//------------------------------// // Nothing Can Stop the Booze! // Story: Woundsalt, Mother Bucker. // by OneUppington //------------------------------// “He wanted to have your cutie mark changed?” I nod. “Closest thing you have as a friend, indeed!” she grunts. “Why would this psychologist even think of doing such a thing?” “He thought that would stop the surges happening.” “Would it?” “I guess not. Magic’s got nothing to do with cutie marks, do they?” “Well… there is a theory a pony told me about back in my university days.” Octavia says as she leans forward. “He believed that there is magic in everypony, but earth and pegasi ponies don’t have the same levels as unicorns. Just enough for a cutie mark to appear and stay there. What did he call it again, now…?” Urk! "Would that be Mumble Bee’s Cutie Mark theory by any chance?” “Gaah!” Octavia squeals as the sudden change makes her jump back into her seat. She giggles her way back to comfort. “Oh Cadence, I’m sorry!” Goddess damn it, Magic! I thought you want me to be with this mare, not scare her to death! “That was those possessions I talked about.” “I’m fine, I’m fine. It’s just… Goddess damn that scared the crap out of me! The voice, the red glowing eyes, the… everything! Does it hurt?” “Like nothing fucking else.” I say before swigging the last of my soda. “Wait, my eyes glow?” My date nods as she slurps up the last of her cocktail. “Nopony said my eyes glow when that happened!” “Not even her royal highness?” “No! And she was the first to see it happen to me!” She smiles. “Trust a princess to not tell you the full story.” As we both laugh at this, I look around to find who else saw this little trick. A lot of eyes are aimed our way. Everypony has eyes on us. Well, I say us… more me. Quite honestly, it is not rubbing me the right way. What doesn’t help either, is the fact Octavia lead us directly to the secluded VIP table. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a nice table, good view of the stage. The problem I have is that even though everypony is saying I am a VIP, every fibre of my being says I’m not. At least I’m here with a VIP. At least, one in my eye. Octavia Phiharmonica is… Damn it, I thought I had it that time. All the time that I have been explaining the CMC to her, in the back of my mind I was thinking of a word to describe her with. Nothing wrong with indescribable, sure, but I’m a bucking poet. I have to describe, it’s what I do! Besides, the fact that I’m constantly failing to is pleasing me. Actually, that raises a question: Why is it pleasing me? Am I that much of a glutton for failure? Is there something in the soda that’s making me feel this way? Some side effect of the Ondelandwah Zecora doesn’t know of? The fact that the one thing that I know never fails, my dictionary mind, has actually failed and because of this failure I feel normal? … You know what? Buck it. I’m happy. Why am I even asking why I am happy and not just enjoying the rare chance of being happy? Hmm, Looks like I don’t have time to dwell on this new question, as Parfait walks to us with two new drinks. “Thought you guys needed some more.” He says hoofing the cellist another Long Face Island Ice Tea and me another soda. She’s looking at me like she wants to ask something. “So, I uh... I heard from Printed Page that this is would actually be your first Woundsalt Wednesday… You don’t have those up in Canterlot?” Oh, so he is here? He probably told her that I “Didn’t even know that I have a fan base until this morning.” Crap! I said that last part out loud! Now everypony has gone quiet. Oh by all the goddesses, they heard that for most of my life I believed they don’t exist! How would that make them feel? Pretty fucking terrible, I imagine… I feel someone’s hoof in mine… Octavia’s. “So, the rumour is true. Printed Mint did burn our letters.” I can only nod. “Found that out this morning, too.” I see her look down, then around to all of the ponies, and then finally, back to me. “We knew. Deep down, we always knew. But… do you know why we kept writing in?” Hmm, that’s actually a good point. You’d think after me not replying for all those years, they would stop. “Why?” She leans towards me… “Because fuck him.” “FUCK HIM!” Came the reply from the audience around us. “Fuck him, the pony who dares incinerate our words about how we love your words!” “FUCK HIM!” “Fuck him, the pony who ignores the many because he wants to appeal to the pathetic few!” “FUCK HIM!” “Fuck him, the pony who did not see who you are, and what you mean to us!” “FUCK HIM!” Octavia stands on her hind legs on the chair. “We… are the Canterlot Renters! Whether we are forced down here because of our financial status, or here for any other reason, we know one truth that is always true. Woundsalt’s truth. The Unalicorn’s truth. The truth that states that the land shouldn’t belong to the one holding the sun, nor the moon, but we, the ponies! All hail the ‘Salt!” Everyone is cheering. “ALL HAIL THE ‘SALT!” They cry. “ALL HAIL THE ‘SALT!” I look at the cellist as she sits right down. “Just, wanted to let you know… what you mean to us. To me.” … “Di-did you write in?” “Every day.” … The lavender pony grabs a serviette. “Quick, before you cry on your suit.” “Thank you.” I say as I quickly dab the ink away, not looking away from the indescribable mare. Better put in a witty line, so I don’t look like a total wuss. “And here I thought the performance was supposed to be on stage.” Everypony laughs. She laughs. What a laugh… “Speaking of the performance…” The lavender pony said as she raises his voice. “Attention everypony, if you please! Due to an unfortunate accident, I am afraid that our guest speaker for the night, Slimshake, isn’t here tonight.” This causes quite a stir with the folks. “Oh, an accident, was it?” Octavia whispers quietly. “It wasn’t an accident. It’s that griffon from Vinyl’s tournament. What’s her name? Hater D?” “Oh, so she told you that, did she? I thought she was keeping that a secret from you.” “She’s trying to. Besides from this date, she is terrible at keeping secrets from me. She talks in her sleep.” … Ohgoddessohgoddessohgoddessohgoddessohgoddess- NO! Get a hold of yourself, Woundsalt! Of course Octavia would hear Vinyl talking in her sleep. They are roommates. They must sleep in separate rooms with a paper-thin wall in between. Inner me, get your fucking mind out of the gutter! “However,” The hermaphrodite continues, “Tonight, we are lucky to have two poets here tonight! Now we know that the ‘Salt has a date and… well, I guess you haven’t read out your own poetry before, have you, Woundsalt?” I shake my head. “I’ll leave it to the other poet… Who I am willing to guess is… him.” “You bet, and thanks for telling him to come here! Fillies and Gentlecolts, put your hooves together as loud as you can because he saved our flanks tonight! The Other Boy from the Corner… Printed Page!” It… wasn’t much of a big applause, to be honest. Not compared to how wild it was moments ago. I’m willing to guess it’s because someponies still want me up there. I sort of do. But, I kind of want to hear what Printed Page has got in store. He… slinks his way to centre stage. His shades are askew on his face, his shirt collar is messed up and the drink in he is levitating beside him, though almost empty, is definitely a big one. Oh Luna, are we in for a night? “Hey, Parfait. How much has he had tonight? He looks like he’s off his tits!” She sighs. “Yeah, he’s had five Sombreracs since he got here. About five minutes before you two did. Skulled the previous four like they were nothing. I think it’s safe to say that one’ll be his last tonight.” Five? Holy fuck! Sombrerac is a very heavy cocktail, and he’s put five down? And he’s chugging them? Forget Blue, how the royal fuck is Page standing right now? “Heeeey Ev’rypooooony! How you all doin’ tonight?” He bellows out to the audience. Please don’t look this way. Please don’t look this way. Please don’t look this w- “Oh! I shee that the guy ish heare! Heey, new besht fr… friend.” Oh buck me… “Hey, Page. You enjoying yourself, there?” “You bet your ASH!” He shouted. I have a feeling he doesn’t know about the microphone in front of him. “Ev’rypony’s been sooooo nice since I got here, like they knew… news… gnu… Hee hee, gnu… KNEW that I had a fucked up day.” I turn to my date. Her hoof is up to her mouth. She looks at me with a concerned look. I have a feeling I know what he’s on about. “Sorry to hear that, buddy. Your mom found out you talked to me?” If there is any that Printed Mint shared with his wife Ink Print, besides from a metric fuck-ton of money, is their bitter contempt for me. “Oh, that’s not even halfa it! You know what she told me when I told her ab… about me comin’ here tonight?” Oh no. What did she say? “She said I… was adopted.” … “What?” “Wut, is the mic not working? Helloooo?” He said, beating the poor inanimate object with his left hoof. “One, two, one, two, three…” “No, no, no Page? I heard you fine, it’s just that you said your mom said you’re adopted?” “Oh… Okee. Yeah, she said that. Fuggin’ bullshit, right? I mean, I look like her, I got the Printed name… Why would she say that? Why should she lie like that?” Everypony is look at me. I am looking at my date. She knows I don’t have the answer. So she says hers. “She was trying to stop you, Printed. She thought it would stop you coming here tonight. She is a manipulator. My mother’s a bit of a manipulator too. I had to do a lot to break from her control.” He raises his hoof in a general direction to the table. “You know somethin’, lady? You could be right. So… Wh-what’ll I do? How can I break from her control?” “Well, you’re here, aren’t you? That’s a good start.” He laughs… his laugh sounds more evil while he’s drunk off his flank. “I like your girlfriend, Wound. She’s a great gal.” I should correct Page by saying this is only our first date, but something about the way she’s blushing tells me not to. “Anywaysh… Here’s a poem written by that mother bucker over there, very special to me. Pers… Personal Favourite. It’s called…” Words. Words carry emotion. Enough to cause a commotion, If read aloud to the right crowd. Happy or sad, true or false, words carry emotion. Words carry power. To heights of joy or depths of despair, words convey how much you care. Words they say how's it going there? Short or long, complex or simple, words carry power. Words carry hope. Even though you can't be there, A letter can share, the pain anguish of one lost. No matter the postage cost. Words carry comfort, love and a message of hope. Really? That’s his favourite? I made that one up on the fly. Wasn’t even one from the magazine; it’s one I made when I was seven. Printed Page lifts up his drink and finishes in a single, large gulp. “All… Hail… The…” He falls down, asleep, as the curtains close. I look towards the cellist. “So… how did you meet Vinyl?”