Good afternoon, those who may or may not be reading this in the afternoon.
Time for another “story” blast-written in ten minutes without forethought, I suppose.
And I call myself a writographer. Or, wait, no I don’t.
“Sir?” came Featherby’s voice from another room.
Dincton Flatt ignored him, absently clicking through tabs on his browser. The immaculately dressed Mr. Cheverly had posted a photograph of his newest suit on Facebook. It was perfect. Flatt glowered.
“Sir?” Featherby called again.
Flatt sighed. “What is it, Featherby?” He looked over his shoulder, and saw his robot coyote trot into the room.
“I think you ought to see this, sir,” the coyote answered.
“Not now, Featherby, I’m quite in the middle of something.”
“Sir, even if I believed that, I would still feel pressed to tell you that there is a goat on your lawn.”
“A goat, Featherby?”
“Yes, sir, a goat.”
“Heavens, that shouldn’t be.” Flatt pulled up an MSPaint process he always had open, filled in all black so he could look at his reflection on the computer monitor. He was handsome as you please and blond as anything, just as he intended. He smiled dashingly at himself and minimized the window, then stood and crossed his arms. “Very well, then, show this goat to me.”
Featherby led him out to his front yard, where a goat indeed stood munching on the grass.
“You. Goat,” Flatt warned. “You mustn’t be here. Not in the slightest. This is simply not the place for goats.”
The goat looked up, staring blankly, then goatnoised.
“Hmm. Quite rude. What should we do, Featherby?”
“Perhaps we should call the goat store, sir. Maybe it escaped and only needs to be returned.”
“No, Featherby, I do not think such a place exists.” Flatt twisted up his mouth in consideration. “Although, that might not be a bad thing to have around here. Perhaps we should start one.” Flatt approached the goat carefully. “Well, there, fellow – how would you like to be the first in a line of magnificent goats – Flatt’s Goats? We could sell your ilk all over Danesbury, perhaps as a complimentary add-on to our properties.”
The goat goatnoised.
“Sir,” Featherby cautioned, “I do not mean to rain on your parade, but it might be said that this idea is not a good one. The real-estate business is enough to manage on its own without adding livestock to your inventory.”
Flatt shook his head. “You may be right, Featherby, but people do like goats, do they not? And Cheverly does not have goats.” Flatt eyed the robot. “Does he?”
Featherby tilted his head. “I don’t believe so, sir.”
“There. You see?” Flatt turned to grab the goat, but the goat backed away, causing Flatt to overreach and fall on his face. “Mmph.”
“Sir, this is the second time you’ve fallen down this week. People may start saying things.”
Flatt rolled over onto his back and stared up into the afternoon sky. “I didn’t plan on any goats, now, did I?.” He looked around, but now could not see the creature. “Where did it go?”
“I am not certain, Sir. Perhaps it was never here at all.”
Flatt sighed extensively. “Oh, Featherby, why did I build you?”
“For good times, sir.”