It has always struck me as odd how other ponies can get such upstanding talents. Most ponies get things like baking, farming, teaching: things that are useful in the Equestrian utopia. It makes a talent like the ability to lie rather depressing.
My name is Silver Tongue. I am a white earth pony, and my cutie mark is a piece of silver thread. Contrary to what my clients believe, it symbolized my uncanny ability to make horrible items sell for exorbitant rates, not my needlework.
I am not a tailor or a barber or anything of particular note. I was, for the better part of my life, a sad, miserable con pony. I swindled, lied, and cheated ponies out of their hard-earned bits. In short, I was a stain, and that’s where my story begins. Of course, there was no better place to find stains than a Manehatten bar.
I would always regret conning ponies with little bits to their names, so I often set my sights on higher-class ponies. I never did think too far ahead, to see where conning hundreds if not thousands of ponies with enough combined wealth to purchase the entire city of Manehatten and more.
I must have been in my late twenties. I had just pulled off one of the difficult jobs of my miserable career, selling an uppity Canterlot pony a dress made by ‘The Great Rarity’. The joke was on them. I found that star-spattered monstrosity in the trash and made a boatload of bits off it. For the longest time, I believed those individuals couldn’t do much, and after this job, I figured I’d treat myself.
“You want the usual, Silver?” The bartender asked. He was a nice fellow, a couple years younger than me. Still, he didn’t judge me too quickly for my profession.
“Nah, I’ll have the good stuff this time,” I responded with a sly smile.
He laughed, “Alright, then. Who’d you swindle this time?”
“Just some Canterlot snob," I said with a wave of my hoof, "You know, a pony who thinks he's more important than he is.”
“Heh. Right. So, what’cha want?”
I smiled smugly, “Get me the best cider you’ve got.”
The bartender smiled as he wiped off a glass, “That’ll be from Sweet Apple Acres: home-brewed stuff, not that mass-produced garbage.” I tossed a few bits onto the counter, and the bartender eyed them greedily. A smile creeped across his face as he slid them into the register. “One Sweet Apple cider, comin’ up!”
As he turned to pour the drink, I spared a glance down the table. A few seats down, a dark blue pony sat hunched over the table. He wasn’t a unicorn, but the pony bore a long black cloak which covered his body down to the hooves, making it difficult to narrow down further. In front of him sat several empty glasses, which he glared at coldly.
“What’s that guy’s problem?” I whispered to the barkeep.
He, too, glanced at the strange figure before turning back to me, “I don’t know. He marched on in here a little bit ago, mutterin’ somethin’ about a meeting with somepony. I dunno, but I’d think whatever it is, it’s pretty shady to be meeting here in that garb.”
“Aren’t you supposed to do something about suspicious ponies?” I asked with casual interest.
He shrugged, “Not my problem. Besides, I let you in here.”
“Oh, ha ha,” I responded with a roll of my eyes. I turned back to the suspicious pony. Funnily enough, his eyes were now focused on me. “Hey, buddy,” I quickly said, “Had a rough night?”
His glare did not falter. He slid off his barstool a lot stiffer than any normal pony who’d had that many drinks. He stepped toward me. My heart was racing with fear, but I maintained an expression of slight confusion.
He moved closer until he was around a foot away from my face. A glance into his cloak showed a small metal rod wrapped in leather, protruding slightly from the cloak’s neck.
The bartender was rapidly looking between that other pony and myself, “Sir, would you please step away from him. If you’re gonna fight, do it outside.”
I shot a glare at the bartender as my chest pounded with fear. I’d never been in a fight before, and I did not plan on ending that streak. “Hey, what’re you drinking?”
He pointed at my glass of cider. “That,” he answered.
I smiled kindly, “Alright, how about I get you one?”
He responded coolly, “It’s not about the drink, Silver Tongue.”
If I were not already ice-white, one could say I paled at his statement. Despite a now white-hot fear, I attempted to cool down the situation, “Alright. Now this is getting creepy. How do you know my name?”
The taller stallion’s expression did not once change. It maintained the stoic coldness that could have frozen a wendigo.
It's about respect for those more powerful than you. For example, my client happens to be rather upset with you-” At this point, I was searching for an exit.”-and it seems as though you have offended him personally.”
“Whatever he’s paying, I’ll double it,” I fearfully blurted.
The stallion snorted, his creepily cold expression now bearing a small smile. “Trust me," he scoffed, "You couldn’t afford it,” he said as his gaze finally left me.
I was almost relieved before his teeth clamped down on the metal rod stuffed into his cloak and pulled a shimmering blade out of its holster.
My facade dropped. The stallion’s unflinching expression twisted as he brought the blade down across my face. I jerked, the blade to slicing a deep gash into my cheek.
As a burst of pain erupted from my face, the bartender yelled something unrecognizable at the other pony. Every instinct in my body told me to run: a demand I obeyed diligently. The stallion twisted around to roll fate’s die once again, and I bolted past him into the panicked crowd.
In movies, the hero spent their time escaping thinking about the villain or what they did wrong, but this wasn't a movie. The only things going through my mind were obscenities and a silent prayer that I would suddenly sprout a horn and teleport away.
Unfortunately, neither helped, and no faster than I made it halfway to the door, the stallion turned and shot toward me. Sparing a glance back as I bolted outside, I saw the stallion skid out behind me. He quickly scanned the street before his eyes met mine, and he leapt into the air.
Of course it’s a pegasus, I thought to myself. The stallion glided over the crowd as I barreled through it. I took another look over my shoulder in time to watch him stop and leap onto a nearby building. I watched the skies warily as I continued my sprint.
I ducked into an alley and slowed, panting. I had never had to run that way since I was a foal, and it was not a pleasant experience. I watched the crowd behind me, then the buildings overhead. I breathed a sigh of relief before stopping at the opposite end of the alley.
I stood in silence for what felt like an eternity before a sharp pain lanced across my cheek, along the deep gash in which I dust regained feeling. I carefully covered the cut with a hoof, wincing as the dirt from my hoof made its way in. As I slowly made my way through the town, a small trickle of crimson fluid dripped around my hoof onto the concrete below.
A cold breeze whipped down the narrow road, sending candy wrappers and plastic bags tumbling past me. It was almost like something out of a movie, but pure, unadulterated fear shot through my brain. Adrenaline was likely the only thing keeping me from collapsing.
I frantically leapt through my thoughts, searching for some reason, some pony who would want to do something like this. Unfortunately, there was a lot to check. I’d conned hundreds of ponies, and I had no clue how or why any sane pony would do something like this!
After all, this was a world where ponies could solve all their problems with friendship! No, this couldn’t be happening. I couldn’t have pissed somepony off that much. Could I?
No. No, this is probably just some kind of misunderstanding. Nopony would do something like this to some miserable con pony, right?
I let out a deep breath, my breaths returning somewhat to normal. My eyes darted across the shadows, pausing at the slightest movements. I trotted along hesitantly, unsure of what to do next.
As if answering my question, a voice whispered into my ear: a calm, but urgent voice which made my heart race even faster. The voice said only one word: “Run!”