Anon Saves Canterlot, er...
... After Lunch, Of Course...
It is the scent of freshly brewed joe, the constant waft of caffeine, that stirs you from your early-morning drowsiness. Sadly enough, it's not yours to drink. The black gold flows from the pot clasped in your hand into the awaiting mug before you. You whimper silently. How you managed to get yourself roped into the barista-ing career, you have no idea. You'd blame society, but society is just a bunch of horses and magic and other gay and/or girly shit.
Speaking of, today's a very special day for horsey-kind: the wedding of Princess Not-Sunburn the Nth and Sheldon. Something like that; you can't remember all of these ridiculous names, they're just two words put together. Honestly, you were wondering what kind of autistic God would allow these creatures to name each other—that's all besides the point! The point is, you're invited.
Yeah.
Well, okay, no, not invited, but you were going to be catering your cafe's caffeine, you know, for all of the other shits that can't get enough 'woke' in their daily diet at the wedding. Still though, it counts, you surmise. With a sigh, you place the mug of hot black into the awaiting aura of the horn horse that ordered it. The greying, auburn stallion was waiting for a solid forty-something seconds and you were in your head. You figure if you keep that up, your boss'll fire you in no time.
Eh, probably not, you kind of are her only employee at the moment, but whatever.
Not really a bad thing either way, but you don't care. It's more money, y'know? "That'll be ten bits." You utter almost lifelessly. The horse before you scoffs at your lack of oomph and places the money down on the counter between you two.
"With an attitude like that, I may as well not pay you at all!" He speaks back, hoisting his maw in the air, away from you. Snooty bastard.
Fucking moron already paid, you think to yourself without batting an eye, scooping the coins into the nearest register. That's another thing, despite this universe being all olde-timey and whatnot, it still has its touches of modernity. Except where it counts. I mean, a coffee maker, a register. Shit, even arcade cabinets were a thing! Where the Hell's a cell phone when you need one? It'd kick sending letters to the curb and you'll be able to order take-out in half the time. That, and no more wrist cramping. Wrist cramps are the worst, especially when you're a barista.
You're not even sure what the term means, barista, but it's what she calls you, so, yeah. Probably someone who makes cof-you're fucking stupid. Whatever, roll with the self-inflicted punches. And the wrist cramps. And the fact you can't drink the product without paying. Ugh, this is the worst. "Sorry, not sorry," you proclaim, turning to face the door behind you, "Tacklebox!" You scream out into the back, the cafe-goers and counter-sitters all turn to you and you pay them no heed. The same horse you just served jumps in surprise, spilling the dark liquid all over its barrel. Promptly ignoring this, you walk away from the counter. It's time for your break, again, and you're taking it whether your boss wants you to or not.
Also, you don't want to be there for annoying customer noises. "Oh Celestia, hot, hothot! Hot!" You ignore that, too.
"Trixie has told you before, you hairless ape, her name is the Great... and POWERFUL... TRIIII-"
Always with the yelling, Jesus shit, you shake your head and choose to interrupt her. "Shut up already, Tacklebox," you deadpan as you make your way into the back room. Ignoring boss horse's open-mawed look, you punch your card in. Not physically, like, you don't actually raise a fist and pound on it, but—fuck it, you know where you're going with this. That's all that matters. Turning around, her mouth closes and she begins glaring at you. Immensely so. The Hell did you do this time?
Your lips purse slightly as you muse over this.
"No, monkey," her hoof stomps into the floor, the thud reverberates and you take a step back. "This'd be your fifth break already and-and you've only been working for an hour!" She lowers her voice with an almost mute growl, looking at the ground with her eyebrows furrowed in wrath. Or constipation, you could never tell with these horse-folk. Her head snaps back up and her glare softens only a little. "Trixie would fire you, but you are the only one who wishes to work with Her, the Beautiful and Reverent."
Wishes? Not so much, but yeah. You're pretty used to loud noises by now, probably half-deaf, but you're not sure, so working under her is no problem. "No kidding, every other employee I see here comes and goes like that-" you snap your fingers to emphasize your point, "I stick around 'cause it's easy money. And like, you're kind of my ride home, so." Not a fact you like to point out, but—regardless! You didn't come back here to chit-chat about why you keep this shoddy job, you came back to punch in your card, leave, and then come back later to repeat the process!
You have a really bad work ethic.
Boss horse harrumphs but nods her head, turning it to face away from you. "Yes, well, Trixie is the Humblest and the Friendliest unicorn in all the land..." Her words trail off into nothingness, her eyes glancing into yours for the briefest of seconds. "Just be sure to be back here in ten minutes, monkey. Breakfast rush is just about over and a lot of important ponies are to be here during lunch. Trixie doesn't wish to suffer through it alone."
You nod—fighting back a damning sneeze—as you unfasten your apron, placing it on the hanger behind the door. With a glance back at the second loudest horse in history, you throw your cap on the couch and leave the room to her. The door closes, prompting a whinny of annoyance from Tacklebox from behind it. You force back a not-at-all-dark chuckle.
She may be your boss, but goddamn, is she a pushover. Just a compliment or two and bam, you're off on break once again!
Why the Hell can't all of these horses be like her? Easy to manipulate and whatnot. You're teaching them a lesson with all of this!
---
Sighing contentedly, you begin to zip your pants back up. Another piss-break just behind the café and you feel relieved once more. Honestly, maybe you should get that checked out, with how much you piss and all. Then again, you'd much rather not have any~~more~~ of these horses near your junk. Who knows what kind of ungodly diseases they have. "Shit!" You shout, the zipper catching on your scrote; looking down to see if your goods had become damaged in any way, you release another sigh.
Anonpecker is doing fine, just the beginnings of a zip-rash is all that shows.
Pulling the metal death up the rest of the way, carefully dodging another incident, you sniffle, staring at the large castle just about two blocks down. You can't help but stare at it. I wonder how Tacklebox could afford a place this close to the castle? The thought passes into your head and you shrug, assuming she probably magicked some unlucky fuck into letting her have it. Ah, well, at least it means business.
You waltz back to the front of the shop and push open the door, not failing to pat a stranger on the head on your way in. Time another godawful lunch rush. Along with it, more godawful horses.
You feel today, really just the wedding in general, is going to be a little bit tricksy.
Author's Note
Hol' up, this one might actually be relatively saner compared to the last one—I'm kidding. I got a lot of fucked up shit planned for this.
I'll probs finish the last chapter of "Anon Saves Equestria, er..." later this week. Dunno, depends on how chaotic my schedule is this time around.
Enjoy!