Arc ONE: Chapter 4

Pinks hummed a jaunty tune as she led Pinstripe down a dark stairwell, bouncing along in that curious way of hers. Her reluctant companion treaded with greater care, urging her to do the same. He breathed a sigh of annoyance when she tripped and tumbled down the stairs, her body still bouncing, though with a fraction of the grace displayed a moment beforehand.

Grumbling, Pinstripe squinted at the darkness, straining to make out the shape of the pink pony slumped against a door at the bottom of the stairway. “Uh… you okay, boss?” he called to her.

She groaned a belated response. From the sound of her bellowing, Pinstripe decided she must be incapacitated—or at least stunned—and for the second time since meeting Pinks, he considered killing her. His heart rate climbed as he pawed the knife in his pocket. It would be easy, he assured himself. Just one spontaneous act of violence and he would be free of this painted lunatic and all the trouble she was sure to bring his way.

The only problem was that twitching tail of hers. Pinstripe recalled how easily Pinks had dispatched the diamond dog, and took a moment to access the situation. It was dark in the stairwell. Even if Pinks sensed him coming, she wouldn't see him coming, though, he wasn’t sure sightlessness gave him any real advantage in this instance. It was a mutual handicap; Pinstripe would be fighting blind as well.

He had a weapon, of course, and that gave him an edge, if only a slight one. Pinks was faster and stronger—insanely strong for a mare her size—but at least she was unarmed. Then again, at such close quarters Pinstripe knew that failure to secure a quick kill would result in a blind wrestling match with a mare who could crush his trachea like a beer can.

He shook the mental image from his mind. That wasn’t going to happen, and he was wasting time with all this deliberation. If he died at the bottom of this stairwell, it will have been indecision that killed him, not Pinks. It was important to analyze a situation before acting; he hadn’t survived as the only zebra in a gang of backstabbing pegasi for this long by leaping before he looked. Still, even practicality had its limits. There was a fine line between calculation and hesitation, one that Pinstripe often found himself straddling.

And for what? He had nothing to fear. Pinks was a killer, sure, but was she a fighter? If it came down him and her in a blind scrap at the bottom this stairwell, could she beat him? Pinstripe didn’t think so; she was in his element now. This would be gutter brawl: less a fight and more of a frantic scramble for survival. It would come down to heart, to who wanted it more. In Pinstripe’s experience, big shots like Pinks never had any heart. They were all about smarts and method and intimidation, but the minute their backs were against the wall they folded like the chicken-shit pansies they were.

The dons and the bosses had power but they ruled from afar, perched on the shoulders of their underlings. Pinstripe had been born and raised on the streets. He didn’t respect power like that.

Feeling confident, he drew his butterfly knife and hustled down the stairs. A few steps into his blind assault, he stumbled over something soft. He thought he heard a squeak, like that of a rubber duck, but the sound was quickly drowned out by his own surprised yelp.

He tripped himself, tumbled, and the edge of a concrete step bit into the back of his head, stunning him. Neon spots made a surrealist portrait of the stairwell—an interesting juxtaposition of light and darkness—as he rolled unceremoniously. At the bottom of the steps he crashed into something soft, electing lay against it until his wits returned.

“Careful,” coughed the pink pony Pinstripe was slumped against. “Those last few steps are a real doozy.”

Just then, a raspy voice whined from behind the door. “So much, commotion. Get door, Digger, get door. Why Digger always have to see about commotion? What if commotion is trouble?” The whines lapsed into a strained grunt as the owner of the voice struggled to open the door. “What if commotion is cops? Then Digger get arrested first, give others chance to escape…” The voice’s owner grunted again, strained, then quit with a melodramatic huff.

“Stupid door is stuck again,” muttered the voice. “Where did dragon go? Dragon is strongest. Dragon is dragon. Dragon should be getting door, seeing about commotion.”

After another histrionic grunt, the door finally budged. As it slid open, Pinstripe felt a rush of cold air sweep over him. With the door no longer in place to support them, Pinstripe and Pinks spilled out into the freezing room like the contents of an overstuffed closet.

Pinstripe peered up through the neon spots still muddling his vision. He saw a blue-grey diamond dog with well-brushed fur and a bottom jaw that was larger than the tops. The dog’s eyes were narrow slits, so narrow that Pinstripe couldn’t make out their color.

When the dog saw the cause of the commotion, he leaned forward and squinted down at the two of them.

“Boss?” he asked carefully. If there was surprise in his expression Pinstripe couldn’t see it, for when the dog squinted his eyes appeared closed.

“Grift!” the dog turned and shouted. “Digger thinks you might want to see this!”

But Grift, whoever she was, didn’t answer. The dog pouted. He was under the belief that Grift would be along to back him up in case the commotion was trouble, but apparently he was being left to fend for himself... again. When he turned back, he was met by a pair of active blue eyes.

“Rocky, is that you?” The Prankster’s face was only a nose away from Digger’s, causing him to pull away sharply.

“It is,” he responded, forcing a smile.

Pinks smothered Digger in an overzealous hug. She picked him up and spun around, squeezing tight enough to hurt him. “Oh Rocky!” she cried histrionically. “I thought I’d never see you again! There were all these cops, and this pony in a mask, and a huge explosion, and…” She paused and set Digger on the ground, her eyebrows narrowed in a look of suspicion. “Say… how did you get away from the cops and the pony in the mask and the huge explosion?”

Digger nervously cleared his throat. “Digger wasn’t there, remember, boss. Digger was already behind bars.”

Pinks scratch her chin and seemed to sink into deep thought.

Pinstripe stood, pocketed his knife and looked around. The room he now found himself in was spacious, dimly lit and cold. The floor was tiled and spotless.

Digger’s gaze shifted furtively from the pony to the zebra, then back to the pony. “You okay, boss,” he mumbled, twiddling his thumbs like a child before his stern-faced mother. “You look a little—”

“What’s wrong with the way I look?” Pinks interrupted gently.

“Oh, uh, nothing. Nothing’s wrong, Digger just meant…” His voice trailed off into a jumble of stammers.

“Rocky, I’m upset with you. I thought we were friends. I thought we could be honest with each other.” Pinks stepped closer to Digger, and a cloud of frigid breath splashed his face as she spoke. “If you have a problem with the way I look, just say so.”

Digger’s gaze darted around the room as he struggled to think of something to say.

“Hey,” Pinks asserted. She reared up on her hind legs and snatched the dog by his jewel-encrusted collar. “Hey—look at me.” She licked her lips and tilted her head, giggling softly as she followed his darting gaze. “Look at… I said look at me.”

“Digger is sorry, boss,” whined the dog. “Digger is sorry.”

“Sorry about what?” she said in a soothing voice, patting one of his cheeks. “Sorry about what, Rocky? It’s okay. Just look at me. That’s all you have to do. That’s it—just look at me.”

Digger mustered the courage to meet the mare’s gaze, but was silent.

“Is there something wrong with my looks, Rocky!” she exploded, shaking Digger. “Is there something wrong with my face!” Her tone spiked with anticipation. It was as if she were waiting for something—a cue or a signal—and the waiting had become more than she could bear.

“Stripe!” she shouted, her head swiveling with neck-snapping speed. “Stripe—is there something wrong with my face!”

Pinstripe jolted at the mention of his name. “Ah…” he stammered, not out of fear, but because he was distracted by that familiar rush of exhilaration—the same rush he’d felt during his game of tag with Pinks. This was the first time he had seen the effect she had on a creature other than a brainless Tongueless. This diamond dog was a sentient being, something that could think and feel and fear. And it was afraid of her.

“Ah, yeah, boss,” he said carefully. “It’s your makeup. Some of it rubbed off, that’s all Digger here was getting at.”

Pinks released the dog and touched a hoof to her cheek where the Tongueless had smudged her makeup. “Oh,” she said soberly. “Is that all it was, Rocky?”

Digger nodded, whining.

“Then why didn’t you just say so, you silly puppy?” She hugged him again, squeezing hard enough to hurt him. Then she gasped and drew back dramatically, covering her mouth as though something had surprised her. “Where’s Gummy? Did the coppers get him too?”

Happy to have some distance between himself and Pinks, Digger brightened a bit and said, “No. Gummy is fine. Gummy is here.”

“Oh Rocky, you big, strong, slab of hunky dog meat—I knew I could count on you!” She grabbed Digger by the shoulders and pulled him into a hard kiss, smearing lipstick on his face. Then she broke the kiss and began laughing maniacally as she bounced deeper into the cold dark room.

“Wait a minute, boss…” Pinstripe started to follow Pinks, but was suddenly paralyzed by the nightmarish sights that filled the room. He had been too enamored by Pinks and Digger to notice the eerie sights before, but with the drama over he stepped out of the doorway and took his first real look around.

He was standing in some kind of underground meat freezer. Skinned bovine carcasses had been split in half and hung from racks. Pinstripe had heard it was normal to find slaughterhouses in Little Gryffindor, since most of its residents were carnivores, but state law permitted only the butchering and consuming of non-sentient animals: hogs, pigs, chickens, turkeys, fish…

Pinstripe once had a thoughtful discussion with a cow over the best way to approach a mare at a club. He looked up at the hanging beef and shook his head deprecatingly. This was sick. Even for Manehattan, this was sick.

"Not pretty," said Digger, reading the look of disgust on Pinstripe’s face. He wiped his lipstick-stained mouth with the back of a wide paw and spat.

"I've seen worse." Pinstripe wasn't sure if that was a lie or not. He started to follow Pinks, but the dog stepped in his path and jammed an open paw into his chest

"Not so fast," rasped Digger. "Just who are you supposed to be?"

"I'm the guy who didn't just piss himself a minute ago," returned Pinstripe.

"Give it a few days," said Digger, shrugging off the insult. "Thanks for save by the way. Digger's name is Digger." He extended a paw to shake.

"That was my first guess," Pinstripe answered dryly, shaking hoof to paw. "Name's Pinstripe. I'm a Shadowbolt." He added as an afterthought, hoping it would lend his words more weight.

Digger looked him up and down. "Pinstripe is liar. Shadowbolts have wings. You Daughter, maybe. You look queer enough."

"I'm honorary. What is this place?" he asked, changing the subject.

"We in Carnie hideout. Digger is Carnie. Real gang, not like faggy Daughters. You leave now, yes. Pinstripe not welcome here."

Obviously.

“Not without Pinks,” Pinstripe heard himself say, the words sounding foreign to his ear. He had tried to kill her not even ten minutes ago, but that was before seeing the way Digger shook and stammered in her presence. He had been told many times that The Prankster was the stuff of nightmares, but now that he had seen firsthand, Pinstripe found himself… interested. He wanted to learn the secret of her power. She must be more than makeup and scars, he figured. She must be more than a scary campfire story.

Upon hearing the name Pinks, bewilderment flashed across Digger's face. It lasted for only a moment. “You mean Laughing Pony,” he said, not surprised to hear that The Prankster had adopted yet another identity. “Look, Digger has no quarrel with Pinstripe, but Pinstripe has to go. Grift will see Pinstripe, get mad at Digger.”

“Well my boss, Blitzkrieg of the Shadowbolts, will be get mad at Digger when I tell him you’re the reason I couldn’t bring the Prankster to him like I promised.”

Digger swallowed a lump that had formed in his throat. “Pinstripe knows Blitzkrieg? Then Pinstripe is Shadowbolt.” This bit of insight seemed to alarm him. “Fine. Pinstripe finds Laughing Pony and then leaves, yes?”

“Yeah,” answered Pinstripe in a disarming tone of voice, not wanting to upset the dog any further. After knowing him for just a few minutes, he was starting to like Digger. He found his constant whining amusing.

Digger led Pinstripe out of the freezer and into a noisy kitchen. The transition from cold to hot, silent to clamorous, jarred his senses. It was like stepping through a wormhole and being dumped into another world.

The kitchen was a hornets’ nest of bustling movement. Griffins bumped into each other, dropping food and kitchenware as they skittered and flew about the kitchen. Steam rose along with shouts and ruckus laughter as the odd pair of zebra and diamond dog walked by the cooks, most of whom were minding simmering pots on the stovetops. Stew of some kind, Pinstripe figured. He wrinkled his nose at the strong smell of cooking meat.

"Sorry about smell! We don’t get too many herbivores visiting here!" Digger had to shout over the cooks, who were calling out directions to one another.

"Obviously," answered Pinstripe, ducking in order to avoid being clipped by a low flying cook who was carrying several stacked pots in both claws. "What's today's special?"

"Beef stew. Best in town."

"Only in town," laughed one of the cooks who had overheard their conversation. He lifted a pot lid and breathed in the aroma of fresh cooked meat—a rare scent anywhere in Equestria.

A knife whistled overhead, seemingly aimless until a swift claw shot up to catch the blade before using it to dice carrots.

“Is there a holiday rush or something?” said Pinstripe, who was now trotting with one foreleg raised to shield his head from flying kitchenware.

Digger was unfazed by the calamity in the kitchen. “Carnie cooks are nuts,” he said dismissively. “This how they always work.”

After surviving their march through the kitchen, Digger pushed open a door that led to the dining area. Suddenly they had wandered into an upscale restaurant. Pinstripe marveled at the tiny crystal chandeliers that hung from the ceiling, like strange, ornate bates. The tables wore fine white cloths that clashed dramatically with the seedy appearance of the restaurants patrons—all of whom were scruffy diamond dogs, minatours or casually dressed griffins.

These doors, Pinstripe thought with a dry inward chuckle. Perhaps the next one leads to Princess Luna’s bedroom.

Well, maybe that was a bit extreme. The transitions from room to room weren’t that drastic: a meat freezer to a kitchen to a dining area. Clearly there was some fundamental logic at work in this secret underground facility, but the differences in atmosphere from one room to another were drastic indeed. During this venture the mood had switched from cold and lonely, to hot and lively, and now to sober and refined.

This must be what it's like inside The Prankster’s head, mused Pinstripe as he and Digger walked toward a huge circular booth in the very back of the dining area.

A griffin seated at the booth—a female of average build with a beak and talons the color of polished brass—looked up from her menu, frowning at Digger and his guest.

Digger skipped the formal introductions and got to the point. “Grift, where is Gummy?” he asked.

“Why you looking for Gummy?” returned Grift. Her bored gaze shifted from dog to zebra. “And what’s with the zebra? I thought I told you stop bringing those freaky, weirdo cannibal motherfuckers around me. They give me the creeps.”

“Yeah, they give her the creeps!” piped a much younger male griffin seated at Grift’s side. He tugged at the shoulder straps of his faded overalls and stuck out his tongue at Pinstripe.

Pinstripe started to protest his being a ‘weirdo cannibal motherfucker’, but was interrupted by a long, high-pitched whine from Digger.

"Pink Pony is looking for Gummy. Gummy is where Pink Pony is, understand?” said Digger.

Grift lifted her menu and flipped a page. "What're you going on about now?"

"Pinstripe came with Pink Pony," Digger responded hurriedly. "Pink Pony is back, Grift. Laughing Pony is back."

"Celestia help you, Digger, you been hitting the salt again?" Grift laughed without looking up from her menu. "Someone please get this mutt's dehydrated ass a drink before he passes out."

“Yeah, before he passes out!” parroted the little griffin.

A white-coated female diamond dog sitting at the end of the booth covered her mouth as she chuckled at Grift’s dig. Her laugh was a low rasp that vibrated her throat, causing her pearl-studded collar to shake slightly. Her eyes were wider than Digger’s—though not by much—and they were glassy and opaque, like the pearls around her neck.

A tall male griffin stood off to the side of the booth, seemingly uninterested in the conversation. He had the vacant stare of a Guard Pony working a double shift, and his posture was impeccable.

Pinstripe took in the curious bunch, making a mental note to stay alert.

“Digger not hitting salt,” said Digger, his frustration growing. It was true; Digger had kicked his addiction exactly five years ago, right after The Prankster’s incarceration. Though, now that his old boss was out and likely looking to stir up trouble, he wasn’t sure how well his sobriety would hold up. Stress fueled his old urges, and right the mutt was already thinking he could maybe use a few licks.

“This is serious, Grift,” Digger whined. “Laughing Pony is back. What are we going to do?”

Grift licked the tip of her talons and flipped to the final page of her menu, ignoring Digger—the smug bitch. Pinstripe had had too many run-ins with types like Grift: alpha dogs who thought they were above listening to their pack. He took a seat across from Grift, reached over the table and lowered her menu. “Hey, asshole,” he said. “Listen to the dog; he’s trying to tell you that Pinks is—”

"WHAAAAhahahaha!"

Pinstripe was cut short by a sudden burst of ruckus laughter coming from the kitchen.

Grift’s ears perked, her eyes bugling in shock as she dropped her menu. Digger wasn’t lying. That was her alright; there wasn’t another laugh like that in all of Equestria.

Other sounds echoed from the kitchen as well. Screams. Cries for help. Cries for mercy. Crunches. Bangs. Splashes. Metallic clangs. More screams. More laughter. The patrons stopped enjoying their meals and stared at the kitchen door, listening in shock and terror.

Silence descended in the kitchen.

Silence infiltrated the dining area.

Then the door swung open and out staggered one of the griffin cooks, screaming something about “his eyes, his eyes!” and clutching a face that had been doused in boiling broth. He reached forward and groped the empty space before him, searching for something to lean against. Finding nothing, he elected to lean against the empty air instead, hanging suspended for two impossibly long seconds before passing out and crashing peak-first into the floor. Those seated nearest to him gaped at the knife in his back.

The Prankster, who had been standing behind the cook, casually stepped over the dead griffin.

“Stop me if you’ve heard this one before,” announced Pinks through a mouthful of celery. Now even more of her makeup was smeared off, and her gloves and boots were blood-specked. “A clown walks into an illicit underground slaughterhouse… and murders all of the cooks!”

No one said anything. The room was silent except for The Prankster’s loud chewing.

“Hmm, tough crowd.” Pinks spat out the celery stick. She stood on her hind legs and opened her jacket, revealing several rows of grenades stitched into the fabric. “That one usually brings the house down—hahahahaha!” she laughed, playing with the ripcord hidden in her tie.

A roar of shouts, curses and screams filled the restaurant. Tables and chairs fell on their sides as the patrons scrambled towards the exits.

Grift remained calm, her bored expression unchanging, and the little griffin at her side did the same.

The female diamond dog’s ears perked. She sniffed the air excitedly, then stood on her seat and wagged her tail.

The tall griffin didn’t move. He blinked, and his lazy eye lolled precariously, as though it might drop from his skull and roll across the floor.

Pinstripe didn’t budge either. He stayed in the booth and watched Pinks shake with laughter as dozens of griffins and diamond dogs rushed away from her. When the patrons cleared out, Pinks bounced up to Grift and the others, humming that same tune she had hummed on her way down the steps. Everyone but Grift flinched as Pinks pulled a grenade from her coat, bit into it, then tossed it on the table.

“Pineapple grenade,” she said with a chuckle. “Get it?”

Actually it was a pear, but the Prankster wasn’t one to get hung up on details. Grift picked up the “grenade” and turned it over in her claw, examining it. Pinks had painted it with food dye and used a knife to carve ridges into its surface, giving it the appearance of a grenade. A bit slapdash, but believable given the distance was right and lighting low—both of which were factors Pinks had used to sell her prank. Being The Clown Princess of Crime didn't hurt either. Ponies tended to take her threats at face value.

“Grift!” Pinks exclaimed as she shoved Pinstripe aside to make room for herself in the booth. “It’s been what?—Five years, seven months, three weeks, two days, sixteen hours, and…” She looked down at her fetlock, checking the time on a watch made of crayon markings. “…Oh I don’t know, about nine minutes. Not that I’ve been keeping count.”

“Where does the time go,” said Grift dryly. She took a bite of the grenade.

Pinks and Grift held each other’s gazes for a long while, their expressions unreadable. The others in the room watched on tenterhooks, waiting for something to happen. Pinstripe expected something violent.

Grift cracked first. She giggled fitfully for a few seconds, then extended a friendly fist across the table for Pinks to bump. “Not gonna lie; I didn’t think I was ever gonna see you again, dweeb. I see you’re still pulling those lame pranks of yours.”

Pinks touched a bloody glove to the closed fist, smiling as she said, “Old habits, I suppose. Looks like the gang’s all here.” She paused to look around the table, and then the empty room. “Where’s Gummy?”

“How should I know? He’s your pet.” Grift’s eyes shifted to the cook who was lying on the floor. “There a reason you just killed my cooking staff, Diane?”

“Does there need to be?” she laughed, throwing a foreleg around Pinstripe’s neck. “Say, have you guys met my new pal? He’s a regular laugh riot, in a serious, never-smiles kind of way.”

Pinstripe looked around at the less-than-friendly stares boring into him. He shrank in the face of the carnivores, unaccustomed to feeling like a prey animal.

“Carnies this is Bowling Pin. Bowling Pin, meet my pals Grift, Rocky, Madame Le’ Flour, Sir Lintsalot and Mr. Turnip.”

Pinstripe nodded, but was clearly perplexed.

“What’s the matter, Pins? You don’t like my friends?” asked Pinks after noticing how tense Pinstriped was. “They aren’t so bad once you get over all the fangs and claws. And they have excellent taste in food! Rocky!” Pinks clapped her hooves together, beckoning Digger. “Be a good little puppy and run into the kitchen and fix Mommy something to eat.”

Digger grumbled and started toward the kitchen.

“So, you gonna tell us how you escaped?” asked Grift. Her bored expression finally cracked, and she leaned forward like a foal eager to enjoy a fable.

“Yeah, tell us how you escaped!” piped the little griffin, whom Pinks had apparently dubbed Sir Lintsalot.

“Escaped?” Pinks sounded insulted. “They let me out because I’m cured. I’m not crazy anymore.”

Grift and Lintsalot laughed aloud. Madame Le’ Flour—the female diamond dog—covered her mouth and chuckled in her sheepish way.

“You’re funnier, too,” said Grift. “Seriously, Diane, don’t spare any juicy details. Did you try the tunneling out with a spoon trick? No, wait, no—you’re more of the “hammer in the cake,” kind’a mare, right? Oh man, that’d be just like you.”

Pinstripe listened closely to Grift and couldn’t decide if she was being genuine or sarcastic.

“Come on, don’t leave me hanging over here,” Grift insisted. “Tell me how you did it.”

“Yeah. Tell her how you did it, boss,” parroted Lintsalot.

“Nope,” said Pinks. She crossed her forelegs behind her head and leaned back, resting her worn boots on the table. “I hate to bring up work over dinner, kiddies, but Mommy didn’t come down here to murder your cooks and scare away your customers. Well I did, but while I was boiling that guy’s face off”—she gestured over her shoulder toward the cook lying on the floor—“I remembered that I needed your help.”

Grift crossed her arms about her chest. Suddenly she seemed on guard. “I’m listening.”

“I’m getting the band back together. You and me and Rocky and the gang—we’re going back on the road. Pink Stripes!” she exclaimed, using a gloved hoof to trace the words in the sky. “It’s the name of our new act. I’m thinking of putting it on the tour bus, but I need a second opinion.”

“Stripes, huh?” Grift’s gaze flicked to the zebra, then back to Pinks. “You sure about this, Diane? A Lot has changed since you been away. Busting heads won’t be the cakewalk it used to be. Plenty of the families are still afraid of you, but there’s a dozen new crazies popping up every day that don’t know how to be afraid of anything.”

“I know. I made them.” Pinks grinned. “Unmaking them will be a gas. Whataya say?”

“I say what’s in it for me? I got a sweet business going here,” said Grift, gesturing toward the restaurant around her like a queen surveying her kingdom from a high balcony. “Good pay. Flexible hours. Plus all the red meat I could ever want. You think you can top that?”

“Half,” Pinks said plainly.

“Half of what?”

“Of Manehattan. I’m taking my city back. Help me, and half of it goes to you and the Carnies.”

Grift whistled. Lintsalot and Flour exchanged excited glances.

“That’s a big promise, dweeb,” said Grift. “Sure you can—”

Pinks cleared her throat loudly enough to quiet Grift. She swung her hind legs back under the table and leaned forward. “You didn’t let me finish,” she said, tapping her gloved hooves together under her chin. “I give you half of the city if you agree. If you disagree… Well, do you remember that mutual friend of ours? The one I promised not to hurt all those years ago…?”

Grift remembered. She reached into her coat, drew a handgun from her shoulder holster and casually placed it on the table. “I’m gonna ask you one time to not make threats in my place of business, Diane,” said Grift, her tone low and menacing.

The Prankster’s attention lingered on the gun for only a moment. Pinstripe, however, was transfixed by it. Guns were a rare site anywhere in Equestria, and Manehattan was no exception. They were griffin weapons; and since the griffin population was small, so was the demand for firearms. A pony could get one modified for quadrupeds, but such alterations were expensive and usually not worth the trouble. The Manehattan police department had only been issued firearms to combat the surge of griffin gangs that emerged during the South Manehattan race riots some thirty years back. After the riot fiasco was cleared up, firearms became standard issue. Only unicorns could fire them, which worked out well, since the MPD had always been disproportionately comprised of unicorns anyway.

Most of the griffin gangs never resurfaced after the overwhelming police crackdown. Grift and the Carnies were among the last remnants of an era that had run its course straight into the ground. And that meant they were one of the last gangs still packing heat.

Pinks never cared for guns herself, and not just because she was a non-magical quadruped. She disliked them for one simple reason: a good kill was like a good joke. Both were about timing, but with guns the punch line always came too soon.

“Before you shoot me…what if I told you I know this pegasus who lives up in Cloudsdale,” Pinks began, talking barely above a whisper. “And this pegasus I know—he’s just a regular pony, no different from any of the millions of happy-go-lucky souls skittering about this crazy mud ball of ours. Well, cloud ball in his chase—hehehehehe…”

Pinstripe’s eyes were glued to the gun as Grift fondled its handle.

“He works on a weather patrol team. Takes his wife out on their bi-weekly date nights. Donates money to charities. Sits through boring parent teacher conferences. He’s just a regular pony. Nothing special about him.”

Pinks didn’t even glance down at the talon now caressing the gun’s trigger.

“But he used to be special,” she continued in the same tone of voice. “He used to be a hired killer. He did jobs for the Shadowbolts, until one day he wanted out. You see, the guilt was eating him alive. He would wake up in the middle of night gasping and screaming and sweating… He used to say he could see their faces. He used to say he couldn’t forget their names.”

Pinks licked her lips and made a smacking sound.

“So one day this paid killer goes to his boss… Blitzkrieg… and he says, ‘I can’t do it anymore, boss. I can’t unsee their faces. I can’t forget their names...’” The Prankster did her best impression of a distressed stallion. “Now Blitzkrieg—he doesn't like what he’s hearing. This killer is good. One of the best, and Krieg can’t afford to lose him. He says no. He says nopony leaves the Shadowbolts and lives to tell about it.

“So this paid killer goes over Blitzkrieg’s head. He takes up his problem with Krieg’s boss. He takes it up with me…” The Prankster’s scarred mouth stretched into a wide and diabolical grin. “…And he says, ‘Prankster, please. I can’t do it anymore. The faces. The names. The faces! The names!’”

A moment of silence.

“And then he starts listing them!” Pinks exclaimed with a laugh. “He starts spitting out all these names. Cloud Kicker. Carrot Top. Thunderlane. Berry Punch. Blues. Caramel and Lyra and Bon Bon and Colgate and Ditsy Doo and Rumble...! He really couldn’t forget them. He wasn’t pulling my leg. He really still knew all those names.”

Pinks paused a moment to laugh as she remembered the story. “Now, by this point I feel awful for the poor guy. So I tell him, ‘Okay, okay. You can leave, so long as you promise to remember one more name'. And after I told him the name, he was so happy he ran home, packed his bags and jumped on the first blimp to Cloudsdale that very same day.”

Without saying anything, Grift raised the gun and aimed it at Pinks.

“Now he lives happily in Cloudsdale with his pretty wife and his two adorable foals. He’s free from his old life. Free as bird! He doesn’t have to worry about grimy old Manehattan anymore!” Pinks continued, undeterred by Grift and her gun. “But every six months he gets a letter in the mail… a letter from me... and written on that letter is a single name...”

“Shut up,” Grift growled, her claw shaking as she kept her weapon level with The Prankster’s head.

“Care to guess whose name is written on that letter, Grift? Or what happens if that average, nothing-special pony doesn’t hear from me every six months?”

“You’re lying." Grift's voice trembled. "You don’t know where she is.”

“You’re right, I am lying. I have absolutely no clue where our old friend is.” Pinks leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the gun’s barrel. “Or… maybe I’m lying about lying… hehehehehe…”

Grift thumbed back the hammer.

The Prankster’s grin widened.

The others watched on edge. Pinstripe held his breath.

“BANG!” shouted Pinks, causing Grift to flinch. She threw both forelegs around Pinstripe’s neck and squeezed him tight as she shook with laughter. “Did you see her face! Tell me you saw her face!”

“Y-you promised not to hurt her!” Grift blurted. “You swore you wouldn’t touch her so long as I joined your fucking gang! What the Tartarus, Diane? I thought we had a deal!”

“Relaaaaaax. I haven’t laid a single hoof on her, so don’t go giving me a reason too.” Pinks wiped away tears brought on by laughter. “It’s not like you to lose your cool, Grift. You’ll need that head of yours screwed on straight if you’re going to help me take back what’s mine. Now go find Gummy, and take your merry band of meat-eaters with you. I need a few moments alone with my Stripey~Wipey.” She nuzzled Pinstripe’s neck as the others got up to follow her order.

“Oh and Grift, one more thing,” she said sweetly, resting her head on Pinstripe's shoulder. Grift halted and turned to face her. “If you ever point that gun at me again... I’ll make you eat it.”

Grift flipped Pinks the bird before following the others.

“Tsk. Good help is so hard to find these days.” Pinks sighed melodramatically. “Thank Celestia I found you, Pinstripe. You’re my bestest buddy in this whole crazy, messed up world.”

Pinstripe was at a loss for words. That was the first time Pinks had used his real name; he didn’t know what to make of it. And what was her name again… Diane, was it? That’s what Grift had called her, right? Diane... He thought it was a strange name for a pony.

Pinks traced the curve of Pinstripe’s cheek, then ran a hoof across his lips. “Pinny, can I tell you something that’s been bothering me?” she said, her active blue eyes calm for once.

“S-sure, boss,” answered Pinstripe, trying hard not to stare at her scars.

“While I was down at the bottom of the staircase, I thought I felt a tiny twitchy-twitchy-twitch at the base of my tail,” she whispered. “You weren't thinking about hurting me… were you?”

Pinstripe’s blood turned to ice. The hair on his neck stood up. He couldn’t talk, couldn’t even breathe. The best he could manage was a slight head shake.

“Oh, goody,” she said in her familiar lollipop-sweet cadence. “I wasn't sure. I mean, I imagine all sorts of awful things all the time. Like that pony with his list of names. Yuck! What a scary figment of my imagination he was.” Pinks bounced out of the booth. “I’m super glad you’re not a figment of my imagination, Striped Shirt.”

Pinstripe sat alone in the booth and watched Pinks spring away toward an exit he hadn’t noticed before. So she had sensed him coming after all. Ponyfeathers. He would need to be more careful in the future.

After a few minutes of brooding, Pinstripe got up and followed after Grift. He’d had his fill of painted lunatics for now, and wanted to learn more about these so-called Carnies. He was also curious about this Gummy character.

As soon as the back exit closed behind Pinstripe, Digger kicked the kitchen door open and stumbled into the dining room carrying several trays of food and drink.

“Digger is sorry he took so long,” he stammered as he stumbled toward the table, his vision obstructed by his load. “The kitchen was a mess and Digger didn’t know what everyone wanted, so Digger just got a little of every…”

His voice trailed off when he realized he was talking to an empty booth. He pouted and carelessly dropped the trays of food and drink on the floor, fuming.

“Go get food, Digger. Go see about commotion, Digger. Go find Gummy, Digger,” he grumbled, nearly tripping over the dead cook as he wandered back into the kitchen to find a salt shaker.