An Odyssey

So I was kicking the old pebble one fine morning, and guess who comes dragging his old lousy hooves around if not Caramel the bloody drunkard, my old buddy! “Hello there, Caramel,” says I, greeting the old buffoon kindly, “how’s it hanging?”

“Between the legs, as usual,” says the glorious buck, and we kept walking down the bloody street towards whatever there was out there.

I was just feeling thirst nibbling at my throat so I says to him, “Caramel, old buddy,” says I, “I’m afraid you’ve given up drink completely?”

So he nods, the esteemed buck that he is. “I never take a drop between a shot and a glass.”

So off we go to Barney’s Corner, down the bloody street, when suddenly there’s that colt who like pushed me a little in the street, but this one’s a tough one to fool, so I takes him by the neck and I says to him, “Wasn’t you just taking what’s not yours out of my saddlebag?” says I, and, by Celestia’s beard, here he is, bawling out, giving me back my shiny bit, crying something about his family, and hunger, and whatever. Sure, a likely story. I mean, it’s the bloody trust, man. You just lose the bloody trust in some ponies.

A trust, as my learnt colleagues definitely know, is a fiduciary relationship among three parties: a settlor (also referred to as grantor, transferor, trustor, or donor), in whom the initial interest and legal title is vested; a trustee, to whom the legal title is conveyed therein; and the beneficiaries, who are holders of the equitable title, and to whose merit the trustee is holding the legal title to the property (passive, or “dry” trust) or acting upon the property (active trust). As my learnt colleagues can clearly see, such a relationship wherein the title to the same property is divided between two parties, is, therefore, a relationship of split title wherein-

So we hit Barney’s, the nice half-basement that it is, and by Celestia’s beard, there he is, the Barbarian, saying hello to his second pint all by himself in the corner. “Greetings to the esteemed gentlecolt,” says I, tapping my hat aside. And Caramel, that bingy fool, just grins there like an idiot while the Barbarian, the plump, stately gentlecolt that he is, says a hello to me.

So we sit down at the table, and here’s Barney, ready to take the order. Barney, who thinks while you drink. Hehe. “What’s the select blend, Barbarian?” says I.

“The water of life, of which I am to drink freely,” says the esteemed gent.

“And you, Caramel?” says I.

“I support the senator’s point of view,” says he, the gentle soul, so I says to Barney to bring us three whiskies, and I says to the Barbarian, “How’s the Protect Our Foals committee working, Barbarian?”

“Poorly,” rasps the noble stud, taking a go at his glass. “We tried to propose that any gay propaganda is to be illegal, not just among minors, as it is now.” So he spits on the floor in disgust, he does, the cultured beast. “They said it’s not our concern. Not our bloody concern, they say!”

No propaganda of a same-sex relationship, or any claim that presents same-sex relationships in a positive light, and/or presents a same-sex relationship in a favourable light as compared to a heterosexual relationship, is to take place at any time in any publication. All such claims must be marked adult-only as per the Information Act of Celestial Year 1014. Failure to comply with the law will lead to a fine, confiscation of the publication, and, in case of a street riot, imprisonment.

“Calm down, Barbarian,” says I calmly. “Let the bloody fags spill whatever crap they want. Our foals are safe.” Foals! Psh! Like the one that tried to steal my bit, like that one. Well, lemme tell you something about those foals: I don’t give a bloody fuck what they do, or what happens to those bloody mongrels. Foals! Psh!

“How about a change of tune, Barbarian?” says Caramel, and, by Celestia’s beard, I felt right then that my throat sure wanted a gin to go with it.

So I says, “How about a gin-tonic, without the tonic,” says I.

“I agree with the esteemed orator,” says the Barbarian, mighty soul, so I asks Barney to bring us a round of gin, and I kinda start fooling around, telling about that Lyra mare that I tried to flirt with when I found out she was fully lesbian, the bloody bitch.

Lyra Heartstrings, the maid fair and of renowned beauty, was like a flower blossoming on the banks of river Canterlot. Her eyes, the gentle mint, that matched her mane so perfectly, mesmerised and charmed any passer-by. In addition, her immense skill with the musical instrument of an ancient age, the lyre, captured the attention of anypony who was privileged and honoured to have heard its sweet, soft tingling. Aye, Lyra Heartstrings was one of a kind, and it is no wonder that our noble, gentle knight has fallen for her grace. Alas, her heart was promised to another, not to mention of the same gender! Ah, the perversion could still never render the fair maid abnormal, for her beauty and glory was the subject of songs to be sung and ballads to be told.

“Which Lyra?” says Caramel, the ignoramus that he is.

“The Heartstrings one,” says I, “but alas, she only plays for the fillies’ team, the bloody faggot that she is.” And I just kept to my gin when the Barbarian speaks up wisely, the great scholar of equine minds.

“There just ain’t never been a stallion to fill her whole,” says the Barbarian. “They soon forget their fillyfooling dreams when there’s a fine mighty stud to ride them.”

“Amen, Barbarian,” says Caramel, and down the gin went. Bloody drunkard, I had a neat-o toast to propose! Blast him and his aunt till she cannot ride a carousel! What a blot of a horse, really.

“Barney, give us another round, and a pint of mercy with it!” says I, and here he is, Barney the Great Pone, carrying all those sweet sweet glasses, gin and porter.

So I raise my glass and cough so loud that even that Caramel, bloody drunk, stops the pint right at his lips. “To cocks!” says I, elegantly, much to the laughter of the Barbarian. “And to all stallions, all around Equestria.”

“Amen!” says the Barbarian, and, by Celestia’s beard, he downs the whole glass faster than my daddy lost virginity. Blast him and good health to the mighty!

The fine specimen defined as the Barbarian possessed a remarkably low alcohol tolerance. Despite that fact, or maybe in spite of it, his health deteriorated at a much slower pace than that of his peers. At his respectable age he was, still, a distinguished athlete, as well as a mighty poet, a solemn orator, and a general representative of the thinking public.

“Caramel, you think you could brawl another one?” says I, my drink completely depleted.

“Could a bird fly?” says the esteemed stud, and so I says to Barney to give us all a new one, and three pints to mark. Those bloody drunks! They always drink at your expense and you never even get a word of thanks. That bleeding Caramel!

And guess who enters the fine establishment? None other than Octavia Philarmonica, the notorious filly-fooler, the well-known cuckold, and, sometimes, a passy classical farter at the cello. “I’m sorry,” she says in that posh I-know-all accent of hers, “Is Silver Quill here?” Look around, you bloody bitch. Does it look like there’s somepony else but us three, you dumb stringer? By Celestia’s beard, what I hate more than posh classy faggots is smartass posh classy faggots!

“He’s nooot been here, pretty,” Caramel slurs, the bloody drunk. By Celestia’s beard, the bleeding drunkard cannot help make a fool of himself, just can he? “Wanna take a driiiink with ussss handsssome stallions?” And so, by Celestia, he pats the chair next to him! Bloody. Fucking. Drunk.

“No, thank you,” says the faggot mare, all scrunchy and grand like my daddy’s assfarts on Sundays. “This is not the company I sought.” Bloody fucking bleeding aristocrat, that bitch! Not the company she sought! Well, of course, she sought another filly-fooler to lick her fucking cunt right there in the pub. Especially considering the talk that her own faggot mare doesn’t give her quarter a fuck. The dirty, rotten wrench. Her mare, though, Vinyl: that one I’d tap for sure! And if talk be right she doesn’t play for the fillyfooling team solely. Neon Lights sure talked about how he ploughed her and nailed her like a cheap floorpanel.

“The bloody faggot,” says the Barbarian soon as the bitch is gone. “The bloody faggots are all about our country, brothers!” And, by Celestia’s beard, he slams the empty (!) glass against the table. “We must be ready, and face them with the same force that they threaten us with.” What can I say, if the Barbarian gets on the topic, he gets on the topic. And there’s no bloody way to get him off it. So the faggots, yeah, right, nopony likes them, but they exist like bloody mosquitoes. Crush the mosquitoes, sure, not a bad idea. Actually doing something like setting mosquito traps? Bitch, please. The law is against the faggots and the public is against the faggots and sometimes the Barbarian is just preaching to the choir. So he goes on and on about faggots and how they want equal rights and how they want marriage (psh! as if Equestria will ever agree to that!) and so on and so forth, and by Celestia’s beard, I was having thirst halfway through his speech.

“We get it, we get it, Barbarian,” says I, motioning for Barney to give us just the pints. “Here, see if you can do with another one.”

“Much obliged,” he nods, the esteemed buck, and gulps such a big gulp that I wasn’t sure how he was still able to speak. “Times are tough, my brothers! O tempora,” so he hiccuped like a good stud, “O mores! No, we’ll never let the bloody fags walk around the streets, kissing like it’s nopony’s business.”

I just wanted to say an amen to that when the door opens and in come old Braeburn and Silver Quill, that hoity-toity lawyer. “Greetings,” says old Brae, and, by Celestia’s beard, not a second had passed before he was at the table with us three! My poor wallet! But lo and behold, he drops a shiny golden bit on the table and says, “the next round’s on me. To the Barbarian’s health.”

“So it shall be,” nods the Barbarian, the old gentle soul, and Barney brings us another round of porter, just as my throat had cried for quenching. Drenching our throats, up comes Silver Quill, standing aside, as usual, that bleeding moneybag of trouble.

“Have you seen Octavia?” asks he, tapping his spectacles. “I have a matter arranged with her.” A matter! How grand we are this afternoon. Bloody buffoon.

“A matter?!” the Barbarian coughs, rasping away his spit. “Sorry, my boy, but she only arranges matters with mares like her, if you catch my drift!” We do, Barbarian, we bloody well do.

So that lawyer says no and muffles around like the bloody muffler he is, and no, it’s just a legal matter pertaining to- Pertaining to my ass! Bloody lawyers with their bloody legalese! If there’s something I hate more than a lawyer, it’s a lawyer who can’t keep his mouth shut while the esteemed gentry drinks their pints in peace.

And, by Celestia’s beard, in comes that bloody filly-fooler with her extrapolite smile and they and Silver Quill talk all in gibberish and lesgalese - ha, that’s a good one! - and how she had a concert just now and didn’t get paid blablabla, well, lemme tell you, if you wanna get paid, stop eating pussy and try sucking a cock or two, yeah, you may even like it - and the conductor or whoever pays you classy musicians will sure pay you after a good old BJ, that’s for sure!

“Well, there’s a reason,” the Barbarian says, hiccuping a mighty hic, “why some mares don’t get paid!” Oh, by Celestia’s bloody cunt, don’t be making a fool of yourself like that, you old drunken fool! “If- if the esteemed conductor who is male-” he raises his staggery hoof- “was female, then some mares sure would’ve found a way to get paid!”

Oh, by Celestia’s flaring wings, here he goes again, being the old dumb buffoon that he is, that Barbarian. Never could understand how a stallion can drink so much as to lose control of himself completely. Well, that’s the Barbarian for you, the bleeding drunken fool.

“I beg your pardon?” that Philarmonica says, and, by Celestia’s beard, Silver Quill’s already getting a hold of her! “I beg your pardon?! What exactly are you implying right now?!” And off he carries her, towards the waiting cab.

“I am implying,” the Barbarian spits at her side - the bullseye! - “that you are a bloody filly-fooler who would suck the conductor’s bleeding cunt if he was a mare!”

Oh, Barbarian, so blunt, like your old blunt brain, no longer sharp.

“Well, I have news for you!” that Octavia shouts, being dragged to the cab by our hautty lawyer. “We filly-foolers aren’t some low cast to dispose of! We are numerous, and we will get our rights, whether your society wants it or not! And guess what?” And here she starts with the lists.

“Our district judge is a filly-fooler, and Violet the skiing champion is a filly-fooler, and Mecca the soprano is a filly-fooler, and, and- and Luna is a filly-fooler too!” Octavia screams from the cab, and, by Celestia’s beard, the Barbarian just exploded! Who, he roars, blobbing towards the street, who the hell did you say is a filly-fooler?

“Luna, your princess,” she screams victoriously, red-faced, like a blickering old hog that she is, “and it’s not just rumours! Half of Equestria knows your Princess is gay!”

Hell and knickers! By Celestia’s beard, the Barbarian just couldn’t hold his spit aside. “What did you say,” shouts he, “about my bleeding fucking Princess?!” And, by my daddy’s left testicle, he shivs back into the pub and takes the flower vase! And the buddies on him, Caramel urging him to calm down, and old Brae on another hoof, laughing with tears, and me, aside, blasting my life away at those bitchering pones that cannot hold their liquor or their sexual extremities to themselves!

“I’ll teach you how to talk about my bloody fucking bleeding Princess!” So the Barbarian breaks free and makes a mess of himself throwing the bloody vase at that faggot mare in the cab. Alas! He missed, and, looking around fiercely, growls, “Did I kill the bloody bitch or not?” By Celestia’s beard, what a lousy throw! Should’ve tried not to lose face, at least.

And there was a mighty commotion of light and fire and up from the sky descendeth a Voice, and speaketh: “Octavia from the house Philarmonico! We have heard thy lament, and, by Our protection, thee shall live life everlasting in Our Church, and no gates of Tartarus will crush it!” And the golden pegasus-driven chariot soared into the sky, carrying the noble, pious mare, who shouted, “Princess Luna! I hear thee!” - and ascendeth up into Heaven, that golden chariot, among the dirty road of dust, rubble, and shit.