Crusaders And Kings
Rearranging the stools around the bar counter (some of which had been kicked aside during one of last night’s brawls), Apple Bloom looked worriedly out the window. Babs Seed was in the stockroom, tallying up their meager inventory. It had been almost a week since Applejack had written the pair and announced a pending delivery.
While Big Macintosh had made the initial deliveries once the bar had opened, the past few had been handled by Caramel, who was compensated in both cider and bits for his assistance. This was cause for both celebration and disappointment. Sweet Apple Acres had not only returned to its previous economic stability—it was simply flourishing.
The influx of migrants and wanderers into the badlands seemed to only amplify by the week. Most of them were thirsty for the finest whiskey and cider in Equestria. Those who weren’t (usually out-of-town investors and speculators) were usually drinkers nonetheless, and the two mares were prepared for them as well.
Although Big Macintosh would be a more welcome sight, Caramel was one sign of the Apples’ growing economic prosperity. He was the first hired hoof they'd had in years. Soon, Apple Bloom reasoned, their family would be financially secure, more than able to fix that rusty ol’ plow, and maybe Granny’s rusty ol’ hip, too.
“’Ey, Bloom?” Babs called out from the stockroom.
Finally finished tidying up the main room, Apple Bloom trotted over to the liquor shelves and started re-arranging their wares. “Yea, Babs?”
“Youze see Mac o’ Caramel yet?”
“No! Ah’m thinkin’ we might have ta wait a few mo’ days.”
Emerging from the back room, Babs shook dust from her mane and sneezed. Rubbing her snout, she groaned as she said, “Dey’d betta get heeya soon! We’re down ta our back stock o’ everythin’, an’ completely outta cider an’ whiskey now.”
“Aw, well... Ah guess everypony will have ta drink somethin’ else." Apple Bloom began dusting off the bar counter. “An’ besides. We got a few hours befo’ sundown an’ we open up again. Maybe he’s jus’ runnin’ late?”
“Sure hope so.” Babs Seed pulled a cleaning rag from under the counter and began to clean an assortment of glasses. She glanced towards the window and the double saloon-doors in the front of the bar occasionally, a mixture of suspicion and irritation weighing heavily on her mind. Applejack ain’t neva late on a delivery fo’ us. Been near a week now, so it should be ta-day o’ tomorrowa…
A tap on her shoulder interrupted her thoughts. “Ah’m gonna go back ta the room fer a bit, alright, sugarcube?” Apple Bloom kissed her on the cheek and smiled.
“Heh, sure. Summat wrong?” Babs asked, nuzzling her neck.
“No. Ah’m jus’ gonna go start on a letter ta Auntie, Brae, an’ Citrus. Haven’t heard from ‘em in a while. Say,” Apple Bloom began, turning around and pausing as she trotted towards the door, “have ya seen Derpy ‘round at all? Ah haven’t seen her all day.”
Babs shook her head. “Nope. Haven’t seen her fo’ a few days, actually. Iffa I do, I tell her youze is lookin’ fo’ her.”
“Thanks, Babsy.” Her hooves light, Apple Bloom strode towards the door, her egress halted by a furious thundering of hooves on the front oak.
~
“Switch didn’t make it back from the mission last night,” Boone said, shuffling a deck of cards for a quick round of blackjack. He and his best friend and King sat in plush, luxurious chairs on opposite sides of Card Slinger’s mahogany desk. It was a more-than-suitable upgrade from the beanbags and coffee tables of their youth.
“She didn’t, huh?” Card Slinger counted out a stack of chips and passed some to his right-hoof stallion. “Dat’s too bad. One o’ the best shots we had in the streets. An’ a good spy, too. She was watchin’ bars fo’ the Masta.”
“What’s his issue wit’ bars, anyway?”
Shrugging, Slinger answered, “Hay iffa I know. Does it matta anymo’?” His rhetorical question hung in the air of his hideout’s office, interrupted intermittently by the clink! of casino chips being stacked and arranged.
Once it was thoroughly shuffled, Boone passed his true King the deck of cards. Slinger shook his head and busied himself with his chips, making even taller towers of them. “Youze be deala.”
Boone huffed, objecting, “I’m always deala!”
“An’ who’s the leada o’ dis gang?” Slinger taunted, shoving the deck back to his second-in-command. “Dat’s right. Go ‘head an’ deal. I’ll rob youze blind again, anyway.”
“Whateva.”
A few rounds of cards passed between them before either stallion spoke. The game was simple, repetitive, mind-numbing. The two Manehatten Kings enjoyed passing the time with it during their tense meetings, when the pressing matters at hoof would sit in the corner and merrily munch on popcorn while they dawdled in distraction.
Gathering the cards for another deal, Boone glanced at Slinger from the corner of his eye. “So… Have youze decided when?”
Card Slinger paused, taking in his luxurious surroundings for the umpteenth time. Bernie Madhoof’s contract had bought him the power and prestige he’d long dreamed of achieving. He’d never again have to live as one of the lesser, and he would always have enough intoxicants to drown out his nightmares and haunting regrets. Master treated this particular slave well.
On the other hoof, slavery delayed his revenge, his siege, his last stand against the stallion who’d stolen his colthood and ruined any chance of a normal life. No amount of bits could raise the dead, or heal a heart blackened long ago. Even Slinger, in his heresy, knew this.
“Soon,” Card Slinger muttered, the word sticking to his tongue. He broke down one of his towers of chips and built it back up again, over and over, becoming lost in the monotony.
Boone did not reply, focusing on his chips as well. Nearly five years ago, he’d vowed to follow Card Slinger into rule over Manehatten. In that same breath, he’d vowed to follow him into the dark. And the dark would come and embrace them on the Manehatten Hill. He was sure of it.
Slinger repeated, “Soon. I’m gettin’ real sick o’ his shit. Sendin’ a bunch o’ Knights out inta the buckin’ desert? Jus’ ta burn down two bars an’ kill three ponies? Buck. Does he have any idea what he’s doin’?! Thirteen was nowhere near enough ta take dat city siege. Hay, he’s lucky dey even got a bar, a deputy, an’ the Sheriff outta it befo’ dey hung up the rest o’ 'em.
“Iffa I was him, I woulda sent at least three times dat numba out there.”
No. The dark would not find them, Boone thought. Card Slinger was the master of it: the steel-eyed, soulless, master of the darkness. They had eluded everything tossed their way: rivals, traitors, the law, and the Master’s wrath. They could survive until the end. They could be victorious in the end.
Boone nodded and dealt the next round, revealing blackjack for Slinger. Paying him his rightful chips, he replied, grinning widely, “An’ dis is why youze deserve dat Mansion, an’ dat power, an’ not him.”
Card Slinger clasped his forehooves together and matched his counterpart’s smile. “An’ dis is why youze ma right-hoof stallion. The time will come soon, Boone, an’ youze an’ I will ride.
“We’ll ride ta King Orange, an’ destroy him. An’ it will be glorious.”
~
Raising an eyebrow, Apple Bloom unlocked the front doors to the bar and pulled them open.
There, four sets of eager eyes and, impossibly, even more enthusiastic grins awaited her. Two of them belonged to an orange pegasus and a white unicorn, who jumped on Apple Bloom, laughing all the way.
“Bloom!”
“Sweetie! Scoots!”
“It’s so great to see you!”
Setting down a beer mug on the bar, Babs galloped over, eyes wide and bright and an enormous grin on her muzzle. “Sweetie! Scoots!”
The three Crusaders on the floor laughed and rolled, while the other two guests casually trotted inside.
Featherweight—once a lanky, awkward colt, now a tall and lithe stallion—greeted the bartender as she brushed past him and jumped into the tangle of hooves and fur on the floor. Silver Spoon, calm and collected, nodded and returned a similar pleasantry, leaving her marefriend and her friends to their reunion.
Babs squeezed Scootaloo tight, laughing and shaking her head. “Dammit, it’s been too long! How youze been, youze crazy flier?!”
“Nothing short of awesome!” Scootaloo exclaimed, returning the hug and dissolving into a fit of giggles. “Told you you’d better be ready!”
Sweetie Belle assisted Apple Bloom to her hooves as she giggled. “Heh, sorry for tackling you, Apple Bloom. We were just too happy to see you! It’s been too long!”
“Ah’ll say!” Apple Bloom wrapped a forehoof around the unicorn and grinned. “If we woulda known y’all were comin’ today, we would’ve already had the bar opened an’ had a mighty celebration goin’ on!”
Featherweight swept his gaze around the immaculate bar and whistled. “Damn, Scoots, you weren’t kidding,” he said, joining the Crusaders. “This place is amazing! Babs, Bloom, how long did it take you two to build this?”
“One day fo’ the structure, ‘bout a month fo’ supplies an’ furniture.” Babs laughed and ruffled Featherweight’s mane playfully. “So, youze still togetha wit’ dis mook?” she teased, nudging Scootaloo, smirking.
Scoots rolled her eyes and smacked her friend jokingly. “Of course! As one of the top fliers in Equestria, he knows if he tries to fly away, he can’t escape me!” She rubbed her forehooves together and cackled evilly, prompting a raised eyebrow from her stallion and laughter from the others.
After a quick, silent appraisal of the establishment, Silver Spoon re-joined the group and nodded approvingly to the bar-ponies. “This is one of the nicer bars I’ve seen. A lot of the joints in Canterlot are just downright trashy. But this? Especially out here in… er…” She turned to Featherweight. “Where exactly are we again?”
Featherweight shrugged. “How should I know?”
“Because you flew me here! We got separated from Sweetie and Scoots and had to fly another route here, remember?”
“Oh, right.” Featherweight tapped Apple Bloom on the shoulder and whispered, “And we would’ve been here sooner, too, if I would’ve just flown Sweetie instead of this one—“
“Hey! I heard that!” Silver huffed, glaring at him. “Are you calling me fat?”
The stallion darted his eyes towards a nearby wall, intensely interested in a few pickaxes and shovels hanging there. “Well, uh, um, you see—“
“Featherweight! Apologize to Silver Spoon!” Scootaloo ordered, poking him in the chest.
“But… I didn’t—”
“So!” Apple Bloom clapped her forehooves together and beamed (almost painfully) towards her four friends, seeking to dispel the tension. “Anypony want a drink? We won’t be openin’ up officially fer a few hours, but Ah think we can break the rules fer y’all. Right, Babs?”
Iffa dat means dem two can sit down an’ shuddup, o’ course. “Right!” Babs agreed, turning towards the bar. Leading the group to the counter, she smiled and declared, “Youze neva had a drink ‘till youze had one made by me o’ Bloom!"
~
“Thirteen causalities, sir,” the assistant quietly announced, sitting across from his King at his desk. His King was turned away from him at the moment, staring out his bay window in his skyscraper. Today, unlike most days to date, King Orange wished to be in his office rather than his mansion.
His office suite was nestled on the thirty-third floor of the tallest building in Manehatten. The skyscraper contained the headquarters of every major corporation in the city—and some from beyond. The suite on the thirty-third floor, however, did not announce its presence with fancy letterhead flyers or grand signage. Instead, it was listed as an insurance office (for a corporation that existed only in name), guarded with enough armed security officers to keep both perimeter and interior away from prying eyes at all times.
With a few bits tossed his way, the owner of the building kept its true tenant a secret.
The assistant paused for a bit, awaiting a response from his Master. There was none, only a slow exhalation of cigar smoke from the Master's lips. Pausing for a nervous breath, the assistant continued, “The entire company we sent out there is dead an’ gone. Dey couldn’t get the salt-bar, an’ only got the Sheriff an’ one Deputy. But the saloon, from the reports we got, was damaged enough dat dey won’t be openin’ back up fo’ a while.”
Silence.
Feeling bold, the lowly stallion began to unleash a torrent of burning questions circling at the forefront of his consciousness.
“Sir, I do not wish ta question youze, but ain’t dis goin’ a bit too far? Youze got the P.D. on lockdown heeya in Manehatten—nopony gets arrested o’ exposed unless youze want ‘em ta. Youze got the press in youze grasp, so dat nopony prints anythin’ ‘bout what’s goin’ on heeya—the last one who did, three years ‘go, ain’t no mo’. Youze got the postmasta on youze payroll, too, monitorin’ letters an' telegrams goin’ in an’ outta the city so nopony’s bangin’ on Celestia’s door ‘bout all dis…
“But…” He sighed and stared at the floor, mentally deliberating his next words. The Master’s temper had been quite short lately. If he placed one hoof incorrectly in this tango and entanglement, questioning too much or too little, he feared he may be the next pony to feel the wrath of King Orange’s hoof or lead upon him.
At last, the Master spoke, a cloud of smoke following his reply. “But what, little worm?”
“But… How can youze expand an’ expect nopony ta act on it? The Knights… the Knights must be in thousands now, but most o’ ‘em are Earth ponies, an’ none o’ ‘em could stand up ta a Princess.”
Bernie Madhoof craned his neck to look at his assistant. He smiled—an eerie sight. “Oh, little worm,” he muttered, bringing the cigar to his lips. Inhale. Exhale. “Little worm, little worm, little worm,” repeated the stallion, almost affectionately.
Confused, his assistant tilted his head slightly to the side. “S-sir?”
Rising from his chair, Madhoof extinguished the cigar in an ashtray and stared into his assistant. “You think you know of all my dealings, little worm. You think you have my plans all figured out, all moves on my chessboard anticipated. You suppose yourself to be quite wise, don’t you? Assistant to the great King Orange, true and honorable ruler of Manehatten, Master of the King’s Knights, foe and friend of all complacent and clueless…”
“S-sir? N-no, I—“
Bernie Madhoof grabbed his assistant’s muzzle and brought it to his, close enough for the other stallion to smell the remnants of his cigar in his nostrils. “Perhaps I should seek your advice for my next move? For my every move? Why, little worm, shall I inquire of your infinite wisdom regarding when I should excuse myself to defecate?”
Blinking, the assistant stuttered, “S-s-sir, I-I d-don’t—“
“No, you don’t,” Madhoof snarled, dropping his facade. He squeezed around the stallion’s chin, making his gray flesh white in his touch. “You don’t know all of my dealings. You don’t know my schemes. You, too, precious, beautiful little worm, are a mere pawn to me.”
Releasing him, Madhoof shoved his assistant away and spun to his window, to his cobblestone, his lordship presiding over all below. “As were the thirteen dead in the sand. Mere pawns. Appleloosa is the first stop. Next shall be the place from which that sniveling purple idiot stole that bottle of whiskey. Mail and telegram services in the western desert have been cut off until further notice.”
Rubbing his chin, doing his best to calm his galloping heart, the assistant asked, “Mail an' telegram services, sir? How?”
“My loyal Manehatten postmaster has connections to the postmaster in Appleloosa, who also dispatches mail-pegasi to Yukon and the surrounding wastelands. A few bits and a choice visit from one of my more temperamental underlings convinced our Manehatten postmaster to utilize said connection. A few bits and some blackmail, and nopony will be sending or receiving letters in the West until my targets have been acquired.”
Chewing on his words, the assistant remained silent, in both awe and fear. His Master, clearly, was thinking ahead of his chessboard, anticipating his pieces’ next moves. One nagging thought, however, could not dislodge itself from his mind until he gave it breath. “But… but, sir. Surely, wouldn’t it be easier ta go afta the manufactura o’ dis swill? The whiskey, I mean?”
“Easier?” Madhoof turned around and laughed. “Well, of course. It would’ve also been easier to go to Appleloosa myself, bring a few hundred Knights, and demand the town's surrender. Riff-raff they may be—and armed, apparently—but they aren’t dumb enough to have said no.
“The manufacturer of this competing brew is one small family farm in Ponyville. Ponyville, of course, is famous for being the site of Celestia’s numerous failings. Return of Nightmare Moon, attack of Discord, parasprite invasions, what have you.”
Plopping down in his chair, Madhoof placed his hindhooves on his desk and crossed them, smirking. “Some of her little pets also live there. ‘Elements of Harmony,’ they are. So, that haughty little alicorn pays special attention to that town. Oh, yes, little worm, I’ve done my research. How I wish I could just simply burn that farm to the ground, slaughter all who waste their breath there! But that would be too easy, both for my purpose and my downfall.
“Hence, my secrecy. The gangs, the police, the press, the postmaster. All four seemingly unconnected entities, united by a tiny tattoo that nopony can see unless you knock hooves with them or something equally disgusting.”
Casually, he ran a forehoof through his mane, admiring his reflection in a mirror across the room. “With the Manehatten police chief on my side, nopony shall be able to piece the four entities together, or any of their individual pieces. For almost six years, I have kept this empire a secret, little worm. Those who know of it are bound by contract to silence. King’s Ransom is the penalty.”
Removing his hindhooves from the desk, Madhoof leaned forward, a smug grin spreading across his muzzle. “Do you understand now, you slimy, squalid, obese little worm? Do you wish to question me further?”
The assistant, his gray coat disharmonized, fading into a lighter and lighter shade, until he was more of a ghost than a pony, swallowed, sensing a shift in the atmosphere. His Master waited expectantly, his forehooves brought together, his smile rows and rows of piano teeth on Old Scratch’s keyboard.
Finally, from deep within his vocal cords, the assistant managed a quiet, “No, sir.”
“Good. Because you wouldn’t have the chance to.”
CLAP! CLAP!
Near his door, two guards snapped from their silent vigil, and began to stomp towards the gray stallion assistant.
“What was your brother’s name, little worm?” Madhoof asked, watching in amusement as the obese stallion began to panic, huffing and puffing and scrambling out of his stool.
Backing up on his hindhooves towards an opposite wall, the assistant choked, “D-Deuce.”
The guards stomped towards him, a Griffin and a zebra, rifles at the ready, eyes full of bloodlust. He took a step backwards, then another, then another, until he met the wall, caressed it, felt its grain.
"Deuce. Deuce may have failed me, little worm, but not as much as you."
The guards advanced, steel raised and lead ready to fly.
Pressing his back into the wall, the assistant pleaded, “No! No! Please, sir! P-please! I won’t tell nopony! I’m mo’ trustworthy than dem!” He pointed at the guards frantically. “P-p-please!”
Madhoof chuckled. “Oh, little worm, little worm. They are the most worthy of my trust. They do not question me, do not interrogate me. They only do what I pay them to do. Which,” he said, striking a match and lighting another fine cigar, “is to dispose of trash such as yourself."
Within a few seconds, the assistant joined his brother.
~
“Well, what do y’all think?”
Featherweight, Scootaloo, Sweetie Belle, and Silver Spoon sat on their respective stools at the bar, drinks in their forehooves. Both pegasi had decided to be bold—well, one did, and the meeker one followed her lead—and drank simple vodka on the rocks. Sweetie and Silver, however, opted for a fancier drink, something Apple Bloom swirled together out of cranberry juice, cactus water, sugar, gin, and rum.
All four of them murmured praise, glasses drained and hooves beginning to feel light.
Haha! Lightweights! “Youze ever drink befo’?” Babs asked, suppressing a laugh. Apple Bloom, too, noticed that tell-tale sway, her four friends downing their drinks far too fast to suggest any iota of experience.
“Hic! Of course! I’m a Wonderbolt!” Scootaloo bragged, “We have huge team parties… all the time! Spitfire, Soarin’, Rainbow Dash… Yeah!”
Featherweight raised a forehoof. “Actually, I’ve never drank before. We at the Cloudsdale Gazette usually spend our free time doing much more productive things.”
“Aww, lighten up, Feather!” teased Scootaloo, rubbing his shoulder blades between his wings.
Featherweight’s wings shot straight at attention, rocketing a blush across his muzzle and a frown and glare to complement it. “One, don’t call me that in public! And two, did you really just—“
“Awww, you two are so adorable!” Sweetie gushed, resting her head on her forehooves. She cast a sideways glance towards her mare. “Aren’t they adorable, Silvy?”
“P-please don’t call me that right now,” Silver Spoon muttered, staring into her glass. She blushed. “I-I feel tipsy.”
“Oh, you’re such a lightweight!” Grabbing her glass and levitating it with her magic, Sweetie Belle shoved it towards Babs Seed and offered a pleading grin. “Can I get another one of… whatever that was? Please?”
“Gee, I dunno. Bloom, youze think I should make her anotha one?”
Apple Bloom held up both forehooves. “Sweetie Belle, how many hooves am I holding up?”
“Um…” Tilting her head to the left, then the right, Sweetie answered, “I’m not sure. Can you stop the room for a minute? I can’t keep up with the spinning…”
Snorting, Babs swiped the glass from the intoxicated unicorn. “Alright, youze is cut off. In fact… all o’ youze is cut off.” She gathered the rest of the glasses and set them beneath the bar, ignoring Scootaloo’s protests and repeated assertions that she was “just fine”. Pffft. Lightweights. All lightweights.
… But I don’t really drink dat much, eitha. Too risky.
Taking their own seats behind the bar, the bartenders shared a knowing laugh between themselves. They’d seen enough red-faced patrons by now to be thoroughly accustomed and unsurprised by intoxicated ponies; to find that their friends were now among that lengthy list of customers who’d had “one too many” was, well, amusing, to say the least.
“So! How’s Canterlot, Silver Spoon?” Apple Bloom asked, leaning onto the counter. “Ah hear yer goin’ ta university there. Whatcha studyin’?”
“Business.” Silver Spoon leaned close to her mare and nuzzled her cheek. “I want to learn to be a successful business-pony and manager, so I can help my Sweetie become the top performer in Equestria!”
Now it was the unicorn’s turn to blush. “Awww! I’m not really that good…”
“Horseapples, you aren’t!” Scootaloo scoffed, grinning. “Babs, Bloom, you two should hear her new song… hey! That’s a piano over there, right?” she asked, gesturing to the instrument pushed up against one of the saloon’s walls.
“Dat’s right. ‘Ey, we’ll be openin’ the doors fo’ business soon. Always nice ta have somepony playin’ o’ singin’. Draws ponies in like nothin’ else,” Babs said. “Anypony heeya know how ta play piano?”
Grabbing her coltfriend, Scootaloo exclaimed, “Oh! Oh! Featherweight does! Right, Featherweight?”
“Uh… well… my mom did make me take lessons while I was in school… Apparently, I wasn’t already getting shoved around enough—“
“Great!” Scootaloo pushed the other pegasus off his stool, laughing as he caught himself. “Go play something for Sweetie to sing to!”
Sweetie Belle darted her eyes back and forth between the group and muttered, “Aww, no, that’s alright. It’s a new song, it’s really rusty—“
“Aww, c’mon, Sweetie! Fer us, fer old times?” Apple Bloom smiled and took her friend’s forehoof in hers. “That’s not much o’ a crusadin’ attitude, is it?”
After a short pause, Sweetie Belle matched her counterpart’s grin and nodded. “You’re right, it’s not. Babs, Bloom, why don’t you two open up? Featherweight and I will get the music started.”
“Wit’ pleasure!” Babs dismounted from her stool and trotted towards the door, checking a clock on the wall as she strode. Almost 1800. More than time enough to open the saloon to the thirsty throats of the West.
With a few quick movements, Babs Seed opened the doors and propped them, letting the cold night air greet her muzzle.
A familiar figure soon trotted towards her, sand clinging to his grizzled muzzle. “Turner! Jus’ in time!”
Leaping off the porch, Babs broke into a gallop to meet the stallion, running right into his awaiting forehooves.
“’Ey, kiddo! Jus’ caught youze as youze was openin’, huh?” He embraced her tightly and trotted beside her towards the bar. “Sorry I didn’t come an’ see youze two last night. First night o’ work’s always the hardest.”
Babs dismissed, “No problem, Da—Turner.” No. Not yet. Brushing it off, she asked, “How was youze second day?”
“Jus’ ‘bout as bad as the first!" Turner joked.
They returned to the bar, climbing up the steps onto the porch. Through the open door, a series of joyous notes and a serene voice drifted through their ears and into the desert night. “Wowza… Who’s dat singin’ inside?” Turner asked.
“One o’ ma friends. C’mon. I’ve got a few ponies ta introduce youze ta.”
Trotting beside him, Babs Seed guided her father into her bar, past and present soon to collide in more ways than one within its walls.