Braeburn moved through a crowd like an idiot shark through a school of fish. Ponies parted before him gripped by a curiously deferential panic; politely clambering over each other, compelled by the single minded desire to not be spat on. An unfortunate few failed to notice the mincing figure's progress down the street, and once it came within range, were inevitably drenched by a tarry wad of Braeburn's seemingly endless chewing tobacco.
I feel it's worth pointing out a matter that may not be immeditately apparent. It seemed that Braeburn genuinely had no real intent on painting the town and its ponies brown. He simply didn't connect his actions to the world around him - he just so happened to spit in the same direction he was looking, with no malice or vindictiveness at all. The lad just didn't join the dots, y'know? His expression of mild surprise whenever a gobbet of tarry spit went splashing over something was evidence enough. Watching him, was like watching a dog jump at its own farts.
For my part, I was becoming increasingly agitated. It seemed Apple-loser was not a big town, and Braeburn had just taken me down the same street for the third time in a row."So, Braeburn?" I asked, as he giggled and 'howdy deyuh shugguh'd' down at the tearful and desperate face of a foal in a pram. "Mind if I ask where this train station is?" My question slowly sunk in to the crooning stallion's mind. To the foals immediate relief, and with a particularly agressive hork, he turned to look at me instead, dribbling contemplatively.
Oooh shit.
'ptOOOH' went Braeburn, his eyebrows raising in naive astonishment.
'wallop' went an acrid gob of murky spittle.
Ah well... I thought to myself, discarding the now sodden bathrobe. It was Seans's anyway, so I can hardly complain. Look on the bright side, right? Might be able to score myself a new set of threads whilst I'm here.
'S'ovuh deyuh' he dribbled magnanimously; gesturing at a building we'd passed by twice already. Nothing about the building in question suggested that it might be a train station, but by this point, I was willing to give anything a shot. I nodded meekly in thanks and, making my excuses, I darted for the doors; hoping to slip between them and hide before he could catch on to my disappearance. This is Braeburn we're talking about, after all. For him, I suspect out of sight is indeed out of mind.
Unfortunately, Braeburn isn't as vacant as he looks, and to my dismay, he followed wetly; apparently having taken it upon himself to chaperone me all the way to my end goal. I didn't want to tell him 'he didn't need to', or that 'I was quite alright now', because quite frankly I didn't want to risk the peril of drawing his attention, as I knew damn well what came with it.
As it happend, the building was indeed a train station, and in spite of my better judgement, I was glad that Braeburn had followed me in. I didn't have money, and thus, could not buy a ticket. Braeburn, bless him, bought one for me. To my horror, he also bought one for himself.
'How long is this lad going to follow me around for?' I wondered, forlornly inspecting my ticket in an effort to take my mind off matters. The ticket was... remarkably pretty, actually. It was about the size of my palm; printed with black ink on thick, beige paper, and traced about its edges with delicate silver filigree. The print proudly proclaimed that I had a 'one way ticket to ponyville' and I would be riding on the the 'Cloudsdale to Macintosh Hills line'.
I spent the next few minutes standing beside Braeburn in an uncomfortable silence - a silence unhappily punctuated by the occasional fierce expulsion from Braeburn, as he generously added to the ever increasing puddle of baccy juice on the floor.
After a mercifully short time, a distant chuffing heralded the train's arrival. I risked a swift glance down at Braeburn - his jaw worked a half pound of brown goo rhythmically (I was pretty sure you weren't actually meant to -chew- chewing tobacco...?) as he stared stolidly into the shimmering desert air. I dimly wondered if he'd follow me all the way to the capital city.
Grinding of wheels, and the short, staccatto bark of the steam engine's exhaust broke my uuh... train of thought (sorry), as steam billowed about my ankles, and an obnoxiously decorated set of doors swung conveniently open before us. A gangly ticket inspector stepped out, met Braeburn's dead eyes, and froze; which was a mistake, because Braeburn doesn't do second chances. Her mouth was open and everything. It was awful.
Braeburn's expression slid into one of shocked innocence, as the ticket inspector dropped to the ground retching hideously. He regarded her for a moment, before gobbing a hefty brown chunk down her ear, and stepping over her recumbent form into the train car. I followed warily after, skirting the shuddering mare. Holy shit... I felt so bad for her.
Thoughtlessly, I wandered over to Braeburn, who'd found a cushty little booth by an open window. There was even a little table! Delighted, I sat down, opposite him. Maybe there was a buffet trolley or something...?! I'm not sure if my stomach could take it, given the way it was currently churning, but I could damn well try, and... wait... I just sat down opposite...
Opposite Braeburn...
"....hhhhhhhhhhhhHHHOOOORK" he went, gazing happily into my eyes.
Oooh shit. Think fast brain! "LOOK OUTSIDE BRAEBURN ISN'T IT PRETTY!" I roared, simultaneously ducking below the table between us, and flailing a hand in the open window, to draw his attention. It worked, thank fuck, and the hideous missile went soaring through, taking the hat off a passing mare.
This was going to be a long ride...