Arc ONE: Chapter 10, Part 2

Meanwhile…

The whir of sirens echoed from outside the devastated strip club. Iron shoes clanked on concrete, the clamor penetrating the walls. Pinstripe felt the heavy thuds pound in his chest, as if the shoes were marching up and down his ribcage. Or was that his heartbeat?

He glanced down at the open briefcase sitting on the table, finding at the gun and the single bullet. An obvious thought came to mind, and a self-deprecating smirk broke across his muzzle. He didn’t even know how to load a gun; he’d only seen it done in old gangster movies.

He laughed. He was laughing. He was laughing? Why? What was funny about any of this?

Nervous, he loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves. It was sweltering in the darkened club, muggy too, like the inside of a mouth. He inhaled a lungful stale air, tasting traces of cigarette smoke, of booze, of sweat and blood.

A crash sounded from outside, followed by the screech of skidding metal. Pinstripe whipped his head toward the back door. He blinked hard, feeling his eyelids come together.

“Worried?” The Prankster’s voice blew across the table like a warm breeze.

“Huh?” His head whipped back, his eyes bugged.

“You seem a bit… frazzled.”

“I’m good,” he heard himself say, unsure of why he’d answered the question. Maybe I’m just drunk, he considered. Pinks seemed unaffected by the stifling heat, and Blitzkrieg didn’t look bothered either.

Fearing her active eyes and disfigured grin, Pinstripe looked to Blitzkrieg, a subtle plea for help softening his features. The look returned to him was stoic, unruffled and supremely dignified—a visage fit for a king. Krieg was too calm, Pinstripe thought, too accepting of the circumstances.

“While we’re young,” Grift called from a stool in front of the bar, her eyebrows a pair of flat planks above her eyes.

“Yeah, while we’re young!” chimed Lintsalot, who was sitting on bar’s countertop, his short feline legs dangling over the edge. He fiddled with his snub-nosed revolver while he waited for Pinks and Pinstripe to finish their business, repeatedly flicking the cylinder open, spinning it, then closing it again. The submachine gun strapped to his back looked comical. It was nearly bigger than he was.

“Oh don’t listen to Grift, Pinny. She’s nothing but a big party-pooper, always has been.” Pinks tossed her unlaced boots on the tabletop and leaned back in her chair, her forelegs crossed behind her head. “Ya know, you two aren’t so different. Grift hated me when we first met. She thought I was trying to steal away her best friend. Silly little bird. She didn’t realize I already had—hehehehehe.”

Grift’s eyes narrowed to thin slits.

“She used to say my pranks were ‘lame’,” Pinks continued, “but after a few years of painting this town red, I grew on her.”

“Like a fungus,” Grift added with a scowl. Pinks poked her tongue out a Grift, like a filly resolving a sandbox dispute.

“Boring bird-cat is right,” rasped Flour. She looked equally as bored as Grift from her seat atop the pink cannon, her legs hanging on either side of the barrel. “Striped Pony is taking too long, and Flour is hungry.”

“Digger could eat, too,” added Digger, earning a disappointed look from Pinks. “What? Digger is just saying.” He was laying belly-down on the floor beside the corpse with the slashed face, his chin resting on his crossed arms.

“Come on, guys, where’s your sense of drama?” whined Pinks, emphasizing the last word.

The Carnies let out a collective huff, not at all amused.

“Just picture this with me,” Pinks insisted, rocking back so that her chair was up on two legs. “An ambitious zebra strikes out on his own, hoping to prove his worth to the gang that shunned him, and along the way, he rescues a beautiful maiden. They fight! They fall in love! She kills him! And then they meet up later at a strip joint and share some laughs before murdering his father. Heh heh, what’s not to love?”

“You really are nuts,” said Pinstripe, finally mustering the courage to speak. “And he’s not my father.”

“Uh oh. Sounds like somepony has mommy and daddy issues.” The unlaced boots swung back under the table. Pinks sat forward, resting her blood-sodden gloves on the tabletop. “It’s okay, you can tell Dr. Prankster all about it. I’ve got loads of experience in psychotherapy. Let’s start with your mother. What was she like?”

Pinstripe tensed at the mention of his mother, but stayed quiet.

“Ah, a closed book, I see” said Pinks. “Well that’s alright. I’ll get the ball rolling, tell you a bit about myself, and then you can jump in whenever you’re ready.” One of her gloves tapped her chin, speckling it with blood. “Let's see now… A long time ago, when I was a little filly and the sun was going down…”

Grift rolled her eyes. This was going to be a long night.

Pinstripe retreated into his thoughts as Pinks rambled. She loved the sound of her own voice, and her rambling (he had learned during the trip to the Carnies’ hideout) made the perfect background noise for thinking, like radio static, or the whir of an old fan. He had been trying to think his way around making a decision since Pinks opened the case, but he was coming up with heaps of nothing. He didn’t have a chance.

To begin, he severely doubted that the bullet he’d been given was indeed a live round. Pinks was crazy, but she hadn’t become Manehattan’s most notorious criminal by being an idiot. She wouldn’t fork over a loaded gun to a zebra who had every reason to kill her—who had tried to kill her in the past—unless she had some kind of contingency. She had planned for the cops, after all—that they hadn’t come stopping in here yet was evidence of that.

“…And that’s when Daddy invented the tickling game,” Pinks continued. “He said it was a game for Daddies and pretty little daughters, and that Mommy couldn’t play…”

Even if the round was live, he would still have to handle Mr. Turnip, who was standing directly behind him, shotgun in hand. If Pinstripe twitched the wrong way, he was sure Turnip would decorate the tabletop with zebra brain matter.

“…And after I beat little Featherweight to death, we all hung around for a bit and took pictures. There was one with Ms. Cheerilee and Featherweight. Another with me and the crowbar. One with just the crowbar—that was a good one. Oh, and another with…”

Then there was option number three: gun down Blitzkrieg… and then what? Stroll out of here like nothing happened? Face the Shadowbolts after killing Krieg? Run from the cops after walking away from this massacre? And who’s to say Pinks wouldn’t just up and kill him for no reason after he shot Krieg. She had done it before. She could do it again.

“…So I’m standing in line to get some cider when this jerk cuts in front of me. I mean… it’s like… you try to be a nice pony and look how the world repays you. Okay, so maybe suffocating his pregnant wife with that plastic bag was an overreaction. But can you blame a mare for being upset…”

Pinstripe felt his stomach muscles tense, his throat tighten. Despair slackened his shoulders. He was ready to surrender when, like a splash of ice water to the face, he recalled the promise he’d made on the steps outside his mother’s apartment. He couldn’t die as he had lived: rolling over for bullies and being laughed at.

He raised his chin, forcing a confident look. If death was coming for him tonight, it would have to look him in the eye and take him seriously.

“…And that’s how Equestria was—”

An explosion from outside shook the building, but only Pinstripe and Blitzkrieg reacted, flinching and looking up toward the ceiling.

Pinstripe found his composure. “What do you want with me, anyway?” he said, stalling. He hadn’t thought of a plan, but Pinks’ rant was winding down and he needed to keep her talking. “I’m nothing special; this city’s full of two-bit losers like me. So what’s your angle? Why the interest in little old Pinstripe?”

“Every pony has to start somewhere. You think I fell out from between Mommy Prankster’s legs already sporting these beauties?” Pinks traced the curve of her mouth, smearing lipstick. “Monsters aren’t born, Pinny, you have to make them. And that’s what I’m doing tonight. Making a monster.”

“You are sicker in head than I was thinking,” said Krieg, “if you are honestly believing that Pinstripe will be monster like you.”

“Glad to hear you join the conversation, Kriegy!” exclaimed Pinks. “And you’re right, Pinny will never be like me—I’m one of a kind! But the kid’s got potential. He reminds me of you back in our heyday. Oh, all the innocent souls we sent screaming into the next life…” Pinks pushed out a wistful sigh, a glove on her cheek. “What happened to us, Kriegy? We used to be so right for each other.”

“You were all the time slaughtering Shadowbolts. You killed many of my comrades for no good reason.”

“Well, if you’re gonna get upset over every little thing…”

“Enough games, clown,” said Krieg, enduring the taunts without flinching. “Let go of boy. We are both knowing this is between two of us.”

“This has nothing to do with you,” said Pinks, a shadow of agitation lurking in her tone. “You had your chance. I left you with everything, and you chose to turn this city into your personal retirement home.”

“I did what was best for business, and business has never been better. Crime lords are rulers of Manehattan now. We are, how you are saying… having city in back pocket. We are making rules now.”

“See, now that’s the problem right there. Rules.” Pinks wagged a dismissive hoof at Blitzkrieg. “Whether yours or theirs, it doesn’t matter to me. Reins are reins, Kriegy. I’m just here to butcher the pony holding them.”

“Then kill me yourself, clown!” Krieg growled. “Instead of toying with children and all the time hiding behind your animals.”

Flour bristled at Krieg’s remark, her lips drawing back in a snarl. She growled, a fierce guttural thrum at the back of her throat. The other Carnies made similar displays of aggression, bearing fangs or clenching claws, except for Turnip who remained quiet and expressionless.

“Easy with the name calling, herb,” said Grift, casually eyeing the talons of her left claw, as if worried they might be dull. “Us animals can be real testy when we’re hungry.”

Krieg’s head turned slowly as he examined the surrounding carnivores. They were glaring at him, and much too keenly for his liking. At least…” He stumbled over his words, ruffled for the first time tonight. “At least leave Pinstripe out of this. Please, Prankster, he—”

“He can speak for himself,” said Pinstripe.

“I’m afraid you are—how you are saying—out of your league, comrade,” said Krieg, his tone stern. “You should be letting me handle this.”

“You should shut your fucking mouth,” snapped Pinstripe. “You weren’t interested in ‘handling’ Pinks two nights ago. As I recall, you and your feathered ‘comrades’ sent me to do that job. Now shut up and let me do it.”

Pinks showed her approval with a grin and a round of applause. “So it has a pair after all, hmmm,” she said, earning a chuckle from the Carnies.

“A pair of ovaries, maybe,” added Grift with a sneer. “According to Scope, our little faggot here just wanted to cuddle like a lonely little filly. Awww, what’s the matter, baby herb? Mommy never tucked you in and kissed you beddy-byes?”

The chuckles grew louder, and even the normally expressionless Turnip allowed a slight smile to grace his expression.

Pinstripe gritted his teeth. The laughs battered his ears like blows from a club, but what really bothered him was Scope’s betrayal of his confidence. Had he also been laughing the whole time? Stephen Scope… who had smiled so cutely and listened with patience and understanding. Was he in on the joke too? What they had… was it all just part of the prank? The thought coiled around his heart and squeezed.

“I’ll give you something to laugh at,” he said under his breath. His anger was different now. His heart no longer throbbed with the fury of a bullied child, his eyes didn’t gleam white-hot and indignant. His anger was cold now. Focused. For the first time in years, he had something concrete to aim his frustrations at.

He snatched up the gun and slid the metal band around his fetlock. His brow knitted in frustration as he tried to remember how to open the cylinder. He had seen it done a dozen times in the old movies. He just had to… just had to…

The longer he fumbled with the weapon, the louder the snickers grew. Pinks chuckled into a blood-flecked glove and looked away at Digger. She pointed her other glove at Pinstripe and shook her head, prompting the dog to laugh all the louder.

Eventually Turnip ended Pinstripe’s mortification. He took the gun from the furious zebra, gently, and chambered the round before offering it back. Pinstripe snatched the revolver from his open claw and took aim at Pinks, his firing-hoof hovering above the hammer. That part he remembered perfectly. All he had to do was flick back the hammer, like in the old western films, and the painted clown would never laugh at him again.

“Hey now, careful where you point that thing.” Pinks raised her front hooves in a pantomime of apprehension, still snickering. “It’s not a toy. You could really put somepony’s eye—well—somepony’severything out with that. Hehehehehe.”

“Stop laughing—all of you!” Pinstripe snapped. Pinks fell silent, her teasing done—but the Carnies were caught in an unrelenting giggling fit.

“I said shut up!” he shouted, his hoof inching closer to the hammer. “Shut up, shut up!” he repeated. The Carnies ignored him, continuing to laugh. Lintsalot's cackling rose especially high. “I said shut up, or I’ll kill her! I swear I will!”

“Do us the favor, herb,” laughed Grift.

“Yeah, do us the favor!” piped Lintsalot. The pitch of his laugh climbed higher, becoming a bird-like trill.

“Hey. Lintsalot.” Pinks turned toward the small griffin and froze him with a murderous glare, her face, for once, cold and impassive. “The zebra told to you stop laughing.”

“S-s-sorry, boss,” mumbled Lintsalot.

“Don’t apologize to me. You weren’t laughing at me.”

“Sorry, Pinstripe…” He fastened his gaze to the floor, visibly shaken.

The laughter ceased. As the room fell silent, a buzzing sound grew louder and louder outside.

Pinstripe lowered his weapon but didn’t drop it. Part of him was dumbstruck, once again in awe of Pinks. A look, a few words, and suddenly the room full of meat-eaters fell silent, tamed by those active eyes. “Go on, Pinstripe,” she said.

“So it’s you or Krieg, right?” he responded, proud that he had navigated the sentence without stammering. “I waste one of you, and then I walk. No funny stuff, okay?”

“No promises.”

“Fuck your no promises. Look, clown, I don’t give two shits about that old bag of bones.” He aimed the gun at Krieg. “Yeah, he rescued me from a gutter or whatever, but I ain’t dying tonight for his sorry ass. I’ll shoot the prick, just like you want, but only if you promise not to sic your gang on me afterwards. Deal?”

“Save your deals for Discord,” said Pinks. “This isn’t Tartarus, Pinny. It’s Manehattan, and it’s a lot worse. You don’t get to bargain for your soul down here. You either give it to me, or you don’t. No deals. No promises.” She was... different, suddenly. Her syrupy sweet cadence had vanished, leaving something sour in its place. She wasn’t joking, wasn’t treating everything like a game. And the look in her face—it was… serious.

A breath shuddered in Pinstripe’s chest. Horse apples, he thought. Great big crates of fresh picked horse apples. His back was to the wall on this one. There was no right answer here; there was nothing he could do to save Krieg. That remark about him not caring for the old stallion was a bluff. His relationship with his surrogate father had never been perfect, but Krieg did spare his life all those years ago. He could’ve killed Pinstripe that night, but he gave him a pass. Better, he took him in, fed him, paid him well enough, looked after him as best he could. Like it or not, Krieg was the only family Pinstripe had.

And that meant something, didn’t it? Even in a gutter town like Manehattan, that meant something.

“Fuck it,” he thought aloud, aiming the gun at Pinks. “Krieg’s a prick, but I won’t kill him for your amusement.”

Upon hearing those words, Krieg looked to his son, and his son looked back, and a silent understanding passed between them. This was the end. The ship was sinking and they were going down together.

Pinks threw her head back and clutched her sides, taken by a wild fit of laughter. When the fit passed, she was herself again, smiles and all. “Oh… hahahahaha… okay, okay, now that was funny. But seriously, hurry up and shoot Kriegy so we can get out of here.”

Pinstripe kept the gun trained on Pinks, his face determined.

The Carnies bristled.

“This is all very cute,” said Pinks. “But you can’t kid a kidder, Pinny. We all know you aren’t going to shoot me.”

“How do you figure?” said Pinstripe, still hesitant to flick back the hammer.

“Because you want what I have. Power. Respect. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you watch her.” Pinks aimed a glove at Grift. “The way you watch all of them. The way your eyes light up every time I make them flinch.”

Pinks licked her lips, made a smacking sound.

“It’s the scars, you know,” she said, nodding. “You see, I have my scars. She has her eyes. But what do you have? Some stripes and a few bad memories?”

Pinstripe remained silent. Pinks was right. He didn’t know what to say in response.

“You want a deal, huh? Then let’s make a deal. You kill Blitzkrieg, and I’ll do better than tell you how I got my scars. I’ll give you your own. That’s what you want, isn’t it? What you’ve always wanted.” Pinks extended a friendly hoof across the table toward Pinstripe. “Stick with me, Pinstripe, and I swear they’ll never laugh at you again.”

Pinstripe lowered the gun, staring down at its barrel. The Prankster’s eyes turned to sparklers as the weapon rose again, aimed at Krieg. She smiled. Her work here was done, and done well.

Pinstripe matched her smile become a frown as he shifted targets, trading the old pegasus for the young earth pony. After all his stalling and ruminating, he’d finally reached a conclusion.

“The thing is, Pinks, I sort of already thought about that little detail,” boasted Pinstripe. “And the way I see it—if I flick this little hammer here, I go down in history as the guy who wasted The Prankster. Never mind fame and respect, I’ll be immortal. Your pets can tear me apart afterwards if they want. It won’t matter. I’m gonna live forever.”

Krieg shut his eyes and shook his head, smiling wryly to himself. So that was it. Pinstripe didn’t really care about his father, he’d just found a way to win. Well that was alright, Krieg supposed. It was better this way. More fitting that they should die for such a selfish cause. More honest.

“Looks like the joke’s on you, clown,” laughed Pinstripe. It was finally his turn to laugh, and damn it felt good. “Oh, and one more thing before you leave us, Pinks…” He shut one eye as he took aim, his hoof hovering above the gun’s rusty hammer. “Stop me if you’ve heard this one before...”

Pinstripe’s hoof twitched back.

Flour’s ears perked.

Digger gasped.

Turnip raised his shotgun, fumbling, nearly dropping it.

Lintsalot snapped his revolver’s cylinder in place. Took aim.

Krieg’s eyes widened. It was finally happening. The Prankster was going to die, and by his son’s own hooves. He would succeeded where his father failed, and the notion made Krieg’s chest swell with pride.

“Shit!” Grift drew her pistol, flicked off the safety, aimed, thumbed back the hammer, squeezed the trigger—all in the same measure of time it took Pinstripe to fire. If not for her gun jamming, she would have shot Pinstripe, diverted his shot, and saved The Prankster, consequently saving her friend in Cloudsdale as well.

As it turned out, The Prankster’s life wasn’t in any danger. Just as Grift’s pistol gave a harmless click, so did Pinstripe’s revolver. At first nothing happened. Everyone in the room froze, suspended on tenterhooks. Then a metal peg jutted from the gun’s barrel, a white flag hanging from it.

“WHAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” The Prankster howled as she bent forward and beat a gloved hoof against the tabletop. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, and she shook in her seat, teetering as if she might topple over.

Pinstripe eyed the white flag, mildly amused. He was likely moments away from being brutally murdered, but even so, he couldn’t fight the smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth.

The word “BANG!!!” was written on the flag in blocky, black letters. He let a dry, unwitting giggle escape him as he read the word aloud, shaking his head. It was actually kind of funny.

“Your faces!” laughed Pinks. “Oh, if you could see your faces! I got all of you! You all fell for the same gag! This is the best welcome back party ever! WHAAAHAHAHAHA!”

The others looked around, confused.

“Wait,” Pinstripe began, giggling a bit himself. “You mean all this—taking me to your hideout, introducing me to your gang, ‘killing me’, having Scope treat me, slaughtering a club full of ponies—it was all set up for this stupid gag?”

“Well yeah,” Pinks answered plainly. “And don’t forget the part where I killed Grift’s cooks, then dressed up like her and tricked the Carnies into seasoning their meat with lead.” Pinks reached into her pocket and withdrew the tattered mask with the opaque eyes, holding it up triumphantly.

A half-roar, half-caw flew from Grift’s peak. “You little—!” She rushed Pinks and seized her by the throat, snatching the chuckling lunatic out of her seat. “That was you! You cost me my livelihood for some stupid prank!”

“How else was I… supposed to get you to come?” said Pinks, forcing the words through a rapidly closing windpipe.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t throttle you.”

“How about two?” Pinks let out a gurgling chuckle and pointed a hoof over Grift’s shoulder. The fuming griffin craned her neck and saw Lintsalot still sitting on the bar behind her, his weapon trained on her back.

“Seriously?” Grift growled. “You’re choosing her over me? You forget who forged those Visas for you? Who smuggled you into this country? You’d be pulling shrapnel out of your tail feathers in some jungle overseas if not for me.”

“Sorry, Grift,” said Lintsalot. “You’re a good boss, but you ain’t no Prankster.”

Grift looked to Turnip and his raised shotgun. He offered a shrug and nothing more.

Grift brought The Prankster’s muzzle close to her beak, looking her square in the eye. “This isn’t over, Diane.” Her talons opened and Pinks dropped to the floor, knocking over her chair.

Pinstripe hopped down from his seat and helped Pinks back to her hooves. “Does this mean I get to walk?”

“Oh no,” said Pinks, massaging her throat. “I wasn’t joking about making you a monster. You’re going to join me, and you’re going to do it freely; I won’t make you.”

“I still don’t understand? Why me?”

“Because I have a point to prove. And I’m starting small.”

Without warning, Pinks grabbed the back of Pinstripe’s mane, slammed his face into tabletop and pinned him there. He started to struggle free of her grip, but stopped when he felt the familiar nip of her knife at his neck.

Before Blitzkrieg could react, Turnip bashed his skull with the butt of his shotgun, knocking the old stallion to the floor. He stomped Krieg’s back, forcing a hoarse cry from the old stallion. Then his free claw dug into one of Krieg’s shoulder blades, drawing blood as he lifted him off the ground and pinned him down on the opposite end of the table.

They were face to face now, surrogate father and adopted son.

“What is meaning of this, clown!” Krieg shouted. “You are already having your laugh! Stop this!”

Pinks ignored Krieg, focusing on Pinstripe instead. “You know, the, uh, the good doctor… he told me everything. About how Mommy wasn’t around. How you had no friends. And he didn’t even mention a father—a real one I mean.” She licked her lips inches from Pinstripe’s ear. “He told me how easy it was to win you over. How badly you wanted to hold him.”

“Shut up,” Pinstripe growled. “You don’t know shit about me.”

A piercing laugh stabbed his ear, high pitched and sharper than the knife at his neck. “Oh, I know plenty. That’s why I keep Scope around. He’s good at probing into a pony’s heart…” Pinks pushed her knife deeper into Pinstripe’s neck, drawing a rivulet of blood. “…And pulling out all the juicy bits inside. He’s done it to all my friends. He keeps trying with me too, but with there isn’t much to unearth. I’m crazy and I kill things. What you see is what you get—hehehehehe.”

A collective shiver ghosted through the Carnies as each of them remembered their time with the doctor. They’d all had stories they wanted to share with somepony, sad tales about sad lives, whispered in confidence. Each had left a piece of themselves with the doctor. They all hated, and still loved him, in their own ways.

“He’s seen your type so many times before, and so have I,” Pinks went on. “I know why guys like you are so obsessed with money and power and respect. You want to be seen. And these, uh—these stripes…” Her blade traced the curve of one black stripe on the back of his neck. “…they camouflage you. Keep you from being seen.

“Your real father never saw you once in his life. Your mother chose not to, and the bullies, well—hehehehehe—they couldn’t see past the stripes. But he could.” Strong hooves wrenched his head back, forcing him to look up at his surrogate father. “Of all the ponies in this miserable city, Blitzkrieg here is the only one who chose to acknowledge you. And that’s why I’m going to take him away.”

“Okay,” muttered Pinstripe. “Okay, you win. I’ll be your monster. I’ll do whatever you want, just let Krieg go. You’ve made your point, so… so you don’t have to hurt him. Please, Pinks, he’s all I got left. He’s my Fa—”

“Is okay, comrade,” Blitzkrieg interrupted gently. Turnip’s shotgun rose high, ready to thud down on Krieg’s skull, but Pinks stayed him with a glare. “I came here tonight knowing I would not be going home.”

“Why?” muttered Pinstripe, almost afraid to ask.

“Because lunatic was having my only son. She is telling me to come alone, or she will kill him. I was not knowing what else to do.”

Pinstripe’s heart felt heavy, like somepony had shoved a hunk of lead between his ribs. “No, not that. Why didn’t you kill me that night? Why did you take me in when I was a kid? I asked you back then, but you never answered.”

Blitzkrieg’s brow furrowed as a smile spread across his time-beaten face. “I am not having reason, comrade. It was random act of kindness. Was… how are you saying… spur of the moment. Nothing more.”

Pinstripe looked away from Krieg, his eyes falling hard on the tabletop. He had waited years to hear that answer. And now that he had, he felt cheated somehow. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting but… no reason? A random act? If that was the punchline to fate’s cruel joke, it wasn’t funny.

Krieg turned away from his son as well. He glared up at The Prankster. “Do your worst, clown.”

“Oh, no. Not my worst,” said Pinks. “I believe you insulted my animals earlier, and, well… I might have ruined their underground restaurant to get them here tonight. They haven’t eaten anything in hours. I’d love to finish you myself, but I kinda owe them.”

A manic giggle flitted up from Pinks as the Carnies circled around the table, leering at Blitzkrieg him with hungry eyes.

Grift’s were the hungriest, the most primal and depraved. Pinstripe watched her shove Turnip aside and latch onto Krieg’s shoulders with talons the color of brass. She was different suddenly. Not quite ecstatic or excited or crazed like Pinks, not a cackling lunatic bouncing off the walls of a padded cell. Her verve was quieter, more subdued, but it was there. The chance to sink her talons into flesh had stirred something deep in her core.

She spun Krieg around, made him face the quiet madness skulking behind her eyes. She didn’t laugh. Didn’t smile. Beaks made for poor smiles, so fixed and rigid—lacking the dexterity of lips. Instead, she squeezed Krieg’s shoulders until they spurted rivulets of blood, her talons expressing all the manic, unbridled joy that her beak couldn’t.

She yanked Krieg away from the table and plunged her open beak into the crook where his neck and shoulder met. An agonized howl thundered up his throat. Instinctively, he tried to push her away, his wings fluttering like mad, but her hold was much too strong for his time-shriveled frame.

A new stab of pain lanced through his wound as Grift tossed her head back, ripping out a sizable chunk of flesh and swallowing it whole. He grew dizzy, a feeble moan in his throat as blackness haloed his vision. His hearing dulled. The din of The Prankster’s hysterical laughter sounded far off, a nightmare-echo resonating from the darkest corner of his own mind.

The talons released him, and he became aware of a vague falling sensation. Falling from his seat of power, from his throne where he had lorded over the gutters and the filth and the equine-cockroaches as one of Manehattan’s four kings. Only three after tonight. Three kings and a mad court jester, eager to reclaim her city of fools.

He didn’t feel his body flop against the floor, didn’t realize he was down until his feeble legs tried to pick him back up. What a terrible thing the survival instinct was, he mused wryly. Weak as his body was, it was still stronger than his mind, still clawing and fighting long after his spirit had surrendered. Terrible, terrible. He wanted to speak the words aloud but lacked the strength, so he settled for thinking them over and over. Terrible, terrible, terrible.

And then they were upon him. All five of them. Ripping and slashing and biting with their talons and beaks and fangs.

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Ballistic’s semi-conscious form sailed through the night and crashed into The Ringer’s back entrance, knocking the door clear off its hinges. She tumbled into the building, a barely-alive mess of contusions, lacerations and fractured bones. Her injuries were many: several broken ribs, a dislocated right shoulder, a ruptured eardrum, a crushed pelvis, two concave cheekbones, a hyperextended knee… She would have been dead if not for the healing spell now meticulously repairing her mangled body.

Twenty limped over Ballistic's crumbled form, the duffle bags and saxophone heavy on her shoulders and back. She didn’t know anything about healing magic, didn’t understand why Ballistic’s horn was flickering on and off like a damaged neon sign. Nor did she care—she was spent from pounding away at the officer’s blistering skin. Scorch marks marred her hooves, and her shoulder wound had re-opened—again. At this rate, it would never heal right.

Leaving Ballistic behind, Twenty half-expected a wave of parasprites to follow her inside. But Flour had been right after all: the little monsters didn’t seem to like being indoors. She was clever for a diamond dog, but then, Twenty expected as much from one of The Prankster’s minions.

One the Prankster’s minions... The thought was enormous, leaving no room in her head for anything else. She was one of those minions now, wasn’t she? It seemed so absurd. She was a nopony, a common thug; what could The Prankster possibly want with a mare like her?

The sound of idle chatter surprised Twenty as she neared the bar. Entering the club’s main room, she was both disturbed and captivated by the sheer number of corpses lying about in compromising positions. There were dozens of stallions and mares strewn carelessly about the floor, and draped over toppled tables and chairs.

Twenty’s good eye turned away from the dead and focused on Pinks and the others. They were sitting at the bar, laughing as Pinks did impressions of Blitzkrieg. She paced back and forth on her hind legs, her elbows flared at her sides and flapping in a crude pantomime of pegasus wings. She made fun of his thick accent, saying ridiculous things about ‘old country’ and ending every sentence with ‘da’ or ‘comrade’.

Pinstripe sat on a stool in the middle of the group, his shoulders slack. He was stone silent and staring at the floor with dead eyes, looking misplaced among so many cheery faces.

“Well I’ll be damned. It lives,” said Grift. She was the first to notice Twenty limping toward the bar, bags and brass in tow. “You were right, dweeb,” she said to Pinks, “the herb didn’t get herself eaten after all.”

“That makes one,” joked Pinks. She spun around to meet Twenty, her gaze latching onto the injured mare.

Reflexively, Twenty took a half step back. She had never met The Prankster before, never seen the active blue eyes or the dark circles that held them in place. She was smaller than Twenty had imagined, and wasn’t her mane supposed to be long and straight? Was this raggedy little thing really the Clown Princess of Crime?

Without saying a word, Pinks stepped closer and placed a glove on Twenty’s cheek, turning her head to one side, then the other. Twenty flinched but resisted making any sudden movements. Her throat clenched as Pinks stared at her battered face. She kept turning Twenty’s head from side to side: examining her lavender eye, then her grey one.

“Ooooooohhhh,” she said after an uncomfortable silence. “Twenty. I get it.” A giggle flitted from her lips, brushing Twenty’s face. “Hehehehe—that’s pretty good. Almost as good as a zebra named Stripe. I like you already, Twenty.”

“Is good to finally be meeting you, Prankster.” Hearing the quiver in her voice, Twenty gave herself a hard mental kick.

“Please, The Prankster is my Mother’s name. Call me Pinks.”

Twenty nodded. “Da. Is Pinks then.”

“Mmmm, we’re gonna have to do something about that accent. It sort of reminds me of this pony I just had eaten alive. Try saying ‘Peter Pony picked a pack of pickled peppers’.”

Twenty scratched the back of her neck. “Peter Pony is picking pack of pickled peppers?”

“Hm. Don’t worry, we’ll work on it.” Pinks patted Twenty’s cheek. “In the meantime, I see you brought our exit strategy. But where is—”

Before Pinks could finish the sentence, the Tongueless mare ambled up behind Twenty, stumbling over a corpse. The bass drum was still fastened to her lower back.

“Oh,” said Pinks. “That was convenient.” She turned to face the gang of carnivores. “Well it’s been fun guys, but I think it’s time we made our daring escape. Twenty, if you would.”

Twenty dropped the duffle bags on the floor and unzipped them. Inside she found more musical instruments.

Pinks smiled at the look of confusion on Twenty’s face. She plucked up a harmonica from the bag and offered it to her. “Do you play?”

Twenty shook her head no.

“That’s okay, you can just hum along.”

Twenty stepped aside and silently watched the Carnies hop down from their seats and rifle through the bags. Each of them plucked up an instrument: a fiddle and bow for Flour, a horn for Digger, a tiny metal triangle for Lintsalot. Turnip took the bass drum from the Tongueless and strapped it to his chest. Then he bent down awkwardly, the drum getting in his way, and removed a pair of drumsticks from one of the bags.

“You mind, herb?” Grift towered over Twenty, her claw open and waiting.

Twenty blinked, then shook her head and quickly removed the saxophone still strapped to her back. She passed it to Grift, still keeping quiet.

The Carnies formed a single-file line, as if preparing to march, with Grift at the front and Turnip at the back. They took a moment to warm up and tune their instruments. The loud, jarring notes that barked and belched from their instruments rebounded off the walls.

Pinstripe glanced up from his stupor. When Pinks noticed him watching from his seat, she waved him over. “Don’t just sit there, Pinny! This is your party too!” she shouted, a broad, silly smile on her face.

Pinstripe didn’t budge.

“Party-pooper,” she muttered. “Come on, Carnies, let’s show our new friend how to have a good time!”

It started slowly, with Lintsalot snapping his talons, tapping his paws, humming an upbeat tune. The others listened a moment, and then Grift joined in, playing a few jazzy notes that rang out low and silky smooth. Her cheeks ballooned and her chest swelled with air as she blew into her saxophone.

Gradually, the music grew louder, more impassioned; and before long, Pinks and the others were tapping their hooves or paws. Heads nodded. Shoulders rolled and bobbed, settling into an easy rhythm.

Flour came in next, playing quickly, her bow doing more tapping and bouncing then strumming. The two separate tunes sounded odd beside each other, but not quite disharmonious.

“That’s it!” exclaimed Pinks, her body rocking as the music picked up. “Now you got it!”

Digger’s horn came in next, a blaring sound that was much more passion than skill.

“Hah hah! There it is!” Pinks shouted. “Quick, Twenty, count me in!”

Twenty was thrown off balance. She looked to Pinks and pointed a hoof at her own chest, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“Yes, you! Hurry up, hurry up!”

Twenty balked. She didn’t know anything about music, but she gave it her best shot.

“Uh… One…two… One—two—three—and—!”

Right on cue, Pinks bounded onto the bar’s countertop and burst into song, her voice loud and reverberant, soulful even.

She snatched up an empty beer bottle, using it like microphone.

“~Kit-mm-bah-dah-bop!~” trilled Lintsalot.

Grift bent forward and really blew, having fun with it now. The sullen, dull-faced griffin was gone, overtaken by this new, blithe musician, her beak smiling around her mouthpiece.

Pinstripe’s mouth fell open as he watched the dancing, playing, singing murderers. He thought he’d seen everything, but no, with Pinks there was always a little more, a new level of madness just below the one you were already standing on.

She hopped down from the countertop, took Pinstripe’s hooves in her own, and yanked him from his seat, dancing and twirling as she sang.

Turnip finally jumped in after the second chorus, adding a drum beat to the ruckus inside the club.

Twenty stood back, her eye trained on Pinks and Pinstripe as they danced in front of the bar stools. Poor Pinstripe—he looked like a marionette in his partner’s forelegs, like she was the only thing keeping him on his back legs.

“Don’t just stand there, Muscles!” Lintsalot whooped at Twenty. “Dance! Ain’t you never been to a party before?”

Again Twenty balked. She didn’t ‘dance’, and even if she did, her body was in too much pain to match the kind of kinetic gymnastics Pinks and Pinstripe were displaying. But she didn’t want to upset her new gang—they did, after all, just murder a club full of ponies. For fun. She didn’t want to see what they were capable of while upset.

She began ‘dancing’, but then the line started forward and Lintsalot piped, “Nevermind, march! We’re outta here!”

“But streets are swarming with parasprites!” said Twenty, shouting over the music and Pinks singing.

“I know!” he shouted back. “It’s gonna be freaking awesome! Come on, come on! You’re up front!”

Reluctantly, she led the shabby, blood-caked marching band out onto the street where the police were still struggling to keep the swarm at bay.

--------------------

Three dozen little monsters had cornered Long Arm against a carriage parked by the curb and were gnawing on the magic shield he’d cast to protect himself. They had closed in on all sides; he couldn’t see anything but beady eyes and rows and razor-edge teeth. His shield spell was strong, but it wouldn’t last forever—and after expending so much energy fighting, he couldn’t muster enough power for a teleportation spell.

Most of his officers had already fled and or been eaten, so nopony was coming to his rescue. Vigil had left as well, though he had been running toward danger, not from it. He hoped the young upstart hadn’t gotten himself killed playing hero at the blimp crash site. If Long Arm survived tonight, he would need help filling out heaps of paperwork after tonight’s fiasco.

The buzzing was starting to get to him. He charged the remainder of his energy into the tip of his horn, preparing for one final attack. He would vaporize most of the surrounding parasprites, create an opening and run for the nearest squad Steamer. And pray. He would do lots of praying.

He grumbled a few curses under his breath, steeled himself—but the swarm began flying away before he could make a move, its attention drawn elsewhere. Sighing, he let his body go slack against the carriage door, the coils in his gut unwinding. He watched the parasprites gather above something moving down the center of the street. A marching band? Long Arm blinked, shook his head, blinked again. “Heh. I’ve seen weirder,” he thought aloud.

--------------------

Twenty grew nervous as the parasprites gathered around the marching musicians, but the tiny monsters weren’t interested in eating them. They were… dancing? Well, the parasprite equivalent to dancing anyway. They bobbed and zipped around the band in cartoonish synchronization, their ravenous snarls replaced by charming grins on round faces. Cute, Twenty thought, after shaking off her initial fear. She reached out to pet one that had flown very close, finding it soft.

The marching band paid the swarm little mind. This night had been a long one, but worth it in the end. A massacre, a live dinner, music, and now a parade of parasprites bobbing down the street in perfect unison. Incredible. At that moment, all of the Carnies, even Grift, remembered why the put up with The Prankster and her antics: because she knew how to party!

The Tongueless brought up the rear, pushing the pink cannon behind Turnip. Pinks and Pinstripe danced beside the line, sometimes weaving in and out of the gaps between players. Pinstripe was still only semi-coherent as he took in the strange, resplendent sight of a thousand or so bobbing parasprites. Like Pinks and her gang, they too had been terrorizing Manehattan only minutes ago. And now they were dancing, light and careless and free. It was crazy. The whole world was crazy.

“Grift! Solo!” shouted Lintsalot, pointing a talon at Grift.

The line stopped marching and broke off into something that resembled partygoers on a dance floor. Grift threw her head back, her cheeks inflated and flushed, her talons skittering across keys as she played an improvised solo, the notes coming to her on the fly. She shuffled as she played, and Lintsalot landed beside her, imitating her little jig. Watching them now, Pinstripe never would have guessed that one had threatened the other at gunpoint not so long ago.

Flour held her fiddle and bow in her mouth and snatched Digger’s paw without warning, spinning him around much in the same fashion as Pinks and Pinstripe. They danced clumsily on their short legs, not caring that they looked like perfect fools.

The entire gang was shuffling or sliding or twirling in the middle of the street. Even Twenty couldn’t resist tapping her hoof to Grift’s music, smirking as she watched the others dance. If this was to be her new life, she welcomed it. She could get used to this.

After an exhausting bout of pivoting and swiveling and leaping, Pinks slowed her furious pace to a steady swaying motion, her shoulders, neck and head rocking left and then right. She shot Grift a furtive wink, and the griffin’s the playing slowed a bit.

Smiling sweetly at Pinstripe, Pinks picked up a new verse. Her active blues bore into Pinstripe’s stony grays. She looked at him the way she had during their game of tag, when she stood on Tongueless mare’s back and mouthed the words ‘tag me’. Her smile was soft and inviting, the active blues serene, glinting in the neon wash of the red light district.

Could she see him, Pinstripe wondered? Had she been looking his way the whole time, or was this just another prank? The blue eyes blinked slowly, deliberately. The scars smiled, sweet and caring. If this was another prank, it didn’t feel like it.

Then the music leapt high, pounded fast, and the moment vanished—there and gone like it never happened. Maybe it didn’t.

Pinks began the chorus anew, and to her delight, Pinstripe joined her. He swept her up in his forelegs, dancing and singing along like a fool.

Author's Notes:

This concludes the first arc of Pagliacci. And well, it's been fun.

To begin I'd like to thank Brony_Fife and Y1 for assisting with proofreading. Understand this: I am terrible at writing in third person and my drafts are practically unreadable. Proofing for me is an experience I would never wish on my worst enemies, but Fife and Y1 have been patient, supportive, and as thorough as possible (though they didn't proof this author's note, so it's probably full of mistakes).

And of course I'd like to thank to all my readers as well. I hope you guys enjoyed my work, and please don't be shy about leaving comments and critiques. I'll likely be taking some time off Pag to work on other stuff, but don't worry I won't be gone long.

Thanks again for all the hits and up-votes and faves. This my first story to ever get featured and I couldn't have done it without all of you.

Later on.