For Those of Us Who Like The Nighttime
Oh Celestia, they’re catching up to me. I can see the long, rigid shadows in the corner of my eye, the smoky, rotten smell right behind me, ready to engulf me in it’s flames. A dim-lit alley is in front of me. No other ponies in sight, besides the ones who are dead to the world, sleeping on cardboard boxes, stomachs filled with whiskey and who knows what else. Can’t ask them for help, I’d only get them killed as well.
My breathing deepens, my heart is thumping out of my chest, but my hooves don’t move any faster out of fear, fear that they were actually right behind me and maybe if I could pretend not to notice them, the demons will go away again. Are they still there?
Eyes to the ground soldier, keep moving, keep moving, keep moving! The hoof steps are coming closer! I tilt upwards for a second, seeing my escape options. I could run inside one of the shoddy, moot empty buildings that were scheduled to be demolished ten years ago. Or I could just sprint down the vast, broken glassed filled street. No, that won’t work, they’ll become silhouettes in the nighttime, trapping me. Seeing no other alternative, I head into the alleyway. Please don’t be...please don’t be... Dead end. Emphasis on dead. Nothing but a concrete wall in front of me now.
I turn around, expecting them to come running at me not with knives or weapons, but with their stares, turning me into melted concrete right where I stand. What I see instead are two obviously drunk earth ponies, one with a humongous pink party hat and the other sporting a hideous looking black goatee with mustard stains on it.
Party Hat says, in a thick Irish accent, “Well, lookie lookie. Whatcha doing around these parts? Stop hanging onto me, you fucking slob, take a gander at this monstrosity.” He is stepping closer to me as he’s talking, half-carrying his buddy on his left side. His eyes are glassy and his tone keeps jumbling all over the place, one second seeming aggressive and the next like I’m his best friend.
I can’t help thinking, it’s not them. Calm down you bugger, it’s not them. Damn fools is all.
He comes so close that we are practically face to face. He tugs at my right coat pocket, and says, “What a nice piece of cloth this is! How about a bit for it, mate?”
I say, “Don’t touch that side. And no thanks, I’d prefer to keep it.”
“Well, why shouldn’t I touch that side? I can do what I damn well please.” The next mistake he makes is knocking off my brown fedora and sunglasses, revealing my furry, jagged ears and my hazel eyes to the world. Those same hazel eyes squint and become a bit unfocused, but my inner rage pushes back the fuzziness and I stare directly at the intruders.
Mustard Stain is also making out words, if incoherently, that sounds a bit like, “Come, you mother... frickin bats, overtaking Luna’s handiwork, spitting on the good name. Dingalinaling your lesson on...hickup... what’ll you learn to keep out on these streets…” He’s pitiful, riding off the coattails of his taller and barely more sober friend.
I am mad now, furious at the indecency of being harassed by these losers. The fear is gone, replaced by righteous retribution. What the hell do they have against me anyway? Why aren’t there laws outlawing this kind of abuse to bat ponies? Well, once you get west of Eighty-Ninth Street, the law has less and less value. Time to make sure these two learn the so-call “lesson.”
I back away against the wall, the two racist bigots grinning and slowly trotting towards me, teasing me about being a “fraidy little ol’ bat.” I shred off the coat, my one good wing extending three feet into the air, my eyes lightening up, and the fangs come out. I am bigger than life right now, standing above the quivering little wimps who only a second ago questioned my power. I see everything crystal clear, from the minute sweats to the boogers inside their noses, I see it all. It’s my turn for some fun.
I am now walking back down the broken street, this time with a huge smile on my face and blood on my teeth. My only disappointment was that my sunglasses were now scratched, the result of Mustard Stain’s stupidity. I can see alright out of them, but I’ll have to go to the occulist tomorrow to get it fixed. Little stuff like that always bothers me.
Fortunately, my coat has experienced no damages, so I am free to continue my nighttime wanderings. I need a drink before I do anything else though. One’s throat becomes awfully parched after a thrilling experience like tonight’s.
I see a neon-lit sign that quite clearly reads, “Beer.” Good enough for me. I walk inside to the near-empty bar, taking a moment to study the dull room I was in, and take a stool. The bartender, a stout, green Pegasus with "BEER" on his flank, comes over and rudely asks, “Can’t you read, you thing?”
He points to the “No Bats Allowed” sign with a hateful glare in his eye. “Get out, you low life degenerate!”
I sulk and calmly say, “Listen, my money is just as good as anyone else's. I want a drink and you can supply it easily enough. I promise not to bother you, talk to you, or even look at you for all I care. I just want a drink.”
“I don’t want your lousy, stinkin money. I want you out of my bar! Immediately!”
I am on the verge of desperation, feeling like if I have to go one more minute without something to drink, I’ll make him a bloody mess on the floor. “Come on! I didn’t start the freaking war. I had nothing to do with it.”
He starts to relax a little and doesn’t look so menacing. He’s not backing down, however. “Well, personally, you...things are all the same. I’m not even sure if calling you a pony is accurate, being a creation of Luna’s. Instead of the good ol’ traditional birds and the bees, your race was conjured up in less than a millisecond!”
My blood is starting to boil again. “What are you even talking about?! My parents gave birth to me, and their parents gave birth to them, and so on. What you are describing is ancient history. My great-great-great-great-grandfather was the only pony, and yes, I do mean pony, in my family that was created. So stop all this asinine hogwash about me not being a real pony.” I pause. “Well, I really need a drink. I hope you realize that it would be quicker to serve me then it will take for you to kick me out. So, what about it?”
He looks defeated, as if he’s still convinced that I am a demon creature from the fifth dimension, but he is done arguing with me about it. Laziness is the great equalizer. “What do you want?”
“I’ll take a double bourbon, no rocks.” He leaves to get the drink. It feels hot inside the bar now, probably from all the stress I just experienced and the fact that there was no air conditioning. I take another look across the near-deserted room, the exception being an unconscious stallion on the pool table. From his snoring, I can tell he’s out for the night. I shrug, take off my coat, and put it on the coat rack.
The bartender comes back carrying the shot on a silver platter, his attention away from me as he’s walking. It isn’t until he sets the drink down when he starts staring at my right wing. He flinches away when he notices me looking at him. He doesn’t want to ask, but seeing how I finally got a decent drink, I feel better and decide to answer his unasked question. “I was eight when it happened. I was getting a flying lesson from my father on a rather particularly stormy day. He was holding me up by his chest, you know, so I could see the entire town without worrying about wind conditions. Well, at that moment, when he was holding me extremely tight and there were smiles on both our faces, his heart failed him.
“They say it was a miracle I survived at all. It wasn’t a soft landing from 1000 yards up, but he acted like a cushion and took most of the impact. I was in a coma for three months though and when I awoke, my right wing was gone. So, my flying days are over.”
He shakes his head ever so slightly, his hooves rubbing his forehead. When he looks up, there is a bit of softness in his eyes. Not tears though. I’ve yet to come across a bartender in Manhattan who has shred a single tear. “I’m very sorry to hear that.” He rubs the back of his neck, unsure on how to continue the conversation.
I am taken slightly aback, not expecting the response from this rough stallion. “Well, it wasn’t your fault. Nopony’s, really.”
“No, I meant about earlier. Having called you less than a pony and yadda yadda. It was very stupid of me. Well, I suppose there is one thing we have in common. Sob stories and troubles. You’re entitled to a drink, law or no law. You will from now on always be able to get a drink here.”
“Oh. Well... you’re the first pony to apologize for their behavior. I gladly accept your apology.” I feel a little uncomfortable now, as if I just bore my soul onto this stranger, so I stand up, grab my coat, and head towards the door. “I’ve taken up enough of your time. Have a goodnight.”
“Wait!,” he says. “What’s your name?”
What a complicated question. I just smile, tug my fedora, and get out the door.
