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Moldy Barstools

Roaring cheers echoed in the distance. The sun dipped below the horizon, splashing the sky with a brilliant wash of fiery oranges and burning reds. A sea of tents snuggled down into the crook of that horizon and it drew further away. With it went the sounds of tankards clanking, ponies stomping and congratulating. Champagne was popped and beer was chugged. Even the little ones had room to go racing around their parents' hooves to chase after the millions of fireflies dancing in the air around them. Lanterns were lit to fill the fading sunlight just before it disappeared for good.

A long stretch of country road led away from the pit were everypony celebrated. Shielding away the fleeting fire above were tall, broad trees. They lined the country side for miles until they broke away into long stretches of farmland. Corn as tall as the ponies' heads and stretches of short bean fields met the eye and melded into the backdrop of trees; big pines and sturdy oaks with blazing red leaves in the middle. The clouds dotting the sky still bathed in the red glow above them and shined down upon the woods, giving them a silhouette of fire. The occasional farmhouse broke this illusion.

Further along the road it began to branch away into different streets. The homes became common and were replaced by small storefronts and market vendors. Dodge City came into being around the Pegasus as she went. Orange hooves clung to long black bars. Wings buzzing soundly, she rode smoothly through town. The board beneath her had begun to wear over time, pressing into her hooves to make them sore; a problem that was becoming far more apparent to the mare as she slowed to a stop for a traffic sign. All around her the vendors pushed their carts through the busy street. Most of them were heading home for the night but some veered for the local tavern. Scootaloo watched them all go with a quirk to her frown. "A cold berry punch sounds great right now." She lowered her head and swerved toward the street, kicking her hoof across the ground for a stop. Dust kicked up around her and billowed out with the wind.

The streetlamps were just turning on across the old city. Most of the architecture was Appaloosian. Old wood buildings hastily constructed and even worse maintained. It held a bitter rustic feel to it. Colors were muted and bland. Each storefront blended into one another so well that not even the elegantly carved signs at each door could tell them apart. It had a tone like the sand that dusted over the dirt roads; and a taste like it too. The tavern sported a creaky wooden porch that stood on stilts held up by a stack of old concrete blocks. Many of which had chipped away over the years and left the whole construction to sag to one corner. Rotten wood underhoof gave way with each step and slowly eased itself back into position. The moss growing around each board was slick to the touch and sent many ponies tripping down the two steps that remained of the short stairway. Heavy cobwebs in the corner of each beam along the railway held thick bundles of spiders, most dead but some that shook their webs angrily as Scootaloo approached.

She stepped past the short double doors and into the saloon. Heat welcomed her in its choking embrace. It hit her square in the chest, pressing around her like a tight coat that carried her over to the barstools. Fungus grew around the bottoms and squished when she sat down. Moisture clung to the once polished bar and oozed out from the leather seat under her.

The wall directly across held rows and rows of dusty old bottles. Half of them empty and the other half old as dust, nopony had so much as given them a glance since the bar's opening. The shelves sagged with their weight and some had finally given way, mashing the bottled together and cracking the ones below. The wood had been left to slowly rot and spill dirt onto the countertop below. This led up to the condemned balcony. The dull red carpeting was torn all the way up the grand staircases that twisted around the counter and lead to the missing space where the balcony should have been. In its place was an ever expanding hole that had at one point been patched with hastily nailed planks of wood. Glaringly yellow pieces of tape blocked the staircases. Some had been torn away and replaced dozens of times, as small bits of torn tarp flapped noisily in the breeze from the dozen heavy metal fans set up all around the bar.

Before the bar was a short carpeted area that held ten or so sets of tables and chairs. Old and overly-polished, they gleamed in the faint lights above them. Not four ponies occupied these tables while a hooffull sat at the bar. Its keeper stood on her haunches, leaning over the edge of her back counter and facing the biggest fan in the room. It tousled her bubbly purple mane and sent curly strands flying free from her tight bun. The twin pearls at her neck jostled against her darker fur and disappeared from sight. The fan billowed out dust and dirt from around her and down the counter, fanning out the strong liquor breath that clung to the moist air around them and kissed the back of Scootaloo's throat.

She unclipped her helmet and let her ears shake out. Drops of sweat flicked off her fur as she pounded a hoof on the counter. "Spiced ginger," she called to the bartender. The mare groaned and rolled over onto all fours to fetch the drink. Scoots swiveled around and took a look. Her muzzle crinkled despite her and her ears fell back. Each breath whistled through her nose and drove drops of sweat down her breast. Slowly, she put her hooves on her knees, shaking her head. "It's hot for fall being so close." She laughed as she turned to get her beer. "Thanks."

The mare gave her a curt hum and retreated to her fan.

"Hey Plum, you ever gonna wing by to get us something?" A few agitated gruffs came from a table in back. The bartender raised her snout.

"You ever gonna give me my money?" Her thick Manehattan accent belted out. Sharp blue eyes glared out into the tables. "Why I gotta get myself all the way out to you in this heat, eh?" Hoof on her hip, she stomped over to a busted old cooler and yanked out a few crisp bottles. Breaths of cold air leaked out across the counter and filled that corner with a bitterly short second of cold. Then the door was snapped shut as Plum walked toward the tables and the heat rushed back in to fill that second with another drag of pressing heat. "You'd better damn well appreciate that." She cracked it open on the corner of the table and handed the stallions their drinks.

Scootaloo sipped hers and swiveled toward another stool. A colt was hunched over his drink, hair darkening around his muzzle and deep bags under his eyes. A friend sat beside him and reached way over to pat his shoulder, ears back.

"Hey pal, it's just a race. Don't sweat it." The stallion took his hoof back and grimaced, wiping away the sweat on the barstool.

"I lost everything on that bet. Number 17 was gonna win it all for me!" He hit his head against the head of the bar. "He totals in the first fifty laps."

His friend watched him beat his head, gently reaching over and pushing the glass bottle in the way. The stallion paused and gave the glass a short look before snatching it back and downing a quarter of it. "That's why you don't bet on these stupid cart races."

"Yeah, you wanna place a good bet, do it in one'a them Wonderbolt flyers." An old coot with greying fur and a white mane raised his hoof. "I remember when they came about. And the ain't gone away yet, you know why?" The other bargoers groaned aloud. "Because it's real. There ain't no wheels or magic pushin' them forward, it's pure strength and will. That's how you tell a good race."

"You can't say there isn't any will in cart racing, though." A shy voice peeped up from the back.

Plum tossed her hooves. "Specs, d'ya have to encourage him?" Scootaloo turned to the Specs colt. He was fairly young, a face full of dark scruff and thin wire glasses. He sat at a lone table hunched over a rootbeer but now he looked at all of them, pushing his glasses further up his face.

Scoot eyed the bartender, the squeal in her chair as she turned almost drowning out the constant hum from the fans. Metal scraped against metal and drowned away her first words. "I agree with him."

"Huh?"

"I agree with Specs. It takes more than just fancy magicks to race in a cart." There was nothing to lean on so the filly leaned forward, her slick elbows sliding on the over-polished bar. "It takes a lot of heart."

"What do you know?" The stallion next to her spoke through his bottle, tipping it across his wet lips and smacking them, sending short little drops spraying out across the counter.

"I know it takes a lot of strength to turn that wheel. You ever been in a cart?"

"I've seen a few," Specs piped up, "I read about them down in Detrot. They were thought up by a young unicorn years back. He kept working out the idea for a motor machine that used stored magic to propel the wheels on an axel." The other stallions gave him a short glance. "I think his name was Motor Wheel."

Grandpa down the bar scoffed. "If they're so great, why can't I go cruising in my magic-run cart then?"

"Cause you're poor as dirt, Stamp Herd." Plum cracked at him. "Those things cost more bits than this bar is worth."

The others snorted. "That much couldn't buy you the gum under the railing."

"It does take a lot of skill." Specs brought it back around.

"And hoof-eye coordination." Scoots chimed in. She swiveled back to eye Specs, leaning against the bar. Flies buzzing around his drink had been left long enough to find themselves floating in it. A few buzzed away to spread the news and soon a couple of them returned to scope out the unattended cup. Specs had discarded it in favor for the talk, eagerly looking forward to the ponies at the bar. The others around him at the tables gave a half hearted listen and continued with their cards in the back, shaking their heads and mumbling to themselves. Scootaloo locked eyes with her young partner and shared a brief smile.

"I had a cousin who helped work on the racing carts." The drunk stallion's friend piped up. "He went on and on about the racers and the sport. Like it's some grand ol' step for earth ponies." He rolled his eyes and took a swig off his friend's bottle.

"How the hell'd he figure that one out?"

Specs eagerly sat forward. "Because the biggest races are all ones sponsored by the Wonderbolts."

"-ragged group 'a rotten feathers they are-"

"All of the races and shows they put on are all about the flyers and the pegasi but the earth ponies didn't have anything until just now."

The old stallion rolled back in his chair, the only one with a sturdy back. He tapped his hooves on his round belly and pricked his ears. "Really now? That's interesting. Why don't you tell me how many earth ponies run in this bold new sport?"

"Pegasi can drive too."

"That's how I get around." Scoots buzzed her wings for them to see. "My scooter's out front."

"Yeah yeah," the drunk friend suddenly lifted his sorry head back up. "Wasn't it just today that some pegasus totaled his cart?" Heat flared around Scootaloo's chest. It thrust into her with almost enough force to knock her off her barstool. Color rushed to her hot cheeks and burned beneath the orange fur. Sweat broke across her brow, leaping from strand to strand of fur until plummeting to the floor. She shifted in her seat, squeezing out the water it soaked up and feeling it run down around her thighs.

Specs nodded. "Number 48, wasn't it?"

"I feel sorry for that poor sod."

"I feel sorry for all of the drivers."

The bottle Scootaloo had been nursing suddenly felt cold in her hoof, even though it hadn't been cold to begin with. She ducked her head low, depositing a few bits onto the counter. They slid out across, a few clattering to the floor on the other side. With a short breath, she chugged the last of her bottle and slipped toward the door. In the brief thirty seconds she had excused herself from the conversation, it had swelled into a heated debate over the number of the broken carts.

The bartender looked over from the pile of bits. "Leaving so soon, hon?"

Scoots paused and nodded, hiding under her mane. "Uh, yeah, Rainbo- Uh, m-my sister, needs me. Can't stay out too long." She gave a quick shrug and whipped around.

Specs already gave up in bringing the topic back around and was eyeing his drink with something of mild dismay. They shared a fleeting glance before she backed out the door and flew herself over the moldy, sunken railing.

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