Everything Tasty is Bad for You. Except Girls.
Chapter 4: Everything Tasty is Bad for You. Except Girls.
Now, I’m not going to lie. Having a mare throw herself at you is one thing. Having an obviously intelligent, highly attractive mare pin you to a table and whisper things into your ear that you weren’t sure were possible, but still wanted to try? Another thing entirely. Also? It’s the BEST thing. With exceptions, mind you. None of which were present.
To make a long story short, my ‘meeting’ with Fluff ‘n’ Stuff ended rather differently than I thought it would. Namely, the part where I was gasping for breath, sprawled out on Fluff’s laboratory floor, and she’d passed out on top of me, with a limb wrapped around my neck, breathing softly into my ear. If I’d stopped panting long enough I swear I could almost have heard her purr.
“Well, that’s one way to introduce yourself,” I mumbled quietly. Part of me wondered why we hadn’t been interrupted. That really stupid self-depreciating part that was still in denial about what happened. Also known as the part that could go buck itself. I looked down at Fluff, and was just about to ponder the best way to slip out from under her when the air got weird.
And I don’t mean like somepony walked in and it got really tense. The air quite literally got very strange. It started to swirl, and I saw what looked like tiny particles of -hell, something- float around and draw themselves into Fluff. “Wha-” was all I was able to get out before there was a big whooshing sound and a POP. And suddenly, Fluff wasn’t on top of me anymore. She was sitting, rather dizzily, off to the side.
She was also eight again. “Um... Fluff?” She looked around, then saw me, and the state I was in. Then the state of her lab.
She looked ready to freak out and attack me, her face tense and her eyes growing wide, when she underwent what I could only describe as a paradigm shift. Her eyes stayed wide, yes, but the rest of her relaxed. Like magic, she wasn’t angry, just... confused. I was about to iterate another well thought out and highly intelligent “Wha-” when she sighed, and her head drooped down to her chest. “We just screwed, didn’t we?”
I pulled myself up to my hooves, having caught most of my breath back. “Yes. That did just happen.”
“Man!” she pouted, and looked ready to hit something. “I never get to be around for the fun stuff!”
I had no idea what to do with that. I mean yes, she’d told me about her condition, but I wasn’t sure exactly what to do with it. Let alone have a damn clue how it worked. “Um, Flu-” she glared at me, and my mouth clamped shut. I tried again, “Your Highness?”
Still glaring, but not as intensely. I think. “What?”
“What... how... what just happened?”
I felt like I’d asked probably the one question she really didn’t want me to. Her entire body just kind of slumped, getting as close to collapsing as I think a pony can get before they actually hit the floor. “Just... sit down,” she pointed a hoof at a chair behind me. “Allow me to explain a few things.”
I took a seat and she hopped into a rolling chair. Using her wings to steer, she brought it to a halt maybe a foot away from me. “Ok, so you know about the Jekyll and Hoof Syndrome thingy?” I nodded. “Well, okay. Here’s the deal: most ponies who suffer from J and H usually share their space with somepony else entirely. There’s usually a dominant and a submissive half to each case. There’s a name for more than two that’s really long and in Ancient Latequine and boring to say. But for now, focus on the two. With me so far?” Another nod. “Great. Here’s the kicker, for me at least: I don’t share my body with somepony else. It’s just me. MY unique brand of crazy is that I share my personal space with a part of me from somewhere else in my timeline. Namely, 14 years ago. And before you ask, I have no idea what caused it.” Seeing the blatantly confused expression on my face, she pressed on:
“I won’t bore you with details or muddle the facts with drama, but the short and skinny of it is this all started 4 years ago. I was 20 when it started happening. Lots of confusion. A little anger. All that jazz. I was on my way to a senior class when suddenly, out of freaking nowhere, I was 8 again. Now, you’ve probably heard tales about the whole J and H paradox where only one of the ponies involved gets to remember everything, right? Well, lucky me, I get to be special. See, my dominant persona is the eight year old me. But because the other me is a future version, I have all the memories of what happened when I was eight. Now here’s the real kicker: how do I have all these memories from when I was eight and yet I still don’t know the future? Because I only get the memories when they’re created. From what I understand, if somepony were to travel into the past right now, and watch my childhood after all these memories started pouring into my head? I’d be committed instantly. But because you can’t change the past, and you can’t travel into the future, which, according to some theories that are proving more accurate than most, is a permanent variable until it’s experienced, makes for a very interesting situation: I remember everything that happens to me when I’m grown up, because I’m the dominant personality. And I take that knowledge back with me into the past when I disappear, so that my current self remembers it, too. But the past is a constant: it can’t be changed. We found that out the easy way decades ago thanks to Princess Twilight. So those memories just kind of float in a limbo of causality until my present self recalls them. And my past self doesn’t know anything past right now because it hasn’t happened yet, so there aren’t any memories to take back. How you doin’ over there?”
I groaned with a headache. “I feel like particle physics just particle physucked me.”
Her mouth quirked at that, but she maintained a serious face long enough to correct me: “Actually, it’s quantum physics. Questions?”
“None that I want answers to. Wait, no, I have one. Do you remember us doing it?” I raised an eyebrow, still hiding my headache from the world with one hoof.
She grinned that little lopsided grin you get when you remember a really good meal. Or a good lay. “Oh yes. And thank Celestia my memories can’t change the past, because my parents would be appalled if I knew that use of surgical clamps back then.”
I blushed furiously. “...yes. That would be unfortunate. Quite.”
The grin stayed, but her eyes narrowed like she was eyeing prey. “Hmm... you’re cute when you blush. Tell you what. You keep coming whenever older me calls, and... hmm, I guess you can call me Fluff ‘n’ Stuff from now on. After all, you did do just that.”
I thought my blush was going to turn into a second degree burn. It was almost starting to hurt. “So, um, aside from humping my brains out, was there anything... case related you wanted to share with me?”
Her eyebrows shot up to her forehead and her eyes got wide. “Oh, yeah! Totally duh.” She hopped out of the chair and picked up the journal in a bag I’d been looking at when I got here, out of a carefully constructed pile of evidence on a table far away from... ground zero. “Here, you need to sign some forms,” she told me, pulling paperwork out of... somewhere. I never understood how mares do that. “Chain of custody and stuff. You really need to look at this thing. It’s crazy. Belonged to that Barrel guy what got the deads.”
In spite of everything I almost burst out laughing. “Ok... look. I should probably go home and get some sleep. I have quite a bit of work to do tomorrow.” I hopped down off the chair and grabbed the journal in my teeth. She hoofed me a pen, and I used a wing to sign the chain of custody papers. I gave her an evidence-bag filled smile and made for the door.
She waved me off with a hoof. “Oh, pshaw. You mortals and your sleep.” She got quiet for a second. I turned around to see her staring at the floor, then she looked up at me with a sheepish grin. “You’ll come see me again, right?”
I sighed, letting out a breath I wasn’t aware I was holding in. “Yes, Fluff ‘n’ Stuff. I will.” I heard her giggle as the Evidence door opened and I walked out.
It wasn’t until I got to the elevator that the entirety of that conversation hit me. The one that included lots of quantum physics and an agreement for more sex. The conversation I just had with an eight year old.
“No amount of therapy will ever make this moment ok.”
---------
I got out to the parking lot to find Paperweight doing a crossword or something in the car. Not the first time, although I really shouldn’t make a habit of making her wait. I climbed into the passenger seat, dropped the journal in the middle console, and she acknowledged me with an ‘About damn time’ huff and nod. She sniffed the air for a moment, and turned to look at me. “Spy, you REEK of sex. Roll down a window.”
I cranked the window handle until I could smell cold night air again. Detrot always smelled like three of my favorite things: cigarette smoke, gun powder, and metal. I took a good whiff. “HOLY-” I clamped a hoof over my nose. “I really do reek like sex. Damn.”
Paperweight was leaning out the window, pointing me to get back outside and air out instead of smelling up her car. I popped the door open and closed it behind me, then leaned in the window. “Ok, once I air out, let’s get home, ok? We’ve got a lot to do tomorrow.”
“I thought you just went downstairs to talk to Fluff ‘n’... Stuff. Spyyy......” She narrowed her eyes at me.
“What?” I asked innocently.
“Did you have sex with an eight year old filly?” She almost growled.
“Wha- oh, yeah. That. No. I had sex with a twenty something forensic analyst,” I said honestly.
She looked like she wanted to ask me more, but didn’t. Instead, she looked down at the book in the bag. “So what’s this?”
I acknowledged the bag with a nod. “Apparently it’s Barrel’s journal. Don’t worry,” I added, as she gave me a ‘Did you steal this?’ look, “I signed for it. Chain of custody and everything. Part of being deputized, I guess. We can read it when we get back. Though probably not right away. I’m so damn tired it hurts.”
“Not to mention sore,” she deadpanned. I gave a sheepish grin not unlike the one Fluff ‘n’ Stuff fed me earlier. “We’re in the middle of a case and you go out of your way to get laid? Seriously.”
“Hey, she pinned me to a lab table and nibbled on my ear. I know for a fact that works on you,” I smirked.
She knew who and what I was referring to. “You... you shut up. That was one time in college-”
“-every time in college on Saturday nights for like a semester,” I interrupted.
She blushed crimson and ducked her head down. “Get in the car before I make you call a taxi. Or I make you call Taxi.”
I shuddered, and jumped through the window. “Nope nope nope. We’re leaving that... mare out of this. Besides, nopony’s seen her since...”
“...yeah. Right, let’s go home. And put on a seatbelt. I like my windshield where it is,” she drawled.
A thought popped into my head. “You know, I haven’t eaten all day, maybe we could-”
“NO. No, Spy, I am not taking you out to eat. Ever. Again. NO.” She was rather insistent, and before I could argue, she threw the vehicle into reverse and hauled bass ackwards, throwing me for a loop. No, I hadn’t gotten my seat belt on, thanks for asking.
“Rrggglllmffffmmm” I groaned from my position face down in the front seat.
“Well that’s what you get for suggesting I go anywhere public with you where food is involved. It’s a bad habit, Spy, and you should really kick it. In the unfriendlies. Hard.”
I was finally able to come up for air, and twisted around enough to sit up properly. I put my seat belt on before I spoke again. “Hey, you leave my unfriendlies out of this. And don’t call them that. It makes them upset.”
I could feel her every nerve wanting to turn and glare at me, but she refused to take her eyes off the road. “Shut up, Spy.”
---------
I’d finally convinced Paperweight to at least drop me off at a restaurant before we got home, but she refused to stay, and drove off to read the journal at home.
The joint was one of my favorites, mainly because it was one of the few places I could eat in peace. Most ponies who eat like I do don’t really... get looked at favorably by other ponies.
Griffins, however, love me. Which is why one of my favorite restaurants is the Curled Talon. Well, more of a bar than a restaurant, but they have really good food for pretty damn cheap. As long as you don’t ask too many questions. I’ve never felt the need to. I pushed the door open, and a little chime went off to signal that somepony had walked in. It was the usual ruckus, some mares and colts rustling around amongst a much larger crowd of griffin males and females. A few zebras walked around, which I took my time admiring, as well as a diamond dog or two. Really anyone who felt like it could walk in as long as they didn’t make trouble. Shooting pool, doing shots, the usual hubbub. I sauntered up to the bar and nodded at the barkeep, who just gave me a curt look. A big 'ol griffin male with a really intense glare, he looked more like he should be bouncing than anything else. I didn’t recognize him. Which would make ordering here very interesting. Matter of fact, I saw maybe two familiar life-forms amidst all the brickabrack.
So, in the voice of somepony who knows he’s about to get a lot of attention but can’t do anything about it, I asked, “Hey, can I get Three Dead Animals and a Baby?”
And there it went. The quiet. That ridiculous silence when everyone knows what they heard but not sure exactly what to do with it. The bartender’s eyes grew wide and he squacked, “What?!”
Now, allow me to explain something if you weren’t already aware. Griffins eat meat. And, as I found out a few years back, meat is delicious. It’s also full of stupid amounts of protein which keep me aware and healthy. I may not be that strong, but I can take more than a hit or two.
Now, the dish I ordered, Three Dead Animals and a Baby, is actually slightly less alarming than it sounds. Unless you’re a pony. In which case, its actual description, a bacon and egg cheeseburger with a side of hot wings, is equally disconcerting. I don’t think the burger is actually cow, like the rumors say. I don’t ask, and I care not. I LOVE hot wings and burgers. “For here, please. I don’t wanna walk with all that food. Or fly. Or move much anywhere, really.”
Now, here’s what I really like about this bar: the griffin bartender turned to face a little window in the bar behind him, leading to the kitchen. And before he could finish reiterating his order, the cook called out, “Already on it!” That’s service. The bartender rounded to look at me, and asked, quite simply, “Are you sure about that, son?”
This is a question, or a variety of, that I love answering. I clamped my jaw shut, and with a hoof, pulled my lips back to reveal my teeth. See, normal pony teeth aren’t meant for meat. They can’t rip and tear like griffin beaks and other animals can. Which is why, as I was currently demonstrating to the bartender, I’d filed my canines down. Actually, ponies don’t have canines. I’d had a zebra whip me up some in a rather painful afternoon, and then they got filed down. Not a pleasant experience, but wholly necessary for my dining pleasure.
The bartender gave me a grin. “Son, I think I’m gonna like you.”
Before I could even smile and nod, I heard a mare’s voice yell out behind me. “Like him?! Did you hear what he ordered?! No offense to you meat-eating folk-”
“None taken,” I said.
She got real indignant then. “But normal ponies don’t eat meat.”
Now, she was a pretty thing. Not as attractive as Fluff ‘n’ Stuff in her adult form (hot DAMN), but cute. She was also right in my muzzle. “Ma’am, as a recently deputized officer of the law and a licensed private investigator, I would ask that you not bother a public official while they’re eating." I flashed her my best ‘I have canines and use them’ smile. She glared at me a bit, then sulked back into the crowd, which started to lose interest.
“I thought that was you, Spy!” Said a loud, grustly voice from behind the bar. I turned and saw the cook hangin’ on the window.
“Mickey! I knew nopony else’d make my food that fast!” I saw the steaming pile of delicious burger on a plate next to him. Having seen me receive the cook’s recognition, the rest of the crowd either shrugged or huffed and went back to being unruly. The bartender handed me my plate, giving me a wry smile.
“Hell, if Mickey likes you, you’ve got to be interesting. My names Alty. Short for Altitude.” He saw my deadpan ‘Is that really your name’ look, and laughed. “Yeah, my parent’s ain’t creative griffin’s, that’s for sure. Let me know when you want something to wash that down." I gave him a smile and nod, and turned my attention back to the cook.
“So what have you been up to?” I called over the counter.
“Huh?” he asked. “Finish yer meal and we’ll talk later. I gotta work, ya know. Unlike some of us.”
I grinned, and stared at my plate. He was right. Talk could come later. For now, dead things with cheese.
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Swift has some competition in the eatery department, it seems...
I don't think you can afford enough therapists for poor Fluffy. I mean, having to lower herself to a private eye with no prospects - my heart weeps for the poor girl.
3106799
I don't think so. Swift is the pony who finds fried pony a very tempting smell... At least Eye keeps to the presumably non-sentient meat.
3480013
I don't know what their is to weep about, I assume she's tried elsewhere and not succeeded and the mere chance of someone willing to put up with her antics with a relative lack of complaining is a breath of fresh air.
No, no amount of therapy can fix that. Still, her prospects aren't all that great anyway. At least he doesn't mind her going batshit crazy. 'Lower herself', huh?
3480013
gahtdayum
Don't smoke the other detective yet man