The first thing new students of the Great Ponyville Homecoming Holiday Riot may wish to fix upon their minds is that ultimately, Mr. Rich's intentions were good and thus it could be said that in some ways, what happened was not truly his fault. Naturally, some may argue that when an uncontrolled weather system emerges from a wild zone and untriggered lightning strikes dry wood, the resulting fire might not be considered as the storm's fault, but somepony still has to put out the results before everything burns to ash. Using that flawed belief, any number of ponies have attempted to place an unfair share of the blame upon Mr. Rich and in doing so, have caused me to refer to them as 'ponies' rather than indulge their delusion of being 'scholars'.
Oddly, that which took place during the Riot itself is seldom truly discussed in any great detail, perhaps due to the relative lack of fully reliable witnesses who had both unobstructed vision and managed to escape with a total lack of both head and emotional trauma. It would appear that many ponies require at least some degree of true story to build their distortions on, and so most of the accounts focus on the events which took place leading up to the Riot, like horror writers who spend a thousand pages working their way up to the monster's reveal only to bring out a pony in clown makeup two paragraphs before all the protagonists die, most likely from sheer embarrassment. However, few bother to truly diagnose the cause of the events, favoring their own interpretations for what happened to create that night.
However, eyewitnesses remain, even if so many ponies seem to feel tracking them down for actual interviews is beneath them. Furthermore, it was Mr. Rich's habit to have somepony recording the minutes of his Ponyville business meetings, and those records can be reviewed by anypony who makes the token effort required to keep the building's security fully distracted for the necessary three hours. To those few who have bothered exerting themselves, the true history plays out clearly, and so this account has been created in order to educate the rest, especially as the sprinkler system stunt is both unlikely to work twice and comes with an oddly high presented bill seeking compensation for damages.
The true genesis of the Riot occurred moons before the screams began...
Over the years, a surprising number of ponies had asked Mr. Rich why he bothered to keep his flagship store in Ponyville, especially with the capital so close by. Additionally, a few ponies had asked that same question a surprising number of times and after an unwelcome encounter with the one who was the least willing to learn (or listen, or allow anypony else to speak for more than an ignored word or two), Mr. Rich had spent a few hours consulting with his lawyers. Unfortunately, there had turned out to be no true way of disowning a cousin, and so Dubiously Rich remained on the family tree long enough to carve his own history into the bark, where the wounds did their best to poison the rest of it.
The reason, for anypony who could be bothered to pay attention, was a rather simple one. In the early years after Ponyville's establishment, it had been a rather average sort of settled zone, with the only truly notable things about it being its proximity to both Everfree and capital. And so it formed the best place to test new business strategies upon what was assumed to be a rather average population, tactics which could then be adjusted for the stores which were spread about the rest of the continent. Additionally (and this was the part where Dubiously generally began chanting the word "Sad!" in the usual attempt to block everypony else's reality out), Mr. Rich happened to like Ponyville. It lacked the frequent snobbery of the capital, the crowding of Manehattan, the endless distractions of San Dineighgo. It was a pleasant place to raise a family.
Of course, some things had changed. Many of the local ponies had turned out to be something other than average, and the events they'd seemingly brought with them made Ponyville life into just a little bit more of a challenge. But that was all the more reason to retain the flagship status, because if somepony could successfully operate a business within a post-Bearer town, then they could do so anywhere, and Mr. Rich did his best to meet that challenge.
Admittedly, some of the events made raising his daughter in relative peace a little more difficult, to the point where he had entertained thoughts of moving. But his child's best friend was in Ponyville, along with his own roots. And so they stayed.
Mr. Rich was ultimately in charge of every Barnyard Bargains, the owner of the company and the final authority to which every store had to answer. But in Ponyville... in Ponyville, he often acted as nothing more than the flagship's manager. He liked to keep his hooves working at a level of none-removed. He wanted to see how things were progressing. They were his ideas, after all, or the concepts of those ponies he carefully recruited for their talent in having them. The best place to truly understand all of it, even as the owner of the company, was standing within the aisles of what he loved as his own.
It could be argued that a pony who had over a dozen franchise operations was wasting his time in specifically looking after one. That argument was wrong. Mr. Rich had so many successful branches because he was the kind of pony willing to directly labor at making a single store succeed.
The rest of the continent was business. Ponyville was personal.
"So let's start talking about Hearth's Warming," he suggested, and several of the ponies scattered around the conference table automatically groaned. "Yes, I know, everypony: we seem to do this earlier every year. I know it's just late summer right now, but in terms of business time, we're practically on top of it. I was looking at the sales figures from the last few years, and I'm sorry to say I've spotted a trend. The charts are in the folders you all found on the table when you trotted in. Please open them now."
Snouts, hooves, and fields got to work. A dozen pairs of eyes slowly went over the presented material, and one pony softly groaned.
"I can see it," Voucher declared, and followed the words with a small wince. "And it's getting worse."
Mr. Rich nodded, then began to translate the graphs into words. "Ever since the trains began running, Ponyville has been seeing a steady trickle of business flowing from Canterlot to our own settled zone. However, other than in ponies needing to pick up basic things they forgot to pack for the day trip, none of that really impacts us. The capital has its own Barnyard Bargains, after all, and unless it's Zap Apple season, they can buy everything there which they can here. The smaller stores benefit, especially the specialty operations. But as far as incoming business goes -- you can see it: we're not affected."
"But during the holidays," Invoice worriedly observed as grey eyes moved to the next chart, "we are..."
Mr. Rich sighed, slowly nodded again.
"As Hearth's Warming Eve approaches," he observed, "the trend reverses. For the most part, the specialty shops aren't too affected: ponies who bought locally during the rest of the year might continue to do so, and those who trot away are balanced out by the shoppers from the capital who come seeking lower prices. But because we don't have those specialty goods, because ponies are going into Canterlot to see the decorations at Barneigh's and claim a hot chocolate at the original Saltlick's -- those ponies do some shopping there. We lose a degree of business. Yes, the Canterlot branch picks up some of it: a few ponies just want that location on their receipt. But some of it is disbursed around the capital, never to be seen by us again. And it's visibly worst on the day after Homecoming. The traditional start of the Hearth's Warming shopping season. What should be our busiest day is the one where we're watching more and more ponies board the first trains running out of Ponyville, hoping to reach the Canterlot sales before the best gifts are gone. And if we don't start trying something new now, that chart is just going to keep dipping. So..."
He hesitated. It was a lot to ask, especially for the day after Homecoming. Equestria celebrated more than a few holidays. Every settled zone had its own Founders Day, the Celebration had its very own sales pattern, some businesses lived and died based on how they dealt with Hearth's Warming, and requesting that anypony give up hours close to the continent's traditional time of family reunion...
"...I want to talk about trying something new."
They listened.
"On the day after Homecoming," Mr. Rich continued, "I'm proposing that we open our Ponyville store an hour before the first train leaves. And I want to start advertising that now, because it'll take some time to get the settled zone used to the idea and ready for the change in schedule, plus everypony who's ever had to run a price check on the floor knows it can take at least two moons before some customers start to even think about reading something. We can even talk about running a few extra sales on that day, and making them exclusive to those hours. It's just a reminder that we're here, everypony: a chance to see lights on before they head for the train station, and remember that they have the chance to spend bits with us. So --" a deep, slow breath as he looked around the table "-- thoughts?"
"Staffing," P.R. winced, "is going to be a problem. That's early, Mr. Rich. Most ponies want to sleep off their meals or recover from the fights, and that includes our own employees. I don't know if we can get enough ponies in at that hour to run a full shift, much less lure in customers."
"It's an experiment," Mr. Rich admitted. "And I know it's a hard one. We'll ask for volunteers, tell them those hours count as overtime and pay accordingly -- yes, I know that's going to hurt if we don't see the sales, but we're asking them to put in extra work immediately after a holiday, when the labor would have been heavy enough already. It's possible that we might just distribute a standard day of sales across more hours while winding up with an increased payroll. But if we're really going to test this, we need our best ponies with us."
"We're not advertising this in Canterlot, right?" Invoice checked. "We'd be asking ponies to get here on Homecoming itself and then book a hotel: there's no other way to get here from the capital that early."
"Just Ponyville," Mr. Rich confirmed. "We can put the promotions staff onto it immediately -- if we're doing it. Next?"
They talked about it for a while, for Mr. Rich had scoured the continent and beyond to find ponies who wouldn't automatically say YES to anything he proposed. All seemed to feel it was a risk. Many believed it would fail. But everypony agreed that the damages would be minimal, something had to be tried in order to fix the long-term problem before it got any worse, and this was at least a first hoofstep upon the road.
In the end, they decided to do it. On the day after Homecoming, they would be opening one hour before the first train left Ponyville. Just to see if it did anything.
It did a lot, and none of it wound up as what had originally been intended.
Having viewed Filthy Rich's original charts and confirmed that they were indeed created by his mouthwriting (because for some unknown reason, he never used his full name on any document which doesn't require a comprehensive legal signature), I can confirm his initial recognition and diagnosis of the phenomenon I have termed as BitGone. During the years which followed the Riot, this issue also appeared in other minor settled zones which were within a casual train ride of major ones. Subsequent methods used by merchants in attempting to correct for it have included (but are not limited to): blocking off the train station, sabotage of the track, removal of the track, having themselves tied to the tracks (some of which had already been removed) and perhaps worst of all, deliberate and falsifying edits applied to the rail schedule. Oddly, none of these measures has ever caused as much damage as the Riot, although the lone and rather ill-advised attempt of one device store owner to take his own customer base hostage resulted in considerably more jail time. For additional detail on those lesser occurrences, students are encouraged to consult Appendix B, Charts 12 through 94 (inclusive), and most of the Glossary, deliberately excluding the red-ink portion which was contributed by R. M. to the previous edition and while it must be contractually printed within this volume, absolutely nothing in the legal fine print says I have to subject ponies to reading it.
In my scholarly opinion (as opposed to those of the ponies who only poorly pretend to the title), the minutes of that meeting prove Mr. Rich to be fully innocent of deliberate incitement. He had simply recognized an issue some time before everypony else and was attempting to correct for it in ways which did not involve the cruel and frankly sociopathic alteration of official government documents. In reading the minutes from other meetings, I have learned much about Mr. Rich, as his musings were reliably recorded. Some of his observations include a few of his personal beliefs regarding herd mentality. In his recorded opinion, he felt that a strong business owner should have some ability to both predict and direct the movement of the population, all the better to bring them inside his stores. Anypony looking at his full career would do well to agree that he had at least a touch of that ability, and often used it for the benefit of his company and its employees.
However -- and this pains me to admit, but as an accurate and obviously neutral pony relating the true tale, it must be said -- there was something Mr. Rich had overlooked. Because for all his musings on herd mentality, he had forgotten that every pony who has such thoughts is making those observations from within the herd. It is not always possible to truly determine that we are being influenced while the events are still taking place. All only becomes clear in retrospect, at least for those with the intellect to truly look.
The other dominant aspect in what slowly began to build that portion of the events which were not initiated by the cruelty of fate is also the one which far too many ponies have used in blaming Mr. Rich for all which ultimately took place. But I ask the student to consider that aspect's universal application. Anypony with a mark in Mr. Rich's general category of talent would have been at risk for exacerbating the situation. Anypony at all. It is the nature of both the mark and talent itself.
Put in laypony's terms: regardless of one's personal dedication to ethical practices and the welfare of one's employees, a pony does not manifest a pure business mark unless they have something of a competitive streak.
He liked to take trots around Ponyville in the morning, especially during the autumn. There were too many days when he couldn't spare the time for it, had to be in the office to greet the first problem (and well before it could invite too many friends over), but as the season wore on, as the settled zone got closer to the major holidays -- well, it was good to see what everypony else was doing. He would examine window displays, check on the construction status of new arrivals, have a few words with some of the tradesponies he met, the ones where the eternal competition had become just a little more friendly. And because a pony never knew where the next important detail might be found, he tried to pay attention to even the smallest things, which was something he was rather good at in his business life. (Application of the same scrutiny to his own household was somewhat more difficult.)
However, it was a rather rare pony who could miss a window sign which was approximately a third the length of his own body, and so he read it.
Mr. Rich frowned, then trotted on.
The frown got a little deeper after it passed the second sign.
Shortly after going by the ninth, he found himself in full gallop.
And additionally, when dealing with the perils of herd mentality, nopony should overlook the contributions made by those who have instinctively identified the strongest stallion within it and chosen to follow.
"So they're all opening early?" P.R. moaned.
Mr. Rich wearily nodded. "Apparently we're not being allowed to have those hours to ourselves. If I see the value in opening before the first train departs, then everypony else just has to discover what the benefit is. I don't know if it's every shop in the settled zone because I didn't pass every last one of them, but -- it's enough. More than enough. Plus a few of them have decided to have special sales just for the ponies who come by at that hour: once Sun is raised, it's back to normal. And they decided that on their own." He hadn't even made that part public yet.
Burma Jingle worked in a sigh. "This is why we usually don't let ponies know what we're doing this far in advance. Too much of a chance for everypony to decide they're a changeling for the day and leave us in a town full of copies."
"It couldn't be helped," Mr. Rich shrugged. "For this major a change, even for one day, we had to give ponies a lot of notice. Let them get the idea into their heads, decide if they were going to schedule for us or not."
"You could say it's a benefit," Receivable decided. "The more shops which open, the more sales are likely to stay in Ponyville. It's extra money being spent in this settled zone."
"But it's also scattering the crowd," Invoice argued, adding a touch of corona flare to the words. "We already have extra expenses from opening that early, putting in the extra hours -- and now we're potentially looking at fewer purchases. It should still be a busy day overall, but the margins for those hours are going to cut into it. And it's too late to pull the plan back. We've been saying we were going to open early for over a moon. There's no way to retreat from that."
Again, I would like to stress that a competitive streak is a perfectly natural aspect of a business mark. There is nothing abnormal about it whatsoever. Furthermore, it stands to reason that a pony like Mr. Rich, whose wealth and position were particularly advanced, would naturally have a competitive streak to match. And for the student reading this who might attempt to assert otherwise, I encourage you to take a moment and examine your own flank. Do you see a business mark there? No? Then who are you to judge?
Which was when Mr. Rich smiled.
"Maybe that's exactly what we should do."
Several ponies blinked.
"Give up?" P.R. asked, suddenly looking uncertain as to the identity of the pony she was speaking with.
"Go backwards," her boss clarified. "They're opening when we are. So why should we open at that time any more? They want to be up and galloping at five in the morning to get those who might have gone for the first trains? I say we target the really dedicated shopper. Let's start announcing that we'll have our own limited-time deals. Those first hours only."
Perfectly. Natural.
"And," Mr. Rich concluded with satisfaction, "we'll start selling at four."
There are aspects of this telling which agree with what those who falsely claim the status of historians had previously (and accidentally) determined, and that meeting is the first of them: that was the moment when things truly began to quaver within an uncertain mouth grip.
The herd -- in this instance, referring to the businessponies of the settled zone -- had silently chosen their leader, and so had followed him to an uncertain hour. His response was to lead them deeper under Moon, working backwards against the clock, a silent dare to see if they would follow again. They did, and upon observing that...
The term which applies here is generally used in warfare, but what is business except battles fought with coin? And so I feel justified in applying it here: the situation was turning into one of serial escalation. Mr. Rich, having previously determined that he would be the first to open on that day, came to the conclusion that he would be that first pony out of the gate even if it meant building a new racecourse, one which only Princess Luna would ever venture out to see. The other shop owners in town responded by trying to match him again -- at least, for the most part. At this time, you should open fold-out chart 68X to its full width for the visual demonstration of both the race and all the dropouts which took place along the way. Please be sure to have an area of at least three times the standard body length clear when you do this. Additionally, should you require the creation of a personal copy, remember that you will both need to press hard and find a way to maintain that pressure along the entirety of the stretch. I leave the methodology for doing so as an exercise for the student.
However, to summarize for those who may be within a rather more cramped space than proper studies require: as the escalation became increasingly serial, a number of ponies left the battle. Some did not wish to be awake at that hour. Others, especially as the battle went on, realized that being awake at the newest hour might mean never going to sleep at all. Steadily (although not particularly slowly), midnight was being approached by businesses which were trotting backwards.
Now: there were consequences to this, and some of those ultimately contributed to the Riot.
Mr. Rich is well-known among the business community regarding the care he displayed for his employees. (Please read the testimonial compilation in Appendix C, but only when you have at least two hours of free time. Be aware that any boredom claimed to be experienced during what you might lie about as a repetitive experience is entirely your own fault.) With the original alteration to opening time, there were sufficient ponies among his hires who could reach the store at that hour to form a more-or-less complete staff. However, as the clock worked backwards, several of those ponies had to leave the race. Many of those with children in their family could not be away from home so deep under Moon. Others would have finished the late shift for the store (inventory, restocking) and required more sleep than could be acquired before trusting themselves to come in again with a clear head. Mr. Rich understood, and none of those ponies were disciplined in any way. Instead, he turned to another solution.
To those who understand the true history of the Riot, it should be clear that Mr. Rich did not make the next mistake.
"So you're our newest temporary," Mr. Rich smiled, stretching out his left foreleg so that he could press the startled unicorn teen's shivering, lightly flower-scented hoof. (He'd never smelled that flower before, and briefly wondered where it came from.) "I appreciate your giving up part of your vacation time on our behalf, even if it's only for the day. Or the night, at this point." Of course, he intended to watch the short-term employees, for one never knew where somepony might find the next summer hire, and beyond. "Welcome to the team, Overstock."
Rather, somepony else hired it.
I have spent some rather instructive time in tracking Overstock's employment career. (For the truly dedicated student, you will need to reference the supplemental volumes. This can be done through paying a simple visit to the Canterlot Archives and making a basic request. I do not recommend using the library exchange program, as the total postage cost tends to stay somewhat ahead of that required for a trip to the capital, hotel included. Additionally, it is recommended that you clear at least three weeks. And should you need to remove the volumes from the Archives, ask them for the use of the designated reinforced cart.) This may have been the greatest challenge of my research, especially when gaining details for the time after he began to regularly change his name in order to gain employment at all. An additional degree of difficulty emerged once multiple affected businesses formed the coalition which distributed his picture to every known part of the world, after which I needed to inquire whether the rather temporary employee who had been at the epicenter of disaster happened to reek of fur dye.
It has allowed me to state the following in a definitive manner which no intelligent pony could ever challenge: the trail of debris began in Ponyville. Barnyard Bargains was his first place of employment.
Of those few who understand somewhat more (but not enough) of the Riot's true history, most have placed an additional degree of blame upon Mr. Rich. I must stress this for the student: he had no way to know. He must have seen it as simple mercy, the appropriate action for a businesspony of compassion. With no true knowledge of what was to come, would you not have done the same?
However, I will not debate the opinion that anypony with that degree of foresight would have immediately locked him away forever. That opinion is too foolish to waste time debating. And also, regardless of how satisfying it would have been, the act was still illegal, at least until after Overstock had fled from the ruins of the Barneigh's Incident. (Please consult The Barneigh's Incident, (c) Ash Assembler, Disasterpiece Press. My repeated thanks to the author for his assistance in identifying Overstock as the culprit, and I would once again like to apologize to the world for Equestria's inability to retroactively alter our statutes of limitations.)
Now, having brought our true player onto the stage, it becomes necessary to provide him with his prop.
I refer, of course, to the fast-cookers.
Mr. Rich sadly counted them for the fifth time.
"Thirty," he regretfully said, looking at the tiny stack which didn't even qualify for truly occupying his loading dock. "I ordered four hundred."
"I know," Invoice wearily remembered on his immediate right. "I think that's why we got thirty."
At the time of this publication, fast-cookers can be found in nearly every household in Equestria. (The exception remains Ponyville, where the few who own them keep that device in the most shadowed part of their kitchen, and only activate them in shame.) The student will undoubtedly be familiar with their operation and limitations, especially as applies to what should never be placed within them and for those just starting to experiment using the tiny models within their dorm rooms, I offer two words of advice: no peppers.
However, the year of the Riot was also the first true year of the fast-cooker.
Those who chart the history of devices will undoubtedly argue that this one had existed for the better part of a decade, and in this argument, they are both surprisingly and refreshingly correct. However, prior to that year, fast-cookers had mainly been available in thaumaturgy shops and the most risk-taking of device-selling establishments, because they were still in their experimental phase, with only the earliest of adopters making the purchase and, following the treatment of their injuries, writing the manufacturer to suggest improvements. The year of the Riot was the year in which the device was perfected and once that perfection was known, the creators found themselves flooded with more orders than they were able to satisfy.
There have been several arguments made regarding the cause of the shortage. Some have proposed that the manufacturer deliberately shortchanged the supply in that first year in order to make the fast-cooker seem rare and special. Others couple that to the ludicrous idea that the original seller also intended to become their own aftermarket, a theory formed after a combination of seeing the markup value for those bilking the desperate added to a drunken bender. A few have even attempted to blame a single innocent mailmare for losing the shipments, one who appears in so many works under so many different names that some personally doubt she ever existed at all. In all instances, these theories demonstrate a lack of both research and intelligence. I have spoken to those who created the fast-cookers, and after years of slow sales and scorch-covered letters, they simply did not expect their device to be demanded so heavily by the central purchasing market. They lacked sufficient employees to fulfill the orders, the new hires needed to be trained in the necessary spells, and it took them five moons following that holiday season before they could gear up to even half of the production rate they now required. It was a simple matter of failing to anticipate the trend. (See Chart 937Q, which provides the national fast-cooker distribution patterns, and Pie Chart 12Z, Emergency Fast-Cooker Inc. Nervous Breakdown Treatment Expenses.)
Additionally, having viewed their voucher payments, I can confirm that they used a private delivery service. So there.
"And there's no way to get more before Homecoming," Mr. Rich sighed, now in the middle of his seventh count, just in case. "It serves me right for fully relying on a young company -- not that there was anywhere else I could have gone. I've been listening to the ponies who go through the Cookery aisle, I knew we were going to need them, I thought I had the order number right... and we have thirty."
"It wasn't going to be a high profit margin item anyway," Invoice reminded him. "We're not losing that much, not when it comes to income. And if we got thirty, the smaller stores probably got even less, if they got anything at all. So there won't be other places to go --" thoughtfully, "-- it's a shortage, isn't it? It's a genuine shortage. We haven't seen one of those for a while, not outside the toy aisle."
"I'll contact the other stores and see how badly they were shorted," Mr. Rich stated, managing to keep most of the mournfulness out of his voice. "And it's probably worse than ours. Thirty for the flagship and three hundred and seventy arriving --" he glanced at the invoice "-- 'sometime'."
"If it's a shortage," Invoice continued, not really listening, "we could make it into a high-profit item. With only thirty potentially for all of Ponyville -- well, twenty-six after you pull yours and the other staff members take --"
"-- no. I'll apologize to everypony myself, but I'm not taking mine and I'll ask that they postpone theirs. With this few, they all have to be for the customers --"
A dreamy finish spoke over the words. "-- we could charge just about anything we wanted to..."
"No."
Invoice blinked.
"I understand the temptation," Mr. Rich said. "I understand feeling the temptation. But I've never done it with the toys. Remember that one time Diamond tried to insist I let her open a secondary shop, one which only sold the hottest toys of the season -- after I sold them to her? I got a look at her markup sheet. She probably would have fetched every last tenth-bit of it. And I still put the toys out at what I'd set as their original prices. We're Barnyard Bargains, Invoice. We're as close to everywhere as we can be. We're as close to trusted as we can earn. We don't gouge."
"Which doesn't change the fact," Invoice pointed out as the glint of gold slowly vanished from gray eyes, "that we have thirty when we needed four hundred. What are we going to do?"
Mr. Rich thought about it.
Really, when the student puts their mind to it, they will conclude this was an entirely generous thing to do.
"Loss leader," the owner decided, and smiled.
It triggered another blink. "Mr. Rich?"
"What are we at right now for our opening? One in the morning? Ponies need a special reason to be up that early. Once other stores find out how badly they've been shorted on their orders, news will start to spread. It won't take long before everypony knows how few fast-cookers are out there. So I'm going to stack ours at the front of the store on the day after Homecoming, and I'm going to sell them below wholesale. Ponies will understand we were shorted. They'll see we're not gouging, and we might be the only ones who don't. And in their gratitude -- they'll spend. They'll buy other things with the money they saved on the fast-cooker, and then they'll buy more than that. It'll bring them in the doors, Invoice."
"But we only have thirty," the dazed employee stated as visions of phantom bits danced away from his field. "We'll have to tell them we only have thirty, and we needed four hundred. And once the news spreads that we're selling at a loss..."
"We'll keep it limited to Ponyville residents," Mr. Rich confidently declared. "No resellers raiding us from Canterlot. Customers whom we know either need one for themselves or as a gift. And we'll have a line. First thirty locals into the store who need one get to buy one -- and a limit of one per customer, naturally. This is it, Invoice. This is what we need to get them in here during the small hours, to keep the bits in Ponyville and the right proportion of them with us. Four hundred would have been better. Four hundred is a full sales slate. But thirty... thirty is a lure."
Invoice thought about it.
"First thirty through the door," the unicorn semi-repeated. "We'll have to keep that line orderly, Mr. Rich. Once everypony knows about the shortage, they just might try to break down the door."
And much to Invoice's surprise, the statement triggered a smile.
"Let's go find Burma," Mr. Rich said. "I think I have a new advertising term for her."
And that is the regrettable tale of how the word "doorbuster" was originally intended to enter Equestria's collective vocabulary. Given the events of the Riot, its actual usage as a curse of nearly-unforgivable vulgarity should now be readily understood.
At this time, a degree of summation and review might be in order.
Mr. Rich, in his determination to win the race, made the last move he possibly could have. He abandoned the day after the holiday entirely, and brought his opening hour into Homecoming itself: eleven that night. This had several effects. It forced every other shop in Ponyville, including the five who'd been doing their best to keep up with Barnyard Bargains the whole time, to surrender. In fact, in speaking to those who were willing to be interviewed, I learned that more than a few places changed their minds about nearly the whole thing and reverted back to the original altered time: five in the morning. This was in part because so few truly wished to be awake at the other hours, and mostly because the majority had decided they had somewhere else to be. However, a number of places did intend to open at one, or two, or whenever they'd originally dropped out, and surely would have if not for the distraction of the Riot.
The sale was now on the night of Homecoming itself, well after the family reunions and traditional meal would have taken place. It was therefore also being held at a time after the arguments, fights, all-out brawls, police visits to various homes, and fuming, insincere apologies which were only being made to avoid jail time, had also taken place. We may now add this rather familiar post-holiday emotional state, without even the benefit of a night's sleep to offer any degree of recovery, to the attendees of the sale. For those students with the rather common talent for self-induced amnesia regarding their own gatherings, something which tends to take hold shortly before Hearth's Warming and convinces ponies to foolishly do it all again, you may simply surmise that there were ponies who were something less than happy, and the majority of them were lined up outside Barnyard Bargains.
In fact, several had been there for some time.
Mr. Rich blinked at the object which rested a short distance away from his mostly-glass doors. It didn't go away and even after the second blink, it insisted on remaining a tent.
After a few seconds, he tentatively poked a forehoof into the fabric which unevenly covered the entrance. There was an annoyed snort, and a head poked out.
"What?" Sparkler asked, her irritation and snout completely in the open.
Mr. Rich tried to think of the best possible way to phrase the question.
"What are you doing?"
That hadn't been it.
"I'm in line," Sparkler said. "For the fast-cooker. I'm first in line. So I'm going to get the first fast-cooker."
Her expression suggested that despite all possible evidence, she'd won.
"You're in," Mr. Rich valiantly attempted to reason with her, "a tent."
Steadfastly, "The Apples allow ponies to set up tents."
"The Apples," Mr. Rich courageously pressed on, "don't live in the heart of Ponyville. The cider line tents don't block traffic. They don't get in anypony's way. You're just about in the street."
"I saw the one-sheet," the unicorn stated. "I took down a copy for myself, just in case there were any problems. First thirty through the door. Nopony else. I also saw the newspaper articles out of Canterlot. About the shortages. And then I saw the prices in the classified ads posted by resellers who want the money first, without promising they'll have the product. I'm first in line. I'm a Ponyville native. I'm not moving."
For lack of words, he simply stared at her for a while.
"Well," she eventually continued, "I'll move every so often. I have a friend coming in at least twice a day. We'll be taking shifts so I can find a bathroom, and eat, and everything else. You should really let the ponies in line use the store's bathroom, since the store is the reason we'll all be waiting. But I'm first."
"I have toy make-your-own-fetlock-bead-bracelets in stock," Mr. Rich finally said. "I can let some of them go."
She blinked at him.
"What are you talking about?"
"I'll open a box and use the beads to spell out your name," the owner offered, "and the number one. Everypony who comes after you will get their own name and a higher number. That way, the line is organized, and nopony has to live in a tent."
"That's very generous of you," Sparkler considered. "And sensible."
He smiled. "I just want everypony to come through the sale as happy as they can be --"
"-- except," she interrupted, "that those could be forged by anypony who went to the main toy store. If I fully pulled up my tent stakes and tried to come back later, any ponies who'd arrived in the meantime might not honor a bracelet. But they will honor a tent. Good day, Mr. Rich. Please remember that I'm first."
She started to pull down the tent flap with her teeth. A quickly-raised forehoof stopped her.
"All be waiting?"
She frowned at him.
"I made sure I was first," Sparkler said, "because I overheard ponies talking about how they were going to be. Starting tomorrow. And now they'll be second, third, fourth, and fifth."
They were, perhaps, the last words he could have said: a simple statement of what was meant to be sanity-restoring fact. "It's ten days before Homecoming."
"I know! You'd think the line would be all the way back to the Boutique by now!"
In addition to disrupting customer hours, the final and true starting time of the sale had also taken a toll on the store's staff. Many had told Mr. Rich that even with the temptation of overtime, they would be tired, or still cleaning up after the meal, with a few frankly admitting that they would likely be waiting in line to post bail. Their employer, who valued family, understood and released them to the duties of those more important bonds. It was a generous act, and a compassionate one.
On the night of the Riot, it also left the flagship store largely staffed by rapidly-hired, partially-trained temporaries. And Overstock.
It has been difficult to get some of the true employees to speak, especially the ones who were there when it all happened, and the majority of their reactions have been somewhat defensive. However, it was possible to gain an image of what was taking place in the final days. Mr. Rich created a training salary in the name of giving those temporary employees some more time in the store to learn their duties. They accompanied the true staff as they went about their jobs, learning the ins and outs. How to most effectively move through the aisles, and where they could move to. A typical Barnyard Bargains has a large number of little corners which must be carefully watched to prevent shoplifting, and any quantity of nooks, crannies, and unavoidable blind spots where activities might be hidden.
I was eventually able to identify Overstock's trainer, largely through the process of elimination after everypony else had gone down on all four knees while swearing to every Princess that they hadn't been it. At first, she would only tell me that he had seemed attentive. She said the word repeatedly, and spat it twice. But eventually, she also mentioned that he was always the first trainee to arrive. Every day, every shift, sometimes outside his training shifts, and always smelling of some strange flower.
The line steadily increased in length. It hosted thirty ponies on the fourth day, and then somehow managed to go beyond that. Some of the fault for this may be placed at the hooves of herd instinct: where so many were gathering, there had to be a reason for others to do so. A number of those I interviewed admitted to having heard a rumor about the store having far more than thirty fast-cookers, with the owner waiting to bring the extras out as a holiday surprise: nopony admitted to having been the origin for that lie, and more than a few were ashamed to have believed it. (No part of this ever seems to have reached Mr. Rich himself.) Additionally, the fast-cookers, while they served as the central lure and the arguable focal point of the Riot, were not the only items on sale. Every year has its must-own toy. Each holiday season finds a different book within the national focus. There are always "hot" gifts, and ponies who feel they must purchase at the first opportunity if they wish a chance to wrap them at all. And so the line extended. On the eighth day, it reached the Boutique (see Map 4a), and then quickly moved beyond.
Those who were willing to discuss their conversations with Mr. Rich in the final days before the Riot told me that while he appeared to be somewhat more nervous than usual, he was largely enthused about the possibilities of the Homecoming sale. According to them, he had not expected such an extreme reaction, and it was providing him with true hope regarding the possibility of pulling holiday shopping bits back from Canterlot. His public concerns mainly centered around the ponies who had been coming from outside the settled zone and trying to cut into the line, but that largely policed itself. (See Appendix 18c: Hospital Records, Pre-Riot.) One even attempted to enter while in disguise, taking the place of a pony who'd just stepped away to find a bathroom. (Supplemental Volume #93: Imperfect Double's Rather Suspect Career Launch.)
It was all building. Every delicate mouth movement had placed a fresh card into the fragile construct, just before it all came crashing down.
Once again: to solely blame Mr. Rich for what happened that night is the act of a cad. The true instigator has been identified, at the very start of his horrific Serial Career.
Stories do not blossom from history. They grow on fertilizer, the night soil of pony lies as they look for a central source to blame. In the end, there were many causes for the Riot, and yes, Mr. Rich played his part. But only one pony served as the true touchstone, and my quest to revise Equestria's statutes of limitations will continue until he is brought to some level of justice.
What everypony else has written concerning the Riot has taken the form of a story. I have spoken to the ponies who were there. I know what truly happened and so you, as a student of the Riot, will gain that knowledge.
It was a dark and storm-free night.
It had taken just about all of his remaining pull with the Weather Bureau to get that storm postponed. But if ponies were going to be waiting, then they were going to be waiting in the dry.
Mr. Rich trotted down the streets of his hometown, approaching his shop. The route didn't give him any view of the line until the very end: he'd gone to the estate for the Homecoming dinner, which had once again wound up as himself, Diamond, and the servants, who only accepted his invitation to sit around the main table on the major holidays. There had been a little time for reading to his daughter until she finally fell asleep, because there always had to be time set aside for that. And then he'd headed out, going back to work.
He hoped his staff didn't begrudge him the personal time. The mainstays working on this special night were all volunteers, but they were still volunteers whom he'd asked to take time away from their own family gatherings, at least for those who had them. And yes, a few had shown open relief at the chance for escape, but...
Mr. Rich had left the store at seven, at the moment it had closed. The temporaries had been heading in as he'd departed: setting up the special displays, getting everything ready. It would all be finished by the time he got there, a few minutes prior to eleven. And at the stroke of the hour itself, he would admit Sparkler into the store, as (still) the first pony in line.
Test the ideas in Ponyville. Spread them out to the rest of Equestria.
Next year had the potential to be rather interesting.
He passed a few stores, some of which had their lights on. Several weary shop owners wordlessly grumbled at him from behind their glass as he trotted by.
Then he heard a few distant sounds which seemed somewhat like grumbles, and initially presumed to be emerging through open doors.
And just before he got within sight of Barnyard Bargains, his ears were flattened by the first of the shouts.
In a magazine article published three years after the Riot, Mr. Rich is quoted as having said "Any time a pony has to sneak into their own establishment via the loading dock in order to avoid being kicked into the cobblestones, you can probably presume something's gone wrong." Given the place he was first seen within the store and the direction he was galloping in from, I believe I have isolated the true origin for that particular piece of public philosophy.
He'd never moved so quickly within his own store, pounding hooves pushing him along at a speed he hadn't tried for in years, vibrations shaking items on the shelves and reminding him of why he'd forbidden galloping in the store to begin with. But he had to get to the front, where the fast-cookers had been set up during his time away from the store, arranged so that they could be clearly seen through the glass of his doors. So that everypony would know the store's supply of the precious device was waiting.
All eight boxes' worth.
There were ponies shouting. Screaming. Some of those were coming from the outside of the store, as hooves pounded on spell-reinforced glass while curses vibrated their way through. It felt as if he could almost smell their fury through the glass, and if it had gotten that bad...
But more than a few of the screams had originated from within, and it took nearly everything he had not to add to them as he skidded to a stop.
"What happened?" he called out, and his words cut through the fighting which had nearly completely taken over his staff, furious questions and accusations directed at temporaries and each other.
"We don't know!" was the near-wail from Jestine as the pegasus frantically flew over the shelves, wild eyes trying to focus on every aisle at once, searching for something which couldn't be found. "We brought up all the sale displays! We thought we knew where everything was! But when we reached the fast-cookers, there were eight! Just eight! And the ponies outside saw us setting them up, they got all excited, but then we stopped at eight, we thought maybe somepony had moved them in the rush to get ready, but we can't find them and when everypony saw we'd stopped at eight, they started to --"
The still-increasing screams from the outside surged for a moment, briefly drowning her out while providing an effective summary of events.
"-- and they're just getting angrier and angrier, the herd is furious, we don't know where they are and everypony's mad --"
"Basement storage," Mr. Rich stated through a completely false calm. "Northeast corner. That's where they were. Where all of them were. And now we're missing twenty-two of them. What's been searched?"
"Just about everywhere!" one of the temporaries half-cried. "And everypony's accusing us! Sir, I like this job, I swear I wouldn't do anything to --"
"The accusations end," Mr. Rich told them all, and the hoof stomp added the final punctuation.
The store went silent. Even the outside shouting seemed to briefly dim.
"Nopony is to be accused without evidence," he continued, just a little more softly. "It's possible that they were moved by somepony who didn't know they shouldn't be. We'll organize the search, and we'll have to delay the opening until it's finished. Everypony will take a different section, and we'll work in pairs. One temporary with one staff member. Notepad, you'll be with me." The pony who'd been on the verge of tears managed a tiny nod, and Jestine finally touched down. "Now, before we start: is everypony here?"
"Just about," Invoice said. "I don't think I've seen --"
-- and even through the renewed shouts, they heard the casual hoofsteps moving down the toy aisle.
"Is something going on? It sounded like somepony's really upset."
Overstock paused, took notice of what was happening on the other side of the glass.
"Maybe a lot of ponies," he casually continued. "What happened?"
"We're down to eight fast-cookers," Mr. Rich summarized, wondering where the temporary had been. The bathroom, most likely. He did seem to spend a lot of time in there, and occasionally had an odd, fast-fading odor of flowers about him when he emerged. "We've got to find the rest. You'll be with Jestine --"
"-- eight's right," Overstock shrugged, stepping into the group. "That's what should be there. Eight. I made sure."
The world did not stop. Only Mr. Rich's breath, and that only for a moment.
"And why," he slowly, softly said, "is eight the number which should be there?"
"Because the rest are mine."
It had been a statement. A simple declaration of basic fact which nopony of sense ever could have denied, and so the teen naturally fell into instant, total confusion when the interior screaming began again.
Given the exact starting time and initiation point of the Riot, it can safely be assumed that nopony outside heard him, as also indicated in the lack of entries to be found what otherwise would have been the casualty count. (Police Report, Violation EQ 19:2:4: Inducing Riot, page fourteen.) Life would have undoubtedly been improved for much of the world if they had.
"Stop," Mr. Rich told his staff, old and new. They stopped. "Overstock. What do you mean, they're yours?"
"The first pony in gets one," the teen casually (and rather obliviously) said. "I was the first one in. Every day. Twenty-two times. Including when I just dropped in before school. So I moved them to a layaway section, except not in the main layaway section because they would have taken up too much of it. I'm buying twenty-two fast cookers. Only I don't have the money right now because I haven't gotten all my pay yet and it's not enough for the lot anyway, so I'll just take them out tonight and pay in installments. After I sell the fast-cookers tomorrow."
Mr. Rich stared at him, and kept doing exactly that because as long as just about the entirety of his being was focused on the simple act of staring, there was a chance of having nothing left over for kicking the adolescent to death.
"It is," he just barely got out, "a limit of one per customer." (There were other things he could have said, and most of them would have mentioned soon-to-be-incoming kicks.)
"Well, that's fine," the teen shrugged. "I'm not a customer. I work here. That's why I'm paying the employee discount price. In installments."
Which was when the muttering reached Mr. Rich's ears, the sounds of both aspects of his current staff closing in, and he realized he could only prevent himself from committing murder --
There was a soft chime. It broke through the interior sounds (while never reaching the outside ones), and somehow, it made everypony stop moving until they'd finished listening to ten more just like it.
"Hey, it's eleven!" Overstock openly noted. "Let's get this party started!"
And before anypony could move, the teen spun, ran to the front of the store, and touched the little place on the inner surface which allowed his employee-authorized forehoof to magically neutralize the locks. A sickly green field ignited, and all of the doors swung open at once.
"Hey there!" he presumably smiled. "Everypony come on in!"
They were angry.
They had been promised thirty. They'd seen eight. The promise had been broken.
They had been told they could come on in. Everypony could. So the rule about line order was also broken.
They came on in. And if not for Mr. Rich, Overstock would have been the next thing to break.
I feel I must repeat this: He had no way to know.
He didn't think he'd ever moved so fast. He knew that he shouldn't be even making the attempt at his age and his muscles would have spent the next day loudly reminding him of his error, if they hadn't been drowned out by everything else.
Mr. Rich crossed the distance with a speed which made it seem as if an earth pony had learned to teleport. He pushed himself into the air at the very end of it, managed a leap which would have won Games events, treated Overstock as a hurdle which he couldn't afford to fully jump and deliberately, heavily came down on top of the teen.
The smaller unicorn body collapsed under his weight. They both went to the floor, and Mr. Rich desperately curled in, covering the youth as much as he could.
A split-second later, the hooves hit him.
He was never entirely sure how long it went on for. He just knew that there were hooves, and then there were more hooves. He identified Mrs. Wonderment's attendance by the impact of her shoes against his body, and distantly found himself curious as to how such an elderly unicorn could get so much force into her passage. There was a certain amount of time for questioning the wisdom of his long-standing policy which prevented any pegasi other than employees from flying in the store: it was intended to keep thieves from trying to swoop things out of carts, and its absence as a rule would have cut the impacts by a third. He was just in the middle of reworking it when somepony's hoof slammed into the base of his tail.
It began to occur to him that in some ways, earth pony durability was highly overrated, as a pegasus or unicorn would have been blessedly unconscious by now.
There were shouts. Screams. Those had been going on for a while, actually, but now they were right on top of him. And then they were behind him, and all the louder for it, just after the impacts stopped.
He forced his bruised head up, and saw.
There was a certain amount of disagreement taking place regarding the remaining fast-cookers. As far as he could tell, Sparkler had gotten there first and in order to defend that status, had used the boxes as a climbing station in order to declare herself Princess Of The Mountain, taking on all comers who would dare to challenge her rule. He hadn't even been aware that she knew any spells for direct offense, much less the three she was rapidly switching between. It still wasn't enough to hold off the flood of determined ponies closing in on her, some of whom had the field strength to directly counter her efforts, with the pegasi dodging as best they could and the earth ponies enduring their way forward. He gave her about a minute before that particular Princess was deposed, and the decoronation would not be a kind one.
A volcano of feathers shot up from the Bedding aisle. Some of them were from the special sale pillows. Others had recently been attached.
A flare of soft blue caught his attention, and he paid momentary notice to the toy department, where it quickly became clear that the single dirtiest fighter in Ponyville had sworn to give her little sister the season's most desirable plaything, and was currently doing everything she could to secure it. 'Everything' was not kind. Kindness was somepony else entirely. Instead, Rarity had chosen to give, and she had in fact brought enough pain for everypony.
Two ponies flew over his head. They were both going backwards, and neither had wings.
A small explosion somehow went off among the seasonal decorations: he suspected an impact-damaged minor enchantment. Another, much larger one managed to originate in the sports department, and he had no idea how that had happened. Ponies screamed and shouted and fought, his staff tried to go everywhere at once to keep order, but it just got them screamed at, shouted at, and occasionally fought while those who'd decided that their efforts had ended in some sort of victory scrummed with each other at the checkout line while loudly demanding to know what kind of special holiday sale didn't even have a cashier.
And then there was a flash of light, somewhere over his head.
He forced his gaze further up (and then further still), eventually found delighted red eyes fondly gazing back.
"I don't know what this is," Discord openly laughed. "But I like it!"
The draconequus vanished, then reappeared atop the fast-cookers, right next to where Sparkler was just beginning to topple.
"Is this where the center of action is?" the chaos entity happily inquired. "Fine, then! Come and get me!"
And at any other time, there would have been fear. Panic. Terror. Everypony would have instantly reevaluated their priorities, and the fresh spin of the sorting wheel would have universally landed on run. But in this case, the united herd instantly weighed the presence of one Discord versus the existence of a mere eight unclaimed fast-cookers, then made what felt like the obvious choice.
They came. And much to the draconequus' very great surprise, they got him.
Mr. Rich watched the fresh ponypile collapse into itself as a burst of rather offended light took its former center occupant away, then wearily looked down at the teen. The pony he'd sacrificed his own body to protect.
"I..." Overstock swallowed. "I'm not getting paid for today, am I?"
The owner of Barnyard Bargains took the deepest breath he could still manage, and felt every bruise.
"You'll be paid for every single minute you've worked in my store. That includes your training salary."
"Oh. Good. So with the discount, how many fast-cookers does that --"
"-- and you're fired."
Yes, so much of Equestria's history would have been different if only Mr. Rich had not acted. There would certainly be a much larger number of stores left standing. But regardless of what some continue to insist in the present day, perhaps from jealousy over not having achieved the same measure of success, he was a good pony. He saw a youth about to be trampled and moved to shield him. He did not know, had no way to know.
The true history of the Riot has been told. An event which lasted for perhaps twelve minutes before the police arrived with the rain clouds which soaked everypony back to sanity (and did their own share of damage to the store) has taken me over two years to fully research. I regret none of that time. For all who come after me must know the truth of the tale. We must repeat to ourselves the words Mr. Rich said at his very next staff meeting, and we must do so every year. Because to forget them is to risk having it happen again.
Oh, and for the student who has come this far, please turn the page.
This is an artist's conception of the way Overstock might look today. Note the irregularity of the snout: it has been broken several times, all deservedly. Do not allow yourself to add hues to the image: dyes might have brought him to any shade, and you should not search for him under the burden of preconceptions.
Should you find this pony, and are completely certain that it is he: not somepony unfairly cloaked by illusion or a changeling who has chosen the world's worst disguise -- please kill him. I will compensate you with all the money I have earned from this publication and all of its related volumes.
Mr. Rich slowly, painfully turned his head. He moved his gaze across the expanded staff table, went over all the bandages and bruises which covered so many of the bodies for those both long-term and temporary.
(He'd taken on the temporary ones for the rest of the holiday season, along with covering their medical expenses. He owed them that much, and then some.)
"So," he finally began. "We're all agreed that we're never doing that again."
And just before you kill him, tell the idiot he owes me a fast-cooker.
I remain,
Amethyst Sparkler
And I am still pissed off.
