TWENTY-THREE
Gone was the weak grandfatherly act I had seen at Black's offices, as much a lie as his supposed disability. He moved at a strut. Chest out. His green eyes sparkled wickedly. A grin was plastered on his face, splitting his silver goatee in two. His lower half was goat, his legs bending back from the knees and then jutting forward. His feet were black cloven hooves that matched his horns.
Beneath his open coat he was naked, and seemingly proud of the fact. He strutted with the arrogance of a teenage boy. His prick—absurdly proportioned—dangled between his legs, half-obscured in the long tangles of black hair that covered his lower half.
Peter Black—Puck, Pan, Black Goat, Baphomet, whatever name he went by—was in his element, and I hated him for it.
With a theatrical turn, h
