It happens practically every week, like cheap clockwork. Thursday evening, the police force gets a visit from a Mrs. Floral Frailwater, always about her damn mutt who got off of the leash and took a lonesome stroll.

Again.

Thursday evenings had always been slow here at the station since I started working here. Most of the officers just sit around picking at their hooves and talking about “the good old days” where the police was “respected” and crap like that. I don’t give a damn about that type o’ crap because the only ponies who “respect” officers are usually just trying ta suck up and get somethin’ from them. If respect for officers was actually commonplace sometime in the past, then it musta been before guns got invented ‘cuz police brutality and all that lovely shit. I believe in the golden rule- they shoot me an’ I shoot back.

Anyway, as usual, Frailwater came in ranting about how her “poor little snoogums” pulled the leash right off of her hoof and took off running into the night. I would too if I was called snoogums by some rickety old mare. Don’t get me wrong, she’s real nice and all, but Frailwater sure ain’t a looker. Anyways, Belt Buckle asked her where it happened. She told ‘em corner of Fourth and Mayfair. Since this happens pretty much every Thursday, I’m already up from my desk and standing by Belt. I put my best “I can handle this, don’t worry” fake smile on my face and politely tell Frailwater that I’ll go out and find her mutt, although I don’t use the word “mutt” in front of her because the last time I did I had to listen to a whole spiel about how the mutt was a purebred and a descendant of one of the Night Princess’s hounds.

Like it really matters, ‘cuz it’s sooo much easier to find a runaway purebred than any other dog.

The reason why I volunteered to find the damn dog every week is because I absolutely hate sitting around and doing nothing, so finding some mutt every week beats spinning a pencil on my desk for two hours till I go home. I like to think that I actually earned at least some of my paycheck, unlike those lazy chumps back at the station. Sure, finding a runaway mutt ain’t much of a job for a police detective, but it’s at least something. Sure, every once in a while I get a case to follow but the big cases always go to Central Station and to detective Bright Eye. Nice mare, but by Celestia she don’t like me much. Probably ‘cuz I threw up all over her when we tried dating, back before I was on the force.

As usual, Frailwater thanked me with a “Oh thank you Mr. Lock!” And I replied with my usual “It’s no trouble, m’am. Please, call me Brass.” Not that Frailwater would ever call me anything other than “Mr. Lock” or “Detective.” Again, not that I care enough to ask a second time each week. It’s just part of the usual routine. After asking Frailwater which way the mutt went (down Mayfair towards Third) I had my coat on and was out the door.

I took a second to let my eyes adjust to the dark. It was snowing a little, but not enough for it to stick to the ground. Which was good, ‘cuz a coat of fresh snow would cover any crap left by Frailwater’s mutt.

I’m talkin’ about literal dog shit here, and not little clues like hair and prints, because from what I can gather the mutt drops a load every ten feet or so. I woulda asked Frailwater what she feeds to the dog, but I didn’t want to waste another hour of my life learning about snoogums’ digestion issues.

I breathed in through my nose and felt my snot harden from the cold. Nasty. Looking around, I noticed a small group of teenagers smoking at the entrance to an alley across from the station. Based on the rusty industrial chains that ringed each of their necks, they were part of the Chains.

The Chains were one of the larger gangs in Manehattan, with their “territory” covering about five-eights of the whole city. Far as I could tell, they mostly dealt in the black market, because every time we arrested one of ‘em it’s ‘cuz they got something illegal like dragon’s blood or drugs and shit. The last commissioner tried to raid their supposed “Base of Operations,” and they ended up exposing a drug trafficking ring. Sure, they were looking for illegal weaponry, but at least they found something.

I took a couple steps out on to the cold sidewalk and into the light of a streetlamp. The Chains across the street immediately gave me a look that was probably supposed to be “menacing” and “cool” but came off as “constipated and proud of it,” at least to me. I bet that they’d have Frailwater quivering in her boots with nothing more than a casual side-glance.

I looked back at them and kept my face neutral. Just because they didn’t scare me didn’t mean that they wouldn’t bother me. If I tried to give ‘em the old “don’t mess with me” face, then they’d just have to mess with me, and I was too lazy to pretend to be scared, so I kinda just stood there looking bored. After a few seconds, the tallest teen gave me a nod and they went back to destroying their lungs with cigarettes.

And with that, I was off down South Avenue towards where it intersected with Mayfair. It wasn’t usually a long walk, save for the times when there was a protest at City Hall or something. I really don’t like crowds much. Never did. Too many ponies in one place. Lines are fine, ‘cuz they’re nice and orderly, but crowds are just a mishmash of trouble waiting to happen. Now, this didn’t mean that I wouldn’t go through a crowd if needed, but I sure wouldn’t like it if I had to.

The streets were pretty empty, probably because it was night and it was cold as the Crystal Empire a year before Luna came back from the moon. The wind kicked up a bit, blowing snow around my legs and making my snot freeze a little more. Yeech. At least it was quieter at this time of night. Not so many cabbies and pegasi zipping around and trying to run me over.

Of course, halfway down South this nincompoop cabbie almost trampled me anyway as he swerved onto the sidewalk ‘cuz he took the curve off of Granger street too hard. “I’M WALKIN’ HERE, YA ASSLAMP!” I yelled after him as he took off down the street with the cab in tow. I secretly hoped that his axle snaps.

I feel like I’d like Manehattan a whole lot more if everypony wasn’t in such a fuckin’ hurry all the time. What could be so important at this hour where you can’t slow down for a sharp turn? He was probably carting some frou-frou unicorn around, somepony who would cringe at the thought of ever walking from place to place like us earth ponies do.

Eventually I arrived at the corner of South and Mayfair, where I stopped for a minute to rest my legs. There was a window for a currently-closed pawnshop nearby, and in it I could see my reflection, lit by a nearby streetlamp. I gave myself a once-over, ‘cuz you never know when there’ll be hot dames around, even at this time of night.

My dark grey mane had its usual look of “I combed it this morning, so what if it’s messy.” Sure wished I had a hat, a nice brown homberg or panama hat would do nicely. Something that matched my brown trench coat would of been nice. Was it too much to ask for me to find a nice, durable hat that doesn’t cost me a month’s pay? Probably. A few days ago I had gone to this new store that just opened, some place called “Rarity for You,” I think. So, I went there looking for a hat and, well I found it. It was perfect. It was better than perfect, even. It was also four-hundred-something bits. I asked the salesmare, a nice earth pony gal by the name of Coco, about maybe dropping the price to something I could afford. Best she said she could do was around three-hundred fifty, while I was looking for like fifty bits or so. After I told her I couldn’t afford it, she offered to hold it for me till I could come up with the bits, or till the price dropped. Never had anypony do that for me before, so that was a nice change.

Anyway, my mane looked fine, so I leaned in close to the window to see if my face has any leftover bits of that cheese danish I had for dinner. Lucky for me, my light-copper coat was free of crumbs and cheese. I gave my reflection a suave smile and grunted in approval.

Damn, I looked good.

With that out of the way, I needed to go find a lost dog with probable digestion issues. The best way to do that was to follow the smell.

Now I don’t have the best nose, but I don’t have the worst nose either. On a scale of one to ten, I’d say my nose was about a five- perfectly average. Daddo once told me when I was still in my single digits that an average nose can detect a single particle of crap in like a million or something particles of normal air. I can’t remember the exact numbers, but I could remember that it was a tiny fraction. Anyway, by this logic I could probably find a pile of fresh dog droppings and then just follow the smell- assuming that the snow didn’t start coming down harder.

I sniffed hard and could smell the unmistakable stench of a fresh landmine. And I could definitely tell that it was fresh. Bleah. As much as I wanted to avoid getting any closer to something that gave off such a fuckin’ nasty smell, I needed to find the Luna-dammed mutt. Well, I didn’t have to, but as I said before, it beats sitting around doing nothing all night.

To determine which direction the smell was coming from, I walked in a circle while sniffing the air for the shitstink, pausing only twice to let a few taxi carts pass. I’m certain that they thought I was some creepy stalker stallion, which wouldn’t be the case if I had a nice hat I bet. Everybody loves a nice hat, and by extension the wearer of said hat.

From what I could tell, the stench was coming from even farther down Mayfair street towards Fourth, so I headed off in that direction. There were a few ponies headed down the sidewalk towards me, a stallion and a mare. One look at me and they were on their way back down the street in the opposite direction. As I watched them go, I didn’t watch my step and, of course, just so happened to plop my hoof in a pile of fresh, steamy dogshit.

Luna fuckin’ damn it all to tartarus and back again! Ooh, and it was fucking runny too‽ I could feel it sliding off of my hoof and back onto the sidewalk. And - oh bloody mother of Celestia - the smell! I gagged and tried not to vomit. Apparently I hadn’t tried hard enough, because up came dinner, partially digested. It made a wet, splattering sound as it hit the sidewalk. My throat began to burn from the bile. Well, the night was off to a wonderful start!

At least I knew that the fuckin’ mutt was close. Holding my breath, I stepped away from the semi-squashed pile of nasty and the fresh puddle of yuck that were probably going to freeze to the sidewalk overnight, and looked around for more fresh landmines. Lucky for me, the lords and ladies of karma must’ve decided that I had suffered enough and gave me a break. The furry little devil was directly across the street from me, leisurely plodding along as it sniffed the ground. Attached to the dog’s collar was a shit-stained leash that had probably once been blue but was now a color that is best described as “a plumber’s worst nightmare,” most likley as a result of being dragged through countless piles of shit and Luna knows what else. Under the glow of the streetlights, the leash glistened wetly. There was no way in tartarus I wanted to touch that... that abomination. How I was gonna bring the mutt back to the station without touching the leash was going to be a challenge, but first I had to catch the little fucker.

Frailwater had named her dog Mr. Borf, for reasons that I neither knew nor wished to find out. Now, while Mr. Borf sounds all cutsey and silly, Mr. Borf was neither. What Frailwater saw in that dog, I could not even begin to fathom. First, the mutt was uglier than a dead rat’s ass. When I had previously pointed this out to Frailwater (with much nicer words), she told me that his breed was supposed to be that way. I bet the only reason why the breed existed in the first place was because any predator that would even think of eating it would take a second look at its ugly mug and decide to not eat something so damn ugly because it might be contagious.

It might also be important to note that the little bastard hated me with a passion. Maybe Mr. Borf didn’t like how I smelled or how I talked, or maybe the fact that it was usually me who always recaptured him and returned him to Frailwater. Which was what I was gonna do again.

But first, I needed to remove as much shit from my hoof as I could, so I wiped it on the curb of the sidewalk while I watched the little buttkiss wander into an alley while it sniffed the air. This was great for me, but a poor choice on the part of Mr. Borf, because I knew that alley was a dead end.

I waited until I couldn’t see the mutt, or its shitstained leash, because that meant that it couldn’t see me either. If that damn dog saw me coming for him, he woulda bolted like lightning from an overcharged cloud. I checked both ways for runaway carts or taxis and then crossed the street with light steps, so the little bastard wouldn’t hear me coming.

After avoiding another doggy landmine on the sidewalk, I was able to peer down the alley after the mutt. It was lit by only one lamp, which was owned by the three-story red-brick on the right. Apart from a partially open dumpster in the opposite corner and a pile of trash, the alley seemed to be empty. Which meant that either I was blind or the Sun-dammed mutt got by me somehow. Just to be sure the dog wasn’t hiding, I stepped farther into the alley. From my new vantage point, I could see that the far side of the dumpster wasn’t actually all of the way against the wall; there was a space just large enough for a pony to squeeze through if he or she didn’t mind mild discomfort. Which meant that it was plenty big enough for Mr. Borf to fit back there.

I had to take my time and think this through- if I didn’t immediately grab the mutt, he’d probably make a run for it, but since touching the soiled leash was out of the question, I would have to go for the collar.

With that plan in mind, I stepped around the dumpster to see if Mr. Borf was actually there. And he was.

But right in front of the bloody-pawed mutt, stuffed into the corner like an old unwanted plushie, was a pony.

A dead pony.

Author's Notes:

I just LOVE writing for Lock. It’s so easy for me and kinda comes naturally. Some other characters are harder, but Lock is just plain fun! With luck, the next chapter’ll be out quick and I can have even more fun!

Mr. Borf’s name was chosen by reddit user /u/MacnSwiss ‘cuz he won a contest thing. Way to go, Mac!

And, of course, it’s now that I get around to editing the first chapter. Should be a lot cleaner now, with no tense changes that don’t fit like before.