Incident on a Forest Road in Equestria
by Maxmanta
How do you explain to your adopted daughter that you weren’t always the humble grape farmer that she knew you as? Or that you didn’t always go by name of Berryshine? How do you tell her that, a lifetime ago, you were the number one bare-hoofed prize fighter in all Equestria?
You don’t. Not yet, at least. Maybe later, when she’s older. Or, better yet, when I’m old and frail and being fed through a tube. That way, I can have closure. At any rate, not for a long time.
Nopony in Ponyville knows about my past. My best friend, Carrot doesn’t even know. But I’m sure she has her suspicions. She isn’t the brightest pony in the herd, but she’s not stupid. How do you explain away your string of bad relationships that always end up with the guy knocked out on the front lawn with his ribs kicked in? Or how about the drunken losers that recognize you from way back and challenge you to a leg-wrestling contest or a brawl right there on top of the bar?
My first response is to brush them off, tell them they’re mistaking me for some other mare. If that doesn’t work, all that’s left is to give them what they want. I say to them, “Listen, muleass. In my prime I could smack you silly and drop kick you out the door before the foam on my cider even subsided. But I’m not in my prime any more. So if you want to start something, now’s your chance. I’m old and drunk and falling over myself so, maybe—maybe—it’ll be fair fight.” I say it real slow-like. It sounds more menacing that way—like Clint Clydesdale. Usually, they back down. If not, I show ‘em where Berry Punch got her name. I try to keep my past a secret from the other townsponies, so I try not to attract much attention.
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Carrot has been my best friend ever since I arrived, years and years ago, in Ponyville. She has this wild poof of orange hair and her cutie mark is a bunch of carrots, which labeled her as a farmer. I come from a farming family so we immediately hit it off. She had just bought a small house on a few acres of good farm land and she needed a house mate to help pay the lease and with the farming. I needed a place to stay and a job. I moved in the next day.
It worked out great. She grows these fat, delicious carrots in her garden. Enough for the two of us and plenty left to sell. Me, I was able to put in a tiny vineyard. I sell most of them in town. The rest get stomped into wine.
Ponyville is something on the rustic side and doesn’t have a more modern postal system. Attempts had been made to introduce one, but between a nearly blind letter carrier and one cross-eyes mailmare, modern postal delivery hasn’t quite caught on here. So, letters and other pieces of mail are posted every Wednesday at the Ponyville post office. Not knowing many ponies outside of Ponyville, I don’t get very much mail, so I don’t visit the post office very often. Anyway, Carrot came practically bouncing up to me in my tiny vineyard one day, gushing that a letter had been posted for me, and a fancy one at that. I couldn’t imagine who it was from, so my enthusiasm didn’t nearly match hers. But I went into town anyway and found my letter.
It was fancy, alright—carefully mouth-written in fine calligraphy. My sister Sherry’s oldest daughter was graduating from Phillydelphia A&M with a degree in agriculture. That would make her the first in a long line of Berrys to graduate from anything more prestigious than some horse college. She said it would mean a lot to her, personally, if was to come for the ceremony. I loved my sister. Though I hadn’t seen or spoken to her in years, she was the only one in my family that hadn’t written me off a long time ago.
I checked my wardrobe, or rather, the pile of soiled overalls I picked my daily work outfits from. I had a floppy sunhat that seemed presentable enough, but by itself, it wouldn’t do. So I emptied my bank account and change jar into a saddlebag and made my way to the only dressmaker in town.
Rarity—the mare that runs Carousel Boutique—halted me before I could step one hoof into her store. “You will NOT enter my shop until you’ve cleaned yourself up, Miss Berryshine! Tracking dirt everywhere…it’s an abomination! Oh! And you reek of wine and liquor! You will NOT come back until you have made yourself presentable!”
In spite of Rarity being the snooty little bitch-nag that she is, she was right, I had been drinking since ten that morning. I drink every day. I know it’s not good for me and surrounds me in a cloud of liquor fumes, but it gets me through the day. Besides, I got it under control—nothing hard until after eight in the evening.
So I wandered into the Ponyville Day Spa and spent a good chunk of my wad making myself “presentable.” When I entered, the two twins that ran the place spoke to each other in this weird mushy-sounding language, each trading glances at me. I hoofed over a small pile of bills to them.
“The works,” I muttered.
At the sight of the money their mood went straight from desultory to downright ingratiating. They practically dropped me into a bubble bath and scrubbed me from head-to-hoof, shampooed and conditioned my main and tail. After leaving the tub, I felt ten pounds lighter from all the dirt and grime I had shed. A hooficure and makeover later and I was one hot-looking mare, if you don’t mind me saying so!
Even miss prissy-pants Rarity was impressed, and gushed an apology for her previous remarks, even offering a modest discount off of her latest fashions. After making a selection and some slight alterations I emerged wearing a plum colored dress that matched my eyes perfectly. As a further act of contrition, she added a matching purse. With her proffered discount, I was left with enough for a train ticket and a stool at the dining car bar.
I got a lot of appreciative looks from the stallions (even a few mares!) as I boarded the train to Phillydelphia. I guess ponies are funny like that. They start getting randy for you if you’re actually covering yourself, and my new dress was getting me a lot of attention. I wiggled my flank a little as I boarded the train, to the delight of the stallions in line behind me.
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A chug of smoke, a puff of steam, a gentle lurch later, and I was already at the bar and enjoying my favorite pastime. Making wine is fun, it’s also how I make my living. Drinking is funner, and it’s how I spend a lot of my money. I checked the label of the proffered bottle. It was a local brand. Just for laughs, I asked him if he had any Berry Farm ’77. It was my family’s best vintage.
He looked surprised. “We don’t have anything like that, miss!”
I smiled to myself and asked him to leave the bottle. It was a cheap brand—but not so cheap as to make me seem cheap. I drained the bottle and asked for another.
“We haven’t even left the station, ma’am! You may want to pace yourself.” Why do stallions always feel a need to protect pretty mares from themselves?
“Oh, don’t worry, sweetie. I can hold it.” I fluttered my eyelashes.
“I’m sorry, you misunderstand! I meant about your bar tab. At this rate you’re going to owe quite a sizeable sum of bits!” I was immediately embarrassed. I guess I had gotten a little too used to the attention I was getting. I hoofed another chunk of my money over to him. “Will this keep me going?”
“If you stick with this particular vintage, yes. Quite a while.”
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I must be getting old, and sometimes what seems like a blessing can be a curse. By the time the conductor came around, I was feeling pretty buzzed. And that usually means I’m very buzzed.
“Excuse me, ma’am?” The conductor—a short stallion with little pince-nez glasses and muttonchops decorating his cheeks—was holding out his hoof to me.
“Oh! You want to dance? Well I’m afraid my card is full!” For some reason, I thought this was funny and laughed and banged my hoof on the bar.
“No! Your ticket, please!” I guess I didn’t smell as good as I looked. He winced l and crinkled his nose at me.
“Relax! I know…I got it right here!” I tried my best to stuff my face into my purse and come up with my ticket, but I ended up on the floor of the train instead. Thankfully, my ticket fell out and landed next to me. As I giggled like an idiot, the conductor wordlessly picked it up, stamped it, and dropped it on my tummy. I heard some whispers and some ponies shook their heads in disapproval.
“Enjoy your…ride…ma’am.”