//------------------------------// // Chapter 3: Overtime // Story: We'll Dismember It For You, Wholesale! // by Neon Czolgosz //------------------------------// If the lanes of the Market District were the hyperactive, drug-addled brain of Fillydelphia and the business district its beating heart, South and Industrial were its liver: a lumpy, ugly mass that filled a thousand functions the city needed just to eat, breathe, and shit. Acephalous Construction was a madcap sprawl of timber, scaffolding and machinery on the outer edge of South and Industrial that spanned an area three miles wide. Half of it blended into the scrubland outside of the city, a grey, parched span of rocks and thistles that had been stripped of trees long ago, and the weather team never touched. Acephalous was the seed for the greater sprawl that was Fillydelphia itself, where the skeletons of buildings were dreamt of and prefabricated before being transported by teams of earthmovers, where whole new floors for skyscrapers were pieced together delicately like spun sugar sculptures, ready for pegasus masons to lift skywards and simply place on top of old buildings, and then molded into the original structure in hours by unicorn engineers. “Zephyr, I hate this place,” muttered Gilda as she pried the metal grate from the ventilation shaft. The air was humid and thick with silence in the otherwise-abandoned building site. Gilda and Trixie cast no silhouettes on the rooftop of the fabrication facility. “We come here twice a month, and it still takes us half an hour to find the damn building. I swear they freakin’ move it or some shit...” “They do,” replied Trixie. Gilda was already halfway into the vent, hindlegs first, but she craned her neck to look back at her companion. “Serious?” “It’s a publicity stunt for investors and clients,” said Trixie, “they do so love to demonstrate the amazing modular capabilities of their structures and materials, and what better way to show it off than to reconfigure their whole site at short notice?” “What, serious serious? So you just turn up to work and find your new digs half a mile away?” asked Gilda, “And the dweebs here put up with that?” “No, they’re on strike. Just as well, more space for us.” The pair slipped inside the building. The interior was a single room built around the brick fabricator, with catwalks above it to allow access to the control panels and input levers. Several large pipes led from the outside, so ingredients could be poured in at a massive scale. There were also input hatches for small batches of custom concretes and bricks, like cloudcrete, thaumic shielding material, and everfrost pykrete. Gilda pulled the severed, toothless head from a plastic carrier bag, tossed it into the gravel input pit, and then shoveled several buckets of coarse grit on top. “Do I gotta fill the rest up?” she called to Trixie, who was scrutinizing the main control panel up high on the catwalks. “No, they’re stocked already. Just stand back, and watch the magic.” She pressed a button, and the giant machine churned to life, groaning and creaking and grinding before spitting out a single layer of bricks onto a pallet below. When the machine calmed, Gilda grabbed the pallet truck, removed the bricks from the dispenser, and examined them closely. “Did it work?” asked Trixie, descending the catwalks, “There isn’t half a horn sticking out or anything, is there?” “It ain’t staring back at me or anything. Y’know, sandstone grit was a pretty good choice. You wouldn’t see the blood color even if you looked.” Gilda paused, and grimaced. “Wait, they’ve moved everything around and I didn’t see the brickyard on the way here. That means we’re gonna walk around with a pallet of bricks until we find the freakin’ place, doesn’t it?” “No, I don’t think so. A new pallet of bricks, not logged and not signed for, in a striking storage yard will just be suspicious. It’s enough fuss removing our traces from the machine. We’ll put them in the chariot.” “Oh. Good. What?” “A corpse is fine, but two dozen bricks are not?” “Bricks are heavy; they’ll mess up the handling.” Trixie rolled her eyes theatrically. “It’s hardly permanent, featherbrain. We’ll drop them into the ocean before we go home. Besides, it’s no heavier than the original corpse.” “It’s the principle of the thing. My chariot is freakin’ sweet. It has custom seats, a built-in radio, a glovebox for extra driving control, a roof, demithaumatic windows and red racing stripes. Stuffing a body in the trunk is straight gangsterism, ergo it’s freakin’ cool, and I’m cool with it. Putting bricks in the trunk like some flabby, filthy, middle-aged cowpony builder is lame.” “Oh for sun’s sake, of all the stupid—” Gilda waved her down, “I’m still gonna put the bricks in the trunk, don’t get me wrong. I just don’t like it is all.” Trixie rolled her eyes again, and the two went back up onto the catwalk. They spent twenty minutes fudging dials and logbooks until there was no indication they’d ever been there. Just as Gilda was loading the bricks into a burlap sack, Trixie had a sudden thought. “Who was that pony?” “His name was Slick Dealer, I think. Croupier.” “Right. Why did Cinderblock want him dead?” Gilda chuckled softly. “‘Medical condition,’ he told me. ‘Chronic backstabbing disorder.’” “Ah. An unfortunate malady.” “Yup. Cinderblock said he betrayed, ripped-off and alienated everyone he knew, he was maybe a week from blabbing everything to the guards, getting a deal and disappearing into nowhere. So, time to die.” “I see.” She gazed ahead at nothing in particular as Gilda packed away the last of the bricks. “Something up?” asked the griffon. Trixie’s brow furrowed, and then she shook her head. “No. I’m just being paranoid, I’m sure.” “‘Kay.” Gilda closed the drawstring, and slung the sack over her shoulder with a grunt. She turned to face Trixie. “‘Bout what?” “It’s nothing, it doesn’t matter.” “Yeah, but what?” Trixie huffed. “I said, it’s probably nothing.” “How do I know it’s nothing if you don’t tell me?” “Gah! Every time I try to bring up a reasonable concern you dismiss it as neurotic or paranoid, and the one time I tell you something probably isn’t a concern, you just have to know!” “That’s ‘cause you usually tell me what’s up when you think something’s up, and I can freakin’ figure out for myself if it’s a thing or if it’s you being you. But if you don’t freakin’ tell me I can’t freakin’ figure it out, so just freakin’ spill already!” “Nightmare, you’re insufferable.” “Just tell me.” “Fine. I’m telling you though, it’s nothing. If this were a setup, we’d already be—” “Whoa, whoa, you think this is a setup? And you didn’t freakin’ tell me?” “I thought of it barely five minutes ago!” “You know what takes less than five minutes? Getting stabbed.” “Yes, and that would probably have occurred ten minutes ago, hence why it’s nothing. I just thought...” “What?” “...does Cinderblock know about the harbor? I mean, the research aquarium specifically.” Gilda blinked. “...no, I don’t think he does. I think that’s just between me, you and Rupert. Why?” “Well, it’s a week from the Summer Sun Celebration. And it’s Wednesday. He’d have to know there aren’t many places you could get rid of a body at short notice, at least, not without a trace. It’s just the harbor and Acephalous. And if he didn’t know about the harbor...” “Huh. Acephalous is pretty big though.” “Yes, but how many places are there to completely disappear a body, without any witnesses? Three, four if you’re risky about it? Easy enough to watch all of them, and easier still to wait for your targets when the site is empty and the targets are carrying a body with them.” Gilda shifted the sack across her back. “I see where you’re coming from. Still, you’re right. A dozen ponies would have burst through the doors and ceiling half an hour ago if this was a setup.” A dozen ponies burst through the doors and ceiling. Trixie sighed. “Well, fuck.” The pair found themselves surrounded by a cadre of brutal-looking pegasi and earth ponies. On the catwalk ten feet above them stood Cinderblock, flanked by his personal killer, Baby-Face, and his donkey bodyguard, Delaney. Cinderblock was a white-coated unicorn with a slicked-back grey mane and beady, piercing blue eyes. “Now. Just WHAT do — we — have here?” bellowed Cinderblock, “Looks to me like we’ve found a pair of RATS that walked right into a trap.” “Erm,” said Trixie, as the ponies around her pulled out some truly vicious looking weaponry, “I’m quite sure there has been a misunderstanding of some sort—” “You shut your whore mouth. There AIN’T been no misunderstandings, mis-overstandings, standing — ovations — or standings of anything else for that matter. And you!” he ejaculated, pointing a hoof at Gilda, “You MUST’ve thought it was half-bird-half-cat day.” He glanced at his Baby-Face, and asked, “It ain’t half-bird-half-cat day, is it?” “Naw boss,” said Baby-Face, “It ain’t half-bird-half-cat day.” “...is this about helping ourselves to the pizza at Gigi’s?” asked Gilda, “‘cause that’s not just us. Lots of other ponies do that too, when you make them wait in the kitchen while you’re busy on the telegraph or whatever.” Cinderblock barked out a laugh. “Don’t PLAY games with me, Gilda. You fucken’ well know what this is about. What you two have done is beyond the pale,” he cried. “I am a reli-gious pony, and I. Do. Not. Say such a thing lightly, but what you have done is un-for-fucken’-giveable. So whadda gotta do with you?” “Talk this out like reasonable adults?” suggested Trixie. “Nah, that ain’t it. Delaney, whadda gotta do with these JOKERS?” “Ee, you gotta slot the fucken’ bastards,” whinnied the donkey. “Damn fucken’ straight, Jackson,” he said, drawing a gleaming dagger with his telekinesis, “We’re gonna feed you two into the machine, inch by inch, but not before I ram this shiv through your beak!” he thundered, slinging it at Gilda with incredible force. Gilda snatched the blade from the air. “Hah! Reflexes! Fuck you!” Cinderblock laughed madly. “Ain’t no fancy CLAW tricks gonna save you now, birdbrain! Macaroni, Ravioli, Tagliatelle, get ‘em!” Three massive pegasi lumbered towards Gilda and Trixie. Tagliatelle, the green coated elder sibling, drew a blade as he approached the unicorn. “What’s orange and bad for your teeth?” asked Gilda. “Huh?” Trixie’s magic slammed a brick into his face with frightening force. As soon as Ravioli glanced in his injured sibling’s direction, Gilda smashed her sack over his withers. She felt the satisfying crump of a shoulder joint being forced too far into its socket. “Run!” she yelled. “Way ahead of you,” cried Trixie, throwing half a dozen grey cubes onto the floor around her. With a flash, they all turned into a mass of choking smoke. Gilda barrelled out of the door seconds later into the night air, followed by Trixie. They ran screaming through narrow corridors formed by gigantic stacks of lumber. Thunder crackled overhead and a deluge fell on Acephalous Construction, drenching the pair and their pursuers. Trixie dropped a dozen caltrops as they twisted and turned through narrow alleys, hunted by hulking ponies on the ground and pegasi in the skies. They turned right into a gigantic storage lot for massive concrete pipes. Trixie let off another half-dozen smoke bombs as they ducked into one of the tubes. They ran through them like ponies possessed, their steps ear-bleedingly loud as they echoed around the concrete. “Zephyr in flesh, how long is this freakin’ pipe,” panted Gilda, still hefting her sack of bricks. “It goes on forever!” wailed Trixie. “It’s like pegging Discord!” A dim glow appeared in the distance, a light at the end of the tunnel. They both sighed and laughed with relief, redoubling their speed. Seconds before they reached the exit, a shadow blocked the end of the pipe. Baby-Face stood at the exit, holding a savagely barbed club, grinning like a maniac. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this moment, Gilda, but Cinderblock always held me back. It’s just you and me, now—! “AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!” screamed Gilda, as she barrelled headfirst into Baby-Face, slamming him in the stomach and taking him onto her back. “Gilda!” cried Trixie. “What?” cried Gilda. “There’s a maniac on your back!” cried Trixie. “I’ll kill you all!” cried Baby-Face. “I know!” cried Gilda. “Get rid of him!” cried Trixie. “Die!” cried Baby-Face, wildy reaching for his hoof club, unable to get any leverage. “Help?”” Trixie looked from side to side as she galloped, panicking. They were in a giant scrapyard of unused prefabricated buildings, leaning over and into each other like an abandoned shanty town. Gilda ducked under a low building, smashing Baby-Face’s baby face through a layer of plasterboard. He yelped, but kept his death-grip around Gilda’s withers. Trixie yanked a small object from her cape, and aimed it at Baby-Face. With a foosh, the tiny firework slammed into his ear, knocking him off Gilda with a yelp, and then ricocheted up into a prefabricated roof, where it exploded into a shower of green sparks. Then the roof burst into flames. And the roof next to it. And the building the roof was attached to. “Dear Celestia, fire!” screamed Trixie. Gilda looked overhead, where angry pegasi were scanning the ground, ready to swoop down with brutal hoofblades. “Fire is awesome!” yelled Gilda, “Make more fire!” In a panic, Trixie set off more fireworks in every conceivable direction. Pegasi above screamed as the flames licked at their wings, and choked on the noxious smoke. Gilda looked at the conflagration around her in terror and amazement. “Why are these prefabs burning so easily? And in the rain!” “Because fuck Fillydelphia is why, Gilda!” Gilda wept with relief as the office building they’d stashed the chariot near arrived in their view. “Did we lose them?” “I hope so, I hate running,” gasped Trixie. “Fuckers,” panted Gilda, “Hope they burn.” They laughed with joy as they saw the chariot, still concealed in the shadows under a set of awnings. After a cursory check for explosive runes, they stuffed the bricks into the boot, hopped inside, started the engine, and geared off into the sky. * * * Gilda wiped a sheen of sweat from her brow. “This night. This freakin’ night.” Trixie glanced into one of the wing mirrors, wincing at the massive inferno raging a mile behind them. “I didn’t realise timber and cheap building materials would burn so well. It seems obvious in retrospect...” With a twist of the gearstick, the chariot descended to street level, down into a dingy row of cafes and dive bars surrounding a halfway house. “I figure it’s time to get back to the apartment, run the two-minute drill, and go lay low for a while in somewhere that isn’t freakin’ Fillydelphia.” “I have some coupons for three nights at the High Dressage in Manehattan. We could stop there, get our supplies, and then on to Los Pegasus.” “The High Dressage? Ehh. What sort of coupons?” “Eighty percent off. And free use of the spa.” Gilda worked her claw against her shoulder, and shuddered. “Yeah, I’m sold.” They drove in silence for a while as the dingy dive areas made way for dingy student areas. “Catching that knife was rather dazzling, by the by. I didn’t know you had it in you, Gilda.” Gilda grinned, and produced the blade. “Yeah. Old military academy trick.” “Another one for the collection?” “Nah, I’m pawning it,” said Gilda, looking at the knife with derision. It gleamed even in the dull orange of the streetlights. “Just look at it. It’s too... fancy.” Trixie raised a brow. “‘Too fancy?’ I thought you loved weird knives.” “Yeah, but they look cool. This looks like jewelry. I mean, a chromed blade you could use as a signalling mirror, a bunch of useless serrations that would just get it stuck inside the first idiot you stab, Cinderblock’s freakin’ crest and initials embossed on the hilt,” she said, turning it over for Trixie to see, “and Zephry, the grips. I’m not carrying a knife with freakin’ pearl grips. I’m not a whorehouse piano player.” “I see your point,” said Trixie. “Yeah. And Cinderblock’s,” said Gilda, grinning, “Geddit? ‘Point?’” “Very amusing.” Trixie frowned. “That’s what I don’t understand. Why on earth does Cinderblock want us dead?” “No idea. He was crazy about it. Acted like we fucked him over or something.” “We’ve done nothing of the sort! Well, I know I haven’t at least.” Gilda shook her head. “Me either. I’m a professional about this stuff. I don’t shit where I eat.” “It’s plain bizarre. We haven’t done anything he’d want to kill us over.” “Damn it, we haven’t done anything he’d bother to chew us out for! It doesn’t make any sense!” The pair gazed ahead as weather teams constructed a thunderstorm above, rain crashing from the sky and beating a low, heavy drone against the roof of the chariot. Trixie opened her mouth once, closed it, turned to Gilda, and then spoke. “Maybe... maybe that’s it. He’s gone paranoid. We did something innocuous that inconvenienced him in some way, or that he simply didn’t like, and him and all his poisonous little advisers blew it out of proportion.” Gilda scratched behind her neck, mulling it over. “Huh. Yeah. Yeah, I can see that. Y’know what I bet it was? Buybacks at Chasers. We always give the bartender great tips, and every other night we get a bunch of free shots, sold us cheap drugs, made a few introductions. Maybe the bartender was ripping the boss off big-time, and the boss figures we must have been in cahoots with him the whole time.” “Hmmm.” Trixie’s face scrunched up in thought. “It could be, but it feels too small. If that was that and that were us, he’d send ponies like us to deal with us and that would be that.” Gilda looked at her. “Yeah. I think. No giant showdown in an abandoned building site, that’s for sure.” She lifted her head and snapped her talons. “I got it! The rigged five-card game at Montaron’s. Gnocchi was there and lost two grand plus his sapphire codpiece. He’s one of the colts from Neighples, and if the little dork told Tagliatelle about that, they’d have been spitting down Cinderblock’s ear until he was ready to skin us.” “I don’t think the Neighples boys would have done that,” muttered Trixie. “Why not? Hoelun knows they’re crazy enough.” “Oh that I don’t doubt, I just don’t think they’d have done it over that. It’s not the worst thing we’ve done to those idiots.” “Shit, yeah,” groaned Gilda, “Like when we firebombed their limo company garage.” “...we did? I don’t remember that.” “Serious? It was like, a month before Springturn — wait, no, that was me and my cousin. We got drunk and made cocktails. I never told you?” “You firebombed the Linguini Limo Co’s storage garage?” Gilda shrugged. “We firebombed a limo garage. We were pretty wasted.” “...that explains the bottle of naphtha in the liquor cabinet,” said Trixie. “But no, I was thinking of the big heist switcheroonie.” “Hah, that was awesome. Three gangs and a corrupt detective all angling for the score of a lifetime, and what do they get? Three crates of telegraph-books and a bank siege while me and you stroll out of the police archives with a dozen dossiers in our saddlebags and our police files replaced with Beanburger Palace coupons.” “And Tagliatelle’s dear brother Vermicelli is still in the dungeons.” “That wasn’t our fault. Not really. How were you supposed to know he was colorblind?” “You think they’ll see it that way?” “Probably not.” Gilda tapped her claws against the wheel with worry. “See, I don’t think it’s them. They’re not sneaky like you, Trix, they’re like me. They’d have come straight at us, not snuck around whispering to Cinderblock. It’s gotta be something closer to him.” Trixie grimaced. “There was one thing, but I have no idea how he could even know about it, let alone know it was me.” Gilda perked up, and Trixie continued, “Saddleblankets, the gentlemare’s club we supervised last year. Cinderblock owned it, but the manager was a drunken idiot who could barely function without help, I knew half the performers there professionally, and, well, I may have skimmed a little.” Gilda clenched the wheel a little tighter as her eyes went wide. “Oh.” “Nothing major, of course! Certainly nothing I didn’t deserve. I fudged a few tax documents, did a bit of cucumber-cutting with the alcohol suppliers, gave the dancers some clients without putting it in the club books. Nothing compared to the work we were doing just keeping the place afloat of course. I couldn’t have been taking more than a thousand bits per month, and with the money that was coming in and the shambles of an accounting system they had? Why, I’d have needed to skim more than double that to be noticeable.” “Uh. About that.” “...what?” “I was kinda skimming too.” Trixie blinked, and said nothing for a moment. “Well, I’m sure it can’t have been—” “About three grand a month.” “Luna above.” “I tried to be subtle, back in like, February, but nopony had said a word and I got kinda greedy.” “Three thousand bits a month? Didn’t you think somepony would find out?” “I dunno, I figured I wouldn’t be in Fillydelphia by then! I’m a bird of action, Trixie, not some chessmaster dweeb,” muttered Gilda. “Besides, that can’t be it. All the records went up in flames when the place burned down. It was awesome timing, come to think...” Trixie stared on, lips pursed. “Ah. I may, ah, have had a part in that. I couldn’t risk anything as brazen as taking out a separate fire insurance policy, but, well, upgrading it was well within my purview. I just... left the old paperwork in it’s place, so that when the payout arrived, I could pocket the difference, forge a letter, and nopony would be any the wiser. And after Peach Fuzz and Rock Slabchest left to start their own escort service, well, I knew the money would dry up soon enough, and so...” “Nice. How much did you bag?” “Um. Sixteen, maybe seventeen... thousand?” “...and you didn’t freakin’ tell me? What the fresh hay?” “You didn’t tell me you were bleeding the damn place dry either, birdbrain!” “But I — yeah, that’s fair,” admitted Gilda, “So you think it was that, then?” Slowly, haltingly, Trixie shook her head. “No-o. I think it was more personal than that. In fact, I think it was the gelding, Cherry Blossom.” “Huh? What’d we ever do to him? He’s a cool dude, we’re friends.” “It’s not so much what we did to him, it’s more that Cinderblock would likely disapprove of some of the things we helped him with.” “How so?” “Well, he is Cinderblock’s lover.” “Really?” “...you must be joking.” Gilda shrugged. “I’m serious. I knew they were tight, but I never knew they were getting it on.” “How — the why on — but how? How could you miss that? The way they nuzzled? How Cinderblock practically swallowed Cherry’s ear?” “That’s how you greet Cherry.” Trixie blushed. “It’s different for me, I’m a gentlemare. But for Sun’s sake, Gilda! The tattoo he had on his ear?” “He had his own initials tattooed on his ear. Weird, but—” Gilda paused as Cinderblock’s knife was levitated in front of her, and she saw the crest. “Oh. That’s where I recognised it from. But c’mon, do you really think Cinderblock would go all kill crazy like this just because we were pimping out his lover— I just answered my own question.” “I think it’s worse than that. Remember when we got drunk with Cherry and we all thought it would be funny to poison Cinderblock’s consigliere?” “That was just high-jinks though. A little poison joke in the soup never hurt nopony.” “...he was at a state dinner at the time.” “Yeah, there was that.” “The Russic ambassador wasn’t happy at all — turned out he’s afraid of tentacles — and that’s why vodka’s so expensive nowadays.” “And Cinderblock freakin’ loved vodka. Y’know, that reminds me. Remember back in Montaron’s, like, four months ago when we were getting lit up on salts in the bathrooms, and that lawyer dweeb wouldn’t shut up about these ‘super-high-quality’ salts he had on him?” “Yes, I remember. I pickpocketed him while he was droning on. Very satisfying.” “And then later on, we’re doing more lines in the bathroom, he sees us and rants that we stole his shit? And you get this awesome idea to tell him that somepony had just sold them to us?” Trixie laughed. “Oh yes! His eyes popped out and he demanded to know exactly who had sold it, and we just popped our heads out of the bathroom, pointed to Brick, and he went storming over to confront the Crime King of Fillydelphia’s eldest son!” “Yeah! And Brick freakin’ battered the dweeb!” “He did.” “Like really, seriously laid into him.” “It was quite impressive.” “Broke three of his legs.” “That’s Brick for you.” “The dude was in a coma for a month.” “I heard he’ll never walk again.” Gilda chuckled. “Yeah. And Brick went to prison. Ten years, no parole.” “That did surprise me. He’s never been caught before.” “Yeah, I snitched on him. Testified against him, too.” Trixie stared at the griffon. “What? Why on earth would you do that?” “Parking fines,” said Gilda, grimacing, “They were just piling up, and it was easier than paying them off.” Trixie relaxed. “Oh, I understand. City hall are total zealots, they just won’t let a ticket or two go.” “Ain’t that the truth. You could move to the Crystal Kingdom under a false name, and still get a bailiffs letter the next morning.” “Very much so.” The pair mulled everything over in silence for a few minutes, driving through dimly lit back streets as the glowing column of smoke behind them shrunk into the distance. “I still think Cinderblock overreacted,” said Trixie. “Ponies, right?” “And donkeys too, ye mad feckin’ gee!” A form lunged from the darkness of the back seats into the front of the chariot, and Delaney was upon them, biting and kicking and braying in a drunken frenzy. “Sweet Zephyr where did he come from?” screeched Gilda as the donkey wrapped his forelegs around her neck. The chariot veered wildly across the road as Gilda lost control of the steering wheel. “Gilda, the road!” Trixie dodged a wild kick and yelped as the chariot crashed through a closed falafel stand. “Get him off me!” “With how?” “I’ll kill the feckin’ both of ye!” Gilda scratched and clawed at the enraged donkey’s face as he tried to slam her head into the steering wheel. “Use magic or some shit!” Trixie conjured a rope and snaked it around Delaney’s neck, pulling it tight with all her magical might. He gave a dry roar and pounded his hooves into Gilda’s body, the veins on his face popping out with rage. “It’s not working!” Gilda spat blood from her beak as she slammed a fist into Delaney’s nose, feeling it crunch under her claws. He didn’t even slow down. “Hit him with something!” In a panic, Trixie wrenched the heavy steel-and-walnut gearstick out of its socket and let it fly into the donkey’s head. Delaney shouted as it crunched into his skull, leaving an eight-ball sized dent as she pulled it free to strike him again. He turned to face Trixie, one of his eyes solid red and dripping blood. All three of them tumbled towards the passenger side as the chariot scraped up against the curb. Delaney flailed madly, turning towards the illusionist and snapping at her like a beached shark. Trixie screamed, sparks flying off her horn as she tried to strangle and batter him at the same time. Gilda grabbed his face from behind and yanked, raking her claws across his face. “Gllrrrk!” gurgled Trixie as Delaney choked her with a hoof. “Gllrrrk!” she repeated, pointing to a glinting object next to the steering wheel. Gilda turned, grabbing Cinderblock’s knife. She punched Delaney in the kidney, causing him to shout and rear back, and turned him to face her. “What stinks of whiskey and bleeds internally?” She slammed the knife into his stomach. His eyes went wide and his limbs went stiff, pushing feebly against Gilda as she twisted the blade. When his struggles died down and his forelegs fell away to the side, Gilda gently pushed him into the backseat, gulping down heavy breaths. She looked around. The chariot had skidded to a halt next to an unlit newspaper stand on an empty street. They both tensed as a tiny groan came from the backseat. Delaney mouthed a gurgle, struggling to speak, and then whispered: “...all I wanted was to win that feckin’ race...” Then his eyes fell open, and he died. Trixie shook gently as she composed herself and surveyed the wreckage. The phantasmal wings in front of the chariot were covered in falafel mix and chilli sauce, sprinkled with dust and broken plasterboard. There was a watermelon-sized dent in one of the doors. The interior of the chariot was splattered with blood where the heavy gearstick had crunched into Delaney’s skull, over and over. The bloodstained gearstick had fallen into the passenger hoofwell. Trixie straightened up in her seat, and placed the gearstick back into its proper place with her magic. She wiped something off her muzzle. Phlegm. Not hers. Gilda and Trixie looked at one another. They were both covered in blood and sweat, mussed up, breathing hard. They looked at the mess around them. Then they looked back at each other. Trixie giggled. Gilda muffled a snort. They threw their heads back in hysterical, uncontrollable laughter. Their lungs burned and sides cramped as they lost themselves laughing, tears streaming down their faces, hooves and claws pounding against the seats and dashboard. “Seriously,” said Gilda, still giggling even minutes later, “fuck this night.” A baton tapped thrice against the passenger’s side window. The harsh light of a torch shone inside. Gilda’s blood turned to strychnine. Trixie gave a keening yelp, cut short as the baton tapped thrice again. She barely felt in control of her own body as she rolled down the window with her telekinesis. “Evening, gentlemares.” It was the same policemare as earlier. Neither Gilda nor Trixie spoke. “I thought I recognised your chariot,” continued the officer. Trixie gulped, loudly, and squeaked, “...oh?” “So I just thought I’d come over and apologize. I used some very inappropriate language towards your griffon friend. I wanted to say I was sorry.” “That’s... quite... alright? Officer!” Trixie’s horn was still sparking involuntarily. “Yeah, s’cool,” said Gilda, her rictus grin returning. The officer turned her torch off, and glanced at the figure slumped over in the backseat. “Your friend here have a little too much to drink?” “Yeah,” said Gilda. “Don’t wake him. He’s dead tired.” The policemare made a soft ‘o’ with her mouth, and nodded. “Well, I wish you two a good evening, stay safe and—” She stopped, peering closely at something within the chariot. “Wait a second. Those seats...” Gilda strained to stop herself making a dive for a knife. “Uh.” “Those seats are fantastic,” gushed the officer, reaching a hoof through the window to give them a testing poke. “That’s practically Cloudsdale quality. I’ve only seen seats this cushy in limousines.” “Ha ha ha. Yeah. They’re great. I love them.” “Hey, you know what? I have about a months wages saved up, and the seats in my cruiser back there are just terrible,” she gestured with her baton to a heavily modified police chariot with a distinctive blue non-standard-issue racing stripe over the roof and hood, “and my partner’s been nagging me to get better seats since Hearth’s Warming. He’s on vacation, and I wanna make sure he comes back to seats that feel like sinking in a warm vat of honey. So tell me. Where’d you get these seats done?” “I got them done,” said Gilda, drawing out every syllable, “at ah, a place.” The policemare laughed. “Well, you didn’t get them from nowhere, did you? Where was it? One of the big garage’s? Chop’s Shop? Motorheads?” “Noooo. No. Nyope. Wasn’t, uh, wasn’t at a garage,” said Gilda, swallowing audibly, “Nope.” “Oh, you got a friend to do it?” “...yes?” “Can I have their name so I can get in touch?” “No.” Trixie twisted her neck to stare at Gilda, horrified. The policemare frowned. “Excuse me?” “No?” “Funny. Why not?” “He’s shy.” “He’s shy for a fortnight’s wages? Don’t be stupid. What’s his name?” “Rainbow Dash,” blurted Gilda. “For fuck’s sake, Gilda!” hissed Trixie. The policemare glared, then sighed, holding a hoof to the bridge of her nose. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to impound your chariot and detain you both on suspicion of receiving stolen property until we can check the serial numbers on the seats and make sure they’re legitimately purchased. We have records at the station, so it shouldn’t take more than an hour or two, but you need to get out of your chariot and come with me. Your friend too,” she said, gesturing with her baton to the corpse slumped over in the backseat. Gilda and Trixie looked at each other, horrified. “Please, officer, he’s sleeping and it’s very late. Can’t you just take our details and we’ll come down to the station tomorrow? I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding.” “I’m sure it is, but it’s procedure to bring you in. If the furnishings are legit, you can go home by sunrise. Now come on, out. I’m being polite, but I’ll drag all three of you out in hoofcuffs if you make me. You in the back, wake up!” she snapped, drumming her baton against the back window. The corpse failed to rouse. She grunted. “Ma’am, please wake your friend,” she ordered Trixie. “Haha yes officer I’ll wake my friend come on wake up wake up!” Trixie made a show of jostling the deceased donkey’s shoulders with her telekinesis, barely suppressing a high-pitched whine as Gilda’s claw inched towards a concealed blade... The officer huffed, “Right, I’m dragging him out, he can sober up in the cell,” she said, reaching for the back door, “You two get out and place your front hooves on the— hey!” The policemare’s head snapped away from the chariot. Gilda and Trixie instinctively followed her gaze, and saw a donkey, too old to be a child but still too young to truly be called an adult, crossing the deserted street. He froze in terror. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, ass?” screamed the policemare, “You think you can brazenly fucking jaywalk in front of an officer making an arrest you floppy-eared piece of ghetto shit?” “I — please, ma’am, I didn’t mean to—” “Don’t talk back to me!” She swung her baton, neatly hitting the back of the donkey’s hindlegs, knocking him prone with a braying squeal. In a flash she was on him, yanking back his ears with telekinesis and pushing the end of the baton into the flesh below the tail where muscle met bone. “P-p-p-please my mom’s ill I’m j-just bringing her some painkillers—” he stuttered, his strong West Equestrian accent showing. “Oh, you’re a drug mule, this gets even better!” “No, I didn’t mean—” In the dark, Trixie and Gilda couldn’t see what the policemare did with the baton. They only heard the teenager give a broken scream before he burst into tears. “I grew up in this city before lawbreaking little fucks like you came here, bringing disease and crime and stinking of rotten potatoes,” growled the officer, “I want my city back, and I’m gonna get my city back. I’m about to show you exactly what you’re worth to me, and I suggest you relax so it doesn’t hurt more than it has to...” The baton moved in the dark, barely illuminated by the glow of her telekinesis. “Uh, officer?” said Trixie. The policemare twisted to look at them, still bearing her weight down on the donkey beneath her. “What? Oh, you. I’m making an arrest, get the fuck outta here,” she said dismissively. “So the chariot—” “Yeah whatever don’t do it again,” she snapped, “Go about your business, I’ve got crime to stop.” Gilda didn’t need to be told twice. She revved up the engine, turned the chariot, and they quickly departed from the policemare and her sobbing captive. The pair drove for a mile, taking the chariot above the clouds, both lost deep in thought. Trixie sighed softly, and with a wince, used her magic to clean off the blood and hair from the gearstick. Gilda just drove. It had been a long night. Trixie pulled out a pack of cards and began to cut and shuffle them. Gilda just drove. They were only a mile from their apartment when Gilda said, “Mare, I’m hungry.” “Mmmhm. We should have stopped for that curry.” “We should get one now — ah piss, the body. How the hay do we leave the apartment to get rid of a body and come back with another? I wanted to disappear the last one, not trade it in. Shit, are we gonna have to go back to the harbor again?” “Ah, that.” Trixie frowned, and then a curious smirk of sorts appeared on her face. “Well, we’re not being paid to disappear this one.” “Yeah, but ponies tend to find dead bodies that you just leave laying around.” “That’s true, but... that is Cinderblock’s knife lodged in his gut,” she said, magicking a small cloth to wipe clawprints and detritus from the knife-handle and the body, “We just have to find a nice, prominent place to dispose of the body, and we can bake two pies with one oven...” * * * Delaney’s corpse plummeted like a dead albatross and crunched on top of a police cruiser with a familiar set of blue racing stripes over the top. The entire driver’s side caved in, and blood splattered onto the pavement, both congealed and fresh. A young donkey crawled out of the wreckage, and hobbled away from the bloody scene as fast as his shackles would allow. “Three pies,” said Trixie, wiping sweat from her brow. Rigor mortis had set in, and removing Delaney had been a struggle, though a thoroughly rewarding one at that. Gilda slathered a poppadom in chutney and crammed it into her maw. “Fuckin’ A,” she sprayed. She glanced into the backseat. All their bags were packed. They’d left their keys in the apartment manager’s inbox, left their furniture at the kerb, and left a few thousand bits with their “lawyer” to have their suicides faked. There was no need to outstay their welcome, after all. Trixie flicked on the radio. The rock song from earlier came on a second time, now far more appropriate. “Los Pegasus?” “Los Pegasus.” END.