//------------------------------// // The Plane and the Pizza Box // Story: Equine Recovery and Rehabilitation Association // by OneUppington //------------------------------// DANDELION “You got to be kidding me. He’s here? This is where he got to?” Rick nods as he puts down his glass cup. “I understand he made a name for himself back in Manehattan.” “No kidding… … Because of that brat, the whole city’s gone to hell.” I can’t believe this. First this white contraption we’re in can fly without flapping its wings, very smoothly I may add, and then they tell me that he’s here. Pineapple Rice. The Ohana Tourist. That crazy little bastard floated on in to Manehattan when he was ten. After some busking for tips, he decides to do what all tourists do when they get to the city. Get a lasagna. What he didn’t expect though, is that the place he went to get the lasagna was The Mozzarella Scatter. Now, the Scatter was notoriously known for being a bit of a front for the Cinos. Cappuccino, Mochaccino, even their daughter Babyccino; every one of them and the crew they hire are the type of ponies you don’t want to mess around with. On the day Rice walked in, a deal was going down; 30,000 bits in twenty bit notes in a pizza box for a lot of rubies. The ones handing out the rubies said they will send round a pony who says was from Ohana; some guy called Banana-Berry Bash. Because you know, someone from Ohana in the city is pretty rare. Said he’ll be ordering one lasagna and when asked where he’ll be going next say “Well, I figure I hit the Statue of Harmony. I heard it’s bigger than ponies think.” So yeah, you can imagine the fucking comedy of errors. Rice walks in, asks for a lasagna. Babyccino spots the flower shirt he’s wearing, asks him where the little guy was from. Don’t know why she’d think a ten-year-old colt would get involved with illegal jewel trading, must have been a hard day at the Scatter. Anyway, the little pegasus says he’s from Ohana, she asks him for the code. He accidently says exactly what she was waiting for, so she gave him the box full of cash ‘on the house’ and sends him on his way. A few minutes later, Bash shows up and said the words that cement the Pineapple Rice as the legend everypony says he is; “Please don’t tell me you gave the money to that mother bucking colt in the flower shirt.” They try and get the bits back from the kid, but he, after realising what happened, decided “You know something? I’ll have some fun with these guys.” And had fun with them he did. For the next few weeks, Pineapple kept all of the dough, waiting for any Cino hitmen to try and take the cash off him. I don’t know for the life of me how, but he always seem to be one step ahead of them. The MPD found in the following weeks all the Cinos and their pals tied up at tourist spots with notes on them telling the cops back then who he was, why they are chasing him down and how many more are probably left. Cappucino at Ball Street, Mocha at the Celestial Empire State Building, Baby at Fun Times Square, a lot of their boys at different parts of Centrail Park; He even got Banana-Berry Bash dangling in a janitor's closet in the Statue of Harmony with a note attached reading “I think that’s all of them now. I’ll be heading in to turn the cash to you guys.” But that’s the thing. He never came. I think it’s safe to say why now. The only visible eyebrow of Mister Miff raises. “Really? We had reports that he was a city hero from Manehattan citizens before you.” “Oh sure, they say that.” I say as the stewardess opens up a bag of peanuts for me. “What they don’t realise that because of his actions, the city’s in a worse state. Nopony ever really respects the badge now because of him.” I nod as the lady leans down to puts the peanuts in front of me. (Don’t look at the meat mounds, don’t look at the meat mounds… Oh Princess H. Tap Dancing Cadence, what the buck is wrong with me?) Then I turn to Rick Miff to find him smiling again. Someone should tell him to stop that. “I guess getting upstaged by a foal vigilante really sours the reputation.” “No kiddin’. Everypony’s always asking what happened to him to this very day. Of course, we got no bucking clue, our best guess was he miscalculated how many ponies work for the Cinos and whoever was left got to him. That’s what we’ve continually said to the press anyway, but that just don’t cut it for the citizens of Manhattan; Oh buck no! That stallion I put through his table for calling me Dandy? We got him in an interview room, he was giving lip, accusing us of killing him, and so the chief of our precinct, the only one around today who was there when Pineapple Rice was active, put him through the table there.” He’s… laughing? I guess? Sounds like he’s in pain. “Hoo… God, how I know what that’s like. Anyway, you try and be nice to PR when you two are together, okay Miss Lion? Whether or not he’s a hero or just a vigilante back in Manehattan, he’s a damn good detective in Manhattan now.” “I’ll try. No promises.” … That raises a question which I deserve to ask. “Why do you even need a detective, anyway?” Rick’s eye turns to the window. “Well, besides the name, ERRA has changed… Back before it started, it was clear that ponies needed an organisation to help them. New world, starving as hell, not entirely sure if the grass is safe to eat, weird two legged beings pretty much running the place with advanced technology and these things called fingers... so the Equine Recovery and Rehabilitation Association was made. So there’s a human or pony to be there to tell them where they are, give them some food, say the grass is safe, what have you. Then the more adapted ponies got to humans and vice versa… … The more a new service is to be made. Relations between the two races have been great… mostly. I can’t deny there has been a few issues. Folks sawing off unicorn horns to make herbal medicines, unicorns using magic to try and use humans as slaves, Homicide caused by ponies, Ponicides caused by humans, you get the idea. Clearly, there needed to be a service to protect and to serve pony kind. And since we already giving the ponies help already…” “Why not let us handle it?” He points at me with his… Fin-gar… “Precisely. So, I’ve been collecting any pony I can that know how to handle themselves in a big city. Pineapple Rice definitely proved himself after all we heard about him. And I bet, Miss Lion, you can prove yourself too.” I nod. They need a cop. I’m a cop that needs a job. This sounds like the start of a beautiful relationship. “So, when do I get my badge?” His eye turns to the stewardess. “Can you please give the little pony the small box?” The stewardess nods and walks out of the room for a brief second, and returns in seconds with an incredibly fancy box. She puts it in front of me. I open the box. The contents was a badge… … Who the Tartarus is that supposed to be? PINEAPPLE RICE I can’t help to look at my badge as I stand in the elevator in my building, on the way to my apartment. Such an amazing badge. Little globe on the bottom, ERRA written in large, friendly letters in the middle and on the top… Princess Gaia. Well, not an actual princess. Not an actual being, either. Just someone ERRA made up when we got into the crime fighting business. We tell little ones that she’s the reason the world’s turning. Not true, of course. But that doesn’t stop her being pretty. Her wings pointing upwards, her horn standing strong and firm, her black hair flowing from her head down beyond her shoulders, her eyes… … Don’t have pupils. I swear she had pupils. Ah well, she’s still pretty without them. The doors open up and I step out, cramming the badge in my pocket and grab the keys to my place. I head to and open up. Home sweet home. I’d better find that spare hammock for the newbie and set it up before she gets here. … Should I move that pizza box? I mean, I like it framed up over by the bar as is, but... She might like to see it. I did say that the only two things I owned that came with me from the pony world are my uke and the shirt on my back, but I had something that I didn’t own come with me too. A pizza box full of bits. 30,000 of them, to be exact. The bits have been converted to American dollars and in the bank, waiting for the day to be reconverted and to be handed back where they return with interest. The box, however, stays with me. Man, I love the design on this thing. A small, obese chef smiling with a look of affection towards the words ‘The Mozzarella Scatter’ in bold letters. Shame that place turned out to be a mafia front. They had good lasagna.