Whenever I tell them my story, they say I should write it down and make it into a story. Well, I guess that's what I'm doing now... Most things are annoying, and the rest are boring. I guess such is life. I guess it could be worse.
Sometimes I feel like my life could use some spicing up. But I don't have the energy, or the passion. I like my routine, repetitive as it is. I like being alone, lonely as it is.
It’s the sound of glass breaking that awakes me in my earliest memory.
Well, maybe this memory is not my earliest memory, per se. I had a whole album full of pictures of happier times when I was a filly—and a few faded memories from those happier times, too. But they’re things like playing in the bounce-house with a colt whom my mother claimed was my cousin (I do remember being irrationally scared of bounce-houses for some reason, too, and throwing a huge fit when my mother made me go on my first one), and wanting desperately to go into the mud-hole in this one picture. I don’t exactly know what those things are called, those mud holes, but apparently the mud is supposed to make your skin healthier or some other crap like that?
I don’t know. Maybe I’ll research it later.
But I’m getting off topic.
Where was I again? Oh, yes, the glass breaking—forgive my memory and veering off of topic, I’m kind of scatterbrained.
Anyway—I woke up to the breaking of glass. Or maybe I was up already and listening, I honestly don’t remember. I was young, see. No, no, I don’t know how young. I never celebrated my birthday. Maybe it was not a custom back where I’m from—no, no, wait. I do have that one picture and that one very, very hazy memory that comes with it, and the picture has a cake and things so it was probably a birthday-like thing. Besides, where I’m from isn’t really that different from here. In all honesty it was probably the poverty, and other things which we will get into later.
But no, I don’t know how old I was. My guestimate would be… maybe… four? And that’s the most intelligent guess I can muster judging from what I know about the brain not being developed enough to really have memories before the age of three, and the fact that I looked four or five-ish in those happy pictures.
Anyway—glass breaking. It didn’t come as a surprise to me. My parents were always fighting and throwing things at each other. It was like a common thing in my life—I didn’t know any different and therefore accepted it as something that happened to everypony. You will find that is the case a lot in my story. Maybe this is the reason that I’m so okay with everything that happened to me. Or maybe it’s because my mind has repressed it all so much that I can’t even remember feeling anything. That’s another thing—don’t try any of those idiotic ‘writing hate letters to relieve myself’ things. I don’t hate my parents. I don’t feel anything from or about my past. It is like a movie in black and white going through my head, but one that I’m only awake for sporadically—I see the actions and hear the actors and everything, but I cannot get engrossed emotionally in it cause I don’t know what came before and then I just get bored and fall back asleep and not know what came after, either. That’s good money wasted, too. Movies are expensive nowadays.
Sorry! Sorry! I’m just babbling now… well, you did say I could just talk to you, but this is not my first time in a counselor’s office and I know that these things run on a time limit of about an hour.
Now where was I? Right, right, arguing.
So my folks were arguing—no big surprise, they did that all the freaking time. Lots of throwing things at each other and everything. Then they came into the living room, where I was, and started arguing over me. My mother quite literally tugged me one way, and my father quite literally tugged me the other. It was like a tug-of-war. Kind of funny now that I think about it. Maybe they were gentle, maybe they weren’t. Don’t remember, moving on.
My mother ended up winning, and the next thing I knew she was rushing us out of that apartment and into the cold night and to the bus station. It was dark and very, very cold. Then again, it was usually pretty cold out. I mean, this is the Frozen North we’re talking about. Our idea of summer is temperatures of low sixties at the highest, for about two months out of the year. It’s not like Equestria, ya know?
So the bus came and we got on. I don’t remember much of anything else—I think I fell asleep on the bus ride. Regardless, the next thing I knew we arrived at my grandparents’ place. Where my father lived in a rather spacious two bedroom apartment, my grandparents lived in a filthy, tiny, and cramped one bedroom. They lived above some people, and I think those ponies actually were the ones that they paid the rent to (if they even paid rent, that is, and since I didn’t know anything about rent or money back then, I didn’t know to look for it and never found out).
I don’t exactly remember meeting my maternal grandparents before in my life, so I cannot tell you what my reaction to them was. I think I was too tired to really care, and it was warm inside and I had my mother and she had never really steered me in the wrong direction before, so I guess I took it in stride. I was a good kid. I didn’t question things. That much I do know, and that much is still true today.
What happened next? Hell if I know. Like I said—movie that I’m only sporadically awake for. Like, I have flashes of memories of what I did in my childhood, so I guess that is how I passed the time (and lemme tell you—a kid can get into some crazy and dangerous shit if left unsupervised. And I was left completely and utterly unsupervised for a very, very long time.)
What were those things? Heh. Well, we lived in this… cul-de-sac, I suppose? One could not get there in a carriage, so a cul-de-sac it was not, I suppose. Anyway, we lived right next to this really tall building, but after one passed that tall building, there were these rows of rusty and sturdy metal storage areas. And behind them there was this huge construction site (yes, I did play there, but not too often). So anyway, using a running start and the pile of rubble right next to the garage, I would jump up onto the roof of one of the garages and then I would jump from roof to roof, back and forth, of that line of garages. There were roughly fifteen of them, in a line, standing just close enough that I could make the jump, but just far enough that the jump was dangerous and made my blood pump. The last two were especially difficult, and I fell many times before I was able to figure out the force of both my jump and my running start in order to make it to the next roof. I actually think I broke my jaw from a fall once—banged it just so on the edge of the roof that I was trying to jump to.
Weird thing is that I’m scared of heights now. I suppose one is fearless when they’re young. Other than that I spent the days wandering around and exploring the neighborhood that I lived in. It was my kingdom, and I knew it so well I could draw you a map.
Oh. Yeah. I guess our time together is running out. Very well then, let’s continue this next Friday, shall we? Yes, yes, I’ll see you then.
The harsh sun beats down upon me pleasantly as I step out of Dr. Basket Case’s building. I stop just outside, breathe in, and then shield my eyes from the sun.
It’s so unusual, the sun. The sensation of warmth it brings is hard to get over, and I feel myself bloom under it. I belong under the sun, I know. What a cruel trick of fate that I was born in the Northern Continent, where snow falls daily and the sun is used for nothing but light, as it does not bring warmth.
The ponies here have it good. And they don’t even know so, the fools. Dr. Case’s office sits at the end of the market—a long, wide road with shops and individual little stalls. My eyes pass over the market, uninterested. It's bright with all the colors of fruits and vegetables and the ponies mill around, doing whatever it is they do. Probably, like, barging and buying stuff and browsing. Maybe even seeing their friends, ‘cause everypony seems to be friends around here.
I stalk through the market, eyes on the ground. My eyes naturally stray to my hoofs all the time, because the ground is more interesting than anything around me, I guess. There are sounds and smells and ponies surrounding me, but my senses remain uninterested in any of it. Sometimes I wish… no, nevermind.
Getting through the market is an annoyance. Ponies are all over the place and I have to weave around them, muttering half-heard apologies if I brush up against anypony. At the end of the market sits a small bridge, and a short distance away from it, there seems to be a building—no, a skyscraper—being constructed.
I scowl at the tall, half-built structure as I pass over the tiny bridge, and then I continue on my way. The ground turns into untamed grass, swayed gently by the wind, as I walk further away from town. I like the grass under my hoofs—it’s soft and I don’t have to pick it out at the end of the day, unlike the dirt of the dirt-roads in Ponyville. That’s an annoyance, too. I sigh and roll my eyes, and then reach my destination.
I live in a boat. I’m sure that when ponies hear that, they picture a floating mansion outlined with lights like the one in that old movie, Sleepless in Balimare. They think I sit on the deck under an umbrella while water gently laps up against the sides. But I don’t live on any floating mansion; hell, my boat is not even in the water.
Insipid is an old, weather-beaten thirty-foot sailboat that somehow ended up being nowhere near water, but instead swallowed by vines. When I found it, it wasn’t even recognizable as a boat—merely a something that was covered up by vines. I made quick work of getting it uncovered, and now it is my home.
It’s a lousy place to live, but costs me nothing, which is good because I have no money. It’s so small that I can’t even turn around without bumping into something. All my belongings fit into little nooks and crannies in the cramped cabin below deck. The galley has a tiny oven, a tiny sink, and a couple of tiny shelves for food that stay mostly empty. The refrigerator isn’t really a refrigerator—it’s an icebox about the size of a regular cardboard box. The table in the galley barely holds two plates and two cups. In the main part of the cabin are two side benches. Above them are small storage areas and then a pair of rectangular windows that have no glass. I sleep up front in the V berth—when I first slept in there, I sat up quickly in the mornings a couple of times, cracking my head pretty good. Since then, I’ve always remembered to crawl in and crawl out.
I climb up on the boat now, and crawl easily into my sleeping space after some maneuvering around. I feel around under my pillow and extract my library card, tossing it around my neck and gathering the three novels scattered around my sleeping area before crawling back out and stretching my back.
The library is a little ways ahead east from where I live. It’s a nice, big place, and pretty isolated at edge of town. From my broken window I can often see its outline in the distance. The librarian is a strange one, a kindred soul. Nothing too special about her—purple unicorn, has that look in her eyes that says she’s a know-it-all, but also has a genuine smile so I guess that balances her out. When I first came to the library, she about threw me a damn party. Nopony really uses the library apparently.
I meander to the library, whistling a low tune. I go to the library nearly every day, sometimes because I run out of books to read even though I check them out three at a time, and mostly because the librarian always gives me some tea when I go there. The tea is crap, frankly, nothing more than hot leaf juice, but that’s mostly because my tongue is trained in the ways of tea. I’m sure she thinks it’s wonderful, since I never complain, and seeing as tea is kind of my special talent, she must think me an expert.
The library grows steadily closer, and I pick up my pace a bit to a steady, lazy trot. I reach the door and knock once and then inspect the door like I always do. It has a candle on it, for some reason that is beyond me. Before I can debate further, the door swings open and the librarian smiles at me.
“Hi, it’s you again,” she says, like she always does. I nod in return, like I always do, and then she swings the door open and invites me inside, like she always does.
We are not familiar with each other. Well, I mean, we see each other often, but like, I don’t even know her name. I guess she knows mine since she has to sign my books in and out and stuff, but she never really calls me by name and I’m just fine with that.
She scurries off to the kitchen to make tea for me as I deposit my returned books on the round table in the middle of the library and then walk to the shelves and look at the books in disinterest. I always just kind of walk to a random shelf and pick out the first three books my eyes land on, even if it sometimes makes me end up with boring books about like… history or some other crap like that. Also, magic. Magic is useless to me, I’m an earth pony, but I guess it’s interesting to read about. Anything to pass the time, I guess.
I select my books, not even reading the titles of them, and then carry them over to one of the three podium-like book stands around the library, since she doesn’t really have seating anywhere in here. She should really fix that—sitting on the floor isn’t the most comfortable thing ever.
I deposit one of the books on the stand and sit on my hunches in front of it, finally looking at the title. The Mating Habits of Timberwolves: With Illustrations.
Hell, alright then.
I hear her approaching as I start to read, and then there is a soft sound of her setting down a teacup. I pay her no mind, engaged in my book, until the hair on my back stand up from the sensation of being watched.
I straighten up, but don’t look at her.
“So, uh,” she begins, and I scowl. Interrupting my reading for small talk? Hmph. Her voice dwindles off into nothing and I roll my eyes and then turn around. I guess it’s kind of hard to talk to one’s back.
She stands just behind me, shifting awkwardly. I force a smile and raise a brow at her. “Yes?”
“You come here pretty often,” she observes, flashing a smile.
What a genius. I nod, holding my tongue. I’m sure she was just being… friendly.
“I like to read,” I elaborate when our conversation goes dead again. She brightens, smiling yet again, instead this time it’s more of a grin.
“I—me too,” she chirps.
“Cool,” I respond dimly, but she doesn’t get the hint to leave me alone. I grit my teeth together—this is why I don’t stay at places longer than to pick up whatever I’m getting and leave again. Awkward conversations with ponies that are just too friendly are awkward.
Mercifully, somepony knocks on her front door right then—it’s the kind of thing that one usually only sees in movies or reads in books, these… welcomed, convenient interruptions, but I’m glad for it all the same.
I go back to reading about the mating habits of timberwolves while she trots to the door. I hear it groan as it opens and then she greets the pony on the other side. I tune them out, even though it's kind of hard when they're talking so loud. The other pony has a squeaky voice, excite and bubbly. It's a voice that makes me want to plug my ears so that they don't bleed from the pitch and sheer volume. Doesn't this pony understand that this is a library?
With an annoyed eye roll, I focus all of my attention on reading. It works for a while, and I get into my usual rhythm of a sip of tea every three pages while the librarian and the other pony continue to chatter in the background.
I'm twenty pages in, with an empty teacup, when the cheerful, annoying voice breaks through my haze.
“Hiii!”
Harrumph.
I sigh inaudibly and plaster a fake, strained smile on my face while my tail curls in frustration. I should have just taken the damn books and gone home.
I turn slowly to face the pony I know is behind me and, um.
Wow. Pink. Like, all over the damn place.
“Hello,” I reply diplomatically, my brow arching on its own.
“Hi,” the pink pony replies on a chirp, but says nothing more as we stare at each other. Her eyes are pretty—light blue, sparkling.
I prefer green, but still—pretty.
“I’ve never seen you around here before,” the pink mare offers. I nod, jerking and exasperated.
“Yeah, I moved in two months ago.” I reply, and she smiles and—Celestia damn. Heh. She’s got a smile on her. Like… jeez. My fur stands on end naturally, and I grin back mostly because it’s hard not to.
“Well, I’m Pinkie Pie!” she screeches in that voice of hers, and my smile drops into a wince. She offers a hoof and I stare at the pink limb for a while before extending my own and shaking gently.
“Uh,” I stiffen, but continue. “Tea. Green... Green Tea.”
“Nice to meet you!” she squeals, lighting up that dazzling smile again.
Yeah, yeah, alright. Sure—cute eyes, million dollar smile. Annoying, though.
“Yeah,” I reply on a breath and then focus my eyes on the librarian. She’s watching us curiously, and grins at me when I look at her.
There are like… too many smiles in this room. Frankly, smiles make me uncomfortable. So does eye contact. And so does speaking.
“I, uh,” I mutter, “I gotta go.”
The librarian frowns, but then nods. I gather my books, brush past the pink pony, and follow her to the middle of the library where the check out log sits on the round table with that golden head on top—that thing always creeps me out. I give it a scowl for good measure, as the librarian jots down the names of my three books, and then my name beside all three. I glance at the log—the only names on there besides my own are somepony named ‘Twilight Sparkle’ and a ‘Rainbow Dash’.
Well alright then. Guess I’m not the only one who uses the library after all.
I gather my books and then turn towards the door. “Uh, nice meeting you Pinkie.” I throw over my shoulder, kind of meaning it but not really.
“You too!” she chirps back, and I can almost feel her smile on the back of my neck as I walk through the door and close it behind me.
Finally out. I shouldn’t have stuck around, really. Usually I just down my tea while trying not to taste it, sign out my books, and then leave.
Saturday I sit on the deck of my boat, staring at the distant Ponyville, and this is the only thing that occupies my usually blank mind. I had long since read all my books, but did not go back to the library for fear of a repeat of Friday’s… whatever it was.
Truth was, I was running out of what miniscule amount of money that I did have, and it was never a good thing when that happened. Naturally, I didn’t have to pay for rent or anything, but that still left things like food.
I was not a stranger to starvation. Back in the North, starvation was like a second friend to me—whether it was because we had no food, or if I just never searched for it, I did not know. Nevertheless, I was hungry enough to have perpetual shakes most of the time, and it’s only now—when I’ve been nurtured and fed and have seen another way of life—that I understand that being so hungry that one starts shaking is like, not a good thing.
Tipping my fold-out chair back onto its four legs, I stand up and stretch out the kinks in my terrible posture, and then yawn and smack my lips. Picking my way around the boat, careful to avoid the holes in the deck where the wood was so rotten that it fell apart, I make my way to the main storage areas in the cabin and then dig around until I feel what I am looking for.
I keep a loose personal finance sheet which is nothing more than a scroll where I write every expense that I have, and all the freaking money that I spend and don't make. The only thing that I really use money for is food, my bill to Dr. Basket Case, and of course, the tax. But even then, my expense per month comes out to something like three hundred bits.
That’s a lot of money, considering all I have left of my funds is just over a thousand bits. Like, that’s only a few months worth of money, and then I’m completely and totally broke.
So, I need a job. I need it fast, and I frankly don’t care what it is.
I glare at my cutie mark.
Lots of jobs in Equestria depend, at least just a marginal amount, on a pony’s special talent. Naturally, some ponies have jobs that may not have too much to do with their special talent, but it’s a rarity.
But like, my talent is tea.
Tea. Drinking tea and brewing tea and knowing how to make new types of tea.
I glare harder at my cutie mark.
The ponies of Ponyville seem like the cider-drinking types, frankly. Hell, I haven’t even seen anything resembling a coffee shop in town.
My thoughts start to stray, start to slip, just for a moment, to that possibility. But I quickly shake my head to clear it of that thought.
I used to have a tea shop of my own, back when I lived in Manehattan. My pride and joy, the reason I lived. But… well… things happened and now I don’t have that tea shop anymore, I guess.
I grit my teeth as the memories flash behind my eyelids.
No, no, I don’t have time to sulk over what was and what could have been. I need a job.
Getting a job has always been difficult for me—I’m not a sociable pony. Fact, I’m an incredibly socially awkward pony, hell, even an anti-social pony. Point is, jobs require one to be interviewed, and what the hell am I supposed to say when the manager of a fast-food restaurant asks me ‘why I want to work here’ when I don’t actually want to work there?
The first interview I ever went to, I told his bald ass that I needed a job. I was honest with him, and I thought that he would respect that.
Well, employers only want to hear a certain thing, I quickly found out, even if the pony they’re interviewing is lying out of their ass.
So, no job for me. That’s fine. Whatever. Hell, I was special and if he didn’t want to hire me, then it was his damn loss.
Except, it kept happening. And kept happening. And even when I started to flat-out lie and sweet-talk them, and pile on compliments onto their stinky, rundown establishments—hell I made some of them sound like five star restaurants—I never got the job. I never got any job.
But then… well… stuff happened and I met a certain pony and he helped me out a ton.
I seriously don’t have time for more daydreaming. I scowl at nothing and then jump out of the boat.
Ponyville is barely awake, and it’s eerily silent in town. The clock tower says its freaking ten in the morning, and nopony is even out of their houses yet. Gives a whole new definition to a 'sleepy town', I suppose.
Harrumph.
I stalk through the streets of the town, keeping my eyes peeled for anything that looks like it might serve any type of tea. I guess here they drink iced tea, since it seems to be influenced by the more rustic way of life. Indeed, there are several farms peppering the edge of the town. Farms that I got chased off of when I was trying to make my way into town. Apparently, there is a 'main road' that is used for travelers to go in and out of town, and there's also a train station—but I didn’t arrive on a damn train, and I came from the northeast, from Manehattan, in a straight line, picking my way through the bucking wilderness for two weeks, so ‘main road’s can go screw themselves.
Giving the town a sweep with my eyes and then an obligatory scowl, I follow the road out of the market place and end up wandering around identical streets for a while. For such a small town, it’s easy to get lost since every residential building looks the same. I guess it’s nice—the buildings are cottages, or at least the Equestrian definition of cottages since back in the North, where the earliest know ‘cottages’ were built, the word cottage is known to mean ‘a nice house’. It seems that in Equestria it’s associated with smaller, more modest buildings and a generally rustic way of life.
It’s a nice morning out. Birds are chirping and sun is shining and stuff—very pleasant day indeed. I sweep my eyes over what little of Ponyville I can see, and my mouth twitches into a tiny smile because it is a pretty decent place. Nice, even. Simple and slow with low crime rate and plenty of foals. It’s the type of place that is the complete opposite of a city and it’s the type of place that I always imagined myself settling in to raise a family of my own.
But my smile and happy imaginings and appreciation are short-lived, because there are more taxing matters on my brain right now. Much, much more taxing matters.
I wander aimlessly around Ponyville for an hour. Ponies finally start milling around at a quarter to eleven, and strangely enough it looks exactly like it does on a workday except there are more of them. But they still get in my way by having conversations while standing in the middle of the freaking road, and they still make me stop suddenly when groups of foals run right in front of me and then a few seconds later are chased by two frazzled parents, sometimes one, and sometimes pissed off teen siblings cursing under their breaths about spending their Saturday foalsitting.
Normal. Normal and annoying, but still normal. Bit more relaxed, maybe, but let’s face it; that’s annoying too.
By the time I quit lying to myself about what I’m really outside for (let’s face it, I’m not gonna get a job around here, at least not today—maybe if I really and truly try next time…) it’s half past noon and my stomach is turning in on itself with hunger. I look around for the first time in a while, and realize I’ve wandered back into the market area—heh, my brain must have started taking me home and away from these ponies instinctively or something.
The market is a confusing assault of sounds and colors and smells. There is fresh bread baking somewhere close and my stomach gives a pitiful little whine of longing which I ignore. Fresh bread sounds wonderful, but I’m on a poor pony’s budget. No fresh bread for me. Such luxuries are reserved for the rich and the brilliant and the brilliantly rich.
Instead, I casually stroll and take a nice thorough loop around the market. Everything one can possibly grow on a farm is sold in the various stalls. Tomatoes and celery and carrots—the damn list just goes on and on. I scowl at nothing mostly cause it’s instinctual, but a bit because these things are mostly vegetables and totally not what I’m looking for. One does not eat a celery stick for lunch, regardless of budget or any other excuse— and there is just not a justifiable excuse for that waste of space that dares call itself a vegetable. Humph.
I take one more glaring scope around the market and—
I’m a Celestia damned blind ass.
Apple cart. Oh, baby.
For as long as I can recall, granny smith apples have been on my list of ‘The Only Good Things in This Cruel and Dismal World’, wedged right between stringed cheese (mozzarella, because it’s the real stringed cheese, all them other stringed cheeses are just imitatin’) and fictional novels.
Ahem. Point is, I love ‘em. They are without a doubt the most superior apples, and sometimes I imagine that we are simply meant to be—their coat is green, just like mine, and they’re sour just like me… you’re free to take that any way you like.
I take a long moment to frown at the dismal state my life has gotten into that I’m apparently finding my soul mate in an apple, before shrugging and trotting happily to the stand. The pony working the cart is a mare, but I don’t really get a good look at her because she’s a pony and as opposed to apples, she’s kind of not as important. Or at least when I’m this hungry.
“Howdy,” she greets happily.
“Yeah, hi,” I mutter back, I think. Or at least I do in my head. My eyes search expertly, trying to look for green among all the yellow and red and orangeish-but-only-because-it’s-both-yellow-and-red. I pout unhappily and finally look up at her hopelessly when I don’t see them and then resist the urge to crawl into a hole and die because I realize that I’ve been staring at her apples like an apple obsessed manic for the past however-long.
“Lookin’ for something?” She chirps helpfully, not looking weirded out or anything. I nod miserably, or maybe I nod embarrassingly—I don’t know which, because I’m feeling both at once and it’s a strange combination of emotions and I’m pretty sure I look like a strangled duck right now. So maybe I nod like a strangled duck.
“What can I get’cha?” She asks with a grin that looks painfully genuine, and for the first time I look her over properly.
Green eyes. Beautiful and bright and sincere, framed by like a blond mane and she has like an orange coat or something, I don’t care because I’m not looking because they aren’t as interesting or nearly as beautiful as her damn eyes.
As I watch, those eyes frown at me and become clouded with confusion.
“You all right?” Green Eyes asks me hesitantly and I snap out my daze.
“I’m fine,” I say a little loudly, “I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m perfectly fine, I’m utterly under control.”
Buck me sideways.
Green Eyes drops her brow and just stares at me for a long while as if she doesn’t exactly know what to think of me or what to do with me.
“I uh,” I breathe out, and then clear my throat feeling like a little foal as I peep out, “Do you have any granny smith apples?”
Green Eyes snorts, but it sounds happy like a laugh instead of condescending and sarcastic like... something condescending and sarcastic. She digs around her apple cart, expertly pushing past all the other uninteresting apples to find best apple. She extracts it, and holds it up and in that moment, the light from the sun hits it just right, and like a flock of birds fly overhead in the background as triumphant music hits a glorious crescendo.
...I really need to eat.
I restrain myself from eating it right on the spot, off of her hoof, and instead politely pay the sum she asks for the apple. I then take it into my hoofs, and glance around to see if I can get away with stuffing my face without getting more strange looks, but alas, my loud rendition of I'm a Fine earned me the attention of the entire freaking town. Naturally.
I give them all a fake smile and then turn around to Green Eyes again. Having her eyes on me, I can handle. I bite into the apple, and, oh it's glorious. It's been a very long time since I've tasted such bliss and I moan out rather raunchily and probably earn myself a few more curious looks.
A few rapid bites follow in succession after the first before I run out of room in my mouth and have to chew and swallow.
“Apple lover, huh?” My face heats up when I open my eyes and see Green Eyes staring at me. I swallow what I have in my mouth and it’s a little painful going down since I didn’t chew nearly any of it properly.
“Uh,” I chuckle awkwardly but she merely smiles cheekily at me.
“No worries, you’re in like company. I’m all about my apples,” She strokes the ones in her cart. “Grow ‘em and buck ‘em and sell ‘em myself. Even planted some of the trees m’self, too.”
I shuffle awkwardly, not knowing what to really say like always. Should I nod politely? Should I lead her in a discussion about the merits of today’s apple market? I mean… I don’t know anything about the apple market but—
“Anyway, I’m Applejack. Applejack Apple.” She says and extends a hoof.
Applejack Apple. Who sells apples.
Buck me sideways. Again.
I liked Green Eyes better.
I shake her hoof politely, shuffling my apple around awkwardly in order to do so, and then glance down at my little meal. It’s not polite to eat in company, I know, but…
“Y’all can eat, I ain’t gonna keep ya from your meal with my chit-chat.” Applejack chuckles and I throw her a grateful look and slowly start nibbling on my apple as I desperately search for something to say.
But when I have a few more bites of apple in me I wonder why I’m looking to make conversation with this mare.
Well… she doesn’t seem half bad… like… not chatty like that one pink one whose name I’ve totally forgotten, and not nearly as socially awkward as the librarian. Hell, that mare was getting close to my level of socially awkward, and that’s just not a pretty thing on anypony except for me.
“So you live ‘round here? Ain’t never seen you before.” Applejack asks, smiling easily at me. I swallow and nod.
“Near the library,” I say, mutter more like, and see her eyes sparkle with something like recognition.
“Hold up, you’re not Green Tea, are you?”
I stiffen and immediately scowl at the name but nod anyway, if a little disjointedly. “That’s me,” I say quietly.
She grins a large grin, and I feel my smile quota overflowing for the day, even though it’s not as uncomfortable as it usually is. It’s still unpleasant though, and I take another bite of apple to conceal my frown, lest she think it’s directed at her. Even if it kind is.
“Well, small world after all. Heh. I’m friends with Twilight too!” Applejack chirps and I freeze.
Ew. F-word.
Who said anything about friends? And… Twilight. Twilight—Twilight Sparkle, was it? Was that the librarian?
…Why would one check out books for oneself when they live in the damn library?
No, no, there are more pressing matters right now. Friends?!
Yeah, yeah, she’s nice and all but not exactly the company I keep.
…Or at least the company I imagine myself keeping, since I don’t have friends and really don’t mind the fact that I don’t.
But… how could I put this without completely making everything super awkward for everypony involved? Applejack doesn’t seem to be a bad type—I could stand to have an acquaintance like her, sure, but not a… friend. No, no, friend is taking it way too far.
It’s not that I don’t want to.
It’s that I can’t.
“Uh, yyyyyeeeeaaahhh,” I drawl out, smiling at her fakely. “Yeah, uh, it’s a small world… after all.”
More like small town, probably, but that’s beside the point. Applejack grins that nearly perpetual grin and I fidget under it, feeling the urge to leave and go home for the first time since I started talking to her, which is strange because that feeling usually hits me within three minutes of starting a conversation.
I feel like I know what’s coming next—she’ll probably invite me to some get-together that she and Twilight and probably the pink one and whoever else is involved in their little circle are going to. And I will naturally decline and make myself look like an anti-social hermit.
But the point is, that’s what I am. And I’m decidedly happy with it.
I stare expectantly at Applejack, but she just simply stares back and smiles and doesn’t say a word. Eventually I realize that the expected invitation won’t come, and I breathe an internal sigh of relief. I shift on my hoofs and then manage a somewhat sincere smile because I do like Applejack—she seems very down-to-earth and centered, with a respect for privacy that I’m grateful for.
Celestia knows I don’t need to be in the limelight.
And Celestia knows I don’t need to bring anypony into it with me.
I nod to her and thank her for the apple and then slowly start my trot back to my boat.
The young lookout’s excited shout from the nearby rooftop, overlooking the intersection of Eighth Avenue and Green Street, echoes down the alley.
I scowl deeply at the hoofful of bruised and battered teenage Green Street Pirates that are ensconced out of sight in a trash-strewn basement stairwell. Other small groups of the Pirates are similarly hidden nearby, but casualties have been high during this afternoon’s running battle with the ferocious Untouchables from 33rd Street and I doubt if the Pirates can still field more than thirty or so able-bodied members.
I lurch to my legs with a groan, favoring my injured knee, and extend a foreleg to help pull my best friend Shylock off the ground. The others in my group, all younger than either ‘Lock or myself, wearily follow my example, each reluctant to admit to fear by being the first to head home.
“How’s it lookin’, Chief?” Shylock asks on a whisper.
“I don’t give two damns. We’re fighting ‘till those scraps are bleeding into the drains.” I growl in reply, giving an eye to some of the more reluctant looking ones in the group, who scramble to straighten out and put on a fake grin.
With a grinning ‘Lock by my side, I lead the way up the stairwell and down the short alley back to Green Street, glancing over my shoulder to reassure myself that all my members are following and that all are still armed — a motley collection of bats, chains, blackjacks, pipes and knives, and with most of them also still carrying covers filched from garbage cans: The Untouchables have a nasty habit of hauling sacks of broken bricks to the battleground.
Approaching the end of the alley, I silently motion for my group to hang back while I risk a quick glance around the corner. Sure enough, a large group of maybe forty or so Untouchables are gathered at the intersection—the traditional heart of Pirates territory—bringing traffic to a standstill and making threatening gestures at any locals brave enough to protest the disruption.
Directly across the street from me, approaching the end of their own alley, I see the second group of Pirates, led by the burly Sawbuck. Saw also risks a quick glance, and then ducks back looking worried. I raise a brow when he meets my eyes, and he gulps.
Having second thoughts, the bastard. I grit my teeth.
Granted, my call to split up the gang into smaller groups for an ambush and a decisive final clash seems to have been a bad move, but I would first lay down dead than let anypony in my gang know that. Saw deliberates for a few seconds, and then makes some vague gestures in my direction. He seems to be asking my opinion on what to do next, given that the Pirates are split into four or five small groups and the others are nowhere to be seen. Probably run off.
‘Lock whispers excitedly in my ear, urging me to advise taking to the street and facing off with The Untouchables, to draw them on into the ambush. He seems to believe the other nearby groups of Pirates would then attack them from the rear without hesitation, as planned.
More than two years had passed since I took up the threshold as leader of the Pirates, during which time I’d only once had my leadership challenged in any way. Shylock bears the scars to this day, but we have since become the best of friends and between the two of us have ruled the Pirates with an iron hoof, pounding all rivals—both within and outside of the gang—into the dirt. The Pirates were a medium sized group as gangs went, just under a hundred members, but had a reputation for being tough brawlers.
I ponder for a long moment, as it is always like this before a big battle for me—taking time to remember how I got where I am today, just in case I don’t make it out. Then I turn my attention back to the situation of the present. Frankly, Saw’s group consisted of the burliest mares and stallions in my whole gang and would make quick work of the ambush if my own group were to step out first. Naturally, most of the fights nowadays ended up with the two groups exchanging insults instead of punches, but my gang had a reputation to uphold and turf to protect—this battle would not be ending with words, not on my call.
I gesture my plan over to Sawbuck but he seems confused by my hoof gestures—he never was the brightest spark in the neighborhood—and I begin to repeat myself, frantically trying to make him understand, while beside me Shylock is doing his best to contain his laughter.
Thankfully, I see Hellhound, one of my toughest, lean over to whisper in Saw’s ear his own interpretation of my signaled advice. Understanding finally dawns on Sawbuck’s face, and I share a grin with ‘Hound as he rolls his eyes behind Saw’s back. He’s a good kid, that one—doesn’t waste time on insults, lets his strength do the talking. Hell if something happened to ‘Lock, kid would be my first pick for a replacement lieutenant.
Saw ponders my advice for a moment or two, but then firmly shakes his head in the negative. I roll my eyes and scowl, but nod my head. For all his dead brain weight, Sawbuck was a seasoned gang member and something of a tactics specialist. He begins gesticulating wildly in return, not realizing that in doing so he’s also pulling funny faces, causing Shylock and half my group to abruptly turn and swiftly head back down the alley, now desperately trying hard not to burst out laughing and inadvertently give away our position to the rival gang. I cannot help but crack a smile myself, although more at ‘Lock’s contagious merriment than finding any humor in the farcical situation itself.
It finally becomes clear to me that Saw is suggesting both our groups should head back down their respective alleys and try to locate and team up with the other scattered Pirates, forming two large groups. He seems to be saying that his group will then charge the Untouchables head-on in about twenty minutes from now, at which point he wants my group to be in position with all the others to hit them from the flank or rear.
I shrug lightly and then give a small nod—it was better than anything I had.
“Damnit, Butch,” says ‘Lock with a scowl when we head back down the alley and break the news to my members. “We should go out there now,” he continues angrily, always eager for the fight, “before they head back to their own turf.”
“I hear ya... But it’s Saw’s call—this time.” I reply patiently, patting him on the shoulder. “‘Sides, once this is over with we can finally go out to dinner.”
‘Lock’s anger abruptly disappears, to be replaced with his familiar grin. He falls in beside me as I push my way through the group, saying “Let’s go round up some of the others.” With a wink.
“You really don’t wanna go that way. There’s an Untouchable lookout way down at the end of the alley... I can just see him from here.”
Tense as a coiled spring, quietly leading my group in single file down a narrow alley between a warehouse and the rear of a tenement building, navigating around tall, jumbled piles of discarded packing cases, I suddenly jump, startled, as the voice comes out of nowhere and seemingly right beside me. I raise my bat in a swift reflex action, looking around frantically, and then my gaze is drawn upwards as a delighted giggle follows, coming from directly above me.
Violette smirks mischievously, leaning over the railing of a fire escape balcony, with flaming red locks blowing high in the brisk breeze. Maybe a year or so younger than myself and Shylock, at just sixteen Violette is the object of fantasy for most of the local colts and fillies—well, the ones that swing that way anyway. And, to hear them talk, at least, many have had those fantasies realized.
“Damnit, Vi, you scared the crap outta me!” I admonish her in a fierce whisper without thinking, then immediately turn red-faced at the sound of the muffled chuckles coming from ‘Lock and the others now bunching up behind me.
Violette giggles again, then, noticing the colts all looking up admiringly, she throws back her head and shakes her long mane loose in the wind, while tensing her body and displaying her ripe figure to best effect. The collective intake of breath by those gathered is audible.
Without warning, Violette suddenly lurches forward and dives over the railing, but instead of plunging head-first onto the hard cobblestones below, she somehow maintains her grip on the bars, executes a controlled somersault, and lands lightly on her legs right beside me. Her mouth quirks wickedly at the astonished looks on the faces of everyone there.
I shake my head at her and scowl—the last thing I need right now is for my group to be distracted from the dangerous task at hand. Violette innocently bats her eyelashes at me, and then abruptly pushes past me to grab Shylock by the neck and pull him close for a deep, lingering kiss. With his curly blue mane, ruggedly-handsome features and ready smile, Shylock always got the best-looking mares. His innumerable scars only seemed to add to his appeal; a symbol of his tough reputation as a ferocious, head-stomping Pirate, and a badge of pride in this neighborhood in the form of the nickname, 'Scar'.
After a few seconds of this, I pointedly clear my throat, knowing that time is swiftly running out. ‘Lock reluctantly breaks the kiss and Violette turns to pout at me, but the look in her deep, smoldering green eyes says, you’re jealous, and you damn well know it. I manage a bland look in return, and then my customary scowl when she winks at me.
“We don’t have time for this, Vi, get out of the way,” I bark, meeting her eyes dead-on.
“Aw, come on, Tea, I can help you out. Get rid of that guy.” Violette whines and I roll my eyes. Violette has been trying to get into the gang for the past several months, endlessly pestering me with requests and offering to do favors.
“This ain’t a good place for you,” I tell her gruffly, like I always do, and then push past her and start stalking down the alley. “‘Lock, you come with me,” I throw over my shoulder, “Everypony else wait here... and you sure as hell better still be here when we get back,” I add in stern warning, turning to continue down the alley. Violette’s sharp tone sounds from behind me.
“Don’t go, Scar, she ain’t the boss of you,” she insists. I stop dead in my track and turn around with a fierce glare, just in time to see Violette gripping hold of ‘Lock’s shoulder to keep him from following. Shylock shrugs off her grip, only to be rewarded with a resounding slap. For a split second it looks like he’s about to punch her, but instead he suddenly grabs Violette’s neck, pulls her close, and kisses her fiercely, then abruptly lets her go and turns to follow me. Violette staggers back, looking furious, but her anger instantly melts into a soft, secretive smile.
“What can I say? The filly loves me,” ‘Lock offers apologetically as he catches up with me, grinning and rubbing his bright-red cheek.
“Yeah... you and half the friggin’ neighborhood,” I mutter in a sharp riposte, then instantly duck his fake punch. We both chortle quietly as we continue down the alley.
Less than two minutes later, the Untouchables’ lookout is laid out cold in the alley, bludgeoned into senseless oblivion, and I send ‘Lock back to bring up the rest of the group.
“Looks like we made it in time,” I say, panting softly from that last dash, both pleased and immensely relieved at the same time. Most of The Untouchables still seem to be milling about the intersection of Green Street and Eighth Avenue, and Saw’s group clearly has yet to attack them.
My group and I make quick work to team up with two other small groups of Pirates crouched in their hiding spots. All of them nod as I explain the new plan, and then gear up. I breathe a sigh of relief as my group has now swollen to almost thirty in number, waiting quietly in an alley beside Chuck’s Place.
Suddenly an almighty roar erupts from the nearby intersection and I peer around the corner to see that Saw’s group has charged The Untouchables from the north, catching the first few by surprise. However, they quickly recover from their shock and, outnumbering as they do Saw’s group by more than two to one, soon regain the upper hand, easily driving the Pirates back up Eighth Avenue. I instantly realize that Saw’s group is falling back on purpose, both to avoid being easily overwhelmed and to give my own group the best chance of attacking the Untouchables, as they now mostly have their backs to us.
The only question in my mind is whether to attack immediately—before Saw’s group is completely overrun—or to wait a little longer until even the most timid of the Untouchables have entered the fray, so making it less likely my own will be noticed until it’s too late, but at risk then of Saw’s group already being soundly defeated...
“Butch, we gotta get in there,” Shylock mutters urgently to me, eyes panicked.
“Let’s go!” I whisper fiercely after a nod, rising to my hoofs and signaling the attack. “And not one friggin’ sound until the very last second!”
I lead the way out the alley at a dead run, barging my way past local onlookers gathered in the street to watch the two gangs clash. The sound of running hoofs seems strangely loud in my ears, but not a single Untouchable turns to look behind them, so focused are they on surrounding the remaining members of Saw’s group, who have finally stopped retreating and are now making a stand.
Fifty feet, forty, thirty... the distance closes rapidly, and I can now clearly make out Hellhound in the center of Saw’s shrunken line, grinning maniacally and lashing out with a whirling chain, keeping a mass of Untouchables at bay. But both ends of Saw’s line are beginning to crumble as the numerically-superior rival gang begins to flood around them and attack them from the flanks and rear. Groaning, bloody bodies are scattered everywhere, and I lash out with my bat to smash one rising Untouchable back to the ground as I race past him, catching him full in his startled face.
“KILL THEM!” I finally give vent to the rage and pumped-up adrenaline flooding my body as my group hit the rear of the rival gang at a dead run, slamming my bat into the back of one stallion’s head just before he swings some sort of meat cleaver into the legs of a downed Pirate. I shove the next stallion straight into Hellhound’s whirling chain, then swivel and sweep the legs out from under a third Untouchable, sending her crashing to the ground. A swift blow breaks some ribs, while ‘Lock’s hoof lashes out and kicks her in the head, to keep her down.
Within only a matter of seconds, it’s all over. Broken and bloody Untouchables are sprawled everywhere, and any still moving are being instantly set upon by a pack of howling ponies with flailing weapons. Only a bare hoofful made their escape down nearby alleys and side streets, but the Pirates are for the most part too stunned and joyous in their superb victory to bother pursuing them very far.
“What kept you?” Hellhound asks with a wide grin, throwing his now bloody chain over his neck and leaning down to help a battered and bloody, shaky younger colt back to his legs.
“We ran into Missus Shylock...” I reply, throwing him a suggestive wink when a resounding ‘hey!’ sounds from Shylock. “It’s a question of priorities,” I add impudently, matching his grin and helping a small filly up also.
“Heh, this was awesome, Butch!” Sawbuck rams into me from the side in a rough half-hug, half-tackle.
“Watch it, Meathead, you’re getting blood all over me,” I snap, but only half-heartedly as my grin shines through. Saw pulls away and swipes with disinterest at his bloody nose. “Most of it ain’t mine, Chief.”
“Chief!” I stiffen slightly and look ahead of me at the panicked scream. A young colt comes stumbling out of the alleyway, soaked in blood and half dead as he pushes his broken body into the wide intersection. “Star Spiders!”
Sure enough, rapidly approaching from the south, Eighth Avenue is now crammed with a number of The Untouchables missing from this recent fight—including their leader, Larkspur—together with a mass of new reinforcements; a street gang from just south of Green Street, and long-time bitter rivals of the Pirates. It seems last week’s successful raid into their territory has annoyed the Star Spiders enough to put aside their own differences with the Untouchables: ordinarily the Spiders waged implacable warfare against any and all gentiles.
I swallow hard, a cold chill clenching my stomach instantly. The odds are now at least three to one, and most of the Pirates are far from fresh. The bright, cold sun suddenly slipping behind a dark mass of cloud serves only to reinforce my growing sense of impending doom.
I startle awake, bolting upright and hitting my head. I curse bitterly, dripping with feverish sweat and shaking uncontrollably. The nightmare memories of that terrible day five years ago flash through my mind: it was the day my best friend Shylock, barely seventeen and so full of the sheer joys of life, had died.
During the worst defeat the Pirates had ever suffered, ‘Lock had been relentlessly bludgeoned and kicked to death by Larkspur and two or three other Untouchables—pure, malevolent revenge for the scars and severe beatings Shylock had inflicted on Larkspur in earlier clashes. It was personal.
I crawl from my bed, grunting and cursing and sobbing under my breath, kicking aside the empty bottles of cheap, rot-gut whiskey, my vision blurred and with sharp pain lancing into my skull from the worst hangover I can ever recall suffering. Ordinarily, I would drink a gallon of water then go back to bed and just sleep it off, but today that was simply not possible.
I often wondered about the injustice of the life some were handed. Was there somepony who decided what circumstances a pony was born with. If there was, where were they and how could I kill them?
I stumbled from my boat on weak, shaky legs that threatened to give out with every step, all the while bumping into my broken ass furniture and accumulating unfelt bruises. I threw myself overboard, crawling the short distance to the thicker part of the woods before emptying out my guts. Then I curled up into a ball on the hard, cold ground and sobbed for my best friend like a little baby, right beside my stupid puddle of vomit.
