"Get home safe, Foster!" A scruffy, if aged voice calls out from behind me. In my haze, I turn my head to the man and give a smile, albeit somewhat sluggishly. If I can be honest with anyone, it's myself, and I am fucked dry at the moment. After a second or two of awkward staring, I raise a thumb at the man. Standing behind the counter, Francis, while drying out a once dirtied glass, shakes his head at me.

"Will do, ya cheeky cunt! Ye wouldn' have 'ny business without my bogan arse, would ye?" I rhetorically, and might I add, retardedly ask. I chuckle at my response, lowering my hand down to my chest to give it a scratch. Damn thing's been itching a lot, lately, probably caught a bug or something. The old barkeep waves me off with a lighthearted scoff before he places the cup somewhere behind the counter. I return his wave with one of my own before continuing out. "A'right, a'right. G'night, Francine!"

"It's Francis, you basta-"! The door shuts behind me, shielding my frail ears from the aggravated tone of Francis Drew. Thank God for that; as much as I appreciate the bloke, he's got a bloody loud voice. I'd likely be deaf if it wasn't for the fact I shout too. Preferably dead though.

Bah, preferences and whatnot.

Honestly, he's lucky I drink as much as I do, though. Old bat probably gets lonely every now and then, so he's got to appreciate my company, right? Shite, I sure do appreciate his, that's for damn sure. I mean, I drink more at his bar than anyone else's, but I digress. His is the only bar I like going to. Granted, I haven't exactly expanded my search on the local pubs here, have I? Should fix that, but is that really a good idea? I'm already raging as it is. Though... my mouth is getting a little dry.

Blasted alcoholism.

With a sigh, I look back at Drew's place before nodding to myself. Yep, that'd be right; I definitely need another drink. I start walking along the brightly-lit street, the busy night-owls not unlike me, driving along the road to get to their destinations. I stumble now and again, but not so bad as to fall into the road, thankfully. Seconds turn to minutes and minutes into half an hour and I'm just as lost in this city as I was years ago. Haven't found any decent looking boozers just yet, but I've faith. I've faith. The Seattle nights haven't run me wrong just yet.

Just before I can give up on my seemingly endless journey for a righteous drink with the flies, I spot an all too familiar sign. "OPEN", though, for some reason, the neon lights were flashing a brazen rainbow at me. I let out a snort/chuckle, the image of me walking into a gay bar plays through my head. Nothing wrong with the sort, I'd just find it funny. Reminds me of Jake's, but the open sign is a little much for their tastes.

Ah, well, a drink's a drink, I suppose.

I continue to stare at the sign for a little longer, bringing the palm of my right hand to my eyes to wipe away the crusts forming. Maybe I'm not done, I don't know. Either way, it's something new, like I said. "Ain't been here before," I mumble out with a low grin, "mus' be a new bar or somethin'." I mean, with a name like "Amareican InCider," it has to be a bar, right? Could do without the odd spelling though. Makes me think of a gay bar for cockroaches. I let loose a tiny shrug, scratch at my chest a second time, and pull at the door's handle. With it ajar, I step through with no resistance.

The sound of chitter-chatter pulls me further inward and I leave the small entryway, the door closing behind me. Before I can take in the populace, an uncomfortable heat washes over me. Don't know what it is, maybe the mass of bodies or the thermostat or whatnot, but it feels much hotter than it should be. Shite, Drew's didn't feel this warm and he always has it around 15°C. It's not too uncomfortable, but it is rather annoying. Maybe I'll speak with the barkeep about it when I get to the counter; pulling off my jacket and throwing it over my shoulder, I stagger my way to the nearest barstool, bee-lining to the back of the bar.

I take a seat in the middle and plant my elbows on the surface. It's only now, do I realize the chatting had silenced around me. I laugh out loud, turning my head to the barkeep. "What? Someone open their lunch or someth-" whatever words that wanted to escape my lips vanish and my mouth dries considerably more. Right in front of my very eyes is an orange pony; stetson atop her head, blonde hair, green eyes, and freckles to boot. Her body—I'm assuming it's a her, anyway—is frozen, her hooves holding onto a rag and glass in a way that was eerily similar to Francis'. Almost as if to mimic her, the world pauses as well.

For all of two seconds, anyhow.

"Oy, g'day brumby, get me-ah, get me a coldie, yeah?" I hiccup mid-sentence and then nod at one of the amber containers behind her. I've seen stranger back in The Lucky Country. Ever seen a boar skull back 18 beers and fight a cow? That's something. Maybe this equine can understand me for all I know. I'm not going to judge. Nor do I care. Her mouth opens and closes slowly, several times, before she shakes the disbelief out of her head. Blinking, all the while trying to maintain eye contact with me, she ever so slowly turns her head to where I was indicating.

Raising a finger, I help her along as I point at the only drink on the shelf that looks like a cold beer. Well, cold is relatively speaking as this room is quite balmy. I watch in silence as she puts the rag and cup duo on the counter before she reaches for the longneck with a now free hoof. She opens her mouth again, letting out a light cough, before looking back and forth between the bottle and me. "U-uh, this'un here, pa-par'ner?" She asks, looking down at the dark, sloshing liquid, as if to question my choice in drink, before meeting my unfocused gaze once again. I just nod to her, outstretching my left arm with an open hand.

She caps the bloody thing with her horseshoe.

"Stands out like a shag on a rock, don'it?" While it doesn't look like the only beer, it looks like it'll be the only good one. The rest of the bottles shelved looked as if each one was shat out of a rainbow, what with their many, many different colours. Amber was the only one you could trust to taste like a beer. Hopefully, anyhow. With a motion of my open hand, I find the bottle taking its rightful place rather quickly and I look at the mare with a question passing my lips. "Y'don't mind if I skull the bloody thing, right? I've recently hit the turps, Sheila, and I'm still parched." If her brow could go any higher than it can now, I'd-oh, lookit that, it went higher.

"Beg yer pardon?"

Ah, that's why she raised her brow at me. Seems she can't understand me entirely. I'll try speaking a little bit more like a Seppo. She'll likely find this offensive, they all do. "Well, shoot, missy. Y'all don't be mindin' if I shotgun the whole thing, right? Jus' went on a drinkin' binge I did and I'm still thirsty as hell!" In hindsight, I also shouldn't have tried mimicking her accent. Way to stereotype Americans ~~Amareicans?~~, me.

You fucking dag.

To my honest surprise, she gives a nod in understanding, a low "ooohhh" escaping her lips. "Well, shoot, sugarplum. If'n y'all think you can handle such a marish drink, consarnit, go right on ahead!" Ah, well, that was easier than expected. "Jus' so you know, that there's a mare's drink, some'a the strongest stuff this side'a Equestria!" The side comment makes its way to my ears, but I blow it off. It's just a beer, how bad can it be? Besides, I'm already a little drunk right now, one beer ain't going to be my tipping point. Knockback any notions of such a thought!

I give her a nod with a cheeky grin and bring the tip of the bottle to my lips; immediately do I regret it as I let the foul, apple-y liquid drain its way down my throat. The sole content of the bottle finds itself missing and the mare stares in, for some reason, shock and awe. Shite, that was disgusting, no wonder she's looking at me like that. Bet she can't even stand this piss.

"Certainly doesn't taste like it, oohoo. Who in the bloody hell drinks hard cider?" I ask no one, ignoring the shift in the mare's stare, as I pull the empty bottle from my chapping lips. I give a looksie at the brand name of this particular beer, interested in learning who in the fuck would want to design such a taste. "AJ's Hard-A? Ne'er heard of them before..." I mumble to myself before placing the emptied longneck on the counter. My eyes go from the foul drink back to the pony, who now seems quite cross with me for whatever reason. "Ye've got any harder, love? Needs more of a burn an', while I gave that shite a fair go, I need somethin' that doesn't go down like a piece of piss."

For some reason she whispers to herself, rather harshly I may add, before sighing. "Listen, Mister. Jus' 'cause y'all like to act like a mare, don't make you a mare. Ah only let y'all have the first one 'cause y'all seem like a decent feller, but if y'all're gonna come into mah bar and disr-u-spect mah own brew, which is plenty hard Ah reckon, then y'all can just git. This here bar ain't meant fer no stallions." The orange pony keeps mentioning equine genders for some reason, but to be frank, I don't care. I know the difference between the two, you drongo. With a roll of my eyes, I lean over the counter some and chuckle lightly.

She flinches back, likely at my breath. I have been drinking for a few hours now. She must smell actual alcohol—none of that femme shite—on my breath. Fair dinkum, I'd wager Jameson. "Ay, Sheila. Somethin' harder would be absolutely ace at the moment." I make sure to breathe a little harder as I speak my mother's tongue; make sure she knows what real grog smells like. She lets out a low 'tch' and mumbles something about stallionists under her breath.

"Today, Sheil-"

Suddenly, her face covers the entirety of my vision as she presses her muzzle against the tip of my nose. She glares, heatedly, into my eyes. "Tha name's Applejack, now quit callin' me Sheila! Ah ain't no twink mare foolin' around with other mares. That ain't natural-" she huffs out, blowing the bangs out from over her eyes. Her emerald greens hath a fury no one could tame. But again, I don't care. I just want a blasted drink. "Now. Ah ain't afraid of hittin' no stallion jus' to git him outta mah bar. Y'all better learnt yer place, y'hear? Ah serve what Ah serve to mah customers, an' y'all better respect that!"

I pull my head back from hers and instead of continuing with this yobbo's bullshite, I let out an honest laugh. Drunk, though I may be, I have to admit, I respect her somewhat. "Oohoo! I like you a lot, I do, Miss Applejack! Can tell ya give it straight and narrow, jus' like my oldies raised me to do. Tha's somethin' special, indeed." I finish with a soft chuckle, placing a hand atop her bangs, just beneath her stetson. Ruffling her mane, the orange mare's face heats up, her white coloured freckles turning tinges of pink. "But, y'see, lass, I don't give a bloody shite. You serve what you serve, sure as it rains, but I drink what I drink. S'how the whole bloody world works." I pull my hand back with a shrug, leaning back, but not too far back, on the barstool. "So, if ye've got any whiskey, maybe scotch, that'd be just. Ace." I finish, folding my arms over my chest.

The mare looks as if she wants to shout, blow a gasket or something or other, and so she does. "Now, y'all wait just one Celestia damned minute, I-!"

"Give the stallion a whiskey; Trixie, the kind and just, will pay."

Well, sort of, apparently. A voice interrupts the wanna-be volcano, and it finds my attention rather quickly. Leaning back into the counter, I turn my head to the newest voice in the mix and I see yet another talking mare, light blue with a Colgate toothpaste-esque mane. Her piercing violet eyes meet my hazy, drunken blue.

Author's Note

Another "Lack of Tact" shit-show.

Yeah.

Whatever.