Arc ONE: Chapter 5

“Ugh, my head is killing me.”

As Carrot Top sat behind the wheel of her squad car, listening to her partner whine about her hangover, it occurred to the detective that traffic was perhaps the greatest evil one could find in Manehattan. Being promoted to detective came with a neat gaggle of benefits, one of which was being able to ditch her carriage for a Steamer. Steamers were a new and wondrous piece of steam-powered technology that had greatly increased Carrot’s mobility, as well as her sense of freedom and independence… or at least that’s what all the commercials had said the stupid thing would do.

Her Steamer had granted her a new and exciting sense of freedom, but traffic, with its claustrophobic, bumper-to-bumper immobility, was in the businesses of undermining that freedom.

“Uuuuugh,” groaned Carrot’s partner, her whine wafting over from the passenger seat like an unrelenting wind. Her throbbing head lolled against the window, and she bellowed like a creature on its last breath. “What time is it?”

“It’s noon, Berry,” Carrot answered curtly.

Detective Berry Punch shook her head in disbelieve, though, really, she should’ve known better than to ask the time. If it wasn’t dark out in Manehattan, then it was noon. Always—without exception. Berry’s job didn’t require that she wake before midday, and the demons residing in her liquor cabinet didn’t allow it. She hadn’t seen a sunrise since the morning she left Ponyville in order to escape being smothered by the day-to-day drudgery of small town life. Berry had brought her best friend Carrot Top to city with her for a number of reasons, chief among them being her need of a designated driver. How they had become cops remained a mystery to her. She suspected the demons in her bottles were to blame, but she couldn’t be sure. There wasn’t much to be sure about these days, a fact that begged the question:

“Where are we?”

“We’re in midtown, Berry.”

Another stupid question. In Manehattan, if you weren’t downtown you were uptown; and if you weren’t uptown you were in midtown. Surely, she mused, Manehattan must be the only city in Equestria constructed with such inspired incomprehensibility. Where in the world did ponies live in a city as ass-backwards as Manehattan? Where were the residential areas, the luxurious estates and villas that were supposed to girdle the edges of big industrial cities? It seemed like everypony Berry knew lived in crappy two bedroom apartments that were fifteen minutes from their places of work; fifteen minutes from the public high school where they dumped their children for the day; fifteen minutes from the bars and nightclubs where they stoked their burning sorrows with booze, bad music and worse sex.

Fifteen minutes from everything! There was no place in Manehattan you couldn’t get to in fifteen minutes via subway, so how in sweet Celestia’s name had Berry let herself get talked into accepting one of the department’s squad Steamers?

Ass-backwards. That was the only word needed to describe Manehattan. It was no wonder the city churned out borderline cartoon super villains with the same regularity as Canterlot when producing pompous, self-entitled jerks. Madness was built into city’s foundation. It was the mortar that held the bricks together, the asphalt used to pave the roads.

It didn’t make sense to own a Steamer in Manehattan; everything was too close together to make driving practical. Wherever they were going, they would’ve been there by now had they taken the subway. Which left only one more question…

“Where are we going?”

“To work, Berry.” Carrot Top hung a left, turning onto a side street where the evils of traffic were less of a dominate force. “Didn’t you hear the bad news? They let the Prankster out. We’re going to work.”

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The Carnies’ hideout was more than just an underground slaughterhouse. The illicit restaurant was but one stopping point in a complex network of underground tunnels that, according Grift, ran beneath the entire city. The tunnels were the oldest smuggling routes in Manehattan. They were almost as old as the city itself, and pre-dated Little Gryffindor by more than six decades. They were dug years ago by immigrant diamond dogs attempting to replicate the stony caverns of their homeland, and were later used by criminals to shuffle black market wares about the city in secret.

That, however, was a long time ago. The tunnels were inert now, and had been since the big police crackdown that followed the South Side Riots. After settling things with the griffin gangs, the police made it their mission to clear out the smuggling routes. Many of the tunnels had been filled in, but the mayor and the city officials of the time had neither the budget nor the horsepower to destroy them all.

Grift claimed that transforming the tunnels into a hideout was her idea, but the congregation of eye rolls from her fellow Carnies suggested otherwise. She read this unified gesture as a covert act mutiny, surely the first of many. Diane had been home for less than an hour, but Grift’s hold over the gang was already slipping away.

She also didn’t know what to make of this Pinstripe character. He seemed harmless enough, but if Diane had taken a shine to him he was probably as unstable as the rest of the gang, even if he didn’t know it yet. Diane had a talent for unearthing the latent darkness hidden in the hearts of every Manehattanite—maybe every living creature on the planet. Grift couldn’t count the number of times she had watched the pink lunatic reach into another's soul and drag out his or her worst qualities. The cops and the other gangsters liked to accuse her of infecting the city with her insanity, but Grift knew better. She had been with Diane long enough to realize that The Clown Princess of Crime didn’t spread madness; she fed on the preexisting insanity. She wasn’t the bad apple that spoiled the bunch, just a worm gorging on rotten fruit—one more bottom feeder in a city teeming with them.

And while Diane may have been a worm, she was a crafty one. Grift knew better than to pick fights with her. So, having no desire to upset her boss, she elected not to slit Pinstripe’s throat when he asked where they were going for the seventh time. She told him to shut it. Their destination was Carnie business, and Grift made it clear to Pinstripe that his presence was being tolerated only because Diane seemed to like him.

As Pinstripe endured Grift’s tongue-lashing, he made a mental note to stop following criminals down dark staircases, roads, alleys, or in this case, sewer tunnels.

The tunnel was cool and damp and reeked of spoiled food, bowel movements, and the promise of impending illness should one linger for too long. Rats scurried along the edge of the stone walkway, bony-tailed drunks that occasionally misstepped and fell into the stream of murky water. The current flowed adjacent to the walkway, and the water was the same oily black as the rats that swam through it.

Pinstripe watched the rats curiously. They dropped into the water, swam about for a spell, then waded back to dry land, only to repeat the process again and again.

One rat didn’t though. It dropped into the stream and was instantly sucked underneath. When it failed to resurface, Pinstripe squinted at the spot where it had disappeared. He thought he saw movement under the water.

Grift was in no hurry to be away from the foul smells and the peculiar rats. She and her band of carnivores strolled deeper into the tunnel with the haste of gorged sloths.

Walking three paces behind Pinstripe, Flour and Lintsalot chatted eagerly among themselves, already celebrating the future wealth promised to them by The Prankster. They spoke with the familiarity of childhood friends, finishing each other’s thoughts and giggling at inside jokes.

Mr. Turnip, the silent male griffin with the lazy eye, drifted overhead, his wings flapping inches below the jerry-rigged light fixtures that clung to the rounded ceiling. The lamps were ancient but dogged in their adherence to life, their blinks like the final defiant pulses of a weak heart. The constant flickering bothered Pinstripe, but Turnip glided on, unfazed.

Grift strolled at the group’s head, a brooding lioness leading her pride, her tail bouncing between rich brown thighs, practically tucked between her legs. She moved languidly, making poor use of the agile limbs that carried her strong body. She had left her coat lying on the dining room floor, and presently wore nothing but the dual shoulder straps that holstered her firearms.

“So what’s your story, herb?” Lintsalot chirped. “You supposed to be Diane’s apprentice or something?”

Oh Celestia in her ivory towers, is that what it looked like? Pinstripe fumbled with his response, then gasped and jumped when he felt Flour’s damp nose lodge itself between his thighs. The nose wiggled as it sniffed his privates, sucking back a deep drag of zebra musk.

“What the—!” he yelped, leaping away from Flour so hastily he nearly stumbled into the stream of sewage.

“He Laughing Pony’s squeeze, maybe,” said Flour, struggling to speak through her own raspy giggles. “He smell like want. Like bad want.” She covered her mouth with a paw and tittered in her sheepish way, though her actions a moment ago were anything but.

“It ain’t like that,” said Pinstripe defensively, straightening his tie as he gathered himself. “I work for Krieg. I’m just taking Pinks back to his place so they can talk is all.” After a short moment he added, “And what’s wrong with you animals? Who just shoves their face in a guy’s junk like that? It ain’t natural.”

“Flour is dog. It plenty natural. Like saying high,” Flour explained. Her tongue dangled from her open maw, her tail wagged gleefully. She liked the zebra’s scent. It was earthy and faintly muggy, like soil after a spring shower.

Distrust invaded Lintsalot’s expression. He cocked an eyebrow and said, “Hold up a tick. You saying you work for Krieg? As in Blitzkrieg? As in the Blitzkrieg?”

“There ain’t more than one,” answered Pinstripe.

“Pinstripe saying Pinstripe is Shadowbolt? Pinstripe is liar,” rasped Flour, sniffing at the zebra’s tail. “Pinstripe smell too pretty. Pinstripe is Daughter, maybe.”

“Why do you dogs keep saying that?” Pinstripe didn’t appreciate being likened to a Daughter of Discord. Few ponies did. “For the last time, I’m a Shadowbolt.”

“You’re gonna be my next meal if you don’t keep it down back there,” said Grift.

“What’s eating your boss?” asked Pinstripe, speaking softly as not to be overheard by Grift.

“Grift is always moody,” rasped Flour, her voice nearly a whisper. “Grift no like having fun. Work, work, work, always with Grift. Flour is glad Laughing Pony is back. Grift is boring. Always boring.”

“Aw, what do you know about it?” trilled Lintsalot, his high-pitched lilt distinctly more bird than cat. “Grift ain’t boring, she just ain’t crazy.”

Flour shrugged. “Grift is mad because she not boss anymore. Laughing Pony in charge now. Make Grift angry.”

“I can hear you back there,” said Grift, glaring over her shoulder.

Lintsalot fluttered above Pinstripe’s head and drifted toward Grift. He was a hair taller than the average baby dragon, too big to perch on Grift's shoulder as he used to, so he settled for nesting on the small of her back. “And I’m not angry,” she continued. “You think I care enough about that pink dweeb to let her ruffle my feathers? Pfff, dream on.”

“Yeah, dream on,” chirped Lintsalot. “Grift’s way too cool for that.”

Flour sped up and walked alongside Grift, leaving Pinstripe to bring up the rear by himself. She covered her mouth with a paw and laughed her raspy laugh. “Grift not cool when Laughing Pony mentioned ‘mutual friend’. Grift was scared. Flour know. Flour smell fear.”

Grift’s eyes narrowed to slits, but she said nothing.

“What do you know about it?” said Lintsalot, replying for the older griffin.

“Flour know plenty. Flour smell good. Smell better than you see.”

“You don’t know nothing. Dumb dog, you can’t even talk right.”

“Flour not dumb. Flour smarter than silly bird-cat.”

“If you’re so smart then talk right. Say I. Say I’m not dumb,” taunted the little griffin.

Flour shrugged off his insult and answered with one of her own. Their friendly schoolyard prattle transformed into a callow spat between children.

They argued until the group arrived at an iron door that disrupted the sameness of the tunnel walls. The door looked like something ripped from the pages of a Daring Do novel, an iron gate that guarded a priceless treasure. The sight of it might have surprised Pinstripe, if not for the six or seven other similar oddities he’d encountered on his way to this one.

While the tunnels were no longer in use, a number of stopping points were peppered throughout the labyrinth. Most of them were doors, like this one. When Pinstripe asked where the doors led, Flour explained that most of them were abandoned living quarters left over from when the diamond dogs still lived in the tunnels. Some of the doors even had numbers scrawled on their faces, like rooms in a hotel. When Pinstripe questioned the reasoning behind the numbers, Flour huffed, crossed her arms and said, “Diamond Dogs like nice things too.”

He wasn’t sure what that meant. Was this business of room numbers meant to be some imitation of surface society? Were they trying to live like equines, even as Equestria shunned them?

The padlock hanging from the door ruined its storybook veneer, divorcing it from fantasy and marrying it to reality. Grift barked for Lintsalot and Flour to stop arguing. Once they fell silent, she ordered Turnip to open the door.

Turnip landed, dug into his coat pocket and retrieved a key that looked too large for the lock. He fumbled with the lock for almost a minute before giving up on the key. Tossing it aside, he tried to pick the lock with his index talon. When that didn’t work either, he made a sound that was somewhere between a roar and caw and slashed the lock to pieces with a single stroke of his talons. The sound startled Pinstripe. It was the first time he had heard Turnip’s voice.

Grift sighed as Turnip opened the door. She would have to replace that lock later.

Pinstripe had been expecting a medieval dungeon; instead he found himself in some kind of storage room. The room was a cement box with walls the same stony grey as the tunnels, and a tiled floor as clean as the one in the meat freezer. Racks upon racks of guns divided the room into neat aisles, like bookcases packed with metal and hostility in place of paper and knowledge.

The weapons were arranged by type.

No—by make.

Size, maybe?

Color…?

He wasn’t sure; he didn’t know anything about firearms. The best he could do was distinguish the normal guns from the modified ones.

The normal guns looked like Grift’s pistols, and like the firearms carried by unicorn police. Griffins used this sort of gun, while the modified weapons had been altered to accommodate other species. Pinstripe thought the altered guns looked silly, like props from a low-budget science fiction movie. Among the hundreds of firearms, he spied clunky-looking things designed with a diamond dog’s paw in mind, and pistols as big as house cats that must have been for minotaurs. An oddly shaped rifle hung from the ceiling, larger than the iron door and marked by a white label that read “Drake E15.”

Pinstripe walked the aisles in search of equine firearms. He didn’t find any.

“What’s all this?” asked Pinstripe. Without thinking, he reached forward to touch the hilt of one particularly attractive revolver. The beetle-black firearm reminded Pinstripe of the sort used by the police.

Before Pinstripe could touch the revolver, Turnip seized the back of his neck and hoisted him into the air.

“Don’t touch anything on the racks,” Grift warned Pinstripe, who was trashing in Turnip’s gasp. “Those are for sale. And relax, Turnip’s not gonna hurt you. Quit trashing before you break something you can’t afford.”

Without waiting for a gesture or verbal command, Turnip dropped Pinstripe and stole away down the aisle, his long trench coat flagging with his movements. He seemed less a sentient creature and more an extension of Grift’s will, like a puppet she controlled with strings tethered to his mind.

Pinstripe mumbled curses in his native tongue. “For sale?” he echoed as he collected himself, straightening his tie for what must have been the hundredth time in the last few hours. “What do you need Pinks for if you’re running a smuggling job this big? This stuff must be worth hundreds of thousands.”

Grift smiled ruefully and smoothed a tuft of feathers on her head. “You really think I run all this?” She waved for Pinstripe join her at the back of the room. “These guns are due to be shipped overseas by the end of the month, and I promise you I don’t see a cent of that money.”

Overseas? But that meant they were exports, not imports. That didn’t seem right.

“The guns are made in Manehattan?” asked Pinstripe.

“Look at that, it can think too,” said Grift, clapping sardonically. The little griffin on her back mimicked the clap, his claws coming together in perfect rhythm with Grift’s.

“Where do they go?” asked Pinstripe, ignoring the patronizing remark.

“There’s always someone somewhere who wants someone else dead,” she said flatly. “Most of these babies are military grade. They’re on their way to my home country to help the warring tribes settle their differences.”

“I thought griffins designed guns. Why buy Equestrian?”

“Same reason everyone buys Equestrian.” Grift cocked an eyebrow and pointed her index talon upward. “You can’t make metal, rubber or plastic out of clouds. They don’t have the resources, get it?”

That made sense. Not all the griffin territories were sky cities like Cloudsdale, but enough were to make gathering sufficient resources for war tricky. Especially since Gryffindor was always at war.

“And you’re okay with giving your fellow griffins the means to off each other? I mean, it's your homeland, right? Doesn't that mean anything to you?” It was a loaded question, but Grift took it in stride.

“I'm not there now, am I?” she said with a smirk.

Spoken like a true Manehattanite. Pinstripe was almost proud.

“That junk on the racks ain’t for us,” said Grift, gesturing to the wall behind them. “The Carnies only play with the best toys.”

By ‘the best toys’ Pinstripe assumed she was referring to the few guns hanging from pegs nailed into the back wall, though, he could’ve been wrong. The griffin’s flat tone made distinguishing sarcasm from sincerity difficult.

A collection of rusty weapons hung from the wall, looking sterile compared to the sleek killing machines that lined the racks. These guns, Grift explained, were relics left over from the South Side Riots, which meant they were well over thirty years old. Grift claimed they were more reliable than the mass-produced junk that was heading overseas.

Pinstripe wasn't impressed. “Yeah... I say we use the new stuff.”

Grift reared up on her cat legs and pulled at her holster straps. Lintsalot hovered at her side, wings beating like a hummingbird's, and did the same with his overalls.

“I just told you that crap is for sale. I let anyone mess with the merchandise and it’ll be my ass,” said Grift. “And what’s this ‘we’ shit?” she added after a short pause. “There’s no ‘we’, herb. There’s you, there’s me, and there’s the freak calling the shots. We ain’t roomies in a fucking sitcom, so don’t go unpacking your shit just yet.”

“Yeah, don’t go unpacking your shit!” echoed Lintsalot.

“Come on, pinching a few can’t hurt,” insisted Pinstripe. “You mean to tell me Pinks doesn’t let her own gang use her guns?”

Apparently Pinstripe had said something funny, because both Lintsalot and Grift burst into laughter.

“As if Diane could pull this off,” Grift chuckled. “We’re talking about making money here, not bombing hospitals and orphanages. That dweeb doesn’t know the first thing about heading a business.”

Upon hearing this, Pinstripe, without meaning too, conjured a metal image of Pinks dressed in a pants suit and sitting at an office desk, her scarred faced taunt with concentration as she calculated her yearly earnings on a giant abacus. It would make a good sketch comedy skit, but he couldn’t seriously imagine Pinks being in charge of any black market dealings. In fact, now that he’d met her in person, he couldn’t imagine her being in charge of anything.

But if not Pinks or Grift, then who did this operation belong to? Pinstripe posed the question. He didn’t like the answer.

“The Oranges,” said Grift, her flat tone unwavering. She proceeded to casually explain her role in Mandarin Orange’s arms trafficking racket. It was simple enough: first weapon parts were brought into the city from various regions of Equestria. Then the guns were assembled in “Machine Shops”: makeshift factories peppered throughout uptown, usually disguised as legitimate businesses. Once manufactured, the guns were sent underground for storage, where they were watched over by Grift and the Carnies until they needed to be shipped. Grift’s job was to take inventory and make sure nopony stole, damaged or tampered with the merchandise. In essence, she was a glorified security guard.

Pinstripe listened to Grift’s explanation, his accusing glare probing deeper with every uttered word.

“Look herb, l only took the job because I wanted some start-up money for the restaurant,” Grift explained. “Diane was behind bars and I needed a new gig. Yeah it was a bonehead move, but it’s too late to bow out now. If I were to cut and run I’d be up to my neck in Oranges by tomorrow morning—and not the squishy kind you make juice out of.”

The name Blood Orange popped into Pinstripe’s head. He massaged the bridge of his nose, frustrated, and just the tiniest bit scared. “Does The Prankster know about this?” Another loaded question.

“Not yet,” answered Grift—and no more was spoken on the subject.

She then whistled for Turnip, who was hovering near the ceiling, admiring the Drake E15. Upon hearing her call, he floated down and landed beside her.

“Listen up, Carnies,” announced the gang leader. She raised her voice to indicate the beginning of a speech, and also to get Flour’s attention. The dog was fooling around with a bright pink cannon in the corner of the room. “Listen up, Carnies,” she repeated. Flour didn’t hear her the second time either; her head was stuck in the cannon’s mouth.

Grift gave Turnip a nod, and he stole across the room and yanked Flour free.

Then she began again. “I don’t know what Diane has planned for us, but if I know her it’ll be big, it’ll be dangerous, it’ll be stupid, and it’ll be soon. You guys know the drill. Racked guns are merch, all ammo is fair game. Turnip, you’re on boom-stick duty. Flour, grab down Digger’s rifle.”

Flour’s ears perked and excitement flared in her eyes.

“And before you ask, no, we aren’t bringing the cannon.”

Flour’s ears drooped, her excitement fizzled. “See, Grift is no fun. Laughing Pony is fun. Laughing pony always brings the cannon.”

“Stow it, Flour. Grab the rifle and as much ammo as you can carry. You too, herb,” said Grift, addressing Pinstripe. “There should be a suitcase leaning against one of the racks in the third aisle. Dump whatever’s in it and fill it with slugs. Turnip will show you which boxes to grab.” Grift pointed to the aisle she wanted Pinstripe to search, then raised her voice and said, “Alright Carnies, time to lock and load. Let’s get out of here in ten—and not a word about this to Diane, understand?”

The others exchanged anxious glances. They understood. They understood perfectly.

Pinstripe stayed where he was and watched Flour sniff at the guns hanging from the wall. She ran her nose over the rifles along the bottom row, and eventually settled on one that was longer than the others. She pulled it from the wall and strapped it to her back, then began searching for ammo, her nose hugging the floor.

Flour was blind, he noticed, though he hadn’t before.

“Hey, herb!” Grift called. “Quit standing around. I said I want us out in ten.” She pointed sternly in the direction of the third aisle.

“Yeah, she wants us out in ten, herb.” Lintsalot pointed as well.

Pinstripe found the suitcase. He opened it and started to dump its contents, but stopped when he saw what was inside. So there was treasure behind the storybook door after all, he mused, grinning a sly inward grin.

A dusty grey revolver sat nestled in the suitcase. In place of the gun’s handle was a metal band just wide enough for a pony to slip his hoof and fetlock through. Curious, Pinstripe slipped the weapon onto his right forearm, wearing it like a murderous bracelet.

It fit like a glove.

He stood on his back legs and aimed the gun at a make-believe foe, beaming and looking like a foal playing with his father’s gun. His fun was spoiled when he realized the weapon had no trigger. He lowered it and returned to three legs, eying the barrel curiously.

“Out in ten, herb!” Grift called from the adjacent aisle.

“In ten, herb!” Lintsalot echoed.

Pinstripe gave a start, then quickly shoved the gun back in the case and buried it under random boxes of ammunition. As he finished packing the case, he looked up and gave another start. Turnip was looming over him, watching his every move.

“It wasn’t on the racks,” the zebra stammered. “I was just gonna—”

Turnip placed his index talon over his beak, indicating for Pinstripe to be quiet.

“It’s cool, herb,” he said, his voice deep and smooth. He knelt at the zebra’s side and opened his trench coat, revealing a holstered sawn-off shotgun. “Everyone needs a partner in crime.”

Pinstripe nodded.

Turnip started down the aisle, stopped, turned back and said, “You have to flick the hammer.” Pinstripe gave him a puzzled look. “You know, like in the western movies.” Turnip pantomimed the action, drawing a pretend revolver from his hip and repeatedly flicking the hammer back. “Bang, bang. Like that.”

As Turnip turned to leave the aisle, Pinstripe aimed his own pretend pistol at the back of the tall griffin's head. “Yeah, bang, bang,” he said, one eye closed, a smile on his face. Then he grabbed the suitcase handle in with his mouth and started down the aisle to join the others.

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The MPD headquarters was located near the northernmost edge of midtown, a fact that mildly distressed Carrot Top, because getting to utter the phrase “We’re talking you downtown” while shoving crooks into the back of her squad Steamer was the main reason she had become a cop in the first place. In every detective novel she had ever read the police station was always in the downtown area, the heart of the city’s ganglands, surrounded on all sides by urban decay, impending danger, corruption, violence—all the stuff of good crime drama.

There was no drama in building a police station in midtown. Of all the places in Manehattan, northern midtown most closely resembled what Carrot considered an average Equestrian city. One could find normal things in midtown; things like furniture stores, movie theaters, a college, market places, malls, banks… It wasn’t “another world,” or anything so dramatic, but the food tasted better, the streets were cleaner and the ponies dressed in finer clothing than was the case in the downtown areas.

Midtown reminded Carrot of Ponyville, which is precisely why it was a lousy place to build the police station.

Carrot found a nameless side street west of the main road that wasn’t flooded with other vehicles. Technically it was a “scenic route”, and would deliver them to their destination with no time saved, but Carrot preferred this alternative. She would rather drive for another twenty minutes then sit in traffic for another ten.

Impatience was not a good quality in a detective, Berry mused as the Steamer swerved in and out of lanes, driving around slower moving carriages. But then, neither was alcoholism or chronic underachievement, so Berry figured she was in no place to judge.

With the dull throb of last night’s drinking binge pulsing behind her eyes, Berry pulled the lever on the side of her seat and reclined. She reached into the saddlebag strapped to her hip, which was more of a pocket without pants, and removed a spiral bound notepad. The words “The Record: Vol. XX” were written sloppily on the notepad’s cover in black marker. She drew a pen from behind her ear.

From the corner of her eye, Carrot watched Berry flip open the notepad. “That better not be…” she started.

“It is,” Berry finished. She uncapped the pen and placed it her mouth. “For the record, I’m calling bullshit on your story about The Prankster,” she said, talking and writing at the same time. It was a trick she had dedicated many hours to mastering, but it was time well spent. She was now one of the few ponies in Manehattan who could, without the aid of magic, simultaneously explain and chronicle bullshit.

The Record was a yet-to-be-completed twenty volume chronicle of all the noteworthy bullshit that had transpired within the MPD for the past five years. It was passed around ritualistically from detective to detective, and since Carrot had just been promoted to the title, it was her and Berry’s turn to depart their wisdom (or lack of) onto the sacred tome.

Carrot hated the record. She didn’t like the idea of her bullshit being written down. Probably because she was full of it.

“Why would I make up something like that?” asked Carrot.

“Because you’re an insecure attention whore and a chronic liar,” answered Berry.

“Am I? Huh, that’s pretty bad. I should work on that,” Carrot said nonchalantly.

“Because you’re a sadistic bitch who enjoys jerking me around.”

“Not true. I enjoy jerking everyone around.”

“Because you’re a jaded twenty something who hates her job and has nothing better to do.”

“Come on, Berry, don’t make this about you.”

The conversation continued like this for several more exchanges. Neither listened to what the other said, neither needed to; they had been doing this song and dance for so long the lyrics had lost their meaning. Only the melody still mattered, only the gist. They weren’t talking, just gauging each other’s mood.

Carrot Top and Berry Punch had been partners for only a few weeks, but they had been best friends for most of their lives. They joined the academy at the same time, but Berry, despite of her lack of ambition and tendency to slack off, rose through the ranks quicker than Carrot. Within the MPD, Berry Punch was well known for being something of an idiot savant. Whereas Carrot Top was known for being an idiot.

“Because you’re a moron,” said Berry, still answering the same question. “You’re not lying. Somepony told you The Prankster is loose on the streets, and you, being a moron, believed them.”

“You’re such a child.”

“Did you by chance pay for this information? I’d love to add ‘gullible retard’ to my list of your best qualities.”

“Can you even hear yourself talk?”

“Come on, Carrot, what else you got? Shining Armor comes out of the closet? Neighboring griffin tribes declare piece after five decades of civil war? Don’t leave me hanging, partner. Vol. XX is still light on bullshit. I’ve got plenty of room.”

“Fuck off.” Carrot sped up to make a light, nearly clipping the back of a carriage as it passed through the intersection.

“I’m sorry, Carrot. Did I hurt your wittle feewings?”

Carrot glared at a stop sign as she yielded to it. “This is serious, Berry. You remember what happened five years ago, don’t you? What it’s like when she’s on the streets?”

“Yeah, it’s open season on blue-suits,” answered Berry, pitiless. “When she’s out there every punk with a ski mask suddenly thinks they’re a kingpin. She brings out the worst in this city’s scumbags, so what?”

“So what? They’ll come after us, that’s what. The Prankster hits the streets and all respect for the badge is lost. You remember how many we lost last time?”

“Yeah, I do,” Berry smirked. “How do you think I got promoted?”

Carrot sighed, her frustration building. “I don’t know about your dumbass, but I didn’t give up pulling carrot’s out of the ground so I could come to the big city and get my skull caved in by some groupie punk with a hard on for a clown in bad makeup.”

“I know. You gave up farming for the same reason you give up on everything. ‘Cause you suck at it.”

“Berry…”

“Oh, and in case you didn’t notice, it’s a stop sign not a brick wall,” said Berry, pointing a hoof toward the open road.

“Damn it, Berry, listen to me!” Carrot slammed her hooves on the steering wheel. “We’re gonna die, dipshit! That sound funny to you, because I promise it’ll be funny to her!”

Berry rubbed her forehead. Carrot’s little episode was making her headache worse. “Would you please relax and drive the damn car.” She put The Record back in its tiny pouch.

Begrudgingly, Carrot drove on. After five minutes of driving in silence, she ran out of backstreet and had to pull onto the main road again. They were near the station now.

“So how do you know about the clown’s comeback and I don’t?” Berry asked, after giving her partner enough time to cool off. “This is front page level stuff we’re talking about. What gives?”

“One of my sources contacted me.”

“One of your sources contacted you?” Berry repeated, her bullshit sensors flaring. She reached for The Record.

“Okay, okay. A friend of mine who works for the Post tipped me off,” Carrot admitted. “She said the story didn’t break because the mayor shut it down. Didn’t want the citizens freaking out, I guess.”

“More like he didn’t want to wave a flag for all the crazies. If she really is back, she’ll bring all the worst ones with her. She’s like this busted bug zapper my aunt used to have. Never killed a fucking thing, just attracted a bunch of moths.” Berry massaged her temple. Her head wasn't feeling any better. “So who’s this ‘source’ of yours? And if you say Tracy Flash—”

“I never said it was—”

“If you say Tracy Flash, I’m getting out of the Steamer.”

“Flash is a perfectly reliable—”

“That’s it, pull over.”

“Now who needs to calm down?”

“Flash is a greedy pervert, and you are a dumb motherfucker for trusting her. Now pull over and let and me out. I need a drink.”

“Berry...” Carrot’s voice rang with notes of distress and concern. She didn’t like Berry drinking during the day, as it usually meant she was in a bad way. Despite her reputation, Berry was actually a happy drunk. Her drinking during sun up meant something was bothering her, and that she was seeking solace in a bottle instead of from her friends.

Berry picked up on Carrot’s concern and banished it with a laugh. “I’m just messing with you.” She teasingly nudged her partner’s shoulder. “Geez, you’re on edge today. I just want some coffee. The caffeine does wonders for my hangovers.”

Carrot shook off her distress and smiled along with her friend. “Ah yes, booze and caffeine—the holistic approach to health.”

“Would you shut up and pull over,” Berry laughed, shoving her partner again.

Carrot started to pull into the driveway of a homely looking coffee house, but Berry said, “No, stop off at the mini-mart on the corner.”

“Their coffee tastes like gonorrhea discharge,” retorted Carrot, wrinkling her nose for effect.

“True, but it’s also cheap.”

“True, but it also tastes like gonorrhea discharge.”

“Just ignore the taste,” reasoned Berry. “Eat to live, Carrot, don’t live to eat. Only fatties enjoy what they ingest.”

Carrot rolled her eyes as she parked across the street from the mini-mart. “Fine, fine. Have it your way, Berry, but you’re buying. I’m not paying for gonorrhea discharge.” She opened the door and started to climb out, but stopped when Berry touched her shoulder.

“Hold up,” said Berry, her voice ringing with apprehension. “Do you see that?”

“See what?” Carrot sat back down and peered across the street. “What are we looking at?”

“That dopey-looking stallion there.” Berry pointed out a pegasus who was harnessed to a parked carriage across the street. The stallion flicked his ear and shook his head, neighing. A bug landed on the tip of his nose. He seemed engrossed by it.

“What? That weirdo standing outside of the mini-mart?” asked Carrot, making certain that she and Berry were seeing the same thing. “He’s probably on something—something good by the look of him. Wanna shake him down and lift whatever he’s smoking? I haven’t gotten high on contraband in ages.”

While Berry did like the way Carrot was thinking, now was hardly the time.

“Look closely, Carrot,” she said, squinting. “I’ve got fifty bits that say dopey there is missing a tongue.”

Carrot blinked. She could see it too; there was definitely something animal about the stallion’s mannerisms. “What’s a Tongueless doing this far into Midtown? The Bolts usually take all that territorial crap seriously.”

“He might be on loan to one of Filthy’s guys,” said Berry.

“They do that?”

Berry shrugged. “Crooks are lazy. They don’t like pulling their own wagons.” She opened the passenger door. “Wait here.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m just getting us some coffee,” she said innocently.

“And what am I supposed to do?”

“Stay by the horn. If you hear shooting, call for backup.”

Carrot stroked the steering wheel, suddenly anxious. “Be careful," she said. "If they are Filthy’s thugs then… well, you know how it goes. We aren’t the law here, Berry.”

Berry glowered at the thought. Her head throbbed. “Neither are they,” she said, stepping onto the sidewalk.

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

Drunkenness settled into Digger's flushed face, numbing his lips and cheeks. He raised a bottle of wine to his mouth, too far under the liquor's spell to realize his drink had run dry. His head tilted back, hanging for several seconds before the bottle’s emptiness became apparent. With this knowledge came a sense of falling. His body lolled, and his back met the face of the prep-table he was sitting on.

The bottle rolled from his open paw. Fell. Shattered.

The noise made Digger laugh stupidly; it sounded like the crash of a weak will breaking under the stomping jackboot of vice. A familiar sound, one that tickled his funny bone with feathers made of painful truth.

There was a startling lack of salt in the kitchen, but plenty of liquor. And though Digger had never been much of a drinker, he decided intoxication was intoxication, and that one poison was no better than any other. Laying on his table-hammock, chuckled at his weighty thoughts as only the very drunk can.

And he was very drunk. He was one swallow away from puking, but thankfully he was too sated to rise and fetch another bottle. He was also too far gone to care about the horrors accosting his senses.

Lifeless, blood-coated bodies lay strewn about the kitchen, adorning the walls, counters and stove tops like terribly realistic Nightmare Night decorations. The faces of dead griffins were frozen in shock and horror, eyes wide, beaks contorted in unnatural shapes. Red gashes curved across slit throats like second mouths grinning beneath chins.

One of the cooks, a female griffin with glacier-blue feathers, was slumped against an oven door, her wings hacked from her back and shoved in her gaping beak. Digger giggled and wondered how The Prankster had found time to do that. The other cooks had been killed by quick slashes or stabs or bone-crunching strikes, their lives snuffed before they could gather their wits and protect themselves.

But butchering this blue-feathered griffin had taken time. She must have died last, Digger concluded, but more important than the how was the why. What had this one done to earn the most creative end? A wrong look? A curse or a shriek? Digger giggled. At times like this he often found himself giggling at The Prankster's antics. When he was alone, intoxicated and surrounded by the city's madness, he laughed because he knew what The Prankster knew. He got the joke. It wasn't funny, but he laughed just the same.

After some deliberation, Digger decided to have another drink. Vice be damned. Addiction be damned. His days of sobriety were over, and his days on this planet were numbered. The Prankster was back; he had no more use for clean living.

In a moment of weakness, he hopped down from the table and went to fetch another bottle of wine. For reasons he didn't understand, wine was shelved under the dish sink beside the cleaning supplies. Strange. Everything about this place was strange.

The lights died as Digger reached under the sink.

"Stupid power is out again," he grumbled. He stayed crouched by the sink, waiting for the power to return as it always did. In the meantime he uncorked a fresh bottle and drank.

A sound like rustling cloth startled him. It was faint, but Digger's canine senses were sharp enough to detect it. Alert now, he dropped the bottle and fell to all fours, eyes shifting blindly in the darkness.

"Grift?" he tried carefully, probing the blackness with a rasp. "Grift, power is out again."

No answer. Only silence.

Digger stood upright and scratched his temple. His panic waned. There was no one there, he reasoned; the alcohol was making him hear things. Giggling at his own paranoid behavior, he looked around one more time, just to be sure.

He didn't see the eyes until he looked up.