The name's Slim. That's what they call me. Don't know why, don't really care. Just thought I'd let you know, cos that's the name you'll be screaming tonight. Oh, you think I'm joking? You think you won't be screaming? You mad? Babe, you've never met the Sly Dog, Slim. That's also what they call me: Sly Dog. Not kidding. Ask them. Tell them Sly Dog sent ya.

I tell you what, though: I'm a predator of the night. I'll snap up any lonely gal hanging around the bar. I can smell them, you know, like a dog. That's why they call me Sly Dog. I'm the most alpha guy out there, so that's also where the 'Dog' part comes from. I come from a highly-respected group known as the 'Bad Bois'. Yeah, that's right. I'm a Bad Boi. Got my signature, leather jacket with the eagle on the back. I call him: 'Freedom'. No, of course it's not real leather! What kind of sick kinda guy do you think I am? It's ballistic nylon. Freak. This jacket tells you to stay outta my way. This jacket forces you to respect me, but, most of all, this jacket explains how much of a bonafide badass I am.

Anyway, let me tell you a cool story. Not like I had to mention it was cool — anything I say is cool. Deal with it. Hashtag. That's beside the edge. Point. Same thing. I was chillin' at the bar, you know, like the lady-killer I am, chugging drinks, checking out the ladies, asserting my dominance, and this 10/10 walks on over. She just strolls into my territory without even hesitating. I like it. I like it a lot. She sits down on a stool about a metre away from me. Yeah, that's right. Metric units, bitches. Imperial units are for losers.

Anyway, she orders something from the bartender, but I can't hear exactly what — I'm too busy sizing her up. She's got these beautiful, turquoise eyes, a pink, untidy mane, which says a lot about a mare, I can tell you, and she's wearing this leaf dress thing with vines and shit. I dunno, but it looked pretty damn fancy. Nothing like my ballistic nylon jacket, but not bad. This mare's got butterflies in her mane, both blue or pink, and she's wearing a smile so cute it could kill a puppy. Not a bad booty, either, and you know what ol' Slim says: a chick's gotta have junk in the trunk.

She's mine for the taking.

I move up, closing in for the kill. I crash into the stool, but she doesn't notice. Smooth. Smooth as fuck. Leaning back in my chair, I look her up and down. She's even prettier close up. “Baby,” I say, “you must be a parking ticket, cos you've got fine written all over you.” Bam. Alpha, I know, but they don't call me the alpha male for nothing. They do? You're talking to the wrong guys, then. Everyone knows I'm the alpha male. You still don't believe me? Well, ask your mother. Snap, son.

This mare just completely ignores me! She gets her drink from the bartender — total beta, by the way — and just starts sipping. I'm riled up. No way does Slim get ignored, especially in my territory. “Was your dad a baker?” I ask, pausing for dramatic effect, “cos you've got the nicest set of buns I've ever seen.” Sure, I went old school, but a colt's gotta do what a colt's gotta do.

“Uh... were you talking to me?” the pretty thing says, blushing and hiding behind her hooves.

“Sure was, babe.” You see, you've gotta call them nice names. Mares like that kinda shit.

“Oh, well... thank you,” she says, “you've got... nice buns, too?”

“What you talkin' 'bout?” I say. “I ain't supposed to have a nice ass.”

“That's what you meant?!” she says, blushing even more.

“Course, girl.”

“Oh,” she says. She lets out this kind of... shrieking, screaming noise, and turns away from me. I'm not gonna let that happen. No friggin' way.

“So, what's your name, sweet cheeks?”

“F-Fluttershy,” she says.

“That's a pretty name.”

“Thanks...”

“Wanna know mine?”

“Umm...”

“Slim. Just thought I'd let you know, cos you'll be... You know what? Never mind.”

“Oh, okay.”

I've got her now.

“What you chugging then... Flut-ter-shy?” I say, punctuating each syllable. Mares like that. Hope you're writing these tips down somewhere, else you'll forget 'em.

“Just some... apple juice?”

“Apple juice?”

“Yeah...”

“Well, it's a start,” I say, knocking the table. “Bartender, can I have some of your finest apple juice?” You see, gotta show that you like the same things. They accept you more. Let you into their lives. And their bed. That too. Remember, kids — apple juice leads to happy times. The bartender eyes me up suspiciously, and I stare right on back. He knows I'm more dominant. He also knows I like my drinks exactly how I like my mares: strong, quick and with an aftertaste.

“Coming right up,” he eventually says. I turn back around to Fluttershy. Can't let 'em think you've forgotten them. I just look straight at her, smiling. She puts on a smile for a second, but quickly looks to the ground and ceiling. She doesn't want to look me straight in the eyes. Weird.

“Is... is that real leather?” she asks, pointing at my precious. A mare after my own heart, and definitely... something else at the end of the night, if you know what I mean. You know? She wants something else of mine? It won't be my heart, cos I've already mentioned that. Can you guess? My dick, okay? She'll want my dick. Bettin' on it.

“Nah, of course not. Ballistic nylon. Heard of it?”

“Um, no...”

“It's good. You should check it out.” The bartender finally gives me my apple juice. He puts a little straw and umbrella in it. What a little... Doesn't matter, but what a smartass. Can't let the small things get in the way. Bigger fish in the sea. Plenty more fish to fry.

“So, Fluttershy, what's a pretty mare like you doing in this violent, filthy bar?” I say, glaring at the bartender. I made damn sure he heard me. He narrows his eyes right back at me, but I'm not scared. Bet I could take him on any day. Bet he doesn't even lift. I lift, like, twelve times a day, eighty-five times a week, four thousand three hundred and sixty-nine times a year. Yeah, I'm a god at maths. What of it? I can have swag and be good at maths. Swag.

“Just thought I could have some drinks and stuff,” she says, looking at me with lonely eyes. Only I could tell they were lonely — any other guy would just pass it up as a normal look, but not me. I have eyes for their... eyes.

“Dance your way into the night? Lose yourself in the music? That kinda thing?”

“Um, no... not really. Just here to enjoy my drink.”

“Well, you could've had that kinda drink at home.”

“My fridge is broken,” she says, “and... I don't like my drinks warm.”

“I see,” I say. Got to show understanding. “Fair enough. I guess you don't come here often, then?” I already know this is her first time. I watch everyone in this bar — no one gets to slip away from me. Not like they'd want to. I mean, who'd want to slip away from me?

Did anyone respond to that? Exactly.

“Um, no, not exactly.”

“Well, maybe you should?”

“But... I'm having my fridge fixed tomorrow.”

“Maybe you should.”

“This isn't really my kind of place...”

“You should.”

The mare looked at me. That's it. She didn't smile or frown — she just looked at me. At this point, the decision goes either way, meaning I get in their beds or I don't. I didn't really have to mention the second outcome; the only time I was rejected was yesterday. And the day before that. Before that day, I wasn't here. Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream was half price, and sometimes, I just feel like ice cream. Especially Baked Alaska. Gotta love that white chocolate. I think I'm getting a little off topic here.

“Ex-excuse me,” says Fluttershy, “bartender, can I have something... a little stronger?”

“Course, darlin'. How 'bout some cider?”

There he goes again, trying to take my catch. I can't let him get away with that. There's no—

I can't think of anymore fishing metaphors.

“That would be fine,” she says, smiling.

“You sure you can handle that?” I ask.

“Ye-e-es,” she says slowly, looking almost annoyed.

“Well, you know: cider's quite strong around these parts.”

“I can handle it.”

“If you don't, I can.”

“I'm sure I'll be fine.”

“Even so—”

“I said I can handle it!” she shouts.

Huh. Never been shouted at by a mare before. Usually, they're put off by my rugged charm. Ponies could write books about that, by the way. I'm talking prequels, sequels and whatever the hell comes after those two. I don't know. Charm is my game, not writing, even if I can write a mean sonnet now and then. Oh, yeah, I know: Slim the Sly Dog writes poetry. Big deal. If it gets the mares, I have the time. And then I have the mares. And then more time, I s'pose. And then more mares. It's a nice cycle. See, I'd make a good poet. That was deep and all.

“Okay, then! I get it!” I say in a totally-confident-and-not-totally-weak voice. Cos that would be totally weak.

“I think we should stop speaking,” she says, looking away.

“I think we should hop on the good hoof and do the bad thing.”

Smooth, I know. Well, let's just say that she isn't 'just looking' anymore.

“What? I thought we speaking out—”

“Did I ask you to?”

“I saw it as—”

“Did I explicitly want you to?”

“No, not exactly—”

“In fact, did I even ask you to come over here? Maybe I'd just like to relax. Maybe I don't want to... hop on the bad hoof and do the good thing, whatever that is,” she says, pausing to chug her cider. She quickly thanks the bartender, and stares me down. Whatever. It's not like a delicate thing like her is going to go off the rails. “Now, if you'd please, leave me alone.”

“Honey, your mouth says no, but your eyes say yes.”

“Oh, really?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Get out of my sight. Right now.”

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

“So, was that a yes to the hopping on the good hoof—”

“No.”

“You mean yes?”

“No.”

“This colt givin' you any problems?” says the bartender, pointing at me.

“Curb it, nugget,” I say, “the professional is at work.”

Out of nowhere, there's this complete silence. Everyone at the bar just... shuts up. Of course, I didn't worry at all. Your ol' Sly Dog Slim doesn't break under pressure. That's where he thrives. Everyone's literally turned around to hear our 'conversation', and this mare just keeps on staring. She did look kinda mad. Like one of those cartoons you see, when one guy gets so angry, his face goes red and steam comes out his ears and stuff.

“Nobody talks to Iron Will like that,” says the bartender, looking down at me. Well, it was about that time that I notice that bartender was about eight feet tall, and was a Minotaur from the Hellenistic Era. “I might've fallen on hard times, but being a bartender ain't bad. Fluttershy, you know what I've always said: 'treat me like a pushover, and you'll get the—”

“Leave this one to me, Mr Minotaur,” says Fluttershy with a smile. Ooh, I'm real scared.

“You can call me Steve...”

“Okay, Mr Steve,” she says, batting her eyelids.

“You know what? Forget it,” 'Steve' says. He points right at me, almost prodding me. “You are about to be messed up.”

“Really? By a mare? What could she possibly—”

And then, Fluttershy stares at me. You know, not like a passive, run-of-the-mill, but, like, a really intense stare. Like she looks into my soul. She sees everything about me: my inane attitude, the reason why I go out looking like this, my insecurities — everything. This mare just... looks straight into me, and I can't look away, not while she's searching me. I'm just sitting there, frozen, while everything around me is absolutely quiet. Not a peep. I try to stop her. I don't want her to see the real me. I try to hide the real me under this masquerade of thick-headedness and simplicity. It's so much easier looking at the world from further away, and she's making me zoom in.

Just like that, she stops, and I let out a sigh. She's seen the real me now, beneath everything I threw on top of it. I look back at her for a moment before looking away. She's not even fazed! After messing with my head, she just sits back down and finishes her cider. A voice in my head tells me to keep fighting, but what's the point? I take off my signature 'Bad Boi' jacket, which I am the only member of, by the way, and leave it on the stool. I throw the remaining bits from it down on the counter for my apple juice, and start walking away. Not tonight, Slim, I tell myself, not tonight.

And then, I went home and had some more Ben and Jerry's Baked Alaska whilst crying and watching a Bridget Jones film.

Pretty cool story, right?

What, you don't like it?

Piss off, then. I lied — your ass isn't even that great.