Little Lost Foal
A Pony walks into a Police Station
Admiral Biscuit
Sergeant Piobar, for the tenth time that afternoon, resisted the urge to slam the handset into its cradle. April Fool's Day, he'd discovered, dramatically upped the number of crank calls. What kind of moron makes a crank call to a police station? Out of habit, he wrote down the number, but he knew it would turn out to be a pay phone.
He wondered if the operators at 911 were having the same problem. He hoped not. He shifted around uncomfortably on his chair. Desk duty was about the worst possible job, but he'd foolishly demanded to keep working even though he couldn't go out on patrols until his broken wrist healed.
Piobar tapped his pen against the pad thoughtfully, before pulling up a reverse-number search on the computer, just in case some damn fool had actually used their home phone or cell phone to make the call. To his complete and utter lack of surprise, they hadn't.
Just then the phone rang again. He gave the familiar greeting, engaging his brain and turning on his professionalism.
“Benjamin?” An old lady's voice on the other end of the line.
“No, this is the police station, ma'am,” he told her.
“Hello, is this Benjamin?”
“No, ma'am; this is Sergeant Piobar.”
“Could you get Benjamin for me, please?”
“I'm sorry,” he said smoothly. “There is no Benjamin here.” Is she senile? Hard of hearing? Is there some kind of emergency? “Is there, perhaps, something I could help you with?”
“I'm looking for Benjamin, young man. Benjamin! Benjamin Dover!”
“No Ben Dover works—Goddammit!” This time he did slam the phone down, but he heard the laughter as it went into the cradle. Oddly, it continued faintly even after the connection was broken. He glanced down at the Caller ID, and immediately recognized the number.
Well, two can play at that game. He picked the handset back up and punched in the number for the dispatcher's office.
“Dispatch.”
“Hey, Mary, it's me.”
“How's the hand?”
“If this day drags on much longer, I'm going to gnaw it off.” He waited for her to stop laughing before making his request. “Listen, in about fifteen minutes, can you send the homicide detectives out on a body dump case?” He filled her in on their prank while searching Google maps for the address. “It's a McDonalds. Describe, without being overly specific, Ronald McDonald.”
“Ooh. You're gonna owe me for that one.”
“Next time one of your brood is selling Girl Scout cookies, I'll buy a whole case of Thin Mints.”
“I'm gonna hold you to that,” she said.
☆ ☆ ☆
Fifteen minutes later, he grinned as he heard a pair of pagers go off simultaneously. The two homicide detectives rushed by his desk, and out the front door.
Ah, peace at last. He slid his chair back and walked over to the coffee maker. The witches’ brew in the carafe had been there at least a half-day, but he was used to bad coffee. He filled a styrofoam cup, dumped a packet of sugar in it, and went back to the desk. With traffic, it'll take them at least a half hour to get there, maybe ten minutes before they realize they've been suckered, and then another half hour before they're back.
The phone rang again.
“Hi! This is Mark, from Business Loans Direct! Based on the length of time you've been in business, we can—“
Really?
He took a sip of his coffee, eying the telephone warily, daring it to ring again while he was enjoying his overbrewed coffee, but it stayed silent.
A second sip passed uneventfully, and a third as well.
Maybe the phone is finally realizing who pays its salary, he speculated. He drummed the fingers of his good hand against the desk, picked the cup back up, and took a fourth sip.
Just then, the front door alarm beeped. Sergeant Piobar shot his head up and set his coffee down, projecting his best Officer Friendly face into the lobby. His smile faltered when he saw that the new arrival was not a person, but a small horse. It was looking over its shoulder as the automatic doors slid shut behind it, its ears focused intently on the whisper of the door mechanism. It took a sideways step as the gap between the doors shrank to nothing, bringing its hindquarters around.
Piobar took in the tan coat and dark brown mane without a second thought. This city, he thought. He'd seen service ponies before, although this one wasn't wearing a harness, nor did it appear full-grown. He wasn't sure why he thought that, but he did.
It turned to face him, and he recoiled back as its unnaturally large green eyes shifted around the room before locking on his. Resolutely, it marched towards the desk, its hooves clipping lightly against the tile with each step.
Sergeant Piobar moved to intercept it, instincts taking over. It was weird, yes, but it was an animal, no different than a stray kitten or a puppy that had slipped its leash. Somewhere out there, somebody was missing it. “You lost, little guy?” he said cheerfully.
It nodded.
A wave of unreality crashed into the Sergeant, but he bravely fought it back. What an amazing coincidence. It really looked like that pony understood me.
“Who's your Mommy and Daddy?”
The pony blinked, then looked him square in the eye. “My Mommy is Spring Violet, and my Daddy is Silver Frost. My Mommy said if I was ever lost, I ought to go to the police station and tell the nice policepony that I'm lost and he'll keep me safe and help me find them again.”
The very foundations of Sergeant Piobar's understandings of reality were undermined by the receding wave. His brain futilely grasped at the flotsam, quickly reaching the conclusion that this was a dream—this must be a dream—but his training was also demanding to be heard, and one did not simply ignore a child in distress—even if the child was a pony.
“Where did you see them last?” he asked.
“We were looking at the pretty clothing in the store window.” The pony raised a hoof and motioned at the street outside. “I heard some shouting, and it scared me, so I ran down an alleyway and hid. When I came back out, everything was different.” It sniffled, and wiped a tear off its cheek. “But I saw your sign out front—I know how to read—and you can help me, right?”
“Yes.” Piobar was a police officer, sworn to protect and serve. He could help—he would help. “Just stay here for a minute.”
Technically, he wasn't supposed to leave the desk unattended—but the rules didn't cover what to do if a talking pony came in, looking for its parents. He yelled back for another officer to cover the front desk, then turned back to the small pony. “Show me where you last saw your parents,” he said. “And I'll help you find them.”
“Thank you!” It grinned at him, and walked up to the door, watching warily as it slid open. Piobar gave it a reassuring nod, and it moved through, checking to make sure the doors weren't going to close on it suddenly.
He followed it down the street, giving a wry smile as he realized the natives were actively not noticing the pony.
It led him down the block, turning into a narrow alleyway between two old brownstones. The pony weaved around the stinking garbage cans, carefully watching where it put its hooves. The Sergeant followed, exercising the same caution.
It stopped between a dumpster and a broken statue; appropriately enough, it was a statue of a horse. “I moved forward, and bumped my muzzle on this,” the pony said, bumping a hoof against the dumpster. It looked around the small space, as if convinced its parents would suddenly appear out of the aether.
“Maybe . . .” Piobar moved to where the pony was, looking around. He didn't see any tracks, but of course they wouldn't show on cement.
He heard distant voices, and moved from behind the dumpster, glancing down the alleyway for a bum or maybe a drug dealer. But it was empty, save for the pony, and the voices got more distant as he moved.
“I think that's them!” The pony looked around excitedly. “But where are they?”
The dumpster? He reached for the lid, but opening it only muffled the sound. As frustrated as the small pony, he went back around to the back. It had its ears pointed alertly at the statue.
“There's nothing here,” he told it, reaching forward to lean on the cold marble. His hand sank into it, a small ripple spreading over the surface. Before he could consider the wisdom of his action, he stuck his whole head in, and then crawled through. A second later, the pony appeared beside him.
“This is where I was,” it said with an absolute assurance. “Right here.”
Before he could utter a single word, it galloped down the alleyway, and he jogged after, skidding to a stop as he rounded the corner. There, only twenty feet down the sidewalk, a pair of neatly-dressed ponies were talking to a stallion in a blue jacket with brass buttons, and an octagonal hat with a shield proudly sitting between its ears.
The pony galloped up to them, wrapping its arms around the mare's neck—Piobar assumed it was a mare; it was wearing a dress. Her eyes lit up, and she leaned down and nuzzled the pony, as the stallion joined them in a group hug.
Piobar and the policepony exchanged a glance, and both gave the other a professional nod. The pony slipped his notebook back in his breast pocket, while Piobar turned and went back down the alleyway. His duty was done, and it was time to return to the desk.
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Why do I feel like whatever happens next is my fault?
Probably the best short one-shot I've ever read.
5209695 History?
5209695
I'll be sure to direct all complaints at you.
I'm surprised nobody else took the prompt.
And that is the story about how officer Prybar "rescued" a foal with the help of his dimensional double.
Interesting take -- the prozac version of pony on earth.
5209738
Okay, I really want to know where all these prompts are coming from, now. And I can't help but be reminded of the recent ruckus in England when a pony did just that, which I assume prompted this prompt.
5209732
It was inspired by this blog post, and the article said post links to.
Just when yo think you work out Pinkie, she goes and sets up something to send you down totally the wrong path, as yove said you enjoy a good walk.
I love how everyone has a kinda 'Don't worry about it' attitude.
You know, between this and Highway 501, you could do an entire series on ponies and humans going through thin spots in reality.
Well, not much to say other than this was a cute little story to read.
I enjoyd this
5210029
Yup, don't worry about the hole in reality. Just another day in (insert name of city/town here).
Interesting the portal was just tossed out to the dumpster. Makes us wonder how it ended up there....
Keep going! ;)
5212229 Yep. Nothing strange going on here...
That's was cool man.
Welp. That was fun! Professionals doing their professional job and going that little bit beyond.
Duty first freak out later...
I really like the Officer nod at the end.
Pony: Thanks
Officer: No Problem
And that was all said in a nod.
Alright that was pretty darn interesting to read. Can't wait to see what Piobar writes down for the daily report on this one.
Crank call, crank call, crank call, crank call, reverse crank call, lost equine coming into station, crank call, crank call, crank call...
5219146 My first instinct is the same thing he'd write if it were a human child.
5209739
Officer 'Prybar?'
5209749
In a way, it's pretty much the reverse of Highway 502.
5209832
This one was based off a blog post by Estee.
Two (the Twilight and Sonata fics) were a result of a blog post by Wanderer D.
A reader demanded "Twirek," and then commenters on that story wanted Tuna.
There are groups, like "Prompt-A-Day," which have story prompts, and I've done a fair number of those. There used to be another site that did daily prompts, but I can't remember what it was called. Also, there's a group called "Unused Story Ideas" which . . . well, the title pretty much explains it.
5210029
I've heard some of that is a typical New Yorker's attitude to weirdness.
5219834
Piobar.
Prybar.
I had to come up with something.
Though after hitting up the Google, I should have said Sgt. Pepper?
5219870
I'm glad someone finally did that. Obviously, it wasn't an accidental choice (nor that fact that I used Irish).
A nice little story; I approve.
Sergeant Piobar: interdimensional police officer.
This was for some reason hilarious to me.
Never broke professionalism.
Someone's gotta fix the that alleyway.
That little nod at the end sealed it for me. Professionals to the end.
I really see the potential for a few more shorts with this character. Officer Piobar becoming the "representative" of Earth law enforcement with Equestria.
Should have offered him a doughnut for having to travel outside of his jurisdiction.
5212229
5212564
Just another day in the life of Jimmy Neutron
5222592 Just another day.
-Some New Yorker
Damn, when he just nod to the other ALIEN pony police officer, i was singing after this song like "
Na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na, Space Cop!"
I liked this, really nicely written.
5210288 "Could"? No no no, you misspelled "should, ought to, and need to".
I love this please tell memthere will be more if for nomother reason than for him try and write this on off as a normal day lol
5221946
Big cities always have a problem with improper disposal of magical portals. It's a real issue.
5222112
It's what the pros do, man. Some occupations cross international--or interspacial--boundaries.
Also can I squeal like a fangirl because one of my FimFiction idols commented on one of my stories?
5222592
Heh. I haven't seen anything that weird in my life, but I can tell you a few stories about shock and a brain's failure to process information.
5228243 5210288
While I don't currently have any plans to continue this story, I have every intention of expanding Highway 502. I'm too in love with the characters there to leave it as a one-shot.
And it does not escape my notice that Sgt. Piobar could plausibly appear in the Highway 502 setting.
5229696
Oh stop it you 38.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m9u1h5gEwR1rog1sb.gif
A nice quick little thing. Well done good sir.
Nicely written a good hearted story with a good ending and no friggen plot twists
MEANWHILE AT THE LEGION OF DOOM
5231670
Thank you!
5237266
Thanks!
A very neat story.
5351287
Thank you!