Renojack (PiE Oneshit)

>Day Applejack in Reno and you hate your life
>You found some work at the so-called “Mustang Ranch”
>Nothing here has anything whatsoever to do with Mustangs
>The clientele similarly has nothing to do with Mustangs, Ranch, or any combination of the two.
>You sulk in your bedroom/cell/rape rack.
>The buzzer buzzes buzzingly
>Time for the lineup.
>You straighten up your cowboy fetish gear and put on an incredibly insincere smile.
>Only two other girls are here with you.
>Suddenly the old-timey saloon doors swing open.
>Inside squelches the most unfortunate customer you’ve ever seen.
>He must be pushing 350 pounds.
>He is very sunburnt.
>Sweat beads from his greasy face, complete with line of sunscreen on the nose.
>And of fucking course, he’s looking right at you.
”Welcome to the Mustang Ranch, how may I ser-”
>”Implying I’d choose anyone else.”
>You stifle the urge to vomit.
>Sir Lobsterback reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wad of bills.
>Well at least you won’t have to stay here much longer than a month.
“C’mon hun, negotiations in the room.”
>You lead the way into the poorly lit hallway leading to your room.
>You alight on the bed, careful to maintain your composure.
“So baby, what do you want?”
>”Do you take special requests?”
“Well, ah don’t do anal. Other than that, just look at the menu.”
>You wave a hoof to indicate a pink and black laminate posted on the wall.
>Raphael Ragu pivots and squints, astigmatism blearing his eyes.
>”That... I want that!”
“Honey, you’re gonna hafta tell m-”
>”The Hoof-and-Half, GFE.”
“How long about?”
>”How much will this get me?”
>He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the wad of bills.
>In your short time here you’ve come to expect hundreds, or at least twenties.
>Rotgut the Red here has at least one hundred fives.
“Oh sweetie, you have got to be kidding me...”
>”There’s $500 here. How long do I get?!”
>His face begins to take on the features of a killer tomato from outer space as he becomes agitated.
“Uh, fer you darlin, Ah can give ya an hour.”
>”Oh great! Where do I start?”
>He begins to breathe much faster, reminding you of an angry, constipated bull.
“Just, uh, go in that there bathroom and strip on down, then we can get ta business.”
>The impressively red lardbucket penguins his way into the bathroom.
>Naturally the doors are also old-timey saloon style.
>Several minutes pass as you begin to worry.
>There is no possible way this can end well.
>This corpulent corpuscle is going to be your partner for an entire hour!
>Keep it cool, AJ, keep it cool. One more week of this and....
>After several excited grunts it happens.
>The parlor doors swing open.
>Mother of Celestia, his whole body is red.
>”OOOOOOHHHHHHH YEEEEEEEAAAAAAAHHHHH!” He shouts.
>Somehow unable to fit through the doorway he just moments ago entered, sweat positively cascading down his softshell crab-like skin, a look of pure lust alights on his face.
>Today was NOT a good day.