//------------------------------//
// Chapter 3: Meet the Mob 
// Story: The Long Nightmare 
// by The Sonic Mage 
//------------------------------//

(Past) 

The Hearthstone is a very high profile, upper class restaurant. It caters to some of the richest ponies in the country, with some of the best food and service ever. The five stars under its name weren’t there for no reason. If you ever happened to walk by or, if you were really lucky, went inside, you would hear the sounds of high society clinking glasses and dining to the sounds of violins. It is one of the top dining spots for the upper class.

It was also the perfect front for the mob’s activities. After all, the best way to sell a lie is to have just enough truth in it for it to be believable.

At this time, inside the restaurant, a well dressed griffin with a faded scar on his right cheek, accompanied by two earth ponies wearing suits, walked through the main dining area. They slipped past all the guests, who were too focused on their food and table-mates to notice the trio. 

The griffin and his escorts made their way to a pair of “Staff-Only” double doors that lead to one of the many kitchen spaces in the restaurant. The catch with this one, however, is that the space was hardly ever used for actual cooking. 

The stoutly dressed trio walked through the doors, walking past cold stovetops and room temperature iceboxes. They came to another room in the back and were stopped by two bouncers. The built unicorns gave the trio a look that said, “Show us your pockets”.

With a sigh, the griffin unbuttoned his suit jacket and put his front talons in the air, his escorts following suite. The two unicorns scanned them with their magic, searching for anything they were under orders to confiscate. 

They gave the trio a nod and let them in. 

The griffin walked in and made his way towards the “U” shaped arrangement of tables to sit alongside the other creatures gathered there. 

Sitting in that room, gathered around those tables, were some of the most notorious mob bosses, corrupt elites, and untouchable crime-lords in all of Equestria. All of them made their millions in a variety of colorful ways. Goods smuggling, arms dealing, drug trafficking, money laundering, the list could go on for days. The one thing all their money has in common: it is in part built on the foundations of dead bodies and broken bones.

“Mr. Falcon,” a zebra boss said, “Glad to see you have come. Please, take a seat, we have saved you one.” He motioned to the empty spot next to him.

“ZaZa,” Falcon said, “You’re doing it again.”

The zebra in question looked puzzled before covering his mouth with a hoof. “Oh, my apologies. Force of habit you know.”

“We all know, ZaZa,” a cream yellow pegasus mare groaned, leaning back in her chair impatiently, “What’s good to see is that Falcon isn’t the last one to show up again.”

“Ah, Lady Feather Thread,” Falcon said, taking a seat at the table next to ZaZa, “If it weren’t for the fact that I could hear your perfume from across the table, I would have thought you were absent.”

Feather Thread narrowed her eyes at the griffin. 

“You want to say that to my face, you pillow stuffer?”

“Can the two of you just shut up?” A black earth pony with a dark blue mane glared at the bickering crime-lords, as he fiddled with a poker chip and occasional adjusted the gold and silver cufflinks he was wearing with his suit. 

“Go back to playing with your chips, Gamble,” Thread shot back, “This isn’t your business.” 

“How about I take a stack of these chips, and em shove down your-”

“Are y’all here at this table even capable of having a pleasant conversation?” A distinctly western voice spoke up from under a hat over their face. The caramel colored unicorn placed the hat back on his head, uncovering his white tipped muzzle and grey beard. 

Gamble stood up in anger, “I’ll show you ‘pleasant’ when I break those teeth, Old Man-”

“Would all be so kind as to cease this bickering?” A mud-brown unicorn with a slight gut in a waist-coat said rubbing his temples.

“Put a sock in it Thorne, you fat bastard,” Gamble shouted across the table, “You’re not the one in charge here!”

Thorne stood up, “Neither are you, you foul-mouthed-”

All the arguing ceased when the sound of hoof-steps echoed from the hallway towards the head of the table arrangement. All the mob bosses and crime lords slowly sat down. 

“Ten bits says it’s not gonna be him.” Gamble whispered to Lady Thread.

“Why bother?” The pegasus asked, “We all know it won’t be.”

Into the room walked a plain white earth pony stallion with a plain black mane in an unremarkable black tailored suit and necktie.

“Ah, The Big Man’s honorable paper boy. Pleasure for ya to join us.” The western stallion remarked. 

“Your snide remarks wound me, Mr. Macree.”

“What message of doom did The Big Guy send you to deliver,” Gamble asked impatiently, “Seeing how he’s too chicken to do it himself.”

“Need I remind you Mr. Gamble,” The Messenger responded, “That my employer is more often than not busy with making sure that the operation in motion here does not go to pieces. Therefore usage of messengers is customary, to save time.

“And just because I am a messenger, does not mean that you can belittle me, Mr. Gamble.”

Gamble simply grit his teeth behind his sealed lips, glaring at the “The Big Guy’s” proxy.

“Now, on to the matter of this meeting.” The Messenger reaches into the inner pocket of his suit and extracted a sheet of paper. “As some of you may be aware, the ever so persistent Prince Blueblood has claimed another victory for his self-righteous crusade this afternoon.

“Him and his associates in law enforcement managed to successfully gain enough evidence and leads to arrest Maximum Revenue. In doing so they have cut us off from our connection to the stock market.”

Murmurs went around the assembly when they were told of Maximum Revenue’s arrest. Macree briefly paused chewing his toothpick, Falcon massaged the bridge of his beak, ZaZa fiddled with his buttons, Thread rolled her eyes, Gamble just glared.

“This has set us back in the financial department of this sector, but nothing that isn’t recoverable.” The Messenger said.

“Forgive me for interrupting,” Thread said called from her spot at the table, “But considering the importance of this development, where are the rest of our co-workers? I can understand our international collaborators not being present, but what about our more local associates?”

“Most of our international members are busy working on deals and operations that benefit our cause,” The Messenger explained, “As for some of our more local associates, they are occupied doing similar things.”

The Messenger’s eyes returned to the paper. “It is also worth noting that the authorities managed to collect enough evidence on Mr. Revenue that he is to be held in prison without bail,” he read, straightening out a corner of the paper, “Not that that was an option in the first place-”

“That fucking bastard!” Gamble exclaimed in frustration, slamming his right hoof on the table, “It’s like this is a game to him now, how does he keep doing this?! Less than a year ago, he wasn’t more than a brainless, pompous brat dancing at our hooves and acting as our veil to keep those annoying aunts of his distracted from our activities. Now it is like he a freaking bloodhound with a vendetta against us! What the hell happened? How can he know where and when to hit us so easily?! I swear if I could just put an arrow right between his eyes…”  

“Mr. Gamble,” The Messenger interrupted, “While my employer understands that this is difficult, you cannot let emotions overwhelm you. Please calm yourself.”

Gamble simply growled in response.

“If I might ask, in light of this news,” ZaZa said, “What exactly are we supposed to do?”

“We must engage in new methods to make up for our losses,” The Messenger responded. 

“That much is obvious at the moment,” Thorne said, “Does your employer have any suggestions?”

“That, Mr. Thorne, is up to you and your colleagues to discuss.”

The Messenger folded the paper that he had been reading from and put it back into the inner pocket of his suit. “I trust that I can leave you all to come up with something.” With that, he turned and left the room the way he came, disappearing around the corner. 

Everyone in the room sat in silence for a moment.

“Well that was almost useless.” Thread remarked under her breath.

“‘Almost useless’?” Gamble said loudly, “That was completely useless!”

“Like it or not, Mr ‘doom and gloom’ is right,” Thorne said, straightening out his waist coat, “We need to think of a way to make up for our financial losses, and it needs to be fast. So let’s get brainstorming.”

Everyone sat in silent contemplation, trying to come up with some kind of plan to regain their financial stability. 

Finally, Falcon looked up from the rings he was wearing on his talons.

“I believe…I have an idea.” 

Everyone at the table looked to the Griffin like he had said the most important words in the history of the world.

“What is it?” Feather Thread asked.

Falcon looked to his colleagues. “It’s going to require a very large, very secure warehouse, several shipping units, and the aid of businesses like yours Mr. Gamble.”

“Son, you haven’t answered the question,” Macree pointed out, “What exactly is your idea?”

Falcon eyed each of his compatriots. 

“We're going to clean some money.”





The Messenger made their way over to a particular black limousine in the parking lot of The Hearthstone. The driver opened the passenger door, allowing The Messenger to climb in and take a seat across from a pony who was already in the car. 

The Messenger’s employer.

“The office.” The employer said. The driver nodded and closed the door making their way to the front of the limo to drive.

“The Employer” looked over to his proxy.

“How did they take the news?” 

“Better than expected, all things considered,” The Messenger reported, “We need only wait to see what they do in light of it.”

“I don’t care what they do, as long as it furthers the plan.”

“I’m sure whatever they come up with will do exactly that.”

“It better.” The Messenger’s employer reached over to the sideboard and raised a glass of bourbon to his lips.

“Many of them are asking for a real face to put to the plan that’s in motion.”

The Messenger’s employer placed the glass down on the sideboard.

“They want to know who I am?”

“Yes, Sir, they do.”

There was a long pause.

“Tell them this at the next meeting:

“Tell them that if they do as their told, and if everything goes according to plan, then they may call me by my title…”

A street light shone through the car window, revealing The Messenger’ employer was wearing a pristine white suit and a burgundy dress shirt, unbuttoned at the collar. While his fur was pale his face wasn’t. His face was pitch black, resembling a skull. No one could decide if it was a two piece mask or if he had his head dipped and cast in metal. 

Regardless of which one was true, his visage had earned him a name…


Black Mask