“I don’t understand!” wailed Vinyl as she took the can of beer that Bonbon put on the coffee table. With a quick twist of telekinesis, it snapped open and she took comfort in a long swallow before continuing. “Octavia is normally quite reasonable, and is very good at putting up with little jokes! This time, she threw me clean out of the house!”
“Well, you weren’t straight with her, that’s the problem.” Bonbon sat down next to Vinyl, one hoof on her chin as she tried to think of a way to help out her friend.
“Wait, what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what you’d expect, sweetie. You know how she despises it when you slip things past her, instead of getting right to the point.”
“I...uh…”
Lyra poked her head around the door, and shook it slowly. “Octavia hates it when you lie. Also, just give it to her straight up, that’s how she really likes it.”
“Wait...you mean?”
“Yes, her whiskey.
Vinyl slumped on the couch. That little maroon-highlighted, black-labeled bottle that Octavia always kept in the liquor cabinet was the only thing she loved more than hunky stallions with large paychecks. It wasn’t even a full-size piece of glass, and cost sixty bits a bottle! Octavia never lost her temper over money, but had gone completely berserk over just one bottle of alcohol. With a start, Vinyl sat up and blurted out her realization.
“Oh my gosh, Octavia, no! She can’t be!”
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Not too long ago…
It had been two days. Two long days. In comparison, two weeks out under the scorching sun in the vast beige emptiness of the Zebricarin desert would have been preferable, or at the very least, a less humiliating death. In the far ends of financial desperation, ponies have resorted to the unthinkable. Paid killings, prostitution, and even buying and selling other ponies were all on the list, but there was one lower form of desperation -- continuing to abode in the same domicile as Vinyl Scratch.
After six months of poor sleep, poorer tempers, and flagging health, it would have made sense to pack up and move on. To a new pony to Canterlot, it would have seemed logical to find somewhere cheaper to live, or at the very least a new roommate. Both were absolutely impossible. The capital city of the living Goddesses was simply not a place where the poor and unworthy lived, and musicians by their very penurious nature were hard pressed to live anywhere nearby. That was made doubly so after the decree prohibiting using cardboard boxes as dwelling places was set in place.
Octavia shivered as she remembered that night. The guards had taken away her home, her humble abode! They had burned it, right there in the street, leaving she and Vinyl to find somewhere to live with their meager stack of bits. It hadn’t been easy convincing the landlord to rent out his last apartment when all the former homeless ponies were either leaving or buying up what cheap housing still existed, but a deal had been struck -- the kind of deal where Vinyl stayed over at his place for the first week. Octavia still hadn’t forgiven him for that, and despite Vinyl’s protests that it had been fun, still kept ‘that jackass’ on her list of ponies to murder one day. He had been number two, at least until Vinyl bumped him down a slot. Alas, that would have to wait, for the same reason she’d been living in the same cardboard box as Vinyl had been.
“Curse you, grandmother. I hope look down from Elysium or up from Tartarus and hurt every day for the blood-oath you left me with.”
Returning a verbal curse in return for the real deal seemed like an unfair trade, only in that there was no way to return the same kind of pain. It had been only two days. Forty-eight hours since Vinyl had agreed to a truce, and this was the second time it had been broken. The first was moments after, when Octavia had sat down only to find her rump stuck to the armchair, followed up by Vinyl wrapping her to it. It had only taken a few windings of plastic before the chair was holding Octavia firmly in place, and Vinyl began the four-hour process of extracting a promise from Octavia to withhold her vengeful hoof upon being set free.
There was something in there about the tape being an accident, or not intended, but Octavia had been beyond caring. Eventually she had agreed, if nothing else because she didn’t want to urinate on her favorite chair. Explaining her absence to the section head at rehearsal was a pain, but a thorough recounting of the events leading to the occurrence and a promise that it would never happen again were enough to smooth things over. In return, there had also been a promise that should it happen again, there would be consequences. As a result of that second truce-breaking, Octavia would get to find out exactly what those consequences were.
“Sun-damn-it! Vinyl!”
This wasn’t the first time the DJ had removed all the tuning pegs on her cello and left the string flopping around. It was something of a familiar routine, one that left Octavia adept at rapidly tuning her instrument. This time though, they’d been wrapped up and hidden around the apartment -- or so Octavia guessed from the one that had been balled up and left on her pillow with a little sticky note. That note had a v-brow smiley on it and nothing more. It would result in another late arrival to practice, if at all, which could result in a short paycheck, no paycheck, or an outright loss in her job. This time, there wouldn’t be a cardboard box to move back into.
After two hours of searching, and a second rehearsal missed, Octavia had found three pegs, and lost all patience. Drinking was never a way to solve any problem, save for one: waiting helplessly for the future to arrive. It was a short trot to the kitchen, and a slight stretch to reach the top cabinet. At least a nice glass of Trotter would cheer her up, or at at the very least help her pass the night until she could talk to the director tomorrow, and beg to keep her job.
The bottle was pretty far back in the cabinet, and stuffed behind all the rum Vinyl had shoved into it after getting back from work last night. Grumbling, Octavia pushed bottle after bottle aside to reach the only thing she kept in there. After a few moments, she found the right one, and pulled it forward into view. For an earth pony to grasp a glass bottle from an overhead shelf, it was quite necessary to hold up a second forehoof to rest the base of the bottle on. For that very reason, most glass objects had a cross-hatched bottom for traction. Pony society had learned that particular trick very early on. Thus with her midsection leaning against the counter, Octavia gently teased it forward, then felt it slip.
In the moment before it hit the ground, the glinting reflective surface of the plastic wrap teased her from the bottom of the bottle. Clearly visible through the polyethylene coating was the hatching that should have firmly held to her hoof. That moment ended with the shriek of breaking glass, followed by droplets of smokey liquid splashing against her coat. Octavia stared, wide-eyed and unmoving until the sound of keys in the lock shocked her back into reality. The door opened to reveal a grinning Vinyl, whose smile shrank very rapidly at the sight awaiting her in the kitchen.
“Hey, Octy! What’s going o-oh. Oh. I’ll be going now.”
“Vinyl…”
“Would it help if I said I was sorry?”
“Indubitably. Do you want me to write your parents before or after I end you?”
Not waiting to bandy a reply, Vinyl turned tail and sprinted right back out the door and down the steps, putting as much distance between herself and her mistake as possible. Octavia sat down in the middle of the mess, whiskey still dripping off her fetlocks and seething like the Nightmare’s scorn.
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“I’m living with an alcoholic! My best friend is an addict! This is terrible!” Vinyl levitated up the beer can and tried once more to wash away the pain.
“I’m sure it is,” muttered Bonbon as she slid four empty cans off the coffee table and into a plastic bag. The cans clinked, and Bonbon winced. Normally Octavia expunged Vinyl only once a month, but this was the second time in a week Vinyl had invited herself over to crash after provoking the cellist. It wasn’t the half-case of beer that went missing each time Vinyl stayed the night that bothered Bonbon, but that Lyra would use it as an excuse to get smashed too. Then she’d have to play mom for both.
“I know how you feel, Scratchy!” yelled Lyra as she threw a foreleg around Vinyl’s back. In her other leg, she gripped a bottle of brandy that sloshed back and forth. “But she’s your strictly-platonic-best-friend-forever, so you need to make things right.”
“How can I possibly do that?”
“Buy her a new bottle of whiskey!” cheered Lyra.
“Yes, but that probably wouldn’t be enough!” wailed Vinyl.
“Well, did you ever think of cleaning up the kitchen too?” Bonbon tied off the bag with a huff. Not for the first, or the tenth time that year she pondered trading leases with Vinyl, and making everypony happy.
“Oh, Bonny, that’s perpostermus...perpostomus? Persomething. Stupid.”
Bonbon groaned, and stood up. “Ok, Vinyl, Lyra? You two stay here and talk it over. I’ve got a phone call to go make.”
As soon as Bonbon rounded the corner to the kitchen, Lyra leaned over and poked Vinyl in the side. “Bonbon might be overly responsible, but she was right, you know. We could just run to the store while she’s on the phone and buy Octavia a new bottle of booze.”
“I don’t have enough bits, and I’m scared to go back in the house now. Octavia is probably still sitting in the kitchen, waiting for me to walk back in.”
“Oh, that’s no problem. I still owe you from the last time you spotted me at the club.”
Vinyl lurched off the couch and slowly stood up. “How much do you owe me anyway? I forgot.”
“Oh, uhm…” Lyra set her bottle down and roughed grabbed her bit-purse. “Let’s just call it enough to buy the whiskey? That, and I’ll be the one who carries in the bottle to Octavia.”
“Done.”