In the lobby of Ponyville Town Hall, you awkwardly sit in a broken rolly chair behind a creaky secretary desk—soon to be your creaky secretary desk. You're trying very hard to set a good example for the impressionable young minds that were misguidedly placed in your care. So far, you’ve lied and tricked them into doing your work, so you think you're doing a pretty good job overall.
In the middle of the room, a towering mound of paper stretches halfway to the ceiling. Smaller, more organized stacks line the walls, steadily growing in size thanks to the magic of child exploitation. To your immense surprise and relief, the vast majority of the papers so far have been complaint forms. Apparently, some folks aren’t too happy with the lack of mayoring going on recently. You’re pretty sure you can safely ignore all of that for now, so those are the ones getting shoved against the walls. The rest of the papers are a mix of tax stuff, notes about changes to the weather schedule, and a concerning number of funding requests from various public facilities, namely the school and the hospital.
It's a miracle this town is still functioning.
"I found another one!" Sweetie Belle announces, her head emerging from the large pile. You had instructed her to look for any papers without the decorative green border marking the complaint forms. After wiggling the rest of her body out, she proudly holds a single paper aloft. "What does 'charitable deduction' mean?" she asks, slowly sounding out the words.
"It's something to do with ducks," Scootaloo answers, her muffled voice coming from the opposite side of the pile.
"Oh, okay,” Sweetie Belle nods. “It’s got Fluttershy's name on it, so that makes sense.” She tilts the paper sideways, squinting her eyes. “Wow, ducks are expensive."
You don't bother correcting them, mostly because it would bring up more questions about how taxes work, and you don't have the energy or patience for that. You also have a mild case of severe retardation, so there's a very good chance you would give them the wrong answers anyway.
Shaking off that thought, you take the paper from Sweetie Belle and return your attention to the task at hand—your left hand, to be precise. Your right one is currently being held hostage by a southern accent with a big pink bow. Apple Bloom had crawled into your lap shortly after you sat down and has since refused to move. She’s been surprisingly useful, helping you sort the miscellaneous papers into something resembling an organized system. Unfortunately, you made the mistake of petting her. It seemed fine at first, until you tried to pull your hand away. She grabbed it, put it back on the spot you were rubbing, then shot you square in the face with a double-barrel of sad eyes and a “pretty please?” You haven't moved your hand away since.
You need to grow a fucking backbone, dude.
Apple Bloom snatches the paper away and eagerly shoves it into the drawer you labeled 'TAX SHI STUFF.' She and Sweetie Belle immediately check to see if they've earned their cutie marks. They both sigh in unison when they see that their flanks are still blank. It was amusing the first few times, but they've been doing it for every single paper. It's just sad at this point.
"Anything?" Scootaloo calls hopefully.
"Nothin'," Apple Bloom replies.
Scootaloo groans and crawls out of the pile with a great deal of flailing limbs and buzzing wings. You could help her, but the scene is just too damn funny. It’s like watching a cat trying to walk in tiny cat shoes.
"Ugh, I'm starting to think we're not gonna get paperwork cutie marks, girls," she finally pants, out of breath from her battle with physics.
The other two Crusaders voice their agreement, making you realize your plan had only partly succeeded. Come next Monday, you'd still have a massive load of work, but at least now it's been cut down a bit from the stupid amount it was before.
"Honestly, I'm kinda glad we didn't get our cutie marks," Sweetie Belle says. "This was getting boring."
"Yeah, I'm beat," Scootaloo nods.
"Whaddya mean?" Apple Bloom yawns, stretching in your lap before hopping down to join her friends. "Ah had a great time!"
Of course you did, you little shit. Now free of the oppressive filly's control, you take a moment to massage your cramped fingers and weigh your options while she talks to her friends about pony shit.
You could let them drag you along on their next crusade, but that would involve moving. Well, moving more than usual. Hmm. Maybe you could "accidentally" lock them in your house. It's already a mess, so there's not much more they can do damage-wise. No, that wouldn't look good if someone contacts the police after hearing a bunch of fillies trying to escape. On the other hand, there's free food in prison, and your exposure to Pinkie would go down significantly.
When the thought of not seeing the pink mare anymore enters your mind, you realize you would actually miss her. Shit, you miss her right now, and it's only been a few hours. Jesus fuck, dude, you're such a pansy. Sure, she’s the only reason you get out of bed in the morning, but you can live without her for a single fucking day.
Maybe.
"C'mon, Anon!" Apple Bloom interrupts your thoughts. "It's almost lunch time! Granny Smith is makin us a whole buncha apple turnovers!"
You have no idea what an apple turnover is. Before you can actually ask, Apple Bloom is already out the door, her friends following close behind. You briefly entertain the thought of just taking a nap while they fuck off to the other side of town, but you know Rarity would have your head on a fashionably silver platter if she found out you slept in these clothes. That would make them all wrinkly, and she can smell wrinkly clothes from a mile away. There's also the whole abandoning the fillies thing, but they technically left you, so you’d probably be safe on that front. Still, it's not worth the risk.
Grumbling to no one in particular, you drag yourself outside and head for Sweet Apple Acres.
"And one time, mah cousin came over, and we built a float for the Summer Harvest Parade, and Sweetie Belle was gold!"
"It took days to wash it out of my mane..."
You nod politely, chewing on another apple turnover while the Crusaders take turns talking at you about the their long string of failed attempts to get cutie marks. It almost makes you feel a little better about yourself. You may not have succeeded at anything in life, but at least you didn't fail as much as these three.
"Anon, dearie?" Granny Smith calls from the kitchen. "Can ya come in here real quick?"
Expecting more food, you gently untangle yourself from the fillies attached to your arms and shoulders, trying to mentally block out their whines of protest. It almost works. Walking through the doorway, you see Granny Smith near the sink, motioning you to come closer.
"Ah ain't one fer fancy talk, but Ah just wanted to say we all appreciate ya lookin after the girls today. These old bones can't move around like they used to, and Mac has to work extra, what with Applejack going with her friends to that doohickey in the city." She gives you a warm smile, her eyes seeming to brighten as she talks. "Ah know ya been cooped up in that house o’ yer’s for a long while, so it's good to see that yer out and about now. We were all gettin a mite worried."
What. You don't even know this lady. Why would she or anyone else have been worried about you? Fucking ponies, being weird and shit.
You start getting sentimental for some reason, but you power through because you’re a man, dammit. You might be a sorry excuse for one, but you're still technically a man, and men don't get emotional about stupid shit. Only about serious shit, like dog movies.
“I guess you can blame Pinkie for that," you eventually say, clearing your throat of any unmanliness. "She's very... persistent." She’s also insane, hyper, even more sickeningly adorable than normal ponies, possibly a demon, and incredibly soft. And pink.
"And she's single," Granny Smith winks.
And she's single.
Wait, what?
The older mare starts cackling at the look on your face, turning back to the stove. You take that as your cue to leave, so you slowly turn and walk back to the dining room. The moment you exit the kitchen, the fillies latch on and drag you to their clubhouse to “draw up blueprints." Aside from the occasional grunt, you aren’t able to offer much help with building the trebuchet. Your brain is working overtime putting together the pieces of the puzzle it just found.