//------------------------------//
// The Daytime 
// Story: Pipsqueak's Day Off 
// by Neon Czolgosz 
//------------------------------//

 As soon as Feathers snaps out of his yearning daze for Twilight Sparkle's luscious, curvy mind, we turn and head towards the lake. That's when I realise that Chowder isn't next to us anymore. He was right there, less than ten seconds ago. I look around and see him at one of the stalls, buying the barbecue stuff that we'd entirely forgotten about. Rather good of him I say, though it's disconcerting when he disappears like that. Nopony that bulky should move that quietly. Soon he's back with a disposable barbecue, mushrooms, bell peppers and tomatoes. 

We set off towards the lake, and so hot that we're drenched in sweat and panting fifty metres out of the market. I really feel for Chowder on days like this, he's sweating bullets and guzzling down water. Being twice the size in height and girth to most ponies has it's downsides. The only pony I know who's taller than him is Apple Bloom's older brother, and he's a fair bit slimmer than Chowder even then. 

Fifteen minutes past Fluttershy's Animal Sanctuary, the sounds of Ponyville fade out and are replaced by the distant sounds of the lake. The place must be packed to sod. Don't even care. Featherweight is still talking, but most of it is variations of "It's hot," "Have you guys noticed how hot it is," and "It's too damn hot." 

We're on the hill next to the lake, and it's the last turn on the path before the slope down to the beach. I see a group of six or seven colts heading towards us. I recognise them, but only know a couple by name. Shady Daze is one. He's a muscular, pale blue colt with a gel-spiked gray mane, wearing wrap-around sunglasses. They're all wearing wrap-around sunglasses. As they get closer, Shady calls out to us. 

"Morning, pussywipes!" 

He trots up to us, brohoofs me and Chowder, then wraps up Featherweight in half-hug, half-headlock. Shady used to be in the Foal Free Press with Feathers until a year or two back. He was a little less mental back then. 

Now, I'll just come out and say it: I do not care for these chaps. It's not something specific that they've done, but they're just not at all my type of pony. I'm struggling for the right words here, but simply put they're too... laddish. You got the same sorts back in Trottingham; they're a little different over in Central Equestria, but still the same at heart. You know the type. Cheeky, cheery chaps who only have time for hoofball, beer and fillies. They're lads' lads who love a bit of banter, but they're still ladies' stallions. Those kind of colts. 

You know the type. They're the type of colts who never shy away from a good scrap but do it in a cheeky, cheery way. One of them might be up against some sod doing a crazy qi-rin chuan warm up, so he'll just start windmilling on him until the martial artist is on his arse, then he'll make a sly face and all his mates will have a laugh. Afterwards, when they're having a pint, they'll banter about it. 

They're the kind of colts where one's always called Spud, and he's cheeky and cheery too but a little bit dim at the same time. He'll be cheeky and cheery in a simple-minded way, like one of the lads will tell a joke about Canterlot nobles and a monkey butler, and the punchline is that the noble's spouse is cheating on her but Spud is laughing because everypony knows that monkeys can't talk. They'll banter about it in the pub afterwards and it'll go over his head, but he won't mind because he's cheeky and cheery and really he's just happy to be out the house. 

They love big fights after the hoofball match with the other team's fans, especially if they're from out of town, because getting in scraps like that is real, and not toned-down button-down shit that your bosses and teachers are always telling you to do, and it's very important to be real and not a toned-down button-down type. Society wants you to be a toned-down button-down type, and letting society emasculate you like that is a short step away from becoming a metrosexual who uses conditioner. 

Still, there's usually one who does use conditioner and is a tad better groomed than the rest, and they'll give him a right ribbing for it in a cheeky cheery way throwing about words like 'coltcuddler' and 'poofter.' When he's not out with his mates, he's inside their marefriends. 

This isn't to say they don't groom at all. They use mane gel. They love mane gel. They order it in crates. When these colts go to the beach, their manes trigger a hagfish orgy. They also wear expensive aftershave, lots of expensive aftershave, enough to smell them from ten meters upwind. It's painfully strong and always expensive. I assume someone told them it wards off testicle-theiving warlocks and they've been too scared of being left cheerless, cheekless husks to dare think otherwise. They love protein shakes and working out, because the only thing cheekier and cheerier than a drunken idiot on a Friday night is a drunken idiot on a friday night who doesn't know his own strength. 

You know the type of ponies I'm talking about. Ones who love chasing mares and when they're not chatting about beer or hoofball they're rating mares on an entirely objective one to ten scale. Only certain types of mare however, ones between fifteen and thirty with toned flanks who've read every single issue of Cosmarepolitan thinking 'yeah, that makes sense' on every single page. Fillies who prefer Equestrian Scientist or prefer stompy hoofboots to heels are strange and unnerving. Fat mares or mares over thirty-five are terrible things. To these colts, a fat mare is like a walking centipede colony: disgusting, bewildering and probably a testicle warlock in disguise. They fear that if they talk too long with a fat mare, she will shift into an eldritch raven and prophesy their firstborn's death. 

That type of colt. Cheeky. Cheery. Love hoofball, beer and Cosmare fillies. Hate fatties, reading and mane-gel tariffs.  But even then, it's not simply those things I've mentioned. It's the absence of all other things, a personality built entirely around laddishness with no deeper interests or subtleties. Things that do not involve hoofball, hairgel, scrapping, expensive aftershave, banter, Cosmare fillies or beer are deeply suspect to them. I'm talking about those sorts of colts. 

You know. 

Cunts. 

Don't get me wrong, this is mostly a personal taste thing on my part. I don't openly voice my distaste for them, and according to Feathers they just think I'm rather aloof and almost certainly gay. I can be a tad judgemental, and I'm sure most of them are perfectly nice in their own way, except Shady Daze. I find he's a bit unbalanced, like somepony took a normal colt and replaced his thoughts with scorpions. 

"You guys just been at the lake?" asks Featherweight after Shady releases him. 

"Yeah bro, it's fuckin' good. You three heading down there? That place is poontang central, there's more hot flank than you can shake a dick at, and Celestia knows we tried, right? There's enough pussy down there to even turn homos like you straight!" says Shady, grinning and jabbing Feathers in the ribs. 

"Hey, I'm saving myself for marriage," says Featherweight, grinning back, "How come you guys are tearing yourselves away from all the babes?" 

Shady Daze shrugs. "It's Diamond Tiara's party tonight dude, it's gonna be an all-you-can-eat pussy buffet. We've got shit to do first." 

"Yeah, we gotta go work out before the party, pound out some bench presses, do some squats, drink some shakes," says another colt, a sandy-coated blue maned pony with a bowling ball cutie mark. Lucky Strike, that's him. He looks worryingly strong. "Gym, tan, laundry, dudes. Gotta stay fresh, y'know." 

Let's be clear: my feelings towards these ponies have absolutely nothing to do with the fact that they're all measurably stronger, bigger and more aggressive than me. There's also definitely no healthy amount of fear playing into the don't-openly-show-contempt for these ponies I've got going on. 

"Yeah, that, and also I gotta sneak some rubbers from Legal Advice and Marital Aids for the party," says Shady, "I swear if they give me shit for shoplifting or some bullshit like that one more time, I'm gonna burn that shop to the ground." 

Everypony laughs, except Shady himself, who just looks bemused. "Why are you guys laughing? That's not a joke. I'm seriously, unironically planning to commit arson if those guys annoy me," he says. That gets another round of laughs, and I'm smart enough to fake a chuckle. 

"Oh mare, Shady, you kill me," laughs Lucky Strike, who then turns to Feathers. "Featherweight, bro, you're still running that paper, right? We've got this money-making idea, how much does it cost to take out an ad?" 

"I'm sure we can work something out," says Feathers nonchalantly, "What's the details, Lucky?" 

While they hash out their business, a thought crosses my mind. I turn to Shady Daze. 

"Shady," I say, "Did you give Snips and Snails a book of some sort?" 

He turns to me, still smiling. I don't trust his smile. It's the kind of smile you find on ponies who don't know why beating small animals is wrong. 

"What, Speedy Seduction? Oh yeah, those retards were bitching about how they can't get any poontang, so I thought I'd give them a little Shady Daze magic," he says, "That book taught me a lot about picking up mares." 

"Really? Some of the stuff in that book seems a tad... strange." 

"Oh yeah, I mean I don't use everything from it. I figure all the crazy dressing up stuff is for dorks, I make fun of hoes to their faces anyway, and I didn't read all of it 'cause I don't like reading," he says, "But there's a lot of good stuff in there." 

"Dare I ask what?" 

"Y'know, like separating hot mares from their bitch friends, getting them really drunk, ignoring the first two times they say no to anything-" 

"That- that sounds rather dark, Shady," I say, one eyebrow raised. 

"Oh it's not like that," he says, waving my words off with a hoof, "You're just helping mares get over their social conditioning not to blow you behind some bushes, so you both get what you want." 
"But it sounds like they don't want to do it..." 

"Oh Pipsqueak. I had a friend who thought like that once." 

He holds eye contact for a long moment, still sporting that cheeky, cheery grin of his. I see something behind those eyes of his, and I really don't like the look of it. 

After a second I start laughing. He joins in, and soon we're both nearly doubled over with laughter. 

"Shady, you're a proper lad, you know that?" I say. 

"Hey, I try." he says, the look gone. 

Featherweight is still talking about the ad. "-and I'm pretty sure that's a pyramid scheme, dudes. They're kinda illegal, I can't take out an ad for one." 

Lucky Strike looks rather put out by that. "What, like go to jail illegal?" 

Featherweight nods. "'Fraid so, dude." 

"Aw fuck, that would have made us so much money! Couldn't we put a disclaimer thing on it or some shit?" 

"I'm not a lawyer, but I don't think that would work," says Feathers, shrugging. 

"Oh mare, that's a downer," says Lucky Strike, frowning. "Anyway, we gotta cut this short, it's time to go work out. See you guys tonight!" 

With that, they all set off, bantering about beer and fillies and hoofball as they go. We set straight off to the lake, scamper down the slope to the lake (or lumber down, in Chowder's case) and we're there. 

It's busy but not completely packed. There are dozens of ponies swimming in the water, pegasi flying about overhead, and dozens more laying out on the beach. There's still enough space for us to lay down or take a swim without bumping into somepony. We look around and see if we can spot anypony we know. It's mostly teenagers on their day off, but there's a whole bunch of weather team pegasi flying about too. We walk onto the beach, say hi to Rumble and his big brother, stop to chat with Archer about the new Ponyville archery club we're helping organise, see High Score and Apple Bytes schooling Hot Wheels and Grace Lightning at volleyball. 

That's when I see them. 

The former Cutie Mark Crusaders. They are three of the most beautiful ponies I have laid eyes on, rivalling even the dark beauty of Princess Luna herself. 

Apple Bloom is lying on a picnic blanket, sketching in a notepad. She's already been in the lake. Her red mane is dripping and the sunshine is glistening off her butter-yellow coat. She has supple curves over thick muscle, from a foalhood of farmer's work and farmer's food. She got her cutie mark a few years back, a crossed hammer and painter's brush. It's fitting, since I want to hammer that flank with one thing and paint it with another. She sweeps her wet mane from her face and keeps on doodling. 

Sweetie Belle is next to her, lying on her back and soaking up the sun. She's madly, impossibly adorable. There's a bit of fat on her flanks and belly, the sort that makes glorious *thwup-thwup-thwup* sounds as you thrust up from the bottom. She's got a lush, curly mane that you want to chew and nuzzle into, and deep green eyes that almost make you want to forget the shagging and just snuggle up to her forever. Almost. 

She sits her self up, levitates a juice box to her muzzle and sips at it. Bloody hay that's cute. 

I can't see Scoots for a moment, then an orange shape bursts out from below the lake surface and loops-the-loop in the air. She shakes off a mist of droplets in mid-air and then lands next to her friends. 

I'd go on about her taut, athletic frame, her cocky, rakish grin or her splendidly dark sense of humour but... wings! By Celestia's nipples, her wings! They've grown since we were foals, they used to be tiny little things that couldn't get her airborne, but they're now huge. They almost look too big for her body, but she's got thews of iron supporting them, and she's still growing into them. She's preened them with special waterproofing oil for swimming and diving and- I mean, they're gleaming. They look slick and soft and strong and sleek all at once, and I want them in my mouth. 

I beckon Featherweight and Chowder to follow, and head over to my future wives. 

"Ladies." 

Apple Bloom looks up from her sketching, and gives us a big, country mare smile. "Well howdy there colts. Y'all enjoying the sunshine?" 

"It's definitely 'doss around at the lake' weather, I'll say that. How long have you fillies been here?" 

"I dragged these lazy bitches out of bed a few hours ago so they could check out my amazing cloud-diving skills," says a dripping-wet Scootaloo, swaggering up behind Apple Bloom and giving her a damp noogie. 

Apple Bloom nips under her friend and pushes her onto her back with a lazy, powerful foreleg swipe. "Bunch of horseapples! Ah was hollerin' for a half-hour tryin' to wake your lazy flank up!" 

Scootaloo shrimps out from underneath her friend, gets to her hooves and flicks her spiky purple mane out from her eyes. "Hey, it ain't my fault clouds are so comfy and it ain't my fault that you're up at crazy farmer hours. My point is, it's a nice day and there's no school so we came to hang out by the lake. You guys gonna join us or what?" 

"Certainly." 

We set ourselves up next to them, laying out a blanket on the ground and unpacking the food and barbecue. 

"How you fillies been?" asks Featherweight, "We haven't seen you since Sweetie's gig at the Knife and Apple." 

"You came to see me singing on Wednesday?" asks a beaming Sweetie Belle. 

"We heard your singing from outside so we popped in to listen," I say, "It was lovely, you do wonderful things with Bill Withers songs." 

"Damn straight," says Featherweight, "I could listen to that stuff all night." Chowder nods in agreement. 

Sweetie Belle blushes and grins. "Aww, thanks guys! I saw so nervous though, it was my first ever paid gig! It was really sweet of you guys to come." 

Scoots looks at us, eyebrows raised. "Hard Cider let you colts into the Knife and Apple?" 

I give her a look of mock-indignation. "I'm an apprentice liquor distributor, I'm well networked," I say. 

"And I have a press pass," says Featherweight. 

"You don't have a press pass," says Scootaloo. 

"Oh yeah? What's this then?" Featherweight takes out a piece of paper from his saddlebags and shows it to Scootaloo. 

"...that's a receipt from Quills and Sofas with 'JOURNAMALIST 4 FFP' scribbled on the back." 

"We're on a budget, okay? And it gets me into the Knife and Apple and that's good enough for me." 

Scootaloo rolls her eyes. "Whatever. How'd he get in?" she asks, pointing to Chowder. 

"He's stealthy." 

Sweetie Belle gazes at Featherweight, giving him the cutest doe-eyed look possible. "So, Featherweight, if you were there for the Foal Free Press, does that mean I'm going to get a nice review in the paper?" she asks, batting her eyelids at him. 

"Well Sweetie," I say, "While your performance was delightful and deserves a good write-up, I should tell you as an external advisor to the Foal Free Press that we all like money." 

Featherweight concurs. "That's true, we do like money." 

"I also like money," rumbles Chowder. 

Sweetie Belle pouts at us. It's a sight to behold, and I'm suddenly imagining her deep green eyes staring right into my soul, her thick, bee-stung lips ever-so-slightly parted, inches away from a throbbing microphone. 

"Fine, no bribery," says Featherweight, "Try flattery instead." 

Sweetie Belle strokes her chin with a hoof, eyes up in thought. "Well, Featherweight, you're a really good writer, the Foal Free Press is the best paper in town, and you have great taste in music, art and writing." 

"Go on..." says Featherweight, grinning. 

"And you're especially attractive to purple librarians. They just want to eat you up." 

"Very nice, now do Pip," he says, a satisfied smirk on his face. 

"I'm vain and I think I'm funnier than I am, just for reference," I say. 

"Ah think we all knew that, hun," says a grinning Apple Bloom. I wave her off with a hoof. 

Sweetie Belle looks me straight in the eye. "Pipsqueak, you're devilishly handsome, witty and very charming. Your Trottingham accent is impossibly sexy." 

"And who am I especially attractive to?" 

"Every mare with a pulse, Pip," she says sweetly. 

"Ah, you're a darling, Sweetie," I say, "Chowder's turn. Tell him who the best cook in Ponyville is." 

Chowder is splayed back on his towel, resting his head on his forehooves. He looks in Sweetie's direction, a languid smile on his face. 

Sweetie Belle scrunches up her face in mock thought. "...is it Mrs Cake?" 

"Not including bakers," I say. 

"Um, is it Bon-Bon?" 

"She's a confectioner, doesn't count." 

"Blendy at the smoothie stand?" 

"Don't be facetious." 

She rolls her eyes and laughs before looking over at Chowder. "Chowder, you're the best cook in Ponyville by a mile. And those things you make with stuffed bell peppers and rice and cheese are amazing." 

Chowder looks up at us, grins and claps his hooves together in approval. 

"Yeah, I think you can get a review in the Press," says Featherweight brightly. 

"A good review?" asks Sweetie Belle, eyebrows raised. 

"Best review," grunts Chowder. 

"We'll use words and everything," I say, "Words like 'soulful,' 'note-perfect' and 'can next be seen performing at.' Wonderful words." 

"You'll have your picture in it and everything," says Featherweight, taking out his camera and pointing it at Sweetie Belle. "Pose for a publicity photo?" 

Sweetie sits up, peers over her sunglasses at the camera with a sultry smile on her face, a stray lock of curly pink hair falling over her forehead. The camera clicks, she gives the cutest little giggle, and then flops back down on the blanket. 

I would do terrible things to see this mare's post-sex face. I'd unplug the speakers at a heavy metal concert and plug them into a phonograph filled with elevator music to see that face. 

"Hey, all this talking and chilling is cool and all, but it's been more than a minute since I've done something awesome and I'm starting to get twitchy," says Scootaloo, hovering a metre off the ground, bouncing a beach ball under her hooves "You guys, come play some water polo!" 

I stretch out my hooves and glance up at her. "Sounds like a laugh, fillies versus colts?" 

"Sure. Don't cry too hard when you lose." 

"No promises. Don't spend too long sobbing into Rainbow Dash's chest if you lose though, she needs her space." 

"Pfft, suck my ovaries Squeaky, Dash ain't all that anyway-" 

"What's that you're saying about me, squirt?" comes the voice of a certain rainbow-maned Element of Harmony. 

Scootaloo whips round, eyes wide in panic. "WHAT?! Oh no, I didn't mean-" 

She turns face to face with Sweetie Belle, grinning from ear to ear, her horn glowing. Apple Bloom is next to her, barely holding in laughter. "Aww, did you get fooled by a little voice spell?" says Sweetie, in a perfect Rainbow Dash voice. 

Scootaloo gives her a flat look. "You're the worst friends ever. That was worse than the whole chicken thing. We gonna play water polo or not?" 

We all get up, stretch out and head into the water. It's still cold, but feels perfect on a day as hot as this. For a minute we all just splash about, getting our water legs and enjoying the shivers and gooseflesh from the cool water. Sweetie Belle sets up little magical glow-spots for the goalposts before taking her place as goalkeeper. Chowder gets into our goal. Me and Feathers get in position, mirrored by Apple Bloom and Scoots on the other side. Feathers and Scootaloo play rock-paper-scissors with their wings for possession, Scootaloo wins. 

"You colts ready to get your flanks kicked?" she yells. 

"Nice quip, I'll stick it in the funny pages when you lose ten-none," answers Feathers. Scootaloo laughs, makes a rude gesture with her hooves, and the game kicks off. 

I want to say that we put up a good show but are eventually outclassed by the crusaders. I want to say it's close, that the crusaders get a solid lead that we just can't make up in time. But those things would be filthy lies. They whip us like we're paying for it. Apple Bloom smacks that ball like it mouthed off about her family, always straight into Scoots' hooves. Featherweight is flighty, but Scootaloo is where she needs to be before she even knows she's there; and she plays dirty as anything. She feints strikes and bumps so much that I think she's playing taekwondo. The crusaders are re-enacting the day that scientists discovered the least efficient way to drown howler monkeys. Only Chowder's panther-like reflexes and manatee-like size in goal stop the score getting worse than eight-to-one in the first fifteen minutes. 

We score two goals in quick succession out of pure luck more than anything else, and as I almost spike a third in, Apple Bloom jumps up, knocks it to Scoots and they score their ninth goal. It's first to ten, and the fillies are looking about as confident as you'd expect. Featherweight passes to me, gets in position to receive- 

*WHUMP* 

-Scootaloo slams right into my face, sending me flying back into the water. When I surface with my vision swimming and ears ringing, she's looking bashful and Apple Bloom is calling a foul against her. This is our chance. If we get this penalty, and score one more goal, it won't be a completely humiliating loss, just mostly humiliating. Like only having to buy numbing performance condoms, rather than extra-snug-fit numbing performance condoms (two things I've never had to worry about, by the way). 

Scoots is just outside the fillies' penalty area with the ball in her hooves, treading water. I swim up to her, she offers the ball up to me, then pulls it back as I reach out for it. I pull my hoof back, and she brings the ball back forwards. She's grinning at me. 

"Do you want the ball?" she asks. 

"I do want the ball." 

"Do you want me to give you the ball?" 

"I would, now you mention it." 

She puts on her cockiest smile. "Nah, I think you should come and take it." 

I reach out to the left, and she passes it to the right hoof. I reach for the right hoof, she passes it to the left. 

"Drop the ball, Loo-Loo." 

"Not yet, Squeaky." 

She spins it on a hoof, and I lunge for it. I splash down in the water as she jumps up, and when I surface we're face to face. Her forelegs are going past my shoulders, and she's holding the ball behind my head. Our muzzles are inches apart. 

"You're looking the wrong way, Pip. Ball's behind you," she whispers. 

"So I see. Now all you have to do is drop it, Scoots." 

"Nah, I'm not feelin' it. Try begging for it." 

"Fat chance," I say, and poke her in the stomach. She yelps, fumbles the ball for a second before recovering and stares at me in mock-shock. Then she boops me on the nose with the ball. 

"That's just mean-spirited," I say. 

"You started it." *Boop* 

"You were being unreasonable. A gentlecolt never begs." 

"You just made that up." *Boop* 

"Maybe. You going to give me the ball?" 

She rolls her eyes and tosses the ball backwards, balancing it behind her between her large orange wings. "Sheesh, if you can't take one little ball off a filly like me, how are you going to win a whole game of water polo?" 

"I'm not taking the ball, I'm distracting you." 

Before the "Huh?" even leaves her mouth, Featherweight jumps up and snatches the ball from her wings. He pumps himself just above the surface of the water and rears back to shoot. Time stops as all eyes are on the ball. 

He smacks it straight towards the goal- 

-Sweetie lunges and bumps it with the tip of her hoof- 

-it bounces over to Apple Bloom- 

Spirits of the earth and mountains scream into Apple Bloom's ear, and her eyes flash with sudden understanding. 

She smacks the ball so hard it sounds out like a war drum, and crashes into our goal with a resounding splash. Chowder barely had a chance to blink. 

Crusaders, ten-three. 

"Now, ah hate to sound like ah'm braggin' and whatnot," says Apple Bloom, "but yeaaaahhhh, THAT'S HOW WE DO IT DOWN ON THE FAAARRM, UNNHH!" She gets a double brohoof from her teammates and we head back to the shore. 

"Good game though, fellas," says Apple Bloom, "Don't feel too bad or nothin', we nearly ended up Cutie Mark Water Polo Champions back in the day." 

"Hey, it's all good," says Featherweight. "Barbecue time then, guys?" 

We all voice our approval. Cooking gets under way, with Featherweight and myself being commis for Chowder, chopping up the peppers and mushrooms and rubbing in the blend of herbs and spices he carries in his saddlebags at all times. He starts the fire up, skewers the food and gets to cooking. The crusaders are sprawled out in a pile on the blankets, basking in the glow of victory. Ten minutes later, we're doling out the skewers onto the paper plates. We go towards the fillies, and Scoots sits up and strikes a pose. 

"Bring your conquerors food, wenches, for we have glutted ourselves on sporting victory and must fill our bellies with kebab!" she cries. It's not quite Broadmane standard, but it gets a grin from me. 

"Please, those two are serving wenches, I'm a courtesan," I say. 

"What's that?" she asks, picking up a skewer. 

"I think they're ponies who sit in other ponies' laps and giggle demurely," says Sweetie Belle, levitating her own skewer and blowing gently on a piece of pepper. 

"Hmm. Anything else?" asks Scoots. I can't place her expression. 

"...I can give massages?" I say. 

"You. Here. Now," orders Apple Bloom, laying face down on the blanket. 

"Yes ma'am," I say dryly. 

I take a bite of kebab and trot up to Apple Bloom. I swing a back leg over her and tuck my tail between my legs, sitting upright on her withers facing her fail. Her coat is damp, but quickly I can feel the warmth of her body on the backs of my legs and flank. 

"Lil' close and personal, huh Pip?" she mumbles. 

"It's for leverage, would you like me to switch position?" 

"...nah, I'm just messin'. Get to work." 

I run my front hooves down her back, testing the ground and trying to feel out how much pressure I need. I feel a very stiff bit on her upper back, and dig my hooves in a little. It gets a tiny murmur from Apple Bloom, but the knot barely budges. I dig in harder. It's like kneading plywood. 

"Bloody hay, Apple Bloom, what do you sleep on, bricks and strychnine needles?" I say, bearing down on this spot. 

"Nopony asked you to talk, colt. Just keep at that, that spot right therrr..." She trails off into a low groan that turns into something between a purr and a growl. It's equal parts intimidating and arousing. I think of pricing strategies for high-end clear liquors. I enjoy an erection as much as any other stallion, but sometimes they're inconsiderate. Besides, I have work to do. 

And hard work it is. Apple Bloom has tough, thick muscles from years of farm and building work, and she's long overdue a hot bath followed by a good massage. Usually I can't apply this much pressure without getting squeaks of pain, but all it gets from her is a relaxed, guttural moan. By the time I've teased out the biggest knots in her I'm sweating lightly and breathing hard. 

She sighs as I gently work out the smaller kinks, though I'm still putting on much more pressure than usual. My forelegs are burning and I'm grunting with effort when I get to her flanks and legs, which are a little less tense but still take a lot of work. When I finish off on her neck and forelegs, she's giggling contentedly with a blissful expression on her face, and I flop down next to her. The others have finished their food, and are all staring at us. 

"Hey, can we get in on that?" asks Scootaloo. 

"Give me a minute ladies, I'm spent." 

I get a soft nudge from Apple Bloom. I don't react. "Ya should have thought ah that before you went and offered free massages." 

"Featherweight and Chowder can give massages just fine, y'know." 

Everypony considers this for a second, and soon the blankets are a massage free-for-all. Chowder lightly works out the few kinks in Sweetie Belle's back and neck, Featherweight digs his hooves into Scootaloo's wing joints, and everything sounds of grunts of effort and relaxed sighs. Apple Bloom steps on top of me and starts working her hooves into my back. 

"Ah figure ah'd return the favour," she says when I glance up. It feels divine. She's not a trained masseuse, but she's not clumsy and her strong, powerful hooves make short work of every knot in my back. When she starts to crack my spine, I think I might pass out from the sensation. As she kneads out a big knot of pressure under my cutie marks, I'm suddenly rather glad to be laying on my stomach. 

"How's that?" asks Apple Bloom ten minutes later, giving my back a final slap. Scootaloo finished up on Featherweight a few minutes ago and is now helping Sweetie Belle with Chowder. They're working on the backs of his legs. 

"...mmph. Too relaxed. Never moving again. Your fault." 

She rolls her eyes and gives me a poke. Five minutes later we're all sprawled out in a very relaxed pile of pony. 

"That was fun," says Featherweight, sounding dazed, "We should do this again sometime." 

A blissed-out looking Scootaloo raises her head. "Totally. You guys coming to DT's tonight?" 

"Hay yeah. You?" asks Featherweight. 

"Oh yeah. We're gonna party hard." 

"I thought you had a thing about Diamond Tiara?" I say. 

"Nah, all that's in the past, mostly," says Apple Bloom. "Can't say ah always see eye-to-eye with Tiara, but we're business minded sorts and we ain't gonna risk eithers our family business over some school-foal crap." 

"She mellowed out a bit," agrees Sweetie Belle, "and Silver Spoon mellowed out a lot, especially after she started apprenticing with my sis." 

"Meh, I still think they're both dickheads, but they're better than they used to be," says Scootaloo, "Plus they throw the best parties with Apple Bloom's booze, and they haven't given me a good reason to kick their flanks from here to Appleloosa yet." 

Apple Bloom glances around, and looks at where the sun is in the sky. "Speakin' ah cider, ah better git. Ah need to stick a load more scrumpy apples into the scratcher, pour out a keg for tonight and make some repairs to the press ah told Applejack I'd do." 

Sweetie Belle sits up too. "I need to go practice for a few hours, so I'm off too. It was really nice seeing you, and thanks for the food guys!" 

"Yo AB, you want a hoof at the farm?" asks Scootaloo. 

"That'd be real kind ah you, Scoots. Well, we'll see y'all tonight. Thanks again for the food, fellas!" 

"Pleasure's all ours," I say. Featherweight and Chowder say their farewells, they pack up their stuff and then they're off, chatting as they go. We stay there for a little longer on the beach, laid out on a blanket, well-fed and utterly relaxed. Chowder is the next one to speak. 

"We gonna go get baked or what?" 


* * *


Half an hour later, we're just round the corner from Dinky's when a pony barrels into me, wraps me in a tight hug and nuzzles my withers.

"Pip! Buddy!"

He releases the hug and takes a step back, beaming at me. Brown coat, floppy blond mane, shining blue eyes, ice-cream cutie mark. It's Lickety-Split, cheerful, expressive and gay in both senses of the word. That, and crushingly lonely. There are a few other stallions in town who swing that way, but they're all twice his age - and just for good measure, taken. 

Looking back, it was bad of me to fool around with him and then tell him I was more into mares. In my defence he's rather cute and I was rather drunk, and all we did was kiss and feel each other up; but it was still horrid of me to lead him on like that. He's in serious need of a good shag, which is why I'm always on the lookout for any colts coming out in Ponyville. No luck so far, unfortunately.

He gives two equally-peppy-but-less-nuzzly hugs to Featherweight and Chowder, and then says:

"Are you guys going to Diamond Tiara's tonight?"

"We are, but we're stopping off at Dinky's for some clover first. Would you like to join us?" I ask.

He shakes his head, smiling, hair falling across his eyes. "Sorry buddy, I'm helping Bon-Bon at the shop for the afternoon. I wanted to ask though, is it okay if I bum round yours after the party?"

I pause and raise my eyebrows. "...you mean stay over at mine tonight, right?"

"Yeah, sure, that. Would that be okay? My parents will be mad if I wake them up at four in the morning," he says, eyes wide and pleading.

"That's not a problem, but Pina and her friends will be up until sunrise drinking and being their charming selves. I was going to stay round Diamond Tiara's, Celestia knows she's got the room."

"Oh cool! Could we share a sleeping bag? I'll be the little spoon..." he says, winking at me. "Hah, just kidding!"

He's not kidding. 

"Nah, Pip's definitely the little spoon, check out his hips," says Featherweight, "Those are not the hips of a big spoon."

Lickety Split giggles and Featherweight grins. I am not going to humour them. My hips are just fine.

"Well that sounds fine, I'll bring my sleeping bag," says Lickety, "I gotta get to the shop, I'll see you cuties tonight. I'm bringing brandy and ice cream."

"We'll see you there, dude," says Featherweight.

He canters off the way we came, tail swishing as he goes.

"Dude needs to get laid," observes Chowder.

"Yeah, and we need to get baked, let's head on to Dinky's," says Featherweight.

We're soon on the pavement outside Dinky's house, a cottage just down the street from Quills and Sofas. She lives there with her mother and sister, and does most of her business from her bedroom or front door. Across the unmown lawn, Dinky is in the doorway doing just that. She's haggling with Peach Schnapps over a small plastic pouch.

"-and eleven bits for this is like, insane! Half of it's just stalks and seeds, Dinky!"

Dinky rolls her eyes and huffs in her nasal voice: "Peachy, Peachy, you're breaking my ovaries here! This is some of the strongest clover ever grown in Equestria, it'll get you high just sniffing it. This'll put you into a haze for days and days, it'll cut straight to your brain like razor blades. Have you even smelled it? Just smell it." She levitates the pouch over to Peach's muzzle and opens it up. Peach gives it a sniff, and is mollified a little by it.

"Peach babe," she continues, "If Princess Celestia and Princess Luna themselves came to my abode and said to me 'Dinky, fetch us a bowl of your dankest shit possible so we may both get as high as our respective celestial bodies,' this would be the stuff I'd serve them. Smoking this stuff is like being sat down on the most comfortable chair ever made and then being shot in the face with an electric orgasm cannon. Look, how long have we known each other?"

"About two weeks."

"Really? Shit, seems like longer," Dinky mutters, "Look, my point is I don't fuck around when it comes to clover. It's my bread and butter, I have the best quality stuff available, and when I don't the price reflects that. I want to do business with you more than once, I'm not about to rip off a first-time customer!"

"...all I have is nine bits."

Dinky sighs and gives her a long, dark stare. "Fine, since you're a new customer, just this once. We've got a deal?"

She makes the sale, Peach stuffs the pouch into her saddlebags and then trots off, smiling at us as she walks past.

"Sup, Dinky!" says Featherweight.

"Dudes! You're here!"

Dinky looks the same as ever. Big, bulgy eyes, almost too big for her head, tangled cornsilk mane that she can't stop ruffling, three blue triangles with outward-bulging sides for a cutie mark. She earned it when she showed Cheerilee that she could make a triangle with straight edges where the angles added to more than one-eighty degrees, using a basketball and a length of string. She's a rather sharp lass, it must be said.

"Yeah, come in guys, we're all in my room," she says, leading us inside and upstairs, "Mom's out but Sparkler is working on her thesis downstairs, so don't be crazy loud."

Dinky's room is a strange hybrid of bedroom, study and laboratory. There are two desks, one littered in academic texts, mostly chemistry, maths and applied probability, blackjack and poker guides and strategy tables, an abacus and a slide rule, half a dozen Fill-Up K Penis sci-fi novels and a few scattered notebooks. Under the table there's a box of goods she's bought cheap or otherwise acquired and plans to sell on. 

The other table is a gigantic chemistry set, like the school lab on a smaller scale. Burettes, test tubes, jars of too many chemicals to name, an electric heater, conical flasks, the works.

"Is that a new condenser with your toys? I recognise the make, it's got a Synder column right? Twilight got one just like it last week." says Featherweight.

"Yeah, the school is getting some new equipment in, and they're selling off the cast offs at cost, Professor Whooves gave me first pick of the bunch! He's so awesome!" she says, blushing, "He's really nice, he knows so much about science and explains it so well, he's got the sexiest accent ever like Pip's but less pretentious no offence, he's straightforward and he's- oh my Celestia he's so fucking dreamy." She's gazing up, cheeks glowing, eyes glazed.

Dinky has had a crush on Whooves for a while now. She's as bad as Featherweight when she starts to obsess over a pony. At least in Featherweight's case the relationship wouldn't be a gross, firing-worthy breach of professional ethics.

I notice a jar of pale pink powder next to the chemistry equipment.

"Dinky, are you brewing your own salts?"

She turns to me. "Yeah, I've been going over amine synthesis with Professor Whooves for a while and I thought I might as well start on some homebrew. I love the shit but I hate going out of town to get it. Last time I went to get some, the fucker tried to cut it with table salt. Table salt! Like I wouldn't fuckin' know!"

"Nice little sideline you've got there..."

"Hey, it ain't nothing like that!" she snaps, "That stuff is strictly for personal use and for giving away in small amounts to personal friends for no financial sums whatsoever and I won't have you slandering my name with insinuations otherwise. Just because I get money from ponies doesn't mean I'm selling them salts Pip, I've got a lot of things going on and-"

"My apologies, Dinky, I didn't mean to imply anything untoward. I just meant you like salts and it's nice to make them cheaply like this."

She pauses for a second and looks sheepish. "Ah, didn't mean to go off on you or nothing, I'm just a little sensitive about people acting like I'm some kind of bit-ante crook because I make a few deals and come from a working family.  Sorry."

I should probably explain a few things here. Salts have nothing to do with table salts as you might have gathered. It's the colloquial term for a pink powder with a name as long as my foreleg that I can never remember-

"Dextroamphetamine saccharate," says Featherweight.

"How-"

"You're still easy to read."

-dextroamphetamine saccharate then. It keeps you awake, alert and full of energy and only occasionally causes paranoid delusions. Dinky loves the stuff. Like clover, it's legal in Equestria. 

Local law in the Greater Ponyville Area is a bit stickier. Shops can only sell a small amount of clover every month before they have to pay a prohibitively expensive tariff and pay for regular inspections of storage and quality. It's more trouble than it's worth to stock, so no businesses bother stocking it. If you want it, you go out of town or you buy it in small amounts from a non-commercial entity, like Dinky Doo. Salts on the other hoof are entirely illegal for sale, with a hefty fine for anyone caught selling, hence why Dinky will never admit that she deals to half the teenagers in town.

These rules are ostensibly for health and safety reasons, but half the ponies in this town are involved in the liquor business, and salts and clover are two of their biggest competitors. This is a booze town.

In fairness, health and safety aren't terrible reasons for limiting the availability of salts and clover. Over the years Ponyville has been a gigantic magnet for most of the utterly mental shit to happen in Equestria, so the citizens need at least one mind-altering substance to deal with it, ideally one that gives you a sloppy sense of fatalism and higher pain tolerance. Clover takes away the urge to fight or run which isn't the best idea around these parts; and although salts make you more alert, we're very close to the Everfree. You don't want a drug that makes you feel imaginary insects under your coat when you might have plain-old non-imaginary insects under your coat.

The other side of the room is a small single bed and a space on the floor covered in pillows and bean bags, with a shisha in the middle. Spike, Twist and Ruby Pinch are all sitting around it. They finally notice us.

Twist brushes her big bushy orange mane away from her glasses, and grins at us with impossibly straight and white teeth. She has a baggy Voltage/Wattage t-shirt draped over her lanky frame and looks adorable. Twist is one of the loveliest ponies I've ever met, and she tastes great.

Ruby Pinch just glances up at us, lifts her can of Winkle's Old Peculiar and grunts. Not in an unfriendly manner, just in the manner of a pony who started pre-drinking at noon and is chasing her drinks with good clover.

Spike squints at us, scratches the spines on his head and breathes smoke out of his draconic snout. "...wanna hit?" he croaks.

"Gimme the 'piece, fool," says Chowder, crashing his rump down next to Spike. We join him and the seven of us are sat in a circle around the water pipe.

Lungs full of smoke, Chowder passes me the mouthpiece and I put it to my lips. It's smooth and not strong clover, but that's no bad thing, I hardly want to pull a whitey before the party tonight. It hits me a few seconds later, like that ever-so-slightly tipsy feeling after a single slug of whisky. Everything feels a tiny bit more relaxed. I take another hit and pass to Featherweight, who takes two hits and passes to Dinky, and around the circle.

Two rotations later, a sensation of alert relaxation sets over me, like half a cup of strong coffee on a sluggish summer morning. Soon, all the colours in the room are a little brighter and the edges are a little fuzzier. Featherweight is slumped back and and his bowl-cut is falling over his eyes. It looks adorable, and I give a little giggle. Chowder is talking with Twist about her new work as a patissier, and she's gushing about the griffon chef in town she's apprenticing under.

Getting baked is an odd sensation next to getting drunk. It's not better or worse I'd say, just different. It's like imaginary numbers-

"What about imaginary numbers?" asks Dinky.

Shit, am I saying things out loud again?

"Yeah."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

A pause.

"Well, I was thinking of the number line," I say, "Say that the number line, from infinity to minus infinity, represents being drunk or sober. Because getting high is a different sensation, it's like imaginary numbers, running at a thingy angle-"

"Orthogonal?" 

"Yeah Dinky, that, an orthogonal angle to the number line. You could represent how drunk and high you are as a complex number."

"Huh. How would complex multiplication work?" she asks.

Another pause.

"...shit, my mind can't handle that. How would that even work? You become instantly anti-drunk?"

"Twilight could probably figure out a way, if anypony could magically reverse drugs it'd be her. Twilight..." says Feathers, a lazy grin on his face.

"Twilight once taught me about a philosopher called Sam-mule Vimes," says Spike, "He came up with the concept of 'knurd,' the anti-drunk. At the infinite state of knurd, you see everything in the universe, your perception becomes total, your body dissolves and your mind becomes a concept as ethereal as the souls of the stars."

"Huh. What's the infinite state of anti-high?" asks Twist.

"You become an accountant."

“...what would happen if you were infinitely anti-high and infinitely knurd?” she asks.

“Couldn't happen. If you could see everything, you wouldn't go into accountancy. QED.”

Dinky rustles around under her bed and brings out some corn chips and salsa dip, and we start nibbling away. We go through a few more rotations. Dinky has superhero posters all over her walls, and they just look... just great.

Some time later Twist sits up, excited, gesticulating with her hooves as she searches for words.

"Guys guys guys, me and Spike have got tickets to UNIcon, y'know, Ultimate Nerd Invasion convention in Manehattan next month, and we can get more tickets at discount rates. Are you guys up for that?"

Dinky, Ruby and Chowder all nod in assent.

"I'm totally up for that."

"I'm in too."

"S'good, I'm in."

"Pipsqueak, Featherweight, are you guys interested?" asks Twist.

"We're already set to go, we're there on business," says Featherweight through a mouth full of smoke. "I'm writing an article *cughh* -writing an article for the Press, and I want to pick up some Wasp Jericho comics."

"You're a Transcosmopolitan fan too?" asks Spike, grinning, "Figures."

"Hey bro, it's about a drug-crazed freelance future journalist who stops corrupt politicians with laxative beams, what's not to love?"

"What are you doing there, Pip?" asks Twist.

"Me and mum are going there, we're trying to set up some more product placement and advertising stuff, there's a lot of lonely problem drinkers in the nerd market. That and there's a big My Little Ape thing going on and, well, I'm all over that to say the least."

"Wait, you're a MLA fan? No way, me too!"

"Same here, I love that show," says Dinky

"I can't get the songs out of my head and I never want to," says Ruby.

"Featherweight and I are fans also," rumbles Chowder.

Spike needs no mention, he got pretty much every fan in town into the show in the first place. There is a look a nerd gets when they have introduced several ponies to something awesome, and they are all gushing about it. It's like a grin but more so. Spike is the platonic ideal of that look.

"Some ponies get too into the show though," says Dinky, "Like ones who write romantic stories for fanzines or draw fappy pictures. That's kinda weird, I mean, they're apes y'know?" Everypony nods and murmurs in agreement.

"Yeah, it's a bit odd," I say.

"They give fans a freaky image, like we all clop to monkeys or something," says Featherweight.

"It's not my thing," says Twist, shaking her head. "I can get a few romances that they mention offhoof in the show, like Tony Stark and Ada Lovelace, though."

There's a long, nervous pause. Everypony looks around at one another cautiously. Ruby Pinch speaks next:

"...Starklace is cute, I guess. Or Sinbad and Teddy Roosevelt, I mean, it's not really my thing, but I can see the appeal."

Everypony quietly agrees, and silence returns. It's rather awkward. Clover does not lend itself to good poker faces.

Spike coughs. "'kay, I'm just going to throw this out here: I fucking love My Little Ape shipping. All of it. Every single ship."

I sigh with relief. "Stars above, finally. I didn't want to be the first pony to say it. I love Nicola Murray shipped with Rachel Maddow more than I love my family."

"Do you guys get the local fanzine?" asks Ruby Pinch.

"I'm the editor," replies Featherweight, managing to look smug and sheepish at the same time.

"No way! There was an amazing fanfic in it last month, where Bertie Wooster falls in love with Dorothy Parker, and Jeeves has to stop Mark Twain breaking it-"

"That was me!" squeals Twist, "That was my story!"

"You wrote that?" I ask, flabbergasted, "I mean, you wrote that? That was the sweetest, most adorable thing I've read in my life! The bit where Dotty realises she's falling for him? It was like the first time I tried spooning."

Twist glows from the praise, and the next length of time is spent going over everything anypony could ever discuss about romance and My Little Ape. It's bloody wonderful. Dork friends are the best friends. Eventually the topic shifts, and sometime after an argument about whether Mark Twain or Norman Borlaug would win in a fight, we sink back into our seats and start hitting the shisha again. The clover runs dry, so Dinky opens up the pipe and adds some more.

As she's fiddling, a strange thought slithers into my head. It's entirely odd, and I say nothing about it for several minutes, but as I pass the pipe to Feathers my curiosity gets the better of me. I look straight across at everypony's favourite drake.

"Hey, *cuhh* Spike... do you have two dicks?"

A few crumbs of corn chips spill out from his lips and roll down his muzzle.

"What?"

"I heard somewhere that dragons have two dicks. Like, one over the other."

Ruby Pinch lifts her head off the beanbag she's splayed over, and looks around, glassy-eyed. "Wait what are we talking about now?"

"Spike's two dicks," says Featherweight.

Twist sits straight up, looking upset. "Spike has two dicks? Why am I always the last pony to know these things?"

Spike puts a claw over his face and shakes his head, exasperated and bemused. "No Pip, I don't have two dicks. Just one. That's all."

I'm a little put out by the news. "Really? Damn, I was sure I'd heard dragons have two dicks somewhere..."

"I'm pretty sure that's snakes, Pip," he says matter-of-factly, "Besides, that'd be totally annoying unless every mare you did was really into taking it in the backdoor. Otherwise you'd always have one dick left in the cold."

I take another hit and inhale too quickly, choking and coughing out smoke. "...yeah, but imagine the possibilities for threesomes. Tell me you haven't thought of Diamond Tiara and Silver Spoon, chests pressed together, moaning into each other's muzzles, as they both grind into your lap at the same time?"

Spike looks deeply contemplative. "Actually, no, I hadn't thought of that."

"Maybe you should get Twilight to magic you up a second one. Dragons are pretty similar to snakes, probably wouldn't be too tricky."

"Okay, first we're nothing like snakes, snakes are stupid coils of wasted protein and can blow all dragons everywhere forever," he snaps, "Second, I'm not asking my older sister to give me another dick, Pip. That's warped. You're warped."

I protest, but Featherweight turns to me. "He's got a point, Pip, you're pretty twisted. I've seen your porn collection. It's... eclectic."

Dinky is giggling at me. "I gotta say, it's weird how Ponyville's most pinchable-cheeked innocent little foal ended up growing up into Ponyville's biggest sexual deviant."

"I've been like this as long as you lot have known me, you just only noticed it recently," I say, shrugging.

That gets a skeptical look from Dinky, Spike and Twist. "We've known you for like, seven years."

"Yup. I turned this way on that first Nightmare Night with you guys, the year after Princess Luna returned."

"You were eleven!"

"That I was. I started the day as a normal colt, but then the princess struck such terror into me that when the adrenaline faded and my wits returned, something deep within me had changed. When she allowed us to keep Nightmare Night and joined the celebrations, it was like I saw her all over again. The curves on her flank, every hair on her sleek, midnight coat, her flowing mane of infinite stars. I looked in her eyes and saw the fire and joy of a pony trapped away from her world for aeons, discovering every strange little change from her absence.

"Later in the evening when the scares were over and the party boiled over across the streets, I thanked the princess for coming and she held me tight to her bosom. It was-" I take a hit and flop backwards onto the beanbag, then exhale.

"Blood-streaked fucks on a bed of thorns, it was everything. Her softness, that triumphant grin, her- her scent, it was- heavens above, I can't even try to describe it. No description would do it justice and it would shame me to even attempt it.

"I was but eleven years old and had no earthly idea what a facial was, but I knew that all I wished for in the goodness of my heart was to give her one."

"Well, that- that's pretty much exactly what I'd expect from you, Pip," says Spike.

"Wow." Twist is giving me a 'yeah, that explains a lot' look.

"Wow is right," says Dinky, "Hey, pass the shisha will you?"

We smoke some more and slip into a deep haze, chattering about a dozen topics of great interest and no importance. A time later, the shisha runs out again, and Dinky switches the sticky clover for some apple tobacco. Then she gets up, trots off to the kitchen and comes back some more time later with a jug of strong, cold coffee. It's time to start sobering up a spot.

It's a little later when someone mentions Shady Daze and his friends, the tossers.

"What's wrong with Lucky Strike and Shady?" asks Dinky, looking right at me.

Bloody hell, I'm still talking.

"Yeah, you need to work on that. Answer the question."

"Well, they're a bunch of tosspots, and here's why:" I lay out my expert case for why they are aesthetically, morally and intellectually terrible ponies.

Dinky looks unimpressed. "They're bad ponies because they use mane gel? Pip, I've watched you getting ready for a night out. You preen more than a moulting pegasus."

"Please, I'm stylish, refined and like to look my best. They are tacky. There is a difference," I scoff.

"Dinky's got a point, dude," says Feathers, "I mean, what's that 'cheeky cheery' stuff even about? You hate them because they're cocky roguish colts or something?"

"What? Heavens no, Feathers, we're cocky roguish colts. They're dickheads. We're not dickheads, Featherweight, I'm bloody certain of it."

Featherweight and Dinky both give me a flat look. Dinky levitates a magazine over from her study table.

"Hey, there was something in last month's Equestrian Scientist in the psychology section about the narcissism of small differences-"

"That was the issue with the review on conflict and cooperation in groups, wasn't it?" interrupts Featherweight, "That was a good one, I see where you're going with it."

"I preferred the article on the evolutionary development of genitalia later in the issue. It was more interesting and more relevant to this conversation." I'm scowling now. Dinky and Featherweight are being right fools about this and it's vexing me.

"Pip, look," says Dinky in a conciliatory voice, "They're not a pack of renaissance ponies and sure they can be tasteless as fuck, but they're not a bunch of evil fuckers. They just want to have some good times with their friends and get drunk and high. They're solid, paying customers. They're my paying customers."

I remain unimpressed. "Some of them might be all right, but Shady Daze is a fucking nutter and his friends don't exactly shepherd him into the right and light. He said he would fill Ponyville Retirement Home with fire ants after Mister Waddle called him a whippersnapper."

"Ah, he's just kidding," says Feathers, waving me off with a hoof.

"He fucking wasn't Feathers, that's exactly what he did! They had to fumigate the place! You were volunteering there!"

"Nah, that doesn't sound like Shady," says Dinky, shaking her head.

"Oh come on! Shady is mental and all of them are creepy and weird around fillies, and I know creepy and weird around fillies. Feathers, back me up, you saw that book he gave to Snips and Snails, it's the fucked-uppest thing I've ever seen. It had a chapter called 'Rohypnol and You!'"

Featherweight looks conflicted and Dinky just shrugs. "Just a book, they didn't write it. Doesn't mean they think it's all good advice."

Ruby passes the shisha along and speaks up. "I dunno, those guys can be really creepy. You ever walked into a room that they're already in? They stare at you like you can't see them looking. Also I'm pretty sure I saw that one with the bumpy head jerking off behind some bushes once."

"Spud," I say.

"Pip, his name isn't Spud," sighs Feathers.

"Of course his name is Spud."

"Pip's right about the aftershave too," continues Pinch, "It's really strong, they smell like mom's basement."

"You ponies are making a big fuss over nothing," says Dinky, impatient, "Shady can get a little out of hoof and they can be obnoxious sometimes, but Lucky Strike and Cufflinks and those ones are stand-up colts. Spike, back me up here?"

Spike looks up, still in a clover haze, "Dude, I don't even have an opinion." His voice is almost a growl. It sounds... dominating.

Ruby looks over at Twist. "Twist, you've seen them acting weird, back me and Pip up on this."

Twist is next to Chowder, cavorting on his side, rubbing the back of her head into his soft belly. "Wait, what's this? I've been busy using Chowder as a pillow. Seriously, he's so comfy, he's more sofa than pony." Chowder looks vaguely amused by the attention.

I raise my eyebrows. "That good?"

"Pip, just come over here and lay on Chowder." She's now turned over, nuzzling her muzzle into his coat, her voice muffled. "It's sooo good, he's a giant teddy bear and he feels like cocoa and safety."

Ruby takes another pull from the shisha and then moves over to Chowder. "Okay Twist, what are you going on ab- oh sweet Luna above, Chowder, you're like a duvet made of hugs."

"Huh, lets see what the fuss is- Oh. Wow," I say, laying my head on his stomach. It really is all that. "You lot have to get in on this."

Dinky, Spike and Featherweight shuffle over, and soon we're all splayed across Chowder's midsection, sighing in contentment.

"This is the most relaxed I've ever been, and I've had opium suppositories..." murmurs Dinky.

"Chowder bro, if you ever need some extra scratch I'm sure the spa twins would rent you out as a pillow." Spike is nestled between Chowder's chest and front leg, his snout down on his chest, eyes closed.

"You'd certainly make a welcome addition to my bed." I pause when I realise what I said. "Not in that way of course. I mean, not that I wouldn't, I don't mean to say that in an offensive way, you're a tall, strong fellow with gentle eyes. It's just we've known each other for too long - or at least the way we've known each other, you know, it would just feel a tad awkward. Not friendship-ending no-more-eye-contact awkward or anything, but not the kind of thing that makes for a relaxed and enjoyable-"

A great grey hoof pats me on the head. "Pip. Dude."

"Right. Sorry."

We lay there, relaxed as can be, drinking coffee and smoking sweet apple tobacco. I glance at the bedroom window and I realize it's no longer early afternoon. The sun is still out, but shadows fall long from the trees and buildings, giving the town a golden glow as if seen through a glass of cider.

"Dinky, what's the time?" I ask. There's a clock on the other wall, but looking at it would mean moving my head off Chowder. Sod that.

"Hmm? Oh, it's quarter to seven dude."

"Hmh. We best be off to get things sorted for the party then," I say. It takes a while, but eventually we all get up from Chowder and start squaring our things away. All of us take out a few bits to cover the clover and snacks. When I go to give my share to Dinky, she pushes it back to me. 

"Actually Pip, I thought you could do me a favour maybe. See, I got this fuckin' awesome cocktail that I really wanna try out at the party, but it needs bourbon. You've still got all those crates of Wild Pegasus, right? Bring a couple of bottles along tonight and don't worry nothing about the clover."

"...you'll forgive four bits worth of clover for forty bits of whiskey?"

She rolls her eyes. "Well, you're getting some of the cocktail tonight and I'm bringing the other ingredients, so - Oh fine, no charge for the next few sessions, happy?"

"Very. Why bourbon, though? Not that I don't like it, but the stuff is riot juice. You know everything will get well out of hoof, right?"

"Don't fuckin' worry 'bout it, Pip," she says, a massive grin scrawled across her face, "That's what the cocktail is for. You bring the bourbon, I'll bring the science."

Well. Fair enough.

We all say our farewells and plan to meet each other just before the party at quarter to nine.

"Ahh, that was awesome," says Featherweight, shaking out his limbs as we step outside. "I'm so relaxed, I needed that."

"Stay sharp, bro," says Chowder, his face dark, "Shit's about to get real." 

"Huh?"

I turn to Featherweight, a grim look on my face. "Because we need to head back to mine for the bourbon. Pina Colada and her friends will be there.

"And she'll be drunk off her tits."