Busted an axle in the downpour. Shoulda expected it. 'S what comes with having bad luck as a special talent.
The rain came down like the sky'd been cut open. One minute, grey skies -- the next, thunderstorms. Had a timetable of the comings and goings of the weather, but the thing blew out of my hooves last time I went to check it. Crest of a hill, that was, looked right over a nice patch of woods, and I got to see it sail off into the air and vanish into the trees. Paid good money for it, too, though it might've been the pegasus I paid it to was a mite crooked. Don't know if it amounts to good fortune or bad if fate 'n circumstance rid you of a shady map. Might be about breaking even, I reckon, which is the best ol' Troubleshoes gets to hope for.
The road from here to Hoof City ain't paved, but it is full of big rocks that'll give some purchase in the rain. That's good, but the way the caravan's gone down 's wedged it between two big ones that run deep in the earth, so I can't haul it out of the way and under a tree. Gotta fix it here, then. Gotta fix it now, if I wanna keep up with the rodeo circuit. Gotta fix it in the rain.
Go in to fetch my tools. Smack my head on the frame of the door. Some of the paint's chipped away up there. Gotta paint over that, too. When I have the time.
-/-
Rolled into Hoof City late into the night. Whole town was shut down by then. Was looking forward to a warm meal. Have to make do with old hay. Least I don't gotta pay for that.
Take some time to park the caravan. Gotta find somewhere flat so it don't decide to wander off in the night and wake me up at the bottom of a lake. Gotta be away from trees, 'n case one feels the need to fall over and take out the half of the caravan I don't sleep in. (If'n it took the other half, I wouldn't have much cause to worry about it or much else, would I?) Gotta be far enough out of town that the townsfolk can't complain about strange ponies showing up and not announcing themselves, if they're the type to like to complain, and gotta be far enough in the town that critters won't feel the urge to come and investigate.
It takes some time.
Find a spot that looks decent. Get inside. Smack my head doing so. Shoulda bought a bigger caravan. Couldn't've mustered up the bits to do so when I did. Find a new hole in the roof that must've opened up in the storm. Bed ain't so wet. Food is.
Eat m' damp hay. Feel an itch in my chest. Try to warm up the caravan, but I can't get any of the matches to light. Shouldn't sleep with a fire going in the first place.
Go to bed in the dark. Cough.
-/-
By morning it's a full-blown cold. Can't hear the sneezes over the bustle of the crowds, though: rodeo's started.
Wait until it sounds like the events are starting. Going out into big herds is never a wise idea. Eat some more hay. It's dried a bit. Remember the door frame. Duck under it. Misstep. Trip. Sprawl out into the dirt. Can't win.
Mosey up to the main ring. Quiet ain't exactly in my nature, but Troubleshoes can be unobtrusive if he makes the effort. Avoid the stands and creep around a big stack of barrels to watch the event. It's a hog tie. Two pegasi competing. Unusual, that.
Just once, I'd love to try my hoof at it. Think I could do a bang-up job of it, too. It'd be a fool that said I wasn't powerful strong just by looking at me, and I can toss a rope a fair ways. Know my way around knots, too, better'n most. But it just ain't in the cards, not with this here bad-luck charm branded right on my flank. Rope an' critters running wild an' yours truly is a surefire recipe for disaster. It'll have to be in another life.
Lean up against a barrel to get a better look at the winner. Squint into the glare of the sun. Sneeze.
Knock the bottom-most barrel out of its stack. That stack falls into its neighbor, which falls into its neighbor, which sends the whole shebang crashing down. Barrels tumble all over.
Chaos.
Slink away to unhitch my caravan. Tales of how you didn't mean to do what you did fall on deaf ears, more often 'n not.
Least I get a head start on my way to Pinto Creek.
-/-
Caught in another storm. Crack a wheel this time. Know better than to try to mend it out on a road that's turned to mud in the rain. Come inside to patch it up. Smack my head.
It's not five minutes that pass before I hear a knock at my door. Open it up. See a mare shivering in the rain. A fellow road-rider. Let her in. Start some cocoa.
She's some kind of stage act. Traveling magician. Says her name a lot but I don't remember it. Bad with names. Never really had much use for 'em. Never been close enough to anypony to've needed one. She tells me, avoid Ponyville. Nothing but trouble there. I tell here there ain't nothing but trouble here, either. She laughs like I've made a joke.
Burn the cocoa. Start a new batch.
Ask her if she knows anything about fixing wheels. She says she don't mess with wheels if she can help it. Typical.
Wait for the glue to dry. Wait for the rain to stop. Play some cards. She beats me every hand. Good that we're both dirt poor, else she would've cleaned me out.
-/-
Haul my caravan out to Pinto Creek. Tried to eat some grass on the way. Couldn't tell until it was too late that some woodland critter'd already been there and marked it. Can't smell a thing with this cold. Ate some soggy hay to get the taste from my mouth.
Ponies're setting up for the rodeo, stacking bales, herding cattle, building stands. Can't see much from my doorway. Step outside. Stretch out a hoof, then another, so I'm half in and half out of the caravan. Bring my back hooves down to the ground one at a time. Like a spring deer taking its first steps. Look a right fool. Hear some giggling from a pair of ponies that pass my way. Best outcome I could expect.
Be a while before any events start. Wait by the big pen full o' steer. Cattle are nice. Calm. Don't feel the need to make all that much conversation. Suits me just fine. Lean up on the fence.
Hear a noise.
Something's dropped out of the pen. Looks like a bolt or a pin or something. Lean down to pick it up. Knock a section of fence wild. It crashes to the ground and makes a heck of a racket. One of the cows spooks. Which means all of the cows spook.
Hightail it out of there before I'm caught in the stampede.
No rodeo at Pinto Creek this year.
-/-
Stop at an inn the next night. Prices look reasonable. Place looks small. Probably don't have a bed big enough for a fella like me. Eating something other than moist hay will be a welcome change.
Inn's run by a family: father keeps board, mother cooks, little colt gallops under everypony's legs. Seem nice. Friendly. They tell me the place used to be a big old barn. They turned it into a home, but there was still space left over, so they turned the rest into an inn once they cleared out the mice. Father says he couldn't get them to pay for their rooms on time. Laugh. Feels strange. Out of practice. Cough.
Little colt says I'm the biggest pony he's ever seen. I ask, is that a fact? Uh-huh, he says. Mother shoos him away. He keeps staring from the foot of the steps until he's chased upstairs at his bedtime.
Ask for a bowl of soup. Heard it was good for colds. Hits the spot something fierce. Only a couple o' bits. Could eat it day in day out. Probably won't sit well with me. Probably spend all night in the latrine.
Turn in for the night. Trip on the top step. Mother starts to say something about meaning to fix that something-or-other. Tell her it was just good old-fashioned clumsiness.
Room looks clean. Bed's small. Have slept in smaller.
Cough. Look for a lantern. Light it on the first try. Shake out the match before it can burn my lips. Check my route for tomorrow.
Curtains flap. Window is open a crack. Get up to close it. Darn thing seems stuck. Give it a good yank. Won't budge. About to have at it with full force. See myself breaking the window. Can't pay to replace it. Don't know how close the nearest doctor would be if I needed stitching up, either. Reconsider.
Window seems caught on something. Find a latch that holds it in place. Fumble with it. It's at a difficult angle. Big hooves weren't meant for this. Finally pop the clasp out. Shut the window.
See in the reflection that the room is on fire.
Lantern must've tipped over. Doesn't matter how it happened. What matters is between me and the door is a wall of flames.
Too big by now to smother it with the little blanket on the bed. Too risky to charge the door. See the blaze start to take the rug I'm standing on. Look back out the window. Only really one option left.
Open the window back up. Wriggle out. Stick a little around my barrel. Window wasn't built for a pony big as me at all.
Lose balance when I hear something loud pop behind me. Fall out the rest of the way. Land on the ground below. Twist in the air somehow so most of the fall goes into my shoulder. Drag myself to my hooves. Can still walk. Not bad.
Roof's on fire now. Old wooden barn, doesn't take much for it to go up.
Don't go back inside. Call out. Don't hear any response. Fire's roaring like a dragon now. Could be I can't hear them. Could be they can't hear me.
Leave before the whole place burns down.
Maybe the family made it out. Maybe they didn't. I don't know. Maybe somepony saved 'em. Maybe they saved themselves.
What I do know is, they don't need to be saved by the likes of me.
-/-
Axle broke again on the way to Appleoosa. Smacked my head on the door going in to get the glue. Never did find the time to get paint.
Author's Note
"Man of Constant Sorrow" was a folk song of dubious origin until the Coen brothers repopularised it in O Brother, Where Art Thou?
