An investigative reporter finds himself embroiled in the Baltimare weapons trade while covering a Daring Do convention.
Price Back, intrepid reporter for the Equestrian Grazzette, doesn't want to be in Baltimare. Nor does he want to be stuck in the Convention Center, covering a Daring Do convention with a bunch of obsessed weirdos collecting action figures and suggestive artwork. He's a stallion made for big stories, and there are none around ponies dressed up in strange costumes.
But he soon finds there is a story brewing in Baltimare. One of mysterious authors, notorious gangsters, and weapons of mass destruction. It's a story many reporters would die to get... and Price just might.
Takes place a few months after the MLP Movie.
Technically a sequel to the Price Back character's story in the OC Slamjam Round 2 (the entry by Price Back's author a.k.a. Me), but it's not necessary to read to understand this story. The character Lilligold mentioned in the first few chapters was created by ArgonMatrix.
The words came to Price Back while he stared out the rushing train window. The lush green forests of Trottington had begun to fade away, now peppered with the half-rotted suburban structures sitting on Baltimare’s edge.
Price gave a look of firm disgust. At least Trottington has some neat sights, he thought. You’re lucky to find a well-trimmed bush in Baltimare.
He turned back to the aisle of his train car, looking at the other passengers who’d decided Baltimare was the place to be. Across from him sat an orange-haired mare with glasses and a low-hanging mane. A colt sat on the floor in front of her, bopping his toys together with a thop-thop noise.
“Gerg-boom!” the tot squealed ad infinitum. The noise made Price shrink deeper into his seat.
I don’t think there’s a legal way to throw him out of the train, Price thought, tearing a tissue into pieces and rolling them into rods. Crumpled tissues are easier anyway. Stuffing the paper into his ears, he saw a trio of young mares sitting a few rows back. They all had loose manes, and their faces all shone with a playful youth to rival the young tyke’s.
“I can’t believe Tender Heart is going to be there,” one squealed as softly as possible.
“I know!” another chimed. “He’s such a cutie! I hope he’s giving out autographs after the show!”
“Excuse me,” a voice called out. Price turned to find a white mare with a yellow mane looking expectantly at him. “Would you like anything?”
Lots of things, Price wanted to say. Like getting out of this miserable assignment. Such thoughts remained thoughts, and he just shook his head. “No, thanks,” he said.
“Alright,” she said with a smile before continuing down the aisle.
Nice effort, Price thought. But I could see the disinterest in your eyes.
He turned back to the window. Now the trees were nearly extinct, the metropolis filled with homes and high-rises choking the skyline. The once clear air seemed to have slight mugginess accentuated by the blistering heat shimmering in Celestia’s sun. Price could just make out the ponies now appearing below the train’s elevated track, scattering around like ants under a magnifying glass.
The sight soon became dull, and Price rummaged through his pack for something to cure his boredom. The usual dreck presented itself: an unfinished opening paragraph for the Giant Manta attack in Neighami, a roll of picture film needing a brush-up before he sent them in, filling the word count requirement on the Grazzette’s employee bios. But he soon found couldn’t do it on the train, where trolley cart mares and chattering children ran around unimpeded.
Price sat back and sighed. Why’d she send me? he thought. Fillymore usually covers this kind of stuff. I’m supposed to be doing the big scoops. Of course he knew perfectly why. After his experience with Lilligold back at the wedding, Manewell had gotten it into her mind that Price was willing to go to more “social” gatherings.
Never mind it was just one party after several glasses of champagne and with one very particular mare, he grumbled inwardly. Out of options, he sat back and dragged out the letter.
Dear Price,
I’m happy to hear that you’re covering the corruption story down in Detrot so concisely, and I applaud you for your hard work. However, I’ve noticed as of late that you’ve been a little more impersonal than usual.
Price scoffed. Implying I’ve ever been personal.
The letter continued: Being a reporter often requires one to be in several social situations, even if you don’t want to. Because of this, I’m sending you on an assignment that I think will get you more ‘in the groove’ with different kinds of ponies. Enclosed is a train ticket to Baltimare and a reservation at the premiere Hotel LeTrot. A Daring Do convention is being held across the street that I wish for you to cover.
Daring Do, Price groaned. Snowflake never shut up about her back home.
Conventions are where a lot of different kinds ponies meet, the letter droned on, so I think it’d be a good location for you to stretch your social muscles. Try to cut loose and have a little bit of fun (even if you are allergic to it). All I expect from you is a little fluff piece about the attendees. You might see a few wierdos here and there, but keep it mostly positive. A lot of readers are Daring Do fans, and we don’t need any bad publicity.
Cheers and have fun!
Manewell, Editor-In-Chief, Equestrian Grazzette
Ah, publicity, Price thought. Some worship Celestia, others Luna. Manewell is the only one I know of who worships Publicity, the all-seeing and all-judging God that decides the Grazzette’s future nine out of ten times. He put a hoof to his nose. How the hay does she ever convince me to go to these things? Must be some kind of magic that allows her to run that publication all across Equestria.
Of course he knew it wasn’t magic. Manewell was the only publisher that had even given him a chance in this business. Acerbic ponies like him didn’t get far in the journalism business, for as Manewell said, ponies like talking to ponies they can at least pretend to like. With his disposition, he was surprised he was even allowed to walk up the front steps of the Grazzette. So this trip was more about job security. Manewell was friendly and cheerful, but Celestia help you if you ruined her paper’s reputation. Publicity was a God that punished all who got on her bad side, and Her prophet Manewell was more than willing to make public sacrifices.
Price looked back down the aisle. The cranky kid had quieted down now, largely from the huge bottle his mother stuck in his mouth. The trio of mares had similarly quieted their giggles and squeals of delight to read some pop magazines no mare over thirty touched. Nowhere did the trolley mare trot, having disappeared into some other car.
Price closed his eyes and thought back to the wedding. Lilligold. Lilligold. The name was on his lips well into the station.
The hotel indeed seemed as top-notch as Manewell claimed. The floors were covered with golden tiles, and a crystal chandelier hung from the multi-floored ceiling. The two features combined gave the hotel an almost circuitous glow. A small fountain sat in the lobby’s center, spurts of water shooting out the center and landing amongst a flock of ducks swimming around the aquatic structure. It was what ponies called “high class”, something Price didn’t anticipate in the convention center across the street.
The room itself was nothing to sneeze at either. A bed covered in a floral sheet took up a quarter of the room, while a large writing desk took up another. The carpeting consisted of a strange hue of brown, stuck somewhere between caramel and rust. The bathroom was almost as large as the room, with more bottles of shampoo and conditioners than Price knew existed. There was even a bidet shimmering in the bathroom light and fully prepped for the next flank.
Price walked over to the desk and put his bags down, then flopped on the bed with a satisfied sigh. Well, at least the room won’t be too bad, he thought. Haven’t kicked it in a place like this since the wedding.
The wedding. Back with her.
The name returned to his mind, as did her sweet green eyes and quiet demeanor. She was probably the only pony other than Manewell who didn’t drive him insane with every other word that came out her mouth. Then again, Lilligold didn’t speak much period, which was even better. Ponies who had to talk a lot to explain themselves never appealed to Price.
A gentle grumble filled the air, and Price looked down at his stomach.
Well, I guess it is about time, he thought. I haven’t eaten since morning, and the things they serve on train rides never sit well with me. He sat up, made his way to the desk, and threw his sack around his back. Might as well take care of a few chores while I’m out there.
With that, he was out the door.
The lunch Price received from “Prairie Wind’s Potatoes” had been perfectly adequate. It was the special recipe of some local yokel who proclaimed his mashed potatoes to be the best this side of Equestria. They weren’t, but Prince wasn’t in the mood to call this to attention. Lousy salesmareship didn’t concern him, but the oncoming deadline for his convention piece did.
He wandered out onto the street and toward a nearby camera shop where he bought more film. The cashier was a strange fellow, a rough-faced stallion in a turban who looked at Price as if he was some thief who would swipe his goods any second. Price left the second he got his film, if only so that the stallion’s tangerine eyes didn’t stare at him much longer.
Well, everything that needs to be done has been done, Price thought to himself. Might as well find something to do until evening. He looked up and down the street, desperate for anything to take his mind off the weekend-long wincing he’d initiate tomorrow.
Then he saw it. A large brick building with green and browns filling the windows and a name hanging above the doors in big, bold, beautiful white lettering:
Barns and Nuzzle Bookstore
What little emotion hid within Price’s breast flared, and he began to enthusiastically trot towards the blaring sign. A wide beam appeared on his face, hidden only by the slight downward angle Price held his head.
Nothing a little reading couldn’t fix, he thought, entering the bookstore the same way a holy mare enters a temple. A mild green covered the whole store, from the carpets to the walls to even the bookshelves. Faint flourishes of tan wood peppered the store, either in wall linings or the tables and bookshelves holding the books. The overall mood radiated one of peace Price had welcomed ever since he was a child, desperate to get away from the ruckus of his siblings and the future plans his parents tried to force him into. He made his way through the store, zipping by the Colt and Filly Section with its small stage for public reading and cutesy pictures of smiling ponies.
I need to find the Modernist section, Price thought. There’s a Hoofingway novel that I need to gl-
Whoomf!
Price stumbled to the ground, falling over his rump onto his back.
“Hey!” he yelled. He looked up to see a young mare, whose purple mane looked disheveled and her coat grungy from some struggle. Her eyes seemed to go wide upon seeing Price, though whether in surprise or fear Price couldn’t tell.
“S-Sorry!” she said before dashing off. She zipped between a few rows and disappeared out the doors almost as fast as she’d appeared. Price sat back up and began to dust himself off.
“Are you okay, sir?” a voice said behind him. He saw a brown mare with a black mane behind him. She wore a green vest with a “Hi, I’m Sunny Side” nametag posted on her chest.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Price grumbled. “Just a collision.”
“Well, she seemed alright too,” Sunny said, motioning toward the doors. “Wonder what she was in a rush for.”
Price shrugged and walked on. The mare fell from his mind upon the Modernist section coming into sight, as well as his desired book: The Sun Always Rises. He sat down and read it for a while, before he caved in and bought it for the full price. All the good Hoofingway books were too good to put down.
The next morning consisted of registration and the unlimited self-loathing Price Back felt having to cover a Daring Do convention instead of investigating a worthwhile story. The former was easier to deal with. The sign-in hall sat shunted away in the Baltimare Convention Center’s basement, as if admittance to the convention was akin to speakeasies from forgotten times. Even the registrars seemed to give him pitiable looks upon seeing his trimmed mane and hesitant steps towards the registration booth.
Poor fellow, their eyes seemed to say. Stuck here doing puff pieces and comingling with nerds who took a fantasy series too seriously.
I don’t need your pity, Price thought back. Just the badge. They obliged him, and he slunk off topside for his latest misadventure.
Upstairs, he found himself in an entrance line that seemed to stretch around the street corner and past the Convention Center itself. The summer heat made the waiting particularly strenuous, with the concrete and bricks absorbing Celestia’s rays all the more efficiently. Only the occasional tree or awkwardly placed modern art sculpture managed to provide shade and make the sweat ink down Price’s head a little slower.
Eventually the line thinned and Price found himself at the line’s conclusion. He caught the gaze of the large stallion standing by the doors, a yellow-furred figure with an auburn mane. His grey T-Shirt displayed the words EVENT SECURITY across his chest, the words pulsating as if ready to rip apart at a single flex. His nametag read “Tough Talk”, the letters written in fanciful cursive.
Price couldn’t help but sweat a little harder when the behemoth beckoned him forward and scanned him head to hoof. A matter of moments felt like an eternity in the Baltimare heat and Tough’s unrelenting gaze. But his eyes stopped at Price’s chest, where the bright red badge hung from his neck. Tough jerked his head backwards and motioned for the next pony. Price shuffled past, wiping his brow in the now air conditioned atmosphere.
At least this place doesn’t skimp on security, he thought. I’d hate to be somepony causing trouble around here.
The Convention Center itself was one of those places that stood as the ultimate representation of blandness. The halls were white, the walls tan, and the carpet a bland mish-mash of various dark blue shapes. Even the front-entrance pillars sat in such neat and unassuming positions that there was no risk of the architect’s personality sneaking through their structures. It was a place made to have as little personality as possible, a perfect camping ground for a hundred different groups on a hundred different days.
Indeed, the only thing giving the place any sort of personality now was the inhabitants. Ponies wandered by Price in dresses and suits, all in clashing colors that reflected brilliantly off of the hall’s dim hues. Strange outfits, the likes of which Price had only seen in the cinemas, adorned every other individual, whose terrible fashion seemed to outdo the next in gross succession. One particularly pudgy and sweaty fellow seemed to be dressed as some kind of large purple cat, his costume seeming just able to keep his rolls of fat from spilling out.
Great, Price thought, scrunching his nose at the body odor emanating off a passing stallion. I get the one with all the weirdos. This’ll be a blast.
For the next few hours, Price wandered between each panel room, listening to the speakers before creeping out to the next one. Each room shared the same jungle theme, with vines and potted plants stuck around the stages and the presenters wearing adventurer’s garb. Every audience stared up mystified and intrigued at their words, save the light brown pony in the back doing his best not to yawn and scribbling into a notebook.
Sweet Celestia, he grumbled, wandering out of the ‘Literary Love: Finding Your Special Somepony through Daring Do’ panel. It’d been Price’s fourth panel of the day after ‘Adventurous Costume Design’, ‘The Role of Magic in Daring Do’, and ‘Canon or Fanon: The EDW Daring Do Comics’. I stick around here any longer, I won’t even have enough brain cells to write the damn piece, he thought.
Price wandered back towards the Convention Center’s entrance, past the still vigilant Tough Talk and over to the stairs leading up to the Center’s second story. In one of his many fits of boredom through the morning, Price found himself reading the con’s program about the so-called ‘Secret Spots’ located throughout the Convention Center. The brochure promised these places as quiet layabouts for the overextended congoer in need of relaxation.
How it’s a secret if everypony can read about it is a conundrum, Price thought. But no matter. I need a little quiet, just so I don’t have to hear somepony gush about the Forbidden City of Cirrostrata for five whole minutes.
Past the stairs, Price turned the corner and stopped in his tracks. A small area sat between the glass windows and the stairs, the former showing the Baltimare streets stretching far into the west. The hideaway wasn’t too cramped, just wide enough to fit a few ponies without too much squeezing, and it hosted a long bench along the stair side.
But it was who was on the bench that caught Price’s interest. A mare in a grey cloche and purple shawl sat lopsided upon the far end, her eyes scanning over the convention guide through red-rimmed glasses. Her legs stretched over half the bench and her head propped up in her hoof. The mare soon glanced up, and Price’s face turned a light red.
“Sorry,” he said. “Thought this place was empty.”
The mare gave a small smirk. “Same reason I came over here.”
“Alright then,” Price said, walking backwards.
“Where are you going?” she chuckled. “I don’t own this spot.”
“Didn’t you want to be alone?”
“Yeah, but you said you wanted to be alone too. We can be alone together.”
“That…seems self-defeating.”
“Well, you can sit here if you like,” she huffed. “That’s all I’m saying.” She went back to the program and shifted her sitting position to take up less space. Price looked back at the convention hall and the bodies flowing through it in chaotic tandem. Shaking his head, he took the opposite side of the bench and took out To Hoof and Hoof Not. He soon found himself enveloped in the prose, but he could tell the mare’s eyes still focused on him.
“I’m getting the vague feeling you want to talk about something,” Price sighed, dropping the book to his chest.
“Clever fellow,” she said. “Definitely the traits of a reporter.”
Price’s eyes narrowed. “How did yo-?”
“Your badge,” she said, pointing at his chest. “Only the press get the red ones.”
“Oh,” he said, looking down at the badge to hide his embarrassed face. “I’m Price Back. The Equestrian Grazzette.”
“You in the Travel Department?”
“I wish,” Price chuckled. “They get better pay. No, I was put here because my boss has got it in her mind I’m some kind of social butterfly. Thinks I will become everypony’s friend with a little prompting.”
The mare nodded. “I remember when my parents did the same thing. Put me in the Filly Scouts and all those other afterschool activities. But I just wanted to travel and write all by myself.”
“I guess we have that in common,” Price chuckled. “I wander town to town for stories. Not the easiest existence, but it keeps me going.”
“Sure thing. You said you were with the Grazzette?”
“Yep.”
She chuckled. “My parents read the Grazzette when I was little. Sometimes I snuck a peek every now and then.” She shook her head as if she’d been in a trance. “But nothing particularly grabbed me. I’m a fiction writer, after all.”
Price shrugged. “To each their own. Though I write fiction too sometimes. Mostly when there’s no scandals or interesting stories to grab. It’s nice for relaxing, but I prefer the factual stuff. Nonfiction tends to be just as exciting as fiction, if not more.”
Another chuckle escaped her. “I’d have to agree with you there. I’ve experienced plenty of things that seem more fantastic than what any novel could dream up.”
“Miss Yearling?” a voice said. Price saw a small mare with a green Mohawk and bright yellow vest standing at the alcove’s entrance. “The next panel’s ready for you.”
Price looked back at her, his eyes wide and jaw slightly ajar. “Yearling? A.K. Yearling?”
The mare gave an immense grin. “Guilty as charged.”
“Huh,” Price said, an amused smile creeping across his face. “Didn’t think I’d be talking with the guest of honor.”
Yearling laughed, gathering up her things. “That’s why you look at the author picture when you read the book.”
“I’ve, uh…never read any of your books.”
She gave a look of faux-outrage. “Guess we’d better fix that then.” She took a quill out of her bag and scribbled onto something. She handed Price a book open to the title page: Daring Do and the Marked Thief of Marapore. A thick signature sat beneath the title.
“It’s one of the first in the series,” Yearling said with a smile. “Good for new readers.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Yearling passed by and began walking with the summoning mare. Price tapped his hoof on his knee, then stood up.
“I know it’s a bit sudden, but is there any chance of an interview later in the con?” he called out.
“Look at the schedule,” Yearling called back, not even turning around. “Any time between my panels…well, you know where to find me.”
Price gave a light scoff. He looked back down at the book, then put in his pack.
Just another weird experience, he thought, a slight smile inching along his face. Maybe this trip won’t be too bad.
After another hour of panels duller than dishwater, Price wandered back onto the muggy street. The cabbies rushed by in their carts and the numerous ponies gathering street-side shouted for their attention. A distinct aroma of trash and dirt flew up in the air with each rushing pony. Price wiped his brow; the heat hadn’t stopped rising in Baltimare.
Better get something to eat, he thought. I don’t think I can stand the rest of this con without something in my belly.
He walked across the street back to the hotel and over to the restaurant sitting nearby. The front sign read “Rosie’s Sandwich Shop”, a neon rose with a smiley face flashing in the afternoon. Price walked inside and was soon greeted by the sight of various flowers hanging around the lily-colored walls. Mirrors filled the whole restaurant, as if to make the light shining through the windows even more brilliant.
A waitress walked up to Price, a smile on her face. “Welcome to Rosie’s Sandwich Shop. Only one?” she said.
“Yeah,” Price said.
“Follow me,” she said, heading off toward the back of the restaurant. Price dutifully followed, trying to ignore the growling from his stomach. They eventually came to a two pony table, and he sat down while the waitress headed off to the kitchen. He opened the menu and glanced at the entrée list surrounded by painted flowers.
Daisy sandwiches, tulip sandwiches, he recited in his mind. There’s more sandwiches here than Daring Do readers over there.
Just then, a vague sensation that he wasn’t alone came across him. He looked up and saw somepony sitting across from him. It was a tan mare with heavy eyes and a disheveled purple mane, two large bags clenched between her legs.
The mare from Barns and Nuzzle, Price thought.
“What’re you-?” He felt a swift kick to his leg and grit his teeth.
“Be quiet!” she hissed. She glanced around the restaurant, looking every way her head could turn. “You’re that reporter, right? The one from the Grazzette?”
“Yes,” he said, rubbing his leg. “What do you want?”
“Something big is happening tonight, at this address.” She took an envelope from out of her purse and slid it over to Price. “You need to be there.”
“Why? What’s going on?” Price’s voice seemed more curious than angry now.
“The criminal Johnny Trottelli is going to be doing a deal there. Something illicit, I don’t know what.”
Price’s face fell, and he pushed the envelope to her. “Sounds like something for the police. Go bug them.”
“No, no, no,” she sputtered, pushing the envelope back. “You don’t understand. Trottelli owns everypony in Baltimare, cops included. They’d just ignore it or throw me in jail instead. Or worse…” She shivered a little and stared at Price with pleading eyes.
“Look…” Price said, shoulders sagging. “I’m a reporter, not a police officer. I’m not qualified to handle this kind of thing.”
She dug around her bag again, pulling out a newspaper she then shoved into Price’s face.
“You were the one that broke that Detrot story, right? The one about the Concilmare poisoning the water?”
Price didn’t have to be told. The picture of Councilmare Hemlock being walked out of court reminded him quite fast. The headline itself was a dead giveaway: CROOKED COUNCILMARE ARRESTED IN LEAD WATER CONTROVERSY. And underneath it, a barely visible byline: STORY BY PRICE BACK.
Price sighed and nodded. “Yes, that was me. But that was political corruption, not something with the mob like this Trottelli fellow.”
“Look…” she glanced around nervously once more. “I can’t trust anypony here. I don’t know who’s working for Johnny or not. I need somepony from the outside to help me.”
“That why you ran over me at Barnes and Nuzzle? To rope me into all of this?”
“No. I was trying to look for some information about Trottelli’s money laundering racket, but had to duck out fast. The fact we ran into each other was pure luck.” She leaned forward with serious eyes. “And I do think it was luck that dropped you here, Mr. Back. Somepony with your experience being right here, right now is just what the city needs to stop Trottelli.”
Price folded up the menu and stood up. “Look, lady, I’m busy already, and this sounds like something way over both our heads. Just go to some P.I. or contact a government-”
She slammed one of the bags on the table. Price didn’t have to hear the rattle to know it was stuffed with bits.
“I’ll pay you 5,000 bits right now, and 15,000 after you do find out what he’s doing. I can pay more if you want.”
Price paused. Money had never been an especially alluring object to him, given how he grew up with plenty back in Canterlot. But the fact this frightened mare was desperate enough to throw so much at him screamed something big was going on.
Besides, he thought, the convention’s a drag. A filler assignment some rookie in the Travel section should be doing. If I can do some real reporting and get more dough than Manewell ever coughs up, I’m willing to drop Yearling’s ilk and score something big.
He sat back down. “Alright, I’ll do it.”
She breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” she said. “Now I’ve got to go. I can’t let them see me with you.” She tapped the envelope. “Be at that address with a camera by ten o’clock tonight.”
“Okay. How do I find you again?”
The mare bit her lip, then said: “Go to the Grand Acres Building downtown. Ask them for Sugar and they’ll let you in.” With that, she quickly hurried out of the restaurant and disappeared into the street.
She could be lying, Price thought. Could be a wild goose chase that she’s just doing for kicks. Orworse, she could be working for some schmuck I busted way back when, luring me into a trap.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Possible, but unlikely.
Price looked down at the bag of bits, then at his menu. A particular sandwich caught his eye: The Veggie Delight. “Stuffed with every kind of lean green you can think of!” the menu announced. His stomach gave an approving growl.
The address, 204 Spring Graze Avenue, looked like most abandoned warehouses did: Big and dark. The large windows on its sides were shattered, the victims of listless and down-on-their-luck ponies throwing rocks through them. A few rats could be heard slinking down the alleyways, squeaking and shuffling in the darkness.
Ugh, Price thought. I’m already starting to regret this. But he kept walking to the alleyway beside the warehouse. He looked down at the camera wrapped around his neck where the convention badge once hung. He lifted it up into the streetlights, peering at the settings scrawled onto its top. The most important was Flash, now switched to OFF.
Good, Price thought. Last thing I need is to tip off-
RRRRRR-RRRRR!
Price ducked further into the alleyway. He knew the sounds of wagon carts like the back of his hoof. He watched as a series of shadows crossed the adjacent building, portraying a group of stallions pulling an especially big cart. He heard the doors open and shut, seeing the silhouettes of numerous ponies creeping out of the contraption and toward the warehouse. The metal doors screeched open.
“Is he here yet?” a low voice growled.
“Not yet, boss. But he will be,” another responded.
“Better be. I don’t want to be late for my date.”
The doors closed with a thunk, and Price snuck a peek around the corner. Only one pony stood by the cart, a bored looking fellow in rusty shoes and a beaten down handkerchief. Price turned back toward the ally. He saw a large pile of pine boxes stacked next to the windows.
Perfect, he thought. He began to climb them, careful to place his hooves in the right positions and tread as softly as possible. The progress was slow, but he eventually reached the top box. It was just below the window, so he stood on his back hooves to look into the place. A small foldout table sat in the middle of the room, with four ponies playing cards with each other. One wore a fancy red hat and sported a fancy blue outfit far more extravagant than his cohorts.
Johnny Trottelli, no doubt, Price thought. Just the stallion I wanted to see. He lifted the camera and took a quick snapshot. The rest of the gang appeared to have the same slick-backed mane upon their heads and blue jackets.
Bang, bang, bang! The door knocks reverberated throughout the warehouse. One stallion got up from the card game and wandered to the doors while the others stayed near their cards. The doors opened and a large stallion with a bombastic beard filling his face entered. His grey jacket made small swishes in the air with each step he took.
“Hey, Johnny,” he said, flashing a small grin. “Long time no see.”
“Mmm,” Johnny mumbled. “I’m sure there’s a reason for that.”
“Indeed. But our little turf war last spring isn’t important right now. You want the product, yes?”
Johnny nodded. The large stallion clopped his hooves, and two stallions in matching grey jackets came inside with a box on their back. They dropped the container at Johnny’s feet and opened it. Price put the camera to his eye and snapped a picture, then hit the Zoom button. He could just make out a series of emerald spheres within the box, various colors shifting about within their glass containers.
“Pure obsidian,” the large stallion said. “Leftovers from that clown the Storm King. Apparently had a few of them stashed away in a location I’m not at liberty to disclose.” He picked one of them up, holding it carefully in both his hooves. “Powerful little suckers. Friend of mine was at Canterlot when Tempest Shadow used these on the Princesses. Says they went down faster than any knockout spell he’d seen.”
Johnny nodded. “Impressive. Now how much do you want for them?”
The large stallion shrugged. “Depends. How bad do you want them?”
Price snapped another picture. This really is big, he thought.
“Don’t play games, Vice. How much do you want?”
Vice walked around a little bit, rubbing his whiskers in mocking display. “Mmm…I’d say about 500,000 bits per orb.”
“What?!” cried one of Johnny’s lackeys. “That’s more than we make in a month!”
Johnny waved his hoof dismissively. “Sure, whatever. We’ve got enough dough.”
Price snapped another picture. Boy, this is going to be so-
Just then, the box beneath him wavered. Price boggled for a moment, twisting every way he could to stay balanced. The box’s sides soon gave way and he found himself crashing down each box to the ground.
“The hay was that?!” the lackey yelled.
“Somepony’s here!” Vice hollered. “You set us up!”
“What?! No!” Johnny said. “Sock, Morrow! Go check that out!”
Price just managed to get up when he heard hooves beating around the side of the building. He flung himself up and stumbled further down the alleyway.
“Hey, you!” he heard a rough voice say. “Come here!”
Price picked up the pace, running as fast as he could to the other side of the warehouse. He could hear their hoofbeats coming behind him, a loud gadda-lump, gadda-lump, gadda-lump ringing out through the alley. He soon picked up the pace, throwing himself forward with all his might.
He burst onto the next street, and his eyes shot up and down the street. A few buildings down, he could just make out a lollygagging taxi and its bulky driver.
“Hey!” he shouted, dashing towards the taxi.
The taxi driver lifted his head up as if just awakened. “What, what?” he groaned.
“I need a ride!” Price hollered, leaping up into the taxi.
“A-Okay,” the large stallion said. He reared up his legs and began running down the street. Price glanced behind, catching the two goons running out into the street just as they pulled away. They clung too close to the darkness to visualize clearly, but Price could still see their jackets flapping in the rushing air. They tried to run after them for a few moments, but soon gave up as the cabbie began to pick up speed.
“Say, where are you going, mister?” the stallion yelled over his shoulder.
“Drop me off at the Convention Center,” Price said between pants. He looked down at the camera, then back where the warehouse had been.
Well, I got what I wanted, he thought. Now I need to make sure I don’t end up in some ditch.
Price could barely get a wink of sleep that night. Despite the ornate furnishings surrounding him and the clear night giving him all the physical peace he could want, he couldn’t stop his mind from racing.
Obsidian orbs, right here in Baltimare! he thought. He shivered at the thought. He hadn’t been at the Friendship Festival, but he’d heard enough about obsidian: Little glass balls that could turn ponies as powerful as the Princesses into solid stone. It was the kind of thing ponies had nightmares about, and it would soon be loose on Baltimare’s streets.
I’ve got to alert somepony, he thought. Local police? Even if they’re corrupt, surely they’d be unwilling to overlook weapons like that. He shook his head. No way. If Sugar was right about them, they’d throw me to Johnny the first chance they got.
Some city official, maybe? No dice. Baltimare is a twin city of Detrot. The city council probably have just as much dirty laundry as Hemlock did. And I doubt they’d be willing to help somepony who might try to bring them down someday.
He tossed and turned for a long time, and it was only with the light streaming through the curtains that he realized dawn had already come. He pulled the room service cord on the wall and rubbed his eyes.
I should be at the convention now, he thought. But how can I go back? This is the biggest weapons deal since those Artifacts of Discord got loose three years ago! I’m sure Manewell will excuse me for-
A loud knock rung throughout the room. Price started for the door, his stomach already grumbling at the idea of breakfast. His hoof was on the door latch when he stopped. Another knock came, and he peered through the peephole.
His eyes widened. A stallion with a slick-backed hairdo stood out in the hallway, a piece of brass tied to his hoof.
Damn it! Price thought. I should’ve told the cabbie to drop me off somewhere else. Trottelli probably bribed him to find out where-
“Hey, room service!” the stallion hollered. “Got your breakfast! It’s gonna get cold if you dilly-dally!”
“Be right there!” Price called out, then slammed the door’s lockbolt into place.
“Hey!” the goon yelled. Price took off toward the window, grabbing the camera and his bag while the stallion kicked the door. “Come out here, you little punk! You can’t escape me!”
Au contraire, Price thought, opening the window. He leaped onto the fire escape and raced downstairs. When he was about halfway down, he looked up and saw the same goon rushing after him.
“Get back here!” he shouted.
Price picked up his pace and was soon in the alleyway. He began running north, only to see another goon pop out from a side door.
“No place to run,” he said calmly. “Now give up.”
Price turned and ran the other direction. He heard the fire escape clank as the first lackey jumped off, his hoofbeats joining his comrade’s after the reporter. Price burst into the street, dodging between various taxis and carts zooming by.
“Hey, watch it!” a mare in a fur coat shouted from a passing taxi.
Price didn’t even shoot her an apologetic glance. He had only one thought on his mind: safety, by any means necessary. The goons followed him in the street, they too dodging the traffic flowing past them. Price could practically feel their hot breath on his neck and his own heart pounding louder than any cart barreling around him.
Damn it! Price thought. I need to duck in somewhere and-
Just then, he saw the Convention Center standing across the street. Tough Talk stood motionless, staring out at Price and the lackeys like they were distant animals in a zoo.
Of course! Price thought. Jumping on the sidewalk, he ripped his press pass from his bag and waved it feverishly. Tough Talk barely even acknowledged his frantic motions, waving him in with a tiny flick of his wrist.
Price ran to the stairs and around the corner. He peeked out to see Sock and Marrow still racing towards the door. Their teeth were gritted in unrestrained rage, and Price could hear their stomping hooves echoing on the sidewalk.
“Get back here, you-!” Sock didn’t finish the words, as Tough Talk’s raised leg clotheslined him and sent him flying to the ground. Morrow came to a stop just before his colleague and right into Tough’s disapproving glare. Tough lifted his hoof and wagged it in both their faces, a restrained pleasure on his face.
Price grinned. Tough Talk’s earned his pay for today, he thought. I’m safe for now, but that won’t last. I’ve got to get out of here before they completely surround the building. How can I-?
“Didn’t think I’d see you so soon,” a rough voice said. Price Back turned and saw A.K. Yearling looking at him, her body lounging upon the bench and a bemused expression upon her face.
“Oh, hey,” Price said, taking another peek around the corner. Sock and Morrow now argued with Tough Talk, gesticulating inside the Convention Center with wild hoof gestures. Tough stood firm, not budging from the doorway.
Yearling leaned her head far from the bench. “You expecting somepony?”
“Sadly,” Price said. “It seems the henchponies of the biggest mobster in Baltimare want to use me as their personal pincushion.”
Yearling sat straight up. “What?”
“You know how I said truth is stranger than fiction? Well, consider this a demonstration.” He peeked back around the corner. Sock and Morrow had apparently given up arguing with Tough Talk and instead cavorted with newly-arrived henchponies, all in their loose blue uniforms.
“Those the goons looking for you?” Price noticed Yearling now stood beside him, looking out to the entrance. The lackeys now split up and ran opposite directions around the Convention Center. Only Sock and Morrow still paced the front doors.
“Unfortunately,” Price said. “And it looks like I won’t have too long before they get to me.”
Yearling clopped her hooves and rubbed them together. “Not if we get you out of here first.”
Confusion filled Price’s face. “Are you crazy? These are dangerous thugs! You’re best getting far away from me.”
She shook her head. “No way, Jose. I won’t let somepony be harmed for exposing some crook.”
Price sighed. “I appreciate the concern, but this seems a little out of your wheelhouse. Unless you’ve got a transportation or invisibility spell, you better leave me befo-”
He found himself jerked back and pushed against the stairway wall. Yearling’s red-rimmed glasses pushed themselves only an inch from his eyes, and he could feel her hot breath on his face.
“Look, Price. This whole ‘Do It Myself’ shtick gets old fast. I get it, I used to do it myself. But despite what your years of lonely wandering might have taught you, sometimes the best thing to do is swallow your pride and let somepony lend you a hoof. I want to help you, so let me help for Celestia’s sake.”
For a moment, Price could only stare at Yearling in confusion. Only when she leaned in a little harder did he manage to grunt, “Alright.” Yearling’s hoof eased and Price fell off the wall, his head shaking in disbelief. “Never knew fantasy writers could be forceful,” he chuckled uneasily.
Yearling gave a knowing grin. “You should’ve seen me when I was researching in Marapore.”
“Okay then,” Price said. “We need to figure out a way to get me out of here without my friends out there noticing. I know you’re a fiction writer and probably don’t have much experience with criminals, but-!”
A sharp laugh pierced his ears. Yearling’s hooves shot to her mouth, trying desperately to prevent any further guffaws from escaping.
“What’s so funny?” Price asked.
“Nothing,” she said between giggles. “You just reminded me of somepony. A close friend, you might say.”
Price looked confused, then shook his head. “As I was saying, I need to find a way out. Do you know any emergency exits I could slip out of?”
“Sure, but these bums probably have them covered already. I have a much better idea.”
“What?”
She pointed toward at front door. Price’s eyes went wide.
“Are you crazy? They’d see me before I got outside!”
The same knowing smile crossed Yearling’s face. “Oh, my dear sweet Price Back,” she cooed, her hoof stroking Price’s cheek. “Have you ever heard of ‘cosplay’?”
“Where the hay is Saw and Bone?” Sock said, pacing along the hot sidewalk. He glared into the Convention Center, hoping to catch sight of their prey. The monstrosity guarding the gate returned his scornful look, causing Sock to quickly turn away.
“Don’t know,” Morrow said. “They’ll be here though. Rip and Tear are buying tickets to get inside too. We’ll flush this little punk out.”
Sock shook his head. “We better, and fast. The Boss won’t be happy if he’s got to pay the Police Commissioner an extra Summer Sun Celebration bonus.”
Just then, the doors opened. A light gold mare in a purple shawl passed through, aided by a figure covered in a black sheet. The cloak scraped along the sidewalk, the stallion just managing to not stumble on the overflowing fabric. A large white mask sat on his head with a long nose protruding outwards and large black eyes staring out into the busy street.
“I must say, Big Rock, your cosplay of Dathos the Destroyer is most sublime!” the mare said. “You’ve even got the right kind of cloak!”
“Thankssssss,” he soothed in a high-pitched voice. “It took me a long time to get the right sssssssssheet.”
Sock turned away from the duo in disgust. Damned freak shows, he thought. Always coming to this town dressed like they’re three years old. Dad wouldn’t have stomached this. Heck, he’d have smacked me around if he caught me wearing any of those get-ups.
Sock and Morrow paced around the doors, desperately waiting for backup or their target to be flushed out. The two exiting ponies continued their discussion as they walked toward the cab stop, their compliments towards each other’s costumes giving way to feverish glee once they entered the first available cab.
Price waited about twenty minutes before he took off the costume. He thanked A.K. Yearling for her time, reviewing the promises they’d made to each other and the next step of the plan. Soon, her stop came into view and she hopped out onto the hot sidewalk. The banners covering the building in front of her billowed in the wind, and she gave Price a small wave before disappearing inside.
What a pony, Price thought. Presented with a dangerous situation, and she still bucks up to help a stranger. Maybe she could’ve been a real adventurer.
“Driver,” Price said. “Grand Acres Building.”
“You got it,” the cabbie grunted.
They rode a fair distance in silence, only the cabbie’s trots and the passing carts’ wheels squeaking on the asphalt. Logistics and plan reviews rolled through Price’s head all the way to the tall and unassuming Grand Acres Building gradually coming into view. A bland grey structure covered with glass, it was the kind of building ponies put up when they were more concerned with the things going inside the building than the building itself.
Once Price exited and threw the cabbie his fee, he took a deep breath. “Here we go,” he said. He walked into the lobby, up to the front desk where a bored looking secretary sat.
“Hello, I’m here to see a Miss Sugar,” Price said.
The secretary pushed a button. “She said somepony was coming. She’s up in the penthouse,” she said in a dull monotone.
Price nodded and made his way onto the elevator. He pushed the top button, then watched the doors close.
Better hope this is a good idea, he thought on the ride up. Baltimare isn’t where I wanted to die.
The elevator dinged and the doors soon opened. Standing there was Sugar, though she now looked far different. Her mane now sat propped up in a neat bun and her coat practically shone in the afternoon light streaking through the windows.
“Hello,” she said. “Thank you for coming.”
Price nodded and stepped into the penthouse. Golden decorations lined the walls, with a white tile floor and brown walls surrounding the enclosed space. A few statues and figures stood artistically positioned throughout the room, posed in strange positions Price wasn’t even going to try figuring out.
“Drink?” she said.
“No, thanks,” he said.
“I’m going to have one.” She rushed over toward the bar and began downing already-poured glasses.
“You were right,” Price said, trying not to stare at the display. “Something big was going down at that warehouse.”
She put the glass down. “What do you mean?”
“Johnny was meeting with somepony named Vice. He was selling Johnny some obsidian orbs.”
“Oh Celestia.” She immediately took another drink.
“I know. I thought the same thing.”
“I knew something bad was happening…but nothing like that.”
Price leaned forward. “I don’t know much about Johnny Trottelli, nor much about you. But based on your demeanor and this place of yours, I’m going to guess you know Johnny pretty well?”
She nodded. “I’m his sister.”
“Makes sense. Only a sister or a marefriend would’ve been able to weasel that kind of information.” He leaned back on the chair. “Johnny been treating you mean? That why you want to expose him?”
“N-No! I….” She looked down into her empty glass. “I just wanted to stop him before he hurts himself.”
Price nodded. “Concern. A noble reason. But you’re scared Johnny will find out, aren’t you?”
She nodded.
“You really think he’d hurt his own sister?”
She paused for a moment. She moved her mouth in strange motions, as if trying to find the right words. “I-“
“Of course she is,” a voice called out. “Why else would she go behind my back?”
Price looked behind himself to see Johnny standing there, decked out in a bright blue suit. Sock and Morrow stood beside him with humongous grins and yellowed brass lining their hooves.
“Johnny!” Sugar squeaked. “What’re you doing here?”
“My name’s on the lease, Sugar. I bought the place, I can come here whenever I want.” He walked past Price and towards Sugar. Price tried to get between them, but Sock and Morrow pushed him into a nearby chair.
Johnny stopped in front of Sugar. She flinched as he brought his hoof to her face.
“Mother always said you had the beauty in the family,” he said. He raised his hoof and smacked her across the face, sending her sprawling onto the floor.
“Don’t-!” Price yelled, before Sock shoved him back into the chair and Morrow pinned him.
“But not the brains. You really think I wouldn’t figure out you were the one who squealed to Journo Boy over there?” Johnny turned toward Price and chuckled. “Dames. Have no respect for you even when you do everything for them.” He motioned toward his laid out sister. “Take Sugar. I bought her a nice penthouse, gave her fancy clothes, even gave her some tips on how to score dates with the real cool guys. And what do I get for it?”
“A lot of trouble, it seems,” Price said.
Johnny laughed. “You’re good, fella. You know the right wavelengths to be on.” His eyes leered toward Price’s chest and the camera hanging around his neck. “What channel am I on now?”
“You want the camera.”
“Bright boy,” he said. He jerked his hoof, and Sock reached for the camera. Price slapped his hoof, then felt a crack across his head. He fell out of the chair and onto the nearby leather couch.
“Don’t do that, son,” Sock said, tugging the camera off Price’s neck. He then raised it high in the air and smashed it to the ground.
“No!” Price yelled. Morrow threw another punch right into his stomach, and Price curled into a ball.
Johnny chortled. “Not so tough without evidence, eh?”
Johnny gave a wry chuckle. “Sugar, you don’t get to tell me a thing. You betrayed me, all for some dumb attack of conscience. Well, this is the result.” He turned back toward Price, still curled on the couch. “You’ll walk it off, friend. Especially since the worst stuff is to come.”
Price pushed himself up. “You won’t get away with this,” he grunted.
“Of course I will!” Johnny laughed. “I own this town. Not a single hood nor cop in Baltimare moves a hoof without my say-so. I can dispose of you in places ponies would never dream of looking. Heck, I could keep you alive in some dungeon for a hundred years and nopony would ever know you were there.” He walked over to the drinks and began to pour his own. “You may not believe me, but I’ve heard of you before, Mr. Back.”
Price laughed. “Surprised you do. Only the honest know who I am.”
“The honest, and the smart dishonest.” Johnny turned around, drink in hoof. “Always know who your enemies are if you want to get ahead in this world. And never underestimate them either. You may be just another muckraker for some rag I wouldn’t even use as toilet paper, but you could still cause me trouble.”
Price sighed. “I get the feeling this ‘trouble’ doesn’t go away with just a smashed camera.”
“Right you are. You know too much, as does my dear sister. I’m afraid you’ll be going on a very long trip.”
Sock and Morrow chuckled. Price looked down at the ground, a dejected look on his face.
“Don’t take it so hard,” Johnny said. “Out of all the enemies I’ve made in this business, you’re the first that even gave me something close to a start. And with just a little camera and a little ingenuity.”
“Well, you’re right about the ingenuity part.”
Johnny laughed. “I thought you heroes were supposed to be humble right before you meet your doom. Some writer you are; you don’t even know the basic tropes.”
“On the contrary.” Price looked him dead in the eyes. “I’ve followed them to the letter, and far better than you have.”
Johnny’s face filled with confusion. “What?”
“You really think I’d be dumb enough to carry around evidence like that in an easily breakable camera? You smashed the camera, but not the film, now safely tucked away in a safety deposit box.”
Johnny’s face fell. “What?”
Price grinned. “The second three months passes by without any contact from me, I will be declared legally dead, and my will dictates that the box’s contents be sent to my editor. You’ll prolong your discovery, yes, but you won’t eliminate it forever.”
For a moment, a hint of rage filled Johnny’s face. But just as quickly as it appeared, his visage filled with its original tranquility.
“You’re good,” he said. “But you didn’t hide it away in some safety deposit box. You left it somewhere in that Convention Center. That’s the one place my men haven’t been able to search thoroughly.”
To Johnny’s surprise, Price smiled back. “You’re half-right. I am lying about the safety deposit box, and the convention does play a role in this story. But you’re wrong about where I hid it.”
“Keep saying that, friend. I’ll search that Center, and when I find the film, I’m going to toss you and my sister off one of the buildings I own. In broad daylight, too. You can’t bluff your way out of this one.”
Price shook his head. “Wrong again. Because I already bluffed my way out of this.”
“Huh?”
“Why do you think I’ve been sitting here talking with you? To plead for my life? Or to keep you from noticing the elevator filled with officers about to exit on this level?”
Johnny’s eyes went wide. Before he even had a chance to speak, the elevator dinged and a dozen officers rushed out.
“Freeze!” they shouted. “You’re all under arrest!”
“Stand down!” Johnny yelled. “I pay your pen-!” He was slammed to the ground by two of the officers, as were Sock and Morrow. Price simply leaned back on the couch, a faint smile crossing his countenance.
“What’re you-?!” Johnny began, but stopped when he saw their uniforms: Golden armor covered with blue markings.
“The Royal Guard!” he exclaimed, mouth agape.
“That’s right,” one of them said. “And we’re here to take you in.”
“You can’t do this!” he said. “This is beyond your jurisdiction!”
“Wrong once more, Johnny,” Price chimed. “It’s illegal to deal with weapons expressly forbidden by royal decree. While the list is small, one of those weapons are obsidian orbs.” He motioned toward the Guards. “These fellows have all the right in the world to be here. And I can guarantee that they’re far less lenient than your cronies in this town.”
“But…But…” Johnny couldn’t spit anything else as he and his goons were dragged to the elevator. He could only glance back in confusion at Price, his eyes filled with befuddled rage. Price waved playfully at him as the doors closed.
“Thanks for your help, Captain,” Price said to the lead Guard. He wore a bright red feather in his helmet, distinguishing him from his blue-feathered compatriots.
“No, thank you, Mr. Back,” the Captain said. “We had no idea Vice and Trottelli were dealing with obsidian orbs. They could’ve caused a lot of damage if their goods made it out on the street.”
“I figured. I’m just happy Ms. Yearling was able to get that film to your local headquarters in time.”
“I will confess, we were surprised to see a world famous author come into our office with news of highly dangerous weapons.” He chuckled. “Didn’t stop Cloud Kicker from asking for an autograph.”
“Hey, I had a rare collection of Daring Do and Trotezuma’s Revenge!” a tan Guard shouted. “You take opportunities as they’re presented!”
“Anyways,” the Captain continued, “thank you for this information, Price Back. If you ever need any help in the future, feel free to contact the Royal Guard any time. We’re in your debt.”
Price held up his hoof. “Thanks, but I was just doing my job like you.” He looked toward Sugar, who now sat up with the help of a Royal Guard. She had ice to her chin and held a thankful gaze toward Price.
“Well, if you change your mind, you know where to go. At least join us for a drink at O’Neigh’s before you skip town.”
Price nodded. “Sure thing. But there’s a few things I have to take care of first.”
The train steam mixed with the setting sun to create a beautiful panorama. The view made Price feel a tad sentimental, though he didn’t reveal it to Sugar through his stoic face. She stood next to him, a heavy suitcase in hoof and a heavier heart in her chest.
“Do I really have to leave so soon?” she asked.
“Yes,” Price said. “Like you said, Johnny owns this town. You’ll be lucky to get out with all your hooves if you stay even into the evening.”
Sugar stared down at the cracked green platform. “I care for him, you know. I’m not one of those mob girls who just stuck with him for kicks, you know?”
“I know.”
Tears began to fill her eyes. “I didn’t want to see him in jail. But I didn’t want to see other ponies hurt.”
“It was a tough choice. You made the right one.”
“I hope you’re right,” she said. “I don’t want him to be in there any longer than he needs to. Just long enough to get his head straight.”
He may be there longer than that, Price thought. Obsidian orbs are borderline life sentences these days. Sugar’s wet eyes kept him silent, however. No need to ruin her hopes. Might be the only thing keeping her from going to pieces right now.
“All aboard!” a conductor yelled further down the track. Sugar looked at the train, then back at Price.
“I know I said it already, but…thank you.”
“No,” Price said. “Thank you. Without you, we’d never have known about those orbs. You saved a lot of trouble the poor ponies of Baltimare would’ve faced.”
She nodded. “I can pay you the rest of the money…”
“Absolutely not. For what you helped me stop, taking any more money would leave a bad taste in my mouth.”
“Will I ever see you again?”
“Hopefully not.” The bluntness of the words surprised even Price. “I’m not the kind of guy that earns a lot of friends. Besides, if Johnny is going to blame anypony for his downfall, it’ll be me. He’d just think you were silly in the mind or that I convinced you to go through with it. Stay far away from him and me, and you’ll be safe.”
“All aboard, last call!” the conductor hollered.
“Better get on,” Price said.
She nodded and hurried up the train steps. She stuck her head out the window and waved. Price returned it the whole time the train pulled out of the station, even after his leg went dead and began to tingle all over. But he managed until the train was long out of sight and twisting back out towards the Trottington hills.
Price sighed. Can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I’ll be glad to be back at the convention.
With that, he turned and made his way back into the city. The list of responsibilities tumbled through his head: the letter to Manewell explaining the events, the explanation to the hotel manager about his trashed room, the drinks with the Guard at O'Neighs, and the lunch he’d promised A.K. tomorrow for all the trouble he’d roped her into.
Most importantly, he still had two stories to write, and one of them wasn’t quite over.
