Pinkie Pie

The door to the Sugar Cube Corner flies open with a loud bang that rattles the windows and candy themed décor, and the patrons gasp and turn to the who dared disturbed their happy time. Pinkie Pie stands in the doorway, hoof pressed against the bright red and yellow door, barrel heaving from her panting and her puffy mane frazzled and matted to her neck and forehead from sweat. Her airy shirt underneath has also become glued to her limbs and darkened from the sweat below, her ribbon and sash have become undone and her skirt and corset have become tainted with streaks of black.

The crowd turns away from Pinkie Pie one by one, and she takes a deep breath and hobbles towards the front counter, where a short, light gold pegasus colt with a rough brown mane waits for her.

“Chocolate milk?” asks the pegasus.

“Chocolate milk,” answers Pinkie Pie.

The pegasus ducks from sight and Pinkie Pie sighs and slumps against the counter. The nice, cool counter that feels like the sensual touch of the goddess of love wanting to cool her off and fill her with wonderful, comfortable happiness. She is tempted to close her eyes and stick herself on the counter for a good while, but a glass bottle slides in front of her with 'Shake Well' printed on its label, thus spoiling her simple desire.

“Here you go, Pinkie,” says the pegasus.

Without lifting her head from the counter, Pinkie Pie drags the bottle close to her.

“Thanks, Pound,” she says. She twists her head so her chin is on the counter instead of her cheek. “Was there anypony waiting for me? Specifically a unicorn stallion, about a hoof taller than me, weird gray-blue color with a silver-white mane. Has a pin as a cutie mark. Very good looking.”

“You mean that guy over there?” asks Pound, nodding past Pinkie Pie.

Pinkie Pie looks to where he nodded and sees the pony she described sitting in a corner, wearing a burgundy vest over a white shirt, a white ascot, and a golden chained watch in his pocket. Slung over the back of his chair is a long, red overcoat with dark red cuffs and floating in front of him is the newspaper, which his golden eyes scan with interest.

Pinkie Pie thanks Pound, grabs the bottle with her mouth and staggers towards the table. Once at the table she collapses in her chair, pops the cap off and chugs the whole bottle down without taking a breath, leaving a thick trail of dark brown streaking from the bottom to the top. Once the milk is gone she slams the bottle down and smiles at the stallion, uncaring of the brown lining her teeth or the baffled look he is giving her.

“Hi,” says Pinkie Pie.

Bronze Shield deflates in his seat, releasing a heavy puff of smoke from his mouth, levitating a cigar in front of his muzzle. His eyes are heavy, his desk is messy and an old meal of yellowed apple slices and stale peanut butter sits on a metal plate at the edge of his desk, on top of another dirty metal plate. In front of him is an open letter with the Royal Seal stamped on top. The swirling alicorns around the intertwined sun and moon is made of a blood red stamp, and below them starts off the letter with the very posh, very condemning simple opening statement:

Dear Commissioner Bronze Shield,

It has come to the attention of the Royal Guard of Equestria that your performance regarding the City of Ponyville has been below standard.

Bronze Shield takes another puff of his cigar, eye barely managing a twitch when some of the hot embers break off to find new grounds on his lap. Outside the civilians go about their business, living their lives with a new sense of comfort knowing that Color Wheel will soon be ferried off to Tartarus. As for Bronze Shield? He is still stuck in Tartarus, and the ticking clock above his door plays the role of the cruel reminder of his never ending position. Each passing tick like a stone slab thumping in his ears.

Thunk...

Thunk...

Thunk...

Thunk...

The door to his office opens and a mare pokes her head in.

“Sir, there is somepony here to see you,” says the mare. “He says he's from Canterlot. He has the badge and paperwork.”

Bronze Shield nods, despite the colors draining from his bronze coat.

“Send him in,” he says.

“You are late,” says the stallion to Pinkie Pie, his amazement falling into a more mellow state.

“I got caught up at work,” says Pinkie Pie.

The stallion snorts and places his newspaper to the side to pick up the menu.

“It is tragic that a mare has to work,” he says. “She should be at home with the foals and offer comfort to her stallion.”

“You didn't bring up that archaic view when we had the minute-date, Pinprick,” says Pinkie Pie, some animosity creeping into her tone. “Do you believe in herds?”

“As tempting as it is to be spoiled by a dozen mares, just one is burden enough.”

Pinkie Pie grunts sourly and pulls her menu to her.

“We just met and you already think I'm a burden? We're off to a great start,” says Pinkie Pie.

Pinprick smiles slyly and lowers his menu just enough so Pinkie Pie can see it, bringing her ear to twitch and tail to flick from embarrassingly missing his obvious teasing. She decides to blame Color Wheel for this misfortune.

“Then let's start over,” says Pinprick. “What is your profession, Ms. Pie?”

“Well, Mr. Pierce, I just happen to be a consultant,” says Pinkie Pie, returning the smile and looking over Pokey. “And I'm also a part time psychic.”

“Then what number am I thinking of?”

“Twelve.”

Pinprick hums theatrically and flips the page of his menu.

“I'll give you that,” he says. “By the way, I own a store that specializes in clothing for stallions, but I have a nice section for mares. You should visit it sometime. Royal Pin Clothing off the fifth pier next to Davenport's Furniture.”

“When you say clothing for mares are we talking stuffy or fun?” asks Pinkie Pie.

Pinprick looks over Pinkie Pie's outfit, then replies, smiling. “Yes.”

“Yes to one or two?”

“Yes.”

Pinkie Pie can't help but giggle at this antic. “I see where this is going. I just might have a look at your store just so I can get a new dress.”

“Excellent! Do you know what you want to eat? I'm buying, so don't be humble.”

Pinkie Pie looks at her menu and realizes that she has no idea what she wants. Everything looks good with the ink sketch of donuts, cakes, and other baked goods. However, when she turns the page her eyes snap to a very bizarre picture of a tall glass with bubbles floating from it.

“Hey, Pinprick, do you know what a fizzy drink is?” asks Pinkie Pie.

“No...” Pinprick's muzzle is graced with an energetic smile. “Let's try it.”

The door opens again and Bronze Shield stands to meet a gamboge pegasus with a sharp blue mane, wearing a pressed dark suit with the Royal Seal pinned over his heart and a gold clip on his tie. Said pegasus also has a locked saddlebag strapped to him and a pistol holstered on his hoof with a lightning bolt inside a shield stitched on its grip.

“I presume you are Flash Sentry,” says Bronze Shield, extending his hoof after casting a cautious glance at the weapon.

The pegasus presses his hoof against Bronze Shield's, smiling thinly.

“Yes, that is me. It is good to meet the Ponyville Commissioner,” says Flash Sentry. He takes a quick look around the messy office without moving from his spot. “I'm guessing the whole Color Wheel fiasco has left you busy.”

“Indeed.” Bronze Shield uses his magic to remove papers from one of the chairs in front of his desk, and he offers Flash a seat as he moves to claim his seat. “Please, no need to be standing. I'm sure the trip from Canterlot has left you tired.”

Flash sits down and adjusts his body, trying to find comfort in the old chair. Some awkward seconds of rubbing and squeaking pass before Flash stops moving and he looks at Bronze Shield intently.

“In regards to your assumption of me being tired the train ride was actually fast and comfortable, so I am not too tired,” says Flash.

“Oh, that's good,” says Bronze Shield.

“I mean that in a physical way.”

“Physical?”

“My exhaustion is more...” Flash rolls his hoof next to his head, eyes looking at the rolled up paper on the floor, and freezing after some seconds. “Mental.”

“Mental?”

“Mentally I am exhausted for reading the Ponyville profile. It has, to put politely, displayed an abysmal failure of law and order.”

Bronze Shield might as well have become a statue of chalk from how pale and brittle he feels, and Flash's dark expression is the hammer going against the fragile state of his being.

“The Royal Government has a sacred duty to protect its citizens from criminals. From thugs to corrupt politicians, to abusive entrepreneurs, and whatever else we deem criminal,” says Flash. “You failed.”

Bronze Shield swallows. “In my defense-”

“You don't get a defense.”

Pinkie Pie slams her hoof on the table, coughing and holding her nose to dull the sense of burning bubbles eating away at her nostrils. In front of her is an empty cup lined with bubbling brown liquid and populated with a swirling straw. Across from her, Pinprick casually sips his drink, watching Pinkie Pie's reaction with an amused smile.

He pops his straw out of his mouth and shakes his head, still smiling. “I told you not to drink it so fast.”

“In my defense-” Pinkie Pie takes a deep breath, then coughs again, turning her head away from him. After taking a moment to sniffle and regain her composure she says in a pained, breathy voice: “In my defense you said you don't recommend I drink it in one go.”

“Seeing as how you drank a pint of chocolate milk in one sitting I guess I should have used a more firm statement.” Pinprick uses his magic to take Pinkie's empty cup and he taps his menu with his hoof. “Perhaps we should get something less painful. Like a muffin or a plate of cookies.”

“Or a donut platter. I love donut platters.”

“At least you caught that anarchist, Color Wheel,” says Flash Sentry.

Bronze Shield tries to smile. “Yes, we did. His capture will solve a lot of problems in this city.”

Flash Sentry shakes his head slowly. “I don't buy that. He is a symptom of what is wrong with this city. And what is the arrangement you have with this consultant, Pinkie Pie?”

“A symptom? Sir, I can assure you-”

Flash holds up his hoof. “No. Don't try to defend yourself. Just tell me what arrangement you have with Consultant Pinkie Pie? She appears in much of the newspapers and files and is even credited with multiple arrests, including the capture of Color Wheel, and yet we cannot seem to find her in our business tax records. Is she under the rug?”

Bronze Shield swallows and drums his hoofs on his desk, wishing Flash would look away from him for just a couple of seconds so his brain can actually align his thoughts into something coherent.

“Mr. Sentry,” says Bronze Shield, slow and heavy, “we value all assistance our citizens give us, but if she is not filing her taxes then that is the job of the Royal Tax Collection Agency to handle. Not ours.”

“You're right,” says Flash. “Which is why I have deployed the Tax Agents to look through the department's pay stubs to see how much she owes in back taxes.”

Once again Bronze Shield finds himself becoming stiff, and an uneasy pressure builds up in his gut that brings him close to vomiting in his garbage can. In his state of shock, he can't move, much less lift his eyes when Flash stands up and adjusts his outfit.

“While they are doing that, why don't you take me to Color Wheel?” says Flash. “Perhaps you can do that right.”

A plate of donuts slides between the two, and as Pinkie Pie grins and hungrily rubs her hoofs together, Pinprick tucks a napkin into his collar. As he does this, Pinkie Pie reaches for a donut, but is stopped when she hears a slow melody of violins and cellos playing. The tunes guide a gloomy cloud over her and she looks out the window and sees a group of ponies playing their instruments on a platform made of crates with another box open in front of them. Their eyes are closed, their lips pursed in concentration and their bows glide over the strings, bringing death's melody into the shop.

Blinking, Pinkie Pie sits up and watches them play, feeling incredibly more depressed as the crying strings drag the seconds through every bad memory in her life. It does not take her long to notice the fine stitching on the coats, or the rushed sandpaper rubbing that desecrated the once beautiful instruments shine. She is even willing to put money on the table that the instrumentalists manes are not greasy from lack of care, but purposefully ruined from kitchen grease.

As the music plays, her brows furrow and her gears click in place to spell out: Beethoofen String Quartet Number 14. In C-Sharp Minor if she is not mistaken.

“Pinkie, are you okay?” asks Pinprick.

“I will be in just a second,” says Pinkie Pie.

She slips out of her seat and trots towards the group, which has earned a generous amount of bits for playing depressing music on top of their literal soap boxes. A closer look at their clothing tells Pinkie Pie all that she needs to know about them, since no honest pony would purposefully take scissors to fine clothing and hastily scrub it with dark brown mud from Horseshoe Lake's waterside factory.

“Excuse me,” says Pinkie Pie politely, “can you play something cheerful? You are outside a happy place, after all.”

The music stops and the group looks at her, with the lead stallion -a unicorn of gray coat and a messy black mane- giving her a stink eye.

“Are ya censorin' me, candy tail?” says the stallion with a horribly fake seafaring accent but surprisingly fresh breath.

“I am politely asking you to play something that doesn't make me want to hang myself,” says Pinkie Pie.

“Well, it'll cost ya a pretty bit or two.”

“How about it costs me not sending the guards after you for being frauds?”

“We ain't frauds.”

“If you aren't frauds then you have the worst Baystone accent ever, and you must have run into some pretty sharp rocks because those are the cleanest tears in clothing I have ever seen, and I have never heard of a pony using old cooking grease to wash their manes. Also, do you store your instruments with sandpaper? Because that looks a lot like sandpaper damage to me. I'm sure the guards would love to see how much you swindled out of the good citizens with your violation of the Anti-Fake Homeless Act of 1873."

The group silently stares at Pinkie Pie with wide eyes, with one self-consciously straightening their mane with their hoof, and one of the ponies, a pegasus stallion with an indigo coat and blue mane, leans to the leader.

“I know a couple of happy tunes we can try,” he says with a completely natural regional accent.

Bronze Shield leads Flash and a group of guards to Color Wheel's cell. The cells are still empty and the air is still cold, and when they reach Color Wheel's cell Flash takes notice of the symbol on the cell wall.

“Somepony has been busy,” mutters Flash.

“He drove the prisoners mad, but he's fit to be hung very soon,” says Bronze Shield.

Flash hums and approaches Color Wheel's cell, noting how the imprisoned stallion looks to be quite young. In his late twenties or early thirties. So much life wasted from destructive behavior.

“Prisoner, were your antics worth it?” asks Flash.

Color Wheel's eyes meet Flash's, and a small smile tugs on his muzzle.

“Every last one,” says Color Wheel.

Flash looks at Bronze Shield, who merely shrugs, and the pegasus looks back at the pony.

“Well, the infamous Color Wheel is quite disappointing to look at,” says Flash. “I was expecting you to be more colorful.”

“Disappointment is my specialty,” quips Color Wheel.

“Well, enough of that,” says Bronze Shield, butting his way past Flash while his horn lights up, thus leading to the bars shimmering. “It is time for you get the noose. Lads, if you will.”

Flash steps aside to allow the guards in, giving each one a scrutinizing scowl as they file past him and order Color Wheel to stand tall and still. The pony obeys without question and puts up no resistance when the guards cuff his hoofs and leash his neck. During the course of this event his eyes stay locked on Bronze Shield, offering nothing extreme, only a very subtle hint of fear. Flash cocks his head slightly, but remains silent, and takes another step back when Color Wheel is escorted out of his cage by the leash.

The chains clink against each other and Color Wheel's hoofs, and the atmosphere becomes very stuffy and chilled, like frozen cotton balls being stuffed into one's lungs. So, with a long, steady exhale, Flash follows the group down the hall, casting one last look at the symbol on the wall before leaving its presence.

Bombastic, happy music brings sunshine and rainbows into the Sugar Cube Corner. Dreary and bored faces are now lit up and fresh conversations replace the stale ones. Even the frauds outside have gotten a boost in donations as ponies drop more bits into their box, and each one being met with a thankful smile. And at Pinkie Pie's table, she finishes the last of her donut stack with a content smile.

“This is by far the most interesting courting I have had to date,” says Pinprick, smiling just the same as Pinkie Pie as he prudishly brushes crumbs off of his muzzle.

“Then you need to get out more,” says Pinkie Pie.

“My line of work hardly allows me time. It is not easy running a business, after all.”

Pinkie Pie nods. “Oh, trust me. I know all about it. Just when I think I'm getting a day off the cops come knocking at my door because of some problem. Not that I am complaining since I love my job and I love catching bad guys I mean who doesn't love catching bad guys? Catching bad guys is just a rush of joy without the powder!”

Pinkie Pie slams her hoofs on the table, shaking the dining wares, and she exhales a loud puff of air and slumps in her chair. It only takes her two seconds to realize that Pinprick is giving her an odd look, and she chuckles nervously and slinks her hoof over her chair while giving him the best lidded eyes she can.

“Not that I'm that stuff. Completely powder free. Same time next week?” says Pinkie Pie.

“Uh~” begins Pinprick.

“Good. Bye!”

And in a flash she is out the door and gallops down the street, heart racing, lungs tightening and skin shriveling from her pouring sweat.

“Stupidstupidstupidstupidstupid!”

Light shines on Color Wheel through the carefully placed window in the Execution Chamber. Among the crowd that has taken an elevated spot for the spectacle is Bronze Shield and Flash Sentry, but the two are in two areas of the room. Bronze Shield is standing next to another unicorn stallion who has taken a spot by a lever. This one is ashen with a two toned mane of green and yellow, and he is wearing an all black suit. Off to the side, near the exit is Flash Sentry, and he is still watching Color Wheel.

The pony is standing on a platform with a noose hanging in front of him and has a group of four guards watching him with paranoia stamped on their faces. Color Wheel, however, is not looking at anybody but the Judge, an old earth pony who is sitting high on his bench with much of his body hidden by the decorated podium.

“Color Wheel, you have been found guilty by your peers for six accounts of kidnapping, five accounts of murder, one account of attempted murder, and actively practicing and promoting the Teachings of Discord. For these crimes against your fellow pony, you are sentenced to death by hanging. Do you have any last words?” asks the Judge.

Color Wheel looks at the crowd, the ashen pony and Bronze Shield, and when his focus is back on the Judge his lips twitch to make an uneasy smile.

“Ladies. Gentlecolts. Rest easy while you can, for on the third day I shall rise and bring what we all deserve,” says Color Wheel. He takes a deep, shaky breath and smiles at the Judge. “You may begin the countdown, Judge.”

After a brief, heavy pause the Judge nods to the ashen unicorn. Said unicorn swiftly approaches Color Wheel, places a black bag over his head, slips the noose around his neck, and then uses his magic to pull the lever, thus dropping the floor from beneath the condemned pony.

Color Wheel's body drops and with it comes a sickening snap of bones. The crowd flinches, some gasp, and Bronze Shield averts his eyes as Color Wheel's twitching body twirls and sways from the noose. Flash does not look away, though. He keeps his attention fully on the spinning corpse and pushes the disturbed murmurs out of his ears.

After several moments of waiting, the twitching finally subsides and Color Wheel's body is gently laid on a gurney, where an amber unicorn stallion with a brown mane wearing spectacles and a white coat waits. His horn glows and the corpse is scanned by a sparkling, yellow line. After his magical inspection, the doctor prods the body with his hoofs, stopping when he feels the mangled, purple lined neck. With that said and done, he steps back and nods to Bronze Shield and Flash Sentry.

“He's dead.”