There's Something About White Mane...

Eight Ball

“Because, he’s going to kill us when he finds us.”

His thin and lanky frame was hidden beneath the warmth of a wool-lined bomber jacket. Beside him, on the bench, was Singer. She sat close enough to him that every so often their legs would touch and he’d have to turn his face away to hide his blushing face.

Forty ounces of what the label described as ‘The perfect blend of spice and flavour.’, but was really just Vincent’s rum, sat in the space between his thighs so that it gingerly tickled his scrotum.

Once in a while, Singer would reach for the bottle and when she did it would tap him on the sack and he’d grunt under his breath. Singer said and did nothing to betray the notion she was aware of his condition in those moments.

“Seriously, Singer!” Scout grumbled the words with unrestrained anguish. “We have to put it back!”

Singer rolled her eyes and nodded.

“No. Really! He’s a Gryphon, and Gryphons hold these, like, ‘blood feud’ things!” His right hoof, frought with a terrible tremor, pushed his mane up from his face. “He will literally kill, and most likely eat, the two of us for this!”

Singer rolled her eyes again and reached her hoof over his lap. The shimmer of a smile -- a soft, almost unnoticeable grin -- crossed her purple stained lips when she saw the other pony tense up. She took a long sip of rum, wiped her lips clean with the collar of her fall coat -- a faux leather ensemble with silver studded spikes and buttons -- then belched loud enough to draw glares from strangers half a courtyard away.

It was then and there that Scout realized something that would change his life. They were now the walking dead. They couldn’t just put the bottle back now. The seal was cracked and two of the forty ounces had just been swallowed down the throat of his co-conspirator.

Only distance from Vincent was going to keep them alive.

Singer didn’t seem to understand the severity of the situation quite like he did. She wasn’t nervous as she lifted the bottle again with her purple magical aura. She didn’t understand that Vincent had ten talons sharp enough to slice both of their throats open with the flick of his wrist when she brought the bottle to her dark purple lips. When she kissed the rim of the bottle and tossed her head back Scout had already given up on life.

“Relax,” She said as her hoof wiped traces of rum from her lips. “He’s not going to commit murder over spilt milk, Scout.”

“Oh, you don’t know Vincent!” Scout grumbled. “Honestly, Singer, he’s gonna make a fur coat out of my hide and wear it to his trial!” Two trembling hooves reached up to his face, pushed into his cheeks then pulled his fur and skin down with them, “He’ll probably turn you into slippers and a bathrobe, or something.”

“Scout,”

His was a face rich in fears and worry. His eyes were wide and wild. His brows had lifted to comical heights on his head. Even his fur was damp with a powerful fear sweat. The ghost of a smile came across her lips. She placed a hoof down gently in his lap.

His cheeks turned red and he fidgeted in his seat.

“He’s not going to miss one little bottle of rum,” She purred. “He can always just buy more...”

With his face flush with hue, Scout sucked in his cheeks and turned away from Singer.

“I still think he’s gonna tear me a new asshole,” he grumbled half heartedly, and under his breath.

“Wow,”

Singer’s sigh was high pitched and whiney. She’d make a good housewife someday, Scout thought.

“I didn’t realize you were such a pussy.”

He scrunched his face like he’d just had the misfortune of eating a lemon by mistake. His tongue -- a pink little thing -- jumped out from his mouth and he made a sound like a fart.

“I am not a pussy!” Scout was very insistent on making this fact clear. His tone had become gruff. His voice had lost its cocky playfulness.

Scout’s Honor was finding his fangs.

Her smile back at him was a pretty one. Completely devoid of any cynicism or indifference. It was genuine. Her teeth were surprisingly white and perfectly aligned. This surprised Scout because as far as he could tell, Singer existed on a diet of menthols, coffee, sex and stolen rum.

“Oh,” The sunglasses fell a quarter inch down her nose, so that the whites of her eyes showed. Her pupils -- still hidden behind her shades -- were staring at his face. “Really?”

“Yeah,” He beamed. His hoof beat against his clothed chest. “Trust me. Back in Cloudsdale, I was like the Soarin’ of my circle of friends.”

“A closeted homosexual?”

“What? No!”

Scout was shouting now.

There were ponies across the way from them who were still staring at them. Their gazes mean and cold.

Singer, nor Scout, paid them any attention.

“Cool.” he shouted, pounding a hoof against the hardwood bench. “I was cool! I mean… I am cool!”

Singer smiled widely.

“Besides,” He said, again, “Those are just rumors about Soarin…”

“Aww,” Singer cooed. She raised her hoof to Scout’s cheek and brushed a few strands of his mane behind his ear. “Did I hurt your pride by implying that the leader of the Wonderbolts is into bumming dudes?”

“No…” Scout’s lower lip sucked against his upper one and his eyes fell downwards.

“Its okay to have a crush on a guy, Scout…”

“What?” He shouted. “I don’t have a crush on Soarin’!”

“These feelings you have for him are more than natural for a colt your age.” She said. She kept brushing his mane. Smiling all the while. “College is where most colt cuddlers discover themselves. I mean, just look at my brother…”

“I am not gay!”

“Shh,” She put her hoof against his lips. “It’s okay to be gay, Scout.”

The recently accused party grunted and puffed a breath of air from his nostrils.

“Scout,”

He turned to her. He was still frowning. She was grinning.

“Don’t be such a drama queen.”

“Oh..”

Burgundy and crimson hues stained his otherwise plain cheeks.

“I’m really not gay, though…”

“Of course not,” Singer grinned.

The rum floated from his lap to her lips once more she took an impressive swig. Scout watched her throat expand and collapse as she swallowed ounces of liquid courage. When she finished, she offered the bottle to Scout, who shrugged his shoulders. He was already a dead pony in the eyes of Gryphon inspired justice. Why not go out with a bang?

He swallowed a mouthful, then two, three, and then stopped by the fourth. His throat burned. His head was light and all the problems he thought he'd had an hour ago didn't really seem to matter anymore.

He looked over at Singer.

She was lighting a cigarette -- her fifth of the hour -- and her lipstick was staining the filter. In that moment of space and time, Scout forgot that other mares existed. He only saw Singer. Singer, smoking a menthol and without a care in the world.

She was so cool.

For some time Scout sat and watched her. He watched her as she took sips of Vincent’s rum. He watched her chase each sip with cola. He watched her as she did little else but shake her head, or roll her eyes in disdain towards students and faculty members walking by. When Brawny Brawler trotted past the two of them, Singer actually cursed under her breath and swore that if anyone at Camden looked like a closet case it was certainly that colt.

Scout laughed. Everyone knew Brawny Brawler was straight. Still, it was cute to hear her try and cheer him up.

He liked it.

He liked spending time with her.

“I am so bored!” Singer’s whine cracked the silence like a whip. “We have to do something.”

Scout nodded. “Like what?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “Something fun. Obviously.”

“Right,”

Scout scratched his chin.

“Well, we could go check out the library? Its free and it has a really great view of the gym, too. There’s always a bunch of girls who do yoga on Saturdays...”

Singer’s snicker was a throaty, raspy, one.

“Pass.” She sighed. “I’m so over girls.”

Scout’s eyebrows lifted. A twisted, crooked, sort of smile danced across his thin lips.

“You do girls?”

Singer’s tongue snuck out of her mouth, ran across her upper lip, then her lower one.

“Sometimes,”

She grinned.

Scout swallowed a lump that had built up in his throat.

“That’s-so-hot,”

The words fell out of his mouth in a semi-nervous and muted mumble.

“Sorry?”

“Nothing.” He feigned a smile -- A full mouthed, toothy grin. “Just, um, that... you’re really cool, and stuff.”

“Thanks.”

Singer smiled back. She reached once more for the bottle in his lap, and when she did her hoof brushed against his left thigh. Scout gave something that sounded exactly like a cat’s meow. A low rumble came from his mouth, followed by a sharp exhale of air.

“So, tell me, Mr. Cool.” Singer said, pulling the bottle slowly from his lap -- bumping it against his crotch as she did -- “What do you like to do for fun?”

“Well,”

Scout puffed his chest out.

“I play in a band, or, at least I did, before I came to Camden.” He beamed. His chin was held high in the air. “We were the hottest band in Cloudsdale.”

“Really?”

Her tone was dry, but, Scout didn’t find it at all discouraging.

“Yeah,” he cheered, “We even played for Princess Celestia one time. It was a private show, so, you know, we had to sign a bunch of legal documents so we couldn’t, like, take pictures or anything of it… so there’s actually no proof. ”

“Of course,” Singer grinned, “That makes sense…”

Scout nodded.

“So,” Singer, with her eyes narrowing down on Scout the way a cat’s did before it made a kill, spoke softly. “What happened to you guys?”

“Um, well…”

Scout’s hooves danced in his lap.

“We broke up.”

“Oh, that’s awful.” Singer feigned a look of shock, “What went wrong?”

Scout bit his lower lip. His brow dropped and his face morphed into a studious squint; one which looked vaguely reminiscent of a newborn biting a lemon.

“I… I ended up getting it on with a couple of Celestia’s guards,” he said, “She has an all mare battalion, they’re all like perfect tens, and, well, they heard me play and… well, you know how it is?”

“Yes,” Singer said, “Of course.”

“So, I was nailing all of them, right? And then my bandmates all got mad, ‘cause I wasn’t throwing them any bones, so they decided we had to break up.”

“That’s really too bad,” Singer said, smiling. “Do you have any CD’s I could borrow?”

“No…”

Scout scratched his hoof into the fur of his forehead.

“You see, um,” his hooves brushed against each other, “Celestia got so mad at me, you know, because I was banging all of her best girl guards, so she had all our names stricken from public records.”

“How dreadful.”

Her words sounded genuine, but, the toothy grin she wore proudly seemed to tell a different story.

“Yeah, its all for the best though,” Scout stated, “I’m gonna get my degree in Musical Studies, then, Musical Engineering, and after that I wanna open up a recording studio. I’ll probably sign Vinyl Scratch when her contract is up, too.”

“Wow, Scout,” Singer said in a breathy sigh, “Aside from the bullshit, that actually isn’t such a bad plan.”

“What bullshit?”

Singer just shook her head.

“You know,” She said. Her face turned to his and she smiled. “You’re kind of cute when you’re being stupid.”

Scout wiped his hoof across his forehead. Beads of sweat flew onto the cold grass. Singer never stopped smiling.

“Thanks,” he mumbled quietly to himself.

She leaned her body into his and raised her hoof. She brushed it against the fur of his chest, then his stomach, and stopped at his waist, where she once more grabbed the rum and lifted it out of his lap. Her left hoof gently tickled the fur on his stomach when she raised her hoof -- and the bottle -- to her mouth.

Scout purred.

“So, um, what do you like to do for fun?” Scout asked, peaking a curious brow towards the mare who sat taking baby sips of rum. “Cause, we can do that if you’d like?”

When she was finished, she coughed, then looked over at him.

“Drugs,” She said dryly, “Salt. Hay. Spices. Whatever.” She tapped her nose with a hoof, “If it’ll get me high, it’ll get me by.” She smiled at him and one of her eyebrows raised. “How about you? You’re cool right?”

“Oh, yeah! No, I’m definitely cool!” He blurted in a squeaky mess of tones “I, uh, used to do drugs all the time. I love doing drugs, they’re like, my favorite thing to do.”

“Who do you pick up off of?” Singer asked, “I didn’t find anything when we were looking through your room earlier. We should pick up some salt or something.”

“Yes,” Scout ran his hoof through his mane, scratched the top of his head and put on a smile. “We should definitely get some drugs.”

“Right,” Singer agreed with a head nod. “Who do you know on campus who could hook us up?”

Scout knew just the colt for the occasion.

***

The Starswirl The Bearded Memorial Building was one of Camden’s finer, more high end dorm buildings on campus. Most dorms had public bathrooms and were little more than a single room with two beds shared between it. There was space for both parties to parade a small collection of items flaunting their interests -- bookshelves, walls for posters and the likes -- but this, The Starswirl The Bearded Memorial Building was different. The room design was the same but they came fully equipped with a fully furnished bathroom, to boot.

This was where Jagged Horn lived.

Jagged Horn was Stormy’s roommate. Scout didn’t make it his purpose to pry into the personal lives of others, but, Stormy was the colt who’d slept with White Mane and then moved onto another colt. It bothered him, yes, but it wasn’t enough to forfeit purchasing illicit substances from his roommate to impress a girl who would probably at the least give him a hoof job for services rendered.

Right outside the door that read 2-1-1-2, were now where Scout and Singer found themselves.

“This is your guy?” Singer asked.

Scout swallowed, then nodded.

“Sure,” he said, softly. “He’s… um… a guy to see about this kinda stuff.”

“So?” Singer threw her shoulders forward, “Is there like a secret knock, or...?”

Scout raised a shaking hoof to the door and prayed to Celestia that knocking a three note tune would signal the difference between a regular visit, and a business one. He knocked -- thrice -- on the door and wondered if Celestia’s infinite wisdom had room for a colt who needed to buy drugs from a stranger.

His knock was answered quickly.

The door swung open. A cloud of smoke that smelt worse than a skunk crushed under the weight of a carriage wafted to Scout’s nostrils. In the doorway, staring down at him was a pegasus with a broad chest, defined muscles and a heavy scowl on his face.

This was not Jagged Horn. Jagged Horn was a unicorn. Jagged Horn had taken half a semester’s worth of musical theory with Scout and had also once asked to borrow a pen from him which he never returned.

This pony was a stranger.

“Can I help you?” he greeted, not smiling.

Scout’s heart raced in his chest. His mouth was dry.

“Um, err. That is to say… hey... uh…”

“What-do-you-want?,”

Whoever this pony was, he shouted the words at Scout’s face. Then, his eyes shifted to stare at Singer. He barred a mouth full of sharp teeth at her. The front four teeth on his upper jaw were cased in gold plating. They reflected light from the overhanging fluorescent lighting.

Scout had just then decided that this was a bad idea and that Singer probably wouldn’t hate him if he dragged himself back into his dorm, locked the door behind him, curled up into a ball, pulled the covers high over his head and wrote an exceptionally long letter to his parents about how maybe transferring to Coltlumbia was a good idea.

He stared at Singer, who stood so stoic and unphased, and something from deep inside him came to life.

He could do this.

He was going to do this.

He was going to buy some drugs.

“You must be lost?” the stranger in the doorway insisted. “You’re with that tour group, right? The one for,” slight stop in his sentence so he can glare daggers at a trembling Scout “The special needs program?”

“I’m so totally not spastic!” Scout snapped, “My parents had me tested when I was seven!”

The pegasus with golden teeth and a penchant for accusations snorted a laugh. His nostrils flared when he did and big, black, lips creased to again show off a mouth filled with yellow and gold teeth.

“You’re too pretty to be a tour guide, anyway,”

He said this to Singer, who rolled her eyes and whispered a curse about how ‘every fucking time’ dealers fell in love with her.

If she was scared, she didn’t show it. Scout, however, had decided that if Vincent The Gryphon wasn’t going to be the one ending his life that day, this colt probably wouldn't hesitate to fill in for his roommate's slack.

Singer stepped in front of Scout and stared Mr. Gold Teeth down with the most menacing scowl he'd seen a mare wear. The only thing that came remotely close was the look his mother got in her eyes when she found lipstick stains on the collar of his father's favourite H'Armani button up that one time when he was six (Or was it when he was seven? The problem with repressed memories was that they were very much that.)

“We’d like to see Jag?” Singer said. Her tone was plain. Vanilla. Devoid of any hints of need or want. “Is he in?”

Mr. Gold Teeth snapped his tongue in his mouth. He nodded a few times to himself, then he smiled a rotten, ugly thing at the two of them.

“Sure is,” Said he, “Why don’t you come in?”

Mr. Gold Teeth led, Singer and then Scout, followed.

Inside the air was hot and wet. Ghostly apparitions -- Vapours -- floated by their heads. The room felt like a sauna though the stink of the place was far from relaxing. The skunky aroma had intensified. The smell of sweat wasn’t far from away either.

Scout only had to spy the glass coffee table right before the futon, with little white lines that looked like crushed up chalk, and a clear ziploc bag of what looked like flour, before he realized what this was.

This was a drug den.

Suddenly his heart was racing in his chest again and his breathing was coming out fast and heavy.

He was lying to Singer earlier in the day. He hadn’t ever done drugs before. He knew ponies who did -- Hoops and Dumbbell from Flight School (Two of the older kids) used to smoke spliff behind the bleachers -- but he himself had always abstained. He drank. Every pony drank. Drinking was fun and, most nights, after a few bottles of Buckweiser all the girls got hotter and he became more handsome and charming anyway.

Drugs had never been on the top of his list of new experiences he’d imagined from the college experience.

This, he decided, he didn’t want Singer to know.

“Jag’s in the bathroom working on a pet project,” Mr. Gold Teeth said. “Have a seat.”

He did so himself. He plopped down on the futon. There was just enough space now beside him for a pony to sit, and, he pet the empty seat beside his and smiled at Singer.

Singer said nothing. She sat down on the edge of either Stormy or Jag’s bed, and, instantly, pulled Scout down beside her.

Mr. Gold Teeth rolled his tongue underneath his lower lip, cocked his head to the side. He was staring at Scout. Not Singer. Just Scout, who was making eye contact back and forcing a polite smile.

For a few quiet minutes no pony said anything. Mr. Gold Teeth stared at Scout. Scout back at Mr. Gold Teeth. Singer staring off at nothing. Her hoof touched his lap and startled him out of whatever it was that had been going on between him and Mr. Gold Teeth. She ran it slowly up his thigh, then again back down. She lay her head on his shoulder.

Mr. Gold Teeth said nothing about this recent development. Instead, he nodded to himself again, pressed a hoof tight against his left nostril and dropped his head down to the table. His face pressed so tight against the glass that his open nostril left vapour trails on the glass. He dragged his face up to one of the lines of crushed up chalk. He aimed his nostril to the end of the line, aligned it so that he hovered just above it, and started to sniff the stuff up his nose.

Three seconds later what Scout had just now realized was the deadly narcotic ‘Sniffing Salt’ was gone and Mr. Gold Teeth’s head fired backwards.

*Bang* *Bang* *Bang*

He beat his lower left hoof against the floor as hard as he could three times. His head rolled down and he had a sharp look on his face when he did.

“So,” Mr. Gold Teeth smiled up at the two of them, “What’s your situation?”

He looked at Singer, then at Scout. Back at Singer. At Scout. Grinned and opened his mouth to speak.

“Are you two fucking each other?”

Singer’s left hoof gripped the flesh of his leg so tightly that Scout’s leg went numb. With her right she grabbed him around the shoulder and hugged his body against her as closely as she could.

“Yes!” she claimed. She squeezed his leg tighter. “We’re madly in love!” She turned to face him and a broad, honest, smile came across her lips. “I’m totally ga-ga for this stallion.”

The lingering odors of cigarette smoke met his nose and then she was kissing him. Hard. On the lips.

Her kiss tasted like rum, menthols and cola.

Scout had to clenched his legs together to hide his pride.

“Lucky colt,” Mr. Gold Teeth grunted. “That’s too bad.”

Scout opened his eyes to see her pulling her face away from his slowly. When she did, she stroked her hoof against his cheek.

Scout was having a very hard time containing his excitement.

The door the bathroom swung open and a Unicorn emerged from it. Apple red in his coat. Jet black in his mane. He was tall, scrappy looking and grinning stupidly at everything in the room. Ponies and objects, alike.

This was Jagged Horn.

“Who’s this?” He asked.

“Here to see you,” Said Mr. Gold Teeth.

Jag laughed and smiled.

“You guys wanna see something funny?” he asked.

No one objected.

He held a bloated yellow water balloon in his hooves the way mothers cradled their children. Walking on his hind legs from the bathroom, he moved past Scout and Singer and towards the sole window which overlooked a Camden courtyard.

“Watch this,” Jag smiled, “There’s one of those ‘Epsilon Program’ psychos preaching about ‘traditional marriage’ down there.”

Jag motioned with his head to the world outside and below his window. He poked his head out the window, then half his body and then he dropped the waterballoon. A splash was heard, followed by angry curses against Celestia, and then questions about who was responsible.This all came muffled by the five floors of height between them and whoever had just been the target of Jag’s act against tyranny.

“That guy,” Jagged Horn huffed as he plopped down on the empty spot on the futon beside Mr. Gold Teeth. “Is going to smell like asparagus for weeks.”

“Asparagus?”

Mr. Gold Teeth chuckled to himself. Jag’s eyes fell relaxed.

“I filled that waterballoon with piss.” He boasted. “Can you blame me? Those dicks want to ban gay marriage in Equestria.”

“You’re gay?” Singer asked.

Jag shook his head.

“No, not me,” He said, “My roommate.”

“Stormy, right?”

It was the first phrase Scout had spoken since he’d walked into the room, but, it was one that drew a curious, but genuine, look from Jag.

“Yeah,” Jag said, nodding. “You know Stormy?”

“Kinda, yeah,”

Scout had recollected his confidence. Somehow, for some reason, impressing Jag seemed to be the only thing he cared about in this moment. Not the drugs he still had to ask for. Not Singer who was still rubbing his leg with her hoof. Nothing else mattered to him but Jag’s opinion.

In the least gay way possible.

“He and my friend, White Mane, sorta… had this thing together,”

Jag’s smile erupted across his cheeks.

“Oh, shit,” He laughed, “Dude, yeah, I remember White Mane. We played against each other at beer pong, once.” Jag was beaming, “He’s, um, Piper’s roommate, right?”

“You know Piper?”

“Oh, for sure,” Jag was still laughing, “That guy helped me pass my first two film studies tests. I owe him a lifetime of favors.”

“Well,” Scout’s chest pushed forward and his smile lifted, “Me and Piper are like best friends.”

“Right on,” Jag said, “That guy’s a damn decent pony.”

He cracked his neck backwards and folded his upper hooves behind his head.

“You guys seem alright,” he said without staring down at them. “How can I help you,” he lowered his eyes to stare down at them, then shruged his shoulders. “Um?”

“Scout’s Honor.” Scout stated emphatically. He hugged Singer. “And, this is Singer.”

“Scout and Singer,” Jag chuckled. “Nice to know you both.”

Mr. Gold Teeth leaned himself over towards Jag and whispered into his ear. Jag’s smile spread across his cheeks. He craned his head left, right, then brought it down. He lurched forward, pressed his two upper hooves against the glass coffee table and tapped them against the glass to an improvised beat.

“My friend here,” He said, still tapping the glass. “Sweet Deals. He says you guys might be here because you need something from us?”

“Yeah,” Scout scratched the back of his neck with his free hoof. Singer’s grip around his shoulder was becoming less and less tense and more and more relaxed and the hoof she had once had running up his thigh was now planted firmly on his left butt cheek. Squeezing it playfully.

“We were hoping you could-”

He stopped to look at Singer.

She was so pretty.

“-maybe, hook us up?”

Jag’s laugh vibrated against the walls of the dorm and stung in his ears. It was friendly sounding. There weren’t any hints of callousness or inherent danger about it. It seemed genuine.

Jagged Horn almost seemed nice. Aside from being a drug dealer who threw water balloons filled with his piss on ponies heads.

“Sure, why the fuck not?” he said. “I owe Piper a million favors I can’t repay him, and you guys are friends with Piper, so, in a way, I’d be paying him back for helping you out, right?”

If he was look for an answer from them to his dilemna, he didn’t wait for it.

“What do you need?”

“Probably just an eight ball of salt,” Singer said. She looked over at Scout, “That should be good, right?”

“Um,” Scout clicked his tongue in his mouth. “Do, um… do we really need eight balls of it? I mean, I usually do, like, four or five myself, but, eight seems like a lot...”

Jag exploded into laughter. So did Sweet Deals (The drug dealer/associate of Jagged Horn formerly known as Mr. Gold Teeth.) Singer joined them not long after -- though hers was a more restrained giggle that was surprisingly soft and gentle on his ears compared to the booming laughter of the two other colts in the room.

“Dude,” Jag slapped a hoof to his cheek, “You’re funny.” He chuckled a few more notes and wound down. “You’re a funny guy, Scout.”

“Thanks,” Scout, flushed with a mix of embarrassment and pride, mumbled to the floor. “I guess.”

The laughter in the room died down. With it, Sweet Deals and Jagged Horn got involved in an impromptu huddle. Whispered words were said between them before they pulled away and Jag was smiling back at Singer and Scout.

“I can do an eight ball,” he said, “All we have here,” He motioned towards the sack of salt on the table, “Is about two grams, so, I’d have to pick it up. But, it won’t be a problem.”

“Wonderful,”

Singer’s tone was dry.

“How much?”

“Normally,” Sweet Deals took a turn to talk shop. “I’d charge all the trust fund babies at this place two fifty. I can do it for you guys for two hundred?”

Scout peered over at Singer, who bit her lower lip. He leaned his mouth to her ear.

“Is that, like, a good deal?”

Singer nodded.

“Done,” she said turning back to face them. “How soon can you get it here?”

“That’s the thing,” Jag grunted, “See, we gotta swing by Sweet Deal’s place to pick it up, and, I was supposed to have a few beers with Stormy and Strokes at Nell’s at around eight, so, I’d have to bring it to you..”

Singer looked worried. Scout was worried too, now.

“Hey, whoa,” Jag, sensing the emotions, spoke up. “We’ll get it to you. I promise. My word is my bond. In fact, look, tell me where to meet you guys at, like, eight-thirty? I’ll have it all ready and deliver it myself?”

Singer shrugged.

“Fine,” She said. “I’m staying at my brother’s place tonight. Why don’t you meet us there when you’re good to go?”

“Sure, sure,” Jag said, “Whatever works for you guys. I’ll take your cash, hook you up, and maybe we can do a few bumps together or whatever?”

“Actually,” Singer’s eyes lit brightly. “My brother is having some really faggy party for his theatre troupe. It would piss him off a lot more if you wanted to pop in and have a few beers?”

Jag looked to Sweet Deals, who shrugged his shoulders.

“I dunno,” Jag said, scratching his neck. “Are there gonna be any girls at this… gay little outing?”

“Theatre girls.” Scout chimed in, smiling. “Most of them are pretty cute.”

Jag chuckled something that almost scared Scout. It was low and almost maniacal.

“Theatre girls fuck the best,” Sweet Deals stated. “They all just wanna piss off their daddies, anway…”

Jag nodded.

“Should I invite Stormy and Strokes?” he asked, “They’re both gay for each other. They’ll probably love it.”

“Sure,” Singer shrugged. “The more the merrier.”

“So, you guys jot down the address. We’ll show up with a couple cases of beer, some drugs, and kick start the party if it sucks.”

“Sounds terrific” Singer said, smiling.

She stood up in the bed and offered Scout her hoof. He took it and she raised him to his hooves.

“We should get going,” She said, “Show up whenever you want, but,” she stopped to glare with unparalled menace towards Jag and Sweet Deals, “I will castrate the both of you if you don’t bring the stuff tonight.”

Jagged Horn and Sweet Deal’s laughter followed them out of the door and into the hallway. It wasn’t until they were half a flight of stairs away from Jag’s dorm before Scout realized what he’d just been not only a witness, but a participating party, too.

He’d just arranged to buy drugs.

He’d just arranged to have a party of strangers show up to his friend’s house with drugs.

He’d also just recently been kissed on the lips by a very pretty and undeniably cool girl.

He felt at peace with that part of the deal.

For better, or for worse, the party tonight was happening. Now, in retrospect, Scout realized that Stormy in the same room as White Mane might be a problem. He also realized that drug addled ponies might also be a problem.

This was where Scout found himself worrying. It wasn’t a worry strong enough to make him unextend Singer’s invitation, because truth be told, Jag seemed like nothing less than a decent guy, but, Honey Drop and Sunny Side were his friends and if the party got too wild because of him -- realistically, though, it would almost entirely be Singer’s fault -- he’d have to hear about it for the rest of the school year from Sunny Side.

On the other side of the coin, Singer had left traces of her purple lipstick on his mouth from where her lips had touched his. As far as he could tell, he was now hers. She’d claimed him with that kiss, and, it also probably meant that she was interested in him. Sexually.

It sure would suck to be Sunny Side, Honey Drop or White Mane tonight. That was for sure.

His mind was completely devoid of any thoughts about Vincent The Gryphon’s vengeance, and the rum that would inspire it -- which was still sitting nestled in Singer’s saddlebag -- as he walked side by side with Singer, the girl who he liked and who liked him back.

Tonight was going to be fun.