By Jason Plouffe
From Goblins & Galaxies #1 Autumn 2025
Fogs. And I thought Benny’s litterbox was rank. I’ve wrinkled my nose at the stench of dive bars across the Known Realities, but none were so malodorous as the Dead Dog Inn. I take a long pull of Valkryie’s Fire to stave off the bouquet of rancid meat, fried circuits, unwashed drunkards, and oh yes, an open access urinal trough. Golden fireflies dance upon my tongue. Perhaps Maureen, the obsolete sexbot behind the bar, wasn’t lying when she assured me the liquor was made with fruit fallen from the great tree Yggdrasil. It certainly cost enough. I quaff more liquid glory, then catch a whiff that brings it back up my throat. I fight it down and glance about the crowded room again. No witches are visible under the flickering ylyctryc striplights. Nor is there a cat anywhere in sight.
Seated beside me at the bar, an orc in a business suit pitches battle insurance to a giant fighting cock with a bandaged head. The orc’s suit jacket is mere inches from my hand, its pocket so inviting my fingers tingle. Resisting temptation, I plant my restless hands on the sack on my lap and watch Maureen rattling behind the bar. She’s showing a lot of synthetic skin, worn and patchy as it is. Algae glows on her exaggerated chest. “My eyes are up here, honey.” Her voice sounds like a badly tuned radio, the volume cranked to rise above the chorus of curses, laughter, retching and squeals.
“Sorry.” I meet Maureen’s camera-eyes. Her left lens is fractured, and spits occasional ylyctryc sparks. The right is sharp and focused. A handy security feature, no doubt.
“Don’t get many visitors from Earth these days.”
I fold my gloved hands atop the bar. “That obvious?”
“Clothes are a dead giveaway.” Her gaze lingers on my cashmere hoodie. “What brings a dashing man like you through the Fogs?”
“Merlin’s Updated Guide says Goblin Market is the fashion mecca of the Known Realities,” I offer. “And he adds that any traveler would be remiss if they didn’t experience the colourful atmosphere and charming service provided at the Dead Dog Inn.”
Maureen laughs, then regards me seriously. “Do I know you?”
“Doubt that, seeing as it’s my first trip to Goblin Market.” I catch myself reaching to flip my hood up, scratch my chest instead. “I’m looking for Madam Hex.”
Maureen blinks cracked eyelids, spits lube into a glass and starts polishing it with a dead rat. Of curse, this dump is cash only, and my sleight of hand isn’t what it used to be. I sigh, fish another precious coin from my hoodie pocket and place it on the bartop. Maureen swallows the coin without hesitation. “Conference room two.” She winks, pointing with a peeling chin to a door near a party of rusted metaknights busy tossing laser darts at a trussed up, squealing moonpig. Just my luck, opposite the door a purple goliath with a face like rotting swiss cheese drinks alone. “Mind the Purple Peril,” she adds. “He’s about as stable as a stick of hundred-year-old Hobgoblin dynamite these days.”
“I’ll be sure not to jar him.”
I partially unzip my hoodie, sling my sack over my shoulder, lift my glass and wade across the crowded common room. Keeping my hands to myself. Minding the hands of others. Tossing wary glances at the Purple Peril as he broods over his massive tankard. Of curse I nearly trip over an obstacle on the floor. A third of my drink spills.
Fogsdammit!
A possum-headed goblin is sprawled on the floor, cuddled up to a death worm large enough to swallow a cat in one gulp. Reminded of Benny’s plight, it’s all I can do to restrain a kick to the snoring goblin’s ribs.
How did I end up in this putrid nest?
It wasn’t my fault, I can assure you of that.
*~*~*
It all escalated with a hiss, menacing me before the coffee had even finished brewing. “Sorry your breakfast is late, your Majesty,” I answered from the sofa. “But fat cats don’t win best in show.” Benny’s a bengal cat, a suave killing machine with a spotted coat and the entitlement of a diva. I remained focused on my crossword.
Benny hissed at me again.
“Now hear this, you inbred ingrate.” I glanced from the crossword and saw that the beast hissing at me this morning stood on two legs, its wiry frame bristling with threat. I blinked, but the irksome vision remained: a diminutive, furred biped with a badger’s head stood in the doorway of the living room closet, wearing nothing but clawed gauntlets, a black leather fanny pack, and a leather codpiece. A sparsely feathered turkey-girl with a bad case of whole-body dandruff jostled it from behind. The pair tumbled onto the living room carpet. A fox-headed homunculus leapfrogged over them, followed by a bait-headed mongrel and an anthropomorphic toad.
Goblins.
A quick glance to the kitchen told me that fog obscured the world beyond the half-open window. Probing tendrils of it creeping inside. I recalled a night, a week before, when Benny had alerted me to a raccoon peering through that window, its face pressed to the glass. I’d taken it for a hungry scavenger. Now I wondered if it had been a spy.
I hurled my brand-new folding phone at Badger’s head, and leaping from the Italian leather sofa, made for the kitchen, slammed the window shut and spun to face the invaders. The motley crew occupied the living room, casing my pad with beady eyes. Though the nasty little brutes had wicked daggers strapped to their legs, they’d taken the liberty of raiding my tool box. Miniature fists clutched wrench, power drill, my ancient shoe hammer, and an extension cord whip. Bait-Head had even brandished my caiman-skin umbrella.
“The Irish jig is up,” Badger growled. “Give us the gold,”
I raised my hand, fingers shaping a symbol of power, and voiced an ancient Gaelic cantrip. Nothing happened, of curse, but old habits die hard.
“Give us the gold,” Badger repeated, “and Madam Hex will let you keep that pathetic human body she gave you.” Behind him, the turkey-girl squawked her derision. “Refuse, and she’ll tell everyone you’ve ever swindled exactly where in the fogs you’re hiding, and what you look like now. And then–” The coffee maker beeped. The goblins jumped like frightened cats.
“Oh, calm down.” I leaned an elbow on the kitchen counter and lifted the crystal carafe. “Now, why don’t we discuss this over coffee, like civilized monsters?” I tilted the carafe up and down, wafting the comforting aroma toward the invaders. “Or I could make all of you even uglier. And when I’m done,” I promised Badger, “I’ll use your pelt for a hat.”
“Fat chance.” Badger thrust his leather-clad crotch dismissively. “But if you manage it, you won’t be the only one with a new fur hat.”
“Yes, I heard your mother finally saved up enough from her whoring to buy a proper outfit,” I returned. “Give her my regards, but tell her next time, less teeth.”
“Fog snoggler!,” Toad shouted. “Nobody talks about Blathor the Bloody’s mother like–” A splash of scalding coffee caught Toad in the face. He croaked obscenities, pawing at his eyes with warty, webbed hands. The rich aroma of Indonesian fair trade civet beans mingled with the yeasty miasma of unwashed goblin.
Foxie Loxie and Bait-Head lunged for me, screaming bloody gore. “Wait!” Blathor the Bloody Badger shouted. “We’re supposed to–” Foxie Loxie’s yip of pain interrupted him. I had caught her full in the face with the remains of the steaming coffee. Bait-Head caught splash damage as well, and recoiled.
I danced forward and booted Blathor’s codpiece, sending him crashing into the wall, then hurled the crystal carafe at Bait-Head’s fishy face. He opened my umbrella, deflecting the carafe and tearing the caiman skin in the process. Shattering crystal complimented my shriek of rage.
Hissing like Hell’s own espresso machines, the goblins pressed their attack. I dodged a hammer, skipped a whip, landed by the stove and grabbed my heavy cast iron pan by its latex-covered handle. Foxie Loxie and Toad, both still in the throes of coffee-blindness, staggered towards me. I bludgeoned them both with a single blow. Turkey gored my arm with the drill. I returned a crunching strike to her face. Pivoted on my heel and smote Bait-Head with a backhanded swing.
Blathor the Bloody limped into the kitchen. “Fool,” he spat. “Do you think we didn’t take measures? All this time–” I swung for his head. He skipped aside, then leapt for my throat, flashing his teeth and swiping with a clawed gauntlet. I parried with the pan. My upswing cracked his skull like a soft-boiled egg.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five goblins on the floor.
Keeping a wary eye, I tore a strip from my ruined silk shirt to bind the wound on my arm. I took the pan, crossed the living room and crept down the hallway, checking for enemies behind the row of potted plants. That damn fog was pressed thick against the hallway window. I returned to the living room and entered the closet. There was a gaping, mist-edged hole in the floor.
I returned the cast iron to the stovetop, then retrieved my shoehammer from the kitchen floor. I toppled my prefabricated bookshelf and knocked it into pieces. I selected two planks and quickly nailed them over the hole in the closet. I used more of the planks to board up the fog-filled windows in the kitchen and hallway.
I was under siege. I opened the cupboard to assess my food supplies. My eyes fixed on the bag of Purrfect Cat Treats sitting beside the stack of canned salmon and escargot.
I took the bag and shook it. “Benny?”
He didn’t so much as meow.
I searched the apartment again, shaking the treats as I did so.
“Benny? Come out and I’ll give you all the treats you like.”
Nothing.
I eyed the boarded up kitchen window. Had it been open all night?
I ventured down the stairs and opened the door a crack. Dense fog hovered beyond the stoop, thick and impenetrable. “Benny?” I shook the treats. “Are you out here?”
Something sniffed the air, loud as a rhinoceros’ snores. “Come out, come out,” a crushed gravel voice rumbled. “I’ll eat you with catsup, little man.” I heard a large gullet being cleared, followed by a splash against the door.
“Here kitty kitty kitty,” a giggler squeaked. “Here kitty kitty.”
I slammed the door and threw the bolt, a chill running up my spine. I climbed the stairs, went straight to Benny’s food bowl and found it ominously full. I checked his litterbox. Not a single turd, and I’d last cleaned it two days before. Oddly, the box seemed to contain half as much litter as usual. I grabbed the poop scoop and dug into the litter. There was something in there. I foraged deeper, and flipped up a disc of cardboard. Litter drained out of the box, revealing a mist-edged, cat-sized hole in the bottom. There was crude text on the cardboard.
U NO WERE 2 COME
“Fogsdammit!”
I kicked the litter box. It tipped, landing on its front, that damn hole in its bottom glaring at me accusingly. I screamed and kicked the box again, scattering litter across the floor. Then I went to Blathor’s body and began picking through his foul fanny pack. I found a few coins. Mystery flesh. Potentially magic beans. Also, a drink coaster emblazoned with an illustration of a dead puppy hung from an arched doorway. Decorative text read The Dead Dog Inn, 97b SlyFae Alley, Goblin Market. I wasn’t surprised.
I wrapped a Monk’s Cloth tea towel around my wounded arm. Refilled the kettle, rinsed the french press and ground the last of the civet beans. I finished looting the corpses as the coffee brewed, finding a meagre few coins and nothing else of value. I opened the fridge, removed a purple velvet sack from the crisper and emptied it on the table.
I allowed myself a few minutes to caffeinate, and count my precious gold.
Next I found the whetstone, donned a pair of leather gloves and sharpened the pan. My gut told me it was lucky. After sharpening its edge, I fastened a length of bungee cord through the handle. I removed the gloves, rummaged through the utensil drawer for the deboner, then made short work of five goblin necks. I refilled the purple sack, then jumped in the shower for a quick wash.
I fetched a fresh outfit from the bedroom. Silk boxers, lambswool trousers, an Egyptian cotton tee, alpaca socks and snakeskin sneakers. I re-donned the gloves, then knotted the free end of the bungee cord around my shoulder, dangling the sharpened pan over my chest. The cotton tee kept the iron off my skin, though I was sure to be welted by end of day. I completed my ensemble with a zip-up cashmere hoodie.
I gazed in the mirror. I’d last worn that hoodie at Benny’s most recent show. He’d placed second, beaten by a miserable Cornish Rex. I looked around at the home we’d made here. Even with the corpses cluttering the floor, it felt empty without him.
I went to the closet. Pried up the board on the floor. Slipped through the misty hole and dropped towards the center of the Known Realities.
Down, down, towards goblin town.
I emerged on the shoulder of the Fogway. Gazing widdershinswards, I considered Unknown Realities. Away from Goblin Market, Madam Hex and Benny.
Nah, I told myself. She’d find me.
And I loved that damn cat.
A clutch of lizard men, homeward bound from a mining expedition in Pellucidar, emerged from the fog. I stretched my thumb. They slowed their loaded wagon, extended a pole and hauled me aboard. I told them my destination, Goblin Market. The chief wagoneer bobbed his head knowingly and whipped his gnorf to speed. I eyed their load of silver ore, but left off when the chief noted my interest. We passed quietly through the fogs, a featureless landscape punctuated by occasional leaning obelisks, profane colossi or techno-horror constructions. In no time or ages we were slowing as a towering archway loomed ahead. The lizards bobbed their farewells, then tossed me from the wagon.
The pillars of the arch were as graffitied as ever, just with new tags. I scratched at my itching chest and followed a sandy path through the arch. On the other side, the fog dropped to swirl about my ankles. A swollen blood moon hung low enough to almost touch. Squinting, I could make out the gargantuan structures upon its scarlet surface.
Vendors cried raucously in the distance. “Apples and quinces—Come buy! Come buy!”
“Maimers, phasers and make’m deaders!”
“Manticore heads and phoenix feathers—all ripe together in summer weather!”
“Automatons, gollums and laser batons—Come buy! Come buy!”
Ahead of me lay a tangled maze of stalls lit by paper lanterns, gas lamps and garish ylyctryc string lights. Vendors and buyers from across the fogs haggled for spells, cybernetics, exotic foods and anything else you could imagine. The screams of animals, sex workers and hawkers filled the air, and the smells were a smorgasbord of disgust and delight. There were goblins everywhere, and all manner of other beings crowding the narrow pathways.
I kept my sack close, checked that the bungee cord held the sharpened pan fast, and strode with purpose, ignoring the lurid calls of the vendors. Market cats rubbed against my ankles and trailed my steps, as if they knew my mission. Someone threw a rotten plum at me.
An ancient owl-headed cobbler hailed me as I passed his stand. “Those won’t last the night here.” He indicated my snakeskin sneakers. “To-oo delicate.” He blinked rheumy eyes. “You-hoo look like someone whoo could hugh-ooze some dino-hide stompers.”
“Not tonight, old timer,” I replied. The cobbler hooted his disappointment and resumed mending a pair of hob-nailed boots. I continued toward a line of low buildings that edged the market square. Passing between a cryptid abattoir and a ghost brothel, I entered SpillBlood Row. It was fairly empty at this hour. A few mercenaries in spiked leather underwear lurked in shadows, selling death or pleasure. Song, laughter and the occasional scream sounded through greasy windows as I trod deeper.
The whine of an old ginger tom alerted me to danger. A figure lunged from an alley, long arms akimbo. “Gimmer a cuss!” it growl-slurred. I slung my pan. Lickety-splat, a head toppled to the ground. The bungee cord recoiled, returning the pan to my tingling hand before the body hit the dirt. The scarlet moonlight revealed the corpse as a mangy chupacabra in a clown costume, makeup smeared across its snout. I scanned the shadows for other attackers, or witnesses, and saw none. I did notice a crude sign affixed to a leaning post, reading SlyFae Alley. Coincidence?
“Sorry, bud,” I offered to the corpse as I searched his pockets. “But you oughtn’t to be jumping out at folks like that.” All he was carrying was a tin of grease paint. Holding my pan at the ready, I entered the alley. The cats opted to stay behind. I navigated the shadowed alley, past drunken revelers and unconscious, or possibly dead, bodies.
I approached an arched doorway decorated with a dead, hanging cocker spaniel. A mothman with glowing eyes towered before the door. I tucked the pan under my hoodie, zipped it up and approached. The mothman gave me a glowering once over, then nodded and stepped aside.
*~*~*
Three steps from the door to Conference Room Two, a purple, ham-sized fist grips my sleeve, sloshing Valkyrie’s Fire onto the floor.
Chulain’s bones!
“Have you seen? Do you know?” The Purple Peril’s eyes are bloodshot and bleary. Little white worms writhe inside the pits festooning his face. “Dead and dessicated..” He pulls me closer. A thick reek of ale and Black Lotus almost knocks me over. “The Answers.”
“Uh, you don’t say?” He yanks me onto the seat beside him. I land hard, splashing even more of my precious drink onto his arm. “Oh crap. Sorry, Ghulatong.”
His reddened eyes narrow. “You know me?”
Fool’s gold!
“The victories of the Violet Violator are known across the Realities,” I explain.
“Victories..” Ghulatong releases my arm. “Conquest..” He gulps from his tankard, his head lolling. “Is there meaning?”
Ok. He’s in such a state he wouldn’t recognize his own mother, and I was half as tall and sporting that awful beard when we did business together. I breathe a little easier, and note the bulging leather pouch belted to his waist. My fingers start to tingle.
“I crossed the frigid wastes to far Zaedon..” Ghulatong slumps in his chair. “Past monuments to madness.. hulks of sentient ice.. I found the Living Queries.” I sip my diminishing drink and watch as the terrifying purple giant totters forward. A worm falls from his face and wriggles upon the tabletop. “Even knowledge crumbles to dust..”
The Purple Peril starts to snore.
Under the table, my fingertips graze the leather of his pouch.
I pull my hand back. Not today, while Benny’s in danger.
Leaving Ghulatong to his sour dreams, I slip from my seat, open the door to Conference Room Two and step into a hot, stuffy salon.
“Took you long enough,” squeaks a voice I know too well.
Madam Hex is seated at a round table. Despite the heat, she’s wearing a voluminous dress of shimmering pink taffeta. Her platinum blonde hair is up in a beehive, a few stray strands sticking to her sweaty cheeks. The sparkly rainbow aura emanating from her willowy frame competes with the glow of the bola de fuego hovering behind her. The giant sentient fireball has been bound to her for years. A skunk ape leans against the wall, as far from the bola as it can get, a scowl creasing its hairy face. Luckily, the bola burns off the worst of its stench.
There’s no sign of Benny.
“Madam Hex.”
“Kevin.” She smiles, showing perfect white teeth, then points an ivory arm at the chair opposite her. “Have a seat.” The chair slides away from the table.
I smile. Sit. Place my drink on the table, then the purple sack, and rest a hand atop it.
“Where’s my cat?”
“Oh, he’s around.” Hex’s sky-blue eyes fix on the bulging sack. “You’re finally ready to pay?”
“As soon as you give me the cat.” I pat the sack. “I just couldn’t bear to be parted from my precious gold before.”
“A deal’s a deal.” Hex stares at the sack. “And I kept my part of the bargain.”
The bola burns a little brighter at that.
“That you did,” I nod. “I’ve appreciated this body you gave me.”
“I trust it has helped you evade most of your creditors.” Hex finally looks up, her eyes cold as a shark’s.
The skunk ape farts.
“Oh, you wretched beast,” Hex squeaks like an angry mouse. “Stand beside the bola if you’re going to do that.”
“The cat, Hex.”
“Oh, fine.” She snaps her fingers. A cat carrier appears on the floor by the wall. Benny is inside, cleaning himself. “Give it to him.” The skunk ape lifts the carrier and places it at my feet.
I rub my fingers in front of the barred entrance. “Are you okay, Benny?” He ignores me.
“Now,” Hex says. “The gold.”
“Here it is.” I sip Valkyries’ Fire and push the sack towards Hex. She seizes the drawstring. I scratch my chest as Hex undoes the knot and upends the sack over the table.
Five goblin heads tumble out.
“What?!” Hex’s eyes bulge.
I hurl the cast-iron and spit a stream of liquor at the same time. The pan whistles straight for Hex’s throat. The Valkyrie’s Fire hits the bola and ignites. I jerk my head, directing the flaming liquid towards Hex. The pan bounces off a magical barrier that flashes in and out of visibility. The enchanted Valkyrie flame makes it through, though. Unfortunately, the flame also catches the bungee, melting it instantly. The pan thuds to the table. I toss the rest of the liquor in my glass at her for good measure.
Hex shrieks as her taffeta dress ignites, the sound shattering the glass in my hand. Benny yowls in alarm.The bola flares hotter, fuelling the flames. Hex hurls herself to the floor and rolls. The skunk ape retreats from the chaos. The bola hovers to the common room entrance as an azure mist envelopes Hex. The fire gutters out. She groans and stands, looking like a singed supermodel. “Malfeasant!” She croaks. “Give me the gold or I’ll turn you into a leper, con!”
“You’ll never get it, hag!”
“Then die!”
Hex’s aura darkens as she raises her arms and claws at the air. Black energy crackles between her hands. I grab a severed goblin head from the tabletop and lob it at her burnt face. Her magical barrier deflects it, but she blinks instinctively. I roll an instant before she unleashes a bolt of black force that blasts a hole in the wall. She had to lower her barrier to shoot that bolt, and I’m already behind her, delivering a swift kick to the back of her knee. She tumbles into the bola and shrieks as fire covers her again, her magical barrier blinking like a broken lamp.
Hex stumbles away from the bola, hair and dress aflame. The skunk ape cowers, but I’m not afraid of fire. I seize the pan from the tabletop and leap at Hex. “You’ve reached the end of the rainbow, witch!” I hack at her statuesque body. Her magical barrier shines weaker with each blow.
The bola hovers uncertainly. It can’t burn me without burning her. Hex’s barrier blinks out. She shrieks bloody murder as my pan sinks into flesh. Her neck. Her skull. She slumps to the floor, twitches once, and is still. Her aura fades. Dead, Hex’s spells undo. Released from bondage, the bola disappears in a puff of smoke.
The skunk ape lunges forward and swings a paw, but instead of slashing my torso, it gouges my scalp. The beast seems to grow before me, my eyes now level with its knees as magic surges through my veins. My cheeks itch as they sprout a rapidly growing beard. I hurl the pan at the skunk ape as it swipes at me again. The sharpened edge bites deep into the beast’s throat. It falls back, gurgling blood. I flick off my snake-skin kicks and shimmy out of my too-big trousers. The scorched cashmere hoodie fits like a robe now.
Through the hole in the wall, I see chaos in the common room. Drunkards are stumbling for the exit. The deathworm is wrapped around a clockwork cutthroat, squeezing it to bits. Maureen gapes from behind the bar, her jaw hanging in default slack mode, as the mothman makes a half-hearted effort to restore order. Ghulatong, covered in bits of blackened plaster, is leaning haphazardly against his table, a flush of confused rage darkening his pitted face. Then he sees me, bearded and small again, and flushes a shade darker.
Time to go.
I pop the cat carrier’s door open. Benny rushes out. I jump atop his back, grab his collar with one hand and prod his ribs with my heels. He yowls and runs like hell, dodging between Ghulatong’s legs and racing across the common room like furred lightning.
“You!” Ghulatong roars behind me. “Thief!”
Benny leaps through the open door and bolts down the alley, dashing past fleeing patrons. I nip a cloak from a degenerate pixie and toss the sodden garment round my shoulders with a shudder. Benny reaches the mouth of the alley and jumps over the corpse of the headless chupacabra. I tug his collar right, steering him and toward the market.
I pull Benny to a halt at the end of Spillblood Row and dismount. “Good boy.” I pet his side. He looks at me appraisingly, like he’s wondering if I’m something he can eat. I pull the bag of Purrfect cat treats from my hoodie pocket and give him some. He likes that.
I reach into the pocket and finger the gold within. I’m getting low on coins. I sigh and lead my cat into the Goblin Market. Two steps and something warm and fetid squishes underfoot. Farewell, alpaca socks.
I lead my cat towards the stand of that old goblin cobbler. A pair of miniature dino-hide stompers would be handy right now. Mayhap the cobbler would barter for the service of a temporary assistant with an eye for high fashion.
Aye, and mayhap he’s got a nip of gold as well.
*~*~*
Jason Plouffe lives in Toronto, Canada. His work has appeared in DrabbleDark: An Anthology of Dark MicroFiction.
*~*~*