Day 0
In the quaint and perpetually windswept village of Gruffendale, high in the craggy hills where the fog hugged the ground, two goats stood hoof-to-hoof in a mayoral showdown that gripped the hearts, and social feeds, of every citizen.
One goat wore black. Always black. Even her horns had been polished with charcoal and adorned with tiny silver rings she claimed symbolized “the burden of truth.” She never smiled. Her campaign posters featured fog, graveyards, and the phrase:
"We Are All Just Temporary Grass." At town halls, she spoke in soft, haunted tones about existential dread, tax reform, and the need for more shaded resting areas where goats could ponder life’s futility.
The other goat was chaos incarnate. She spoke in hashtags, moved like a whirlwind, and had a bleat that could go viral. Her platform? Pure digital adrenaline. She promised to make Gruffendale the meme capital of the countryside. She didn’t talk about policy so much as vibe. Her followers wore ironic sunglasses and carried tiny phones in hoof holsters. Her campaign slogan:
"Doe-'nt Let Your Guard Down, You Won’t Believe What’s Next 🐐🔥💯."
The very large village of Gruffendale was torn.
The older goats felt seen by the goth’s deep, brooding presence. She understood the ache of chewing cud in a meaningless world. Meanwhile, the younger goats—especially the spring-born—flocked to the meme goat’s rallies, which always ended in choreographed dances and at least one spontaneous flash mob set to electro-folk music.
Debates were held in the old barn. One ended with a black rose dramatically thrown into a pile of hay. Another concluded with a TikTok dance that accidentally set off the weather vane alarm system. Tensions rose. Campaign posters were bleated over, graffiti read things like “Bleat Goth, Bleat Bold,” and “Meme or Dream?”
Election Day came on a wind-swept Wednesday. The ballot boxes - fashioned from old apple crates - filled to the brim. Hours passed. The Owl Notary (sworn in last spring after a brief worm scandal) cleared his throat, flapped his wings, and delivered the verdict.
“A tie,” he croaked. “Exactly. Six votes each.”
The silence that followed was eerie. Then, a lone kid in the back bleated, “Let them
both run it!”
A murmur swept through the crowd. Could it work?
The goth goat simply nodded, whispering something about duality. The meme goat did a dramatic cartwheel, then posted a blurry selfie captioned:
“CO-MAYORS BAYBEE 🖤✨🐐.” It got 17,000 likes before she even left the stage.
Thus began a strange and surprisingly functional era in Gruffendale. By day, motivational memes lined the fences. By night, candlelit poetry readings echoed in the fields.
It almost felt ... too pure.
The kind of good that would make a skeptic pause and go "is this really the life we're leading?"
It was weird.
It was wonderful.
It was Gruffendale.
Congratulations to your newly elected co-mayors, vampy and mkg!