Mistakes, Redemption, and Beer
It just had to be the frog, didn’t it?
Trixie’s aim was usually fairly decent. However, when dodging various fruits, one’s accuracy tends to not hold to the usual standards. Considering that, the spotlight shining in her face, and the continuous booing of the crowd, it was little surprise that her shrinking spell didn’t find its target.
But honestly, it would have been better if it had hit the manager. At least then she would have been able to get away with the bits she’d collected, instead of being thrown out onto the street without even—wait.
The damned mouth breathers had taken her hat.
Well, there was no getting it back after that scene. After all, they couldn’t be the Froghop without the frog, and she wasn’t allowed back in until somepony located the blasted amphibian, which she couldn’t imagine would be anytime soon.
How many bits did she have, anyway? Not enough that she could waste a few on a drink, but she could probably get some lovestruck moron to buy her one. To the bar it was, then.
She always seemed to end up back there sooner or later.
The Coughing Cobra was a relatively well-kept establishment as far as bars went. The name was almost childishly alliterative, but accurate, considering all the tired, sickly commoners that seemed to dwell around the place. In truth, it was a marvel that the place was so clean, but what mattered was that it had cheap beer and dumb stallions willing to buy it for her.
Or at least it usually did. There seemed to be a distinct lack of stallions today, aside from the bartender, aptly named Tall Glass, who she’d long learned was immune to her feminine charm. She reluctantly sat down with a long sigh, letting her face land on the counter with a thump.
“Why the long face, Trix?” A voice from somewhere in front of her asked with the distinctive accent of a Manehattanite.
“Oh, you know. Another day, another place The Great and Powerful Trixie can never set foot again.” She replied drily, sitting up with a quiet grumble. “Don’t have any bits to spare today, Tall, could I just have a glass of water?”
“Sure thing.”
“Thanks.”
As the lanky, pine-coated stallion began filling the glass, Trixie reflected on how many places she’d been kicked out of. Canterlot, Ponyville, Baltimare, Appleoosa… They were all just tally marks on an ever-growing prison wall now. She’d managed to stay in Fillydelphia without being banished out of the town, but eventually she was going to run out of businesses she could perform at, probably very soon once word started spreading. And it always did. Eventually she’d walk into a restaurant and somepony would say, “Hey! That’s the one who shrunk down the frog at the Froghop!”, or perhaps, “Didn’t she bring an Ursa Minor into Ponyville?”
The ignorant fools still blamed her for that, certainly. That was how it always went. And nobody would take her word against that of someone they trusted. Why should they? She was a stranger. A criminal even, although some poor stallion by the name of Troubleshoes had taken the blame for that particular incident.
All she wanted was some recognition; for someone to appreciate her talent. Sadly, illusion magic wasn’t an art many ponies seemed to appreciate anymore. It was almost as if her career had been over the moment it started.
“On second thought… Trixie needs some beer. The cheap kind.”
“Rough day?” Tall Glass replied, sparing barely a glance for Trixie as he got out a fresh glass.
“An existential crisis, you might say." The exhausted showmare commented vaguely. "How much was it again? Two bits?”
“One." The bartender corrected, pulling the glass from under the tap. "Half off on Tuesdays.”
“Right.” Trixie slid the coin across the counter and took a long sip from the frothy drink, knowing full well that it was Wednesday.
Click. Clack. Click. The quiet, staccato rhythm of a griffon's claws echoed through the empty street.
“This is your idea of a good time!? I've never met a lamer bunch of dweebs in all my life!”
The words rang through Gilda's head. They were among the last words she'd ever said to Rainbow Dash. How long had it been? A year? It felt like longer.
Whatever. She didn't care anymore. She just wanted to forget the whole thing.
“When you decide not to be lame anymore, give me a call.”
Gee, no wonder it sounded familiar. Being ditched because you're not cool enough? Oh boy, what does that sound like?
Where was she supposed to go, though? She didn't exactly know her way around Fillydelphia, and none of her "friends" had bothered to give her any information on how they planned to get her back home. She could ask for directions, but talking to anypony on the street this late was asking for trouble.
She'd just have to find some place to stay for the night, and once the sun came up, get the hell out of this town.
And then what? You have no family. No friends. No bucking clue how to get back home. Even Greta abandoned you.
"Shut up!" She muttered, momentarily ignoring that she was talking to herself. "I'll... I'll figure something out."
That's a lie and you know it.
"I--" her response was cut short as she noticed a dim light flickering in the distance. A neon sign in a window, with a picture of some sort of snake that seemed to be spitting or something.
The Coughing Cobra, read a sign above the door.
Well, I guess I’ve got nothing better to do…
Against her best instincts, she stepped inside.
Meanwhile, a few blocks away, a cyan-coated pegasus touched down onto the ground dejectedly, glancing around at the city streets of Fillydelphia.
“Where’s the nearest bar?” She asked a green-coated earth pony pacing nearby.
“You’re not going to the festival?” He replied, seeming confused.
“No.” She snapped, gritting her teeth. ”Where’s the fucking bar?”
The stallion blinked in surprise. This wasn’t an uncommon reaction; Lightning Dust wasn’t exactly known for her subtlety. “Uh… well, the Coughing Cobra is just a few blocks that way, on the left side.”
The pegasus grunted what might be interpreted as a “thank you” and walked in the direction of the bar.
Rejected. Disqualified. Removed. What could she have possibly done to deserve this? Sure, a few ponies had nearly been killed, but they survived, didn’t they? Besides, it wasn’t her fault they’d been stupid enough to fly a balloon into the Academy during a training session.
Rainbow had probably whined to Spitfire about the wing incident, too. So what? She hadn’t pushed her too hard. If Rainbow Dash let a fucking sprained wing stop her, maybe she didn't deserve to be a Wonderbolt.
The nerve of those assholes. Reckless? Unfit to lead? She was just doing what was necessary to succeed!
Wasn’t she?
She didn’t know anymore. Everything she thought she knew in life, everything she’d dreamed of, it had all been shattered. Nothing made sense.
She’d spent her whole life honing her skills, working hard to be one of them. If she wasn’t a Wonderbolt, what was she?
Worthless. Trash. Pussy-legs. All the names she’d been called came flooding back to her, the waves of suppressed doubt splashing about in her head for the first time in years.
No. She wasn’t going to let this happen again. She dragged her gaze to the neon lights above her, spitting onto the concrete below.
“Nothing like a shot of whiskey to clear the head.” She muttered to herself as she stepped across the threshold.