“What? You have got to be kidding me! No way it costs that much!”

The music store clerk just tapped a hoof mindlessly on the countertop, not even looking at the seething customer before him.

“Sorry, I don't make the prices.”

“But it's 'Mule from La Mancha'!” the customer, Patter, shouted. “It's, like, forty years old. No way it costs thirty bits!”

“Well, it's the only one in the store, and last I heard, forty years makes for an antique,” the clerk said with a smug look. This only pissed off Patter more.

“This is an outrage! You win this day for now, wage slave, but I shall make that CD mine.”

Patter stomped away from the counter, leaving behind his desired claim and an ever indifferent-looking clerk.

“Don't let the door hit you on the way out.”

[hr]

Back on the streets of Ponyville, Patter was hardly two yards from the music store when he entered another tirade.

“I can't believe this. After weeks of perusing I finally find my prize, only to have it retained by the greedy claws of capitalism! Such ingrates; how else will I be able to practice singing 'The Impossible Dream'? Hardly any stage company plays it and the Internet still doesn't exist for some reason.”

He turned back to the store to raise a hoof in hateful defiance as he lifted his volume to the heavens.

“Do you not see the suffering you inflict on the everyday consumer, your very life source, ye damned INSECTS!”

A passing mother and child stopped at this exclamation, the mother looking more uncomfortable than perplexed, as her son was.

“Mommy, why is he yelling at the store?”

“It's because he doesn't have friends to teach him better. Always remember that.”

The two scurried away in fear of getting involved in Patter's verbal crusade against the captains of industry. However, instead he turned inward and contemplated deeply, and also vocally.

“Hmm, in order to get what is rightly mine, there is only one logical course of action...”

[hr]

The city of Ponyville, nighttime. A lone hoodied figure stalked up to the music store window, a brick in hoof.

“Anarchy!”

The brick was thrown through the oppressive pane of glass, allowing Patter to hop in and abscond with the captive soundtrack. Unfortunately he then noticed the burgler alarm blaring as he made his exit.

“Who the hell installs an alarm system in this town?”

He didn't have time to further ponder this anomaly as the shouts and rabble of the local law reached his ears. Uttering a swear, he made off for the alleyways, but the cops were hot on his tail. Despite knocking over trashcans and some impromptu parkour, Patter found himself corralled toward the town hall. Rather than stop and surrender, he called upon his musical theatrical spirit and leapt up to the second floor, scaling the roof up to the top. By this time a crowd had gathered and magically-trained spotlights were on him.

“Come down at once or we will fire!” the police chief ordered.

“Never!” Patter cried. “It's my duty, my PRIVILEGE to right your unrightable wrongs, fascists!”

The menace to society continued to climb up from hell for a heavenly cause until he made it to the very precipice of the building. With the grandeur of the moon at his back, Patter brought up his hooves, holding his prize in triumph. Just then there was a gunshot, and the CD flew from Patter's grasp. In desperation he reached out for it, involuntarily leaping from the roof in a dramatic fashion.

“~To reach the unreachable STAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!~”

Thus the tyrant had fallen from his madness along with the cause of his downfall, and many an “iunno” was given that night.