The New Crop

Chapters

The Minutes Before
Round One
Round Two
Round Three
Round Four
The Minutes After

The Minutes Before

The grimy mirror in this locker room’s got three big cracks running across it, and when I look back at myself, my pieces don’t fit together right. The lines of my face are just a little off from each other. Most folks would say this mirror’s busted, but anypony that’s set hoof in here knows better. The reflection’s the truest in all of Equestria. You gotta be a little bit broken if you’re standing here.

Lots of boxers have some kinda ritual they go through before a match, and I guess this one’s mine. Not a real good one, truth be told. More like a curse, but it’s what I do. I stand in front of this mirror and get a real good look at myself because I ain’t gonna look the same afterward. Every time I do this, it takes me a little longer to see that stallion that I was just a few years ago.

On my left, Granny Smith’s tapping her hoof and glaring a hole through me. I can tell by the way that she’s favoring her right side that her hip must be bothering her something fierce right now. She’s been trying to hide it for months, but her face is getting all creased up from the pain these days. I shouldn’t keep her waiting like this, but I just ain’t ready yet.

On my right, Apple Bloom’s pulling supplies out of the locker we rent here. She’s standing on a stool, all stretched out to fish stuff off of the top shelf. As she reaches further into the locker, her skin stretches tight across her barrel, and her ribs stand out even more than they usually do. Both she and Granny are skipping a lot of meals these days because most of what we scratch together goes to me. They say I got to be healthy, or the family’s done for.

My eyes tear up a little bit as I watch my scrawny sister work. She’s too little for her age. She ain’t getting what she needs to grow. I try and force it back down, but I can feel that lump in my throat, and—

“Mac!”

I jump and snap my head around. Granny Smith is scowling and wagging her hoof at me.

“Get your mind where it oughta be! How many times do I gotta fuss at you for losin’ focus?” Granny pats a stained bench. “Now sit down so I can get to work.”

It’s time, I reckon. I’ve drawn this out as much I can. Once I sit down on that bench, it means I’m willing to do some things I ain’t proud of. It’s exciting, some nights. Terrible on others. Confusing every time, but at the end of it all, I’m never proud. It’s just what I got to do to get by, so I sit.

Granny Smith winds the tape around my hoof, making sure to pull it taut with each go around. “Now, you remember what we been workin’ at. Hooves up over your eyes. Head down. If he wants to hook into the body, you’re just gonna take it. He ain’t known for his power, but he’s got the kind of hoof speed that’ll creep up on a pony if you keep takin’ shots to the skull.”

Granny yanks on the tape one last time and tucks the end into place. She grabs my head and looks me square in the eye. “Remember: Don’t brawl. Fight! Keep them emotions tamped down, and don’t waste no time in there, Mac. Wallop him good. We’re countin’ on you.”

Apple Bloom hops up on a stool and holds my robe open for me. “C’mon, big brother. We gotta get goin’.” Her good eye is over-bright, but I try to let her think I don’t notice.

I glance down at my hoof, flexing it before slamming it into the sole of the other. It feels tight. Hard. The flat whap of the impact echoes through the locker room, and Granny Smith looks away, but nods. This is all we’ve got, but that doesn’t stop her from hating it.

We all hate it.

We’ve learned to deal with it, though. Appleloosa trained us up real good. Since coming here, it seems like bad times is all the Apple family’s ever had. The way Granny tells it, her ma and pa got hoodwinked. Somehow, when the town elders sold my great-grandpa on Appleloosa, they forgot to mention that the buffalo controlled all the good land. By the time her pa realized he’d been had, the land south of Canterlot they’d been looking at had been snapped up by some other pony. Years went by, and they only had a few scraggly trees on one corner of the property to show for it.

But my family’s got a stubborn streak, so my great-grandpa kept planting in the fertile valley. Every time he did, it just riled up those buffalo again, and they’d run his orchard down. Pretty soon, the Apple family didn’t have two bits to rub together, but bitterness a-plenty. It was all the family could do to make ends meet.

That’s how it was for years and years until my great-grandpa passed on. He left the farm to his son, who left it to my pa. All the while, Granny Smith was pushing for a deal, and finally my pa was the one to listen. We all thought that between him and Applejack, things would get turned around for us. He was getting real friendly with the tribe when the fever set in—

That lump in my throat starts to rise again. Stupid thinking about my folks and Applejack before a fight. I know better. I’m supposed to be keeping my head level, but here I am getting all worked up over old hurts. Gotta calm down.

Starting from my hind hooves, I start clenching up, one muscle at a time. It’s a trick I use sometimes because it’s real hard working a single muscle. You gotta use all your concentration. After a bit, my mind gets less jittery. My sister’s face retreats again, and my heartbeat slows back to normal.

“C’mon, Mac! It’s gettin’ heavy,” Apple Bloom says. Her legs are trembling with the effort to hold the robe up for me.

I hop off the table and totter for a moment. It’s always tough to find my balance. Granny Smith says that when ponies opened up trade with the diamond dogs, they brought boxing back with them. I don’t know about all that, but I do know that I’d like to take whoever came up with this notion that we ought to fight standing upright and get him into the ring. I’ve got some strong opinions on the subject, and I’m reminded of them every fight. Even after all this time, I’ve got to spend a few minutes finding my balance. Once my hooves are wrapped, they can’t touch the ground until I get to the ring. If the ref finds any dirt on them, he’ll call in a neutral team for a re-wrap. It’s meant to be done quick, not well, and you can lose a lot of the power a tight hoof can offer you. The tighter the wrap, the greater chance you’ve got of cutting the other guy.

We approach the door, and the sound bleeds through the worn slat walls. Here, everything bleeds, and that’s just the way they want it. This place was built on blood. The primal sounds of the crowd flow through the holes and cracks; it’s both intoxicating and unnerving to know they care so much about an event, but so little about the stallions in it. They just want to see something bleed. To hear a body as it slams face-first into the canvas, knocked cold.

Just before the door, I pause and take a deep breath, then cough. Even the smell of violence has soaked into this place. This locker room stinks. Sweat. Blood. Piss. All the stuff you’d expect, but that ain’t the worst. It reeks of bad choices and worse luck. Granny always says it’s the flower of desperation, and as I huddle one last time with my kin, I can see that it’s in full bloom.

Granny Smith squeezes my shoulder, then pushes me toward the swinging double doors at the end of the ramshackle locker room. I catch her wiping her eye with a towel when I pass a mirror, but I don’t say nothing. I know how she feels about it, and I ain’t never been good with words.

I push through the door, and there it is: The sound of ponies that have worked themselves deep into bloodlust. Out here, on the prairie, violence is their dear friend. Most of these Appleloosans bring him wherever they go. They’re thrilled when he shows up outta the blue to visit friend and foe alike, and they miss him when he’s been gone for too long. These ponies have parked themselves for three hours in these swaying wooden bleachers, stomping and whistling for each blow until they’ve lost the sense of themselves. Out there, in the stands, they’re one big thing. In the morning, they might regret a fighter taking a few too many shots. They’ll gather around the general store and whisper to each other that the doc just told them that strapping up-and-comer can’t see straight no more. They’ll shake their heads and sigh about what a shame it is that such a promising career was cut short.

But not now. Tonight’s about blood and madness and pain.

They erupt when they see me, and a unicorn in the scaffolds jerks into motion. In an instant, he hits me with some kinda light spell. I’m walking into the sun, my shadow sprinting away behind me. It’s probably the smarter of the two of us, but thinking ain’t what my family’s known for anyway.

Now it’s fifty-three steps. The same every time, but I count them just like always. Fifty-three steps until I get to the ring, and I gotta do it on my hind legs. Some nights, this walk’s harder than the fight that comes after. Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you just know you might get distracted and put your front hooves down on the ground. Can’t let that happen. Not ever. That re-wrap could mean the difference between a two-thousand-bit prize and the hundred-bit loser’s purse.

So I take fifty-three slow, careful steps. The bulging eyes stare down at me, and the mouths scream, but I don’t pay them no mind. I’m looking down, like any good fighter. There could be anything on the ground, and only a total rookie would trip on the way to the ring.

I keep my eyes on the path and my hooves in motion. It’s real easy to get tense, and that messes up your speed. Not that I got a lot of that, but I need the little I was born with. Stiff muscles make you an easy target out there, and I’m already a bigger target than most.

The last three of those fifty-three are the steps up into the ring, and I breathe easier once I’m on them. Now I can grab the ropes and use them for support. There won’t be no falling now, but even if I do, I’ll be in the ring. As always, I push down the top rope and swing my legs over it, instead of ducking through the first and second. I like to look at my opponent when I do it, too. It reminds them that I’m big—really big—and that I probably hit a lot harder because of it. I’m pretty sure I’ve won a goodly number of fights right then and there.

I hear the soft scrape of wood on canvas behind me, and I know that Granny Smith and Apple Bloom are in motion. Quick as lightning, they’ve set up a stool, a pail, two sponges, smelling salts, and salve for cuts. Apple Bloom wipes off the seat with her towel, and I collapse into it. I hate the way it must look, but that walk takes it right out of me. I’ll be good as soon as the bell sounds, but right now, my legs are shaking.

Granny Smith grabs my chin and hauls my head around. “You remember the plan?”

“Eeyup.”

“You gonna drop them hooves?”

“Nope.”

“Darn tootin’, you ain’t!” Granny Smith holds out a hoof, and Apple Bloom slaps a mouth guard into it. “Open up.”

I oblige, and she crams the protector into my mouth, then gives it a little squirt from her water bottle. She opens her mouth to say something else, but somewhere in the blackness beyond the ring, a speaker comes to life. It’s gotta be Tumbleweed. That guy’s always in a big hurry to get going. I scowl off into the darkness at where he’s probably sitting, then push off the ropes and settle back onto my hind legs again. Just one round with the guy who brought this idea back from the diamond dogs. That’s all I want. And maybe one with Tumbleweed.

“Fight fans, we have reached… the main event!”

A cheer goes up, but that ain’t really a good name for it. There’s nothing cheerful about it. It’s an ugly sound from an ugly crowd.

“Fighting out of the blue corner, with a record of thirty-eight wins and three losses, with sixteen of those wins by way of knockout, he is the Prince of Pain: Blueblood of Canterlot!”

Lots of boos from the crowd, but that ain’t no surprise. We’re a long way from Canterlot, and these folks ain’t too keen on city folk. They don’t know or care who this yahoo is, but if he does some business in here, they’ll be hollering his name by the end. They just came to see somepony get his head pounded in.

And speaking of, Granny Smith says that this guy used to be some kinda looker before he got into the ring, but his face looks like a pile of old potatoes now. Blueblood claims he’s actually related to the princess, but boxers tell all kinds of stories. The fans eat it up, even if they know it ain’t too likely to be true. Granny says he got caught with his hoof in the royal treasury somehow, and so now he has to make his own living. Not sure I buy that, but the long and the short of it is that he’s standing across the ring from me. That’s all that really matters.

“And fighting out of the red corner, he has a record of forty-eight wins and five losses, with thirty-five of those wins coming by way of knockout! He is the Apple of every Appleloosan mare’s eye, our hometown hero, the Sublime Equine, Big McIntosh!”

I hold up my hoof while the crowd whistles and screams. It’d be nice to think it’s goodwill, but they’ll shout just as loud if I’m the one that goes crashing down to that canvas. I let my hoof drop back to my side and shuffle from hoof to hoof, trying to keep limber.

Across the ring, Blueblood’s doing the same thing I am. Wobbling. Looking down at his hooves to make sure they ain’t gonna go crazy. Then, after a second, we both walk to the center to take the ref’s instructions.

Tonight, we’ve got Uppercut. That suits me just fine. He’s an old fighter, and I prefer it that way. Sometimes you get a ref who ain’t actually been in a contest, and they’ll make all kinds of strange calls like letting the fight go on too long when it’s clearly over. They’ll stop it on cuts for some little scratch. They forget to get the fighter to a neutral corner before starting the count.

But with Uppercut, I ain’t gotta worry about none of that. He’s a legend here in Appleloosa. His body might be broken down, but he’s still quick as he needs to be upstairs; he don’t make too many mistakes.

Uppercut reads out the rules, but it’s more for the crowd than for us. The rules are simple. Five rounds. No bucking or biting, and clean breaks are expected. Blows from the forehooves only, and the contest can be won by knockout, cuts, or crowd census. That last one’s supposed to keep it lively. Nopony likes a boring clenchfest, so they’ll ask the crowd to cheer for the winner, and the unicorns magically count them up. But I’ll be hitting hard, because I don’t like leaving it up to a popularity contest. I like to be sure.

We nod when Uppercut asks if we understand the instructions, then touch hooves and back into our corners. For a moment, it’s eerie quiet. The crowd’s hushed. Nopony’s yelling from the corners. We’re all just waiting.

Then the timekeeper strikes the bell.

Round One

My hooves are trembling, and I catch myself taking these short, quick breaths. Don’t matter how many times you’ve done it. Heading into the unknown like this works a pony up. I take a second to inhale real deep a couple of times. It slows my heart some, but my hooves are still shaking. Ain’t nothing for it but to get going.

We shuffle out to the middle of the ring and start to circle each other. He’s flicking out these little jabs to test me. Granny’s right. They’re real quick, but any punch that fast probably ain’t gonna have much behind it. He’s just looking to see how I’m gonna handle his hoof stuffed into my face.

I offer up a big right hook. He ducks under it, but I wasn’t really expecting it to connect. It’s more like a message. He’s telling me that he’s gonna be peppering me all night. I’m telling him that if he makes one mistake, it’s all over.

Fights are like this. Opening your mouth is just asking for a broken jaw, so fighters learn to talk with their bodies. You gotta read the way the other guy holds his head, or the way he stutters his steps. It all means something, if you know how to listen right.

Blueblood’s backing up now, circling again. I stand in the middle of the ring and turn. It’s tough. I wanna go after him just to get things started, but I’ll be outta gas by round three if I try to chase this guy. If he wants to win the census, though, he’s got to get the crowd behind him. They’ll see me standing ready to fight, and him over there, everywhere in the ring except where the fight is, and their choice will be simple. He’s got to come to me. Hard as it is, I wait.

He circles a few more times, and the crowd starts to holler. They hate this guy already. They’ll hate me, too, if something doesn’t happen soon, but I’m willing to wait it out. I can see his muscles twitching around his neck. Nerves. He’ll make his move soon. He’s got to, because the crowd’s getting riled, and if they—

The world turns bright white, then slides out of focus.

I stumble sideways and bring my hoof to my ear before cursing myself. Can’t spare a look to my corner, but I know Granny Smith’s gonna chew me out something fierce when the round’s over. I got caught looking at the crowd, and he tagged me. On top of that, I moved my hoof outta position, and she’s always on me about that. I move it back just a second too late. Blueblood slams two lightning-quick hooves into my face. First to the forehead, and my head rocks back. The next hits my nose. That one hurt, and I feel blood start to flow from my left nostril.

“Burnin’ hills of Tartarus, Mac, what are you doin’ out there? Wake up!”

Sounds like Granny Smith ain't waiting, but I deserve it. The crowd gets a big laugh as I stumble all over myself backing up. I lean away from a punch, but grunt when his other hoof thumps into my ribs. I can feel them bend and snap back into shape. Cursing, I take another step back, and now I’m in a corner. This guy’s hitting me harder than expected, and I flick my eyes up to his horn for a second. The dampener band is on it just like it oughta be, but I’ve heard some unicorns have gotten around that before. Still, I ain't seen his horn shine, and even if he was real good at keeping the glow to a minimum, it’d be hard to miss at this distance. Maybe Granny just underestimated him some.

Three more hard hits come, but I mostly deflect them away. They still hurt, but some parts of a pony are meant to take more abuse than others. This bozo can hit my shoulders all night long, and I’ll still be fresh as a daisy.

The crowd’s on their hooves, but Blueblood ain't buying it. Too bad. It’d make this fight a lot easier if he did. He’s throwing bombs at me, but he ain't reckless about it. He’s still moving his head real good, keeping his upper body in motion so that I can’t target him too easily. The crowd sees all that activity and hears all those blows, and their blood gets up, but Blueblood knows he ain't done nothing at all except start the conversation.

When he cocks back to throw another, I shove him real hard. Blueblood takes two big steps back, but I’m already jumping to follow. He’s too off-balance to avoid the looping right I send into his liver. The crowd gasps when he leaves the canvas for a moment and flies into the opposite corner.

I throw my hooves up, and the crowd roars. It never sits right with me, though. I don’t like showing off, but the crowd eats that stuff up, and I want to make sure they’re on my side. You put a lot of what you’d like to the side when you climb in here.

Blueblood slides along the ropes, his left hoof a little lower now that I’ve tagged him in the body. I hop toward him and throw out two jabs, but I got nowhere near the snap on them that he’s got. He easily sidesteps, and now we’re back to where we started. He’s circling, hoping to catch me in the wrong place at the wrong time again.

The Apple family’s kinda got a reputation for that. Seems we’ve spent forever being at the wrong place at the wrong time. I asked Granny Smith once why we settled in a shriveled-up nowhere like Appleloosa, and she said it was her pa’s idea, and just like all of them, it was a bad one.

The way Granny tells it, they had two sites in mind. One was a rural plot just south of Canterlot. The other was here in Appleloosa. Her ma was all for the other place. She even had a name for it: Sweet Apple Acres, but my great-grandpa was dead set on moving to Appleloosa. He said that the land south of Canterlot was good soil, but there wasn’t nothing there. They’d have to build it all up from scratch. Appleloosa had a train. It had labor. It had a market. All they’d need was some good seed stock, and they’d be the richest ponies in Equestria.

It didn’t exactly work out that way.

Blueblood shuffles through some kinda fancy hoofwork that I can’t quite follow, and all of a sudden blows are coming my way again. I’m ready now, though. I’m warmed up, and the jitters are all worked out. That’s the thing about fighting. The waiting’s the worst part, really. Well, no, that ain't right. The worst part’s when you figure out that you ain’t no match for the other guy. Then you’re just waiting to get knocked out. But besides that, waiting’s the worst. Once you’re actually here, it ain't so bad.

See, the thing’s just to let your muscles do the work. A fighter’s brain’s just in the way, mostly. Spend hour after hour, day after day, in a gym, and your muscles get real smart. They know what to do before you can think it up. You won’t even see the opening, but your hoof’s already halfway there. Sometimes I’m as surprised as the other guy when I crack a good one into his eye.

So that’s what I’m doing. I just lay back and let my body work. Gotta be careful about daydreaming, though. It’s fine not to think too hard, but I gotta keep my head in the game at least a little bit. It’s a mighty fine line between not thinking too hard and not paying attention. But like I said, I’m ready now.

Blueblood fires a punch into my forelegs in an attempt to break them apart before he whips an uppercut between them. It’s all nicely on target, but I’m too strong for that stuff. While he’s trying to get back into position, I club him with an overhoof right, and his head snaps back. A left cross, and he’s against the ropes. He’s covering up, but I see him quiver when I slam my hoof into his defense.

That was Apple Bloom’s idea, and it’s served us real well. Granny Smith and I kept going ’round and ’round about how to get past the other guy’s guard. I ain't exactly the fastest pony out there, after all. We’d been going at it for who knows how long when Apple Bloom finally just asked why. She said I’m stronger than just about any other pony, so I should just hit them wherever I can. Eventually it’ll wear them down.

Well, that was like a bolt outta the blue. I just knew it would work, and I took Apple Bloom right out for an ice cream. That’s why she’s good to have in your corner. Even with only one eye, she sees things other ponies miss. She’s real good at building a plan with Granny Smith because she thinks outside the box.

So I hit his legs again, and he grunts. I catch a flash of his eye, and I see fear there. Good. That’s a big step toward ending this thing. He’s throwing these weak jabs up at me, just to get me to stop punching, but I’m not all that worried. I dig my hooves into the canvas, crank my right back and let it fly.

But he’s just not there.

My hoof whistles over the rope and all of a sudden I’m hanging halfway outta the ring. The little bastard bamboozled me with those jabs. Once I started taking them, he waited until my face was full of hoof, and he sidestepped. It’s only a matter of—

I’m still trying to get my hooves under me when he nails me on the jaw. The inside of my cheek mashes up against my teeth, and suddenly my mouth’s full of blood. Feels like I got a loose tooth in there. I’ll make Apple Bloom yank it out when the round’s over. I can’t stand that feeling. It nags at you, and I don’t need that kind of distraction right now. I give my head a good shake, but it’s not enough. I look up just in time to see the hook, and it clobbers me again.

Wasn’t expecting that. Most fighters don’t go for the same punch twice. It takes time to get into position and throw it again. Fighting on instinct, it’s natural to go to the other side of your body.

I catch his eye again. The fear I’d planted there is gone, and I got the sinking feeling that I know exactly where I’d find it now if I could see what he sees. He’s got the beginnings of a grin that lets me know I’m right. His right cocks back and—

The timekeeper strikes the bell, and Uppercut jumps in between us. With a hoof on each of our chests, he pushes us in the direction of our corners. We don’t really need the help at this stage, but it’s a habit that good referees get into. Sometimes a punchy fighter doesn’t hear the bell or just goes to whatever corner is closest.

On my way, Granny Smith’s already cussing a blue streak, and Apple Bloom’s got a sponge filled up with water. I fall into the chair, and she’s wiping me off and checking for cuts and swelling.

“What’re you doin’ out there, you big lump?” Granny Smith massages my muscles, but it’s almost like a second assault. She’s jabbing and banging at me, trying to make sure the blood’s flowing like it oughta. “This stallion’s makin’ you look like an amateur! Are you an amateur?”

“Nope.”

“Well, then quit actin’ like one! Apple Bloom, throw some tape on his left. It’s worked loose. Now quit lookin’ everywhere ’cept your opponent, Mac!”

I take a deep breath. It’s hard not to get mad sometimes. It’s real easy to tell me what to do when you’re standing in the corner. It’s real easy to think when you ain't the one getting punched in the head.

“Granny, you said this guy can’t hit!”

Granny Smith grabs my head between her hooves and looks me right in the eyes. “You been on your back yet?”

“Uh… Nope.”

“Then he can’t hit. I might as well put a bow on your thick skull, since you keep wantin’ to give it right to him. I know he ain't exactly a lightweight, but if I’d told you he could swing ’em, you’d’ve been frettin’ before the match.” Granny Smith lets go of my head and slaps her hooves together in front of my eyes. I jerk away. “There you go. Get your head movin’! Now you got a sense of his power, and it ain't all that scary. Just watch where he’s goin’, and you can’t lose!”

I nod before remembering. “Apple Bloom, pull my—”

The bell cuts me off when it rings out again.

Too late. Looks like I’ll have to manage.

Round Two

I heave myself up and settle back into my defensive crouch. As usual, Granny’s right about things. If this guy had any real power, this fight would be over already. Across the ring, his corner’s yelling at him to keep it up. They can’t think a whole lot of me if they reckon it’s gonna be the same this round. Blueblood hops forward, then starts that hoofwork again.

I frown before I can catch myself. I ain’t supposed to let him know I’m frustrated, but sometimes I can’t help it. Granny Smith always said the Apples ain’t never been any good at fooling ponies. We’re just too honest. Right now, I know I’m showing him more than I want to, but all that fancy jumping around just drags things out. It’s better to just stand and fight. Gets things over quicker.

Blueblood skips left, then right. I’m stalking him this time. It helps keep my mind where it oughta be, but I can’t run around after him all night. He’s just outta range, but that means he can’t do no damage. I’ve got reach on him, so he’s gonna need to come in if he wants to win. That’s a fast pony’s game, but it usually catches up with them in the end. A few rounds pass, and those legs ain’t got the quickness they did at the start. Couple of good body shots, and maybe a rib or two gets cracked. All that running around takes lot of air, but it’s hard to breathe when you’re busted up inside.

I swing for his body, and he skips back. I like to remind a pony that I can take that air away if they ain’t careful. Outside, the crowd is starting to grumble again, but Blueblood don’t seem to want to step inside where I can get at him.

“Showtime, Big Mac!”

That’s Apple Bloom’s code for putting on an act. It’s another one of her big ideas. Like I said, she sees things real clear, and she likes to get inside that other guy’s head. Since she knows my weaknesses, she told me I oughta play to them sometimes. Keep the other guy guessing.

So I wait a couple of seconds, and then I let my eyes glass over a little. I sneak a couple of obvious glances out at the crowd. They’re making a lot of noise now, booing and hissing at the lack of action, so it’s easy cover.

Blueblood swallows the act and lunges in. I’ve got him fixed in the corner of my eye, and when he makes his move, I make mine. He’s halfway through his punch when I catch him on the chin with a right cross. It’s no act when his eyes flutter, and he reels away. He’s covering up, but that just leaves his body exposed. I dig in deep, once to his rib, the next a hard, straight shot to his heart. He gasps and drops his hooves just like I knew he would. I bite down hard on my mouthpiece and cock back my left hoof. His eyes clear just before my hook crashes into his temple.

The crowd’s alive now, stamping their hooves so hard that the whole building’s shaking. Some are hollering at me to finish it. Others are screaming at Blueblood to hang on. Some of them are just yelling to yell.

When the crowd gets worked up, it’s like a landslide. Can’t hear nothing but screaming, but you can’t make out the words. Can’t see nothing but faces, but you can’t pick any one of them out. Ain’t no smell but the stink of a thousand heat-crazed ponies. Some nights, I wonder if this is the real fight: trying to keep your mind right with all that insanity outside those ropes.

Blueblood lurches left. His legs are about to give out on him, so I help him along with a overhoof right. The crowd roars when he falls. Granny’s screaming for me to get to the corner, and Uppercut is in position, waiting. As soon as I’m away from Blueblood, he starts the count.

The knockdown’s one of the strangest times for a fighter. On one hoof, you’re feeling great. The sooner the fight’s over, the better. On the other hoof, that other guy could be laying there real hurt. I’ve seen it happen plenty of times. Made it happen some, to be honest. A hard shot to some places in the body, and things just don’t work right no more. As they lay there, flat on their backs, it always reminds me of my family, no matter how hard I try to keep my mind from it.

My pa laid there in his bed like that, all stiff and bloodless. He didn’t look like a real pony. More like a big doll or one of them carved wax sideshow things than my father. He was so big and strong that I never thought he could die, but this is hard country. White fever hit Appleloosa real bad that year, and we’d barely been scraping by as it was. Pa’d been making headway with the buffalo, but then we got sick. Real sick.

Ma ran herself ragged caring for us all, and that’s probably why she went before he did. Apple Bloom was just a couple months old, and my ma fought for that child. There ain’t no way to comfort a baby that sick, but she tried mighty hard. Day and night she stayed up with that filly, all while looking after the rest of us, too. The fever did something to Apple Bloom’s brain. The left side of her face don’t work right, and that eye’s milky white, but because of my ma, she lived.

Can’t say the same for my other sister, Applejack. I was sure she was gonna turn things around for us one day. Even as a filly, she understood what apples needed in a way that I just never did. She’d always have these big ideas that improved the harvest somehow. Ain’t no surprise her cutie mark was three apples when the rest of us all got one. She was just better at growing them than we were. But then she got the fever, and she was gone. Ma and Pa went soon after. Granny says that their hurting made the fever run hotter somehow.

Blueblood snaps me back to the present when he sits up. Uppercut’s at six, and I can see Blueblood’s eyes widen. He tries to rise, slips, then gets his hooves under him at nine. I shake my head before I remember not to. Like I said, I ain’t never been good at hiding my feelings about things. During a bout, you’re supposed be careful about what you show, but sometimes things bother me before I can get a handle on myself. Granny’s gonna curse me up the front and down the back for it when this is done.

That’s what I get for thinking about my family too much. I oughta be thinking about Granny’s game plan, but here I am, wiping at my eyes and trying to get my head straight again. I shouldn’t never think about Ma or Pa or Applejack during a match. Getting too emotional’s what gets fighters knocked out, that’s what Granny Smith’s always saying. She says that cool heads win fights, and that’s what I got to get right now. I close my eyes for a second and take a deep breath.

Uppercut asks Blueblood a couple of probing questions. What round is it? Who’s he fighting? That sorta thing. Looks like Blueblood must’ve answered correctly, because all of a sudden the fight’s back on. Uppercut moves outta the way and motions for us to come together again.

This is when you gotta be calm, but it ain’t easy. I hit that stallion pretty hard. Not my hardest, but not far from it. It was solid, and he should be out, but here he is, asking for more. Those fans out there might want five solid rounds of violence, but I don’t wanna get hit any more than I have to. He should be out, but he ain’t.

That pisses me off.

I can feel my heart pounding in my temples when I come at him hard. Everypony knows I ain’t too quick, but I can pour on a burst of speed when I need to. Chances are he’s still pretty punchy, so I’m on him just a second before he’s ready. He gets his hooves up, but I duck, almost kneeling, and shoot my hardest jab into his stomach. I get it in there so deep that it’s a wonder my hoof didn’t come straight out his back.

Blueblood’s eyes bulge, and he doubles over. He’s just starting to suck in his first big breath when I throw an uppercut. It’s my left, which ain’t my good hoof, but I know his chin’s gotta be tender from that cross. My uppercut don’t land quite the way I want it to, but his head still flips up like it’s on a hinge. His legs wobble, and he nearly falls before he grabs the ropes and pushes himself away.

That’s the thing about sliding along the ropes. Anyway you go, you’re gonna end up in a corner before long, and that’s just where Blueblood finds himself. I can’t fault him too much. He’s just trying to stay on his hooves in here, but you don’t want to get trapped with me. Movement’s what’s kept him alive so far. That corner might hold him up, but it’s also holding him back.

He’s game, though. As his back hits that turnbuckle, he keeps his head in motion. He’s trying to make sure I ain’t gonna have an easy time tagging him. That’s fine. I just crank my hooves back and let them fly. A lot are gonna miss, but if I catch him with even three or four big hits, he’s gonna regret it.

Blueblood coughs out a mouthful of blood onto me when I snap a hard left into his ribs. That’s when you’re screaming at your body. You can’t help certain things. In your mind, you’re trying to cover up and be smart, but that body shot just keels you over before you can get control again. I can see it in Blueblood’s eyes that he knows he’s open, but his body’s just betraying him.

As his head comes forward, I pound my right into his cheek. Then the left. Then the right again. His eyes roll back, and he falls halfway onto me before slipping to the canvas. The blood leaking from his mouth is startlingly bright against the mat. Sucking air, I’m moving too slow to my neutral corner.

When I finally reach it, Uppercut begins his count, but the timekeeper rings the bell at three. I swear and slam my hoof against the turnbuckle while Blueblood’s team dives into the ring and pulls their stallion to the corner, then cracks open the smelling salts. As I fall onto my stool, I can see his eyes rolling around beneath their lids.

“I got a mind to yell about them dropped hooves, Mac, but you got the job done one way or the other.” Granny Smith’s checking my face for abrasions that’ll turn into cuts if they get hit too many more times. “Apple Bloom, get some salve on that eyebrow. I don’t like the look of it.”

Granny takes my hooves in hers and squeezes hard to make sure the wrap is still tight. “More of the same, Mac. He can’t take another round of that, but he’ll know it. He’s gonna come out hard. You watch him. If he’s got a brain in his head, he won’t be playin' around.”

Apple Bloom’s just finishing up when the bell rings again. I jump to my hooves and flick a couple of jabs into the air. I want him to know I’m feelin’ fine, but when I glance over to his corner, it’s like looking at a statue. No emotion. He looks like he’s staring right through me, and I’m not sure what to make of that.

Either he’s given up, or I’ve made him mad. Real mad.

Round Three

Uppercut motions for us to come out of our corners. I hop forward and try to add some pop to my hooves. I ain’t no good at fancy hoofwork like Blueblood is, but the crowd mostly just likes to see motion. Winning the crowd over’s just as important as anything I’m doing to Blueblood, so I make the effort.

Blueblood stomps out of his corner, and his hooves are up real high over his forehead. He was dancing around before, but now he looks like he’s ready to slug it out. Not sure where he got the notion that going hoof to hoof with me was a good idea, but I ain’t gonna complain. If he wants to trade shots, I’m game. I check his corner real quick, but they ain’t screaming at him, so they must have told him to do it.

I shrug and get into a crouch. My muscles bunch up as I draw in on myself, and it feels good. Hard. Standing like this, my vitals protected, I’m made of stone. He can beat on me all night.

Blueblood keeps coming toward me in this measured stride. We’re only six steps apart, but it feels like an eternity in there. His flat eyes bore into me. Not into my eyes, but lower, almost like he’s trying to see into my heart. He’s up to something, and I don’t think I like it much.

He’s been trained better than me, or maybe he’s just good at listening in a way I ain’t. I know I shouldn’t check those eyes, but I can’t help it. It’s dangerous to look into your opponent’s eyes. They’re the easiest part of yourself to lie with. Eyes can make a weak pony look fierce, and a tired pony look fresh. They can look left while the hoof punches right. Any fighter worth his salt learns not to put too much trust in an opponent’s eyes, and to keep their own on that chin. From there, you can see the hooves coming at you. You can see where your opponent is headed. You gotta check ’em sometimes, but eyes mostly ain’t nothing but trouble. And by the look of things, trouble’s what Blueblood’s got in mind.

Four steps. Three, then two. Finally, he’s within range. I fire one off, but all of a sudden, he’s disappeared like a ghost. It takes me a second to realize that he ain’t gone left or right. He dropped straight down. But when you’re in the ring, a second is a long, long time.

I look down just in time to see him flying back up at me. When I threw out that punch, he just let his rump fall. With his legs beneath him, Blueblood was a coiled spring, and now he’s released that tension. I’ve got just enough time to bite down on my mouthpiece—

The dull sound of struck bone rattles through my head. Sound fades away, and the world gets fuzzy. Can’t seem to figure what just happened.

Then the sound comes rushing back, and I realize that I’m just standing there. That’s the funny thing about getting hit. It don’t hurt so much as you’d think. What it does is make your mind freeze up for a second, and in that time, he’ll—

A powerful shot cracks into my right eye, and I stagger left. Thinking’s hard all of —

My head gets twisted around when another punch catches me near my temple. My hooves are getting all tangled up. Can’t figure out which way is which.

I can’t see right, and my hooves are down again. I try and get them up, but that dull sound rips through my head a third time when he drives his hoof into my nose. The ring’s tilting in the wrong direction. Seems like it’s coming up at me. I’m trying to get my hooves under me, but everything’s sliding away like it shouldn’t. The world’s spinning like I’m getting hit real bad, and—

More hits. They’re coming in real fast. World’s blurry. Can’t figure it out. It’s all wrong. Can’t see. Can’t hear. I’m trying to focus, but something’s hitting me. I can’t—

Pain rips through my head again. Everything’s spinning. All of a sudden, the mat’s jumping up at me...

I’m sitting at the kitchen table. Granny Smith’s hunched over a bunch of papers across from me, and she looks real serious. Every once in a while, I pick up one of the pieces of paper, but it’s all numbers. Rows and rows of them. Some written in red and others in black. Pages and pages of numbers, and she don’t look too happy about none of it.

It’s the farm’s budget, but I don’t know how it got to be so much. It all used to fit in one notebook when Applejack did it, but Granny’s got it all over the place. Seems like there’s a lot more red there than before, too. I don’t remember Applejack having so much of that. She told me once that it means that we owe something to somepony.

Granny’s hoof spasms, and the pencil falls. It hits the table, and the tip breaks off before it rolls onto the floor. Dropping her head into her hooves, she lets out a choked sob, and that’s all it takes. I’m over there putting my hoof around her and telling her that it’s gonna be alright.

“But it ain’t gonna be alright, Mac,” she says in this thin voice that I don’t like much. It sounds like her throat ain’t working right. Like she ain’t getting air. Tears flow out from beneath her hooves. “I t-tried, Mac, but I ain’t got the head for it like your pa or your sister did. Can’t believe a half-grown filly did sums better’n I can.”

I pat Granny on her back and try to sound cheerful. “I’ll just work more, and Apple Bloom’s gettin’ to the age where she can start takin’ on some chores. We’ll get through it.”

Granny Smith lifts her head, but her lips are pulled back into something halfway between a frown and a snarl. An ugly flush works its way up her neck and into her face. “You’d need to be ten stallions, and we’d need twenty Apple Blooms! I’m tryin’ to tell you that we’re losin’ the farm! Not that we could be doin’ better. Not that we need to tighten our belts a little. We’re losin’ it all!”

Granny reaches out with a badly trembling hoof and snatches at an envelope. She spits out a curse when she drops it and has to pick it up again. With her eyes on the floor, she pulls out a letter and thrusts it at me to read. She’s shaking so bad that I have to take it from her.

To Mrs. Smith:

This is your third and final notification regarding your delinquency. We at the First Equestrian Bank of Appleloosa have been authorized to repossess both Appleloosan Land Parcel 154691 and all properties contained within unless we receive payment by the end of this month. Liquidation of assets will occur within six weeks, and any amount after the repayment of the loan will be deposited into your account.

Sincerely,

Compound Interest
Vice President of Financing
First Equestrian Bank of Appleloosa

I read the letter, and then read it again. It can’t mean what I think it means. We’ve owned this farm for generations now. I open my mouth, but Granny’s already yelling at me. Pleading, really. She grabs my collar, and she’s trying to shake me, but she’s a little too spindly for that.

“We needed money when the orchard got the blight. I mortgaged the farm, but the trees…” Granny’s hooves slip away, and she drops her head onto the table. “The trees...”

Two years after we lost half the family, most of our trees got real sick, too. Applejack probably woulda known just what to do, but Granny and I, well… We managed to save some of the orchard, but lots of trees died. Guess I might be as dumb as they say, because I never wondered how Granny replaced them. I just figured we had money saved up or something.

But we never could get much of a harvest after that. Seems like the trees just never took like they oughta. I tried to remember all the little ways that Applejack always got them to grow just right, but I did most of the heavy stuff, while she did all the finicky business. I pulled rocks out of the fields while she was messing around with seedlings and fertilizer mixes. It always worked out real good. It never crossed my mind that she wouldn’t be there one day.

Granny Smith’s in bad shape. I’m glad Apple Bloom’s been in bed for a while, because she don’t need to see this. Granny’s just going at herself something fierce, and I can’t get a word in edgewise. I hate to see her beat herself up like this, but I just can’t think of what to say.

That’s when it hits me. I kept seeing this flier whenever I’d go to the general store. It said they wanted fighters for the Western Circuit, and that they’d pay real good. I’m bigger and stronger than most, so I figured I had a chance. Fighting would mean a few extra bits for the farm, and we’d all breathe a little easier then. It wouldn’t take too many tournaments.

“One!”

Or two. Just a few times to get our heads above water. It’d always seemed like a pipe dream, but dreams are about all we got left now. I figure I might as well take a shot. All of a sudden, I’m yammering away to Granny, and she’s got these great big eyes. She’s listening to me real hard. I tell her about the prize money, and what it could do for us.

Well, Granny just jumps up and yanks at a drawer. It sticks, and she pulls at it a few times before I get up and wrench it open. It sets both our teeth on edge when it lets out that shrill squeal that only wood set tightly against wood can make. Granny pushes through the bits of junk in the drawer before fishing out a worn photograph of a pony in a fighting pose. It’s my gramps, but I ain’t never seen him like this before.

“He was a—”

“Two!”

“—time regional champion!” she says with a proud twinkle in her eye. “I used to sit in his corner and help sponge him off between rounds. He had a trainer named Barnburner who cussed him up a blue streak when he was losin’ a fight. I learned a lot listenin’ to them durin’ a bout.”

I nod. This could work for us. I ain’t never been too good with the apples, but I can take care of myself in a fight. I’m real strong, and I knocked out—

“Three!”

—stallions once at Spigot’s Saloon when they got too rowdy. I don’t get tired, and I don’t give up.

I’m going through all this when Granny’s face just collapses. She crying again now, ashamed that she’s getting excited at the idea of me putting myself in danger. I’m trying to tell her this is the best way, but—

“Four!”

I’m confused all of a sudden. I can hear somepony counting, but my head don’t feel right. It’s real bright for some reason, and I can’t see Granny no more. I can hear her, though. She’s hollering at me something fierce to get up.

“Five!”

The world snaps into focus. Uppercut’s leaning over me, his hoof sweeping through the air with each count.

“Six!”

And it all comes back. Blueblood tagged me real good. If I don’t get up, I’m losing this fight. My hooves are in motion before I can even fully get my mind around the idea.

“Seven!”

I’m pushing myself up, hanging onto the ropes while I try to clear my head. The world still feels loose, like it’s gonna slide out from underneath me if I don’t keep a real close eye on it. It’d be hard enough to stand on four hooves right now. Two hooves seems impossible, but I’m managing somehow. I hate those diamond dogs.

Uppercut’s checking me out. I let him know that I’m fine. He’s seen me recover before, so I’m not too worried that he’ll stop this fight. Blueblood rang my bell, but I’m as tough as they come, and Uppercut knows it. He squints up at me, then nods before stepping back. The crowd roars when he waves us back together.

Across from me, Blueblood’s lip curls into a tiny snarl. He’s coming at me hard, and I ain’t in no shape to take chances. He’s stronger than he looks, and that’s bad news for me. That crowd’s gonna think I look weak in here when they see me turtle up, but there ain’t nothing for it. I gotta buy some time until the fog clears.

Blueblood twists at the waist, then snaps back. He’s smart, using his hind legs and torso instead of just his forelegs and shoulders. Lots of stallions don’t really know how to throw a proper punch, and that’s why he’s hitting me so much harder than I’m used to. He’s throwing his whole body behind these blows.

I quiver with each hit, but I’m doing alright. He’s pummeling me. Shoulders. Ribs. Forelegs. Over and over. A few sneak past my defenses and tag my liver and kidneys. I bite down on my mouthpiece to keep from grunting. I don’t want to give him any reason to think I’m hurt. Don’t want him to get the notion he’s close to something. I just gotta live with it, ’cause he can’t tag me in the head. For once, I’ve got my hooves up, and they’re staying there. Granny’s gonna have plenty to say about that later tonight.

My ribs are on fire, but he’s finally slowing down. This’ll be a bad time for him. He threw it all at me for a solid minute. We’re close, just inches apart, and I can hear him breathing real heavy. Ponies that ain’t fought don’t understand how much it takes outta you to go on an all-out attack like that. Right now, he’s real tired, and probably getting a little bit worried.

Time to come outta my shell and show him how right he is.

The crowd explodes when I throw the big right. It don’t connect, but that don’t really matter to them none. Their catcalling turns into cheers as I press forward. I’m throwing hard hooves. Not my hardest, but enough to get him thinking real good about not getting tagged. I can still see his chest rise and fall in this big, telling motion. He ain’t got the wind to dance, and he ain’t got any left to punch, neither.

I bang with lefts and rights, mostly to knock his hooves away from his head. When one gets out of position, I launch a hoof inside. It feels real fine when his head swivels around. Blood starts out of his nose again, and that brings a fresh roar from with crowd.

I’m pouring it on now. Harder. Faster. Throwing punches with bad intentions. They don’t all land. Probably not even most of them, but those that do leave their marks on his body and his spirit. A left cross to his head, and that mouse he’s got growing there gets a little bigger. A right to the body, and he cringes and leans over. Crouching down, I throw what Granny would call a slop punch into his gut. Just a big looper. With my longer reach, it hooks in under his defense and he rises up off the mat a little.

Then he’s on me. I don’t know where it’s coming from, but he’s growling like a trapped manticore. I can’t even follow his hooves, they’re flying at me so fast. One crashes into my jaw, and my tooth goes flying out into the crowd. Ain’t gotta worry about that no more, I guess. The hit snaps my head around so hard that I catch a glimpse of my corner. Apple Bloom’s nearly white, and Granny Smith’s muttering some kinda prayer or something. That don’t look good for the crowd, and now I got my own gripe for our talk later tonight.

I bob and weave like a madpony. I ain’t that fast, but it’s enough to make me a hard target. Still, he’s going for broke with some kinda reserve that I ain’t got. He gets me in the ear, and it starts ringing with this high-pitched tone. I give him a left to the liver, and his legs tremble before he launches himself back up at me.

We’re together, just standing in the middle of the ring pounding on each other. The crowd sounds like they’re coming totally unhinged. I try not to let it get too personal in the ring, but Blueblood’s really pissing me off, and the crowd’s getting my blood up. It might be that I got that reserve after all. Just now, my hooves don’t feel so heavy. I’m getting hit, but it seems far away. I can still feel it, but it’s like I don’t care all that much about it. Like my brain is filing it away to think about later.

My lips pull back, and I can feel the blood dribbling out from around my mouthpiece. I want to bite. I want to drop my forehooves onto this mat and give this guy my best apple-bucking kick. I want to end this, but he just ain’t dropping for some reason.

The world around us gets real small. It’s just him and me, and I ain’t thinking straight anymore. I’m just pounding at him. Wherever my hooves land, I can see white swell into purple bruises.

He’s backing up now, and his blows don’t got the power they had just a minute ago. Or maybe I just can’t feel ’em anymore. Don’t really matter which, I guess. I’m just throwing hooves at him. Into his legs. His shoulders. His head. Whatever I can reach. Whatever I can hurt.

My head twists around, but I didn’t see the hoof that hit me. Didn’t feel nothing. I just keep at it, punching again and again. My hooves are so numb that I can’t even tell when they hit and when they don’t, but they’re coming back awful bloody.

Somethin’s tying me up, and it takes a minute for me to see that it’s Uppercut. He’s leaning on me hard, screaming something, but my ears ain’t working right. I see Blueblood slide into his corner, and the sound all comes rushing back. Uppercut shoves me hard, and I fall onto my stool.

A white-hot lance of chemicals stabs into my brain, and I yank my head away. Apple Bloom grabs me by the ear and pulls me forward again, shoving the salts up my nose.

“Mac? Mac?” Granny’s in my face, shaking me. “Can you hear me?”

“Eeyup.” My head’s finally rid of that fuzzy feeling I’ve had since the knockdown. Salts are like that. It’s hard to believe something can snap you back so quick, but they cut through the fog like a knife.

“That’s why I told you to keep them hooves up, you big lummox!” Granny’s got an ice pack pressed up to the side of my chin. “I reckon one day somepony’s gonna knock your head clean off your shoulders!”

Beside me, Apple Bloom’s smearing salve over what feels like half my face. “Mac, this guy’s trainin’s too good. You can’t just hit him hard. He knows how to block just enough of it. You’re gonna have to trap him somehow.”

I slide my eye over to my sister. She looks scared, and that hurts me worse than anything this guy has done to me. It’s tough when she’s worried. Or maybe when she thinks that I might not win would be a better way to put it. It’s hard because Apple Bloom’s almost always right. If she was as big as me, ain’t no pony alive would be able to beat her. She’s real smart about this stuff.

“Just…” I stop and swallow hard. “Just tell me if you see somethin’ I can use out there.”

The bell rings and I push myself up again. No pop this time. No showboating. I’m gonna need all my energy tonight. I turn again and motion towards Apple Bloom’s good eye. She nods. She knows her job, and she’ll do it.

Now if I can just do mine.

Round Four

I can feel the crowd turn. When this fight started, they hollered for me real good, but it’s all for Blueblood now. They go wild for him when he gets up off of that stool. I’d been fretting some that might happen. My night just got a whole lot harder.

Across the ring from me, he rotates his shoulders and snaps his head from side to side. He’s trying to stay loose, but he’s also saying that he’s feeling alright. He ain’t, but the lie’s important. It lets the crowd think he can win.

Everypony loves an underdog. Blueblood’s smaller than me, so he already looks like a hero just climbing in here. I live in town, though, and he’s some fancy pony from Canterlot, so there wasn’t no love for him at the start. Then he lasted too long. He hit too hard. He started to do what they didn’t reckon was possible, and they couldn’t help but love him. All of a sudden, he’s the hero that shows the little guy can do it after all. It don’t matter that I bought this one a brew last night, or helped that one build his new storefront. Now they want to see this new hero slay the dragon.

Well, I hate to disappoint, but Apples know better than anypony that it’s the dragon that wins most of the time.

Instead of coming straight at each other again, we circle for a bit. The crowd boos that kind of thing in the early rounds, but now they like the way we’re drawing it out. Fighting’s like that. You’re trying to tear each other apart in here, but you also gotta work together to make the fight something that’s worth seeing. Otherwise, nopony’s gonna want to see you again. So Blueblood and I come together in little ways. I back off for a bit, and so does he. He brings the thunder, so I provide a little lightning. Granny Smith always says a good match is really just a story. It’ll have some ebb and flow to it. Some ups and down and twists and turns to make it exciting.

The hollering dies down little by little while we circle. The crowd’s nerves are stretched out. It ain’t gonna take much for them to lose control. In the corner of my eye, I can see Uppercut getting fidgety. Some nights emotions run too hot, and the crowd will riot if things don’t go how they think they oughta.

Blueblood and I both know that Uppercut’s likely right, so we both come in at the same time. He’s testing me with his jab, but I surprise him by bulling into it and landing a hard shot to his ribs. He gambled that I’d start slow, keeping the crowd at the edge of their seats. I ain’t much for gambling, though. He’s won the crowd, so I gotta win the match. I ain’t got no other choice.

Blueblood skips away from my followup swing, and I have to work to make sure my face don’t give me away. He’s moving too good. Looks too fresh. My heart sinks, but I gotta keep it under wraps. Gotta make him think I’m made of iron.

He’s keeping just out of reach now. That’s a good thing for me. He looks like he don’t want to get hit, and that’ll turn the crowd after a while. They hate being wrong more than they like an underdog, so if he’s gonna look weak, they’ll tear him up.

Of course, he ain’t gonna do that. He’s just letting me sweat a little.

Faster than I can believe, Blueblood lunges in and catches me with a glancing shot across the forehead. It don’t hurt none, but it’s action. The crowd jumps to their hooves as my sweat flies up into the air in a fine mist.

The natural thing to do would be to cover up, but I trust Apple Bloom. I gotta lay a trap for this guy, so I start making wrong moves on purpose. He’s already seen me get outta control, so instead of protecting myself, I swing for the fences with this big, slow right. He’s already underneath it by the time it comes around, and I stumble a bit like I wasn’t expecting that. His hoof digs into my ribs, and I give him a big grunt.

In my corner, Apple Bloom gives me a little nod. She knows what I’m up to. Granny’s screaming at me, but Apple Bloom’s good eye slides over to the corner. “Farm him!” she yells, nodding toward the corner twice. That’s all I need.

I swing around until my back’s facing the turnbuckles, then I start throwing out jabs. Blueblood’s cautious. He’s blocking me, but he’s not just rushing in. Looks like I’m gonna have to bait the trap a little better. I hate smart fighters.

I give him a powerful left cross, but I drop my right hoof out of position. It feels real natural, since that’s what Granny’s always on me about. This time’s different, though. I bite down on my mouthpiece just before his hoof catches me flush on the jaw again. I let out a real grunt then, and the world swims around me. My jaw was still hurting something fierce from that knockdown, and he didn’t hold nothing back on that shot.

Another hoof slams into my eye, and I’m backing up. I feel a trickle of blood slide down my cheek, so I turn my head slightly away from Uppercut. It ain’t much, but I can’t risk losing this bout on account of cuts. I pull my head away from a right hook and back up two more steps.

Blueblood’s speed’s increasing now. I try to cover, but he still sneaks one in that makes my head ring. Three or four good punches catch me in the gut. Black spots start in at the edges of my vision, and I can’t see where his hooves are coming from. I just gotta trust Apple Bloom.

Then the world explodes. A white flash tears through my mind, followed by pain. Red’s running down his white chest in these long, thick ropes. Blood fills my nostrils, and my mouth sags open. I’m asking for a broken jaw, but I can’t get air through a busted nose.

Joke’s on me, I reckon. Blueblood finally took the bait, but I’m the one who’s in trouble. Now I’m caught in my own trap when my back hits the turnbuckles. I was gonna use ’em to rest against while I opened up on him, but it’s all I can do to stay upright. He’s taking it to me with hard combinations, and each one of them sends the shattered ends of my broken nose rubbing together.

More hits, and those black spots grow. Gettin’ hard to think. Legs are rubbery. Pain.

“Your back, Big Mac! Remember your back!”

Apple Bloom’s shrill voice cuts through the crowd’s screaming. It slices through the darkness and digs deep into my heart. She wanted me to farm him before. That’s our way of saying that I should trick this guy like our family got fooled into trying to work this thin, rocky soil they got here in Appleloosa. Now she’s given me the other side of that.

My back. Ever since the fever hit, I’ve known it was all on me. It’s my back that supports us. Without it, we lose everything. Each fight keeps us just ahead of the payments. If I can’t make this happen—if I can’t win—we’re finished.

In front of me, Blueblood’s puffing like a steam engine. He’s dipping down, then popping up, using those legs to add power. With each blow, the crowd screams louder. He’s not really landing much, since I’ve turtled up again, but even my strong parts are tired of getting hit now. I honestly can’t take too much more.

But as my head clears up, I realize something. Nopony saw it, but Apple Bloom snuck right into my brain and reset that trap. I didn’t know if I could win before, but it’s real clear now: I’m gonna win because I have to. There ain’t no room for questions. The Apple family’s depending on me, and I’ll die in this ring before I let them down.

The crowd gasps when I catch him off guard with a short, hard left to the muzzle. Everypony but me and Apple Bloom thought I was done for. Good as he is, Blueblood’s body’s telling me the story I really want to hear right now. He’s folding in on himself and backing up. Behind his protective forelegs, his head’s pulled as far away as he can get it.

The crowd don’t know what to do just yet. They kinda want to cheer for me, being hometown and all, but they’d cottoned to the idea of Blueblood being a hero. Now they sound like angry hornets. Just buzzing around out there, looking for somepony’s day to ruin. This is my chance. Blueblood didn’t get the job done, so they’re looking for a reason to toss him aside.

I’d like to plant my hooves real firm, but Blueblood’s still backing up. That takes away some of my power. I pepper him with strong blows to keep him moving. I want him thinking real hard about what it’s gonna mean if he drops them hooves out of that defensive position.

I’m also thinking about how much this looks like the trap I was setting him up for just a bit ago, only the other way around.

Blueblood tries to cut left, but I bang a shot into his ribs. I hear him cough behind those forelegs, and now he ain’t trying to cut angles across the ring. Instead, he takes another step back toward that corner. We’re almost there now, so I send one back to the same spot. It’s hard on the muscles. I gotta haul my leg back and shoot it out again, and I gotta do it mighty quick. Otherwise, he’ll use that hole it creates. It pays off, though. He’s so busy surviving behind those legs that he either didn’t see the opening, or didn’t want to risk it.

I’m dealing with a risk of my own when I open up on him. He could be hurting, or he could be fooling me. Or maybe it’s both. Just like I was a minute ago. Don’t matter now, because I gotta do it anyway. This fight’s been too hard. If it goes the distance, I got a real good chance of losing.

His back hits the corner, and I can finally set my hooves. That’s where an earth pony feels at his best. We like a real strong connection with something solid. Someplace where we can really use our muscles. Leverage. That’s what Apple Bloom calls it. I widen my stance and twist.

The punch lands against the side of Blueblood’s head like a cannonball, and outside the ring, the crowd makes an ugly sound. It ain’t a cheer, and it ain’t booing. It’s the sound of greed and hunger. It’s the low growl wolves make when they’re closing in, only from thousands of throats. I can feel them lean forward, teeth bared, ready to tear the loser apart.

Blueblood’s head snaps around, and his knees give way for just a second. He’s halfway to falling, but he reaches out and grabs the ropes for support. Bad move. It might keep him up, but it means that hoof ain’t there to protect him. I’m in a real good stance now. I can feel the strength in the ground below me, and it feels mighty good. I focus in on the swelling below his right eye and let my hoof rip.

Blueblood was just trying a last ditch attempt to get out of the corner when that hoof catches him. He’d lunged right, but I knock him straight back where he came from, and follow it up with all the speed I can muster. His defense is falling apart. My hooves are getting through more than they’re not, and he’s—

The world rattles for a second when his left catches me on the chin, and I back up a step. I know I shouldn’t, but I check his eye. It looks real red and real, real mad. His hooves are all out of position, and he’s just throwing bombs like crazy. He catches me on the muzzle again, and it’s all I can do to stay up. Now they’re coming fast and hard. Ribs. Shoulders. Head. They’re all taking real bad hits. Granny probably told me what I oughta be doing if this happens, but my brain ain’t working so good right now.

So I do what comes natural: work harder. He’s standing his ground and throwing dynamite. I can do that, too. I can do it better than anypony else. I should be doing something smart, like Apple Bloom would, but his hoof rattles my jaw again, and I just can’t think of nothing. Can’t hear nothing. Can’t barely see nothing between the spots and the swelling. So I work harder. It’s what’s always served me and the family best.

I slide my right hind hoof back and out to the side a little further, then drop my crouch. It feels real solid. Down here, at his level, I can add the power of my legs to what I throw at him. I cock my hoof back and bury it into his chest.

The air explodes oughta his lungs, but it don’t stop him none. Something powerful’s driving this unicorn. I’ve hit him with blows that have ended careers, but he ain’t giving up, and that’s real bad news. It means he’s like me. He ain’t got no choice. He has to win… or else.

So we stand, hoof to hoof, and see who’s got the will. Even now, he’s still moving better than me. I only land maybe one in five blows because his upper body’s in motion all the time. He slips these punches by a hair and just comes right in underneath.

But I got my own advantages here. Standing like this, every time I connect, his whole body trembles. What was once a fearsome snarl’s turning more and more into a grimace of pain. He knows he can’t take much more, and he knows that I know.

Things speed up. He goes high, and I nearly fall when he catches my chin again. I go low, and I hear a rib snap when I ram a hook to the body with all the power I can muster at this point. He comes back with a straight left that blurs the vision in one of my eyes. I catch him with an uppercut. He throws a hard, fast garbage punch that chops down across my cheek bone.

We’re both outta control. Neither of us even aiming any more. We’re just standing here throwing whatever haymakers we got left. I’m wheezing. Air’s real tough to get. The crowd falls away, and it’s just him and me again. Over and over, he catches me, and the ring’s back to feeling slippery. It feels like the mat’s just gonna slide right out from under me.

Gotta take some decent breaths, so I spit out my mouthpiece and lunge in. I take one to my eye, but it don’t matter none. It’s gotta end. I ain’t got another one of these rounds in me. If we go to the fifth, I’m likely done for. My mouth’s hanging open like some rookie, but I’m like to pass out if I don’t get more air. Twisting my body, I cock my right hoof back and let it fly.

Blueblood gasps and stumbles when I catch him in the ribs again. The snapping sound’s a lot louder this time. I want to hang back and use the time to get a little more of my breath back, but I can’t. This is it. If I can’t get the job done right now, the Apple family loses everything we worked so hard for. We lose what my family died to try and keep. What my sister died trying to improve.

He’s leaning to the side now, his left leg pressed firmly over his ribs. I hit it anyway. Then I hit it again. He throws a wild cross, and catches me on the eyebrow. I can feel the blood pouring down my face, but I try to ignore it. Seems like it must be bad, but Uppercut probably ain’t gonna stop the fight at this point. The crowd would tear this place apart.

Blueblood tries to get back into a solid stance, but I slam a hoof through his defenses. It cracks against his eye, and he takes a step backward. He’s off balance and in trouble now. I hop forward to close the distance, then unload.

I think of my dad. Hook to the body. My mom. Cross to the nose. Applejack. Hook to the temple. All the hurt that my family’s been through. All the misery. All the bad times. I let it all flow into these hooves, and I hammer them into this stallion in front of me.

I hear things breaking, but his will ain’t one of them. He’s trying real hard to survive, and that bells gonna ring any second. Every boxer knows that time slows down when you’re fighting, but it feels like this round’s been going for weeks. He throws one or two counterpunches, but there just ain’t much there. He can’t get no air around them busted ribs, and his eyes are so swollen he probably can’t see much of anything. Still, he’s trying to come on.

I forget form. I forget all about training. I crank my right back and let it crash into his head. Then I do it again. And again. And again. My visions almost gone now. The black spots are whirling thick as a swarm of bees, and I feel faint, but I do it over and over and over.

And then Uppercut’s there. He jumps in and waves his hooves over his head. He’s yelling something, but I can’t understand any of what he’s saying. Don’t matter none. It just means the fight’s over.

I’ve won.

The Minutes After

It don’t feel all that much like winning when I step back from Blueblood. His blood’s leaking out across the canvas, and he looks real still. Uppercut raises my hoof, but I don’t pay that no mind. I’m looking at Blueblood. For a moment, I don’t see it, and my blood goes cold, but then it happens. His chest rises and falls, and Uppercut and I share a nod. We both feel the weight lift off us a little.

With the bout over, I try and drop back down onto all fours, but the second my front hooves hit the canvas, this great big pain shoots through them. All of a sudden, I’m laying on the canvas, too, and Granny and Apple Bloom are running out to see to me.

Ain’t never happened to me before, but I’ve heard of it. A fighter hits so hard that they fracture their hooves up without even realizing it’s happening. I’m laying there, clutching my hooves to my chest and watching Blueblood’s team drag him outta the ring. He still ain’t really moved none.

Granny and Apple Bloom are trying to pull me out, but I’m too much for them. It’d feel real good to have somepony pick me up and carry me out, but they can’t do it, and that kinda stuff don’t look good in front of the crowd. It’s hard. Maybe the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I get my hind hooves under me, and I stand up. Granny Smith’s right there to give me some support, but I try not to lean on her too much. She can barely walk as it is.

The crowd’s still screaming as we make our way back to the locker room. We gave them exactly what they wanted. It’ll be all the town talks about for weeks. Even though he lost, Blueblood’s made a name for himself in this circuit now, and I’ve racked up a win against somepony that they all could see was a tough customer. We’ve both come out ahead.

I try to remember that when I look down at my ruined hooves, then back over to where they’re loading Blueblood onto a stretcher.

Up ahead, Apple Bloom pushes open the door, then lets it swing shut when Granny and I get through. The closing door slices through the noise like a reaping blade. The crowd’s screaming transforms into something low and steady. It ebbs and flows, like the heartbeat of this place. This arena lives off of broken stallions.

I hop onto the stool, and it all comes out. I hate this part, but it happens every time. Here, away from the crowd, I can finally relax, and when I do, I just start bawling. I guess all that pain’s gotta go someplace.

Granny Smith wraps her hooves around me. She’s gently rocking me back and forth and whispering stuff into my ear. I can’t really understand it yet. Getting punched really messes up your hearing for a while, but the tone still soothes. Beside me, Apple Bloom’s rubbing my back. She knows talking ain’t gonna do nothing for me.

So I cry. Hooves covering my face, I just try to get it over with. Little flashes of the fight come back to me, and the tears flow harder. The sound of breaking ribs. Uppercut as he stood over me, counting down the loss of our farm. The way I tried to hurt Blueblood at the end. The way I wanted to hurt him for being so stubborn.

And more than anything, I’m crying for Blueblood. Whatever he was fighting so hard for, I just took it away. Granny told me he’s a criminal. She told me he’s a jerk. Well, ponies say a lot of things, but all I know is that he fought like a desperate stallion tonight, and fighters usually fight like desperate stallions when they’re desperate. I did what I had to do, but I’ve got to go to bed tonight knowing that I probably just ruined some pony’s life. They’ll say it was me or him, but that don’t do no good. The world should be better than that, but it ain’t.

Ponies say it was, long ago. They say that Equestria was bright and sunny. That the princesses ruled in harmony before Celestia banished her sister. But nopony’s seen the princess in generations. The sun barely rises, and sometimes the moon doesn’t drop down below the horizon. More and more, it’s just always twilight. Granny Smith says it’s grief that’s done it.

I don’t know much about that. I got my doubts as to whether some all-powerful pony controls everything, but if she’s actually real, then I can’t say I think much of a ruler that don’t try to take care of her subjects. It don’t matter what’s she’s lost, that just ain’t right. But I ain’t got the power to change things. My hooves are full right here. They’re busted up pretty good, and in a month’s time, that bill will come due again. We’ll need the bits just as bad as we did tonight.

So we’ll start it all over. I’ll cry tonight. I’ll go to the doc tomorrow and start healing up. In a week, Granny will find a new opponent, and I’ll start training. Two or three after that, and we’ll have another fight. Then I’ll cry again.

Granny tells me it ain’t long now. Just a year. Maybe two. Then we’ll be out from under these bills. I nod and say, “Yup,” but it ain’t so, and we both know it. That plow’s about to fall apart, the barn needs repairs, and that saggy hip that Granny Smith thinks she’s hiding from us all needs looking at. Somewhere in all of that, we gotta get some money together for Apple Bloom’s schooling. She’s too smart to waste her life working the worthless fields we got here.

And so we all lie to each to each other that it’s almost over. That I’ll be able to stop hurting folks, and getting hurt in return. We all lie to each other, and we all lie about knowing we’re lying. Otherwise, it’s too hard to get by.

I catch my reflection in the cracked mirror across the room. The fur’s matted beneath my eyes, and I’m beat all to hell. Granny Smith’s beside me, patting me on the back, but it’s Apple Bloom who I’m fretting over. She looks real worried, but also real proud. Like I did something out there. It ain’t what I want her to think about all this. I’ve told her that, but I’m her big brother. I’m the one that’s holding us together. I guess it’s natural that she looks up to me like I did a great thing tonight. And, in a way, I guess I did. Something great and terrible at the same time.

I hate this. We all do. But we all kind of love it, too. We keep doing it, over and over. Lying to ourselves again and again. But truth is, Apples have always made their own way. We tried to do it with trees, but it ain’t worked out so much. Now we do it with damage. Granny Smith plants seeds of violence, and Apple Bloom tends to them. They grow, strong and hateful, until it’s time for me to harvest them in that ring. Then the season’s over, and the planting starts again.

We tell ourselves this is about the farm, and we’ll keep on telling ourselves that, but we all really know what it’s about. Pain’s the Apple family’s new crop now.

We finally figured out how to get something to grow just right.

Author's Note

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