Five Crazy Trials to Date Pinkie Pie

by B_25

Prologue

~ Ø ~

Prologue

I've been waiting my whole life for someone to guide me.

Pony or dragon—it doesn't really matter. I'd take a griffon if they were wise enough, if they were strong enough, if they were enough of all the enoughs that I wanted in life. There's no way I could state them all; I don't even know them all.

All I know is that, for most of my life, I've lacked... something. It's different from knowing what you want, because there's direction and guidance toward it. But lacking something? You don't know what it is, where it went, or how to get it at all.

Someone must know what I'm lacking. They have to be better than me to know it, and if that's the case, why would they put up with me in the first place? Why would they give me the answer?

I'm rambling now.

I tend to do that a lot.

Might as well go to a bar.

Maybe start a fight.

---

“Aw, c'mon!” I cried, putting up my fists. “Can't we talk about this? Or better yet, can we talk about your sister's flank instead? How it jiggles when she kicks a tree and—oh shit!”

Big Mac's nostrils flared just as he cocked back his forelegs. He had it curled around a mug. He threw said mug at me, though I ducked to the left. There was the sound of glass shattering. Looking behind me, I saw the drink I'd paid for dripping from the counter of the bar.

“Five bits!” I growled, turning around. “You're paying for—“

It felt like someone shot a battering ram into my stomach, then lit a fuse of dynamite behind it. Big Mac's stupid head smashed into my stomach, my scales useless for absorbing the impact as Mac threw his full weight into the assault.

My feet slipped forward, and my back fell, well, backward. Everything became blurry. My ears started ringing. Big Mac, that big dumb red blur, sat on me, hovering in the air like an even dumber cloud of scarlet among the grey blurriness.

He held something red in the air.

Blinking, I saw that he held up his hoof.

“Wait! Just... wait a second!” Nausea tried to interest my guts into puking themselves out. “You wanna beat me? Fine by me! But please, please go for the back of the head?” I began to roll my head to the left. “My face already has enough going against it.”

Something soft laid on my cheek. It pushed my head straight. Straight into the rocketing hoof descending from the clouds beyond, which went straight for my face. It went straight for my face repeatedly—which then repeated almost endlessly.

Mac's right hook made me look left; his left hook made me want to puke. Sometimes, getting into a good rhythm, the constant punches could keep my head stuck in the middle.

“Ack! Tha... that's it!” His right hoof slammed for my check, but by the tilt of my head, crashed in and through the wood of the floor. He slouched off to the side of me, allowing me to raise my right arm out from under him, bring it up over him, and pummel my elbow through his mane and onto his head.

The first strike should always be one of common courtesy.

“Back of the head! How'd ya like that?” I said, almost laughing. Mac's frame slammed into the ground while I sat back. “You may start seeing things, but at least your sister will still be seeing a handsome face when you get home.”

I blinked and missed it. Like a red blur that could outrace the one of a train, Mac leapt up at me, smashing through the wood of the floor and freeing his hoof, all fuelled by the rage my words had evoked. In another life, I'd have to try being a writer.

Big Mac slammed his head into my stomach again. He had enough force to lift me to the air, which got me back to my feet, though the only direction they went was backward—and from sliding instead of walking. He practically carried me in the air as he charged forward.

Of course, I kept slamming my elbow into the back of his head. Maybe I could get his brain to do a little jiggle from inside his skull? Because it sure as heck didn't stop or hurt him in any other capacity.

“Oack!” My back and spine met the counter the way a train meets the side of a mountain—only the train whistled while I whimpered. “What... what are you trying to do? Make me handicapped like Granny Smith was?”

That one killed me.

I didn't see the punch coming, but my chin was kind enough to feel it for me. Greatest upper-cut ever delivered, and unfortunately, it was addressed to me. My head flew back, so much so, that another inch and it would have torn clean off.

Good move, Big Mac—just a shame momentum hurts just as much.

By the time my head had flown all the way back, I had tightened the muscles in my stomach and flew the sucker back forward, bringing my forehead down on his. A sickening smack echoed across the empty room.

Big Mac groaned as his body dropped. His hooves scrapped against my thighs, holding himself up against them. “Aren't... you just.... touchy...” I said, panting. He stumbled to the right of me, resting one hoof on a stool and the other on the counter. “Just like your—“

Shattering glass rang in my ears again, only this time, it rang from in front of me rather than behind. Shards and dust sprinkled over my face while liquid splashed in my eyes. For a second, I was blind. “Oh, c'mon! Ten bits now?”

I stumbled to the right, hopefully away from the counter and the stools, and decided to test my luck: I shook my head. The bile curdling in my stomach had a new ingredient added as a result. Opening my eyes despite the constant stinging, all I saw were bright, overpowering lights and blotch of stuff that raised the vomit inside of me.

“That's it,” I shouted, whipping around in a circle—I really was trying to entice the idea of vomiting on my opponent. “Come here!”

I charged at the red blur, towering only an inch over it, bringing my claws around its assumed neck. Continuing with my charge, weighed and slowed down by the heavy addition, I rose the red blur into the air and, spotting a green one underneath it, slammed Mac into what I hope was the pool table.

The snap of balls shooting away made me smile.

The claw at Mac's throat kept him down, but to be safe, I hunkered over his body, weighing down his limbs. He struggled anyways. I used my free claw to beat that handsome face. Lucky, if I was lucky, maybe I could have beaten his high-cheek bones back to inside his skull.

Unlike me, he groaned at the punches, and with each one, the red blur cleared and became a red stallion. Next to the table, cues stood tall in their holders. Risking the moment and the movement, I reached, curled my digits around one's top, and yanked it back over him.

Its length hovered between our two faces.

I grinned. “Fancy some wood?”

Big Mac replied by knocking his forehead into the cue, the sheer force cracking it into two. The beginning half dropped to the ground, drumming against the floor as it fought to become still.

“Why you!” With what was left of the cue in my claw, I slapped it against his cheek. “I broke your glass only when you threw it at me! Now, what am I going to use?”

Big Mac smirked. “Try usin' this!”

What was up with this stallion and my stomach? His rear legs bucked my stomach with none of the care he showed to the strongest of trees. For a second, my bowels and lungs switched placed, and my breath smelled of something foul.

I stumbled back a few steps, trying to remember how to breathe again, though I settled on wheezing. Big Mac fell from the table, landing on all four of his hooves, each one erect and keeping him tall despite all the blood—or I was just mistaking the color of his coat again.

He glared at me. His eyes were sharp. They had a glint unable to be mistaken. It was fierce. It was strong. It was everything he was, everything he stood to be, his character all assembled into a gaze and glare.

We were both dead—I happened to show it better. Bleeding and panting, legs buckling and knees wobbly. Blinking was dangerous, for there was a chance my eyes would open for a very long time afterward. We both stood, we both looked at each other, and like all the times before, we only had one move left to decide the fight.

We stumbled like true males toward each other—or that's something I liked to believe that true males do. I was never told otherwise how true males act; I was never around enough true males to know what they were about.

In a way, Big Mac was the closet a stallion got to being a true male.

Maybe... that's the reason I fought him so many times?

Because we stumbled to each other, feet and hooves dragging, fists and hooves again ready to punch—eyes always locked. Not once did we look away. Not once did we whimper during this scene. We coughed and groaned, spitting blood and getting ready for the end.

And there was never an ending where I was the winner.

“Come here, loser,” I wheezed the words out from my burning lungs, everything hazy around the silhouette of my opponent. “Let's give you a handsome face!”

We cocked back our arms, and standing just a foot away, sent our fists and hooves flying. Our arms glided one over the other, the two trajectories missing by inches. Seconds later, sweet victory came from my fist. Seconds before that, bitter defeat crying from my cheek.

“Cross... counter.” I fell forward, and so did he, our chests meeting so free, each heaving. “Damn.”

Our legs gave out over a second, but our punches kept to their destinations. On the ground, we leaned against the other, waiting. We waited. We kept on waiting. The battle was over, but the victor was not yet found. The loser would be when the first cheek was set free.

And, of course, that was me.

“I... really do... suck...” My arms dropped to my sides, and in my defeat, I laid further into his hoof. My teeth chattered. “...don't... I...”

Big Mac flared his nostrils. With the hoof that won him victory, he pushed me back, watching behind passive eyes as crashed against the ground. There was a thud. I was a thud. He got up with a thud, many more when he walked, taking a seat at the stool before the counter.

“Finished?”

Another voice. Not his, of course, or else it wouldn't be another voice. It was another voice. I couldn't focus on the other voice. I was hard to focus on anything. Everything was blurry. I tried to think about thinking and felt sick in the bright lights instead.

“I reckon so.” Now that was a voice I recognized. “How say you?”

“Draw?”

“Draws don't have losers,” said the other voice. “And losers pay.”

“I know the rules.” I coughed, bringing my claws over my chest. “Can't we split the cost?”

“Depends on your opponent,” the other voice said, becoming muffled on the last word. “Do you consent to the draw? You may finish the fight if you disagree.”

I coughed louder if only to hide the sound of thuds from my ears.

“No need.” The only thud that came was a hoof slamming against the counter. “I'll be back here again sometime tomorrow. Afternoon if I can find the time. I'll patch the ground and replace the glass.”

“I've got bits!' I almost laughed the words. “Whole lot of 'em. Big bits. Many bits. Twilight's bits turned into my bits.”

“Ya better checked the bits between yer legs ta see if they're still there.”

“Har—ack!—har.” I closed my eyes, cracking my neck left and night. “Aren't you... just... oh, r-rich...”

The world slipped away.

“Mr. Spike, please be so kind as to wake up,” the other voice said, and this voice, I was coming to hate. “We don't run a hotel here. See yourself outside to sleep and vomit, and please, do it in that order, or else you may sleep in your vomit.”

“I'm not sleeping.” I opened my eyes, adjusting to the brightness. “Just... breaking the world record for the most amount of blinks in a minute.” I rolled onto my stomach, something cracking that wasn't my neck. “Must have come close if ya thought they were closed the whole time.”

Across from me was the bar. Big Mac sat on the stool. Behind the counter, a bartender rose from below, a brown pegasus wearing a black vest. He'd grown a thick mustache accompanied with a thicker accent.

“But if there's ever a poll on this fight,” I said, stumbling to a stool, “put the vote in favor of me winning, will ya?”

“Not polite ta lie,” Big Mac said, watching me with one eye as I took a seat. “Ya haven't won a fight in yer whole life. Opened your mouth plenty of times. Legs came in handy when the words didn't.” He looked straight on. “Face it. Scraps just weren't yer callin' in life.”

“Still a heck of a way to kill time, though.” I let my eyes drift shut, taking a second-long respite, exhaling my lingering frights. “I was close, too, with all those knocks to the back of your head. You must have a headache of something fierce.”

“Only from yer yappin'.” His voice was joined by something ringing—or maybe my ears were playing tricks again. “Lil miss Appleboom knows how ta give a proper noogie. Ya could take sum notes when yer straight again.”

“You should try talking more,” I replied. “You'd have more ponies laughing at you too.”

We kept silent for only a second, the silence shattered by hoofsteps, a paper slipped between my claws.

“May I suggest closing your eyes upon the viewing of the tab?” the bartender said to me, wiping the counter with a cloth to collect lingering liquids. “Third brawl this month. Rates increase with each one. That pouch around your waist may not be enough.”

“Whatever Twilight has left in the castle should cover the rest.” I reached down, undoing the string around my waist, lifting the pouch to the counter. I dropped it, bits clanking, some slithering onto the table. “Use these to pay for whatever my friend wants.”

The bartender wiped the end of the counter but stopped. He rose, staring at me. “Friend, sir?”

“Yeah,” I replied, looking to my right. “Big red thing sitting next to me. Get him whatever he wants.”

“Brandy,” Mac grumbled with his head down. “Top self and seven shots.”

I glared at him. “Really? Running me dry here?”

Mac kept his head down.

“Alright then.” I faced the bartender as he approached me. “Get us both seven shots of that stuff.” I glared down at the pouch, watching brown hooves pick it up and bring it down beneath the counter. “Didn't like that pouch anyways. Or my left kidney for that matter.”

“Yer kidney will be fine.” I looked for to Big Mac, who, for some reason, was looking back at me.

“Sudden motivation from you,” I said. 'Why's that?”

“Cause yer a lightweight,” he replied. “Third glass won't even touch yer lips neither.”

“Pffft! Says you.”

Glass clinked before I could blink. Turning back, three rows of shot glasses lined the counter, first two being three, the last and top one being only one. I took that one, lifting it to my lips, but not tilting it back.

Instead, I held it between Big Mac and I. Keeping it there, he raised his glass to my own, and clicking them together, we brought them back to our mouths. I dumped the liquid inside my own; It took the curling of my feet to suppress the urge to spit the vile liquid out—even more so when I swallowed the stuff.

But I did it.

And it was like a terrible-tasting fire travelling down my throat.

“Got a possible concussion?” I said in a mock voice, getting my mind off the taste on my tongue. “Drink heavily! The best thing you can do for it.” I looked over at Big Mac to see his muzzle on his table.

The guy had passed out!

At least, that's what I thought, until his mouth opened, and he took three glasses into his mouth. His head shot back and the shots along with it.

“You win.” I didn't even make a fuss about it, using my palm to slide him my six shots left. “You win everything! Heavy weight with both kind of shots. You're the kind of stallion that wins at winning itself!” I chuckled. He chuckled. We chuckled. “So how about it then? You winning at spring harvest?”

“Can't complain.” Big Mac cupped a small shot with his big hooves, where he then stared into the liquid. “Bit busier than what he had last year. Money's tight, so the help's low.” He lifted his hooves. “Morale ain't any better with Granny gone.”

I felt bad. I felt terrible. I felt anything and everything related to the word guilt—even its distant cousins. My mouth didn't have a filter—what came, came, and other put up with it. Or they left, and that was a friendship not meant to be. That's the way I lived my life, but sometimes, that results in insults about a dead grandmother, one related to my only real friend.

“I...heard about that.” I didn't want to do. The very idea made me sick. But I picked up one of the shots I'd offer, catching his gaze while I was at it, drawing it back to my own. I rose my glass to his. “To the memory of Granny Smith.”

Big Mac glared at me for a second, like he was checking for a ruse, but gave up a second later, for his glass clinked against mine, and both of them went down our respective mouths. The alcohol made my tongue dry up, and yet, my digits plucked another glass.

“And to her work ethic!” I exclaimed. “Which lives on in her kin!”

Another clink of our glasses. Another drink. Another reason to throw up.

But I refused to and showed no sign of it.

“Uck. Hmm. So.” Clearing my throat, I banged on my chest. “Need some legs tomorrow then? Don't have four like you, but I can offer my arms as well if you like.” Something suddenly smacked against the back of my skull, like a miner was inside of it, picking through the bone toward freedom. “Auuugh. Doubt I'll be there before sunrise though.”

“Appreciate ta offer, but I reckon we'll do just fine.” Big Mac shook his head. “Got enough workers to watch over. One too many if ya ask me.” He didn't bother with hooves with the next shot, collecting it in his mouth, tilting it up then slamming it back on the wood. “Young colt from ta previous season. Nice fellow. Smart enough. Got a bigger mouth than you.”

“You two better not become best friends.”

“Yer my one and only.” Big Mac snickered. “But that boy doesn't even have a lick of charm. I swear, he knows how ta do ta work—just don't see him workin' often is all.”

“I get ya.” I chuckled, and with my mouth open, did my best not to vomit. “Maybe I should drop by anyways. Give that kid something to be afraid of.” I split my lips enough to expose my fangs. “Let him know a dragon's watching when he's slacking.”

Big Mac tilted his head. “Ya know of a real dragon close ta here?”

“Shove off.”

We drank for a while in silence. Sometimes that's all we did. Not a pony around that would describe Mac as a talker. We were opposites in that way. I don't recall how we became friends. Proper friends. The only friend I really have.

“Any luck with Miss Rarity?”

I shook my head. “Tried seeing her last night.”

“Stay the night?”

“Wouldn't be here this afternoon if I did.” I took a second to scratch the back my neck. I don't know why, but it always made me feel like a kid when I did that. Whenever Rarity was the subject, I always felt like a kid. “Stuttered like an idiot! Tried inviting her to this bar, late last night, with everything planned out!” I curled my claw into a fist and beat it into the side of my head. “All that time in my bedroom planning just for my tongue to get tied!”

I sighed. “I had it all worked out.”

“Yet nothin' worked out?”

“We walked for a bit,” I replied. “Walked her home from the train station. She just got back in town. We didn't talk much—she rambled about the show and all that.” My heart beat as the memory played again; the proximity to white fur, even imaginary, always made me shivered. “I did my best. I really did! I tried putting my arm over her shoulder and I... and I just couldn't!”

I hated myself.

“Doesn't help that I'm helpless at reading the air.” I crossed my arms over the counter, sinking into them. “It feels like we have something special. The way she talks, how she walks so close to me...” I slammed a fist into the counter, hearing the clatter of jumping glasses. “But that's what she does! She makes everypony feel like they have something special with her.”

“I understand ya.”Something soft dropped on my shoulder, and when I looked up, I saw the same hoof beat the crud outta me. “Can't say I always understand Miss Rarity to well. She's a good gal, but... I could never be certain of her.” He shook his head, his green eyes settling on me from beneath his blond mane. “Have ya ever given any thought on givin' up? On Rarity's maybe not being the one for you?”

“That's a scary world to think of.”

“Ya could always try shootin' for a different star.”

“Not many stars twinkling for a dragon.” I almost raised my claw to push away the hoof, but really, the contact was something I needed badly. “Ponies don't get off to risking their tongues against fangs. Dating around is just... not for me, y'know?”

“Ain't true.”

“Aw, kill it, Mac.” I pointed to the remaining glasses. “Ditch the prep-talk and down those last shots.”

“I ain't foolin' you none.” The hoof lifted off my shoulder, taking to the glasses on the counter, curling around them. “Most mares would take off at the sight of you.” He lifted the collection of shots and poured them into his mouth, like they were syrup instead of booze. “But!” He slammed the collection of glasses back on the counter before he turned to stare at me. “Most mares ain't Pinkie Pie.”

“Pinkie Pie?” The name hurt my head almost as much as the drinks. Recalling the memory of her caused me to realize just how fast time was passing. “The heck are you on about, Mac?”

“She'd date a freak like you” Big Mac arched his back, letting me hear all the kinks there popping. “Mare will date anypony... anypony crazy enough ta play her games.” He sat straight once more. “Plenty of crazy folks in this town, let me tell you, but not one crazy enough to survive a week of her trails.”

“Trials and Pinkie Pie?” I said, shaking my head. “You're talking nonsense. Ha! So much for you being a heavyweight.”

“I ain't drunk.” Big Mac glared at me. “Ya mean ya really don't know about it?”

“I will know about it,” I replied, “when you start telling me whatever the heck you're on about.”

“Geeze.” Big Mac leaned back. “Seems like a year or so since she started the silly thing.” He chuckled. “Crazy mare must have wanted some fun, or somthin' or other.”

I rolled my eyes. For a stallion of few words, Mac could be a pain in the butt when it came to getting to the point of things. I loved him. I really did. You get him hooked on a subject, and you'll forget the sound of silence—granted, if nopony else was around. He had my attention hooked now, but was heading off in the wrong direction.

“Can we back to when this was about me?”

Big Mac glanced over at me for a long while. His expression was torn, eyes glinting, lips straight, breathing shallow. Few times he went to say something only for nothing to come out. I waited for him—he was the only one who waited for me.

“Yer wastin' away, Spike.” Big Mac sat up on his stool, holding up his forehooves. “And I mean no offense by it! Just the truth.”

“Aw, c'mon!” I threw up my claws and shook my head. “You're gonna hit me with a cheap shot now? I'm doing just fine, thank ya!”

“Fine and in fights.” Big Mac lowered his forehooves. “Arguin' for the sake of it—ya got me really hooked today, I hope ya know that?” He paused to breathe, breathing heavily. “Making a comment like that. About my sister no less! Your friend as well!”

I sighed. “You know I didn't mean it.”

“And that's the worst part!” Big Mac exclaimed. “Ya say things ya don't mean! Ya get in fights ya can't win! Ya say anything that'll come out of that twisted brain of yours without no filter!” The counter creaked when he slammed his forehooves into it. “Yer bored and alone! It's why you're so reckless.”

“Reckless and entertaining,” I said, leaning over to him. “And last I checked, that's what you liked most about me.” I curled my claws into fists. “So what if I got nothing going on for me? I clean that castle! I help with princess duties!” I sighed. “Just... don't have much going on besides that.”

“Yer in yer damn bedroom all the time,” Big Mac said, catching my gaze. “Reading and pacing and doin' whatever else late at night.” He shook his head. “Ya must be getting sick of all that by now, right?”

We kept gazing into each other's eyes. I wanted to tell him then and there that he was wrong, that he was inventing stuff. My life was simple and easy and I was content with it. There were bad times. But who doesn't lay awake thinking in the middle of the night at least once in their lives?

Or... every night, rather.

“Alright... alright!” I looked away from the stallion. “So being alone and reckless has me feeling a little low. Not like I got much choice at the moment, not when Rarity doesn't even know I'm interested in her.”

“You'd still be doomed even if she were ta know!” Big Mac exclaimed. “Yer whole life was spent around mares, but never with one!” Metal clanged from the right. “Rarity's a mare of experience, and ain't got some!”

“What should I do then!?” I glared back at him. “Just give up and be lonely in my room? Fantasize about all the stuff that I can't have?” My fists beat into the counter. “Anypony ever tell you how great you are with advice!?”

“Only when I'm done givin' it!” Big Mac replied with his chest still heaving. We both were heated and ready to go for another round, and at the slightest twitch, one of us would owe the bar a whole lot more money. “So sit straight and keep that trap of yers shut!”

I glared at him. Oh, how I glared at him! I hoped it was intimidating. In my heart that was beating far too quickly for its own good, I hoped that I made him scared, afraid, something! But whatever he was, whatever he felt, it didn't change this one thing about me.

When I was scared, I tried to be scary.

“I'm not sitting straight.”

Big Mac glared at me back some more. My heart pounded. I hoped that he couldn't hear it.

“Ya curled into yerself for this last little while, Spike.” Big Mac exhaled, steam almost wiping from his breath. “And there ain't no shame in that. But you've been inside yerself for longer than ya like to admit, and it hasn't done ya a whole lot of good in return.”

I also exhaled from my mouth, feeling a weight being lifted from my lungs. Everything in my body shouted that I was being attacked, that I needed to defend myself, and if it was anyone else, that mouth of mine would be going off.

But this was Big Mac.

And Big mac was always right.

“Ya gotta start learnin' ta put yerself out there.” Big Mac laid his hoof on my shoulder. “Stop all this fightin' and mouthin' off. Talk to ponies. Date some mares! Get experience under yer belt. Ya always struck me as a guy wantin' somethin... who just don't know what he wants.”

I tore my eyes away from Big Mac. I kept breathing through my mouth—it helped with the weight in my lungs. Everything felt heated and my stomach hollow. Closing my eyes, I used my mouth to speak, “I know what I want. Her name is Rarity.”

“And no amount of think' will get you Rarity!” Big Mac pulled back his hoof. “Yer just wastin' time in that head of yours! Made ya bitter too.” He shook his head. “Do yerself a date somepony! They'll teach ya what ya need to know.” He got up from his seat, taking a step away. “Maybe mellow ya away while yer at it.”

I looked over my shoulder at him. “Where are you going?”

“Home!” Big Mac began toward the door. “Better there than wastin' my time here.”

“W-Wait!” I called and reached a claw out to him. My heart leaped when he stopped a few feet from the door. “Are you... are you really sure dating a friend is the best idea right now?”

Big Mac turned around. “Unless ya can find another mare sayin' yes about now, then Pinkie's yer best bet.” He nudged his head to the right. “To her, it's a game. Yer good at those, remember?” He stepped forward. “None of you will get hurt. Ya'll just entertain her, and she'll teach you about female anatomy.”

“But didn't you say her games were crazy?!”

“Spike.” Big Mac clopped a hoof against the floor. “When it comes ta craziness, Pinkie can't hold a candle ta where you sit.” He turned back around, heading for the door. “Ya two are a match made in Canterlot. I can't imagine another mare willin' to put up with you!”

I went to open my mouth, but then, nothing came out.

So I sighed. “What do I say to her?”

The door creaked open. “Ya bring her some flowers, numb-nuts! Then ya ask to take the challenge or somethin'... I dunno!” Big Mac stepped outside, and a second later, the door closed behind him.

I returned to sitting straight. I ordered myself another drink, something sweet, and drank that while I thought. Many things were on my mind. Many things that made my vision hazy. One thing pegged my mind more than anything else, and it occurred to me just as Big Mac left through those doors.

“How the heck was he able to walk straight?”

“Excuse me, sir?”

I looked up. Bartender again. “Nothing. Just talking to myself.”

The bartender nodded, turning away.

“Actually, I got a question for you.”

From over his shoulder, the bartender stared at me.

“Do you know where I can get some cheap, cheaper than cheap flowers around here?”

Comments

[Regis-Th3-Lesser]

Yay! A good old fashioned Spike romance fic!

[FanficReader920]

Hoo boy, here we go.

[RadBunny]

Hmm. This looks intriguing.

[Regis-Th3-Lesser]

Holy fuck! Spike’s gots hands.

[Brony Rick]

Great to see another PinkieSpike story (not a lot to go around). Can't wait for the next chapter!

[DarkDMan]

Interesting. Very interesting!

[Steadfast Hoof]

If I bled big mac, would I be able to bottle some jack from his veins?

[OmniFox]

MOVE ON SPIKE!!!!

[IkraErilis]

9274996
this is one of the few important questions in life.

[Hungryman]

Jeez, Spike is SO pathetic in your story. It was hard just to get through the first chapter. How could you possibly made Spike such a miserable sack of a loser?

[B_25]

9298655
I did it for the lols

[Shepard Dragon]

Shit
May have earned a narcotics tag?