DISCLAIMER: Los Hombres De Paco and its characters are the property of Antena 3. No infringement intended.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
SPOILERS: Through episode 82 (7x03).
People's Case: Pepa vs. Goat
Pepa knew her shout was probably echoing through the apartment, and might well alarm her lover. The sudden smack of loud footsteps moving toward her confirmed her guess, but there were more important things at stake here.
For example, the fucking goat. The fucking goat that she somehow, in a fit of insanity and desperation and baby-dread, had allowed Silvia to bring home and turn into a pet (and how was that like her life lately, she wondered sourly). The fucking goat that had apparently decided that goat feed now looked and smelled like Pepa's shirt. Just like two days ago, goat feed had looked like Pepa's favorite vest, and five days ago, the floor on Pepa's side of the bed had looked like the perfect place to take a shit.
It figured Silvia adored the damn thing.
It still had shreds of Pepa's shirt hanging from its mouth. It had the cojones to lick its lips at her.
"I'm turning you into dinner," she hissed at it, jabbing a finger in its direction. "I'm a cop. I have a gun. I have lots of friends with guns." (Most of them were Silvia's friends, too. But the goat didn't need to know that.) "And a sister-in-law that taught me how to make a mean goat stew!"
It insolently let out a--something at her. Whatever stupid noise goats made. Pepa's eyebrows rose as she curled her lips back over her teeth. She was not impressed. She growled at it. It made that noise again. Then it took a bite of the air in front of it, looking at her and stomping a hoof.
Pepa crossed her arms. Hell no she was not losing a pissing contest with the fucking goat.
The goat glared at Pepa.
Pepa glared right back.
"Pepa?" Silvia skidded to a stop in the doorway, head swiveling around. "What's wrong?"
"What's wrong?" Pepa almost screeched, arm snapping out, pointing at the goat. "He's eating my shirt, Silvia!"
Silvia's eyes followed the line of Pepa's finger. Then, to Pepa's utter fury, she snickered.
The redhead was laughing, now. "I'm sorry, Pepa," she apologized, even as she crossed the room to take the shirt away from the goat, to gently clear the scraps of fabric from between its teeth. The goat, Pepa noticed digustedly, was now making a softer, cooing noise, and batting its eyes at her lover, butting Silvia's side, generally being soft and fuzzy and adorable. "He just doesn't know any better yet." She adoringly petted the goat's head. Pepa almost screamed.
"Doesn't know any better?" she demanded, voice rising. "He had to open the closet door to get my shirt, Silvia! It knew. It knew," and she pointed with her index finger at her own head. "It's an evil genius. It's the Brain of the goat world!"
Silvia was staring at her with what looked like equal parts adoration and concern. "Pepa." Her voice was slow and soothing. It was the tone, Pepa noticed with annoyance, that one often used on crazy people. "He's a goat. Don't you think you're overestimating his intelligence just a little? He's only been here a week. He'll learn soon."
Pepa shook her head. "Silvia!" Pepa knew she had crossed into whining territory, but she couldn't help it. "It knows better already! The goat just hates me! He always chews on my stuff and poops when I'm around!"
Silvia shook her head back at Pepa, clearly done with the argument. "You're being crazy," she announced briskly, before walking over to Pepa, wrapping her arms around Pepa's waist, and kissing her soundly. "I have to get back to work," she murmured to Pepa after she broke the kiss, lips brushing Pepa's as she spoke. "I'll buy you a new shirt and vest, okay? And I'll make it up to you." The smoky look in her eyes left no questions as to her meaning (and damn Pepa was putty in this woman's hands), and with one more kiss and a smack to the ass for good measure, she left.
Leaving Pepa and it.
Pepa pouted and glared at the goddamn goat, crossing her arms over her chest. It made a noise at her. She drew a hand across her throat in the universal sign for "die, goat, die." It stared disdainfully at her and trotted out the door after Silvia.
Pepa stared at the torn remains of her shirt.
She should have had a damn baby.
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