Fillydelphia, 1 week before
“I’m telling you, Bythe, I’m fine. I’m keeping active, I’ve found good work in the private sector,” Bookem Badge said, fitting his fedora on his head, “There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m sober, I’m fit.”
The chariot sped through the streets. A mounted catapult slung exploding stones at cars and passersby not to kill them, but to disperse them. It kept the street clear as the chariot slammed through any obstacles not quick enough to get out of its way.
“You’ve been so self-destructive in the past, and a lot’s going on,” Bythe Books replied. He twirled his coffee cup, sloshing it about, and took a sip, “Everyone at the station’s worried about you.”
Sirens wailed as police cycles approached. The police ponies pumped the pedals, with a charged magic motor augmenting their motions to be able to catch up to the chariot, itself powered and sped by the Pegasi pulling it. The catapult loaded and turned towards the police cycles, and fired, leaving stones and a crater where one of the police cycles had been.
“I know I’ve been through a lot, but I’ve dealt with it. I’ve moved on, and I’m a new stallion. Come on, I’ll treat you to lunch. I had a job recently, it paid really well,” Bookem insisted.
“I dunno,” Bythe hesitated.
A gyrocopter flew overhead. Only this one wasn’t police like the others. The pilot sipped water, and it sped over the street below. Bookem adjusted the harness, and took a drink of the whiskey he kept in his pocket. Technically that meant he was no longer sober, but he wasn’t getting drunk, he reasoned. He was flying, which was bad enough for an earth pony with a fear of flying. But this was way worse. His sponsor would understand.
“All right! Go, now!” the pilot shouted to him. Bookem took a second sip, and jumped.
“It’s not like I’m giving you a car. It’s lunch, at that place you liked to go to but could never afford, down on Green. The one with that weird lasagna? Come on, you got time. The Chief’ll understand,” Bookem encouraged.
“How about tonight, instead?” Bythe offered, “I do have to get back to the station.”
Bookem plummeted, only the ropes keeping him slowed so that he didn’t become a smear. He hovered above the chariot. The unicorn driver turned to look at him, his mouth dropped. All of these ponies were wearing clown masks. Bookem just had on a baklava.
“Sup,” Bookem said, and he punched the driver in the forehead. The unicorn slumped over, causing the chariot to twitch to the left, but the Pegasi compensated and kept going forward. Bookem guided himself to the stuffed duffel bag, and grabbed it. The pony on the catapult noticed him, and shouted a string of expletives. Bookem gave him a salute, tugged on the rope, and was pulled up.
“All right. Let everyone know I said hello, and that I miss seeing them,” Bookem nodded.
“Last time you were at the station you cursed everyone’s names and families.”
“Last time I was at the station, I was in cuffs. I’m better now. I should probably apologize, too,” Bookem bit his lip, “Bythe, I know I put you through a lot the last couple of years. I did a lot of stupid shit, and you didn’t deserve to be there.”
“You’re dealing with your moop,” Bythe said. Bookem grinned at the reference of their in-joke.
“I’m dealing with my moop. I’m sorry.”
“All right, well. Stay out of trouble, Bookem.”
“No promises.”
