Pressman Arrives and is Greeted
Name: Pressman Hoovesly
Date: Monday, 13 days before the Running of the Leaves, 2013th (by the Solar Calendar)
Notes: Currently on train to Hoofington. Raining. Like, a lot. Have a buck-ton of newspaper clippings. Entire villages poisoned, a filly who hung her own parents, fires, torture... the lot. It's a big ole' mess and I'm not sure what any of it means. Told this is supposed to be a "Damned Big Story." Can't help but be skeptical. Supposed to be staying at a place known as GBHPPT, whatever that stands for. This'd better be good.
***
The glowing blue aura around the pen flickered and died, and, with a clatter, the writing utensil dropped to the wooden tray. Groaning, the yellow stallion rubbed his temples, green eyes flicking to the rain-spotted window.
"'Damned Big Story" huh?"
With a sigh, Pressman flicked his red mane from his eyes and resumed rifling through the file he had been given. There wasn't much in it. The newspaper clippings he had documented in his notes, a train ticket, and an address scribbled under the string of letters "GBHPPT." Three years ago, the scant information would have excited him. That was back when he was new to the business. He'd always had a talent for sticking his nose into things and getting the facts, so the little journalist's notebook that had popped up on his flank didn't really surprise anyone. He'd applied for a position at the Manehatten Trot full of energy and enthusiasm for the future.
Three years later, and the Trot was still just as much of a dead end waste of time as always. Pressman picked up his pen once more, tapping it idly against the tray.
A string of murders from several years ago and an old house. Nothing really seemed to link the two together, so far as he could tell. He couldn't get much more info from his boss, either. Apparently the supplier of the file had simply dropped it off at the office and vanished. The fact that this hadn't set off any bells as to the informant's credibility left Pressman in despair for his boss.
With a grinding of metal and a low, keening whistle, the train stopped. Pressman hastily threw his briefcase back together and merged into the line of exiting ponies slowly heading towards the door. Outside the rain fell in buckets, spilling over the narrow awning between the train and the town. Through the sheet of water, Pressman received his first view of Hoofington.
At some point, it had been a thriving Victorian-style haven in the country-side, but it had since fallen into a state of semi-disrepair. The old buildings were grey and sagging. Tufts of grass poked out among the broken cobblestones. The Everfree Forest flanked the town to the right, it's branches clacking in the wind. Even the citizens seemed worn out, heads bowed against the rain, trudging through the mud. With a world-weary sigh, Pressman stepped out from under the awning and trotted out into the rain.
Nearby a sign swung limply. Carved into it was the visage of Princess Celestia, with the words "The Daily Undertaking" painted in fading letters beneath it. Pressman suppressed a sneer. Damned Solarists, thinkin' they were so great...
Grumbling, he pushed open the doors and stumbled into the warm, dim interior. A few dusty tables were strewn about. Dotted here and their were ponies, likely locals, judging from the way they eyed him distrustfully. After sizing him up, they returned to their drinks. The whole place smelled of depression and alcohol. A wrinkled pegasus lounged behind the bar, pretending to wipe away the centuries of grime that had accumulated there.
"Kin I help yer, sah?" he mumbled, barely masking his hostility. Pressman swallowed his displeasure and put on his best "cheerful journalist" smile.
"Yes. I'm looking for a specific place..." he rifled around in his bag and came up with the scrap of paper featuring the set of letters, "Is there anywhere around here with this abbreviation?"
The bartender visibly paled, and flapped the scrap of paper away. Glowering suspiciously at Pressman, he pointed down the bar to a hooded figure.
"She's th'one yer want." he spat. Pressman thanked him and tucked the paper away. As he turned to approach the hooded stranger, he could've swore he heard the bartender mutter, "Celestia haff mercy on yer."
Damned Solarists.
As he got closer, Pressman began to see more features of the figure. A curl of pale green mane stuck out from under her hood, and the hooves that nursed the little glass of amber liquid were a pastel purple.
"Um, hello, I-"
"Pressman, right?" the hooded figure looked up briefly, flashing purple eyes, then ducked her head again. Her voice was surprisingly youthful, "Told you were comin'. Lemme finish this an' I'll getcha settled." She picked up the glass with a curl of green magic and downed it, then dropped it back on the bar. "A'ight. Let's go."
Without another word, the girl trotted to the door and out into the rain. Uncertain of what else to do, Pressman followed.
In the few moments that he had been inside, the deluge had slacked off considerably. The girl was waiting beneath the sign, her hood thrown back. The light drizzle was beginning to bead on her coat. Smiling, she stuck out a hoof.
"Name's Halcyon. The Mistress is excited to meet you!" she beamed. Pressman shook the pro-offered hoof.
"I didn't know I'd be receiving a welcoming party." he returned her smile, although a bit weakly. Something about the bartender's behavior was wiggling in his mind, "Although I must say, it's pretty nice. I wasn't entirely sure of how I was supposed to find the place."
"Oh, anypony around here could point you in the right direction." Halcyon said, beginning to head down the street, "They all know the place."
"That famous, huh?" Pressman once more dove into his bag to retrieve his little pocket recorder. His journalist senses were tingling. There was some good material in here.
There was a sudden crackle of lightning, and the downpour resumed, full force. Startled, Pressman dropped his recorder, watching in dismay as it splashed into a puddle.
"That's one way to put it." he heard Halcyon replying. Her hoof came down on the recorder just as Pressman was reaching for it. He looked up into her face, and blanched at the smile he saw there.
"Oops." the grin never left her face, "My bad. We'll try to get you a new one as soon as possible." she turned around, her coat flapping. For a moment, Pressman caught a glance of her flank. Her cutiemark almost looked like-
"C'mon, Mr. Pressman. You'll catch a cold if you stay out here too long." Halcyon had already nearly vanished up ahead. Throwing one last dismayed look at his ruined recorder, Pressman scurried to catch up to her.
Up ahead, a tall stone wall reared from the earth. Wrought iron gates, heavy with twisted vines, sealed the entrance. Beyond that the peak of what appeared to be an old gothic church appeared, topped with a metal representation of both Princess Luna and Princess Celestia.
Halcyon threw her shoulder into the gate, pushing it open. The iron groaned, sending chills up Pressman's spine. She gestured for him to follow, and he hurried in. The gate clanged shut, it's sound like the tolling of a death bell.
A wide courtyard stretched ahead, tufts of grass and patches of moss crawling through the stony walkway. Dead trees creaked ominously. At the far end of the courtyard, the house appeared. It was obvious that at one time it had been a church, but had since been converted to have a more "homey" feel. A wrap around porch, complete with a swing, had been added only recently, from the look of the paint, and the remnants of a summer garden were still visible. Pressman followed his guide up the steps, then paused while she knocked on the large double doors.
With a creaking and groaning fit for any horror movie, the doors swung open, revealing a pair of young ponies, one boy, one girl. They were both unicorns, with pale pink coats and dusty purple manes and tails. However one (the boy) was painfully skinny, with a limp mane that covered his eyes, and the other (the girl) was rather plump, with a curly mane that seemed to have a life of it's own. On the boy's flank was an intricately designed mask, while the girl sported what appeared to be half of a broken heart. Pressman felt his heart sink.
"Welcome!" They sang in unison, "The Mistress is expecting you!"
Nearby, Halcyon had hung up her coat. She joined the twin ponies in leading Pressman down a long, silent hallway.
"The others are in the cafeteria," she explained, "You can join them after you've met with the Mistress."
Pressman nodded mutely, his eyes roving the rows of old pictures and pots of withered flowers, all strung with streamers and bright balloons. It was a strange house for sure.
Suddenly, he remembered the glimpse he'd caught of Halcyon's cutie mark. His eyes snapped back to her flank, and he froze.
"Something the matter, Mr. Pressman?" Halcyon and the twins had stopped, and were now regarding him with amusement in their eyes. Pressman stammered incoherently.
There was a noose on her flank.
A noose.
Like a hangman's noose.
There was a Luna-damned bucking-fuck it-fucking hangman's noose emblazoned on her flank.
"The Mistress is waiting, sir, if you could please hurry up," the twins spoke together. Pressman tore his eyes from Halcyon to look at them again. What is hell's name did their marks mean? His legs trembling, the stallion took a step forward. His guides smiled ever wider and led him to a door at the end of the hallway.
Fuck. Oh fuck oh fuck oh bucking fucktastic fuck of all bucking fucks. His stomach was churning. The door popped open, he was pushed into the room, the doors swung shut. Bright streamers and balloons littered the walls and floors, confectioneries of every sort were strewn across the table. An alligator lounged by the fireplace.
And sitting beside it, neat and tidy, a graying pink curl of mane across her face and a smile as wide as a mile, was her.
"Come have a seat!" she chirped. Pressman croaked, one part fear, another part disbelief.
The Element of Laughter, the party-pony, the number one name in all things ridiculous, and the most terrifying figure urban legend had ever spawned, sat before him.
"GB..." Pressman said, voice small, throat dry, "It stands for Gypsy Bard. Gypsy Bard's..."
"...Home for Ponies with Peculiar Talents," the old mare finished, "GBHPPT!" her voice was light and sing-songy, "But please, call me Pinkie Pie! No need for the formalities. We're all friends here!"
Pressman sat down. Hard. His journalist senses were going crazy, right next to his sense of self preservation, which was telling him to run like hell.
"Damned Big Story."
His journalist side one.
"Why don't you tell me a bit about this place?" he said, pulling out his note pad. Pinkie Pie clapped her hooves.
"Just a moment!" she said, and reached for a box beside her. She handed it to Pressman, who opened it.
"I heard you were in need of a new pocket recorder."
Pressman lifted it from the box and flicked it on.
Damned Big Story indeed. he thought, and began to question the Gypsy Bard.
