Prince Blueblood and Filthy Rich insult Discord. His rebuttal comes in the form of pranks.
When Discord visits the Canterlot Markets to browse the newest wares, he comes on Filthy's newest acquisition: a consignment shop. It's not doing particularly well in its current environment, so he spices it up with a bit of his own work to increase sales.
However, when his antics draw the attention of Filthy and his newest investor, he's tossed out into the street. Not willing to take this lying down, he vows revenge, becoming the very thing they see him as.
Canterlot was wonderful in early summer. Everypony knew that. It was common knowledge that after the Summer Sun Celebration, Celestia would return to her castle and go about business as usual for a few months until it was once again time for the Grand Galloping Gala. Throughout history, countless merchants had come to her during this period of regularity in her location to sell her their wares, but when they became too numerous and too pushy, she set up an open market during the summer months, and anypony with a license to vend was allowed to set up a stall in the market to sell their wares.
These wares ranged from homemade jams, jellies and preserves to refurbished tools and equipment. It was similar to the Trader’s Exchange, except that here, rather than goods being bartered for other goods, it was an economic exchange. One could make money selling something if they were fiscally-minded.
All of this was new to Discord, however. While he had been around for centuries, the open market was not something he had ever partaken in, nor had he even heard about it until a few days ago. With all manner of crowds moving frantically from stall to stall to see what they could buy, a being that represented all chaotic and nonsensical aspects of life could easily have a lot of fun here.
Of course, he had a limit on how much he could actually do. With Fluttershy out of town, he had the capacity to go wild, and while he had promised not to cause any harm, she’d double-checked and found his fingers crossed behind his back, and she’d made him promise again with all fingers, toes and wings on full display. Still, he was allowed to have some fun, as long as nopony was hurt.
“Come one, come all,” he heard a vendor call. “Gather round and see what I have for you here! Plenty of room, no need to push!”
He slunk over and found a spot among the ponies. Contrary to what the vendor said, there was no room, and he was required to remove his face and wings, attach them to each other, and send them to watch while the rest of him waited its turn.
“Gather round and see what I have for you today,” smiled the vendor. “This is a new toy I’ve been working on for quite some time now. Everypony knows how much fun springs are. Well, check this out.” He picked up one of the coils of wire he was selling and began tossing it around in strange formations. As the toy swung around in all directions, it held the form it was taking in midair, exaggerating as its tail traveled after the lead, bouncing off of nothing and spinning back into a coil as it stopped. He spun it in different manners, creating a sine wave here, spiraling upward there, and always returning to the original shape. “It can be yours today for the low, low price of five bits. What say you?”
The crowd dispersed, with some of them buying the toy and others deciding against it. After a minute or so, a new crowd gathered around as he was priming for another demonstration. Alas, Discord was not so interested in seeing the same show twice, so as soon as the demonstration began, Discord wrapped invisible strings around the vendor’s wrists and ankles, and made the spring dance he performed much more spectacular and frenetic, causing the tail end of the toy to swing more violently, though he always stopped it before it hit anypony. Discord may have been chaotic, but he had promised Fluttershy that he would not harm a fly.
At the end of the dance, absolutely everypony stuck around to buy a spring toy, and while the vendor didn’t know what had come over him, he wasn’t about to turn down a massive increase in sales.
“That looks fun,” smiled Discord, coming to the stall with his body reattached. “I’ll take two.”
Spring toys in claw, Discord continued through the market, spotting next a stall where a pegasus was selling bronze mirrors that had been plated in aluminum and polished to a high degree. They were a thing of the past, but updated to be almost as good as a modern glass mirror. Almost, but not quite.
A unicorn approached the stall. “Mirrors, is it?”
“Yes, sir,” the vendor smiled. “Old style. The backs are, in fact, original pieces that were crafted in the days of long, long ago. The utility may have improved since then, but if you want both usability and style, this is the mirror for you. On top of that, it’s incredibly durable. It’s made entirely of metal, not glass, so it’s not as likely to break. I’d say you could drop it and check, but they can still scratch and dent. Have a look, see what you think.”
As the unicorn lifted one of the mirrors to his face, Discord snapped his claw, and when the unicorn gazed upon himself, he saw a horrifying sight. White and blue facepaint, a red nose, a rainbow wig, and a colourful outfit. He yelped in horror and tossed the mirror to the vendor, who caught it out of the air.
“What’s wrong?” the merchant asked. “It looked like you caught the sun in your eyes. Here, try from another angle.”
As the unicorn tentatively tried again, Discord snapped again. This time, what was reflected was not a circus clown, but a sophisticated, well-groomed dignitary.
“Well,” he chuckled. “I must say, I really like the way I look in this. Very handsome.” He smoothed back his mane and pushed out his lips. “How much?”
“Fifteen bits apiece.”
“I’ll give you ten.”
“Thirteen.”
“Deal.”
The bits were exchanged, and the unicorn strode off with his new mirror, looking back at it every so often. Discord chuckled, knowing that the magic would wear off before the end of the day, leaving it just a normal mirror.
Up next was a fruit vendor who was having no trouble at all selling her wares. Boxes of different fruits lined the larger stall, with a nice, wide variety to choose from. Apples, bananas, pawpaws, oranges, peaches, the works. Not really much Discord could do here, or could I?
Hiding nearby, he waited for a customer to approach. As one inspected a plump, juicy apple, he smiled. “You look really tasty,” the stallion said.
“You’re not too shabby yourself, stud,” blushed the apple.
The stallion’s face went pale and he placed the apple back on the shelf, deciding that he wanted a kiwi, instead. “Do you talk?” he asked, a bit shaken.
“Not usually,” said the kiwi, “but I’ll make an exception for you, hot stuff.”
Placing it back in the box, the stallion picked up a banana. He didn’t want it to talk to him, so he kept his mouth shut as he paid for it and took off, leaving the vendor to wonder why a stallion with a secretive look on his face would buy a single banana and just disappear into the crowd without a word.
Discord meandered over to the next demonstration of the market row, smiling and whistling a jaunty tune as he found another target. The next stall over was a tool stand, showing off various gadgets one would find in a construction site and a few pieces of equipment for gardening. Hammers, nails, screwdrivers, and a fancy new gizmo that looked like a cross between a miniature shovel, a chisel, and a spice grinder. "Behold, the new Seed Composter!" the vendor announced. "It smashes, it cuts, and it mulches seeds of those pesky weeds into fertilizer for all your gardening needs!"
He rummaged beneath his stall for a moment, then produced a gardening box laden with one potato sprout surrounded by pepper grass. He removed the extra head of the tool, revealing it to have a slot in the Composter to house the extension. The vendor demonstrated the Seed Composter to a passing pegasus, who paused to look at the contraption. He ripped the pepper grass out of the gardening box with the shovel head of the tool, revealing thick seeds hidden by the dirt that were then broken apart by a chisel on the other side of the removable tool's handle and then further smashed by the shovel head.
Once ground up enough that the rest of the Seed Composter could take it, the shovel scooped the ground pepper grass up, seeds and all, and deposited the whole mass into a funnel leading to the grinder, which was activated by a simple lever. The device roared to life with a whir, and the weeds were ground up and deposited into a drawer on the bottom. The shopkeep pulled the drawer out once the device was done grinding the pepper grass and turned off on its own accord, and he sprinkled the ground-up mush under the leaves of the potato plant.
"That's interesting," the pegasus said, raising her eyebrows. "But it's a little complex."
The shopkeep smiled. "It also prevents the weeds from growing back, which is a nifty bonus," he chirped. Discord snapped his fingers, and the weeds that were dispensed with before went back into the grinder, the Seed Composter spinning in reverse to regurgitate smashed seeds and pulp that the shovel and chisel struck at, revealing whole plants once more. The vendor's brow furrowed. "Strange, it's not supposed to do that…" Once again, he demonstrated his tool's workings, sprinkling the resulting mush back over the potato plant where he had put it the first time.
Discord snapped once more, and some fireweeds sprung up from the gardening box to surround the potato plant. The vendor frowned, but he pulled out the offending plants to find that they had saffron stigmas mixed in with their seeds. "Huh, normally those types of spices are expensive…" he muttered, before shoveling the whole mass in to sprinkle around the potato plant.
The pegasus smiled. "It can also be a spice grinder? I'll take two," she said, lifting a wing to reveal a saddlebag that she reached a hoof into to procure some bits. "If anything, that Seed Composter looks like it could be a great multitasker, especially knowing my husband and his borderline obsession with multitaskers in the kitchen. How much do they run for?"
"Normally, these are twenty bits," the vendor said. "But today, we're doing a fifty percent discount."
The pegasus smiled. "Sold!" she said, forking over the coins. Goods and bits traded hooves, and off she went with two Seed Composters to brighten up her day. Discord chuckled, and slithered over to the next stall along the row to see what he could do to add some more chaos to ponies' days.
The next vendor's wares featured books, which the pegasus who had brought two Seed Composters also paid a visit to. "Come one, come all, and witness the newest enchanted cookbooks to grace kitchen shelves!" the vendor called, flashing her horn and magically waving books about to advertise her wares.
"I think we could use some cookbooks…" the pegasus said, tucking the Seed Composters under her wing as she approached the vendor. "What's the latest?"
The vendor smiled. "Thanks to our newest breakthroughs in magic, our books can now project images of their recipes, as they are constructed in the book!" she said.
The pegasus frowned. "But don't we already have cameras…?" she asked.
"Oh no, the projections in these babies aren't like cameras, and don't require still photographs. Here, let me show you," the vendor said, opening the book she held. Indeed, there were no pictures to be had, at least of the standard sort. Runes lit up in the pages, and flashed a miniature magical screen that showed directions for the recipe, the ingredients, and how to make everything come together.
Discord watched as the book relayed the information slow enough that a toddler might have figured out the overall gist of it. The image showed ingredients being chopped, and… well, he found that boring, so he snapped his claws and let his magic take care of the rest. A clown appeared in the magical projection, blowing a balloon animal and letting the balloon animal chop up the ingredients for a standard daffodil lasagna. The balloon animal's legs flailed as it wielded the knife, and it released adorable squeaks that managed to translate into actual sound that the pegasus could listen to.
In addition, the balloon animal was relaying jokes as well as instructions. "So why did the daffodil twirl in the wind? It thought it was a dandy lion! Geddit? Dandy-lion?" the balloon animal cackled as it then belted out instructions. "Now layer the noodles like this, and make sure the flowers are covered by the cheese and vegetable sauce. And somepony throws dough, cheese, and sauce at me, and I was all 'You wanna pizza me?!'"
The pegasus laughed at the bad puns, smiling as she looked at the vendor. "I didn't know books could do that! How much for this one?" she asked.
"Fifteen bits," the vendor replied, looking at the book with wide eyes. Bits and book traded hooves, and the pegasus trotted away from the stall, tucking the talking book under her wing with her multitasking tools for later use in the kitchen.
Discord was quite pleased with himself. Not only was he not causing a ruckus as Fluttershy had made him promise, but he was contributing to the sales of the day. Not interrupting, being helpful, and still finding ways to have fun. What a glorious time to be chaos incarnate.
Continuing down the street, he saw a rather notable gap in the crowd where nopony was standing. Certainly, ponies were passing through and going into the shop behind the clearing, but it wasn’t nearly as many as were moving about the free market. Perhaps that might have to be his next stop. If he was lucky, it was yet another place where he could ply some chaos, and maybe help their sales, as well.
“Surely, you can’t make your living selling these knick-knacks,” sneered Blueblood, poking a tiny clay sculpture with the eraser end of a pencil. “It’s a bit tacky, don’t you think?”
“Actually, it’s everything and anything you see here,” smiled Filthy, waving his hoof up and down the aisle. “Bedsheets to xylophones, yard ornaments to cookware. All hoofmade.”
“Hoofmade may be good for the laypony, but do you have anything crafted by a skilled artisan?”
“Well, uh…” Filthy reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. “We have things made in the workshops of skilled craftsponies. Quilts made by ponies before they became famous seamsters and seamstresses. Bookshelves that were constructed by carpenters that were brought here to be sold off before the pony crafting them became top of their field.”
“Show me,” pouted Blueblood. “If you want me to invest in your little business here, show me a work of art made by somepony who is currently nationally accredited.”
“Well, they… They’re not famous yet, but they are talented individuals, I swear it.”
“You swear it?” Blueblood chuckled condescendingly. “Do you know why brand name items are so coveted, Mr. Rich?”
Filthy nodded. “A standard of quality that has come to be expected of a company remains a constant throughout their entire stock. I do run a small chain of successful retail stores.”
“Then you should already be aware that these arts and crafts made by the common rabble bear no seal of quality, and are likely made of cheap materials, and prone to breaking. Observe.” Picking up a quilt with a cross-stitched pattern of the moon surrounded by dark, silvery clouds, Blueblood began pulling apart at one of the seams. “Now, if this was an original Snowy, it wouldn’t tear under any condition, but this…” He grunted as he tried to yank apart the seam, but it wouldn’t budge.
Filthy reached forward and lowered the quilt. “Every single item that comes through here, I make sure to put it through its paces. Even if I’m not around, my employees are very aware of what kind of quality we look for. While the bulk of these items were made by amateurs, we wouldn’t sell it if it was of such poor quality that it couldn’t serve its purpose. While it may not be the finest gear you’ll find, let me assure you, I know how to spot shoddy merchandise.”
Blueblood, unable to rip a hole in the quilt, tossed it aside. He hadn’t even stretched the fabric beyond its proper form. It still held its shape. “Clearly, you don’t, or this place would be busier. I look around, and I see a lot of empty shelves, and that can’t be because you’ve sold everything off, or you wouldn’t be asking me to invest in your business.”
Filthy took a deep breath. “You know as well as I do that consignment shops in Canterlot don’t do as well in the summer. Creativity can be found year-round, but so many ponies this season opt to sell their own products, rather than having me sell them.” He reached up to one of the shelves and pulled down a knife block. “The Blacksmith’s apprentice, for example, makes these beautiful knives. He’s really improved since last year, and they practically sell themselves.” He pulled out a little paring knife. While the shape was nothing to write home about, the blade had a wavy black and white stripe pattern that grew more fine at the tip of the blade. “He’s just down the road right now, selling these himself, and quite frankly, his product is spectacular. Everypony wants his work. Like I said, he’ll be famous for his knives one day.”
“And on that day, his seal of quality will matter,” came Blueblood’s response as he started toward the front door. “Until such time, this is nothing more than a novelty, and I have no reason to believe it's anything more than a fad.”
Filthy put the knife back in the block and returned it to the shelf. “Even if it is a fad, you have to know that in two and a half months, when the free market ends, ponies are still going to want these. And that’s all I’m asking for, is a few months worth of trust between you and I. Believe that I can turn this slump in business around and pay it all back with interest, and I’ll believe that I’ll still be in business next year, and you can make the same investment with the same returns. It’s just for the off season.”
Blueblood stopped and turned, looking to the wall of paintings. Several struggling artists had given some of their personal works to Filthy, hoping he could sell them. He’d sold a few, but he wasn’t a renowned art dealer. Ponies didn’t come here for the paintings, but sometimes, they left with them. He kept them longer than he kept most other objects because they were pretty, and even if they weren’t sold off, they made the customers happy. And happy customers were more inclined to buy things they may not have actually needed.
“I’ll give it some thought,” sighed Blueblood. “You said you operate a retail chain?”
“Own and operate,” smiled Filthy. “Barnyard Bargains is expanding quite nicely.”
“Excellent,” smiled Blueblood. “Let’s go to your office and talk financials, shall we?” With a nod, Filthy began leading Blueblood to the back of the store, where he kept track of all of his orders to and from the consignment.
As the pair meandered off to talk business and bits, Discord meandered his way into the shop. He looked about, seeing orderly shelves with each product kept to those of like products, such as the toiletries, the kitchenwares, and so forth. The registers were orderly too, positioned at the front of the store.
Bah! Discord flew to the ceiling, mostly to keep ponies from bowling over him, as if they could do so without the aid of the Elements of Harmony. So much order, it was almost… unsettling! Surely, he couldn't make it any more… chaotic, could he? He put a claw to his chin, pondering. There were so many avenues to take, so many lives within to spice up with his own brand of harmless disharmony…
But what could he do, what could he do…? His talon tapped at his chin as he contemplated. His wings twitched before he saw a school age filly put down a plush on the floor, trying to see if there was anything more exciting in the back. He grinned and snapped his claw, causing the doll to spring to life and tug on the child's tail. "Hey," the stuffed toy said, causing the child to turn to it. "Do you know where my mommy is?"
The filly turned to the doll. “I didn’t know dollies had moms.”
“Of course we do,” said the doll. “Everypony has a mommy.”
“Well, what does she look like?” The filly looked around the shelves, expecting to see a similar doll to the talking one, but through all the stuffed animals, there was no doll quite like this.
“She had curly yellow pigtails, big green eyes, and a pink coat like yours. She played with me every day, and now I can’t find her.”
The filly moved some of the stuffed animals, but found no doll matching that description. “I can’t find her. Are you sure she’s still here?”
The doll sat down and began to weep. “I don’t know. I’m not sure where here is.”
The filly looked around. “Maybe I could be your new mom?”
The doll looked up at the filly, tears in its eyes. “You mean it?”
“I’d have to ask my own mom, first. She’s over by the furniture. Come on, let’s ask her if you can come home with us.”
Discord slithered along the ceiling as the child picked up the talking plush, zeroing in on some ponies perusing the few bookshelves present within the store. One was reading something spicy, and another was reading something pertaining to biology or some such rot. He snapped his claws again, but not before waiting for the ponies to turn away from their books first. The one reading the biology rubbish turned and found himself staring at a written scene in the not-biology book he now held, which caused him to blush fiercely. "Is this… is this pony supposed to be King Sombra?" he asked, eyes widening.
"What are you talking about?" the pony now holding the biology book asked, before turning to his hoof and finding a detailed diagram of things that could go wrong with a pony's lungs. "... What the–? This isn't the story I was reading…" The pair blushed, swapped books, and went back to reading without another word between them. Discord snickered, and snapped his claws again.
The biology book sneezed, making the pony holding it jump as it talked. "Oh do pardon me," the biology book said, in a pleasant Trottingham accent that indicated it would have smiled if it had the capacity to do so. "Were you looking at the section regarding a pony's lungs, perchance?"
"Uh… yeah…?" the pony holding the biology book said, brow raising high as he beheld the pages.
"Well, would you like to know what happens when a pony is afflicted by hay fever?" the book asked.
"Maybe when I make it home…" the pony said, beating a hasty retreat to the registers. "I don't think we should scar foals for life."
"An excellent choice," the biology book said as it was carried off.
Meanwhile, the other book that the other pony held began speaking in a deep, seductive baritone, "Oh my, such a dirty pony, reading my written words like that in a public sphere~" If it could wink, it would have done so in that moment. "Would you like me to start at the beginning of my sensual tale?"
The pony holding the spicy book blushed. "Um… at home?" he squeaked.
"Excellent,” the book purred. “Do make your purchase, darling. We mustn't delay for even a second." The stallion holding the book nodded, and promptly made a beeline for the nearest register to hide his particular guilty pleasure from society.
Discord snickered at that poor sap; he snapped his fingers again, just for that fellow. That way, he could fully… appreciate the book's contents, from start to finish. He took a moment to peer at that section that the sultry book had come from, and plucked an identical title off the shelf. "King Sombra and The Divine Servants," the lurid title blared.
He flipped it over, read the synopsis and… he frowned. It was lackluster, all over the place, and worst of all, featured a red and black pony meant to represent King Sombra in the loosest terms imaginable. "Maybe I should make it up to that stallion later…" he muttered. "Bad literature featuring all-powerful, idealized versions of horrible stallions should honestly be at the bottom of the bargain bin…" He checked the price tag, and it was only on sale for a bit and a half. He knew one thing for certain: that unfortunate pony was not being bilked out of his bits. He put the lurid title back, idly wondering why this store even carried it before shrugging and returning to the ceiling.
Just then, another idea hit him. He grinned, eager to take his mind off of bland books with boring, cardboard characters, and snapped his claws again. In a flash of light, the shelves rearranged themselves into something of a hedge maze, leaving the registers untouched, and also keeping some distance from the ponies perusing the shelves to avoid harming them. In addition, he added some more touches, simply to ensure that any merchandise with moving parts or unsteady platforms would not fall off their respective shelves.
Now, ponies that wanted to go into the art section had to take a detour through twisting corridors of toiletries and gardening, with the numbers labeling the shelves changing to feature a moving picture of King Sombra in a tutu. He was scowling, dancing elegantly and silently singing to some invisible tune that may have featured heavy uses of anvils, given how frequently they dropped on Sombra's head in the moving images.
Ponies seemed to prefer to watch the antics in the moving pictures, though, scratching their heads as they wondered what was going on now. Not even two seconds ago, the shelves were orderly and the pictures featured shelf numbers that were still, and now that was no longer the case. More than a few snickered at the moving image of King Sombra as he found himself tied up with a lasso, and was then subsequently tied to railroad tracks by a mustachioed, cackling Queen Chrysalis in a spaghetti hat. What clinched it, though, was King Sombra more or less swearing dark oaths that the cackling Chrysalis ignored in favor of twirling her mustache with a hoof.
Discord meandered over to where Blueblood and Filthy were, noticing that they were… somehow oblivious to what was going on as they checked out a few paintings done lovingly by hoof. He snapped his claws, and grinned as the paintings began singing.
"Find your way into this wonderland, cross the maze, the dark, the innocent~" the paintings sang, causing Blueblood to squeal as he hastened to put one that he had picked up back on the shelf. "Chase the faith, the thrill, the heavensent—I've got your world upside-down~"
Filthy pushed his way past Blueblood and looked about his shop. With the shelves rearranged, he had to rear up on his hind legs to look over them and see anything that was going on. Paintings were singing, dolls were crying, the shelves were a maze in which ponies were turned around and lost, and to top it all off, some of the customers were making their way out the door with looks of discomfort on their faces. This was not good for business.
“What’s going on here?!” he demanded, walking up to the front. “Who’s responsible for this?”
His employees were just as confused as he was, with no idea what was going on. To their credit, they’d done their best to help the customers, with two cashiers helping to expedite the purchases while a shelf stocker was helping ponies out of the maze, which was still changing.
Just as Filthy was beginning to think that the shop may be haunted, he heard a great guffawing from above. Looking up, he snorted. “Discord,” he seethed. “Of course it’s you. Come down here at once!”
“Certainly,” smiled Discord. As he descended to the floor, Filthy felt himself becoming lighter, rotating back to his hooves as he stood on the ceiling. “There we are. I’m down on the ground as requested.”
“Let me down, too!” growled Filthy.
Discord tossed his claw up to Filthy’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, but you should temper your expectations for Hearth’s warming this year. I wasn’t given a well-paying job.”
“What an incorrigible clown,” sneered Blueblood, making his way forward. “Do you truly let this kind of rabble run wild in your establishment?”
“Not usually,” grunted Filthy, jumping off the ceiling and grabbing a shelf to climb to the floor. “I try to keep the place neat and orderly.”
“It’s no wonder ponies don’t come in here,” smirked Discord, rearranging the shelves into a spiral pattern. “Where’s the showponyship? The draw?”
“It certainly isn’t the merchandise,” huffed Blueblood.
A painting jumped off the wall, ran over, and smacked him across the face. “I never, in all of my life!” pouted the painting, a rendering of Blueblood himself. “I refuse to be insulted by a cheap knockoff of myself. Away with you!”
Discord burst out laughing. He hadn’t intended that to happen. Whoever painted that portrait had done a spectacular job of capturing Blueblood’s superior, self-righteous attitude.
Blueblood gasped and huffed, turning and walking away. “Such shoddy wares,” he repeated, only for the wares to come up and slap him for his insults.
Discord rolled onto his back, finding no end of enjoyment in the spectacle. “Why would you do that?” scowled Filthy, grabbing Discord by the shoulder. “Things were going well. The day started off so promisingly. And now here you come into my store, scare away my customers, and drive off somepony very important for my continued operation. Now I have to find somepony else.”
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” waved Discord. “He wasn’t going to buy anything. Did you hear how the paintings talked about him? Hire him as your new duster, and I guarantee they’d all hop right out the door.”
Filthy reached up and rubbed his forehead. “I wasn’t going to hire him as a duster.”
“Oh? He’d look spectacular in a french maid outfit.”
“I’m not denying that, bu–”
“Some nice, thigh-high stockings, a lacy collar…”
“Yes, it sounds lovely, but I wa–”
“He’d need a wig, of course.”
“Discord!” Filthy was clearly frustrated. “You’re making this whole situation worse than it needs to be! I like a good jape as well as the next pony, but this has gone too far! I demand you put my shelves back in order and see yourself out!” As he stormed back to his office, he turned to one of the cashiers. “Make sure he leaves. I don’t want him driving away any more customers.”
Discord was shocked as he left the store. Driving away customers? He wouldn’t dare! He was reformed now, and had only expedited some sales. He certainly hadn’t been telling ponies not to shop there, or telling them to leave. His only intent had been to make the experience more appealing for the bored shoppers, and perhaps draw ponies’ attention to the strange, frenetic activity. No other stall owners had asked him to leave, and at least a few were left wondering how their products had gone crazy. Even the most diligent of them would be taking a closer look at their products tonight as they went home, wishing for that once-in-a-lifetime magic that had suddenly invoked a sale.
Well, if all they saw him as was a clown, playing pranks and causing ruckus and mayhem, then that is what he would be. He began contemplating the many ways he could show them the error of their ways, but then he stopped. What would dear, sweet Fluttershy say? He couldn’t hurt them or damage their social standing. Nothing that would harm them in any way, other than the pure charm of being surprised. He wasn’t allowed to cause them any notable financial damage, either.
This would take some thought. Careful planning and flawless execution would need to be his modus operandi, something he didn’t much care for. Planning and systematic operation were not his cup of tea. He was chaos. He was randomness. He… He had something.
For the rest of the day, he walked about the free market as a normal pony would, had they been bipedal. Not only was this good practice for being normal, but he also needed some supplies. And what better place to find a wide assortment of supplies than an open market where everypony came to sell whatever they had?
Yes, early summertime was the best time to visit Canterlot. Whether you were looking for a new gee-whismo or planning vengeance with a strange contraption, there was never a dull day in the open market.
A few days passed, and no signs of chaos were to be had. That was good news for Filthy Rich; that meant he could focus on business without any extra hassle. He had just finished sorting out things with another prospective supplier in his office, smoothing out all the kinks that needed ironing, and shaking hooves with that pony—all with a respectable smile on his face. "Well, Trading Bonds, I think that settles it," he grinned.
Trading Bonds, an earth pony with a slicked-back mane and a three-piece suit, smiled as he reached into his saddlebags to produce a single paper, all dolled up in the legalese of a contract. "And all we have to do is sign, Mr. Rich. Once done, we can start supplying you with more overstocked items," he replied, smiling as much as his business partner.
Filthy Rich smiled, and reached into his desk to produce a quill, some ink, a special horseshoe whose frog was emblazoned with his cutie mark, and an ink stamp cushion. He signed his name on the parchment, put the horseshoe on, stamped said horseshoe in the cushion, and put it firmly on the paper to fully authenticate the parchment, when he heard a knocking on the door of his office. "Come in!" he called, and the door swung open to reveal two confused-looking cashiers accompanied by an equally confused customer.
"Um, Mr. Rich, I'm hearing reports about meowing cats in the quilts and blankets section…" one of the cashiers said, turning to the customer to wordlessly order him to elaborate.
"I was browsing the blankets section, seeing what I could find for my son, and he heard it… I told him and my wife to stay by the blankets and wait for me, in case the cat's hurt," the customer said, rubbing his right hoof against his left foreleg awkwardly as his ears pinned back. "I don't know what you guys do in cases where hurt animals find their way into stores, and…"
Filthy put the horseshoe down, and watched as Trading Bonds stowed the authenticated parchment away in his saddlebags. "Say no more," he said, standing up. He trotted around the desk and Trading Bonds, making a beeline for the customer so he could lead him to the hopefully okay cat. All ponies except for Trading Bonds and the other cashier left the office, with Filthy pausing to make sure the door was closed once everypony was out, solely to keep an eye on his new business partner while he was out investigating the most recent shenanigans.
The customer and cashier lead him to the bedding section, and after avoiding a few rows to go down a specific one, turned down the one where the incessant meowing was coming from. The customer was right; a cat had somehow found its way into the store, and Filthy wanted nothing more than to remove the furball from the premises as gently as he could. In the aisle, a mare and a small foal were waiting in the middle, looking at a thrashing stack of tangled blankets in concern. "Honey? I know you told us to not touch the cat, but…" the mare trailed off.
"Momma, wan pet kitty!" the foal said, though he was held back by his mother. "Why no pet kitty?"
"The kitty could be hurt… we have to be careful to not hurt it any more than it might already have been," the mare replied.
"So no hurt kitty?" the foal asked, and his mother nodded.
"Step aside; I'll take a look," Filthy said, stepping towards the rustling blankets. He knelt down, slowly raising his hoof to the blankets in case the kitty was of a fearsome temperament. The meowing raised in pitch and frequency, and the rustling increased its movements, as though the poor thing were only entangling itself the more it struggled. Slowly, carefully, he pulled aside the blankets, starting with the one at the top of the pile.
One blanket down, and it looked about five more to go. Fortunately, it was easy to tell them apart from one another; the blankets had different patterns, and they weren't too hopelessly tangled amongst one another to be pulled apart with much difficulty. It took some moments, but eventually, the blankets were pulled apart… only to reveal that there was no cat writhing within the sheets as it were.
Yet still, the mewing persisted, and another bundle of quilts began to writhe not too far down the aisle. Had there been more than one cat in the store? Or was this a new teleporting breed that could only change locations under the cover of darkness? Whatever the case, he trotted over to the next bundle of sheets, pulling them apart to discover there was no cat present. He turned to the cashier. "While I'm taking apart sheets, could you rearrange them, please?" he asked, to which the cashier nodded and set to work folding the sheets that were taken apart.
"Can I have blankey, momma?" the colt asked.
"Soon, Radiant, soon," his mother replied.
Meanwhile, another bundle of sheets began rustling, this time on a shelf a little higher than most ponies comfortably stood on four legs. Filthy rose to his hind hooves to start pulling apart blankets, brow furrowing as he realized he might be plucking feathers off of a goat. Still, he had to look into this, if only to ensure both customer and feline safety. Once again, no cat, but the meowing started to grate on his nerves a little. He knew of the Abyssinians, no thanks to Princess Twilight's ventures and how she relayed them to Equestria after the fact, but this… this was a bit much, and far too below any typical Abyssinian morals to have come from them. Besides, the sapient felines didn't come to peruse his shelves, and that probably wouldn't change anytime soon, unless he found some way to branch out into other nations.
Tearing up and down the aisle afterwards revealed no cat, and left a bundle of blankets that his poor cashier was still struggling to clean up. As soon as the discovery had been made, the meowing had ceased completely, at least. Filthy frowned despite the silence, though, wondering what could have provoked this. What manner of tomfoolery, by Celestia's sunscorched cheeks, was this?
He huffed and made his way back toward his office. He still had to see to it that the goods he was to receive from Mr. Bonds would be arriving on schedule. He’d agreed to sell them, after all, and he couldn’t do that if they weren’t here.
“Hey, Bossman?” called one of the stockers from the heavier goods section. “We have a situation back here.”
“What kind of situation?” asked Filthy, turning and waiting for the employee to catch up. “Don’t tell me we lost another hooftruck.”
“No, Bossman, we still have all hooftrucks. This is about an animal.”
Filthy’s eyes shot open with hope. “You found the cat?”
“Uh… No?” He turned and pointed to the back. “We think there’s a dog wedged between some bookshelves. We have no idea how it ended up back there, but we don’t know what to do. This wasn’t covered in employee training.”
Filthy sighed. It wasn’t in the training program because this was not supposed to happen. Pets weren’t allowed in, with the exception of service animals, so why were there so many in here today? “Come on,” he waved, starting toward the section at a brisk trot. “Let’s go see if it’s okay. If it is, we show it the door before it bites somepony.”
When they arrived in the furniture section, two bulky earth ponies were already moving furniture to gain access to another piece. None of the bookshelves were together right now, so Filthy didn’t know where they were going. “Where’s this dog you found?” he asked.
“It moved, Mr. Rich, sir,” said the mare. “We think it’s in the wardrobe over there, now.”
Filthy was about to ask which one, but then he heard the barking and saw the doors move. He knew where the dog was. It was in the one he had recently sent out to be refinished. The sealing layer was still fresh, meaning there were no scratches, but now there was a dog inside it, with its claws and teeth marring up the insides. He dreaded having to have it refinished again this soon.
Before long, all that stood between the few of them and the barking wardrobe was a large, plush sofa. It was great for lounging on, but very, very heavy. It took Filthy and the two earth ponies working together to slide it out of the way while the employee that had called his attention rushed to the wardrobe and opened the doors. “Uh… Bossman?”
“What’s the matter?” asked Filthy. “Is it hurt? Is it bleeding on our stock?”
“It’s not in here, Bossman.”
Filthy rushed over to the wardrobe and pulled open the other door. He was expecting to see a hole through which the dog had escaped, and a big mess of scratches on the inside completely destroying the varnish, but no. There was no chipping, no scratches, not even a stray hair. It was immaculate.
Then they heard more barking.
“It’s over there, Mr. Rich, sir,” pointed the mare. “Behind that bookcase.”
The dog had moved into a bookcase with glass doors. They’d be able to see it now, if they could turn the thing around. Unfortunately, that meant moving the sofa again, along with a dining set, a grandfather clock, and an apothecary’s cabinet. By the time they worked their way over, the barking had stopped completely, and once more, there was no dog, and no signs of it even having been there in the first place.
Filthy was stewing in his cauldron now. He was not remotely pleased about how today was turning out. Here he was chasing after a dog, wondering where a cat had disappeared to, and all the while, he’d left his supplier in his office for an extended period of time with the idea that he would have dealt with the situation by now.
“Maybe it’s a ghost dog,” posited the stocker. “My aunt, she had this little chihuahua, and after it ran off, she could still hear his barks from inside the walls for days. It was haunting her for sure.”
“Or maybe it was just trying to come back into the house,” replied the mare. “Seriously, I’d sooner believe that there’s a real dog making a fool of us in here than some kind of spirit.”
“Look, just keep your voices down,” huffed Filthy. “I have to return to my office. I can’t leave my guest waiting any longer, and I don’t want you scaring off the customers with tales of ghosts and ghouls. If you find the dog, either show it the door or take it to a vet. Stay alert and be careful, though. I don’t want to hear that a customer or employee was bitten. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal pony clear, Bossman,” saluted the stocker.
“Good. See to it that this is dealt with, and clean up when you’re done.”
Shaking his head to clear his exhaustion, Filthy returned to his office. Trading Bonds was still there, playing with a little desk toy while he waited for Filthy to return. “You find that little kitty?” he asked, placing the toy back on the desk.
“No, I think it might have run off,” grunted Filthy, glad to finally be back in his chair. He waved off the cashier he had left in the room. “Sorry I took so long; I was alerted that there was also a dog that found its way into the furniture. That cashier you saw in here a few minutes ago will let me know if it shows up again. We’ll find them, if they’re still in the store.”
“You’re not going to hurt them, are you?”
Filthy placed his right hoof up against his chest. “Oh, heavens, no. I just don’t want them in my store. Cats have a tendency to knock things off of shelves, and I have some fragile merchandise here. If we find it, we’ll take it down to a local shelter, or a vet if necessary. Same goes for the dog and biting somepony. I don’t want them tripping up the customers, either. A nasty fall could hurt somepony, and we don’t want that.”
“Right, okay. Well, I saw your sign on the door that says no pets allowed, and I thought that, well…”
“We’re not pet friendly, but that’s solely because of our merchandise. That, and our customer’s safety. We run a safe, family-friendly store.”
Trading Bonds nodded. “That’s good to hear.”
"Now then, would that conclude business, or is there something more you'd like to do?" Filthy asked. "I know we barely touched on the fine print before the cat and dog situations cropped up, but I assure you, such things do not happen in this store with this worrying amount of frequency."
"Actually, there is one more thing I would like to include…" Trading Bonds said, putting the desk toy down and folding his hooves across the desk, "and that is the shipments of the overstocked items themselves. Apparently, we've been receiving reports of some of the suppliers… not being as careful as they should have been."
That was to be expected, at this rate. Filthy would've been surprised if he hadn't been informed of this, after today's mayhem. "And I presume that some items break during shipping?" he asked.
Trading Bonds nodded. "Yes, so we've had to move those ponies to other duties, to see if their rather harsh handling of the products is to blame for the items breaking mid-ship," he answered uncomfortably. "I feel as if I should warn you regardless: do contact me if the shipments are damaged in any way."
Filthy nodded. "You can count on me to keep track of any damages on my end," he said. Once more, the pair shook hooves, and Trading Bonds moved to stand from the desk with a smile on his face.
"I do believe that concludes our business today, Mr. Rich," Trading Bonds said, turning to trot out the door. “Take care.”
"Take care, Mr. Bonds," Filthy replied, smiling just the same. As Trading Bonds walked out the door, and closed it behind him, he sagged in his seat. "Well, that's another loose end tidied up…" He embraced the silence relatively quickly, and indeed, whatever shenanigans lay in wait seemed to wait for Mr. Bonds to fully leave the premises before deciding to strike once more, this time in the form of another cashier opening the door.
"Uh, Bossman?" the cashier said, frowning. "I'm hearing about crows cawing in the lavatory…"
"Crows?" Filthy rose from his seat, sighing. How did crows make it into the store? They weren't even all that common in Equestria, for crying out loud! The most he had heard about them was that they flocked in places like the Everfree, and that forest kept to itself most of the time. He trotted out of the door with the cashier, brow furrowing once again as he made his way to the lavatory. As they neared the doors marked for stallions and mares, he heard an incessant cawing coming from within. Honestly, it sounded like a whole murder of crows decided to grace the store with their presence, and what they were singing about, he could only guess.
He turned to the cashier. "Is anypony in either lavatory?" he asked.
The cashier shook his head. "No, Bossman, I checked," he answered. Filthy sighed and trotted to the stallions' lavatory, knocking on the door to see if that would stop the incessant cawing.
Nope. It rose in volume instead, as if to taunt him. He turned to the cashier. "Check the other lavatory; I'll investigate this one," he said. The cashier nodded, and together they opened the doors to try to solve the issue. He peered inside the bathroom he had chosen; sink row, a row of five bathroom stalls, and a paper towels dispenser on top of soap dispensers and mirrors.
He went to the first stall, and opened it up. There were no crows to be had, yet the cawing persisted. Strange. Filthy's brow furrowed as he closed the stall and went to the next one over, opening it to yield… a perfectly good, healthy latrine. No talon-marks blemished it, no tiny dents were present that would have indicated pecking, nothing out of the ordinary.
The next three stalls yielded the same result, so he turned to the sinks once he was done checking out the latrines. He frowned upon beholding the mirrors, noticing that he could see crows adorning the tops of the stalls, all cawing and looking at him as they snickered into their wings. He turned to the stalls, but no crows were to be had. Back to the mirrors, and the little feathery nuisances were still there, giggling into their wings like nopony's business. A few more came to perch on the sinks, the soap dispensers, and the paper towel dispensers, all looking at him and laughing as though they understood a joke that flew over his head.
So how was he going to tackle this, exactly? Filthy put a hoof to his chin and pondered. The crows were in the reflections, where he could not so easily reach without some kind of sudden superpower born of power fantasies to hoofwave strangling the crows. Alas, he had no such powers, nor was he in a power fantasy, let alone in the dream world, so this would require a bit more lateral thinking than he was accustomed to.
Maybe stomping his hoof would work. He lifted his already-raised hoof up high and brought it down onto the tile, with only enough force to cause the strike to echo in the lavatory. The crows did not disperse, but instead looked at him with their lower mandibles falling slack for one moment, only to clutch their stomachs with their wings the next moment as they almost toppled over from their perches in laughter.
Okay, now Filthy felt like he was the butt of whatever joke the crows had in mind for him. He stomped again, but the crows just laughed even harder, some pointing their wingtips at him as they cackled. That was when Filthy noticed a particular crow only smirking at him, dressed in an immaculate suit that would have been tailor-made for its size. Next to that crow sat a spider in similar garments, and somehow, the spider was also smirking. Somehow, the pair reminded him of butlers, waiting on hock and hoof… or claw and leg, in this case.
He turned to the stalls again, and the dressed spider and crow had, in fact, materialized atop the stall directly behind him, and indeed, their smirks remained in place. One blink, though, and the pair were gone, and the cawing had ceased, though the birds' laughter still echoed in his head as the silence settled.
Filthy took a deep breath and moved back over to the mirror. The crows and the spider had all disappeared, and there was no damage to the stalls. Telling himself he was just seeing things, he turned on the tap and splashed some cold water on his face, giving it a gentle scrub to steady his mind. “You’ve been working too hard, Filthy,” he said aloud, knowing that nopony else was here, “and you’re worried about how all of this is going to turn out.”
He turned off the tap, grabbed a paper towel to dry his face, and looked at himself in the mirror. “You’ll push through this,” he promised himself. “You’ve worked hard for what you have, and you’re going to make sure you keep it. Business face.” His eyelids relaxed, he pulled on a smile, and he slicked back his mane. He would buy anything from that stallion in the mirror.
As he pushed the door open and made his way into the store proper, he heard a loud caw behind him that caused him to jump. The well-dressed crow was sitting on the sign alerting customers to the lavatories. As he calmed down, he reached up to try grabbing its foot, intending to bring it outside. It took off, disappearing behind an aisle.
“You find it, Bossman?” asked the cashier, poking his head out of the mares’ room.
“Yeah, it just flew behind that shelf,” confirmed Filthy. “You go right, I’ll go left, and we’ll corner it.”
“Just the first aisle, Bossman?”
“That’s where it went. Come on.”
As they lined themselves up at either end of the shelves, they noticed something odd. The crow wasn’t there anymore. It had been, but a gap had opened in the middle of the shelves, creating a tiny path to the next row, and littered on the floor was a train of feathers leading in there.
Filthy and the cashier followed the trail of feathers into the next row, winding around a few shelves and in and out of aisles, until they finally came face to face with a crow. It wasn’t the one they’d been chasing after, as this one was a ceramic sculpture that was for sale. Filthy sighed and shook his head. What would find its way in next?
The answer was, a customer with a collection of feathers in his hoof. “I saw these on the floor while I was looking at glassware,” he said, walking up to them. “I think there might be a bird that flew in.”
“Yeah,” nodded Filthy. "We were looking for it. You didn’t happen to see it, did you?”
“No, but I didn’t see this, either,” smiled the customer, reaching up and slowly twisting the sculpture around. “Is this for sale?”
Filthy nodded. “Twenty-five bits. I’ll take those loose feathers and dispose of them properly, if you wish. My associate here would be happy to ring you up at the front.”
The customer gave Filthy the feathers and picked up the statuette. As the two disappeared to the front of the store, Filthy grabbed a broom and dustpan, sweeping up the trail of feathers. There wasn’t a lot of dirt covering them. If he cleaned them up a bit, he could probably bag them up and sell them as crafting plumes, or even donate them to the castle fletcher.
He bagged them up and started back toward his office, but at the end of the aisle, he found himself sporting a facefull of spider silk. As most ponies would, he flailed his front hooves to remove it from his face, but he spotted more along the walkway between the aisles. It was spun up in webs around the corners of shelves, and strangely, they had little arrows in them, pointing the same direction.
Filthy decided that it would be little use taking them all down now. After all, if there was a spider spinning these, possibly the same one that he’d seen in the lavatory, he’d be better off dealing with it before cleaning up its mess.
He started by looking in the opposite direction. If he had been a spider trying not to be caught, he’d point the arrows away from himself. Well, actually, he’d probably find a secluded, out-of-the-way spot and not spin nearly this much webbing. Unfortunately, all he found turning away was a large web spanning the walkway, similar to a large banner. Woven in were sections of web resembling letters.
“Other way.”
Okay, he definitely hadn’t been expecting that. Turning around, he followed the arrows. What was odd was that the winding path the arrows were leading him down was crossing the path he’d taken to clean up the feathers, and he hadn’t run into these webs then. This spider worked fast.
Before long, he ran out of arrows, and just four remained, all pointing at a puzzle box he’d been given to sell. He hadn’t been given the answer on how to open it, for which he was glad. If the customer asked him, he could honestly say he didn’t know how, and that finding out the solution yourself was what made it fun.
As he was looking around to see if the spider was nearby, a customer found his way down the aisle. “What’s this thing?”
“Careful, there,” warned Filthy. “I saw a spider earlier, and I think it might be nearby. I don’t want it to bite you.”
The customer twisted his hip to show a scorpion cutie mark. “I’m an arachnologist. If there is a spider here, I have antivenoms in my workshop down the road. Very realistic web decorations, by the way. Very authentic.”
“Oh, uh… Thanks,” Filthy bluffed. “I’m glad you think so. We’re… trying some new decor, for Nightmare Night. Low hoof traffic right now, you know. The perfect time to figure out the layout so we know what we’re doing when the time comes.” He put on a big smile and hoped that the story he’d made up was believable.
“Not a bad idea, but I would have done so after the customers all left, and the doors were locked for the night. Not to question your business practices, of course.”
“Of course. Now, is there something I can help you with?”
“Well, what with my team out gathering samples for the next week, I needed something to keep my hooves busy and my mind sharp. I was just looking to see if you had any jigsaw puzzles, you know? I figure since all you have to do to make one is glue a picture to a board and then cut it up into little pieces, it’s only natural that there would be some interesting hoof-made jigsaw puzzles around here, but I haven’t seen any.”
“Well, I don’t know about jigsaw puzzles, but I do have a collection of puzzle rings,” smiled Filthy, reaching to the shelf over the box and producing a small bag of rings. “There’s also this puzzle box. You could spend hours trying to figure out how to open it, and I’m told you can store stuff inside.”
The arachnologist’s eyes lit up. “Sold!” He grabbed the box, along with the bag of puzzle rings on top, and made his way toward the front.
Well, that was one situation sorted out, but that just left the most obvious course of action: find out where that blasted crow and his spider companion had wandered off to. After all, not everypony would be able to buy the explanation of a few loose Nightmare Night decorations coming early, especially if they had spontaneously appeared within store premises.
Besides, he had always been of the mind of putting up said decor up in the weeks before they were due, as opposed to whole months in advance. That particular trend began circulating Equestria as of late, which given how stringently the nation adhered to a weather schedule, didn't make an ounce of sense unless one operated a clothing store or the like. And even then, it only barely managed to convey the tiniest margin of rationale behind it.
He glanced around, and found that, one by one, the spider webs were vanishing like the crows in the mirrors had. Instead of doing so instantaneously, or in a way that made rational sense, they fizzed up like silly string, strummed like guitar chords, and then melted into audible sound that tickled his ears like the kiss of wind after a calming summer storm. He looked about, wondering if anypony else was seeing this, but customers didn't pay heed to this at all, if they were even passing through or by the aisle he was in at all.
Which ended up putting him back on square one, a fact that began to irk him just slightly. He looked around again, solely to make sure he wasn't hallucinating. The store shelves were normal, nopony was asking him to solve animal-related issues, and no loose feathers or spider silk was to be seen anywhere.
Maybe it was time to go back to his office. But first, he had to double-check that everything was going smoothly. After all, one didn't run a store and expect everything to be smooth sailing; there were nails in that road after all, and they weren't going to sweep themselves away from vulnerable hooves belonging to inattentive ponies. Thus, he began his careful sweep of the premises, starting with the registers and the merchandise shelves directly attached to them. He trotted past them, glancing briefly in each row, and so far, so good, nothing was wrong.
Then he began another sweep of the lavatory, though he only checked the stallion's one to ensure he wouldn't receive any complaints later. A quick check of the mirrors yielded blissful normalcy, so he simply took a moment to splash some more water on his face and towel himself off before resuming his sweep. He went up and down the aisles, seeing if anypony else had any complaints to lodge to him while store hours were still going strong.
Nope, blissful serenity greeted him instead. In fact, it was nothing else, during the rest of his meticulous sweep. Interestingly, the crow feathers he had swept up also seemed to have vanished entirely, which might have been excusable if an employee had swept them up while he was investigating the spider silk, though he was careful to not hedge any bets just yet. And if the feathers had disappeared in an unorthodox way, then more power to them—it ultimately wasn't his business anymore, so he shelved the ruminations about them for another time.
The trip back to the office was uneventful, and not marked by ponies lodging complaints. He opened the door, strode inside and closed the door behind him—that was when he noticed the pair of wayward, meticulous and sharply-dressed animals lounging on the back of his chair, regarding him with twin smirks, snickering into a claw and a pedipalp in sounds that managed to transcend whatever limited range of vocals a spider and a corvid could have. The laughter… it sounded equine—and all the more wrong because of it. A wing and a front leg were waved in wide arcs, going above the crow's head and spider's thorax, then sweeping in front of their chest and fangs, waving as they gave a low, simultaneous bow.
Filthy stared at the pair, incredulous and too shocked to even be outraged. 'Scandalized' fit his mood right now, though it wasn't readily apparent on his dumbfounded expression. Now, these two partners in crime definitely reminded him of butlers with the gesture, unexpected as it came from a corvid and a spider of all things. With twin smirks and a flash of light that exploded into confetti, feathers and silk, the pair vanished as they rose to look Filthy in his eyes one last time, and silently dared him to do something about it without saying a word to him.
Before he could even ask where the clearly sentient animals had come from or where they had gone, much less take a few seconds to metaphorically scrape his lower jaw off of the floor, he heard a guffaw, and felt a tiny talon rest on his shoulder. He looked towards the noise and feeling, and found a caricatured, miniature puppet of Discord regarding him with mirth in his little beady, button eyes. "Oh my, that was quite adorable, wasn't it?" the puppet asked, smiling widely and showing tiny teeth seemingly made of soap garnished garishly with glitter.
"Wh-wha—how—why—" was all Filthy could stammer out, confusion flowing in his eyes and painting his face to form an expression that would have, for Discord at least, made an epic portrait to hang in whatever house that wished for that type of decor. Scandalized, outraged, perplexed, and yet somehow caught unawares all the same—the puppet smirked, finding the expression to be absolutely priceless.
The puppet procured a camera and took a photo of Filthy's expression, taking the parchment in its tiny claw before Filthy could think to shred the evidence of his boundless confusion. The puppet waved the photo in the air to stabilize the colors, and somehow, it came out in a blurred array of colored polka dots that nonetheless immortalized his expression. "Well, we both have places to be at the end of the day, and Fluttershy does want me to check on her cottage while she's away, so I'll be heading that way now~" the puppet said, still grinning. "Tata now~" In another burst of confetti, silk, and feathers, the puppet had vanished, taking the camera and photograph with it.
Filthy sighed, grabbed a dustpan and a broom, and made to tidy up his office. He'd rather have had it spotless, than to be questioned on where the extraneous debris had come from. Besides, the day had worn him down somewhat, and it was best to sort out his confusion the only way he knew how: by taking the trash out, and keeping sales up while he was at it. Little did he know, that I would not deem fit to release him from my grip yet~
Feather beds are often regarded as the best beds. They are soft and springy, and conform to your back with ease. When compared to a spring mattress, they’re also much quieter, not creaking and popping in the middle of the night every time your hips shift. Water beds are little better. Sure, they conform to your body perfectly, but if the water is not kept at a comfortable temperature, you could feel as if you were sleeping on an ice cube. Not to mention that even a minor malfunction could flood your bedroom. Foam pads could be lumpy, and air mattresses would either leak or compress, so they were out of the picture entirely. Feathers were always the way to go if you wished to sleep in luxury.
That is why Prince Blueblood had bought his. He was so determined to draw out the luxury that he had also purchased an array of goose-down pillows and a comforter set, so he was toasty warm in his queen-size bed. He felt as though he were sleeping on a cloud with a ray of sunshine, courtesy of his aunt, beaming down through him to grace the world with his radiance. So beautiful the world would be in his image.
Still, he needed to be quit of his bed if he wanted to grace the common ponies with his magnificent presence. The day had only just begun. He stood up and moved his hooves into his slippers. The ironwood floor, though practically immune to scratches and scuffs, had the potential to ruin the clear coat that kept his hooficure spotless, and he’d have to schedule more time in the chair, and any moment where the ponies of Equestria couldn’t gaze on him were exceptionally dull moments in their lives. If he were late, who would the public adore?
He walked across the hardwood floor to the bathroom. As expected, his butler had already laid out his casualwear for his day out, freshly dry-cleaned and pressed. This was what he had come to expect. If his clothes were wrinkled, ponies might mistake him for somepony useless who did nothing to contribute to society.
Removing the horrid thought from his head, he kicked off his slippers, stepped into the shower, and turned on the water. It took all of three seconds for the water to heat up to the proper temperature. That was not good. That meant he had to have the help call for a plumber. Now he had to suffer through the rest of his shower knowing there was something wrong with the pipes.
In addition to that, his body wash bottle was facing the wrong way. Whichever maid cleaned the shower last had neglected to ensure that the labels pointed out. That was not done, and he’d have their feather duster for it.
With a disgusted sigh, he grabbed his shampoo and began lathering up his mane. While this was typically a job for his stylist, she was unavailable at the moment, and he had to do it himself. As she’d said, in the worst case scenario, he could wear a hat and cover it up. He also made sure to scrub out his tail. He’d brushed up against a bush yesterday, and after picking out all of the little leaves last night, he really needed to wash it out. After all, bushes grew in dirt, and he would not have such an icky substance sullying his tail.
After rinsing out his mane, he reached for his body wash, only to be reminded that the bottle was backwards. How was he supposed to enjoy his shower if he was constantly surrounded by miserable failing clods?
Nevertheless, he still needed to scrub away the dirt. He squeezed out a bit into his hoof and rubbed it all over his coat. He made sure to scrub his face gently in little circles. He was already so stressed today that he didn’t want his brow sweat to mar his lovely countenance. Once scrubbed, he rinsed his body and tail until he was completely free of soap. After all, he was Prince Blueblood, not Prince Soap Residue.
With his shower now done, he turned off the water and grabbed a nice, fluffy towel. These were the most plush towels Equestria had to offer. The cloth was soft and absorbent, causing every dab at his coat to be gentle and loving. But something was odd. He had ordered these in white, and as he tossed it to the floor, he noticed a faint blue smudge. A stain? He shook his head and turned to the mirror. Could this day be any worse?
The answer came rather quickly. As he reached for his toothbrush, he saw a rubber duck on his counter. He didn’t own a rubber duck. He was also the only one that was supposed to be using this bathroom. This was his own private bathroom! Who was using his bathroom without permission?!
He took a few deep breaths. Somepony had caused him a great deal of stress. Since he didn’t know who, he would need to find out. Except, he didn’t have the time to find out.
After brushing his teeth, he put on his casual ascot and exited his bedroom. The maid had already remade his bed with fresh, unblemished sheets, so at least something was going right today.
He found the butler in the hallway, carrying a fresh stack of clean towels for the linen closet. As was normal, the butler bowed at his approach, careful not to drop the towels.
“Who was in my bathroom?” demanded Blueblood. “Which member of your staff has been slacking in their duties?”
The butler kept a calm expression. “We did hire a new maid a few days ago. Perhaps she needs some retraining.”
Blueblood shook his head. “See to it that not only is she retrained, but that her pay is docked so she doesn’t forget her place. You will also need to call a plumber and remove the duck from my countertop. Do I make myself clear?”
The butler nodded. “Of course, sir. I shall see to it right away.”
"Excellent. Has breakfast been prepared?" Blueblood asked.
The butler nodded once more. "Yes, it has been prepared, and should still be warm when you reach the dining hall," he confirmed. Blueblood smirked, and went on his way, feeling a bit peckish after everything his morning had thrown at him thus far. Then again, the staff he had hired always made excellent food, and it was not an invitation turned down so easily. How could he go about his day, and grace the common ponies with his magnificent presence, if he had an empty stomach? It wouldn't do; would not do at all. He would dare say, the mere notion was simply unacceptable.
Reaching the dining hall proved to be no issue, fortunately, and nor was eating breakfast. Only the hired help were able to watch him partake in orderly eating; he started with a few waffles, sprinkled with nuts and fruits and whipped cream, and sprinkled with flower petals in their buttery masses. Weirdly, the petals were blue, but then again, the waffles had been dyed slightly by the color, so he just wrote it off as an exotic flower spilling its colors into the made-from-scratch batter of the breakfast item.
He chewed the waffles, and savored their taste. They were nutty and sweet, and the crispness of the fruits rounded them out very well. He ate the whole plate, dabbing his mouth with a napkin before moving to partake in some orange and lemon juice that, by smell alone, he could tell was freshly squeezed.
Strangely, a blue flower, floating innocuously, adorned the glass, with vibrant blue stamens and leaves framing it nicely. He plucked it out, and found that a bit of the blue colouration had wormed its way into his glass. He took a slow sip and found that nothing was wrong with the taste, so he slowly downed the rest of his glass without issue.
A nice serving of granola tiramisu rounded off the affairs of the breakfast table, and he dabbed another napkin on his muzzle before standing up, and trotting out of the dining hall as the butlers and maids set about cleaning the empty plates he had left behind. As he made his way out, he asked a butler, "Tell me, those blue flowers… where did they come from?"
"They're exotic flowers from the Everfree Forest, milord," the butler replied. "We received them in the mail last night, from an anonymous source. The sender said that you would love them mixed in with your breakfast. He was a ruggedly handsome gentleman, too; likely very wealthy."
Blueblood nodded. "Very well; if we receive any more of those flowers, do include them in a breakfast platter every week if you can," he said.
"I will ensure that your wish will be granted, milord," the butler said. Blueblood grinned to himself and trotted on, unaware that the butler's eyes flashed red and gold as he watched him trot off.
Blueblood left his quarters within the palace, and made a detour to the royal gardens. There were scarcely any ponies within the palace at this time of day, even as he traversed through the many window-laden halls, save for butlers, maids, and royal guards, and they were stationed so sparsely that he didn't notice when they did double-takes at his passing, snickering to themselves like schoolfillies. Besides, the Royal Court wasn't scheduled for today, nor for a few more days afterwards, so he didn't need to bother dithering about, worrying about what the other members of the Canterlot elite thought of him.
The gardens proved to be a mundane affair, relatively speaking. Blueblood always liked to stroll through them at a leisurely pace, paying respects to any statues he trotted by—for all he knew, one of them might have been molded after the likeness of his ancestor, and he was of the mind that said ancestor would strangle him if he hadn't paid his dues to that particular pony. Though, his respects only entailed a glance, a curt nod, and a half-bow in those statues' directions; he'd never bothered to read the plaques inscribed on the statues' bases. Besides, that was typically the common courtesy he'd have been given by the commoners, and many of these statues seemed to depict such rabble.
Though, the few smattering of guards tasked with ensuring the safety and harmony of the royal gardens couldn't help themselves; some were openly snickering into their hooves, and looking away from him when he turned in their direction. Blueblood made a mental note to inform his auntie Celestia about the guards needing to be retrained; they were giggling as though they had heard a bad pun too many. Alas, he could not chide them directly, at least without the current Captain of the Guard present, wherever in Tartarus he had wandered off to.
Maybe the current crop was laughing at something they'd heard from the barracks, so ultimately he paid the giggling little mind. Besides, whatever bad jokes the common rabble told one another was none of his business. The nobility didn't have time to entertain such rubbish—image mattered as much as sophistication after all, and he had to uphold his image like everypony else in high-class positions of power. Thus, everything he did, and every step he took, was to ensure he stayed within that position of power and prestige—at least, until he could find a wife and pass on said power and prestige to the next generation, preferably under his masterful tutelage.
Better that the common rabble didn't hear that leave his mouth or thoughts. Some things were better left unspoken, some thoughts better left unheard, some paths better left untraveled by. Still… something about the giggling as he passed guard after guard unnerved him, and a tiny voice piped up in his head, wondering just what they were laughing at. It better not have been him—he would find all the necessary avenues to dock their pay if he were the target of their joking. The last time he had been the butt of the joke, it had meant an early end to that year’s Grand Galloping Gala… he shuddered at the memory.
Through a trellis archway, he came to the next section of the gardens, where countless flowers bloomed. A panoply of scents washed over him as the breeze fluttered through his mane. The collection of flowers growing in this section was the largest and most beautiful in all of Equestria. Very few things compared to his face, but the flowerbeds here were certainly trying harder than most ponies. Most notably, a patch of daisies had replicated his cutie mark precisely. While the gardeners had tried to convince him that it was a compass rose, marking the exact center of the garden, he could see it for what it was: a love letter from the flowers themselves, assuring him that he was beautiful.
He wondered if those blue flowers in his breakfast were around here. While he was above searching for tiny placards that told him what was on display, he did want more of them. As often as he received gifts, he would be very interested in knowing if he could supply himself. After all, what the commoners considered to be fancy gifts were often dull and unappealing, and on the rare occasion that something good did come from the drab, thoughtless masses, he could usually find out what it was.
He decided that it would be best to take a stroll around this section in a different path than he usually did. This would mean possibly crossing paths with the filthy gardeners that played around in the dirt all day, but perhaps he could find the flower in question.
As he passed a hedge wall, he spotted a pair of mares. While one looked at him with wide eyes, the other put a hoof over her mouth while her cheeks ballooned. Narrowing his eyes, he marched over to them, sticking to the cobblestone pathway to avoid stepping in the mud.
“Have you no dignity?” he admonished. “You are to tend to the flowers, not eat them!”
“B-blue…” wheezed the wide-eyed one, clearly petrified in fear. The other one just made a gagging, choking sort of sound without removing her dirty hoof from her mouth.
“Stealing from the gardens is a serious offense,” he continued. “If I weren’t so busy today, I’d have your jobs!” He pointed his nose in the air as he walked off, leaving them to stew in his magnanimous mercy.
He could swear he heard them laughing as soon as he rounded the corner. Whatever they had eaten, it must have had a powerful grip on their minds. Otherwise, how could they find joy in nearly losing their livelihoods?
The next section did have some blue flowers, along with some white, yellow and pink, arranged in a way that resembled a shield on a blue and white-striped background. Behind him, a large tree had a weaving network of vines with blue and white flowers. Such a lovely pattern. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t been to this section before.
Just as he felt about ready to change his usual path, however, he spotted a dandelion among the shrubbery. Not only were the gardeners eating the plants, they were also slacking and allowing weeds to propagate.
“I see that with joy the gardens are brimming,”came a voice behind him. A zebra had entered the section, a goofy-looking smile on his face. “And I had considered my stripes slimming. Still, given a morning so fine, it’s a shock to see such colourful lines.”
“You think this poorly-groomed section is colourful?” sneered Blueblood. “Clearly, you haven’t seen the better sections. Far more vibrant than this weed-riddled mess.” He didn’t know why he was even being so cordial. This zebra should feel lucky that he was even allowed into such a nice place, widely and correctly considered the domain of the Equestrian royalty, nobility, and castle staff, save for rare events such as the Grand Galloping Gala. Why his aunt just let anypony walk around here was beyond him. It detracted from the serene beauty of this place.
“To the petals and leaves, I do not refer, but your joyous crusade I shall no longer deter.” The zebra waved as he left the section. “I do hope to see you outside of this place; my day has been brightened by your lovely face. To hide it away would be such a pity. Go, and share it with the entire city.”
As much as he didn’t want to admit it, that zebra was right. He should not be locking his gorgeous face away behind some hedges while some other charlatan was soaking up all of the attention. While he still wanted to find and identify that flower, it was well past time to show all of Canterlot the magnificence they should be striving for. After all, if they didn’t do their best to look like him, were they even trying? Leading by example: That was what a prince should do.
Winding his way out of the gardens and into the city proper, so many ponies seemed to be more glad to see him than usual. Some would smile, others would laugh, and others still would bow down, holding their stomachs as they were suddenly caught breathless by his appearance. It was truly astounding how tickled his subjects were to see him.
Of course, he could not help but wonder if a parade of circus clowns had passed through here. His perfectly cleaned and groomed ears were spectacular at picking up gossip, and he kept hearing them talk about how polka-dots and plaid was going to be the new style for the next season, something he hoped was just a rumour. Such garish patterns did not belong in a civilized place such as Canterlot, and he would not dare be caught in such a horrid combination. If he had any sway in the fashion market, this trend would be dying off long before coming anywhere near him.
Everywhere he went, he seemed to hear more and more about this pattern choice, along with other ghastly design choices. From some poor sod who was running around with the word “Goofball” written in his forehead to a stallion with an afro-mohawk rainbow wig to somepony skulking around in a tiger-print facepaint, there had to be some kind of circus in town that he hadn’t been made aware. Why else was everypony so full of raucous laughter?
Not to mention, there were ponies mentioning steak-like patterns in his presence—the kind that ghastly gryphons, dangerously decadent dragons, horrid hippogryphs, malodorous minotaurs and conniving changelings would dare eat, the kind that no sane pony with a ten-foot pole would touch in a million years. What did these commoners take him for, some demented pop star who would actually clothe themselves in the flesh of other living, breathing animals?! As far as he knew, Diomedis Defectus was just a tall tale, meant to scare the scions of nobility into behaving. Hopefully, his future bride would have agreed with him, on the issue of flesh—none for him, and none for the rabble. Not to mention, as well, the uncomfortable visions he had of another place, another time, where he had associated with such ponies—euch.
He shook his head to clear those horrid thoughts and continued on down the path, veering into Restaurant Row, where good smells enticed him onwards. At least the ponies here stuck to a menu of strict greenery, and small bland portions or no, at least Restaurant Row had some variety. If he wanted small bland portions, he'd have asked his head chef to go extravagant with his food designs.
Here there was a wealth of options available, since Restaurant Row had a variety of goodies to offer for the weary, aching tummy. Which one did he feel like sampling today…? That was the million bit question, almost as important as his own carefully-crafted self-image that he projected onto the world for all to see. All this brooding was making him hungry, he mused as he put a hoof to his chin—but not high enough on his chin to see what was wrong with it.
What to choose, what to choose… his hoof tapped at his chin, stroking it lightly, still feeling alright as fur ought to. The Bake Stop… no, no, he already had tiramisu today, and he had to adhere to a strict regimen of allotted foods to maintain his appearance and health… The Tasty Treat? No, no, too out-of-the-way, not to mention the ponies who ran it preferred a lot of spices in their food. He understood the appeal of Whindian cuisine, but today he was feeling more peckish than usual… and not to mention that whole kerfuffle with Zesty Gourmand made newspapers in Canterlot a few years back, and somehow that incident was still fresh in his mind…
He scanned Restaurant Row, or at least, as much of it as he could see without the aid of wings. There was one on his left, its name blaring over its doors in fanciful, cursive font: Le Nom de Fantaisie. A Prench restaurant? Well, sign him up, paint him in three stripes, and change his nationality for a moment, the Prench certainly knew good food when they crafted it! Blueblood strode up to it, and paused to look at the chalkboard menu sitting next to the door. Ooooh, the wares were equally as good as the name of the restaurant, so he opened the door with a flick of his horn and strode on in.
The other patrons of the restaurant, as well as those running the establishment, turned to him as soon as the door jingled to announce his presence. Five seconds of silence passed—five whole seconds for Blueblood to bask in the adoration of the lesser ponies, and allow them to bask in his magnificence.
At least, until the patrons went back to their food, snickering amongst themselves. Immediately, talks of garishly glittery garments and sordid steak slick-backs reached his ears once more—only now, he was certain the conversation was about him. But what would he have to gain, what would he have to allow, by wearing such corrosive contraptions? He noticed that some of the patrons were Dukes and Duchesses, though none of them bothered to make eye contact with him—fitting, as his station was so much higher than theirs.
Though, whatever had set them giggling still perplexed him. As far as he knew, he didn't go out looking like a half-drowned rat with rabies every day—everything about him was groomed to perfection. Sure, he had to do a little bit of manual labor today, but that was because of circumstances beyond his control. And besides, that little bit of effort on his part should have appeased his fellow nobles—so what in the blazing, backwater Tartarus had them giggling?!
It was fortunate that the management of the establishment was still too stunned to act; that meant Blueblood had some measure of time to investigate this. He trotted to a table, where a Duke sat, and shook his head. "Duke Bellweather, what is with all this foalish snickering?" he asked. Duke Bellweather, bless him, kept his mouth in his hoof, refusing to make eye contact with Blueblood. Alas, he was of no help; his mouth was too occupied with wheezing and snorting to provide any sensible answer.
Blueblood turned to the Duchess next to him. "Duchess Spring Breeze, what ever is the matter?" he tried, but Duchess Spring Breeze had also been reduced to absolute, if dignified, stitches. She had no breath for words; her lungs were too busy producing the giggles traversing up her throat.
Blueblood frowned, and trotted to the next table over, where a familiar sight that would have been in the Royal Court greeted him, had the Royal Court been active today. "Baron Fancypants, what has possessed everypony?" he asked.
Fancypants, bless him, coughed awkwardly into his hoof, though there was little doubt that he was smiling beneath his mustache. At his side, Fleur-de-lis clutched her stomach with one hoof, and her mouth with the other, muttering something about the color blue as she lost herself to the throes of laughter. "Well… just between you and me, I think you should find the nearest mirror available," he said, both tartly and gently. That caused the other nobles present to laugh even louder, some masking their giggles with awkward coughing that could not hide their earlier amusement.
Blueblood narrowed his eyes. He looked down at his chest. It was very obvious to him what everypony had been laughing at. The utter shame he felt was unimaginable. He couldn’t believe that he had been walking around all day with his bowtie completely crooked. Still, this much giggling over such a small mistake was uncalled for. Everypony was behaving like a group of juvenile schoolcolts who had just learned a dirty word. Insipid commoners…
He pointed his nose in the air and found a place to seat himself. The fact that no host had come to guide him to his chair was a very upsetting turn. The owner would certainly be receiving a condemnation in his review of service. Even after seating himself, it was a few minutes before a server came over to speak with him.
“Excuse me, sir?” said the mare, hiding her apron behind her writing pad.
“About time you showed up,” groused Blueblood. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting?”
“Sir?”
“I had to seat myself, for Celestia’s sake! Is your waitstaff on break during peak hours?”
“Sir…”
“Oh, nevermind that. Let’s start off with an appetizer of bruschetta, some vichyssois, and we’ll finish that off with speculaas.”
“Yeah, I’m not going to be bringing you any of that, sir.”
Blueblood’s eyes went wide, his lips pursed, and his jaw clenched. “What was that you said?”
“I’m not going to be serving you, sir.”
Blueblood’s eye twitched. “Do you have any idea who I am?” he barked. “Do you have any clue to whom you are refusing service? I am Prince Blueblood! Princess Celestia is my aunt! How dare you refuse me service?!”
The waitress shrank down beneath her notepad. “It’s not my decision, sir. We have a dress code that you do not meet. It’s out of my hooves, and I was told that–”
“I don’t care what you were told!” snapped Blueblood, pressing his hoof to his lapel. “These are made from the finest silks, tailor-made to fit perfectly around my exact neck. Not just anypony can wear this! And you have the unmitigated gall to insult my attire?! I demand to speak with your manager!”
Before he’d even finished describing his outfit, a very large stallion in a chef’s jacket was already approaching. “The manager is the one who’s telling you to leave,” he grumbled. “You can’t be in here looking like a foal’s colouring book gone horribly wrong. We have a dress code for a reason; to keep out the riff-raff and troublemakers. Right now, I’d mistake you for the latter. Unless you want to be permanently barred from my establishment, you will leave without another word. When you look presentable, you can come back, but I will not allow you to berate my staff!”
Blueblood raised his nose in the air, huffed, and walked to the front door. “I’ll see this place shut down!” he declared, slamming the door.
As he passed in front of the restaurant, he saw the clown in silly attire. That was truly a gruesome outfit. His facepaint was in orange and black stripes with a pink nose, he was wearing a rainbow wig that varied between an afro and a mohawk between colours, his shirt was patterned with steaks, his wide cloth belt was pink and blue polka-dots, his leggings were the most garish purple plaid, and instead of his normal tail, his was arranged like peacock plumes, with zigzagging feathers and paisleys at the tips of the feathers. It truly was an ugly outfit, and deserved to be mocked.
As the clown stared at Blueblood with the most disgusted grimace, He turned his ire on the spectacle. “You’re the one I’ve heard so much about,” he started. “That skin-tight outfit you’re wearing is ghastly. It’s truly a wonder that you haven’t been arrested for causing a disturbance. If I looked anything like you, I wouldn’t dare leave the house. That you thought you looked presentable at all is an insult. That shirt, those leggings… even that cheap knockoff bowtie is an insult to society. If anypony deserves to be thrown out of a restaurant for not meeting the dress code, it’s you. Not even a restaurant with no dress code should be accepting you!”
With every word he spoke, the clown looked back at him, disgusted, mocking every movement of his lips. Not only did this creature have no sense for how to present himself in public, he was rude, shallow, and childish. Blueblood had put up with a lot today, but this oaf needed to learn to respect his superiors. As he stormed across the street, the clown stormed toward him, until they were face to face. “Now you listen here–” he began.
“I’m listening,” came Discord’s voice from behind. The Draconequus was leaning against a light post, a hayburger in his claw. He took a bite, his teeth passing right through the burger and munching the paper wrapper instead. In his other paw, he was drinking a cup of gummy bears. “Oh, you were talking to your reflection. Pardon me.”
“Reflection?” Blueblood reached out and touched the clown. Undoubtedly, it truly was a large mirror panel that was being delivered on the side of a large cart, only reinforced as two stallions came out to carry it away. Blueblood hurriedly looked himself over, and sure enough, he was the very definition of clashing. Steaks, polka-dots, even the tiger facepaint was plastered on him.
“You look upset,” smiled Discord. “Can I interest you in something to cover yourself with?”
“Yes, right now!” demanded Blueblood. “I can’t go around town looking like this!”
“If it’s any consolation, I think you look very festive,” chided Discord. “So much of the outfit just sings of spring. I can’t imagine why you would want to spit in the face of all the hard work you put into your appearance, but here, have this.” From his tail, a vest on a hanger was produced. “I worked with Miss Rarity on this, I’m sure you remember her. This is her emergency formal wear. It’s perfect for any black tie event, designed by a spectacular seamstress, and all you have to do is pull the cord on the lapel. It even covers your face in makeup.”
“Give it here!” demanded Blueblood, grabbing it and fitting it to himself, “before anypony else can see me like this.” He pulled the cord, and the vest immediately popped outward. Truly, this was a magnificent ensemble, and a powderpuff immediately blotched out all of the colour from Blueblood’s face, returning its white sheen. He looked beautiful once more.
“Much better,” smiled Discord. “I’m not one for high fashion, but you look just like Miss Rarity imagined she would.”
The laughter didn’t stop, as Blueblood, while no longer coated in dye patterns, was now wearing a lacey, frilly dress. Even Discord slipped in a chuckle as he disappeared up the street, his skirt fluttering behind him.
Another day, another batch of customers and prospective suppliers to entice—okay, that sounded wrong, but at least Filthy was careful to keep that musing to himself as he led the freshest batch of would-be suppliers and investors to his office for a group meeting. He had enough chairs to go around, and it was a shame he hadn't used them more often, but this was fine by him—either way, big gains for his establishment chain, if all went well. And hopefully, it would.
He had them all gathered around the desk, like a game of duck duck goose he had played in his formative years, except for the backside of course—that was his seat, and his seat alone as long as he manned the business's helm. Atop the desk lay a fat stack of manilla folders, which he checked the contents of briefly—so far, so good. They were untampered with, and marked with names to go to designated ponies to peruse as they saw fit.
It was a shame that none of the prospectives before him were of noble blood. But it was a shame he chose not to waste breath, words nor thoughts with—better to barter with them another time, when their mood was more amicable. Besides, he could probably procure the bits he needed elsewhere, from other ponies, and through entirely legal means, anyway—spilt milk could always be cleaned up in the end, and it was better to not cry over it being spilled to begin with.
In the meantime, he had investors to potentially drum up sales—enough to necessitate the extra chairs to begin with. He passed the first folder to the pony at the edge of the frontmost row, making doubly sure that the name and pony matched perfectly. "I believe you'll like what you see, Articulate Paper," he said with a smile.
Articulate Paper nodded and took the manilla folder in her hooves, smiling as Filthy went to the pony at her side and gave him a folder. "Same with you, Sunny Smiles," he said. Sunny Smiles, true to his name, beamed like the sun as he received his folder.
It was a simple song and dance, go down one row, then the next one, zigzag back to the other side of the room, and back again until the third row of investors had received full folders of their own. Afterwards, Filthy returned to his desk, and smiled at the bunch.
Goodness, they seemed giddy about something, not that he could blame them—business propositions of this nature only belonged in massive corporations with CEOs at their heads and, while a rarity in Equestria, were picking up in fame just the same. Maybe someday, he reasoned, maybe someday he would be among the numbers of CEOs… but right now, he was content with what he had—all big businesses and corporations started small after all, once upon a time, and his tale would begin like any other.
He cleared his throat, if only to steel his nerves and harden his resolve. It was time to put on his business face—a face that ponies would buy anything from. Excellent. Now, to enact phase two of his hook-line-sinker strategy. Surely, this would go off without a hitch.
"Now, as we are aware, this is a rare moment for Barnyard Bargains—never before have there been this many investors interested in partnering with it before, much less the same day," he said, improvising on the fly. It was best to wing it when there wasn't time to prepare for the grand and glorious stage. "Therefore, we will do this in an unorthodox way—we will discuss our business proposals one at a time, so that nopony gallops over each other in their fervor to have their partnerships sullied, and until then, everypony else is to wait their turn. Are we clear?" When a crowd of nods answered him, he smiled. "Alright. Now, with that out of the way… Articulate Paper, you're first."
Articulate Paper smiled and stood up. "Mister Rich, I would like to supply your business with a new product—I run a paper factory, you see, and it churns out all sorts of goods. Toilet paper, paper towels, book-making materials… and I couldn't help but notice that your books seem to remain on your shelves for a while, before somepony decides to give them homes," she said, looking around.
"I have recently innovated a special type of paper,” she continued, “and a special type of ink to go along with it—the ink remains invisible, except only to the unicorn or alicorn who writes using that ink in their magic. The paper will then be enchanted, and then you can hide those enchantments with regular ink so that nopony can guess how the paper is enchanted. It's a step up from dragonfire messages, as well as phoenix fire messages—a lot more practical to use in the end," she said, using a hoof to indicate her horn. She conjured the paper in question, and it looked ordinary to the untrained eye. Filthy, however, knew the distinct sparkles floating around it, shimmering in the aura cradling it with a faint iridescent sheen.
She also conjured a well of the special ink she had mentioned, which once more rippled with a soft iridescence. Another inkwell came after it, but without the fanciful rainbow adorning its brethren, and after that a pair of standard quills. "This might need further demonstration, so do pay attention," she said in warning, causing the eyes of the investors to zero in on the seemingly unassuming paper.
She dipped one of the quills in the special ink, and the tip… the tip came back perfectly clear, despite the vial containing the ink being classic black! Filthy blinked in amazement, but dared not say anything just yet. He watched as a complex spell circle was hashed out on the paper, and for the life of him, he couldn't see one trace of the ink at all! While he was no unicorn or alicorn, he knew the value of a good product when he saw it—and for a whole third of Equestria alone, this would be absolutely insane! Another runic circle was hashed out on the back, but to his eyes, he saw only blank parchment.
Afterwards, a simple message was scrawled out in the regular ink, with the other quill, as soon as the special blend had dried. Despite her writing on one side of the paper, there was text appearing on the other side: Good evening, investors! “Just a simple copy and paste,” she chuckled.
"This is… this is amazing! Tell me, how much does this cost to make?" Filthy asked, eyes widening at the prospect of potentially jumping onto something that looked like it would have no trouble trending in Equestria.
"For these babies?" Articulate Paper smiled. "They only cost three bits to make, between them! Thanks to the most recent breakthroughs in magic, we can use this faster than dragonfire messages."
“I have a question,” called a stallion from the third row, raising his hoof. “If only the unicorn writing with the ink can see it, how would it be of any use sending it as a message?”
“An excellent question, Captain Worrywort,” nodded Articulate. “What I mean is that you can draw a transmission spell circle on the page and it would take the paper right to the recipient, quick as a whip.”
“How complex can the spells be?” chimed in another. “Can I send my wife a letter that reads itself? How could that even be turned off? As much as she and I have a happy marriage, I doubt she wants to hear my voice repeating as she sleeps. I don’t want her to tune me out entirely.”
“You can set it to just play once,” Articulate replied. “And there is a limit to how complicated your spellwork is.”
“What happens if somepony overdoes it on spells and makes the paper try to cook a full three-course meal?”
“What does this have to do with selling the books already on Filthy’s shelves?”
“What if somepony puts a powerful explosive spell and a transportation spell on the page? They’d have made a letterbomb.”
The room fell silent as everypony turned to face Captain Worrywort. Nopony had been thinking of how to use this ink in warfare. Some of the investors turned pale at the thought.
“What if somepony took that special ink of yours, made a large scale fireball, as large as a children’s book would allow, and then attached a spell that sent it to, say, Princess Luna? What safety measures have you put in place to ensure that our dearest princess of the night is not harmed?”
Filthy’s jaw dropped. He hadn’t even considered that. He was there to do business and bring goods of all varieties to the citizens of Equestria. He did not wish them any ill will, and he certainly couldn’t fathom bringing harm to the princesses. Why would anypony want to do that? He couldn’t think of a reason, but he was not willing to risk being tied to an attack on the crown. He turned his attention to Articulate. “You did put in safety measures to prevent that, right?”
Articulate cleared her throat. “I had intended it to be as a way to increase the books’ durability and longevity. Perhaps even boost their appeal… I think I need to spend a little more time at the drawing board.”
“I think, once you do, that should become a proprietary service,” added Worrywort. “I don’t mind you making books better and more desirable, but I think magic that strong should be regulated, rather than widely available.”
“It’s readable through divination magic,” added Articulate. “Is anypony here skilled in that?” she held up the paper, and a unicorn in the second row cast a quick spell on the page. It was a very standard paste spell.
Filthy clapped his hooves together. “Let’s move along to the next thing, shall we?”
Articulate sat down and Sunny stood up. “My name is Sunny Smiles, and I run an advertising company out of Whinnyapolis. Now, I think it’s probably pretty clear why business has been slow lately. I think we all know why you’ve taken a hit. It’s the season. Come winter, you won’t be able to keep the shelves full. As far as my investment goes, I have this to say: I will provide you with free advertising for the summer. In return, I want to do all of your advertising through the winter at the standard price. Exclusivity.”
“Standard price?” asked Filthy. “Usually, contractors ask for a markup.”
“I don’t need a markup,” answered Sunny. “I looked over the numbers. I’m pretty sure that the exclusive right to do your advertising in the busiest season will pay for a light summer campaign twice over.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean for me?” asked Tilde Umlaut, another advertising executive. “You accept his pitch, Filthy, and I’m walking. I mean it!”
Filthy put up his hooves. “Calm down,” he said, his voice smooth and level. “We’re only on the second pitch. If you’re offering something better, I’ll hear you out fully when it’s your turn to speak. I’m not signing any deals until I’ve heard everypony out.”
Sunny and Tilde returned to their seats and the pitches went on as intended. A few more of them tried to strike partnership deals where they would work together and then split the profits, but most of them just put forward an amount of money in exchange for either a stake in the venture, or perhaps just a withdrawal with interest at an agreed upon later date, leaving the work and decisions solely in Filthy’s hooves. When they were done, he separated them into three groups; Six of them were pitching him a product, two wanted a stake in the company, and ten more were just there to give him loans.
“So let’s go over the financials,” Filthy said, flipping open his own portfolio. “If you’ll open up to the third page, there, I’ve put together a graph that shows the foot traffic this consignment had before I acquired it. The green line shows last year, the blue line the year before that, and the red line the year before that. As you can see, the–”
“What about the purple line?” asked Silverbuck, one of the lenders.
“How much he spends on central heating,” read Sunny, confirming it with the legend in the corner.
“Just a little joke,” chuckled Filthy nervously. “I thought you all might enjoy a little laugh if the meeting ran long, or if tempers ran high. We can all have senses of humour, right?” As a few chuckles were heard around the room, some forced, others genuine, Filthy cleared his throat. “So, as you can see, the numbers tend to go up significantly in the colder months. That makes this place far more lucrative in October, lasting all the way to March. That’s actually why I bought it when I did. The downturn was about to hit the bottom, meaning it was nice and cheap. I don’t have to run the heater as much, either.”
That quip actually managed to catch a few more genuine chuckles. A spectacular recovery. “So, as I was saying, Those of you that want to collect by September are not going to see a lot of return right away. In order to allow for gainful investment, I would recommend reworking your schedules to December. That’s when business booms, and that’s when the returns are highest.”
Things were turning up. Now to grease some more wheels, and set the whole carriage into motion. "Now then, the next page should detail another chart, namely the projected sales for the next year. I believe it will be especially important, since Princess Twilight frequents the store from time to time," he said.
Sunny Smiles looked up. "You have one of the Princesses shopping here?" he asked, eyes widening in disbelief.
Filthy nodded. "Well, she was shopping here before ascending, and still continues to do so to this day," he confirmed with a smile. "She has personally made it a point to visit from time to time, in order to stock up on things she might suddenly need." He was careful to not mention her various world-spanning adventures at this rate, much less how and what items she might suddenly need for such a quest if the issue ever arose, but that still seemed to put his prospects at something of an ease just the same. He was also very careful to avoid mentioning her habit of sending Spike on some store runs if she couldn't make it for whatever reason; the little drake had enough on his plate, and didn't need any complications tacked onto that deal.
Besides, Spike could very well look after himself, being a baby dragon and all… although, the last few times Filthy had seen him, he had started to hit a growth spurt lately. He made a mental note to check the ceiling height at some point in the future, before Spike became too big to peruse store shelves properly. The way Twilight was changing the face of Equestria, he could have more dragon customers one day—better safe than sorry.
Right now, he returned his attention to the investors as they flipped over to the next graph, projecting next year's sales if all went well. His smile deflated when he saw brows arching sharply. The investors coughed awkwardly, and traded looks, unsure of who should speak about what they were seeing. Filthy was about to trot over and take a glance himself, when Articulate Paper wordlessly flipped her dossier around, revealing two things that Filthy did not remember putting in the charts.
The first was the labeling: "How Much Filthy's Wife Blows on Expensive, Worthless Gifts and Spa Trips," and the second was a particular picture of his wife, held to the chart by a paperclip, crowned in the most extravagant jewelry money could buy. From a custom crown and peytral, to gem-inlaid horseshoes and dazzling earrings adorned to said paytral with thin chains of gold that were also anchored to the crown, he could tell that whatever she had dressed herself in, that absolutely no expense was spared. He wasn't sure whence she had purchased those goods either; as far as he knew, as far as he remembered, he hadn't bought those with his own bits.
Then he noticed an irregularity with the picture: against all odds, his wife was wearing a golden and sapphire-striped, elongated, fake beard on her chin. While he was no Neighgyptian expert, he certainly knew that particular piece of jewelry when he saw one—it was in practically all of Equestria's books regarding other nations' histories, at this rate. He trotted over, and gingerly extracted the picture, turning it over when he saw a faint sheen of what seemed to be red and sparkly ink smear itself on the tip of his hoof.
On the back of that photo was a message, apparently meant for only his eyes since Articulate Paper showed no reaction to possibly seeing it before him upon extraction. "Like putting lipstick on a pig," the message read, in fanciful cursive font, partially smeared onto the back of the photo, hewn entirely of glossy, glittery, garishly garnet lipstick. Whoever wrote this, he could feel the sheer contempt for his wife in that message. He hastily crumpled the photo and tossed it over his shoulder, where it landed in the bin. "Apologies; I swear on my store shelves that I had not edited those graphs or included such questionable photos," he muttered, putting as much sincerity into his words as his vocal chords could allow.
Fortunately, none of the investors had left yet, though worryingly enough, they were trading glances at each other's manilla folders. This set Filthy on a tiny tumult, but he held his composure. He had to remember the business face—the face of a stallion anypony would buy anything from. Still, with all the worrying amount and frequency of side-glances the folders were attracting, he couldn't help but crack a tiny bit just the same—fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately for him, the investors seemed to be more interested in the folders than whatever façade he could uphold at the moment.
Another flipped over his manilla folder, and Filthy could hear the distant sound of glass shattering in his head—from where, he wasn't concerned with, because now he was seeing another photo tacked to the manilla: namely, of him and Granny Smith in rabbit suits, singing to pails and hopping over watering cans. "Oh, that's just a ritual we undertake yearly, for the zap apple harvest…" he said, though the investor holding the manilla folder tipped his chin wordlessly, silently ordering an elaboration. "Magic apples, with their own rules for harvesting and everything," he said. Once more, the photo was extracted, crumpled, and sent sailing over the heads of those assembled right to the bin—though Filthy made a mental note to extract that one later, when no prying eyes were in his office.
Another investor, weirdly, chuckled fondly at something, a warm smile on his face as he beheld the picture in his manilla. "I still remember that day… the day she earned her cutie mark…" he muttered to himself, before snapping back to awareness and hastily closing his folder before anypony could glance at whatever dirty secret he was hiding from Equestria. "D-daughter's ballet practice…" he stammered, hoping to keep the heat from his tail.
“The pie-eating contest, I remember that,” chuckled Worrywort, looking over the shoulder of the mare in front of him.
“Oh, yeah,” she chuckled. “I forgot you were there that day. Second Lieutenant, If I recall.”
“Fresh out of officer’s school,” he proclaimed proudly.
The mare pulled out the photograph. “Some kind of prank, Filthy? I didn’t figure you to be the type for extortion.”
Filthy waved his hooves in front of him, trying desperately to hide his panicked sweating behind a smile. “Just a harmless prank, yes! I had my secretary put these together. I had given her the order to make sure you were kept happy, and I guess she did some extra digging. I hope this wasn’t too embarrassing for you?”
Luckily, his ruse went off without a hitch, and even the investors that had considered leaving cracked a small smile. Even better, they started sharing the pictures with each other, chuckling along to each others’ jokes. Filthy caught sight of a few of the pictures, and while they may have been somewhat jarring, some of the investors, he’d never seen so much as a smirk. It was a relief to see them smiling. Happy investors were like happy customers, in that both were very good for business.
Rather than crumple up any more photos, he let them enjoy their company for a bit longer, then resumed his presentation with newfound confidence. “So, as you can see by this graph that shows how much money my wife spends spoiling herself, I’ve taken in a fair amount of profit from Barnyard Bargains over the years. Looking over the chart, you can see that this number is only going up. That means that my profits are going up. Take this as an indicator that I am well-equipped to run a business, and that entrusting your investments to me over a long period of time is a safe and reliable choice.
“Now, I know some of you were thinking that short-term would lead to a quick turnover, but Barnyard Bargains is a long-running establishment. Those of you that think I’m some greedy, money-obsessed pony, please consider the following: If I want to have any chance of taking more money from you in the future, I have to make sure that the returns from this loan are substantial. If you scratch my back, I guarantee I’ll scratch yours, because I’ll absolutely be asking you to scratch my back again in the future.”
A few of the investors nodded along and scribbled into their notepads any adjustments they felt necessary. He hoped the numbers were going up, or at least, that the estimated timescale was being extended. Some of them had asked to recover after two months, but to reliably make sure that they saw decent returns, he would prefer at least five. Six was ideal, and longer scales would often yield very good results. A year was the longest he would take, but that came with the caveat that he could renegotiate a new loan and not have to take as big a hit.
“Now, as some of you may not be aware, the most recent expansion to Barnyard Bargains is up in Canterlot. Our new addition is, in fact, the reason we’re looking for financial backing. It’s a consignment, and we bought it and the remainder of its contracts as part of a settlement. Things were going okay for the first month, but you all know what happens in Canterlot when summer rolls around.”
There was a nod that graced many of the other business owners and managers in the room. They had been feeling crowds pulling away from their Canterlot-based businesses of late, and knew that the struggle to maintain a business in this climate at this time of year was a hefty one. Perhaps Barnyard Bargains was going through a rough patch, but knowing that Filthy was still putting on a brave face was quite appealing.
“I have quite a few concerns regarding that,” said Bottom Line, one of the partner hopefuls. “I am well aware of how efficiently you run your retail, having been there a few times myself in instances where I needed something right away, and didn’t have an assistant to run in and purchase it for me. Your stores are very well-organized and often properly stocked. Consignment is quite a bit different from retail. Are you qualified to operate consignment?”
Filthy nodded. He’d almost expected this statement. “They are different animals; that’s absolutely true. In retail, you have big name contracts running large, long-lasting shipments. An entire wagon filled with nothing but pickles, for example, and you are then obligated to sell them all off before the next shipment comes in, or send your extras as relief to an understocked alternate location. In consignment, this would be very helpful to do. If I can’t sell a media center here, for example, I could potentially rotate it to another consignment in San Palomino where it might sell better.
“That said, the option to ship for consignment rests not with me, but with whoever I went into contract with to sell the goods, as they are entitled to part of the profits by default. That’s the very nature of consignment. I sell goods that other ponies can’t, whatever their reasons may be. In most cases, it’s due to the lack of a business license, but the only reason I still have so much artwork is because the painters who want me to sell the stuff don’t want to spend a lot of time selling their work, but instead making more of it. One even told me that this is what he hired me for, even though I don’t draw a paycheck unless it sells.”
There was a bit of a chuckle as Bottom Line nodded. “Do you sell a lot of the artwork?” he asked. “What kind of turnover do you see from that?”
Filthy rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, not as much as I would like, honestly. Still, I don’t begrudge the artists for that, and besides, keeping the paintings around is not the worst thing that could happen. After all, they’re pretty to look at. Ask any of my customers.”
Another potential investor smiled. "I might be able to help with that," he said, rising from his seat. "You see, I too sell paintings—in fact, they're my bread and butter, alongside the supplies needed to make them, in addition to things for making sculptures and the like. Hope I'm not making too much of an interruption."
Filthy turned to that stallion. "I see. And you are…?"
The stallion smiled. "Artistic Brazier," he said. "I don't mind that you briefly forgot my name; with the high stress of the situation, everypony's bound to slip up from time to time." That prompted a nod out of the ponies around him. "Now, I don't know about you, but frankly, I would do things a bit differently. Here’s a bit of advice: swap the paintings out monthly, for a seasonal theme."
"A seasonal theme…?" Filthy echoed, putting a hoof to his chin as he pondered.
Artistic Brazier nodded. "Yes. I've noticed your paintings don't really have a set theme—they seem to be all over the place. But what I've noticed is, the paintings sell even less in the summer unless they keep up a theme somehow—like, say, ponds and plains for spring, thunderstorms and vibrant sunny rays for summer, and so forth. Sometimes, they sell more, especially during select holidays and festivals, depending on the vibe they're aiming for."
Filthy nodded, seeing the logic behind that. If he needed to arrange the paintings by theme… He nodded, willing to let Brazier continue.
"In addition, a lot of your paintings feature nobility, which in all honesty, should have their own separate theme—not based on their archaic ranking system or any gubbins like that, heavens no! But rather, a set theme, a set decor in the paintings surrounding them—castles and manses and other such estates," Artistic Brazier said, smiling. Filthy had to give him credit, he definitely knew what he was talking about.
"Another thing I've noticed is that nobleponies often have fruits in their self-portraits, either before them or otherwise lounging on sofas with fruits in their reach. And fruits… they're versatile in the art world—you could stick them next to anything, and they'd follow the theme. Bananas for the tropics, holly berries for Hearth's Warming, durians and starfruit for the Summer Sun… no, the Festival of the Two Sisters, and so on and so forth.
"And when they're not posing with fruits, they're often showing their wealth in other ways, like in the olden days. These days, you have ponies making portraits of fancy boats and new, modern houses, and other such things. That would divide the theme of nobility into two phases: the olden ways, and the modern. So you'd have to be careful to keep those categories separate, when sorting out the paintings," Artistic Brazier said, his smile widening. Filthy blinked and wondered, was that a sharpened tooth he saw jutting out of the stallion's upper lip for a second, or was he hallucinating?
"And then, you have… well, the wacky paintings—scenes of chaos and mayhem and general anarchy. Those, you should house in their own section, even if they portray historical events as they actually happened. And believe me—reading up on the insanity of historical events, to keep them accurate in your paintings is unbelievably hard work!"
The mention of chaos and historical scenes as they actually played out made Filthy shudder. The dreadful things ponies did in the past… the horrid, horrid things featured in paintings in historical museums… he was silently glad he wasn't like that, needing to stay sharp in a world of death to survive and carry on his legacy. He was also silently glad he didn't carry such vestments in his stores. Of course, he realized and remembered that chaos could mean other things, the improbable and impossible happening in paintings—things ranging from Celestia having a long-term earth pony commoner coltfriend, which would give the nobility all sorts of heart attacks, to popcorn coming to life to clamp ponies with sharpened kernel teeth in unpleasant places also were made in the art world, as far as he knew.
And he hoped such paintings would steer clear of his stores. The more tame the chaos could be—hah! As if, with all of the situations Equestria had weathered lately—the better contained the collateral damage would be. Unless it was a painting done using the style of a famous painter of ages past, that, he would allow in his stores. He made a mental note to check the next shipment of paintings when they were due, and sort those accordingly. He was silently grateful his wife wasn't the type to take paintings home on a whim, with or without bits—her tastes lie elsewhere.
He shook his head to clear his thoughts, though only slightly enough that Artistic Brazier picked up on it. "Something wrong?" he asked.
"No, just… putting the train of thought back on track," Filthy replied smoothly.
Artistic Brazier nodded. "It's alright, it happens to everypony from time to time," he chirped, still smiling. "Anyway, what I'm saying is… your paintings lack order, and coherency in accordance to themes. So that will need to be sorted out first and foremost."
Filthy nodded. "I will see to it that it is sorted out at the earliest convenience," he said, his smile returning. "In the meanwhile, do you have anything else to add?"
Artistic Brazier kept smiling and shook his head, sitting back down. And there it was again, Filthy thought, that same sharpened tooth he saw jutting out of the stallion's upper lip, if only for a brief second. Given the shenanigans of the last few days, he realized… he might not be hallucinating after all. But he shook the thought away, to confront it another day. He looked to the gathered ponies, silently asking somepony to step up onto the proverbial stage and provide their own input on the matter at hoof.
"Now then… does anypony else have concerns to lodge forward, while we have the chance?" Filthy asked, watching as the gathered investors looked at each other. They mulled it over, and after trading a few glances, gave shakes of their heads to indicate the answer. Filthy smiled brighter than ever that day, glad to have this sorted out for the time being. But little did he know, that I would have the finale to end all finales for him in store yet~
Blueblood put on his best fake smile as he stepped out of the carriage. He was not at all looking forward to this event. While it was normal, even expected, that he would make an appearance at a big event such as this, he often enjoyed the experience. This one was significantly different from the usual ones.
It was a picnic in the royal gardens, though that was not what made it odd. The gardens often played host to large outdoor events driven by the nobles. Garden parties, wedding receptions, certain stages of the Grand Galloping Gala; all of these were fair game. A charity fundraiser would be quite at home.
It was also not very odd to see ponies entering through a series of trellises, as if directing them to this particular section. That kept ponies from needing to detour through the castle to reach this particular section of the gardens. These ones were adorned with daisies, primarily of white and yellow.
The food at the catering table was still under preparation, which was a bit odd, but also expected. There was supposed to be a luncheon after the speeches, one of which he was supposed to give. Before that, there was to be a meet-and-greet, coupled with a photo-op with the regional newspaper. The caterers would presumably have plenty of time to finish up.
Even the choice of menu was standard for a party of this type. Very light, very simple dishes meant to not detract from the main theme. Sandwiches made from locally grown flowers with a crisp, summertime flavour.
What made this party odd was the wardrobe allowances and guest list. He’d been to countless charity events to raise money for homeless shelters and enjoyed himself thoroughly. He believed wholeheartedly that they should have a place to stay outside of sleeping in the street. That way he wouldn’t have to see them sleeping in front of buildings he was going to. The less he had to interact with them, the better.
So why were they invited to this one? Surely, they could enjoy the products given to them after the money was raised, so why would they need to attend the event? What would they do, watch the donation box fill up? A fair amount of the donors, including himself, would be extending notes of paper with numbers and signatures on them, partially because it would not be feasible to carry that much money in coins to the event. It wouldn’t even fit in the donation box.
As he walked in, he spotted Fancypants and Fleur De Lis chatting with one of the wretches. Fleur looked bored with the conversation, but Fancypants looked to be enjoying the company, even making gestures with his hooves. How that stallion could stand to be around those unfortunate was a marvel.
“Charming to see you again,” Blueblood smiled, bowing to the event coordinator. “A spectacular day for a luncheon, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Oh, yes, of course,” she smiled back, extending her hoof for a shake. “I made sure the weather was going to be nice this afternoon to make sure we could have some good, old-fashioned fun.”
“I can agree to that,” replied Blueblood, not shaking her hoof. “A rousing round of polo would be all manner of enjoyable right now.”
The coordinator withdrew her hoof and looked around. “It’s still a bit early, so not everypony’s around yet, but give them some time, and our special guests will be here soon. If you wish, you can make your donation now. The box is right over here.”
Blueblood made his way to the table indicated and dropped his contribution, a hefty twenty thousand bits, into the box. He had intended to just drop it in the box and leave, arriving early to miss the parade of homeless ponies, but then he’d been asked to give a speech, as he was routinely one of the largest contributors, alongside Fancypants.
Speaking of, he was headed over here now. “Prince Blueblood!” he called out. “Jolly good to see you again. After that whole incident at the restaurant, there were rumours circulating that you might not make it. I’m glad to see that you are fully recovered and in attendance.”
Blueblood had to hold back an outburst. After returning home, he found that the plumber was still fixing the pipes, unsure of what the problem was, and the butler was removing an entire flock of live ducks from his bathroom. After both of those problems were solved, he’d spent the rest of the day scrubbing himself. The colours and patterns had washed away on the first pass, but he still felt unclean, a feeling he was dreading today.
“Ah, the colourant,” he said, trying very hard not to seethe. “Yes, one of the maids had thought it a good idea to put dye into my soap. Rest assured, she has been fired for that embarrassment.”
“Oh, dear,” gasped Fancypants. “I do hope she’ll be alright.”
“And I hope that she will learn from this that her actions have consequences.”
“Are you certain she’s the one that did it?” asked a scruffy-looking stallion, the same one that Fancypants had been talking to earlier. “She might have left everything the way she was supposed to, and somepony else snuck in after she left. Just a thought.”
“And who are you?” asked Blueblood. “Her union representative?”
Fancypants shook his head. “Where are my manners? Prince Blueblood, this is Brace Bedlam. He used to be a construction worker, here in Canterlot. He oversaw the balcony extensions in the guest wing of the castle fifteen years ago. His parent company laid off his entire workforce, and he had to couchsurf for a few years while looking for work. Now he helps keep the shelters stable and up to code.”
Brace extended his hoof in a very obvious manner that Blueblood could not ignore. “A pleasure, Prince Blueblood,” he smiled.
Blueblood took his hoof and shook it, having to hold back his disgust. “Charmed,” he replied curtly.
“Brace and I were just discussing a novel idea to save some space in the bedrooms of these shelters,” continued Fancypants. “I thought it might be an interesting idea if we had the beds fold out from the walls on cables over top of each other, like a bunk bed sort of thing.”
“It was a good thought,” nodded Brace, “and his heart was in the right place, but aside from making the sleeping areas feel more like a prison, it also requires a stronger cross-section in the walls to keep from pulling them in and collapsing the building. Entirely stable with stone and brick buildings, especially on lower floors, but the higher up you go, the less stable stone becomes.”
"Interesting, interesting…" Blueblood muttered, pretending to be interested in the topic. "I never knew all that work went into construction…" Meanwhile, his sense of pride and wealthy taste were busy screaming to the uncaring heavens, begging him to be quit of this talk. Still, he had to swallow his pride if he were to leave in a clean and timely manner.
Luckily, he didn’t have to feign interest much longer, as more guests arrived. Blueblood bid them adieu, and had to suppress a flinch as Brace extended his hoof for another shake. Blueblood hesitantly raised his hoof and took the offering, wearing a false smile and keeping his eyes closed to avoid eye contact with Brace.
As the hooves parted, Blueblood realized he felt a little… itchy, as though something had bit him on the flank. The bite zone was swelling, except that the feeling started from below his neck, trailed down his body, and ended at his hocks and tailbone. He refrained from scratching the itch, knowing what his fellow nobles would think if they caught him with his hoof in such an awkward position, especially in the public sphere. Besides, that's what the bath brushes were for back home—his hooves would wear down their lacquer if he were to ever take the initiative. Though, he did take the time to wipe his hoof on his clothes, to remove the dirt he had to contract through shaking that oily homeless pony's hoof.
As he watched Fancypants, Fleur and Brace trot to the entrance to greet the new arrivals, his mind wandered back to the last interaction he’d had with them. Not Brace, obviously, but the other two. He looked like he’d been wearing cuts of meat, like a barbarian. The image had burned itself into his head, causing nightmares where a planet would show up right next to theirs, as if some sort of sister world, where ponies ate meat. The thought made him sick, and he would need to speak with Auntie Luna about ceasing these dreams.
He glanced about, seeing ponies gathering at where the speeches were going to take place. He steeled himself, completely unaware of the weird looks Brace, Fleur, and Fancypants were giving him, much less their hushed whispers as they talked amongst themselves. Whatever they were saying to each other, he had no further business with them—as the common rabble were fond of saying, 'not his monkeys, not his circus.'
He shelved the thought to prepare himself for his speech. He trotted up, finding a slight crowd forming at the side of the speaker's podium, with a handy-dandy little list affixed to a signpost, which he made sure to look over. Reading it revealed the speaking order for those who would deliver their speeches, and even better, he was only second in line, after the pony who would introduce said speakers to the gathering crowd. That meant he could be done with the affair faster than he thought.
The pony who would introduce the speakers for the speeches stepped up to the podium and tapped at the microphone, causing a minor bit of feedback that had everypony in the front row temporarily wincing. "Sorry, sorry," she said apologetically. "Sometimes we have to make sure everything is in working order, and sometimes feedback is to be expected in our line of work." That caused a murmur amongst the crowd, but ultimately Blueblood paid the whispers little mind.
"Anyway, we are gathered here today to commemorate the opening of the newest shelter in Canterlot, which, for those of you unaware, sits roughly three streets to the west of Restaurant Row." Behind the host, Blueblood noticed, was an enlarged—far too large for any standard fare, he realized—photograph of the building in question, with welcoming marble walls and an oaken door with a sign hanging on the front, emblazoned with the words CANTERLOT HOMELESS SHELTER etched on its swinging surface.
Blueblood took another look at the crowd, and noticed that there were more homeless ponies here than nobility. He had noted that the guest list was open to them, but there were so many, and their attire was appalling. For starters, their clothes were crooked, or had holes, or had dirt, if they were wearing anything at all. For those who weren't adorned with cloth, they had filthy coats, tangled manes and tails, and bald spots in both, indicating years of sleeping on the streets and living off of the refuse of the world. Where some should have had teeth, they instead had gaps, revealing unwashed tongues and yellow discoloration on the few teeth remaining.
Blueblood paled, but had to steel himself. So this was what he had been summoned to. If only he had known sooner, he might have pretended to be sick… but a noble's duties had called him to the front of the line, and by Celestia, he'd fulfill his end of the bargain—and then spend the rest of the event preferably elsewhere if he were allowed to do so. Public image, he remembered, public image—the face of a pony who could be counted on by his lessers.
Worryingly, he noticed more than a few ponies in the crowd and down the line giving him side-glances every now and again. He idly wondered if this was going to turn out like the bad day a week ago, where he had been caught in the most garish accouterments imaginable. The itchy feeling returned, but still, he held his hooves—the brush could come out later, when he had privacy and time to himself. For now… he had to grin and bear it. Better to bite the tongue than the pony leading him by the snout. He was no savage, and would not resort to such barbaric measures.
Also better to bite the tongue, than to face the wrath of his Aunties. He knew that when he was outmatched, outclassed, and quite possibly bamboozled—common sense told him that taking on any alicorn in their home turf was bad news. "Grin and bear it," he reassured himself in the back of his mind, "grin and bear it. Lose your mind in the bathtub later, when not even the trusted maids and butlers can see it."
The speech dragged on for a little, as the hostess extrapolated a little about the newest homeless shelter to grace Canterlot's streets. Terms like 'abused,' 'downtrodden,' 'rendered helpless,' and so forth came from her mouth, as pity flashed in her eyes while her head shook. She sounded as if she had genuine hope that the ponies of Canterlot would come together, and help their less fortunate brethren in their time of need.
Shaking the thought from his head, he listened passively for anything that might be describing him. All the while, he did his best to stay near the stage and away from the filthy homeless ponies. He had been forced to shake one dirty hoof twice today, and it had made his skin crawl. A repeat performance was something he very desperately wanted to avoid.
"And now," smiled the hostess, "without further ado, I would like to call to the stage our first speaker for this event. I would like to direct your attention to one of our most helpful benefactors. He routinely donates the highest of all of our members, because he genuinely cares that much about seeing ponies off the streets and into beds, away from hardship and into job training. A stallion who represents the highest quality of generosity, Prince Blueblood."
There was a fair amount of scattered clapping as Blueblood made his way to the stairs at the back of the stage. He looked down at himself to make sure he was pristine. He did not wish to be dyed suddenly again. He straightened his bowtie and pulled out his cue cards.
As he approached the podium, he heard a few gasps and whispers, then another round of applause, a bit more widespread than the first. He looked over the crowd that had gathered after his arrival, and he just felt insanely filthy. He shuddered, then lifted the cue cards to the podium.
"Good afternoon and welcome to the fundraiser to expand our selection of fine shelters for those who need caring for. It is always a disgust for me to walk down the street and see a pony lying in the gutter, curled up next to a dumpster, or waving a cup at me asking for spare change. It sickens me to know that they're sleeping there on the sidewalk, or to see them eating garbage. That's why I support this cause so vehemently. It's because I hate the homeless–" He flipped through his cue cards. Some of them had gone out of order. "--ness problem that plagues our fair capitol.
"It is in that spirit that we should all come together and do our part. We must open up our hearts to this group and donate our time, effort and capital to ensure that they have the same opportunities as everypony else. Opportunities such as schools, jobs and rocket boots."
There was a hushed murmuring from the crowd at the mention of rocket boots. Had he really meant to say such a thing?
He hadn't, and pulled the card he was reading from up to his face so he could reread it. He hadn't written that, and yet there it was, in his own hoofwriting. How could that possibly be?
"Somepony must have messed with my cards. I didn't write that in."
The crowd broke out into chuckles. Why did they laugh at that? It wasn't a joke. None of this was meant to be a joke. The closest thing to a joke around here was that the organizers decided for some reason to invite their benefactors.
"You know what? I'm done with these." He dropped the cue cards back into his jacket pocket. "I don't need tiny cue cards."
He cleared his throat and looked out over the crowd. "I look out among you today, and I see all of the dirt, dust, debris that covers your faces, and quite frankly, it disgusts me. The fact that you don't have a place where you can go to shower, wash your clothes, clean and cut your mane is an affront to all that I hold dear. One of you, I shook your hoof, and the amount of dirt made my skin crawl.
"That's why it's so very important that this shelter is built as soon as possible. The sooner you are off the streets and capable of contributing to society, the better I will feel. To my fellow philanthropists, I urge you to donate as much as you can. The state of things as they are is not ideal."
A collection of ponies began clapping and one even whistled. No doubt he was charming them.
"Now, when I say…" He stopped and cleared his throat. Something had gone wrong with the microphone on the podium. It had shifted his voice to be higher than it should have been.
"I say we should try…" he stopped again as his voice had been overcorrected to be too low.
He opened his mouth to speak once more, but what came out was not a coherent thought. Rather, it sounded much like the chattering of a dolphin.
His eyes went as wide as dinnerplates and his front hooves darted to his mouth. Somepony was messing with him. He shot a glare in the direction of the sound engineer, only to find that there wasn't one. The structure of the sound booth had been thought to be so simple that they only needed a setup, and not a dedicated technician.
Blueblood opened his mouth to speak again, and this time, there was no dolphin chatter. In its place was the hooting and hollering of some kind of monkey.
As the hostess made her way to the booth, Blueblood covered the mic to speak with her, only to meow at her. Covering the mic did nothing, meaning everypony heard him. They all began to laugh as the hostess tried her very best to fix the issue with the audio.
When Blueblood next opened his mouth, there were no sound effects, but he was still being pitch-shifted up and down as he spoke.
"In any case," he continued, trying his best to ignore the weird sound problem, "We must try our best to ensure that any and all effort is undertaken here, for the sole purpose of refitting Canterlot's homeless shelter to be able to accept more ponies. The less I see them on the street, the better. I don't want to see any of them ever sleeping outside of a store or restaurant ever again. That is all."
He stepped off the stage and shuddered. They were all laughing at him. He hadn't intended for the mic to break. That wasn't part of the plan. And who had messed with his cue cards? He was in an even worse mood than when he'd started.
Once more, the itchiness returned, and this time with the force of ten thousand supercharged fleas stampeding like cattle. His hooves began twitching as he tried to run away from the event, from the laughingstock he had unwittingly become. He wondered, no, dared to entertain the thought that his public image had just taken a nosedive, and now he would need to work his tail off—euch—to set it more or less back on track.
He rounded a corner, and found himself in the garden's small hedge maze. He meandered a bit into it, until he found a dead-end that he could be left alone in. Less chance of the paparazzi finding him. That annoying rabble was more than enough on any normal day, and if he ever had to meet such dense blowhards again, he might have to take a few parkour classes to escape from them. Then again, the pegasi making up much of the local paparazzi would probably make parkouring a more daunting task… Hopefully, things would never come to that.
Now that he was more or less in a quiet spot, a hoof trailed to his other foreleg to begin scratching those incessant itches, and… wait a minute, why did he feel tattered cloth where there should have been pristine white fur? He glanced at his foreleg, and gasped, seeing that somehow… he was in a fraying flannel jacket adorned with dirt, grime, and what looked like donut sprinkles.
He turned about, seeing if perhaps the rest of his body had been tampered with. Unfortunately, it had—on top of the jacket, he had a worn-out undershirt that felt like stone wool, and a pair of filthy, too-tight jeans that felt like sandpaper. His horn lit, and he shucked the offending garments off as quickly and discreetly as he could, itching through the whole nine yards.
Granted, the action somewhat rumpled his coat and mane, but that was a small consolation to pay for the removal of the street filth. He folded the clothes neatly, sending them away to the ether to give to somepony who could properly dispose of the garments later, and turned to his coat again to see if any fleas actually were jumping about in his coat. After a few seconds, he groaned when he saw movement, and conjured a brush with a fine-toothed comb to start purging the little bloodsuckers out with as much impunity as he could muster.
Fortunately, he’d had the foresight to prepare a small spray bottle, filled with water and a special blend of soap that would remove the fleas while leaving him smelling fresh as a daisy. It even dried quickly and didn’t leave a residue. He applied it liberally to his coat, mane, and tail, and worked it through all of him with his brush and comb. By the dozens, fleas were falling off, and even better, they weren't biting him so much as stomping about, trying to escape their fate.
Soon enough, he was more or less alright again. He sent his tools back to the ether, slicked back his mane with a hoof, and frowned. Seeing as he had left the luncheon on short notice, he probably wouldn't be allowed to show his face again afterwards. However, that was no longer his problem, since he had donated to their cause, and took care to have an exit strategy at all. He lit his horn one more time, and produced a spare ascot to wear—after the last kerfuffle, he would much rather have backup clothes to prevent further embarrassment, and the more he had handy, the better.
Once he had put on his spare, he glanced down upon feeling something wooden and somewhat squishy roll up against his hoof… where had all these corks come from? And why did they have plush fleas attached to them by their mouthparts, with little bits of sandpaper stuck to their legs? He leaned over to one plush and sniffed, knowing his special emergency blend anywhere. He glanced around, seeing that he was now surrounded by the things, but not enough to technically constitute drowning in the mass.
This was starting to look like one of those weird dreams again, except he was fighting plush fleas instead of living, warped trees that had once been equine. He sighed and sent the plushies and corks to the ether, if only to have a clear walking space to the other side of the hedge maze. Better him disposing of these things than, say, an unfortunate pony who was supposed to be maintaining this maze—he wasn't completely heartless, after all. Maybe he could donate the plushies to a specialty shop, anonymously of course. Preferably far away from Canterlot.
He started making his way out of the hedge maze, peeking over every corner to make sure the paparazzi wasn't descending on his tail anytime soon. He knew they'd be eating up his earlier stint like candy, and he was in no mood to stick around for that nonsense. Guards or no, he would have rather had it so that such rabble would have been elsewhere, like Griffonstone or Yakyakistan.
The coast was clear so far, but he dared not breathe a sigh of relief yet. He trotted through the maze, and eventually reached the other side without further incident, and even then he did not hedge bets nor count his blessings—not to mince words, but counting blessings was something the common rabble did for a majority of the situations, and the act was generally used by him when, say, the world was ending again. Or at least, it seemed as such.
And as for hedging bets? Hallmark of a gambler, which his parents had thoroughly, thoroughly taught him not to turn out like. There might have been a few somewhere in his family tree of course, but generally, such branches were best pruned to protect the whole tree from succumbing to such rot. At least his ancestors had sense in that regard; any gamble was risky, no matter what it happened to be betting on. The less said about that topic, the better all would be.
As he found his way out of the maze, he made for the garden exit to rush home, but as he turned the corner, he was absolutely horrified to run into Brace Bedlam and the hostess for the event. “There you are,” smiled Blace, wrapping his leg around Blueblood’s shoulder, coating him in filth once more. Sawdust, boiled linseed oil, and chain grease absolutely destroyed his air of cleanliness. “He’s over here!” he called to the hostess.
The hostess rushed over. “Prince Blueblood, you will be pleased to know that we found nothing truly wrong with the audio. One of our many guests used to be a stage technician before losing her job, and found that one of the wires had come loose. We just had to turn it off and back on again.”
Blueblood couldn’t do much more than nod. He was far too close to Brace for comfort, and he was too close to the party to speak his mind out loud.
“The last speaker should be finishing up right about now,” smiled the hostess. “We really should be heading back.”
The way Brace ushered Blueblood along, by patting him on the shoulder with a smile if he strayed too far off his path, Blueblood was happy to go back to the party. Even if he did hate seeing the poor, touching them was much worse.
Fancypants was waiting for them when they came back. “Charming display of comedy there, Blueblood,” he congratulated, vigorously shaking his hoof. “Your impressions were spot on. Way to keep the attention up as the audio system broke down.”
“Don’t forget his chivalry,” added Brace, rubbing Blueblood’s shoulders. “It takes some real guts to walk up on that stage in an outfit like that, just to show that this fate can fall on anypony. A brave, bold statement.”
“Where did you keep that outfit, anyway?” asked Fancypants, inviting the group to one of the many tables. “I didn’t see you come in with it.”
“He dressed in layers, dear,” smiled Fleur. “Didn’t I say he looked puffy when he came in? He was wearing a body suit over it.”
Great. On top of looking like a hobo on the stage throughout his entire speech about how such ponies needed to disappear, anypony that had seen him before going on stage had thought he was fat. Could this day possibly be any worse?
The answer came with Brace putting both his hooves on Blueblood’s shoulders and leaning in so that their faces were right next to each other. “Smile,” he warned.
As Blueblood turned and pulled away in disgust, a flash graced the table. A photographer that had wanted a picture of the two largest contributors had snapped a picture of him retching in disgust. “Perfect,” smiled the reporter. “That’ll be the front page, I’ll make sure of it.”
“You do, and it’ll be the last time you’ll ever work in Canterlot!” spat Blueblood, jumping to his hooves and grabbing for the camera. “Give me that camera!”
He dove across the table, only for the camerapony to take flight and move out of the way. This was not much of a deterrent for Blueblood, who jumped into the air, trying to grab his hoof. When the camerapony took another picture to ensure he had evidence of the event, despite the witnesses, Blueblood’s fury boiled over. He had to ensure that those pictures were destroyed. He charged up a spell, but before he could fire it, Fancypants grabbed his horn and pulled it aside, firing the blast harmlessly into the afternoon sky.
“What is the matter with you?!” scolded Fancypants. “If you didn’t like the way you looked in that picture, he could have very easily taken a new one. That would even be a reasonable request! “I wasn’t ready, give me a moment to fix up my mane,” or something. I’ve had dozens of photos taken where I blinked in the middle and my eyes were closed. It’s not a big deal!”
“It is a big deal when it’s my image on the line!” barked Blueblood. “You forget your place, Baron Fancypants!”
“You forget your place, Prince Blueblood! You are surrounded by more than seventy ponies, at least five of which are photographers and no less than eight journalists! Asking for that photograph to not be used won’t harm your image that much, but what do you think your image will be when countless eyewitnesses saw you try to cast a spell of attack against a photojournalist who is just doing his job?!”
Blueblood’s eyes went wide as he looked around. The whole garden had fallen completely silent, save for the scrawling of pens on paper from ponies with press passes. Fleur and I exchanged glances before returning our attention to the grand spectacle in front of us.
Thankfully, the silent stares did not last very long. Fancypants turned to the crowd and clapped his hooves together. “What say we move on from this incident and temporarily postpone the interviews? I think I heard somepony say lunch was ready?”
He gestured to one of the caterers to back him up. Lunch was very nearly ready, but not quite. It was about five minutes from done, but if they pretended that the macaroni salad was supposed to be warm and divided the meal into courses, they would have enough time to finish between servings. “Right you are,” smiled the chef nervously.
“Excellent,” Fancypants smiled. “Let’s all form a nice, orderly line and set about enjoying our afternoon, shall we?”
As the ponies began to all file toward the serving table, Fancypants turned back to Blueblood. “I don’t know what’s been going on with you lately, but I don’t want any part of it,” he whispered. “Your skit with the voices and the suit and going back home to change out of your costume was a stroke of genius, but right now, I have to wonder if you being at this event is a good idea after that little stunt. I’m in no place to make demands of you, but if I were guilty of such an egregious faux pas, I would duck away, lay low for a few days, and hire a PR consultant. I recommend you do just that. I will run interference for you here, and work to smooth things over with the press. I will do what I can to stop those photos from printing.”
Normally, Blueblood would be insulted. The nobility of Canterlot was a cutthroat bunch, and if you were asked to leave an event as somepony escorted you out, it was severely damaging, and they’d all talk about you behind your back. Fancypants, though, was a coward. He was known for not engaging in conversations involving rumours about other nobles. He was either a very safe confidant, or he was playing a very long con.
“Fine,” he replied, huffing and walking off, “but only because it was my idea.”
Filthy Rich smiled as he watched an older mare, one with thin legs and shaky knees, as she perused the quilts section. He was at her side, as a just-in-case scenario where she fell and broke one of her old and brittle bones, but also to brighten her day with some friendly banter. As he talked with her, she talked about her family, a bright smile on her face that made her eyes radiate with the warm glow of the sun.
"My little grandfilly… well, not so little anymore, she runs a bookstore in Ponyville," the mare said. "The Passionate Quill, if I recall right… I tell you what, ponies always thought that Crimson Flame was weird as a foal, and look at her now—she's just adding her own special touch to Ponyville these days."
Filthy smiled and nodded. If memory served him correctly, Crimson Flame herself came to peruse his stores from time to time, mostly groceries or what few odds and ends she needed for her little alcove. She had a particular penchant for soft, fuzzy things, and some of her customers would catch her nuzzling the plushies of her personal collection with a warm and fond smile on her face. She was weird, yes, but that was part of her charm. "She was here just the other week," he said, beaming. "She was talking a storm about a few books of her personal collection, and honestly, she seemed really happy to talk about them."
The elderly mare grinned. "Talked your ears off, did she? Most of the extended family don't like her running mouth, but she hardly cared about them—didn't talk much with them to know them personally to begin with," she said, even as she continued to browse the quilts. "But she told me that she wants a nice, big quilt she can wrap herself up in on those cold rainy nights—a big'n, that would feel really good in her hooves."
"Ah, yes, she did mention that last week, but was disappointed that she was on a budget. Shouldn't it be her payday, soon?" Filthy wondered, putting a hoof to his chin as he pondered.
"Oh no, she won’t be paid until the end of the week, because of the contract she's made with the mayor regarding her store," the elderly mare replied. Still smiling, she added, "But Granny Kindling has her covered; most of the extended family would've just told her to shove it and grow up."
Filthy frowned. "That's… unfortunate," he said. "I can see why she doesn't talk with them that much."
Kindling's mouth twitched in a smile, even as her nose wrinkled a smidgen. "Greedy types, whole lot of 'em, and none of that lot want to realize that Crimson's brain works different from theirs. They think she's a kookaburra," she said, before her eyes and hoof settled on a particular quilt. She sat on her haunches to lift it up, which took a bit of effort due to her advanced age. She held the quilt in one hoof, and felt along it with the other. It was soft and plush, made of a fur-like texture and showing moons and stars in a haunting red backdrop of a centrally-placed lunar eclipse.
Kindling's smile widened as she looked it over. "Ooooh, I think she'll love this one," she chirped, bidding Filthy to come over and put his hoof to the quilt. He did as he was bid, and smiled upon finding that this quilt would satisfy the particular needs of a fellow business associate, as weird in the head as she was. If he were any judge, the quilt would very well grow on her, despite the unusual flair it boasted.
"This one… yes, this would suit her needs just fine. But would she also like a thinner blanket, for the hot, sunny nights?" Filthy asked, as he gently took the quilt and folded it up to rest it on his own back, solely for Kindling's safety. He made a mental note to find a few straps to wrap it in, mostly to keep it contained in the shopping bag in something of an orderly fashion.
Kindling shook her head and slowly stood up. "No, she has plenty of those. She uses a lot of them for bath towels, because she finds them too itchy to sleep in," she answered. "But I think this quilt is gonna complement her oldest plush bear, who recently gained an eye patch."
"An eye patch?" Filthy asked.
Kindling nodded, and started making her way for the registers. Filthy followed her as she answered, "Oh, yeah. One of the extended family brought over his not-so-trained dog, and left her to watch him for three days. She had to close her store down for that time, and wound up having Fluttershy take the dog back to that family member, because she'd have bucked him in the face over what the pooch did to her oldest plush, Perdition." She laughed. "Fortunately, the pooch only took out an eye from the old trooper before he was put in the doghouse."
Filthy nodded, keeping the quilt carefully balanced on his backside as he moved to keep pace with Kindling. Just about anypony he knew would have said some uncouth words about it, and Crimson Flame, when angry, was more uncouth than most in that regard, especially over her plushies. He imagined her going blue in the face over that slight, and bucking the offending owner of the uncontrolled dog up to the moon over it. "Has anypony tried doing that to her since? Leaving her with animals they don't train on purpose, to hurt her?"
Kindling shook her head. "Not since then, no. She threatened the idget with a literal cockatrice and then a sloppy paint job if he did it again, and I had to break it up," she answered. "After the idget took his pooch and went home, Granny Kindling patched up her old bear, free of charge."
Goodness, Crimson Flame took her plushies seriously. Filthy made a mental note to check his plushies section, and see if any of them were damaged. "Does she know how to sew?" he found himself asking.
"Yes, but she didn't have the cloth needed for the eye patch," Kindling replied. "Either that, or she couldn't find it." Before they knew it, they were at the registers, and both perked up upon seeing them.
“Well, if she has need of material for the patch, she knows where to find me. I’ll give her a good price on it, too, and any other supplies she needs.”
“I’ll let her know when next I see her. How much do I owe you?”
As Filthy ducked behind the counter and took control of the register, he checked the tag on the blanket. He had priced it at twenty-one bits. He’d come to that conclusion after hearing that it had cost just over six to make. Seven more would go to the seamstress that crafted the quilt, and he would take the remaining eight.
“It’s eighteen bits,” he smiled, ringing it up with a discount. True, he was still having a bit of trouble keeping this particular shop afloat, but he didn’t have to be greedy. Crimson Flame, while a reputable bookbinder and vendor of bibliography-related products, had a bit of a temper when angered. He certainly didn’t want to be accused of cheating her granny, even if said claim was wholly untrue. “It is a bit heavy. Do you want me to have it brought to Ponyville this weekend? It’d be a lot closer, so you wouldn’t have to carry it all the way down. She can even come pick it up herself, if you like.”
Kindling huffed. “And they say chivalry is dead.”
A clerk popped up from behind another counter. “No, I’m just fine.”
Filthy rolled his eyes. “Not you, the concept.”
Kindling let out a chuckle. “I think I’ll take you up on having it shipped for me. I was going to find a box and gift wrap it, but…”
“I’ll take care of it personally,” smiled Filthy, taking her bits as she slid them across the counter. “She can stop by the store on Saturday afternoon and pick it up. You have a nice day, now.”
As Kindling walked out of the store, Filthy checked the tag again, adding to his ledger that the item had been sold. He didn’t want to risk accidentally selling the same quilt to somepony else. He wouldn’t mind the refund, but bad press was not something he could afford at the moment.
He pressed the drawer release button on the cash register, and as he slid it open, a butterscotch custard pie sprung out and splattered all over his face. Two customers that had just walked in froze in place, and Chivalry looked up from his work. They were all silent as a glob of custard with a graham cracker crust chunk plopped to the floor.
Filthy licked his lips. “Needs whipped cream,” he smiled, though it was obvious that he was annoyed. He leaned over the counter toward the customers. “Good evening, ladies. Why don’t you have a look around while we clean this up? Take your time. We’re in no big rush.”
Chivalry took a step closer as the mares wandered into the store. “Boss, you, uh… You want some paper towels or something?”
“And a trash can,” he nodded. “Grab a dustpan, too.”
As soon as he thought he was alone, Filthy began looking around, until he heard a quiet giggling. It was over by the coat racks, one of the few pieces of furniture he didn’t keep near the back because of their small size. A closer examination showed him one with a bulbous blue horn and white antler as the top prongs.
“I know you’re there, Discord,” he sighed. “You and I need to speak. Come on out.”
“Nopony’s home,” Discord chuckled. “Perhaps you should knock?”
Filthy rapped three times on the countertop, only for the surface to give way to a trapdoor that hadn’t been there before. “Why, Filthy! Isn’t this a pleasant surprise! What brings you here, at this hour?”
“It’s my shop,” huffed Filthy. “I sort of own the place?”
“Is that right? I heard you bought a place for a song, but this place? Must have been some ballad. How about you sing me a few bars of that performance?” Discord shoved a guitar into Filthy’s hooves and pulled up a big bag of popcorn. As he reached into the bag, Filthy noticed that it was unpopped.
“I really would–” Filthy found that his voice had been autotuned, and the guitar was strumming along with him. He glanced to the side and saw that a customer was watching them chat. He cleared his throat, sat back on his haunches, and tried his best to pretend that he was actually putting in any effort.
“I think it is quite rude for you to treat me in this way. I’m only trying to do my job, but you just want to play. These jokes are not as practical as you seem to think. It seems you’re causing me new strain every time I blink. I ask you, lord of chaos, if we can talk this out, I just want to know, just what is this all about?”
As he spoke, the guitar seemed to stum of its own accord, and his hooves just seemed to follow along. It actually felt kind of cool, and when he finished, a couple of ponies clapped. Filthy bowed, and turned to Discord, taking off the guitar. “Can we speak candidly, now?” His voice had returned to its normal pitch and tone.
“Oh, alright,” smirked Discord, snapping his claws. The guitar disappeared, the remains of the pie vanished just as Chivalry came back with all of the cleaning equipment, and Discord walked out of the countertop. “What did you want to say?”
Filthy waved for Chivalry to take over the cashier position again, dropping Kindling’s bits into the tray and closing the drawer, then hoisted the quilt onto his back. “Let’s go to my office, first. I don’t want this to be any more of a spectacle. I’ve humoured you so far, now it’s your turn.”
“You’re letting me back into your store?” smirked Discord. “Such an honor.”
“It’s not like you haven’t been ignoring the ban this whole time,” snapped Filthy. “You’ve been in my office already without my permission. At least this way, I can keep an eye on you.”
“Fair enough.”
With that, they began a rather peaceful trot to the office. In fact, Discord kept his claws behind his back as they walked in that direction, whistling a jaunty tune to himself. If Filthy didn't know better, he'd have said that his posture, tune, and hands-behind-the-back were a picture of someone scheming something absolutely, malevolently diabolical. No chaos permeated the store otherwise, and Filthy thought it strange that Discord wasn't actively making pigs fly or some other gubbins similar in nature to that particular figure of speech.
And speaking of figures of speech, any other ones that could come to mind as they reached the office failed to happen as well, in their most literal senses, at least. Discord, for all his recent dastardly doings, may well have been the picture of malevolent innocence—two words that Filthy hoped he would never have to put together in the same sentence ever again, especially after the Cozy Glow fiasco.
The office door popped open once the pair reached it, and the two strode in relatively quietly, Discord's whistling notwithstanding. The door closed behind them, and Filthy checked his desk right quick, to see if it had been boobytrapped as well. When he found no such thing, he pulled two particular straps from it, set the quilt on it, and wrapped the quilt up with those straps to keep it in a tidy square shape, which he then set on a shelf where other pick-up orders sat. He wrote on a clipboard dangling from the shelf, "eclipse quilt, for Crimson Flame, white unicorn with red mane and flaming quill cutie mark."
Once that had been sorted, he trotted to the desk, sat in the chair, and bade Discord to sit directly opposite of him. Discord did as he was nonverbally told, and a brief silence hung in the room before Filthy took a deep breath through his nostrils and exhaled from his mouth. "Now then… why had you been ignoring the ban?" Filthy asked, in as calm a voice as he could manage.
Discord grinned, and rather cheekily. Yet, there was just a hint of rage glinting in his eyes, Filthy noticed. "Well, when someone calls you a clown, not with their words, but with their tone, what else are you supposed to do, take it lying down?" He thumbed to himself with his paw. "It's like calling Tempest Shadow a stick in the mud, or Princess Celestia fat—and we all know what happens when someone calls Princess Celestia fat."
Filthy nodded, having heard some rubbish or other about an incident involving a mare named Zesty Gourmand. He didn't have too many details, but he did know the end result—the food critic had been blackballed from the industry, through nothing more than negative press alone. "So, the crows, and the spider, and the barking and meowing and everything else… that was basically your retaliation for the perceived insult?" he asked slowly, more to comprehend the sheer scope of it all than anything else.
"Why, yes and no," Discord said, still wearing his cheeky grin. Was his sharpest, longest tooth glinting in the light with glitter, or was that Filthy's imagination. "You see, I had been… told, in no uncertain terms, to not bring any lasting physical harm to anypony. Japes were good, but… loopholes are loopholes, as they say." He scooted the chair a bit closer, not that he needed to with his long body. "So I figured, why not boost sales with my own chaotic flair? I never knew I had a business streak until recent events, and I must say, it's wonderfully chaotic, when you're me and have a limitless wealth of power at your disposal."
Filthy nodded, willing to roll with that explanation. "Yes, but have you considered seeing things from the eyes of a normal pony, who doesn't have that limitless power?" he asked.
Discord nodded. "Oh, some days I lock most of my power, and go out and about as a regular pony. Sometimes, though, this little gubbins called morphic resonance makes things tough, though fortunately most don't notice," he chirped. "Truth be told, I was surprised you even did double-takes in my direction, during that little investor's meeting—much less heeded my advice when I suggested you arrange your paintings in a certain theme."
Filthy would have gaped and needed to scrape his lower jaw off of the floor with a spatula, if he had even been the least amount of surprised by the confession. As it was, the limitless power Discord had really did do some wonders for recent sales, he had to admit. On the negative side, it left customers asking more questions than answers could be procured, and he wondered if he could make up some horseapples to justify the whole thing. On the positive, more paintings were flying off the shelves, in accordance to certain themes and often in tandem with other related items, and he was glad he had followed that advice.
So that left the ultimate question: would he wise up and apologize for the perceived slight, or would he subject himself to more whimsical, if harmless, chaotic torment? He weighed the pros and cons of both, before settling on the former. "In that case, I would like to extend a formal apology for any slights committed against you, both real and perceived," he said, extending his hoof for a shake. "It's… been a more stressful time managing the stores as of late, trying to stay afloat for the summer to coast into winter."
Discord clasped the hoof with his paw, and shook it. "Perfectly understandable; business is ever a chaotic venture. Apology accepted," he chirped with a grin. He retracted his paw, and reclined casually in his chair, at least, as much as the chair itself would allow without tipping over. "That being said, there is that stick in the mud… what was his name, Blueblood? I feel he could do with another few descents down the pegs, as it were."
Filthy rose his brow. "Did he… slight you in some way?" he asked.
Discord rolled his eyes. "If you count being as stuck-up as he is being a slight," he answered. "And truth be told, he's a little too… orderly for my tastes, and useless otherwise."
“Uh huh…”
“That, and while you inferred that I was little more than a nuisance and a clown, he said it outright.”
Filthy nodded. He did remember the day in question. “If I may, I definitely overreacted. My intent in banning you from the store was less about removing you, but trying to keep my customers from running off. I didn’t want them all being lost in the maze you crafted, or frightened off by singing paintings, or what have you. You must understand that in the frey, I was terrified that they may not return. I can’t afford to be losing customers. It wasn’t personal, just business.”
“You should have seen the things I did to the other vendors,” smiled Discord. “Drawing in so much attention that their sales figures went up significantly. I thought it only fair that I offer you the same gesture.”
“And I appreciate that, in hindsight. Really, I do. You’ve sold off things that I had no idea how to market. That said, I would be lying if I said that this whole tizzy hasn’t been exceptionally stressful. Your ban is lifted, but if you’re going to be piping any more chaos into my store, can you ask me, first?”
Discord rolled his eyes like a pair of fuzzy dice. “Oh, if you insist. I was just about done, anyway. I only had a few things left in mind, anyway.”
Filthy cocked his head to the side. “You didn’t plan out any more?”
Discord stuck his nose into the air and touched his paw to his chest. “I am the lord of all chaos. I should know better than anypony that crazy things happen all the time that can ruin even the most well-made schemes. The best laid plans of mice and mares often go awry, in no small part thanks to me. If I were to plan out the minutia, I would have no room to adapt.”
Filthy nodded. “That does track with you.”
Discord twisted around so that he was facing away from Filthy and bent his head backward to look at him upside-down. “It tracks with you, too. Honestly, I’m sort of impressed how well you resisted some of my charms. You’re definitely doing better than Blueblood.”
Filthy cleared his throat. “I heard about his little debacle the other day. I’m guessing that you had a hoof in– *ahem* a claw in that?”
“I did, but not in the way you might think.”
Filthy leaned forward, steeled his gaze, and leered into Discord’s eyes.
Discord raised his claw. “Honest. I told you before that I’m not allowed to harm you or your business. I dressed him in a funny outfit, changed the pitch of his voice, and made him a little bit dirty. I also may have made his speech more interesting. I did not tell him to attack that camerapony; he did that on his own.”
“And what about the incident before that?”
“With him being asked to leave a restaurant? I put washable paint in his soap. If he had taken the time to look at himself in any mirror, he would have noticed. He’s the one who decided to yell at that waitress. He’s also the one who decided that he wanted to wear a mare’s dress. I didn’t have the time to give him all the details, after all.”
Filthy pressed his hooves to his temple and rubbed. “What I’m about to say does not leave this room. This is a private conversation between you and me, and anypony who asks about what was said does not need to know what I’m about to say. Is that clear?”
Discord wiggled his index finger and clicked his tongue. “Secret secrets are no fun. Secret secrets hurt someone.” Immediately after saying this, he snapped his claw, and Filthy’s desk and both chairs disappeared, immediately replaced. The desk was now a table, Filthy was sitting in a salon chair with his mane in curlers being blown dry, while Discord filed at his hoof with an emery board, sitting on a spinning barstool. “Now, dish on those deets, girlfriend. What’s the hot goss?”
Filthy sighed. “This is between you and me. Tell me that you understand that.”
“Of course, hun, of course!” Discord pushed up on the side of his blond perm wig. “Now spill that tea!”
Filthy took a deep breath. Could he really trust the lord of chaos with this statement? He supposed that, if he couldn’t, there was no turning back now.
“To be perfectly candid,” he paused and looked around to make sure he was still in his office, “I’m not exactly the biggest fan of Prince Blueblood.”
“Ooh, saucy!”
“The reason I had him in here was to invest some money so that this project didn’t go under before it had the chance to really fly. You know how business is.”
“So, you don’t like him?”
“Not personally, no. But I feel that, being privy to this information, it would be a dereliction of duty if I did not ask you to refrain from messing with him.”
Discord’s jaw dropped as he slowly gasped.
“Please, I mean no offense by that. I’m not trying to insult you. I just don’t want you insulting him. And I’m saying that, even though I think his business practices are very shady. I don’t much care for him, but, I’m asking you, as one intelligent being to another, to please let him be.”
For a few seconds, Discord was silent. He leaned back on his stool as far as it could go without falling over on itself, then a little bit further. Filthy was sure it would fall over, but no, it just balanced as if gravity did not matter in the slightest.
After a minute, Discord stood up, leaving the barstool lopsided. “You know, one of the few things in Equestria that I draw immense joy from is my dear, sweet Fluttershy. It is because of her faith in me that I’m even allowed to roam Equestria in the first place, and it is she that has restricted my activity to jokes and japes. Very persuasive is she, in that her kindness towards me knows its bounds. I see much the same in you, so as a personal favour, one friend to another, I will not add anything else to the list of gaffs and giggles I was going to have at his expense.”
Filthy nodded. "Excellent. I suppose we can call this matter concluded?" he asked, extending his hoof again. Discord nodded, and shook his hoof in return.
Discord grinned. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have places to be, and some new gizmos from the market to try out in my own little pocket world," he said, reaching down his side and into a pocket that hadn't been previously attached to his side. He pulled a door out of it, placed it behind him, and opened it up to reveal a chaotic house beyond, where Filthy could see that the furniture was running the asylum in Discord's absence. Among the items he could see moving and singing was a spring coil running a marathon on the yard, somersaulting away on momentum alone.
"Take care," Filthy said, watching as Discord strode into the door he had made and closed it behind him. Once the door closed, it melted into confetti and a cutesy little card, addressed to him specifically. Filthy stood up, trotted around the desk, and bent over a little to pick up the card—after poking it with his hoof first, to see if it had been boobytrapped. Upon finding no such shenanigans abound, he tenderly placed the card on his desk, and moved to sweep up the confetti.
Strange, it almost looked like birthday confetti, complete with "happy birthday" shaped masses strewn therein. He pondered for a moment… wasn't his daughter's birthday coming up? She had said she wanted more confetti this time around, more jaunty tunes, more… liveliness, as opposed to the boring drab dances of the upper crust that her mother wanted her to attend, or some such rot like that.
Ever since she had made friends with the Crusaders, he thought, she had been… different, in a way. Less… stuck-up, but still relatively sure of herself. He smiled to himself, and finished gathering the confetti into the dustpan, looking about his office to see if he could tuck it away somewhere for that upcoming celebration.
Huh, a box on his personal shelf that wasn't there before… or had it been, and he had not been paying attention? He trotted over to inspect it, finding it a pleasant pink color with a white ribbon on top, and wasted no time checking it for more chaos-born shenanigans and the like. Finding nothing of the sort, he opened it and found it empty. He set the box on the floor to deposit the confetti into it, making a mental note to find a balloon to repurpose the stuff later. Once the mess was cleaned, he closed the box, put it back on the shelf, and wrote a note to himself on a sticky note to take it home with him, along with some other odds and ends.
He smiled again, knowing just what he would put in that box when the time came—the perfect spot to hide a fancy necklace. He had to buy it first, but right now, he wasn't particularly hurting in the monetary sense, and for his daughter… he'd splurge, just a little. And in Canterlot, he knew exactly where to find the particular item he sought. Hopefully, he'd find it on sale soon, perhaps even with the price slashed somewhat as part of a deal.
He imagined his daughter kicking her hooves off the ceiling over it, and if her mother didn't approve of it, tough beans, she'd have to deal with it just the same. He'd give her a safe, too, to tuck away the precious gift, in case mother dearest went down the route of sabotage. It wouldn't hurt to be careful.
He turned back to the card and trotted to it, slowly standing it up on its end, gently opening one flap with a hoof to see if a cannon ball would shoot out over his head. Nothing happened—no pies to the face, no confetti in his eyes, nothing. It was as if the card had not been touched by any other being on the planet, except for perhaps the manufacturer.
The card had been written in standard Equish, and drawn up with the cutie marks of Twilight and her friends. Weird choice, but given that the card came from Discord of all beings, that did make some semblance of sense to Filthy. In the center of the cutie marks was a panel with a picture that moved, depending on the angle he held the card at. As the card was on his desk, it was stationary for the moment, showing Discord and the Bearers of Harmony in a photo that was upside-down.
Written below that picture was something Filthy had somewhat expected, yet hadn't at the same time.
To my dearest businessmane Filthy Rich,
I do hope my apology was sincere enough for your liking, as sincere as I found yours to be. I know this is unorthodox coming from me, but in the end, aren't we all just chess pieces on a board, serving the whims of maniacs that even we cannot question?
Best regards,
Daddy Discord
P.S. Tell Diamond Tiara I said happy birthday this coming Saddleday.
Filthy smiled and nodded, and gently closed the card before stowing it away in his desk drawers. An apology of this nature, no matter how nonsensical and unorthodox, was not one turned down so lightly, especially coming from Discord. Once the treasure was tucked away, he checked the time on the wall-mounted clock above his door.
Hrm, another four hours until closing time. He and at least three cashiers had already had their lunch breaks, and it was about time for him to tell the last one, Chivalry, to go ahead and take his. Better sort that out, then. He trotted around the desk, to the door, and opened it… to find the pony he was looking for outside, hoof raised to knock.
Filthy smiled at his employee. "Excellent timing, Chivalry. I was about to tell you to take your lunch break," he said.
Chivalry nodded, and lowered his hoof. "Well, I was about to ask you about something else…" He frowned a little. "We were able to clean up the pie's mess, and the bits that were afflicted by it, and… we found this in the register." He jerked his head towards his backside, and angled his body to reveal a bundle of wrapped balloons, done up in plaid ribbons and decidedly not full of hot air. "What should we do with it?"
Filthy frowned in contemplation. "Was it in the till?" he asked.
Chivalry nodded. "Yes. And we don't carry these balloons or ribbons, so I thought you'd know what to do, bossman."
Filthy nodded, and gently plucked the balloons and ribbons off of his employee's back. "I'll figure this out; thanks for letting me know," he said, smiling gently. "Now, about that lunch break of yours… Did you pack something to eat today?"
Chivalry nodded. "It’s heating in the oven now," he answered. "I'll go break out, and then break back in thirty minutes." With that, he trotted off, leaving Filthy with the balloons. As promised, I did leave Filthy alone after that, but the same… it cannot be said of that ponce, Blueblood.
The front page. The very front page. Not even just one front page. Three different publications had plastered the image of him swinging at the photographer, and only one of those three had obscured his face. That had done him little good, as he was front and center on the paper right next to it.
Blueblood sneered and shook his hooves. He should have known that Fancypants would screw him over by not paying off all of the reporters. What’s worse, the articles that didn’t mention him by name or have pictures referred to him as a bum. A smelly, violent bum!
On top of that, everypony was laughing at him. He couldn’t leave the castle without being recognised on a normal day. How was he supposed to show his face in public if he was the laughingstock across the whole of Equestria?
And it certainly was all of Equestria. He’d received taunting letters from all across the kingdom, some asking if it was true, others telling him that he should have done it differently, and all of them complete garbage.
The one good thing about this whole mess was that his maids were now too afraid to piss him off, and kept their dirty peasant hooves out of his sight. Even when he did run into one, they would disappear right away, meaning he could walk the halls with no hindrances whatsoever.
Still, one small benefit did not make him feel any better, because in trying to protect his image, he had lost quite a bit of rapport with several of his business partners. The smart ones saved face by denying having seen the incident, and refusing to comment as they had not been present, and continued to deal with him in secret, wanting his favour, but distancing themselves in the event that the press turned against him. Those less cunning and more cowardly announced that they had nothing to do with the assault, and would temporarily be separating themselves from his services in the hopes that it was an isolated incident. Little did they know that they would never have his business again because of these actions.
In the middle of these two types of investors and business owners stood a third type: the kind who wanted to meet with him and discuss their next step before deciding whether or not to keep him on as a partner. While it was not as smart as keeping their trust in him, it wasn’t so dumb as guessing that the press was completely right. Normally, he would be insulted that they even considered leaving one of his contracts, but far too few of his ventures were actually staying with him. He’d had four security companies under his metaphorical wing, but now, only one remained. Hiring ponies to encourage those who broke contract to return to his portfolio was going to be much more expensive. Perhaps it was a good idea to meet with the investors still in median standing with him.
He would be meeting with six of them today. Pushing his breakfast dishes away, he returned to his room to shower. He kept a very close eye on his skin, not wanting to find that it was coloured or riddled with fleas once again. He’d been scrubbing so firmly recently that he was beginning to exfoliate more than was healthy. He was also going through moisturizer as though it was going out of style. At least his coat was still shiny and white, though.
As he slipped on his jacket, he moved slowly and checked every square inch of the fabric. He couldn’t risk anything going wrong with this meeting. It had to go perfectly. That meant no bugs crawling on him, no holes or dirt on his clothing, nothing. There was no room for error today.
He took one final look in the mirror and adjusted himself accordingly. Though it was an ugly expression, he used his magic to pull back his lips and inspect his teeth. He had planned this out so thoroughly. His outfit and clean skin meant nothing if the others were staring at something stuck in his teeth.
Luckily, they were pristine, and as white as his coat. His dentist, luckily the same as Auntie Celestia and Auntie Luna’s, had not abandoned him. Not so far, anyway. His stylist had, meaning he had to find somepony else to do his mane, but there was a company from out of town that had agreed to send somepony over to help him dress it up.
In fact, she was late. She was supposed to be here before nine in the morning, and the clock in his room said it was already eight fifty-eight. How could she possibly set everything up and have him in the chair by nine if she was already this far behind?
Just as he was about to write an angry letter detailing the horrible service he’d not even received yet, there was a knock at the door. He threw it open, and two guards were on either side of a mousey-looking mare. “Prince Blueblood,” bowed one of the guards. “This mare says she has been summoned to style your mane for an important meeting today.”
“Well, it’s about time you arrived!” sneered Blueblood, pulling her into the room and slamming it in the guards’ face. “Don’t you know that before nine means that showing up at nine is late?”
“I’m terribly sorry, but the guards wouldn’t let me pass until I could prove that all of my products were genuine, and they had to check my credentials, as well.”
“Enough excuses,” he snapped. “We’re already behind schedule.” He sat down on a comfortable cushion and tossed his head back. “Well? What are you waiting for?”
“The guards sort of… confiscated my gear. I wasn’t allowed to bring so much as a pair of scissors near you until they confirmed my story.”
Blueblood grunted in frustration. “Must I do everything around here?” He stood up and walked back to the door, shouting at the remaining guard to go bring in the stylist’s kit, only to be informed that the other guard was already doing so. Blueblood grunted again and returned to his seat.
It took what felt like a painful eternity for the stylist's kit to arrive, and when it did, Blueblood noted it looked as though it were in disarray—scissors were in the wrong places, combs were askew, brushes had loose bristles… in fact, if he were any judge, it looked as though it truly did corroborate the stylist's story. With an almost too-dramatic sigh, Blueblood sat back and let her go to work. Fortunately, she was quick, able to sort her tools efficiently and without taking up too much time, and she was an expert at grooming his mane and tail.
In fact, she was as good as his previous stylist, even under some measure of duress. At least something else was looking up today, as she wrapped up her combing, oiled up his mane and tail to make them shine, and gave him the green light to attend his meeting, for which he had been overdue by half an hour already. He nodded in her direction as he departed, but that was all the courtesy he allowed himself to give, after everything else that had happened.
He made it to the meetup with no fuss, unaware that a presence was above him during his trip, so subtly adding some oil and other substances to his mane and tail, doing it in such a way as to not rouse any suspicion. In fact, Blueblood had no reason to assume that anything was wrong as he appraised the others attending the meet-up, consisting of three businessmanes and three nobles from other houses, all sitting at a round table in the middle of the room. One was tapping his hoof impatiently. "Where were you, Blueblood? You almost kept us waiting for an entire hour!" he snapped.
Blueblood frowned. "Apologies, Jet Set, but I had been kept waiting by my rather late mane stylist," he answered. "She had not understood that nine o'clock on the dot means nine o'clock on the dot."
Jet Set nodded, willing to buy the excuse, at least. "At least you're not already later than you presently are," he said. "Come, have a seat, we have much to discuss."
Blueblood took the invitation, and sat down.
"As you can see, we're experiencing some… problems with some present business deals," Jet Set began, frowning. "The money is funneling more to the lowerborn plebeians than it is to us—when it should go the other way around."
"And these business arrangements are…?" Blueblood hedged.
"Currently, they are in-house arrangements, mostly dealing with high labor costs and other such menial work for housing projects over in Manehattan and Vanhoover," Jet Set replied. "The issue is, the housing still needs to be quality, for the middle class… but it has too much quality that only the rich and noble-born can afford." He put his hooves together. "What I'm saying is… we need to cut back the costs—make it cheaper."
Blueblood nodded, ears perked and attentive. Who was he to turn down an invitation to generate more money? Furthermore, he was curious to see how this would pan out. "I'm listening…"
"And if we make it cheaper, we might make less money in the short-term, but more ponies will buy it to make up the difference," Jet Set continued, his frown slowly turning into a smile that would have glistened menacingly in the sun, had he actually angled his muzzle to let it do so. "More cheap houses, means more ponies off the streets, means more rent paid, and therefore, more money funneling towards our coffers, as it always should."
Blueblood nodded. "But how are we willing to go about this? You said yourself that these houses are used by middle-class ponies, who by default, have more wealth of their own to throw around than the commoners," he retorted. "There's several avenues we could take."
"Yes, and the most obvious one lies before us: we reduce costs," Jet Set proposed. "We can't do it too much, or else the middle class might catch on, nor can we do it too frequently… but if we play our cards right, we'll be looking at increased returns before we know it."
"So, how much do we reduce costs, then?" Blueblood asked.
"Right now, costs for the housing projects in Manehattan and Vanhoover are roughly five hundred thousand bits per project," one of the businessmanes answered. "That's just base costs, not accounting for heating, water, or any of the other basic necessities. With those accounted for, we're looking at seven hundred fifty thousand bits per project."
Blueblood nodded, though when he made the motion, he noticed light refracting off of a particular surface and throwing itself around the room with the motion. Jet Set frowned again. "Could you turn off the light?" he asked. Blueblood glanced about, and it didn't take him long to find the switch, but he didn't feel like standing up and dirtying his hooves, so he simply lit his horn to magically turn off the switch. "Better," Jet Set said, starting to smile again.
"Anyway, are we going to affect all of the housing projects like this, or a select group of them?" Blueblood pressed. "Because if we do it all at once, then the middle class and commoners will definitely catch on, and we do not want that to occur."
Jet Set nodded. "We start small, a few projects at a time. We make it seem random, too, so that the commoners won't be able to catch on," he answered. "There's this one housing project in Vanhoover that is incomplete, as in, the buildings that are part of that project are still under construction. We can reduce costs there." His horn lit up, and he procured sheets of paper that he slid across the table to the other nobles and businessmanes.
Blueblood looked at his sheet, at the projected numbers for costs and the like. So far, everything seemed good, though as Jet Set had said, he felt it needed a few touch-ups. Then he squinted. Was… was that a tiny gold flake on the parchment? Blueblood brushed it off with a deft flick of magic, to keep it from sullying the paper any further.
“A few notes, gentlecolts,” huffed Blueblood as he shifted in his seat. For some reason, his hips felt very uncomfortable staying completely still. “I was doing some research last night as to the state of construction, and I found a few very interesting things.”
“We’re all waiting, Blueblood,” replied Jet Set, tapping his hoof on the table. If you wouldn’t mind sharing with the rest of the class?”
Blueblood lit up his horn, brighter than he was expecting, conjuring a very plain-looking manual with a dull red spine. “Las Pegasus has much more lax building codes than Vanhoover. Your statement suggests that we hire a local construction company to build these, and that’s going to cut into our bottom line.”
“And what would you have us do?” asked Brass Tack, one of the other CFOs. “If we have to ship in a different construction team, we have to pay their housing costs for the duration of the project. Hotel rooms, trailers, even something as basic as tents, we’d have to pay for. We’re trying to save money, not spend more.”
“You misunderstand,” chuckled Blueblood. “If we bring them up there, then yes, we have to spend more money, and they’d have to adhere to the exact same standard of quality in construction: Roof slopes of at least three over five for lower Manehattan, and four over five in upper Manehattan and Vanhoover, king studs eighteen inches on center, and full insulation in the walls and ceiling. We’d be hemorrhaging money if we did that.”
“That’s what I just said,” scowled Brass Tack. He turned to Jet Set. “Isn’t that what I just said?”
Before Jet Set could so much as nod, Blueblood held up his hoof. “That’s why I’m not suggesting that we move the company up to Vanhoover. What I’m suggesting is that we build the houses in Las Pegasus, and then move the houses, once built and inspected, up to Vanhoover. I’m talking roof slopes of one over eight, king studs twenty-four inches on center, and air gap insulation on all drop ceilings. Then we just ship the houses up north.”
There was some murmuring around the table as the option was considered. He had them right in his grasp now. It had been a bit of a rocky start, but now things were turning his way.
“How much will it cost?” asket Jet Set.
Blublood turned to face him. ”Excuse me?”
“Well, houses are pretty big. If we have to ship them from one side of Equestria to the other, isn’t that going to eat into our profit margin?”
“I have a share in a good many railway companies,” nodded Blueblood. “It won’t be difficult to pack forty or fifty identical “oversized decorative shipping containers” across the country for cheap.”
“Won’t the freighters realize that these aren’t shipping containers once they hit the weigh station?”
“Actually, I have a solution for that, if you don’t mind me stepping in, Blueblood,” smirked Brass Tack.
“By all means,” waved Blueblood. He hadn’t had a very good response for this concern, so any help was much appreciated.
“We stuff the empty houses full of cargo.” He smiled, leaned back, and folded his front legs across his chest smugly. “If we’re going to pretend that they’re shipping containers, we double down and treat them as if they actually are shipping containers.”
“What cargo, though?” asked Whimsy Whitetail, one of the nobles. “If we have to keep shipping stuff up north inside these houses, we’re going to run out of stuff.”
“Just load it full of whatever we need to ship up north,” scoffed Brass Tack. “They’re always asking for more bricks, so we fill up a bedroom. They want wool? We send ‘em wool. Manehattan loves its cilantro, so we ship that, too. If it’s headed north, we stuff the kitchen and send it on up.”
Whimsy curled up her nose. “Doesn’t that mean a bunch of dirty freighters are going to be trouncing across the carpets in their filthy boots?”
“Who cares?” asked Blueblood. “The ponies who attach the houses to the foundation will leave muddy bootprints, too. Who’s going to tell the difference? Even then, will the commoners even know that their house was dirty in the first place? They’re already covered in dust and sweat and pimples. What’s one more bootprint?”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. All of these ponies, who were supposed to be the most noble and fiscally sound, all planning to cheat those who had little enough already. I’m not usually one for fairness, but it was absolutely despicable. So I deci– Oh.
Fine, you caught me. I’ve been narrating this whole time. Honestly, though, did you expect the lord of all things chaotic to stay inside of the fourth wall? Anyway, keep it under your hat. You don’t want to spoil it for the other readers, do you? Now, let’s return to the story, and pretend that Discord is just a character, and not the one telling the story, hm?
The whole table was clapping by this point. It seemed as though things were going well. “I have a few more suggestions, if you’d care to hear them,” smirked Blueblood, leaning forward. With an array of nods and waves, he stood up, clapped, and with his shoulder wobbling, he pointed around the room, starting at his left and slowly bringing his fully extended leg to his right. “With the walls, I propose that we shave down the sheeting.”
“Even after pulling out some of the studs?” asked Brass Tack. “Thinner walls makes them more prone to breakage. The stud gaps would be a lot easier to expose, and that could come up to bite us.”
“The buildings will be inspected for safety before being loaded onto the train,” assured Blueblood. “If something does happen, the inspector is the one who’ll be out of a job, and we can just replace him with somepony else with the same building codes. We’ll be fine.”
“But he can talk,” added Whimsy. “Bad press can turn a single broken sheet of plywood into a class action lawsuit, and it can also redirect a lawsuit against an inspector onto the company that hired the inspector.”
“It’s sheetrock, not plywood,” replied Blueblood.
"And if it's sheetrock…" Jet Set trailed off, as Blueblood's idea began to dawn on him. The sheer simplicity of it made his eyes widen, and yet the real appeal set in a moment later. "Blueblood, that's brilliant! Less chance for ponies to end up hurt if we use sheetrock, and it's cheaper, so ponies won't talk if the sheetrock fails!"
Blueblood smirked. At last, something was turning up today! "Now then, there are other materials we can replace with sheetrock—the possibilities are endless. Granted, it's not entirely foolproof, nor feasible in some cases, such as pegasus cloud housing, but it's still enough for our purposes. And in those small cases that we can't use sheetrock for, we use a low-density oriented strand board."
Jet Set smirked, and the expression was one that wouldn't be out of place on a shark's face. "I see you still haven't lost your edge," he said appraisingly. "Perhaps we can turn those blunders of yours around, after all."
Blueblood nodded. "Yes, perhaps we can. Hopefully with time, the public will forget all about it," he said. "Newspapers end up being tossed all the time. Or burned, or whatever other rubbish befalls them, and it will sort itself out eventually." Strange, as he said that, the light around the room began to dance weirdly again, as though the sun itself were frollicking merrily in the sky. He glanced up, and yet… he saw nothing wrong with the overhangs of the room, nor the windows, and the sun was doing its slow rise and fall as it had always done. What, then, was going on?
He garnered his attention and dragged its reins back to current matters. If something dodgy was going on, then somepony else accompanying him would have said something by now. Worryingly, his present company also glanced up briefly, seeing if their own eyes had played tricks on them. Had the light danced for them, too?
"Hopefully, it's just our eyes playing tricks," Jet Set muttered under his breath. He shook his head to focus on more important matters, and cleared his throat after lifting a hoof to cover his mouth. "That being said, do we cheapen the structural support of these buildings?" he asked.
Blueblood shook his head. "No, we do not, simply because the commoners might catch on otherwise. At least, we don't do so after cheapening the walls, floors, and ceilings—we do so over time, like a frog in lukewarm water." He shuddered at the mental imagery he gave himself, and pressed on, "That way, we're still up to the building codes, and this does not come back to bite us in the end."
Jet Set maintained his smirk. "And once the money starts funneling back to us…" He chuckled, eyes twinkling as thoughts of a new yacht or another manse filled his mind. "Oh, the things we could use it for…!"
Blueblood also smirked, thinking about what he was going to use his ill-found gains upon. A few new hires were in order for certain, but after that, he was as free as a pegasus. Yet as the thoughts danced in his head, the light flickered strangely once more, and he found himself glancing up for what felt like the third time that day. Yet, nothing was amiss—he chalked it up to mere hallucinations brought on by the stress of everything, and brought his eyes back to ground level.
This time, the eyes of his compatriots did not gravitate upwards for any brief intervals, and instead, they began to talk about all the things they were going to use the funneled money for. Whimsy chuckled as she talked about the most expensive jewelry she was going to purchase, while Brass Tack talked about another few buildings he wanted to zero in on to add to their little pet project. Jet Set wanted to go see Saddle Arabia, and see if he and his wife Upper Crust could bring any souvenirs from over there back home.
Blueblood, too, began talking with them, eyes sparkling as he wanted to purchase the latest in deluxe odds and ends, and trinkets that no mere commoner could be able to afford without some disastrous results. As they laughed and talked, they did not notice the light dancing strangely once more, as they were too caught up in their power fantasies to really gauge the expanse of the ceiling.
In fact, they failed to notice the change in the room until the lights dimmed, before they began dancing once more. Jet Set, the first to take heed, glanced around. "What's all this?" he asked, glancing up to find a white ball dangling from the ceiling… or at least, it looked white. It was actually a silver in reality, spinning on a gentle axis, and reflecting the light of the sun and the room off of thousands of small iridescent squares that would have been amazing for a commoner, but vexing for a noble.
Blueblood glanced up, brow furrowing at what he beheld. "... that looks like a commoner-grade instrument," he said drolly, lighting up his horn to try and remove the offending object. His magic grasped the object and pulled, only for it to open from a hidden seam in the middle and pop open like an oyster, spilling confetti and glitter onto the gathering below. The nobles and CFOs scrambled to move out of the radius of the unexpected shower, and barely managed to avoid being covered in sparkling filth for their trouble.
Blueblood, magic firmly on the split ball, tugged once again. The ball closed, and he could swear he saw a goat's face in the reflective squares that winked at him. He felt warmer than usual afterwards, as though he had taken a marathon during a hot day, without all the sweat and other gubbins that happened to ponies who were athletic. He glanced at himself and frowned; his clothes had once again been altered, and now he was in a snazzy three-piece suit that covered his body down to the fetlocks of his hooves, sparkling with blue and gold sequins.
He opened his mouth, intent on issuing a complaint about the outfit, but what came out instead was the sound of synthetic brass instruments. He tried to cover his mouth, flashbacks of his speech pouring back into his mind, but the music was not going to let him. He kept belting out notes as if he were having a coughing fit.
The window shutters slammed shut, and the room fell dark for a moment, then lit up as tiny spotlights danced off of the mirrored ball, which was now spinning. Other spotlights, done up in multiple colours, pushed their way out of the walls and danced around the room. The bricks of the floor, which had moments ago been made from stone, were now coated in vinyl and lit up individually in moving patterns. He knew that’s what the floor looked like because the table had disappeared and the chairs had tilted forward, dumping everypony to the floor.
“What in Equestria is going on?!” shouted Jet Set, wobbling in his gold lamé shirt and silver satin pants. “Answer me, Blueblood!”
Blueblood opened his mouth to speak, but he was immediately drowned out by the music. He tried to point up, but his hoof was pulled back down as soon as it reached full extension, pointing to the floor, then back to the ceiling. He couldn’t even move his other hoof, as it had attached itself to a blue sash around his waist that acted as some manner of belt.
“Was this your doing, Blueblood?” asked Brass Tack, strutting in a tight-fitting rainbow sequin outfit, complete with white platform shoes. Every step clapped against the floor with the beat of the music, and his body shifted with every thrum of the bass.
Whimsy slid up in a set of black heels, red pants with a very high waist, topped with a black sequin shirt with a deep V collar, all capped off with a rainbow print chiffon shawl. “Where did these clothes come from? How did we all end up dressed in these? I have a lot of questions.”
Blueblood opened his mouth to speak again, but with it came another rise in the music volume, as if the sounds were coming from inside his mouth, even though the sounds seemed to permeate the walls, just filling the room with sound.
With a large scowl on his face, Jet Set turned to the others. “While I was indeed the one who called all of you here for this, it was Blueblood who picked this venue, as well as having time to set it all up. He’s the only one who’s had access to this conference room, and he’s had a week to work with. He certainly hasn’t been out in public, of that you can be sure. I had nothing to do with this.”
Brass turned to Blueblood. “Is this true?”
Blueblood was fuming. “I would never! This was all Jet’s idea, I swear!
“How would I set all of this up?” argued Jet Set. “I was too busy trying to convince them to come in to see you! Do you have any idea how hard that is with your reputation lately?!”
“You’d better come clean,” warned Blueblood. “If you don’t tell the truth, I’ll–”
“You’ll what?” sneered Jet Set, pushing his face against Blueblood’s. “You’ll take a swing at me just like you did to that photographer?!”
“I did no such thing!”
“I was there! I saw the whole thing!”
“Girls!” shouted Brass, grabbing both of them by the shoulder. “You both look pretty enough to go to the dance, so let’s break up the little catfight!” He took a deep breath, and signaled them both to do the same. “I just want to know who set up the room for a great big disco party, complete with a dance floor. Capiche?”
“It was him,” accused Jet Set, pointing at Blueblood.
“Nonsense,” snorted Blueblood. “I had this room scrubbed clean, and that was it. Where would I even put the table, given how quickly it disappeared?”
“You’re a unicorn,” jeered Jet Set. “You can use magic!”
“And you can’t?” huffed Blueblood, flicking Jet’s horn. “And bringing up bad publicity to support your claim. So very tacky, and it reveals your true motive: to smear my good name through the mud. I would even go so far as to guess that it was you who was messing with the audio at the fundraiser!”
“I would never stoop so low!” barked Jet Set. “I will not stand here and be accused of sinking to your level! Good day, sir!”
“Good day to you!”
Jet Set and Prince Blueblood turned up their noses and walked out of the room through separate doors, walking off in opposite directions.
The other members of the meeting stayed behind, not taking sides. This was a venture about making money, and that’s what they wanted. A good amount of planning had been done today, and in all honesty, Brass, Whimsy and the rest could enact most of that on their own. For now, they were scheduled to have the room for just shy of another hour.
Brass turned around, flicking his mane back. His rainbow shirt was a little too tight, but undoing a few buttons on his chest solved that. It also revealed a solid gold medallion. “Whoever it was that dressed up the room to look like this, they had very good taste. What say we take the rest of our time here to show you all how I won the ‘78 regional roller disco championship?”
“Regional?” chuckled Whimsy. “In ‘76, the only reason we didn’t take state was because my partner twisted his ankle. Now, I know the whole point of this meeting was to squeeze some money out of those less fortunate, but how about I show you how to really hustle?”
A big smile crept across Brass Tack’s face. “Ooh, kitty, you make me feel like dancin’...”
For the next half hour the whole room dropped forty-five years off their age and threw caution to the wind. They were old enough to remember the era they were being drawn into, and, as I didn’t want to see anypony break a hip, I made absolutely certain that they were limber and capable of complex movement. After all, I promised Fluttershy that nopony would be hurt.
