“What’s it going to be then, eh?”
There was me -- that is, Twily – and my three droogs, Pink, AJ, and Dash, Dash being very dim. (Seriously, she was fast and she was good in a scrap and not much else.) We were all sitting round in the Connemara Cider Bar trying to make up our minds what to do with the evening when I asked the question. The Connemara sold cider-plus -– that is, cider plus ingram, or renzetti, or andyart, that being what we were having –- which would get you nice and sillypony for a night out.
“Well,” said Dash, “anyfing’s got to be better’n last night, innit? Wha’d we have to go an’ shop-crast a bookstore for, Twily?”
I rolled my glazzies at her and said nothing. I’d scored some real shoo-bee-doo tomes that night, my little ponies, some glorious first editions among them. Besides, it’s not like there hadn’t been itty bitties to be had -- we all got our share of celestias in the till, and AJ had grabbed some trashy romance novels to sell off and give the coin to her family. Pink swiped some joke books, but mainly she was in it for the fun. Dash could’ve nabbed something with a lot of pictures, had she the wit to.
“How ‘bout the usual?” asked AJ.
Pink was grinning. “Works for me!”
I dropped my empty mug down on the table with my teek. “Right, then: a bit of the old Y-Rated violence!”
We poured our itty bitties onto the table of two granny smiths on our way out the door, buying them proper ciders and apple snacks and a salt lick to share. Makes you feel right shoo-bee-doo, that does, plus a pouch empty of coin begs to be filled again. It also didn’t hurt that the two old mares would cover for us later on, should there be any questions from the shinings.
We prowled the dark alleys and back streets of Canterlondon, my little ponies, until at last Pink had one of her fits of sensory overload. “Fun!” she chirped as the seizure died down, and I allowed her to take the lead. We slipped into the back of an abandoned warehouse and what we found was fun indeed.
Trixie-girl was there with her droogs, four background ponies. They, like we, were dressed in the height of fashion among young pony gangs: trousers to hide one’s cutie, hats to keep the mane from flying about overmuch, and smart-looking shirts to complete the look. (All sorts of hats were worn; I wore a bowler, a popular choice, but only a complete bratchny would wear a fedora or a trilby.)
They had been about to do a bit of the old in-mouth with a case of peanut butter crackers until we made our entrance known. We might as well have ported in, so gobsmacked they were. We were out-numbered, true, but we made up for it with Dash, who counted as two ponies in most fights. (Just don’t ask her to take any written exams, right-right?)
“Well, well, well,” I sneered, “if it isn’t Worst Pony Trixie-girl herself! Have thyself a booger in thy milk, if thou hast any milk for thy peanut butter crackers, you half-horned unicorn.”
“Why, you-–!“
I cut her off. “Pink! You know what to do!” At that, Pink reached behind her and brought out two multi-layer cakes.
Trixie-girl tilted her head. “Why are you giving us cake?”
Pink smiled. “Oh, I’m not giving you cake. I’m assaulting you with cake!”
The cakes flew, as did AJ’s pies, and my water balloons, and Dash herself. Trixie-girl and her droogs fought back, of course, but our yummies were in the air first and our recipes were better. A real sombra mess we made, my little ponies, but so worth it. We took all the bits they had, made off with their un-thrown desserts, and pinched their peanut butter crackers besides.
Our hoovie-wooves had not taken us far before our ears were turned by the horrible, high-saline howl of an old condimenter in the gutter, slurring a song and slobbering over a spill of salt. It was not long before we grew close enough to make out actual words.
A mare that I knew just wouldn’t stay true
She never kept her barn door shut
When asked why her tail flew like flags in a gale
She said, “I’m just stuck in a rut”
Each line was punctuated by a twitch of his aged head, causing the rusty old bells on his filthy hat to jingle. As he finished the verse, we cheered wildly and stomped our applause into the street, making him blink his glazzies and come back to here-and-now. This looked to be a source of great fun, and perhaps we’d even britva off his dirty, disgusting beard.
“Spare some bits, me fillies?” he grated out.
“Suuuuuure!” Pink drew out the word, holding her hoof out just above him, with the flat up. “Just take ‘em!”
He reached up and felt the bite of the buzzer, hoof-on-hoof, juddering and jittering and twitching. In the end, they were both on their backs, he with tongue out and smoke or steam coming from his ears, she rolling around in fits of laughter.
I frowned and would have said something, but I had to wait for the laughter to die down from Pink and Dash before I could get a slovo in edgewise. “Pink,” I said, “that was over too quickly.”
“Sor-ry!” she sang.
I had to settle for busting his bells.
We later found a carriage that somepony had been snails enough to leave out in the open, meaning once we found it, it was ours til we tired of it. A near-new Destrier 95 it was, all posh and cushy and rolling smooth as silk, especially when pulled by a pegasus. We played at hogs of the road, post boxes were bucked, and much mischief was had, my little ponies. With all that speed and all that fun, it was not long before we found ouselves well outside of the city and into the deep, deep, Lunatic dark of the countryside.
It was time for a different game.
Our carriage had passed many homes in the night, flying onward like legends of Tartarus choosing to spare some they might come back for later. The next home was not so lucky; we stopped at a well-lit, cozy cottage with a sign out front that read “STABLE”. A right snails thing to boast, for such was assumed by any sensible pony; what point in building where it wasn’t? Up we crept, masks went on, and a hoof at the door.
A posh mare’s goloss came through the door. “Yes? Who is it?”
“Terribly sorry to trouble you, madam!” I called back, all Celestia’s School best and brightest now. “Some crazed pegasus has been pulling carriages through here at dangerously high speeds, and my friend has been struck and hurt badly!”
“Jet Set, dear, there’s an injured pony outside!” Quieter she was when she spoke again, turned away from the door most like.
We then heard a snooty stalloveck, not all slovos reaching us: “…suppose… better… in, hadn’t…?”
“Just a moment,” she said to us, and latches started to unlatch.
“Surprise!” yelled Pink, charging in and near knocking the door off its hinges once it opened more than half a hoof-width. Surprise for certain, my ponies and friends.
The pies flew true, so the hosts of our night visit were soon too be-derped to make much fuss at our intrusion. As both were unicorns, a game of “toss the donut on the horn” was swiftly organized; I took the time to inspect our surroundings.
I could hardly miss the typey-type that the stalloveck had been seated at, and, cat-curious, I went over to see. It seemed this veck fancied himself a writer, or possibly even one of the ancient unicorn wisdom-lovers, all toga-clad and spewing nonsense. I pulled the sheet of paper from the writer with my magic and began to read in my proper Canterlondon unicorn voice.
“-- like peeling an apple to find clever mechanisms inside, or discovering that inside a pony is naught but clockwork. For, lacking this quality, I say we would be no better than inanimate Objects, waiting to be acted upon by some unknown Animator!”
All had a good smeck at this rot, even Dash, who likely didn’t know the reasons for the laughter. I judged it utter twaddle and lit it on fire with my horn. The writer screeched but not for long, as his protests were blocked by a great bolshy glob of tapioca pudding.
After the burning, AJ began ransacking the house for itty bits or things worth selling, Pink kept our hosts subdued with spray cans of whipped cream, and Dash wrote rude slovos on their faces with a marker she found. Me, I moved over to the writer’s many bookshelves and began taking what I wanted, all the while singing title songs to Bridleway musicals from years gone by.
It was quite late by that time, so it was off to the Connemara for a nightcap before heading home. We spent some of our ill-gotten gains on the two granny smiths, them thanking us and blessing us and saying what lovely young fillies we were. Our giving ways were soon repaid, for it was not long after we gathered our own drinks and found a table that a pair of shinings arrived, golden armor quite out of place here in the cider bar, to “make inquiries”.
“Oh, no, sir, not these sweet young mares! Pure kindness and generosity they are,” said one.
“They’ve been here all night, just as we have. Had they been any trouble, we’d’ve called the royal guards ourselves,” said the other.
There was also a pack of sophisto ponies in the corner, doubtless a group from the nearby theater or some such, but they had been too wrapped up in their own talk to know if we had left or when we had returned. When a guard waved a hoof in our direction, though, there was one -- a tan unicorn stallion with a blond mane and glasses – who couldn’t stop staring. He continued even after the shinings left, and it seemed he was besotted with AJ. She missed this completely, but it’s my job as leader to notice things.
His droogs and companions called his attention back to them, and seemed to be making some sort of request. My own attention began to wander off, my glazzies going elsewhere... until he opened his mouth and began to sing.
Die Winterferien waren,
Sehr schön und unbeschwert
Wir spielten und wir hielten
Unsere Hufe warm am Herd
Doch die Vorräte sind aufgebraucht
In der kalten Jahreszeit
Auch wenn die Stiefel hübsch sind,
Bin ich sie nun langsam leid
My breath caught in my throat, and I closed my eyes to focus on the pure, golden pleasure that washed in through my ears. Oh, bliss. It was as if the summer celebrations had come and the sun itself rose within the cider bar. I knew what it was he sang, my little ponies. It was beatific Beethoofen, the glorious Ninth Symphony, Fourth Movement... the portion known as the “Ode to Spring”.
Dash, being Dash, soon ruined it with nasty mouth noises and a rude gesture. She was spared my horn through gritting of my teeth and a massive act of will; instead, I gave her a hoof to the back of the mane that near had her face-down in her cider mug.
“What for did you do that thing what you just done?” she asked, rubbing where I hit her.
I glared at her. “For being a mannerless mule without a donk of an idea how to comport yourself in public, my little pony.”
“I won’t ‘ave you aiming hoofchoks at me reasonless –- a reasonable pony wouldn’t stand for it, why should I?” Her glazzies narrowed. “I fink you an’ me should ‘ave it out. Dessert on dessert!”
“Cake, cobbler, or compote,” I growled. “A nosh scrap any time you say.”
Things came to a complete halt as Dash attempted something almost wholly unfamiliar to her: thinking. I thought soon I’d viddy smoke coming out of her ears. Suddenly, all false smiles she was, every one of her hay-grinders showing.
“’Too much cider, too much said,’” she quoted. I nodded at the old saying. She continued, “Been a long night. Bed is right for now, so best we go home. Right-right?”
“Right-right,” echoed Pink and AJ, followed by agreement from me. So with that, your Friend and Humble Narrator began to make my way back to the municipal flatblock I called home.