Filthy Rich, for the majority of his life, was a very proud pony. He came into his vast fortune all on his own, and though the means of acquiring it were not persay LEGAL, he had done his work well. As the feared crime boss Black Mask, Filthy Rich had his hooves on the very pulse of the town on Ponyville; every shady rogue that stepped foot in the town went through him. If you were any sort of unsavory or undesirable, Black Mask knew your name, and any unsavory or undesirable things you were going to DO had to go through him.
Filthy Rich didn't feel proud anymore.
He'd been tied to a chair for a time period which he did not know; it could have been days, it could have been weeks, it could have been months, but it felt like years. He had his mask on--he had no idea how the people that captured them had recovered it--but the eyeholes had been filled with a black cloth, entirely preventing him from sight; he had no idea if he'd even be able to see when the mask came off, if it ever did. Straps dug into his flesh, tightly binding him to a small wooden chair that did the same into his back; he had bled in his attempts to wiggle free, but when it was evident he tried, the mare only drew it tighter.
The mare.
Filthy Rich did not know her name. She first appeared to him after hijacking his prison carriage; he believed, at first, she was there to rescue him. She had a raspy voice as she spoke, a hint of a Canterlotian, but mostly a traditional Ponyville draw. He had gotten annoyed with her constant speaking, most of it nonsense, and some point along the carriage ride, asked her to face him. And so she turned around, and for one of the few times in his life, Filthy Rich's stomach instantly dropped.
Her fur was white, but there was something...wrong about the color, which also went for her mane and tail, which was a bright lime green. Her lips were a blazing red, but it wasn't makeup, filthy knew; somehow, it was a permanent feature. She was very tall, looking to be about the same height as that damned Applejack's idiot brother, but she didn't carry the size; she was very lanky. The worst part was her eyes; they were a deep, brilliant purple, but constantly wide, with a dark, insane look that Filthy couldn't properly put in words. He knew just from looking at her, she was certifiably insane, but any attempt to leave the carriage was futile.
She called herself the Joker. No name, no hint of a soul, but a single moniker with a playing card motif. This was the person who had been feeding Filthy Rich orders under an anonymous identity, with the prospect of a large payout looming overhead. The task, she had specified, was to kidnap Twilight Sparkle, and if Rich did not comply, his daughter, Diamond Tiara, would be executed. Rich did as he was asked, and never asked why, in hopes of earning the coin he so highly sought and recovering the daughter he so loved.
Filthy Rich had gotten neither of those things. Instead, he'd been battered and beaten and tortured every day by this Joker at what he presumed was the same time. She'd used everything, from electrical shocks from some infernal device he couldn't see to barely a whiff of a gas that was so unbearably awful and horrid that he couldn't IMAGINE what a full breath of it could do. She used her hooves a plenty, but her favorite method of abuse was what Filthy believed through his blindness to be a crowbar; she hit him just hard enough to hurt like nothing he'd ever experienced, but without severely injuring him. She'd broken bones a few times, and she always recognized it.
Oh my, Mr. Rich, did you hear that? We'll have to scratch you from the derby, it looks as if you've broken a bone! Or four. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
That laugh.
It was soul rending. A thousand nails on chalkboard would sound more pleasant, and she was CONSTANTLY laughing, as if every crack of the bone was the punchline to a joke. It was unbearable, horrific, and maddening, and every second of every passing day it flowed through his brain like a record on repeat. She'd strike him, she'd laugh, and then she'd ask a question. Always about the same topic.
Tell me, Mr. Rich, did you get a good look at her mask? Did it SHAKE you with the fear of the night, huh? Did it just drive you...batty? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA..."
Filthy Rich knew of obsessions. With money, with fame, with a mare, he'd seen all of it during his tenure in organized crime. This mare was obsessed with the Batmare, but it wasn't just a playful one. She needed to know EVERYTHING, and she'd ask the same questions, hoping to get a different answer. It didn't matter what it was, though; Filthy would speak, and he'd be greeted with blunt steel biting into his flesh. He had answered her for the longest time, in hopes of escaping, but as time past, he spoke less and less. This Joker didn't seem to mind; in fact, she reveled in it, and the beatings continued. She'd ask questions, get no answers, and the beatings continued.
At this moment, Filthy had been trying his best to sleep (to no avail) when he heard the hoofsteps; those gentle, commanding hoofsteps. It was time. He stood up to the best of his ability in his chair, not making a sound, as was the theme of late. The footsteps traveled right up to his person, and then were still. Filthy tried his best to listen closer, to attempt to gauge any movement she may be making, but there was none; she was still as a mouse. This continued for what seemed like a lifetime until the mare finally spoke.
"So I ask you questions, Mr. Rich--can I call you Mask? Mr. Mask? We're friends here, right?" she asked. She began pacing around him, in the vein of a shark circling prey; this was far different and greatly more unsettling than the previous beatings. The steps circled around his ears as she continued.
"Now, you've been a good stallion about that when we first began our fun little talks, but not so much now, no? How about you tell your dear friend Joker why that is?" she asked. Filthy was scared, but was trying his best not to show it. She circled around and got directly in front of him, and he could feel her face slowly move in to meet his before she let out a horrific yell.
"TELL ME!" she screamed, and then came the first crowbar hit. However, the mare always went for body shots, and this one connected right to the side of his head. Filthy couldn't see, but his vision started spinning anyways, and he couldn't find the strength to bring his head back to where it was previously. He let out a cry of pain and unexpectedness, and in return, was given the gift he so dearly hated; the laugh. Slowly at first, but it got faster and faster and louder and louder until it entirely overtook the ringing in his ears.
"Oh, Mr. Mask," she began, her laughter slowly dying down. "You have taught me much about the Batmare. I was hoping our partnership would continue, but it appears that you no longer want to talk to your new pal Joker," she said. She was pacing again, and although it was hard to concentrate on anything but the pain, Filthy was beginning to get VERY nervous; something was wrong.
"See, you were fun to hang with, Filthy, but now you won't even talk to me! It makes me sad! You've become...boring." She said the word with such distaste that it might as well have been an insult. The pacing got more erratic, and although there was no way to tell, Filthy thought the pattern of her hooves made it seem like she was hopping around a bit.
"So I'm gonna have to cut you from the team, Filthy. Release you. Terminate the contract," she said calmly. THOSE words got Filthy to look up a bit; this Joker was going to let him go? There was no way. Filthy thought he'd be in here forever, and the casual admittance that she was gonna just let him go seemed very wrong. She stopped in front of him now, and that long period of silence took over once more. Filthy could feel her inspecting him, looking him up and down, and despite his best attempts to stay calm, he could feel himself shaking.
Suddenly, light flooded his vision. The sensitivity was nigh unbearable, but despite the pain coming from the light, he could still make out the face of the mare who had been holding him captive. The wild purple eyes, long neon green mane and tail which was perfectly styled with product, the purple and yellow suit that perfectly fit her form (Filthy still thought the concept of a mare wearing a suit was strange), and the smile of hers that seemed impossibly wide. She was a demon, although Filthy knew she was a pony like himself and not an infernal creature from Tartarus, he ALSO had full belief that, upon her death, she'd get to shake hands with every one of them.
"Ahh, light...how is it? Your eyes must be hurting, no? Oh, Filthy..." she began, her voice filled to the brim with mock concern. She gently brushed her hoof across his face. "You're shaking! We can't have that! You know, when I was little, when I was nervous," she began. She took her hoof off his face and straightened her posture. "My mother always told me to stop, look at the flowers..." she brought her hoof to the flower on the collar of her dark purple suit. "And smile!"
Suddenly, some sort of gas began to fill Filthy's vision. It shot through his nostrils like a lightning bolt, and he began to cough rapidly. It was as it if were an army laying siege to his lungs, but after a few seconds, it stopped; instead, to his surprise, he began a small fit of giggles.
"Heh...heheh...heheheheheheheh..." He tried to stop, but was horrified to realize that he could not, and as the laughter picked up, his breathing got worse and worse. He doubled over, though he was tied to the chair, and when the ropes dug into his stomach, the laughs got harder and harder. Filthy looked up and was equally horrified to see that the mare was laughing right along with him; she had a glint in her eye, as if she were watching a kitten trying to fit into a slipper, but the source of her enjoyment and pleasure was FAR more maniacal. His vision began to tunnel, and as the stallion formerly known as the Black Mask began to take his last breaths, the mare who called herself the Joker leaned in to his face. Her laughter dying down, she spoke.
"You've had quite the bad day, Mr. Rich."
And with a final swing of the Crowbar, Black Mask's tenure as Ponyville's most feared crime lord had come to an end.
"Your coffee, Ms. Applejack."
Day 21.
Applejack Apple took the cup and reluctantly pressed it to her lips; the cup had just been washed, so it was a bit cold, but she could almost feel it warming up as she began to take a sip. The finest coffee beans in the world, imported from Colponya; the taste was bitter but comforting, though the bitter part probably wouldn't be a problem if Applejack ever put anything in her coffee.
"Twenty one days, Mosley," she said aloud. Mosely Orange, Applejack's butler, aide-de-camp, and dear friend looked up from the paper he was reading.
"You defeated the Black Mask the first time, no, Mrs. Apple? Surely you can do it again. Wherever Black Mask is I am sure he's getting ready for his old antics again." Applejack stared into the empty space for a second before slowly shaking her head side to side.
"No, I don't think so," she remarked, sighing as she leaned backwards in her fine leather chair. The house had seen some renovations to it since Ponyville had settled down; she'd reapplied the wallpaper to a nice maroon backdrop with a golden fleur pattern, and she'd redone the carpeting in the area as well, replacing the previously white carpeting with a deep red shade to match the walls. "He's been quiet. He was before, of course, but I think he's planning something big. I'm gonna have to go out again tonight, of course, but Twilight will be here in an hour and we'll of course go over what she's found." Mosely looked back down at the paper.
"That will do well. Criminals aren't stupid but they can never sacrifice their presence for anything. He'll show up soon. As for the company you're supposed to be running, I was on the phone with Mrs. Shimmer the other day in regards to her enquiry about the--" before Mosely could finish, a flurry of loud knocks came across the door. The pair both rose their eyebrows in confusion; no one was scheduled to come for the next hour. Applejack gave a long sigh.
"Ugh, I'll handle it. I swear if it's one of these door to door salesponies..." Applejack slowly made her way to the door, which was still being furiously knocked upon; she swung the double doors wide to see none other than Twilight Sparkle, a petrified look on her face. Applejack reeled back.
"Twilight? I'm sorry, I thought you weren't coming for another hour--"
"We'll have to call off that meeting on the Black Mask," began Twilight, abruptly cutting her off. "Because we just found him."
Applejack had expected the return of the Black Mask to be an extravagant comeback to the Ponyville crime scene filled with lies, extortion and murder. She'd practiced and brushed up on all of her combat skills, and she had Twilight set up surveillance technology and magic all across the city. The Black Mask was far from easy to put down the last time, and she was only able to accomplish it with help from an unknown figure who called herself "the Mysterious Mare-Do-Well", who she hasn't seen since.
Applejack would NEVER have predicted that Filthy Rich, the stallion behind the Black Mask, would be found hanging from a roof in the Ponyville Market as a corpse. It was him, but his face looked to be entirely abused; it was stark white, and an almost goofy looking grin was spread across his face; he also had a SEVERE dent with dried blood adorning the side of his head. The market had been evacuated, but that wasn't really necessary; all the ponies had fled as soon as they saw it in the morning setting up the booths. But while they may have ran, it was impossible not to see the words in green spraypaint written behind him.
WHY DID THE PIG GO TO THE MARKET?
"Because he was filthy rich," muttered Twilight, walking over to Applejack. "It's a joke." Applejack stepped closer to the scene; Rich was dressed in his pinstripe suit he had donned as the Black Mask, the gloves included. That was interesting, but it wasn't what Applejack had wanted to look at; she was more interested in the writing. It was erratic, hurried, and scribbled, but more importantly, she'd seen it before. Reaching into the pocket of her coat, she pulled out the keepsake she'd been harboring on her person for twenty one days; a joker playing card, with the phrase "HA!" scribbled on it in the precise same manner. Applejack turned around to greet Twilight and the newly arrived Commissioner Sentry to the scene.
"There's going to be a note in one of the pockets. Search him and give it to me," she said. "Whoever our lovely comedian is, they need to work on their timing."
