When Gary the Goat Decided He Was a Lawyer… and Represented Me in Goblin Court.

Part 1:

I swear I didn’t plan on hiring a goat.

I just wanted the amulet. A simple heist. In and out. Grab the cursed thing, don’t touch anything glowing, and definitely don’t engage the local goblin authority.

But the universe, being what it is, laughed in my face. Now here I am, sitting on a cold stone bench in the goblin court of Lower Bramble Hollow, hands bound by vines that smell like armpit, and next to me… chewing a file folder… is Gary.

Gary the Goat. My court-appointed representative.

“Your Honor,” Gary bleated, mouth full of parchment, “my client is clearly unqualified to be charged. He’s too stupid.”

The goblin judge, a toad-like thing in a powdered wig, narrowed his eyes. “That... is not a legal defense.”

“Have you seen his shoes?” Gary shot back.

I looked down. Yeah, I guess neon pink slippers with “#1 Sneaky Boy” stitched on weren’t helping the image.

The prosecutor, a gremlin with more teeth than sense, pounded the table. “Objection! This goat isn’t even bar-certified!”

Gary turned his head slowly and locked eyes with him. “Bar-certified? Sir, I’ve literally eaten more bars than you've passed. Chocolate. Soap. Iron. You name it.”

“Gary…” I whispered, “maybe tone it down.”

He nodded sagely and bit into the evidence bag.

The judge slammed the gavel. “Enough! I’ll allow this trial to proceed under the ‘Magical Misrepresentation Clause.’ But goat — one more stunt, and I’ll have you neutered.”

Gary winked. “Already done. Beat you to it.”

We called no witnesses. We had no case. And somehow, somehow, Gary walked me out of there with only a week of mandatory mushroom-farming as punishment.

I stared at him in disbelief. “How did you do that?”

He spat out a chewed page of goblin law code. “It helps when your client is an idiot. Expectations are low.”

“Am I supposed to be offended or impressed?”

“Yes,” said Gary.

Outside the courthouse, he chewed thoughtfully on a dandelion and said, “Now, about my fee.”

“You’re a goat,” I reminded him.

“And you owe me three bales of imported mountain hay and unlimited access to your sock drawer.”

I stared.

He stared back, unblinking.

The goat meant business.

Part 2:

"Gary the Goat vs The Mushroom Mafia"

hen Gary said I’d be mushroom-farming for a week, I expected dirt, compost, and the occasional hallucination.

What I didn’t expect was the Mushroom Mafia.

“Hey,” said a short stalky guy with a speckled red cap and no discernible neck. “You new here?”

I nodded. “Court-mandated.”

He gave me the once-over. “You look soft.”

Gary, chewing on a piece of fencing wire behind me, muttered, “He is.”

The mushroom man snorted. “What’s your name, newbie?”

“Doug.”

“No, it’s not. You work for us now. Your name’s Spores.”

Gary grinned. “Perfect. He spreads chaos and disappointment like a fungus anyway.”

• The next few days were… complicated.

Apparently, the mushroom farms weren’t just for growing food. They were for power. Underground root networks, arcane fungal contracts, and a dark web of debt and spore-based blackmail.

On day three, I accidentally became the owner of a sentient truffle. On day five, Gary had bartered three rotten pumpkins and a kazoo for full union control of the eastern patch.

“How?” I asked, baffled.

“I used charisma,” Gary said.

“You have none.”

“Exactly. They feared what I’d do without it.”

By day six, we were both in deep trouble.

Turns out, the Mushroom Mafia didn’t appreciate Gary firing their boss and replacing him with a pile of hay shaped like a goat. Symbolic protest, he claimed.

The mushroom boss—whose name was Fungo the Fermented—cornered us at spore knife-point.

“This is my turf!” Fungo growled. “No goat lawyer is gonna unionize my mycelium!”

Gary stepped forward calmly. “Doug,” he said without breaking eye contact, “give me the truffle.”

“You’re gonna bribe them with a talking truffle?”

“No.” He held the truffle up like a holy relic. “I’m going to unleash legal terror.”

He dropped it. The ground shuddered.

The truffle opened its mouth and began screaming obscure, ancient bylaws. Everything from “Fungus Workers’ Rights, Section 7b” to “Goblin-Fauna Labor Codes” and something about “Underground Edibility Regulations.”

The mushrooms trembled.

Fungo collapsed, crying spores.

“You win…” he sobbed. “Just take your goat and your idiot and go.”

🏃‍♂️🐐 Epilogue:

Back at my shack, covered in mud and mushroom residue, I flopped into a chair. Gary headbutted open the fridge.

“You did good,” I admitted.

He blinked. “Of course I did. I’m the GOAT.”

“You’re not even bar-certified.”

“And you still owe me hay, socks, and now... dental insurance.”

“What for?”

• He grinned. “All that paperwork ruined my teeth.