My Little Larson: Fetishism is Magic

I sat in the front row next to a land whale and a fedora. The land whale made sounds like her lungs were an accordion, but the fedora was oddly quiet for just a fedora.

We all were waiting for our Jesus MA Larson to grace us with his godlessness. My entourage was in the back hiding out from the sea of spaghetti I was treading, but I wanted to get as close as I could to MA Larson as possible. His scraggly beard and 'just got out of the shower and Im still pretty fucking drunk from last night" hair was irresistible.

Then, out of the side of a curtain hanging on the top of the stage, he came! MA Larson himself, but instead of his scruff, I saw a purple and pink wig, about shoulders length long and very sexy, placed atop his matted hair. A shit eating grin grew across his face as he sat down in front of the microphone desk on stage.

This wig reminded me of the ones I've used before. Once it was on, me and my partner would travel to a magical new world full of ponies, princesses, and whips. The smell of leather started to creep across my mind. It was all coming back, and it was irresistible.

Larson sat on top of his perch overlooking the room examining his prey. The air was was intimate, with a tinge of /mlp/ brand lube (Buy our stuff. We take PayPal, bitcoin and Amex) floating around. The bronies sat in rows along the convention room by the hundreds, cheering with admiration for their favorite writer.

As Larson hesitated to talk, the crowd lingered in wait. The pitter patter of two hundred antsy legs created a stacca to that overwhelmed even the heaviest wheeze from the ball of Cheetos and mountain dew that sat in the seat near me.

When he finally opened his mouth and raised his hand in the air to mark the start of his speech, the room went dead. Not a kid whimpered nor a neck beard fidgeted. The body odor, from what I presumed was an entire room that has gone seven days without a bath, was so strong and the room so quiet I could almost hear the stench.

"Something something writing for the show" he muttered. I saw his mouth move and his eyes twinkle but I wasnt paying attention to his words for obvious reasons. When he stopped and was quiet, that shit eating grin returned.

"Who wants to wear the wig?" he said into the microphone, "Someone needs to wear the wig."

At last, his predatory instincts came to fruition. I knew what he was doing with it. A cast off into the crowd and someone would be a happy filly with MA Larson tonight. The man who donned the wig would become the chosen one. Once on the head, the wig was ready to whisk away the victim into a night full of lust and kinky adultery no sane person should witness with clean eyes.

I thought of what might go down in the Larson Lair™ once the wig had chosen his prey. Would Larson break out a pair of wings? Let his chosen one whisk him away to the clouds where they will lay. Roleplay as Celestia and grant his bed mate innumerable powers? Let him ravage his kingdom with a shiny ceptar of gold, reaping the bounties of Larson's plentiful plots of land? Will they go to the castle and play with their toys? Only the imagination can tell what the future may hold.

Before this moment I knew no god. Euphoric in my own sense, I needed no retribution, no saving grace, so savior. But now with an opportunity presenting itself as such -the only real hero, the only real human being in my life- sitting right in front of me, arms open and welcoming like a soft bed at night, I prayed. I prayed to whomever shall take the call. Pick me. Please Larson, pick me.

To be continued?