The vase on the counter exploded in a shotgun burst of glass, the flowers burning to ashes in a flash of magical heat. It had been the last unbroken piece of glass in the entire store, where Sheriff B. T. Book, senior-junior officer of the Ponyville Sheriff's Department, and his grandfather, Sheriff/Deputy Hard Country, junior-senior officer of the same, were presently taking cover (read: cowering). And now, as the razored fragments of vase cut through the air towards him, all Book could think was that they really should not be fighting in a glassblower's shop.
A shudder traveled down Book's neck as the shards stuck harmlessly in his ten gallon hat.
Thanks again, ol' buddy, he thought.
Then there was a sharp twang, like a bowstring, and the hat tilted sideways, threatening to capsize the sheriff's whole body under its massive inertia. Book smelled smoke in the air, something burning, and a little piece of his heart broke, and swore vengeance.
“Duck your head, ya idiot!” screamed Hard from where he was trying to peek out around the corner, using his breastplate-sized sheriff's star as a mirror. “Your damn fool hat's givin' away our position!”
“I think they know where we are!” returned Book, as more bolts of magic blasted over, under, and through the counter on either side. Besides which, he couldn't have ducked any further if he'd wanted to—Book's hat, a ten-gallon with a 12.3 gallon capacity if you patched the smoking hole in the top, stuck out a good three inches over the counter top, even with him lying on his stomach.
“That's your problem! You've always gotta have the last word!”
“I didn't want to come in here!” Book yelled. “I wanted to wait and lay a trap—”
“Traps are for sissies. 'Sides, I gave you an order.”
“Okay, let's get something straight here, old man!” Book jabbed a hoof at his grandfather. A bolt shot through the counter inches from its tip, the heat causing his horseshoe to glow red. Book retracted his hoof and continued, more quietly, “I'm the sheriff in this town.”
Hard Country's jaw jutted like a defiant outcropping on the rock-face of God. “I never retired.”
“No,” agreed Book. “You died.”
“And then I got better.”
“That's one pony's opinion!”
“Wait.” Hard Country held up a hoof. “D'you hear that?”
Book listened. Silence. “No.”
“Exactly.”
Book's eyes widened, “You don't think—”
“Oh, so close,” came a cool, collected voice, which Book realized was not nearly on the other side of the counter enough. Hoofsteps on broken glass rounded the corner behind Hard Country, and with them came a pale green unicorn with purple hair, his horn aglow. “But as usual, you're hardly smart enough to be my nemesis.”
Hard Country snorted. “How long you been saving that one?”
Confusion crossed the unicorn's face, an angry retort stumbling in the general direction of his lips--and just then Hard Country whirled around, hoof raised to strike.
But not fast enough. The green stallion's horn flared the instant Hard shifted his weight, and as he turned a bolt of light caught him in the flank, just under the saddlebag. There was a flash—and for a second Book saw his grandfather's ribcage outlined neatly against his ruddy fur. The old lawpony froze in mid-turn, then dropped to the floor.
“A pity,” said the green stallion, regaining composure. “You were doing such a good job of tearing each other apart verbally.”
Book stared, disbelieving, at the body on the floor. Then, trembling, turned to the pony standing over it. “Noblesse,” he snarled, muscles tensing to pounce forward. “You won't get away with—”
He cut off as a horn jabbed him in the back, its tip tracing a shaky, burning dance across his skin. “D-don't move,” said a meek voice. “Please just stay right there.”
“Adequate, boy, adequate.” said Noblesse, craning his neck to glance around Book's hat at the stallion behind him. “And now, my dear sheriff. The question remains—what am I going to do with you?”
ONE DAY EARLIER
Sheriff B. T. Book was the law in Ponyville—now that he was back from therapy—and that meant that he was on duty all day, every day, and no day all day more so than the day of the Ponyville Festival Day Day, the one day of the year when Ponyville honored all the other one days of the year that honored whatever it was they honored. But this year the Ponyville Festival Day Day was not just any Festival Day Day: for this year, in between the candy-apple stalls from Nightmare Night and the Hearth's Warming Eve Hearth Warming Nog dispenser, there stood a little stall, plain but sturdy, with “Ponyville Sheriff's Department” painted across the top. This was, in the strictest sense, a violation of the rules of Festival Day Day, as there had been no Sheriff's Department Festival (Book had been in therapy during the traditional “be slightly less horrible to local law enforcement” week), but, in Book's mind, every day was a day to be proud of the good work his department did in the community. He had explained this at length to the event organizer until she gave him his current location, begging him to stop.
And now, on this fine summer's day, Sheriff Book sat in his stall, watching the citizens of Ponyville parade by, just waiting for the chance to make a difference in somepony's life.
“Ma'am, hello there, ma'am!” Book called, pointing to a blue filly with an orange mane--her name was something like Sillycon Valley, he thought, but wasn't quite sure. “Can I interest you in the Ponyville Sheriff's Department?”
The look she gave him suggested that it would be almost impossible to interest her in anything, but Book tried not to let that shake him. “I have candy?” he offered, helpfully.
The teen shrugged and trotted over. “So what exactly are we supposed to do here?” she asked, helping herself to a peppermint from the bowl. “You doing, like, a game, or a raffle or something?”
Book chuckled to himself, the chuckle of the righteous. “Oh, nothing like that ma'am. I just wanted to show the community that I'm here for all your needs. Put a friendly face on the Sheriff's department.”
“Aren't you, like, the only member of the Ponyville Sheriff's Department?”
“Well... yes. But it doesn't hurt to know I'm friendly, right?” Book tried his friendliest smile. It fell somewhere between “clown” and “murderous homicidal clown.”
“Uh-huh,” said Sillycon Valley, scooping up some more candy.
HIGH NOON
“I just feel like ponies in this town don't really know the Sheriff's Department,” Book explained.
“Uh-huh,” agreed Diamond Dust, who was trying to position her tray of snow cones under the shade created by Book's hat, which protruded considerably into the street. “Can you lean forward a bit?”
SHORTLY THEREAFTER
“So I'm trying to make the whole 'fing seem more 'enial,” murmured Book around the ribbon in his mouth.
“Uh-huh, great, now just pull right... there!” said Gift Wrapper. Book did, and a nice red bow materialized on top of the package, which Gift Wrapper quickly yanked off the desk. “Thanks for you help, officer.”
“Always happy to help!” said Book to the empty air where Gift Wrapper would have been, had he not run off to try and squeeze a few belated (or very early) Hearth's Warming Eve gift purchases out of the ponies of Ponyville.
AND THEN
“So I just want everypony to know that I'm just a regular ol' pony like them,” said Book. “Back when Freudian Slips had me on the couch, she was always saying 'Book, I think you need to smile more. I think you need to take more pleasure in your life. It's not all about work.'”
Snips and Snails didn't even bother with an “Uh-huh,” they just kept their faces buried in the candy bowl, looking up at Book with whimpering eyes when they ran out. He sighed and poured out another bag.
“And no offense to Freudian—I understand she's very hot right now, very in demand, I got really lucky to land her—but she just doesn't understand the life. What it's like out here on the front lines, when you're the only thing standing between ordinary ponies and utter chaos and destruction. I can't stop being a cop. I've got a duty to the people of Ponyville, whether they appreciate me or not.” He paused, sighing. “I just don't want to be seen as some sort of scary—HOLD IT RIGHT THERE DAVENPORT!”
Davenport turned, gave Book the least-forced grin he'd seen all day (including a brief stint in the mirror), and said, “Yes, sheriff? Is there a problem?”
Book gave a small shake of his head, walking out from around the counter to meet Davenport in the road. “Sorry, sir, I'm gonna have to write you a ticket.”
Davenport's smile faded. “For what?”
“I'm afraid you're jaywalking,” Book said, pointing to the street below.
Davenport's eyebrow arched up, in perfect opposition to his mouth. “That's against the law?”
Book gave a small nod. “Yes sir. Code 246-01-b, birds are to be kept off leash at all times.”
“But... it was completely consensual. Right?” Davenport turned to the bluejay at his hooves, who gave a few sharp tweets before hopping up on his back, trailing a red string leash. “He says it's consensual,” Davenport added.
“No offense, sir,” said Book, “but I'm gonna need Fluttershy to confirm that. And seeing as she's out of town...” he finished scribbling the the ticket on his notepad, and held it out. “You can appeal the charges when she gets back, if you like.”
Grumbling, Davenport extended a foreleg, and the jay ran along it, snatched the ticket, and ran back, pausing only to peck Book's hoof sharply along the way. With the bird safely back between his shoulders, Davenport turned and walked off.
“You have a nice day!” Book called after him, unable to suppress a smile. Just the thought that something might have happened to that poor bird, that wouldn't now that he'd— “Oh, and you should really unhook that leash,” he added.
Davenport froze, and craned his neck awkwardly towards his blue jay, muttering. Sheriff Book's pride swelled up with that muttering, like a proud balloon with a angry, disgruntled center. This was what being a cop was all about—reluctant compliance in the face of the superior logic of the law. Now everypony could see that he was just out to help the citizens of Ponyville, big and small, equine and avian, consensual and otherwise.
The warm feeling lasted exactly the twenty seconds it heard for someone to shout “Pig!” behind Book's back. In fairness, Book was not entirely certain whether the word was meant for him, or for Sus, the porcine-equestrian janitor who was busy sweeping up confetti a few stalls down, but it still stung, still took a pin to his happy balloon metaphor and let all the disgruntlement out, leaving him deflated.
Book glanced around the slowly emptying street, back to his stall, where Snips and Snails had grabbed his sack of candy, and were making off into the distance like bandits. Unfortunately, as Book had learned the hard way, children stealing candy were not the sort of bandits he had jurisdiction to run down. And so, Book turned and began the long trudge home, wishing, deep down, for just one chance to prove himself, for just one real criminal against whom he could test himself, and show that the cops of Ponyville were necessary.
Like that would ever happen.
ELSEWHERE
Dust rolled across the great plains of Appleloosa, borne on the wind and passing tumbleweeds, but never on its own initiative. Lazy dust.
Except a few particles, which did suddenly stop, and turn against the direction of the breeze. They were particles on a mission. Particles with drive. If they could, they would have been riding tiny motorcycles, with leather jackets featuring a fearsome, demonic creature on the back, and big white letters spelling out something like “Dust Devils.” But as leather doesn't come in their size (and is anyway considered particularly immoral in Equestria), they settled for rolling against the current, shooting sharp dust-glares at their sheep-like peers, daring them to try and stop their rebellion.
The other dust motes, being comprised of little bits of ground up rock or animal remains, did not respond to the challenge, but kept on their way.
And from all across Equestria this happened. Tiny grains of silt from the bottom of the Cocoa-Sing River drifted to the surface and took off, leaving some very startled—and indecently exposed—bottom-feeders in their wake. Little chunks of carbon, buried in the Dragonback Mountains, fought their way through snow and ice and shot into the distance. And all in the direction of Ponyville.
There is a large, flat plateau in the rocky hills around Ponyville where nothing grows. More of a crater really. The rocks that hang about are all charred black on one side, facing the center, and it was towards this center that the particles, coming from all across Equestria drifted, and began to stack themselves together, one by one.
It was slow going, but particles are nothing if not patient. And as the bad moon rose yellow over the mountain, a living hoof lay complete on the ground, a hoof that had not been living for nigh on forty years. The particles which had not yet joined the formation, smiled at the completion of their task, then realized that they were only about 3% done, and threw up their metaphorical arms in less-metaphorical frustration.
And it was at that point that the bald eagle swooped down and made off with the hoof.
A FUNNY THING HAPPENED ON THE WAY TO THE SHERIFF'S OFFICE
The next morning, Book found himself talking, once again, to someone he suspected wasn't really listening, and yet he was also unable to stop. “I don't know,” he said, “maybe Freudian Slips was right. She's a very hot cookie. I mean sharp. Maybe I am looking for too much out of my work. Maybe I shouldn't expect ponies to like me for doing my job.”
The statue of Book's grandfather, Sheriff Hard Country, was silent, lips pressed tight together beneath its weighty mustache. Book had never met his grandfather, but had been raised on stories of how the old lawpony had kept Ponyville safe from all manner of danger, famously capturing over 175 criminals in the course of his career. An extra-large silver star—now rather tarnished—was pinned across the statue's chest, nearly obscuring it, in honor of the first and greatest Sheriff of Ponyville, and a small plaque at the foot of the statue read: “He died as he lived—in some sort of giant explosion.”
“You did it, though,” said Book. “You were a cop—the best—and everyone loved you. I mean just look at this nice memorial statue. How did you do it? What am I doing wrong?”
The statue gazed stoically into the distance. Book followed its gaze, and saw that it was directed at the old, defunct haberdashers'/candy shop, shut down when it was discovered that the chemicals used in both hat-making and candy making rendered their opposite products highly toxic and unfit for consumption/dressing up for a night on the town.
Book looked back at the statue. “You might at least pretend to come alive and give me some advice.”
But a miracle was not in the works for Book. Or at least not that particular miracle. For as he was walking away, ready to resume his root, someone shouted the words he had longed to hear ever since Freudian finished having her way with him: “Sheriff, come quick! It's an emergency!”
Book whirled, ready for action, his jaw already limbering up to throw his mighty hat, if necessary. He was confronted with a panicky teen with a green coat and and a brown mop of a mane. “What's the matter, Shag Rug?”
Shag Rug swallowed hard, “It's like, a ghost, man!” he yelped. “Hey, where're you going?”
But Book was already walking away, and kept right on walking as Shag Rug came bounding up beside him. “I'm serious, man! It's like a real live dead ghost thing!”
“Hahah, very funny, I get it,” said Book, stopping to shoot the teen a stern look. “Here's the old crazy sheriff talking to a statue, let's go trick him into thinking there are ghosts, because he's just so crazy! Great, we're all laughing.”
“No, man, I'm like, way serious! You can ask my dog—oh my god I think he got my dog! No wait, I see him, he's sniffing around Cheerilee's fence. But there's still like a total ghost man!”
Book sighed. “Look, now you're overselling it. Let's just move on with our lives.” And with that the turned his back, once and for all, on the teen and his problems.
Twelve-point-four miliseconds later, there was a blood curdling scream, and Book whipped around to find a shimmering, indistinct figure crouched in the middle of the street. The poor kid who Book had ignored screeched a second time and bolted, kicking up a cloud of dust as he tore off down the empty street.
Book blinked several times, but the shimmering apparition didn't vanish.
“Uh-huh-huh,” moaned the, well, ghost was actually looking pretty appropriate.
“Excuse me, can I...” Book began, but ran out of words at that point. Could he what? Help the ghost? Exorcise it? Did ghosts even fall under his authority?
He was spared having to answer as the figure suddenly snapped solid, leaving a pure white stallion with tassels hanging from his fetlocks, a bulbous mane protruding out in over his face—nearly but not quite obscuring his horn—and a golden chain around his neck.
“Who-whazzat? Uh-huh-huh?” said the ghost, looking around with dark blue eyes.
Book blinked some more, before saying finally, “Hold it right there, sir! Ponyville Police!”
“Yikes, it's the fuzz!” exclaimed the ghost, and took off running.
“Hey, wait!” Book called, running after him. “I only have a few questions!”
“I ain't done nothing wrong!”
“I know that! I just want to talk!”
“A little less conversation!” yelled the ghost. "A little more action!"
“What? Look, can you just slow down?” Book asked, as they rounded a corner. He was afraid that if they made it to Mane Street, the ghost would vanish into the crowd.
“You stop following so fast and I'll slow down,” shot back the ghost.
“Okay—hey!” The second Book slowed, the running stallion put on a burst of speed. Book struggled to work his way back up. “I'll have you know that you're resisting arrest!”
“Yeah, well you ain't nothing but a pound do—” began the ghost, but both his sentence and his body were stopped dead by a hoof that flew out from behind a low wall and clocked him squarely in the face. The blow struck the ghost with such force that his entire body swung up around the protruding hoof like a horseshoe, flipping into the air before slamming back-first onto the ground.
“What did you... go and... do that...” Book panted as he ran up to the scene, before finally getting a look at the stallion who stood triumphant over the ghost's unconscious body. For there, as big as life and twice as bulky (in equal parts muscle and beer gut), stood the late Sheriff Hard Country.
“Well, don't just stand there,” spat the not-so-deceased sheriff. “You're law enforcement, ain'tcha? Help me kick this fella in the head afore he gets back up.”