The Runaway Bodyguard

by scifipony

Chapter 29 — Research

Baltimare has a number of city newspapers, but I remembered the discarded one I picked up upon first arriving in the city, The Baltimare Sun. It had more sports pages than news pages, which I'd had no use for, but beggars couldn't be choosers. Now I did care. After fifteen minutes at a trot, I strode into a brick building (no surprise there) under a marque that had Celestia's sun cutie mark as part of the logo. I wasn't going to hold that against them... yet.

A dark brown earth pony sat at the reception desk. I said, "I'd like to speak with the sports editor."

"Who may I tell him is visiting?" He had dark brown eyes and was rotund, probably from sitting all day. He looked like a big chocolate bonbon.

I pulled my race medal from my saddlebags and put the blue ribbon over my head. As the fellow ogled the gold medallion, I said, "The unicorn winner of yesterday's Celestial Race."

The receptionist looked up, blinked when he noticed my nose and eyebrow, then said, "A moment please."

He turned to some horn-shaped device and spoke briefly in a hushed tone. He pointed. "Walk down the hall to the right. Room 107."

"Thanks."

It proved to be a large hall with a high ceiling, Art Neighveau gas lamps, and rows of cubicles. It smelled of ancient bureaucracy and too many lunches consumed at too many desks. I could hear the furious clickity-clackity of numerous typewriters. Another receptionist sat there at a desk that spanned the opening into the room, guarding the lift-up gate entrance to the cubical area that also extended her desk. She was typing. She lifted her reading glasses and pointed to the chairs.

I sat.

A couple minutes later, a familiar face ambled up. The rotund white pegasus with tan spots had a carrot stick wagging in his lips. He saw me. His eyes widened as his wings flared. "Gelding, right?"

"That's right."

He motioned with a wing and said, "Come on back."

I ducked under the desk extension before the receptionist could move. Maybe I was an athlete.

His cubical sported a dark wood desk, obviously a cheap veneer. It was totally scratched up by weird mementos. The rusty dumbbells were only surpassed by a sheet metal model airship with none of the sides ground smooth. A sharp piece of ropy lava sat beside a bunch of pliers and copper wires. A little round basket, half-built, lay next to his typewriter. This was amid piled almanacs, sports rule books, and scrap books with clippings falling out, not to mention an outbox filled with sheaf of unevenly stacked papers. More piles littered his shelves. The one free wall of the pony-height cubical had framed photos of athletes, mostly in uniforms. I quickly spotted a photo of him and Punch Drunk.

I smiled, glancing long enough to read the name plate on his desk. "Cordial Cowherd, I presume?"

"Should I call you Mrs. Gelding?"

He'd heard me first introduced, but I didn't want him to connect me to Starlight or Starbright. "They're calling me Princess Grim, right now."

He swiped away a photo book. Equestria's Greatest thumped to the floor, revealing a wooden chair. "Please sit. Princess Grim is it?"

He found a yellow notepad. He spat out the carrot and replaced it with one of a dozen scattered sharp pencils. The points had probably contributed to the finer scratches in the wood.

He asked around the pencil, "Am I getting an extended interview, today?"

"Well. Maybe you'll get a, um... I don't know the word. Scoop?"

"Go on."

I let my anger bubble back. "Yesterday, you answered a lot of my questions. I'm a newbie to this sports professional thing."

"You said that, and I believe you."

"I have more questions."

"Fire away."

"Prizefights are big business, am I correct?"

He had been looking at me, but had probably been preoccupied by thoughts about why I was here and what he might ask me. With prizefights ringing in his head, he finally saw my face and my wounds registered. He blinked and the pencil fell from his mouth. It stuck point down in the grass-green rug.

As he got up to take a closer look, I pushed off my pink hoodie and lifted my tank top to show him the sealed two hoof-length long cut that ran from my shoulder down onto my withers.

"Tartarus!"

"Is it...? Big business, I mean?"

"Absolutely. Unlike sanctioned sports, most of the bits are distributed between the sports books and the fight promoters. The bigger the draw, the bigger the purse, and the bigger the mountain of bits that get distributed. The constabulary doesn't make a fuss even though organized crime has their hooves in it because everypony's frog gets greased, if you take my meaning."

"I think I do."

"What prevents the sport from going mainstream is the greasing. Let's call it for what it is. Bribery. Various northeastern city gangsters, led reputedly by the Carne Asada Syndicate, make sure that doesn't change. Probably more bits in the fights than any other sport. It's a northeastern thing, really, probably because up here we're all a bit rude, crude and muzzle to muzzle. Everypony loves the fights. Even little old biddies lay bets."

"Mrs. Kale's wife is an über fan, I'm told. Don't write that down."

He had reached for a pencil, but picked up the carrot with his wing.

"Okay." He popped the carrot in his mouth and chewed.

"How much money in the prize purses?"

He thought about it and said figures, the numbers ranging from no name bouts to championship bouts.

I found myself standing.

I forced myself to sit.

"And how much do you think training a fighter costs?"

He spoke some more, referring to a few books he dug out of the pile. He knocked over the stainless steel airship. I righted it, nodding to his words as I did so.

The pegasus asked, "Can I answer any other questions?"

"You've been very informative." I made a point of smiling and swiveling my ears to face him expectantly.

He searched for and found another pencil, not noticing the one still sticking up in the carpet. "So... You said a scoop?"

I grinned. "I KO'd—" I put a hoof to my lips and looked dramatically upward. "I think that's the word. I... KO'd Punch Drunk at the Silver Stream Gym. On West Chester. About, oh, two hours ago."

He broke the lead on the pencil.

I added, "A regulation bout. Private, to the gym at least. Plenty of witnesses. They sent Punch Drunk to Mercy Medical with a concussion."

He got up and peered at me again, examining my nose, my side, my eyebrow. "You got off cheap, I'd say. Punch Drunk is renowned for turning aside any attack and turning your efforts against you." He found a third pencil and jotted further notes.

I nodded. "He took defense training and turned it into a wicked offense."

"I'm guessing you've got an even more wicked evil spell in that horn."

I chuckled and popped out my fancy new shield.

He pressed the blue-green apparitional surface with a wing and his feathers folded back. "That's not much... How did you knock him out?"

"I dropped the shield and whacked him upside the head." I demonstrated, rolling onto my back and batting my hooves. "The dreamboat nearly crushed me landing between my legs."

"Sweet Celestia!" He stood up. "I-I may not quote you verbatim, but...! Can I quickly confirm he's at Mercy Medical? It's not that I don't trust you, but we're going to press in less than an hour and I have to have some corroboration to get this published. This is on the record, right?"

"Of course it is, Mr. Cowherd."

"She knocked out Punch Drunk," he said as he disappeared down the "hallway" created by the cubicles, then said it again.

I stood and shouted. "Use the name Princess Grim!"

I heard a laugh and I chuckled in return. Wasn't it Whistlebutt who'd implied all PR was good?

Author's Note:

ANNOUCEMENT: Please give my new pre-reader some applause: Javarod

Next: Starlight uses hardball negotiation tactics, but misses it when somepony uses them on her in return.

PUBLICATION NOTE: Chapters 29 and 30 were published at the same time. Keep reading if you are one of the my faithful readers reading during serialization.

Comments

[dystopia8]

I fell waaay behind on this fic. Time to catch up! This chapter was great btw.