//------------------------------//
// Chapter 13: Fever and Debts  
// Story: Memoirs of the Mindless 
// by Writey the writer 
//------------------------------//


Chapter 13: Fever and Debts


Clock pushed the door open and entered the building. Inside there were three sofas facing a fireplace. Ponies sat on them staring at the ceiling. Others just stared vacantly into the flames. Some just sat in the corners whispering to themselves. 

Clock approached the desk. The stallion behind stood at little taller at Clock’s approach, his chest puffing up as Clock stopped in front of him.  

"What’s your fix?" the stallion asked. 

"I'm here to see Greenbill," Clock said. He was surprised by the determination in his own voice. 

The stallion paused for a moment looking at Clock in a new light as his stare hardened. "Greenbill doesn't just meet with any you-hah fucks that just come walking in off the street."

Clock leaned forward, challenging that stare. "Greenbill owes me personally. I'm here to call in that debt." The stallion said nothing for a long time. Afraid losing the opportunity, Clock persisted. "I'm an old friend of his, and I think it will be better for the both of us if you let me see him."

Without another word, the stallion turned and went through a door behind him. Clock could hear voices through the closed door. At one point they were heated with a mare's voice shouting profanities and the stallion shouting back. Eventually silence fell and a sea-blue stepped out with the stallion by her side.

"If you want to see Greenbill you need to wear this," said the mare, holding a black sack out toward Clock. It was just like the ones prisoners wore before an execution. Twilight would have worn one a few weeks earlier. He considered that for a moment. He would be completely trusting scum with his life, but he needed to see Greenbill. He needed to put down Red-Mane and save Print.

He took the bag and placed it over his head. It smelled like dirt and sweat. Almost immediately his shoulder was seized by a strong hoof and he was pulled forward.


*     *     *


They walked for a while. No doubt they were taking the longest route to Greenbill to confuse him. At one point they were outside as the rain fell on his back. Another time they were in a tunnel of sorts with their hooves echoing with each step. Nopony spoke for the duration. They arrived at a building that smelled like sex and sounded like a rowdy tavern. The hoof was taken off his shoulder and he was pushed into a chair. A door opened behind him and a voice spoke.

"So, I owe you a debt, do I?" The voice was strong and smooth. The bag was pulled from Clock's head. A hulking, green-coated stallion sat down opposite to him across a table. Greenbill had changed in the years. His muscles had lost their tone but none of their mass, and his voice had lost its edge. He had adapted to his role, but there was something more intimidating about him now although Clock couldn't put his hoof on why. Three other stallions stood against one wall. If they were guards, Greenbill didn't seem like he needed them.

Clock spoke slowly, carefully. "Thank you for agreeing to meet with me Greenbill, I'm not sure if you remember me but-"

"Detective Silver Clock, brother to Detective Golden Clock. You've been in this business for many years and to you've both cracked a number of cases relating to my business," he said. "Your brother was a good detective, I dare say he was one of the best I have met. He will be missed." There seemed to be genuine condolence in his voice. "You worked with me years back." He stood up and began walking around the side of the desk. "You were offered a bribe. Enough money for a pony like you to retire, but you asked for something else, and now you're here to call in that favour." He leaned forward on the desk. "Yes, Clock, I know who you are, so what do you want?"

"Red-Mane," Clock said. He looked straight into Greenbill's stare. Greenbill smiled.

"Of course you do," he said as he walked back to his chair. The smile did not reach his voice. "I will give you Red-Mane, but not until she finishes her job for me. I need her first."

Clock frowned. "What about the debt?"

One of the stallions against the wall stepped forward. "Greenbill doesn't owe you shit!" He turned to face Greenbill. "We should just kill him. Take out a detective and free up any debt he thinks we owe him."

Greenbill nodded and walked forward. The stallion seemed to realize his mistake immediately. The part of him with the courage to speak was crushed as Greenbill advanced on him. "We should kill Detective Clock, should we? Kill a stallion who helped us in a time of need? Then again, we are just criminals after all. Hmm." He rubbed a hoof against his chin as he turned to face Clock. Greenbill hadn't changed too much. Clock had seen this act before.  Greenbill held out a hoof toward the stallion. "Give me your gun."

The expression on the stallions face softened as he handed a revolver over. Greenbill took it check the load, and then fire into the head of the stallion. Blood and brain matter coated the wall behind him. Greenbill's eyes never left Clock. The body slumped onto the floor in a growing pool of ichor. The left half of the skull was completely demolished.

Greenbill's voice still held no inflection—no emotion. "I will give you Red-Mane when I am done with her, no sooner and no later, and then the debt is paid." He turned to the other stallions. One of them had flecks of gore on one side of his face. "I always pay my debts."

                                                                                    
         *      *      *


The throbbing returned first, cold and dull in her foreleg. The pain was forgotten as the light lanced into her eyes. Pinkie raised a hoof to blot out the light.

"You're awake," said an accented voice.

Pinkie's eyes slowly adjusted. She was in the safe house. The orange hue leaked under the door indicating it was either dawn or dusk. She turned to one side toward the voice. A brown-coated stallion was sat on a stool. He leaned forward clutching a piece of wood in one hoof and a pen knife in other. He was watching her from over the top of his yellow-rimmed glass which sat low on his muzzle.

 "You're fever broke last night and the inflammation has gone down in your leg," he said. "You'll make a full recovery in a week. Just…don't try self-surgery again." He nodded toward her bandaged limb. "It was a mess in there."

"Thank you," she said. Her voice was coarse and her mouth dry.

The stallion continued cutting away strips of wood from the block which fell into a growing pile on the floor. "S'Quite alright. For the record, your stitching is pretty good. Maybe you were a healer before..." He gestured to all of her before he settled on, "this. And I can't say that I like this very much."

Pinkie gave a dry laugh as she leaned upright. She sucked in a sharp breath as pain jolted up her leg. "For the record, I can't say I like your bedside manner very much, either."

There was genuine disgust in the stare that he returned. "The truth can be more painful than any physical trauma. And you have caused a lot of that in your time." He paused. "If I could guarantee my safety I would have pumped your veins with the poison you deserve or called the police to drag you away." Pinkie was silent. "You're a monster that needs to be put down." The knife trembled in his hoof, but a tight grip stopped that. "But I'm not a killer, not like you, not like Greenbill, and in this world that makes me weak. So here." He tossed a plastic container toward her which clattered beside her. "If you want to end it, give me the pleasure of letting me help." He stood. "That stuff will kill you in under a minute."

"Did I kill somepony you knew?" Pinkie asked. It was the only reason she could fathom for such a strong reaction. 

"No, but from now, the blood on your hooves is on mine as well," he said. "And while that may come easily to you, it is crushing for me. I made an oath to never harm. The oath is to my patient but not to those they may harm, but that doesn't make this any easier." He turned and climbed the stairs. "I've taken my payment. If you need assistance again don't call me, I might not be able to resist twice in a row." He opened the door.

"Thank you for saving my life," Pinkie said again.

The stallion stopped, the sunlight making him a silhouette in the door. "I'm not a murderer. I ask you not to make me responsible for many more." He shut the door.


*     *     *


Pinkie was leaned over a desk reading the papers she had taken from the apartment. The plastic container sat on the corner of the desk. Her leg ached from walking over to the desk, but the pain was beginning to lessen. She popped one of the painkillers into her mouth and began to chew, enjoying the bitter, chalky taste.

The pages revealed that Print had an affiliation with the police. Given her previous occupation with Greenbill, she may have sold out criminals and locations for money, although it was unusual for a criminal to associate with the police in any case. So it would stand to reason that the police would have no record of her crimes. After all, Speckled Print is a pseudonym, and Red Robin is the criminal.

She turned over a certificate and frowned. Seven months back, Speckled Print had graduated from  the Canterlot Royal Academy  and was enlisted in the Canterlot department of investigation. She worked for the police. This made no sense. A criminal who was free and rich goes back to work for the other side. Pinkie turned over another certificate. Print was promoted to the rank of detective a few days ago and had been assigned to the Red-Mane case. She leaned back her chair and ran a hoof through her mane.

Detective Speckled Print. The Red Robin that got away from Greenbill. He needed to know about Print. If he could hand over Clock, he might be able reach her.


*      *      *


"I don't understand," Print said. She paced around the office. Clue knew better than to confront her now so he was keeping quiet. "I get that he's angry at me, but why? I'm trying to change. Why doesn't he get that?"

Clue spoke up for the first time since the rant began. "Clock is very serious about his cases. I know that from all I've heard about him. I doubt he's taken it personally."

Print stopped pacing and turned to face him. "But it's not about him," she said. "I don't know." She sat down opposite to Clue. "I wish he'd just shout at me or something. Get it over with."

Clue was silent for a moment then a smile broke across his face. "He cares about you," he said. Print didn't meet his eyes. "He's only upset that you are in danger. I am as well. Remember when he said he would be the bait? That was to protect us. " Print nodded absently.

The office door opened and Clock walked in. Print stood immediately, moving toward him. "Clock, I'm sorry I'm-"

"Greenbill will give me Red-Mane only after she kills you," Clock said. Despite all the time she had known him, Print couldn’t distinguish the tone in his voice.

"You met with Greenbill? How did you-why would he give you Red-Mane?" Print said. The questions fought for priority in her mind. 

Clock spoke calmly. Annoying calm to Print. "He owed me a debt." At the blank expression on her face he expanded. "I've been doing this for many years. I've seen titans of the underworld rise and fall. Greenbill has outlasted them all. You've met him Print, you may understand." Print nodded once. “He is untouchable and ruthless. I knew he would not be found guilty when we caught him. This was long before he sunk his hooves deeper into our ranks. He would blackmail you, he would bribe you, and failing that, he would kill you. I took the bribe. He owed me a debt to be repaid on my terms. He wasn't as smart as he is now, so he agreed."

Clue's face had gone pale. Truly, this was a blemish on the idol he had grown to love.  Print opened her mouth to speak but Clue jumped in. "You took a bribe?" Clock nodded. "Why did you take the bribe?"

"Like I said, to save my life."

"So. what do we do now?" Print asked, before the gushing could continue.

Clock shrugged. "I'm not sure. This really messed up any plans I had, but as far as we know, your apartment was broken into, a mare was killed there, and worst case scenario, Red-Mane and Greenbill know where you are and what you do."

Clue spoke, his nostalgia driven anger cooling in the back. "Change routine," he said. "New apartment and we can  meet somewhere new." He turned to Clock. "If Greenbill's hooves are as deep as you say they are, then this will have to be off the grid. If he now knows which way to be listening he'll be on us soon." Print nodded. "You can stay with me." After a pause and a glance from Clock he added, "For the time being."

"Thank you," Print said. For a moment her past sins felt a little further away. The pressure they caused was now spread between the three of them, and that made it all easier.

"We can't all meet there," Clock said. "If either of us is tracked back to that place it's over." Clue visibly deflated. He had seemed more enthusiastic at the idea than Print had. “My place is good. It’s right above a bar as well which could be a meeting location. Who would suspect one of us going to a bar anyway?” 

Print nodded. “That just might work,” she said. “Where is the apartment?”

“Canterlot suburbs,” said Clock. “It’s a little more luxurious than you may be used to, but I’m sure you can dress up, cant’ you?”

She fixed him with a scowl. “I was a fairly rich mare when I came to Canterlot.” She paused for a moment, unsure whether it was wise to speak jovially of the topic. She decided against it. “But, yes, thank you for the help. Both of you.” 

Clock smirked. “Don’t thank me yet.” 


*     *     *




“How do you live here?” Print asked. She dropped her bags in the doorway. 

The apartment was large. At one time, she was sure it was a beautiful home—one worthy of a star detective. At one time the marble floors would have shone, and the gilded furniture would complement the room. Now, it looked stale. The embellished furniture looked like an ancient relic from a time before takeaways and cheap alcohol, the remnants of which lay strewn across the floor, the white marble barely visible beneath. 

Clock carefully stepped around the debris. He turned back to her when he stood in the middle of the room. “Ta-da!” he sang. 

Print’s face didn’t change. “How do you live here?” she asked again. 

“I rarely return home sober,” he said earnestly, glancing around the room and scratching his chin. “It never normally seemed that bad. Anyway, I will sleep here.” He gestured to a pile of detritus which had taken the shape of a sofa. “And you can have my bed which I…” He glanced through a door at the other end of the room. “I will probably change for you.” 

“I think we should clean up,” Print said. 

Clock smiled. “That’s the spirit. We!”  

Print sighed. As she made headway on pushing most of the rubbish into one corner, clearing a temporary pathway, she found herself wishing that she had stayed at Clue’s instead. She felt herself smiling inwardly. Clue had a clean apartment, and he was nice. 


*    *    *


The next few days went quickly. 

Greenbill was informed that Print worked for the police. He tried to get to her, but it was already too late. She was ‘ill’ for the foreseeable future, and she was off the grid.

 The green mare that Red-Mane had killed worked with Print before they had met Greenbill. Print did not recognise the name or the body when shown. 

Clock, Clue and Print met every other night unless there was something else to discuss. With both sides now at a standoff, and Red-Mane being quiet, they only met every other night for the next few weeks. 

Time for the two sides seemed to slow, but neither grew impatient. They were both content to let the other make the first move. 

That is until a month later, when Greenbill decided to force a hand. He was done waiting. 


*     *     *


The cage door slid open, and Greenbill stepped inside the ring. The crowd roared as he raised his hooves in the air. They should, of course. The crowd was made entirely of his own ponies. The ring was surrounded by the large metal cage without a roof. This allowed other ponies to jump in or throw in tools if the fight wasn’t going Greenbill’s way. In the past few years, the fights had always gone his way. 

Another stallion stood in the centre of the ring. He was well built, but leaner, younger. An open wound below one eye poured blood that flowed down past his lips. His hind leg was raised off the ground and bent just above the hoof. The broken bone pressed against the skin making it look like a tumour had sprouted on his leg. In front of him, lay the body of his fourth competitor. A piece of a metal strut was lodged in his chest. He had been one of Greenbill’s personal guards—the one who had been splattered with the gore of his partner a month earlier.   

“You fight well, Ironbone,” Greenbill said. He paced around the edge of the ring, forcing the stallion to shift uncomfortably, nearly putting weight on the damaged limb. “I dare say you may even be a match for me.” A smirk crossed his lips. “If it wasn’t for your leg, I would let you join my bodyguards. Sadly, that injury will be too much of a liability.” 

“I could still beat the shit outa you,” Ironbone said. His voice was coarse from shouting. 

Greenbill gave a well humoured laugh. “Many in your position have said that, many more have fallen by my hoof. Only one has beaten me, and Red-Mane killed him.” He stopped and squared his shoulders to the stallion. He flexed the muscles in his back and neck. He hadn’t had a good fight in a long time. He addressed the stallion who controlled the cage door. “Bring in two more! I feel like a party!” 
The door slid open, and two stallions ran in. One was red and the other blue. Neither was as large as Ironbone or even close to Greenbill himself. 

Greenbill braced himself. “Earn your freedom! Earn your right to be my guard!” The two fresh stallions rang forward, closely followed by Ironbone. Greenbill smiled. “Earn your deaths!” 

There are those who say fighting is an art—a dance used to summon death incarnate. Others say it is a tool of savagery, used by the weak-minded to embody ideas they themselves could never form. Perhaps there is truth in both. Greenbill fought like a savage in the sense he showed little restraint, but, truly, there was beauty in it as well. Some hidden flow that he tapped into, some music that only he could hear as he danced and hit every beat so perfectly. 

The red stallion kicked forward, standing on his hind legs. Greenbill sidestepped using the momentum to land a solid punch his gut. With his breath knocked out, the stallion kicked wildly, hoping to land any hit to give him time to recover. Greenbill pressed forward and bucked landing a solid kick in the sternum and another in the solar plexus. The latter kick would disrupt any attempt to recover his breath, taking him out of the fight in the short term. 

The blue stallion was smaller than the other and faster. As Greenbill turned, a punch landed on his collar, just shy of missing his jaw. He had taken too long on red and now Ironbone was upon him. The larger stallion stood on his hind legs. The back hoof was now correctly positioned, likely it had only been dislocated at the joint, or Ironbone was simply fighting through the pain. Ironbone brought his forelegs down straight into the concrete where Greenbill had been. 

Before he even adjusted himself again, the blue stallion was on him.  He covered his face, but the rapid jabs were too quick to block, so Greenbill pushed forward. The stallion danced around him to his side, landing a kick in his rib which he thought he heard crack. The crowd rumbled. He could hear shouts to get help in there. Another kick landed on his lip. He jumped back again, narrowly avoiding the haymaker by Ironbone who had crept closer while the blue stallion danced. 

The fight wasn’t going to plan, but he’d missed this. The pounding of his heart and the blood on his face—his own blood on his face. He missed the familiar aches and the burning as he struggled to draw breath. He began laughing. The blue stallion lunged forward. 
Greenbill braced and took the blow as the smaller stallion threw himself into his side. The crack rib screamed but the pain was welcomed. Before the stallion could dart back, before he could dance around and jab and stall, Greenbill lashed out. He grabbed a hold of the stallion by his mane pulling him down. He brought down a hoof on the base of his neck. The stallion’s body went limp as the head bent at an impossible angle. The crowd roared in appreciation. 

Greenbill looked up toward Ironbone. One had a dislocated leg. The other had a cracked rib. One had a bleeding eye. The other had a bleeding lip. Truly, there was no purer form of combat. Killing with a knife is meticulous, it is the work of a painter, but this was the real art. To stand in front another and to destroy their body with just your hooves. That was the dance—albeit a savage one. 

“You fight well for an old buck,” Ironbone said, laughing. Greenbill laughed too. It was the mutual appreciation for jest in the aftermath. Greenbill glanced to the red stallion. He had been shot through the head. The bullet had emerged near one of the sockets removing half of his face. Maybe three stallions had been too much. He was getting older after all. 

“Honestly, I’m tempted to let you live,” said Greenbill.  “Only so I can fight you when we have both recovered, I think you would be a good sparring partner.” 

Ironbone smiled, too. “I would enjoy that, Greenbill.” 

“It’s a shame though—a shame you had to steal from me,” Greenbill said. “A shame truly, that a fighter like you will die by the hoof of an old buck.”


*     *     *


The fight lasted for another minute. By the end, Ironbone lay in the centre of the cage. He had his foreleg dislocated, his hindleg with a compound fracture, which was bleeding profusely, and his skull crack from being smashed against the floor. Greenbill had broken his nose and cracked his ribs since stepping into the cage. As well as a popped lip that had stopped bleeding.

He had needed this fight. The pent up frustration from dealing with Print had gotten to him, and this was the steam that was released. Those who were caught in it were scalded and burned. While the fight had helped, he was still angry. It was combined sourly with the revelation that he wasn’t as young as he had once been. 

Yet there was something purifying in the fray. Something which cleared the senses in a way only survival can. He was in a city with a high population density and the defenders were corrupt. He was working with a mare who could kill effectively. 

It was a simple plan. Print wouldn’t want others to die. Since she worked on the Red-Mane case, she would likely see Clock, and he hated to lose. Each death was a point in Red-Mane’s favour. 

Greenbill smiled. All he had to do was play one side against the other. Clock would come, and Print would follow. Clock would get Red-Mane. Oh, he would get her in the open. The debt would be paid for both of them and he would get Print and he could pound her skull in the dirt and the mare who got away would be another death at the hooves of the greatest criminal lord Equestria had ever known.

“Terrifying as always, Greenbill,” said a familiar voice from behind him. 

He turned, trying to control his breath and lessen the pain in his chest. The voice had come from his favoured bodyguard: Grease Shackle—the stallion who had originally found Red-Mane. 

“Send a note to Red-Mane,” Greenbill said slowly, carefully. “Tell her, to start killing—tell her to bleed this city dry, and when Print emerges from the grizzled husk, we shall take her.” 

The stallion nodded. “That’s quite a message.” 

Greenbill chuckled dryly, wincing at the pain it caused. “The deaths are the message. This is merely a note to my messenger.”