Chapter Text
The introduction of twenty-first century technology to the Poe household led to the onset of remarkable shenanigans in short order. Tell-Tale’s TikTok account was commanding impressive attention, as was Dupin’s predictably toxic Twitter page, and Lenore felt right at home on Tumblr. However mischievous their sources were, Poe and his atypical family made for amiable, compliant digital citizens.
That would soon change with the crossing paths of two obscure oddities, whose incidental meeting made both a little worse: Rufus Wilmot Griswold and Pony Town.
One sunny Sunday afternoon, Mark Twain clacked away on his laptop with diligent focus. Its leather case displayed little scratches usually borne by computers brought where computers ought not to be; Twain carried it around with him everywhere, as it made writing a lighter task than his typewriter or paper ever could have. These injuries were insignificant to the laptop’s function, and thus Twain paid them no mind. In authorly fashion, he tapped away, paused a while, and resumed again.
As Twain went about this, Griswold read over Dupin’s rambling annotations of the daily newspaper. His back leaned dependently against Twain’s side, and his legs dangled off the arm of the sofa. Such a posture lacked the dignity so prized to Griswold, but he was sure Twain would pass no judgment. Besides, Twain’s sturdy shoulder was more comforting to him than even the softest cushion could have been.
While Twain continued his labor, he began humming a tune so familiar to Griswold that, in no time, the latter picked up the song as well. Twain was pleasantly jolted from focus by the sweet, low hum of Griswold’s voice— once Griswold looked over to catch Twain staring at him, their joined laughter sent the song scattering.
Twain sighed his giggles away and asked, without a trace of guilt, “What’s Dupin got to say about the news today?”
Griswold grinned with pride at having captured Twain’s attention. “Oh, only that he could solve every abduction case published this week. You know, with his brilliant crisis negotiation skills.”
“As usual,” Twain noted. “Next he’ll be saying he ought to be the President of the United States!”
Griswold thoughtfully paused, letting Twain fill his silence with light amused laughter, then asked, “Since you mentioned it… who is the President now, anyway? Time’s gone so awry, it can’t still be Zachary Taylor!”
“For all I know,” joked Twain, “Rainbow Dash could be the President!”
Griswold paused again, this time less thoughtful and more concerned. “…What was that?”
“Rainbow Dash!” Humiliation caught up to Twain on swift wings. He stammered, “She’s a… thing, she’s from an… um… a thing.”
Too caught up in the absurdity of the name to dare conceive of the reality, Griswold asked with accusatory astonishment, “Have you been frequenting a gentleman’s club? Is that how you know this ‘Rainbow Dash’?”
Twain began laughing so hard it resembled a fit of convulsions. “NO! She’s a— I can’t! She— I’ll explain once— once I catch my breath!”
Griswold refused to relent. “God Almighty! Have you been doing drugs? Is ‘Rainbow Dash’ your DEALER?”
Twain rushed to foist his laptop onto the other arm of the couch and laughed so hard that he slid onto the floor. The grown man, curled into a ball, with his shamefully hidden face and silent wheezing laughter, made for quite the worrisome sight.
Now that his sentient back support no longer accommodated him, Griswold flopped backward to lie on the empty sofa space with an exasperated sigh. The back of his hand was pressed to his forehead in such a way that he resembled an exhausted gentlewoman on her fainting couch. Before he could continue barraging Twain with questions, he heard a knock on the door.
Annabel Lee poked her head in before either Twain or Griswold had the chance to gather themselves and admit her. The fear in her voice turned the pair’s attention to her straightaway. “You guys?” she asked. “Is everything alright in here? I heard screaming.”
Griswold, unmoving from his dramatic recline, demanded with a twitching eye, “Who… in the hell… is RAINBOW DASH?”
“You mean the cartoon horse?” Annabel Lee wondered as she stepped further into the Green Room. “That Rainbow Dash?”
Twain choked back his laughter just long enough to confirm, “THAT Rainbow Dash!”
Griswold was up on his feet in a flash. He leaned over Twain, who was finally beginning to compose himself, and blustered, “You mean to tell me she’s not a drug dealer— she’s a HORSE?!”
The giggle fit at last abandoned Twain, in favor of Annabel Lee. She managed, “Well, she’s technically a pegasus,” before falling to pieces herself. Unlike Twain, she maintained her wits enough to stay upright, but her extensive knowledge of My Little Pony lore ensured the humor of the situation was not lost on her.
The many questions flickering about Griswold’s head were of a more benign nature, now that he knew Rainbow Dash was no fearsome sinner, but they still burned at the wick of his curiosity. “Annabel Lee?” he asked.
The distinct fire of amusement was as alive in her eyes as it was in Twain’s. “Yes?”
“Tell me everything you know about this sickening horse,” Griswold grumbled.
Twain protested, “Sickening? She’s not sickening— she’s Rainbow Dash!”
“For all the misery she’s caused me in such a short time,” said Griswold, “the two are synonymous.”
“But she’s so fluffy and cute,” Annabel Lee insisted. “If you just watched the show—“
“There’s a show? Dear God… that means there are more of these cursed horses!” Griswold concluded.
Annabel Lee and Twain exchanged a knowing look before scrambling to action at once. Twain returned to the couch and threw open his laptop; Griswold, reflexively scooting to sit next to him, snuck a peek at the screen and noticed a smattering of idly bouncing, pixelated horses.
Griswold asked, “Have you been doing THAT this whole time? Christ, Twain, I thought you were writing! Compiling! Doing something that benefits society!”
Annabel Lee daintily occupied the free space on Griswold’s other side. She motioned for Twain to hand her the laptop, which he did with such enthusiasm that it nearly bashed Griswold’s nose in on its way. Delighted at her captive audience, Annabel Lee pulled YouTube up and charted her path to the My Little Pony opening sequence with all the confident expertise of a naval captain.
Thirty-five seconds later, Griswold was a changed man, and not for the better. All he could ask through his shock was, “What was that?”
Twain helpfully explained, “That was My Little Pony! There are nine seasons, and I’ve got Netflix on this thing so—”
Griswold cut him off. “With all the respect in the world, Twain, I’m not watching another minute of that.”
“But you only watched HALF a minute!” Annabel Lee complained.
“And it would have been a better-spent half-minute had I done anything else,” said Griswold.
Twain and Annabel Lee, through another assured glance, knew they were of the alike opinion that the splendorous experience of My Little Pony was not to be rushed through.
“If you don’t want to watch it,” Twain said, his grin shifty and eyes plotting, “then you’ve got to play it.”