//------------------------------//
// A Vague Threat 
// Story: Diane, Private Eye 
// by Trick Question 
//------------------------------//

Ow.

I awaken on the badly warped hardwood floor of my two-bit office. My head is pounding like a sack of ferrets burrowed into my skull and decided to have a DJ PON-3 style rave complete with the latest screaming cacophony the foals these days consider "music". The inside of my mouth tastes like spoiled apple juice mixed with bitter coffee. I need a shower and a drink, not to mention a toothbrush.

Just a typical day in Manehattan for yours truly.

Evidence of my blasted addiction litters the dirty floor all around my prone figure. No matter how many times I try to convince myself I can indulge with moderation, I never know when to quit. "This time will be different," I always say to myself. "This time I'll stop before I get so smashed I end up collapsing in a crumpled pink heap and wake up the next morning in a back-alley drenched in a pool of my own saliva."

I even make a promise to myself, just to be super-duper-extra-hypocritical about the shameful affair. Cross my heart, hope to fly... yadda, yadda, yadda.

Drug habits are a mule to kick, but what can I do? I gotta face facts: bad is hard-wired into my genes. It doesn't help that I have an addictive personality, either. Whenever I find something I like, I do it to excess until I blow past every sensible boundary you can possibly imagine, and several more you'd never dream of. I still remember the horrified look on Pacific's face when she saw me snort a giant-size pixie stick for the first time.

Groaning, I put four to the floor and rise on shaky legs, hooves brushing aside the paraphernalia of my horrific orgy of decadence. Wretched piles of candy wrappers rustle under my hooves as I give a couple of angry but weak kicks at them.

Chocolate. It's the worst offender.

As an earth pony, I eat and weigh significantly more than you'd think if you weren't close friends with one of us, but even among earth ponies I'm something special. I'm blessed with the uncanny ability to eat absolutely anything I want and still remain fit and healthy. In point of fact, I need a constant influx of sugar. My body and brain run on the stuff, the same way normal ponies need hay. I'm not diabetic or anything, it's just how my crazy biology works.

Or maybe it isn't biology at all? For all I know, my metabolism is some bizarre kind of silly-magic. Like most of the things that make me unique, I don't understand it. I doubt she does either, but I also doubt she wonders about stuff like this on a daily basis. I suppose that's one thing the two of us don't have in common.

I stretch my back—lots of delightful popping sounds—and fumble over to the window. Lifting the shade, my world goes bright. The noontime Sun blinds me for several seconds until my eyes begin to adjust. I knew it was coming, of course: my internal chronometer is never off. Another "gift" from Mom.

Bronclyn's streets sprawl out several stories below me, and even though the window is shut I can hear the delightful strains of friendship through the glass: "Hey, I'm trottin' here!" "Whadda you, a wise guy or somethin'?" "You lousy colts get outta the street!" It's enough to make me wonder why so many ponies would want to live in close proximity to so many other ponies. The only reason I'm here is it's the easiest place to hide from the Princess of Friendship, and I can usually find enough work to keep me out of the shelters.

As shape and shadow begin to take root, I can see the busy sidewalks crammed with ponies walking to and from lunch, or maybe home from an unusual shift, as transport carts gallop past on cobblestone roads. Off in the distance I hear the screeching metal brakes of a streetcar (probably not the one named Desire, but you never know). I ponder opening the window for a brief moment before I remember the distinct stink tincture (ooh, that's fun to say!) of my neighborhood and decide I'd rather be forced to smell my own horrible breath.

I'm not interested in the local color, anyway. I have plenty of color in my mane, tail, and pelt, all of it bright flaming pink. So I turn around to focus on my desk. My modest workspace is covered in untouched newspapers and library books, gathered in the meager hope of sniffing out a lead on a missing foal case that I'm not being paid for, and I doubt the coppers would be happy to know somepony else is working it. I had the bright idea last night that an intense sugar rush would help me plow through all of that dry paper in one big lurch. You can see how well that worked out for me.

And yeah, there is a "you", whoever you are, hiding behind some unseen invisible wall like a voyeuristic pervert. I know you're out there somewhere, watching me. As before, I don't understand it... but I just covered that angle two minutes ago and it's way too early in the day to get stuck in a recursive mind-loop. I usually reserve that kind of nonsense for long after Celestia's Sun wins a game of hide-and-seek behind the jagged concrete skyline.

Looking to the door, I see several pieces of mail were shoved beneath the gap while I was busy sawing logs. At least I had the horse sense to lock it before my binge. I trot to the door and reach down to grab the envelopes when suddenly, it hits me...

Horse apples—I'm late!

"Suri's going to be furious—seriously! Serious furious Suri, yes...? No, no, stop it! There's no time for predictable postal package pieces or funny tongue-twisters," I complain to myself (as if I'm about to listen to that nutcase). Turning to the door, I unlock it, hop out, then relock it with the key I keep in my mane. That poofy magenta mass of tangled curls comes in awfully handy. I honestly can't remember the last time I needed saddlebags.

I glance up at the door just before I go. "DIANE, PRIVATE EYES" it reads on a thick piece of frosted glass. The letters are a beautiful dull chartreuse in bold, professional Comic Sans. I realize now it has a typo, but at the time I figured I have two eyes and it's not like one eye is private and the other one public, y'know? That would just be weird. Also, I didn't realize "eyes" might signify more than one pony because I assumed the plural for private eyes would be on the first word, like notaries public or heirs apparent or butterscotches fountain. But I guess "privates eye" is kind of disturbing by comparison. Either way, I'm not paying to change the sign again. The first time I ordered it I settled on "private dick" but I had the same idea and got even more confused, so it went up as "privates dicks" which drew in a totally different clientele and oh crap I'm still late why am I thinking about this now?!

I break into a full gallop, taking the stairs instead of the elevator because it's faster that way. I'm an unbelievably fast runner when I resist the constant urge to pronk and, as usual, I have no idea how I do it. Maybe it's all the sugar.

"Diane! Paper?" an older colt—or maybe young stallion is more accurate—or maybe both of those are technically inaccurate but I'm too nice to suggest otherwise—yells at me as my pink blur whizzes past his newsstand on the street corner. I'm pretty impressed Fine Print is able to shout that quickly, and he timed it well. He must have heard me bouncing off the walls of the stairwell as I rocketed down five storeys.

"MaybelaterCowcolt!" I shout back, doubtful that he heard me... but I'm sure he'll be fine. He's a friend, just like Suri. That is to say, he's a complete waste of time who gets on your nerves and rarely listens when you tell him to go away.

Ugh, friends. All the ponies in this maretropolis are crazy.

In the distance I spot Suri sitting at an outside cafe table. With precise timing, I apply the hoofbrakes about a block and a half away. The exciting part is when I slide through a busy intersection, leap-dodging a couple of fast-moving carts as various parts of my body automatically twitch and wiggle to presciently warn me where all the dangers are coming from.

Huh. You're probably not buying any of this, are you? Well, I don't care, because I know it's true. I'd probably qualify as a superhero, if I were a hero in the first place. I'm no hero, though... thank Celestia for that. Figuratively, I mean. Don't actually thank her. That would be disturbing, and she probably has to deal with a lot of that dreck anyway.

My hoofsies scrape loudly across the bricks as I finally come to a stop right in front of Suri's table. I plop my big balloon-spangled butt (hidden by my shorts, naturally) down into a chair.

"You're late," she says, flatly. "I'm on my twelfth cup." It's hard to see her face what with all the smoke in the way, so I reach for a glass of water and pour it on my hooves so they can politely stop being on fire.

"Sorry. I had another... bad evening," I admit, looking down at my forehooves as I try to rub off some of the scorch marks.

Suri raises a brow. "I can tell. Your breath is awful, 'kay?" she says. "Mm. I don't know why I put up with you, Di." She lifts a cup of tea to take a sip. I can't imagine she'd still be thirsty after that many drinks, but I suppose I'm always hungry so I can't throw stones. Again, figuratively. I have a killer underhoof.

"Ooh! Does that mean I'm free to go?" I ask. I don't have a good poker face, so I'm pretty sure my eyes just lit up like Bridleway on a Saturday night. Another clue: Suri gets a peeved look on her face (pardon my Prench), and nopony does the p-word quite like Suri Polomare.

She slams her free forehoof on the table. "Don't be stupid," she says. "Ech. I'm sorry. Look. I need some advice, m'kay?"

I notice the hoof she holds her tea with is shaking, ever-so-slightly. I'm good at spotting little things like that. Twelfth cup, indeed... we all have our demons, I suppose.

"Oh. I'm terrible at advice," I point out.

"I know." She takes another sip. It's unnerving that she won't set the cup down. She just keeps shakily holding it in front of her as she talks.

"Print's just a few blocks that way, too," I say, somehow gesturing with my mane, even though that should be impossible. "Maybe you should ask him?"

Suri sighs. "I already did, kay? And I don't trust his judgment. He's barely a stallion... um, joke not intended. Do NOT tell him I said that."

"Ooh! You're getting better at not being totally and completely nasty," I say, with a brief smile. "That's nice. But yeah, I guess he is a little young, which also makes sense. So, what is it?"

"I want to make up with Coco," she says. "I was kind of a bitch to her present employer, with whom I have nothing whatsoever in common other than fashion—"

I know better than to mention the 'R'-word by name. "Ah, the you-know-who. Wait, kind of a bitch?" I raise a brow.

Suri sighs again. "Mm. Fine. Really a bitch. Fashion's a cutthroat world, Di. You wouldn't understand."

Honestly, I don't like it when she shortens my name like that. Sometimes I'm not sure if she's saying 'Di' instead of 'Diane' to save maybe a fifth of a second of her time, or if she's literally telling me to 'die'. I try to assume the former, though. She mostly stopped telling me to die once I got to know her. That took about a month and it was a really awful experience. Have you ever had somepony who wanted to be your friend but didn't know the first thing about friendship? Plus, I probably knew less than she did at the time. I'm not going to complain about the nickname, though. You gotta choose your battles, and right now... she seems like she needs some help. I actually feel sorry for her, and if you happen to know Suri, you can probably imagine just how strange that feels.

I shrug. "I understand you have to make dresses look pretty, but I guess there's a nepotism piece to it as well, or something?"

She blinks slowly enough for it to be notable. "Close enough. Anyway, as I was saying, I was... impolite to her current employer, and I wasn't always the nicest mare to work for either. So Coco left me, because she hates me." I notice the corners of Suri's lips crinkling, which is as close to crying as I've ever seen her get.

"You've grown a lot over the past ten months." I reach over and place my hoof on hers. She doesn't bat it away, which is weird.

"I just want her to like me again. Or tolerate me. Whatever she did before is fine. Y'know," she says, then sighs a third time. "I remember the way she used to close her eyes and obey me when I'd bite her ear and yank on it to move her out of my way. It was all so simple back then..."

"Okay, maaaaaybe you still have some room to grow," I say with a slight grimace. "If you want to show Coco Pommel that you care, you should be concerned for how she feels first."

Suri squints at me like I just grew a second mouth. "I don't get it. I already said I want her to like me."

I quickly run my hoof all over my face to check for the extra mouth, then breathe a sigh of relief when I can only find the usual one (even if it is stretchy enough for several). "Right, but, maybe you should want her to feel better?"

I wait a moment while the gears turn. She must have fashionable gears up there. For a moment I wonder what they look like, but then I figure it's all just gross brains inside that thick skull of hers and then thankfully she speaks which distracts me again. "Ah. Which means?"

I shake my noggin to remember what the hay we were talking about. "Well... maybe apologizing would be the place to start?"

A look of horror crosses Suri's face, and she finally bats my hoof away. Then she lifts her leg and draws it weirdly across her face, wiping away the horrified expression like a schizoaffective mime. She's still holding the cup aloft in her other hoof.

"I'll think about it, m'kay?" she says. "I don't know how I could possibly work up the courage."

"Don't start with in-pony. Use a letter. But, um, please show one of your friends what you write before you send it off." I offer a sheepish grin. (It is not reciprocated.)

"I know. I'm not stupid, kay? I know I'm not a good communicator when it comes to these... unstylish emotional things."

I breathe out a sigh of relief. "Well! Sounds like problem solved. More or less."

"Don't run off," she quickly retorts. Suri finally sets down the cup.

I wince. This is one of those abstract friendship things. I need to be supportive, not just try to fix a problem and move on. I am so bad at this! I have the caring part down, because apparently I'm only happy when everypony around me is happy, but I never know how to fix a problem I can't describe in words. How else are you supposed to make somepony feel better once you've solved the case—by making them laugh? Don't make me laugh!

(I mean, seriously, don't make me laugh. It's fun, but fun never solves anything.)

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry," I say. "Do you want me to listen to you some more? I guess I could order a drink. Is there a kind of tea that goes well with the smell of burnt hoof and rancid cacao-flavored tongue?"

"Di, it's fine. I don't need your comfort," she says in an aloof way I immediately peg for a lie. "It's like this. I have something for you, m'kay?" She reaches down into her expensive-looking handbag (probably a knockoff, but even with my attention to detail I'd never know) and pulls out what looks like a cheaply-refurbished Smarty Pants doll with a rip along the base of her right ear.

"Oh! I'd say thanks, but you know I'm going to have conversations with that thing in public so I'll have to give it to the first foal I see to keep the doctors from tossing me in a rubber room," I say. "Again."

"Ha. No. Not that kind of gift. I managed to break into the crime scene," she reveals. "You know. The slipshod orphanage over on Fourth."

"Holy polo pony!" I say, with my eyes pulled open so wide I'm lucky they haven't fallen out of their sockets. "How in Equestria did you manage that?"

"Feminine charm," she deadpans, and then I realize she's not deadpanning she's serious and oh Celestia please don't think about that too deeply it's too late I'm thinking and My Butt Balloons Below are there ever unfortunate details.

I shut my eyes tight for a moment and grin. "Wow! Okay. Um... I'm really floored. Thank you!" I say, opening them again. Suri is smiling back, which is pretty unexpected. As I recall, she stopped doing that about ten months ago. "I didn't think you cared about foals."

"Correct," she says, quickly losing the smile. "Di, Di, Di. Whatever will I do with you."

I feel like I just missed an important plot point, but I move on. "This could be an important clue! Or maybe it's just a random doll from the orphanage. Can you tell me anything about it?"

"I found it wedged in a vent near floor level. And it had this stuck in the pants, m'kay?" she says, pulling out an arctic blue thread... no, wait. That's not a thread.

"That's her hair!" I say, nabbing the strand right out of Suri's hoof. "It's just the right color! I'll bet bits to pits that this was her favorite toy... probably her only toy, at that. Was the vent large enough to hold a foal?"

Suri shook her head. "Not a chance. I could barely fit my hoof in," she said. "Took an hour of pedicure to fix it. A-hem."

I pause for a moment to figure out what she wants. "Oh! Um, I'm so sorry you had to go through that," I say. "This was super gen—"

"Di! Please. I don't do well with... personal compliments," she says, turning her nose up at me. "You should know that by now. But, you are welcome for my sacrifice."

"It doesn't make sense that a runaway would leave her prized possession behind... this is more indirect evidence she was foalnapped," I say, more to myself than my friend. "I should probably get the ear fixed in case I actually find her."

A brief look of distaste flashes across Suri's face. "I thought you'd want a potential clue like this undisturbed," she says. "But, I'm not the detective. Thank the Heavens."

"It's fine. I've seen the rip and committed the details to memory, and I don't have a forensics lab," I point out, and reach for the doll.

"Hold," says Suri. In a flash, she pulls a matching needle and thread from her bag and zips her hoof across the top of the doll so fast I can't see the stitches. Then she hoofs it to me. It looks good as new, except unlike the cheap refurbishments on the other parts of the doll, this one is flawless.

Impressed, I whistle. "Suri Polomare, you have one incredible butt talent."

She grimaces. "Ugh. Please stop calling cutie marks that. And give me some credit, m'kay? It's not just cutie magic. I've worked very hard to get to where I am," she says, then turns her head away from me. "Which is... precisely nowhere. But the effort was genuine."

I stuff the hair into the doll's shorts, stuff the doll into the front of my cargo shorts, realize that was a big mistake, take the doll out of my cargo shorts and stuff it into my mane instead, and then without warning leap over the table and grab Suri in a tight hug.

"No touching!" she yelps, but she doesn't put up a fight.

I pause for a long moment before breaking the hug, despite her insistence. "Right. Sorry about that," I reply. "Oh! That reminds me, I still have to open my mail."

"I already regret asking this: what reminded you?" she asks, already regretful.

"Well, hug rhymes with bug, and when you bug somepony you annoy them. Annoyance sounds like chatoyance, which is a band of light, and rubber bands are often used to hold envelopes together at the post office, which is where the mail comes from," I say, wildly gesticulating with my hooves for emphasis. "Wasn't that obvious?"

Suri Polomare picks up her cup again, polishes off the last bit of tea, sets it back down, and tosses some bits on the table. "I have no response for that," she says.

"Okay! That usually means the conversation is over," I reply, and with that I begin pronking back to my office. I don't look back or wait for a response, because goodbyes are always socially awkward. Rudeness is only polite, after all.

Along my way back, I pass Fine Print's kiosk again. "Diane!" he calls to me in his awkwardly high-pitched voice. "Are you sure you should be pronking around like that?"

I stop mid-pronk—no offense to physics—and fall straight down to the sidewalk. "Oh no! Am I on fire again?" I quickly check to see.

"No, just you like keeping a low profile about... you know," he says. He lifts one heavy bundle of papers onto another bundle and unties the thick, greasy-looking string.

"Oh! Well, I have my shorts on, just like you!" I say, and point to his pants. "I mean, yours are pants, but the idea is similar."

"Not that. The hat," he says, tilting his muzzle upwards.

That would explains the breeze tickling my ears (my hat's too big to let them peek out). "Shoot, I must've left it under my desk," I say, planting a hoof over my face. "Thanks. I wonder why Suri didn't say anything."

"Maybe she thought it was intentional?" he pondered, and shrugged. "Or, maybe not. She doesn't like pointing that sort of thing out. You know how she is."

"Oh, that's right. Well, thanks for noticing! I'm headed back to my office anyway," I explained. "I still have mail to open, which will probably be boring. Hmm. Maybe I should just hang out with you for a while."

Cowcolt (that's his nickname, and it's weird because he's definitely not a cow) smiles broadly. My earth stallion buddy can flash such a disarming smile on that handsome babyface of his. And sure, there's some acne, but it's not that bad. Also, his muzzle is a bit misshapen, but that's okay for colts. Broken bones just add character! Oh, and he clearly has makeup on underneath his eyes in a failed attempt to make him look a little older. Fine Print is the only pony I've ever met who tries to give himself crow's feet. It's enough to drive Suri nuts, which is something truly magical to behold.

"I'd be pleased as prairie punch, Miss Diane," he says, straightening the bandana around his sweat-stained dress shirt. "And not only for your company, to be perfectly honest. Ponies around the stall help draw in a crowd, and that moves the merch. It's been a slow morning."

I giggle, then wince. I hate giggling because I sound so silly, and I do silly far too well without trying. "It's, um, getting warm out," I say, trying to make idle chatter, which I do not do far too well. "Aren't the pants a bit much today, Cowcolt?"

Then I realize I've said the wrong thing, but Fine Print takes it on the overly-pointy chin like a champ. That's pretty much his shtick.

"Heh. Well, I had a lot of lifting to do today, and I don't enjoy manual labor with my tail stuffed between my legs. Looks weird, y'know? So I put on an old pair I keep under the kiosk for these occasions," he explained.

"Oh! Well maybe you could get Suri to make a keyhole for your butt? Your cutie mark is so on the nose it's practically a nostril! Except it's a cap and paper, but you know the difference between analogy and bizarre anatomy," I argue. "Having that mark visible has got to help with sales."

Print blushes and shakes his head. "We've discussed this before, Diane. Keyholes are for ladies. It don't look natural on pants for fellas," he says, rather firmly. "Besides, Ms. Polomare is the last pony in Equestria I'd like to owe a favor to."

I sigh, but decide to quit while I'm behind. I have more chance of winning an argument with the sidewalk than Fine Print when he's made up his stubborn mind. "I'm sorry. I'm just trying to help."

"Well, stick to what you're good at, hon. In your case, that's detective work," he says, with a wink. (Funny how a dig like that can feel like a compliment coming from him.) "Hay, you want a paper?"

I shake my head. "I can't afford a paper, I'm afraid. Blew what little savings I had on chocolate last night, and I don't have two bits to scrape together."

"Again?" he says. "Well, here. On the house," he offers, pushing one into my hoof.

"You can't afford that either," I say.

"I'll be fine. I move enough stock to make ends meet, and I'm nearly out of debt," he counters, and folds the paper, shoving it unceremoniously under my foreleg.

"You've been saying you're almost out of debt for over a year now," I point out.

He shrugs. "Life gets in the way sometime. All comes with the territory here in the Big Apple." A couple of customers walk up and start perusing his wares, and I see that as my ticket out of yet another awkward conversation.

"Catch you on the flip side," I call out. I try not to think about the horrors of the flip side as I walk casually down the street. Without my hat on I'm frequently pegged for the real Pinkie Pie, and I don't want to attract that kind of attention. The shorts give me plausible deniability at least, but I can't afford to deal with any more mistaken identity situations. If they ever found out about me I'd be in bigger danger than normal, which is already a remarkably large amount of danger.

When I get back to my office, I pull out my key and place it in the keyhole (that's how they work, after all), and the door just pushes right open.

"Whaaaa? I must not have latched it well enough," I say out loud. Turning the key confirms it's still locked, but I'm kicking myself for making such a rookie mistake. These wooden door frames tend to warp when the weather gets warm, so you have to double and triple check the doors sometimes.

As I enter my office, I nearly slip on the mail still sitting there. Oddly, I notice there's a big envelope beneath all the letter-sized ones. I didn't see that on my way out, which is an abnormal detail for me to miss. I must have been really hung over this time, I guess. I shut the door, then carry the mail to my desk.

My hat's beneath my chair. It's a navy-ish trilby that makes me look a little like a coltbaby geek at a Daring Do convention, especially with the dark grey urban-camo pattern cargo shorts. Suri often tells me the two staples of my everyday attire almost blend together, and then usually adds something about wanting to gouge out her eyeballs with porcupine needles.

I pick up the chapeau (that's Prench for "headgear") and carefully smooth out a wrinkle with my hoof. I briefly ponder taking Smarty Pants out of my mane, but there's no reason to at the moment because I'm not the slightest bit uncomfy from my new fabricated tenant. That impossibly curly mop of mine is like a black hole, if a black hole were painfully bright magenta and made of horsehair and you could take things out of it, so okay that analogy is not a good one. Look, this is pulp fiction and they're not all going to be winners.

So with that, I put my trusty hat back on. It has an old press pass stuck in the band on one side. It's back from when I did freelance writing work, and that job paid even less than what I make now. Fortunately, the journalistic pretense has been surprisingly useful at helping me get into places I shouldn't have access to.

I leaf through the mail. "Bill, bill, bill." These I toss directly in the trash. Purely on principle, I never pay anything until it comes in a red envelope. I can't afford to, either, but that's just a happy coincidence.

Now the only piece of post remaining is the interesting one: a large, manilla envelope. "Oh, whoa! What's this?" I say, noticing a bulge. Somehow, I know I've just made an obtuse but unforgivable joke I'll never understand. Anyway, it's the kind of envelope with the little twisty string that goes around two circular wheelie-bobbers. Yeah, you know the kind. I flip it over, and find it's unmarked. Mysterious!

"This better not be a surprise bill," I grumble, "because that would be the worst surprise ever." Sometimes the collectors get creative, though. I grab the string in my frog and spin it around in a figure-eight, doing my best not to giggle. Sadly, I fail. Yes, it's 'fun', I begrudgingly admit... but fun and me have a complicated relationship, you hear?

I lift the flap. "Open sesame," I announce, my mind wandering to Saddle Arabia as I unceremoniously dump the contents onto the small area of my desk not already covered in papers and articles. Looks like a little black address book, and several Foalaroids...

No, scratch that. This definitely isn't from Saddle Arabia. The five black-and-white photos staring up at me are all of Manehattan at night, and they all have one thing in common: I'm in them. Well, I'm in four of them, at least. The fifth one could be Mom, because I don't have the hat on. In fact, it's probably her. I don't remember the location she's standing in.

Uh-oh.

I don't remember any of the other locations, either.

My gumshoe senses kick in. "This is something a normal pony would be frightened by," I say out loud to reinforce the idea. I have to do that a lot, because for some reason I seem incapable of experiencing fear for more than a few seconds before I giggle and shout, "Wheeee!" and then it's totally gone but I'm probably embarrassed if it was in front of a mugger because they usually run away when I do that. It's just as well, though, since I never have anything valuable on me.

I flip over all the pictures. One of them (not the one without the hat) has tomorrow's date written on the back. All the rest are unmarked.

The address book is fancy! It's small, but the front and back pleather covers are unusually thick. In fact, it looks too thick to have been slipped underneath the door. I save that disturbing factoid for later. I open up the book, and it looks empty. I flip through it once to confirm, then go page by page to be triple-sure.

"Maybe it's a gift? I mean, I needed an address book," I say. I have the uncanny ability to remember facts about everypony I meet: names, birthdays, favorite foods, darkest fears... but not addresses. "Could it be cursed? Is there such a thing as a cursed address book? Are you cursed, little address book?" It doesn't respond. Since it stays tight-lipped and isn't covered in lots of little skulls, I figure I'm in the clear.

"It's probably just a gift from a very considerate stalker," I decide aloud, "who takes pictures of me at night, and then... helpfully gives me amnesia afterwards."

Okay, fine. Even I'm not buying that line of bull hockey. I mean, I don't even play hockey, especially not with bulls. I'm amazing on ice skates (despite never having learned how), but I'm sure I'd be bad at the face-punching part of hockey which is obviously the most important part of the sport.

"Well, that settles it. It's time for a visit to Manehattan General," I boldly announce to my empty office.

I mean the Library, of course, not the Hospital. I'm pretty sure Kichawi isn't moonlighting as a medical doctor. Maybe eighty-five percent sure, but you never know with that guy.