Of course. That—no—this was where he would find what he needed. What he required. There was no time for fucking around. Today was all about gathering what he needed to survive another day. Survive. Just like always. Or, well, just like it had been for the past month or so. Had it really been a month? Maybe he was over-exaggerating; there was no way it could have already been one month of his being stuck out in this Godforsaken desert, with a sun too scalding and a ground too itchy. It had to have been a few weeks at most, maybe three or four. Possibly five. He had taken quite a while to find someplace new to hold up in after the native Buffalo took over his last cave, claiming stupid bullshit like "burial ground" and "ancestral importance". They should've counted their damn stars, since he had begrudgingly agreed on a full stomach at the time.

He'd always wondered what Buffalo tasted like.

He stopped, the wrapped hooves clinging tightly around his binoculars thudding against the hard stone of his lookout perch. He'd had Buffalo before hadn't he? Like, Buffalo Wings and shit, right? That was...

...wait. No. No those are chicken.

He shook his head with a quick, polite, perfect, "Fuck!" Dipping his head back down, he sank low to the torn blanket underneath his clothed body, blue eyes narrowing in anticipation as he brought up his binoculars once more. Opening his mouth in an attempt to mutter a magnificent showing of hard work, he adjusted the windage turret situated on his equipment's right side, focusing on the small building in the a little ways down the stony, sandy hill he was currently lying upon. Getting suddenly irritated by the former, he lowered his spyglass and looked down. A scowl crossing his lips, he brushed away a small collection of the latter. His head turned once he remembered he was doing something.

His attention returned to the impressively sizable shack sitting in the middle of what was supposed to be an otherwise desolate, horrible wasteland of an arid desert. With its cute little chimney puffing out little clouds of smoke and its fenced-in livestock calmly walking around their home in front of the shack, the area seemed to be a sudden pull-away from what he had grown accustomed to for the past few months/weeks/whatever the fuck it was. He tilted the binoculars to the left with a hoof, using the other to wipe at his eye vigorously, a loose grain of dirt having plagued his vision for the past minute or so. Or was it more an hour or so? He couldn't really remember when it had first started–

He chuckled, raising his belly off the blanket to hold his aching chest in response. Almost breathlessly, he cursed, "Goddammit," and rose to his hooves. His stance was, ever so slightly, shakily presented, mostly aided by the single dislocated hindleg he had accumulated a week or so back. Though he'd put a splint on it made of metal beams from a long-abandoned backpack sitting on the side of what he had assumed to be a man-made trail, the leg was still wobbly and would most likely be a source of problems for the weeks to come. He gave off a sigh. He'd eat some of his Los Santos-gifted food to heal himself if he could. Sadly, the wrappers of his Egochasers and the boxes of his P's & Q's were about twenty miles back in a cave now filled with Buffalo. Those motherfuckers were probably eating that shit up right now, claiming it was given to them by their Gods.

His stomach ached deafeningly.

He'd also tried eating his sweater.

That was not a good idea.

He stole a look at the article of clothing underneath his tattered, sand-colored cloak lightly fluttering in the wind behind him. Still dirty as fuck, but at least there weren't any holes in it. He couldn't necessarily say the same for his cloak, but hey, it did its job and it did it well. Which was to make him look super fucking cool. He grinned to himself, striking a pose and casting his glance backward as he lifted the shawl into the air. It did its job really fucking well, that was for damn sure. He turned back to the shack down the hill, newly invigorated. A selection of quick nods and blown breaths later, the stallion about-faced and found the large rock protecting his right side. A hoof, messily wrapped up in lines of gauze, reached for the Marksman Rifle propped against the natural formation. Tugging at the sling, he threw it over his chest and made sure it was snug, finally sprinting down the dune once he agreed that it was so.

The slope made way for loose collections, causing him to change his approach and opt on simply sliding down the rest of the way. He hit the bottom with nothing but a simple thud and a low grunt, his mind fixated on one thing and one thing only. He dashed across the front yard, and though he raised an eyebrow to the sky as he brushed past the little white mailbox, he found himself pressing his side against the wall of the house in the span of five seconds. He looked down at the noticeably lower elevation of sand that extended straight out from his body. He had slid the rest of the way to the wall, expertly propping himself up against it, which had led to this exact moment in time. Said moment in time was solely devoted to him observing this, and so he cracked a stupid grin and laughed.

"I'm so fuckin' cool holy shit."

He leaned a bit to the left now, eyes flitting upward to find a small window sitting above his head. His ears stood erect for a brief moment to listen for any signs of movement from inside. The twin appendages flicked idly as he lowered his gaze, giving the baaing Goat Bros and the swaying pinwheel windmill looks of annoyance. He suddenly realized he was shivering, instinctively throwing his hooves up to his body as he regarded the triangular shadow of the house beneath him with the expression of a betrayed Stormtrooper. Traitor!

The windmill's base creaked in the breeze. The thumps of goats and chickens across stone rattled his mind.

He shut his eyes, blew out a small wisp of air, and rose to a low crouch. Sneaking along the front wall of the shack, he stood at the corner for a split second before shooting his head to the right, hoping to catch somebody off guard as they toiled away at their rock garden and their dumb cactus plants. Nothing but the left side of the house met his gaze. He halted, its texture catching him off-guard. Looking at the corner piece, staring forward, and then looking again, he raised a brow and a hoof, thumping on the surface. He narrowed his eyes as he received a small, hollow thud.

Of course. Fucking adobe.

His vision creating a trail upward across the side of the house, he rolled his eyes as he noticed a brick or two sticking ever so slightly out into the baking sunlight. He involuntarily tugged at the neckline of his sweater. Bad choice of thinking. A lump went down his throat, and so he looked from left to right, got into an attacking stance, and promptly tippy-hoofed across the exterior, meeting the other corner that led to the back wall in less than four seconds. Rising to his hindlegs—and almost tumbling onto the ground in the process—his back became one with the wall in a sweaty, musky display of body-on-surface affection. He craned his neck—as well as strained it—to find a pretty modern-looking barbecue grill and an umbrella-shaded table adjacent it. A grill brush, dangling from a hook by the handle, softly swung in the wind.

Shadowed by the sun, as well as a nice blanket fuck he forgot to bring his Goddammit, was the door that, presumably, led inside the... hopefully-but-probably-not humble abode. There was another window by his head now as he approached said entryway, which he promptly looked in through. Peeling his eyelids, he growled from somewhere down his throat and shoved a hoof against the top of his brow in an effort to get a better field of vision. A couch, a coffee table, an ottoman, a TV... fuck, was he in New Mexico? A brilliant sparkle caught his eyesight from further to the left of the furniture. Rotating his body, he shut his left eye and widened his right, now looking at the small kitchen. The adobe fireplace still burned bright orange from its depths. Stealing a quick glance at the grill revealed that it, too, still had hot coals inside it. He bit his lower lip. He really hoped the house's owners weren't home.

He crept toward the back door and slowly drew it open. Thankfully, as old as it may have been, it didn't cry out a single squeak as he allowed enough space in the doorway to let himself inside. He would have cringed at the sound of his hoof clopping against the threshold were it not for the unmistakable sound of two ponies really going at it from the second floor. He shook his head to dispel his noting of his being unfazed by the notion of two strangers fucking each other above his head. Depending on how long they would last, he deduced he would have enough time to gather what he needed and flee. As he entered the boundaries of the kitchen, his eyes hungrily flew to the oaken island standing in the middle. Crouching down, he threw open the first of many drawers to find the first item on his list.

Something broke from upstairs. The sounds from above halted for a few seconds before starting again.

Fuck. He really hated to admit to himself that he was depending on how long a stallion unknown to him could last in bed. More... time meant more time. More precious, precious time he couldn't spend wasting. Getting his internal hint, he returned to his scavenging and closed the first drawer, then pulled out the second. He had winged which item he was getting first once he had gotten inside, but he was glad it was the first item. The second would be, if the low humming behind him belonged to a fridge, pretty easy to grab. He bore his teeth tightly from underneath his mask, about slamming the current drawer shut in frustration. He opened the third.

And found what he needed. Giving one good look at his unkempt, long black tail and his likewise wild, bramble-encrusted mane, he coiled his hoof around the first item and stowed it into his groin. Closing the drawer with a growing smile, he turned tail and widened his eyes at the silver refrigerator glowing brightly in front of him. Making sure that the two occupants were still occupying, he opened the right door to discover an oasis of ice that crystallized numerous boxes of ice cream and chicken wings– ooh chicken wings why weren't those on his list.

His mind quickly shut the freezer door before he could modify his plans. He opened the actual door this time and immediately spotted a plethora of food. Two gallons of milk stood on the first shelf, their contents swinging on a pendulum from the force of the opening hatch. Below it, requiring a whole shelf to itself, was a pie with what looked to be snails penetrating its surface. The third shelf presented lines of cocaine on a cutting board, bags of methamphetamine stacked by two's, and a single cigarette lying inside a brown napkin. Oh yeah and there were a few bottles of booze underneath them. He wasn't here for any of that, so he stood up on his tippy-hooves and parted the two milk jugs to find exactly the jar he wanted.

Holding it out in front of him, he remained this way for quite some time, just... standing there, cradling and admiring the glass jar of his wettest dreams as two aggressive ponies smashed audibly atop him.

He rock-a-bye-baby'd the fuck out of the thing, quietly holstered it in his dickhole, and fled the building, not even caring about the sound of the door slamming against the outside wall. He was home free, and it was time to set up camp so he could get some rest. Tomorrow would be a great day, and he couldn't miss it.

As his hooves piffed and puffed against the loose sand, the stallion looked upward to gaze longingly at the sun, and the white clouds, and the blue, blue sky.

Oh, what a day.

What a lovely, lovely day.