A Sailboat, Two Mares and a Crate Full of Rum

Chapter Six

The Morning After You-Know-What

***

Octavia opened her eyes.

Her poor brain cores were immediately assaulted with sharp bolts of pain: a valid pinishment of what she'd committed the day prior to the unfortunate striking-march of the hangover. Only the cellist - the cook - could not remember what exactly she had committed. Indeed, she still held memories of Lyra and Vinyl celebrating the Second Coming of Rum, and Vinyl suggesting that they rename it 'The Second Cumming', and Lyra agreeing, and she, Octavia, hitting Vinyl, and Bon-Bon hitting Lyra... and then rum happened. Much rum happened. Very much. A crate full of rum happened, and, apparently, it happened very hard.

Happened so hard, in fact, that she could not stand up. A great weight was pinning her down - the weight of guilt. Oh, wait a minute. While the weight of guilt was indeed heavy, Octavia could swear that guilt didn't snore. But... Vinyl didn't snore either. If anything, she slept very silently... Octavia managed to turn her head in the general direction of the sound. On her chest lay a very familiar mint unicorn mare, snoring loudly, her hoof  absent-mindedly caressing the fur on Octavia's shoulder.

The cellist shut her eyes. We didn't. She turned her head to the other side, only to see Bon-Bon snoozing peacefully, the cream-colorued head resting in her, Octavia's, lap. We didn't. Octavia looked up and saw Vinyl standing next to the small bed, grinning widely. "Soooooo, Octy, did you like last night?"

Octavia closed her eyes. For buck's sake.

***

The clock was ticking. Well, technically, there were no clocks on board. But, somewhere, the clock was ticking. Metaphorically.

Octavia glared at the three mares around her: Lyra wincing in pain of headache, Vinyl grinning, and Bon-Bon blushing and trying to look as small as possible. Hard for her when she has such a big flank, the cellist observed, her eyes lingering on the confectioner's posterior. Gah! Why am I thinking of Bon-Bon's flank? "This never happened," Octavia said finally.

"What never happened?" Vinyl blinked.

"You all getting me drinking myself into oblivion and having your way with me!" Octavia yelled.

Vinyl smiled sheepishly. "I was just playing along."

Octavia sighed and rubbed her temples. Such a shame... Octavia Philarmonica, the renowned cellist, had a foursome with a professional hijacker, a pirate-pretender, and a DJ. Don't know which one's the worst of the three. How could she look into ponies' eyes now?

"Octavia, if anything, it was you who had your way with us," Bon-Bon barely whispered, almost hiding behind her mare's back.

Octavia turned round sharply. "What."

Bon-Bon yelped but managed to continue. "Well, after your sixth bottle, you started shouting about you being the 'rutting Queen' and daring us to try your skilful tongue-play and-"

"Enough." Octavia closed her eyes, counting to ten. Then to sixty. Then to one hundred. Then, she took a deep breath and managed a smile. "Okay. We may all have drunk a little more than expected-"

"We got totally wasted!" Vinyl supplied cheerfully (and a little too eagerly, Octavia noted).

The cellist just glared at her mare. "Yes, thank you, Vinyl. Still, we must all forget this little incident and-"

"It wasn't little. You were a sex beast, Tavi!" Lyra nodded enthusiastically at Vinyl's words. Bon-Bon flushed crimson. "You practically raped us!"

"I will rape you with a rusty spear if you don't SHUT UP!"

The sailboat was silent for a few moments. Satisfied with her outburst, Octavia exhaled and concluded, "This never happened. It so never happened. Nopony must know. We just travel to the nearest port, get food, do whatever Jeffrey needs us to do, and return home. And no talks of it." She eyed the mares sternly. "Any questions?"

Vinyl raised her hoof.

Octavia groaned. "Yes, Vinyl?"

"Tavi, where would you find a rusty spear?"

***

"That hurt."

Lyra took a deep breath. Fresh breeze coming from the sea invigorated her and cured her hangover. The sea was definitely the best cure: the salty licks of water gifting air with their angry emanation, the air of confidence, strict, unyielding, fortunate. The air of future and success.  The air of adventure. And, though it may be reeking of rot and bird shit, it was deinitely her kind of air. "I know, Vinyl. You've told me a few times already."

Vinyl rubbed her cheek. "I know. But that, like, really hurt." She paused. "Totes."

Lyra cast a glare at the white mare. "This word is officially prohibited on this ship from now on."

"Pirates."

Lyra nodded. "Exactly. We are pirates now, and we cannot-"

"No, I mean there." Vinyl pointed a hoof in the direction of a huge ship approaching their sailboat at top speed. "These are pirates."

On top of the mast fluttered a black flag.