By Dani Brown
“Daddy, I want to go feed the pygmy humans.”
“Daddy, I want to feed the pygmy humans to pot-bellied pigs.”
“No Daddy! I want to feed eyeballs to the ducks. Where do the eyeballs come from?”
Goat Lord ground his teeth and wondered what exactly made him think impaling the nanny upon his cock until she bled out was a good idea. Then he remembered, blood is an excellent lubricant. The warm liquid dripping into his piss hole always resulted in ejaculation. He wanted a sure-fire because even getting an erection required far too much effort. Balls, they needed to be relieved.
Now he was stuck with the last remnants of his wife until he hired a new nanny. He would be careful not to impale the next one upon his mighty cock until he had another waiting in the wings. Nannies were difficult to come by. No one wanted to work in the crumbling Hellhole that served as his home. Rumours persisted of certain death and burial under the stairs.
No one wanted to visit either. The smell from under the stairs knocked goats back and sent them running down the street on all fours, reverted to their former pre-revolution, pre-evolution selves. The rumours of burial were false. Goat Lord chucked the bodies under there and hoped for the best.
“Daddy, this way.”
“No, this way.”
“I want to feed the pygmy humans.”
A headache grew from just behind his horns. Goat Lord, Lord of all the Goats in the little patch of land that was his, knew he couldn’t cope with his kids much longer. Not without his head exploding, or his brain turning to liquid and oozing out of his ears and nose.
The world speed by as the little brats shouted for his attention. Goat Lord stamped his hooves. Goats hadn’t even come up with an implant to place in the nose to exhale steam and fire. They would one day, but today was the day to express his anger and frustration by swearing at the fruit of his loins.
“Shut the fuck up.”
His pocket watch went flying, the chain broken, with the third stamp of his hooves. It didn’t work but served as storage for his stash. Since the time of the uprising, goats found themselves with more and more addictions to block out the blood memories of times gone-by.
Goat Lord was partial to a line or two of coke to perk himself up in the mornings. Too much, over too short a period, and he wouldn’t be able to impale the staff upon his mighty cock.
When dealing with his late-great wife’s leavings he found himself becoming more reliant upon shrooms to see through the long, brutal days of fatherhood. They were meant to be non-addictive, but clung to him like shit on his fur. Much like his surviving children, each one more mutant than the one before it. It was amazing these three lived at all.
He dropped to all fours and screamed. He had to get his pocket watch back. Goat Lord’s mouth dried. Flakes of spit snowed upon the mud from between the natural fork in his tongue. They could have been cocaine grains. He wished they were. His nose ached for the burn as the coffee he gulped back in the night when he couldn’t sleep, wore off. The brats didn’t give him enough time to drink enough to make him shake.
He kicked the youngest brat over with his back legs on his way to look. If the clasp on the watch held, he would maintain a sense of dignity by not eating mud and slurry on his quest to get the drug into his system.
The older brother took the opportunity to lift his leg and pee on his little brother. He never liked the little shit. It wasn’t any wonder their mother topped herself with that deformed thing squealing all the time. Things would be okay if Mother was still here. First Born spent time with her under the stairs, but nothing he did would make her talk.
Sister-in-the-middle kicked First Born out of the way, envy rising inside her. Mother fucker, or mother corpse fucker, if he was only old enough to maintain an erection, knew everything. Every little fucking secret, like he could read minds. He couldn’t bring their mother back from under the stairs. She reminded him at every given opportunity.
She wanted to piss in the little shit’s good eye on account of not remembering her own name since her mother died. Sister was what she went by now. Every time she heard it, she wanted birds to fall dead out of the sky and land in a carriage, their corpses suffocating the next generation or at the very least, sheering their horns.
Sister let the river of foamy urine flow, with a little burning and a dash of blood. Daddy never bothered to call the doctor out. Little Brother can deal with the infection in his eye, if opportunity didn’t present itself to her. She almost wished it wouldn’t. She wanted to see the effect of whatever lurked in her bladder on his eye. But she had waited too long.
The overcast morning just might give her opportunity. It started promising. The old witch by the stream promised clouds on the day. Bladder as empty as it was going to get, she bent down to see if he wept pus.
Her disappointment expressed with a hoof to his misshapen head and the half a third horn on the centre of his forehead. Sister’s kick failed to snap it off. His cloudy white eye rolled around to glare.
First Born watched his father shift around in the mud and shit looking for his broken pocket watch in a river of pygmy human diarrhoea. There wasn’t much in there. He had been pinching from his father’s stash for two weeks now. He didn’t feel any better. The only thing that would help involved puking on the pygmy humans.
They were his favourite. His mother used to tell stories of when they dominated the Earth. They were bigger back then and wore clothes.
First Born experienced vague recollections of his name, but it wasn’t important. He wanted to be a human back when they stood tall and proud and lived in their cities in the sky. Archaeologist knew these once existed, the ruins proved it. He had a stupid goat name, like Little Lord, or something along those lines. It would’ve had Lord in it somewhere at any rate.
His father shifting through manure disgusted him. He wanted nothing to do with his dysfunctional family of the highest inbreeding. Apparently, it was the mark of high status. It wasn’t that high if the peasants had silk fur while First Born was left with course tufts and bald patches.
His mother and father were brother and sister, as were his grandparents. Each generation lost some silkiness and gained roughness in its place. It took generations of tracing back the family tree before a non-related couple could be found. First Born looked at their pictures, photographs from before the Great Uprising. Finest cashmere harvested for wool for the rich.
The miscarried remains of countless brothers and sisters lay beneath the stairs. No one bothered to scarp the flesh from the bone. The smell was horrendous and the linger of decay, enough to result in vomiting in the most sensitive.
First Born enjoyed nothing more than crunching the bones in peace, staring at the shrine to his mother and all the magic he tried to weave around her. No one ventured under the stairs, except for him.
A stray pygmy human squealed past, making it hard to believe they had speech once. He kicked it in the head, getting the thing’s puny brain on his hoof as its body went flying in the opposite direction. Love for a species was one thing. Love devoted to an individual pygmy human didn’t hold a place in his heart.
He spat at the twitching body but missed by half a dozen feet and moved onto their pen, drowning the sounds around him. Pathetic creatures, covered in their own filth, looked up at him with fear and hunger in their eyes.
He went to the feed dispensers and grabbed a bucket with his teeth. He would get down on all fours, like the way goats used to be, to build the fantasy of things being the way they were around him.
The red one was his favourite. Chunks of bone and organ floated in it. More so than usual. The grinder must be clogged again. First Born liked it. Before his mother topped herself pushing out the deformed creature that served as Little Brother, she told him the contents of the red feed were the ground up remains of pygmy humans. The illusion of him on all fours, trotting with his hooves throwing up mud, with a bucket in his mouth wasn’t lost on him.
Sometimes the pygmies in the feed were old. Sometimes there was a surplus. First Born liked the thought of the babbies slurping the Earthly remains of their parents. It was said, humans believed in an afterlife. First Born scooped the red feed into the pen, having to stand up temporarily, imagining the souls of the ground up remains screaming as their relatives ate them.
A youngun’ came over and jumped at his hoof. He looked down and saw it dripping blood. The yougun’s tongue tickled.
A rush of air and pain hit First Born from behind. He toppled over, taking the fence of the pen with him and letting the pygmy humans out. Their soft feet walking over him brought no relief.
Dried shit snowed onto his fur. He should have taken his father’s advice and put on clothes that morning, but it was too late for should-haves. First Born couldn’t have predicted the attack that landed him face down in pygmy human shit.
His sister’s hoof dug into the back of his neck, pushing his face deeper into the slurry. His mouth and nose filled with shit. First Born’s ears were spared. With his other senses dull, noise became a loud firework travelling to the centre of his brain. Slurry blinded him, but it didn’t stop the fireworks going off in front of him.
“You’re going to die.”
He knew his sister whispered, but the voice came in loud and clear.
“Every single week, Daddy takes us out, and every single week, you make us stare at pygmy humans eating their own shit.”
A warm glob of phlegm-filled spit landed on the back of his neck. She would’ve been holding it in her mouth, otherwise he would have heard it being born with the new-found ear sensitivity. The phlegm indicated she ran out of piss.
“I fucking hate pygmy humans.”
She stamped on his head.
“I hate the way their sad beady eyes follow you everywhere, like they remember but not well enough.”
First Born wanted to shout that they wore clothes once. They used to be able to talk but couldn’t very well do that with a mouthful of slurry. He wanted to tell her and them everything he knew.
The warm liquid mud crept further down the back of his throat and into his nostrils. First Born loved the little naked humans. He didn’t love drowning in their filth. His ears searched for their sounds, desperate in hope the connection he fostered between himself and them week after week, was felt on their end. First Born’s legs twitched as slurry filled his lungs, always listening for the pygmy humans.
Goat Lord didn’t pay any attention to what went on around him. The search for the missing pocket watch consumed every ounce of his concentration, drowning out noise and movement. There were no witnesses to First Born’s murder, except the few pygmy humans that turned around once they remembered they had two legs and two arms. His father didn’t feel any loss connection when he died. Little Brother did.
Goat Lord rolled around in the filth of the petting zoo, not noticing the stampede of pygmies running and leaping clumsily on their hind legs, until one stepped on a tiny shimmer of gold and pulled his broken pocket watch up by a toe.
Cocaine snowed on the muck. Until that moment, the clasp held. An old relic from the time of the humans, stolen during the revolution. It should have been replaced generations ago. Goat Lord dived at it, nose aching for the burn as his children murdered each other in the background.
Thunder sounded overhead before the first fat drops of rain fell from the pregnant sky. Sister looked up. It was her day. The witch by the stream said it would play out in the exact way it did.
First Born felt them land on his fur as his body twitched beneath his sister’s weight. He knew he should have put on pants before leaving, but that took up time better spent licking the decayed remains of his siblings beneath the stairs.
Little Brother took off his clothes and threw them in the mud. Everything smelt of his sister’s piss. He couldn’t get the smell out. He didn’t want the memories to follow him. There’ll come a time in the future when he’s bigger than her. If he can get his piss to come out the right hole and aim, he’ll be able to get his revenge then.
He saw his father sniffing the air and decided to join him. Something must smell good over there. He didn’t know of his father’s drug habits, like his brother. Sister suspected something, but didn’t care.
Little Brother crashed into a pygmy human and knocked it face first into the mud. His next step brought his hoof down on its neck. He didn’t look over to see Sister doing the same thing to First Born. He wouldn’t have done anything to stop her, if he did.
Little Brother, upon realising what he stepped on, moved his hoof up, ready for the jump. He knew the things were fast. He didn’t want it to escape. He settled for stamping, the smell of his sister’s urine evaporating with each hoof into the pygmy human’s skull.
They were bigger than goats once. First Born told him that goats used to be kept in pens and fed pellets while humans roamed the Earth and flew to the Moon. First Born lies!
The thought of the stories he told on stormy afternoons made Little Brother’s stamps harder. The brain burst on his last landing, sending skull shards flying and grey matter up Little Brother’s legs all the way to his waist.
Sister watched Little Brother stamp on the pygmy human as First Born drowned in the slurry. Her little brother wrapped himself in an aura of anger from the day he was pushed out with the last of their mother’s blood.
He bit off the wet nurse’s teat and spat it in her face. Father didn’t bother ringing the doctor. His youngest lapped up the blood and sucked her dry.
The smell of her decomposition and the buzz of flies chased Sister into nightmares each time she closed her eyes. Little Brother ate the maggots. First Born tried to study them beneath his cracked microscope. She didn’t know which one disgusted her more.
Little Brother presented an issue with his energy versus an ambush. The most she could handle was peeing on him when he was down. Any threat to his life and he’d end up killing her. She had something special saved for him in the pockets of her dress.
Little Brother seemed happy turning the pygmy human to mush as the heavens opened. Her father appeared distracted. She ran for him, knocking down a confused pygmy human on the way.
Sister’s balance was exceptional. Goat ballet being something she taught herself after her mother told her a bedtime story about how the humans of legend would do it. She begged her father to take her to lessons, but he flat out refused. More reason to charge into him at a twirl and leap.
Mud and coke flakes went up Goat Lord’s nose. His brain was hit at the same time his daughter leaped onto the back of his head, crushing his skull in the landing. He died doing what he loved; snorting cocaine.
Sister glanced at Little Brother, waiting for her father’s death rattle. He found the pygmy human she knocked over and was suckling at the creature’s teats. Pygmy humans were known for lactating pus. Sister felt the vomit raise in the back of her throat. She swallowed it back down.
Memories of his wet nurse overwhelmed him. The pygmy squirmed beneath his bite. Animals felt pain. He couldn’t giggle with flesh in his mouth. He climbed onto her stomach comping down on her nipple until blood flowed with the milk.
Sister had no desire to torture her father’s deceased body while his soul was cleansed with fire. He’d be in too much pain to notice her hoof up his anus. Physically feeling something in the afterlife was said to be impossible, but mentally, the waves of violation would hit him if she stored the body in the freezer until a later date.
She let Little Brother suckle while she went to fetch a cup. Nothing fancy, filled with hot blood and floating chunks of fat, from the shitty little petting zoo café. Sister knew that was his favourite. She paused by the table with the stirrers to add the special ingredient from her dress pocket.
He was right where she left him, sucking the other teat clean in the rain as the creature screamed its agony for the other pygmies to hear. All the other goats at the petting zoo sought shelter from the rain. She could feel their eyes watching and picked up on their attempts to protect their traumatised children from the Goat Lord’s deformed offspring. She hissed at them, the noise not perfect despite her hours spent practicing in front of the mirror.
The hot drink splashed in the cup. It didn’t matter, she checked to make sure the lid was secure. A little burn would ruin the perfect day.
Little Brother chomped on the raw flesh of the tiny human. Since the day he was pushed out in a massive haemorrhage, he was hungry. Born ravenous, he gnawed on their mother until her empty bag of bones was taken away and placed under the stairs.
Sister trotted over to him.
“I thought you might be thirsty.”
Before he could reject the drink, she cleared her throat to add more and bowed her head in the hope he wouldn’t catch the glisten in her eyes or pass it off as the rain.
“I’m sorry I pissed on you. I didn’t want First Born to target me.”
The sweetness in her voice, or the rain falling on the ground did the trick and he took the hot drink, removing the lid so he could suck back the chunky fat in one gulp. Sister watched, attempting to appear causal, wondering if the drink burned his throat on the way down.
The little surprise coursed through him even as he crushed the cup beneath his hoof. Blood dripped from his eyes before he knew what was happening. Sister couldn’t help but smile.
She took her time to shoot the grin at each family as her brother keeled over. She was in charge now. There weren’t going to be any more pygmy humans at petting zoos, or petting zoos for that matter. She held up her arms to a flash of lightening and felt the energy on the air mix with the fear.
Those goats didn’t know fear, but soon, they will.