It was an ordinary day in Manehattan. Many ponies occupy this bustling city, a monument to modern society. Dozens go about their daily lives, oblivious to the struggles of those around them. Were these ponies to get to know eachother, they might find more similarities than they thought. Most only see the surface.
The sun filtered between the buildings and through the clouds, casting its light onto the sleepless city. Currently, it was right in front of Millet's taxi, and he wore sunglasses so he could see properly. He pulled his wagon over to the waiting area with a casual, steady precision. He had lived and worked in Manehattan for quite some time.
Another stallion, this one dressed in a freshly-pressed suit of the sort Millet neither needed nor could ever afford, waved him down. Millet twisted his head around as the stallion entered, resting his hooves. "Where to, sir?" he asked.
The well-dressed pony's brow furrowed slightly, as if he hadn't expected him to talk. Many would have assumed the same.
"3rd and Willow," he told Millet.
Millet nodded, started running, and pulled back onto the crowded road. It seemed he quickly lost himself in the art of driving. Scanning his surroundings, it looked as if he knew exactly where he needed to go, but could not actually muster focus on anything beyond the carriage in front of him. The motions had become automatic. He was seeing, but not looking.
The billowing scarf he wore dangled constantly in Millet's peripheral vision. Perhaps the garment reminded him of something from his past. Its fading tug renewed itself when he made a sharp turn, passing more familiar skyscrapers and many more ponies wandering this way and that.
Shortly, he pulled aside though traffic, mostly more cabs, to drop off the glum stallion in the back. He didn’t ask why the other pony appeared so distraught, merely accepting payment for his service and watching the pony go before leaving, himself.
Rain Check sighed once he was out of the taxi, running a hoof through his hair. A cursory glance from a passerby, and they might have inferred the unicorn had a rough day at work, one of many lately. But circumstances prevented him from taking any time off, so he had to settle for consuming a significant quantity of alcohol in the early evening.
Pushing open the door, he walked past the chattier patrons near the entrance and plopped himself down on a stool at the bar. Immediately, both his elbows were on the counter and his forehooves were on his temples. He looked out of place compared to the other clientele, in terms of dress at least. There must have been a reason he chose this place.
The bartender, with his graying mustache, walked a few steps up to him. "What's your poison?"
Rain Check glanced upwards. He just said "Whiskey." The bartender knew what he liked, and not much else.
In a few seconds, a bottle of black label and a shot glass were placed in front of him, the latter already filled to the top with the former's contents. Rain Check tossed back the whole thing in one go.
He took a deep breath, already visibly affected by the beverage. Two more shots quickly slid down his throat. While not entirely pleasant, ponies turned to the bottle in order to melt their stresses away like so much wax amid the swirls of sensation. He slumped onto the bar, head laying atop crossed legs.
Cedar left the stallion to his drink. Undoubtedly, he'd seen plenty of businessponies in his pub before. The sort of stallion who ended up as a bartender was different. Cedar’s ambitions may have been lesser, or his satisfactions greater. The only thing that needed to be true was his skill, otherwise his bar could not have survived. As long as he kept the shelves stocked and the place clean, drinkers would come. And yet, Cedar made sure to keep one ear open, but it rarely saw use from any of his patrons.
Then, one of his regulars arrived. He sat in one of the wide gaps between customers, his shoulder-length mane looking like it hadn't seen water in months. The stallion asked for cheap beer, and Cedar obliged, deftly filling a pint glass from the tap and sliding it over. He grunted in acknowledgement and started to drink it down.
Cedar’s inquisitive gaze flicked over the empty ones of his customers. He did nothing to stop those who were drinking to excess. Either he didn’t care, or knew better than to try. Instead, he just tended bar, occasionally directing a meaningful smile towards his wife, who was working as the hostess for the restaurant side.
And so, Cedar just tended bar, quietly and efficiently. Customers came and went, entering melancholy or jovial and leaving in the same state, the worn stools rarely remaining unoccupied for long. None paid him much mind, only conversing with the other bargoers, if at all. He didn’t seem to care.
The sound of assorted coins clattered onto the wood as the somewhat dirty pony left, weaving his way to the exit. Roughshod stepped out with his unkempt wings clenched to his sides, the evening breeze ruffling his dreadlocks. He seamlessly merged with the hoof traffic on the sidewalk, trudging back to his place with heavy steps. He would not be full for more than a few hours, and when next he would be was anyone’s guess.
When he was on the move like this, everybody ignored him. Only when he stopped did anyone bother to take notice. In Manehattan, everyone was always on the move.
Soon, Roughshod reached a dilapidated alley. Trotting behind the rusty dumpster, he grabbed a small wooden crate and started dragging it. It was missing one of its sides, and was splintering constantly, making scraping noises as he made his way over to a nearby intersection. Nobody minded this, as the crate had been thrown out.
Once he was in the right spot, Roughshod dropped the crate and sat down. Reaching into the pocket of his sweater, underneath his jacket, he fished out an old plastic recorder. Only Roughshod knew where he got it and what it meant to him.
He flipped the worn hoofball cap off of his head and onto the ground in front of him, and began to play. The mostly on-key rendition of Take me out to the Ballgame was barely audible over all the honking and talking and hoofsteps.
Roughshod’s song was largely unnoticed, intentionally or not, and it was a long while before a short earth pony mare stopped to drop him few bits. He didn’t stop playing, and just nodded a silent thank you as she turned and went on her way.
Buttercup sighed as she continued her walk home. Something had compelled her to help the stallion. It may have been pity, or altruism.
After a few more blocks, she arrived at the home she shared with her two foals. It was more of a run-down old apartment building in an unsavory neighborhood, but it was cheap, and had all the necessities. She advanced past the creaky steps and the front door, pulled out her keys, and went inside.
“Mommy’s home!” she announced jovially.
Immediately, she was besieged by her kids. Buttercup could barely tell what Sunrise and Green Spring were saying with both of them talking over eachother like that, but she got the gist: they were hungry and wanted her to order pizza. While this wasn’t what she normally did, Buttercup relented.
She smiled down at them. “Ok, but only if you get your homework done right now.”
Sunrise pouted. “Mom, how did you know we hadn’t done it already?”
She rolled her eyes. “Just because I can’t be here when you get back from school doesn’t mean that you can goof off all afternoon. Learning is important.”
With that, she shooed them off to their shared room and phoned in the pizza. Buttercup then took to cleaning up around the apartment, since she had more time now that she didn’t have to cook dinner. She swept the floors and scrubbed the dishes from breakfast clean. By the time she was done, so too were her kids, and they both presented their completed math worksheets to her for approval.
As luck would have it, right after she told them to wash up for dinner, there was a knock on the door. Buttercup kept the chain on until she peeked through the gap and confirmed that it was indeed their pizza. The tall colt delivering it needed a shave, and was almost as greasy as the pizza, but was polite, and graciously accepted her tip before heading off.
Max Speed pocketed the cash and left the building, jumping back into the air. He still had a few more deliveries to make before he could head back to Vanzetti’s for more pies. From the nonplussed expression on his face, he didn’t seem to like his work very much, almost as if he was forced to take the position by a parent or spouse.
His body got goosebumps as he careened above the streets with each wingbeat. Either he liked the thrill of flying, or he was just cold. Max Speed weaved between the buildings, wind rushing across his face. The next stop on his list was a good way away, over on the other side of the river.
Max Speed groaned as he crossed paths with a portion of the weather department, the cloud traffic taking further toll on his demeanor. He must have been new to the city, if he hadn’t been resigned to such bottlenecks by now. Whatever it was, something gnawed at his mind, and he had to double back to the address.
When he landed, entered, and found the correct room, he was greeted by a blonde mare in a crop top and hotpants. He smiled, allowing a brief glance down her body before she paid for her pizza and waved him off. Unlike the anomalous mare from before, she did not tip. Shaking his head, Max Speed headed back out.
Sparing no more time for that colt, Passionfruit quickly consumed her meal before returning to her vanity to finish putting on her makeup. She always made sure to use excessive eye shadow and bright lipstick, since that was what her clients expected of her. Even without the outfit, the list of names and numbers by the phone on her desk, combined with the roll of condoms in her purse and the similar cutie mark on her flank, made it clear that her profession was the world’s oldest. There was no shortage of need for it in the city.
Once she had finished, nodding with approval at her reflection, Passionfruit gathered the rest of her things, threw on an overcoat to remain relatively inconspicuous, and headed out. She had a monthly appointment to attend to.
She sashayed out into the night, her heels clacking on the pavement. Even off the clock, Passionfruit had trouble switching gears, as it were, possibly from muscle memory.
Passionfruit made her way to a busier area, and waited for a cab with her hoof held upwards. No one stopped to stare, or anything like that. Really, Manehattan was an ideal location for a prostitute. There is always someone craving self-satisfaction for a price. Not a lover, just a vessel.
Eventually, a taxi pulled up, and she climbed in, fully prepared both mentally and physically for another night of paid ecstasy.
Millet turned to face her. “Where to, miss?”
And so it went, on and on. This cycle, this web, constantly revolves and expands, unbeknown to those within the city. They are content this way, or don’t know any better. At the same time cogs and sparks. Such is life in Manehattan.
