I Hate It Here

I Hate It Here

by Kirb

Chapter One

Let the Torture Begin!

April 17, 2012

Marker’s Apartment

So my editor called me up today at about 8 in the morning. Why was he awake that early? I don’t know. I sure know I’m never awake that early, so getting nastily awakened by the noise of a telephone is certainly an annoyance. What did he have to say? That’s a question I do know the answer to.

“We need to talk.”

I was having a mildly paranoid morning already, mostly due to the fact that I hadn’t fallen asleep until 7 AM, so this phone call certainly wasn’t helping. Besides that, the fact I’d only slept an hour was interfering with my hearing, so I thought it was another telemarketer trying to sell something, or some dumb colts pulling a prank.

“Oh really? You call me up at 8 in the morning, a time when nopony, I swear, NOPONY is awake, and your only reason is that you need to talk? Is that it? That’s all? Well, leave! It’s useless! I’ll never buy what you’re trying to sell me! So you can take your miracle towel, or your backwards robe, or whatever it is you want me to buy, and shove it right up your rump!”

“Mark! It’s only me.”

“Ah.” I calmed down almost immediately upon realizing who it was. “So you want to talk? Well, speak.”

I acted completely clueless as to what he wanted to talk about, as if I didn’t know already, but he had me. He knew that I knew exactly what he was talking about.

“You haven’t written a column for three weeks, Mark.”

“What can I say? I needed a break.”

“You already took a vacation this year. Mark, the public wants your column.”

To this, I immediately busted out laughing. “The public wants my column! Really? Do they now? If that’s the case, then why do they hate it so much?”

“...Look, Mark, just… just come to my office.”

I was almost prepared to start mocking him and his tone, but then I heard a click as he hung up.

With that, the phone dropped from my hoof, and I immediately fell back asleep.

…

9:45 AM

I decided to be depressed for a while after only having slept for an additional hour and forty-five minutes. I suppose I shouldn’t have gotten so used to it, so used to not having to write, not having to go out and actually do something, and not constantly being in the public eye. But hey, as they say, there ain’t no rest for the wicked. I had to go back into the city, whether I wanted to or not.

If I could have, I would have stayed in bed all day, but in addition to the threat of losing my job, the sun was also blaring right in my eyes. Damn it, Celestia, you made it this bright on purpose. I hope you find this funny.

I managed to raise my right hoof to the bedside table. Slowly, I used it to pull myself up. I almost dropped right back down on the floor, but I caught myself as I pushed my hooves back into position. Great. Three weeks of being away from other ponies and my muscles have already atrophied. Almost felt like three months, or three years.

Damn, I’m going to miss those weeks.

I stumbled over to my desk. The first thing I saw is a typewriter. The keys were still shiny, the paint wasn’t worn, and it looked like it was brand new, as if nopony had touched it before. This was sort of true. I kept telling myself that one day I’d figure out how to use that thing, but I knew it was a lost cause. My hooves were too big to do it without pushing down multiple keys at once, so unless I got an assistant or something, I’d just have to keep writing these in the traditional method.

In front of the typewriter were my weapons of choice: a slip of paper and a pen. I didn’t have anything to say yet, so I’d use those later. Directly to the right of the typewriter, a phonograph record player sat in the same place it had been every day prior. I approached it and pushed a button. The record that was currently in started playing. A cheerful, merry tune blew from the speakers.

“Get up, get up, get up, get out of the bed, it’s time to rise!”

This was the same song I’d listened to the day before, and the day before, and years before that. It was annoying, it was unfunny, but I loved it anyway. It was always guaranteed to cheer me up.

“So open up your eyes, and see the sunny skies!”

I’m glad I still live on the top floor. I can blast my music as loud as I want and the ponies below can’t do anything about it, but then there is no noise coming from above for me to complain about.

“Get up, get up, get up, get out of the bed and stretch a mile!”

With slightly decreased laziness, I slowly moved my body over to the mirror. Staring back at me in my reflection was a light brown pony with sky blue hair that looked like it hadn’t been combed for months.

“Put on a great big smile, and really make living worthwhile!”

Looking good, Marker. Who am I kidding, I looked horrible. I hadn’t showered for days, there were rings around my yellow eyes almost bigger than the eyes themselves, and I had gained a few extra pounds during my three-week hiatus. But what better way to present myself to my editor?

“Come on, get up! The sun is up in the sky!”

I turned slightly to the side to look at my cutie mark in the mirror. I did this every morning to make sure I wasn’t in some bizarre nightmare where I was in somepony else’s body.

“Come on, get up! The time is starting to fly!”

I breathed a sigh of relief. It was exactly as it should have been: a pair of yellow maniacal eyes and thick black eyebrows staring right back at me, with a red X for a mouth. Still got it.

“Come on, get up! You must be going your way!”

I reached down near my sink and grabbed the toothbrush. Even if I looked horrible, I couldn’t smell horrible too.

“You never can borrow a part of tomorrow for time that is wasted today!”

Damn right. I squeezed the tube of light blue liquid into my toothbrush. As I lifted it up to my teeth, second thoughts went through my head. Do I really want to do this? Can’t I just sleep a little more? Why did I even choose this profession in the first place? Well, journalists don’t have time for second thoughts, and I am a damn journalist.

As I washed my mouth out with water, the instrumental section had begun. I quickly spat into the sink, for I didn’t have much time left before the song finished up. Feeling a lot more energetic, I turned around and walked—no, marched, marched to the beat of the song—towards my closet. Time to suit up.

I used to never wear much clothing at all, apart from the occasional suit and tie for fancy events. But when you’re in a line of work like my own, you have to cover up your identity as much as possible, for there are many ponies who would be happy if you died right there on the spot.

Aha. I found it. Lying on the floor where I had last put it, I reached inside and pulled out a black leather jumpsuit. Finally. I sat down and pulled the tightly-clinging legs up to my own, this time making sure I didn’t put it on backwards like the last time I’d worn this. That was certainly a pain. Once I had reassured myself of that, I shoved my tail through the hole in the back, yanked the shoulder straps up and zipped up the zipper, right as the final chorus came on.

“Come on, get up! The birds are singing a song!”

Now, I couldn’t go out like this. My outfit looked like something you’d find in one of the “special” Manehattan clubs. So I reached in and fumbled for a coat-hanger.

“Come on, get up! The time is rolling along!”

I finally pulled it out. It was a large gray overcoat. I’d had it custom-made at a clothing store on the corner of 5th and Mane. I vaguely recall ordering it as “a replica of a coat similar to the ones worn by enemy sergeants in the first Trans-Equestrian War, hold the collar, and add a hood.” That was a good place. It got taken down for not getting good enough business, and was replaced by another of twelve different bars in the area. The hypocrisy is reeking.

“Come on, get up! It’s such a beautiful day!”

I quickly pulled it on. My portable tape recorder was still shoved underneath the belt, right where I’d left it. I always keep that with me so I can take some notes on the spot if necessary. I don’t know what I’d use those notes for. Maybe my next column, maybe an essay or a memoir, maybe even a novel. I had been thinking about getting a professional writing career outside of journalism.

“You’ll never be wealthy, not even be healthy, unless you get out of the hay!”

As the final chord struck, I looked in the mirror. It felt strange. What with all my maximally-concealing clothes, there seemed to be something… missing. I didn’t feel the need to think about it, though, so I set off out the door and into the halls.

And was quickly greeted by an insufferably bright light.

Sure, the hall lighting wasn’t that bright, but considering how I had my apartment lit, it was certainly a big difference. Within seconds I was back in my apartment. Now I knew what I was missing.

My eyes scanned around the room but soon fell to the table. In the dead center of it sat a pair of black sunglasses. I ran to the table and grabbed them. I slipped them onto my face and kept my hands behind my head until I heard the strap click behind it.

Now fully prepared, I reopened the door and almost stumbled into the hall. I made sure to lock my door before I continued to the stairs. One of the bad things about living on the top floor is all the stairs you have to walk up and down if you want to get anywhere. But hey, I had to lose weight anyway, so a little exercise wouldn’t hurt.

I’m still not sure to this day how many floors there are for this building. I don’t need to keep track. All I know is that the bottom floor leads back to Tartarus, to civilization, and that the top floor is my fortress of solitude for my eyes only. My mind lost track as I walked down the stairs. Walking down the stairs is easy compared to walking up them, but they’re equally painful for different reasons.

Finally I reached the bottom floor. My eyes didn’t glance around at the peeling drywall. My ears didn’t hear the other ponies going about with their business. I was only concentrated on one thing: the revolving doors.

I took a step closer. Can I do it? I must have gone in and out of those revolving doors a thousand times by then, so what was a thousand more going to change?

There was no use debating it, I’d already made up my mind. When I stepped through the revolving doors, I stepped out of everything that was mildly close to me and into a completely different realm.

Manehattan.

The great unknown.

The city of bright lights and magnificentness, of filth and hopelessness. Like most cities.

Carts were passing down the highway. Some were stopped, others must have been going 50 miles per hour. On the sidewalk, there were ponies in every direction, walking through the streets, minding their own business, never talking, never taking notice of anyone or anything around them.

Zombies. Zombies everywhere.

I almost feel tempted to try to talk to someone, but I push the temptation away, for I know that that’s just how things go in Manehattan, and there’s no use trying to change it now.

My name is Marker Hysteria, the scum of Equestria, and damn, I hate it here.