Sourpuss gazed outside the window.
The view was absolutely breath-taking. Skyscrapers went as far as the eye could see. Birds and early-morning Pegasi could be seen soaring across the horizon. In the distance, the sun was just beginning to rise, painting the heavens in stunning shades of gold and purple.
But that was merely the view that any normal pony would see. All Sourpuss saw was the beginning of another horrible, terrible, practically skin-crawling day. Where he would once again have to struggle through the idiocy of other ponies in order to make his day at least somewhat bearable.
The one major thing that the grouchy stallion wondered as he sat up and rubbed his rather bloodshot, yet still icy blue eyes was this;
Why in Equestria was he up so early?
Judging by the alarm clock that continued to tick away like a bomb, it was only five in the morning. He swore that he had set the alarm for eight. Upon checking, he found this to be true. Once again, many ponies would cherish this extra morning time. They would go out for a brisk walk or enjoy a bit of early-morning reading.
The first thing Sourpuss did was curse the sun and daytime and anything to do with light. Then the stallion slammed a pillow over his head and tried to recommence his slumber.
Alas, it was to no avail.
He simply could not fall back asleep. No matter what Sourpuss tried, he just couldn’t get his ridiculous brain to turn off and plunge him back into blissful darkness.
In a short-lived fit of rage, Sourpuss tossed his pillow out of bed.
“Damned thing. Probably can’t get to sleep because of how lumpy it is.” Sourpuss grouched to nopony at all. His voice was gravelly and, in short, angry. It was to be expected. Especially because of his rather vicious resting face.
“Good morning, honey.” Sourpuss grumbled, looking at the tousled sheets next to him. “Oh yeah, I live alone. What a shocker.”
Sourpuss dragged himself out of bed, making sure to complain about how difficult it was. Seeing how he was neither a Unicorn nor a Pegasus, he could not fly out of bed and he could not magically lift the sheets. So, as a plain old boring Earth pony, he had to remake his bed as soon as he got up. A fruitless task yes. But one that was necessary, regardless.
Sourpuss showered himself (cold water, it was the only kind of shower he liked). All the while he considered drowning himself in the chilly waters. After his horrid bathing, he then choked down a bowl of plain, tasteless oatmeal. Breakfast was the very most important meal of the day.
The final act he had to perform, before escaping to the nightmare he called ‘work’, was brushing his orange coat and untangling the knots in his short red mane and tail. After this, on went his traditional fedora and high-collared jacket.
Why did Sourpuss act like this?
The answer was simple.
It was the same with everypony in Equestria.
His cutie mark.
His cutie mark, which resembled a frowning Siamese cat’s face, dictated to him that nothing in his life would ever go his way. He would be nothing but a sourpuss for his entire life. There was nothing he could do, nothing he could even hope to do.
But of course. He was Sourpuss, the stallion with the angry cutie mark. The stallion who wouldn’t give anypony the time of day. The stallion who happened to see everything in life as some great disaster.
Sourpuss left behind his dismal flat and decided today he would allow himself the luxury of using the apartment’s elevator; rather than his thirty-fourth floor bedroom window or the incredibly long flight of stairs. He’d need his energy for the long workday ahead of him.
The elevator-operator, a pretty Pegasus mare named Lift, gave him a cheery hello. He simply grunted in reply.
He didn’t have time for socializing.
He never, ever had time for socializing.
It was a Tuesday.
Sourpuss hated Tuesdays.
He also hated Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays. But he hated Tuesdays most of all. Partially because of the huge amount of work left over from Monday, and partially because everything that happened on Tuesday seemed to go horribly wrong.
So Sourpuss, dreading the day ahead, stood in front of his bathroom mirror.
He didn’t know what he was doing here, standing in front of this mirror. He rarely ever checked his reflection. He never looked because he knew he wouldn’t like what he saw, but at the same time he couldn’t really force himself to care. It was conflicting, yes. Yet to Sourpuss, it made all the sense in the world.
The stallion at the mirror gazed into his own icy blue eyes, studying the hard orange face. A scowl was splayed across it, but not intentionally. His resting face was naturally angry. It was something everypony just had to point out. It was just one of the many things that made Sourpuss seem like such a sour puss.
Sourpuss gingerly reached up a hoof to tug through his red and maroon mane. It was all knotted and sweaty from a long night of restlessness. He couldn’t understand why he was suddenly having trouble falling asleep.
He’d have to go see a doctor about these sleep problems he was suddenly having.
But first, a shower.
Sourpuss turned away from his reflection and swiped away the old, floral shower curtain. He turned a rusty knob and immediately was struck by a tide of freezing water. But he didn’t so much as flinch.
Cold showers were the best showers, after all. And since he had taken a cold shower every day since colthood, he was well accustomed to the chilling temperatures.
As he scrubbed his exhausted, smelly body, Sourpuss contemplated the long work day ahead of him. You see, he worked for the Manehattan Mare. A magazine that focused on city life, fashion, social status, and all sorts of things that Sourpuss claimed to despise.
Sourpuss didn’t just work a desk job. He was the personal assistant to the one and only Trenderhoof. And Trenderhoof was not the fabulous celebrity he portrayed himself to be. For starters, he didn’t even write those articles on fashion and travel that he was so famous for. Oh, Trenderhoof was fashionable and loved travelling alright.
But Trenderhoof didn’t like writing. And whatever Trenderhoof didn’t like to do, Sourpuss did for him. So every day he would pour his heart and soul over an old Earth pony typewriter, ghost writing for a boss who couldn’t give a hoot about how his articles turned out anyways.
And nopony was ever the wiser.
For three years, Sourpuss had allowed Trenderhoof to take credit for absolutely jaw-dropping presentation of those articles. Trenderhoof never so much as thanked Sourpuss. But the less popular, virtually unknown stallion was more than happy to make his own life even worse, just for the sake of it being horrid.
Sourpuss scowled as he thought of his job.
He hated his job, and loved it at the same time. It was too complicated for even him to explain.
Sourpuss grimaced. He closed his eyes and used to tail to tighten the faucet. The chilling sleet ebbed away into nothing more than a mere trickle and the soaked stallion waved a hoof around, looking for a towel.
Finding one, Sourpuss quickly dried himself before placing his face once more before the bathroom mirror.
He still looked exactly the same, except the occasional drop of water plopping out of his mane.
Sourpuss sighed.
He wasn’t quite sure what he had expected.
“Mornin’, Sourpuss.” Lift greeted in that peculiar accent of hers. “How ya doin?”
He’d known her as long as he had lived in this apartment, which was several years now. She could be considered as one of his few friends. Unbeknownst to him, the elevator attendant had a crush on him. She liked everything about him, everything from those blue eyes and his fiery red mane, she even liked his grouchy attitude. She found it enduringly lovable.
Unfortunately for Lift, Sourpuss was very oblivious to her attempts to get to know him.
“Morning, Lift. My morning’s been good enough. Ground floor.”
Lift pressed the requested button and the two stood in awkward silence. The slight green mare was wearing her slick work uniform, while Sourpuss contrasted greatly with his dark jacket and matching fedora. Lift never truly understood why Sourpuss was so intimidating. She simply knew that he was.
“So… Sourpuss. Me an’ my friends are ‘avin a party down at Trot Tower. I was wonderin if ya’d be interested.”
“Interested?” Sourpuss asked, coldly.
His blue eyes met her honey-like golden and she blushed.
“Ah mean… Ya don’t have to. I was just wonderin’ if ya’d want to have a bit o fun. Y’know… Hang out?” Lift was subtly hinted that they could go together as a date. Alas, Sourpuss did not fully grasp that. He instead studied the mare, trying to find some motive or something. But the mare seemed to genuinely want Sourpuss to partake in this… ‘party.’
“I’ll think about it.” Sourpuss grumbled. “No guarantees.”
Lift broke into a relieved smile.
“Guarantee or not, I- I mean, we’d be happy to ‘ave ya, Sourpuss!”
“Delightful.”
The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. Just before Sourpuss could step off, Lift whispered to him.
“Eight o’clock, tonight. Trot Tower. Fifteenth floor. See ya then, I hope.”
“Whatever.”
“Have a good day, Sourpuss!”
Sourpuss clopped away. He wasn’t going to go to any party. The last thing he wanted to do was talk to ponies. Unless lots of alcohol was involved, Sourpuss saw no reason to participate in those sorts of shenanigans.
So Sourpuss once again put any fathomable idea of going out of his mind.
Instead, he began to think about how he planned on going to work.
Meanwhile, as the elevator doors closed, Lift let out a happy squeal of delight and decided that she had to immediately call her friends to let them know that Sourpuss had agreed to be her date for the party. Even if he hadn’t totally agreed to that, exactly. But she had been waiting for this moment for months. She wasn’t going to let technicalities get in her way.
Back outside the apartments, Sourpuss figured was too late in the morning to take a taxi. All the taxis were in some other part of Manehattan by now. He’d be lucky if he so much as saw a cab.
Sourpuss sighed as he realized today he might have to take one of the several city buses. He hated the buses, all the ponies crowded in together like sardines in a can. It was already making Sourpuss’s head throb.
Sourpuss exited the tall apartment building, taking in a deep whiff of city air. It smelled of smoke, rainwater, and serious body odor. The grumpy stallion considered how many ponies in Manehattan neglected the use of a morning shower. He sniffed in disdain as he made his way towards the glowing “BUS-STOP” sign at the street corner.
Unfortunately for him, somepony was already there.
A school-age Earth pony filly, with a lighter orange coat and a bright pink mane that seemed to match his duller and darker colors. Upon her flank, however, was not a scowling siamese cat, but rather a pair of scissors. She also wore a rather horrendous-looking cape of sorts, with a shield symbol sewn into it. Other than that, the filly seemed to resemble him in every way.
He had seen her before, and she had seen him as well. But neither of them really knew the other. And Sourpuss hoped to keep it that way.
He despised younglings.
“Morning!” She called, waving a hoof eagerly.
Sourpuss grunted in reply.
As said before, he wasn’t one for foals.
“M’name’s Babs! Babs Seed! What’s yours?”
“Sourpuss.” He replied, hoping she could detect his disinterest. Of course, this Babs filly just smiled broadly as if he had stated that she was the most magnificent pony he had ever met.
He sat down on the cold steel bench. The filly pranced over and sat down right beside him. Some passerby looked at the duo and smiled; Sourpuss knew that they thought they were relatives. A father and his daughter or something.
“Listen, filly-” He began.
“Babs.”
“Babs…” He hissed, correcting himself. He closed his eyes and tried not to growl at the young one. “I’m very tired and very aggravated and very very very not in the mood. So please. Leave me alone. Don’t talk to me, don’t look at me, don’t even think about me. Just… Just pretend I’m not here.”
“Why are you aggravated?” Babs asked. Sourpuss passed a glance over the filly; she genuinely seemed concerned. Which made absolutely no sense, since Sourpuss was a complete stranger to that foal. Sourpuss leaned back on the bench and closed his eyes.
“It’s nothing.”
“Are you sure, Mr. Sourpuss?”
“Positive. Haven’t your parents ever told you not to talk to strangers?”
“You’re not a stranger! You’re Mr. Sourpuss. And you seem angry. Am I making you angry?”
“Ye-” Sourpuss cut himself off. A single eye popped open and he looked at the filly’s face. The filly was gazing up at him, with watery eyes. And her face was extremely close to his. “Ah, geez… No. You’re not. I’m just having a bad day.”
“Really?” Babs asked, her tears suddenly vanishing from her eyes. “Wanna talk about it?”
“No.”
“Well, I’ll tell you why I’m sad. I haven’t talked to my cousins in Ponyville for days.”
“Tragic.”
“I know, right?! They were the ones who helped me earn my cutie mark, and now that I’ve heard that my favorite cousin earned hers, I don’t get to see it!”
“What a pity. Cutie marks are sooooo important.” Sourpuss snided sarcastically, thinking about his own mark. “I mean, they basically force into whatever lifestyle you’re needed in. Whether you want it or not.”
Babs gave Sourpuss a peculiar look. She stopped talking, and even looked away from the stallion, moving to the far side of the bench.
Sourpuss scowled. Good. Maybe that would teach her to leave him alone.
“I have an idea!” Babs squealed. She was right beside him, once again. Beaming into his face with all that obnoxious prepubescent energy.
Sourpuss cringed at the sound and noticeably leaned away from the excited filly.
“You don’t have a special somepony!” She shrieked once again.
“Why would I need one? What if I don’t want one?”
Babs Seed gasped at his words. Sourpuss rolled his eyes, perfectly aware of where this conversation was going. He checked his watch. The bus wouldn’t be here for another five minutes.
“Don’t ya have anypony you’d wanna be with?”
Sourpuss immediately thought of Lift, but decided against mentioning her. Lift really wasn’t his type, anyways.
He then considered his coworker at the Manehattan Mare, a studious bat-pony mare named Raven. Sure, she was flirtatious and sweet. But he was not flirtatious and very… Well, aggressive, to say in the least.
Sourpuss shook his head.
“No.”
The filly’s face suddenly contoured from sweet to something straight out of Sourpuss’s nightmares. Her devious grin met Sourpuss’s permanent scowl and the two sort of squared off for a second. Then, as soon as her expression had changed, the evil smile was gone and she looked away toward the business district of Manehattan.
Sourpuss shrugged it off as a crazy filly. Maybe now that she was looking away, he could sneak away and find a new bus stop.
But before the stallion could put his plans into action, the bus he had been waiting for rounded the corner, coming at a stop before the bench.
The two got one, paid their fares, and sat at opposite ends of the bus.
Sourpuss assumed that would be the last time he would so much as hear about Babs Seed.
Of course, he was wrong.
The Manehattan Mare was one of the most popular and in vogue magazine in all of Equestria.
Therefore, it was suitable that Manehattan Mare would have one of the tallest buildings in the city. The Mare Tower, as it was called, was a beacon to fashion designers everywhere. It was here in this tower than ponies would start their careers as agents, photographers, models, and more.
Sourpuss hated the place.
He hated the vast majority of his coworkers. He hated his boss. He hated the brightness of the place. Yet, the hours were good and the pay better, so Sourpuss dealt with the obnoxious ponies who lazed about the Main Lobby and elevators. Though he did come fairly close to quitting several times already.
Sourpuss was standing about, waiting for an elevator when he heard a voice that he despised more than anything else.
“Well HOWDY, Sourpuss!” A blue Pegasus stallion flapped over to him. The stallion was tall and lanky, with short, buzzing wings and a gramophone cutie mark on his flanks. Also, across the stallion’s midsection was a truly enormous satchel of letters and packages.
“Hello, Chatterbox.” Sourpuss sighed.
“Man, you look different? Is it the hat? Didja get a new hat? Nah, that can’t be it.” Chatterbox babbled, living up to his name. “Could it be the wrinkles? Your face is getting kinda wrinkly, Sourpuss. You’re a bit too young for stress lines, right?”
Sourpuss furrowed his brow in irritation but said nothing. He greatly disliked the mailroom pony.
“Today seems like a good day,” Chatterbox continued, patting his large sack with a hoof, “my mailbag isn’t as heavy as it usually is. Might end up having some free time today. So what’re you up to over at Trenderhoof’s? Anything the king of fashion has up his checkered sleeves? C’mon, Sour, spill it!”
“We’re doing absolutely nothing besides continuing on some old ideas, right now. Nothing I haven’t told you before.”
“‘We’re’? Haha!” Chatterbox laughed. “C’mon, Sourpuss. Don’t yank my leg. I know all you do is paperwork. Trenderhoof is the REAL mastermind behind all this.”
“Right.” Sourpuss grumped. “Ha ha.”
The two got on the next elevator up. A few floors passed and then Chatterbox left behind the grouch with a cheery good-bye. Sourpuss stood alone in the elevator, gazing up past the low ceiling. He tended to do this when he was alone in an elevator, just gazing up in the direction where he was going. He never fully understood why. Nor did it really advance the story in any way.
Finally, the elevator lurched to a stop and Sourpuss trotted into what was quite possibly the most extravagant and excessive office ever to exist in the history of Manehattan. The office where Trenderhoof occasionally graced his presence was easily larger than Sourpuss’s flat. In fact, Trenderhoof had an entire floor all to himself in the giant Mare Tower.
There was marble tile laid into the floor, golden chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, furniture from all across the world.
Across from the elevator in the vast Trenderhoof Column Lobby, was a single desk. At that desk was a dark coated bat-pony mare in an equally dark mare’s suit, busy filing her fangs. Which made little sense, because from what Sourpuss understood, bat-ponies ate fruit and maybe the occasional insect.
“Good morning.” Purred the bat-pony in exotic tones. Sourpuss knew she came from Trotsylvania, far far from Manehattan.
“Morning, Raven.”
“You are a few minutes late.”
Sourpuss sighed.
“I know, Raven. Sorry.”
“It is not me who you should be saying ‘sorry’ to.” Raven pointed a hoof down the hall, towards a door that read ‘TRENDERHOOF’ in fancy gilded letters. “Boss has been gnawing at his desk waiting for you.”
“Damn. I gotta talk to him?”
Raven nodded, peering over her horn-rimmed glasses. Whenever she did that, Sourpuss felt like he was back in the orphanage, talking to one of his old caregivers. He would always expect to be reprimanded from some misdeed.
“Alright.” Sourpuss groaned. “See you later, Raven. Make sure you call the Royal Guard if you hear screams.”
“Adio, Sourpuss.” Raven said, with the air of somepony saying goodbye to one on death row.
Sourpuss creaked open the door cautiously, readying himself for the worst. Then he straightened his clothes and stepped into the office, letting the door slowly creak shut behind him.
