I can hear the guy open his mouth and inhale before the words even leave his lips. I see him wobble a bit out of the corner of my left eye. The patron is almost upon me now, and sitting beside me on my right, prattling on, is my manager Martin Friedman; he‘s concerned about image issues, namely mine. He whispers and I hear him clear as a bell in a valley.

"Ok G.G. here comes another one. Can you be a little nicer this time?"

"Martin…." but just as clearly as I can hear him, my pleas fall on dead ears. it’s a metaphor for our professional relationship, really.

Every single time I go out.

"Hey, aren’t you…?" The patrons speech is slow and halted and his breath is inundated with the smell of vodka, I’m surprised it hasn’t condensed into a vapor cloud before him.

I’m quick to interject and make this as painless as possible on both of us, chiefly me.

"YES its me, and NO I’m not going to say it." The guys a bit put off, but he wont remember why for long. Liquor, the magic nectar of the gods.

Martin starts up again before I finish my sip, "G.G. Look, if you want to be in pictures, you’ve gotta play your cards better, babe."

"What do you people want from me? I used to BE something. Did you even know that? Yeah, I used to be a Demi-god, Marty! People came from…."

"from around the world to see you"

I’m repeating myself, the perils of liquor.

"…Into the ALPS! That’s no walk in the park, my friend. I managed to survive 2 thousand years of Romans. Two hundred and thirty seven of those punks, thirty eight if you count that guy who fell off the precipice before he got to me, two hundred and thirty seven of them tried to skin my hide. What finally gets me? Communism."

Martin sticks his big balding head closer, the dim light glistening off my face gives him a strange golden rod hue. "How many drinks is that? And its not even Granite Ale. Come on" he squeals, causing a display as he throws his arms up in frustration.

"I’m not drunk."

"G.G. I’m your manager, it’s the P.R. thing we need to be doing here."

"yeah… YEAH you ARE my manager, so who gave the go ahead for those ridiculous T-shirts. That’s not even a good shot of me."

"Its publicity, try and have some vision."

"Its bad enough my head was photo-shopped on one of those adult celebrity websites…."

"We got our people working on it, don’t you worry."

"Marty, I’m not a steam engine, stop blowing smoke up there."

"Hey, hey….. Your wish is my command. You tell me what you want." I hate when he plays the condescending gentile genie bit.

"Find a way to get me out of those godforsaken beer commercials."

"You wouldn’t be anywhere without those commercials, G.G, try to remember that."

"How can I forget?"

That’s when I hear some drunk from three tables away. First he and his enclave of dingbats start chattering, then I hear him scuttle a few chairs and bump a few tables. I think I can feel my ears bleed as he chuckles and shouts:

"HEY!! GOLDEN GOAT!! Guys look who it is. GOLDEN GOAT! GOLDEN GOAT!"

Martins striving to make his paycheck worthwhile, "Come on, G.G. can't you just do the slogan once for them, It’ll get you in the lifestyle section, the press will eat it up."

"Come on, Golden Goat!" Chirps the peanut gallery.

I try to contain myself, focusing on the amber liquid in my glass.

Try as I might, even gods have their limits, and my neck tenses as I hear the guy slur, "LIFE AIN’T B-A-A-A-D WHEN ITS GRANITE ALE!" That’s when I stand up, knocking my stool over, as the creeping numbness of intoxication courses through me.

Crap, I'm more in the bag than I thought.

I stop, I find myself at a crossroads, with two possible paths, but, even Zeus diddled around some.

Martin and I are already to the door as the bouncer rushes in, and through the barrage of pointing fingers, frantically searches for us. I feel Martins arm on my shoulder, grazing my neck scruff. With a melancholy tone he whimpers,

"Did you HAVE to head butt him?"

"GOLDEN GOAT! GOLDEN GOAT!" I retort in gleeful condescension.

This piece was done for a contest for an art studio called GOLDEN GOAT STUDIOS. You had only a page in which to write a story using the studios mascot, which I can only assume, is a Golden Goat, I searched and searched, and found no art reference, no image of a golden goat anywhere. Luckily, it could be a loose interpretation using the name. I LOVE stuff like this, page minimums, and writing exercises where you have a minute, and must use a random word from the dictionary in the first sentence. It reallys lets creativity shine.

My main goal in this story, was to have Golden Goat reminicsent of the "Golden Fleece" or any number of the myth tales where a hero must kill an animal. This is the animal, but hes survived into present day. To become a beer spokeman/icon.

Its a one page commentary on our society in itself. Where as a lot of the entries, I knew, would be most narrative, my goal was to make it mostly dialogue. To reveal character through the dialogue, always better to show rather than tell. When you go to a bar, you over hear the strangest tid bits of stories, and so the point of this story was for the reader to overhear mid sentence, it evolved, as all writing does. Im relatively proud of the results.

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