//------------------------------//
// A lesson in civics 
// Story: The Rains of Vanhoover 
// by kudzuhaiku 
//------------------------------//

There was a curious lack of rain and the cerulean skies were filled with fluffy white cheerful clouds rather than dull, grey melancholy ones. A parade of ponies marched with purpose down the narrow, crowded street, with three walking abreast up front and two who walked side by side some distance behind. Fiddle Riddle—his face grim with determination—led the way. Red Maple and Tater Blossom walked together beside him, chatting with one another, and having a pleasant time. Black Maple limped along at a somewhat slower pace, her wooden legs creaking and squeaking with every step taken. Nut walked with a slow gait beside her, content to allow the others to lead the way. 

Wagons clattered over cobblestones. The streets were far too narrow and the sidewalks even more so. Space on the island was at a premium and buildings tended to extend out over the street from the second story and beyond. There were a great many tunneled archways for buildings built over the street. Anvil Island grew more and more like a maze—labyrinthine—as one drew near the center. Corridor alleyways—many of which were too narrow for wagons or carts—promised urban adventure for those who dared to explore them. 

Anvil Island was nineteen square miles of endless potential. 

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen my mother this happy, Nut,” Black Maple said while she strolled at her slow pace. “Tater’s about the same age that I was when the orca had a snack. Mom missed out on a lot of fun stuff that moms and daughters get to do. Just look at the two of them.” 

Nut did in fact have a look at them, and he watched them for a time whilst he listened to the sound of Black Maple’s wooden legs. The pegasus mare and the earth pony walked near to one another, almost close enough to touch. Tater Blossom was chatting about something, though what exactly, was unknown. Worried for Black Maple, he turned to look at her, and whilst he peered through his monocle, he attempted to read her face. 

“Does it bother you?” he asked in a low voice that was still just loud enough to be heard over the commotion of the busy city streets. 

She nodded. “A little. Can’t lie about it, Nut. Hurts a bit. But I love my mother, and I want her to be happy. I want her to do all the stuff she missed out on with me. Mom deserves that, but for her to be happy, it means that I have to be a big filly about this and suck it up.” 

Up ahead, Tater Blossom brayed with laughter when Red Maple’s wing slipped around her neck. Nut listened, uncertain of what to do or say, but aware that Black Maple suffered. He watched as she limped and shuffled along, and saw that sometimes she winced or grimaced because of pain. Things had changed; though how they had changed remained unknown. Even though they’d untwined their bodies from one another, a part of them remained tangled together. A connection remained, one that Nut did not understand. Or, it could just be that his emotions clouded his perceptions and he currently suffered a bit of delusion. 

“Suddenly, there is a lot of doubt in my life,” Black Maple said. “I thought I’d be happy, but it’s like my brain has other plans. We did the deed, and now I’m overthinking it. I don’t feel comfortable in my own skin at the moment, Nut. There’s a part of me that worries if you’re happy with me, a bigger part of me that makes me wonder if I am happy with myself, and there's a nagging voice in the back of my mind that leaves me with doubt… makes me wonder if I deserve you.” 

Rather than risk a verbose response, Nut listened. 

“I became equona non grata among my own tribe.” For a second, her jaw muscles clenched and her face contorted with angry rage the likes of which left Nut with more than a little concern. “I’ll spare you the details, but you know what I’ve done. What I did for a living. I was young, and I was stupid, and I was horny, and I found out that there were stallions who didn’t care about me and my lack of front legs. They only wanted one thing, and one thing only. 

“A tight, moist hole that goes squish when you poke it. Even better, I found out that they were willing to pay for it. Being young and stupid, I thought this was the greatist thing in the world. And I thought it was all pretty good. It was all just business… fun business, and the money I made allowed me to buy stills and vats and brewing equipment and it wasn’t long before I established myself and was the pony that I am now.” 

She turned away from Nut and walked with her gaze averted. 

“But then I got with you. And it wasn’t the fun romp I thought it would be. It wasn’t business. No transaction took place. No exchange of currency, or goods and services. It was… it was like my first time, Nut. I… well, I… uh, you… well, um… I wasn’t a masturbatory device or just a tight, moist hole that goes squish. It’s like… you fronked some propriety into me and now I have some regrets that I wasn’t prepared to have.” 

“Your past doesn’t bother me,” Nut said to Black Maple in a short, direct, plain sentence. 

Her head whipped about with fearsome suddenness, and her eyes were glassy with the threat of tears. “Well, it’s bothering me, Nut. I didn’t know there’d be consequences. Not long after I met you, I knew. I knew. I cleaned up my act. Like I said, I went celibate. I was going to try and sort out what sex was, and should be, but I never got around to figuring those things out. Was too busy living. Working. Life kept happening and there just wasn’t any time. 

“And then you climbed into bed with me and you were that eager first timer. But even then, you had your dignified, noble bearing. It was weird, Nut. Real weird. You were weird, I felt weird, what we did was weird, everything about it was real, real weird. It was weird because you cared about me. You weren’t there to get your money’s worth… you were there for me. And that’s super-wierd. How am I supposed to feel about that, exactly? I got used to uncomplicated nookie and now, it’s complicated, and I don’t know how to sort it out. Nothing feels right. I’m still resentful and angry—no, I’m pissed off that I’m unwanted by my own tribe.” She inhaled, her mouth opened, but whatever it was that she was about to say came out as a wordless huff. 

“Blackie—” 

“And I’m pissed off that you showed me how it feels to be wanted. Like, there’s a part of me that’s mad at you and I don’t even know why.” Furious, her face contorted into a fierce sneer. “You and your damned dignity. All your genteel manners and courtly actions. You made me feel like a lady, Nut, and damnit, that made a mess of things. You didn’t just cling to my back and go through the motions, and maybe drool in my mane a bit. You gave me something I didn’t even know I wanted, and now nothing can ever be the same, and I can’t go back to how things… however it was they were, I don’t know the proper way of saying this.” 

“Blackie, I—” 

“A stallion doesn’t care about front legs when he’s focused on the other end. When a mare’s face down in the pillows, front legs don’t even matter. They might as well not even exist. Only the hind legs matter, and they need to be spread out as far as possible. You… you…” —she sputtered a bit, stuttered wordlessly, and then finally spat out— “you had to go and care about the other end, the top half, everything from the wings up, and now all the fronking I’ve done just feels dirty and cheap. Like I was wasting my time. Everything feels wrong and I don’t like it. Why’d you have to go and do that for? I liked being dead from the wings up. It was uncomplicated and simple. You’ve ruined everything.” 

“This is my fault?” 

“Yes.” When she spat out her answer, her eyes flashed with the threat of dark, stormy weather. “This is your fault.” 

He glanced about, worried about public response to this bickering, but nopony seemed to notice. Black Maple was staring at him now with all of the irrational fury she could muster, and it occurred to him that he might never understand this mysterious creature. She was actually angry—perhaps with him, perhaps not—and she walked with her hackles up. A ridge of fine, silken hairs stood up along her spine that stretched from her neck to her dock. A perverse part of him wanted to know what those hairs might feel like against his belly, but he dared not mention this aloud. 

“So… for the sake of clarity, you’re completely fine with me stuffing you into a sack, but you’re upset with my efforts to show affection?” 

Her fury transformed into an almost profound sadness with a suddenness that actually frightened Nut. He watched as her hackles softened into nothing, the storm in her eyes subsided, her lower lip protruded whilst her nostrils flared wide, and everything about her seemed to droop in some way. She looked smaller somehow, vulnerable in a way that didn’t seem possible. It was alarming just how much she could change in the blink of an eye. She was not a creature of rationality, but of fierce temperament and fickle moods. 

“I like experiencing new sensations,” she said, her words husky and full of gravel. “But I’m not into the consequences. Being stuffed into a sack was fun. You putting your ear against my heart when we fronked so you could hear how my heart rate changed when you tried different things was just too much.” When she blinked, tears threatened to escape the floodgates. “You’re too much.” 

“You have intimacy issues,” he said, matter-of-factly. 

“No I don’t.” Even as she spoke, her eyes darted to and fro in a shifty, shady manner, and she adopted a rather skulking posture. “I’ve sold my sweet little crack for coin. There’s no way that I could possibly have intimacy issues. Stop trying to obfuscate the issues between us.” She somehow picked up her pace, which caused her to wince with every step made, and then made every effort to continue with her eyes straight ahead. 

He tried to recall a time when she reacted like this, but failed to recollect a single instance. Weakness. Vulnerability. A tender heart. His extensive schooling taught him to strike at weakness; to seek it out and exploit it. What his schooling hadn’t prepared him for was this; it was every bit as baffling to him as it was frightening. These were wounds that might take a lifetime to mend, if he could mend them at all. A lifetime that he didn’t have, because he was committed to his plan. 

For a brief second, he was certain that something tore within him, possibly his heart. 

Cursing youthful inexperience, Nut had no idea what to say. Some sauve, debonair sort from a noir novel might just know what to do and say, but he didn’t. Never had he felt as though he were still a colt more than he did right now. An unbearable, consuming ache threatened to hollow out his insides and leave him an empty husk. So this was love—if indeed he was in love—the grand emotion that poets celebrated and wrote sonnets about. Black Maple was his friend, and his feelings for her were complicated beyond measure. 

None of what he was taught as a colt to get along with Pod applied here. Rationality, reason, a sense of fairness and a desire to abide by the rules; none of these things worked with Black Maple. She was irrational, crude, crass; she broke rules with all the fierce regularity that she broke wind, which is to say frequently and often. 

And so it was that Nut realised a dreadful issue with relationships; one’s experiences were one’s own, and no one else’s. One could only see something a certain way, which was determined by a variety of factors, all of them complex and varied. No matter how much you wanted to know, there was no real way to understand what went through the mind of your partner, unless of course one was a telepath. Which Nut was not. Black Maple left him mystified and confused. Unsettled and uncertain. 

Black Maple’s inner workings would forever remain a mystery to him, and that was daunting. 



 

The Celestial Midnight Ballroom and Lounge was a huge eyesore. Oh, it tried to be impressive and sophisticated, but the chintzy gold gilt was pretty flaky and the copper roof was a sickly shade of noxious green. Some of the windows were cracked, most of the shutters hung askew, and the marquee sign over the door had more broken light bulbs than whole ones. Gold and silver filigree suns were tarnished and crud-encrusted. It had seen better days, and was born during a more optimistic time. 

Nut was not at all surprised that there was a fee for admission; the lure of a free lunch was stymied by the attendants at the door who kept out the homeless and the hungry. The sign claimed that all of the funds collected would go towards community improvements, but Nut doubted that. Those who didn’t wish to pay were jeered and ridiculed for not wanting to contribute to the community, which made Nut wonder just how many of the hecklers were hired for the occasion. 

“We can take ‘em,” Black Maple said to Fiddle Riddle. 

“Er, what?” Confused, Fiddle Riddle looked down at the mare who whispered up at him. 

“Those goons at the door,” she explained whilst she made a stabbing motion with her extended primaries. “We can take them. If I crack one over the head with my wooden leg, he’ll go down like a paying customer hungry for crotch cobbler.” 

“Crotch cobbler?” Fiddle Riddle, his eyes narrowed, tried to make sense of what was said. 

“Crotch cobbler. Best when served hot and sometimes comes with a load of cream.” 

Red Maple hid her face behind her wing and began to snicker. 

“Hmm?” Still confused, Fiddle Riddle loomed over Black Maple and did his best to remain polite. 

When Tater Blossom understood what was said, she gagged, stuck her tongue out, gagged again, horked once, then twice, and then shook her head from side to side so hard that her tongue wagged. Impassive, stoic, Nut offered up the most dignified eyeroll that he could muster. Alas, poor Mister Riddle was now forced to endure Black Maple’s crude humour, which could be shockingly effective on the delicate sensibilities of Canterlot ponies. 

“Blackie, stop that,” Red Maple said to her daughter. 

“Aw… but I was about to move onto the bronco taco—” 

“No.” At this point, Red Maple struggled to keep a straight face. 

“Minge binge is funny too—” 

“Black Maple, stop that.” 

“Nut’s practically a ninja—” 

Frustrated, Red Maple inhaled and awaited whatever indecency came next. 

“—and I can’t help but wonder if he knows tonguekwando.” 

Hearing this, Nut’s body betrayed him; he blushed as Red Maple facewinged. 

“Oh, you speak of cunnilingus,” Fiddle Riddle said to Black Maple. “The Vanhoover Maneuver.” 

The charcoal coloured pegasus looked up at the prim, proper unicorn with a sidelong glance, and for several long seconds, nothing happened. She stood stock still, unmoving, but then she broke. It started with a titter, then a chortle, followed by a giggle, and then she barked with laughter while an unassuming grin spread over Mister Riddle’s face. 

As awful as all of this was, it sure beat standing in line alone. 



 

The inside of the Celestial Midnight Ballroom and Lounge was almost as awful as the outside. Mildew assaulted the senses; it blurred the eyes, battered the nose, and phantom lurkers could almost be tasted upon the tongue. There were clearly leaks, and the water had saturated the old plaster walls and wooden floors. Rickety wooden chairs in various states of repair formed crooked, uneven lines. The raised platform for the band now had a podium. 

The room was drab, uninspired, and no longer had even a hint of previous glory. Eight pillars, arranged in two rows of four, somehow seemed tired of their long struggle to hold up the sagging, mildewing ceiling. The faded remains of a mural could be seen on the ceiling, but it was now so indistinct that there was no way of knowing what it might have been. Generic alicorns painted onto the pillars could still be seen, highly stylised versions of alicorns that were rounded and chubby rather than slender and graceful. 

Nut tried to imagine a dance here during its glory days, but found that he could not. 

Black Maple sat beside him on his right, while Red Maple sat to his left. Tater Blossom sat between Red Maple and Fiddle Riddle, and the distraught filly was in a snit because the promised lunch would only be served after the impromptu council meeting. He had a dire feeling about the promised lunch, but said nothing. When one expected the worst, one would never be disappointed. 

The room was packed with mostly earth ponies, with only a few unicorns. As for the pegasus ponies, not many of them lived on the islands; they lived on Cliffside and had no reason to be here. There was a griffon in attendance, and Nut had to wonder if the salty old fellow was here for the promised free lunch or because of an interest in civics. 

“My chair is sticky,” a pony said. 

“Find another,” another pony replied. 

“I sat in the sticky,” the first pony said, “and I fear that I might be stuck.” 

“Oh my,” the other pony responded.

Ears erect, Red Maple seemed a bit concerned about this, and rocked from side to side in her own chair, perhaps to see if it were sticky. Meanwhile, Black Maple hummed to herself and showed no signs of her earlier distress. Fiddle Riddle whispered something to Tater Blossom, but Nut couldn’t quite make out what it was due to the ambient noise all around him. When Tater Blossom was overcome with the giggles, Nut heard that loud and clear, and he glanced around Red Maple to have a look at his apprentice. 

“Hey, Nut…” 

“Yes?” He leaned in closer to Black Maple. “What is it?” 

“Have you heard about the cannibal admitted to the hospital with indigestion after eating a dozen ponies?” 

Nut’s ears pricked, then splayed out sideways.

“Doctors would later report the cannibal’s condition as stable…” 

“Oh, boo! That’s terrible, Blackie. Shame on you.” 

“Mom, I have no shame. Don’t waste your breath.” 

Emboldened for reasons unknown, Nut leaned in a little closer to Black Maple. A few stray hairs from her forelock now clung to her muzzle, and there was a curious gleam in her eyes. The wounded creature that he saw a while ago was now nowhere to be seen; there was only the mare eager for his attention now. She looked up at him, and he down at her, and for just one magical moment, the room around him vanished. No sounds, no distractions, no stench of mildew; there was only Black Maple and those few stray hairs that somehow captivated him. 

“Please,” an amplified voice said, “silence yourselves. We’re about to begin.” 



 

“My name is Chestnut Palfrey and I thank you for being here today,” a bespectacled, bookish stallion said as he slipped behind the lecturn. “We have a few things on the docket today, including a public inquiry about the recent bridge collapse. The City Council assigned me to represent you only recently, so today is an excellent opportunity for me to get to know all of you.” 

Nut suspected that Mister Palfrey had never set hoof on the islands or the Lower City. There was something that reminded Nut about Canterlot nobles—well, some of them, anyway. Mister Palfrey didn’t belong here, and from the looks of things, didn’t want to be here. He was assigned by the council, which for all Nut knew, might have been a punishment. Chestnut Palfrey struck Nut as the sort of pony who had been born and raised in the Upper City, and previous to this day, was blissfully unaware of the Lower City’s existence. 

A few rows back, somepony coughed. 

“First off”—Chestnut Palfrey’s voice became cold, austere, and dispassionate—“the council has addressed the issue of labour exploitation specific to Anvil Island. In ninety days, employers will no longer be able to house employees in exchange for labour. Please note that this is specific only to Anvil Island, and does not apply to other areas—” 

“Like the boroughs,” somepony in the front row shouted. 

“Be quiet,” Chestnut Palfrey demanded, his words cold and flat. “The boroughs and wards are impoverished. We’re aware of that. There is nothing to be gained by being rid of company housing in the wards and boroughs. But Anvil Island is a place of wealth and prosperity. Ultimately, what drove the council’s decision is the fact that these under-the-table arrangements are depriving the city coffers of rightful taxes.” He paused for a moment to allow his blunt honesty to settle in. 

A dull murmur traveled through the crowd, with Nut’s mutterances among them. 

“The old way of doing things must give way to the new—” 

“Except for the wards and boroughs! The old way sticks like fish shit!” 

“Silence.” Chestnut Palfrey’s voice was almost a serpentine hiss. 

“Funny how our tax money goes up to the accounting offices of the Upper City, but never comes back down to us!” 

“Please, be silent.” Chestnut Palfrey’s voice remained a chilly monotone. “Second on the list, the city will no longer be able to offer transportation to and from school for the students of the islands.” Ignoring the jeers, the austere stallion continued, “Due to budgetary shortfalls for the fall quarter, we simply do not have the funds in the city’s coffers to transport students from the islands to the Lower City. With the bridge now at the bottom of the harbour, it will be even more expensive to provide this service. So it is with great regret that I inform you that you will need to find another way. Might I suggest the ferry—” 

“I dunno about you, but I can’t afford the ferry!” 

“Please, cease your prattle.” Chestnut Palfrey scanned the crowd, his head turned slowly and steadily. “I assure you, you can afford the ferry. That’s the beauty of the free market. Consumers control the pricing. High prices are unsustainable if consumers won’t pay for them. If prices are high, logic dictates that customers are in fact capable of paying. Whining about it won’t change anything. If by some chance the prices are actually too high, surely some clever entrepreneur will come along and provide competition. Then, the prices must adjust to remain competitive.” 

These words seemed to provoke the crowd and Nut sensed that things were in danger of becoming a little unwell. Not-good. Unrest seemed likely. He knew why, too. The poor who lived on Anvil Island who barely scratched out a living would soon have no choice but to move, perhaps to the Lower City. This was a gambit, though the end goal was uncertain. At least, Nut wasn’t sure what gains there were to be had. Perhaps if the impoverished were forced to leave, it would make room for new residents to move in. 

“Third,” Chestnut Palfrey began, “is that something must be done about all this dodgy bartering and the trade of goods. There happens to be a tremendous amount of goods that are bartered, and are untaxed. This is hurting us all. City coffers are dangerously low and even more city services will be cut so that the shortfall can be dealt with. With the new year, a new tax policy is coming, and all trades will be financially assessed for the purposes of taxation. The cash value of bartered goods will be determined and a tax levied.” 

The crowd booed and Nut understood why. Black Maple paid many of her bills with liquor and beer—not coin. Anvil Island was a place of trade, which made it distinct and unique. He knew that Mrs. Oleander took payment often in the form of goods. He thought of his own arrangement with Mrs. Oleander, which would soon come to an end. He couldn’t even begin to imagine just how disruptive these new policies would be. 

A cold, creeping prickle made Nut shiver as his brain pieced the situation together. This crowd was angry, well on its way to becoming enraged. Mister Palfrey was trotting out one rotten policy after another. Soon, the infuriated crowd would reach a breaking point, and Nut understood what would happen. Nob Thatcher would be brought out to face the mob and all of this pent up fury would be directed at him, somehow. Now Nut knew what Mister Riddle was so upset about, for surely the mob would rip poor Mister Thatcher to pieces in its current riled state. 

Leaning over close to Black Maple, he whispered in her ear, “There’s going to be trouble.” Her ear twitched against his lips, and he felt warm, fuzzy tingles that raced down his spine and settled into his groin. 

“I know,” she whispered back, “that’s why I came along.” 

“Tater Blossom—” 

“Trust my mom, Nut.” 

“Our date is about to devolve into a full blown riot, I do believe.” 

“I know,” she whispered, “isn’t it wonderful? I’ve never been asked to a riot before.” 

Nut was a pony of simple-yet-complex values. He was raised to believe that one found a mare and settled down together for the sake of bettering society. The focus, as he saw it, was on settling down. No sane pony ever suggested that one find a like-minded mare and then attend a riot together. Pod would certainly be distressed at the idea of riot participation.  

But then there was Black Maple. As it turned out, there were some mares that you could bring to a riot, and still have reasonable prospects of having a good time. If things went sideways—and it seemed that they might—he wouldn’t need to worry about protecting Black Maple. She was more than capable of looking after herself. Red Maple would probably fly away with Tater Blossom. As for Fiddle Riddle, the stodgy old unicorn was a wizard, but Nut had no idea what the elderly gent was capable of. 

“Fourth”—Chestnut Palfrey’s deadpan voice intruded upon Nut’s thoughts—“tax policies will be adjusted for multi-family homes. We must all pay our fair share. Right now, there is a serious problem with far too many who pay no share at all. For families who share a house or estate, each family will be taxed as if they owned a portion of said house or estate—” 

Somepony in the crowd howled and then the profanities flew hard and fast. 



 

Chestnut Palfrey was joined by another council pony, a mare named Blue Fir. After about forty-five minutes or so of Mister Palfrey announcing terrible policies, each one somehow worse than the last, Blue Fir came out and was introduced. She was a chartered accountant, and had all manner of plans to help the citizens of Anvil Island be financially and fiscally responsible. Without fanfare, she was appointed as the financial advisor for the island, and all future expenditures would go through her office. 

Which just so happened to be located in the Upper City, on Ministry Row. 

For the sake of saving the taxpayer’s money, she would not maintain a branch office. 

This was theatre; plain and simple. There was even a cost for admission. A token cost to keep out the freeloaders and those seeking a free lunch. The issue, at least as Nut saw it, was that this was bad theatre. Quite possibly the worst, with inept actors who lacked any sense of charm or charisma. Nut actually felt sickened by all of this, and wasn’t sure if he’d be able to eat lunch when this was concluded. Of course, the stench of mildew and desperation did nothing to help the situation. 

There was also the stink of ruinous violence in the air… 

Beside him, Black Maple watched everything with casual interest, and much to his surprise, she showed no signs of boredom. This was a side of her that he did not expect. That she took an interest in politics was intriguing to Nut. As it turned out, there was a lot that he still did not know about her, even after a year of friendship. Red Maple didn’t show as much attention as her daughter, but still had some interest. At the moment, the scarlet-as-sin mare was studying her hooves, but her ears showed that she listened. 

“—and now, we begin our inquiry,” Chestnut Palfrey said to the crowd, his voice as calm and austere as it was when he started. 

When Nob Thatcher was led out onto the podium, the finale began. Even from where Nut was sitting, he could see that the poor fellow had seen better days. Mister Thatcher stumbled with almost every step, almost like a drunkard. Which, Nut was certain would not help his public image. While others might see drunkenness, Nut saw sleep deprivation. Vivid red spiderwebs could be seen in Nob Thatcher’s eyes even from where Nut sat. The flesh beneath his eyes sagged, his jaw hung open and loose, and his ears hung limp, as if they lacked the means to prick up through their own power. 

“For the sake of brevity, you will speak only when spoken to, Mister Thatcher. Every question will be answered with a simple yes or no. Please, please, for the sake of civility, do not waste our time with excuses. Just a direct yes or no will suffice. Do you understand?” 

“Yes.” The answer came from a pony broken. 

“No one cares for your sniveling or your excuses,” Blue Fir remarked, her words every bit as cold as Chestnut Palfrey’s. “You owned and operated a major piece of infrastructure. The only bridge that connected Anvil Island to the mainland. Which collapsed into the harbour.” 

Something ugly stirred within the crowd; Nut felt it and imagined it as windigo whispers. 

“You inherited the bridge a few years back,” Chestnut Palfrey said. “Tell me, Mister Thatcher, was the bridge in good repair when you inherited it?” 

There was a long sigh from Nob Thatcher, who did not raise his head. “No.” 

“So you inherited a bridge from your uncle and you knew it to be in poor condition, correct?” 

Again, Nob Thatcher had a defeated response. “Yes.” 

“So you have this decrepit bridge in poor repair, and nothing was done to fix or maintain this bridge. This vital part of our infrastructure. A thoroughfare that our economy depended upon. Speaking on behalf of the public I serve, I would very much like to know why you felt the need to exploit the community that depends upon you, but I’ll settle for a simple admission. Were you negligent?” 

“It wasn’t my fault—” 

“A simple yes or no will do. The public has no time for sob stories, Mister Thatcher. Were you negligent?” 

“No—” 

“Ah, so the bridge collapsed due to your overbearing attention to detail and care.” 

“I did the best I could with what I had to work with and—” 

“No one cares, Mister Thatcher. The bridge collapsed during a period of high traffic. I do believe you owe the public an admission of guilt, and an apology as well. The courts will decide your ultimate fate, and the terms of your restitution. But here, today, you will give the public what it is owed. You owed them a safe means to cross from Anvil Island to the Lower City, and because of your negligence, and no doubt your greed, you failed to maintain the bridge and keep it in good repair.” 

“Let him explain himself.” Fiddle Riddle’s voice was amplified by magic and he had no need of a microphone to be heard. “I for one would like to hear what he has to say.” 

“We’re not here for a discussion,” Chestnut Palfrey retorted. “Now I ask that you be silent, citizen, so that we might conclude this in a timely fashion.” 

“I’ll not be silent.” With his voice booming through the ballroom, Fiddle Riddle stood up as straight and as tall as possible. He was tall, noble, and impeccably dignified; a Canterlot noble whose head would not be bowed. “Mister Thatcher, my dear friend, do tell us all what happened.” 

“Constables, I want this rabble-rouser thrown out!” 

Several ponies came into view on the podium. None of them wore uniforms. They had no badges. Nut also stood up and began to assess the situation. Gasps and murmurs rippled through the crowd as the six previously unseen constables began to march down the central aisle. Fiddle Riddle chuckled and didn’t seem at all threatened. There was a creak of wood and brass when Black Maple stood up from her chair. 

“If you’re constables, I’ll eat my coat.” Fiddle Riddle’s horn ignited with a fierce glow. “Show me some badges, constables. Or should I assume that you are from the Line-In-Sand Detective Agency?” 

The six ponies halted halfway down the aisle. 

“Is this what our tax money is spent on?” Red Maple asked. “Hired goons to beat up the citizenry?” She cracked her front fetlocks, which caused several heads to turn. 

“With actual constables, I would have no recourse but to cooperate.” Fiddle Riddle’s voice was ironclad with confidence. “But you… you are not the law. One more step and I will burn you down where you stand. You have no authority here.” 

“I would like to hear what Mister Thatcher has to say,” a mare in the second row said. 

“Me too!” another pony shouted. 

The detectives huddled together, conferred with one another, and then began their retreat back to the podium. Chestnut Palfrey was a bit sweaty now, his chilly calm was gone now that he knew that he was no longer in control. Blue Fir, perhaps realising that this was a bad scene, a riot-in-waiting, vanished through the door she first emerged from. Nut kept Susan at the ready, and he waited for everything to spiral out of control, for surely that was bound to happen. 

“Mister Thatcher… perhaps you’d like to tell us what happened,” Mister Riddle said. 

“Mrs. Fir has gone to the callbox,” Chestnut Palfrey announced. “Actual constables are coming.” 

“Well then,” Mister Riddle replied, “we have a few hours to spare. Mister Thatcher, my friend, please, tell us what happened. This is, after all, a public inquiry, and the public has a right to know. How else can we make informed decisions?” 

Nob Thatcher eyeballed the half-dozen detectives, all of which now seemed far too close, he swallowed with a gulp that Nut could hear several rows back, and then the distraught, sleep-deprived stallion glanced at Chestnut Palfrey. Nut realised that Mister Thatcher was too scared to speak, too worried about potentially physical consequences. There was only one thing that could be done in this situation, and so Nut did it. 

Whistling for all to hear, he strolled down the aisle, twirling his umbrella beside him, and he made certain that he walked with the most confident, cocky swagger he could muster. Mister Thatcher needed to feel brave again, or at least have enough courage to speak. Behind him, he heard the thump-thump of wooden legs against the stone floor. He would need to thank Black Maple when this was over—but he wasn’t sure how this might end. 

When the detectives moved to block him, Nut gave them a cold glare of casual disregard and said to them, “None of you will hit the floor alive. Begone, or be dead.” 

His bluff worked. The detectives parted, retreating, muttering, cursing under their breath. Nut climbed the stairs, kept a wary eye on the half-dozen detectives, and for a moment, he considered making a very public example out of them. But this happened to be impulse, not rationality, so it was a poor motivator. 

“Mister Thatcher,” Nut said in his most affable manner. “Friend of a friend. Right now, he’s over there guarding something very dear to me. Allow me to share my umbrella with you. Good protection, an umbrella. Keeps away the storms of life. Now, would you mind telling all of us what happened?” 

There was a horrible, terrible, groin-clenching growl from behind him, something that one expected from a grizzly bear, or perhaps even an ursa major. Black Maple moved beside him, her teeth bared, her hackles raised to battle position, all while she growled in the most ursine way imaginable. Nut understood that pegasus ponies were quite different beneath the skin, but to see Black Maple in her current state almost unnerved him. He’d poked a delicate, vulnerable part of himself into this creature, and now he had second thoughts. 

With an undignified squeak, Chestnut Palfrey fled and was gone. 

Now, it seemed, the public inquiry belonged to the public. With nopony left to protect, the detectives made themselves scarce. Nut watched them go, but resolved to deal with them later. Not just them, but the whole agency. Something would have to be done about them, but he wasn’t certain what that might be. Hired goons should not be turned upon the public, and something needed to be done for the sake of his own conscience. But that issue would be dealt with later. Right now, there were more pressing matters at hoof. 

“Mister Thatcher, friend, you are free to speak,” Mister Riddle said from where he now sat. 

“There’s no money,” Nob Thatcher said plainly. Heaving a sigh, he sat upon the floor and hung his head. “I’m sunk into debt. Ruined. That bridge was my end. I gave it all that I had, and it was not enough.” 

The crowd was now remarkably silent. 

“The tolls weren’t enough.” Nob Thatcher sighed, shook his head from side to side, to and fro, and then sighed yet again whilst he pawed at the floor with his hoof. “Pegasus ponies don’t need the bridge. Unicorns used magic to walk across the water. Which didn’t leave a lot of paying customers. It’s all so complicated. 

“I had to pay a minimum wage to my employees, and so I did. Whatever I could do, I did. But I couldn’t raise the tolls. If I did, there were complaints. And then the city sold toll-free permits to the teamsters and the cargo companies, because that was good for the economy. I was forced to honour those permits. All of us who own bridges have no choice but to honour those permits. 

“So I didn’t make enough money, and that’s the long and the short of it. I had to take out loans against the bridge, and I was hoping that I would default on them. I wanted the banks to take it. After paying my employees, there was nothing left for maintenance. Nothing left for me. I’m not alone, for whatever it’s worth. Every bridge owner is in the same pinch as me. 

“We’ve all appealed to the city for help, and even suggested that the city take over ownership and responsibility for the bridges. But the city says it is a matter for private enterprise, and that assuming ownership of the bridges would be a betrayal of the taxpayer’s trust. The city is fully aware of how much it costs to maintain a bridge and pay employees to collect tolls. 

“If we raised the tolls to what they needed to be to cover all of our expenses, it would cost more to cross a bridge than it would to ride the ferry.” He lifted his head, stared at the crowd, and once more, he sighed. “I’m sorry, all of you. I feel like I’ve let you down. The bridge collapsing was the worst day of my life… which kind of feels like it might be over. Things are pretty hopeless right now. I don’t even have enough money to hire a lawyer for myself. Everypony is coming to sue me for a fortune that I don’t have. All I had is now at the bottom of the harbour, just so much rust and rot. I really am sorry.” 

“You have nothing?” a stallion in the front row asked. 

“Not a thing,” Nob Thatcher replied. 

“I’d always just assumed that you bridge owners just kept the money and were too selfish to pay for the upkeep.” The stallion’s voice softened considerably. “I had no idea. All this time… I always thought the worst of you lot.” 

“You say the city sold permits that allowed the cargo companies to pass without paying?” a mare asked whilst she held her notebook and pen at the ready. 

“It’s true. They did. I’m not allowed to talk about it because of a nondisclosure agreement. Which, I might add, was forced upon me. I never agreed to it. I never agreed to the passes, either. But I had no choice. Now that I have nothing left, I don’t see the point in keeping quiet about it. I’m already ruined. I might be going to prison. So there’s no point in maintaining my silence.” 

“Do you know why they sold the passes?” the mare asked. 

“The way it was pitched to me was so that it would help small businesses move goods from place to place.” For the first time, Nob’s ears lifted, they rose into a splayed out sideways position and then remained there. “But then I noticed that the teamsters and the cargo companies switched almost entirely to wagons. They stopped using boats and paying for more expensive means. All of the biggest hauling outfits in the city crossed my bridge… sometimes hundreds of wagons in a day, and not a one of them paid a toll.” 

“So would you say that the transportation companies profited at your expense?” The mare’s pen was scratching away at her notebook now, and she gave her full attention to Nob Thatcher. 

“I can’t say for certain, but it seems likely.” 

“And the city profited from selling these permits.” 

“Yes, ma’am. They charged a yearly fee.” 

“I am Fontina Formaggio, and I work with the Vanhoover Voice. Would you be willing to tell me everything you know? Do you have records that you’d like to share? Better yet, do you think you could get your fellow bridge owners to talk to me? I would very much like to crack this story like an egg.” The young unicorn mare scribbled away with her pen with every word, and her head bobbed with unbridled enthusiasm. “My fiancé is a lawyer. He doesn’t have an office yet. We’re poor, but we’re eager.” 

“I have no money—” 

“We’re already poor,” Fontina said, almost laughing. “We can’t get much poorer.” 

“You’d help me?” Nob Thatcher seemed incredulous about this stroke of good-fortune. 

“If you need a meal, my father is an excellent cook,” Fontina replied. “If you need a place to sleep, we have a couch. What I need from you in return is a story. You say that you have nothing, but that’s not true. Mister, you have something that I want, and while I don’t have much, I can help.” 

Nut lowered his head, leaned in close to Mister Thatcher, and said, “I’d give the lady what she wants. Let her help you. Tell her everything that you can.” 

“I… I… I can’t”—Nob’s ears fell limp—“I can’t thank you enough. All of you. Thank you for listening to me. Things felt pretty helpless there, and I… I needed this.” 

“All we have is one another,” Fontina said. Her horn, illuminated with a pale pink glow, flared a little brighter for a brief moment. “We islanders need to band together. The time to do so was a long time ago. How come we don’t have our own town halls and meetings? Why do we allow the Upper City to rule over us? Why do we submit to Ministry Row? How come we don’t have our own Ministry Row? All the wealth moves up the cliff and consolidates in the Upper City. I want to pick a fight, Mister Thatcher, and I need your help to do it.” 

Alas, poor Nob Thatcher seemed taken aback by this, and he shook his head. “It’s a fight you can’t win.” 

“You only say that because no one has won before.” Fontina smiled from ear to ear. “Just look at what we did here today. We took over our own town hall. So why can’t we do it again? Why not take matters into our own hooves? I’m really passionate about this. The islands should be ours. We’re a city unto ourselves.” 

Several rows back, somepony shouted, “They hired thugs for security! Against us!” 

“Yeah,” somepony else said from all the way in the back. “Wait till you see the promised lunch. I mean, technically it is a lunch. You could call it a lunch. Day old bread made into sandwiches. Some are jam, some are cheese, and some are that disgusting yeasty tarry goo. Blech!” 

“How do you know?” a pony up front asked. 

“I delivered the sandwiches,” was the quick reply. 

From far off to the right, a pony asked, “Do you think the constables will actually come?” 

“Eventually,” somepony replied. “We should probably skedaddle.” 

“But… I don’t wanna go,” an older mare said from somewhere in the middle. “Something finally happened. This is the first town hall in decades where it felt like something was accomplished. Something finally happened and now we have to run from the fuzz. Who do I have to slap with my purse to make something happen?” 

“We’ll gather again.” Fiddle Riddle’s voice was booming. “I’ll make all the arrangements. Find a better venue.” He sniffed and then cringed in disgust. “The library might work. We have a spacious auditorium. But mark my words, I will make arrangements. I’ll print fliers.” 

“I’ll gladly make announcements in the newspaper,” Fontina offered. 

“We should share contact information,” Mister Riddle suggested. 

“We should.” Fontina nodded in agreement. 

“When next we meet, I’ll see too it that we have a proper lunch.” Black Maple’s voice was every bit as loud as Fiddle Riddle’s, but she needed no magical amplification. “We have to do something… the new tax policies are going to wreck our tender assholes and tear us all new ones. Our way of life is on the line.” 

This was Fiddle Riddle’s show, but Nut couldn’t help but feel that he was a part of something bigger. Whatever that something was, it could swallow him up. He could be a part of this, he could get himself involved. Change could go sweeping through his community like an incoming tide, or they could allow this moment to slip away, and nothing would happen. This would just be one of those inspiring moments that fizzled into nothingness, as inspiring moments tended to do.

Though he did not know the outcome, Nut was determined to get involved…