They Had Goat Heads Read Online Free PDF Page B

dentist. The hair on his chest and stomach was long and feathery and looked fake. He carried bloody household tongs. I listened. The clerk turned sideways, placed hands on knees and spread her legs. Concerned whispers from the audience. The amateur dentist positioned himself behind the clerk. He pinched the flesh of her thigh with the tongs. She bit her lip. He spanked her . . . and entered her. Clapping. I listened. The actors didn’t make any noises. Minimal facial contortions. The amateur dentist repeated the same mantra, sometimes in German, mostly in English, at calculated intervals:
   “Hence the drama . . . Hence the drama . . . Foglich das Drama  . . . Hence the drama . . . ”
   Stiff breeze. The leaves of autumn fell all around them. Beneath the movie screen, the singer bled to death, his rich substance expanding across the stage. I listened, I listened . . . Rupture of eardrums. The amateur dentist reached climax. The clerk grinned, thanked him. He pushed her aside. He threw himself on her, forced open her mouth and yanked out her teeth, one at a time. She screamed until her larynx burst. Then died. The amateur dentist stood and stared at the camera and finally walked off screen . . . Credits. The lights came on. The audience left the amphitheater. They ambled through the changing room and into the department store, exchanging polite comments and talking about clothes they might buy. Behind them, a teenager in a red striped shirt swept the aisles with a straw broom.

 
    THE STORYTELLER
    “Based on a True Story”
     
    When he finished telling the story, he left my office.
   He came back, told me the same story, and left again.
   He came back again and told the story over, pausing to emphasize the importance of attention-grabbing introductions.
   He left.
   He came back a fourth time and told the story over, twice, back to back.
   He left. He came back.
   Halfway through the sixth elocution I said, “I think I’ve heard this story before.” He continued to the end as if there had been no interruption.
   He did a clumsy pirouette and reiterated the story.
   He left. He didn’t come back . . .
   I looked at my computer. New email. He had sent me the story as .doc, .rtf, .pdf, and .wpd documents. He had also embedded it in the body of the email. “I hope you enjoy this story,” read the subject box. I deleted it. My phone rang. I answered it.
   “I just sent you an email,” he said. “In case you didn’t receive it, I wanted to tell you something.” He told me the story.
   He hung up and sprinted to my office . . .
   “Hello?” I said into the phone. “Hello? Hello?”
   “Hello,” he said, standing in my doorway, and told me the story . . .
   I nodded.
   I made understanding faces.
   I smiled.
   I made surprised faces.
   I pushed out my lips.
   I nodded again.
    . . . He finished the story, turned to leave, came back and told the story, turned to leave, came back and told the story and told the story and told the story, turned to leave, and left.
   I looked at my desk.
   A hole formed in my office wall. A drill bit leapt through the hole. “Psst,” he said, then told me the story. Afterwards he slipped two small rolls of paper through the hole that, unfolded, revealed the story—one in shorthand, one in Sanskrit.
   I put a square of duct tape over the hole. I turned off my computer. I closed and locked my office door.
   There was a knock at the door.
   I didn’t say anything.
   There was another knock.
   I said, “Nobody’s in here.”
   He said, “But the sound of your voice indicates a source, i.e., voices don’t come from nowhere, or, in this case, nobody.”
   I agreed with him.
   “Open up,” he reminded me.
   I unlocked and opened the door.
   He told me the story. He was about to repeat the story when I said, “Yes,