//------------------------------// // Chapter 7 // Story: War is Boring // by totallynotabrony //------------------------------// Rainbow and I stand in front of Spitfire’s desk.  Our Commanding Officer is not pleased. “So you inexplicably lost focus in the middle of a critical refueling event, rendered an Air Force tanker crucial to the war effort inoperable, exposed two of our jets to the damaging effects of a desert sandstorm, and forced your squadron mates to cover your duties until you got back to Celestia’s Assistant?” I stare at the deck beneath my hooves.  “Yes ma’am.” “Did you have fun ashore?” I glance up.  There’s a twinkle in Spitfire’s eye that could either be the memory of her own youthful adventures or an impending demerit coming my way. “No ma’am,” I reply. “Their coffee is terrible,” Rainbow adds. “You’re damn right it is,” Spitfire says.  “Now get out of my office.” Rainbow and I exit as quickly as possible, shutting the door behind us.  We both breathe out a sigh of relief.   “Glad that’s over,” she says.  She smiles, that cocky grin I love. A change of subject seems in order.  “Well, let’s get this thing done,” I say.   We hurry back to our room.  Our borrowed clothes are ready and we help each other put them on, concealing our wings. The disguise grease for our manes is still disgusting, but necessary.  It almost feels like we’re doing each others’ makeup.  Ugh.  Not that either of us would know about that or anything. We look in the mirror together, our warpaint on and ready for the mission ahead.  I’m feeling more apprehension in my chest than I ever have for a combat flight.  Funny how things like that work. “You know, LD...you make a pretty sexy dirt pony.”  She winks. I smile.  That was exactly what I needed.  “Right back at you.  Let’s do this.” We grab the smuggled booze.  Then, it’s downstairs to present our little gift, gain entry to the inner circle, figure out who is responsible for the drunken accidents, and finally blow this thing wide open. Of course, that’s not how it goes.  Not even close. Okay, we do get downstairs, but that’s when things begin to turn into a furball.  Meeting back at the place where we’d first learned about the shipboard speakeasy, there’s nopony around. There’s the door that we saw them use before.  Rainbow grabs the handle, but it doesn’t move.  She throws her weight into it, and it slams open.  There’s a unicorn on the other side who shouts and stumbles back, holding his nose. “Hey, sorry,” says Rainbow.  “I’m, uh, you know, a clumsy, super strong mudpony here.” “I thought the m-word was verboten,” he says nasally, still holding his nose. “Oh, but it’s our word,” I jump in as Rainbow fumbles. “Yeah!” she adds.  “Boy, I sure love, um, dirt and...not flying.” The unicorn nods and lets it go.  Stereotypes for the win.  “So what are you two here for?” “We have our ‘entry fee,’” I say. He nods.  “Come on.  I’ll show you in.” We follow him deeper into the ship.  Some ponies were around, and the place looked lived in, or at least partied in.  It was almost as if they’d set up their own little society here, deep in the forgotten depths of Celestia’s Ass.   Our escort shows us to a larger area where a dozen or so ponies are hanging out.  There’s a bar and a few bottles behind it.  This must be the place. “We drink for another day!” he calls, levitating the bottles we’ve brought to the bartender.  A cheer goes up around the room and the closest ponies give us a pat on the back.  Fortunately, none seem to notice our wings. Rainbow’s eyes drift over the crowd and lock on a couple of them who are hoof wrestling in the background.  “I’m gonna go over there and see what I can find out.  I can talk a good game.” “I didn’t know hoof wrestling came with much talk.” She shrugs.  “So I’ll just beat them and figure it out from there.” She heads over and I turn to the bar to see if there’s anything going on.  A couple of ponies are looking noticeably depressed, much different than the rest who seem to be in good spirits.  I think I recognize one from the flight deck. My eyes narrow of their own accord.  Is this the guy who almost got Rainbow and me killed? I slide closer.  He knocks back some whiskey and I gesture for the bartender to get him another one.  He glances at me and mumbles, “Thanks.” “What’s up with you?” I ask. “I’m here drowning my sorrows because I almost got a few ponies killed,” he replies.  Yep, this is definitely the guy. “How did that happen?” “Some pilots could have had accidents with their jets.” “What do you have to do with it?”  I’m genuinely interested in exactly how he screwed up, so I can make sure it doesn’t happen again. “It happened because I was drunk, from drowning my sorrows because I screwed up the maintenance records of some other jets.” “Vicious cycle, huh?” I say, but internally my mind raced.  Other jets?  Could this happen to somepony else? “Who else knows?” I ask. He shrugs.  “I don’t know.  Everyone’s got their own problems.” Like putting motor oil in the salad dressing dispenser or any number of other screwups we’ve seen.  Just how deep does this problem go? I glance around, trying to memorize faces.  When Rainbow and I bust this wide open, it’s going to be huge. Speaking of busting things, a loud crash from across the room followed by an even louder scream breaks the moment. I look back at LD and see her slide closer to some greasy looking stallion sitting at the bar, no doubt trying her best to squeeze him for info.  I know we came here to investigate, but there’s no way I’m gonna walk outta here without having some fun first, and hoof wrestling seems like the perfect way to start the night…  Maybe I’ll even get one of these wannabe meatheads to buy me a drink.   I walk up to the table where the stallions are trying to prove the worthiness of their stallionhood, just as the largest of them finishes slamming his smaller opponent to the deck.  Time to make this chump feel like a puny little colt.   “Hey there shipmate, mind if I get in on the next round? The stallion raises an eyebrow and looks me up and down, then says, “I don’t think you really wanna do that.” “What’s wrong, big guy?  Afraid you’re gonna lose?” “Big words, coming from a little filly.  You sure you wanna play with the stallions?  Ya’ might get hurt!” I look him right in the eye and slide up to the table, taking a seat and resting my foreleg on the smooth, metal surface.  He takes the bait and sets up for another match, not knowing that he’s about to get owned in front of all his little buddies.  Earth pony strength or not, me and LD do more pushups in one day than most ponies do in a month, bro.  All that training has paid off, not only do we both have irresistible sex appeal, but both of us are probably strong enough to give even Big Macintosh a run for his money when it comes to hoof wrestling. “Alright, seaman.  Are you ready to get your flank pounded by a filly?”  That one earns a chuckle out of his buddies. He looks back at his companions and scowls at them until they stop laughing.   “Your funeral, sweetflanks.” We lock hooves, and one of the other stallions places his hoof on top of ours, then starts the count. “Three. Two. One. GO!” As soon as he shouts go, the unofficial referee releases our hooves.  In that split second, I blast every ounce of strength I have into pulling my opponent’s foreleg closer, just enough to get it past center and gain the upper hoof.  The look of surprise on his face tells me that my plan is working.  I maintain eye contact, slowly forcing his hoof closer to the table.  He’s breaking a sweat, straining blood veins on his forehead, and grunting like he’s trying to squeeze one out after a solid diet of MREs for a few months. “So, still think you can beat me, sugarsausage?” He only grunts in reply, putting even more effort into winning a losing battle.  Poor guy didn’t realize what he was getting himself into. “I know this nice stallion back in Applesoosa that I think you’d really like.  I think he’d like you too…” Overinflated ego will soon be this stallion’s downfall.  He takes my bait, tensing up and using even more of his strength in a burst of rage.  Exactly what I wanted.  At this rate, he’ll burn out before I’m even starting to get tired.  Frustration intensifies as he struggles helplessly against my iron grip.   I look into my victim’s eyes and whisper just loud enough for him to hear, “I’ve got you…” His foreleg starts to tremble. “Right…” The strength of his grip slowly weakens. “Where…” I hold my gaze, watching his rage slowly burn away, just like the strength in his tired, weak muscles.  After several moments of losing ground, the reality of the situation slowly starts to force its way into his booze-addled mind.  The reality where he gets beat in front of all his buddies… By a mare! His eyes widen at the realization.   That’s when I make my move, letting my foreleg relax just a bit to throw him off, then slamming his hoof to the table with all my weight.   *CRASH* It is… far more effective than I had anticipated.  As soon as his hoof hits the tabletop, the stallion slips out of his chair and hits the deck, somehow dragging the whole table down with him.  Needles to say, he is very upset.  The irate sailor tosses the table aside and picks himself up to his hooves.  He takes a moment to set the table back up, then steps across to the opposite side and fixes me with a vengeful glare. “Alright, I ain’t never met no mare could wrestle hoof like that!  Just who in the hell are you, anyway?!” The stallion leans across the table and looks at my chest.  For a moment, I don’t realize what he’s doing, until I see him mouth the words “Pretty Posey.” His eyes go wide, then he rears up and stomps the deck as hard as he can. “WHAT THE BUCK IS GOING ON HERE? YOUR NAME AIN’T PRETTY POSEY!” My heart drops as soon as I realize what’s going on.  I look back at LD.  For a brief moment, we make eye contact.  The look in her eye seems to reflect exactly what’s going through my mind as well: What the buck have we just gotten ourselves into?  That’s when the stallion decided it would be a good time to let out his best war-cry and flip the table in my general direction. Of course, the table flipping did not go unnoticed by the rest of the drunken ponies hiding in the depths of Celestia’s Ass... no, not at all.  And judging by the looks on their faces, none of those drunken ponies seem very happy about it. I glance back at LD for just a moment, taking notice of the not at all calm look on her face.  Way to provide moral support, partner! I look around the room for a moment, searching for a way to buy time, trying to plan routes of escape... Anything! But, it seems there’s no escape to be had.  You know, in situations like these, I sometimes like to ask myself: “How would Daring Do get out of this if she were here?”  Unfortunately for me and Lightning Dust, this isn’t exactly the sort of problem Daring Do would have written about in her books.  I guess this one’s on me. The sound of drunken chatter raging in the background is dead, and all eyes are focused on the table flipping drunk… and me.  Great.  “What do you mean I’m not Pretty Posey?  My name’s right here!”  I point at the name tag on my chest and fix him with a deadly glare. The stallion trots over to me and snatches the name tag off of my suit.   “I mean exactly what I said, you ain’t Pretty Posey!  Would you like to know how I know you’re not Pretty Posey?”  He pauses for dramatic effect, looking around the room at all his dirt-loving mud buddies before returning his gaze to me. “Because Pretty Posey is my BUCKING MAREFRIEND!” Oh, horseapples.