'Racham the Rake,' they used to call me. 'Racham the Reprobate.' It was the characters I played back when I was more inclined to play such parts. It was my specialty. The pony everypony loved to hate. A good villain could move a moral audience. A good villain reaffirms the morals and righteousness of the crowd. If they hate the evildoer with all their heart, and even look askance at the actor, then the character has succeeded.

I used to be somepony on the stage, somepony the playgoers of the upper class could speak of in complimentary tones while execrating the characters I played. Perhaps there were soft whispers questioning why I so often played such terrible creatures. And, indeed, how well I played such monsters.

There's no secret. It takes a truly good pony to play a bad one. The good pony, the honestly and genuinely good pony, knows all that is right and proper. They know the taboos and transgressions and trespasses. They know how to do them just right to inflame the sensibilities of the population. Goodness is not naivete; real goodness is knowing the right and knowing what bad is. It's surveying the whole moral landscape, and choosing forever to do right.

I am very, very good, and I can act very, very bad. It's equally praiseworthy and worthy of scorn. But I had my moments, my triumphs, my wonderful glories treading the boards. I confess, quite freely, it was luck, pure luck, at the beginning. I got a chance because I got lucky. I was with him at the very end.

The great legendary performer, who even non-playgoers know. Cranky Doodle Donkey. I was there at his last performance, with him reprising his famous turn as Othello the Zebra. He was brilliant as ever, and it was my privilege to play his betrayer. My big break, my big role. Iago. I was hated from the cheap seats to the pricey private boxes. We played our roles to the hilts, me seeing just how skillfully the old fellow played a pure and good stallion and he seeing how perfectly I represented the most horrible stallion on the stage. He said he was proud of me. “I may be retiring, but the craft is in good hooves, Mister Racham.”

The reviews seemed to confirm it. Beside the photos of him and his wife Matilda, a perfectly lovely jenny who was there at every performance and who I imagine is much like an older version of Minister Blueblood's wife, were the reviews. Reviews about me. A triumph, a shocking display of depravity. No actor had ever played Iago so authentically.

Surely, most of the credit went to him. I was standing beside a living legend in his last performance. I could have been a plank of wood and earned curtain calls. I've never thought much of my skills. But every other pony in the world thought I was a genius. I think I may have kept acting to prove them wrong, earning honor after honor to prove me wrong. I've got the little statues to prove there's something to my acting.

My career was not as long as the esteemed Mister Donkey, not even close. It was not for lack of success, or a lack of prestige. I was not discouraged by folk taking umbrage at my choice of roles; I relished that. It told me well that my society was worthy of respect, filled with folk who were disgusted and horrified by evil. I wondered why the stage held its charms and fascinations for me but never held me tight.

I know now, of course. The stage is a fine mistress, but like Lady Fortuna she is the world's harlot. Every actor and understudy is her lover, the audience ravishes her with their eyes and causes her to shudder with orgasmic delights with their stomping applause. I held the slippery whore with all my heart but found her forever eluding me at every turn. Mister Donkey knew the secret.

His mistress was a mere platonic companion. He didn't give in to her insincere silver tongue, her shallow promises of power and prestige. He got them all, but he never embraced them and let them define him. Matilda completed and defined him. He had a real partner. She sustained him behind the arch by giving him love from in front of it.

I learned this later, as I relied on him as a mentor. I was a new-minted star, and he had time to fill. I realize I was an annoyance to a tired old jack looking to spend more time with his good lady wife. But nothing can tame the exuberance of youth when it finally desires to learn from the wisdom of the old. I had the urge to know, to understand why he had been so fulfilled over the length of his career. I was... happy knowing I could move an audience to heights of hate. But hardly satisfied in the limelight.

“That's half the trouble with actors these days,” He told me, while sipping on a cup of hot tea with honey. “The other half is a complete lack of proper and regular training. All these little nothings running around trying out this idiotic 'method' thing. Ridiculous. You learn a role, you learn what's expected and you do it. You pour all you have into doing it and you floor that audience!”

“Yes, you've said as much in the past,” I said, hiding an amused smile behind by own teacup. His wife made a delicious pot of tea.

“He's said it to me more often. It's like listening to a seashell now, mostly something to soothe me off to sleep,” Matilda said with that light, braying laugh she had. She was sitting with us, also enjoying some tea of her own.

Cranky looked stung but still smiled at the needling. “But like I said, half the problem is these young actors think so much of the stage, think that all the promises are true. They believe the reviews, the fans, the praise. These little fools. I never thought you'd be one of them, Mister Racham.”

“I assure you, I'm... a bit better than them. I'm not throwing myself at the peers and dignitaries. I'm not going to parties to suck up canapes and expensive wine. I don't buy more than I can afford. I'm holding to what skill I think I have. I enjoy seeing the hatred of my viewers, knowing they're good at heart. But acting has... eluded my understanding. How did you last so long with such love for the craft?” I asked him, perhaps pleading more than I intended.

“Don't let the stage rule you, it's not a kind lover. She's a heinous harlot who will use you up, chew your bones and spit out your gristle,” Cranky told me, with a little extra gravel in his famously growling voice.

“That's not a new one but he doesn't use it much now that he's retired,” Malitla said calmly, sipping her tea.

“It's true. The stage is a grand place, but it's cold and lonely out there. It's worse when the crowd is cheering. They're not there for you, to give to you. They're there to take from you, to take the entertainment you give, judge you sharply and then praise the character you're playing and not you,” Cranky told me, his eyes boring into mine.

“O-oh, I suppose I have felt a bit... siphoned...” I told him, rather stricken. I had certainly hit a nerve, but was mining quite a lode of emotion and information.

“You need something that will anchor you... someone that will anchor you,” he said, turning a surprisingly soft gaze on his wife. “They keep your head at a good size, they come there for you and you alone, and they soothe you through the hard times.”

I had often envied many things about the old legend. But in that moment I envied him his wife. If that was the secret he had a good one. She had carried him through a triumphant career, and that certainly must have taken skill. “Someone to love, then...it seems so simple.”

“It isn't,” Matilda said to me, looking very serious. “You need someone you really love. You have to trust them so completely you'd let them hold your whole future in their hoof. They need to be patient, willing to let you spend hours at a time ignoring them while you practice, knowing you'll miss birthdays, anniversaries, family dinners and other special occasions because you're locked into a performance schedule. They need to live around your schedule and you need to make them the center of your universe when you're free. Your time isn't your own, it's theirs, because they sacrifice their own time for your art. Their life has to mold around yours, and you have to mold yourself to them. You think other couples become one? Amateurs,” she scoffed, taking a placid sip of tea.

Cranky looked at his wife with a smile. “She never said that to me. She didn't have to. She's completely right, Mister Racham. You're not looking for any partner. You're looking for the perfect one, the one that becomes your whole world while you become theirs.”

“And that will make me satisfied in acting?” I asked of them, while the realization sank in. I needed some mare that didn't exist, a mare that would be able to accept my schedule and to whom I would be capable of devoting every free part of my life.

“Are you crazy? You don't get satisfied acting. You get good, and you get used to it, and you plug away at it until you get fed up and retire, unless you burn out or get arrested,” Cranky said, with a little rattle of his teacup on his saucer.

“Now, you know the doctor warned you to keep your blood pressure down. You already lost your mane,” Matilda noted, calmly.

“That's because of too much testosterone. You don't seem to mind my excessive testosterone when it comes to... well, maybe not in front of the kid,” Cranky said, self-consciously adjusting his gold-colored toupee.

“I... think I get the idea...” I said. I hadn't wanted to imagine the two old folks going at it, but honestly, it wasn't so bad. It was a little bit funny but... I imagined there was a lot of love to it. I wanted that too.

“Now that we've thoroughly traumatized this poor fellow, would you care for a cookie or brownie?” Matilda asked me.

“No, thank you, Mrs. Donkey, I should get along. I've bothered you kind folks long enough,” I said, finishing my tea and rising. In an effort to not be a slob I levitated my cup and saucer into the kitchen, setting them beside the sink.

“It's never a bother, Mister Racham,” Matilda told me.

“Maybe a little bother...” Cranky said, sotto voce.

“Cranky!” Matilda cried in a chastising tone.

“I said 'a little'! That's not so bad...” Cranky said, looking properly contrite.

I remember that time. And all the other times like it. I leaned on him in my career, as I did at the very outset. It was because I didn't have what he had. I didn't have my own version of Matilda, not that I held out much hope of that. It wasn't just that what she had told me seemed impossible to find, but there was something more to it than that. Something far... darker. A bit dramatic perhaps, but I could only regard it as such.

I was and am a good pony, a very, naturally, organically good pony. I hold that ideal in my heart, and I live it out every day. But there remains some kind of drive. Something I know is wrong, but I can't stop myself from finding the idea appealing. I want to be out in public, with eyes all around, watching me as a sexually violate the woman I love. It would give the impression of rape but the reality of it would be a completely loving act... between two depraved folk.

I am not depraved, but I can imagine it. I can picture the screams, the wailing, the thrashing and tears, the shocked reactions of the others, the anger and disgust, all while I know, while she knows, it's a real act of love. Another performance. Feeling of hate from the audience.

I seem like such a strange creature. I am strange, yet I am still good. The truly good creature wishes to only do good, and should be willing to accept the necessary and prescribed punishment for their crimes and civil violations. If it is within me to think on depravity and consider it sexually exciting I should be willing to take the punishment for my trespasses. Perhaps that is a bit much but... if I was content with my depraved thoughts, that would be one thing. But I want more. I want to see the looks on their faces...

I don't wish to be pure, just purified. It's impossible to be eternally good in every way; even the Princesses slip, as they say. Our Mother was not perfect but she made a perfect world, by and large. It is enough to purify the self after transgressions to prove real goodness. One bad act doesn't make someone bad any more than one good act makes someone good. Both are judged by effort. It takes an effort to be bad, just as much as good. Taking the time and effort is a sign of true malevolence.

All my thoughts were held in such a fashion as I fretted and strutted my time on the stage. I relished the hate and savored the good reviews but I knew it would never last. As with everything else Cranky had been right. Without a perfect lover to keep me going I was sucked dry by the stage. The shadowy faces that sat in judgment of me beyond the Proscenium Arch drew the strength out of me and powered their cheers with it. I only grew to know how hollow I was inside as the adulation reverberated inside of me like I was an empty bottle.

I couldn't afford more vices than the sexual fantasies I already had. There was no room in my life for drugs, drink or temporary sexual affection. I neither wanted nor needed such transient solutions to a genuine problem. However, the allure of temporary solutions is their immediacy. Real solutions will fix everything, but always at some nebulous and uncertain 'later date.' Ephemeral answers have a certain expediency. As soon as the drink is drunk or the pill swallowed the trouble vanishes, only to return later, strong as ever.

My career was not bad, it was merely not as long as my august mentor's turn. I plugged away for years as a headliner on the stage, and as a small post-logo credit on some television programs, typically described with the higher-than-merely-appearing appellation 'Guest-Starring.' I did a good job in all of them, I made a striking television villain. Multiple takes meant I could refined my dastardly performance into a poniard-sharp thing that struck at the heart of every good viewer.

Television, I think... it was surely television that killed me. Killed the actor that once strutted proudly across the stage and shocked all the viewers with my wickedness and incivility. I was broadcast across the nation, and into a few others besides on those television programs. I reached more than the several classes of highbrows that made it out to the theater proper. I reached the mass of folk. They thought much of me, and some even took the opportunity to write. Most were as I expected and which I relished, excoriation and execration of my depiction of vile villainy. But not all. Not all...

I burned the letters that came in from the strange, disease-minded madponies that complimented my portrayal of evil without the slightest hint of qualification or reluctance. They spoke in laudatory tones about my unsettling manner and antisocial stances. They found my malevolence... proper. Right. Admirable.

They said that villains make stories; it's entirely true. A good villain makes a story run most of the time, and the ultimate punishment or destruction of the villain is what creates the highest climax and makes the story most wonderful. To leave a villain alive and unpunished would be blasphemy, insanity. Yet the fools that wrote me their disgusting letters lamented that my character had been caught at all, that he should have terrorized and violated more. All for their sickening amusement.

That was the moment the actor died. When one letter too many came in stating that good is wrong and evil is exciting. That was the day I drank three bottles of wine and awoke, throbbing-headed and bathed in my own vomit. They were out there, I realized, and I was feeding them. Surely, such fiends also existed in the theater audiences but they had the tact and good taste to disguise their feelings. They had never made me aware. Once I knew, I could never stop knowing.

Looking into the cycloptean gaze of the camera's lens or the sea of faceless masks beyond the thin skin of air separating play from playgoers I could only see darkness. A pulsing, beating vileness surging like ichor in place of blood through the veins of some in the crowd. I half imagined I could see the writhing black lines of icy foulness under their skin if they spoke too highly of my skill at a villainous turn before quickly confessing their disdain for the character. Some rag-paper scandal-sheets stated I had a sudden mental break and quit out of crazed pique. Others blamed my increasing use of alcohol, falsely saying I became unreliable and incompetent. Some lied even more basely and claimed it was ego that eventually got me tossed away.

I left on my own. Not because of insanity, drunken incapability or arrogant demands. I trotted away from the stage because I knew I was feeding the wrong sort of folk. It was true, I had been drinking in the evenings, but that was to stop thinking about the folk I could not stand. I never lost my skill and I remained humble until the end, when I gave my last performance, took my last bow, and walked away from the limelights and velvet curtains. I was resolved to never tread boards again.

I had built a tidy savings; headlining actors are paid well when they work in large theaters and for good companies, and though the wages for neophyte television actors is not exorbitant, for the lauded 'Guest-Star' it is not that bad at all. Careful planning, investing and living meant I would not starve or be homeless while I worked to find a new circumstance. What it meant primarily was my time was my own, and I needed to fill it.

I did not rush to Cranky and tear out my intestines on his doorstep. Matilda would hardly have been pleased with cleaning up the mess. I had little enough call to bother the poor old couple when I still acted. My early and rumor-shrouded retirement would have made for poor conversations over tea.

I stayed in a great deal at first, cocooned in my little dwelling with my awards and reviews, reading classics and watching what television wasn't banal or off-putting. Programs for children have an odd charm. They are so pure, so honest. There is no need to read subtext or dither over meanings. They embody the virtues of genuine goodness, even showing the consequences for bad behavior and the chastisement of the guilty to make them good again.

But remaining locked inside can never be a solution forever. I had to go and wander the streets, if only to breathe in the air of the city and become lost in a crowd. With none speaking to me I couldn't know if any of them were one of them. I didn't have to wonder if the vile ichor of evil intentions were creeping through their body, seething through their polluted brains like oil and making them imagine ugliness as good. I could well imagine that they were all good folk, the usual, normal supporters of social stability and peace. Lost in a crowd I was surrounded by default assumptions, by those who loved and laughed and hated the characters I had played.

At night, there are no crowds, just long, empty streets, and neon signs pointing out places to be not-so-alone. Most of them were places to get a drink, bars, pubs, cocktail lounges. I learned there was a difference between the various classes. I also learned I was better suited to the cocktail lounge. There exists a better class of inebriates within, plus the occasional piano player, live band or torch singer. Though my penchant had been for a modest vintage to slowly sip away troubles, some cocktails could be made low-potency and worked over for a good bit of time.

Each different lounge had some charm all its own. Some were never changed when the era passed them by, but that was quite well-liked. Some were nearly indistinguishable from more raucous nightclubs or similar. I made every effort to only enter those that were clean, or reasonably so, and which were not populated with the over-served. That still left a wide latitude.

One of those places had service, tired-looking ladies in net stockings and brief black-and-white attire bearing trays and gamely imitating smiles for a few bits. Actors always know sincerity and insincerity. The place seemed warm and welcoming, the imitation friendliness likely a consequence of the company and not the women, so I made it a regular haunt. One night, over a Brandy Alexander, I saw her.

She stood tall and proud on her rear legs, strolling very competently and confidently on her high-heeled shoes. She was a vision, her coat the color of gray ash, the fine powdery tone of a coal that has gone out and left only softness behind. I could well imagine she felt as soft as velvet. Her eyes were like ovular sapphires, swimming in a citrine sea. She was broad and strong but still undeniably feminine, with a blocky muzzle that came to a small, subtle point. From perky ears to delicate paws she was... perfect.

I had never thought much about Diamond Dogs before. There were few in acting, mostly due to subtle speciesism rather than a lack of talent. Even during television work I hadn't met that many. Seeing her stole my thoughts, my breath and my heart. I hadn't spoken a word to her and I knew already I would never look at another woman with the same love ever again.

She seemed more tired than all the others. Her temper was short and her eyes betrayed fatigue. She performed her duties admirably, competently. But she did not enjoy any part of it. Least of all, I noticed, when the males got too close to her, or touched her. There was nothing official against it that I could see. I noticed more than a few of the servers being touched and not complaining. But she, that grand Diamond Dog, did not like it.

I often saw her grasped by the other patrons and it incensed me. She did not make much of a matter of it because she needed to keep her job. But it was a miserable thing to see. She didn't deserve it. She wasn't some faceless fantasy creature. She had an identity, a real life that continued beyond the quick gropes and presumptuous touches. She had rights that could be and were violated. She deserved better than that.

One night I got lucky, she was the one to serve me. She was very smooth and efficient as she laid down the snifter and nodded. “Can I get you anything else?” she asked, with the kind of tone that hoped I would not imposed on her more.

“I want to know your name,” I said, simply, slowly swirling the brandy with my magic.

“That's... not really something we offer,” she said, seeming more surprised than upset.

“I don't mean to impose, but I have wanted to know for a while. Call it curiosity, or desperation. I'm not good at playing the needy one, but you control the information I desire, and I must ask, for I cannot lose this opportunity now that I has come,” I said, with a slight smile.

“I sort of noticed you. You're not exactly hard to miss,” She said, trying her best to not be interested. She was no natural actress, but that kind of honesty... it was refreshing.

“Will you tell me, or do I stay here alone with a glass of brandy, wondering?” I asked.

“I should let you stew for a while. But you don't seem to be a creep, or a crazy killer. It's probably safe to tell you my name's Hepzibah,” she said with a hint of a smile. Her teeth just showed through, easy to see as she towered over my seated form. White, like polished marble, and perfect.

“May I call you Mam'zelle Hepzibah, or have I ruined any future chance of speaking with you?” I inquired, with my best charming smile.

“I'm honestly just impressed there's a pony out of a walker that knows enough to try and call me Mam'zelle Hepzibah,” she said with a sincere laugh. Her laughter was like music.

“I enjoy the classics, in all things. And I must say, the name suits you,” I said, taking a sip from my snifter.

“Are you hitting on me?” She asked suddenly, growing tense and defensive.

“Nothing so base. I'm asking questions I've wanted answers to. I don't get this chance very often. And I've never been so driven to ask any woman in particular before...” I admitted.

“Is it because I'm a Dog?” she asked after a moment, apropos of nothing.

“Is what because you're a Dog?” I asked back, with a confused tilt of my head.

“Are you trying to hide that you're hitting on me because I'm a Dog, or are you really not doing it because I'm one? I'm not sure which one's more insulting,” she said with a deep, wurfing grunt.

“Is... there an option for 'None of the above'? I'm not interested in making insincere promises in the hope that you'll go home with me, or simply grabbing at you and making you stay quiet for a bigger tip. That you are a Dog never entered into it, not in any way that may have changed my opinion. There is a certain something about you as you that drives me to ask all of this,” I explained, as calmly and politely as possible. If she left, if she didn't believe me... I would have left there, crushed and empty.

She bored into me with those bright sapphire eyes, fixing me with a gaze that burned my soul. She was perfect, even angry and disbelieving. “When I go on break I'll come back and answer some questions,” she said to me, turning away. “If I believe you, I might consider talking to you next time you're here...”

Mam'zelle Hepzibah... Miss Hepzibah, reluctant cocktail waitress and charming Diamond Dog. Funny, open, well-read, perfect. I went back a great deal for her sparkling company, and to learn more about her. As it happened she was there as a matter of expediency. It was the first job that presented itself that allowed her the hours she needed during the day and gave her time to study.

She was a university student at the time, finishing up the last of her medical Doctorate courses. She was planning on being a doctor. With her own two hands she was going to heal the hurts of the world, and for that would do what was required to succeed. When I found out about that, I came to realize a deeper truth.

When Cranky and Matilda told me the key to success was to find the perfect lover, I lamented I never would. Such a perfect mare couldn't possible exist. That was and is true. My perfect mare never existed; the woman who could enrapture me and make me devote myself was never a mare. She was a Diamond Dog.

I did court her. I did help her as much as I could and as much as she would let me. I did want her to do well, and I did follow as she moved from where we had met to a different city to do her residency. But the one thing I never did was openly admit the deep, secret shame in my heart. We made love freely, but it always burned. Like a dark fire roiling at the back of my mind. I wanted it gone, I wanted to confess to her. I was and am a good pony. But honesty is hard when it involves another being.

It took time, but I finally took the leap.

Author's Note

Racham's disdain for the sorts of folks that "fanboy'd" his evil characters reflects how skeevy I find the folks who practically masturbate over how evil characters are. It also feels pathetic, like they have so little in their lives the best they can hope for is to paint their faces white, vomit up misunderstood Camus or similar, and get off on bad things happening in fiction.

Oh, and as for Cranky as an actor is "zebraface" is an homage to Bronystories' idea about cranky as a "Tijuana Zebra", a donkey passed off as a zebra, and that being equivalent to Blackface. But because I'm me, I classed him up, essentially making him the equivalent of Sir Olivier as Othello.

Likewise, Cranky's complaints about how actors are trained is actually modified from "Gus, the theatre cat" from "Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats" by T. S. Eliot. A classic.