The soon-to-be-former Mayor Fussbudget sat in the opulently furnished smoking room of his luxuriously appointed mansion and sulked. Perhaps, he groused to himself with his snout stuck in his cider, he should say THE MAYOR'S smoking room and mansion; as the investigation into the Thunderdome debacle advanced, it was looking less and less like he would make it to the end of this term. Tartarus, it was looking less and less like he would make it to the end of this week!

Gold Star was getting his own back, it seemed. After years of resentment from being ordered about by Fussbudget, the recent debacles must have seemed like Hearthwarming Day come early. The investigation was worming its tentacles into everything now, including a lot of records of political donations and government contracts that Fussbudget… hadn't been too particularly scrupulous about scrutinizing.

Fussbudget scowled as he looked down in his glass. He hadn't particularly cared back then; Still didn't for that matter. So long as the right palms (or hooves) got greased- minus a small service fee of course- and the right laws and ordinances got passed and the right causes got funded, everyone was happy. And that meant ballot boxes stuffed full of his name. If the money came from questionable places, or went to questionable purposes, well that was none of his business. He was a politician, not an accountant.

And those that weren't happy… well… he'd figured out long ago the real balance of power between politics, votes and money: In politics, you beg with money; you threaten with votes. He was careful to never say it out loud. He never even put the words "Protection" and "Racket" together in the same sentence. But while particularly loud noisy voting blocs could lead him around by the nose, those that were reluctant to contribute to the proper noble causes (such as his reelection fund) suddenly found that their businesses, jobs, and homes were falling under the baleful eye of city inspectors, usually with panniers full of fresh new regulations and ordinances Fussbudget had ego-stroked out of city hall in the dead of night. Nice city you have there, citizen; it would be a shame if anything happened to it.

When someone pays DaneGeld, it's not the one with the Geld who has power over the Dane.

Of course, all that was now coming back to bite him right in both cutie marks. After the fiasco with the Nobody's Fools, the local press had taken to portraying him as a petty, humorless martinet who abused his power to take spiteful revenge against anyone who slighted him- even children, gasp, shock. But before the ink on that scandal had even dried, the Thunderdome disaster had struck. The discovery that the leader of the local branch of the Crownbreakers was not only a terrorist but was working right out of Fussbudget's office must have had every editor for a thousand miles salivating. The Op Ed hacks had practically been trampling each other to be first out with a column describing Fussbudget as an oblivious, amoral opportunist who didn't care who his political bedfellows were.

They were right, and that only infuriated him more.

So here he sat, under house arrest like several dozen other more or less influential ponies, gryphons, zebras, etc. Oh, not officially. But he had been informed in no uncertain terms that it would be taken very poorly if he was unavailable, and he had better not take any unexpected trips out of town for the immediate future. And there were city guards stationed at his front door… and his back door... and on his roof… and judging by their rather unfriendly expressions he was guessing that none of them had voted for him in the last election.

He refilled his glass and set it down on his desk, for once not caring if he used a coaster or not. At least his nephew- Prince Mach, dear Maker what a nightmare Fussbudget's life had become!- had not stuck his oar in yet. In fact after a day or so of excitement the newly minted alicorn prince had more or less vanished. Those parts of the daily papers that weren't ranting about the disgraced Mayor were busy obsessing with where the Prince had gone, who was he with, what could he possibly be doing, et cetera ad nauseum. He had no doubt though that when dear little Mach One made his reappearance, he'd have a few words to drop about his beloved Uncle Fussbudget.

Rotten little hooligan. He should have never even considered taking him in. He never should have turned him over to that dotty old nag who lived Downhill. If he knew then what he knew now, he'd have sent the disrespectful little crippled brat off straight off to an orphanage. In Yakyakistan.

He drained his drink till he was looking out at the world through the rippled crystal at the bottom. As he lowered it, the entire world exploded in pink.

"HIEEEE!"

"AIEE!" Fussbudget nearly flipped backwards in his office chair. He can hardly be blamed; it was the inevitable reaction to having Pinkie Pie appearing in front of you from thin air. The party horns and explosion of confetti might have been overkill, though. She was leaning her entire body across the top of his desk, her forehooves hooked over the edge nearest him and her nose inches from his own, an enormous grin spread across her face. After a few seconds to check whether his heart was still beating, Fussbudget gathered the first few pieces of his scattered wits. "Yuh… your Highness?" He quickly double checked; wings, horn, golden peytral and tiara, good, he'd gotten it right; this was one of the new ones. "Uhh, Princess… Pie?"

"That's me," she chirped.

He looked around. The door to the study was closed and locked, and all the windows were shuttered. "Where did you come from?"

She gave him a peculiar look. "Well I thought you were old enough that you already knew this," she said with a way-too-innocent grin. "But when a Stallion and a Filly love each other very much-"

"I meant more recently," he said flatly, cutting her off. Seriously?

"Ponyville." Apparently not.

He rallied and tried again. "I meant, where were you just five seconds ago?" He tried to glance under the desk without taking his eyes off her. Was there a trap door in the floor or something?

"Oh… around," Pinkie said, rolling her eyes and waving a hoof. "But that's not important now. What's important is, it's time for your PARTY!" More horns and confetti, this time accompanied by balloons out of nowhere. Fussbudget eeped and jumped in his seat. This was getting to be too much!

"Party?" he asked.

"Oh yes," Princess Pie nodded eagerly. "I spoke with your nephew Onesy, and I learned aaaaallll about you and him." Her smile never changed. Fussbudget suddenly, and for no explicable reason, felt a surge of apprehension. "And so I decided it was time for your 'Equestria's Number Two Uncle' party!"

"How… nice?" He said. He continued before he could stop himself. "Um, but aren't those usually called "Equestria's number One… er, whatever?"

"Oh no," Princess Pie said. Her eyelids lowered and her smile briefly vanished. "You're definitely Number Two." Another blink and it was back. "So let's get this party started… heeere's your cake!" she hopped back off the desk and waved a flourish with her forehooves; there lying on the top of his antique oak administrator's desk was a large rectangular sheet cake. It was decorated in white frosting and covered with blue and yellow buttercream flowers and sugary scrollwork down the sides. Burnt out candles were studded across its surface.

Written across the top were the words "Happy Birthday Mach One" in inch high blue frosting. With growing existential dread he realized he recognized that cake. The Princess of Laughter cut an enormous slice and plopped it on a paper plate. "Here you goooo..."

He took the plate and fork, his eyes never leaving hers, and tremulously took a bite. He promptly spat it out. "This is paper mache'!" he said, a strip of newsprint hanging off his mustache.

"Eeyup!" Princess Pie's grin grew wider. "I heard about the last birthday party you threw for little Onesy, and how you both missed out on it all. That was sad." She pouted. "So I thought ONE of you should get to at least enjoy that lovely cake you had made for him. So I made another one just like it." Her smile grew far too wide and far too shiny for anything normal to have. Her pupils grew into enormous black holes as her eyes bugged out. "And it's aaaaall for you."

He bolted, the swivel chair spinning like a dervish behind him. "Hey! Where do you think you're going?" Pinkie Pie demanded. He didn't look back; he lunged for the double doors to his study, yanked them open, and dived through-

And found himself flopping on the floor at Pinkie Pie's feet. "Now that was rude," she said. "You just can't leave-" He ignored her and leapt to his hooves, running back out the double doors-

And this time he popped out of one of the drawers in his own desk, flipping over in the air and landing sprawled out in his office chair, wheezing in shock. "As I was saying," Pinkie continued as if nothing untoward had happened. "You just CAN'T leave. Not until you finish it all."

Her meaning was not lost on him. His eyes darted from the mad Princess to the now closed doors and back again. "All of it?" he said in disbelief.

"Every. Last. Bite." She enunciated.

"I'll be poisoned!" he gabbled.

"Pssh, Nawww," Pinkie waved a dismissive hoof. "It's just paper and flour. Won't hurt a thing. It'll just pass on through." She smirked humorlessly. "Eventually. And you might pee blue a while from the printer's ink... eh." She shrugged. "You'll live. Now eat up." Her smile was wide but her eyes were slitted.

Shakily, he picked up the plate and the fork. He hesitated.

"EAT!" The Pink Terror roared. Her hair deflated, falling around her ears in razor-straight locks, as fire burned in her eyes.

Whimpering, he crammed the first bite into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed.

---

Luna looked over her shoulder as the doors to the royal cabin opened. "Ah, there thou art, Pinkie Pie," she said. "Where hast thou been? Thou wert almost late for our nightly lessons."

"Oh... around," Pinkie said. She flopped across one of the beds on her belly. "What's the latest word on the new Prince and Princess?"

"Oh, they are doing quite well," Luna chuckled. "Though they do rankle a bit under the new lessons in regal bearing and etiquette." She sighed and set her brush down. "Tis sad that poor young Mach One had such a… less than gentle childhood," she said. "I hope that good Sir Gold Star is successful in his prosecutions against that irresponsible rapscallion of an uncle. To think that such ponies rule in our land!" She snorted. "That he retains his title even now- I fret that he will find some new mischief to get into-"

"Naah," Pinkie said. "He's gonna be too busy the next few days."

"With what?" Luna said, curious.

Pinkie's smile was positively diabolical. "Sitting on the throne, learning about the Power of the Press," she said.

From somewhere in the distance, there was a long groan and a flushing sound.