So there I was, on the outskirts of renowned Sweet Apple Acres. Green trees with their blood red fruit; enough to feed a town, or a small, personal army if that was more of their thing.
It was midday, with the sun high up in the sky, casting harsh shadows. I knew I had to keep low if I didn't want to be spotted. But I also knew I had other, bigger problems. The Apple family keeps itself well protected. Deceptively well protected. The core members may be close knit and few, but they keep their subordinates on a tight leash. From the milk cows in the pasture, to the pigs in their sty. Eyes and ears and noses are everywhere. Worst of all is their top security dog: Wynonna. She's the muscle that keeps the others in line, and I'm damned sure that she's trained to sink her teeth into the flesh of any unexpected visitors.
It was about this time, that I finally paused to consider the gravity of my situation. I'm not gonna lie; doubts began to surface as fears began to pool. But I already knew the simple truth of the matter: I was fucked if I did, and fucked if I didn't. And if I was to meet my fate in the jowls of a beast, at least it would be a quick and messy end. I would take that over a day of grizzly torture at the hooves of the Apples, or rotting in a cell for the rest of my life in the name of a crime I never committed.
So I pressed on.
I crawled on my stomach, inch by inch, through the highest patches of grass I could find. I prayed to Celestia that nopony could hear the quiet rustle, and my heart stopped every time a twig snapped. I was in the southwestern field; sparse, with the exception of a discarded farm tool. But the stillness was maddening. There was nothing to cover the soft sounds of my approach, and every second I spent there brought me closer to danger. A sudden shift in the winds, and that mutt would smell me from a mile away. A sudden change of whim, and an Apple might peek out a window or round a corner.
I already pulled some reconnaissance before; Applejack was in the market and should have remained there for most of the day. Big Mac was in the east fields, kicking the sap out of trees; whether for business or pleasure, I couldn't tell. He should have been busy though. I hoped. But that still left the old cripple and that yellow filly. Those two ponies could have been anywhere. And harmless as they might be, a single call would have brought about the wrath of Big Red.
I don't like working in the dark. Stay informed: that has always been my number one rule. The only rule I ever live by. Yet there I was breaking it, leaving my fate in Celestia's hooves. Living on chance.
I made it.
And by made it, I mean I had my back to the Apple family barn. I was still behind enemy lines, way over my head, and shit was about to get real. But I had to get a hold of myself. I needed information first. I needed proof of the Apple family's involvement, and a better understanding of the force they were packing.
I needed to find their dirty laundry.
You see, the Apple family owns the largest plot of land in Ponyville. Even if they weren't the head of a local chapter, they still had a lot of fruit to bear. And I'm not talking about apple trees. In any given situation, they would have been expected to donate to the cause. And that meant a cell. A small base of operations to hold meetings, handle and package serviced goods, interrogate or intimidate a pony, and maybe even dispose of a body. Just take a glance around their farm; there's an awful lot of barrels there, and not all of them have to be stuffed with apples.
The options were limited though. Obvious spot was the barn; it could have worked wonders in hosting a get-together. But it wasn't the most discrete location, and it couldn't have much in the way of working surfaces either. Other bet was the "apple" cellar. Out of the way, easily forgotten, and it had about ten feet of earth to muffle any screams. Could have been both. But even with the many promises of backwater bigoted adventures ahead of me, I wasn't exactly rearing to get started.
Everything was still too quiet for comfort. The only sounds were the occasional thumps off in the distance, that I hoped were from bucking apples. My imagination didn't come up with any comforting alternatives. And time was limited.
So I got back down on my stomach and crawled once more, hugging the side of the barn. At the very edge, I peaked around the corner, keeping as low as I possibly could. No Apple members in sight, but something a little worse: Wynonna. Their trained attack bitch was curled up on a patch of grass, having herself an afternoon slumber.
My heart sank, and for a moment I could taste the slightest hint of bile. There was no way for me to slip into the barn without exposing myself to her. So I prayed. I prayed to Celestia; to Faust; to the bookkeeper down by my favorite tavern. I prayed that the beast was deep asleep, as I nearly pissed myself tip-toeing around the corner.
Now, they say you should never directly look at somepony you're trying to avoid. There's a a bit superstition around it, based on the notion that a pony can always tell when something is watching her. It sounds silly, but there may still be some structure to the idea. It's very possible for light reflections to catch and glimmer within your eyes, drawing attention when a pony glances your way.
The truth is, I don't really know the validity of that claim.
But I can tell you that I absolutely did not put it to the test. Never once did I take my eyes off that sleeping bitch. Every time her ear twitched, I saw it. And when her nose wrinkled, my blood felt like acid and my legs went numb. I took every bit of advice I ever heard about proper infiltration, and I threw it out the window. And I probably lost ten years of my life, from busted nerves alone, because of it.
By the time I made it through the barn door, I was ready to collapse into a shivering mess.
But I kept having flashbacks of my friend. Everything from the mugs we shared, to the sight of his body on the road. I reminded myself that I was doing this for him as well.
So I took a deep breath, opened my eyes, and had a look around.
Nothing.
All my blood, sweat, and tears and nothing to show for it. In the end, it was just a normal barn. Hay in the loft, plow in the back, and just a bunch of earth pony tools I didn't even recognize. And don't think I didn't look them over. Each one was blunt or caked with mud; not a single bit with bloodstain or a loose patch of fur. They even smelled fresh, of earth and trees; not the slightest fragrance of torture.
I searched everywhere, scoured every inch. And nothing.
That was when the truth hit me. The Apples were more sophisticated than I ever gave them credit for. They were a family that understood the importance of separating work from home. There was only one way they could keep a barn so clean, and that was to operate remotely.
As I said, the Apples owned the largest plot of land in Ponyville. That cell could be off in a corner of a field that nopony has even ever heard of.
The was also the time that I realized I had been searching for too long. Because when I stopped to listen, all I could hear was silence. The sound of apple bucking was gone. And as I careful snuck my way to the barn door and looked across their fields, I could see that Wynonna was gone as well.
I don't want to talk about what happened on the farm after that; I'm not proud of what I did. It's suffice to say that desperate times called for desperate actions, and if you stick around Ponyville for another day or two, I'm sure you're going to hear about it.
The point of the matter is, I needed a distraction. It's the only way I was going to be able to pull off the next part of my plan.
The family had its shit together. That much was clear. But every chain has its weak link, and in the Apple family, I knew it was going to be Big Mac himself. The brute. The muscle. The one that did all of the leg work without understanding the nuances and particulars of it all. And whether through specific disobediance or dimwitted disregard, he was the pony that was most likely to show up red hooved in the end.
So I waited.
And after the galloping hooves passed me by, I made my way to the farm house proper. I still kept a low profile, but I wasn't terribly nervous about being spotted. I was more worried about smoke inhalation.
It was the first time I ever stepped foot into their home. And I can tell you, for a pack of bigotry fueled murderers, the Apple family pulls off their deception well. It's picture perfect; the spitting image of an honest, welcoming country house. My stomach churned as I thought to myself: the same ponies that painted such inviting green walls with their friendly apple decals, also had a habit of chopping up bodies and stuffing them in barrels.
Fucking sociopaths.
I made my way through the kitchen, wary of the oven. It might smell like baked apple pies, but I don't want to think about the sort of things that have been in it.
I could still hear the commotion outside. A whole lot of barking, accented with shrill hollers from the old hag. She was yelling something deranged and incoherent, something about about a water bucket and not letting the timberwolves burn. I almost felt sorry for that walking corpse and her feeble mind. Almost. I didn't hear the big red one, but I knew he was out there. Family always comes first.
I was looking for a tool, something bladed that I could use on their return. But nothing turned up. Their knives were large and unwieldy, a bit too big for simply cutting apples, if you asked me. I still needed proof though. I couldn't clear my name until I had solid evidence of their guilt, and they wouldn't remain distracted forever. And even if I could best them in open combat, a big IF, all I would have is more bodies on my hands and a whole lot more explaining to do. If their cell was remote, and I couldn't find it, my fate would be sealed beyond a reasonable doubt.
So I made for the stairs, checking rooms along the way.
Big Mac's was in the corner. I knew I found it, when I came across a room painted in warm earth tones.
I turned the room inside out.
I searched every closet, every drawer, every box, every chest. I tapped the walls looking for hollow sounds, any kind of hidden compartment. I was looking for tools of the trade, or any kind of document. Just the slightest hint of propaganda, a hoofful of wicker branches would have done it. But I found nothing.
Aside from his very questionable taste of clothing, he was spotless.
But then. By chance. I looked upon his bed. And sitting there, on his pillow, was every bit of incriminating evidence I would ever need to understand his character.
A doll.
A fucking doll, meant for a little foal.
And the whole world came crashing down.
Big Mac wasn't a cold blooded killer. He wasn't the muscle behind a coordinated effort of bigotry. He was just a fag. And any illicit activities the family might be partaking, Mac just wouldn't be a part of.
And no other Apple could have killed my friend.
And as I sat on the queer's bed, listening to the panicked screams of his family below, I couldn't take my eyes off that stupid fucking doll. The longer I stared at it, the more I saw the simple truth looking back.
I was wrong.