“I finally got’cha! Goshdarn rascal.”

Applejack lifts you by your ankle, plush-padded paw wriggling helplessly in her ironclad grip as you fought to steady yourself. Wriggling and kicking until the realization dawns on you that there’s no escape from this confrontation. You did eat, like, a good 3/4’s of her crops.

The little fluffball resting over your tailbone flicks anxiously as you stare up at her with wide eyes from your upside down position, just about to squeak out an excuse before she cuts you off. Large, worn gloved hand raised in a “stop” signal. You shut your trap immediately.

“You gon’ tell me why the hay you’ve been eatin’ up my crops?” she huffs, lips pulled into a tight, somehow pouty frown. Thick brows drawn in tight over her eyes, the bridge of her nose scrunching.

“Have’ta start all this from the soul up again— gosh, ain’t nowhere else you coulda took yer meddling?”