Author's Note

Story now split into shorter chapters for easier reading.

Back in The Day

Around eighty years ago…

The rain drove down hard upon the streets of Barrel Bay.

The frigid gale which had blown in from the east was nothing new to the city, and at such a late hour most residents were sleeping through it without much fuss. Those who did brave the storm were either essential workers in municipal wagons which slowly clattered down the many concrete roads and cobblestone streets in order to keep the port city running, or others who were participating in more nefarious activities.

Underneath the brilliant thunderclaps and howling wind, the rhythmic chugging of steam engines reverberated off the brownstone buildings. Furthermore, the occasional squeal of tires and a whistle competed to be heard by whoever was listening, and the beams of two pairs of headlights bounced and reflected off the slicked street, just like the mixture of gas powered lamps on poles and electric lights on buildings and the mouths of alley which lined it.

Then, a steam wagon blasted around a street corner, sliding on the pavement as its driver struggled to keep control. While that one fishtailed all over the road and almost clipped some steamers parked at the curb, another wagon took the turn with far more grace, and carried on down the boulevard at a more cautious pace.

“Come on, Snapper! We gotta stop that rat!”

The driver of the second wagon took a hoof off the wheel to jab it at his rain-streaked windshield. “I can hardly see his taillights let alone the road, and with the way Weenie’s drivin’ he’s guaranteed to wreck!”

The griffon riding shotgun grumbled but didn’t raise any more fuss. Through the tiny triangle spot on the glass the wiper struggled to keep clear, he could see the dim red lamps doing their best to travel straight and he had to agree with his partner’s observations. He knew that they were close to the bridge and that Weenie would most likely take it to escape the borough. The turn for it was just ahead, and the brakelights flaring to life showed the intent.

The wagon in front had completely locked its brakes, and on the wet pavement that was its downfall. With wheels cranked hard left, it oversteered heavily, the driver lifting off the brake and attempting to countersteer. All that earned him was an uncontrollable snap in the opposite direction and a one way slide past the turn and down the shallow embankment on the far side of the intersection..

Snapper had already been riding his brakes, and he was able to bring things to a controlled halt just before the curb. With a ratchet and a clank, the parking brake was pulled and the only sounds remaining were the storm, the whump of the wipers, and the muted whoosh of the boiler.

“Looks like the road didn’t like him too much,” the griffon, Kure, remarked as he stared ahead.

“His boiler hasn’t exploded,” Snapper started with an air of caution. “Yet...”

“He could still get away, and it wouldn’t be the first time.”

Kure lifted his weapon up off his lap with scaly yellow talons and pointed its muzzle towards the windshield. He checked over the drum magazine – loaded with a belt full of lead balls – to make sure it was seated properly. He then checked the action to see that it was indeed still loaded, his talons dimly illuminated by several gem tubes plugged into the receiver.

Snapper also had taken the opportunity to ready his weapon, but his process was a bit more involved. From under his coat he'd produced his preferred means of dispensing justice and aimed its twin barrels at the floorboards. With a deliberate pull on the top of the weapon, the breech cover was slid forward to expose the empty chambers. He filled those with paper cartridges pulled from a side saddle strapped to the stock and then snapped the cover shut. The priming tubes pierced the paper tubes and a small measure of powder drained into the pan, ready to ignite at a moments notice.

“You ready?”

Snapper answered his partner in crime by pulling the flintlocks back to full-cock, the weapon now ready to fire. “Yup.”

Kure stared at the exposed pan of the blunderbuss while reaching for his door handle. “I hope that thing can fire in the rain.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll only have to fire twice, if it comes down to it.”

With that, Kure pressed his flat gray cap down onto his head of white feathers with gold fringes, and snapper did the same with his trillby which obscured most of his short, light blue mane. Then they swiftly departed the wagon.

Gale force winds were quick to accost the duo, with Snapper having to endure the annoyance of his suit jacket worn over a white shirt and dark green necktie flopping around and intermittently slapping into his face. Kure’s attire of a gray button-up shirt and black pants held up by equally black suspenders handled a stiff wind far better, but the slanted rain was already wetting the fabric only after a few seconds of exposure. Both struggled to charge down the grassy and slippery slope between them and their quarry, with Kure muddying up his star-sided sneakers and a knee of his pants as he helped himself along with a free hand, and Snapper’s slacks and dress shoes weren’t faring any better. The only saving grace was the superstructure of the nearby bridge which impeded some of the wind by the shore, but any concerns were solely levied upon the wreck before them.

With headlights to their backs, they could immediately see that the wagon had rolled on its way over, and its tattered remains now rested in the shallow shore of the river. A mixture of wheels, bumpers and loose panels had been strewn about, and white-capped waves lapped at the exposed and cracked boiler, vaporizing into pufts of steam whenever the two met. For a moment, the duo wondered if anypony could have survived, but movement at a position near where the driver’s door had once been dashed such thoughts.

An earth stallion, white in fur and green in mane, extricated himself from the crushed sedan body. His very generic white shirt and brown pants were crumpled and torn in several places, and one of his worn work boots had become untied. He stumbled towards shore in a daze, cursing about his rotten luck. He then froze, as though remembering his situation at large. With a hoof to his brow, he squinted up at the silhouettes of two you never wanted to cross and hastily reached behind his back.

As the hoof-pistol was brought into play, Snapper and Kure trained their weapons on the threat. Kure had snidely hoped that their mere presence would quell opposition, but whatever the rat did to piss off the boss was bad enough to warrant going out in a blaze of stupidity.

“Lose that piece, Weenie!” Kure cautioned the pony in his sights. “It’s over!”

Weenie Buns failed to comply, and the only thing keeping him alive was the fact that he hadn’t pointed his revolver at his pursuers. He used that time to his advantage to try and come up with a workable alibi.

“Come on guys,” He tried to grin, but it was more of a grimace. “Y-you got the wrong guy! I got nothing to do wit it!”

Snapper didn’t buy that for a second, and he aggressively squared up his stance, leaning into the stock of his blunderbuss.

“Fuck that! We saw you trot right out of the dog’s hideout, you lyin’ shtbag!”

Snapper may have been ready to end things right then and there, but Kure knew that any information would be beneficial for business, so he lowered his sights ever so slightly and to be a bit more reasonable.

“And what were you doing there?!”

A bark of laughter was unexpected. “Ha ha! Very funny, because guess what? I wasn’t there!”

Kure could feel the more functional side of his beak curl up into a sneer. He’d figured that Weenie would do his best to blow off the treachery, but he knew what the bigger fish in this case was. He would have inquired, but his partner had read his mind.

“Then what were you doing at SeaMoon brewery!”

That got his attention. Whatever bravado Weenie had been trying to display evaporated in an instant, and he started to visibly shake. It wasn’t from the cold rain.

“Nothin’, I wasn’t doin’ nothin’ I swear!”

Kure lifted his gun back up.

“Alright! I was lookin’ over the place, t-to make sure that-!”

“To make sure what?!”

Patience had already been wearing thin long before Kure had been ordered to track down a potential snitch, and he made sure that snitch knew that by absolutely lunching his syllables. And if that wasn’t enough, he figured that stating things with boneheaded clarity couldn’t hurt either.

“If you were up to nothin’ as you say, then prove it and we’ll be off. But if you are double dealin’ then you are going to pay for it. Do you understand me?!”

Knowing that there was no way out and fully understanding the implications if he refused to cooperate, Weenie finally caved. He held his hooves out in a submissive manner but still grasped the pistol in his right, its metal brace barely keeping purchase on the hoof it was attached to.

“Yeah! Yeah! I know! I know!”

“Then talk!”

At the brewery…

Five ponies of various colors and all wearing similar suits were congregated around four wooden crates pushed together to form a table. The cloth draped over it made things a bit more presentable, but it was only there to provide a workable gaming surface. Each player had a hoof of cards, and some kind of bottled beverage or snack was next to them. But most importantly, there was a sizable stack of bits and paper currency in the center of it all, and one of the players had just added a thin stack of coins to it.

“Alright, I raise you.”

The three other players were weary of the one with a wry grin who had just raised. He was always good at calling his shots and nopony wanted to lose on that round, but only one called in the end. And just like that, their best player laid down the winning hoof. Groans circled the table from the losers as the winner raked in his bits and the unicorn acting as sharp grabbed up the cards for a shuffle.

“So,” he intoned through the stub of a cigar clenched in his yellowing teeth. “What do you boys think of that new filly Coleslaw?”

For a moment, the game was forgotten as something a bit more important took its place. There were a few dreamy sighs from the younger stallions at the table who’d seen the enrapturing beauty of the newest showmare working nights at The Windigo. They may have not been able to touch, but they sure could fantasize about a potential liaison with the beautiful mare.

They were unable to voice their thoughts as a sharp crash out in the rainstorm drew their attention. A bulky earth stallion who had been munching on a box of coleslaw almost spat out a mouthful when he slammed a hoof down on the table.

“Celestia damn it! If that cat is snooping around again I’m gonna shoot the damn thing! Just keep playing guys, I’ll be back in a bit.”

With a grumbling huff, the large pony grabbed his snack and waddled off to deal with the pest. The distillery area was a bit removed from the loading dock so by the time he got there he’d cooled enough to not want to outright kill the intruder but he still rapped his free hoof against a metal pipe to scare it off.

“Get out cat!” He beat on the pipe again. “Get out and I won’t hurt ya’! Come on cat, stop wastin’ my time!”

Another crash drew his attention to a spot behind a boiler where the brickwork had degraded to the point of allowing wildlife into the building. When he got there, things got interesting. The small hole had expanded to the point of easily allowing larger animals through, and he gripped his gun tighter when the realization that a small pony or other species could be hiding inside struck him.

Suddenly, something furry dropped on his head and dug its claws into his ear. The box of coleslaw was tossed to the wind as he peeled the cat off his head and threw it at the hole, which it fearfully scampered through.

“Damn it! There goes my-!”

The box of coleslaw hadn’t flown far, but the bundle of red rods and wires it had splattered upon took all his bluster away. He could see the face of a clock slowly ticking away, and as it hit twelve the last word he’d ever speak trickled out his maw.

“... Coleslaw…”

A thunderous explosion rocked the midnight world. Two looked over their shoulders and one stared ahead at the fireball which could be seen peeking above a warehouse roof, shock written into all their faces. They all could see the remains of whatever had been destroyed, chunks of brick, metal, and wood sailing into the sky to join the storm and come back to earth in a dangerous downfall.

Snapper and Kure were flabbergasted at what they’d just witnessed. Their jaws hung open in shock, neither having seen such a thing before in their lives. Then rational thoughts started flowing, and almost as one, they realized just what had blown up. With faces twisting up in rage they rounded on the one whom they believed to be responsible.

All Weenie could respond with was a goofy grin and a shrug. Maybe he thought it was just business and that he’d somehow walk away with most of his limbs. This time, he wouldn’t be granted such mercy.

With an almighty bang, Snapper opened fire, a wad of shot flying from one of the blunderbuss barrels and striking his target square in the guts. He doubled over, but that single shot was the least of his worries when Kure joined in.

His air-powered submachine gun worked a bit differently than typical firearms, but when he held the trigger down many of the same things happened. The shallow water around Weenie’s hooves erupted into erratic splashes as little lead balls struck the surface at supersonic speeds, emitting loud snaps the moment they left the barrel. Kure hadn’t bothered to use his sights, opting to simply tuck the gun into his side and get shots off as fast as possible.

As the round flew and Weenie staggered back from the ones which hit home , he heard Snapper fire off his second barrel, another wad of shot striking in the upper chest. That caused their target to lifelessly flop onto his back. Knowing that there was no way the rat had survived, Kure let off the trigger and his gun fell silent.

They both stared into the water at the carnage they’d wrought. Weenie’s body lay just off the shore, and the water was already taking on a red tinge. Then, some debris from the explosion splashed down further offshore, kicking up a fountain of spray and sending some extra waves their way. Once certain that nothing was going to land on him, Kure slowly waded out and grabbed up the hoof pistol which had fallen by the wrecked steamer. It was a needle revolver, quite common to find in the hooves of many types of equestrians, and even though it had fallen in the drink it still held some value. He glanced back at his compatriot, then back at the gun.

“Waste not and whatnot,” he mumbled to himself more than anything.

With a roll of his eyes, Snapper sloshed through the bloodied water to the corpse and started patting him down for any clues as to what Weenie’s game was. The only parcel of worth found was a fat sack of bits which could possibly put a dent in somegriffon’s astronomical tab, but beyond that nothing of note. Not wanting to hang around for any longer, he waved Kure over and they shoved the body away from shore and into the current.

As the river lethargically swept its prize downstream, the duo had gone over to the wrecked sedan, poked around it for a few seconds, and then trudged back to their idling wagon. With haste, Snapper swung it around and took off across the bridge, away from all the carnage. It was a bit of a drive to reach the nearest safehouse, which gave ample time for the adrenaline to wear off. No words were exchanged for a portion of the trip, with Snapper focusing on the road and Kure staring out at the passing streetlamps while pawing at the stock of his gun.

The pony had been in the game a fair bit longer than the odd griffon so he knew about having to cope with the situations he consistently found himself in. He liked to keep it within himself and just give others their space, but after finding a friend in Kure, he felt confident to see if he was willing to open up a bit.

“So, I know I’ve probably asked before, but was this how you expected things to go?”

“No,” the griffon grumbled. “The only thing on my mind when I got here was bits and fun.”

Now, you must be wondering how a bird like me got into this line of work. Well, how about a little context to set the mood.

It was the start of the Booming Markets in Equestria and things were wild. With all the opportunities abound the poor were becoming rich, the rich were becoming richer, and to a bird like me that sounded all like a faraway fantasy which nogriffon would see. And just like most great sounding things, there was a catch.

Prohibition, known as the “Dry Law” to those not in politics, had just been enacted across the board and the effects were felt straight away. All the little dives where the everybird could pop in and get a cold one were barred from serving alcohol and the thriving brewing industry of Equestria was declared to be illegal. Even with such restrictions though, life was still great, at least on the surface.

Beneath it all, a new breed of business had taken hold. When the bars and breweries shut their doors, certain “entrepreneurs” had bought the property and machinery at rock-bottom value. Now that kind of deal might sound insane, but if you are willing to run afoul of the law and exploit some loopholes, things make more sense. The demand for alcohol had in fact skyrocketed, as those who were used to convenience had to suddenly find other ways to drink and had gotten desperate for places to do so.

Hundreds of little illicit drinking dens had popped up in all of Equestria’s major cities, happily serving customers hard liquor in secret, but all they had to sell was whatever they had in their cellars. That was where that breed of business came in. The speakeasies as they were called bought their drink from the mafia gangs who had taken up the mantle of production and transport of banned substances, and this ignited a war in all but name between rival gangs.

This was the status quo for several years. It may sound like a terrible time to be an Equestrian, but money was still flowing and ponies partied despite the law. But just like in drinking, there’s the damn hangovers.

The great market crash blindsided all that growth in an instant. Good times became hard times as the once-thriving citizens were at risk of losing their businesses, homes, and livelihoods to the banks while those who weren’t as well off to begin with were hard pressed to find even the basic necessities of survival. Those more hopeful thought the crash was a fluke which would self-correct with new investment, but such hopes ebbed when soup kitchens and breadlines were formed to provide food for the needy.

There were really only two ways to make money from that point on. One was to have connections willing to help you along and the other was to do dirty work for the mob. I was in the former camp as I was out of a job in Griffonstone and was able to get a new job across the pond in Barrel Bay. It was my eighteenth birthday when I stepped off the train, and when I received my first paycheck a week later, all I wanted to do was have fun.

That was my undoing.