A Day in Stalliongrad

“Yer results are in. I don’t see what could hinder you to work. A little alcohol in yer bloodstream, not unusual for a pony around here. Though ye have a strangely hefty magnesium deficiency. Here is a prescription for some magnesium. Otherwise, drink more water, and yer good to go.” She gives you a slip of paper. Her writing is barely readable.

“I guess it’s true what they say about doctor’s hoofwriting.”

She rolls her eyes, “ye can go now. I’m gonna send my clearance.”

Wait, shouldn’t she have found some of the traces of the drugs you took? A false negative? Can’t they find the trace amounts? Something else?

“Clover, are you sure you haven’t found anything else?”

“As sure as I can be. Why?”

Spill your ‘secrets’. She won’t tell, she has to consider doctor-patient confidentiality, and you shouldn’t sacrifice your health.

Do you know how much it would suck to find another more boring job?

“I have amnesia. I took some weird drug and drank alcohol, I forgot everything.”

“Everything? Did ye forget anything afterwards? After your stunt.”

You didn’t

“Uhm, no, I’m very sure.”

“How long ago was it?”

“Some days.” Two to be exact.

“Then it’s temporary. And ye can’t forget ‘everything’. That’s a slight exaggeration, ye seem to clear for that. And it wouldn’t hinder you to work. Though I question yer actions. Why are ye taking random drugs?” she shrugs, “It doesn’t matter, I’m just here to check if yer healthy enough, which ye are. The retrograde amnesia should get better. If it doesn’t, call me. Or better yet, find a general practitioner.”

That’s a relief, though you wish the memories would come sooner.

Doctors can be wrong.

“Ye can go, now. I have other patients. And stop taking random drugs.”

Wait, this is a good chance to increase your contacts.

“Oh, one last thing, Clover. Can I have your private number?”

“No. As much as I like my work, I also want some peace and quiet. I am not yer family physician.”

“I am not asking to have to have a twenty-four seven doctor.” Though you could use that. “I’m asking you to be a friend.”

“We have a doctor-patient relationship, it should stay that way.”

There is no reason for those kinds of relationships to be incompatible. She takes her job serious. Argue with her on a medical basis.

In the back of your mind, hidden in old recesses, you find your own knowledge of basic social science and biology. We do need friends.

“But that makes it even more important to be friends,” she raises an eyebrow, “your goal as a doctor is to keep your patients healthy through any means. And because we are social creatures, social contact and friendship are the best ways to protect from stress related and mental illnesses. You can keep yourself healthy.”

“I mean, technically …” she thinks about it for a short time, she looks at you, seeing that you won’t relent, “ah, sure, if it makes you go. Here ye go.” She writes it down, readable enough for you to see the numbers, she sees your expression, “also, my writing is one of the better ones.”

With spring in your step, you leave the hospital. Happy with the result and your package of magnesium – the building had an apothecary. You are almost able to forget that you got violated in there.

What to do now? You have the rest of the day off. You were told to come to the station tomorrow.

You could: get a hobby; laze the time away in your home; make more friends; figure out what communism is; wash your dishes; walk around aimlessly; ponder your existence; talk with Lionheart – he should, hopefully, be done with exchanging the money.

Lazing around sounds good.

You should be more productive.

Exactly, optimize. Laze around with Lionheart.

You return to your home. He isn’t here. Did he run off with your money? Though the loss wouldn’t be that bad because, honestly, you wouldn’t have bothered to exchange the money. The betrayal is worse – you were hoping for a friend, and you were trying to ‘get him’.

Your mind is still working on figuring out what you mean by that.

You look around your living room. You keep calling it a living room, it’s more of a reading and working room with a window.

Wait, you have a radio. You should turn it on. It stands there in the corner. It’s a small, meager radio, but it should fulfill its purpose. You twist the knobs and hope it functions. Can you get Equestrian channels here?

You hear the first channel:

It’s playing classical music; it’s lead by a cello.

You switch.

“—from ten to twelve o’clock a slight shower has been scheduled –” the weather. How boring.

You switch again.

“—she is in a glass labyrinth, crossing new lines, old demons behind, in front of her new ones. She is trapped like a rat.” What is happening there? “It is not the feeling to be a part of a twisted experiment that makes feel insignificant. An experiment has a purpose and observers. But there is nothing. –“

It’s probably a radio drama.

That makes sense. You switch the channel.

And that’s propaganda music.

You continue your radio adventure.

“Okay, okay. Listen, homies.” The young mare in the radio audibly inhales from a cigarette – judging from her voice it isn’t filled with tobacco. “I, and my friend, had our usual movie night yesterday. Usually, I would give you recommendation because the movies we usually cover here are either actually good, or so bad that it’s funny. But that one, it is … it is just bad. Okay, homies, I understand making movies is hard. I wouldn’t understand any of that, I am a radio host who barely puts any effort into my work and talks about media. And you, kids, you are largely teenagers if my stats are right, are still listening for some reason.”

You cannot turn to the next channel. Now, you need to know why the youth listens to this.

“Anyways, what I am saying is, when you work on anything like a movie, a painting, a book, or learning an instrument, no matter if you’re good at it, when you put effort into it, it is noticeable. And with enough time, effort, and love to what you do, you’ll become good at it. Now, in the movie ‘Holidays in trouble’ – it’s always the holiday movies, weird – you can clearly see the only thing the creator cared for was getting your cash out of your purse. If the creator, Cony Catcher, is listening, they probably aren’t because they’re Equestrian: stop making shameful cash grabs. – oh, we have a caller.”

That’s probably it: it’s a charismatic host that offers basic life advice, which is quite desirable for youth with lacking social environment.

Maybe you’re overthinking it. It’s just nice listening to some creature, especially now that you’re alone. Perhaps it’s the media analysis that’s ‘in’?

Really now? Are you developing a parasocial relationship?

“We hear you, caller, welcome to ‘The Horse Show’. How about you introduce yourself and tell us want you want to tell us.” She inhales through the cig.

“Hi, I’m,” you can barely hear laughter in the background, “an expert in a very scientific and very serious field. You are the only other I trust you to spread the truth.”

“It’s nice that you trust me, but I am just a radio host.”

“Well, the truth is, I have a whole unified theory, I am an ufologist, yes, it’s real, I have hands, …” chortle could be heard from the caller.

“Not again!”

“… the communist party is putting chemicals in the water that is turning everypony gay.” She quickly says before a cut off sound can be heard.

“That’s the fifth time this week. I swear, I have to stop taking live calls if that keeps happening. Buck, homies, they’re going to shred my license if I keep having conspiracies spread through my channel, even as a prank, no matter how much fans I have with the Pioneers. No, they are not putting any chemicals into the water. Thankfully, they are normally supportive with art. Isn’t avant-garde great? Like, I even got a tax deduction for my weed as a work expense. I told them it was an artistic decision, which’s true.” She inhales again. “Taxes, never heard of her...”

A knock on the door wakes you from this radio show. You quickly turn it off. Opening the door, you see Lionheart. He looks miserable, holding a flower bouquet.

“It feels like the damn bank took ten years out of my life. Here for you.” He gives you the flowers and the money, gruffly, with a straight face, leaving you with conflicting messages.

That has interesting connotations.

He bought it with YOUR money, without your permission.

“Thanks,” you say, “so, your mission was successful. Did you buy yourself something?”

“Yes, I hope that’s okay with you. I haven’t eaten anything since…” he’s taken aback by his thought, “…well, the day before yesterday, if you even could call that garbage food.”

That’s reasonable.

This thief took YOUR money.

He must have been doing something else. It’s unlikely that –

You look outside and see the moon rising.

– he needed twelve hours to exchange.

“No problem. Anything else?”

“Why do you care?” He enters the living room.

Griffon isolationism. Pressure him to get your knowledge. “Well, you do live with me.”

He ponders it for a moment. “I got a job. I went with the devil I knew.”

“That’s great.” You casually start eating the flowers. They taste delicious. “What devil?”

“The postal service.”

“Why go back if you don’t like it.”

He doesn’t say anything.

All creatures fear change. Taking away some creature’s bedrock quick scares them. He’s trying to find something with familiarity.

“I hope it works out for you, Lionheart.”

“Thanks.”