//------------------------------// // The Small Hours // Story: Pipsqueak's Day Off // by Neon Czolgosz //------------------------------// A/N: If you love glorious world building and crazy Equestrian supervillians, go check out Roots, the secret history of the Apple Family! Written by my fantastic pre-reader, LittleSallyDigby. The first thing that hits me when I get downstairs is the smell. There's a thick, biting stink that crawls into your nostrils and hates them for existing. The strongest chord is vomit, sharp and unsettling, layered under a melody of cheesy sweat with little trills of spilled beer, burnt hair and love fluids. The hallway is what a landfill sees when it remembers its childhood. Somepony took a broken bottle and used it to scrape the gold print off the walls, which are stained with all sorts of muck. There's a puddle of urine, which I nearly step in. Chewing gum is trampled into the floor – a huge amount of it, like somepony chewed gum and spat it out just for the sake of ruining the lush burgundy carpet. A bin-bag has been split open and dragged across the floor, coating everything in litter. Six ponies are in the hall. Two of them are snogging next to a pile of vomit, three are loudly discussing how fucking sweet this party is, and one is going along the hall drawing bulging cocks on the Cubist prints with a marker pen. I nearly trip over a bottle at my hooves. It's an empty bottle of Wild Pegasus. My Wild Pegasus. Oh, Discord's knackers. I hear a pained, drunken groan coming from the kitchen. I'd recognise that groan anywhere. I've heard it every other morning for the last year or so. The kitchen is why parents don't let their kids have house parties. Between the filthy floor covered in spilled cider and dark liquids, the broken cupboards with their contents tossed onto the work surfaces, and the beautiful mess on the ceiling where somepony jammed a bunch of fruit and spirits into the blender and didn't stick the lid on, the Riches' cleaner will be asking for hazard pay. She'll get it, too. The kitchen table is a more extravagant version of the slop table at my house. A dozen tins of black lentil caviar are spilled on the surface, forming little black islands in a sea of prosecco, next to continents of soggy margherita pizza and fleets of olives stuffed with garlic. Somepony had unplugged the fridge and freezer, smashed the plug with a rolling pin, and stuck chewing gum in the wall sockets. This is some of the most artfully spiteful destruction I've ever seen. Twenty years from now, kitchen's rights organizations will still be holding nationwide candlelight vigils in memory of this tragedy. It wasn't just alcohol at work here. Somepony took a knife and punctured every single tin of food. That sort of malice takes bourbon. "*grup* ...help meee..." It's Pina Colada, in a total state, slumped over the breakfast bar. Next to her is a half-eaten white truffle sandwich and a near-empty bottle of bourbon. I try to rouse her but she groans and slumps back down. Fortunately, I'm from a drinking family. If I can't solve this problem, I don't deserve my cutie mark. I slink around the kitchen, trying to avoid the worst of the muck, and see what I can salvage. A bottle of hot sauce and a bottle of Trottingham sauce, both covered in black lentils, a few black peppercorns picked out from the carnage on the workstations, three plastic cups, a salt-shaker, an egg, a mortar and pestle tucked away at the back of a broken cupboard, and a half-empty carton of tomato juice. I fill two cups with water, and add three tablespoons of salt to one. I grind the peppercorns and toss them in the third cup with a pinch of salt. I add a half measure of Trottingham and a half measure of hot, a measure of tomato juice and mix it with a mostly-clean knife. Finally, I crack the egg and drop it in. I take the cup of saltwater and press it to Pina's lips. "Drink." In a haze, she parts her lips and quickly drinks the water as I tip it into her mouth. Her eyes shoot open when she realizes what she's drinking. I get behind her, hold her hair up and prepare for the inevitable. "*wump* *BLOOOUURHHRRHHGHHHGHH*" There's a lot of chunder. It's a soupy, horrible mess that reeks of spirits, bile and probably of whatever those little neon-pink bits are. Maybe she's been eating glow-sticks again. "Lovely." "*GLURRBhbrrhll...* *hic*" I take a paper napkin to wipe her mouth, and she sicks up a little more on my hoof. Oh Pina, you are a charmer. Next, I put my little wake-up cocktail to her lips. "Drink." "...don't wanna." "Drink." "No." "Drink!" "Fuck you!" She purses her lips closed and scrunches her eyes shut. I clap a hoof over her nostrils. "Drink or suffocate." She couldn't have looked at me with more loathing if her eyes were pictures of me being stabbed in the kidneys. She opens her mouth. "Now, down it in one before you taste it." She does as she's told and the mixture slides down her throat. She gags a little at the end. "Ewww... It's like cold jizz that burns..." "Charming. This one is just water, it will wash the taste out of your mouth." I place the third cup to her lips, and she slowly sips at it until there's only half left. She's staring into space, her eyes weary and unfocused, eyeliner running down her face and pink hair plastered across her forehead. Suddenly she rouses and looks at me. "It smells like sick in here." "Yes. Yes it does, Pina." "Pip, I'm cooold. Gimme a hug. An' kiss," she says, wiping a stray patch of sick from her cheek. "No. Pina, where did you get the Wild Pegasus from?" "Wha?" "The bourbon." "Wha?" "The whiskey." "Wha?" "This," I say, lifting the bottle to her face. "Oh, that," she says, blinking. "Yeah, all the liquor on the liquor table got drank, so Peachy Pie and Shady Daze went and raided some bedroom upstairs that had ponies under blankets, they must have been screwing or some shit, I dunno, and anyway they came back down and handed all the bottles out to everypony and hey have you seen my sandwich I had a sandwich..." "It's right there, Pina," I sigh. She lifts it to her muzzle with wobbly telekinesis and nibbles at it. Luna damn everything. All that bourbon, gone to ponies too stupid and base to appreciate its wonders. There's no point fretting over it now, I'll just head back to the bedroom and snuggle with three delicious ponies and a dragon until the sun comes up... But no. I go into the hallway, and see the bedroom has come to me. Dinky is already down the hall, and the others are coming down the stairs. "Hey Dinks, what's up? How come you chaps are downstairs?" "Ah, Snips and Snails burst into the room five minutes ago, Snails with an apple-size black eye, screaming at the top of their lungs about 'the unbearable churlishness of being equine,' Emily Nickerson poetry and some other crazy shit. Scared the tits off me and Featherweight, I'll tell you that." I grin. "Hah. You guys get over your crushes for just long enough to hook up, then Snips and Snails stop you cold. Perfect." Dinky looks at me with honest confusion. "They stopped what?" "You two weren't fooling around under the covers?" "What? No, we were talking about comic books and listening to Pina Colada call herself a dumbass." She narrows her eyes, "Wait, were you guys fooling around?" "Yeah, it was pretty hot," says Scootaloo, walking up behind her, "Snips and Snails killed the mood, so we figured we'd come downstairs and party some more." She pauses, and looks around. "Place seems pretty fuckin' dead though." I stop for a second and realise she's right. For all the mess and carnage, the party is oddly quiet. The music coming from the living room is muted, like the DJ went off to the loo and never came back. When we left the party, there were so many ponies that you could hear them moving and talking through two walls. Now, there's barely a peep apart from the few drunks and vandals we can see in the halls. It's like the death rattle of a party. "Party ain't dead," says Chowder, his voice dark, "Just ain't here." We go into the living room to see what happened to the party. It's nearly empty; there can't be more than a dozen ponies in the room – mostly couples fooling around or ponies too drunk to move. The room is a tip, but no more than you'd expect for the epicenter of a party that had nearly a hundred ponies bumping and grinding in it an hour or so ago. Tootsie Flute is nowhere to be seen, and the speakers are pumping out soft R&B. A closer look reveals signs of bourbon use. Bookshelves tipped over and their contents spread out and trampled on. Vomit on the sofas. Cables yanked out of the television. Urine on the upholstery. Empty bottles of bourbon. Apple Bloom lets out a long whistle. "Well ah'll be. All that bourbon and cider sure did a number on this place." "It's not just the booze, look at the ceiling," I say, pointing upwards. The ceiling is a huge fresco of crudely-drawn cocks going into even more crudely-drawn flanks. "That's six metres off the ground, that sort of vandalism takes malice AND energy. Everypony here was hopped up on salts." Everypony looks at Dinky. She stares right back. "What? What are you- Oh fuck you guys, I can't even believe you'd accuse me of dealing salts at a party like some fuckin' drug mule." "Bit racist," says Featherweight. "Sorry, that's my father talking," says Dinky, looking contrite, "But still, screw you guys for saying that!" "Ain't nopony saying the 'D' word, Dinky," says Apple Bloom gently, "But ya did bring some salts to share with us friends, and we ain't the only friends ya got. Did ya bring any more salts?" "...one." "Pardon?" I say. She give me a sour look. "One ounce." Nopony speaks. We all avoid each other's eyes. "Well what was I supposed to do? I owe ponies favours, I've got a reputation to maintain, Diamond Tiara was just fine with it and took a baggie, and besides Pip brought the bourbon-" "You requested it!" Featherweight steps between us. "Guys! There's no point blaming each other. All we have to do is get rid of the empty bottles of bourbon and baggies of salts. That'll stop us getting in trouble with Tiara's parents, and if we stay and help her with the mess she'll have no problem with us. We've been acting better than her other guests after all. Besides, cleanup will be easy now the party's dead." "Yeah, about that," says Ruby Pinch, taking a sip of her Griffhala Pale Ale, "Is it just me or does the party sound like it's bigger in here than it did in the hall?" She's right. In the hall you could only hear the ponies hanging out in the hall and the muted music through the walls. In here, you can hear the shrieks, laughter and chaos of a party in full swing, but oddly quiet, like the ghost of a party. "Uh, guys?" Twist is standing by the curtains, peering through the window. "I think you should see this." As we approach, she pulls the curtains wide, and we see exactly where the party went. The street outside is a spiteful carnival. There are ponies carrying torches. Featherweight is first to speak. "Cleanup might be less easy." "I think that's Chip Mint and Potato Chip over in that garden, wrecking everything," says Sweetie Belle, "Hey, is that High Score with them? What's he doing? Wait, he's not... he's scoring them! They're having a vandalism competition." "Heh, that's pretty sweet," says Scoots. Apple Bloom gives her a sharp look. "Scoots, that ain't sweet, that's a misdemeanor." "Yeah, a sweet misdemeanor." "Is that a fire in the distance?" asks Spike, "Like, a full-blown burning building fire?" "Yep. Building fire," says Dinky, "This party has turned into a riot, a riot with arson which is a pretty serious thing, and we're right in the middle of the party; the party that turned into a riot, with fire, and arson, and vandalism, which means I'm gonna get the fuck outta here before the fuzz show and I suggest you guys do the same." I stop her with a hoof. "That's unwise, Dinks. There's little baggies of salts all over the place. When ponies start asking about the riot that destroyed Ponyville, they'll bloody well start figuring out who started that riot, and the ponies that provided all the salts and all the bourbon will be damn high on that list. Dealing or no dealing, everypony knows who always has salts in every pocket and who owns enough bourbon to pickle an ursa." I need to hide the evidence just as much as Dinky. What I've done might be less illegal, but my mother and I are in the booze marketing business. She was contracted by Mulekick Brewing Industries to give Wild Pegasus a marketable image. In other words, we're supposed to make them look good. Now, while being known as The Drink That Destroys Towns could be an original and possibly successful marketing campaign, it would be unauthorized, unappreciated, unsolicited and doom our chances for repeat business and good references. If word gets out, mum will be furious, and I'll go from helping her with the jobs and crunching the numbers to shutting up, staying in the corner and making drinks for guests. I can't let that happen, so the bottles must disappear. Featherweight quickly steps up and takes charge. "Okay guys, here's what we're going to do. There's a lot of ground to cover outside, and we should try to stop as much rioting as we can while we clean up the baggies and the bottles. Dinky, are you sober enough to cast a sensory enhancement spell combined with an attunement cantrip?" "I'm gonna pretend you didn't ask that question. Just gimme the word." "Attune me, Pip, Bloom, Sweetie and Scoots to bottles, and attune you, Spike, Twist and Ruby to baggies. We'll sweep the town; the more destruction there is, the quicker the whiskey and salts will have been used, so we shouldn't have far to go. Chowder, the house is mostly empty; can you give it a sweep?" Chowder nods in response. "Perfect. Dinky, do your thing." She scrunches up her eyes, lights up her horn and casts a pale yellow beam over us. My eyes sting like I've got them open underwater, my mouth tastes like vinegar and there's a vague pull through my body, like a craving for sex or a stiff drink. When the shock wears off, I take a look around the room. My eyes go straight to the two empty bottles of bourbon on the floor. They stand out, like great oaks on a barren tundra. Chowder walks over and picks them up. It's time to hide some evidence. * * * The damage to Diamond Tiara's lawn is less deliberate and more collateral. At some point the party moved here, keg and all, and most of the mess is the natural result of several ponies raving it up on the fescue. There's litter, and somepony has flung loo-roll everywhere, but there are no mangled lawnmowers, trenches of dug-up sod or punji sticks. Dinky and her group set about finding baggies straight away. There's five ponies toasting marshmallows around a makeshift campfire, and one pony on his own just outside the circle. It's Lickety Split. I call out to him; he turns and gives me a funny little smile. His eyes are red like he's been smoking clover, and there's an odd note in his voice. "Hey Pip, buddy. What's up?" "Ah, we've just had a bit of- Are you all-right, mate? You look a bit rummy." "I- I'm just a bit weirded-out about earlier, that's all. It's nothing really." "Oh. Um, how so?" Lickety lets out a long, slow sigh and looks me in the eye. "I just feel... I'm the only colt in Ponyville who likes other colts except for you, but you like mares more, and all I want is somepony to, y'know, be with, but all I've ever had is tiny bits of fooling around, and I know I'm being stupid..." Heaven's sake, I feel for the lad but this could go on all night, and I'm buggered (and not in the ways I enjoy) if I don't get all these bottles swept up by the time Plod makes his morning rounds. "Lickie, I need your help," I say, with drug-fueled urgency, "Some right tossers nicked our bourbon and Dinky's salts, and if there's a bunch of empty bottles and baggies about, everypony will blame us for starting a riot! They'll be after our knackers! Could you please help us look?" There's a reluctant look in his eyes that I don't fancy at all, so I continue: "I'm desperate here, and I'm begging you as a friend to help us." "Okay... I-” He pauses for a second and looks down with a sullen expression, before looking back up at me with that odd little smile, “I can do that. Sure!" "Oh thank you so much mate, you're a total darling," I say, pulling him close and planting a kiss on his ear. He mumbles something about finding the bottles, and heads off to search right away. Topping! I turn around. My friends aren't collecting bottles. They are all staring at me. I'm geting uneasy looks from Feathers, Scoots, Spike and Apple Bloom, and a pissed-off glare from Sweetie Belle. "That was low, Pip," she says. "Pardon?" "Pardon? Pardon?! Lickety was completely broken up, over you might I add, and instead of comforting him you toy with his feelings and send him off on some stupid errand. That's low. Real low." She's honestly confusing me. "How am I toying with him? It's hardly my fault he's the only gay in the village, and all I did was ask him for a favour as a mate!" Sweetie rolls her eyes and gives me a disgusted look. "Please. You're the only colt he knows who's into other colts, you've fooled around before, and what do you do? First you call him a friend, like you're being nice and letting him down gently, then, and then, the moment he says he'll help you kiss him! Even Rarity doesn't play with stallions' feelings like that, and I'm pretty sure mom and dad adopted her from a changeling colony. And hey, since we're on the subject of being a terrible pony and friend, what the hay did you tell Snips and Snails?" "What on Earth are you talking about?" Sweetie Belle does not give me a happy look. She looks at me like she wants to pull my testicles out through my penis. In a voice as cold as frozen vodka, she says: "Snips and Snails came up to the bedroom yelling weird things, and when I asked them what they were doing, they said you told them that shouting random stuff would make fillies like them." "Oh bloody hay, that was a joke! They'd been going on about this protease-" "That's the enzyme," says Spike. "-pick-up artist rubbish that Shady Daze, the bell-end, gave them, and wouldn't stop asking me to help them pick up mares, so I said the first ridiculous thing that came into my head. I didn't think they'd go through with it because it's bloody mental!" Sweetie scrunches her eyes together, puts a hoof to her nose and practically growls her next words. "This is Snips and Snails. They- They are easily influenced, and you know that, Pipsqueak. You got Snails punched in the face!" "Oi, I'll stop you there. I did not get Snails punched in the face. Shady Daze filled his head with bollocks, Snails actually listened to said bollocks, and Snails' mum drank wood alcohol when she was pregnant. That's three ponies who deserve more blame for him getting socked than I do." "Oh really? You couldn't have taken them aside, told them that stuff doesn't work and that maybe they should try actually talking to fillies or something? Snips was going on about you like you were Con Mane, they'd have hung on your every word!" "Well, my way was funnier- Oh, don't give me that look, you know bloody well what dealing with those two is like. Talking to them is like cancer without the closure." Big silence. Everypony just goggles. Sweetie's face shifts through a whole spectrum of emotions from rage to disappointment. "Hey, Pip? I don't know what's worse, that you're a vain, arrogant dilettante who treats ponies like crap for no reason, or the way you act like you're the noble, put-upon defender of all things cultured and intellectual against ponies like Lucky Strike and Shady Daze just because you've skimmed an Equestrian Lit textbook, have that stupid, smarmy accent and use different mane products than the ponies you think are 'barbarians' "You know what? I don't like being around ponies who are downright horrible to guys like Snips and Snails because they think they can get away with it. You're a preening choad, Pip, and you can find those fucking bottles on your own. Come on, girls, let's go." With that, the three ex-Crusaders turn around and walk off. Spike looks anxiously between the girls and us. "Uh, I think I better go after them, try to patch things up, make sure they don't stab you in the kidneys or something, ha ha." With that, he runs off to follow them. It's just me and Featherweight, glancing at each other but not quite meeting each other's eyes. We stand here awkwardly for a minute. I can't quite think of anything to say. "I am not a dilettante," I finally settle on. "No. No you're not." "I- I'm very much into statistics. It's a big part of what I do, and I'd say I know as much about it as any pony in Ponyville apart from Whooves, Twilight or maybe Dinky. I just like to learn about other stuff, and that's- there's nothing wrong with that. Nothing wrong at all." "No, not at all." "...I can be a bit insensitive at times, I suppose." "Just a bit." "And maybe I'm a little pretentious." "Yeah, you're pretty pretentious." There's a deeply uncomfortable, strung-out silence. That's when it hits me: "Skies above, I'm a tosser! A huge tosser, and I've been a tosser for as long as I remember!" Featherweight says nothing. The pained, pitying look in his eyes tells me everything I need to know. I feel the lowest I've felt in quite some time. I almost feel Luna gazing down on me, knocking my place down on the list of potential harem mates, below pretenders like Soarin and Big Mac and Fancy Pants. Featherweight drapes a wing over my back. "Hey, hey now, no throwing a big fat pity party over the way that you can sometimes, occasionally, a little bit, be a huge douche," he says gently. "Half because, y'know, that's just giving you a bunch of attention and sympathy that you don't deserve, but also because hey, douchebag or not you're still my best friend. My best friend, who realizes he's been acting like a douche, and is now going to behave like less of a douche, yes?" He nudges my head with his wing so we're face to face. A second later I realise he's waiting for an answer. "Yes. Yes! That's damn well exactly what I'm going to do!" "Sweet, so for the next few weeks, I'll slap you across the lips when you act like a dick, that sound good?" "Sounds wonderful, Feathers." He lifts the wing off me and flutters into the air. "Awesome. Now come on, DBBFF, let's find those fuckin' bottles!" "DBB- Ah, I get you. Funny. Yes, let's!" * * * Four glasses of punch. Two mugs of cider. Six measures of bourbon. Three doses of salts. Too much clover. Ponyville has become a twisted, riot-themed funhouse ready to close in on me the second I miss a bottle. I don't think the attunement spell mixes well with salts; I've picked eight bugs out of my coat since I left the house. Featherweight is crawling with them; I can see every little detail on their hairy, slimy bodies perfectly but he hasn't noticed them yet. Chowder was right. In town, the party is alive and well. Partygoers dash through the streets in groups of four or five, cackling manically. They leave a trail of thorough, competent vandalism in their wake. The hardware store was broken into, and there is spray-painted graffiti over every storefront in sight. Chip Mint is pissing on the front door of Quills and Sofas. Toilet paper is draped over everything. We find the first bottle at the marketplace, next to two fighting ponies, Peachy Pie and a blue filly I don't recognise. Featherweight and I get between them, and Feathers gets headbutted for his trouble. When they realise they're not fighting the same pony any more, they calm down just enough to walk to the other end of the market and start scrapping again. "Gyahhh..." Featherweight rubs his ear, which is twisting spastically. "She headbutted me in the fuckin' ear! Who does that?" "Peachy Pie, apparently," I say, picking up the bottle and stashing it in the rucksack. "Now let's go before somepony stops us. The minute they see our eyes, they'll know something's up and the whole thing will come crashing down!" Featherweight gives me a funny look and doesn't notice the spidery thing crawling over his eyeball. "What are you even talking about?" I blink, the spider is gone, and I can't quite remember what I was talking about. Something about... "Bottles!" I yell. "We need to find the bottles; let's go!" I start cantering, then straight-up running towards Sugarcube Corner. I don't know why Sugarcube Corner, but it feels like the right direction. We find a second bottle of bourbon in a tree next to a tied-up Noi. We cut her down and she thanks us, but she's too drunk to notice all the insects crawling out of her mouth and nose, poor sod. I don't have the heart to tell her. We smell smoke when we get to Mister Breezy's Fan Shop, and we see the source as we turn the corner. Legal Advice and Marital Aids is on fire. I feel something running through my coat, but it's not more bugs, just pouring rain. There's a gigantic raincloud overhead, not just over the fire but all over town. It's an early morning rainfall that I plum forgot about. The fire isn't spreading or raging, but it's crackling happily, spitting and licking through broken windows and cracks in the roof. There are two bottles here, one smashed over the burning shop sign, which Featherweight darts over to collect, and another half-empty in the mouth of an alley opposite the burning store. The moment I stick it in my bag, my body catches up with me and I drop to my knees, dry heaving. "Celestia, Pipsqueak," pants Featherweight, "Why did we have to run?" A little lucidity returns. My coat is soaked, but the bugs are gone. "I- I'm not sure why, actually. Sorry about that, mate - I lost my head for a moment there." He pats me on the head with a wing. "It's cool, dude. Anyway, if my math is right and it is, that's three bottles used up in the game, two in the living room, and four we've just found. Only three left." "Two left. There was one in the kitchen with Pina. I mentioned it to Chowder before we left." "Two left then. Even better, huh?" he says with a little grin. "Any idea where the last two are?" "Sugarcube Corner. There's one there, I know it. Don't ask how, I think Pinkie Pie is involved. Once we've got that, it's one left. Nopony's going to give a rat's arse about one bottle." "Right. Sugarcube Corner, then!" We set off at an uneasy trot, and reach it five minutes later. Sugarcube Corner is an odd sight. The store itself is closed, but outside there are tables set out, lit by the outside spotlights. It's like a strange bubble, sealed off entirely from the vandalism, mania and chaos of the party. There are four ponies sitting at one table, sheltered from the rain by a large umbrella - Pinkie Pie, Pokey Pierce, Tootsie Flute and that unicorn DJ whose name I can never- "Vinyl Scratch." Feathers doesn't even look at me as he says it. "I wish you wouldn't do that, Feathers." As we get closer, we see the bottle of bourbon. It's on their table, two-thirds full, and each of the ponies has a glass of it next to them. Tootsie Flute sees us and calls us over. "Pip! Feathers! Come join us!" she yells. "Crazy night, huh?" We hurry over and sit down. The other three greet us. "Hi guys!" "Sup?" "Hey there, sweet-cheeks." That last one was directed at me, by Pokey, and was followed by a wink. I smile back but don't flirt; I have more important things going on right now. It's a pity Lickety doesn't like older stallions. Or does he? I should really double check. "Nice little set-up here," says Feathers, turning down the proffered whiskey, "How come it's all calm and stuff just here?" The unicorn DJ grins. "Pinkie knows all about parties - like how to keep them at bay." "That and we billy-club anypony who tries anything within a thirty-yard radius," says Tootsie, levitating a menacing black stick in the air. "Ouch." "Oh yeah. Have you guys met my godmom?" she says, "Pipsqueak, Featherweight, meet Vinyl and vice versa." "I've met you before," says the DJ, looking at Feathers. "You're new, though," she says to me. "Nice to meet ya, kiddo." "Charmed," I say, shaking her hoof and smiling widely. "Your godkid is quite the DJ." "Damn right she is," she says, ruffling Tootsie's mane, "and she always gets her godmom wasted so I don't rat her out to Bon-Bon for breaking curfew." "Pfft, I ain't got no curfew," says Tootsie, rolling her eyes, "Thanks for the bottle of bourbon though, Pip, it was much appreciated." Cheeky little bugger! Pinkie Pie shoots me a sharp, dangerous look. "Wait, were you guys handing out bourbon at that party? That's absototally-" "Oh no no no no no," says Tootsie, "Pipsqueak gave me this bottle a week ago, as a free gift, for no money, because he's such a good friend. I can't recall him bringing any bourbon to Diamond's place." Cheeky little bugger who just saved my arse! "Yes. Yes, that is exactly the case! Tootsie is a wonderful friend and pony, and I thought a bottle of bourbon would be just the thing for her." Vinyl drains her glass, then slams it back down on the table. "See? It's like I always say. Good friends get you drunk!" "Damn straight they do! Anyway, lovely seeing you ponies, but Featherweight and I must be off," I say, "Have a lovely evening!" They say their goodbyes, Tootsie winks at me, and we set off. For a while, we just wander aimlessly through town. The library has a forcefield up around it and a good few stores and houses have suspicious eyes peeking out of windows, but the riots have wound down. Legal Advice and Marital Aids is now just smoking in the distance, nopony is daring to vandalise anything else, and the few partygoers left either scuttle from alley to alley, or putter around in a sort of daze. Featherweight and I are doing the latter. Half an hour later, our legs feel like jelly and we sit down in an alley. My head is starting to throb with hangover, muscles ache from lack of salts, and the tug of the attunement spell is wearing off. I feel spent. "Celestia, what a crazy fuckin' night." Featherweight rubs his temples and flutters his wings a little. "I gotta get some pictures. Can't let those dickholes at the Gazette scoop me on tonight." "Sure, I'll be right with you. Just give me a sec while I have a quick drink," I say, reaching for my hip flask. It's not there. I check my other pocket. Not there either. "Feathers, you haven't seen my flask have you?" He's patting himself down. "Nah, I haven't. Hey, have you seen my camera?" I shake my head. "'Fraid not. Have you seen it since we... left the house..." Something horrible occurs to me, and suddenly I don't feel tired any more. "You haven't seen it since we left the house, have you? You haven't seen it since we were drinking in the spare bedroom!" He nods. "Yeah, I think you're right. Why, what are you thinking?" "We're being set up! You, me and Chowder are the only ponies who know that Shady Daze and his mates wanted to burn down Legal Advice and Marital Aids. Shady helped take the bourbon, and while he was there he nicked my hip flask, your camera and something of Chowder's. Giving the bourbon away was just a wild goose chase to send us off looking while he plants our things right on the scene of the fire! It'll look like we burned the place to the ground!" "Wait, wait, hold up there. You're saying Shady Daze set fire to Legal Advice and Marital Aids?" "YES THAT IS WHAT I AM SAYING, FEATHERTON STANLEY WEIGHT, HE TOLD US TO OUR FACES THAT HE WAS UNIRONICALLY PLANNING TO BURN IT TO THE GROUND NOT TWELVE HOURS AGO!" Feathers looks thoughtful. "Well it does make sense when you put it like that..." "Featherweight, focus! That's arson! If we get the blame we won't get grounded or cut out of the family business, we'll be sent to juvie! Look at my hips, do you know what they do to ponies with hips like mine in juvie?" Three teenage stallions tower over my whimpering, beaten-but-not-broken body; all three looking rakish, thuggish and dirty. The biggest and most evil-looking one leans down to my face and breathes hot and fiery against my ear as he speaks. "The first thing you need to know if you're gonna survive in here is that I'm the daddy. The second thing you need to know is that you're the new fish." His hoof runs down my side, roughly squeezes my cutie mark, then smacks it hard and makes me yelp. "The third thing you need to know is that if a new fish wants to survive in here, he learns to please his daddy and his daddy's friends..." "Pip?" "...no, it wouldn't be at all like that, sexual assault in prisons is horrific and besides they'd probably all have syphilis-" "Pip." "Sorry. Let's go." * * * We stop for breath outside the darkened Ponyville Retirement Home, which is about a third of the way from the alley to Legal Advice and Marital Aids. Featherweight turns to me. "What's the plan, dude?" "You nip in 'round the back, that's where they'll probably have dropped our things, and I'll keep lookout. If anypony comes, I'll bark like a dying seal." "Uh, I've got wings, shouldn't I be the watchpony?" "True, but you spent years and years taking pictures of other ponies without being seen. You're far better at sneaking about than I'll ever be." Featherweight considers this for a moment. "Good point." "Also, you're quicker than me. We haven't seen the guards and the Neighborhood Watch Alliance out yet, but if they haven't started roaming across town by now they will bloody soon. The only thing worse than having our personal effects found on a crime scene is being caught on a crime scene." Featherweight nods, and we head onwards through the pouring rain, sticking close to buildings. As we turn the corner, we slam right into a pony-shaped wall and tumble arse over tit. Featherweight is up a second before me. "Hey, watch where- Chowder, that you bro?" "Sup." The grey mountain of a pony grins at us. He's got a bag clinking with empty bottles slung over one side, and is being nuzzled by the tangerine mare who works as a hairdresser on the other. Featherweight sighs with relief. "Thank Celestia we found you! Listen, Chowder, somepony stole something from you at the party, me and Pipsqueak had my camera and his hip flask taken-" "Nah, they right here," says Chowder, looking bemused. He reaches into the clinking bag and pulls my flask and the camera from it. "You left them in the bedroom, silly fools, so I brought them with." He passes them to us, and we take them, shocked and dumbfounded. Chowder looks at us blankly, and his drunken companion is wordlessly rubbing her head against his neck. It takes a few seconds for it to sink in, and as soon as it does Featherweight and I start laughing and giggling in joy. We aren't being framed! Everything is just fine! "Oh, holy hay bro, we thought we were getting set up for arson," says Feathers, a silly smile on his face. Chowder just gives a little grin, rolls his eyes and shakes his head. "No juvie. This is a good thing. This is a very good thing," I say. "So what's the plan now then?" Featherweight checks his camera over, and then looks up at me. "I still gotta take pictures, and I wouldn't mind some company?" "Hey, can I still stay 'round yours tonight, Pip?" says Chowder. "I got a lil', uh..." he nods his head towards the tangerine mare using him as a strange sort of scratching post. "Sure, if you want to head back now, you know where the key is," I say. "Oh, if you are going to head off, do you mind taking my rucksack? If anyone stops me and Feathers, this whole bag of empty bottles..." He nods and takes the rucksack. "You stay outta trouble now." He grins at us and sets off towards my house, his hairdressing filly friend in tow. We wave him off, and then turn to each other. "So, mister photographer, where to now?" "Well, the important parts are Legal Advice and Marital Aids, the market, and Diamond Tiara's house. Legal Advice is the closest; we should cut through Ponyville Park and go there first," he says, setting off at a brisk pace and beckoning me to follow. We trot along wordlessly for a bit before I speak. "Tonight's been bloody mental, eh?" "Yeah, it was pretty awesome," he replies. Seeing my expression, he continues, "Oh yeah, it sucked that you got your whiskey stolen and that you got chewed out by Sweetie Belle, but everything before that was pretty sweet, right?" "You're right, I guess..." We get to the end of a street and see the edge of Ponyville Park. "Damn straight I'm right. Plus, now I'm getting to take pictures of all the rioting, scoop on the Gazette, and write an article from a first hand account! I'm totally gonna show it to Twilight over coffee. She'll think I'm intrepid," he says, a dreamy look on his face. I shake my head, and we both walk into the park. "Hey, is that Snips and Snails over there?" He points with a wing to two figures tottering about near the bandstand. In the gloom I can make out a feather boa. "Yeah, that's them- You know, I should probably go over there and apologise for the advice I gave them. On account of this whole 'not acting like a tosser' thing I've got going on," I say. "I don't want to slow you down; if you want some snaps of Legal Advice then I'll catch you up at the marketplace. I know you want to get a few shots while it's still smouldering." He frowns. "Pip, that's crass." I give him my flattest of looks, and his face breaks out in a silly grin. "Yeah, you're right, I totally want to do that. I'm a natural rubbernecker." "Splendid. I'll meet you at the marketplace in half an hour." As soon as he's off, I turn and head toward the two figures. "Snips? Snails?" I call out. "Huh? Hey, it's Pipsqueak! Duuuude!" Snips' drunken voice cracks a little as the pair stumble in my direction. As they get closer, something looks a little different about them. "Fuckin' radical party, right?" "Hah. Yes. Yes it was," I say, "Listen, guys, I want to apologise for the advice I gave earlier; it wasn't very sound. I heard it got Snails assaulted." Snips eyes go wide. "What? Oh no no no, it wasn't that at all, bro." "...really?" "Nahhh, we talked to Shady, he explained everything," says Snails. "Everything!" he adds for emphasis. "Yeah, we told him about your advice and he said it was totally sound, we just had bad luck and ran into bitches! He even gave us some game stuff he had spare as a 'consolation prize,' like check out this neck thing!" He lifts his head to show off a black leather choker, clasped with two 'male' symbols. "And I got a codpiece!" says Snails, cocking his leg. It's not a codpiece. "He also gave us these condoms, some lube, two books on game, kinky hoofcuffs-" It's then that something clicks. "Snips, can I take a look at that stuff?" I interrupt. He nods and floats the items over around my head, giving me a halo of sexual paraphenalia. The bottle of lube still has a tag on. Legal Advice and Marital Aids' Pro Boner range. Oh Luna above. I had the right idea, but the wrong stooges! "Listen, when did you talk to Shady?" I ask. "And did he take anything of yours?" Snips looks nonplussed. "Like, half an hour ago bro, why? And yeah, he asked if he could borrow my hat for the night, he said his ears were freezing." I must look shocked, because Snips immediately continues, "Oh, he's not going to steal it or anything, it's got my name on the inside. Shady wouldn't do that anyway." Shady Daze set it up perfectly. Snips and Snails aren't well-liked and just spent a day sexually harassing every mare in Ponyville, so nopony is going to spring to their defence when the fuzz find their clothing on the scene. It's not going to look great when they're found with looted goods, either. I should let this one lie. I went mental tonight trying to safeguard my reputation and livelihood; putting myself at risk and pissing off Shady Daze in the process would be feckless of me. If I go with them then I risk being found planting evidence at a crime scene, and if I let them go alone they'll get caught and somehow let it lead back to me. And to be fair, I hate Snails and Snips just called every mare he hit on today, which is almost all of them, 'bitches,' so they've kinda got it coming. It's not a hard call, really. "Snips, Snails, you two need to listen very carefully. You're both being set up for arson by Shady Daze..."