Blinders Onby MagelloChaptersInvestigations, No Money DownRussian to PonyvilleTickle Me PinkStable and BreakfastPrologueInvestigations, No Money DownIt all started simply enough. I've got an office in Manehattan, down on 31st Street. It's not a big place; realtor used the word cozy. I used the word cramped. There was enough room for my desk, an overstuffed filing cabinet and a couch, shoved roughly to one side. There was a dirty window on the wall behind me, half opened and letting in what little light lingered from the sunset. I sat at my desk, contemplating the mountain of paperwork I couldn't be bothered to fill out. There was a half eaten meal pushed to the side. Bad curry. All I could afford these days. I shared the building with a lawyer and baker, both of whom made more money than I did. The rest of the rooms were vacant; something about the building being condemned and technically unlivable had driven off other potential tenants. Made sense. This wasn't a building for those on the way up. I fished around my coat pockets for a smoke. Hard times, hard times. I'd laugh if it wasn't so depressing. I put a cigarette in my mouth and cast about for a lighter. Another day without business meant another day for that stack of unpaid bills I was ignoring to grow an inch or two taller. The latest few had been demanding money with menaces. Some bypassed the money entirely and went straight to limbs. Some were downright rude. As I finally lit up and relaxed, a sound I didn’t hear that often made my ear prick. Steps, a single set, clopping up the stairs to my door. “Client?” I muttered to myself. “As if I'd be that lucky. Creditor? If it is, then I'd hear a few heavies setting up to beat me down. Cop? Come to shake me down for 'operational costs' maybe?” I opened up a drawer and eyed my security wand. I'm an earth pony, and proud of it, but sometimes you need a bit of magic to deal with those high-fliers and horn-heads. You never know what's going to walk through that door, and Mama Cartwright didn't raise no fool. I could see a female figure pause at my door and examine the frosted glass window. It said “CARTWRIGHT INVESTIGATIONS” in black lead. Had that installed back when I was younger, when I thought I'd make something of myself and go on to greater things. How life breaks you down. She pushed open the door with a dainty little shove. A dame in white with bright red mane, legs going all the way up. Earth pony, like me. Her eyes matched her hair, and I could tell she had an innocence to her that I had lost a long time ago. Her mark was a peach, ripe and full. I profess, I was a bit taken. But not taken enough to take my hoof off the wand. She looked around my dark office with what I'll call an expression of polite disgust. Her nose wrinkled as she took in the stale air heavy with smoke and stench of half eaten meals left sitting for too long. I noticed her gaze lingering on my couch and the heap of unmade blankets. Pretty obvious this office was lived in. Pretty obvious it'd been lived in for far too long. She walked in with a stilted gait; I could tell she was nervous, unused to a sleazy sort of place like mine. I motioned to the chair across from me, and she hesitated as she took in its dilapidated condition. She opted to stand. Smart filly. “Mister Cartwright?” she said. Her voice reminded me of cinnamon whiskey, heated and rough. I couldn't quite place her accent though. Sounded like something from out in the boonies. “My name is Southern Comfort. I heard that you could... help me.” I sat in silence, studying her face. She shifted uncomfortably under my stare as I tried to contain my excitement. I took a calming drag of my black cigarette, pleased at how steady my hoof was. “You, ah, you want to hire me, Miss Comfort? For some investigative work?” “Yes.” In my mind I was doing cartwheels and shouting with glee. “I was told that you were the only one who could help me find what I'm looking for. I really, really need your help.” She gave me a look that could have melted the heart out of a windigo, but I've been in this business a while, and if I had two bits for every dame that thought she could win me over with a smile and a look, I wouldn't be in my current financial straits. I rolled my shoulders and leaned forward onto my desk, fixing her with my most competent stare. I could tell she wasn't impressed. “Well, Miss Comfort, I'm sure that I could help you find whatever you're looking for, if I was available. But you have to understand that I'm often quite busy with work, and my rates reflect that. Quite, quite busy.” She looked at me. Looked at the desk, the couch. Took in the general state of my appearance. Something told me that she didn't believe me. “I don't believe you,” she said flatly. Yeah, that. She leaned forward suddenly, slamming her hooves on my desk. I was so startled that I jerked back, then tried to play it off as if I meant to lean back in my chair. Smooth, Shank. Never let them know they got you. “Mister Cartwright,” she began, more forcefully than before, “we both know that you need this job. We both know that you owe a lot of the wrong ponies a lot of money. I'm offering you ten thousand bits, plus expenses, to help me find something I need. If I walk out of this building, I can almost guarantee you'll never get an opportunity like this again.” I kept my face diplomatically straight. “Ten thousand, huh?” I didn't notice that my smoke had burned down until the ash fell onto my shirt front. I brushed myself off as I thought furiously. Ten thousand bits would pay off my debts, set me up for months. Wouldn't have to worry about what I was going to eat or dig through the back of nearby restaurants for scraps. I could almost taste it. And yet... Ten thousand wasn't a small amount of money. Wouldn't be offered for something easy, and something told me this filly didn't need me for divorce work. But still, what choice did I have? None, as it turned out. My door slammed open and we jumped, startled. Standing in the doorway was Money Down, an “asset redistributor” as he fancied himself. Unicorn, like most creditors. Loan shark. I could see the Leemare brothers standing behind him, looming. They were good at looming. Money Down stood there looking insufferably pleased with himself. “Mister Cartwright, as I live and breath.” His voice reminded me of rotten butter, thick and oily. “I've finally managed to catch you in your office. Why, if I didn't know any better I'd think you were avoiding me.” He leered at Southern Comfort, who drew back in disgust. “Who's your lady friend? You wouldn't be holding back on me, would you?” I smiled at him. Why not? Smiles cost nothing, which is what I planned on paying him. “Come on, Money, she's a client, why don't you leave her alone? I'll have you know that she's offered me a job that'll let me pay you back in full, interest and all. I've been a good customer to you, haven't I? We go back years, don't we?” He turned back to me, and I noticed a certain dangerous glint in his eye. “Oh yeah, Shank, we've known each other a long, long time. How many bits have I loaned you? Two, three thousand now? And yet you're always out, always tomorrow, after this job, after this windfall.” His voice steadily rose until he was screaming into my face, spittle flying, eyes wide with pent-up rage. “Well not any more, Shank! I'm sick of it! I've finally caught you, and I'm going to get what I'm owed.” His voice dropped to soft-spoken whisper, heavy with malice. “If not in bits, then I'll get my pound of flesh. Maybe your little lady friend can help you pay it off.” He laughed menacingly, but broke off when he saw the look on my face. I can be a right threatening sort when I try. He stood tall on all fours and cleared his throat. “Boys, take him and this office apart. Take the filly.” And as he turned his head to look to his goon squad, I grabbed my wand and kicked my desk hard as I could across the room. Papers filled the air in a flurry of white as the desk slammed into Money Down and pinned him to the floor. I could hear him shouting up a storm as I overcharged the wand and blew the window out of it's mooring. I spat the wand onto the the floor. “Come on!” I yelled to Southern Comfort, and her head snapped in my direction as she recovered from her shock. The Leemane brothers were trying to shoulder their way past each other and help their boss. He wasn't helping the overall confusion with his caterwauling and carrying on. Well, no time to worry about that. I jumped out the window, Southern Comfort at my heels. Don't quite know how long we ran. Long enough for the screams to fall behind, long enough to outrun the sirens and hubbub of the early evening crowds. We leaned on each other outside of Cafe Le Cheval, gasping for breath. She looked at me and couldn't stop giggling. I decided not to take that to heart. Bigger colt than that. “Is this how you normally do your job?” she asked, leaning companionably against me. I didn't say anything. It was nice. “Normally, no. Most times I wait in a bush for five hours with a camera, trying to catch somepony with somepony they shouldn't be with.” I fished for another cigarette and glanced over to her as I lit it. She had caught her breath and stopped using me as a support. “Guess I'm in your employ now. What's the job, anyway? Hopefully something out of town?” “Far out of town,” she answered. “Little place called Ponyville.” I had never heard of it. Somewhere in the sticks, I assumed. “Farther the better, all things considered. What am I looking for?” Her eyes went distant, sad. I'll remember that look in on her face. “My father was murdered." I grimaced. "I need you to find his will.” Russian to PonyvilleI blew out a cloud of smoke. “Listen, doll. I’m not one for murder cases.” “I'm not hiring you to solve a murder, Mister Cartwright. I’m hiring you to find a document.” The frostiness in her tone. Seemed I'd touched a nerve. She lead the way to the train station as the evening turned slowly to full night. I tried to spark a conversation a few times, but she’d decided to give me the silent treatment. I shook my head. Dames were sensitive creatures. I permitted her to buy my train ticket—expenses, you know? We passed a number of buskers on our way to the platform. There was a pegasus in an undone tie sang his way through Billy Foal's “Piano Mare”. A zebra rapped Big Daddy Colt's classic “Ain't No Half-Hoofing” and wasn’t doing a bad job of it. In the corner, a griffin played a sad ballad on one of the guitars. Must be nice, having thumbs. I gave each a few bits as I passed. The wheels of life turn for everyone, and I've spent more than my fair share of time with a hoof outstretched for a coin or two. When we finally joined the two or three patrons on the platform, we relaxed for the moment, me with my smokes, she lost in her own thoughts. The silence was companionable, broken only by the sound of Manehattan traffic in the distance. I wasn't particularly bothered. Never was much of a talker. Actually pretty helpful in my business. Ponies abhor a silence. Makes them nervous, and a nervous pony is a talkative pony. She cleared her throat and proved my point. “We found my father in his Manehattan office, slumped over his desk. Prognosis was that he'd been poisoned. When the police questioned the office staff, they found that he'd been playing around with one of the secretaries. When she started questioning his intentions, he dropped her like a rock and, well...” Her voice trailed off. I noted she was looking anywhere but right at me. “So you already caught the murderer, huh. That's a relief, I suppose.” She gave me a quick glance, then just as quickly averted her eyes. Interesting, that. “Yes. She's been detained. We're keeping this as quiet as we can. We don't want a media circus over family business.” I nodded. I could understand that. No one wants to be caught, no one wants to be related to a murder case. What if it rubbed off on you? Oh sure, ponies were generally too nice to openly hold it against you, but there'd always be that thought, that stigma following you around. “We were called back to the family home in Ponyville for the reading of the will, but when we got there...” She motioned vaguely with a hoof. “The place had been ransacked. My father's safe, cracked wide open and the will missing.” I cocked a brow at that. “Wouldn't a copy of the will be with his lawyer? Didn't get it notarized?” She coughed, embarrassed. Cute little noise, but I buried that thought as ruthlessly as possible. “My father made many wills through his life. I have one. My family members all have their own copies. And every single one locks the rest of the family out.” She turned on me suddenly and I jerked my head back in surprise. “Who does that? Who makes that kind of mockery of his own family!” She looked in my eyes, seemingly on the verge of tears. I didn't say anything. What could I say? She turned away, whatever comfort or understanding she'd been expecting unforthcoming. “So what I need you to do is find the original, whatever version of the will my father kept for himself, so that we can get this settled.” I exhaled smoke into the night air, watching it dance before me as it slowly drifted away. “What if you aren't the inheritor?” I asked casually, still admiring the smoke so I didn't have to see her snap her head toward me sharply. “You've promised ten grand, plus expenses. Say you don't get a cent from dear old daddy. Do I still get paid?” I blew out another puff so that I could say I didn't see her face go contemptuous. “You'll get paid, Mister Cartwright.” I almost winced at the frostiness in her tone. “I'm a made pony, regardless of my father's money. Ten thousand isn't anything to me.” “Surprised to hear that.” I looked at her now, right into those big red eyes. “Normally, the monied don't sweat little things like wills and inheritance unless it's something big. So, if you ain't after the money, what's your stake in all this? Prestige? Getting one over on your family?” She almost laughed at that. “Remember who it is you work for, Mister Cartwright.” she said icily. I raised my hooves in surrender. This is why I play the strong silent type. I've always been the kind to stick a hoof in his mouth. We waited a few more minutes, letting the silence grow steadily heavier until it was shattered by the sound of a train whistle. The City of Neigh Orleans roared into the station, ninety tons of steel wrapped around a core of fire. Smoke billowed from it's stack and blackened the gaudy red and yellow paint that adorned the locomotive. The train screeched to a stop before us, and we waited patiently as the night travelers took to the streets. Babbling voices, laughter, a lot of things I didn't get that much of these days. I almost hated them for their happiness, but I've never been one to begrudge another for their good fortune. Especially when a back alley and a blackjack could make it my good fortune. We boarded a nearly empty train, the few fellow passengers heading to their sleeper cars in short order. I was surprised to find my client sitting across from me. “I'd rather have you somewhere I can watch you, Mister Cartwright,” she said by of explanation. Well, no harm in sharing a room with a cute young filly, is there? Yet somehow, I felt uneasy. She opted to retire immediately, so I excused myself from the room and went to the dining car. It was empty, seats securely under the tables and silverwear put away. I didn't mind, I wasn't here for the food. I took a seat and lit another cigarette. A deep drag and I was lost in my own thoughts. I didn't like murder cases, even when it was just tangentially related to whatever I was working. Murder's one of those crimes, the ones that Equestrian law won't forgive. If you’re lucky, you’re talking twenty to twenty five in one of the monarchy's high security dungeons. Hell, if you were some erstwhile young detective you might do five in the big house just for sticking your nose in the wrong place at the wrong time. Couldn’t say I liked working a murder. No, couldn’t say that at all. The train trundled slowly along as I worked my way through my pack. My hoof brushed over a sunburst symbol and I pulled it out of my coat to look at it. I studied it through the smoke. I used to be an East Roamin Celestian, but I'd distanced myself from the faith after Her loyal boys-in-blue tossed me in the slammer and threw away the key. Say what you will, but that leaves an impression on a colt. Nowadays I was leaning more towards the Lunatheran Church. The whole “Princess of the Night” thing was making it's way through the younger and more impressionable crowds, but I did most of my work at night and it seemed polite to pay my respects. I put the sunburst back in my coat pocket and checked the time. Two in the morning. I rolled my shoulders and yawned. Well, nothing for it but to see what happens. I snubbed my cigarette on the tabletop and tossed the butt over my shoulder. I opened up the car door and walked right into a pony. “'scuse me,” I began, then stopped as I saw his face. I didn't see his hoof flash out and catch me in the chest. I fell backwards into a table. Chairs splintered as I lay on my back, chest heaving as I tried to get some air in my lungs. The pony standing over me was named Russian Don. He was near on half again my height and could kick his way through a brick wall. Dark gray mane streaked with black and narrowed black eyes, and a bigger smile than I thought the situation warranted. Smug son of bitch. He was the heavy, the one you called if you absolutely didn't care about getting the money and you just wanted blood. He was an earth pony, though he'd never let that stop him. Watched him take down a pair of unicorns who tried to crush him with magic. Took me two days to wash the blood out of my mane. He laughed as he trotted over to me. “Ah, Shank, my friend,” he boomed out. I don't think Russian Don knew how to be quiet, not that he'd ever needed that particular skill in his line of work. “You owe many people money, da? And you try to run?” He clicked his tongue as he shook his head sorrowfully. “Very naughty, Shank, very naughty. You should pay your debts, da? Honorable, like colt.” He pulled me up by my coat front and threw me across the car. “Very disappointed, Shank.” I slammed into the far wall and slid down, dazed. I couldn't believe they'd send Don after me. He didn't come cheap, and I knew I owed them less than he charged. I made this evident as I staggered up. He laughed again. “Oh, Shank, Shank, you know, we work together many time, and always wondered, always wanted to know who was better. You never wanted to know?” As it turned out, no, I didn't. I already knew he could kill me, whatever my ill-earned reputation for survival might say. “So they come to me, and say, 'Russian Don, you kill Shank Cartwright, we give you much, much bits.' And I tell them, ‘No, I do this for free.’” His eyes narrowed even further as he looked at me. “Yes, I kill you very much for free.” With that said, he charged across the car, smashing furniture out of his way as if it was nothing. I beat hooves and jumped out of the way. He smashed into the wall and dented it. I could feel the impact even where I was standing. Wouldn’t do to get hit by that. When you fight someone like Russian Don, it doesn't make any sense to take him head on. To be fair, it doesn't make much sense to take him on at all. I needed to swing the fight to my advantage. He turned to find me at his back, swinging a chair hard as I could. It slammed into his head, and he didn't even flinch. Well. So much for that. Another kick sent me flying across the car again, this time straight through the door. I slammed down on the connector and couldn't help but cry out in pain. Eyes squeezed shut, driving out tears as I could feel him standing over me. He sighed, and I could feel the scorn coming off him in waves. “Is this all, Shank? Three hits, and you lay down? I expected more from legendary Shank Cratwright.” He sighed again, heavily. “Oh well. Guess I end this quick, since is free.” I could feel him raise a hoof up high and rolled to the next cart as it came down hard on the coupler, right in the loop of chain that connected the two cars. He looked at me, surprised I was still moving, and his eyes widened as I pulled the chain tight and unbalanced him. He fell to the side and into the darkness with a mighty shout. I don't know if he went under the wheels or not, but he was out of my mane for the moment. I leaned against the train car door, shaking and clutching at my side. If I didn't get this money fast, if I didn't pay my debts, I didn't think being in the boonies would keep the people I owed from collecting my head. Great. Now I had a time limit. I returned to the sleeper car, unsurprised to find the lights out. I locked the door, then carefully anchored a chair under handle. Every little bit helps. I slid into my bunk and lost myself in dreams of better times. Tickle Me PinkI was having a delightful dream about some broads I knew back in Manehattan when somepony decided to shake me awake. That was unfortunate. Twins they were. I rolled out of my bed, rubbing at my eyes and trying to conceal my yawn. Southern Comfort did a double take as she took in my bruised visage. “What happened to you?” she asked, brow furrowed. I was touched, really. “Fell down some stairs. Some really, really big stairs.” I smiled and immediately regretted it as I felt a cut on my lip open up. She seemed less than convinced. “You fell down some stairs.” “Yes.” “On a train.” “Yes.” “Trains are not known for their stairs.” “You sure? Trains are wonderful machines. They get bigger everyday.” She stared at me. Something told me she thought I was liar, but she was too polite to say it to my face. I stretched and grabbed my clothes. She watched in amusement as I was laboriously doing up the buttons on my shirtfront. “So not only a hat and a coat,” she said, “but a shirt and tie too? Don't you think you're a little... overdressed?” I could see her point. Nude was the pony standard, but I had a reputation to maintain, after all. Private eyes wore slouch brim covers and long coats and ties. Just the way things were. We stepped out of our car and began walking forward along the train. Southern Comfort paused as she took in the door to the dining car, torn off the hinges and propped over to one side. The few other passengers were seated at the remaining tables, watching the train crew dejectedly sweep up the wreckage of their once pristine train car. Southern Comfort stared at them, then she turned her look on me. I noticed that the train crew had stopped working to eye my bruises with some accusation. I let it roll off me, like water off a duck's back. Exasperation crossed her face. “You're really just going to—” “Yes. Stairs.” I watched her cradle her head in her hooves. She seemed stressed. We sidled up to the dining car's serving area, helping ourselves to the complimentary breakfast. Seats would have been hard to come by what with the recent stair-related property damage, but there were so few fellow patrons that we still managed to get a table next to a window. We watched the the countryside lazily pass by as we ate, and I lit up another cigarette once we finished. One of the train stooges worked up the courage to step up to me. “Excuse me, sir, but there's no smoking on this train.” I gave him the old evil-eye. “Since when?” He stared at me. “Since forever, sir?” He motioned at a sign. It had a big “NO” symbol over a cigarette and text about a hundred-bit fine. Good luck getting that. I opted to acquiesce to his demands. I've always been a conscientious sort. For some reason, Southern Comfort was doing her best to pretend she had no idea who I was. Hard task when she's sharing my table. We finished the ride out with her cradling her head in her hooves. I was enjoying the silence when I heard the faint sound of music. As we pulled in closer to the Ponyville station I made out what sounded like a full brass orchestra blaring as loud as possible. I looked around, trying to figure out what it was when I noticed Southern Comfort’s smile. Lovely thing. “What is that?” I asked, as it grew steadily louder. I tried not to wince as it started to get painfully loud the closer we got. She looked over at me with a big grin. Have to say it looked good on her. “There's only one pony in all of Equestria that would throw a party just because the train's coming in!” She seemed excited. I wasn't. The music became legitimately defeaning as we finally pulled into the station. I gritted my teeth and followed Southern Comfort out onto the platform. Southern Comfort trotted over to a pile of instruments. On closer inspection it turned out that there was a pony under there, bright pink and poofy. She burst out and stood before us with outstretched arms. “Hi!” she said brightly. No, not “said”. What's the word... Screeched? Shouted? Made horrifyingly annoying noises with her mouth parts? “I'm—” She cut off as I shoved my hoof over her mouth. I pulled her in close and stared her in the eye. “Not. Another. Word. I have a headache and you ain't helping.” My message delivered, I slowly released her. She stared at me. I stared at her. I knew, somehow, deep in my heart, that the moment I blinked or looked away she would do something to infuriate me. Slowly, I drew my smokes from my coat pocket. There was no movement, and the world was completely silent as we tested our wills against each other. She stood there, with that same manic smile on her face as I lit my cigarette and took a drag. I could feel my eyes starting to water, but I wasn't prepared to lose. So I cheated. She let out a yelp and fell over backwards with tears streaming from her eyes as I blew smoke into her face. Victory achieved, I permitted myself a sigh, but that turned to a gasp as Southern Comfort gave me a swift left jab to the side. I bent over coughing as she went to help her friend. “Pinkie! Are you okay? Did that jerk hurt you?” I looked up through a veil of tears as the pink pony was picked up off the ground and fussed over by my previously icy employer. “I'm okey dokey lokey, Comfort! Who's your friend?” She maintained her happy demeanor through it all. I could feel my eyelid start to twitch. Some things shouldn't happen at six in the morning. Happiness is one of them. “That's Shank Cartwright. He's a detective I hired to help me with some personal business.” She gave me a calculating look. “Although I'm beginning to wonder if it was a good idea.” My meal ticket in the balance, I endeavored to make a good second impression. I wasn't much for first impressions, so I tended to rely on the second go around. “Nice to—” I was immediately interrupted as she flung herself forward to dance about me and examine me with a critical eye. “A private eye? For real? He's got the hat and coat and tie so he must be!” I looked over at Southern Comfort, feeling oddly vindicated. She didn't even do me the courtesy of remembering our earlier conversation, bemused by the pink pony's antics. Rude. “Do you have a magnifying glass? How about a pipe? Violin? Batarang?” She danced her way back to the front and violated my personal space to stare me in the eye. “Did you know your eye is twitching?” she asked with shining innocence. I was smiling with gritted teeth. “You don't say.” “I'm Pinkie Pie, by the way. Ooo, are you going to investigate me? Am I perp? A crim?” She slammed her hoof down and looked at me, eyes afire with determination. “You'll never get me alive, copper!” She ran off, laughing all the way. I just stood there, dumbfounded. I could tell Southern Comfort was entertained. The way she laid on her back laughing was a major tip off. Call it that detective instinct. See? That's why I'm a private eye. Stable and BreakfastI waited patiently for my companion to recover from her laughing fit. It took quite a while. She's lucky I'm the patient type. When she finally ran down, I cocked an eyebrow at her. "Done now?" She wiped tears from her eyes gave me a nod. With a sigh, I turned and we made our way into town. Every now and again she’d glance over at me and be consumed by another fit of giggles. To distract myself, I took a bit of a look at the town. Glad I did. Picturesque was a good word for it. I'd never seen a town look more like a postcard. The buildings were short and brightly painted, the streets swept clean. Not what I was used to at all. The air smelled of freshly cropped grass and wildflowers, not of rot and trash left lying in the streets. It wasn't a very large place by any means, but there was a life and vitality to this Ponyville that you couldn't find in Manehattan. Manehattan feels like a tired mare dosed with caffeine—jitters and twitchy moves over a core of exhaustion. Here, though. Here it was real. It was the sort of life that could only come from a place where everypony knew each other, and would stop to say hello on the street. I immediately hated it. I'm not a misanthrope by any means. Doesn’t mean I'm given to meaningless courtesy. I didn't know what it was that set my teeth on edge. Maybe it was how unrelentingly sweet it was. Maybe it was the feeling that such a brightly lit facade had to be a cover for something dark and buried. Like a murder maybe. I looked at Southern Comfort. Oh, yeah. Right. We had strolled into the town square when she pointed at a charming little continental. I squinted to read the sign. "Ponyville's Finest Stable and Breakfast", painted in a glossy black on a white background. I glanced over at Miss Comfort. “Suppose this will be where I'm staying?” I muttered. She nodded. “You don't have to worry about the rate. I've already discussed it with the owner, so I'm considering it expenses.” She looked toward the sun, squinting, then turned back to me. “My family should be waking up around now. I'll send a runner around when we need you.” I nodded to myself as she turned away and left. Gave a bit of consideration to getting in a parting word, but something told me she wouldn't leave me with the final say. I sighed, and turned to examining my temporary residence with a critical eye, cigarette trailing smoke in the light breeze. The building was brightly painted in red, the edges and linings picked out in a white so shining and pristine it made me squint to see. I expected cows to come prancing out any second, but none were forthcoming. I tossed my cigarette to the ground and went inside. It was well lit and decorated with a definite female touch. The curtains and lace tipped me off. Runner up was the smell. Lilacs and lemon-scented cleaning solution. I put together an image of who owned this place. She would be short, comfortingly overweight, with a pair of thick glasses and a Hearth’s Warming Eve sweater emblazoned with snowponies, even though it was April. The pegasus behind the counter looked nothing like that. My confidence in my investigative skills took a hit. Orange coated with a punky, spiked yellow mane, she looked like she'd just come out of her teens but hadn't let go. She had her chin propped on one hoof, large headphones blasting music so loudly I could feel it from where I was standing. She lightly fanned herself with one wing, and didn't bother to acknowledge my presence. Her attention was focused on chewing gum and vacantly staring at the wall. Probably counting the wallpaper gardenias. Understandable. Didn't appear to be that much custom. I walked up to the counter and rapped on it with one hoof. Her purple eyes slowly made their way over to me. “What.” It wasn't a question so much as a flat declaration of disinterest. Me, I’m a gentlecolt. I rose above it. “Morning. Name's Shank Cartwright. I believe you have a room for me.” She continued to stare at me blankly. The pounding bass from her headphones set my teeth on edge. “What?” Progress had been made. Her voice had inflection now. “My name is Shank Cartwright. Take me to my room.” I made sure to speak slowly and clearly. I even accompanied it with gestures, to get my point across. You have to make allowances when you speak with the slow. “Excuse me?” She still hadn't removed her headphones. That was when I realized the problem. Sometimes I'm slow on the uptake. I reached over the counter, pulled off her headphones and threw them across the room. It seemed to get her attention, and she stared at me in shock. “Listening now?” I asked brightly. “I'm Shank Cartwright, it's seven in the morning and I've run out of cigarettes. Kindly show me to my room, dear pony, before I teach you the wonders of customer service. I feel one of my heads coming on.” For some reason, my calm, happy tones made her eyes flash with anger. Some would have said I was being deliberately patronizing in tone, but that was patently impossible. I am, after all, a gentlecolt. “You—how dare you!” Her orange coat had deepened to a cherry red. I wasn't aware they could do that. “Get out of my face, you gelding!” Rude. I don't abide by rudeness. I was about to make a scene when a very matronly voice called out from a back room behind the counter. “Red? Red, is someone here? Deary me, let me handle this, Red.” A brown earth pony came out of the backroom. She was short, comfortingly overweight, with a pair of thick glasses and a Hearth Warming Eve sweater emblazoned with snowponies even though it was April. Confidence was restored. She bustled up to the counter. “Ooh, hello sir, I'm Missus Dappled. How may I help you today?” Her voice was the same as my dear gran-gran, warm and dripping with the promise of cookies before bedtime. I was immediately charmed. She looked at the currently steaming pegasus at her side. “Ah, Red? Is something wrong?” Red opened her mouth to speak so I interrupted her post haste. “Excuse me, ma'am, are you the proprietor of this fine stable?” The earth pony looked at me, surprised, and nodded. Gave her an easy smile. “My name's Shank Cartwright, I believe you have a room for me?” She blinked. “Oh, yes! Let me check the registry.” She busied herself with the minutiae of her job as the pegasus looked from me to her and back again, whatever complaint she'd been planning to voice swept aside by a wave of competence and customer service. I gave her a wink. The glare she sent back was pure venom. “Ah yes, Mister Cartwright, right here.” Missus Dappled turned the registry to me and I signed my name. “Red, would you take Mister Cartwright to his room, please?” I felt that Red probably would have argued, but you can't stay mad when faced with a sweet old thing like Missus Dappled. She took some calming breaths. “Fine, Miss Dappled.” She slammed open the divider and stomped up the stairs. Missus Dappled looked over at me, confused. “I'm sorry, I don't know what's gotten into her.” I shrugged. It was a mystery. I followed Red up to my room. There wasn't any luggage. Didn't have much time to pack. She opened up my door and I took a moment to take in the frilliest, pinkest conglomeration of pillows and furniture I'd ever seen. I'm pretty sure it was illegal to have this much femininity in one place. There ought to be a law. Hell, there probably was. I walked in and laid down on the bed. Let loose a contented sigh as the extremely soft mattress slowly embraced me. I heard cough at the door. Red stood there, hoof extended. She was giving me those concierge eyes. They said she'd wait there all day if necessary. I fell asleep as she stood there, watching me like a very angry guardian angel. PrologueYou'd think I'd get used to it. Let me set the scene for you: it's the Everfree Forest. Night. We've been lucky enough to get a full moon, but the cloud cover's pretty heavy for this time of year. The sound of wildlife softly rises from the forest. There's a rise—cliff, really—jutting out of the forest like a broken bone. You start to ascend the cliff face, when something catches your eye. Against the stark white of the face you make out a struggling black mass. Yeah, that's me. You continue your way up, ignoring my struggles because you are cruel. As you crest the top of the cliff, you see six or seven obscure forms making their way down the mountain path. You can't quite make them out with the clouds obscuring the moon, but you can tell that there's only one filly amongst them. That's the one I want you to look at; I want you to burn every shape, every curve of her into your mind because she is important. She's the one who just killed me. You come back to me as they walk away. Can't say you're too impressed by me. Can't say I blame you, either. My hair's falling out, my tie's undone and I'm scored with old bruises run yellow—yeah, don't blame you one bit. Even my hat—long known to be my best feature—even that's blown away in the wind. Hanging from a tree root I was lucky enough to catch in my teeth on the way down. You take a look at my face. Half closed eyes. Thoroughly pissed expression. I've got a mad on for the whole world and I don't care who knows it. You'd think. But you'd be wrong. I struggle to find purchase on the rocks, wishing I had wings or magic, something to get me out of this. If I was the praying type, I'd start asking the gods some seriously pointed questions. Just my sort of day, right? I'd grin if it wouldn't kill me. You think you hear the tree root cracking? Yeah, yeah, that's the root. I was never the lucky one. You watch as my lifeline cracks and I drop, snapping to a halt as the rest of the branch catches. Then again. And again... ...Until all that's left is the thinnest sliver of wood. I can hear it straining. I don’t move a muscle, don’t so much as blink, just hanging there, willing it to hold. Just one more second. Celestia hears. She graciously permits me an extra second to order my thoughts and regret not asking for more time. The branch snaps, and you can see me plummet into the darkness, towards the grasping trees. Oh, I forgot. Never introduced myself proper. Name's Shank Cartwright. I'm a PI. And I think I'm dead.
Investigations, No Money DownIt all started simply enough. I've got an office in Manehattan, down on 31st Street. It's not a big place; realtor used the word cozy. I used the word cramped. There was enough room for my desk, an overstuffed filing cabinet and a couch, shoved roughly to one side. There was a dirty window on the wall behind me, half opened and letting in what little light lingered from the sunset. I sat at my desk, contemplating the mountain of paperwork I couldn't be bothered to fill out. There was a half eaten meal pushed to the side. Bad curry. All I could afford these days. I shared the building with a lawyer and baker, both of whom made more money than I did. The rest of the rooms were vacant; something about the building being condemned and technically unlivable had driven off other potential tenants. Made sense. This wasn't a building for those on the way up. I fished around my coat pockets for a smoke. Hard times, hard times. I'd laugh if it wasn't so depressing. I put a cigarette in my mouth and cast about for a lighter. Another day without business meant another day for that stack of unpaid bills I was ignoring to grow an inch or two taller. The latest few had been demanding money with menaces. Some bypassed the money entirely and went straight to limbs. Some were downright rude. As I finally lit up and relaxed, a sound I didn’t hear that often made my ear prick. Steps, a single set, clopping up the stairs to my door. “Client?” I muttered to myself. “As if I'd be that lucky. Creditor? If it is, then I'd hear a few heavies setting up to beat me down. Cop? Come to shake me down for 'operational costs' maybe?” I opened up a drawer and eyed my security wand. I'm an earth pony, and proud of it, but sometimes you need a bit of magic to deal with those high-fliers and horn-heads. You never know what's going to walk through that door, and Mama Cartwright didn't raise no fool. I could see a female figure pause at my door and examine the frosted glass window. It said “CARTWRIGHT INVESTIGATIONS” in black lead. Had that installed back when I was younger, when I thought I'd make something of myself and go on to greater things. How life breaks you down. She pushed open the door with a dainty little shove. A dame in white with bright red mane, legs going all the way up. Earth pony, like me. Her eyes matched her hair, and I could tell she had an innocence to her that I had lost a long time ago. Her mark was a peach, ripe and full. I profess, I was a bit taken. But not taken enough to take my hoof off the wand. She looked around my dark office with what I'll call an expression of polite disgust. Her nose wrinkled as she took in the stale air heavy with smoke and stench of half eaten meals left sitting for too long. I noticed her gaze lingering on my couch and the heap of unmade blankets. Pretty obvious this office was lived in. Pretty obvious it'd been lived in for far too long. She walked in with a stilted gait; I could tell she was nervous, unused to a sleazy sort of place like mine. I motioned to the chair across from me, and she hesitated as she took in its dilapidated condition. She opted to stand. Smart filly. “Mister Cartwright?” she said. Her voice reminded me of cinnamon whiskey, heated and rough. I couldn't quite place her accent though. Sounded like something from out in the boonies. “My name is Southern Comfort. I heard that you could... help me.” I sat in silence, studying her face. She shifted uncomfortably under my stare as I tried to contain my excitement. I took a calming drag of my black cigarette, pleased at how steady my hoof was. “You, ah, you want to hire me, Miss Comfort? For some investigative work?” “Yes.” In my mind I was doing cartwheels and shouting with glee. “I was told that you were the only one who could help me find what I'm looking for. I really, really need your help.” She gave me a look that could have melted the heart out of a windigo, but I've been in this business a while, and if I had two bits for every dame that thought she could win me over with a smile and a look, I wouldn't be in my current financial straits. I rolled my shoulders and leaned forward onto my desk, fixing her with my most competent stare. I could tell she wasn't impressed. “Well, Miss Comfort, I'm sure that I could help you find whatever you're looking for, if I was available. But you have to understand that I'm often quite busy with work, and my rates reflect that. Quite, quite busy.” She looked at me. Looked at the desk, the couch. Took in the general state of my appearance. Something told me that she didn't believe me. “I don't believe you,” she said flatly. Yeah, that. She leaned forward suddenly, slamming her hooves on my desk. I was so startled that I jerked back, then tried to play it off as if I meant to lean back in my chair. Smooth, Shank. Never let them know they got you. “Mister Cartwright,” she began, more forcefully than before, “we both know that you need this job. We both know that you owe a lot of the wrong ponies a lot of money. I'm offering you ten thousand bits, plus expenses, to help me find something I need. If I walk out of this building, I can almost guarantee you'll never get an opportunity like this again.” I kept my face diplomatically straight. “Ten thousand, huh?” I didn't notice that my smoke had burned down until the ash fell onto my shirt front. I brushed myself off as I thought furiously. Ten thousand bits would pay off my debts, set me up for months. Wouldn't have to worry about what I was going to eat or dig through the back of nearby restaurants for scraps. I could almost taste it. And yet... Ten thousand wasn't a small amount of money. Wouldn't be offered for something easy, and something told me this filly didn't need me for divorce work. But still, what choice did I have? None, as it turned out. My door slammed open and we jumped, startled. Standing in the doorway was Money Down, an “asset redistributor” as he fancied himself. Unicorn, like most creditors. Loan shark. I could see the Leemare brothers standing behind him, looming. They were good at looming. Money Down stood there looking insufferably pleased with himself. “Mister Cartwright, as I live and breath.” His voice reminded me of rotten butter, thick and oily. “I've finally managed to catch you in your office. Why, if I didn't know any better I'd think you were avoiding me.” He leered at Southern Comfort, who drew back in disgust. “Who's your lady friend? You wouldn't be holding back on me, would you?” I smiled at him. Why not? Smiles cost nothing, which is what I planned on paying him. “Come on, Money, she's a client, why don't you leave her alone? I'll have you know that she's offered me a job that'll let me pay you back in full, interest and all. I've been a good customer to you, haven't I? We go back years, don't we?” He turned back to me, and I noticed a certain dangerous glint in his eye. “Oh yeah, Shank, we've known each other a long, long time. How many bits have I loaned you? Two, three thousand now? And yet you're always out, always tomorrow, after this job, after this windfall.” His voice steadily rose until he was screaming into my face, spittle flying, eyes wide with pent-up rage. “Well not any more, Shank! I'm sick of it! I've finally caught you, and I'm going to get what I'm owed.” His voice dropped to soft-spoken whisper, heavy with malice. “If not in bits, then I'll get my pound of flesh. Maybe your little lady friend can help you pay it off.” He laughed menacingly, but broke off when he saw the look on my face. I can be a right threatening sort when I try. He stood tall on all fours and cleared his throat. “Boys, take him and this office apart. Take the filly.” And as he turned his head to look to his goon squad, I grabbed my wand and kicked my desk hard as I could across the room. Papers filled the air in a flurry of white as the desk slammed into Money Down and pinned him to the floor. I could hear him shouting up a storm as I overcharged the wand and blew the window out of it's mooring. I spat the wand onto the the floor. “Come on!” I yelled to Southern Comfort, and her head snapped in my direction as she recovered from her shock. The Leemane brothers were trying to shoulder their way past each other and help their boss. He wasn't helping the overall confusion with his caterwauling and carrying on. Well, no time to worry about that. I jumped out the window, Southern Comfort at my heels. Don't quite know how long we ran. Long enough for the screams to fall behind, long enough to outrun the sirens and hubbub of the early evening crowds. We leaned on each other outside of Cafe Le Cheval, gasping for breath. She looked at me and couldn't stop giggling. I decided not to take that to heart. Bigger colt than that. “Is this how you normally do your job?” she asked, leaning companionably against me. I didn't say anything. It was nice. “Normally, no. Most times I wait in a bush for five hours with a camera, trying to catch somepony with somepony they shouldn't be with.” I fished for another cigarette and glanced over to her as I lit it. She had caught her breath and stopped using me as a support. “Guess I'm in your employ now. What's the job, anyway? Hopefully something out of town?” “Far out of town,” she answered. “Little place called Ponyville.” I had never heard of it. Somewhere in the sticks, I assumed. “Farther the better, all things considered. What am I looking for?” Her eyes went distant, sad. I'll remember that look in on her face. “My father was murdered." I grimaced. "I need you to find his will.”
Russian to PonyvilleI blew out a cloud of smoke. “Listen, doll. I’m not one for murder cases.” “I'm not hiring you to solve a murder, Mister Cartwright. I’m hiring you to find a document.” The frostiness in her tone. Seemed I'd touched a nerve. She lead the way to the train station as the evening turned slowly to full night. I tried to spark a conversation a few times, but she’d decided to give me the silent treatment. I shook my head. Dames were sensitive creatures. I permitted her to buy my train ticket—expenses, you know? We passed a number of buskers on our way to the platform. There was a pegasus in an undone tie sang his way through Billy Foal's “Piano Mare”. A zebra rapped Big Daddy Colt's classic “Ain't No Half-Hoofing” and wasn’t doing a bad job of it. In the corner, a griffin played a sad ballad on one of the guitars. Must be nice, having thumbs. I gave each a few bits as I passed. The wheels of life turn for everyone, and I've spent more than my fair share of time with a hoof outstretched for a coin or two. When we finally joined the two or three patrons on the platform, we relaxed for the moment, me with my smokes, she lost in her own thoughts. The silence was companionable, broken only by the sound of Manehattan traffic in the distance. I wasn't particularly bothered. Never was much of a talker. Actually pretty helpful in my business. Ponies abhor a silence. Makes them nervous, and a nervous pony is a talkative pony. She cleared her throat and proved my point. “We found my father in his Manehattan office, slumped over his desk. Prognosis was that he'd been poisoned. When the police questioned the office staff, they found that he'd been playing around with one of the secretaries. When she started questioning his intentions, he dropped her like a rock and, well...” Her voice trailed off. I noted she was looking anywhere but right at me. “So you already caught the murderer, huh. That's a relief, I suppose.” She gave me a quick glance, then just as quickly averted her eyes. Interesting, that. “Yes. She's been detained. We're keeping this as quiet as we can. We don't want a media circus over family business.” I nodded. I could understand that. No one wants to be caught, no one wants to be related to a murder case. What if it rubbed off on you? Oh sure, ponies were generally too nice to openly hold it against you, but there'd always be that thought, that stigma following you around. “We were called back to the family home in Ponyville for the reading of the will, but when we got there...” She motioned vaguely with a hoof. “The place had been ransacked. My father's safe, cracked wide open and the will missing.” I cocked a brow at that. “Wouldn't a copy of the will be with his lawyer? Didn't get it notarized?” She coughed, embarrassed. Cute little noise, but I buried that thought as ruthlessly as possible. “My father made many wills through his life. I have one. My family members all have their own copies. And every single one locks the rest of the family out.” She turned on me suddenly and I jerked my head back in surprise. “Who does that? Who makes that kind of mockery of his own family!” She looked in my eyes, seemingly on the verge of tears. I didn't say anything. What could I say? She turned away, whatever comfort or understanding she'd been expecting unforthcoming. “So what I need you to do is find the original, whatever version of the will my father kept for himself, so that we can get this settled.” I exhaled smoke into the night air, watching it dance before me as it slowly drifted away. “What if you aren't the inheritor?” I asked casually, still admiring the smoke so I didn't have to see her snap her head toward me sharply. “You've promised ten grand, plus expenses. Say you don't get a cent from dear old daddy. Do I still get paid?” I blew out another puff so that I could say I didn't see her face go contemptuous. “You'll get paid, Mister Cartwright.” I almost winced at the frostiness in her tone. “I'm a made pony, regardless of my father's money. Ten thousand isn't anything to me.” “Surprised to hear that.” I looked at her now, right into those big red eyes. “Normally, the monied don't sweat little things like wills and inheritance unless it's something big. So, if you ain't after the money, what's your stake in all this? Prestige? Getting one over on your family?” She almost laughed at that. “Remember who it is you work for, Mister Cartwright.” she said icily. I raised my hooves in surrender. This is why I play the strong silent type. I've always been the kind to stick a hoof in his mouth. We waited a few more minutes, letting the silence grow steadily heavier until it was shattered by the sound of a train whistle. The City of Neigh Orleans roared into the station, ninety tons of steel wrapped around a core of fire. Smoke billowed from it's stack and blackened the gaudy red and yellow paint that adorned the locomotive. The train screeched to a stop before us, and we waited patiently as the night travelers took to the streets. Babbling voices, laughter, a lot of things I didn't get that much of these days. I almost hated them for their happiness, but I've never been one to begrudge another for their good fortune. Especially when a back alley and a blackjack could make it my good fortune. We boarded a nearly empty train, the few fellow passengers heading to their sleeper cars in short order. I was surprised to find my client sitting across from me. “I'd rather have you somewhere I can watch you, Mister Cartwright,” she said by of explanation. Well, no harm in sharing a room with a cute young filly, is there? Yet somehow, I felt uneasy. She opted to retire immediately, so I excused myself from the room and went to the dining car. It was empty, seats securely under the tables and silverwear put away. I didn't mind, I wasn't here for the food. I took a seat and lit another cigarette. A deep drag and I was lost in my own thoughts. I didn't like murder cases, even when it was just tangentially related to whatever I was working. Murder's one of those crimes, the ones that Equestrian law won't forgive. If you’re lucky, you’re talking twenty to twenty five in one of the monarchy's high security dungeons. Hell, if you were some erstwhile young detective you might do five in the big house just for sticking your nose in the wrong place at the wrong time. Couldn’t say I liked working a murder. No, couldn’t say that at all. The train trundled slowly along as I worked my way through my pack. My hoof brushed over a sunburst symbol and I pulled it out of my coat to look at it. I studied it through the smoke. I used to be an East Roamin Celestian, but I'd distanced myself from the faith after Her loyal boys-in-blue tossed me in the slammer and threw away the key. Say what you will, but that leaves an impression on a colt. Nowadays I was leaning more towards the Lunatheran Church. The whole “Princess of the Night” thing was making it's way through the younger and more impressionable crowds, but I did most of my work at night and it seemed polite to pay my respects. I put the sunburst back in my coat pocket and checked the time. Two in the morning. I rolled my shoulders and yawned. Well, nothing for it but to see what happens. I snubbed my cigarette on the tabletop and tossed the butt over my shoulder. I opened up the car door and walked right into a pony. “'scuse me,” I began, then stopped as I saw his face. I didn't see his hoof flash out and catch me in the chest. I fell backwards into a table. Chairs splintered as I lay on my back, chest heaving as I tried to get some air in my lungs. The pony standing over me was named Russian Don. He was near on half again my height and could kick his way through a brick wall. Dark gray mane streaked with black and narrowed black eyes, and a bigger smile than I thought the situation warranted. Smug son of bitch. He was the heavy, the one you called if you absolutely didn't care about getting the money and you just wanted blood. He was an earth pony, though he'd never let that stop him. Watched him take down a pair of unicorns who tried to crush him with magic. Took me two days to wash the blood out of my mane. He laughed as he trotted over to me. “Ah, Shank, my friend,” he boomed out. I don't think Russian Don knew how to be quiet, not that he'd ever needed that particular skill in his line of work. “You owe many people money, da? And you try to run?” He clicked his tongue as he shook his head sorrowfully. “Very naughty, Shank, very naughty. You should pay your debts, da? Honorable, like colt.” He pulled me up by my coat front and threw me across the car. “Very disappointed, Shank.” I slammed into the far wall and slid down, dazed. I couldn't believe they'd send Don after me. He didn't come cheap, and I knew I owed them less than he charged. I made this evident as I staggered up. He laughed again. “Oh, Shank, Shank, you know, we work together many time, and always wondered, always wanted to know who was better. You never wanted to know?” As it turned out, no, I didn't. I already knew he could kill me, whatever my ill-earned reputation for survival might say. “So they come to me, and say, 'Russian Don, you kill Shank Cartwright, we give you much, much bits.' And I tell them, ‘No, I do this for free.’” His eyes narrowed even further as he looked at me. “Yes, I kill you very much for free.” With that said, he charged across the car, smashing furniture out of his way as if it was nothing. I beat hooves and jumped out of the way. He smashed into the wall and dented it. I could feel the impact even where I was standing. Wouldn’t do to get hit by that. When you fight someone like Russian Don, it doesn't make any sense to take him head on. To be fair, it doesn't make much sense to take him on at all. I needed to swing the fight to my advantage. He turned to find me at his back, swinging a chair hard as I could. It slammed into his head, and he didn't even flinch. Well. So much for that. Another kick sent me flying across the car again, this time straight through the door. I slammed down on the connector and couldn't help but cry out in pain. Eyes squeezed shut, driving out tears as I could feel him standing over me. He sighed, and I could feel the scorn coming off him in waves. “Is this all, Shank? Three hits, and you lay down? I expected more from legendary Shank Cratwright.” He sighed again, heavily. “Oh well. Guess I end this quick, since is free.” I could feel him raise a hoof up high and rolled to the next cart as it came down hard on the coupler, right in the loop of chain that connected the two cars. He looked at me, surprised I was still moving, and his eyes widened as I pulled the chain tight and unbalanced him. He fell to the side and into the darkness with a mighty shout. I don't know if he went under the wheels or not, but he was out of my mane for the moment. I leaned against the train car door, shaking and clutching at my side. If I didn't get this money fast, if I didn't pay my debts, I didn't think being in the boonies would keep the people I owed from collecting my head. Great. Now I had a time limit. I returned to the sleeper car, unsurprised to find the lights out. I locked the door, then carefully anchored a chair under handle. Every little bit helps. I slid into my bunk and lost myself in dreams of better times.
Tickle Me PinkI was having a delightful dream about some broads I knew back in Manehattan when somepony decided to shake me awake. That was unfortunate. Twins they were. I rolled out of my bed, rubbing at my eyes and trying to conceal my yawn. Southern Comfort did a double take as she took in my bruised visage. “What happened to you?” she asked, brow furrowed. I was touched, really. “Fell down some stairs. Some really, really big stairs.” I smiled and immediately regretted it as I felt a cut on my lip open up. She seemed less than convinced. “You fell down some stairs.” “Yes.” “On a train.” “Yes.” “Trains are not known for their stairs.” “You sure? Trains are wonderful machines. They get bigger everyday.” She stared at me. Something told me she thought I was liar, but she was too polite to say it to my face. I stretched and grabbed my clothes. She watched in amusement as I was laboriously doing up the buttons on my shirtfront. “So not only a hat and a coat,” she said, “but a shirt and tie too? Don't you think you're a little... overdressed?” I could see her point. Nude was the pony standard, but I had a reputation to maintain, after all. Private eyes wore slouch brim covers and long coats and ties. Just the way things were. We stepped out of our car and began walking forward along the train. Southern Comfort paused as she took in the door to the dining car, torn off the hinges and propped over to one side. The few other passengers were seated at the remaining tables, watching the train crew dejectedly sweep up the wreckage of their once pristine train car. Southern Comfort stared at them, then she turned her look on me. I noticed that the train crew had stopped working to eye my bruises with some accusation. I let it roll off me, like water off a duck's back. Exasperation crossed her face. “You're really just going to—” “Yes. Stairs.” I watched her cradle her head in her hooves. She seemed stressed. We sidled up to the dining car's serving area, helping ourselves to the complimentary breakfast. Seats would have been hard to come by what with the recent stair-related property damage, but there were so few fellow patrons that we still managed to get a table next to a window. We watched the the countryside lazily pass by as we ate, and I lit up another cigarette once we finished. One of the train stooges worked up the courage to step up to me. “Excuse me, sir, but there's no smoking on this train.” I gave him the old evil-eye. “Since when?” He stared at me. “Since forever, sir?” He motioned at a sign. It had a big “NO” symbol over a cigarette and text about a hundred-bit fine. Good luck getting that. I opted to acquiesce to his demands. I've always been a conscientious sort. For some reason, Southern Comfort was doing her best to pretend she had no idea who I was. Hard task when she's sharing my table. We finished the ride out with her cradling her head in her hooves. I was enjoying the silence when I heard the faint sound of music. As we pulled in closer to the Ponyville station I made out what sounded like a full brass orchestra blaring as loud as possible. I looked around, trying to figure out what it was when I noticed Southern Comfort’s smile. Lovely thing. “What is that?” I asked, as it grew steadily louder. I tried not to wince as it started to get painfully loud the closer we got. She looked over at me with a big grin. Have to say it looked good on her. “There's only one pony in all of Equestria that would throw a party just because the train's coming in!” She seemed excited. I wasn't. The music became legitimately defeaning as we finally pulled into the station. I gritted my teeth and followed Southern Comfort out onto the platform. Southern Comfort trotted over to a pile of instruments. On closer inspection it turned out that there was a pony under there, bright pink and poofy. She burst out and stood before us with outstretched arms. “Hi!” she said brightly. No, not “said”. What's the word... Screeched? Shouted? Made horrifyingly annoying noises with her mouth parts? “I'm—” She cut off as I shoved my hoof over her mouth. I pulled her in close and stared her in the eye. “Not. Another. Word. I have a headache and you ain't helping.” My message delivered, I slowly released her. She stared at me. I stared at her. I knew, somehow, deep in my heart, that the moment I blinked or looked away she would do something to infuriate me. Slowly, I drew my smokes from my coat pocket. There was no movement, and the world was completely silent as we tested our wills against each other. She stood there, with that same manic smile on her face as I lit my cigarette and took a drag. I could feel my eyes starting to water, but I wasn't prepared to lose. So I cheated. She let out a yelp and fell over backwards with tears streaming from her eyes as I blew smoke into her face. Victory achieved, I permitted myself a sigh, but that turned to a gasp as Southern Comfort gave me a swift left jab to the side. I bent over coughing as she went to help her friend. “Pinkie! Are you okay? Did that jerk hurt you?” I looked up through a veil of tears as the pink pony was picked up off the ground and fussed over by my previously icy employer. “I'm okey dokey lokey, Comfort! Who's your friend?” She maintained her happy demeanor through it all. I could feel my eyelid start to twitch. Some things shouldn't happen at six in the morning. Happiness is one of them. “That's Shank Cartwright. He's a detective I hired to help me with some personal business.” She gave me a calculating look. “Although I'm beginning to wonder if it was a good idea.” My meal ticket in the balance, I endeavored to make a good second impression. I wasn't much for first impressions, so I tended to rely on the second go around. “Nice to—” I was immediately interrupted as she flung herself forward to dance about me and examine me with a critical eye. “A private eye? For real? He's got the hat and coat and tie so he must be!” I looked over at Southern Comfort, feeling oddly vindicated. She didn't even do me the courtesy of remembering our earlier conversation, bemused by the pink pony's antics. Rude. “Do you have a magnifying glass? How about a pipe? Violin? Batarang?” She danced her way back to the front and violated my personal space to stare me in the eye. “Did you know your eye is twitching?” she asked with shining innocence. I was smiling with gritted teeth. “You don't say.” “I'm Pinkie Pie, by the way. Ooo, are you going to investigate me? Am I perp? A crim?” She slammed her hoof down and looked at me, eyes afire with determination. “You'll never get me alive, copper!” She ran off, laughing all the way. I just stood there, dumbfounded. I could tell Southern Comfort was entertained. The way she laid on her back laughing was a major tip off. Call it that detective instinct. See? That's why I'm a private eye.
Stable and BreakfastI waited patiently for my companion to recover from her laughing fit. It took quite a while. She's lucky I'm the patient type. When she finally ran down, I cocked an eyebrow at her. "Done now?" She wiped tears from her eyes gave me a nod. With a sigh, I turned and we made our way into town. Every now and again she’d glance over at me and be consumed by another fit of giggles. To distract myself, I took a bit of a look at the town. Glad I did. Picturesque was a good word for it. I'd never seen a town look more like a postcard. The buildings were short and brightly painted, the streets swept clean. Not what I was used to at all. The air smelled of freshly cropped grass and wildflowers, not of rot and trash left lying in the streets. It wasn't a very large place by any means, but there was a life and vitality to this Ponyville that you couldn't find in Manehattan. Manehattan feels like a tired mare dosed with caffeine—jitters and twitchy moves over a core of exhaustion. Here, though. Here it was real. It was the sort of life that could only come from a place where everypony knew each other, and would stop to say hello on the street. I immediately hated it. I'm not a misanthrope by any means. Doesn’t mean I'm given to meaningless courtesy. I didn't know what it was that set my teeth on edge. Maybe it was how unrelentingly sweet it was. Maybe it was the feeling that such a brightly lit facade had to be a cover for something dark and buried. Like a murder maybe. I looked at Southern Comfort. Oh, yeah. Right. We had strolled into the town square when she pointed at a charming little continental. I squinted to read the sign. "Ponyville's Finest Stable and Breakfast", painted in a glossy black on a white background. I glanced over at Miss Comfort. “Suppose this will be where I'm staying?” I muttered. She nodded. “You don't have to worry about the rate. I've already discussed it with the owner, so I'm considering it expenses.” She looked toward the sun, squinting, then turned back to me. “My family should be waking up around now. I'll send a runner around when we need you.” I nodded to myself as she turned away and left. Gave a bit of consideration to getting in a parting word, but something told me she wouldn't leave me with the final say. I sighed, and turned to examining my temporary residence with a critical eye, cigarette trailing smoke in the light breeze. The building was brightly painted in red, the edges and linings picked out in a white so shining and pristine it made me squint to see. I expected cows to come prancing out any second, but none were forthcoming. I tossed my cigarette to the ground and went inside. It was well lit and decorated with a definite female touch. The curtains and lace tipped me off. Runner up was the smell. Lilacs and lemon-scented cleaning solution. I put together an image of who owned this place. She would be short, comfortingly overweight, with a pair of thick glasses and a Hearth’s Warming Eve sweater emblazoned with snowponies, even though it was April. The pegasus behind the counter looked nothing like that. My confidence in my investigative skills took a hit. Orange coated with a punky, spiked yellow mane, she looked like she'd just come out of her teens but hadn't let go. She had her chin propped on one hoof, large headphones blasting music so loudly I could feel it from where I was standing. She lightly fanned herself with one wing, and didn't bother to acknowledge my presence. Her attention was focused on chewing gum and vacantly staring at the wall. Probably counting the wallpaper gardenias. Understandable. Didn't appear to be that much custom. I walked up to the counter and rapped on it with one hoof. Her purple eyes slowly made their way over to me. “What.” It wasn't a question so much as a flat declaration of disinterest. Me, I’m a gentlecolt. I rose above it. “Morning. Name's Shank Cartwright. I believe you have a room for me.” She continued to stare at me blankly. The pounding bass from her headphones set my teeth on edge. “What?” Progress had been made. Her voice had inflection now. “My name is Shank Cartwright. Take me to my room.” I made sure to speak slowly and clearly. I even accompanied it with gestures, to get my point across. You have to make allowances when you speak with the slow. “Excuse me?” She still hadn't removed her headphones. That was when I realized the problem. Sometimes I'm slow on the uptake. I reached over the counter, pulled off her headphones and threw them across the room. It seemed to get her attention, and she stared at me in shock. “Listening now?” I asked brightly. “I'm Shank Cartwright, it's seven in the morning and I've run out of cigarettes. Kindly show me to my room, dear pony, before I teach you the wonders of customer service. I feel one of my heads coming on.” For some reason, my calm, happy tones made her eyes flash with anger. Some would have said I was being deliberately patronizing in tone, but that was patently impossible. I am, after all, a gentlecolt. “You—how dare you!” Her orange coat had deepened to a cherry red. I wasn't aware they could do that. “Get out of my face, you gelding!” Rude. I don't abide by rudeness. I was about to make a scene when a very matronly voice called out from a back room behind the counter. “Red? Red, is someone here? Deary me, let me handle this, Red.” A brown earth pony came out of the backroom. She was short, comfortingly overweight, with a pair of thick glasses and a Hearth Warming Eve sweater emblazoned with snowponies even though it was April. Confidence was restored. She bustled up to the counter. “Ooh, hello sir, I'm Missus Dappled. How may I help you today?” Her voice was the same as my dear gran-gran, warm and dripping with the promise of cookies before bedtime. I was immediately charmed. She looked at the currently steaming pegasus at her side. “Ah, Red? Is something wrong?” Red opened her mouth to speak so I interrupted her post haste. “Excuse me, ma'am, are you the proprietor of this fine stable?” The earth pony looked at me, surprised, and nodded. Gave her an easy smile. “My name's Shank Cartwright, I believe you have a room for me?” She blinked. “Oh, yes! Let me check the registry.” She busied herself with the minutiae of her job as the pegasus looked from me to her and back again, whatever complaint she'd been planning to voice swept aside by a wave of competence and customer service. I gave her a wink. The glare she sent back was pure venom. “Ah yes, Mister Cartwright, right here.” Missus Dappled turned the registry to me and I signed my name. “Red, would you take Mister Cartwright to his room, please?” I felt that Red probably would have argued, but you can't stay mad when faced with a sweet old thing like Missus Dappled. She took some calming breaths. “Fine, Miss Dappled.” She slammed open the divider and stomped up the stairs. Missus Dappled looked over at me, confused. “I'm sorry, I don't know what's gotten into her.” I shrugged. It was a mystery. I followed Red up to my room. There wasn't any luggage. Didn't have much time to pack. She opened up my door and I took a moment to take in the frilliest, pinkest conglomeration of pillows and furniture I'd ever seen. I'm pretty sure it was illegal to have this much femininity in one place. There ought to be a law. Hell, there probably was. I walked in and laid down on the bed. Let loose a contented sigh as the extremely soft mattress slowly embraced me. I heard cough at the door. Red stood there, hoof extended. She was giving me those concierge eyes. They said she'd wait there all day if necessary. I fell asleep as she stood there, watching me like a very angry guardian angel.
PrologueYou'd think I'd get used to it. Let me set the scene for you: it's the Everfree Forest. Night. We've been lucky enough to get a full moon, but the cloud cover's pretty heavy for this time of year. The sound of wildlife softly rises from the forest. There's a rise—cliff, really—jutting out of the forest like a broken bone. You start to ascend the cliff face, when something catches your eye. Against the stark white of the face you make out a struggling black mass. Yeah, that's me. You continue your way up, ignoring my struggles because you are cruel. As you crest the top of the cliff, you see six or seven obscure forms making their way down the mountain path. You can't quite make them out with the clouds obscuring the moon, but you can tell that there's only one filly amongst them. That's the one I want you to look at; I want you to burn every shape, every curve of her into your mind because she is important. She's the one who just killed me. You come back to me as they walk away. Can't say you're too impressed by me. Can't say I blame you, either. My hair's falling out, my tie's undone and I'm scored with old bruises run yellow—yeah, don't blame you one bit. Even my hat—long known to be my best feature—even that's blown away in the wind. Hanging from a tree root I was lucky enough to catch in my teeth on the way down. You take a look at my face. Half closed eyes. Thoroughly pissed expression. I've got a mad on for the whole world and I don't care who knows it. You'd think. But you'd be wrong. I struggle to find purchase on the rocks, wishing I had wings or magic, something to get me out of this. If I was the praying type, I'd start asking the gods some seriously pointed questions. Just my sort of day, right? I'd grin if it wouldn't kill me. You think you hear the tree root cracking? Yeah, yeah, that's the root. I was never the lucky one. You watch as my lifeline cracks and I drop, snapping to a halt as the rest of the branch catches. Then again. And again... ...Until all that's left is the thinnest sliver of wood. I can hear it straining. I don’t move a muscle, don’t so much as blink, just hanging there, willing it to hold. Just one more second. Celestia hears. She graciously permits me an extra second to order my thoughts and regret not asking for more time. The branch snaps, and you can see me plummet into the darkness, towards the grasping trees. Oh, I forgot. Never introduced myself proper. Name's Shank Cartwright. I'm a PI. And I think I'm dead.
