//------------------------------//
// All's Fair in Love and War 
// Story: The Slow Transformation of Oliver Sanderson 
// by libertydude 
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We left that evening to see Bob, Dad’s old college friend in his UCLA days. Bob had never struck me the wrong way in all the times we’d met, even if he seemed to make one too many jokes just this side of tasteless. But he knew when to crack wise and when to clam up, a rare gift in today’s world oversaturated with opinions. He’d moved out to Portland a few years back, when roses were the city’s primary output instead of drug addiction. The reasons for his staying eluded me, though Dad mentioned something about a steady accounting job. Made sense; money often convinces people to continue their suffering. 

We drove a few miles out of the city in Nell’s car, settling in some suburban neighborhood with a foreign name I couldn’t pronounce and passing two National Guard checkpoints with relative ease. The meeting place was an English pub, a local establishment called Victoria’s, decked in black and red overhangs. Customers with cigarettes in their mouths sat under the shade, empty plates and glasses sitting before them. A faint memory returned, one where seventeen year-old me had been thrown out because Victoria’s allowed smokers inside. But the sign out front said outdoor smoking only, so now the nicotine clouds swirled down the sidewalk instead of within the bar. 

“What’s the point of a pub if you can’t smoke in it?” Dad grumbled. 

“You don’t smoke back at O’Sheas,” I said. 

“O’Sheas isn’t British. Smoking is a proud British tradition.”

“Good thing we aren’t British.” I shot a glance across the street, where a pink sign flashed “Tiny’s Adult Club” with three X’s glowing bright red alongside. No windows dotted the brick walls, painted a dark black that clashed against the rolling suburban hills behind it. A large fence blocked the side area, though I could see the chair and table legs sticking into the ground.

“How about that?” I said when we walked into Victoria’s. “A strip club with outdoor service.” 

“Don’t get any ideas,” Dad said. 

“What? They might let you smoke inside.” 

Dad scanned the restaurant before catching sight of a balding man in a grey polo waving from the restaurant’s back. Bob never seemed like the kind of guy who would care about looks, but two hair restoration drug trials later proved otherwise. Getting closer to him, it became clear he probably should’ve just used a toupee. 

“Hey Jack,” he said, giving Dad another Sanderson side-hug. He nodded toward me. “Oliver.” 

“Bob,” I said, taking my seat. 

“You guys staying in a hotel?” Bob said. “I figured you would be staying somewhere near the airport.” 

“Nah,” Dad said. “Nell’s letting us stay at her place.”

Bob nodded. “Saves you a lot on hotel bills.”

I sat in silence for several minutes while the other two continued chatting about subjects I didn’t care about. Tales about hippies streaking through the university mall and a professor who smoked more pot than Cheech filled my ears, all about as interesting as the last twenty times Dad had told them. To hear him tell it, the seventies had been the peak of his life. 

However, my existence as the dinner’s third wheel provided its own enjoyment opportunities. I absorbed my surroundings, noticing the floor and ceiling shared the same dull brown color. Exiling the smokers outside meant a bland, starchy smell was the sole scent flowing through the place, a mixture of various malt liquors sitting behind the bar. A faint ditty played from the speaker behind me, using the tune of a raunchy English drinking song while excising the bawdy lyrics. It seemed the smokers weren’t the only neutered element around here. 

Only the walls showed any semblance of risqué personality, filled with pictures back when the British Empire were the world’s master instead of Equestria. Hunters in giant headwear posed with shot lions and other exotic creatures from past colonies. The HMS Hood sat docked in a Scottish port, years before her Danish funeral courtesy of the Führer. The bitter Boddington flowing through my system made me all the more appreciative of the painting hanging across the aisle, depicting a Redcoat cavalry charging straight into Napoleonic forces. 

Weren’t those the days? You just had to defeat your enemy in battle, then you could rule the world. Environmental destruction? Just plant a tree where the shells landed. Death of millions? Give it a few years for birth rates to pick back up. War crimes and general disregard for human life? Not even an issue as long as you’re the winner. 

Not that it mattered. War probably wouldn’t have even worked against the ponies, what with their spells launching up to 100 megatons of energy. But compared to the Conversion, a brutal and senseless war would at least give humanity something to show for. Not this lounging about, reminiscing about a past three generations from now wouldn’t even recall apart from history books and lame Hollywood biopics. 

“And you, Oliver?” Bob said. I snapped back to reality and looked toward Bob with the closest thing to an earnest face I could make. “You holding up alright with everything?”

I shrugged. “About as well as anybody else could in this situation.”

“I know what you’re saying. I still don’t have a damn clue how it all came to this. This shit’s trippier than anything the Profs offered us.” 

“I didn’t take any,” Dad said a tad defensively. 

“Either way, it’s going to be a bitch dealing with this change,” Bob said. “Money sure won’t be easy to count anymore.” 

“What do you mean?” I asked. 

Bob chuckled. “It’s not widespread knowledge, but…” He glanced around before leaning into the table. “Rumor is the EU is going to fully convert over to Equestrian currency once France and Britain finally get turned. Apparently the two years they spent palling around in Germany gave them special insight, and they offered the Germans millions of...whatever their currency is.” 

“Bits.”

“Yeah, bits. Made of solid gold apparently, and worth a lot more than Europe’s fiat money. And this Princess Twilight leading them has a head for planning and brought just the right amount: enough bits to be plentiful, but short enough to keep the gold somewhat valuable. The magic number for hard money.” He leaned back in his chair and shook his head. “I’d be pissed if I wasn’t so impressed.” 

“Pissed?” I said. “You of all people should be happy. A worldwide shift in monetary currency should make accountants all the more necessary.”

“You’d think that. But the word upstairs is people are hiding their money away for the Conversion, given Congress can’t make up their minds whether to keep the dollar or move to bits. Until they do, nobody in the office can do anything for their clients since they don’t know whether to convert the books or keep them the same.”

I gave a thin smile. “Guess not everybody’s enamored with our new overlords.” 

“Yes-siree. I can deal with the goofy names, the magic crap, and all those frou-frou outfits they wear. But they’ve crossed the one line they shouldn’t have: our bottom line.”

A thick scowl came across my face. “It’s all about the money, huh?”

Bob must not have caught my countenance in the dim light or maybe just didn’t care, because he just laughed. “When has it not?”

Before I could verbalize further disdain, I saw two figures walk through the front door. The first was a man in a thin turtleneck and jeans, his blonde hair sticking out only a few inches from his skull. An unmistakable frame of thick-rimmed glasses stretched across his eyes, and his body shook with an unrestrained joy towards his companion. Said guest trotted beside her host with the same gleeful body language, and her silver mane glowed even in the dim bar lights as they wandered to a table. Once seated, he put his hand on top of her hoof, giving her smooth fur a gentle rub. 

Huh, I thought. I suppose Portland is more liberal than I thought. 

I turned back towards my own tablemates, desperate for refills and boring college stories to overwhelm any thoughts of interspecies copulation. I came in just as Bob described an extinct volcano on the city’s edge, where he’d encountered Steve Whats-His-Name from the Who-Gives-A-Shit Department down in Berkeley. 

I nodded with each discussion, even laughing at Bob’s jokes every now and then.  Most were about as funny as getting turned into a horse against your will, but it was at least something else to think about. I did my best to dodge any further questions, merely giving the occasional “uh-huh” or brief overview of how drawing can actually be an occupation. I could tell neither Dad nor Bob really cared, particularly when the latter’s eyes glazed over on each description about proper penciling technique and the underrated genius of Pascin. 

But with each drink and dull reminisce, I couldn’t help but stare back at those two...What would be the phrase? Species-Crossed Lovers? Interdimensional Beaus? Or just plain Romantics? Whatever they were, they could sit there and be happy, comforted by the fact the Conversion would make things better for them. They would hold hooves and cuddle in some far off bungalow in the hills, spending their years in comfortable bliss. 

And me? I stared past them, out at Tiny’s with its flashing sign and lifeless dubstep blasting in the wind, wondering if the establishment would even be there once we were all furry nudists and love never felt human again.