This weeks challenge from Chuck Wendig took a while for me to grasp. The task was simple; check Chuck’s tweets on Twitter (during a thread of Choose Your Own Adventure style posts featuring Fire-Owls, Magic Bands, Wizard Vans and Otter Gods), and… just… well… continue the story from wherever you want.
I didn’t like this challenge because it was several degrees of insanity that my mind struggled to comprehend. I spent a couple of minutes wandering through the mess of a publicly-voted fantasy fiction that utterly boggled me.
That was until I took a liking of the following tweet from Chuck, and the re-tweet by somebody else:
This was the point from which I fancied to continue and write this week’s flash fiction. Goats are cool, and buying them in bulk sounds like the start of something great! But making a heist caper involving casinos and Las Vegas and George Clooney…
…that would make for some terrible writing!
UNTITLED GOAT / OCEAN’S 11 CROSSOVER FICTION
The United Airways flight “negative-666” from NDC to Las Camelot safely landed fifteen minutes ago, through a rainbow-coloured, polyhedral-shaped wormhole and into the corn fields outside the castle walls; that was when I realised none of this was real, and I could bloody well do whatever I wanted.
From where I stood at the rather rustic and hastily built “arrivals lounge”, dressed in my best limo driver attire, I could see the local peasants in the fields below. They were furious by the sudden appearance of this noisy metal bird, yet human conditioning has its way; those filthy vagrants, previously throwing rocks and waving pitchforks towards it, were now marrying off their daughters and wives to the whirring Boeing 747 that had torn through their acres of crops.
The plane eventually parked up to the designated bay beside the castle walls, and soon the hordes of passengers departing into the bustling city within.
One such horde, I had been misinformed about, was a pack of 11 horny “girls” looking for a good time here in Las Camelot City. To my disappointment and unburdened shock, it was a pack of horned Billy goats, looking to rob the casino here in this ancient fortress city.
So get this.
A bloody plane just landed in a reality where people haven’t invented toilet paper, and suddenly I see a pack of goats trot towards me and speak!
Goats aren’t meant to speak!
But as clear as the shit between my arse cheeks, the lead goat introduced himself as George; a dashingly handsome breed with a smooth but husky voice and big blue eyes. His words were mesmerising. Everything about him was hypnotising, and before I knew it I had led the pack of kids to my horse pulled limousine, and in they jumped.
It was then they told me. They needed a twelfth guy in their pack; a driver.
They were to pull of the heist of the century, right from underneath the noses of the Archduke Momoa and his humble Gamble-Knights. The plan was sound. They had one goat that can get in tight places, two that specialise in combat, and one so dashingly charming he can woo his way into anyone’s bed chamber. They called themselves “Goat-Son’s Eleven”, but I called them absolutely fucking crazy!
Yeah sure, I’ll help! It feels like today has gone from total ruddy crazy to fanatic silly-balls idiotic.
“None of this is real” I told the “pack” (not herd! They told me off for saying that). “But I’ll do it! Because you’re talking goats that came here on a wormhole-riding airplane, which landed outside a castle, into a dimension trapped in the Dark Ages”
Who would say “no” to that!?
Twenty four hours later and there I was; psyched and ready to rob a casino. We took a detour from the farmyard they were staying at overnight, stopped for a bite at a nice patch of grass I had heard good things about, and drove my limousine carriage full of talking goats to the pre-designated point beside Archduke Momoa’s prized casino. Their voices were confident. Their hooves were clean. Their beards trimmed. Their mannerisms were anything but sheepish.
As each goat left and embarked on their mission, George turned around to me. Holy Momoa-balls, his eyes are gorgeous! I let his words caress my ears.
“You’re not so bad, bubblegum. Keep your wits and eyes out for us, and be prepared for some heat, sweet cheeks”
“Hell yeah!” I replied, grinning and shaking like a mad man. “Because none of this is real!”
George raised one of his fluffy eyebrows at the hysterical shell that was my body, withered away by the mental strain of talking goats and repercussions of angering the Archduke Momoa. As I watched him trot away, headbutting the carriage door shut behind him and disappearing over the drawbridge of Castle Dave Casino and Hotel, I wondered…
…what really was my role in this heist?
Were the Goat-son’s Eleven really the Goat-son’s Ten plus the human, who happened to have a get-a-way vehicle but otherwise doesn’t really have any role in this?
I was being played for, besmirched by farmyard animals that couldn’t even operate door handles. I felt like they were bending me over and violating me, from within my own horse-drawn limo! They haven’t even mentioned about my cut of the takings, or what my name was, or anything!
But since none of this was real, I jumped from my seat, landed on my bare feet (painted black to resemble shoes, as one does as a limo driver working on a budget) and strode into the Castle Dave Casino to prove to these beasts what a limo-driver can do!
“Sir, were those animals yours?” asked one of the towering Gamble-Knights, who was scratching his heads at the herd (that’s right! Herd!) as they started to eat the dollar bills from atop the blackjack and roulette tables. People were naturally pissed with this, but with the patrons mostly being wealthy socialites and mud-bankers they were laughing it away, shouting “Quick, take a picture!” to their private instant sketch artists in tow.
Nobody seemed too bothered at all.
The heist was going to plan, I think.
“Sir?” the Knight asked again.
“No… sorry… not mine!” I replied. “Archduke Momoa is gonna be pissed when he finds out someone let goats into his Casino”
“But… I saw them… come out of your carriage?”
“Me!?” I laughed, careful not to aggravate the twitching goliath before me. “I’m just a lowly limo driver! Not a farmer. I don’t even know if any of this is real! Are you okay?”
The Gamble-Knight scowled with the might of his six-pack frowning forehead. I could hear his muscles flex from within his armour, his fists clench, bones snap, bowels empty and skin tear. It was then, I realised, this guard had particularly beautiful eyes.
I stepped back in awe.
It was George, and by all accounts he was there, inside the now hollow skin shell of the Knight, using his little trotters to wiggle around the corpse and find balance. It was the meatiest onesie any goat could wear, and George did so with style, stretching his little face through the guards mouth. Even when he smiled, the lifeless face smiled too.
“You okay, sweet cheeks?” George mumbled through the viscera and fleshy chunks filling up his new suit.
“Yes George, I am okay… because none of this is real!”