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Trump. Trump. Trump. Trump.
There were no lights this far outside of Ponyville.
This far from civilization, the street lamps were no longer warily guarding those that tread under them, and even the winding cobblestone and dirt roads were eaten alive by the ravenous and heavy snow. A number of chill winds rippled across the faded red scarf one after another, each one somehow managing to find little slips and cracks to slither into and bite at anything exposed to the elements.
Trump. Trump. Trump. Trump.
The slow stamping of his hooves sounded muffled and choked in the night air, every crunch felt underhoof seeming all the more stiff and unnaturally quiet. Still, Card could live with quiet. Sometimes it helped to drown out the noise.
Even though the spirits of frost and ice were evidently vengeful that night, no howl of the wind or bite of the cold would lift him from beneath his hanging tan mane; Trump Card was colder on the inside than he was on the outside.
Trump. Trump. Trump. Trump.
The simple wooden door to his hut was heaved open with great difficulty, the piles of snow almost too much to overcome. However, he managed to finally barge his way in, slipping breathlessly through the crack as the door smacked shut behind him, leaving him in the dark.
The fireplace was long since empty. Only a bare few ashes still remained. The grate beside it still held a couple of wood chips from its previous load, but it too shared the same loneliness as the fireplace. He didn't even bother removing the only protection he had in favor of something heavier, instead opting to peel open the old cabinets to rummage for a worn, stained shot glass. He was ginger with this; more cautious than if it had contained actual fire.
Trump carefully placed the glass before himself on the rickety wooden table, trembling as he collapsed into the only wooden chair with the bottle of amber liquid.
Forgoing the shot glass entirely, he popped the cork from the emerald bottle and drank deeply from it with one swift motion.
It burned as it went down, stinging his nostrils and warming his throat; he didn't stop though, downing a fifth, a fourth, a third... the bottle was half empty by the time he finally paused for breath. The warmth was welcome as it spread through him, finally warding off the ice in his veins. He dragged himself wearily from room to tiny room, a hastily lit candle almost burned to a nub resting on the table. Trump brought the bottle with him as he searched, tired eyes narrowing at the shadows. He found a couple of brushes in places that he didn't remember leaving them, but the containers of paint were nowhere to be found, regardless of how many times he checked in the same place, almost out of habit. He settled for bringing only a brush back to the little table, along with an empty canvas.
It was dropped unceremoniously onto the table before Trump realigned it standing up, the bottle at the forefront. It was like the emerald chimney was already painted, safely tucked away behind the curtain of canvas. Seen, but in another world entirely. One that he couldn't touch.
He traced the outline of the flask with his hoof for a few seconds, the weight of the scarf on his shoulders almost too much to bear. For a brief moment the fear that it would be enough to break his only chair struck him, but it was waved off as he reclaimed his glass prize.
The canvas, however pretty, was still blank.
Just like all the others.
Trump took another long draught, pausing as he brought the bottle to his lips again.
After all, what did it even matter that none of them would ever be filled? What did it matter that he froze every time he tried to present the images in his mind onto canvas? What did it matter that none of his exploits resulted in good luck? He'd been dealt his hand, and played his cards the way he saw fit.
No more bits for luck no more bits for paint no more bits for mares no more bits for drink no more bits for food no more bits-
The whiskey scorching his throat mysteriously ran dry as he gulped, his eyes burning as he carelessly tossed the bottle into the corner with a myriad of multicolored cousins, each as bone dry as the last. What did it matter, anyway.
He subconsciously shrugged to nopony, collapsing back into the creaky wooden chair. After a moment, he pulled his limbs a little closer for warmth, wrapping his scarlet scarf a little tighter and pretending that his hooves weren't trembling as he reached once again for the brush. Sweeping mountainous landscapes with dappled sunlight cheerfully dancing off of leaves of the greenest green, maybe that would be the one. Someplace warm, someplace quiet. Or maybe his old 'buddies' who were always happy to encourage him so long as he were betting heavily, how they drank and laughed long into the night with cigar smoke twirling like a smoggy tornado above their heads, poker cards jealously guarded, shielding suspicious eyes and false bravado.
Trump felt along the lines inside the canvas, showing him precisely where everything lay. With perfect memory, he could recall even the number of little red chips he'd had when he bet his last bit, desperately pleading with whatever deities above that might listen to just let him earn back his losses.
There came a time, however, to cut one's losses; somewhere deep down, Trump acknowledged this at the same time as he realized that he'd been etching memories onto the pale surface all this time without any paint.
The warmth that had previously accompanied him had cruelly left too soon. All he was left with was a spinning sensation whenever he blinked for too long, and a dizzy nauseousness in his stomach. Trump took another long, pensive look at the canvas, then back to the dry brush. His eyes meandered forlornly around his kitchen, as if searching for an answer amongst the cupboards. Trump, finding none forthcoming, quietly sighed and woozily stood, leaving the chair where it lay when it fell to the floor. His closet was nearly as bare as the cabinets, the still mud specked boots tucked haphazardly together.
Trump stared with wide bloodshot eyes at the serpentine object he held in one hoof. He let the rough texture of it etch into his memory as he ran the coarse length over his hoof, each ridge and turn of it tugging a little more at him, leading him along as if he could follow it somewhere warmer.
With a quiet sigh, he wordlessly placed the small length of coiled rope back inside, and left to dig for another bottle.
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Author's Note
Happy Spooktober.
