• Published 26th Jul 2015
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The Things Tavi Says - shortskirtsandexplosions



Let me tell you a few things about my roommate, Octavia. After all, she saved my life.

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Blonde Things

Author's Note:

The session's long over. How long has it been? One hour? Two? It's awfully hard trying to quantify numbers in sweatspace. After spending the better part of forty minutes signing autographs, posing in photos, and listening to young upcoming wannabe DJs talk about all the dream projects that they'll never even remotely get started on, it's come time for me to pack up my things and head back to the hotel.

And just where did my agent say I'm staying again? Hayatt Regency Baltimare? Ugh... maybe I should just stay here and wait to be mugged to death.

Fatefully, this is when my good partner in crime, Beau, decides to trot up from the empty dance floor and tap me on the shoulder. "Yo! Vinyl! 'Sup?" We slap hooves with a flash of spherical crimson between us and the DJ booth. His voice is amber, like Lyra's, but not quite so soft. I find it endearing all the same, much like his smile. "Dirty sick track you ended the night on, girl! That number's gonna be your next hit, fo'sho, or else my name ain't Fo'Sho!" He chuckles.

I let loose a breathy giggle, sliding the last of my equipment into a foam-packed crate.

"Hey! Uh... I know it's late and all, Vinyl, but we've got a straggler here. A V.I.P member for tonight's gig." He waggles his eyebrows, a silent passcode between the two of us. "Y'know what that means."

I sigh, suddenly remembering my contractual obligations like an anvil drop to the skull. I know what's coming up next before Beau even has announce it—like the over-enthusiastic ringshow announcer that he truly, totally is.

I turn to face him and the inevitable guest with as warm a smile as I can muster. I've run out of Dr. Pony. This better not last long...

"Vinyl, I'm very proud to introduce you to the one... the only... Manehattan's very own editorial star... Trenderhoof!" He smiles. He blinks. He looks over at the lanky thing in plaid standing next to him. "It is Manehattan, right?"

"Eh heheh... close enough." A blonde thing with a blonde mane and a blonde tail trots up onto the stage and proceeds to be... blonde. "My my my, as I live and breathe! The very DJ-P0N3 herself!" The only thing that isn't blonde about him is his voice. His oil-slick words blurble with deathly streaks of mud brown, and I fear that worms will come crawling out of the soil between sentences, which is a shame because I can tell that the poor sap is trying very desperately to not sound... desperate. "In the flesh! And just as radiant as in the spotlight of neon sparkles!"

Uh huh...

I nod at him. I glance sickly at Beau. He stares back, fidgeting, and so I glance sickly back at Trender... Trender... Trenderhobbit? Goddess, I need a hotel room bed. Stat.

"I must say, it is an honor, Miss Scratch." He points at me, eyes leering from behind a sheet of glass lenses. I see the reflection of a trembling, sick mare in his glasses. It's a crying shame he can't. "May I call you 'Miss Scratch?'"

I shrug.

"Or perhaps you would prefer 'Vinyl?'"

I shrug again.

"I've listened to tracks of your live sessions over and over again. But being here? Listening to and experiencing the real deal?!" He chuckles and slides in close. "I've never felt so alive!" He explodes with brown sonic vibrations. "Honest!"

I believe him. With a slight shudder, I look to my left. Beau is a million miles away, chatting up some hot hairdresser stallion. Goddess, I envy the bastard.

"And yet, it's so thrilling to know that you've worked on some of Equestria's more... oh dear, how shall I put this... more classy venues!"

Oh?

He grins wide. "Like the Royal Wedding!"

Oh...

"Hah HAH! You know, I was there in pony myself. Simply to... y'know... gather visual information so that I could write a front page editorial on the local fashion statement. Little did I know it would turn into an honest-to-goddess changeling invasion! Ah! Can you believe it? Of course, I ended up winning several rewards for the article, what with my... eheheh... 'deep social commentary' on exquisite fashion under deep duress." He rolls his blue eyes and winks my way. "I'd suspect a mare of your standing would know a thing or two about how uppity the gossip mill can get when the littlest bit of drama rears its silly head. I mean, of course you can! You were there too! And—wowsers! You threw a party for the royals without sweating! I mean... talk about talent!"

I feel myself shaking, and yet I've got a smile on my face. Is this stallion actually making me want to laugh?

"Heh heh heh... That's... y'know... th-that's the one thing I absolutely admire about musicians. You all know how to keep your cool. None of those silly, pointless obstacles like writer's block and fashion disaster temper tantrums." He frames his hooves, his voice issuing through his fetlocks like a silk brown thread. "No, when you've got a problem, you fixate on a beat and you just... wing your way through... sort of like an air zeppelin pilot! Say... didn't you... y'know... once mention something like that?"

I blink awkwardly.

Come to think of it, I did. But... but that would mean...

"Okay." He holds a hoof over his chest, grinning coyly. "Guilty as charged. Eh-heh. I read your book. And I must say it is absolutely fascinating! I mean, for realsies! I especially liked the part halfway through where you wrote about the synthesis of magic and music as relayed upon the visual spectrum! I mean... pfft... sure, there have been popular DJs and synth-artists who took to the stage before you: Deadmar3, Barn Joxx, and let's not forget Kraftwhinny. But you?" He turns and wildly waves at the currently inert series of crystalline light projectors. "You turned this whole thing into a brand new artform! Like... on the visual spectrum! Nopony... and—heheh—I mean nopony could ever fall asleep when they're within a mile of your venues! It's just... pfft... scientifically impossible! And I've always... always longed for an opportunity to tell you that face to face. So... thank you, for being an inspiration."

I can't help but smile.

Yes, I know I'm being flattered to teetering Tartarus, but... what can I say?

This stallion's actually kind of sweet. Thoughtful, even.

"You really... really must teach me the tricks of the trade sometime!" Trenderhoof says, grinning wide. "I mean... just how do you do what you do? Er... n-not that I'd ever venture to steal your thunder. Eheheheh... I couldn't even come close to that even if I tried! Some of us are born with talent. The rest of us... well... we take up writing! Ah hah hah hah!"

I giggle breathily, careful not to let my lungs expel too much. My mind is teetering enough as it is without the crimson overload.

And yet, the blonde thing continues: "Really, though, how about it? I'm dying of thirst here! Spill the beans, girl!"

I calm down, smiling. I raise an eyebrow at him.

He raises an eyebrow at me, standing in place. His grin is an awkward thing, locked into an anxious shape, desperate to swing on its hinges. "Well? Cat got your tongue? Huh?"

I blink at him. Still, with a trailing smirk, I levitate a clipboard and pen over. I scribble a lengthy sentence and hold it out to him.

He responds within the space of two seconds. "You... you mean you're a mute?"

My shades rattle, which tells me how much that just made me reel. Funny... I've always heard that word. Just, in all these years, I've never heard it used as a noun. Guess it does take a writer...

And he continues to write. Spastically. Out loud. "You... you seriously can't... can't...?" Some invisible force pushes his pupils back into the deepest corners of his sockets. He gulps hard, something bitter, and the next breath that comes out of him is just as brown as before, the silken texture is gone. "I... I'm sorry," he sputters, smiling awkwardly.

For the briefest of moments, I'm confused.

Because I'm not.

"Well, uhm... I... erm..." He suddenly finds something very interesting about his hooves, at least interesting enough that he has to stare at them. Suddenly, his ears perk up, and they drag the rest of his body with a manic jolt. "Oh! Say... did you hear about the after-party banquet?"

I'm sure they're serving Dr. Pony there, but I don't particularly care at the moment. It's difficult to drink caffeinated soda when one's stomach is suddenly so full of bile.

"Well... uhm... lots of bright... shining stars should be there! Like... Shia Le Buck! He's cool, r-right?" He grins, grins some more. The crescent moon wanes, for he is backing off. Soon, he'll clear the edge of the stage. "Maybe... just maybe I'll run into you there!"

I nod.

"But it was truly a great... great pleasure meeting you just now!"

I sigh... and nod again.

"Well, good luck with your next gig!" That sounds awfully like parting words, and he knows it. "Erm... until next time!" And he's gone like a golden flame atop a mountain of mud.

I return to the stage I'm standing on. Remembering where I am only reminds me of how far away the hotel is. I sigh, then pivot the turntable crates onto their wheels. There's a record hiding deep inside, and I can still detect the slightest hint of velvet purple lingering in the air between me and two hours ago. It's a drop of sweet solace, and I drag it—along with the weight—out the hall and into the lobby beyond.

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