Wednesday, 4 January 2012

Stage A Log "Transcendence" - Blackest Skyline


Well, the journey has finally begun; Stalliongrad to Ponyville in the shortest time possible. It seems that general spirits amounst the group of competitors are high. We spent the first night relaxing, preparing for the voyage ahead. The starting point was the Stalliongrad Arms - a quaint little village pub, styled in a nostalgic manner like a gentlecolt's club. The other competitors seemed to blend well together; they chatted jovially and drank down many glasses of non-alcoholic beer; non-alcoholic because they didn't want to get hungover the next morning and risk binning their cars on the first stage.

I, however, was not with them. Upon arrival, I had managed to, via some truly shoddy housekeeping, sneak into the cellar of the bar and set up my sleeping area in a secluded area of the cellar - within reaching distance of the vodka salts. Needless to say, I got absolutely hammered, and spent most of the night slowly emptying the bar's reserves. It was about then I got VERY sentimental. This is where I got my trademark blood stain in my mane and tail.

It was about five years ago that my band - Transcendence - first gigged; this very bar was the first venue we went to, due to them being pretty desperate for talent and us being pretty desperate about making bits. When we arrived, it wasn't what we had expected. We were playing in a venue where EVERYPONY was completely wrecked. They were nearly in a state of anarchy; the barman was struggling to keep everypony's orders on check and the place stank of puke and cigarette smoke. We set up our gear and immediately launced into one of our heaviest and most brutal songs we could muster. This, in retrospect, was a bad move; an enormous pit formed, slowly being filled with the bodies of the inebriated. Just as we finished, everything went black as an errant bottle struck me right between the eyes and knocked me clean out. When I awoke, I was in a hospital bed, and the band had formally announced the disbandment of Transcendence, in anticipation of my death. However, I did not die. I survived, but not without my blood stained mane and tail. I never saw my bandmates again; they simply abandoned me, and went on to better lives. I didn't.

When I awoke, I wasn't feeling too good about all the drinks I had consumed. There was a thin veil of dried puke on the wall opposite me, a blotch of blood in the centre. I patted my forehead, and saw that, yet again, I had went and knocked myself out, leaving a cut from where my head had presumably struck the wall. This was getting ridiculous. I rushed my sorry flank out of my makeshift bed and launced through the doors of the cellar to the outside world. The sudden transition from dark to light was almost too much; I could feel myself stumble under the thick blanket of the hangover I was experiencing. However, nothing could stop me now. Not even the disapproving and shocked faces of my competitors as I rushed, haggard and bleeding, into the XJ220. I was being powered by little more than sheer rage; I wanted to get this over and done with. I hammered at the stopwatch and floored the throttle, sending 600hp straight towards the tarmac, with predictable results. The tyres cried for mercy, but none was given. A quick glance in the rear-view mirror revealed that Vinyl Scratch, Rainbow Dash and the duo of Applejack and Big Macintosh had taken off after me, seemingly eager to keep pace or fix my apparant problem of a cut on the forehead and rage in the mind.

The only problem was that, when you are fueled by self-loathing and adrenaline, you become the equivalent of a machine. That was exactly what happened to me.

By the time I had reached Trottingham, I had recorded a time of 27:21.327 at an average speed of 119mph, which turned out to be far faster than expected of a hungover raging guitarist driving a car the length and width of a mansion while patching a cut forehead and struggling to adapt to the basic concept of driving. Shortly after, my rage calmed, and I reverted to tending to my cut, eventually settling to let nature take its course. It would do better than I would when I had to explain to my fellow competitors;


  • Why I was in the cellar,
  • Why I was bleeding and,
  • What was so wrong that I felt the need to rush out and begin alone?


Time: 27:21.327

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