The bag-thrower-upper guy tossed a huge suitcase that clanked with every sudden jerk. I frowned and held back the urge to run at him like a savage beast and root through my bag to make sure my customs were alright. And I had good reason, too.

I never get any money from my middle class mom and step-dad, but I do from my freaking POOR dad. Sense? I think not. Oh, and the customs? I commission them over deviantART for other bronies. Some of 'em were willing to pay big bucks for those little dolls. Granted, some of them were tougher, like the Fausticorn