Arc ONE: Chapter 6

A terrified howl flew from Digger’s mouth as he scrambled through the kitchen, fleeing from the glassy eyed horror at his back.

Not her, he thought frantically, the words pulsing in his skull as if alive. Not her! Not now!

He was seconds from reaching the exit when something snagged his collar and jerked him off his feet. He tried to scream again, this time for help, but his collar went taut and lassoed his neck, silencing him. His cry died before leaving his throat, a stillborn plea for a mercy that wasn’t coming. That he didn’t deserve.

Calling for help was pointless. The others couldn’t hear him, and even if they could they weren’t coming. Not for him. Not for cowardly little Digger. The Carnies weren’t his friends, his family or even his loyal partners in crime. Digger had no friends. He had nothing of the sort. Nothing at all. His only companions were his drugs and his salts and his bottles of cheap wine…

His bottle! He had dropped it just before trying to flee, and now he felt it again, nudging his paw as the monster dragged him away from the exit.

No… not a monster. Just a pony. Just a mare. Digger was the only monster in this room. The only Carnie and the only predator.

He grabbed the bottle by its neck, sprang up and took a blind swing at his attacker, eyes shut during the assault. He couldn’t look at her. If he did, he might lose what little courage he had mustered.

The bottle missed and broke against the floor, tossing up a spray of glass and whine. With what remained of his weapon, Digger took another swing, this one wild and hapless. His panic doubled as a mysterious limb shot out to catch his paw in mid-flight. The limb gave a sharp twist, snapping his wrist and making him drop the bottle. Wailing in pain, he took another swipe with his free paw but struck nothing. In his panic he swung again and again, clawing uselessly as he tried to fight a ghost in perfect self-induced darkness.

The predator sleeping in Digger’s gut roused and demanded that he open his eyes. His attacker wore darkness like a cloak, but her glowing eyes were always visible. If Digger opened his own, he would see her. And if he could see her, he could…

No. He would lose his nerve. He couldn’t face her. Not her. Anypony but her.

He continued thrashing in vain until something cement-hard barreled into his nose, crushing it on contact. Colorful dots blinked behind his eyelids, and he wobbled, dizzy and off balance. He told his legs to stagger backwards, to flee, but they kicked uselessly as his attacker hoisted him off the ground and threw him into a dish sink near the back of the kitchen.

A metallic clang rose up as Digger slammed into a heap of pots and pans. A sharp pain streaked across the length of his spine. His head spun, his wrist ached, everything hurt.

Slowly, he climbed down from the sink, baring his fangs and growling like the cornered animal he was. The low, guttural sound was alive with pangs of desperation, despair and something else. Something small and fierce that still remembered how to maim.

The predator in Digger’s gut was angry now, not with the shadowy monster, but with its host, the cowardly diamond dog. It urged Digger to bite and rip as he had bitten and ripped in the past. It told him to remember the cries. The loud and terrible laments of creatures dying as he stripped the flesh from their bones. As he drank their blood, swallowed their fear and fed on their agony.

Open your eyes, the predator rasped in a voice that was like Digger’s but ravenous. The predator was starving. For years Digger had tried to sate its appetite with drugs and dry its thirst with salts. It had worked for a time, but now it seemed that time was at an end. The predator craved meat and blood.

Raw meat.

Fresh blood.

His attacker sensed a change in the hunched diamond dog and held her offensive, circling him instead.

Digger searched the darkness for some trace of her, trusting his acute canine senses.

He sniffed, but she carried no scent.

Open your eyes.

He listened, but she made no sound.

Open… your… eyes…

Finally, Digger obeyed the predator. He opened his eyes... and there she was. There they were. Her eyes—those glowing portals of white light peeking out of a void. The opaque orbs shined in the dark as they glided toward him with ancient grace…

Seeking without wanting.

Glaring without hating.

Piercing.

Unblinking.

Haunting...

With fear and bloodlust swimming through his veins, Digger snarled and lunged.

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A thunderous bang announced the Carnies’ arrival. The sound was caused by Turnip as he kicked the door from its hinges. It was followed by a hysteric caw, then a terse command—”Kill that freak!”—then the unmistakable metal-upon-metal chatter of guns being loaded and cocked.

The last noise jolted Digger from his blooddrunk trance, and he dropped to the floor.

Bullets whizzed overhead, chewing the kitchen to pieces like a swarm of hungry parasprites. They ricocheted off kitchenware and stovetops; they punched holes in walls, cupboards and the bodies of the already dead cooks strewn about the room.

Muzzle flashes decorated the walls and floor with animated shadows. They danced in the flickering light, a parade of dark shapes gyrating in celebration of the ensuing carnage. They shook to the chatter of Lintsalot's submachine gun, and swayed to the deafening boom, boom, boom of Turnip’s shotgun.

Only Grift, with her duel pistols, bothered to pick her shots carefully. Using the light from the blazing gun barrels, her calculating eyes scanned, gauged, targeted, narrowed... and then bulged—ablaze with shock and recognition.

Not her! Not her! Not her!

It was panic, not purpose, that swayed Grift to join the chaotic orchestra. She squeezed her triggers more recklessly than the others, her pistols blaring.

The intruder fled.

Grift shouted another command, and the Carnies gave chase. They charged past Digger and burst through the door at the end of the room, hustling out of the kitchen and into the freezer.

From where he lay on the floor, Digger heard the click-clack of guns being reloaded.

Shots echoed from the next room for what seemed like a long time. When they finally stopped, the lights came back on. Silence invaded both kitchen and meat freezer. Digger rested his head against floor, glad for the quiet.

“What the fuck was that?” asked a shaky voice.

Digger rubbed his eyes against the stinging light and squinted up at Pinstripe, who was standing over him with an outstretched foreleg. He accepted the helping hoof and rose back to his feet. “Mask Pony is back,” he said, hoping he didn’t look as terrified as he felt.

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Grift holstered her guns and looked around the inside of the freezer, despairing as she surveyed the damage. Everything was ruined. Everything. The sides of beef hanging from the racks were riddled with shrapnel. The entire freezer was full of holes. Her kitchen was full of holes. Her cooks were full of holes—and they had been dead prior to the shooting anyway.

She groaned in frustration. Grift figured she could always slaughter more cows, find new cooks. Rebuild. Start over. But what was the point; the madness ceaselessly spiraling around Diane would destroy this place again. Her enemies would keep coming. She would keep coming. That faceless monster. She would return, and she wasn’t something Grift could fight with bullets. She wasn’t something Grift could fight at all. She was…

Grift placed a claw over her heart and felt it thump against her open palm. Too hard. Too fast. Now was no time to lose her head. Losing her head was the reason her kitchen was currently shot to pieces and her meat was ruined. If Grift was to weather this setback, she couldn’t afford to play the monster’s game. It was the same game that Diane played so well. Fear. Spectacle. Theatrics.

They were ghastly things, Diane and her monster, but at their individual cores Grift knew they were nothing but smoke and mirrors. They were ordinary ponies who hid behind masks and fancied themselves boogiemares. Neither had any real power, just disguises and scars and myths.

It was pathetic, Grift told herself, the way they needed their theatrics. The faceless monster needed darkness to terrify her prey, while Diane relied on racket to shock and confound. She needed her voice. Her—

“BWHAAAAAHAHAHAHAHA!” The Prankster’s laugh bolstered into the room before she did, a blast on the horn that heralded the mad clown’s entrance. “And here I thought you’d lost your sense of humor, Grift.”

Pinks bounced into the meat freezer, with Pinstripe and Digger following behind. Digger’s face was bloody and swollen. He clutched his broken wrist, dragging his feet as he trudged miserably.

“What is this? Some kind’a new party game?” said Pinks. “Oh boy, oh boy, let me guess. Is it called ‘pin the bullets on the butchered meat’?”

“Try ‘stick a fork in my livelihood’,” Grift said dryly.

“Awwww, what’s the matter, buddy? You seem a little down in the dumps.”

Grift didn’t answer, still shaken by what had just happened.

No… not just shaken. Scared. All of them looked scared.

Pinks’ hyperactive eyes darted in her skull, scanning the shell-shocked faces of her underlings. She had known Grift a long time, and she knew the calm, collected griffin didn’t scare easy.

Pinks broke out in what Grift judged to be a nervous sweat. “She was here, wasn’t she?”

Grift swallowed hard. “Try again, dweeb. A bunch of hero cops stormed in here and trashed all the meat. Wrecked the kitchen, too.”

“Grift, don’t lie to me,” said Pinks. She wiped her sweat-stained brow, smearing her makeup. “She was here. She was here and you were shooting at her...”

“Relax, Diane, you got it all wrong,” said Grift. “The cops raided the place and skipped out when we started shooting back.” A pause for thought. “Right, herb?”

“Ah, yeah, boss,” said Pinstripe, electing to play along. “It was cops like Grift said. One of the bastards even caught Dig—I mean, uh, Rocky here with a baton. Busted his ugly mug wide open.” Pinstripe nudged Digger, prompting him to nod in agreement.

“Not you too, Pincushion.” Pinks wheeled on Pinstripe with an abruptness that made him flinch. “I thought we were friends. Friends. Don’t. Lie. To. Friends.”

“Honest, boss,” Lintsalot chimed him. “We wouldn’t lie to ya. We’re your pals.”

“Yes, Laughing Pony is Flour’s best friend in whole world,” Flour added.

Even Turnip nodded, though he remained silent.

“Okay, okay. I see what’s going on here,” said Pinks, giggling. “Pranking the Prankster, hmm? Well—hehehehe—I can’t say it’s been done before.”

Pinks wobbled closer to Pinstripe, moving with that same calculated stumble she had displayed while leaving the asylum. She threw a foreleg around his neck and nuzzled his cheek without love or lust.

“Did you put them up to this, Pin Prick?” She seemed to unwind against her zebra friend, all traces of tension leaving her features.

“Sure boss,” said Pinstripe. “I figured you of all ponies would appreciate a good... gag...” He meant to say more, but his train of thought was disturbed by the appearance of a sharp pain between his ribs.

His knees buckled. He started to fall, but Pinks tightened her hold on his neck and kept him from sinking to the floor.

“That’s not funny,” she growled.

The knife slid from Pinstripe’s body with a wet sound. He groaned and tried to squirm free, but was stabbed a second time, a third, a fourth, until finally Pinks allowed him to slump to the floor.

A congregation of apathetic eyes watched Pinstripe writhe on the tiled floor like a wounded animal. Uncaring ears listened to him wretch and heave as he struggled to hold back the scarlet tide of mortality escaping through the holes in his side. Only Digger thought to help him, but stayed his own paw for fear of incurring more of The Prankster’s fury.

For a strange collection of seconds, Pinks stood over the felled lump of a zebra, and something resembling remorse lit her active blues. She stared down and blinked several times, looking confused. Pinstripe stared back from where he lay, and in that moment he was sure Pinks couldn’t see him. The hyperactive blues were distant. She was looking at something else. Something that wasn’t there, and the sight of it saddened her.

The moment was short lived. The last thing Pinstripe heard before plunging into unconsciousness was that laugh. That damn taunting laugh. Then the one laugh became many, and Pinstripe drifted off with thoughts of chanting bullies. What’s black and white and red all over, they repeated again and again. Some part of him smiled inwardly at the grim humor, as if only just now grasping the joke.

“Who’s hungry?” asked Pinks, returning the short switchblade to its hiding place in her sleeve.

At this the Carnies brightened.

“I could eat,” answered Grift.

“Yeah, I could eat too,” echoed Lintsalot.

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Hammer and his brother Sickle, a pair of white-coated pegasi with shaved heads and short red tails, scoured the mini-mart in search of decent junk food.

Twenty rested her elbows on the front counter and waited for the cashier’s response, hoping she would have to repeat herself. Twenty loved the sound of her own voice. It was decidedly masculine, but not unattractively so, and complimented her androgynous features well. Her cheeks were full and girlish, her lips thick, but the shoulders beneath her poised neck seemed intent on obscuring her femininity. They were noticeably muscular, and stretched into a pair of brawny forelegs that put most adult stallions to shame.

The store owner, a middle-aged earth stallion with a mocha-colored coat named Decaf, was too spooked to give Twenty an answer. His nerve had left him the moment he noticed the double lightning bolt tattoos etched on Hammer and Sickle’s necks. The tattoos meant he was dealing with Shadowbolts, and the shaved heads and cropped tails meant they were some of the worst.

Decaf’s timid eyes shifted, unable to meet Twenty’s gaze. He couldn’t agree to her proposition. He didn’t have enough money to pay the Shadowbolts for protection, Filthy Rich was already bleeding him dry.

“I see you are having trouble making decision,” said Twenty in her gruff Stalliongrad accent. “Is fine. Is no trouble at all. I will, how you are saying, sweeten deal.”

Twenty whistled, prompting Hammer to dart up to the counter. He seize Decaf by the throat, hoisted him in the air and threw him over counter, slamming him headfirst into the floor. Hurt and disoriented, Decaf tried to roll away, only to find Hammer’s horseshoe driving into his throat, pinning him to the floor.

Standing over Decaf, Twenty bumped hooves with Hammer. She was enjoying herself for a change. Decaf’s convenience store marked the fourth place on her list of uptown businesses ripe for extortion, and so far things were going smoothly. Taking advantage of honest, hard-working citizens was something she did better than most. And now that The Prankster was free and working with the Bolts, those citizens would need extra insurance against her coming rampage. And for her that meant more work and more money in her pocket.

“Agree to terms now,” Twenty began, “and not only will the Shadowbolts offer protection for your lovely business, but my comrade Hammer here will also not be crushing your skull like oversized grape. Is win-win deal, da?”

“Yeah—I’m gonna go with no,” said a confident voice coming from the doorway. Twenty looked up from her fun, and a gale of anger roused in her chest as she fixed her one good eye on Berry Punch, who was pushing open the front door and strolling inside. Berry strutted with the same cocksure swagger shared by all of Manehattan’s finest. She didn’t even look at Twenty as she entered, opting to fix her attention on a nearby magazine rack instead.

“Detective Punch, is been too long,” said Twenty. “You are looking well. Tell me, how is your partner doing these days. Last I am hearing he is still not walking so good.”

“I got a new partner,” said Berry, coldly.

“You mean your silly comrade who watches too much TV?” Twenty chuckled at the thought of a pony as ridiculous as Carrot Top making detective. “She was promoted, da? Tell her I am saying congratulations.”

“Spare me the pleasantries,” said Berry, scanning the collection of magazines. “You're a long way from the South Side, Twenty. You and the Bolts aren't welcome here, and Filthy Rich takes his lines in the sand very seriously. Better tuck your tail and scurry on home before you end up somepony’s hit list.”

Sickle looked to Twenty, waiting for the order to dispose of the bothersome detective. Twenty gave no such order. Instead, she ambled closer to Berry and said, “Lines in sand are being redrawn. Shadowbolts are expanding. How you say… seizing opportunity.”

“And what opportunity is that?” said Berry. After failing to find anything appealing on the magazine rack, she shifted her attention to a stack of bound newspapers resting on the floor beside the door. Using her teeth, she tore the plastic tie, then picked up an issue of the Manehattan Post.

Twenty watched the arrogant detective with a look of disgust. She wanted to pounce on Berry and pummel her into a purple and red stain, but killing a cop wasn’t something she could afford to do without good reason. The MPD operated like gang, arguably the most insidious gang in Manehattan, and Twenty didn’t like the idea of starting a turf war with the police. Not just yet anyway.

“You haven’t heard news?” said Twenty. “Prankster is back on streets and working with Shadowbolts.”

Berry hid a surprised face behind her paper. “That’s twice now I’ve heard that load of shit,” she said, casually turning a page.

“Is no shit. She and Blitzkrieg are meeting as we speak.”

“Picking out party decorations, I'll bet. While you… do what exactly? Stick up convenience stores? Isn’t that a bit below your pay grade?”

“You are having story all wrong. I am doing store owner a favor. A storm is on horizon, comrade, and I am merely offering this poor stallion shelter. For a price, of course.”

“Of course,” Berry returned. “So let me guess: you and the Bolts spring Pranky from the asylum, then she does you a solid by stirring up a little mayhem. She starts bombing preschools, holding up banks—the usual shenanigans—and the only way to guarantee safety during her rampage is to pay up to Krieg.” Berry lowered the paper just enough to peer at Twenty, her eyes threatening narrow slits. “Well, am I in the ballpark?”

“You are having gist, comrade,” replied Twenty. At this Berry burst into laughter.

“Get the fuck out of here,” she said. “That’s got to be the biggest load of crap I’ve heard in weeks.” Berry dropped the paper and leaned her back against the magazine rack, crossing her hinds at the fetlocks. “I won’t lie, I was all kinds of nervous when I saw that Tongueless parked outside. Thought maybe I was dealing with Baritone or Primary. You know, a real gangster, not a couple of guppies.”

Twenty seethed but said nothing.

“Okay, okay, okay,” said Berry after a short pause, laughing at Twenty’s frustration. “Let’s pretend that this ‘return of The Prankster’ fantasy is legit. You mouth-breathers are crazy if you think she’ll work with you for longer than half a second. She can’t be controlled.”

“Not controlled,” corrected Twenty. “Simply pointed in right direction. Perhaps… in your direction.”

With a snort, Berry returned to all fours and swaggered up to Twenty. “Oh I bet you’d like that,” she said. “That clown with her boot on my throat, saving you the trouble of getting back at me yourself. How long has been since I gave you that nickname, Twenty? Three years? Four? I’m not keeping count, but I’m sure you are.”

Actually it had been five years, right after The Prankster’s incarceration, and yes, Twenty was absolutely keeping count. Five years ago she and her family had been the victims of severe police brutality, and it was under Berry’s own callous baton that Twenty and her family had suffered. The cocksure detective—only a rookie then—a club, and several blows to the head were the reasons Twenty could no longer see out of her right eye.

Her brother was dead for the same reasons. Her mother as well.

“You press luck, Berry,” said Twenty, her cheeks growing hot with anger. “I am not same scared filly anymore, and you are not having half dozen pigs to watch your back this time.”

“I didn’t need the backup then, and I don’t need it now.” Berry lowered her head and snorted like a bull preparing to charge. “Whenever you’re ready. Comrade.”

Twenty lunged forward and tackled Berry, sending the two of them crashing into the magazine rack. They wrestled amid a mess of fluttering pages as magazines fell to floor. Twenty, despite her superior size and strength, she couldn’t seem to gain the advantage.

They appeared evenly matched, until finally Twenty managed to pin her adversary. She postured up to strike the Berry, but the detective’s hoof shot up and caught her on the jaw. The blow was jarring. Her upper body went slack, and as she slumped, the crown of Berry’s head snapped up to meet Twenty's nose. A moment of pain and blackness followed the headbutt, and then Twenty was on her back, a downpour blows crashing into face and neck and chest.

“What’s the matter, Twenty?” Berry taunted as she pummeled Twenty, her hinds straddling the larger mare's hips. “You’re fighting scared. Worried I’ll take your other eye?”

Berry held Twenty’s head with one hoof and bashed her good eye with other. She landed several blows, until Twenty managed to catch the bludgeoning hoof and sink her teeth into Berry’s fetlock. Jerking her hoof free, Berry cursed and aimed a smack at her rival’s cheek. But the brawny bear of a pony simultaneously rolled and bucked her hips, tossing Berry from her mount.

They separated, scrambled, then clashed again—tussling at close quarters and battering each other with wicked intent.

Hammer and Sickle cheered on their fellow Shadowbolt, but resolved to spare Twenty’s pride by staying out of the fight.

Meanwhile, Decaf had crawled away behind the counter. He shouted at the twin pegasi, ordering them to leave, but the command resounded through the store unheeded. They ignored him until the vicious thump of wood slamming into flesh and bone demanded their attention.

Hammer didn’t see the baseball bat until after it struck the nape of his brother’s neck. The blow turned Sickle into a rag doll; he tumbled to the floor completely limp.

Before Decaf could take another swing, Hammer seized the bat with his strong jaw and tore the weapon from Decaf’s grasp. Then, in one quick move, he dropped the bat and bit down on Decaf’s tail instead, seizing the earth stallion, spinning and then hurling him across the room. Decaf pitched through the air and crashed into a pyramidal display of soda bottles, rolling for a spell before coming to rest in a sticky pile of blood, cola and broken glass.

Before he could twitch a muscle, the enraged Shadowbolt was on him, pounding his barrel with stomps that lived up to Hammer’s namesake.

Berry and Twenty were only vaguely aware of this new melee that had erupted, too swept up in their own private war to care. Their fight was more even now, but the bruises on Twenty’s face and the welts on her side were clear indications that Berry was still winning, if only by a hair.

Berry aimed a left at Twenty’s eye, smiling as it landed with a cracking sound. Her rival staggered back, and she lunged forward and hit her again, this time clubbing her mouth and chipping a tooth.

The fire of struggle was in Twenty’s chest now, and with that undying flame came the memory of police officers trampling her family, snapping their limbs, caving in their skulls. She remembered the mad neigh on Berry Punch’s tongue, the stink of booze on her breath, and the stinging thud of her club—rising and falling, and falling and rising, and smashing the world to pieces.

Neighing, she spun around on her front legs and bucked Berry with both rear hooves, knocking her to the floor. A brawny front leg dropped onto Berry’s neck, making her gasp. She tried to roll away, but Twenty was too heavy, too strong. Berry clamped her hooves around the limb and struggled in vain to pry it from atop her throat.

Her world was growing darker, quieter, and somewhere out in the black, nearly-silent world, Berry heard voices cheering. Then the cheering was disrupted by a crash of shattering glass, a bone-rattling crack, an agonized cry.

The cry belonged to Twenty, and the crack was caused by Carrot Top as she barreled into the brawny wall of a mare at a full gallop. Seconds later Berry was on her hooves and Carrot was at her side, wearing a spooked expression that told Berry it was time to go.

“We need to get the hay out of—” began Carrot, but her voice was smothered by a sudden uproar of police sirens and rushing hooves.

And then Berry heard the wail, ghostly hollow but earthshakingly loud, and the blood in her veins turned to ice.

Carrot Top grabbed her partner, who was momentarily scared stiff, and together they galloped for the back exit.

A police Steamer pitched through the wall facing the street, crash-landing were Berry and Carrot had been standing moments ago. Carrot looked back, but only for a second, and then redoubled her efforts, galloping as fast as she could while half-dragging her badly battered partner.

They were at the back exit when the ground started to shake, and just as Carrot kicked the door open, a bright pink light enveloped one of a wall and began peeling it away.

Decaf shrieked in horror as he watched his store being torn apart. He started to run, but the pink light enveloped him, lifting his hooves off the floor. His limbs twisted. His joints snapped. He screamed. Then the light dissipated and he dropped to the floor, a veritable pretzel of mangled body parts.

The wall was gone now, and so was most of the ceiling. Out on the street a number of police Steamers and carriages had been overturned, and several officers lay in a state similar to Decaf's.

The wailing stopped. The light had faded.

Berry Punch and Carrot top were long gone, and so were Hammer and Sickle. Only Twenty remained, her lower body pinned under the car that had crashed through the wall.

Two unicorn stallions entered the ruined building, one walking ahead of the other. The stallion in front waddled toward Twenty on stubby legs, not caring that his long brown overcoat dragged across the floor. A wide-brimmed hat covered his stunted horn, partially hiding the tangle of orange and black mane that sprouted like weeds from his angular head.

The second unicorn loped forward on long, needle-like legs, making a conscious effort to trot slower than his small companion. His sickly yellow face caught the sunlight from a sideways angle, and the rays seemed to pass right through his cheeks, lending him an otherworldly translucent appearance. He wore the same manner of clothing as his small friend: an overcoat with a white button-down shirt, a tie, a hat and thin leather gloves.

“My boss Filthy Rich sends his regards,” said the little unicorn, his voice a tiger’s growl billowing out of a house cat. He stood over a trapped Twenty and telekinetically drew a long-barreled revolver from his jacket. The gun hovered over Twenty’s head, its barrel aimed straight down.

With a thought, the small unicorn ordered the gun to bark.

Blood splashed, and Twenty bellowed as a high caliber round punched a hole through her shoulder. It took her a moment to realize she wasn’t dead. When the notion sunk in, her breathing quickened.

“You tell Blitzkrieg him and his feathered friends aren’t welcome north of Clydesdale,” said the small stallion. “We stay out of his turf, he stays out of ours. That’s the way it’s always been.” Using his magic, he drove the gun barrel into Twenty’s wound, making her groan through gritted teeth. “And if I ever see you this far from your gutter again, I’ll put a bullet in your good eye. We understand each other?”

The gun barrel twisted, probing deeper into Twenty's wounded shoulder. She grimaced and mumbled her agreement.

More police arrived just as the small stallion holstered his gun. Five squad cars pulled up, sirens blaring as they surrounded the ruined minimart.

“Lot a trouble for still being broad daylight out,” said the small stallion, raising a hoof to shade his eyes against the bright sunbeams.

“T-tah-toooooo earlyyyy… for… tha-thi-thissss shit,” replied the taller unicorn, his voice a high-pitched and elongated whine.

“You said it,” said the small one. “Alright, get us out of here, Soprano.”

“Riiiiight…a-a-awayyyyy… Ba-Baritone…”

A bothered frown touched Baritone’s lips. He sighed. Then he and Soprano vanished in a pink flash, leaving the police to apprehend Twenty.