//------------------------------//
// Clopson: An Analsysis 
// Story: The Adventures of Sherclop Pones 
// by B_25 
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I find it most interesting when people I meet are much more than they seem. It provides some level of stimulation for my mind that I won’t bother putting in words, because that is irrelevant to you, reader. Suffice it to say that I don’t believe I’ve ever been scrutinised as much by anyone as that strange Doctor, or found anyone quite as strange to survey. 

He is a very effusive and warm fellow, and his company is most enjoyable. He seems to be surprised by all my conclusions, and that is strange enough for me, for he is highly intelligent. One might imagine a stallion of his wit might be sly enough to stay close to my own thoughts, though not in his case -- he appears to possess an unusual lack of mental swiftness, in fact, and I find him to be painfully indecisive, though it seems even he has profound moments of fecundity in which he does a million things at once. I will touch on one of those instances later.

I must admit that I was a little puzzled at our first meeting. Placing him as a person was not hard, but his background was far more difficult to ascertain. Fairly light hair and dark skin is not very common among those from close to Canterlot. His coat was not black, though. Closer to the darker side of brown. A tan from work in the sun. He was a labourer, I had initially assumed, for he was not afraid of getting his hooves dirty – they were coarse to the touch. This was not so -- his grasp was gentle and precise when he shook my hoof, and he was well spoken, though he did talk with a strange accent.

He clearly mingled in the upper crust of Canterlot society. This, and his interest in chemistry pointed him as a medical stallion to me. A surgeon. But his background was hinted at by his accent… Trottish. No, Irish. He was from Cloplin, I reasoned. I was sure of that. He had that curious way of turning his 'i' and 'e' sounds with the classic Irish drawl, though it was mostly obscured, no doubt a result of his interaction with his wealthier and more blue-blooded patients. He was also successful - this I could tell at a glance at his clothes. The stitching on the black jacket he wore was immaculate, albeit well-worn. 

I have chosen to pen this because I feel that Trotson’s storytelling falls into the bounds of fiction - though he himself laughed when I suggested as much. He is quite convinced that what he has written is the truth, but to me he seems to skim crucial details most lightly, and gives me the most irritating unpleasant manner of being impersonal – but that is beside the point, for he requested that I analyse him. It had come as a result of me reading his first tale, to which I put down the book and noted that he had not bothered to speak of himself, aside from various snippets of emotional input. 

“See!” he cried, showing me his imperfect recall of our first adventure. “I told you that I would put it to pen, and even if that Inspector Lestrade has all the praise, you will be able to take your quiet pleasure.”
“And what of you?” I asked back, to which he paused, puzzled. 
“Myself?”
“Indeed.” 

He thought about it for a while, and came upon the idea of me writing about him. The concept seemed to entertain him, and I believe he has me picked as a novelist. Indeed, I am not. I am just a simple pony. I will say this of his own efforts, though - he has followed the path of the riddle which encountered us so close to our meeting quite well. So without further ado, I shall speak of him.

Of his traits, I shall mention only two of the many that I noticed, and one is not entirely relevant. Or at least, it wouldn't be relevant, were it not for the fact that he insists upon my description of him as precisely as I could.

He peers over my shoulder as I write, so I have had to remove him from the study. He is most anxious to obtain my opinion of him, though it is unfathomable that he should be as such– it is against his very pleasing nature that he be so nervous about it, though I believe that is his exclusive attitude towards me. Anyway; of his traits: 

One is his awfulness with women. It is highly irritating, for he is entirely and blissfully ignorant to their advances, and just as unaware of his own conduct around them. I don’t even think he knows precisely how much that Felicia girl adores him – or at least, not up until I clued him in about her clear adulation.

When we left Miss Sparkle’s library and returned to the police station, we chatted idly about other details of Trotson’s evening with Miss Felicia. Or rather, he did the talking and I did the listening.
“…And I cannot think of what I have done so as to make her so furious with me,” he said, finishing his tale about his own night out, and its disastrous end with Felicia. 
I just shook my head.
“So, allow me to repeat the real story of your dinner last night,” I said. “You spend the entire evening not talking to your date and eyeing off the other mare at the table, ignore her advances to spend some time with you in talking to Riesling, and then tell her to stop being so rude?” Good Celestia, he was truly oblivious.
His eyes widened and a little bit of colour seeped from his face, so that he turned quite pale. I’d wager he hadn’t thought of such a thing.
“Oh, how stupid could I have been?” He said in a most ashamed voice, and I could see by his expression that he was instantly overcome by regret. I had learned of this little mannerism of his – he took his mistakes very much to heart, and was prone to learn by them.

Truly, ignorance must be bliss. The way Trotson seemingly resists all advances from mares would tell me as much, for he is quite happy at the best of times with himself, trotting around and taking care of his patients. The least of my frustrations is that he seems to be content in the face of such blindness! 

He is well-spoken, though again he is merely too shy around women, instead reverting to the rather quiet and introspective person that he seems most comfortable as whenever they are around. I can see how he and that young girl Fluttershy get along marvelously, though unlike her, his attitude with complete strangers is more than effusive – his mastery of the English language is exceptional. He is also extremely well-educated, and seems comfortable talking about a range of things with some authority.

I assume that Trotson will want me to elaborate on what exactly took place at the library, for he assures me he cannot. I believe I can understand why – it is highly difficult, in moments of intense adrenaline, to remember such intricate details with which to write about, and indeed the whole incident was over in a flash, so I doubt that he would recall as much as he would have liked. 

As he mentions in his last chapter, I took a step back. Having not cuffed him fully, I expected violence to take place. I did not make the mistake of assuming that I was the target as my dear stallion suggests, though - I was in fact preparing to lash out as he went by, but... he got in before me.

Call me surprised. I don’t think I’ve been surprised by someone in a long time, but I had not had him picked yet as a fighter. He had a timid nature and vivacious temperament, and he was a doctor. Naturally, I assumed that he abhorred all sorts of violence.

Not so.

The Riesling fellow had scarcely taken a step towards twilight when Trotson threw something at him. I would not have known what it was, were it not for the fact that it was in Lestrade’s hoof five seconds previous – the bank letters. Trotson had snatched them and hurled them in a great white fan.

Riesling threw a jab through the sheets of paper. Trotson immediately shifted the blind aside with a deft flick of one hoof, and then countered with the other, smashing a mighty cross to Riesling's right cheek.

A point, then, to be made about Trotson - perfect tactics.

The blow was so fierce that Riesling grunted in pain. I remember clearly, I saw one of Trotson's forelegs move in and out in a v-pattern. he was indeed a fighter of some practice, but of what sort I could not yet tell.

Riesling threw a much wider punch. The first jab had been precise and well-aimed, but the skilful block and retaliation from the doctor had thrown him off guard. This blow was hazardous and risky. Bad for him, as Trotson simply absorbed the blow with a bent forehoof before shifting the same right hoof that had struck at his jaw and driving it into the winemaker’s exposed stomach.

Attacking the exposed areas.

Riesling was wild now – he threw a ferociously feral left hoof. Trotson simply mirrored the tactic of blocking the blow and attacking the exposed side, though this time he drove his own left straight into Riesling’s nose.

Riesling staggered back, his forehooves falling away for just half a second, to touch at the blood that surged forth from his face. That was half a second too much, for Trotson was swiftly in his face, striking again at the weakened jaw.

Capitalising on the damaged bone structure. 

Riesling had already lost the fight at this point, but still the onslaught continued. A swift one-two of punches into Riesling’s solar plexus to weaken the cracked ribs. Another mocking blow to the chin, and this time I heard the jaw dislocate entirely. But it wasn’t over at that point.

Riesling reared. He had been totally overwhelmed, and his mind was struggling to make sense of the incoming blows. So fast was the confrontation that the paper had just scarcely fluttered to the ground. Trotson swiftly turned and struck with both back legs, his granite-hard hooves smashing the staggered Riesling in the chest. If his ribs weren’t broken already, then they most certainly were now. And that made it very much over.

The foul villain crumpled like a sack of potatoes, where he lay on the ground groaning.

As a medical summary – Jaw dislocated, bridge of nose fractured, two ribs cracked, three broken, diaphragm haemorrhaging.

Physical recovery: six weeks.
Forced psychological recovery: six months.
Ability to hit mares: Neutralised.

I have added a new note to my thoughts on Trotson. Boxer of extreme prowess. Most likely several years in the ring. Instructor was from the army. Has since retired, though six seconds of observation was not enough to ascertain why.

When all was said and done, the constables pounced on Riesling. There had only been a brief moment throughout the whole ordeal, and, having observed my companion’s surge of lightning-fast, calculated punches, no danger whatsoever.

And now, I will politely pass the book back to Trotson. But before I do, a summary of him, to the best of my ability.

Rational, intelligent, dictated, purposeful, filly’s stallion. Dislikes affluence. Brown coat, blonde hair, black jacket. Well-dressed, highly nervous around subjects of importance, examples include Rarity; Lestrade; Redheart; etcetera. Fastidious, oddly precise. Slightly compulsive. Not one you would expect to manage a crisis well, yet capable of intense surges of action. He writes extremely affluently, even though his tales seem to radiate more fancy than fact. I find myself to tire very quickly from just trying to express my thoughts at all, though he seems to be able to do so with the greatest of ease...

A very likeable character.