It was a dark and stormy night in Manehattan. The rain was coming down in buckets an the darkness hung over the city like a wet blanket.
Private Eye Twilight Sparkle was hot on the eye of her quarry, a thief named Flash. She was currently crouched in a doorway, watching him from the cover of the shadowed darkness. Unfortunately, it wasn't any drier in there, so the pulled her trenchcoat a little bit tighter around her slender frame, in a useless attempt to keep herself a little bit dry.
“At least my fedora keeps my mane kind of dry,” she thought.
She slipped a bottle out of her coat pocket and took a sip, letting the fiery liquid burn down her through.
It wasn't enough. Seconds later, she was shivering again. From the cold, from the loneliness, or maybe from both.
“Screw it,” she said to the darkness. No stakeout was worth this.
She boldly strode down the darkened street to the Starbucks and kicked the door open.
Flash saw her—of course he saw her. He was sitting facing the door, and as she dragged her sorry, soggy carcass into the warm confines of the coffee joint, she saw him widen his stance, saw him ready himself for a fight.
He wouldn't start it, though. He was a proper gentlestallion.
Private Eye Twilight Sparkle shook her head and dropped into the seat across form him. She slid his cup—half full of Caribou Coffee—over to her side and took a long pull before setting it back down.
“I'm not gonna bust you—not tonight,” she said. “So relax.”
“Then let me order the next round,” Flash offered.
One round became two, then three, then four . . . and the night ended in Flash's hotel room.
What happened then would never go in PI Twi's report.