On the outskirts of Manchester, there lived a goat-headed man named Burt. From the neck down, his humanoid body was the same as any man, and he dressed in expensive, tailored suits to ensure he fit in at work. His head, however, was a sight to behold; curved horns sprouted from his long, furry face, and a long white beard draped from his pointed chin.
Burt’s colleagues tolerated him, but they gossiped and laughed behind his back. When he walked to work, strangers stared at him, and children pointed and giggled. He couldn’t make friends, and whenever he convinced someone to meet him for a date after chatting them up online, they beheld his hairy face and screamed.
He had no friends, no family to turn to. Both his parents had possessed ordinary heads, and he murdered his mother the day his horns burst from the womb. Burt’s father tried to donate him to the zoo, but they refused the infant demon. And so, Burt grew up in a children’s home, but whenever prospective parents visited, they grimaced at Burt and said, ‘Who would want to adopt that?’
Despite the rejection and disgust he faced, Burt grew up to be a kind, thoughtful adult. He attended university and gained a business degree. There he was a curiosity, a freak that every group of friends wished to employ as their court jester. Students drank and danced with him, but they never befriended him. When he graduated, he was alone once again.
Office work was easy, but his colleagues made his life hell. Burt feared he would never be accepted by anyone. He considered fleeing the city to live on a farm, where he could sleep amongst the goats and pretend he was one of them.
On his way to work one day, Burt passed a rowdy gang of teenagers. He braced himself for their taunts and scorn, but they were uninterested in his head. The boys were bullying a much younger lad, pushing him around and slapping the back of his head. Burt crept up behind them and bleated as loud as he could. When the boys recoiled and twisted towards him, he claimed to be the devil incarnate. The boys yelled and wept, before lumbering off down the street.
‘Who are you?’ the bullied boy croaked, blinking at Burt through his tears.
‘Name’s Burt. Did you know those lads?’
‘They’re from my school. Wish I had a head like yours to scare them off.’
Burt chuckled. Certainly, he’d never considered his cursed head had advantages.
‘Seriously,’ the boy said. ‘Would you visit my school one day and frighten them again?’
‘Imagine you have a head like mine next time you see them,’ Burt said, patting the boy on the head, ‘and then you can scare them yourself.’
How funny, Burt thought. The boy wished he looked like a goat, and Burt wished he looked like a boy.
© Davey Cobb 2023 All Rights Reserved
Davey Cobb 