Sirecago is possibly the worst city in the world. I do not know why anypony lives here.

I am cold. This is not snow, it is ice, and it is everywhere.

The police stole my wallet.

The skyline is nice, I suppose.

A dour secretary greets me at an ugly wooden desk. I heard that Vela Flicker goes through secretaries like a sick pony goes through tissues. The last one apparently lost her job for smiling.

The interior is an unpleasant mix of wood and rust-colored brick. There are doors along the walls, and a secretary’s desk that looks like somepony just dragged in from outside and put in an unused corner. The walls curve in, making the space feel cramped, yet it’s actually big enough for the misuses of space to be obvious.

This daughter bank is so ugly. Not plain like the Ponyville bank. Just ugly, like no pony cared.

“Ms. Flicker?” the secretary quavers, clearly aware that this could be her last moment as an employed mare. She knocks. “The reporter is here to interview you.”

The unmarked wooden door does not open at first. I swear it is located next to a door marked “supply closet.” There are stairs. I’m told Ms. Flicker had an office on the highest floor.

Finally it opens. I hear the weariest sigh. “What?”

“It’s the—”

“Not talking to you.” Louder: “What?”

I realize she is speaking to me. “I’m here to interview you for Canterlot Monthly. We arranged the appointment—”

“What appointment? You’re wasting my time!”

“There’s an appointment with a reporter now,” the secretary says in the strangely calm voice of those who see the end approaching fast and accept their fate. “I told you, I left you a note, I wrote it in the schedule you asked me to keep.”

“You did what?” I’m shocked to hear what sounds like genuine unhappiness in Vela Flicker’s voice. She sounds like a filly who’s been surprised with a doctor’s appointment for her birthday.

“I did what you told me to.”

“I didn’t tell you to do that! I’m busy! I don’t want to talk to some stupid reporter!”

I take exception to that, but it is my task to write down what I observe, so here it is, faithful subscribers: Vela Flicker, who recently saved the world, thinks I’m stupid.

“We had this conversation—”

“We did not! Get out! Close the door!”

“Ms. Flicker—”

“Now!” She is screaming.

“Do not shout at me!”

“You’re worthless!”

“I quit!”

“You can’t quit!” A brown Unicorn with a blotchy face distorted with rage follows her out of the office, the secretary storming away, her hoofs pounding across the brick floor. “You’re fired!”

The secretary brushes past me and disappears out the door.

Vela Flicker is the plainest-looking Unicorn I’ve ever seen. Her brown hair falls over her brown coat with no style or cut. She wears no makeup, and she looks at me with no expression.

“You lost me a secretary.” Her voice is as calm as a rattlesnake’s stare.

“Hi, I’m the stupid reporter.”

She walks back into her office, slams the door shut so hard that it bangs off the wall and opens back up. I hear something slam on what is probably a table and an angry, frustrated scream. Then silence, then two dry sobs, then silence.

I poke the door further open. “We do, in fact, have an interview scheduled right now.” She fixes me in a red-rimmed glare. “Is everything okay?”

“Drop dead.”

I take it as an invitation and sit down. There’s a letter on the table, which she quickly sweeps onto the floor behind the desk. “What’s that?”

She stares at the table. There are dents in it about the size and shape of a mare’s hoofs. “A very confusing letter,” she says after a long pause, surprising me. “From Cumulosa Coruscanta.”

“Who?”

“The economist.”

“Does she work at a daughter bank?”

She shrugs. “Maybe things are different over there, I don’t know.”

“Can I ask you some ahhh-ahhhh. Oh Celestia.”

Lounging in the corner of the room, more claustrophobic than actually small, is a giant Cragadile. One stony eye rolls toward me. I wish I could say that my eyes roamed up the green-brown crags on its back that shudder with each long, slow breath, a miniature mountain inflating and compressing, but my eyes were fixated on its teeth, the sharp teeth hanging outside its closed mouth.

Many thoughts flash through a pony’s mind when his life is about to end. Will my wife move on? Will ponies cry at my funeral? Does my life insurance policy cover giant rock lizards?

“Don’t mind Murdertooth,” Vela says. My eyes snap on hers. Slowly, a wry smile emerges on the plain face.

“Actually, his name is Grandfather. Named after the first thing he ate out of my office. He saves on waste by chewing up papers that don’t replicate.”

It takes a few squeaks for me to find my voice. There are tooth marks in the wall. The brick wall.

“C-C-Can I ask you some questions?”

“You’re cute.”

“Y-Yes.”

“Ask.”

Can we please move away from the Cragadile?

No.

I will urinate. I mean it.

That’s not a question.

[Removed a long debate about where to hold the interview. Suffice to say Ms. Flicker won. —Ed]

There, are you happy? Your office is going to smell for days.

Don’t throw those paper towels in my rubbish bin! Put it outside!

Fine, can we start the interview now? Can you explain a little bit about the Crisis of Faith?

That’s overblown. It would have only destroyed the world eventually. A lot of things are going to destroy the world eventually. All that really happened was a lot of garbage papers that didn’t replicate or prove what they claimed. No, that’s not what concerns me.

What about the Crisis seems important to you?

For every cheat, there were two fools.

Do you think standards should be raised?

I’m an economist. I believe in incentives. Standards and regulations don’t address incentives. Could worsen them, actually, if they hurt competition, or change what margins economists compete on.

Your former classmate Nova Flare described the problem in a recent article as “too many papers, not enough criticism.” Do you agree with that?

Criticism is costly. And written by the same ponies whose studies are failing.

Some critics have said your strategy in dealing with the crisis consisted primarily of mass firings. How would you characterize your actions?

Mass firings.

Okay. Why is that not a bad thing?

Is it a good use of voluntary defense funds to pay researchers whose research is less than worthless? I said incentives matter. The quality of papers has risen noticeably already; I’ll have an analysis out next week.

Is fear really the best motivator?

Part of it’s selection. We don’t have to waste our time on the bad ones now. Honestly I estimate about 2 percent of economists are responsible for at least fifty percent of the research in terms of scientific value.

But I don’t think fear is the best motivator. Laziness is. Scientists will produce the least passable research. If passable research is bad research, then you get lots of bad research.

How is that different from raising standards?

Because I didn’t raise standards. There’s no new rules to game, no new criteria to target. I just get rid of everypony I don’t like, and then I’m happy. Well. I’m never happy.

What about the researchers? Don’t you feel bad for them?

Do you want me to feel things, or do you want me to be good at my job?

Onto other subjects. It’s nearly the start of a New Year. How would you evaluate the performance of the daughter banks at this time?

Princess Celestia couldn’t have picked a better group to head the banks. Every macroeconomic indicator is in good shape. The only problem is how disagreeable some ponies are being, but once they see how right we are, they’ll stop arguing. Or just get fired. Isn’t that right, Grandfather?

I see…and Nightmare Moon, are the Daughters actively looking for her? Princess Celestia has not announced her capture.

Nightmare Moon is somepony only Princess Celestia can deal with. Our role is to make sure she can never seize too much power at once if she ever gains the upper hoof again.

Then—

I have work to do.

But—

I’m done. The interview is over.

How about a last comment?

Empty my rubbish bin before you leave.

Author's Notes:

Vela Flicker steadfastly ignored The Genetical Theory of Natural Selection talking to her for almost a month before she gave in and read it.

No December edition this year.