I Hate It Here

by Kirb

Rating: teen
Tags: Slice of Life, Comedy
Length: 7289

Cynical journalist Marker Hysteria struggles living in Manehattan, dealing with politics, corruption, lies, filth, and love.

Marker Hysteria is a gonzo journalist who writes a weekly column for the local newspaper, "The Talk". As he continues life in Manehattan, he gets to know all the magnificence, the energy, the noise, the filth, the corruption, of the city. As the years go on and he becomes more and more well known, he struggles to deal with the fame and gets involved in several scandals. With help from his assistant, Lemon Drop, and his bodyguard, Azure Rush, where will Marker's column take him?

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2014-04-09 21:25:55 UTC

Let the Torture Begin!

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.

When Life Gives You Lemons...

I Hate It Here

by Kirb

Chapter Two

When Life Gives You Lemons...

5:30 PM, April 17, 2012

Manehattan Central Park

Ah, yes. The park. The one place where I can go to clear my mind. And my mind definitely needs clearing after what has happened so far today.

After leaving my apartment for the first time in three weeks, the first thing I did was what I normally did every morning I was on the job: go to Sunbucks, the coffee shop. Sure it’s part of a mega-corporate empire which pays most of its workers minimum wage, sure the employees do nothing to hide the fact that they have little to no enthusiasm for their jobs, but they sure have some good coffee.

I went up to the counter and ordered the same thing I did every morning: a cup of straight black coffee with three shots of espresso, hold the hay. Usually the pony serving me gives me 10% off because of my being a regular customer there. Today, however, there was a new worker there who insisted that I not only pay the full price, but that I pay extra--she had heard of my work and thought I was the sadistic moron everypony makes me out to be. I stated that this was against the Sunbucks rules and demanded the 10% off, but because of that she doubled the price and refused to give me my coffee unless I paid it.

What did I do next? Well, some very foul words were exchanged, and let’s just say that I’m now banned from that Sunbucks. Great, now I have to find a new way of waking myself up after only having two and a half hours of sleep the night before. I need to remind myself to do a column on that sometime.

I almost took the subway to the editor’s office, but I instead decided to take the long way there by hoof. I was hoping I’d find a good coffee shop along the way. I didn’t. I kept my head low and my shades on the whole time, to make sure nopony recognized me. Luckily, none did, or if they did, then they had no need to point me out, because they were too busy doing whatever ponies usually do in Manehattan at 10 AM.

Have I told you about my editor yet? I think I mentioned him once in passing, but I never really gave a good description. His name is W. Written Word. I have no idea what the first initial stands for, but I like to believe it stands for “whorehopper” because that’s what he is. He’s got sort of a reddish gray coat, and a mane that is not sure whether it wants to be brown or gray. His cutie mark is an open newspaper with question marks and exclamation points on it. The first thing he always says to me when we talk is, “Where’s my column?” Though he sometimes claims he cares for my well-being, I know the only thing he really cares about is the column.

When I finally met with Mr. Word, he gave me a big rant about how I’m “slacking off,” “losing touch” and all sorts of clichés. He then showed me a picture of me on my first day of work as a journalist, eight years ago, and asked me something like, “What happened to the Marker Hysteria I used to know?” I still vaguely remember my first day. I was young, I was handsome, I had a good haircut and a fairly good nerve. I would always walk into work every day with the same clueless smile on my face and wearing nothing but a tie around my neck. I told Mr. Word that the old Marker Hysteria died as soon as he stopped covering bands and celebrities and started focusing on real issues.

Mr. Word told me that my next assignment was to cover the royal wedding. Yes, apparently Princess Celestia’s adopted niece or whatever, Cadence, will be getting married to Shining Armor, the captain of the Royal Guard. Though I tried my hardest to make sure Word knew that I wasn’t a crappy gossip journalist, he had already made up his mind.

I stormed out of his office in a fury, but didn’t get far as the lack of sleep finally kicked in and I passed out right in the middle of the hall. Several hours later, I was awakened by the smell of fresh coffee, as Word’s secretary had prepared a pot. As much as I wanted to leave and as bitter as the coffee wound up being, who was I to deny a fresh cup?

And so here we were. If that was too long for you to read, I’ll sum it up in one sentence: I had to write a column in less than a week pretending I cared about the wedding of two ponies I didn’t and still don’t care about, and I also had to find a new place to get coffee.

As you can tell, I had a lot on my mind when I walked through the park. I wasn’t completely alone, of course. There were other ponies abounding in the park. Two lovers were kissing by the fountain, fillies and colts were running through the bushes, and the old stallions and mares were playing chess underneath a tree.

While I walked, I noticed a filly sitting alone on a bench. She was faced away from me, so I couldn’t get her full details, but I could see some things. She was very young, probably eight years old. Her coat was a pale yellow and her mane was two tones of green. She didn’t appear to have a cutie mark. As I continued on, the filly glanced up at me. A yellow horn sat on her forehead, and her cyan eyes shot a hopeless, abandoned glance directly at my face.

I almost felt tempted to ask her, “Why aren’t you playing with the other fillies and colts?” but I knew that in Manehattan, everybody minded their own business, and it might have blown my cover, so I just looked back at the road I was on.

As the sun began to set and the sky lit up bright red, I decided to turn back and go home. During my walk back through the city, however, I felt a peculiar feeling. You know that feeling when you think you’re being followed? Yeah, that’s what I felt like. I’m sure it was just nothing, though.

…

5:45 PM, April 18, 2012

Manehattan Central Park

Well, it was clear that my assignment wasn’t going to go away if I put it off, so I finally decided to come up with some ideas on what I’m going to write about for my piece on the wedding. Problem is, the juices of inspiration had run completely dry. Obviously, it was too late to go into Canterlot and grab an interview with the couple, so I wasn’t going to do that. Since all the rest of the royalty lived in Canterlot, I couldn’t get an interview with them, either. And I couldn’t speculate about conflicts going on in their relationship, because as I said, I’m not a gossip journalist.

The sun was setting, so I decided to return to my apartment. As I started heading home, however, I again felt the feeling that I was being followed. I knew this time that it wasn’t just my paranoia, because this was the second time it had happened. This time, just like the last, the feeling stopped at the edge of the city. I guess whoever--or whatever--was following me must have gotten scared off.

…

5:35 PM, April 19, 2012

Manehattan Central Park

My tape recorder has been missing for the past few days, so if I come up with an idea on the spot I can’t record it. Luckily, that isn’t really a problem since I don’t have any ideas for my piece. That in itself is pretty bad, though, because it is due in two days and I have not made any progress on it so far.

The feeling returned again as I was walking back home, but this time it didn’t just stop at the edge of the city, and instead followed me all the way to the apartment complex. I finally stopped in my tracks outside the building and turned around to see a young unicorn filly standing behind me.

“What are you doing? I know you’ve been following me. Now scram!”

I turned back around and approached the door, ready to turn in for the night, when something comes to me. That was the same filly I had seen at the park two days ago! I turn around again, but she was gone.

…

5:40 PM, April 20, 2012

Still no closer to finishing my column, or even starting it, for that matter. I stayed inside my apartment all morning long, and while I have started the column several times, I have not even gotten close to finishing it. The result of these beginnings without endings is a growing pile of crumpled papers in the trash can next to my desk.

I decided to go back to the park today. Sure, it hadn’t helped me in the past few days, and it didn’t help me today, but I knew that the filly would be there, and I needed to figure out what she wanted and why she kept following me. So as usual, I stayed for an hour or so and then left. The feeling returned; I knew she was behind me, but when I turned around, nopony was there. I continued walking non-stop until I arrived at my apartment complex. I walked up the stairs, but this time the feeling continued, and I could hear little hoofsteps struggling to keep up, and heavy breathing like the panting of a little filly who hadn’t walked up such a large flight of stairs before. Finally, I stopped right before my apartment.

“You know,” I said, “if you keep following me like this, I might think you’re some kind of weird stalker.”

No sound.

“Hey, I know you’re around here. I know you’ve been following me tonight, and I know you’ve been following me for days. So come out and tell me what you want.”

After a few seconds, the filly emerged from the shadows. She struggled to look me directly in the eye. I pushed my sunglasses to my forehead, but that didn’t seem to help.

“Um… mister… you dropped this…”

Her horn lit up with a bright blue glow and something emerged from a saddlebag of hers, surrounded by a magical aura. She set it down gently on the floor, and I immediately realized that it was my tape recorder.

“Wow, I’ve been missing this for days. I don’t know what to say, really…”

I looked up to see that she had begun retreating back down the stairs.

“Hey, wait!”

She stopped and glanced up at me. I could tell by the hopeless look in her eyes that she hadn’t had a good upbringing.

“Come back up here, I’d like to talk to you.”

The filly slowly turned around and walked back up to the top of the stairs.

“What’s your name?”

She looked away and didn’t answer my question.

“Um, my name is Marker Hysteria.”

She still looked away, incredibly shy. I could see it would be tough to talk to this one. That’s when I noticed something that I hadn’t before. She was incredibly thin for ponies of her age range, so I guessed that she was suffering from malnutrition and needed food.

“Hey, kid. Ya want some food? You look like you haven’t eaten in days.”

The filly still didn’t respond. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the keyring. As soon as I opened the door, however, the filly followed me in.

“Don’t you think your parents might get worried?” I asked as I shut the door. “Y’know, with you running off, following a complete stranger into his apartment? I’d feel bad if I didn’t at least call them to say you’re okay.”

She looked down sadly, not saying a word, and though I had not turned the light on, I could see the red fill her cheeks.

“No? Fine. Just don’t tell them you were here when you get back. I don’t want police on my doorstep for fillynapping.”

I shut the door and turned on the light, since it was already dark outside. After taking off my overcoat, I walked to the small refrigerator in the corner of the room and opened it to reveal only a small salad inside. Guess I should’ve gone shopping sometime this week, but this would work for now. I shut the door and looked back to find that the filly was already sitting by the table.

“Do you want some salad? It’s all I have, really…”

The filly nodded and I brought it to the table. I pushed the salad in front of her. She glanced down at the salad, then up at me with a questioning look.

“Nah, have as much as you want. I don’t need any.”

A large smile formed on the filly’s face, which she then plunged into the salad.

…

10:20 PM

“No, no, no!”

I crumbled up another piece of paper and threw it into my ever-growing pile by the trashcan. I swear, I was using so much paper now that soon I might have to buy more. I turned back to my desk, grabbed a new sheet of paper to write on, and with pen in mouth, I was almost ready to begin writing another draft of my thoughts on the royal wedding.

“Mister Hysteria?”

The noise came from my right side. I looked over my shoulder to see the filly staring at me with her cyan eyes that could make even the toughest of ponies shed a tear.

“What is it that you keep writing?”

She pointed to the pile of papers.

“Oh, those. Well, I’m trying to write a column for the newspaper, and it’s supposed to be about the upcoming Canterlot Wedding. Only problem is, I have no idea what to write.”

I turned again to the filly, who had a blank look on her face.

“Oh. I guess I have to explain this further. You see, I’m a journalist, and my job is to write a weekly column in a newspaper…”

“No, no, no, I got that. I was just confused because I don’t remember seeing your name in any of the local papers.”

“Ah. Well, I’m not very popular in this town. The really popular ones are covering flower shows and celebrities and junk, but not I.”

“So what type of writing do you do?”

“Gonzo journalism. I will look deeper into current events and issues than other writers will, and add my own opinions and thoughts into it.”

“Hmm.”

After a short pause, I said, “Say, shouldn’t you be in bed now?” and pointed to the clock with my left forehoof.

“Oh, okay. I’ll just go back home…”

“No, no. Don’t worry, you can stay here tonight. I can tell you don’t want to have to walk all the way back there, especially at night.”

“And with the stairs.”

I chuckled. “The stairs are one thing, they start out painful but you get used to them. Manehattan at night is something completely different; you can never get used to it because it’s always so unpredictable.”

When I approached the filly, she was already in bed. I pulled up the covers, knowing that she probably hadn’t slept in a bed for weeks or months.

“Say, you never did tell me your name.”

“Oh, didn’t I? Um, my name is Lemon Drop.”

“Lemon Drop. Hm. Well, goodnight, Lemon Drop.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Hysteria.”

I turned away and walked back towards my desk. But then something hit me. I glanced back over and saw her sleeping in my bed.

She was sleeping in my bed.

In my bed.

My bed.

Damnit! I’ve been cheated again.

In the Bonds of Holy Crap!

I Hate It Here

by Kirb

Chapter Three

In the Bonds of Holy Crap!

10:30 AM, April 21, 2012

Marker’s Apartment

I woke up this morning with a splitting headache as if it had been pressed against a board of wood the whole night. Turns out that was sort of true; when I opened my eyes, I discovered that I had fallen asleep on my desk. I groaned as I lifted myself off the desk. Looking around the room, I saw Lemon Drop still asleep in my bed. That’s right, I let her in last night and she slept there while I was still trying to write my next column. Wait…

I quickly looked down at my desk. There were many sheets of paper, but none of them had words.

“No, no, no!”

I pushed the papers aside, hoping that somehow I had stored a draft of it underneath them. No such luck. At that moment I heard a groaning noise behind me. I looked to my left again to see Lemon stirring in the bed. Her hooves stretched up in the air as she let out a loud yawn. I have to admit, that was pretty cute. This, however, brought up the question of what I was going to do with Lemon. I couldn’t put her back on the streets again, that would be cruel of me. But at the same time, I couldn’t let her stay with me. She wasn’t my daughter and I didn’t have any legal rights over her. I decided I would put her back on the streets, but give her some money so that she could buy food for herself.

I got up and walked over to my bed. When Lemon opened her eyes, she looked directly at me and smiled.

“Wow, you’re a late sleeper. Just like me.”

Lemon opened her mouth as if she was going to say something, but was interrupted by the noise of her tummy growling.

“You’re hungry, aren’t you?” I chuckled. “I’ll go buy some breakfast and a cup of coffee from the restaurant downstairs.”

Oh yeah, I forgot to mention earlier. There is a small restaurant on the ground floor of my apartment building. I never usually go down there for food--often times it tastes worse than one’s own feces--but their breakfast isn’t half bad, and damn do they have some good coffee.

“What would you like? Their menu consists of pancakes, bagels, cereal, waffles, eggs, hay bacon, hash browns, and some fruit.”

“Um… I’ve never really had much of any of those, so I don’t know how they taste.”

“Ah, I see. Well, why don’t you come down with me? You can see it all for yourself.”

“Okay.”

…

11:00 AM

Lemon and I returned to my apartment with a platter full of food in her grip. She gently set it on the table and removed the top. I was a little surprised--I hadn’t seen her order food for herself, so I wasn’t expecting to see some of everything on her platter. Lemon noticed my reaction.

“I haven’t had any of these, so I got a little of everything to see what I like.”

“Are you sure you can eat all that?”

“I haven’t had a decent meal for days, except for the salad you fed me yesterday, so I could use a lot of this. Besides, I figured I would share them with you, Mr. Hysteria.”

“Oh.”

Damn, this kid was incredibly generous. How am I supposed to let her down? Whatever, now wasn’t the time to think about it. Now was the time to eat.

“So, Mr. Hysteria, why do you always wear that jumpsuit and trenchcoat?”

“Well, the things I report about are liable to upset many ponies. I have been beaten up before by some groups who recognize me as a journalist. Because of that, I don’t want to get public recognition, so I always wear clothing that mostly covers me up. I chose the trenchcoat because it looks cool, but I also wear the black jumpsuit to make sure nopony sees my cutie mark.”

“Oh, you mean like the stuff on your tape recorder.”

“Yeah… Wait, you listened to my tape?”

“Yes, I did. I figured out many things about you from those tapes.”

“Really? Like what?”

“For one thing, Mr. Hysteria, I discovered that you are twenty-nine years old, never use a typewriter because your hooves are too big, and also that you are a very troubled soul with a disturbed state of mind. I have also heard some of the notes you have taken for your column.”

“You made sure not to record over them, right kid?”

“Of course! I know how to use a tape recorder.”

“You know a lot of stuff, don’t you kid? Tell me, how do you learn all of it? I mean, I can’t imagine that you go to school, what with your financial state…”

“Well, I still go to school. I just don’t actually enter. I watch the other students take their classes through the windows, and I try to pick up as much from the lessons as I can. When the other children see me, they’ll chase me away.”

“Ah. So, you’re sort of an outcast?”

“Yeah.”

“I was an outcast when I was a young colt at my school. It wasn’t for the same reasons, though. I was the weirdo of my class from grade school to high school. I eased up a bit during college, where everybody was a weirdo and I was just one of the crowd. Shows that things change as the years go by.”

“Do they? I feel that they stay the same. The rich will stay rich, the poor will stay poor, the corrupt will continue to hold the power, and the good will continue to be ignored.”

Damn, she’s good. Lemon has a lot of insight for a kid. It’s a shame I’m making her leave. I looked down and realized that we had completely finished the breakfast.

“Man, that was good!” Lemon wiped the crumbs off her mouth and picked up a glass of orange juice with her magic. I raised my glass about to drink down the orange juice when Lemon spoke again.

“I propose a toast… to Marker Hysteria’s crusades in journalism!”

“Hear hear!”

Lemon and I drank down our orange juice. Guess there was no delaying the inevitable now. I got up and walked over to where I had hung my jacket. Reaching into the pocket, I pulled out a pouch of money. I emptied about half of it onto the table. I knew I had more, and that I would get paid later the day for my column.

“Alright, Lemon, come here.”

Lemon trotted over with a smile on her face. I almost had second thoughts, but I made sure to stick to my plan.

“Okay, here you go.” I handed the filly the bits. “This should be enough for you to buy some books to study from, and also a good amount of food.”

Lemon looked up at me, with an expression as if to say, “Really? You gotta be kidding me.”

“Look, kid, I would let you stay if I could, but I can’t. I don’t have the time or the patience to take care of a kid, and right now I really have to get writing on my next column about the royal wedding. So take the money and go, because I--”

At that instant, an incredibly loud siren started sounding outside. I ran to the window and pulled it open. Ponies were running everywhere in the streets, panicking as if the world was about to end.

“What’s going on?”

I ran back to my desk and turned on the phonograph, changing its settings to pick up radio signals. I switched through the radio stations.

“...the royal wedding has been ruined, Canterlot has been invaded…”

“...changeling forces have broken through the force field around Canterlot…”

“...Princess Celestia has been knocked unconscious and taken prisoner, ponies everywhere are in a panic…”

“...Queen Chrysalis of the changeling empire has been sucking the life out of Shining Armor for months in disguise as Princess Cadence…”

Suddenly, I could feel inspiration flowing through me, like blood flows through my veins. I picked up my jacket and pulled out my tape recorder. I needed to take some notes. Without pause, I pushed the “record” button.

“Saturday, April 21, 2012. The sirens are blaring through the streets like a marching band at a hoofball game. But even those sirens aren’t nearly as loud as the hundreds of ponies running for their lives. The reason, as far as I’m able to infer, is because Canterlot has been invaded by changelings and our beloved Princess Celestia has been knocked out and taken prisoner by the changelings’ ruler, Queen Chrysalis.

“The changelings have been our enemies for years, and I suppose they have finally taken to the attack, in what will doubtlessly be called the Changeling Invasion. The princesses have control of the history books, after all, and if they want it called the Changeling Invasion, that’s what it will be called. Because there’s going to be Changeling blood splattered all over Canterlot like some strange expressionist painting. And you know something? It’s not their fault.

“The changeling queen is only about a hundred years old at most--her body keeps being destroyed, but her mind is preserved as part of the grand hive, so every time she emerges, she has a new body but the same mind. Now consider this: how is a maximum hundred-year-old queen able to defeat a princess who has been around for over two thousand years? Well, let’s face the facts: she isn’t. But no one even bothered to check to see if it was possible before it happened. They just accept it because Celestia says it’s possible.

“Queen Chrysalis is a weak, easily-broken leader who thinks she is grander than she really is. The changelings are a terrible, sadistic race of parasites that live only by sucking the love out of everypony they encounter. They have no emotions; they have no capability of falling in love themselves. When speaking about them, I realize now that they are not actually animals. Animals instinctively adapt to an environment once they move there, but changelings do not. They just encounter a place, attack it, and suck the love out of everypony there, and once fully drained they turn the ponies into more of them, and multiply, until all the love is consumed. There is another species that does this: a virus. Changelings are a disease, a plague, a curse on Equestrian life, and Princess Celestia believes that she is the cure.

“Only she isn’t. No, she is just another part of the disease, another organism of the bacterial infection in Equestria, another piece in the puzzle that will result with the destruction of Equestria. Celestia knew that she could destroy Chrysalis if she wanted to, but instead she decided to let herself get taken advantage of. As far as I can tell, it is doubtlessly to further train her protege, Twilight Sparkle, for an assignment that is currently unknown. Yes, why take matters into your own hooves and save the country with the power you have, when instead you can be a lazy rumphead and let the enemy take over while hoping that an OCD teenager will somehow save the day?

“I say this is a bad lesson for other ponies in Equestria, but I know that they won’t do what Celestia does. She preaches about other things anyway, and somehow all the times she has chickened out, screwed over Equestria and just sat around on her rump and did nothing, the ponies still love her! ‘Do as I say, not as I do!’

“I’m sorry. Is that too harsh of an observation for you? Does that sound too honest? Fuck you. If anyone in Equestria gave two bushels of apples about honesty, this wouldn’t be happening right now. I wouldn’t be seeing ponies running through the streets, panicking that the country is about to be destroyed. Enjoying this? Good. You earned it. With your silence.

“You see, this is how it works: The Princesses do whatever the hell they want to, and you don’t do anything. Your boss does what he wants. The jerkoff at the local coffee shop, the terrible parents of little foals who wind up on the streets, the papers that lie to you because they can. They do what they want, and you pay them to do it. This ‘invasion’ was paid for from bits out of your own pockets. They have the power to do something to prevent it, but they don’t, and you pay them anyway. You must really dig when ponies in authority they never earned lie to you, and trick you. It’s happened a million times before, but you never learn, do you?”

I paused. I turned off my tape recorder to listen. Everything was silent.

“The sirens have stopped.”

I listened closely. The ponies on the streets had stopped screaming, too. There was a general murmur, but otherwise, nothing else.

“I am so tired…”

My hoof went to my forehead and I fell face-first onto the floor. Everything went black.

…

“Wake up!”

My ears twitched at a noise. It was so distant that I almost wasn’t sure I heard it, but then it came again.

“Wake up, Mr. Hysteria!”

Then it all came back to me. Lemon. The invasion. The column.

I immediately shot up.

“Shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit…”

“Ah, you’re awake!” Lemon greeted me with her normal happy tone of voice. “You have a telephone from your editor!” She stretched the telephone to reach my ear. I prepared for the anger on the other end, and received… praise?

“Mark! I got some news for you. Your little assistant came over here today with your column. I read it and I immediately stopped the presses! It was too good to wait until tomorrow to send. We re-issued today’s paper, with your column on the front page!”

“You did WHAT?!”

“I know! It’s great, isn’t it? Your column will now be the front page headline on the Saturday papers! You’re famous again, man!”

I turned to Lemon.

“You typed up my column?”

Lemon backed away.

“Well, as you were talking I sort of, um…”

“No!” I looked back at the phone. I didn’t want to vent my anger at Lemon, only at Mr. Word. “Hell no! I don’t want to be famous again! You miserable whore-hopping, rump-licking…”

“Hey, get some perspective, Mark! You could make thousands of bits from this!”

“...father-stabbing, mother-raping, cat-killing--how many thousands?”