D. Harlan Wilson - They Had Goat Heads

They Had Goat Heads

Copyright 2010 by D. Harlan Wilson

ISBN-10: 0982628129

ISBN-13: 978-0-9826281-2-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

This is a work of fiction.

Acknowledgment is given to the following magazines, journals and anthologies in which some of these stories originally appeared: The Offbeat , Shroud Magazine , Mad Hatters Review , SUB-LIT , The Caf Irreal , Steel City Review , Beatdom , Zone 3 , The Magazine of Bizarro Fiction , Thieves Jargon , Saucytooths Webthology , Verbicide Magazine , The Ranfurly Review , Theakers Quarterly , .ISM Quarterly , Bust Down the Door & Eat All the Chickens , Dark Recesses , Vulcan , The Abacot Journal , Alice Blue Review , Dark Sky Magazine , and PANK Magazine.

Published by Atlatl Press

POB 292644

Dayton, OH 45429

atlatlpress@yahoo.com

Cover art copyright 2010 by Brandon Duncan

www.corporatedemon.com

Illustrated version of The Sister copyright 2005 by

Skye Thorstenson

www.lostheadfactory.com

ALSO BY D. HARLAN WILSON

Novels

Codename Prague

Peckinpah: An Ultraviolent Romance

Blankety Blank: A Memoir of Vulgaria

Dr. Identity, or, Farewell to Plaquedemia

Fiction Collections

Pseudo-City

Stranger on the Loose

The Kafka Effekt

Nonfiction/Criticism

Technologized Desire: Selfhood & the Body in Postcapitalist Science Fiction

CONTENTS

His wife cries from the rubble, father father, what have you done?

Russell Edson, The Tunnel

For the Unserious Ones. And for the rest, lip-music: brrrrzzzzrrrr.

6 WORD SCIFI

Mechanical flneurs goosestep across the prairie.

THE MOVIE THAT WASNT THERE

I go to a movie and notice Im starring in it. I dont remember shooting the movie, let alone auditioning for the part. I am not an actor.
Dnouement : A harmless kung fu demonstration threads into a hyperkinetic gorefest. I die, uttering tender, hopeful words into the ear of my wife. A touching moment, despite the impossible carnage distinguishing the scene. People cry.
Credits. Lights.
We file out of the theater and proceed to the cemetery in long silver Lincolns and Cadillacs.
A vast crane lowers me into a hole in the ground. Closed casket. Ribbons of film dangle from the lid, encircling the casket in a corona of celluloid.
The actress who plays an ingnue fatale in the movie gives the eulogy. He w-was the only reel man I knew, she whimpers, then makes a sex motion with her finger. The audience nods in painful understanding.
It is a long ceremony. And hot out. Sweat dribbles down my back. Countless grievers speak on my behalf, explaining that, aside from egregious shortcomings, I was a good man. One woman doesnt say anything. She stabs herself, repeatedly, at least fifteen times, possibly more, blood spurting from the wounds, although I can tell she makes a calculated effort not to puncture any vital organs.
An ambulance arrives and two paramedics put her on a stretcher and take her away.
Fuck you! she shrieksat me I think, but maybe notas the doors of the ambulance slam shut.
Nobody leaves until I have been buried. Ennui .
The director shows up at the last minute, just in time to stomp the dirt into my grave. My wife accompanies him. She stands there quietly, staring at her toes.
A gravedigger passes out hors doeuvres on the silver platter of an overturned spade.
Chirping. Soft breeze. Smell of fresh air and green pastures. Everybody clasps hands. We run through a field of sunflowers, kicking up our knees. If we fall down, we lie there for awhile and observe the blue screen of sky.
[Insert solar eclipse.]
Dnouement : The reel belies the projectionists good intentions. It comes loose and he doesnt know how to fix it. White screen. They blame me. And yet reviews of my actions are invariably positive. The only significant critique has to do with my physical stature, a body of lies that doesnt adequately reflect the courage of my character.

THEY HAD GOAT HEADS

They had goat heads...
I could see down the hallway from the bed. It stretched two miles into the forest. My mother served me a bowl of vegetable soup. The door was open. I wanted to close it.
The TV turned on. A goat walked back and forth across the screen. A tall, thin man entered the picture and slaughtered the goat with an axe. The camera zoomed into the mans face. He gazed down at the carcass, eyes wide with terror, mouth creaking open into a chemical scream...
The TV turned off.
A brick crashed through the window. There was a note tied to it. I picked it up and read the note.
They have goat heads, it read... I looked out the window. An astronaut in a bubble helmet and orange spacesuit waved at me, then boarded his shuttle. Liftoff. The motel shook. The shuttle rose like a flag, gaining speed and altitude until it disappeared into the clouds.
Thunder. The clouds flashed, flickered...
The shuttle fell out of the sky, smoldering... It crashed onto its launch pad and burst into flames. The motel shook...
A door creaked open and the astronaut climbed out. He staggered into a tree and bounced backwards. He looked at the wreckage. He looked at me and took off his bubble helmet. He had a goat head.
I drew the curtain.
Somebody in the ceiling had attached marionette strings to my mothers joints. They had also stapled her lips onto her cheeks. Her teeth were two rows of golf tees. She made desperate sucking noises as the puppeteer compelled her to dust the room and vacuum the carpet.
I heard bleating in the hallway. I told my mother I would be right back.
I shut the door behind me.
For two miles, all of the doors were closed, and I didnt see anyone except a meter maid who tried to take my pulse with a lightning rod. Then I saw an open door. Room 3,401D. I heard cheering inside.
I went inside.
They wanted to play basketball in the boxing ring. Hoops loomed over the rings turnbuckles. The coaches screamed at each other. The referees ran back and forth and bounced off the ropes, testing their resilience. The players held hands and prayed. They all had goat heads.
I noticed my father in the audience. He pretended not to see me... I walked up two flights of bleachers and sat by myself.
A referee blew a whistle. Tipoff...
My mother lumbered into 3,401D. The puppeteer maneuvered her into the boxing ring, scaring away the dramatis personae . A microphone descended from the ceiling on a thin length of cord and she gurgled into it.
They played the bagpipes... I stood and walked downstairs and left 3,401D. The crowd broke into hysterics as I shut the door... and went back to my room.
I got lost.
I found the lobby. A motel clerk asked to see my room key. I didnt have it. He tried to arrest me. I ran away.
I got lost...
... timelapse of bellhops and concierges and janitors racing up and down the hallways... silhouette of the motel set against a blazing horizon...
I crawled the rest of the way...
My mother was sleeping in my bed. She looked like a dead seal... No sign of the puppeteer, and the marionette strings were gone. Open wounds covered her body where the strings had been ripped free. And her lips had been cut off... I shook her awake and asked her to leave. She made a deflating sound.
Through the window I saw them, thousands of them, tying notes to bricks...

BENEATH A PINK SUN

Conflict is an illusion without which apes and begonias would shrivel in the wind. The grill, however, is covered with steaks. Tenderloins. They sizzle in the back yard beneath a pink sun. Somebody turns on a bugzapper. Music of tiny deaths. Overweight neighbors in beetle suits scuttle up tree trunks and attack flying squirrels. One should not do battle with arboreal gliders, theoretical or otherwise (ref. Deleuze & Guattaris Anti-Oedipus ), no matter what theyre wearing. Particularly if they lack Just Cause. I can already hear the gavel slamming against the anvil. Blacksmiths line up in the streets and sharpen meat cleavers with power tools. A steel gray Camaro runs them over. Bones crunch. The blacksmiths rise to their knees. An out-of-control stagecoach runs them over. Pastiche of viscera. They stay down for the count as the stagecoach metamorphoses into a giant pumpkin. Remember that old Greco-Egyptian fairy tale of unwarranted oppression and triumphant reward (ref. Wikipedia )? Cinderella a.k.a. Rhodopsis was born without a hard palate. She had to install a ribbed prosthesis. She ran her tongue across the prosthesis during moments of ontological skepticism. And yet soldiers rarely strangle each other in the heat of combat. At the same time, keys dont always work. Stick it in a keyhole, turn it... and it doesnt turn. And youre using the right key. Youre sure of it. Inebriation. Hallucination. Micturation. You make a decision to get your back rubbed. Chiropractors invade the Temple of Diegesis and begin cracking the congregations collective neck. The congregation begs the doctors to stop, but secretly they feel better, fresher. Theyre thankful for being violated. Near the restrooms, a contortionist juggles minute koalas while dishing out smoked sausages for $3 a pop. Takers are legion, and theyre not unhappy with the taste, given the proper medley of condiments. Dip a French fry in ketchup and pretend its a flaming match. Eat the fire. Ceiling fans have the capacity to burn down the house if you install a flamethrower in the rafters. Acme is the best brand. Im extremely happy with this fine product, says a craggy Vietnam veteran and disappears into the jungle depths. Suh-suh-Saigon. Fishermen infiltrate the motels and scale perch in the shower stalls. The manager tells them not to do it, but they do it anyway. Pack of solipsists. They light candles in the hallways, apply blindfolds, strip naked and do fifty yard dashes, trampling old folks who wander into the hallways to get buckets of ice. A blacklight implodes. The baby cant be soothed. It cries and cries and dares somebody to console it. A passenger plane crashes into the apartment complex down the block. Impossible cinematic explosions and carnage. Top notch special effekts. A daikaiju (trans. giant monster, e.g., Godzilla) emerges from the electrically charged wreckage and storms up and down the streets of Winesburg. Policemen attack it with harpoons. Ahab impersonators seek pan-seared vengeance. They man the decks of vintage zeppelins. Surprise gust of wind. Queequeg slips and topples over the edge at an altitude of 500 feet. Thud. A bright yellow daisy crawls out of the dirt like an undead corpse (ref. White Zombie ). A fasttime weed overtakes the daisy like a boa on a flagpole (ref. Anaconda , particularly when the great snake vomits a partially digested Paraguayan Jon Voight and Voight winks at Jennifer Lopez and Ice-Cube before dying). The flag comes loose and sails to the horizon like a magic carpet (ref. One Thousand and One Nights ). Intellect of human viscera. Anim nights and scikungfi battle royals. People paint themselves purple and pretend theyre cats. They meow. They drink milk from bowls. They imagine the sensation of possessing an elongated coccyx. Meanwhile the pod door opens and accommodates a heart, pulsing, spitting blood as it floats across the cockpit. Is it a coincidence? says Captain Klondike to an off duty space cadet. Who tears out somebodys heart and throws it into the cosmos? The space cadet shrugs. The captain fingers his chin. Formica is better than carpet tile, he thinks. Especially in kitchens. If youre going to carpet a kitchen floor, you might as well carpet the stove and the refrigerator, too. And the coffee maker. Got it from Sharper Image. Flavia Fusion J10N. Stainless steel with amazing push-button speed. The payroll clerk assured me that I could purchase this at-home brewing system. I do what the payroll clerk assures me to do. The others lack credibility and lan. That includes fontmakers, of course. All day long they loaf and invite their souls, dreaming up new brands of letters, numbers, symbols. Thats no way to spend ones time. Time is precious. Time is the splash of a raindrop on a cornflake.