Psychedelica – Pastel Ponies
A pony story by Joseph Raszagal
As inspired by stuff best kept away from children
Chapter One – Jaded Cynicism Vs. Saccharine Sweetness

Do you know where being the smartest kid in class gets you if you don't have the money or resources to follow high school with college? A job as a gas station attendant in Dayton, Kentucky and enough heroin to kill a bull elephant.

Life's a bitch sometimes.

Track team didn't get me anywhere either. I made it to state twice but came up short both times. Pretty humiliating, all in all, at the very least enough to ward away all the scholarship recruiters.

Tossing my credit card down onto the table, I fished a bag of off-white gravel out of my pocket and proceeded to crunch it up between my fingers. Sufficiently powdered, I poured two lines of it onto the table, scraped them nice and neat with the card, then snorted them through a straw made out of a tightly rolled 20 dollar bill.

Houston, we have liftoff.

Well, heroin being heroin, I suppose liftdown would be more accurate, but that's if we're nitpicking.

Are we nitpicking?

Next up was the vicodin. My tea tamp powdered two pills quickly and, using that, I drew a nice line across a nearby copy of Colonel Sassacre's Daunting Text of Magical Frivolity and Practical Japery. Re-rolling the 20, I shrugged my shoulders and snorted that as well.

Andrew Jackson, you were a bastard, but just this once I guess I'll salute you.

Lastly, I cracked open a Pabst Blue Ribbon. Hey, I'm cheap, not a hipster. Don't look at me like that.

Sitting down in my designated seat, my saggy argyle couch, I scanned the table in front of me and took inventory of the items covering it:

Checklist? Check.

Awful, horse urine beer? Check.

Suicide Note? Check.

Double-checked and revised last will and testament? Check.

Rope? Check.

Vinyl copy of Bak'en'al by Mischief Brew? Check.

Entire stash of drugs and digital camera for GG Allin style, post-mortem pictures? Check.

Turning around for a moment, I gave myself one final appraisal in the body-length mirror spanning the inside of my closet door. Bony and lanky, sure, but I'd at least had the good sense to dress myself up nicely for the occasion. I'd combed my long blonde hair and pulled it back into a modest ponytail, out of the way of my baby blues. My black suit and black tie, freshly laundered a day earlier, practically shined.

Smiling in spite of everything, I nodded in satisfaction and set about the task of tying a noose and hanging the rope from the ceiling. Stealing a quick chuckle at the thought of spinning around the room while tied to the fan, I wrapped everything up in minutes and soon found myself dicking around with my temperamental record player.

Not unlike an old car, it needs to be coaxed to life with a couple of decent smacks before it's going to function properly.

After a shake and a few idle threats (which may or may not have involved a framing hammer), Erik Petersen's scratchy voice drifted through my speakers, an acoustic guitar hot on his trail.

Standing up on top of a folding steel chair, I placed the noose around my neck and took a deep breath.

The Protomen poster I'd stolen from their show at the Madison Theater gleamed in my room's dim fluorescence, Doctor Light crouched broken on the ground as Wiley's evil empire climbed high into the sky around him.

I know the feeling, man.

I took another deep breath and shifted my weight from foot to foot, stalling.

Last chance.

This is what I want, right?

Yeah, this is what I want.

“Hope they play Mustard Plug and Reel Big Fish at the funeral,” I smirked to nobody in particular. “No one can cry to that.”

Jeremy Robin, failure extraordinaire, signing off.

With a hard slam from my right heel, I kicked the chair out from under me and dropped like a stone.

…

…

…

…

…

“What?” I mused aloud, more than a little confused.

Curiously, I found that I was suspended in midair with an inexplicable golden aura surrounding me. Every twist, turn, and glance over my shoulder sent me spinning in uncontrollable circles.

“The fuck?” I commented as I scratched my head and tried to get my bearings straight while floating. “Am I... am I dead already?”

After a few more seconds spent puzzling over my odd predicament, I smacked myself in the forehead with my palm as the obvious dawned on me.

Reaching up, I tugged on the rope. My hands, just as solid as they've ever been, were greeted by a rough and fibery texture and didn't pass through it.

“Well, I'm not a ghost,” I stated, rubbing my chin in concentration. “At least I don't think I'm a ghost.”

Gripping the rope firmly with both hands, I swung myself around and braced my feet against the ceiling, effectively standing upside-down.

“And the Strangeness Train just keeps on rolli~

Rudely interrupted before I could finish my thought, and audible slice from an unknown source cleaved the rope into two pieces. The noose went slack around my neck, resembling a low budget collar and leash, while the rest remained affixed to the ceiling.

Admiring my new necktie with raised eyebrows, I questioned the empty room, “Okay, I give. Please, somebody, what the Hell is going on?”

Answering me, the soft light surrounding my body winked out and the floor came rushing up to greet me.

Hard.

The nightstand next to my bed shook as I hit the oak floor and sent my trick handkerchief, some Houdini handcuffs, and a deck of cards tumbling down to join me. One of the jokers landed on my nose.

“Har har, universe,” I grumbled. “Now quit it and lemme kill myself in peace!”

“I'd really rather not,” came a soft but commanding voice.

My eyes went wide and my jaw dropped as a white unicorn with wings and an aurora borealis mane and tail stepped out of the darkness of what I had only seconds ago assumed was my empty closet.

Now, however, I wasn't so sure.

“E-excuse me?” I stammered, a bit out of my depth when it comes to having conversations with mythological creatures.

“I'd really rather you didn't kill yourself,” it repeated with a knicker, its wings rustling.

Despite Maxwell's silver hammer's best efforts, my heart thundered into overdrive from the adrenaline rush granted by the combination of not-dying, levitating, falling flat on my face, and speaking with a winged horse. Licking my lips, I pushed myself up off of the floor and brushed the dust off of my pants.

Eying the unicorn-pegasus-thing warily, I asked, “Well, thanks, that's nice to know... but who are you?”

Outstretching a hoof, it replied, “Princess Celestia of Equestria. Your plight came to me in a vision while I was meditating over a cup of tea in my contemplation tower.”

A princess? A horse princess?

Maybe the heroin was hitting me harder than I thought.

Stepping forward, close enough to touch me, it wrapped its wings around me like a blanket and, much to my surprise, turned back to face my closet and shouted, “Luna! Cadance! Now!”

Which is approximately when all Hell broke loose.

Like a vacuum, hurricane force winds devoured everything in my room, the closet door itself no exception.

I won't lie to you, alright? It had been a pretty crazy day. I'd finally worked up the nerve to do the deed, went and bought everything that I needed to get it done right, then took the leap... and then survived, came face to face with some kind of magical creature, and got eaten by a whirling funnel of wind emanating from my own storage space.

What I'm getting at is, well, I blacked out.

Can you blame me?

To be continued in Chapter Two – Strange Second Chances...