Gilda & Big Mac’s Eggcellent Adventure

Like most bad ideas throughout history, this one was born of a single beer. The beer would deny this, of course, placing blame entirely on the shots that followed, consisting of whiskey, vermouth, gin, schnapps, and some of that blue bottle behind the bar. The barkeep had never quite figured out what exactly it contained, only that it made for excellent brass polish. Suffice it to say, the amount of alcohol that had been consumed would have been enough to put most stallions under the table and into a coma.

However, Big Macintosh wasn't most stallions. He was, at most, pleasantly buzzed. Not that he drank too often. Applejack and Granny Smith frowned on that sort of thing, and that was part of the reason they weren't here.

Every year, the Equestrian Growers Association held its annual convention in Las Pegasus. Granny called the city, the convention, and that whole end of Equestria a 'Den of Sin and In-ekkity.' Applejack's phrase was a bit more colorful. Big Mac didn't mind; sometimes a stallion needed time away from the mares in his life.

Eeyup, a solo trip had its perks. Meant he got to do things Applejack and Granny disapproved of, like hanging out at a bar with his favorite cousin. A wise stallion once said, 'Only drink with your true buddies. 'Cause only a true, true friend holds your mane outta your eyes while you worship at the altar of the porcelain god,' and there was no better buddy in Big Mac's book than Braeburn Apple.

"Viva Las Pegasus, cuz!" Braeburn raised his glass in the general direction of his lips, or at least tried.

"Eeyup." Big Mac clinked his tumbler against his cousin's.

Granny always said Braeburn was a bad influence. For the life of him, Big Mac couldn't figure out the reason why. Sure they stole a few pies, let out the sheep, and almost broke all their legs carting down a hill—normal coltish mischief when they were young'uns, but it's not like they ever been arrested. At least, not yet.

Braeburn polished off his bourbon—he always ordered bourbon just because he thought it sounded funny—and signalled for another before turning to his larger cousin with his usual affable smile on his face. "You ready for the night's challenge, cuz?"

Big Mac smiled back. Oh yes, the challenge. Something Granny and AJ would really disapprove of.

Now, back in Ponyville, Big Macintosh was known as a strong, silent stallion with bit of a shy streak when it came to the opposite sex. But here, thanks to Mister Whiskey, he looked around the bar and liked what he saw: a veritable smorgasbord of pretty mares just waiting to be swept off their hooves by two strapping stallions.

Too bad it had become so easy. Hungry eyes had locked onto them both from the moment they'd entered the door, and they knew it. Braeburn, a devilishly handsome cowpony through and through, possessed roguish good looks, a flamboyant nature, and a hundred-watt smile bright enough to melt even the iciest mare's heart.

Perched next to him, hewn from living marble, Big Mac's chiseled physique and deep, soulful eyes tempted mares of all stripes to try a taste of Apple at least once. Maybe twice. Shoot, even mares whose door swung the other way tended to stop and ask if there were any mares like him back home on the farm. (He may or may not have given a few of them his sister's business card).

So, to make the night more interesting, one stallion would select a mare for the other to try and pick up by the end of the night, and tonight it was Braeburn's turn to choose.

The larger stallion wasn't worried in the least. It went without saying that Big Mac had never lost.

Not that they were creeps about it. Heavens no. They were Apple stallions. And Apple stallions were raised to be gentlecolts. There were strict rules: Singles only. Be upfront about how this was a one time thing. Even if everypony knew what happens in Las Pegasus stays in Las Pegasus.

If the nudge Big Mac felt to his side was any indication, it appeared Braeburn had finally made his selection. "How do you feel 'bout somethin' different there, cuz? Like say…. That one over there?"

Big Mac followed his cousin's wavering hoof—or tried to, at least, the way it kept bouncing from one awful choice to the next. A mare old enough to be Granny's sister, a pegasus caked with so much makeup Mac was pretty sure she was a stallion, then an actual stallion.

A light punch to Braeburn's shoulder put a stop to the meandering hoof, and now it pointed toward a lone griffon nursing her beer quietly in the back. A small collection of empty shot glass forming a pyramid at her side appeared to be her only company, and the bar's other patrons were conspicuously absent from the surrounding tables. Mac didn't have much if any experience with members of Equestria's oldest ally, so he didn't know what they'd consider attractive, but he had to admit she held an exotic appeal.

Sleek, well built. Beefier than what he usually went for. Frankly, he liked his mares soft and cuddly. Too much hard muscle, and it felt like hugging Applejack. Big Mac's skin crawled at the mere thought.

Downing another shot, he let his eyes trail over the griffon's tight body. He had to admit her curves were in all the right places. Kinda reminded him of Rainbow Dash in a way, clearly athletic, but in a heavier way than the speedy pegasus.

As he admired her form—especially the way her thigh muscles twitched—Mac heard Braeburn call the bartender over. The greying unicorn sprouted a magnificent handlebar mustache from his upper lip. A cleaning rag drying a glass trailed in his magic. Big Mac wondered what he'd look like with facial hair like that. Probably even more rugged.

"So… What's the word on that griffon over yonder?" Braeburn inquired in a hushed voice, leaning forward with a badly suppressed grin.

"Who, Gilda? She's a regular. Works as a bouncer at some of the clubs around here—wait." The rag ceased wiping the glass, and he fixed the stallions with a frown. "You're not thinking of…" His mustache quivered in an almost hypnotic fashion. "Let me offer you young gentlecolts a piece of advice. Best leave that bird alone. Got a real bad attitude and a mean streak a mile wide. Last guy who tried to get fresh with her left with a couple of broken bones. And between you and me," he leaned down, voiced lowered, "lately, she's been… How can I say this? Broody."

Braeburn chuckled. "Now, now. Ain't a mare alive, or hen… or whatever it is they call a girl griffon, that can my cousin can't wrangle. Unless she's already an Apple, that is. Right, cuz?"

Now, Big Macintosh was a stallion of good common sense. He could smell an ill notion a mile away. Living in a town like Ponyville tended to instill that virtue in a pony, and now his common sense was screaming at him to heed the old bartender's wisdom. Well, that and any idea that had Braeburn this excited was sure to end with broken bones or worse.

Mister Whiskey, however, said, "Eeyup." A night of exotic fun with a griffon sounded like the best idea ever in the history of ideas, and Mister Whiskey knew good ideas. He was a genius.

The bartender just shook his head with a precautionary, "Your funeral then, sir," before leaving to serve more sane patrons.

With a snort, Big Mac stepped down from his stool. "Hold my drink, Braeburn. Watch and learn." That barkeep didn't know what he was on about. Big Mac had this.

Swaggering through the bar crowd, he grabbed a glass of water from a passing waitress, and placing it in front of his quarry, he sat down. Big Mac propped his chin on one hoof and shot her his best line, "Hey there, beautiful. Thought you could use this here glass o' water on account of you being so hot."

Big Mac waggled his eyebrows and waited for the griffon to melt into his hooves.

Gilda looked up from her beer and blinked. Once. Twice. "What?"

"Just saying a big girl like you must have a healthy appetite. How 'bout I treat you to dinner. You look mighty hungry."

Her beak clicked once. "Dude—" her talons cut parallel grooves across the table "—did you just call me fat? Do you have some sort of death wish?"

At this point, Sergeant Common Sense noted, "Hey, those claws look mighty sharp," and started waving its arms in the air, signaling a strategic withdrawal. Good thing Generalissimo-Doctor Whiskey, Ph.d was in command and didn't cotton to cowardice. Besides, looking over at the bar, Braeburn already had two cute mares hanging off him, twins. Can't return empty-hooved now. Next shot, fire!

"Darlin', if angels look like you, then maybe."

For a brief instant, he thought he'd scored a hit. Her left eye twitched and she lifted a claw only to drag it slowly down her face.

"Look, Red. Even if I was into ponies, which, just so you know, I'm not." Her beak turned up into a smirk—an impressive feat for a species without lips—and she leaned towards him allowing him a good look at her powerful arms and thick chest. "You wouldn't be able to handle this."

His own grin followed. Matching her movements, he place his own forelimb on the table, a light flex making the thick cords of muscles dance under his fine coat. "Little lady, you'd be surprised at how much I can handle."

Her beak was inches away from his face now. "Red, I eat ponies like you for breakfast." Her breath smelled of cheap beer and intimidation.

His grin didn't falter. "Then it's a good thing I'm here. 'Cause, like I told ya, you look mighty hungry."

A pause. Then she fell back in laughter. It was deep, from the belly; though it sounded more like a squawk to his ears. "Okay, Red, you made me laugh." She fixed him with an almost friendly expression after wiping a tear. "Not many ponies can do that so I'm gonna do you a solid by letting you walk outta here with all your legs intact." Her beak returned again, inches from his muzzle as her voice lowered to a rumble; the lion half of her he guessed. "You don't want to mess with me, little colt. Mine are bigger than yours."

There was only one possible answer to that. "Prove it."

Another pause, and her eye twitched again. Gilda scowled at his smirking face. "Okay, big boy. Let's see if you can back up that big mouth of yours," she growled, stretching a sinewy arm on the table. "Arm wrestling. You win," she scoffed as she said it, "then, yeah, I'll go out with ya. I win, you get outta my face."

It took all his willpower to keep from laughing as he agreed to her terms. Yeah, her arms were impressive. Brawny, with powerful looking biceps, but he was Big Macintosh Apple. And Big Macintosh Apple had limbs like a hydraulic press. But again, he was raised a gentlecolt. It wouldn't do to just slam her wrist down to the table right away. Nah, better to let her win at first. Draw it out and make her look good, so as not to hurt her pride. Just let it go back and forth for a bit, then finish her off. He'd had lots of practice doing this sorta thing with Applejack when they were younger, so he was pretty good at it.

Not that he'd ever tell AJ that.

It should be noted that this was all President Whiskey's plan. Vice-President Common Sense had submitted an angry letter of resignation, embezzled the treasury, and fled the country by this point.

It didn't take long for their table to be cleared. The spectacle attracted quite a crowd as they set up their arms. Braeburn, twins still hanging off of him, hooted and hollered, riling up the onlookers. Big Mac saw money change hooves. It wouldn't be Las Pegasus if that didn't happen. He hoped they bet on red.

Arms locked, his pastern gripped her claw. He keep his expression neutral as he flexed his bicep—a little show for the mares in the audience. By the oohs and ahhs, they liked what they saw. His opponent, in contrast, didn't look too impressed. Her own bicep swelled in retort.

"Better watch out, cuz!" hooted Braeburn. "Looks like the little lady's firin' back with guns of her own!"

The mustachioed barkeep acted as the referee. "Alright, you both know the rules. On the count of three, first hoof or talon that touches the table loses. One… Two… Three!"

Almost immediately, Big Macintosh's plan flew out the barroom window. She'd have slammed his hoof clear through the table within the first second if hadn't pushed back just in time.

Gilda sent him an arrogant smirk, and his own smile dropped into a thin line. This girl was no joke. There was power under those feathers.

Looked like he couldn't afford to play games this time. A puff exited his nostrils.

Serious it was then.

He grit his teeth and bore down, Slowly, slowly, he fought her arm down towards the table. He shot back a smug grin of his own until, with a low growl, she forced his arm back to start.

Several minutes went by, and Macintosh was getting frustrated. He just couldn't get the pendulum of victory to swing all the way in his favor. Each time he came close to a pin, the griffon would dig deep, finding something to battle back, then all of a sudden he'd be the one on the defensive.

By all rights, he should have won ages ago. He blamed the alcohol in his system; it made him sluggish. Mister Whiskey had turned traitor. Sweat beaded his forehead, trickling down his back.

His ears dropped flat against his skull as the crowd grew louder with each reversal of fortune. A brief glance showed the griffon wasn't faring any better, beak clamped shut in a tight grimace.

Their arms rippled and bulged against each other, but for the last minute hadn't budged.

His arm was getting tired, but he bet so was her's. His easy smile returned. He just needed to last, and he was sure he had more stamina in the tank than her. Maybe he would have lasted, but for the brief predatory glint he noticed in her eye.

He felt her talons flex.

Shink!

"Ouch!"

Slam!

And just like that, he'd lost. Sure, she cheated, but nopony appeared to have noticed. Didn't matter to his pride in any case. However it happened, the point was that for the first time in years, he, Big Macintosh Apple, had lost a hoof… that was an arm… well, a wrestling match.

Show finished, the crowd quickly dispersed, returning to their own tables and conversations, leaving behind the large stallion to nurse his wounded pride along with an achy shoulder. At least, the claw marks on his hoof hadn't broken the skin so he wasn't bleeding.

He saw Braeburn waving to him from the bar, a consolation beer next an empty stool. Maybe Big Mac could still salvage this night by chatting up one of the pretty things hanging off his cousin's neck. But as he made to leave, something powerful gripped his tail and dragged him back to the table.

"And just where do you think you're going, big boy?" a husky voice blew in his ear.

"A bet's a bet, ma'am. And I lost, so I'll be gettin' outta your feathers."

"Now hold on, Red." Gilda slunk around the stallion, rubbing against his solid barrel.

He caught her scent: sweat mixed with… something else.

"You almost beat me, and I don't lose. Ever. But don't feel too bad. You put up way better a fight than the wimps I usually get stuck with." She brandished her claws, chuckling darkly as she gave them a wiggle. "Yeah, one look at these babies, and they piss themselves.

"Not like you though, Red. You've got guts. I like that in a guy. Besides..." A sharp talon traced the deep contours of his chest as she sinuously flowed behind him, the short feathers of her chest brushing the nape of his neck. "That workout made me... hungry," she purred, "and I remember you promising me dinner. I'm thinking we go back to my place."

He felt a nibble on his ear. The touch of her beak felt unique, but not unpleasant. She certainly looked different. Gone was the perpetual scowl replaced by soft, flushed cheeks, and… Did she just lick her beak? "Err… What's gonna be on the menu?"

A low rumble. "...You."

Common Sense attempted to return with a warning, but was stranded on the other side of a raging river of hormones (and booze), settling for simply waving red flags frantically from the opposite shore while Mister Whiskey was trying to figure out just how Tab A would fit into Slot B, just in case.

He shuddered in excitement, and waved to his cousin as he was dragged out of the bar.

"I came as soon as I could, doc. How's my brother? Is he okay?"

"Well, baby doll, honey child," the doctor told Applejack after looking up from the chart. "Your bro is chilling right now, but when he was dropped off at our little shack, he was all shook up. Yeah-huh-uh."

Applejack squinted at oddly dressed physician. She had arrived at the hospital expecting to talk to a pony dressed in a lab coat, not a spangle-covered jumpsuit and cape. And was that pompadour perched on his head a wig? And what was with the fake antlers poking out of it? "What was your name again, pardner?"

"Love, baby. Doctor Burning Love. Licensed physician specializing in broken hearts. Oh yeah." The doctor struck a poise, hoof pointed towards the opposite wall.

Oh yeah, this was Las Pegasus. It made perfect sense for a doctor to be an Elkvis impersonator. "How...er… How bad we talkin'?" Applejack asked the gyrating pair of hips and rhinestones.

He flipped a page (and his hair, of course). "Let's see here: Multiple shallow lacerations covering his chest and back. Contusions and bite marks running the length of his neck. A dislocated shoulder, along with a broken forearm, and what looks to be a fractured pelvis. Frankly, little mama, the boy looks like he lost a fight with an amorous manticore. A night of a little too much shake, rattle, and roll, if you get my meaning. Ha-cha!"

"...Right." Applejack backed away from the weirdo slowly. "I'm just gonna mosey along now and take a gander for myself, thank ya kindly."

When she entered her brother's room, Applejack found him laying in bed, all bandaged up like a trussed up rodeo calf. So she did what any loving Apple-mare would do. She walked up to her brother, took off her hat, and proceeded to smack the darned fool grin off the lummox's face.

"Ya durn ijit!" Her stenson met his face again and again. "What did Granny always tell you 'bout drinkin'? Now I gotta make up for all the lost chores around the farm that you ain't gonna be able to do. If you weren't already laid up, I'd tan your hide myself! And you!" She spun on her fool cousin sitting quietly in the room's only chair.

He waved a meek hoof at her as the Angry Stetson of Discipline bore down on him. "Howdy there, cousin. Fancy meetin' you here."

"Don't you 'Howdy' me, Braeburn Apple!" she scolded while administering the same righteous punishment to the top of his head. It was too little or no good; Braeburn could easily buck apples using his noggin instead of his hooves. Heck, it would probably make him smarter. "Where the crabapples were you while your cousin was being shoved through a hay baler?"

Braeburn rubbed the back of his neck. "Well… Ya see, cuz. I kinda had my hooves full at the time."

She snorted. "Yeah, I bet they were. Probably full of some mare's rump, if I reckon correctly."

"Twins actually.Ow! I'd thank ya kindly to quit hitting me, Cousin AJ. Ow! They were twins, twins! Ow! I really didn't have a choice. Ow! Ow! Cousin Macintosh understands. It's Rule twenty-nine of the Stallion Code!"

"Eeyup." Her idiot brother nodded.

Applejack wasn't a stallion, however, so the sacredness of the code meant nothing to her. "You two really are thick-skulled ijits, ain't ya?! And don't think for second, Braeburn, that just 'cause you're a grown stallion that Granny won't set you over her knee the next time she sees ya!" She marched right up to her brother's bedside.

"And as for you, Big Macintosh Apple. What do you have to say for yourself? I darn well hope whatever debauchery you got up to with yer ladyfriend was worth lookin' like you got stampeded by an entire herd of buffalo. Well? Was it worth it?"

That darn smile came back, stretching from ear to ear and making those big green eyes twinkle like stars. "Eeyup."

ThreeMonthsLater

Apple Bloom answered a knock at the front door and found a large griffon with an overstuffed backpack strapped between her wings waiting on the other side.

"Yo," greeted the griffon, raising a hesitant claw. "Err… this Sweet Apple Acres?"

"Yessiree, that's what it says on the sign out front," Apple Bloom beamed. "You here lookin' for some apples, stranger?"

A crooked grin formed on her beak. "Yeah... you could say that. I'm looking for a Macintosh Apple," she said, reading off what Apple Bloom recognized as one of her brother's business cards—"Big, red, and juicy" written in bold letters.

"Sure! Just wait here, and I'll get him."

Closing the door, she hollered for her brother so loudly it echoed throughout the house, luring out the entire Apple household to inquire what all the ruckus was about.

"A griffon's here askin' for Big Mac," Apple Bloom told them.

"A griffon?" repeated Applejack, raising an eyebrow. "What's a griffon got business with you for, Mac?"

He shrugged and opened the door, then stopped. "G-gilda?" he stuttered. "Umm… What are you doin' here?"

"Hey there to you, too, Red." She smiled at him as she unhooked her cargo from her back. "Thought I'd drop by. Kinda got something here... we could sorta say you left behind at my place."

His mouth gaped wide open, his usual stalk of wheat falling to the ground as he backpedalled at the sight in front of him. Didn't get anywhere though. Not with his family boxing him in as they craned for a look at the watermelon-sized thing.

Held in her claws was an enormous egg. A shiny, red-speckled egg.

"Congratulations, Dad."