//------------------------------// // Bottoms Up (TaviScratch) // Story: Waxing Lyrical // by Imperator Chiashi Zane //------------------------------// “Vinyl, do you think we’re gonna make it?” The grey furred Earth pony mare pushed a brown oak barrel into the trunk of an auto-carriage, worry wrinkling her muzzle. The white Unicorn mare levitated her pistol into its armpit holster, “Always do, babe. C’mon.” The Earth pony closed the trunk with a click and scooped up her cello case, settling it comfortably in the back seat, atop another pair of barrels. “I know you’re worried, but Neon said the road’s clear from here to Canterlot,” she took the other mare’s muzzle in her hoof and looked into her deep brown eyes, “We’ll be fine, Tavi.” Octavia scooped up her rifle, a gift from Vinyl for their third anniversary, and slid into the shotgun seat, flicking her long, black tail into the hoof-well before closing the door and rolling the window down. The rifle was a comfortable weight in her hooves, though she had never needed it, outside of the shooting range Vinyl took her to occasionally. For an Earth pony, she was a stellar shot, part of the reason she now rode shotgun, instead of meeting her marefriend at the club. She smiled softly as the driver’s seat shifted suddenly, sinking under the weight of the white Unicorn settling into it, short, spiky mane nearly grazing the roof-panels. With a flash of magic, the engine roared to life. The Earth pony mare flinched instinctively, her sensitive ears tucking against her skull at the awful noise of grinding gears that the engine always made until it settled into motion. Vinyl gently let the clutch out, the vehicle coasting slowly out of the garage, rocking to the counter-slosh of the nearly full barrels in the back. This was honestly Octavia’s favorite part of the entire operation. As much as she derided the experience of getting her mane tangled up in the wind, she had braided her mane so it wouldn’t tangle, and always stuck her head out the window, enjoying the way the wind flowed through her fur, and around her face as the vehicle raced down the highway. The white mare calmly shifted up three times more as they reached the open highway, “Tavi, eyes on the road. I don’ wanna get pulled over with this payload.” Her marefriend pulled her head back in, pouting slightly, but she gripped the rifle more securely as the speedometer climbed. Finally, the shifter moved into its last position, allowing the heavily laden carriage settle into a high cruise. Octavia risked a glance at the little dial, slightly worried about how fast they were going. Seeing that it was almost to the part of the dial tagged with a red line, she sighed and pulled her seatbelt snugger against her belly, “Vinyl, please slow down. The sign says sixty five.” “Naw, filly, see?” she pointed as they passed a large blue sign, “Says one twenty nine. I ain’t going hardly ninety five.” Octavia had to resist the urge to smack her marefriend, instead pressing her forehead against the door-frame, “Vinyl Scratch, please, for five minutes, act like the mature mare you’re supposed to be. That’s the highway number, not the speed limit.” Fortunately, at that speed, they quickly reached the off ramp, and Octavia tensed up, holding the rifle higher as Vinyl drove through the sleepy little town of Ponyville, up to the club. The car slid to a stop in one of the few parking spaces available, designated for the rich, the famous, and the band. A second car, driven by Vinyl’s friend Pinkie Pie, skidded to a stop almost fender-to fender with the first, and the brightly colored party pony slipped out the window, moving to the back to grab a barrel. Vinyl grabbed one as well as helping Octavia load one onto her own back, and they started up the stairs. The club was practically invisible, hidden inside the warehouse district, but it stood out notably because the front door was guarded by a massive crimson stallion. The white mare raised a hoof and gripped the red stallion’s offered hoof, pulling herself into a half-hug with the Apple family stud, “Yo, Mackie. Wa’s the scene tonight?” “Classical Remix,” short, sweet, to the point, just like the silent stallion always was. “Boss. We’ll be sure to blow them away then,” she stepped through the door, and immediately another Apple stallion, Caramel, she thought was his name, took the barrel and hauled it over to an already overloaded table made out of barrels, stacked on barrels. She raised her hooves high in the air, “DJ PON3 is in da house!” A loud cheer rippled through the crowd, and Octavia had to cover her ears. She regretted not putting her earplugs on in the carriage, and made to tuck the small foam cylinders into her ears as soon as the barrel had been removed from her back, before heading back outside to grab another barrel. __ __ Vinyl Scratch, DJ PON3 to her fans, started up the crowd by spinning in a disk of backwoods music, drawing in the attention of the crowd with the soft twanging of non-existent strings. Some ponies danced, including, to her amusement, her marefriend, spinning around in her long black skirt, twirling like an elegant top, or, as Vinyl noticed the patterning in the skirt flaring, a record… She smiled and elbowed the stallion up on the stage with her, “Yo, Neon, check it. Tavi’s got some good spin on her tonight.” Neon Lights just shook his head, “Scratch, when are you gonna ask for her hoof. I know you’ve got the ring all ready to go.” “…” He shook his head, tossing his multi-colored mane, “Mares.” __ __ Vinyl slipped away from the stage, down to where Octavia was seated in a booth, catching her breath after a particularly fast-paced rendition of Trotchovsky’s eight twelve overture that had left her heart thundering in her chest, “Hey, filly, whassup?” Octavia turned, still panting for breath, and flushed from exertion, “You…You fiddled with the speed, didn’t you?” “A’course, Tavi. Couldn’t have you dancing slow. I liked the jumps every time it dropped.” Octavia reached out and tiredly wrapped her hooves around the DJ’s throat, “You nearly gave me a bloody heart attack. I swear you played part of it twice, just to scare me.” “Naw,” Vinyl looked at her marefriend, hoof sliding down the grey mare’s back, even as her magic loosened the grip on her throat, “I just wanted to see that cute flank bouncing around.” __ __ Big Macintosh Apple leaned against the wall, watching as a police officer trotted up the stairs. Sheriff Locked Door, a dark striped Zebra, stopped just two steps below the top and reached into his jacket for a piece of paper. Macintosh knew what was on that paper, and his hoof reached for his pistol, “Sheriff, not tonight.” The Zebra pushed the warrant back into his coat, “Mr. Apple, you know these parties, they’re illegal.” The red stallion nodded, patiently. “I would hate to see a fine, upstanding member of the community like you get arrested for being associated with such, but I will if I have to.” Another nod. It would break AppleJack’s heart if he was arrested, and the farm would probably fall apart without him. He only kept the bouncer job because it gave him enough bits to do a little extra for his sisters. “Next time, don’t be here. The brass are cracking down, and I think they want to do a trot-along with me next.” “Much obliged, Sheriff.” The Zebra was about to turn when Macintosh tossed him a small metal container, “You need this more than I do.” The sheriff nodded, catching the bottle in his teeth. He tucked it close to the warrant and trotted away. __ __ Celestia’s sun was just crawling over the horizon when Vinyl heard the grinding of wheels on her gravel driveway. That wasn’t right. Pinkie wasn’t due until tomorrow, and Carrot Top didn’t have a delivery until almost seven thirty at night. She stood up, pulling her head out of the engine compartment and her pistol from its holster in one smooth move. There, standing behind the door of his auto-carriage, was the sheriff. She sighed, “Sheriff.” The Zebra pulled out a shiny metal bottle and raised it up over the door, “Macintosh says hi.” He tossed the bottle to her, and she caught it in a blue glow of magic. There was a note tied to the neck, and she glanced at it, barely reading the words on it, but getting the main point, “I’ll pass on the message,” she tipped her hat and lowered her pistol as the sheriff climbed back into his vehicle and puttered away. She galloped into the house, and shouted, “Tavi, get Pinks on the line. Tell her next week is Prohibition in Effect! The Brass is coming!”