Buttsack had this down to a science. Once they were inside the building, the humans were supposed to be safe. The doorframes, the windows, the plumbing, all were made of refined metal, ‘stainless steel’ they called it.
‘They’ were fuckholes, as far as he was concerned.
Goblins as a whole came in all shapes and sizes. Some were fat, some were skinny, some were furry, others scaly, others still had skin. They could be no larger than a squirrel, or five times the size of a man, in all colors.
Certain rules held true, though. All were ugly. Buttsack was no exception. His loose skin maintained an appearance and smell like the body parts that were his namesake, and he was grotesquely fat for his three-foot frame, giving him an uneven, ungainly appearance. His legs were like overstuffed sausages sticking out from the stolen, piss-stained pair of shorts he wore. Among the goblins of the area, he was just small enough to evade the attention of the Wise, the humans that knew. However, that also meant he was also big enough to bully the other goblins hereabouts. Some were quick enough or clever enough to stay out of his way, but the ones that weren’t paid up. Some gave food, or gifts, some gave tips, and others gave him knowledge.
Metal door, metal frame, pipes… he was aware of all of them, as he might be aware of a flame by reaching out and feeling the warmth from it.
One piece of knowledge Buttsack had picked up had been from a scrawny little bitch of a goblin that called itself Scuzzwick. Lick both hands, lick the back of the knees and elbows, the back of the neck. The licking didn’t matter so much as the wet, and it was easier and more comfortable to use his own tongue than to use the snow. He scratched his forearms deep enough to get his fingertips wet with blood. Once the wet patches and blood were there, he could reach each arm out to either side, feel the wet patches grow cold from the force of the winter breeze.
Move with the wind, letting the arms move as the wind did.
A fatass of a man sauntered right past him. Buttsack could feel the movement of air, clutch it with bloody fingertips, and follow it.
Catch the wind and ride it through the door the man was opening.
Drifting inside.
“Do you smell something?” a bystander asked. The dumpy looking fuck shut one of the metal cabinets, then hooked a lock onto it.
Buttsack hurried off to take cover before he became fully material again.
This wasn’t a proper boundary, no power had sealed it, but it was still uncomfortable. The things that gave the goblin power and energy were cut off here. It was a bit like suffocating, a bit like being cold. He always felt it a little, the sensation of dying, the spark within him going out by the smallest degrees, bit by bit, but here, like this, he felt it happening faster.
The goblins shared stories between one another about what goblins were and why metal was so problematic. The usual story was that when a Wise man drank from a cup while dining, the bits of food that got into the cup and lingered after the drink was done accumulated. Except it was workings, not drink, and bits of self, not food. Greasy fingerprints left behind when touching something beyond the veil. Bits of skin that should have grown and the hairs that should have fallen from one’s head, that didn’t, because they were wearing different skin or hair, and the stuff that wasn’t had to end up someplace.
There was another story that said that the unfair folk were people once, and they chopped off all the bits they didn’t like, and those bits became goblins, but Buttsack didn’t like that version.
Fuck the unfair folk. Being magic hairballs for humans, fabricated of their dust, scum, grease, pubes, and stress, that was one thing. Being of faerie? Fuck that idea sideways and backward.
Whatever the case, many stories had one or two common elements. The goblins were leavings, discards, scrap given form. The earth called to them, to decompose them like it was meant to devour and decompose all leavings, and the metal was the earth in distilled form. Or maybe the process that made goblins was
All the same, this wasn’t a place he was willing or able to stay. He had to make the most of his time here.
Moving around was easier than in most places. Here, the humans were insecure. He could see it in the shifting patterns around them, where their focus was falling. He’d seen the roving spotlights in the movies and video games. In most places, the attention of people was like those spotlights, roaming, cast out from their eyes, a dull glow emanating as they listened. Here it was different. The focus was largely on themselves, only periodically casting out at specific targets.
Not always, but enough. Buttsack cloaked himself thoroughly against the insensitive, and for extra measure, he was careful to watch where they were paying attention and nudge it aside when it veered his way.
A satchel, sitting at a young man’s feet as he talked with a friend. Buttsack smelled money, and reached inside, picking through contents, nostrils flaring as he sniffed away.
A wallet, fake leather, in the front pocket of the satchel. The goblin stowed it in a pocket for later investigation.
“Oh man,” the boy that stood above him whined, “I just got a whiff of something rank.”
“You’re too close to the bathrooms,” his pal said. “You’ve gotta change lockers.”
Buttsack moved on. A phone, left at the bottom of one metal cabinet, pocketed. A metal case sticking out of a purse… he opened it, and found cotton sticks with strings dangling from the bottom. He stuffed them into the bag of a boy. She’d have to do without, and the boy looked like the bigger pussy anyway.
Moving out into the main hallway, there was more foot traffic, and attention was harder to divert. He waited, instead, lurking beneath a colorfully decorated display with false leaves and berries and a snow idol stuck to the surface.
A bell dinged, and the number of people in the hallway began to thin out.
The changing room that reeked of girl-sweat… no luck. The door was shut, and he didn’t want to spend power walking with the air again.
Washroom was a yes, opposite the changing room. The door was propped open.
He slipped inside.
Some bitch sat on the windowsill, while her cankled friend smeared powder all over her face. The one at the windowsill wasn’t looking at anything, and her lack of focus was exactly the sort that could see something that was walking the fine line he was, wanting something to catch her attention.
He detoured right, instead, taking cover beneath the sinks and the oversized bag that cankles had left by the wall.
Rummaging, he discovered a wallet.
Nothing else to do, he picked his way through it.
Nothing. Not a single coin or piece of paper.
Bitch. Poor-ass cankled pasty-faced bitch.
He took the shiniest cards and stuck them through the ventilation grate by the sink, replaced the wallet, and then went through the bag.
A small pouch with writing tools – he broke the nicer looking ones, and scattered the remains inside so they’d leak their ink.
Another pouch? He unzipped it slowly.
Syringes. A little glass bottle.
Not the fun kind of syringe-stuff. The kind that the human’s doctors gave out.
She wanted to short him? He made the effort of coming here, and she didn’t have shit fuck all?
Fuck her.
He unscrewed the glass bottle, then reached into a pocket. A sealable bag with white powder.
The fun stuff.