Deemed by society as outcasts, misfits, losers, no good punks. Apart they are nothing together they are Luna Angels
Big Macintosh came back from the war a changed stallion. Giving up on civilized society and became a drifter roaming the highways until he found brothers in the Luna Angels.
On a blazing noon day, under a lean-to of tarp and tent poles, a lone stallion sat leaning against the side of his motorcycle.
He sat, idly rolling the cigarette in his lips, savoring the smokey flavor, as the distant sounds of engines roared nearer. And in a moment, the sun started creeping into view from above the tarp, illuminating the features of the stallion in full.
His buckskin jacket, seasoned by the sun, wind and rain. His jeans, a faded pallor, their color lost to the desert. His build, imposing. His face, hard and weathered from a life of drifting.
All who knew a face such as his knew what to expect. Quick. Harden. Dangerous. But, those who knew more knew a gentleness, deep and guarded. His name, Big Macintosh.
The engines were growing closer. And as Big Mac took the last drag on his cigarette, three motorcycles sped by him in a cloud of dust. So quickly, they blew over his lean-to and all of the ash left on his smoke.
With one last exhale of smoke, Big Mac let his cigarette butt fall to the ground and crushed it with the heel of his palm.
Standing up, he dusted himself off and collected the pieces of his fallen shelter. Once it was all collected, he lashed them together with a bungee from his pocket and walked them back to his motorcycle.
His one pride and joy in his life. A 1956 Pilgrim. Its glossy, candy apple red paint had dulled from a buildup of dust, which nearly hid the emblem of a green apple on the gas tank. The handlebars, once of polished silver, were now dull and showing spots of rust.
Set between the handlebars, a small, military green bedroll, which Big Mac hooked his makeshift shelter to. Now, he was set to go.
Sitting atop the long, king and queen seat, he leaned back against the leather saddlebag behind him. Looking down the road, the bikes that had passed him had disappeared into the haze of heat and highway.
With his eyes set squarely ahead, he kickstarted his machine.
The outside had been let go. But, the inside of the Pilgrim was as alive and vigorous as the day he acquired it.
It roared like a beast, and rumbled like a heavyweight champ.
A small smile cracked onto Big Mac’s face. And with his hand the throttle, he was ready to take off like a sonic rainboom.
The engine rumbled, as the wheels rolled to the blacktop. And in seconds, Big Mac was riding well over sixty down the long and lonesome highway at breakneck speed.
The ride was exactly the way he preferred it. With not another soul to be seen. And the desert land untouched by corporate pricks, who constantly tried to spoil the land he loved with their developments.
He knew it would not be long before some suit with his head up his ass would set foot on the untouched land. But for the time being, he would enjoy it.
For hours, he rode through the land, never knowing where he would end up. But, a glance to his fuel gauge, and he saw that he had better end up at a gas station.
As luck would have it, there was a large, green sign ahead. And in bold, white letters, he was informed of a gas station at the next exit, 20 miles down the way.
Easing his throttle forward, the Pilgrim picked up speed, sending him rocketing toward his destination.
On the lonely stretch of road, a gas station sat facing an orchard.
Under the shade of the massive awning that stretched over the pumps, three stallions sat. Two of them bucked a can of oil between them, while the third sipped his can of Red Coyote beer, as he pumped his gas.
In the distance, the familiar sound of a motorcycle engine approached. And in moments, the stallion pumping gas looked to see an enormous stallion ride up to the neighboring pump.
Big Mac stepped off of his Pilgrim, and glimpsed over at the orchard. The sight of the many fruit-bearing trees tugged at a part of himself that had been lost many years ago. But, they were now only memories of a time long passed.
As he walked to the front door of the gas station, one of the stallions missed when the can was tossed to him, and banged loudly against the cement wall.
Before Big Mac walked inside, the owner, an elderly donkey in a grease-stained shirt, came out to investigate the noise.
“What was that!? You guys trying to wreck my shop!?” the donkey said.
“It’d probably look better if we did!” one of the stallions joked. He took a clip of money from his pocket and tosses it for the donkey to catch. “How about another six pack of Red Coyote?”
The donkey returned to inside his shop, grumbling all the while.
After one last glance to the other stallions, Big Mac walked inside the shop.
Inside, there was little more than a few shelves and a counter with a register, where the old donkey was shelling out the bills he was given.
“Ones. Why do these bums only pay in ones?” he muttered.
Big Mac casually sauntered up to the counter.
“Help ya, son?” the donkey asked.
“Need ten bucks on pump number two. An’ some jerky, if ya got it,” Big Mac answered.
The old donkey picked up a six pack from the refrigerator behind himself, and shook it vigorously.
“Sure. If’n ya don’t mind gecko meat. Tell ya what: ya take this beer out to them hobos at the pump, ya get yer jerky free,” he said.
“Deal,” Big Mac plainly said, as he exchanged his money for gas, and collected the six pack and jerky.
He walked out to the door, and saw that the three other bikers were now surrounding his motorcycle.
For the first time since he saw them on the road, Big Mac was able to get a good look at them.
One was much shorter than the others, and sported a red bandanna and a shaggy beard.
The next had a face that looked like it was half roadkill, with a pale glass eye set into one socket.
The third was much older than the others. On his front leg, he sported a tattoo that read, ‘I will never go down in history, but I’ll go down on your sister.
All three wore the same black jacket with a logo of a unicorn skull. Above the logo, stitched in bold white were the words ‘Luna Angels.’ Below the skull, the word ‘Califoalnia’ was embroidered.
In a bold move, the short stallion with the bandanna tried to take his seat atop the Pilgrim.
“Ya won’t get far. That thing’s been runnin’ on fumes for a few miles now,” Big Mac said.
“No. It ain’t like that. I just wanted to see what it was like sittin’ on this little baby,” the short stallion said, as he climbed off. “What is it? A ‘59?”
“‘56,” Big Mac corrected, as he passed the older stallion the six pack. “Here’s yer beer.”
He then removed the gas cap and started pumping fuel. To his dismay, the numbers on the pump rotated slowly, and he could feel only a trickle of gasoline moving through the hose.
With a pop and a fizz, the three stallions opened a can of beer each.
“Hey, the old geezer actually shook ‘em this time,” the one-eyed stallion said, before gleefully sucking down the contents of his can.
“Thanks fer the suds, fella. Name’s Coastie,” the short stallion said. “Old timer’s King. And Mr. Universe here is Thor.”
The one-eyed stallion flicked some foam from his can at Coastie.
“Have a can, sport,” King said, passing a can to Big Mac. “What’s yer name?”
“Big Mac,” the large stallion replied, carefully cracking his can open.
“So, when’d ya get back to the world, Big Mac?” Thor asked.
Big Mac nearly stopped mid sip of his drink. That was a vernacular he hadn’t heard since his return from the war. Looking at Thor’s disfigured face, it made sense that he would know such slang.
“It’ll be one year on the dot by next Thursday,” he answered. “How ‘bout you?”
“Got back in ‘67. Would’ve stayed longer, but they had to discharge me after I lost my eye,” Thor replied.
Over the course of the time it took to pump his gas, Big Mac shared his stories with the others. A short while later, King crushed his empty beer can and climbed atop his bike.
“C’mon, girls. We’re burnin’ daylight here! The prez is waitin’ for us!” he called to his two companions.
After saying their goodbyes, Thor and Coastie both mounted their bikes, and started their engines.
“Hey, Big Mac! If you’re headed west, hit us up a Pinto Creek!” Thor said, over the roar of his engine.
“Could be a few days, but I might get there,” Big Mac replied.
And with those last words, King, Thor and Coastie all rode out into the distance.
Big Mac watched them go, until they disappeared into the horizon. Looking to the pump, he saw that it was now counting $5.56 paid for. And the numbers were still slowly rolling.
With a sigh, he sat down against the pump, and waited for the moment when he would be able to ride again.
The early morning commute of downtown Pinto Creek was shattered that day, when the resident pool hall erupted into flames with a thunderous explosion.
The nearby pedestrians quickly cleared away from the scene and watched in horror as only three survivors stumbled out through the flaming door.
The dogs who escaped quickly patted out any flames that clung to their clothes. One in particular had to stop, drop and roll to put out his flaming shoulder.
Flames bellowed from the doorway, as the door shattered under the massive foot that kicked it down. Out walked a stallion, far taller than and muscular than any one of the diamond dogs who fled. He reached to the back of his belt and drew a .45 pistol, aiming it directly at the diamond dogs.
Nothing was seen on his face, for the bandana he wore. All that was revealed were his eyes, filled with murderous fury. "You Diamond Dogs think just by pissing on a fire hydrant makes it your territory!? Fuck that! You pissed on the wrong block, pooch!" the masked stallion shouted.
The dogs stood frozen to the spot, anticipating the pull of the trigger. One of the diamond dogs spat on the ground and glared at the stallion.
“You ain’t got nothin’ on us, dog meat! Long as there’s all these witnesses around, you won’t dare shoot. An’ we can keep ‘pissing’ where we damn well please! These dogs don’t lie down!” the dog said.
The masked stallion growled quietly, stepping deliberately toward the dog and placing the barrel of his gun against his head.
“You ain’t dogs. You’re cockroaches. And cockroaches get squashed,” the stallion said.
An ear-splitting bang resounded across the block, and the civilians scattered as the diamond dog’s blood sprayed the pavement.
Before the other two diamond dogs could run, they were stopped by the stallion shooting a bullet between them. They turned, and saw the stallion holster his gun.
“Tell the rest of your bullshit MC that this is your first and last warning. Now, get the hell out of here!” the stallion said.
The diamond dogs ran for their bikes and the stallion watched them go. In the distance, he could hear sirens approaching.
Quickly the stallion holstered the gun, the heat of it searing through his jeans. Nearby, he could see the lime green pickup truck that had delivered him to the bar. He sprinted directly over and laid flat in the truck’s bed.
Shortly after the ride began, the stallion removed his bandana, smiling wickedly. This was his town. And nobody was going to change that.
Somewhere in the Califoalnia Desert, Big Mac had set up his camp, using nothing but his motorcycle and a tarp as a makeshift tent.
Sleep was not easy for Big Mac to come by. His time on the night patrol had kept his body restless, and his mind on constant alert. Whenever morning came, he never felt completely rested. But, he knew the way to remedy that.
Taking a handful of small, dry twigs that he had collected that morning, Big Mac made himself a small, almost smokeless fire to heat up water for a cup of coffee. He filled his small pan with water from his canteen and heated it over the fire. As he waited for the water to boil, he took a bite of the jerky he bought from the gas station the day before. From his jacket pocket, he produced a package of Applewood cigarettes.
His smoking ritual always began the same. Before ever lighting the cigarette, he pinched off the filter and tossed it into the fire. As he watched the filter smolder and curl, he hovered one end of his cigarette into the flames and spoke the words from his platoon sergeant that had stuck with him.
"War...they say it changes people. But, they're wrong. War doesn't change anyone. It just shows what we are underneath."
Big Mac never knew what he meant until he had gone back home to Sweet Apple Acres.
The first thing he got when he returned home was a spit in the eye and being called a baby killer from one of his sister's friends. After that incident Big Mac slowly realized that he couldn’t live his old life.
The first person that realized it too was Granny Smith. She could see that whenever Big Mac looked at her that he was never really looking at her. His mind was always somewhere else to some terrible memory of his time in the war.
The day that he left home, his two younger sisters were in tears.
"Why are ya leavin’ us, Mac?"
"Is it ‘cause o’ my friend?"
Big Mac said nothing. For a long time, he had wondered why he had not answered them before he left. After so long, he knew it was because he had no answer. Every day since, he regretted turning his back and saying, “Blame Uncle Sugar an’ his bullshit ideals.”
The ash of the stale cigarette fell onto Big Mac jeans, bringing him back to the present. After he dusted off his pants, Big Mac mixed the instant coffee with the boiled water, using a piece of jerky as a spoon to stir.
Big Mac gulped down his coffee like it was cold water, tasting bits of uncooked coffee and specks of the jerky seasoning. Once he was finished with the last bit of jerky he had on him, he stood up, stomped out his fire and went to his motorcycle to check the tires and anything else that might cause trouble down the road.
Once Big Mac was finished checking his bike, he grabbed his gear and rode towards southward, past a large, green road sign that read ‘Pinto Creek 20 miles.’
A boisterous commotion rose from the old farmhouse on the west border of Pinto Creek.
In the nearby barn, a stallion was fixing his motorcycle, when he heard the approach of multiple motors from somewhere beyond the wall of junked cars.
Seconds later, he saw the familiar bikes of King, Thor and Coastie cruise up and park their bikes in the row with all of the others.
The three new arrivals casually walked into the club house, relishing the smell of cigarette smoke, freshly poured beer, and the loud blast of the Neanderthals record that was playing from somewhere in the living room. Most welcome of all was the sight of Honey Sweet dancing topless on the table in the middle of the room and shaking everything her momma gave her.
“Hey! Look who’s back!” shouted somebody in the room.
Everyone in the room cheered at the sight of their returned friends. Honey jumped off the table and danced her way over to King.
“Sorry, Honey. Not this time. We got business to take care of,” King said, gently refusing Honey’s advances.
Honey briefly feigned hurt, then started windmilling her hair around just as another track started to play.
King, Thor and Coastie walked their way through the room, collecting the cold beers that were offered to them. They walked all the way to the corner where they knew they would find Goth.
True to his nature, there he was. Tall, broad-chested and skinny-legged, as if he only worked the upper half of his body his entire life. His messily tattooed arms moved with artistic deliberation as he painted wildflowers and psychedelic patterns on the naked breasts another one of the mares present.
“Y’know, babe, you got a great figure,” Goth said, as he stroked his brush beneath the mare’s breasts.
The mare giggled in response.
“I read somewhere that the greatest minds were always wrapped in a pretty package. How ‘bout we get together later for a bit of a poetry jam? Explore one another for a little bit?” Goth said.
“Mayhem told me you already tried that line on her,” the mare said. “Then again...I wouldn’t say no to a little jam session.”
Before Goth could answer, he noticed the arrival of the three returning members.
“Guys! When did you get back?” he asked.
“Just now,” King answered. “Have you seen Sun Dance around?”
“No. That means he’s probably upstairs. Getting his own piece of ‘heaven,’” Goth said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to keep my attention on this curvaceous beauty.”
King nodded briefly and walked toward the stairs.
“You two stick around and get reacquainted with the guys. I’ll go see Sun Dance,” he said to Thor and Coastie.
“No problems there, man,” Coastie said, as he took a joint that was offered by another mare, took a hit and shotgunned the smoke back to the mare.
Thor and Coastie made themselves comfortable while King trotted up the stairs.
At the top of the stairs, there were only four rooms. And King knew exactly which one Sun Dance was in. He followed the sounds of moaning and opened the second door on his right.
The room was filled with the usual kegs of Red Coyote beer and One Shot whiskey. As usual, there was Sun Dance, pants down and legs splayed as Heavenly Touch worked her magic. In one hand he had his usual cigarillo. In the other, his usual glass of whiskey.
The moment that Sun Dance noticed King in the room, he gently patted the back of the mare’s head.
“Aw...Heaven. Sorry, babe. I got business to handle now,” Sun Dance said.
Heaven stood up and smiled, before straightening herself out.
“King. Nice seein’ you back,” Heaven said.
“Likewise,” was all King said, as he watched Heaven go. Much as he admired Heaven, he knew that she only had eyes for Sun Dance.
A zip of a fly signalled to King that he could turn around.
“Welcome home, King. The other’s come back with you?” Sun Dance said, as he buckled his belt.
“Yep. They’re downstairs, enjoying some well-earned drinks,” King said.
“Nice to hear. How’d that meeting with the Strays go? They give us the okay to start a chapter in Las Pegasus?”
“They said that as long as we don’t move in on their catnip racket, they won’t mind us there,” King answered.
“Now, that calls for a drink,” Sun Dance said, as he reached over the side of the couch and tossed King a bottle of moonshine. “Life’s gonna be good now. New members. New turf. And I hear those Strays got some pussycats who can suck the stripes off a zebra.”
He and King both finished their drinks in seconds, and tossed their bottles to the pile in the corner.
“Let’s go join the party. I got some news to share,” King said.
At a small newsstand in the east end of Pinto Creek, a scrawny young stallion’s eyes darted across the pages of the adventure magazine he was supposed to be selling. Nopony ever bought the entire stock, so nopony would notice if that particular magazine went to the same place that all of the other magazines the stallion took went.
As he turned a page, the stallion saw a familiar sight walk by his stand. A tall, shapely mare with legs that went on for miles strutted past him. Same mare as every morning, dressed in the same outdated waitress uniform that would have looked at home in a black and white photo. But, stallion, did she rock it good.
Same as every morning, the stallion at the newsstand stealthily looked away from the pages of his reading material, and leaned ever so slightly over his counter. Same as every morning, she looked just as good from behind as she did from the front. After the highlight of his day had gone and passed, the stallion sat back to read his magazine during a whole day of nothing.
In the distance, the rumble of an engine caught the stallion’s ear. It wasn’t any car that he was familiar with. He knew the distinct sounds of each engine by heart. Most likely, it was one of the local bikers coming back from doing whatever out in the desert. Paying no mind, he kept his nose in his magazine.
The motorcycle was growing closer. In moments, it became so loud that the stallion knew the rider was upon him, ready to pass him up. Instead, he heard its rumbling engine start to quiet, then came to a guttural stop from across the street. For just a moment, the stallion at the newsstand glimpsed up to see the new arrival. One of the Luna Angels, or a Diamond Dog, he guessed. Instead, he saw a stranger. An enormous stranger who rode an equally large motorcycle. Big Mac had come to Pinto Creek.
The stallion at the newsstand kept on reading his magazine, as he heard the steps of Big Mac’s boots clomping across the empty street. Moments later, they stopped right in front of his booth.
“Got a pack o’ smokes?” Big Mac asked.
The stallion said nothing, but reached to his side and produced a pack of cigarettes, which he dropped on the counter. Big Mac eyed the cigarettes pensively.
“Ain’t ya gonna tell me how much I owe ya?” he asked.
The stallion motioned to a sign behind him that read, ‘Cigarettes: $4.00.’
Big Mac said nothing in turn, and produced a dirty, crumpled bill from his front pocket and tossed it on the counter next to the cigarettes.
“Know a place to eat? Guy can’t live off o’ jerky C-rations these days,” Big Mac said.
“Corner diner. End of the street that way,” the stallion at the newsstand said, pointing down the road to his left.
“Thanks,” was all Big Mac said, as he took his cigarettes and walked off.
“Hey, big fella. Ya paid five bucks for those cigs,” the stallion said.
“Keep the change,” Big Mac said, dismissively waving his hand.
True to the directions he had been given, Big Mac found the diner at the end of the street, and walked through the front door.
The first thing that greeted Big Mac upon entering was the somber tune of ‘You Can’t Ever Go Home Again’ playing from the jukebox near the door. Somehow, he thought it fit right in with the look of the diner. Back in it’s day, the place must have looked futuristic. Now, the two-tone checkered floors were cracked, the wine red seats were badly sun dried and shoddily patched with duct tape, and the empty spaces at the counter where stools were once screwed to the floor forced spaces between the customers sitting there.
Big Mac walked to the counter and took his seat on a stool that had an empty space on either side of it. As he waited for a waitress, he lit up a cigarette and took a long, satisfied drag off the end of it.
The minutes passed, and he had not been tended to. The end of his cigarette was beginning to turn to ash. Big Mac looked around for an ashtray to use, but found nothing of the sort. Instead, he found a half-drank cup of coffee, which was stone cold. Taking his cigarette, he tapped the ash into the cup, just as a waitress walked over to him.
“Sorry to keep ya waitin’. We--” she stopped for a moment. “We have ashtrays, ya know.”
“Sorry about that, ma’am. Didn’t think anypony’d mind me usin’ their cold cup o’ coffee scum for my cigs,” Big Mac said. He looked up as the waitress was serving him a proper ashtray, which she retrieved from beneath the counter. The first thing that he noticed about her was that even her waitress uniform was outdated, and heavily worn with age. Even on a mare who looked as good as her, the uniform almost made her look twenty years older than she actually was, just by wearing it.
“Okay. What’ll ya have?” the waitress asked, producing her pen and pad from her pocket.
“Shortstack. A big one. Side o’ redeye grits. An’ a black coffee,” Big Mac said.
“Mm-hm…” The waitress said, as she jotted down the order on her pad. “Gonna be a few minutes, sugah. Stick aroun’ an’ enjoy the view.”
Big Mac did just that, and spun around on his stool to look out the window. Between the low music, quiet atmosphere and scarcity of traffic, it reminded him of the peaceful morning that he had spent on his family farm, before he got on the bus to boot camp. Just as it was the very second that he got on that bus, the peace ended when he overheard two young stallions talking nearby.
“You hear what happened at the pool hall yesterday?” one of the stallions said. “Some guy from Luna Angels burned it down.”
“No kidding?” the other stallion said.
“Yeah. Killed like a half dozen of the Diamond Dogs doing it.”
“Damn,” said the second stallion, before taking a sip of his coffee. “Me? I say fuck those dogs. Last week, when I was going back to my car from the grocery store, I caught one of those guys lifting a leg on my car. Then he says I should pay him for washing it.”
Luna Angels. The gang that he was told about at the gas station from before. Now, there he was in the very town that they crashed in. As long as he was there, he figured that he may take them up on the offer to visit them. For the moment, he was going to enjoy the quiet and get his breakfast.
An unexpected presence woke up Sun Dance that morning. It wasn’t the mare he had his arm around, and it wasn’t the mare who passed out on top of him while she had her teeth on his fly. When he awoke, Sun Dance saw one of the prospects eyeing him like a vulture did over thirsty cattle.
“You got a death wish, prospect?” Sun Dance said, narrowing his bloodshot eyes contemptuously.
“Sorry to bother you, sir. Just, uh...There’s the sheriff outside,” the prospect said, turning a paler shade.
Sun Dance growled quietly, and got off of the pool table he had fallen asleep on. Both mares rolled limply over as he stood up, but giggled sleepily when he pinched both their cutie marks.
“Gimme that coffee, boy,” Sun Dance said, taking the prospect’s coffee and guzzling it down. “And that smoke,” he finished, taking the prospect’s cigarette, before he started getting dressed. “Get downstairs with the others. I’ll make it quick with Johnny Law.”
Once he got outside, the first thing that Sun Dance heard was a loud, metallic clang. Looking to the source, he first saw the massively fat Sheriff Rosco sitting on the hood of his patrol car, unwrapping a fresh cigar. Another loud clang was heard, just after Sun Dance saw the sheriff’s rail thin deputy pick up a rock and chuck it at the motorcycles. When the rock hit its mark and left a shallow dent, the deputy cackled loudly.
“Sheriff,” Sun Dance half-heartedly greeted.
Sheriff Rosco and his deputy both snapped to attention.
“Sun Dance, my boy. How are ya? Lookin’ like ya got up on the wrong side o’ the bed,” Sheriff Rosco chuckled.
“I woke up on my pool table with a mare nuzzlin’ my cock. Ain’t no wrong side there,” Sun Dance said.
The deputy threw the rock that he was holding, and jammed it into the front wheel of one of the bikes. He and Sheriff Rosco both laughed.
“Good one, boy!” Sheriff Rosco said.
Sun Dance glared.
“I’d offer ya some coffee, but I hear it’s bad for a pig’s stomach,” he said.
“Oh! Oh ho ho! Careful with that joke. It’s an antique,” Sheriff Rosco said, as he lit his cigar. “I’m sure you know why I’m here, don’t ya?”
“Don’t care. But, I’m sure you’re gonna tell me anyway,” Sun Dance replied.
“As it turns out, my boy, there was a little bonfire in town yesterday. Pool hall just up and burned. No witnesses about who started that. We’re guessin’ there was at least one, but the guy had a .45 cal hole between his eyes,” the sheriff said.
Sun Dance shrugged dismissively.
“Sounds like somepony was sendin’ a message,” he said.
“Be that as it may, it coulda been sent quieter,” Sheriff Rosco said. “Because o’ you an’ your boys, the mayor’s gonna--” “The mayor’s gonna do jack shit. Same as he’s always done. Those dogs were nothin’ but trouble. Sellin’ PCP. To fuckin’ kids. Nopony’s gonna give a shit about one dead dog. Especially not any law stallion on my payroll,” Sun Dance said.
Sheriff Rosco rubbed his eyes beneath his sunglasses.
“Right,” he said, “Next time, a heads up would be nice.”
“Sure. Now, you and your little piglet get off my fuckin’ lawn. Your wife’s waiting for me upstairs,” Sun Dance said, before he turned to enter his house.
After Big Mac finished his breakfast, finding the Luna Angels clubhouse was as easy as finding a whorehouse on R&R. He didn’t even need to ask directions. He just followed the dozens of streaks that were left in the road by traveling motorcycles.
He followed them well past the outskirts of town. Far past where the roads were paved, up the dusty trails into the hills. Big Mac thrusted his bike into full gear and tore up the side of the hill. At the top, he jumped the crest and landed hard on the road. A mile or two away, he could see a wall of junked cars at the top of another hill. That was it.
Big Mac hit the turnoff and coasted up the hill.
He slowed down when he passed the wall of cars, and saw a row of parked motorcycles. Preferring not to start any trouble, he parked his bike away from the others. A bit of etiquette that didn’t go unnoticed by the stallion who was seated at the clubhouse entrance.
Big Mac trotted up the steps catching a strong whiff of catnip in the air, and the roaring sound of hard rock blaring from inside. He hesitated when he saw the stallion at the door with his arms behind his back. A stallion almost as big as himself. His face was half covered by his grizzled red beard. The other half was covered by a cloud of cigar smoke. “Lose yer way, stranger?” the stallion asked.
“Nope,” Big Mac answered. “Fella by the name o’ Thor said I oughta check out yer clubhouse if I’m in the neighborhood. So, ya got no need to pull that piece on me.”
“What? This thing?” the stallion said, revealing his right arm, dangling a large automatic pistol off his trigger finger. “Don’t worry about this peashooter. I’m more dangerous without it.”
“Rog’,” Big Mac said.
The stallion smirked beneath his beard, having not heard that lingo since he was discharged.
“I’m guessin’ yer that guy from the gas station some o’ the guys were talkin’ about?” he asked.
“Eeyup.”
The stallion motioned with his head toward the door, and Big Mac walked inside.
The walls of the old house rumbled with the sounds of the party going on. The loud rock n’ roll rattled the windows. The smell of smoke and booze filled the air. But far from that boisterous atmosphere, another, more quiet congregation was taking place.The Luna Angels Hierarchy was holding church in the garage. Coastie arrived and looked around, seeing everypony muttering amongst themselves, wondering what the hell was going on. Church was only called when something serious had happened. They all knew what had happened, and why the sheriff had come calling so early that morning. So then, what was this all about?
“You call this meeting?” King asked from his seat atop an old, half-dismantled hog.
“Wasn’t me,” Coastie shrugged.
“Thor?”
Thor simply shook his head, before sipping his beer.
Heavy steps were heard coming toward them. In the harsh glare of the sun beyond, Sun Dance approached, his entire body turned into a shadow by the sun. He stepped in, smelling like fresh joints and loose women. In his teeth, the joint he had been smoking flared up. He held his breath and passed the joint to Blue Jay, who was leaning back on a lawn chair.
Blue Jay took a long drag on the joint, getting ash on his braided beard. He flicked the ashes off onto the patch of filthy, white rabbit pelt spaulder he wore on his shoulder, then leaned back to listen.
Sun Dance released the smoke from his lungs, covering himself in a cloud of haze.
“Does anyone know why I called this little powwow?” he asked.
“Something about us blowin’ up those Diamond Dogs?” Coastie jokingly asked.
“Heh! The only good dog is roadkill!” Thor chimed in.
“I say we keep this war goin’! More dogs to kill!” King said, throwing up his fist.
“It’s not the dogs we’re at war with,” Sun Dance said.
There was no humor in his voice. Whatever was going on, Sun Dance was taking it seriously with every fiber of his being.
“What do you mean?” Coastie asked, genuinely curious.
“You know how those shitbag dogs are. They ain’t got the money, the dogpower or the balls to start a war with us. It’s got me wondering what’s changed,” Sun Dance said.
“You think they got a new leader?” Thor asked.
“I think they got a new supplier. Whatever it is, they think they got protection,” Sun Dance grimly said.
Blue Jay took another long drag on his joint, flexing his forearm to show the bluejay chained to the world that had been tattooed there so long ago.
“Maybe it’s the doobie talkin’, but it sounds like it might be the Rose Throne family,” he said.
Thor took a heavy sip from his beer and belched loudly, “Naw…They know it’d be bad for their business to deal with those fuckers. Even if they were, they know we’d just frag ‘em.”
Everypony grunted in agreement.
“So, we take out the dogs! They got nothin’ on our firepower anyway!” Coastie declared.
“That won’t solve anything,” Sun Dance said. “We could take them out easily. But their supplier could just as easily find another shitheel gang to push around. We gotta take care of this at the source.”
“Easier said than done,” King muttered.
Sun Dance hummed quietly to himself, trying to figure out the next move. To his side, he noticed Blue Jay was still toking away on the joint he had been given.
“Shit, brother, quit bogartin’ that joint and pass it on!” Sun Dance said, pulling it out of Blue Jay’s grip.
He took a toke of it himself, before passing it on to King.
“I say we have us a sit down with the Rose Thrones,” King said. “They might not be pulling the dogs’ tits, but I bet they know who does.
Bound for the halls of Vallhalla!
Burning on Olympus Mount! Legends of Blood and Thunder! Their bodies now in the ground!
A wager in gore and death! For this angel that you see right now! We ripped the hell armies asunder! For I was just…Another pony from Hell!!
The heavy metal tune blasted from the speakers of the clubhouse, playing a tune as fast as any hog. For Big Mac, it was the first time that he had heard such music. His usual fare was something about Uncle Sugar’s War, or something he would play in the backseat of a mare’s car. Doing his best to tune it out, he walked into the establishment.
There was a makeshift bar that was nothing more than a couple slabs of plywood, some nails and some milk crates, which Big Mac immediately drifted toward. He passed by a circle of hippie mares who were laughing maniacally as they ate sugar cubes. Whatever made those cubes so good, Mac felt he had an idea. Especially as one of the mares started describing the diamond sky with pink cupcake monkeys.
As he approached the bar, the stallion tending it gave him a suspicious look.
“Thor sent me,” Big Mac said.
The stallion nodded and reached under the bar and placed a warm bottle of whiskey before the newcomer. Big Mac poured himself a drink in a glass he was surprised to see was clean. He swished the drink around in his mouth, getting out the lingering scent of catnip and the buildup of trail dust in his throat. He swallowed it and loosed a satisfied sigh.
As he poured another drink, one of the hippies from the circle swayed her way over to the bar.
“Whoa! Fuckin’ Jolly Red Giant’s come buckin’ for his apples!” she giggled.
“Nope,” Big Mac said, pouring another drink.
“Dude! Your voice is makin’ my fuckin’ tits vibrate! Do it again!”
“Nope,” Big Mac repeated.
The mare moaned in sensual pleasure as she rubbed her nipples. She laid her back on the bar, making the barstallion push her back up.
“Dude! You got some huge fuckin’ hands. How about helpin’ me get the little purple ponies outta my pants, mister catcher mitts?” the mare said.
“Nope,” Big Mac repeated again.
Across the way, he could see something else. There were two teams. One made up of prospects with nothing but their denim cuts. The other, members who proudly wore their patches emblazoned on their jackets. Between the two teams, a large, shallow pool that looked like it had been filled up with whatever was found in the septic tank. Each team held opposite ends of a long rope in their hands, glowering viciously at one another.
A stallion was taking bets, calling for any takers before the match began. Nearby, another, much older hippie stallion was lecturing a dog that Big Mac assumed to be the club mascot.
“You see, my four-legged brother, that this tug-o-war that you take for granted is the very essence of our lives. They pull against us, but we pull back! But if we do not find the strength to resist, they bring us down! Down! Into the pits of shit they dug up for us! That–That’s just like the best fuckin’ metaphor for life! You understand?” the old hippie said.
The dog answered by lifting its tail and farting in the hippie’s face.
“Friend o’ yers?” Big Mac asked the mare.
“Hold up. Giggle Smoke is nopony’s friend! He is the universe! He is, like, the most out there thinker! Fuckin’ Plato and Socrates could have learned from him!” the mare said.
“I can talk to animals too. Guess that makes me a universe,” Big Mac shrugged.
“Yeah. But, do they answer?” the mare said, before drifting dreamily back to her circle of friends for more of her psychedelic sugarcubes.
The stallion taking bets called for all betting to stop, then pulled a snub .38 from his belt. He pointed it into the air, and the blank cartridge popped loudly with a cloud of smoke.
The match was on. Both teams tried to pull one another into the putrid pit. Every time one got closer, they pulled away just as much and pulled the other team, going back and forth. Big Mac, however, kept his eyes on the old hippie.
“Druids,” the barstallion said.
“Hm?” Big Mac asked.
“The Danú Druids. Bunch of weirdos and trippers. Get their kicks by sucking down barrels o’ LSD cubes and going on ‘spirit trips,’ or some shit. They ain’t enemies, so we let ‘em hang around. Since they got no money, we make ‘em pay by keepin’ us alive when we need it,” the barstallion explained.
“They med school dropouts, or somethin’?” Big Mac asked.
“Healers.”
“Ain’t that just a pretty word for a doc?”
“No,” the barstallion said. “I mean, they got something that ain’t natural. Giggle Smoke there is supposed to be dead about ten times now. But there he sits, suckin’ up dog farts.”
There was a cheer from the betting pool as the prospects started inching closer to the pit. As soon as they were about to fall in, they stopped and started slowly pulling back. Just when it seemed like they were safe, a large member with a beer belly came in from behind and yanked half of the prospects into the pit.
Loud cheers came from the bettors. Whether they won or lost, it was worth it to watch a bunch of punk prospects eat shit and puke it back up.
“Hey! The applewood by the bar! You look a bit lost. Come on over, and let’s have us a session,” Giggle Smoke called.
Big Mac assumed that he meant him and took the bottle of whiskey, leaving his payment on the bar. The circle of mares howled quietly as Big Mac passed them on his way over to Giggle Smoke.
For much of the day, the two of them talked. For Big Mac, it sounded like a bunch of nonsense that never came to light. He was, however, quite surprised to learn that Giggle Smoke knew more about agriculture than he did, and even learned a few new things.
Just as Giggle smoke was getting to the medical uses spirulina, he spotted his old friend tromping into the clubhouse.
“Heeeyy! Blue Jay the viking! Dia duit, my friend! I was just in the process of helpin’ this poor, lost soul on his way. Speaking of, have you stopped smokin’ all that poison ivy?”
Blue Jay rolled his eyes. “For the last time, Brother Smoke, I didn’t know that Wild Kaya had poison ivy mixed in it!” His eyes fell on Big Mac, who was leaning back into the beanbag that Giggle Smoke had offered him. “You must be the guy King found on Rout 66. Heh. They said you looked like an outlaw.”
“I ain’t no criminal,” Big Mac sternly said as he lit up a cigarette.
“Easy. I meant no offense,” Blue Jay said. “Me neither. None of us here are criminals. But we’re outlaws.”
“You sayin’ there’s a difference?” Big Mac asked.
“You have just said the magic words,” Giggle Smoke said. “As learned as I am, Blue Jay knows more about these nuances than me. Take it away, Brother.”
Blue Jay took a half burned cigarette from an ashtray and sat on an old crate, before he explained.
“You see, criminals is what they call people who do crimes. And the reason for doing a crime is for the profit. Everything a criminal does is for the money. And they go to any lengths to get it. But us outlaws? It’s just how it sounds. We exist in a world outside the law, the government, and the man. They expect us to follow all the laws that the business fat cats that got ‘em in their pockets ignore. They want to piss on our backs on the weekday, and fuck us up the ass on the weekend. It’s an outlaw who says no to all that.”
Blue Jay could see the tiniest smile on Big Mac’s face. He didn’t know if he was ever going to be a member of the Luna Angels, but he surely would be a brother.
“Fuck them, an’ Uncle Sugar,” Big Mac said, raising his whisky bottle.
A young, sharply dressed griffin walked through the polished halls of the office building. The briefcase at his side swung slightly with every step, bumping the crease that he had worked so carefully to keep on his slacks.
The office was up ahead, and the door was open. The young griffin walked inside and closed the door behind him. Nopony was there but himself. His eyes drifted to the private bathroom in the office, and his face wrenched uncomfortably. He hated doing business from there. Sometimes, he thought the meetings were timed so that he would have to put up with the boss’s irritable bowel syndrome.
He gripped the handle to the bathroom door and breathed deeply. The door was swung open, and in he went.
The bathroom was as bright and pristine as the rest of the office building. The only sign of any kind of filth was that horrible smell that filled the place. Behind the griffin, the hydraulic door hissed shut, and he walked over to the single bathroom stall.
“What happened to my drugs?” an elderly voice asked from the stall.
The young griffin straightened his tie, trying not to picture the murderous face of his employer beyond the door. “Destroyed, sir. Burned in a fire in one of their hideouts. We–!” he gagged as the boss’s condition rattled the walls of the bathroom, prompting the boss to give a courtesy flush. The young griffin took a matchbook from his pocket and struck it promptly, waving it around as he collected himself. “We have already taken the bodies from the wreckage and harvested their organs to make up for the lost revenue.”
“What about my fuckin’ drugs!?” the boss impatiently asked.
“We know already that it was the Luna Angels,” the young griffin said, lighting another match. “Trail Dancer and the Shotgun and Bullet brothers have already been called to take care of them.”
“The old S&B boys, eh?” the boss said. “Let’s see them smug mother fuckers get away now!?
The shrill whistle of an artillery shell cut through the rainy skies of the battlefield, and for a moment drowned out the rattle of gunfire and the shouts of the soldiers with one thunderous impact.
Nopony could tell what limb went to what body after the explosion. The blood of a soldier’s comrade across his eyes sent the young man, barely out of his teens, into a panicked frenzy, firing his weapon with reckless abandon until his heart met the tip of an enemy bayonet.
There was no foreseeing the sudden, vicious attack of the Viet Cong. For nearly three days, they had been quiet, but that was all the more reason to be wary. They were planning something. They were always planning something. And in one fell swoop, they unleashed their assault with frightening efficiency, taking out the American soldiers as easily as swatting flies.
A pair of soldiers tried to take cover beneath a derelict scaffold. Had they been more cautious, they would have seen the enemy overturning a vat the size of a small bathtub over the side.
Hundreds of gallons deluged onto the soldiers, washing them down the hill they desperately tried to fight up, and covering them with the thousands of leeches that had been collected in it. They and every prostrate soldier there were sent screaming as they were slowly drained of their blood. Those who weren’t covered in leeches found the bullets with their name on it.
Another shell was loaded into a mortar, and the soldiers operating it fired it down the hill, with another shrill whistle.
A Viet Cong had a gun wedged into his stomach before the trigger was pulled and he was kicked away by the massive boot off Big Macintosh. The whistling of artillery reached his ears, though he couldn’t tell where it was coming from.
Completely on instinct, he ran for the nearest foxhole that had already been blown out by another shell.
Big Mac shoved aside any soldier in his way as he ran, not knowing whose side they were on. Not that he would have cared in that moment as the whistling grew louder.
Just as the roar of an explosion sounded from nearby, he dove into the foxhole and landed face first into the mud. But he wasn’t alone.
There was a sharp yell.
Big Mac rolled aside, narrowly dodging the piece of shrapnel that a Viet Cong tried to drive into the back of his head.
Charlie stabbed at him again.
Big Mac caught his wrist and headbutted the soldier, denting the other man’s helmet, then punched his face.
The Viet Cong shouted fiercely, retaliating with a frenzy of punches. He dropped his piece of shrapnel, caught it in his free hand before it landed, and began stabbing violently at Big Mac.
Though he was smaller by almost a foot and a half and at least one hundred pounds, the soldier proved more zealous than Big Mac would have liked as he had to move his head side to side to keep from being stabbed by the shrapnel.
Big Mac dodged the last stab, wrapped his elbow around the other man’s arm and squeezed tightly.
There was a sickening crunch of bone piercing through muscle and flesh that was just barely heard over the Viet Cong’s pained shout. In a flash, the soldier’s eyes burned with fury and he lunged at Big Mac with his other arm.
Big Mac caught the man by his throat and began to squeeze mercilessly.
The man choked and sputtered on his own bile, kicking Big Mac’s side with his one free leg, though Big Mac hardly seemed to notice. Nor did he notice the mud that was slapped over his eyes as he continued to squeeze. In another moment, he felt the man go limp in his hands. He washed the mud from his eyes, though he never looked down as he crawled from the foxhole.
The hill loomed before him, a wide, steep slope that dared him to cross its threshold. The yellow flashes of enemy rifles burned and fizzled out like a thousand tiny funerary candles in the rain. He could hear the bullets around him, mere inches from taking his life. Instead, they tore into his allies around him, mowing them down like blades of dry, brittle grass.
The familiar shouts of a rough voice hurling commands peppered with swears was just barely heard. Up the hill, Big Mac saw his sergeant taking cover behind a bamboo barrier. Just beyond that barrier, three Viet Cong were closing in on him.
With only a glance back to the dark of the foxhole, Big Mac offered a short prayer to the dead soldier that now called it his grave. Unknown to him as he ran away, the broken soldier within had already sank beneath the mud from the world of the living.
From somewhere out of the sky, a flare dropped to the muddy ground. Red light emanated from the flare, issuing equally red smoke, covering the battlefield with its hellish glow. Big Mac rushed through the smoke, never losing sight of his sergeant. His eyes forward and his hands tight on his rifle, Big Mac trudged up the hill, his boots offering little traction from the ground that washed away from beneath him.
The Viet Cong closed in on his oblivious sergeant.
Big Mac doubled his effort, his legs burning to the bone as he strained his body past its limit. Raising his rifle, he fired in an aimless spray, exhausting his ammunition as the three Viet Cong went limp and rolled down the hill. One of their corpses impaled itself upon the bamboo cover of the sergeant.
“Fuck!” Sarge yelped as he met the eyes of the dead man.
Sarge was safe for the moment. Big Mac took his empty rifle and clubbed an oncoming Charlie’s face, disfiguring it harshly, sending him rolling down the hill. The stock broke and Big Mac hurled it at an enemy who had taken cover beneath a pair of trees that had been wrapped with barbed wire and with intestines hanging from the branches.
Before the soldier recovered from the blow, Big Mac was upon him, dashing his face against the tree and tearing it up against the barbed wire. The soldier was lifted off his feet and thrown into the branches, where he was impaled on a broad branch. His limbs flailed for a moment, before the life left his body.
“This way, Sarge!” Big Mac shouted, drawing his sidearm.
Sarge looked and saw Big Mac beneath the nearby tree, and dashed toward him without even looking at anything else. After what felt like forever, he arrived at the tree next to Big Mac’s, glancing up at the dead soldier in the branches. “Decorating for Christmas?” Sarge said over the gunfire.
“Eeyup. Thought it was fittin’, since we’re spendin’ a holiday in Hell,” Big Mac shouted back.
There was a sound of sloshing as a private’s corpse came sliding down the hill, a bullet hole through the lens of his coke bottle glasses. The sergeant grabbed the corpse by its collar and pulled it into cover. He took the private’s left boot off, collected the dog tags within and turned to Big Mac.
“Where’s your rifle, son?” Sarge asked.
“Buried in mud somewhere. Just as well. Fucker kept jammin’ on me,” Big Mac said.
Sarge rolled his eyes, took the rifle from the dead private and tossed it to Big Mac.
“Even an empty gun is a valuable tool, soldier! Unless I order it, you are not to lose any more Equestria issue weapons! Do you understand?” Sarge said, allowing the dead private to continue sliding down the hill.
“Yes sir!” Big Mac said, checking the rifle’s magazine and finding it half-loaded.
Sarge nodded and pocketed the dog tags he had collected, “LT called in a napalm strike. Wet nose already marked our location with red smoke. Now we just sit tight and watch the show!”
Big Mac sighed to himself, his back pricked by the barbed wire of the tree. The only thing left to do was to wait. For the napalm or for a bullet to find him, he didn’t care which. Until the sounds of the jets roared overhead.
There was another flash of light. The hellish red of the flare was augmented by the sudden downpour of liquid flame.
No amount of rain or water traps could have put out that fire as it was carried by the current created by the weather. There was no telling who had been caught up in the raging lake of fire. All screams sounded the same.
Big Mac watched the fiery holocaust blaze out of control, his eyes fixed on the heart of the flames. Gradually, the sounds of battle drowned out to a muffled haze as he began to hear the familiar sounds of home. The creak of wagon wheels. The rapid thumping of apples falling into their baskets. The clucking of chickens announcing their freshly laid eggs. The wind through the tall grass. And soon, he began to see it. Burning to ash with the rest of the world around him.
Terror clutched Big Mac as the vision became more vivid. Somewhere in the burning Sweet Apple Acres was his youngest sister, Apple Bloom, dancing amid the towering flames and flying bullets. She looked just the way he remembered her, wearing the same yellow sundress he had last seen her in, her hair tied up in with her big pink bow. As she danced, Apple Bloom began to sing the prayer that Big Mac had taught to her. Only it didn’t sound right to him. He could just barely make out the twisted, vulgar words singing clearly in Apple Bloom’s voice.
“Now I lay me down in muck,
I pray the Lord my soul to fuck,
If I kill before I wake,
I pray the Lord my corpse to take.”
And she was swallowed by the fire. Her skin crisped and curdled away, revealing the rapidly blackening bones beneath, the skeletal grin and empty eye sockets locked onto Big Mac.
He wanted to do something. Anything to rescue Apple Bloom from her fiery fate. But it was already too late. What was sown had been reaped. And it was the most gruesome harvest of all.
Big Mac awoke with a shout, sitting upright and hitting his head against the low ceiling of his living quarters.
“Ow! Fuck!” Big Mac cursed.
Once his head stopped throbbing, he looked around himself. The jungle was gone. There he was, still in the backseat of that 1947 midnight blue raven hearse. Although he almost thought the start he had might have offset it from the cinderblocks it rested upon. With a heavy sigh, his head thumped back down onto the leather seat. After so many years, the visions hadn’t left him. No matter how he tried to forget, it always caught up with him.
He couldn’t keep dwelling on that. It was early, and he needed his coffee. At first, he tried to hook his heel onto the door handle, but couldn’t find it. Instead, he kicked the door open and shimmied his way out into the waking world.
The backyard of the compound was different than how he remembered it at night. It seemed somehow a lot homier than he imagined it did before. And when he closed the door, he noticed something else that he hadn’t the night before. The door of the hearse had been painted with the image of a barbaric one winged griffin, who was charging an army of enemies that were painted around the entire outside of the car.
“Pretty snazzy paint job,” Big Mac said to himself.
Across the way, he noticed an outhouse on the property as well. Nailed to the side of it was a red flag with a big, black swastika sewn onto it. Painted on the outhouse in big, white letters was a set of instructions that read, “In case of emergency, use as toilet paper.”
Big Mac smirked at the sight, finding his morning lightening up already after his restless sleep.
“I’m telling you, it’s turkey ham!”
“Naw…*cough*...Egg salad, brother.”
Big Mac turned around, and saw Blue Jay and Giggle Smoke sitting on a couple of filthy beer coolers.
“Look, egg salad tastes alright if you add the right ingredients to it. But turkey that tastes like fuckin’ ham!? Or is it even ham!? Like, that shit shouldn’t even exist!” Blue Jay said.
“I see where you’re coming from, but you gotta open your mind to these things. If turkey can become ham, what the fuck else can we do? That’s some alchemy shit right there! We could take cheese and turn it into…fucking candy, or some shit!” Giggle Smoke said, passing the joint to Blue Jay.
“It ain’t magic,” Blue Jay said, snatching the joint and taking a heavy toke, “It ain’t even science. Whatever the fuck it is, turkey ham ain’t natural. Doesn’t belong in this fucking world.”
“Like salad made of eggs is natural? You know how many baby chickens you’re killing to get that? That’s bad fucking karma, man! Every mayonnaise dripping bite is gonna come back to get your ass. You don’t get that with turkey ham!”
“What the fuck? Turkey ham’s got turkey and pig in it! That’s twice the bad karma right there! But you don’t seem too worried about that!” Blue Jay said, jabbing the joint at Giggle Smoke, who swiped it from Blue Jay’s fingers.
“It’s made from only good meat that didn’t come from unborn babies,” Giggle Smoke said, “I’m telling you, egg salad doesn’t just taste bad! It’s bad on, like, a million different levels! That’s why it’s the most disgusting food ever!”
“Turkey ham is the most disgusting food ever!” Blue Jay snapped.
Big Mac announced himself by stepping closely to the two debaters.
“Whoooaah, shit, brother. I forgot you were here. You find that thing you were looking for in the back of that hearse?” Giggle Smoke said.
“Nope,” was all Big Mac answered. “You guys know where I can get a cup o’ coffee?”
“Naw. Never touch the stuff. I get my jolt from soda in the morning,” Blue Jay said, standing up and taking a warm can from inside the cooler he was sitting on.
“You know what’s really good in the morning?” Giggle Smoke said.
“Honey Sweet draping her tits over your head?” Blue Jay laughed.
“No, brother. Chocolate chip pancakes! Like, once you have that shit, you never go back to plain! Not even blueberries cut it anymore! You just gotta have your chocolate from the griddle!,” Giggle Smoke said, a goofy grin on his face.
“Forget it. I know what you think chocolate is. You keep your carob, you fuckin’ nature boy,” Blue Jay said.
“Really? Thanks,” Giggle Smoke said, taking an unwrapped carob bar out of the back of his pants, and taking a huge bite. “Hits the spot for the munchies.”
Big Mac raised an eyebrow as he wondered just how long Giggle Smoke had been sitting on that thing. Blue Jay stood up and motioned for him to follow.
“C’mon. Let’s get you that black devil drink,” Blue Jay said after taking one last toke of the joint.”
Big Mac nodded as he lit a half-finished cigarette of his own. He blew the smoke out his nose as he followed Blue Jay toward the clubhouse.
"You guys always argue like that?” Big Mac asked.
“Shit yeah we do. We went for three days one time, before someone told us to shut the fuck up. Giggle Smoke doesn’t always make sense, but that’s what makes him fun to argue with,” Blue Jay answered.
When they entered the clubhouse, Big Mac found that it was much quieter there than normal. No music. No shouting. No fights. Just the smell of toast burning and the hissing of sausages sizzling on the grill. The only sign of life there were the smells from the kitchen and the hungover prospects sleeping off what ailed them.
The kitchen itself was a shock to Big Mac. With the exception of the cigar store buffalo holding a jar full of rolled up joints at the doorway, he wore it was identical to the kitchen back home at Sweet Apple Acres. He half-expected to see his own Granny at the stove, frying up apple fritters on the stove. Instead, it was a much younger mare he saw. When she turned her head to look at him, she gave him a jolt like a branding iron.
Her freckled face sent waves of memories of his sister coursing through him. Hell, she even looked the same age as she did. Besides that, she looked nothing like anypony from his family, but it was enough to stop him cold.
“Hey, Sugar Sweet. What’s on the menu?” Blue Jay asked.
“Hashbrowns, toast, and turkey and apple sausage. Extra spicy,” Sugar said.
“What about buns? You know I like me some buns,” Blue Jay said.
Before he could make any move, a quick thrust of Sugar’s hips pushed Blue Jay into Big Mac.
“This duck’s not on the menu, pervert,” Sugar said.
“Yeah. Got it,” Blue Jay said, dusting himself off. “Got any coffee for our guest?”
Sugar looked Big Mac up and down, then shook her head. “Not a pot big enough. Sit down, stud. I’ll brew up some more for you.”
Big Mac nodded and turned to sit down at the nearby table, keeping his back to Sugar as he went.
The table was already occupied by Sun Dance, who sat with his feet on the table as he read from a leatherbound book. Big Mac tried to make out the cover, but couldn’t read it through Sun Dance’s hands. Trying to put Sugar’s face out of his mind, he sat down next to Sun Dance.
“Good read?” he asked.
"Yep,” Sun Dance said.
“What’s it called?”
“Tales from Macabria: Bad Magic. Part of a trilogy I been working on,” Sun Dance said.
“Never heard o’ it. By anyone I know?” Big Mac asked.
“Ever heard of Quick Quill?”
Big Mac only shrugged.
“She does good work,” Sun Dance said. He marked the page with a red ribbon that was attached to the book’s binding, then flipped the pages to the very back, which he showed to Big Mac. “Check this out.”
Big Mac looked at the page, and saw a black and white photo of a bespectacled mare wearing a sleeveless sweater dress, sitting on a patio chair with her legs crossed. Certainly, she looked every part the intellectual author he assumed her to be. Besides that, he couldn’t help but notice some of her other assets.
“She’s a limey, so she’s not much to look at. But, damn, what a rack she’s got,” Sun Dance said.
“Eeyup,” was all Big Mac said, before the book was closed, and he was able to see the cover, which depicted a hand with a bloody sigil carved into it. “Look like something my little sister might read.”
“They sell them at the corner book shop. Maybe you could mail her one someday,” Sun Dance said.
“Eeyup.”
“You don’t say much, do you?” Sun Dance said.
“Nope.”
“Then what the hell are you doing sitting here, struggling to make small talk like a bitch schoolcolt on his first date?” Big Mac tried not to look over his shoulder as he heard Sugar working in the kitchen.
“Just tryin’ to clear my head, I guess,” he said.
“Well, I know all about that. Sometimes it’s easier to face the day when you remember only the one thing,” Sun Dance said.
Something about what Sun Dance said rang like a church bell in Big Mac’s head. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that sometimes you have to know what you’re gonna do in a day and stick your mind to it just so you don’t get bogged down by everything else. Happens all the time.”
Big Mac nodded as he finished up his cigarette, ground it up against the table, and promptly lit another one. Before he looked up from his light, he saw a black coffee cup with ‘Fuck Commies,’ written in bold white print slid over to him.
“Drink up. I’m done with it anyway,” Sun Dance said.
“Much obliged,” Big Mac said, taking his cigarette out of his mouth and sipping the lukewarm coffee.
For a moment, there was silence. In the next room, some of the prospects seemed to be rousing from their alcoholic comas, before they promptly tried to go back to sleep. The sounds from the stove continued to haunt Big Mac as he recalled the freckled face of the mare attending it. In another moment, he drowned himself in the bitter flavor of his coffee.
“Why did you come here?” Sun Dance asked.
“Hm?” Big Mac replied, before the question really sank in, “I was invited. Simple as that.”
“It’s never that simple,” Sun Dance said. “We all got our stories in this place. Drifters. Mercs. Runaways. Dropouts. Outcasts. Not a single one of us came here for no reason. What’s yours?”
Big Mac’s habit of taking a sip of coffee or a drag on his cigarette didn’t tick that time. Instead, he simply tapped his finger against the porcelain mug, mulling over the question that was posed to him. He had a reason for just about everything he had already done to that point, but had never truly thought about it until the question was posed to him. Gripping the mug to the point that it nearly cracked in his hand, he began to answer, “Guess I’m just lookin’ for somethin’. Don’t know what or where it is, but–”
The front door crashed open, and the sounds of clumsy steps began to thump across the floor.
“Holy shit on a biscuit! It stinks like sex in here!” Goth’s voice bellowed from where the prospects were sleeping.
More steps, and they were coming closer to the kitchen. The moment Goth appeared in the doorway, Sun Dance, Blue Jay and Sugar Sweet began laughing hysterically at him. There he stood, stark naked with only a beehive crammed over his manhood, stretching like he had just woken up from a long nap.
“Goth! What the fuck!?” Sun Dance said.
“Beats me,” Goth answered, walking over to the stove and taking a bite of a sizzling hot sausage, “One second, me and this gorgeous hippie chick are indulging in a bit of LSD over a poetry slam. The next, I’m waking up in a circle of garden gnomes and some occult sigil painted on my chest. Call me crazy, but I think I might be possessed now.”
“It’s always something with you artsy types,” Blue Jay said.
“What about the beehive?” Big Mac asked, pointing to it.
“The what?” Goth asked. He looked down and saw the buzzing wax construct lodged on his pecker, “Oh, fuck. No wonder my balls are tingling. I thought the bitch gave me the clap,” Goth said, a relieved smile on his face. He took another bite of sausage, “Hey, Sugar. Got any coffee made?”
“Not for you, king bee,” Sugar said, taking the pot and sashaying across the room to Big Mac’s spot at the table. “Here. Drink all you want.”
“Thanks,” Big Mac said, as he poured himself a hot cup.
It may not have been what he envisioned. But for at least the next few days, this was his home.
