The Bad Apple Chronicles

by Gabriel LaVedier

I, Bad Apple

Out in the smaller communities of Equestria, it was easy to get lost. Not in a simple sense of being removed from an intended course, but more fundamentally; to simply drop off the map and vanish into their quaintly charming anonymity. Such things tended to make city ponies nervous, and even made some country folk hesitant. But some ponies liked it that way. Vanishing for a bit was a good way to relax and let life get slow and calm.

Bad Apple treasured such opportunities. He always needed a chance to vanish for a while, letting things cool off before venturing forth once more to take on whatever was out there. This time, he wanted a bit of time to answer a letter he had been neglecting. So, after pretending he was an expert at water systems, and after faking his way through a few dumb-luck fixes, he had actually managed a decent repair of the town water system, and earned himself a place to stay and implements for writing. His needs taken care of, he set to work with pen and paper, jauntily writing down his letter.

Dear Miss Rainbow Dash,

It is always a pleasure to receive a letter from my niece, even if it was written for somepony else. It always means I’m somewhere with decent food and a soft bed available for myself, even if I have to occasionally stop and remember which name I’m using. That usually resolves itself; somepony will say my name sooner or later. I have a signature look, after all. You’d think I’d be less successful with that, but no, even looking like this I can still get by. I guess it helps that I only leave an impression when I want it. No sense in making sure ponies remember me when I don’t need them to. Or don’t want them to.

So, my niece tells me that, while you’ve picked up bits and pieces of my story, you want the whole truth. You know, I don’t think even she knows everything. Maybe she has the broad strokes of the early days, but nothing detailed and concrete. I certainly haven’t been forthcoming about that, but for very personal reasons. You can share selected parts of this letter with her, if you can find time in your busy schedule of… carnival trips, concerts, listening to the radio in bed, watching the moonrise. Whatever it is young mares do these days when they’re serious about one another.

So, I’ll start at the beginning. Maybe you know this. Maybe not. You’re from Cloudsdale, and pegasi are somewhat ill-informed about ground-based matters. Before any of us, there was just my pappy, Adam Apple. A farmer, naturally. He inherited a little one-story shack and a lotta land of brambles and rocks. He pulled out an existence with a few trees fed by a twisty stream and clear land, but mostly, he grew rocks and weeds. To his benefit, actually.

Everypony knows that Earth ponies grow such big harvests so often because their land is fed by the natural flow of mana. I’m sure your friend the unicorn can explain it better. But Earth ponies have a strong connection to the land and can influence that. Plus, some areas have more than others. Pappy’s fields had been fallow so long no one ever realized. That was why they grew rocks and weeds so well. Heck, he well could have been a rock farmer, but I suspect that kind of story will come from that pink one.

Pappy Adam, he was a sturdy stallion. Imagine Big Macintosh, but bigger. Yea, that was pappy. Bay, flaming red mane and tail. If you wanna know, I got momma’s mane and tail. The caramel was just a lightening of pappy’s color. Anyway, pappy could work hard, and he did. He cleared those fields, turned the soil and planted apple trees. He also opened the stream up, fed his land a little better.

Now, with the trees growing their woody little hearts out, pappy had a new problem. He was making bits hoof over frog, but he was working himself to the bone to tend to all of his trees, never mind the harvest and selling. I would imagine, even with his skill and stamina, it was very like when my niece convinced herself she could tend to all of Sweet Apple Acres on her own.

His solution was investors. Or employees, I suppose. It was a little bit of both. Like some version of the system they came up with in Stalliongrad. Ponies paid to own a portion of the orchard, and then got the right to sell the apples, with a percentage of that coming back to him. He got them coming and going. I really admire pappy for many things, and that was one of them. So with that going on, he became the richest stallion in Pericarp County.

Richest, and most eligible, I should say. If the stories are true, every mare wanted a chance with him, but were put off by his wealth and bearing. The only one with the nerve to try was momma, Eugenia Smith. She was the daughter of one of his investors, Stony Smith. An odd mix, to say the least. You’ve seen her. Can you imagine her with a Bigger Macintosh? But back then she wasn’t as dried up and worn out. Somehow they made it work. Made it work enough to get hitched very quickly. I don’t intend to speculate, but maybe, just maybe, I was on the way. I haven’t done the figuring, but it’s possible.

I was born a respectable period of time after the union was sealed, with no cheeky wags daring to comment on the specific amount of time. And, since momma and pappy were rich, I was born in the nearest hospital. Back then, in that place, that was a luxury. Most of the time there was just the midwife in the kitchen. Momma loved being able to throw her snout in the air and say she had that luxury.

I was born with sticky frogs, as they say. And I was born with a quick bearing to me. I was coordinated and together right after I got dried off and given to momma. She’s ashamed to admit it, but the first thing I did was pick the nurse’s pouch. Got her bits and a watch. Momma used to tell me all the time exactly what she said to me when she found out what I had done. “Someone’s a bad li’l Apple. That name’ll stick less’n you straighten up.”

“Bad li’l Apple.” Nothing more perfectly sums up my early days than that. I had a natural inclination to mischief. And with the ignorance of youth, I couldn’t distinguish good notions from bad ones. Didn’t matter much at the time. All I did was nick little things; not that it’s an excuse. I suppose I was something of a little terror, as far as hiding things went. We had a lot of space to hide it.

As you might guess, pappy had redone the original house, with some direction from momma. It was an embarrassingly big country manor, with wings and parlors and two dance floors, one inside, one outside. There was a lot of room for trouble, and I used it all.

Momma relied on nannies to care for me; she worked hard to build up our land and entertain the neighbors. Or just dazzle them, really. I’m fairly certain that was what was behind her entertaining. Just the chance to see them awed. But even then, she could see how naturally I got up to mischief. Even pregnant with my brother Blenheim, she kept on trying to keep me in check. I admit, Blenny got a lot of love. And I got a lot of apple switches from momma. Still didn’t help any.

According to momma’s thinking, things were supposed to get better with time, and more switches. And then there came my sister Valencia and my sister Apple Brown Betty. You can well imagine, momma had children as often as she could, as fast as she could, because that was how it was done. And we had the money for it.

But I didn’t get better. If anything, I got worse. Because during that time, I learned how to talk. And if there’s one thing worse than a sneaky, crafty pickpouch, it’s one that can talk. I got pretty good at letting my words slip around like oil, slithering my intentions though flattery and manipulation. I could get any of the family servants to do anything I wanted. Momma finally figured it all out, and she was not pleased at all. Her solution was novel, and probably might have worked. On anypony else.

“Bramley… you do have yer ways t’drive yer momma to distraction! And ah ain’t gonna have that forever. Ah’ve tried t’train you up in the ways of our beloved Princess Celestia. But it seems ah’ve gotta keep yet little hooves busy so’s ah kin get to th’ important task of raisin mah other foals and keeping’ this farmland runnin’ smooth.” That was her speech. I actually remember it. It fronted one of the most important things to ever happen in my life. It was what really made me who I am. I remember where we were, too. The southern drawing room, with the lace-topped table and elegant apple wood furnishings. She put down a pack of cards in front of me. And then said one more thing. Ahhh, fate. “This’ll keep you outta trouble. I’ll whup yer hide so bad you ain’t gonna want t’see trouble agin. Y’all’ll learn all ‘bout losin’. And it’ll jes keep happenin’.”

Then she dealt out the cards and didn’t tell me anything. I had no idea what I was doing. She had to lead me by the hoof through every play and card combination. Thing is, I remembered everything. She was so certain I was just going to forget everything. I was so ridiculously inexperienced that she trounced me good. Now, I didn’t know she was a poker ace. She was always trouncing on somepony or another. I was just the latest one.

During that game, I also had a little feeling. It was like I could feel something from in the deck. And it always got stronger when there was a seven at the top of the deck, or in my hoof. And even a little something when there was one in momma’s hoof. Don’t tell momma. Or, anypony else, really. Tell AJ about it all you want. She ought to know. I don’t know how it gets worked into conversation, but go ahead with that. Maybe you two can play a game. She likes games. Just don’t go easy on her. If there’s one thing she hates more than anything, it’s pity.

Anyhow… Momma won, exactly as she said, while she explained the rules of the game to me. It was humiliating. Humbling. I wasn’t so slick. That taught me my lesson. I figured out I wasn’t quite as good as I thought. But, my life took a turn there. Instead of breaking me, momma made me stronger. I didn’t let all my losses show I was a loser. It made me want to be better.

So I did a lot of practicing on my own time. Not just with cards. Picking pouches, wheedling, trotting quietly. I wanted to be good at all the things I had always done. At that point, not for good or for bad. Just to be the best. It was all about my own pride. That was what momma had done to me. Wounded my pride. There’s no bigger encouragement than that. And I understand that’s what BOTH of you know. Don’t let it control you, but never let it lose the driving it gives you.

I played a lot of cards with the hirelings and the servants. They always had something going. It’s the way it worked in those days in that place. Country folks like to gamble on the sly and pretend they’re wonderful ponies all the live-long day. Here’s some advice: Never believe it.

I can’t tell you how many of them said the most crass and offensive things about donkeys and mules. Even momma, looking at the plains beyond Pericarp, always said vaguely conspiratorial things about the buffalos. I think she wanted that land. Some of it is good orchard land. Plus, she never really liked any critter that wasn’t a pony. We never let cows live on the land; she received rich griffins with a strained smile on her face; and hired donkeys and mules at less than the going rate, but never told them. Small towns, miss Rainbow Dash, do not breed big hearts, only big heads. Thank your lucky stars that you were born in a big factory town. There are problems there too. But I only know what I saw.

Anyhow, I was growing up and older, and so were all my relatives, as well as the size of the family. From Apple Brown Betty to my brother Baldwin, my sister Ambrosia, sister Pippin, sister Paula and brother Newton, the baby. So all of the first of us were getting into the school age, though there were available tutors for all of us that were old enough. We spent a lot of time wandering the ground by ourselves, too rich and good for the public school.

I remember one thing. It was while momma was pregnant with Pippin; Blenny and I were out by one of the tributaries of the river that fed our land. Yes, pappy had folks turn the creek into a full river, with tributaries and all. He got things done. Anyhow, we were out there, just looking for frogs to upset Valencia and Brown Betty. They thought they were yucky. Ambrosia was too young to be mean to. We were tricky but we were also good to our family.

While we were out there, the clouds passed from the face of the moon, nice and full. It wasn’t as pristine and perfect as it is now. The Mare in the Moon was still up there, looking down on us all. I was transfixed by it. I had seen it a lot, but for some reason that night I just wanted to keep staring. I stared so long my brother actually came up to nudge me around. He wanted to know what was wrong with me. And all I could say was, “I wonder if she’s lonely.”

“Who?”

“The Mare in the Moon.”

I have never heard such laughing as I did after I said that. When Blenny finally stopped laughing hard, he shoved me and told me it’s only an old pony tale. There’s really no mare in the moon. We know better now. And… Well, let’s just leave it there. A bit of beautiful reminiscing. You’ll have those moments of your own, I am quite certain. I know I seem like I’m pushing you to my niece but… I think that ship has sailed already. Now it’s just me being a proud, gushing uncle.

As I said, we were ready for school. Better than ready, I’d say. Tutors, like I said. I think momma wanted us to be obnoxiously overeducated little horse apples, to make her look good. I think that’s also why her library was so large. I don’t think she ever read any of those books. But it looked good. She was all about looking good.

That’s not really the concern, though. I’m just saying… Watch yourself around momma. She may want you to think she loves you. Maybe she does. You’re a filly fooler with a good job. You’ve got prestige from your championship win. She likes that. But make no mistake. You’re commoner stock from a factory town. She looks down on you. She’s just as common as anypony else but her taste of wealth and respect made her into a codfish aristocrat. Don’t let down your guard. If she thinks she found a more suitable match for AJ she’ll waste no time in getting rid of you. Look out for mares with titles, money and political position.

Sorry… The quill seems to have moved of its own accord. I didn’t mean to frighten you if I did. But I am concerned. I want my niece to be happy. And I think you’re the mare to do it.

We attended the local school. A private academy was not easily available, and momma balked at paying the exorbitant prices involved in the boarding of all the foals she would be sending. We were to be her big fish in a very small pond, with our bellies full of the classics and our heads overstuffed with formulas and figures. I was very good at spewing out rote lessons; I always had the best memory of anyone. It gave me a look of genius. I was smart, just not in the way they thought. I knew what ponies wanted, and I knew how to use what I had picked up to give it to them. That’s my secret, and always has been. Try it out. Just don’t use it to hurt. Only to help.

There’s a lesson they don’t normally teach you in schools. But an important one. I remember my time there very well because of the lesson I learned thanks to one teacher that wasn’t going to let me be me.

I suppose a little background is in order. I was a hellion at home, among the servants. But that was alright. They had come to expect it after so long, and had grown wary, to the point of making putting one over on them a challenge. They inadvertently honed my skills before I was unleashed on a whole new collection of unsuspecting ponies. And with no restrictions, I did what came naturally.

My sticky frogs got everywhere. Nicking bits and lunches and the occasional personal possession. It wasn’t necessarily the value of whatever I took. It was the challenge. I enjoyed the thrill of it. I also enjoyed just having secrets. No one ever knew it was me.

I wasn’t the only wrongdoer in school. It’s never just one. The others were more conventional. Large, oafish delinquents, the sort that would not be unusual to see in a chain gang breaking farmed rocks into pebbles or plowing up fallow land on a grand scale. I am almost certain that was their eventual fate. In any case, they were dumb, constantly in trouble, notoriously bad students and the sort to get in trouble.

They were idiots, but not entirely lacking in what might today be termed “street smarts.” They knew things tended to vanish around me. And were just criminally intuitive enough to make the connection. I was press-ganged into their coterie, despite the fact that my intellect was sufficient for a thousand of them. They were bigger than me, and could reduce me to bloody pulp easily. As I did not desire to be bloody pulp, it is easy to see why I followed along with their directives.

The ultimate fate of this association was disaster, of course. Eventually they were severely castigated by our teacher, and I with them. I recall him well. He was an imposing stallion, dark black in color, with a shockingly-white mane and tail, with the thinnest sliver of a moon on his flank. He made the odd choice of wearing pince-nez glasses, very small ones that I thought he could only see through while looking down. He seemed ill-suited to the work. Often I saw him reading thick, imposing books of various kinds, or spouting poetry at anypony that would listen. Presumably, he belonged in a university. His presence at a nothing school was odd indeed.

In any event… It was terribly humiliating, being caught. And not because of any error I had, myself, made, but because of my presence in a group of talentless muscle. I had delusions of great thief status back then. Those old books aren’t just dry treatises on alfalfa cultivation and the nature of mana. There’s plenty of gushing fiction talking about the wonder of elegant thieves who slip soundless through the night and liberate great treasure from silly, useless owners. It’s no use wondering what my ambitions were. I thought taking from others was right and proper. And that teacher… He could see right through me.

We were interviewed separately. Their crimes were base, blatant and easily displayed. They were very easily found guilty and punished for it. Back in those days, they paddled and switched bad foals. Flanks glowed quite often back in those days. The last one to be interviewed was me. I faced him, thinking I could defeat him. I was wise and cunning. And I could bluff my way out of anything. I flashed him my best smile and the game began.

It was an utter slaughter. It was almost embarrassing how badly the game went. My mouth let out words like graceful butterflies, flitting about with an airy grace. And he unleashed a torrent of steel-hard needles, tearing their wings to ribbons and pinning them to the ground. I writhed beneath his cutting logic and reason. It was unlike anything I had ever seen before. I remember the very end. He got me on all my thefts, every last one of them. And when he had me writhing in his glare, having all but confessed, never having rebutted his many accusations, he said to me, “Never presume that you are better than you really are. You are only a pony, as all of us are.”

Another failure. The paddling stung far, far less than being verbally chastised by that teacher. But more than that, he said one other thing before I left to cool my burning flank. “These colts… Why would you dare associate with them? You ought to be better than these thugs. Aren’t you better than base criminality? Can’t you do better? You have many skills… Why are you not using them to do good? Good attracts joy, happiness, and an easier life. Don’t you want that?”

I wanted it. I wanted it so badly that it hurt. I had my life, and my slickness. But nothing more. My only, forced, companions were thugs. And I was just snickering behind my hoof as foals looked in vain for what I had taken. Spare Applejack from seeing this. I’ve never confessed such depravity before. I didn’t mean to be so depraved. I was born with the skill. The depravity came from my lack of shame. And now I had been entirely shamed.

My first act was to find a way to be me, and do good. I figured I might as well try and undo those thugs. It was a happy coincidence that they offered me a chance to ease into it by making my actions against them a more personal thing. I care greatly about my family. Always have, always will. And when they forcibly stole from Blenny, and then intimidated him into silence, I had my chance to act as a scoundrel, and a saint.

It was late in the day, when our time was free for study or physical activity. I was not well suited to either. I often imitated study, to be left alone; not to say I learned nothing. It simply was not as deep and sincere as it seemed. One of my few demonstrations of lack of sincerity. If you can understand, I am deceitful, but not insincere. In any case, that is beside the point. We were at leisure, and the big lugs, three in total, were laughing over their mugging of my little brother. They stole minor, inconsequential items, really. A few spare bits he had been saving for a new length of lasso rope (as you can guess, Applejack’s father was as good with a rope as her, maybe better if you can imagine); a slide whistle as well as a grass whistle; some pencils and a very dapper bandana.

The action against them was deceptively simple. I talked fast and I talked well. I kept them off-guard and unfocused by discussing our recent punishment by the teacher. That certainly got them talking. It actually got them blaming each other. Nothing collapses the honor among thieves like bringing up punishment. The blame games begin immediately and never cease, providing they are stoked like a fire.

It’s very easy for a cheeky wag, who knows anything about those involved, or can make an educated guess, to foment dissent and ever-rising chaos in a group of ponies. Say one of them was looking too shifty in front of the teacher, on purpose. Or another was there talking too long. Or that another got one less paddling. The anger! The shoving and battering and head-butting. They stopped looking at their treasures to weed out the traitor in their group.

With the deftest of hooves I scooped up the little things into the bandana and quickly whipped it up around behind my upper arm and under my barrel, walking backwards just slowly enough to avoid notice when they had all turned on one another and were on the verge of battering one another bloody. After I was a fair distance away I trotted away in triumph and returned to more heavily-observed areas.

The first pony I encountered back in more populated space was my teacher, accompanied by some dry-looking functionary with a clipboard and glasses perched on his nose. I was invited back to the classroom, with some very odd words. “You did a good job, very good. Now, come to take the penalty.”

We moved back to the interior space, and the paddle came down from the wall. The words that came next have stayed with me, to this very day. He was very quotable in that respect. “Yes, you did a good thing. Took items back from bullies to help your brother. But you still stole to do it. There’s still a penalty. Perhaps you will not be punished as badly. But you still must be punished.” The paddle came down only a time or two. I don’t recall that specifically. But it was not that bad.

I hung about for a time, listening to the teacher discuss things with the follower. It was mostly conversation about the teacher’s level of education and some background on his life. Apparently, he came out of Stalliongrad, son of a Przewalskivek, in the time after the bosses had been expelled and relations with Princess Celestia had been reestablished. There were too many educated persons in Stalliongrad at that time, so he tried to get a job in Equestria proper. But there was nothing available, save for the school in Pericarp. What he wanted was a chance to get a good opportunity in a university. The compatriot, who mentioned something about Celestia and Canterlot, only made some marks on the board. All I know is that in a matter of days we had a new teacher, with no comment on what became of the other. I wonder what happened to him.

Home life was rather muted, because pappy was busy working and glad-hoofing, and momma was there to entertain and keep the neighbors, even the wealthy ones, constantly impressed and seeing us as the most amazing family in the entire county. That’s what I thought was going on with momma. She was a sly one, to be sure. Every so often she had over distinctly different sorts. They were like I heard we used to be. Farmers. Hardy, flinty folk that would never normally travel in our new sphere.

I used to just leave it be, until I got curious. You’ll find, miss Dash, that curiosity is one of my downfalls. I looked in on one of these meetings, which was held in the southern drawing room. Yes, that very room once again.

It was with a slightly older gentlecolt. He wore standard farmer attire, overalls and a straw hat. He also sported a fine goatee and a moustache attached, in a salt-and-pepper color, matching the graying of his dark mane and standing out against the deep roan of his coat. He was down at the same table, sitting across from momma with a deck of cards between them and a stack of chips before each of them. It was strange. I didn’t think she was naturally a gambler. I now know better. She’s a natural gambler. How does that strike you? We’re two of a kind. The mirrors of one another. But one of us is evil. I guess you just have to figure out which is which.

She wasn’t talking much, just making comments about her cards or her bet. Some conversation passed between them, of course, when there was an especially strong and overpowering win from one or the other. From the tone of the conversation, it was important. Momma was almost taunting him when he lost, and he seemed greatly relieved when he won, talking about how he was going to be fine. He wasn’t fine, though. He wasn’t fine at all. His chips were gobbled up by momma by the hoofful, taken by the kinds of wins that she preferred. She loved big flourishes. And won with another big flourish, gloating proudly over his crushed features.

The stakes of it finally came into being. He slapped down a paper onto the table. It was a deed. She had just won his farm. Never mind the legal processes, banks and negotiations and monetary outlay. Just beat him at cards and his property isn’t his anymore. And all he got for his trouble was a mouthful of momma’s Icejack, the liquor she makes freezing hard cider and extracting the high-potency stuff that didn’t freeze.

The next day, she was making plans with our workers for how to remake the new land as an apple orchard.

The curiosity never went away. I just kept on looking in on these kinds of meetings. I saw them coming around every so often, whenever there was a chance to expand the property. They came in, as furtive, single ponies or as couples looking awed by the surroundings. No matter what, the outcome was always the same. A deed came down, and the ponies went away. Sometimes they cried, sometimes they yelled. But they were always crushed. And momma never cared.

From there… Well, nothing really exciting happened. We just grew up, learned more, and gained more land. Momma ‘bought’ up all kinds of property and pappy managed it with joy and cheer, never caring where it all came from. He was just happy enough to work and look dapper. Luna bless him, he was a happy stallion. Momma could keep him in the dark too easily. I always say, and you may think this unkind but I can’t help my feeling, that the wrong one of them went first. I don’t know how Applejack feels about that. Don’t tell her that either. Let’s just leave that between the two of us.

I polished up my capabilities, by playing against the farm workers and the other household workers, and getting things out of them by guile. I always gave them back, of course. I’m no scoundrel. I won just to win, and to work with that unusual feeling that came to me whenever I worked with a deck of cards. I actually put a sheen of polish on that skill too. Vague feelings gave way to more broad knowledge of where the sevens were and how they were moving in the deck. It actually took a long while to work that up to a usable level, though. Don’t think I’m some magical prodigy. I just got lucky. A wild talent, like some pony folks have.

One of the greatest mysteries you may find with me is to wonder how I managed to become a mere huckster and cheeky rapscallion, rather than a genuine monstrous criminal. I have often heard that ponies absorb their morals and common personal activities from their parents. If that’s the case, I should be a ruthless land mogul extracting joy from the tears and pained wailing of ponies that I have taken. It always seemed to put a smile on momma’s face. And they say I’m the bad pony.

But that’s nothing to do with Applejack. She’s as good of a pony as you’ll find. Kind, sweet, pure as the fallen snow. She’s everything you could want in a wife, when the time comes. Ah, well… Not so pure anymore, am I right? Don’t be ashamed. We country folk know from getting a little… Romantic with pony folk before the ceremony. Even non-pony folk; but out there nopony admits it. Those mules and hinnies and hippogriffs had to come from somewhere, after all. And in some pairs, nothing ever comes out at all. Incidentally, I extend to you an invitation to see such a charming and peaceful union, in our family, with a quick visit to Appleoosa to see Braeburn and Little Strongheart. I understand you get on quite well with her side of the family. You’ll find things are quite pleasant out there these days. I’ve even got a standing offer in to be an Advocate some time or another. Just waiting for the letter.

But let that pass now… Things went along as they had been, as I said. We learned, we grew, and Blenny actually caught the eye of a lovely mare named Cinnamon Sauce. While it’s true that young love seldom… Let me clarify. In all ages, young folk get together for shallow reasons and split when those shallow reasons are exposed as shallow nothingness. When you’ve got a real connection, youth is no issue at all. Not that I’m saying anything, but… You have that solid connection.

Their love was built on genuine connection. Blenny was a somewhat sensitive soul, though molded by pappy into a masculine farmer type. He actually liked those old books on poetry and such. In fact, he enjoyed the company of that old teacher, because he picked up some good lines he could feed to the young filly.

Here’s a good tip for you: Don’t try using poetry on Applejack, unless it’s been through the radio backed by a guitar, a steel guitar, a banjo or a fiddle. Applejack isn’t the sort to respond to nocturnes and nachtmuzik. I may be vulnerable to such, but I can assure you it is not at all genetic. Sing her serenades of country and western music and things of that nature.

Her father was adept at using poems and sweet nothings. And her mother was very susceptible to the charms of such things. At least, I’m presuming that. I was always off doing my own things. But when I saw Blenny during those times he was always with Cinnamon, and she always looked completely entranced. I’ll give him that. He had skills. I admire my little brother for that. I admire all my relatives in some respect. Except for Valencia. But not for the reasons you might think. I don’t mind she never had foals; I mind she turned into, well… I’ll leave that aside. Just keep your eyes open around her.

What became of that? Well, you can probably tell. They actually managed to get hitched well before Cinnamon got herself pregnant with Big Macintosh. Pappy Adam’s genes were the cause of that one; he’s the only one of the grandchildren that managed to get those. Blenny was lucky for that. Macintosh carries pappy’s carriage with him, and will go on to pass it along. Lucky lil colt.

And for a time, I got to be the favorite uncle. Big Macintosh used to love parading around in my clothes. It was cute when he stumbled around in them when they were too big for him. He filled them out remarkably well remarkably quickly. And Applejack… Where did that little filly go to? She grew up very fast indeed. But while she was there, oh how she loved getting me to help her buck apples and haul them off. My little workhorse.

In any case, that’s all I guess I really need to say about my relatives and their offspring. You know all the rest of them, probably. Everypony out there likes pulling out the genealogy chart. It looks like a tablecloth, doesn’t it? They not only wanted the names nice and big, but it looks impressive spread out on the wall like a tapestry. I’ll bet you didn’t see my name there and probably asked why once. Momma would never let you stay around if you asked more than once. The thing is used more to determine inheritance and the distribution of property. Braeburn’s section probably looks very new. He got erased and written back in. I wish I had seen that. How much it galled momma to write his name back in. And Little Strongheart’s name with him. When the time comes, she’ll have somepony else write the names of their children.

You might not believe it, but I was not always the kind of good-acting grifting charmer I am now. I’ve implied it before, but it’s true. I was once a four-flusher. I mean that literally. I had four diamonds and then… Well, you probably didn’t know that you could make the ace of hearts look like the ace of diamonds if you arrange it right. Not my proudest moment, but I won. That used to matter a lot to me. That eventually came to trip me up. It was a small thing. But momma has a remarkable talent for turning molehills into mountains.

See, I was getting known in the county. In all the right ways, of course. I was dressing like a proper country dandy, with my oiled mane and my sharp duds. One look and it was clear I didn’t do a lick of work around that orchard. Strange how a family goes from hard work to gentrified inaction. Bits will do that to you. There were a few of the nicer mares getting their eye on me. Heir to the family fortune and property, sharp dresser, not too bad looking. A good catch by any standards. But none of them caught me. Somehow, I just figured none of them were for me. Now I realize I was right. But let’s move on to what I was doing that wasn’t quite on momma’s good list.

One of the problems was, I was winning. I don’t just mean that I was beating folk at cards. That would have been fine, in private, in dark rooms with the lower-end of the county. Dirty bits wash clean when somepony buys lace lace-holders and silver trays to hold silver trays. I was moving about in our polite society, sitting ponies down at a table and pulling out a deck. It was truly embarrassing how badly they lost. I could start out with bits enough to cover the first round of betting and raising, and leave with bags of bits jangling at my back and a smile on my face. Momma didn’t have that kind of smile. Pappy did, though, he liked to nudge and chuckle. Got him a few elbows to the ribs from momma.

It was never REALLY one act. She’ll talk about my one shameful act. But it was just that. The compounding guilt and shame of ponies whispering about me. I was often looked at as a cheater because I won so much. Real skill couldn’t possibly be the answer, of course, because I had shamed the finest ponies in the region, and taken their money. Winks and nods go only so far when you’ve made these egomaniacs look like the petty nothings they really are. It was a lot of fun.

If there was really one significant event, it was when I did publicly what momma did in secret. Don’t ever tell Applejack this. I can’t have her know this part. I stole a title deed to farmable land with a card game. But I did it in the open. I challenged an orchard owner to a game with the deed on the line. And I won. I won in the eyes of the crowd. I won in open spaces. I won right in momma’s face. And after I had that deed in my hoof, I strutted proudly over and presented her that title, in the gaze of the county. And she gave it right back, with all the scraping supplication her imitation-aristocrat body would allow.

Comfort Apple Bloom. I was very much an adult stallion when I got my Cutie Mark. I had no angst over my lack before. But the presence of it gave me pause. I got it in that moment when I saw momma give that deed back with a poison smile, offering her apologies to the county for my misdeeds. The misdeeds which she did in private. I had turned into her mirror more blatantly than before. But the mirror she couldn’t hide behind fancy ruffles and country gentility. I was raw and present, forever visible, and bringing forward whispers and hoof-pointing towards our family. When that deed hit its owner’s hooves, my Cutie Mark flashed onto my flank, in full view of the crowd. A bright and perfect red apple, as we liked to sell, cut open to reveal the sickly green putrescence behind the façade of wonderful perfection. Stamped there for all to see.

Relations fell fairly quickly after that. Momma could always get her way over pappy’s objections. I was family scion! Firstborn colt of an affected aristocratic family. It didn’t matter at all. I was becoming a public shame. I was becoming momma’s shame. She wanted me out. And she took everything away from me.
She took my inheritance; that became Blenheim’s. She took my home; I was told never to return. She took my family; I wasn’t allowed to make contact with them anymore, not even with the two that called me uncle and looked up to me. But beyond anything else, she stole my name. As it was the day I was born, I wasn’t Bramley. I was Bad Apple.

Well… That’s the story. I trotted out of Pericarp County with what I could bear on my back and never looked back. Not that I kept completely out of the loop. I watched apple prices spike slightly from carefully-managed scarcity and ruthlessly-impacted new markets and expanded usages. If you wanted to know why Appleoosa was so apple-heavy, it’s because apples are still being touted as the perfect colony food. Incidentally, I didn’t smile when the price of apples started to fall when the markets were flooded in a desperate attempt to squeeze more bits out of them. I was rather sad when I heard that momma needed to sell off the large property in Pericarp and move to Blenheim’s personal property in Ponyville. It was all because the first generation started making the second generation. Lots and lots of second generations. Except for Valencia. She got around the bits problem by marrying Hamlin l’Orange, a merchant and business stallion from Manehattan.

As well… Blenny was still my closest, most loyal family member. I was his best friend, momma or no. He was good about slipping me letters on the sly. He even told me about the birth of Applebloom, whom I still have never seen. He passed his familiarity and secrecy on to Applejack before his… Well, she probably told you about what became of my brother and his bride after the birth of little Applebloom. Working that hard to try and make momma a country aristocrat again. All because he was the heir to it all. I’m glad pappy’s hard work put him in the ground before he could see what became of his family.

There’s more to it. I was still an unpolished piece of clay stomping around on my criminal way. I got picked up a lot back then. Vagrancy, petty larceny, pick pouching, fraud. It takes practice to get better, and I wasn’t very good about that. A bit too arrogant. I needed to be deflated a little and shown my own limitations. But I’ll let that alone. You wanted the story the family had. And there you have it. I’ll keep some secrets for myself.

Be well, both you and Applejack. Now I know I have a safe haven for messages. Well, another one, at any rate. All the best from your future covert uncle,

-Brigandine Jasper Saltingslide, at least in this town.

The letter finished, Bad Apple slowly leaned back against a cushion and looked out the window. Night was falling and the stars were slowly coming out. He looked upon the stars with a smile and checked their positions. He was bound for a big river, and was well on the path. Heading north for unknown places. His favorite.

To Be Continued…

Comments

[molporgnier]

Simply amazing. I love this Bad Apple.