Not another Pony on Earth
A Visionary Flood of Alcohol
Admiral Biscuit
Berry Punch leaned into her wardrobe. She was sure that somewhere behind her formal dress was a bottle of brandy.
She'd taken to hiding the bottles after her supply began disappearing in what she could only assume were suspicious circumstances. Why, just the day before, the half-full bottle on her bedside table had become empty for no reason she could discern, and now the
bottle in her kitchen—which was safely kept behind jars of spices she'd never use—had become mysteriously empty. I don't even remember going in the kitchen yesterday.
Berry pushed aside her one formal dress and began rummaging around in the pile of blankets and towels on the wardrobe floor, which were piled nearly to her chest. She wasn't sure why she had so many towels and blankets.
She craned her neck and stretched out, trying to get to a familiar-looking threadbare wool blanket at the very back. It was wadded up in such a way that her missing bottle might just be in there, and if she could only reach out a little further, she could claim her prize.
Her hindhooves scrabbled against the floor before she hooked the edge of the wardrobe and pushed herself forward, grabbing a mouthful of blanket just as the entire pile shifted and pitched her tail-over-muzzle toward the back wall.
She crashed into wood, and a moment later it shifted under her weight, toppling her and a rainbow of blankets across a lush beige carpet.
Berry spat out the blanket and rolled upright, reaching and pulling to get at the treasure within. When the neck came in sight, she grabbed it in her teeth and pulled it out of its confines, her ears falling as she saw it was empty.
She whimpered and set it back down on the blanket pile. Somepony had found this bottle, too. Now what was she going to drink? Market wouldn't open for hours, and she wasn't sure she could wait until then. She could hardly go door-to-door though, asking her neighbors to loan her a bottle.
For the first time, Berry noticed that the room she was in wasn't a part of her house—unless the pony who had been taking her alcohol had also redecorated. It was too fancy. The couch was huge, big enough to sleep three or four ponies. Frames on the wall held lithographs of hot-air balloons, of all things, and to her left a cherrywood cabinet which was taller than her gleamed in the sunlight which streamed through a huge window. Behind her, a open door revealed a closet that had a few nice-looking coats hung on a clothesrod which was so high she probably couldn't reach it even on tiphooves.
The cabinet drew her eye. Glassware was neatly arranged on the top, and where there was glassware there might be something to drink. She licked her lips and struggled off the blanket pile, making her way over to it. She reverently ran a hoof across the smooth surface and contemplated the way in.
On all fours, she couldn't reach the small knob on the door. She could just get it on her hind legs, but with her forelegs braced against the door, she couldn't pull it open. But she wasn't going to give up that easily, oh no. She could practically hear the bottles that must be inside calling out to her, begging her to taste their sweet ambrosia.
She crouched back down at the bottom of the door. There was a slight ledge, and it was just barely tall enough for her to scoot a hoof underneath. The thought crossed her mind that if she wasn't careful she might get stuck, and for one heart-stopping moment she thought she had, but then the door swung open and she slid her hoof out from under it, leaving a small patch of hair behind.
And then she just stared, mouth agape.
The contents were beyond her wildest dreams. Dozens of bottles were neatly arranged, their shape foreign but the contents oh so clear. Wines, from a deep burgundy to yellow-white. Above that, every kind of liquor she could imagine. A rich caramel whiskey on one side, all the way down to the clearer-than-springwater vodka at the other end. She had to try them all. It wouldn't be fair to pick just one bottle. Her task was Herculean, but she was the mare for the job.
Berry wasted no time in selecting a bottle, but getting it opened proved to be a challenge. Whoever had made the slippery cap had not had a pony in mind and it took what felt like forever to get it open. She had to sit on her rump and cradle the bottle in her forelegs, while twisting the cap just a little bit at a time. Once she brought it to her lips, though, her struggle was forgotten as the whiskey numbed her mouth and burned down her throat.
She took a second swig, this time rolling it around and letting the flavors seep into her. It was so smooth, much nicer than the rye stuff that had recently started coming down from the Crystal Empire. She let its warmth suffuse her body as she looked into the cabinet for the next bottle to try.
• • •
Berry swayed across the room towards the couch, a determined look on her face. A blanket was gripped tightly in her teeth, and it trailed under her body. She walked carefully to avoid stepping on it, but she did anyway. Each time her head jerked downward and she came to a stop, looking back to see which hoof had betrayed her. Normally, she would have tossed it on her back, but the twisting motion that required had already proven to be a terrible idea. Fortunately, she was numb enough that the resulting tumble hadn't hurt at all.
With three more trips, she had finally arranged a suitable pile of blankets on the couch, now all that remained was to get up there herself. A nearby bookshelf provided a solution, and she began stacking hardcover books into a makeshift set of stairs. It seemed to take an eternity, especially since she decided to keep fortifying herself with more whiskey.
Two more trips to the liquor cabinet provided her with a duo of bottles in case she got thirsty and didn't want to get off the couch, and she also had to stop and violate a houseplant—but water was water, after all, so it would surely be fine.
She snuggled into the blankets, and rolled towards the back of the couch, away from the hateful sun. Her two bottles were protectively cradled between her forelegs, where they would be safe from the mysterious alcohol thief.
She fleetingly thought that she ought to find her way home before somepony discovered her, but then she would have to get back off the couch, and then find her way back through the closet and that was all far too much effort, especially since she'd just gotten comfortable. Instead, she closed her eyes and let herself drift away.
• • •
Matthew hung his overcoat in the hall closet and peeled off his loafers. It had been a long day at the office, and he was ready to sit in front of the TV and relax for a few hours. He could catch the tail end of the baseball game, and then watch a movie.
He put on his slippers and walked into the kitchen, grabbing a random Lean Cuisine on his way towards the microwave. Without even thinking, he punched the buttons on the appliance and went back over to the fridge to grab a cold beer when a strange noise caught his attention.
For a second, he thought it was the microwave, or maybe he'd left the TV or a radio on. But there was a pause and it came again. Memories of a thousand horror movies came to the forefront of his brain, and he reached for a weapon—any weapon. Before his dinner was even done microwaving, he was prepared, a meat tenderizer in one hand and his cell phone—with 911 pre-dialed and just waiting for him to push the send button. He shuffled out of the kitchen and towards the source of the noise, his Minnetonka moccasins barely a whisper above the impatient beep of the microwave.
He'd seen how it was done in action movies, and moved stealthily through his house, phone and weapon gripped in sweaty hands. The harsh florescent in the bathroom cast no shadow, and the shower curtain was pulled back, so no one could be hiding there. The office was as spotless as he'd left it, and while he'd foolishly swung his tenderizer at a coat in the hall closet, it too was unoccupied.
In short, nothing seemed out of the ordinary until he looked into the lounge. A pile of dingy blankets was spread out in front of his liquor cabinet, along with what appeared—at first glance—to be all of his alcohol. Half the bottles were lying on their sides, and it was pretty obvious that the level in all of them was less than it had been when he left for work. His bottle of Bushmills 1608 had been completely killed, and his 2003 Domaine Robert Arnoux was nearly gone, too.
And to add insult to injury, whoever had done it had stripped his ficus of all its leaves and spilled something all over his shag carpet.
He clenched his meat tenderizer tightly and crept up to the couch, ready to catch the perpetrator in the act. As he leaned over the couch, he brought his arm back, ready for the downswing—all he had to do was identify a vital part of the malefactor, and he could just . . . .
• • •
A rude shove on her shoulder woke Berry, and she came to her senses just as she tumbled off the couch in a tangle of blankets. She hit the floor hard and tried to get her hooves under her, but her hind legs were entrapped. Fortunately, her forehooves were free, and she'd managed to protect the precious alcohol with her body.
Her mouth was dry and her head was pounding, and she knew what made that go away—she was cradling the antidote in her hooves. Never one to question small favors, she expertly twisted the cap off and took a deep drink. She had a vague memory of this once having been a difficult task, but she'd adapted—had she ever! Now it was simpler than walking in a straight line.
A distant voice was gibbering at her, but she paid it no mind. Once she could think clearly, then she'd look around and see what was going on, but right now the only thing that mattered was the sweet nectar flowing down her throat.
Once she'd drained half the bottle, she spun the cap back on and looked at the source of the noise. The tall monkey in the fancy suit behind the couch seemed the most likely candidate, if the way it was waving its arms was any indication.
“Chill,” she said, holding out the bottle. “There's enough to go around.”
Matthew took a step back. When he'd first seen her, he'd assumed that she was some wild animal that had gotten into his house. He didn't have the number for animal control memorized—he'd never needed to call them before—and he spent an inordinately long time googling on his phone before he finally gave up. It was just a weird horse and there was no reason to flip out. I'm a grown man—I can deal with this. He poked it on the shoulder until it fell off of the bed, and he took up a defensive stance, just in case it decided to come at him.
Instead, he watched in amazement as it held a bottle of Grey Goose in its leg, spun the top off, and took a long swig without ever disturbing the cap clenched between its lips. And then it spoke.
“What—“
“Seriously.” Berry waved the bottle in front of his face, motioning at the couch with her other hoof. “Sit down, take a load off. I'll share.” She snickered at him. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”
Matthew lowered his phone and glared at her. “You're a horse! I'm not drinking with a trespassing horse!”
“I am not.” She crossed her forelegs indignantly. “I've never ever . . . well, maybe once or twice, my memory's not real clear. You shouldn't insult ponies!” She squinted at him. “Why are you in my house?”
“It's my house!”
“Oh.” Berry looked over at the ficus guiltily. “Sorry. I just . . . was hungry.”
“Why is there a horse in my house drinking my vodka?”
“I could ask you the same,” Berry said smugly. “That's no reason to yell.” She worked the top off the bottle and took another drink before looking back at him. “Do you know where to get an omelet? Or maybe some toast? I think I need to eat something. This bar doesn't have any food left.”
“It isn't a bar!” Matthew lowered his voice. “It's my house and you're trespassing and I'm going to call the cops or animal control or something and you're gonna pay for all the alcohol you drank and for my ficus!”
“Uh-huh.” Berry looked over to the plant. “'Scuse me. Nature calls.”
I'm burning that plant. And the rug, for good measure. He picked up the half-empty bottle of Kahlua she'd left on the couch, turning it back and forth in his hands, feeling the weight shift as the liquid moved from end to end.
He waited until she'd come back to the couch before speaking again. “What are you doing here?”
“I just . . . I. . . .” Her ears fell, and she looked down at the carpet. “That's not an easy question, y'know? What are any of us doing here?” She glanced back down at the mostly-empty bottle of vodka she was still carrying. “Are we just—“ Her words were cut off as she opened the bottle again. “—or not?” She finished the bottle and tossed it into the pile of blankets. “That's the most important question, isn't it?”
“It . . . yes?”
“Are you going to drink that?” She pointed at the bottle he was holding.
His eyes narrowed. “Yes.” He opened it and proceeded to drain the bottle completely as she watched him closely.
• • •
“And that's when I told him, 'you forgot to carry the ten on page two!'” Matthew slapped his hand against the kitchen table. “He'd spent a week on that financial report and it was all wrong!”
“Yeah!” Berry poured each of them generous shots of . . . well, she wasn't sure what anymore. She estimated that she'd lost the ability to focus on letters at least an hour ago, and it was only muscle memory that enabled her to fill their tumblers without spilling a drop. All evening, she'd had a nagging feeling that something was off, but the pink monkey was drinking with her and laughing with her, and she'd finally gotten to eat something that came in a cardboard box. It was like a big open round sandwich, covered in melted cheese and tomato sauce and all shapes of red things.
“I once dated a unicorn,” she told him, leaning across the table in case anypony else was listening. “He was okay in bed, but he didn’t have a very big . . . you know. It was hardly adi—ade—average.”
“My last girlfriend wasn't bad, either,” Matthew muttered, taking a drink. “I miss her sometimes, but she was crazy. You know? Always wanted to change me. Thought I worked too long—but how else am I going to get ahead?” He waved a hand around the room. “Would I have this if I worked as a garbageman?”
“Nope!” She took a drink. “I . . . what were we talking about?”
“I don't remember.”
“Yeah.” She swirled her cup before grasping the rim and leaning her head back. “Is there any more of the, um, pita?”
“Pizza? No, we ate all of that. I might have some pop tarts.”
“Pity.” She reached for the bottle. “I'm getting kind of sleepy. You know, I think I slept all day, and now I'm tired again. It's dark, that means that Celestia has put the sun to bed for the night.”
“Sure.” Matthew took another drink. The level in the bottle was alarmingly low, and he had a vague sense of having to work in the morning. “I . . . I should get to bed. I think I—“
Berry shook her head. “It's no trouble at all. I was thinking the same thing. But we've gotta have one toast before, before we part ways, right? It's like a tradition. One for the road, eh?”
“Yeah. One for . . . one.” He grabbed the kitchen table as his chair shifted under him alarmingly. “Pour it, talking horse.”
“I'm not . . . never mind.” Berry filled their tumblers to the brim, killing yet another bottle.
They held them aloft and clinked them together, then drank them down with a grim determination.
• • •
Matthew awoke with a pounding head, aching bladder, and a warm body draped over his bare chest.