//------------------------------// // Chapter Ten: "WHOA MAMA!" // Story: Stuff My Sister Says // by Daemon McRae //------------------------------// Chapter 10: “WHOA MAMA!” “I can’t believe we went to a Cloud Kicker party and went home empy-hooved,” I grumble, as Runway and I trot down the street. “More like empty-” “DON’T even go there. We’re in public,” I remind her. Something that still amazes me I have to do. “Well, it’s not a total loss. That cute yellow one seems to like me okay, and according to Cloudy she lives in Ponyville, which is like an hour flight from here if I’m lazy.” “Pffft, good for you. I didn’t get nada out of that whole shebang. I still don’t know if she has a wang!” Runway whines. I rub the bridge of my nose with a wingtip. “Runway, you’re a supermodel. I’m surprised you don’t have a little black book full of guys who can’t wait to bang you.” “Oh, I do, but none of ‘em are in Cloudsdale, I don’t think,” she muses aloud. And this is the part where I try not to kill her. “Well, how long are you even gonna be here? You never gave me like, an exact timeframe.” “Oh pushaw. What’s like, a month or whatever between sistahs, amirite?” She asks, her usual bubbly self roiling to the surface like last night’s nachos. I blink. Loudly. “A MONTH?! You said a couple of weeks!” “I did!” she agrees cheerfully, apparently not noticing the homicidal intent in my voice. “And there’s like, a couple of weeks in a month! But saying ‘a couple of weeks’ over and over when you could just say ‘month’ is like, a total waste. Think of how many syllables you’re wasting. That’s so many syllables! Think of the syllables, Dusty!” she cries, shaking me by the shoulders. “Okay, okay! FINE! A month it is!” I agree, a little too loud. If only to get her to stop. “Awesome!” she cheers, running ahead of me, all excited like a little schoolfilly. “Now come on! The night is young, life is short, and we are HOT!” Part of me feels like arguing, the other part still feels like killing her, but for the most part, she’s right. We are hot. “Wait up you little traffic disaster!” “THAT WAS ONE TIME.” ----------------------- So, apparently, “The night is young” is Runwaynese for “Let’s go to the mall an hour before it closes!” To which I had no good argument. After all, we only got kicked out of one department store, why not go for all of them. Runway’s first stop, gracefully, is a pretzel stand, although I am kind of surprised. “Uh, Runway? Aren’t you supposed to like, not eat carbs? Isn’t that a supermodel thing?” “Tch, yeah right. Keep up, sistah,” she says with no lack of sass, seconds away from taking a dangerous-looking bite from a really moherkin-ass huge pretzel with lots of cheese. “All the boys are about dem hips now! I gotta fill out to get filled up!” My eye twitches as a mall security guard passes us, giving me an unfriendly look. “But don’t the fashion companies get all uppity about you keeping your size down?” I ask, giving the guard some serious side-eye. Yeah, keep walkin’ rent-a-dick. She laughs, spraying pretzel and cheese all over the table. “Oh, like I can’t lose ten pounds in two weeks. A pretzel now and again ain’t gonna do squat, darling.” My other eye starts twitching, slightly out of sync with the first, though Runway doesn’t notice. “I mean, when one of my friends got married, I totally horfed down a bajillion plates at the buffet! BAM. Two weeks later I’m strutting down a runway in Prance.” The twitching has synchronized now. I fear they may be teaming up. “And I mean, that little black book I told you about? SOOOO many stallions in that thing who love some junk in the trunk! So it’s like, either I’m skinny enough to just walk around in weird clothes and make bank, or I’m gettin’ rolled over in the sheets like cinnamon roll dough!” The eyebrows have once again desynchronized, and have resorted to communicating with Morse code. I understand some of it. Something about knives, and injustice, and MORE KNIVES. “You don’t gotta worry about my flanks, sis! Though I’m surprised they let you bust clouds with a rump like yours! Or do you just sit on em all day?” she laughs. Attack! The eyebrows declare. Strike for the glory of the Independent State of Eyebrow! I’m gripping a fork I wasn’t aware I had with my wing so tightly it’s starting to shake. The mall cop passes by us again, giving me a rather alarmed look, as if he isn’t get paid enough to deal with the imminent murder about to take place. His presence calms me, as I’m not in the mood to deal with the many, MANY witnesses I would have, and I calmly set the fork down on the table next to me. For later. “Aw, don’t go all Grumpy Face on me, sis! You know I’m joking! You’ve got a great flanks!” she jeers, tapping my shoulder playfully with a hoof. I feel some tension leave me as my eyebrows settle into peaceful stillness. “Thanks, sis,” I say dryly. “You’re stomach, on the other hoof-” “FOR EYEBROW!” “WHOA MAMA!”