An Odyssey

Chapters

I. Telemach
A. Narrative
B. Catechism
C. Monologue
II. Ulysses
E. Narrative
F. Advertisement
G. Labyrinth
I. Pontification
J. Play
III. Ithaca
L. Rambling
M. Catechism
N. Monologue
H. 12-bar Blues

I. Telemach

Telemach

A. Narrative

With a certain degree of grace, Harpo Parish Nadermane brought forth a match and, striking it deftly against the matchbox, raised it high above his head.

Let the gods of fire send their blessings upon us.

He lit the liquid-sprinkled coal within the old barbecue stand and immediately withdrew his hoof with reverence. He turned round victoriously, eyeing the lonely form of Frederic Horseshopin.

Ecce, fire! said he.

Frederic took a swift step back, looking at the fire with fear and awe. How long it had been. How lonely. Have I passed the threshold? Stepping over the frontier, pass my hoof on. Strong, sturdy. Never burn, they say. But if? Then I’ll burn with it.

Ah, Freddie, Freddie, you fearful pianist.

Harpo placed the raw mushrooms on the metal gridiron. Hopping around, he beat his hooves against the wet morning grass. Dancing the tap dance. The rain dance, for the pleasure of the fire gods.

Neon! he called out. Neon, come here, you deaf oaf!

From the small countryhouse came a shadowy figure in round sunglasses, wild-maned, and with a morning grin on the face. Raising his hooves high above the grass, as if he were afraid to touch the watery ground, Neon marched towards the courtyard and nodded his head at the host and the cook.

Blessed be the sacred host, he said, bowing comically against Frederic.
Blessed be the fair guest, Frederic replied with an overly comic bow.

Why did I say that? Celestia, I looked like a fool. But I always look like a fool in their eyes, don’t I? Ever since my father died, a buffoon in mourning. Morning mourning. Put on your morning gowns, it’s gonna be cold. A drinker too. But how will I cut down on drink when you, my lords, pour me another one as soon as I am done. Done. Done for.

Pour us a morning one, Neon addressed the plump, stately Harpo Parish Nadermane.
And Celestia said, “Let there be drink,” and there was drink.

Harpo raised a bottle of beer and passed it on to Neon, who snatched it in his telekinetic grip.

Much obliged, he said, and pressed his lips against the brownish glass.

If Discord made whisky- whisky and beer, they’re gonna make me drunk. Oh, whisky and beer. They’re gonna. They’re gonna make me. Drunk.

So, Freddie, said Harpo, you’re going to hit the old Conservatiore again?

Built on the bones of its architects. The Conser- vatvaa. Vatvaa. Broken Prench he spoke, among others. Anonymous engineer, then a famous architect. Then hanging himself by the neck till dead, on a bank of river Canterlot. Our river. Like Father, who are not in Heaven. He who hangs himself… Life!

Yes, Frederic replied, his eyes drawn to the fire, I’m going up the mountain in an hour or so.

Up in the mountain. Beyond hm hm hhm. That song I sang when I was wee. And the songs I created. A piano, accompanied by an electric guitar. What blasphemy! Never went past four-four or three-four. I got my point four-four, what you’ve got? Seven eighths? Get outta here with your indie crap. We classical musicians. Piano and electric guitar. A duet. Ha!

Give us a mushroom, Harpo.

But the simplicity of those! Use only downstrokes, he said. Your pick should go chump chump chump. Okay, then, what do I do? Strike the chords? Are you serious? And that’s a duet for you. A duet!

Freddie, you fearful pianist, would you like a piece of the manna of the firegods?

One twenty bpm. But we didn’t use the metronome. He has a talent for stringed instruments, he says. Can’t play a violin, or a viola, or a cello either. Does his harp thing, and the lyre, and the guitar. Oh, and that mandola. Mandola, mandola… Boasted that could play the bass as well, but ha. Faulty hoofing. Not so easy when there are no frets, is it?

Freddie, for the sake of holy fuck, will you have a mushroom or not?

And they told me I’d be a drummer. Discoordination. When your four hooves can go the separate ways while playing just one instrument. Drums I did. But there’re no notes; how can it be an instrument, then? Those symbols on my music stand. The kick, the bass, the hi-hats. And crash cymbal, all the time, every chorus. There’s no drums in classical, though. Because it isn’t an instrument.

Let him be, Harpo, he’s in the land of dreams.

A drummer by himself is nothing. Naught, none. But everypony always needs a drummer. He’s like the ultimate auxiliary member of the team. Without him, there’s no rhythm. Without me, then. Only a pianist can do without a drummer. Why? Not a solo instrument. That is, it is a solo instrument. A solo-rhythm. But they have those percussion techniques for the guitar now. Ah. But not every guitarist can do that. He certainly can’t. I can see it in his eyes. And what can this one do? A heretic to the world of music. A dee-jay. Contributes absolutely nothing to the holy of holies. Samples. Samples! He uses bits of music created by real musicians and gets all the credit. Samples! Sample the samples! Oh gods, it is impossible. I need to talk to him about this. This can’t last long.

Harpo, can I talk to you for a moment?

The posh, prim poser nodded and, giving Neon an awkward, indulgent smile, took a few steps away, walking towards the fence with the excitable pianist.

What’s wrong, Freddie darling? The gods of fire frightening you?

Ha. A buffoon and a stringer he is. A jester who plays guitar as a duet. With a piano. With me.

How long will Neon be staying with us? Frederic asked bluntly, staring into the dull abyss of Harpo’s smirking, ironic eyes.
Why, Harpo said, isn’t that for you to decide? You’re the almighty host, aren’t you?
You know what I mean, Frederic said, casting a side glance at the mushroom-eating guest. You invited him to my place. Tonight was the last straw.
Ah, the poor camel, Harpo replied with a smile. Why, you don’t like dubstep at three in the morning? Well, the poor fella just can’t take a shit otherwise. Or is it, he said, smiling again , dishonouring your holy outhouse?

Again with the humour. A jocular Harpo. A nonmusician Harpo. What divides us? What is the stone of separation? He is rich; his father is rich. He goes to law school; music is his hobby. He doesn’t have to sell his skill for bits like I do. And yet, he has skill. This is what makes us whole, I guess?

Harpo, I cannot stand that. By gods, either he leaves or I leave.
Ah! Harpo exclaimed. By gods! Fearful Freddie swears by gods in whom he doesn’t believe! What’s wrong with Neon? He hates Solar-butt too, doesn’t he? Shouldn’t we stick together, I guess?

Fearful Freddie. The moniker. Freddie the unbeliever. Freddie the liberator. March with me! I will lead you to Valhalla! Give me- Nothung! And I will make a Ragnarok, et vidit Frederic quod esset bonum.

Either me or him, Frederic repeated. I will not stay here if he stays.
Fearful Freddie will not stay at his own countryhouse, Harpo said. The horror! Listen, you know really well, he said in a more serious tone, that I can’t just shoo Neon away. He is a friend, and a fellow libertarian. Some would even take the liberty of calling him a musician.

A musician. A dee-jaay. A connoisseur of electronic music. EDM they call it. A musician! A farce!

I’m off to the practice, Frederic said finally, loud enough for Neon to hear. I’ll see if I can get a twenty bits from the conductor.

He walked, sour, across the lawn, past the fence he went, blinking at the sun that warmed at the chirping of birds. A late morning. Almost noon. I will not return. I cannot. If he is here, I will not be. Dubstep at three in the morning. In my house!

Let’s see if you can stand us a drink later! Harpo called out to him.

Of course. That’s all you think about, you… you… You won. You damn… You won. You have come, and you have… With your fellow squire. You have won.

The conqueror.

B. Catechism

“Well done, Mr Horseshopin,” the conductor said firmly, tapping his baton against the music stand. “Perfect performance, but-”

Always with the buts. How can my performance be perfect if there’s a but. I am no Paganeighni, but I strive towards perfection. Why is there a but in my perfection? I don’t need my perfection to be tinted. Tainted, even. I’ve come here not to perform, but to collect. Yea, this one here is a materialist. I love music, I really do, but. When a coin goes jingling in your pocket~ Ah, I’ve got spurs that jingle jangle jingle… And every cob a spur pierces my flank. Pain. A long time since I’d experienced it. A week ago, with the stomachache. No, that’s. A usual pain, I guess. Something you get used to.

“-but the coda is rather dry.” The conductor opened his mouth again, but closed it without uttering a word more. “Rather dry,” he repeated, “if you get what I mean.”

Dry. Hang them out to dry, like old clothes. Otherwise? Undry. Sprinkle them with water. Whip them with wheat. There are your clothes again. All mild and good. Undried.

“Of course, sir.” Frederic nodded, slowly, estimatingly, and turned a little towards the conductor on the piano stool. “Thank you for your input, sir. I’ll try to rectify the mistakes, sir.”

A sound of a cello, coming from another room. So sweet, so prim. So everlasting. An everlasting instrument, hers and mine. Why hers? Because it’s a mare playing the cello. I can feel it. The gentle hooves caressing the neck of the instrument. Like a lover.

Free thought will soar, like free speech, like free music. Instrumental music is always the key of expression. Let’s take jazz. It’s so completely apolitical that it is the most freedom-seeking music in Equestria. The wordless blues, played with a slide on a solo guitar. Call-and-response. That’s the music of the soul. And classical. It may be sweet. Prim. Everlasting. But in the end it is a form. And a form can, and will, contain a soul. This is what you cannot understand, conductor. This is what separates me from you.

“I’ve read your recent article on the role of classical music in the development of militarism.” The conductor stood up and walked in a small circle, choosing the words carefully. “I see you are an adversary of both our military and our social regime, am I not right?”

So this is what it is about. So? No work, and no pay. No pay makes Freddie a dull boy. Ah, those damn articles! For money I write them. For money. And the irony is that it all turns against me. Eventually. “You would not be wrong, sir.”

“I am a liberal pony,” said the conductor, “but I must say that you are dancing with fire here.” Playing. Playing with fire, you should have said. “You are a very respectable soloist, Mr Horseshopin,” the conductor said. “You must strive for good publicity.”

“I fear publicity,” said Frederic, “in all of her forms.”

“Ha!” The conductor laughed a dry, coda-like laugh. “No, no, Mr Frederic. You may not love our Princess, but you must at least pretend that you are not against Her.”

“How can I be against the rising sun, sir?” said Frederic. “I need it to survive, and thus I need Her.”

“As I have said,” the conductor continued, “I am a very liberal pony. I don’t mind your anarchist views, Mr Horseshopin. But you must understand too.” Here, he cracked his baton against the music stand. “We are surrounded by enemies. Faggots. Zebras. Griffins. All the scum of the world is against Equestria now. So,” he concluded in a fashionable manner, “you must understand that even the best of us have no choice but to submit to Her rule, to break those enemies of ours.”

The cello stopped. They are no enemies of mine. I don’t mind gays, let them be. Zebras are potent medics and brewers. Griffins make the lower grade of our military that you seem to like so much. “I have no enemies,” said Frederic vaguely, “within Equestria, or outside.”

There was a silence, interrupted only by the returned sound of the cello. Now, it sounded angry. Potent. Furious. I wish I could command my instrument with such power. But no. I can only submit. Is that all there is? Is that all I can do? Submit to my instrument. Submit to my ruler. Submit to Neon and Harpo. Go back to the countryside. Say I was wrong. That it is my damn house and that I am gonna sleep there whatever they do. Yes. Do that, and… No, no. That’s impossible.

“I almost forgot,” the conductor said, his face blasting with a smile. “Your pay for last month. Your performances were spectacular. Here.” He offered Frederic a pouch, which the pianist readily grabbed. “It’s fifteen bits. You have earned it.”

Fifteen! I thought I would make at least twenty. Maybe twenty-five! No. Smile. There. Say thank you. I hate you. Say thank you sir. I want to murder say. Say. Say it! “Thank you, sir.”

“You are very welcome, Mr Horseshopin,” the conductor said, nodding the pianist away. “I believe you had other matters to attend to, apart from practice?”

No, none whatsoever. Apart from maybe getting beastly drunk. Blast it! “Of course, sir.”

“Like maybe writing an apologetic article to the paper?” the conductor suggested.

Frederic looked at him in dismay. No, he can’t… He can’t make me, can he? O, he can. He pays me. He’s my master, and I am the serf. No freedom for me.

“Of course, I am merely kidding,” the conductor quickly said, smiling at the terror-stricken pianist.

Frederic barely managed a smile and a nod before getting up, and, to the sounds of the cello, going away. Through the door, down the corridor, and- freedom! The fresh air! Down the steps. Quickly.

“Mr Horseshopin!” the old conductor rasped after him, limping down the stairs. “Do you want to know why Equestrian gays never march for their rights?”

Stop now. Pay him some heed. “Why, sir?” said Frederic, a frown tugging at his lips.

“Because we never gave them any!” The conductor coughed with laughter, holding his chest with a hoof, laughing, rasping, coughing, laughing. “We never gave them any rights to march for!” More laughter, rasping, coughing, laughter. “We never gave them any!”

C. Monologue

Coins in my pocket. Jingle jangle jingle. Stuff your opinion elsewhere. Pay heed. Swallow your pride. Face humiliation. Say thank you sir. Always say thank you sir. All for the jingly jangly jingly coins in the pocket of my old empty saddlebag.

But no, not empty. The music books, the quarterbits, the old baton. Protect yourself. And one and two and three and four. Ain’t no grave can hold my body down. But then again: the gods gonna cut you down. They don’t know; they believe in Her. I don’t. I don’t like her. The shiny regal blight on our land. She sees the injustice in Her land and does nothing. Why? Because democracy. Well, fuck democracy.

Albeit nurtured in democracy, and liking best that state republican, turn left, oh, that’s a stone, where every… He passed the corner, humming to himself. Ain’t no grave. They pray on Her, even. But not Her sister. Suddenly, the devil is turned into a goddess. How quaint!

Home! Go back! Stop, turn round, tell them. Tell them. It’s my house, it’s my tube, it’s my personal… The only home I can claim as my own will be my coffin. So unfortunate! Yet I see, spite of this modern fret for Liberty, cross the road, better the rule of One, whom all obey… I will. What else can I do? I cannot change the country, so I’ll have to change myself. It’s all about the point of view, they say. Well, it’s only a slave’s point of view that’s valid here, I guess. Why can’t I adopt it?

No adoption. Again with the gays. Don’t we have other problems to solve? Economy is collapsing and all they talk about is gays, migration, and press regulation. The press, pressing itself into submission. Submission complete. Every day, our fair and benevolent Ruler, every day, all the time. This fetish. I guess they all want to fuck the Princess. Yeah, fuck her royal butt. And they despise filly-foolers because they want a piece of it too, while their own wives wants to lick Luna’s flaring cunt.

Can’t they read minds?

Nah, they only do the sunmoonthing. Luna, though. Nothing too political. An idol? A token, maybe. At most. Than to let clamorous demagogues betray our freedom with the kiss of anarchy. Oh, anarchy! The mother of order! You would be welcome here. You would crush regulations, you would break down the lines marching west. You would kiss us with wit and lust. Kiss me, o anarchy! Become my beloved. I will always love you.

Don’t step on that pile of dung! Wherefore I love them not whose hooves profane… Shouldn’t it be “therefore”? Ack, why do they even shit on the roads? How fucked up is that? Griffins don’t shit on the roads, and zebras don’t shit on the roads, but the benevolent ponies shit on the roads! And I have to step in that with my profane hooves. Do faggots shit on the roads?

For no right cause, beneath whose ignorant reign… But She’s not ignorant. No. She knows it all. Like a wise autumn leaf, not falling, never falling down. Father! You knew. You fucking knew when you said tempora mutantis et nos mutamur in illis. You knew, Father, and you didn’t let me.

You didn’t let me. Know. Going to that cage from where there’s no return. Your coffin. Your castle. The only fortress that a free stallion may name his in this crazy country. You hated Her, too, didn’t you. You did. I know, Father. Talk to me. From the Underworld, where all the sinners go. Where I will go to. Non serviam! That’s what you said. That’s what I say, Father. Non serviam.

Ack, need to get cleaned of that shit. There’s the park. He followed the road leading up to the park and, discreetly, wiped his hoof on the grass. There. Done. Arts, reverence, honour, all things fade… Everything fades. Everything must cease. What a sombre thought!

Save treason and the dagger of her trade. Does that make me a traitor to this country? Why do we even think in such terms? Why should we pledge allegiance? Why should we have loyalties? I have my loyalty to my family. (You left them, you insufferable bastard.) Shut up. I have my loyalty towards my friends. (You don’t have any friends. Not any more.) Shut up! I have my loyalty towards music. (...) There! I do.

Or murder with his silent bloody hooves. Dubstep at three in the morning! In my outhouse. My house. Freddie the banker. Freddie the jock. Freddie the unbeliever. Past, past… The paper office. Wonder if that grey mare there is… No matter how she played. Was it her I heard this morning? No, not morning. Well past noon. Seems not only I wake up so late. Once woke at twenty-five past five. The countryhouse fast asleep. Harpo snoring. Friends. With such friends, who needs enemies?

Rejoice! Now! To the place of food and drink! Drink, I serve thee. Food, I don’t need. Haven’t eaten since Wednesday. Bah! Who needs food when alcohol contains enough sugar. I guess if I smoked, I would despise food even more. Would I?

Smoked salmon, delicious hayfries, tasty salad. We herbivores, and yet we eat fish all right. Meat is a no-no, but fish is fine. I wonder. Why don’t we? The regulations. Look at all my trials and regulations… No, tribulations. Ha. The gods, sure.

Nutritious nutrition. My food for thought. My father, who art not in Heaven. Father, father… I loved you, you old drunk. Tell the gods that I did. I don’t want to go to hell. Strange. Rules they make for us, to follow, to go to heaven. And those of us who break the rules? Knock knocking on heaven’s door. And, suddenly, there’s no one there. Ha! Isn’t that a joke.

Tell them, Father. But: Non serviam. I said it, and by this creed I’ll live. I will not serve Her, I will not serve their rules, I will not serve their regulations, I will not serve their right and wrong and their allies and enemies, I will not serve their doctrine, oh damn, that’s shit again! I will not serve their dirty streets, I will not serve the dirt they spill in the media, I will not serve their national idea, by the gods I will not serve their nation nor will I serve those gods I will not serve Harpo and his boozy deejay friend I will not serve they will make me but I won’t I will not serve the old conductor and I will not serve in their military when the time comes they will try to crush me break me they will come for me but I will run. I will be ready. I will not serve.

Non serviam!

II. Ulysses

Ulysses

E. Narrative

Octavia Philarmonica adhered to a strong diet. She did not allow herself a piece of fish; she ate twice a day; she did athletic exercises that kept her in form. She liked to observe her firm, yet slender form in the mirror, her muscles that shone with youthful vigour that, for her age, was exemplary.

Just now she was returning from the market, having bought a fair amount of lettuce to sustain her breakfast. She closed the backdoor behind her and put the lettuce on the kitchen table. Time for some tea.

Deftly, she put the kettle onto the burner and struck a match. Why doesn’t Vinyl do all that, I wonder. Those unicorns! I have to do all the housework with my hooves when she can just levitate things. Races! Belong to the unfortunate, like. But then again: equality. In Her, all three races. Equality my flank!

Octavia Philarmonica fiddled with the toaster, skilfully withdrawing the dark, blackened crusts, and placed two slices of bread within. Yes. Vinyl should like it. She likes it a bit underdone. Like the pancakes, the thin ones. Hehe. Silly Vinyl. I wonder.

The bread sprung up with a resounding click, and Octavia Philarmonica grabbed the hot slices with a fork, placing them on the plate. But the palate can’t be full without. She turned on the radio, searching in the refrigerator for some jam. As she grabbed the strawberry jar, the radio wept some lazy blues:

Oh, did you never see my baby get home?

No, we ain’t never seen you baby get home!

You, they sing, not your. The griffins. But what of it? The feathered don’t even get a decent employment, not to mention living conditions. But then again, it must fuel their blues. I wonder what kind of bluesbuck would sing the blues if he was rich? Rich buck’s blues? Celestia, please.

The juice contraption came next, and Octavia pressed the halves of an orange against it with formidable force, watching the juice slurp into the glass. How can she drink this sludge? Orange juice. Why not buy a carton of normal apple juice instead?

I said, did you never see my baby get home?

No, we ain’t never seen you baby get home!

Tadam.

Tadadadam.

Tadada-

Tadam.

Tadada-

Off clicked the radio, on the benevolence of the grey hoof, and Octavia placed the glass next to the plate on the metal tray. Picking it up in her strong, earth pony teeth, she began her ascent up the stairs into the bedroom.

As she opened the door, balancing on three hooves, harsh sunlight blinked into her eyes through the unshielded window. Ack! That Vinyl. How she can sleep like that, I’ll never understand. Then again, when you’re out all night, spinning disks… drinking… smoking… probably even kis… No. No. Shoo. Not touching that.

Gently, Octavia Philarmonica, balancing on three hooves, placed the tray next to the bed of the sleeping form of a female unicorn, snoring softly on top of the blankets. “Vinyl, I brought you breakfast,” Octavia said quietly, kissing the unicorn on the ear.

“Mmhm,” Vinyl replied, burying her head deeper into the pillows. “Mhm ffm.”

“I’m going to the concert hall to practice,” Octavia said, nudging the tray next to the bed gently. “I’ll buy you a bagel.” A bagel for my sweetness. A sweet sweet bagel for my sweet baby. Tadam. Tadam. Didn’t you never see my baby get home? Tadam.

“Mmhm, thanks, Tavi.” Vinyl rolled over sleepily. “Wake me up at mmhm.”

Octavia cast a glance at the table. The phone. One new message. Should I? No. No. You don’t want to know. It’s better not to know. Can do without another scandal. Can do without a quarrel. Let her. Hah. Today.

Today, then. Today she defiles the marriage bed. No. The unmarriage bed. Can never get married. Samesex marriage will never be allowed here, despite the world trends, the columnists say. The public is ninetypercent against samesex marriage. The public is sixtypercent for outlawing homosexuality. The public is fortypercent for keeping gays in concentration camps.

Octavia Philarmonica descended the stairs calmly, trying to get her mind off the letter. The concert, tonight. Ah, and no payment again. Need to see SIlver Quill to get the legal advice for that. They’ll pay, those morons. I swear they only skip me because I’m a filly-fooler. Well, I’ll show them. I’ll tickle their catastrophe.

Octavia passed by the table, taking a sip of cooling tea. Calm now. All calm. Can eat the lettuce now. She separated the outside leaves of the lettuce, and placed the remains in the sink, turning the tap to run cold water. Wonder what’s in the papers today. Prime Minister denying any involvement in the recent attacks on zebra borders. The Caesar imposing sanctions. No, shouldn’t look. Will only make me angry. Tadam tadam. Pss the water goes. Oh! Pss I should go too. The waters of life to run freely.

Octavia Philarmonica turned off the tap and, leaving the lettuce in the sink, pranced towards the bathroom, locking the door behind her once she was inside. On the stool now. Ah, yes. Pss. Come on. Pss goes the water. No? Think about something. Trick it. Didn’t you never see- Pss. Ah. There it goes. So freely. Tadam tadam. Now for that lettuce. She stood up and flushed.

Done.

F. Advertisement

Only today!

A powerful, state-of-the-art mare walked into the clean, tidy, tiny working room at the best newspaper office one could imagine. Why, if one were to part with his bits, that would be precisely the thing to buy: a shiny, magnetic room filled with regalia of great value and efficiency, filled with staff both intelligent and honourable, and let’s not forget to mention the great admare, the one, the only Roseluck, whose special talent included not only making fantastic advertisements for the paper, but also gardening, a skill at which she excelled.

Don’t forget to buy!

Octavia Philarmonica, price tag vague, subject to discussion, came upon Roseluck (price subject to discussion) the admare to assist her in her wonderful deed of making an advertisement for the daily paper (one bit) in the newspaper office (four hundred bits; or twelve bits a month’s rent).

Gentlecolts, your bets, please!

So, Octavia Philarmonica (lot number 14456) asked of Roseluck the admare (lot number 14455) whether all went fine, and whether there was something she, lot 14456, could help her (lot 14455)? Of course, Roseluck said, there was a great ad (lot 14454) she had in her mind (lot 14457), but she couldn’t draw it for the life of her (included in lot number 14455), as was the case with most of her ads (lot 14454 included), and she wondered whether lot 14456 could help her?

Octavia Philarmonica, the great artist and musician

Of course, Octavia said, for her qualities far surpassed those of a common musician: she was an expert in drawing, sculpting (her clay sculptures are the stuff of legends!), as well as writing poetry and performing at the local charity theatre. So, here she was, all ready to help, that is, to draw, wondering what exactly she should be drawing.

The magnificent picture that Roseluck drew for her in words and that you can have the honour of obtaining right now

Once upon a time, and a very good time, there was an old watchmaker. He made fine, trusty watches for a living. He had a son, a colt who liked to count bits and maths. So the colt grew up and became a rich, prosperous banker. When he turned thirty, his father presented him with one of the watches. The watch wasn’t expensive, nor was it all that shiny. Indulgently, the young stallion said, “Thanks for the present, Dad.” To which his father said, “It’s not a present, son. It’s a heritage.”

Silence ensued in the tiny room, a long, thoughtful silence, during which Octavia Philarmonica wondered how exactly she should paint all that

I wonder if I should just draw out the scene where the father gives the watch to his son, Octavia said, looking around the tiny (magnetic!) dirty (wondrous!) room (very cheap! call now!) No, no no, Roseluck said, I was thinking more along the lines of something more modernist, if you catch my drift. Oh, maybe…

And here it should be noted that Roseluck finally gives out the idea she had been cherishing for a long long while, all the time that she had tended to her garden, and finally, she is ready to present her very modernist idea to the world in the eyes of Octavia Philarmonica, the majestic artist who has just decided to grace her, that is, Roseluck, with her majestic presence

I was thinking about something along the lines of two pairs of horseshoes, just in black and white, I guess, and the bigger pair is the daddy and the smaller pair is the son.

What?

Octavia Philarmonica the great artist - who can be in your employ right now if you call immediately, and a wonderful gardener will come as an extra help to your prospering mansion - greatly albeit silently disapproves of the seemingly majestic idea Roseluck had been cherishing for a long long while, all the time that she had tended to her garden, and hummffs very indignantly, thinking about what she can say to dissuade the young gardener, that is, the young admare, from using this unpractical, and definitely unselling idea

I don’t think this is a good idea, Roseluck, Octavia said.

So this is how Octavia Philarmonica the great artist - who can be in your employ RIGHT NOW if you call IMMEDIATELY, and a wonderful gardener will come as an EXTRA help to your prospering mansion - greatly albeit silently disapproves of the seemingly majestic idea Roseluck had been cherishing for a long long while, all the time that she had tended to her garden!

What do you suggest then? Roseluck asked.

Lo and behold! Roseluck the admare finally gives voice to her concerns, at this exact moment, that Frederic Horseshopin, having just wiped shit off his horseshoes, glances into the newspaper office and sees Octavia Philarmonica, the great artist and cellist who may or may not have practised cello in the Conservatoire some hours ago!

Octavia smiled. I have just the idea…

Thus, she began to draw, while we remind you that everything mentioned above is to be considered an advertisement, and is in no manner absolute truth or even a deft portrayal of reality, and is the sheer result of the imagination of one particular person, and in no manner should be considered a public offer or an invocation to make a public offer or any offer, as referred to in the Celestial Civil Code, Ch. 45, art. 1226.

G. Labyrinth

The sturgeon swam through the dark waters of the river, breaking through, creasing the threshold, soon to unleash its studdy body into the freefall, the fall of nature that led to the mighty sea, via another river. It flapped its flippy flippers and let out a bulb of bulp, it manoeuvred through the rocks that impended its way, it knew that it was its only purpose in life. Ever since it was a little fish, it knew that all the big fishies went to the fall and then to another river, and then to the sea, and in the sea the water was healthy, and pure, and salty; and all the necessary minerals were to be found there; and an abundance of food. So it swam and swam and-

Atcha!

***

“Look, the sun is setting!”

Derpy the mailmare flew steadily towards home. Home meant daughter. Home meant muffins. She flew, flew steadily, towards home. Towards Ponyville.

Past the river Canterlot she flew, past the freefall, above the woods that marred the bottom of the mountain. Towards home. Via domus.

Atcha!

So Derpy the mailmare flew, steadily, via domus, towards her daughter, towards her muffins, towards Ponyville.

Splash.

***

She loved walking like that in the setting sun. It cradled her thoughts, it tickled her skin, it ripped her feelings apart so that she could see the inside of them. She loved just strolling along the bank of the river Canterlot, and watching the falls as they fell into another river and then, far, far away, into the sea.

“Look, the sun is setting!”

Others. Sharply, she turned left, and followed the path into the woods. Soon, the forest would become dark and unwelcoming, but, as of now, it coloured the trees a fairytalish brown and green, a picture out of a foals’ book.

There were shouts from the bank as she breathed in the evening air and passed deeper inside. The gentle path under her hooves resonated with a distinct chow of the ground, of dry, impassive dirt. She laughed - a jingly laughter, and turned round, and hummed, and, from the bank of the river heard a-

Splash.

***

Octavia Philarmonica looked attentively at the bookstand, frowning at the prices. I wonder why books cost so much. Education is so expensive and gin is so cheap. It must be a pattern of some sort. Drink for everypony, and education for the most affluent. I’m pretty well-to-do, I read a lot, does that make me elite?

No, of course not. My little… extremities. Ah. Can’t I refer to my orientation properly even inside my head! Always hide, from those who know everything. Why, isn’t it ironic? Everypony knows, and yet I have to keep it a secret. Celestia, why don’t you participate in the events of your country?!

Atcha!

And Luna… If what I hear is correct… She placed the book back on the stand. Then took another one. Of course, it’s all rumours. If rumours were true, maybe our plight would be easier…

“I’ll take this one,” said she, grabbing a book from the stand.

The bookseller, a plump, stately gentlecolt, nodded greasily. “Sure thing, ma’am. This one will be-”

Splash.

***

The bar smelt of sour piss and angry drinks.

“He’s a good fella, he is,” Harpo assured Neon, with whom he was sitting in the corner booth, cradling his beer. “It’s just that he’s really mentally damaged. Father abuse and all that.”

“Well, I’m an orphan,” said Neon, sipping a little, “and I’ve been dealing with my problems.”

“I can’t say I have ninety-nine problems,” said Harpo, “but when they come, I try to deal with them. To dealing with problems!” he proposed elegantly.

“Sure,” Neon called out. “Let’s drink to that!” And so they raised their glasses and there was a-

Splash.

***

“Look, the sun is setting!” one of the colts called out, and the others agreed that it was, in fact, a majestic sight.

The sturgeon swam through the dark waters of the river.

So they put their rods into the water again, while one of the colts, the one who had called out, stood knee-deep in the river, searching for a big one.

Past the river Canterlot she flew, past the freefall, above the woods that marred the bottom of the mountain.

Atcha! the colt shouted, grabbing the sturgeon with his bare hooves. “Look, look what I’ve got!”

The gentle path under her hooves resonated with a distinct chow of the ground, of dry, impassive dirt.

The other colts ran straight to him, into the river, trying to help him as best as they could.

“I’ll take this one.”

“No, no, it’s going-” the colt lost balance and-

“Let’s drink to that!”

Splash.

I. Pontification

So I was kicking the old pebble one fine morning, and guess who comes dragging his old lousy hooves around if not Caramel the bloody drunkard, my old buddy! “Hello there, Caramel,” says I, greeting the old buffoon kindly, “how’s it hanging?”

“Between the legs, as usual,” says the glorious buck, and we kept walking down the bloody street towards whatever there was out there.

I was just feeling thirst nibbling at my throat so I says to him, “Caramel, old buddy,” says I, “I’m afraid you’ve given up drink completely?”

So he nods, the esteemed buck that he is. “I never take a drop between a shot and a glass.”

So off we go to Barney’s Corner, down the bloody street, when suddenly there’s that colt who like pushed me a little in the street, but this one’s a tough one to fool, so I takes him by the neck and I says to him, “Wasn’t you just taking what’s not yours out of my saddlebag?” says I, and, by Celestia’s beard, here he is, bawling out, giving me back my shiny bit, crying something about his family, and hunger, and whatever. Sure, a likely story. I mean, it’s the bloody trust, man. You just lose the bloody trust in some ponies.

A trust, as my learnt colleagues definitely know, is a fiduciary relationship among three parties: a settlor (also referred to as grantor, transferor, trustor, or donor), in whom the initial interest and legal title is vested; a trustee, to whom the legal title is conveyed therein; and the beneficiaries, who are holders of the equitable title, and to whose merit the trustee is holding the legal title to the property (passive, or “dry” trust) or acting upon the property (active trust). As my learnt colleagues can clearly see, such a relationship wherein the title to the same property is divided between two parties, is, therefore, a relationship of split title wherein-

So we hit Barney’s, the nice half-basement that it is, and by Celestia’s beard, there he is, the Barbarian, saying hello to his second pint all by himself in the corner. “Greetings to the esteemed gentlecolt,” says I, tapping my hat aside. And Caramel, that bingy fool, just grins there like an idiot while the Barbarian, the plump, stately gentlecolt that he is, says a hello to me.

So we sit down at the table, and here’s Barney, ready to take the order. Barney, who thinks while you drink. Hehe. “What’s the select blend, Barbarian?” says I.

“The water of life, of which I am to drink freely,” says the esteemed gent.

“And you, Caramel?” says I.

“I support the senator’s point of view,” says he, the gentle soul, so I says to Barney to bring us three whiskies, and I says to the Barbarian, “How’s the Protect Our Foals committee working, Barbarian?”

“Poorly,” rasps the noble stud, taking a go at his glass. “We tried to propose that any gay propaganda is to be illegal, not just among minors, as it is now.” So he spits on the floor in disgust, he does, the cultured beast. “They said it’s not our concern. Not our bloody concern, they say!”

No propaganda of a same-sex relationship, or any claim that presents same-sex relationships in a positive light, and/or presents a same-sex relationship in a favourable light as compared to a heterosexual relationship, is to take place at any time in any publication. All such claims must be marked adult-only as per the Information Act of Celestial Year 1014. Failure to comply with the law will lead to a fine, confiscation of the publication, and, in case of a street riot, imprisonment.

“Calm down, Barbarian,” says I calmly. “Let the bloody fags spill whatever crap they want. Our foals are safe.” Foals! Psh! Like the one that tried to steal my bit, like that one. Well, lemme tell you something about those foals: I don’t give a bloody fuck what they do, or what happens to those bloody mongrels. Foals! Psh!

“How about a change of tune, Barbarian?” says Caramel, and, by Celestia’s beard, I felt right then that my throat sure wanted a gin to go with it.

So I says, “How about a gin-tonic, without the tonic,” says I.

“I agree with the esteemed orator,” says the Barbarian, mighty soul, so I asks Barney to bring us a round of gin, and I kinda start fooling around, telling about that Lyra mare that I tried to flirt with when I found out she was fully lesbian, the bloody bitch.

Lyra Heartstrings, the maid fair and of renowned beauty, was like a flower blossoming on the banks of river Canterlot. Her eyes, the gentle mint, that matched her mane so perfectly, mesmerised and charmed any passer-by. In addition, her immense skill with the musical instrument of an ancient age, the lyre, captured the attention of anypony who was privileged and honoured to have heard its sweet, soft tingling. Aye, Lyra Heartstrings was one of a kind, and it is no wonder that our noble, gentle knight has fallen for her grace. Alas, her heart was promised to another, not to mention of the same gender! Ah, the perversion could still never render the fair maid abnormal, for her beauty and glory was the subject of songs to be sung and ballads to be told.

“Which Lyra?” says Caramel, the ignoramus that he is.

“The Heartstrings one,” says I, “but alas, she only plays for the fillies’ team, the bloody faggot that she is.” And I just kept to my gin when the Barbarian speaks up wisely, the great scholar of equine minds.

“There just ain’t never been a stallion to fill her whole,” says the Barbarian. “They soon forget their fillyfooling dreams when there’s a fine mighty stud to ride them.”

“Amen, Barbarian,” says Caramel, and down the gin went. Bloody drunkard, I had a neat-o toast to propose! Blast him and his aunt till she cannot ride a carousel! What a blot of a horse, really.

“Barney, give us another round, and a pint of mercy with it!” says I, and here he is, Barney the Great Pone, carrying all those sweet sweet glasses, gin and porter.

So I raise my glass and cough so loud that even that Caramel, bloody drunk, stops the pint right at his lips. “To cocks!” says I, elegantly, much to the laughter of the Barbarian. “And to all stallions, all around Equestria.”

“Amen!” says the Barbarian, and, by Celestia’s beard, he downs the whole glass faster than my daddy lost virginity. Blast him and good health to the mighty!

The fine specimen defined as the Barbarian possessed a remarkably low alcohol tolerance. Despite that fact, or maybe in spite of it, his health deteriorated at a much slower pace than that of his peers. At his respectable age he was, still, a distinguished athlete, as well as a mighty poet, a solemn orator, and a general representative of the thinking public.

“Caramel, you think you could brawl another one?” says I, my drink completely depleted.

“Could a bird fly?” says the esteemed stud, and so I says to Barney to give us all a new one, and three pints to mark. Those bloody drunks! They always drink at your expense and you never even get a word of thanks. That bleeding Caramel!

And guess who enters the fine establishment? None other than Octavia Philarmonica, the notorious filly-fooler, the well-known cuckold, and, sometimes, a passy classical farter at the cello. “I’m sorry,” she says in that posh I-know-all accent of hers, “Is Silver Quill here?” Look around, you bloody bitch. Does it look like there’s somepony else but us three, you dumb stringer? By Celestia’s beard, what I hate more than posh classy faggots is smartass posh classy faggots!

“He’s nooot been here, pretty,” Caramel slurs, the bloody drunk. By Celestia’s beard, the bleeding drunkard cannot help make a fool of himself, just can he? “Wanna take a driiiink with ussss handsssome stallions?” And so, by Celestia, he pats the chair next to him! Bloody. Fucking. Drunk.

“No, thank you,” says the faggot mare, all scrunchy and grand like my daddy’s assfarts on Sundays. “This is not the company I sought.” Bloody fucking bleeding aristocrat, that bitch! Not the company she sought! Well, of course, she sought another filly-fooler to lick her fucking cunt right there in the pub. Especially considering the talk that her own faggot mare doesn’t give her quarter a fuck. The dirty, rotten wrench. Her mare, though, Vinyl: that one I’d tap for sure! And if talk be right she doesn’t play for the fillyfooling team solely. Neon Lights sure talked about how he ploughed her and nailed her like a cheap floorpanel.

“The bloody faggot,” says the Barbarian soon as the bitch is gone. “The bloody faggots are all about our country, brothers!” And, by Celestia’s beard, he slams the empty (!) glass against the table. “We must be ready, and face them with the same force that they threaten us with.” What can I say, if the Barbarian gets on the topic, he gets on the topic. And there’s no bloody way to get him off it. So the faggots, yeah, right, nopony likes them, but they exist like bloody mosquitoes. Crush the mosquitoes, sure, not a bad idea. Actually doing something like setting mosquito traps? Bitch, please. The law is against the faggots and the public is against the faggots and sometimes the Barbarian is just preaching to the choir. So he goes on and on about faggots and how they want equal rights and how they want marriage (psh! as if Equestria will ever agree to that!) and so on and so forth, and by Celestia’s beard, I was having thirst halfway through his speech.

“We get it, we get it, Barbarian,” says I, motioning for Barney to give us just the pints. “Here, see if you can do with another one.”

“Much obliged,” he nods, the esteemed buck, and gulps such a big gulp that I wasn’t sure how he was still able to speak. “Times are tough, my brothers! O tempora,” so he hiccuped like a good stud, “O mores! No, we’ll never let the bloody fags walk around the streets, kissing like it’s nopony’s business.”

I just wanted to say an amen to that when the door opens and in come old Braeburn and Silver Quill, that hoity-toity lawyer. “Greetings,” says old Brae, and, by Celestia’s beard, not a second had passed before he was at the table with us three! My poor wallet! But lo and behold, he drops a shiny golden bit on the table and says, “the next round’s on me. To the Barbarian’s health.”

“So it shall be,” nods the Barbarian, the old gentle soul, and Barney brings us another round of porter, just as my throat had cried for quenching. Drenching our throats, up comes Silver Quill, standing aside, as usual, that bleeding moneybag of trouble.

“Have you seen Octavia?” asks he, tapping his spectacles. “I have a matter arranged with her.” A matter! How grand we are this afternoon. Bloody buffoon.

“A matter?!” the Barbarian coughs, rasping away his spit. “Sorry, my boy, but she only arranges matters with mares like her, if you catch my drift!” We do, Barbarian, we bloody well do.

So that lawyer says no and muffles around like the bloody muffler he is, and no, it’s just a legal matter pertaining to- Pertaining to my ass! Bloody lawyers with their bloody legalese! If there’s something I hate more than a lawyer, it’s a lawyer who can’t keep his mouth shut while the esteemed gentry drinks their pints in peace.

And, by Celestia’s beard, in comes that bloody filly-fooler with her extrapolite smile and they and Silver Quill talk all in gibberish and lesgalese - ha, that’s a good one! - and how she had a concert just now and didn’t get paid blablabla, well, lemme tell you, if you wanna get paid, stop eating pussy and try sucking a cock or two, yeah, you may even like it - and the conductor or whoever pays you classy musicians will sure pay you after a good old BJ, that’s for sure!

“Well, there’s a reason,” the Barbarian says, hiccuping a mighty hic, “why some mares don’t get paid!” Oh, by Celestia’s bloody cunt, don’t be making a fool of yourself like that, you old drunken fool! “If- if the esteemed conductor who is male-” he raises his staggery hoof- “was female, then some mares sure would’ve found a way to get paid!”

Oh, by Celestia’s flaring wings, here he goes again, being the old dumb buffoon that he is, that Barbarian. Never could understand how a stallion can drink so much as to lose control of himself completely. Well, that’s the Barbarian for you, the bleeding drunken fool.

“I beg your pardon?” that Philarmonica says, and, by Celestia’s beard, Silver Quill’s already getting a hold of her! “I beg your pardon?! What exactly are you implying right now?!” And off he carries her, towards the waiting cab.

“I am implying,” the Barbarian spits at her side - the bullseye! - “that you are a bloody filly-fooler who would suck the conductor’s bleeding cunt if he was a mare!”

Oh, Barbarian, so blunt, like your old blunt brain, no longer sharp.

“Well, I have news for you!” that Octavia shouts, being dragged to the cab by our hautty lawyer. “We filly-foolers aren’t some low cast to dispose of! We are numerous, and we will get our rights, whether your society wants it or not! And guess what?” And here she starts with the lists.

“Our district judge is a filly-fooler, and Violet the skiing champion is a filly-fooler, and Mecca the soprano is a filly-fooler, and, and- and Luna is a filly-fooler too!” Octavia screams from the cab, and, by Celestia’s beard, the Barbarian just exploded! Who, he roars, blobbing towards the street, who the hell did you say is a filly-fooler?

“Luna, your princess,” she screams victoriously, red-faced, like a blickering old hog that she is, “and it’s not just rumours! Half of Equestria knows your Princess is gay!”

Hell and knickers! By Celestia’s beard, the Barbarian just couldn’t hold his spit aside. “What did you say,” shouts he, “about my bleeding fucking Princess?!” And, by my daddy’s left testicle, he shivs back into the pub and takes the flower vase! And the buddies on him, Caramel urging him to calm down, and old Brae on another hoof, laughing with tears, and me, aside, blasting my life away at those bitchering pones that cannot hold their liquor or their sexual extremities to themselves!

“I’ll teach you how to talk about my bloody fucking bleeding Princess!” So the Barbarian breaks free and makes a mess of himself throwing the bloody vase at that faggot mare in the cab. Alas! He missed, and, looking around fiercely, growls, “Did I kill the bloody bitch or not?” By Celestia’s beard, what a lousy throw! Should’ve tried not to lose face, at least.

And there was a mighty commotion of light and fire and up from the sky descendeth a Voice, and speaketh: “Octavia from the house Philarmonico! We have heard thy lament, and, by Our protection, thee shall live life everlasting in Our Church, and no gates of Tartarus will crush it!” And the golden pegasus-driven chariot soared into the sky, carrying the noble, pious mare, who shouted, “Princess Luna! I hear thee!” - and ascendeth up into Heaven, that golden chariot, among the dirty road of dust, rubble, and shit.

J. Play

Dramatis personae:

OCTAVIA PHILARMONICA (O)

FREDERIC HORSESHOPIN (F)

THE BOOZER

THE CONDUCTOR

JUDGE 1

JUDGE 2

STREET CHANTERS

THE FLOOR SWEEPER

THE BEER MUG

THE DUSTBIN

THE PRODUCER (cameo)

and other minor contributions

ACT I

(The scene is set on a corner of two busy streets, late in the evening, at approximately 11 pm. O is walking down of the streets, listening to the chatters of the STREET CHANTERS. She has thirst, and looks for a place to drink. Ready, set, go!)

O: I wonder where I can get a stiff drink at this time of the night…

STREET CHANTERS: Buy some apples! Only today! A wonderful discount on our horseshoes! Tomorrow’s newspapers! Buy some pears!

O: Shush, you. (Walks towards a pub.) Ah, here’s an old good pub for me to relax in.

JUDGE 1: You do not end the sentence on a preposition.

O: Shut up. (Walks into the bar. It is rather full, and there is not a single empty table. In the corner, she sees the familiar face of F, whom she had observed several times in the old Conservatoire during their quite separate rehearsals.) Ah, there’s a place with my name on it.

JUDGE 2: Unlawfully uncompyright untrademarked names lead to the usurpation of unstolen unproperty…

THE PROSECUTOR: Death penalty! (Shoots JUDGE 2.)

THE BEER MUG: Hey, Freddie.

F: Uh.

THE BEER MUG: Freddie, you drunken fool, wake up. There’s a pretty mare walking your way.

F: Uuh. (Raises his head. Sees O.) She’s a filly-fooler. (Lowers his head again.)

O: Is this seat taken?

THE BEER MUG: Of course it’s taken, right, Freddie? We don’t want no dirty filly-

F: Shut up. (To O:) No, it’s empty. You can sit if you want.

THE BEER MUG: I thought we was friends!

F: A gin, please!

THE WAITER: The ginness of what is the whatness of allgin. (Brings a gin.)

F: Much obliged. (Commits a dance on the table, throwing off THE BEER MUG.) Oops.

THE BEER MUG: (Dies.)

JUDGE 1: The death penalty is to be carried out five seconds ago. Amen.

(A priest enters the bar, followed by a huge procession, which accidentally knocks over THE DUSTBIN)

THE PRIEST: In Nomine Celestiam, et Fillii, et Spiritus Sancti.

THE DUSTBIN: Look where you’re going! Psh!

JUDGE 1: The trespassers will be-

O: And a gin for me, please.

(A bluesbuck starts singing.)

THE BLUESBUCK: Didn’t you never see my baby get home?

THE PROCESSION: No, we ain’t never seen you baby get home!

THE PRIEST: Amen.

JUDGE 1: So be it.

THE DUSTBIN: Psh!

O: Are you sure I’m not intruding?

F: No, not in the sss-hic-slightest. (He is drunk.)

A BARBERSHOP QUINTET: He is drunk, he is drunk, what we’re gonna do?

THE CONDUCTOR: And one, and two, and one two three four!

(THE ORCHESTRA starts playing modern swing, to which THE PROCESSION starts dancing. F jumps onto the table and taps a tap dance while downing his gin. He sings, and THE PRIEST levitates him high so he can see THE PROCESSION’s admiring gazes.)

THE PROCESSION: He’s a hero! He’s a genius! He’s the stallion Equestria needs!

THE PRIEST: For he is the rock upon which Celestia’s Church would be built!

JUDGE 1: And Celestia said, let there be rock, and there was rock.

THE CONDUCTOR: Rock’n’roll!

(THE ORCHESTRA shifts to playing a rock’n’roll ballad.)

O: Nice weather we’re having today, isn’t it.

F: Uhuh. (His eyelids are closing from time to time.)

(F, in a tuxedo, is sitting at the grand piano, while the patrons, as well as THE PROCESSION eye him curiously.)

F: It was a warm and very shiny day~

THE CHOIR: A shiny daaaay~

F: I felt my troubles withering away~

THE CHOIR: -thering awaaay~

F: And when I saw you standing there, oh when I saw those eyes, that hair, I didn’t know what else I co-ould saaay~

O: Still, rather stuffy, you have to admit.

F: Mmhm. (Drinks a gin.)

(F is on the stage, shooing THE BLUESBUCK and his band away.)

F: So I says, what do you do to stuff a fridge with an elephant?

THE PROCESSION: What do you do?

F: You open the fridge, you take an elephant, and you stuff the fridge with an elephant!

THE ORCHESTRA: Badum-tss!

THE PROCESSION: Ha! Ha! So rich! Ha! Stuff with an elephant! Ha!

F: Thank you, thank you, my lords. (Takes a bow. Dressed as a medieval lawyer, gives an address.) My faithful listeners, I must draw your attention to the fact that the common practice of stuffing a fridge with an elephant entails opening the fridge, or should we say refrigerator, taking an elephant, and stuffing the fridge, this refrigerator, with the aforementioned elephant.

THE PROCESSION: Take notes! (THE PROCESSION includes: the reverend SalmonToothbrush, Harashimoto Tagakrashi, Waldorf Zummenbleib, Pasua de Monteliesse, Victor Derbikoff, Almanda Verybeauty, Rashanda Notsobeauty, Werre Crammendorfnotennussgemuseraffelholl, Abrakadabr Kirsometiev, Verdanf Durala, Waldovoll Russendisko, Semranta Parahranta, Zibrik Vesmak, Les Piel De Vorschlaf Unter Ein Cock, Krimendell Von Riespenshnell, Lamia Manloverless, Lamiatta Manloverdo, Mannio Womanlover, Mascatto Verochelli, Arrivederci Kirka Voll Dramen Mit Krugen Ans Ratto Risperanto Vollshack Rastucci, Shortfellow Hamensbricknotsocloseoftheramblingwordcheeseeaterdemarchmakertheforeignministerioperdu ccirasperantovolshebnikorfeuskurzdickeinbedantesmann, and other renowned religious and secular participants.)

O: I believe (drinking her gin) that the Princess will be raising the sun soon.

F: Of course. We worship her because she raises the sun. Or, rather, if she didn’t raise the sun, why would we worship her? For grace? For… (Mumbles drunkenly.)

THE BOOZER: Hey you!

F: Yes, my good man?

THE BOOZER: What did you just say about our Princess?

F: Our Princess, my good man? Why, I didn’t say much about “our” Princess. Your Princess, maybe. I didn’t choose her and yet she rules over me. The tragedy! The farce!

THE BOOZER: Me thinks you fucker and me hoof should ‘ave a talk outside!

ACT II

(THE BOOZER drags F outside. O follows in a trot.)

O: O, this is all a huge misunderstanding, believe me! Look, he is a renown musician; if you would just listen-

THE BOOZER: Mah hoof would listen to his bloody heretic face! Me likes our Princess and all who don’t will-a talk straight to mah hoof ‘here!

O: Oh, no, you see, he’s inebriated, he…

ACT III

F: What I am saying, my good man, let us choose our rulers in peace-

ACT IV

F: -while we can-

ACT V

THE BOOZER: Take-

Entracte.

ACT VI

(THE BOOZER hits F.)

ACT VII

(F falls.)

Entracte.

ACT VIII

THE BOOZER: -this!

Entracte.

ACT IX

(THE BOOZER walks away)

ACT X

O: Oh my Celestia. (Leans over the fallen form of F.) Is he breathing? (Presses her ear against his chest.) Yes, merely unconscious. Hey. (Shakes him.) Mr Horseshopin? (Shakes again.) Frederic?

F: For Equestria… for beauty… and… glooooo…

THE CONDUCTOR: Soft pipes!

(The stage is empty, save for O holding the unconscious lying form of F. THE FLOOR SWEEPER is sweeping the floor.)

THE PRODUCER: Skibbidy-bop skibbidy-bop skibbidy-daa.

Finita!

III. Ithaca

Ithaca

L. Rambling

Naturally, and without further ado, Octavia Philarmonica offered her help to the young musician, whom she had not once observed at practice, and who commanded the piano so skilfully, meaning, of course, the great piano, of a black variety, much like the pianos that were used by jazz bands, once profitable and numerous, now mere reflections of themselves, more or less because of the new politics in the music industry which grew so flagrant and so unheeding to young talents, such as young Frederic Horseshopin, to whom Octavia Philarmonica offered her help, naturally, and without further ado.

Subsequently, the mare in question suggested that the beaten-up pianist follow her to a warm establishment, for the night was growing cold, and it was only fair to have a cup of coffee at such a cold night, when it was so cold, because of the cold weather looming in, and, since it was cold, why wouldn’t he follow her to such a perfect coffee-serving establishment?

Aye, the pianist agreed - albeit rather drunkenly, but we must forgive him, fair gents, for such a fault in behaviour, for he was sure tipsy, as some might say, after so copiously drinking away the money he had received from the fair conductor, or, rather, if we take Octavia Philarmonica’s viewpoint, an unfair conductor, who didn’t even pay heed to her demands, but surely she would follow another lead on him, as per the judicial procedure, which…

The pair opened the door to the 24-hour coffee-serving establishment, known in the wider circles as a coffee shop, one of the many scattered all over Canterlot, the fair city, the capital of our glorious country, and the main political centre of our state, fair for everypony, a state that promotes constant development, industrialisation, and modernisation as its main priorities, which were given in an address by our esteemed prime minister of HRH Government, long may She reign.

Inside, they were greeted by an array of smell and flavour, coming from such various blends as could only come from a well-maintained coffee machine manned by a rather pretty barista mare, with a wide, charming smile, who definitely caught the eye both of our guests, and bade them to proceed to the table in the middle, which was a table both clean and neat, a small round table meant for two, usually couples, but of course our guests were merely travelling companions, temporary travelling companions even, and by no means a couple, in no manner.

In the corner they sat, at the small round table meant for two, not necessarily a couple, but, alas, the discussion could not sparkle, as it quite often does in such establishments, in such a situation, and there was, definitely, so much to discuss, such as Frederic’s devotion to alcohol, his break-up with his friends that morning, or, should we say, the previous morning, for a new day was already dawning on Equestria, the land of the free, or, perchance, Octavia’s help with the advertisement, her observations regarding Frederic’s lack of skill in handling money, or maybe even her encounter with the famous orator and senator, the hero of our country - and a hero that our country deserves! - none other than the Barbarian, the esteemed gent.

After a small uneasy pause that our non-couple had due to the inebriation of the gentlecolt and complete lack of initiative by the mare, who was already quite weary, in addition to being emotionally spent after her verbal fight with the esteemed Barbarian, speaker of truths, and after saving Frederic Horseshopin from a very real, physical fight… Up to the table came the barista mare, carrying a mug of coffee meant for Frederic Horseshopin, for Octavia Philarmonica had refused a mug of her own, and quite insisted on paying for Frederic’s mug too, and she adhered by the principle of “a bit saved is a bit earned” so Frederic took up his mug and took a tiny sip, presumably complimentary, for he wasn’t thirsty at all, he’d had enough drink already in him, most of it from the night, of course, and not the day-drinking with the friends, with whom he had had a terrible breakup in his mind even in the morning.

Up to their table, struggling with keeping himself aligned, staggered a bearded stallion, gruff in complexion and rather pale, given his silvery coat which was crying with grime, and so up to their table he staggered, and asked the gentlecolt in question, who was undoubtedly the very same gentlecolt whom we have already discussed, namely Frederic Horseshopin, and so he asked the gentlecolt, that is, Frederic Horseshopin, whether he - quite unexpectedly he asked that, if we may remark! - what his name was, which, if we remark, is one of the ways to have trouble, and Frederic Horseshopin didn’t want to have any more trouble than he’d already had that day, or, rather, the previous day, for the morning was swiftly approaching our beautiful, glorious capital.

My name is Horseshopin, Mr Frederic Horseshopin said, and why, Mr Horseshopin asked, politely, as only Frederic Horseshopin could ask, why are you, my fair friend, but of course he wasn’t quite a friend, more like an accidental acquaintance, and not even an acquaintance, considering that Mr Frederic didn’t know his name, but he (Mr Frederic Horseshopin) didn’t ask, so he (Mr Horseshopin) asked why are you asking.

The gentlecolt, the bearded stallion in question, gruff in complexion and rather pale, given his silvery coat which was crying with grime, who had staggered to their - that is, the non-couple’s, Frederic Horseshopin’s and Octavia Philarmonica’s - table, just as dawn was colouring the sky of our glorious land, asked whether Frederic Horseshopin, that is to say, Horseshopin, Mr Horseshopin even, for he did not know Frederic’s first name, which was Frederic, as opposed to his surname, which was Horsehsopin, he asked whether Horseshopin - for it was he whom he asked - whether he (Horseshopin) knew old Fabius Horseshopin, who - but the bearded stallion in question with the pale and gruff complexion could not know that - was Frederic’s father, now deceased, much to the lament of the young pianist (Frederic Horseshopin).

Wary of the boozers, of course, remembering the heavy hit that he’d had from the boozer back in the pub, or, rather, outside the pub, yes, the very same hit that was making it so hard to think now, even harder because he was full of liquids, alcoholic in nature, so wary of his answer, or, rather, his reply, he, that is, Frederic Horseshopin, or just Horseshopin as this boozer, not the boozer who’d hit him, but this one that had just came up to them, to the non-couple, in the coffee shop, so he (Frederic Horseshopin) said that yes, he was familiar with Fabius Horseshopin.

So the boozer slammed his hoof against the table, scaring very much the pretty barista mare, as well as Octavia Philarmonica, the fair cellist, by this gesture, and said that Fabius was a damn old good stallion, yes he was, and that he was known not just for his familiarity with booze (of which fact Frederic Horseshopin was well aware) but also his prowess in juggling (a lie, according to Frederic Horseshopin who knew all that well that his father could not juggle for the love of Celestia, not that he himself loved Celestia all that much and…)

“A curious coincidence,” cellist Octavia called colloquially, calmly collaborating with the prodigious pianist. “Such a coincidence, the names, I mean.”

“He could juggle four barrels of ale, blast me as I stand!” the sitting stallion supposed, saturating his slightly alcoholic sermon. “Old good Fabius Horshopin, yes, he could!”

Frederic Horshopin (let’s use the name given to the fair gent by the gentle boozer) was at loss for words, or, rather, he would be, if he were in any decent condition, in which he was not, being inebriated and having been him square in the face, what with the maybe possible concussion that may or may not have followed the blow, and even if it hadn’t been for the blow, the alcohol itself, that is the liquids that he was full of, liquids alcoholic in nature, could have contributed, and probably were contributing to such an uneasy state bleibing in which, shall we say, he could not be at loss for words.

“Yeah, and he could juggle a table and the chairs, for the love of Celestia, he could!” continued the bastardly boozer, barricading his blatant lie from the liable lesbian and the posh pianist. Frederic Horseshopin (let’s use his proper name now) wondered in his head about his father, presumably how he could do that and… no, of course, if… basically, if he were in a jolly mood…

No, of course not.

Or?

Frederic Horseshopic, first of his name, a son, a wayward pianist, a fee-getter, a lesbian-talker, looked at the boozer, the presumably friend or presumably acquaintance of his presumably father who could presumably juggle a presumably table and presumably four presumably bottles of presumable ale, which was definitely a refreshing drink, especially considering how much he had experienced today, and why was there only coffee in a coffee shop what he wouldn’t do to go for an ale or just a mug of cold cider right now in the middle of the night was that a trait of alcoholism?, presumably transferred to him by his presumable father, Fabius Horshopin/Horseshopin, who could presumably, presuming by this presumable’s words, presumably presumble, I mean, juggle, four presuchairs, that is, presubarrels, and a presutable at once, presumably.

“Let me tell you,” presumed the presumer, “about Stalliongrad.” The hiccuper hiccuped. “About Stalliongrad, where I and old Fabius was stationed till they sent our regiment to Fillydelphia.” (Here, it should be remarked, duly and without delay, that Frederic Horseshopin was adamant in his opinion that his father had never served in the army, or any regiment of any sort, nor that he could ever juggle anything. Yet, the fair drinker was telling the vast audience that included, among others, Fiddle McGorney, LLB, LLM, JD, MD, O.G.F.T.G.G., Fossho Archibachi, BA, O.H.W.T.L.E.M.I., F.T.M.O.H.W.T.L.E.W.I.T., Gary Oldmarrus, revd Uni Uccopano, Tur Akmintur, MA, Rasco Rasticelli, the cellist General, Arcano Merr, G.B.N.R.G.P.A.T.M.A.A.O.A.V.I.R.A.P.V.E.A.B., Telly Macnoccio, Federico Responespo, Father Godnameithammermann, Sister Amata Goddessdontnameithammergirl, Arra Alki, H.G.M., Hishano Tarkamotto, Herr Mercelbruerrettovacanavacnapatoratoshatopatucinnizimmerdahlbettbedantessmercanottogormolamenhamendramerdramenbutbruttonotsolongheresearcherferryfederalpetersmanoeuvrecommanderandvastmagicianpatronmasterentrepreneurlamentsnotquitepersuasivedrammencorpsmannger, Frau Mercelbruerrettovacanavacnapatoratoshatopatucinnizimmerdahlbettbedantessmercanottogormolamenhamendramerdramenbutbruttonotsolongheresearcherferryfederalpetersmanoeuvrecommanderandvastmagicianpatronmasterentrepreneurlamentsnotquitepersuasivedrammencorpsmannger, old Herr Mercelbruerrettovacanavacnapatoratoshatopatucinnizimmerdahlbettbedantessmercanottogormolamenhamendramerdramenbutbruttonotsolongheresearcherferryfederalpetersmanoeuvrecommanderandvastmagicianpatronmasterentrepreneurlamentsnotquitepersuasivedrammencorpsmannger, his grandson Parry Patty Mercelbruerrettovacanavacnapatoratoshatopatucinnizimmerdahlbettbedantessmercanottogormolamenhamendramerdramenbutbruttonotsolongheresearcherferryfederalpetersmanoeuvrecommanderandvastmagicianpatronmasterentrepreneurlamentsnotquitepersuasivedrammencorpsmannger, his granddaughter Patty Parry Mercelbruerrettovacanavacnapatoratoshatopatucinnizimmerdahlbettbedantessmercanottogormolamenhamendramerdramenbutbruttonotsolongheresearcherferryfederalpetersmanoeuvrecommanderandvastmagicianpatronmasterentrepreneurlamentsnotquitepersuasivedrammencorpsmannger, the fair brother Mark Mercelbruerrettovacanavacnapatoratoshatopatucinnizimmerdahlbettbedantessmercanottogormolamenhamendramerdramenbutbruttonotsolongheresearcherferryfederalpetersmanoeuvrecommanderandvastmagicianpatronmasterentrepreneurlamentsnotquitepersuasivedrammencorpsmannger, PhD, his fair sister Marceline Mercelbruerrettovacanavacnapatoratoshatopatucinnizimmerdahlbettbedantessmercanottogormolamenhamendramerdramenbutbruttonotsolongheresearcherferryfederalpetersmanoeuvrecommanderandvastmagicianpatronmasterentrepreneurlamentsnotquitepersuasivedrammencorpsmannger, the tiny baby colt of the family Mercelbruerrettovacanavacnapatoratoshatopatucinnizimmerdahlbettbedantessmercanottogormolamenhamendramerdramenbutbruttonotsolongheresearcherferryfederalpetersmanoeuvrecommanderandvastmagicianpatronmasterentrepreneurlamentsnotquitepersuasivedrammencorpsmannger, the tiny baby filly Mercelbruerrettovacanavacnapatoratoshatopatucinnizimmerdahlbettbedantessmercanottogormolamenhamendramerdramenbutbruttonotsolongheresearcherferryfederalpetersmanoeuvrecommanderandvastmagicianpatronmasterentrepreneurlamentsnotquitepersuasivedrammencorpsmannger, the other tiny baby filly of the same renown family Mercelbruerrettovacanavacnapatoratoshatopatucinnizimmerdahlbettbedantessmercanottogormolamenhamendramerdramenbutbruttonotsolongheresearcherferryfederalpetersmanoeuvrecommanderandvastmagicianpatronmasterentrepreneurlamentsnotquitepersuasivedrammencorpsmannger, the quite old middle brother Mark Mercelbruerrettovacanavacnapatoratoshatopatucinnizimmerdahlbettbedantessmercanottogormolamenhamendramerdramenbutbruttonotsolongheresearcherferryfederalpetersmanoeuvrecommanderandvastmagicianpatronmasterentrepreneurlamentsnotquitepersuasivedrammencorpsmannger, the quite old middle sister Mary Mercelbruerrettovacanavacnapatoratoshatopatucinnizimmerdahlbettbedantessmercanottogormolamenhamendramerdramenbutbruttonotsolongheresearcherferryfederalpetersmanoeuvrecommanderandvastmagicianpatronmasterentrepreneurlamentsnotquitepersuasivedrammencorpsmannger, Grandma Betty Mercelbruerrettovacanavacnapatoratoshatopatucinnizimmerdahlbettbedantessmercanottogormolamenhamendramerdramenbutbruttonotsolongheresearcherferryfederalpetersmanoeuvrecommanderandvastmagicianpatronmasterentrepreneurlamentsnotquitepersuasivedrammencorpsmannger, Second Cousin Twice Removed Itsanamemercelbruerrettovacanavacnapatoratoshatopatucinnizimmerdahlbettbedantessmercanottogormolamenhamendramerdramenbutbruttonotsolongheresearcherferryfederalpetersmanoeuvrecommanderandvastmagicianpatronmasterentrepreneurlamentsnotquitepersuasivedrammencorpsmannger, and Uncle Ditto Mercelbruerrettovacanavacnapatoratoshatopatucinnizimmerdahlbettbedantessmercanottogormolamenhamendramerdramenbutbruttonotsolongheresearcherferryfederalpetersmanoeuvrecommanderandvastmagicianpatronmasterentrepreneurlamentsnotquitepersuasivedrammencorpsmannger, and Aunt Ditto Squared Mercelbruerrettovacanavacnapatoratoshatopatucinnizimmerdahlbettbedantessmercanottogormolamenhamendramerdramenbutbruttonotsolongheresearcherferryfederalpetersmanoeuvrecommanderandvastmagicianpatronmasterentrepreneurlamentsnotquitepersuasivedrammencorpsmannger, T.B.E.G.E.B.T.T.I.D.T.M.U.F.T.S.O.I.I.A.N.S.I.T.T.I.M.L.O.L.U.S.L.B.F.T.C.N.I.R.S.L.R.I.A.A.N.C.O.T.T.B.L.T.I.T.N.T.I.A.C.B.H.O.)

So the boozer started talking about how they beat up faggots in Stalliongrad and Octavia Philarmonica, the fair maid, scrunchy scrunchy, whispered to Frederic Horseshopin, that, of course, homosexuality was not something she could let the public experience, and that she herself of course was no homosexual, but you gotta admit, they need to have their rights too, wouldn’t you agree, Frederic?, and told Frederic about the encounter with the senator Barbarian, victorious of her claim, but in a whisper, of course in a whisper, and then, when time passed, gently paid for the almost untouched coffee, without saying a word to the pianist, and led him softly outside into the lonely spring night.

In the night, the fresh air hit them like a tidal wave, and Frederic Horseshopin, first of his name, son of Fabius Horseshopin, staggered a little, more or less due to the alcohol, and the hit, of course, but Octavia said nothing and just gently propped him up at his side and let him walk side by side with her, yes, side by side, and the boozer watched out of the corner of the coffee shop and the pianist and the cellist walked, slowly, unsteadily, side by side.

M. Catechism

Why did Octavia Philarmonica suggest that Frederic Horseshopin accompany her to her place?

It was late; he couldn’t go home; he couldn’t walk to the country alone at this hour.

What, then, was the main idea behind her suggestion?

To have the company of a young musician to accompany her on the piano in the morning.

Was there a piano?

Yes; a piano; two cellos; a guitar; a mandolin.

Was it in tune?

Unfortunately, to her great dismay, as much as she wished for the opposite, it was not.

Why was it not in tune?

Years had passed since the last tuning of the instrument, and, since nopony played it in their household, it stood there in the corner of the room, untuned.

Why did Octavia Philarmonica not tune the piano or have it tuned?

She couldn’t do it herself; nopony played the piano in her household.

What path did Octavia Philarmonica and Frederic Horseshopin follow?

They walked down Limerick Street, turned left onto Freedom Avenue, passed through the Victory Park, and stepped onto the cold asphalt of Strawberry Street, approaching Octavia Philarmonica’s house.

Describe Octavia Philarmonica’s house.

Once upon a time, and a very good time, there was a candyhouse in the middle of the forest. Its glassy windows were made of sweetest sugar, and its roof was made of crunchy, crunchy biscuits, and the walls were a mildest chocolate.

Biscuits?

Yes. Crunchy crunchy.

What did crunchy Octavia Philarmonica and crunchy Frederic Horseshopin crunchily discuss?

Music; history; literature; the essence of equinity; train wrecks; falling stars; destruction of ancient empires; archaeology; their distant predecessors; their potential heirs.

What potential heirs would Frederic Horseshopin have?

A son, as soon as he found a mare to settle down with. Two lovely daughters.

What potential heirs would Octavia Philarmonica have?

None. Given her sexual disposition, she would never carry a foal, nor did the law allow her and her marefriend adoption of foals.

What law?

“No adoption may take place with two persons of the same sex.”

It was strict and unfair.

Was there any way to rectify it?

No, there was no possible way to rectify it without rectifying the mind of the ponies of Equestria.

How could such rectification of minds take place?

Via social revolution; via constant propaganda; via mind control.

Was each of these means possible at the time in that place?

No; no; no.

What did Octavia Philarmonica impossibly do at the time in that place?

She fished out a key out of her saddlebags and opened the door, inviting Frederic Horseshopin inside.

How did Frederic Horseshopin react to the impossible invitation?

Impossibly, he accepted, with grace, with humility.

Why did Frederic Horseshopin stumble at the steps of the candyhouse?

Because his body was full of liquids, alcoholic in nature, which dulled his coordination, rendering it poor and unsteady.

What did Octavia Philarmonica do upon entering her humble abode?

Gracefully, she struck a match and lit up the candles.

What reason did Frederic Horseshopin give for his sudden yelp and staggering backwards?

That he was afraid of fire of any kind; that the sudden match near his face scared him and made him yelp and stagger backwards.

Was he ashamed?

Indubitably.

Did he show his ashamedness?

In no manner.

For what reason didn’t Octavia Philarmonica offer Frederic Horseshopin anything to eat?

She kept a strong diet, and there was absolutely nothing to offer him.

For what reason didn’t Octavia Philarmonica offer Frederic Horseshopin anything to drink?

It was clear that the young musician was immensely inebriated, and she had no desire to contribute to the deterioration of his health.

Non-alcoholic?

The young musician had refused tea in the coffee shop, so she concluded that he wasn’t thirsty.

Not even water?

Look, she was exhausted, give her a break.

Describe her exhaustion in gibberish.

Tukka tuuka garaphania tiredo hapashranting of the wayward figgering ut leaning decomposition of willger and powerger.

Describe her exhaustion in plain English.

The mare in question was falling off her hooves, tired to the extreme.

Describe her exhaustion in Russian.

Она устала, она хотела спать, она с ног валилась от усталости.

Describe her exhaustion in German.

Sie war hundemuede.

What song haunted Octavia Philarmonica’s mind as she sat opposite Frederic Horseshopin at the table in her kitchen, in her house, on Strawberry Street, Canterlot, Equestria, the Universe?

Didn’t you never see my baby get home?

Oh, we ain’t never seen you baby get home.

Did Octavia Philarmonica see her baby get home?

No, she ain’t never seen her baby get home.

Where was her baby now?

In bed, snoozing, in their bedroom, on the second floor, in their house, on Strawberry Street, in Canterlot, Equestria, the Universe.

Did she love her baby?

Next question, please.

Did she think her baby loved her?

She knew that she wasn’t sure.

Did her baby think that she knew that she wasn’t sure that she loved her?

She knew that she knew that she wasn’t sure that she loved her.

In what way did Octavia Philarmonica offer her house to Frederic Horseshopin for a night?

Ordinarily, with reasoning, in plain words, in a vivid tone.

What action followed Frederic Horseshopin’s polite, ordinary, reasonable, plain, vivid refusal?

The young musician stood up, thanked Octavia Philarmonica for her help and her hospitality, and turned to leave.

Why didn’t Octavia Philarmonica offer him a bandage?

Because his face was not cut, but merely bruised; and she did not have the ointment to soothe bruises.

How long did it take Frederic Horseshopin to stagger outside and leave, turning the corner of Strawberry Street and the Fifth?

Five minutes and forty-eight seconds.

What did Octavia Philarmonica do during these five minutes and forty-eight seconds, and after?

She opened the door, she shook a hoof, she said goodbye, she stood and watched, she breathed in the scents of the night air, she closed the door, she turned off the light, she went upstairs.

Was her journey upstairs successful?

Yes, even though she stubbed her hoof against the corner of the door as she ascended.

What did she blame herself for?

For turning off the light.

What nature did that action contain?

An automatic, sheerly economic nature.

Economic?

Yes, and economical.

In what way?

A bit saved is a bit earned.

Did she wake her marefriend up when she lay onto the bed next to her?

Yes, she did.

How could her dialogue with her marefriend best be described?

As one-sided: she replied to Vinyl’s inquiry about her day but did not ask how Vinyl’s day was.

Why didn’t she ask Vinyl how her day was?

Because she suspected that Vinyl had committed adultery.

Was she correct?

Define “correct.”

Was she correct that Vinyl Scratch, 29, birthplace Manehattan, born into a family of wealth and taste, shared the unmarital bed with another mare/stallion and committed sexual intercourse on May 25th of that year, Celestial era?

No.

Did she have any grounds for suspecting Vinyl?

Define “suspecting.”

Did she have any grounds to believe that Vinyl Scratch, 29, birthplace Manehattan, born into a family of wealth and taste, shared the unmarital bed with another mare/stallion and committed sexual intercourse on May 25th of that year, Celestial era?

Yes.

What grounds?

She knew that Vinyl Scratch had already shared the unmarital bed, as well as the unmarital table, and other beds, and other tables and other pieces of furniture with several other mares and stallions ever since they had started dating.

Had she ever confronted her?

Twice. Once, four years ago, when Vinyl Scratch had committed adultery with Neon Lights, and once, two years ago, when Vinyl Scratch had committed adultery with Lyra Heartstrings.

How did she feel when she finally closed her eyes and lay back in the warm, unmarital bed?

Like a salad-buyer; like a road-walker; like a music-listener; like a pony-observer; like an advertisement-helper; like a book-buyer; like a gin-drinker; like an orator; like an equine rights activist; like a noble; like a performer; like an artist; like a follower; like a saviour; like a leader; like an offeror; like a voice of reason; like a host; like a loner; like a hero.

What was the list of the feelings and emotions that generally followed her in her life?

Sadness, misery, upheaval, anger, fury, lust, thirst, must, trust, mirth, birth, hope, hopelessness, tranquillity, arrogance, boplicity, candidness, demureness, ennui, frankness, glee, hatred, impression, jealousy, killjoy, love, mortality, nearness, obstructiveness, predisposition, quarrelsomeness, risk, satisfaction, totality, ubiquitousness, valour and validity, worry and worldliness, expression and expulsion, viciousness and voraciousness, zeal and a sense of general incomprehension.

Why wasn’t happiness on the list?

Because she didn’t feel happy at the moment.

When didn’t she feel happy?

She never felt happy.

When did she feel sadness, misery, upheaval, anger, fury, lust, thirst, must, trust, mirth, birth, hope, hopelessness, tranquillity, arrogance, boplicity, candidness, demureness, ennui, frankness, glee, hatred, impression, jealousy, killjoy, love, mortality, nearness, obstructiveness, predisposition, quarrelsomeness, risk, satisfaction, totality, ubiquitousness, valour and validity, worry and worldliness, expression and expulsion, viciousness and voraciousness, zeal and a sense of general incomprehension?

On May 25th, of that year, Celestial era.

What was she doing on May 25th, of that year, Celestial era, at that precise moment?

She was falling asleep.

Why was she falling asleep at that precise moment?

She was weary. She had travelled. She was exhausted.

But where was she, the salad-buyer, the road-walker, the music-listener, the pony-observer, the advertisement-helper, the book-buyer, the gin-drinker, the orator, the equine rights activist, the noble, the performer, the artist, the follower, the saviour, the leader, the offeror, the voice of reason, the host, the loner, the hero, feeling sadness, misery, upheaval, anger, fury, lust, thirst, must, trust, mirth, birth, hope, hopelessness, tranquillity, arrogance, boplicity, candidness, demureness, ennui, frankness, glee, hatred, impression, jealousy, killjoy, love, mortality, nearness, obstructiveness, predisposition, quarrelsomeness, risk, satisfaction, totality, ubiquitousness, valour and validity, worry and worldliness, expression and expulsion, viciousness and voraciousness, zeal and a sense of general incomprehension, lying next to Vinyl Scratch, who had shared the unmarital bed, as well as the unmarital table, and other beds, and other tables and other pieces of furniture with several other mares and stallions ever since they had started dating, on May 25th, of that year, Celestial era, at that precise moment?

Right here:

•

N. Monologue

No of course she wouldnt even ask me how my day was as if she is the only working one here well baby i have something to say too im working just as much and if you dont believe it just take a look at the bills that i pay for us both with my gigs whirligigs like that one in kindergarten dad made me one said if the wind blows enough it will spin round and round but it never spun span maybe spun no idea whenever the world of ideas is entered we lose the definition of the one we love of course no she didnt love me back then and she doesnt really love me now shes not the lesbian type she maybe found in me a toy and experiment something to play with and then throw away like the bagel i ate yesterday so sturdy like a sturgeon bagel disgusting let the dogs eat it i wonder they never really digest as we do oh celestia what rambling i guess my digestion isnt what it used to be but of course she never understands thinks we djs only survive on beer and crackers well i love paellas too and what not i am a gourmet too and she doesnt even think i know all these words takes me for a simpleton that book science fiction that i read today did the author really think wed be going into open space ha i wonder how the fuel is not enough to sustain the because there is aerodynamics and the wings of the bird when it flies is enough for her to keep afloat the gig i gave a month ago there was this new fella in the music world neon they called him i didnt give a floating fuck about that i just wanted this stud between my thighs and guess what guess what lousy octavia who doesnt give me half a fuck when i need a whole one i enjoyed it so much tongue is nice but sometimes you just crave the cock i wonder how straight lesbians live without a cock in their life ha straight haha straight lesbians ha thats cause they have all these toys to play with and pleasure oh celestia why dont you give me a long good fuck octavia the lousy mare i wonder but when we just met oh i remember that wonderful day in ponyville i was playing a gig there with pinkie thats one party animal for sure and i see this rump buying apples and i just couldnt i mean in the middle of the concert she was completely disinterested i had to approach her i did i asked why didnt you listen oh so you dont like electro well oh a musician the cello psh i could play a cello any day and then you doubted me oh baby you always doubted me and we met and i played your fucking cello and you told me you fell in love with me then how sappy no i dont think you really did it was such a such a such a big mistake i guess it could never work in such a society it could never work either but its not even the society its not even the law its the relationship its breaking up without her even realising it we went for a vacation in the griffin kingdom and kissed on the beach in the night wasnt that something okay maybe then it wasnt doomed from the start maybe there was something good in it the roses she gave me were red and the violets were blue so hard to live alone do you feel it too so i guess all right there was a goal behind it of some sort its something more than celestia dammit weve lived together for fucking years how come its not a symbol of devotion hows that for a fucking ring for you i couldnt still i need my promiscuity change of plans join a monastery but what if monastery mares are just the same imagine every promiscuous mare joins the monastery and theres a jug of whores in one place and they call it the holy place yea and the right place and the house of keys too celestia its so fucking sad that there are foals like that poor mute deaf and dumb its not their fault of course but parents i guess yes maybe had drunken intercourse incest and a foal was born but these are also the plight of healthy parents celestia id never be able to raise such a foal or any foal for that matter i guess but were not trying to help them any of them what do we do we build shelters and close our eyes we avert our gazes we try not to notice the shining light look its right there no no idea not a clue nopony looks at the shining light we the wayward couriers of equine souls the artists no the artistes yeah thats better we shape the soul like a lump of clay why is clay death or so he wrote but then again she chose the divine next time so upon our church we build our art and ponies visit our church for what let me ask there is no salvation here only sorrow and no salvation is elsewhere we just run from the green light towards eternal darkness so dark here i guess must be around three or is it like time stopped the sideways snail of time no longer moving and the whiteness of day will never come what oh what a sombre thought oh didnt you never see the light get home tadam tadam oh no we never aint never seen the light get home through the cloooooouds with theee oh celestia almost dozed off there but isnt that my initial intention initiated at the lodge heh like all good djs do its six am i can see my breath tadam tadam never seen my baby get home but there she is mah baby lying there in her bed of lies oh celestia how she wouldnt smile at me when i need a smile how she wouldnt kiss me when i need a kiss how she wouldnt fuck me when i need a fuck shes the lousiest marefriend and still i wonder why i cling to her why i keep climbing this cliff together with her were bound to fall its hopeless useless i have no idea why we started dating in the first place it was such a huge mistake and now we cant rectify it when she woke me up in the middle of the dream we were together there falling through the cracks and there was kinda like this narrator guy and he says and then the ghosts took us and i screamed but not in reality i wonder why how come is that when you scream in a nightmare nopony can hear you in reality maybe because you suddenly turn mute or maybe i did oh celestia what if i do it every time and she just doesnt notice well that wouldnt surprise me shes deaf and withdrawn like that and she calls me deaf when i dont hear some unimportant piece of gibberish that she says neon yeah that was the one who was really deaf the dj when he fucked my brains out and i screamed his name he said harder scream it harder and i was already on top of my lungs my voice breaking and he just screamed harder harder and i was shouting into his fucking ear when he was finally satisfied sometimes its just so hard with stallions heh hard maybe thats why i like to play for both teams when i am tired enough of their cockthinking i can always turn to my own sex for consolation is it fair though i wonder shouldnt you just be playing for the same team all your life ah but who can judge whats fair in this unfair society she thinks she has this education thats why shes smarter than me but guess what baby this university of life is more important than your bloody studies tumbada tumbada they say its like do the auxil no not entirely sure grammar school for talented unicorns what racism as if earth ponies cant learn grammar too well octavia heres your example she posh grammatician of our times its all over but the crying babe and well sail away on an atoic rocket into eternal bliss oh yeah cause shes my fallout filly yeah but shes radioactive radioactive oh celestia how i want a gin right now but not the kind of watery oily gin described in that book like a medicine he drank it no i want the hard grass tasty gin like oh of course i can feel it on her breath she sly cellist she drank without me again ah when was the last time we even drank together or got out anywhere why we used to go out so many times when we just started dating and she laughed and then i laughed oh celestia we were so happy back then and she always gave me that look like that time when we met in ponyville ah she was buying apples and i looked at her a long look not necessarily at the butt but at the butt too and she asked me was i looking at her rump and i said no and i looked again and she smiled she knew i was looking and she asked me again was i sure and i said yes i was so confused by now was she delighted by that fact and she asked whether i looked at any mares rump and then i knew it and i laughed and no i said no not me No.

Moscow, 2015

H. 12-bar Blues

Ooooooh didn’t you never see my baby get home!

Ta-ttaaaa-da-dam.

Didn’t you never see my baby get home?

Ta-ta-da-ta-tam. Tadam. Tadam. Tattadadadam. Tadam. Tadam.

I’m sayin’, didn’t you never see my baby?

Aaaaah, we didn’t never see you baby get home!

Oooooh, where did you see mah baby?

Tam. Tadam. Tadam. Tattadadam. Tadam. Tadam.

The baby, oh yes, my baby, she walked into the bar. Tadam. Into the bar she walked, Celestia be my witness. Tadam. Tadam. Oooh, my baby, she walked into the bar. Tadam. Tadam. Oooh, into the bar she walked and ordered gin. How much gin? Oh, my baby, she ordered the whole cup. The whooole cup. Tadam. The whoooole cup. Tadam. Tadam. The very same cup - tadam - tadam - that she ordered ten years ago. Tadam. Tadam.

What happened ten years ago? Tadam. Tadam. Oh, that’s when mah baby said yes. Tadam. Tadam. Tell me, what happened ten years ago? Tadam. Tadam. Oh, my baby, she said, yes, she said yes she will yes. Tadam. Tadadadadam. Tadam. Tadam. And who did she meet there, your baby? Tadam. Ooooh, my baby, she met Daisy the flower mare.

Oooh, you baby, what did she said to the flower mare? What did you baby said to the flower mare? Ah, ma baby, she said, hello Daisy the flower mare! What did she did she said she said to the flower the flower mare? Ah, I’m tellin’ you, she said, hello Daisy, hello Daisy, she said, hello Daisy, Daisy the flower mare.

Oh, it was maybe five o’clock in the evening, and she can’t even close her eyes. No, she doesn’t wanna close her eyes. What does she want, then. Ooh, my baby, she wants a gin, yes, she wants a gin. And Daisy the flower tadam tadam? Oh, she took a whisky already, it’s fine. Tadam. Tadam. Taddaaddaadam.

So then, tadam, tadam, how’s it goin’ with Daisy the tadam tadamare? Tadafine, thanks, tadactavia, gulp gugulp gugugugulp. That gin, tadam, it’s otherworldly, tadam tadam. The whisky too. Tadam. Tadam. Oh, if Discord made whisky - tadam - he must’ve made my baby too. Oooooh, if Discord made whisky - he must have made my baby too. Tadam. Tadam.

So what’s my baby gonna do now tadam tadam? Oh, my baby, she’s gonna drink her gin. Tadam. Tadam. No, I mean what’s she gonna do after that? Tadam tadam. Oh, my baby, she’s gonna perform. Tadam. A concert then? Tadam tadam. Yes, Daisy you’re right, it’s a concert and I’m gonna tadam.

Tadam. Tadam. Tadadadam.

So you’re finally getting paid then, Daisy the flower mare asked. Tadam. Oh, what did Daisy the flower mare ask? Tadam. Tadam. You’re finally getting paid now ain’tcha, Daisy the flower mare asked. Ooooh, you’re finally getting paid now, ain’tcha, Daisy asked. So you getting paid? Tadam. Tadam. Ah, yes, I’ll make those nasty bastards pay me, tadam tadam.

What did my baby say to Daisy the flower mare? Tadam tadam. That she ain’t gonna be patient no more. How come? She said she ain’t gonna be tadam no more cause she gonna make them tadam tadam her shiny bits tadam tadam what she deserves!

Tadam. Tadam. Tadadadam.

So she’s gonna have a gin and then perform? I didn’t hear ye! I said, is she gonna, tadam tadam, have a tadam and then tadam? Ooooh yes, everypony knows that tadam tadam without a tadam ain’t no tadam tadam tadam. Tadadadam. Tadam. Tadam. Tadadadam.

But Daisy the flower mare heard that mah baby may have a problem with drink! Tadam tadam. What did you say, Daisy the flower tadam? I just said, tadam tadam, that you may have a problem with drink, s’ what I hear, tadam tadam. Is that what you heard, Daisy the flower mare? Tadam. Tadam. Oh yes yes yes that’s what I hear tadam tadam sorry Octavia tadam tadam. Who did you hear it from, tadam tadam? Ah, that don’t matter, tadam tadam, No, who did you hear it from?! Tadam tadam! Ah, I heard it from Vinyl the DJ.

WHAT?!

Tadam tadam. Tadadadam.

Tadam. Tadam. Tadadadam.

WHO did you hear it from?

Tadam. Tadam. Tadadadam.

I told you, I heard it from tadam tadam! Tadadadam, It’s not my fault that tadam tadam talked tadam about tadam. Tadam. Tadam. Tadadadam.

It’s fine, I’m calm, tadam, I’m super tadam. That Vinyl, tadam tadam, such a, uh, tadam friend. Tadam. Runs her tongue where- tadam. tadam. tadam. Not what I meant. Tadam tadam. You must tadam, she’s tadam tadam when she tadam tadammed tadam a tadam. Tadam. Tadam. Tadadadam.

Oh, of course I tadam it, tadam the tadam tadam said. I tadam tadam it perfectly. Tadam. Tadam. Not that I ever tadam the tadam of tadam tadam tadam. Tadadadam.

That’s fine, my baby says, tadam tadam. Oh, my baby, she drinks the full cup, tadam tadam. Goodbye Daisy the flower mare, mah baby said, tadam tadam. It’s time for my tadamerformance. Tadam. Tadam.

Tadadadam.

Tadam. Tadam. Tadadadam.

Oh, didn’t you never see my baby get home?

No, we ain’t never seen you baby get home!

Tadam. Tadam. Tatadadatadadatadadatadada-

Dam.