Haste awoke with a hell of a headache. The open window was to far from the bed to close without getting up, and that wasn't going to happen. No. Not after last night. The breeze coming in was intrusively chilly, and it wasn't light.
The hell happened last night? Wondered a severely hangover Haste.
Surely there wasn't beer involved... was there? He took his hoof and rubbed his temples in an effort to silence the angry bees in his head.
Shit.
There was alcohol involved, and it wasn't the good stuff either. Probably that cheep crap.
The stuff that only came in a can.
"Ahhh..." Moaned Haste loudly. He tried to get his head off the pillow, but to no avail. He was not moving anywhere.
Haste lay on his bed, listening to the breeze disturb the papers in his room. He watched the ceiling as light danced above as the wind flew the curtain over the open window all about. Somewhere in the building, a classical record was playing, and it was audible through the walls or ceilings, from wherever the record player resided.
It sounded sad, but, in a good way. As if, perhaps, the pianist himself had just broken up with a lifelong friend, whom, though apparent to him, was never going to fall for him. Not in the way he had fallen for her. No. It was hopeless, and he would lie awake at night, wondering 'if.' If this, or if that. Countless nights. Sleepless nights. It would take years before he finally had to give up the chase, for it was finally over.
But that's not were the song ends, no no. Though the chase was over, and the pianist feels lament over his lost love, he feels no need to consult his only friends at the bar he frequented. Of course he could never keep friends long anyway, they always were empty by the end of the night. Each night.
No. That part of his life was over now. He could move on. Do better things. Make friends that wernt made of glass, start working harder to get a better job, maybe even find real love.
His original love may be gone, but the best is just ahead.
Haste liked to think this is what the song was about anyhow. He was a hopeless romantic at heart.
Or just hopeless. Slighthoof would testify to both being the case. He never really cared for 'art.' It was always to vague, or it was never easy enough to understand for him. Haste only thought he understood art, but really, he didn't.
Haste frowned as he lay in his bed, now wide awake, but still with a head splinting headache that was bound to have been some consequence from the night before.
Haste paused. Was there beer involved last night? He tried to remember, putting as many pieces of memory together in order to answer his own query.
Lets see, he said to himself, I remember the reinstatement ceremony. There was the council meeting Slighthoof and I attended... that was boring.
Hmmm... after that... there was Jim's Pu-
Shit. There was beer involved.
And that wasn't the worst of it. The beer from Jim's Pub down on Mustang St. is horrible. So bad in fact, that only a depressed or extremely happy state could bring Haste to such a sees-pool of bad taste, below par service, and tacky food.
Haste moaned again. Why had he done that?
Haste was silent yet again. The breeze had almost stopped, which was good. He wanted to get more sleep. He thought he might have a hangover, but he couldn't remember if he had beer last-
Haste cursed under his breath again. He had to stop drinking alcohol. Time to swear it off and go cold turkey he thought. It was high time he stopped one vice and replaced it with another. Time to start drinking his coffee black again.
Ooh.. coffee... that's what He needed right now. He slid his head over to the left side of the bed and tired to find a coffee maker in the room. He was in a medium sized, fully furnished, and very messy apartment.
Hate frowned. He didn't own an apartment. Nor did he know anyone who had one either. Weird he thought. Still, he looked on for the- Ahha! There it is! Oh... boy. It's on the stupid counter over there.
Haste cursed again. He rolled over back into a comfortable position and decided he wasn't going to get up, because he didn't want to get up. He wasn't going to get up for nothing he decided resolutely. Why, I think I'll take the whole day off. I deserve it he thought. Yeah... I'm going to just stay in bed, and do nothing but-
RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING!
RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING!
Haste fell out of bed and hit his head on the night stand. He growled out another expletive.
RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING!
"I'm coming! I'm coming!" He yelled angrily, forgetting that telephones, a new innovation since he had secluded himself from society the year his wife passed away, only stopped their irrationally high pitched screeching after one had taken the receiver off the stand. It was all some ploy to get you to answer every single one of calls people gave to you on a daily basis. It was annoying, and Haste felt the inventor of this 'ringer' device should be pulled off the street, in front of a crowed, and thrown into the dirtiest, and most vile prison in all of Equestria. To make an example out of him of course.
However, Haste could still see the military application of this new invention. Ships could now be made bigger, and crews could talk to each other faster, and crews could be bigger. Bigger crews and bigger ships meant bigger and better guns, and better coordination with those guns.
All of which was a good thing.
RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING!
But right now,
RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING!
This was the worst way to wake up from a hangover. Doesn't alcohol cause this sort of thing?
Haste picked up the phone in time to avoid the last ring. His eyes widened with horror with each word relayed to him form the Naval Barracks Telecommunication center.
Shit. He was late. This was no apartment, it was a hotel! One who's tab was owned by the Equestrian Navy. Quite the way to give an old war colt a welcome back. It was a very nice room, or, rather, it had been a very nice room.
As he got dressed, and got his coffee ready, he started to remember what it was that had happened last night in this very room. He looked at the lamp shade with disgust. Had he really... yep. He did. There was the stain on the ceiling. He shook his head in disbelief.
He got his keys, and his coat, his coffee mug, and umbrella, and left the room before he remembered anything else from last night.
But yes, alcohol was involved.
Fin
