Chapter 2: Citation, Damnation, and Goat-on-a-Stick

Out of nowhere—SMACK!

Right in the face.

A floating clipboard appeared like a bad joke, landing squarely on my forehead. I staggered back, blinking as I read the bright red letters scribbled across it:

“Horrorverse Citation #001: Unauthorized Genre Break.”

Before I could process what the hell was going on, another clipboard whizzed past my ear and smacked Jay so hard he dropped his protein bar.

Jay rubbed his shoulder, confused. “What the—?”

The air shimmered like a cursed Windows XP screensaver, and suddenly—there he was.

A goat.

A literal goat.

Wearing a miniature black cape, glowing red eyes flaring like evil toaster lights, and the kind of smug attitude you’d expect from someone who files demonic taxes for fun.

He stepped out from behind a coughing bush (yes, the bush coughed) like this was some kind of cursed Broadway debut.

He cleared his throat with way too much gravitas for something that probably eats tin cans.

“I am Gary, Assistant Regional Fear Enforcer of the Horrorverse Internal Affairs Division.”

I raised an eyebrow and tilted my head.

“Mehhh… oh sorry, I mean Geee-ehhhh-rrrreee, right?”

Gary’s eye twitched. Smoke puffed from his nostrils like a broken vape pen.

“Do not mock the pronunciation of my name, mortal.”

Jay leaned forward, squinting. “You… work for horror IRS?”

Gary huffed. “Worse. Internal genre regulation and multidimensional canon compliance.”

Jay snorted. “So… Goat Cop.”

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While Gary began monologuing about “respect,” “narrative stability,” and “the importance of citation structure,” the author casually scribbled a message on the nearest bark:

⸻

Dear Dick Jr., just so you know, I—your author—am not affiliated with the Horror Mafia. They can try all they want, but they have no actual legal right over you. So keep punching clowns and breaking walls.

Signed, Your Friendly Neighborhood Writer.

⸻

Gary saw the bark.

He read it.

His pupils shrank. His breathing quickened.

He began sweating.

Jay raised an eyebrow. “Yo. Goat. You good?”

Gary’s hoof trembled. “That… that message is outside canonical channels. I’ll have to… escalate it to tier seven adjudication protocol—”

“YOU ARE IN VIOLATION OF MULTIPLE HORRORVERSE PROTOCOLS!” he suddenly blurted, trying to regain authority.

“Including but not limited to: unauthorized meta-humor, excessive clown mutilation, sarcastic narration, illegal author interaction, unlicensed parody law loopholes, and—”

But something interrupted him.

Demon fairies.

From the trees, they fluttered in—tiny, red-eyed, grinning chaos goblins with jagged wings and pockets full of glitter. They landed all over Jay like cursed spa staff from Hell’s Sephora.

One was brushing his eyebrows. Another massaged oil into his biceps. A third slapped glitter onto his abs.

Jay flailed. “Yo, what the hell is happening!?”

One fairy smirked and whispered:

“You’re under the Protagonist Pack™ clause. You must remain visually appealing at all times. You are… a commodity that sells well.”

Jay turned to me, eyes wide. “Bro… I’m literally being turned into anime fan art.”

I pointed at him. “Jay, you’re getting moisturized by winged goblins. And you know what I’m hungry for?”

Jay blinked. “What?”

I looked straight at Gary.

“Goat kebabs.”

Gary froze.

I’ve never seen a goat’s eyes widen like that without it being mid-car-impact.

Jay looked at the bark again. Read the author’s note aloud. Looked back at Gary.

Gary backed up.

“W-Wait, you wouldn’t— You can’t— I’m protected under Article 666 of the Crossdimensional Compliance Charter—!”

Jay cracked his neck. “Didn’t you say we broke the rules?”

Gary’s cape twitched. “Wait—WAIT—!”

⸻

Goat on the Run: The BBQ Chase

Gary turned tail and sprinted into the woods, his tiny goat legs flailing like panicked noodles.

“WHY CAN’T I TELEPORT?!” he screamed.

“WHY IS MY PORTAL MAGIC ON COOL-DOWWWWWN!?”

I shouted, “Jay! Skewers!”

Jay roared, “I’LL GET THE FIREWOOD!”

We chased him through twisted trees and foggy bushes, leaping over cursed mushrooms and dodging floating clipboards still trying to cite us mid-sprint.

Gary tripped over a fairy. Faceplanted into a log.

“I FILE PAPERWORK, NOT WAR CRIMES!”

Too late.

Jay leapt like a creatine-fueled jungle cat. Tackle. Pin. Slam.

I preheated a cast iron griddle using leftover cursed fire from earlier, and the demon fairies? Oh, they went full-on Hell’s Kitchen.

⸻

The Kebabening Begins

One fairy dropped a tiny vial labeled “Demonic Paprika.”

Another tossed me a jar of “Soul-Infused Garlic Butter.”

A third handed me a Bluetooth speaker blasting death metal BBQ music.

They danced around the fire in tiny aprons, singing in ancient Latin while sprinkling spice onto Gary’s marinated thighs.

Jay sniffed the air. “Smells like… spicy vengeance.”

I took the first bite. Hot, juicy, righteous.

“…Yo.”

Jay chewed a chunk and looked surprised. “Yo.”

I wiped my mouth. “I expected him to taste like legal tape and existential dread.”

Jay nodded. “But this? This tastes like ‘f** the system’ with a side of paprika’.*”

We sat on a log, surrounded by demon fairies fanning us with mini pitchforks, the ashes of genre bureaucracy still swirling in the air.

Gary’s clipboard melted beside us, unread and completely ignored.

I burped.

Jay smirked.

“Think they’ll send someone stronger next time?”

I shrugged. “Hopefully not vegan.”

We leaned back, full-bellied, slightly glittery, and absolutely unrepentant. Demon fairies swayed to the barbecue beat, chanting in minor chords.

Then I said:

“Hopefully not a female either. ’Cause let’s be real—this is the Horrorverse, and for some cursed reason, the women here are always weirdly horny, especially toward dudes like you Jay.

It’s like the universe itself wants to fan-service you. I don’t trust it.”

Jay flexed reflexively. “I mean, can you blame them?”

I deadpan-glared at him.

“…Pass the garlic sauce.”

⸻

To be continued…