An Inky Night In Manehattan
Oh Celestia, they’re catching up to me. I can see the long, rigid shadows in the corner of my eye, the smoky ambery 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 were 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 soddy, 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 bestest 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 us? 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.
First step: A roundhouse kick, then an amazing strike to the foreleg to Party Hat. Second step: kick-spin and leave real stains inside Mustard’s guts, his screams of agony only adding to my excitement. Party Hat is down, tranquilized by paralysis and fear. Stain is another issue, he keeps coming back for more, alcohol limiting his perception and sensory skills by truckloads. He swings left, I slid right and grab him by his throat, throttling him and squishing him on the ground until he surrenders. The pain finally kicks in his skull and the first bit of common sense arises as he hobbles off, leaving Party Hat in the lurch. He looks up at me, wild bemusement in his eyes mixed with red blood muscles and fear. I stare at him for a moment, as if contemplating throwing him against the wall or not, and then I casually stroll down the street, leaving him astonished.
I am now walking back down the dim lighted street, this time with a bounce in my step and blood on my teeth. My only disappointment is that my sunglasses are now scratched, the result of Party Hat’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. It was either half full or half empty, depending I suppose on whether or not you have money in the joint. I walk towards the bar, taking a moment to study the dull room I was in, and take a stool. The bartender, a stout, green pegasus with the word 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!”
Great. Another one of these fools. 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 had to go one more minute without something to drink, I’d make him a bloody mess on the floor. “Come on! I didn’t do anything!”
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 and 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 looks 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. Apparently, it suffered massive trauma and the docs had no choice but to remove it. My flying days are over.”
He shakes his head ever so slightly, his hooves rubbing his forehead. I stare at my empty shot glass. When he looks up, there is a bit of softness in his eyes. Not tears though. “I’m very sorry to hear that.” He rubs the back of his neck.
You might rightly say that I should take his apology and shove it. However, what am I if not forgiving? 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.”
Ah. The greatest gift one can bestow upon me. Thank you so much sir, let me lick your boots and shine your mane as well, as I’m your humble servant. Give me a freaking break.
“Oh. Well... you’re the first pony to apologize for their behavior. I 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 question. I just smile, tug my fedora, and get out the door.
I live at the Manehattan Broadfield Hotel, where for seventy bits a night, you are afforded your very own hotel card, unlimited access to a moldy, desolate pool filled with Celestia-knows what, and a twin sized mattress (of course you have to pay extra for the sheets). The room is small and cramped, economically tolerable but desperately lacking in any basic commodities, such as a bathtub, sink, or toilet. The only restroom inside the building is at the far south side corner, too far to make it in an emergency and too unclean for my sanity. Usually I just piss out the window.
There is a single window,with cracks aplenty, sporting an excellent view of a shanty town adjacent to the hotel. Sometimes for entertainment, I throw a half-eaten hayburger and watch them wrestle each other for it. Hey, if you don’t have entertainment, make it yourself.
I sulk up the stairs, passing an angry couple yelling at each other. The stallion is unhappy because everyday his wife walks to the newspaper stand and brings him a shopping magazine, with numerous items circled and incredible, pleading innuendos scribbled inside. The mare is unhappy because everyday her husband walks to the newspaper stand and brings her the Manehattan Times, with numerous job opportunities circled and incredible, if not pleading, notes saying “Get a job.” scribbled inside. I have to say their marriage is working out wonderfully.
I do the swipy thing with the card and go straight for the bare mattress, dead tired. As my hat is being crushed and my sunglasses fall off my face onto my deeply breathing chest, my eyes close and I’m in a very particular memory from my childhood.
First of all, let me tell you my father was a respectable stallion, if a little feeble and weak minded. Being a small town banker in Oakwood didn't require much intellect or brute strength, but he was a good father regardless. We both lived in a rather cramped apartment. There wasn’t much in it, just an old electric range stove, a small radio (which had taken me over three hours to assemble), and our most prized possession: a phonograph. I can still remember listening to “West End Blues” by Louis Hoofstrong in the living room. I would have never known that I would soon learn what real blues were.
My father came home most nights from Oakwood Bank completely sad and worn out. I’ve heard him muttering several times about how no one has any money, that ponies kept coming by and demanding their life savings, while the death threats circulated as desperation became Equestria’s new favorite pastime. He felt like he helped caused the problem because he inspired hundreds of ponies to buy worthless stock and he took their money and he loaned it the next minute to another couple. The cycle continued.
I suppose you can say my troubles began the the day he got fired from Oakwood Bank. He was completely devastated. I thought my life was over. I was a poor, naive child back then. I really was. But the real trouble started only four days later, when the same bank kicked us out of the apartment for failing to pay the mortgage. They didn’t even give us time to pack. He forgot to put on his shoes in the hurry, which we would immediately regret. Shoes out on the streets are as valuable as diamonds, or if starving, as a meal.
The first stop my little family of disasters encountered was Chatsworth, a suburb of Los Pegasus. This is where I first saw Hoovervilles. Cliff, a good friend of father, was a factory worker and one of the first ponies to get affected by the crash. He let us stay in his poor excuse for a shelter for a few days. The “house” was made of wood crates, cardboard, a few scraps of cloth, and some hay for bedding, with old, damp newspapers for blankets. After those first few days, I thought, “How could any civilized ponies live like this?” My father's only comment was, “I guess we just have to adjust to a new reality.”
Cliff was also a respectable pony, but in his own way. He wore nasty clothes that were covered in dirt and grim, ate rotten apples, and only went to Echo Lake to bathe about once a month, but he was very nice. He gave everyone he met extra food, he gave them money whenever he could, and told stories around the campfire so everyone could forget the hard times for a little while. He wasn’t like anyone else. On the first day of our nightmare lives, he was the only pony who didn’t plaster his eyelids towards my dismembered wing. Everyone else asked me repeatedly what happened, I always got special treatment, I hated that I was giving a free pass to hard labor while so many others were working day in and out just to survive. Cliff understood my frustrations at being a kid, so he lightly suggested, out of the earshot of my father, that I should fish in the lake and even gave me my first hook. He was one of the greatest guys I ever knew.
I’ve heard a lot of stories around the campfire, mostly about the problems that other cities had to contend with. Hoofsdale suffered from a loss of farms; stallions and fillies alike were dying of malnutrition; Appaloosa suffered huge draughts and dust; and Manehattan suffered a 50% unemployment rate, one of the highest in Equestria.
My father and I made an almost exact replica of Cliff’s house. It wasn’t pretty, but at least it keep the rain off our heads. I got some old rope, a long stick, and dug up a few worms. I fished in Echo Lake relentlessly, for I occasionally got a small fish to eat or sell.
On March 15, in the year of Celestia’s reign 931, more than a year of living in Hooverville, my good ol’ dad impulsively decided to treat us to a night in a hotel. The word “hotel” was extravagant, as we could take real baths, sleep on real beds, and eat real food. We each took an icy bath in the lake so we would look decent for the hotel. I didn’t know what hotel we would go to or even if hotels existed anymore, but I loved the idea of it.
We took all of our savings (a whopping four bits!) and headed into the main streets. We had just reached the hotel when I heard a horrible scream. We all looked up to see a blue unicorn falling to his death, only ten meters away from us. His blood got all over my clothes and father was dumbfounded, unable to look at the dead body in front of us., just staring straight ahead. I told you he was a wimp. In horror, we ran into the lobby of the hotel, where I told the clerk that someone just died outside.
“Really? I thought I told those bums to jump in the back, not on the freaking Main Street! I’m sorry, sir, more and more people are killing themselves and some of them come here for their final resting place”.
“That’s horrible!,” I said.
“I hope that little...incident...won't affect your opinion of this hotel. May I take your bags?”
“We don’t have any,” father said. I’m sure the concierge realized we were one of those so called “bums” he mentioned. It was a wonder if he didn’t pick it up sooner; we were dressed in rags and towelettes.
“For sleeping or jumping?”
Deciding to ignore the question, Father asked for a room and he lead us down the hall. Trying to forget the disturbing image I just witnessed, I laid down on the very comfy bed and slept like a log. At the time, it was the greatest night of my life. We each took two hour showers the next morning and stole as much towels and shampoo we could carry. Our laughter could’ve been heard down the blood-splattered street, we were so happy.
We came back to Hooverville in the evening. I must of knew immediately that something was wrong because I ran full speed to our area, somehow sensing that something was ahoof. Our home was wrecked! Someone had stolen everything we had collected: unbroken bottles, rusty silverware, and some personal family photos from when we weren’t poor. They even stole the hay that we slept on. I was devastated.
My father ended up being even more devastated. I should have known that my world was going to collapse on itself when father just sat glassy-eyed on the stoop and stared straight ahead. I screamed and cried and all that jazz, but before I knew it he got some broken glass from a whiskey bottle. I pleaded with him and he stabbed his heart and that was the end of that.
Sometimes I felt jealous of the dead stallion outside the hotel. He had the guts to end it all, where I didn’t have anything at all. I didn’t feel like doing anything at all…
