Arc ONE: Pink Stripes

Chapter 1

Blitzkrieg leaned back in a craggy wooden chair that was likely older than he was, a comforting thought for a stallion of his advanced age. Smiling with leather lips, he puffed his cigar and blew a ring of smoke, adding to the ashen haze already permeating the dive bar. He was a pegasus of great wealth and high class, but he smoked cheap cigars and drank cheap liquor purchased at cheap bars. He had money but allowed himself few luxuries. Money was power, he knew, but in his youth he had learned there was no power in luxury. Luxury was a wicked temptress, always taunting, teasing and promising, but rarely delivering when it mattered most. She was a sly voluptuary, a competent manipulator, and she had used her seductive wiles to lead many of Blitzkrieg’s friends and family astray.

But those dark days were long behind him now. Blitzkrieg was older, wiser, more experienced. He carried with him all the mistakes of his many years, as well as the memories of those fatal missteps made by the friends and lovers he had watched this city devour. Manehattan was a hungry beast of a city, one that fed on feeding, and to starve her, one had to be willing to starve himself.

A waitress, a dainty stick figure of a unicorn mare, approached the table where Blitzkrieg sat with Pinstripe: a zebra of unassuming stature dressed in an expensive suit. The mare set a tray of drinks on the table and asked, in a squeaky voice, if the pegasus or his friend would like anything else.

Blitzkrieg nodded personably and dismissed her with a regal wave. Then he lifted a glass to his nose and sniffed, grinning inwardly as he inhaled the foul aroma of cheap whiskey. Pinstripe followed suit, as he always did, lifting a mug of cider and sipping tentatively. His face scrunched as the bitter drink washed over his tongue.

Blitzkrieg couldn’t help but laugh when he saw the look of disgust invade friend’s expression. He was an excellent laugher. Time had taught him the proper technique, and now that he was a maven of the chortle, a master of the guffaw, a connoisseur of the snicker and the giggle, Blitzkrieg could find the humor in most anything.

“I am always telling you the cider is no good here,” he said, his chuckles shaking his sizable girth. “But you are never listening, comrade. Is trouble with youth these days. Never listening.” His voice was an enchanting guttural, and his rich Stalliongrad accent lent his words a certain sing-song quality.

Blitzkrieg was born in Maneich, raised in Stalliongrad, and currently living in Manehattan—all of which made him an oddity in Pinstripe’s eyes.

Though Pinstripe was a zebra, he had never seen his homeland. He had lived his entire life in Manehattan, and like most Manehattanites, he rarely encountered ponies as diversely cultured as Blitzkrieg.

Manehattan was a bubble. Ponies were born in Manehattan, they were raised in Manehattan, they died in Manehattan—such was the fate of those who called the lively east coast city their home. Most Manehattanites lived their entire lives without seeing the splendor of the capital Canterlot, the captivating beauty of Unicorn Range, the pure crystal blue of the mountains bordering the Frozen North. Their world was small and grey and pitiless, and their attitudes and ambitions reflected this bleak backdrop.

But Blitzkrieg was different. He existed in the foreground, very much a part of the big picture, but ahead of it, drawing the eye away from what lurked behind.

Pinstripe took a second sip of his drink, then a third, slowly growing used to the unpleasant taste. He did this every time he went out drinking with Blitzkrieg, which used to be often before the old pegasus was appointed head of the Shadowbolts. Pinstripe hated cheap drinks. He hated all cheap things—and his feelings about the burly leaf-green stallion sitting across from him were directly tied to his feelings about cheap things.

“Why you always dragging me to these lousy dives, Kriegy?” asked Pinstripe, setting his mug on the table. It was a question posed to Krieg many times. “We got cash enough to buy this place five times over.”

“We do, do we?” answered Krieg, wearing an amused expression. He didn’t laugh in Pinstripe’s face, though he might as well have.

Anger flashed behind Pinstripe's stone-gray eyes, there and gone before Krieg could notice it. “Hardy har har. You're hilarious, you know that?” He slipped a hoof inside his overcoat and produced a pack of cigarettes. Waving, he flagged down a unicorn waitress and asked her for a light. “Look, the point I’m trying to make is we are made equines, are we not?” He took a puff from his smoke, exhaling through his nostrils.

Krieg shook his head in a way that suggested he had endured this line of discourse from the young upstart before. Perhaps many times before. “Come on Kriegy, don’t give me that look. Am I lying? If I’m lying then say so and I’ll drop the whole thing right now.”

“You are having point, comrade,” Blitzkrieg admitted.

“You see that, I got a point,” Pinstripe returned, leaning forward eagerly. “We’re big fish now that the old boss is behind bars. We got no business swimming around with these guppies anymore.”

Blitzkrieg crossed his forelegs about his chest, grinning, his cigar hanging from the corner of his mouth. “Guppies…” he echoed thoughtfully, rolling the word on his tongue, savoring its flavor. “Guppies, you say? And yet when I look around, I am seeing no guppies. I am seeing sharks. Sharks swimming through dangerous waters.”

“What, you mean the ponies in this joint?” Pinstripe took a long drag and exhaled through his nose. “Nickel-and-dime pushers and two-bit hustlers. These guys are chumps. Us?—we’re rockstars! We should be sipping champagne with pricks like Fancy Pants and eating out Wonderbolts at them big celebrity parties they’re always throwing uptown.”

Krieg’s grin waned but didn't fade completely. He took a small puff of his cigar and leaned forward as well, resting his forelegs on the worn hardwood. “Allow me to pose question, comrade,” he said, prompting Pinstripe to roll his stony eyes. “Tell me, have you ever fallen asleep on bed of nails?”

“What kinda question is that? No, I ain’t never fallen asleep on no bed of nails. What does that have to do with anything?” Pinstripe took a long chug from his cup. When he spoke again, his tone was decidedly more cross. “This is why the uptown bosses and even those cross-dressing hooligans out west don’t respect us. Because of you, Kriegy. Because you don’t make no damn sense. You stopped making sense years ago.”

“What?” The laugh-lines in Blitzkrieg’s brow furrowed as the full strength of his previous grin reclaimed his face. “I am making perfect sense. Bed of nails. Is… how you say… figurative. Is simple metaphor. When you are understanding bed of nails, then you will know why I drink piss sold at hole-in-wall dive bar.”

“Sounds like more of your useless ‘back-in-old-country’ wisdom to me,” answered Pinstripe. “Now let me ask you a question: what’s the point in being an outlaw if you’re not gonna live like one? If I wanted to rub shoulders with losers in a dump like this I’d have gotten a job. I’m an earner, Kriegy, and so are you. We’ve earned money. We’ve earned power. But no respect. These uptowners—they’re laughing at us. They’re laughing at me.” And there was something very bitter in that last proclamation. Something very dangerous.

“No, I am laughing at you, comrade. Uptown bosses, they are not even knowing your name,” said Krieg with a dismissive wave, as if trying to shoo away Pinstripe’s haughty attitude. “You drive yourself mad over these things, and for what? For fame? Why are you all the time chasing fame? Fame is luxury, comrade. It will only make you soft—and you are soft enough in head already.”

Pinstripe smothered the glowing end of his cigarette in the ashtray on the table. He dusted a speck of ash from his suit and straightened his tie. Instead of responding to Blitzkrieg’s dig, he settled into his seat and seethed in silence.

He could be so childish, thought Krieg. So arrogant, impertinent, self-important... the list of his lesser personality traits went on and on. And worst of all, he was ungrateful for all his surrogate father had done for him.

But looking at the young zebra now, full to bursting with anger and self-loathing, Krieg wondered if he had done enough. It made his heart ache to see his friend in such pain, even if much of that pain was self-inflicted. The old stallion reached forward and placed a reassuring hoof on Pinstripe’s shoulder.

“Pinstripe,” he said with uncharacteristic severity. “You are like son to me. I am proud of you and I respect you deeply. I always have. Why is this not enough?”

Pinstripe started to respond with a flippant comment, but then thought better of it. Instead, he relaxed and let his dark countenance brighten, not because he accepted the old stallion’s sentiment, but because he finally felt he had some semblance of an answer to his original question.

Blitzkrieg could live as humbly as he did because he was not from where Pinstripe was from. That was it. That was the reason. Pinstripe realized it must be that simple when he heard Krieg use the word ‘enough.’ It was a word no criminal born in Manehattan would ever utter. In Manehattan there was more, and there was less, but there was never enough.

Pinstripe wanted more. More money. More power. More respect. And he would have it. If he had to burn this city the ground, he would have it.

“Thanks, Kriegy, that’s a nice sentiment. Real greeting card type stuff,” said Pinstripe, not attempting to mask his sardonic tone. “Now you gonna buy me another round, or are we gonna braid each other’s tails and talk about our feelings?”

Krieg’s laugh was short and heavy, and when it passed he snuffed his cigar in the tray beside his glass. “I am not drunk enough to braid your tail, comrade. Not yet.” Smiling easily again, he flagged down a waitress and ordered more disgusting liquor that he and his companion choked down earnestly. It was still early, only a little after nine, and Krieg had not seen his surrogate son in nearly two years. They had much catching up to do before the night aged and business beckoned them from their reunion.

Blitzkrieg struck up a conversation about nothing in particular: sports, mares, work—which was apparently going very well. As he spoke, a new, juvenescent energy invaded his tone that grated Pinstripe’s already raw nerves. He hated listening to the old fool prattle on, but what could he do? With the old boss behind bars, Blitzkrieg was now head of the Shadowbolts, and that meant, among other things, that the old bastard must be indulged. Pinstripe may have disagreed with Krieg, and he may have spoken out against him at times, but he knew better than to overstep his boundaries. It was true that Krieg thought of him as a son, but even the kindest fathers punish their children for misbehaving.

But Krieg was old now and full of stories, which he told with impressive verve over the plentiful drinks. If Pinstripe was merely indulging him, feigning interest, nodding and smiling when the conversation called for it, Blitzkrieg either didn’t notice or didn’t mind. Like any loving father, he was too swept up in the return of his long missed prodigal son to give anything else much thought.

As he and his son spoke, he couldn’t help but notice how much the young zebra had grown. He looked so dashing in his jet-black suit, so dapper in his sensible dress shirt and short red tie. He still wore his mane in a mohawk, an upstart’s haircut to Krieg’s decidedly conservative eye, but at least he kept it trimmed at a decent length, making it somewhat presentable. Krieg didn’t like the stud earrings or lip piercings his son had taken to wearing, but he equated this disagreement in taste to a simple difference in age. Often times, he had come to learn, the wedges driven between parent and child were simply manifestations of the inevitable divides that separate one generation from another. Taste in music. Taste in clothing. Taste in mares. The lifestyles of the young and the old always differed.

However, lately Krieg had begun to notice a widening in this natural divide. Every year the old seemed to grow older and the young younger, wilder, more reckless in pursuit of their tireless ambitions.

They talked for nearly three hours. During this time several of Krieg’s friends and business associates stopped in for a drink, paying them short visits.

Krieg and Pinstripe chatted briefly with Wisp, a snow-white unicorn dressed in an equally snow-white suit. The unicorn ordered a beer and complained about the increased police presence in Manehattan’s downtown areas. By his own proclamation, every city block east of Mustang Avenue and south of Clydesdale Boulevard was currently overrun with cops: a notion that both Blitzkrieg and Pinstripe couldn’t help but laugh at. Downtown was no more ‘overrun’ with cops than Cloudsdale was overrun with earth ponies.

Wisp wasn’t the least bit amused by their laughter. “I wouldn't expect a couple of leg-breakers like you to understand,” he said in his cool, detached way.

Wisp was no leg-breaker like Krieg or Pinstripe. He was an experienced kidnapper who lent his services to a few pony trafficking rings that operated out of the red light district, as well as one very large one run by the Daughters of Discord way up in Discord’s Kitchen. He had also lent his services to Blitzkrieg on several occasions, utilizing his talent for making ponies disappear. Wisp had done several favors for the Shadowbolts, and nopony knew where the bodies lay buried. Nopony but him.

Wisp uttered one last word of warning to Krieg and his companion before finishing his beer and leaving the bar. He exited through the front door, though he might as well have floated from the ground and phased through the ceiling for all the noise he made, or rather didn’t make, as he departed.

Later in the night, a sturdy earth mare with a muscular build visited them. One of her eyes was sharp, its color the same rich lavender as her cropped mane, while the other was grey and sightless. Blitzkrieg welcomed her to join his table, addressing her by her nickname, Twenty. She tried ordering a drink the waitress had never heard of, then settled for whiskey instead.

Pinstripe didn’t know Twenty, nor did he have any interest in learning more about her. The feeling was not mutual. The brawny earth mare fixed her one good eye on him and flirted with him for the entirety of her stay, which thankfully, wasn’t very long.

When she departed, Blitzkrieg gave Pinstripe a knowing nudge, prompting a wry chuckle and an eye roll from his son.

“What?” said Krieg, his voice ringing with exaggerated surprise. “Twenty is nice filly from old country. Is sturdy filly. Built like ox.”

“Is that supposed to be selling point?” laughed Pinstripe, earning a playful shove from his surrogate father.

More ponies came and went as the night aged. Whether criminal or law-abiding citizen, most everypony in downtown Manehattan knew Blitzkrieg, though few would have been able to pick Pinstripe out of a crowd. Despite having known each other for years, the old pegasus and the young zebra were rarely seen in public together; and when they were, both made sure to downplay the closeness of their relationship. It was no secret that Krieg had essentially adopted Pinstripe, but in the gang life zebras were not respected as full equals to their pony counterparts. Racial politics in Manehattan were treacherous waters to navigate, even in the criminal underworld. In summation, the heir to the infamous Shadowbolts, the nearly all pegasus gang that ran the biggest extortion racket in the city, couldn’t be a zebra. The backlash from within the gang would be overwhelming.

However, it was likely that none of that would matter after tonight. All the old politics were doomed to become moot points. All the infrastructures and safeguards Krieg had spent the last five years erecting and installing were about to fly apart like so much glass shattered by a wrecking ball. She was being released tonight; everything was destined to come undone. It was happening already. Krieg could feel it in his gut. He could taste it in the air, hear it on the wind. Celestia’s archangels were blowing their horns, and the walls were tumbling down.

Blitzkrieg glanced at his watch and saw that it was nearly midnight. He had enjoyed spending time with his son, and though the arrogant and moody Pinstripe would never admit it, he had enjoyed himself as well. But the hour for pleasantries was over now. It was time. Solemnly, Blitzkrieg started to explain the true reason they had met tonight.

“The old boss…they are saying she is cured of madness. They are letting her go.”

A shocked and stunted, “How?” was all Pinstripe could manage.

Blitzkrieg shrugged and shook his head wistfully.

“When?”

“Tonight.”

Pinstripe took a moment to chew on this, finding it difficult to shallow. “So what, you saying one of us has to go get her?” he concluded after a long pause.

“No, not one of us. It has to be you,” Krieg told him, though he didn’t say why. He thought it better that Pinstripe not know the Shadowbolts had specifically asked him to do the deed. This was her, after all. The don of dons. The boss of bosses. In the eyes of her underlings she was larger than life—less a pony and more a goddess of mischief. And should that goddess require appeasing in the form of a living sacrifice, which was often the case when she was angered, then it was better to feed her the lowest of the low.

Pinstripe was the natural choice. He was young, hungry, resourceful, and above all, expendable. He could get this one right, really knock it out of the park—or he could strike out and find himself belly up in a puddle of his own blood. It didn’t matter. Pinstripe didn’t matter. Maybe he did to Blitzkrieg, but not to the Shadowbolts or anypony else. He was nopony from nowhere. Just one more loser in a city brimming them.

And she… the old boss… she was the whole city in microcosm. The walking, talking, sinning embodiment of the shortcomings of weak minds and cowardly hearts. She was everything Krieg hated about Manehattan, and just thinking about her made him long for his old home across the eastern sea.

But she mattered. Like the rising sun or the moon pulling at the tide, she was not something that could be mediated or ignored. She was a disease, a plague on this city, spreading and infecting everything she touched.

“I am sorry son. Is out of my hooves,” Blitzkrieg intoned.

“Forget about it, Kriegy. It’s nothing. It’s no big deal,” said Pinstripe. Except it was a big deal. He was being fed to the meanest dog in the junkyard, and his so-called father was just standing by and letting it happen.

Pinstripe rose from his seat with a laugh. It was a hollow sound that hurt at the top of his throat. The Shadowbolts, he thought, sneering inwardly. They were nothing but old fools lounging on false thrones. Making decisions. Casting judgments. They were all so funny to him. They didn’t know if the old boss would kill whomever they sent; they were just afraid. They were cowardly, superstitious ponies, still jumping at shadows. And to think they looked down on him. Refused to respect him, to even bother learning his name.

But they knew her name, didn’t they? They gave it to her. They had given her many. The Clown Princess of Crime. The Mare who Laughs. The Prankster…

Rising as well, Blitzkrieg instructed Pinstripe to take his carriage. “Have the Tongueless take you up to asylum,” he said, following Pinstripe to the door. “And be careful, comrade. She is more than dangerous. She is danger. She is like nothing else in world.”

Weakly, Blitzkrieg patted the young zebra’s back. Then he returned to his table to order another drink. He would need many to get through this night.

“Heh,” Pinstripe tried to laugh again, but his chuckle came out sounding like a sigh. Unlike Blitzkrieg, he had always been a poor laugher.

When he touched the doorknob, a nervous tremor coursed through his limbs, halting him as the gravity of the situation settled on his shoulders. Heavy thoughts furrowed his brow. Then he twisted the knob and headed out into the parking lot.