Little Redd: the Lost Concept of Peace

Chapter Twenty Three

The Condiment and the Philosophy

The streets of East Riding were dreary as they often were, the fog settled on the horizon refusing to disperse.  The sun was entirely blotted out, leaving the dirt roads a strange tinge of brownish-purple.  The dark setting failed to shake the festive air, however, as a light blue stallion with a thicker stature saw the door of a pub fade into render at the corner of McKinley and Jackal street.  The bouncer, a dark green stallion with a brown unkempt mane sporting a pair of sleek black shades, was leaned against the wall next to the door, chewing a clover.  The blue guest nodded to the bouncer through his violet mane, the gesture returned with no small amount of a grin.  The green stallion opened the door for the other pony, who was immediately greeted with blaring Celtic music reverberating across the cobblestone and wooden walls.  The bar was entirely occupied, save for a single seat directly in the middle.  That seat had a brass plaque imbedded along the edge.  The words engraved across it brought a smile to the stallion's lips as he stepped through the crowd and approached the bar.  He sat on his own personal seat as the bartender slid a sleek glass mug to him and stood across from his friend.

"Three parts whiskey, four parts lager, three parts Heartstrings Irish Cream," the bartender said smugly through a thick Irish accent.

The customer threw his head back with the "Hard Earned" custom combination and smacked his lips together, feeling the taste of the beverage inside and out.  After a moment a smile spread across his face, and he took another draw of the glass.

"That's perfect," he laughed, attracting a similar reaction from the mint green stallion across from him.

Party Hard's love for Heartstrings Irish Cream wasn't an uncommon occurrence amongst the residents of East Riding.  It was built from scratch at every angle by the Heartstrings family, from the scotch to the cream.  Irish Cream himself, despite his name, was only talented at preparing the drinks he sold and knew no more about the aging process than the Western members of his family.  This generally disgruntled him, and he was determined to learn how to go beyond the borders of the counter.

Party Hard leaned against the small back of his seat and stared intently at his glass of Hard Earned.  Irish Cream couldn't help but worry about his friend's behavior, far too out of character to ignore.  Hard would usually be gambling, singing drinking songs or dancing as soon as he walked into the pub, and hardly stay in the same place for a few minutes at a time.

Cream recalled Party Hard's half empty glass and slid it under the counter, and the blue stallion shot out of his lax composure.

"Come along now, Cream!  I wasn't finished with that!"

Irish Cream gave him a humored look, and left the drink out of sight.

"Come off it lass.  There's something on your mind."

Hard sat back in his seat, staring incredulously at the bartender.

"Did you just call me a woman?"

"Well that's what you act like.  Now tell a soul why you're so quiet."

Despite the therapeutic tone that only a bartender can harness, Party still hesitated.  Eventually the Celtic music in the background faded, and as the band broke back into song he cleared his throat.

"Do you remember Little Redd?"

Cream laughed, scooped the drink out from under the bar, and slid it back to Party Hard.

"I'm surprised you remember her, what with all the hangovers and bar fights you've gotten yourself into."

Party scoffed, kept a secure hold on his Hard Earned glass, and remained silent for another few seconds.

"Where do you think she is?  How she's doing?"

The spearmint stallion's brow cocked, and he shrugged.

"How am I to know something like that?  I haven't heard from her since she left for Equestria."

Party Hard slowly nodded, and figured his next question would be predicted.

"I'm gonna find her."

Of course it came out as a statement.  Everything he did managed to be a statement.

Irish Cream, who had poured himself a glass of cherry wine, coughed and sputtered a fine spray across the bar.  He wiped his mouth, picked up his towel, and swiped the wine off of his counter before tossing the rag back on the shelf under the surface.

"And how do you plan to accomplish that?"

"How else?  I'm taking a ship there."

The bartender's brow cocked, and his wings rubbed together.  This earned a similar expression from Hard, who waved a hoof at his bare sides.

"Hello?  Earth born here."

Irish Cream laughed.

"I have an itch because I haven't preened all day.  You planning to go alone?"

Party Hard smiled.

"I was hoping you would ask.  It really depends on whether or not you have the ballucks to join me."

Cream smirked.

"That really depends on whether or not you have the ballucks to go without me."

"To ballucks, then!" the customer laughed as they smacked their glasses together.

"Is it just me, or does Spike seem to be getting older?"

Twilight cocked a brow.

"What do you mean?  You haven't been around to see him otherwise."

Redd shrugged.

"This him, yeah.  But he's grown a lot."

"How long have you been here?" Twilight asked, surprised.

Redd frowned again.

Wow.  How long have I been here?

Shrugging, she shook her head in her own disbelief.

"How long have I been working with Discord?  Fifteen years.  How long have I been working on this with Discord?  Maybe three."

The scholar's eyes widened.

"And you've been in the field how long?"

"A week.  This is the first time I've been back home since I was seven."

Of course, Twilight's jaw continued to drop.

The band finally finished their last song, and Party Hard stumbled back to the bar.  Everything the drunken blue idiot spouted came out in slurred lines and showers of drool.

"Ineydah--" he belched, "Riiide back."

Cream, who was used to seeing his friend in this state of mind, nodded and made his way through the crowd onto the stage.

"Oi!  It's that time of morn' again, friends!  The Heartstrings Ghrúdlann is now officially closed!  Go and spill your troubles in the privacy of your homes!"

The crowd cheered for him, and, relatively speaking, quickly left the pub.  A monstrous mess remained, alcohol spilt across tables and mugs scattered across the room.  Irish Cream left Party Hard at the bar and stepped through a door behind the counter.  The room beyond often reminded him of a medical wing, about thirty feet long and twenty wide.  Twin-sized beds laid on either side of him, night tables between them lit by a single candle apiece.  At the end of the room, several wardrobes lined the far wall, most of which's doors lazily left open to reveal extra bedding on a top shelf and an empty closet space for clothes.

In the last bed to the left, a light brown mare with the trademark spearmint mane and tail slashed through with white stripes laid asleep.  A clover with white feathered wings adorned her flank, and her right foreleg twitched every few seconds.

"Wake, Fae.  I need to retire."

He prodded his sister awake, took a matchbox in his teeth from his own bed across the room, and left the building with Party Hard slumped across his shoulder.  He kept walking down McKinley street for a few minutes, and turned right onto Relic avenue.  From there he made a left turn Northbound onto St. Mackey street, and finally turned another right onto Westwing court.  He passed a few buildings, quaint cottages seemingly out of place in the darkness of the fog.  Finally, just before the roundabout at the end of the street, he made a right into his driveway and pushed through his door.

Immediately after walking in, an upright piano sits against the wall opposite the door.  A dark brown suede couch facing the rightward wall towards a small fireplace took on Cream's load as he dumped Hard into the cushions, and continued forward through the archway leading into his kitchen.  The table sat to the left, taking up roughly a fifth of the room, and a grounded rustic cabinet sat to his right.  The sink on the opposite wall of the archway, the counter was cobblestoned with two open shelves running the length of the wall.  Past the cabinets and to the right sat a wood stove, and past the table and to the left, set into the wall, was his refrigerator.  He opened the matchbox, pulled out a clover, and started chewing on the stem before tossing the pack onto the counter.  He then walked back into the den and pushed open a door to the left of the fireplace.  His bedroom was small, not much more than a bed, night table, candle, clock and wardrobe adorning the edges.  A wooden pan flute sat next to the clock, carelessly balanced near the edge of the table.  Irish Cream collapsed onto his bed, and gave a tired sigh as his eyes drifted closed.