If there was any one thing Streamline hated, it was inefficiency. He had taken the Colt Whinney Corporation and pulled it out of mediocrity from the bottom listings of the Cow Pones stock exchange to the very top of the industry. He had money; he had mares on the arm; he had a legion of lawyers, accountants and office drones slaving away every day of the year to keep him on top.
So why, exactly, had he taken a twelve hour train ride from his Manehattan penthouse suite out into the boonies, to find himself standing in the boiling southern Equestrian sun, knocking on the door of a massive cloud mansion with colonial pretensions in the middle of the most fertile farmlands this side of the Applelachian Mountains?
Oh, he knew. He knew. Because, apparently, he had hired the worst negotiators of all time to broker a deal with the Mason-Dixie Agricultural Corporation and his in house food processing industries. Because, apparently, they had been so piss poor at their jobs that the heiress had been offended to the point of requiring assurances of the Executive Director that the deal was going to be beneficial to them both. Face to face.
It was inefficient. And there wasn’t anything Streamline hated more than inefficiency.
He was snapped out of his reverie by a rather attractive young Zebra in a Prench maid uniform. “Oh you must be Mistah Streamline! Please sah, let me fetch the lady of the house. If you’d like to sit a spell on the veranda, a servant will be along shortly with refreshments.” She turned with a very pleasing sashay and sauntered back into the house. Streamline cleared his throat uncomfortably before casting about for a seat.
He was not left alone in the heat for long. A veritable train of Zebras and Donkeys came out, setting out pitchers of ice cold sweet tea and rather small, delicate looking sandwiches. They disappeared as quickly as they had arrived, the result of long training, no doubt. He shook his head as he reached forward to help himself to a drink and a few nibblies, but sat up as the Prench Zebra opened the front door and waved through a striking young pegasus mare.
She took a seat, taking the time to elegantly situating her dress just so. “Oh, sirrah, you must be the Mister Streamline from Manehattan?” She drew a paper fan across her face and tittered coquettishly. “I had not been informed that the CEO would be such a handsome gentlecolt.”
“I, uh. Yes. Quite.” Streamline cleared his throat and shifted nervously in his seat. It was so hot all of a sudden. “And you must be Miss Ball?”
She giggled again from behind her fan. “Why yes I am. I trust you were not kept waiting long? Refreshments to your liking? I swear that the Princess, bless her heart, brings the sun closer to the plantations every summer.”
“Oh, yes, everything was great. Wonderful staff you have here.”
“I must say that’s awfully kind of you. We’ve always been a more open-minded and personable sort here at the Mason-Dixie estate. Our neighbors said it couldn’t be done, but we showed them that you could bring a Zebra to the most rarified of civil functions.” She leaned back in her sun chair, fanning herself lugubriously. “I tell you they can be trained.”
“Well yes, that’s—” His brain finally caught up to his ears and his brow furrowed. “I’m sorry?”
She made an odd, dismissive motion with her fan. “Well, bless their hearts, they do try, but they can be so shiftless.” She sniffed derisively. “Why, my poor late father Mason Jar—bless his poor, departed soul—he just had to always stay on top of the field Zebras, just to keep them working through their daily rounds. Drove him to an early grave.”
“Zebras? In your fields?” Streamline stared. “Um, as an aside, about the Zebras…”
“Oh, the Zebras? I’m afraid you won’t find them in the fields anymore. After all, Celestia was very clear after the laws were passed up in Canterlot how things were going to go with the Zebras.”
Streamline sighed, visibly relieved. “That’s a weight off my chest, Ms. Ball—”
She reached forward and tapped him playfully with her folded fan. “Please, Mr. Streamline! Call me Minié. ‘Ms. Ball’ makes me feel like a cow put out to pasture!”
He smiled weakly. “Minié then—”
“And I wouldn’t be worried about any sort of violation of the labor laws here. All our Zebra workers are well paid, well respected veterans of their fields.”
“I—”
“The bulk of our Donkeys from south of the border, of course.” She nodded judiciously. “We had to find some way of keeping costs low, after all.”
Streamline nodded slowly, his face locked up in a rictus of intense concentration. “I’m sorry.” He nodded again, rubbed at his chin with a hoof as he muttered quiet little nothings to himself. He finally looked back up at Minié. “What’s this about the Donkeys?”
She began to fan herself again as she looked out over the fields, replete with bountiful harvest of fruits and vegetables and—as Streamline had just noticed to his dismay—teams of raggedy Donkey workers being watched over by burly Zebras in reflective sunglasses with rather unfriendly expression on their faces.
“Well, I know that as a big city businessman you must find our work down here rather quaint, but we still find our own little ways to cut a corner or two.” She dropped him an outrageous wink with that. “Donkeys come from the south, right out of the Burros, and we bring them to our bosom and give them a place to stay, food to eat, and work at ten percent the going rate of an Earth pony.”
Streamline stared into space. “Ten percent,” he whispered.
“Mmhmm, ten percent.” She brought the fan to her chin tapping as her brow furrowed. “I admit that Donkeys are a slovenly lot who need a lot of guidance to make them Celestia fearing, hard workers like ponies are, but with some time, some love and firm but fair policy that involves barely any whipping at all, we’ve managed to increase our productivity by two hundred percent. Two. Hundred.” She punctuated each word with a smack of her fan on the table.
“Two hundred percent.” Streamline continued his slow nodding as she rolled over his muttered remark.
“Admittedly some of them do try to run before their very generous contracts run out and we can’t call the guard to pick them up or they might ask just the rudest questions to a genteel lady like myself, but that’s nothing an Orthrus can’t handle.”
“Orthrus.” He nodded again, but then his eyes unglazed and he gawked at Minié. ”Orthrus?”
“They’re quite efficient, I assure you.”
“Now wait a minute here.” Streamline heaved himself to his hooves, and gave Minié a hard stare. “Now, I might be able to be swayed by talk of cutting costs and increased productivity, but I will not stand for any talk of, of, of hunting Donkeys with a two headed monster dog!” He began to walk away turning his head back to the seated belle. “Good day to you, Ms. Ball.” He said icily.
She looked at him calmly. “Our accountants have worked out that this deal has a projected value of 885 million bits per quarter, twice your previous projections.”
Her head cocked as Streamline’s mouth pursed and sweat beaded on his brow.
“Now why don’t you have a seat over yonder and I’ll ask one of the house Zebras to make us a new batch of tea?”
Streamline sat.
