- “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.
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