by Weston Ochse
When he awoke sometime later, he was alone. The silence hung over him like a shawl. He shook his head to dispel some of it, only to have it replaced with dizziness.
They’d left him on the exercise mat, probably in the exact location where Brett had choked him unconscious.
Paco struggled to his feet. His head hurt in seventeen places. His arm still throbbed, but almost all the feeling had returned. His neck ached where the triangle had been applied over and over. He wasn’t just a goat. He was a martial artist crash test dummy. A flash of the old public service commercial flashed through his mind, as he remembered the crash test dummies talking to each other and lamenting about having to not wear seatbelts after they were hurled into a wall at 80 miles an hour from the front seat of an Oldsmobile.
He turned around to orient himself.
The front door was still locked. There was a light on in the hallway going to the goat pen, but that was about it for the inside of the house.
He noticed the light coming from the back yard. He slipped a little unsteadily to the sliding glass door and peeked into the back yard.
Klieg lights were erected around the trampoline, or rather where the trampoline had been. Now it was resting on its side, blocking his view of what was going on. All he could make out was Daddy Pain and the others with a wheel barrow and shovels. They wore orange suits like those he’d seen prisoners wearing along the side of the road. Their faces were covered with sterile masks.
He glanced up at the palm trees. Not a frond stirred in the almost breezeless air. Not common for any part of Los Angeles west of the 405, but then again it was June and the June Gloom was in full effect, creating a sort of meteorological doldrums. Still, there was enough of a breeze that a caress of wind slid through the slightly open sliding glass door to brush past his cheeks. Then a stench hit him like no other. It was like a physical blow. He backed away and gagged. His left hand flew to cover his nose and mouth. He’d never smelled something that bad in his entire life.
When he recovered enough to glance up, he saw Daddy Pain running at him full speed. He covered the back yard in less than three seconds, crossed the threshold of the sliding glass door, hurled it open, and delivered a flying kick to Paco’s stomach.
Air shot free as he realized he’d rather be dead. He folded in upon himself and hit the floor.
But Daddy Pain was done with him.
“What is it about you, goat?” His voice was muffled beneath the mask. “You trying to get dead or is this just your way of making yourself not useful?”
“I—” Paco coughed. He couldn’t speak.
“Did you smell it? Did you smell that dead meat?” Daddy Pain grabbed him by an ear and pulled him so he was close. “Fucking raccoon got in the compost pit and died. Stinks to high heaven. But if you keep nosing around, goat, you’re going to be in there with that fucking raccoon, sleeping the sleep of the dead fag.” Then he slammed Paco’s head hard against the floor.
Paco didn’t go unconscious, but he wanted to. So to keep Daddy Pain from continuing, he feigned unconsciousness.
Daddy Pain kicked him once more in the ribs, but it was a half-hearted blow. Soon he returned to the back yard to do whatever he was doing with dead raccoons and the trampoline.
Paco realized that he had to get out of there. He had to escape.
Otherwise he’d most surely die.
14. Winner Winner Chicken Dinner
He awoke on his cot. When he shifted position, it felt as if a thousand foot spikes were piercing his ribs. He closed his eyes and watched the star spangled pain until it dissipated into a relative darkness.
He’d slept fitfully, dreaming of his daddy’s burn barrel stuffed to the brim with road kill raccoons. Brett had come to bandage his ribs around midnight and had given him two Vicodins, but the magic pills had failed to completely dull the pain. Or perhaps they had worked, which meant that Paco would soon find out how bad his ribs were if another pill wasn’t forthcoming.
He rolled over and groaned.
For some reason a vision of Mr. Thompson came to him, the burly, balding fireplug of a man had been his wrestling coach at Bishop Kelly High School in Boise. Paco had secretly thought the man had known of his orientation, but the coach had never commented on it. By all appearances Paco had been just another wrestler to Coach Thompson. Paco remembered that Thompson lived by the adage that ‘Life was a crucible.’ He loved to say that ‘Pain was just effort leaving the body.’ He also liked to tell everyone that ‘In the old days if you lost, you died.’ That one always garnered nervous laughter.
But now, lying in a cot in the goat pen of a crazed MMA team leader who called himself Daddy Pain, Paco came to realize many things. He agreed with life being a crucible. There was no doubt. His entire existence had been so hard. The paths he’d chosen were always fraught with physical and emotional pain. But so far, life had swallowed him, let him digest in its bile, then shit him out the other side. He’d persevered in even the direst times. And pain had been his friend for a long, long time, whether leaving his body, or finding a home in his ribs like it had now.
But Paco would disagree with Coach Thompson’s designation of the old days. It wasn’t just in the old days that when you lost, you died. Paco was coming to the conclusion that maybe the reason he didn’t see much of the other goats was because they were too broken to be seen. They’d survived, unlike others that the Family Pain had used. But at what cost? Did he want to end up like them?
When he’d first moved to Los Angeles and come completely out of the closet, he’d met an old drag queen named Steve who’d had been jumped by a carload of high school football all-stars from Westwood. Paco had seen the sixty-something, dumpy old fag with no wig and a dress act about as wild and desperate as anyone he’d ever seen. Only one out of every five of his punches landed, but when they did, they were followed with claw marks from $400 nails and pump-heeled feet to the crotch. In the end, the boys ran back to their suburb with their silver spoons between their legs and their egos skidding along behind them.
With gray hair shooting every-which-way and his smeared lipstick mixed with the blood pouring from a broken nose, Steve had spit at the fleeing car and chased it down the street with a trashcan. Later, Steve had told Paco that ‘it never matters who can fight the best. What matters is who is willing to die to win. And I figure if I lose I die, so I might as well win and gain the same result.’
Paco was beginning to feel that if he was going to escape, he needed to be willing to die.
He levered himself up on an elbow.
“Hey Mound?” he called.
No answer. He glanced around and saw the others under their blankets. Paco could ask them, but they hadn’t been here as long as The Mound.
“Mound? I got a question.”
Paco waited. Still nothing.
Paco sat up on the cot. He rubbed his head and felt stubble under his fingers. He saw the blanket move from across the room. So why then wasn’t he answering?
Paco stood slowly, aware that any lateral movement would send flares through his ribs. He tested his lungs to see how deep a breath he could take without pain flaring. Just enough. He was able to get about two-thirds of a breath before his cracked ribs scraped against the muscle sheath covering them.
He approached B.J.’s cot since his was the closest. He saw the form beneath the blanket turn away from him.
“Hey, B.J. What gives?”
Like before, the other goat was ignoring him. Paco felt his steam rise. Why couldn’t they just respond? Were they afraid they might be overheard? Or just plain afraid?
Paco decided to bypass B.J.’s cot and made his way to the back of the room. He bumped Lilly’s cot hard enough to move it a few inches across the floor, but the occupant stayed stubbornly beneath his blanket.
The Mound’s cot was deep in shadow. Paco saw the form of the man beneath the blanket, moving and shifting, as if he couldn’t find a comfortable position. Paco had never seen him, but by the si
ze of the shape beneath the blanket, Mound was a small man, with the slim hips of a girl or a young boy.
“Hey, Mound,” he whispered. After a few seconds. “Mound, I want to ask you a question.” The seconds ticked by. The room was totally silent, except for his breathing and the occasional rustle of blankets. He looked back at the other cots and suddenly felt stupid. The feeling of it pissed him off. After all, here he was going to talk about escaping and all the others could do was pretend he wasn’t even there.
He reached out with his left hand and gripped the edge of the blanket covering Mound. “You wanna play games? I’ll show you games.” Then he ripped the blanket free.
It seemed to stay in place in the air for a moment, as if it was supporting a body, then fell flat to the cot.
Paco let out a gasp. Still holding Mound’s blanket, he turned and stared at the other cots. As he watched them, the forms beneath the blankets disappeared and one by one, the blankets fell flat to the cots. B.J., Tiki, Mikey, Lily and the Mound, had just disappeared.
Or had they even been there at all?
Paco spun and felt Mound’s cot. It was cold to the touch. He lifted the blanket to his nose. It smelled slightly of sweat, but not like something that had been wrapped around someone for a long time, not like something someone had worn like a second skin. It was almost as if the Mound had slept here, but it hadn’t been for a long time.
Still gripping the blanket, Paco turned and walked through the room. This time he didn’t care about bumping the cots. He walked right through them, and as he did, he picked up other blankets and brought them to his nose.
They all smelled the same—not as if someone had been using them, but as if someone had used them long ago.
The room began to spin and he staggered.
He let out a strangled laugh. It had to be the Vicodins. They’d messed with him somehow. He’d thought he’d seen the others in the room and they’d been taken away, probably when he was asleep. He nodded at his conclusion. That was why they hadn’t answered when he’d called. He laughed again and shook his head. It had all been in his mind.
But where had they taken them?
Then he remembered the Klieg lights and the compost heap.
His breath caught and his eyes widened. He let go of the blankets in his hand and stumbled through the remaining cots, knocking them over as he rushed to the door. He hammered at the door and kept hammering until someone came to get him.
15. Billy Goat Gruff
Panther Joey unlocked the door from top to bottom and opened it.
Paco tried to push through, but Panther Joey barred the way with a thick muscular arm.
“Whoa, little fella. What’s going on?”
Tears ran down Paco’s cheeks. His face was puffy and red. He tried hard to push away from Panther Joey, but he couldn’t dislodge the other’s grip, at least not with his arm and ribs still bothering him.
“What the hell’s gotten into you?”
“What did you do with them?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“The others? Lilly? The Mound? B.J.?”
Paco felt Panther Joey relax his grip. He took advantage and brought his elbow up into the hollow below the boy’s chin. Panther Joey’s head snapped back against the wall. As he fell to the floor, he released his grip on Paco.
Paco ran down the hall. Daddy Pain stood in front of the sliding glass door. He wore a red Family Pain shirt and board shorts. Brett stood beside him wearing the same.
“Stop him.” Daddy Pain pointed at Paco.
Brett moved and in one motion, using Paco’s momentum, wrapped his arms around the good arm and Paco’s neck to immobilize him.
Paco kicked out with his feet, but all Brett did was lift him higher so that his kicks had nothing on them.
“Where are they?” Paco gasped.
“Who? What are you talking about?” asked Daddy Pain.
“He means B.J.,” Brett said.
“Ahh. Him.” Daddy Pain nodded. “That goat died,” he said matter-of-factly.
“What?” Paco struggled. “He couldn’t have. I was just talking to him.”
“What are you talking about?”
“B.J.—he was just there. I talked to him. I saw his blankets move.”
“You saw his blankets move?” Daddy Pain glanced at Brett and grinned. “How much Vicodin did you give him?”
Brett held up two fingers, but he wasn’t smiling like his father was.
Paco reversed the move and threw Brett back against his father. But that’s as much as he did. He stayed where he was holding up his good hand. “Don’t—please. I’m not going to run.” He looked from father to son, willing them not to attack him. “I just want to know what happened. Where’d you take them?”
Daddy Pain’s eyes narrowed. “Them?”
“Yes. Them. B.J., Lilly, Mikey, The Mound, Tiki…them.”
“How do you know about them?” Daddy Pain asked in a whisper, worry creeping into his frown.
“B.J. must have told him,” Brett said
Paco shook his head. “No, they told me themselves. I was just talking to The Mound.” When he saw the doubt in the other men’s eyes he added, “He told me he was from Israel. He said that he’d been a soldier.”
Paco suddenly heard the sound of the trampoline springs. Boing, boing, boing. He glanced towards the sliding glass door. He could run and if it was unlocked then he could—
“What did he say about me?” Fear surged across Daddy Pain’s face. “The Mound?”
“He said you’ve had him for seven years,” Paco said.
“Seven years,” Daddy Pain repeated. “He said that number?”
Paco nodded. He kept his eye on Brett, but the other made no move to grab him.
Daddy Pain turned thoughtful. “That would be about right, I suppose.”
“But Daddy, he died two years ago,” Brett said.
The sound of the trampoline got louder.
Panther Joey staggered into the kitchen holding his neck. “Sorry. He got past me.”
Daddy Pain shook his head, then moved across the room in three quick steps. He held out his arms for Panther Joey to enter. When the other did, it was too late to realize that there was to be no love. A twist and a snap and the light left Panther Joey’s eyes.
Brett stared at Panther Joey in shock. He tried to say something but his mouth wasn’t working. Finally, he looked to his dad. “Are you kidding me?”
“He let us all down.”
“But he was one of us. Like Randy. Like the Dudes.”
“They couldn’t keep their goats alive.”
“So you killed them? What kind of family kills its own children?”
“The loving kind.” Daddy Pain took a step and straddled Panther Joey’s body. “They were no good to us.”
“No good?” I suppose you call it tough love. What a crock of shit! Who’s going to punish you for The Mound? Huh? You killed the first one and nothing’s happened to you.”
“That didn’t count. He killed himself.” Daddy Pain lifted an eyebrow and balled his fist at his son. “Do you think you’re going to do something?”
Brett gaped at his father. “That’s all you have to say?” He thumped his chest with his fist. “I’m your son. Your real son.”
“Which is disappointing. I expected more of you.”
Brett let his mouth open for a moment, then snapped it shut. He shook his head as he turned. “I’m fucking out of here.”
Paco saw it happen before he could move. Daddy Pain launched himself at his son. They fell onto the dining room table. The glass exploded, sending them both onto the floor beneath the table shell.
The sound of the trampoline became even louder.
Daddy Pain and Brett fought, each searching desperately for a grip or a foothold around an ankle or knee. But as soon as one of them got a grip, the other would knock it away. They were using pure Brazilian Jujitsu. It was an even match. Although Daddy Pain wa
s larger, Brett was faster.
They rolled towards the covered floor-to-ceiling windows. They rammed through a table leg. The table collapsed, catching Brett on his side and exploding the air from his lungs.
Daddy Pain took immediate advantage. He punched his son two more times in the solar plexus then drove an elbow into the spot under Brett’s left arm where a nerve cluster resided.
Brett screamed and lashed out with his legs. They became trapped in the drapes. At first the fabric held, but his pain’s only release was in his legs. The drapes came down, revealing a back yard cast in daylight so bright that Paco had to turn away and squint through the fingers of his hand. The little girl in white jumped happily on the trampoline, higher and higher. Boing, boing, boing.
“Daddy!” Brett screamed.
Then all was silent as his father broke his neck.
Paco sucked in his breath.
Daddy Pain pushed himself up from the floor. He was breathing heavily. Blood ran from his left nostril and there was a cut above his right eye.
“You,” he barked. “You are the last.” He wiped his lip with the back of a hand and stared at the blood. “Let’s end this.” He breathed heavily. “Once and for all let’s just fucking end this.”
Paco backed away. He hit the island in the middle of the kitchen. He could run out the back or try for the front, but that meant getting closer to Daddy Pain. He glanced down the hallway towards the goat pen.
“Oh, yes. Please—run.”
And Paco did.
He took off towards the pen. If he could get there and close the door in time, then maybe he could—
A blow struck him from behind and propelled him through the air and into the room. He crashed into the cots, the metal bars hammering into his ribs. His momentum carried him halfway across the room. When he came to a stop it was amidst a wreck of cots and blankets.
He moaned as he fought to get up.
“That’s the thing about goats,” Daddy Pain said, following Paco into the room. “There comes a time when they die anyway. Even after they’re fixed and taped and healed and sewn together, they eventually reach the point where they have to die, when we put them out of their misery.”