Nancy Goats (Delirium Novella Series)

by Weston Ochse

  “You know, it’s not like what we’re doing is wrong,” Daddy Pain said as he drank deeply again. A halo of orange surrounded his mouth as he grinned.

  Paco wondered if Hitler had said the same thing.

  4. Nightime

  Paco was taken from the room towards the back of the house and told to strip off his clothes. He tried to argue, but Panther Joey kept smacking the back of Paco’s head until the pain made him take the clothes off. When Paco was finished removing them and the tape from his tuck, Panther Joey sat him on a chair with a drop cloth underneath while Randy shaved his head. Once they were done, he was given shorts and a white T-shirt with the word Goat scrawled in Sharpie across the front, then he was shoved into a different room.

  He stood there for a few long moments trying to gather himself. The room was so dark that when he squeezed his eyes closed the synaptic sparkles were as bright as the noonday sun. He rubbed his arms, more to comfort himself than to keep warm. Eventually he was able to calm down enough to assess his surroundings.

  Right before the door closed, he’d seen a large space with at least half a dozen cots containing people beneath rough wool green blankets. The cot nearest the door had been empty, with folded blankets and a pillow stacked on one end.

  Holding his arms out, Paco made his way towards where he thought the cot was. His shin found it first and he bit back an exclamation. Grabbing the pillow, then the blanket, he pulled himself into a ball. He tried not to cry; he wanted to remain tough, but the idea of being a goat and having his legs broken was too much. Had it really just been a few hours ago when he’d been strutting the stage singing and gyrating to the beat of ten man-high speakers. Soon he found himself sobbing.

  “Shut the fuck up or you’ll get us all punished,” came a voice from somewhere else in the room.

  Paco tried. He really did. But he only really shut up when he fell into an exhausted sleep two hours later.

  5. Fresh Goat Meat

  The morning introduced itself to Paco with Kid Rock cranking cocky rhythms from two man-high speakers. The only light in the room filtered from the space between the door and the jam. He could make out high ceilings and blank, off-white walls. Plywood had been nailed to the inside of the windows, effectively blocking out any light. The room was so gloomy it was like wearing sunglasses at night.

  He sat up on his army cot, his body aching from where it had rattled around in the trunk.

  “Lay down,” came a voice from his left. “You don’t want them to know you’re awake.”

  “I’m not tired.”

  “That’s what you say now. Wait until the training starts.”

  Paco reached up and felt the stubble of his hair. He’d worked long and hard to train it into the luxurious mane that it had been. Now he’d have to start all over again. When he returned to his headlining gig at Leather Kitty, he’d have to wear a wig for awhile. Juan Carlos had plenty of them, so it shouldn’t be too much of a problem. Still, everyone liked real hair better.

  He squinted around the room, trying to make out the figures on the cots in the dim interior, especially the one who’d just spoken. “How long have you been here?” he asked.

  “Just over six months.”

  Paco jerked his attention back and sighted in on a rustling mound two cots over. “My God.”

  “Oh, that’s nothing.” The owner of another voice shifted beneath his blanket. “The Mound over there against the wall has been here for seven years.”

  Paco stared at the contorted shape beneath the blanket on the cot farthest away, trying to comprehend the words—seven years. Who could keep another person hostage for seven years? He’d thought all the talk of goats silly. He’d heard the nonsense about gays and the retarded before from everyone from his father to the most dedicated rednecks. Yet, what was happening here was far more than a frat prank.

  “They call me B.J. I belong to Randy,” said the voice nearest him. The speaker had a Mexican accent.

  “I’m Paco,” he said.

  “I know. You’re Brett’s goat. Better be careful. He’s into Brazilian Jijitsu and can get nasty. His last goat didn’t make it.”

  “Didn’t make it? What’s that mean?”

  B.J. ignored the question and continued his introductions. “You’ve already met The Mound. Beside me is Lilly. He’s got real sensitive skin. He belongs to Panther Joey. Then there’s Mikey and Tiki in line next to him. They belong to those surfer freaks Dude 1 and Dude 2. They’re Small Circle Jujitsu and love to turn nice people into origami horror shows.”

  B.J. continued. “Both Tiki and Mikey have had broken bones since they got here. If it’s not a wrist, it’s an ankle. I’m glad I’m with Randy. He’s into a Judo-Hapkido blend and doesn’t believe in breaking bones, just bending them a little.” Mikey seemed to rub himself beneath the blanket as if to accentuate the remark.

  “Who does he belong to?” asked Paco, pointing to the mound at the far end.

  “Who? The Mound? You know, I’ve never personally seen him. He trains with Daddy Pain in the dark and never ever comes out during the day. They say he can see in the dark like he was made to.”

  Paco nodded but still didn’t understand. What drove a person to spend their life huddled beneath a blanket? The whole situation bordered on the twilight zone. He desperately wanted someone to deliver the punch line so he could understand.

  Instead, the door opened.

  “Rise and shine, you fucking Goats.” Panther Joey strode into the room carrying a bucket. He set it against the far wall, where six stainless steel bowls rested on a high shelf. He pulled a ladle from his pocket and let it fall to the floor before turning, leaving and locking the door behind him.

  “Yum fucking yum.” B.J. sat up and glanced at Paco. “You going to eat something or are you too scared?” Without waiting for an answer, B.J. stood and shambled over to a hole in the floor in the far corner of the room. He pissed a long while. When he finished, he turned and wiped his hands on a rag hanging from a nearby hook. As he did so, he examined the contents of the bucket.

  Paco stood. “Is that breakfast?“

  “Delivered by the lovely Panther Joey. Breakfast in Bed.”

  “What is it?”

  “Some kind of suet. Gruel. Hell, I don’t know.”

  “And this is what they feed us?”

  “Why not?” B.J. shrugged. “It’s goat food and we’re goats.” He grinned as he held up a bowl for Paco. “Come on. You’re a goat now. Better get used to it.”

  Paco felt a wave of panic surge over him.

  6. Dying Cockroach Position

  The immense space had probably been built as a suburban family room by the initial builders. Paco could see where couches and a TV would work well in one corner beneath a steel-shuttered bay window. On the other side of the room, he could even imagine a reading nook surrounded by tall bookshelves, spot lighting, and a Degas print. Here and there floor pillows could be scattered as friends would play games of cards, or draw or play video games as they reclined on the plush maroon carpet.

  But this was not that kind of family room. The floor had been stripped down to the carpet padding. The walls were like-wise padded and free of any pictures. The room was barren of furniture. The ceiling was a dozen feet high with recessed lights. European techno-pop emanated from speakers mounted high in each corner of the room. He recognized it immediately as Kraftwerk.

  Goats and Family members were arrayed around the room. Dude 2 and Dude 1 helped each other stretch, pushing and pulling when the muscles were too tight to do it on their own. Panther Joey practiced blocks with a wooden Wing Chun dummy, his wrists, hands and arms slapping the wood with metronomic thwacks. The only other goat was B.J., who stood laconically in the middle of the room with Randy hovering over him. Paco was ordered to stand in line about ten feet away from him. Brett mirrored Randy’s stance.

  “Full Mount,” Daddy Pain commanded.

  Not knowing what to expect, seeing Brett and Randy fall to t
heir backs with their knees bent, legs in the air, confused him. Paco’s own wrestling experience dictated that being on his back was the worst possible place one wanted to be. Yet it seemed that the members of Family Pain preferred this position—a position that reminded Paco of a dying cockroach.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Paco watched as B.J. first climbed atop Randy, then sat across the fighter’s abdomen. His knees rested on the floor. Then Randy wrapped his legs around B.J.’s waist, ankles interlocking. B.J.’s back was straight as he held his own hands protectively in front of his chest. Paco couldn’t ignore the inherent sexuality of the position.

  “Hop aboard, goat,” Brett cooed, like a revved-up prostitute.

  “What?”

  “Come on. Let’s get it on.” Brett still smiled, but it was wearing thin.

  Still, Paco seemed loathe to understand. He didn’t see any efficacy in the position, if that’s what hop aboard meant.

  “Daddy said full mount,” Brett growled.

  “What?”

  “Jesus Christ. Did I win the stupid goat contest? Are we on Candid Camera? Do what the others are fucking doing. And you better hurry, or Daddy will show you the hard way.”

  Paco spied Daddy Pain headed his way, so he scrambled quickly atop Brett, doing his best to mimic what B.J. had done. He didn’t see how being on the bottom was a good thing. After all, he was in the superior position. All he had to do was pin the shoulders down and he’d win.

  Daddy Pain repositioned himself so that he was in the center of the two pairs of fighters. Then he made a slashing motion with his hand. “Begin,” he commanded.

  Paco felt Brett’s legs whisper around his neck, scissor, then thrust and twist his hips. The next thing Paco knew he was somersaulting across the floor. When he hit the wall, he was upside down.

  Shaking the buzz from his brain, he crawled to his feet. The moment he stood he felt them swept out from under him. He hit the floor face first and was momentarily stunned. He pulled himself into a kneeling position and shook his head.

  “Bad move,” whispered Daddy Pain, suddenly in front of him. “Never show your back to an opponent.”

  Paco felt Brett’s powerful arms encircle his neck from behind, one depressing his windpipe, the other pressing against the back of his neck. Daddy Pain knelt in front of him and laughed, shaking his head, as if he couldn’t imagine why Paco wasn’t laughing with him. Paco tried to pry the hands away, but Brett’s arms were too close and already in position. As Paco began to flail, Daddy Pain began to lecture.

  “In the full mount position, the person on the bottom has the greatest leverage. It’s kind of like trying to ride a horse with opposable thumbs. If you’re not careful, you’ll get plucked off your ride and hurled.”

  Brett put all of his weight on Paco’s back and rode the smaller man to the carpet. Paco’s face dug into the fabric, but he barely noticed. He was more intent on trying to breathe.

  Daddy Pain brought his face down to carpet-pad-level so that he could speak directly into Paco’s ear.

  “The new goat was scissor-swept. The following leg sweep was simple, especially since the fruitcake didn’t even try and avoid it. Our little pansy now finds himself in the unrelenting power of a cobra.”

  Paco began to swoon as he was pulled backwards. He pawed at Brett’s wrists, trying desperately to grab and pull the arms away. Dots formed in his vision and began to expand, each one a black hole he could fall into.

  Then he felt release, but instead of being let go, the arms merely loosened so that he could catch a breath. He had one moment of peace before he was twisted around and the hold was reapplied. This time Brett kneeled in front of him, his right arm encircling Paco’s neck, his left hand tightly cinching the right wrist.

  Paco felt a wave of anger, matched in intensity by a wave of nausea. He was being treated like a doll.

  “This is a standard frontal guillotine,” Daddy Pain continued. “If Brett was to drop suddenly, he could break your neck. The majesty of this move, however, is that as long as he can keep the goat off balance, the easier the goat is to control. Thusly...”

  Brett backed away retaining his grip and Paco scrambled to follow. He made rasping noises but his cries died on breathless lips. Finally Brett stopped as they’d regained the center of the room. He loosened his hold.

  Paco fell to his knees and gasped for air.

  “Then of course you can disable your opponent immediately,” Daddy Pain said, striding up and taking Brett’s place.

  Daddy Pain fell to a knee, and let his arm python around Paco’s neck. Too stunned to defend himself, Paco was pulled off balance towards the bigger man. Daddy Pain twisted onto his back and arched his spine, all the while retaining the hold around Paco’s neck. His legs snaked around Paco’s, trapping them in an ankle-grip.

  The dots returned in spades, and with the speed of a nuclear explosion, Paco fell through one of the black holes into a universe where dying cockroaches ruled like kings.

  7. Jimmy Snuka From The Top Rope

  Paco awoke to a pounding headache and his limbs being manipulated into an awkward position. His legs were wound around Brett’s in what he recognized from his television wrestling days as a figure four leg-lock.

  A crazy thought entered his brain: Hadn’t Randy Savage ruined Hulk Hogan’s knee with just this move?

  Like he was some blowup doll instead of a person, Brett hadn’t cared that Paco had been unconscious. The training had continued without him.

  Paco instinctively tightened his legs, which succeeded in finishing the move which Brett had continued irrespective of his opponent’s consciousness. Paco watched as if he were disembodied from the actions as they unfolded, and witnessed in increasing horror Brett leaning back and transferring the fulcrum of his balance to Paco’s knee. Paco was trapped. He couldn’t move forward because of the position of his trailing leg. He couldn’t move backward because of the lock around his knee. The pain rose exponentially with each breath. Soon, his knee would pop—a pain he’d felt only once before in his junior year of high school and which had required surgery on his anterior cruciate ligament.

  Paco scraped at Brett’s feet and ankles with clawed hands in a vain attempt to dislodge them but only came away with skin and hair for his efforts. Just as he felt he couldn’t bear anymore pain, Paco’s fingers locked around the last two toes of Brett’s right foot. Paco twisted with all of his might. A snap was followed by a spine-twisting scream. Both belonged to Brett who, in a flurry of hands and retreating feet, released Paco. Paco fell back and began to check his throbbing, potentially destroyed knee.

  Like Jimmy Snuka from the top rope, Paco had brought himself from a sure loss, to a possible win.

  It wasn’t until he stopped hyperventilating that Paco realized that all other activity in the family room had stopped. Glancing around, he saw awe mixed with fear in their eyes. The only sound came from Brett, who whined softly as he rocked back and forth, his mauled foot cradled in his hands.

  Paco knew that had he not defended himself, he would be crippled. His chances of ever headlining again gone forever if there was any permanent damage. He rubbed his knee, trying to get the circulation to return.

  Across the room, Randy and B.J. sat holding each other. Had Paco not known that they were fighting, he would have believed them lovers for it was as they relaxed, arms sagging, hands gripping with familiarity, their breathing in unison as they watched, making their embrace seem something more than it really was. Something no defined as Paco Interuptus.

  “What the fuck were you thinking, boy?” Daddy Pain hissed, slicing through the silence as he surged across the room.

  Paco held his arms up to ward off what was sure to come. In a moment of surreal stillness, Paco noticed the scent of old urine. Someone, sometime, had released himself upon the mat. Scared people sometimes lost control of their bladder. Dead people did too.

  When the strike came, Paco flinched, although he was never struck.

&nbs
p; “You killed your last two goats. You trying for a trifecta? You miserable piece of—” Daddy Pain struck Brett again.

  “But Daddy—”

  “Daddy nuthin!” A kick caught Brett in the jaw and sent him tumbling. “You’re here to perfect yourself. You lack control and control is everything.”

  Another kick caught Brett in the kidney, making him cough. Bile-laced drool slid from his lip to the ground in a long sickly string.

  “I never lost a goat in my 20 years in the service. I was careful. I balanced pain with pleasure. I used them as tools to help me learn. I never lost a single one and you’ve already lost two.” Daddy Pain reached down and, wickedly gripping Brett’s ear, jerked the boy to his feet. “If you weren’t my son, I’d have killed you by now.”

  “If I wasn’t your son I’d—” Brett began, but looking into his father’s eyes snapped his words off.

  “What? What would you do?” Daddy Pain grabbed his son by the chin and lifted him into the air.

  Wobbling on unsteady legs, Brett flashed a tortured glance at Paco. From the look, Paco could answer Daddy’s question. Anywhere else, Brett would be in college concentrating on getting his hands in between a girl’s legs rather than learning the best way to circumnavigate a goat without killing it.

  With the lazy grace of an expert drunk, Daddy Pain spun and caught his son on the back of the head with the point of his right elbow. Brett careened across the room, clawing at the air for balance. The wall halted his elliptical momentum and he rebounded, almost managing to stay upright. Instead, he fell to one knee.

  Beneath hooded eyes, Brett stared forlornly at his father. Hope and fear flowed like mercury across the surface of a stagnant pond within his twin blue orbs. More the look of an abused dog than a loved son. A single brave tear slid down a bruised cheek.