Contraband
“Youze look like youze could use some coffee.”
Turner offered a steaming mug to Soapy, who grunted in acceptance. Soapy joined him at the downstairs table in the inn’s lobby, rubbing his hangover from his eyes. Taking a quick, deep gulp, realizing that he was still slightly intoxicated, Soapy steadied himself in his chair and cast a sideways glance at his companion. “Ya could say that. Ah don’t remember much after that first glass o’ whiskey.”
“Oh, don’t youze worry. Youze were a pretty fun drunk,” Turner replied with a slight smirk. He raised his mug to his lips, chasing his own caffeine high. A long night of drinking and (with some coaxing from Babs and Bloom) dancing had left the grizzled stallion in need of a pick-me-up. He drained his cup and turned to get more. “Though youze singin’ leaves much ta be desired. Anyway, youze want any mo’?”
“Naw, Ah shouldn’t. Dyea’s gonna be wakin’ up soon, an’ then we’ll get goin’. Say, Turner—“
Turner glanced over his shoulder as he poured more coffee. “Yes, Soapy?”
“Ya know, our silver camp ain’t gonna be mo’ than a few miles from here. Ya wanna come ‘long? Ah need a few mo’ hooves fer sluicin’,” Soapy offered, passing the mug back and forth between his forehooves.
Retrieving a fresh cup, Turner trotted back to the table and chewed on the stallion’s words. His savings would only cover his stay for a few weeks. After that, he’d be forced to take whatever work he could find. Soapy and his crew could've traveled to the ends of Equestria by then. He contemplated the prospect, glancing up the stairs and towards the second level of the inn.
Soapy leaned in close to whisper, “Ah know what yer thinkin’. Don’t worry, Ah wouldn’t want ta come between a stallion an’ his family. We work sunup ‘til sundown, but after that, the day is yers. Jus’ give it a thought, alright?”
Turner conceded, “Alright, Soapy, I’ll think ‘bout it an’ let youze know.”
“Great! Now, Ah’d best be gettin’ back upstairs befo’ Dyea—“
“Before I what?” Dyea asked, standing right behind him and tapping a forehoof on the floorboards. Soapy's muzzle paled as he nearly choked on his words.
Turner snorted into his coffee.
~
Turn Key slipped inside the train seconds before it began to pull away from the Appleloosa station. Stumbling on his hooves, he kept the stolen whiskey bottle tucked close under his cloak and lurched forward. He peeked his muzzle out of his cowl as he searched within the rows of sleeper cabs. His Don had promised him that he would not be alone in this venture. Surely, there was another here, marked to him and indistinguishable to the others.
He strode past rows of unmarked cabs. The laughter of a foal in a nearby seat set his teeth on edge. Once a foal, Turn Key was now a stallion, and had left behind foalish things. He’d exchanged his colthood for a tattoo, and received all he’d ever wanted in return.
“Sir, please, find your seat!” called a disgruntled station-guard.
Turn Key merely snorted in reply and stomped his hooves down the aisle. Finally, near the very back of the train, he located his signal. An orange peel was stuck in the sliding-glass door of a sleeper cab. There.
Without hesitation, Turn Key pried the door open, sliding the peel into one of the pockets of his cloak. A beige-and-cream stallion sat on his haunches beside the window, staring out into the grey desert dawn. The flatlands swelled with a brimming sandstorm; Turn Key had been just in time.
“Youze the otha?” Turn Key asked, taking a seat beside him.
The strange stallion kept his eyes glued to the window and grunted, each word strained and slow, “Conceal your voice again. You don’t want them to know where we’re from.”
Clearing his throat, Turn Key shook his muzzle in apology. “Sorry.” Checking to ensure that the cab door was completely closed, he fished the bottle from his cloak and tapped his cab-mate on the shoulder with it. “Look what I got.” His wicked grin betrayed his practiced, stoic nature as he held out his discovery to his brother-in-arms.
The stallion, growing bored of the scenery, turned to face him. He wordlessly accepted the offering and rotated the bottle in his hooves, reading the label. “Applejack Daniel’s, huh? They have some of this at the Appleloosa saloon, too. The drink of choice here.”
“Were you able to get anything from there?”
“Nope. Saloon owner was passed out in the stockroom. Wasn’t willing to risk it. We can’t do anything more direct until the Master says so, anyway," he explained. He ran a forehoof through his mane and crossed them both across his chest. Yawning and closing his eyes, he warned, “Whatever. Gonna be a long ride, buddy, so don’t try anything funny.”
Ignoring his implications, Turn Key took the bottle away from the stallion and removed his cloak, wrapping it around the bottle. Making himself comfortable, he asked one more question. “So, you're Mafia, right?”
“Kings.”
Turn Key froze.
The stallion opened one eye and smirked. “And you’re Mafia, ain’t you, buddy?”
Stammering, feeling a wave of revulsion pass over him and settle in his stomach, Turn Key said, “I-I was t-told—“
“That only Mafia would be on this mission?” The stallion snickered. “Fool. Gullible fool. We're all Knights here.”
He rolled over to face him, getting up on his hooves. “But once we’re back in Manehatten, you’d better watch yourself. I’ve killed many of your brothers with a smile on my face, and I’ll do the same to you,” he vowed, his unshorn fetlock right in front of Turn Key’s eyes, steady, firm.
Turn Key glanced to the stallion’s flank. There, a liquor bottle declared his dubious special talent. In the back of his mind, he recalled a schoolyard bully, a crimson cape, a gang of four that he left for higher things. Once remembered, he shoved it away.
That was years ago. He was a Knight now, a Mafia member, serving Don and King. Poverty and weakness had been abandoned in the dust for glory and power.
Still, a name danced on the tip of his tongue; his cab-mate was no stranger. Try as he might in the seconds that passed, their soulless pupils exchanging daggers between each other, he could not put name to mane.
Losing the staring contest, Turn Key plopped down in the cab and snorted his derision. “Whatever.”
Boone pretended to sleep the rest of the journey back, watching the brainwashed stallion snoring beside him. King Orange was nopony's friend. This joker was a fool to believe him and to serve him.
Truthfully, Boone could've stolen from the Appleloosa saloon, but why bother? It was a worthless mission, a petty distraction from the real aim. In time enough, Bernie Madhoof would serve him, and, perhaps then, he would be the one sent on wild goose chases.
Nevertheless, Boone kept a keen eye on the slumbering stallion. That bottle, if broken, would make a fine knife.
~
“So, Soapy offered youze a minin’ job, eh?” Babs Seed twisted the cap off a bottle of Applejack Daniel’s and poured a double shot into a glass. The hands of the clock hadn't reached five, the sun still blazing in the sky, hours from sunset. However, the bartender made an exception for this customer.
Passing the drink to Turner, she inquired, slight hesitation in her voice, “Well... what did youze say?”
“Dat’s what I wanted ta talk ta youze ‘bout.” Sipping his drink, Turner said, “I’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout it all day. I really do wanna stay an’ get ta know youze an’ Bloom, but I really can’t stick around fo’ too long. Vagabonds ain’t exactly the best with bits, youze see,” he admitted, staring into his glass.
“Oh.” Babs placed the bottle on a shelf behind the bar and mustered a slight smile. “Well, dat’s alright. I understand. I’m sure I’ll see youze ‘round soon.” Iffa it’s anythin’ like what Bloom an’ I did, won’t see youze fo’ months. Aww, what’s it matta? Youze went youze whole life without—
Apple Bloom poked her muzzle out from the stockroom. “Um, Babs, could ya come back here fer a second, please?”
Sighing, Babs joked, “Iffa I’m not back in a few minutes, send the Guard afta me, alright?” Nudging him playfully in the shoulder, Babs trotted off after her mare, leaving the stallion to his thoughts.
Joining Apple Bloom in the stockroom, dim but for the light of one lamp burning in the center, Babs asked, “What is it?”
Apple Bloom stretched up on her hindhooves, running her forehooves along their liquor shelf. She struggled to reach the top and grumbled, “Ah thought we had at least one mo’… Ah swear we did…”
“What are youze talkin’ ‘bout?” The taller mare rose to her hindhooves and matched the level of the shelf. “What youze need? I think we’re all stocked up in the front.”
“Yes, Babs, but we’re all out o’ Daniel’s back here,” Apple Bloom explained. Giving up, she sat back down on her haunches and tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Ah coulda sworn we had at least one mo’ bottle o’ whiskey ta hold us over. Ah think what ya jus’ opened fer Turner was the last one.”
Horseapples! Face-hoofing, Babs returned to her hooves and groaned. “Dammit. Dis place is gettin’ mo’ popular by the night. Gonna have ta steer lots o' ponies ta summat else.” She dug through a box on the floor, hoping it contained one more solitary bottle. It was to no avail, only kicking up more dust in the stockroom.
“Aw, don’t worry. Ah’ll jus’ get a letter ta Applejack an’ ask her ta send mo’ sooner. Hey, have you seen Pinkie Pie at all, by the way? Ah’m sure she wouldn’t mind deliverin’ it.”
“I did. She took off fo' Appleloosa earlier ta-day wit’ a bunch of minin’-ponies,” Babs answered, shoving the empty box away. "She looked pretty happy, though. Wearin' dat silly outfit an' singin' 'bout sharin' again."
"Oh. Ah see." Following behind Babs Seed as they returned from the stockroom, Apple Bloom felt compelled to raise more questions, but decided against it. After all, if anypony could find their way back through the desert plains to Appleloosa, it would be Pinkie Pie. That mare had far too many tricks up her... hooves.
"I was jus' 'bout ta call the Guard!" Turner teased, raising his glass. Finishing his drink, he wiped the back of his muzzle and said, "I s'pose I don't get seconds fo' delayin'?"
"Hmm, I dunno... What do youze think, Bloom? He deserves anotha drink?"
Apple Bloom laughed. "Ah dunno. This is our last bottle, after all," she replied, winking at the stallion. She nudged Babs and added gingerly, "But didn't Ah interrupt a mo' important discussion?"
Turner cleared his throat and forced a grin. "Ah heh heh, um, yes, I think youze did... Er... See, it's jus'..."
He paused, sighing, staring at the liquor shelf for a few seconds before turning back to Babs. "I really don't wanna jus' up an' leave youze so soon, 'specially afta... everythin'. But I need the work, an' Soapy says we won't be far away."
"Soapy's an honest foreman. Ah would trust him," Apple Bloom said, tilting the scales a bit. Although it had only been two days since their reunion, Apple Bloom knew that Babs and Turner both yearned to make up their lost time with as few interruptions as possible. Her mare hadn't explicitly said it, but she understood the reason Babs hadn't referred to the stallion as "father" quite yet. The definition, accurate as it was, couldn't bridge the gap between them. Only time could.
Babs Seed drummed a forehoof on the counter, lost in thought. True. He always did pay us, even when he hated me, an' things were bad. I don't think Soapy would lie. But I jus' don't know iffa I wanna say goodbye ta... him... so soon.
"I'll come back heeya every night, an' catch up wit' youze," Turner promised, placing one of his forehooves on top of Babs's own. He swallowed the lump in his throat and continued, "An' we can tell those stories we've been meanin' ta tell. I'm sure youze have a lot, as do I. Babs, I'm real sorry dat—"
"No, it's alright," Babs dismissed, although she did not brush him away. She smiled slightly in return. "Youze need the bits, an' youze won't be far from heeya. I think it's perfect. Jus' promise me one thing, alright?"
"O' course. Anythin'."
"Youze strike silver, youze splittin' wit' me, got it?" Flicking her right ear, Babs joked, "I need dis ear ta match the left one eventually!"
"Oh, no, you don't!" Apple Bloom chuckled into a forehoof, an impish grin on her muzzle. "Ah'm not gonna watch you pass out again."
"... Bloom!" Blushing, Babs glared at her mare, who merely threw up her forehooves in surrender.
"What? You don't remember, sugarcube? Why, ya were white as a ghost!"
"Oh, so she's a fainta," Turner deduced with a laugh. "Would've fooled me."
The other two joined him in his jest, and their little jokes and jabs at each other soon filled the gap between five o' clock somewhere and five o' clock in the saloon.
Once the sun began its descent, Apple Bloom flipped the sign on the bar, inviting the rest of the West to come and share in their merriment. The West responded as it always did, mares and stallions of all varieties filing in. Between the hustle and bustle of drink and serve and banter, the remaining tale of Babs Seed's and Apple Bloom's gold mining adventures in Yukon (as well as the piercing mishap) was retold, to the slight embarrassment of one mare and a stallion's amusement.
Despite all the fights she'd been in through the years with ponies and timberwolves and coyotes, it was the piercing on the nicked ear that hurt the most. The irony never failed to elude Babs Seed; the "first piercing" right above it had been far more cruel, though it, too, had stolen her consciousness.
For better or worse, the holes in her ear were a reminder of all she'd been through—what they had been through—and Babs vowed never to forget it.
On that night in the desert plains, the first night before Turner took to the mining game in the hoof-steps of his daughter, Manehatten seemed impossibly far away. A lifetime away.
~
“Where did you get this?”
“I-I-in a b-b-bar in the w-wasteland,” Turn Key mumbled, his entire body shaking as he lie prone on his Master’s carpet. His words melded with the thick, white fabric and shattered any illusion of courage or might. In the presence of his one and true Master—the only stallion he feared in the entire city—Turn Key was a cowering slave.
The Master tossed the whiskey bottle between his forehooves, back and forth, back and forth. “Wasteland,” he repeated grimly. “Wasteland.”
Rising from his chair, he left the bottle on his mahogany desk and studied his map intensely. “Waste… land…” His words circled around the circumference of his office, lingering in the ears of the guards and jester bowing before him. With a forehoof, he circled over the Equestrian map.
Silence filled the room, interrupted occasionally by the scratch of a fetlock rubbing its strands against parchment.
Then, there was a CRASH! of glass bottle striking the opposite wall of the office, narrowly missing the muzzle of a guard as it flew.
“WASTELAND?!”
Turn Key gasped as a pair of forehooves grabbed him by the collar of his cloak and lifted him into the air. He flailed his hindhooves uselessly. The Master surpassed him in wealth, health, intellect, and strength. And he knew it.
Turn Key whimpered pitifully, all four of his hooves trembling. “P-p-please…”
“What kind of IDIOT do you think I am?!” Madhoof pulled the fool up to meet his eyes. They were wild and empty in the same instance, cold fire burning in the blackness. “Wasteland! You come into my office, bring me this contraband, and tell me it’s from a bucking wasteland?!
“Deserts don’t have water, imbecile! How, tell me, would somepony open a bar in the middle of bucking nowhere?!” He covered his Knight in his spittle, muzzle-to-muzzle with him, observing the cowardly Mafia gangster devolve into a sniveling foal in his grasp. Violently he shook the jester, wiping that smug smirk off his face. “Answer me, nitwit!”
“I-I-I d-don’t know!” Turn Key cried, a shameful tear streaking down his cheek. Now he’d done it. In an instant, his Master’s rage dissipated, replaced with a growing, devilish smile. Chills froze his spine and all its matching limbs. “I-I went o-out, w-way out, fartha than A-Appleloosa… Dey got it there, too, sir! In th-the d-desert town…”
“Then, why didn’t your little coltfriend bring me anything? Or did you steal this from him?”
Madhoof kicked off his hindhooves and slammed the pitiful stallion into the wall, grinning when he groaned in pain. “All of you pithy little Knights are mere pawns to me, but I have more faith in that idiot than you! At least he can string a sentence together!”
“P-please,” whined Turn Key, his back throbbing with white-hot pain. “P-please, put me d-down, sir.”
“What did you say?!”
“I-I a-asked—“
“ENOUGH!”
With one quick motion, Bernie Madhoof flung the Knight across the room. The stallion landed against the map with a THUD! and slid down, tearing the parchment in the process.
Enraged, Bernie Madhoof clapped his forehooves together. Zebra and stallion guard jumped upon the jester, pressing the barrels of their rifles against his temples.
With nothing left to lose, Turn Key began to sob, flailing his limbs and whimpering in agony. He had done as he was told. He had broken into a bar in the West and retrieved the contraband, the proof that its owners were selling something other than his Master’s brew. He had survived the train ride with his enemy and returned to the Mansion, bearing gifts for his King. He had done everything right.
So, why, then, was the Master standing over him, laughing, rejoicing in his pain and misery?
“You want to know a secret, little Knight?”
“Y-y-yes, s-sir.” Turn Key sniffled as he peered up into his eyes.
Bernie Madhoof leaned down to whisper in his ear. “That whiskey you brought me is the work of clumsy, inferior hooves. Hooves that will soon come to know my wrath. I know not where you got it from, Appleloosa or beyond, but my Knights shall find and destroy the bar you burglarized.”
A flicker of hope surged through his heart. He raised his head up slightly, letting the hint of a smile grace his countenance. “S-so, I d-did good, Masta?”
“The best,” answered King Orange. And then, with a grin towards his guards, he ordered, “Kill him.”
With the squeeze of two triggers, the thief in the night had nothing to fear anymore.