By: Robert Michniewicz

The streets glistened with the wet rain that poured down on the city. Peeping through the rapidly thickening clouds, the moon tried to assert its presence, failing each time. It was that kind of night, when foul things ran amok, a time for the goats to play.

Ever since the time of the Great Dropping, the goats had taken a place in their ruined world. The city was adorned with ravaged buildings covered in thick, almost choking moss and mold. The goats let the place grow out, because they liked an easy source of food. Sometimes they liked to leave off their pillagings for humans for the simple things like plants.

Jaazabaaal, or the City of the Meat-Goats, as it was named by the remaining humans, was teeming with tension. The goats, with their floppy little hats and little curly-cued beards paraded through the streets with children's heads as trophies, shielding themselves from the oppressive rain with Steve Urkel umbrellas. We all knew not to try anything during these displays. The goats kept their hooves sharpened, and even the finest hand at a sword would be cut to ribbons quickly if not....quick....yes...quick...

If the goats didn't get you, the ducks would. Even though the smallest child could step on one and quickly end its miserable life, forever sending it to the great pond in the...uh...sky, I guess...I dunno, I'm not up on duck mythology. These ducks are loaded for bear. They wear tiny sheets of plate mail armor, covering everything except their bill and their eyes, which glow a dull greenish color, swirling around like a fart in a fire.

The ducks are also potent magik users, they can warp their little minds into almost impossible feats. The most afraid I've ever been has when I've heard them chanting, moving down the street towards me..."Quackers for crackers....Quackers for crackers....QUACKERS FOR CRACKERS!!" Houses burst into flame at their glance. Their sacred mantra is too powerful for mere mortals like me to fight.

Of course, that's why I'm crouching here right now, naked except for a loincloth that says "Satan's Angels" on the back, a leather strap studded with metal ball-bearings crisscrossing my chest, a dagger in my hand and a small, inflatable whoopie cushion in my other hand. The rebellion has started, and I am a leader of a small group of humans seeking to make a diversion. The next goat that comes around the corner will die by my hands, hamstrung and a slit throat, or perhaps a whoopie cushion up the ass, if it comes to that.

Clip-clop clip-clop, the hoofbeats strike the ground, almost completely muffled by the pouring rain...was it raining earlier?...yeah I guess it was...heh heh.... This is it, I thought, wondering belatedly when I had shifted from third-person to first-person, the goats are coming.

I turned around and squeezed the whoopie cushion between my hands, making an extremely loud farting noise. There were a few giggles from the darkness, and a group of my followers came out on silent feet. I nodded to them and pointed in the direction of the goat patrol. Billy-Bob, with his pink pants and suspenders that barely covered his jiggling nipples (which were the size of dinner plates), smiled at me with his foul breath erupting in a faintly yellow cloud.

"I freaking hate you, Billy Bob," I said to him, poking his ass with my dagger to get him moving. I poked my head around the corner, then screamed my battle cry, launching myself at the goats.

"Magister capricornorum se superaverabit!!!" I cried. The Lord of the Goats must die. Other cries erupted behind me.

"Bloody willy!!"

"Purple daisy!"

"Billy Bob you're such a fecking faggot!"

"Baaaaaaaaah!" this coming from a goat. "Stop you...huuuuumans....or we will kiiiilll you." I kicked the goat in the throat and shoved the whoopie cushion up his ass as far as my hand would take it. No quarter for the enemy, no mercy for the weak.

Someone behind me managed to get a torch lit in the pouring rain. How she did it, I'll never know, but it was a welcome sight to see the half-naked form of this girl throw a lit firebrand into the goat horde, setting them all to flames. "Burn you, goats!" she cried, slashing one in the leg with a dagger.

The fire had struck down all but two of the goats, who were too busy screwing each other up the ass than to paying attention. It's a sad thing to see two goats, busily shoving their body parts in each other's orifices get ripped apart by an overzealous mob...alright, I lied, it's a really cool thing to see.

A cheer went up as the legs flew away in a bloody rain. Pools of vomitous blood ran into the street drains. "Victory!" I cried, raising my arms into the sky. My loincloth chose that moment to fall completely off, but I didn't particularly care at that moment. By the looks on some of my cohorts faces, neither did they.

"You're purty," Billy Bob spluttered at me, staring at my bulbous self. I just put a long slit from his stomach to his throat. A cheer went up at the sight of the blood. Everyone was high on a bloodlust, one that wanted to be sated again.

As I tried to appease the crowd and get them back into hiding, I heard something that froze the blood in my veins. Quack-quack. Quack-quack. "Ducks!" someone screamed just as the first one came around the corner.

There were twenty of them, no match for our scanty dozen, and me with no loincloth. Upon seeing us, the ducks started to giggle insanely. Of course, it just sounded like more useless quacking, but their small, armored heads started bobbing up and down in a disturbing rhythm. It was like hypnosis or a lava lamp, one just couldn't look away.

After their laughing spell, the spell-slingers started waddling forward en masse, chanting their horrible dirge, "Srekcarc rof srekcauq...Srekcarc rof srekcauq..." Someone next to me turned into a large, feathered version of the ducks, and started trying to scratch his eyes out. One of the ducks giggled again, which enraged me.

I quickly dashed forward and stepped on the stupid duck, bending its beak upwards, making it waddle around in circles quacking for help. Thirty-eight beady, glowing red eyes focused on me as one, making me piss my pants...of course I had no pants so I just sort of stood there, my stream of urine pouring down on the ducks.

This pissed them off even more and fireballs started streaking towards us, towards me in particular. I dashed towards safety, helping the occasional person up along the way. Billy Bob begged for help, but I just slit his throat instead. I wasn't going to try lifting his fat ass off the ground...it's better this way...it really, really is...

Safety was obtained, but at the price of the lives of seven of our goat-fighters. When will the tyranny of the Lord of Goats end? How can we fight him when his ducks are too powerful? Only the Chosen One can come to slay him, but where was he? Surely this was mankind's darkest hour, with the ducks and goats roaming the street in their pajamas? I stood in my room, tears streaming down my face and screamed, "Why???"

In the street above the catacombs, a penguin stopped, tilting his head, then nodded once to himself and kept waddling along his way.