• Published 13th Sep 2012
  • 3,882 Views, 133 Comments

Of Course - RavensDagger



You see things and ask 'why', I dream things that never were, and ask 'why not?'

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Two Million Bits

The ninety and nine are with dreams, content but the hope of the world made new,
is the hundredth man who is grimly bent on making those dreams come true.

Edgar Allan Poe


“Pie for sale! Get your piping hot pies right here!” the salespony yelled at the top of his lungs. The light brown earth pony waved one of the pies above his head, letting the strong, alluring scent of it waft through the moving crowd of ponies.

His little cart was oddly placed, but most ponies didn’t seem to mind. They didn’t care that he was closer to the edge of the sidewalk than the law permitted, or that his cart was blocking the sign that labeled the huge brick building behind him as a bank. Nopony cared here. This was the commercial district of Canterlot, where feelings cost time, and time was worth quite a few bits.

Some ponies stopped, mostly country folk, fresh off one of the trains that puffed steam as they brought their not-so-precious cargo up the steep hills of Canterlot. The farm-folk didn’t mind wasting a bit or two on a smoking-hot pie. They were hungry for the culture, sights, and tastes of the strange city, and were unaware that this had little to do with it.

The brown pony joked and laughed with them, pointing lost ones in the right direction and hollering his dated sales pitch regularly.

Nearby, ponies in business suits ran up the marble steps of the bank, skirting around the simple peasants with practised ease.

When the clock mounted on the bank’s face hit noon, the pie salespony’s smile faded and his eyes lost all signs of friendliness. Reaching under his cart, he pulled out a black suitcase. Bag in mouth, he climbed the stairs.

The guard at the door didn’t spare him a second glance as he trotted through the huge entrance and made his way to the counters. The lines were short, and moving quickly. Still, the wait afforded him time to look around.

Tall arches decorated the sides of the massive main room, each one ending in a small alcove where ponies gathered and chatted. The pony shook his head as he caught sight of beautiful masterpieces hung within glass frames. This place was despicably wealthy. The reason, he knew, was their unfair charges and hidden interest fees shoved onto the farm ponies.

He planned to changed that.

The row cleared out, giving him free access to the third, and middlemost, counter. Behind it sat a cute mare with a round face. She smiled gently at him as he approached and lugged his bag onto the table. “Hello, sir. How are you doing today?”

“Not bad, Miss Scribeswell,” he said, smiling in turn. To anypony looking, he was the average working pony about to make a withdrawal. The cashier frowned for a split second.

“Um, how do you kno—”

“I know a lot about you. You live in the fifth house on Fir-Lane, you have a dog called Barkers, you’re wearing your best dress, and you’re sleeping with the pony who handles the cash. Every Thursday night, you slip a hundred-bit bill into your purse on the way out, and your hooves are mere inches away from pressing the alarm button.” All of this was delivered in a calm and jovial voice.

The skin beneath her face began to blanch, hooves stalling mid-movement as she stared at him. “My name is Planner, and I plan on taking some bits.” He opened his briefcase a crack and, with dextrous hooves, slipped out a paper note. On it, was a simple demand: Two Million, Four-hundred Thousand, Five-hundred Seventy-Seven bits. In cash. In a paper bag. You have four minutes.

Miss Scribeswell picked up the note with trembling lips and backed away slowly. “Don’t forget to smile,” Planner said, demonstrating with a flash of his own white teeth. His plan accounted for three possibilities at that point, all of which would lead him onto a different set of contingencies.

The mare spun around and ran into the sea of cubicles that made up the back half of the bank. She disappeared around a bend, wide eyed and shaking.

Planner sat down, calmly glancing at his watch as he did so. The farm ponies around him milled about quietly, still unaware of what was happening, which was fine by him. Soon, no matter which plan was followed, the odd sum of bits would be his, and he would be long gone.

It was a weird number, he conceded. It was more than most of the ponies around him would make in a lifetime. Enough to buy a house in a good part of town, or live frugally for the rest of his life, but the bits would go into other things. Projects of great importance. Plans.

The number hadn’t been picked at random either. It was the sum-total of the money stolen from the bank’s poorer clients every single day.

A dark-coated unicorn walked purposefully towards him, a chastised and puffy cheeked Scribeswell at her side. The unicorn’s face was contorted into a mask of patient anger, the type seen on mothers everywhere. Planner gave her his best grin.

“What the hay do you think this is?” she asked as she planted herself across from him, the counter the only thing separating them. Ponies in the next rows over started to pay attention: there was little else to do while waiting.

“You trot in here, threaten one of my employees, then demand an outrageous amount of bits? What’s your problem? Get out of here before I call Security!” She was on the verge of shouting, her voice carrying across the entire room.

“No. In fact, I will only leave this bank when the sum, in its entirety, has been placed at my disposition.”

Confusion crossed her face. Blinking, she looked at him once more, scrutinizing his straight back, unwavering green eyes, and elitist accent. Nothing of his countenance pointed to him being one of the regular crazies that showed up every once in a while to get some fast bits.

“Miss Money Bags,” he began, his tone the exact opposite of her own. “You only have twelve seconds before ponies start dying. I’d suggest you start now.”

Her dark face gained a deep undertone of red. “Security, arrest this pony and detain him. We’ll let the city guard take care of him!” She spun around and began marching away. “Give Scribeswell the day off, and somepony take that counter; we can’t lose productivity because of th—”

“Eight.”

She stopped, one hoof still in the air.

“Seven.”

One or two of the ponies assembled began coughing awkwardly. Planner kept his eyes fixed on his watch, ignoring the security ponies that were making their way through the crowd.

“Five.”

Money Bags had turned around completely, and was now marching towards him, hooves clacking loudly against the polished floor. The sound spread as the room slowly became quiet.

“Three.”

The first of the guards made it through, almost falling as he suddenly punched through the crowd. Another pony coughed, this time a hair-raising hack.

“Two,” he whispered, the sound travelling through the entire room, despite the rukus of office ponies climbing around their cubicles to watch and the constant coughing of a few ponies.

“One,” he said, just as the security pony grabbed him from behind and threw him onto his side. Both ponies crashed into the ground, Planner’s chest emptying with a whoosh and grunt.

“Good, now bring him behin—” Money Bags began to speak when one of the ponies in the next row over vomited, the thick yellow bile splashing against the polished floor. Ponies scattered, eyeing the mess apprehensively. A few covered their noses in disgust.

“I-I don’t feel too good,” the mare who had just regurgitated said. She fell into the puddle, front hooves giving out beneath her.

Another pony, this one three rows back, toppled over with nary a sound. Again, ponies moved away with a sense of urgency. They began forming rough circles around the room, clinging to each other for safety.

At the far back, two stallions that had been watching the scene together began wheezing hysterically, their skin reddening as a rash spread across their coats. As one, they toppled over.

“Zero!” Planner exclaimed happily.

His words set off a chain reaction. Everywhere, ponies screamed and ran, usually away from anypony else displaying even the slightest signs of sickness. Alarms went off and sirens screamed, adding to the cacophony of confusion and despair.

The doors thundered as dozens of ponies ran into them, desperate to get out. They were locked. Nopony could enter or leave the bank while it was on alert; it had to protect the bits of its investors, after all. The investors themselves, on the other hoof...

Everything was going according to plan.

The bag that had been left on the counter opened fully. Out of it, a brass trumpet sprang, blasting a single loud note. Everypony jumped, eyes wide and panicked, but the sound had its effect. They slowed down and concentrated on the offending object.

“Okay everypony!” the brown earth pony, still lodged beneath the security guard, screamed. “I have some news for you! But first, would you kindly let me go?”

The guard-pony looked at Money Bags. The manager nodded slowly, seeming to be on the verge of panic herself. She had not moved, nor had she joined the mass of screaming mares, but her face was drained of blood and her hooves trembled slightly. Yet, she wore a look of fierce determination, and was staring down at Planner with venom-filled eyes.

Planner untangled himself, stretching his limbs luxuriously under the collective glare of the ponies. “A pony will die every minute until my demands are met,” he said.

Panic almost settled in once more, and quite a few stallions and mares advanced towards him, muscles bulging and faces red with anger. “Me being dead won’t cure any of you,” he cautioned.

They stopped. He smiled.

Calmly, as if he had all the time in the world, Planner walked to the counter and rifled through his briefcase. A gas mask, black with sharp edges marking a simple cruelty was pulled out, and quickly strapped to his face. His other hoof reached in and pulled out a spray can. The silver can instantly became the centre of attention of everypony in the room, especially Money Bags, whom was staring at the business end of its nozzle.

“The money, now.”

“Ge-get him the bits,” ordered Money Bags, her firm demeanor long gone as she faced the threat of imminent death.

In the office area, a few ponies scurried along. The scraping of the vault door opening screeched across the quiet room. “Hurry up now!” taunted Planner, laughter in his voice.

Another pony began to cough and hack. Ponies around the poor stallion backed away, letting him slump to the ground unaided.

The bits arrived, carried by a breathless stallion who dumped the heavy paper bag on the counter before shying away. Planner’s eyes smiled for him as he moved forwards and placed a hoof on the bag. “Thanks a bun—”

Quick as she could, Money Bags slipped forward, her own hoof slapping down on his and grasping it. They stared each other down.

“Let go, Miss. This wasn’t part of the plan.”

“I need to know why,” she said, her eyes piercing into his. Her hoof lifted off of his, sliding away uselessly as he snatched the bag off the table and threw it into his briefcase. The trumpet was removed to make space.

With deliberately slow steps, Planner walked towards the exit, his now-heavier bag balanced on his back while he held the can aloft, anypony in his way scampering away as the silver device pointed toward them.

He reached the doors and waited.

The lights went off one by one, shutting with booming finality and pitching the room in partial darkness, the only light coming from the doorway. His shadow played across the marble floor as he turned to face them.

“To answer your question, Miss Money Bags: why not?”

The electric locks that held the doors shut failed. They clicked open.


It was odd to the ponies gathered around the bank that day, seeing a lone, mask wearing pony trot out and into view of the dozens and dozens of guards who were gathering there. Odder still, was the large amount of ponies suddenly falling sick around the area.

Ambulances were rushing to and fro the now somber road, carrying with them full loads of unconscious ponies.

When the mask wearing pony began nonchalantly walking down the street, those gathered knew, as if told by some unknown force, that he was somehow responsible. And so, they watched with trepidation, waiting for the guards to swoop in and save the day.

They didn’t. The armed ponies, the fabled protectors of Equestria, simply stood still as the masked pony pulled a small pill bottle out of his briefcase and deposited it on the ground, his eyes smiling.

A cart, a cart supposedly selling delicious pies, started to blast music across the eerily quiet street. It was the anthem of the bank, the jingle that always preceded its advertisements. Painted on the side of the gaudy pie-selling vehicle, was today’s special: a slice of Truth.

As if he had no worries in life, the earth pony trotted over to the cart, deposited his briefcase on top, and began pushing it towards the train station, the eyes of hundreds following his every movement.

The guards too, moved, following him at a respectable distance until he reached the station.

There they waited. The masked pony absently crossing things off on a list he procured from his black case. A train pulled in, one of the older locomotives, its sides sleek and covered in black soot. Its doors opened on rusting hinges to reveal a single empty wagon, right where the masked pony had parked himself.

Ponies poured out of the other wagons and into the awaiting hooves of the guard-ponies, creating a living, breathing barrier.

The train chugged away and down the hill, losing itself amongst the bends and the thick billowing steam.

Later, on that scary and yet odd day, the largest hospital in Canterlot released over a hundred ponies, all of whom were told to take a day off, and keep away from strange flavoured pies.


Edited and Proofread by:
-StapleCactus
-Frederick the Saiyan
-Cpl Hooves
And against his wishes: Your Antagonist