1. A DJ and a cellist... A run through the city... Equestrian epiphanies
We were somewhere around Manehattan in the middle of the city when the sugar began to take hold. I remember saying something like, "I feel like taking another double espresso," when black dots began to dance before my eyes in a wild whirlwind of sugar high.
Or, I realised immediately upon, of pain, seeing as Octavia, my wonderful civil partner, a cellist, a great cook, and a real sex machine, spilt her coffee on my gentle knees, and, you know, that area. So, naturally, I yelled profanities at Octavia, at the ugly, acne-sprayed colt behind the counter (if the little take-out window could ever be called a counter), at myself, at my vagina that was so inconveniently situated, at whomever decided that it was a good idea to set up a take-out coffee shop, at whomever created cars (these are incredibly hard to operate with your hindhooves; hooves don't bend that way!), at whomever created the word 'whomever', and once again at Octavia because it was she who had brought this misery upon me. And yes, there were definitely black dots dancing before my eyes, of such vividness that any sugar rush would fall faint from envy.
"Hit it!" Octavia yelled, already high on her triple Americano and a bag of jelly beans, and pressed the old good pedal all the way down, rushing down Sunset Boulevard at a well-estimated hundred, with me still fussing over my vag and trying to lick off the coffee. If self-fellatio is impossible, then so is licking coffee from your nether regions. I quickly made up with that fact and leant back, my shades protecting me from the setting sun.
We had, in our back seat, ten kilos of pure sugar powder, two hundred lumps of the white madness, twenty bags of jelly beans, sixteen boxes of chocolate, a hundred bars in each, and, to top it off, eighteen six-packers of Coke, one of which had just been downed, in nearly one gulp, by my wonderful marefriend. Civil partner. Whatever.
"Tavi, you're gonna kill us with your driving," I said mildly, knowing very well that Octavia on sugar and caffeine was an uncontrollable beast. Well, I had to drag her to the club somehow, so the lure of a cup of coffee worked. And then, another. And another. And then, we rushed through the city all day, downing coffees all about the place, in every dirty coffee shop we'd managed to find. And now, finally, we were going to the club, not without the unfortunate stop at the small take-out.
Octavia laughed the laugh of a mad mare, her hooves barely holding the wheel, toying with the only tape we'd brought with us. "Not before I get to lick that little coffee cunt of yours!" Okay, maybe giving her this much coffee and sugar had not been a particularly bright idea of mine. So, I decided to down a few cans of Coke myself, while gulping down a bag of sugar powder, to ease my guilty conscience.
Immediately, I felt a little-lightheaded. I wanted to tell Octavia, "Maybe you should drive," but then again, she was already driving. So, I snorted up another bag of white powder for good measure and leant back, letting the everchanging shapes before my eyelids, those elusive beacons of holy light, guide us on our sinful way.
It seemed that the elusive beacons of holy light were good enough as guidance, for Octavia soon hit the brakes near the club, the usual Archie's, almost colliding with the queue to the entrance, ponies shrieking and jumping off and away from our little death car. Sugar-fuelled, I jumped out of the car, shoving back some gasping pone, and ran straight to the entrance, waving my VIP pass in the air madly with my magic. Octavia rushed after me, yelling, "Come back here! I still have to rut you senseless!"
We staggered into the club, where, just by the entrace, a sexy mare in a black lingerie was giving away ever-so-familiar white lumps. I grabbed a couple, and, taking Octavia by the hoof, slid onto the dancefloor, immediately grabbing my cellist in an embrace. After making out in our sugar-induced bliss, I rushed towards the bar, picking up a couple Lattes to top us off. When I returned, Octavia was already talking to Neon, the sly devil, my manager and, occasionally, sugar-dealer.
"And then I licked her there, and boy, did she like it! You get it?" Octavia was shaking Neon now, her eyes going wild. "You get it or not?"
"I get it!" Neon roared, shrugging Octavia off. "Vinyl!" The wild-o turned to me, shining his teeth in the illumination of the club. "You old coot, how've you been?"
I shrugged off the usual greetings, cradling Octavia and thinking of how we'd be rutting each other in our bedroom - or, maybe, we'd take a hotel room for a night and I'd sprinkle sugar powder all over her, licking it off as she came. "What do you want?"
"I have a damn good proposition for you. A gig in Las Pegasus - how's that sound?!"
I slammed my forehoof against my head. Everything went slow-mo as my body demanded more sugar to keep it going. Madly, I licked the remaining sweet drops from Octavia's lips. She didn't mind. "Neon, we've got half a tank of petrol, a nice stash of sweet stuff, a single music tape, it's round midnight, and I'm wearing sunglasses. What the hell can I say?"
"Hit it!" Octavia yelled, dragging me into a kiss.
Some five minutes later, we staggered into the car, and Octavia finally manged to get the tape running. As we rushed into the sunset, towards Las Pegasus, the hell's city, my ears were going to bleed from Beethoofen's Ninth.
Oh boy.
