Pale Ale, a fine specimen of the earth pony variety. Stocky shoulders, guns for arms, reflexes quicker than a bull on a rampage, and that fine chiseled jaw, marred only by a scar. A trophy of a time 'fore the peace treaty, 'fore all hymns and holistic preachin', 'fore he was known as 'Pale Ale'. But that was then, and ya know what they say. The past ain't today. Today, Pale Ale works a bar on the outskirts of Junction, famed for the mighty fine ale and the kick just as fine. The only thing that's as famous, is the righteous beating if y'all done tickled Pale Ale wrong.
And somepony done ticked Pale Ale wrong, tonight.
"GET 'IM!" The crowd roared and laughed as a patron who took a swig too many, tried to roundhouse the owner of the fine establishment, The Frontier 'Fore the Frontier. Pale ducked beneath the blow and tackled the drunkard to the floor. He grappled with the stallion and wrestled the poor pony's arms behind his back, leavin' him hollerin'.
"Ya righteous son of a gun, Maverick. Ya knows what happens when yous take a swing at my kindly patrons." Pale sighed as he heaved the struggling Maverick onto his shoulder. He trudged his way to the swingin' doors and promptly threw the stallion out. No fancy way of doin' it. Just a one, two, and out. "Yer allowed back in, Mav, when yer sober and comprehendin' sum."
Pale Ale rolled his left shoulder, trying to alleviate an ache, then marched in with his hands in the air. His other patrons went wild, to say the least. Majority of dem folk reside 'ere on a mellow evenin' for Pale's ale as well as the entertainment that's sure to follow. The others are movin' folk. Ponies who do nuthin' but wander. Sure, on the rare occasion, a troublemaker gets a mite rowdy or just passin' through. Pale deals with dem accordingly. Just like...hmm, well ain't that a surprise. Or a drag, depends on the day.
He moseyed over to his station and swept the table. A scuffle leads to a couple of shattered glasses, it don't bother Pale none. He'll just take it off Mav's tab, just like all the other times. With a well practiced swipe, he done wiped near all the pieces, perfect for his newest patron.
A heavyweight earth pony plopped down near the bar. Near nopony sane enough to wear a trench coat of that size in the desert heat, 'less they gots a reason to. Now, Pale's seen enough to understand that 'reasons' usually means trouble. He sidled up the stallion with a question and a glass.
"Name yer poison." Maybe not a question.
"Whiskey." A rough voice answered, near tough as sand.
"Rye or Tenneighsee?"
"Rye."
Pale wasted no time, collected a bottle from the back and poured with a finesse ya don't expect an earth pony to obtain. He slid the glass over the countertop and measured the crowd. Patrons on the regular were headin' out, sensin' a storm was a brewin'. They knows when Pale knows. Is a relationship Pale could respect.
"Hammer Crackshot." A sudden chill entered the bar. If they weren't leavin' then, now they were.
"Pardon on the inquiry, partner, but ya gots to be more...specific, on what ya mean." Pale turned around, his eyes narrowed. He wasn't concerned none 'bout his welfare nor the welfare for his patrons, his trouble was with the spirits 'hind the countertop. Theys his pride 'n joy, that. Tartarus' comin' wit' him if a single shard's comin' loose.
"Ah ain't meanin' no disrespect. 'S'just yer a livin' legend!" The stallion finally raised his head, the stetson raised along as well, revealin' none other than a colt. His eyes shimmered with clear adoration.
"Fiddlesticks."
"What?"
"Fiddlesticks is what ya needs, colt." Pale let his hand drop from 'hind his back and eased a drink upon himself. "Ain't nopony sane enough to walk intah mah bar, wearin' a mighty fishy cloak and a low brim cap, an' expectin'...whatever ya was expectin'. Yous mother taught ya nuthin'?"
"Oh! Uhhh...many apologies, Crackshot. Ah wasn't thinkin' straight."
"Clear as day, colt."
"Right, right. Uhhh..."
"Now yous dunno what to do, ain't that right?" Pale finished his drink and placed the empty glass amongst all the others. He grabbed his cloth and started wiping down the countertop again. "Yous come runnin' the moment ya hear 'bout the legend, Hammer Crackshot. Ya dropped everythin' ya was doin' an' up and left, leavin' yer fam'ly 'n fortune."
"Ain't no truth to that tale!"
"Then spin another." Pale glared at the colt, he froze and stared back, eyes wide. "Thought so."
"Ah...ah...yeah. Yer just as they say, sharper than a prickin' pear, Crackshot."
"Ain't mah name no more. Ya call me Pale Ale or yous leave right now."
"All right, all right!" His hands went up in an 'ah'm an innocent' gesture. Hands, Pale mused. Ain't nuthin' special tah hands. They take lives and give death.
"Now, yer homeless an' jobless. Ain't that a fine and dandy situation to be in, don'tchya think?"
"..." The colt looked down and took another swig of the rye whiskey. "Mighty fine whiskey."
"Course, ah made it. Ah ain't buyin' no market bilge. Finest alcohol, this side of Junction." Pale said proudly. The only thing he's proud of.
"..." Now the colt had one of dem thinkin' faces. A rare treat, a thinkin' face. Wholly different from yer run of the mill terror or despair. Laughter and excitement ain't that different either. Thinkin' is an act solely of the mind. A rare treat indeed.
Pale left the counter to serve a couple of the patrons who stayed behind. When he came back, the colt wore a grim expression. "Crac...eh, Pale. Thanks to ya, ah understand that much more. Ah'm headin' hearthwards, mah folks need me."
"If ya say so." Pale took his empty glass and wiped it. "If ya ever need bits, we're hirin'."
"Really?"
"Why not." Pale placed the cup down next to the others. "In fact, ya can start right now."
"REALLY?"
"Ah ain't the type to lie."
"Then yes! Ah'll take the job." The colt could barely keep 'imself from grinnin'. Poor lad.
"Then 'ere's yer cloth. Soap's out back. Yer doin' dishes."
Author's Note
The colt is of age. He's just called a colt cuz of how young he is.
And off to another journey! I've got too many of these...
that has come for vengeance
Pale Ale sipped a freshly brewed whiskey. Tasted mighty fine, complete with that fruity edge the folk with burstin' pockets seem tah like. After contemplatin' the flavor a bit, he concluded t'would be a drink to be sold. He laughed heartedly and opened shop. His regular folk would like the new change, he thinks. The spice of life, ain't it.
The next five hours were a hoot. Even that new colt, whatsit, came to help 'round the bar. Mighty nuisance is what he was, but the dishes ain't dishin' itself. His regulars were rustlin' a bush with all that money theys spendin' on his drinks. Pale ain't complainin', he just rakes in the bits just like any other good mindin' folk.
"Boss."
"Whatsit?"
"Can ah do anythin' else 'cept dishin'?"
"Nah. Yous dishin'."
"Yous a prickin' pear, ya know that?"
"Yeah. Yous said that already."
"And ah says it again. A prickin' pear."
"Nuthin' new to these walls." Pale Ale dumped more dishes onto the countertop. "Better git to it, colt."
"Sure, boss."
'Fore he could return to the bar, the door burst apart. The shrapnel dug fiercely into his pelt. Pale gritted his teeth and turned on a dime. Ain't no bushwhacker comin' in 'ere to mess his place! The offender was a big stallion, muscles burstin' at the skin. Red as bright as a bloody morn', hair's dark as ice. Pale Ale sighed. T'was another one of them gangsters.
His patrons, bless their frightened but normalized souls. They duck an' cover. Well, the normal ones do. The newly acquired patronage ain't so bright. Theys run for the door. Good thing the gangster ain't interested in hostages or needless corpses. Then again, who knows what a gangster thinks.
"Hammer Crackshot." The stallion bellowed, a double barrel shotgun square in his hands. Looked vicious too. 'Cept, the stallion forgot one thing. He done messed up The Frontier 'Fore the Frontier. Ain't nopony messin' up The Frontier 'Fore the Frontier.
"It's the slammer for you, colt." Pale trotted so he could place himself directly in the line of the intruder. His hands restin' on his hips like he ain't got a care in the world.
"Yous tried by the Chainers and the Elder proclaims ya guilty."
"Ah ain't the guilty one 'ere."
"Ah, Chainer Folly, am deemed as the Deliverer."
"...he ain't listenin', is he?" Pale glanced back to see whatsit duckin' 'hind the counter. He raised an eyebrow then turned back.
"So, followin' the scriptures of Justice, I claim my iron and shall lead your soul." The red stallion saluted and lifted his double barrelled shotgun. He cracked it open with methodical precision and took out the empty shells. He loaded two more slugs and snapped the shotgun back. "Now ah'll fire."
BANG
The stallion was dead 'fore he hit the floor. Pale Ale sighed and placed his gun back into his holder. He was known as the quickest draw this side of Junction, 'cept that was quite a while ago, 'fore the treaty.
"Party's over, folks." Pale sighed again and sallied up to the poor headless fellow. That stallion ain't seen no draw, he ain't expectin' no outlaw either. Pony of the peace world. Pale gripped the stallion's arms and dragged 'im out of the bar. He dumped 'im unceremoniously off the porch near the cattle and went back inside. He grabbed a cloth and mopped the blood of his damned floor. He sighed, yet again, and stood up.
"Boss...who that?"
"Ain't anypony important."
"'Cept it sounded important. From the Chainers, he said."
"Yeah, so?"
"So, it means if yous got beef with Chainers, theys gonna send more."
"More what? Didn't ah tell ya before? Ain't nopony understandin' 'less you speaks eveyrthin'."
"Send more ponies. More gunslingers. They ain't restin' till you drop dead or ya business is concluded."
"Hmph." Pale strolled over to the bar and treated the next patron in line. "Tombstone, Rangers, Basses, Chainers. Is all the same. Rowdy folk wantin' a piece of the pie, 'cept ah ain't givin' any to 'em."
"..."
"What? Abyssinian stole your tongue?"
"Those gangs...ya fought all of 'em?"
"T'wasn't much of a fight. Pitiful ponies playin' dress up. Real ponies know what they gettin' into 'fore they it comes knockin'."
"Right...right."
"Hey, Pale! The lads an' ah require more of that fruits whiskey, whatchacalit."
"Of course, Smoked." Pale carried four glasses over to a table and dished them out.
"Say, Pale. 'Nother gang up your turf?"
"Seems so, Dusty."
"Yous gonna give 'em Tartarus?"
"Lads, y'all know me enough that that's all ah give to trespassers."
"Ain't that the gospel." The four stallions laughed and clinked their drinks together. Pale shook his head and trotted back to the bar.
The bar stayed open 'fore another 5 hours. Givin' plenty of time for Pale to give a rundown course to the new colt. How to tap ale, to pour whiskey, to wait patiently, to honor patrons. Bartending ain't a job 'fore the simple folk. There lies a certain spellwork to the fashion.
"Alright, colt. Ah'm closin' up shop. 'Ere's yer due." Pale dropped a few bits into the colt's hands. "Come on the morrow or the morrow after, ah don't really care none."
"I'll come on the morrow."
"Alright." Pale finished cleaning the last table and glanced back. "Do me a favor, colt. If ya sees any Chainer. You ain't sayin' nuthin'. If yous says somethin', Tartarus follows. And if ya think ya can get away with yer life, Junction ain't a pretty side of the coin, if ya catch mah drift."
"Ah get it." The colt nodded confidently. "Ah ain't no backstabber."
"Says you now, a change of heart is always in the deck of cards." Pale Ale went back to his bar and put away the dishrag. Then he went into the back, not carin' if the colt leaves. If the colt's right 'bout them gangsters, then an ammo check is in order. A pony who's anypony is wise enough to check stores 'fore the battle begins. Pale tsked. He don't like being tickled wrong.
Author's Note
Part of the Vishapocalypse of May 19
A drink 'fore the storm, says I.
