With the roar of engines and horns playing Dixie, a parade of huge rusty pickup trucks zoomed into town. Hanging from the windows and piled into the back of every truck were redneck ponies with guns and booze. It was like a monster truck rally except - well, no, it was a monster truck rally. This one was looked like it was going to be even more destructive than usual.
Beer flowing like water and gasoline guzzling like a reverse oil well, the convoy came to a halt in front of Sugarcube Corner. Big Macintosh played a final strum on his banjo and tossed the instrument away. He put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it, grinning around the butt as he watched the kinfolk arrive.
His sister Applejack stepped down from her truck and swaggered over. Her ball cap and flannel shirt were tastefully distasteful. The folding knife clipped to her pocket was quite large. Her other pocket showed the circular protrusion of a can of dip.
As she came over to Mac, they each raised a hoof to bump. Clonk
“Howzit?” AJ asked.
Mac tossed his head towards the rabbits. “Need guns.”
AJ grinned. “Ain’t no problem.”
She raised her hoof to her mouth and whistled. With a rebel yell in reply, everyneck piled out of the trucks and began shooting.
And what shooting it was. Everything from cowpoke revolvers to bolt action rifles to lever guns. There were also plenty of more exotically redneck creations.
Applejack was carrying a doubled-barreled pump shotgun, a genuine custom made Remington 1740. Slung on her back was a hoofbuilt AR-15 with dual 40mm under barrel launchers. She also had two two-barreled Colts, named - you guessed it - 3822’s. Two is one, one is none, kids.
Braeburn edged out of Sugarcube corner, followed by the other ponies he’d been talking to. The gun show was already quite underway. His family, the drunk bunch of them, were already happily underway with their task. Somepony casually shoved a spare gun into his hoof.
Startled, Rarity asked, “Can you do that? Just give somepony a gun? Is that legal?”
The party came to a halt even faster than it began. Every eye was turned towards Rarity with surprise and disgust.
“Are you some kinda liberal?” Applejack accused.
“N-no,” Rarity squeaked, accepting a huge revolver that was shoved into her hooves by a helpful distributor. The party started again like someone had waved a green flag at the starting line of Neightona.
Chewing tobacco, cigarettes, beer, and a few other more socially intolerant vices were in full effect. So were “you might be a redneck” jokes, althought those petered out quickly when they began hitting too close to home.
Casual racism was also in effect, although the largely homogeneous (and certainly not homo) population of Ponyville did not draw too much attention. Zecora was wise enough to know not to investigate gunshots.
Braeburn looked around at the crowd. They were, by and large, related to him. He shrugged. Family is family. Taking a few potshots with the borrowed gun, he was pleasantly surprised to score a few hits. He also managed to shoot a few jackalopes.
“That ain’t bad shooting,” the meth dealer commented.
Braeburn smiled, forgetting that doing so showed off his unpleasant teeth.
Applejack grabbed Braeburn and pulled him close, sweeping her hoof over the hunting that had been performed so far. The jackalopes were not faring well. “Whatcha think?”
Braeburn settled for a neutral “Hell yeah.”
“You may have brought these critters here, but I still love ya.” AJ grinned, still holding his shoulder. “If anything, it’s bringin’ the whole family closer together.”
Another round of gunshots rang out. Applejack observed before turning back to Braeburn. “We’re gettin’ ‘er done,” she proclaimed, and kissed him on the check.
Braeburn struggled in her grip. “What was that for?”
Applejack frowned. “Can’t I love my cousin?”