Moo-rican Gothic

A faded farmhouse rises against a pale blue sky, its weathered boards creaking like they’re tired of being wholesome. Two horned figures stand motionless by the porch — Bo and Moo-dy Belle Barnsworth — perfectly still, perfectly judgmental. The paint has peeled from the window trim; the grass grows in nervous patches. Somewhere, a windmill turns just to fill the silence. The Barnsworths have been posing like this for as long as anyone in Bovinia can remember. Every now and then, they shift slightly — just enough to keep the flies guessing. Rumor has it they’ve never left this spot, bound by tradition, stubborn pride, or perhaps an artistic curse no one fully understands. They represent everything Bovinia holds dear: hard work, plain living, and a rigid belief that modernity is the devil’s butter churn. If gossip drifts down Main Street, it passes through their yard first. Outsiders, especially those who don’t drink whole milk, are regarded with polite horror.