It was half past the thirteenth hour, or one-thirty, and Lickety Split couldn't enjoy his chocolate malt with the whipped cream he'd stirred in through his extra-medium horse-brand glass cup, yielding a creamy white swirl that wrapped around the malt from top to bottom, and the little eggshell-white milk balls he could—no, would never eat. The yeasty taste and the thick texture would have made him go insane if he drank it.
It was a waste of bits and a waste of a work hour.
My lunch hour, he thought, tapping his hooves on the table and taking a sip or two of the malt, which he spat back into the cup (a little filly had seen this and asked her mother "what's wrong with that stallion?"), is supposed to be fun.
On his usual work hour, he would come to this diner. He'd order a muffin, maybe a half coffee with two cubes and fill the rest of the cup with cream. He'd go sit down and read the magazine about the sweetest pastries and the sugary drinks that was on the table every day.
Then the war started.
The war would deprive them of sugar for the next few years. Performance enhancing, they'd say at the door, then walk in whether or not you object and no matter how loud you yell. They'd go to the kitchen, open every drawer, cut open every bag and steal every sweet in the house while joking that maybe you needed a salad, anyways, with all these sweets.
It was a quarter to the hour, and chocolate malts were the only legal source of sugar in the country.
"Sir, aren't you going to drink the malt?" a waiter said. "I made it for you."
Lickety Split hated malt. He shouted at the top of his lungs, "I want a muffin!"
The waiter gasped and stepped back a little. "...but I made it for y-"
Lickety Split slapped the waiter. The waiter touched his cheek. "W-why would y-"
"I want a goddamn muffin. There's nothing illegal about a muffin!"
Lickety Split got on the table and stood on his hind legs. Everyone in the diner looked at him (the little filly asked her mother what's "wrong with that stallion?"). "Why can't we just get some other sugar in this country? Malts are awful! Celestia be damned," he preached, picking up the chocolate malt.
"This is tyranny!" He dropped the malt on the floor, and it shattered flock-of-doves style, malt spilling everywhere.
Two Sugar Guards barged into the diner and surrounded the table, barely poking Lickety Split with their spears. The yellow one, who he recognized as French Fry, made eye contact with him.
French Fry who yelled, "Get on the ground! You're under arrest for sugar support!"
Lickety Split would not give them the peace when they were so guilty of stealing his sugar, his cakes, but most importantly the peace of forcing his only sugar intake to be the chocolate malts, with the whipped cream that he'd stirred in every time, with the little eggshell-white milk balls that he would never, ever consider putting in his mouth again.
"You have the right to shut your mouth! Anything you say is irrelevant!"
Sugar is the only peace.
"If a stallion, a damned fully grown stallion wants a muffin, he's getting a muffin! Come on, then!" Lickety Split said. He got off his hind legs, reared forward, and bucked French Fry in the nose, who was unfazed.
"You have the right to an attorney! If you cannot afford one, you are screwed! Do you understand these rights as I have given them to you?" French Fry's nose squirted blood everywhere, splattering the floor, himself, and chocolate malts with a red slush. He fell to the ground, screaming. "He broke my nose! Use lethal force!"
The other guard lightly poked Lickety Split's flank. "Sir, please! Calm down! Y-you have the-"
Lickety Split bucked him in the nose, too. The guard fell to the ground, belly up and bleeding from the nose. French Fry crawled to his comrade's body, eyes bulging and clearly holding in his tears. He put his head on the body and checked for breathing.
Thum-thump.
"Oh, thank Celestia, he's still alive." He turned to Lickety Split. "You're under arrest for assaulting a public servant! You have the right to shut . . ."
An explosion splattered mud all over the troops in the trench. Magic bolts of every color--red, purple, yellow, green--battered the dirt hills just above the trench and swam through the ocean of rain, sizzling as they impacted either ground or soldiers. Many troops within ran from destination to destination, never stopping. The rest were up top, firing bolts of their own, though many less bolts than the enemy's.
Shining Armor wiped the mud from his eyes. If he had to pick any time to see perfectly, this would be it. He had to keep track of his troops, and he could barely see them through the thick fog.
One troop he could see—Fresh Batch, who was the fourth-youngest soldier and only remaining communications in Shining Armor's platoon—was right next to him, spotting and marking targets for the pegastrike. His mouth moved constantly, the words barely discernible behind the explosions and the little fwips of bolts smacking dirt.
Shining Armor tapped Fresh Batch's shoulder, whose mouth stopped moving. He looked at his superior. "We need that pegastrike!"
Fresh Batch's Eastern Gallopean accent heavy, he said, "Big issue: I mark the targets, pegastrike no come."
"Oh, jeez." Shining Armor broke his gaze with Batch. He turned his head and saw a panorama of dead soldiers, of magic bolts instantly vaporizing the limbs of an entire squad, of unread letters, unused weapons, undone work, unfinished lives, death, fire, there goes another troop, death, vaporized limbs, gore, dead soldiers, unread letters, dogtags, un-
"Sir, is life all fine?"
A nearby explosion rocked the trench. That's it, then. No pegastrike.
Shining Armor looked into Batch's yellow eyes. Yellow . . . not a color I see very often. They're always blue, or bro-
"Sir?"
"You got family, kid?"
"The enemy is adv-"
"Hold me." Shining Armor hugged his platoonmate and sighed. Fresh Batch looked at the advancing enemy force and swallowed.
Author's Note
malt
/môlt/
noun
noun: malt
- delicious with sugar
