A goat.
Sitting in a boat.
Smoking a tangerine.
How obscene.
On this boat, there's a man--the goat's pet--wearing a leather collar, bleeting into the air like some panicked animal. Poor thing, really, it doesn't know any better. It's perfectly safe here.
The goat is grey, the way his ancestors were, but he was addicted to tangerines. His wife and children hate it, so he takes this opportunity on the water to indulge.
The man is bleeting, gagging hysteric saliva onto the floors of the wooden boat. The goat scoffed, but remained immobile.
He's waiting for fish to take the bait. He has an entire bucket full of jelly babies and has to resist the urge to take one--or two, or three--into his own mouth.
They needed food on the table.
Several hours later, with three fish and fishing instruments in one hoof, leash in the other, the goat trudged up the hill, pulling the bleeting, reluctant human the entire way.
The air was perfumed with tangerines, and the human vomited by the mailbox.
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