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I decided to go to the ballet. Alone. As my previous argument with my horse-man pal left me flustered beyond reason, and as such my temperament in dire need of repair, and nothing so bolsters a horse’s spirits as a walk down to the main street theater to see the lights, be among the people, and watch a thrilling show. I put on my finest satin cape and trotted out into the damp twilight, down the cobbled lanes of olde Sacramento, to the tower theater and bought my ticket and upon my arrival the usher informed me that some mix-up had occurred and another theater-goer had been given a seat in my private box, and that they would obligingly reimburse me and give me a seat down below, near the orchestra. “No matter!” I shouted, loudly, in the manner of a gentleman announcing his grand status, “I shall have a kind word or two with them to see if they might accept some company, and if they find themselves unwilling, I will take my place down below.” The usher thanked me and I threw aside the curtain to my private box and there seated was a small figure in a hooded robe. “Of course, Bonky. I was waiting for you,” they said, but made no effort to reveal themselves. “And whose company might I have the pleasure of entertaining this evening?” I bowed, lightly. “Draw up a seat, and I will tell you everything there is to know about me.” I drew up my chair, which was a horse’s chair, and, but, it was kind of horse-shaped – like a horse for a horse – so I could stand over it and then just gently retract my legs and the horse-chair would hold me up and I could enjoy some time off my hooves. Anyways, the lights in the theater dimmed and went out and some strange, alien dance was performed on stage. You know, an amuse-bouche for the eyes. “This reminds me a bit of that Star Wars scene between Sheev and Ani, don’t you think?” I said to the hooded figure in my booth. “Yes, I know, Bonky. Because everything reminds you of Star Wars, doesn’t it?” The stranger said it in a way that seemed insinuating. Certainly it wouldn’t have bothered me if a friend had said it, but since I did not know the identity of this strange other, I could not bring myself to treat the situation lightly, “what do you mean by that, perchance?” I said, brusquely. “Oh, please, Bonky. It’s well known that you only think about Star Wars and how bad it is or how good it once was and could be again if only you were wielding the power of the franchise.” Yes, he had me dead to rights, but still, I sought some remand for my bruised ego, “I don’t know what you mean.” I said. “What is more like Star Wars,” they asked, “Che Guavera. . . or a squid?” It seemed natural to me that the answer were Che Guavera, since Che Guavera was a rebel, and a rebel is more directly aligned with the essential story of star wars, even though the series might feature many alien creatures inspired by squid. So I said as much, “Yes,” I said, “certainly the answer is Che Guavera.” “Now,” said the stranger, “which is more like Star Wars. . . ketchup? . . . or mustard?” I hmm’d, for I had to go through my knowledge of the respective plants. Certainly a tomato plant would be a more suitable addition to the alien worlds of Star Wars, but the modern mustard seed is arguably the older plant. If the choice were between colors, I’d have to go with red, as the color of vader’s light saber is immediately more striking than, say, the yellow of han solo’s stripes – even if the movie, (on a technical level,) makes greater use of yellow. One must also examine the technological distribution and packaging of ketchup and mustard, and I think ketchup wins this category as well, as ketchup bottles have a more recent design update, where they now open from the bottom, and I think that design aesthetic is lightly more futuristic than mustard’s. I’m not sure how long I was reflecting on these matters, but long enough that my lips were a little gluey. “Ketchup,” I said. “Yes,” said the stranger. “Indeed. Only one so infatuated with such inane material would even entertain such a fatuous question.” “Who are you?” I demanded, my raw whisper eliciting a shush from the pillbox next door. “You unfriended me on facebook,” they said, flatly. Now, I’m the most famous horse in the world. I have millions of facebook friends and I routinely follow and unfollow and sometimes those are my only actions upon logging on, so I couldn’t possibly narrow it down. The figure turned to me and I saw the tight, plastic smile, and I knew it could only be one Slippery Pete, the PEDOPHILE. “Are you afraid to be seen with me, Bonky?” He asked. I stiffened violently, absolutely disgusted with this distasteful company, and looked rigidly upon the stage, my senses enflamed. “Bonky,” Slippery Pete whispered, “do not pretend that you hate me.” “I do hate you,” I told him. “We were friends once.” “And no longer,” I said prompt and prim. “We’ll always be here, Bonky. Until the last star goes out. Until the last warmth dissipates from the strongholds of the living. There will be pedophilia.” “No!” I shouted, and turned to escape the box, but in my haste I stumbled over the horse-chair, which proved difficult to dismount in a natural way, and I tumbled with it down to the floor, knocking over a shrouded lantern and spilling its contents across the floor and up the wall. Slippery Pete laughed dryly, as I scrambled to escape the mounting flames. In a panic I fled. I fled down the stairs and out the front doors, barring them behind me in my panic-stricken certainty that my experience must be physically barred from me, as well as psychically. I saw through small windowed panels on the doors the other theater-goers piling out to escape the smoke. Their shouts and appeals to unbar the doors greatly affected me, but no, I wanted it all gone. Everything about this horrible night must go up if I am to escape it. So I stayed long enough for the fire marshall to arrive, but by then it was too late. They had all asphyxiated in a compressed mass of tangled legs and arms. How horrible. It was all I could do. I’m sure they would forgive me, if they knew a pedophile numbered among them.