Maretropolis

Applejack drove around in her traffic cart, sick with frustration, until she found Spike pushing Thorax and Pharynx (who were in their Crystal toddler disguises), in a baby stroller built for two, down the street.

That morning she had nothing. She had no witnesses, no resources, no help. She couldn’t even rely on Pinkie Pie after she saw Mr. Shy’s case file. Then, her situation suddenly turned sour.

When she looked at the right edge of the photograph and saw a familiar-looking black pants leg and a black leather shoe walking away.

Spike Drake.

Her only lead was the Dragon hybrid who had hustled her.

But before she went out to look for him, she decided to do a little background check on him to see if there was anything she could use against him.

Not much, just a little leverage she could use to coerce him into helping her with her case. Well, she had found it. And when she left, she was ready for him.

She smiled when she pulled up alongside them.

“Howdy! Remember me?”

It was clear that Spike was supposed to be impressed by how easily she had found him.

“Oh, yeah, Officer Apple-Butt,” he replied with a smirk.

She gave a fake laugh before saying, “No. It’s Officer Smith and I’m here to ask you some questions about a case.”

“What happened, meter maid?” he asked. “Did someone steal a traffic cone? Because it wasn’t me.”

Spike walked on, pushing the stroller, and Applejack pulled her cart in front of him, blocking his path.

“Hey, Blondie, you’re gonna wake the boys. And I gotta get to work,”

“This is important, sir,” she said as she got out of her vehicle. “I think your ten dollars’ worth of popsicles can wait.”

He scoffed and said, “I make 200 bucks a day, Hon! Three hundred of the 365, since I was eighteen. And time is money. Move along.”

“Please, just look at the picture. You sold Stratus Shy that Popsicle, right? Do you know him?”

“I know everybody. I also know that, somewhere, there’s an episode of ‘Hee Haw’ missing one of its fanservice extras, so why don’t you get back to the funny farm, Honey?”

“Fine. I didn’t want to have to do it this way, but you leave me no choice,”

She slapped a parking boot onto the wheel of the stroller, locking it in place.

“Did you just boot my stroller?”

“Spike Drake, you are under arrest,”

“For what?” he asked, smiling and amused. “Hurting your feelings?”

“How does ‘Suspected of Selling Products Not Up to Standards’ sound?” she told him.

“Excuse me?” he asked.

“Do your popsicles follow the sanitary regulations for producing, selling and consuming?” she inquired. “I saw you melting the juice of those Jumbo Pops down a rain gutter. You can say what you want, but I don’t think it can be used for that purpose. Also, in uptown, your Changeling ‘son’ was creating molds for your popsicles with his bare paws. Did you or he sanitize them before doing so? And even if you did, I know that snow was not clean. And as for the ‘red wood’... I wonder if it’s earthquake-proof. Maybe later I’ll ask an engineer to do a check. They should also have data about your sale. If there was only one of those issues, I would have given you just a verbal warning. But since there are all of them together, I’m afraid I’ll have to do some further investigations.”

Spike was at a loss for words. This rookie was smarter than she looked.

“And if that doesn’t work, I’ve also got you for Felony Tax Evasion,”

His eyes widened.

“Yeah, let me just do some quick math,” she continued, as she wrote numbers down on her notepad. “You claim to make, at the very least, two hundred dollars a day, right? So, two hundred times three hundred out of the three hundred and sixty-five days of the year, that’s sixty thousand. And since you were eighteen, you’re twenty-five now, that’s seven years of time, so sixty thousand times seven, which is four hundred twenty thousand, I think. But then again, I am just a dumb blonde hick from the sticks who never really was good at mathematics. Anyway, according to your tax forms, you reported... none of it! Nothing! Zilch! Zero! And lying on a federal form is a punishable offense. The absolute minimum: five years in the big house.”

“Yeah, and it’s my word against yours,” he replied, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Applejack held up her recording pen (which she had been using to write with) and clicked a button on the side of it. Suddenly, a recording of Spike’s voice played from the speaker:

“I make 200 bucks a day, Hon! Three hundred of the 365, since I was 18,”

“Actually, it’s your word against yours,” Applejack said. “And if you want this recording, you will help me find this missing man, or the only place you’ll be allowed to serve, not sell, serve popsicles will be the prison cafeteria.”

She grinned.

“It’s called a hustle, Sugah,”

Spike said nothing.

He only scowled at her.

A part of him wanted to smile, or at least half-smile, because she was using his own line from the day before. But she was using it against him.

“She hustled you,” Pharynx laughed hysterically from the baby stroller. “She hustled you good! You’re a cop now, Spike! You’re gonna need one of these.”

He slapped his MPD badge sticker onto Spike’s chest.

“Have fun working with the fuzz!” Pharynx said as he and Thorax jumped out of the stroller, sprouted insectile wings from their upper backs, and flew away.

“Start talking,” Applejack said.

Spike stopped scowling and sighed.

“I don’t know where he is, I only saw where he went,”

“Great,” Applejack said as she walked back to her vehicle. “Let’s go.”

Finally, a smile crept across Spike’s face.

“It’s not exactly the place for a cute little farmgirl,” he said.

“Don’t call me cute, now get in the car!”

“You da boss,” Spike replied.

He crammed himself into the passenger seat as Applejack craned her neck to look behind her. She K-turned across the street and they were off.