//------------------------------// // Why Is Everything On Fire?: Part 2 // Story: Sweet Dreams, LLP // by AnchorsAway //------------------------------// Do you ever find it hard to meet new ponies? If you want to take some advice from me (usually a poor decision based on my track record), I find a compliment is a great way to introduce yourself to somepony. I remember one occasion when I was in Manehattan. I had just attended a show, a play about some ugly alley cats that sang like they were in heat or dying; it wasn't important. What was important was the after-show party thrown by one of the most influential attendees from Manehattan, this bat pony mare who had made her bits in airships or something — Requiem Nightsong. I shouldn't have been there by any right, what with the guests mainly being wealthy moguls, the elite, and only the ponies everypony should know. Then there was me — starving author, lonely sailor, serial drinker whose only cologne was cheap cider. I think I somehow stumbled into the party by accident, to be honest. Manehattan was kind of a blur. But as I swayed through the party-goers, brushing shoulders with the likes of Sapphire Shores and some rich twat with a blue mustache and a monocle, I saw her: Requiem. Even from afar and through the blurriness caused by a failing liver, she was stunning. She was in the corner listening to some specimen in a pompadour ramble about something. I could see it in her face; she was dreadfully bored with the pony before her. I knew that I had to speak to her. I slid through the crowd, snatching an appletini from a waiter and parking myself before her. She jumped a bit at the sight of me — must have been the Alpha energy extenuated by my very being that seduces even the strongest of ponies' wills. Or, it might have just been that a sloshed pony in a hawaiian shirt had crept up to her. Either way, I was in. "You looked a little bored," I told her with a sly smile, handing her the appletini. "You look like you needed something to drink." "You might just be right," Requiem said in typical Manehattanite colloquial with a roll of her eyes. She snatched the glass in a hooked wing and took a deep swig. Her titanium mane flowed down her long, black dress as she tossed the drink back. The last drops hung on the dark lipstick that accentuated her sharp fangs. They were as white as ivory. Sweet stars, I was head over hooves, absolutely infatuated. "Thanks," she blew and wiped her lips. "Goddesses, I'm not sure if I can take one more minute of these phony egalitarians. Nice getup by the way," she noted, nodding at my shirt. "You're probably the only pony here who could actually stand out among this pack of prudes." It was hard to describe just how speechless I was. I'm not sure if what I was feeling was love or the end stages of some venereal disease, but I was struck by it hard. Requiem must have wondered if I was catatonic, or just plain stupid, what with me starring with my mouth agape, probably drooling over myself. "Are you feeling alright, love?" she asked, concerned, reaching out to touch me. "You're looking a bit pale." The touch of her hoof! I was absolutely star-struck as I locked with her eyes, these big, soft, orange lanterns that glowed brightly in the dim surroundings. I was practically mesmerized by them. Those eyes, I still think about them to this day. "It's your eyes," I said, taking her in my hooves, my heart, or some other organ, swooning. "My eyes?" She was surprised, but not alarmed, her hoof reaching around me to hold on. "What about them?" she whispered, lifting her head with a flutter of her lashes, revealing the delicate curves of her neck beneath her dress. "They're—" My Goddesses, there I was with the words caught in my throat. It was maddening! "Why they're—" Here I must pause and divulge a terrible secret, unfortunate reader. For you see, I have not been entirely truthful with you. So let me just get this off my chest and have my peace. I'm a donkey. No, not an actual donkey. I mean, I'm a complete ass — an absolute idiot. Because while I had wanted to compliment Requiem on her stunning eyes, cementing me as a pony of interest in her circle of affluence, I had not counted on the two or eight or so barley beers I had shotgunned to get through the awful play about singing felines. Because the next thing I remember as the words slipped out was Requiem smashing the empty appletini glass into my head, blackness, then waking up in a ditch (customary) outside the Manehattan port. All because of a compliment took the wrong way. Evidently, telling a pretty bat pony her gorgeous, glowing eyes are "bright as fukin' headlights" was the wrong kind of compliment. So, as a life lesson (if there is one here) is be careful with your compliments. Ponies might always take them the wrong way. Unfortunately for Bright Shine, he had to find out the hard way that one must be careful with their compliments, as I did. Stars, I still have glass fragments in my skull from that night. Still, Requiem was hot. Was I talking about Bright Shine? Right. You see, Bright Shine was screaming. "Gilbert!" Bright Shine screamed as his hoof was twisted behind his back. "Sweet stars, Gilbert, help!" he cried as his face was smashed into the window of the dream chamber. "Brood! Peppercorn! Anypony! My leg! She's going to break my freaking leg!" Say it again!" Spitfire spat as the Wonderbolt yanked even harder on his foreleg. The tangle of electrodes swung from her head. "Go on. Repeat what you told me!" she ordered, mashing Bright Shine's face into the glass, Gilbert safely tucked away at his station behind the Dream Core monitors. "I meant it as a compliment! I swear!" Bright Shine howled, Spitfire increasing the pressure on his hoof as she ground her teeth. "Tell her, Gilbert!" he pleaded. "Tell her I said it as a compliment!" Gilbert ducked behind his desk as Spitfire peeled Bright Shine's bruised face from the glass only to bash it again. The trembling griffon clicked several switches, steel shutters slowly lowering over the glass, sealing him behind it. "Sorry, bud," he chirped anxiously through the speakers. "You're on your own. She nearly cracked my beak last visit. I warned you the patient had anger issues." "I'm about to set an academy record for how hard I can kick your flank," Spitfire whispered dangerously into Bright Shine's ear. "Now, let me hear you say it again. Out loud." "I only meant it as a compliment," he groaned, his head spinning from the pain. "I promise." Spitfire gave his hoof another twist behind his back, Bright Shine writing against the glass as he struggled fruitlessly to slip out of her grasp. "Ow! Ow! Ow! Fine!" he hollered, the pressure on his hoof decreasing ever so slightly. His breathing was shallow, and he struggled to get the words out. "I'm sorry — I commented — you have — veiny wings. I just meant — you look really fit." Bright Shine's eyes fluttered as he was seconds away from passing out. "That's all." Satisfied, Spitfire released Bright Shine, the gasping stallion curling on the ground and clutching his injured hoof. The Wonderbolt stooped over him, eyeing him behind her sunglasses, though they were inside. "Never—" she spoke dangerously. "Never tell a mare she has veiny wings. Understand?" she growled, clenching a hoof. Bright Shine managed a weak but sharp nod. "Good," she said, standing up and hopping back into her chair. She shimmied in the seat, getting comfortable while the security shutters lifted over Gilbert's window. "You alright, Bright Shine?" he asked through the glass. "I—" He winced and clutched his hoof where he lay. "I think she might have torn something," he said, his face pale and beads of sweat slithering down his face. "Come on!" Spitfire shouted from the center of the dream chamber. "Let's get this over with. I don't have all day." She sat up, fiery eyes locked on Gilbert. "But I swear, Birdbrain, if that sign spinner in calibration tries to sell me another sofa, I'm going to kick her teeth in," she promised, sitting back and closing her eyes once more. "I hate sign spinners."