Fillydelphia Night

“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.”