//------------------------------// // Chapter Two // Story: Bombproof and the Cornfield Meet // by 1stAwesomeplatoon //------------------------------// “Far out, I made it!” Bombproof cheers as he passes the Battlestream city limit sign, “This plan is working out really well!” Passing the water tower he takes a left, entering Mane street. He parks the truck and looks around, smiling. Battlestream is a decently sized city; not too big, not too small. Just right. Various businesses and venues surround him, some just starting to turn their neon signs on in preparation for the night hours. Once the sun went down, the entire street would shine with light and color, graciously welcoming those near and far to come sample its delights. Bombproof looks at the clock hanging in the plate glass window of the record store, and nods. “Well I’ve got some time to kill before the meet…Good time for a drink.” He says, already walking across the street to The Muzzle Loader Bar, a popular inebriation venue for enlisted ponies stationed at Fort Dragoon. “Hey, Tender! Buckweiser please?” Bombproof asks, addressing the Muzzle Loader’s surly bartender. “Yeh, yeh, hold yer horses.” Tender replies. He slides the drink down the bar to Bombproof. As he catches it and takes a drink, Tender looks at Bombproof oddly, like something is off. “What’s up with the new uniform boy?” Bombproof, just finishing a sip from his bottle, looks down. He had forgotten he was still wearing an officer’s uniform. “Oh, oh man, that’s a long story”, Bombproof sighs. “What are you up to, eh? Actually, you know what I don’t wanna know.” Tender says, not wanting to get involved. “If MPs come stormin’ in here, I don’t know who you are.” Tender isn’t the type to pry-it’s bad for business. He walks away to the other end of the bar to service other patrons. Bombproof goes back to drinking his beer, looking around to see if other regulars he knows is in the bar. There looks to be a lot of familiar faces, but nopony Bombproof really has the relations with to walk up and start a conversation. There’s the biker ponies in their usual booth. The normal combination of farmers, and factory workers taking up most of the bar. A few couples dancing to songs on the jukebox. Some strangers playing pool. Bombproof then looks to his left to the end of the bar towards the door; two ponies sit next to him. A light green stallion with a darker forest green mane. Wearing a blue bandana and small, purple sunglasses. Next to him sits a teal mare, her blond mane generally dirty and disheveled. She wears a sort of boy scout or park ranger uniform. “Ugh, Hippies” Bombproof thinks to himself. They come to this bar since it’s the cheapest and one of the few bars that serves food. They’re not usually very well received at the local eaters on Mane Street. While scanning over the hippies a light tan mare had walked up and sat next to Bombproof on his right without him knowing. As Bombproof turns back, his arm bumps the tan mare’s arm just as she’s taking a sip from her glass. The colorful drink splashes and covers her dress. Bombproof’s bottle falls to the floor. “Smooth move, stud.” The mare scoffed at him. “I’m…sorry baby, I’ll buy you a new one.” Bombproof says quickly, wiping down the bar’s surface, trying to reduce the seen that he’d caused. “Damn right you will, are all you military cats this clumsy?” The mare grabs a few napkins and storms off to the bathroom. A few bar patrons chuckle at the incident; this type of thing happens at the Muzzle Loader often, but normally not this early in the night. Tender comes with a mop and dust pan. “Sorry Tender,” Bombproof says, embarrassed. “Just slow down, ok?” Tender scolds. Bombproof sits and waits while glass and beer is cleaned up around him. He has nothing in his hooves to defuse the slight tension in the air, so to occupy himself while he waited for tender to return to the bar, he looks for the basket of peanuts placed on the bar every few chairs. He looks to his left and sees said peanuts in front of the hippie ponies. “Excuse me, could you pass the peanuts?” Bombproof asks. The green hippie stallion fixes Bombproof with a blistering glare, his eyes filled with the righteous fury and indignation common to the young in either age or in mind. “What, you think because you got that uniform you can just bark orders at me too?! Well I’m not Uncle Sam’s slave, man! Buzz off, General Stalin,” he snaps. Bombproof just fixes the strange pony with a blank stare. “Well, that’s alright…I’ll get them myself…” he commiserates. He reaches for the bowl of salted legumes. But instead of peanuts, it seems his hoof has found another hoof. Bombproof looks up to apologize, but stops short when he sees who it belongs to. She was actually rather attractive, her mane a bit messy, but for some reason it was kind of a turn on. Hoof on hoof he looks at her, and she back at him. “Hi.” He says simply, awestruck. The mare looks deep into his bright green eyes. Her lips part, and out comes… “Assault! Authoritarian Assault!” “Wait, what?!” Bombproof manages to get out before the mare violently smashes a half full bottle over his head. Bombproof falls from his stool, and hits the sawdust ground. The spinning blades of the ceiling fan faintly remind Bombproof that his truck’s fan belt needs to be replaced, all as he slips into unconsciousness. Bombproof awakes some time later on the bar, dazed and confused. Somepony had moved him from his previous position on the floor back to his seat. Most likely Tender, who does not want to see him stepped on. “Ugh, what happened…?” he groans, as the ice pack on his head drops onto the bar surface. “That hippie mare busted a bottle over yer head.” Tender responds, cleaning a glass, not even looking at our hero. Things such as this happen more often than he would like to admit. “Alright, makes sense.” He agrees. “Also that tan mare you knocked ordered another drink and put it on your tab.” Tender says as he puts down the cleaned glass to clean another. “Yeah yeah, fine.” Bombproof says as he reaches once again, intent on completing his initial mission of peanuts, only to be scorned yet again. “Maannn, they ate all the peanuts…” he moans. The moaning makes his head hurt, however, and he rests it on the bar, holding it in his hooves. “Hey Tender, do you have the time?” he asks, not looking up. Another bar patron answers him. “Sorry, somepony broke the clock.” Tender looks around his establishment, taking account of the other patrons. “Lesse…” he says, adding things up in his head, “Wyatt’s loaded, but Garrett is still conscious…I’d say around half past seven.” This gets Bombproof’s head up off of the bar right quick. “Shoot!” he exclaims, “The meet starts at eight! I gotta get going!” And quick as a flash, he is out the door. “That’s fine, you don’t have to pay…” Tender mutters darkly. Night has fallen once again on the city of Battlestream. The moon shines brightly, providing its nigh-eternal assistance to those who find themselves lost and needing guidance once the sun has set and the world sleeps. Battlestream isn’t sleeping however; flashing neon lights up the downtown street, music resonates from the bars and clubs as ponies groove to the latest dance craze, and night owl ponies fill the streets looking for a good time. But Bombproof has no time for this scene. He starts his truck, and makes his way down Mane Street to the cornfield just two short miles down the road. He leaves downtown, the surrounding area quieting down for a brief moment up until the lights of the carnival known as Cornfield Meet appears. The Battlestream Staged Cornfield Meet is in full swing; food stands, games, and other forms of entertainment can be seen through the gate. Bombproof parks quickly in the large dirt patch off the road designated as the parking lot. Relieved that he isn’t too late, he heads straight to the ticket booth, wasting no time. “Hello, how are you?” he asks, slightly short of breath. “Good evening!” The ticket pony greets cheerily, “Just one?” “Oh no, I already have my ticket!” Bombproof says, “It’s in my pocket, just a sec…” As he searches his coat pockets, his expression goes from exultant to confused. “Oh maaan! I think that hippie girl stole my ticket! And my wallet…” The ticket pony shrugs. “Bummer, man.” “This sucks, I was so excited to see this…” Bombproof sniffs, hanging his head in defeat and starting to walk away. “Hey, wait!” The ticket pony calls after him. To this very day he’ll swear up and down that a stray, solitary raindrop came from nowhere and landed on his face when he saw Bombproof walk away in dejection, but you and I know better. “I can let you in.” he says. “Really!?”, Bombproof responds in disbelief. “Yeah. After all, you are an officer. Think of it as a small thanks for all you do for us.” “Woohoo!” Bombproof cheers. He gives the ticket pony a brief but strong hug, and trots into the meet. The ticket pony looks on after him, smiling, proud that he was able to help out a soldier.