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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