"It's dirty work, Flash," Phillip growled. He was sitting atop the piano bench in his living room at 221 B Boulevard, leaning against the piano, a shot glass of cider in his hoof.

Across from him, opposite the chessboard on the coffee table, Flash was sprawled on the sofa, giving him a dark look. "That's why we have rules, Phillip," he said. "Laws and regulations. Ponies have rights, and we don't have to soil them for no reason."

Phillip spat bitterly. "Rules," he grunted, staring into the dark amber of his glass. "Rules are good and all, but sometimes they're not enough. In fact, sometimes they get in the way."

"Maybe sometimes," Flash said, leaning forward. "But a few exceptions isn't enough to justify suspending everypony's rights."

"I never said that," Phillip said. "But sometimes..." He scowled, staring at his reflection in the cider.

"During my second year in the Guard, I was stationed in Manehattan," he said. "One case we had, we were investigating some hotshot businesspony that was on the city council."

"What'd he do?" Flash asked.

A bitter taste rushed up Phillip's throat and the glass quivered in his hoof as his grip subconsciously tightened. "He...touched his daughter. Several times. Her and other fillies." He heard Flash hiss quietly. It was the same attitude with every Guard: anypony who violated a child was seen as lower than dirt, the foaming scum of society.

"We worked for three months," Phillip said. "Gathering evidence, questioning witnesses, consoling victims, doing surveillance and laying traps. Finally, we arrested him, got him on the docket..." He paused for a moment, the hot bitter taste overwhelming his throat so that he was forced to take a draught of cider, which he immediately spat back out: "And that filthy, arrogant arse got off on a bull**** technicality! Got to go home and hurt his own daughter all over again!"

He glared at Flash, whose eyes displayed shock and fury. "So what'd you do?" he asked, thinking that he already knew the answer.

Phillip took a couple breaths, settling himself down to continue. "The courts had failed to protect those fillies. So I did what I had to do. I knew he liked to visit a bar at nights, so after my shift, I followed him...

The rain poured down on his head, soaking through the balaclava, the impacts of the drops on the cobbled ground echoing off the walls of the small alley, but he didn't notice. All he was aware of was his own hooves, smashing into the slime's fat body, the weak flesh yielding and breaking under the impact. A left body shot ruptured his diaphragm. A crushing elbow strike broke another two ribs. The pedophile tried to protect himself, huddling on the ground, but the blows came down from everywhere. Every time he was struck, the pony let out a pathetic little yelp of pain. His weakness disgusted Phillip, but did not surprise him; only a coward would dare target somepony who couldn't defend themselves, like a little filly. Part of Phillip wished his target would at least try to fight back; that would feed his anger more, afford him an excuse to bring down greater punishment.

Finally, the fat bastard had had enough. He lay facedown on the alley floor, barely conscious and whimpering. It took a great effort for Phillip to force himself to stop; but as much as he wanted to finish it, even if it would be doing society a favor by removing the fat, whimpering waste of air from the face of the Earth, his death was not his goal. It would be much more satisfying for him to be punished, to have to live out the rest of his days remembering this night, to dream of the pain should he ever look at a filly with filthy intentions again.

Seizing the pedophile by the back of his expensive suit collar, Phillip dragged him over to a dumpster, lifted him up and tossed him in with the rest of the garbage where he belonged. The pony groaned feebly. Grabbing him by the neck. Phillip turned him around so that he was looking into his eyes.

"If you ever touch your daughter again, or any filly, I'll know," he growled in a voice like approaching thunder. "And I'll be back." And with that, he slammed the top of the dumpster down, sealing him inside.

Turning away, Phillip walked to the front of the alley, his anger finally calming. He felt the rain, soaking him to the skin, washing away the blood on his hooves as if removing any evidence. Removing his mask, he turned his face up to the skies, to the embrace of the cold wind and rain, and it felt right.

"There was an inquiry, but nopony except him asked too many questions. He moved away a while later, and he never touched any filly again." He looked up to give Flash a hard look. "That's justice."

"Justice would be making him rot in a prison where he belonged, not beat him to a pulp!" Flash said. "You're lucky you didn't get arrested!"

Phil just sighed and rested against the piano, striking some of the keys with his elbows and creating a discordant melody. "You know what, Flash? It's part of the job. You and me, we're the ponies who do the stuff that nopony else is willing to do. We're the ones who can afford to get our hooves dirty and bloody so others don't have to."

"Without being dirty ourselves," Flash said. "That's why we're Guards, not vigilantes. The public trusts us with their safety for a reason: we don't hold ourselves above the law."

There was a long, tense silence that solidified like ice between them, just as hard and twice as cold. "Maybe it comes down to what I said before," Phillip finally spoke in a soft tone. "Deep down, you're a good person. And deep down, I'm not."

Something in Flash's eyes dissolved, some layer peeling away. "Who you are and who you want to be is up to you," he said, rising from the sofa. "But I don't think you're bad." With a nod, he left the house, placing his helmet back on his head as he did so. From the hall came a squeaking sound as the door opened, then closed. As soon as he left, the room temperature, which had risen by inches when he spoke, seemed to fall once more.

Phillip listened to the solid silence for a moment more, then heavily lifted himself up to get another shot of cider.

Author's Notes:

Another short story that I tapped out in one go.

I'm not ashamed to say that I firmly consider Phillip to be an anti-hero (it's worth noting the symbolism of him wearing a gray hat). Not only does it give him a character that contrasts with the brighter characters of Equestria, but it also gives him a lot of room for potential growth.