Fillydelphia Night

Chapters

1. The Cops and Queers
2. There’s Lots of Pretty, Pretty Ones
3. To Swim You Have to Swallow
Epilogue

1. The Cops and Queers

“What’s it going to be then, eh?”

There was me, that is Bitter, and my three droogs, that is Black, Heather, and Clever, Clever being really Clever, and we sat in the Korova Milkbar making up our rassoodocks what to do with the evening, a flip dark chill winter bastard though dry.

No, fuck off. I’m just kidding. That’s not how this is going to be.

I suppose introductions are in order, but let me stop you right there because I really don’t give a shit what your name is. Not even if you have alcohol to sell me, although that will significantly improve our relations, provided you can keep your Celestiadamn mouth shut. Seriously, if you want me to hear your life story, go get murdered. Then I might actually give a fuck.

So, my name’s Bitter. Bitter Brambles. I’m an earth pony private detective, but at heart, I’m a simple stallion with simple needs. The things I like are: booze, sticking my massive, throbbing dick in pegasi, and Tuesdays (because I’ve never been beaten up on a Tuesday before). The things I don't like are: not drinking booze, not sticking my massive, throbbing dick in pegasi, and days that are not Tuesday (because I’m usually getting the shit kicked out of me on those ones). Oh, and I’m a pessimist. And I swear a lot. Fuck.

My partner in crime is Clever Clogs. He’s also an earth pony private detective, but I’m fairly certain he’s not a simple stallion with simple needs, or if he is, he’s buried it so deep you’d need a bomb made of psychoanalysis to unearth it. The things he likes are: crosswords (not sure why), hallucinogenic cacti (still not sure why), and green lights (I… yeah, I don’t know). And I have no clue what he doesn’t like. Seriously, that stallion is, like, the weirdest fucking pony to walk Equestria. Oh, and he’s an optimist. And he doesn’t swear a lot. Not fuck.

So, right now, Clever and I are in Fillydelphia, that psychedelic urban shitstorm, on a not-entirely-intriguing case. Essentially, some pegasus pony by the name of Heather Clouds has gone missing, and this is where she’s rumoured to be. The two of us have been hired to track her down on behalf of a concerned ex-stallionfriend who’s willing to pay big money for her safe return. So yeah, simple stuff. The kind where you’ll say, “what could possibly go wrong?”, and the next minute you’re in Canterlot, six months pregnant, minus one kidney, and with an insatiable urge to play dominoes. Fucking dominoes. I do not speak from personal experience.

Anyway, as Clever and I follow the cracked pavement down a street named after somepony whose achievements nopony remembers, I take out the battered photograph of Heather Clouds I keep in my jacket pocket and look her over once more. She’s young (probably two or three years younger than I am), very pretty (but I’m prejudiced), with a creamy light grey coat and brilliant emerald eyes peering self-consciously out from behind her tousled, raspberry-streaked silver-grey mane, a waterfall of bleeding, silky smoke. Her cutie mark is a fluffy white cloud raining small purple flowers, so who knows what that means.

It begins spitting, a halfhearted downpour, so I carefully tuck the photograph back into my jacket and turn to look at Clever. He’s a tall pony, serious-looking, with a powdery blue coat and a short, rather careless-looking dark brown mane, wearing a crimson scarf. His eyes are a striking magenta, and in the variegated light of Fillydelphia’s bustling night world, I have to admit he does look rather spectacular.

“Clever,” I grumble, brushing my already soggy mane out of my face, “it’s, like, 11:30 already. Where even is this fucking nightclub?”

“Right here,” Clever calmly replies, nodding at the violently colourful establishment immediately in front of us, big purple sign above a plain black door, no windows, but lights everywhere. “We’ve been standing outside for the past five minutes. You were narrating again, Bit.”

Oh yeah, and he calls me “Bit”, an exclusive privilege.

I blink, open my mouth, close it. “W-what? No, I– that’s not something– I don’t do... that. …You fucking moron!”

Clever raises a questioning eyebrow. “‘His eyes are a striking magenta, and in the variegated light of Fillydelphia’s bustling night world, I have to admit he does look rather spectacular?’”

“That was a… fucking… song lyric!” I shout at him. “Mareilyn Maneson! STOP TALKING! Are we going in or not?!”

The Neon Demon nightclub: you’d be hard-pressed to find a shittier shithole, swarming with villains and scumbags. And this is precisely where Clever Clogs and I are at this moment entering. The atmosphere of the place can only be described as hypnotic, electronic music pulsing and throbbing at an acceptable volume in the background and gaudy purple and pink lighting instilling the place with an ethereal, dream-like quality. Entering with Clever, I am secretly pleased to hear that the music being played is some of Nine Inch Neighls’ newer stuff. We all need a good soundtrack to life (“just something to get by”, as good old Trot Reznor would say – wink, wink, nudge, nudge), and this, right here, is the shit. On one end of the nightclub is the dance floor, where a reasonable number of ponies kick loose, and on the other is where all the booths and tables and shit are. In the middle, of course, is the bar, which I intend to visit sooner rather than later, but then I catch sight of an amber pony with a spiky, artificially-coloured pink mane sitting at a booth nearby.

I nudge Clever. “Clever, look,” I say, nodding at the pony, “if that certified fucktard sitting over yonder isn’t Knock, I’ll eat my hat.”

Clever looks at me, genuinely surprised. “You have a hat?”

“No,” I scoff. “But it’s actually incredible how much more of a degenerate I think this guy is now that I can put a name to a fuckface.”

The unicorn known only as Knock is a notorious Fillydelphia drug dealer. He supposedly knows Heather Clouds and may be able to shed light on her whereabouts. If we can get him to talk, that is. Seriously, I’d be surprised if this twit knew how many letters there are in the alphabet, let alone what the alphabet is.

Clever and I sit down across the table from the pony who is conceivably Knock. He looks up, a little startled.

“Who the hay are y’all?” the unicorn asks us, and I cringe. If there was such thing as homosexual education, this guy would’ve been top of the class. No question.

“Are you Knock, by any chance?” Clever asks.

“Last I checked,” Knock replies suspiciously. “Which was the day before yesterday. You?”

“No, I’m afraid not,” Clever answers. “My name is Clever. Clever Clogs.”

He and Knock both turn to look at me expectantly.

“What ’bout you?” says Knock. “You got a name?”

I glare at him. “Nah, my parents left the birth certificate blank.”

Knock blinks, sits back. “Damn,” he says, astounded, “that’s harsh, stal.”

My hoof greets my forehead. Then molests it.

Knock reaches over the table, places his hoof on my shoulder. “S’all right, brother, don’t cry. I’m sure the love was always there.”

“Fuck off!” I growl, pushing him away.

“So, who are you two, anyhow?” Knock inquires, laying out a line of cocaine, retrieving a straw, and sticking it up his nose. “Y’all don’t look like cops.” He freezes, the straw dangling out of his right nostril. “Y’all ain’t cops, are you?”

I resist the urge to just straight-up kill this dumb motherfucker. “Are you serious? Why would you only ask us that after you bring out the coke?”

“This here is personal use cocaine,” Knock passionately insists, snorting the powder violently. “Y’all can’t do shit. I know my rights. Fuckin’ pigs!” He wipes his nose, sniffs. “You and me both know I can’t afford a court of law, so y’all can’t say fuck all ’bout me in an attorney!” Knock taps his temple knowingly. “You’re too smart for me.”

“Personal use?” I say incredulously. “Medicinal cocaine? Are you shitting me? Are you even aware of what comes out of that arsehole in your head?”

“Yes! Yeah,” Knock stubbornly asserts, readying another line. “I’ll have you know that a doctor prescribed me this coke. I have a terrible… multiple personalities.”

“Listen, Mr. Knock,” Clever interjects calmly, “we are not the police. We’re private detectives, and the matter of the fact is that we’re looking for a young pegasus by the name of Heather Clouds. We’ve been informed you’ve had drug dealings with her in the past. Is that correct?”

Knock inhales through his nose, looks up at Clever, eyes all over the place. “Heather Clouds, huh? What’s your angle?”

“Gemini,” Clever replies. I snort. “You?”

“So, where is she?” I ask Knock.

Knock looks confused for a moment, blinks languidly, then slowly begins to nod. “Oh yeah, no, I saw– yeah, the other day. Definitely.”

Clever and I both start, lean forward.

“Wow, really? Where was this?” Clever asks eagerly.

Knock coughs, holds up a hoof to signify that we should wait. Rummaging around in a dirty black sports bag, he eventually recovers a big sandwich bag full of lumpy white powder. He looks at us, eyes twitching, conspiratorial. “Premium,” he tells us. “Premium cocaine. Cut with the finest concrete money can buy.”

“FUCK ME!” I shout, throwing my hooves up in the air.

“Yeah, give us a sec,” Knock says, insensible.

I jump to my hooves, look at Clever. “Done with this shit! Clever, you deal with this motherfucker!” I turn to Knock, his eyes so large they practically are his face, and pat him on the shoulder. “Congratulations, you are literally too idiotic to verbally abuse.”

I stride across the room and plonk myself down at the bar with a heavy sigh. The bartender is a burly-looking fuck with a lopsided grin plastered over his ugly, stubbly mug.

“Vodka,” I tell him without looking up. “The rocks. And keep ’em coming.”

“How much dirt you want with them rocks?” the bartender quips smugly.

I look up. “Hey, how’s about we play the ‘do your fucking job’ game? You go first, dickhead.”

“Hey, nice cutie mark!” says a voice.

I look to my left and see an attractive pegasus with a lime-green mane, matching eyes, winged eyeliner.

“Thank you, I chose it myself,” I reply, working the deadpan. I will admit, though, my cutie mark is pretty beast. It’s basically an orange flame surrounded by three black, thorny vines. Much better than Clever’s at any rate; his is literally a sparkly brain. I mean, he could be a lesbian neurosurgeon for all anypony knows. Me? I’m a fucking sorcerer.

“So, what’s your name?” the pony asks, sitting down beside me.

“Bitter,” I inform her. “Bitter Brambles.”

The bartender all but throws my vodka at me, and I down it in one gulp, then motion for him to refill my barely perspiring glass.

“Bitter, huh?” the pony says slowly, as if assessing how much she likes the sound of it. “Anypony ever call you ‘Bit?’”

“Negative.”

“Well, anyway, I’m Pistachio Gust,” the pegasus says with a genuine smile.

“Nice to meet you.”

Pistachio glances over at the now grumpy-looking bartender. “Gin and tonic, please.” She turns back to yours truly. “So… I saw you talking to Knock just now. How do you know him?”

“As a pony with an extreme case of homosexuality,” I respond dryly, downing my second vodka.

Pistachio snickers. “Oh, I don’t know about that. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him flirting with a few mares every now and again.”

I scoff. “Are you kidding? That guy probably walks in zigzags! If I drew him a straight line, and provided he survived the subsequent heart attack, he’d file a motherfucking restraining order against me!”

Pistachio laughs. “Sheesh, what have you got against gay ponies, anyway?”

“Nothing, believe it or not. I just lack the imagination required to formulate intelligent, politically correct insults.”

Pistachio gives me a look. “So, what do you do, Bitter Brambles? I mean, aside from tearing into the gays?”

“I’m a private detective.”

“Whoa,” Pistachio says, sounding intrigued, “really?”

I nod. “Uh huh. And what about you, Pistachio Gust? What does a pretty pegasus such as yourself do for a living?”

“Oh, this and that,” Pistachio answers, bumping against me mischievously, her hoof brushing my thigh.

I throw a quick glance at her. Celestia’s fat, regal arse, is this mare coming on to me?

“So, why did you become a private detective?” Pistachio asks, sipping at her G and T. “Do you have, like, a calling or whatever?”

I down another vodka, and the bartender immediately grabs my glass, tops it up, plonks it down, resumes staring at me intently like some kind of cowpony. I think he’s viewing this as some sort of competition, the petty fuckwit. I don’t know what the rules are, nor do I care, but I’ll not be seen dead losing to this guy.

“Oh yeah, for sure,” I say to Pistachio. “Yeah, one night, I was lying awake, and I suddenly realised ‘hey, I like being broke and getting the shit kicked out of me; I should become a private detective’, so I became a private detective. This is a true story.”

“What else do you like?” Pistachio inquires wickedly, eyes glinting, the corner of her mouth twitching.

The next thing I know, I’m back in my hotel room, face-deep in pegasus pussy. I succeed in bringing Pistachio Gust to a screaming climax, and then I finally get to stick my massive, throbbing dick inside her. Rutting the sexy pegasus for all I’m worth, I eagerly run my hooves over her soft, shapely body and take her left wing into my ravenous mouth like I’m trying to deep-throat her feathers. It’s fucking awesome. I hear her moaning blissfully, and it’s all I can do not to do so myself, but then I turn my head slightly to the right for whatever reason and see Clever standing in the doorway, eating toast and watching me, impassive.

I utter a shocked cry, pulling out of Pistachio and falling backwards onto the bed, bouncing, scrambling to cover myself with the blanket. “What the fuck?!” I splutter. “How did you– is that toast?! ARE YOU EATING TOAST RIGHT NOW?!”

“Uh huh,” Clever replies, taking a bite. “Hey, so, listen, I have good news.”

I gape at him, feeling myself going flaccid. “Yeah, the feeling is mutual! I was getting laid for the first time in weeks, you cock-blocking arsehole!”

Clever frowns, confused. “How is that mutual? That’s not what I was going to say. Anyhow, what I was about to tell you is that I found Heather Clouds.”

I blink at him disbelievingly. “What? Already?”

Clever nods, then points at Pistachio. “There she is.”

2. There’s Lots of Pretty, Pretty Ones

I stare at the pegasus lying frozen on the bed in amazement. “Y-you’re Heather Clouds?!” I exclaim. “You’re Heather Clouds?!”

“Is… denying it… still an option?” Heather asks in a small voice.

“Of course,” Clever replies, “just not a very good one, seeing as we wouldn’t believe you. Wait, is that what you…? Oh. Not really, no. But if you want to.”

“Wait,” I say, shaking my head, “wait, hold the fuck on. So, let me get this heterosexual: you’ve been hiding out in The Neon Demon this whole time, and Knock hasn’t even noticed it’s you? Unbelievable! Scarcely believable!” I stop. “Actually, no, never mind. That is completely believable. The pony’s a fucking coke-brained borderline vegetable if ever I saw one.”

“Look, there are some very dangerous guys after me, okay?” Heather fearfully tells us. “A-and I don’t know why. That’s the reason I came here and disguised myself. You know, dyed my mane and my coat, tattooed over my cutie mark. I… honestly thought it was pretty effective until today.”

“Well, you certainly fooled Bit,” says Clever, looking over at me with that blank stare of his.

“I… would’ve figured it out… eventually!” I stammer defensively. “There’s just– there are… factors, many factors to be taken into– she’s got a green mane!”

“And wings,” Clever adds.

Heather frowns. “Huh?”

I quickly look at Clever, stab a hoof in his direction, then back to Heather. “No, shut up! NOTHING!”

“What do you mean when you say, ‘dangerous guys’, Ms. Clouds?” Clever asks. “Are we talking debt collectors, assassins, door-to-door salesponies…?”

“I… I don’t really know,” Heather replies timidly. “They just… they’re armed and… look, it’s not like I stopped to ask, okay?”

“Seems like a bit of an oversight, if you ask me,” Clever says thoughtfully. “You couldn’t just wave a white flag or something at some point…?”

“Oh, great,” I say, throwing my hooves in the air. “We’re out of our depth again! Just great! Celestia’s voluptuous fucking thighs!”

Clever shrugs infuriatingly. “I’m sure it’ll be fine, Bit.”

“You said that last time!” I shout, oh-so-slightly hysterical. “And remember what happened?”

“Uh huh.”

“Yeah, well, let me jog your– wait, what? Sorry, you do remember?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” I blink. “Um… right.”

At this point, there is an insistent knock at the door. Heather and I nearly hit the ceiling. Clever simply turns around, characteristically unconcerned.

“Oh, that’ll be the room service!” he says happily.

“What?!” I whisper furiously. “How many hallucinogenic cacti did you eat? Why the hell would I order room service?! I’m not in the habit of inviting hotel staff up to my room whilst sucking wing and so drunk I’m practically a fucking second-rate retard! Fuck, stal! That’s probably the thugs Heather was talking about!”

“Are you sure?” Clever asks, clearly not convinced. “Because I definitely remember ordering a fruit salad.”

I gawk at my friend. “Are you out of your fucking– you break into my room, make toast, and then you order room service?!”

Clever gives me a look. “Don’t be ridiculous, Bit! I broke into your room, ordered room service, then I made myself toast. What you’re suggesting would be just plain inefficient.”

“Heather!” comes a familiar voice from the other side of the door. “Heather, I know you’re in there! Open up this instant!”

Heather visibly stiffens. “Oh shit.”

I breathe a sigh of relief, place a hoof over my thumping heart. “Oh, thank fuck. Thank fuck.” I look at Heather, smile reassuringly. “It’s just your ex-stallionfriend. He was the one who hired us to find you in the first place!”

“Oh no,” Heather wails. “Oh no, no, no, no, no.”

I lay my hoof on her shoulder. “Hey, it’s all right. I know he’s your ex, but he’s only got your best interests at heart.”

“No, you don’t understand!” Heather cries, propelling herself off the bed with one erection-inducing flap of those fluffy, fuckable wings. “He’s not my stallionfriend! H-he’s my brother!”

“What?!” I scream, turning to Clever.

Clever looks legitimately surprised. By my reaction. “Oh, you didn’t know?”

“WHAT?!”

“Yeah, I knew from the start.”

I can’t believe my ears. “AND YOU DIDN’T THINK THIS WAS SIGNIFICANT ENOUGH TO POSSIBLY MENTION BEFORE NOW?!”

Clever shrugs. “Um… no?”

The sound of the door being kicked down tears me from my thoughts, and whirling around, I find myself face-to-face with a charcoal pegasus, stylishly unruly ash grey mane, blazing violet eyes. This is Black Flight, Heather’s stallionfriend and ex-brother. No, hold on… no, that doesn’t sound right. Brother and ex-stallionfriend? Um… no, fuck it, never mind. Behind Black Flight are three dangerous-looking henchpegasi, who are most certainly not door-to-door salesponies. Well, okay, to be fair, that one on the left with the weird manecut could probably pass off as one, but the other two: not a chance.

“Um… what the fuck’s he doing?” Black Flight asks Clever, staring at me, looking a little frightened.

“He’s… just narrating again. Give him a minute,” Clever replies patiently.

“Door-to-door salespony?!” the henchpegasus on the left demands indignantly. “Fuck you, arseface!”

I shake my head, blink. “Huh? What?”

“Look, Twiggy,” says the right henchpegasus, “once you get your mane re-done, this’ll all go away, all right? It’ll all go away. So, just relax. Be at peace, stal.”

“I just… it’s making me feel really insecure,” the left henchpegasus supposedly named Twiggy tells his colleagues pathetically, kicking at the beige carpet. “All these ponies telling me I look like a door-to-door salespony? Like I’m in the wrong line of work or whatever, you know? It’s really discouraging! Just… just not a good feeling.”

“Listen, I don’t wanna come across as smug or anything,” the middle henchpegasus says, “but I did suggest you get yourself another manecut before we came to Filly. You didn’t, and look what happens.”

“Oh, fuck you!” Twiggy shouts.

The middle henchpegasus raises his hoof in surrender. “I’m just saying, stal. I’m just saying.”

“Do you have any idea how much a standard manecut costs these days?” Twiggy rants. “It’s absolutely ridiculous the amount that’s now being charged! I mean, what is this? A recession, for Celestia’s sake?!”

Black Flight glares at his three henchpegasi pointedly. “Are you guys finished?”

“Um… yeah,” the middle henchpegasus says quickly. “Yeah, no, I… I think we’re all done here. A-all good.”

“Fucking recession,” Twiggy mutters to himself.

“Anyway, uh…” says Black Flight, looking at Clever, then at me, clears his throat, “w-where were we?”

“Er… congratulating us for finding your ex-sister so promptly?” I suggest hopefully.

Suddenly, Black Flight tenses, whips his head from side to side. “Where is she?” he agitatedly demands. “Where’s my sister?!”

“Oh, she left,” Clever imparts casually.

Everypony turns to stare at him.

“Wh– how?” I say, dumbfounded. “How the hell did she manage that?!”

“The window. She’s a pegasus.”

For a moment, I am speechless. “And you didn’t try to stop her?!”

“She seemed like she was in a hurry.”

“Argh!” I groan. “You idiot! Because guess what’s gonna fucking happen now?!” Keeping my eyes fixed on Clever, I raise my hoof in Black Flight’s direction and wait.

“My henchpegasi are now gonna kick the shit out of you until you’re ready to tell me where she’s gone,” Black Flight tells us grimly.

“You see?!” I say to Clever, then begin backing away as the three henchpegasi advance, waving my right hoof desperately. “Listen, listen, listen, listen! We don’t know where she’s gone, okay? We only just fucking met her, I swear! But we can find her! We found Heather once; w-we can do it again! I promise!”

Black Flight suddenly stamps his right hoof twice. “Okay, you know what? That sounds reasonable.”

I blink. “Really? Oh. Um… thanks?”

“Yeah, no sweat,” Black Flight tells us as he trots in the direction of the door, his henchpegasi trailing behind, looking somewhat disappointed. “I’m a model citizen. But seriously, if you guys don’t find Heather and bring her to me outside The Neon Demon in three hours’ time, I’m sorry, but you two are gonna fucking die, you understand?”

“Yes, absolutely,” I say. “That is… completely understandable. And thank you… again… for not deciding to kick the shit out of us.”

Black Flight pops his head back around the door frame. “Oh, and one more thing? Henchpegasi, kick the shit out of that one. We mustn’t let him think that narration is an excuse for being an arsehole.”

“Oh, come on!” I shout. “Unbelievable! Scarcely believable!” I stop. “Actually, no, never mind. That’s completely believable.”

The three henchpegasi advance on Clever and myself once more. The one on the right, grinning, punches Clever in the stomach, sending him sprawling onto the carpet, and then all three corner Your Humble Friend and Narrator.

“Wait!” I exclaim desperately.

The henchpegasi all raise their eyebrows in unison.

I swallow. “Gentlestallions, I will pay you with my own” – I look at Clever, winded on the floor, point at him – “with his own money not to do this.”

The henchpegasus named Twiggy grins at me. He slowly raises his right hoof, profoundly enjoying the way I flinch, and pats me on the head, his smile widening. “I’ll teach you to mock my manecut and, thereby, cause me to lose sleep over a distinct lack of job satisfaction resulting from a detrimental combination of poor upbringing and widespread, persistent insinuations as to my allegedly appearing to manifest the guise of a door-to-door salespony, motherfucker.”

I blink. “Uh… sorry, I didn’t quite… what?”

Twiggy beams. “Apology accepted.” Then he punches me in the face. I fall to the floor, my eyes watering, and the three henchpegasi begin laying into me. They kick me in the stomach, they kick me in the back, and they kick me in the head. Mercifully, I soon lose consciousness.

3. To Swim You Have to Swallow

“Hey. Hey, Bit. You okay?”

I blearily open my eyes, groan. My face feels two times as big as it normally does, sticky and throbbing, and the rest of my body just generally aches like a motherfucker. Clever helps me to sit up against the side of the bed. He appears to be eating a fruit salad.

“No,” I say, spitting blood onto the carpet. “No, I am not. Pretty fucking far from it, actually.”

“Oh,” says Clever, chewing on a strawberry. “I’m sorry you got beaten up. Again. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Celestia, I’d give anything for a drink,” I moan, wallowing in self-pity. “I’d sell my fucking soul for just a single glass of the pissiest beer right now!”

“I know! I’ll make you a cup of coffee,” Clever tells me brightly. “Latte, right? Warm and milky?”

“Booze,” I whine. “Booze. Fuck coffee. Fuck my liver. I want alcohol.”

“Now, now, Bit,” Clever says sternly, “that’s not going to help, so let’s not go down that tree again. You’ve had more than enough for one night.”

“Fuck you!” I shout at my friend halfheartedly. “Alcohol is a depressant, you sack of shit! You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Clever gets up, makes his way toward the kitchen. “Well, I’m making you coffee, whether you like it or not.”

“Caffeine is a stimulant!” I bawl at him. “FUCKING SADIST! Next, you’ll be putting salt in my face! Next, you’ll be taking me to watch a… a musical! With foals! Fuck you, Clever, you’re a… you’re a… contemptible… cock-sucking sociopath in need of many fucking years of therapy!”

Eventually, Clever returns. He quietly sits himself down across from me on the floor and pushes a gently steaming mug in my direction, a small smile. I pick it up wordlessly, glare at him, drink. It’s a surprisingly well-made latte, the right temperature, well-blended, and the perfect amount of milk and sugar, but there’s not a chance in hell that I’m admitting this to Clever. Plus, my bottom lip is busted wide open, so every sip is basically an ordeal in itself. And not to mention the fact that my entire fucking body is still a big, lumbering hive of agony just waiting to throb itself into tiny, little pieces.

“You know what, Bit?” Clever eventually says. I refuse to look at him. “I’m going to let you in on a little secret. Once a day, every day, treat yourself to a small something. It doesn’t matter when you do it or what it is. Don’t even plan it. Just do it. A present to yourself from yourself. It could be anything. A sandwich, a crossword, a coffee, a piece of hallucinogenic cactus. Anything. The point being that it serves as a little gift, simply for hanging in there, for standing up in a world that constantly asks you – with varying degrees of politeness – to sit down.”

“Wow,” I say flatly, “always knew you were a hedonist.”

Clever shrugs. “Call it what you want, but it works.”

“Well, anyway, what in Equestria are we gonna do now?” I ask my friend.

“Find Heather, of course.”

I scoff. “Well, how the bloody hell are we supposed to do that? She could be anywhere!”

“True. However, I know where she is.”

I glower at Clever skeptically. “Oh, and how do you figure that? Left you a note, did she?”

Clever stands up, walks to the window. “No, I can see her sitting on top of that building.”

I pick myself up with no small amount of effort and join him. “Huh.” A pause. “You know, I’m still pissed at you for not telling me Black Flight is Heather’s brother.”

Clever gives me a look. “Let’s go.”

And so, Clever and I leave the hotel and hit the pavement once more. (“We’re not hitting the pavement,” Clever tells me, “we’re just walking on it”). I didn’t check the time before we left, but my generally unreliable body clock is telling me that it’s between 1:30 and two in the morning, and being a Thursday, there aren’t really any other ponies out and about. Come to think of it, another thing my body clock is telling me is that I should be hauling arse to a hospital in case I have internal bleeding or some shit like that, but under the literally life-threatening circumstances, this is not really an option.

The night is crisp and clear, and the sidewalks are still damp from the rain, but the temperature is good, and I hate to admit it to myself, but it’s not unpleasant. It is so quiet I can hear myself breathe, and looking up, I watch as my breath freezes and drifts up, up, up to writhe and dance among the stars, cold and distant as they are, graceful bits of rock. Around me, the industrial metropolis that is the city of Fillydelphia towers, stabbing hoof-like, defiant, into the night sky, and the shadows are of such contrast and colour that it takes my breath away (although it could just be my crushed, potentially broken ribs). Walking through this city is more like drifting, drifting through and between clouds of pure cosmic lustre, now pink, now green, now blue, now so dark and so vacant that all it would take would be a single step, and you could just fall, fall forever, tumbling through the abysses and alleyways between all that is, all that ever will be.

I stop dead in my tracks. Fucking hell, I’ve become a poet. Fillydelphia has turned me into a poet. Actually, I bet it was that afterbirth motherfucker Knock. Celestia save me.

Clever turns to look at me. “You’ve stopped narrating. What’s the matter?”

“Uh…” I stammer self-consciously, hurriedly resume walking. “N-nothing. I was just wondering why you, uh… why you like green lights so much?”

“Oh,” says Clever, “well, it’s because they mean ‘go.’”

“What? That’s... that’s it?” I exclaim, a little taken aback. “Seriously?”

“Well, it’s more of a symbolic thing, but yeah,” Clever responds. “I just interpret them as meaning that I have no restrictions, biological, existential, or otherwise, as to what I can and cannot do in life. Freedom, essentially, to make my own decisions and to pave my own way through an existence I have been thrust into whether I like it or not, and with no consideration whatsoever as to how I might feel about it. Green lights just allow me to perceive that I am in control of a situation of which I am not the creator. Perhaps it is merely wishful thinking or a philosophical coping mechanism, but it does make me feel better, and I think that that’s all that really matters in the end, you know?”

“Wow… shit, okay,” I say, blinking. “I’m sorry I ever doubted you, Clever. Green lights all the way, stal!”

And then we have reached the building, a slightly more old-fashioned brickwork affair with rustic-looking windows, peeling, flaking, white frames.

“I really hope she’s still here,” I tell Clever, craning my neck painfully. “Like, she’s moved to the other side of the roof or something, and not just fucking outright upped and left. Because that’d be so typical.”

“She is,” Clever assures me. “Still here.”

I raise an eyebrow at him, not for the first time tonight. “Dare I even ask how you know that?”

Clever just smiles knowingly, reaching up and lowering the fire escape ladder, which the two of us proceed to ascend. When we finally reach the roof, rather out of breath, I am relieved to discover none other than Heather Clouds sitting there, gazing out over the sweeping cityscape, the stars in her eyes, and the wind in her mane, her coat, her… feathers. …Ahem.

Sensing movement, Heather turns. “Oh, hi, you two,” she says sadly, eyes misty.

I tentatively make my way over to the pegasus and sit myself down beside her, our legs dangling out over the street below. Clever sits beside me, giving the two of us some space, for which I am grateful.

“Hey,” I say softly. “How goes it?”

Heather smiles at me, but there is not a trace of warmth or comfort to be found in it. Put simply, it is the most tired, most pained smile I have ever witnessed, and I can honestly say that I would have preferred tears. “I’m okay,” she replies, then turns back to the city, the moonlight reflecting in her large green eyes as she takes it all in. “I mean, obviously bummed that my brother caught up with me and all, but aside from that: peachy.”

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “We totally fucked up, leading him to you like that. As detectives, we should’ve known better.”

Heather sighs, shrugs. “Ah, it’s all right. It was inevitable, so don’t worry about it. Family always finds a way, right?” She gives me a twisted smile. “How fucked is that?”

Heather looks so unhappy, so lost, so without hope, and I desperately want to do something, anything, to reassure her, to let her know that I am here for her, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, or how I’m supposed to do it, so I do nothing. I am suddenly pervaded by an acute sense of violent revulsion at myself, at how absolutely fucking useless I am. But then Heather has her head on my shoulder, wraps her wing around me, and it isn’t quite so bad anymore.

Feeling Heather shiver into me, I look at her. “Hey, if you’re cold, you can wear my jacket.”

“No, I’m fine,” Heather smiles. “That wasn’t a ‘I’m cold’ shiver; that was a ‘I’m freaking out’ shiver. And besides,” she adds, “I’m already wearing a jacket, so I feel like having a second one would just be… tacky.”

“Ms. Clouds,” Clever at last says, “I’m very sorry to have to ask you this, but why are you running from your brother? Bit and I will do everything we possibly can to help you, but first, we need to know what it is we’re dealing with.”

Heather sighs deeply. “Black Flight, he…” she is silent for a time, but then swallows, continues, “…he wants me to carry his foal.”

“What?” I turn to stare at Clever and am both astonished and relieved to see that something I cannot quite describe has entered his magenta eyes, something I have not seen before. I think it might be horror.

“Black Flight’s been pressuring me for years now,” Heather says miserably, “but lately, he’s become impatient. That’s why I had to leave. That’s why I came here.”

“So, what? He’s obsessed with genetic purity or something?” I ask, appalled.

Heather shakes her head. “No, he’s just really fucked up.”

“Well, well, look what we have here.”

Clever, Heather, and I jump to our hooves and whirl around. It’s Black Flight and his henchpegasi, pleased as punch.

“Thank you, detectives,” Black Flight sneers, “for once again leading me to my– SWEET CELESTIA, what have you done to your mane?!”

Heather blinks. “W-what?”

“Your mane!” Black Flight insists. “The colour is… it’s completely wrong!”

“Oh really? Don’t you like it?” Heather asks, examining her fringe with a frown.

“It’s not that I don’t like it,” says Black Flight. “My body is just screaming ‘no.’” He turns to look at the three henchpegasi. “You know what I’m saying?”

The henchpegasus on the right bobbles his head. “I mean, it ain’t too bad, boss. Just a little on the garish side, I’d say. A shade lighter would be… I mean, what do you think, Twiggy? A shade lighter, right?”

“The fuck you asking him for?” I interrupt boldly. “This pansy motherfucker’s manecut makes him look like his mission in life is commercialised doorstep fellatio!”

Twiggy’s faces twitches ever-so-slightly. “What kind of bitch-arse name is Bitter Brambles, anyway?” he asks me. “Your parents must’ve really hated you.”

“It’s foreshadowing,” I answer. “Touch me and bleed, you cosmetologist’s fuck-up. Also, your insults suck almost – almost – as much dick as you do.”

“Hey, last I checked, I’m not the one with the busted lip and the black eye,” Twiggy jeers.

“All right, enough!” Black Flight bellows. “EVERYPONY JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!” He looks at Heather. “Sis, you’re coming with me. This disobedience has gone on long enough.”

“Not a fucking chance!” I shout back at him. “You want to fuck your own sister?! That’s like wanting to fuck your own brother!”

“You wouldn’t understand!” Black Flight snarls. “My family has its ways and its traditions, and they must be upheld, no matter the cost!”

“Oh, yeah, there’ll be a cost, all right,” I laugh angrily. “You are aware that inbreeding leads to all sorts of physical and psychological abnormalities, right? You sick bastard.”

For a split second, Black Flight looks uncomfortable. “There’s no… real evidence to support that!” The moment passes, and he now looks at his terrified sister once more. “Heather, I will never force myself on you, you know that. I’ll never, ever hurt you, and that is a promise. But so is this: I will do everything in my power to ensure that you conform to my will. I’m prepared to scour all Equestria for you. Wherever you go, you’d better hunker down real good because I’m gonna have a henchpegasus stationed in every fucking corner of every fucking town and city on the planet. Go to Princess Twilight Sparkle, and the second you set hoof in her castle, my henchpegasus will emerge from hiding inside her tight, affable little slit and drag you back to me. I will find you, Heather. Always. And I will do anything to make you mine, kill anypony to make you mine.” Black Flight points his hoof at Clever and myself. “Starting with these two clowns.”

At this point, Clever finally speaks. “With respect, Mr. Flight,” he says, “Heather isn’t going anywhere with you.” He glances at me, then back at Black Flight. “…You arsehole.”

Despite everything, I grin. Clever Clogs using the A-word? Now we’re talking. “Heather,” I say grimly, “Clever and I will buy you as much time as we can, but you need to fly away and never look back.”

Black Flight raises a questioning eyebrow. “Um… you do know that we’re pegasi, too, right? We can just fly over you, and you’d just be stuck on this roof like ‘well, we fucked up.’”

“Yeah? Well, you can… suck my arse!” I retort.

“Wait.”

We all turn to look at Heather.

“Wait,” she says again in a small voice. “P-please don’t hurt them, Black. I’ll go with you. I’ll do what you want. Just… please don’t hurt them. They haven’t done anything wrong.”

Black Flight flashes me a triumphant smile. He beckons to his sister. “Come here, Heather. Come to your brother.”

Heather dutifully obeys, and Black Flight puts his foreleg around her smugly. “You see? Wanting ponies to listen, you can’t just tap them on the shoulder anymore. You have to kill them, and then you’ll notice you’ve got their strict attention.”

Clever and I exchange puzzled glances.

“Heather,” I say. “Please. You don’t… you don’t have to do this. It doesn’t have to end this way!”

“Yes, it does,” she replies, looking down.

“There you go!” Black Flight declares, mussing his sister’s mane affectionately. “Would you look at that! I have my sister back!” He grins at Clever and myself. “As for you two, I just wanna let you know that we’re cool. I have no intention to kill you. The world is more interesting with you in it. Clever Clogs and Bitter Brambles.” He shakes his head, smiling, then throws us a sizable bag of bits. “Fun doing business with you. And who knows? I may require your services again one day.”

“How about now?” I growl, kicking the money aside. “Free of charge. No time like the present.”

“Oh yeah?” Black Flight smirks. “That right?”

“Uh huh,” I say, my jaw tight. “Yeah. I’m standing here. I’m standing right here. You just say the word, Black Flight, you just make the move. You’re a businesspony, let’s do business.”

Black Flight gazes at me a while longer, an amused twinkle in his eyes, then he laughs, shakes his head, turns away.

“Bye, Bit,” Heather says sadly. “Bye, Clever. It was good meeting you both.”

Suddenly, she begins to cry, sobbing her heart out, and I step forward, but so do the henchpegasi. Black Flight has a despicable expression of mock sympathy on his loathsome face, and he embraces his sister.

“There, there,” he says with an awful grin, “there, there. Black has you now. It’s all gonna be all right. Our foal will be beautiful.”

And then he screams an awful scream. Clever and I and the henchpegasi all jump. There is blood spewing out of Black Flight’s back. Heather has hacked off his right wing, knife in mouth. With one final look at Clever and myself, Heather embraces her shrieking brother and throws them both off the roof.

Epilogue

So yeah, it’s been two weeks since that happened.

Once we all got off the rooftop, and the henchpegasi saw that Black Flight was gone, they basically just took the bits their boss paid Clever and myself and fucked right off. Clever and I stayed behind, of course. I distinctly remember the feel of the pavement, cold and granular against my hooves, and the dense, salty stench of blood as I sat by Heather Clouds’ body while Clever rushed to fetch the police. I’d love to say she looked peaceful lying there, lifeless and smashed up as she was, like she’d finally found some respite from it all, but she just looked dead. Not even asleep. Just... dead.

I’m fairly certain I cried, but I can’t say for sure. All a bit hazy, I’m afraid.

When it was all over, Clever and I returned to Ponyville, where I proceeded to confine myself to my apartment and set about drinking myself to death.

I want to end it. I want to let myself fall into those abysses and alleyways and just tumble forever. I want to close my eyes, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. Something is holding me back, and I wasn’t sure what it was until yesterday. Yesterday was when it hit me. Because what I now realise is that Heather was ultimately correct: I do have a calling, and it’s something inherent, something both biological and metaphysical. It’s as though there is a river flowing behind my eyes, living, breathing, and I can’t do anything but follow and hope it ends somewhere. Who knows, maybe I’ll find out someday.

Another thing that happened yesterday was that I received a letter from Clever. Naturally, he is deeply concerned about me, but this one was different to the others he had sent since we got home, and I stopped opening my door to him, to anypony. In this particular letter, my friend wrote to me of a case. A new case. And if I’m being honest, it does sound rather intriguing. Maybe I’ll go by and see him later. I don’t know. But I guess it couldn’t hurt to cast an eye.

…Actually, it probably will. But I’ll fucking do it, anyway.

Author's Note

Special thanks go out to OnionPie and You are welcome for their invaluable counsel and support. And to all those who stuck around, hopefully dropped a laugh or three along the way: your president salutes you.