Continuity Disrupted

by Doug Graves

44 Lantador's Lost Love, Part Two

Trixie stands outside the door to Doug’s office, limbs locked and fuming as she looks over the sparsely decorated room. There is no way somepony could hold such a wrongheaded position about such an important matter and still be able to speak intelligently. Or at all. The fact that he is the one fronting such an opinion just makes it worse.

Well, her mind reminds her as she waits for him to come groveling, they do sell to somepony, after all. So they have to at least be able to point at the record they want to buy, and then place the bits on the counter. Not exactly a very high bar to pass, especially since she has separated more than a few coins from that very kind of pony. Honestly, after the first four times you watch the cards get shuffled around the same way, and the same sleight of hoof bump, and you still go for the same one? You deserve to lose your thirty one bits.

The muffled laughter from behind the office door gets Trixie to turn but does little to suppress her murderous glare. Is he laughing at her? Her horn flares, the door slamming open as she stomps back in his office.

Doug is facing away from her, concentrating on the open red folder in front of him. One hand is mussing the dark auburn hair on his head, lightly grasping and ruffling as his head shakes back and forth. A deep chuckle emanates from him, messing up his sigh to a beat far too close to No Breaking My Heart than could be a coincidence.

“You!” Trixie yells, accusingly pointing a hoof as he turns. His eyes briefly widen in surprise, returning to an amused smirk as she grinds her teeth. “Trixie sees through your deception! You don’t actually like Our Harmony!”

“I mean, some of their stuff is a little catchy,” Doug says, waving Trixie inside before folding his arms across his chest. Trixie begrudgingly steps inside his office as he continues, the smirk gone from his voice, “But, yeah. I never cared for the Fallback Fillies either, but I don’t think I’m nearly as fanatical about that whole topic as you. They’re fine, but not what I’m interested in.”

Trixie grits her teeth at that remark. “Well,” Trixie says, walking over to Doug and looking at the papers spread out on his desk. The numbers and charts quickly swim together, “The artistically talented and not tone-deaf Trixie will only agree to disagree if you can name a better band.”

“Dragonfarce.”

Trixie nods along as her muzzle slowly curls to a smile. She begins rocking her head, faster and faster as she headbangs, her mane flying in every direction. Her hooves come up, strumming along before changing to air drums, then physical drums as she beats on the floor.

“Not that part,” Doug says throwing his hands in the air and managing to keep a straight face. “The purple one! Nickelbangs! Or, whatever they call him, after that yellow monstrosity covering his head.”

“His name is Fume,” Trixie says, huffing. “He got that nickname because commonly found nickel looks like that because of the sulphur content it’s found with. And now I know that you’re messing with me. He’s the height of mediocrity!”

“Okay, okay, you got me,” Doug says, shaking his head. Two fingers of one hand begin tapping a rapid beat on his desk, Trixie quickly recognizing Through the Gauntlet of Fire and Flames. He adds between stanzas of his hoof tapping game, “I really like basically everything but whenever they let him solo. His primal roars are pretty epic, though.”

“The glad and reconciliatory Trixie acknowledges Doug’s acquiesence to her superior music recognition, and will thus only speak of this matter further in loud and guttural roars.” Trixie smirks as Doug pantomimes a large, flowing bow with his hands, her own hoof brushing back her still tangly mane. She smiles happily, watching as Doug goes from smiling at her, to sitting back in his chair, to turning to his desk while still keeping part of his body angled to her.

“So, what are you working on now?” Trixie asks, looking over the papers.

“Weather scheduling. I try to keep a good month worked out in advance, but occasionally something happens, like Big Mac getting injured, and I need to put it off for a bit.” Doug slides a couple of the papers over for her to get a closer look at, Trixie mostly just staring at the mass of symbols. “Then it’s tough to make up the time, but I try to do it whenever I can.”

“Trixie assumes Doug enjoys this sort of work, but she wishes to keep her sanity.” Trixie pushes the papers back as she glances around the room, “For now.” Doug merely nods as he shuffles the papers together, his fingers continuing to tap against the desk.

“So what kind of stuff do you need to buy?” Doug says, idly twisting a pencil through his fingers.

Trixie glances down at her own hoof, wondering what other things his hands can do. Her horn lights, one of the Wonderbolt pencils from the cup filled to the brim with spares levitating over. She mimics the motions he is putting his pencil through, eventually saying, “I suppose I should sift through the remains, see if anything is salvageable. Likely, though, it’ll be just about everything.”

Trixie startles as a hand reaches around to her withers, patting her from the unexpected angle. Apparently she looked just a little too upset at the loss. He turns his head just enough to smile and nod, the hand withdrawing to return to work. Trixie sighs; she supposes she should do the same.

She returns the pencil as she opens the door, her bags of bits levitating to her back. She sorts through a few saddlebags that likely belong to the fillies, used when they have lots of things to carry around, before finding a brown set with a lightning bolt on it. Her bags of bits find their way inside, Trixie letting her horn relax as she makes her way to the wagon.

As she expected. Anything that hadn’t been mashed or broken when the Ursa Minor stomped on it was destroyed by the explosion. Her muzzle contorts to a scowl, kicking a piece of the blackened husk. What is she going to do?

The steady clop of hooves and the scrape of wheels breaks Trixie from her memory. She looks up as Applejack walks over, dragging a wagon full of empty baskets behind her. Trixie’s mind automatically compares the flatbed to her old wagon. It’s bigger, but without any easy access besides the ramp on the back. And she would need a roof, and higher walls, and better insulation than just the single layer of wood along the bottom.

“Howdy,” Applejack says, pulling up to the wreckage. “How’s the kindling?”

“It’d probably explode again,” Trixie says. “So I wouldn’t go about using it for that.”

“Ah see.” Applejack stares at the assortment of boxes, cautiously inching away from it. “Well, maybe Applebaum can help ya dispose of it safely, then. Filly’s got a knack for that kinda thing.”

“The occupied and definitely not unemployed Trixie will try to find a spot in her busy schedule to meet with her.” Trixie smirks at Applejack’s slow reaction, “But until then, I have much to look into. Good day, Applejack.” She nods dismissively, turning towards Ponyville.

“Um, good day, Trixie,” Applejack says, taking a few steps before turning back to the mare still staring at the busted wagon. She never noticed it before, but sarcasm tastes pink. The redder, the more blatant the lie. And Trixie is looking mighty pink. “If’n you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”

Trixie merely nods, her face impassive. Applejack eventually walks away.

Trixie sighs, finally starting towards Ponyville. She recalls seeing some wainwrights on the other side of town, probably on the outskirts. The rest of the town passes by, Trixie noting a few of the shops that she might be able to purchase some magical supplies, but aside from browsing through Barnyard Bargains there aren’t any specialty magic shops here in Ponyville.

Business opportunity? Trixie certainly can’t see herself as a mere storesmare. She attended Princess Celestia’s school for gifted unicorns! Well, maybe she left early to return to Las Pegasus, but still! The life of a small town clerk is far too pedestrian for a mare as Great as her!

Trixie rounds the last bend, spotting the wagon yard. Stacks of firewood form a rough barrier around the place, set up to funnel incomers towards the newer wagon models. The dark brown stallion running the place notices her striding towards him almost immediately, adjusting the tan hat atop his white and gray mane. Oh, great, dealing with used wagon salesmares. Well, you can’t con a conpony, and she can at least see what they have to offer.

“Well, well,” the stallion leads with, sidling up to Trixie in far too familiar a manner. “If it ain’t the travellin’ performer. Names Burnt Oak. Anythin’ I can do for ya?”

“Trixie is browsing for now,” she says with a casual smile.

“You just let me know if you want to know more,” he says, backing off just enough to be polite. She can hear his ears perk at the jingling bits in her saddlebags, and his eyes tracing to the lightning bolts stamped on the sides. Her own ears splay back just a little - it’s a good thing Ponyville is such a trusting town. In Manehatten she’d have been questioned at least twice about ‘stolen property’ and forced to give an explanation of where she got the bits. And ‘a stallion I don’t know walked up and gave them to me’ is quite possibly the worst thing you can say, no matter how true it is.

Trixie balks at the price of the first wagon she comes up to, even it isn’t quite what she is looking for. A thousand bits just for a large flatbed wagon? Even if it is one of the largest one she’s ever seen, and a sturdy frame that can likely hold three times what her old wagon could. She had always been cautious not to overload it, and couldn’t go that fast over some of the rougher terrain. Trixie always carried spare axles, wheels, and other bits and pieces in case something broke, but it really cut into how many other things she could haul along. And it was all heavy!

Trixie continues perusing the wagons on display, her frown deepening as she passes a few of the travelling wagons she would have liked, but each had something wrong with them. Too small, too large, or maybe not grand enough for her.

“Still not findin’ anythin’ to your likin’?” Burnt Oak says as he walks up to Trixie. At the shake of her head he says, “Well, I do have somethin’ in the back. Been tryin’ to sell ‘er for years now. I suppose the right buyer’s just never come along.”

Trixie, more intrigued than she would have liked, follows the stallion past a number of giant stacks of firewood. Does all this pony do is chop trees into smaller trees?

Burnt Oak sighs as he motions to an old wagon. Three wheels are missing, propped up on stacks of wood. The faded, peeling purple paint speaks to years of neglect, yet the white oak underneath is mostly unblemished and lightly marked. The gently sloping roof seems to be in good condition, but is also painted in the same purple. The front and back both have doors, not too tall that she can’t jump up without needing to use the stepladder.

Trixie walks around the wagon, the sides a bit modest but easily fixable. Two windows, two of the four shutters missing; glass is still intact, surprisingly, and on the doors as well. She glances underneath; the bottom rides lower than she would have expected for where the doors open. Extra storage? She smiles; she could see herself in here.

As Trixie steps up to open the door Burnt Oak says, “For a while I’d been tellin’ myself that it had been too long, that I should just be done with ‘er and chop her into firewood.” Trixie’s eyes widen at the threatened horrible injustice, “But I look at that oak, and I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.”

“And, where did you acquire such a beauty?” Trixie asks as she peeks inside. Spacious enough. Her mind traces through where she could hang a hammock. Or, if she is feeling ambitious, a bed inset into one of the walls that folds down! Now that would be living in luxury!

“Travelling performer, much like yourself.” Burnt Oak nods to himself as Trixie’s eyes roll; he can probably tell even though her head is halfway inside. “Said she was just getting too old to keep doing what she was doing.” He chuckles, Trixie glancing back to see what is so funny. Burnt Oak has walked up to the wagon, tapping a hoof against the wall, “Complained that it had too many nooks and crannies. That she was always losing stuff.”

Trixie groans to herself at the obvious play. She steps inside; he probably made that story-

Trixie stops, the tap of her hooves against the floor changing timber. She taps again; a dull thud, a dull thud, and then a lighter thunk. She pushes around, quickly finding the hidden compartment. The slightly warped wood catches briefly before a little extra persuasion gets it to slide open. Trixie’s eyes widen as she pulls out a glass ball about the size of her hoof. Perfectly clear, though as she lifts it she disturbs the cloudy material within. Now holding a swirling orb of haze, she stares into it. Maybe she could see her future?

Did she want this? To keep traveling from town to town? She could see herself in this wagon. Performing shows, wowing crowds, basking in their adoration. She looks around the wagon again, trying to imagine herself with a second pony inside. It would be a tight fit, especially once she puts all the boxes of her supplies inside. But doable. But no second pony comes to mind. Maybe a foal...

She sighs; at least it isn't a decision she has to make just yet.

Trixie smirks as she sets the glass ball back where she found it. Maybe she wouldn’t find out today. And she’s missing at least one ridiculous purple turban to make the prediction. She backs out of the wagon, easily hopping down. She glances over at Burnt Oak, the stallion still rubbing his hoof along the peeling paint and futilely trying to press it back into place.

He sighs, turning to Trixie. “So, what do you think?”

“Trixie is intrigued. How much are you asking?”

“Well, she needs quite a bit of work,” Burnt Oak says, motioning to the wheels and paint. “But the wood is still strong and solid. She’ll hold up for a good number of years.” Burnt Oak motions to an approaching mare, dark brown earth pony with a cutie mark of a wagon wheel. “Maybe you’ll end up sellin’ it back to Crosscut there.” He chuckles as she nods to him, grabbing a few of the long wooden boards and taking them to a partially constructed wagon. Burnt Oak turns to Trixie, “Five hundred?”

“Hmm,” Trixie says; not a bad offer. But way more than what he would get if he just turned it to firewood. “Two hundred.”

“Three fifty,” Burnt Oak easily says, as if he didn’t care if he gave it away for free.

“Three hundred.”

“Three twenty five.” That didn’t mean he’d let her, though. He winks at Trixie as she pauses, “And no fractions.”

“Deal.” Trixie beams internally as she pulls out the bits from both sides of her saddlebags, keeping the weight even. Burnt Oak leads her to the construction area, the ten bit pieces quickly counted and set into a heavy chest next to a wide variety of carpentry tools.

Trixie looks back at the wagon. It needs a harness, and three wheels. She glances at Burnt Oak, who seems to catch her meaning immediately.

Burnt Oak says, “I can loan you some wheels, if’n you don’t want to purchase new ones.”

“I’ll need straps as well, and I’ll bring them back when I’m done.” Trixie smiles at his nod, walking over to the wagon and running a hoof along the paint, just like Burnt Oak had done. It will take some work, but that will give her time to figure out what she wants to do.

Burnt Oak, Crosscut and Trixie get the three new wheels, not quite the same size as the old wheel, on. After a test pull Trixie shakes her head, a fourth new wheel replacing the one on its last spoke. Trixie waves as she pulls the wagon away, a happy smile on her face.

Crosscut shakes her head at Burnt Oak, dragging the old wheel around a corner and dumping it on top of its three sisters. Old coot still had it.

Comments

[DarkPhoenixx]

Oh that's goooood lol