((Author’s note: cheers for reading all - I have exams over the next two weeks so i doubt there will be much updating over the next while so I decided to put out the unedited draft #1 for HM, it probably has some grammatical errors and such in there but please excuse them as I won’t be able to do much writing over the coming weeks so I somewhat rushed this out, peace xx))
Chapter 1: A Summons
“As the world burns I spreads like germs.”
From the angle of Rusty Rounds
You know, it’s startling to think for the most part there’s only two kinda people in this world. The Brains, and the Brawn.
I’ve always fancied myself to be the former, gallantly charging into a hail of high velocity metal lumps with a song in my heart and a throbbing erection in my pants has never even been an overwhelmingly appealing thought to me.
There’s seemingly no end to halfwits lining up to declare themselves heroes, or vagabonds, or saviours, or mercenaries with hearts of gold, or anything else. Most of them all just assholes with high minded ideals unbefitting of the world they were born into and a severe case of cognitive dissonance.
It’s laughable. They preach their fucking righteous crap and patented brand of truth to their little circle of sheep while racking up a kill count any rational pony would call sociopathic. They keep blabbing and patting themselves on the back and pleading for reassurances that they’re good people, all the way up till when they’re shut up by a round through the voice box.
There’s one truth to the wastes, Caps rule. Or their regional equivalent, even the recently late and not so great Safety Pin understood if you wanna steam roll, you need to bankroll your masturbatory killing sprees. You know in certain places of these wide, woeful wastes you can arm a fireteam of ponies with fairly sophisticated rifles and a stack of rounds to boot for less than the price of a Brahmin? And in other places a slave’s worth in caps is equivalent to their weight in pounds?
I’m getting away from my point. Brawn is in high supply, often flaunted and paraded around before being killed by an even more ostentatious and grand ‘hero’, whilst all the while, we meek brains get down to the brass tacks.
Ain’t nothing righteous left anymore, nothing glorious or resplendent. Its just ugly. If that ain’t true, then why the hell do caps; the most pretty sight to anyone familiar with them, taste so hellishly bitter?
***
The pale dawn was passing, the crisp early morning chilled air dissipating as I passed through the vast vapid landscape of Marizona. The jagged asphalt under hoof an apt track to take as I ambled past the husks of houses and homesteads. It seemed like the architecture of Marizona couldn't catch a break. Zebras incinerated the houses, the resilient folks stripped down the skeletons and rebuilt what they could. Then their neighbours incinerated their houses because they had a slightly varying fantasy for what Marizona would never be.
Fuck.
I was too sober to be ruminating on this sinking ship of a region. I was a tad tidied up from when I awoke early to handle my morning ‘affair’. Rusty was back in black, my unkempt brick red mop of a mane combed to one side to give the illusion of style. My torso shielded from the harsh morning chill by a plain black shirt and matching blazer. The only part of me that ever felt clean. The blazer almost concealing my sunken frame from the average opportunist. Typically the haggard, beaten expression and sharp expensive clothing is an indication of status, or at the very least, someone who’s done enough evil to be able to warm their hollow chest with thrifty and pretentious clothing. The kind of pony that needs to give themselves a false sense of importance or danger.
The sun had already crept away beyond the cloud cover. I suppose it’d be less savourable if you got to bask in it every day… Old bucks like me have the luxury of sentimentality I guess.
I kept my eyes levelled on the cracked road underhoof, the pungent odour of black smoke tickling my nostrils as I continued, fresh husks of homes, with a hint of… barbeque…
I doubt it was a massacre, probably just two different roaming bunches of skirmishers looking to pick a fight and snag some loot, probably half-cut on moonshine, too-
Heerack!
I halted mid-stride. The unmistakable sound of a pony fighting to huskily clear their throat reaching me. Gingerly I took a slug from my hip flask, tucking it neatly into my breast pocket before scanning for the source.
Same old story as the rest of Marizona, a linear parallel row of houses along a road, a kiosk propped up at the side of the road to trade odds and ends with bored caravaneers who are deprived of pony interaction for days on end. And at the base of that, a battered mare lay.
She was propped against it, the flimsy wood perforated with bullet holes, with a messy red smear running down the cover board, she couldn’t have been much older than thirty, maybe my age, more than twice my size and clad in bulky albeit punctured desert camo combat armour. The colour in her teal coat and rich brown mane fading fast, either due to age or the growing scarlet puddle under her. The thick red ichor strewn with spent casings, reminding me faintly of petals in rosewater. A trickle of blood creeped from the corner of her mouth as she stared blankly ahead, her broad, burly chest shallowly rising and falling with each meek wheeze.
She stared ahead disinterestedly, toward a house with wooden panels savagely torn apart, like some hellhound bit chunks out of it, the charred black wood having a faint crimson splatter over it. I guess whoever tried to kill her was now nothing more than a heap of profusely leaking meat behind it.
Gal was of the old breed, an actual career killer by the looks. No faction brandings, nothing verbose or ostentatious, just an honest working mare. I’m a sucker for a hard worker. She hadn't much of a wick left to burn now. A corpse before long, and she knew it too.
Ah, what the hell? I wasn't in a rush anyway.
With a soft sigh I broke the ice, planting my rump down on the uncomfy asphalt and scooching in a tad closer to the bleeder, giving her hoof a soft nudge, barely responsive “Hey.” I spoke with a small forced smile “Just one of those days, huh?” I attempted levity, slowly she craned her neck around, her eyes and wits were dimmed, she idly licked the blood trickle from the corner of her mouth.
“Very fucking funny.” she rasped out gruffly, giving another weak sputter, jolting her otherwise limp frame.
I scooched my rump in nearer again, a little bit of salt always coaxed an actual small smile out of me, she came across like a puppy snarling. Aggressive, but ultimately posturing. Though I had no reservations that if there were a few less leaks in her body there'd be very little posturing about it.
“Eh, not really.” I pawed at the back of my mane, “so uh, what do people call you besides beautiful?"
She looked me over up and down, letting out a snort at my coyness, or how harmless I was, even toward a fading mare like her, “Rattler. Folks around here call me Rattler.” she answered curtly, turning her head back toward the failed cover she tore apart. Her wounds were centred around her gut and shoulders, they must’ve ambushed her, first shot hit a joint, she reared up in fright, got peppered, found a wall to lean against and reciprocated jacketed lead.
“What about you?” she followed up with, rolling a ball of phlegm onto her tongue with a loud guttural hack, spitting the cocktail of mucus and blood a clear two feet past herself. I was a tad impressed.
“Rusty, there’s another part to it but everyone just calls me Rusty.” I said, fetching my dull silver hip flask and offering it to her, cap unscrewed and allowing the stinging aroma to waft into her nostrils “Ain’t exactly a healing potion, but it’s more comforting than a whore in heat.”
She sluggishly nodded, with her single functioning forehoof holding it and tipping the flask into her mouth, glugging the fiery liquor down avariciously. Letting it drop with a hard grunt as it bit her, pushing out a hoarse “Cheers R-Rust-” before breaking into a hard fit of coughs.
I liked to think it was the booze, not the bullets bringing that fit of coughing on, I’d allow myself as much, she offered the more or less emptied flask back to me, I raised my hoof to halt her, an uncommon simper coming over me “Keep it. Think of it as a remembrance from old runty Rusty. Besides, us old fucks need to savour each others company before we’re completely bred out.”
She grunted in agreement, staring flatly up at me as a soft lisp came over her gruff speech “Speaking of old fucks, whats a lil guy like you doing out in hell’s flaming ass end by himself? You with one of the Warlords or sumfin?” she slurred, a soft wobble to her head. Her body laxing up as either the blood loss got the better of her, or the liquor eased her pain.
“Nah, nah, nothing as exciting really. Just conducting some business, self made stallion and all that, product to sell, an old pal’s waiting for me just yonder in Whinnydorf.” I explained, settling in and joining her in the disconnected gazing at the wooden panels.
“Oh, oh?” she asked, her curiosity roused “And what kinda product is that? You peddling dope Rusty?”
I gave a brisk shake of my head, dipping my hoof in the thick puddle I tipped the bottom of a casing upright and tapped the rim of the spent charge housing “This.”
She let out an understanding “Aah.” and turned her gaze back to the house “Gun running, a noble profession. Hope you’re selling to the winner pal, there’s a cullin’ brewin.” she slurred, bobbing her head tiredly as she strained to stay awake. I took her heavy hoof into my own, icy to the touch, so muscle bound I had no illusions she’d snap me in half if she had a morsel of her strength. She seemed not to mind my small sharing of warmth with her.
“Well Rattler, I like to think whatever chumps purchase from me are by default the winners, but I follow, don’t you worry about some deadbeat asshole waddling through Marizona like the king of this mass grave. I got my chickens hatched and accounted for.” I assured her, in my own rambling way. She seemed to understand.
She let out a deflating sigh, letting her chin rest on her chest, she didn't seem to notice me moving her hoof “Nice to hear, Rusty… nice to hear.” she mumbled as she settled in, the puddle seemed to stop growing.
We sat there for awhile, in comfortable silence, just… keeping her company is all, listening intently to those shuddering, frail gasps for breath as they grew ever softer, just waiting for the full stop on her life. Sitting there, holding that powerful appendage that probably stamped out the brains of a dozen other weaker ponies in its lifetime. A weapon, just another tool of her gruesome trade. Though, it didn’t feel as cold and mechanical as a gun.
“Hey… Rusty.” she spoke up after a long moment’s silence, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“What say you let a mean old lady sleep this off? No point holding you up any longer, besides. Some alone time would be nice right now.” She finished, gulping down what I expected to be creeping blood up her throat.
I gave a sure nod, putting on another smile “Sure thing, Rattler. I’ll uh, write ya or something.” I chuckled meekly, trying my hoof at humour, never a strong point of mine.
She smiled faintly as I rose, resting her hoof across her belly “Till next time.” she pushed out wearily, reverting into that somber sleep like state.
I stood over her only for a moment, with her blood dried into the flat of my hooves I walked onwards on the desolate road, sparing only a glance for the gleaming hip flash she held in her hooves, and the rifle at her side. I recognized it immediately, a weapon not typically found here in Marizona, an old Type-56 Zebra rifle with a rust coloured bakelite magazine.
One of mine.
***
It wasn’t a trot of seven miles from my little alcove to Whinnydorf and between the two was a land so thoroughly ravaged it made a middle aged sex slave look comparatively unmarred. Passing crude scenes of executions, performed with any sharp implements available at what must’ve been at one point a dull roadside picnic spot.
They called it a wasteland, but that’d imply it was unused, this whole fucking region was repurposed as a cathedral to some unnamed and unfathomable blood god.
And to think this little glorified bar brawl that barely rates a sidebar only worsens the further out you go from Whinnydorf. And the sons of bitches probably railed Rattler en route to some real fucking high octane murder, but what can you do? Laughable and shitty ways to go are what lays at the end of the road for most of us.
Savage. That’s what this place was now. They can spew their spiel about this being a high-minded romantic struggle of the egalitarians versus the oppressors. Or the strong saving the weak from themselves, or the collective resurgence of equines that are impeded only by their ignorant kin. But at the end of it all, the only thing that distinguishes themselves from their enemies is the slightly different uniform they wear. The only reason half these assholes tote that rhetoric is to serve as anesthetic to what they’re actually doing. Killing and robbing, the emblem on their lapel helps them defer that burden away from themselves.
The same roadside picnic had a half eaten Salsbury steak on the bench, nice to see ponies’ stomachs ain’t totally ironclad around here. Shows some empathy… I was a tad grateful they dug the ditch deep enough to hide the bodies from the sight of travelers.
And to think, this was close enough to the enclosed walls of Whinnydorf that sentries could probably see the flash of a rifle, definitely hear it. The one neutral ground between both the Union and the State.
It didn’t take long for me to waddle on up to the ramshackle walls of Whinnydorf. Even a short guy like me could see over the not so imposing improvised battlements and spot the scavenged timber and corrugated tin roofs beyond. With the occasional smoke stack jutting out and billowing out the black plumes that accompanied them. In the nucleus of the small condensed settlement, upon the fork in the murky river it was situated on sat the town's first tavern, with it’s looming dingy white bed sheet hung on a pole above, dancing lethargically in the breeze, symbolising the town as a safe zone from the ravages of the ‘conflict’.
It was noon by now, I was beginning to lightly sweat in my stifling, swanky shirt and blazer. The chainlink gates were open during daylight hours, everyone seemed to be going in, never out. Upon the wall were some bored looking sentries, either congregated around tables playing cards or smoking cigs. Surprisingly well armed for what was essentially a glorified militia, war certainly generates profits for those around it. Kinda like cock fighting, the two birds never really come out ahead, get a meal and a cot? Sure, but the guys tossing caps around and facilitating the event, they’re the real winners.
As I passed under the walls I was met with clamour of ponies jabbering, the town’s narrow streets and high structures trapping the gossiping, haggling, altercating and bullshitting around my smarting ears. Even though life seemed normal, maybe even enjoyable here, the divisory lines were clear as I weaved through the crowds of townsfolk, caravaneers, peddlers and mercenaries. On one side were the bastards in deep navy blue, The Marizona Union for Labour and Prosperity. In their cheap ceramic plate ballistics vests and chest rigs, with their silly emblem of golden words sown onto a red background ‘Populo Eximus’ it read. Roughly translated to ‘Amazing People’ I think. Pompous in my opinion.
On the other sat the ignoble marauders of The Marizona Popular Peoples’ State. Clad in their black boiled leather and kevlar, staring at their adversaries vehemently, their own little patch that defined their existence was a black earth pony’s silhouette, toting a saber and surrounded by a silver laurel wreath. Both factions playing up to the supposed grandeur of our species. Their weapons varying in model and make and caliber, but ultimately hailing from the same source. A couple of ruthless bastards sitting in suits around a polished wood table in Prance. Me being one of them. These guys clearly all brawn and no brain, food for the gears of the War Machine.
Neither side dared move, this town often seen an occasional break out of gunfire, the tension between sides great enough to snap necks, every so often you’d hear a story about how a half a dozen ponies wind up dead because a diesel generator backfired and thought they were taking heat. And how severe disciplinary action would be taken. If one side lost three fighters, and the other two, they’d make them execute the difference as fair play. Nobody wanted to be the victim of tit for tat. Still, this town provided a necessary function, a safe spot for traders, travellers, for talks between sides, and because of this, everything was obtainable from here. Each faction had ravenous needs and like flies to shit, me and my ilk swarmed this town and made it prosperous. Before the outbreak, this town had one bar and one restaurant. Now it had four bars, six restaurants, three brothels and two narcotics dens. Maybe not necessarily an improvement, but definitely more profitable.
I crossed over the splintered and creaky bridge over those brown, unsavoury waters, seeing those spinning turbines gave me a flicker of hope for these people. That maybe the cleverness of ponies had applications outside seeing how efficiently they can off each other. The bridge lined with refugees from the conflict, some had foals, some seemed to be lamenting their lack of foals. Begging was outlawed in town, and the common house only opened at dusk. I didn’t feel responsible for them, I just pitied them, if circumstances in the town were different maybe they’d be better off. Maybe they could've started over here, before the town became absorbed by caps.
Though these were the ones that didn’t immediately sign on for either the State or the Union. The frail, old, meek, young and sickly. However the families held, mothers and fathers love their children, they live for them, not die for them. Wage packet or no.
The double doors to the Tavern were flanked by a pair of town militia , more for show than anything else, neither of them looked to be in their twenties, not even eyeing me or other patrons passing to and from the establishment. As I pushed the doors inward I was met with a wall of repugnant cigarette smoke, stinging my throat immediately I ducked my head and drove inward through the dimly lit den of vice. The tumultuous din of the tavern could be felt in the air, overwhelming and sickening, everyone already inside too buzzed or too desensitised to mind. A glance around could tell you this place wasn’t for the average drinker. The place was packed with scum of the slum that somehow managed to pull their way out of the gutter and into body armour or sleazy suits. Everyone here was peddling something, booze, flank, drugs, their services, labour, intel, weapons, I even saw one mare selling earrings. If it was dirty, you could get it. Everyone here open carried as well, dumping their pistols on their tables, rifles rested against table edges, or even wielded outright. And me, with my little snub nose tucked away neatly in an inside pocket of my jacket.
I was here to see an old friend, my oldest friend to be precise. Shell Shock.
I spied him in the far corner, a hulking brute of a stallion. At his physical and mental peak, clad in thick plated combat armour, like an EOD expert, his grass green coat and rigid blonde mohawk made him look like a raider some kind family adopted, scrubbed and gave some new toys to. Which was more or less true. His muscle bound frame allowing him to pack his weapons of choice, a quad battle saddle sporting a pair of MGL revolver style grenade launchers and LPO Flamethrowers, which to the agony of many could be mistaken for G3s from a distance.
The puissant framed stallion sat huddled, peering down at a crossword in the bi-weekly newspaper. gnawing on a pencil between his surprisingly white teeth, a pale scar running from the corner of his mouth to his forehead making it look like someone was twitching his lips with a string everytime he mumbled to himself. I was glad to see he had ordered a drink for me, double vodka with a couple of rocks tossed in.
I worked my way through the stumbling customers and sat myself down across from Shell Shock, he didn’t look up, instead we both took a slurp of our respective spirits. My clear, pure vodka and his own muddy looking whiskey.
He broke the silence. “Six letter word, first letter ‘a’, last letter ‘b’, hint is ‘prerequisite for composure and probably needing poise’. Any guesses?” he asked in a plain drone.
That was a good one.
“If I had to guess? Probably Aplomb, great word, underused.” I answered, it was weird seeing him simmering down as the years dragged on, he couldn’t even read until he had kids… legitimate ones anyway, when I thought of Shell Shock I thought solely of wholesale slaughter at a very reasonable hourly rate, not the father.
He grunted in response, scribbling down on the delicate paper. Placing the pencil down he looked up to him, that familiar devilish grin spreading over his lips once more, flashing that gold tooth lodged in the back of his maw, the kinda grin that was asking to be smacked, just so he could prove why it is people don’t smack it. What I really liked about his imposing, challenge inviting airs was that he knew he was above and beyond the average psychopath with a nailboard. Even if he didn’t act it, to his madness there was a very sophisticated method. A refined series of strategies designed specifically to messily kill people.
“So, how did your little date go today? Get a tuggy? You know you’ve found a good one when they jerk you off and no more, it’s good manners to offer a hoof, it’s downright slutty to offer a bodily sleeve.” I didn’t find him funny.
“Your guys gave him an awful startling, hope you didn’t have to grease any or at least, many of his buddies. They’re just idiot kids y’know… and yeah, it went fine. I’ll see if we can talk the Union into not scorching that little township of his for him whacking their garrison and declaring them independent, now that their primary troublemaker is gone, it’s easy taxes.”
“Rusty Rounds,” he began with a happy sigh “The most dejected optimist for miles around. You know that’s like an oxymoron or something, right?” he asked with a bemused snort, slurping on his biting drink.
I can’t fight how I look, slouched and sullen were just how I was, justifiably depressed I thought, a guy can’t take three steps these days without trodding in shit or on landmines. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. What’s the news from up north?” I asked, waving him off as I tried to clear my head enough to get back to brass tacks. He was always one to rub it in. Fucking long day.
He took on a slightly more serious tone, his giddy excitable voice dimming down as he slid a sealed brown envelope over to me, I cocked an eyebrow in return. “From?”
“The boss wants a summons, all the Associates are to postpone their business provisionally for three days. Includes Enforcers too, so we’re gonna be missing quite the presence down here.” he elaborated, I nodded along, there was rarely calls back to Prance like this, especially so soon after the bi-quarterly summit, I slipped open the contents and laid them out on the table.
From the Office of the Hero Maker.
To my dear associates,
As you are all aware, we recently suffered a bereavement within our organisation, the late and great Shrapnel Shade was slaughtered within her own home several weeks prior by her own enforcer, before he took his own life. As such, enough time has passed for our books to start feeling the pinch of lacking a seventh. I have directly intervened in her fiscal affairs, as she is survived by no one but ourselves, it is our responsibility to handle her self-grown business with the tender care and poise she herself would have employed in handling it.
While associate Shard has taken it upon himself to investigate the murder further, it’s imperative that we look to the future. In just more than a decade we have become the most successful guild of traders in southern Equestria, we cannot lose our momentum now, we must all advance into the great unknown that the future holds with aplomb.
To solidify this I have arranged a grand summit to be held, every associate and their respective enforcers are obliged to arrive at the usual spot between the dates outlined further in this letter.
-Your faithful employer.
Aplomb.
Such an underused word.
I scanned it over twice, read the details too, Grand Majestic Gresham Hotel in Prance, our own private clubhouse, between the dates of April 19th to 21st, I didn’t like it. The heat in this hellhole was only going to intensify and I had to squander several days with the bourgeoisie, sipping fine booze and discussing our evil schemes to fuck the world bloody with the greatest profit margins as possible.
“So?” Shock asked after I placed the letter down, massaging my temples “We’re being screwed around with, my guess is we got a new associate, when Hawk dropped she didn’t get a sweet eulogy from HM, she got a funeral deducted from her own books and was replaced by Vita. Or maybe, we have a threat that needs discussing, if HM needs all of us, well… so be it. Don’t wanna end up like Raisins.” I grumbled.
Shell Shock didn’t answer me immediately, he instead leaned in closer, squinting at me.
“What?” He asked flatly, propping my gaunt cheek against the flat of my hoof.
“You’ve uh. Got red on ya.” He said, waving at my hooves…
Oh yeah.
It was my turn not to answer immediately, bringing my thoughts back to Rattler, laying a stone’s throw outside town, an hour at the most… I drank deeply of my glass, the fading rocks of ice clattering as I dropped the emptied vessel.
“About four miles southeast of here, send a pair of guys, don’t care if they are ours or not, there’s some mean old mare lying in a red puddle of her own making, task them to bring her back, even if she’s dead.”
Shell Shock spared me a snide remark and nodded, “So, I take it we’re not lingering?”
I gave a brisk shake of my head “No. Get the fillies a carriage with beds, we’ll ride traditionally. Where are they now?”
“Shock’s asleep, came down with a cold of all things in the fucking desert, Awe is probably doing homework upstairs… or pretending to, I ain’t letting them roam around this shithole without me.” He spoke, his eye twitching as he scanned the tavern, even though he was one of the scum congregated here, he didn’t like the fact that they were here.
Shell Shock turned back to me, letting out a huff he rose from his seat “This place was fucking boring anyway, you coming Rusty?” he asked, tucking his newspaper under his hoof.
I rose and allowed him to barge through, he was definitively alpha, even among the cutthroats here none objected when he bunted them out of his, and subsequently my path. Even as I kept my low, submissive profile he marched as he always did, like he owned the earth he walked upon, and everyone else was a guest upon it.
He slipped into a side door, leading into a stairwell up towards the second floor, the rentable rooms. Typically reserved for horny customers too classy to fuck in the gutter, or if the bathrooms were occupied, however when Shock rolled through he bought out every room for the next week, not even chalking it down as an expense on my books. As we climbed the stairs, the narrow hallway we emerged into was blocked up by a dozen of Shell Shock’s own Sick Squad, his personal pick of horrible bastards and butchery extraordinaires to serve directly under him in a fight. All kitted with the finest gear available, their sophisticated armour blemished with trophies and knick knacks from battles fought long ago. No expense was spared when it came to the fillies.
They all in turn nodded to their captain, king, prophet, Shell Shock. And afterwards glared at me, like feral dogs at a mound of carrion. They all feared him more than they needed my bankrolling, caps make for poor defense against the truly bloodthirsty.
We halted at the door at the end of the hall, Shell Shock fumbled out a key and wrestled it around the keyhole, eventually shoving it open. Inside was the scrubbed down apartment, two bedroom, with a wide open living space, complete with a pair of armchairs, a couch and coffee table. Sat on a cushion at the coffee table boredly tapping a pencil against a sheet of simple arithmetic was Awe, the seven year old daughter of Shell Shock. She was a cute wee thing, her coat the same rich grass green of her father, her hair thankfully not as garish as her father’s own golden blonde mohawk, but a glossy black tied back into a practical and proper ponytail fitted with a large neatly tied red ribbon, to tell her apart from her sister.
Her tail swished rhythmically from side to side, matching the beat of her pencil, her topaz eyes hung half closed, fatigued by the devil ‘Math’. “Hey dad.” she droned unemotionally, perching her chin on the rim of the table.
“Princess!” Shock exclaimed, sweeping into the room, as if to bombastic fanfare. Sliding down and scooching in next to her “And what grand plans has my little prodigy concocted today, hmmm?” he asked with zest he reserved for his lasses, and his interrogation victims, leering over her worksheet.
“I’runno.” she huffed, swatting the sheet away “Some stupid stuff with funny signs, a bunch a’ nothing.” she pouted, her irked expression only offset by her father’s cozy embrace.
“Ah, I’ll get ya some caffeine or something, wonder drug, opiate of the clerk, ay Rusty?” he called over to me, quoting me back to myself, I wondered briefly if he was writing all this down. Before I could slip into deeper ponderings he roused me with a sharp whistle, gesturing me over “Ey, Russ, take a knee with Awe for a minute wouldya? I’m going to shoot in to see Juniour for a sec, see if she’s feelin’ any better.”
The question didn’t require an answer, before I even had a chance to half heartedly shrug he had slipped into the next room, a muffled ‘Prrrrrrrincess!’ audible through the door. I replaced him at the table, greeted with a bored unemotive drawl "Hey Uncle Russ." I was less than gladdened Shell Shock had my loathed nickname ingrained in them.
"Hey girlie." I replied, as equally enthused. Out of curiosity I flipped over the sheet to see her work, one question in particular caught my eye.
2 x 4 =
Answered with an angrily scrawled 'im not an nerd'
A kid after my own heart.
"You smell funny Uncle Russ." She commented, scrunching her nose up at me. "And your hooves are kinda red..." She mulled it over before breaking into an excited gasp, perking up "Wuh-was Daddy greasin fools!? Was-it-so-cool? You know Uncle Russ he says if I do good in my school stuff he gunna let me grease em wif em?" She reamed on excitedly.
At least she was proud of what her parents do... Or what her dad does, and mom did.
I was unsure how to respond, so I just gave the usual rebuttal "No, no, Uncle Rusty just had a bit of a rough morning is all, buying you girls presents is very tiring you know. But don't tell your sister, I just let ya in on my scheming cuz you're the smart one." I lowered my voice to her.
Awe nodded along with a growing sly grin, tapping her muzzle knowingly "Ooooh, I see, I see... Wait, you're not going to give me another empty bottle and say its a collector thing again are you? I hate those stupid things, I can't even throw em!" She pouted sternly.
Technically they were collector pieces, I buy em, sanitation collects em.
"Uh, sure, whatever. Its gonna be good, have a lil faith in Rusty." I tried to encourage her. But it just meant I needed to hastily devise a backup plan now that my bottle tactic has been called out.
She let out a dubious hum, scrutinizing me with those topaz stoned floating in milk, I felt briefly like it was her old lady giving me a glare. “Aaaaaalright.” she nodded along in an unsure tone.“Have a lil faith.” I nudged her, attempting my own frail attempt at a smile. It wasn’t returned. On cue Shell Shock re-emerged, half way through a sigh as he closed the door “Well Rusty, she’ll be sleeping alright, we’ll be red-eyeing overnight to the HM’s GM so do yourself a favour and take that time to shave and sober up. You look like a freakish miscarriage of a Chupacabra.” he snorted bemusedly, taking a place opposite me on the side of his daughter, slipping from professional back to ‘Daddy’. A red-eye. Couple of hours to kill then.
“I’ll uh, well, you know where to find me.” I mumbled before rising, earning a glower from Shell Shock.
“I said to so-”
“Yeah, yeah,” I cut him off with a dismissive wave of my hoof “It’s been awhile, I feel woozy, I’m just gonna get a lil pick me up and I’ll be back before you know it.” I tried to assure him, though all he did was mouth obscenities at me as I left.
My stomach smarted and knotted in revolt, I had become desensitized to it after years of maltreatment. Booze had substituted nearly every other nourishment in my life, if I needed some sleep, I drank, if I was hungry, I drank, if I was thirsty, you damn well bet I drank, and if I was lonely, I drank deep. It was justified really, I always thought it’s how people really live with themselves, we adopt a self destructive vice to atone. Though this slow decline into the grave seemed rather agreeable to me. It’s not that I have anything more to be guilty of than the average sinner out in the wastes. We’re all scum writhing in the same filth, my vice is just more… intensive, than the average degenerate’s.
Back in the dense fog of smoke that was the lower bar I tried slipping through the crowds, the staggering and stumbling vagabonds and peddlers making it daunting as I was knocked side to side on already unsteady hooves. Bastards. Ain’t nobody got some consideration for the little ponies. Even stunted genetically defunct guys like me like to feel respected from time to time. I don’t blame them though, the respectable are to be respected, esteem is earned, and hard earned at that, respect ain’t a right. Its what awaits the diligent and the talented after a long road paved with broken glass and barbed wire, but one has to look like they walked that road and came out better for it. Not like a haggard shambles of a pony, like me.
I found my little alcove again, nestled in a cozy corner with a fine view of my 'peers'. The word unscrupulous came to mind. They were scum, undoubtedly, but the morality of their occupations were debatable. The shifty looking mare at the booth opposite me for example, no older than nineteen by my estimations, slim build like most kids from around here, lithe and long legged unicorn, her tangled and mangy rose coloured mane telling of an unkempt and austere lifestyle, her fluffy cream coat bestowing upon her a bubbly aesthetic, however her indignant cerulean eyes made it evident she wasn't here to spectate brawls or yank a tipsy buck into the rest rooms. She surveyed the room, over and over, as dependably as a radar. Rapidly shaking her head as both stallions and mares took turns propositioning her. She looked misaligned, out of place, like she should be doing something upstanding and respectable, learner doctor or trainee technician. But no, every so often another patron would wander over to her table, and unlike the horny ones they'd brim an awaiting glass with caps and she'd reach under the table into her saddlebag and hoof over an opaque package, then she'd dump the glass into it and her surveying would resume.
Narcotics. Probably the cheap synthetic kind, the kind that one bad hit can cause you to gouge out your eyeballs and chew glass shards. All the same though, as wrong as a drug dealer that sweet and wholesome was, it was the better alternative. The youth here now only have prospects relating to the economic demands of war, firearms and explosives to wage it, ammo and meds to sustain it, booze and narcotics to alleviate it and good ol' flank to vent all that pent up anger. It was either sell herself or sell a couple hits. Sure, drug dealing may seem evil enough, but all her customers are already users, all willing and enthusiastic to buy, and with an abundance of suppliers. They want to have the product, with all that it entails, she isn't pushing anyone to a sale, or selling to impressionable first timers. She's just noticed there's a river of caps circulating about this place and decided to slurp from it. There isn't many opportunities for the kids raised here, I'm glad to see that she took the ones available to her.
A wise pony once said, "If you can't make money during a war, you can't make money at all."
My inward commendations for the young mare were halted by the appearing of one of the bartenders. Spit of a lad, about sixteen and sweating profusely, dampening his sandy coat a shade darker, his black mane slackened with sweat against his head. You can tell a lot about the place you're in based on the hygiene of the staff. He placed a tall bottle of clear spirits in front of me, accompanied by a glass, "Yuh- your usual mistah Rounds." He wheezed out, offering a polite bow before dashing deftly between the crowds back to his hectic station. The customers at his end of the counter rowdy and unruly even from a minute of absence.
Good kid.
His old buck owned this place, bastard is the definition of a family buck too. Morally upright and ethical in business. He let's these world class scumbags conduct their business here so long as the booze is paid for and the setting remains vaguely civil with a strict no kids in the lounge policy, with of course the exception being his own who help him run the place. Vice Grips was his name. I liked him, I tip well and he keeps me liquored like royalty. It was a nice feeling being the only buck in the room getting booze delivered to him, the illusion of importance was always a pleasant one.
I uncorked the bottle and poured myself a not so healthy serving, the pungent odour only a fraction the strength of the actual drink, once the vodka levelled with the rim of the glass I upturned it inside my mouth, avariciously glugging it down, the familiar sear in my gullet and sting in my sinuses as welcome a sensation as a loving embrace. Dumping the glass down I could feel it leaking into my bloodstream, assuaging my mind, clearing it of the oppressive heavy fog that clouded it, alleviating the weight from around my neck, the groggy gears in my head beginning to be lubricated again, allowing my brain to operate at a speed that contrasted my exterior.
My eyes squeezed shut reactively from the experience, rubbing them with one hoof and pouring myself another round with the other. When I managed to open them the drug dealer across from me had upended her whiskey glass. She rose from her table and with strain slung her saddlepack up and over her back.
Amateur hour.
The packs were so chock full of caps they bulged at the bottom, overfed on funds, jingling invitingly with every slight motion, I could even see the ridges of the caps pushed against the leather. She was unarmed, dainty and worst of all young. I’d be astounded if she wasn’t mugged before long, business was booming, it’s only natural for leeches to want to suck the blood from an actual worker. Slamming my second glass I think the booze got the better of me, as she prepared to leave I rose to halt her. Righting my blazer and scruffy mane as well as I could I approached her, standing barely at chest level to her.
“Scuse me, miss? Out of a sense of duty I have to ask, are you crossing through the State’s side of town on your way home, or the Union?” I piped up, doing my best not to come across as sleazy in a den like this, even with my unkempt appearance and gravelly voice.
She jumped, so lost in her surveying that she failed to notice a runt sneak up on her, she looked down with startled eyes, unable to coherently formulate an answer, her voice was as mild and meek as I thought it’d be, made me grin.
“I uh, the um, yeah - State.” she answered after sufficient fumbling of her words. She really was new to this.
“Mmm, yeah that’s no good. The State are notorious for their anti-narcotics stance, not that the average grunt has that kinda zeal in his heart, they’re liable to confiscate those funds if they see you leave here, a shakedown wouldn’t be beyond them. It’s especially obvious seeing a kid like you slip into a bar with near empty bags and leaving with em bulging. Don’t ya think?” I asked, somewhere in my words slipping from amiable to scrutinizing.
She shook her head to clear it, looking down at me with a glower “Yeah, I’m sorry. Who are you?” she asked far less than excitedly. I had expected the reaction.
“Somebody here long enough to now you’re just starting, and experienced enough to know how to help you out. It takes bored guards only a few days to realise the obvious, so if you wanna keep your caps to yourself, I’d like to invite you to my table. Don’t worry either, I’m a taken buck.” I laughed somewhat stiltedly, I felt awkward and bashful but… it felt necessary to stick in, given the long list of much more substantial ponies she turned down minute to minute in this joint.
She surveyed the room once more, I was surprised she was even mulling it over, finally with a small sigh she shrugged “What have I to lose?” she asked rhetorically, moving in past me and strategically positioning herself with a view to the door, staring intently at it.
“Well, I saw ten whiskey glasses of caps go in, average volume of those is what? About one seventy five mils? Bottle cap’s diameter is about twenty five, and about five high, I’d say you get about twenty two caps there abouts a go. So, at least two hundred and twenty caps.” I answered for her, she lifted an eyebrow quizzically and I just grinned.
“Right, and how is it then uh,”
“Rusty.”
“Right, Rusty. How is it then you suppose I go through without being shaken down as you say I will be?” she asked, more of a challenge than a question.
“Well, uh-”
“Bandana.” she filled in.
“Bandana.” I nodded, extending a quickly wiped down hoof to her, she accepted it daintily and gave it a light shake “Well, Bandana my advice is for a start have a container inside your pack, something with rigid unassuming dimensions, ideally an opaque lunchbox, or flask. Line the inside with a rag and knot the caps up into a bundle so they don’t clatter around as much. The container should help muffle it too. Another good piece of advice is to cross where there’s a lot of traffic and few guards, if you’re an isolated target you’re easier to pick on. People don’t like people seeing their dirty business, and most importantly of all. Bribe em.” I pointedly concluded, waving a hoof at her.
“Bribe em? But then won’t they I’m carrying caps?” she asked, scrunching her muzzle up at me. I was glad that was the only point of contention. She glanced worriedly at the succulently fat bags of capital.
“Not necessarily, if they see a mare leave the bar and she brings them a brew to numb the agonising boredom of standing around tensely all damn day, they tend to take a shining to her. It costs four caps here to buy a bottle, they even do a special on three for ten, it’s not technically bribing since you’re not paying them to overlook things they already know. You’ve probably at least heard about what they do to those caught selling and using drugs in the State, right?”
It was her turn to be bashful now, awkwardly pawing at her mane “Uh, yeah... they club them to death.” she answered in a mumble, I nodded along.
“Right, while this isn’t their precious state, they’ve been known to take liberties here in the past, though I don’t have to tell you that. And another thing, have several routes into this place. There’s a gangway under this bar along the river, they can’t see you from that angle, there’s also two smaller bridges you can cross, you don’t even need to bring them beers if they don’t see you enter and leave. But if you overuse them, it’ll draw attention.”
She furrowed her brow “So then, what do I do?”
I patted myself down, “Hey uh, grab me a napkin or a coaster or something.” I told her as I fumbled for a pen, a plain cardboard circlet placed before me as I eventually fetched my biro.
“Alright,” I began, rolling the pen around in my mouth, scribbling a pattern down, it went.
AAA
AAB
ABB
BBB
BBA
BAA
AAA
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” she asked incredulously.
“It’s a pattern. For your routes, A denotes crossing the main bridge, B denotes a side one, from the gangway or whatever route you choose as your secondary. C is going to be your variable, you’ll take B into the bar, but A out of it or vice versa. As long as the patterns are varied enough to never make it overly obvious that you have one it’s fine. Oh, and try and stick to linear paths with plenty of people, if there’s a solitary pony hanging out on the gangway, odds are they’re looking for trouble. This is your town, you should know which parts court danger.” I elaborated, glancing up I was a tad warmed to see she was studying it intently, as I spoke, nodding along and muttering to herself.
“Right, right… say,” she began, narrowing her eyes at me “How is it you’re so uh, methodical about this stuff? Are you uh, a ‘seller’ too?” she asked delicately, sure not to trod on my hooves.
“No, no. Well, kinda. Same basic gig different kinda product if you catch my drift.” I spoke, taking another gulp from my glass, topping it up I placed it on the coaster and slid both over to her “From me, to you.”
That got a grin out of her, taking the glass in her aura she took a small drink, grimacing as she gulped it down, her scrunched up pained look and accompanying hack coaxing a rumbling chuckle out of me.
“Oh. My. Goddesses! It’s like pure acid!” she exclaimed, wiping her mouth as she pushed the glass back to me, slipping the coaster into her saddlebags.
“You get used to it. The habits of running an illegitimate business I mean, that stuff never goes down any easier.” I snorted, taking a gulp for myself.
“And how the hell did you learn all this stuff? Is there a school for drug slingers where you come from or something?” she asked, her smile actually holding.
“Mmm, no, I started out selling flayed rat on a stick, and hairless spider on a stick both cooked over a barrel fire for six and four caps respectively.” I admitted with a small laugh, “I’ve been selling anything I could get my hooves on since I was eight. You learn as you go along, especially if you’re small time and in a bad neighbourhood.”
She let out an appreciative whistle “You’re uh, a strange guy Rusty. You uh, still peddling critters on sticks? Business must be good.” she asked coyly, jabbing the lapel of my flashy jacket.
She managed to pull a giggle from me, “No, no, I uhm… Travel around destabilized regions and sell firearms in bulk to the local warlords.” I told her with a chuckle, she joined in with a bombastic fit of guffaws.
“Get out~” she sang, waving me off.
“No, no, I’m serious. But I’m leaving tonight, my uh, ‘friends’ require me up north. So you won’t see this tired old buck around any time soon.” I explained, offering her a smile. “However, I am in the investing game these days, who knows? Maybe if I come back here sometime and you’re doing well, I’ll expand your business for a slice.”
She grinned a little wider “You’re just blowing smoke up my ass now, aren’t ya?”
“No, no, I’m serious.” I re-iterated again “There’s so many fucking deadbeats around this town I’m delighted to see an enterprising young mare, and a local one too, you play smart and safe and you can go far. Even if narcotics ain’t my area, I’m sure with some experience you’ll be a leader in the field in no time.”
Fucking hell Rusty. You’re actively encouraging a drug dealer. Still… nostalgia was doing most the talking, she was a good kid, hopefully the caps wouldn’t get the better of her.
Before I slipped deeper into my own inner conflicts I noticed the burnt orange hue of light that pierced the windows, the amber glow like it’s own watch, telling of how long I sat jabbering to Bandana “Fuck me, it’s that late already. I won’t hold you any longer miss Bandana, grab two beers before you leave and run on home. It’s been a pleasure.” I nodded to her, she looked around her and let out a surprised yip “Bloody hell it really is late.” she murmured.
She shot upright, slinging her saddlebags over her once more, no longer and indignant and tense, but jaunty and enthused, a fresh zest in her cerulean eyes, this time, she was the one to offer her hoof “Till next time then, and thanks by the way.”
I waved her off, shaking the hoof firmly “Don’t mention it, or me to anyone else either, stay safe miss.”
Without further procrastination she pivoted and disappeared back into the crowd. I wished her the best of luck… sincerely.
Still. It was telling of the times that she had to resort to it in the first place. The way she surveyed that room, rigidly gazing at the entrances, she didn’t want someone to know she was there and doing what she was doing. Could of been a parent or a sibling, or even her friends, no one is ever proud of being a two-bit dealer, but meeting the psychoactive exigencies of cut throats and other lowly creatures was better than meeting their more carnal needs or sleeping on the pissed stained mattresses of the common house. A rumbling stomach is a hell of a lot louder than any conscience. Better to sell damaging things then to be reduced to a thing to be sold and damaged by the customers. Good call Bandana.
Who knows? Maybe one day she’ll build an entire network of dope, me and her might even trade some day as she’ll need to provide her own security for her world renowned goods. Everyone starts at the bottom, and talent and diligence determines how far people climb in this life.
Or maybe, she’ll wind up a floater down the Whinny River, so tainted by the toxic water she wouldn’t be fit to be called carrion, either way, only time will tell. You win this game by being the brightest mind, and snuffing out the lights of other people’s before they can do the same to you, some manage to escape it, others just accept it, some like me and my associates own it. The goal is always the same, start as a flickering flame in the breeze, and slowly become a great conflagration. We all get to choose the game Miss Bandana, but the rules are ironclad. You live and die by them. Whether you peter in the breeze, or engulf all those around you, you mustn't ever deviate from the game.
I slipped deeper into thought, no one caught me eye here like Bandana did so I resigned myself to the company of the bottle. As the hours ticked by I slipped from my acute senses back into the doldrums of drunkenness, the pleasant stupor sedating my forever churning mind enough to jam coherent thoughts, they way I liked it.
Letting my life become a blurred haze, losing focus on my surroundings and lapsing into my own peaceful bubble, away from it all, I was glad for awhile. Not sure how long it was, a couple of minutes, a couple of hours. It was joyous, all up until Shell Shock slung me over his back and marched me into the night. As my vision dimmed and the world receded to blackness my thoughts drifted back to the flayed rat on a stick and how sweeter it tasted than the poison I could not pry myself from.
***
I came to Celestia knows how many hours later. Slumped on red velvet cushions, my stomach wailing in agony from the bumpy carriage, the sound of wooden wheels rolling over gravel accompanied the static inside my head. I groaned as I groggily sat upright, dishevelled and disoriented, back in my default destitute state. It took my eyes awhile to adjust to the low light conditions of the carriage, but as it normalised I noticed a rosewood table before me, with a tall glass of ice water and accompanying pills. My face felt hot but numb, no sensation other than an uncomfortable heat.
“You were supposed to sober up.” The hard, embittered voice of Shell Shock stated. I wasn’t in the mood. “I had one of mine shave you while you slept you fucking disaster.” he bemusedly snorted. Pushing the pills and water closer. “You may be a mean motherfucker Rusty, but hell you can be worse than a colt when you put your mind to it.”
I clumsily clasped the glass and took the pills between my teeth, the icy, refreshing fluid revitalising my stultified frame, the pills the first solid I’d had for several days at this point. Dropping the vessel I laid back, settling my boney back into the snug cushions, stroking my clean shaven face and noting all the bumps and nicks. Tsking annoyedly.
“Remember who pays who here, Shelly. And Luna alive, couldn’t they have not flayed me?” I stopped my pawing, only serving to reopen the irksome incisions.
“Shockingly, you’re not that well liked among the soldiers, brother. They must be zealously jealous of your dashing good looks and fierce, irrepressible charms.” he verbosely intoned.
“I regret getting you that stupid fucking thesaurus. I liked you better when you came across as a feral that had a grasp of maybe a dozen words. Hearing ‘irrepressible’ from a guy who’s idea of fun eight years ago was a toolbox and a tied up mare with a few bumps of whatever drugs on hoof, you sure use some fancy fucking words.” I joshed, however it was his turn not to find it funny.
“Ah, fuck you Russ. You’ll understand when you have kids one day, if your prick can still stand without the aid of a splint that is.” he shot back, snorting at his own joke.
“You’re the only prick I need, Shock. How long till we arrive?” I asked, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, the artificial dozing of a ethanol induced sleep only rested you a fraction as well as an actual sleep.
“We’re about six hours out, the meeting is slated for noon, we’ll arrive with time to spare, it’s first light now.” he answered, only now did I realise he ragged and weary he looked.
“Why aren’t you asleep?” I asked after a moment’s studying.
“Heard a few cracks in the distance, spooked me, the girls are just in the carriage behind us after all… Call it paranoia.” he answered distractedly, staring into the dim white light of dawn from between the satin drapes in the carriage.
“Right… try and get some sleep at least, imagine what they’ll all say seeing us look as shitty as we do.”
“Fuck em.”
I nodded, looking back down at my hooves “Hey… remember the flayed rats on sticks?” I asked hesitantly.
“I don’t care to.”
I nodded again, the past wasn’t a happy topic between us anyway, our shared history wasn’t a sweet one.
“Hey, I’m gonna catch some Zs, wake me when we’re there.” I told him, he wasn’t feeling sociable and when I thought about it, neither was I. He nodded and spoke no more, I laid down and waited for the painkillers to take effect, numbing me enough to allow me to drift back into the peace only a dumbed down mind could savour. It was undoubtedly going to be a long day tomorrow.
***
Prance.
A city revived by several old aristocratic families that spent the apocalypse selectively inbreeding in Stables by the old favoured method of building civilizations, slavery. In sixty years the city was stripped and rebuilt along the Central boulevard and outlying suburbs by an army of viciously suppressed and guarded slaves. In no time at all free folks flocked here looking to start anew in an actual society, whether farmers, grunts, traders or anything else. And for every citizen, there was at least two slaves. So popular slavery became they replaced the justice system with an indentured service system, if you stole you’d be made to work back your debt to society. If you committed a more serious crime such as rape or murder, you’d be sold into slavery entirely. At one point, the Ardvarè family had an army of nearly two hundred slavers, in a town that’s official population was only two thousand. The buying and selling of equine life became the norm of Prance, only recently has it ended in an official capacity. Thanks to the advances of the Matricians and Patricians in the senate has it been made that every resident within the confines of the city is a free one. The economic growth and wealth had attracted enough skilled ponies for the city to be sustainable, and as such, free dreg labour wasn’t necessary anymore.
Now if you want a slave, you have to buy from outside the city and sign a contract for a maximum of five years work, and then you’re expected to provide suitable nutrition and working conditions for said indentured worker. And at the end of the term, you have to offer them a job with a minimum wage of five caps an hour for a full year. However it’s not worked out for the ex-slaves, they’re the new underclass, the dependable low skill, low pay bedrock most societies depend dearly upon. And the slavers? Most went on to become construction foremen, or ‘employee procurement specialists’, or to make up the new police force under the direct control of the Ardvarè family. Placing them snugly as the new middle class. The penal system hasn’t changed however, murderers and rapists are sold to parties outside the city and the profits are reinvested into the educational system. There were now 3 schools in Prance, two elementary one high. With a fully implemented taxing system every kid got to do at least six years schooling, if you had the capital you could send em on to study science, but most ended up either in work, or as apprentices.
As a result, Prance became a service hub like none other, you could go to an office, an actual office and speak to an ‘Armament Consultant’ and have a box of firearms within a week. You could go see a ‘Recreational Facilitator’ and get a night slathered in high class sluts for an evening, hell, if you were an artsy sort you could take a trip down to the Publications Office and get your article decrying the stringent immigration and land laws published in the Bi-weekly newspaper if you so pleased. Prance’s prestige may be built on the broken backs of the downtrodden and oppressed. But they were stacked so high that it elevated the town into something unique on this side of Equestria. An actual civilised society. Everyone ultimately shits on the little guy, but at least this town achieved something by doing it. And hell, even the descendants of the slaves don’t mind enough to rebel, even though they make up two thirds of the population.
It don’t wash away no blood though.
We trundled between the towering apartment blocks and renovated monolithic hotels. Our carriage encountering traffic for the first time in since I left this cesspool of elitists and high minded snobs. Shell hadn’t slept a wink, still gazing out the window at the various bright store fronts and places of work. Whatever buildings yet unused being cocooned in scaffolding and healed back into their beautiful classical architecture from before the bombs and the decay. Ponies from all walks marched up and down the wide streets, young foals running errands or playing, bourgeoise shoppers being chased around by their ‘indentured servants’. Stallions and mares in suits taking their two hour long lunch hours from whatever ultimately ill-reputed firm they worked for. Food joints with their protruding fronts for customers to seat themselves outside under the sheltering parasols and people watch as they grazed. Each building coated in a colourful paint, to keep the city vibrant and vivid. High walls of sheet metal and concrete cordoned the settled parts of town from the dilapidated outskirts, keeping the stretch of civilization in it’s own merry bubble of normalcy. Away from whatever woe and desolation lay beyond.
Eventually we rolled to our destination, several other carriages waited out front as we were lost in the shadows of the Big Four as they known. The towering granite structures that were once the most prolific high class hotels in Prance. Their decayed upper floors and crumbled walls making them ideal hardpoints. Now instead of ornate window frames and tinted glass the vista was to be viewed through the sights of a heavy machine gun mounted on sandbags. Or through a sniper’s lense or a pair of binos. From the sky splitting heights one could see all of Prance and the plains that surrounded it. And at the very peak of each building resided a mortar pit.
Each served as a fortress for the respective aristocratic clans. There was the Lodge Ardvarè the largest of them, the Belvue Deluxe - the only one opened to the public for it’s casino, and Hotel Fauxe, more of a gentleponies club and business den on the lower floors than a fort. And finally, our own little clubhouse, The Grand Majestic Gresham Hotel. Owned by our own little union and purchased for a relative song. The clans were all so busy refurbishing their own respective castles and lining their pockets they lacked the time and resources to squabble over it. So we took it off their hooves for the modest sum of two and a half thousand caps each and fortified the hell out of it. Unlike the others ours was far from palatial, floors three to ten was cordoned off for each associate and their subordinates, the rest was ruinous at worst or entrenched at best. All in all thirty permanent staff broken into six teams of five for security. On top of whoever we require in our own retinues.
Our employer kept the old name, but most knew it as the HM’s GM. Hero Maker’s Grand Majestic.
I rose and dusted myself off, running my hooves across my head to help straighten out the messy mop of red hair “You uh, go ahead on up to the suite with the fillies, I’ll head to the meeting.” I informed the distant Shell Shock, he nodded and heaved a sigh, rising as well as I slipped the carriage door open and stepped out onto the cobblestone street beneath. The air here was a lot more amicable towards me then the dead heat of Marizona, a breeze always ran through the air here and it was never unwelcome in my books.
Outside a dozen or so mercs loitered, all from different detachments of different associates, dressed wildly different and all extravagantly armed. The Nomads with their long dark coats and boonie hats, the First Cohort, zebras garbed in thick scavenged battle armour and plates, ornately decorated with trophies from their kills. Even the Havoc Preachers were out socialising with their ink caked bodies detailing their triumphs and defeats.
I recognised a couple, exchanging acknowledging nods and such as I climbed the marble steps into the awaiting atrium. The reception of the hotel a din of associates and subordinates clamouring over one another as they excitedly caught up with old friends. The two bars cramming a plethora of thirsty travellers on stools. I spotted a few friendly faces but was too bedraggled and groggy to engage them.
Instead I spared myself the equine interaction and pushed through the heavy single door labelled ‘Staff Only’, leading into a narrow carpeted hallway, the door swinging shut behind me blocking out the tumultuous prattling outside.
I looked around the familiar walls and heaved a short sigh of content.
Finally. Peace.
I’d have a whole hour to myself before the proceedings began, trotting leisurely on the svelte carpet I arrived at our cozy conference room, slipping inside there awaited a bland room, devoid of features and illuminated solely by a white fluorescent light bulb. The only notable detail of the room being the long table in the very centre. One table on each rectangular end with three chairs flanking either side. At the opposite end where the far chair was sat a small ham radio. The mouth of my employer. It’d begin broadcasting at exactly noon, and finish when it pleased. No one would interrupt it, no one would speak against it. We would merely listen and then discuss.
I took my seat to the left side of the radio like a prince at a court and sat docilely, the silence so refined the only thing I could hear was the sound of my own shallow breathing. It was therapeutic to say the least, I just rested my head against the leather lounge chair and let minutes tick by with an emptied skull.
I pushed away every thought that came to the forefront of my mind, whether it was the reasons for this summons, the buck Safety Pin, the unfortunate Rattler, or the enterprising but naive Bandana. I really did hate Marizona. The whole place was sinking fast and the entire crew were arguing about who’s fault the leaks in the hull are instead of plugging them.
My peace was short lived. The minutes flew fast when you wanted them to crawl, on cue my five surviving business partners entered the room in single file, still chatting idly with each other as they slipped in and took their respective seats. Across from me was seated the impish mare, Cutlass. An astoundingly gorgeous unicorn with all the characteristics and panel of buttons to send bucks wild. With her thick, lush and bouncy green locks and smooth, regal alabaster coat and curvaceous body she oft got what she wanted. Dressed to impress in an elegant red gown, she chirped up at me in her melodic, honeyed voice “Rusty! It’s been quite the while, ay dearest? I hear we may be sharing a market down in sunny ol’ Marizona, keeping well I hope?”
I gave her a shrug in rebuttal “Same old, drinking myself to within inches of the grave and keeping undertakers in the black, hopefully they’ll find it in their hearts to give me a discount when I do drop. You?”
“Oh, splendid in a word dearest, been a large influx of long range rifles lately, apparently some ranger outfit up north are liquidating their assets, and selling by the kilo! I know it’s not my usual but I hear they’re quite popular in Marizona at the moment, and so your sweet Cutlass follows the flow of caps like a feather caught in an updraft.” she finished with a soft coo, beaming coyly as ever with her immaculate set of teeth.
“Well for some, right Rounds?” drawled the buck to my side. The only partner here longer than me, Shard. The only pony to ever address me by ‘Rounds’. “Us fellas are stuck with the ol’ circulated scrap it seems, nobody seems to wanna disarm no more, iss all jus’ a mad dash t’ stockpile for somethin’ that ain’t ever coming.” A rustic stallion, about my age, a purple coated earth pony with an oiled back mane that often sported a stetson outdoors. His three piece silky suit something to be marvelled at, with his burgundy three button blazer, black satin waist coat and white undershirt. You’d never have guessed he heralded from some backwater ranch in the ass end of nowhere. He married well, right into Ardvarè family. He started as a humble gun runner when he ran into a live wire mare in some tavern and hit it off. Little did he know he fell for the heir of the most powerful dynasty in Prance and her father made sure he lived up to the name, placing him in control of procuring and selling weapons. And he was damn good at it, with all his old contacts and being well travelled his straightforwardness and honesty made him a respected trader in no time. We spent a lot of hectic nights together in the old days, drinking and plotting, getting our grand expansionist campaign in order and steamrolling problems as they arose. I liked him and his wife greatly, I don’t think the guy to lie if he tried.
“It’ll all come to a head, no one ever sits on a mountain of ammo for long, everyone’s too eager to spend it.” I answered, following up with “How’s the wife?”
“Preggers, a’gain.” he grinned to me, giving me a small nudge “Sappy found out last week in fact, callin’ it now, a filly.”
I tilted my head at him, “You already have three of those. I don’t know jack about biology but I’ll put twenty caps on it being a colt. At the moment she’s hitting seventy five percent fillies, I don’t think any vagina’s that reliable.”
He nodded along with me, humming and narrowing his eyes, “Deal.” he stated, offering his hoof. “I’ll even name him Rounds r’ something if yer right.”
As if one of me wasn’t enough.
“Sappy would never allow it. But still, I’ll take the action.” we shook on it, his same firm and dependable shake spoke volumes about the buck.
One of the HM’s GM’s guards entered the room silently and closed it behind herself, standing by. A cue for the conversation at the table to die off as we all nervously awaited the broadcast.
With a weak crackle and whine the speaker sparked to life, and the electrically garbled voice of our employer flowed through, gender indistinguishable.
“Welcome, friends and treasured associates. I’m heartened to hear from you all again, and apologise profusely for the hasty summons, however we have a mild situation on our hooves. As you are all aware, our late friend Shrapnel Shade was brutally slaughtered in her home just over a week and a half ago following our bi-quarterly summit. Both her and her enforcer were found dead. What at first we thought was a killing of the associate by her enforcer before he turned the gun on himself has become some a tad more concerning. It was discovered that Pearl Jam had bruises on his body inflicted by hooves that do not correspond to Shrapnel’s. What we take this to mean is the killer executed Enforcer Pearl with his own weapon before using it to turn on miss Shrapnel. Even more worryingly there have been a string of killings since, all following the same M.O of the killer, two forty five caliber rounds to the sternum and a subsequent round through the skull with the casings recovered. It’s no coincidence they were all Mozambique Drilled with the same weapon and all in some sense affiliated with our enterprise. While it is unclear if the killer or killers as the case may be is acting independently or not at this moment is questionable. However it’s clear we are not without our enemies. Our own Shard is a non- blueblood married into the Ardvarè family, earning him both the ire of the former slave folk of Prance and the other families for corrupting their lineages and stealing what was supposed to be a very valuable marriage prospect from their youths. Our dear friend Rusty Rounds has befouled both the Trottingham syndicate and the remnants of the Marizona Rangers, both potent foes with an abundance of homicidal talent. Sweet miss Cutlass it goes without saying, both the Oaken Crest and Storm Walker clans are vicious enemies of her’s, the Coltic lands are off limits for herself. And through the combined efforts of sweet miss Dizzy and our beloved Prince, Corsair the Germane separatists and Coastal tribes are no friends of ours. And Vita. Well. I don’t think I have to go into that.” the garbled voice broke into what I assumed was masked laughter.
“All in all, we’re not short of enemies, and we’ll have to remedy that. However, I think we can all agree the largest threat for our organisation lays within our organisation. Not to insult anyone. But we’re all where we are now through ruthless capitalism, cunning maneuvering and manipulation of the markets, and our end goals will never be realised if we deviate from our tactics. Every one of you gathered here craves the lion’s share, even as we all sit as equals. Even your humble employer takes only what I am owed to keep our union afloat. As I detailed in your letters, associate Shard shall have the police force heading the investigations into the murders and once some findings are found we shall present the case as we see it. Hopefully, the matter shall be resolved swiftly and painlessly. And, on the topic of our late Shrapnel, I’m positive you all have questions regarding to her successor. I’m happy to announce that she will be succeeded by our first ever apprentice, fillies and gentlecolts I’ll ask you to greet your new junior colleague Rose Mixer.”
As if mandated above all of us swivelled our heads around to the door expectantly. Cutlass was visible repulsed at the notion, and I couldn’t say I felt much better. An apprentice. This trade was a crucible, you learned through hard grafting and the universal principle of once bitten twice shy. It takes years to work up a modicum of influence in your own backyard let alone the network each of us individually weaved. Busting our flanks day after day, dodging bullets and taking whatever we could get.
The guard swung open the door and in stepped…
Exactly how I imagined it would look.
She entered the room, as meek looking as a sickly pup, a red coated unicorn filly, dressed in a fluffy blue sweater with curly blonde locks, even shorter than me. Her anxious smile growing strained as she received a unanimously cold welcome to the room, well, almost unanimous, Shard waved jauntily to her.
“Everyone, please offer to her both your friendship and your experience, she’ll do time with every one of you as she learns basic book handling, in which I will help her along personally. She’ll do two months with each of you and we’ll decide at the next bi-quarterly summit who receives her next. For starters our own veteran, Rusty Rounds shall mentor our newest bright spark. In the meantime please all stay safe and liaise with each other on market information, trader knowledge and every other aid we can give one another. This is the Hero Maker signing off.”
…
Fuck.
Chapter 2:The Windfall
//note: sorry guys! College turned out to be a lot more occupying than I first thought. I even forgot I had chapter 2 more or less done, so here it is! Late as hell but all the same here, hope whoevers reading enjoys
Chapter 2: The Windfall
From the angle of Rusty Rounds.
The Windfall
A Windfall is defined as: an unexpected amount of money that you get as a gift, prize, etc. Or alternatively as an unexpected, unearned, or sudden gain or advantage.
My mind drifted back to those days, Rusty Rounds’ Greatest Hits. Ancient and unremembered history now, known only to those blessed few to have lasted as long as me in this noble profession.
The meeting had been adjourned several hours ago now, or perhaps more, the others filed out hurriedly to begin the several days of drinking and eating at the expense of our boss’ deep pockets.
On the surface it seemed like any other elitist soiree that those chosen few would throw to jam out the abject poverty around them for a few fleeting moments and feel truly clean as they tried strongly to forget they still squat down to shit like the rest of us. In actuality, it was a tad more nuanced, the muscles drank and partied, we wanted them to. When you work with self-proclaimed hard asses all the time, you learn it’s easier to get them to blab with booze thats on the house and a companion that charges by the hour on their hoof rather than a tall dark stranger looming over them with a pair of pliers and a bonesaw. It may seem a tad underhoofed, but it’s generally accepted, not one of us trusted each other completely.
I didn’t bother sending out grunts to do some intel gathering work this time around, I learned plenty at the Bi-quarterly a couple weeks back, enough to get me by at least. I squandered my time instead in the furthest corner of the dimly lit banquet hall, comfily cushioned in my familiar dark booth, away from the grating din of dozens of rowdy grunts, slamming booze above their pay grade and scoffing down food unfit for mongrels of war like them. Like us. My fellow associates were the calm anti-nodes of the disorderly mob, I spied the regal groomed and flowing green mane of Cutlass slip in beside her own posse, immediately silencing them. Her vibrant violet dress like a slave in a suit, out of place yet oddly warming.
The only other one I noticed was our youngest, Dizzy, the rambunctious sleazeball of a young mare, her curt and greasy blonde mane and garish unkempt royal purple suit stained with booze and powders, off on another wild bender as she excitedly dragged a waiter with a rather strained smile into the VIP bathrooms. VIP. As if a heavy mahogany door and clean porcelain sinks make us better ponies. I felt a tad bad for the buck she dragged off, no one dares say no to any of us these days, too many stories of mass graves and strung up skinless people to make even a pathetic sight like me seem approachable.
As my eyes meandered and mind swam I sipped casually on the bitter vodka on offer, rustling with the translucent cubes within it, my brain swinging between belligerent and outward deposition Rusty. And next to me the new wrench in my works. To my left, quietly sipping on a condensated bottle of cola was my own provisional protege, Rose Mixer. Her stiff presence mandated from on high by the HM personally. Her long dirty blond curls reminding me uncomfortably of Dizzy, one of those was enough, perhaps too much, for our organisation. Her meagre build and distant green eyes showed not a hint of resolve, her plain red coat wasn’t dishevelled in any way, however her puffy blue sweater was, frayed in some places. She wasn’t nobility, and I was fairly certain not of Prance either, her mother probably knitted it. Not a mare of means, but not destitute either. However the most interesting feature about her rested on her flank (and I feel I have to specify it was on her flank, not her flank) her cutie mark was two lenses, crossing over one another, not unlike how the cartridges on my flank did.
I didn’t mind silence, but as the drink took hold my attention towards her grew, questions came to mind a groggy sobered Rusty couldn’t dream up. Why her? There was a thousand budding entrepreneurs who’d sell their souls - again - to get a shot with us, to even have a tie as an affiliate to us. But she gets escorted into the Hero Maker’s Grand Majestic Gresham and brought before the Six surviving demons of the arms trade and to be introduced by the devil itself. A slew of possibilities raced through my head, she was related to the HM somehow, or scouted by the HM personally, or maybe not. Maybe she was a driving force in her hometown’s economy at a young age, deserved a bigger pond in which to swim. Perhaps this is about potential, potential that I didn’t see. She was inward, a little too inward to be peddling guns, you’d never know it if you just speak to me, but there does take a little salesmanship in this trade. Even if the things practically sell themselves.
Then, it happened, something that threw my racing mind against the wall.
She spoke first, having looked up for the first time since she sat silently next to me after the meeting adjourned, she lifted that thin hoof of hers and stuck it several inches from me nose, tilting her body just enough that she could boop me, her hoof smelling faintly of pomegranate perfume “Wouldn’t you love to know, Rusty?” she asked, her somewhat strained smile returning.
D-did she just…
Oh. I see.
I leaned backward, being polite enough to a little girl not to swat her hoof away, I could feel my eyes narrow, as I studied her harder, her coat was unblemished, no grime, no dirt, no nothing, the only marring on her body was a faint ridge of scars on her left ear, I noted how every so often it’d twitch as she offered that expectant look. Her teeth, speckled white at the bottoms, yellow closer to the gums, not a smoker, she breathed too evenly for it, and smelled too… pristine. Mild fluorine deficiency I think. She came from an area of poor sanitation. Though, the quality of her straw blonde mane counter acted that. Nothings to say she got a haircut on the way over. She was unfamiliar with hard, or dirty work, though wasn’t unfamiliar with austere living. That scar is several years old at best.
It was my turn to jab the hoof at her, “Seventeen years old, a trader undoubtedly, but not born into a merchant class, you had underlings, or ‘partners’, situations escalated sometimes, thus the scar, not a traditional peddler of contraband, you sold other things. Maybe immoral maybe not. My guess is on personal hygiene, you smell of perfume, that’s rare. Your teeth corroborate that I think. Your cutie mark was obtained early in life, younger than most. You knew your strong suits before others, and this gave you an edge. Allowing a mare as frail in body as you to climb, you’re not country. My guess is Maredrid or less likely, Bearlynn.” I finished, lowering my hoof and sinking back into my comfy cushions, slurping idly on the bitter spirit, holding my jaundice ridden eyes on her’s.
Eventually her gaze broke, averting it to the side with a sly smirk and coy shrug “Some accounts correct, and west of Maredrid actually. Though, I’m a liar if I said I didn’t spend a significant amount of time there, doing stuff. Stuff I’m sure I won’t be obliged to talk about.” she intoned with a snicker, her demeanour shifting entirely as soon as we began this little game… No, not a game, a tailored skill of the trade, that she was throwing around. I imagined it was my turn by the way she scrunched up her muzzle and scrutinized me with her eyes. It took only a moment, her tongue protruding from the corner of her mouth as she childishly focused, after all, that's what she was. A child.
She lifted her hoof, slowly bringing it down and tapping my shoulder “Alcoholic, life expectancy of maybe fifty, you look in your forties, but you’re actually uh, erm, uh,-” she took pause, vigorously tapping her chin “Thiiiirty- fiveee?” She unsurely speculated, about six months off the mark. Damn. She wasn’t finished there.
“A north-easterner by all accounts, Trottingham? You used to have an accent, you’re accustomed, or I’d say bound to hard living, self-loathing, maybe unwarranted, something happened you, I’m staring at um, a, ah, whats the word? Like a past remembrance of a stallion, one point you were fulfilled with this, right? But a tw-”
I had heard enough.
Damn.
I raised my hoof, and pushed it against her mouth gently to silence her, at first she looked startled at it as she reamed on about what she thought she knew, “You can hush up now, Rose, I ain’t got no reservations about killing you, fillies are par for the course in this line of work. Now peddling shampoo ain’t the same fucking game as wholesaling ethnic detergent to the nearest genocidal maniac. Your life is now a commodity, you stepped into this stupid game and now you gotta abide the rules. I’m gonna educate you, but by Celestia’s stiff nips you better watch your mouth, my left nut carries more weight than your entire being. Are we clear?” my haggard vocal chords pushed out, my back was tense just listening to her, and briefly I wondered if I sounded like her.
I felt her smile die behind my hoof, slowly I pulled it away and she nodded, her demeanour back the way I found it, introverted and timid. Kid was too… loud, for her own good. Didn’t make me feel like any less of a bully though.
“...But you were right, on some accounts… Wouldn’t you love to know?” I echoed. Casting a glance her way for but a moment, I saw a hint of that knowing, wily smile return.
We were silent for a long time after that. The clamorous party filled the void of noise between us, it took another several rounds of waiters coming and dropping off drinks before she’d speak again, her voice low as she again put forward that strained smile, shyly looking up to me. Our eyes met, her green eyes like a laser designator painting a drop point.
“So,” she began “how does this whole ‘gun-selling’ jazz work?”
Finally.
***
From the angle of Bunker Buster.
Bad to worse to fucked in under seventy two hours.
Y’know breaks are a lot like herpes, overall you’re unlikely to get em, but if ya do you’ve probably been up to some dirty work. Sadly, I’m rarely up to some dirty work. It’d be dishonest to say it was a wholly bad thing, being taken off every other investigation and duty for the sake of unravelling a triple homicide, and to be assured the reward would be substantial. I’ll take it back a few pegs, a summit was being held in that obelisk to elitism that was known as the Grand Majestic Gresham, the clubhouse to a bunch of upper echelon gun runners, one of which I technically work for.
Y’see, every freakin’ establishment in Prance is tethered to either the aristocrats, or the Hero Maker, from book stores to brothels, they’ve got claws in everything. Especially the Ardvare family, whom almost exclusively bankroll us, The Upholders, formed from the slave drivers who lacked marketable skills beyond quelling the passive aggressive grumbling of the oppressed masses with bats enveloped in barbed wire. I wasn’t a slaver myself, but, I’m intimately familiar with the industry.
My name is Bunker Buster, the Upholder head of Ward 6 and the resident interrogator for my district, and in one meeting with Shard Ardvare, the hubby of the next matriarch of all Prance, my life was about to come uncomfortably close to the notoriously cutthroat association. For an illiterate, city sanctioned torturer that’s quite the position to be thrust in.
I pushed my way through the rowdy crowds swamping the Grand Majestic’s opulent reception, the loutish subordinates and grunt cogs in the Wasteland-wide already half-cut on the ample stocks of fine booze on offer in this nexus of culture in the wastes, staggering and stumbling, unsteadily backpedalling and forever knocking me off course as I fought to avoid the numerous splashes of pungent booze staining both my mane and matching black waistcoat and shirt, my only uniform. The dimly lit den of festivities was offensive in it’s booming noise, each drunkard eager to shout over the next in a feedback loop of ever increasing volume.
Eventually I managed to shimmy through the densely packed reception and into the seated dance hall, the collective heat of a hundred or so employees making even steely old me break into an uncomfortable sweat, the air was hot and damp, thick to suck in and heavy when exhaled, smoke pooled around the ceiling as more than a dozen plumes wafted upwards from my fellow smokers, the mixture of musky smokes from a variety of different brands, qualities and compositions made my eyes water as I advanced, lurching painfully slowly through the bulky armoured employees who waddled around in pursuit of refills, or relieving in the bathrooms. Which by now undoubtedly had devolved into shallow piss puddles and carnal grunting from pairs inside the classy albeit cramped stalls.
I made my way into the secluded hallway at the other side of the room that lead to staff offices, after a quick word with a very grumpy and disgruntled guard I was allowed in, the heavy security door swung shut behind me, thankfully blotting out the grating clamours of the party outside. The cushiony navy carpet I stepped on to a glad relief from the sticky patched and alcohol slicked hardwood floor outside.
The hallway was lit only by the seeping of yellow light from the cracks of the half a dozen or so doors lining the walls, the sounds contained within each room constricted and muffled, reminding me of my own work place. My destination was at the bottom of the hall. I knocked on the laminated rosewood several times, the unsettlingly quiet hallway feeling apart from the world. It didn’t sit well with me, it felt more like a sterile white tile room with a single chair in the centre than a luxurious passageway.
After a paranoid moment in the dimly lit corridor the door creaked open, basking me in pure white light from a lamp within, standing before me was the cowbuck turned kingpin, and technically my boss. He was like someone bought a desperado doll from a toy shop and gave it to their little filly to makeover, his well maintained purple coat and slicked back black mane with hints of gray visible without his usual brown stetson. I looked like a colour swap of him, my own cream coat and slicked back two tone red and green mane making us eerily similar. The marginally shorter and leaner buck stepped aside with a smile and gestured me in with a flick of his head “C’mon ahead, Buster, can a’get ya a drink a’ sometin?” he drawled out in that weirdly charming voice of his.
I gave a small smile in return, stepping inside. The room was surprisingly barren, the confined white walls contained only a desk with a notepad and a bottle of whiskey, a lamp beside it, and a cork board mounted to the wall with an array of pictures, scrawlings, graphs and other smart pony jazz that was way above my pay grade.
“Uh, nah, I don’t drink.” I answered, pawing awkwardly at the back of my mane as I stood in the centre of the room. Shard closed the door and turned the lock, letting out a loud snicker as he sat himself at his table, gesturing for me to sit opposite of him “Y’can always trus’ a stallion who pries ‘imself from booze, means he likes t’ keep his wits ‘bout ‘im.” he commented, I didn’t respond.
“C’mon, don’t be shy, seat yerself son.” he drawled again, offering that somewhat oblivious smile, righting the glimmering watch on his fetlock as I sat opposite him, his demeanour shifting slightly as he poured himself a healthy serving of the golden spirit, staring down into his glass of rich whiskey that my entire wage weekly wage packet could afford maybe three servings of.
“So uh, y’probably heard by now son, yer ward is relieved of all duties and is gonna pursue t’killer o’ miss Shrapnel till otherwise told so.” he explained, rubbing the back of his mane with a soft sigh.
“Yeah, that one travelled down the line well enough… hey, did they move the bodies yet? And why did they think at first it was a murder-suicide?” it nagged me, I knew a little about Pearl, her bodyguard, none of it particularly nice, Shard’s expression softened, he extended a small sad smile to me and shrugged “Y’ll see soon nuff, Upholder Clinch was charged wit’ the job ‘fore ya, head on or’r.” he slapped me on the shoulder, exuding that strange fatherly warmth he extended to all those in his employ.
I nodded in response, “Alright, sir, I’ll give the place a once over… I gotta ask though, I get these are more or less professional meetings, but, why me? There’s two dozen other chumps you could of brought in, what’s wrong with Clinch is a smart mare, y’know I heard candidly that she-”
“Yer doin’ it again son.” he halted me with a strained smile “Ah dun invite ya to ramble boy, save it fer yer uh, I dunno, victims is a dirty word.” he pawed at the back of his mane, it was easy to mistake his warmth for an invitation to socialise. Needless to say, I forced a smile as my cheeks reddened from embarrassment. I was often told I talk too much.
“Right sir, sorry sir.”
Shard smirked faintly, out of obligation really and took another sip from his stiff drink “Go on, git. Ahs got fahve more meetin’s ‘fore ah can crawl up with t’ misses an’ ah quite like my mare, Buster. ‘Ave yer boys send a report at t’ end o’ the week er somethin’.” he dismissed me with a wave and a grin, with this level of abruptness it was a wonder he even asked me to seat myself. Dutifully, I nodded and rose, returning from where I came.
For a borderline genocidal arms dealer Shrapnel Shade had some pretty ramshackle abode. It took little over an hour for me to haul myself to the far side of Prance over to the apartment she operated out of. The rain failed to let up, each bead that cascaded from the blanket of clouds above pricked my coat, I was several shades darker before I climbed the creaking stairs of the old refurbished tenement building. I plateau’d on the third floor, at the end of the hallway stood the familiar Clinch, the stout mare who I’ve seen brutalise several thugs simultaneously with a gleam in her eye and a snarl on her face. She was short and stocky, garbed in the same fitted black shirt and matching waistcoat as me. The only difference being she wore a shoulder holster housing a nasty bit of work, an eight inch barrel protruding from the end, a matte black finish, a .454 Casull chambering. A hoofcannon liable to break teeth if fired incorrectly from the mouth.
She leaned lazily against the wall, a small mound of crushed cigarette butts at her hoof as she idly sucked on a fresh one, her domineering demeanour made her very good at her job. From what little I knew of her she used to be a slaver, family trade, she wanted to be a doctor - her old stallion beat her into beating others. Now she’s making a living with the only marketable skills she had, and as such she was embittered by it.
Her rich yellow coat and complimenting caramel coloured mane were not nearly as doused as mine, her cropped and trim mane not carrying a bead of moisture as she acknowledged me with a nod.
“Buster.” the somewhat hoarse voice addressed me.
“Clinch. Can I bum a smoke?”
With a soft groan she pushed herself from the wall and produced a crumpled pack of cigs. Extending the cork coloured cotton filter toward me which I gratefully accepted, a second later she had a zippo sparked up for me, a rush of embers and disintegrating paper later I was suckling on it like a pup would on it’s mother. The fizzing alertness in my head as comforting to me as I imagine a blanket would be to the frostbitten.
“Soooo - whadda we got?” I asked, Clinch tsked and rolled her eyes in response.
“Those dicks in Ward Four chalked this down to suicide, and sadly for us the coroner disagrees, c’mon in.” she gestured for me to follow, and I did.
The door was unblemished on it’s hinges, no sign of forced entry. The windows were covered with blinds, and reinforced with bracing on the walls from the inside, on the rotted wood floor there was a couple of shards of plates and glasses, as well as the familiar black sticky patch that was blood allowed to set in, someone upturned an ashtray in it, perhaps in the struggle, it was hard to say. The only blood was on the floor and on the ceiling from when Pearl supposedly blew his brains out.
The couch, the kitchen, the bathroom, all undisturbed, the only thing nearly abnormal was the bedsheets inside her bedroom were tussled. The room naturally was covered in dossiers and photos and graphs and documents, neatly arranged, nothing looked stolen, or out of place. And if it was, it’d be impossible to know from the sheer volume of them.
“And this place hasn’t been touched?”
“Fuck, Buster. I ain’t no amateur, what you see is what you got, barely any signs of trouble, they had the drop on them, capped Pearl immediately, cleanly, and then Mozambique Drill’d Shrapnel. We recovered four forty-five casings and that’s that. It was clean, efficient, and to the point.”
Troubling.
“So, they opened the door?”
“Pearl did, judging from the way his body was - I say as soon as the latch released he was charged, staggered backward and had his head ventilated, shocked and confused, Shrapnel didn’t even think to grab a piece from the cupboard or nothing.” she surmised, and I was inclined to agree.
“So, it was someone they knew, or at the very least trusted to let in - these arms dealing sorts are not fabled for being forthcoming.”
“Exactly.” Clinch nodded along, scanning the room and imagining the scene play out before herself over and over “And they have a very good reason why it was chalked up as suicide.” she added.
“I think I know where you’re going, but go on.” I spoke cautiously, she used to be a slaver, but Pearl Jam - Shrapnel’s enforcer used to be a very, very, very problematic slave. Fought in the private clubs to entertain the elites of the town with some bloodsport as they ate their dinners and sipped their fine brews. And I used to be of the opinion violence did the opposite of whetting your appetite.
“I looked around the room, inside we find a strap-on, a big box of rubbers, some lube and some other random kink shit, and a lot of Pearl’s personal possessions. They’ve been fucking, however, I’ve been around a hell of a lot longer than the average idiot and I know for a fact, Pearl is one of the most notorious colt cuddlers in Prance. What really confirms this is the fact there’s a little box of blue pills in the bathroom that give ya a hard on stiff and long enough to play pool with.” she grunted, chuffing a plume of smoke from her nostrils. “Pearl was a prideful son of a bitch, he took beatings in his stride, the only thing he knew he could count on was his hooves, he was well fed and even fawned over as a champion prize fighter, he was fucking savage enough to make it a show every time, and as such he and his two little sisters lived pretty decently. Then, lo and behold, slavery is outlawed. Along with bloodsports, since there was too few fighters willing to participate to make it enjoyable. Pearl was out on his ass with two hungry fillies cowering behind him.” she snorted, casting a glance back to me.
“So we got a serial rapist who took him in as muscle in exchange for caps and looking after his family I’m guessing, she eventually shifts from making him pummel people and intimidation to what? Being pegged and forcing a hard on to stick in her?”
“Bingo Buster, and I get called a bitch.” she blew a raspberry and knicked her smoke against the wall, “However, icing himself doesn’t solve the big ol fucking connundrum of his little sisters, the Hero Maker probably would’ve killed them with him, so I think he didn’t do it. And the HM doesn’t think he did it either it seemed, those fillies are still attending school, I shadowed them to make sure.
Without even realising it my own smoke had gathered a stack of ash leading right to the butt, almost burnt out entirely, I flicked it into the sticky puddle of blood along with the rest of the ash from the upturned tray.
“Yeah… shame, ain’t it?” I asked her, getting a curious hum in response “The guy goes from being king of the hill, stomping idiots into dirt, even if he’s a slave doing it, he enjoys the act. Then he becomes free and all of a sudden his reliance on it becomes more obvious, and he starts hating it, from feared and respected to… well, it weren’t a well kept secret what she was doing, her status as a ‘pillar of the economy’ just stopped anyone from doing anything.”
She shrugged apathetically “I dunno Buster, he was a psychopath, she was a bigger psychopath, I don’t feel pity for the wealthy, or the deranged, I just need to pay the fucking bills, pal. The fillies seem to be getting along well enough, if no one gets off their asses I’ll bring them to some home or something, they’re just caught in the crossfire.”
I let out a contemplative hum. These fucking guys. They strut about like they’re tycoons from the old days, got where they did on wits and guile and all that bullshit, when in reality they had a crate of guns and a couple of people desperate enough to pay marked up for it. And if anything they didn’t like occured, they’d smash it with a claw hammer, beat it and beat it till it was 2D on the ground.
“...It’s possible he hired someone to kill her, and then him. A guy like this? He was probably flushed with caps, death wouldn’t faze him too much, from what I know of him at least. And what’s to say this killer isn’t fifty miles south of here by now?”
“First part of what you said is interesting, the second part, not so much. We have an identical killing on the other side of town, body is unmoved so you’re in luck. Two days ago, same M.O, different target - but the target in question is affiliated with the HM and the rest of those shits. No one knew about the M.O besides us and the Hero Maker, meaning it’s highly likely it’s the same shooter.”
“Right… right.” I nodded along “And I guess that’s where we’re headed next?”
She let out a bemused chortle and grinned incredulously at me “We? Please - I got taken off this, remember? You and Hexer and whoever else is still in your Ward can handle it, I’m out.”
“Huh, got anything else for me?” I asked, pulling the best pleading smile I could, truthfully stumped as to what to do besides wander over to the next spot and then dictate a report back to someone who can write.
“Well, the killer evidently has some skill, a well executed Mozambique Drill with adrenaline pumping like that ain’t easy, experience with firearms also, and to knock Pearl - a hoof to hoof fighter to the ground? Probably not a ex-slave, more than likely Slaver, big one too. Desperate too, no one who’s not in immediate peril would turn on the HM like that. They know they’d have an X on their temple for the rest of their lives. Now go on, someone will probably meet you down on Ilium Way, that’s where your next stop is.”
“It’s gonna be a long night, isn’t it Clinch?”
“Ooooh yes.” she purred with a trace of a sneer, she let out a snide laugh and patted my shoulder as she passed “Glad to have you wiping this shit in my stead Buster!” she called back as she departed into the rainy afternoon, probably right to the bar.
I heaved a sigh, the only people who knew her were those in the inner-circle of the Arms Dealers, and getting a hold of them was not so easily done. Murders were thankfully few and far between in Prance itself, and whenever there was one it’s fairly easy to pin the jaded party following some recent drama. This however, this would take all the sodium pentathol in my possession, and then some to crawl even an inch in this case.
From a neutral party.
Rusty Rounds was well regarded as an unscrupulous arms dealer in the region, his name was known and echoed along the width and breadth of many ravaged lands as a shrewd amoral financier of warfare. Mostly dealing with whoever bid highest, irrespective of how subjectively evil the party was, as such, many folks who often unwittingly benefited from his services and products had quite a sinister preconceived image of him in their heads.
Many thought him to be a looming, lanky and monstrous figure, charismatic and compelling in speech, and possessing the aires and guile of a great leader. With the strategic cunning of a grandmaster of chess and the clandestine senses of an old war-time spy in a espionage novel. He was as if a revenant, spoken of but never known, something ponies would rumour of quietly in bars, or warn their children of. And of all these accounts, sadly, not one is true.
The reality of Rusty Rounds, was much more meagre than many would like to think. The rumours spread of him were part fabrication for his own benefit, or were once truths, that like all other truths take on a hint more misinformed every time they’re passed on.
What many thought of him, were wrong, he was neither looming, nor lanky or even remotely monstrous. His mannerisms to those who knew him were hardly charismatic, and his sunken, introverted aires made him poor at commanding respect, or, anything else really. In truth he was surprised every time a waiter actually returned with something when he ordered it. He was mediocre at chess at best, and only when the situation called for it could he call forth some cunning. However, even if the rumours of the stallion’s appearance weren’t true, his actions were.
However, it would be unfair to call him a revenant. What little mister Rounds was closer to, was in fact, a malignant tumor. Small, not well liked, or anything else. But an exceptionally corrosive force. Even if he really never intended to be.
-
Rose Mixer and her temporary tutor Rusty Rounds had moved from the clamorous banquet hall as the evening settled in. The festivities in the lavish monolithic stronghold were coming to a crescendo, the spirits of the rowdy congregation higher than the ornately painted and engraved ceiling above. By now the clouds of smoke had become so thick it was like gazing into an charcoal grey sea above, as the wisps ebbed and flowed like ethereal liquid.
Their conversation had continued well after they abandoned the party and now sat inside what was once the third floor of the hotel. Most of the rooms and the walls between them had knocked down, leaving a massive open space where the guests would’ve stayed. Admittedly, the bare grey cement walls and dusty raw concrete floors were much less colourful, they were a lot more useful to Rusty. The corner apartments were left be however, for lodgings sake. The large windows were boarded and bolted shut, to keep it secretive, and the wide, open and largely uninspiring room was illuminated by a web of insulated wires sprawling across the low ceiling and suspending light bulbs from them. Around each stout and sturdy pillar supporting the ceiling sat padded crates and cases for a plethora of Rusty’s business apparatus. Ranging from cases of cartridges stacked as high as the roof, wooden crates padded with shredded paper and housing grenades.
Though there was other things as well, apart from stock, such as cork boards with pinned company mottos and inspiring quotes, graphs and morale reports, even lists of every employee’s birthday, and books for wages and taxation purposes. As well as that of course there sat empty bottles of vodka and uneaten dishes of food forgotten about.
The only sound in the whole, almost creepily empty room was the buzz of the multitude of lights, it wasn’t until you reached the very far end that there were people, just two. Rusty and Mixer, under a light at a round wooden table drinking and speaking subduedly, as if they were afraid to disturb the choir of lights above.
Rose sat shyly in her comfy lounge chair, an untouched glass of vodka at her side, the meek framed mare absorbed by the cushy cushion she lay upon, contently fuzzy in her knitted sweater as she spoke casually with a strange little buck she understood to be a lot more of a deal than even he let on. Rose was gladdened to make it out of the stuffy, packed confined of the banquet hall, preferring the moderate chill and deeply rooted silence here to the humid and thick air of that place below. She yawned wearily and let her heavy eyelids sag a tad, keeping her quite alive emerald eyes on Rusty’s as the day’s travels took their toll on her.
“And how’d you all get this darn big?” she asked the stallion opposite her, his obstinate attitude lessened with the effect of each cup of liquor. She was aware of the group, everyone was, however their roots were as buried and hidden as that of an ancient oak tree.
Rusty looked over the rim of his glass to her, holding eye contact with his own dark, restless eyes, “The whole hotel thing is fairly new actually. As well as the union in it’s current state, in fact, our existence was more myth than material until about two years ago. Power came in the form of aris-”
“No, no, no, gosh,” she tsked, halting him with dismissive sways of her forehoof, “I mean, big as in, like - uh - off the streets? I guess, from moving a piece at a time to a crate at a time.” she clarified, Rusty nodded and grunted, stroking his uneven stubbly jawline as he cast his faulty memory backward.
“Well, first off, you gotta understand the reasons folks need guns in the first place, or, a surplus of them, people who need to defend themselves, like small settlements usually already have an armoury that doesn’t need expansion or restocking often, so, they’re not big clients of mine. The kind of folks I deal with are expansionist, y’know some of the greatest empires of old Equestria started as nothing more than one town at some point full of ponies high on ambition. So first, you gotta find folk with ambition, or a need to grow, or a lust, once a pony doesn’t need to focus so hard on immediate survival, and their basic needs are tended to, they uh, have other ideas come to the forefront of their minds. I ain’t condoning it, but, sometimes it’s peaceful, like the establishing of a trade route, or outpost, other times, it’s for a raiding band to sequester resources from weaker tribes or neighbouring towns. Me and Shock, we had limited stock, so we had to get clever.”
“Clever?” she questioned, cocking an eyebrow.
“Yeah, clever. Guns are scarce, difficult to maintain, and there’s scarce few places in all the damn world that can machine a lower receiver for your rifle, or a rifled barrel, and there are practically zero that can do it as elegantly as the ponies of yesteryear could. As such, stock is worth it’s weight in caps, in a lot of cases, more than it’s weight. Sure, some areas are saturated, but, we tend to avoid those. The idea is, like water, we circulated as to not stagnate, or worse, evaporate.” he pointedly concluded, tipping his glass upward and draining it’s contents. Releasing a gravelly refreshed breath as it glugged down his gullet.
“Brush wars, or, skirmishing, is what most ‘wars’ constitute, small scale engagements between amateurs who fancy themselves badasses. I read whatever I can about this little craft, in that sense, I’m sorta unique among the HM crowd, I actually am fascinated by what we do, the art of it beyond the bottom line in my balance books. See, these engagements don’t really produce a victor, it’s mostly scared idiots breaking from cover every so often to squeeze off a couple of panicked shots and then hide again. It’s wasteful, stupid, and often they leave their dead in fear as soon as they think defeat is a potential outcome. We scavenged what we could, of course, like any good wastelanders. What we did was simple, we sold at high mark up to those small little feuding factions, and when the inevitable truce is brokered, they need some way to heal from a wasteful and fruitless war, so they sell it back at a reduced rate. Flog the surplus weapons they don’t even have enough people to give and we move on to the next heating up warzone. Then, we move on, and by the time we sell the next batch, there’s another pacified region to buy in bulk from. Though, the real, real, mogul-making event of my career, and in fact at least two other associates’ careers was what we call - The Windfall.” he continued, pouring himself another drink as he finished.
Rose Mixer’s ears perked in curiosity “Windfall, eh?” she grunted out sleepily, though still intently absorbing what he had to say.
Rusty let out a bemused snort and nodded, settling back down into his chair , “No, not a ‘Windfall’, the Windfall. You were probably too young, or too far away from the flames to have caught wind of it, but it was happy hour, every hour, for five months for every goddamn gat peddler from Maredrid to Manehatten, a lot of small time outfits turned into powerhouses practically overnight, ten times that number were absorbed or whacked in what was the most graphic display of ruthless capitalism and entrepreneurial spirit I ever saw in my life. I went from moving ten rifles a week to ten crates a week, and from five dependable ponies to platoon strength, legends were born and snuffed in those few scant weeks.”
His mind was called back to those old dog days, it seems romantic now, like his zenith, the HM’s gold rush. In reality it was just days on end without sleep, laying low and moving fast, raking caps and flogging what they could. He could see the fantasy of it, the legend of it in the back of her head behind her eyes, the only thing nearing it in terms of covert chaos being the Fire Sale.
Rose spoke up “And I assume in the wake of all this, you uh” she cracked a smirk, waving her hoof in a loose circle, gesturing to the thick bare concrete walls around “It’s what brought all this together?”
Rusty shook his head sharply “Nuh-uh, that was more so in the aftermath of a much lesser known event, we called it the… well, this is all just internal politics of our one lil clique.” he waved it off, relenting with the screwing up of his face, his indulgence in the cheap booze taking its toll upon him, his head developing the familiar welcome state of haziness. “Listen, rest up. I’m not going to waste time with you, it’s gonna be two days before we leave, and where we’re going isn’t nice.”
“And where is that?”
“Little town, off from the Straight, deep Marizona, rim of new Pheonix, since the Old one is still a hellzone locked down hard. The whole area is like trotting on a hot plate, they say riots are more common in summer when the blood’s warmest. So it’s no wonder the whole area is a shitshow year around. No go on. You got a cot in the other room.” he nodded to the far concrete protrusion with the security door.
Rose nodded, a tad disheartened by his sudden shift to brusqueness, though she figured a day as long as this one warranted some sleep. She rose wordlessly and trot off to her ‘room’, Rusty awaiting the heavy click of the lock releasing the the thump of its closing before releasing his sigh. The slight framed buck sinking deeper into his chair with a sigh deeper than the bottle he drank from, settling in for his nightly sedation that placed him somewhere between sleep and sentience. All this discussion of the old days would make his thoughts weigh on him, and his sleep troubled. It was better this way. Though, one thought permeated the haze in his skull. The fate of his late colleague. Shrapnel Shade. He felt distinctly apathetic towards her fate. She may have been an acquaintance, but not a good person. Equine sanitation, clearing out the garbage he felt was what it was. Though, he was not so far apart from the ghastly mare himself either.
(Author's note: This is a side story of Kkat's "Fallout Equestria" I'd strongly recommend reading that first as it gives a little context and is the greatest thing since sliced bread. This story is based around six months before The Toaster Repair Pony's escapades. Keep in mind this is only a prologue to introduce Rusty, it will pick up rather quickly in subsequent chapters.)
Fallout Equestria: The Hero Maker.
From the angle of Rusty Rounds.
War. War never changes. Power shifts, caps are spent and all the while ponies live and all ponies die. Wars are fought by ponies and waged with an arsenal of destruction, whether it be with the humble spear or the devastating destroyer of worlds the Megaspell.
The days of peace and harmony are gone, the days of tranquility and friendship reduced to ash like the poor souls that once inhabited this destitute land.
War is easy to wage, all it takes is the means to sustain it. And does no one wonder: who supplies and thrives on the continuation of war?
Me.
My name is Rusty, Rusty Rounds. And I do what I do best, deal in death. Gun Running is a difficult and usually thankless job. But, somepony has got to do it.
I suppose I should start somewhere simple, somewhere that everything makes sense. Truth is, there basically isn’t. I often forget where I am and why I am in that place, days can go missing at a time, depending on how... weak, I’m feeling. I’ll start where I feel I should, the beginning of the end.
***
I stumbled about the cracked asphalt street, my hearing as contorted and incoherent as my vision, the searing pain that was my face cast my mind into a frantic haze of swarming panicked thoughts. I was bleeding, bleeding bad, the sharp whine in my ears threw my balance astray, all around me was an unfocused blur. Slowly the garbled drone of machine gun fire and the crack of the sniper’s rifle returned, I fell with a clatter, the blood filling my mouth as I slipped from the dim miasma of reality, scared and confused.
That may be too far.
We’ll start with who I am and how we got to there. And don’t worry, I’m not going to tell you a pack of lies to make me look good.
***
Chapter 0: Rusty Rounds
“I sell carbines and carbine accessories.”
Hangovers.
The plague of the interesting pony. And me.
I awoke with the same empty bottle, the same grinding metallic pain in my head. In the same rusty metal shack, in the same mouldy mattress doing the same shit. Most days began like this, nine inch nails plunged into my skull as I tried to key start the ignition on the day.
I meagerly managed to drag myself up to sit on my bed. The name is Rusty Rounds by the way. And this humble abode is my shack, well, safe-shack while I finalized my business here in Marizona. The red rusted thin walls, just upright flimsy sheet metal that had been capped by a broader sheet of the same corroding metal.
If I could summarize my shack, my surroundings and my entire life in one word it would be: Red. A muddy brownish red.
Everything was red, my mattress, my puke bucket, the door to this shack. A muddy, rust, red. Everything.
My head sagged low as I felt the quease and knots bind in my stomach from last night. I have this condition known as ‘Cantputthebottledown-itis’ it’s a terrible affliction, being so debilitatingly disabled.
You see, ponies like me have a habit of morphing my worst enemy into my best friend.
In my case it was vodka.
The sweet Stalliongrad kick of it. Raw as ropes, every drop of the liquidized diamond could melt away your worries like acid on exposed flesh. Like piss on a toilet skidmark.
A tuft of my shaggy rust coloured mane fell in front of my eyes. Too tired to deal with something as stupid as mane style for now.There was more pressing matters to be dealt with.
I looked up, what I saw was that brown stained mirror, inside it was there a starkly familiar pony.
A frail, slim, almost dainty, tired old earth pony stallion. A rusty mane and a brown coat, grey stubble appearing around his muzzle and deep dark bags hanging under his magenta eyes.
I was thirty five this year. I’m already shrivelling up.
“Get the fuck up, handsome.” I gave a worn and forced laugh to the mess of a pony inhabiting my mirror. If there was one thing I hated it was intrusions. Not that this one posed any remote threat.
On my flank was the same contemptible sight that determined who I was going to be up until the moment some meaner pony puts me out of my misery. A pair of rusted rifle cartridges that lay over one another. The five point five six by forty five millimeter round. I detested it. Lacked the kick I so desperately craved. Still, got the job done.
I grew up in Glascow, mean city, always raining. But I left young, doing what I’ve been doing now for nearly two decades, I guess I never really had a home. I found that if I stayed in one place long enough everypony there would want me dead within a few months.
That's largely to do with my vocation. What I do for a living. I provide a necessary service to needy ponies. But when I pick one band of ponies over another, they tend to want my neck. The price of working with the uninitiated in the ways of market forces.
I forced myself off the bed, the alcohol still lingering. I stumbled around the room, knocking over clusters of empty vodka bottles, the tumultuous and discordant clatter of the glass hitting the floor being the soundtrack of my life before I caught myself on a wall. Feeling a hard stitch digging into my side as my stomach knotted and stewed.
Hangovers.
I tend not to carry a gun, but today was special. I stuck my muzzle underneath my suspiciously heavy pillow, I wasn’t aware dirt had that much mass, and dug around for the smooth, cold and fine finish of my best friend.
After a moment’s nervous scouring, fearful of her loss I found her. Diamond.
I gently drew her out from her hiding spot, there she was. A stout .357 magnum, a pale blue frame, black ebony grip, seven chambers, double action and all mine. I paused to smile at her for a fleeting moment, she had a strange beauty to her. I gave her a small hug and kiss to the cylinder.
Groaning, I reached for my leather shoulder holster resting on my bedpost, I needed it. I was never good with these things, or overly fond of them for that matter. I handled every weapon that came my way with the utmost care, cradling and nurturing each like a foal. Feeding it, keep it changed and in good health. If only I was as good with ponies.
I fastened the holster with difficulty, the grogginess from the inexpensive alcohol forever impeding me. The banging and throbbing in my head was exacerbated with every motion of it. Curse the son of a bitch who thought up such a wonderful concoction.
I dropped my Diamond into the holster and made my way to the door, this was an ungodly hour to be awake for a pony like me. But a pony’s gotta do, what a pony’s gotta do. Or in my case, “an unfun, fun sized stallion that looks like he should go ‘I love you~’ every time you squeeze his chest’s gotta do, what he’s gotta do.”
I lightly bucked open the screeching rust covered metal door and emerged into the cold first light embrace of Marizona. The rising sun dispelling the darkness strewn across the brown expanse, first light. How appropriate. Only light really, it would be mere minutes before the sun climbed high above the cloud cover and pissed off for the day.
I greedily inhaled the crisp early morning air, feeling the warmth of the sun on my coat contrasting with the still frosty atmosphere of the dying desert night. Refreshing.
It took my mind off from what I was about to do for a moment.
To the left of my shack was a gagged and blindfolded pony, his forehooves bound behind his back, dislocated of course, to disincentivise his squirming and writhing, his hind hooves bound in such away he was locked in a submissive kneeling fashion, he was still awake.
He was slowly rising and falling with every breath, struggling to respire through the motor oil covered rag shoved in his mouth then secured in place with duct tape.
The captive was a young earth pony stallion not out of his early twenties, he had bright blonde unkempt mane and a powder blue coat, clad in leather armour. A crumpled stack of metal and the remains of what used to be an automatic rifle lay next to him.
If he weren’t such a pain in my ass maybe I would have liked the kid, his name was Safety Pin, a few friends delivered him last night. And by friends, I do mean the kind that charge by the hour.
Well, down to business. I toddled over to the bound pony. Rolling my neck around on my shoulders giving several satisfying pops.
“It’s time.” I droned, wearily, doing my best to disconnect myself emotionally. It gets a little easier after a decade or so.
He let out a surprised yelp, which I returned by chomping down on his mane and dragging him further away from my safe house and into the open desert. He tried to kick out and began squirming, muffled screams coming from his jammed mouth. Each tug draining strength from my already meek frame, I was sweating in no time as he resisted futilely.
I dropped him not far from the shack, his head shaking violently side to side. Fighting off the me he couldn't see. Forcing me to wheeze between my teeth, the clumps of quickly frayed hair tasted of copper and regret.
I let out an exhausted sigh, not in the mood for these games. This kind of stuff toyed with my conscience enough without him fighting it.
Slowly, I nipped the corner of the duct tape, getting some grip and snapped my head back, quickly freeing his mouth, pulling the skin from his lips. Moaning through the motor oil laced cloth, desperate for breath he managed to cough the rancid rag out of his mouth. The cloth splattered out onto the ground, the blackened greasy rag soaked in voluminous amounts of saliva.
I loved that rag.
Safety Pin gasped for air, panting heavily, stealing as much good air and purity he could in this world before his long streak of pilfering the world’s scant supply of oxygen was ended for good. Something I’ve come to notice among those who ended up tied up at my hooves.
“Please, please! I dunno who you are, but don’t do this. It’s very important I get out of here. Now Please! Let me go!” He pleaded desperately, I could hear the panic and dread drip off of every word, each jabbed my chest with a small prick. Thankfully I had thick skin.
I remained silent, just staring empathetically at this sad creature. The perspiration trailing down his anxiety ridden face, licking his bloodied, raw lips.
He pointlessly looked around, the desperation settling in.
“Who are you!? Answer me, c’mon! Every second you stall the more ponies will die needlessly.” He beseeched to me. The kid was not a very good liar, spewing that corny faux-heroism crap, I even thought for a moment that he believed himself, so eager to live, to implore me to otherwise let him walk. To drop this and let all it go, I couldn’t. Not now, too many cards were in play.
Instead of answering his calls, I removed his blindfold. Nipping at the back knot the light fabric gently wafted down by his quaking knees. He shook free of the vision constricting cloth and blinked furiously nearly a dozen times before squinting up at me sheepishly with a scrunched up face.
He instantly averted his gaze with a yelp, quivering, he let out a jittery whimper shutting his eyes, probably wishing I kept the blindfold on.
“Yeah, it’s me.” I said to him, tiresome, giving him a limp shrug doing my best to keep my ears from falling, I failed, I looked like I was the one tied up on the cold desert floor.
You see, Safety Pin here was an up and coming rent-a-hero in the territory, out here in Marizona, since the rangers left there has been auditions for the most valiant and do goodier son of a bitch out here. And Safety Pin here figured he would play hero. Kid couldn’t have been twenty two, got a lot ahead of him, but he just couldn’t conduct business ethically.
This was all too much bullshit this early in the morning, I retreated inside scrounging through my pile of useless belongings searching for a precious dribble of vodka.
I emerged moments later, a near depleted crystal clear litre bottle of the stuff in my mouth. Resting it on an upturned bucket outside. Taking a generous mouthful, the kickstart it gave me put me back into my favoured rational, and logical state. Back to the real by the numbers me. Not the weakling I was forced to suppress.
Now began the lecture on why he woke up in a far corner of the desert tied up outside my safe house. It was my own justification, nothing more. Something to help me rest easier I guess, I had a habit for it.
Towering over him, my small frame casting to him what must’ve been a very large shadow, I cleared my throat and spoke in my unemotive drone.
“Now you see Safety Pin, what you done was so fucking stupid that I never saw it coming.” I began, pacing around him. The Safety Pin himself had retreated into a ball of disbelief. Pretending it’s all just a bad dream. keeping his eyes shut and lip bit, trying to block out my imminent truth. Something I rarely spoke.
“Please, Rusty, you gotta believe me-” he found the nerve to speak, gazing up at me with those defiant, imploring and above all despondent, teal eyes. I gulped down my pity and emotions, replacing it with what resolve I had left. Suppressing the pangs in my chest, I hardened my expression and swallowed the lump of lead in my throat.
His mother taught him to read and write, a good mare, one who cared even for a whelp like this.
“Not three minutes ago you were pleading - without confirmation on your captor’s identity - to be released and that you had plans to come and kill me.” I told him frankly, stopping to stare at him. I seen my own saddened and reluctant reflection in his eyes.
“What!? No! you got me all wrong.” He responded frantically, beseechingly, wrongly.
His mother’s fiftieth birthday party is next week I hear. It was warming to hear how a good pony lasted so long for a change.
“Pin, buddy-” I snorted, cocking an eyebrow at him “don’t insult my intelligence, just last night you announced to the ponies of that little fucking town you call home that you were gonna bump me off, you and your so called fucking ‘posse’.” I spat with contempt, you can’t kiss the devil’s boots one day and give a sermon the next. “You were captured and you think you can guilt trip said captors into releasing you? Grow up. For the last few fucking moments of this life you so fleetingly wasted would you please grow up? ” I beseeched him irately, huffing out my nostrils my face curled into a snarl, I tried to act tough, my heaving chest was just a mask for my cowardice. Trepidation for the task.
I couldn’t let this one slip, I couldn’t just call it ‘Business’ and dust myself off. Safety Pin made an announcement that he was going to and I quote “Bring me to justice.”
Atop a literal crate of soap.
He had one of his buddies say that he disagreed with Pin, that he still held some respect for both me and my employer and would grease Pin for me if I supplied the goods, thankfully I wasn’t born yesterday. Friends don’t suddenly eat friends alive.
There is idiots and then there’s wannabe heroes. The latter are much more annoying, idiots will at least buy the product and wish you all the best. These dicks buy the product then while they’re walking away they tell you to fuck off.
“Rusty I swear. I wasn’t going to do it!” He said his voice cracking on the final note, the well toned mercenary struggling, struggling oh so fucking hard against that rope. “It was posturing! There was this mare and I had to nut up, because-” he rambled on, I didn’t really listen.
I heard she disapproved, but was very proud of Pin’s choice to fight for what he believed in, she’ll at least go on believing in his bravado, we won’t say where we found him, or what he was doing, for her sake.
“You don’t have to do this you know,” He offered timidly, seemingly done with his excuses. When he found there was no give in those bindings. The number of times I’ve heard those words and they’ve never been true.
“The ponies out here need me.” He said, a hesitant, fearful tremor in his voice, finally the corners of his eyes glimmered, beads of salty tears accumulating as the hope depleted from his heart. This happens a lot with amateurs, they just can't seem to find where they left their balls when they’re in a position like this. Not so tough without your pals at home and your gun in pieces, are they?.. I’m not so tough either though, am I? With my little ropes, and friends, and deep pockets and empty words and pointless lectures...
“They need me.” I corrected him, placing a hoof on my chest. “That rifle you came after me with, you bought it from me. The heaps of ammo, also from me. Have you any idea how hard it is for a one pony show like me to haul around all that merchandise?” I demanded sternly, only to stop my voice from faltering. Truth is I didn’t lift a hoof carrying stock. I had caches all over Equestria littered with old rifles.
“Please Rusty. I’m begging you here! W-we’re both men of commerce right? Guys of repute, we can hammer out a deal… Right?” He implored me, suddenly trying a hoof at diplomacy, unconvincing forced laughter coming from his clattering jaw, the torrent of salty tears splashing against the cold brown sand. My sand. “R-right?” he offered a strained smile between sniffling and sobbing, he knew it was a hopeless plea, but it stung my chest. He was. He was more pathetic than me.
Some say his father left when he was young, his dear mother had to turn to unsavoury sources of income. All for this ingrate who’s about to die.
“What makes you think I can place a shred of faith on an arrogant buck that turned on the hoof that fed him once already? What makes you think I want or even need your business or whatever else you’re offering?It’s not about being the scariest guy in town, or the biggest, or the damn richest. It’s about a career, an aptitude, a calling, a sense of belonging. I was happy to enable your’s, until you declared yourself an enemy of mine. That’s feuding. And I want very little to do with that.” My lecture was drawing to its close.
Safety Pin’s sobbing was starting to get the better of me, his head bowed low and humiliated. I had to conclude this now.
“Do you know what they call me Safety?” I asked rhetorically, he was too defeated to answer. Head bowed low and humilated.
“Yellowbelly Rusty.” I stated flatly, hanging my head low, giving a single laugh. “But ya know… even cowards have a compulsion to see to their business.”
Safety Pin threw his head into the air, the snot and tears of a defeated pony trickling down his face. He looked one final time into the clouded sky. Inwardly calling out to a goddess that had forsaken this land centuries ago.
I reached for Diamond, standing behind the sorry sight of a failed hero.
“People think I’m the bad guy.”
I cocked Diamond, the hammer locking in place. Slowly levelling her front sight with his cranium.
“They think I’m all sorts of uncaring, evil and vile shit, you know why?” I asked rhetorically, all he could was quiver, muttering a prayer of forgiveness and safety as he readied himself to enter the next world.
“Because all I wanna do is do what I’m good at, some business...” I grunted, biting my lip as I tensed the stiff trigger.
I sincerely hoped this would not spoil her birthday...
The hammer fell into the cylinder, sparking the primer. The bullet left the barrel in a hyper sonic flash and a cloud of smoke. The round blew a gaping hole into the back of Safety Pin’s skull, he keeled over in silence, falling limply onto his side. A small smoking star shaped hole was where his left eye used to be as I watched the thick chunks of skull cradle the oozing mushed brain matter and thick stewy blood.
And all I ever asked for was to be able to do what I was good at in peace.
The brain blood casserole made me feel another knot in my already uneasy stomach.
I turned my head, giving a rattled sigh and a shudder as prickly icy needles dug into my skin at the sight.
In silence I snatched up my vodka and went back inside, today’s business concluded.
I need a drink
