//------------------------------// // Chapter 1 // Story: Sometimes You Make It... // by Indie Cred //------------------------------// Indie poured himself a drink while staring out his apartment window at the beautiful view of the brick wall of the adjoining building He smoothed his black mane, gulped down his drink, and pour a second shot while wondering to himself what his life would be like if he had a better view. “At least it would be brighter in here” he thought to himself, draining the glass again. The green pegasus gathered up his saddle bag, filled with the music he’d chosen for the night, put on his black square glasses, and poured himself a third glass. Downing it, he grimaced slightly, and headed out the door. He didn’t bother to lock it. “Why should I?” he thought. “The only thing of value I have is in this bag”. He walked down the back streets of Manehattan, aiming towards Equestrian Beats, a local club he regularly DJed at. Though a Pegasus, he tended to walk when he wasn’t working, as he was rarely sober enough to fly straight, let alone land. The club was painted entirely black, save for the ceiling. It was once a beautiful plasterwork, flaked with gold, depicting ponies of all kinds in some sort of opera garb. Now it was mostly bare patched, with only a few ponies still somewhat recognizable, the gold all but gone. The theater had once been an opera house, but had been closed down due to financial problems. The owner Mr. Chance, a somewhat portly grey unicorn, had purchased it some thirty years ago, and had slowly turned it into the semi-successful club it was now. “Hey Golden, how’s it going?” Indie called as he moved towards the stage. “Eh, I’ve been better. This place is falling apart as fast as I fix it. It’s costing a fortune” “Well, as long as it stays in one piece long enough for my set, we shouldn’t have any problems” Indie moved up the stairs at the side of the stage, and opened the gate to the DJ booth. He set down his saddle bag and pulled out a single record. Placing it on the turntable, he began to adjust settings on the mixer. “I see you had another amateur night, eh?” he called out. “Yeah, I figure we had a few greats come out of here, maybe we’ll get another one!” Called back Golden Chance. Though he didn’t show it, the comment cut into Indie Cred. He adjusted the mixer further, and set the needle on the record. He always prepared the booth with the same record. It was the first song he’d ever heard, an old rock tune by the Drafts. As the song began to swell, he turned down the volume, relegating it to little more than background noise. He’d heard the song so many times, he didn’t even need to be able to hear the lyrics anymore. As he began preparing the mix he would play that night, he mouthed along with the song. “Come on baby light my fire…” He wasn’t sure why he kept playing this same song every time, especially as it tended to remind him of past events he wasn’t too fond of reliving. He supposed it had become a bit of a tradition at this point, and saw no real reason to change it. Finally pleased with the set list, he sat down in the booth and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his saddlebag. Fumbling with the lighter, he didn’t notice Mr. Chance walk up behind him. “Jeez kid, you started off a bit early tonight didn’t you?” “What are you talking about? It’s already eight-thirty. If it’s late enough for the bars to be open, it’s late enough to drink.” “The bars are always open Indie.” “Exactly.” Indie finally managed to get his cigarette lit, and made a note to himself to replace his lighter. He leaned back in his seat and waited for the crowd to show up, moving only to switch records or light another cigarette. The crowd started to arrive in ones and twos at around nine-thirty. Most of these were regulars, wanting to get a drink or two in before the show started and it was nigh-impossible to get to the bar. A few of them wandered over to the booth, asking what Indie would be playing that night, or requesting a track. He wrote down a few song titles, and promised that if they weren’t played tonight, he’d get them at the next show for sure. Ten o’clock rolled around, and the crowd began to swell. It was going to be a good night for sure. He’d already counted over two hundred in attendance, well above the normal. He walked backstage, and waited for his cue. The house lights dimmed, and a low buzz emitted from the stacks. He stepped out into the near darkness and into the booth. The house lights came on with a bright flash. The speakers began pumping out bass and the crowd roared in response. As the beat intensified, Indie became a new pony again. He stared out into the sea of ponies, writhing with the music, the speakers pumping out sound, the lights flickering and flashing, and he felt whole. This was what he was made for, this moment here. Everything else melted away, and he became one with the music. He read the emotions of the crowd, choosing tracks to keep them on their feet, feeding off the raw energy of the mass of ponies dancing and swaying to the beat. For a moment, he forgot about everything in his life. His past, his fears, his pain, everything was gone, replaced by the sound and the surge of the crowd. And just like that, it was over. Two AM came, last call was made, and the attendees began to filter out. The deep boom of the speakers was replaced by the quiet sounds of a local radio station. Indie began to pack up his collection, and lit another cigarette. At least for now, he was still there in his mind. The endorphins would wear off soon enough he knew, but for now he would enjoy the feeling. It was better than anything alcohol could ever give him. He made his way over to the bar, and called “Hey, Mr. Chance! I’m going to head out soon!” Mr. Chance walked over to the edge of the bar and set down a small sack filled with coins. “Seems a little light this time.” “Times are rough, kid. We’re not bringing in folks like we used to.” “What are you talking about?! I had at least two hundred in here tonight! That’s better than I’ve done in months!” “Yeah, but that’s just for your show. Other than the nights you play, we’re not getting much business. The bar barely made anything tonight either. At this rate, I’m going to have to raise the cover charge again…” Indie tossed the bag of coins in his saddlebag and grabbed a half-full bottle of whiskey off the counter. “This makes us even.” He said, taking a swig and starting towards the door. “I know it’s hard to admit it, but you’re not going anywhere with this, kid. Maybe you should try a gimmick or something?” “What? Like a crazy hairstyle or some sort of ridiculous helmet? Nah, I’ll stick with what I’ve got. See ya next week?” “If I’m still open, sure.” Indie headed out the door back to his apartment, stopping occasionally to light another cigarette or take a swig from his bottle. By the time he’d reached his apartment, the bottle was nearly empty and he only had one smoke left. He opened the door and fell onto his bed, trying to will the room to stop spinning. Everything rushed back. The high was over, and his life had returned.