My Little Interstate: Justice is Magic

My Little Interstate: Justice is Magic

Another quality fanfiction by Fleetwood_Brougham (And TheZackAttack)

--PROLOGUE--

    This was it, her ticket to the fashion BIG-TIME! Just a few more minutes of stitching, and her greatest masterpiece yet would be COMPLETE! So, why not take a little bit of a break.

    “And,” Rarity mumbled to herself happily, looking at a clock on the wall, “It only took me 8 hours and 17 minutes!”

    Wiping her forehead with a tissue, she trotted downstairs, to the kitchen, for a sip of wine. She opened the icebox, and brought out what had to be her favorite beverage for that time of night (2 AM), a bottle of, “Hoity’s Own Red Wine”.

    Pouring some gently into a glass, she savoured the flavor, as it ran over her tongue, but it was a short romance, as she was interrupted by a loud pounding on the door.

    “Who is it?” she asked warily. “We’re CLOSED at this time of night!”

    Before she could react, the door was broken down, and two stallions burst in.

    “You Miss Rarity?” one growled.

    “Why yes, yes I am, “ She stated with dignity, “And I’m afraid you’re not here to look at the dresses.”

    “Oh-ho-ho,” one chuckled sarcastically, “She’s as smart as she looks, too. Come on, Dutch, let’s get ‘er.”

    By all means, Rarity was NOT a weak mare. She knew several martial arts to defend herself, but the two bruisers took her by surprise, lunging down on her, and throwing her in a burlap sack.

    “Eugh, LET ME OUT!” she demanded, rolling about to make the bag sway, “It’s DISGUSTING in here! What do you PUT in this?! I DEMAND to know!”

    “Dead bodies,” Dutch replied, “Or bodies that are ABOUT to be dead....”

    Thinking fast, Rarity knew she had to do SOMETHING. She had a pencil behind her ear, if she needed to change the design of a dress, and there was a scrap of paper at the bottom of the sack. Grabbing the paper, she scrawled out, “TAKEN BY THUGS, PLEASE HURRY, THIS BAG IS DISGUSTING,”, and dropped it through a rip in the sack, towards the bottom.

    The sack wasn’t completely solid, in fact, she could see where they were taking her: A beaten-up, black 1964 Chevrolet Impala Sedan on the other side of the street.

    “Well, at least it isn’t a lowrider,” she mumbled to herself.

    As they opened the trunk, she gave one last struggle, after seeing how PUTRID it was inside.

    “No, no, NO!” she whined, kicking the bag about again, “IT’S HORRIBLE IN THERE! THE TIRE IRON IS GREASY, IT’LL RUIN MY MANE! I CAN’T COMPREHEND HOW MANY TEENAGE FOALS PROBABLY LOST THEIR VIRGINITY IN THERE, THEIR MOM AND POP’S SEDAN’S TRUNK! I won’t let you take me, I WON’T!”

    *Slam*

    “This doesn’t feel right,” one of the bruisers sighed, “But at least hitting her with the trunk lid shut her up.”

    “Agreed.”

    The two brutes had a laugh, got in the car, and took off down the road, leaving the Boutique (And the note) far behind.

    In half an hour, Berry Punch, tuckered out from a night of drinking and partying, came stumbling down the street. She was so drunk, she didn’t know where she was, but she was HELL-BENT on getting home.

    “Oh lord, I wan’ be in ‘dat number...” she sang to herself, slurring almost every word, “When theh sainz come marshin’ in....”

    Unbeknownst to her, she stepped on a tiny scrap of paper, one that normally wouldn’t mean anything to her.

------The Next Morning---

    Berry awoke from a wretched slumber. She barely had a WINK of sleep, her head hurt, and something sticky was stuck to her hoof.

    “Heh...” she thought out loud, “Maybe it’s...Another guy’s number?”

    But it wasn’t. It was a note. She read it, and nearly jumped out of her bed in surprise.

    “Oh, SHIT, I gotta find Spike.....

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    She hurried out the door to her car, a red 1983 Dodge Aries. She turned the ignition key, but she only recieved the whining sound of the ignition. The engine refused to fire.

    “Oh, son of a bitch...”

    Finally, it started, and she lurched away from the curb, car sputtering, and blowing blue exhaust out it’s tailpipe.

    She raced through the city, running red lights, smashing mailboxes, and sliding across lawns, and finally attracting the attention of Sheriff Deputies Snips and Snails.

    “There’s one,” Snails commented, “Come on, Snips, GET ‘ER MOVIN’!”

    Now, these two, and the way they drove their ‘75 Dodge Coronet sheriff cruiser were probably more of a road hazard than Berry Punch, but they took off in pursuit anyway.

    What do we have now? TWO old Chryslers, barreling down the road, sliding across lawns, and narrowly missing other cars.

    Berry knew where to find Spike: Roseluck’s Diner, near the PV River’s Easternmost crossing, at Main Street.

    Finally, she drifted into the parking lot, and rear-ended a 1953 Buick Roadmaster, parked near the main door’s. Snips and Snails followed, and did the same to HER car.

    “Whoa, whoa, WHOA!” Snips yelled, drawing his gun, as she ran inside, “COOL IT! GET ON THE GROUND!”

    “Oh, PISS OFF,” she growled, “Everypony knows your gun is too heavy for you to carry when you have bullets in it....”

    “OH, YEAH?” Snips fired six shots, but no bullets came, only clicks. “She knows, Snails,” He whispered in awe to his partner. “Come on, let’s leave the all-knowing, Great and Powerful Berry alone, she deserves it.”

    The two numbskulls got back in their Coronet, paying no attention to the wreck that they had partly caused, backed out of the diner, and left, off to play cops and robbers somewhere else, while Berry stormed inside, to tell Spike about the strange note she found.

And so began the epic adventure we shall know as, "My Little Interstate".