Monkey Business

From her cloud, Rainbow Dash watched as the carriage approached Ponyville.

The sides were bare and white, aside from the flourished lettering that read APE BROS with fancy swirls that flowered from the A and S. Two grey stallions dragged it on the gravel roads. The pebbles crackled under the thin wooden tires, and the stallions halted near the Boutique. They unharnessed themselves, and the taller one took hold of the bay door with both hooves and heaved it open—he seemed to be rummaging through its contents—until he shouted and the smaller one stumbled over. Banging. The small carriage lurched back and forth. The two stepped out. Behind them, the taller one dragged a large crate, a blanket draped over its contents.

Rainbow Dash continued to tail the strangers from her cloud. As they approached the town center, the taller one halted. She heard the faintest bit of chatter. The short one then turned sharply away, his left foreleg jerking from the movement. He marched toward Ponyville’s center. The tall one continued down the gravel path, dragging the cart. Dash sat unmoving; only when Shorty had disappeared into the town hall did she make her move. Her cloud dissolved with a kick and she sailed down, checked to make sure his eyes didn’t wander upwards, that no stray branch was bristled on her part.

No more than a few yards away from her target, Dash shrank herself into the foliage, hiding her blue mass in the thick underbrush. The stallion idly paced around the veiled crate. His head was near perpendicular to the ground but occasionally he would stop, hold his chin high and sway his head, as if he basked in the murky light that dripped through the leaves.

This waiting and watching dragged on. She found herself swaying precariously from side to side. Her head sank into the soft dirt.

She was awakened by the arrival of Shorty. He had come back empty-hooved and he talked at a cautious volume. “I’ve talked with the town and we’ve gotten an O.K. We can start as early as two days, if you’d like. Ponyville seems to be a nice enough place. What they lack in numbers they’ll make up for in small-town trust and generosity.”

Raspy and feeble, thought Dash. Like an overused whistle.

The taller one stroked his chin in slow, deliberate movements, and nodded. Then Shorty just shook his head and sighed. It was a drawn-out, defeated breath.

“Whatever your preference, the decision’s already made. I told them that we start in two days. So we gotta get our flanks moving pretty soon because we have equipment to set up and a show to advertise—by Celestia’s plot, Ted, could you at least look at me when I talk?”

Ted. So that was the taller one’s name. Or at least his nickname.

“I mean, I’ve already accepted the fact that you’re pretty much mute, and probably retarded, but seriously, I’m the one doing the brunt of the work here, so—”

His voice faltered when he saw Ted’s eyes; wide, innocent; like the eyes of a scolded child. Shorty shook his head and muttered under his breath. “Like a damn baby.” He turned away and began the trek out the forest, Ted close behind and dragging the crate.

For a brief moment, Dash considered pulling the purple quilt off and making her escape. But then she thought better of it. For starters, nothing would probably happen: the slack was pulled taut under the box to prevent that from happening. And did she really want to go meddling into others’ business? Not that she had any ethical qualms about it, but things like this sometimes came back to bite you in the butt. She peered over the bush. They were out of sight in the sprawling, vine-encroached cobweb that was the Everfree. She flew upwards and pierced the canopy. They were nothing but show ponies, trying to milk some bits out of an ordinary, formulaic act.

It was that time, anyways. She flew to her routine napping spot: that perfectly contoured tree on the outskirts of Sweet Apple Acres, and laid within the crook of her favorite branch, and closed her eyes, and a leaf quivered over her shallow breaths.

* * *

Taste: A base of raspberry, with underlying floral notes and the slightest hint of chocolate. Texture: Unpolished, and slightly rough on the palate, but which also lent it an intangible rusticness. Hardness: Approximately 7-8 on the Mohs Scale, comparable to that of quartz and topaz. Luster: No idea, because he hadn’t looked at it before popping it into his mouth.

Spike closed his eyes; savoring; concentrating on the rock he rolled about in his mouth. He determined that the mineral was several tens of thousand years older than his last foray (gems, like fine wine, get better with age) and subsequently that this was the finest gem he had tasted in recent memory. Satisfied with his brief analysis, he chomped down the remains of the mineral, savored the sweet but short burst of flavor that placated his most primal instincts. With a final gulp the remnants slid into the bowels of his lithovorous digestive system.

As a token of his satisfaction, Spike also released a small burp.

He braced himself for Rarity’s reprimandment or one of Dash’s jokes. He was relieved to find that the former was recounting such a bedazzling tale, and the latter seemed to be searching for the most efficient way to shove sandwiches into her mouth. Spike waited for something to happen: perhaps a suggestion for a new activity, even a gesture of acknowledgement. No such luck. The three gossiped and picked at their meals, and gave sidelong glances towards Applejack and Rainbow, who were engaged in a furious eating contest, while Pinkie carefully scrutinized each contestant with unwavering eyes.

Spike lifted himself from the ground. The grass was still damp from the morning dew. As he walked, he dragged his feet, so that the grass tickled his soles with each step. He stopped at the stream; the one that wound its way across Ponyville, near the cut-off houses and through sultry marsh that only the most adventurous or bored would wade through. Now, the river was alive with fish. They turned the stream into a vessel of furious movement; the water and scales and washed reflections of the sky morphed into a blur of bluish silver. Spike stuck his hand into the water. Around the radius of his arm was a jarring calmness. The fish moved quickly as ever. If the intrusion slowed them down they did not show it.

Spike withdrew his hand, and the hole was painted instantly with hues of silver. He continued down the river, chin downwards in thought.

Only when he heard the faint sounds of some distant gathering was his stupor broken. He could only make out brief snippets of a speech. Exhilarating...complimentary…five o’clock. He stood still and concentrated on the source of the noise. It was far too faint to be sure, but the sounds came from ahead, towards the town center. He hopped over the stream and listened intently to the chatter as he walked. He was getting closer. As he cleared a bend, the dense foliage subsided and he got a clear view of the event.

A short stallion stood beside a makeshift stage. He was undressed, aside from the tie hanging loosely around his neck. His look-alike stood beside him: identical in every aspect besides demeanor and stature. Spike watched as the town’s lyrist, Lyra, approached the two stallions and took a brochure. She skimmed it for a few seconds before she folded it and looked up. “What exactly is this?”

The short stallion picked himself up, looked to the side, as if recalling some rehearsed statement. “People like to call us all sorts of names. Entertainers, showponies, a circus. We’re just making a good show for others to see and maybe raking in a few bits while we’re at it.” He paused and gave a twisted grin. “You look skeptical. If it comforts you, we have several fainted seniors, and the time of an—unneeded, I should add—emergency medical team on our conscience.”

Lyra nodded, her expression still stoic. “Can I see him?”

The stallion shook his head and gave a downcast smile. “I’m sorry, miss, but he’s resting right now. Getting ready for the big game tomorrow, y’know?”

Lyra stared at him for a few seconds then slowly turned away and walked beside the side of the stage. A few ponies cast her strange glances, until she walked behind the stage and vanished from the crowds that chatted and speculated in idle curiosity.

Spike emerged from the woods and cut a path through the crowds. He approached the two stallions, but then followed an easy curve around them towards the backstage area. His hand brushed against its side as he walked. Cheap plywood. They hadn’t even bothered with paint. The back of the stage was equally unfurnished. Without the facade of garish red banners and glossed wallpaper, Spike could see how rushed the job had really been—half inserted nails stuck every which way and he could make out a dimly lit interior through triangular gaps. He tried to get a closer look. The stage floor was several heads higher than him and nothing was in sight to get him off the ground.

Some yards from the stage lay a plain white carriage, undecorated except for text that that ran across its walls. He approached it and hammered its side with the flesh of his fist. The thin metal rattled and drummed, leaving a rain of metallic chatter that echoed through the trees. Spike hopped back and put his palm against the metal. The vibrating quelled and only a faint whooshing remained. He strode to the back of the vehicle. An impressive-looking lock bound tightly to bolted white handles. Spike gave a noncommittal tug at one of the doors. Not even a budge. He pulled at the other door. The hinge whined.

Spike took a closer look at the lock. Its pad was larger than his fist, the only legitimate means of entry through a corrugated slit on its underside. He pulled it with both hands and yelped when the pad slid loose without a hitch. He felt like laughing.

I could go in there right now.

As he approached the woodland trail he had emerged from, he turned around to regard his surroundings one last time—just in time to catch a glimpse of a markless orange flank vanishing behind the curtains.

He felt at once both contempt and admiration for the young filly. It was doubtful she had been invited. Scootaloo had a tendency to try stupid stunts, for no reason other than personal fulfillment; and this, in turn, almost exclusively came from Dash’s praise and her own likeness of her idol. Which was to say arrogant and completely irresponsible. And Spike sometimes wondered whether her worship was really benign—others called it “cute,” but he thought it might indicate underlying psychological issues.

Spike rubbed his eyes. The girls would be worried by now.

Twilight’s going to give me a load of crap when I get back, he thought.

He turned and retraced his steps and ran through knotty roots and soft mulch, the silver stream, the fields of wild, waist-high grass, as quickly as his stubby legs would carry him.

* * *

An orange filly peered through stem and leaf. The mare in her sight sat engrossed in her magazine, a handbag beside her with its straps unclasped. There would never be a better time to strike. She slowly crawled under the thick foliage, taking care to avoid the branches that tangled and clumped in a thorny web.

A voice emerged from behind her, its usual cadence lost in the hushed volume. “Scootaloo, are you sure this is a good idea? That mare might see you, you know. What if she tells somepony? My sister would explode…would explode like a herd of buffalo stampeding towards a minefield.”

“Vivid,” rasped Scootaloo. “And Applebloom, you need to talk quieter. You almost blew it.”

The white unicorn beside Applebloom raised her hand before she could turn her attention to the handbag. She made less of an effort to conceal her voice, and its shrillness ruined the aura of calculated silence. Scootaloo grit her teeth in annoyance. “Don’t you feel guilty about doing this? How do we know that the purse isn’t special to her? How do we know there’s nothing really valuable in there? And to be honest, Cutie Mark Pickpockets just leaves a bad taste in my mouth.”

Scootaloo waved her off. “Jeez, Belle, so many questions. I never said I was actually going to steal anything. This is just practice.” She continued to wriggle through the bush. “You see what I mean? I’m just going to take something out and put it back in. Easy-peasy.” She crawled clear of the overhanging leaves and crept to her victim.

The two friends gave each other doubtful looks but kept silent. They weren’t going to pass on a good show.

The soft dirt muffled her steps and only the rustling of leaves cut the total silence. The mare hadn’t moved an inch. Like a cat, thought Scootaloo. A cat and its prey.

The bag was now mere inches from the tip of her muzzle. Shadows rippled between its folds and the textured canvas weaved and intersected like thousands of tiny bricks. Her hoof trembled as she reached inside the main pocket. Something jingled and her eyes shot to the mare less than a foreleg’s length away. Her eyes were planted on an article. Scootaloo mentally exhaled and slowly, slowly pulled out a stringed bag. She never got it back in because a pair of hooves grabbed and lifted and dangled her in the air like a small dog. Scootaloo writhed and twisted. It was futile. This mare could give Big Mac a run for his money in an arm wrestle.

Her voice was cold, and its steadiness frightened Scootaloo. “What were you doing.” A statement, not a question. The pegasus could only give a nervous laugh. Those eyes! Squinting, unblinking; she seemed to bore into her soul with those pinpricks of pupils. The mare spoke again. “You have five seconds.”

“W-well, you see, I was going, uh, I was going to try to take something—but not really—you see, this was practice. You see? Not real. Just play. You see?”

Then narrowed her eyes even further and Scootaloo suddenly got very, very scared.

No. She doesn’t see. She doesn’t see at all.

But the mare simply dropped the filly onto her rump. The impact knocked the air out of her lungs and for a moment she knew she would die. But, gradually, her breathing steadied. She lifted herself from the hard dirt. Applebloom and Sweetie Belle giggled as she hobbled over. Jerks.

“What's so funny?”

The duo made no acknowledgement of her presence. They rolled about in the dirt, snorting and squealing in a way that made Scootaloo clench her jaw and want to put as much distance between her, and them, as possible.

As she stepped through the moist grass she felt her anger washing away. Images of maniacal bludgeoning were replaced by serene meditations—the intermittent chirping of birds in the mid-afternoon, the furry bumblebees that tread delicately upon petals, the cumulus-filled sky; majestic in their sheer size and the pillowy folds taking striking contrasts of shadow and light.

For Scootaloo, wandering was more tolerable with a destination. What better one than Pinkie's Sugarcube Corner?

She strode through the cobbled streets, and peered through the glass door of the shop. Weekdays were usually slow and today was no exception. The seats were empty aside from a single couple. Nothing obscured the view of colorful pastries which lined the shelf. Scootaloo pulled the door open and the chime jangled, and she hadn't taken more than three steps before Mr. Cake bounced behind the counter and crossed his forelegs against the marble countertop. Scootaloo took a sweeping glance of the selection. Raspberry cannolis. Apple cider doughnuts. Cupcakes (presumably Pinkie's), with unappetizing names like Bubble Gum Diabetes Crash and Larry's Sweet and Sourlicious Lemon Caramel Fudge Mini-Bites. Scootaloo was not in an adventurous mood. A medium vanilla in a cone would suffice.

She took a window seat and nibbled at the cone. She was three-quarters of the way through before a certain apple farmer barged through the glass door with such force that the chime flew off its small hook and sent a din that echoed through the restaurant. Applejack placed the chime on a nearby table.

The shock of her interruption had worn off and the few groups gradually returned to mild gossip and idle contemplations—until Applejack stomped her left hoof and spoke in an unashamed shout. “Pardon the interruption, but have any folks here seen a small purple baby dragon? Today, I mean?”

Figures, thought Scootaloo. The only time she'd come to Sugarcube herself would be over something like this.

Applejack received nothing but polite apologies and some annoyed glances. The mare left without further word. Scootaloo finished the remnants of her cone, and wiped her mouth with a foreleg. As Scootaloo treaded through the streets of Ponyville, she began to regret abandoning her friends. A day off from school, and a Friday at that, all down the drain. Maybe it was still salvageable. She headed towards the clubhouse, praying they'd be there. No such luck.

The filly rammed her hoof against the wooden wall. The fury subsided and a throbbing pain took its place. She hopped the steps, and began heading towards a place, the whereabouts of which she wasn't concerned right now. She walked along the wood's edge (it had a name, but only the most contrived called it by that), and soon she found herself near the local woodland trail that wound its way towards the brook. There was the sound of some gathering a ways where she stood. The day was already wasted, and there wasn't a better way to blow time, was there?

Soon she found herself in the midst of it. The town's outlier Lyra seemed to be flirting with a moustached, stumpy stallion. Looming over the crowd was a stage. Scootaloo considered the garish pentagonal banners that hung from its canopy. Ugly. Sky blue with rainbow streaks would be a far more elegant choice.

Lyra the Creep had stopped flirting and headed backstage, leaving Scootaloo to ponder her options.

Rainbow Dash had been picnicking with the five—no, six—if Applejack was looking for Spike, Rainbow was probably Celestia-knows-where in the search too. She glanced at the stage again. A haphazardly arranged staircase ran along its side to a small unmarked door. The short stallion's brother, so she thought, entered and promptly exited with a cardboard box.

Her head followed exaggerated motions of the innocuous glances and small tics one made as they walked. She briskly scaled the narrow-set stairs. As she turned the knob, it suddenly occurred to her that company could be waiting on the other end. Not that it mattered, actually. If there was, she could play dumb then go about business as usual.

The door swung open and Scootaloo swept the room. Completely bare; only a few unmarked boxes in the corner indicated any sort of activity. Metal beams ran across the ceiling in mesh patterns, and a single lightbulb dangled on the end of an almost comical length of string. Scootaloo stood in its barely-lit fringes. Sunlight poured through slits in the wood and she walked to the boxes. The lids were arranged so that each fold overlapped its adjacent, and she struggled with one until she pried it open by sheer strength. Various gizmos piled upon each other. Bowling pins and knives and something that looked like a giant yo-yo. She pored through the other containers to find the same collections of junk. And what had she been expecting? Light-sabers? She left the boxes in their tampered state and strode to the door. The sun was still high and the sudden adjustment burned her eyes. She kicked the door behind her. It slammed shut and she stumbled off the stage, dimly aware that her exit had attracted undue attention but too preoccupied with her burning eyes to lend the thought any coherency.

The throbbing subsided. Scootaloo regarded the crowd around her with squinting eyes. A few exchanged dubious glances.

She distanced herself from the crowd, eyes clenched, lamenting the wasted day, working herself into a tiny artificial rage to uncork her frustration. Her eyes teared but only an emptiness of feeling came with them. She sighed and opened her eyes. Just in time to glimpse the briefest flicker of a spiked appendage vanishing behind greenery.

Scootaloo shook her head to break her stupor, then ran after him, shouting his name. Where was he? She called his name again. She looked at the trail. Head-sized rocks sat unburied and roots curved upwards forming treacherous half-circles. Celestia have mercy, she thought. Him, with his two rolls of dough, can run faster than I can. She walked back to the crowd. A few looked at her. Scootaloo made sure her eyes went anywhere but the ground. The moustached stallion was slick-talking again, with—

Scootaloo bolted forwards. “Rainbow Dash! Rainbow Da-ash!” The mare casually glanced to her side, flicked a wisp of hair that hovered about her face. Every stallion drooled over her (which said a lot, considering the male:female ratio of Equestria), and Rainbow never gave them even a sliver of attention; never bothering with makeup, or frivolous accessories. Ponies accused her of boasting, but it was about things that she put her heart and soul in, things that mattered. And if she took pride in being aesthetically blessed, so what? Should she hide in shame or in fear of offending others? Of course, Scootaloo only had a vague conception of these ideas; they were but preconcious beliefs that hadn't ripened with adolescence yet. Mosly, her admiration for the pegasus stemmed from the fact that she was just plain awesome.

Scootaloo became aware of her gaping mouth and clenched her jaw.

“What's up, squirt? I was just asking about Spike. You seen him?" Her magenta eyes blinked and she found herself entranced by their intensity.”

“Well, Dash, I was, um, I was going to mention to you that I saw Spike—” she waved her hoof in the general direction—“going that way, into the woods. Applejack asked me about him a little bit earlier.” Rainbow thumped her back. “Thanks, squirt. Now I have at least something to go on. See you around!” She nodded to the moustached stallion, took brisk steps toward the trees, wings unfurling in anticipation of flight.

“Wait!”

Rainbow halted, tilted her head sidewards. Her voice betrayed annoyance. “What?”

Scootaloo swallowed. “Do you think I could...help you?”

For a moment her face was unreadable. Then she twisted her lips into an apologetic smile, and with a tinge of impatience, said, “Sorry, bud. He's probably just taking a walk, but you know how Twilight is...gets. If she saw us together she'd think I'm not taking the search seriously.”

With that, she took flight and disappeared behind the horizon of leaf and branch.

It was a somewhat valid explanation, Scootaloo had to admit. But it thinly veiled the real reason: She could never hope to keep pace with Dash. She glanced at her wings and mentally spat at their smallness. Ugly and useless, nothing more, probably less. She could fly farther with her blanket tied around her neck.

Scootaloo sighed and returned to the gathering. Maybe there was more to see. A brochure fluttered beneath the hooves of passerbys. She hesitated, then snatched it from between the legs of an unsuspecting stallion.

MEET THE APE BROS.

CARETAKER, RESCUER AND FRIEND TO THE AFFECTIONATELY NAMED "PIGGY."

PIGGY WAS FOUND ABANDONED, LEFT IN A CRATE NEAR THE EQUUS OCEAN WITH HIS VOCAL CORDS REMOVED. FEARFUL AND AGGRESSIVE AT FIRST, HE WAS NURSED INTO HEALTH AND REVEALED HIS TRUE VIVACIOUS, FRIENDLY SELF.

IN TIME, WE FOUND HE HAD AN INNATE TALENT FOR THE PERFORMING ARTS. HE COULD JUGGLE FIVE ITEMS AT A TIME. HE DID STANDING BACKFLIPS, SOMETHING IMPOSSIBLE FOR EVEN THE MOST AGILE QUADRAPED. HIS MAGIC STUMPED THE MOST SEASONED MAGICIANS.

PIGGY IS THE STAR OF THIS SHOW. WE ARE MERELY HIS AIDES, BRINGING AUDIENCES, AND A LIFE, HE MAY NEVER HAD HAD.

PIGGY CAPTIVATES AUDIENCES WITHOUT UTTERING A SINGLE WORD. WE THINK YOU'LL FIND THIS TRUE SOON ENOUGH.

Scootaloo never turned the page, for a thunderous bang shot her own and the entire crowd's attention to the back stage. Murmurs passed throughout the huddle as Scootaloo and several others cautiously rounded the corner. The short, moustached stallion ran ahead of them all, muttering.  He stood in front of the carriage and flailed his foreleg, as if trying to hold back the onset of ponies. Behind him the bay doors swayed back and forth with each breeze. A hefty-looking lock limp in the dirt.

A break-in, thought Scootaloo.

“Folks, I'd really appreciate it if you'd go about your business now. I realize how interesting this might be but this makes it a lot harder for us.” He gestured towards the front where his look-alike still stood.

The tide receded, trickling at first but hurried as the inertia dissipated. Scootaloo followed likewise.

Except that when Mr. Moustache had been waving his legs about, she had snuck behind him and peered within the storage unit. Her eyes had never failed her and she wasn't quite ready to disbelieve them—but crammed into a dimly lit corner had been an iron crate; it reached to the ceiling—and, on the serrated bars of its open door—blood had danced along the razor-sharp notches.

* * *

Wiggin was known as “Swallower” among his confidants. It was well-known by those in his circles (though never said aloud) that his unquenchable thirst extended to things far less...inanimate than money.

To Ponyville, however, he would be the charming and jovial Big-Wig. Charming and jovial when things ran smoothly. Charming and jovial when he could imagine the cash rolling in and when he could afford to bring exotica into his bedroom. This was not one of those times.

He sat spread-eagle on the hotel couch, slowly stroking his limp noodle of a moustache. He seemed not to care of the exposure his position offered, nor the incongruity between his relaxed posture and the situation at hand.

Standing before him was Rabbit, a somewhat handsome stallion with an assymetrical nose and an oily burnt-orange coat. His calm composure revealed none of the terror that boiled inside him.

Wiggin leaned back and his jaw shifted side to side. “Do you know why I pay you?” Rabbit could hear no accusation behind the question. He took a breath and answered in a rock-steady voice. “Sir, it is my belief that we are paid to provide the utmost security and protection to your lives and your interests, regardless of any—”

“Wrong! Try again. In plain Equish, please.”

“Sir, we are to make sure your interests are safeguarded against any danger, whether premeditated or accidental—”

“Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Want to know what your bucking job is? What we pay you five times the minimum wage for?” He paused as if expecting an answer and Rabbit held his breath. You could never be sure whether his questions were rhetorical. “I'll tell you now. I will tell you now since you were too damned stupid to figure it out before. You see,” he twirled his hoof in the air, “we placed you next to a big white thing with doors because we wanted you to make sure those doors never opened. You see now? You want your crayons to draw it out? Luna's throbbing cock! To think what we paid you!”

“Sir, I apologize profusely for my failure to heed my assigned task. I assume full responsibility for my actions, but you must understand my current situation—”

“Oooh, poor baby. Went poo-poo in pants? Want mommy? Need a nipple to suck on? I don't give a buck! Do you realize the shit you've put us in? The moment that ape is caught we're screwed. The facade will crumble to dust and when he tells them about our real business, the real moneymaker, we're—and let me get this straight, we are—getting our asses hauled to jail.”

Wiggin took a shaky breath and closed his eyes. A vein in his forehead throbbed. He spoke in a whisper even lower than his usual rasp. “Just leave. Please.”

Rabbit didn't need additional encouragement. The guard consciously slowed each step as to not reveal his enthusiasm.

Wiggin sat there with his eyes shut for some time. Then they opened, and in a half-croak, half-shout, he called, “Ted! You can come out now!” His brother trotted out the bedroom and Wiggin regarded him with an affectionate smile. Ted had favored their mother, Wiggin their father, which was to say Ted had been blessed with better looks and stature. It was a shame, really, that they had forgotten to give him the brain gene. “If you don't mind, get us some tea. I need to wind down.” Ted nodded, headed to the kitchen, and soon came back holding a cup of steaming jasmine. He went back to pour his own glass and he took a seat. The two sipped their tea in silence.

Wiggin slurped up the residue and slammed the mug onto the coffee table. He left Ted on the couch, rummaged through the bedroom, until he eventually returned with a heavy sack of coins, and shoved them into a handbag that hung on the coat rack. He slung the bag across his back and opened the door. “Finish your drink and get up,” said Wiggin. “We're getting the hell out of here.”