A Game of Groans: A Sonnet of Slush and Soot

by George R. R. Washington

  Suddenly bored with his bedroom, Allbran hopped out of his window and pulled himself up to the castle’s roof. The roof was his home away from home, a place where he could be alone with his thoughts and his farts, a place where nobody would tease him for being small and smelly, a place where he could be himself.

  Allbran noticed that Bobb and Juan had ceased their archery and were riding their respective direpandas. He shook his head, knowing that he would never mount his pet Hinky, because that would be degrading, and if anybody knew what it was like to be degraded, it was Allbran. Bobb and Juan’s direpandas eventually got fed up with the state of affairs, so they bucked off their riders and ran off toward town, with Bobb and Juan following close behind. Again bored, Allbran wandered along the perimeter of the castle roof, balancing on the ledge as if he were an expert ledge-balancer.

  Right as he turned the gargoyled corner, Allbran heard two voices from below, one a man’s, and one a woman’s. The voices both sounded snobby, tinged with a sense of self-entitlement that made him cringe. The man said, “No way that Headcase Barker could be a good Foot. He governs like a dodo bird flies: badly.”

  The woman said, “Do you realize just how horrible your metaphors are?”

  “My metaphors are fine,” the man complained. “They’re like muddy flowers on a warm Summer day.”

  “Just stop,” the woman exhaled, then, after a pause, added, “I can’t argue with your assessment of the current regime. Taxes are up, unemployment is up, and interest rates are up.”

  The man said, “The populace seems happy…”

  The woman interrupted, “The populace, the populace, it’s always about the populace. You can’t be a good leader if you spend all your time worrying about the populace. Look at King Goerge at House Busch. He doesn’t give two shits about the populace, and House Busch is the wealthiest region in Easterrabbit. When you become Goofy’s Foot, you should get the little prick to emulate King Goerge.”

  “Good idea. Hey, have you spoken to Aunt Millye and Uncle Iryving?”

  “No. I owe them a ravengram.”

  “Well, you don’t have to worry about that.”

  “Why?” the woman asked.

  “They’re waiting for us back at the castle.”

  The woman groaned. “They always show up without sending us a ravengram beforehand. We’re never prepared.” She paused, then asked, “Speaking of prepared, what’s going on down there? Something bothering you?”

  “What?” the man chuckled, sounding nervous to Allbran’s ear. “Bothering me? Nothing’s bothering me at all. I’m good. As a matter of fact, I’m great.”

  “That what’s the holdup?”

  “I’m tired,” the man whined. “I can’t always work on command.”

  “Don’t get defensive,” the woman said. “It happens to a lot of guys.”

  “Not to me!” the man blustered.

  “Except for that time last week,” the woman pointed out.

  “I was drunk.”

  “Whatever.” After a pause, the woman asked, “Do you want me to kiss it?”

  “That’s what I wanted in the first place.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?” she asked. Allbran then heard some slurping noises that made him giggle. He covered his mouth so as not to be detected.

  After a minute or two, the woman mumbled, “Still nothing.”

  The man said, “Here, let me try something.”

  Allbran then heard a quiet slapping sound. He kneeled down to get a better sense of what was happening, then slipped and tumbled off the roof. He would have fallen to the ground had he not grabbed the ledge of the window of the room on which he was eavesdropping.

  As Allbran hauled himself up, the man and the woman simultaneously screamed. When he peeked his nose over the sill, he saw that it was Queen Cerevix Barfonme and her twin brother, Sur Jagweed “The Not-Kingslayer” Sinister. The Queen was lying on the bed, naked except for her bejeweled crown, while the Not-Kingslayer was completely naked, gripping his shriveled, limp manhood as if it were a sword. A small sword, granted, but a sword nonetheless.

  Jagweed let go of his penis, grabbed a sheet from the bed, and covered himself. “What did you see?” he demanded.

  “What I saw here,” Allbran claimed, “was a brother and sister doing the kind of thing that most brothers and sisters in Easterrabbit do, because, according to those who have seen this sort of thing, Easterrabbit is the land of doing your brother and sister. What I saw here has been documented in a number of mediums—on both the page and the small screen, for example—so there’s no way I couldn’t know what I saw here.” He paused, then added, “That all being said, I’m not sure what I saw here. But it didn’t look like much.”

  Queen Cerevix sneered, “Exactly, Allbran: nothing much.”

  Jagweed wheeled on his sister and roared, “You said it happens to all guys!”

  “No,” she explained, “I said it happens to a lot of guys. Don’t put words in my mouth.” She stood up and grabbed her robe. “As a matter of fact, don’t put anything in my mouth. We’re done here.”

  Jagweed’s face turned beet red, and, if it was at all possible, his manhood shrank even more. “We’re not done until I say we’re done!” he screamed.

  Pointing at her brother’s crotch, the Queen said, “Tell that to him.”

  After a wordless scream, Jagweed Sinister spun on Allbran and accused, “This is your fault, you Barker scum. I was doing fine until you dropped in.”

  Cerevix barked a single laugh, then further barked, “Sure you were, brother dear. Sure you were.”

  Ignoring his sister, Jagweed continued, “You’ll pay for this, boy.”

  Chuckling, the Queen pointed at Allbran and sneered, “Pull down his pants and see if he wants to give it a go, brother dear.” She slipped the robe off her shoulders, exposing her firm breasts. “You like these, Allbran?”

  Blushing, Allbran stammered, “I … I … I … don’t have anything to compare them to.”

  In the blink of an eye, Jagweed was kneeling directly in front of Allbran, their faces inches apart. “Listen, boy,” the Not-Kingslayer whispered, “first of all, my sister has the best jugs in Easterrabbit, so you best pay them their proper respect. Second of all, what you saw here, you didn’t see here. Got it?”

  “What I saw here,” Allbran repeated, “was a brother and sister doing the kind of thing that most brothers and sisters in Easterrabbit do, because, according to those who have seen this sort of thing…”

  Cerevix interrupted, “Like I said, Allbran, you didn’t see much.”

  Jagweed roared, “You saw plenty!” then emitted a wordless growl, picked up Allbran by his neck, and threw the boy out the window.

  On his way down, the strangest thought went through Allbran’s head, a thought dripping with a sense of déjà vu, a thought that came from nowhere and everywhere, a thought that seemed as if it were thrown into the chapter for legal reasons: Hasn’t something like this happened before?… And didn’t it happen some other way that was more serious and less slapstick-y?… And maybe not to me, exactly, but some other version of me … A version of me who is cute, and cuddly, and doesn’t understand the concept of incest, and doesn’t fart quite as much …

  After landing on the mud, Allbran discharged a queef that sounded like a whimper. And then his world went brown.

  TRITONE

  The thing Tritone Sinister hated most about being Tritone Sinister was the difficulty he had strolling the streets incognito. As far as he knew, he was the tallest man on the continent—he was certainly the tallest member of a royal family—so he was not surprised that the majority of normal-sized citizens gawked at him all day every day, but it hurt nonetheless. This morning, as he wandered through the Mall of Ameyrika in central Summerseve, he felt hundreds of eyes give him judgmental once-overs—as usual—and it irked him to no end. Just as he was about to take his leave, he stumbled onto something he knew would cheer him up: his nephew.

 
Goofrey Barfonme was standing in front of a vendor, clad in a white puffy pirate shirt and his trademark pink pantaloons, gawking at the towering pile of diamonds on his table. He picked up the biggest rock and held it close to his eye, inspecting the jewel as if he knew what he was looking for, after which he stuck it in his mouth and bit down, then spit out the diamond along with three teeth. He lisped to the vendor, “I’ll take it.”

  As Goof pulled a handful of bills from his purse, Tritone quietly tiptoed toward the boy, coming to a stop a bit behind him, just to the left. He reached over Goof’s head and tapped him on the right shoulder. The boy spun to his right, and was greeted by the sight of nothing. Tritone then slid over to the Goof’s other side, and jabbed him on his left shoulder. Goof again spun, and again saw nothing. Realizing this could go on all day, Tritone said, “Hey, Shecky, 101 B.C. called. It wants its haircut back.”

  Goofrey beamed. “Uncle Tritone! You’re funny.”

  “Good to know somebody agrees with me on that one. Even if it’s somebody like you, who’s so dumb that he thinks a blood vessel is a ship.”

  Scratching his head, Goof asked, “What do you mean?”

  “Forget it,” Tritone said. “So you hear about your pal Allbran?”

  “He farted?”

  Rolling his eyes, Tritone sighed, “Of course he farted, Shecky. No, he fell off his roof. He’s probably going to die. Or maybe not.” After a beat, he added, “Actually, I know what’s going to happen to him, but I can’t say, because I’m not sure how much foreshadowing I’m allowed to do here.” Goof gave him a blank look. “You don’t know what foreshadowing is, do you?” Goof shook his head. “I didn’t think so.” He picked up one of the vendor’s diamonds, handed it to Goof, and offered, “Here’s some dessert, genius. Enjoy.”

  “Thanks,” Goof grinned, then popped the jewel into his mouth. Another bite, another broken tooth, and another eye roll from Uncle Tritone.

  “Good Gods, Goof, you become more kingly each day. Can’t wait until Bobbert bites it, and you take over.” After a beat, he added, “Crap. I think I foreshadowed too much. Anyhow, go see Lord and Lady Barker and tell them how sorry you are about Allbran.”

  Goof picked up another diamond and said, “But I’m not sorry.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You’re a politician. Be political. Make nice. Now.”

  “I don’t want to,” Goof whined. “You’re not the boss of me!”

  “Kid, I’ve only got one nerve left, and you’re getting on it. Go see the Barkers!”

  “No!”

  “No?”

  “No!”

  Glaring at Goof, Tritone murmured, “Don’t make me zitz you, Shecky.”

  “Go ahead and zitz me, Uncle! You can’t make me do what I don’t want to do!”

  “Fine. Make a mental note of this … oh, wait, I see you’re out of paper. That’s probably why you always enter into a battle of wits unarmed. Ordinarily, people live and learn, but you just live. But don’t start thinking now, because it might sprain your brain. You know that we all sprang from apes, but you didn’t spring far enough. I’d ask you how old you are, but I doubt you can count that high. Hey, can I borrow your face, because my ass wants to take a vacation…”

  With tears pouring down his face, Goof cried, “Stop! Stop! I’ll go! I’ll go!” And then he ran off toward the Barker castle, bawling the entire way.

  Now in a cheery mood, Tritone whistled a happy little tune, then turned on his heel and crashed into the Barfonme family bodyguard, Sandstorm Leghorn. The three-armed man snarled, “I seen whatcha did to Master Goofrey, Tritone. And I don’t like it.”

  Tritone grabbed his manhood and asked, “Is that so? Well, how do you like this, quintaped? If ugliness were a crime, you’d be beheaded. Zzzzzzing!”

  Sandstorm hit the muddy ground as if he’d been stabbed in the heart. As he crawled away, he shook his fist at the giant and said, “You haven’t heard the last of me, Tritone Sinister!”

  Shrugging at the jewel vendor, Tritone said, “Foreshadowing.”

  The vendor nodded and repeated, “Foreshadowing, indeed.”

  LOLYTA

  Lolyta Targetpractice was naked, and not ashamed in the least.

  The sun was setting on the horizon, and the wind was blowing from the East; the grass rippled and the leaves waved in the breeze. Loly turned her face to the sky and beamed at the sun. As the yellow orb warmed her face, she felt a stirring in her loins. Unable to help herself, she lowered herself onto the warm grass, lay on her back, inched her hand below her waist, and put her index and middle fingers inside the warmth between her legs. As her special area became wetter and wetter, she fell deeper and deeper into herself; the world disappeared, and it was her, and her alone.

  As Loly moved closer to the brink, she heard a voice: “Sweetie, you look fierce.” Loly opened her eyes, and there was Vladymyr, kneeling over her, his hand hovering over her nipple. “Would you like me to give it a pinchie-pinch?” he asked.

  Her brain said “No” but her mouth said “Yes.”

  “As you wish, my KERBANGER.” And then, as he caressed the moistness between her thighs, Vladymyr Targetpractice squeezed his sister’s nipple as hard as he could.

  Right then, right at that moment, right at the height of the pain, Loly felt the release that she craved each and every moment of each and every day. She emitted a wordless moan, and then …

  * * *

  Loly’s eyes opened, and reality came crashing down upon her. She was not lying in the middle of a beautiful field getting a handjob from her brother, but rather lying in her bed, on the morning of the day she was to wed Ivan Drago. For a brief moment, she could not decide which was more appealing: receiving hand pleasure from her effeminate brother, or marrying a half man/half horse. After mulling it over, she decided it was a tie, but if she got hitched, she would get a ton of great presents, so she rolled out of bed, slapped on her wedding dress (which consisted of a piece of string and two feathers), called to Magistrate Illinois that she should deliver her pre-wedding brunch, and padded to the dining room.

  And what a brunch it was.

  The pre-meal snack was a three-foot-long, two-foot-high piece of lemon bread, which was filled with raw chunks of boar, yak, venison, pheasant, and lizard. After slathering it in a butter concocted with the semen of a bull, she ate every single inch of the loaf, after which she licked the plate. Illinois then brought Loly the first course, a foot-high pile of scrambled platypus eggs seasoned with tree bark. Again, the future KERBANGER ate every bite and slurped every morsel from the plate. Then came the centerpiece of the meal: three-dozen onions, finely chopped, sculpted into a sculpture of Ivan Drago’s manhood. After staring at this work of art, Loly attacked it as if she had not seen onions or manhood in a million Summers. Dessert was the least memorable part of the meal, but impressive nonetheless: mudfruit drizzled with a condiment the Dorkis considered their greatest culinary contribution: mud. Again she cleared the plate, but this time, she did not lick it.

  After pushing herself away from the table, Loly belched and called to the Magistrate, “Yo, Illinois, let’s get this party started right! What’s next?”

  Illinois jogged into the room and said, “You will receive your gifts, KERBANGER, after which you will proceed directly to the center of town and become Ivan Drago’s betrothed.”

  Loly clapped her hands as if she were a child (which she was, albeit with the libido of three adults), and screeched, “Goody, goody, goody! Presents, presents, presents! Gimme, gimme, gimme!”

  Magistrate Illinois then handed Loly gift after gift after gift, and nary a one of them was the least bit appealing, as they were all knickknacks made by Dorkis, fit for Dorkis. But the Targetpractice family, save for Vladymyr, was a polite bunch, so she told Illinois, “Send thank-you notes to everybody. But remember, these folks can’t read, so don’t spend too much time on them.”

  “As you wish, KERBANGER.” Illinois curtsied. “But there is still one more gift.”
She then handed Loly a large, nondescript box marked FRAGILE.

  Smiling, Loly said, “This can’t be from a Dorki. They don’t know what fragile means.”

  Illinois agreed, “I agree. They’re idiots, on both the page and the small screen.” And then the two of them laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

  When they regained their composure, Loly opened the box, and, after digging through a pile of Styrofoam peanuts, pulled out a blue egg. And then a red one. And then a purple one. And then a green one. And then an orange one. And then a yellow one. And then a note, which she handed to her Magistrate.

  Illinois cleared her throat, then read, “To the once and future KERBANGER, I offer you these eggs. I do not know what kind of eggs they are, but I know they are important, so don’t drop any of them. And let them incubate for at least 175 pages. And whatever you do, DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES BALANCE THEM ON YOUR SHOULDERS WHILE WALKING THROUGH A FIRE.” Magistrate asked Loly, “Why would anybody walk through a fire with eggs balanced on their shoulders?”

  Loly shrugged. “No idea. That’s just about the silliest thing I’ve ever heard. Walking through a fire with eggs balanced on your shoulder … ridiculousness, sheer ridiculousness.” She then picked up the blue egg and promptly dropped it.

  Without noticing the fallen egg, Magistrate finished reading the note: “P.S. Don’t drop the eggs. Especially the blue one.”

  Loly asked, “What’s so special about the blue one? Why not the yellow one, or the green…” Before she finished the thought, she was overtaken by a stench worse than that of a Dorki sewage plant. As she ran from the room, Loly threw up in her mouth a little bit.

  After she cleansed the taste of vomit from her tongue with some onion juice, Loly hustled to the chuppah at the center of town, where Ivan Drago, a Dorki reverend, and Vladymyr awaited her arrival. Before she went under the chuppah, Vladymyr pulled her aside and whispered, “Don’t forget, when horsey-boy dies, I’m King.”

  Loly mumbled, “Or Queen.”