Author's Note
This one's for MC BRON3 and Howling Moon. May your basses be ever dropped.
Feel the Beat
Focus.
Come on man, focus! You know the drill. You enter, make contact, and execute, end of story. Honestly, you’ve been into more hot zones than any two vets could shake a stick at, so why are you still waiting outside like a green-horned rookie at the Bladed Gates? Just get your lily-livered rear in gear and move!
With that most excellent pep talk for motivation, Graves took a deep breath, straightened his broad, flat-brimmed hat, and walked in.
Sonata saw as he walked into the store, but didn’t pay him much mind. She was too preoccupied with her festive, fiesta lunch platter, which actually suited Graves just fine. He probably wouldn’t have been able to talk just then, so using the time it took to wind through the stacks of records, the marshal swallowed hard and worked to clear the lump clogging his throat.
Suddenly, there she was. Her back was turned, but few enough people wore white tank tops and fingerless gloves as it stood for it to be anyone else. Besides, he could have recognized that shock of electric blue hair anywhere, even without the–
No, focus! You’ve got a mission.
“Um… excuse me…”
She didn’t react. Made sense, considering the size of her headphones and the volume of his voice. Try again.
“Ah, excuse me…”
She heard. The headphones came off, and she looked up.
“Oh, hey there, marshal,” she grinned from behind her dark, violet shades. “How’s it hanging?”
“Not bad,” Graves coughed. “I, ah, realized we haven’t been formally introduced yet. Graves.”
“Vinyl. Vinyl Scratch,” the girl as she took his hand in a firm shake. “You might also know me by my stage name, DJ Pon3. I work the gigs around here.”
“Yeah, I know,” Graves replied in a low, gravelly rumble. “Saw you at Derpy and the Doctor’s wedding. You were good.”
“Man, that party was off the hook!” Vinyl Scratch beamed. “I was experimenting with some polyrhythm harmonics in the sub-bass when I got the idea to amp up the acoustic dissonance with a…” She paused. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”
The marshal’s blank stare said it all.
“Eh, that’s okay,” Vinyl shrugged. “Most people think that my musics all about the wubs. I mean, it totally is, but it’s not like making wubs is just pressing a button, you feel me?”
“Really?” Graves asked. “So... what does it involve?”
“Well first off, you've got to start out with a really good bass, and I'm talking something to restart a cardiac arrest good. From that sort of foundation, you start layering on the other affective elements, typically in a tri-oscillating convergence set, so that you can–” And then she paused again as the marshal's eyes glazed over faster than a donut under Mrs. Cake's expert hand. “You really don’t care about wubs, do you?”
“I, ah–”
“Uh uh, soldier boy,” Vinyl cut in with a waggle of her gloveless finger. “I can tell when someone’s feeling the beat, and you definitely ain’t feeling it.”
Graves tried to find an explanation, but ended up sighing with a wry grin of defeat.
“Was it that obvious?”
“Sort of,” Vinyl Scratch giggled. “You’re so out of rhythm, I might as well be tossing a tambourine down the stairs.”
“Heh, sorry.”
“Hey, no need to apologize,” she laughed as she gave him a friendly elbow in the ribs. “Just tell me what you’re really after. I won’t bite.”
“Well…” And here, it was the marshal’s turn to pause, because as color rushed to his face, he suddenly found it very hard to coherently string words together. “I came here because, I, ah… wanted to… talk to you?”
“Talk to me?” Vinyl Scratch intoned. “About what?”
“I’m… actually not sure,” Graves admitted as flush sprang to full crimson bloom.
Vinyl Scratch paused once more, only this time, it was long and thoughtful as she tapped her chin in contemplation, her face unreadable behind her violet shades. Finally, she spoke.
“Sorry man,” she sighed, “but we can’t talk if you don’t even know what it’s gonna be about.” And with that, Graves deflated faster than the pool floats under a fat man's seat.
“Oh. I see.”
“Yeah, that wasn’t cool on your part,” Vinyl Scratch shrugged as she grabbed a record and headed for the door, “so you better be ready to make up for it tonight.”
“… Hah?” Graves blinked. Vinyl Scratch turned and poked a finger into his chest.
“You. Me. The Olive. Nine o’clock. Bring ideas. Got it?”
“Uh… yeah,” Graves nodded dumbly. “But, ah… what… sort of ideas?”
At that, Vinyl Scratch finally lowered her shades, fixed the marshal with her ruby red eyes, and gave him a truly electrifying smile.
“You pick. Just bring that voice of yours, alright? I... like the way you talk.”
And with that, she dropped the bits and walked out the door.
Silently, Graves stood there, oblivious to Sonata’s gleeful clapping or anything else, for that matter. He’d done it. His hair-brained plan had actually worked! Now, all he had to do was wait for nightfall, meet Vinyl at the bar, and… bring… ideas for conversation…
…
… Buck.
**********
Author's Note
The Diplomat is a madman. This is true, for who else would have brought this tale about?
When Words Aren't Needed
Heavy, rhythmic, and solid, the sound of the hoe striking earth rang out over and over and over. Side by side, Big Macintosh and Graves tilled at the soil, their powerful muscles taut from exertion as calloused hands worked the land.
Straightening up, Graves cracked his back with a weary sigh. The sun beat down hot in the spring afternoon, and he was grateful for the shade provided by his broad, flat-brimmed hat. It didn’t stop the heat though, and sweat dripped from his brow as he paused for rest. To his side Big Macintosh did the same and ran a hand through his thick mane of hair before shaking it out in rippling waves of sun-warmed gold.
There were no words, but a silent conversation was exchanged as grey eyes met green. As one, the men moved to doff their dampened shirts, undoing the buttons one by one with ease and casual grace. There was no concern in their motions. Why should there be? The two were comfortable with each other and shared an understanding that few others could see. Who would worry about details when a bond such as that existed?
As the last button came undone, the garments came off and exposed their torsos to the midday sun. The farmer was bigger, barrel-chested and brawny with rippling muscles built from long days and heavy loads. The soldier was leaner, with chiseled facets scarred from war and forged from years of precise, martial training. Different but the same, both men rolled their broad shoulders, cracked their sturdy necks, and relished in the warmth of daylight as it shone on their sweat-slicked forms.
The two walked to the fence surrounding the field, still not talking, still not needing to. As Big Macintosh leaned against the rough wood, Graves leaned over and picked up a canteen of water. After a long, satisfying drink, the marshal capped it, and tossed it to Big Macintosh. The brawny farmer did the same, then took the rest of the contents and poured it over his head.
Graves watched as the glittering stream splashed onto that golden mane, watched as the crystal droplets dripped down across his chest and into the rivulets of his abdominals. As Big Macintosh gave his dripping hair a casual shake, Graves knew what he had to do.
He approached the farmer. Green eyes watched as Graves stood before him, reaching one hand out to lean against the rail. Big Macintosh continued watching, saying nothing as Graves leaned in, his gunmetal grey eyes shining with purpose. Closer the two drew, still silent, still no need for words.
Closer…
Closer…
Closer, and…
“… That what you wanted?”
Turning his head, Graves directed the question towards the bales of hay where Twilight sat with quill and parchment in hand. She didn’t respond. She didn’t even seem to notice and instead began scribbling away with flushed, fevered cheeks.
“Guess it worked,” Graves shrugged as he spun around to lean against the rail as well. “Applejack ever tell you what this was all about?”
“Not really,” Big Mac shrugged. “Said Twilight needed help with a writin’ project. Somethin’ about ‘yowie’ or something.” Graves frowned.
“What the hay is ‘yowie’?”
“Beats me,” Big Mac shrugged once more. “But looks like she’s happy, so it all works out, I guess.” Graves nodded.
“Looks that way.”
And so, with favors fulfilled, Graves and Big Macintosh returned to their work, oblivious to the fact that their actions that day had birth countless stories that would ring out through the hushed annals of fiction for ages to come.
**********
