Fabulosity in Fact

You love these kind of parties.

Not for the soothing music that the four-pony orchestra plays over the bantering of the wealthy guests. Not for the delectable hors d’oeuvres that are carried around the room by dutiful waiters, or the huge, luxurious, multi-layered cake that towers over everypony. Not even for Celestia’s sunset that will shortly be gracing the Equestrian horizon, complete with the small town of Ponyville far in the distance.

No, you love these kind of parties for one simple fact; they never seem to start properly until you trot in through the door.

Heads turn. Ponies of all genders give a friendly smile at your arrival. A few stallions offer a nonchalant hoofshake as you greet them. A lot of mares give you a flirtatious flutter of their eyelids as you pass by. And why not? You’re in charge of the most important fashion magazine in Canterlot! An ordinary pony might not recognise you, since you’re not a celebrity who shows up in the media circus, and your name might not be the most talked-about, but all of the posh ponies know exactly who you are. And it’s the posh life that matters.

Accepting the martini from a passing waiter, you levitate it up to your lips with a simple glimmer of your horn’s magic. Your eyes scan the crowd, looking for the famous pony you’re supposed to meet here.

C’mon, Fancypants, you’re bigger than most other stallions! How could you be so hard to find in this crowd!?

Your pocket-watch tells you that he’s probably just running late. Your brain tells you to look for something to do in the meantime. Your loins tell you to pass the time the usual way.

Hmm, now what shall you have tonight? A silky unicorn? A keen pegasus perhaps? Or maybe you have a taste for a frisky earthie; there’s plenty of all three at this party, and you’re not prejudicial over any of them.

Eventually, you find a pretty, shapely mare (you can’t recall her race, but honestly, it isn’t the wings, nor horn, you’d be looking at) nursing a drink of her own. She catches your wandering glance, and returns with a half-lidded smile. She certainly knows who you are. You exchange warm words with her, not that you’d need to in order to land yourself a lady, before she suggests continuing the conversation ‘somewhere quiet’.

Five minutes later, her dress is on the floor of an empty room, and her body is being thrust vigorously against a wall as she wails your name at the top of her lungs. Darn, you didn’t ask for her name in return, and it’d be just plain awkward to ask for it while both of your bodies are hurtling towards the brink of sexual climax. Oh well, you’ll… you’ll get it right… next ti- aaahh~!

That felt good. You’ve had many similar experiences in your lifetime, but, you know, each time is a welcome feeling. Judging by the giddy look of your friend, you’d say she liked it too. After cleaning up and helping her with re-equipping her dress, you say your goodbyes (for now), with the hope of meeting her again, before going your separate ways.

What? This is the norm for these sort of parties! Canterlot ponies may appear to be generally posh and refined, but you’re all savages in your own sexual way. Just ask the other two loudly fornicating party-goers in the room next door to yours!

Anyway, you make your way back into the main party hall, where you promptly lift another martini from a waiter’s platter and scan the room for- ah, there he is now.

“Fancypants!” you call out when you finally see him, “There you are!”

“Hah, and I thought I was the late one, old chap.” he lets you pull up a chair at the same table as him, “Where were you?”

“Something… came up.” you say semi-truthfully, “I came as quickly as I could, though.” Also true, if you mangle the context.

“Knowing you, I’ll bet you did, you sly dog,” Fancy retorts, more than familiar with the games you like to play with fine mares, “But less talk of backsides, more talk of business. Namely, your fashion magazine.”

“The Canterlot Columns? Of course,” you smile, “Thanks again for the interview a few months ago, many ponies are still eager to read that issue. We’re still getting backlogged orders for it.”

“Um, that’s not exactly what I mean by talk of business,” Fancypants adopts a rather serious tone, eyeing you through his monocle, “I’m here to deliver a warning, chap.”

“What?” the sinking feeling in your gut tells you that tonight’s celebrations may be cut short for you. Just when you wanted to enjoy yourself. “What sort of warning? Why are you telling me this?”

“I look out for my friends and acquaintances,” Fancypants says simply, “and you’re a friend of mine, so it’s only fair.” he slips a newspaper article over onto the table. When you pick it up, you instantly recognise what kind of newspaper it is. And you instantly recognise the face on the front cover of it - your own.

“Posh Ponies Periodical?” you read the name of your rival publication aloud, before delving into what they’ve written about you. You hate the Posh Ponies Periodical with a passion. Not just because they’re your rivals in the world of celebrity publications, but because they like to pretend they’re a real newspaper when they aren’t. As such, most stories are blown entirely out of proportion with little truth, and because it looks and feels like a newspaper to the average reader, they accept every word of it as fact. Even the slander.

The most worrying words that struck you from this particular headline headlines was ‘Young Pony Hospitalised, Canterlot Columns to Blame”.

Your jaw drops as you read the section to yourself.

Young filly... tried to starve herself... fraudulent magazine... magically altered... eventually collapsed... rushed to hospital for emergency treatment... deeply disturbed...

You can’t read any more. You get the gist of it.

“I… I had no idea..! Why wasn’t I told about..? It can’t be my fault if somepony… This is gonna destroy my reputation, isn’t it?” you ask your fancy friend.

“I’m afraid so, old chap.” he replies.

“When’s this issue getting an official release?”

“First thing tomorrow, every news stand in Canterlot.” your insides sink as Fancypants gives you the bad news, “But I had an insider who brought me this issue early. I only thought it would be fair if I warned you about it first, lest you discover a nasty shock tomorrow morning.”

You can already see your future crumbling before your eyes. Nevertheless, you thank your friend for his help, “I‘m glad you warned me about this, Fancy.”

“Don’t mention it, fellow, but what are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know!” you’ve never been in this predicament before; you’ve always been too careful in the celebrity world to wind up like this. “I need to look at the situation steadily. I just need to find a way to calm down first, maybe with the help of a silky unicorn, or a keen pegasus, perhaps even a fris-”

“For goodness’ sake, you relieved your stallionhood not five minutes ago!”

“Oh yeah.” you knock back the rest of your martini in a single gulp, and take a deep breath, “I know what I have to do now. I have to get out of here before the manure hits. I’ll get home and pack some bags. Do they sell Canterlot papers in Ponyville? No? I’ll go to Ponyville. Keep my head down until this disaster blows over.”

“Good idea.” Fancypants nods curtly, “I’ll try to help any way I can here in Canterlot. Take care of yourself, old friend.”

“I will.” you say, “And thanks for the warning. I’d hate to have read about this for the first time at my breakfast table.”

You turn to leave the party, with the intention of packing your bags and taking the first train to Ponyville. Then something very strange occurs.

An attractive mare, white-coated and pink-haired in appearance, falls from the sky screaming and lands face first into the giant, multi-layered cake that breaks her fall, coating every nearby patron in icing and turning every head in the room. The four-pony orchestra screeches to a halt. The whole room is filled with bits of cake and excessive tutting.

“That’s peculiar,” you say aloud, “Usually the exotic dancers come out of the cake.” And then, upon closer inspection, “Isn’t that your girlfriend, Fancy?”

With a reaction that would be considered perfect, Fancypants’ monocle pops off of his face and lands in his drink, “Just… just go already!”

“Okay, okay!”