A Game of Groans: A Sonnet of Slush and Soot

by George R. R. Washington

  She put her arm around his waist and uttered, “We know why Summer is coming, but why is Bobbert Barfonme coming?”

  Head looked away from Gateway and asked, “Can’t one old friend come to visit another old friend?”

  “Of course he can, Head, but Bobbert Barfonme doesn’t get off of his throne for any reason other than to get his grog on, and he doesn’t leave Capaetal Ceity unless he’s in the midst of a political disaster that could end up with one of his friends dead.” Her synapses awoke to the point that she was able to put two and two together, and even though she came up with five, she knew something was amiss. “Okay, Headcase,” Gateway sighed, “what’s wrong?”

  Head cleared his throat, looked away, and fumbled, “Whaaaaat? Something wrong? That’s crazy talk. Wrong? Never. Why would you think anything’s wrong? Nothing’s wrong. Everything is one-hundred-percent copacetic.”

  Gateway growled, “Head, don’t do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “That thing.”

  “What thing?”

  “That thing where you don’t tell me about an important character getting murdered.”

  “Oh. Right. That thing.”

  After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Gateway asked, “So who bit it now?”

  Again, Head cleared his throat, and again, there was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Finally, Lord Barker said, “Your brother-in-law.”

  “My brother-in-law?”

  “Yes,” Head sighed.

  “You mean Mr. I’m-So-Cool-Because-I’m-the-Foot?”

  “Right.”

  “Mr. Help-Move-the-Story-Along?”

  “Yeah, him.”

  “Mr. We-Had-Several-Amazing-Jokes-About-Him-Specifically-Some-Baseball-Oriented-Chuckles-Centered-Around-His-Last-Name-but-the-Legal-Department-Made-Us-Take-Them-Out?”

  Head nodded sadly, at both the loss of his wife’s brother and the genius sports humor. “He’s gone, my love. Lord Functionary Aaron has passed on. The Foot of the King is dead.”

  A tear ran down Gateway’s muddy cheek. “Poor Lysergic. Whatever will she do without her plot point of a husband?”

  “Who cares?” Head mumbled. “Your sister’s a queynte.”

  “Wow,” Gateway said, “I’ve never heard you use the Q word. But yes, Lysergic is a queynte, but still.” She took a deep breath, then sighed. “It was only a matter of time, I suppose.”

  “What do you mean?” Head asked.

  “The King’s Foots have notoriously short lifespans, dear.”

  Head exclaimed, “Whaaaaat? That’s crazy talk. Advisers to the King live as long as anybody else. Everything is one-hundred-percent copacetic.”

  “What about Mayce Windu?”

  “Oh, right. A mysterious death by overacting.”

  “And Orvylle Redynbacher?”

  “A mysterious death by choking on popcorn.”

  “And Swyfty Lazyr?”

  “A mysterious death by suffocation.”

  “And Stumpy Pepys?”

  “A mysterious death by drowning.”

  “And Stumpy Joe Chylds?”

  “A mysterious death by fire.”

  “And Petyr Jaymes Bond?”

  “A mysterious death by bludgeoning.”

  “And Mick Shrymption?”

  “A mysterious death by dismemberment.”

  “And Functionary Aaron?”

  “Nobody knows how he died. It was very mysterious.”

  “And there you have it.”

  As they walked back toward the castle in silence, Head fingered his sword. Gateway noticed and asked, “Something wrong with Slush?”

  Head removed his sword from its house and swooshed it through the air. It wobbled from one side to the other, flapping like a willow tree in the midst of a windstorm in a field of willow trees. “Slush is fine,” he boasted defensively. “Slush was made from Corinthian leather, and nothing will hurt Slush, thus nothing will hurt me. Ever.”

  “I don’t know about that, Head,” Gateway opined. “From what I gather, nothing will stop whatever’s behind the Wall. Not even Corinthian leather.”

  “Gateway, I know my own needs, and what I need from a sword, I know I get from Slush. I could ask for nothing beyond the quality of Slush’s workmanship. I request nothing beyond the perfection of the softest Corinthian leather. Yet it is on the battlefield where Slush answers my demands. I get much more from this sword than great comfort at a most pleasant price. It gives me great confidence, for which there can be no price. With Slush, I have what I need.”

  “You sound like a car commercial.”

  “Maybe I do, Gateway,” Head consented, “but it is a sword so fascinating, that it has captured the hearts of many. Slush is the most successful new personal-sized luxury sword in the last five Summers, and here’s why: Slush combines luxury and class at an affordable price. See Slush now at your Chrysler-Plymouth dealer.”

  “First of all, Summerseve doesn’t have a Chrysler-Plymouth dealer. And second of all, what’s with the accent? You suddenly sound like that jerkoff kid of yours.”

  Ignoring her, Head barreled on: “Elegantly designed. Luxuriously appointed. And now is the time to buy Slush here in Easterrabbit, because it is priced to give you the value you have been looking for. You see, it is the end of the model Summer for your Chrysler-Plymouth dealer, so if you purchase Slush now, you’ll get an excellent deal on the Slush you want, ready for immediate delivery. Don’t hesitate. Experience Slush while it is such an unbelievable value.”

  Gateway Barker touched her husband’s flaccid sword and said, “Whatever you say, dear.” Looking up at the sky, she wondered aloud, “Hey, is it 4:20 yet?”

  HEADCASE

  After a rumble jarred Lord Headcase Barker out of a sound slumber, he mumbled, “Gods in hell, Allbran’s queefs are getting chunkier.” Then he put his pillow over his head, hoping sleep would again come. Just as he was about to nod off, there was a louder rumble, followed by a cry of “Hey Barky-Boy, drop that tiny winky of yours and get your fat ass out of bed!”

  Head groaned, then elbowed Gateway awake and murmured, “Get up. Bobbert’s early.”

  Gateway echoed her husband’s groan—it was almost as if they were playing a game of groans—then reached over to her nightstand, grabbed the remnants of last night’s pre-bedtime Godsweede, sparked it up, and took a hit. With the smoke still in her lungs, she held out the plant to Head and gasped, “Want a taste?”

  Head—who indulged once when he was eleven, an indulgence that still elicited nightmares of yet-to-be-fought battles against bearded scribes with predilections for composing overly lengthy tomes that often included scenes in which a beloved protagonist is prematurely killed—said, “Tempting, but I’ll pass. Bobbert will probably be all grogged up, and when he’s grogged up, he likes to talk, so I should probably be lucid.”

  “Good point.” She nodded. The unclothed Gateway then rolled out of bed, stumbled to her closet, and grabbed her robe. Covering herself and sauntering to the window, she added, “It sounds like a circus out there. I wonder who he brought with him.” Did he bring the entire cast of characters? Did he bring people we’ll see in season one or season two? Or the next book? Or the book after that? Or the book after that? Or the book after the book after the book after The Hunger Games?”

  “I’m afraid of who he brought with him. Hopefully not the Queen. My best shirt is stained, and the last thing I need is Cerevix whining, Head isn’t fit to be a Lord, and Head doesn’t represent House Barker the way it should be represented, and Head isn’t this, and Head isn’t that.” Clutching his stomach, he added, “Gods, my ulcer is acting up already.”

  Gateway said, “Maybe Cerevix didn’t come.”

  A cry came from outside: “Rise and shine and open the Godsdamn door, Barky-Boy! Cerevix has to take a leak…”

  Head sighed, “Godsdamn it. Cerevix came.”

  Bobbert continued, “And Jagweed’s gotta drop a deuce.”

  “W
onderful,” Head gamely groaned. “That one’s here too.” He stood up and sighed. “Let’s get this over with.” He trudged to the other side of the room as if the floor were covered with the muddiest of mud, pulled back the curtain, opened the window, forced a grin, and roared, “Bobbo Slobbo!”

  “Barky Burger!”

  “Kingo Ringo!”

  “Header Bedder!”

  “Barfy Barfy Banana Fanna Fo Farfy!”

  “Lordy Lordy, drink a forty!”

  Head wiped the crust from his eyes and gave his friend a onceover, not impressed with what he was seeing. King Bobbert Barfonme was big even when he was little, but his years on the throne had not been kind to his waistline. The King had probably packed on thirty or forty pounds since the last time they got together, three Summers before. “You look great, Your Highness!” he called.

  “I look like hell, and if you call me Your Highness again, I’ll slap that scraggly beard off your face.”

  “I’m sure you will, Bobbert. I’m coming down. Tell Cerevix and Jagweed they can use the outhouse.”

  Queen Cerevix—blond, beautiful, regal Queen Cerevix—roared, “Head, there is no way in hell that my junk is touching a toilet that’s been touched by the junk of a peasant!”

  “That’s all we have to offer, Cerevix.”

  “Godsdamn jerkwater town, full of empty-headed mud-suckers,” Cerevix grumbled as she trooped to the toilet.

  Head called to the King, “Looks like your way with words has been rubbing off on your wife, Bobbert!”

  “That’s not the only thing I’ve been rubbing off on her!”

  At that, Gateway chuckled. Head turned around and glared at her, then hissed, “Quit laughing. You’ll only encourage him.”

  “I can’t help it. He’s funny.”

  “He’s a clown,” Head complained.

  “He’s your oldest and dearest friend,” she noted.

  “I know,” Head agreed, “but he’s also my oldest and dearest pain in the backside.”

  Gateway threw a pillow at her husband and ordered, “Go down there and play with your pal. But play nice.”

  When Head made it downstairs and out the castle’s front entrance, Bobbert jumped off his horse, fell on his rump, stood up, and embraced his friend. Head winced upon getting a noseful of Bobbert’s grog-soaked breath and an eyeful of his sweat-coated chainmail. Bobbert beamed, “Heady, Heady, Heady, you got old!”

  Head was not able to fully wrap his arms around the King’s beefy torso, and was this close to saying, Barfy, Barfy, Barfy, you got fat, but he held his tongue. Instead, he noted, “I’m old? Bobbert, you’re two days older than me.”

  The King pulled back, and said, “And two Summers wiser.” He mopped his brow, then added, “It’s hot. Summer must be coming.”

  Nodding, Head said, “Summer is coming.”

  From the window, Gateway called, “Is that right? Is Summer really coming? Because you have yet to mention that.”

  Bobbert laughed, then suggested, “Gateway, Gateway, Gateway, you bring that fine booty of yours down here, or else I’m coming up. And I’ll tap that thing, I promise you that.”

  On her way back from the outhouse, Queen Cerevix noted, “I’ll believe that when I see it, Mr. Big Talker. You haven’t tapped anything in months.”

  Bobbert chuckled nervously, then told Head, “Oh, that wife of mine, always the jokester.” As if to prove her wrong, he headed into the castle and up the stairs.

  Head pointed to the exceedingly tall, exceedingly slender, exceedingly gawky man sitting perilously on the horse behind Bobbert’s, and said to nobody in particular, “I thought he was the jokester.”

  The tall man grinned, and said, “Great to see you, Lord Barker. You look smashing. I’d give you a wave, but I just flew in from Capaetal Ceity, and boy, are my arms tired.” After nobody laughed, the tall man straightened an imaginary tie and said, “Woof, tough crowd.” He said to a passing stranger, “Hey! You! Where you from?”

  The stranger stopped, and said, “Um, Summerseve.”

  “Ah, Summerseve. I once spent a night there. It lasted a year. Ch-ching!” After more non-laughter, he said, “I knew my material would go over everybody’s head here. Anyhow, how’s it hanging, Head? For Gateway’s sake, I hope that answer is Down in the dirt.”

  Lord Barker noted, “Ah, Tritone Sinister. The funniest of the Sinisters. And that isn’t saying much.”

  “Look at you,” Tritone grinned, “spritzing with the pros. Nice work, your Lordship.” He pointed to a painfully ugly three-armed man standing beside a painfully ugly three-legged horse, and said, “You know this one?”

  Head shook his head.

  “Sandstorm Leghorn. Bobbert’s bodyguard. Tough job, because that Bobbert has a lot of body to guard. Hi-yo!” After nobody laughed, the tall man said, “Well, that’s all for me tonight. Tip your waitress, and try the veal with onions, and please always remember, and please never forget, wherever you go, there you are. Now I’d like to turn it over to the man of the hour, who makes the ladies wanna shower, ladies and gentlemen, Sandstorm Leghorn!”

  Sandstorm grunted, “Grunt.”

  “Sandstorm Leghorn, ladies and gentlemen, give it up!” Tritone hopped off his horse and asked Head, “Say, Shecky, who does a guy have to blow to get a drink around this dump?”

  Head cocked his thumb over his shoulder, toward the castle, and said, “See my assistant, Maester Blaester. Upstairs, third room to the left of the stairs.”

  Tritone bent down, patted Head on the cheek, and grinned. “You’re beautiful, babe. Don’t ever change.”

  After the skinny giant entered the front door—clocking his head on the top of the doorway in the process—Bobbert stuck his head out of the upstairs window and yelled, “Hey, Headmaster, as soon as I finish doing my Kingly duty to your wife, you and me are gonna talk. Somewhere private.”

  The Queen’s twin brother, the Knight Sur Jagweed, piped up, “You want me to sit in on this one, Your Highness?”

  Frowning, Bobbert asked, “You have any clue what the word private means, Jag?” Then, under his breath, he mumbled, “Dumbass.”

  Cerevix screamed, “I heard that!”

  “Good!” he screamed back. To Head, he ordered, “Meet me in the drawing room before I show this wife of yours how a real man takes care of his business.”

  Once they were seated in the drawing room, sipping their drinks—Head a small glass of water, Bobbert a huge goblet of grog—Bobbert belched and said, “So. Functionary ceased to function.”

  Head nodded. “Yes. Heartbreaking.”

  “You hear how he bit it?” Bobbert asked.

  Rolling his eyes at Bobbert’s callousness, Head said, “No, Bobbert, I did not hear how your Foot, and my brother-in-law, passed away.”

  “He died laughing.”

  Head sighed. Dying of laughter had become a minor epidemic in Easterrabbit, but it had only affected the peasants. Royalty had avoided this terrible fate. Until now. “Do you know what he was laughing at?” he asked.

  “No clue,” Bobbert said. “But you can bet it wasn’t at anything Tritone said. That man needs some new material.”

  “You aren’t kidding. So who’s going to take over the rule of Vailcolorado?”

  “Well, your sister-in-law Lysergic isn’t fit to rule a litter of cats, let alone an entire kingdom. Plus she’s a woman, and Gods knows you can’t put a woman on a throne. They’re insane.”

  “Not all women are insane, Bobbert,” Head said.

  “You live with Cerevix for a few Summers, and we’ll talk. As for Functionary’s replacement, if I had my druthers, I’d bring in one of those Dorki idiots, because they’re too stupid to make stupid decisions, if you know what I mean. Unfortunately, I can’t, because it’s House Aaron, and it has to be an Aaron, which means…”

  Interrupting, Head groaned, “Bobbby.”

  Nodding, Bobbert said, “Bobbby.”

  “No. No way. No how. Bobbby’s a … a … a
…”

  “Yeah, he’s a prick. He’s only six, but he’s already a prick. I agree. But he’s the next male Aaron, so we’re stuck with the little freak.”

  “Great. So we’ve got a moron leading House Aaron, and a moron-in-waiting at House…” He trailed off.

  Bobbert said, “You were going to say, A moron-in-waiting at House Barfonme, weren’t you?”

  “I … I … I…” Head stammered.

  “You … you … you … you’re right. My son is a moron, Head. My Godsdamn horse is smarter than that little yahoo. And lucky you, he’s only a Summer away from being your son-in-law.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Head moaned. “Sasha is thrilled about the whole thing. She can’t wait to marry him. And I have to pay for the wedding. The thought of it gets my ulcer burning as hot as the hottest of hot Summers.”

  “As well it should. So listen, I didn’t come here to discuss how idiotic our respective families are. I need to ask you something, face-to-face, man to man, mano a mano.”

  “Anything, Bobbert…”

  “Be my Foot.”

  “… except that. No. No way. No how. No sir.”

  “Why not, may I ask?” asked the King.

  “Well, Summer is coming.”

  “An unacceptable answer. Next excuse.”

  “Um, okay, I’m not worthy to fill the Functionary’s pants.”

  “You are. You da man. You’re so money, and you don’t even know it. Next excuse.”

  “Okay, how about Summer is coming?”

  “Still unacceptable. Next excuse.”

  “How about Foots seem to die a whole bunch, and I have a family to consider.”

  Bobbert shook his head as if it were a ball bouncing in a field on a muddy day. “Tough patooties. You’re my new Foot. Pack up your crap. We’re outta here.”

  “But … but … but…”

  “But … but … but what, Headcase? Out with it.”

  “But Summer is coming.”

  LOLYTA

  Loly Targetpractice—known to those in the know as Lolyta Tornadobutt, Princess of Duckseventually—regarded the odd dress and asked her handmaiden, Magistrate Illinois, “How in the name of Gods am I supposed to get this Godsdamn thing on?” Comprised entirely of 1" × 2" rectangular rectangles, it was like nothing she had ever seen. The rectangles—which were all gold and covered with numbers and letters that might or might not add up to or spell something—were connected to one another by tiny wires; thus much of Loly’s skin was exposed. Loly felt the dress was too haute couture for the season, but as long as Ivan Drago, the King of Dork and her future husband, approved, her opinion did not matter.