“The fugg's goin' on here?!”
>What a surprise, another night being thrown out on the street by yet another bartender.
>”You're too drunk, Buck! Go home!”
“Fugg ye, yer jiss *hic* can't handle drink.”
>The bartender facehoofs.
>You patrol around Hollow Shades, looking for that stallion that one-upped you earlier on.
>At least... you think he did.
>Stumbling around with the bottle of buckfast stashed under your wing, you point to a couple.
“Heyoos! Ya seena kid goin' bout, seems like he'sa bit timid?!”
>They stop and stare at you.
>The stallion whispers to his (presumable) marefriend.
>”What the heck is this guy saying...?”
>She shrugs.
>”Uh. Yeah. Sure. Over there.”
>Unsure, he points in a general area.
>Wise guy.
“Thanksfer yer help!”
>You turn to go on your way, but for some reason the world decided it was going to flip on you.
“Oshugerhunnayicetea.”
>SLAM.
>Is there a bruise on your face?
>You stamp your hoof at the ground.
“Fugg ya do tha for?!”
>When you hear nothing, you begin shouting.
“Hey! I'm talkina you!”
>Oh wait.
“Ah sorry, yer th'ground.”
>No use picking yourself up.
>You simply slide along the floor, your face going with it.
>The numbness of the Buckfast stops you feeling pain.
>Which is handy, considering your dashing looks are all but melted away by now.
“Now, to find'at cheeky fuggin runt...”
>To the Lonesome Mare, away!
>You point a hoof to the sky, and finally regain composure.
“Shiiiz... I really needa stop fallin' over like'at.”
>You're getting distracted by that bright golf ball in the sky.
>It's got no right being in constant suspense like that.
>It should be on the ground, like all the other golf balls.
>Why does it get special treatment?
>Stupid ball.
>Just as you go to fall for the hundredth time this night, a pony catches you in his or her arms.
“If it wernfor ya, I'd be on m'ass righ-now.”
>Turning to see your saviour, it's...
>That little fucker.
“SEE YOU, YOU'RE GETTING HIT.”
>He drops you.
“Oh, yer for it, kid!”
>”I-I'm sorry sir!”
“Think ye can hifrum Buck Fast?!”
>You bare out your fangs, and sink 'em deep into the arrogant twit.
>He lets out a yelp, then begins to laugh.
>Muffled from the fur, you shout.
“WHAGH SOH FGGIN FNNY?!”
>”Where are your fangs?!”
>No... can it be?
>Well, guess you're living up to your family name.
>You may be Buck Fast, but just like your wretched father, you Bite Slow.