//------------------------------// // Entry Forty-Four // Story: Diary of an Aspiring Tyrant // by SugarPesticide //------------------------------// October 31, 1000 ANM The question of Nightmare Night — tonight — even now remains a question. I have mulled over what to do, both actively and otherwise, but it appears that the matter cannot be solved by means of ripening in the mind like cheese. My usual wit has deserted me, and I know not how the problem can be solved. Well. That is not entirely true. But I still retain a measure of pride, so I shall not go crawling to Sister Dearest to seek an answer. She means well, but on each occasion that Nightmare Night is brought up, the vilification of my alter ego is brought to the surface like a pachyderm suddenly stepping from the shadows. No, I must solve this matter on my own. Perhaps a brief log of the unexciting life I have lived these last few days will jog my thoughts to fruition. This morning I visited Micah Jayfill and her minions, who were engaged in their usual foalishness. Specifically, they were in the midst of a heated discussion involving the relative merits of enormous monsters and their roles in film. I was naturally infuriated at how they casually treated such threats to Equestria as mere obstacles to be overcome, so I perused the library for such a film to make them rethink their words. Eventually I found one film involving an unusually gifted turtle, but the foals seemed hardly fazed by it. Indeed, when it had ended they were swift to launch into a ditty about said turtle. I was forced to storm off, but it was in vain, for the song had already wormed its way into the folds of my brain. “... ‘really neat,’” I mimicked as I made my way to my noontime meal. “Is that truly the highest praise they can bestow on a monster a thousand times their size? Perhaps it is the calm that has lulled this land, having also dulled their memories of times of terror. And, of course, the claim that the monster is ‘full of meat’ negates any positive connotations the former phrase might have. Truly this is preposterous.” “Auntie Luna,” Mi Amore Cadenza said as I entered the dining room, “is something wrong?” “Ah, my niece,” I said, flipping my mane from one shoulder to the other with a toss of my head. (I should note that my mane is a thing of the utmost beauty, as it should be. Sister Dearest’s mere aurora cannot hold a candle to the constellations I bear.) “So long as my plans are thwarted at every turn and my schedule is shrouded in mystery, I cannot in truth claim that nothing is wrong.” “Okay.” We ate our sandwiches in silence. If you future readers are so deluded as to believe that sandwiches are exclusively common fare, then you have clearly never sampled the noble creations of Chef Panini, an esteemed member of the Sandwich family. “The Grand Galloping Gala is coming up soon,” she said after a virtual eon of awkward silence. “Are you planning on going? It’s a little stuffy after a thousand years, but it would be good to connect with everypony after all that time.” “Excellent,” I said dully. “More events to add to my schedule. I will consider the situation, but I will make no guarantees. Rest assured, the issue of tonight is a more immediate concern.” She stared. “You still don’t know what you’re going to do?” “Such is the truth. But never fear … never love. I am certain to arrive at a solution by the by!” Unfortunately, she saw directly through that lie. Fortunately, she elected not to press the issue further. I must admit she can be tolerable at times. Since then, I have been partaking in games of chess with Blueblood. Currently, as evening draws on, I am part of is the sixty-seventh game of the day as I write this, waiting for my silly son to make his move. He was rather tentative to accept my challenge, though I cannot fathom why. I have resolutely lost every single match. “Mother,” he is saying at present, “you have to stop writing in that diary and focus on the pieces. How are you going to win if you don’t even keep track of how many pawns you’ve lost?” “Fret not,” is my reply. “Such is not my goal. Winning is the pastime of amateurs.” Something to be noted is Blueblood’s hatred for beets. In a strange irony, he now strongly resembles one. Perhaps he has a point, though. I should pay more attention to the pieces, as it behooves me to remember strategies that bring about particularly spectacular losses. At present, I have three pawns positioned along the close edge of the board; the other squares in that row are occupied by five of Blueblood’s queens. On the right, his other four queens prowl around my surviving bishop. In the far left corner my king is flanked by my son’s knights, waiting patiently for capture. Removed from all action is his king, which watches indolently from his lofty position. “Ha!” I exclaim. “I am as good as dead at this juncture!” “At least you’re able to tell that’s the case,” he manages to say. A strand of his mane has popped out of place, but he seems unconcerned with this slip in appearances. “These wins I’ve been having are quite frankly ridiculous. I doubt anypony could possibly top the one from three matches ago.” “Now Blueblood,” I chide, coaxing one of my pawns into the light, “you should not blame yourself. How were you to know that I was skilled enough to maneuver you into ending the game with more pieces than you started with?” With obvious reluctance, he captures the pawn. “You’ll forgive me if I refuse to speak on the matter.” It is indeed amusing to watch him grow increasingly flustered. Not that I condone the concept of him suffering, of course, for who would? The meat of matter is simply that he is terrible at losing against me. Perhaps I should direct him to Twilight Sparkle for guidance. She seems the sort who is a veritable master of watching a foe’s every move. Wait a moment, I believe I … Ha! Ha ha ha! I have it! I apologize for my unforeseen silence, but I at last have it! An idea of what to do for Nightmare Night, and with an entire half hour to spare! It seems I have flipped the board in my glee. No matter. I shall simply ignore the fact that it is technically not a loss on my part, for I have better things to mind. Blueblood will receive a sufficient apology later. Now I race across the gardens, collecting dozens of bats for my plan. For I do have a plan, oh yes! I would feel a slight measure of shame at the idea not having occurred to me sooner, but the past is in the past. Sister Dearest is asking what I am doing with all these bats. I have just informed her of my scheme, and now she is stammering something about making the right impression. What nonsense! I know perfectly well that all shall love me for my grand entrance on a night named after me. I shall even be casual with those I meet, so as to coerce them into letting down their guard. I will put this diary away soon, and then make haste for my lovely chariot Moonbeam. For tonight is the night that I once again connect with the common pony! Verily, tonight I away to Ponyville, and at last face Twilight Sparkle and her minions, gauging their weak points and determining how best to circumvent them on my quest for tyranny. Truly I am flawless at my strategies. I foresee everything going splendidly!