The Bootlegger (by DwellerInTheDark)

Your name is Frank, and you’re the latest in a long line of writers looking to pen The Great American Novel™. Unfortunately, it’s been taking longer than you thought it originally would, your main sources of…artistic stimulation aren’t getting any cheaper, and you’ve got bills to pay. If you were a normal person, you’d have probably gotten a job to fix this, but you’re too cool to be running in the rat race like your neighbor, man! Besides, you’ve already got a money press in the works: affordable MLP-brand fluffy ponies.

To go into a little more detail, the idea is simple— find fluffies that look just enough like the various characters from the franchise that launched the whole thing, apply the…maker’s mark (that’s what it’s called, right? It’s not like you ever watched any of the shows) on either flank with a tattoo gun, sell to John Q. Public, and never give their money back. Right now, you’re working on your first: a purple unicorn that’ll be a…Sundown Spackle, right? All you know is that a) the show counterpart’s a bookworm or something, and b) it’s time to check on her.

Your name is Spackle, and you have big heart-hurties! A few bright-times ago, some really big mistah with really really white skin took you away from your housie near what your mummah said used to be Skettiland! Now you live in a small dark room next to a boxy poopie-place (which is also next to your sleepie-place and nummie-bowls, because the meanie mistah is clearly a dummeh), get dragged out so that you can “read” for him while he takes pictures, and get sorry-sticked if he thinks you don’t look smart enough!

Just then, the door opens, and a big meaty not-hoof grabs you and drags you outside!

As per usual, Spackle is screaming like a stuck pig as you carry her into your “studio” for your latest attempt at a photoshoot. Beneath you are the same props as all your previous sessions— a bookshelf, a reading lamp, and a thick tome by Kierkegaard. Or Wittgenstein. Or that Russian guy who wrote Anna Whatsherface. Point is, it’s big and it’s supposed to be hard to read and thus you’ll get more money if it looks like Spackle understands any of it. Granted, you can’t understand it either, but that’s not important.

You are Employee 24601 of Uneeda Biolabs, and you’ve just been snapped out of the first bit of sleep you’ve had in three days by a familiar “SCREEEE!” from the next apartment over. Taking a deep breath, you roll over towards the wall and pound on it.

“Frank, whatever it is you’re doing with that fluffy, stop.

What I’m doing, wageslave, is trying to start a business! Now read that goddamn book!

Huhu, but book gib Spackwe biggest head-huwties!

I don’t care! Just stop whining and do someth— wait, what’re you doing with that corner?

Meanie book gib Spackwe huwties, su Spackwe gib book huwties!

Right on cue, the sound of a page ripping fills the air.

You little— I coulda bought a sandwich for how much I paid for that!

Spackwe onwy de-fend sewf!

Well, it’s the principle of the thing! New rule— fluffies who break Frank McCormack’s stuff get big owies! Now, let’s say hello to Mister Kitchen Knife, shall we?

Just then, a cry of “Nu wan do dis, but Spackwe gib sowwy-poopies!” sounds off, followed by the click of the fluffy’s hooves running towards the door (which knowing Frank, is probably unlocked). You let out a sigh as you make your way to the phone to inform the landlord about the inevitable carpet cleaning bill— both from the fluffy manure and potentially from the blood should Frank make good on his threat.


I shall choose to believe, Frank succeeds and makes Spackle even more miserable and she gets no good future.