Billy Goat Jones

written by jaron summers (c) 2025

My best friend in school was Billy Jones. You might not have known him back then, but eventually, you saw him on TV or in Sports Illustrated. By that time, he was already a legend — they called him Billy Goat Jones.

He made millions with his antics. By the age of eighteen, Billy was one of the world’s top solo rock climbers — no ropes, no fear, just raw muscle and a suicidal sense of style.

He could glide up sheer rock walls like he was on an escalator. Gravity, for him, was more of a polite suggestion than a law. I saw him once hang by one finger, twist mid-air, and fling himself across a canyon gap like some kind of steroidal bird.

My job? Keep him alive between miracles. I handled his gear, his meals, and his sleep schedule. I was the brake pedal he never used.

Women adored him — and for good reason. He was rich, handsome, and had the kind of jawline that could split wood. He had endorsement deals for everything from vitamin pills (which, truthfully, were just crushed Tic Tacs) to titanium carabiners shaped like his abs.

Everything was great — until we went to Switzerland.

Ah yes, Switzerland. Land of neutrality, fondue, and sinister precision. We were there to scout cliffs and cheese when we saw them: Alpine ibex — goats that laughed in the face of physics.

They scaled the vertical face of the Cingino Dam like it was a playground slide. Not for sport, mind you — they were licking salt from the concrete. Craving minerals like junkies craving their next fix.

Billy watched them through his binoculars, transfixed.
“First time I’ve seen something that climbs better than me,” he whispered. “We could learn from these beasts.”

That’s when we heard the voice.

“Cute goats. But I bet they don’t have PR agents.”

We turned.

She was blonde. Dazzling. Designer hiking boots that still had showroom tags. She introduced herself as Marla. Just Marla. Like Cher, but with more ambition and darker secrets.

“I’ve seen you climb,” she said, running a manicured nail down Billy’s arm like she was drawing a dotted line for surgery. “But you haven’t peaked yet. Not until you’ve climbed inside yourself.”

Billy blushed so hard I thought his freckles might ignite.

She joined our team — then took it over. She replaced me like a broken zipper. Took over his diet (kale sludge), his wardrobe (vegan tactical couture), even his publicist (a parrot named Theo with a TikTok following).

“Lose the helmet,” she said. “It hides your forehead of destiny.”

Billy began reading self-help books with titles like Zen and the Art of Climbing Without Dying and Goat to Great.

And then came the turning point.

One night, over bubbling fondue and the faint hum of Marla’s Bluetooth crystal diffuser, she leaned in close. Her pupils were dilated. Not from the wine. From something deeper.

“Billy, darling,” she purred, “have you ever considered… hoof implants?”

Billy gagged on a bread cube.

“Come again?”

“Hoof implants. Think about it — goats have evolved the perfect climbing foot. We enhance your feet — tiny, adorable split hooves. You’d be unstoppable. I already trademarked Billy Feet™. We’ll launch at Coachella.”

That night, Billy stared at the stars, whispering to himself like a haunted monk: “Billy Feet… Billy Feet…”

By dawn, he was gone.

No goodbye, just a note taped to a box of kale pills: “Back to basics. No contracts. No surgeries. No hooves.”

The next time I saw him, he was halfway up the Cingino Dam, mingling with the ibex. He’d found his tribe. He shared salt licks with a doe, nuzzled her neck. They climbed in sync. It was strangely beautiful — and deeply unsettling.

But nature isn’t sentimental.

The herd’s dominant male — a monster of a goat with glacier eyes and a beard full of secrets — had other ideas.

While Billy was mid-snuggle, the beast launched.

WHAM.

Billy flew off the dam like a ragdoll in a blender. As he twirled through the air, he screamed something about Marla, salt, and toe yoga.

They never found the body.

Some say he lives in the Andes now, training mountain goats to do parkour. Others claim he joined a cult in Mongolia where they worship a god shaped like a carabiner.

As for me? I just miss my friend.

And on stormy nights, when the wind howls down from the peaks, you might hear a faint, mournful bleat drifting through the darkness:

“Tell Marla… I’m not getting the hooves.”