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// Chapter 5: Last Sunday 
// Story: We Get Diplomatic Immunity, Right? 
// by Pascoite 
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“I need cash, and I need it now,” the stallion at the next table muttered.

Berry Punch’s ears perked. It was coming from directly behind her, and try as she might, she couldn’t catch an inconspicuous glimpse of him. Holding her spoon up only resulted in a blurry, upside-down image. Any more of his conversation got washed out by the sounds of shouting, laughing, carnival rides, and calliope music carrying over from the town square.

Cash she had. And she was losing the chance to make some more, she noted as she glanced at her booth in the distance with its “back in 5 minutes” sign. No, cash wasn’t a problem. But whoever had spoken behind her had a certain… quality to his voice. One like Filthy Rich’s. One that could make things happen. And he had an entourage.

With her luck, she’d probably find out it was just Hayseed Turniptruck’s twin brother.

“Your check, sir,” the waitress said. Well, now or never.

Berry left enough bits on the table to cover her bill and a tip, then rushed after the white-coated earth pony, only catching up to him half a block back toward the fair. “Excuse me,” she said through her panting, “I couldn’t help hearing at the restaurant. I… well, cash isn’t an issue for me. It’s distribution. And I… um, maybe we could help each other out?”

For what must have been a full minute, he stared at her as if Discord had changed her head into a cantaloupe. “I’m sorry,” he replied. “What is it you think I can do?”

“I—I don’t… Well, you sounded like somepony with business know-how. I have a unique product that’ll sell, no problem, but I don’t have a way to get it to where it needs to be sold.”

He kept staring. “Why can’t you sell it here?”

With a nervous laugh, she pointed to her booth, a substantial line already forming despite her absence. “I just think it might prove, um, advantageous to distribute further afield, where I’m not as well known.”

He shared a glance with his rather thuggy-looking tagalong. Was a thuggy-looking tagalong a good thing?

“Tell you what,” he said, “take my associate Pile Driver and give him a sample of whatever it is you’ve got. We’ll have a try and tell you if we want in. Name’s Greased Palm, by the way.”

He didn’t even wait for an answer, just went on toward some dais they’d set up in the square. Then Pile Driver poked her with an elbow. “Let’s get to it, then.” He adjusted the knot of his necktie. “Da boss’s time is valuable.”

So she beckoned for him to follow. She stashed the break sign, then filled several orders for punch, along with one or two for “special punch,” always requested quietly. Another of those went to Pile Driver, who sniffed it, took a sip, and gave it an appreciative grin.

And just as quickly, he left to rejoin Greased Palm. Over the clamor for more cups of punch, Palm’s voice carried from where he’d attracted a pretty big crowd.

“It’s nice to see so many ponies here today,” he shouted. “I always like to get about, and Ponyville will always hold a special place in my heart. But for those of you travelling here from Baltimare, like me, I hope you’ll consider voting me a second term in office.”

Oh. Maybe not such a good choice.

“I promise to promote the values of small-town Equestria,” he continued. “We’ve got to stamp out—” he punctuated that with a sharp hoof strike on the wooden platform “—the vices that are corrupting our population. No more gambling, implement strict control over salt lick establishments, eliminate truancy…”

On second thought, this could work out quite well.

Yet another new frontier for her. Why only half a week ago…