I was sitting in a club, drinking something that seemed to drink me rather than the other way around. Music played, I looked good, I was with a pretty mare, and I felt out of place. Vinyl Scratch felt out of place. It was beyond me why I had to be dressed in this itchy blue dress; though Octy looked good in that little red dress of hers, I admit. Even so, here I was, watching a philihar… her… harpoon or something. But they were playing classical jazz. And the servers served this amber stuff that burned on its way down.
I had no idea where I was.
Octy was humming along and bobbing her head and seemed to have pulled that stick out of her flank. Her hoof tapped along with the beat as she played along.
I had no idea what was going on.
I scrunched my face a bit in thought. Octy had told me to get dressed in the best thing I had—apparently socks and a corset weren’t what she meant—and then ushered me, me out to a club. A club that served this amber stuff and played classical jazz. I don’t even like jazz. It’s a drunken mix of a saxophone and ground up rocks.
Speaking of drunken mixes, my little cellist was up there grinding rocks on behalf of the others. Couldn’t really call it playing the cello because, well, I don’t know if it even counted as playing, but the others behind her seemed to share my thoughts, even if it really was them who asked her up there in the first place. Still, it was more like she was rubbing sticks to create fire than playing an instrument. And it was embarrassing. See, something most don’t quite understand is that she may be famous, but when you give her brandy on the rocks, she plays what sounds like rocks, and she knows it too. I could see that crimson blush on her face as she tried to match the tempo and rhythm and beat and failed. I watched her from my corner booth—which was, of course, too freaking fancy—and sipped on my brandy.
The whole of the elite there, and there seemed to be a lot of them, were looking at her with raised eyebrows, noses, and stuck-upity. Snobs. I snorted and downed the rest of my drink, standing from my booth and blowing the center candle out. From the corner of my eye, through the annoyingly dim light and through these fancy-shmancy ponies I could see Fancy Pants heading up the stage, his eye on Octavia. He and his coattail could bite my blue-dressed flank. I hurried through the music and cantered onto the stage. The music cut short.
There was a nasty look in Octavia’s eyes. She was glaring at Fancy Pants, then to the audience, which mumbled something about her being ‘intoxicated’. I ignored them and trotted to Fancy Pants, who was trying to escort Octavia offstage before she ‘embarrassed herself’. “Hey, bud,” I said, “lay off. She’s fine.”
Octy gave me that dirty look. I shrugged. “This just isn’t her style. She’s not drunk. Watch. Octy, put your hooves, here, and here, no, a little up and--not there! On the cello!” I whispered, blushing.
She looked set up. Fancy watched, probably in awe at my hoofwork. Octy was ready to grind some more rocks. I sighed. “See? She’s fine. She’s just got to get into the, uh, groove. Or something.”
The philiharpoon behind her grumbled. They were small and probably didn’t matter so I didn’t pay attention to them anyway. “Look, Octy, follow along. You got this. Get, y’know, snazzy or something. That’s what you said right? This place is ‘snazzy’?”
She huffed and looked like she was about to fall down, but I caught her and stood her up, pulling the microphone to me with my magic. “Be fancy and follow me,” I whispered.
Then I looked to the band. They glared at me, but they are oh so posh and would never make a scene, so they readied their bows and brass and rocks. Meantime, yours truly was about to put to work those skills she’d learned as a foal. I took the center stage, hummed the melody a bit to get the tempo, and then started.
"I don't want to set the world... on... fire~"
Later we were back in that booth, her head on my shoulder, another drink in my magic. The band was playing again and they sounded more modern and less stone age now. Octavia rolled her eyes up to me and slurred, “How was I?”
I patted her head and rubbed her back through her dress. “Terrible. Absolutely awful. You’re never getting on stage drunk again.”
“Well,” she drawled, “why’d you get up there?”
“Because,” I explained, “fancy ponies will always pay attention to a terrible singer over a terrible band.”
She hiccupped and said, “Well I thought you were good.”
I paused. “Well that’s because you’re drunk, doofus.”
“Oh yeah…”
“So look, next time, can we not go to one of your ‘snazzy’ clubs? Hay, I’d rather go to one of those wine-tasting things.”
She looked at the band, the crowd, then me. “Fine.”
“Can we go home now?”
“I hate you Vinyl. You’re… you… you’re a butt,” she hiccupped. I rolled my eyes and dragged her out of the booth.
“Stuff it, snazzy.”