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// Chapter 4: Poppy 
// Story: Changeling Chronicles: Consequences of Canterlot 
// by Cyanblackstone 
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Poppy’s Medicine Shop had been founded nearly a century before by Poppy Seed, a newly-graduated pharmacist, back when this section of town had been new. His son, Poppy Sprout, inherited the business just as the newer parts of town had been build, and Seed’s grandson, Poppy Plant, saw the slide into poverty completed. The shop had struggled along, barely solvent, for Plant’s entire lifetime in the slums.
Then, his only daughter, Poppy Fields, took over with a will when he died suddenly under mysterious circumstances a decade ago.
Most of the people nearby were just happy for the new management of the pharmacy and the generous donations and improvement projects sponsored by Fields. A few, however, knew that there was more to the improved living conditions and new affluence of the pharmacy than new management.
Bold Words was one of that number.
As he shut the door, a small bell tinkled, alerting the clerk to a customer’s presence.
A crimson earth pony mare noticed and turned around from her inspection of a medicine container. She smiled widely when she saw Bold. “Boldie!” she exclaimed, waving. “It’s been forever since I’ve seen you around here!”
He offered her a smile which nopony could’ve told it was forced. “Nice to see you, too, Poppy,” he offered. “It has been a while, hasn’t it?”
“Last time you came in you bought quite a few prescriptions,” she commented, setting the container on the counter. “I thought you’d be back around sooner, though. You had a tendency to go through pills faster than you should.” Her smile turned a bit enigmatic. “My bet was a week ago.”
“Guess I’ve just learned self-control,” Bold said. “I need to refill some prescriptions, though. And grab some more painkillers. Liquid, if you have them.”
Though her face didn’t change, her ears perked. “You know we have quite the selection of flavors. What are you going for this time? Apple? Orange? I know you love oranges.” She winked. “Or maybe you’ve graduated to grape?”
“I’d like your strongest flavor,” he replied, throwing a glance back out the door. “As much as you can sell me right now.”
She paused. “Strongest, eh? Having some pain issues?”
“I can’t say.” Bold tapped a hoof. “If you could.” He opened one saddlebag, showing the glint of gold. “I’ve got more than enough to pay.”
“Anything for a paying customer,” she said, turning to the door marked ‘Storage.’ “Any other flavors while you’re at it?”
“Not today,” he said.
She was intrigued, Bold could tell, but she went into the storage room.
As she did, Bold took a refresher look at the shop. It hadn’t changed in the month he’d been away: cute paintings still hung on the walls, common gossip rags and tabloids stood on the small waiting table, and the five stuffed shelves of medicines were still dangerously full. The storage room took up more space than it really should, hence the crowded nature of the building.
But he knew she kept more than prescriptions back there.
She trotted back out, a nondescript paper bag in her mouth. “I’ve got seven bottles of it,” she said. “And because I like you, I’m throwing in a bottle of orange.”
Bold had to suppress a grimace. It would not be good if she saw that; Poppy did not take well to people who didn’t like her products. Not well at all.
And he wanted his kneecaps intact.
She opened the bag and showed him the contents. Within were seven sizable syringes filled with morphine and a small bag filled with pills. “That’ll be three hundred bits, Bold,” she said.
Bold took the bag from her and wordlessly floated over the bits, a hefty chunk of his change, and trotted out the door as fast as he could without appearing hurried.
She called, “If you need more orange you know where to find me!” as the door closed behind him.
As he began the trek back to his home, the sun was high overhead, and the day’s traffic had ceased until evening, when the occupants would come home from their jobs to the crowded apartments. But for now, the street was as empty as the grave, and Bold's hooves clacked conspicuously along the sidewalk.
The silence was even more oppressive as he crossed out of the ‘good’ section of the slums and into the less-savory lane between his home and Poppy’s Pharmacy. He hated having to walk through these streets—in fact, on days where he had time to spare, he took the long way around, taking the bridge across the river and then the second back, avoiding this area entirely. There was good reason to avoid this place as often as one could.
But his haste had warranted no dawdling or avoiding today, and he was repaid as the sounds of other hooves sounded from an alleyway he passed. He sped up; at this time of day, nothing good came of alleys. (In fact, very little of good ever came from alleys anywhere, let alone here.)
“Oi!” Came a voice from behind him. “Don’t move!”
The stallion’s yell was accompanied by a foreboding clack, and Bold knew exactly what it was. He skidded to a halt and turned to face the pair of stallions.
One held a large knife in his mouth, and the other floated a heavy pistol by his side. “That’s better,” the pistol-wielding thug smirked.