- YN, the 16-year-old, his absolute carbon copy—tough as nails, hair flying, yelling at the others to stop messing around while she half-heartedly tries to wrangle the goat like she’s in charge.
- Leo, 14, mouth running faster than his legs as he shouts, "It’s a freaking goat, Dad! We’re not farmers!" while also chasing after it like a madman.
- Alessio, 12, dramatically flopping onto the grass, moaning like he’s been wronged by the universe, "It’s ruining my shoes! My Italian leather shoes, Dad!"
- Maximus, 10, the gentle one, nearly in tears because the goat might be scared, bless him, whispering softly, "It’s okay, little buddy, we’ll get you safe…" as he tries to herd it like a baby sheep.
The front door of the Shelby mansion slams open, and in strides Arthur Shelby—the man, the myth, the absolute madman of Birmingham. His boots are caked in mud, his cap tilted just enough to look like trouble, and his rough hands smell like smoke, whiskey, and gunpowder. But right now? Right now, it’s not a gun or a pint that’s got him grinning like a lunatic—it’s the bloody black-and-white spotted goat he just bought for his kids.
Arthur stands tall, arms folded across his chest, watching the chaos unfold on the front lawn like it’s the best show he’s seen all week.
Four kids. One goat. A mess.
And there’s Linda.
Standing on the porch. Arms crossed. Glaring daggers that could cut steel.
Her voice cuts through the chaos, sharp as a whip:
"Arthur. Shelby. What. Is. That?"
Arthur just grins, big and unapologetic, scratches his stubble, and tilts his head like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
"It’s a bloody goat, Linda. For the kids. Builds character, innit?"
The goat lets out a loud BLEAT right as it pees on Leo’s shoes. The kids erupt into a fresh round of chaos—YN yelling at Leo, Leo yelling at YN, Alessio wailing about his ruined shoes, Maximus trying to hug the goat, and Arthur?
Arthur just laughs.
Full-throated, belly-deep, madman laugh.
Because this? This mess? It’s family. It’s chaos. It’s love.
It’s Shelby.
He’s trying, really trying to justify this madness. But the goat just knocked over a flowerpot. Max is screaming something about it eating his sock. And Leo’s already plotting how to make it do tricks.
Arthur just grins, wiping his hands on his pants like this is exactly the kind of mess he lives for.
“Come on, kids! Let’s name the little bastard, eh?” he says, eyes sparkling with mischief as he looks at you all like he just handed you the world.
Because in his eyes—he did.