Hard Chicagoat Nights: The Zebra and the Priest

by Brasta Septim

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"Ite, missa est." Several hours later, the Mass, and Brasta's day, ended, and Brasta trotted his way out of the church. It was only 3 in the afternoon, but he was tired. Tired, and hungry. Having finally extricated himself from a throng of his parishioners exiting the church, he made his way down Siena Street, too tired to care what kind of dining establishment he was looking for. He glanced from side to side as he headed along the street, his saddlebag loaded with enough money to get some food. The sun was beating down on the street, absorbed by his black cassock, and he wasn't paying the slightest attention where he was going.

It was this time that Zeke found himself along the same street for entirely different reasons. He rolled back and forth on his hooves, muttering under his breath to himself, the carriage stop bench he sat on unflatteringly, boringly well-kept. Where was that Pinto...

After ten minutes of waiting, Zeke leaned back in the bench, growling. Great. His friend was probably found and locked up or something. Typical. Hopefully he'd be out by the morning, but that was one more day without a fix, and... Well, he could wait. There wasn't really much withdrawal to stopping. Still, Zeke's entire schedule sort of revolved around this. Get a bit before the gig, go home and have a bit more, save the rest for later. That always worked out. Today? The pinto was late.

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Brasta continued walking along the street, panting slightly. God, this was not a good day to wear black. Looking around for a place to eat, he realised that this was probably not a good place to eat anyway. The only people around seemed to be him, and an empty bus stop. Sighing, he walked towards the bus stop- and walked right into a bench with a loud clang.

If there was nothing holding Zeke's fur to his body, he would have jumped straight out if it. He hopped off of the bus stop on all fours, his eyes wide as he glanced about. "Who's there? Whacha want?!"

Brasta stood up with a groan. "Sweet Theotokos of Kursk, all I did was walk into a bench, I swear! Don't take my-" He stopped as he laid eyes on the occupier of the bench, still a little dazed. "Huh?"

Zeke's wide eyes practically bulged out of his head as he processed his accoster. One may have heard his brain physically ticking before he stood up straight, trying to relax his face as much as he could. "Sir," he murmured.

Brasta shook his head slightly to clear it. "Zeke? What are you doing out here?"

"Oh, nothin', man, nothin'. Just meetin' an old friend or two, right?"

Brasta looked confused for a second, then smiled. "Oh. Okay. I'm just looking for a place to eat. Didn't mean to bump into you."

Zeke chuckled. "Hey, it's cool. Just, uh, guess I'll see ya tomorrow night. Have you seen a Pinto colt around here? Kinda small, scrawny, a bit twitchy?"

Brasta frowned, and glanced around for a minute. "No, I'm afraid not."

"Damn," Zeke growled. "Damn, damn, damn. Well, if ya see him, holler, alright? Les' he got his stupid ass caught..."

Brasta's eyebrow went up at the last bit of that sentence, but nodded his head. "Alright, I will."

"Cool," Zeke said, curtly. "Well... Err..."

Brasta was suddenly at an awkward position- he was just standing there, quietly. Not moving. "Erm... I..."

"Yeah."

"Yeah." Well, this really was awkward. "Errm, see you tomorrow."

"Okay."

With that, Brasta continued on his way, hoping to Heaven he would find somewhere to eat.

And with that, Zeke was still stuck in the bus stop waiting for his weed stallion.

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The next evening, Brasta was fine. Perfectly, absolutely, anxiety-free fine. So fine he was pacing up and down the floor of his living room. It's not like he was worried Zeke wouldn't be able to find his way back. Nope. Not at all. That certainly was not the case, by any means imaginable. He sighed, straightening his mane meticulously. He was in his usual street clothes of black vest and white collar, so he had no reason to worry too much about attire. But for some reason his nervous energy was just running high. "Theotokos, St. Katherina, St. Michael, St. Gabriel, St. Barsanuphius, help me." he groaned, taking a break from pacing to sink into his armchair. He knew it; Zeke wouldn't be able to find his way back...
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
The taxi carriage stopped in front of St. Katherina's, and Zeke hopped out, a comb stuck in his mane at a haphazard angle. "Shit, I'm late," he murmured. "Shit, shit, shit..."

The door of the rectory practically burst open as Zeke rushed in, pulling on his hat, eyes open all the way for the first time that day. "Alright... Which room was his?..."

Brasta nearly jumped out of his fur, startled by the sound of his door flying open. "Blagoslovi dushe moya Gospoda- oh, it's just you." He paused at the doorframe of the living room to see Zeke.

Zeke panted slightly under his breath, but smiled, playing it cool. "Hey," he murmured, leaning against the doorframe. "So we're goin', then?"

Brasta nodded, repressing a slight chuckle. "Yes, I suppose. Shall we?" he gestured towards the door.

Zeke nodded. "Lead the way," he murmured, opening to door for Brasta.

Brasta smiled and headed out, shutting the door behind Zeke and heading towards their destination.

Zeke walked alongside the priest, whistling through his teeth, his eyes wandering for a topic of conversation.

Brasta glanced over at the zebra. "Errm... so... any new gigs lately?"

"Nah," Zeke murmured. "Last night was a big one. Got some good moolah from that.”

Brasta smiled. "Really? Great for you. Do your gigs often pay that well?"

Zeke frowned. "Nope," he murmured. "But I take what I can get."

There was a moment of silence before Brasta broke it with a slight chuckle. "I know what you mean. I don't get paid too much myself- just a small salary from the ponies at the Church headquarters in Canterlot, plus a stipend for major services- funerals, weddings, etcetera."

"Where do they get the cash?" Zeke queried, with a raised brow.

Brasta shrugged. "Donations. Not to mention, the Church in Roama has some valuable property in Bitalia that it sells a bit of when in need of cash."

"Wish I could pull the whole real estate game," Zeke mused.

The priest smirked. "Become a religion spread across most of the northern shore of the Mediterraneighan Sea, and you can."

"Please, man, once I get my break, I'm gonna be a worldwide sensation, just you wait!" Zeke cackled, taking a few excited steps forward. "It's gonna be from food on the table to choosin' which Armareni suit I'mma wear for dinner!"

"Oh, I bet you will, attitude like that." Brasta said with a chuckle. "Reach for the top and don't look back, eh?"

Zeke looked over at him with a slight frown. "Well, I mean, ya gotta look back, right?" he mused, "Cause there's all those folks that helped ya get there..."

"Of course, but I mean optimism-level speaking." Brasta said, trying to explain himself.

"Oh... Well, hells yeah, then."

"Thought so."

______________________________________________________________________________

The two of them soon arrived at their destination. "Err... you first?"

Zeke nodded, walking in, raising his head in the air and strutting in like he owned the place, smiling widely.

Brasta followed after him, trying to imitate the zebra's attitude and only managing to appear slightly nervous.

The bar was, unsurprisingly, filled with a wide variety of ponies. Tourists and local flavours alike filled it up to maximum capacity, Zebrican masks hanging from the walls, glaring down at the bar's occupants. Chuckling, Zeke trotted up to the bar, looking back at Brasta with a smile on his face.

"See, what ya gotta do is not buy his bullshit," He cried over the loud clamor of the small space.

Brasta nodded. "I see that. If I did, it'd leave a rather large hole in my pocketbook, I'd imagine."

And soon enough, the Zebrikaans-heavy sound of the loud Zebrican bartender was heard.

"Hallo to jou, broer! Wat kan ek get jou en jou vriend today?"

"Frankie, it's me. You can cut it out," Zeke chuckled, taking a seat at the bar.

"Damn it, Zeke, you always ruin my fun." The bartender said, pouting slightly as he dropped into General Equestrian.

"I just don't have the patience for it," Zeke muttered. "Gimme and my friend here somethin' to start the evenin' with."

He glanced towards the priest behind Zeke, smirking. "Alright. By the way, who's your 'corn friend? He looks a little gloomy in that outfit."

"Brasta. He's fidgety," Zeke murmured with a smile.

"I can see that." he said, pulling out a bottle of whisky and a couple glasses.

Brasta looked over at Zeke, frowning slightly. "I am not fidgety." he muttered.

"Then why ya fidget so much?" Zeke chuckled, punching his friend's shoulder.

Brasta rolled his eyes. "Just because I fidget a bit does not mean I'm FIDGETY." After a moment of silence and an amused smirk from Zeke, he continued. "Okay, maybe a little. But it's because I'm always this way around packed places."

"Get used to it if we're gonna hang more. Lotta folk show up for gigs."

"I figured that. I suppose I'll just grin and bear it." he said, frown curling into a small smile.

"Hey... If you don't wanna, man, we can go to more quiet places later on."

Brasta shook his head. "Nah, it's cool. Got to learn to try new things, right?"

"I suppose..." On that note, the bartender handed them their whiskeys. Zeke nodded his thanks, swinging back his head and taking a draught from the bottle. "Mmmh!"

Brasta raised an eyebrow, and simply poured a glass before downing it.

"Say what you will about the decor, but that's a damn good whiskey," Zeke sighed, smacking his lips.

"On that we can agree." Brasta nodded.

"So. About you. Gimme a basic overview."

"Ermm..." Brasta thought for a second. Where to start? "Well... my mother's from East Canterlot, my father's Bitalian. I grew up in a nice house in Belhoof Gardens here in Chicagoat. I went to seminary- priest's training school- at Roama, and came back here 4 years later."

"Belhoof Gardens? Shit... Your folks musta been minted."

Brasta shrugged. "We were fairly well off, at least. Mum is a jeweler, ran a major chunk of the gem trade back in Canterlot."

"And your pops?"

"That's kind of how they met. Dad was an engineer at an emerald mine in the mountains in between Bitalia and Equestria, and she was looking for quality gems. And as she says at every anniversary, she found one." Brasta snorted slightly

Zeke gagged, taking another draught of whiskey. "Man, if your folks say that kinda shit all the time, we're gon' need more whiskey."

Brasta chuckled. "Yet another thing we can agree on; fortunately, however, they don't." He glanced skywards, mouthing thank you God, before he looked over at the zebra. "And what about you?"

"Well..." Zeke murmured. "I was born in the city... Grew up in Hay Park for a bit, but then my pa lost his job. Brother was a doctor... He figured opening up a private practice in Anglewoods was a good idea since he'd be rolling in work. It was rough, but we got by."

Brasta gave him a sympathetic look. "And your mum? Straight out of South Zebrica, or...?"

"Straight out of East Zebrica, yeah. She was kinda... Y'know... Kinda used to it. Pa wasn't. Their practice was pretty unique. Zebra magic and medicine go hand in hand..."

"Oh, East Zebrica? I'm only familiar with the South, thanks to the bunch of Equestrian and Dutch settlers down there that show back up here from time to time." Brasta looked away for a second, embarrassed by the outburst. "Sorry, sorry, didn't mean to interrupt."

"Yeah, the east is where all the rough stuff goes down. Needless to say, Momma saw a whole bunch of things ponies shouldn't. She thought she could away..."

"Well, Chicagoat has to be somewhat more peaceful than East Zebrica, right? I mean, sure my Bitalian parishioners fight with the Eirish parishioners every time we have a festival, and sometimes the Rusyn Orthodox immigrants from Stalliongrad make trouble with the locals here, and the occasional broken window in the rectory when they decide to raid the bakery to battle each other in the streets, and..." Brasta frowned. "Okay, I see your point."

"Pfft. You ponies got it bad, maybe, but they call it Chi-Raq for a reason down where we live. Zebra and Pinto gangs are just... Damn. As long as you're a zebra, the zebra gangs don't fucks with you, but Pintos... Damn. Just stay outta their territory."

Brasta raised an eyebrow. "Wasn't the friend you were looking for the other day a Pinto?"

"Ah, now, Pete's different. He grew up in Zebra territory. Was a mole of a sort for a bit but he's cleanish now."

"Ah." Brasta decided against inquiring further at 'cleani-ish.'

"So..."

"So..." Well, this was awkward again.

Zeke took another draught of whiskey, sighing. "So you cuddle colts."

Brasta's face turned a lovely shade of magenta as he nearly choked on his own whiskey. "Errm... in theory, and potentially, yes. I haven't actually gotten the, errm, opportunity to do any cuddling, or well, anything else..." He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Don't make a difference," Zeke said defiantly.

Brasta shifted a bit more. "Err... you mean that in a good way or a bad way?"

Zeke smiled. "Man, I wouldn't hold a gig in a gay bar if I was lookin' for trouble that way. Keep cool."

Brasta's face relaxed. "Oh. Erm... nevermind then..."

"But you've never had a lover?"

Brasta stared into his glass. "Not really. The Church kind of disapproves of gay ponies, so I've kept my nose and record clean, so to speak."

"Oh." Zeke took a cautious sip of whiskey. "Why would you do something your religion doesn't like?"

Brasta, as usual, fidgeted. "I.. don't necessarily agree. I think they may be right, but... I'm not entirely sure. I've tried to figure where I stand, and well..." he took a breath. "I figure as long as I'm not engaging in extreme debauchery, I'm safe, spiritually speaking."

"I see. So nothin' with ropes, then," Zeke murmured with a grin.

Brasta's face turned a shade of red so deep someone passing by would have thought he'd been dumped headfirst into a paint can. "Erm... yeah, about right."

Zeke cackled, swinging down some more whiskey. "Hah! That's gotta blow, man! You're young and wild and free and all that!"

Brasta rolled his eyes before giving his companion a mock-stern glare. "I may be young, but do I really seem that wild to you? Also, not really, because it allows me more time to focus on my duties."

"I guess I know what you mean," Zeke chuckles. "I ain't got time for romance either..."

Brasta chuckled. "Yeah, but that's because you're busy wubbing your flanks and ears off. A bit more time occupying, especially when finding gigs, I imagine"

"Wubbing? Shit, man, that's that pony-ass unicorn dubshit bullshit," Zeke grumbled. "Show some respect to hip-hop."

Brasta shrugged. "Considering the music I'm usually around is at least 300 years old, it's difficult for me to tell the difference."

"You don't listen to any new stuff?" Zeke murmurs.

"Unless I'm going to a bar and hear it being played? No."

"Well, on most accounts, you ain't missin' out on much," Zeke chortles, taking another swig.

"I'll take your word for it." Brasta said, taking another sip of his own whiskey.

Zeke took another swig, sighing. "So what's your taste, then?"

"My taste? Usually, anything with an orchestra, or loud, solemn-sounding chanting in a foreign language, or some combination thereof-"

"I meant in stallions," Zeke said with a wink. "You like big guys, or are ya in favor of the more feminine kind?"

"Oh." Brasta, to his credit, did not turn scarlet this time. "I suppose a little bit of both. I mean, the feminine kind of stallions have a certain allure to them, though they lack the... how do I put it? More strong, protective, 'gentle giant' appeal you get from the bigger guys. Even if the bigger kinda blokes scare me just a little..." he muttered under his breath.

"How 'bout a big 'bloke' with a feminine touch?"

"Hmmm... that sounds like a good compromise, actually. Though forgive my lingo- you forget, I picked up a fair bit of my mother's Canterlot terminology."

“Where do I stand in this stuff, then?" Zeke chuckled.

This time, Brasta's face did, predictably at this point, colour slightly. "W-What exactly do you mean?"

"Uhh... Nothin'." Zeke giggled nervously. "Forget I said anything, man."

"No, I just want to know what you meant."

"Uhm... Nothin'. Nothin' at all."

"Errm... well..." Cue yet another awkward moment of silence. "I suppose you fall into the not particularly feminine, but not exactly macho and musclebound, sort of, erm... exotic category, so to speak?"

"Exotic?" Zeke looked at his bottle intently, as if expecting for it to refill itself. "Huh. Mama always said I was special."

Brasta found himself absentmindedly tapping his hoof on the floor anxiously. "Errm... well, don't all mothers?" he asked, hoping that the nervousness had not entered his voice once again.

"My mama didn't rhyme it," Zeke said with a nod. "That's how I know she meant it."

"Oh, I had no doubt she meant it-" he said nervously, backpedaling furiously in hopes he hadn't just screwed up to the nth degree.

"Well, how bout your mama? How does she say it?" Zeke huffed.

"Well, she just says usually 'you're my little star sapphire' or something equally sappy."

Zeke raised his eyebrows, taking a draught of whiskey. "Aw, man..."

Brasta leaned forward onto the table in embarrassment. "Look, I already told you my parents are VERY sappy..."

"Just tell me that it's bearable when intoxicated, and we're good," Zeke cackles, taking another swig only to find the bottle empty. Glancing at it in confusion, Zeke rolls his eyes, placing it down on the counter. "Another," he calls to the waiter, sighing.

Brasta rolled his eyes. "I survived 24 years of it in first-person contact without a drop."

"I wouldn't, man," Zeke sighed. "I wouldn't."

Brasta smirked. "And that is why your alcohol tolerance is obviously higher than mine." he said, gesturing to the one glass he was still sipping, then to the empty bottle of whiskey on the table.

Zeke cackled. "Man, you gotta drink more often. Ya build that shit up."

The priest mock glared at him. "I'm a Bitalian priest, not an Eirish one. The only thing I'm used to drinking is a little brandy or gin while relaxing at home."

"I'm at clubs a lot. So that's one way..." Zeke shook his head. "Wonder what kinda drunk you are..."

Brasta eyed his glass as if it was going to punch him. "I got drunk once at that coltcuddler bar... once. Apparently I'm the 'happy drunk' type."

"How happy? What happened?"

"Apparently I flirted with this Eirish distillery worker, who apparently turned out to be one of my parishioners who was just bringing in a new crate of whiskey... boy, that was difficult to explain." He snickered at the memory, in retrospect. "First time he'd ever seen 'Father Brasta' in a gay bar and pissed off his sorry priestly arse, and he assumed I was attempting to save some souls by joining in the revelry. We agreed to never speak of that incident again."

"Was he good lookin'?" Zeke murmured. "Big, rugged-seemin' dock workin' Eirish..."

Brasta blushed. "Well, he was fairly handsome... even through whiskey goggles."

"If I didn't ruddy hate 'em for hurtin' my mom, I'd be tappin' Eirish all day, brother. They got some fine mares in that lot."

Brasta rolled his eyes. "Believe me, you wouldn't agree if you'd seen some of my pari- wait, what about your mom?"

"Nothin'," Zeke said, before he turned his head to shout over his shoulder. "Yo, Pete! Get your striped ass over here and get my ass some whiskey!"

"On it Zeke!" the zebra waiter shouted back, bringing another bottle.

Zeke grabbed the bottle before it hit the bar, grunting as he pulled the cap off and swung it to the ceiling, practically chugging the volatile liquid down.

Brasta just watched the chugging dubiously. "Really Zeke? That's single-malt whiskey, not a bottle of water."

Zeke slammed the bottle onto the counter, burping uproariously. "Eff you," he murmured. "It's drink! D-Drink and... Alright, I... Thhiiink the brain-centre is a... A bit... muddied." He slumped in his chair, sighing. "Anyways. Parisshishish. Keep talkin' bout it. Who's in it?..."

Brasta just looked at him, wondering if having this conversation with a pissed zebra was a good idea. "Well, you have the usual crowd- the steel mill and dock workers, the seamstresses from the cloth mills and garment factories, their kids, the local generic "doctor, lawyer, engineer' crowd. In total, about 2000 people on the register."

"Right," Zeke murmured. "Okay. So any fine mares?"

Brasta shrugged. "Single? A few Bitzantine, Hispanhoofian, and Eirish mares- maybe, 60 in total. Mostly because their parents haven't asked me to marry them off yet."

"Whoa, wait, what? I thought... That... That that that arranged tosh died out, like, a hundred... Century ago or somethin'," Zeke slurred, raising an eyebrow.

"It has. Doesn't mean the parents still don't try to arrange things, anyway."

"So... You turn 'em back the uvver way."

"I'm a priest; it's in my job description that I can only marry willing couples. And thank goodness for that, too."

"I don't imagine you've married two stallions," Zeke asked.

Brasta shook his head. "Once, and it was a very low-key wedding."

"Awww," The zebra said. "That's so... Romantic or some shtuff."

Brasta smiled slightly, repressing the urge to snicker at the choice of words. "That's one way to put it, but yes."

Zeke looked into his drink, scanning it, pleading with it for a subject of conversation as Brasta cleared his throat. "So... where's your next gig?"

"I do local stuff, man," Zeke chuckled. "So like... I dunno. Some club up in Anglewood. Not the friendliest place, but I'll live. Been in worse places."

Brasta raised an eyebrow. "Anglewood? Isn't that the Rusyn side of town, chock-full of Stalliongraders?"

"No, man. That's Gangland. It's where the Pinto gangs and the zebra gangs clash the most. Lotta poverty and shit."

Brasta frowned, then promptly found his hoof colliding with his forehead. "Oh- THAT's why my parishioners stay clear of there. I remember asking several of them to find some volunteers down there for a parish soup kitchen, and they said flat-out no."

"They got they own soup kitchens, if ya know what I'm sayin'!" Zeke cackles, slapping a knee, coughing on his whiskey. "Nmmh... Damn..."

The priest looked more than a little alarmed. "Err, Zeke, I think that might be enough whiskey for one night..."

"Hey, brother, all I did was choke!" Zeke gagged, shaking his head. "I think I'm... Good."

Brasta frowned, a slightly incredulous look on his face. "The slurring says otherwise."

"Hey," Zeke reassured, "The night is still young."

Brasta snorted. "The night may still be young, but it's easier to enjoy it when you're a tad more sober."

"Man," Zeke purred, "That's your philosophy. Now... Thankfully, I'll still prolly remember this, so..."

The priest sighed in exasperation. "Oh, have it your way then. Where to next, then, Mr. "The night is still young?"

Zeke’s head was resting on the table, slightly woozy. "Man... Wherever, man. Wherever..."

"You'll have to be a bit more specific than that." Brasta said, trying to get an answer out of him.

"Err... Do you do strip clubs?"

Brasta fixed him with a rather stern look. "I'm a priest. I try to avoid places that my more lewd parishioners would go to. I do have to set some kind of example."

Zeke tilted his head, thinking for a moment, then shook it. "Naah. I ain't feelin' it either... Huh. Ain't much to do as an adult 'cept eat shit and drink liquor..."

"Isn't there something you like to besides eat and drink? You know, something that you really like to do, but never really get the chance?"

"...I dunno, man," Zeke murmured. "Uhhh... We could go to see a film?"

Brasta smiled at the thought; a film. God, he couldn't remember the last time... "Sure. Anything particular in mind?"

"Just... a movie."

The priest sighed. "Alright then- nearest cinema's off of Marino Street. Though..." he looked at the bottle of whiskey. "You might want to pay for the drinks before we go."

"Yeah, yeah, no prob," Zeke murmured, pulling his wallet from under his hat and pulling out two twenties, leaving them on the bar. "Fuck it. Keep the change. Let's go."

Brasta glanced back for a moment, before following the zebra out the door and into the Chicagoat night once more.

Comments

[Guy_Incognito]

I really like this so far. The setup seems a bit cliche, but, the way you handled the characters meeting and the back and forth between the larger-than-life Zeke and the humble hero Brasta really sold it. I'm not sure what, if anything, you have planned but I see a lot of conflict coming from Brasta's public life and his private one?

Your writing style is good, it never weighs down with meticulously detailed dumps, nor is it too light in places. It all sort of just flows naturally. Which is good.

All in all, I'd say this is an excellent start to a story I'm looking forward to reading more about.

[Vivid Syntax]

I liked this chapter. It can be tough to sustain dialogue for that long, but it never felt like it was dragging. I was a little put off whenever you flat-out told the audience that the moment was getting awkward - you were doing a fine job of showing it, and point it out seemed redundant.

"Err... Do you do strip clubs?"
Brasta fixed him with a rather stern look. "I'm a priest. I try to avoid places that my more lewd parishioners would go to. I do have to set some kind of example."

I fee like I've had a similar conversation very, very recently...