I'm not even sure where to begin.

It's hard to believe that it escalated to the point it did, since its beginning was rather innocent, if still a tad bizarre. The moment he stepped into my life, and into the lives of my friends and neighbors, everything began to slowly turn topside, until finally it was a challenge to discern between up and down. I suppose I should begin with the day he arrived. It's as good a start as any, I suppose.

It was that kind of day in which you might walk out your door into the sunlight and frolic—only to look down and find you are up to your stomach in mud. The kind of day in which you might cross the street humming a fun tune, only for a drunk carriage-driver to swerve and hit you. The kind of day in which, for no reason at all, despite the circumstances, and against all the odds, you might be eaten by a hydra.

This lazy day in June, the most wary and deceptive of days, is when he rolled into Ponyville. And I truly mean he rolled, as if from the highest hill down its slope, as if cast away from its crown, into our remote village of ponies. He was covered in gunge at the time, as if his trip and fall from the hill had taken him through a swamp. It wouldn’t be till later, after a bath, that the Ponyvillians would truly see him for the first time.

He was of the size and build at which it would be difficult to truly tell from a distance. He was out of shape, certainly, but it would be a challenge to know exactly how much of his body mass could be attributed to his fat (although even a casual observer could tell you it was probably most of it). His flab was covered in a greasy film that seemed to cover him entirely—even after he had bathed. His natural, horrific stench (Which reminds one of rotting watermelons) followed him about, clinging to him in a bizarre symbiotic relationship.

While he was a pony like all Ponyvillians, his head was of decidedly un-equine construction. His snout curved suspiciously before forming a lip, as if it were more of a beak. His mane was short and clumpy, and often mistaken at a distance for a mangy rat that had somehow fallen asleep on his head. His ears, instead of ending in points, were rounded and stuck out from the sides of his head instead of nearer to the top. One eye was slightly greener than the other (A fact he seemed to take too much pride in, despite that it truly wasn’t THAT much greener), and his voice was a constantly fluctuating vocal blob of squeals and stuttering—that is, when he wasn’t speaking in a high-pitched monotone.

Needless to say, his overall shape and presentation was one that could frighten many a foal.

But it was his stare that would catch the uninitiated off-guard. It felt much too lazy, yet at the same time too analytical. Like he would look at you, but not AT you at you. He avoided eye contact almost always, and when speaking to mares, he would be looking at their bodies for certain, but the mares could never figure out if he was sizing them up the way stallions secretly do… or if he was plotting to eat them instead.

It was not for his looks that most came to hate him, for ugliness is something that’s easily forgivable. It cannot be helped. No, this stranger, reviled only a few weeks after he had come to town, held behaviors of which most found obnoxious and repugnant. His rampant egotism often cost him the sympathy of his peers, ending up in several clashes and arguments that usually concluded with his impotent bawling, and promising a shamanic curse—followed by a karmic death—on those who disagreed with him. He was cut from the cloth of selfishness, and it showed wherever he went and in whatever he did.

One might forgive another for such tendencies toward egotism if said egotist had at least some degree of kindness or intellect. Unfortunately, this stranger was in possession of neither: he would often quickly make up stories to disguise his ignorance and be shot down by a more-educated pony (occasionally myself), leading to fierce arguments over trivial matters; and would almost always ignore those in need of assistance, citing some inconsequential event that happened to him as an excuse for dismissing the suffering of others, or as a comparison to let them think he knows how much they suffer.

After only a month, this stranger, a curiosity to some and a nuisance to others, was holed up in his apartment—one he paid rent for through begging. It was still a shock to me when I heard that anypony was truly giving him money (even if it was by some misplaced sense of pity), and upon further investigation later on, I discovered that not all his bits were obtained legally: many times would he walk silently by a stand in the marketplace, pretending he was a shadow, trying not to be seen. His… goofy appearance and… overwhelming stench could not be ignored for long, and he was usually caught (leading to his ridiculous excuses, then to arguments, then eventually to banishment from the marketplace altogether).

Long after his last attempt at theft had ended in its predictable failure (and some time before I discovered both his criminal activity and his apartment), my assistant Spike and I were on our way to the local bakery to pick up some pies we’d ordered for my friends’ weekly get-together. The air, usually clean and crisp (especially in the morning-time!) was suddenly broken—like a kazoo interrupting a beautiful symphony. The familiar stench of rotting watermelons began to creep up on the both of us.

Here he came, this odorous stranger, the smell becoming stronger as he neared us. Spike, ever watching out for my well-being, put himself between us as the stranger drew near. As he began to speak to me specifically, Spike glared at him (but at least didn’t growl this time), and the stranger continued on as though ignoring him.

I had already met this stranger a few times before and discovered I disliked him immensely, but to be charitable, I would constantly make time, even for him. This aspect of myself is something Spike has begged me to work on, as it seems to cause trouble—which I found out any time I caught myself letting the stranger ramble.

I forget now what it was he wanted at first. As previously stated, he was the kind of pony who was evidently not a thinker, and would often say what I presume to be the first thing right off the top of his head (or conversely, from desperately scraping the very bottom). I had known this about him even at that point, and usually would simply stand there, out of ill-advised courtesy, and pretend to listen—nodding here, nodding there—until he would finally leave.

This stranger ran his mouth, repeating the same senseless jokes he’d used several times before, and continuing on in ways that made no sense to me. My friend Pinkie Pie has a similar issue of speaking of nonsensical subjects at a rapid pace, but with her, one gets the idea that wherever her mind takes her mouth is an adventure for both her and anypony willing to listen. The stranger lacked this element to his "random-access humor" as he liked to call it, and as a result, his conversations felt less like adventures and more like being dragged into situations one would rather avoid. Fitting.

I was about to fall asleep on my hooves when he finally mentioned something that struck me as a frightening idea.

He told me of his dreams of the future: an “office job” (As if somepony in his position in life were actually employable at this point), and a lovely wife with a daughter he called “Crystal”. Spike snorted as if about to erupt into a cackle, but I gave him a slight shove to remind him of public courtesy. I merely nodded—though actually interested, this time—and began to ask questions: why does he think he can land such a job with no evident education or training, how does he think he can attract and interest a mare long enough to marry her, why he thought “Crystal” would be an acceptable name, how he thinks he could be a decent father…

…Thinking about it now, I realize I asked these questions already knowing his answers to them. They were clearly egotistical and self-pleasing, not to mention laughably delusional. As he elaborated on his nonexistent parenting skills, Spike pulled on my saddlebags to get my attention. He pointed to his wristwatch (The one you got him for Hearth’s-Warming Eve) to remind me that we still needed to pick up the pies for later.

I interrupted the stranger, not to be rude, but to let him know the conversation had ended. As we turned to leave, I suddenly had the apprehensive feeling that he was watching me as I left. Specifically, watching my haunches: his eyes grabbing hungrily at my flanks. I tried not to look behind me, I tried not to check just to make sure he’d left—simply so that I didn’t appear strange while in public. However, Spike looked behind us, and motioned for me to move faster.

This encounter, perhaps the ninth or tenth out of many, was what truly sparked my interest in him. The first was done out of simple curiosity, and if I remember correctly, it was at his welcoming party Pinkie Pie had thrown for him.

It goes without saying that Pinkie Pie is a party pony. She would throw a party for nearly any occasion—once, she even threw a party for the first time one of the Cake twins said his first words (“poop yucky”)—and she would always throw a welcome party to new Ponyville residents.

She would later tell me that she would need some kind of screening for when she decides to throw any future welcoming parties. Easily the worst mistake she’d ever made.

Anyway, my friends and I were all at his welcome party. I found it strange that most of the usual partygoers had left before we’d even arrived. I found it even stranger that those who were left were trying to think of excuses to leave. That probably should have tipped off my friends and I that something was wrong, but at the time, we didn’t know this stranger very well.

Applejack seemed to be his favorite among us, as most of the questions he’d ask, he’d ask her. Many times did she tell him that any questions he had would be better off directed either at me (for general questions regarding Equestria) or at Pinkie Pie (for questions about local goings-on). Applejack would tell me later that his constant glances and complete dismissal of everypony else but himself and her—as if the universe had shrunk down to accommodate only them—grated her nerves. It was not long before she too, decided to drop out of the party.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Pinkie Pie look so crushed at the outcome of one of her parties. Only an hour and a half in, and she had only a hoof-full of guests left. She had some of her best pastries laid out, only for them to have been barely tasted; she had her favorite games out, and they had barely been touched; she had her favorite punch in the punch bowl, but it had barely been drunk. By the end of all this, she’d certainly be in tears.

What caused the abrupt and ugly ending to this party began as soon as the stranger began to eye Rarity. As he did so, I felt a different emotion in the air, almost like fire or lightning. I looked around and saw Spike glaring at the stranger, his teeth bared. I had never seen him this hostile before (Except when he embarked on The Rampage We Don’t Talk About), and as the stranger began to ask questions, they were at first the usual ones. What do you do for a living? That’s interesting. You must be very talented and patient. How are your parents? That’s nice.

Rarity, ever an attention-horse, actually liked the questions she was receiving and answered as honestly and as amicably as she is wont to. Her resolve and attitude began to waver a bit when she noticed he was sizing her, feeling her up and down with his eyes (“One’s greener than the other!”). She retained her good-natured façade as she began to ask him questions.

Questions he answered far too honestly.

Questions to which his answers were enough to make me put my hooves around Spike’s ears while my face went red.

Now you already know about Rainbow Dash and her fierce loyalty to her friends. You’re best to believe she would never stand for the stranger to say all the perverted things he had, and began to bellow at him for his disgusting display. He timidly defended himself as Rainbow Dash came down on him, whole-barrel, demanding an apology for saying the things he had, especially when there was someone as young as Spike present.

I’ll never forget his response. It’s classic. In fact, I demand a t-shirt to be made of it.

“But everypony learns about it eventually.”

My jaw had dropped at that point, and Rainbow Dash had finally had enough. One quick movement, a buck of the foreleg to his jaw, and the stranger was knocked to the ground. I was sure Rainbow Dash was going to jump him and beat him further, so I restrained her. Rarity probably took the better option and merely picked up the stranger with her telekinesis and threw him out of Sugarcube Corner.

Now that I think on it some more, I wonder why I still kept giving him chance after chance. After the party, I should have known to avoid him like the plague. I know most of my friends did, Rarity most of all.

I wish I could say the same for the rest of Ponyville. Believe it or not, there are plenty of ponies here that become attracted to bizarre occurrences and novelties. One in particular, Lyra Heartstrings, is obsessed with the idea of the existence of human beings. When she met the stranger, things really began to go downhill.

Next Chapter: 2. Interview With the Manchild Estimated time remaining: 5 Hours, 38 Minutes