“Hey, Zesty, do ya need help finding your station? Because I’m pretty sure it’s right behind that door with an ‘EXIT’ sign above it,” Doughnut Joe said, crossing his hooves with a smirk.
The lavender mare in question gave Joe a square look, and placing her hooves on the colt in front of her, said calmly but level, “Listen to me, Joseph. Just because you happen to make an edible cuisine last year that appealed to the Judge’s more debased appetite and won that competition, does not tarnish our reputation as two-year running champions. It was a small, unforeseen mistake that cost us our rightful victory, and I promise you, it will not happen again. Isn’t that right, Zingy, dear.”
“Indeed,” the colt nodded curtly.
“You hear that Sonata? This culinary artist is still sore about last year. Could it be that she’s afraid a couple of bakers might beat her again? No matter, we best be heading over to our station. We wouldn’t want to waste all this precious time rubbing salt in old wounds, now would we?”
“Not that she would know what salt tastes like,” added Sonata.
Zesty glared down at the little tripe with a smoldering furry in her eyes. “I’d be careful what I say, young filly. Ponies of my respected reputation tend to hold power just as much as opinions, and I’d be upset to find somepony like you disqualified for something as petty as disorderly conduct.”
Joe scowled at this and said quickly, “Back off Zesty and leave your power threats for the judges. Come on, Sweetie, we’re done here.”
As Joe and Sonata trotted away, Zesty called out with a sly smirk creeping at the corners, “May the truely best ponies win.”
“Oh….we intended too,” Joe muttered darkly under his breath.