Sheriff Silver Star had one of the easiest jobs in the world. This is something most law enforcers couldn’t claim, but then most law enforcers didn’t have a town like Appleloosa on their watch.
He was sitting on the porch outside his timber office, leaning against one of the posts with his arms – or rather forelegs – folded behind his head. He admired the sandy sky above. Even the clouds were a faint maize colour. It was like the surrounding desert had encouraged the rest of the world to join in.
Not much could be heard at noon. Behind him, he could make out the distant piano tunes from the Salt Block. He waited for the creak of hinges and the thud of a thrown customer hitting the road, but it seemed Salty had learned to behave himself today. Silver Star breathed in and sighed through his moustache.
A few fillies ran past the steps of his office and out of sight. Most of them were wearing bonnets, but one or two had cowboy hats smothering their faces. Silver Star tutted disapprovingly. Bonnets were more suitable for the young ‘uns, and he privately thought that hats – like his – had to be earned. Nothing against the law, though, so he forgot about them and adjusted his folded legs.
As he was rolling a sky-blue eye over to peek at the clock tower, the faintest of rhythms met his ears. Silver Star frowned. He rolled over his rump to a sitting position. There it was again: a clank, then a creak, followed by something like a whir and a whistle before the sounds looped back to the beginning. They were getting louder. It sounded like some kind of machine.
Shutters creaked open as ponies across the road looked out of their windows. Silver Star strode down the steps onto the hard earth as more ponies came out to see. Some crimson monstrosity was chugging its way from the desert beyond the road and it drove towards them. All heads turned to focus on it, while the Sheriff adjusted the red bandana around his neck.
What looked like a gigantic carriage trundled towards the crowd and stopped with a prolonged hiss. A plough the size of an outhouse roof pressed into the pale brown stallion’s face. On top of it, he could see a speaker’s podium, and behind that was a sofa. Silver Star made a mental note as he stepped back: carriage parking violations. Haven’t had to make a note like that in weeks.
Two angular unicorns hopped down from the front and beamed around at the crowd.
“Good afternoon, Appleloosans!” said the one with the handlebar moustache. He tipped his straw hat. “Have you heard the good news?”
“In the middle of the heatwave, when there’s nothing to down,” said the second. “Don’t despair. ‘Cos the Super Speedy Cider Squeezy 6000’s come to town!”
“Get your prime time cider, right here, folks!”
“We provide ready-made home-grown Appleloosan apple pleasure. We make only the best! Bring your own apples and we’ll turn them into the sweetest, neatest pomace-powered darn-tootingest beverage in the west!”
“Just like mother used to press the old-fashioned way!"
"But with a modern, mechanical, marvellous, mouth-watering twist!”
Silver Star sized up the strangers. Several ponies in the crowd began to growl.
“You fellas the Flim Flam brothers?” he said, while behind him a few hooves pawed the ground.
“Ah, you must be the local Sheriff.” The clean-shaven one slid over, and suddenly Silver Star had a face full of toothy smile. To the Sheriff's annoyance, the stranger tapped the silver star badge on his blue waistcoat. “It’s no surprise you’ve heard of us. We are, indeed, the world famous–”
“Got a friend in town who knows your names,” the Sheriff said. The entire crowd was gathering around the three of them now. Most of them had bared their teeth and their pupils were as narrow as gun barrels.
The twins adjusted their bow ties and smoothed down their barber shop vests. Both of them had nervous grins on their faces.
“Oh,” said the moustached one, as his brother backed into him. “Is that so? Wonderful. And, uh, might I ask how he knows us?”
“He’s got a cousin,” said Silver Star, as the ponies reached behind their backs and pulled, seemingly out of nowhere, an apple pie each. “You two boys’ve met her. She’s from Ponyville.”
Several forelegs drew back. The brothers chuckled nervously.
"Ah," said the moustached one weakly. "That sounds familiar."
The air was even heavier on the crowded streets of Manehattan. Every brick apartment was dotted with square windows, all of which were curtained. The tiny sloped roofs on top of each building shimmered under the sun.
Mares in dresses fanned themselves and tried to hide the sweat patches on the muslin and lace. Stallions didn’t dare take off their top hats and bowlers, except to wipe their foreheads or smooth down their manes. None of the foals had dared venture beyond the stone thresholds.
Of course, summer was never going to get the high society ponies to dress sensibly. They had weathered such hardships as raised eyebrows, looks down noses, and the hurly-burly of upper class gossip. Living under such harsh selection pressures for generations, the Manehattanites had long since bred a sophisticated strain of unflappable cosmopolitans. If the Joneses next door hadn’t persuaded them to wear lighter fabrics or sensible hairstyles, then frankly a flaming ball several thousand miles away in the sky was wasting its time.
Aunt Orange, for example, was never going to stop piling her mane into a beehive, despite the fact that a long flowing mane would have shielded the back of her neck wonderfully. Nor would Uncle Orange ever take off his dinner jacket, lumpy though the shoulders were. Dinner jackets and beehives were in this season.
They both strode across the cobbled boulevard, threading between the parked rows of carriages. It wasn’t like the quiet old days, when the word “traffic” was an exotic loanword you only heard spoken by uncouth ponies. Aunt Orange hated the rows of drivers honking their horns. Some were so used to making no progress that they climbed up onto the carriage roofs and played card games.
“Disgraceful,” she muttered, as they reached the other side. “You’d think the city council would do something about them.”
“They did, dear,” said Uncle Orange. “They put up some… traffic lights.” He flinched with distaste at the word.
As they walked past one of the iron streetlights, the lamp on top switched from red to amber. Aunt Orange harrumphed.
“You never find a green light in this city,” she said. “Aren’t they supposed to turn green at some point?”
“We’ll send the council a letter about it when we return home.”
They turned the corner and walked out onto Cavaletto Square, where the traffic was no better. They both stopped, and blinked at the sight.
At the very fork of the road, a gigantic red block spat smoke out of its two pipe chimneys. On the top, beside two glass domes like upturned flasks, a stallion waved to the crowd. His brother hopped down from the trumpet-ended pipe next to him and joined the mass of pony heads. Neither of them seemed perturbed by the river of carts that had frozen to a standstill, and neither of them looked like they were going to move.
Uncle Orange wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Well, I never! No wonder the roads are in such a state. They’re blocking the avenue.”
“What are those buffoons doing?” said Aunt Orange. “The council will hear about this.”
Manehattan was filled with travelling crowds. They were made up of ordinary pony folk, but at the first sign of street theatre they suddenly stopped where they were. They seemed to have found the best way to profit from whatever was happening. As the Oranges approached the crowd, the two of them noticed stragglers hurrying the other way. Everypony who passed them had a wooden barrel on his or her back.
“Don’t worry, everypony!” shouted the salespony on the box. Behind him, the box opened to reveal a slide, and a barrel bounced off the end. “There’s plenty of cider to go around!”
“Get your own personal barrel right here!” shouted his brother in the crowd. “We’ve got kingfisher’s, black roan, icy joe’s, windmill, tough arrow, bluestone, clean gramps, timberwolf barrel, and three-nail cider varieties! Right here! Right now! Get them before they’re gone!”
The one threading his way through the crowd held out his straw hat. Bits rained down into it, and before the pile overwhelmed the brim, he tossed the gold over his head. With a satisfying rattle, the money fell into an empty barrel standing a little aloof from the others.
Aunt and Uncle Orange exchanged glowers.
“Excuse me!” Uncle Orange yelled over the crowd. Both Oranges were pleased when nearby ponies gasped at the sight of them and stepped aside, bowing and smiling out of respect. “Just who do you two think you are?”
“Flim and Flam!” One of the brothers landed in front of them. “At your service, sir and ma’am! Cider selling is our trade, so sweet, refined, and freshly made! Would your good selves care to patronize our produce and try a free sample?” The shaven stallion held up a flagon.
“I beg your pardon?” said Aunt Orange, looking scandalized. “Did you say Flim and Flam? As in–” she stared while Uncle Orange gaped at them “–the Flim Flam brothers?”
“The one and only!” shouted the brother on the box, which they now noticed had wheels.
The Oranges turned their noses up. “The same Flim Flam brothers who tried to cheat our niece out of her business?”
Everypony in the crowd gasped. The chattering died. All eyes were focused on the brothers.
“What?” said Flam.
Flim slapped his hat back onto his head. He didn’t notice a couple of coins that bounced beside his hoof.
The two Oranges turned their backs on him.
“I wouldn’t be seen taking an ounce of apple produce from these two confidence tricksters.” Aunt Orange shut her eyes superciliously. She heard a few ponies in the crowd mutter among themselves. One or two eyed the barrels with suspicion.
“How can you possibly know who we–”
“Our niece keeps correspondence,” said Uncle Orange. Some of the older mares in the crowd nodded approvingly. “We like to keep informed of family affairs. And I must say, any pony who treats our kin, however distant, so disrespectfully deserves no welcome or custom in our fine old city of Manehattan.”
They snorted, and strode away. Behind them, the awkward shuffling of a crowd of socialites became louder, and murmuring noises grew to an angry chatter. The Oranges were soon followed by a caravan of like-minded citizens, some of whom were even trying to copy their contemptuous faces.
“No, wait! Don’t go!” shouted Flam, his voice echoing around the brick skyscrapers. “We’ll throw in a two for one bit offer! You pay one bit, we’ll provide you with two barrels! And we’ll take one of them home for you! Free of charge! Come on! Is this the Big Apple or is this the Big Apple?” His voice rose with desperation and the need to drown out the renewed honking. “What do we sing? Mane-hattan, Mane-hattan, is a jolly swell town! You know this song! Sing it with me! Oh, come on!”
Even in the blindingly white cloud city, with its rainbow waterfalls and cumulus towers, the heatwave was getting to be too much. Rainbow Dash’s mane was slick with sweat. Her feathers wilted. Even her eyes felt dry and shrivelled.
Behind her, the four other pegasi arranged themselves in a V-formation. Several were groaning and flapping their wings irritably. She frowned over her shoulder.
“Quit whining and pony up, Ditzy!” she said, trying a few press-ups for show. “Just a few clouds over the north bit of Equestria and we’re done for the day. Work now, rest later! OK?”
Her weather squad snapped to attention. Rainbow scraped a groove into the asphalt runway and snorted. She heard four scrapes and four snorts behind her.
“Alright, sound off! Showers.”
“Check.”
“Cloud Kicker.”
“Check.”
“Ditzy Doo.”
“Aye aye, boss-mare!”
Rainbow sighed. “Just say check, Ditzy.”
“OK. Check, Ditzy!”
“Ah, close enough. Raindrops.”
“Check!”
“And Rainbow. Check!”
All five pairs of wings tensed like knives held over loaves of bread. Five pairs of goggles snapped into place. Five pairs of eyes narrowed.
They widened suddenly when five pairs of ears heard a clanking. Most of the pegasi looked around nervously. Rainbow looked up, but she couldn’t see what was making the noise. It was setting her teeth on edge.
At the end of the runway, where the cloud gave way to empty air, a whirligig rose into view. It glowed with a sickly green aura, a sure sign of unicorn magic. Suspended beneath it was a gigantic machine, on top of which Flim and Flam were lying with their backs against the cords.
“Presenting,” said Flim, with his eyes closed, “the Super Speedy Cider Squeezy 6000, customized and ready for all your high-flyer needs.”
“You can’t say,” said Flam, also with his eyes closed, “that we don’t think about our customers.”
“You!” Rainbow growled. Suddenly all the pegasi were hovering. Flim and Flam opened their eyes with a start. “Flim and Flam!”
Flam gaped at the rainbow mane that was rapidly filling his vision.
“Oh, for the love of Pete,” he said. Flim growled and threw his straw hat onto the floor. “Can’t we go anywhere without bumping into somepony who knows our names?”
Two of the pegasi swooped past him and plucked a barrel each from the back of the trunk.
“Get your hooves off our stock! That’s punishable under a Celestial Court of Law.” Flam rolled over to face them, but Rainbow was quicker and bit his bacon-coloured tail.
“Yoo schtay where yur!” she said between her teeth. The brothers gaped helplessly, then placed their hooves over their own noses.
Rainbow’s friends flipped the lids off and peered inside. They immediately wished that they hadn’t. Green fumes rose from the contents and smothered their faces. Even the other pegasi turned green in response. There was a lot of retching before the lid was snapped shut.
Not a lot could flap the Flim Flam brothers, but the look Rainbow threw at them came pretty close. They chuckled weakly when she let go of Flam's tail.
"Leftover produce, huh?" said Rainbow. "When was the last time you changed that?"
"Uh..." said Flam.
"Uh oh..." said Flim.
“Still up to your old tricks, huh?” she said, nearly in their faces. The brothers tried to hide behind one another. “You tried to run my friend Applejack off her farm, you tried to sell Ponyville a load of horse apples, and now you’re trying to pull your dirty tricks off in my cloud city! Oh, you jerks have had this coming. You jerks have had this coming for a long time!”
"This is our punishment?" said Flim.
They looked up at the multi-tier building and at the domed roof on top. It was quite a pretty building. Flam patted the pockets of his new uniform and snorted.
"She turned us over to the law, and this is the worst we get?"
"Don't complain," said Flam. "It looks like we got off lightly."
"But public service for 200 hours? Doing odd jobs in Ponyville?"
"Hey, at this point, name one town that hasn't heard of us. Darn those Apple family ponies. They must breed like crazy!"
Flim looked up at the building. "We don't even know the first thing about dressmaking."
"Hey, a bit of thread and needle. Anything's better than what I thought that rainbow freak was going to give us. What could possibly go wrong?"
They pushed the door open, and went inside. "Still, odd that this would be put at the top of our to-do list," said Flim. "She requested it specially."
"So what?"
"Well, I didn't like the look on her face when she did it." He held the door open briefly."It's like she knew something we didn't."
"Ah, that was just bluff. She has to obey the limits of the law. Relax, brother. I know a bluff when I see one." The door shut behind them.
An hour later, there was yelling, and frantic hooves thundered back and forth.
"Make it stop! Make it stop!" shouted Flim.
"Argh!" said Flam. "Will you quit your whining, lady? I can't feel my ears!"
"Whining?" said a third and distinctly feminine voice. "I am not whining. I am complaining. Do you want to hear whining?"
"Oh, way to go, Flam!"
"THIS IS WHINING -"
"Argh! I told you we should have gone into the carrot business!"
"Just shut up and pass me those earmuffs! Quickly!"
