Monday.
Morning. Bloodstains.
I wake up Monday morning to the sound of Hip To Be Square by Huey Lewis and The Hooves coming from my alarm clock. Flashing red neon lights on the machine read ‘six thirty: A.M’. I’m lying in the sweat stained mess that is my bed with a pounding hangover.
Last night I’m pretty sure I was at Tunnel with Price, Flint and three models who starred in Hoity Toity’s latest Fall Line and were from Canterlot. Sometime between my dinner at Horsia with Flint and Price, picking the models up at Shake, and finally getting to Tunnel, my memories get fuzzy and I wonder if it’s because of the doubles of J.& B. I was mixing with Bellinis that the models kept ordering for themselves and for us all night, or if it’s from the gram of Sniffing Salt I kind of remember sharing with Price in the bathroom at Tunnel. Regardless, it’s a weekday and unless I start my morning off right, I’m doomed to a day of meandering the halls of Pierce. & Pierce. hungover and watching the new round of interns eat small urinal cakes that I stole from the bathroom of Area almost a week ago and that I’ve now had baked into cupcakes and have left in an unmarked take-out box from Horsia. There are certainly more fun ways of dealing with interns who steal lunches than talking to Charm, in Pony Resources, and I believe this is one of them.
I manage to crawl out of bed a few minutes after Hip To Be Square ends and realize it’s Six Thirty-Four, AM; I still have enough time to prepare for work and, if I’m lucky--and Wintergreen has already made my breakfast--I can probably still catch either the end of The Good Morning Manehattan Show, or, alternatively, try to find some horrible news story--Hopefully about something morbid like a kidnapped foal, or if another pony jumped off The Equestrian State Building. Hopefully, there might even be video evidence of the entire thing.
Getting to my hooves, I decide to start my day with a smile.
At six-forty I start to exercise. Physical fitness, a hot then cold shower and a well rounded breakfast in the morning are the cornerstones of a good day, and I’ve managed to turn all three into an artform.
For my workout I usually start with something light; twenty minutes of jogging on the treadmill--A recent article in The Equestrian Times by a very famous Manehattan physician specializing in Health and Fitness has said that physical exercise--especially in the morning--releases endorphins that give the body a natural high that carry themselves out throughout the day and greatly improves productivity.
After jogging I use a specially designed machine to do thirty minutes of resistance training--with a specific focus on my shoulders, thighs, waist and chest--before I take a break and have an ice cold Perrier from the Silver Chrome Mini-Fridge I bought at Perry’s almost a year ago.
The water is ice cold--another article, earlier this month in fact, from The Equestrian Times said that water, at ice cold temperature oxidises the body better than room temperature water--and I finish the entire bottle in one long gulp. I take a moment to step outside on my bedroom balcony and admire the scenery of Manehattan. My penthouse overlooks Central Park, and is the only apartment in the entire building where the noise pollution from the busy streets below can’t be heard. I smile as I watch a seagull, flying lazily, drop a small trail of white excrete from its rear and down to the city below, and inspired by this bird’s wanton disregard for ponies, I decide to not only spill the last few drops of water out of the glass Perrier bottle, but also drop it from my roof and hope desperately that it crashes onto the head of a tourist visiting from Canterlot.
I absolutely despise Unicorns.
Satisfied, sweating, and charged from my workout, I decide to finish my morning routine; I enter my bathroom and the cold feel of the marble floors that lead to my shower brings me back to life. When I’m about to step into the shower, I notice that there are splotches of dried blood smeared against the sandstone walls, with a pool stained on the floor around the drain. Since I feel fine, and there are no traces of damage or imperfections anywhere on my body, I’m curious if this means I’ll be finding some pony’s body in my apartment?
I ignore the curious feeling I get from these stains in my bathroom, wash them off with the showerhead then soak myself with hot water. To wash my body I use a bottle of Alive; it’s a full body wash, enriched with nutrients and vitamins that help cleanse the pores under my fur and on my skin. After this I wash my hair first with shampoo--Reality Wash--then condition it with Pelican. I repeat this once more, until I feel my mane is weathered, light to the touch and free of filth and grime.
After my shower I get dressed. Today, I wear a white and light blue striped button up shirt from H’armani. It’s a size too small for me. This is purposeful. It’s tight against my chest, shoulders and legs, and does nothing but help accentuate my handsome, muscular frame.
With my shirt picked, I decide on a navy blue sports coat from Perseus. It’s a double button--which is really in style this season--and I had both buttons on the coat made of polished silver and embroidered with my initials. After this, I decide on using a pair of 24 Karat cufflinks (also from Perseus) to accent the collars of my shirt.
Finally, I choose my new favorite tie; it’s a solid maroon base with thin yellow stripes, that I bought at Del-Moro’s last week.
Fully dressed, I bring myself to my mirror and take a minute to stare at the handsome colt reflected back at me. At Twenty Six, under the rigorous exercise regime I follow coupled with my well balanced diet and the careful care I put into fashioning my coat and mane, I’m much better looking than most colts my age. My face--quite possibly my most defining feature--is in particular alluring and gorgeous. I have high cheekbones, my lips are thin and I have incredibly captivating blue eyes. My mane, like always, is slicked back using a bottle of mouse I got as a gift from my boss--Mr. Pierce--and I’m not satisfied with the way it looks until each and every hair is perfectly parted either to the left, or right, so that not a single strand hangs loose.
I continue to admire myself in the mirror. Thanks to my switch from ‘3’ to ‘4’ on the incline on my treadmill over the past six months--which applies more pressure to my legs, calves and thighs--I’ve managed to build up a significant amount of muscle mass that actually manages to show through ripples in my shirt. I’m tempted to come into work wearing only the shirt, to show this off, but I decide I like the sports coat too much not to wear it.
I sigh as I tear myself away from the mirror. I realize that right now, I look as good as I’ve ever looked. It’s Seven-Twenty A.M. and my stomach is growing so I think that it’s a good time to see if Wintergreen has my breakfast ready.
Breakfast. Butler.
I’m sitting at the stone slab table I have on the balcony attached to my living room. There’s a slight breeze this morning that kind of rustles the fur on my face, but it doesn’t manage to blow any strands of my mane loose because of the mouse.
This makes me a little happy.
In front of me is what my butler--Wintergreen--is telling me is my breakfast and as I stare coldly into his dead, beady little eyes, looking past the wrinkles and greying evident in his coat, I ask him, for the second time, why he thinks I’m upset with him.
“I..can’t quite honestly understand, sir?” He gawks like he has some kind of mental illness and I’m being an absolute pompous ass.
I groan and realize I have to explain to him, again, what he did wrong.
“What do you do every single day when you come to work, Wintergreen?”
“I prepare your breakfast, sir.”
“And what do I eat for breakfast. Every. Single. Day. Wintergreen?”
“Two slices of twelve grain toast, lightly buttered with low fat margarine, a bowl of bran flakes, lightly sugared, and an orange, sir.”
“So you see the problem then, Wintergreen?”
“I...don’t sir. No.”
“What is this Wintergreen?”
I point a hoof accusingly at the fruit on my plate, though I really shouldn’t have to. Even sliced in half and with a spoonful of sweetener poured over it, it’s still easy to see what the borderline idiot savant I call a butler did wrong.
“An...orange, sir?”
I sigh, run a hoof along my face and it takes everything I have in me to ignore the impulse I have to throw this ancient and decrepit creature off my roof, and instead try, desperately, to help him see where he went wrong.
“No, Wintergreen. This,” I point again to the fruit. “is a tangerine.”
Wintergreen looks dumbly at me, like I’m speaking a different language or something. There’s a second of deep animosity I have for him; pure rage and contempt, but then it passes and I just sigh.
Wintergreen speaks.
“My....apologies sir. Walton’s fruit stand was out of oranges this morning, and I was already running late, and I assumed a tangerine would make a fine replacement, and...”
I cut him off by slamming a hoof on the table. He’s startled, I imagine close to having heart palpitations, and I grin at this, at him, then speak.
“No, Wintergreen. A tangerine is not a ‘fine replacement’ for an orange.” I pause, take a sip of Perrier out of the crystal tumbler, and stare at him intensely. A moment comes where I think he understands what he did wrong, and I feel good about this.
“I...shall pick up oranges when you’re out, sir.” He tells me. I grin, finish my Perrier and grabbing the tangerine with my hoof, toss it off my rooftop, again hoping it lands on the head of some tourist. I recall reading an article in The Curious Inquirer last year that debunked the theory that a bit, or any other metallic object, thrown off a high roof would gain enough speed and momentum to seriously damage anypony on the ground, and this slightly bothers me.
Still, I smile thinking about how some poor pony’s day might be ruined by a half a tangerine cascading with his cranium.
“I’ll have to dock your pay, of course.” I remind him, in regards to the oranges he has to pick up later today. Wintergreen gives a heavy sigh, nods his head and I’m glad that we’ve reached an understanding.
Good help is hard to find in Manehattan.
I stare at the clock; it’s Eight-Ten now and unless I leave soon I might be late, which isn’t really a problem since I’m a Vice-President, and the company really works on my schedule, but I like getting to work on time.
I get up and head back inside, but not before turning back at Wintergreen, glaring and shout
“There had better be an entire orchid of oranges when I get back, Wintergreen. Unless you don’t want a bonus this year.”
He probably agrees, but I slam the screen door quickly and violently in his face before I can hear what he has to say.
Job. Joy.
I work at Pierce. & Pierce. It’s a trading company in the Walls Street district where I’m the Vice President. Among many of my father’s businesses, Pierce. & Pierce. is one of his most stunning achievements, a company built from the ground up by himself and Mr. Pierce, Sr., though, my father’s now retired and his name was respectfully omitted from the company at his request.
I have a corner office that overlooks the important Walls Street icons, and, today, I stare out the tinted windows at a curious sight; some mother, a unicorn, has lost her son and is in a mad scramble to find him. She’s grabbing complete strangers by the collars, scuffling their shirts, and I assume, begging them if they’ve seen her probably ugly child.
It occurs to me that this is the most joy I’ve had all day, watching this pathetically desperate act. I smile and decide to put off work for a while and see how much longer this wonderful personal drama can last.
After an hour, and after she breaks down into a hopeless bout of tears on the steps outside P.&.P., where she falls into a heap on the ground and just starts crying uncontrollably, I realize that the shows over.
I’m a little upset at this; at how quickly she gave up looking for her son (or daughter), how if she truly loved her little bastard love child that she’d still be searching, not pathetically hunkering down and giving up. It bothers me how pathetic she is for a mother and I can only hope her child stays lost forever as I get back to work.
Office. Paperwork.
As I’m going over paperwork and signing my name on forms, I’m bothered by the blood stains I found on my shower earlier; I don’t remember enough about what happened to me last night to recall if I brought one of the models home with me. If I did, I wonder how I managed to do her in (Was it quick and painless? Slow and drawn out? Did she beg? Did she cry? Did I even enjoy it?) I wonder, if I did, how did I manage to get rid of any and all trace of her ever being there (save for the bloodstains of course)?
Since I didn’t find any severed limbs in my freezer, or torn tufts of her mane around my apartment, I realize if I did kill something last night I did a damn good job of covering my tracks--especially considering I was both drunk and on drugs--and this makes me proud.
I whistle The Farmer In The Dell to myself as I finish up my paperwork.
Secretary. Puppies.
At Ten P.M. my secretary comes into my office. She’s carrying a large fold out box that reads ‘Handle With Care’, poorly drawn in crayon surrounded by a big cartoon heart. I can hear some thing inside the box scratch against the sides. This is followed by the sound of that same thing barking, and I realize that my secretary has brought a box of puppies into my office. Why? I can’t imagine, but I’m sure there’s a reason, and I’m also sure she’s about to tell me.
“Good afternoon, Blue.” She greets cheerfully, placing the cardboard box on a chair and taking an uninvited seat in the other. I can still hear the puppy--or puppies--clawing desperately at the walls of their cardboard prison.
I say nothing, just glare at her, then the box, the puppy/puppies inside of it, and wonder ‘Why?’
She smiles sweetly and gives some horrible ‘Awww’ noise when she hears one of the little creatures in the box give a whimper. I roll my eyes and wait for her to say something.
“Maybelle had puppies last week.” She says and grabs the box, she opens the top and suddenly I’m staring at twelve little bodies, fighting, biting and climbing on top of each other. One of them, with a spot over his left eye, stares up at me and, I swear to Celestia, it winks at me.
“And?” I muse as the spotted puppy growls when another one bites it’s hind.
“Well, I can’t afford to keep them. It’s terrible, because these little munchkins are just so cute. Yes they are. Yes they are.” She does some terribly annoying voice as she says this, then stares up at me. “So, I was going to go around the office and see if they can all go to good homes. Would...um, would you like one, Blue?”
She stares away as she asks me, and staring down the little spotted bastard, I kind of smile and pick it up with my hooves. It struggles in my grip, but I’m gentle enough holding it, cradling it, that it calms down and rubs it’s head against my chest.
“Oh sir, you two look adorable.” She smiles. “I think he likes you.”
I stare down at this golden/brown bundle of fur with a black spot over it’s left eye; I figure I’ll have to give it a stupid name related to that spot, ‘Patches’ or, ‘Domino’, or, ‘Wishbone’. Something stupid.
“You should keep him, sir.” she urges, giving ‘Wishbone’ a pet on the head, touching my chest when she does.
I say nothing. I place ‘Wishbone’ gently on my desk, get a bottle of Perrier from my fridge and using a new crystal ashtray I bought from Waltons last week, I fill it with water and make a makeshift bowl for him/her. ‘Wishbone’ waddles over to it, sniffs and then starts licking the water.
“Oh, sir. You’re absolutely wonderful for doing this. I just know that, that little guy will change your life. Mine sure did.”
I picture my secretary, young, attractive, but totally alone and helpless in the big city. My secretary who lives in some rancid and foul one bedroom apartment, in an apartment complex probably infested with Zebra immigrants. My secretary, who probably sits alone in an empty room, drinking a fifth glass of wine and then later spoons some large Golden Retriever named Maybelle. My secretary, who does all this and probably thinks of me.
‘Wishbone’ finishes lapping up water from the ashtray, gives a yawn then just collapses on top of my paperwork. My secretary smiles at this, than up at me, and tells me I’m ‘A Good Pony’ for doing this.
I still say nothing. She leaves trotting happily, and I stare down at this sleeping creature on my desk. Watching it’s little belly rise and fall, rise and fall, rise and fall, over and over. I decide to finish the rest of the Perrier and watch this little miracle of life for a while longer.
Apartment. Wishbone.
Hours later, I’m back at my apartment. It’s Six-Thirty. Wintergreen has gone home and ‘Wishbone’ is struggling madly as I hold his/her head under the few gallons of tap water in my sink. It’s too weak to put up a real fight, and it’s actually kind of annoying me that I can hear it yapping through the water because I’m too far from the TV to hear every word that the anchormare on Trot News is saying.
The story they’re running, I think, is about the mare I watched outside P. & P. and how her son, who is eight, has now been missing for almost nine hours. They’re interviewing a former Royal Guard who’s saying that after the first forty eight hours most trails go cold and they become near impossible to find alive.
I’m absolutely entrenched with this story. The ponies that they interview are giving these wonderful statistics about foal nappings--about how, in Manehattan one child goes missing per week on average. Sometimes more. And, that they usually go missing in lower income areas of the city. The mother herself came on and begged for her son’s safe return offering two hundred and fifty bits--like that were some immense wealth to anypony--as a reward.
I’m tempted to prank call the show--blocking my number and using a voice scrambler--than lead them on a wild goose chase around Manehattan. Telling them I hid a leg in a trashcan forty paces from the lake in Central Park, another one in a mailbox somewhere downtown, etc, etc, but this feeling quickly passes.
In my hoof, ‘Wishbone’ stops kicking and squirming.
I realize that it was probably a stupid idea anyway, and that they most likely could have traced it back to me anyway.
I’m curious how to dispose of ‘Wishbone’. Is he too big to fit down my toilet like a goldfish? If the toilet clogs would a plumber report me to some animal control centre? Would I have to pay a fine for that? Would anypony in my building care if I dumped his/her little body down the garbage shoot? Does a dead puppy even count as trash?
For now, I just leave him/her in my sink and sit in the Faux-Leather armchair I bought from The Venetian Brothers a few months ago--which came in a wonderful set with a recliner and a sectional, all of them strategically placed in my living room around my television set.
I light a cigar. It's one of only fifty I was allowed to bring back with me when I returned from The Gryphon Kingdom last year with my Fiance; Sapphire Stones--and decide to pour myself a J.& B., neat, before I wonder what, or whom, I’ll be doing tonight.
Dinner. Girls.
I’m having dinner with Price, Flint, and Pierce, Jr.--my boss’s son--at Pastelles. Price has ordered a romaine lettuce salad as an appetizer, Flint the artichoke and peanut soup and, Peirce Jr.--who’s now going by the ludicrous handle of ‘J.R.’ and wishes us all to address him as such--is having the lemon zest hay platter.
J.R., who has just returned from an extended vacation to Las Pegasus, has ordered a bottle of Champagne--Crystal--and though it accentuates none of our meals which we still haven’t gotten (The service here has really gone downhill since the new manager has taken over)--he tells us it’s a ‘Las Pegasus’ thing to do; that it’s ‘In’ to drink Champagne with a meal, and, I imagine this was also the reason he forced us to drink it from tumblers, instead of flutes.
Personally, I sit on a proverbial fence with J.R. Half of me enjoys his company, he's a fine addition to our fold if only because pleasing him means Price, Flint and myself get in the good graces of our boss, Mr. Pierce Sr. The other half of me is enticed to see him squirm and suffer, tied to a chair while I drench him in kerosine and laugh.
I return his kind, good natured, smile when our eyes meet.
“So, listen, babes!” J.R. says. “What are we doing tonight?”
I stare at a table of giggling mares who are staring over at us. They’re quite young--none of them can be older than twenty three--and the way they’re staring at us, with their eyes lidded, they’re practically begging us to talk to them.
They look dumb, impressionable and all four of the mares blush when I smile back at them--flashing my perfect teeth like they were fangs. This excites me. If they blush at my smile, they’ll certainly do more than that when I offer to buy one--or all--of them a drink. This means they’re easy marks and then, suddenly, I can’t decide if that means I’d like to take one of them back to my place for sex, or, something much more morbid.
I down my drink, quickly, then grin.
At least I know what I’m doing tonight.