A Horse Walks Into a Bar...

Bells chimed as the front door creaked opened. Chilly winter air rushed inside—along with a small figure, obscured by a snowy cloak.

A midget? Maybe... Can I even call them that anymore? Alan thought, before shrugging and turning his eyes back to the glass he was cleaning in his hand. He noted, bitterly, that the bar was completely empty, again.

He couldn't resist another glance towards the small figure though, and to his surprise, it darted its head from side to side, reminding him more of an animal then a human, before awkwardly shuffling up to the chipped mahogany counter.

"So, why the long... face...?" Alan glanced sideways and saw large, shining blue eyes staring back at his own pair of baby blues.

He blinked.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl.

It blinked.

Alan dropped his glass, and the shattering china marked time's resumption. He winced. "W-what the... who are you?" He wanted to blurt out 'what are you' but he had a strange feeling that it would be impolite.

The figure—no, the pony pulled back its cloak and revealed a tan colored mane with a coat that reminded him of milk chocolate. "Er... Caramella. Do... do you want help cleaning that up?" She pointed a hoof over the counter at the broken mess of glass.

Alan reeled. A horse, female by the pitch of her voice, had walked into his bar. And it had talked to him. Offered to help him even—not even his few semi-regulars were that generous—and now it was staring at him once more.

"Uhm... sir?”

He shook his head; reality snapped back into focus. "I... yeah. Erm, no thank you... I can clean this up by myself."

Caramella's ears drooped slightly, and the oddly adorable sight sent an equal mixture of guilt and confusion worming its way throughout him. "Oh. Okay."

Alan offered her a gentle smile before slinging his rag over his shoulder and quickly getting up. Making his way over into a small backroom near the end of the counter, he scanned the shelves one by one until he found a dustpan and small brush. When he returned to the counter, he half expected to be greeted to an empty store once again, alone with only his thoughts and the various spiders skulking about, a thought that suddenly didn't seem too terrible.

His hope was in vain however; Caramella sat just where he had left her, taking in the various decorations hung about the walls. Judging by the small smile on her face, she didn't seem to mind the chipped paint or crude images carved into the wood, undoubtedly knifed in by some no-good college kids. His anger vanished as soon as it came; it just wasn’t worth getting angry about right now, not when he had bigger issues to worry about. With a small sigh, he swept up the fragments, threw them away, then stuffed the cleaning supplies under the counter.

Now it was only him and... Caramella left. He gulped.

"Nice place you have here mister...?" she said.

"Alan. Alan's fine, no mister, please."

She nodded. "So... uhm..." She bit her lip. “Nice place you have here, really, Alan. It's very cozy. I noticed some flags on the wall. That one's my favorite."

His eyes followed the path of her hoof to a flag with the words 'Indianapolis Colts' on it. Pulling up a stool, he sighed and leaned against the counter with his hands clasped in front of him, almost like a shield. "Uhm... yeah sure. Listen, I don't mean to be rude... but, what the hell are you doing here?"

Caramella blinked. "It's cold...?"

"No, I mean, like, in this world. Not my bar. Horses cannot talk. This is a fact.” He waved one of his hands, and her eyes followed it curiously as he continued. “You being here says either one of two things; that you’re an illegal government experiment or something run awry, or you're from another world. Seeing as you haven't tried to kill me yet and you seem to posses some form of manners, I'm going with option B as opposed to A."

"Oh well... y-you see..." And that's when the dam burst. Tears flowed unbidden, streaking her cheeks. She buried her face into her front hooves. "I-I don't know where I am. I was just— just trotting down the street, making a d-d-delivery when... when these big... giant holes started to a-appear and... I don’t know where I am!”

With that, she crumpled into the counter in a sobbing heap of chocolate fur. Alan squirmed in his seat, unsure on just what to do with the mare. On one hand, he might have passed out and was now lying face-first on the floor of a grimy dive-bar and this was what his mind had conjured up; he hadn’t ruled that whole situation out just yet. And on the other hand, he had a creature, clearly intelligent, bawling her eyes out on top of his counter inside of his bar, scared and confused. He took one look at the crying mare and made his decision.

“Whisky?” he asked.

Caramella looked up, her eyes were red. “H-huh?”

“Do you drink whisky? Beer?” he asked again, in the softest voice he could manage.

She sniffed, and rubbing her eyes she said, “No, I-I don’t... but if you happened to have any cider...?”

Wordlessly, Alan turned around and combed the shelves of liquor until he found his mark. Within moments he had poured two icy glasses of hard apple cider for Caramella and himself. Alan held up his glass in front of the mare, who looked at it with an adorably scrunched muzzle.

“You’re supposed to clink the glasses together. Y’know?”

“Oh!” Holding her glass with two hooves, Caramella softly bumped her glass into Alan’s. “Like that?”

“Perfect.” And so the two souls threw back their glasses. A tart, fruity taste washed over their palates. Neither of them spoke for several minutes. The only sounds that filled the bar were the clinking of glass, the muffled gusts of wind from outside, and the faint plucking of guitar strings as a cowboy sang about numbered heartaches over the radio.

Caramella, cradling her fresh fourth glass of cider, spoke first. “I... thanks. I really needed this.” She hiccuped, then started giggling. Alan felt relieved by the fact that he had helped the pony’s spirits rise. Slowly but surely, he was becoming much more comfortable with the strange situation he now found himself in; aided in no small part by the social lubricant knows as alcohol.

“So,” he slurred, setting down his glass. “Caramella? Funny name, heh.”

“A-are you making fun of my name? C-cuz, Alan doesn’t sound like a real name to me!” She pointed a fuzzy, accusatory hoof at him, her earlier hysteria had seemingly evaporated.

“Well, of course it’s a real name! Says so on my birth certif... certifi... certificate! Ha, certificate... it sounds like chocolate almost...”

“No it doesn’t!

“A-huh.”

“Nuh-uh!”

“Yeah, well... you look like chocolate! A big, fuzzy, chocolate pony! Topped with caramel swirls.”

With another scrunched muzzle, she took a sip of cider. Alan couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol causing her faint rosiness or not. “Where’re you from anyways? I’m from around here.”

“A bar?”

“No, Oregon. Never been outta state. You?”

“Uhm...” She looked up at the ceiling, tapping her muzzle with a hoof for a moment before replying. “Vanhoover.”

“You’re Canadian?” He slapped the counter. “This explains everything!”

“What’s a Canadian?”

“Uh, they’re like Americans, but politer, and with more maple syrup.”

“What’s an American?”

“Ehh... say, how about we call it a night?”

Caramella slumped forwards onto the counter. “I”m not... not even...” She yawned. “...tired.” With that said, her eyelids fluttered closed, and the rhythmic rise and fall of her body let Alan know that she was asleep. He watched for a moment, entranced by the sheer adorableness of his furry little sleeping patron.

And then he let out a slight groan.

“Crap. I’m gonna have to carry her, aren’t I?” He couldn’t just leave her there. He knew from experience that if she was a tossing and turning type of sleeper like he was then she would end up with a splintery nose. Shuddering as he remembered that particular hospital visit, he hoped that she wasn’t as heavy as a real horse.

Alan gathered the empty glasses and bottle and set them aside for tomorrow before sliding over the counter. Surprisingly, he found himself picking up the sleeping pony with eaze. While she might have had looked equine, Caramella reminded him more of his old labrador in both size and weight and fur. He carried her around the counter to the door that lead to the backroom, but instead of going back there he swung a left and went up a flight of stairs that led to his front door. Once inside, he gently laid the sleeping pony onto his couch and fetched a small spare blanket to throw over her.

Walking back to his room, he stopped, paused, and glancing over his shoulder at Caramella, he smiled. He still didn’t have a solid idea on how or why there was a talking horse in his bar. The only clue he had gotten was something about “giant holes.” Something about that seemed familiar—but it could wait until tomorrow.

Turning around, the only thing on his mind was a deep, restful sleep.