Manehattan, the smelly rear end of Equestria. Quite a few ponies come here for a taste of life in the big city, yet none of them look closely at the clubs or bars they go to, which are really just houses of crime. All of them hide some notorious criminal who could very well be the drunk fool you're sitting next to. The police always check these places for them, and whenever they ask the owner, he denies ever having met who they're looking for in a manner so convincing, he fools everypony. Everypony except for me. I see through the owner's lies all the time, because he's a pony I've known for a few years, as I frequented his club for the exquisite drinks made here. He's also the pony I have a contract for. I was told it was time he "found another job", because he's "well past retirement age". That's how my employer worded it at least. What they really meant was: "he owes money, but he's well past due. Make sure he's dead." And of course, they wanted this kept quiet. They gave my partner a different contract, one they could care less about how loud it was just to keep her happy and out of the way. She never was one for finesse, or precision for that matter.
The Mossy Log was the name of the club I was in, notorious among the officers in the Manehattan Police Department for multiple reasons. The contract I was given was for the owner, Cold Mug, who had outlived his use with my employer. I sat in the farthest corner in the back of the club with a tall glass of cider mixed with a shot's worth of aged grape juice, my eyes following the owner closely. I knew him well, and almost considered him a friend. However, this wasn't the time to be getting sentimental.
The only light in this particular corner came from candles on the tables, the colored lights from the stage for the mares who danced in ways considered "exotic" by the colts, and the occasional match to light a cigar or cigarette. I couldn't let Mr. Mug leave my sight for the slightest moment, and I couldn't let him see me watching his every move. That's why I picked this spot. It allows me to wait in the shadows long enough for the right moment to arise.
"Another glass, miss?" said a waiter who seemed to appear from nowhere. He had a tray covered with loose shot glasses and bottles, yet I didn't hear him coming. I looked down at my glass. Evidently I was so focused on the task at hand, I didn't notice I'd finished my drink.
"Why yes please." I said casually. The waiter placed another glass, with the same mixed drink as before, but placed a bag and a folded piece of paper next to the glass. He smiled at me, then cantered off to tend to other customers. I picked up the bag. Upon opening it, I found a suppressor that seemed to have been hastily wrapped. Why would a waiter hand such a thing to a customer? Perhaps he knew why I was really here. The piece of paper that came with the bag confirmed my suspicions. He knew I was a contract killer, that's why he gave this to me... I looked up just in time to see Cold Mug walk through a door behind the barkeep's counter. I screwed the suppressor onto the barrel of my pistol and put it back in the holster I had sewn into the inside of my dress before getting up and trotting briskly to the front counter, changing my gait to a drunken stagger when I was closer to the more brightly lit end of this whore house. Let's hope my acting classes pay off. I stumbled over behind the counter to the door the owner went through, and as soon as I put my hoof on the door...
"Hey lady, employees only through this door!" Crap, security.
"I thought this was th' bathroom." I slurred. The guard brought his hoof to his face and sighed, muttering something about drunk mares and bathrooms, and reached for my shoulder. In a flash, I grabbed his outstretched leg with one hoof and brought his face down onto the counter hard enough to hurt, but not hard enough to kill. He dropped onto the floor, and his snoring assured me he was unconscious. I quickly set him in a chair with a mug of cider, with a little bit of the mug's contents spilled on the floor to make him think he passed out after a quick drink if he woke up. If the visual proof didn't work, then the accompanying headache would assure him that this was truth. With the peace of mind that the guard wouldn't trouble me a second time, I slipped into the room my target had entered.
He was alone, sitting at a desk, and I could hear him talking to somepony else over the phone. I already knocked out all the guards, so I don't have to worry about them on the way out. I could see the club owner's hoof waving about on one side of his chair. One shot to kill, silenced. Seven others, without the suppressor, in various spots to make it look and sound like an amateur killed him. No witnesses. Everything was playing to my hoof perfectly. I felt overcome with sadness and sadistic joy at the same time.
But Octavia, you've known this colt for a long time! He's your friend!
No, he's just another notch on your handgun now.
Both of you, shut UP! I need to focus, otherwise this could all go downhill.
"....Yes I know boss... I-... But boss, I can only hide your best gun for so long before the feds catch on that I'm hiding him right under their noses!" Cold Mug said, concern lacing his tone. There was a short pause, before I heard him splutter. Apparently he had taken a drink and something the pony on the other end said had surprised him. "Wait... Whadya mean you don't need my services no more? I'm as loyal as those hoity-toity Royal Guard guys up in Canterlot!" Another pause. "What? You want me to turn around in my chair? Now, what's this got to- alright I'll do it boss!" I stepped out when I heard the squeal of his chair turning. Cold Mug still had his eyes towards the phone. "Alright, I've turned in my chair and I'm faci- oh...." Puff. I watched as Cold Mug slumped over in his chair. I trotted over to the owner's desk and picked the phone up off the floor with a gloved hoof. I looked over at his body before bringing the phone close to my ear.
"Hello?" I said rather timidly.
"Miss 'Shades of Grey'?" It was deep and heavily distorted, but I recognized the accent. Thick Germane. I only knew one pony with that accent, and it was my employer, Photo Finish.
"Yes, this is Shades of Grey." I said, regaining my professional demeanor.
"What of Mister Mug?" she asked.
"He's dead." I said.
"Ahh, wunderbar. I trust you left no vitnesses?" my employer asked.
"Everyone that would've seen is out cold. The only one dead is the stallion you gave me the contract for."
"Ahh, you are more efficient zan I first thought, Miss Grey. Your pay vill be doubled and delivered directly to you zis afternoon by a courier zat I hoof-pick. Aufwiedersehen, Shades of Grey." she said before I heard the click in the earpiece. I set the phone back on the floor as close to its original position as I could. I unscrewed the suppressor, and aimed the gun at the dead pony still slumped in the chair, my expression remaining stone cold. Seven shots Octavia. Make it look unprofessional.
