Slate groaned, rubbing his hoof into his eye as he stumbled off the train. The ride had been surprisingly exhausting, and though he’d finished Red Nails (the best one yet in the series) he was still disoriented from the ride and the lack of sleep he’d gotten the night before. His nightmares had been particularly ferocious, and he woke up exhausted, the bags under his eyes so pronounced he could feel their presence. Nonetheless, there was work to be done, and the train ride was pleasantly uneventful. He just wished he could have taken a nap or two. But there was nothing doing, what with those hard seats and the steady bumping and swaying of the train on the tracks.

    Unpacking his saddlebags, he examined his local map, doing his best to figure out where, exactly, this “Sugar Cube Corner” was. Ponyville wasn’t exactly laid out on a grid - it could be more accurately described as a hub-and-spoke system, with numerous streets running to and from the town center. Convenient for carts, which wouldn’t need to turn around or back up in order to get anywhere, but maddening for a pedestrian unfamiliar with the streets. Still, he’d only need to get to Sugar Cube Corner, and then his hotel. Maybe he should just spring for a cab and be done with it.

    “Hey there! I’ve never seen you before!” Slate jumped, surprised by the sudden appearance of a voice in front of him. Generally he could hear ponies coming, and even when he couldn’t, they usually left him alone. He was taken aback by the sound, and it took him a moment to realize that the pony who had been speaking to him was directly in front - a bright pink thing with cotton-candy hair and an enormous smile. A mare, to be sure, and an earth pony, she was shorter and smaller than Slate, and the party balloon cutie mark was hard to miss. “I bet you’re new in town!”

    “That would be a sorry bet,” said Slate, vaguely annoyed. “Only a fool would take that - they can’t win.” Slate had never understood why ponies said they “bet” things were one way or another when it was clear how they were. Why not just say “I think” or “I believe that” instead?

    “So you ARE new in town!” said the earth pony. Slate considered just walking around her or pushing his way through, but there were ponies watching. Surely, if he shoved his way by, ponies would complain he was being rude, or worse, that he’d attacked her - similar incidents had happened before, especially when he was trying to shove his way through crowded hallways and streets. He wasn’t due at Sugar Cube corner for a few hours, and this mare would get bored with him, surely. “My name’s Pinkie Pie. What’s yours?”

    “Slate,” said Slate, bringing up the map to continue to study it. This usually worked, especially on the casually curious. Most ponies that bothered him were just bored, and once he proved uninteresting, he’d be left alone.

    “Are you looking for a place?” said Pinkie. Slate continued to ignore her. “I’m from Ponyville and I know every place in town! I bet I can totally show you exactly where you need to go! Like this one time, a donkey named Cranky came to town, and - “

    “Do you know where Sugar Cube corner is?” Best to end this now, lest he be pelted with chatter all morning.

    “Of course I know where it is!” said Pinkie. “I work there! But you wouldn’t know that, cuz you’re new in town! You know, at one point, I was new in town...” Pinkie continued to prattle, and while she was distracted, Slate stepped around her and began to make a break for the waiting taxi cabs. “Oh, hey! Let me show you the way!” Slate sighed, and resigned himself to following this hyperactive, spazzy thing. Maybe at least he’d spare some cab fare, and find a book store or library he could stop by later.

    Pinkie continued to prattle as they walked, going on about one thing and then another. Slate found it inane and boring to the extreme, but since he wasn’t being asked to join in the conversation, it was at least tolerable. Besides, Pinkie had a nice plot for him to stare at while they walked, and if she (or anyone else) was upset by his staring, they certainly didn’t say anything.

    “And that’s how I ended up working for Sugar Cube Corner, the bestest most deliciousest bakery in all of Equestria!” Slate looked up, surprised at the distinctive architecture of the building. It looked like a gingerbread house with a cupcake on top, although he could see clearly that it was the result of careful and highly talented woodworking and painting. It was rather whimsical, and reminded Slate more of something from an amusement park than some sort of formal business. But if the smells, and the visible smoke from a bakery oven, were any indication, then this was indeed a fully functional bakery. And his mouth was watering, even from the street. “So why do you need to go to Sugar Cube Corner anyway? Is it to try out our new Chimi-Cherry-Changa? I couldn’t decide whether to call it a Chimi-Cherry or a Cherry-Changa, so I decided to name it both!”

    “Tasty as that sounds,” and it certainly did, especially after the unpalatable “sandwich” he’d had on the train - more like two slabs of cardboard separated by pond scum - “I’m here to judge the authenticity, originality and trademarkability of the Marzipan Mascarpone Meringue Madness. I’ve been sent by the Fillydelphia Ponymark Office, and I can’t accept or purchase anything in the shop until after I’ve completed my evaluation. Impartiality and all that.” Slate regretted mentioning such. He could probably get away with a cupcake or three, and he knew some of his compatriots usually accepted free meals and product samples as a matter of course, but it just felt wrong to him. Besides, he could always swing by for donuts in the morning.

    “Ohmygosh, I brought you all the way here from the train, and I totally forgot I was supposed to expect someone from the Ponymark Office!” said Pinkie. She bounced around wildly as she talked, filled with inexplicable energy. Slate found himself fascinated by the performance, although he couldn’t begin to pay attention to what all she was saying. “C’mon in!”

    Once inside, the smell was all the more overpowering. It was all Slate could do to resist digging in. High quality pastries were something he dearly loved but usually avoided both because ponies would make fun of him for eating them when he was already so fat, and because his love of them invariably led to overindulgence, which made even the sweetest treat unpalatable.

    “Are you the representative from the Ponymark Office?” said a bright-blue earth pony with a pink mane that reminded Slate of an ice-cream cone.

    “Of course he is!” said Pinkie.

    “I can speak for myself,” said Slate, irritated. Pinkie was beginning to get on his nerves. She was like a clown that didn’t know how or when to stop performing. “My name is Slate,” said Slate. “I presume you are Ms. Cake?”

    “Yes I am,” said Ms. Cake. She had a charming accent, and she, at least, seemed to be calm, cool and collected. “My husband is upstairs with the foals. We weren’t expecting you until after noon.” Foals? In a bakery? Hopefully they were diligent when it came to cleaning, and also making sure that no foals were about when oven doors were being closed.

    “That’s fine. If you’re not set up, I could come back in a few hours.” Silently, he hoped they would opt for this. The smell of baked goods all around was making him very hungry, and if he didn’t stuff something into his mouth before evaluating the Marzipan Mascarpone Meringue Madness, it was going to be hard to contain himself.

    “Oh, don’t worry about that,” said Ms. Cake. She turned to Pinkie and smiled. “Pinkie dear, would you mind heading up stairs and helping out with the foals?” Pinkie suddenly stood to attention and saluted.

    “It would be an honor to foal-sit for you, Mr. Cake!” said Pinkie, dashing up the stairs with a clatter of hooves.

    “Is she always so...Random?” said Slate. Ms. Cake smiled a bit, apparently trying to apologize for how strange her employee was.

    “Oh, I know she takes a little getting used to, but she really is an excellent baker,” said Ms. Cake. “And she’s good with the kids, and excellent at throwing parties - which of course means lots of catering for us.” Slate nodded. He couldn’t put up with such a pony, but this wasn’t his bakery.

***

    “Shouldn’t you be upstairs watching the Cake Twins?” said Slate, leaning up against the counter as he continued to idly take notes on his clip board.

    “They’re sleeping right now and I don’t want to wake them up,” said Pinkie as she twisted, twirled and mixed yet another batch of cake batter. “Besides, it takes no less than three sets of hooves to make the Marzipan Mascarpone Meringue Madness! Isn’t that right, Mr. Cake?”

    “It sure is, Pinkie!” said Mr. Cake, who was frantically working to prepare frosting of some sort. Slate just nodded and tried not to interfere. He’d already decided to grant the trademark, even before seeing the production process, but still, procedures needed to be followed. He was getting desperately hungry, though - it was well past noon at this point, and the Cakes were still going through the initial preparatory phases. Had he known that this dessert was an eight-hour thing, he would have had them put it off until tomorrow. Having to be surrounded by baked goods and unable to eat any was agonizing enough most times, but when he was starving, it bordered on cruelty.

    “How are we doing, Mr. Slate?” said Ms. Cake, who was quickly going about measuring and preparing ingredients for Mr. Cake and Pinkie to put into use.

    “It’s just Slate,” said Slate. “And you’re doing fine.”

    “Is there anything I can do to help?” said Pinkie.

    “Aren’t you already helping?” said Slate, raising an eyebrow.

    “I mean helping you, Slate,” said Pinkie. “You’ve been sitting there, still as a statue, for like hours! Can I do anything for you?” Slate sighed. Why couldn’t they make it easy for him?

    “I know I was checking out your plot earlier, but that doesn’t mean that you can guarantee your trademark application by sleeping with me.” Why was it always the ones he found unattractive and obnoxious that tried to bribe him with their bodies, anyway? Why couldn’t it be some handsome young stallion with a soft flowing mane and a tight butt? It always had to be ponies that were too old, too ugly, too annoying or too married.

    “WHAT?” There was a loud crash and the sound of shattering ceramics. Slate looked up to see Mr. and Ms. Cake standing there, wide-eyed, with shattered cookware at their hooves. At first they stared at Pinkie, but seeing her every bit as shocked and surprised, they turned to look at Slate, their faces still filled with disbelief.

    “Never mind. Pretend I didn’t say anything.” It was fruitless to be sure, but Slate still put his clipboard in front of his face and began to scribble furiously. He instantly realized how moronic his statement had been - of course Pinkie wasn’t offering to sleep with him. She probably wasn’t even offering to bribe him. She just realized that he’d been standing on his hind legs for a good three hours by now, and that he’d skipped lunch while doing it. Why did he think anything else? And more importantly, why did he say anything else?

    “That’s, not quite what I meant,” said Pinkie, blushing a bit and smirking to herself. “I just...I know you skipped lunch, and I could hear your tummy rumbling and...I wanted to help.” Slate reached back into his saddlebag and dropped a bag of bits on the floor, hiding his now beet-red face behind the clipboard.

    “Take that and go buy me a tofu burger with hay fries and an oat smoothie,” said Slate. Such an order could hardly be more boring, and any fast-food joint in town should be able to satisfy it easily. “I’m not supposed to accept anything during the evaluation, but there’s nothing in the rules about using my own money. Just...” He sighed, trying to resist the temptation to begin banging his face against the clipboard. He was baffled by his own stupidity, sometimes. “I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions there. It’s...It’s happened before.”

    “I’ll...Be right back,” said Pinkie. Slate tried not to look, but she seemed almost to be trying to apologize to him. He didn’t understand why. He was the one who was in the wrong here - why would she want to do anything other than punish him? He sighed again. It was going to be a long, awkward day.

***

    “So, how did we do?” asked Ms. Cake. She was keeping her distance from Slate, even as she tried to smile politely. Clearly, neither she nor Mr. Cake had quite gotten over what Slate had said. At least he could give them good news and then disappear.

    “I’m granting the application,” said Slate. “I’ve reviewed dozens of pastries, and I’ve read the applications for thousands, and there’s nothing quite like the Marzipan Mascarpone Meringue Madness. So I’ll file the papers with my superiors and you should receive a confirmation in the next few months.”

    “But...It’s approved, right?” said Mr. Cake.

    “It’s approved as far as I’m concerned,” said Slate. “Although of course it’ll need to be looked over and confirmed by my superiors, and ultimately they have the final say. But if they read my paperwork and follow my recommendations, then yes. It’ll be approved.”

    “But what do we do in the meantime?” said Ms. Cake. Clearly, she was concerned - and justifiably so. Though Slate hadn’t said a word after Pinkie had come back with his lunch (which had been surprisingly delicious - he regretted not asking where it had come from so that he could get more later) he had paid rapt attention, watching how much time and effort they put into their cake. He’d never seen a pair of ponies so dedicated to their craft, or so skilled at working together. It was as if he was seeing one pony, rather than two, and the way they focused on the task at hand rather than talking was inspiring. Pinkie, too, was rather impressive, if only because she was somehow able to keep an upbeat and cheerful attitude through hour after hour of intense manual labor. Even farm ponies rarely managed to pull that one off.

    “Throw a party!” said Pinkie. “I’ve got tons of balloons to set up! And we can all have some of the MMMM! And there will be music and pin-the-tail-on-the-pony and I can invite all of my friends over!” As Pinkie continued, Slate began packing up his notes and forms into his saddlebags. He certainly wasn’t going to be able to stretch out this assignment as long as he liked, but he could at least dawdle for a few days. Ponyville was supposed to have a very good library, and if he was ambiguous in his reports, he could at least stay gone until Thursday. If Comma Dash asked, he’d just say it took him a few extra days to go over the paperwork and make sure all the research was done properly. Comma Dash never dared to question how long paperwork took for fear of revealing how slow and incompetent he was at completing it. And anyway, all he had to do was rubber-stamp and take the credit.

    “While we’d normally be up for it, both Ms. Cake and I are really tired,” said Mr. Cake. He gave Ms. Cake a slight squeeze. She smiled back, nuzzling him lightly. “Plus the twins are cranky from being in the play room all day. They need a diaper change and a walk if they’re going to sleep tonight.”

    “What about you?” said Pinkie. Slate was started to look up and see Pinkie’s enormous smiling face only inches from his own. He backed up a bit, suddenly frightened by such an invasion of his personal space.

    “I uhm...I have lots of paperwork to fill out to ensure the application is processed,” said Slate, motioning to his saddlebags. Without warning, Pinkie set on them like a cat on a mouse.

    “What paperwork? These are all filled out already!” It was true. In his determination to “make up” for the faux paus earlier in the day, he’d poured every spare moment into the applications, even going so far as to fill out, in careful detail, the portions of the application usually left to the applicants themselves. Except for the signatures and initials of his superiors, the application was done.

    “There’s uhm, more paperwork, in the bags I had sent to the hotel,” said Slate. “And I really do think I should get to it later.”

    “What hotel are you staying in?” said Pinkie. “The Moonlight Inn? The Dancing Donkey? The Celestial Suites?” Slate picked up his saddlebags, hoping this would clue Pinkie in to the fact he wished to leave.

    “The Office doesn’t have the money for such things,” said Slate. “I’m at the Holiday Hideaway, out on the edge of town.” Slate cringed at just the mention of the name. Holiday Hideaway hotels were always cheap dumps, with lousy beds, small rooms, and poor bathroom facilities. He knew budgets at the Ponymark Office were always tight, but why they couldn’t spring to put him up in a Celestial Suites was beyond him. Celestial Suites were owned and operated by Princess Celestia herself - surely there could be some sort of arrangement to let the low-rent rooms to traveling bureaucrats at a decent rate!

    “Ohmygosh, that’s like, right down the road from Sweet Apple Acres!” said Pinkie. “I should TOTALLY throw the party in one of Applejack’s barns! Then we won’t wake up the twins, and we will have tons of room for all the balloons and games!”

    “That’s nice,” said Slate. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I really should get going.”

    “See you at the party!” said Pinkie, waving a hoof.

    “You won’t,” said Slate, accidentally slamming the door on the way out. What was it with him and doors, lately? They seemed to slam even without his intending them to.

***

    Slate sighed and lay down on the bed, grumbling. There was nothing to do in the hotel room - no papers to fill out, no music to listen to, and worst of all, nothing to read. He regretted only bringing one book now - when he went to the library it was closed, and the book shops in town only had the sort of sappy paperback novels that middle-aged mares read on their beach holidays. At this point, even a Daring Do book would suffice - written for young fillies and colts though they were; at least they had something going on in them. Something more than vampire ponies having impossible love affairs with repugnant, self-centered Mary Sues. Why didn’t anyone write stuff like Charger the Brave anymore? Was he really the only pony who still read that sort of thing?

    Slate was considering putting in his sleeping pills early and hoping he woke up at something approaching a reasonable hour, but before he could get started; there was the unmistakable sound of a hoof pounding on his door. Instantly he was in a panic, dashing around the room and trying to figure out why, exactly, someone would want access to his room. Was there a fire? A robbery perhaps? Did they think HE was a robber? Or maybe his superiors had sent someone to check in on him - someone who would, no doubt, quickly realize that he didn’t need three days to evaluate the Marzipan Mascarpone Meringue Madness, and that he could easily come home immediately. Were they already instituting a fraud action against him for not returning home early and filing the proper notices? He could lose his job! And though he hated his job, how else was he going to get bits for the rent? For his cigarettes? For food?

    “Open up, Slate! It’s Pinkie Pie!” said a voice beyond the door. Slate dashed over to the door and looked through the peep hole. It didn’t take long to instantly identify the pink pile of fluff that was Pinkie Pie. Slate opened the door.

    “What in Celestia’s name are you doing here?” said Slate. How did she even get here? And why?

    “To see if you can come to my MMMM Trademark Celebration Party, silly!” said Pinkie, bouncing up and down on her hooves. “It’s going to be MMMMagnificent! And we couldn’t do it without you, so you’re totally invited and you should totally come!” Slate grumbled. She was disturbing him for this? Hadn’t he already told her he wasn’t going?

    “Pinkie, I’m not going to some stupid party for a cake,” said Slate. “Besides, I have - “

    “My party is NOT stupid!” said Pinkie, her face suddenly mashed up against his. Slate staggered back. Was she going to hit him now? Would it be okay if he hit her back? Or could he just shut and lock the door? Was jumping out of a second-story window an option? “It’s the bestest most funnest party ever! And I made a special cake just for you! So you have to be there!” Slate growled, backing up and trying to slam the door. He would have, but Pinkie was in the way, and he was pretty sure “slamming a mare’s head in a door” was not on the list of things he was allowed to do.

    “I said no and I meant no!” said Slate. Before he could say anything more, though, he found himself face-to-face with Pinkie’s enormous, sad eyes. They reminded him of the way a puppy did when it wanted attention. Even Slate couldn’t resist that.

    “But pleeeeease? I really want you to be there!” said Pinkie, her lips in a pronounced faux-pout. Slate sighed.

    “Fine, just...Take me there.”

***

    The music was loud. It wasn’t unpleasant or obnoxious, but it was loud. The food was fine, but after seeing a few ponies giggle at the way he had been stuffing his face, he was too embarrassed to go back to the catering table. He didn’t want to do any of the games. At this point, all he wanted to do was go. But both times he’d tried, Pinkie had stopped him at the door, shoving him towards something-or-other. Even his usual excuse of hitting the punch bowl until he was too drunk to stay (or, at the very least, feigning it) had been prevented by a purple pony who, somehow, managed to drain the bowl almost by herself. He couldn’t even go outside for a smoke - the orange pony on the cowboy hat had been very clear about her policy against open flames, considering the abundance of hay and the very real danger of an orchard fire on her property. Disheartened, confused and tired, he found himself surrounded by an enormous crowd of ponies having fun, when all he wanted to do was go home.

    “Uhm, excuse me,” said a small, timid voice. Over the noise, Slate could barely hear it, but he realized it was coming from a yellow pegasus immediately to his left. “I don’t mean to be a bother, but...You’re standing on my tail.” Slate lifted his foot, smiling meekly.

    “Sorry about that,” said Slate. “I’m...Well, sometimes I just don’t know quite where my hooves are.”

    “It’s okay,” said the pegasus. “I’m sure I can get the dirt and mud out when I wash it tomorrow, and I know you didn’t mean to step on me. I mean, you wouldn’t step on my tail on purpose, would you?”

    “No, of course not.” Slate blushed, looking down at his hooves. He hated his body. Not only was it big and ugly, but it was always getting into trouble.

    “I didn’t mean to bother you, but its past Angel’s bed time,” said the pegasus. “I wanted to go home thirty minutes ago, but you were standing on my tail, and, well, it just seemed so rude to ask you to stop.” Slate was taken aback at this. Thirty minutes? Most ponies shoved him aside the moment he so much as touched them. And this one let him stand on her tail for half an hour without even saying anything about it? What was wrong with this mare?

    Before he could ask, the entire party was interrupted by a rolling, stumbling thud. In the middle of it he saw a mostly blue, but clearly multi-colored, pile of dust and fumbling limbs, which was crashing through the middle of the party and threatening to knock over the dessert cart. The tumbling pile stopped just short, however, and revealed itself to be a sky-blue pegasus mare with a rainbow colored mane and tail. Slate stared; slack jawed at the creature in front of him. He’d never seen anything quite like her before, and he didn’t know quite what to make of her. It was like seeing a beautiful painting for the first time, or a particularly spectacular sunrise. He was awestruck.

    “Where’s the punch? Please tell me there’s punch!” said the pegasus, frantically looking around the table. When she saw the empty punch bowl her face curled into a disappointed frown, her ears going flat at the disappointment. “Pinkie, you promised me there would be punch!”

    “There was punch an hour ago, Rainbow Dash,” said Pinkie Pie, smiling at Rainbow and giving the mare a nudge. “Lemme guess - you were napping again and you didn’t get my invite until just now, huh? Well I guess it’s true what they say - you snooze, you lose!”

    “Just tell me it wasn’t - “

    “My super-yummy, soft-and-gummy, slightly rummy Raspberry and Pineapple Punch? Of course it was!” said Pinkie, apparently oblivious to the look of disappointment on Rainbow Dash’s face. “I know it’s your favorite, so I made up an extra big batch, but I guess it was just so awesomely scrumptious that everyone else finished it off first!”

    “It was Berry Punch again, wasn’t it? I swear if I find her” - before Rainbow could finish, the pony with the hat and hair bands interrupted.

    “Dash, I’ll go down into the cellar and get a barrel of cider, but you gotta promise me a few things first,” said the mare. Her accent was thick like molasses - and twanged with the peculiar pronunciation that seemed endemic to farm ponies from the southern lands.

    “Wait, your cellar? You mean Apple Family Reserve?” said Rainbow Dash. “You’re the BEST, Applejack! I’d kill for a barrel of that stuff!”

    “I’m...Not going to ask for anything so...Harsh,” said Applejack, smirking a bit at Rainbow Dash. “But I am going to ask that you one, promise not to get mad that Berry drank all your punch, and two, that you get your usual routine of showing off how awesome you are out of your system BEFORE you start drinking. We don’t need another late-night trip to the emergency room because you flew into my barn again.”

    “Pff, you just want me to show off my awesome moves before I get all wobbly,” said Rainbow Dash, tossing her mane in the haughtiest manner possible. Applejack rolled her eyes. “Well far be it for me to turn down a request from my fans.” Upon hearing this, Pinkie leapt up onto the table, sending empty cups clattering to the floor.

    “Everypony listen up! Rainbow Dash is going to perform for us outside! Grab your cake and find a seat under the stars!” Slate found himself in the middle of a slow-moving and generally good-feeling mob. Surrounded by ponies he didn’t know, he struggled both to keep from showing how frightening it was and to keep from stepping on any more tails this evening. Soon he was outside, and, freed from the motion of the crowd, he realized that now was the moment to escape. He took a few steps off to the side, and then stopped. He could hear Rainbow Dash beginning her ascent, and he realized he really did want to see her in action. After all, watching the pegasus races had always been his favorite thing as a colt. And if Dash’s physical appearance was any indication, he was in for quite the performance.

    For one of the few times in his life, Slate found himself enthralled. His eyes open wide, his mouth agape, he could do little more than stare in wonder at what was going on above him. It started out simple enough - a few tight turns, ascending spirals and long, straight dashes to show off speed, agility and climbing power. But after that, Dash’s motions became more and more impressive. When he thought she’d go left, she went right. When he thought she’d go up, she went down. Indeed, she showed an astonishing lack of fear, and indeed lack of concern about the ground rushing up at her. Strutting and dashing across the ground at high speeds, Slate could see her kicking up great clouds of dust on the road - only to suddenly ascend in a high, sharp arc, twisting this way and that in a dizzying spiral.

    At the peak of her rise, Rainbow suddenly began to plummet. Slate felt himself compelled - suddenly, somehow, he was running, his hooves moving like they never had before. Something deep in his mind, in his very being, told him to be on the ground where she was falling. He could no more stop his hooves than he could his breathing, though, just when he thought they were about to collide, he found himself awash in dust, dirt, gravel and sand. An enormous, powerful burst of air struck him, and through the haze he could see Rainbow Dash taking off again, a rainbow of colors trailing behind her as she zoomed upwards.

    Feeling sheepish as he realized that, in reality, she must have been in a controlled fall and thus no real danger, Slate was just glad that, in all likelihood, no one could see what he was doing. Also, what with him now being a good distance from the crowd, he could proceed back to the hotel without anyone noticing. Dusting himself off a bit, he prepared to go.

    “Sorry about that. Didn’t see you there!” said a voice. Slate looked over his shoulder, to find himself face to face with Rainbow Dash, who was hovering just a few feet above him. He immediately looked down at his hooves, his body filling with anxiety. What was he supposed to say? How? “Lemme give you a quick brush-off!” Slate felt himself being blown by quick, smooth blasts of wind from Rainbow’s wings, which was successful at removing some of the dirt and grit. He’d still need a good washing before he went to bed, though.

    “Thank...You,” said Slate. What now? He wanted - no, he NEEDED - to tell this pony how amazed he was, how impressed. He was overcome by emotion right now, and it seemed like his tongue had turned to stone. “Your...Your flying was...”

    “Awesome, I know,” said Rainbow Dash, smirking and closing her eyes as she tapped her hoof to her chest, her haughty nature in full display. “It’s not the best I can do, but I think it’s enough to convince Applejack to open that barrel of cider. I just hope she doesn’t make me tie up my wings before she’ll let me have any, like last time. Like she seriously thinks I can’t handle a drink or three!”

    And with that, she was gone - back to the party, no doubt. Slate was tempted to follow at first, but to what end? Drunken ponies he didn’t know made him even more nervous than sober ponies he did know, and anyway, if he went back to the party now, he’d no doubt need to explain why he’d taken off in such a hurry - a question he couldn’t answer himself. Best to head back to the hotel and simply deal with it all later. Or, even better, not at all - who said he’d ever need to see these ponies again?

***

    Sleep in the hotel had been particularly unpleasant, to say the least. Between the usual nightmares and loneliness, he hadn’t been able to get comfortable on the bed. Additionally, the room was a non-smoking one, and so when he needed his fix, he’d been forced to head outside - on an unseasonably cold night, no less. As it was, he found himself even more cranky than usual in the morning - and in need of several signatures from the cakes. He was practically kicking himself for not securing them the night before, but at least Sugar Cube Corner was on the way to the train station.

    Slate found the place with the door open but the lights out, which was more than a little peculiar. He knew bakers kept odd hours - especially what with the need to have breakfast ready by six or seven, despite a two to three hour baking time for most pastries. However, it was nearly six AM, and none of the ovens was going. Nonetheless, the door was open, and Slate went inside.

    Pinkie Pie was sound asleep in the middle of the floor, wearing a half-destroyed party hat and covered in frosting and confetti. Well, that explained the open door, at least. But where were the cakes? And why wasn’t anyone baking anything? Did Sugar Cube Corner not open until lunch? And if so, why did they have so many muffins, donuts and other breakfast treats on the counters?

    Looking around and seeing no pony but Pinkie, Slate quietly slid behind the counter, taking a few bits from his bag and placing them next to the cash register. What with there being no place open this early in the morning, Slate found himself exceedingly hungry, and surely they wouldn’t mind if he helped himself to a few day-old donuts at list price. While he was behind the counter, fumbling his way into a case of chocolate--chip muffins, something unusual caught his eye - namely, a hoof-written register right under the counter. This couldn’t be the bakery’s books, could it? Surely, such private, confidential bookkeeping needed to be kept in a safe somewhere - not where it could easily be damaged, modified or stained with cake frosting.

    But upon closer examination, Slate realized that was exactly what it was - and that, whatever their skill at baking, Mr. and Ms. Cake had the accounting skills of a small colt. Everything was written down in proper columns, with expenses on one side and earnings on the other, but they seemed oblivious to the numerous tax breaks, depreciation benefits, and other legal systems put in effect to favor small businesses like Sugar Cube Corner and enable them to compete on equal hoofing with the larger suppliers like Barnyard Bargains.

    Slate was disgusted. How could anyone let their books get into such disarray? How could anypony throw away such huge amounts of money merely by neglecting to care for it? Without even thinking about it, he pulled out some of his own spare paper and began re-working and re-making the ledger. Re-copying it into a cleaner form was the first step - eliminating all of the corrections, crossed-out marks and clearly erroneous mistakes at first, and then sorting this great pile of entries into those items which could and could not be deducted, and organizing those deductions in the most financially beneficial way. It was all Basic Accounting, which he remembered from his classes back in college. Did these ponies not know about such things? Were they just lazy? No matter - this problem had to be fixed, and regardless of how or why it became a problem, it was Slate’s problem now - he’d seen it, and until he fixed it, he wouldn’t feel “right.”

    “What are you DOING?” said a voice. Slate looked up suddenly, and found himself face to face with a surprised - and enraged - Ms. Cake. “Why are you behind the counter? And what are you doing with my ledger book?”

    “It’s broken,” said Slate, suddenly realizing that he’d done something horrible. Reading another pony’s ledger book was equivalent to opening their underwear drawer - worse, in some ways, since what was in an underwear drawer was only embarrassing. What was in a business ledger could often be incriminating. “I just...Look at it. There are notes all over. And where are you listing your deductibles? All of those ovens have to be capital purchases - have you been depreciating them at all? I...I...” Ms. Cake just stared, looking at Slate, and then the ledger, and then back to Slate.

    “Fifty thousand bits?” said Ms. Cake, staring at the big number Slate had totaled up at the bottom of his “Deductions” sheet. “That’s...That’s more than we spent on both the ovens!”

    “Well you can’t deduct all of that at once,” said Slate, using his pencil as a stylus to point at various lines on the sheet. “But those ovens, this building - and a lot of your other long-term purchases, all of those can be depreciated over time. And you can deduct a lot more than just your material costs, you know - the money you pay Pinkie is deductible, as is what you spend on childcare for the twins. Speaking of, did you file your paperwork to get a preschool grant yet?” Slate looked up from the paper and realized that Ms. Cake understood little, if anything of what he just said. “Never mind. I’ll just...Go.”

    “I had no idea,” said Ms. Cake. Suddenly he found himself being hugged. Panicked by the sudden touching of his body by another, he began to squirm, but fortunately Ms. Cake let go before panic gave way to terror. It was disconcerting to be touched, but not so bad as to be severely upsetting. “Oh Mr. Slate, with this kind of money, we could make so many improvements to the bakery! New tables and chairs! We could finally get that wobbly table in the kitchen fixed! And we can start putting away for the twins’ college fund!”

    “Uhm...You’re welcome?” said Slate, slowly edging his way out from behind the counter. Day-old donuts would just have to wait, or be skipped entirely. Maybe there was a Hay House open somewhere near the station or up the road. The food would be terrible, but at least he could smoke. “You really should invest in a good accountant. You see them once or twice a year and they save you thousands more than they cost. I only have basic accountancy certification - enough for myself. I bet a real accountant could help you locate cost overruns and plan for price fluctuations.”

    “You mean there’s more?” said Ms. Cake. “And...any pony could learn to do this? I mean, you’re not an accountant, are you - you’re a bureaucrat with the Ponymark Office. So this isn’t even your job or anything.”

    “No, it’s just something I learned how to do,” said Slate. The conversation had gone on long enough to make him uncomfortable, and Slate desperately wanted to leave. Maybe if he just broke into a run, she wouldn’t follow. “Hey! Uh, Pinkie is passed out in the middle of the floor.” Ms. Cake turned to look. Slate seized his chance, trying to make a break for the open door. He didn’t get far, though. Apparently, seeing Pinkie in such a state was a regular thing for Ms. Cake.

    “Pinkie, dear, it’s time to get up,” said Ms. Cake, gently caressing the earth pony’s head. How strange, thought Slate, that somepony could treat another with such kindness in the face of her obvious and potentially damaging and destructive mistakes. “You forgot to lock the door when you came home again. Also, you’re sleeping on the restaurant floor again.” Pinkie woke up surprisingly quickly, going from her sleeping state to a slightly ruffled and frazzled version of her normal self in only a few seconds.

    “Ohmygosh Ms. Cake!” said Pinkie. “I was in such a rush to make it home last night, and I was so tired that I totally forgot to close and lock the door! And now I’ve overslept and I didn’t get the donuts into the oven by five! What are we going to do Ms. Cake? I. Need. Those. Donuts!”

    “We’re going to start making them right now, Pinkie,” said Ms. Cake. “They’ll be a little behind schedule, but we should be able to get everything ready for the morning rush. I just hope that ponies don’t mind waiting a bit.”

    “Where’s Mr. Cake?” said Pinkie, shaking her hair and moving into the back to wash her hooves before work.

    “He’s upstairs with the twins. He’ll join us later,” said Ms. Cake. “The twins will too, likely. I hope you don’t mind taking care of them while we bake.”

    “Mind? It’s the best thing EVER!” said Pinkie, already beginning to bounce on her hooves. Slate was amazed at how quickly she picked herself up and went about her day, in spite of a lack of coffee, sugar or other stimulants. Pinkie was a mysterious creature indeed. But there was no need to think or worry about that now. Sensing he had no more purpose there, Slate quietly made his way towards the door. No point in staying here if he was hungry, since the breakfast goods wouldn’t be ready for several hours.

    “Won’t you stay, Mr. Slate?” said Ms. Cake. Why did everyone keep calling him “mister” Slate? It was just Slate. He’d gotten rid of his family name years ago. “I know it’ll be awhile, but there will be fresh-baked muffins and donuts in about an hour and a half. When does your train leave?”

    “Actually I haven’t bought the tickets yet,” said Slate. “And the whole reason I came by is that I need you to sign off on a few last things. So...Yeah, I guess I can wait.”

    “Great! The morning paper should be by any minute,” said Ms. Cake. “Help yourself to it, but please, leave the coupons. What with a bakery to run and two little foals to raise, every bit helps!”

Next Chapter: Chapter 3: Flutter, why? Estimated time remaining: 1 Hour, 25 Minutes