Year Five: Blue, Black, White
Year Five: Blue, Black, White
King Orange shrieked, “What is the meaning of this?!”
The lowly journalist cowered before his royal throne, pressing his muzzle to the carpet. Oh, how the King adored it when they groveled so, sniveling and begging for his mercy. This one was no exception to his rule. King Orange possessed influence far beyond citrus and cobblestone. The Manehatten Times found a place on his chessboard just as well. Journalist’s salaries were meager, leaving their recipients wanting for far more.
His current visitor was one of the luckier Knights. Unlike the others, he waged no war of steel and lead. The trembling stallion was a warrior of words. Pen indeed was mightier than the sword. After all, if it weren’t for this coward and legions of others like him, some ponies might see through his smoke and mirrors.
Crumbling the latest edition of the Times between his forehooves, King Orange stomped towards the sniveling stallion. He towered over him, exhaling hot, wild breath onto the subject’s quivering muzzle. The Master stood in silence, the only noise the rapid rhythm of his enraged breathing.
The journalist willed himself to cease his shivering, making an utter foal of himself. He failed. Though he was one of the top writers on the newspaper staff, securing leads and interviews with wretches and kings easily, in the presence of his true King, he amounted to naught.
Above him, King Orange finally snarled, “Explain this horseshit!”
With a few quick motions, he unfurled the front page of the Times. The newspaper blared these despicable headlines:
“INFILTRATION: CRIME RATE SKYROCKETS IN MANEHATTEN, FIVE YEARS AFTER ROYAL GUARD TAKEOVER”;
“TOURISTS STAYING HOME; CITY’S BEST ATTRACTIONS REPORT RECORD LOW PROFITS”;
“MANEHATTEN YOUTH TURNING TO GANG LIFE AS UNEMPLOYMENT RISES”.
Again, his Master bellowed, “What is the meaning of this?!”
“S-s-sir, I can ex-explain—“
WHAP!
Groaning, the journalist recoiled from the blow, clenching his teeth and keeping his gaze glued to the ground. Across his cheek, a bruise erupted and taunted the lowly writer, mocking his failure. The tattoo near the stallion’s tail testified to his sin. Here he was, a King’s Knight, failing his ruler.
Kings of citrus, cobblestone, and chess do not take too kindly to missed marks and unmet expectations. Neither do they welcome muckrakers, yellow journalists, or a single printed piece of parchment that defies them. Bernie Madhoof was no different.
“Insolent fool! Do you not remember the deal we made, just a few months ago? Do you not remember the terms and conditions of our agreement?!”
“Yes, Masta, yes, I do!”
“Likely story, Mister Journalist!" The King trotted in circles around his desk, a pair of armed guards keeping a close watch on the failed sack of pony-flesh shaking below him. He quickly located a cigar and a box of matches in a desk drawer and lit one aflame. Taking a deep drag of his escape, King Orange looked out his bay window.
The light-tenders awakened to the call of duty and Luna, lighting the street-lamps with haste. The facade of day was beginning to falter and cease, revealing the truth, black as night. Bernie Madhoof’s pawns began to trot, canter, and gallop through the cobblestone, kicking up dust and spurring mischief.
Three years. Three years, and his tattooed pieces amounted to several hundred. Not all of them were mere street-rats. He was the true and ultimate puppetmaster, the stallion behind the curtain. Nopony saw through his smoke and mirrors. Not yet.
The journalist, however, was threatening to bring down the walls, with little more than one trumpeter. Smoke filled his office, choking the least among them. Madhoof smirked, taking great revelry in the stallion’s pitiful coughing. “Do you know, little worm, why your words are so damaging?” Madhoof mocked. “Do you know why I am so angry?”
Stumbling, the stallion mustered, “It’s because—uh! Ah! Masta, I’m so sorry… I’ve been able ta keep the majority o’ dis stuff off the presses, but, it’s startin’ ta get real bad out there! Ponies been hearin’ gunshots every night, an’—“
His Master spun on a bit to face him. He grinned, wicked and vile, the sight of his glistening molars haunting in the rapid fading of Celestia. Cloaked by Luna, the Master possessed no fear. By the light of the moon, his Knights did their work. Their deeds would not come to light under the blanket of stars. Not unless somepony broke his contract.
“You fool. Do you not understand?”
“Understand what, ma King?”
Bernie Madhoof narrowed his eyelids. “All of it is mine.”
The journalist began, “All o’ what is youze, Mas—“
“That is quite enough questioning for today. Guards, seize him.”
Before he could scream for help, two pairs of forehooves engulfed him, one around his mouth, one around his waist. Always a scrawny colt, the journalist was easily lifted by the guards.
The stallion squirmed, kicking his hindhooves desperately, uselessly. A quick unslinging of rifles later, and two black steel barrels caressed his temples, threatening to send him to Tartarus. And to Tartarus he would go, he reasoned, a fool and a sinner both.
His eyes bulged from his skull, shaking his muzzle, pleading urgently and silently for his King’s mercy. A cold blue forehoof raised his chin. A colder snout pressed against his. “You are nothing to me, little Knight. I have hundreds of you, including many on your own staff. You have failed me. You have failed your King.
“Now, it is time for you to pay the King’s Ransom. You, being a stallion, will not get off as easily as the mares. Their fate is quite more… interesting,” King Orange hissed. He backed a few careful hoof-steps away from the prisoner and nodded his command.
The last thing the journalist saw was Bernie Madhoof taking another drag of his cigar.
~
BANG!
“Slinga, get down!”
Boone sought cover behind an overflowing trash can. His timing was perfect, the enemy’s bullet whizzing past his mane. Pressing his back into the garbage can's rain-drenched surface, Boone fumbled with a magazine. After reloading his rifle, he ducked up from his refuge and fired another round.
The bullet ricocheted off a graffiti-painted wall of the alley, widely missing its target. Across from Boone, Card Slinger crouched behind a garbage bin of his own and steadied his pistol in his forehooves. The weapons were among the finest in Equestria, purchased from the deep underground of Manehatten’s black market. The Master’s gold, however, could only bring them so far.
No sum of bits could make them better shots.
“Dammit, Boone! Watch youze back first!” Slinger cursed.
The two Manehatten Kings gritted their teeth and grasped their weapons tightly between their forehooves. Their antagonists—two Manehatten Mafia members—continued their onslaught. Night blanketed and obscured them, sealing the two warring factions away from any bystander’s interruption. Nopony went out in Manehatten at night. Nopony without a loyalty of their own, Kings or Mafia.
Not anymore. Those days of peace were long bygone, replaced with a pure haze of changing alliances and begrudging memberships. Both warring gangs were growing fast in number. Unemployment and poverty forced stallions, mares, and foals to seek other methods of survival. Open sets of forehooves welcomed them—after beating them senselessly in.
Usually, Slinger and Boone would be accompanied by a myriad of their followers. Tonight, however, they’d been caught off-guard, forced to battle their pursuers alone. Left to their own defense, they learned their weaknesses and cursed them both.
Once his gun was reloaded, Card Slinger took a leap of fledgling faith and jumped into the open. He squeezed off two rounds in rapid succession—BOOM! BOOM!—and found Fate fortunate and forgiving.
A Mafia colt crumpled to the cobblestone, freed from his bounds forever by the perfect cylinder between his eyes. Boone whooped and, driven by the small victory, took a shot at the remaining opponent.
He missed. Again.
“Buck!”
Their enemy chuckled, throwing back his mane and returning fire. The Mafia member proved to be a far better shot than his adversaries, sending several shots their way. Boone and Slinger barely dodged the latest rounds. A few coal-black strands of Slinger’s mane fell to the concrete, spurring him to retaliate.
Disregarding all rationality, Slinger stood up on his hindhooves, leaving his cover, and aimed at his opponent. “Dat’s enough o’ youze shit!”
He fired. Again. So did his opponent.
When the haze of gunsmoke cleared, two scumbags lay fallen on the street, crimson staining the gray. They both bore the title of Mafia and black orange tattoos near their tails. Knights fell by Knights, in the sea of gray and red.
Two Manehatten Kings emerged from the shadows and claimed the enemy’s weapons. Two pistols joined their own arsenals, holster secured to their shoulders. Card Slinger scowled, recognizing both of the bastards who’d dared to set sights upon him.
“Dem dirty traitors! These were our colts not too long ‘go, Boone." Slinger shook his muzzle, stomping into the forever-smiling face of one traitor for good measure. Beneath his hindhoof, skull crunched and cracked, sweet music to his pricked ears.
Boone kicked the other colt in the ribs. Like most of his opposition, it crumbled easily in his presence, to his smug, cackling satisfaction. “Heh. Dey ain’t nopony’s colts now, Slinga! Two bastards down! Celestia knows how many mo’ ta go.”
“No matta. Soon, we’ll be the only game in town,” Card Slinger assured. He swept the scene, ensuring that they were alone. No Mafia leapt from the shadows, though a rat scampered from an overturned garbage can. The vermin sniffed the air and scurried towards one of the fallen colts. The rat began to greedily drink up the Mafia member’s blood.
Card Slinger laughed. “Heh, look at dat, Boone. Jus’ what scum like dem deserve. Becomin’ feast fo’ vermin.”
“Haha! What tools! Buck!”
“Indeed. C’mon, ma right-hoof stallion. Let’s go befo’ anypony else comes afta us,” Slinger ordered, beckoning with a wave of his forehooves.
Complying, Boone followed his leader out of the dark, cramped alleyway. He ran a forehoof across the cold walls of the adjacent businesses, noting with glee that most of their gang-tags still remained. Their spray-paint marked their territory, and anypony who dared to cross out their drawings or cover them with their own graffiti made a grave mistake.
This evening’s firefight was preceded by a Mafia slimeball crossing out one of their marks. Slinger and Boone heard the news and sought to investigate. In this alleyway, the scumbags waited—and not just with lead paints. Lead bullets welcomed them.
Slinger’s foalhood signal carried into his adulthood ventures—an Ace and King crossed signified both his presence and Manehatten King territory. Big Slick. Ace and King, crossed. His cutiemark. Him.
Big Slick could never be dishonored. To do so was to invite the wrath of King Crazy himself. His foalhood nickname stuck with him throughout these years along with his tag. Only Boone was privileged enough to know his King’s true name. To everypony else within their growing enterprise, the King of Manehatten Kings was simply “King Crazy.”
While Celestia reigned from on high, the ringleader cozied up in his hideout. Under the blessing of night, he would carve his paths and pick his battles, faithful palomino colt beside him. Then, and only then, did Manehatten know how crazy he’d become.
The two colts continued through the maze of gray and black alleys and buildings. They counted their breaths, listening for the telltale clip-clop of hooves against cobblestone. Minutes stretched into hours as they journeyed, occasionally ducking around trash cans or other cover to peer into the darkness. The Mafia, unlike the Kings, required sleep, it seemed.
Finally, once he could bear the silence no longer, Boone whispered, “Youze think we should do mo’ checks ‘round our turf ta-night? See iffa any mo’ o’ ‘em tried ta—“
Shaking his muzzle in the negative, Slinger said, “Nah. I think we scared ‘em off fo’ now. Only two o’ ‘em dared, an’ dey won’t dare no mo’. No tellin’ what tomorrowa will bring, though. Scum o’ Equestria keeps risin’! Buckin’ Mafia. Don’t dey know enough not ta mess wit’ us?”
Boone scoffed. “I guess not.”
“Whateva. Buck ‘em all. Soon enough, Boone. Soon enough, an’ the city will be ours. No Mafia ta stand in our way,” he declared, puffing out his chest.
His heart contradicted him, still thundering from their firefight in the alleyway. Secretly, Card Slinger’s instincts pointed to everything but certain victory. This would be the third clash of hooves and holsters in a week.
Two years passed since their return to the East and the beast, two years since they’d dove into the ventricles of the city’s icy heart, and a year since they’d been marked as servants of the Master, with no resolution. The Manehatten Mafia countered strong as ever, seizing opportunity and weakness whenever it was found. They battled for bits and boundaries, profit and property. If they were going, they were doing so with a roar and a thunder, a hiss and a howl. War waged and beckoned for further battle.
Another voice within Card Slinger’s mind silenced his fear. Its words brushed away his anxieties, sweeping them under the rug of the past. Despite his past failures, he was still a force to be reckoned with, full of promise and potential and power.
He was Card Slinger, after all, the first to get his cutiemark, the first to be feared on the streets, the first-born Manehatten King. He was a leader. He was a warrior. He was a phoenix rising from the ashes. He was a force of Nature, of Equestria itself. He was judge and jury of Manehatten, sentencing and condemning to his pleasure.
He was a King. The only true King.
As they rounded a corner and journeyed deeper into the maze of high-rise apartment buildings and boarded-up shops, Boone hissed back, “What ‘bout… Madhoof?”
Bernie Madhoof. That name seemed forgotten on the lips of most ponies. Orange Enterprises was barely mentioned in the papers anymore. If it was, it was referred to only by its corporate name—no references to its owner and operator. Bernie Madhoof had become a ghost in the machine of his own creation.
But Card Slinger was no foal. He remembered. He would always remember. And, someday, when his hooves were fast and skillful on the trigger, when he was a strong stallion commandeering a vast empire of his own, he would wage war. In his dreams, he’d achieved victory. In his reality, he chanted this mantra: wait and bide.
Wait and bide. Days, months, years. None of it mattered. In time, he would cross the greatest distance in Manehatten, and trudge back to the Orange Family Mansion. And he would burn it all to the ground. And Madhoof, too.
Reaching their destination at last, both stopped in front of a decrepit shack. Their hideout remained intact and unmarred, untouched by Mafia hooves. Both suppressed cowardly sighs of relief. It was the same hideout of Slinger’s foalhood; to lose it would be to lose a friend more significant than any they would ever know. Luckily, the Mafia either did not know of it, or did not care to attack it. Yet.
Card Slinger ran a forehoof through his mane, easily locating the silver key tucked among his coal-black strands. A few quick rotations of tumbler and strike later, they entered the dim structure and secured the door behind them.
Once inside, Card Slinger turned to his fellow King and best friend, eyebrow raised. “What ‘bout him, Boone?”
Lighting a lamp in the center of the room, its flame slowly illuminating the hideout, Boone danced around his leader’s question. “Well, uh, Slinga… It’s jus’… it’s been almost a year now, an’ youze haven’t done anythin’ ta him. Ain’t we supposed ta be gettin’ him back? Fo’… summat o’ the otha?”
In his ignorance, Boone simply assumed that Madhoof owed Slinger a few favors. The truth was lifetimes away.
Plopping down into a beanbag chair, Slinger first ignored the fool's inquiry, choosing instead to disassemble and clean his weapon. Through the silence, Boone merely sat beside him, fiddling with his own firearm.
After his rifle was clean and intact once more, Slinger snapped back, “We are, Boone! Don’t youze think I would forget summat important like dat. But, we ain’t strong enough yet. We’ll need an entire army ta take him down. An’ besides waitin’ fo’ dat, I’ll be goin’ afta him once I’ve had enough o’ his bits first.”
Boone tore his pupils up from his weapon, meeting his leader’s sight with a smile. “Oh, dat’s right. Didn’t youze say youze got mo’ from him recently?”
“Dat’s right. Lil’ King Orange is quite pleased wit’ us, Boone. An’ he gladly gave me a loan.”
“… Fo’ how much?!”
“Enough,” Slinger assured. “Enough ta light these streets up, enough ta reclaim the drug trade from dem schemin’ Mafia. Enough ta fill our armories an’ arm our membas ta the teeth.
“Enough, fo’ him ta rue the day he marked us.”
~
Casually, King Orange propped his hindhooves on his mahogany, finishing the last of his cigar. A fresh pair of guards replaced those who were “indisposed,” those who were “escorting” his last visitor off his property. This time, two Griffons kept vigilant by his grand doors, carbines crossed and ready.
Soon, there was a gentle knock at those doors. Irritated, the King barked, “Come in!” Under his breath, he muttered, “Motherbucker, when will these petty little interruptions ever stop? I have games to play…”
A tall, white Earth pony stallion with a thick, coal-black mane strode into his throne room. His neck was thick and scarred, testifying to a thousand battles. Muscles rippled and flexed beneath his thick, weathered coat, commanding the attention of the guards. The Griffons tightened their talons around their rifles, eyes darting and wary.
The visitor stared at Bernie Madhoof, unblinking, unwavering.
“And who the hell are you?!” Madhoof snarled, already insulted. The stallion did not fall to his hooves in worship. He merely grinned.
“Do you know who you are smiling at, fool? Do you know who I am?!” Madhoof struck his mahogany with iron forehooves, sending ashes from his ashtray spilling all over the desk.
Snickering, the visitor answered, “I’m surprised youze didn’t recognize me. Surely, youze must see me in the papers—“ he gestured to the crinkled copy of the Times lying on the floor nearby—“o’ at least read ma name.”
“Enough of your riddles! Reveal yourself to me! You surely have said enough to get past my guards, haven’t you? Don’t be such a little pussy and hide your name from me.”
Shaking out his mane, the stallion revealed a hidden object within it. He cradled the item in a forehoof and held it out to the scowling King. Within his grasp, all questions were answered.
“… Chief. To what do I owe this pleasure?” Bernie Madhoof’s scowl morphed into a smirk.
Many of his own Knights donned the Manehatten blue and silver. Now, it appeared that the biggest pawn on that particular side of the chessboard was here in his royal chambers to seek the same honor. With great pleasure, he would mark this one, drilling ink into his deceptively snow-white flesh.
No Chief of Manehatten Police was truly honorable, Madhoof knew. Celestia could only placate and command her guard for so long. Stationed in faraway Canterlot, both the Princess and the Captain of the Royal Guard were blind to many of Manehatten’s day-to-day operations. Their ignorance only amplified and accelerated his game, his victory.
The Chief plopped down on his haunches but did not lower his gaze. King Orange scowled at this disrespect, although he chose not to address it. His guards looked cautiously on, ready to strike if the visitor contained more than just a silver badge within his mane.
Fidgeting with his badge, the Chief replied, “I am heeya ta ask fo’ youze help.”
“Help? Help? HELP?! Ha!” A tidal wave of laughter crashed upon Bernie’s shore, making his sides ache and his jaw throb. He kicked his hindhooves and flailed his hindhooves, knocking paperwork to and ‘fro, filling the office with his cruel chortles.
The Chief repeated, “Yes, help, youze see—“
“Silence!” King Orange held up a forehoof and nudged towards his guards. The Griffons brought their arms to bear, keeping the stallion within their sights. The visitor shut his muzzle and lifted his forehooves in surrender.
Once he had calmed, the King observed, “Ha. You are learning quickly, Chief. Just stay like that.”
The Chief nodded, swallowing his pride.
Bernie Madhoof clasped his forehooves together and leaned across his desk. “So. You want my help. I am suspicious, you must understand. And for good reason. No doubt you have some inkling of who I am, little Chief, and what I do. Surely, you know this, don't you? Speak!”
The Chief nodded and muttered carefully, “Youze are the wealthiest stallion in Manehatten. Youze are the most powerful o’ dem all. Youze offa loans ta those who know, an’ turn away those who don’t, youze glory an’ respect it.”
Each word weighed heavily on his mind, cautiously plucked and spoken, knowing that a single utterance out of line would send him plummeting down to meet his Fate. To a place where his desperation would not matter anymore. He came here reluctantly, though he would not grovel before the Orange King if he could help it.
He feared he had no other option.
“Good. You are not as dense as I would have believed. Tell me, Chief. Tell me. What brings a stallion of your stature to my fine castle? What brings you here, upholder of the law? Defender of the low? One who protects and serves this fine city we inhabit? What brings you here for a loan? Go ahead. Speak.”
The stallion cleared his throat. “Well, sir, uh—“
Bernie barked, “Call me ‘King’ or ‘Master'!"
“Yes, si—I mean, Masta! Yes, Masta. Uh, well, youze see, a few months ago, Princess Celestia started makin' budget cuts ta our department, an'…”
~
A lengthy discussion later, one stallion departed the Orange Family Mansion with a fresh tattoo near his tail and a sack full of golden coins in his forehooves. He knew, in the depths of his heart, that he should have felt naught but guilt, shame, anger, disdain for himself. Instead, all he could think of was the joy and elation of fine threads, fine wine, and fine mares that awaited him. He could trade a little bit of loyalty for those luxuries.
After all, the “Master” spoke only in riddles, waxing poetic about chessboards and puppets. The Chief of Manehatten Police digested very little of his spiel. He reasoned that it must be nothing but philosopher's talk, pretty words and petty meaning. His ears, however, did detect the affirmation of payment, and agreed with haste.
Princess Celestia turned her back on the Manehatten Police Department, choosing instead to finance her own ventures in Canterlot. Her disregard sent the Chief scrambling in panic. Many a fine officer had to be cut from the force, to his dismay. Many more found their hours slashed. An entire department—the Anti-Gang Unit—was reduced to only one detective. He’d had no choice.
However, with this most gracious and generous loan, the Chief believed, soon, the streets would be clean once more. Soon, peace would return to this city he loved so.
But what was this talk of chessboards and puppets?
~
Bernie Madhoof snickered and clapped his forehooves. In an instant, his throne room was secure once more and a fresh glass of orange juice appeared on his mahogany. His twenty-first glass of the day. The final. The ultimate.
He smiled into his glass. There would be no more visitors today. The Chief had been his final clown, his penultimate jester. A long day of business behind him, Bernie Madhoof welcomed relaxation, reveling in today’s successes.
Swiveling in his plush chair, the stallion looked back out his window and to the streets of his city below. Manehatten’s roads, despite their gray shade, made for a perfect chessboard. Over the past three years, he’d acquired great skill in his movements.
His Knights of blood and bullets waged war among the concrete and cobblestone. His Knights of pen and praise ensured that his schemes were kept silent and secret. His Knights of blue and batons watched his streets, only losing them to capture or chaos if needed. Pawns had no necessity for a category of their own. All the pieces were Pawns in the end, small or large, brains or brawn.
Blue, black, white. Three shades in perfect harmony. Both sides of the chessboard were his. There was no opposition; only a few stumbling blocks here and there, pieces that didn’t capture properly or who stood in the way of the others. But they were simple enough to overcome.
No wife or foals to pin him down, King Orange was free. Free to be all that he had dreamt of becoming, since his days in the cabin and his colthood. His father would’ve once been ashamed of him; now, he would be beaming with pride.
Perhaps from above, but there was no “above” or “below”. The only plane of existence that mattered was his, to rule and shape as he saw fit.
Bernie Madhoof grinned, mumbling into his orange juice, “Black goes first.”
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2170039
Perfection for this chapter!!!!
This is one of those intense chapters that just makes me want more. Dammit, you're too good at writing those, I don't know if I have the necessary patience.
Meh, I'll just have to distract myself with my own writing. And yes, "A Seed in the Wind" will be done. It's next on my "to be written" queue, right after this idea that took my over my brain and is refusing to let go until I complete it.
When I think about Slinger, I can't see him as having the kind of ending he wants. This is kind of expected though, him being an antagonist and all. At the same time, I do think he will be the one to kill Bernie Madhoof. Except when he does, Bernie will probably already have been toppled from his throne. I see the scene playing out as Slinger being one of his last Knights after an epic series of events that brought him down. He'll go to Slinger, expecting loyalty, and probably going a little crazy. And while Bernie is (likely) rambling about how he and Slinger will somehow reclaim the city, Slinger will kill him.
But that's a long way down the road. I shouldn't be speculating so far ahead yet, really.
Last thing, I noticed what appears to be a typo:
I tried to figure out how that could be correct, but I came up with nothing. Just a missed word, I suppose. Doesn't detract from the story at all, really. I just didn't want you to look through this some time in the future, see that, and wonder how many people noticed. I've had those moments, they aren't very fun.
Keep up the good work!
-RisingOne
2170128
You deserved it, high flier!
2170156
All I will say is that these "Manehatten chapters" are hurling headlong towards something...whether that something will be seen in here or our final installment remains to be seen.
But it will hit, and it will be big.
Yes! I will patiently wait "A Seed In The Wind".
And in the meantime, I might just have to follow you and check out what else you will/have written.
Slinger/Bernie (moreso than Slinger/Boone or any of his other cronies, who will make appearances later on) have their destinies tied together more than the other realizes.
Thanks for the catch! It was a missed word (supposed to be "fine mares") and I have fixed it.
Thanks, RisingOne!
I hope that head of his explodes from all the power that's going to it...
I'm kinda sure I don't want to know...
...But at the same time, I REALLY do.
2170300
Oh, you will know eventually...it is not that pretty...
Spotted that mistake. I believe you mean the finest, not just fine.
Now this is starting to make me think of Eyes Without A Face, or Paggliacci. That is to say, over the top noir crime stories set in a splendidly realized Manehattan hell-scape only thinly disguised as something approaching civilization. That said, I suspect this story is going to be a lot more refined, with a lot less focus on horrifying the reader in to submission. Either that, or when Severed Roots comes around you're gonna toss your hands in the air and shout 'I do what I want!' and then just pull out all the stops.
What is Severed Roots gonna be like, I wonder. Will it just be a crime action story with a reasonable enough body count, or are you gonna take a sin city look at things and just make it all goofy and fun. I'm kinda hoping for something fairly realistic and gritty, but I'll admit the idea of Babs just cutting loose, going beserk and ripping a hapless army of henchmen limb from limb has its own appeal. But then the gore would probably feel really out of place, especially compared to this and the first story. In any case, I really am looking forward to it.
I know I just spent the entirety of that comment raving about the sequel I haven't seen, but honestly, chapters like this don't feel like part of the story, they feel like teasers for things to come. Awesome things to come.
Also, Bernie Madhoof lives up to his name. That dude is nuts.
2170368
Whoops! Missed my "st". Yup, "finest". Thank you.
I'm glad you are looking forward to it! I won't give away many spoilers (the Slinger/Bernie/Boone chapters have some hints in them, of course) but I will say that there will be a ton of action. Babs will be kicking more than timberwolves or prissy ponies in SR. These chapters are definitely teasers, but they also are aiming towards tying the two storylines together (well, three if you count Libra/Citrus/Braeburn in Appleloosa). And boy...yeah. I'll just leave it at that.
He sure is quite a few cards short of a full deck. A few pieces short of a chessboard.
War is such a fun topic.
2170355
EXCELLENT.
"Flatfoot on the street, rookie on the beat
Looking for the crack spot, trying to hit a jackpot
Have not, want not, gun shot, blough
Dirty cop on the prowl, it's all legal
Fuck karma, chameleon, Irish, Sicilian
Heritage since birth, sold my soul for what it's worth
From London to Perth, Tokyo to Paris
Caught in the Abyss like my name was Ed Harris
Trying to build this palace, my heart's full of malice
My soul's corrupt, I'm about to erupt
Internal investigation's got me facing 25 to life
I'm thinking kids and wife
They cut me up, rough me up, and sweat my connection
Now they got us all under witness protection"
It's not enough. More... I demand MORE!!
2170615
It really is sometimes!
2171083
2171140
Lordz of Brooklyn fits soooooooooooo well for this.
2171287
More you shall receive, my friend!
Sweet Celestia, I'd like to see Bernie try to get the modern NYPD under his control
Still, the plot thickens more and more. Everything is slowly coming together and we have all these corrupted officials and crime bosses...
Sweet
, there better not have a Hearts and Hooves Day Massacre.
Oh, and Bernie do you kiss your mothe- oh right
Well, do you kiss your wi- oh right
Alrighty then, do you kiss your daught- ugghhh of course.
Dang it Bernie, you're making it too easy to bash yourself! It's not as fun anymore.
One other point, is this the only city where the police feel let down by the government?!
Would've thought maybe Ponyville what with it actually being COMPLETELY TAKEN OVER AND YET THE ROYAL GUARD NOT DOING ANYTHING!!!!
2172911
Or the LAPD.
Yes, my friend, the threads are starting to weave together...
Oh lawdy, those attempted insults were just grand.
He is making it quite easy for us to hate him, isn't he? 
You know...I bet the citizens of Ponyville feel let down by Celestia and the Royal Guard. I mean...Nightmare Moon, Discord, parasprites, dragon smoke, Ursa Minor...dammit, maybe
isn't just a meme sometimes!
That orange juice 25.media.tumblr.com/25ef083afd7bf0bd7477070ee03179f3/tumblr_mi8berLwVy1qf4nxzo1_400.gif
It makes you talk like a weirdo
2173333
There's gotta be something* in that Orange Enterprises juice!
fc06.deviantart.net/fs70/i/2011/227/6/2/man_i__m_drunk_let__s_pony_by_tess_27-d46pspe.png
*Author's Note: It isn't alcohol, or Bernie would be dead by now.
2173395Much to my displeasure
2173395Keep it coming though sire, I daresay this is close to replacing tangled roots on my top five!
2173141
returned
Yeah but the one I really can't stand is when
Don't get me wrong, The Magic Duel wasn't bad but Trixie overthrew the government in Ponyville for days!! I can understand Celestia being busy with the Saddle Arabians but she can't be the only one making decisions!!!
Heck, our Government isn't the best but at least if someone attacks America we'll bucking fight back! Where was Luna for example. I hate to say bad things about the pony who doesn't have an emoticon but she needs to do more than just appear in dreams. (She's still a better princess though)
Alrighty then, rant time is now over.
P.S., This story needs more Pinkie Pie. Pinkie or Ditzy/Derpy. Either would be fine. (I'm saying Derpy/Ditzy because I just got interested in Doctor Whooves' Adventures and Doctor Whooves & Assistant)
2173413
Mine as well!
2173423
Really?
Wow...that's awesome to hear, GreatKyn! I hope my remaining chapters continue to please. 
Although, I will say, "Tangled Roots" is what started this all...this, and the final one to come. Hopefully, this and SR will be just as epic.
2173487
Oh man, I totally forgot about that! I guess because "Magic Duel" wasn't among my favorite episodes of this season.
You're right...our government may not be the greatest, but poor Ponyville. How is Mayor Mare still running things? Celestia's basically a demi-god, so c'mon.... 
More Luna would be awesome!
P.S. More Pinkie huh?
We'll have to see about that! 
2173501 Cant wait
Praise the kingdom,
Its crimson streets glistening,
painted by the dead,
The drums of gunfire, guiding
The parade of killers,
mercenaries of greed and bloodlust
Bow to the knight,
proud lance cutting into the sky
His coat of arms;
The scars along his skin,
His code of honor,
Burnt, decimated like all other hopes.
Hail to the king!
The orchestrator of this Hell,
In his satanic glory,
Hideous as the world he's shaped
Lay on your knees,
And pray he knows the word "mercy"
2173673
Cheerilee has analyzed your poem and found that it is:
img-cache.cdn.gaiaonline.com/78ea58d3d262e692fab98e8569a7f131/http://i807.photobucket.com/albums/yy360/HolySylent/awesomepony.png
Awesome!!
Ahhh...the deluded minds of would be tyrants. Another excellent chapter
2176825 Yeah, just from how epic the storyline has been so far, I KNOW I'll love Severed Roots!
2176848
It's what I do best.
2177198
Indeed. Thanks, Shadow_Wolf!
2177455
Oh, you!
I hope you'll like it. 
2179222 Give yourself credit. You have written a VERY entertaining story so far.
2179251
images.wikia.com/mlp/images/archive/0/0d/20120124221321!Applejack_blushing_S2E14.png
Thanks!
2180383 Been a while since I have done that lol
2180468
Lawl
2181011 Good to see you in a good mood tonight.
2181034
Same to you, friend.
2181056 Meh... lets see how long my decent mood lasts...
That shouldn't be there.
3834241
Broken HTML is broken!
Thanks, fixed.
Doesn't too much orange juice make you sick?
I swear I've heard that somewhere...
3904236 No, it just makes you worse if you are already sick, but it's pretty good for kidney problems. (My stepdad went through a kidney transaction a few months ago after battling the problem for a few years, orange juice was always around the house.)
This hits a little harder than it should considering we now seem to have our own "King Orange".