There are a few things I genuinely enjoy in this world.

Quiet Sunday afternoons in my study…

The taste of a freshly baked chocolate donut…

And waking up to the feeling of the morning sun on my face.

Rolling over to my side, I glanced at my alarm clock and let out a ragged sigh. I didn’t need to be up for work in another three hours. I should scratch that last item off my list of things I enjoy and replace it with “a good night’s sleep.” Reaching out, I turned off my alarm clock before getting out of the cozy comfort of my bed. Swinging around, I cursed my late-night endeavors and started to walk towards the bathroom.

The house was tranquil, save for the sound of my hooves as they went clip-clop across the linoleum floor.

I like linoleum. It’s so much easier to clean than carpet.

I opened the solid white door and walked into the equally sparkling-white bathroom. The bathroom is the cleanest room in the house. Well, at my house at least. I go to great pains to make sure the entire building is spotless.

Cleanliness is next to godliness, after all.

I emptied my bladder before meandering over to the mirror and gave myself a once over. My brown mane was disheveled and knotted from last night’s tossing and turning, while my white coat was quite pristine. Its pure sheen should have given me some modicum of comfort.

But it didn’t.

Because of the red splatters going across my face, from the top of my ear to the bottom of my mouth.

“Dear Celestia, I must have been really out of it last night if I went to bed without noticing that…”

Hello.

My name is Daymos.

And I’m a serial killer.

Not the bad kind of serial killer, mind you. I only get rid of the ponies that truly deserve what’s coming to them. I make sure they never do their dark deeds again and sweep them under the carpet, so society never has to worry about them again. As I stepped into the shower, I recalled the events of the night before, and I smiled ear to ear as I reveled in those lovely moments.

The night means a lot to ponies.

A time to sleep.

A time to play.

For me, it means something different.

A time to work.

My job isn’t as fancy as the rest of the ponies out there. I don’t bake, or run a library, or even own a store. Oh no, that’s far too boring and not worthy of my particular skill set. I’m a sort of cleaner. I get rid of all the trash that nobody pays any mind. I can’t wrap my brain around it, though. Every day, they walk with it. They talk with it. They touch it. And yet they are completely blind to what they are. It’s like they don’t — or can’t — notice the scum around them every day. So in comes dear, diligent Daymos to do what he does best.

Clean.

And that’s just what I did that night.

Nopony knew (or cared to acknowledge) that there was a stalker in our midst. He had been peeping in windows and watching mares as they dress and undress, lusting after their form. Personally, I’ve never been able to figure out what’s so great about sex. It’s just two pony’s bodily fluids mixing as they pant and sweat and curse, and it’s all just...

Unclean.

But such an unclean act didn’t deter this dirty dog. One mare, in particular, had caught his eye that night: the owner of the Carousel Boutique. I forget her name, but she’s quite a skilled designer.

I have an apron she made me that never stains, no matter how much blood gets on it. I love that apron, and how it feels against my coat.

But back to the stalker.

Every night, just like clockwork, he would sneak in through the front door, via the key in the fake rock by the planter.

It never ceases to amaze me how far people will go to make themselves feel safe; everything from putting heavy-duty locks on their door, to carrying a switchblade while prowling an unsuspecting mare’s home.

It’s also amazing how easy these things fail to help you when you don’t implement them correctly. Like hiding your key in a fake rock so anyone can get in your house. Or not watching your back while somepony watches you sneak through someone else’s home.

Once in, he would put his hooves on everything he could find. I’ve watched him root around dresser drawers for undergarments and other lacy things, only to put his nose right in them and breathe deeply.

Disgusting.

Last night, he made his move.

But I was there waiting.

Because I knew.

Other than cleaning, I have another unique talent: Watching. I’m very good at it and can notice the little details that no-one else sees. So, while I was enjoying a nice little lunch at the local café, I watched. I saw a mare trying to hide a horrible hangover from her friends as they enjoyed themselves. I saw a gruff stallion raise his hoof to get the check, only to have his girlfriend flinch in fear.

And then I saw what I was looking for.

The dirty dog was eating his lunch, trying to act as normal as possible. But I could see it in his eyes. Something lurked behind that mask of normalcy, and when it slipped, I saw what no one else did.

It was the way he looked at the waiter as she came over with his check. He looked at her the same way a hydra would regard a pony.

He was hungry.

A hunger filled him that was so strong, no amount of soup or salad or pastries could fill it.

He needed something more.

I had to confirm my suspicions, however. I’m a neat and tidy monster who likes to leave no stone unturned. And do you realize how much trouble I could get in if I cleaned an innocent pony?

I needed proof.

Luckily, I have a friend on the force. It’s odd, though. I didn’t even try to befriend him. He was on vacation, visiting his brother here in Ponyville, and he required my services.

No, not those services. He spilled some expensive wine on an equally expensive suit and needed a professional to ensure it would look just like the day he bought it.

But can you imagine? A police-issued pass to do whatever my dark heart desired... Cleaning without a care in the world... A stallion can dream, can’t he?

I sent a letter via dragon to his desk at the Canterlot Police Department about how worried I was of home robberies and burglaries in the area. When I asked him if there was anything like that going on in his neck of the woods, he was more than happy to tell me all I needed to know.

I like Windsor and all, but he can be quite the jabber-mouth. All you need to do is ask him how his day was, and he’ll give you his autobiography and notarize it to boot... and that’s why I’m his friend. Because all I have to do is ask, and he tells.

He said that a serial rapist was arrested but somehow managed to escape by picking the lock on his cell with a bobby pin. Sure, I was impressed by the ingenuity, but I was disappointed by his track record.

All of his victims were tied up and raped for what police deduced were hours. And once he was done, he would slash their throat with whatever he could find in the house. Sometimes it took hours for the victims to bleed out.

Messy.

Brutal.

Unclean.

He went onto say that every victim was single and very good looking.

Just like the owner of the Carousel Boutique.

And when I asked what he looked like, he gave me a complete description: medium height, medium build, gray coat, brown mane, open padlock cutie mark.

And wouldn’t you know it? I was staring at the pony, fitting the description right that second, opening the door to what he thought was his latest score.

But he didn’t know.

He didn’t see.

He had no idea.

He was next. He was going to be cleaned and swept under the carpet.

And there I was, patiently waiting in the back of the Carousel Boutique, knife at the ready, waiting.

Luckily, the owner of that fine establishment had business to attend elsewhere and was out of town. That didn’t stop the prowler—not me, the other one—from making his way into the shop, hoping to find what he thought was a distracted young mare, hoof deep in intense work.

And why did he think this?

Because he couldn’t resist the little trap I set.

When the waiter of the Cafe came to my table with the check, I may or may not have said — rather loudly — that I wanted to get a new apron, but the owner of the Carousel Boutique was locked tight in her shop; busy with a large order and would be up all night. I went onto say that she was so busy, that she didn’t even notice when I wandered into her shop.

He took the bait: hook, line, and sinker.

His eyes darted around the pitch-black abyss before him before he moved slowly and carefully across the showroom floor. I did my best not to scoff aloud. He was an amateur. He may have known how to pick a lock, but he didn’t know the first thing about moving silently. His hoof-falls were loud enough that anyone in the building could hear him and get help before he even got half-way across the showroom floor. He continued to wander around the boutique before stopping and staring at the light at the top of the stairs.

A light I left on, just for him.

He started to walk past me Dear Celestia, he smelled filthy and didn’t seem to notice the glint of metal that shined right behind him.

The blade came down in one fluid motion.

His life ended right there at the base of the stairs.

Neat.

Clean.

Tidy.

He didn’t even have time to ask himself, ‘What happened?’

I reached out and grabbed hold of the pull cord of a nearby lamp to get a better look at my work.

There he lies, his face frozen in a mix of confusion and fright. It almost looked like he realized what just happened when he hit the floor. I knew just where to cut, so the blood pooled inside his body, not the floor. This made clean up a breeze. I grabbed a part of my apron and ran my blade through to get the blood off. Feeling self-indulgent, I gave the knife a little flourish as I cleaned it.

That’s where the blood splatter must have come from.

Pouring myself a bowl of cereal, I mulled over the fact that good body disposal is such a difficult thing to come by here in Ponyville. The graveyard was a prime choice at first, but it’s far too open, and ponies take notice when a fresh grave-plot had been dug. I was tempted to give up and just chuck the bodies in the lake, but I’m better than that and smart enough to figure out my own way.

The basement.

While it seems like a horrible choice, being so close to me and could even risk implicating me one day if I was ever arrested, it’s the only choice I’ve got. It’s quite spacious, has enough room for years of future projects, and the only way you could hear the digging is if you were sitting right in my living room.

Not only that, but it was nice knowing I could visit my trophies anytime I wanted.

With the last of my meager breakfast finished, I went over my mental list for the day.

I need to deliver that refurbished candelabra to that unicorn over at the library and then pay a visit to the Carousel Boutique and see if I can get a pair of fore-boots and a face mask, so I don’t get so much blood on me next time.

I figured the best use of my free time would be spent hitting up Sugarcube Corner for some baked goods.

You know, for a job well done, and to celebrate last night’s accomplishment.

I like Sugarcube Corner. It’s such a bright and colorful place.

And it’s always clean.

I’m a frequent customer of Sugarcube Corner and know the ponies who work there on a first-name basis. They all know me, simply because of my eating habits: A fresh cup of coffee and a chocolate doughnut.

I usually get the same thing every day, but today, I felt like enjoying myself. I grab my wallet before I make my way out the door and into the streets of Ponyville, just as its citizens began to wake.

These warm summers’ morning is a welcome reprieve from my stuffy basement…

The street was just barely illuminated by Celestia’s rising sun, and almost every light was turned off as the ponies inside tried to get a few more winks.

Almost all the lights.

Sugarcube Corner was one of the first shops to open and last to close, another reason why I like it. There was only one thing that got on my nerves when I came to get my morning doughnut. All I could hope for was the door opening quietly enough, so she didn’t hear.

Ding-Ding!

I winced at the sound of the new bell above the door. In the back of the kitchen, I could already hear her telltale gasp, followed by an excited squeal. I put on my best smile and walk up to the front of the counter as she comes bounding towards me.

Pinkie Pie.

She was such an oddity, not only to me but the other residents of Ponyville. She’s always happy and always laughing, even when there was no reason behind it. Her good mood was contagious, somehow, and I always felt a little more delighted to see her.

But I hated how she always greeted me.

I braced myself for what was going to happen next. Here she comes, running towards me at full gallop. In one swift and fluid movement, she wraps her hooves around my neck and hugs me tightly.

I hate being touched.

Her body was warm and sweaty against my own clean and tidy coat. I could even feel some of the flour she must have spilled on herself from the morning baking. Slowly, I pulled away from her embrace and resisted shuddering while I carefully wiped myself off.

“Hiya Daymos! How’s my favorite stallion doing?” Pinkie asked, half-giggling.

I have this odd talent for attracting friends, even when I never ask for them. All I had to do to become Windsor’s friend was just to listen. For Pinkie, it was just to talk. She admitted that she loved to talk and have somepony to talk to, but because she had to get up early, she was ‘all by her lonesome.’

Her words, not mine.

And talking with her was a welcome exchange for my daily sugar fix. I cleared my throat and adjusted the mask before finally speaking.

“Hello, Ms. Pie. I’m doing quite well. How are you?”

How good it was to have my mask back on.

My second skin.

I’ve learned over the years that ponies are far less likely to pay attention to you if you smile and act politely and ask them how their day was and other meaningless things like that. You see, this is my secret to being such the productive monster that I am. When you show interest in them, they think you care about them. In turn, they care about you. And it’s always nice to have a few good character witnesses.

Just in case.

“Oh, I’m super!” the overly bombastic mare cried, “I just woke up like an hour ago and started baking and made a pot of coffee! Want some?”

I reached into my wallet and withdrew two bits to place on the table, “That would be lovely, thank you. May I also get the usual?”

Pinkie frowned as she hopped over to the coffeepot. “Oh, come on, Daymos! Every day it’s the same thing! Why don’t you mix it up and try something different! We got bear claws, danishes, éclairs—”

I raised a hoof to stop her from going further. “No, it’s alright. I’m quite content with my chocolate doughnut for now.”

She lifted her shoulders in a small half-shrug and set the cup of coffee down on the counter.

“Okie Dokie Lokie! The doughnuts will be ready in just a teensy-bit. I just threw them into the fryer.”

While Pinkie Pie’s overly ecstatic personality was an odd juxtaposition to my own somber self, I couldn’t help but actually like her.

Maybe it’s just nice to hear someone laugh around you, instead of scream.

Making my way for one of the nearby booths, I sit myself down and reach for the morning paper. I stop for a moment and ponder the headline.

LOCAL MARE FOUND DEAD IN BATHTUB

Could it be? Did I get to sweep another lowly soul under the carpet, not even day after my latest escapade?

Sadly, no.

As I dived into the article, I quickly realized that it wasn’t a murder, but a suicide. A mare on the weather patrol by the name of Honeysuckle had slashed her wrists and bled out. I couldn’t help but be a little saddened.

The kind of trash I clean is few and far between here in Ponyville, if not nonexistent at times.

Not like Manehattan...

Such a beautiful city...

But alas, my services were not required. There was literally nothing I could do; a pony died, and there was no one to blame.

Pinkie set the plate down on the table, jarring me out of my thoughts. Her smile was quickly dashed and replaced with a deep frown as she stared at the headline.

“Oh no… That’s just terrible…” she said, sadly. “I can’t believe she’s gone…”

“Did you know her?”

Pinkie took a seat across from me and nodded somberly, lacking her usual vigor. “Well… sorta. She was quiet and kept to herself. I tried to make friends with her, but she just sort of ran away... I just can’t believe she’d...”

I wasn’t as shaken as Pinkie was, but I did my best to act like it was getting to me.

“Yes, it is pretty sad.” Grief is one of the harder things for me to fake.

“Why would she do that? I mean, why would anyone...”

I scanned the article to look for the right piece of information to help answer that question. “Well, I’m sure the suicide letter wo—”

This, I did not expect. There was no mention of any suicide letter of any kind.

“The suicide letter...”

This made no sense. A young mare killed herself in such a dramatic fashion, yet leaves no note behind?

Pinkie pushed my shoulder as I started to stare off into the distance. “Are you okay?” she asked, with overtones of worry.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I nodded quickly. “Just... thinking.”

An awkward silence filled the air as I wracked my brain for some sort of answer to this question: What about the note — or lack thereof, rather?

The sound of sniffling broke my concentration just then and forced me to pay attention to Pinkie once more. She was wiping tears out of her eyes as she looked at the picture of Honeysuckle on the front page, still alive and still smiling.

I reached out, tentatively, and put a hoof on her shoulder. “It’s... It’s going to be okay.”

“I know... It’s just... What if she... What if she did what she did because she was lonely? Or sad? What if I tried harder to be her friend? Then she wouldn’t’ve—”

I grabbed hold of her shoulders before she could go any further and looked her in the eyes. “Pinkie, stop.”

She avoided my gaze: she was close to breaking down again.

“It’s not your fault. If there was something wrong, there was no way you could know. And I’m sure you would have done everything you could to help her if you did.”

I guess my words carried some weight because her tears stopped just as quickly as they started. “T-Thanks... I’m just being silly...”

Once again, she pulled me in for another hug. But I couldn’t throw her off like I wanted to. She was sad. And normal ponies comfort sad ponies...

After what feels like a lifetime, she lets go and slumps back into her seat, looking a lot less bubbly then her usual self.

As much as I wanted to just get lost in my confectionery, I knew there was something I had to do.

“Pinkie?”

“Hmm? Watch’ya need, Daymos?”

“Is there any way I could get a bag to go? I just realized I have to see someone in a little while, and I don’t want to be late.”

“Oh, sure!” She got up and started to hop towards the counter again.

“Hey, you know, Daymos... I know you’re busy all the time, but maybe you can stop by later, and we can chat? Maybe get something to eat?” she asked as she bent down and disappeared behind the counter.

I tried to think of the best way to say no. I still had a bit of trash waiting for me in my basement that needed to be ‘swept under the rug.’ If I waited any longer, it would start to rot.

“I don’t thi—”

I stop as I finally take a look at the pastry she made for me. A series of red sprinkles were arranged into a heart on the doughnut.

I don’t know what came over me when she trotted over with that bag in her mouth.

“I’d love to,” I said as I took the bag from her. “I’ll be seeing you then, Pinkie.”

A broad smile crept across her face before she let out one of her characteristic giggles. “Great! I’ll see you later, alligator!”

She was already looking like herself again.

I put the doughnut into the bag before walking out the bakery in a hurry, leaving Pinkie to get back to work while she hummed some sort of upbeat tune.

I trotted rather quickly up the street, partly to get away from Pinkie before she decided to touch me again.

But mostly because I wanted to find the house where that mare killed herself.

Something didn’t sit right in my gut.