//------------------------------//
// The 'accident' 
// Story: The Painted Mare 
// by Mosernous 
//------------------------------//

Coal was in the middle of a wonderful dream about beautifully colored cupcakes with rainbow frosting when he was awoken by the banging of someone outside his loft door.

Coal wanted nothing more than to pretend that he had heard nothing. Unfortunately for him, the perpetrator had other plans as yet another set of knocks sounded on his door, reminding him of a poem he had read once.

“A gentle tapping, a rapping on my chamber door,” Coal mumbled to himself as he extricated himself from the entangling sheets. He shoved a lock of his floppy charcoal colored mane from his cloud grey eyes and looked at his steam powered alarm clock.

“8:00 in the morning? Who gets up this early, better yet, why am I up?” Coal asked himself when his question was answered by a heavy thudding coming from his door. The banging was then followed by a voice shouting,” Get your lazy arse up and answer the door, you charlatan.”

“Ooh, charlatan, that’s a new one,” Coal muttered to himself, then louder he said, “Give me a sec.”

“I do not intend to wait outside your hovel for long Mr. Easel. If I decide that I have been left to long I will take this to the local law enforcement, young buck.”

“I just woke up, give me a bit,” Coal yelled back in exasperation.

“Just woke up? What are you, some college foal who needs his mother to take care of him?”

“I swear, if this isn’t important I’m going to…,” Coal then entertained himself with thoughts of various torture methods he could use on the source of this voice. He could tell it was a mare, and she was not too happy with him, but that didn’t very much lighten his list, or his mood.

Coal attempted to rub the remaining red paint from his tan coat away, but it stuck in. He was going to have to take a shower with some heavy duty shampoo if he wanted to get that out. He could always use paint thinner, but that stuff was bad for his fur. He finally trotted up to the door to his loft as a third round of banging started up, whoever it was; they were about ready to break down his door. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Coal threw open his door and put on the best smile he could manage.

“Welcome to Ponyvania Paints, how may I assist you mam?” He said in his ‘talking to customer’ tone.

“About time you answered the door. Yes, there just so happens to be something I am in need of aid for. Do you recognize this,” the old pink-maned, purple-coated mare asked as she thrust a painting in Coal’s face. He didn’t quite recognize it until he saw the familiar drawing pencil surrounded by a slightly heart shaped splotch of red paint in the corner. It was his mark of course.

“It would appear to be one of mine,” Coal answered in his placating voice. Of course it was, it was a sign that everyone in this city should recognize, his art was everywhere after all. It was a painting of the mare in question. It was rather well done in his opinion, the brushstrokes were hidden well, and the shadows were smooth and well mixed.

“Yes, I do believe that is one of mine. Quite well done, if I do say so myself,” Coal answered, trying not to sound cocky, while also not looking like a meek pony looking for another's praise. It was a trait that was required of one who decided to live here, in this high society stew pot. You had Canterlot fashion, Hoofington technology, and Trottingham architecture. Yet, it still held its own, combining all these attributes into a way that only good ol’ Ponyvannia could.

“This is your idea of a good painting? I shudder to imagine the monstrosity of a terrible work,” the mare stated indignantly. Coal’s teeth began to discreetly grind together as a vein began to throb on his forehead. It was taking all of his willpower not to break the painting over the mare’s head.

“I apologize if the painting was not satisfactory, mam. Can you tell me what is wrong with it?” Coal asked, attempting to salvage the situation.

“What’s wrong with it? What a silly question. I asked you to do an exact portrait. And what do you give me? A Painting of some old, ugly nag,” the mare yelled at him. You forgot the total bitch part.

“I do apologize for the fact that you feel this way, may I do something to help repay this insult?” Coal asked, hoping to rectify the situation quickly so that he could get back to bed.

“Why, yes, you could repaint it, making the picture correctly this time. Make me look like my proper beauty,” she stated with a tinge of indignation, mixed with a little pride. Coal couldn’t take it anymore, her attitude, her holier than thou vibe, nor her annoyingly shrill voice. Screw polite, it’s time for a hole ripping.

“I’m sorry mam, I cannot do that, for you see, I cannot tell a lie. Of course, I would sooner tell a lie than paint one. Perhaps if I did an abstract of you that was distorted just enough, it might actually make you look slightly more attractive than your average pack mule, no offense Johnson,” Coal added quickly with a short nod in the direction of one of the street cleaners. Johnson merely waved off the insult and made a motion to continue with the verbal assault, clearly enjoying one of the snooty upper classes getting put in their place. By this time the mare’s eyes had gone from surprise to horrified, and where making the quick track to anger. Coal would have none of that.

“You think you’re beautiful? I bet your hubby tells you so every morning, yes? Well, either he’s blind or a good liar, but either way, you should know that you look about as good as the north face of a southbound horse. Oh, and one more thing, no refunds,” Coal stated before slamming the door in the mare’s face just as the first signs of tears began to make their way to her face. Coal didn’t feel an ounce of remorse or guilt, because he finally recognized the face of the mare. Berry Snoot, from the Snoot family, they originally made their money as zebra plantation owners. They now went through life believing that they were truly better than everyone else. He couldn’t remember accepting the work request. Must have been drunk, or in need of money.

It wasn’t until the dregs of satisfaction and anger drained away that he realized something. Most if not all of his income came from the upper crust, and he’s just insulted the crustiest of them all. I was thinking of moving anyway, but where?

Coal jumped into the shower with a mournful look at his bed, laughing at the thought of sleep with the feeling in his gut. He was finally able to rub the paint out of his coat after the third round of shampoo, that was the last time he splatter painted with oil. He dried off and ran his hoof through his mane a few times to comb it. With a weary sigh he trotted down the staircase that lead to his store proper. He gave a careful once over of the shop to make sure everything was in place and ready for the day, then flipped the closed sign over to begin what was more than likely going to end up being the most uneventful day in his life.
______

Turns out, he had been half right.

The day started out normal, he only got about four customers. It wasn’t till about midway through his scheduled hours that things went down. In all fairness, he should have realized something was going down when the regular street cop didn’t stop by for their daily chatter, but his thoughts had been consumed with wondering of where he was going to set up shop next.

Coal was first alerted to the fire by the stench of burning gasoline. Next came the heat, then the smoke, and finally the flames themselves, licking their way up the foundation of his store. He was too shocked to move, and looking back, Coal realized that, had it not been for Johnson breaking down his door and rushing in, he probably would have burned to the ground with his shop. It turns out that a place filled with oil and lead based paints, easels, dry brushes, paper, pieces of charcoal, and other various art supplies is rather burnable.

By the time the fire fighters had gotten the flames under control, almost nothing was left of Ponyvania Paints. Coal stared at the burnt and blackened facade that used to be the entrance to his store for what felt like an eternity, his eyes hot with the after-images of the flames and his nostrils filled with the smells of his life being flash burned to the ground. Johnson put a companionable hoof over Coal’s shoulders, and after a bit of tugging, was pulling his less than cooperative body to the bar at the corner.

The Dizzy Stallion was not what you might call the most upper classed bar in the world, which was why Coal loved the place. It was old, and a tad grimy, and always full of the smell of cigarettes and alcohol. He loved the place, it was what a bar should be. Johnson led him to the bar and got a hold of Hard Cider’s attention. Hard Cider was a short and stout stallion, run down and yet sturdy, just like the bar he owned. He was the dark brown of bitter beer with a mane and tail the color of cider and eyes the same shade of a dark whine. The bar was abuzz with conversation, most of which was centered on the fire down the street.

Hard Cider took one look at Coal and didn’t even ask what he wanted. He reached under the bar and took out two bottles of his famous hard cider, placing one in front of Coal and Johnson. Coal looked from the bottle to the stallion behind the bar, and nodded his thanks as he took the cap off the bottle with practiced ease and knocked back the entire bottle in almost record timing.

“Better,” he mumbled as the comforting warmth settled in my gut, melting the ice that had settled there. Cider nodded and took out another, popping the top himself and setting it beside the empty. Coal took a slow, measured sip this time, savoring the flavor.
“Oh, Celestia, I can’t believe it’s gone,” Coal whispered, his voice traveling through the unusually quiet room. He glanced around the room to find that all eyes had gone to him, and not a single one of them held anything but sympathy. As one, each of the patrons raised their various drinks in his direction and slugged back a couple sips, then returned to whatever they had been talking about before the fire, giving Coal some much needed privacy. Coal turned back to see Cider rise his own drink and take a shot, something he never did while on the job.

“What am I gonna do now?” Coal asked Cider, he was wise in that way that all the old time bartenders seemed to be.

“Rebuild?” He asked, as short with words as always.

“No can do, I insulted Lady Snooty herself,” Coal said as he took a gulp of the dark amber drink. Hard Cider nodded in understanding.

“Move,” he said, not asking, just knowing.

“Yep, know anywhere good?”

“Cousin in Ponyville, no art store, good ponies,” Cider said, idly cleaning a glass with a cloth from behind the bar. Had Coal been in a more stable state, he might have gawked at the number of words the stallion had just used in one sentence. As it was, all that register was the town. Ponyville? That howdunk little town? Why not, get away from all this prestige.

“Not a bad idea, how far is it?”

“Two days,” he said, not looking up from his glass.

“Sounds like it’s just far enough for my taste. Right then, today, deal with the pain, tomorrow, deal with the travel,” Coal said, knocking back the rest of the cider.

“And the hangover,” Johnson said, finishing off his bottle with Coal.