Chapter 3: Dr. Franklin Makes a House Call
Breakdown
Chapter 3: Dr. Franklin Makes a House Call
Day 11 (Wagnesday, and Halloween), 10 am PDT
Wouldn’t you know it, none of my brony clients turned into ponies overnight. I just have the worst possible luck!
I gave myself a half-day of work, it being Halloween and all. (People dressed up as monsters from the id? Psychologist field day!) I must admit, I barely noticed my only client that day—he probably would have had to threaten suicide from atop my desk for me to have actually paid attention to him. Once my official duties were discharged and I was back home, I dismissed all three of my servants, had a quick lunch in my executive kitchen, and began preparing my Dr. Jekyll impersonation for the children’s party I had been invited to—I was planning to use a colored makeup/stage light filter combination to reproduce Frederick March’s famed live transformation into Mr. Hyde.
I’ve found that of the innumerable adaptations of Robert Louis Stevenson’s immortal story, that no performance so matches the spirit of...
A nondescript white van was parked a few blocks south of the corner of Westwood and Le Conte. Inside were two members of the recently formed People Against Ponies Association. Like most of their brethren, this pair was white, middle-aged, and did not at all look like people devoid of reason or compassion, which is in fact what they were. The two PAPA-ites were busy getting dressed up by following the very specific instructions printed on the seats next to them.
“I have to purposefully use slightly off-colored makeup?” the woman griped to the man. “Really? How desperately do they want to sell this line of bull to that quack?” She used a small plastic squeeze bottle to apply a track of saline solution down one side of her blouse, then used a portable fan to quickly dry it, leaving a dimpled trail in the fabric where the solution had run.
The man meanwhile was using a small mirror to check that the bags under his eyes were clearly visible—his chosen method to produce the effect had been three straight nights on his Xbox. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “It seems like a lot of work just to get a psych to check out our captives. I mean, why not go for one in the organization?”
“This guy must be worth it,” she laughed, taking the mirror to check herself. “I mean, for this much money I’ll pretend to be whoever they want.”
The remaining steps in the checklist were carried out, nearly two dozen in all.
The man added wrinkles to the corner of his shirt before putting a cellphone in it, then nodded to himself. “Well, I think that’s it,” he said. “So recite the story back to me.” He held up his paper and she stared at the van’s window, taking a quick breath as she recalled her lines.
“Our son’s name is Samuel Tinnon,” she began.
A few minutes later, the pair hopped out of the van and onto the sidewalk. As they approached the therapeutic office building, they linked arms and put on matching expressions of well-rehearsed worry.
...and finally there’s the Adam Baldwin train wreck from 1999, which manages to throw in the Triad and human kidney theft, because hey, why not?
Um, I wasn’t boring you or anything with that mini essay, was I?
Anyway, I had gotten my costume just so and was browsing the internet for ponies when I got a call from my faithful Sally. There was a couple that needed me to “save their son”.
If I had a nickel for every time I heard that phrase... I’d bet every dollar I had that they found some marijuana or porn under the boy’s mattress, except for the fact that nobody’s dumb enough to take that particular bet against me.
Sally was apparently unable to work her usual magic to get them to delay their emergency-that-never-really-was-an-emergency for tomorrow. The message she sent to my phone (recorded with the parents listening over her shoulder) suggested that she thought it in my best interests to show up, so I felt I had no choice at that point but to at least see the kid, if only to tell him that he really had nothing to worry about.
Having no chauffeur, I was forced to get the Lexus LX 570 out and drive it myself. I left my Jekyll & Hyde makeup kit on the passenger seat, just in case I’d be forced to go straight from the office to the party.
(% % %)
I parked the Lexus a little before 2 pm.
“Good afternoon, Sally,” I said as I walked out of the elevator and into the empty waiting room.
“Did somebody die?” she asked me with a mischievous smile.
“What?” I asked in confusion.
She pointed at my black Victorian suit.
“It’s Dr. Jekyll,” I said in exasperation.
“You look like a mortician,” she said with a shrug.
I sighed and gestured at the door to my office. “Why didn’t you give them my usual excuse?” I asked.
“Ponies,” she replied. “You said you wanted to experiment on the next—”
I quickly put my hand over her mouth. “Ah, ah,” I warned her gently, “Not where the client can possibly overhear. Besides, I’ve turned over a new leaf with ponies. I’ve thought of a way where I can actually help.”
Sally nodded. “The parents are waiting inside,” she said, pointing. “Just the parents.”
“Just...the parents?” I said. I had expected them to drop off their son and go get a late lunch or something. But having to deal with the parents first: that was just trouble. Every. Single. Time.
I took in a deep breath. “Alright,” I said out loud. “Let’s do this.”
I walked through the door and introduced myself to the middle-aged couple waiting inside. They appeared to be worried out of their minds. For example, although the mother wore quite expensive lipstick and—taking a sniff of the air—hairspray, she had picked out the wrong color makeup to go along with her slightly mismatched ensemble. The man’s breast pocket, where he kept his cellphone, was rather strongly wrinkled, indicating multiple calls both made and received since he got dressed.
Sitting down across from them, I could pick out the man’s sleep-deprived eyes, and the woman’s split ends.
They both stared at me very strangely, like they expected me to bury their son instead of save him.
“Halloween costume,” I said darkly.
“Oh,” the couple said in unison.
The two looked at each other for a moment before deciding who would speak first.
“Our son’s name is Samuel Tinnon,” the woman finally said. “I am Joanna.”
“And I’m Michael Tinnon,” the father said, reaching forward to shake my hand over the table. “We’re so glad you were able to make time for us. We saw you on Buster Friendly last night, and we knew you’d be able to help poor Samuel.”
“Of course,” I said warmly, “anything for a child in need.” Jackpot! “Tell me what happened to your son.”
“Samuel woke up one morning as this...pony, named Rain Shower,” Mrs. Tinnon continued.
I definitely noticed the tone of distaste attached to the word “pony.”
I was expecting a little more detail than that, so I glanced down at the paperwork that Sally had laid out for me.
“Or—” Mr. Tinnon began to say.
“Or something,” Mrs. Tinnon quickly said. “The pony’s name was Rain Shower or something.”
Well. That was odd.
“He says he needs to leave,” Mr. Tinnon said, leaning over the table and forcing me with his eyes to look at him. “That pony says he needs to take our only son away from us.”
“We hear that the ponies are killing their victims!” Mrs. Tinnon added breathlessly.
I gave them a level, emotionless look over the top of my glasses until the father returned to his chair, and I began to consider my response. On the one hand, they almost certainly thought that this pony would physically hurt or kill their son, which was a lie. But on the other hand, what I suspected was actually happening inside Samuel’s head was not far removed from the mother’s words. I decided in the end to neither confirm nor deny Joanna Tinnon’s accusation. “What precisely do you think I’ll be able to do for your son, Mr. and Mrs. Tinnon?” I asked.
“Anything,” the father said, his eyes damp.
“We know what is going on with the...Changes,” his wife said. She was suddenly subdued after her earlier outburst, almost as though she had given up. Just then I noticed what I was fairly sure were tear stains down her shirt. “We just want our Sammy back.”
I needed to know how far gone Samuel was, how close he was to losing himself. “Have you noticed him saying anything out of character? Does he ever treat you like you are strangers, or suddenly reject something that he has always liked? Err...other than meat. I understand there’s a physiological reaction to that.”
For a moment they hesitated, looking to each other as though unsure of what they should say, before Mr. Tinnon nodded. “He did...start talking about friends that he never had. Names we don’t know, as though he needed to go and find them.”
I couldn’t be sure if that was significant or not. Sadly, boys of that age frequently kept large parts of their lives from their parents. I suspected I would not get anything else of use from them. “Well, I’ll see him,” I told them somberly, “but I really can’t promise anything. This is a brand new field of therapy, as I think you can appreciate. I would like to talk to him, and then we can see what might be possible. Where is he now?”
The man looked down at the ground, as though in shame. “We live on a large ranch outside of the city. He kept trying to...leave us, to run away, so we have resorted to keeping him safe in his bedroom. Some others we know whose children have changed are considering bringing them to our place for safekeeping.” He looked back up with a steely determination in his eyes. “We can’t let the rest of them get to our children.”
Warning bells started ringing in my head. It wasn’t that they were doing anything wrong just yet, but the law could see this as restraint, and adding in the other children looked dangerously like a cult. I not only needed to get in there, I needed to do it fast. “How about I follow you out there? Meet me down at the parking garage, while I get the paperwork straightened out.”
“That sounds wonderful. Thank you, Dr. Franklin.” Joanna said, springing up to shake my hand.
I showed them to the elevator, and waited until it closed before heading back to my secretary. “This might get a little dicey,” I told her. “Call Officer Wiggum if I don’t call you back in two hours. I’ll have the tracer app activated on the iPad.”
Once again, I didn’t actually know that anything was wrong. I was simply too suspicious for my own good. Sally confirmed this self-diagnosis with an eye-roll.
(% % %)
Nearly an hour later, our two vehicles pulled up at the entrance of the Tinnon family ranch. With a bad feeling in my gut (but no evidence to back it up), I followed them inside.
I’ve heard about places like this being used to hide meth labs, but this complex looked well run, with fresh coats of paint on everything and good strong buildings. It was easy to pick out the main house, barn, livestock barn, and fields. The smell of manure made it abundantly clear that the main business of this family-run operation was cattle.
The plain white van pulled into a garage, and the couple got out to greet me.
Small talk was good at a time like this. “Do you run this whole operation yourself?” I asked.
Michael Tinnon looked out over the fields visible behind the relatively modest two story farm house. “I’ve got a couple of ranch hands I supervise,” he said with a far-off look.
“Must be rather hands on,” I said with a nod, having absolutely no idea what I was talking about.
“Yes,” Joanna Tinnon confirmed. “Michael does all the planning, while I handle the bills and plan our family activities—we simply do everything together. Or...we used to. Ah, shall we go inside?”
“After you,” I said simply, following them into the house’s foyer. Speaking of bills, there was a cubby hole just inside the front door stuffed just full of them.
“I hope that you don’t need any special accommodations,” Mr. Tinnon said with a small smile as he led me into the living room of their home, passing the stairs leading up to the second floor along the way. The foyer continued on for a dozen feet before ending at a breakfast nook. “We aren’t a lab by any stretch of the imagination,” he told me with a uneven smile.
Well, I thought to myself, thank you so much for raising my suspicions all over again.
On the other hand, the inside of the air conditioned house didn’t smell anything like drugs or drug precursors—believe me, with my list of clients, I have gained an unfortunate familiarity with both. I gratefully took in two lungs worth of air not laced with anything suspicious. Or cow poop. I was very grateful to no longer be taking in the smell of cow poop.
Looking around, I saw that the blinds of the living room were drawn. Front and center in the room was a large recliner, and facing it was a wide-screen TV hooked up to an Xbox. There were couches set far enough back for TV watching, or for cheering on the game player in the recliner. Along one wall was a cheap bookcase full of well-read paperback romance novels—even from this distance I could use the distinctive shade of purple on the spines to identify them as Harlequins. There didn’t seem to be any other kinds of books on the shelf, so far as I could tell.
There were of course other things I was supposed to be looking for, required of anyone in my profession on first entering the home of a minor, and I was gratified not to see them: no broken furniture, no signs of shattered pottery swept under the rug, no suspicious rust-colored stains in the carpet...
The wife began to get nervous at my quiet scrutiny of the room. “Well,” she said quietly, “he is up in his room. We could show him to you.”
“He might see that as an invasion of privacy,” I said, crossing the living room to reach the kitchen nook. The bay windows were designed to look out over the ranch, but just as with the living room, the blinds were drawn. I sat down in the nearest chair. I hoped in this way to make it clear that I was not going upstairs. My own childhood and the experiences of dozens of boys Samuel’s age made one thing very clear: never violate a teenage boy’s sanctum sanctorum. “Can he move around on his own yet?” I asked.
“Yeah. He actually was starting to learn how to fly when we found out about the whole brain thing. That’s part of why we have been keeping him here, don’t want him flying off.” Mike said this with a tone of frustration, seemingly scared of the newly turned pony leaving. My response was merely to look at the means by which a winged pony could possibly escape from this place: as long as the door leading out from the nook to a patio was closed, he really didn’t stand a chance.
As I waited for the meaning behind my look to sink in, I took the time to survey the kitchen. While the rest of the house thus far had been painted the standard eggshell white, the walls of the kitchen and nook were a nice soft yellow. An island split off the nook from the kitchen, obscuring my view of the dishwasher and oven. There was a microwave with a pile of unused paper plates right next to the double door refrigerator, one of those kinds that had an ice and water dispenser in one of the doors.
“I’ll get him and bring him down,” the father finally offered, turning and making his way up the stairs.
A few moments later, the soft clop of hooves on a wooden floor could be heard, making their way to the stairs, and soon into the bottom floor of the house.
I sat quietly, leaning back in the chair but not slouching. I had already positioned the chair so that I could see the lower half of the staircase, but neither was the chair directly lined up with the end of the foyer. Above all, I wanted to avoid all signs of a confrontation—I would give the young man a significant degree of control over our first meeting, to keep him from thinking me his enemy.
The pony when he stopped at the bottom of the stairs stood about three feet high when his head was held up, but at the moment he stood much shorter, the head hung low to the ground, and his ears flattened back. He was a stallion, going by the facial structure, but not an especially powerfully built one. His coat was a dark blue color, but his mane was a wild spray of different cyan tones. He was standing maybe twenty feet away, staring at me. His mother stood by the front door, his father behind him. They were covering his best means of escape.
“Your parents asked me to help you out with your transition,” I said calmly. I then looked at the father. “I’d like to speak with him alone.” I left no room for compromise in my tone. “I feel that we will be able to work better if he doesn’t have to worry about your feelings in addition to mine.” I then looked back at the stallion. “If that is alright with you?” I asked.
All three parties seemed momentarily surprised, before the two parents nodded, walked past me and headed out onto the patio. “Good...good luck son,” Mr. Tinnon said with a hopeful smile, before they were both gone. The pony stared after them for a few seconds.
The stallion sat down at the base of the stairs, watching me carefully. It was clear now that he was a pegasus, with a decent pair of wings of the same color as his coat. They were clamped tight against his barrel. (Like everybody else nowadays, I had committed that Sunday Times foldout of general pony anatomy to memory.)
“Are you a mort—” he began to say.
“It’s a costume,” I quickly interrupted. “I’m a psychologist, and my name is Dr. Franklin. What would you like me to call you?” I made no move from my chair.
“Benjamin,” he said quietly but firmly, giving me Samuel Tinnon’s middle name. “No one ever wants to talk to Rain anyway, so he is moping.” By the voice, he sounded somewhat older than his fourteen years. The way I understood it, the voice belonged to the pony. That meant that on top of changing species, an awkward teenage boy also now had to deal with a young adult as a permanent roommate, complete with all of the mental hang-ups unique to that particular age group.
I actually considered this a good thing; it decreased the chances that Benjamin would want to merge with Rain.
“Very well, Benjamin,” I said with a slight smile, which disappeared in an instant before I asked my next question. “Are they hurting you in any way?” Best to get this out of the way first thing.
He actually snorted, almost a laugh. “They’re scared of me. Think I’m a freak. They won’t let me fly, and Rain says that’s bad for a pegasus, but it’s not like I’m a freaking athlete. But they aren’t hurting me, not really.” He said it with a tone of frustration and anger, as though being hurt would make the situation simpler.
Of course, there were more forms of abuse than merely physical, and this was shaping up to be far from an ideal nurturing setting for a boy his age. “Well, I’m going to get myself a glass of water,” I said, getting up with my back to Benjamin and walking over to the cupboard. “Do you want me to get you anything?”
“I don’t think that they have any apples, even though I’ve been asking for them. All they have for me is hay or lettuce. I guess having a rancher for a dad makes meat a lifestyle,” he grumbled.
“You’re not missing much,” I said as I opened the dishwasher in hopes of getting a clean glass—no such luck, as the machine was empty. I opened a random cupboard and was rewarded with a cup, one of only four on the shelf. I noticed that the sink was empty, while the nearby garbage bin was full of used paper plates and takeout containers.
I started to fill the cup with ice and water from the refrigerator. “All the apples this time of year are imported from Washington,” I said over my shoulder, “mealy little buggers. Kind of silly, really, considering that there are commercial orchards much closer. I went up to Apple Hill outside Sacramento a couple years ago as a side trip from a conference—best apples you ever tasted. Outside of Equestria, I’d imagine.”
“In Equestria, they’ve got apples that have lightning in them. Taste like happiness,” the boy mumbled, barely audible.
“That’s what Rain told you?” I asked, my back to him. At the moment, I didn’t think I could keep from giving away my apprehension.
“He showed me!” Benjamin said quickly, before uttering a small “Eep!” Like he had said something he wasn’t supposed to.
Oh dear. That bad. I turned around, though, and returned to my chair as if the statement meant nothing. “Um-hm,” I said through a sip of water. It gave me some time to think.
I wasn’t going to be able to turn him back into a human, obviously. He had a pony mind inside of him, one capable of visual communication. Well, unless we were dealing with a complete schizophrenic fugue state, that left dreaming.
“Rain didn’t do anything wrong,” he whispered, suddenly angry again.
“I never said he did,” I answered, my eyes narrowing slightly. “That is his body, after all. He has as much right to it as you do.” Which was precisely the problem.
“He could take over if he wanted to. Kick them all until he could run away, but he didn’t. He won’t, I promise! ‘Cuz I told him not to,” he continued, unabated.
I steepled my fingers and looked carefully at him. “Putting aside the way you are being treated, what does he want?” I asked.
“To see his marefriend again,” he mumbled, blushing ever so slightly. Just then, the one hour forty five minute alarm beeped a single time from my phone.
“Excuse me a second while I take care of this,” I said with a smile, as I removed my cellphone from an inner pocket of my frock coat. I dialed up Sally’s number. “Hi, Sally, it’s me,” I said quickly, not giving her a chance to say anything. “Could you let Miss Minchin know that I might need to call her later this afternoon. Emphasis on might.”
Miss Minchin was my contact at Child Protective Services. I was covering my bases, but my gut was telling me that she’d need to get involved in this case, soon. Mr. and Mrs. Tinnon were lousy parents, that much was clear, and probably not even very good ranchers. Also, most everything they had told me was full of holes.
The lounge made it clear that only one member of the family played games instead of all three together. They had their own source of food right outside their back door, but instead ordered takeout. Several of their lines to me were just that—lines, prepared beforehand. They were either card-carrying members of PAPA, or had very persuasive neighbors who were. The only literature I spotted were romance novels, not reference books on animal husbandry. And most damning of all, they smelled far too good to have anything to do with a ranch, especially if worry had made them as careless as they were doubtlessly trying to make me believe. It wasn’t drugs, and it wasn’t livestock, but something that smelled was happening here at this ranch.
But despite all that, I didn’t have proof. Anything I did to separate this boy from his parents at this point would not only fail, but would also guarantee that I’d never get a second chance.
“I think that will be all,” I said to Sally with a heavy heart. “You can stop your worrying. See you later.” I put my phone away and looked back at Benjamin, who hadn’t moved the whole time.
“Well!” I said with a chuckle as I turned back to the pony. “A marefriend! That is a bit of a complication. Does he know for sure that she’s here on Earth? I mean, regardless of what I can do for you, at least I could see if I could find this mare. For all you know, she could live at the next ranch over.”
Immediately, the pony in front of me changed. He was no longer slouching, but sitting with a straight back, staring me down as a man would to another man he is trying to judge the character of. His eyes were the most striking, as they became sharp and hostile.
“Her name is Cerulean Sunrise, and why exactly would you help me find her, when all of the adult humans I have met since coming here seem determined to find a way to get rid of me, regardless of the cost or my actions?” the pony I could only assume was Rain demanded.
Ah, here we go. I wasn’t expecting to get to him until our second session. “I assume you’ve only met the two parents thus far,” —I was going to say “Mr. Shower”, but then remembered that whole mess with one of my more fanatical brony clients about whether Twilight Sparkle’s family name was Twilight or Sparkle—“Rain Shower. I am a public servant on this case, and I’m paid for my impartiality. It’s my job to provide help to anyone in need. The way I see it, the sooner the two of you get what you want, the sooner everything goes back to normal.”
“It’s Rain Shimmer, for the record. Those babysitters sure didn’t seem to take note.” He grumbled.
“Babysitters?” I asked. Idiot. I’m a complete idiot. I jumped up and walked over to the cubby hole next to the door and started flipping through the bills. “What’s Benjamin’s last name?” I asked over my shoulder.
“It’s Tinnon,” he says, the slouch coming back as the boy regains control. “Why?”
“But I thought...” I slump over as the bills do indeed confirm that the two people waiting outside are the ones paying the homeowner’s insurance. Bah, just when I thought I’d get to bust the case wide open. I look down at an unopened envelope containing Michael Tinnon’s renewed driver’s license. “Never mind,” I said in defeat.
“It’s not that common of a name,” Benjamin reminisced. “My daddy told me that it was Irish, that’s where we get our red hair.” He smiled at me in a friendly fashion, as I could see one of the black haired couple waiting outside suddenly turn towards the house, an earpiece visible on the side of her head, a look of frustration and anger on her face. The suddenly torn-open envelope in my hands revealed the face of Michael Tinnon, a man I had never seen before.
“Field trip!” I cried out, jumping for the front door. As soon as I wrenched it open, I turned back to Benjamin and held out my hand. “Come with me if you want to live!”
God, how I’ve been wanting to use that phrase.
But when I turned back to leave, it wasn’t a 140-pound woman or her imposter husband standing in my way. It was the most curious creature I had ever seen, and unfortunately I knew its name.
“Discord.”
“I believe we have a business arrangement,” he purred.
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Mmm yes. I'm loving it already.
From da blog
Just had to prove yourself wrong, didn't you?
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PEER PRESSURE
That cover pic is from a 1997 video game developed by Westwood Studios: Blade Runner. Joe Turkel voiced Eldon Tyrell.
This is very, very good.
Please lay him down on, or perhaps under your couch and attempt to psychoanalyze him.
Huh. I've been meaning to look into this continuity, and this is certainly an engaging start. Definitely looking forward to more, especially the professional take on an avatar of chaos and insanity.
This protagonist is really entertaining. Great new story, McPoodle!
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Thank you all so much for the words of encouragement!
I'm going to say right up front that my only actual experience of psychiatry comes from the way they are (mis-)characterized in the movies, plus stuff I look up on Wikipedia. I am well aware that some of you reading this are much better informed on the subject than I. So, if I ever manage to make Dr. Franklin act so out of line that it breaks your suspension of belief, feel free to correct me, either in the comments or via PM.
You know, I never could get into ponyearthverse stories. Mainly because of the 'merging' part. (which to me is akin to a personality death and that is one of my pet hates in transformation stories).
But a story from an outsider perspective, who seems to experience similar horror realization? I could totally get behind.
Warning: this comment is pure hype and not indicative of the true quality of the story
////////
>Sees description
"hmm, this looks like it could make a really cool and interesting story"
>clicks link
>sees author
"well, looks like this WILL be a really cool and interesting story"
If this is anything like your best of all worlds story it is going to be amazing, and I do love that it's a bit critical of "brony self insert" culture.
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Holy god, I SO am going to need your character. He opens so many possibilities for Glasny's situation, and I've got SO many holes to poke in his observation and reasoning too.
I am confused right now, but don't worry it's good kind of confusion, the kind that makes me want to find out more.
An'ya Kuro!
Ship just got real.
Oh lookie, a rabbit hole! I wonder how deep it goes!
This is the point where I tweaked this chapter to make Dr. Franklin a psychologist instead of a psychiatrist.
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Oh good! Somebody noticed. For awhile there, I thought none of my readers minded what Dr. Franklin did in that scene.
I'm really not sure what to think of this story so far. Not in terms of quality, I mean. It is by all measures excellent. But I can't tell what tone it's going for. Conceptually, this whole personality merging thing that the Ponyearthverse apparently does with every story as a rule freaks me out, and I feel a lot of affinity with the psychologist for recognising this for the horror that it is.
However, I'm not sure that I'm supposed to, and the style of writing is a lot like BoAPW, in that it seems lighthearted and full of low key humour. Talking about the looming threat of Discord and all the newsfeeds and focus on global events though, it makes it seem a lot heavier than that, like an actual real world crisis would be, and it helps that you've really taken steps to make it seem like the real world, weird calender dates aside.
And I like how subtly critical it is of self-insert or OC culture and a lot of the other aspects it's playing with here. (I'm going to take a wild guess and say that most Ponyearthverse stories probably use some of these tropes unironically, what with it being a universe full of bronies living out this fantasy scenario.) Yet it also seems very immersed in this universe, what with the frequent references to other stories, and the fact that the villains here (PAPA) seem like they were probably the villains of other stories in this verse as well, and it makes me wonder what the tone we're going for here is.
Is it a subtle parody of an overblown phenomenon of wish fulfilment stories that plays the concept straight instead of as a fantasy, thereby exposing all these implications that the actual authors never thought of and creating something a little more macabre than this universe was intended to be, (a bit like how Conversion Bureau's premise would later give rise to a strain of fics that interpreted the conversions as genocide)? Or is this fully within the spirit of the universe, one of many stories in the continuity that examine this uniquely terrifying idea, and am I just being prejudiced by assuming the former because of the associations with the usual tropes of brony-in-Equestria and self insert fanfiction? Or, hell, am I getting this entirely wrong and seeing all this symbolism and critique and crap when it's not really there, and I'm just being an idiot for reading too much into a story about a funny psychologist talking to pony-men?
What I'm saying is, I don't get your motivation, Poodle.
DA FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!
2920077 What evil lurks in the hearts of men? The cardiologist knows!
le yuri 4 the unenlightened poodles
pics.mobygames.com/images/covers/large/1179606067-00.jpg
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Hmm...how best to phrase this?
I mentioned in one of my earliest blog entries that I played out all of my desire to tell serious fanfiction in the last fandom I was a part of. In the world of My Little Pony, I consider myself a tourist, and everything I write is for my own amusement first and foremost.
Well, PonyEarthverse is a vacation inside a vacation for me. I'm walking around in this world, and putting down my opinions for you to read. But do not forget that this is a collaborative setting. So perhaps it would be better to consider me a leashed dog on vacation. I do not mind the restrictions; rather, I embrace them--the Road Runner cartoons are as good as they are precisely because of the restrictions Chuck Jones and Michael Maltese put on themselves, after all, and I can never get tired of Tom & Jerry cartoons (except for the ones made by Chuck Jones, ironically enough).
That's the other wonderful thing about writing in a shared setting: You and I may both have a good idea where the common narrative is going to end up, but your guess is as good as mine how we are going to get there.
But the walk to get there is going to be fun. That's the one thing I definitely can control.
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That's as good an answer as any, I suppose.
I'll be following this story's progress intently.
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Also, it isn't exactly wish fufillment. Almost nobody starts out knowing that the other pony is there. When they become aware of it, there is usually a serious freakout. Dash, Twilight, Pinkie, and Rarity's companions all spazzed when they realized what was happening; Applejack's counterpart probably didn't spazz about it because she was already spazzing about being BURIED ALIVE; and Fluttershy's counterpart didn't actually talk to Shy cause they were both so shy until they fused.