>Youve fucked all kinds of things in your dreams.

One time, you even fucked you,

but with an awesome rack, and a vagina. And no dick, obvs. You aint a homo.
Go back to /d/! You yell at no one in particular, your studio apartment being
empty, save for yourself.
>Theres a small surge of pride as you properly pronounce those tricky /s
fluidly. No easy feat, to be certain.
>Welp, time to turn these puppies inside out and maybe wash the sheets if you were
pent up.
>A quick check downstairs reveals two things, one, there is no baby-gravy in your
spiderman underoos
>And two, holy shit everything from your crotch down smells like it was submerged
in a mixture of grape and blackberry jam.
>Pleasantly fruity, like that gay kid who let you cheat off of him in Calculus.
>Just like that dream you had, with the . . . purple . . . grape and blackberry . .
. mare.
>Shit. You check your watch. Which you conveniently wore to bed last night. Because
reasons.
> 3:41 PM blinks back at you.
>A quick glance at your alarm clock says 1:29 P.M.
> So thats . . . like two hours and some change off. In one night.
>You like discount watches as much as the next guy, but this was a gift from your
brother. His watches only lose 5, 10 minutes a day tops.
>Did you somehow get magically teleported to another world for two hours, bang the
shit out of a cartoon looking horse, and teleport back? All in one night?
>Anon Jr. Tents a bit as you recall the . . . exceedingly vivid dream.
>The scent . . . the missing time . . . just how vivid it all was . . .
>You dont want to admit it, but you must have coated random household objects
with contact hallucinogens again while doing drunk science.
>Oh well, time to play drink from the crumpled up water bottle with no label
before going to work in the hopes that whatever it contains will either kill me or
numb me to the stupidity of the common consumer game.
>Youre a pro at this game.

>You are Stalwart Sentry, mare extraordinaire.

>Not to be confused with an actually stalwart sentry, because if you were gonna be
honest (which you usually werent), you were kinda flim-flam at the best of times.
>They made you a clerk in at the evidence locker.
>Its hard to bribe a cop inside a police station.
>Regardless of your incorruptibility due to the fact that there was no opportunity
for to be corrupt, you were now fetching an old box of evidence from a property
crimes case from like twenty years ago.
>Some dyke ass mare in a weird hat with a pipe had marched in like she owned the
place, and slapped down an assload of paperwork on your desk.
>A cursory inspection revealed that it was record requests, and that they had all
been signed by Princess Celestia HER BUCKING SELF.
>With all of the haste and diligence an underpaid civil servant could manage, you
set about getting that for her.
>So, after you took two bathroom breaks and went to lunch, and she was still
humming quietly to herself in the lobby, you actually started looking.
>Who organized this place? They suck at their job. Wait . . .
>Before you can finish that thought, you find the box youre looking for.
>Oh, its this box. The one that seems to produce a faint buzzing just on the edge
of your hearing.
>The box that you swear is just a little bit cold to the touch.
>The box that, on the long, late night shifts, whispers to you quietly, promising
you agony and ecstasy in
equal measure.
>You were pretty sure you saw your dead grandmother down this row two weeks ago,
standing in front of the thing.
>Thank Luna you could just pass this shit off on someone else. You were getting
tired of having to replace the constantly flickering lightbulbs at night. Plus,
some of the voices didnt speak equestrian, and they were super distracting when
you were trying to read Playcolt mags at night.
>Read
>Implying
> . . .
>You grab that shit and sling it at purplebutt so hard and fast she practically
skids out the front door of the precinct.
>Metaphorically. Realistically speaking, it takes you about 20 minutes to sign
everything over, get the transaction formally logged and filed.
>Hey, its not bad for a bureaucrat.

>You are now Twilight Sparkle.

>And holy hay is this stuff messed up.
>After taking the train back to ponyville (what, its not like you can fly)
>And packing most of the seriously cursed evidence away behind several layers of
protective wards in the basement of your treebrary (what, its not like you have a
crystal castle)
>You began to sift through the evidence.
>The spiritualist group was a spiritualist group alright . . . but like with actual
spirits.
>They were doing all kinds of summoning stuff.
>The ghosts, monsters, demons, court, all kinds of summons.
>The spellbook that the cult was using was written by an idiot who you doubt
had a basic grasp of Equish, let alone ancient Sumareian.
>You would go through and correct the grammatical errors that literally riddled the
incantation for the ritual you were prepping after you had finished summoning your
father to this plane.
>Youd fix it now, but if you changed anything, its likely youd get a
different entity entirely.