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# Handle With Care: A One Shot

By: PaleNarrator on Jun 30th, 2012 | syntax: None | size: 9.40 KB | hits: 414 | expires: Never
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1. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WKIx0CmAZM8
3. >Alarm clock.
4. >Groan.
5. >Slam down the snooze button.
6. >Sleep.
7. >Alarm clock.
8. >Cold shower.
9. >Robe.
10. >Scotch.
11. >Muffin.
12. >This was the routine. And just like any routine, you grew used to it.
13. >Waking up with a stale taste in your mouth, the burn of the hoarseness of your throat.
14. >Your unkempt face and baggy eyes.
15. >These were all just signs or your late nights.
16. >Nights filled with the unrequited stories of drunks and fools.
17. >Nights.
18. >Funny, you enjoyed the daylight.
19. >But these things, well, they didn't take kindly to you.
20. >Wary stares and suspicious eyes followed you wherever you walked, and if you even talked to some of them they would only answer in nods and grunts. Words were hard to come by for the most part.
21. >But that was during the day.
22. >Once the sun set and left for the far corners of this cess-pitt, you went to work.
23. >It was in the dark of the night that these ponies would open up to you. Not out of need or a willingness to be cordial.
24. >They would prattle on about their lives, their trials, their tribulations.
25. >It was easy for them once they were liquored up enough.
26. >It was funny once you thought about it.
27. >Here you stood in a land of sunshine and smiles, where everyone was everyone else's friend.
28. >Yet they come to the outcast in the middle of the night to escape their daily problems.
29. >A bartender in Ponyville.
30. >You didn't know if it was funny or just sad.
31. >The swill in your hand burned your throat, but it was a good, familiar burn. One you could deal with.
33. >You used to worry about drinking this early in the morning.
34. >Then a year in this place passed, and you simply stopped caring.
35. >The only thing, or rather, pony, that would stomach your presence during the day was the one that had to come to your house as part of her job.
36. >The ring of your doorbell let's you know that she's just arrived.
37. >You rub the tired sensation from your eyes, and put down your glass. You'd be back to welcome the burning sensation in a bit.
38. >Biting into the small muffin in your hand, you go to open your door.
39. >Your voice is gravely and hoarse when you greet her.
40. "Morning."
41. >The grey pegasus with her yellow mane smiles at you, a newspaper tucked under one of her wings.
42. >She was the only thing that cared to smile at you in earnest, instead out of nervous fear.
43. >She hands you the paper, giving a small salute as you take it, filing through her bag as she gathers more letters for you.
44. >Bills probably. You weren't the type to have a pen-pal out here.
45. >Not that you needed one.
46. >Another bite of the muffin and you notice that the mare's eyes are focused on the pastry in your hand.
47. >At least you thought they were. She had eyes that seemed to wander.
48. >You could see the hunger on her face. Funny, you hadn't noticed but she seemed to have bags under her eyes as well.
49. >Late nights? Or just weary work?
50. >Another tortured soul perhaps? Or someone who just couldn't sleep well?
52. >In any case, you know the look in her eyes and nod, returning to the kitchen.
53. >You grab another one of your muffins and return to her, holding it out.
54. >Another smile, bigger this time, as she takes it gladly.
55. >You raise yours to her, and she catches your drift as she too raises hers, clinking them together.
56. >It wasn't booze, but it was something.
57. >She hands you more letters.
58. >Bills, like you thought.
59. >Giving her a nod, you go to close the door and she hovers in place before taking off.
60. >These little moments right here were the only "good" parts to your day. Happy times were hard to come by, and you took them when you could.
61. >You toss the bills onto your table and sit down with the paper, greeting your glass of scotch once more.
62. >You'd need more than just this one glass if you were going to get through the close approaching evening.
64. That Night
66. >The red mare at the end of the bar was drowning her misery away in a cocktail of booze and tears.
67. >An old colt silently stared into his glass a few seats from her, silently pondering about what the world had to offer and if it was worth it.
68. >A husband was drinking to get away from his nagging wife, who was cheating on him with the old colt as the end of the bar.
69. >These were stories and lives told into shot glasses and mugs, tales that wouldn't be able to put a tired foal to sleep unless it ended with a princess being saved.
70. >But ponies didn't come here to be saved. They came here to get away from life.
71. >It was like they had an itch. Like they had an addiction to the misery of this bar.
72. >And you happened to be their supplier.
73. >A rag dried the glass in your hand, your eyes heavy and your throat still burning from this morning.
74. >The glasses of scotch were a mistake, but you grew used to those from day to day.
75. >A new noise entered the bar, a loud and brazen one.
76. >A group of young colts entered the bar, shouting to each other and strutting with arrogant pride.
77. >These colts had been in before.
78. >A bunch of hotheaded kids, is what they were.
79. >You didn't like the look of them, but you weren't opposed to dropping their collective IQ down a peg or two every other night.
80. >They ordered their drinks and parked themselves towards the end of the bar, getting chatty with the one red mare.
82. >This was their routine.
83. >And like all routines, they must have gotten used to it.
84. >Hurtful words, degrading comments, they spewed it all.
85. >Nothing to be done. You could throw them out, but they'd come back in. You were the minority here.
86. >You didn't like it, but that's the way things were.
87. >Another creak of the bar doors and you see your "mail mare" enter the bar.
88. >She sits to the seat closest the door, a defeated look in her eyes.
89. >Life seemed to leave its mark on everyone, and no one was immune from the scars it left behind.
90. >She seemed tired, worn down by the day to day rigamarole.
91. >Yet she seemed to always greet you personally with a smile.
92. >You admired that kind of tenacity.
93. >Admiration only goes so far, so you decide to slide her a drink on the house.
94. >The glass skids to a stop in front of her, and she gives a weary smile back to you as she takes it.
95. >Yes.
96. >Life seemed to leave it's mark on everyone.
97. >The young colts quiet down when they spot the grey mare, nudging each other and whispering under their breath.
98. >They poked fun at the way she looked.
99. >Her eyes, from what you gathered.
100. >Kids. They'd find any excuse to degrade someone. To make them feel less than shit itself.
101. >Then one makes his drunken way over to her.
102. >He called her names.
103. >He sneered at her through inebriated eyes and slurred words.
104. >She told him to leave her alone.
106. >Her voice was small and frail, weary even.
107. >The colt's friends soon joined him, standing around her like hyenas on a carcass.
108. >They laughed like a pack of them as well.
109. >You don't know if it was the scotch from earlier, or if it was just because you didn't like seeing women getting beat up on.
110. >Whatever it was, it caused you to act.
111. >You walk over to their group, mug still in hand, and tell them to leave.
112. >The look they give you tells you novels about their character.
113. >They were the looks of ponies who had never been told "no" their entire lives. Looks that screamed out that they were privileged.
114. >They refuse, and their leader puts a hoof on the mare's shoulder.
115. >You promptly crack the mug in your hands over his head.
116. "Out. Now."
117. >His friends show their true colors and run out of the bar, slinging words aimed at your freakish appearance at you.
118. >You didn't care. You'd heard it all before.
119. >You lean in close and grab the other colt by the scruff of his neck, dragging him outside.
120. >The gutter was going to be making a new friend, and fast.
121. >As you toss the miserable young fool out of your bar, the grey mare approaches you.
122. >Despite her evening, she wears a smile on her face.
123. "I'll walk you home. No need to be wasting your time in a place like this."
124. >Getting rid of the other patrons, you close up shop and walk this pegasus home.
125. >It's quiet. It always was.
126. >But she was happy for your help, all the same.
128. >Her house could be considered old and worn, just like the spirit you portrayed.
129. >It, like you, had seen better days.
130. >You open the door for her, and she nods for you to come inside.
131. >You grunt. It was the least you could do, you suppose.
132. >Finding a seat on the couch, you wait while she makes something in the kitchen.
133. >What catches your attention is the pitter patter of tiny hooves as they approach you from the side.
134. >When you look over, you're greeted by a pair of tiny golden eyes from a small unicorn filly.
135. >A kid.
136. >No wonder she seemed beaten. Raising a child, all by herself, must have been hard for her.
137. >Now you knew why she had that same tired look on her face as you.
138. >She had to try to save face for her daughter when she was around. Any other time, and the toll could be seen etched onto her smile.
139. >You bring a hand to the filly's head, and she coos in delight at your scratching her ear.
140. >You admired this mare's will. You admired it even more now that you knew she was in charge of a life.
141. >Small pictures drawn in crayon cover the walls, all of them filled with smiles and sunshine.
142. >Despite the hardship she went through, she was raising this kid to see the good of it all.
143. >You'd forgotten what hope could look like.
144. >When she enters the living room and gives you that smile, though, you realize it looked like a pair of wandering eyes.
145. >Maybe things would get better for you.
146. >Maybe you'd get another routine.
147. >And like all routines, maybe you'd eventually grow used to it.
149. ~END~

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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WKIx0CmAZM8 >Alarm clock. >Groan. >Slam down the snooze button. >Sleep. >Alarm clock. >Cold shower. >Robe. >Scotch. >Muffin. >This was the routine. And just like any routine, you grew used to it. >Waking up with a stale taste in your mouth, the burn of the hoarseness of your throat. >Your unkempt face and baggy eyes. >These were all just signs or your late nights. >Nights filled with the unrequited stories of drunks and fools. >Nights. >Funny, you enjoyed the daylight. >But these things, well, they didn't take kindly to you. >Wary stares and suspicious eyes followed you wherever you walked, and if you even talked to some of them they would only answer in nods and grunts. Words were hard to come by for the most part. >But that was during the day. >Once the sun set and left for the far corners of this cess-pitt, you went to work. >It was in the dark of the night that these ponies would open up to you. Not out of need or a willingness to be cordial. >They would prattle on about their lives, their trials, their tribulations. >It was easy for them once they were liquored up enough. >It was funny once you thought about it. >Here you stood in a land of sunshine and smiles, where everyone was everyone else's friend. >Yet they come to the outcast in the middle of the night to escape their daily problems. >A bartender in Ponyville. >You didn't know if it was funny or just sad. >The swill in your hand burned your throat, but it was a good, familiar burn. One you could deal with. >You used to worry about drinking this early in the morning. >Then a year in this place passed, and you simply stopped caring. >The only thing, or rather, pony, that would stomach your presence during the day was the one that had to come to your house as part of her job. >The ring of your doorbell let's you know that she's just arrived. >You rub the tired sensation from your eyes, and put down your glass. You'd be back to welcome the burning sensation in a bit. >Biting into the small muffin in your hand, you go to open your door. >Your voice is gravely and hoarse when you greet her. "Morning." >The grey pegasus with her yellow mane smiles at you, a newspaper tucked under one of her wings. >She was the only thing that cared to smile at you in earnest, instead out of nervous fear. >She hands you the paper, giving a small salute as you take it, filing through her bag as she gathers more letters for you. >Bills probably. You weren't the type to have a pen-pal out here. >Not that you needed one. >Another bite of the muffin and you notice that the mare's eyes are focused on the pastry in your hand. >At least you thought they were. She had eyes that seemed to wander. >You could see the hunger on her face. Funny, you hadn't noticed but she seemed to have bags under her eyes as well. >Late nights? Or just weary work? >Another tortured soul perhaps? Or someone who just couldn't sleep well? >In any case, you know the look in her eyes and nod, returning to the kitchen. >You grab another one of your muffins and return to her, holding it out. >Another smile, bigger this time, as she takes it gladly. >You raise yours to her, and she catches your drift as she too raises hers, clinking them together. >It wasn't booze, but it was something. >She hands you more letters. >Bills, like you thought. >Giving her a nod, you go to close the door and she hovers in place before taking off. >These little moments right here were the only "good" parts to your day. Happy times were hard to come by, and you took them when you could. >You toss the bills onto your table and sit down with the paper, greeting your glass of scotch once more. >You'd need more than just this one glass if you were going to get through the close approaching evening. That Night >The red mare at the end of the bar was drowning her misery away in a cocktail of booze and tears. >An old colt silently stared into his glass a few seats from her, silently pondering about what the world had to offer and if it was worth it. >A husband was drinking to get away from his nagging wife, who was cheating on him with the old colt as the end of the bar. >These were stories and lives told into shot glasses and mugs, tales that wouldn't be able to put a tired foal to sleep unless it ended with a princess being saved. >But ponies didn't come here to be saved. They came here to get away from life. >It was like they had an itch. Like they had an addiction to the misery of this bar. >And you happened to be their supplier. >A rag dried the glass in your hand, your eyes heavy and your throat still burning from this morning. >The glasses of scotch were a mistake, but you grew used to those from day to day. >A new noise entered the bar, a loud and brazen one. >A group of young colts entered the bar, shouting to each other and strutting with arrogant pride. >These colts had been in before. >A bunch of hotheaded kids, is what they were. >You didn't like the look of them, but you weren't opposed to dropping their collective IQ down a peg or two every other night. >They ordered their drinks and parked themselves towards the end of the bar, getting chatty with the one red mare. >This was their routine. >And like all routines, they must have gotten used to it. >Hurtful words, degrading comments, they spewed it all. >Nothing to be done. You could throw them out, but they'd come back in. You were the minority here. >You didn't like it, but that's the way things were. >Another creak of the bar doors and you see your "mail mare" enter the bar. >She sits to the seat closest the door, a defeated look in her eyes. >Life seemed to leave its mark on everyone, and no one was immune from the scars it left behind. >She seemed tired, worn down by the day to day rigamarole. >Yet she seemed to always greet you personally with a smile. >You admired that kind of tenacity. >Admiration only goes so far, so you decide to slide her a drink on the house. >The glass skids to a stop in front of her, and she gives a weary smile back to you as she takes it. >Yes. >Life seemed to leave it's mark on everyone. >The young colts quiet down when they spot the grey mare, nudging each other and whispering under their breath. >They poked fun at the way she looked. >Her eyes, from what you gathered. >Kids. They'd find any excuse to degrade someone. To make them feel less than shit itself. >Then one makes his drunken way over to her. >He called her names. >He sneered at her through inebriated eyes and slurred words. >She told him to leave her alone. >Her voice was small and frail, weary even. >The colt's friends soon joined him, standing around her like hyenas on a carcass. >They laughed like a pack of them as well. >You don't know if it was the scotch from earlier, or if it was just because you didn't like seeing women getting beat up on. >Whatever it was, it caused you to act. >You walk over to their group, mug still in hand, and tell them to leave. >The look they give you tells you novels about their character. >They were the looks of ponies who had never been told "no" their entire lives. Looks that screamed out that they were privileged. >They refuse, and their leader puts a hoof on the mare's shoulder. >You promptly crack the mug in your hands over his head. "Out. Now." >His friends show their true colors and run out of the bar, slinging words aimed at your freakish appearance at you. >You didn't care. You'd heard it all before. >You lean in close and grab the other colt by the scruff of his neck, dragging him outside. >The gutter was going to be making a new friend, and fast. >As you toss the miserable young fool out of your bar, the grey mare approaches you. >Despite her evening, she wears a smile on her face. "I'll walk you home. No need to be wasting your time in a place like this." >Getting rid of the other patrons, you close up shop and walk this pegasus home. >It's quiet. It always was. >But she was happy for your help, all the same. >Her house could be considered old and worn, just like the spirit you portrayed. >It, like you, had seen better days. >You open the door for her, and she nods for you to come inside. >You grunt. It was the least you could do, you suppose. >Finding a seat on the couch, you wait while she makes something in the kitchen. >What catches your attention is the pitter patter of tiny hooves as they approach you from the side. >When you look over, you're greeted by a pair of tiny golden eyes from a small unicorn filly. >A kid. >No wonder she seemed beaten. Raising a child, all by herself, must have been hard for her. >Now you knew why she had that same tired look on her face as you. >She had to try to save face for her daughter when she was around. Any other time, and the toll could be seen etched onto her smile. >You bring a hand to the filly's head, and she coos in delight at your scratching her ear. >You admired this mare's will. You admired it even more now that you knew she was in charge of a life. >Small pictures drawn in crayon cover the walls, all of them filled with smiles and sunshine. >Despite the hardship she went through, she was raising this kid to see the good of it all. >You'd forgotten what hope could look like. >When she enters the living room and gives you that smile, though, you realize it looked like a pair of wandering eyes. >Maybe things would get better for you. >Maybe you'd get another routine. >And like all routines, maybe you'd eventually grow used to it. ~END~