The Goat Man

The Goat Man

Let's go back in time, to a day before the Gingrich revolution, a day when the Downward Spiral was brand new, a day when I was a senior at Kentridge highschool.
It was 1994 and I was passing Steve Galassi's locker when he grabbed me and told me to "Look at this!" while snickering.
Steve and Chris Weisberg shared a locker and in it they would post stories from the Police Blotter section of the South King County Journal. That day, the story was about a man and a goat.
It seems a man in Auburn (or one of the SoCo towns) had been serially raping a farmer's goat. Well, the farmer had been fed up and he stayed up late, to catch the rapists who would be dubbed the Goat Man.
Well, sure enough, the Goat Man arrived at the farm and proceeded to dip his throbbing tool into the farmer's goat meat. Well, the farmer had a twelve gauge (I really don't know the gauge, but 12 sounds cool) shotgun and blasted buckshot into the Goat Man.
The Goat Man screeched in agony and beat his chest at the moon and....just joking, the article wasn't that in-depth.
Well, we got a good laugh at the article and that was that.
Or was it.
A year and a few months later, I decided to get the ninth job I had had in two years at a recycling plant. A friend (dead to me after she made the mistake of sending me inspirational pro-Bush emails) had gotten her uncle (could be a mafia guy; I've never been sure) to get us a job at this recycling plant he owned along with his trucking business (yeah, probably in the mafia).
Well, the first morning, as she's driving me in with her, we hear on the radio that the Goat Man case will soon be heard.
It seems that brutal night turned into a bit of a legal battle, as the Goat Man countered that the farmer had shot him. And, of course the original legal action was the rape of a goat and trespassing.
So, it was a big to-do, and my friend and I had a good laugh as I recounted the story of Steve's locker to her.
Well, let me preface by saying that the recycling job was the worst one I had ever had. We arrived and learned that our job would be to pick out cans and cardboard from trash that came by on a conveyer belt.
Not a hard job, if it wasn't for the fact that it stunk and some sort of creosote funk would get in your mouth and stay with you all day. Oh, and did I mention we were basically picking through trash like hobos? Also, as an added bonus, we would be working alongside work-release prisoners from the local prison.
One of the prisoners, I remember taking a conscience to. He was scruffier than the rest, and his clothes looked to be something that fell off a set from Grapes of Wrath. He was on crutches and I remembered thinking "Man, not only is this guy poor, he's ugly as sin, in jail, and maimed." I'm sure my naïve 19-year-old self put it more PC, but I felt for this guy.
Well, it got worse. There was a rule that you could keep anything you find on the belt. Well, a whole lot of, believe it or not, porn would come by. Well, the work-release boys just ate that up. And as a token of friendship or premeditated rape, they were kind enough to open a centerfold up, direct it at my female friend, and send it down the belt for her to see.
Now if that isn't code for "I would rape you if I could," I don't know what is.
It was around that time (and we're talking about the first two hours) that the guy I had sympathy for took a box of Hot Pockets off the conveyer belt.
Now, let me remind you that this was a garbage plant. Also, let me say that it was one of the hottest days of the year and those Hot Pockets had been sitting in trash for, at least, a week. Sympathy boy had retrieved them and decided that they would make a good meal.
My sympathy turned to disgust and I asked this friend of my friend's, who also worked there, "What the fuck?"
She answered "I've seen him take a piece of cheese off that belt and eat it."
"Good lord!" I was about to vomit.
"Don't you know who that guy is?"
"No." I certainly didn't put the radio broadcast, Steve's locker and this guy into any sort of mix.
"That's the Goat Man."
"Goat Man?" I still didn't get it.
The woman then told me that the Goat Man was the Goat Man from the newspaper, from the radio broadcast.
I was working with a man who ate cheese out of garbage cans and raped goats.
The next morning, my friend and I decided to quit before college started. Then, by the first break, we decided we'd quit at the end of the month. At lunch we quit. My friend feigned a soccer injury and I told the boss that she was my ride.
So, there you are, that's the Goat Man story.
It makes you think doesn't it? I mean...wait, no, it doesn't make you think. There's nothing to learn from this story.
Well, wait – yes! Don't feel sympathy for anyone. Because, no matter how down-trodden they are, they could be raping goat flesh.
Peaze,Tracy