Psychedelica – Pastel Ponies
A pony story by Joseph Raszagal
As inspired by stuff best kept away from children
Chapter Eight – Purging the Poison Through Sweat and an Honest Day's Work

This chapter is in canon with another story of mine, "Unconventional Family Trees". It's recommended that you read it, but it's not strictly necessary, yo. Don't let The Man bring you down and tell you what to read!

The brisk morning wind made my coat bristle as it swept around me, the reds and oranges of the falling leaves a telltale sign that autumn was giving summer the seasonal boot. Luckily, my leather duster made for a great guard against the elements and with it draped across my back I was able to shrug off the shivers without much effort.

Shortly before leaving for Canterlot, Twilight had been kind enough to send the big jacket over to her fashionista friend for some much-needed repairs. It had sustained a few scrapes and scuffs during the chaotic ride from my darkened apartment and was in dire need of some tender love and care.

Now if I were a betting man, my guess would be that it got knocked around by that strangely indestructible XBOX of mine. I'm still a little confused as to how that big, heavy, failed attempt at fighting a format war against blu-ray managed to survive the trip, and a little more confused as to how I survived with that thing flying around my head at breakneck speeds. I mean, have you ever held one of those things? What, did someone at Microsoft finally snap after getting a few too many complaint emails about how fragile the old ones were, so they just threw their hands up into the air out of frustration and yelled, “So they're all fucking pissed because our system can't withstand a fall greater than the width of a toothpick, are they?! Fine then, we'll make this one out of the depleted uranium rods recovered from Chernobyl's No. 4 reactor and we'll see how fucking happy they are when nothing short of God's angry fist can destroy it! Go ahead, assholes, drop it on your foot, it'll be denser and heavier than the heart of a dying star in the seconds before that shit goes supernova!”

Sometime after that, probably midway into the mandatory villainous laughter, he'll have been thrown into an insane asylum and lobotomized for attempting to make weapons of mass destruction out of video game consol~

…

…

…

Fuck, I'm rambling again, aren't I?

Heh, sorry 'bout that. When it happens, it happens.

Anyway... uh, where was I?

So, yeah, I've worn a beat-up jacket before. I'll even go as far as to say that I've taken great pride in how bruised and battered some of my favorite articles of clothing have been in the past. A scrape here and there gives 'em character, kinda like battlescars. The only difference, of course, being that these scars were earned at parties with lots of low-shelf vodka rather than on battlefields with lots of active grenades. And, really, that's not a big deal to me. Some of my favorite shirts, most of which were sadly left behind in my dresser, had holes in them the size of beer cans. I wore them like badges of honor, remembering that each rip and stain had been something along the lines of a particularly messy plate of hot wings, a long night of playing paintball while losing my mind on magic mushrooms, or any number of skateboarding attempts (“attempt” being the key word there).

Rips and tears in my daily dress have never been a problem with me. More importantly, however, was the issue of refitting.

How to put this... Humans and ponies don't exactly have the same anatomy and to say that my duster had fit me a little awkwardly after my transformation would be an understatement. It looked more like someone had tried to drape me in the leather seat-cover out of an old, pimped-out, 80s muscle car.

To her credit, while Rarity apparently found my sense of style to be “dreadfully lacking in fabulosity” (so much so that she also claimed it “breached on being a crime against fabulousness as a whole”), she had nonetheless taken my ratty leather rag and not only refitted it for me, but made it positively shine again.

Seriously, the thing looked brand-fucking-new.

She'd even personalized it a bit and sewn a patch onto the back, emblazoning it with a combination of our two Cutie Marks; playing cards and glittery diamonds.

Now, and this is just me speculating here, but given the importance and significance that their Cutie Marks seem to hold for most ponies, adding that finishing flair had to mean something to her, right? I mean, could she really hate a project that she'd put her own mark onto? I'm not so sure, but whatever. In the end, while the fashionista herself still claimed she wasn't satisfied with her work, I happened to think it looked pretty friggin' badass and I appreciated the (assumed) sentiment.

I told Twilight to pass the compliment along.

But, unfortunately, while the weather was perfect for long sleeves and a nice stroll, it became increasingly more clear to me as I approached the Apple Family's homestead that I'd be doing much more than enjoying a lazy walk through the orchards.

Looking around through sleepy, half-lidded eyes, I took notice of the trees surrounding me from absolutely every direction. Every single one of them bore fruit ready and waiting to be picked.

It looked both beautiful and daunting at the same time, kind of like the prospect of a long day spent doing the sort of hard work that's just too rewarding to really mind doing, but you just know your muscles are gonna scream at you when you wake up as creaky as an old battleship the next day.

With that in mind and no nurtured desire to run the risk a heat stroke, I shrugged out of my new-ified duster, focusing just enough of my fledgeling magic to help tug the sleeves off of my forelegs. It wasn't an easy process and I may have fallen down a couple of times... or more, but after a minute or so I managed to brush myself off. Feeling a bit foolish, I climbed the set of wooden steps leading up to the farmhouse's porch and set the jacket down on an unoccupied rocking chair.

It was then that a bout of muffled laughter, soft but deeply resonating, told me that someone standing just behind me had witnessed the less-than-dignifying ordeal.

Ugh, isn't it great when you look like an idiot in front of an audience?

Red-cheeked, I pivoted on my rear legs to face them.

Standing there, smiling serenely, was what looked to be a zebra decorated in a great many golden hoops.

Alright... perhaps not quite who or what I had been expecting, but heck, if there's ponies and dragons, then why the fuck can't there be zebras too?

“So, you are young Twilight's charge?” she mused, tilting her head. “Applejack and I were expecting a worker more large.”

So, everybody's expectations were a little off-target, huh?

…

Hey, wait a minute!

Stumbling over my words for a moment, my pride as a not-so-big guy somewhat wounded, I stomped a hoof down and stammered, “J-just because I'm not a tower of sinewy muscle doesn't mean I can't pick an apple just as good as the next guy, lady!”

Still laughing, the zebra shook her head and replied, “No need to be defensive, my flustered young friend. T'was only a joke, I am sure you'll do fine in the end.”

“I will!” I declared, sticking a triumphant hoof up in the air.

It... took me a second or two to realize just how silly I must have looked.

Putting my saluting hoof back down, I dug at the ground out of embarrassment for a moment, carefully mulling over my thoughts before daring to resume the conversation.

Social anxiety? Check.

“So, uh, I don't really know who I'm looking for here,” I began, lifting my gaze from the ground to meet the zebra's teal eyes. “You wouldn't happen to be the matriarch of this farm, would you?”

Shaking her head, she outstretched a foreleg in friendship and answered, “Zecora is my name, my dear, and I do believe that Applejack is the one you seek here.”

Clopping her extended hoof with my own, I soon found my embarrassment overcome by my present company's infectious smile.

“Well, then,” I stated, regaining my steam along with the smile, “it's nice to meet you, Zecora. And yeah, Applejack's the one I'm looking for. She'll be the one to put me to work, yeah?”

“Indeed she will,” Zecora confirmed with a knowing wink, “perhaps well past the point you've had your fill.”

Smirking, I retorted, “Hey, I said I'd bust my chops out here and I will. A bit of labor won't scare me off.”

“Heh, that's good, because AJ'll be out in a second,” came a much different, much cockier voice from somewhere up above me.

Rolling her eyes, my new zebra acquaintance let loose a grin of her own and commented, “Gilda, shouldn't you be in the southern fields by now? We both know they'll have to get picked somehow.”

“Couldn't help it, Z,” came the voice again, decidedly female but brusque enough to make me wonder. “May not be the most appreciated pastime out there, but you know how much I love eavesdropping.”

Dropping down from the sky like a hawk was, well, something that sort of resembled a hawk.

The rest of her, though, I wasn't quite so sure about.

“This the guy that the Egghead told us about?” she asked, lifting a claw to brush aside a few stray feathers from her amber peripherals. “I'll admit, judging by how he's just standing there gawking at me, I can tell he's from out of town.”

“Heh, yeah, out of town,” I chuckled. “That's putting it mildly.”

“Guess you've never seen a griffon before, huh?”

“Nope, not-a once.”

“Wow, you must be from pretty far out in the boonies then.”

“You could say that, yes.”

It didn't help that Zecora burst into another bout of mirthful laughter midway into the conversation. I'm guessing that she knew a bit more about my situation than her feathered friend.

“So, it's Gilda, right?” I asked, outstretching my hoof in greeting again.

Rather than shake my hoof, which with claws she was more than capable of doing, the griffon bumped knuckles instead.

I liked her already.

“That's my name,” she replied as she stretched her wings, “don't wear it out.”

“Oh, he won't have time to,” remarked a husky third voice, the words accented by a southern drawl. “He'll be too busy workin' up a sweat, just like ya'll should be.”

Leaning out through the house's suddenly open front door, an orange pony sporting blonde ponytails (which I'm assuming counts as a pun even if unintended) and a cowboy hat grinned at the three of us.

“Crap,” muttered Gilda just seconds before she took off into the air. From high in the sky, she turned and shouted, “Talk to ya later, dude!”

With a courteous bow, Zecora bid me farewell as well, “And I must also take my leave. There are herbs in the forest that I still need to retrieve.”

Closing the door behind her, Applejack trotted down the steps and went to stand by the zebra's side, offering her an affectionate nuzzle.

“Ah'll send Apple Bloom after ya, alright?”

Nuzzling the southern pony back, Zecora nodded and galloped away without another word.

It was then that my host turned to face me... with a glare sharp enough to cut a diamond.

Don't you just hate it when things don't go according to plan?

That was the thought going through my mind as Applejack paced back and forth in front of me like a drill sergeant searching for signs of weakness. Her severe expression spoke volumes and I was pretty sure that it was a series of novels I really didn't want to read.

“So, Twilight told ya Ah'd work ya in the orchards, huh?” she remarked as she tipped her stetson and scrutinized me through narrowed eyes. “Ya look like a strong enough buck, so Ah guess Ah could use ya.”

“I'll try my hardest, Appleja~

“That's MISS Applejack to you!” the orange earth pony barked as she stomped a hoof, startling me and sending me skittering backwards onto my rump. “Ah heard them things you were callin' Twilight while y'all were recoverin' in the library, ya know. Twi may have forgiven ya, but Ah'm a mite bit stubborn. Ah don't take too kindly to anypony insultin' mah friends, their situation notwithstandin'. If'n y'all expect to be forgiven, then Ah expect to see ya work up a sweat, got that?”

She didn't take too kindly to my stunned silence either.

“That wasn't rhetorical, so Ah'll repeat mahself,” she stated, closing the distance between us to loom over me. “Got that?”

Gulping audibly, I took a step forward and answered, “Y-yes ma'am, Miss Applejack, ma'am!”

Looking thoroughly unconvinced (which, considering my drill sergeant comparison, shouldn't have surprised me as much as it did), she grunted and made an about-face, motioning with one hoof for me to follow.

I had a distinct feeling that “work” wasn't the word that Applejack had in mind for me. “Toil” was probably a lot more accurate.

“Me and my big, stupid mouth,” I grumbled under my breath. “Why can't I ever say anything nice when I'm in withdrawal?”

To be continued in Chapter Nine – Dinner for Six...