/co/ Vs. Ponychan: The Western Anthology

by Write Off


(Extra) And That's How it Happened

And That’s How It Happened
The Unfortunately Abridged Recollection


“Eeyup,” the drunken stallion groaned, idly raising a hoof to sweep away the beads of sweat pooling on his brow. Moaning slightly at the pressure, relief seeped into his head as he pawed clumsily at an ice-pack held firmly against his face by a tentative hoof. He wasn’t quite sure of its owner, although he assumed it was his own; in his slightly dazed stupor, it didn’t really matter.

Usually he had a better stomach for salt. Back in the day, they’d called him Ol’ Ironsides, and he’d been notorious for never failing to hold his liquor, whatever that liquor might be; now he felt like a particularly greenhorn lightweight, struggling to hold down a bilious mixture of that morning’s breakfast and last night’s dinner sloshing around urgently in his belly that threatened to come back up for a second round.

Green in more ways than one, he thought miserably, casting a forlorn glance at the spot on his flank emblazoned with what could only be described as his own little mixed blessing. Envy, inexperience, illness, he’d heard most of the metaphors; none of them came close to covering the wild mass of emotions that churned within his heart. On top of all that pseudo-philosophical nonsense (best left to the throes of other, better intoxicants in his book), the haze of inebriation fogging his mind refused to cloud the one spot of memories he so desperately wanted to forget - instead, the absence of distractions brought them sharply into focus, pulsing and pounding in the back of his mind like a second, deafening heartbeat.

Taking another sip of the powerful saltwater concoction with which he’d gotten so used to drinking away his sorrows, Big Macintosh, the proud, fiery owner of the Sweet Apple Acres farm in rural hick town Ponyville, cursed under his breath, eyes skittering nervously around the bar.

Most of the time, being a hefty chunk of pony, Mac had very little to worry about, but that night it felt as though all eyes were on him, intensely judgmental gazes burning into the back of his skull. Behind the counters that separated Mac from his secret shame - row upon row of bottles of the stuff - stood the gruff, silent bartender, blind, wrinkled eyes staring off into the distance at Celestia knew what. His horn, a chipped, battered old thing that looked like it’d seen as many hard times as the pony it was attached to, flared intermittently with sparks and dim crackles, weak magical aura deftly navigating a sodden, dirty washcloth round the rim of a misted-up shotglass. Mac’s mouth contorted into a grim smile at the occasional looks the grizzled unicorn threw in his general direction. It was no secret that good ol’ Vanish was blind as a bat, and about as dirty as his namesake mixers, but Mac appreciated his presence regardless. The sly old fox liked to keep an eye on things, instinctively, even if those eyes didn’t work. That was comforting enough for the crimson earth pony.

The normal clientele, affectionately deemed ‘the usual suspects’, milled busily around the bar. The place was populated with the sorts of ponies that’d commonly be found roaming the streets at night: riff-raff, crooks, scum, Canterlot’s dregs that simply wouldn’t do to be seen in the daytime. They tarnished Equestria’s good, clean, wholesome image just by existing. Most of the time Mac loathed their lot, careful never to associate with them for fear of becoming one. Another lost soul in the sea of charlatans and criminals relegated to the shanties and subterranes of Bottomtown Canterlot. Today, on the other hand, and not for the first time in his short yet chequered history, he sympathised with the poor bastards. They faced a tough plight, and he couldn’t help the strange, unwelcome mix of pity and compassion that he felt for them, one that settled itself comfortably in the nooks and crannies of his broken heart and simply would not leave. It pestered him like a rash. The comparison seemed apt enough for Mac: his feelings, to him, were the very same. The Princess’ fair capital suffered as he did under the natural byproducts of the experiences, thoughts and emotions that made them what they were.

Or, he thought, smirking amusedly to no one in particular, just plain messed up.

A small, nefarious-looking group of ponies cloaked in thick, woollen black garb skulked around the pool table in the corner of the bar, quietly bickering over who would get to use the good cue for the last shot before it snapped. Ponies of all description, and many simply nondescript, silently slipped about the tables, serving drinks to the subdued late-evening crowd Mac recalled from his youth; littered about the place were faces he recognised, but couldn’t quite put to names,save the mint-green unicorn tucked away with a white unicorn and grey earth pony in the corner. They’d stolen Mac’s favourite alcove. Heartstrings, that was the name. Or, at least, as close as he’d be getting on what was sure to be his life’s most horrific hangover. Never again.

Turning in his seat to catch a glimpse of the dark, empty side of the bar, the stallion was alarmed to find he’d suddenly acquired a new companion, brooding sullenly over a bright red drink.

“He calls it a ‘Bloody Luna’,” the mysterious hooded pony mumbled, lazily waving a hoof in the bartender’s direction. Mac gaped. How had he joined him so quietly? He must have been so absorbed in his own sulking that he’d completely ignored everything else. Par for the course, he supposed. “Tomato juice, Bitannican Sea Salt and a twist of lime rum. Sprig a’ celery too, if you’re feelin’ it.” The speaker paused to gulp down another mouthful, wiping away flecks of spittle from the corner of his mouth. “Care to try?”

Mac frowned slightly, forehead creasing as he looked at the glass clasped tightly in the other pony’s hooves. They had an effeminate voice, thickly-Western accent masked by a badly put-on Canterlotian; nice manner, though. Cute. Beautiful cadence. Definitely the sort of voice Mac liked to hear moan. But that wasn’t really all that important to the earth pony at the time; the voice itself was vaguely familiar, and he was having difficulty placing it in his state. Reluctantly resigning himself to the undesired attention, Mac shifted in his seat, back to his own glass, resting glumly on a drab black coaster nearby. Empty, too. Against the dull matte colour of the wooden panelling, it was profoundly chilling.

Pushing anything resembling a coherent thought out of his head, Mac took another drink.

“Don’t drink mares’ drinks,” he slurred, glaring. His tongue felt thick and clumsy in his mouth, struggling to form the words he wanted around its own mass and his quivering jowls. How drunk was he, anyway? Sure as the apples back home were red he wasn’t sober. Sitting up primly, he forced himself to slow down and speak elegantly, get the words out proper. “Let me get you a real colt’s liquor.” He clapped his hooves. “Mixer, a Rowdy Howdy for my pal here. Send ‘im packin’.”

Nodding grimly, the unicorn started working away at a mixture of different ingredients above the sink. Normally, Mac enjoyed watching, but at the moment the more pressing concern was relishing the coming destruction of this mysterious stranger that couldn’t leave well enough alone. The only pony in the world that could handle a Rowdy besides him was Granny Smith. It was bound to drive off his new devotee.

“You’re the boss,” the other - presumably an earth pony, Mac noted, judging by the lack of lumps or protrusions under his hooded jacket - said, gratefully accepting the drink. Mac cheered up a little at that. No one, but no one, could handle a Rowdy good as he did -

Instead of the small, quick sip he’d expected, followed by a whooping, hacking cough and a night spent comatose, the stranger raised the glass to his lips, sniffed it, and then downed it, all in one smooth motion, barely flinching throughout.

Mac was utterly gobsmacked.

“Now that,” the other chuckled, licking his lips appreciatively, “was a kicker.” He smacked his lips together, smiling. “Mighty respectable of you to know my tastes ‘fore I even tell you my name.”

The westerner’s drawl, arrogant and cocksure, abruptly became more than a little irritating. Moodily, Mac took a sip of his own now-tasteless drink. It had gone flat. The red stallion chalked it up to another insult on the part of fate, and added it to his rapidly growing list of indignities, alongside the bartender’s clear inability to mix a proper drink and this strange westerner’s upstart attitude.

“So what’s got a fine red colt like you lookin’ so blue?”

Mac, startled out of his broiling reverie, opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. Why should he tell some nosy busypony his story?

Harrumphing loudly, he snorted, leaning over the countertop to grab another glass. The foreigner’s hoof on his shoulder, cold and shod in iron, was enough to make him leap from his seat in brazen fury; next to him the other pony shrugged, withers raised in exasperated disbelief and what seemed to be mild shock.

“Don’t be a big filly now, cous’,” he laughed, pulling down his hood to reveal the smiling face of the pony Mac hated most in the world right now.

Braeburn.

“Darn it, ‘Burn!” he squealed, disbelief seeping into his tone as his voice cracked in anger. “I told you not to come near me again! Not after that spectacle at that bar in Appleloosa!”

“But cous’!” the yellow pony cried, throwing his forelegs in the air and leaning back, “where would I be without you? I still need your help! You’re my favourite Apple, now come on and help me out!”

“Never again,” Mac groaned, rubbing his temples with his hooves. “Not after that last one. Nope. I’ve had my fill of dumb ponies, enough to last me a lifetime.”

“Hey!”

“Well, it’s true, ain’t it?” The red stallion turned to look the yellow colt in the eye. They stared at each other for a moment in silence; then, Braeburn, ever the diligent sycophant, fell to the floor, prostrating himself before his cousin.

“Please, Mac, please!” he begged, almost in tears. Mac cast a wary eye around the room, taking things in. Ponies were beginning to turn and stare, some were gossiping, others giggling, and even more simply outright laughing; that wasn’t on. No one laughed at an Apple.

“Look, come on, let’s go discuss this in private,” he groaned, pulling the still-teary Braeburn up from the floor and gently wiping away his tears. Or, at least, attempting to be gentle. To the Appleloosan himself it was more like being beat in the face by a gigantic hoof.

“Hey, quit it, cous’!” he yelped, dancing away from the blows and raising his own forelegs in a defensive stance. “I didn’t even do anything except say sorry!”

“And this time you’ll know not to make the mistake in the first place! One apology plus hundreds of stupid mistakes just don’t add up!”

“Now hold on, fellas,” Mixer piped up, “I won’t have fighting in my bar unless there’s a good reason for it. Now sit your rumps down and tell me what’s got you worked up, Mac. You’re one of my best customers, never had any trouble from you, I need to know.”

“Fine.” Mac crossed his forelegs grumpily as he sat down. Like a petulant child, really. Braeburn looked more contrite across from him, head downcast as he rested himself on an upturned stool.

“So who’s gonna tell it?” Braeburn said, melancholy. Mac’s response was a harsh glare.

“Me, of course.” He pumped a hoof in the air. “So keep your trap shut for a while, y’all hear me?”

At that, silence fell over the three. Others turned back to their own business, clearly uninterested, but Braeburn looked eager and enthusiastic, desperate to impress. Mac couldn’t quite shove past the anger he still felt.

Slowly, with some difficulty, he began. “Eeyup, it all started a few days ago, when I went down to Appleloosa.”



It’d all begun a month beforehand, when, on his routine trip to the small frontier town of Appleloosa to monitor their orchards and check in on his darling cousin, Big Macintosh, farmer and ranger extraordinaire, had run into Little Strongheart of the local buffalo clan.

Now, Mac was no stranger to the buffalo. Two years spent learning to ply his trade in the Arid Line fields of the far south, with an eclectic mix of creatures great and small, spanning sources across the globe, had given him enough knowledge of the buffalo, amongst others, to make him way of them in general. Where he was a settler, they were nomads. Where he was peaceful, they were warlike, bellicose. The only common ground they shared was a fierce, ardent devotion to the bands of kin and clan, which, though Mac could respect, did not ease his misgivings. Once he’d fought a buffalo - a maddened, bloodthirsty creature at its worst - and had barely escaped unscathed. His fears were only natural.

Unlike most that had been wronged on the Arid Line, though, Mac believed in second chances, though his encounter with Little Strongheart hadn’t been too kind on that count. Their exchange had initially been quite heated. She was something of a pariah among her kind: small, lithe, cunning and beautiful where most buffalo, even their females, were slow, large and ponderous. A dangerous vixen among oxen.

That wasn’t what was troubling, though. Oh, no, not at all. Mac had had little trouble reconciling that with his dated notions of chivalry. It had been a completely different issue they’d discussed, once they’d finally settled down and started getting along like a house on fire, that had won his attention. Otherwise he would have spared nary a second thought for the crafty young girl...



“You did what, cousin Braeburn?”

Applejack could not have sounded more livid at that point. The two colts swore in unison, each certain they could see the veins bulging in her forehead and steam pouring from her ears as she fumed. Under his breath, Mac was muttering sourly, unintelligible gibberish that seemed scolding. Not much of a resistance for the yellow colt to fall back on.

“Now y’all listen here, and listen good now,” AJ growled, taking a heavy step forward. In response, Braeburn lurched back wildly, reeling, and even Mac recoiled slightly, careful not to make eye contact with his sister. If she noticed him any more than she already did, she’d turn her attentions on him, and that would undoubtedly lead to her somehow making everything his fault. Even if it didn’t make sense to do so. Mac was in no mood for a tongue-lashing, though he did feel some shred of camaraderie with his cousin...once, years ago, he’d had to put up with being put through the same thing. Thankfully, Granny Smith hadn’t been so blunt and angry at the time.

“I ain’t happy with this, not one bit. How could y’all forget your duty to the Apple family like that?”

Mac scoffed at that. She wasn’t going to give him the duty spiel, was she?

“Now hold on one apple-buckin’ minute!” Braeburn shot back. The words didn’t even sting Applejack’s hide. Braeburn took a defensive step forward (or, at least, as the red pony explained it; who would ever be privy enough to his internal narration to be confused by it, anyway?). “What duty? I’ve done my bit for the family just like everypony else! Quit doggin’ me, cous’!”

“Oh, she ain’t doggin’ you yet,” Mac whinnied, grinning. “You’ll know when she starts, ‘Burn, promise you that.”

Braeburn threw an amused glance in his direction. Applejack, not so much.

“Speakin’ a’ doggin’,” she cooed, leering, “I got half a mind to let Winona keep that doll of yours if you don’t shut up and sit down while I’m lecturin’ my cousin.”

That cowed Mac. He was left speechless. She’d promised she’d never tell anyone about the doll!

“Lucky for big brother you only have half a mind,” Applebloom muttered, stubbornly pawing at the ground with an angry hoof.

“Why, I never!” Now Applejack turned on the filly, wide eyes blazing with newfound ire. “I oughta clobber you upside the head for that one, clout you good and proper! Go on and get to the house with ol’ Granny Smith, she’ll give you a right hollerin’. Teach you to mind your tongue!” She shooed the filly away. “Go on, get!”

“No fair!” The filly whined, slinking away as she grumbled. “Scootaloo and Sweetie Belle get to go to Disneigh World and I have to come to this stupid dumb boring old nowheresville town in the desert...”

“That filly,” AJ sighed, once the last speckles of red had turned the corner, out of earshot. “I just don’t know what to do with ‘er. Don’t she know family’s the most important thing you can have?”

“Ease up on her a lil’, cous’, we were all the same at that age,” the yellow colt chimed in disapprovingly.

“As I remember it,” Big Mac added sagely, “somepony I know didn’t learn that lesson ‘til she found her Cutie Mark.”

She whacked him good for that one.

“Ouch!” Mac groaned, pressing one hoof to the sore spot on the back of his head where he was sure there’d be a ripe shiner in the morning. Sometimes the big stallion felt like a peach.

“So what’s this here duty I got to the Apples I ain’t yet fulfilled, cousin AJ?” Braeburn was solemn once again, staring determinedly at the orange mare. She sighed back, smiling kindly in spite of her earlier behaviour. Mac marvelled at that. Knowing what was coming next, her sheer hypocrisy, he wondered how she managed to make it seem almost like she was doing the work of angels.

“You stallions need to be bringing more Apples into the world so they can do their duty too,” she said, casting a cursory glance at the now-silent red stallion. Mac had gone through it all before, and he knew to keep quiet. Apparently, Braeburn couldn’t figure it out.

“‘T’ain’t fair at all!” he yelled, stomping in protest. “I don’t see why it can’t be you and the other girls doing all that. Horseapples, girls are better at parentin’ anyway. Why, even Mac’d be better for it than me! He’s bigger!”

At that, AJ scowled. Mac sighed audibly. Braeburn’s expression quickly became perplexed.

“What’d I say?”

“Mac has a...” AJ paused, trailing off as she struggled to find the right words. “Problem. With mares, I mean.”

“A strappin’ bronco like Macintosh?” the clothed pony scoffed, now looking like he could barely hold his shock, struck dumb at the notion in his equally dumb vest and hat. Mac hated it more than anything else, when ponies questioned him. “Why, that’s plum unbelievable!”

Again Mac sighed and cleared his throat, loudly enough to earn everypony’s attention.

“I ain’t interested,” he droned lowly, keeping his eyes fixed on AJ. She appeared to be torn between being tortured by guilt and gripped by anger, at least until Braeburn came to the realisation, when her face turned blank. “That’s AJ’s ‘problem’”.

“I don’t like your tone,” she growled. Mac had to resist repeating ‘problem’ with added sarcasm and air quotes. It was a tough one.

“Ah!” Braeburn interrupted them, tone one of surprised understanding and what seemed to be acceptance. “So you’re a stallion-shagger!”

“Not so loud!” the mare hissed, as Mac let out a belt of hearty, uproarious laughter.

“There’s a new one,” he chuckled back. He hadn’t laughed so hard in a while.

“Surely you can still-”

“No, I can’t,” Mac interjected, cutting the smaller colt off with a shake of his head. “Believe me, ‘Burn, I’ve tried. I’ve tried so darn hard. But I can’t, and AJ won’t make me try again if I won’t make her try with a boy. It’s our gentlecolt’s agreement.”

“And I’m stickin’ to it,” AJ continued. “‘s only fair.”

“Yeah, fair to save your own skins,” came Braeburn’s angry repartée, “but where does that leave me?” The air hung heavy for a moment after that, laden with a pregnant silence, before he continued. “All I want is to marry Little Strongheart and spend the rest of my life with her, cousins.”

Mac understood. It was only fair, after all, and it was simple and poignant enough to break the silence and shatter his resolve. The yellow pony’s pleading stare and heartfelt words tipped the scales from saving his own skin to making some small sacrifice, and that was enough; he was sure AJ felt the same. When Braeburn wanted something, he cut through all resistance like a hot knife through fresh butter. They were all hard-pressed to stop their hearts from melting.

Despite his overbearing zeal and gregarious, enthusiastic mannerisms, the yellow pony’d always occupied a soft spot in the hearts of the two siblings. They loved him dearly, for some reason, and as they shared a look, each knew the other had already given in.

“Granny Smith won’t be happy. Again,” AJ said, mouth set in a flat line.

“Don’t you worry yourself about that, sis,” Mac said, already forming a fancy solution in his head. He’d had opportunity to discuss it at length with Braeburn’s ecstatic bride-to-be earlier that day, though it had completely slipped his mind ‘til then, and though he dreaded putting it into action, he had to admit his desire to see his family happy won out over any selfish self-preservation instinct. “I’ve got a plan.”

“You’ve always got a plan,” the other two chorused together. That was a little bemusing, but impressive nonetheless. Alone, AJ added, “what is it this time?”

“Why, AJ,” he chortled, throwing a foreleg around their hesitant withers, “Braeburn and I are goin’ to go on an adventure!”



Six brothels, eight bars and fifty-four breaks down the line, Mac had long since given in to the growing pile of reasons to hate his cousin more than anything else he’d ever had opportunity to hate. Loathe, despise, abhor, however he felt, it was an achievement, considering Caramel’s cooking and the rising price of biofuels. Somehow, though, the yellow pony had managed to do it, and Mac lauded him for it just as he hated him.

“Some adventure, right, cous’?” the colt in question roared happily, full of liquor and empty of...brains? Potential kids? Product? Mac didn’t want to think too hard about it. Braeburn’s sexual machinery was a train of thought that led to bad, unspeakable, reprehensible places, and he refused to get near it at all. With an inner flourish he struck it right out. “Boy, I’ve been all over the Western Ways and I ain’t never explored so much uncharted territory!” Whooping and hollering, he leaned over to nudge Mac in the side with a hoof, grinning lecherously. “You gettin’ me, partner?”

That was it, Macintosh decided, retching. The last straw.

“Never, ever, ever,” he began, eyes lidded with rage, “call me partner again, ‘Burn.” Now he was spitting the words out, shivering with disdain. The chill running up and down his spine wouldn’t relent, and neither would the filly serving them at the end of the table, staring unabashedly at his rump. Ponies of all kinds and had been flitting about, flirting and teasing him all week; did none of them see the wedding bands he wore around his fetlocks? Engaged, ponies, engaged! At times he just wanted to scream stop hitting on me. “I heard exactly what y’all were callin’ those last fifteen mares and I ain’t any ‘a them. Celestia’s sake, and quit drinking so much, don’t you know it kills your libido?”

“I still can’t believe my darlin’ put you up to this!” The stallion hiccoughed, choking on his glee. Ignoring Mac too, he noted angrily. “Best week ‘a my life!”

Mac, in turn, chose to ignore Braeburn’s delighted demeanour and shameless flirting. The stallion (because that had to be what he was now) seemed to want any mare with even a passing interest, and frankly, who could blame him? He was young, lusty, and drunk stupid. Mac recalled his own years spent like that with fond nostalgia. The awful stench of alcohol, salt, sweat and sex, on the other hand, was one the red pony did not miss, and it drove him to distraction. Infuriating.

The entire week had been the same, in all truth - dangerous, unpredictable, crazy and definitely unwanted. He’d regretted the entire thing from the get-go, and felt especially remorseful about letting Braeburn know he had his future wife’s permission to do whatever he liked. It meant his cousin’s stag tour had been far more lively than he’d ever wanted, and they’d met with even less success than they’d thought. He blamed Equestria’s thriving sex industry...they must have put something in the water.

“So now what, cous’?” Braeburn sighed dreamily, happily tracing an indecipherable pattern across a new mare’s flank with an approving, hungry glint in his eyes. “How do we find out which girls are preggers? Go back and ask ‘em all?”

Mac didn’t have a clue what answer he wanted. He’d only recently learned what the hay ‘preggers’ meant. To his knowledge, two of the hundreds of mares the yellow stallion had bedded were actually full of Apple seeds, and both of them were adamant about keeping the children. Damn them, that was his mantra, and damn Equestria’s strict moral fiber that meant even the whores were responsible. Each time he failed to convince them, whether with bribes, coercion or cajoling, he came a step closer to just giving up. For all he cared, Braeburn could adopt and pray the family matriarch passed away before inspection day.

“Nothin’ now, Braeburn,” he muttered, rising to his hooves. “And will you quit fondling that hussy’s tits? We’ve got work to do here, y’know!”

The pony in question appeared affronted, but Mac honestly couldn’t care less, and apparently, neither could Braeburn, hooves still travelling all over her body.

“This is work, cous’,” was his reply, moaned through a sudden burst of pleasure as another mare came to join them. Disgusting enough to turn Mac’s stomach.

“Have your fun, then, Braeburn,” Mac sighed dismissively. “I’m done. Good luck on your own.”

He so rarely used the yellow stallion’s full name that he was sure it’d be enough to get his full attention, and he’d come bounding after him, begging for forgiveness, promising to do better next time. But when he turned, Braeburn was still sitting with the two mares, and a further two had come to join him; now he barely even noticed Mac’s departure. Mac felt like crying himself. The yellow pony was just too busy adventuring inside-



“Now, hold on, cous’!” cried a voice, in a thick western accent. “That wasn’t how it happened at all! Quit tryin’ to make me look bad all the time!”

“You do that enough yourself,” Mac tutted reproachfully. Braeburn’s voice had been piercing enough to snap him out of storytelling mode, and the small group of ponies gathered around them were now glaring disapprovingly at Braeburn, himself still awkwardly posed with his forelegs raised in defiant disbelief. Some moaned, though whether in relief or frustration Mac didn’t know; one pretty, innocent young mare was fidgeting and blushing far to much for normal, too red-faced and heated to even be in the bar. Mac frowned menacingly at his reprobate cousin, but that only prompted him to keep on talking.

“You just plain ran out on me! No explanation or nothin’, I wasn’t even doing none of that stuff! And you left me with the tab!”

“Are you callin’ me a liar?” Mac had admittedly embellished the truth, occasionally - purely for effect, of course - but that was exactly how he remembered it. To the letter!

“Yeah!” Braeburn seemed more than mildly miffed. “I couldn’t do any of it without your support and you just plum left me for no raisin! You know how disappointed me and Strongheart were?”

He did know. He didn’t forgive the fruit pun, would never forgive that, but he had apologised to the buffalo girl...after recounting the whole thing in gruesomely specific detail. The play-by-play was all the evidence he’d needed to win her forgiveness, and her apologies.

“She’s already over it,” he sighed, taking another stiff drink. “She’s even thinking about breaking up with you if I don’t forgive you, and I haven’t, y’all best know.”

Someone in the crowd booed at that, and he was joined by catcalls, whistles, and a tomato thrown straight at Braeburn’s head. The yellow pony dodged deftly enough to give the impression of being used to it.

“I know,” he continued, mumbling miserably, eyes downcast. “I was a real ass.” Afterwards he nervously cleared his throat, glancing around the room. “No offense to any asses in the peanut gallery, of course.”

“None taken!” cried an indistinct voice from someone, somewhere nearby, followed by a wave of titters, giggles and guffaws. Macintosh pondered how drunk they had to be to find that funny and not mildly sad. Meanwhile, Braeburn cleared his throat again, dropping down to one knee in front of the withdrawn red stallion, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes in anticipation of rejection.

This was it, Mac realised. Braeburn was pulling out the big guns in pursuit of reconciliation. He was done for, no matter how much he might hate Braeburn right then, and horsefeathers, that was most certainly how it had happened!

And yet, how could he say no to the puppy-dog eyes?

“I should have been better, taken it more seriously,” the yellow colt whispered, clasping Mac’s hooves in his own. “When Mad Sheriff Whiplash came after you for his sex dungeon, I shouldn’t have trapped you in there with him.”

“We got him eventually,” he replied, “though I don’t think I’ll ever forget the things he taught me in there.”

“When those angry hookers from Sextopia stole our last skin of water and tried to sic those critters on us, I definitely shouldn’t have dropped a barrel on your head and knocked you out cold.”

“...I don’t even know what to say about that one.” He raised a hoof to his chin in thought. “Ate some good snakes that night, though.”

“And I most definitely shouldn’t have spiked your drink in the sheikh’s tent when we were trying to convince her to let us pass through the sacred valleys of her mothers!”

“Next time I’ll let you rot in the dungeon,” Mac whispered, suddenly cold. “I never want to pass through those sacred valleys again. Ever!”

“Point is,” Braeburn sighed, “I did a lot of stupid things I should never have done to you. That was the best week of my life and it would only have happened had you been there. So thanks, cous’.” Around them, peals of raucous laughter broke out in rippling waves; some were cheering, some were hooting, some were swooning, but all were watching them in awe. “I promised I’d be an Apple to the last and the only thing I did like an Apple was be plain ol’ rotten.”

“Eeyup,” Big Macintosh said, expressionless.

“Can y’all find it in your heart to forgive a sorry buck?”

“No,” Mac said, as their eyes met. Braeburn’s own eyes narrowed, and Mac’s blinked, widening. He could practically feel the hardness in his heart flowing away like a river, and much as he tried to dam it up and just hate forever, he knew he couldn’t. Like so many pips through a pony’s hooves.

“Come on, cousin Mac!” Braeburn chortled, now smiling, as he took another swig from his drink, emptying it. The last few drops pooled at the bottom, and Mac knew they’d eventually disappear; why fight it? His resolve was the same as that god-awful drink. “I really need a wingpony.”

With a weary finality, the crimson earth pony stood, shook the last vestiges of drunkenness out of his mind to be replaced with a painful sobriety, and nodded.

“Our adventure ain’t done yet, sadly,” he laughed, trotting towards the door. “And I still have a date with a whip-happy sheriff, as I remember it!”

Braeburn galloped after him, to the sounds of drunken ponies celebrating behind them.