all boys should help other boys out by getting on their knees. together we can make the world a better place

1: The Grassy Knoll

My head was pounding. There was a smell of wild grass and flowers. Dew was soaking into my jumpsuit. I opened my eyes and squinted into bright sunlight.

Sunlight?

The last thing I could remember was the house I was fumigating. I had been tracking blatella germanica, the German cockroach, one of the most cunning creatures known to man. For hours our game of cat and roach had gone on, until finally I had the bastard cornered in the cellar. We faced off. I remember he'd waved his antennae in defiance, mocking me to the last. I admired his courage. I pulled the trigger of my spray wand and let him have it. Poison spewed forth, a thick miasma of toxic death, slowly filling up the basement. I could remember my head swimming, it had been getting harder to think straight. I'd turned to the side…I remembered seeing my reflection in a mirror…

My head throbbed again. The poison. That had to be it. I must have passed out from the fumes. It's happened before. Damn crafty roaches, always hiding in unventilated basements.

How did I get outside, though?

I sat up groggily. I was alone on a grassy knoll. Gentle hills rolling off in all directions, covered in wild grasses and flowers. There was no sign of the house, or of civilization of any kind. The sky was a deep blue, without the usual haze of pollution. This didn't look like any part of Arlen I'd ever seen.

I must be miles out in the country. Where am I? How did I get here?

I felt a chill run down my spine. What if it hadn't been an accident? What if that basement had been left unventilated on purpose? Whoever did this must have waited until I'd passed out, and then dragged me out to this meadow and left me for dead.

"The question is who," I said aloud. "And why?"

Was the roach behind it? No, that couldn't be. Blatella germanica was crafty to be sure, but not crafty enough to pull off something like this. Plus, there was the size difference. No, whoever did this had to be large enough and strong enough to carry a full-grown man. But what if the cockroach had an accomplice?

"Yes, it all makes sense…" I mused.

The roach's job had been to create a diversion. He would lure me down to the basement, where I would have no choice but to use poison. His partner would have sealed up the windows in advance. Then, when I'd passed out from the fumes–

I rose slowly to my feet, and took a closer look at my surroundings. The terrain was completely unfamiliar; as far as I could tell, I was in the middle of nowhere. I might have left Texas entirely. Somebody had wanted to get me out of the way, that much was certain, and they had gone to a lot of trouble to do it.

"So the real question is: who stands to gain from my disappearance?"

The Federal government was the obvious answer. Maybe a little too obvious. They had to know that I was getting close, but this was a bold move even for them. There had to be other parties involved.

I reached into the pocket of my jumpsuit, and frowned.

That's odd. Where are my smokes?

I felt in the other pockets. Nothing. I'd bought a whole carton the other day, and I knew for certain I'd had at least half a pack on me when I entered the house.

I felt my stomach tighten. The situation was even more dire than I'd thought. The Federal government, in collaboration with a roach and possibly other unknown parties, had conspired to maroon me in an unknown location without smokes. I could feel the early onset of panic: sweat breaking out on my forehead… heart palpitations… tunnel vision…

Calm down Gribble, you're trained for this…

I began to perform an ancient Indian breathing technique I'd learned from my friend John Redcorn. Deep breaths, in and out, in and out. In and out. Over and over again. John Redcorn said he used that technique on my wife all the time, and it always calmed her down. In and out. In and out. Slowly, steadily, I brought myself back from the precipice.

I stared out at the landscape once again. It was a warm, quiet afternoon. A light breeze carried the scent of wildflowers and far-off pine trees. It was a nice place here, quiet and tranquil. And yet, somewhere out there lurked a malevolent entity, an entity that had brought me to this place for some foul purpose, and deprived me of my smokes…

"Show yourself, you coward!!" I shouted, shaking my fist at the air.

"Uh…are you talking to me?"

I wheeled around at the sound of a young, feminine voice. I must still have been woozy from the poison, otherwise nobody could have gotten the drop on Dale Alvin Gribble. I looked around in confusion for the source of the voice, but could find no one. Was this some kind of telepathy? Were the government agents speaking directly into my mind?

"Uhhhh…hello?"

The voice came again. This time I looked down. I noticed a tiny white horse standing in the grass, looking up at me with a confused expression.

She was the strangest-looking horse I'd ever seen. On all four legs she barely stood as high as my knee. Her coat was white, but her mane and tail were pink and purple, done up in flowing curls. For some reason, looking at her made me think of a marshmallow. A small white horn protruded from the center of her forehead, possibly of alien origin.

She stared up at me, her enormous green eyes curious but unafraid. I stared back. Several uncomfortable seconds passed.

"Uh, my name's Sweetie Belle," she said finally. "What's yours?"

So, the horse can speak English. Interesting…

The horse was an extraterrestrial; there was no doubt about that much. Could she have been involved in my abduction? Looking at her, it seemed unlikely. But if there's one thing I've learned from my years as a professional bounty hunter, it's that you should never turn your back on a talking horse. Suddenly, I realized that she'd just asked me a question.

"My name is–"

I cut myself off. Until I knew more about what was happening, I needed to keep my true identity a secret.

"Shackleford. Rusty."

The little horse raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"Shackleford? That's kind of a weird name."

She trotted a small circle around me, looking me up and down. Either she'd never seen an Earth man before, or she was looking for a place to implant a microchip. Or possibly a probe. Until I knew which it was, it was best to be on my guard.

"You don't look like a pony," she continued. "What are you exactly?"

So, she's a pony eh? Interesting…

"The pony is a subspecies of the equine," I mused out loud, stroking my chin. "Known for its diminuitve stature."

"Uh… yeah."

This exchange was followed by a long bit of awkward silence. I continued to stroke my chin and muse. A pony. I was pretty certain that ponies couldn't talk. At least… not on Earth. Could the same type of creature have evolved simultaneously on an alien world, and learned to speak English somehow?

The rabbit hole just keeps getting deeper and deeper…

Instinctively, I reached into my jumpsuit pocket, then remembered that my smokes were gone. I felt that twinge of anxiety creeping up on me again. If I didn't get some nicotine soon, this could go south fast…

I realized the pony was still watching me.

"Say, uh… Sweetie Belle, was it?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you know where I could buy some smokes around here?"

She wrinkled her nose in confusion.

"Smokes?"

"Yeah, you know, puff puff?" I held two fingers to my lips and pantomimed smoking a cigarette.

The horse stared blankly back at me.

"Cigarettes? Manitoba?"

I made the pantomime smoking gesture again. Sweetie Belle cocked her head to one side and raised an eyebrow.

"You're really weird," she said.

She glanced over her shoulder. For the first time, I noticed the outline of a few buildings in the distance. There must be some kind of civilization nearby.

"Somepony in town might know what you're talking about," Sweetie Belle continued. "Do you live near Ponyville?"

Now it was my turn to raise an eyebrow.

"Ponyville?"

I couldn't say I'd ever heard of the place. I knew there was a petting zoo in McMaynerbury called Ponyland, but somehow I didn't think that's what she was talking about.

"Is that anywhere near Arlen?" I asked carefully.

"Arlen? Um, I'm not sure. I don't think I know where that is."

"Arlen, Texas?"

"Texas? Is that in Equestria?"

"Equestria?"

Slowly, it began to dawn on me that I might be even further from home than I'd first thought. Maybe even as far as Oklahoma.

"I think… I may be lost," I said, slowly and carefully.

Sweetie Belle's face brightened.

"Oh, well, that's okay! I didn't think you looked like you were from around here. I can show you the way to Ponyville, if you want."

I gave the little pony one last suspicious appraisal, and decided to trust her for the time being.

"Alright," I said.

"Come on," she continued. "We'll go back to my clubhouse first. My friends might know about… what was that thing you wanted again?"

"Smokes?" I asked hopefully.

"Yeah, that. Anyway, my friends might know where you could find some."

"Okey dokey."

The little pony turned and trotted off through the grass, and I fell into step behind her.

2: Planet of the Ponies

Gribble's Log
Date: Unknown
Location: Unknown
Time: Approximately 1600 hours

With each passing moment, my situation grows more dire. I have decided to keep a journal to record my thoughts. If you are reading this, I have no doubt been taken prisoner and/or killed. Please deliver this notebook to the Arlen Gun Club so that they may record my exploits for posterity, or failing that, to Mr. Hank R. Hill of Rainy Street. Arlen, TX. Earth. Milky Way Galaxy.

If you are an agent of the United States government, this journal is not about anything important. Please disregard everything it contains.

It has now been nearly 60 minutes since my last smoke. Already I can feel the madness taking hold. Soon I will be incapacitated beyond rational thought. It is only due to my extensive training as a licensed professional bounty hunter that I have managed to so far remain calm.

The small equine creature that greeted me has taken me back to her lair, a crudely constructed treehouse, where I was introduced to two creatures of the same species. The little yellow one calls herself "Apple Bloom," and her friend is "Scootaloo." The possibility that these may be assigned codenames has not escaped me.

I am a stranger in a strange land. I have seen no familiar landmarks, and no sign of human activity. My current location is unknown, though I now believe that I have left Earth entirely. Alien abduction is the most likely explanation, though I shouldn't rule out CIA wormhole technology.

Fortunately, my training allows me to project the appearance of perfect nonchalance. I don't think my tiny horse companions suspect that anything is amiss…

"What's he writin' about?" one of the little ponies, the one called Apple Bloom, whispered to Sweetie Belle. Sweetie shrugged helplessly.

"I don't know," she whispered back. "It looks important, though."

I ignored them both and continued scribbling furiously into my notebook. I could feel the early stages of nicotine madness coming on, and I knew I didn't have much time. Wherever I was, I knew that I might not make it out of this alive. I had to record my thoughts and observations while I still could.

"He's sweating an awful lot," observed a third pony, the little orange one with wings. Scootaloo. Sweetie Belle said nothing, but kept watching me with a concerned expression on her face.

"Uh, Mr. Rusty?" said Apple Bloom hesitantly. "Are you okay?"

I glared suspiciously at the three ponies for a moment, cupped a hand over the page so they couldn't read it, and continued scribbling:

These pony creatures resemble no form of extraterrestrial life with which I am familiar, and other than lost time, I have experienced no phenomena consistent with abduction. Also unusual is that these "ponies" have mastered the English language, and seem to possess technology similar to ours.

My hands were beginning to twitch uncontrollably; it was all I could do to keep my pen straight. I could feel a familiar queasiness in my stomach. My head was swimming. I noticed that Scootaloo was watching my movements closely. I felt the cold icy fingers of paranoia creeping up my spine. What was it about this one that was bothering me?

Suddenly, I remembered something I'd noticed earlier, and wrote hastily in my journal:

Observed that "Scootaloo" arrived at the treehouse on a scooter similar to the kind an Earth child might use. She was also wearing a crash helmet. Why would a race of four-legged creatures develop a mode of transport that would be so incredibly awkward for them to use? Why would a pony with wings need to use a scooter to get around in the first place? How did she get that helmet on? How did she get it off? I have more questions than answers.

Have I truly left Earth, as I suspect? Or have I traveled through time to some grim distant future, in which hyper-evolved ponies have risen up and slain their former masters?

Or, what if it's even simpler than that? What if I never left Arlen, but instead Arlen was invaded and rapidly terraformed by invaders from some far-off Planet of the Ponies?

The dizziness and nausea were getting worse. It was getting harder and harder to think. My hand was by now shaking uncontrollably, and I realized that writing was a wasted effort. I stuffed the notebook and pencil back into the pocket of my exterminator jumpsuit.

"Uh…Mr. Rusty?"

Sweetie Belle was watching me with concern. The little treehouse felt hot and stifling. I took off my baseball cap and wiped my brow; my hand came back soaked with sweat. I didn't have much time.

"Smokes…" I croaked out, my voice barely audible.

"Huh?" asked Scootaloo, wrinkling her brow in confusion.

"SMOKES!!"

I had meant that to be a sentence. It came out more like a girlish shriek. The three ponies stepped back in alarm.

"Wow, he looks really sick," Scootaloo remarked.

"Yeah…" Sweetie Belle sounded worried. "He's been talking about something called 'smokes' an awful lot. Do either of you know what those are?"

Apple Bloom and Scootaloo shook their heads.

I tried to swallow, but my mouth was dry. Things were looking bad. The three ponies had picked up on my weakness. If they were hostile, they could pounce at any second. In any event, it was clear that they didn't have any smokes.

I decided to make a break for the door. I stood up, doing my best to appear nonchalant. Unfortunately, I stood up too fast; my coordination was off. Also, I had forgotten I was in a treehouse built for very small ponies. My head slammed against the ceiling, and I collapsed backward through the door.

I tumbled head over heels and out into empty space. Suddenly, I was rolling down a flight of stairs. I saw blue sky above me, and then wood, then blue sky, then wood; over and over. Occasionally I caught glimpses of a treehouse getting further and further away.

The back of my head connected with a rock or something as I hit the ground. Through my blurred vision I could see the heads of the three ponies poking out over the edge of the treehouse entrance.

"Uh, maybe we should get my sister."

Apple Bloom's voice floated through a fog of confusion as I struggled to maintain consciousness. Dimly I wondered who this "sister" might be. Had this been their plan all along? Now that they'd successfully incapacitated me with nicotine withdrawal, would the alien queen harvest my organs? Was this how the story of Dale Gribble was going to end?

I reached for my emergency cyanide pill, but then I remembered it was with my smokes. Then, I remembered that I didn't actually have an emergency cyanide pill. I had tried to order one, but there was some kind of problem with the international shipping. Damned internet.

Just my luck, isn't it?

My vision went black, and I remembered no more.

3: They Live

When I came to, I was lying in a strange bed.

I didn't recognize the room, but it was definitely a human dwelling. There was no one else around. My head was still swimming. Disjointed images flickered rapidly through my head. Ponies. Flying saucers. Cockroaches as big as your fist.

The nicotine fit had unfortunately not subsided. I was sweating and experiencing mild convulsions. However, as far as I could tell, there was no sign of the three ponies or the treehouse.

"Was it a dream?" I wondered out loud.

I blinked and took another look at my surroundings. The place definitely had a rustic feel. The walls, floor and ceiling were all made out of wood, making the room feel more like the inside of a barn than a house. Everything had a weird "apple" motif to it. However, the furniture was definitely made for humans.

My mind was still hazy, but I tried to remember the details of the house I'd been fumigating. It was a place in East Arlen; the owner's name was Mrs. Rackley I think.

"Maybe she found me after I passed out and carried me upstairs," I mused.

Yeah, that made sense. This was probably the attic or something. I must have passed out from the poison, and the owner of the house came home and carried me up to a spare bedroom. All that stuff about ponies must have just been a gas-induced nightmare.

"Hah!" I laughed out loud. "Ponies riding scooters, building treehouses… I'd have to be crazy to believe something like that! Wait until the guys in the alley hear about this…"

I struggled into a sitting position and pushed back the thick quilt that someone had placed on top of me. I was still wearing my Dale's Dead Bug jumpsuit. I reached into the pocket for my smokes, but found it was empty.

Dang, looks like that part wasn't a dream.

My hat and glasses were on a side table.

"Maybe Mrs. Rackley has some smokes," I muttered as I rummaged around in the table's little drawer. No such luck it would seem. Oh well, I'd just have to grab the pack out of the Bugabago.

Before I could climb out of bed, however, I heard footsteps in the hall. Something about them didn't quite sound right. A bit more clippity-clop than I was used to.

If I didn't know better, I'd swear Mrs. Rackley was wearing horseshoes…

Slowly, the door creaked open, and in an instant the horror and paranoia was back. For instead of the haggard face of Mrs. Rackley, I saw a pony poking its head through the opening.

This pony was larger than the other three, but still much smaller than the kind I was used to. She had a blonde mane and her coat was the color of an orange creamsicle. For some reason she was wearing a cowboy hat.

Why would a pony need to wear a cowboy hat?

Something definitely wasn't right here. The pony and I stared at each other for several seconds, neither of us saying anything. Then, slowly, it began to dawn on me.

The house. The bed. The quilt. The hat. None of these things made sense for a pony to own. This wasn't a pony house. This was a people house. Or at least… it had been.

A slow chill ran up my spine. What kind of horror story had I woken up in? But I could no longer deny the evidence that was right in front of my eyes. None of it had been a dream. Arlen had been invaded by hostile, sentient, English-speaking ponies. Probably working with the roach, they had used my own poison gas to get me out of the way, and while I was unconscious… one of them had killed Mrs. Rackley and stolen her hat!

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH THE PEOPLE WHO LIVE HERE?!?" I shouted.

Or at least, that's what I'd meant to say. It came out more like garbled gibberish; somewhere between a cough and a feminine shriek. Reflexively, I grabbed the quilt and pulled it up to shield myself.

The pony gave me a confused look, and then turned to address someone behind her in the hallway.

"Uh, can he talk?" she asked. "Or does he just make noise like that?"

The pony had an accent. She sounded like she came from down South somewhere.

By God, they're learning to mimic us! Clever girl…

"He can talk. Sorta."

One of the three smaller ponies from before, the one called Apple Bloom, trotted into the room, followed by her two friends. She spoke with the same accent, I noticed.

"At least, I've heard him say 'smokes' an awful lot," Apple Bloom added.

The larger one with the hat screwed up her face in confusion.

"Smokes? Now what in the hay is that?"

She approached me and put her face close to mine, looking me over.

"Just what sorta critter are you, anyway?" she asked. "You don't look like no kinda pony I ever seen."

Wait, if she killed Mrs. Rackley, why does it sound like she's never seen humans before?

Damned nicotine fit; I couldn't even think straight. It felt like there was a big piece of the puzzle that I was missing. I tried to climb out of the bed, but my balance was still off.

"My name is Rusty Shackleford," I mumbled. "I am on vacation–"

Somehow, I'd become entangled in the quilt. I lost my balance, and my head clonked against the hard wooden floor. An orange hoof pulled back the quilt, and the hat-wearing pony was now staring down at me, looking confused.

"Whatever he is, he don't seem too bright…"

I tried to stand up and speak, but my body would not obey my commands. I could only lie curled on the floor in a fetal position, twitching pathetically.

"Smooookes…" I croaked in a feeble voice.

The orange pony gave me a long, pitying look and turned once more to the smaller one.

"Wow, he's really sweatin'. Where did y'all say you found him again?"

"He was in the meadow a little ways outside Ponyville," said Sweetie Belle. "He said he was lost."

Sweetie stood with her front hooves on my chest, peering down at me with a worried look. Her breath smelled like sour hay and flowers.

"Is he gonna be okay?" she asked. "I think we really need to get him some smokes, whatever those are."

Apple Bloom trotted over.

"Have any idea what they are, Applejack?"

The big pony, whose name seemed to be Applejack, rubbed a hoof against her chin and stared through the window, lost in thought.

"No, I don't reckon I do," she admitted. "Granny Smith might know, but she and Big Mac went to Baltimare and won't be back for a week."

Her face lit up, and she stomped a hoof decisively against the floor.

"I know! Let's ask Twilight for help! If anypony 'round here would know what 'smokes' are, it'd be her."

The three smaller ponies looked up excitedly.

"Hey, yeah!" exclaimed Sweetie Belle, her hooves digging sharply into my sternum. "That's a great idea! Twilight knows about all kinds of weird stuff!"

"I'll run out and get her," Applejack was saying, as she headed for the door. "It's probably best if we keep him here for now. He looks like he could use some more rest, anyway."

She cast a worried glance over her shoulder.

"Y'all stay here and keep an eye on… uh, what did you say your name was again?"

"Sh-Shackleford. Rusty."

As I croaked out the words, Sweetie Belle suddenly realized she was still standing on my chest, and quickly stepped back.

"Right," said Applejack. "Mr. Rusty. Well, I'll be off then. Don't y'all go nowhere."

And with that, she turned and galloped off down the hall.