It was dark. Dark and wet. Pinkie could still see though. She could see everything. She saw the snail inches from her face. She watched it crawl up the rose branch. It crawled straight over the large, sharp thorn. It passed its entire soft, defenseless body over that hard, dagger like object and kept crawling up the branch. Unharmed. Unbroken. It was as if the snail hadn’t even noticed the thorn. The thorn was Manehattan. Pinkie...Pinkie had to be the snail.

Pinkie focused past the snail, past the rose bush she was lurking behind. Deep focus. She saw the park. Central Park. A few lampposts were illuminating the walkways. No one was out. No one was out except for the police. The police were everywhere. They had been looking for her for hours in numerous patrols. There were the police in uniform, angry and unhelpful; the police dressed up as prostitutes, trying to trick her; the police dressed up as families, pushing baby foals in strollers; the police dressed up as squirrels.

They were searching. Searching in patrols. They were going about it methodically. Pinkie Pie grinned. They would never catch her that way. There wasn’t any method to her madness. No method at all.

Pinkie wasn’t pink. She was brown. Only the whites of her eyes could possibly give away her position. She had smeared herself with mud. Her normally curly hair was straight, and hanging down, some plastered to her body. She used mud to hide herself from the police. They were using infrared sensors. Infrared sensors in the black helicopters. Black helicopters. In whisper-mode.

Pinkie watched the police go by. Usually they moved in groups. She waited. Waited until there was only one of them passing by. She could handle one. Pinkie Pie was on duty. She had a mission. That mission was to find a cock, and fuck the hell out of it. Once accomplished, she could return to friendly territory. So she would have to wait. Find one solitary cop, then drop the Bomb on him.

Pinkie waited. A group of three cops passed by. A group of four. A pair, pulling by a leash an undercover cop cleverly disguised as a lhasa apso. There. A singleton cop.

Pinkie Pie could tell he was a cop. He didn’t look like one at all. He was wearing a jogging suit. And jogging. He had a sweat band around his mane. Obviously an optical scanner of some kind. And there were head phones in his ears. Pinkie silently laughed to herself. She couldn’t believe they were trying to disguise a police radio as a pair of headphones.

The jogger jogged past Pinkie’s rose bush in a very policey manner. Pinkie crept out from her hiding spot. She started jogging behind him. The policepony would never see her there, as long as she stayed jogging in his blind spot.

The jogger cop jogged onto a concrete sidewalk. Pinkie followed him. The jogger turned his head and saw her, the sneaky bastard.

She was spotted. Pinkie started to gallop after him. The jogger turned to look again, saw her coming after him, panicked, and started to sprint. Pinkie laughed when she knew she had him. She started an odd, bouncing, lopping gait, terrifying to on-lookers. She could keep it up for hours. All she had to do was wear him out, run him down, force an erection, and then she would be satisfied.

“Help!” he screamed. “Rape! Fire!” The kind of words they taught in self-defense classes. The kind of words that are supposed to attract attention. Pinkie knew that they were really secret police codewords for backup.

Then Pinkie Pie saw the police officers. She hadn’t even considered the possibility of more police. They were running behind her. She saw more join the chase, coming in from her flanks. There, ahead. There were more police in front of her. Her victim ran past them, and got away.

Pinkie screeched to a halt. They had her surrounded. She was caught. The police stood around her in a great big circle; it was slowly closing inwards.

“Cocks!” Pinkie Pie screamed at the cops. They started inching in further. She was spinning around, trying to make sure they couldn’t sneak up on her. “Cocks! Gimme gimme gimme!” They were getting closer. Pinkie found the smallest cop, and feinted a lunge at him. He jumped back and the circle momentarily widened. “Gimme cocks! Gimme gimme cocks! I want cocks!” A particularly brave pony snuck up behind her, and hit her with his tazer. Pinkie spun around, her eyes wide and wild. “Your cock! Gimme!” Pinkie was hit with another half dozen tazers. Pinkie shot up into the air, her hair returning to its natural curly state, and then fell back to the ground.

The police rushed her. They dogpiled on top of her six deep. The whole pile moved and shook, trying to contain Pinkie’s monstrous strength. Finally, she subsided, and they clasped cuffs around her hooves. “Horrrnyyy...,” she whispered. “The horrrnyyy.”

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