Dets Sleuth: Private Eye

I did say I gotten used to hardships didn’t I? Well to be frank, I had a very happy childhood. Yeah things were bad for me and my family but we always stuck through. My parents often neglected me however; they were so caught up in work, trying to make ends meet, ensuring we keep our home for the next three months; it always pulled them further and further away from me. I may have been a kid but I’ve learned how difficult life was and I didn’t blame them for it. I just wished I’d spent a little bit more time with them, especially my dad.

Speaking of, my dad was Ink Dipped. A lot of ponies say I look a lot like him; he was considered the most handsome pony in Haygas. Of course it was exaggerated but they said there was quite the resemblance. Everypony said I was beautiful, everypony said he was handsome. But beauty can only take you so far. My dad knew that. He was a failed novelist who dropped the writing gig after he married to my mother. He was fine with it, but even though he stopped writing, he always found another way to support us. Writing’s always been his talent though; it was a surprise to hear that despite his cutie mark representing his greatest talent that he didn’t do so well attempting it. None of his works were published, hardly even finished, and I don’t think I’ve read any of them myself.

He noticed my knack for reading though, especially in the mystery and detective novels. And yes I do mean novels; big books with big words. Over the years I’ve read books from Neighncy Drew and Shetlock Hooves, fascinated with the idea of being a detective, discovering the impossible, solving mysteries and the likes. Every Friday when he came home from work, my dad would carry with him a new detective book he bought from the local bookstore. It always made me happy to see that I was still provided the wants in my life, even when I’ve never asked for it in the first place. It made me sad that I could never return such kindness.

I’d go through page after page a day; from school, to the park and in my bedroom I always carried my book around to read. Once in a while I get the chance to snuggle against my mom and dad in their bed at night, reading my book before I fell asleep in their hooves. Though it wouldn’t be long until I found myself a pair of hooves short around me.

My dad came home early one day with the news that he quit his job. It came to a shock to my mother, she didn’t take it so kindly. Though after a private session, I’ve watched my mother leave the room with pain and dread in her eyes. Mom and dad never fought, I assumed it must have been something else. My hunches were right though. One time I’ve heard my dad over the phone talking with this doctor he saw. There was a new incurable disease my father contracted; cancer they called it. He had about one month to live.

I didn’t understand it at the time, but I got the implications when my father decided to spend the next thirty days playing and spending time with me. On the days that my mother was free we spent those times together. It was a blessing though to see my father live for two more months, making the best of those days by spending them with me. Even the most mundane things felt fun with him; one time he took me down to the subway, to watch the trains. We sat bench and spent four hours counting them before I fell asleep next to him. Those were the best four hours I’ve had with him.

The days went on, and slowly the miracle died away. The third month I was treated to a movie with my mom and dad; we watched the new Shetlock Hooves movie. It wasn’t as creative as the books but it was still clever and fun to watch. I marked that movie as the best move I’ve seen, because it was the last night I spent with my father. The next morning he died in his sleep; I remembered the sheets drawn over his body, the paramedic ponies lifting him onto a bed looking thing and rolling him out of the house. I cried and cried and cried until my eyes were red, sore and dry. What was even more painful about that was the fact that I can hardly remember his face anymore without a picture of him.

My mother and I were at our lowest point. We weren’t sure if we were going to make it through the years without my father… until the life insurance check came in. Some time ago my father set himself up for life insurance in case the worst case scenario happened. And it did. Because of this we were able to get back on our hooves. It didn’t last long as it should had but it gave us much needed time to recuperate for our loss. We never stopped crying.

I would no longer get to see that great big smile on his face; no longer would I see those bright blue eyes of his; no longer would I get to count the trains in the subway with him; no longer would his words comfort me into slumber. It hurts, it hurts so much. My heart throbbed and ached in pain, it cried out for him, it cried out for mother too. She suffered as much as I did and I could do nothing to comfort her. I was suffering too, but I was too weak to be there for my mother.

We had lost faith and purpose in our life, distancing from the outside world that didn’t bat an eye at our misery. There was literally nothing left for us to cling onto. It only took one trip to the attic to realize my father was still looking out for us. I ascended the ladder into the attic to pawn off some junk I kept in my earlier years. I wanted to take initiative over our lives, pick up where my father left off from. My curious grieving mind made me wander in the direction where his older stuff was kept. They’ve been here since before I was born. Everything was covered in dust except for one large, manuscript. It had over a thousand pages, even more! It was the largest book I’ve ever seen! In fact it was the largest book ever written as we know it.

And it was written by my father. The first page was written out to me, an acknowledgement, on how my passion for reading inspired him to finally draft his first book, and was nearly finished. Unfortunately it would be his last. I wasn’t sure how long he worked on it, but considering how recent this was put up here, I assumed it was finished about a month or two ago. Why did he never publish it? I’ve looked through the end pages and saw that there was an epilogue page… and it was blank. He never got around to finishing it.

I took the manuscript downstairs with me, trotted into my bedroom to give it a good long read. I was amazed by the amount of effort that went into this. To top it off, it was a detective novel, my favorite kind. The character was a representation of my dad… a hard working stallion, a father and husband whom rarely sees his family. He had the personality and history of my father, but with the mind of a great detective. I read through page after page, seeing much of my father in the book rather than his character. It brought me to tears when I’ve read segments where he was always ashamed for being so distant with his family, so distant from his loving daughter. I’ve read the regrets he’s confessed, the love he held and the joy of spending every minute with them, treasuring them in his heart and mind.

The story goes as you expect; the hero wins in the end, stops the bad guy, goes back to his family and lived happily ever after. Only the last part wasn’t there. I didn’t know why, but I felt a surge of determination and passion pump through my veins. I took several pencils, papers, erasers that I could find, and my mother’s dictionary and started to finish the ending that would best suit him.

It ended with him, his wife and his daughter visiting the train station. He and his wife cuddled together while the daughter leans her head against his belly, counting the trains that passed by them. It went on for four hours. His last words before the story came to a close finally were: ‘best four hours I’ve ever had in my life.’

Being young I didn’t know a whole deal about contracts, businesses and other hubbub. When I insisted on my mother to take me with her, to publish dad’s book in his name, she just shooed me away. She finally gave in one night when I forced her to read the book. After spending a few good solid minutes crying, my mother decided to take me to the publishing office. It was a long, boring, tedious process; they tried to cut us out of the shares and even tried to own whatever IP meant at the time, as their own. I wanted it under my dad’s name, regardless whether or not he died. My mother pushed, and they caved.

The book became #1 best seller in Equestria. It was thanks to that book I was able to get into high school, we were able to pay off our loans and debts, move to a new home and live happily ever after. I spent much of my teen years with my mother as opposed to my childhood years, but we didn’t get to do things I normally did as a child. I was happy regardless; I was thankful to have one parent in my life, as well as thankful for my dad, for bringing me in in this world and cherishing the moments we had together, no matter how short it was.

***

I snap out of my dream; I look at my right hoof to see myself holding an empty bottle of cider. The regular kind not the hard kind. I guess I was so lost in my memory I blanked out everything that’s been happening recently. Though I do remember my conversation with Purple Jacket. As hard as it was to listen to him, I learned a great deal about what Shoulder Chip is doing.

S.C. did indeed went back into trafficking. Jacket showed me a great deal of such merchandise he was able to pry off one of the goods in a warehouse. He never specified where though, or the number of the warehouse for that matter. One cursed item, in all its glory. A magic mirror that is said to make you beautiful, but the darkness inside will switch places with you, inhabiting your body while leaving your soul trapped in the mirror. Nasty thing that’s for sure. Purple Jacket had it wrapped up in cloth, tied around in a fierce knot. Even for an egotistical fashion freak like him could tell of the dangers a cursed item brings.

Most ponies who have cursed items usually send them to an enemy of theirs. They create a whole lot of mischief and chaos that would make Discord squee in sheer delight. Very few are life threatening but the rest are just as bad, if not worse. I wondered why Purple Jacket even has the mirror in the first place.

He still didn’t tell me a lot about the rest of the trafficking, nor how it was related to the tournament really. I’m thinking I hit another dead end here. But curiosity got the better of me, and thus, I pressed him for more info. Apparently, he made some arrangements with a few ponies of his in Shetcago who wanted to start up said scamming operation and trafficking. Kind of odd how Shetcago always appears in these conversations. I didn’t plan to going to Shetcago since I got this job and it may be that it might be the next destination I would inevitably end up in. Win/win for me I’d say.

So here I am, thinking over my next move. After that little flashback I ponder the leads that I should try and follow. PJ did mention a few ponies who work for Bluth also has a connection with Don Chip; they even have access to his establishment. Although one of them is mainly there on Bluth’s behalf. It would be a good idea to check him out, see if he could get me inside the track.

I pay the bartender for the drink and thank him before making my way to one of the mobsters. The stallion didn’t tell me who or what he looks like so best to ask each of them at random. The Cocoa Bonanza is pretty crowded; I wonder if they would have the time to help me. Before I could reach one of them, I feel a hoof grabbing me from behind.

“A little birdy told me you were speaking to Purple Jacket about S.C. Were you looking for me?” the voice says. I turn around and look to see a dark blue coated stallion in a rather refined overcoat and hat. His hazel eyes shine as he stares at me with burning curiosity. Though he sure did have such a cute smile.

“I assume this is the part where you tell me to lay off?” I ask.

The stallion playfully scoffs and responds, “Whaaat? Nooooo. My loyalties are to Bluth and Bluth alone.”

He reaches one hoof down, grasps mine gently and pulls me into the dance floor. Well this certainly is unexpected.

“Whoa cowpony! Ask a girl to dinner first before you take her to a dance.” I joke.

“Charming. Though I’d like that dinner either way. But since I have you in my grasp…”

My mind must have been in the gutter because I could have sworn he was going to do something… err… un-family friendly. But as he reaches over my shoulder he whispers into my ear, “Don’t trust Purple Jacket.”

I blink and look at him curiously. Don’t trust Purple Jacket? I hardly trusted him since the moment I laid eyes on him. Horrible fashion sense.

“And who are you that you are so kind enough to give me this message?”

“Name’s Sly, Sly Cider. I’m as sly as the name implies! I can rhyme even when I don’t have the time. I drink a great and many apple cider drinks! But not enough that I can’t think.”

“That sounds rehearsed.”

“It was. Was it good though?”

He pulls back, hoof in hoof, forcing me to dance with him on the floor. Few other ponies were dancing, not really caring about what we were doing. But I always have a terrible phobia of dancing in public. I try to pull away from him but he’s insistent.

“Errr… it was good. C-can we stop? I… err… am not one to be out in the open… like this.”

“What, afraid of wandering eyes? Don’t worry about it. Now listen; keep your voice down. Don’t want PJ to know of me.”

“What do you mean?”

The stallion says nothing as he just continues to dance with me. One hoof over the other; they move so fluidly and precise. My hooves were hardly handling all this movement. My legs feel like jelly, trembling with each step. Then he dips me over and looks into my eyes.

“Someone let slip that I’m… well in lack of a better term… ‘Double Agent.’ No pony can prove it, but they suspect me to be a mole. Purple Jacket got the word and is trying to root me out. My guess is you’d run into me at the warehouse at night. No doubt he’ll have us killed so…” I feel something slide into the pocket of my jacket. Then he pulls me back up into his arms. “Best you sneak in on your own. This here’s a skeleton key. Not literally. It lets us in all the rooms in the warehouse. The structure will have the number eight. Can’t miss it. Big white letters. You can find the place in the North East; big storage area.”

I look down at my coat then back up at the blue stallion. All he did was smile. Normally when guys like these smile, it’s not a good sign. But his is a genuine smile; it’s big, warm, almost concerned like. He didn’t even know me for this long aside from the fact that I’m an ex-cop and a stranger; already he is showing great concern for a former officer in blue. Kind of sweet actually.

“Thanks Sly. Still want that dinner later?” I ask him with a sly smile of my own.

“Only if you come bearing gifts. I hear the warehouse is filled with such goodies. I’ll be paying you later though. Ciao!” and with that he trots off. I’m going to need a lot of friends if I am going to pull this one off. Luckily I have the Don and his group on my side. Well half of his group that is. I reach into my coat pocket and pull out the skeleton key. Well it did have a small pony looking skeleton head at the top. Pretty darn fake, but the key itself is genuine. What a sense of humor this pony has. Time to head to the warehouse.

Now that I think about it… I realize that I’ve paced myself quite swiftly through my investigation. To think I like to take the time to piece this thing together little by little like in the books. I guess I’m too anxious to get this done and get that cash. It wasn’t until I arrive at the warehouse did I realize things were only going to get a lot more difficulty. My instincts were telling me that I’m being watched from the shadows. Sure enough they were right. As I’m analyzing the situation, I look over the gates leading towards the warehouses. I spot the number eight on the right side of the area. From a distance, this was looking to be a cakewalk. Luckily I know better. All I have to do is get rid of the eyes on me. I’d have to blend in the shadows and stick to it as I make my way. Backing out into the streets, I take a detour around the compound until I reach the far right of the area. The wall wasn’t too high, but I doubt I could climb with my hooves. Man do Pegasuses have it easy.

The wall is of brick and stone, solid and smooth that not even claws could cling onto it. The damn thing is granite! Why do I have to struggle like this so? I did the next best thing and climb up the lamppost beside me. Darkness is everywhere, my sole ally for this night. The light in the post was extinguished not too long ago, making it easy for me to ascend to the top. The giddy feeling of being a type of spy pony tickles my back. I couldn’t stop giggling to myself. Of course, this is a real life situation and like all other situations, there are dangers to it. But hey, I’m a detective. I go after dangers all the time. This is just a moment for me to relish in my little foal fantasies. It kind of helps me in this kind of scenario; it makes me light on my hooves. Though relaxation was the key to every action we make, just like the times when I had to use a gun during my time on the force. Unicorns have it easy, they have more focus through their magic than their physical prowess, even in difficult situations. This however, is more my style.

Dashing through the shadows, hiding behind every crate, I make my way towards Warehouse eight. The warehouse itself isn’t too overly protected than the pathway leading to it. But I realize that once their little ambush isn’t going the way they were imagining it would go, they’d corner me faster than you can say Sonic Rainboom. I’m going to have to get in and out fast if I want to find any connection to the missing ponies. I gaze up to see the moon nearing its New Moon phase. If I were a pious pony, and I am sure I’m not, I’d think that I have Luna looking out for my well-being. I love nights like these though; when everything is dark, I just feel so at ease. With the lack of moonlight illuminating the area, I dash for the warehouse, whipping out the key that kind young stallion handed to me.

I didn’t doubt it wouldn’t work, but anything could go wrong at the WORST possible moment. The key sure did have a skeletal look to it. Well the handle of it anyways. Shaped like the skull of a pony, white and tough like one, but it’s definitely fake. Someone sure has good craftsmanship. I thrust the key into the keyhole, gave it a twist and thrust myself in when I found the chance. I shut and lock the door behind me quickly, assuring myself that nopony saw me. I take a breath of air and chuckles. I hold up the key to my face and spoke, “Damn Cider… I’m definitely going to treat you to that dinner. It will be a feast to remember.” And no I do not mean that in the sexual regards. Seriously, who would use feast as a sort of sexual innuendo?

I pocket the key in my coat pocket and take a gander at the inside. Everything looks packed! Crates, containers and compartments were stacked on top of one another. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t expect bodies to appear in them. Since I’m looking for the other racers anyways, I think my chances start with one of these babies. Nopony were in here, very little lights were left on and nothing but golden silence. Creeps me out just thinking about it. With this much silence however, it be easy for me to hear trouble coming. I look around the area to find whatever I can use as a tool. A crowbar sounds convenient enough; it’s a warehouse after all. I take a quick run around before finding something close to what I was expecting.

“Great!” I exclaim in silence. “This is definitely what I needed. Pry bar don’t fail me now.” I made my way back near the entrance to search for the right crate… well… the right crate with the right label. I might not even find what I am looking for. But if there was any importance here that Cider wanted me to check out, I’m going to act accordingly.

I shove that mother under the lid as hard and deep as I could go. Ooohhh… innuendo! With the bar firmly in place, I push against the pry bar using the force of my body against my arms, driving down and snapping the lid right off. I land on the ground with a heavy thud and groan. I climb up to look inside the box and… well I didn’t like what I saw. I feel compelled to open the next crate just to be sure. I did just that; I went to the next crate, crack open its lid and found the same thing: junk. Junk, junk, junk. I open another crate, junk. I open another, again junk. I could feel my stomach churning in agitation and concern as I open the next crate and the next crate.

“No… no no no what the fuck…” I mutter to myself. “Where’s the swords? The guns? The drugs? The cursed items? What the fuck Purple Jacket!” I could just feel the anger boiling my blood. I clench my teeth firmly in absolute frustration as I kick the crate aside. I just hope this feeling I have wasn’t true. I gotta be sure about this. I look up at the second floor at the end of the room where the offices are. I can get my information there. To calm myself, I slid my hoof up in my coat pocket and pulled out a cigarette and lighter. I pop a cig in my mouth, then lit it up as I grumble and mutter.

Times like these make me wish I stayed home. I never forget how dangerous my work can get but there are… well complications that can royally fuck up whatever stability my mind has left. Fun, am I right? What makes it worse is there are ponies willing to do whatever they can do to make a cheap bit easy. Gambling? Cheating? Racketeering? Loans? Trafficking? Rigs? The process to these are just as ugly on the inside. I fear I am about to witness it.

Well… I don’t believe I found it though. I trot up the stairs in the far right of the warehouse, make my way over to the office area and check each room for any incriminating paperwork. There were details about interests, bets, debts, revenues, even some bills but that’s about it. Every nook and cranny, that’s what I always believed in the books. Search every nook and cranny in the room until there is something that shouldn’t be there. Oh if I had Shetlock Hooves’ mind I’d definitely would spot one. Yet I continue to underestimate my own talent at getting the shit I need.

I thrash against the table in the last office I checked, bash the cabinets with my forehooves constantly spouting profanities like a drunken sailor until I notice something odd from the cracks at the bottom edge of the table. I guess my pounding knocked something loose. Kneeling down, I peer into the gaps of the crack and find more papers caught inside. Luck be a lady this must be it! That motivation was souring through me! Though the feeling of dread never left, I was actually onto something. That something… sure as hell came in the worst forms. It’s not enough to be incriminating either, but boy oh boy, Shoulder Chip is making a hell lot more off of whatever he is doing than this racing gig. There were products labeled in old numerical values, clients of both the pony and non-pony variety… and an income of over five thousand bits for each one. The total adds up to thirty thousand. Whoa. That’s enough to own half a dozen acres of land. And it isn’t the only paper. I look at the others, and there were unfamiliar numbers here too. A lot more than this report. Varying amounts of bit income though, but this is still a lot for a mob pony to have. I fold the papers up nicely and stuff them into my pocket. I got what I came for at least, I best hightail it and fast before those guys outside realize I didn’t come in the conventional way.

***

I can only imagine what those numbers mean. It may be an overreaction on my part, but it is concerning nonetheless. Six racers… I thought only one of the females died? Could be some cover ups going around.  Don Bluth certainly didn’t believe his granddaughter had died during the race.

Red lights were going off in my head, but I took it easy by downing a nice shot of hard cider. Nothing says ‘relax’ like The Sweeps. I just have to take deep breaths and think. Didn’t think this spot would open early this morning. Hopefully, tonight when I do get to see Sly Cider, I can share what I found out and he can help me. I doubt he’ll know a lot, since this is economic stuff. You can put a price on just about anything these days though, that’s for sure.

Speak of the devil, here he comes. This time he’s wearing something casual than that trendy looking overcoat. Not sure what I liked more; the coat or his outwear. But he’s still pretty damn cute regardless of what he’s dressed in. And he sure didn’t act like the type that would show off.

“Evening my lady. Care for a drink?” he asks as he takes a seat on the other side.

“Whisky or hard cider will do me just fine Sly,” I respond.

“Oh good! I think I might have some with you. I’m a big fan of Cider.”

I smile and lean over the table, cocking my head to the side as I say to him, “is that why your last name is Cider?”

“Hah! You wish. No I got that from my step dad’s side when mom decided to re-marry. The ol’ Stallion sure knows his drinks.”

I pull out the file I recovered from the warehouse and set it on the table in front of him. I spoke up again, “And I sure know my detective skills. Got you the file from Shoulder Chip’s warehouse. It was guarded. You were right about not trusting Purple Jacket; they looked like they were expecting somepony.”

“Knew I could count on you darling. Now let us see what we got.”

I hand over the file to the male. As he takes his time reading through the paperwork I collected, I call for a waitress to get us two hard ciders, cold and on the rocks. Then I look back over at Cider and peer through his face. I swear I see a bit of my dad in him. Of course he didn’t have his coat or his mane, but he did have his eyes and his smile. It wasn’t one of those phony kinds the Mafioso uses though; Cider had a warm and gentle look to it. Too bad he isn’t smiling now than he was before. His brows narrow as he continues reading through the papers.

The waitress returns with our drinks, setting each in front of us. He didn’t even look up to see his drink; he reaches over, grabs the rim by his hoof and starts to chug it down. After he finishes, he sets it back down with a sigh. We order our meals and send her off before he finally speaks.

“I really hate it when I’m right.”

“Cider? Something the matter?”

“Err… if you were to describe what you read, what would it be?”

I didn’t understand what he is asking at first, until it dawns on me. I knew I wasn’t overreacting when I read that paperwork.

“Export and income,” I reply.

“Exactly. And what do you think Shoulder Chip is exporting?”

Oh sweet Celestia how two minds think alike. And I never wanted to think about THAT.

“Mares.”

“Mares, and a gryphon at that too. Turns out our little troublemaker of a mob is a part of illegal pony trafficking. And if I may be so bold, I think it to be the sexual kind.”

A lump finds its way into my throat, lodging itself in there as I hear the word ‘pony trafficking.’ Well at least there’s signs of trafficking involved. To think it is THIS kind of trafficking. Cider hands me the paper and I re-examine it again, but in finer detail.

“That’s not even the worse part; the deals he makes are with some cult way in the countryside of Haygas. Brainwashed stallions and colts following some sort of sexual cult headed by a bunch of patriarchal Caribous.”

“Oh wait I think I heard about this before. Back when I was still in the PD, I heard from my cop buddies about a hidden sect in Haygas that enslaved and raped a bunch of poor fillies and young mares. When they bailed the girls out, they were all found chained to the beds of their ‘respective mates’ seven months into pregnancy.”

“Uh huh. Same group. Caribou twisted these guys’ minds something fierce. With all the misandry that’s been going about out here in Western Equestria, the Caribou tribes gave those who had their lives ruined by false claims of gender bias, misogyny, rape into actual misogynistic rapists following a patriarchal sex cult dedicated to female subjugation. Played upon their hate and their despair. Why? I guess the Caribou wanted to stir shit and cause chaos. Though I’ve never expected the group to become bigger than what I was lead to believe.”

“Believe me Cider, it’s not surprising. A lot of folks got their lives ruined by false claims. While I can’t say I forgive those who did what they did, I can’t forgive those Caribou either. And it’s also why I hate today’s generation of females. But I think this is going too far.”

“Right. Now before we talk anymore stupid boring political yakcrap, let’s get down to what we are going to do?”

Our dinner arrives as we were speaking. We take a few minutes to get settled with our meals before we continue as we eat.

“Obviously tell Don Bluth right?”

“Right and Shoulder Chip can just take the time he needs to clean up when Bluth gets the delegations rolling with him. We are going to need a bit more than this file if we are going to get them to act immediately.”

“Cider!” I shake the file in my hoof. “This is a trafficking list of living sentient beings! You are telling me this isn’t enough?”

“You know how easy a bullshitter can craft a bullshit explanation for everything? S.C.’s got con men beat by a hundred years. Not that he’s actually a hundred years old. You gotta get at least a victim of the ordeal, testimony and physical evidence.”

“Wait… I’m sorry but what fucking age are we living in? You guys are the MAFIOSO! Why do this democratic legality nonsense!?”

“Cause the last time a mob family acted out of hearsay, and this was before your time and mines, it ended with Shetcago being a warzone. It  was bad enough to get the royal sun princess of CANTERLOT to intervene. So yeah, acting is EXACTLY what we need to avoid.”

“Well… at least can we get this sent to Don Bluth?”

Cider thinks for a moment, tapping his chin with his hoof before responding, “Yeah we can. Though we’ll have to get him to keep quiet until we are ready to present. I just hope nopony notices their file missing.”

In that case, I feel it is better if Cider kept the file. I push it in front of him and then lift my glass to down my cider. As soon as I finish it, I lay it on the table, stood up and tossed several bits on the table for the waitress to pick up.

“Then take this with you. Chances are, I may be a target so we have to make sure anything that would implicate me and my involvement stays incognito. But I think you need to lay low too for a bit.”

“If you think that’s best. Darling, please be careful.”

“I will.”

And after that, I leave the bar and make my way back home. I think about what to do for the remainder of the night but somepony has other plans in store. The last thing I remember, or rather, remembered in this case was having a bag thrown over my head half way across the block to my home, screaming before I felt a hard blunt metal object struck the side of my head.

And… I passed out. Pretty anti-climactic cliffhanger there isn’t it? Well considering that I am still telling this story, I think you guys are safe to assume I’ll make it out alive.