a red mane. He sat on a chair that leaned against the wall, and one of his hooves held what appeared to be a large, oddly-shaped cigarette. There was barely any sort of motion on his part, and he appeared to be completely disinterested in the world around him. If it were not for his eyes staying half-open – though they rarely ever blinked – one could easily have thought he was asleep.

Hayfeld gave a quick nod to the other two members of the band, who suddenly decided to exit the room, and began to approach the colt who sulked in the corner. His friend was right beside him. The moment they took their first step, the colt's eyes darted off the floor and fixed upon them, then began to stare unblinkingly.

"He goes by the name 'Hesher'," one of the kids said after the show, "I think only the ponies close to him know his real name."

"Yeah, that's even how they announced him on stage last week. Holy crap, he was even crazier that night!"

"And that solo! Wicked stuff..."

Without saying a word, he took a long drag from his cigarette, and after a short pause he slowly exhaled a large cloud of smoke that carried a familiar dizzying scent. The motion felt almost sluggish compared to his intensity on stage.

"Anything else we should know?"

"Not sure, really," the kid replied. "Keep your eyes open, though. You can never know where his mind might be with all the stuff he's using."

"He's a weird player and a weird guy," the other added. "I've heard some people saying he might be related to Octavia. You know, that famous mare up in Canterlot? Playing the cello?"

"Okay... so?"

"Well, I believe he replied: 'Yeah, I bucked her up the flank one time...'"

"Are you... Hesher?"

There was a long, pregnant pause as both parties stared each other down without making a sound.

"Yeah, that's me," the pony before them finally replied. He tapped his cigarette slightly to get rid of the ash at the tip.

Well, fuck it. No backing out now... Hayfeld thought. "Okay, I'm just gonna cut out all the BS here: we really liked what we saw tonight, and we want you to play in our band. You interested?"

The pegasus took another long drag of his smoke and did not reply. His face showed no sign of contemplation and made him appear just as disinterested in everything as before.

Nearly a minute passed without a response. "Well?" Hayfeld asked again impatiently.

"I'm waiting," the colt replied curtly.

"For what?"

"For you to give me a time and a place."

Hayfeld glanced at his friend for a moment. Ullster was equally clueless. "Wait... so, that's a 'yes'?" he asked.

"How should I know? I have no idea what you guys want to play."

He opened his mouth to speak again, then decided against it, though somehow he felt the need to challenge the guy for his condescending tone. Right now, however, he figured an argument was the last thing that would convince the pegasus to leave his band and join their own. Instead, he turned back to his friend and gestured toward the pocket on his saddlebag. Ullster nodded and hoofed over a small piece of paper that was folded up inside.

"Here," Hayfeld said and stuck out his forehoof that held the note. "Tomorrow, at 5:00 PM. Third floor, door on the right."

"Meet you there," the pegasus muttered. He did not even bother to look up from the hastily scribbled lines before his face. It was enough to communicate that, as far as he was concerned, the conversation was over.

-----

Desperation, however, eventually drove the squabbling ponies to accept even the most drastic measures. The new law was passed, and while few major laws managed to be produced by the old system before its demise, in the end, the final one ended up as the saving grace of the nation's struggling leadership, and became the first real step in merging the tribes together.

This new system eradicated the possibility of "playing favorites," both for the electorate and the elected. After all, the representatives could not risk working against their own voters by favoring their own kind – and thus end up losing their position – and if they intended their voice to be heard by those above in the chain of command, every voter had to turn to other ponies not of their kind.

Though it took decades of hard work and strict supervision, Equestria finally found its leaders. Over the course of several centuries, this system provided the young nation with much needed stability and led the way for rapid expansion and improvement. Their perfect home was finally beginning to take shape, which marked the beginning of a Golden Age for all of ponykind.

It was, quite simply put, paradise...

Where has it gone today?

---

"Excuse me! Sir! Could you help me find this place?" Kirkhoof asked.

"Sure!" the pedestrian replied. "It's, uh... two blocks down that way. Look for the landlord, he can guide you to the right door."

The colt thanked him and hurried down the street, his guitar bouncing around on his back. Eventually, he arrived at a large apartment building that looked as though it had seen better days. Taking a deep breath, he stepped inside.

As soon as he explained himself, the old stallion who lived on the ground floor gestured for him to follow. As they walked up the stairs, Kirkhoof became more and more anxious. He could hardly imagine what was waiting for him in a place such as this.

They stopped their ascent upon reaching the third floor, and his guide gestured toward the door on their right. He thanked him and approached the door, a perplexed look appearing on his face when he found it half-open.

"Hello?" Kirkhoof asked sheepishly. There was no response. The lights were turned down, and only the moon and the streetlights outside provided a faint illumination through the open windows. Reluctantly, he walked inside, upon which he found himself standing in the middle of a living room of sorts, though it was hard to see anything clearly.

A loud snore to his left nearly made him jump, and he quickly spun his head around. The dim lighting made things difficult, but eventually he managed to identify the source of the noise: a pair of colts sprawled all over a large couch against the wall. Both of them were fast asleep, or more likely passed out.

After a bit of fumbling around in the dark, he found a light switch and flicked it on, and was relieved to find that they were the same ponies as the ones that invited him here. The sudden burst of light led to another loud snore, and their eyes began to flutter open, followed by some cursing and groans of pain.

Hmm... he thought. Six o'clock at night, and they're just waking up. How rock n' roll...

While the two were busy trying to peel themselves off the couch, another pony walked in from behind: a pegasus stallion with a near-unconscious look on his face. He stopped along the far wall, lowered his guitar— no, a bass —to the floor next to himself, and casually removed a cigarette pack from the case, then lit himself a smoke and leaned against the wall as he watched the scene unfold.

"Aww, shiiit... what time is it?" the gray colt muttered.

"It's, uh... six in the evening," Kirkhoof replied awkwardly.

The colt's reaction was a loud burp, followed by a smile as he observed his guests through puffy red eyes. "Well, let's not waste any more time, then!" he exclaimed and stumbled over to the side of the room. There was a cardboard box, a small guitar amplifier, and a modest drum set stacked in the corner. "Modest," as in "barely equipped," that is.

Hayfeld – if Kirkhoof remembered his name correctly – leaned behind the bass drum and picked up what appeared to be a rusty, banged up turntable, then set it down on top of the amp and plugged its output directly into the speaker. "Okay! So, Hesher and... uh..." he began while working one of the disks from the box into the machine.

"Kirkhoof."

"Right, Kirkhoof! Oh, fuck..." he muttered, then clutched his head and burped again. "Mind if we just call you 'Kirk' instead?"

"Okay... I guess..." Kirk muttered.

"Alright... I'm sure you're both wondering just what the hell is going on here." The bemused look on the pegasus' face didn't give Kirk the same impression. As for him, he was more confused than actually curious. "Well, we're planning to bring some new noise into town!" Hayfeld continued with a grin. Both of their guests' ears perked up at this. "Something that will blow everypony's heads away once we hit the stage. And you two will be the first lucky fuckers to hear it!"

With that, he flicked a switch on the device, and before either of them had a chance to react, the music began blasting from the amp's speaker.

-----

Pain.

That was the first thing to flash through his mind upon waking up. Pain. Endless, merciless pain.

His eyes slowly creaked open, which instantly sent a fresh wave of agony through his skull. The blinding light and the hot sensation on his skin both suggested that he had "overslept," and the pain all over one half of his entire body meant he had done so on the floor. Again.

The pressure mounted on his head. He opened his mouth and desperately tried to let out a groan as if it might offer some relief. What came out was barely a whimper.

He sighed and moved his tongue around a bit to taste the bitter drought inside his mouth. The sigh, in turn, revealed a soreness in his throat that made him cough, almost as if he had a cold. For all he knew, he probably did.

Thirst. Unbelievable thirst came upon him, and every part of him begged him to wash down the horrible taste in his mouth and gullet.

There was no way he could go back to sleep now. He regained too much of his consciousness to hide from the pain any longer. A sudden wave of nausea came over him as he tried to raise himself off the floor, which made him grab his mouth and stomach and start breathing rapidly in order to calm things down. This led to another round of coughing, which sent even more pain shooting through his skull.

Somepony behind him snorted and rolled over. They did not seem to share his problems, since they no doubt had more experience in the game of "how to get drunk when you're low on cash." Last night's weapon of choice was something called "Night Train," if he remembered correctly. Kirkhoof sighed again and painstakingly raised himself onto his hooves to begin the long and perilous journey toward the bathroom.

Needless to say, the outcome of that night was most likely a pleasant one for their hosts, though Kirk himself could not remember anything about it beyond that point. But considering how nearly two months had passed since then, and he was currently dumping the contents of his stomach into the toilet of the very same apartment, one could rightfully assume that his audition had been successful.

He coughed again and blew hard to get the chunks stuck in his nose out as well, then wiped his mouth with his forehoof. A prayer of thanks was sent to Celestia that the building had running water, and he quickly ducked his face under the faucet.

The worst part was yet to come, however: the guilt. Every hangover eventually led to a point where one would start thinking about all of their friends and loved ones, their parents in particular.

What would they say if they could see me now? he thought. 'A mix of fluids, twenty minutes of fun, eighteen years of love, care and guidance, and this is the result?'

-----

The weeks following the "audition" fell into a simple pattern: rehearsal every weekend, starting Friday afternoon. Same apartment. No entry without any booze.

Neither of the two new members had any reason to argue. And just before they left after that fateful night, their hosts even allowed them to select some of the discs from their collection. They were to take them home, listen, adapt, and thus prepare themselves for "the coming storm."

The bass player, Hesher, seemed particularly fond of the stuff that was first played to them, as well as some other strange noise that he came across. Kirk had just decided to pick out a few at random, then spent the next few afternoons immersing himself in the new music.

By the following weekend, both new members of the band were eager to get things up and running. Loaded up with instruments, equipment, and – most importantly – beer, they arrived exactly at the arranged time, which set the stage for three days of non-stop action fueled by alcohol and heavy metal.

-----

"You sure this guy ever played drums before?" Hesher whispered.

He nodded toward Ullster, who was busy picking his cymbal back up for the eighth time that evening. Hayfeld could only shrug in response. The bass player sighed and shook his head.

"Can't really play a song if that happens every time he plays a break," he went on. "Hey!" he called out to the others. For good measure, he even kicked a pair of empty beer cans toward them. "You losers mind if we move on to a different song?"

"Dick..." Ullster muttered as he climbed back onto his seat. "Sure, which one?"

"Anything but the 'motor' one," Hayfeld said with a grin. "I want to play for longer than one minute this time before ya gotta pick shit up again."

"How about that new one?" Kirk chimed in. He ducked away when an empty can flew back at Hayfeld's head, and his hooves shuffled uncomfortably as everypony turned toward him. "Y-you know... That one about 'war machines' or something?"

"Yeah, I guess we could do that one," Hesher said. He bent down, picked up his bottle, and took a quick sip. "Ugh... Gonna need a proper intro..."

The others coughed as he went on to light himself another cigarette, which clogged up the dust, body odor, and smoke-filled air of the room even more.

Hayfeld cursed as he stumbled a bit, his hooves knocking around cans that spilled a few unfinished meals. "Ready?" he asked with a grin. Ullster nodded in response. "Alright. Try not to fuck up the solos this time, Kirk."

He cleared his throat, readied the guitar hanging from his shoulders, and took a deep breath. "Okay... One, two, three, four!"

A dirty electric growl came to life as their hooves crashed against the strings, accompanied by the hollow banging and clanging of Ullster's cheap drum set. The other three shuffled about aimlessly while banging their heads a little, trying to both practice "putting on a show" and not messing up too many notes at the same time. Meanwhile, their drummer had to resist the urge to use the only cymbal in his entire set, since every blow he landed so far had made it topple over.

After struggling through the intro, Hayfeld stepped up to the "microphone," which was just a half-broken music stand Kirk managed to nick from his old guitar teacher. His voice was inaudible even to himself, let alone the others, but he screamed into it anyway, leading to a barrage of weak and false notes over a fuzzy background noise, all of it packed into a tiny room that was filled to the brim with junk and instruments. It was ugly and near-deafening.

They loved every second of it.

Of course, that did not mean they were oblivious to the problems around them. Their gear was substandard, to say the least, and they had a long way to go before anyone would take them seriously as musicians. But before despair could even try to creep up on them, they could instantly comfort themselves with one thought: they managed to book a gig for the following night.

-----

The Whisky was looking forward to another good night.

Well, at least I hope that's what it's going to be, Hayfeld thought. One quick peek from behind the stage and another sip from the bottle, however, quickly dispersed all of his fears.

Right after the "audition," Ullster arranged a meeting with a friend of his to announce that they now had a full band. He returned from the meeting with more than just good news: the date of a concert that was scheduled for the end of the month, and a name for their band.

"'Metallicolt'?" Hayfeld asked

"Yeah!" his friend replied.

"Hmm... Not bad, I suppose," Hayfeld muttered. "It is 'heavy metal,' after all..." When he asked about the origin of the idea, however, Ullster only responded with some awkward mumbling. The gray colt raised an eyebrow, but did not decide to prod him any further.

By next Friday, the rest of the band received the good news. Their excitement could barely be contained, since it gave them all the motivation they needed to stick together and play every single week. In fact, the day before the concert, they even decided to celebrate after practice.

In retrospect, Hayfeld thought that might have been a bad idea.

It was noon by the time they were all awake. Despite the heat and the horrible stench that lingered inside, they spent more than an hour lying motionless right where they woke up, feeling so sick that they actually considered not leaving the house that day, first show or not.

The heat soon became unbearable, however, and one of them suggested they might get beer tickets after the show, so with a great deal of effort they finally managed to extract themselves from the confines of the apartment. They arrived at The Whisky half an hour later, where they were greeted by the overly cheerful owner of the place, whose wide smile did not betray his disgust at their nauseating sight.

All four of them fought the urge to throw up or scream from their throbbing headaches as they set up their gear on stage. The club's gear, that is, since the management was kind enough to lend it to them. Once they were finished and did a quick sound check, they noticed that the bar offered a generous discount on every beverage until 8:00 PM and decided there was no better cure for a hangover than "a good drink."

Hayfeld was having issues with walking in a straight line by the time the first ponies showed up. They invited nearly all of their friends from school and from work in the hope that former classmates and colleagues would still stick together. A surprisingly large amount did show up, and before the band knew it, well over a hundred ponies stood before the stage, all eagerly awaiting the "great show" they have been promised all week by their respective long-maned friends.

At the sides of the stage, the four stallions peeked out from behind the curtains from time to time. Despite their long lost sobriety, they could barely express how the sight of such a crowd made them feel. Then, shortly after 9:00 PM, they held their breath as a member of the club's staff trotted forward and spoke into the microphone at the front of the stage.

"Fillies and gentlecolts! Boys and girls! Young and old! Sober and uneasy! Drunk and weary! So glad to see you all here! Welcome to a night of honest to goddesses rock and roll! The Whisky A Go Go is proud to present: Metallicolt!"

The crowd cheered, stomping their hooves wildly as four young colts awkwardly marched forth. Their hearts pounded as they grabbed their instruments and took their respective positions on stage. After a bit of fumbling around and making sure everything was able to make noise, Hayfeld stumbled up to the microphone, eager to get the show going.

"Hey, everypony!" he screamed. The lights were burning into his eyes, which made it impossible to see anything clearly beyond where the stage ended before his hooves. A couple of stomps and whistles came from the dark void before them. It was hardly the "beast-like roar" from his dreams.

He felt like he needed to say something. "We're, uh... Metallicolt, and uhh... this is our very first show. So, uh... let's have a good night, huh?"

The chamber was silent. Only the echoes from the speakers and the buzz of the amplifiers responded to him.

Whatever... fuck 'em! Fuck it all! he thought and turned back to the others with a grin. Maybe this will get them going...

Ullster grinned back and began smashing his sticks together above his head, which set the tempo for their first song.

His forehoof crashed onto the steel strings. A loud roar burst forth from the amplifiers behind him and rushed past him like a sudden gust of wind. He imagined it blowing their audience right off its hooves. With a wild grin, he gave himself over to the rush the intro was pumping into him, then threw his head forward as he ripped out the main riff.

YEEEEAAAAAAAAAHHH! AWWW YEAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!

All four heads bounced up and down in unison as the song exploded from the stage. Its energy coursed through his veins like electricity. Hayfeld just could not get enough of it. Just before the first verse, he quickly glanced at the others again to see how they were doing. Ullster banged away, while Hesher threw his head all around. Kirk, on the other hand, was apparently messing around with his guitar and cursing.

Did he just break a string? he thought and tried to hold back the urge to laugh in his delirious state. Well... fuck it!

Too pumped up to let anything hold him back, he took a deep breath.

No life 'till leather
We're gonna kick some ass toni-iiight! Yeah!

Through the roar now consuming his entire body, he could faintly hear the whine of an electric guitar.

Looks like he managed to fix the string problem.

There was no way for them to tell how the audience was reacting, though. Then again, he found that he no longer cared either. He did not even care if he was playing the right notes at all. He just wanted to keep going.

Just keep going!

Guitar!

Solo number two. He quickly spat off the stage to get rid of all the saliva channeled up to his teeth. He did not care if he might have managed to hit anypony.

This is it, he thought. This is what I've been waiting for my entire life.

As they played the final bridge section, Hayfeld could barely stand up straight. The whole world was spinning, and every shape around him that he could still see turned into a blurry mess. While struggling to stay together with the others, Hayfeld could hear Kirk start the extended solo, so his headbanging sped up to an even more dizzying pace.

From that point on, the rest of the show faded into a drunken haze.

Author's Notes:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ALehqkvxh7g

(Props to the brony that made this PMV, especially for not using that "Rainbow Dash playing guitar" thing I keep seeing all the time...)

First of all, a million thanks to solocitizen for taking his time to read through and dissect my mess of a story, and for providing some much needed feedback. Be sure to check out his stuff here: http://www.fimfiction.net/user/solocitizen

Okay, okay, despite my efforts, this chapter turned out to be yet another round of lengthy exposition, but there is some payoff toward the end (I hope). I could have done away with the whole "getting the band together" in just a few paragraphs, but that's what used to ruin these kinds of stories for me, so I wanted to focus on the details. Trust me, they aren't irrelevant.

Also, as some of you might have noticed, I managed to create some cover art for this story. Yeah, I know... it's a piece of shit. I threw it together in Photoshop while I was supposed to be doing something else entirely. I might commission a better one from someone later, though...

To any offended fans of Mötley Crüe: I have nothing against them. Thrash Metal, on the other hand, is said to have grown out of groups opposed to the whole glam scene, so I wanted to add some kind of reference.

MLP, and the music of Greg Howe, Jimi Hendrix, The Beatles, Mötley Crüe, Black Sabbath, ZZ Top and Metallica are the properties of their respectful owners.