The rain was heavy, like bricks. By this time of night, ManeHatten was dead, not even a chariot for miles. I liked things this way, the silence, only echoing footsteps beneath a rainy pitter patter. The further I wandered the more I forgot why I was out here. Soaked, alone, and a relenting thickness in the wind. My socks were drenched, my nose was running, and I stubbed my toe a few blocks back, so all in all, I felt like shit. Whatever I’m out here for… it better be fucking worth it.
The quietness was somehow relieving. It’s been awhile since my ears were void of anything. No screaming, crying, just rain and me. Reminds me of how I got to where I am now. Took a lot of lives to reach the pedestal, lots of pain and theft, and sometimes I wonder if it was worth it.
Oh, what the fuck am I saying?! Of course it was worth it! So much opportunity, freedom, I do what I want when I want. Not taking shit from anypony has its perks.
I reached into my jacket pocket, unraveling a crumbled piece of paper snuggled within the fabric. The address was a bit smudged, but still legible. “The fuck am I doing this again…,” I ask myself.
I have always been one to take risks, but this jumps the bar, goes fifty feet up, and splats on the concrete. Got this address on my doorstep a few weeks ago, threw that shit away. Like I need the cops luring me to some alley to get beatin’ senseless. The address was sent again, and again, and again. Whoever the hell wanted me at this place was desperate, or is really fucking persistent. This kind of thing couldn’t have been done by any blue suit, this is different and I know it.
Beneath the poorly scrawled numbers and street name were the words, “We need to talk.” Psh, how clichéd is this fucker? It’s obvious this guy wants to call in a hit. I wouldn’t be new to this kinda business. Ex-wives, ex-husbands, asshole bosses, and obnoxious tax payers, I’ve killed em’ all. Didn’t even know the ponies, but if I was getting money for it, no problem with me.
I never liked the term “Hit Men,” doesn’t suit me. I go by nothing. I don’t know how so many ponies know of my undercover business, but they do, and I got no choice but to satisfy these delusional fucks.
It’s always so intoxicating when meeting the… “Boss” for the first time. I never hold any expectations, it’s different every time. Sometimes a low life slut, or maybe a big time hot shot; nothing but a bread crumb brain.
This guy doesn’t seem like anypony I’ve encountered. It’s too ominous, too obscure, too crazed. The lack of knowing scares me a whole lot more.
I turn an alley, the rain lightning up as the cloudbank splits into darkness. A single door illuminated by a dim florescent light, leaning against the brick side of a building. The magic numbers I’ve been looking for are here, and I’m considering turning back. Something catches my eye; the door is decorated in deep scars, scratches and cuts.
“Fuck… somepony been clawing at this thing.” I take a breath. “Ok, Spike, chill…just chill. It’s just like any other job, I’ve done it a dozen times. Let’s get this shit over with.”
The door creaks louder than expected, sounding like some busted horn. “Hello?” I call into the darkness. “Anypony here?”
There’s no response.
I lose my temper. “I-I’m not here to have some fuck head like you scare me! I’m here for the job.”
The lights suddenly flash on, a blinding beam blocking out my sight. The glow dims and I can see again. The place is a mess. Newspapers litter the floor, the wall painted over in magazine clippings. A dangling lamp swings from the ceiling and the place smells of urine and shit.
I can already tell this job will be like no other.
A voice suddenly grabs my attention. “Hey, you Spike?”
I jump, turn in a flash to the noise. A figure stands within a dark corner of the room. His face and body is obscured, but his voice… its fucking nuts. Hoarse and raspy, sounds like the guy was about to choke up blood or vomit.
“Yeah… who’s askin?” My brow quivered as my fingers twitched, begging for a gun.
Without another word, he kicks a box towards me from the shadows, sliding across the dust caked floor and stopping at my feet, leaving a streak of polish in its wake. Never moving my eyes from the pony, I knelt down, opened the box, and felt my jaw nearly drop.
I’ve never seen so much money, an ocean of flourishing green-backs, swimming in a sea of bits. I felt drool drip from my lip as the mystery pony spoke again. “You want the money… you finish the job.”
I have a problem with money. Somepony offers me plenty, I do whatever the hell they want.
Strip down, tuck my dick between my legs and cluck? Yep.
Eat a steaming pile of fresh horse shit? Yep.
Fuck my mother? Yep.
Money messes my mind, plays with it till it’s nothing but a pile of unraveled ribbon bits. I go gullible, predictable, easy to fool, easy to kill.
Before I can say anything, the pony speaks again. “Spike, mind telling me a bit about your childhood?”
I raised a brow, snapping me out of my trance with the odd question. “Why?”
“Just tell me…”
“Uh, well I was raised by equines, hatched by one, even.” I stop there; I don’t give personal shit to anypony, especially not somepony as shady as this. No fountain of cash can trade my secrets.
“I see… are you familiar with a velvet mare, charming personality, a unicorn, used to be the element of Friendship, recently promoted to princess status. Know her?”
I said nothing.
“Cause I need you to kill her.”
