Another Satyrday Night: An Excerpt from Under the Witch’s Mark by Rickey Pittman

ANOTHER SATYRDAY NIGHT: An excerpt from Under the Witch’s Mark

by Rickey Pittman

When Steve met me at the door, I once again found myself at a loss of words. He stood there, a bottle of Cold Duck in one hand, and a cigarette hanging loosely in his lips. He had covered his motorcycle helmet with sheepskin and somehow attached goat horns to it. The headpiece reminded me of a Comanche war bonnet in a John Wayne western. His face and all other exposed skin was painted blue, and he wore a sheepskin shirt and matching trousers. He had even glued wool to his horseshoe-tapped motorcycle boots. He took a puff of his cigarette and a swig of the Cold Duck.

            “What’s going on, Sheridan?”

            “You’re standing there dressed like that and you’re asking me what’s going on?” I recalled Doty’s story. “No, tell me it’s not true. You are the Goat Man?”

            He pulled a panpipe from his belt, blew away some of the fuzz and played a little ditty and then said, “Yes, Sheridan. I am Goat Man. The source of teenage nightmares. I am the adrenaline rush for young lovers who park in lonely spots. Though I admit—my costume only works well if those I harrow are stoned or drunk. But face it—most people parking are one or the other or both. I usually just flit about in the shadows so they think they see something. It’s just like a good horror movie scene. Curiosity gets the best of them and they come closer to take a look. They experience, as Joseph Conrad describes it, a fascination with the horrible.”

            “You keep this up and they’re going to put you in jail or an insane asylum.”

            “Bahhhh,” he said. “Did that sound like a goat?”

            “You are totally insane.” I felt like I was suddenly on the Planet of the Apes, or in this case, on Planet of the Goats. I felt like shouting, “This is a madhouse!” like Charleston Heston did when his power of speech finally returned.

            “Do you think I could find an agent to book me for horror movies?” He raised his hands in a monster pose.

            “How are you going to do movies from prison or the loony bin? I think you’ve committed crimes that aren’t even on the books yet.”

            “I like being a satyr.” He broke off into a song:

                        “Another Satyr-day night, and I ain’t scared nobody,

                        Got to find a couple parking alone . . .”

            When I rolled my eyes, he said, “Would you like to come in and imbibe some of this exquisite Cold Duck? I only drink the finest.”

            “Yeah. I’ve got to have a drink after seeing and listening to you.”

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