Verse Averse: Tales of the Versebreakers

by horizon

The Badge (Orbiting Kettle)

A blade of Celestia’s sun slices through the penumbra in my office, specks of dust dancing in it, shadows of fireflies without a worry in the world. It is a spotlight shining on the amber-filled glass, the centerpiece of the mess that is my worn-down desk. It shimmers like liquid gold, the sweet smell of apples fighting the ever-present scent of dust and broken dreams.

I light a twisted cigarette, trying to to control the shivering. Little-known fact: Equestria has a tobacco industry, a small cadre of family companies that supplies the few ponies in high-pressure jobs, those that retire early or crack. Nurses, hotel workers, psychiatrists, and, at the end, those like me, Versebreakers. A small market of trusty customers.

I take a deep breath of the aromatic smoke, let it linger in my lungs, and then blow it out again. I hate the taste.

A few minutes pass. My hoof is firm again. I close my eyes, then open them. I reach for the glass and gulp it down, the sweet cider caressing my throat. My stomach churns a bit. Should have probably eaten something, or at least I should probably chug down better stuff. I stare at the drops still in the glass. Years ago I wouldn’t touch anything less than Sweet Apple Acres Reserve, today on the other hoof…

I shake my head. Nothing good lies down that road.

I am thirsty again. As I shuffle through the chaotic contents of my desk drawer, looking for a non-empty bottle, I stumble upon an old photo. Damn. I pull the picture out along with a bottle of “Old Pony Swig’s Almost Real Cider.”

Dammit, the saxophone starts to wail. I don’t need that now. I don’t need it ever. The bittersweet melody surrounds me, it flows through me, and I can’t do anything to stop it. No words, nothing to throw a wrench into.

Wiggly Stanza looks back at me, smiling in his new uniform, fresh out from the academy, hope in his eyes. I pour another glass. Sweet Celestia, I loved him. They try to hammer it home when they train you. Never fall in love, the job is hard enough without emotional strings attached. A tear runs down my muzzle, falls in the glass.

I raise it for Stanza. They got him last year. Tried to break a raving Freestyler. That guy used some newfangled metric from Griffinstan, something we are never prepared for. The music reaches its apex. It’s our song.

Stanza deserves a bit of respect. I drink, slowly this time. The salty touch frames my mood perfectly.

I see him with that crooked grin on his face. Never understood how one can seem so seedy and honest at the same time. We are sitting in the soft light of the lanterns hanging from the roof of the Café Minoian. There’s a bottle of the good stuff between us, two empty glasses, mine is chipped, ice cubes are melting. He was just promoted, broke down a whole parade, the thing was going for minutes when he reached it. He was good. He would have become chief in his district, given time. He...

I got lucky. Being a Versebreaker for the court is comparatively easy. Canterlot is calm and collected. Not like that hellhole, Ponyville. I heard stories.

I think about Rose Song. She whimpers. Between the sobs she recounts a tale of the Pink Terror, ponies hopping on tattered roofs, a week-long streak of unbroken songs.

My cigarette has burned down to a small ashen worm. Time to get back to work. I take the manila folder, open it.

Well, what do we have here? Flim and Flam, brothers apparently, a few previous encounters with the law, repeat offenders. Folk rhymers. Should be easy, I can probably use all the traditional words.

Somepony knocks on my door. The dust-stained frosted glass shows only a silhouette. It’s time. If I’m lucky, they will make an error and shut themselves up without too much of a fuss. Considering my rotting record, I don’t think it will happen. I rise from my desk, grab my rhyming dictionary and my badge.

I linger a few moments on the metal disk. It’s the cleanest thing in the whole room, my muzzle reflecting on the polished brass, superimposed on the image of a broken quill and the words “Aurantia metrum non habet” around it. I put it on my chest.

As I walk to the door I straighten. It’s a hellish job, but somepony needs to do it.

Author's Note:

Story written by Orbiting Kettle, who adds:

Thanks to horizon and all the others for editing and suggestions. As always, the burden of hammering my stuff into shape falls on others
—Orbiting Kettle

Comments

[Bad Horse]

I love this versebreaker noir. One thing jarred me: "If I’m lucky, they will make an error". If it isn't obvious why it jarred me, then maybe I'm wrong.

[Blue_Paladin42]

Jeez, has Pinkie accidentally killed a bunch of ponies?

[Bliss Authority]

Is the latin "Nothing rhymes with silver?"

Loving the noir send-up here.

[Orbiting Kettle]

5878449
Aurantia is not silver, it's oranges, silver is argentum. You probably thought about aurum, gold.

[Lurks-no-More]

5878229
More like burned out some poor Versebreaker's fuses, forcing them to retire into a quiet life with absolutely no musicals.

[YoshiFawful64]

I like the darker tone of this chapter. I also find it amusing that the majority of stories so far have specifically made a point of mentioning Pinkie Pie in particular.

[horizon]

6072942 (cc: 5878516)
Pinkie Pie is definitely low-hanging fruit for a Versebreakers story, but it was great seeing the creative ways everyone worked her in.