The city of Holly's Shade has long gone to bed by the time Barrel Cracker can no longer feel his hooves. He thinks he deserves a medal for the ability not to loose any of his appendages under this freakish cold chill that has taken the area. It's spring. He shouldn't be seeing store windows ice over, puddles freeze and his own breath. Again, it's as if spring fell asleep and winter decided to come from under the bed to deliver some knee-capping.
Walking along the side of the new hide-out, a bland office-type building, Barrel drags his hoof against the brick wall until he finds the false wall. Remembering what the boss has told him over and over, he presses his weight against the wall, directs his horn's magic into the notch somewhere on the other side. The wall quivers then sinks into the floor.
Why couldn't he use the front door, boss? Why couldn't he? He's not exactly all that wanted by the Royal Guards like some other ponies who could come in however they pleased. Favoritism is disgusting.
Once he enters, Barrel keeps an eye out as he makes his away through the backrooms of whatever this building was using them for. This building, old yet you be dumbfounded to see it look clean and well-used. It's hilarious because this place has been abandoned for 30 years and it's far too big for anyone to keep spotless without a crew of janitors. He doesn't think that the boss went to the trouble of having a maid or cleaner take to the corners with a toothbrush but damn did it look like it.
Let's go over the facts. The place is far too clean for anybody to have cleaned it. Especially, since they've only moved in for the last three months. There's still 30 years of dust that's missing. For some reason, it has been built with passageways that's far too good for sneaking in and around the city for it to be some else. Could this place have belonged to some illegal shippers back in the old days? Bootleggers? Drug house? Drug Lab?
He may have tried to tell his thought to the boss but the old stallion waves his concerns. Something about the building standing long before came around and it would still be standing long after they all died quick and violent deaths. The boss's death not included.
He reaches the stairway, probably the north one, where a dozen of his fellow gang members sit around drinking and talking. They didn't take his words on the building being creepy either but they couldn't stand to stay in any of the rooms if the boss wasn't in it. It gave off a weird feeling, they say. Which is the thing he'd been talking about. This place is weird. Creepy. Not right.
Pin-Stripe, his designated 'partner' is standing at the top of the stairs, caught in his la-la land as usual. He was a alright fella when in mixed-company but whenever they were alone, it was hard not place a dagger right between Pin-Stripe's shoulder blades.
“Going up to see the boss.” This is first thing that he hates about Pin-Stripe. He has this idea that he was the leader out of the two of them not matter how much Barrel threatens him to knock it off. The second thing that he hates is when Pin-Stripe asked him things, they weren't questions. They were facts. “Mind if I follow you.”
“I don't care.” Barrel replies and that is the truth. If Barrel kills every person whose managed to piss him off, he would be very happy while spending the rest of his short life in a dungeon. Though it really sounds like a good deal. A roof over his head and two meals a day. It's a tempting offer. And Pin-Stripe would be very much dead.
Acknowledging the rest of the crew on the stairs, Barrel heads up with Pin-Stripe following like a shadowy bastard. Somewhere between the second and third flight of stairs, he closes his eyes and thinks of warm places. For as clean as this place is, it was cold as being ambushed on the toilet at home. If outside felt like standing in a icy, running river, then the new hide-out is like being drowned in a frozen pond.
And here's the kicker, it's always feels like this. Ain't right.
On the fifth floor, because bosses equals assholes-- it's a proven and correct equation like 2 plus 2 and always to aim for the face in a fight-- they are almost, almost there. It's funny that he can call it, almost, almost there but you know, the boss is a paranoia freak and he might have moved his office again. It's the benefits of working for such a special fruit-cake like the boss.
They trot through a drafty, dimly lit hallway. It's so dark because all of their attempt to restore power to the rune lines failed. At least, it makes the red carpet the boss favors so well look good. Eventually, they reached a single door that opens into a large hallway that might have been used for fancy parties. It just has that 'I'm rich and so is the liquor I'm drinking' feeling to it.
Thank goodness they see Mal, a minotaur guarding the next door. Poor bastard. He has to stay in this building as long as the boss who tends to camp out here days at time. But unlike the boss and unlike the others who didn't care as long as they were ganking someone, he knows that this place weird.
“You boys supposed to be up here?” Mal, asks in that pleasant drone of his. Bet the sap was asking himself the same question.
“Yeah,” Barrel replies, giving a funny look to Mal who snorts. “I got business.”
“Well, you know the drill. Got to tell me the password. Melos, knows why we still have to do this every time? Even if the two of you were changelings, ghosts, monsters, I'd still know before you sods opened you mouth.”
“It's protocol, Mal.” Pin-Stripe mutters. Oh, is he mad that he wasn't included or something? “Everyone in the business has something like this. Remember what happened last time. Remember why we had to leave the old hide-out and move to this place? I never thought someone like you would be going on about a password.” Pin-Stripe turns to glance at him. “You're killing me here.” Well, excuse him.
“Then why can't the boss pick a better one. Something fierce and scary and hard to repeat. That would be interesting. But no, instead the password is something frou-frou and mundane. It's-”
“Candy Stripes.” Pin-Stripe snaps.
“See that's exactly what I'm talking about here. Candy Stripes. But who am I to doubt the one who signs my paychecks. I'm least likely out of all you not to wind up in jail.”
“You're so full of shit,” Barrel speaks up as Mal steps aside and opens the door. “You think you're the one going to get the happy ending? I'm the one who wishes every night.”
Mal calls out as they pass him. “Well, I help grannies cross the street. All that good karma is going somewhere. I'm not dumping bodies into rivers.”
The stallions enter a circular in-between room with a receptionist desk centered in the middle of the floor. The 'secretary' must of moved it again because of the strange energies of the walls. It's not strange energy, the whole place is just weird. But whatever, ignore the many signs of evil in this place.
And of course, Zinnia with her odd-ball glasses with their changing color lenses is typing away on something probably not work related or work safe. He asked once why the colors and she replies, “Why couldn't the world be seen in plum purple or ocean spray? Why do I have to see the same ugly color everyday?” That kind of answer wouldn't fly with anyone else but him. But he gets it. Freaks and monsters tended to gather in the same place alright. He not actually sure what Zinnia does, but she's good at it says everyone else that's sees her work.
If Barrel actually sees Zinnia doing the work she's supposedly so damn efficient in doing, it's the end of the world and the sun is going to fall. Or that's what she thinks and that is why she hides it.
The waiting room, because obviously that's what the room is at the moment, still has that stench of guests smoking hard wood pipes like going out of style. The smell of tobacco and poppy would have been a nice welcoming smell if it didn't mix with the spit, urine and old traces of problems that had to be handled in the new hide-out and not, per se, by dropping a wrapped up body off a bridge. Blood is still hard to get out of carpets even if the color is red.
Approaching the desk, Barrel knocks on the wood and Zinnia leaps like 3 feet in the air, shrieking until she gets a good look at him. She's always been this over-dramatic. He's not good at humoring people but Zinnia seems to like him well enough.
“You know why I'm here. Is he in?”
“Jeez, Keg-head, you know the rules. Password first.
Barrel rolls his eyes but Pin-Stripe is just full of words today. “Sugar Flash.”
“Bingo! Yup, Mr. Hatchet is in today and if you would take a sleep, I'll ring him up. Hey, Keg-head, did you notice the new couch. It's a Spiffy's original, you know. Good upholstery, nice fabric and it's as soft as a cloud. Better than a cloud. Almost like the one we had at the old hide-out.”
“Zinnia, don't get him started.” Pin-Stripe pleads and he's lucky that Barrel is already sitting down and laying his head on the arm rest.
“Shut up, Pin-Stripe.” Barrel calls out.
The moment he decides to breath in that deceivingly friendly aroma, a old memory flares and his body aches. He's had too many moments in this room. His body can't help but have flashbacks like he's been in a war. There's one memory in particular when he is smashed against the door and floor with a hoof bouncing off his neck, desperately trying to separate his head from his body.
No wait, that was from a dream. Freakin' nightmares messing with his head.
A new couch and some paintings of the fantastic type to take up space on the wall bring the room some life. One of them is a dragon turning into stone while reaching for some cursed object. The painting really speaks to him which is odd because he hates art. Well, that's not completely true. He hates the art that popular in Canterlot now. He needs to see a whole picture, not just smears and dots that for some reason costs a lot bits now. Pin-Stripe could make same art and where's his money?
“Yeah. Shut up, Pin-Stripe.” Zinnia agrees, snorting and giggling as she leans back into her chair. “Keg-head is a big boy and he doesn't have any feelings about the old hide-out. He just whines all the time.” She takes in a deep breath and huffs out some imitation of his voice. “Why can't we move back? This place is haunted. Stuff happens to ponies in this place. It's not even listed in the property records I checked at the library because I'm a nerd.”
Zinnia cackles. “I mean, you agree with me Penny? The place may be creepy but only temporary. The boss said we'll move once all the heat goes down. Equestria-wide orders from those up on top.”
“Well, sorry for not wanting another fight.” replies Pin-Stripe. “The two of you are the most childish ponies I've met and I never knew before I started working for the boss that you could break someone's nose with a typewriter tablet.”
“That was the one time! What are you bring it up for! You wanna start something. Blood smells better than poppy!” Barrel and Zinnia bellows like twin stars waiting to explode. In some other life, Zinnia is probably his sister.
Pin-Stripe sighs. “Did you practice that? Well done, foals.”
“I've been meaning to stick a dagger in your earth pony ass for a long time-” Barrel says before he is interrupted by the sound of a opening door. Out of the boss's room came out a ordinary mare as most guests tend to resemble. Contract killers don't stand out that much. Brown coat, brown mane and a shiny vase for a cutie mark. And a of course, a lush and expensive looking dress to ruin Barrel's great deduction.
The mare must be a customer looking to make a back-door deal. This is rare. Customer folk make arrangements between through middle-ponies. They didn't come themselves. Suspicious of the boss to be willing to see this lady out.
“So remember Clink, don't forget to contact me when you see him.” None other than his boss's stern and hard vibrato echos from beyond the door.
“Everything will go right. They won't connect the 'accident' with me. I can't lose my job-” The customer tries to asks before the boss cuts her off as he's prone to do.
“You just worry about getting home. Take your family out for a nice time. Make sure you got your a fine alibi for your absence.”
“Alright then,” The customer takes in a deep, guilty sounding breath. Just what on earth was the boss dealing with this light-weight for. “I've made my complaints known for the last two hours. I leave everything in your hooves. Goodnight, Mr. Hatchet.” The customer says before walking past them with eyes firmly kept to the floor. Asshole.
“Mr. Hatchet, your Keg-head and Penny Waah are here. Are you up to straightening out these dunderheads?” Zinnia yells out, sticking her tongue at the both of them. She deserves the glare that he flings back.
“Zinnia!” She shouldn't have said it but he had have known that she would. The boss can't get her to be professional for nothing. He should give up.
“Sorry, I guess I should have said dummies instead of dunderheads. The boss will see you now.”
The long and exasperated sigh that comes could have been a musical. It could have won awards and had two rounds in Trottingham alone! Zinnia flinches and Barrel can only give a her a half-hearted smirk.
“Boss, it's nice to see you again under such good circumstances. The job in Cinder Rock went well but I couldn't find Lolly Blue to ask how things went on her end.” Barrel announces as they enter the room, Zinnia quick to shit the door behind them.
The boss's room could be summed up in three words: The boss's room. But if you want to guess what kind of pony the boss pretends to be, there are many things to look at. His books on history and literature sit stacked in incomplete towers looking to be pushed over.
Barrel guesses that the boss keeps his books to look smart but he knows they're trophies of his earlier years of being a thief. The books aren't important or worth a lot of money but it only matters where he stole them from. It would be a understatement to say his boss wasn't fond of doing grand, symbolic gestures.
His precious statuettes with their many stupid stories came from a flea market fight for space on the window's sill. Every week, he gather everyone around and explain why has this particular statue. He lies every time. There's a betting pool that they're really from some ponies that the boss has fucked over decades ago and they make these for him so he remembers his promise.
The promise? Not to fuck them over again and stay in his cushy job.
The boss only had to blink once before Barrel and Pin-Stripe feel the pull of his 'Why the hell are you idiots still standing?' silence. They sit down in a pair of wooden chairs. New ones, by the look of it. The boss must have been annoyed to have to get rid of the red ones. Did he mentioned that the old chairs were covered in red carpet. The boss has a unrealized fetish, he does.
“Now gentlecolts, I imagine that you're ready for another job?” Mr. Hatchet might have that smile on face but the boss ain't smiling one bit. You can see it in his eyes. He's creepy like that.
Look at that desk. The boss has a name plate identifying his as one Mr. Woodland Hatchet.
As if that his real name. The words 'Woodland' and 'Hatchet' shouldn't be together in the same sentence or worse, the same name. Wouldn't any reasonable pony run for the hills if the heard about a pony named Sky Killer? The woods don't like hatchets so why anyone want that name?
And that was probably reason why the boss picked it. He's creepy like that. Good thing he can't hear his thoughts.
“Pin-Stripe, I need a certain stallion found. I've been trying to be persuasive through letters but I think I have the poor fellow spooked. Within this envelop is a picture and places he's most likely to be found.” The boss slides out a folder and takes out a brown and thick looking envelope and of course, Pin-Stripe stomps his hoof over the letter to keep Barrel from taking it. “Bring this stallion back here, alive.”
This is one of things he can't understand. Did Pin-Stripe get knocked in the head as a baby? He's not the boss of him. The real boss is right there, ya little shit. Pulling that crap right in front of him... The hell? And let's ignore how the boss decided to say Pin-Stripe's name instead of his!
“So what did this guy do to you?” Barrel jokes out loud, not really expecting a answer. After all, if the boss wanted the stallion alive, the boss must be looking to get up and personal.
“He's a specialist in dealing with these-” The boss gestures around the room. Barrel knows exactly what he means. “-magical disturbed places. I don't want whatever is buried here to follow us when we move. We've all been dealing with peculiarity of this place bravely and I think it's time that we got to the bottom of the problem.”
“Finally!” Barrel leaps to his hooves. “I've been saying this since we got here. Let's roll out Pin-Stripe, I want this guy tied and gagged. Oooh, I can't wait. Yes!”
“You will not being going, Barrel.”
“Don't tell me this is because you trust Pin-Stripe, more. I'm quieter than he is. I'm better at breaking door locks than he is. He's going to be lost without me. He won't have a single person to piss off. Do you really want to take that from- Wait, I've changed my mind. See ya, Pin-Stripe. Don't come back so soon. Let me enjoy my vacation from you.”
“I don't understand why you two are still alive. Better followers have died and I'm stuck with you two as my regulars. I hope you keep your bickering from being heard from any of the other gangs.” The boss sighs. “Don't act so happy Barrel, I want some questions. Are you still feeling cold?”
“Yes.”
“And it's the coldest for you, here?”
“Yeah. The city's under a cold front. Just another freaky day in Holly's Shade. Did you here what happens to the librarians at the 57th library? I swear we should just pack our bag and leave. Did we really need to make a charter in this messed-up city?”
The boss shakes his head, softy as if he waiting for him to read his mind. Sorry, boss but he really doesn't know what conclusion he is trying to get him to.“Barrel, I want you to take a good look at Pin-Stripe. Notice anything?”
“Nothing.” There's nothing on Pin-Stripe that Barrel wants to take a good look at. But Pin-Stripe takes the matter out of his hooves by swinging him around to look him in the face. Okay, maybe something is off with Pin-Stripe. His face is shiny like he's been sweating. Weirdo.
Barrel blows a breath of hot, smelly breath into Pin-Stripe's face. The weirdo drops his hold off his shoulders and swats at his shiny face. Come on, his bad breath isn't that bad.
“Okay, that's not working. I should've expected this. See this glass of water,” The boss taps one of his fancy wine-glasses. “I give you permission to touch it.”
“Are you crazy? I'm not stupid. You're going to smack me with it like you always do when I touch your stuff.”
“I just gave you permission. Touch it.”
“This might be a test! Stay the hell away from me, Pin-Stripe.” Barrel flips over his chair and runs. “So this is how going to be. You both been planning to gank over a wine-glass. I can't believe this. I should of killed you sooner, Pin-Stripe! I always hated you.” Out of nowhere, a hard pressure collides with back of his head. Barrel falls. “Tell Pin-Stripe that I always hated him.” he mutters before closing his eyes, waiting for it to all go black.
“I didn't throw it that hard, you know.” Pin-Stripe pipes up.
“Shut up, I'm trying to die here.”
“There are no words about what I think about you. No words.” The boss walks over him and lifts up the wine-glass. “Do you see this, you over-dramatic idiot? Do you see what you did to the glass?”
The glass is freezing and hardening on one side. “I think something has been trying to posses your stupid self. Whatever the building is trying to do, it's happening to you first. Is there anything you want to confess, Barrel? You been in some place you shouldn't have? This might save your life and everyone else's.”
“Well, I've been having some weird dreams lately and I've haven't been anywhere it wants me to go...”
