Pointed Quill knew that it was going to be one of those mornings. She reached up to push her hair back over her ears in a self-comforting motion. She had worked here long enough to know what the editor-in-chief’s silhouette looked like through the frosted glass of the door.

Especially when she didn’t even knock.

“You need to have a talk with him.” Pen Feather didn’t bother with pleasantries, walking into Pointed Quill’s office to stand in front of her desk. “I’m tired of this.”

You’re not the only one.
“Hi, how can I help you today?” She crossed her hooves and gave Pen Feather her most winning smile.

“You can get Scribble to stop acting like an asshole.”

“I apologize.” Pointed Quill’s cheeks felt like they were going to buckle under the strain of her smile. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She reached over to pick up her clipboard, adjusting her glasses as she studied the sheet. “Mr. Script’s column was submitted-”

“I’m not talking about our column! I’m talking about this!” Pen Feather growled, as he raised his hoof and threw a paper down onto her desk. “This shit! I get that his contract allows him to freelance, but for bucks sake, check his stories before he submits them!”

Pointed Quill felt her coat bristle as he shouted at her. She didn’t bother smiling any longer as she stood up, planting her hooves with a firm thump on the desk. “I can assure you, that I read every story he submits to every paper. Nothing gets to any editor’s desk without my express approval. But if you have a problem with his stories, perhaps we can work out the termination of his contract?”

“You approve another story like that, and I’ll be more than happy to discuss it,” Pen Feather snapped. “He may have freelance opportunities, but he is employed by the Gazette. And this shit is being reflected right back on us.”

Pointed Quill blinked; she hadn’t expected that. She had only intended it as an empty threat. A chill ran down her spine as she wondered what Scribble could have done to get the editor of the biggest newspaper in the city this mad.

“If you don’t get Scribble to behave, he’ll be freelancing for a living.” Pen Feather gave a sigh, before turning back towards the door. “We’d lose sales. I get that. But this might turn out to be damage control.”

Pointed Quill watched the editor leave without another word, wincing as he slammed the door behind him. With a sigh,she let her eyes drift down to the paper that had been thrown on her desk. It was a tabloid magazine, one of the gossip rags that ponies gazed over in the supermarket checkout lines. The word “Starlite” was branded across the top in bright letters.

“Scribble, what did you do this time?” She lifted the paper up. She didn’t even have to open it; the answer was staring right back at her on the front page.

“Open the door. Scribble! Open the door!”

Pointed Quill raised her hoof again, bringing it down to pound on the heavy wooden door, sending frame-rattling slams through the wall. She had once prided herself on her cool and calm demeanor, able to negotiate her way through a contract in half-an-hour or less.

That had ended about two months after she had started representing Scribble Script.

She had never met a pony like him, and she was quite glad for that; the knowledge that there were two of him out there would have been enough to send her into a nervous fit.
She had once slept soundly; now she had to take sleeping pills.

Pointed Quill had read the article on the ride over. It had spanned four pages on the inside of the tabloid, and ended promising a continuation in the next issue. Scribble had certainly written it; she could recognize the contempt in every word. She tapped a hoof on the floor as she turned around, slamming her hind hoof into the door.

“Open the bucking door!” she shouted into the wood. “I know you’re home, it’s not like you go anywhere else!”

Finally, she heard the sound of a chain unlocking. She smoothed back her hair over her ears and reached down to pick up her briefcase. The door swung open, revealing a white unicorn stallion, a red and black striped scarf wrapped around his neck. He rubbed at his eye with a hoof as he shook unkempt strands of brown mane out of his eyes.

“G’morning, Point,” Scribble muttered, not even bothering to cover his yawn. “Whaddya want?”

“We need to talk.” Pointed Quill pushed him aside to walk inside the apartment, looking around the room. It could have been cozy, if Scribble owned anything that could have been used for decoration. The floor was covered in soft blue carpet, and the bay windows had been covered in black out curtains. The pile of blankets on the couch showed that Scribble had been less than ten feet away from the door when Pointed Quill had started pounding on it.

“This couldn’t wait?” Scribble said as he latched the door, trotting back to lay on the couch, pulling a blanket up over his form as he rested his cheek on the legrest. “I would have gotten to your office eventually…”

Pointed Quill stepped around the couch, noting the pile of hornwritten notes scattered both on, and in the general vicinity of, the coffee table. She nudged some of them aside to lay her briefcase down on the surface.

“I had an interesting talk with Pen Feather today,” Pointed Quill said as she sat on the floor. Scribble didn’t reply, so she continued. “He expressed some...concerns with some of your freelance projects.”

“Didja tell him to read my contract?” Scribble didn’t even bother to open his eyes. “I’m allowed to freelance.”

Pointed Quill flicked an ear as she opened her briefcase, lifting the copy of “Starlite” out, and laying it on the floor in front of her. “Scribble. What were you thinking?”

Scribble opened an eye at the sound of the rustling newsprint. He let out a slow sigh as he saw what she was holding; the latest copy of “Starlite”, with a bright picture of a female pegasus pony on the cover.

With a grunt, he righted himself, letting the blanket fall to the side. “It’s gonna be one of these conversations, isn’t it?” His horn flared with magic as he pulled a pack of cigarettes from underneath a stack of papers.

Pointed Quill opened the paper, clearing her throat as she reached the article in question. “The Expose Of A Winning Pony,” she read aloud.

As Scribble Script stuck a cigarette in his mouth and tossed the pack aside, Pointed Quill looked back down to the article. “Cloud Kicker may not be the most important pony in Equestria, but she is a staggering example of the dual nature of Equestrian Ineptitude; she lives her life constantly trying to better herself while her sheer existence is one long trail of mistakes, punctuated by shattered hearts and assault charges. One could make the most dangerous of all drinking games out of her life, by taking a single shot every time a pony is beaten.’”

“Gotta lighter? I can’t find mine.” Pointed Quill looked up to see him digging in between the couch cushions. “Gah. Buck it. Light this for me.” With a deft flick of his hoof, he tossed the cigarette onto the paper, inclining his head as a small flame snapped onto the tip of his horn.

“Are you even listening to me?”

“Nope. Light the damn cigarette.”

Pointed Quill let out a sigh, lifting the cigarette to her lips as she leaned over. She pressed the end of the cigarette into the horn flame, taking a puff to pull the fire into the cigarette. No sooner than she had taken a single puff had his magic pulled the cigarette away.

“Thanks,” he said, leaning back and taking a drag.

“Scribble, you can’t write this shit about ponies!” Pointed Quill shouted, slamming the paper down onto the table with a hoof as she stared at him over her glasses.

“How are the sales?” Pointed Quill didn’t like the look on Scribble’s face as he said that; the casual, easygoing smirk with a cigarette clenched in his teeth.

“If it has your name on it, of course it’s going to sell well!”

“Then I don’t see what the problem is.” Scribble leaned over to tap his cigarette ash on top her briefcase.

“The problem is that everyone is going to see this as you just being a bastard!” she growled as she rose to all four hooves.

Scribble snorted, his eyes giving a roll as he looked up at her. “Yeah, because that’s a real stretch.”

“Ponies like you, Scribble! But if you keep this shit up, how long do you think that’s going to last?” Pointed Quill slammed her hoof down onto the carpet. “This isn’t journalism, this is you being an asshole. What the buck did she do to you?”

“I thought she was interesting.” Scribble shrugged, pausing to take a drag on his cigarette, holding it in before breathing it out in her direction. “Turns out, I was right. Really right. Amazingly right, actually.”
“So you drag her through the mud?”

“Mud that she made.” He stuck a fresh cigarette into his mouth, lighting the new one off of the end of the other, before stubbing it out on the table. “It was your suggestion that I go to Ponyville to find a story, and I found a bucking story. What else do you want?”

“You to find some equinity, for Faust’s sake!” She smoothed her hair back over her ears again, resisting the urge to grab it and yank it from the sides of her head. “This is your reputation, and if she decides to press charges…”

“Which she won’t do, because what could she say?” He reached out to tap Cloud Kicker’s face on the paper. “On-the-bucking-record sources, interviews with her many friends and family, and even a three-part interview with Cloud Kicker herself! It took me a month to piece her life together!”

“But why even bother?” Pointed Quill asked, staring at him with a confused stare. “She’s far from a celebrity, hardly front page news…”

“Because she’s interesting!” Scribble shouted, leaping off of the couch to look her in the eyes, inches away from her muzzle. “I don’t give a buck about the latest fashion line, or the gossip about Prince Blueblood! It’s boring to me! Boring! You think I wanna write up a political scandal? It’s politics! There is your scandal!”

Scribble threw his hooves up in the air as he began pacing back and forth in front of the couch, kicking up papers as he walked. He lifted the cigarette out of his mouth and turned, slamming a hoof on the paper again. “She’s a real pony doing real things and living a real Faust-damned life! And she’s more interesting that half the bucking ponies everypony wants me to cover!”

Pointed Quill sat down and blinked as Scribble turned and trotted over to a large wooden cabinet against the far wall, throwing the doors open to reveal his liquor collection; rows of bottles of all kinds of alcohol. He took another drag of smoke as he magically lifted a glass and a bottle of dark liquid down from the shelf, pouring a glass.

“That is a real pony,” he said again, softer this time as he filled his glass with generous measure of what Pointed Quill noticed was rum. “A life more interesting than anyone in the royal court, and it’s better because she’s never tried to put on a mask. This is her life. Read the bucking interview, she’s never tried to hide it. All I did was spell it out and print it. It makes her real.”

Glass magically bobbing along side him, he trotted to a nearby recliner, staring at the wall, away from Pointed Quill. “And I’m not gonna put up a front, either. I don’t give a damn about image, or reputation. Freedom of the bucking press.” Scribble threw himself into the chair, hind legs lifting up to rest on the hoofstool as he raised his glass, his eyes meeting hers. “Cheers.”

As Scribble took a sip of his drink, Pointed Quill tapped her hoof against her chin. Dealing with Scribble Script led to a passionate discussion more often than not. Even so, there was something Pointed Quill just couldn’t seem to put her hoof on.

Still deep in thought, she grabbed his cigarettes from the couch and pulled one from his pack. As she trotted over to him, Scribble silently leaned forward, the flame appearing at the tip of his horn with a light pop. She lit her cigarette, then sat down next to the chair, turning the article over in her mind, combining it with everything she knew about Scribble.

Finally, it hit her. “You admire her.”

“Hrmm?” He looked at her over the top of his glass. She grinned at him.

“That’s what that article is. You admire her life. She’s a ‘real pony’,” she said, adding hoof quotes for emphasis. “You like how she lives her life. You even told me you found her interesting, and you’ve never said that about any pony before. That’s what this is. This is your… twisted way of respect.”

“Right. I’m always writing articles about ponies I respect,” Scribble muttered as he drained his drink.

“You researched everything about her for a month. You won’t even do that for a member of the royal family.” Pointed Quill felt a bit lightheaded from the cigarette; she didn’t smoke often, but dealing with Scribble Script often required it. “You wanted to...acknowledge her life. So you wrote an article. To honor her in print, or something twisted like that.”

Scribble waved his hoof at her in a shooing motion, but didn’t reply. Pointed Quill let the subject drop.

“I know you’re barely listening to a word I say, but please, at least try to be careful. If you’re turning into a liability for the ponies who sign your paychecks…” She set her cigarette down in a nearby ashtray that Scribble had ignored completely; he simply tapped his ashes onto the floor.

“I’ll have to start paying for my own legal defense?” Scribble said, the bottle of rum levitating over towards the chair.

“Just because we got Vinyl Scratch’s lawsuit dismissed…”

“Freedom of the press, Point.” Scribble raised his glass in a hoof, pouring another glass of rum. “As long as what I say is true, they don’t have a damned thing they can use against me in court.”

Pointed Quill ran her hooves over her hair again as she let out a sigh, closing her eyes. Scribble would never listen to her, that she knew. But it was important to go through the motions. It still didn’t make him any easier to deal with.

“For the moment, please just try to keep the nasty stories directed at ponies in the public eye?”

Scribble gave a sigh as he raised his glass to his muzzle, but he didn’t say anything, just gave a noncommittal shrug of his shoulder.

“Thank you,” Pointed Quill said, a wave of relief washing over her; that was as close to an agreement as she’d get from him. She picked up her cigarette for a puff, but noticed that it had gone out. She set it back in the ashtray.

“I also have some more business for you…” Pointed Quill stood up and wandered over to her briefcase, popping it open to pull out a manilla folder. “Pony Sports Weekly has something they’d like you to cover. The terms are good.”

“A sports magazine? You’re serious? Buck that.” Scribble gave a dismissive snort.

Pointed Quill couldn’t help but grin. She knew he’d cover the story. “You started out as a reporter, Scribble. All they need is some interviews and pictures. It’s a two day trip.”

“Not worth my time. They can send a pony from the mail room. They’re always willing to suck a little dick for a shot.”

“Scribble.” She trotted over and tossed the manilla folder into his hooves, then stared at him until he opened it. “Trust me. You’re covering this event.”

“The Equestrian Games Tryouts. You’re sending me to cover the tryouts?” Scribble looked up from the open folder to give her a blank stare. “I’m honestly offended.”

“Keep reading.” She grabbed her half-smoked cigarette and wagged it pointedly. Scribble leaned down to read the papers, letting the flame appear on his horn once more. She lit her cigarette, then sat back and waited.

Scribble’s head snapped up, eyes wide, a grin spreading over his face. “You’re serious. After all that talk about keeping my head down and watching what I write, and you’re sending me to do this?”

Pointed Quill took a drag on her cigarette as she walked over to her briefcase, closing it as she picked it up. “I’ve had to manage your writing career for two years. I know what gets you off. At least this time you’ll be going after someone with a PR department.”

Scribble was furiously going through the papers in the folder. Pointed Quill watched as he downed the remainder of his rum and tossed the glass aside to bounce across the carpet. “Point. Cigarettes. Get me cigarettes.”

He hopped off of the chair, the papers flying up before him, held in his magic as he walked back and forth. Pointed Quill tossed him the pack of cigarettes, as she stubbed her own cigarette out on the tabletop. “I told you that you would do the story.”

“Yes. Story. Maybe two. Maybe more. Leave.”

Pointed Quill turned towards the door. As she pushed it open and stepped out of the apartment, she could hear his laughter behind her, echoing into the hallway.

“The Wonderbolts and The Elements Of Harmony? Oh, it’s bucking Hearths Warming…”

Author's Note

This...is my bastard of an OC; Scribble Script.

You may have noticed that he had a cameo appearance in the second chapter of Don't Look For Me, but he was never actually intended to ever actually be a character for any story. I needed a name to write pony fics under, I came up with the name Scribble Script, and I got my friend to draw a basic picture I could use as an avatar. That should have been the end of it.

Over the course of my writing (and not writing, admittedly) on this site, I've made a few friends, and a select few asked what Scribble was actually like, as a character. At the time, I had no idea. He was never intended to ever be a pony I wrote about, since I considered any attempt to do so to be akin to vanity.

But, now the idea was in my head; What WOULD he be like?

So this is what I came up with. I set out to make the character as different from me as I could manage, and as unlikable as possible. He's an utter bastard who sees nothing wrong with destroying someone's life as long as it means getting the 'truth' out there. An extremely popular investigative journalist/columnist who resented his fame because none of his fans acted on the lessons he tried to teach. He was very heavily influenced by one of my favorite comic characters of all time; Spider Jerusalem, from the comic Transmetropolitan.

As far as the official canon goes, this story would have taken place after the fourth season episode "Rainbow Falls." The general idea is that Scribble gets sent to cover the games for a sports magazine, but ends up writing something completely different in addition to what he was sent to write. The article turned the entire episode into a PR disaster for the Wonderbolts, which resulted in Fleetfoot getting suspended from the team while they investigated the incident. Later. Fleetfoot would have become a main character. From there, there was an overarching plot about an old story that Scribble wrote, but never published, involving underground slave trading and the royal family.

Yeah. It was pretty strange.

If you can't tell, I was also reading The Life And Times Of A Winning Pony at the time. I needed some story for Pointed Quill to get angry at, and that's what popped into my head.

At the end of the day, I'm very sad that I never continued this story.