The Hollow Kingdom of Big Macintosh

Exhibit I

Suave is in town today. Big Macintosh finds him staring up at the bulletin board outside Town Hall. He approaches Suave, who notices him and says nothing. He wants him to look at the bulletin board and see what he sees. Big Macintosh sees it almost immediately. His eyes drifted to a weather advisory for a rainstorm in three days before he found the petition scrawled in hasty mouthwriting.

"Well, ain't that something."

"Yeah, it's something of a something," Suave says. "Means Ponyville has a problem, I guess. It's the small town feel that makes ponies this way."

"Crazy?"

"Well, yes and no," Suave replies. "I think crazy happens in correct proportion wherever you are, but it's hard to hide your crazy when there aren't many ponies. Ponies get worried, get crazy about it. Stuff like this happens."

There is a petition to give Ponyville General Hospital a general psychiatric ward. The pony with barely illegible scrawling appears to be under the impression that the hospital is currently over-encumbered with mentally unstable ponies. He or she expresses an urgent need to renovate the existing programs that handle these ponies and assign a dedicated team of doctors to look after them.

Currently, the hospital treats the mentally ill just like the physically ill. There are mentally ill inpatients, outpatients, new patients, old patients, and terminal patients. Beyond what ails them, they are no different. If they can be treated, they will be treated. If they can be cured, they will be cured. If their health is good enough, they go home. They aren't special, just different.

"Do you think it's true?" Big Macintosh asks his friend. Suave grunts and spits on the ground.

"Hard to say, man. It's hard to say." Suave tries his best to say it. "I don't know if the hospital is overrun with crazies, but I'm certain if they wanted to fill an entire medical wing they could do it. The misdiagnosed, unnecessarily diagnosed, and the undiagnosed combined would foot the bill."

"What constitutes a pony as 'crazy'?" Big Macintosh asks. He already knows the answer. Not just his answer, but he knows Suave's too. The question is more along the lines of "what does the hospital think constitutes a crazy pony?"

"A pony with a bad brain."

"A bad brain?"

"Yeah, a deviant brain. There's no one thing that can make a brain deviant. It just doesn't work right, not right enough. All brains work differently, but deviant brains work too differently. They can't or don't do something, or they do something. That's a bad brain. It's something like that."

Big Macintosh can only imagine hallways filled with dark, white rooms. The orderlies are huge and the patients look like prisoners. Straitjackets and cups full of pills abound. Everypony gets half an hour with a psychiatrist a day. If in that half hour they prove their brain has reformed and agreed to reform, they can go home until they smash a plate against the wall or wildly lament the death of a pony long, long gone much too loudly.

"I don't think I like this," Big Macintosh says.

"Nopony likes it," Suave reminds him. "It's one of those ugly truth things you don't hear ponies talking about. We sweep it under the rug and hope it resolves itself, but not because we're irresponsible. Ignoring the problem and living decently is actually a solution."

"You got today's horoscopes?"

"Always," Suave says. "Libra: if you're looking to make friends and impress ponies, punctuality is the key to your success. Now is not the time to be unpredictable. Keep your appointments and keep your promises. "

"I reckon I always do."

"If it's in your horoscope, it's especially important." Suave has never been wrong about this, to his knowledge. Big Macintosh believes it is simply because they give such elementary advice. They are no more mystical than an instruction manual and can't see any farther into the future than a weather advisory.

"Well, I'd better be going then. I'll be late to see Rarity."

"Aquarius?"

"I don't know, you're the expert," Big Macintosh says. Suave stares up at him for a moment, his eyes darting to the left on every downbeat. Big Macintosh can hear the gears whirring in his head. He is doing more than trying to remember Rarity's sign. He is standing on the stoop of saying something with one hoof lifted to knock. He sweats, wonders if he can actually do it.

Suave has got something disruptive to say. It is a jolt of static to flicker the lights or a strong breeze through the belfry. If he speaks it, it is possible to stay the hand of fate. It is two minutes late to a train station and two ponies talking over the radio. Big Macintosh can know this without hearing him say it, but he can never unveil it on his own. He can be wary, be careful, be paranoid, or even indifferent, but he can't do anything beyond being.

"Yeah, take care." What he wanted to say, he does not say. Perhaps it had to do with his horoscope. Perhaps it had something to do with somepony else's horoscope. Whatever it was, he takes it with him as he heads on down the road and Big Macintosh doesn't let it bother him as he goes up the road.