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Vinyl and Anon Take Equestria: Intro

By: based-anon on Nov 3rd, 2012 | syntax: None | size: 6.43 KB | hits: 57 | expires: Never

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“Fuck!”
“Shit!”
“God damn it!”
>You let out a series of swears as you fight to close the suitcase sitting on your bed sheets.
>The green linens warp and crinkle as you force them down with every shove of the plastic box.
>Maybe if ponies actually wore clothes they’d be inclined to make suitcases that can hold more than one set.
>It would probably help if it wasn’t too early in the morning to actually fold the clothes you shoved in it.
>You bare both your arms against the blue, pitted lid and lock your elbows.
>Giving one last push with all your might, you hear an unsatisfying click come from the clams shaped receptacle.
>You stand up straight and lift your fists in silent victory.
>Left arm still raised, you lower your right and look at the watch perched on your wrist.
>The hands in their unique semaphore inform you that it’s a quarter past seven.
“Time to go,” you say to nopony.
>You reach down and grab the aged handle of the suitcase.
>The slightly bulging side rests against your leg as you begin the trek from your room to the kitchen.
>You walk from the bed to the door and open it slightly with your free hand, rotating through the narrow gap to avoid bumping the case against the frame.
>Completing the masculine pirouette, you grab the handle and snap the door shut once more.
>You glance across the slightly cramped corridor at the open door across from your own.
>It’s closed and there is a distinct lack of music emanating from it, indicating that its occupant has already departed.
>Knowing where she’ll be, you trot down the hall to the staircase.
>The pitter-patter of your feet on the steps alerts the white and blue mare downstairs to your approach.
>”Hey Anon,” a slightly scratchy voice meets you on the stairs.
“Sup Vinyl,” you respond as you reach the landing.
>”Finally got your shit packed?” her voice echoes from the kitchen
“Yeah,” you answer as you deposit the suitcase by the front door.
>”Great,” she says, “Now you can finally help me pack all of our collective shit.”
>You follow her voice into the kitchen and see your house-mate sitting on the kitchen floor.
>She’s pushed the table to the side to make room for the mountain of gear and cases for gear dominating the center of the room.
>Vinyl herself is sitting on the linoleum floor with a mug of coffee, magically wrapping cables and securing them with bread ties before placing them in your backpack.
>She sets the bag down and looks at you standing in the doorway with the same grin your teachers gave you when they handed out particularly difficult assignments.
>The striking hue of her eyes makes it a little unsettling.
>”Now that you’re here, we can do the fun part,” she says as she levitates a check list in front of her.
>”Samplers and power supplies,” she dead pans and motions to the heap of metal and plastic.
>Taking this as your queue, you begin to sift through the pile of equipment until come out with three switch covered blocks and matching power supplies.
>You hold them up and she checks them off the list.
>”Which two’re mine?” she asks, peaking from behind the sheet of paper.
“I think this one is mine,” you say, emphasizing the object in your right hand, “it has the big chip in the side.”
>”Cool.”
>You dig through the pile a bit more and find the two cases for Vinyl and your respective equipment and open them up.
>After affixing the devices to the industrial Velcro covered bottoms of the appropriate cases.
>”808.”
>You dig the drum machine out of the heap and repeat the dance.
>”Micro-verbs.”
~~~~~~~
>Eventually you manage to sort through the mountain, consolidating the whole mass down to four cases and a bag: two cases for yours and Vinyl’s main rigs, one for keyboard, one for the accessory percussion you both implement during your set, and your backpack with cables and your microphones.
>Now all that’s left is for you and Vinyl load those cases into the van you two rented.
>Thankfully, you both resolved to carry your own equipment; Vinyl, being the DJ half of the duo, had much more, and much heavier gear in her case.
>As the MC, you only really had to worry about one sampler, a couple pedals, and hand percussion.
>She was loaded up with two samplers, a monolith of drum machine, some pedals, an old rack reverb, and synthesizer.
>You slip the backpack on and lift your cases under each arm as vinyl levitates hers.
>You both exit the kitchen and head to the front door.
>After traversing the living room, you lift your leg and open the front door with your foot before continuing out to the van.
>Circling around the vehicle you set one of your cases down and fling open the double doors to the main holding space.
>You deposit one case in the bay and vinyl magics her two in as you bend down to retrieve your second.
>Vinyl makes her way to the driver side door as you run back into the house and grab all your clothes for the one and a half month long tour you two were about to embark on.
>You close the door and lock it.
>Looking up at the battered face of the low rent house you and Vinyl share, you take a moment to appreciate the fact that you and Vinyl are really leaving for forty-five days to drive around Equestria and play music for Ponies that actually like it.
>Vinyl rips you from your thoughts; leaning out the window yelling something to the tune of, “Get in the van faggot!”
“Gladly!” you reply.
>Rushing back to the passenger door, you pull it open and toss your suitcase over the partition to the cargo bay.
>You drop onto the cushion that functions as the passenger seat, not even trying to operate the strange pony seatbelt.
>You look over to Vinyl who’s already strapped in.
>”So, where are we headed first?” she asks, looking back at you.
>You fish a piece of paper out of your pocket and examine it.
“The ‘Manticore’s Tail,’ 1934 Seventh Avenue, Baltimare.”
>”Shit that’s far away! Couldn’t you have found anywhere closer?”
“It was either there or Los Pegasis.”
>”Fuck.”
“I’d offer to split the driving, but I don’t think I can safely operate a vehicle designed for ponies.”
>Vinyl offers a growl as she starts the engine and starts to drive.
>You reach for the radio, but your hand is slapped away by Vinyl.
>”No. I drive, I choose the music,” she scolds as she produces a cd, seemingly from nowhere, and pops it in the cd player.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GVylV-TXfTU

create a new version of this paste RAW Paste Data

“Fuck!”
“Shit!”
“God damn it!”
>You let out a series of swears as you fight to close the suitcase sitting on your bed sheets. 
>The green linens warp and crinkle as you force them down with every shove of the plastic box.
>Maybe if ponies actually wore clothes they’d be inclined to make suitcases that can hold more than one set.
>It would probably help if it wasn’t too early in the morning to actually fold the clothes you shoved in it.
>You bare both your arms against the blue, pitted lid and lock your elbows.
>Giving one last push with all your might, you hear an unsatisfying click come from the clams shaped receptacle. 
>You stand up straight and lift your fists in silent victory. 
>Left arm still raised, you lower your right and look at the watch perched on your wrist.
>The hands in their unique semaphore inform you that it’s a quarter past seven.
“Time to go,” you say to nopony.
>You reach down and grab the aged handle of the suitcase.
>The slightly bulging side rests against your leg as you begin the trek from your room to the kitchen. 
>You walk from the bed to the door and open it slightly with your free hand, rotating through the narrow gap to avoid bumping the case against the frame.
>Completing the masculine pirouette, you grab the handle and snap the door shut once more.
>You glance across the slightly cramped corridor at the open door across from your own.
>It’s closed and there is a distinct lack of music emanating from it, indicating that its occupant has already departed.
>Knowing where she’ll be, you trot down the hall to the staircase.
>The pitter-patter of your feet on the steps alerts the white and blue mare downstairs to your approach.
>”Hey Anon,” a slightly scratchy voice meets you on the stairs.  
“Sup Vinyl,” you respond as you reach the landing. 
>”Finally got your shit packed?” her voice echoes from the kitchen
“Yeah,” you answer as you deposit the suitcase by the front door.
>”Great,” she says, “Now you can finally help me pack all of our collective shit.”
>You follow her voice into the kitchen and see your house-mate sitting on the kitchen floor.
>She’s pushed the table to the side to make room for the mountain of gear and cases for gear dominating the center of the room. 
>Vinyl herself is sitting on the linoleum floor with a mug of coffee, magically wrapping cables and securing them with bread ties before placing them in your backpack. 
>She sets the bag down and looks at you standing in the doorway with the same grin your teachers gave you when they handed out particularly difficult assignments.
>The striking hue of her eyes makes it a little unsettling.
>”Now that you’re here, we can do the fun part,” she says as she levitates a check list in front of her.
>”Samplers and power supplies,” she dead pans and motions to the heap of metal and plastic.
>Taking this as your queue, you begin to sift through the pile of equipment until come out with three switch covered blocks and matching power supplies.
>You hold them up and she checks them off the list.
>”Which two’re mine?” she asks, peaking from behind the sheet of paper.
“I think this one is mine,” you say, emphasizing the object in your right hand, “it has the big chip in the side.”
>”Cool.”
>You dig through the pile a bit more and find the two cases for Vinyl and your respective equipment and open them up.
>After affixing the devices to the industrial Velcro covered bottoms of the appropriate cases.
>”808.”
>You dig the drum machine out of the heap and repeat the dance.
>”Micro-verbs.”
~~~~~~~
>Eventually you manage to sort through the mountain, consolidating the whole mass down to four cases and a bag: two cases for yours and Vinyl’s main rigs, one for keyboard, one for the accessory percussion you both implement during your set, and your backpack with cables and your microphones. 
>Now all that’s left is for you and Vinyl load those cases into the van you two rented.
>Thankfully, you both resolved to carry your own equipment; Vinyl, being the DJ half of the duo, had much more, and much heavier gear in her case.
>As the MC, you only really had to worry about one sampler, a couple pedals, and hand percussion.
>She was loaded up with two samplers, a monolith of drum machine, some pedals, an old rack reverb, and synthesizer. 
>You slip the backpack on and lift your cases under each arm as vinyl levitates hers.
>You both exit the kitchen and head to the front door.
>After traversing the living room, you lift your leg and open the front door with your foot before continuing out to the van.
>Circling around the vehicle you set one of your cases down and fling open the double doors to the main holding space. 
>You deposit one case in the bay and vinyl magics her two in as you bend down to retrieve your second. 
>Vinyl makes her way to the driver side door as you run back into the house and grab all your clothes for the one and a half month long tour you two were about to embark on. 
>You close the door and lock it. 
>Looking up at the battered face of the low rent house you and Vinyl share, you take a moment to appreciate the fact that you and Vinyl are really leaving for forty-five days to drive around Equestria and play music for Ponies that actually like it.
>Vinyl rips you from your thoughts; leaning out the window yelling something to the tune of, “Get in the van faggot!” 
“Gladly!” you reply. 
>Rushing back to the passenger door, you pull it open and toss your suitcase over the partition to the cargo bay.
>You drop onto the cushion that functions as the passenger seat, not even trying to operate the strange pony seatbelt. 
>You look over to Vinyl who’s already strapped in. 
 >”So, where are we headed first?” she asks, looking back at you. 
>You fish a piece of paper out of your pocket and examine it. 
“The ‘Manticore’s Tail,’ 1934 Seventh Avenue, Baltimare.”
>”Shit that’s far away! Couldn’t you have found anywhere closer?”
“It was either there or Los Pegasis.”
>”Fuck.”
“I’d offer to split the driving, but I don’t think I can safely operate a vehicle designed for ponies.”
>Vinyl offers a growl as she starts the engine and starts to drive. 
>You reach for the radio, but your hand is slapped away by Vinyl.
>”No. I drive, I choose the music,” she scolds as she produces a cd, seemingly from nowhere, and pops it in the cd player.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GVylV-TXfTU

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