This is Vinyl Scratch

~To jamlamin, my first editor, and Syvvak, my current editor, the two persons who taught me how to write~

I met her at night.

It's funny, really - you always meet the strangest ponies at night, just after Celestia's sun had gone off to slumber beneath the horizon, and Luna's moon had just risen from her daily sleep. There's this special attitude about the night; maybe it's a deep, genetic understanding, or, rather, lack of understanding; maybe it's the shaky feeling of enigmatic mystery that night has been carrying for generations; maybe it's the darkness itself; or maybe it's just my sick artistic imagination.

All good stories begin in a bar of some sort, so, for the sake of tradition, let my story begin likewise, if only because it all did start in a bar; Archie's, to be precise.

Now, Archie's wasn't what you would call a high-class bar; far from it. Located on the outskirts of Manehattan, with a signature atmosphere of murky booze and bawdy bop, the bar was far from being a high-class place indeed. My table, which also served as my working place - part-time job, five  bits an hour, Friday to Sunday, no career opportunities - was the furthest from the entrance, the castle-like abode of scratched wood and steel.

My embankment of Quill and Paper rested below a shelf of fine oak, occupied by books never read by anypony but me. Well, some of them even I had chosen to pass. I do not read much, despite what other ponies think of me; when they are shocked (My Celestia! Really? How come you haven't read The Adventures of Such-and-such by J.D. So-and-so?!) by my literary ignorance, I tell them that hell, I'm a writer, not a reader.

Because that's just who I am.

A word-scribbler. A paper-muddler. The kind of guy who takes a blank piece of parchment and, via the medium of a few strokes of a quill, changes it into a novel, or a short story, or a work of idle non-fiction, or something-or-the-other. That kind of guy. A writer.

Writing isn't half as romantic as it used to be in the old good days of wine and roses and what have you. Today, we have television, and movie theatres, and those new glossy magazines. Nopony needs books anymore. Even the writers. Ponies fall for live, vivid pictures, three-dimensional, of integral shape and juicy colour, not barren descriptions written in ink.

Writing hasn't been about writing, for quite a while now. It's all about scrutinising the market, stalking the demand, and giving the readers what they want. We do not write what we, the word-scribblers, want; we write on demand, we're delivering the goods, or, if you wish, services, to the population, simple as that. Writing is not art any more. Art is extinct. Art? What the hell is that? Art is invaluable; there's nothing invaluable today.

My job, as a paper-muddler, consists of breaking the virginity of paper with my quill, and bringing the drafts to my editor quickly, faster, even faster, because dammit it will expire and I'll take just one small peek and no of course I won't cause if I do I know I will never ever get it published because hell we all know you can't read your own work once it's done.

All I need for this job is a cup of Irish coffee, a pipe, maybe a cigar if the month has been nice on me, the aforementioned quill and paper, and, well, a story. Finding a good story is harder than chasing a wild goose. It's a process of determined, devoted hunting, running about the town, sitting in a hairdresser's, eavesdropping on the street vendors' chat, crawling into offices under the alias of a reporter, and buying a bottle for the underbridge bums in hopes of hearing a hobo tale that I could mercilessly alter to make my own.

And, returning to the events I was describing, one of my new stories was just walking into the bar. I would make her out of a million similar faces; if there ever was a face even slightly resembling hers. She was a dream you've always had, but never could put in words; the miracle of eternal youth; the prospect of everlasting bliss in her embrace that you will never get a chance to receive. She was the kind of mare that you saw every single day and thought, Sweet Celestia, ain't she the one? but knew oh so well that she wasn't the one for you. She stood on a pedestal higher than life itself, placed above the common lives of us, word-scribblers and ad-makers, business-runners and court-tenants, land-plowers and dress-sewers and drink-servers and whatever occupation there is.

Vinyl Scratch. Her very name - fake, just like her whole life. Her image - the image of a fallen goddess. Her job - music, making music, playing music, DJing and partying and mixing, and mixing in, and merging, and talking, and cheering. Her eyes - red, mesmerising, hidden. Photographers had hunted her for her eyes, just to see them without the everpresent shades just for a second just please take them off don't you know your fans want to see it?, but never got the chance. And here I was, able to witness her presence, in person, just like that, without the shades covering her tired eyes adorned with early wrinkles, and her face of wasted youth and abuse, and her broken posture, and her mane, usually neatly combed and spiky, but now wet from the rain and dishevelled.

As a word-scribbler, I couldn't let the chance pass. Along with other paper-muddlers, I had longed to write her biography, to know her story, the real story, the story of Vinyl Scratch, a pony, not Vinyl Scratch, a DJ, for as long as I can remember. We would camp outside her house, and stalk her in the streets, and bombard her office with vague demands, hell, even threats, just to get a slightest grip at what was going on in her life.

We never could achieve that. Her job was her job, and her life was her life. Her whole life was a made-up story, a novel of success, a bestseller of lies and secrets. She'd never let the truth in her words, and thus kept us out of reach. All the books about her were the books about the role she'd played, the character she'd made up, the pony she never was. The Union of word-scribblers couldn't win.

But now, I could. Almost all other tables were empty, but she came up to me, as if she felt something; maybe it was a natural longing to talk, maybe she liked the smell of my pipe, or maybe it was just blind luck. But now that I think about it, it was a need for company. Being in the company of herself all her life, now, she needed somepony to be with her. Pretty lucky for me to have come to the right place at the right time, eh?

She manoeuvred between the tables, her steps calm and gentle, as she approached me. She didn't ask for my permission and sat opposite me at the table, putting her front hooves on the wooden surface. Her eyes pierced me, and I held the gaze.

"I'm leaving this country," she said with a frown that laid a few wrinkles along her forehead.

"Oh," I said.

"You are one lucky bastard, you know?" she wondered, glaring at me with a hint of anger; not at me, but maybe at all word-scribblers out there; or maybe the whole world. "You're getting to meet me before I leave."

"Oh," I said.

"Do you know any other words?!" she snapped, hitting her hoof against the table in irritation. This gesture, common in these premises, didn't draw any unwanted attention.

"Do you want a drink?"

She sighed. Her ears drooped, and she placed her head on her front hooves, looking at me with what seemed to me a hint of curiosity. Or maybe it was just the way light reflected her facial features. "I'm already wasted," she said.

She wasn't wasted. Tipsy - yes, it showed. Drunk - maybe; being a mere word-scribbler, I knew nothing of the amounts of alcohol it took to get a professional DJ drunk. But not wasted. She kept that royal posture of hers that screamed wealth, and happiness, and of course she was happy how could she not be happy she had a nice job and a career and money and fame and fortune and damn stop looking at her like that of course she was happy!

I tapped the glass, letting a few rings of smoke hang in the air before they got crushed by a rivulet of the same smoke coming from my pipe. The waiter came up, standing there, trying not to pay attention to a celebrity sitting right before him. That's what I call professionalism. Though, I could bet he'd call the other kind of word-scribblers, our fellow question-askers, and photo-takers, and newspaper-printers, the moment she left. Can't blame him. I would've done the same.

"A vodka," she said, not really looking at the waiter. "Make it two." The waiter began to leave. "No. Make it three."

I didn't order anything. I'd already had enough to get myself going, and my quill was resting on a pile of papers, weak drafts about something-or-the-other, The Story of Sharp Note the Pianist, and The Hymn for the Dead, and The Ballad of a Ghost, and Cheeri-o, Cheeri-o, my love, why don't you come back to me now? Why would you leave me, my love, oh why, oh why? and other rubbish.

"You are one lucky bastard," she repeated. Her eyes could break stone, I swear. "I don't even know why I'm talking to you."

"Oh," I said. Don't break the gaze, don't say anything special, don't let her go away. Make her interested. Hell, my prey, the one pony I'd been stalking for years, was right here before me. If I let this chance go, I would probably hang myself the very moment I got home.

"You're creeping me out, you know that?" I nodded. She sighed. "I really don't know why I came here. Maybe it's because it all started here." I faked ignorance, despite knowing very well that her career did indeed begin at Archie's. Though, it seemed to me that there was more to her words than that. I could be mistaken, though. "I really should leave this damn country right now, you know," she said. "I'm officially dead and all."

Yes, I know that, Vinyl. Of course I know that. I read the morning paper. News of Vinyl Scratch killing herself shook the whole of Equestria, maybe the whole world. I knew this wasn't true. She couldn't die. She couldn't kill herself. And I was right. She couldn't. She was here, in the flesh, looking at me, a word-scribbler, puffing on my pipe and trembling internally that my new story would leave.

"You know, maybe I just want to talk," she said, gulping down the first shot that the waiter had brought and conveniently slipped away the next instant, giving us our privacy in my shrine of quill and paper. "Just need to share that. I mean, I really thought about ending it all." She looked at the ceiling, lost in thought. My pipe died and I muttered curses under my breath. "I can't hold it any longer. I need to say it, you see? I need to tell it to somepony."

No, Vinyl. No, you don't. You don't, my dear. If you needed to just tell it to somepony, you would've found a shrink. You want me to tell it to the world. You want to shout it out. You want to leave with a bang, I know that. Say it, Vinyl. Say it out loud.

"You will write it all down, won't you?" she asked. "You're a writer." A mere word-scribbler, my dear Vinyl. Being a writer takes more than a quill, just as being a sharpshooter takes more than a license for a gun.

I nodded.

"And you will tell them that I died, died for real, right?" Oh, so there was her reason. Hiding. Vanishing in a foreign land, dead to all and everypony.

"Of course," I lied. She knew I lied. I knew she knew. Maybe she wanted me to write it. Maybe she wanted to tell her devoted fans that she was alive. Maybe she wanted to brand me a madpony, a heretic, a liar, a hypocrite. I don't know. Ponies do think me a liar now.

Downing the second shot, she began to talk, and I took my quill silently, scribbling down word after word, writing the story of her life. This story is muddled, illogical, rushed and inconsistent. But that's just the way she lived. That's the story of her life, and her, personally. Presenting the story, I'm presenting her, hence the title. This story isn't mine, save for the occasional cuts and stylistic choices. This is her story.

As told by Vinyl Scratch.

***

Faking suicide wasn't hard.

Fire, ever-consuming fire burned down the gorgeous villa on the outskirts of town, at the end of the Long 56, the one between Lucky's Eat-what-you-want and the jewellery shop that never was subject to robbing, for everypony knew better than to mess with the extra police detachment situated there to protect Vinyl, Vinyl Scratch, the star of modern music.

The charred remains of the body were scrutinised by experts, who came to a conclusion that it was unidentifiable, except for the general complexion and the occasional white spot of fur on the carcass of skin, meat and bone. The reporters erupted with shocked (and, may I say, shocking) revelations and speculations, salivating over the possible news. Vinyl's not dead! The body can't be identified, she must be alive, she can't have died, she is alive, for Celestia's sake!

But, as usual, her faithful saviour, Octavia Philarmonica, came forth, covering the distance between her Canterlot and Vinyl's Manehattan in a mere couple of hours, taking a sombre glance at the body, and said that yes, it was her - or maybe it was she? - her ex, Vinyl Scratch, in person, because look there, look at that scar on the flank that the fire didn't dare to touch, just above the burnt, destroyed cutie mark, the same scar she, Octavia, had left on her during one of the fervent sex sessions they'd shared. The word-scribblers drifted away, embarrassed, and admitted that yes, Vinyl Scratch was dead.

(When I say 'her' Canterlot and 'her' Manehattan, I mean it: not only were these two musicians the prime entertainers of their respective stages, their cities, but they also were holders of shares and real estate, and could pretty much rule Canterlot and Manehattan autonomously. The power of money and music combined, added to the awe-inspiring impression the beautiful mares left on the fans - and I can swear on my rusty quill that everypony in Canterlot was a fan of Octavia, just as everypony in Manehattan was a fan of Vinyl - was enough for them to qualify as the owners of those gorgeous cities.)

I was there; among the other paper-muddlers, eager to get a sneak peek into what was going on. I stood there, watching Octavia identify the body, watching the police shoo us all away, pushing my way through the horde of colleagues, and, finally, going to Archie's. Just where I met her, the ghost of the living mare, the image of a star forever imprinted in paper - and my mind.

Sacrificing the life of another pony to fulfil her ambition - was it a sin? I can't really say. Vinyl, never a religious pony, still had something spiritual about her; maybe it was the religion she'd established herself, without even knowing it. The Goddess of Deceit. The Angel of Lie. Her church - the Church of Masquerade, her priests - fat-cats from the music industry, her flock - the self-sacrificing psychos, eager to give their lives for her. Don't give a damn about one's neighbour. That sounded just about right.

Sometimes, when I walk along the busy streets of Manehattan, observing the vendors shouting out for the sake of their goods, the baked apples with honey, and fish fingers, and hay fries, and whatever you want, and sniffing hungrily at the Scents of the Street, and gulping down the polluted breeze, - I think that she was right, in a way. Her religion is the only possible religion in our modern, scary, ever-changing world. Don't think about thy neighbour.

Render unto Caesar. Live by yourself.

***

Vincenza Staccatto was born on a clear day into a wealthy family of a street-vendor-turned-businesspony and a pop diva, whose voice, at that time, was considered an étalon de beauté in the world of show-biz, the world that, back then, was just rising from clay and dust.

I remember that day because I have written it down. We, word-scribblers, have very peculiar memory: we remember things that got acquainted with paper, in one way or another, and disregard all the rest as unimportant. At that day, I was ten years, five months and twenty-four days old - and I already had a habit of writing down all the events that piqued my interest in a small, two-bit notepad.

Look at what I wrote down that day, gazing at the city from the tiny balcony attached to our three-room flat that my father always boasted to have bought "for a song, boy, those flats were really cheap back in the old day" as the sun was setting down: The sunset is red; no, it is crimson. The skyscrapers of Manehattan are dripping blood as they reflect the light. My parents are in the kitchen, sipping their crimson wine and telling crimson stories as I suffer from the heat and the wails of a newborn foal that are coming from our neighbours' flat.

That foal was Vinyl. Ponies say that even as a foal, she was already musically talented: her crying had a certain pitch to it, and she waved  her hooves in the air majestically, in the way somepony might be playing the piano. To me, the ten-year-old-me, the cynical colt, it seemed like mindless wailing.

Maybe that's the point of music. We grow up wailing and screaming and shouting and crying, and we learn to adjust our lives to it. Cries evolve into notes, yells morph into lyrical passages, and screaming is just hitting perfect pitch. Isn't it like that, though? The music that we long for, crave towards, try to reach in any way possible, is a grandiloquently ludicrous (and laughable, to a certain extent) attempt of sorting out the meaningless wails of our souls.

Every generation has it different. My parents grew up in the shade of the Great Crisis, and their miserable wails, my money, my property, my real estate, give it back to me don't turn it into dust please dust can't feed my family and pay the bills, gave birth to the blues, the cries of guitars and horns' shrieks. My generation was all about crying out for our quick-baked success, look at the way I swing, baby, can you see the way I swing?, yes I'm making money babe I can afford pretty much everything, love?, who needs love when I have my jingling bits and champagne and whisky gimme another round!, and we bore jazz, the music of the free, as it seemed to us back then. Vinyl's generation has come to claim the world, and it didn't have its own music yet, for it knew not what to cry about. She gave them their music.

There is a song about it. Vinyl wrote it when she was fourteen. It's a nice beat, in the best tradition of disco music, with one exception: the lyrics actually have meaning. It goes like this, you remember it: Ain't we happy, baby? *Ts Ts Ts - the drums blare* Look at you - We have the world at our hooves, yeah. *Ts Ts Ts* Now, we're free, baby. *Ts Ts* We have no wings, we can fly now. *Ts Ts Ts* We have the world *Ts Ts* Right at our hooves!

She gave us the direction to follow: forget the old world, the New is waiting for you. We have no wings, so we can finally fly. The old world doesn't exist, it's an illusion. You cling to the past baby, but we have the world at our hooves. I will wipe from the face of the earth the equine race I have created. But you, you lucky bastard, the only one whom I talked to before my Ascension, found favour in the eyes of Vinyl Scratch.

***

She's growing up, fast. While I, sixteen-year-old, art college freshcolt, am hitting on pretty fillies in the corridor and the courtyard, after class, hey, look at my latest short story, see the heroine? she's you, I'm honest, the moment I saw you, I knew you were the one, she is starting her basic music education, per procurationem her mother, who, may Celestia bless her soul, has always been dreaming of her little Vincenza, her precious little filly, becoming a star; she wasn't wrong, that mare, whose mane at the time is already greying, it's becoming silver, she jokes, I'm just turning more and more precious. We don't age, honey, we ascend, she says. Ascend. Vinyl will remember that word.

Her parents are nice on her; I have seen them a few times, their being our neighbours. I've seen little Vincenza as well, but I'm sure she doesn't remember me. I don't; I'm too concentrated on my own education and future. I don't think about the little white filly with a peculiar mane.

That mane. It will be the subject of discussion, later, when she strikes the scene, claiming the whole city to herself. Does she dye it? How come it's so spiky and multi-coloured? Must be the gel. No, it's not the gel. It's a rare genetic occurrence; not common, not impossible, either. It's always been this way, Vinyl says, and laughs at the word-scribbler, who takes this as a joke. This is no joke, my fellow paper-muddler. It's just the way it is; the way she is: special.

She champions the piano, striking her tutor as a prodigy, playing Horseshopin like Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, drifting through Beethoofen with summer-walk ease, but she grows tired of it, and doesn't fail to inform her parents of that. They are understanding, of course dear, everypony has to improve, everypony's gotta try something new. Her father buys her a guitar, which she perfects in under a year, her solos already breaking the boundaries of both old blues and newborn jazz, her rhythm better than a drummer's, her licks long and tasty, her bends mind-blowing. She invents tapping at that time, out of sheer curiosity, but it gets lost in the world of popular music. The world's not ready for the technique yet.

(When Jimi Clawrix, the renowned griffin guitarist, blows the audience away - his famous concern at Wembneigh - with his fervent tapping, Vinyl, who's watching it from her bedroom - thank Celestia for TVs - frowns and changes channels. Little does she know, eight-year-old filly; she could've claimed the technique for herself. But she doesn't want to; she's already trying her hoof at horns.)

Trying instrument after instrument, passionately, quickly, running a music maraphon on each, she quickly grows tired of them. She wants no contract, no formal music education; she wants to find something worthy of her; and her poor father sweats to get her something that will capture her attention.

When she turns fourteen, her parents let her go to a club to celebrate. She has no friends, nopony to go with; still, she goes, down Fifth Avenue, along the jewellery stalls, and the coffee shops, and the agencies, expecting disappointment. Clubs back then weren't what they are now, let me tell you. A club's basically a bar, only with live music to accompany the drinking. Archibald Windmane, or just Archie, her father's friend, and the sole proprietor of four bars in Manehattan downtown, lets her in with a smile and a wink, I know your  father said no drinking but I get it you young ponies need to try everything how about a cider?, and she takes her seat at the table rather far from the scene, under a shelf of fine oak, filled with dusty books.

I remember that night. I was twenty-four, and that night I went out drinking with my editor, celebrating the success of my first published novel. We didn't go to Archie's, of course; the poshness of the Ritz was what served us that night. I made a fool of myself, boasting that I was the One, the greatest writer this country has ever seen you wanna test me?, come and test me! Got in a fight, broke a few ribs, had to spend the next month in hospital.

Vinyl, however, spent the night at Archie's, and on that fateful night, she saw her. Octavia Philarmonica, a young cellist from Canterlot, a musical prodigy. She is walked on stage by Archie himself, he whispers something into her ear, and she smiles, her black mane neatly combed, no sign of sweat, her grey coat shining in the dim light of the bar. She's seventeen, she's not allowed to drink yet, but she's damn well allowed to play. And she does.

An earth pony, she balances against her cello on her hind legs, taking the bow, placing it to the strings gently. She plays all night long, but Vinyl can't remember a single song. Something classical, she will say later. Something-or-the-other. She can only watch at the beautiful mare from the shade of her newly-purchased sunglasses, to cover her red eyes which she tries to hide so scrupulously.

Octavia's using a microphone, the kind of cheap mics you will never find nowadays. It's practically on the verge of giving out - and guess what? - it doesn't. Instead, the sound system it's connected to sparkles and dies, leaving the audience disappointed and the performer scared. Nopony knows this, but it's her first 'concert' in Manehattan. She hasn't made a name here yet. She can't lose it already!

Vinyl rushes to the sound system, she will do anything to let the mare play well into dawn; she plays with wires, her hooves dancing across buttons like piano keys, her magic working the wires like guitar strings, her lungs breathing heavily as if she's playing a horn. It's all right, she says. It should work now. The grey mare frowns in disbelief but tries an A. The mic works, and she gifts young Vinyl with a smile. A smile she'll never forget.

After the performance, Vinyl's waiting at the backdoor. She's sober, and scared. She knows she likes the mare, but knows it's wrong. At the time, 'gay' doesn't mean Good As You. It's Good As Yield. Surrender, and forever wear the imprint of society's disdain.

Octavia comes, finally, and Vinyl beams with a smile. It's me, she says. Do you remember me? Of course she does. She remembers, and she is grateful for the help. I really liked your performance, Vinyl says with a blush. I really like your shades, Octavia replies. She must be excused; it's time for her to leave. Of course, Vinyl says, I understand.

As the grey mare leaves, she turns round with a smile and drops, "I am Octavia."

"My name's... Vinyl," Vinyl says. From this day on, she will never be Vincenza. A little lie, born to conceal her real name, in a spur of embarrassment, will later become the lie of her life. She thinks of a vinyl record, maybe of Octavia's, or, maybe, of hers, or, maybe, a collab. The needle gently scratches the record as it plays into eternity. "Vinyl Scratch," she repeats with a smile, watching the cellist leave.

An eighth note appears on her flank, a belated appearance of the cutie mark she's earned - that happens, ask a doctor - but she doesn't notice it. She knows she wants to work with sound equipment from now on. It is the core of music. The equipment. Not the instruments.

She walks home at a trot, humming a tune to herself. Baby, I wanna be with you, baby. All night long. Gimme the time of my life, baby. Oh yeah, give it to me. All night long. The first song she's ever written ends up being an unrecorded, unwritten jingle.

I really like your shades. Vinyl knows that she will never take off her shades again.

Only for her. Only if she asks.

***

Griffins have a myth about love: just as the pony goddess of Justice is blind, the griffin god of Love, Quezcak-naru-shin (don't ask me to spell that out for you; I can't), lost his eyesight when his gaze fell upon a mortal griffin's beauty; he just couldn't live without seeing her every day, but the other gods made fun of him for falling for a mortal. So, Quezcak-naru-shin wiped his very eyes from existence by violently tearing them out with a claw, so that he would never lay eyes upon the griffin female again. In other words, he turned, and walked away.

That's just what we all do when we face issues that we, in our mortal simplicity, cannot solve. We turn away and run, never looking back, in fear of the issues catching up on us. But sometimes, we lose direction and walk headlong into them. However, some ponies, griffins, any kind of people, have the courage to face the music and deal with the consequences.

Don't ask me, though - I have always been the one to give up and walk away. But Vinyl, Vinyl Scratch the sound technician, the Goddess of Deceit, has always been the one to face the music. Music (I'm breaking the metaphor for narration's sake) was Vinyl's  way of perceiving the world, the universe, and everything. (Forty-two? Just the number of bars in one of her early mixes.) She saw the world through music, and she understood every concept musically: life, death, love. That trinity of foundations, eastern in their richness, western in their simplicity. I won't waste my time (and yours, too) on explaining them to you: each perceives and understands personally.

My way of perceiving and understanding the world (the universe, everything; love, life, death - not necessarily in that order) is writing, as you may have already guessed. I bathe in my supremacy as an author, in my ability to create people and worlds. With a flick of my quill, I give life to aeons of action, and emotion, and stillness. Creating these aeons, and Thee Zions, I create myself, renewing my worn-out body every time. I am a hypocrite of the highest quality. The Narrator. I am a unicorn, and a pegasus, and an earth pony - hell, an alicorn, a diamond dog, a griffin, and a buffalo. I am twenty, thirty, two thousand and forty-ten years old. My coat is transparent, my mane spectral. My cutie mark is the root of twenty-four kilos of soap, mixed with the flavour of roast potatoes. I am invisible, non-existent, yet I am there, in every story, every novel, every tale. I pull the strings, and my puppets dance to my sheer delight.

(Sometimes, though, my puppets, the characters, stop dancing to my tunes. They rebel, and break free, and act upon their impulses, the impulses I so scrupulously created. That's the point where you realise that you should treat your characters with some dignity, lest they have murderous intents.)

Vinyl is pulling the strings, too, both figuratively and literally; she's the top sound technician in town, the mastermind behind the scenes (and the scene), pulling at the wires and tapping buttons. She's the best, the musicians say after another successful concert. She makes my horn sing so rich that there ain't enough words to discuss it. My guitar is howling, thanks to her. My drums' beat is psychotic, the audience really went wild, thanks, Vinyl. And still, she is treated like somepony auxiliary, ancillary, subsidiary. She earns a lot, and she can afford to live in downtown Manehattan, two steps from the Ritz, much to her parents' delight; she has a lot of equipment at home, at her five-room flat, spacious enough to host a small party. But she doesn't throw parties yet. For now, she's just a sound technician; a proficient, genius, out-of-the-box-thinking technician.

This all changes on the Day of Wub. Not a bank holiday, but still a day to remember. It was one of those days at the edge. The frontier between the Old and the New. Who would have guessed a short circuit would lead to the invention of Music? The Music of the New, of the Young.

Years later, Vinyl would tell Octavia, nibbling on the grey mare's ears as they lay in a spacious bed in a Neighstons' hotel, Canterlot, after a night of passionate love-making: "The console, babe, it wobbled. A mere second, but I knew sure as hell that was the Sound, right?, and I knew it was the Wub, the kind of wub that brought me here to you." Octavia smiles at the unicorn's murmuring; she's half-asleep, exhausted, worn out. She will listen to her tomorrow. Now, she doesn't have a care in the world.

That wobbling sound that Vinyl labelled 'wub' would make her life. Her fame and fortune always depended on how dirty, how clean, how low, how high-pitched, how vulgar, how screaming, how divine, how hellish, how pure, how smutty, how obscene, those wubs were. All You Need is Wub. The Things We Do for Wub. Wub Me As Though There Were No Tomorrow. And so on. The titles of her songs laughed at the old music, made fun of it in a cruel, unforgiving way. Those songs, composed soon after the Day When the Wub Occurred, made Vinyl famous.

Her agent, Frash Meet, "Looking for fresh meat to feed the audience!", is raking in bits with pig-like glee, letting Vinyl take a half, even though he knows that she could get more even as a sound technician, not to mention as a new star on the scene. Vinyl doesn't care; she has enough to be rich, and enough to be famous. The butcher-turned-agent doesn't bug her: she's no longer fresh meat; as she takes centre stage, four sound consoles connected to a sound system connected to a subwoofer connected to a record player, the crowd goes wild. Vinyl, spin that vinyl! She does. Vinyl, we love you! She grins and blows them a kiss. Vinyl, shake that flank, baby! She does, and does so much more, which, at that time, could easily lose her her place in show-biz. But she's hot, unbearably hot for a twenty-year-old, she's oozing sex wherever she appears, and she's forgiven her dirty dances.

Besides, she fakes excitement, just as she fakes everything. Her name, her background, her character. Hell, even she herself doesn't know shit about her character! It's too well-concealed.

She fakes love towards the passionate audience, but nurses, nurtures something real: her love towards that grey mare with the cello, whose face is now on posters and banners all around Canterlot. So, when she's offered a gig in Canterlot, she packs her decks and goes off to chase her love. She will find her, and tell her everything. And then they will make love.

All night long, baby. All night long.

***

I believe I must give further information about the Vinyl Scratch phenomenon. She wasn't just a performer. She was a brand. She was an idol. Vinyl Scratch the toy, Vinyl Scratch the poster, Vinyl Scratch the whisky (and damn good whisky at that), Vinyl Scratch the shades (that cheap purple sunglasses that would become the most expensive in the world), Vinyl Scratch the vibrator (yes, they made those, and not without her consent). She was all, and everywhere. Frash Meet just rubbed his hooves, counting the greasy bits.

So, it's only natural to assume that Vinyl wasn't saving up her virginity for The One, for Octavia, her love. No, sir. She was a sex beast, an avid supporter of sexual deviations and the national leader for the filly-fooling movement. She had every mare she wanted, and stallions could only sigh in envy or curse her for being beyond their reach.

She loved easily, and left easily. Everypony she'd been with, even one-night-stands, felt some kind of black hole inside when she was gone; and that was natural. They didn not only lose a lover; they lost their reference point, their guiding line, their ultimate goal. They lost what they were craving for, longing for so hungrily.

Many years later, when Vinyl just up and left, crushing the concrete relationship under her hooves, Octavia would write a song about it. You know the words - the song never left top charts, the first vocal the cellist had ever done: You hurt me now, but I won't cry. I am Octavia. You hurt me now, but I won't cry.

Music is a hypocrisy of the highest level, just like writing.  She cried - oh, how she cried! Depressed, she shouted curses to the sky, broke the dishes, and old records, and photos - the very same photos she would later restore so scrupulously - and then, running out of steam, she lay down and wept.

I know that feeling oh so well. Now that Vinyl is gone, gone for good, maybe living under a different name of course she's living under a different name and her appearance her beautiful stunning appearance her face her mane her eyes it all must have changed now yes of course it's changed, I'm crying too. I too, have lain down and wept for my guiding line, my reference point.

Octavia and I are similar, in that aspect. By the rivers of lost tears, we both lay down and wept for Thee Zion.

For we remember, we remember, we damn well remember Thee Zion.

***

Some philosophers say that we lead our whole lives dreaming, and while we sleep, we experience real life. Life as we know it. Some say that, when we sleep, we reach for another universe in our dreams. Some call that bullcrap. For Vinyl, dreams mean suffering and confusion.

When Vinyl Scratch dreams, she is experiencing a sort of alternative past, and present, and future, and yesterday, and tomorrow, and maybe, and if, and all of that in one mingled mix of timelessness and oddity. But it's real, it's oh so real! She's in the club, Club Canterlot, spinning disks, wubbing wubs, and looking at all the ponies in the crowd oh yes she can see them perfectly all of them the hipsters who had somehow passed the security and the rich teenagers eighteen maybe nineteen but by no means twenty-one and the casual club-goers with their casualwear why do we call it casualwear? because it's casual it's everyday it's just what she likes and the fans everywhere fans with signs Vinyl love me Vinyl Vinyl I love you Vinyl! Vinyl Vinyl Vinyl but there's no Octavia and of course the producer he comes up to her, Frash Meet, looking for fresh meat, yes of course she says but how? you're already my producer - and then she sees her parents they're sitting at the bar counter drinking their Manehattans in Canterlot and then they leave and she follows them she flies bodiless empty disintegrated she watches them marry yes and she watches herself being born - she is at the Grand Galloping Gala, courtesy of Frash Meet who thinks it is good to mingle with the high society but she doesn't want those dukes and princes especially princes she knows what she wants she wants her she wants Octavia and she found her yes she finally found her! do you remember me of course you do I'm Vinyl Vinyl Scratch yes the one yes the one that helped you I love you yes I really do I do I wanna be with you I wanna make love to you all night long you want the drinks first? let's get the drinks so they go to the bar and get the drinks and then they go to Octavia's place and she looks at her yes she's right there she's not gonna disappear - and then opens her eyes and Octavia is gone and it was all a dream and she goes to the kitchen and pours herself a juice and makes cereal and puts on her shades - and she wakes up. She checks the space next to her, sweating in fear. She hears her marefriend snoring. She touches the soft fur and grabs her and hugs her tight. Octavia is here.

Wake up, she says. Wake up, Tavi. I need you- I need you to tell me something. Sure, Octavia says, opening her eyes, yawning, remnants of sleep clinging to her like chained whips. What's the matter, dear? Tell me how we met here in Canterlot, all those years ago, Vinyl begs. Tell me.

Of course, dear, Octavia sighs. She is used to her marefriend's quirks. She sits up, taking Vinyl's head and placing it in her lap gently and stroking her mane and whispering soothing words into her ear, we met at night, remember? You got that gig in Canterlot, and I couldn't come and you were broken and you learnt that I played at the Gala and you found me you somehow found me and you asked me out right there and I said yes and we went out for a couple of drinks and then I took you home, and Vinyl's smiling, and Octavia is smiling too, and she tells her how they had sex that night, she describes every feeling, every sensation, every rough touch, how scared Vinyl was, and how determined she tried to be, and their mistakes, and the mending of those mistakes, and then she was shouting, and then I was shouting, and Vinyl's asleep.

Octavia sighs in content. Her job is done: Vinyl is all right. She takes a glance at the table. The pills are there, the ones for Vinyl's growing, progressing headaches, throbbing like her wubs, wub wub wub, killing her, boiling her alive. It'll be all right, Octavia tells herself. It's all supposed to be this way, she tells herself. The strange behaviour, the headaches, everything - it's all supposed to be that way. They will overcome, or her name isn't Octavia Philarmonica.

***

Vinyl's headaches become worse. Doctors can't tell her what's wrong. Maybe it's the loud music, they say. Bullcrap, Vinyl says. She's a DJ - the job she invented, a Disc Jockey, the tamer of wild vinyl records - she doesn't need their advice. Their pills don't help, and she tries her own pills, red and white and blue and all the colours of the rainbow - the ones she gets at the club for free, the ones that make her forget the headaches and heartaches and everything - and she is flying grinning at the audience the world around doesn't exist she does she's the only being in the universe and she doesn't give a damn she spins her records and she feels good real good except she cannot leave she knows she can't it won't let her leave she has to play so she takes some more pills but then don't work they never work and she can't leave she can't escape she shouts in the mike she yells she screams for help, I can't leave this place! I'm fucking tied, let me escape! Get me out!, but the fans don't give a damn and only cheer and the security just stay there they're used to such acts Vinyl realises they won't help her - and there's this mare in the audience she looks like her exactly like her white fur that spiked blue mane the same complexion the same outlook the shades everything, I'm your biggest fan, she screams, I'll get you out! - and Vinyl leaves the stage she hears the crowd moan but she doesn't care she needs to get out she needs some air but she's tied! she's tied! she can't? and that mare she takes her hugs her she gets her out and the chains break the strings are no longer tying her to the club.

Vinyl's breathing fresh, invigorating air. She vomits aside, and looks at the mare and smiles apologetically. Thank you, Vinyl says, surprised to see a precise clone of herself. She blames it on the drugs. You're welcome, the mare says. I'm your biggest fan, she says, smiling. Vinyl is used to fans, but it's the first time she's seen herself as one of them.

What's your name, Vinyl asks. Vinyl Scratch. I mean your real name, she clarifies. It's my real name. She shows her the passport, and indeed, her name is Vinyl Scratch. How is this possible, Vinyl asks. This is impossible. The mare explains. I've been born Vinyl Scratch, and then I saw you - no, I heard you - and I saw your name and I thought it was destiny, of course it was destiny - you're my idol, I am your fan and we share the same name isn't it magical?

No, it's not magical. Vinyl knows it. She's stolen that name, and she can't bring herself to confess it. She lies something about distant relatives. Oh, too bad, the real Vinyl laughs. I've always wanted to have sex with you. Distant relatives, the fake Vinyl, the DJ, mumbles in embarrassment, still riding her high a little and she has a chance to sleep with herself make love to herself who wouldn't ever try? Distant.

In the morning, Octavia silently brings Vinyl home. What the hell, Vinyl, tell me, explain it to me, what the hell? Vinyl tells her, she tells her everything, the mare, the chains tying her to the club, the invisible strings pulling at her limbs as she plays, the fear of stepping on cracks so the earth can swallow her, the drugs, the headaches, even now, it hurts, it hurts so much! - and she says that she must leave, she has to leave, she can't endanger Octavia, she still loves her, she loves her too much.

Nonsense, Octavia says. We'll overcome it together, she says. Don't be stupid, she says. I'm not stupid; I know something's wrong. Something's not rights, something's amiss. It's not supposed to be this way. There's no way to save me; I just have to ride it on and on till I'm through.

They have an argument and a breakup. But there's no forgiveness. Vinyl leaves, not without gulping a few pills, stepping over the cracks on the asphalt she's walking on, towards the future. She has this feeling, this nagging feeling that she's going insane, and she knows that there's nopony who can help her. She can't endanger her love, Octavia. She can't endanger this city. She needs to leave, not to be ever found again. She needs to spend the rest of her days gulping down pills far, far away, somewhere where her progressing insanity can't do harm to anypony.

She catches a train ride home, without a ticket, because nopony dares check her ticket, but not before visiting a certain griffin she'd become acquainted with. At home, she hopes, she'll dull out her headache for a few hours. Cause she don't lie, she don't lie, she don't lie.

Cocaine.

***

While Vinyl has committed a lie by stealing another mare's name - a mild identity theft, especially given that the mare in question has, in return, stolen her outlook - I have committed a lie much greater than that. It comes to me in dreams, and haunts me during the day, when I trot down Fifth Avenue, and when I pass a coffee shop, and when I'm home, indulging in a little whisky, and when I'm discussing my new books with my editor. Especially when I'm talking to my editor.

It was May, if memory serves me right. It was hot, the government was cutting on subsidies for healthcare, and my friend was dying in hospital because nopony could do a damnest thing to help him. I had just sold my latest book and was rolling in money. I have oodles of money at times. I came to his ward with the news, and that news was good: I could lend him money, and help with the treatment. It wasn't guaranteed to succeed, but we could at least try.

I decided to hold back on the good news, building the tension. A writer is always a writer; he remains a writer even in real life, in real situations. Build the tension, and then write the release. Build the tension, and then drop the bass, in Vinyl's terms.

Before I could proceed, he shocked me. I've always wanted to become a writer, he said, looking into my eyes pleadingly. "Seeing as I don't have much time on my plate," he said, chuckling, "I ask you only one thing." He asked me to publish his book. Two mares, an island, something about rum... It'll be a success, he said. I nodded, looking through his drafts. It was a perfect bet: comedy, light-hearted plot, some romance... It had it all. And he wanted me to publish it under his name.

At the time, I wasn't really successful or outstandingly rich. I had my bits, and I had my readers, but this... This was the kind of novel that gave you national fame. It would stomp authors like me into dust. Or... He doesn't need it, a voice in my head told me. That voice was me. He will die anyway. Why would he need fame when he's dead? I, however, did need to become famous... I had to become famous. I had every right to become famous. And this agreement? Who knows about that? Who knows apart from you and him? I shrugged those thoughts away, smiled and took the drafts.

But, for some reason, I didn't tell him, nor did I tell the doctors, that I had enough money for his treatment.

***

My friend died soon afterwards. So it goes. I published the book under my name and gained national, if not worldwide, success. Every once in a while, I will come to the cemetery and thank him for my ill-gotten fame. Sometimes I tell myself that he wanted it; that he meant it. Being a writer allows you to see a new perspective in things, a new perspective of things. What they are, and what they mean.

Take the drafts, man. Publish 'em for me. I am dying, and I know I'll never need this, but hell, I spent my whole foalhood in poverty maybe now I'll make a statement to this world yes I'll make it trust me I'll do it! I'll prove my parents that I am not worthless, and I'll prove you that I'm not worthless!

Of course I will, man. Of course I will. Can't you see I need money too? Your parents are loaded but it's your damn fault that they won't recognise you you ran away you damn bastard and what do you have now apart from me? what do you have now? I could help you I could really help but you were running your fucking mouth about that fucking story of yours don't you know how attracted how addicted to fame I am? don't you know it you fucker?!

Thank you, man. I know you won't of course you never did anything for me friendship? when have you ever considered me your friend? I knew I was just a guy for you to spend time with nothing more take the drafts take them publish them if you want under your name publish them for fuck's sake!

You're welcome. You're my best friend. Thank you. You're my best friend.

When I think of our dialogue back then like that, it makes the dull pain fade away a little, if only for a moment. I think that Vinyl and Octavia's breakup had some behind meaning as well. I won't try and delve into such intimate affairs, if only because I don't know for sure. I'm not Vinyl's friend, or lover; I'm not even sure that that night, she recognised me as her ex-neighbour. Maybe she did. Anyway, she didn't share such details.

I won't talk about how she coaxed Vinyl Scratch, the real Vinyl Scratch, sans the cutie mark, which was a pair of headphones - a testament to her love of music, of Vinyl's music - into coming to her house that day. I don't know how she persuaded her to stay. Vinyl told me it was a gesture of free will. Then why did she burn the house without checking if she was still there? Vinyl told me she was riding a high so she was sure that the real Vinyl had escaped.

Escaping through the window at the precise moment, passing the police, and the security, and vanishing into town, all while riding a high? Sure, Vinyl, whatever makes you sleep well at night. Except it doesn't.

My take on this? The real Vinyl Scratch was religiously devoted to the fake Vinyl, to the Vinyl we know and love, and she knew about her plan. She sacrificed her life so that Vinyl could forever escape the country. She wouldn't have made a motion to escape, in any way. That way, the fire made sense, it wasn't a show of 'burning the old', as Vinyl told me, it was a fake suicide attempt. And here, Vinyl Scratch helped Vinyl Scratch to do it.

I feel like it's time to wrap up this story. There's really not much to tell. Evey good author should know when to end a book, and how to end the book. Since I, the great book thief, have confessed, I feel like I can steal an ending for my story, a perfect ending that hasn't been invented by me, but that suits Vinyl perfectly well. She's been leaving like the Wild Dean (maybe not), so she deserves such an ending. Partly because it is true.

Because I don't always think of her. But when I pass the muddy lampposts and walk towards my special place on the outskirts of town right behind the forsaken conservatoire and sit down on the juvenile grass and look at the setting sun - and we can race the sunset if we try, I know it - and when I sigh and trot back past the already shining lampposts and I come home and take off my overcoat and hat and the fire in the fireplace is warm and welcoming and I pour myself a glass of whisky and light up a pipe and watch the flames dance around and around and then I go to the bedroom and lie down and look at the ceiling and the moon is high and the stars are frowning into my window and the air conditioner is soothing me with noise and fresh air and I'm closing my eyes I'm already falling asleep - I think of Vinyl. I do. I honestly do.

I think of Vinyl Scratch.