A Midnight Legend Press Production

Charmingly Rustic

Written By: Your Antagonist & Starwind Dood

Edited By: The WattsMan

Chapter 2: Painting the Town with... With Mud!

Big Macintosh followed Fancy Pants through the crowded streets of Canterlot, and quickly noted that, of all the ponies that passed by, most of them were well dressed and shot him disapproving looks. Some would mutter things under their breath that he couldn’t make out, but was almost certain were aimed at his rustic appearance.

Trotting quickly to catch up with Fancy Pants, the red stallion voiced his dismay for the situation: “Mr. Pants, everypony keeps starin’ at me. Have Ah done somethin’ to offend 'em?”

“Not at all, Big Macintosh, it’s just the way the atmosphere around here is, doesn’t suit somepony as...” Fancy Pants gave Big Macintosh a once over and realised the issue lay in wardrobe, or lack thereof. “As passe as yourself,” he concluded with a forced grin.

“What does that mea--” Big Macintosh ceased his inquiry halfway as he squinted at something in the distance. “Say, Mr. Pants, don’t they look familiar to you?”

Fancy Pants looked at the spot his new companion was focused on and noticed a familiar mass of photographers and journalists heading in their direction. “Oh dear.” He searched around frantically for some port in the approaching storm, and his eyes fell upon a very familiar boutique that he’d conducted business in several times before: “Fendi la Pouf”. “Come with me, Big Macintosh,” Fancy Pants casually cantered towards the shop in question.

“Right behind ya, Mr. Pants.” The pair made their way into the store trying to maintain as low a profile as possible, lest somepony recognize Fancy Pants and shout his name.

"And what are we doing in here, Mr. Pants?" the country stallion wondered.

"Hopefully calling in a favor," Fancy Pants groaned. He didn't look forward to conversing with one of the biggest names in fashion, but he liked the idea better than wading through hundreds of hungry paparazzi leeches just waiting to suck out more of his life.

Fancy Pants led Big Macintosh through the eccentrically built store. Fashion designers saw themselves as artists and demanded to put their ego in every little thing they did, but nopony dared to speak up against it. After more left turns than should be architecturally possible, Fancy Pants found himself facing the door at the rear of the store. He levitated out an assortment of keys and began sifting through them. "Which one, which one?" he mumbled. "Ah! Here we are!" With the proper key located, he was able to open the door. The door opened to Hoity Toity's personal studio where the owner was always at work.

"Fancy Pants?" Hoity Toity gawked. "And just what are you doing here?"

"Same old, same old. Dodging vultures and what not, but now with company at the least." Good company.

Hoity Toity adjusted his sunglasses, giving Big Macintosh a once-over. "You make rather odd friends, Fancy Pants."

"Odd?" Big Macintosh repeated quizzically. "Personally, Ah find your whole city odd. Pony cain't walk around five feet without being assaulted by reporters." Fancy Pants could barely hold in his laughter over the honest and frank answer.

The pretentious pony simply turned up his snout at Big Macintosh. "So just why are you here, Fancy Pants?"

"I'm trying to sneak away from those reporters. Your boutique just happened to be conveniently close, and you did give me a key for all our work together. Would you mind if I procured a wardrobe for myself and my new acquaintance?"

"Fine, just take what you need, and go," the high-strung fashion designer sighed. "And please don't track mud everywhere, I'm trying to work."

"Interesting work you got going?" Big Macintosh said with a smirk.

"Just go!" Hoity Toity yelled, pointing at the door.

Once they left the office, they were faced with the labyrinth of the boutique’s sales-floor yet again. "Well, let’s see if we can’t make ourselves unrecognizable, what do you say, Big Macintosh?”

“Lead the way Mr. Pants, and please, my friends call me Big Mac.”

Friends? Big Mac? Yes! Fancy Pants almost giggled aloud, but stifled it in favor of his cool demeanor. Wandering the various and seemingly infinite jungles of mare’s clothing and accessories, Fancy Pants finally found the stallion’s section of the store.

“Hmmm... what to do first?” Fancy Pants turned to Big Macintosh, who only beamed casually. In that moment, Fancy Pants was struck by inspiration for an ensemble that would help his companion fit into Canterlotian society.

Big Macintosh was taken aback as his fancily-dressed new friend began pushing him through various parts of the male clothing section, holding up various articles of clothing and pressing them up against Big Macintosh. Over the course of fifteen minutes, a transformation occurred that changed Bic Macintosh from simple country pony to somepony that could have very well stumbled out of a modeling catalogue of finer western wear. He currently wore: a tan sports coat with a matching Stetson hat, a blue undershirt, and brown aviator sunglasses.

Fancy Pants took a moment to step back and admire his work. Quite the look. He could have any mare he wanted Fancy Pants thought with a sigh. "Do you like it?" he asked, finding himself too eager for a positive answer.

"I haven't had this much fun gettin’ gussied up in awhile. I usually have wear stuffy black coats..." Big Macintosh gave a quick look to Fancy Pants and his stuffy black coat. "My apologies."

"None taken," Fancy Pants answered with a quick laugh. "I dare say the stuffy look suits me."

"Yeah, you look good in a coat, Mr. Pants."

You think so? Fancy Pants shook his head. "Thank you, but now let's see about making me disappear." He took a quick dip into the hat aisle and a turn to the sunglasses rack. Fancy Pants had dawned a fedora hat with a pair of Oatley's sunglasses. "How do I look?"

"Now you just look silly," the cowcolt commented.

"Then the illusion is complete," Fancy Pants laughed. "Now let's see about getting ourselves out of here. Hold yourself with dignity, Big Mac. Believe me when I say those parasprites wouldn't know the meaning of the word it if it bit them on the flank."

Fancy Pants and Big Macintosh casually trotted out of Hoity Toity's boutique. The paparazzi ponies didn't recognize them, allowing the two stallions to cut through the crowd and get away, unharassed.

"Glad that's over with," Big Macintosh groaned. "How do you put up with it?"

"I ask myself that every day. I guess after a certain point it just becomes routine, but I certainly cannot complain about a lack of excitement in my life,” Fancy Pants chuckled.

“Well, where to next?”

“Are you an avid art enthusiast Big Mac?”

“Cain’t say Ah’m too fond of spendin’ my hard earned bits to gaze at somepony’s fancy scribblins, Mr. Pants.”

Fancy Pants chuckled to himself before continuing, “Neither am I Big Mac, but let’s visit a gallery anyway, it’ll give us something to do until dinner.”

“You’re the boss, Mr. Pants.”

Somewhere in the home office of “The Canterlot Chronicler” newspaper, a very nervous brown earth-pony intern, balancing a cup of coffee on his back, stood outside the office of the greatest mudslinging investigative journalist to ever write for the paper: “Hot Tip.”

The intern reached up carefully to knock on the door, but before his hoof could make contact with the wood, the door swung open, and a hoof shot out seizing him by him mane and dragging him into the room, slamming the door shut behind him. When the interns vision finally caught back up with him, he realized he was currently face to face with a veiny-eyed, disheveled gray pegasus stallion sporting a sweat stained dress shirt with a soup stained tie, topped off with a greasy and horribly out of sorts mane.

“Alright Skip, what’s the skinny? I need this story and for you to spin it quick, time is opportunity, and you’re no lottery yourself, so what can I do ya for? The name’s Hot Tip by the way.”

The intern recovered from the onslaught of rapid fire lingo and managed to stutter out “Uh... um... coffee for you, careful it’s--” Hot Tip seized the cup of coffee from the intern’s back and downed the beverage like a desert strandee being handed a glass of ice water “--Hot.”

Hot Tip shook his head spasmodically as the caffeine hit his system, and gazed at the intern with renewed focus. “Coffee, kid. In this line of work it’s what water is to a fish, because sleep is for the weak and untalented. Anyway, Bill, what do ya want?”

“Actually, Mr. Hot Tip, sir, my name is--”

“Frank, I don’t have time to play these guessing games! Can’t you see I’m in the middle of a big breakthrough?”

The intern looked around the office and saw only a massive mess of papers and strings connected to pins sticking out of various walls giving the office the feel of a spider’s web.

“Uh, no sir, and my name is--”

Hot Tip held up a hoof to silence the intern. “Wait a minute, Jack,” --The intern sighed-- “Can you smell that?” Hot Tip began sniffing the air with fervent enthusiasm. The intern attempted to sniff the air as well but was only rewarded with the stench that emanated from Hot Tip, who was now running on three days without showering.

“No sir I can’t and my name is--”

“I smell a scoop! Scoop... scoop... kid your new name is now... ‘Scoop’!” --The intern face hoofed-- “C’mon, Scoop, and step lively. There’s a story in these halls, I can smell it.” Hot Tip dashed out of the office and wove through the cubicles to reach the elevators with remarkable speed; his newly appropriated intern in tow.

“Well then Charlie-- Charlie?” Hot Tip glanced around for his non-existent intern and tapped his hoof impatiently as the intern galloped up out of breath. “Well, it’s about time, Fred.”

“Mr. Hot Tip, sir, my name isn’t Fred. It’s--”

“No time for idle jibber-jabber, Sam, there’s a scoop to be caught!"

The reporter quickly took note that he was not alone in the elevator, and turned to the other pony he quickly recognized as Photo finish. With a grin, he addressed her, “My, my my, is that Photo Finish I spy?”

Photo Finish took note of this, turning her head giving him a once over before audibly gagging to express her malcontent in two words: “Filzee Parasprite.”

“Ouch, doll. You really struck me in the ticker with that one.” Hot Tip dramatically clasped a hoof to his chest

Photo Finish sighed and began to chastise Hot Tip, “First Fancy Pants, zen you? Heh.. A thief and a mudslinger in ze same day, what are ze odds?”

This kindled immediate interest in the reporter’s eyes. “A thief, you say? Jimmy, write this down: ‘Finagled Fashionista frets with the Frugal Philanthrope: Fancy Pants’. That’s front page stuff right there. Now, who’s this mudslinger you mentioned?”

Photo Finish didn’t bother making eye contact for her retort, “You are an eediot.”

“And you, Ms. Finish, are a lead in this story. Now just what is it going to take for me to get you to spill?”

Photo Finish opened her mouth to fire out another insult, but closed it just as quickly, pondering this situation and how it could be used to her advantage. "I 'ave considered your proposal, but I will only cooperate on ze grounds that you will ruin him, yes?”

“My dear Photo Finish, on my journalistic integrity,” --This idea of “integrity” being associated in any way with this stallion prompted a chuckle from Photo Finish-- “ I will drag his reputation lower than my dignity, and that is a promise.”

"Vat dignity?” The elevator finally stopped and with the doors open: Photo Finish, the intern and Hot Tip stepped into the lobby.

“Exactly, now let’s talk turkey.”

"Mr. Pants, not meanin’ to sound ungrateful, but Ah’ve got no idea what Ah’m supposed to be lookin’ at.”

“Big Mac, I do believe this is what they call ‘modern art’, but I suppose there’s some kind of abstract value to be found upon it if one were to scrutinize it intensely,” Fancy Pants leaned forward and squinted at the multi-colored canvas attempting to find some artistic merit in the eyesore.

“Well, Ah don’t know what you’re lookin’ for, but to me it just looks like somepony ate paint and upchucked it on paper.”

Fancy Pants burst into laughter, garnering the attention of everypony in the gallery. “Oh, my goodness, Big Mac, ha ha, that’s absolutely rich! Upchucked on paper, an astoundingly honest deduction. We need more of that in this city.”

Someponies behind the two overheard Fancy Pants’ remark and expressing the beguiled nature that was a trademark of Canterlot’s residents, they began scrutinizing the painting as well.  

“Huh, when you made that comment back there, all of them other ponies started tearin’ that paintin’ a new one.”

“Such is Canterlot, Big Mac. Everypony follows somepony who breaks the mold, and I suppose that’s how I got to where I am today. But enough about that then, how about we find something that can be appreciated." Fancy Pants lead Big Macintosh through the museum, searching for a specific exhibit that had always caught Fancy Pants' eye.

At the end of the hall was a statue known as the thinking stallion. "What's this, Mr. Pants?"

"The thinking horse, depicting a stallion deep within his thoughts. It suggests the more mental nature of our being, about sitting down, and looking at life."

"Mr. Pants,"

"Yes?"

"Ah do that every day on the john," Big Macintosh replied.

"Really?" the unicorn turned back to the statue, suppressing a giggle. "I suppose that is the easiest time to reflect on life."

"Only time. Working the farm: that's my life, and it ain’t what Ah call a relaxin’ one."

"That's... a shame," Fancy Pants replied.

"Eenope. It's something to be enjoyed when Ah get to."

"Something you enjoy, you say?" Do I enjoy my life here? "I dare say you're quite like the thinking horse here. Quiet, contemplative, why you even have a similar physique."

"Ah wouldn't quite call myself the thinkin' type, and you're quite built yourself."

"Well," Fancy Pants examined his body, "the world expects me to look good, so I must oblige."

"You do a good job at it."

"Wha-"

"Well if it isn't Fancy Pants! How are you doin’, baby?" a loud and boisterous voice called out.

Fancy Pants audibly and physically groaned. "Sapphire Shores. I never took you for a mare of art."

"Music is art, baby, and art loves me," the gaudy pony replied. "I was invited here by the curator if you must know, probably to drum up some business, but I just can't ignore an invitation." Sapphire turned to Big Macintosh. "And just who are you?" she asked with an inviting grin.

"Ah'm Big Macintosh," the stallion answered, completely shocked by the audacious behaviour of the mare.

"Mmm, big I'm sure," she playfully replied.

"Traditionally, you're expected to be quiet in a museum, Ms. Shores."

"I'll let you know when I give a damn about what anypony else expects of me, Fancy baby, and I can tell by the company you keep” --She eyed Big Macintosh hungrily and gave a little growl-- “you don’t either.”

"Mr. Pants?" the embarrassed stallion turned back to Fancy Pants, his eyes begging for some way out from the sassy lemon-cream mare.

"Yes, well, if you'll excuse us, Ms. Shores, Mr. Macintosh and I have some business to attend to over dinner. Enjoy the rest of your day," he said curtly.

"Oh I will," Sapphire Shores replied, "and I hope you have plenty of fun on your dinner date."

Fancy Pants flinched for a moment.

"Have fun now, baby," Sapphire Shores waved goodbye as she went on her way, strutting her glamor across the museum.

"Er, yes, I will," Fancy Pants mumbled. There were many terms he had for Sapphire Shores after working with her so many times prior: narcissistic, eccentric, diva, lustful, irking. Always flying from party to party, and shoving her face wherever she could, but slightly hard to peg. He turned back to Big Macintosh. “Shall we, Big Mac?”

“Lead the way, Mr. Pants.”

As the pair strode casually out of the museum, into the crowded Canterlot streets, an audible click could be heard.