Okay. Y’got a moment to listen to my story? Well, it don’t matter, ’cause I’m tellin’ it to you anyways.
So, here’s the deal: My brother Big Macintosh is eloping! Hopped on a train and just upped and left. That’s all his note said. “I’m getting married, so I’m just upping and leaving.”
Why’s this a problem, you ask? I’ll tell you why—he ain’t ever said anything about a girlfriend! Not to me, not to Apple Bloom, not to Granny Smith—nopony! We’re heartbroken! I don’t know who his special filly is, and nopony I asked knew, either. Not even Cheerilee. All I know is that sometimes, when he goes into town, he hides a letter in his harness.
I followed him once. It was really weird, and I think he might’a noticed me. That’s why I only followed him once. But that’s not important.
What’s important is what he did that day. First, he went into Sugarcube Corner. That was weird, because I’ve never seen Big Macintosh eat sweets and cakes and the like. He absolutely hates the stuff. But, when I saw him walkin’ outta Sugarcube Corner that day, he was carryin’ two boxes of cupcakes on his head and a whole cake on his back. Couldn’t see what was written on them though; Pinkie decided to pop up behind me while I was spyin’ on him from the bushes, and when I looked again, he was gone.
So then I went lookin’ for him. Found him comin’ outta Rarity’s place with a bag. When I asked her about it the next day, she said that he bought some really snooty tux and that his visit was “most peculiar.” Big Macintosh wanted somethin’ fancy. Really fancy, or as she said how he put it, “Fancy enough for Canterlot.” I’m guessin’ that’s where he went.
After that, he went to the post office and mailed his letter along with the sweets. He wrote somethin’ on a slip’a paper and dropped in the mailing package, too. Apparently, he’s been doin’ this a lot, ’cause the mailponies joked about him “finally get’n to be with his special somepony.” Then he went home and told Apple Bloom that he’d been just strollin’ ’round town. For a few hours. And that was the last time he went out like that, a couple’a days ago.
He left in the middle of the night, and I found a buncha letters stuffed under his bed. Lots of big, fancy words and curled l’s and t’s and all that. Kept mentioning how well her “best of the best boutique” was doin’ as if whoever wrote the letter was like Rarity, ’cept more famous—a lot more famous. The letter I found with the most recent date told Big Macintosh to “look fabulous, so I can be seen with you on the streets and nopony will become suspicious.” Guess whoever wrote the letter doesn’t want to be seen with some country bumpkin. The signatures were unreadable—really curly, always messy.
So that’s that. Big Macintosh is gone, and I have no idea where to find him, ’cept he might be in Canterlot. But I’ll find him, even it means combing all’a Equestria.