A Pony walks into a Police Station
Admiral Biscuit
Sergeant Piobar, for the tenth time that afternoon, resisted the urge to slam the handset into its cradle. April Fool's Day, he'd discovered, dramatically upped the number of crank calls. What kind of moron makes a crank call to a police station? Out of habit, he wrote down the number, but he knew it would turn out to be a pay phone.
He wondered if the operators at 911 were having the same problem. He hoped not. He shifted around uncomfortably on his chair. Desk duty was about the worst possible job, but he'd foolishly demanded to keep working even though he couldn't go out on patrols until his broken wrist healed.
Piobar tapped his pen against the pad thoughtfully, before pulling up a reverse-number search on the computer, just in case some damn fool had actually used their home phone or cell phone to make the call. To his complete and utter lack of surprise, they hadn't.
Just then the phone rang again. He gave the familiar greeting, engaging his brain and turning on his professionalism.
“Benjamin?” An old lady's voice on the other end of the line.
“No, this is the police station, ma'am,” he told her.
“Hello, is this Benjamin?”
“No, ma'am; this is Sergeant Piobar.”
“Could you get Benjamin for me, please?”
“I'm sorry,” he said smoothly. “There is no Benjamin here.” Is she senile? Hard of hearing? Is there some kind of emergency? “Is there, perhaps, something I could help you with?”
“I'm looking for Benjamin, young man. Benjamin! Benjamin Dover!”
“No Ben Dover works—Goddammit!” This time he did slam the phone down, but he heard the laughter as it went into the cradle. Oddly, it continued faintly even after the connection was broken. He glanced down at the Caller ID, and immediately recognized the number.
Well, two can play at that game. He picked the handset back up and punched in the number for the dispatcher's office.
“Dispatch.”
“Hey, Mary, it's me.”
“How's the hand?”
“If this day drags on much longer, I'm going to gnaw it off.” He waited for her to stop laughing before making his request. “Listen, in about fifteen minutes, can you send the homicide detectives out on a body dump case?” He filled her in on their prank while searching Google maps for the address. “It's a McDonalds. Describe, without being overly specific, Ronald McDonald.”
“Ooh. You're gonna owe me for that one.”
“Next time one of your brood is selling Girl Scout cookies, I'll buy a whole case of Thin Mints.”
“I'm gonna hold you to that,” she said.
☆ ☆ ☆
Fifteen minutes later, he grinned as he heard a pair of pagers go off simultaneously. The two homicide detectives rushed by his desk, and out the front door.
Ah, peace at last. He slid his chair back and walked over to the coffee maker. The witches’ brew in the carafe had been there at least a half-day, but he was used to bad coffee. He filled a styrofoam cup, dumped a packet of sugar in it, and went back to the desk. With traffic, it'll take them at least a half hour to get there, maybe ten minutes before they realize they've been suckered, and then another half hour before they're back.
The phone rang again.
“Hi! This is Mark, from Business Loans Direct! Based on the length of time you've been in business, we can—“
Really?
He took a sip of his coffee, eying the telephone warily, daring it to ring again while he was enjoying his overbrewed coffee, but it stayed silent.
A second sip passed uneventfully, and a third as well.
Maybe the phone is finally realizing who pays its salary, he speculated. He drummed the fingers of his good hand against the desk, picked the cup back up, and took a fourth sip.
Just then, the front door alarm beeped. Sergeant Piobar shot his head up and set his coffee down, projecting his best Officer Friendly face into the lobby. His smile faltered when he saw that the new arrival was not a person, but a small horse. It was looking over its shoulder as the automatic doors slid shut behind it, its ears focused intently on the whisper of the door mechanism. It took a sideways step as the gap between the doors shrank to nothing, bringing its hindquarters around.
Piobar took in the tan coat and dark brown mane without a second thought. This city, he thought. He'd seen service ponies before, although this one wasn't wearing a harness, nor did it appear full-grown. He wasn't sure why he thought that, but he did.
It turned to face him, and he recoiled back as its unnaturally large green eyes shifted around the room before locking on his. Resolutely, it marched towards the desk, its hooves clipping lightly against the tile with each step.
Sergeant Piobar moved to intercept it, instincts taking over. It was weird, yes, but it was an animal, no different than a stray kitten or a puppy that had slipped its leash. Somewhere out there, somebody was missing it. “You lost, little guy?” he said cheerfully.
It nodded.
A wave of unreality crashed into the Sergeant, but he bravely fought it back. What an amazing coincidence. It really looked like that pony understood me.
“Who's your Mommy and Daddy?”
The pony blinked, then looked him square in the eye. “My Mommy is Spring Violet, and my Daddy is Silver Frost. My Mommy said if I was ever lost, I ought to go to the police station and tell the nice policepony that I'm lost and he'll keep me safe and help me find them again.”
The very foundations of Sergeant Piobar's understandings of reality were undermined by the receding wave. His brain futilely grasped at the flotsam, quickly reaching the conclusion that this was a dream—this must be a dream—but his training was also demanding to be heard, and one did not simply ignore a child in distress—even if the child was a pony.
“Where did you see them last?” he asked.
“We were looking at the pretty clothing in the store window.” The pony raised a hoof and motioned at the street outside. “I heard some shouting, and it scared me, so I ran down an alleyway and hid. When I came back out, everything was different.” It sniffled, and wiped a tear off its cheek. “But I saw your sign out front—I know how to read—and you can help me, right?”
“Yes.” Piobar was a police officer, sworn to protect and serve. He could help—he would help. “Just stay here for a minute.”
Technically, he wasn't supposed to leave the desk unattended—but the rules didn't cover what to do if a talking pony came in, looking for its parents. He yelled back for another officer to cover the front desk, then turned back to the small pony. “Show me where you last saw your parents,” he said. “And I'll help you find them.”
“Thank you!” It grinned at him, and walked up to the door, watching warily as it slid open. Piobar gave it a reassuring nod, and it moved through, checking to make sure the doors weren't going to close on it suddenly.
He followed it down the street, giving a wry smile as he realized the natives were actively not noticing the pony.
It led him down the block, turning into a narrow alleyway between two old brownstones. The pony weaved around the stinking garbage cans, carefully watching where it put its hooves. The Sergeant followed, exercising the same caution.
It stopped between a dumpster and a broken statue; appropriately enough, it was a statue of a horse. “I moved forward, and bumped my muzzle on this,” the pony said, bumping a hoof against the dumpster. It looked around the small space, as if convinced its parents would suddenly appear out of the aether.
“Maybe . . .” Piobar moved to where the pony was, looking around. He didn't see any tracks, but of course they wouldn't show on cement.
He heard distant voices, and moved from behind the dumpster, glancing down the alleyway for a bum or maybe a drug dealer. But it was empty, save for the pony, and the voices got more distant as he moved.
“I think that's them!” The pony looked around excitedly. “But where are they?”
The dumpster? He reached for the lid, but opening it only muffled the sound. As frustrated as the small pony, he went back around to the back. It had its ears pointed alertly at the statue.
“There's nothing here,” he told it, reaching forward to lean on the cold marble. His hand sank into it, a small ripple spreading over the surface. Before he could consider the wisdom of his action, he stuck his whole head in, and then crawled through. A second later, the pony appeared beside him.
“This is where I was,” it said with an absolute assurance. “Right here.”
Before he could utter a single word, it galloped down the alleyway, and he jogged after, skidding to a stop as he rounded the corner. There, only twenty feet down the sidewalk, a pair of neatly-dressed ponies were talking to a stallion in a blue jacket with brass buttons, and an octagonal hat with a shield proudly sitting between its ears.
The pony galloped up to them, wrapping its arms around the mare's neck—Piobar assumed it was a mare; it was wearing a dress. Her eyes lit up, and she leaned down and nuzzled the pony, as the stallion joined them in a group hug.
Piobar and the policepony exchanged a glance, and both gave the other a professional nod. The pony slipped his notebook back in his breast pocket, while Piobar turned and went back down the alleyway. His duty was done, and it was time to return to the desk.
Author's Note
A One-Shot-Ober fic
Inspired wholly by a blog by Estee
