You ever get a pretty strong sense that it's not going to be your day, just purely based on the first sentence you hear in the morning?
Some of the cosier little inns I've stayed at, particularly in places like rural Germaneigh, they really know how to treat a guest. One lovely little establishment in Gallopingen, I recieved my requested wake-up call right at the designated time, and was delivered breakfast in bed by the charming elderly mare who ran the place. 'Guten tag, ve haf prepared our speciality breakfast for you, vould you like tea or coffee vith it?' is, on the whole, a pleasant sentence to hear first thing in the morning. Contrastingly, and as I frequently heard in youth hostels across the world, 'Oh yeah, harder, harder, harder, ahhh~' is a more disturbing sentence to hear when you wake up. Especially when said sentence originates from the bunk bed directly beneath yours.
As a result, I can only openly discuss my experiences sleeping in youth hostels with a chill running up my spine and holding a strong beverage in my hoof. Sometimes they were all I could afford, but still better than sleeping in the cold and damp. More or less. Thankfully, Ponyville has been kinder to me. Though not as kind as Germaneigh, I have found that the thick walls of the Hoof & Hearth Inn mean I haven't yet been woken up in the morning to the dulcet tones of a lovey dovey young couple playing 'Hide the Sausage' in a neighbouring room.
Still, this morning I figure I can take it easy. I worked a late shift last night, and I'm not scheduled at all for today, so I let myself have a lie-in. When I wake up, I take a few minutes to allow myself to be warm and cosy. Wrapped up in my bedsheets, snug as a bug on a rug getting hugged by a thug pug with a ugly mug. But, I do resign myself to the fact that while there's technically nocreature to stop me from lazing around in bed all day, it's better for my mental wellbeing (and for my sleep pattern) to get up and get on with things.
I fumble around with a hoof, holding my glasses up to my face and peeking through them at my clock. Quarter to ten. Well, too late to meet Amethyst for breakfast. She knows my schedule is a bit wibbly, somewhat hard to predict, so we have an understanding. She always gets breakfast from Sugarcube Corner before setting up her market stall for the day. On days where my schedule permits, I join her. But realistically, it's getting a bit late for breakfast full-stop now. By my reckoning, and also given I'm not feeling too hungry just yet, I figure it's best to hold on until noon, then see who might be around for lunch. I vaguely recall Lyra and Bon Bon saying they could be free today, so there's a possible plan.
Maybe I can run some errands in the meantime. Holly asked me to return a book to the library for her, so I can do that. Given that the library is right next door to the inn, I’m not entirely sure why she can’t spare the thirty seconds it’ll take to nip over to drop it off herself. But I said I would, so yeah. Then I can just donder around town for a bit, see what happens. There we go, awake for five minutes and I've already got at least one third of a plan. And my primary school teacher said I would never amount to anything. Well, look who's being productive now, Miss Wisebray!
First things first though, I need a shower. Returning my glasses to the bedside table, I grab a towel from my closet and make for one of the communal washrooms. No point bringing my glasses, my vision may be shite, but I can see enough to get from here to there and back again. And they'd only steam up for the brief time that I'm there. Once I'm in the washroom, I lock the door, crack the window open, and turn on the taps to the shower head. A breeze blows in through the open window, uncharacteristically warm for late spring, but it's pleasant nonetheless. I guess the weather ponies are feeling generous today. Resting my towel on the rack next to the tub, I fold my ears downwards and step into the steaming downpour of water.
Things about donkeys that ponies don't consider, number nine-hundred-and-eighty-seven: our big ears are basically huge funnels. If we don't fold them downwards when in a shower or outside during rain, then they'll fill up with water. It's uncomfortable, and it opens us up to potential infections, but it does make listening to local politics moderately more tolerable. When rain comes down, listen to the ground. That's what Nan always used to tell me.
Warm water that doesn't go in my ears, and instead is used in conjunction with the application of Hazel's Mane & Tail, invigorates me. By the time I have thoroughly cleansed myself, in the physical sense and less so in the moral sense, I feel wide awake and a bit more willing to face the day head-on. Shutting off the water, I step out of the tub, grab my towel, and go about the lengthy process of drying myself off. Though at one point my ears incline backwards, drawing my squinted attention towards the window, but I don't think I see anything out of the ordinary there. Burst of wind, maybe?
When I'm dry, I head back to my room, grab my glasses, give myself a once-over with a brush, and check the clock again. Half ten. Guess I must have had a bit more of a luxuriant shower than I originally intended. Ah well, I feel better for it. I'm freshly showered, well-rested, last night's shift was busy but I brought in lots of tips, and hopefully I'll be meeting some good friends for lunch.
My positive outlook for the day is strong, stable, and ultimately lasts for around four minutes.
See, I head downstairs, making to pop my head into Merry and Holly's office. Grab that book that Holly wanted me to return. When I get to the bottom of the stairs, I'm greeted by a peculiar sight. A mare I recognise as a local window cleaner, name of Prism Shine, turns to leave in a huff. Merry is sat at the front desk, looking apologetic. Her tender expression follows the window cleaning mare out, but then her eyes fall on me, and immediately her face twists into a scowl.
"Tara," she seethes as the front door slams shut. "Did you indecently expose yourself to the window cleaner?"
There's that first sentence of the day I was alluding to.
For the first few moments, I'm too stunned by the question to even attempt to formulate a thought. My jaw lowers, steeling itself to excrete words that my brain has failed to conjure. It hangs there for a while, generating a vague noise of no apparent meaning, until it thinks better of its current position and rises up again. As it does this, my brain starts to fire up, signalling my jaw to cease its upwards retreat, and lower itself again. However, somewhere in deep dark synapses, the thoughts that my brain is trying to conjure seem to think better of making themselves known. They retreat into the void, never to be seen again. Once again, my mouth is only capable of making unintelligible noises as it hangs open.
Simultaneously, my ears are also acting of their own accord, twitching occasionally atop my head as the left one slowly begins to fall limply forwards. As it enters my vision, the movement gives my brain the genuine kickstart it needs to pull itself out of the stalling situation that Merry had thrust me into. Finally, words reach the mouth. Imperfect words, but the best words I can manage given the current circumstances.
"You... uh... you wanna run that by me again, Merry?"
Her scowl deepens. "You heard me, Tara. Prism said she saw you... ugh, handling your private parts."
Now, not only having had some time to process Merry's words, but also with the additional context, my brain shifts up into next gear.
"Handling my... oh, you don't mean she was cleaning the windows while I was using the shower?" I moan, my ears now tilted all the way backwards as the weight of the situation dawns on me. That noise at the window when I was drying myself off...
"I didn't know you were in the shower," Merry huffs. "All she told me is that you were being real inappropriate."
"Merry, I wasn't handling my privates, I was drying them with a towel! What the bloody hell else am I going to do, grab a newspaper and squat over a radiator for twenty minutes while I bring them up to temperature? I've already managed to suffer burns in that general vicinity once recently, I don't much fancy going for a birdie. Anyway, that's a bathroom window, what does she expect she'll see? Her fault for peeking."
"Oh, heck it all!" Merry bursts out, burying her face in her hooves. "Look, Tara, we've had a lousy breakfast run this morning. And now you've caused a lot of grief here that I really don't have time to deal with, but I'll still have to go smooth things over with Prism once the dust settles. Just... just... ugh!" Her horn ignites, and she levitates a book in my direction... at very high speed. "Look, go take Holly's book back to the library, and get out of here until I've had a chance to cool off."
Yeesh, who pissed in her cider this morning? But, no matter how gifted in the art of tactlessness I'm capable of being, I'm wise enough in this instance to take the olive branch she's offering to me. 'Fuck off until I'm not angry at you' is an entire mood, one I can relate to. Doing my utmost not to wheeze at the force of Holly's book impacting my sternum, I flash Merry a cheesy grin. By all rights I shouldn't, there's a time and place, but my face contorts before I realise this. Then I make haste for the door.
Something's definitely off. Like, Merry has always been Mrs Chilled, for as long as I've known her. Holly is the one to lose her rag, and Merry is the one to talk her down. And you'd think that a window cleaner must be used to seeing all kinds of sordid stuff on her rounds. I was drying my bits off with a towel, it's not like I was going to town on myself over a bottle of wine and a lingerie magazine.
I pull the front door open, pondering if there's something bigger at play today. What I'm not prepared for, though, is just how immediately I get an answer to said pondering.
It's not the yellow pegasus haphazardly riding through town on a unicycle that astonishes me. It's not the fact that she's accompanied by a crowd of grumpy looking ponies, yowling obscenities and jostling each other that astonishes me either. It's especially not that the yellow pegasus is attempting (and failing) to juggle several particularly large fish that leaves me in any form of astonishment. Maybe I failed a perception check, because I barely notice any of it. No, it's what's happening in the sky that really catches my attention.
"Merry," I call back into the front room of the inn. "Is there a good reason the clouds are in a chequerboard pattern this morning?"
I've been around. I'm well travelled. I've seen some pretty cool stuff. There are many things that I still can't quite confirm in my head that I have actually seen, even if I know I have in fact seem them. What I completely cannot understand, though, is a phenomenon that seems unique to Equestria. It might be present elsewhere, but I never encountered it until I reached Equestria. Nocreature ever actually acknowledges it, and yet it's such an ingrained part of society.
It's a phenomenon without a formal name, so I've taken to calling it 'The Magic of Music' if I'm feeling kind. And 'Tunes of a Deranged Populace' if I'm not.
In short, it is the infrequent occurrence of the outburst of song. Sometimes by one pony, sometimes by more than one pony. Songs that, as far as I can tell, they're making up on the spot. And yet they all know the lyrics, the rhythmic structure, everything. If the universe decrees that the moment calls for it, it conjures up a musical interlude and uploads the song directly into the brain of the pony (or ponies) involved.
My first actual encounter with this phenomenon, full-stop, was not that long before my first arrival in Ponyville. I was in Salt Lick City, stopping to quench my thirst in a dive bar. On the early days of my travels I would have avoided places like that, but over time I learned (often the hard way) how to defend myself. In this particular establishment, two stallions very loudly took a disliking to each other over each of their favoured Equestrian Hoofball teams.
I'm sure you can imagine the type of stallion, the kind with a Hay Burger in place of a brain. Now put two of them in a scenario where they disagree with each other. Yep, we've all seen the type.
Regardless, they got themselves worked up, egging each other on, drinking more and more of the cheap piss that the locals laughingly had the nerve to call 'beer'. In the back on my mind, I was watching the whole thing expecting the two of them to either start shanking each other, or start shagging each other. Nope, neither was correct. They starting singing to each other.
At this point, I must make a confession: I love country music.
So when they both simultaneously broke out into a ditty that, as far as I could gather going by the chorus, was titled 'Honky Tonk Tussle' ? I was amused, bemused, and engrossed in equal measures. Like, it was a genuine bop, my tail started swishing in rhythm with the banjo music and everything. Where the banjo music was coming from, I have no idea, not a single pony in sight actually had one.
Looking back, I do wonder if they put hallucinogens in my cider.
Out of absolutely nowhere, these two stallions were singing along to a song. Pulling new lyrics out of thin air. Singing in unison to a chorus that they can't possibly have both already known, and yet they did. And on the final run of the chorus, the entire bar actually joined in. I noped out of that bar when the music died down, and the two stallions shared a hearty laugh and patted each other's backs. The catchy music wasn't enough to counteract how creeped out I was by the whole ordeal.
I can't say for certain whether or not witnessing a stabbing would have been less traumatic.
My second exposure to this phenomenon, happened in the afternoon of the day I'd accidentally played with my no-no parts in plain view of the window cleaner.
As it turns out, there was a good reason the clouds were in a chequerboard pattern that morning, just not a satisfactory one. The librarian, the one who I had been unwilling to believe was the personal student of an immortal goddess? As it turns out, she was the personal student of an immortal goddess. Go figure. And the night before, while I was serving rowdy patrons in the bar of the inn, she'd been fucking around with dark magic.
Well, I say dark magic, but rumours about town are that she'd been working on unfinished spells from Star Swirl the Bearded. I only vaguely recall that name from history class, but I do remember enough to know that if there's one thing you don't fuck around with, it's old magic. And apparently, she'd been fucking around with that magic in proximity of some magic crystals that were connected to the spirits of some of her friends, rewriting their intended destinies and swapping their tramp stamps in the process.
Which sounds an awful lot like dark magic to me.
The bewildering cloud pattern that morning was the result of a switch up between a high-ranking member of the weather team and a local fashionista. Said fashionista was then single-hoofedly altering the weather across town, with the number of casualties she caused as a result simply a minor problem not worth concerning about. But there must have been a lingering eye for patterning and details, resulting in her causing the chequerboard cloud pattern for a fifteen-mile radius around Ponyville, with the rest of the weather team nowhere to be seen for reasons known only to themselves.
You following me? Because I had to have it explained to me several times, imbibing more and more whiskey on each attempt, just to make the story sound remotely feasible.
Anyway, that morning I tried to return Holly's library book. But the library was closed, the librarian out and about trying to fix up her fucky wucky. Almost all the ponies in town were in a foul mood, as a result of the weather that was alternatively flash-freezing and chargrilling them. I managed to avoid most of it by pretending to have a lounge that needed redecorating, and spent several hours 'thoroughly inspecting' everything that was part of the Spring Sale at Quills & Sofas.
I eventually managed to slip away without having to commit to buying anything, grateful for the distraction of an impromptu parade storming past the shop front singing 'a true true friend helps a friend in need'. Definitely the tune of a deranged populace.
That was a few months ago now, and it's coming up to half a year I've spent living here in Ponyville. Yeah, the townsfolk are absolute nutters, but they've all got good hearts. Despite the peculiarities of this town and its inhabitants, there is a certain charm to it that wraps around me like a comforting embrace. I'm kinda struggling to pull myself loose from it, to be honest.
Today, the summer sun bears down on Ponyville with unyielding warmth, causing sweat to form beneath the straps of my harness. The air is filled with the sweet scent of blooming flowers and the distant hum of cicadas. As I approach the town border with the land that makes up Sweet Apple Acres, the familiar scent of ripe apples joins the sweet scents wafting through the air. The occasional fly buzzes towards me, but my ears are expert fly swatters. They bring the buzzing bastards down without any conscious input on my part. When the time finally comes for me to shuffle off my mortal coil, I'll have a lot of explaining to do to the ferrymare.
The wagon I'm pulling rattles along, unburdened by any cargo. It's a collection day today, more cider for the inn. I'll probably have a pint of it myself when I finish the job, I normally do. Especially on a warm day like today. The thought of this does spur me on, encouraging me forward towards the farm. Though an overheard conversation does linger in my mind, a customer at the inn mentioning to Merry that they were worried for upcoming supply levels in regards to Apple family products. Apparently they'd been having pest problems.
Hopefully the problems aren't too bad, the Apple family are a good sort and I'd hate to see them stuggle. Plus, this jenny loves their varieties of cider, and I'd very much hate to deal with withdrawal.
As I stroll along the dusty path, I pass by familiar sights. A weathered scarecrow standing guard at the edge of the fields, rows of meticulously tended apple trees, and the red barn in the distance. The vibrant blue sky stretches endlessly overhead, interrupted only by the occasional fluffy white cloud lazily drifting by. I feel a sense of peace and contentment I've grown used to in this town as I continue my leisurely walk, the warmth of the sun kissing at my pelt.
Then I pause as my ears give a twitch that is in no way related to flies. Is that... singing?
I bring the wagon to a halt, in a spot that, curiously enough, is the same spot I set up the drinks stall with Derpy during Winter Wrap Up. Without the sound of the wheels crunching over the gravel trail, I can hear it very clearly. Glum, moody singing, coming from behind a row of trees nearby. My interest piqued, I pull the sweaty straps off of me, and head over to investigate.
Nosy? Yeah, fair enough. But the ponies of this town have grown up with this music magic dealio, it's still new and novel to me.
I hop over a fence, passing through a grove of trees that look a little on the sickly side. I guess there may be some truth to the rumours about pests then, as I also have to make tender steps to avoid the rotting carcasses of what I assume were once apples. Now they litter the ground at the tree roots, kicking up an unpleasant smell as I walk past. The singing grows louder and louder as I get nearer to a large clearing, but a shrub blocks my vision when I reach the edge. I fold my ears downwards out of sight, and crane onto hooftips to peek over it.
Six mares are there, one of them stood cowering as the rest of them march around them in circles. I recognise Pinkie Pie straight away, looking jolly as ever, but hardened scowls cover each of the others' faces. Applejack is there too, identifiable by the hat she never takes off. In the centre, piggy in the middle, is the zoologist Fluttershy. And interestingly, a princess joins the intimidation circle.
Oh? Yeah, the librarian who ballsed up Star Swirl's spell got made into an alicorn princess as a reward for cleaning up her own mess. Yes, seriously. No, I don't get it either.
Princess Twilight Sparkle is chanting along with them. By all accounts, a pony who should know better than to gang up on a cowering mare, owing to the fact that she's supposed to be the 'Princess of Friendship'. Then there's the town fashionista whose name escapes me, and a rainbow-maned member of the weather team.
'Stop the bats! Stop the bats! Make them go, and not come back!' they chant.
I back away from the shrub. "Nope, bollocks to that, I know a cultist chant when I see one," I declare to myself, turning on the spot and heading back to my wagon.
After what I just witnessed, I need that glug of cider more than ever. Conclusive evidence has been achieved, it's most definitely the tunes of a irreparably deranged populace.
I wake up, after noon, to a splitting headache.
Let's establish things straight away, no it's not a hangover. I do actually have some semblance of self control, I only drink socially. Or to counter moments of crippling loneliness. No, included in the optional extras I was encoded with at the time of my birth, as well as deteriorating eyesight and an abhorrent aversion to grass pollen, I seem to be one of the lucky group of creatures susceptible to summer migraines. Heat, when mixed with certain changes to ambient pressure? Gives me the spicy headaches.
Well, anycreature who suffers migraines can tell you that 'headache' is an accurate descriptor, much in the same way that 'a bit of a bump' is an accurate descriptor of falling from the roof of a four-storey building into the path of an oncoming train. But for the sake of simplifying it down for the folk who think they understand, we'll just continue to refer to it by the 'splitting headache' euphemism.
As I said. I wake up, after noon, to a splitting headache. Tail tucked firmly between my legs, I venture down to the small office behind the inn's front desk. Holly locates the medical supplies, and finds me the kind of medicine you'd offer a stampeding elephant that needs to mellow out. It helps.
That is, until, the disturbingly loud music starts outside.
As my ears make a daring effort to retreat all the way into my skull, Holly tries to comfort me with back rubs, and explains that this is actually the third musical interlude to take place in the town today. I guess that I was just so deep in slumber, that the previous two had failed to rouse me. It's the birthday of one of the weather ponies, the rainbow one, and so Pinkie Pie had been in the stages of planning a party. Until another party planner had showed up, and initiated what I can only assume to be a turf war.
Musical interlude number one, a whole gaggle of townsfolk, singing proudly on parade about how Pinkie Pie is Ponyville's most powerfully proficient party planning pony.
*ahem*
Musical interlude number two, was the interloper arriving out of the blue, and flamboyantly explaining how he is actually the superior party planner.
Even in my state of droopy eared foggy brain, I'm able to make a wild stab in the dark. This third musical interlude to spill out onto the streets? It will be the two of them locked in mortal combat, to determine which of them is the party planner for all ages. As if that is a measurable metric.
I'm not drunk enough for this shit.
Though my biggest mistake occurs when I saunter over towards the door of the inn, morbid curiosity winning out as I tell myself: even if I feel like I've been beaten up by an Ursa Major with its eyes on my pocket money, any turf war involving Pinkie Pie is something I have to see. So I open the door, sticking my head outside and following the noises to their origin down the street.
Next to a cheese wedge shaped parade float with two live cows on it, a thirty foot high red and blue tank is trundling down the street. Its cannon, roughly four or five times longer than the tank is tall, is pointing along the street with the rainbow pegasus dangling from its muzzle. Slightly closer to me though, a crane is trundling between the rows of houses. Hanging from it is an eight-tiered, rainbow coloured piñata that is about the same size as all the buildings surrounding it.
I have about two seconds to process this rather substantial quantity of visual inputs, the whole time wondering what was in the pills that Holly just gave me, as the words sung by Pinkie's interloper roll down the street.
"...of the cheese supreme cannonball surprise!"
At which point, the cannon on the tank fires.
My entire vision turns white. The sound of the cannon firing echoes and pings back and forth through my skull with an endless barrage of ricochets. As the decibels surge, my temples pulse with a rhythm that mimics the beat of war drums. Each soundwave feels like a dagger penetrating the very core of my being. It isn't just noise. It is a monstrous force. With each reverberation, my stomach churns in protest, and my hooves shoot to my head as if trying to shield it from an invisible assailant.
As I collapse on the floor, I become dimly aware of Pinkie singing in reply to the cannon fire, as she dances around atop the giant piñata.
"¡Dale, dale, dale, no pierdas el tino, porque si lo pierdes, pierdes el camino!"
Then the entire piñata falls, landing atop the rainbow pegasus (who had apparently survived the cannon blast to the face), with Pinkie leaping clear and landing with a roll a short distance away. For a brief moment, my addled mind does spare a brain cell or two to be concerned for both ponies. However, Pinkie is brushing herself and looking fine. And given the piñata is made of cardboard and paper, it doesn't seem to have hurt the rainbow one any more than the cannon did. I just about make out her expression. In a word: inconvenienced.
Oh, you poor little lamb.
What happened after that though? I'm not too sure, to be honest. First thing I did was stagger towards the nearest toilet stall in the Hoof & Hearth, the communal downstairs ones, and made a long distance call on the porcelain telephone. Then, according the Merry and Holly, the drugs really started to kick in. They had to help me back to my room, where I slept for another twenty hours.
It was a very spicy headache.
Saturday afternoons are the best.
In an attempt to give me something resembling a routine, Merry and Holly agreed fairly early on during my tenure working at the inn, that Saturdays are to be my one guaranteed day off a week. The rest of the week, I'm on a flexible and changing schedule to best fit when they anticipate I'm needed most. Sometimes I'll be working super duper late Friday night and will have a lie-in on Saturday morning. Or, I'll be starting first thing Sunday morning, and will need to get to bed at a sensible time. But Saturday afternoons, consistently, are mine to enjoy.
This particular Saturday afternoon, I find myself at a booth with Amethyst, Lyra, and Bon Bon. Holly is working the bar, and brings drinks aplenty on trays balanced on her spread wings. I'm next on shift for Sunday afternoon, so I have some lovely wiggle room to get a little bit sloshed. Just not too sloshed.
All our schedules seem to align for Saturday afternoons as well. The market only operates on a half-day on Saturdays, as do many of the shops in Ponyville. So, Amethyst is freed up from her stall. Lyra isn't tied down at the music shop. And since, by definition, Bon Bon's homemade sweets business means she works from home, she has the most flexibility of any of us.
The only absent faces from our standard group are Vinyl and Octavia. Apparently they're off on some trip to Trottingham to visit Octavia's parents. Shame, it would have been nice having them here. Plus they both seemed a bit apprehensive about going in the first place. Problematic relatives, I guess. I can relate.
Still, we have a pleasant time. Conversation flows easily between us, and we share some good laughs. Periodically, both Merry and Holly drop in to add their own bits of chatter, but since they're both working today they can't linger too long. I go through several ciders, enough to get me at the 'pleasant tingly lightheadedness' level of drunkenness. Where everything is chill, silly, and feel-good. If I can just maintain this exact level of buzz, it'll be a great evening. And I shouldn't wake up with too bad of a hangover, as long as I down a couple of cups of water before bed.
Huh... is it the drink playing tricks, or has Amethyst scooted closer to me since we got here?
Before I can really unpack this thought and give it a more meticulous examination, a bustle outside the window draws my attention. Our attention, as my three companions all turn their heads to glance outside as well. A crowd of townsfolk is filing past the window, all marching in the same direction. Excited chattering and laughter can be heard, which draws the attention of the several other ponies littered around the bar area of the inn.
I pull myself up in my seat, stretching to get a good look. In doing so, one of my hooves comes to rest atop one of Amethyst's on the table. She glances to me, then immediately recoils her hoof, turning back away from me and blushing as her eyes dart back to the window. Interesting behaviour, but my curiosity is drawn outside right now.
"Where are they all going?" Lyra asks.
Bon Bon cranes her neck slightly. "Looks like the Northern road out of town."
"Hospital escapees?" Lyra adds.
"You what?" Amethyst scoffs. "What makes you say that?"
I just nod to the window. "She's right, look at them! Most of them are trussed up like wounded soldiers. Like I was during Winter Wrap Up. Either Ponyville General just lost half its population, or foreign fashions are starting to make a splash here."
And that's not just me being facetious. It's actually a fashion trend. I saw it when I was in Neighpon, small gatherings of ponies and dragons with eyepatches, bandages, splints, you name it. After an awkward discussion with a local in a bar, over a bottle of sake and a Neighponese translation dictionary, I learned that the subset is named Guro fashion. It's a bit wild, sure, but they're out there living their best lives I guess.
For a few moments, the four of us sit in silence. Processing the sight of the walking wounded converging in the same direction. Then we exchange a few glances. Knowing glances. We're all thinking the same thing.
"Follow them?" Lyra and Bon Bon ask in sync.
"Follow them," Amethyst and I agree.
Depositing a pile of small golden coins on the table, we make to leave. I'm initially a little woozy and unsteady on my hooves, owing to my volume of imbibed ciders, but Amethyst is quickly by my side to steady me. She's a good egg. We pass by curious faces of bargoers, bidding Merry a quick wave goodbye as we pass the front desk and head out into the street.
Almost instantly, we're swept up in the crowd. And being at least a head shorter than any of the ponies in said crowd, I'm immediately lost to where we're going. My ears dance around above me, picking up on snippets of excited conversation, but with all the noise around us there's nothing discernible I can filter out. But there is something else, above the conversations. In the distance ahead of us, presumably the sound that drew the first dregs of a crowd in the first place. Is that... calliope music?
With the sheer mass of bodies, I struggle and strain to keep Lyra and Bon Bon in sight, but Amethyst never once leaves my side. With the slightly elevated level of intoxication I'm dealing with, I do actually have one or two moments of feeling a smidge overwhelmed. Occasional glances back to Amethyst, just to confirm I have a companion in the immediate vicinity, helps maintain my calmness though. But she keeps looking away any time I look at her. Peculiar.
Eventually, as we get further out of town and the roads become wider, the density of the crowd lets up a little bit. At least, in a sense that allows me to grab all three of my compatriots and pull them to the outer edges, letting us traverse with a bit more breathing space. If we were to use density in reference to IQ level, that topic requires more speculation. We do, in fact, get an answer to where the crowd is leading, as we crest a ridge in the road right on the furthest edge of town, and a big top tent reveals itself in a field in front of us.
And I do mean furthest reaches of town. I've not been out this far very much, haven't had much need to, but I recognise the wire mesh fencing that denotes the outer boundary fencing of Sweet Apple Acres. Given the significant span of land that the farm covers, we've managed to head quite far out of town. The big top is set up in a field right next to the Apple family's land.
"I didn't know the circus was coming to town," Bon Bon gasps.
"It isn't," declares Amethyst. "At least, there aren't any circuses approved to be running in town right now."
She would know, to be fair. On top of her day job at the market stall, Amethyst seems to be very involved in the general running of the town. At least, as involved as a creature can be without it becoming her career. It's fair to say she's in the inner circle of a great many ponies of power, including the Mayor. Plus, she seems to know much more than the average citizen about upcoming town events. Sometimes it can be fascinating to hear her insights on current affairs.
Going with the flow, we join the crowd heading down the hill and through the parted curtains of the big top. Inside, a wide space for an audience faces a large stage, with some funky looking machine on a wheeled wagon sat atop it. We don't have to wait long for an explanation, as only a few minutes later, the firefly lanterns dim. A green aura of magic turns the handle on the big machine. Floodlights illuminate two silhouettes.
"Thank you, one and all, for your attendance, and we guarantee that your time here will not be spent in vain!" one announces.
"In fact, we think it will prove to be the most valuable time you've ever spent!" the other adds, as the curtain rises revealing two showponies in straw hats and bow ties.
"Nope," I declare, turning to walk away, dragging Amethyst, Lyra and Bon Bon with me.
"Huh?" Amethyst baulks.
"What?" Bon Bon asks.
"C'mooon," Lyra begs.
"Nope," I repeat as I haul them out into daylight, putting as much distance between us and the tent as I can. "Look, I've seen crooks like that a dozen times. If they have to set up a seedy pavilion on the outskirts of town to peddle their product, it's a scam."
What follows is a minute or two of Bon Bon telling me to give them the benefit of the doubt, Lyra asking me just to go and see what they're selling, while Amethyst umms and errs on account of swearing that she recognised the two of them from somewhere. The whole time, we're treated to a musical backdrop of their dodgy sales pitch. I think I hear them mention a tonic.
"Guys," I say, cutting them all off when they start talking over each other. "If you want to go in there and fall for their silver tongues, fine. But I don't need any snake oil from Tosspot and Wankstain. On your own wallets be it."
At this moment, almost as if to highlight what I was try to get across, the singing gets louder as a different voice joins in, getting closer and closer as it exits through the curtains of the tent.
"I won't need these crutches to dance out the doooooooooor~" the stallion sings.
Then, right before our eyes, he breathes a sigh of relief. Coughs into a hoof. Turns on the spot, and heads off around the back of the big top, apparently failing to notice us.
"Whu... what just happened?" Lyra asks.
"Audience plant," I explain. "He must be in on the act. Gets called up to the stage, they work their magic on him, he's cured! Ba-da-bing, they sell their product to the gathering of suckers."
The three ponies just gape in disbelief.
"I dunno," Amethyst sighs as we stroll through the park. "All life is for me right now is work. Work, work, work. I swear, I'm like the poster filly for adulting."
I scoff. "Seriously, adulting should come with a manual or something. One that's actually legible, preferably. Not like the manuals you get with flat-pack furniture."
"Ugh, don't even remind me. I ended up with a bookshelf that looks like it's doing yoga. But hey, it's standing, so close enough. You up to much this weekend?"
"Actually, for once, I have both days off. Either I could bum about town, or do something productive. And as much as I regret it when I don't occupy myself, a good old hecking laze does sound pretty therapeutic."
"Orrrr..." Amethyst drawls. "Maybe we hit up the spa at last?"
I let out a groan, stopping in place. "Ammy, you know I don't go in for all that girly shit."
Amethyst answers my groan with an indignant scoff as she turns to face me. "Tara, it's not just for girls, plenty of stallions go there too."
"Oh good, I can whip my dong out without fear of judgement."
"Huh," she mutters, narrowing her eyes at me. "You know, sarcasm is the lowest form of humour."
My ears fold back. "Lowest form of humour? Amethyst, my entire species is burdened with the nickname of 'ass', there's no form of humour below me."
ZAP!
I blink, suddenly aware of a heavy weight pulling me down, like my entire body has rapidly packed on a double dose of winter pudge. My ears lean in a direction somewhere behind me. I whirl on the spot, spotting a cackling white unicorn mare, skipping merrily away pursued by... is that the baby dragon that lives in the library? Oh right, he's got the hots for the fashionista pony who runs Carousel Boutique.
Wait... oh no... fashionista? No...
With a gulp, I glance downwards.
"Amethyst," I gasp, gawking at the frilly pink gown that now adorns my form, complete with ribbons and lace. "What the heck just happened?"
Amethyst, similarly dressed, bursts into laughter, doubling over with glee. "Oh, Tara, looks like we've been magically dolled up! And might I say, you make quite the adorable filly!"
"Jenny!" I howl. "And why the fuck am I wearing a dress?!"
Amethyst wipes a tear from her eye, straightening her own gown. "Come on, Tara, lighten up! Rarity's dresses are renowned across Equestria, her waiting list is way over a year long. And we just got gowns for free! Isn't that, like, an honour or something?"
I huff, tugging at the lacy frills of the dress. "An honour? More like a curse! I'm not exactly the poster donkey for fashion statements, and now I'm parading around in this... this... monstrosity!"
Grabbing, pulling, wriggling, I do absolutely everything in my power to get the garish pink affront to nature off of me, but I can't get any purchase on it. The whole time, Amethyst just sits there, admiring her own gown in a manner that is self indulgent, but with notable traces of schadenfreude that manage to slip through. Her eyes keep darting to me, and she bites her lip in a blatant attempt to hold back further laughter.
I tug. I wrestle. I grasp. The dress stays on. In one last effort, I say goodbye to what tattered shreds of dignity I may have had bustling around in my pockets with loose change and lint. With a mighty heave, I hike the back of the dress upwards, trying to lift it up as I reverse out of it. Instead, as I lean down to give one more attempt to wiggle out, my calculated risk demonstrates for me my lack of mathematical skill.
Having misjudged the sheer weight of the gown, I'm startled as I feel my back legs lift off the ground. My face slams down as my front legs buckle. In one snowball of pink satin, frilly lace, and a very unamused donkey, I roll forwards, flipping over into a heap on the ground. Pain erupts down my spine as I land hard on my back, with pins and needles shooting from my neck to my tail. Air is yanked from my lungs as I am lost in a tangled, dark, silky world. Reaching up with my shaking front hooves, I pull the dress back down again. Amethyst stands above me, looking down with a toothy grin.
"What?!" I demand, puffing and wheezing.
Her eyebrows rise by a fraction of an inch. "This is the best day of my life."
Everything hurts.
I lie in bed, surrounded by the comforting embrace of darkness, seeking solace from the world outside. The room, dim in daylight thanks to blackout curtains, provides a sanctuary from the day's demands. Merry and Holly took one look at me this morning, excused me from my shift, and sent me straight back to bed. But no matter how comfortable, even my bed can't protect me from this. A sudden tickle seizes my nostrils, and before I can brace myself, a violent sneeze erupts, shattering the silence like thunder in the night.
"BWWWAAAHHHCCHHOOOOOO!"
Each convulsion reverberates through my frail frame, sending shockwaves of discomfort through every sinew. It feels as if my entire being is caught in a storm. The darkness offers no refuge as my body convulses, leaving me gasping for air. My eyes, once the conduits to the dimly lit world around me, now betray me with an unbearable itch, urging me to claw at them in desperate relief. Every blink feels like rubbing salt into an open wound, exacerbating the agony that intensifies with each passing moment. The only option is to keep them tightly shut, with their puffed swelling adding insult to injury.
My ears twitch as they detect hoofsteps coming up the stairs nearby. Moments later, a knock on the door echoes through my dark sanctuary. There's a slight creak, presumably as the unseen arrival steps in, but I dare not open my eyes to see who. It stings too much.
"Hey Tara," whispers Holly's voice, gentle and sympathetic. "Merry went out and got you these antihistamines, strongest ones the drug store would sell her. You take them and rest up, alright?"
Two gentle sounds, a clacking rustle and a high pitched clink, indicate that she's put the pills down on my bedside table, and brought a glass of water too. Merry, I owe you so much. I attempt to conjure a voice, a mere whisper of gratitude, but my throat feels too constricted. I manage only a faint whimper of thanks. Or at least, what I hope Merry understands to be the closest I can manage to thanks right now.
When the door clicks again, signalling her exit, I reach out blindly towards where she put down the water and the pills. But I feel it again. Oh no... please... my neck hurts so much from the repetitive motion...
"Bwuhh.... uhhh.... uhh... BWWAAAHCHOOO!"