I've Practiced Your Legalese Martial Arts
Already three cups of coffee (that last one with more than a little bit of thirty-bit bourbon as a floater) into the worst Wednesday of his life, Claims Department (his name, not his title; that was “Head of Pre-Arbitration”) peered at the sheets grasped in between his feathers at the next absolute lunatic he needed to attempt to reason with.
Lunatic was not a word he used lightly. That was a hateful, awful word, one defined by long cultural memories of slavering, wide-pupiled and befanged bat-ponies driven hopelessly mad by the banishment of their spiritual if not literal matriarch to the empty wastes of the moon. It was, especially after the return of said lunar princess, the kind of word one used not as a threat, or even as a blow, but as a guillotine. A word of paramount severity.
But all these ponies lived, apparently willingly, in Ponyville, so they probably deserved it.
A scrape of the chair across the desk from him told him that his next guest had arrived.
“Good evening,” he started, mostly to give himself time to read the correct sheet from among the ones held in his primaries. Eyes shot from page to page.
Cakes – no, that was the chubby mare from earlier; the cookie was appreciated, the sheer quantity of ‘baking incidents’ to parse through was not. After carefully explaining that ‘baking incidents’ were not, in fact, a specially protected event in the Equestrian Civil Code, she had finally agreed to coverage of merely two of the more inflammatory events under her standard fire insurance.
Carrot Top – already done with, and surprisingly easy, actually, just a standard extreme vermin clause in her crop insurance took care of most of the damages from coverage, even if some small part of him did want to argue that parasprites were not exactly “common rodents” and should not fall under said clause. The client, however, was a solidly built farm mare, and he had long since learned that driving hardscrabble agricultural Earth ponies to red-faced rage was a particularly awful idea insofar as, regardless of consequences for the farmer, no amount of constables could un-kick one’s sorry ass through a window.
Belle, Rarity – no, if the picture attached to the file was anything to go by, he wouldn’t have missed that one’s entrance to the room; likewise, if the panicked notes from the life insurance department included in the file were anything to go by, his hair would have already stood up from the sheer unbelievable liability that seemed to radiate from the very presence of one-sixth of what he understood to be some kind of arcane and ancient weapon of mass destruction.
Ah, there it was. Written in a smaller font than the others and still taking up a full half-margined page, he had found the next in this parade of madmares.
He peered over the sheet in his wing. “Misses … Spoon?”
The mare – no, not a mare, the pony in the chair across from him, despite her oversized business-suit coat complete with withers-pads, was decidedly a filly.
“It’s Silver Spoon, please,” responded the filly from under a decidedly businesslike pair of black glasses. “If you feel the need to refer to me by one name, it is Miss Silver.”
“… Uh-huh.” He checked over the form once again. The box for the client’s age was conspicuously blank. “Now, please don’t mind me asking, Miss Sp–”
“–Silver” the filly growled, more than a little annoyance bubbling through her best efforts at being civil.
“–Miss Silver,” he corrected before following on to his original inquiry, “but how, er, old are you? I don’t mean to demean, but there are certain rules about what constitutes appropriately legally empowered representation in arbitration meetings.”
“Enough,” she stated simply, as if that was a sufficient answer.
He scratched his head with a forehoof. “Right. Well, enough isn’t a number, so I’m going to need an actual answer before I continue.”
An eye roll, made all the more apparent by the magnification of her glasses. “I am, by statute law, old enough to represent my family household in civil matters.”
His forehoof found itself colliding with his face. “Very good. Also not a number.”
“Ugh!” she huffed. “Do you really want the whole thing about why?”
“I really just want an age, but sure, since you sound so enthusiastic.” His face-hoof turned into a rub of the temples. More bourbon would have been a good idea. “Go for it.”
“Fine!” she spat, then, after a moment of preparation, launched into her spiel. “Well, by the Tribal Regulation Act of 367, never repealed, descendants of several ‘Unique and Defined’ tribal groups of which, as I am one thirty-second by blood a member of the former Antimoniam Unicorn Janeighsarry Caste I most definitely am, I as a filly who has–” a faint blush of embarrassment “–‘f-felt the touch of the seasons,’ am entitled to, in the absence of my parents through official summons or other legitimate disposition, represent myself in matters of dowry, which the High Lords have ruled extends to the financial and material dealings of the household at large.”
A few slow blinks, then a slow clap, not entirely sarcastic. “Well done! You have, unbelievably, legitimately done your research it would seem.” He put the papers down, this client deserving at least of eye contact. “The ‘Regulation Act’ protocol is a fundamental part of the handling of the estates of orphans, as well as in legal representation of wealthy foals sent away to boarding schools who find themselves in civil trouble. Your explanation of your legal rights was as correct as any.”
The filly, under her practiced scowl, couldn’t help but beam a little at the praise.
“Unfortunately,” he said, tapping the paper before him with the back of his pen, “The form I have here for reporting this meeting has a box for age, which means that I need it regardless.”
The filly, smile collapsing back into a frown, slumped into the chair. “…thirteen.”
“There.” He dutifully scribbled it in. “Was that so hard?”
“No, but–” a groan, that precocious mask slipping off the filly just a little “–now you’re going to just treat me like some dumb kid.”
“If your neighbors are anything to go by, your age is the least of my concerns. A particularly intelligent ground-squirrel would have some of them beat in presenting a coherent argument.”
A snort. “Let me guess, was a baker involved? Maybe an apple farmer?”
“I cannot discuss my other clients, miss.”
A carefully measured dose of puppy-dog eyes.
He looked off to the side. “...maybe.”
She smirked. “Knew it.”
With a “harumph,” the stallion continued, momentary levity be damned. “Yes, well, that aside, there is the certain matter of the second clause of the Tribal Regulation Act; the legitimate disposition of your parents.” He leaned a little over the table as to impress the severity of the matter. “Now, I must record this, and not all answers are acceptable especially as you are representing your entire household, so please think about your responses before you answer this question: by what means are your parents currently indisposed such that they cannot represent themselves?”
“My mother,” the filly answered without missing a beat, “is in Detrot as part of the state’s counsel for the Packherd bankruptcy hearings.”
“As good a reason as any.” He wrote down the response. “And that also explains your preparedness. I’m guessing somepony got some coaching before this?”
“I’ve been around these kinds of things with her. I took notes.”
“Good ones, it seems. And your father?”
“My father,” and there was a little hitch there, but it was a familiar one, and she almost made it through without any sign of delay, “was killed in the service a few years ago.”
“Oh, I’m–” he put down his pen “–sorry to have asked so inelegantly, then. Was it…?”
“It was Panamare, yes” she replied, which answered any questions he might have asked.
“Three, four years…” he shook his head, picking his pen back up and hurriedly scratching in the filly’s answer. “Right, sorry. Should have looked at the file.”
“It’s okay,” the filly said, impressively more composed than he was. “Is that a good enough answer?”
“Very much so.” He finished his writing, then filed away that sheet of paper, replacing it with a stack of new forms. “Now, onto the claims, shall we?”
“Sure.” The filly likewise produced a legal pad full of notes.
The stallion raised an eyebrow.
She offered an explanation. “Lots of claims. These are the notes.”
“Smart move. You’re a good study.” He idly ran a hoof down his precariously leaning stack of paperwork. “Would you like to choose a particular event to start with?”
“The one from ten months ago, please?”
The stallion rifled through his stack of papers, finding two forms marked with colored tabs as being from the selected time frame. “Which one?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.
“The sewer incident, please.”
“Ah, yes, of course!” He selected the document with the image of a bombed-out house paper-clipped to it. “I should have expected that you would go for this one first. What an unusual event!” he gushed. “It’s sure to make my presentation at the annual meeting of the ‘Equestrian Insurance Oddities” convention a hit!”
“I would like it if you weren’t so happy about my house being blown up.”
“Ah, right, sorry,” he said sheepishly. “My bad, of course.”
“Right.” She flipped to the correct page of notes. “I would guess that, due to your enthusiasm, you know what happened?”
“I get the gist of it, if I recall. Something about an explosion in the plumbing of your house, caused by…” he shuffled the papers a little closer to his face “…juvenile ‘terrorism?’”
“You seem surprised.” She cocked her head to the side, sneering slightly. “I thought you were going to present this at your … nerd convention?”
“Well, yes, but I had focused on the ‘sewer explosion,’ not the other part,” he explained, clearly befuddled. “Can you explain?”
“Which part? The juveniles, or the terrorism?”
“Both?” he snorted. “I wasn’t aware Equestria had any juvenile terrorists. For that matter, I wasn’t aware juveniles possessed the capacity to be terrorists–”
“They are!” the filly snapped, clearly angry enough to mess up her verb conjugation. “Do you know what those three did to me?”
“Clearly not well enough,” said the stallion, mildly shocked at the vitriol of the previously well-composed filly. “Continue.”
“Those … criminals, supposedly to try and get their Marks but probably because they’re insane decided to attempt ‘civil engineering.’”
“Oh, well, that hardly sounds like terrorism–”
“I’M NOT FINISHED!” interrupted the now thoroughly enraged filly, pieces of hair falling out of her bun. “Their idea of ‘civil engineering’ was to dump an entire wagon-load of molten lead into the sewer line outside of my house to try and stop a ‘leak’ which didn’t exist but instead caused a steam explosion which launched me off the commode and through a window into my front yard covered in glass and waste.”
The examiner gave a few slow blinks. “I was, ah, unaware–”
“So I ask you, sir, this; what is the definition of a ‘terrorist?’ Because I looked this up. In a book. And y’know what I found? A ‘terrorist’ is a member of an ‘organized group of militants who advocate for an id-ea-logical goal with public violence.’ Do you know what they call themselves? ‘Crusaders.’ I had to look that up too. It’s an–” she paused, remembering the word that nice Miss Twilight Sparkle (who wasn’t any less crazy than any of the other five ‘special mares’ in town, but was much more helpful) taught her “–archaic word for a kind of zealous soldier. They call themselves the ‘Cutie Mark Crusaders.’ That’s an organization of self-described militants seeking the advancement of an ideological goal. They’re terrorists!”
“Right,” said the stallion, who wasn’t exactly sure where the filly was going with this but was nonetheless highly intrigued with the premise of juvenile terrorism. “And the explosion of your house was an example of ‘public violence?’”
“Exactly!”
“Well!” He shrugged. “You’ve convinced me. Ponyville is harboring a cell of foal terrorists.”
The filly brightened up. “Great!”
“Yes, well, that aside, the question is why you have convinced me of this.” He raised the paper again. “Under the previous categorization, this had been categorized as a criminal act, actions which are excluded from your coverage; if you want money, you should sue the ‘terrorists’ for damages.”
“I’m pretty sure two of them are orphans. They don’t have anything to sue for.”
“Really? Two of them?” He took a mental note to examine just how bad the rate of death for adults was in Ponyville – actually, scratch that, the less time focused on that place, the better. “How unfortunate. Well, whatever the case, the transition of ‘petty criminals’ to ‘terrorists’ doesn’t change anything, or, if it does, it only moves it into the category of an act of war, which is a classic example of force majeure. Either way, you get nothing.”
“That’s where you’re wrong! Wrong, wrong, wrong!” the filly repeated excitedly, flipping through her notebook before turning it around. Pasted to the legal pad was a newspaper clipping of Princess Luna signing a piece of legislation, headline included. CROWN ORDERS RELIEF FOR VICTIMS OF ATTACKS.
“Oh, come on, that act was for those affected by the Changeling attack at the Princess’ wedding.”
“But it didn’t say that.” The filly flipped to some new pages, each replete with yet more paste and highlighter marks. “It said it was a requirement to pay out insurance claims ‘for those victimized by the actions of enemy forces.’ It never said anything about who the enemy was. I read the whole thing; it took me ten days, but I read the whole thing.”
“Because it was obvious!”
“But it wasn’t written down! And I don’t know about you, but I would call a bunch of terrorists ‘enemy forces!’ Wouldn’t you?”
The stallion gave a few slow blinks, then, with a sigh, retrieved a stamp out of his desk. “Well, I suppose I would.” Hesitatingly, he placed a green stamp in a box on the paper on his desk, then filed it away into a hanging folder. “You have successfully, somehow, convinced me that Ponyville is somehow harboring an entire terrorist organization and that, furthermore, actions of the members are legally indistinct from those of an invading army of shape-shifting monsters. Unbelievable.”
“Wait, really?” The filly shot up with foalish glee. “Like, actually? We’re getting the payment?”
“I can’t guarantee that; among other things, I have to actually read the royal directive, and it’s not all my decision.” He shrugged. “But you at least made it into the ‘probably onto something’ folder, so that’s a good sign.”
“Who else from Ponyville made it in?”
“Who – I can’t tell you that! That’s confidential information.” A beat. “Actually, no, it’s not, because you’re alone. Nopony else made it that far.” That was almost true, but he didn’t want to sully the filly’s achievement with the news that a farmer had threatened him into the same position. Rather unsporting.
The filly let out a highly un-businesslike squeal punctuated with a hoof-pump. “And that was the hard one!”
The stallion’s smile slumped into a grimace. “A-another one?”
“Oh, yeah, but that one’s easy. Our house’s backyard gazebo got stepped on by an Ursa Minor when–”
“Yes, when the magician came to town. I remember from all the other dozens of incidents which I have addressed already.” He rubbed his temple. “I must warn you that nopony has successfully managed to turn the magician’s actions into anything other than criminal, so unless you are prepared to convince me she is also a terroristic element I am afraid this will not go the same way as the previous incident.”
“Oh, what? No. That would be crazy. Why would I argue that?” She shook her head. “No, I am arguing that the damage by the big bear should be covered by the ‘Acts of Gods’ enhancement on the policy.”
“Ah. No, not quite.” The stallion shook his head. “While wild animal attacks would occasionally be described as such, especially in times of a migration, the bear was goaded into the town, which thus makes this the realm, once again, of criminal activity.”
“No, not figuratively.” The filly, with a smirk, flipped the pad around. Inside, there was a page torn out of (hopefully not the filly’s present) textbook showing an illustration of several fur-clad Eskimares kow-towing before a depiction of a star-spangled ursine form. “Literally. The Ursas are worshiped as gods by the North-Tribes. It’s an act of a god.”
“It’s a turn of phrase–”
“It doesn’t say that!” She beamed from around her glasses. “It just says ‘coverage for Acts of Gods.’ It doesn’t say anything about a metaphor or anything!”
“–and just because somepony worships something does not make it a god.”
“Oh yeah?” She flipped to new pages, streaks of highlighter across cut-out bits of legalese. “Because the High Courts ruled a few years ago that the ‘traditional religions of tribal regions’ has as much validity in terms of legal protections as the Royal Cult, and if you reject that you have to reject an entire book of judicial history, because–”
“Okay, okay, you win.” Not quite believing himself, he once again tossed the form into that folder. “I don’t know if your argument is going to work with everypony, but there’s enough … jurisprudence in what you said to to keep you winning if only to avoid going to formal arbitration.”
“Hmph!” The filly gave a satisfied grunt. “Told you it was the easy one.”
“Right.” He pulled a new form to the forefront. “Which is next?”
“That’s it!’ The filly stood up out of her chair, losing a good hoof-and-a-half in height. “All the rest are already dealt with or are going with my mom to formal arbitration.”
“Huh.” He looked down. Sure enough, the form had the required checks and stamps from a previous examiner. “How about that. So you just batted cleanup, as it was?”
“Sure!” said Silver Spoon, not sure what that meant as, due to crusading elements, Ponyville had never successfully completed a youth game of hoofball. Too many explosions. And questionably effective but certainly questionable performance-enhancing drugs.
“Well!” He put the papers away into a drawer. “I’d say to did superbly. I’ll have to write a letter to your mother commending your performance. Did you do all the research yourself?”
“Only for the cases. My mother told me the TRA justification for conditional foal-autonomy.”
“Impressive. Perhaps you have a career ahead of you in arbitration.” He cocked his head. “I do have one question, though.”
“About the claims?”
“No, just … about Ponyville. After you were blown out of your home, what were your … actions? What does a resident of Ponyville do in such a situation? Call for the constable?”
“Constable? Ha!” The filly shook her head. “No, the constable doesn’t show up for them anymore. Every time she throws them in jail, they get out by some act of gods.”
“… Metaphorically?”
“Oh, no, not really. I mean, one time a tornado hit the jail and sucked off the roof, but usually it’s an actual god. Like a letter form Princess Celestia. Or this weird snake-guy who just turns all the window bars into marshmallows.” She shrugged. “It’s a lost cause.”
“So what did you do?”
The filly smiled, looking away at nothing in particular, deep in thought. “Well, I was cut up pretty well by the window and covered in … crap, so I thought I was going to die from infection pretty soon, so I just got up and found where they were digging in the ground.”
“And?”
“I folded them all like freaking card tables.” A bigger smile at that one. “I just, like, pulverized them all. I grabbed rocks, wrenches. It was brutal. Then I locked the short one in a rolling tool chest and pushed her down a hill into a tree.”
Suddenly ghost-faced, the stallion gulped. “Don’t you think that’s a little much?”
“They just blew up my house. Besides, who cares? They’re terrorists.”
And with that, she stepped out the door.
After a moment, the stallion pulled a bottle of Mare’s Mark from under his desk, took a swig, then, after a pained grimace, hid it back under his desk.
They're all crazy.
“Next!’
Author's Note
I'm pretty sure Silver Spoon's dad never appears in the show, so he can be dead. Right?
Regardless, I've always kind of liked the middle-class Silver-Spoon. Distinctly a cut below Diamond Tiara - after all, Silver isn't gold. That kind of nouveau-riche has always stank of lawyer work to me, so I figure that's a justifiable characterization. Or not. I'll sue.
Writing early CMC is fun because you can always just invent another noodle incident.
