Love, Friendship, and Gangsters

by scifipony

Chapter 12-13: Taking the Initiative

- 12 -

I met Citron at the Rockhoof Ave train station in Hooflyn. The outdoor depot had black steel girders and rust-stained tan brick walls.

The first thing the teenage colt said was, "Yor not my type, bro." His Hooflyn accent was thick.

"And Gelding is?"

He whacked me on the shoulder. "I like the way ya think." He whacked me harder.

"You could ask her out, you know."

He sped up his trot, tail thrashing, ears aside. "She's older than me. I'm only a freshman in high school."

That explained why he had grown into his hooves since we'd first met. Wings slightly out, ready to fly, I commented, "I've seen chickens the same color as you."

"Ha, ha. Yellow. I know I'm a wuss. What's dat make you?"

My letter: I'd written I was "thinking of" and "trying talk stuff over." Weasel words. I learned the gang pyromaniac was smart, keeping up grades despite being absent because of "jobs," and using the money from them and part-time at a deli to pay for a high-line apartment for his folks. His father had lost his job days before getting his pension. Citron thought it was due to his arrest for burning down an empty warehouse (he had), though he'd been acquitted.

I talked about the "dating" I was doing with Pig Pen.

"Say it," he told me as we sat on the grass in a nearby park, "Yor working up to your first time. Trust me, it gets better after your first time, so stop being a wuss." He tapped his map, "House of Yes is a great late night spot. Gotta have an ID to get in; not my style, but Pig Pen'll like it."

My first time.

Yeah, kid-genius was right: I'm not Pig Pen's first pegasus.

Oddly, the thought I wasn't his first made me more confident. I also thought of Fidelity and Daylily, and hoped they would make each other happy.

- 13 -

I left an emergency contact with the landlady in case something happened in Vanhoover and my parents called for me. That's how nervous I was. I inspected Pig Pen's overnight satchel thoroughly before hustling him off to the train station.

I planned the afternoon and evening. I wanted it to be special, somewhat cultured. I'd made reservations and placed bookings. I discussed it with Citron, done my own hoof-work, and he'd helped me pick the best spots.

I told Pig Pen what to pack, when to be ready, and when I'd pick him up. Nothing more. I wasn't Daylily. No need to worry about unexpected foals.

Exciting.

We left our bags at the Mareiott Hooflyn hotel in within sight of the Hooflyn Bridge, and I took him for craft ciders at the Rattle and Hum in midtown Manehatten. A pint made him less nervous as I took him to the Maretropolitan, dragging his hooves, to see a special exhibit: Modern Mean Streets.

Then I had trouble dragging him out of the maze of graffiti-painted brick walls and hanging photographs of buildings covered in prismatic spray paint. Ironic, considering our profession. Graffiti wasn't only for tagging territories; it presented doves and timberwolves, satires of constable brutality, and highlighted oppressed and marginalized ponies trying to make sense of their world. Sadly, I ticked off the tags of three gangs that got past the curators.

I wing-fed him a gourmet hayburger at Black Iron Burger and had to clean avocado off his tie before we galloped off to the Maretropolitan Opera House to see an urban remake of Canter Lot; the original musical that launched the sadly cut-short career of the black beauty unicorn mare named Midnight. He got it better than I, perhaps having grown up with that vibe. I was glad to have surprised him, but happier to have gotten to wrap a wing around him in the darkened theater.

On the way to the last place at midnight, I found Ice Cream Pony, a pink cart where they mixed in everything from fudge and fruit to hot peppers and popcorn. I had to beg the owner not to close down. It turned out Pig Pen was dairy intolerant. He enjoyed a hot tea while I garbaged down on chocolate with malt balls and caramel corn.

That got us to The House of Yes. I liked the name because I wanted Yes to define our evening. It turned out to be a discotheque playing house and drum n' bass, filled with colored lights and packed with dancing ponies that made the building throb. Cider flowed, and I could smell the sweat and feel the heat. I wasn't thrilled, and wondered about Citron's recommendation.

Then I noticed it.

Mares danced with mares. Stallions danced with stallions. No mixed couples, unless some ponies were drag princesses or princes!

Pig Pen was already backing away, but I smiled and swatted him on the flank. The startled pony leapt in, then proved that he could also dance and had stamina. Stamina would be essential for our final stop. I got two strong black-tea ciders into him as insurance.

I didn't bother, myself; I was wired on anticipation.

Way past 2 AM, we got to the hotel room kissing as we trotted down the hall, banging into the walls. A suite. Marble and gold everything, with a birdbath that masqueraded as a pool. Fastidious as always, he insisted on bathing despite me pulling off his suit and tie, failing to push him into the bedroom onto the bed I'd covered with (surprisingly cold) rose petals. For his insolence, I insisted on him demonstrating his preening prowess, and he did until I was screaming. Going limp, the worried guy carried me on his back toward the bed.

I was faking it. Still damp, I sprayed everything with wet feathers as I dead-lifted him with all fours, mostly dragging him across the marble tiles, the both of us laughing.

What followed went... very slowly. Payback, maybe. I was impatient to learn what I didn't know. My alternating between hope and certainty that I'd like it, made it hard... Well. Hard. He wanted me to feel everything. It felt like torture, but in a good way.

Somepony knocked loudly on the door.

The suite had a clock that projected numbers on the ceiling. 3:21 AM. Pig Pen jumped and hoofed me.

"Tu m'emmerdes!" I screamed in frustration as I popped out of my body and back into my head. I shot up to the ceiling, striking the plaster with all four hooves, my wings sharpened. I threw open the door, despite it being extremely visible what Pig Pen and I were about to do next.

A squirrely brown pegasus—with his blue mane up in a slicked-back gang bouffant, a silver ring in an ear, a stained white tank top, and an index card—leaned against the door jamb. His magenta eyes scanned from my face to my hooves; since I had reared up, he missed nothing. He raised an eyebrow and showed me the index card.

It read: Grimoire. Rarity Beach. South end of boardwalk near Veteran's park. Sunrise. Today's date. A sketched map showed the other side of the bay from Hooflyn.

"What the fudge!"
The dude huffed, hoofed over six gold bits, lit a sulfur match, and burnt the card before walking away.

Author's Note:

Prench transliterates pretty precisely. We have the same curse in English. Google doesn’t do the phrase justice.

Comments

[scifipony]

11039402
Thanks for your comment. I'm a firm believer in that the reader's imagination is much better than anything I can write about certain interpersonal relations. I skirt the line. It is a story of people dealing with tough situations and self-identity, which is universal regardless of gender (or species). That said, I love word play and innuendo, which is the scaffold for the comedy in the story. You'll see a lot of that.

[Bicyclette]

Prench transliterates pretty precisely. We have the same curse in English. Google doesn’t do the phrase justice.

it is a fun phrase. and what a fantastic big city date! ah, i miss doing that kind of thing. though mine never ended with such mysterious menacing missives