Prince Blueblood eyed the Canterlot elite around him. Everyone was nervous.
"But... she's a princess. We can't just—" Fancy Pants was saying.
"Everypony is under the law. Even her," Moondancer said, firmly.
Jet Set, a minor member of the court, sighed enviously, thinking that if a big shot had his way with him then he was sure the pay off in hush money afterwards would buck him up.
"This trial is rigged," Trump addressed the cramped assembly, and gestured to Blueblood. "It's a horse trial. Tremendously rigged. Who are you—?" He pointed to Moondancer. "I want Twilight Sparkle." He banged his fist on the table.
The comforting hoof of Lyra Heart Strings reached for Trump's hand and he calmed, momentarily.
Moondancer, acting judge, shook her head. "Her Magical Highness is of the view that there are more important things at stake than determining whether an assault occurred against your.... your..." But she found herself unable to finish the sentence.
Donald Trump crossed his legs, hard.
"Well... I for one don't particularly see that—well—err—that he has one?" Fancy Pants blustered.
Fleur, next to him, piped up, "Fancy Pants, dear, he definitely has one. And really—" She leaned in. "If I had one like that, then I wouldn't blame the Princess." Fleur winked, trying to entice her wayward stallion to think about pussy for a change. However, Fancy Pants's eyes were glued to Trump's seat, or at least to the seat of Trump's expensive trousers. Further inappropriateness is stopped by a stony look from Moondancer.
"I wasn't aware that Auntie took any interest in..." Prince Blueblood's nasal drawl trailed off as he waved a effete hoof towards Trump. "Are we sure that this isn't a fabrication. The so-called 'victim' is known to be a prat."
Lyra bridled. "How dare you insult him when he's had an experience like that!"
Blueblood cocked his head. "I sometimes forget that there are those of us who lack the sophistication cultivated by a classical education. I was using old Equestrian. The word is 'prætt'. Trickster."
With an effort, Lyra suppressed the desire to punch him.
"Anyway, I would like to hear it from—" Blueblood paused to look between Trump's suited legs. "—his lips, as it were."
Trump instinctively clasped his hands around his midriff. "You ponies are crazy," he began, in his funny grating voice. "You're automatically attracted to me — you just start kissing me, and then lower. It's like a magnet. Just kiss. You don't even wait. And when it's a Princess, she's allowed to do it. She can do anything."
Moondancer frowned. "We respect your story. But kindly inform the Prince of only the salient points."
"They're all the best points." He turned to Lyra. "You know I have all the best points." Lyra nodded, her smile a little forced.
A blokey laugh sounded as Blue Moon removed his muzzle from Fancy Pants's ear.
"So, I was saying to her, in a very important summit—I was talking about the economy—the economy, stupid, they say, probably. Anyway, I told her the Equestrian economy is no good under her, no good at all. There's barely even an economy."
"Yes, yes. You don't have to give us the—" Moondancer cut in.
"And she said she thought—y'know she said. She said—"
"Spit it out, there's a good chap... er—chappess...?"
"Mysteriously intersex, currently," Moondancer supplied the going definition.
"If a quim like that is intersex, then I'm a stallion," Fleur tittered, only to fall silent when the male attention to which she was accustomed failed to materialize.
Another honking laugh and Blue Moon is shushed by the room.
"You were saying that Celestia responded to your political insight with..." Moondancer prompted.
"It was so unprofessional—sad, even. So sad the way she took it. She said—"
"For Auntie's sake, you worthless cretin. Get on with it."
Lyra rose to her hooves, outraged.
With a sardonic snort, Prince Blueblood sat back down.
"She said I was 'ignorant'. 'Ig-nor-ant.'" Trump raised a hand like a baby t-rex. "I mean... what can you say to that?" He looked around, his cheeks taut, face twisted.
"And what did you say in response?"
"I said, 'Lady—'cause that's what you call 'em. Even when they're horses—that's what you call 'em."
"Them?" Fancy Pants asked.
"Royalty—like the Queen. She's alright, you know. She's alright. I thought your princess was like her, you know—but no."
"A moment, Mr Trump."
With a nod from Moondancer, Prince Blueblood took the floor.
"Feather Duster, the help, recalls you telling Auntie that she was 'a lunatic' while filling your glass. An event which, moreover, was not an infrequent occurrence."
Discontented mutterings broke out. "I heard Trump was pretty wasted..."
"Silence!" Moondancer glowered around the room.
"Sobriety is one of my goodliest traits."
The trial rumbled on till questions came to be asked about the crucial event, which apparently occurred during a discussion about economic altruism.
"I told her, 'Show me someone without an ego and I'll show you a loser.' And so then she goes mad! Crazy! I thought horses were supposed to be nice? I don't know, I've never seen one like that. If she was one of mine, her ass wouldn't even touch the floor—not even to pay my legal fees."
"And that is when she... she gave you a..." Fancy Pants began, and Trump nodded, gesturing between his legs.
Blue Moon yelped as his leering muzzle connected sharply with Upper Crust's hoof-held fan.
"And you are sure... quite sure... that you don't normally have one," Moondancer probed.
"I will absolutely testify to that. I don't mind guys with pussies. It was fine on Miss Universe. People criticise that, but it was the right decision."
"You ran a beauty contest...?" Lyra pouted.
Moondancer gestured for Trump to continue, but as the moment to tell his truth came, he found it difficult.
"And then she—she..." Trump hesitated. Normally he had the best words. Or at least some words. But now his words had deserted him.
"There, there..." Lyra's hoof squeezed his hand.
Blue Moon raised a hoof. "Even saying this happened. Are we sure she—err—Trump didn't know that the Princess was interested in—er—Trump and kind of..."
"Objection!" Lyra stood, teal forehoof defiant.
Moondancer frowned and furrowed her brow, but eventually came to a decision, "Overruled. Answer the question, Mr Trump."
At Trump's confused look, Moondancer paraphrased Blue Moon's crude inquiry, "You are quite sure that you had no desire to be... handled in that way."
But Trump found that he could only stammer.
Lyra rose up, expression thunderous. "How dare you! Can't you tell that he's suffering?"
Moondancer nodded. "We understand, but—" She paused significantly. "We have to hear it: protinus a fonte."
"From the horse's mouth," Blueblood explained, smugly.
"Is Trump allowed to whisper it to me?" Lyra turned to Trump. "Would that be okay?"
But Moondancer shook her head. "The court must insist."
It was as painful as a kick in the balls, but the facts were eventually established to the court's satisfaction.
By keeping Princess Celestia off the stand, her legal team, headed by Dick Caput, were able to save her from the dungeons. But the court of public opinion was less kind to her informal defence that 'he had it coming'.
Shortly after the trial, Maximilien Starscout issued in the Equestrian Republic. Everypony agreed that this form of government would prevent the sort of tyrannous, pussy-grabbing excesses associated with the old monarchy.
