by J. A. Rock
D walked over, still clutching his belly. “Everything all right?”
No one answered.
“What’s he look like?” Gould asked me. “Have you seen him?”
“Yes! He’s as big as a house and his tentacles are fucking ter-i-fy-iiiing.”
Dave shushed me gently. “It’s gonna be okay.”
“No, it’s not. You know how sometimes you meet someone online, and you, like, get such a vivid picture of what they must look like? And it’s so vivid that you start to figure the person must not actually look like that, because that would be too crazy of the universe? And then you get a chance to meet the person face-to-face, so you’re expecting to be surprised by how they look?”
“Sure. I had—”
“I’m not done yet. And then it turns out they look exactly how you first pictured them?”
“Okay.”
“That’s Fucktopus.”
Gould’s eyebrows scrunched together. “Sooo . . . you pictured him as big as a house?”
“Kind of, yeah.”
“I feel like he’s probably not actually that big.”
I glared at him. “Not every house is a mansion, and not every man is a reasonable size.”
Dave nodded. “Ah, the classic Ben Franklin aphorism.”
“He has black-framed glasses and a messenger bag, and he smells like a food co-op. He’s like a human Portland.”
“Dude, you can so take him.”
“Are his tentacles really robotic?” Gould asked.
I shook my head. “They’re cardboard, I think. And orange.”
Dave squinted. “So why are you even scared?”
“You guys, he seriously freaks me out. I don’t want to fight Fucktopus. Please don’t make me fight Fucktopus!”
Gould gave me a strange look. “I . . . don’t think you have to physically fight him. You just have to bob for apples.”
D crossed his arms. “What is the approximate girth of the tentacles?”
Dave elbowed D. “You’re totally getting off on this. Fucktopus is like one of your Syfy movie creatures.”
“I am doing no such thing.”
“No, you definitely like Fucktopus. You want to plant your seed inside him and parthenogenetically create little tentacle b—”
“What was that?” D wrapped his arms around Dave, turned him slightly, and gave his ass a quick, light swat.
Dave pushed against his chest. “Oh my God, get off of me, you free-thinking mountain.”
D swatted him again, keeping the movement quick and subtle. “I want to do what with your Fuckto-what-o-gon?”
“It’s a fucktopus!” Dave growled and kept pushing, trying not to laugh. “Somebody help me!”
Gould grinned. “No. This is delightful.”
“Ugh.” Dave struggled without much luck. “He calls it secret spanking, but it’s not a secret.” He twisted to face D. “Everyone knows what you’re doing, and any Good Samaritan at this function would happily notify PPF security on my behalf.”
D kissed Dave and released him. “So the security staff can thank me for my service to the community?”
Dave batted at him. “Go away, hot dog breath. We’re trying to solve a crisis.” He reached for my lead rope, then stopped and looked at Ryan. “May I?”
Ryan handed him the rope. Dave gripped it just under my chin and tugged lightly. “Kamen? Sorry—Thunder Canyon? Look at me. It’s time for you to make us all proud. And that means fighting Fucktopus. In a totally nonviolent children’s game.”
I sighed, staring at the hot dog table. “I feel really weird right now.”
“That’s because you’re dressed like a horse and afraid of a fake tentacle monster. But look at me. Look at m— There you go. You’re a fucking champion.”
I pulled slightly on the bridle. “I don’t know.”
“What would Rocky do?”
I wrinkled my brow. “Lose?”
“Only in the first one, buddy. This is Rocky IV. Fucktopus is your Drago. And this isn’t just about you, this is about America. And Russia.”
“I thought Cinnamon was my Drago.”
“She’s more like your Clubber Lang. The important thing is, we’ll be proud of you no matter what. As long as you win.”
Gould nodded. “Amen.”
D gave me that soul-piercing look. “Remember. You’re a Friesian.”
Dave patted my shoulder again. “But you’re also Rocky.”
Ryan nudged me. “You’re the love of my life.”
Gould cleared his throat. “You’re a total dork skillet.”
I couldn’t even talk for a minute on account of the lump in my throat. So I nodded.
Miles stepped over to us. “Finished with hot dog four. D owes me thirty bucks. What did I miss?”
“There’s no time to explain.” Dave started tugging me forward. “Kamen has to get to his first event.”
“Once again,” I said, “we have plenty of time.”
Dave glanced at Ryan. “Can I lead him? Because this is hilarious.”
I didn’t move. “I want Ryan to lead me.”
Dave looked at me. “Please? It would mean a lot to me.”
I let him lead me to the barn to prepare for the grooming contest. He actually only made it as far as the soda cart. Then he handed me off to Ryan so he could buy a drink.
Ryan took me to the stall and gave me a final tack check and wipe down. My nose started to itch. I swiped it with the back of my hoof, but I still felt uncomfortable.
“Ryan?” I whispered.
“Yes?”
“I have a booger.”
He stared at me. “No. Absolutely no.”
“Ryan. It’s grooming. They’re gonna take points off if the cave has bats.”
“I already shaved your ball.”
“So this should be a snap.” I moved my head toward him. “Get it.”
He went to our bag and got a tissue. I bent lower so he could put it up to my nose. “Blow,” he ordered.
“It’s not the kind you can blow out.”
“Try.”
I tried, but all that came out was air.
“Which nostril?”
“Right?”
He pushed on the left. “Blow again.”
I did. “It’s not working. You have to get it.”
He sighed and put the tissue over his finger. “You owe me big time.”
“It’s the hard, pointy kind, so don’t make it stab me,” I warned.
He rolled his eyes and gently stuck his tissue-covered finger into my nostril.
“Oh my God,” said a voice nearby. “I am not seeing this.”
Cinnamon. I glimpsed her red hair off to the side. “What are you doing here?” I demanded. “Go back to your stall.”
“I actually have to agree with Cinnamon,” said Dave, who had appeared behind Ryan with D and Miles. “What are you doing?”
“I have a situation,” I told them.
Dave grimaced. “And you’re making Ryan—”
Ryan turned to them, finger still up my nose. “Listen. There is nothing in this world like the bond between a man and his horse. And if you all can’t respect that, then get out.”
D closed his eyes for a few seconds, nodding wisely—like, if you went to visit a talking owl that was going to send you on a quest, it would probably nod like that. “He’s right. Let them be.”
He guided the others away from Ryan and me. Cinnamon was still lurking. She smirked at me. “Good luck with dressage, Boogs.”
“Yeah, good luck to you too, you stuck-up ginger bitch!” I yelled through the tissue.
Her eyebrows went up. Ryan’s did too. “Get the booger out,” I told him.
He did, and went to toss the tissue into a trash barrel. When he came back, I was staring at Cinnamon. “I am going to wipe the freaking pasture with you, okay? You have been rude to me and my friends forever, and it stops now.”
She laughed, and not in a nice way. “You don’t st
and a chance.”
“I’ll kill you in the cart race.”
“If you do, it’ll be a hollow victory.” She glanced at Ryan. “You won’t exactly be pulling any significant amount of weight.”
My gaze snapped to Ryan. He jammed his hand in his pocket like he was trying not to make a fist.
I scowled at Cinnamon. “Okay, I think you’re a sad person with self-esteem issues. But here’s a deal for you. If I do better than you overall today, you lay off my friends and me. For good. You politely ignore us if we see each other in a club or in public.”
“And if I win?”
“Then you can keep being a biotch.”
She shook her head. “That’s not enough.”
Ryan stepped up to meet her. Now his hand was clenched in a fist, and I was kinda scared he might punch her. “Get out of here. Or I’m gonna find Stan and tell him you’re loose.”
She didn’t even look at him. She just grinned at me. “If I win, I get back in my human clothes, and you pull me in a cart around the arena. And I get to drive you in front of everyone.”
“Done,” I said.
“Kamen!” Ryan whirled toward me, hand still clenched.
I flipped my mane. “It doesn’t matter, because I’m gonna win.”
Ryan walked up to Cinnamon. “It’s time for you to go,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder and turning her around. “Get back to your trainer.”
She looked down at him over her shoulder. “You’re cute. If you ever want to work with a real pony, message me on Fet.”
She walked away, her perfect tail bobbing. But as she left, I noticed something small and green on her shoulder. I couldn’t see what it was, because her braid kept swaying, covering it. I looked down at Ryan’s hand, which was no longer in a fist. His palm was green. “What . . .?”
I glanced at the ground. There was a Jolly Rancher wrapper in the dust.
“Did you stick a Jolly Rancher to her?”
Ryan shrugged. “Oops.”
“You old dog. You—”
“Shh.” He patted my neck. “We’ve got a show to win.”
The grooming contest wasn’t too scary.
I wasn’t gonna lie to myself, or anyone—Cinnamon looked good. She carried herself perfectly, her frigging skin was basically dewy and flawless. Her tack gleamed and her tail rippled, and the Jolly Rancher was gone. I was dead before it even started. There were three lineups—ponies, pups, and miscellaneous. A judge came down the pony row and checked us all out. Looked at our tack and our bodies and had us walk in little circles. I was pretty sure she snickered when she saw my tail, but she seemed to appreciate my Pegasus Sheath. I had to be really careful when I walked in the circle, because the friggin’ prostate plug was really doing its job. I didn’t place. Bridget took third, Cinnamon second, and Holly first.
“It’s fine,” Ryan said as he led me out of the ring. “We’re just getting started.”
After the grooming, we had some time to relax before bobbing for apples. Maya showed up, and she was, like, super admiring of my horse getup. Except my sheath. She just rolled her eyes at that.
Ryan and I headed over to the apple tubs early, and he started talking to some handler he’d met earlier, while I wandered around, considering my bobbing strategy.
I almost ran into the tentacled hipster of my nightmares.
“Hey,” he said.
For a second I couldn’t speak. I just stared at his cardboard tentacles in horror. “Hey,” I managed warily.
“Is this your first year here?”
I swallowed. “Y-yeah.”
“Me too.”
That made me feel better. We got to talking, and he was actually pretty cool and smart. We talked about his tentacle kink, and my costume kink, and the Subs Club, which he was slightly mortified to learn I had cofounded. Then we bonded over our love of women’s underwear.
“I have all these gender nonconformist urges,” he said. “Plus, I know I look like a guy and use male pronouns, but I don’t always feel like one inside, you know? That’s why Fucktopus is third gender.”
“I totally get that, man. All my life, people have thought I was a dude-bro because I did sports and I have these muscles or whatever. I mean, I don’t know if I’m binary or not. But I want the option to explore nonbinary things.”
“Exactly!”
We hoof-to-tentacle high-fived.
“All right!” called a ref, waving her arms. “Competitors! We have three apple tubs. You should already have been assigned your tub, so you should proceed there and shake paws or hooves with your rival.”
Fucktopus and I went to tub number two. He stared into the water. “The ocean,” he whispered.
“Dude, that is not the ocean.”
He looked up. “I’m sorry I keep using your club forum inappropriately.”
“It’s okay. I hope you find a sea captain.”
He held out a tentacle. I bumped it with my hoof. “Let’s do this.”
The refs crouched by their respective tubs.
The bell sounded a moment later, and Fucktopus and I stuck our heads into the water.
Okay, this was a lot harder than it had been when I was a kid. Every time I got my teeth anywhere near a fucking apple, it scooted away. I could hear people cheering, and I could see out of the corner of my eye that Fucktopus was having way more luck with this than I was. Dude was boss at apple bobbing. I stopped for a moment just to see how many he had: Two. And he was pulling a third out of the water.
I stuck my face back in. Chased the apples and got nowhere. Pulled my face out.
“Oh my God! That squid is amazing at bobbing for apples!” I heard someone yell.
Oh, Fucktopus, you tentacled bastard.
I had to win. Had to. I’d already fucked up grooming, and I was nervous as shit about dressage. I needed some serious points.
I stuck my face back in and discovered the magic of pushing the apples against the side of the tub with my cheek, then bracing them there while I sank my teeth in. I dropped one apple in my pile. Two. Three. Four. When the bell went off again, I had water in my eyes and didn’t know who had won, but suddenly a ref was patting my shoulder and calling me a good pony, and she declared me the winner.
I went on to round robin the other two winners, and emerged victorious.
Fucktopus was the first to congratulate me. Seconds later, I was stormed by my friends, who group-hugged me. Over their bodies, I could see Fucktopus and Maya gazing at each other. Like, the kind of gazing that leads to trouble.
I cleared my throat at Fucktopus. “Dude. She’s nineteen. Don’t even go there.”
Fucktopus looked at Maya and raised a tentacle to wave at her.
Maya waved back.
I puked in my mouth a little.
By cart race time, I was pumped. I’d barely been able to eat anything for lunch—though I had managed another handful of Jolly Ranchers.
I lined up in the three position between Holly and a gray pony called Snowball. I couldn’t see my competitors with the blinkers on, so I focused on the white lines that marked the large oval track. The track was situated on a slight incline, so Ryan had warned me to save some energy for the end, since the last half of the race was uphill. He’d taken my tail out too, so I wouldn’t be distracted by the prostate plug. But now I was basically going to be running in assless pants.
I tried not to think about Cinnamon, who was in the six position.
You’ve got this. You’re super fast. Faster than she is.
I heard some jingling to my left, and a handler’s voice saying, “Easy . . . eeeeaaaassssyyyy.”
“False start,” called one of the PPF officials. “Back her up.”
I hated not being able to see what was going on. I stamped my foot and chewed on the bit, feeling pretty ponyish all of a sudden.
“Good boy,” Ryan whispered. I could feel him tense on the reins, and I moved my head forward to remind him to ease up. He gave me some slack.
“They’re in the gates!” called a staff member.
Suddenly the bell clanged, and the reins snapped against my shoulders. I bolted forward, listening to the creak of wheels on either side of me and the cheering of the crowd. Snowball was way in the lead—how the hell had he started so fast? I increased my pace, even though Ryan was tugging on the reins. He’d told me to save my energy, but Snowball was so far ahead that I needed to close some of this distance now.
Ryan pulling harder, and I almost slowed. But I could hear one of the ponies to my left starting to overtake me, and no way was I gonna let that happen. I clenched my teeth around the bit and jerked my head up, pulling the reins through Ryan’s hands and charging ahead.
I’d almost caught Snowball when we reached the turn. Ryan tugged the left rein, and I made a careful arc. But he kept tugging. Hard tugs, over and over.
Dude, Ryan. I’ve got this.
Snowball was still slightly ahead of me on the inside. I was guessing Ryan wanted me to cut behind Snowball and then pull alongside him so that I was on the inside of the turn. But that would mean slowing down, which was not gonna happen. Instead I sped up, trying to pass Snowball on the outside.
There was a clank and a jolt as the wheel of our cart collided with another. Someone was trying to pass us on the outside.
I pitched to the left, nearly slamming into Snowball.
We were in what I believed was known scientifically as a clusterfuck.
Ryan tugged the right rein, steering me away from Snowball, and since I couldn’t see to the side or behind me, I had to trust him that the cart on our outside was gone.
I could feel it, just like I had sometimes in practice—the moment Ryan and I stopped fighting each other and started to work as a team. He steered me wide of Snowball, which meant we lost some ground, but it got us out of the disaster area. I didn’t try to turn my head, just paid attention to his rein cues until it was just me and Snowball, racing up the hill toward the finish.
Except we were both running out of juice. I was breathing hard, trying without much luck to make my legs move faster. He was lagging big time—his driver flicked his thigh with the crop a couple of times, but Snowball was done.
Why had the hill seemed so short going down, and now seemed to stretch endlessly? I could see the orange flag marking the finish, but it was still approximately eight billion miles away. Snowball and I struggled alongside each other, huffing while the spectators cheered us on.
