//------------------------------// // Chapter 2: Snapperdoodles // Story: We'll Dismember It For You, Wholesale! // by Neon Czolgosz //------------------------------// Gilda and Trixie felt some measure of trepidation as they saw the uniformed mare peering into their chariot, mostly on account of the dead body stashed in the trunk. “There’s a cop by my ride,” muttered Gilda. “Shut up, she’ll notice us,” hissed Trixie in response. “She’s looking inside, why is she looking inside?” “Shut. Up. She will notice— she’s noticed us, walk towards her and act naturally.” “What? You’re crazy, why are we walking towards the cop—” “You’re not acting natural act natural act natural!” whispered Trixie, a rictus grin carved into her face as she approached the officer. Gilda nudged Trixie to speak first, and Trixie nudged Gilda to speak first, and they nudged each other twice over before the officer stared straight into Gilda’s eyes and asked, “Is this your chariot?” “Nnnyes. Yes.” Gilda cleared her throat, her feathers ruffling without her consent. “Yup. That is an, uh, yes. Affirmative.” “What is your name?” asked the officer, placid as a summer lake. “Grizelda.” The mare looked at Gilda expectantly. “Redbeak!” she blurted, “Uh, Grizelda Redbeak. I go by Gilda, though, um. But it’s Grizelda. It says Grizelda on forms and stuff, like, my passport and my lease, I think, and—” “You’re parked illegally. Ground vehicles only on this street. I have to apply a magical clamp until the towponies arrive. Two days impound, and a one-hundred and fifty bit fine to recover your chariot.” “No!” “Excuse me, griffin?” The officer’s expression became less placid. “Whaddya mean ground vehicles only? This baby runs just fine on the ground, and I don’t see no signs about that or nothing anywhere!” “Multipurpose vehicles count as airborne for the purpose of parking statutes, as outlined in chapter seven, section four of the Highway Code,” she said, a clear edge to her voice now, “and as for the sign,” she lifted a hoof and pointed to a plaque on the closest wall, the size of a handbill, stating ‘ROLLERS ONLY’ in embossed lettering. “Oh that is bullshit, that thing’s at tail level on a crowded street! We ain’t been here five freaking minutes, and you’re harassing me over some sign I couldn’t fuckin’ see?” Gilda’s voice was raised, too fearful for shouting, too surprised for snapping, the hair along her spine and tail raising as a chill shot through her. “That is the law, beakface, and I suggest you watch your tone if you don’t want hauling to the station in hobbles for causing a breach of the peace and obstructing a police officer in her duties.” “What the fuck did you just call—” “Officer, please,” interjected Trixie, visibly sweating from panic, “Forgive my friend for her ignorance; she’s new to the city—” “She’ll calm down right now or she’ll be new to the Fillydelphia prison system.” “Yes, yes, of course, yes, my apologies, of course, yes,” blabbered Trixie, “Gilda’s going to calm down, you see, yes, calm, very calm, yes?” “Calm.” Gilda’s voice was deadly flat. Trixie could just barely hear her friend’s beak grinding together. She prayed the policemare couldn’t. Trixie was about to speak, to allow a perfect, uninterrupted stream of silver-tongued smoothness to slip from her lips and persuade the mare to leave them be, when the policemare shone a flashlight in her eyes. She stopped, mouthing wordlessly like a beached fish. “I remember you.” Trixie’s mind was a fearful blur of panic and attempted recollections. “She knows me. Where? The Yak-Uza exchange? The hit on the taxi service? A dead ender for Marlon Maccaroni? The blackmail at the Guardsmare’s Ball? The horse from—” “You’re the magician from my niece's birthday party two months ago. ‘The Amazing Trickso,” right?” “The Great and Powerful Trixie,” she corrected, her mind a blur — two months ago might be three birthday party did two birthday parties one was a colt other a blue filly name Star something Star Shine Star Shimmer Star Light — “Your niece Starbright, no? She was enthusiastic about magic, very good at telekinesis for her age, I recall. A lovely filly.” “Hah, ‘spoiled brat’ more like. I never got no fancy magician when I was her age, I dunno,” muttered the officer. “She had fun, though, and I think she’s still got your poster.” Trixie smiled warmly. “Always glad to have a fan. Wait,” she said, taking off her saddlebag. She opened it, with her muzzle rather than her magic, rooted around and slowly pulled out a small paperback book. She opened the cover, summoned a pen, and deftly signed it ‘For Starbright, from G&P Trixie.’ “Better Cantrips, second edition,” said Trixie, presenting the book to the mare, “It helped me greatly as a foal. I hope your niece finds it as useful as I did.” The policemare barely glanced from side to side as she took the book. “I’m seeing her next weekend, I’m sure she’ll love it,” she said. There was a short pause as she put the book away. A street vendor carrying two trays of cigars and lighters walked down the street, and stopped nearby to sell his wares. A lightweight banner was mounted on his back, listing his prices. It completely blocked the parking plaque from view. “There were quite a few vendors on the street when we parked, officer,” said Trixie, “And I don’t believe the sign was visible at the time. Is... is there any way you could at least waive the towing requirement? We can pay the fine, but I have work tomorrow evening, and we won’t make rent if I can’t attend, so...” The officer glared at Trixie, then glared at Gilda, then glared at the car, then glared at the vendor, who tensed up before skittering off. Then she glared at Gilda again. “Can I see your license?” “It’s in my glove compartment.” “You don’t have it with you? You should always have your license with you when operating a vehicle,” she said, sternly. “No, it’s in my glove compartm— It’s in the chariot.” “You said it was in your glove drawer.” “Yeah, in my glove compartment, uh, inside my chariot.” “You have a compartment for gloves in your chariot?” asked the mare, looking at Gilda askance, “What, is there a sock drawer in there too?” “It’s a griffon thing, okay?” said Gilda, too frazzled to snap. She trudged around to the passenger side door, entered the chariot and took out a small cloth wallet. She retrieved her license and presented it to the mare, who looked it over. The mare took out her notepad, jotted down a few chicken scratches, and snapped it shut. “In light of the circumstances, I’m giving you a formal caution with no other fines or penalties at this time. No parking multipurpose vehicles on t-junction streets with commercial purposes. You should know this. Understood?” Gilda glared right back at her. “Yeah. Thanks.” “Thank you very kindly, officer, we’re ever so grateful, aren’t we, Gilda?” “Grateful.” She grunted as Trixie surreptitiously kicked her in the shin. “Much... appreciated?” she said, her face twisting into the same rictus grin that Trixie wore earlier. “Good evening, mares,” said the officer, who turned to look at another vendor. “You! Show me your sales license!” A minute later, Gilda and Trixie were back in the air. “Fuckin’ cops, mare,” spat Gilda. “That was very close,” said Trixie, eyes still wide. “Did — did you fuckin’ hear what she said? She called me a beakface, right in front of me, hay, right in front of you! I mean, what the fuck?” “I thought you were going to kill her...” Gilda laughed balefully. “Hah. Never kill a guard, unless you make it look like another pony did it. Bad news for every griffon in Filly, otherwise.” “Yeah.” Gilda squeezed the steering wheel, hard enough that her talons dug into the rubber grips and her knuckles turned white. Then, she let out a great, shuddering sigh. “Sorry. I freaked out back there.” “Think nothing of it. I know the feeling.” Gilda snorted. “Hah. What-the-fuck-ever.” “I’m serious,” said Trixie, scowling, “Not in Fillydelphia, and I certainly don’t have claws or stripes or big floppy ears, but the carny folk have a certain reputation in Equestria, a rather unpleasant one indeed. There’s a reason I worked so hard on my accents...” “I guess.” Gilda slumped in her seat and let out another sigh. “It’s Fillydelphia. The guard ain’t this bad in Manehattan, definitely not this bad in Cloudsdale or Los Pegasus, and even in Canterlot the guards won’t give you shit if you look like you’ve got money. Even Baltimare wouldn’t be this bad.” “No, Baltimare is always worse. Always.” “...yeah, you’re right.” Gilda let out a great breath of air, throwing her head back and deflating in her seat. She stretched her neck, sat up, and played her claws over the steering wheel, deep in thought. “Still. I hear things are pretty good even for non-fliers in Los Pegasus nowadays.” “Mmmhm. I have some contacts there in the entertainment business. I’d need a little capital to succeed in a city like that, but nothing we couldn’t manage.” “Eyrie prices aren’t bad up there, if you don’t mind walking a few dozen flights of stairs every day. Not much cloud based stuff, not with the heat. And a lot of bouncing work, especially for griffons.” “If we started to look for a place now, we wouldn’t have to spend another winter in Fillydelphia. In fact, we could pick up some property listings from the public library after we’re done.” Gilda’s face lit up, looking genuinely cheerful. “That is a freaking sweet idea. As soon as we’re done with this dork, that’s what we’ll do.” As she reached for the gearstick, her stomach rumbled loudly. “Uh. We never did get that curry...” Trixie looked down at the street longingly, but steeled herself. “Let’s not jinx ourselves. Besides, we’re sure to work up an appetite tonight. If we stuff ourselves now, we’ll give ourselves a stitch just moving him.” “Eh, you’re right. Harbor?” “Harbor.” * * * The night air had settled in the harbor, thick and warm, and suffused everything nearby with the stench of rotting seaweed, acrid crystals and dead fish. The moon couldn’t penetrate the clouds, the only source of light was the sodium lamps along the harbor. Under the dull orange light, the sea looked like a lake of black tar, sloshing against the quays. Lumps of foam and litter glinted in the light like tiny islands. Gilda and Trixie flew over the piers, over Montaron’s Import and Export Emporium, over the hundred seaweed-farming ships moored in the docks, until they reached a chunky square of a building with a glass dome on top, like a huge fondant fancy in glass and limestone. Their chariot descended, parking behind an overflowing dumpster under a broken lamp next to the building. They had reached their destination, the Fillydelphia University Research Aquarium. The zipper on the corpse-carrying travelling case had fallen apart entirely by the time they opened the trunk. Trixie fiddled fruitlessly with it as Gilda held an umbrella overhead, only managing to spot-weld the pull tag in place with her magic. “This isn’t going to work,” she said. Her tail twitched in annoyance as a droplet of cool summer rain landed on her muzzle. Gilda reached down and gave the zipper an experimental tug. It snapped off in her claw. “Huh. Yeah.” She shoved the body, seeing if it would fit in the split case. “We’ve got gaffer tape and cardboard. You wanna try patch it over, keep it stuck with tape, just long enough to get him inside?” “Hmm. That would work,” said Trixie, “but I’m not sure we should risk it.” “How so?” “...well, I rather like this case. There’s a crafts stall on Trippeny Avenue, I’m sure we could get the zips fixed for bits on the diamond. But if the whole thing falls apart...” “I see what you’re getting at. Hey, I got an idea,” said Gilda, passing the umbrella to Trixie and then rifling around in the part of the trunk that didn’t contain a corpse. She found a black bin-liner, and pulled it over the corpse’s head and down the body. Then with some effort, she moved the body around, and repeated the process with his hind hooves and a second bin-liner. The two bin-liners overlapped around his midsection. Taking a roll of gaffer tape, Gilda sealed the two black bags together, creating a total shroud over the corpse. “That’ll do,” she said, grunting as she hefted the plastic-clad cadaver onto her back, “You get the tools.” “Already in my saddlebags,” said Trixie, “time to work my magic.” Gilda strained a little to get the body into the back entrance, but soon they were inside, surrounded by the dim auras of hundreds of fish tanks. They walked past sleek tuna, schools of minnows and curious cephalopods on their way to the east wing. As they pushed the sealed double doors open, a wave of warmth hit them, even more so than the sultry summer night outside. They had reached the reptile enclosure. Past the hissing of caged insects, they heard the soft clomp of hooves on carpet. Gilda’s claw went for her belt knife, and for a moment Trixie seemed to disappear, though when Gilda glanced in her direction she was stood in place, letting out a sigh of relief. “It’s only Rupert,” she said. “Hullo, girls,” wheezed the unicorn as he shuffled towards them. “Good evening, Rupert,” said Trixie, “How’s the back?” He chuckled, strands of his greyed mane frizzing out from under his watchpony’s cap. “Old as ever, my dear. What brings you here tonight—” his eyes darted to the black lump on Gilda’s back, and his eyebrows rose as his mouth made an ‘O’ of understanding, “—ah. Say no more, say no more.” “We didn’t mean to barge in like this,” said Gilda, contritely, “The whole thing was kinda short notice.” Rupert waved them off. “Think nothing of it, Gilda, I owe you two a dozen drop-ins by any account. Besides, you’ll save me from having to feed the snickerdoodles tonight. One of the whelps darn close took my hoof off last week,” he grumbled. “They’re greedy little gits all right.” The old guardspony shook his head darkly. “If you need to prepare, there’s the furniture closet over there. Just a few folded-up tables to move.” “Thanks, Rupert. ‘Appreciate it,” said Gilda, glancing at the closet. “Have a good night, you too,” replied Rupert as he turned to leave, “I’ll see you at Dante’s on Thursday, it’s been a fortnight too long since I’ve kicked your rumps at cards!” “Bah, I’ll take your damn shirt, old pony!” said Gilda, grinning. “Not if I’m dealing, kiddo! You take care, now!” “You too, Rupert!” said Trixie, as he slouched off, lighting the way with his horn. Gilda and Trixie set to work in the closet immediately. It smelled of dust, MDF wood and furniture polish, and a harsh fluorescent tube overhead lit the tiny room. Trixie conjured cellophane to cover all the floors and walls as Gilda set up their tools and took the body from the bags. They both donned disposable aprons, and Gilda took out a traditional griffon tool. “Nothing like a good ol’ butcher’s knife,” said Gilda, putting on a long pair of gauntlets. “Hold the head?” Trixie moved the body into position, placing the neck over a fold-out chopping board. Her blue aura held the stallion at the shoulders and the jaw. The blade thudded into the stallion’s neck, sinking three inches deep, and coming loose with a wet flap. Gilda struck again, her aim perfect. The third strike was off, barely. After six strokes, she was through the bone, and severed the head from the neck with a final slice. Trixie lifted the head into the air, with her magic, examining the perished pony closely. Then, she turned it to face Gilda. “Wooooooooooooo, I am the ghost of Shortstop, and I shall haunt your very soul for my murder,” said Trixie, working the jaw of the severed head, “I shall set a horrible curse upon ye for dear vengeance, but as ye are already cursed to be slothful in thine ways, to have no ambitions, to mangle your words in a brutish patois and to carry the stench of fish and rancid beetroot wherever ye walk, I am not sure where to start—” “Gimme that,” said Gilda, snatching the head from the air. She took a knife and made a hole under the chin. Then, she stuck her talons into the throat through the base of the skull, and her thumb through the incision. “There’s no puppet show like a griffon puppet show. Hello, Mr Head!” “Hello, Gilda,” said Gilda in a strangled falsetto, working the jaw and covering her mouth with her free claw. “I’ve got a bit of a problem, Mr Head!” “Oh, what’s that now?” “My friend Trixie is a total dork, Mr Head!” “A total dork, is she? Do you know what to do with her, Gilda?” “I don’t know...” Gilda turned the head to the side. “We know what to do with her, don’t we, children?” Mimicking a cub’s voice and putting her claw to the side of her mouth, Gilda replied, “Yeah! Put bees in her vagina!” “Plant trees in her vagina?” replied the head, “Well, there’s certainly room, but...” Trixie sat there, forelegs crossed, giving Gilda a flat stare. “This is why you could never be my assistant.” She wrenched the head from Gilda’s grip with a grim *schlick*, and held it aloft as a splot of ichor dripped from the neck. “Besides, this is clearly a head for musical theatre,” she said, clearing her throat. “We could have been anything that we wanted to be,” sang the skull, “But don’t it make your heart glad,” joined Trixie, “That we decided, the thing we’d take pride in,” “We’d be the best at being bad!” A siren screamed overhead, and Trixie dropped the head in shock. A second later, the siren began to fade into the distance. Gilda and Trixie sucked in deep breaths. “I think we should finish up,” squeaked the illusionist. “I think you’re right,” said Gilda, wide-eyed. She glanced down at the body, “All this work is making me hungry anyway. Guts?” “Ready when you are,” said Trixie, opening up a bin-liner next to the body. Gilda took her knife and slit the stallion from groin to sternum, then pulled the flesh open. With her knife and gloved hands, she began to pull the stallion’s innards from his abdomen, severing them from the thews with a paring knife. The stink of shit and offal was overpowering as she removed his intestines, but they were too lost in concentration to care or notice. The liver dropped into the bag with a resounding slap. Soon, only his lungs remained. “You got the goggles?” asked Gilda. Trixie donned a pair, and placed a second on Gilda. A hoofheld circular saw floated from the pack. Trixie then held the body in place as Gilda lined the saw up with the stallion’s sternum. The tool whirred to life and screeched as it cut into thick bone and flesh. Specks of red and white and fur splattered everywhere. Gilda shut the saw off with a click, and pulled the chest apart, revealing the lungs, heart and esophagus inside. With a few select cuts, they all came out and into the bag. Next came the limbs. Trixie took a hacksaw and Gilda took her butchers knife, and they set to work on his hind legs. They cut off his hooves at the fetlocks, then his calves at his knees, and then his thighs from his hips. Both of them were breathing hard now, and opened the door to let some fresh air in. “I like having a job that keeps me fit, y’know?” said Gilda, “I, uh, — huh — I did a lot of racing when I was a kid, and I’ve seen way too many flight school buddies get some freakin’ desk job and turn to fat a year later.” Trixie sipped at a flask of water. “It’s not hard to stay in shape. Calisthenics, a moderate diet—” “There’s where you’ve got no soul, my friend. ‘Moderate diet’ hah. That’s like putting your soul in a gimp suit.” “Gilda, that’s what I love about you. Sometimes I fear I’m prone to overexaggeration and histrionics, then you say something like that and prove I’m well-balanced merely by ways of comparison.” “I don’t know what at least one of those words means. Are you speaking gypsy again?” “It’s the carny’s cant and if I’d known you’d slander it by association with gypsies, I’d never have revealed its existence in the first place!” snapped Trixie. “Whoa. Calm down, Tilt-A-Whirl.” Trixie glared at her. Then, she rolled her eyes. “Fine. I’m not rising to your taunts. You’re obviously in a cantankerous mood from low blood sugar. Let’s finish up and get out.” They picked up their tools, and it wasn’t long until the body was in pieces and ready for feeding time. His body had been quartered, all his limbs cut at the joints, and his innards sat wetly in a plastic bin liner. The pair packaged the pony parts, and headed over to the snapperdoodle enclosure. “Oh mare, they look hungry. I think they can smell it.” “No, they can hear us,” said Trixie, “Hear our hoofsteps. Look how their feelers are pressing against the ground. They use them as little external eardrums to figure out where their prey is coming from.” A dozen of the eight-legged reptiles could be seen poking out of the foliage in the pit below them, but they knew there were dozens more hiding nearby. The pit was covered with a plexiglass dome, with a hatch for feeding and cleaning. Gilda slid the key into the hatch and opened it up. The creatures below stared upwards, waggling their tails and eyestalks in anticipation of their meal. “Dinnertime,” she said, dumping the entire binbag of offal down into the pit below. The pit erupted. Snapperdoodles swarmed over each other in a hissing, spitting frenzy to get to the food, stingers stinging and fleshhooks snapping. A few snapperdoodles turned against their own and devoured each other, often simultaneously like a voracious ouroboros. Tongues dripping thick mucous slathered over each other and the floor, slurping up every drop of blood and bile. A minute later, there wasn’t a fleck of flesh in sight. The snapperdoodles looked domeward, hungry. One let out a squeaky burp. “For the second course: rump roast,” said Gilda, holding half of the stallion’s bottom aloft. Trixie shuddered. “What?” asked Gilda, “You’re fine with cutting a stallion up and feeding him to snapperdoodles, but not with the words ‘rump roast’?” “It’s just something about the words, it’s too—” she shuddered again. “It’s the difference between knowing that yes, your mother probably gave your father oral sex once, and having your mother describe in detail the warm, gooey sensation—” “Okay, okay, cut that shit out!” said Gilda. “You’re one messed-up dweeb, you know that?” “I was only making a point.” “And the first place your brain goes is ‘parental intercourse’? You’re gonna make me lose my freakin’ stomach,” she said. “A shame, because the snapperdoodles just ate our spare. Now hurry up and feed them.” Gilda gave Trixie a gentle push, then chucked in the hunk of meat. It lasted less than thirty seconds. In five minutes, the entire torso had been devoured. Bit by bit, they started to toss the legs into the enclosure. “I had a pet snapperdoodle when I was a cub,” said Gilda wistfully, as she threw the final fetlock into the melee. “...you must be joking.” “Only a whelp. Lots of parents get their cubs snapperdoodle whelps as pets. It’s a griffon thing. They’re great for teaching kids about responsibility.” “How on earth are snapperdoodles good for teaching foals about responsibility?” “Well, you have to kill them when they start shedding their skin. I crushed mine with a rock,” said Gilda, pride tempered with sadness clear in her voice. “It was cute, though.” “...that explains rather a lot,” muttered Trixie. “Well, we’re done here. Let’s go clean up.” They closed the hatch and went back to the closet, ready to wipe down the polythene, pack away the tools, clean off their fur and prepare to leave. Gilda opened the door, and a severed head stared up at her from the floor. “I knew we’d forgotten something,” muttered Trixie. “I’ll get the pliers,” said Gilda. Trixie held the stallion’s mouth open as Gilda prepared to remove the teeth, which would pass straight through a snapperdoodle’s digestive tract and leave Rupert with some uncomfortable questions to answer. “Ew. Clearly a smoker,” remarked Trixie, eyeing the yellowed teeth. Grunting, Gilda yanked out an incisor. Then a second. Third. Fourth. A molar, two molars, three molars, four. “I don’t know how you guys put up with teeth,” said Gilda, taking out tooth after tooth, “They creep me out.” Trixie raised a brow. “What’s wrong with teeth?” Gilda shrugged. “I dunno, they’re just weird. It’s like, no, couldn’t just have a tongue, a beak, and plates. You have to have like, a hundred tiny beaks inside your mouth to rip everything up. You guys don’t even eat meat!” A sickly crunch came from inside the stallion’s mouth. “Calm down, Gilda, it’s just a tooth,” scolded Trixie. “Uh. I don’t think that was me. I think something’s wrong with that tooth.” Trixie opened the mouth wide and shone a light into it. There was one lone molar in the back. Even through the blood, it was obviously unhealthy. One corner had cracked off where the pliers had grabbed it, revealing a hollow core with an unhealthy brown tint. Thick, black tartar surrounded the tooth where it met the gum, practically oozing up around it. Trixie paused. “Hmmm.” “Teeth shouldn’t look like that, right?” “No.” Trixie paused, again. Her mouth opened, and then closed. “Hmmm.” “What you thinking?” “Pass me the needlenose pliers” Gilda did so, and held the mouth open for Trixie to examine. The unicorn levitated the thin pliers into the stallion’s mouth, and with some fiddling, got a secure grip on the tooth. “I think it’s solid, here. One, two, three—” She gave a yank, and not only did the gums refuse to relinquish the tooth, they seemed to actively suck it back inside. Trixie frowned. Then she growled. Then she twisted the tooth, sharply. Something fleshy inside came loose with a snapping sound, like a tendon being split in two. With a little effort, the pesky molar came loose. “There. Now that’s done—” A jet of fluid sprayed from the stallion’s mouth, a little hitting Trixie on the cheek. Gilda stared. “That doesn’t look like blood—” The smell hit them. Blighted potatoes left to ferment in a hollowed out corpse of a syphilitic gorilla. Sharp, acid tones like week-old lemon rinds and month old parmesan left to sweat on a hot summer day. The cheesy, meaty smell of meat that maggots have feasted on. The smells, the horrible stenches, didn’t simply combine into one overawing reek, but played a cacophonous medley of notes hitting every panic neuron and nausea trigger in the equine brain. Trixie removed the splot of pus from her cheek with her magic. Then she threw up. “It’s not that bad,” said Gilda. “*Bleaauuuuurrrrrrggghhhh*” chundered Trixie. “You’re being a total weanling.” “*Blaaauuuurruuurrrrggghhhhaaahhh*” “It’s only a bit of pus.” “*Blahhghh* — *cough* *cough*” “You didn’t even eat that much.” “...I hate you so much.” “Suck it up.” “He had... a dental abscess...” groaned Trixie, “Why oh Celestia oh why did he have a dental abscess?” “That’s why.” “...that’s why what?” “That is why teeth are creepy.” * * * “I don’t think this is going to work.” The severed, toothless head had been lying in the center of the snapperdoodle pit for fifteen minutes now. None of them were going near it. “Wait, look!” said Gilda, “There’s one!” A lone snapperdoodle had broken cover, and approached the head. It touched the nose with a feeler... ...sniffed at it... ...then made a ‘fleh’ noise, and scuttered away. Gilda cleared her throat, awkwardly, and looked down at the ground. She had a bag of tools to one side, and a bag of polythene for the incinerator on the other. To Trixie’s left was a paper bag, filled with her vomit. “I think we’re gonna need a trip to Acephalous,” said Gilda. “Yes. Wait one moment, let me just...” Trixie’s brow furrowed and her horn lit up, and slowly, wobbly, the severed head ascended from the pit, and floated in front of them. She put it in a second paper bag. “This really ain’t our night.” “No,” said Trixie. “Well, we might as well make a move.” Gilda glanced at the vomit bag. “...I really don’t want that in my ride.” “What? Oh.” Trixie shrugged. “I was just going to throw it into the sea outside.” Gilda grimaced. “Seriously? People swim in there.” “Not in the middle of the night. The tide will wash it away anyway.” “Better idea.” Gilda opened the enclosure hatch, grabbed the vomit bag, and threw it into the pit. Half a dozen snapperdoodles leapt out, and devoured the bag and it’s contents in seconds. “Gross,” said Gilda. Then, her eyes lit up. “Brainwave!” She grabbed the head and stuck a talon in the mouth, getting a little pus on it. Then, she wiped the talon under Trixie’s nose. Trixie squealed, then cried, and then retched, letting a little vomit spew out into the bag which Gilda held under her muzzle. As Trixie worked in a panic to clean off the pus, Gilda put the head back in the bag, coating it in vomit. Then, she dropped the vomit-coated head into the enclosure. Gilda gazed down into the pit, frowning, as Trixie lay on the floor, breathing hard. “...did it work?” panted Trixie. “Nah. They just licked the sick off. Head’s still there.” “...damn.” She got to her hooves, and levitated the head from the pit once more, wobblier this time. “Yeah,” said Gilda. “Sorry. I really thought that would work. I’ll buy you curry and a beer to make up for it?” “Beer,” said Trixie, “Definitely beer, then maybe curry. But job first. Acephalous Construction.” “Rock on, then.”