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Bottom of the Bottle; (Open)
Topic Started: Mon Feb 17, 2014 4:31 pm (2,542 Views)
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Crazy Noisy Bizarre Town
Just a couple drinks couldn't hurt, right? Callie was off at her lighthouse, Razma was somewhere else in town, and Last Call was left to his own devices for the night. Why not toss back a few? It had been a week or so since he'd had more than the occasional quick nip. Busy week really, all things considered.

It'd been years since he walked the streets of Manehattan, and not much had changed. He remembered all the shitty dives he used to haunt while getting his bartending license. A brief smirk flashed on his face as he recalled the nights spent shitfaced, stumbling from bar to bar until he couldn't stagger straight, him and that colt he used to see... His expression immediately soured. That was a thought he would rather cast away.

The Scrapyard. How fittingly named, Call thought as he came upon the small building sandwiched between two skyscrapers. The peeling and chipping paint barely covered most of the worn boards that made up the front of the establishment. No windows, nothing fancy, just a neon sign and a door. He pushed it open, the loud creaking enough to signal his entrance to the patrons, who each turned to look him over before returning to their drinks. Nobody he recognized... that was good.

He trot over to the bar, and took an empty seat. He fetched a stack of bits from his saddlebag and set them on the counter as the bartender, an elderly draco, came near. "Scotch. Leave the bottle." he croaked at her. She reached under the bar and held up a bottle, which Last Call shook his head at. "No, don't jerk me around. Good stuff."

A bottle of sufficient quality (12 years was the best she could find in the back) in hoof, Call poured his shot and sighed. Briefly, a thought crossed his mind... did he want to go through this again? Tossing down shots until he couldn't feel what he didn't want to? He wouldn't have had this sort of hesitation a year ago. Before he met Pinkie... but Pinkie left. She had better things to do than to be chained to a bar. Important things.

He propped his saddlebag onto the bar and started to dig through it, looking for... there it was. The heart-shaped rock that Pinkie had given him before she left, marked with a smiley face and her cutie mark. He clutched it in both hooves for a few moments, grimacing as he felt a knot forming in his stomach, and the corner of his mouth twitched. He let the stone fall back into his bag, and slung it onto his back. Yes, he did want to do this.

He tipped his head back, and took the first shot.
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The glass hit the counter as he took his medicine, the burn causing a slight growl to leave his mouth. Nothing he wasn't familiar with, but it still burned every time. You'd think a pony would get used to it after so long. He refilled the glass, and pounded a second shot. He shuddered slightly, as he felt the warm tendrils slowly crawl through his body. He floated his pack of smokes out from his bag, took one out, and lit it. A filthy habit that Call was sorry he picked up, but he figured that something else would kill him before the smokes would. Wishful thinking, maybe.

Call took a long drag, and tapped a hoof on the bar to fetch the bartender's attention once more. "Ashtray?" he said, smoke billowing out of his mouth and nostrils. An ashtray slid down the bar, coming to a stop in front of Call, prompting him to ash his cigarette. He poured himself another shot, but didn't take it just yet. Instead he crossed his hooves and stared into space. Lots of time spent drinking alone turned him from a social drunk into a brooding one. Drinking alone was sort of russian roulette in that way: it could make you feel better, or worse. Lacking company usually tipped the evening towards the latter option, but who'd want to hang out with an asshole like him anyway?

He wondered what his sister would think.

Well, he knew what she would think. She'd be concerned. She always was. She was there every night that Call drank himself to sleep, to help him stagger to his room or at least put a blanket on him if he was out. To give him water and asprin when he failed to take measures against a hangover, cooked him breakfast the next morning, and always consoled him when the nights went south. He'd have been a wreck without her.

He was a wreck without her.

He missed her so damn much.

Another shot.
Edited by Copic Pen, Mon Feb 17, 2014 4:53 pm.
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Fethur
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"There's faster ways to die, you know, than bad habits," a voice spoke behind Last Call.

He had come and delivered upon a collection of some poor sod in the corner who drank himself dry, but no one else in the room had yet noticed that he wasn't sleeping just because the stallion's face was plastered to the table he sat at. His cloak covering his wings, and nose busy in a book, Horizon was consulting some piece of information before moving on, but the smoke drew his attention.

He chuckled to himself as he read from the book. This one was accidentally tied to his own mission. He sighed to himself as he weighed options then eventually chose to lean against the counter absently and read the book, not even bothering to look up at Call just yet.

"Or were you looking to suffer before you go?"
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Call had just finished pouring another shot when a voice behind him caused him to spin around. Behind him stood some silver, hooded unicorn that Call had never seen before, his nose buried in some book. Judging by the polished horseshoes and ornate clasp, he looked like he belonged more in Canterlot, or even in a castle than in a shitty dive in Manehattan. Call raised an eyebrow at the stranger, who walked to the bar beside him and spoke without even looking up to regard him.

He narrowed his eyes briefly at the strange unicorn. "I dunno, poisoning myself and cooking my lungs seemed like such a good way to go." he remarked with a roll of his eyes. "Why d'you give a shit anyway? Or do you make a habit of stopping into bars and warning drunk sadsacks that they're headed for hades?" He turned back to his drink, and grimaced slightly as he looked at it.

Fuck it, what did this guy know anyway? He tossed back the shotglass and growled at the burn. "Fuckin' everyone is anyway. Who cares how or when I die?"
Edited by Copic Pen, Tue Feb 18, 2014 1:58 am.
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Fethur
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"I would think," he casually pulled his cloak back and jostled his mane back into place as she watched the haughty stallion with a curt smile, "that little changeling you travel with might care. Or was her offer to exchange her life for yours wasted?"

Horizon laughed to himself. Mortals. Two hooves in the grave at all times. The way Last Call attacked him for the commentary was amusing to the stallion reading his page in the book.

"But suit yourself. I just thought someone so eager to help his customers might appreciate the same listening ear. But if you'd rather drown your problems away until they are replaced by bigger ones... well, that's your decision. I just thought your namesake meant more than collapsing into a bottle."
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Call's grimace broke and his head shot up as the stranger mentioned a changeling, his spiralling brain suddenly snapping to attention. He grit his teeth and narrowed his eyes once more. "How do you know her?" he growled. His mind raced, helped along slightly by the alcohol. A sudden twinge of panic ran through him... was this pony an inquisitor who had followed from Canterlot? Someone from that Topaz group? Call's muscles tensed, and he eyed the bottle as the closest weapon should things suddenly turn ugly.

Call snorted as the stranger continued, now moving onto him. He seemed amused by the exchange, still paying little mind to anything but that book of his. Call grimaced at the sting of the last sentence, gaze falling upon the floor for a moment before snapping back up. "That's not... who th'fuck are you?" he said, a hint of a slur now in his speech. "Inquisitor? Topaz? How d'you know me?"
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He glanced up from the book only to smile in the direction of the bottle. "That's not a good idea, I feel I should warn you. Hitting me with it, I mean. It certainly isn't strong enough to kill me, and frankly, I've been known to continue to function after far worse pain. But most importantly, you'll hurt my feelings. It's rather rude to turn a friendly conversation into a brawl, don't you think?" He looked up, clearly now speaking aloud to himself instead of Call. "I should think this one wasn't known for such rashness. Being around the pink one must've altered his personality. I'll have to create a footnote."

His horn glowed as strange characters filled the book's bottom line before he turned the page. Only after doing this did he address Last Call again. He smiled as he spoke, clearly bemused still by the pony's attention.

"Would you believe me if I told you? I'm neither of the factions you peg me for, regardless. I'd just rather actually get some sleep tonight instead of having to come back here when you reach drink number thirteen. As for how I know you.." He laughed again, lighthearted and humming. "Well... you wouldn't believe that either."
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Call's eyes grew wide as his mind was seemingly read. He must have been too obvious in glancing to it. And then again as he mentioned "the pink one". He knows Pinkie too? He opened his mouth to retort, but stopped as the stranger once again brought up the book and began to inscribe something with his magic. What is so important about that damn book?

What does he mean about drink number thirteen?

What would...


Call's breaths grew slightly shorter, and he felt a chill run down his spine. He didn't know exactly what the stranger meant, but the tone was enough to unnerve Call. "You'd... be surprised what I'd believe," he replied, fighting to keep a straight face.
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"Me? Surprised? That would be... surprising." Horizon chuckled again and tossed his mane back. The book vanished in an instant, wisping away like a blown out candle. He eyed Last Call with a carefree smile then looked off to the corner at the "sleeping" stallion. Nopony had noticed as of yet and it made Horizon stop to roll his eyes. Mortals. They never really paid attention. So it made him smile that Last Call seemed to be, even if it was partially out of worry. He absently stretched out his wings, tired of the way his feathers ruffled against the interior of the cloak, before tucking them back in, adding in a yawn at the end. It was late, even for him.

"I'm nopony important. Just a passing stranger trying to see if someone will listen for once. What you listen to, however, is your problem. You can stay here until drink thirteen to find out what happens instead, if you want. I don't recommend it but when does anyone act upon recommendations?"
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Call's anger subsided, no longer fearing an assault... but that fear had been replaced by a fear of this stranger's identity. The strange book he had vanished in an instant, as if it had been an illusion, causing Call to double-take. Before he could say anything, he noticed the stranger's gaze looking to something behind him. He turned, following it to a passed out stallion in a table near the corner. Why would he...

What? No.

That's stupid.

You're drunk.

You haven't been met at a bar by death, that's fucking ridiculous. That's the sort of things that songs and poems and movies are about, this sort of thing wouldn't happen in real life...


And yet something felt deeply... different about this pony. Even moreso when Call turned back, and saw something protrude from his sides under the cloak, and then retreat. "Wings? And a horn? Just like..."

He didn't say it, but the only other pony he'd seen with both wings and a horn was the queen. On pictures of her, anyway. He'd never seen her in person. He had considered that it may just be propaganda, but...

What if this pony WAS the reaper? What if the stallion in the back wasn't passed out at all? A more sober-minded Call would probably dismiss this, but in his current state... He reached behind him, and pushed the shot glass and bottle away, towards the bartender. "'m done."

He turned back to the stranger, and sighed deeply, trying to settle his runaway brain. "Alright. I'm listenin'."
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