Die Writing

The goat story

Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on November 10, 2010


For Amy C.

Warning: lots of profanity in this one. If that’s not your thing, don’t read. Seriously. FOUL.


The goat was looking for a fight. He set the hooves wide and leaned on the bar, sneering and squinting at the sparse crowd. The bartender parked on the far side of the bar, near the phone.

“What a buncha sorry losers.” The goat bent down and stuck its long tongue in the whiskey glass. “Fuck you,” he said to no one in particular.

“Did someone say something?” The goat asked in dead silence. People shifted uncomfortably. “Oh… I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to interrupt your fucking party, but y’all are fucking assholes!”

“Baaa…” someone said sheepishly.

“Wazzat?” The goat spun around with surprising agility. “Did you fucking say something? Did one of you fuckers say something? ‘Cause I swear it sounded like someone said something, and that shit was racist! Fuck you!”

Another lick from the whiskey glass. “What a buncha fags.”

People stared at the wall and their pints, trying hard not to make eye contact with the goat.

The goat leaned to its right and stared at the man on the next stool. The goat swayed a little bit, trying hard to center his gaze. The man looked straight ahead, tense.

“Fuck you,” said the goat. “Your mother is a whore.” The goat spoke slowly, deliberately, grinning.

“Baaaaaaa…” said the man, unsure of himself.

“You wanna go? You wanna go, asshole? Let’s do this! Bitch, I got horns like a motherfucker! I’ll…” the goat suddenly froze up. A bubbly hiccup came from deep inside his throat. The goat jerked violently, flailed, grabbed wildly for the bar, and went down like a bag of epileptic bricks.

A stream of incoherent profanities, mixed with sounds of vomiting, rose from the floor.

“Would someone call his wife?” The bartender asked wearily. One of  the regulars grumbled, and started slowly digging for his cell phone.


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