It was the most trying day of my life, both as a mayor and as a pony.
In my living room, I sat sprawled across my couch, rubbing my hooves to my eyes in a futile attempt to alleviate a migraine that developed earlier in the day and continued even now to pound away at the cortex of my skull. I drank a cool glass of water with an aspirin, but it was of no use. I had no doubt that my agony would persist to the end of the night.
I stared at the walls of my living room with weary eyes. The walls were painted a dull, dreary gray—the same color I regularly dyed my mane to mask its natural shade of pink. I kept a large mirror behind my couch, which served as a constant reminder that I was the face of my community, and every pony in town looked to me for its leadership. I wore a white shirt collar and half-moon spectacles in order to maintain that image—the image of the pony who could maintain order, as well as the pony that every resident in town could look to for leadership and trust.
However, today was a hard reminder that trust is a difficult thing to maintain. Even in the refuge of my living room, the memory of the disaster remained fresh in my mind.
I recalled that it began with a regularly scheduled town hall meeting—a mundane, routine event, really—or at least that it was intended to be. I hadn’t expected any difficulty whatsoever. However, when I first opened the floor for discussion at the meeting, a boisterous, pink pony named Pinkie Pie immediately lamented the lack of free snacks. This prompted Filthy Rich, the wealthiest pony in town, to complain that the building itself was far more extravagant than needed and was egregious waste of taxpayer money; and that, in turn, initiated practically every pony present to chime in with their own opinions on the matter. In short time, the debate escalated into a verbal brawl, and all sense of decorum had been lost.
I had failed to maintain order. Parties uninterested in the culinary conundrum appealed directly to me in the midst of the commotion, shouting their demands so that their voices might be heard over the increasingly agitated crowd—but it was to no avail. In the end, I was left with no choice but to propose that we adjourn at a later date when emotions were not so volatile. Almost every pony in town was present at that meeting, and nothing at all had been accomplished.
Now that I had returned home, however, the problem only magnified in my mind. I wondered if my citizens would remember this day by the time the next election cycle came about. What could I possibly do to repair the damage to my professional reputation?
Perhaps there was no answer. A dreadful feeling of inadequacy had burrowed into my psyche, causing my eyes to droop and my head to sink.
As I pondered these thoughts, I noticed that my closet happened to be open. Every article of clothing I owned was colored some variant of gray, brown, or white, except for one: A bright, colorful clown costume that I had purchased for one of Ponyville’s annual Nightmare Night celebrations. That was the one night of the year I was able to set aside my naturally rigid disposition in favor of what I sometimes wished I could be—a pony whose only responsibility was to make others laugh.
But even when I wore that clown costume, I couldn’t bring myself to act like the clown it represented; no, instead I acted like the mayor, as always. Certainly, I had allowed myself to smile and participate in the events of the holiday, but it was an almost obligatory participation. I never once strayed from my mayoral duties, not even on that special night. I supposed I feared that if I truly acted like a simple, jovial clown—even if just once—every pony would lose their respect for me, and I would never be reelected again. I lived for that respect, often to my own detriment. Why couldn’t I just let myself go? Why did I feel the need to keep up this charade?
Knock, knock.
It wasn’t unusual for ponies to visit my house during my off hours. I supposed this would be yet another civic emergency only someone in my position would be able to resolve. My only question was how much of the town’s increasingly limited budget this particular emergency would cost us.
I departed the comfort of the couch to stand on my four hooves, standing as straight as I could manage. I cleared my throat and, despite my migraine, I forced a smile.
“You may enter,” I welcomed the visitor. “You know my policy: My door is always open.”
The door swung open with such great force that it crashed against the wall. The entire house shook, and I shook with it, absolutely startled. A few of the thinner vases on display in my room trembled, but all were fortunate enough to avoid tipping over.
Standing before the opened door was a gray-coated pegasus with a long, blonde mane. I recognized her immediately, as she was the pony who had once destroyed the city’s town hall building in an uncanny act of clumsiness. Her eyes were permanently malformed—they faced opposite directions—so I always supposed she had difficulty with her vision. I never blamed her for the town hall incident.
In any case, it all worked out in the end, and the building was repaired. Little did I know, however, that the repaired building would become the site of today’s fiasco.
“Greetings, Ms. Derpy,” I said. Derpy trotted her way inside, and I carefully closed the door behind her. “I’m afraid I couldn’t help but notice your absence during today’s town hall meeting. Precisely what predicament is it that compelled you to consult me at my place of residence, young one?”
Derpy was swift to apologize for the indecorous entrance.
“I am sorry!” she said, her voice as pronounced and as strikingly low-pitched as I remembered it. “I did not want to break the big building again!”
I chuckled, taking a moment to remove my glasses and wipe off a smudge.
“Oh, why, that’s quite all right, my dear,” I said. “Why don’t you take a seat on the couch?”
My offer made her smile. She was at ease.
With all the grace and elegance of one-winged puffin, she ascended, traversed her way to my couch, and collapsed onto its cushions. Contentedly immersed in its simple comfort, she exclaimed, “Soft! I like soft!”
“Now, as I was saying, precisely what issue was it that you wished to inquire about, Ms. Derpy?” I asked the young mare. “Don’t tell me you came here to excoriate me for my recent reinstatement of capital gains taxes in Ponyville, as so many others already have.”
“I….” she began to say before trailing off.
“My apologies—I’m entirely off the mark, aren’t I? Perhaps you feel the need to pontificate on the social ramifications of my implementation of Dragon Defense Authorization Act?”
“I.… I want…” she said, barely able to get the words out. She lowered her head, apparently embarrassed to speak her mind.
“No? Then is your intention to chastise my fiscal policy with a polemical analysis detailing the potential geo-economic implications that entail my recent endorsement of unipolar Equestrian hegemony?”
But that wasn’t it, either.
“I want muffins!” she finally declared. Derpy repeated the bold statement once more. “I want muffins!”
I cleared my throat, taken aback by the fact that her request was so simple, so brazen, and so utterly without pretense. It was not the sort of request a politician such as I was accustomed to receiving.
“Y-you—” I stuttered. Feeling confounded, my voice quivered. “You—just want—”
“Muffins!” she exclaimed once more, beaming enthusiastically. “I want muffins!”
The young, wide-eyed mare hopped up and down, utterly elated that I had acknowledged her request.
Despite my initial confusion, I cracked a smile. I couldn’t recall a single pony who ever came to me, of all ponies, for a need so basic.
Perhaps she saw something in me that others didn’t, I thought. Derpy was certainly unique, and it was perhaps this unique perspective that allowed her to see straight past my facade. Derpy somehow seemed to recognize something that no other pony had—that underneath my stuffy political persona, I was the kind of pony who would be willing to split a treat with a new friend.
“I’ll need to deliberate with our local delegates regarding the budgetary complications that may result from such an acquisition,” I joked, “but, yes, I believe it should be quite all right indeed. I happen to be free at the moment. Would you like to visit the bakery now?”
She looked up at the ceiling, apparently expending all her mental energy to formulate an adequate response.
“I…” she said, looking somewhat confused.
“Yes, Derpy? I’ll reiterate: Are you, at present, inclined to join me in a momentary foray into the local pastry shop in order to procure your coveted—”
“Muffins!” she bellowed. “I like muffins!” It seemed my clarification had helped. Determined to convey the point to me, she bounced up and down, proclaiming the euphoric mantra repeatedly. “I like muffins! I like muffins! I like muffins!”
“Uh, yes, Derpy—I concur,” I said. “Muffins are a rather delectable pastry item indeed. Now, let us depart, shall we?”
“Muffins!” she exclaimed once again.
I decided to interpret this slightly bemusing response as a sort of implied agreement.
Thus, we vacated the dreary, gray-painted walls of my lonely abode and commenced our short trek to the local vicinity’s most eminent supplier of freshly baked goods, Mr. and Mrs. Cake’s bakery.
* * *
The smell of the Cakes’ bakery was unmistakable. The scent of warm, hoof-made delicacies permeated the indoor space. Colorful candy ornaments decorated the wooden walls, giving the quaint shop a distinct charm. It was a quiet, comforting place that a career pony like me thought of as the perfect place to unwind and occasionally indulge in wanton consumption of sugar-laden confections.
“It’s good to see you again, Mayor!” Mr. Cake greeted me from behind a pink-glassed countertop. He was a yellow-coated pony with a markedly square jaw. His mane was orange, which matched the color of his freckles, as well as his hat and bowtie. “I see you brought a new friend today.”
“Oh,” I said, turning to Derpy. She floated by my side, swaying her tail back and forth like an excited pet. In a way, I felt embarrassed to be with her, and even more embarrassed that Mr. Cake immediately identified Derpy as my friend. Perhaps, I thought, being seen with such a peculiar pony could tarnish my reputation even worse that it had already been after today’s debacle at town hall. However, I quickly decided that it was of no matter. My reputation may have meant a great deal to me, but a new friendship was even more important. “Er—yes, that’s quite right, Mr. Cake. Ms. Derpy here is my friend.”
“I want muffins!” Derpy suddenly interjected. “Hi, Cake pony! I want muffins! Do you hear me? I want muffins! I want muffins! I want muffins!”
Mr. Cake offered a polite laugh.
“Um,” he said, turning to me with a raised eyebrow, “I gather your friend wants muffins.”
“Er, yes,” I said, now feeling even more awkward than before. I scratched the top of my gray mane. “We can split a half dozen. How does that sound, Derpy?”
“I don’t want a ‘half dozen’! I want muffins!”
I put my hoof to my face, but at the same time, I laughed. There was something undeniably charming about the way she saw the world.
“We’ll take a half-dozen muffins,” I clarified. “That will be all for us. Thank you, and my apologies, Mr. Cake.”
“No need to apologize,” Mr. Cake said. He quickly found a box of six prepackaged muffins and placed it on the counter. “That’ll be three bits.”
I placed four bits on the countertop—one for the extra trouble.
“Thank you. Have a nice day,” Mr. Cake said.
I turned around, and I noticed an empty table in the corner.
“Let’s eat in, shall we?” I suggested.
“Eat in what?” Derpy replied.
I rubbed my hoof to my forehead. It seemed I needed to rephrase my suggestion.
“That is, let us move to the table and eat our muffins there,” I said.
“Ohh. My bad!”
I was relieved to hear her acknowledge her comprehension.
It took us only a moment to situate ourselves on opposite ends of the small, circular table.
“So,” I said, opening the box of muffins, “if I may be so bold as to inquire, precisely what was your reasoning in consulting me, of all ponies, over a mere matter of muffins?”
Derpy planted her face into the newly opened box of muffins. With voracious fervor, she swallowed all six in a matter of seconds. Bread crumbs strew about her mouth. She licked her lips and answered, “You are nice! I like you!”
I blinked. I paid no mind to her atrocious table manners because her brief words took me aback.
She said I was nice.
I tried to remember a single time any pony had used that word describe me. I had been called respectable, resilient, and even at times visionary—but I had never been called nice.
“You—you think I’m nice, Derpy?”
She nodded with great enthusiasm. There was a sincerity about her that touched me in a way that I couldn’t ever recall feeling before.
Perhaps there was even more truth to my previous assessment of her character than I realized. Derpy really did understand me in a way that no other pony could.
I could feel tears building up. I thought maybe I should fight it; but then I considered that with Derpy, it would be no matter of concern. She wouldn’t judge me in the slightest.
“I—” I said. My voice wavered. Then I felt it. A single tear rolled down my cheek. It had been years since I allowed myself to cry. “I… I think that’s very kind of you to say, Derpy.”
I took a napkin and blew my nose.
“Did I say something wrong?” Derpy asked.
“Quite the opposite,” I said. “These are tears of happiness, Derpy.”
“Ohh,” Derpy said with a smile. “My bad!”
For a moment, I stared at the empty box of muffins and thought back to my failure at the town hall. If I couldn’t manage to restore order to the town, it might become like that pathetic, empty box. Perhaps a few crumbs of civility would remain, but it would be a town without substance. Without order and civility, Ponyville would become tomorrow’s trash, and I couldn’t let it come to that.
“Derpy,” I said, “I must be honest with you. Before you came to visit me, I felt—well, I felt quite dreadful, to be frank. The town hall meeting was a disaster, and I’ve been beginning to feel inadequate in my professional capacity. Might you, by any chance, have any notion as to how I might achieve a resolution to this seemingly insoluble quandary?”
For a moment, she sat in silence, apparently contemplating my question. Her peculiar eyes made it impossible to tell what she was thinking—but, somehow, I could tell she was concentrating deeply.
Finally, she gave me an answer.
“Muffins,” she said flatly, apparently quite certain that this was the correct response. “The answer is muffins.”
At first, I raised a hoof to object, but then it struck me: Perhaps she was correct. Maybe the answer was, in fact, muffins.
“Muffins,” I said in a hush. “It’s so simple—so perfect. Why didn’t I think of it before?”
“The answer to that is also muffins,” she suggested, looking quite sincere.
In that moment, I realized what a lovely pony she was. Just about everything she said made me smile.
“Indeed,” I said with a chuckle. “The answer is muffins. It’s ingenious! I now know exactly what I need to do at the next town hall meeting. Derpy, you’ve made me so happy that I could just kiss you right now!”
Suddenly, I heard a mare clear her throat from behind my seat. Apparently, Mrs. Cake had just trotted by at the most inopportune time.
I turned around to face her. She looked bewildered.
My face flushed a shade of red even deeper than a nearby tray of strawberry tarts.
“Oh, hello there, Mrs. Cake,” I said with a laugh, rushing for an explanation. “I’d like to commend you and your husband for the wonderful work you do here. As I was just telling this young mare here, the pancake syrup is so sappy I could just lick it right now. Keep up the good work, ma’am.”
“Um,” Mrs. Cake said, “yes, thank you, Mayor. We will. I could have sworn you said something different, but my ears aren’t so good these days. Well, have a good day, Mayor.”
With that, she trotted away. I let out a sigh of relief.
Derpy had just one more item to add to the conversation.
“I like to lick pancake syrup, too!”
* * *
In the days leading up to the next gathering at town hall, the bakery became a favorite meeting spot for Derpy and me. The small shop’s soothing atmosphere allowed me to feel at ease when I discussed the specifics of my plan with her, and Derpy’s uniquely patient temperament made me feel even more relaxed. With Derpy, more than anypony else, I felt free to speak my mind. No idea of mine was too far-reaching for her to consider, and that is what I loved about her. She was always willing to listen.
However, when the day of the town hall meeting finally arrived, the quaint, quiet bakery seemed a world away.
A crowd of ponies had gathered between the walls of the town hall building, and the atypically warm weather did nothing to help the mood of the tightly packed, impatient ponies present there that day. Although the building sheltered us from the sun, the crowd still sweltered, creating a musty, lingering funk that made me long for the soothing scents of the bakery.
I took my place at the podium at the front of the crowd. As I scanned the faces of all the ponies present, I observed that some scowled, and others gritted their teeth. The animosity, all of which was directed at me, was palpable. Finding forgiveness would be no easy task.
“Welcome—welcome all,” I greeted the crowd. Although I projected as best I could so that even those in the back of the room could hear, my inflection remained trepid, as I knew all too well that even the most minor oversight in my wording could initiate an uproar with this potentially hostile crowd. I had decided that a joke about the weather would be the safest choice for my opening remarks. “Thank you all for joining me here today, even in these most unpleasant weather conditions. Why, it’s so hot, the cows are giving evaporated milk!”
My attempt at lightening the mood was met with stoic silence. A cow near the back of the crowd scowled, looking deeply offended.
“That’s exactly the sort of thing I wanted to talk about at that last meeting—if you had only given any of us a proper chance to speak, Mayor,” she huffed. “Why do we cows have to put up with subjugation by you ponyfolk? Do you even care about our rights? Clearly not, with a horrible joke like that!”
I gave a nervous tug of my collar, finding myself unable to muster even the beginning of a response to her harsh accusation.
Inimical gazes throughout the crowd bore down on me as though I had been positioned as the target of a public execution, and my demise was inevitable. They awaited my reply with growing impatience, and I swallowed hard.
It was Filthy Rich who broke the tension.
“Bah,” he grumbled. “The real issue is that the mayor is investing too much time in petty social issues. Our local government should invest in local businesses—like mine. It only makes sense.”
It was another objection, but at least it was one I had been prepared for.
“Well, Mr. Fi—er, Mr. Rich—I am of the opinion that—” I said before Pinkie Pie interjected.
“Snacks!” she screamed. “We still don’t have snacks! The mayor should have brought snacks!”
Pinkie Pie’s interjection acted as a cue for the others to barrage me with their own demands.
“We need a bigger schoolhouse!”
“No, we have to lower taxes and reduce the deficit!”
“Don’t you think we should work on building a fence between the Everfree Forest and Ponyville?”
“Our economy is in the tank! What are you going to do about that?”
“Muffins! We want muffins!”
The last demand came from a familiar voice that overshadowed all the others. It was such a bizarre request that it caused silence to fall among the crowd, if only for a moment.
“Yeah,” Pinkie Pie said. “We want muffins!”
Pinkie Pie and Derpy shouted the simple demand together. “We want muffins!”
Some of the members of the crowd nodded in agreement, and a few others started a chant. It was a simple, pithy demand, as well as a convenient conduit for their collective fury. In mere moments, the entire crowd was clamoring for the breakfast delicacy.
“We want muffins!” they all shouted in unison. “We want muffins!”
It was complete madness. My citizens had the opportunity to ask anything of me, and here they were clamoring for muffins. At least they were now in agreement, I thought.
At this particular juncture, there was only one action left for me to take.
I slammed my front hooves to the podium.
“Silence!” I shouted. Normally, I wasn’t one to raise my voice. The crowd was stunned by this departure of character from me—so stunned, in fact, that they heeded my demand. The chanting had stopped. “It’s muffins you all want, is it?”
Some members of the crowd turned to one another, looking befuddled.
“It was a rhetorical question,” I said with a roll of the eyes. “In any case, as your designated representative, it is my civic duty to supply you, my citizens, with the provisions you require in order to function as a truly cohesive society. Therefore….”
I pointed my hoof to the front doors of the building. As if on cue, they swung open. Immediately, the smell of freshly baked muffins wafted into the indoor space.
Mr. and Mrs. Cake jauntily trotted into the space of meeting hall, carrying in front of them a massive silver cart carrying loads of their hoof-crafted muffins.
“Muffins for all!” Mr. Cake shouted. “Muffins for everypony!”
I chuckled, finding myself unable to conceal my amusement that everything was going according to my plan—a plan that Derpy inspired. I couldn’t wait to see how the crowd would react.
Mr. Cake grabbed a few muffins and chucked them into the crowd, where the stunned ponies caught them with their teeth. Mrs. Cake helped with the throwing of the muffins, too, and in short time, dozens of ponies in the crowd possessed precisely the muffins they had been clamoring for just moments ago.
Pinkie Pie happened to be one of the first lucky recipients. She caught the treat in her mouth and immediately swallowed it whole. Apparently delighted by this unforeseen turn of events, she squealed, “Mm! Muffiny!”
Filthy Rich was another one of the first lucky few, although in his case, he seemed more annoyed than anything else to become the newest recipient of a freshly made muffin.
“What in the—” he mumbled, his newly acquired food muffling his words. “Now, I—” He chomped down, chewed for a moment, and immediately, his expression transformed. “Actually—hmm—this muffin is, I have to admit—mmm—quite good, I must confess,” he concluded with a gulp. “Excellent work, Mr. Cake.”
“Well, I sure do appreciate that, Mr. Rich,” he replied. With an air of blithe nonchalance, he tossed even more of the muffins to the astounded crowd. “It’s just unfortunate that we only have enough resources to sell a few muffins at a time. I thought maybe the mayor could help with that today. She’s the one who invited us here and asked us to bring our muffins, after all.”
Looking contemplative, Mr. Rich slowly chewed on his last morsel. I didn’t utter a word.
“Hmm,” he said. “The mayor? Wait a minute, now—that may not be necessary. Our business is in need of new, exciting products to bring in new customers, and you’re looking for a new venue for distribution. Maybe we can strike a deal.”
I grinned, elated that Mr. Rich was thoughtful enough to consider the option.
I looked to the crowd.
“What do you all say?” I asked. “Would it work? Would you all be willing to buy more of these muffins?”
The question was met with rows of raised muffins and a collective, jubilatory roar.
“Yes!” one said. “These are delicious!”
“Of course!” said another.
“Without a doubt!”
Mr. Rich nodded.
“Excellent,” he said. “We can discuss the details in private after the meeting, Mr. Cake.”
The mood in the room had changed entirely. No longer filled with ire, but instead with muffins, the ponies in the room stood relaxed, enjoying the free treats that had so serendipitously befallen them.
“Now,” I said, “were there any other civil matters any of you wish for me to address?”
At first, there was no response. Some members of the crowd lowered their heads, attempting to conceal expressions of embarrassment.
Finally, it was Pinkie Pie who spoke.
“Umm, I gotta say—I’m sorry, Mayor,” Pinkie Pie said, rubbing her pink neck. “Mmmaybe demanding free snacks from you was a bad idea.” She blushed. “I guess I coulda just found my own solution to the problem, like Mr. Cake and Mr. Rich did.”
I beamed with delight. My plan had worked. Pinkie Pie’s words were exactly what I had hoped to hear.
“Thank you, Pinkie Pie,” I said. For the moment, I turned to the pony transcribing the meeting’s notes. “Did you get all that? Be sure to make a copy for Princess Celestia. I think she would be glad to hear what Pinkie Pie learned today.”
The notetaker nodded, not looking away from her parchment for even a moment. She continued to feverishly scrawl every word.
Mr. Rich clapped his hooves together.
“I have to hoof it to you, Mayor,” he said, “using muffins to make us reevaluate our behavior was ingenious. I think I speak for all of us when I say that only someone as brilliant as you could have thought of it.”
He meant well, but I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Actually,” I said, pointing to the direction of Derpy, “the one you ought to commend is that gray pegasus over there. She’s the one trying to make a hat out of a pile of muffins.
A few of the hastily-assembled muffins tumbled from the crafty, pyramid-shaped hat resting on her head. Suddenly realizing she was now the center of attention, she proclaimed to the crowd, “My hat is warm and delicious!”
The crowd laughed, and that should have been the end of the meeting. However, it was only a moment before a surly, brown-coated pegasus in the crowd stepped forward and relayed his own opinion on the matter.
“Haw!” he guffawed. “You gotta be kiddin' me! That's the stupid pony that destroyed town hall!”
Derpy's head drooped, and all the muffins on her head tumbled to the floor. Clearly, the surly pegasus' careless words had hurt her.
At first, I felt anger, and my teeth clenched; but I quickly relented, recognizing that I couldn't blame him for his own ignorance. He didn't understand her. Nopony did, really.
I would have to make them understand, and I had the platform to do so.
“No,” I said, prompting a new curiosity among the crowd. Now, I realized, was the time for audacity. “What I'm about to say may cause some of you to lose your respect for me—and perhaps even your votes. However, in the past few days, I've learned that integrity is an even more valuable asset than respect.” I gripped my hooves to the podium, feeling slightly unsteady as I prepared to speak my mind. “The truth is—the truth is that the young mare there—her name is Derpy—stepped into my life a few days ago, and I couldn't be happier for it. We've already become close friends—maybe something even more than that. She's taught me things I never could have realized on my own.”
A wave of incredulity, underscored gasps here and there, swept over the crowd.
More than anypony, Pinkie Pie looked most surprised.
“Huh? What?” she said. “Derpy taught you? How? She's young, and you're so ol--I mean, you're so 'olfully' smart!”
Pinkie Pie's eyes darted left and right, apparently checking to make sure her faux pas went unnoticed.
I smiled. Pinkie Pie was right, after all. I was perhaps the most respected person in the entire city, and Derpy was perhaps the least respected—fair or not.
“That's right, Pinkie Pie,” I said. “Prior to meeting Derpy, my work consumed my life. She reminded me that there are more important things in life than politics: Friends, love, and yes—even muffins.”
That was all that needed to be said. The simple statement prompted a burst of applause from the audience.
“Want me to make a copy of that lesson to the princess, too?” my notetaker suggested just as the hoof-clapping began to wane.
“A fine idea,” I said. “I'm certain she would be happy to hear that it’s not only young ponies like Pinkie Pie who have new things to learn.” For the moment, I turned to Derpy, who continued to listen to the conversation with curious interest. “I must ask, however: Do you have anything you would like to add? Is there anything you learned, Derpy?”
She took a moment to think. It wasn't long before she realized the life lesson important enough to convey to the revered ruler of Equestria.
“I learned that you just can't make a hat out of muffins,” she said with a sigh.
The crowd laughed, but I simply smiled.
Truer words had never been spoken.
