Mountie Python's Flying Circus

by Locomotion

Story 2: Caramel at the Argument Clinic

“So you think this might be the best solution?”

“Well, frankly, yeah,” said Caramel gravely. “I mean, I do love Applejack more than anything, but I do worry sometimes about falling out with her over little details like how we handle the cider press and where to plant a new apple tree. You know how stubborn she can get at the best of times.”

Lucky Clover nodded gravely. “Only too well,” he murmured. “I can still remember that one time I got into a row with her just because I said something about raspberries.”

“What, did she threaten to release the tiger on you?”

“Tiger?!” spluttered Lucky incredulously. “I didn't even know she had one.”

“She doesn't really,” Caramel reassured him. “It's just a stuffed animal toy on wheels, something Apple Bloom won in a fair a few years ago.”

Before Lucky could inquire further, they were interrupted by the sound of the receptionist calling out for the next pony. Realising he was now at the front of the queue, Caramel stepped forward. “I'd like to have an argument, please.”

“Certainly, sir,” replied the mare. “Have you had one here before?”

“Umm...” Caramel frowned as he remembered being here with a broken back years ago. “...no, this is my first time.”

“I see. Now, would you like to have the full argument, or were you thinking of taking the course?”

Caramel pondered for a moment. “How much will it cost me?”

“Five bits for a five-minute argument, but only 40 for a course of ten; and 20 for a half-hour.”

“Right, well, I think I'll start with the one and see how it goes from there,” decided Caramel.

“Fine,” smiled the receptionist. “I'll see who's free at the moment.” She began leafing through her appointment book for an available slot, murmuring absently; “Um...Mr Debate is free, but he's a bit conciliatory. Uh...” After a few more pages, she looked up again. “Try Mr Bickers, Room 12.”

“Thanks.” Caramel turned and made his way down the hallway, keeping his eyes peeled for the appropriate room number. It wasn't long before he spotted the room in question; but to his dismay, he could already hear voices on the other side. Not wishing to intrude, he opted to stand around while whatever argument was going on in there was over.

He didn't have to wait long. After a mere minute, the chatter within the room came to an end, and he was greeted by the sight of Vinyl Scratch walking out looking oddly hurt and satisfied both at the same time. Caramel couldn't for the life of him understand why anyone would feel pleased to lose an argument so embarrassingly; but Vinyl probably had her reasons, so he just shrugged and entered the room.

“WHAT DO YOU WANT?!!” bellowed the Pegasus stallion sitting behind the desk.

Caramel flinched. This wasn't the response he was expecting, even from argument therapy. “Well, I...the receptionist told me...”

“DON'T GIVE ME THAT, YOU SNOTTY-FACED HEAP OF PARROT DROPPINGS!”

“What?!” Caramel was even more confused at the interruption. “Now hang on just a...”

“SHUT YOUR FESTERING GOB, YOU BASKET CASE!!” screamed the stallion aggressively. He sounded like he was on the warpath with this tan-furred intruder. “YOUR TYPE MAKES ME PUKE, YOU VACUOUS, TOFFEE-NOSED, MALODOROUS PERVERT!!!!”

“LOOK! I CAME HERE FOR AN ARGUMENT!” burst out Caramel, flustered.

“Oh!” The other pony's angry stance was suddenly eclipsed by an awkward tone of apology. “Oh, I'm sorry, this is Abuse,” he explained more calmly.

“Oh, I see!” exclaimed Caramel, beginning to understand. “Well, that explains a lot.”

“No, you want 12A, next door,” continued the therapist helpfully.

“Ah, right. Sorry about that.”

“Not at all. No, that's alright,” answered the therapist as Caramel left the room. No sooner had the tan stallion shut the door, however, than he thought he could hear the Pegasus muttering to himself, “Stupid git!” Again, he shrugged it off – he'd probably caught the poor stallion on a bad day or something; and besides, at least he had the common decency to point him towards the right room. All the same, he made sure to knock before entering, lest he be met with another nasty surprise.

“Is this the right room for an argument?” he asked cautiously.

The unicorn therapist behind the desk gave him a blank look. “Of course it is, I've told you once already.”

Caramel looked perplexed. “No you haven't,” he objected.

“Yes I have,” replied the unicorn in a stern but professional manner.

“When?”

“Just now.”

There was a brief pause.

“No you didn't.”

“Yes I did.”

“You didn't.”

“I did.”

“You didn't!”

“I'm telling you I did.”

“You did not!”

“I'm sorry,” interjected the therapist, “is this a five-minute argument of the full half-hour?”

Only then did Caramel finally catch on. “Oh! Right! Uh, just the five minutes,” he answered cordially.

“Fine.” The therapist wrote something down in his appointment book as Caramel took a seat. “Anyway, I did,” he continued.

“You most certainly did not.” This wasn't quite the argument Caramel was expecting, but he was already getting himself worked up with anticipation, so he didn't question it.

“Now let's get one thing quite clear,” stated the therapist. “I most definitely told you.

“You did not.”

“Yes I did.”

“You did not.”

“Yes I did.”

“You didn't.”

“Yes I did.”

“You didn't!”

“I told you by way of the signage on the door.”

“That doesn't count,” scoffed Caramel dismissively.

“Yes it does.”

“No it doesn't.”

“Yes it does.”

“No it doesn't.”

“Yes it does.”

“It doesn't.”

“Yes it does.”

“It doesn't!”

“Yes it does.” Incredibly, the therapist was still managing to maintain a professional tone regardless of how childish the argument was becoming.

Caramel, on the other hoof, was growing a little frustrated. “Look, this is meant to be an argument,” he protested.

“Well, of course it's an argument,” said the therapist, feigning confusion.

“No it isn't.”

“Yes it is.”

“No it isn't!”

“Yes it is.”

“No it isn't, it's just contradiction!”

“No it isn't.”

“Yes it is!”

“It is not.”

“It is! You just contradicted me!”

“No, no, no, no, no.”

“You did! Just now!”

“No, no, that's an absolute load of pony feathers,” dismissed the therapist.

“Okay, look, this is getting stupid!” declared Caramel crossly.

“No it isn't.”

“Yes it is!”

“No it isn't.”

“Yes it is!”

“No it isn't.”

“Yes it is, I came in here for a good, solid argument!”

“No you didn't,” the therapist calmly corrected him, “you just came in here for an argument.”

“Well, an argument isn't the same as contradiction,” insisted Caramel.

The therapist shrugged. “Can be.”

“No it can't!” Caramel was beginning to lose his temper. “I know how an argument is really meant to go...”

“No you don't.”

“Yes I do!”

“No you don't.”

“Yes I do!”

“No you don't.”

“Yes I do!”

“No you don't.”

“Yes I do! An argument is a connected series of statements to establish a definite proposition; it isn't just a matter of contradicting others.”

“Look, if I argue with you,” said the therapist reasonably, “I must take up a contrary position. There's no two ways about it.”

“But it isn't just saying 'no it isn't',” retorted Caramel.

“Yes it is.”

“No it isn't!” So annoyed was Caramel that he failed to see the hypocrisy in what he had just said. “An argument is an intellectual process! Contradiction is just the automatic gainsaying of anything the other creature says!”

“No it isn't.”

“Yes it is!”

“Not at all.” How that stallion was managing to stay so calm and collected in the face of a tough customer, Caramel had no idea.

“Now look, I...”

Ding! Almost before Caramel had opened his mouth, the therapist thumped his hoof down on the bell he had sitting on his desk. “Thank you! Good morning!” he announced.

“Say what now?” Caramel, suddenly shaken out of his frustration, gave the therapist a puzzled glance.

“That's it. Good morning.”

“But...we'd only just started,” said Caramel, now completely fogged.

“Sorry,” said the therapist, “five minutes is up.”

Caramel looked up at the clock. “That was never five minutes just now!” he retorted incredulously.

“I'm afraid it was.”

“No it wasn't,” Caramel answered back, hoping to start up a fresh argument.

But to his surprise, the therapist only shook his head. “Sorry, but I'm not allowed to argue anymore.”

“WHAT?!” exclaimed Caramel in dismay.

“If you want to me to go on arguing, you'll have to pay for another five minutes.”

“But we haven't even reached the five-minute mark yet!”

But the therapist simply turned away, leaned back in his chair and began whistling a relaxed tune, pretending not to hear him.

“Aw, come on!” snorted Caramel, exasperated. “This is ridiculous!”

“I'm very sorry,” said the therapist, still averting his gaze, “but I told you, I'm not allowed to argue unless you've paid.”

With a sigh of resignation, Caramel pulled a five-bit note out of his wallet and reluctantly handed it over. The therapist placed it in the top drawer, and immediately went back to acting as if he was the only one in the room.

“Well?” prompted Caramel at last.

“Well what?”

“We hadn't reached the five-minute mark.”

“I told you,” the therapist reiterated patiently, “I'm not allowed to argue unless you've paid.”

“I've just paid!” spluttered Caramel, taken aback once again.

“No you didn't.”

“I did!”

“No you didn't.”

“I did!”

“No you didn't.”

“I DID!”

“No, I'm afraid you did not.”

“Look, I'm not gonna argue about that!”

“Well, I'm terribly sorry, but you haven't paid, and that's that.”

“Aha!” Caramel suddenly saw a chance to claw back some ground. “Well, if I haven't paid, then why are you arguing? Got you!” he smirked triumphantly.

“No you haven't.”

“Yes I have.”

“No you haven't.”

“Yes I have.”

“No you haven't.”

“Yes I have.”

“No you haven't.”

“Yes I have.”

“No you haven't.”

“Yes I have – if you're arguing, I must have paid!” Caramel was sure he had this impossible stallion cornered now.

But alas, the therapist was still just as determined to have the last word in their petty squabble. “Not necessarily,” he replied, looking strangely pleased with himself. “I could be arguing in my spare time.”

That was the last straw for Caramel. All he wanted was to be on the winning side of an argument (and, more to the point, an argument about farming methods instead of this idiotic difference of opinion over what constituted an argument in the first place), and here was a stallion who seemed to have an excuse for his every quibble. “I've had enough of this!” he growled, getting to his hooves.

“No you haven't.”

“Oh, shut up!” Without waiting to listen to another of this obnoxious pony's arguments, Caramel stomped out of the room and back down the corridor before barging into the first room he could find. In his frustration, he didn't even bother to read the signage on the door – if he had, he might not have entered so hastily. “I want to complain!” he demanded angrily.

He was immediately greeted by a grumpy mule slouching in his chair to one side of the room – and not in the most agreeable manner either. “You wanna complain?” he grumbled. “Look at these horseshoes! I've only had 'em three weeks, and they're already rusted away to nothing!”

“No, I want to complain about the...”

“If you complain, nothing ever happens,” interrupted the mule, talking hard and refusing to let Caramel get a word in edgeways, “you might just as well not bother; and my back hurts; and when will we get a fine day? I'm sick and tired of this office...”

Caramel didn't dare stick around to hear the rest of his tirade. Rolling his eyes, he slammed the door shut and made for the next room in the vain hope of finding at least one therapist who would listen to him. “I want to comp...OW!!!” he cried, grabbing hold of his head in pain and surprise; for no sooner had he entered than a mallet came slamming down on him.

“No, no, no.” The unicorn wielding the offending object shook his head head disapprovingly, and placed his front hooves over his temples. “Hold your head like this, and then go, 'WAHHH!' Try again,” and before Caramel could protest, he whacked him over the head once more.

“WHOA!!” shrieked Caramel as the mallet made contact.

“Better, better, but 'WAHHH!' 'WAHHH!'” corrected his assailant, showing him the motions again. “Hold your hooves here!”

“No! I...WAAGH!!!!” Caramel doubled over in terror from the third, painful strike, his hooves shielding the top of his head.

“That's it! That's it! Good!”

“STOP HITTING ME!!” begged Caramel, just in time to prevent this mad pony from giving him yet another blow.

The stallion blinked. “What?”

“Stop hitting me!”

“Well, what did you come in here for, then?” asked the stallion.

“I came in to complain.”

“Oh, sorry, that's next door. It's 'Being Hit on the Head' lessons in here.” The stallion set his mallet down on the desk and pointed to it as if to emphasise his point.

Caramel shook his still aching head in disbelief. “What a stupid concept!” he remarked derisively.

Just then, an Earth mare in a brown suit pushed her way into the room. “Quite right,” she agreed, “absolutely silly; this entire sketch is badly written, and makes no sense whatsoever. I thought it was supposed to be about counselling anyway, not harming others just for the sake of a few cheap laughs. On this basis, Dr Spreaders, you are hereby suspended for extortion, assaulting patients – and this is the real cruncher – multiple offences against the 'Getting Out of Sketches without a Proper Punchline' Act of 1972!”

“Well, fair play, boss...”

“Shut up!” ordered the mare. Before either stallion could react, she snatched the mallet off the desk and gave the unicorn a hard thump on the head, prompting a startled but surprisingly well-executed “WAHHH!” as he grabbed his temples. “He's good,” she murmured to Caramel. “You could learn a thing or two from him. As for you, sir, I'm giving you a full refund of fifteen bits for your mistreatment at the hooves of these idiots.”

“Fifteen?! I only paid five!”

“No you didn't.”

“Yes I did!”

“No you didn't.”

“Yes I did!”

And so on and so on and so on. But they managed to get it sorted out in the end, and despite his best efforts to play fair, Caramel still came out with a substantial refund – of five-hundred bits!