When news reached Bombo Radyo, people from Purok Placida

imagined a depraved, twisted old man, hunchbacked, and hairy, with

a persistent erection, creeping, humping its way through the night,
with no end in sight. That sweltering summer time, the southwest
monsoon had not yet come then. It had been weeks without rain and
the people were hotheaded, waiting for the dry spell to end. Worse,
someone had been screwing the goats to their death again. Little
goats, with their anus caked with blood, were found stiff and dead
that Tuesday morning. The locals who saw it sighed jusmiyo –
frantically fanning and crossing their foreheads in disgusted
disbelief.

“Ayyy nah! if I see that maniac fuck one of my goats, I will

punch the living lights out of him. ‘Baganay jud mi,” said one
resident on the radio interview.

“It’s as if our virgins here are not enough!” said an old female
caller’s voice.

Boi Balita, the radio host of Bombo Radyo, had a headache

delivering the news. He surmised the rapist had given up on humans
and had tongkat ali for vitamins – a very nasty combination. It must
be Inner-G that he tukared, a male supplement for maintaining
erection. The kinky news had been so sensational lately that their
FM station even made a popular jingle out of it.

Kambing, Kambing, IFM. IFM. IFM.

Kambing, Kambing, IFM. IFM. IFM.
Meeeeeeeehhh! Kambing nga may Bangs!”

Kambing, goats with side-swept fringes of hair, officially

became victims of nature, man, and radio in Gensan.
 Now the last time Boi Balita covered a story from the far-flung
district of Purok Placida, was when a young woman with a missing
tooth declared herself impregnated by Manny Pacquiao. The
international boxing champion had just knocked out the British
boxer Ricky Hatton then, when the woman greeted the morning
news hello. Proud and unabashed of her baby bump, she wanted the
world to know she carried the boxer’s baby. She even stopped
midsentence during the interview due to pain. Groaning, she rubbed
her belly and said the baby totally inherited the father’s punches.
Later it turned out to be only a die-hard fan’s fabrication, a
desperate plea for child support. But otherwise, faux baby boxer and
dead baby goats aside – Purok Placida proved itself mild, even tame.
It was so, until the threat of a man in heat returned.

“In Bombo Boi Balita!” the radio host’s voice thundered. “The
police now are investigating the suspect of the serial goat-raping
incident. According to the local residents, a new shepherd in town
named Grigo, 20 years old, was seen last night walking with a doe, a
female goat. The the young man’s pants was reported tattered
around the crotch area fand the goat in custody, in her lady flower
parts, was b reported bleeding.” Boi Balita deeply sighed to catch
his breath. Outside the audio room, he caught a glimpse of the
manager scowling at him. Nervous, Boi swallowed an amount of
saliva first before playing on loop Willie Revillame’s Ikaw Na Nga–
the most-requested song that summer. Boi went out of the room
with his head dropped low and his tail tucked between his legs.

“What was that? Lady fucking flower parts?” scolded his boss
in one breath. His bald head shone sharply in anger.

“Sir, my daughters might be listening,” said Boi Balita.

“Oh! It’s normal! They have vaginas! Your wife has a vagina!
We all came out of vaginas! Everybody loves a vagina! Say it!”
 “Vuh. Vuhgene,” he muttered under his breath.

The boss snarled in annoyance. “Say it or you’re fired!”

“Bagayna! Bagayna! Vagina!” said Boi Balita out loud with eyes
forced wide-opened like a cadet in military school.

The manager turned around and left him red-faced without

uttering a word. Boi felt his hands curl into a fist.

When he went back into the audio room, Boi Balita was taken
aback by the endless ringing of phones, vibrating simultaneously. He
picked one up and a male caller’s voice blared through the speakers.

“That Grigo’s up to no good. I hope the police will kill him when
he gets tokhanged.”

“I’m sure they’re observing due process this time,” replied Boi
Balita.

“No, all rapists have to die. Eradicated! Those bastards!”

“I’m sure not all of them deserve to die. Some might just be
victims of wrongful accusations, of frame-ups” he reasoned out.

“Are you taking the side of rapists now? Instead of the innocent
baby goats?” spat the male caller in disbelief.

“I didn’t say that, sir.”

“You can’t even say the word Vagin-“Boi Balita hanged up

before he could finish the sentence. He scratched his head. Three
knocks landed on the door. It was the manager. His head looked like
a sour lollipop.

“Boi, how are we going to top the ratings if you’re so prim and
proper?” said the manager. “Let them say what they want! That’s
their reality! Don’t shove your convictions up in their ass.”

Boi Balita’s eye twitched in the word ‘ass.’

“Ass! They want ass! Dicks! Vaginas! Not Goat lovers, but goat
fuckers! Give them that!” the manager screamed. “We don’t sell
sensational news for no reason!” He stormed out, head glowing red.

Boi Balita’s face scrunched up, a little moist from the manager’s
saliva.

On his lunch break, the radio host ruminated. It was likely that
El Nino and the sex offender came in town simultaneously–
furtively, uninvited, and quivering under the monotonous glare of
the General Santos City sun. That summer, hanging habagat had not
visited. He wished a tikbalang or any supernatural entity would get
married soon. Old tales has it that it rains in the middle of a drought
– even if the sun was at its brightest, when a demon or a spirit gets
married to a mortal. The rare sunshowers, a signal of the mystic
marriage, became a blessing, a gift of the other realm to the human
world.

Instead, outside, Purok Placida lay there, dry, panting thirsty

under an invisible sheet of fire hovering above. For the longest of
years, it had become so ordinary for the drought to scorch Gensan,
South of the Philippines that the people no longer remembered and
missed the trees. Who cut them down? What happened to the dried-
up unfinished dam? Why did they bury the fertile land under the
malls and empty lot houses? Who buys these artificial plastic trees
for aesthetics? No one asked and no one answered, thought Boi
Balita. True enough, the city air stifled and stunted the growth of the
greens. Even the Imelda grasses outside wilted before it had the
chance to grow and blossom. Boi Balita could have been talking
about serious things like these on the radio, but instead he had to
follow a script. He did not have the appetite to eat his lunch. It was
kilawing kambing, a Filipino ceviche with vinegar made of grilled
goat meat. He hurried up. He still had to update his listeners if a
human semen was present in the goat’s vagina.

Aaaaand there was, at least that was what his script said. But
Boi, eyeing his manager outside, was suspicious of the bald man
grinning. The radio host followed up the featured news with a text
poll that solicited the people’s response. Boi had to pose a question.

“If you were in authority, what would you have done about the
goat-raping incident?”

a. tokhang that addict, make him surrender to the police

b. surrender him to the Lord, his shepherd
who does not violate his herd.
c. look for the pictures, the Google map must have captured it
d. roast the goats, cut the dirty parts, don’t let it go to waste
e. sell chastity belts for goats. It will generate its own market

And while most of the listeners had their fun in sending

unscreened messages, and the comment section on facebook fanned
the fire of the Purok Placida scandal, Boi went serious.

“You know, people like Grigo has been ridiculed enough, why
don’t we take a moment to think that if there were free mental
health check-ups here, these people wouldn’t resort to this.”
 The phone rang. “What mental health,” a female caller croaked.
“This is the work of the devil, clearly,” she pointed out.

“You know the mind can get just as sick as the body,” Boi said.

“Yes, but that’s just one opinion of yours. There are many of us,” said
the woman. “The poll results say we tokhang and eliminate him first,
roast the goats, during the prayer we surrender Grigo to the Lord,
look for the pictures and display it over dinner at the plaza, and then
we’ll sell the belts on Lazada.”

The radio host pressed his temples as he hanged up the phone.

He felt his head throb in pain – the woman’s high-pitched laugh still
ringing in his ears.

Meanwhile, at the local precinct, Grigo Gaantos’ arrival sent

people clapping and hooting. With a bleeding gash on his forehead,
he walked on cowering.

“Meeeeeeeehhhhhhh, fuck me, fuck me,” hollered out the

blubbery tattooed man behind bars while pulling on his dark
areolas. Everyone, even the officers laughed along.

In the investigation room, the police asked of the usual

questions – Grigo’s full name, birth date, place of origin, and his
favorite animal on earth, ever.

“I used to love chickens but they peck on me. A lot. Now I love
goats more. They’re very funny and sweet.”

“Of course. You always stay at the barn with the animals?”
 “Yes, Sir.” Grigo nodded. “At Mr. Bebot’s farm.” Looking
terrified and confused, he asked “Where did you take my goat Tisay,
sir?”
The police officer ignored him and went on busily jabbing the
computer keyboard with his fingers.

“Why do people in uniform like you love taking other people’s

things away? Grigo started picking on the scab on his left arm. “You
know, she’s not feeling well,” he told him.

“Yes, she was bleeding, Grigo. I’m sure you know that.”

“And a lot more! She’s weak, on her period, and in a goat’s rut!
She has to feed on a special grass at night or she’ll faint because it
gets too hot in the morning!” cried Grigo. “I need to take care of her!”

“She’s in custody. She’ll rest in peace, don’t worry,” shrugged the

police, eyes still glued to the computer screen. Grigo fell silent and
sniffled. The police heard him and took pity. He handed the young
shepherd a tissue paper, a glass of water, and fixed his gaze at him.

“Have you been taking drugs? Your eyes are red and swollen.”

“Yes. I mean no, Sir. Yes, my eyes are red, itchy from Tisay’s
saliva, crying too. But no drugs,” promised Grigo. He downed
another glass of water and asked “Sir, where is my boss,Mr. Bebot?”

The policeman informed Grigo that a complaint was filed

against him. The young shepherd learned that Mr. Bebot gave his
name to the police criminal’s watch list.

“But why?” tears brimmed in his eyes. “I didn’t kill his goats,
the drought and the polluted water from the canning factory did. He
just doesn’t want to spend money on the vet,” groaned Grigo.
 “Could be, could be not true,”

“And from what we’ve seen and heard, the accusations are not
very unlikely – alone, in a barn, the bleeding vagina, your gnawed
shorts that you said were Tisay’s work,” the police said to him.
“We’re very convinced. But tell me, did you really screw the goat?”

“No, I love her,” he said to him, looking earnestly sad and

worried.

Love, and that was how Grigo Gaantos ended up in jail. At 21,
the lean and dark Grigo spent his fifth month in General Santos City
detained with the local thieves. For a week, no one talked to Grigo,
no one called him, and he had no one to call. There were times he
would just close his eyes and daydream of Tisay, the way she
gracefully skipped – her tail fluttering and her white mane blowing
along the direction the wind. He rememebered pulling on Tisay’s
wattle and she would playfully headbutt in response. Grigo would
lean to look at her closely and realize that past fringes of her bangs,
past the crusts in the corner of her eyes, her pale brown pupils
would glimmer and it would calm Grigo. They were cool to look
at. Her eyes reminded him of his childhood in the lush mountains,
the softness of leafed sunlight. It lit up the place, the sunlight, but
it was not painful to look at. Yes, Tisay’s eyes were warm and
comforting. It reminded him of his late mother’s mellow eyes.

In the second week of his stay, he had no trouble blending in

because the men inside treated him nicely. They made fun of his
tattered pants at first because it revealed his dangling balls, but soon
enough they got used to the sight. One even offered to give him his
extra underpants. Grigo smelled it and refused. They used to push
him around, poking his side and calling him Lambing Kambing, but
Grigo just laughed along, tickled and feeling accepted. He never had
playmates before. His goat Tisay could be counted one, but because
she was a girl, he was a little shy around her.

Nights in jail were ruthless. They slept like oily sardines in a

hot can, sweating, swatting mosquitoes everywhere, not even caring
whose limb they were hitting. A series of Ow! Ow! Ah! and grunts
would be heard. Grigo would lull himself to sleep by pinching his
nose until he passed out.

Grigo’s family had just settled in Purok Placida then. About

five months ago. They used to raise farm animals at the foot of a
mountain in a town called Malungon, 40 kilometers north of
Gensan. Organically fattened up by the Malungon soil, their few
goats, horses, pigs, ducks, and chickens were sold just enough to
get them by. They weren’t rich, but Grigo’s mother who sold
balut by the roadside, always had money to lend to their copra
farming neighbors during rainy seasons. The little town of
Malungon thrived in the comfort of amiable working hands,
familiar faces, and daily routines – far from the city fuss.
Growing up, Grigo never imagined that this peaceful seclusion
would have come to an end.

Now ever since Grigo was a kid, Mang Leopoldo, his

father, had always been spare with words. His graying
eyebrows, sturdy shoulders, and calloused hands, mostly
spoke for him. Grigo feared and admired that about him. He
was strong, but he was kind, even gentle to the animals. But
the Tagalog chief of 58th Infantry battalion did not
appreciate his deadpan stare. The soldiers found it unusual
that a local peasant like Mang Leopoldo did not even bow or
nod to greet them. Much to the Chief’s annoyance, the old
man would only look at them impassively from across the
road.

“That’s why Mindanao is so conflicted,” spat the Chief.

“People here don’t thank the soldiers enough. Like that
ungrateful bastard,” he said upon seeing the old man go on with
his daily life, unmindful of their presence while tethering a goat.
The other soldiers snickered at his petty remark.

He hated and was intrigued of the old man and so the Chief
invited him for lunch and coffee barracks. Mang Leopoldo
obliged, but was perplexed when one soldier turned his
knapsack inside out, searching for inihaw na manok. All along
they expected the old man to bring food for them. Instead, his
bag contained plastic wrappers and mineral water bottles – the
garbage he picked up downhill. It was his little way of thanking
the mountain spirits, he said. A little red-faced from
misunderstanding, the Chief cleared his throat, straightened his
back, and attacked the old man with a serious question.

“Will you feed the reds even if they’re eyeing your young
wife, dying to bed her?”

Mang Leopoldo’s eyes widened in alarm. “I don’t think

they’ll ask for food only to rape her after,” he said as he drew
back, knitting his eyebrows in disbelief.

“You know men, mountains, heat, urge, need some release,” the
chief pressed further.
 “Yes, men, humans, not animals. I’d refuse to give them
food, of course. We might not even have enough for ourselves
the next day.”

“From what?” Mang Leopoldo said laughingly. “There is

no war here, sir. Simple life. War’s there in the north, in the city.
We just have chicken thieves here.”

The brooding soldier massaged his non-existent beard and

said “Thieves. Must be the rebels.”

“Rebel or not, must be the hungry. Sir.”

“You’re okay with someone hungry stealing your chicken?

What are you? A saint?”

“Oh, I will shoot him still with a revolver, sir. We’ll just
say sorry to each other after.”

The chief of the infantry let Mang Leopoldo go then

thinking he was alright, just snobby and reclusive, but harmless.
They became in good terms for years. Every time there was a
feast or they just came from training up in the mountains, the
soldiers would ask for one of the old man’s live chicken for
tinola. A birthday celebrant from the infantry battalion would
also get a free balut from Necessa, Grigo’s mom. But soon,
birthdays and parties became more often that Grigo’s family was
drastically losing livestock. Maybe next time, when Yna Hen
would lay eggs again, we’ll give you a live chicken, Necessa
would tell them, refusing drunk soldiers in need of pulutan.
 Life was abundant and well, but everything changed when
the chicken thieves before became more ambitious. Calf gone,
horse gone, three bucks, five hens gone, every time Grigo’s
father went away to deliver an animal to his patron consumers,
thieves would always sneak into their yard to hack their animal
to death before silently dragging them.

Remembering this, Grigo would wake up with a heavy

heart.

He would sulk in the corner, trying to read the graffiti

on the wall. That was how Kugmo, the fat gangster with
brown areolas, taught Grigo how to read.

“That’s help, virgin here, and wanted textmate,” pointed

Kugmo at the cracked wall. Grigo slowly mouthed the words.
“You didn’t go to school?” Kugmo asked.

“No, sanguna, my family’s farm animals needed it more.

The money. For food and medicine.” Grigo answered.

Kugmo nodded. “Why do you fuck goats?” he could not

help but ask him.
“I don’t,” he answered. “Sometimes I want to, especially
when it’s raining and the girls are all up on me for warmth,
but I don’t do it.” Grigo looked down, removing soot under his
fingernails. “My heart only belongs to Tisay.” The young shepherd
sighed.
 “But we’ve never done it. Ever. She’s scared because she
already had her period and she told me doesn’t want kids and I
respect that.”

Kugmo, sweating, with mouth shaped into a gasp, looked at

him intently and said “I believe you.”