The clock on the wall behind the counter read 11:30 post-meridiem. By his hazy estimate, he had been there for at least three hours. The short-maned steel blue Pegasus wasn’t sure how many bits he had plunked down or how many mugs he had downed. But he cared little about that right now.
Wind Rider had a few matters on his mind, not the least of which were his post-Wonderbolt prospects.
At his retirement, he was held in an esteem few before and only a hoof-ful after him had achieved. Most ponies would have been thrilled to achieve that plateau. He worked hard for that achievement. Some of the countless flyers he had seen in his time were well set to match. That, too, ought to have been a source of pride to him. It certainly wouldn’t have bothered too many of his predecessors or successors.
Yet somehow, it became his obsession to be the record holder. He wasn’t sure exactly when it began, or what else was involved, but once it happened, everything changed. And eventually, it would be the only thing for which he was remembered within the Wonderbolts.
Was that flight record really all that important to him? At the expense of absolutely anything else? Especially to the point of trying to get rid of that rainbow-tailed private, any way at all? And what, exactly, was it he had seen or heard that inspired his attitude?
It didn’t matter anymore.
In the days just following the dishonorable discharge, Wind Rider had been desperate to get back. To be readmitted. Whatever it took, just so long as he was a Bolt again. Now, nothing.
“You think you’ve had enough there, buddy?” the bartender, also a pegasus, finally asked.
“Probably. I’ve lost count.”
“I can see that.”
“But I’m not that stupid. I remember what happened the last time. Now I’m learning to pace myself.”
Behind him he could make out some hoofsteps of various levels of noise. Some were perfectly clear, like coconut hollows banging together. Others were muffled and faint. Nevertheless, there was a good number of them. He was wondering what the deal was with all those motorcycles out there, anyway.
Wind Rider hadn’t laid eyes on any of them, nor even bothered to turn around, but he could smell the sweaty stench of these creeps.
“Hey, old-timer, you want some fun?” he heard a raspy stallion voice pipe up.
“What I want, pal, is some peace,” Wind Rider stated in a low matter-of-fact tone, without hesitation. “And you are disturbing that peace right now. If you do not mind, find another spot or another bar, or I will make your lives a living Tartarus. Capisce?”
“Get him!” he heard the same voice order. Clearly the message hadn’t gotten through.
Without looking up from his drink, Wind Rider caught a forehoof in his own hoof and slammed the fetlock down on the counter. He heard a blade clattering harmlessly to the ground, all the while keeping a firm hold on the opponent’s hoof.
“Amateur.”
Two more stallions galloped toward him from the direction of the front window.
Wind Rider’s response was to buck the first one so hard he landed flank first into the other one. This caused them to land into the edge of a table, which tipped over with them. All the while, he still had one hoof on his drink and another on his original aggressor.
“Lazy rookies.”
“Come on, you idiots! He’s only one pony!”
Wind Rider calmly took the next stallion and rammed his ear onto the countertop. Taking the thug’s head in one hoof and the first attacker’s head in the other, he rammed their foreheads into each other with such force they both promptly collapsed with a groan. KONK!
“Are you imbeciles finished?” the ex-Wonderbolt growled.
“What are you waiting for, you goldbricks?” shouted another male voice that could easily have been Wind Rider’s age. “Get that bum!”
Two more stallions charged. Wind Rider bucked one of them so hard he heard a sharp grunt and dull collapse. He caught the other stallion’s forehoof and flipped him over. For good measure, he flipped him onto his opposite side, then left him there to groan.
“Dumb fools.”
Another stallion began his charge, but got stopped firmly in his tracks when he felt a rear hoof in his right side. With one good yank, Wind Rider had flung him straight toward the three approaching hooligans. All four of them landed in front of another empty table and collapsed in a heap as it tipped over.
“You dunderheads, get the old bastard!” growled the older stallion.
Four ponies charged at once, one in each direction. Right before impact, though, Wind Rider ducked and neatly slipped out of the way. All four of them landed into each other like derby vehicles, causing them to collapse in a pile on the ground.
in the same breath, three others moved in, one wielding a tire iron. Wind Rider blocked the offending piece of iron with his pastern, lifted the bearer up, and flung him in a full 360. The result was an unarmed mare on the ground, dazed from the collision. The other two found themselves continuing their stampede when Wind Rider sneaked aside like a matador cape at the very last second. In their haste, they forgot about the doors at the back and crashed headfirst.
“Anypony else want to try?” Wind Rider asked seriously, without any irony. In a mere two minutes or so, he had laid out more than two thirds of their ranks, all without venturing away from the counter.
The clumsy galloping of young stallions and mares tripping over each other to scram – those that were conscious enough to run – answered his question. Now to deal with their boss.
“You’re the only one left, pal,” Wind Rider snarled, keeping an eye on the chain his opponent was holding. “Let’s see how you do without anypony backing you up.”
The bearded gang leader tried to charge him head on. But Wind Rider merely grunted at the impact. Drawing himself to full height, he snaked the chain around his pastern. With one good yank, he brought it down toward the counter. This caused his aggressor to knock his head at the edge. In the next breath, he lifted him by the throat with both front hooves and plopped him on the seat at the very end. He turned the seat a few inches to the right, then spun wildly to the left.
The gang leader let out a confused whinny during the spin.
“Bunch of utter pretenders.” Wind Rider groused, lifting the gang leader again and ramming his haunches down onto a full dinner plate. To the bartender, he said, “Here’s a few more bits to cover the mess. I trust you called the cops already. And, uh, you might also want to ask your other customers to clear a space. This order is to go.”
With one more good pull and one good shove, the bearded stallion slid backwards, while the customers pulled their orders off the counter to guarantee a clear undisturbed ride. The window at the other end of the counter promptly shattered under his weight as he sailed out of their range of vision.
“I really wish it could have been different,” Wind Rider answered the bartender sympathetically. “You probably deal with this stuff at least once a week. I know — I’ve witnessed similar behavior at more than one Cloudsdale tavern.”
“Yeah. Don’t worry — I’ve called the cops. Should be here shortly.”
Meanwhile, Soarin, Spitfire, and a few other out-of-uniform Wonderbolts were approaching the bar in the hopes of a little reprieve. What they saw instead was a pile of battered and bruised stallions – and a hoof-ful of mares – on both sides of the entryway, slowly trying to get up.
“What in the blazes is all this?” Soarin piped up.
“I don’t know, but it looks to me like there’s been a brawl goin’ on in there,” Spitfire replied.
“Whoa, heads up!”
On Soarin’s warning, they all ducked as the beautifully printed window shattered into shards. While the other ponies were slowly coming to and looking ready to gallop off, a stallion with a sinister beard had just sailed through the glass and landed in front of the display.
“Not so fast, bud,” Soarin announced, blocking them all off and taking one by the tail. “You’re staying for this party, and so are your pals.”
The other Wonderbolts easily restrained the fleeing ponies, one in each hoof or wing. Meanwhile, sirens blared and red and blue flashes emerged in the distance.
Once the police were on the scene to deal with the herd, the Wonderbolts entered the bar. Around the first pool table, they found about a dozen other stallions – and at least three mares – laid out in motionless heaps. In the midst of it all was an older slate blue pegasus calmly finishing up his drink.
“What—?” Spitfire was about to say, when she noticed the mark on the patron’s flank. “Wind Rider, what are you doing here, anyway?”
Slowly, Wind Rider craned his neck over to the source of the question. A bright yellow mare with an orange spike mane, accompanied by a powder blue stallion with a Royal blue mane. “Hello, Captain,” he snarled. “And hello to you, Soarin. So nice to see you again.”
“What is all the mess about?” Soarin pressed.
“They decided to try some funny stuff on me, is what all this is about.”
“And you were actually crazy enough to take ’em up on it?”
“Well, since I’m never going to be a Wonderbolt again, I’ve got nothing left to lose.” Wind Rider continued his hard glare at Spitfire. “You, on the other hoof? I hear you forgot to brief Rainbow Dash on your little hazing ritual. I also heard your precious Princess Twilight Sparkle got caught in the middle of your little spat. Right up until I retired, I’d never known any Wonderbolt unit to overlook that little nugget with any of their reserves or recruits.”
“What are you sayin’?” Spitfire snapped.
Wind Rider gave off a genuine snigger. “Real simple, kid. If you guys don’t get your act together and make nicey nice with the press and the Equestria masses like you’ve never made with anypony before, your collective names are gonna be mud. I hear Rainbow Dash has plenty of pals around town, especially that short-maned squirt who gets called Scootaloo, and I don’t think they’re going to care who’s wrong or right. And since you said I’m going to be dealing with Princess Luna in court, what’s another few heads?”
Soarin and Spitfire took another look at the body count. It was like looking at a still picture.
“They didn’t leave me any choice,” Wind Rider concluded. “This time, I can safely say I did what I had to do. Did you?”
“Well, that went well,” Soarin said blankly, watching the former Wonderbolt calmly fly off into the night with only a faint blue smoke trail.
“Maybe we oughta go elsewhere,” Spitfire replied, as a few patrol ponies entered the bar.
“Not yet. We’re probably going to have to make a statement to the cops.”
Author's Note
This is not about whether or not Wind Rider has learned anything; rather, it is about him wondering if he had learned anything after all. It’s not meant to be a redemption arc.
