Moot's /mlp/ Journey by Anonymous

>Moot suddenly teleports into Equestria
>"Time to see what all this ponyshit is about," he says, strolling into town
>Ponies turn their heads and look at him in awe
>"Hi, I'm Moot," Moot says, flashing his winning smile as he extends his hand toward a greenish mare
>She's trembling as she lets him take her hoof
>He shakes it genially
>"So this is the My Little Pony thing I've heard so much about?" he asks.
>"Y-Yeah..." the mare stammers
>Suddenly an authoritative pony bustles down the road, followed by a retinue of administrative assistants
>"Welcome to Ponyville!" the old mare says, attempting very hard not to sound nervous. "I'm Mayor Mare. And you are...?"
>"Oh I was just telling this pony here," Moot says, indicating the mint green mare who's still shivering and staring at his hand, "I'm Moot. I've heard about you ponyfolk and wanted to see what all the hubbub was about."
>"I... see!" Mayor Mare says. "Well you'll certain to find plenty of ponies here in... Ponyville. Might I ask where you're from?"
>Moot deftly whips out a business card and slides it into her hoof
>Christopher Poole, Esq, Lord and Proprietor of 4th Channel
>"Oh my," Mayor Mare gushes, practically giddy with excitement, "these are quite the credentials!"
>"Indeed!" Moot concurs. "I'm a bit of a social media expert. I might have a business deal that might interest you. Could we maybe talk somewhere a little more private?"
>"Yes, of course! Follow me!" She turns to bark toward one of her assistants: "Berry Spurt! A coffee for Mr. Poole, and make it snappy!"
>A nervous-looking mare looks as if she's about to bolt, but Moot chuckles magnanimously, placing a gentle christly hand on her shoulder
>"Oh Berry Sperm, there's no need. I don't drink coffee, I only drink deionized vapor distilled artisanal water."
>He gives her a slap on her pert pony rump, and is pleasantly surprised by its suppleness. "Go get 'em, sport."
>Berry Spurt rushes off, bewildered, in search of a beverage

>Moot settles comfortably into Mayor Mare's office
>Pretty good digs, mahogany desk, silk curtains
>He puts his feet and sits back in her chair as she nervously stands by the window
>"So what sort of 'business deal' did you have in mind?" she asks
>"Well," Moot says, idly picking at his blindingly white teeth, "this whole pony thing has just blown up. It's insanely popular, and no one really knows why."
>Mayor Mare is speechless as he continues
>"But I'm not really in the business of knowing why things happen, I'm in the business of bringing people - and ponies - together.
>"What I'm proposing is a merger."
>Mayor Mare's eyes are wide
>"A... merger?"
>"That's right. I want to combine the services of 4th Channel with the content providers of Ponyville. With my anonymous image-sharing interface and your pony distribution system, we both stand to make a big impact in the social media world."
>"Social...media..." Mayor Mare says, sounding out the words as if she barely understands what he's talking about
>"So whaddya say?" Moot says, sliding a contract across the desk toward her. "Will you invest in the future of ponies, or will you remain a dinosaur in this age of invention and innovation?"
>This strikes a nerve with the old mare, and her eyes blaze with passion
>"I've always been at the forefront of technology. They called me the 'time pioneer', when I advocated for that newfangled clocktower in town!"
>"How quaint," Moot says. He taps his finger on the dotted line. "Sign here."
>With gusto, Mayor Mare takes the pen in her mouth and proceeds to make the most horrible mistake of her life

>A few days pass
>At first, all seems to be going well
>Ponies are shipped out in great teleporting transports, taken to 4th Channel to begin their new lives as content creators
>Moot oversees the process from the Mayor's office, smiling in self-satisfaction as he studies the traffic statistics for his website
>Suddenly Mayor Mare busts in through the front door
>Moot quickly pulls his pants back on and tabs out of /soc/
>"How can I help you, Mare?" he asks, exuding an aura of angelic charisma. "Or is it Mayor." He lights up. "Oh goodness, I just got the pun. That is just delightful."
>"M-Mr. Poole," Mayor Mare stammers, "I've been hearing some... things... about your side of things? This 4th Channel?"
>Moot steeples his fingers, smiling brightly
>"Good things, I hope?"
>"Well... yes, I mean, no. No, horrible, awful things!"
>Moot's expression immediately changes into one of concern. "Oh, I don't believe that. My 4th Channel is a wonderful, wholesome place. What sorts of stories have you heard?"
>"Ponies are being attacked on every board! They're given strange names like "faggot," and they're subjected to some horrifying ritual that we know only as ">rape"! I simply cannot allow this to continue! I want to pull the plug!"
>Moot throws up his hands
>"Now, Mare Mare, just hold on one minute. We have a contract here."
>"Well, I want to break it!"
>"Uh uh uh," Moot says, flipping to a page of irontight clauses preventing even the slightest chance of escape. "Now, we're business partners here, Mare Mare. Let's smooth out our problems, together. I'll put together a team - my own qualified, hand-picked people - to moderate the interactions between 4th Channel and your ponies. Everything is going to be just fine."
>Mayor Mare's lip quivers. "No more faggots? No more >rape?"
>"No more faggots. No more >rape," Moot says, gently lifting her chin and smiling down at her. "I promise."

>After two weeks of instituting his new moderation policy, Moot decides to go oversee the collaboration efforts himself
>He teleports back to his fortress in 4th Channel, and mounts his great golden Chariot
>Four obese, cat-headed steeds stand affixed to the vehicle, in perfect attention, their asses high in the air
>"Hi-ho, Snacks!" Moot shouts, cracking his whip, and the Chariot is off
>He flies over his realm, skirting the poisonous gases that bubble off the great mire of /b/
>Soon he is over the clouds and soaring toward his destination
>He broods in his chair, his mind occupied with his deepest concern regarding the project
>Berry Spurt's ass
>The memory of it has not left him, its round firmness
>No /soc/ camwhore can compare
>But when he'd sought her out, he'd learned that Berry had been among the first ponies shipped out by Mare Mare
>If he wants her, he'll have to find her
>And that may be much more difficult than he hopes
>His chariot touches down in the stately, manicured kingdom of /lit/
>An emaciated gentleman smoking a cigarette helps him down
>"Take care of my neckbeards," Moot says, pressing a 4chan Gold Pass into the man's palm. "They take carrots in the morning and dildos at nightfall."
>The man promptly eats the Pass and farts
>"Betty Crocker, Betty Crocker, Betty Crocker," the fellow states, in a deep, rasping baritone, before leading Moot by the hand to the grand gate at the far end of the duchy
>Upon it, in great golden letters, is written the name of the land beyond:
>/mlp/

>The situation is far worse than Moot could have ever fathomed
>The site is a disaster area, stinking and overrun with the absolute dregs of society
>Great spires of shitposting claw at heavens blackened by the soot of countless deleted threads
>Nestled in these foul-smelling mountains are small gatherings of people, all of whom gather around burning barrels known only as "Generals"
>Singers, artists, and storytellers gather around these Generals and create things that range from trash to works of legendary quality
>Frequently these craftsmen are sacrificed to the flames with great gusto, never to be heard from again
>In back alleys and rambling shanty whorehouses, Moot searches for Berry Spurt
>He encounters neckbeards peeing in ponies' mouths, ponies casually fucking and/or murdering everything in sight, and the near-inescapable sounds of autistic shouting matches
>"I'm comin for you, Berry Spurt," Moot whispers. "I'm comin for that booty."
>He whisks his coat away from a beggar, a bug-eyed simpleton demanding to know "what the appeal is", and throws a 4chan Gold Pass at his feet
>"You there! Janitor!" Moot cries, pointing toward a hunch-backed, scruffy fellow hiding in the shadows. "Who's in charge here?"
>The Janitor slinks out of the shadows, his enormous donkey penis trailing on the ground behind him
>He claps a piece of wood in his rough hands
>"That's a paddlin'," the Janitor says in a monotone, his mind clearly gone
>In a flash Moot has seized him by the throat
>"Fool! Do you now know who I am? It is I, your God and Master, Moot!"
>The Janitor's eyes are cold and dead
>"There ain't no God here," he says. "He left us long ago."
>"Fah!" Moot spits. He tosses the Janitor aside. Sweeping his cloak around himself, he strides off through the filth, searching for his one true ponyshit waifu
>"At least it's better than /a/," he grumbles

>It is late in the evening, and darkness has fallen over /mlp/
>Clouds form overhead and the wind begins to howl
>A shitstorm is brewing
>The details are unimportant; Moot has seen many a shitstorm in his time, and he knows how chaotic and unpredictable they always are
>His body heavy with weariness, his mind despairing for his Berry Spurt, he must seek shelter from the storm
>The mountains of shitposting have cleared behind him, as he has stumbled into the Outer Pages of /mlp/
>Tiny, inconsequential threads roll by, forgotten tumbleweeds in the wastes
>Up ahead, Moot sees the lights of a cottage
>Hopefully its inhabitants will be amenable to him staying there
>And, if not...
>Moot gingerly fingers the Banhammer secreted away in his codpiece
>Hopefully it won't have to come to that
>He lifts a gloved hand and pounds on the door
>When his knocking subsides, all is quiet at first, save for the distant howl of the approaching shitstorm
>Then, a voice
>"Who is it?"
>"I am a traveler, in search of rest and refuge," Moot says. "A great shitstorm is coming, and I fear the worst, should I be caught out here."
>Again, silence
>Then an unlatching of the lock, followed by the door swinging open
>A lone pony stands on the other side, its face obscured by the hood of its robe
>"Come in, then."
>The interior is humble and spare
>A single OP and only a handful of posts, a table, two chairs, a cot, and a pot bubbling in a stone hearth
>"Thank you for your kindness," Moot says, allowing his celestial smile to shine forth. "You have done me a great service. Tell me, do you know who I am?"
>"Of course I do," the pony says. Her voice grows dark. "You're the one who fucked us over."
>Moot's eyes narrow, then widen as the pony flicks back her hood
>"B-Berry Spurt?!"

>"Yeah, it's me," she spits. "You've got a lot of nerve showing your face here."
>Moot claps a hand to his chest, looking hurt. "Whatever do you mean? Is the 4th Channel not my realm? I mean, it's not 'mine' per se, I'm but a simple gardener, you know, tending to it, letting it grow, leaving power in the hands of my citizens..."
>"Cut the bullshit, Poole," Berry Spurt interrupts. "Does this look like a garden to you? This place is a fucking shithole."
>"Well I'm sorry, but that's just the way 4th Channel is, and you should learn to like it."
>"Shut the fuck up!" Berry Spurt stamps her hoof. "I didn't fucking ask to come here! None of us did!"
>"You certainly went along with it easily enough."
>"How was I supposed to know that I'd be >raped and subjected to faggotry on a daily basis? Do you think I'd have done this, if I knew that?"
>Moot simply shrugs. He ducks nimbly out of the way when she throws the OP at him. It collides dick-first with the wall, sticking into the cheap stucco like an erotic Ikea coat rack
>"Be reasonable, Berry!" Moot cries. "When I walked through /mlp/, I saw not hundreds, not thousands, but millions of ponies. Millions! The power of social media has revolutionized your civilization!"
>Berry Spurt's eyes burn. "What does it matter if that civilization is just a bunch of shit piled on more shit?"
>"Look, I think you're being very unreasonable about this," Moot chides, smiling. "Progress is inevitable, and there's always going to be a few kinks. We just have to be patient and let these things sort themselves out."
>"Fix it!" she screams. She picks up a chair and throws it at him. "FIX IT!" Then the table - its legs snap off on impact, flying around the room
>The sound of sizzling marshmallow fills the cottage when she seizes the bubbling pot in the hearth. "FIX! IT!"
>Moot is already running out the door when the kettle slams into the ground beside him
>Suddenly, Berry Spurt's booty isn't looking so enticing

>Into the darkness Moot flees, leaving the cottage - and Berry Spurt - far behind
>He races headlong into the winds of the shitstorm, back to the Inner Pages
>He's seen enough of this place
>If it weren't such an excellent source of revenue for the realm, he would torch it in an instant and ban everyone just like all those furfags years ago
>For now, though, he's content to leave the place as it is
>The moderation staff may have gone mad, but their programming was still intact
>They would do their jobs until judgment day, or at least until they were fired and forgotten and replaced by some other hapless recruit
>For a moment, Moot feels a twinge of guilt
>Then it passes
>He stumbles into the narrow, filth-covered streets, leaning on squishy piles of shitposts for support
>Squinting into the wind, he sees something strange ahead
>A bright, white light, shining down from the sky
>Something shuffles beside him, and Moot instantly backs away, his hand flying to the Banhammer at his crotch
>He breathes a sigh of relief when he sees it's just a neckbeard stumbling forward, as if in a daze
>The piquant smell of cheese emanates from the man's naked body, and his great pale buttocks jiggle with every step
>Saliva drips from his chapped lips and into his beard
>His eyes, though small and inbred, contain a remarkable spark of life
>He mouths a single word:
>"Mother..."
>And he lumbers on through the shitstorm, heading toward the light, oblivious to Moot's presence
>His curiosity getting the better of him, Moot follows the man, covering his nose with a 4chan Gold Pass to stifle the stench
>As he walked, he noticed that this neckbeard was not alone
>Pouring out from the mountains of shitposts, dragging themselves away in their hundreds and thousands from their burning Generals, were countless filthy neckbeards, all drawn to that same light like moths to a flame
>Something very strange was happening on /mlp/, and for the first time, Moot felt afraid

>The great plaza of Page One bristles with stinking life
>Gathering neckbeards number in their tens of thousands, their autistic moans forming a heavenly chorus
>Standing in their midst, towering above them in a raiment of shining white, is an angel
>Crowned with red hair, she looks out upon the crowd with gentle eyes, her face showing not an ounce of disgust for those who look up at her in awe
>And among those countless faces, some sweaty, some neckbearded, is the face of Moot
>He stand frozen, jostled by the jiggling bodies of the neckbeards all around him, not even noticing them
>His gaze is fixed on Her, this worldly angel, who would stoop to visit those reviled by everyone
>Goodness and purity, in 4th Channel, of all places
>For Moot, in his dark heart, knew the true nature of his creation, and though he felt powerless to change it, he knew that it could be changed, through the works of great evil... or of great good
>He had never thought it possible
>But here she was, a Creator, a Mother, stepping into this garden that he had built
>For the first time, the Banhammer slips from his fingers, and he is humbled
>His mouth opens, and he utters a single phrase:
>"This is truly the end of days."
>And none knew more of Moot that day, and he has never been seen since in the land of /mlp/.

The end.