They spoiled my fun. They always do. But up ‘til then it was such fun.
You mustn’t think I was bored. Friendship and domesticity are so novel—relatively speaking—and Fluttershy’s little animal friends always have the most interesting stories to tell. You’d think the predators’ would be juiciest but no, the herbivores usually have them beat. At least as far as the stories I like are concerned.
(And despite received wisdom snakes are a total loss: you dine out once a week and then sleep for five days—really, where’s the conversation in that?)
But chores and teas and garden parties can only go so far with someone in the prime of life. A fellow has needs. I’m sure you understand.
So I decided, you know, to have my fun. Discreetly of course. What Fluttershy didn’t know couldn’t hurt. Not that I was unfaithful: I kept my vows to the letter. No harming others, no playing with chaos, obey the rules and serve the good of the community.
Shall I tell you what I did?
I’d arrive in some city or town in the form of a middle-aged stallion, a stranger, well and soberly dressed. And I’d pick one random pony on the street, go right up to them and say, in an intimate tone and with utter seriousness:
“They know.”
Then I’d turn and walk away. That was it. And can you imagine? I mean, the effect of just those words, uttered in just that fashion --well, it was nothing short of magical!
Most would go straight home, and after a few sleepless nights they’d confess the most astounding anthologies of sins to their spouses, their friends or the authorities (What? Oh I have my ways of knowing, never fear). Most times it was about mares or money, but others—really, the charades you mortals get up to never cease to enthrall me.
Often there’d be tears and forgiveness. You’ve got to expect a few damp squibs. But oftener it was divorce court, civil suit, criminal charges—I was a force for justice, you see. And if justice left chaos in its wake, why, how could I be blamed for that? It was the Law that did it, and who has less to do with Law than I?
There was one fellow—I’ll never forget—who reared, actually whinnied and reared right there in the street and bolted. He didn’t go home. He made straight for the freightyard and hopped an express. Last I saw of him he was shivering in a shack in Appaloosa, hollowed out with guilt and homesickness. And his wife and foals forever wondering why daddy never came home …
…and do you know, I never learned what it was all about.
Of course I wasn’t always so successful. Mares tended to roll their eyes and walk away. A few called for the police. And a surprising number would say “so what?” or words to that effect. Either they were bluffing or they knew I was. Foals were the worst: they’d just stand there, blinking up at me stupidly. A few would condescend to tell me I was we-ird. So I gave up with them early on. Little sociopaths.
(And yes, I abhor sociopaths: to the music of mischief they are utterly tone-deaf. I mean how can you appreciate it if you can’t tell evil from good?)
But the stallions gave me good sport. Why, I wonder? I suppose it’s because they have more freedom than mares—not being the ones to bear and nurse foals—and freedom of course is freedom to misbehave. But that being the case why don’t you, you know, make allowances? Raise a few barriers here, lower some expectations there, and so much misery could be averted. You could do it. You know you could do it. Yet you don’t.
You’re such fascinating creatures. I could study you ‘til the Sun burns out. Probably will, at that.
Anyway it was all too good to last. I was sitting on a hill one day, gazing down at the Ponyville School—I’ve taken an interest in education ever since some students gave their teacher a date-rape drug for Hearts and Hooves Day—and up comes Twilight Sparkle. That never-to-be-sufficiently-damned Princess Twilight Sparkle, prancing along like a little filly who wants you to know she’s got something you don’t, like an ice cream cone.
And she looks up at me with a smile all cold and full of artificial sweetness, and says:
“They know.”
And off she goes.
Well I’m no rube: I went home in my own good time and acted like nothing was amiss. And Fluttershy seemed none the wiser so she’s not one of the “they” who know. At least I think so. Celestia and Luna? But I’m not on the Moon, or stuck up as a piddling fountain in the Canterlot gardens—at least not yet. I don’t know, I don’t know…
What I do know is that the jig is up and I’ll have to find a new way to amuse myself. I suppose I will, eventually. Until then I’ll have to settle for corrupting Fluttershy with games of chance…
…Pardon me—it’s my turn to “go fish.”