It had been pulling stronger lately. One night he had been lying awake and heard some lonesome bastard outside singing some song of self-pity. At first he thought it was an ordinary drunkard singing some tune he heard on his way home. To be fair, the pony both looked and sounded black-out drunk. At first. Then he felt an odd creeping tingle along his shoulders and down his back, then there was an accompaniment chorus of low, deep humming that seemed to echo through the street as other unfortunate, sleepless bastards got pulled in and… some low bass instruments sounded from nowhere. Then the drunkard started singing louder, clearer, and all round better than before. The magic, or whatever it was, seemed to be selective at that point. Handy felt compelled to not join in on this solo song, and it ticked him off to no end to not understand how and why it made him feel that way.