and takes up a job
Pale Ale, a fine specimen of the earth pony variety. Stocky shoulders, guns for arms, reflexes quicker than a bull on a rampage, and that fine chiseled jaw, marred only by a scar. A trophy of a time 'fore the peace treaty, 'fore all hymns and holistic preachin', 'fore he was known as 'Pale Ale'. But that was then, and ya know what they say. The past ain't today. Today, Pale Ale works a bar on the outskirts of Junction, famed for the mighty fine ale and the kick just as fine. The only thing that's as famous, is the righteous beating if y'all done tickled Pale Ale wrong.
And somepony done ticked Pale Ale wrong, tonight.
"GET 'IM!" The crowd roared and laughed as a patron who took a swig too many, tried to roundhouse the owner of the fine establishment, The Frontier 'Fore the Frontier. Pale ducked beneath the blow and tackled the drunkard to the floor. He grappled with the stallion and wrestled the poor pony's arms behind his back, leavin' him hollerin'.
"Ya righteous son of a gun, Maverick. Ya knows what happens when yous take a swing at my kindly patrons." Pale sighed as he heaved the struggling Maverick onto his shoulder. He trudged his way to the swingin' doors and promptly threw the stallion out. No fancy way of doin' it. Just a one, two, and out. "Yer allowed back in, Mav, when yer sober and comprehendin' sum."
Pale Ale rolled his left shoulder, trying to alleviate an ache, then marched in with his hands in the air. His other patrons went wild, to say the least. Majority of dem folk reside 'ere on a mellow evenin' for Pale's ale as well as the entertainment that's sure to follow. The others are movin' folk. Ponies who do nuthin' but wander. Sure, on the rare occasion, a troublemaker gets a mite rowdy or just passin' through. Pale deals with dem accordingly. Just like...hmm, well ain't that a surprise. Or a drag, depends on the day.
He moseyed over to his station and swept the table. A scuffle leads to a couple of shattered glasses, it don't bother Pale none. He'll just take it off Mav's tab, just like all the other times. With a well practiced swipe, he done wiped near all the pieces, perfect for his newest patron.
A heavyweight earth pony plopped down near the bar. Near nopony sane enough to wear a trench coat of that size in the desert heat, 'less they gots a reason to. Now, Pale's seen enough to understand that 'reasons' usually means trouble. He sidled up the stallion with a question and a glass.
"Name yer poison." Maybe not a question.
"Whiskey." A rough voice answered, near tough as sand.
"Rye or Tenneighsee?"
"Rye."
Pale wasted no time, collected a bottle from the back and poured with a finesse ya don't expect an earth pony to obtain. He slid the glass over the countertop and measured the crowd. Patrons on the regular were headin' out, sensin' a storm was a brewin'. They knows when Pale knows. Is a relationship Pale could respect.
"Hammer Crackshot." A sudden chill entered the bar. If they weren't leavin' then, now they were.
"Pardon on the inquiry, partner, but ya gots to be more...specific, on what ya mean." Pale turned around, his eyes narrowed. He wasn't concerned none 'bout his welfare nor the welfare for his patrons, his trouble was with the spirits 'hind the countertop. Theys his pride 'n joy, that. Tartarus' comin' wit' him if a single shard's comin' loose.
"Ah ain't meanin' no disrespect. 'S'just yer a livin' legend!" The stallion finally raised his head, the stetson raised along as well, revealin' none other than a colt. His eyes shimmered with clear adoration.
"Fiddlesticks."
"What?"
"Fiddlesticks is what ya needs, colt." Pale let his hand drop from 'hind his back and eased a drink upon himself. "Ain't nopony sane enough to walk intah mah bar, wearin' a mighty fishy cloak and a low brim cap, an' expectin'...whatever ya was expectin'. Yous mother taught ya nuthin'?"
"Oh! Uhhh...many apologies, Crackshot. Ah wasn't thinkin' straight."
"Clear as day, colt."
"Right, right. Uhhh..."
"Now yous dunno what to do, ain't that right?" Pale finished his drink and placed the empty glass amongst all the others. He grabbed his cloth and started wiping down the countertop again. "Yous come runnin' the moment ya hear 'bout the legend, Hammer Crackshot. Ya dropped everythin' ya was doin' an' up and left, leavin' yer fam'ly 'n fortune."
"Ain't no truth to that tale!"
"Then spin another." Pale glared at the colt, he froze and stared back, eyes wide. "Thought so."
"Ah...ah...yeah. Yer just as they say, sharper than a prickin' pear, Crackshot."
"Ain't mah name no more. Ya call me Pale Ale or yous leave right now."
"All right, all right!" His hands went up in an 'ah'm an innocent' gesture. Hands, Pale mused. Ain't nuthin' special tah hands. They take lives and give death.
"Now, yer homeless an' jobless. Ain't that a fine and dandy situation to be in, don'tchya think?"
"..." The colt looked down and took another swig of the rye whiskey. "Mighty fine whiskey."
"Course, ah made it. Ah ain't buyin' no market bilge. Finest alcohol, this side of Junction." Pale said proudly. The only thing he's proud of.
"..." Now the colt had one of dem thinkin' faces. A rare treat, a thinkin' face. Wholly different from yer run of the mill terror or despair. Laughter and excitement ain't that different either. Thinkin' is an act solely of the mind. A rare treat indeed.
Pale left the counter to serve a couple of the patrons who stayed behind. When he came back, the colt wore a grim expression. "Crac...eh, Pale. Thanks to ya, ah understand that much more. Ah'm headin' hearthwards, mah folks need me."
"If ya say so." Pale took his empty glass and wiped it. "If ya ever need bits, we're hirin'."
"Really?"
"Why not." Pale placed the cup down next to the others. "In fact, ya can start right now."
"REALLY?"
"Ah ain't the type to lie."
"Then yes! Ah'll take the job." The colt could barely keep 'imself from grinnin'. Poor lad.
"Then 'ere's yer cloth. Soap's out back. Yer doin' dishes."