Game Show
“Welcome to the show!” The game show host says grandly, a smirk depleting the generosity in his tone. Although he does not look the same, you know it is him by his stance and demeanour. He now has the appearance of a brown horse walking on its hind legs, a black mane falling down his neck to his wide shoulders. Do you...look like him? Glancing down your body, you realise that the short coat of hair is indeed like this bay horse’s, though black instead. Your ‘hooves’ are different too, like a deer’s — cloven not hard. There is a bitter taste in your mouth and you resist the urge to spit.
“Welcome? Welcome? Is that what you say to someone that you’ve dragged here against his will and done who knows what to?” You snap, teeth clicking together. What’s wrong with your voice? It’s of a higher pitch than usual. “What am I? What have you done to me?”
The host smiles and licks his lips, straightening his smart, dark navy suit.
“I am so glad that you have decided to join us,” he continues as if he has not heard your outburst.
“I didn’t bloody decide to join you!” You shout, scrambling awkwardly to your hooves and almost topping off-balance. The something within your trouser leg wriggles. A tail like the bastard host’s one? It feels different. “Change me back right now! I don’t care about your god damn show! Change me back and let me go!”
Your anger is softened by the fight you are having with your clothes. Your trousers are too large on your new body and keep slipping, so you hook your fingers into an unused belt loop and yank them upwards, though they slide down again with a teenager’s air of rebellion. There is no holding them. Frustrated, you kick out like a feral horse at the game show host, who steps patiently to the side and tilts his head to consider you.
“As a contestant,” the host lifts a paw to gesture along with his speech, utterly ignoring your actions. “You must meet all objectives or be disqualified and lose out on the prizes. That is fairly standard. You must not attempt to harm any others during the course of the show and you now display your understanding that the show will be broadcast as per your permission.” His eyes dance wickedly. “The forms you sign give permission for this, as I am sure you are aware.”
Smoothing his slick forelock to the right, the host spreads his paws to either side in a genial pose. You stalk up to him and stand muzzle to muzzle, breathing heavily, anger searing through your veins.
“What did you say?” You speak quietly, dangerously. “You don’t have my permission to do anything.”
He pretends not to hear you and begins to reel off his game show spiel from memory.
“The objective of the first round...”
“Are you even listening?” You scream, an inch from his muzzle. He doesn’t even flinch.
“The objective of the first round,” he repeats calmly, with a plastic, dark smile, “is to find the costume. This will transform you into a new form and allow you to progress to the next round!”
Ignoring your fury and distress, he retreats to the door, though you cannot see anything beyond the square of bright light. He pauses and turns, curling his fingers into a fist and pushing his thumb upwards: a ‘thumbs up’ gesture.
“Good luck!” He chuckles, spinning on his hoof and disappearing as the door slides shut behind him. There is no evidence that there was ever a door there.
Written by Amethyst Mare on 07 April 2013