Chapter 39: The Fifth Sign
Granny Smith turned to several pages with newspaper clippings containing articles about ‘The Granny and Granddad of Misdeed.’ “We spent the next five years in and outta Ponyville,” she explained as she looked at a photo of the two of them in an article. “Some reporter coined the names after mah given name, and next thing we know we were public enemies.”
Apple Bloom gasped as she glanced at a political cartoon of them looking like elderly ponies bucking a statue of the famed politician, Carpet Bag. “But ya weren’t bad ponies, were ya?” she fretted.
Granny Smith chuckled over her granddaughter’s misplaced anxiety. “We were more hooligans than we were crooks,” she explained. “’Course the media had a field day with us, and folks couldn’t get enough articles 'bout their favorite bad ponies! Some newspapers compared us to Robin Hoof, while most of ‘em called us good fer nothin’ trouble makers. The important thing is, our message was startin’ to get out there…”
Smithy and Crab Apple had fallen asleep on a park bench after they and the Brotherhood of Steeds had another successful slave ship raid. By working as a team, they were able to send another group of run away slaves on their way home with a ship full of would be slaves freed from the bowels of the slave ship. Better yet, they had avoided being caught or photographed thanks to new redocking plans in Manehatten. With nowhere else to turn and exhaustion winning them over, they had curled up together for warmth against the coolness of late winter’s night in Crab Apple’s oversized trench coat while the rest of the Brotherhood of Steeds found places to sleep in the park.
They hadn’t realized how late they had slept until they heard the whine of a camera flash. Crab Apple shot strait up, grabbing at the ache in his neck as he took in his surroundings. “What’s goin’ on here!” he shouted as Smithy rubbed her awakening eyes.
The pegasus photographer took another shot of them, which only served to further aggravate Crab Apple. “Beggin’ your pardon,” the Manehatten native said politely. “You two looked kinda sweet all curled up togetha. I thought it’d be a good piece for Hearts and Hooves Day comin’ up. Da Hoofington Post is gonna love dis! By da way, name’s Focus with da Hoofington Post. Here’s my card.”
The last thing Crab Apple wanted was more off beat press. “Get outta here!” he demanded as he got up to take a swing at the photographer. “And take your Hearts and Hooves Day nonsense with you!”
Focus flew away as quickly as he arrived, dropping his card as he took to the skies. This easy escape only aggravated Crab Apple more. “Da nerve a dat guy!” he said as he massaged the crick in his neck. “What does he think we are? A couple a love boyds?”
Smithy yawned loudly at the commotion. “Is that all he wants?” she asked. “Count yer blessings. It coulda been the police. Besides, the Hoofington Post thinks we’re some sorta mad couple out fer justice. They’re on our side, so may as well let ‘em have their fun.”
Crab Apple rolled his eyes at the notion. “We’re partners, remember?” he said, still cranky from being woken up so rudely. “Ain’t got nothin’ ta do with romance, not dat they know how ta fact check. Do you, feather brained shutterbug?!? I know you can hear me up there! It's called fact checking!”
Smithy knew this to be true, but sometimes she couldn’t help feeling a little bit lonely. She always squashed the idea, realizing that romance would only serve to complicate things. Their mutual friendship was more beneficial to her cause for slave freeing than a romance would ever be, and in a way she was glad he felt that way too.
Crab Apple complained loudly as he popped his neck. “I knew we shoulda slept on da ground!” he griped as he grabbed the pains in his neck. “I feel like a pretzel. Man, dis hurts.”
Smithy rolled her eyes at the pathetic display. Men could be such babies about pain. “Sit here on the ground in front of me,” she suggested. “Lemme see if I can’t rub that pain out yer neck.”
Doing as he was instructed, Crab Apple sat on the ground in front of the bench while Smithy went to work on his pains. “Ow! Gentle!” he complained.
Smithy tried her best to go easier on his neck. “Sorry,” she replied as she rubbed circles around the pain.
Crab Apple let out a sigh of relief at the soothing sensation. “Dat’s better,” he smiled. “Not as good as one a them Neighpanese girls, but not bad.”
Smithy tapped Crab Apple teasingly in the head at the comment, which made him laugh. “Focus, Casanova,” she teased. “Lemme do what I can.”
Crab Apple laughed at the silly comment. “What?” he replied, turning to see a sarcastic grin on Smithy’s face. “They got them dainty little hooves is all I’m sayin’. One a ‘em can walk all over your back and make you feel like a million bits. I bet if you did dat I’d be crushed like a bug.”
Smithy tried to suppress her laughter as Crab Apple slanted his eye and bucked out his teeth in an attempt to imitate a Neighpanese pony. “Ah, I solly, missa Smiddy,” he said, putting his hooves together to pretend to bow. “I woulda bow, but my necka so hurt. You wanna rucky number? Da cookie so dericious.”
By now Smithy was laughing so hard that her sides were starting to get sore. “That ain’t right!” she said, snorting out her laughter as she hugged her aching sides. “Somepony’s gonna see ya doin’ that and get all kinda mad at ya!”
The playful bickering ended as soon as they saw Kizzy walking up to them. “Are we leaving now?” she whined sleepily. “I am hungry, and cold. Miss Lizza and Salty Ron have gone off and I am alone.”
Smithy cooed her condolences as she wrapped Kizzy in the oversize trench coat. “I’m surprised that photographer didn’t go after them fer his Hearts and Hooves Day thing,” she joked. “Yer right though. We should all get up.”
Smithy raised a hoof to her mouth to make a loud whistle as she shouted out to the gang. “Up and at ‘em everypony! Time to skedaddle before more news ponies come trottin’ in!”
Smithy watched the rest of the gang stagger to their feet like a pack of zombie ponies. Clearly they hadn’t had a good night’s rest. She did a quick head count as they gathered around her. “Now listen here,” she said to the tired crowd. “We did a real fine job last night, but we got a lot more work 'head of us. We can take a good hard rest after we get to Canterlot and collect the latest news. After that, we can bunk in our usual hotel where we can get some chow. I bet a shower and a real bed sounds nice right 'bout now, don’t it?” Smithy looked over the crowd of nodding heads followed by a chorus of rumbling bellies.
As she lead the way out of the park, she could feel something under her hoof. Looking down, she noticed the business card that the photographer had dropped. Picking it up, she read it more closely. ‘Focus, Photographer and Writer fer the Hoofington Post,’ she read to herself before putting the card in her saddlebag. ‘Never know if that might come in handy.’