(no cover art)
It was going to be a story about Constant Clock keeping his mouth shut. With his incredible sense of timing, he is easily able to point out plot holes in movies and such. Nobody likes when he does this. I was originally trying to write a story for October 21 - Back to the Future day. Didn't work out, though. The plot was boring.
Everypony in the office watched the clock, waiting for quitting time.
Constant Clock, by contrast, instinctively knew what time it was. That almost made the wait even more excruciating.
But the worst thing was when a case came up twenty minutes before he was due to go off shift.
“Hey Connie!” called a voice. Constant looked up. The new detective, Tack Driver, came over holding a file. “We just got a report about a break in. It’s got your name on it.”
Tack grinned. He might have been new, but he took to the office bandwagon of teasing Constant. It was partly because Tack was young enough to have grown up with the influence of irreverent human pop culture and also partly because Constant had never been one to take a joke.
“What is it?” Constant asked.
“A human runs a jewelry shop on Eighth Street. She says she was robbed by a time traveler. And get this – her name is Connie!”
Constant didn’t appreciate his nickname. He’d been called that even before the dimensional doorways were opened and his fellow cops had started giggling about female humans named Connie.
“So, sorry to drop this on you twenty minutes before quitting time.”
“Nineteen minutes and twenty three seconds,” Constant corrected automatically.
“That’s just enough time for both of you to get started,” broke in Sugar Song, their boss.
“Huh?” said Tack, face suddenly sober.
“Make some inquiries. If it takes a little overtime, then do your job,” Sugar directed.
Constant had never really cared for his boss. She paired him with the worst partners.
Tack grumbled at the assignment, grabbing his jacket and putting it on to conceal the pistol belt around his midsection. His cutie mark was a pair of crossed pistols, something that would have been impossible before the humans showed up.
Constant had a pocket watch on his hip. Not really fitting law enforcement, but he had his own talents.
The two of them left the building, heading for the trolley stop nearby. The Equestrian streets hadn’t been built with cars in mind, and public transportation still reigned supreme.
Tack, though, didn’t seem to appreciate it. “I wish we could roll around in whatever we wanted, like Miami Vice. I’d look great in a new Mustang.”
It took Constant a few moments to figure out what Tack was talking about. He decided not to reply.
However, Tack asked, “What kind of car do you drive?”
“I don’t.”
Tack frowned, as if it was a foreign concept. “I should get you into Top Gear. You’d like cars then. You also might like the British. There’s an American version of the show too, but we don’t talk about that.”
“I don’t really watch TV.”
That really threw Tack for a loop.
The jewelry shop down on Eighth looked like it had been converted out of an older building, so the doorknob was lower to pony standards and it retained some of the decorative gingerbreading around the eaves.
Constant frowned as he saw the display of watches in the front window. Only two were correct to the second.
Tack opened the door and the two of them stepped in. There was a woman behind the counter and Tack flashed his badge. “We’re here about the robbery.”
“Oh, thank goodness,” she said. “I’m Connie Callahan. I filed the report.”
Tack shot a grin at Constant before turning back to the conversation. “Why don’t you walk us through it?”
“A customer came in today to pick up a copper necklace that had been repaired. He showed me the receipt. When I went back to look at it, though, it was fake.”
“Can we see it?” Tack asked.
The woman produced the slip of paper for them, sliding it across the counter. “See, the date is actually from the future.”
“Where was this printed?” Tack asked.
“The credit card machine here,” she replied, indicating it behind the counter. “I just got a new one.”
“Are you from the United States?” Constant asked suddenly.
The woman frowned. “Yes. Why?”
“Americans use month-day-year format. Everywhere else uses day-month-year. ”
Realization dawned slowly. “It’s not November eighth, it’s August eleventh,” Tack said.
The woman turned red and covered her face. “Oh my God! I’m so embarrassed.”