Author's Note

Fans of Pulp Fiction be damned, I probably ruined a good movie with this scene.

The Diner Incident |Pipsqueak|

Holy Faust on a bloody type-writer, am I sitting on one confusing goldmine! I mean; how do I even put my confusion into words, with the whole murder spree that just happened, the murder of former Prime Minister Fancy Pants, and now with this whole fiasco with these idiots in the parliament building being accused of taking bribes? Think of all the imports I can smuggle across the border of Equestria now with the Royal Guards off of us. Thank the Goddesses for serial killers, because I wouldn't be so sucessful without it.

“More tea, luv’?” Twist-a-Loo offers.

“Please.”

“Sugar and cream?”

“You how I like it, Twisty.”

The gray, rather cold early morning isn’t exactly one that I would be proud of being awoken into, but I usually don’t sleep when Pumpkin isn’t around. Besides, and don’t quote me on this because you didn’t hear it from me, in my line of work: if you take a wink at the wrong mare you’ll get that eyelid cut out. Goddess help you if you decide to flirt with the wrong mare, because you’ll wake up with your tongue in a glass of water.

I guess I’ve been staring at my blank crossword-puzzle with a pencil in my mouth for more than a moment, I take a sip of the mug next to me and nearly spat the unsweetened tea across the table-bar and get liquid all over a chef and some on-grill food. I gag and just accept my internal disgust to settle for cold tea, I can already hear my mum chastising me already for not drinking my tea while it’s hot. TO be honest, I wasn't staring at my paper: I see Pumpkin Cake and her probably a sociopath brother, Pound Cake. I was staring at Pumpkin Cake, because to truth's be honest: I miss her. A lot more than I thought I would.

“Puzzle’s a mind-bender, huh?” I look to my right and find a white stallion with a yellow mane that barely goes past his ears (and tail so low, I questioned how useful it was to keeping flies away from his No-Man’s-Zone), wearing a leather jacket with an assortments of medals on them. There’s no mistake, with that handlebar mustache and that Platinum Cross, this is the stallion I was looking for.

“Right that is, Sarge.” I quietly say, my mind processing the fact he just walked into a public diner, sat right next to me, and I can see his little minions outside with their ballsy hooves on their sheaves. I don’t get a complete look on them, but I know Sarge’s M.O when it comes to training his little street soldiers: raise them young and give them a taste for the enemy’s blood, and you got a loyal little Earth Pony.

“So how was your weekend? I heard you and Pumpkin broke it off, such a shame for a lad like you, she was a good looker,” Sarge looks up and orders a coffee, and he stiffs me the bill by not throwing down a couple of bits. Even my own ‘stable’ relationship with Sarge doesn’t prevent me from falling under his greed, to not pay for his own shit. “For a unicorn.”

“That shit was two months ago, she’s like a fucking writer with ADHD—she never knows what she wants.”

“Typical unicorns.”

“You know, that whole racial-purity shit is the reason why that bastard of a Princess we have now placed a mandatory curfew,” Sarge is Post-Treaty Retaliation Activists of Earth Pony Rule, or in a shorten term, R.A.E.P, and no: I did not make that up to be some sort of sick joke. They’re literal terrorists and my club doesn’t deal with terrorists unless they have some cold hard bit, because my services get expensive when threats against all Pegasus and Unicorns are being issued. “It would not kill you to just drop the racist fuckery, and tell me why you decided to meet me in such a crowded place.”

“Oh, don’t worry about them Pappy-Boy!” Sarge loudly laughs and smacks my back, I flinch from the impact. I’m not the fit Earth Pony around, not in a sense of being morbidly gluttonous and becoming fat—my own crew would force a liposuction on me after their down cutting off my hooves, more in a sense of being the runt of my own litter and the butt-end of the usual short jokes. “I got them all taken care of, quickly, since I’m in a good mood.”

“You’re just going to massacre them? Have you fucking gone senile, you fucking crazy old man?” I lean in closer to him, using my irises to point at the now growing worried families in the diner who decided to have themselves a nice and decent breakfast. The deal of our trade was, no one and their family has to be dealt with the outcome of our decision unless personally done. “Listen here, this isn’t the desert of Zebrica, you don’t just cut down whatever sod you want. These are ponies, Sarge, with their family and kids.”

“Do I look like I give a shit, Pappy-boy?” Sarge grins at me, as if he dares me to stand up and do anything. There were now these colts, guarding the exits, wearing leather jackets with considerably less medallions than Sarge but exactly the same appearance as Sarge—well maybe a lot younger than Sarge. The colts look no younger than unlucky number thirteen. “You fucked up, you fucked with a lot of ponies, and worst of it all: you fucked with me personally. I don’t think you realize who exactly the hell you fucked with.”

“What are you talking about?” I turn my whole body to him, giving him the best look I can give him. When I see him shoot up in indignation, I firmly put my hoof onto his shoulder and push him back into his seat: hissing at his ear. “Oi! Before you do anything to the President of the Lost Crossbones, it’s got be approved of the Council or your whole operation of R.A.E.P goes up in flames!”

“Get your damn hoof off of me before it becomes more of a tree stump than that coward Fluttershy being cut in half.” I remove my hoof in a heartbeat, and he turns back to Twist-a-Loo with his hoof slamming on the bar. “God dammit, mare, where is my bloody coffee!”

“I’m on my union break.”

“You little bit—Pappy-Boy, if you enjoy living; you’ll fucking stay still and let me go, you impure shite.” I grip my fork hard, pressing it under his neck and on his jugular. I hold his left foreleg across the table, preventing use of his right foreleg. I stand up and hold the old stallion in a hostage hold, half-nelson with a fork to his neck--although pretty primal: it seems to work.

“One more millimeter of that bloody sword, I’ll make sure he lives long enough to say ‘fuck’ one more time.”