//------------------------------//
// Chapter the First 
// Story: Several Silly Short Stories for Sunday 
// by Admiral Biscuit 
//------------------------------//

“Hey, wanna come over and have a couple drinks?” Apple Munchies asked.

You only take a moment to consider. Having a couple of drinks would be a nice way to end the day, and you have to admit, she's cute.  Probably nothing will come of an evening spent drinking, but you never know.

“Sure,” you say.  “Do you need me to bring anything?”

"If you want to. Do you have any hay chips?”

You don’t, because they’re awful, but you’re willing to buy a couple of sacks at Barnyard Bargains; it’s certainly a fair trade for some beers and some companionship.  “Yeah.  I’ll bring them over.”

“Great!”  She grins and then flounces off, and you can’t help but watch her tail and rump sway in counterpoint as she leaves.


*	*	*


She lives in a kind of dumpy house on the outskirts of Ponyville.  When you’d first arrived in town, all the flowers and landscaping that the earth ponies obsessively put everywhere pushed the curb appeal of every house way up, but now that you’re more accustomed to seeing it, you can look beyond it to the actual house.  The paint and stucco are both peeling, and the thatched roof is long past its prime.  A few spots of new thatches at least imply that she’s doing some repair work.

And anyway, you’re not here for the house.  You’re here for her, or at least for her beer if you’ve misjudged the situation.

As you approach the house, you can’t help but wonder if hay chips taste better with beer.


*	*	*


You’d been expecting beer, but she instead has wine.  Several bottles of it, and none of them match. They’ve got mouth-printed labels on them, and your heart sinks.  You should have known; lots of earth ponies brew their own.

Still, she’s an Apple, and it could be cider, and that’s pretty good on a hot day.


*	*	*


It’s not cider, it’s apple blossom wine.  That’s a thing you’d never heard of before, but you’d been learning that ponies made all sorts of things into alcohol, so you’re not entirely surprised.

The first sip is unexpected; it’s sweet and fragrant and almost syrupy, and then as the taste of flowers is still lingering in your mouth, the burn of the alcohol kicks in.

“What do you think?”

You consider your words carefully. It’s not polite to insult a pony’s cooking--or brewing--and it might be an acquired taste anyway. From one sip, you can’t really judge, so you decide to tell her so in the most honest but also flattering way possible.  

You grab a hay chip and speak.  “It’s . . . different.  I’ve never had anything like it before.”  That’s true, at least.  “I wasn’t expecting wine, to be honest.”

Her ears fall. “You don’t like it?”

Are you really that transparent?  “No, it’s not that I don’t like it, it’s just, um, something I’m not used to yet so it’s hard to judge.  Back on Earth we didn’t make flowers into wine.”

“Why not?”

You shrug.  “I don’t know, we just didn’t.  Well, there was a book by Ray Bradbury about dandelion wine, so I guess some people must have made dandelions into wine.”

“Oh.”  She looks over at the row of bottles, and then back at you, and for a moment you wonder if she’s going to kick you out for not being ecstatic about her wine.  A small frown passes over her face, and then she looks back up at you.  “What about brandy?  How do you feel about that?”

“Brandy?”  You’ve never had brandy, but you know from movies that it’s something cultured people drink.

“I jacked it myself last winter,” she says proudly.

“Sure, I’ll give it a try.”  You eat another hay chip, which at least dulls some of the flavor of the apple blossom wine that’s still in your mouth. “What do you mean by ‘jacked,’ though?”

“That’s where you make it get more alcohol by freezing it,” she says. “I think you’ll like it.”

As she walks into her house, her tail’s swishing happily, and you decide that no matter what, you’re not going to tell her it sucks, even if it does.  You might still be able to salvage this situation.


*	*	*


The apple blossom brandy burns as it touches your mouth, as it should.  For a moment you consider asking her what the proof is, but then you’re lost in the flavor of the flowers as they tease your tongue.  Clearly, what her apple blossom wine needed was a higher proof and more aging.

You don’t have to say anything; she knows.  You finish the glass and wonder why ponies even have glasses instead of a communal bowl while she’s refilling it.

By the time you finish the second glass, hay chips are starting to taste pretty good, and by the third you’re snuggled up together on the lawn. The whole situation’s giving off a picnic or tailgate party vibe, although it’s slightly hampered by the difficulty you’re having petting her mane. Your body isn’t working like it ought to, and your brain’s shouting that maybe you should slow down; this is powerful stuff.

When has your brain ever given good advice, though?  You hold out your empty glass and she refills it, the blurry bottle steady in her mouth.

Your vision’s blurry and it feels like your head might just float off.  Something is terribly wrong, but you don’t know what.  You’ve drunk Everclear before, and that’s a hundred percent alcohol; there’s no way this stuff could be more potent.  Also, she’s matching you drink for drink, and she doesn’t seem all that affected by it.

Is she putting roofies in my drink?  Hard to imagine how she could be; it’s not like she’s got sleeves to hide them up, and you’ve been watching each time she fills your glass.


*	*	*


You’re so very tired and your vision is so blurry you can hardly see at all, so even if it is rude you lie down on the blanket and close your eyes. There’s no way you’d make it home, not in this condition, but maybe after a short nap you’ll be okay again.