Author's Note

And so dear readers, we come to a place where we earn the tag “dark.” For the first time in all my FimFiction, there is no Beatle song title here, but a song by Red Rider. This is probably one of the darker parts so far. It isn’t gory, that is left for you to provide.

In case you don’t know who The Doctor is, watch episode 100 - Slice of Life. He’s featured prominently, though here we see the other side of who he is.

If the last sentence leaves you puzzled, let me know and I’ll give you a hint.
"Fall Weather Friends."

Lunatic Fritz

”Lunatic Fritz
In the Twilight's last gleaming
This is open season…”
“Lunatic Fringe”
- Tom Cochrane, Red Rider

The sanitarium rose from the wheat fields like a dark, lonely tombstone. A single wide path cut straight away from the front, running three-quarters of a mile straight out to the main road.

It was late in the day and the low orange sun cast the Doctor’s long shadow across the shortcut grass apron that extended 15 feet or so around the building.

As he approached the front door, he stopped and turned, gazing over the vast fields of wheat stretching out in every direction. He stood quietly, his long coat waving softly, and watched as the wheat blew like soft rustling waves on a sea. He turned back to the door and knocked. After a time the sound of hoofsteps could be heard approaching the door. The doorknob clicked and the door opened.

An older gray-haired earth stallion stood in a white double-breasted physicians coat and wearing round glasses. He smiled at the visitor.

“Good evening Doctor. My you certainly are prompt.”

“Yes, well I would have no excuse to be otherwise. How have you been Dr. Graves?”

“All things considered, I’ve been doing quite well. Come in, won’t you?”

The Doctor stepped into the large hall. Its architectural style was an attempt at elegance, but there was no mistaking the smell of antiseptics and the sharp tang of rubbing alcohol in the air that stripped away the veneer, revealing the structure for what it was, a sanitarium for the criminally insane.

It was late in the day and except for the orderlies, the staff had gone. Dr. Graves turned and looked up at the clock on the wall, “Four years ago you said today at five-thirty and here it is exactly four years later and exactly five thirty-three and here you are.” His voice echoed briefly in the large hall and died, leaving no trace.

“Yes indeed, here I am. Forgive me, Dr. Graves, I don’t want to take up any more of your time than I need to. I’m sure you want to get home to your family. If you would be so kind, would you lead me to his cell?”

“We prefer to think of them as rooms. But yes, of course, right this way. I’m afraid there are several flights of steps we’ll have to go down. His room is at the bottom.”

“Very good.”

At each of the landings, there was a door that led out to a floor where there stood two burly orderlies dressed in white coats. Both doctors showed their ID’s, signed the book on the table, nodded wordlessly to the stallions and continued down to the next landing.

After several such stops, they reached the lowermost floor. Once again they signed the security log. The orderly unhooked one of the dozens of identical keys from the box mounted to the wall, and after unlocking the steel door and letting them into the corridor, he handed them the key and gently closed the thick steel door behind them.

Now the only sound was the staccato click of hooves echoing off the hard brick walls of the long hallway. The bricks were large, kiln dried and painted pale sickly institutional green. At the next door was a small opening to look through and a door lock. Dr. Graves showed his id through the window, inserted the key in the lock, turned it and pushed the door open. As the door closed behind them the Doctor noticed that there was no corresponding keyhole on the inside. He nodded. Dr. Graves handed over his key to one of the orderlies who switched on a machine and dropped it into it. A grinding sound was heard and a fine brass dust fell from the bottom into a garbage can beneath it. The orderly handed Dr. Graves a new key from a box similar to the last and the two doctors continued down the long hall to the next door. They had to pass by several more security checkpoints, each one requiring them to go through a large door, relinquish their key for destruction and be given a different one.

“Each change of shift must begin at the bottom of the stairs. Once you pass through a security door there is no way to return unless somepony unlocks the door from the other side.”

“Impressive design, I commend you,” replied the Doctor. “Though it’s not the physical strength of the security doors that I’m concerned with, but rather the mental strength of your guards.”

“We prefer the term orderlies.”

“Yes, of course, forgive me. As I was saying, I cannot emphasize enough that he is both highly intelligent and extremely dangerous.”

“So you’ve said. I should say that we had made quite a bit of progress with him. The only reason he is still under this level of security is because of your explicit orders. He is conversational and pleasant, though he refuses to turn and look at us. We took him through our process and between the medication, which at times left him somewhat groggy, and the therapy, he seems quite normal”.

“You do understand what you’re dealing with - I left quite a bit of information.”

“Yes Doctor, We have your files, and I must say they are quite extensive.”

“I hope I made it clear, you have to know that even though he appears to be cooperating and normal, the pony you’re dealing with is extremely dangerous. Second, only to his incredible intellect, his patience is his deadliest skill. He will wait an inequine amount of time, just biding the hours, days...years to convince you.”

“To convince us of exactly what doctor?”

“Of exactly what he needs you to believe.”

“So how do we determine what is genuine in his behavior and what isn’t?”

“You can’t.”

“When you first brought him here five years ago, you told us this same thing, yet all he did for the first year was sit on the floor of his cell, hugging his knees. With time we brought him out of his shell. Since then we haven’t had a single problem with him.”

“You haven’t let anypony near his cell, have you?”

“No, of course not. Your instructions were quite clear on that.”

“And neither Celestia nor Luna knows he is here, correct?”

“That is correct, though I don't understand why that is so important”

“That is NOT your concern.”

“What did he do that was so horrible?”

“I cannot tell you.”

“I can’t imagine what old Fritz might have done”

“What did you say?!!” the Doctor asked quickly/

“Is there something wrong? I was just - oh you mean his name - it’s something one of the orderlies came up with. It’s from a song - ‘Lunatic Fringe’ The guard said the moment he saw him the song came into his head and got stuck there. He said it wouldn’t leave him. He started singing bits and pieces of it as one will do. Soon the whole place had it in their heads, even me. Why, is it important?”

“I don’t know, but, well, that song seems to follow him, though I have no idea why. I asked him about it once. It was the only time I’ve ever seen him puzzled.”

They turned a corner. The cell was traditional. Vertical iron bars with red magical fields glowing around them, allowing only air and sound to pass through. A gray pony sat on the bunk, his back to them.

“There is someone here to see you.”

“Oh? Who?”

“It’s me, The Doctor.”

The stallion on the bed turned his head slowly and looked at him. His eyes were wide and wild, his mouth grinning like a skull.

“Do I know you? Yes, yes I most certainly do. You are The Doctor.”

The Doctor’s face went white as the blood drained from it.

“That’s not him.”

“What?!!” Dr. Graves barked. “Of course it is! That is the stallion you brought in here! Would you like to check his picture? It’s right over here in a folder, just as you instructed!”

“My instructions explicitly said to mount the picture on the wall! Who decided it was to go into a folder and left on that shelf?”

“Well I don’t know. I know the guards hated it. Something about his expression, the look in his eyes.”

“I’ll TELL you who! It was him! He was the one!” the Doctor snapped viciously, “How long ago did you paint these walls?!” he demanded harshly.

“Well I think-”

“HOW LONG?!!” His shout was deafening against the hard tiled walls.

“Two years, ten months, twenty-three days, eight hours and twenty-three minutes, ago” Fritz said.

The Doctor went to the bars. “Is that when he escaped?” he shouted, then paused addressing himself more than the others. “No, no of course not.” He turned to Dr. Graves, “Do you recall why you painted the walls? It was due to something subliminal he did or said. Painting the walls meant you had to take down the picture. When it came time to put it back up some idiot decided to just put it on a shelf he no doubt suggested you mount. “That look in his eyes was the reason I had you hang that picture there - to remind you of the creature you’re dealing with!”

Fritz just grinned. Dr. Graves picked up the photograph from the shelf and examined it. It was clearly a photograph taken of the stallion on the bed.

“You see?! It’s him! There’s been no escape!?”

The Doctor didn’t bother looking at the picture, “Tell me, what is the guard rotation for him?”

“Well they all hate being down here, so each stays here a week and then doesn’t need to return for two months.”

“Tranquilize him.”

“What?”

“Tranquilize him. Seal the cell and release the gas. DO IT!!”

Dr. Graves touched the bars with a metal wand. They glowed yellow. He pulled a lever and the cell filled with a gray smoke. After several moments the smoke cleared and the stallion lay on the bed, snoring softly. Dr. Graves yelled down the corridor to the orderlies. “Release on three!” he grabbed a handle that was recessed into the wall and called out “One, two, THREE!” and pulled the handle. The cell door slid up into the ceiling.

The Doctor stepped quickly into the room, went to the bed and bent over the sleeping form He pulled back an eyelid, confirming Fritz was asleep. He stood up and scanned the room frantically.

“Where did you put them?” he asked feverishly, “There’s no place to…” His eyes fell on the mattress. Carefully he examined the sides, “Here!” He pulled gently and where there had appeared to be very neat stitching, the fabric pulled apart. The Doctor reached in and felt around. Finally he pulled out a manilla folder and opened it.

“HERE! Here is the stallion I brought in! Does this pony look ANYTHING like him??”

He did not.

“But how did he…”

The Doctor pulled out hundreds of photos. “Look at them - LOOK!! No, closer, very very close!”

They were not photographs.

They were paintings. Incredibly detailed paintings. Insanely detailed paintings. As Dr. Graves went through them, he saw how the face changed just a little bit, day by day, ever so slightly.

“Over the years he managed to change the picture in your folder over there. Look - look at the placement of the shelf- it’s right across from that ceiling vent. He could use a straw to blow air at the shelf and cause the paper to fall. Then it was a matter of reaching under the bars - there’s a ¼ inch there that he could have used to drag it in. It was just a matter of sliding his artwork out onto the floor to be picked up at the next cell check. The guards all circulate here, none of them see each other except for the teams that guard the doors. At the same time, he was changing his face. Making tiny cuts, miniscule changes and reflecting them in those paintings. He was transforming himself into one of your guards. With his back to them they never saw it. Finally he got that guard into his cell somehow. He drugged him with the medication you were giving him and hid his body. Most likely under the bed. Then he went to work on him, on his mind and on his face, updating the pictures as he did. Finally he was able to get out of the cell and leave this poor wretched soul behind, cooperative and docile, just the way HE had brainwashed him. And Fritz? He is here in this building as one of your guards.”

“That is utterly insane - no pony could possibly do that. I understand where he got the bristles for the brushes, but where in Equestria did he get the paint?”

“You are welcome to think about it, but I wouldn’t dwell on it..”

The Doctor went back to the mattress and felt deep inside.

“What are you looking for now? Surely he didn’t have time for any other pictures.”

The Doctor continued his search. His hoof suddenly stopped and he closed his eyes. By now the pony on the mattress was waking up. His eyes were drowsy but slowly opening. As he watched, the Doctor pulled out a purple folder. At the sight of it the pony screamed and turned away.

“NO NO NO!! Please don’t please, I BEG you, NO!!”

Dr. Graves scowled at the pony, puzzled, then back at the folder. The Doctor looked over at him. “Dr Graves, I must warn you, I do not know what I expect to see in here, but based on what I’ve seen before these images may be very disturbing. I’d advise you not to look at them until I’ve had a chance to see what they are.”

“Really? What could they possibly be? I assure you I have seen some very horrific things here. Patients attacking one another and doing unspeakable things. I doubt there is anything in there that will shock me.”

“They would be his ‘job’ or his ‘work’ he calls it. It’s the meticulous plan he has worked out once he decides to leave. Are you absolutely sure you want to see these?”

“I insist Doctor, I take full responsibility for my actions!”

The Doctor looked back and sighed, shaking his head slowly. He opened the folder, his face was as grim and certain as death
.
The first image.
The quality was far less than the ones he’d painted of himself. It was black and white and somewhat blurry and sloppy, It was clear though that the pony, facial features obscured slightly, could have been happily surprised.

The second image.
A little sharper. Face coming into slightly more focus. A possible look of concern in her lavender eyes.

The third image.
Sharper still. Eyes darkly reveal the beginnings of fear.

The fourth image.
Sharper and a hint of color. The image portrayed a wider view, away from the subject. The pony’s facial features fully defined, now reflected terror.

"Dear Celestia, do you know who that IS??"
"Yes, I'm well aware doctor."

The fifth image.
Sharper still more color. Wide open eyes, terrified and full of tears.

The sixth image.
A white cloth on a surgical table. A syringe, several scalpels, retractors, An ampule of clear liquid labeled adrenaline.

The seventh image.
Photographic quality.
The pony restrained to a table with a leather strap across her forehead. She stared into the eyes of the artist in utter horror.
Despite the distortion in her face as she screamed, he’d begun his work.
The first incision was being made.

Dr Graves eyes grew wider with each image until they reached the fourteenth. At the sight of it he cried aloud, put the back of his hoof over his mouth then sobbing he turned and retched, vomiting and crying until he collapsed on the ground, heaving, his eyes clenched tight.

The image was almost unrecognizable as a face. A good deal of the outer skin was gone, a scalpel used to cut the shaved skin from around the base of the horn. The only indication to identify it was the madness in the eyes and that she was still screaming.

There were twenty-eight more pictures.

A total of forty-two.