Pipe Down leaned back in his rocking chair, pipe in hoof, and azure tobacco smoke surrounding him. He gazed across his lush tobacco fields, and smiled. He had worked hard to have this in his old age. His smile fell from his face as he noticed unexpected guests trotting up the dirt path to his house. Applejack, Rarity, Sweetie Belle, Scootaloo, and Applebloom now walked across his property. He eyed them as they stopped in front of his porch.
"I already bought cookies," He puffed.
"Actually, Mr. Down." Applejack nudged the three fillies closer to him. "We brought these young fillies here to apologize to you."
"So, you're the ones who sent me the letters." Pipe Down blew a smoke ring above their heads. "What's this about apologizing?"
"We're really sorry." Sweetie Belle drug her hoof across the ground.
"About what?" Pipe Down asked.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Down," Rarity interrupted, "Do you think you could put your pipe out? That smell is really distracting."
"No." Pipe Down drew deeper on his pipe. "I'll do as I like on my property. Might be different if I actually invited you over." He looked back down at the crusaders. "So, what are you so sorry about?"
"The letters." Applebloom shrugged. "Y'see Rarity was talking about what a bad influence your cutie mark was, and how somepony ought to do something about it. And we wondered what a censorship cutie mark would look like, and it was one of the few things we hadn't tried yet. So...
The thee drew breath. "Cutie Mar-"
"So." Pipe Down raised a hoof and silenced them. "You're all that worried about getting a cutie mark."
"Yes," Sweetie Belle admitted.
"Let me guess," Pipe Down set his pipe down, "You get picked on a lot."
"How'd you know?" Applebloom asked.
"Kids," He muttered and shook his head, "I was twenty-five when I got mine."
"What!" Scootaloo yelled, "It can take that long?"
"Not normally," Pipe Down chuckled, "But I was a special case."
"Didn't you get picked on?" Applebloom wondered.
"A few times," Pipe Down laughed, "It just made me stronger."
"Tell us," Sweetie Belle, now seated on his porch, looked up at him, "Please."
"Oh, I think Mr. Down is very busy," Rarity objected, "He doesn't need us bothering-"
"Nonsense," Pipe Down shouted, "Alright, I'll tell you all a story or two."
I was around fifteen at the time. This was before the invention of the modern plow, and farming was tough back then. Families had to work constantly just to provide enough food to survive. Every member of the family would contribute, and there was no time for education, unless you were privileged.
Fortunately, I was. My father ran a general goods store, and made enough money to send me to school. I would still clean up shop at the end of the day, but before that school came first.
I'll confess that I was not a particularly bright pony at the time, but I was mean enough to make up for it. My classmates only tried to tease me once. If I remember correctly it was Rainbow Party, Mountain Bomb, and Sugar Duster that called me a blankflank at the end of class. I stared at them for a moment, and just unleashed a tongue lashing on them.
"Rainbow Party," I said to her, "I would rather be a blankflank for life than have a cutie mark that embodied ribaldry."
"I don't think they need to hear any more stories now," Rarity interrupted.
"Shush woman," Pipe Down told her, "They don't even know what ribaldry is."
Scootaloo looked to Sweetie Belle.
"I'm not telling." She blushed.
"Good, now where was I?" Pipe Down asked.
"Ribaldry?" Applebloom looked at Sweetie Belle.
"Still not telling," She insisted.
Rainbow Party sputtered and fumed at that, then I turned to Sugar Duster. I told him that if he made fun of me again, I would tell his dad what he really got his cutie mark for. Now Party and Duster were easy to put down verbally. But Mountain Bomb? He came from a working family, had muscles layered on top of muscles. Why, I'm pretty sure his eyelids had six packs. But when it came to brains he didn't have much.
"Did you kick his flank?" Scootaloo asked.
"No, child, that colt was built like a bull," Pipe Down laughed, "My Pappy paid me well back then. So I paid him to knock the
other two around the block for a little bit."
"That doesn't seem very brave," Applebloom commented.
"It doesn't make sense to be brave," Pipe Down explained, "I wouldn't be this old if I had been brave."
"But I bet you showed them when you got your cutie mark!" Scootaloo yelled.
"Nope." Pipe Down shook his head. "I was in the Guard when I got it."
"You were in the guard?" Sweetie Belle asked.
"Yeah." Pipe Down smiled. "I was hot stuff back then too."
"I don't think children should be hearing tales about the Guard," Rarity began to scoot the crusaders away, "We'll just be on our way."
"I could always tell you the story about how your parents met," Pipe Down chuckled, and Rarity stopped moving.
"Mommy and Daddy already told me that story," Rarity harrumphed, "They met at a hootenanny."
"The club was called The Hayloft," Pipe Down corrected her, "It was a renovated fire station in Old Canterbury. Still had those poles in it, but they saw a different use then."
"I think stories about the Guard would be lovely," Rarity blinked a few times.
"How did you get in as a blankflank?" Scootaloo asked.
"I signed a paper," Pipe Down laughed, "Cutie marks don't mean much to the guard."
I had just reported to basic training in Fort Hoofton. Now, I don't know if you realize this, but boot camp is intentionally designed to break you. The entire training setup is meant to push you past the point of exhaustion, leave you weak, and while you mind is still fragile and putty-like... Well, they just shape you into who they need you to be. That's how it was when I was in, anyway. But the greatest instrument of torture they had was a pony, a drill sergeant by the name of Mad Blitz.
Sergeant Blitz was the best actor I ever knew. Now, don't look at me like that. All drill sergeants are actors, they have techniques they use to break ponies down and rebuild them. But Sergeant Blitz was the best and brightest of them all. My company, on the other hoof, was not very bright at all. So, one day Blitz had us on the parade grounds. We had no sleep the night before, and he refused us any morning chow because somepony didn't make their rack properly. But anyway, he had us on the parade grounds, lined up in formation. He screamed at all of us, and then walked through the formation, yelling at us one by one.
"What is your special talent," He yelled at one pony. It wasn't a real question, it was just screaming.
The poor boy trembled, gulped, and sputtered out his answer. "Sergeant, baking cookies, Sergeant!
Now Sergeant Blitz just stared this young pony down. Just glared at him for the longest time, and whispered one word to him:
'Wrong'. He walked up the line asking the same non-question and telling them the same thing every single time: 'Wrong'. He finally got to me at the end of the line. He barked the same question at me as to all the others.
I told him that my special talent was whatever Celestia damned well needed it to me. He told me to lift up my armor, because he needed to see the cutie mark for that. I told him that I didn't have one. He got real quiet, looked at me, nodded, and just backed away.
"Why would he tell them they were wrong?" Sweetie Belle asked, "Isn't your cutie mark your special talent?"
"Yes, and Mad Blitz knew that. But, It was all about breaking down their sense of self-importance," Pipe Down explained, "You
can't have a guard who thinks he's more important or unique than anypony else in the guard. It's all about the unit."
"Did you get your cutie mark then?" Scootaloo asked.
"No," Pipe Down chuckled, "It was during the Griffon Wars."
"I think that's enough stories for one day," Rarity began to gather the fillies.
"Your mother was a ballista technician at my unit, during my third tour of duty" Pipe Down began another story, "She had just turned of salt age, and the company wanted to cele-"
"Griffon Wars then, right," Rarity chuckled nervously.
The Griffon Wars began over fishing rights. They were hungry, and we didn't fish our rivers. It seemed logical to them, but an environmental impact study showed that overfishing would destroy the local wildlife. Celestia wouldn't have it. The griffons
were irritated, and began attacking river towns to run the inhabitants out.
Now, most ponies would tell you that all of the fighting was done by griffons and pegasi, but they would be wrong. I was assigned to a trebuchet crew, and, I tell you, we took out more griffons than any airborne unit in existence. The fighting was constant, so we worked in shifts to ensure that our trebuchets were constantly firing. We never gave the griffons a moment to rest. We would wait until they made camp, move out, and knock them dead.
In two months we had flushed out griffon influence from all the river cities but one. Neigh Falls was full of griffon encampments, and the siege there lasted five days. We ran out of ammunition on the fourth day. Ordinarily, this wouldn't have been a problem, but there were no large rocks to use as substitutes.
"Did you get an improvised weaponry cutie mark!" Scootaloo yelled.
"Scootaloo, you know he didn't." Sweetie Belle raised a hoof to her face. "You can see his cutie mark now."
"No," Pipe Down laughed, "It wasn't until after the battle that I got my cutie mark."
"The cutie mark isn't important," Applebloom insisted, "What'd you do about the ammo?"
"Well, you see." Pipe Down lit his pipe again. "In wartime there is one thing that there is never a shortage of. Corpses. We tied
griffon bodies together, lashed bits of metal to them, and just launched them at the encampments."
"Did that work?" Scootaloo asked.
"Kind of." Pipe Down shrugged. "It was psychological more than anything. The griffons surrendered the next day."
"So when did you get your cutie mark then?" Applejack became attentive. Rarity stared at her.
After the battle I was exhausted. I hadn't had a decent sleep in months, and it was finally over. But I still couldn't sleep. My hooves were trembling, and I jumped at the slightest noise. After all this time I didn't remember how to relax. I walked across the battlefield, and into the tent of a late friend of mine. The pipe I took was made of briar, and I honestly don't remember what tobacco I took, but I knew that my friend would no longer need them. I lit the pipe with an ember from the campfire. I enjoyed it for a good hour, and at the end of it I was blowing smoke rings through smoke rings.
I didn't know I had my cutie mark until someone pointed it out to me the next morning.
"Were you excited?" Scootaloo asked.
"I waited twenty-five years to get this damn thing." Pipe Down tapped his cutie mark. "I danced a jig when I saw it. I was mortified afterwards, but thems the breaks."
"That was a very nice story, Mr. Down." Rarity shooed the children off the porch, "But we had best be going."
"Of course," Pipe Down nodded, "I wouldn't keep you here longer than you wanted to be."
"Thank you!" The crusaders yelled over their shoulder in a pitiful attempt at unison.
He just nodded.
Pipe Down rested back in his worn rocking chair, gazing at the pale light of the moon. He smiled at the bright stars. His view was blocked momentarily by a boulder, that subsequently rolled in his field, shredding his tobacco plants. He looked over to
his right, and saw the crusaders situated around a siege weapon. They looked at him nervously.
"You're going to need a heavier counterweight," He commented, and stood up, "Let me take a look at your work."
