Disclaimer I own no right to My Little Pony or American Psycho, they belong to Hasbro and Brett Easton Ellis respectively
Equestrian Psycho
"And as things fell apart. Nobody paid much attention" - Talking Heads
I live in the Equestrian Gardens building on west Eighty First Street, on the eleventh floor. My name is Batemane; I'm a twenty seven year old unicorn. I believe in taking care of myself, in a balanced diet, and a rigorous exercise routine. In the morning if my face is a little puffy, I'll put an ice pack on while I do my stomach crunches. I can do a thousand now. After I remove the ice pack I use a deep coat cleanser lotion. In the shower I use water activated gel cleanser, then a honey almond body scrub, and on the face an exfoliating gel scrub. Then I apply an herb mint facial mask, which I leave on for ten minutes while I prepare the rest of my routine. I always use an aftershave lotion with little or no alcohol because alcohol dries your face out, and makes you look older. Then moisturizer, then an anti-aging eye balm, followed by a final moisturizing protective lotion.
There is an idea of a Batemane; some kind of abstraction. But there is no real me: only an entity, something illusory. And though I can hide my cold gaze, and you can touch my hoof and feel fur pressed against yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable... I simply am not there.
XXX
ABANDON ALL HOPE YE WHO ENTERS HERE is scrawled in blood red lettering on the Chemical Bank in print large enough to be seen from the backseat of the carriage as it lurches forward in the traffic leaving Wall Street, and just at Price Tag notices the words another carriage pulls up blocking his view, but price doesn't seem to care because he tells the work pony he will give him five bits to hurry up, and the work pony, earth pony, not a unicorn, does so.
"I'm resourceful," Price is saying. "I'm creative; I'm young, unscrupulous, highly motivated, and highly skilled. In essence what I'm saying is that society cannot afford to lose me. I'm an asset." Price stares out the carriages dirty window as he continues, probably at the word FEAR sprayed in red graffiti on the MacApple's across the street. "I mean the fact remains that no one gives a shit about their work, everypony hates their job, I hate my job, you've told me you hate yours. So much for cutie marks, I mean what am I supposed to do? I didn't transfer to Pierced and Piercings to put up with this. I mean am I alone in thinking we're not making enough money?" Like in a movie another carriage appears and blocks his view-not the same bus because someone has written the word FILLYFOOLER on the side. Tag blurts out, "I have a co-op here. I have a place in the Hamptrots, for Celestia's sake."
"Parents', guy. It's the parents'."
"I'm buying it from them. Will you Bucking hurry up?" he snaps distractedly at the earth pony.
"I can't go no faster," ... maybe the Work pony says.
Tag ignores him and irritably continues. "I could stay living in this city if they just got rid of all the damn Earth ponies in the carriages. Maybe a unicorn filly could pull us around?" His voice softens here. "It'd be much easier to look at my friend."
Price takes off the expensive looking Trotman from around his neck, still complaining. "I hate to complain-I really do-about the trash, the garbage, the disease, about how filthy this city really is and you know and I know that it is a sty..." He says as he opens his new attaché case, places the Trotman in, and pulls out today's newspaper. "In one issue-in one issue-let's see here ... strangled models, foals thrown from tenement rooftops, colts killed in the subway, a Communist rally, Marefia boss wiped out"-he flips excitedly through the pages-" Hoofball players with AIDS, more Marefia shit, gridlock, the homeless, various maniacs, Coltcuddlers dropping like flies in the streets, surrogate mothers, the cancellation of a soap opera, colts who broke into the zoo and burned various animals alive, ... and the joke is, the punch line is, it's all in this city-nowhere else, just here, it sucks, oh wait, gridlock, gridlock, foal-sellers, black-market foals, AIDS foals, foal junkies, building collapses on foal, maniac foal, gridlock, bridge collapses." Price takes a breath and then quietly says, his eyes fixed on a beggar on the street corner, "That's the twenty third one I've seen today. I've kept count." Tag gives the pony a glare.
" But then, when you've just come to the point when your reaction to the times is one of total and sheer acceptance, when your body has become somehow tuned into the insanity and you reach that point where it all makes sense, when it all clicks, we get some crazy bucking homeless earth pony who actually wants-listen to me Batemane-wants to be out on the streets, this, those streets, and we have a mayor who won't listen to here, a mayor who won't let the bitch have her way, Holy Luna, just let the fucking bitch freeze to death, put her out of her own Celestiadamm self-made misery, and look" Price sighs "Number twenty four, nope twenty five, twenty six, twenty seven ... twenty eight, holy shit it's like a Celestiadamm cluster of bums." He stops suddenly, as if exhausted, and turning away from another carriage blocking his view asks, "Did you hear about the host from that game show on TV? He killed two colts? Depraved coltcuddler. Droll, really droll." Price waits for a reaction. There is none.
As we arrive at our destination he asks "Do you think Ivylyn invited one of her 'artiste' friends from ohmygosh the East Village, you know the type-the ones who ask Ivylyn if she has a nice dry white chardonneigh" He slaps a hoof over his forehead and shuts his eyes.
"I don't know should we bring flowers?"
"Nah. Hay, you're banging her, Batemane. Why should we get Ivylyn flowers? You better have change for a fifty," Tag warns, the Work pony, squinting at the red numbers on the meter. "Dammit. Stalliods. Sorry I'm tense."
"Thought you were off them."
"I was getting breakouts on my legs and the UVA bath wasn't fixing it, so I started going to a tanning salon instead and got rid of it. Celestia, Batemane, you should see how ripped my stomach is. The definition. Completely buffed out." He says in an odd way, while waiting for the earth pony to fumble around enough to get him his change.
As we walk toward the entrance to the apartment building Price eyes a beggar on the street-"Bingo thirty"-wearing some sort of weird, tacky, filthy green jumpsuit, unshaven, dirty mane greased back, and jokingly Price holds the carriage's door open for him. The bum, confused and mumbling, eyes locked shamefully on the sidewalk, holds an empty Styrofoam coffee cup out to us, clutched in a tentative mouth.
"I suppose he doesn't want the carriage," Price snickers, slamming the door. "Ask him if he takes Equestrian Express."
"Do you take Eq Ex?"
The bum nods yes and moves away, shuffling slowly.
XXX
A slow dissolve and Price is bounding up the steps to Ivylyns door. He rings the bell. Out of the door next to Ivylyns a mare-high heels, great flank-leaves without locking her door. Price follows her with his gaze and when he hears hoof steps from inside coming down the hallway toward us he turns around and straightens his tie magically, ready to face whoever. Courtneigh opens the door, she's wearing a off-white tweed jacket that compliments her mahogany coat quite nicely..
I shiver and hoof her my black wool my Giorgio Armanei overcoat and she takes it from me, carefully airkissing my right cheek, then she performs the same exact movements on Price while taking his Armanei overcoats. The new Talking Heads on CD plays softly in the living room.
"A bit late, aren't we, boys?" Courtneigh asks, smiling naughtily.
"Inept Haytian earth pony work pony," Price mumbles, airkissing Courtneigh back. "Do we have reservations somewhere, and please don't tell me Pastels at nine." Tag says as he passes by Courtneigh to enter further into the apartment.
Courtneigh smiles hanging up both coats in the hall closet. "Eating in tonight, darlings. I'm sorry, I know, I know, I tried to talk Ivylyn out of it but we're having... sushi."
"I think I better talk to Ivylyn" I say pushing past Courtney headed for the kitchen.
"Who the hay is in the living room?" I hear Price call out. Ivylyns voice drifts from the kitchen feigning ignorance.
"Oh who is that?"
Courtneigh warn, "Iv-e-lyn. You did tell them, I hope."
"Who is it?" I ask, suddenly scared. "Vase Powwow?"
"No, it's not Vase Powwow, Batemane" Ivylyn says casually. "It's an artist friend of mine, Stash. And Vanden, his marefriend."
"Oh so that was a girl in there," Price says. "Go take a look, Batemane," he dares.
I move into the living room. I can't tell what Stash is wearing since its all black but the utter lack of a horn or pair of wings says he's an earth pony. Vanden has green streaks in her brown mane; they look artificial and cheaply done. She stares at a heavy-metal video playing on PTV while smoking a cigarette.
"Ahem," I cough
Vanden looks over warily, probably drugged to the eyeballs. Stash doesn't move.
"Hi Bateman," I say, offering her my hoof, noticing my reflection in a mirror hung on the wall-and smiling at how good I look.
She takes it, says nothing. Stash starts smelling his hooves.
Smash cut and I'm in the kitchen.
"Just get her out of there." Price is seething. "She's doped up watching PTV."
Ivylyn just glances down at the sushi she's preparing, "We've got to eat this stuff soon or else we're going to all be poisoned."
"She's got fake green streaks in her mane" I tell them. "And she's smoking."
"Bateman," Tag says, still glaring at Ivylyn.
"Yes?" I say. "Price Tag?"
"You're a foal."
"Oh leave Batemane alone," Ivylyn says. "He's the colt next door. That's Batemane. You're not a foal, are you, honey?" I walk to the fridge and pull out a beer. Ivylyn asks Courtneigh to fetch Stash and Vanden.
"We have to eat this soon or we're all going to be poisoned" She murmurs slowly moving her head, taking in the kitchen making sure she hasn't forgotten anything. "Be a hon." She tells me, "Move the sushi into the dining room." I find myself wondering how Ivylyn got the sushi-but also I like the idea that I don't know, will never know, and will never ask where it came from and that the sushi will sit in the middle of the glass table Ivylyns father bought her like some mysterious apparition from the "Orient" and as I set the platter down I catch a glimpse of my reflection on the surface of the table. My coat seems a darker brown because of the candlelight I notice how good the manecut I got last week looks, slicked back a dark onyx color with a strip of dark crimson.
XXX
Four of us sit around the table waiting for Ivylyn and Tag to return from the kitchen. I sit at the head taking large swallows of J&B. Vanden sits at the other end reading from some rag called Deception, its glaring headline THE DEATH OF DOWNTOWN. Stash has pushed a piece of yellowtail that lies on the middle of his plate like some shiny impaled insect and the chopstick stands straight up. Stash occasionally moves the sushi around the plate with the chopstick but never looks up toward either myself, or Vanden, or Courtneigh, who sits next to me sipping plum wine from a champagne glass. Ivylyn and Tag com back perhaps twenty minutes after we've seated ourselves and Ivylyn looks only slightly flushed. Tag glares at me as he takes the seat next to mine, a fresh drink in hand, and he leans over toward me, about to say, to admit something, when suddenly Ivylyn interrupts, "Not there Price, stallion mare, stallion mare." She gestures toward the empty chair next to Vanden. Tag shifts his glare to Ivylyn and hesitantly takes the seat next to Vanden, who yawns and turns a page of her magazine.
"Well, everypony," Ivylyn says, smiling, pleased with the meal she has presented, "dig in," and then after noticing the piece of sushi that Stash has pinned-he's now bent low over the plate, whispering at it-her composure falters but she smiles bravely and chirps, "Plum wine anyone?"
Nopony says anything until Courtneigh, who is staring at Stash's plate, lifts her glass uncertainly and says, trying to smile, "It's ... delicious, Ivylyn."
Stash doesn't speak. Even though he is probably uncomfortable at the table with us since he looks nothing like the other men in the room-his hair isn't slicked back, no suspenders, no horn-rimmed glasses, the clothes black and ill fitting, no horn, and probably unable to secure a table at Camols-still, his behavior lacks warrant, and he sits there as if hypnotized by the glistening piece of sushi, just as the table is about to ignore him, and begin eating, he jumps up, and points a hoof accusingly at his plate, "It moved!"
Tag glares at him with contempt so total that I can't fully equal it but I muster enough energy to come close. Vanden seems amused and so now, unfortunately, so does Courtneigh, Ivylyn laughs good naturedly and says, "Oh Stash, you are a riot."
Ivylyn in an attempt to start a conversation says, "Vanden goes to Canterden."
"Oh really?" Tag asks icily. "Where is that?"
"Vermount," Vanden answers without looking up from her paper.
I look to Stash to see if he's pleased with Vanden's blatant lie but he acts as if he wasn't listening, but so does the rest of the table, which bothers me since I'm fairly sure we all know it's located in New Haunchshire, Celestia knows where Vermount is.
"Where did you go?" Vanden sighs as it finally becomes clear to her that nopony cares about Canterden.
"Well, I went to Le Rosay," Ivylyn starts, "and then to business school in Chevalbourg."
"I also survived business school in Chevalbourg" Courtneigh says.
Vanden tosses the copy of Deception next to Price Tag and smirks in a wan, bitchy way and though I am pissed off a little that Ivylyn doesn't hurl it back at her, but the J&B has relieved my stress to a point where I don't care enough to say anything. Ivylyn probably thinks that Vanden is sweet, lost, confused, and artist. Price isn't eating and neither is Ivylyn; I suspect cocaine but it's doubtful. While taking a large gulp from his drink Price Tag holds up the copy of Deception and chuckles to himself.
"The Death of Downtown," he says; then, pointing to each word in the headline, "Who-gives-a-rat's-flank?"
I automatically expect Stash to look up from his plate but he still stares at the lone piece of sushi, smiling to himself and nodding.
"Hey," Vanden says as if she was insulted "That affects us."
"Oh ho ho," Tag says warningly. "That affects us? What about the massacres in Sri Flanka, honey? Doesn't that affect us too? What about Sri Flanka?"
"Well ... that's a cool club in the village." Vanden shrugs. "Yeah that affects us too."
Suddenly stash speaks without looking up. "That's the Tonka not Sri Flanka. Got is? The Tonka."
Vanden looks down, then meekly says, "Oh."
"I mean don't you know about Sri Flanka? About how the extremists are wiping out the Pegusi over there?" Price Tag goads her. "Doesn't that affect us?"
"Oh come on, Price," I say. "There are more important problems than Sri Flanka to worry about. Sure our foreign policy is important, but there are more pressing problems at hand."
"Like what?" he asks without looking away from Vanden.
"No," I start, hesitantly. "Well, we have to end apartheid for one. And slow down the nuclear arms race, stop terrorism and world hunger. Ensure a strong national defense, prevent the spread of communism in Central Equestria, work for a Middle East peace settlement, and prevent Equestrian military involvement overseas. We have to ensure that Equestria is a respected world power. Now that's not to belittle our domestic problems, which are equally important, if not more. Better and more affordable long-term care for the elderly, control and find a cure for the AIDS epidemic, clean up environmental damage from toxic waste and pollution, improve the quality of primary and secondary education, strengthen laws to crack down on crime and illegal drugs. We also have to ensure that college education is affordable for the middle class and protect Social Security for senior citizens plus conserve natural resources and wilderness areas and reduce the influence of political action committees."
The table stares at me uncomfortably, even Stash, but I'm on a roll.
"But economically we're still a mess. We have to find a way to hold down the inflation rate and reduce the deficit. We also need to provide training and jobs for the unemployed as well as protect existing Equestrian jobs from unfair foreign imports. We have to make Equestria the leader in new technology. At the same time we need to promote economic growth and business expansion and hold the line against federal income taxes and hold down interest rates while promoting opportunities for small businesses and controlling mergers and big corporate takeovers."
Price nearly spits up his drink after this comment but I try to make eye contact with each one of them, especially Vanden, who if she got rid of the green streak and the leather and got some color-maybe joined an aerobics class, slipped on a blouse-might be pretty. But why does she sleep with Stash? He's lumpy and pale and has a bad cropped manecut and is at least ten pounds overweight; there's no muscle tone under the black shirt.
"But we can't ignore our social needs either. We have to stop ponies from abusing the welfare system. We have to provide food and shelter for the homeless and oppose racial discrimination and promote civil rights while also promoting equal rights for mares but change the abortion laws to protect the right to life yet still somehow maintain mare's freedom of choice. We also have to control the influx of illegal immigrants. We have to encourage a return to traditional moral values and curb graphic sex and violence on TV, in movies, in popular music, everywhere. Most importantly we have to promote general concern and less materialism in young ponies."
I finish my drink. The table sits facing me in total silence.