It’s two in the morning, on Saturday night at the old cafe in Canterlot. The rustic insides are a time capsule to a bygone age. A long bar rests in the middle, with vintage bar stools without backs placed alongside. On either side, booth tables decorate the corners of the old establishment. There’s a sign on the wall saying ‘In Celestia we trust, all others have to pay'. On the ceiling in the middle sits an old wooden fan, slowly, ever-so-slowly, turning, while above the bar a flickering old neon sign is on the fritz, like usual.
Walking in the framed glass door, one can smell the coffee percolating away, while the sizzle of onions on the old grill can surely be heard. The old short-order cook, is a gruff but loveable stallion, of the standard height, though carrying a slight beer belly. His mannerisms are rough, though if you were to ask him about that old ‘mom’ tattoo on his right fore-shoulder, he would most certainly break down in tears.
Ever-slowly does he grill hayburgers and steamed carrots on the open-faced grill, that had certainly seen better years. The eggs over easy, the whole wheat buns, face down. He hollers out to the front.
“Hey, y’all want the coffee to go?”
There was a time when he was hailed as a hero, the original Iron Pony, but those days came and went like the breeze. Never once had he thought he would be there, behind the old greasy grill, at two in the morning, on a Saturday night at the old cafe.
Over in the corner, as the lights flicker due to the old faulty wiring, a stallion in a tattered tux can be seen putting bits into an old jukebox; the neon gas within lighting it up with the many shades of the rainbow. The stallion is a bit of a free-spirit, having left with a mare hours ago, he sadly learned he hadn’t bought her heart, no he just rented her time. He came back since he couldn’t sleep. Right now, he’s surveying the room, his sights set on a bedraggled mature mare over at the bar.
She’s clasping the cup of coffee, she gets every night, her eyes dull and listless. She wore a pair of faded jeans and a second-hoof fur top. She had been with a stallion earlier, but now she sits and wonders who she can talk to.
She occasionally mouths inaudible words to the counter, casting her eyes towards the heavens in between. Still, it is quite the odd place to pray, at two in the morning on a Saturday night, at the old Canterlot cafe.
Over in a booth, an old couple sit, enjoying the ambiance. A stallion and a mare, both well into middle-age. She desperately tries to shush the foal that lays next to her on the seat, while annoyed, he gets up and heads to a rustic pinball machine. Their eyes rarely ever meet anymore.
He’s out of work and blames himself, while she seems to have gained some weight around her midriff; pregnant with yet another mouth to feed. Perhaps silence is best, since they never really talked to each other much, anyway. It’s two in the morning, on a Saturday night, at the old Canterlot cafe.
Behind the antique register sits a homely, mature mare; the owner. She stands there, daydreaming about better times; about a stallion from her past. She often wonders what it would have been like if he had stayed with her. Behind her is a single bit. The first she ever made. Once worth a bit, it now seems to be rusting in the frame, much like its owner.
Across the bar sits an unkempt stallion, with flowing red locks for a mane. His eyes indicate, perhaps, that he had partaken one too many times. Having finished his order of a hayburger with grilled onions and a fresh cup of coffee, the lad furiously searches his pockets. The total comes out to 16 bits, and he’s only got 3. Thinking quickly, he slyly smiles at the owner, who gives a coy wink in response. All present can’t help but think, ‘Celestia above, that’s a high price to pay.’, at two in the morning, on a Saturday night, at the old Canterlot cafe.
At the far end of the bar, the waitress, a Unicorn in a frock, sits. Trying to appear inconspicuous, she uses her light blue magic to slowly paint her hooves a lovely shade of cyan blue. The short-order cook yells at her to get back to work, as an order comes to the pass..
“Move it or lose it! Take this stew to the couple at table 3.”
She levitates the dish, and carefully walks it over to the table, where the husband, no longer playing pinball, eagerly accepts the piping hot dish. Setting it down, she dreams of getting away from Canterlot, how one day, a stallion would whisk her away from this life. No more scrimping and saving, no more worries. But though that may one day happen, it’s two in the morning, on a Saturday night, at this old Canterlot cafe.
~~~
Now, the stallion in the tux, on his last bit, has finally gotten up his nerve and approached the mare of the night sitting on the barstool. The two begin discussing their business when they find out they have far more in common than just pleasure-seeking natures.
While the two head off, the owner asks the unkept stallion if he ‘has a warm place to stay for the night, as a payment for his food. He laughs and responds,
“I haven’t had a place to stay in years, ma’am.”
She grins and insists he comes back with her to her domicile when the cafe closes for the night in an hour.
Meanwhile, the smell of fried onions permeates the air, as, while the owner is distracted, the short-order cook, lifts a hoof full of bits from the rusted-up register. That ceiling fan keeps ever-so-slowly turning, as the jukebox continues playing songs long forgotten by many. And as the neon is bright, it’s two in the morning on a Saturday night, at the old Canterlot cafe.