Billy, Billy and Billy

**For those of you who were wondering where the billy goats were in Sunday’s story: There be a Troll!

On a small bridge over the Griboyedova Canal, three goats sat. Their names were Billy, Billy, and Billy. They were not named Billy, Billy and Billy because they had cruel or uncreative parents (though they were.) No, Billy, Billy and Billy were named Billy, Billy and Billy because all goats are named Billy.

To avoid confusion I will call them Little, Middle, and Great-Big. In fact, one was little, one was fairly great and big, and one was somewhere in the middle.

These goats like all goats, hated one thing, Trolls. After petitioning the city in the summer of 1844 to ban all trolls from all bridges, they started using them as much as possible. In fact, goats are well-known for avoiding subways, taxi’s and sometimes even buses in order to stroll haughtily over bridges. This meant that goats often found themselves outrageously late for everything–even by Russian standards. After years of putting up with it, other living things simply no longer made plans with them.

So, bitter and with a single focus, they all spend the majority of their time patrolling city bridges for vagrant trolls.

Little bit a bug off of Great-Big’s back side.

“Ah,” Great-Big cried, cigarette falling from his mouth into the canal.

He watched it go.

“Sor–”

“Shut up!” Great-Big snapped. He saw something just before the cigarette hit the water. A little something, a bubble.

“Troll,” growled Middle.

Little lifted himself up to see. “What do we do?” he asked. Middle, being the smartest, looked around. A cop car was coming their way. He waved to it.

“Waiiiit!” Great-Big said. He nodded his horns to a man in a black jacket. He took the stairs down, below the bridge. He was smoking and had a confused look strewn over his face. The bubbles in the water grew bigger. A troll burst through. The man in the black jacket began speaking to him in English.

“Biiilly,” Middle said to Little. (Biiiilly being Little’s actual name since, while all goats are named Billy, they identify each other by the length and depth of stress on the “i”)

“What?” said Little.

“Wave down the cops.”

Little did. Great-Big spoke to the hippopotamus who pulled up . He told him that an Ameriiican was taking a piiiiss beneath the briiiidge. The Hippo, hungry to make some cash, stopped and started making his way toward the stairs. The goats, hating Americans almost as much as trolls, were eager to watch.

“NO!” Great-Big, cried when the Troll dove back into the water.

Middle patted his shoulder, “at least he wiiill stiiill get the Ameriiican.”

Great-Big grunted and satisfied himself by watching the man in the black jacket climb the stairs, shaking. The Hippopotamus confronted him. Little, Middle, and Great-Big watched hungrily, licking their lips through sick grins. Then, without warning, a troll leapt out of the water and bit off the Hippo’s head.

“Oh shiiiiiit,” Middle said. Little threw up over the side of the bridge. Great-Big watched the man in a black jacket run as the troll called after him.

Great-Big, tried, but couldn’t make out the Troll’s words because, of course, his mouth was full.