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Goat Face Killa · **02-15-2015, 05:23 AM**

It was a bright cold usual day in February, and the clocks chimed in unison as the day reached its apex. I am Marcus Phlin, my chin buried deep underneath my black furry parka coat that I was gifted from a relative for Christmas. In an effort to escape the vile wind, I slipped quickly through the glass doors of the hotel I was staying at, being greeted by an elderly gentleman who closed the door behind me to stop the draft from following him. The lobby was well decorated, with the bar just a few metres past the dozens of chairs to my left and the reception desk to my left. These were of no interest to me; I just needed to get to my room.

Room 802. The second room on the eighth floor.

Winking at an attractive waitress, I walked at quite a fast pace to where the elevator was situated. Small specs of dirt on the elevator made me question the legitimacy of how a five star hotel gains five stars. Maybe I was just being picky, but I had better get used to shitty motels and not ones of this stature, for I had recently been signed to the X-Treme Wrestling Federation, of whom I am working for quite a reasonable salary. Wrestlers had to travel a lot, so I am now going to live the life of rental cars and finding a place to sleep. My goal? Well, the goal I was given, was to be the TV champion. Pretty bold.

The elevator door opens and I smile at three young ladies who were speaking a foreign language. I step out of the way to let them pass, before entering the elevator and pushing my fingers into the number 8. The way up felt a bit lonely as the only thing to accompany my ears was the hum of the mechanics. I miss the days when elevators still played elevator music. It was like marmite on toast; some people loved it and other people absolutely despised it. Hell, it was even used as an insult in popular culture, like the Eminem song rap god. I wasn’t a fan, but I picked the song for my entrance theme because it fitted who I was.

THE GOAT FACE KILLA!

Yeah, you thought this promo was pretty fucking boring didn’t you? The transformation was complete my friends, as I ripped off the buttons of my parka to reveal the letters G.O.A.T. with the caption underneath stating “The Greatest Of All Time” (because that’s what I fucking am) I jumped out of the elevator just as the doors opened before walking with a swagger, kicking open any doors along the way to my room, my shoes burning with blue flame, yes BLUE, while the friction of my fucking awesomeness burned against the carpet. Paintings of supposedly famous people drawn intricately by an artist whose eyes’ followed you around like a haunted mansion, jumped back in awe as they smelled the odour of my goat antiperspirant. One hundred percent fucking natural, like a man. I saw evolution of facial hairs get burned off by my mighty beard, as I finally reached my door.

I swiped my card like I was a sabre tooth swiper, before planting two meaty goat face killa hands on the fucking door handle, to lay eyes upon heaven that was my hotel room. Now please understand fellow readers that describing the room is hard to do as it causes me to ejaculate and moan in utter fucking ecstasy at the thought of sharing all these beauties with the world. With sweat dripping from my goat hairs coming out of my arms and goat tears coming out of my eyes, I opened the door.

Holy mother of goat.

Lying on the beds were several breeds of goat that had followed me for years. These goats were my friends, my allies and my warriors. I was one of few who could understand them and thus I have to translate in order for the viewers at home to get the best possible goatdefinition experience.

“Hey Marcus, what’s cooking in the kitchen? I hope it’s not goat!”

I pretended to laugh at the absolute pathetic choir of goat hysterics at that shit joke. Goats have a very specific sense of humour like a really shit sitcom in the nineteen nineties, the type that has that god awful laughing track which almost hypnotises you into laughing in time with whatever humour they’re forcing down your throat. That’s one of the only things that gets on my nerves about my babies. However, I love them with all my heart.

“That’s really funny Bo, but I’m afraid we are gonna have to not eat tonight.”

I felt pretty guilty as all of the happy faces in the room dropped. The one who made the joke, Bo, who was a Boer, made a goat noise. Also known as-

“BLEEAAAAAAAAAAA!”

-which is the type you here in those remixes of the Taylor Swift song “Trouble”. I found them funny at the time but my friends decided that it put their dignity of their whole species at risk. I then flagged as many of the YouTube videos as possible and they forgave me for degrading them.

“I need to save up for my travels. Plus, this swanky danky dapperly dooly hotel cut me quite a lot when it comes to the moneys.”

“Oh fuck off Marcus, you’re buying meth again aren’t you?”

I laughed. Hard. But it seemed that my laugh was acapella, as they all stared at me. They actually thought of it as a legitimate question.

“No. I’m not on meth. However, one thing I am though, is ready, ready to win the number one contendership for the title of TVs. Gator is one of the best competitors in the company and it would be a honour as leader of goats to face him, even beat him. Now I need to cut a fucking promo on the other S.O.B’s I’m u-“

“What about Doctor D’Ville?”

“Wrong promo. He will come next. Now, the silence has been broken by the one known as Cain. He is nowhere near as awesome as me and I will tell you why.

First of all, I have been skydiving. Yeah, fuck you. Skydiving is awesome.

Second of all, I have travelled the world and have climbed nearly every mountain. The only mountain you have climbed it appears have been either the RTX, a short lived development territory for the XWF, or the midcard. Now, the midcard is quite a tricky subject in the XWF as most people would associate the TV title and the X-Treme title as being midcard titles when they are mistaken. They are athletes. You are merely a “just there” in the passings and goings of things. You are a fly in a hurricane that doesn’t seem to want to die.

Thirdly, I have goats. I am a leader of a religion and a species. They have my back and I have theirs. Capiche? Can you speak to a fucking animal? I don’t think so. I am the Goat Face Killa and I kill people like you. Well, that’s a metaphor. I sort of beat you up, punch you in the dick and then sit on you for three seconds.

Fourthly, I am awesome and you are not.”

“That was pretty good, but lacked substance.”

“Shut the fuck up, I’m building my way up to it.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Didn’t mean to upset you, I’m just in the ZONE y’know?”

“Uh. Yeah.”

“Anyway, skipping all this shit about his life and how everything he does has amounted to this moment, his big break. Which he does again…

And again…

And again…

Every single match. He loses most of them too. However, in this huge outer coating of crap there was something I’ve noticed. You always seem to serve another. That’s good, because I’m gonna make you my bitch in this match. I’m gonna make you my bitch because you piss me off already and you talk a bunch of crap. Twenty six martial arts? Name them all. Also name the schools you trained in those martial arts. Then maybe I’ll believe you. Just maybe.

The fact that some quote you said to Heyman is ringing in your own ears shows that you’re such an egotistical mendacious little fuck. Or big fuck. The so called “Grrr urhm fet en duhr tweny sex murshal urts” is overweight at 6ft 8. Look it up. I can see your tits jiggle when you breathe, Iceman. Nah, only joking Maverick. It’s just everyone has been telling me how fun it is to wind you up. Anyway, you’re full of shit, that’s all I’m saying.

The whole warriors thing? That just doesn’t fly with me. Sounds to me you’re trying to find excuses for your losses using your own quotes that you think sound cool. It’s pretty pathetic from my point of view. You listed off a few other warriors who actually won apart from you. You shouldn’t be in that category with them. Also, they were good at working in teams. Let's look at your fucking track record, with one of them standing out to me.

Warriors like war, right? How about the time you pussied out of Wargames and made one of the most pathetic half assed efforts ever just so you could rest for your Universal title match that never happened because you're a fucking pussy. Or you're smart and realise that people like Samuels, Eli James, Theo Pryce and Morbid Angel are much better than you. However, you're still a pussy. I nearly cried with laughter sitting at home with my fresh ol' popcorn watching you, a fat sack of potatoes hit the mat over and over again. I mean, Monolith is pretty fat but you're on a different level buddy. No wonder Pryce abandoned the team with people like you on it."

"Nice improvements."

"Thanks."

"I really fancy a club sandwich."

"Tough luck you fat shit. I told you. You could try and waltz down there and ask for one yourself but I'm hiding you in here as it is. They won't take kindly to a bunch of goats rampaging around."

"So? I'll go by myself."

"You don't get it, do you?! People don't like goats!"

Suddenly, silence. I know this was a touchy subject, but I was helping them. They were bound to here the truth at some point.

"Wow, man. That's hurtful."

"I'm sorry but it's fucking true. I'm trying to fix their opinions by becoming a superstar. I will let the whole world know exactly how great goats are. Hell, I've got two title matches already and even if I lose both of them, I will make sure they will know what great animals you all are."

"Hey you do realise that there's other people in this match besides Cain right?"

"Oh shit, I completely forgot."

"Just say how Scully isn't funny and how Caroline is a slut."

"Well, holy shit. I should hire you to do my promos!"

"W-"

"-Sarcasm."

"Oh."

"Anyway, I'll be out on the balcony having a smoke. Get my camera ready for when I do the other two scumbags."

"Alright, boss."

I ignore his sarcastic comment and swipe a pack of cigarettes from a nearby coffee table. Pushing past a bunch of goats I make my way out of the kitchen and onto the balcony, the amazing view giving me buttergoatflies in my anus. I lean over the edge and spit, hoping to hit some rich motherfucker on the bottom. What if I win the match? What the fuck next?

"Universal Title? Nah, I can't aim too high or I'll look like a

."

Aiming high.

High.

HIGH.

My world starts spinning as I topple over the edge of the balcony, bright colours attacking me from all directions. My last vision before I closed my eyes was of the packet of cigarettes falling out of my hands as I slowly became acquainted with the concrete below...

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