Everything was perfect for Silver Standard, the world spun on his axis, his job paid him giant sums of money for not much work, he had a world by himself, a megacomplex dedicated to him. He also suspected that there was a cult created in the name of him somewhere.
Everything was perfect, which was why everything wasn’t. He lived a solitary life, as much as that could afford him; he wasn’t much to look at if he was honest either. Sometimes he speculated on what ponies would actually see if they looked at him.
Dark grey coat, light grey eyes, slicked back black mane and trimmed tail. Then there was the ever-present suit with a black ball-point pen in one pocket. He had no magic or wings to speak of, but his cutie mark, a tower of bits, proclaimed his sharp mind.
In short, a banker, through and through.
But for all the money, the fortunes that he sat on as the head of the Equestrian National Bank, what had they brought him? He had never quite believed that money could buy you happiness, but at least it could buy apathy and scotch, two of the main things that allowed him to keep waking up every morning.
And just as they were there to get him up in the morning, the rest of the day followed in clockwork precision, he’d make his way downstairs at exactly five AM, make himself a coffee with precisely seven grams of freshly ground coffee beans, imported from a single village in the south-west of Zebronica.
Then with his mug of coffee brewing nicely, he’d go to the door and open it exactly three seconds before the mailmare reached it, thanking her politely as he took the latest edition of the Daily Mane and the Morning Manehattanite. He’d shut the door and return to his coffee, moving it over to another counter where the toaster would be waiting.
Breakfast was never an activity worthy of a fanfare for him; he kept it simple, a slice of toast, buttered, along with his morning paper and coffee. He’d have three bites from his toast, followed by one gulp of coffee. Three bites, then one gulp, then again.
The cycle continued, it always ended after five iterations and he’d always managed to finish the Morning Manehattanite by that time. At six o’clock, he’d go upstairs to get changed into his suit, immaculately pressed as always, and return downstairs in his tails and tie. He’d offer his mansion one last sweeping look, then he’d open the door and leave the house when the clock read fifteen minutes past six.
The walk to work was always relaxing for Silver, no matter what the weather. He’d always take the long route into work, he never saw anyone, despite the big city. It was always a quiet walk as he walked down Platinum Avenue and onto Hurricane Street. The park would be deserted when he strode through the gates and started towards the financial district, skyscrapers towering above him on each side as he ignored them and headed straight towards a stone structure composed of marble pillars and giant arches.
The leftmost door would swing open, heralding his arrival to the bank. He’d nod politely to the pony on reception duty and went straight into the centre elevator, ready and waiting to take him up to the topmost floor of the building where he’d emerge to find his secretary smiling politely at him and a cup of Earl Grey on his desk, milk, no sugar, finally he’d sit down at his desk at exactly fifteen minutes to seven, waiting for the day to begin.
Then he’d have the day to think about his life amid the busywork of a desk job. For every sheet he signed, every contract he reviewed and every second that ticked by on the grandfather clock.
He didn’t necessarily like the cycles and the times and the constants, in fact he hated them. He hated how they made his life feel alien and unnatural, he hated how they ruled his life, it was so monochrome, he got up, he ate, he went to work, he ate, he came home, he ate, he slept. What he wouldn’t give for a bit of variety, maybe he’d have four bites of toast in the morning before his gulp of coffee, maybe he’d bring a fountain pen instead of the ballpoint.
But it was a perfect life he lived, what was the point in changing what worked?
It was another motto of his, ‘You don’t fix what isn’t broken,’ and like the many constants in his life, he stuck to it, he stuck to the monotony. He stuck to the golden rules of the day, get up, brew coffee, get the mail, eat breakfast, and he lived well by them.
He was a millionaire, no, billionaire, he had the Silver Complex to live in, no responsibilities, and an easy job. Everyone told him that he should be happy, he should be positively ecstatic to be rich and famous, living in the lap of luxury.
He tried, he really did, he tried to find happiness in the life of a banker, he tried to find the happiness in the daily life of a rich person who got up, who brewed his coffee and who went to get the mail.
But to no avail, he told them that, they didn’t accept it, they kept insisting that he was living a life that others could only dream of, where ponies woke up in the morning and brewed coffee and met the mailmare.
But Silver Standard didn’t want to cause a fuss, he didn’t want to complain about how every morning he got up and brewed coffee and said hello to the mailmare, he didn’t want to complain about how his life wasn’t that of a luxurious nature, but didn’t because he should have been happy.
He didn’t want to be a pony that made a fuss. He should have been happy to get up in the morning and brew coffee; there were ponies in other parts of Equestria that might never manage to taste even the barest instant coffee concoctions.
So he got up every morning and ran through his cycles.
So he got up every morning and went to bed at night.
So he got up every morning, brewed his coffee, and said hello to the mailmare.
