“What’s it going to be then, eh?”
There was me -- that is, Twily – and my three droogs, Pink, AJ, and Dash, Dash being very dim. (Seriously, she was fast and she was good in a scrap and not much else.) We were all sitting round in the Connemara Cider Bar trying to make up our minds what to do with the evening when I asked the question. The Connemara sold cider-plus -– that is, cider plus ingram, or renzetti, or andyart, that being what we were having –- which would get you nice and sillypony for a night out.
“Well,” said Dash, “anyfing’s got to be better’n last night, innit? Wha’d we have to go an’ shop-crast a bookstore for, Twily?”
I rolled my glazzies at her and said nothing. I’d scored some real shoo-bee-doo tomes that night, my little ponies, some glorious first editions among them. Besides, it’s not like there hadn’t been itty bitties to be had -- we all got our share of celestias in the till, and AJ had grabbed some trashy romance novels to sell off and give the coin to her family. Pink swiped some joke books, but mainly she was in it for the fun. Dash could’ve nabbed something with a lot of pictures, had she the wit to.
“How ‘bout the usual?” asked AJ.
Pink was grinning. “Works for me!”
I dropped my empty mug down on the table with my teek. “Right, then: a bit of the old Y-Rated violence!”
We poured our itty bitties onto the table of two granny smiths on our way out the door, buying them proper ciders and apple snacks and a salt lick to share. Makes you feel right shoo-bee-doo, that does, plus a pouch empty of coin begs to be filled again. It also didn’t hurt that the two old mares would cover for us later on, should there be any questions from the shinings.
We prowled the dark alleys and back streets of Canterlondon, my little ponies, until at last Pink had one of her fits of sensory overload. “Fun!” she chirped as the seizure died down, and I allowed her to take the lead. We slipped into the back of an abandoned warehouse and what we found was fun indeed.
Trixie-girl was there with her droogs, four background ponies. They, like we, were dressed in the height of fashion among young pony gangs: trousers to hide one’s cutie, hats to keep the mane from flying about overmuch, and smart-looking shirts to complete the look. (All sorts of hats were worn; I wore a bowler, a popular choice, but only a complete bratchny would wear a fedora or a trilby.)
They had been about to do a bit of the old in-mouth with a case of peanut butter crackers until we made our entrance known. We might as well have ported in, so gobsmacked they were. We were out-numbered, true, but we made up for it with Dash, who counted as two ponies in most fights. (Just don’t ask her to take any written exams, right-right?)
“Well, well, well,” I sneered, “if it isn’t Worst Pony Trixie-girl herself! Have thyself a booger in thy milk, if thou hast any milk for thy peanut butter crackers, you half-horned unicorn.”
“Why, you-–!“
I cut her off. “Pink! You know what to do!” At that, Pink reached behind her and brought out two multi-layer cakes.
Trixie-girl tilted her head. “Why are you giving us cake?”
Pink smiled. “Oh, I’m not giving you cake. I’m assaulting you with cake!”
The cakes flew, as did AJ’s pies, and my water balloons, and Dash herself. Trixie-girl and her droogs fought back, of course, but our yummies were in the air first and our recipes were better. A real sombra mess we made, my little ponies, but so worth it. We took all the bits they had, made off with their un-thrown desserts, and pinched their peanut butter crackers besides.
Our hoovie-wooves had not taken us far before our ears were turned by the horrible, high-saline howl of an old condimenter in the gutter, slurring a song and slobbering over a spill of salt. It was not long before we grew close enough to make out actual words.
A mare that I knew just wouldn’t stay true
She never kept her barn door shut
When asked why her tail flew like flags in a gale
She said, “I’m just stuck in a rut”
Each line was punctuated by a twitch of his aged head, causing the rusty old bells on his filthy hat to jingle. As he finished the verse, we cheered wildly and stomped our applause into the street, making him blink his glazzies and come back to here-and-now. This looked to be a source of great fun, and perhaps we’d even britva off his dirty, disgusting beard.
“Spare some bits, me fillies?” he grated out.
“Suuuuuure!” Pink drew out the word, holding her hoof out just above him, with the flat up. “Just take ‘em!”
He reached up and felt the bite of the buzzer, hoof-on-hoof, juddering and jittering and twitching. In the end, they were both on their backs, he with tongue out and smoke or steam coming from his ears, she rolling around in fits of laughter.
I frowned and would have said something, but I had to wait for the laughter to die down from Pink and Dash before I could get a slovo in edgewise. “Pink,” I said, “that was over too quickly.”
“Sor-ry!” she sang.
I had to settle for busting his bells.
We later found a carriage that somepony had been snails enough to leave out in the open, meaning once we found it, it was ours til we tired of it. A near-new Destrier 95 it was, all posh and cushy and rolling smooth as silk, especially when pulled by a pegasus. We played at hogs of the road, post boxes were bucked, and much mischief was had, my little ponies. With all that speed and all that fun, it was not long before we found ouselves well outside of the city and into the deep, deep, Lunatic dark of the countryside.
It was time for a different game.
Our carriage had passed many homes in the night, flying onward like legends of Tartarus choosing to spare some they might come back for later. The next home was not so lucky; we stopped at a well-lit, cozy cottage with a sign out front that read “STABLE”. A right snails thing to boast, for such was assumed by any sensible pony; what point in building where it wasn’t? Up we crept, masks went on, and a hoof at the door.
A posh mare’s goloss came through the door. “Yes? Who is it?”
“Terribly sorry to trouble you, madam!” I called back, all Celestia’s School best and brightest now. “Some crazed pegasus has been pulling carriages through here at dangerously high speeds, and my friend has been struck and hurt badly!”
“Jet Set, dear, there’s an injured pony outside!” Quieter she was when she spoke again, turned away from the door most like.
We then heard a snooty stalloveck, not all slovos reaching us: “…suppose… better… in, hadn’t…?”
“Just a moment,” she said to us, and latches started to unlatch.
“Surprise!” yelled Pink, charging in and near knocking the door off its hinges once it opened more than half a hoof-width. Surprise for certain, my ponies and friends.
The pies flew true, so the hosts of our night visit were soon too be-derped to make much fuss at our intrusion. As both were unicorns, a game of “toss the donut on the horn” was swiftly organized; I took the time to inspect our surroundings.
I could hardly miss the typey-type that the stalloveck had been seated at, and, cat-curious, I went over to see. It seemed this veck fancied himself a writer, or possibly even one of the ancient unicorn wisdom-lovers, all toga-clad and spewing nonsense. I pulled the sheet of paper from the writer with my magic and began to read in my proper Canterlondon unicorn voice.
“-- like peeling an apple to find clever mechanisms inside, or discovering that inside a pony is naught but clockwork. For, lacking this quality, I say we would be no better than inanimate Objects, waiting to be acted upon by some unknown Animator!”
All had a good smeck at this rot, even Dash, who likely didn’t know the reasons for the laughter. I judged it utter twaddle and lit it on fire with my horn. The writer screeched but not for long, as his protests were blocked by a great bolshy glob of tapioca pudding.
After the burning, AJ began ransacking the house for itty bits or things worth selling, Pink kept our hosts subdued with spray cans of whipped cream, and Dash wrote rude slovos on their faces with a marker she found. Me, I moved over to the writer’s many bookshelves and began taking what I wanted, all the while singing title songs to Bridleway musicals from years gone by.
It was quite late by that time, so it was off to the Connemara for a nightcap before heading home. We spent some of our ill-gotten gains on the two granny smiths, them thanking us and blessing us and saying what lovely young fillies we were. Our giving ways were soon repaid, for it was not long after we gathered our own drinks and found a table that a pair of shinings arrived, golden armor quite out of place here in the cider bar, to “make inquiries”.
“Oh, no, sir, not these sweet young mares! Pure kindness and generosity they are,” said one.
“They’ve been here all night, just as we have. Had they been any trouble, we’d’ve called the royal guards ourselves,” said the other.
There was also a pack of sophisto ponies in the corner, doubtless a group from the nearby theater or some such, but they had been too wrapped up in their own talk to know if we had left or when we had returned. When a guard waved a hoof in our direction, though, there was one -- a tan unicorn stallion with a blond mane and glasses – who couldn’t stop staring. He continued even after the shinings left, and it seemed he was besotted with AJ. She missed this completely, but it’s my job as leader to notice things.
His droogs and companions called his attention back to them, and seemed to be making some sort of request. My own attention began to wander off, my glazzies going elsewhere... until he opened his mouth and began to sing.
Die Winterferien waren,
Sehr schön und unbeschwert
Wir spielten und wir hielten
Unsere Hufe warm am Herd
Doch die Vorräte sind aufgebraucht
In der kalten Jahreszeit
Auch wenn die Stiefel hübsch sind,
Bin ich sie nun langsam leid
My breath caught in my throat, and I closed my eyes to focus on the pure, golden pleasure that washed in through my ears. Oh, bliss. It was as if the summer celebrations had come and the sun itself rose within the cider bar. I knew what it was he sang, my little ponies. It was beatific Beethoofen, the glorious Ninth Symphony, Fourth Movement... the portion known as the “Ode to Spring”.
Dash, being Dash, soon ruined it with nasty mouth noises and a rude gesture. She was spared my horn through gritting of my teeth and a massive act of will; instead, I gave her a hoof to the back of the mane that near had her face-down in her cider mug.
“What for did you do that thing what you just done?” she asked, rubbing where I hit her.
I glared at her. “For being a mannerless mule without a donk of an idea how to comport yourself in public, my little pony.”
“I won’t ‘ave you aiming hoofchoks at me reasonless –- a reasonable pony wouldn’t stand for it, why should I?” Her glazzies narrowed. “I fink you an’ me should ‘ave it out. Dessert on dessert!”
“Cake, cobbler, or compote,” I growled. “A nosh scrap any time you say.”
Things came to a complete halt as Dash attempted something almost wholly unfamiliar to her: thinking. I thought soon I’d viddy smoke coming out of her ears. Suddenly, all false smiles she was, every one of her hay-grinders showing.
“’Too much cider, too much said,’” she quoted. I nodded at the old saying. She continued, “Been a long night. Bed is right for now, so best we go home. Right-right?”
“Right-right,” echoed Pink and AJ, followed by agreement from me. So with that, your Friend and Humble Narrator began to make my way back to the municipal flatblock I called home.
Author's Note
The "Beethoofen" comes from "Winter-Ade-Tag", the German version of "Winter Wrap Up", and as you can see, the lyrics were found via wiki.
The folk song sung by the old stallion in the gutter was (very loosely) inspired by the song "Molly Malone", and the lyrics are by me.
Growing young marechiks such as myself need their sleep, so it was with some dismay that I greeted the knock-knock-knock on my bedroom door in the morning. The opening of said door pleased me even less.
“Twilight? You need to get up, dear. It’s time to get ready for school.”
“Bit of a pain in the zacherle, Mum,” I said, holding a hoof to just below my horn in feigned agony. “I’ll sleep it off and I’m sure I’ll be right as rain by this afternoon, this evening at the latest.”
“Yes, well, I suppose we wouldn’t want you going to school in that condition.” I had trained her well.
With that, my little ponies, I gained some much-needed additional spatchka. What I found when I awoke on my own, however, was even more unwelcome than my earlier wake-up. This veck truly lived up to his name.
“Little Twilight! Missing school again today, are we? I met your mother as she was leaving for work. She gave me the key, yes? Said something about some pain somewhere.”
“A pain in my head, Mr. Pants. Nearly blinded with pain, I was.”
“Yes, I’m quite certain you were. Not, say, blinded by frosting, mmm? I’ve been told there was something of a row last night, yes? A certain Trixie-girl and her friends were pastried rather badly. Your name came up, yes? But you wouldn’t have had anything to do with such a thing, would you?”
“Not at all, Mr. Pants. The shinings have got nothing on me, brother. Sir, I mean.”
“Must you keep calling me ‘Mr. Pants’?”
“It is your name, isn’t it, Mr. Pants?”
“Yes, but it sounds like an insult when you say it. Well, regardless of all your talk about ‘shinings’ and what they may or may not have, know that I’ll be watching you, yes? I feel it’s only a matter of time. I’ll be watching you very closely indeed.”
By then he was uncomfortably close and I sensed that he was no longer govoreeting about my truancy or criminality. Instead, I could tell that this filthy old stallion was talking about getting his glazzies on my megan. I had no intention of letting him viddy my mareish parts, so I showed him my Ding-Dong.
A wrapped snack cake isn’t the same as a bakery-fresh weapon, my little ponies, but he understood the threat well enough; more so when I also showed him my Twinkie. He was soon out of the flat, leaving me at last to my own devices.
“What’s it going to be then, eh?” I asked myself.
I made my way to the music shop, as I knew that the Canterlondon Sympony Orchestra had been planning to release some of the works of Marezart, and I was also awaiting some recordings of compositions by Buch and Wagonpüller. None of those had come in, so I dropped some celestias on the counter to purchase a piece by Scootz. A new plan had appeared in my zacherle by then, so I ported to the bookstore.
Oh, the bookstore! Bliss, blessings, books! It was better for the soul than any cathedral; when I was in the bookstore, all was shoo-bee-doo with the world. If I could bottle the smell of books, I would bathe in it.
I saw that I was not the only school-age pony to have taken the day, for there were two smecking colts in one of the more educational sections. I trotted over to the table they shared, and I was able to viddy that they were looking at a text on anatomy before one of them slammed it shut.
“Looking to learn are we, little bratties?” I teased. “Looking to better ourselves, to increase our knowledge?” I could nearly mistake them for apples, so red were their faces, yet when one hesitantly nodded, the other joined in.
“Come with Big Sister Twily, then. Big Sister Twily has the knowing of a great many things, handsome colts, and would love to show them to you. Tell me, little ones -- what do you know about multiplication?”
Some hours later, I grinned fiercely down at the sobbing and sniffling colts after having given them quite an unwanted lesson. “And now you understand the basics of the binomial theorem, don’t you? Should somepony ask you to square the sum of X plus Y you can expand that out properly and calculate it, can’t you?”
“Y-y-yes, miss,” groaned one of the colts as the other put his hooves over his glazzies.
“And this, little bratties, is just the beginning! There are other exponents beyond the second power, oh yes! Would you like to learn more mathematics?”
“Please, miss, our mums will be worrying, miss. Can we go, please?”
I scowled at the clock and saw that it was indeed getting quite late. My own parents would be home soon, and it would not do for them to see that I had had my way with these two. “Very well, Big Sister Twilight declares that class is dismissed. But know that there is always, always more to learn.”
The tearful two galloped to the door, unlocked it, bolted through, and closed it behind themselves harder than they closed the book I caught them with. I knew they would not forget what I had taught them any time soon.
After a good smeck at their misery, I went to my bedroom to dress for the evening. I expected my droogs to be at the cider bar soon, and a good leader does not let her troops wait overlong for her presence.
I left the flat, ignored the broken lift, trotted down the stairs, and found my droogies waiting for me in the very lobby of the building I called home. “To what do I owe this pleasure, my little ponies?”
“You weren’t where you were expected to be when you were expected to be there,” said Pink. “That was unexpected, so we expected you’d be somewhere else.”
“Apologies, my droogs. I was sleeping off a pain in the zacherle and was not awakened when I gave orders for such.” I didn’t mention the two lads who had received a sparkle of education as I knew they wouldn’t understand my urges.
“Maybe been usin’ the ol’ brain a mite too much there, pardner,” said AJ. At this Dash brayed an obnoxious smeck.
“And what means that laugh, Dash? Could it be that you finally got that joke Pink told last week?”
“Ain’t gon’ be no more pickin’ on Dash. That there’s part of the new way.”
“Oh? And what else is in this new way?”
“Pulling a real horse-sized crast,” said Pink. “Making the real celestias. Steve the Magnetic says he can fence anything, so he’ll buy anything.”
“And what,” I asked, “would any of you do with ‘the real celestias’? You have what you want when you want it. Desire a carriage? It’s yours. Want a new hat? Take it. Need a weapon? Bake it. The city belongs to us.”
Dash blathered something about wanting the money anyway just because, but in truth I wasn’t listening. I was troubled. Never had they dared to go against me before. My thoughts raced as we left the flatblock and walked along the canal to reach the cider bar.
I was beginning a “Get My Authority Back” checklist in my mind when I happened to catch the strains of lovely Beethoofen through an open window. It was then that I decided just this once not to overthink matters; instead, I would use the inspiration that had come down upon me like the rays of the sun.
I gave Dash a deft hind-leg hoofchok that shoved her into the canal. As the one back hoof came down to join the other, I reared up with forehooves full of malice. AJ’s weakness was strawberries, so she soon had a faceful of shortcake, the whipped cream getting everywhere. For Pink’s ever-open mouth I had a stack of unsweetened oatmeal raisin cookies.
Dash and AJ writhed around on the ground, both blindly rolling into the canal just as Dash was working her way back to the edge. I held out a hoof as if to help her out of the water, then smacked her in the face with a bit of the old lemon meringue.
We sat in the Connemara Cider Bar, three of us with towels about our necks and something warming in our drinks. “So,” I said, “that’s all settled and everything’s back to normal, right-right?”
“Right-right,” muttered my doused droogs.
A good leader knows not only when to discipline her troops, but when to reward initiative as well. “Still, I will confess I am intrigued by this ‘horse-sized crast’. Tell me more,” I said.
“Well, there’s this mare what’s been makin’ a lotta purty dresses an’ gettin’ real popular-like. We figure she’s got a whole mess o’ bits, an’ she lives all alone.”
I downed the last of my cider. “You’ve talked me into it.”
A Glossary of Foalsat Slang
A Glossary of Foalsat Slang
Andyart: Oh, wow, look at the colors!
Bolshy: Large.
Bratchny: When a mommy pony and a daddy pony have a baby pony but the mommy pony and the daddy pony aren't married, the baby pony is a bratchny.
Bratty: Brother. (Plural bratties.)
Britva: Razor.
Celestias: Bits. (Because her picture is on them.)
Cider-plus: Apple cider with something else mixed in, often of an illegal nature.
Condimenter: Salt addict.
Crast: To rob.
Donk: Small amount of knowledge.
Droog: Friend and/or criminal partner.
Foalsat: Teenage pony; a pony that used to have a foalsitter but now no longer needs one.
Glazzies: Eyes.
Goloss: Voice.
Granny smith: Elderly mare.
Hoofchok: An attack with one's hoof.
In-mouth: To eat.
Ingram: Allows you to hear wonderful music.
Itty-bits, itty-bitties: Bits.
Marechik: Young mare.
Megan: Private parts of a mare or filly.
Nosh: Ask your Jewish friend.
Ported: Teleported. (Duh.)
Renzetti: Some guy who used to work on some TV show about ponies, I don't know.
Shining: Royal guard or other law-enforcement pony.
Shoo-bee-doo: Great, excellent, awesome, etc. (Derivation unknown.)
Shop-crast: See crast.
Sillypony: Excited, energetic, uninhibited, ready to commit crime, etc.
Slovo: Word.
Smeck: To laugh.
Snails: Stupid.
Sombra: Terrible. (Considered mildly obscene.)
Sophisto: Highly fashionable, usually upper-class.
Spatchka: Sleep.
Stalloveck: Stallion.
Teek: Telekinesis. (Derived from "TK".)
Veck: See stalloveck.
Viddy: To see.
Yummies: Desserts.
Zacherle: Head.
Author's Note
If you're thinking that some of these are from the original novel by Anthony Burgess, you're absolutely right.
