It isn't easy being a detective, especially one like me. I'm not from where you're from; I'm not from where they're from; I'm just from where I'm from, and I'm the only one from there, as far as I know. Now, not being from here can make life difficult sometimes, mostly 'cause I just don't get you ponies. You ponies walk on four hooves, for one thing. Where I'm from, we walk on four when we're trying to get somewhere fast, but stand up on two a lot of the time. It makes sense if you think about it—more balance, more mobility, and more poise all equal more survivability. But I guess you ponies don't need to worry so much about survivability here, do you? At least, not normally.
I'm standing just a few feet away from the very center of a large theater, trying to pick up the bits of a conversation happening somewhere offstage. Now, you call this as eavesdropping, but I assure you that if I dropped your eaves, I would pick it up and give it back. In other words, I don't eavesdrop. I listen and give returns for the information I receive.
But these two are practically incomprehensible. I'd leave if it weren't for my Mystery Sense that keeps tingling in the back of my head, like those annoying itches you get that seem to be inside of you. Yeah, I know. “Mystery Sense.” Terribly original, right? But I digress. I need to know what these two are saying. The Mystery Sense is never wrong.
As I tiptoe closer to the voices beyond the curtain, I can begin to pick out pieces of their conversation.
“She...right here, right here, I swear!”
“...wonder...just a hoofprint...gone...”
Right next to the curtain now, I can hear every word.
“...Miss Rarity say?”
“Forget Miss Rarity! What'll the boss say?” A pause. “What if...he finds out?”
I stiffen. He. There's always a he. A replacement for a name that is only spoken by the dead...it seems like Manehatten has more of a sinister side than I thought.
“What?! No! If he finds out, he'll have our heads for sure. We can't let him find out!”
“But how are we going to hide his best seamstress disappearing?”
Aha. Now's my chance. Taking a deep breath, I pull up my catalog, if you will, of personas. No, not Albert the Clown...not Merchant Bevier...ooh, Sir Gaxahand the Brave? I like that one. No, no, this is entirely the wrong place for such an act.
In all my decision-making, I neglected to do one simple thing that may have saved myself from much heartache in this case: I didn't pay attention. So when a sneaky stallion crept up behind me and attempted to shove me into a sack, I was taken completely unawares. It seems, however, that luck was on my side that day, for he forgot a simple thing, too. He didn't think about how high he would have to jump in order to place a bag over a head that is three feet above his own.
And so, when this unplanning fellow reached up to place the bag over my head, I had a moment to gather myself while I disarmed him. A kidney shot and a quick jab to his already-injured back-right leg took him down in a few seconds, and by that time, I knew which persona to take: my own, Locke the Detective-Adventurer-Guy. Taking careful note of my assailant's clothes and belongings, I quickly vault up onto the stage and throw back the curtain.
Walking quickly towards the backstage, I call out, “So, I couldn't help but overhear that you two seem to have lost something.” No answer. Huh, that's weird. I round the corner and see something that brought this case to a whole new level.
In the green room sits not two ponies, but two empty chairs at an empty table. No, not empty—as I walk to the table, I see that it holds two slips of paper. I pick up the first one. It holds only a hoofprint. Wait, didn't one of them mention a hoofprint in their discussion?
I pick up the second one, and my eyes widen as I read its words. “You wanted a case, Mr. Locke? My pleasure.”