Their Own Kind

by Dsarker

Rating: teen
Tags: Slice of Life, Original Character, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic
Length: 1280

A long and reasonable bar discussion about whether ponies should stick to their own kind.

All Bridle Whisper wanted was his position, keeping the bar at The Modest Flagon, to go smoothly. But he never did have much luck with that. Now a new patron has started yelling out the most inflammatory statement he's had on the premises, and nopony else wants to deal with the troublemaker.

So it's up to him. Again.

Published 2015-10-05 21:10:02 UTC
Last updated 2015-10-05 21:10:02 UTC

The Story

“Ponies need to stick to their own kind,” shouted an angry-looking stallion down at the other end of the bar. To punctuate his sentence, he lifted his recently emptied pint glass, and slammed it down on the wooden surface.

Bridle Whisper winced. Of all the Cloudsdale taverns these loudmouths had to come to, it was his. Well, nopony else seemed to be paying much attention to the upset patron, so he sidled back down that end of the bar. Deftly, he snatched the—thank Celestia, unbroken—glass from him, and put it down under the bar.

The stallion did not resist him, instead looking rather insolent. “I suppose you’re going to tell me to leave,” he said, crossing his fore-limbs. “Well, I won’t—Not for speaking truth!” Bridle Whisper looked at the bouncer, trying to catch his attention, but to no avail, and turned back to the trouble-maker.

“I wasn’t quite going to tell you to leave,” Bridle said. “I was going to ask you to keep your voice down a little. What’s your name?”

The stallion did not respond for a second, and then spoke up, sounding a little mollified. “I’m Oil Rag. I’m a mechanic working at the weather factory,” he volunteered, and Bridle looked at him askance. “Oh, yes, I get that all the time. ‘Who needs a mechanic at the weather factory? Can’t those pegasus ponies just make weather out of nothing?’ Well, they can’t do it yet. I guess that’s why I’m working there now. Making it more efficient or somesuch.”

“Oh, no,” Bridle said hurriedly. “I did not mean that.”

“Oh.” The stallion was silent for a second, and then: “I suppose you want to hear my story, then. Don’t get too many like me here, I’m guessing.”

With a nod, Bridle answered the stallion. “No, you’re right there. We do have the occasional weather factory patron come here, but none like you.” With good reason, thought the barstallion to himself. “So, what makes you a fan of segregation?”

“Hah. That’s the latest buzz word for it, is it?” asked the stallion, fumbling in his saddlebags for a time. Eventually, he took out a few bits, and counting out four, handed it to the barkeep. “Same as the first, if you please.”

One thing that Bridle prided himself was always remembering a patron’s drink. Sometimes with the new crowd he needed a repeat, but this patron had stuck in his mind. He poured a pint of the brown ale from Bridleberg, and put it on the counter. Oil Rag took a sip, and then started speaking.

“It was back when I took the job. Not much employment in my line of work outside of Cloudsdale, you’ll understand? Instead, I was working on the railway. Grossly overqualified for that, and always on the move, but it was the only way to pay for my family. My mare, a little blue unicorn called Sidereal, missed seeing me everyday, and she was sick besides. Something to do with our second foal, I think. Doc didn’t really know.” He took another swig of the ale, and Bridle Whisper took the opportunity to interject.

“It can’t just be because you don’t get to see your wife everyday that you’re so angry. It can’t be that difficult to go down and see her.”

Oil Rag looked up, and shook his head with an ‘Are-You-Crazy’ expression on his face. “No, of course not. She’s up here, living with me. It took some doing, but she managed to learn a cloudwalking spell. No, it’s nothing to do with that. Anyway, back to my story. I was working on the railway. Now, if you know much about the railway, you’ll know it’s how most news gets around down there. I was working on the line one day, keeping the engine going, when I read in one of the papers that they were desperate for a good celestial mechanic up here. So desperate, in fact, that they were willing to give really good terms. Health care for the family, paternity leave, good pay, it was all there. Not many ponies study in my field, so when the job comes up, we can almost command our own terms. I was pretty happy with it, and so I sent in an application with my resume.”

“You got accepted?” asked Bridle as Oil Rag swigged some more of the ale. It was about halfway-finished now.

“Eventually. Under special provisions, of course. Had to prove them I could do the job. Well, the technical effort was never in question. Soon, I was basically living the dream of any cel-mech. Steady job, no reason to leave. Too good to be true, of course.”

Bridle frowned for a second as the stallion paused, clearly waiting for some reply. “That’s all very good, but what does it have to do with your demand for segregation? One of the very pillars of our society is that we don’t do that. You even married a unicorn. Sorry, but your story just doesn’t add up.”

“Let me finish, and you’ll see it do so.” The dark brown pony took another swig, and though Bridle was happy to see him finally quietening down, he was feeling a little impatient for him to finish his story.

“Let’s see. I had a steady job, working as my cutie mark called me. You’d call that perfection, wouldn’t you?” At Bridle’s nod, Oil Rag shook his head. “You’d be wrong, then. I thought I was liked—at least a little bit—but I did not really pay attention to the other workers. At least, not until the rumours started.”

“Rumours?” asked Bridle. Here, at last, was that first clue as to the stallion’s troubles. “What were the rumours?”

“Oh, you must know the typical workplace gossip. ‘He can’t do his job’. ‘He’s not qualified’. ‘He’s just strange’. I didn’t understand it, at first.” He swigged the last of the ale, and pushed the pint glass away. “Nopony was brave enough to say it to my face, though. They just turned away. They knew that if anypony said it out loud—said what they were really thinking—they’d be dumped from the factory before you could say ‘I was only joking’. They didn’t have to, though. It was all through the factory, though, like worms through a rotten apple. ‘Oil Rag’s not sound’. ‘Get a real celestial mechanic’. ‘What happens if it fails?’ I knew it was coming, long before the chief on my section had decided. I was unstable, you know, an insecure investment.”

Bridle shook his head. “Wait, they were going to fire you because you were an earth pony? That’s illegal, isn’t it?”

“Not ‘going to’. Have done.” Oil Rag laughed, bitterly. “Now I’ve got to go home and break the news to my wife. You know, they say ponies can live together in harmony, but all I’ve ever seen was strife and ignorance. Yeah, I’m pro-segregation. Doesn’t change the facts, only makes it legal. Makes sure ponies don’t expect anything other than what they’ll get anyway.”

He shook his head, and bowed it over the counter. “Just when you get happy, ain’t it? You must be the only really decent pegasus I’ve met. No one else even bothers to listen.” With no further words, he stood up, a little unsteady, and fished out another couple of bits. “That enough of a tip?” he said, and without waiting for an answer, dumped it on the bar and walked out of the tavern.

Bridle Whisper picked up the two bits, and slipped them into his pouch. It just went to show, he supposed, how useful it was to learn those magical disguises.