Spike Noir
Private Eye
An MLP:FiM fanfic by Midnight Shadow, Cheddah, Gingerale and LawnPygmy
***
A dark night in a town that knows how to keep it’s secrets, but on the top floor of the Ponyville Public library lives a dragon still trying to find the answers to life’s persistent questions:
Spike Noir, Private Eye.
***
The scroll came like any other, its message was short as it was sweet: An unidentified dame needed my unique talents, telling me to hoof it and meet her at one of my local haunts. When the bits are getting low, who am I to look a gift-pony in the mouth. I pulled on my hat and headed out into the darkness.
The night was filled with the cacophonous sounds of a thousand insects as I walked the lonely streets of Ponyville. I headed to the local watering hole, a hotbed for the down-and-out, the trouble maker and those just wishing to keep a low profile.
In a town where everypony knows your name, it’s hard to keep secrets, but some ponies try. When those secrets lead to betrayal and murder, they call in a specialist, they call in me, Spike Noir, Private Eye.
The Prancing Pony; The joint was seedy, the stools uncomfortable, the drinks often as watered down as the conversation.
I ordered a sulfur on the rocks in a dirty glass, giving the barkeep the redeye until I was sure it was the good stuff he kept for his regulars, and pulled the fedora lower over my eyes. I ate the rocks first, the lighter-fluid special giving them a kick like a mule. The glass was piquant and I crunched it, lost in thought, waiting.
The door opened, bringing with it a gust of wind howling with mournful memories, followed by a four-legged Athena. As she walked in, all eyes fell upon her. I felt a lump rise in my throat at the vision of loveliness that glided up to the bar to order her usual drink.
There she was, the reason I kept coming to this forsaken joint. Pale white fur shining in the soft light, glorious purple mane and hooves shined to match, topped by legs that went all the way up. The one reason I still believe this town to hold any beauty to it.
A tall glass of water if ever I saw one. She took a sip of her drink and levitated it back to the bar. With it wafted a hint of perfume, roses in bloom, that set my heart jumping like loco beans.
As she walked slowly to the piano, a paid smile on her face that forgot itself before reaching her eyes, every pony in the place went quiet and turned to watch. All those greedy eyes waiting for her to start singing. All those lonely hearts waiting for her to fill their life with something, mine not the least amongst them.
I made my move before she could turn around, slipping a few bits to the piano-pony and taking his place. She whirled as I took the jazz up a notch, claws jumping over the ivory, playing her a tune like I wished I could play with her fetlocks.
She knew the words, she sang them slow and sensual, the verses falling from her lips like petals from a flower blown free by the summer wind. She draped herself across the piano, my claws faltered ever so slightly as she leaned closer and looked into my eyes. She had won this round. I swallowed hard and concentrated on playing as every ear rotated to listen to her silky voice. It felt like she was singing to me and me alone. Almost enough to make a guy forget his troubles.
She leaned close, her velvet, dulcet tones raising the spines on the back of my neck, draping her mane and then tail across my shoulders as she twirled and sang, kindling fires deep within every green-blooded male. I hoped the piano could take the heat.
When the notes faded, near everypony was breathless. She blew kisses to the crowd, took off my hat and kissed my head, “Why don’t you call me up some time, Sugar.”
She stalked off, leaving my heart beating a staccato my claws couldn’t match. I hopped down from the piano and head back to the bar, but Madame Rarity had gone to powder her nose, leaving a few bits on the counter for the barkeep.
I was about to leave when a hoof covered my claws and I looked up into her eyes, they were deep, troubled pools, like an ocean hiding a storm. She spoke low, in whispers, stealing furtive glances around like secret lovers on a park bench, “I hear you’re the dragon for the job if somepony needs information.”
“That depends, toots,” I said, “on who’s asking and who’s paying.”