|Pilot| The Price of a Street Soldier
Author's Note
Tagged Anthro because this story revolves around ponies able to be on their hind-legs just fine, it'll make sense later on.
|Pilot| The Price of a Street Soldier
April, 2nd, 195X
The club pulsed with energy, pumping up all of our blood through our veins like a sledgehammer to a wall. The bass of the music trembled through my wings, making them wave a little under my charcoal black trench coat . I cleared my throat and straighten my posture, making my wings shoot inwards, folded neatly and tightly. I looked across the booth, which I was sitting in, to meet the eye of Roar. Roar's finely pressed silver-grey suit and black tie reflected any casual back towards the club.
The club was an underground one, but relatively big, it would have been spacious if it wasn't for the rows of Diner-Like booths and a space for ponies to dance and socialize. There was a stage, with a pianist in the middle and brass instrumentals backing them up, allowing to spice up the piano's music so it doesn't get boring immediately. The lighting was minimal, for effect I guess, with a few lamps and bulbs to make sure that the ponies weren't in the complete dark.
On the table was two plates of fried carrots, two pints of ale, and our fedoras. My fedora was black with a pink rose slid into black lace that surrounds the perimeter of the hat, the rose was fresh and it made me look less intimidating than I already do. Under my trench coat was a fresh ironed suit with a purple tie, my front hooves were covered in white gloves. The pianos and bass of the brass made it hard to think, as my heart started to race.
"Relax, Thunderbolter," Roar took a sip of his ale, smiling at my probably obvious uncomfortable shifts and glance. "It's a party, enjoy it!"
My name isn't Thunderbolter, I have an alias that I want to stick to; I don't want these guys coming after me too easily.
I didn't want to piss off a made man, so I kept my mouth shut. I once again shifted uncomfortably, checking the time on my really cheap pocket watch. We were three minutes past due the payment by the owner of this spiffy looking place, as much as I like it. I took my alcohol and downed it, it tasted off and sour; kind of acidic more like.
Ugh.
Even though there was the lift of the fucking alcohol prohibition , which had led to ponies brewing up their own liquors in their bathtubs, which is a pretty hefty fine but can bring out a lot of profit for the clueless and rich back then. I wan't rich, but I damn sure not clueless. This ale was an obvious rip off to the nonalcoholic Apple Jack's cider, the legit product actually tasting sweet and enjoyable. This counterfeit didn't even taste like apples, and somehow there was apple seeds in the pint.
"They haven't showed up yet," I observed, "I think they blew us off."
"Hmph," Roar finished off his cigar, butting it out on the table. Roar looked across the dancing ponies to the other finely dressed ponies wearing fedoras with flowers on them. "Plan B then, shame, I liked this place."
I knew what he meant, I dug out my guitar case and opened it onto the table. Instead of a wood and strings instrument, it was pieces of a automatic organ-shredding tool. I quickly constructed the pieces together, unbeknownst to the dancing ponies, and slid the barrel into place. I slapped in a large circular drum into the slot and pulled the barrel back with a audible shwic-shic.
Roar stood up, donning his white fedora with a green tulip. Roar calmly reached into his suit and pulled out a Star Model P 1911 and loaded the magazine into the slot and pulled the slide back. Without flinching or emotion in his eyes, Roar popped the skull of an unfortunate mare playing the trombone.
My tool was a Thompson Machine Gun, I called her my Chicago Piano. I lifted it up and started firing .45 full metal jackets into the crowd of dancing ponies, spraying metal death onto the skins of ponies. The other dressed ponies, also carrying Thompsons, were aiding me in lighting up the ponies who previously were Swing Dancing to the groove of a solo pianist playing the Boogie Woogie.
The music stopped abruptly as we started to massacre the dancing ponies, rows and rows out bullets landed on their screaming bodies. The mares' shrieked while the stallions tried to find a way from our assault, but to no avail as bodies and bodies of ponies fill the once lively dance floor. I quickly reached for my fedora and stood my ground, tilting the hat on an angle so they can't see my face if they tried.
If there'll be any one to survive this.
I found myself unable to be affected by the high recoil, due to my strength and power, and started to spray my automatic gun left and right into the crowd of ponies. Ponies fell, with exit wounds splattering the walls and floors. Instruments pinged and ricocheted off bullets, which only allowed fragments of bullets to land into the screaming crowd.
I riddled an orange mare with her presumed husband with my .45 FMJ (Full Metal Jackets) and their screams of pain and cries of panic filled my ears, echoed in my mind. Each bang of the muzzle of Chicago Piano flashed into my eyes, engraving the bodies of each pony that has been slain today right into the back of my skull.
Blood splattered and bones splintered, their warm bodes sprawling onto the ground, choking on their own blood. The rest of the ponies never made it past our booth, gurgling on blood and raspy breathing; Like dominoes they fell one by one to our onslaught of fully loaded automatic weapons.
The last mare was quickly silenced by a pistol shot in the back of the head, the shot placement minimize the amount of blood on Roar's suit but left a chance the mare will live. So Roar solved this problem by clicking out a switchblade and grabbed the mare's limp body. That's where I draw the line in the sand and turn my head away, folding my ears so I don't hear the sound of flesh ripping.
"Whoo!" Roar smiled, smacking his hoof onto a table. "What a way to get the blood running!"
"Is it a better high than your moon dust use?" I remarked dryly, feeling, not hearing, feeling the screams echo into my ears and forced itself into my head, and pinged around my head. "How was this part of the plan?! You said we would be sending a message, not another Valentines Massacre!"
We quickly disassembled our weapons into pieces again, I placed the pieces of Chicago Piano into the guitar case and quickly closed it. I felt my stomach become queasy, a dense pit sinking down my throat and burrow itself deep into my abdomen. I felt my hooves become shaky as the realization no more than donned on me.
Innocent ponies dead.
"Hey! Thunderbolter! Hurry up and get your ass up here!" Roar called, banging his hoof onto the door. "The sooner we leave, the later the coppers show up!"
I took the guitar case and trotted up the stairs, feeling numb and cold at the same time. I dug into my suit pocket and took out a cigarette, sadly lighting it with a match and gave a large puff; filling my lungs with nicotine. I had a nervous smile on my face as I focused on smoking instead of vomiting.
I came up to the last stair, noticing the car ready but Roar not yet inside. The other men had already fled, I say men because I'm not sure if they were mares or stallions. I looked at Roar, whom I think I forgot to mention was a Made-Man, had a hand grenade ready in his hoof. I stared at it stupidly before exhaling the smoke out of my lungs.
"What the fuck are you doing, Roar?" I asked, taking deep inhales of the smoke; stomach still churning like a mare making butter. My chest burned, but I forced myself to ignore it. "You just pulled that from way out the boondocks!"
"Just sending the message," Roar answered, "It's a gift."
"With a grenade?" I inquired, still inhaling the nicotine.
Roar snorted, I noticed he had red flecks on his dark grey muzzle. His green irises lit up in a humorous fashion, he had a child-like smile as if he was ten years old and received candy. "Nope, just a pineapple."
With that, I dove into the car while he pulled the pin of the pineapple and threw it down the stares. Roar followed me in the car, coercing the driver to speed off with haste. The car engine roared, the tires screeched as our bodies pressed against the seat of the speedy car. I felt the shock wave of the pineapple from here, even though it was underground with an entire building on top of it.
The building was a clinic, ironically, and the building was affected by the blast.
I threw the cigarette out the window, having smoked it to a butt in such a short time frame. I leaned in my seat as my fedora toppled off of my blue mane, which was clipped short now but would soon grow back into it's original form. I started to undo my tie, button down my collar shirt. I had to breathe, and if I didn't: Oh boy I would flip my wig.
"I'm not going to bore you with some Gobbledygook," Gobbledygook was slang for long talk, or a boring monologue that neither of us want, "You did good out there for your first job."
"Do you mind if I ask you, how the fuck are we getting away with that?" I leaned my head into my hooves, I was watching the city fly by with a forming minegran. "Someone's gonna have to pass the buck on that one."
"Not unless we get booked, then we say nothing," Roar snorted again, lowering his fedora before taking it off entirely.
"Careful, I might get blinded by your chrome-dome," I remarked, Roar having little to no mane. He seems to enjoy keeping his mane low, which makes me wonder if he has military experience or not. "Might cause a crash."
"Fuck you," Roar chuckled, fixing his tie. "C'mon, fix your tie; I'm going to take you to a real party."
"With the baby dolls?" I asked, looking at him with a smile.
"And the stallions if you swing that way,"
That made me snort.
"Oh, by the way," Roar reached into his suit again and pulled out an entire pouch of bits, including the newly implemented paper bits. We call them P.B to distinguish them from the coins. They both had the same value, but one of them were less heavy on the economy, since gold isn't exactly available all the time after WWII. "Payment."
He tossed it to me, and I quickly flipped through the clip of paper money, and that led to the discovery of exactly three hundred bits. I looked back at Roar with an excited look. Roar smiled, nodding his head to me.
"Beat me daddy eight to the bar!"
I unlocked the door to my apartment, and opened the door; I placed my fedora onto the rack and took off my suit jacket. I had to ditch my trench coat in fear of being recognized, which also implies that wearing this suit probably isn't the best idea tomorrow. Or until the heat from the coppers die down.
My apartment was comfy, two bedrooms, one bath. It's a fair deal, but with my line of work: it was chump bits out of my pockets. The living room contained a reddish sofa with three seats, there was a desk with a telephone and a radio. There was a television on the opposite side of the room.
On the shag carpet was Rumble, humming as he did his homework with his usual sloppy hoofwriting. I assumed he was doing his homework for once, given I have received many calls from his teacher about his failure to comply with his home-assignments. He does his school-work, he's not failing, he's not in trouble with the black-and-whites, so I have no reason to bust his chops.
I went to my room and quickly changed into something more comfortable, leaving my discarded clothes on the ground. I came out wearing a white t-shirt with a pair of jeans, I peered into the kitchen to find Cloudchaser calmly peering into my pantry. Maybe to snack on something, or maybe to cook Rumble lunch.
Cloudchaser was one out of the two ponies I hired to look after Rumble, knowing how I can't just leave a ten year old colt alone and both sisters needed the bits. I already knew them both during our schooling days, when we were younger and the Second Great war hadn't started. After a while I became closer friends with the sisters, and Rumble seems to cooperate with them.
Cloudchaser is a female Pegasus pony who has a similar, albeit slightly darker, color scheme to Flitter. Her eyes are rose, unlike Flitter's. Her cutie mark is a shooting star, I don't spend too much time staring at her flank but she doesn't seem to mind the attention; maybe a silent agreement to know where the line is between Thunderlane being a pervert and Thunderlane being Doll-Dizzy.
Flitter, on the other hoof, is a grayish-blue Pegasus pony who wears a pink bow in her mane; she has a slightly slurred accent. Her cutie mark is three blue and white dragonflies, although I never spent too much time staring at her flank like I would fancy to, but I notice that my counting could either be off. Flitter smacks me with her tail every time I even look like I was looking at her cutie mark for too long.
On another note: Flitter's eyes are more purple than rose, but I really can't tell the difference.
Rumble is a colt with a bluish gray coat, a two-tone dark gray mane and tail, and purple eyes. He sort of strikes a close resemblance to Cloudchaser and Flitter, but at the same time; Rumble takes after our late mother while I look more like our father. Rumble seems to look up to me, well, he doesn't really have a father to look up to and I guess a father figure is better than none at all.
Cloudchaser and Flitter rotates shifts, taking care of Rumble. Flitter during the morning and sending him to school, with Cloudchaser being here for the afternoon and evening. They help clean around the house for a few extra bits, which I'm more than willing to offer them. I had to hire them because I'm usually never home, and again: I couldn't leave Rumble alone, and two childhood friends need some bits.
"Hey dolly," I quickly murmured, tapping her shoulder in a quick fashion that made her jump in surprise, I usually don't get off of my work until much later. She panicked and squealed, her entire body jolting upwards in shock. I couldn't keep my chortle inwards, and as a result I got a light kick to the side.
"Drop dead twice," Cloudchaser shoved me with her left hind-leg, calming down from her scare.
"What, and look like you?" I remarked with a smirk, "That's just cuisin' for a brusin',"
"You bug me," Cloudchaser continued looking through the pantry, obviously looking for something. She found what she was looking for, which was a box of cereal (I can't complain, I had to go shopping sometime). "So how was the gig? You didn't even come home last night, must have been busy."
"My boss is a little off his rockers," I remarked, leaning on my counter. "If I ever saw him out of work, I'd haul ass right out of there."
"Want to explain why you didn't come home, and left me tucking in your little dude?" It was now Cloudchaser's turn to smirk at me, a her forelegs were crossing over her chest. "Party too hard at a club?"
"Should have seen the Jukebox slides, they were unreal," I grabbed a bowl and poured myself a bowl of cereal, sarcasm literally dripping off of my voice. "Although I got a little back seat bingo."
"Wow, you're fast," Rumble, who overheard our conversation and came over to the table, remarked dryly.
Cloudchaser had a mischievous smile on her face.
"Faster than you," I stated, then realized the newest slang of being fast, which was the equivalent of being a whore. "Aw shit.."
"I'll say," Cloudchaser filled up two bowls and brought them over to the table, cereal for lunch; yummy yummy cavities, I can't wait to have my teeth pulled by the dentist. I took the milk from out of the fridge and brought it to the table.
"Shut up, nosebleed." I told Rumble off, but Rumble just smiled.
Next time, on The Equestiran Dream
194X
Effortlessly I slid the bow across the strings, arching and stabbing the air with a deep bass of the musical notes. The blue singing of a stallion in front of me was on tempo with my flawless playing, although this stallion could deal with a few more hours of practice. I was wearing a black dress with a pearl necklace,
In the back and left stage was Vinyl Scratch, whatever her name meant, she was excellent at the piano although it could just be tuned slightly. Maybe I was being picky about the set up, although, The Prohibition sort of holds my hooves in shackles where I can actually play. I don't even understand the logic behind the ban of alcohol.
I'm not a heavy drinker, maybe a wine or two but I don't go anywhere past the limit of the fruity punch.
~~~~~~
I felt sharp, numbing pain in my side, the piano I decided to take cover in didn't hold up as well as I hoped and a pullet penetrated the polished wood like a hot knife through butter. I got struct in the side with a bullet, my hoof instinctively reaching to my abdomen. I couldn't hold up the Trench Shotgun with one hoof, so it fell to the ground.
My teeth grit as I held in my roar of pain and anger, my head still recognizing the pain in my side. I sputtered out blood, knowing very well that the bullet had hit my lungs. I could be wrong, as I've been shot many times during the Invasion of Griffon Beach. I peered around the corner only to be met with a bullet grazing my cheek. I reeled back, by hoof on my side.
My assailant came closer, all intent to kill me. I scooted backwards, leaving the trail of blood in my fruitless attempts at movement. I leaned against the stage wall now, my trench shot gun useless if I can't even raise it. My assailant raised his revolver, clicking back the hammer of the Military Grade weapon.
I heard a Winchester prime it's self and my assailant had blood spurted out of his shoulder, he ducked and suppressed the out of sight shotgunner. The assailant ducked away and leaped behind the bar, I groaned, leaning up. I kept pressure on the wound, trying to prevent myself from bleeding out.
I looked up to see Apple Jack with a Winchester Rifle, firing round after round into the cover of my assailant, Apple Jack ducked as she reloaded shell after shell. Her eyes light up when she saw me still breathing she reached into her sidearm holster and filled the revolver with magnum rounds.
"Y'all ain't gonna shoot me in the back, are ya?" She inquired, I quickly shook my head no. I was in no condition to shoot my only saving grace in the back of the skull, and if this was the deck of cards I was dealt with, well, I might as well pretend I have a Full House. Because pretending is bad, but making an opportunity with my current situation, I'm going to hell anyways.
Might as well show up to Hell's Gate in restraints.
Next Chapter:|Pilot| The Price of a Made-Man
