Silent Graves

"What a lovely gift," smiled Whistling Wind. "How are you able to afford such lavish gifts?"

"It's all in how I present myself," smiled Rotten, securing the bejeweled necklace around her shoulders. "And I cannot think of a more lovely mare for it to adorn."

"Not even your wife?" muttered the bartender under his breath, not nearly loud enough to be heard.

"It's such a nice colour, and it fits against my coat so beautifully. You're such a sweet coltfriend." She leaned forward and kissed him. "I'm so lucky to have you."

"And I, you."

"Can I offer either of you a drink?" asked the bartender, putting on his best fake smile. "Perhaps something from the kitchens?"

"I think we're good," said Rotten, waving his hoof. "Why don't you serve somepony else?"

"I'll have another gin and tonic," smiled Wind. "Neat."

"You heard the lady," groused Rotten, pushing the bits toward the bartender. "Whatever she wants."

With a shake of his head, the bartender turned around and began mixing the drink for her. He was halfway hoping that one of them would have ordered something more complicated so he could take a trip to the kitchen. He was uncomfortable watching married stallions picking up mares at his bar. It wasn't really his business, but he didn't like it.

He'd tolerated it at his last place, but that had cost him his job. An angry ex-wife had sued the restaurant and bar, claiming that her husband had only taken several mares home due to being inebriated, and that he wouldn't have done so if not for the several drinks he purchased regularly from the bartender. While the courts had ruled that the restaurant was not responsible for the actions of the customers after they left, nor were they expected to know that the stallions were married or not, He'd already been fired for being the bartender that had served the drinks in question. He liked this place more, anyway. It had better lighting, a cleaner setup, and the customers tipped better.

He poured the drink into a lowball glass atop a napkin and slid it gently to the mare. Thankfully, another customer down the bar was waving to him, meaning he could go take care of them for a bit. "How can I help?"

"Ish your kitchen sstill open?" slurred the mare. "I fheel like I want shomething tashty."

"Our kitchen's open until two, ma'am. Do you know what you want to eat?"

"I'm not... I don't know what you have, and your menu ishn't readable. It just keepsh moving. Why don't you pick for me?"

"We have a lovely spinach and ricotta panini. How does that sound?"

"Doesh it come with a shide or drink? I'll be honest, I think I should shwitch to water or shomething."

"We can give you some hay fries with that." He reached under the bar and opened the water tap, filling a highball glass for her with cool water. No ice, just a bit below room temperature.

"Will thish do?" She pushed forward six bits from her pocket. He pushed two back to her and slipped the other four into the register. With a nod, he disappeared into the kitchen.

"Spinach and ricotta panini," he called back to the kitchen staff. When the line cook repeated it back to him, he noted that the trash can was just overflowing. He quickly switched out the liners and hoisted the bag over his shoulder and carried it out back. As he was tossing it into the dumpster, he noticed a rather shaggy-looking pegasus crawling into a cardboard box. He never liked to see them brought this low.

As he went back inside, he called out to the line cook, "Go ahead and add an order of zucchini fritters to go."

"There was a customer out back?"

"He payed. Don't worry about it."

With a shrug, the cook flipped the sandwich and resumed cooking as the bartender washed his hooves. When the sandwich was ready, it was escorted to the mare at the bar, who pushed the two bits back across the counter.

"These are fhor you," she said, almost pushing them to the floor. "Thanksh for takin' care of me tonight..."

"My pleasure, ma'am." He took the bits and shoved them into his pocket. He pulled those and one more bit out of that pocket, dropping them into the register when she wasn't looking. These would cover the cost of the fritters.

He managed to take care of two other customers before his fritters were ready. Grabbing them, he carried them out back, where the pegasus was lying down for the night. "Hey, before you make yourself too comfortable, the garbage trucks come through at dawn. You'll want to go all the way to the back of the alley, down near the garages so they don't haul you off by accident."

"Oh," came the response from the groggy pegasus, climbing out of the box and picking it up. "Thanks, I needed that."

"Before you go, these are for you." He held out the polystyrene container filled with fritters. "Extra dipping sauce."

The homeless pony furrowed his brow. "I'll gladly take your advice, but I can't repay you for the food."

"Don't worry about it. This one's on me."

He shook his head. "If you give away free food willy-nilly, you're going to lose your job."

"As far as my boss is concerned, I paid for these and ate them."

"You could end up homeless, like me."

"And when that happens, I'd hope somepony would do the same to keep me fed and warm." He placed the container on top of a pallet and walked away. "They're yours now, and I take no further responsibility for what happens. If they rot, it's all your fault."

As the door closed, The pegasus picked up the container. While he felt awful for not paying for them, he was starving. He hadn't eaten anything good in two days. He considered himself to be a principled pony, and very proud, but he was still a pony, after all. Still, as he ate the free fritters, he angrily promised himself that he would gather up a few bits, come back, and pay for them. He wanted to be a functioning member of society again, damn it!

Two weeks later, on the same weeknight, the homeless pegasus was back. He had found work cleaning up litter, and while the pay was abysmal, he had enough to pay for a batch of fritters. As he turned down the alleyway, he noticed a horrid smell that hadn't been there before. No matter, he thought. He would only be here for as long as it took before the bartender came out.

After two hours, the door opened, and the cook came out with the trash. "Excuse me," called the pegasus. "Is there a tall unicorn stallion in a vest in there? I think he works here, or at least did recently."

"He did," responded the cook. "He came out for a smoke break last night, didn't come back in. We're not sure where he went, but if he doesn't show up by tomorrow, he's fired. Boss's orders."

"Do you know where he lives?"

"Somewhere over that way," said the cook, gesturing toward the nearby apartment building. "Ask for Cuba Libre, that's his name. If you find him, tell him to drag his arse down here, at least to clear up what happened to him."

The pegasus nodded and started off. He made it almost to the end of the alley before he found the stallion he was looking for. He'd been beaten to death with some kind of sticks, and in an effort to make it look like it was part of the recent string of killings, a small explosive had been set off inside of his navel. He had been propped up against a dumpster for the last twenty-five hours.