GOAT KING WRITERS CLUB

The loosest story telling podcast in the land, where we don't let grammar get in the way of a good yarn

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CULT OF THE LITTLE FAT MAN Episode 5 GKWC

GOAT KING WRITERS CLUB, The loosest storytelling Podcast in all the land, were we don’t let Grammar get in the way of a good yarn.

CULT FICTION By Nathan Hull

The supreme almighty master or as I called him sam was having a frustrating day. I could hear his rants echoing down the halls heading towards the small room where me and 15 of his most loyal followers where eagerly awaiting his presence,

As he entered the room, he screamed at us all “Have you all payed your fees for entry into eternal bliss?!”  a few of those in attendance misread his mood and cheered this outburst, A terrible mistake sam pulled his pistol from his waste and shot into the crowd instantly killing three devotees, At this the room burst into applause, sam smiled and threw his hands in the air before continuing  his speech “My children it is important you pay your fees for entry  into the eternal bliss, How can I pay the piper a pittance and expect gold class service as we transcend into our heavenly layer?”

It was a fair enough question and one I didn’t have an answer for so I stayed quiet, a few people raised the point that upon entering “The super happy successful road to happy success camp and cult” that our bank accounts had been drained and all our belongings destroyed, this making it very hard to pay our way into heavenly bliss.

Three more shots rang out three more bodies hit the ground “all hail Sam” I yelled caught up in the excitement. Sam stopped and addressed me directly his gun pointing in my direction “ Its Supreme almighty master one more slip of the tongue from you and ill be sending you to hell like the other ones” he gestured his gun towards the growing pile of bodies. I hung my head and offered a polite golf clap to show my humbleness and appreciation to our master.

Sam stopped and sighed, a single tear rolled down his cheek and almost sobbing he addressed us again “All I ever wanted was to send you all to eternal bliss and make enough money to own a few large mansions a couple of rolls royces and a private jet, Why is that so hard for you to all understand?” His demeanour becoming more unhinged by the second he talked on “ We started with an army of 132 loyalists and now through no fault of my own you have made me cull your numbers down to nine” he burst into tears and sat on the ground. 

I slowly walked over and hugged him and gently removed the gun from his hand. BANG I shot sam in the head. This was no place for weakness we had a mission, I turned to the remaining eight and screamed “ Who wants eternal bliss! They cheered and bowed down before me.  “Call me Sam I yelled with a powerful feeling that I….had just reached the realm of eternal bliss on earth.

THE LITTLE FAT MAN  By Sean Conway

Fred found being on the road rough, night after night hotel after hotel blurring together in his mind like a Jackson Pollack painting. The only enjoyment he got working on the road was reading a book and munching on snacks from the vending machine.

Fred left his hotel room having finished his book and headed towards the vending machine on the next floor. In the midst of reaching for change to get a sugary treat Fred heard a soft cry for help.

Fred looked around and couldn’t see where the cries where coming from “in here, please help” the voice said, Fred looked through the glass window of the vending machine and saw a little fat man wearing a little green suit. Stuck in the row of his favourite chocolate bar.

“Please help me” the little fat man said, Fred looked around the machine and gave the machine a violent push to see if he could shake the little fat man free, but he was wedged in there tight.

“Do you have any money?” The little fat man said “if you have $2 and hit E24 on the pad, I’ll be free”. Fred’s eyes darted back and forth between the chocolate bar he so desired and the last $2 coin he had.

Fred thought for a moment and looked at the Little Fat Man “So if I save you is there some sort of reward? He asked “What do you mean?” The Little Fat Man said stunned. “Like if I save you, do I get like a pot of gold or something” Fred said “What the fuck does that mean” The Little Fat Man shouted “What, because I’m little I must be a fucking leprechaun you piece of shit” he continued “ ye wont me magical treasure do ye, Asshole” he mockingly continued in a terrible Irish accent. “Well, you’re tiny and you’re wearing a green suit, I just thought, you know what, I’m sorry” Fred responded apologetically. “Fuck you, you going to save me or not” Said the Little Fat Man.

Fred sighed knowing he would not be enjoying his chocolate tonight. Fred put his last $2 in the machine and pressed E2, but just as he was pressing 4 a Gypsy woman came screaming down the hallway. “Don’t release him” she screamed, but it was too late, the Little Fat Man dropped down with a thud, he opened the flap of the vending machine, sprouted a pair of cute little shiney wings and flew off into the darkness.

“What did you do” cried the Gypsy woman “That was the anti christ”. Fred’s jaw dropped, he thought the Little Fat Man was a leprechaun, he definitely didn’t think he was the anti christ.

“Why would you leave the anti christ in a vending machine” Fred said to the distraught Gypsy woman “WHERE ELSE WOULD YOU KEEP HIM?” she screamed.

The Gypsy Woman’s sorrow turned to rage as she stared at Fred “You must be punished for bringing the reckoning, I’ll send you somewhere even the God’s can’t find you”. The Gypsy woman pulled out a wand from her Gypsy purse and waved it in the air.

Fred awoke from his slumber in a cold sweat with fresh thoughts of his crazy nightmare. Fred reached into his pocket and pulled out his glasses only to realise that it wasn’t a nightmare, he saw the world burning and demons terrorising the wicked and the Heavens saving the pure of heart. He watched knowing he could never be saved or found, stuck behind the glass of the vending machine, in the row of his Favourite Chocolate bar.

To be apart of the Writers Rebellion, make sure to Like, Follow and Share on 

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Plus Tag us in any of your own short stories. We will be launching our Patreon in the coming weeks, so stay tuned for some exclusive content, plus head over to Instagram and vote for your favourite 99 Word Challenge Story.

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THE SEVEN SOLDIERS SAUSAGES Episode 4 of GKWC

GOAT KING WRITERS CLUB, The loosest storytelling Podcast in all the land, were we don’t let Grammar get in the way of a good yarn.

THE SEVEN SOLDIERS By Sean Conway

The brigade of 7 soldiers socialised in the back of the military truck, these 7 soldiers were highly regarded in the Australian military, they were referred to as the 7 Dwarfs ironical because they all stood over 6 feet tall.

Arriving in town being waved to by a young Aboriginal boy the soldiers waved back as their truck pulled into the Meredith Military Base, and walked into their meeting.

The brash soldiers sat, somewhat confused around the board room table in the pitch black office with the only light source coming from their cigarettes and the projector screen.

The soldiers stood to attention when General Kaufman entered the room “at ease gentleman” he said with a tone that can only be earnt by years of warfare “Everything about this mission is highly confidential, is that understood” yes sir the soldiers responded in unison.

The officers left the meeting trying not to laugh at how ridiculous their upcoming mission was.

“They’re fucking Emu’s right” said Dopey “shut up” said Doc, nothing more was said as the men headed to the Local Pub for a night of drinking.

The men relaxed enjoying their brews joking about the mission that the military was referring to as The Great Emu War. “You’re not allowed in here” the fat bartender screamed to the Aboriginal elder and the young boy who waved to the soldiers earlier that day.

The Aboriginal elder spoke in his native tongue as the young boy translated “you don’t want to go into that bush” the boy translated “they’re not emus they’re not emus” the boy said visually scared at what the elder had said “Alright that’s enough get out” said the fat bartender “shut the fuck up” Doc replied with distain, he turned back to hear what the Elder and the boy had to say but as quickly as they arrived they vanished.

The 7 Dwarfs walked through the bush “what do you think they meant by they’re not emus” Dopey said “Quiet” Doc responded “Come have a look at this” screamed Grumpy. As the group circled the small crater that had what looked like a burnt out rock with a neon green glow peeking out of its crevices. “What is it” Dopey said but before he could get a response Grumpy fired 3 rounds into the rock from his pistol, causing a cloud of gas to spray into Grumpy’s face like a fire hydrant, Grumpy flew back screaming in pain as the gas caused his skin to bubble and his eye to bleed.

As the soldiers tried to help, it was no use as he began to choke on a white foamy vomit that oozed out of his mouth.

The men mourned for their fallen comrade for only a few short moments before they continued with the mission, but as they marched on they heard the rustling of foot steps as they turned around and saw Grumpy staring at them “Grumpy you’re alive” Sleepy said charging to his friend with open arms, Grumpy charged Sleepy viciously biting, ripping and tearing at Sleepy like a rabid dog, Sleepy’s blood curdling screams didn’t last long as Grumpy quickly turned his body into bloody puzzle pieces scattered on the ground. The soldiers watched on in horror as they fired on the mutilated monster that only a few moments ago was their comrade, it took every bullet from every soldier to take down Grumpy draining the men of every piece of ammunition they had.

The soldiers collapsed to the ground in emotional agony as they had lost 2 of their closest alias in only a few short minutes. But the soldiers had no time to mourn, the thunderous firing of their Lewis guns had exposed them to even greater threat, the men were now surrounded and would soon meet a similar fate.

“They’re not emu’s” Dopey said “they’re not emu’s”

THE END

SAUSAGES by Nathan Hull

She stared viciously across the counter, a stare I'll never forget. Pure terror flowed through me, paralysing my ability to think and talk. I felt my legs turn to jelly my throat so dry it felt as if I'd swallowed razor blades.

The words I’d heard early that morning swirled through my mind "go to the European food market, you will love it,"

I remember being sceptical. All I needed was some snaggers for the Barbie we were throwing later that evening "Bloody ripper sausages at the European food market" the conversation continued to replay in my mind.

I should have listened to my gut and gone to the local supermarket. Taken the safe comfortable option. A pack of 24 BBQ snags and a couple of packs of white bread rolls. But now...now it was to late for that.

The descent into terror was swift. I'd arrived at The European food market optimistic but within seconds that optimism was gone. I accidentally entered through the exit and was hustled back out the door by a cold faced man carrying a whole pig’s carcass. I'd only set one foot in the door but what I saw should have warned me, this was no place for a man of simple desires such as myself.

I re composed myself and walked back in. I was instantly jostled around like a pin ball by a ravenous pack of elderly customers and pushed up to the counter unaware that my ordeal was about to begin.

"What the fucks a liverwaust?" I thought looking for the BBQ meat pack. The lady behind the counters dead eyes making me increasingly uncomfortable. An old lady poked me in the kidneys with an umbrella. "Hurry up or I'm getting the fellas to wrap these up for me" She hissed.

That was it I was in full panic mode. I'm not sure what happened next all I know is eventually I made it out the door holding a pig’s head, a jar of sauerkraut and sporting a vicious looking bite Mark on my ribs. "Fuck this" I sobbed wincing as I touched the bloody wound under my shirt "I'm going to Coles."

To be apart of the Writers Rebellion, make sure to Like, Follow and Share on INSTAGRAM/TWITTER: @goatkingwc FACEBOOK: /goatkingwc Plus Tag us in any of your own short stories. We will be launching our Patreon in the coming weeks, so stay tuned for some exclusive content, plus head over to Instagram and vote for your favourite 99 Word Challenge Story.

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HIDE & SEEK THE SEWING SAINTS Episode 3 of GKWC

GOAT KING WRITERS CLUB, The loosest storytelling Podcast in all the land, were we don’t let Grammar get in the way of a good yarn.

HIDE & SEEK By Nathan Hull

Contrary to popular belief the fun and games began when i lost my eye. Both eyes to be exact, i'm still not sure how it happened. I was sitting at home bored attempting to do my taxes, when out of nowhere darkness took over... at the exact same time i heard two dull slaps as my peepers hit the floor and rolled off to who knew where.

At first i was shocked and slightly worried, life could possibly become a touch hard without vision. I panicked, flailing around my kitchen smashing and crashing into anything in my proximity before i tripped on a rogue jam jar and hit the ground hard. I was down for some time, contemplating my options when it struck me, this was the greatest thing to ever happen.

In my youth i was a champion hide and seek player, i spent those years traveling from town to town, seeking out hidden children to rapturous applause, from those communities slack jawed populations. Life had been great. That is until i turned 14 and all of a sudden i was forced into retirement. A large man child with unkept strands of facial hair and increasingly bad body odor was NOT who parents wantedwanted hunting there children out of hidey holes, no matter how much of a genius i was at the fine art of hide and seek. It had been a cruel blow i never recovered from. I spent my teenage years home schooled with no friends and little connection with the real world. My parents never forgave me for becoming a teenager, and ruining all of our lucrative sports wear contracts, and their for cutting off our family's main source of income. As i grew i stayed introverted i was ashamed when people brought up my past. They would hide under tables in pubs and restaurants, laughing at me sadly pointing them out to there friends. I had no purpose no real reason to exist i was just floating through life aimlessly. But now... now I had a reason to exist, the greatest game of hide and seek ever, a blind depressed Thirty five year old vs his missing eyes. It was an epic match, it went on for days. I ran into walls, i crawled along the floor, i rolled and flipped and fell and sniffed and listened employing every visionless technique i new during the search.

Eventually almost defeated from dehydration and hunger i swiped out and like two delicious dust covered balls of bubble gum my eyes where back in my hands.I slowly put them back in there respective sockets i took in all i could see, i smiled life was beautiful. I took a drink, ate a ham sandwich and had a well deserved rest. Then i took a spoon popped each eye out and threw them in opposing directions, it was game on again.....a life worth living again. 

THE SEWING SAINTS By Sean Conway

It was a calendar anomaly that Susan had never experienced. Two of the biggest holidays in Susan’s diary converging on a Friday and Saturday night, to form a magical weekend of debauchery.

National Sewing Machine Day was crossing paths with National Bourbon Day. A pair of holiday’s that mean very little to the regular Tom Dick and Harry, But for Susan who is a member of the local sewing group this was a very big deal. Despite their wholesome name, the Sewing Saints are notorious amongst the sewing fraternity for two reasons, first for agreeing to sew the patches for the most diabolical bikie gang in the country The Diablos and second for when Abby McMillion stabbed a rival Sewing group member and received a 4 year sentence in the state penitentiary and garnering the nickname Stabby Abby.

Every year the rival sewing groups would meet up for their annual get together and this year it was the Sewing Saints turn to organise the shin dig. This party took 12 months of planning, and the event was to be held at the Diablos club house, with music by DJ WhizDik and would have so much alcohol, cocaine and prostitutes, it would put the local police Christmas party to shame.

The party was going off without a hitch, the ladies were drinking, dancing, and sneaking off to any free room with their younger male counterparts, even Stabby Abby was cutting lines for the lady she stabbed 4 years earlier.

After an hour of decadence, the bikie prospect Shit Sticks ran through the door to warn the women of the impending danger that was approaching but before he could he was shot dead by a Mexican cartel member. As the cartel member walked triumphantly through the clubhouse, he was somewhat surprised by the lack of bikie members and the overwhelming number of old ladies, but before he could wrap his head around this conundrum he collapsed to the ground with a broken bottle in his throat and Stabby Abby standing over his lifeless corpse.

A drug war between The Diablos and the Mexican cartels had been brewing for years and the Sewing Saints were in the eye of the storm.

Susan lead the charge alongside Stabby Abby, arming every woman and prostitute and demanded they hold the line. With cocaine running through their veins these once old geriatrics fired round after round into the wave of cartel foot shoulders charging the bikie club house.

These old Dames fired on the cartels, but it was no use, for every member they shot 2 more would appear. They fired so furiously that if they continued, they would run out of ammunition before the end of the next Whizdik song Susan knew that there was only one way to win this battle, and that was to plant a bomb in the path of the charging cartel. As she collected the explosives needed for the suicide mission, she was stopped at the exit by Stabby Abby who starred into her eyes with blood lust and said “you’re not going without me” before doing a bump of coke off her clenched fist and running into the wilderness.

The clubhouse was eerily quiet, the music had stopped, the ammunition had run out and the only thing you could hear is the gurning of the old timers jaws.

KABOOM I giant orange light illuminated the midnight darkness followed by the sound of blood and guts raining down on the clubhouse that caused an air of excitement amongst the people in the room. The excitement had quickly turned to mourning as they realised their survival had cost the Sewing Saints their two greatest assets, the room collectively dropped their heads in despair for the lose of Susan and Stabby Abby

“What are all you sluts mopping around for” a blood soaked Stabby Abby screamed walking arm in arm with Susan to the thunderous roar of coke filled seniors.

Susan sat at the bar feeling content, sipping her first Bourbon on National Bourbon Day watching on as the old biddies danced and snorted lines. She smiled because she knew, The Sewing Saints had put on the best damn National Sewing Machine Day party ever.

To be apart of the Writers Rebellion, make sure to Like, Follow and Share on INSTAGRAM/TWITTER: @goatkingwc

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Plus Tag us in any of your own short stories. We will be launching our Patreon in the coming weeks, so stay tuned for some exclusive content, plus head over to Instagram and vote for your favourite 99 Word Challenge Story.

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MASCOT WITH MENACING EYES Episode 2 of CRWC GOAT KING WRITERS CLUB,

GOAT KING WRITERS CLUB, The loosest storytelling Podcast in all the land, were we don’t let Grammar get in the way of a good yarn.

MENACING EYES by SEAN CONWAY

Freshly squeezed orange juice, beans, mushrooms, eggs and a stack of bacon drizzled in maple syrup. This was a regular breakfast for the farmer which is why he is bulging out of his overalls.Despite his size, the farmer is a unassuming man, living alone miles away in the back woods, only making the trip to town to sell his wares.

By the way he dressed you would think he was Amish, he probably could be Amish if it wasn’t for his 1955 Ford Pick Up truck and his love of beer. He wasn’t one for fancy beer, he only had one preference that is must be cold, refreshing, and American made. The Farmer loved nothing more than a few Coors Lite after a hards day work. The farmer does most of his drinking on a Sunday, he does extra work on Saturday so he can sit back and enjoy that afternoons football game reminiscing about his days playing all those years ago.

Devouring the last of his breakfast feast that could easily feed a family of four, he enjoyed his meal oblivious to the fact that menacing eyes were staring at him with murderous intent only a few short steps away. The farmer slurped down the last of his orange juice and set out for a hards day work in the fields, unaware that today will be his last day working in those fields if the onlooker with those menacing eyes has his way.

Ploughing through the fields, the first of many chores for the day, singing along with gusto to the smooth sounds of Billy Joe Shaver, George Jones and Johnny Cash. The hours flew past with heavenly harmonics echoing through the isolated fields.

It was time for the Farmer to park up his plough and enjoy a well-deserved lunch. Nothing exciting, just a white bread sandwich with way too much bacon and a drizzle of homemade barbecue sauce made from a recipe passed down from his grandmother. Sitting on his plough, tapping his feet to the beat of Waylon Jennings, and enjoying his heart attack in a sandwich lunch, blissfully unaware of the danger that lay ahead as the beholder of those menacing eyes spied on the unassuming Farmer from a distance.

The Farmer finished his lunch and went about finishing the remaining chores for the day. He feed the chickens, he feed the cows, he feed the sheep and even had time to change the shoes on his beloved horse Bo named after his favourite Auburn Football player Bo Jackson. Bo wasn’t a racehorse, but the Farmer would watch Bo in the field and daydream of him raising the Kentucky Derby Trophy alongside the only creature he considered a friend.

One last job before The Farmer could call it a day, and that was to feed the pigs their gruel. He wouldn’t feed them any ole gruel, because these weren’t any ole pigs. These were Blue-Ribbon Award-winning pigs. The Farmer would spend hours cooking and refining his gruel recipe until he had the perfect concoction.

The Farmer walked over to the barn to retrieve his gold star gruel for his gold star pigs, but on his short journey, The Farmer stopped, he had a peculiar feeling he was being watched, a strange sense for the Farmer who lived alone on an isolated farm miles from town. The Farmer looked around and saw nothing out of the ordinary, he paused for a moment before he chuckled to himself. Paranoid thoughts were a very rare occurrence for the level headed farmer, but the Farmer wasn’t being paranoid, we was indeed being watched by menacing eyes that had murderous intent that had plans to make this the last day he ever worked on that farm.

Collecting the gruel from the barn and still humoured by his bout of paranoia, the Farmer pulled up to the pig sty in his 1955 Ford Pick Up truck, blaring his music as loud as it would go, the Farmer despite being level headed, had a collection of strange theories, he believed playing loud music for the pigs comforted then and made the meat taste better. A strange theory indeed, but whose to argue with his logic considering how many Blue Ribbons he had won.

As the day grew longer The Farmer had to struggle with the weight of his homemade gruel out of the pickup truck before he entered the pig sty. Despite his tiring body The Farmer still had a peep in his step as he enjoyed the music along with the pigs. He poured the gruel he took such pride into the troff, the sound of the Farmers home cooking hitting the metal troff sent the hungry pigs into a frenzy, bashing and crashing past the Farmer.

The Farmer’s large body was no match for the stampede of giant award winning pigs as the sound of the bones in his legs crushing drowned out the sound of the music blaring from his pickup truck, the pigs giant mass has crushed his legs and The Farmer collapsed under his own weight in agony, his screams echoing through the freshly ploughed fields of his isolated farm.

The pain was unbearable but he managed to crawl through the wet mud that was a mix of dirt and pig shit, and lean his broken body against the chicken wire fence so he could see the extent of the damage to his legs. The Farmer tried rolling up his pant legs, but his legs were so severely broken that the bones had ripped through material of his blood-soaked overalls. The sense that he was being watched overcome the Farmer once again, he was now face to face with those Menacing eyes that had murderous intent that had been watching The Farmer since breakfast, they’re eyes all too familiar to The Farmer, they were the eyes of Hog Brady, a runt of a pig the Farmer had raised since he was piglet, naming him Hog Brady for his hatred of New England Patriots quarterback Tom Brady. 

The Farmer had grown to love this runt of a pig over the years even though he wasn’t a Blue Ribbon pig. Hog Brady though, had no love for the Farmer, watching him for years and years routinely butcher his family and friends and devour their corpses, and for what? A few blue ribbons from the county fair. This did not sit well with Hog Brady at all, he has waited years for the opportunity to exact his revenge on the butcherous Farmer, he was going to enjoy feasting on the Farmer, starting with mutilated legs.

The Farmer punched and screamed at Hog Brady, has hard as he could but he was no match for his vengeful foe, the punches and the screaming only forced Hog Brady to consume The Farmer faster. This once runt piglet was now devouring The Farmer as quickly as he could. The other pigs on the other hand, have devoured their gruel, and with their appetites not yet met, the Farmer looked like a plentiful dessert.

The pigs made easy work of the Farmer as they feasted on his flesh as they enjoyed soothing melodies of Tammy Wynette blaring from the pickup truck. It only took a few short minutes for The Farmer to be no more.

Spending hours and hours perfecting a recipe for his Blue Ribbon winning Pigs, it would The Farmer himself who would become a 5 Star meal for his 5 Star pigs.

MASCOT by NATHAN HULL

I had been summoned to the general managers office. A rare thing for a lowly team mascot, yet here I was sitting outside his large office trying to figure out whether this was a positive or potentially terrible thing for my career. Thinking back on the last week what I it was, good or bad that I could have done to land myself waiting like a nervous school child outside the Principles doors. 

“You can go through now” The uninterested receptionist sighed fiddling with her phone not even taking the time to look up at me. “yeah thanks’ I replied before taking a deep breath and walking in to meet my fate. 

Upon entering the room I shuffled nervously, waiting to be acknowledged before Mr Grandioso finally told me to sit “ Well well if it isn’t everyone’s favourite mascot” he said dismissively, lighting a large cigar and pouring himself a brandy “Make mine a double” I said with a  laugh trying to break the tension in the room. Mr Grandioso just stared unimpressed at me before continuing. “As you know we are having a terrible season, we are 1 and 11 and making the finals is now almost impossible, heads must roll’  

I wasn’t entirely sure what this had to do with me as a mascot, I mean all I did was run around in a large Goat costume trying to draw some attention away from the teams terrible performance each week, so I put my fist to my chin and nodded importantly “yes yes I agree” I said hoping that maybe I was about to be given a raise from Mascot to head coach.  ‘What can I do to help Mr Grandioso” I said reaching into my pocket for a pen and note pad, trying to look as prepared and confident as I now I assumed the other coaching candidates would look.

“Put that pen away Manfred, Im firing you” Mr grandioso sighed. ‘What me? firing me? Im the only person who actually does what there paid to do on game day” I yelled “this clubs a fucking joke a fucking shithole joke!’ I screamed making my situation much worse than it already was.

I lept out of my chair and was tackled to the ground by two of Mr Grandioso’s assistants “ listen you jabbering little cock sucker” he hissed “ you think I don’t know how bad this team performs? The amount of money I have invested into the most useless team in the history of this club?” he continued “If it where up to me id fire the lot of them but after the pre-season promises made the outrages spending spree the internal cover ups I need to at least galvanise the fans, so I’m placing the blame squarely on you”

 My head was spinning a moment ago I thought I was going to make the dream leap from Mascot to coach a feet only ever achieved once by Lucky the Dolphin in 1937, now however I realised I had lost everything, I was a patsy a fall guy a nobody. 

I slunk my way out of the stadium and over to the closest bar where I found Terry the Turtle drinking alone .Usually during the season id have no time to chat with our cross town rivals mascot but seeing as I was just fired I sat at his table and over a few drinks explained my situation.

During the course of the afternoon and a long chat it came to light that many mascots where feeling displaced and abused, and one by one we called the others eventually coming up with a plan to not only claim justice but also make us rich. The plan was simple I would take $2000 from each mascot and place a seemingly impossible bet that my ex team would go on to win every remaining  game including the championship for the year it was a $40000 bet put on at 1000 to 1 odds a $40,000,000 pay day. 

And so for the remainder of the season the plan was executed.  Mascots would tamper with play books and equipment disrupt practices, some even going as far as secretly injuring or poisoning star players. Doing whatever it took to ensure our bet payed off. And so it did we succeeded in fucking with the entire league and claiming a nice $2,000,000 each. Not bad for a bunch of no body mascots, once down trodden and laughed at we now where kings and I was the King Goat.

To be apart of the Writers Rebellion, make sure to Like, Follow and Share on

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Plus Tag us in any of your own short stories. We will be launching our Patreon in the coming weeks, so stay tuned for some exclusive content, plus head over to Instagram and vote for your favourite 99 Word Challenge Story.

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CONSUMED THE FIRE - Episode 001 of GKWC

GOAT KING WRITERS CLUB, The loosest storytelling Podcast in all the land, were we don’t let Grammar get in the way of a good yarn.

CONSUMED by Nathan Hull

I had been typing frantically for hours, maybe even days. The never ending task of reporting the news consumed me.

Word after word, it was nothing but a blur of letters on the screen. I don't think i glanced away for a second. I was deep into my work, hands trembling from near exhaustion. The second bottle of house brand scotch two thirds empty, seven packs of cigarettes down. Light trickled in through the slit in my curtains signaling the start of another day. It didn't matter to me time had lost all meaning.

I sent the article through to my editer and demanded another job, ignoring his pleas  for me to slow down "Just send through the fucking assignment" I yelled down the phone, knocking the bottle of scotch from my desk. The frustration almost over flowing into frenzy I stormed out of my small home office into the filthy kitchen adjacent.

Upon entering a pain I'd never felt before shot through me, i ignored it and swung the fridge door open, grasping at the six pack of beer sitting alone on the shelf. I stumbled back dizzy before falling into oblivion. It felt like the floor had disappeared I heard the bottles smash but felt nothing at all, just a calming warm sensation pulling me gently into slumber, a peaceful darkness replaced the manic flashing of ideas that had been fueling me for far to long.

 I awoke to silence and the bright florence lights of a hospital ward beaming obnoxiously into my eyes. I had snapped, trying to finish a never ending task is a sure fire short cut to madness and apparently I had reached that level. The Dr explained that I had collapsed due to sever exhaustion and that a dangerously large mixture of alcohol and prescription grade amphetamines had been reported in my system. He gave me a stern lecture and ordered I rest up for some time to come.

I begrudgingly took his advice and relaxed with the days News Paper skipping through the first few pages like a book I had read many times before. At page eleven however I stopped a small laugh burst through my lips, there it was the most ironic thing I had ever seen. A small article titled "Local journalists dangerous decent into chaos" a two hundred word piece about yours truly.i smiled, how beautiful it was, i had been so consumed by the news that eventually, i had become the news.

THE FIRE by Sean Conway

The fire is burning through the bush quicker than I was expecting, the heat is not the most fearful part but the thunderous noise of the wood burning, sounds like a thousand cat of nine tails cracking all around us.

“YOU FUCKING IDIOT, WHY DID YOU ASH ON THE GROUND” Devon, the lippy British back packer bellowed “it’s just a little bit of fire mate, relax” I replied reassuring him through my tears unconvincingly. “WE’RE GOING TO DIE, WE’RE GOING TO FUCKING DIE” Devon kept screaming in an urgent cry. Jesus Christ this back packer has not stopped complaining since I met him at the hostel, I wanted to tell him to fuck off but I had more important things to worry about, like getting out of this mess and suing the tobacco companies and the government’s cigarette pack warnings for not once making me aware of the potential for bush fires by their product. They literally have warnings for everything else except the one thing that can kill you immediately.

Ah man when I sue these political fat cats I’m totally going to buy a sweet double storey house with my winnings, I imagine suing for Bush fire warnings would be a landmark legal case, I’d probably make the front page of the Newspaper. I might even have enough money left over to buy a chrome Lamborghini, fuck yeah that would be sweet!

“WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO? HOW ARE WE GOING TO GET OUT OF HERE?” cried out Devon waking me from my daydream and bringing me back to this deadly reality.

This whole waiting around to die must be playing with my head because I have never thought this before and it seems weird thinking this now, but fire is hot, like ridiculously hot. I looked over to Devon as he continued frantically searching for a way out of the path of the fire “Hey Devon, how hots this fire ah” I said as it fell on Devon’s deaf ears, he blatantly ignored my observation. Sure these are dyer times but that doesn’t mean you have to be rude.

I guess Devon is done searching for a way out because he is collapsed into a ball on the ground “I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die OH MY GOD I DON’T WANT TO DIE” Devon screamed over dramatically to the skies like a soap opera star, fuck his voice is annoying.

The situation is becoming increasingly stressful and the anxiety is starting to get to me, I really need a cigarette but knowing Devon he’s probably going to have a bitch and moan about it, but fuck him I paid $50 for these Winnie Reds and I’ve only smoked one. I am not going to die letting a perfectly good packet of cigarettes go to waste.

Reaching into my pocket trying to retrieve my lighter without Devon noticing, Jesus where the fuck is it? Are you serious? in all the commotion I must have lost it. It’s moments like this that make me appreciate how crazy and random the world is sometimes, we’re literally surrounded by fire and if we weren’t on the verge of being burnt alive in this hell hole I would consider myself lucky.

The first breath of that sweet sweet Winnie red is always my favourite, it’s almost magical how that first intoxicating breath can make even the most terrifying situation bearable “ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS CUNT? YOU’RE SMOKING! YOU’RE SMOKING!” Devon screamed as he rose from the ground with murderous rage “Do you Poms do anything other than fucking complain” I belched back through a cloud of Winnie Red Smoke. I’m really sick of his whinging, I would have given him a piece of my mind but I was too busy trying to do the maths in my head on how long it would take for me to smoke all these cigarettes before the fire consumed us, but before I could figure out the answer Devon’s hands stained from fake tan are wrapped around my throat. “What are you doing?” I gargled, the heat of the fire made his hands super sweaty, It feels like an eel and smells like coco butter, two things I despise especially when they are crushing my wind pipe. “Get off me Devon, your hands are sweaty and gross” I said chokingly and wishing I said something tougher “I’M GOING TO KILL YOU, I’M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU” Devon spat in a salvia filled scream. Man I wished I had said something cool like that rather than your hands are sweaty and gross. I should really fight back but what’s the point, this will probably be a better way to go out, better than cooking alive in the middle of nowhere. I also think I should punch Devon in his Geordie Shore face because in these stressful times he has been a bit of a cunt, that’s how a hero would go out.

I mustered my remaining strength and clenched my fist as hard as I could and wham right in his kisser, to my surprise this worked because Devon jumped off me screaming in pain, he sounds like a dying lama “Ahahalaladahdahdal”. I must of really brought the pain for him to make such a cowardly cry.

The noise Devon is making sounds more and more pathetic, being the asshole that he is I thought he’d be use to people punching him in the head “YOU BURNT MY FACE YOU CUNT” his venomous mouth spit. I must have punched him with my cigarette still lit in my hand. Looking at the ground and seeing the remains of my crumbled cigarette infuriated me, it didn’t matter that I still have a full pack in my pocket, Fuck Devon! If I can’t beat him physically then I will have to beat him mentally, by saying the most badass line imaginable before we both disintegrate to dust “GET USED TO IT ASSHOLE! BECAUSE IN ABOUT 2 MINUTES YOU’RE GOING TO BE NOTHING BUT FUCKING ASH” I screamed aggressively but chuffed with myself for thinking of such a badass line so quickly “so will you, you fucking twat” Devon responded throwing me off my guard with his even quicker rebuttal “Yeah well, fuck you” I responded immediately knowing I had ruined the badass line prior and losing this battle of mental warfare.

Devon is celebrating his verbal stoush win by charging at me like an angry Bull in Pamplona. The thought of having Devon’s gross manky swamp hands wrapped around my throat again was what was helping me fight him off, but it was too late his uncooked sausage paws latched onto me sending shivers down my spine. The only thing going through my mind is how disgusting his sloppy hands are as I slowly fade in and out of consciousness.

The fire must be really close now because I can feel beads of sweat pour off his head from the heat, I felt Devon release his hands from my throat, I’m not sure if I’m dead but I’ll pretend I am so Devon doesn’t put his icky squid fingers around my throat to finish the job.

Playing possum was working until I was awaken by a liquid spraying on my face “AH WHAT THE FUCK DEVON ARE YOU PISSING ON ME?” how much more disgusting can this cunt get? “I’m not pissing on you look” Devon said pointing to the Heaven’s as the water started flowing down our faces like a baptism from God. “What’s happening?” I mumbled, this must be the DMT releasing into our brains because we’re dying, I listen to a lot of Joe Rogan so I’m familiar with this situation, “I don’t know I don’t know” Devon responded in his cunty British accent. The fire around us was being extinguished as the water continued raining down on us, I quickly got my Winnie reds and put them in the front of my pants so they wouldn’t get ruined by the water.

Out in the distance, through the Smokey haze I can see the flashing of blue and red lights, that could only be from fire trucks. “WE’RE SAVED, WE’RE FUCKING SAVED” Devon shouted with tears of joy and excitement. I was less excited because staring at the flashing lights of the fire trucks I came to the sudden realisation I probably didn’t have a case against the tobacco companies and the government fat cats and I was probably facing a lengthy jail sentence for negligence for starting a bush fire.

“OVER HERE OVER HERE” Devon began screaming to the fire fighters “over here over here” I screamed with a lot less enthusiasm. I’m not sure if it was the fire or the choking or the overwhelming confusion of being saved and facing a long prison sentence but something is making me woozy, like that fine line of feeling drunkenly happy to spewy drunk.

Waking up in an ambulance is not a new experience for me, but being surrounded by fire fighters and ambos looking at me like a freak show attraction is definitely an odd feeling. “So what happened, you guys have no idea how lucky you are to be alive” the Fire Department Chief said to us in a stern but congratulative voice. Lucky wouldn’t be the word I would use to describe the situation, I’m facing serious jail time, I haven’t been to prison before and wasn’t looking forward to finding out if all those prison rape stories are true. The idea of it made me more and more anxious.The only thing I could think to do was reach into the front of my undies and pull out my full pack Winnie Reds cigarettes, must look like a creep to the fire fighters and Ambos, but I’m too anxious to care “Do you have a light?” I said to the group surrounding me. The spark that was lit in front of my face didn’t do much for my anxiety but I thought it was fitting that what was potentially my last cigarette as a free man is being lit by The Fire Department Chief.

Breathing in that sweet sweet Winnie Red takes the sting out of any uncomfortable situation “So what happened out there?” The Fire Department Chief said with a controlled curiosity. I was sensing their excitement so I took a long deep breath of that Winnie Red for dramatic effect, blowing out the smoke I could feel I was giving off a real James Dean or John Wayne kind of vibe.

“Well fella’s, here’s the story”

The End

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