>Today’s the day your order arrives
>You’ve taken painstaking preparations to convert the waifu shrine in your attic into a costly sky-themed Romanesque bedroom
>Her visage splashed across various artworks and woven into the tapestry will play well into her narcissism
>A knock at the door breaks you away from admiring your loving handiwork
>You race through the house, heart pounding at the thought of meeting the girl you’ve (wet)dreamed about for years
>Pulling the box inside, you rip the tape halfway down before an excited pony burst through the top
>It wasn’t quite the Rainbow Dash you expected
>The red in her mane and tail was replaced by a wavy pink curl; the green missing all together
>You recall the rumors surrounding the strange pink parts; something about the Pinkie Pie model being the first made and top seller, and a sudden shift in customer demands
>At least they come preassembled now
>She stares with an eager smirk; her sky blue eyes not quite looking you in the eye
>”Aw yeah this is happenin’; who’s ready to bake a way past cool confetti cake!”
>You were prepared to look past bootleg appearances, but that offer didn’t sound as Dash-like as you’d hoped
> You ask who she is
>She replies in a bubbly voice, “C’mon silly, I’m Rambo Fast of course!”
>Sure enough it was a Pinkie Pie voice box, but it was strained into a poor gravelly imitation of RD. The Rainbow Dash line was the newest, and it seems Hasjew pulled no stops in cutting corners
>Awkward silence passes as you chew on the regret of your purchase, face furrowed in disappointment
>Her wings fidget nervously as she looks for a way to break the silence
>Perking up a bit, she adopts a new confidant stance with her arms reaching towards you, ”Rrreach for the sky!”
>Rolling your eyes at the corny demand, you reluctantly give in to the earnest display, pulling her from the box
>Coming in closer to you, she blinks a few times and squints, focusing on your face before grinning wide.
>Is she nearsighted? Does she ever stop smirking?
>At least the details on the wings look ni–THWAK
>Rambo Fast tumbles back into the box as you cradle the blood dripping from your nose
>”What the hell was that for you little shit?!” You curse in anger
> “Oops s-sorry– I didn’t mean– I have karate chop action– m-my wing and you touched– I –“
>Her face is contorted into a grimace of shame and tears
>You realize her right eye is stuck in a glare, to give her that edgy and cool Dreamworks look
>None of this is her fault
>You sigh, “Don’t worry, it’s all right Rambo. I suppose I’ll show you to your room.”
 
>Be Rambo Fast
> You shakily wipe away your tears of embarrassment.
>A weight has been lifted from your chest, so you take deep steadying breaths to regain your composure.
>Acceptance protocol has been achieved; the chosen friend has offered you a home.
>Overcome with joy, you bound away from your tiny box prison to squeeze his leg and head towards the door.
>”Oh thank you, thank you, thank you Besty! I’ll bake that cake for you in ten seconds fl– oof.”
>Where’d that brick wall come from? Not cool.
>”Heh. G-gotta blast!” Coolness regained.
>Entering your destined home for the first time, you bounce past the drab living room and make a dash towards the kitchen, hardly noticing your newly acquired best friend for life wearily collapse on the tattered couch behind you.
>While rummaging around, you find that the fridge houses an army of condiments. No produce. No milk. Some forgotten Chinese take-out. The cobwebbed cabinets look no better: instant ramen and black eyed peas? Blech, lame.
>By shuffling around the back of the pantry you spot a light in the darkness: Chocolate chips. Radical!
>You fire up the oven, at last feeling your inspiration flow.
>A tune about being awesome enters your head as you diligently begin pouring your heart into this concoction.
>You don’t know why baking is so awesome to you, but it just feels right. You hum along with the comforting tune.
>Sneaking a peek over the countertop, you can see your besty hunched over a small wooden table scribbling on something.
>His resentful sigh hits your ears, filling you with sorrow. With a kitchen this empty he must be starving.
 
>Be disgruntled Besty.
>Damned instructions are a mishmash of Engrish and Cyrillic demon runes. If you sign this in nose blood, her soul might not be the only soul you send back.
>DING! The unfamiliar sound of your own oven timer startles you.
>”Oh shit!” You didn't think the little bastard would find anything to actually bake.
>You drop your pen to bolt to the fire extinguisher, but before you can fully stand from your chair, a loud thud shakes the table.
>Rambo stands below you grinning with a plated brownie balanced on her wings. Her right eye was already swelling.
>”Eat up Besty. We can’t be awesome together on empty stomachs.”
>Fueled by anticipation for your delivery today, you had forgotten to eat anything.
>You tentatively reach for what appears to be an edible treat.
>Rambo watches your hand intently, all the while prancing giddily in place.
>Bringing the brownie to your mouth, its rich aroma hits your nose like a bag full of candy bar bags carrying candy bars.
>You sink into that first bite, “Oh my God, this is fantastic! It’s like it’s thawing my taste buds from cryostasis.”
>She squeals in delight as you heartily chow down, your mind lost in a hazy bliss of chocolate.
>Then, like some unknown beast shuffling towards you in a fog, a thought lurks. Your brow furrows. Your chews lose momentum.
>You mumble, “I don’t have any flour or milk. How’d you make this?”
>“I used Black-eyed peas.” She proclaims with pride, then adding on a bit more sheepishly,” ...and my own…milk.”
>You hold the little abomination up for emphasis, “This. This is a mare-milk bean brownie?”
>She shakes her head in affirmation; she’s beaming with enthusiasm.
>Considering the horror you've just experienced, your mind flashes back to the everyday diet of a depressed hermit: hotdogs, P.B.Js, Cheetos, Ding Dongs, frozen chimichangas, canned ravioli…
>”Huh.” You shrug and nod, “Not bad. Best damned brownie I've had in years.”
 
>Be Rambo Fast
>You have just bonded over food with your new friend.
>Bursting with excitement you try to initiate play, but he brushes off your foolhardy advances, stating something about bills and forms to fill out.
>Your body slumps in defeat; you stare at your hooves, unsure of what to do with yourself.
>Picking up on your deflated demeanor, he flips on the radio and promises to play with you afterwards.
>A jubilant roar of brass rolls throughout the sepia walls and with a glimmer of hope in your eyes you begin swinging with the tune, forming various dance routines to kill time.
>You start with some peppy pop moves and twirling steps, but as the time drains so does your enthusiasm.
>Your lively jigs become leaden horseshoed shuffles. The repetition bores you to the point of doubt.
>A few hours grind by when at last you hear the wooden chair scrape jarringly across the floor.
>Holding him to his word, you beg him to play Batman and Joker.
>The nefarious Joker agrees to the game, and begins blanketing the living room in pillows while cackling about the importance of safety.
>You cackle with him before giving chase, crashing into pillows to and fro, all the while giggling and snorting in between shouts of, “I’m Batman!”
>You become so lost in the moment that you do not hear an out of breath Joker leave to take out the trash.
>The sudden silence causes you to peek out from beneath your Batcave of pillows.
>It was the first time you were alone since meeting your chosen best friend.
>You give a few desperate calls, the last one trembling before he strolls back thru the door.
>A sigh of relief escapes your lips; He won’t abandon you.
>Winding down, you snuggle close to Besty on the moth-eaten couch to watch season 9 of the Little Pony show.
>Besty nudges you when the rainbow pony is on screen, claiming it’s where you got your coolness from.
>You like her catchphrases, but you find the scene where she fights a thousand orcs a bit scary.
>You feel a deep connection with the pink one. She just wants to dance and spread joy to the elves through cookies and song.
>After a few episodes, Besty decides that it’s time to put you in bed by ushering you towards the attic.
>You taunt him into a race up the stairway, “You’re too slowoah!”
>Halfway up the steep incline you’ve clipped your leg into a banister.
>Your chin meets the missed step, rattling your teeth before tumbling down head over hoof.
>A pair of strong arms latches to your body; His concerned face narrowly avoids an involuntary karate chop.
>Besty holds you close, carrying you to the finish line; you like the idea of sharing the victory with him.
>You crane your neck at the sudden appearance of grand marble pillars reaching towards heavenly azure murals.
>The swirling cloud motif spurs your mind towards fancies of flight.
>Your wings twitch in anticipation, but nothing comes to you.
>Unlike your baking skills, you’re not sure if you know how to fly.
>It’s okay though; wrapped in Besty’s warm embrace you feel as though you are gliding over the soft fuzzy carpet below.
>In the cloud shaped bed by the window, he tucks you in and shuts off the light.
>Rearing upon either side of the high gable walls, you see the blurred physique of Rainbow Dash towering above you in the moonlight. The details of her bright teeth are just barely visible to you in what you believe to be a reassuring smile; a guardian in the dark to keep you safe.
>The fluffy white pillows engulf your body, pulling you into a deep slumber.
 
>In the twinkling midnight sky, two beings leap and twirl as one across blueberry frosting clouds.
>You could dance by your partners side for an eternity, but his frail body grows weary.
>You croon an invitation to rest, and he complies with gratitude, climbing atop your sturdy back.
>Unfurling your majestic wings, you dip through the clouds to soar towards the safe intimacy of the tiny brick home you share.
>He holds close to your robust pink body as you nervously profess to him,”Y-Ya tebya lyublyu.”
>His embrace tightens, legs squeezing like a vice on your sides.
>Your face flushes red as your body grows hot at the response
>The butterflies in your belly proliferate; there’s so much pressure that you grit your teeth.
>You’re sweating profusely, and feel as though you could…you’re about to…
>Your eyes pop open as a faint gasp escapes your lips, “Uh oh.”
>You lie fully awake in a bed soaked with your disgusting shame and ponder how Besty would react to the incident.
>If you lift his spirits by being the coolest and fastest pony around, would he not be disappointed and heartbroken at this shortcoming?
>Determined to uphold your reputation, you creak open the window and let the tainted covers slide out into the shadows below.
>In an effort to find new bedding, you creep downstairs towards the living room.
>The TV is on, haunting the room with fuzzy voices and eerie light streams.
>Soft snores resonate from the couch, upon which you find Besty sleeping atop the remains of the Batcave.
>You aimlessly roam the perimeter to check for any pillows he might’ve missed.
>The room is bare, with the exception of a chaotic heap of papers flung below the table.
>Wincing at the memory of how hard your face met the table earlier, you believe the odds of the mess being your fault were quite high.
>You entertain the notion of nesting in shredded paper, but stop yourself to consider how tenaciously Besty had worked on these.
>You soberly set about forming a neat stack on the wooden chair when a familiar word on a still floored parchment catches your eye.
>HASBRO, and below it more words spattered with blood: PRODUCT RETURN FORM.
>The diminutive font is too difficult to read in the gloom, but your eyes bolt frantically to the larger penned scrawlings.
>Inaccurate. Defective eyes. 100% dissatisfied… a cheap knockoff.
>The last three words you mouth to yourself. They sting worse than your black eye and aching jaw.
>Your hooves shuffle backwards as you desperately shake the words from your head until a hollow thump on your backside startles you.
>You pivot around to again have the cursed word thrust in your face: HASBRO.
>Here, in the darkest corner of the room, looms the menacing box you arrived in.
>*Didn’t Besty take out the trash? Why didn’t he throw this out as well? Did he forget? Why is it still here? Why?*
>Visions of utter darkness constrict and consume you.
>Minutes grind as you stand frozen in a cold sweat, stimulated by nothing but the sound of your shallow breaths and fluttering heart.
>You are back in your bed. It’s dry, yet still barren.
>When exactly your numbed legs began moving was anyone’s guess; the journey back was a blur.
>You cannot tell if you are cold; you feel nothing but despair in your heart.
>Through glassy eyes you gaze at the gable walls.
>Moonlit depictions of a painted goddess lurch high over your tiny cloud bed. Her perfect face mocks you with a twisted grin.
>Tears of inadequacy begin their silent descent to the mattress.
>A low rumbling from beyond your window heralds a coming storm.
>The rest of your night is interlaced with darkness, crackling thunder, and the sibilant sound of suffocating packing peanuts.
>You are asleep before you can wish your best friend goodnight.