Another reason Head sympathized with his friend: the throne.
Head did not know the history behind the Capaetal Ceity King’s throne, nor did he care to, because whoever devised that thing had to be a sadistic nutjob, and who has the time to read about sadistic nutjobs when there is mud to be slogged through, onions to be eaten, and main characters to be killed? The back of the throne was standard—black velvet covered with jewels, which, while certainly eye-catching, could not have felt good on the back—but there were no arms, and the seat was a white porcelain circle with a huge hole in the middle, and the chair itself was hollow. Whenever King Bobbert broke wind—which, while not as often as Head’s son Allbran, was still a regular occurrence—the echo could be both heard and felt throughout the giant, high-ceilinged throne room. Sometimes Head heard other noises coming from the bottom of the throne, noises that he could not or would not identify, noises that made him happy he did not have to sit there. (The Queen’s throne, it should be noted, was a bejeweled barstool. Cerevix had been trying to get the administration to allocate funds for a real chair for seasons, but she was always voted down, primarily because nobody on the Budget Committee liked her.)
Head told his friend, “Before I grog it up, I’d like to get something in my gut.”
Bobbert nodded. “I understand. And get something in your gut we shall.” Pointing across the room, he said, “But not until we deal with this.”
Head followed Bobbert’s finger and gazed at the entrance to the throne room, where he was greeted by the sight of his youngest daughter in the grip of four of Cerevix’s cousins—he’d been introduced to all of the Sinisters upon his arrival at Capaetal Ceity, but they all looked exactly the same, almost as if they’d inbred for centuries—and Malia was squirming and screaming as if she were a toad who had eaten but not fully digested another toad, and the second toad was trying to jump up and down inside of the first toad’s stomach.
“What’s going on here?” Head asked. “Did you eat but not fully digest a toad?”
Queen Cerevix regally strolled into the throne room as if she were the Queen or something, followed by four blond Sinister cousins, and explained, “Your daughter, Lord Barker, appears to have made a fool of my son.”
Bobbert slurred, “So what else is new?”
“I guess I know who’s sleeping on the couch tonight,” Cerevix snapped. “Again.”
“Oh yeah? You and whose army?” Bobbert grumbled.
Cerevix gave her husband a confused look and said, “In any event, apparently your Malia threatened my Goof with a deadly weapon, then insulted him, then stole his horse. He doesn’t deserve to be treated that way, on either the page or the small screen.”
Head shook his head, then pointed out, “My Queen, Malia couldn’t weigh more than, um, what’s the unit of measure they use around here? Pounds? Grams? Stones? My stones?”
Bobbert said, “Let’s say she’s a skinny little tomboy and leave it at that.”
“Fine,” Head agreed, “she’s a skinny little tomboy, and Goof is a strapping young man…”
“I don’t know if strapping is the right word,” Bobbert said. “I’d go with nebbish. You get a gander of those pantaloons he wears? Makes him look like a weenie.”
“I guess I know who’s sleeping on the couch tomorrow night,” Cerevix snapped.
“Oh yeah? Well, put that in your pipe and smoke it,” Bobbert grumbled.
Cerevix gave her husband a confused look, then said, “In any event, your daughter insulted my son, then she stole his horse.”
King Bobbert snorted, then he chuckled, then he guffawed, then he tittered, then he giggled, and then he whooped. Then, laughing, he said, “Your son got beaten up by a girl?!”
“He’s your son too,” the Queen noted.
Shrugging, Bobbert said, “Maybe he is. Maybe he isn’t. Maybe we’ll get the real answer someday.”
Off in the distance, Juan Nieve’s direpanda Fourshadow could be heard growling.
“I guess I know who’s sleeping on the couch the night after tomorrow,” Cerevix snapped.
“Oh yeah? Well, I know you are, but what am I?” Bobbert grumbled.
Cerevix then said, “In any event, Lord Barker, how do you intend to punish your daughter?”
With his stomach grumbling, Head said, “I’ll take care of it later. How about we order some Thai?”
Ignoring the Foot, the Queen exclaimed, “I have the perfect punishment: three years of hard incest!”
Bobbert rose from his seat, closed his throne’s lid, and said, “Cerevix, we will not have Malia sleeping with Allbran, because the boy has one foot in the grave…”
Off in the distance, Allbran Barker could be heard yelling, “I’m feeling fine, thank you very much!”
“… and incestuous behavior might kill him…”
Off in the distance, Allbran Barker could be heard yelling, “It wouldn’t kill me, but it’s really gross!”
“… but I don’t want this mess to carry on, so come up with a punishment we can all agree on, then go to your chambers and play with Jagweed or something.”
“I concur,” Queen Cerevix concurred. “Malia killed something important to Goof—his dignity—so we should kill something important to her … like maybe her direpanda.”
Head’s stomach again rumbled, and he thought, Man, a direpandaburger with grilled onions sounds mighty tasty, but then he noticed the silent tears running down his daughter’s cheeks, and said, “Cerevix, I will handle this.”
Ignoring him, Cerevix turned to the quartet of blond Sinisters and shouted, “What do you say, team? Kill the direpanda?”
In unison, Team Sinister answered, “Kill the direpanda.”
Cocking her ear, Cerevix called, “I can’t hear you!”
“Kill the direpanda!”
“Let ’em hear you in Summerseve, my peeps!”
“KILL THE DIREPANDA!”
Cerevix turned to Head and smiled. “The masses have spoken.”
“More like the asses have spoken,” Bobbert mumbled, then glared at Cerevix and added, “I know, I know, I know, I’m on the couch.”
To Head, Cerevix said, “So unless you want a bunch of Sinisters all up in your ass, I recommend you kill the direpanda.”
Lord Headcase told his daughter, “Malia, I’m so sorry about this. But if I didn’t make decisions based on a rigid, unbending adherence to a moral code that no one else bothers to follow and that only seems to harm my family while leaving the obvious villains unscathed, then I wouldn’t be Headcase Barker. I just hope that this unrealistic obsession with moral rectitude doesn’t come down on my head like an executioner’s sword sometime in the future.”
She shrugged. “You gotta do what you gotta do. Just make sure you don’t kill Sasha’s direpanda by mistake. After all, they look a lot alike. It would be easy to get them confused, and you might kill the wrong one. If you know what I mean.”
“What do you mean?” Head asked.
“Hell,” Bobbert said, “even I know what she means. And I’m a drunk.”
“Hell,” Cerevix said, “even I know what she means. And I’m a bitch.”
“Hell,” the Sinister cousins said in unison, “even we know what she means. And we’re a bunch of inbred sociopaths.”
Head walked over to Malia and asked, “Where is your sister?”
“I don’t know,” Malia answered, “nor do I know where Stinky is. But it just so happens that Dinky is right outside the back door.”
Rubbing his beard pensively, Head stared contemplatively at the ceiling, then gazed thoughtfully at the floor, then glanced broodingly at the wall, then, heeding the will of his famished gut, said, “If I must kill the direpanda, then I must kill the direpanda.” He pulled Slush from its case, then marched meditatively toward the throne room door as if there were boulders attached to his ankles. He stopped in the doorway, paused for a minute, two minutes, three minutes. Finally he took a hitching breath, turned around, choked back a
sob, and then asked everybody, “Is everybody cool with medium rare burgers?”
GATEWAY
Lady Gateway Bully Barker and Maester Blaester stood behind the castle’s closed front door. As Gateway peered into her shoulder bag, she asked Maester Blaester, “Could we go over the checklist again?”
“Of course, m’Lady. Knook e-reader?”
“Check,” she checked.
“Tequila?”
“Check,” she checked.
“Swimming attire, both two-piece and one-piece?”
“Check and check,” she checked.
“Neutrogena Ultra Sheer Sunblock, SPF 94,167,211,467?”
“Check.”
“Godsweede?”
“Check.”
“Glass Godsweede delivery system?”
“Check.”
“Advyl?”
“Check.”
Blaester claimed, “Then I believe you are ready for your excursion.”
Gateway queried, “Are the oddly named Knights waiting for me out front?”
“Of course, m’Lady: Sur Hornswaggle van der Putz, Sur Whiffenpoop Porkburger, Sur Dingotz Stugotz, Sur Ron Dee Ehm Cee, Sur Wylly Nylly, Sur Baron von Raschke, Sur Rufus T. Fyrefly, Sur Schmucko Cheesebreath, Sur Dyrk Dyggler, Sur Cankles Rottweiler, Sur Boris D’Spydr, Sur Bronski Motorboat, Sur Crayola Burntsienna, Sur Tushbutt Rumprear Fannyass, Sur Heywood Jablome, Sur Banjo McChucklehead, Sur Donnybrook Filibuster, Sur Mustache Bumbershoot, and, of course, Sur Taradiddle Slobberknocker.”
“What about Sur Hogwash Dipthong? I can’t leave Summerseve without Sur Hogwash Dipthong.”
“Sur Dipthong is running late, m’Lady. Shall I have him put to death when he arrives?”
“I would appreciate that,” Gateway said, nodding, and added, “Well, then, the sun is probably sinking into the ocean, so I must begin my journey.” She pulled some smoldering Godsweede from her cleavage, took a puff, grabbed Blaester’s face, mashed her lips against his, blew the smoky contents of her mouth into Blaester’s lungs, then told him, “Get up, stand up, don’t give up the fight,” after which she flashed him the peace sign.
Maester Blaester merely gurgled.
Gateway opened the front door and, after one step, found herself face-first in the mud. As she struggled to a sitting position, she looked around to see what had caused her to fall; it turned out to be not a what, but rather a who, a short who with a high-pitched voice.
“Can I help you?” she queried, wiping the mud from her eyes.
The man stuck out his tiny hand and said, “Lord Petey Varicose Bailbond. King Barfonme asked that I guide you back to Capaetal Ceity.”
Standing up then shaking his hand, Gateway asked, “What do you mean back to Capaetal Ceity?”
“Well, I arrived here just this morning.”
“When did you leave to come here?” Gateway wondered.
“Last evening.”
“How did you get here?”
Lord Bailbond pointed at his tiny horse. “Him.”
“And it took you only one day?”
He nodded. “Some say I do the work of two men.”
“Impressive.”
“Some say I can be in two places at once.”
“Cool.”
“Some say I’m a eunuch, but the fact of the matter is, I have a small member.”
“Too much information.”
“Understood,” the tiny johnson’d non-eunuch agreed, then offered Lady Gateway his arm. “I know a simply wonderful whorehouse in Cap Ceity where I can stash you. The best in town. You’ll fit right in. All the opium you can eat. Shall we?”
Gateway reached down, took his elbow, and smiled. “We shall.”
As they mounted their respective horses, Tinyjohnson said, “Oh, I should probably mention that it was Tritone Sinister who put out the hit on your nearly dead boy.”
From Allbran’s room: “Godsdamn it, I’m fine!”
Ignoring her son, she asked, “How do you know it was Tritone?”
“It’s a lengthy tale that I’ll tell you during our lengthy journey. It’s a ripping yarn, too, full of intrigue, violence, backstabbing, double-crossing, and messy sex. It’s a pity that nobody other than you and I will get to hear it. Or read it.”
Aside from the fact that all the oddly named Knights aside from Burntsienna were slaughtered during a random battle that had nothing to do with anything, Gateway and Tinyjohnson’s journey to Capaetal Ceity was long and boring, and not worth recounting here. If this story were told on basic cable, we would jump to a commercial. But this isn’t TV.
It’s HBO.
HEADCASE
King Bobbert was out on some errand or another—if Headcase were to lay a wager, he would have bet it involved grog—so, much to the new Foot’s chagrin, it was up to him to lead the weekly meeting of House Barfonme’s High Council. As Head looked around the table—a table covered with plates and plates of the best onions Capaetal Ceity had to offer—he wondered how and why Bobbert chose his advisers, because to Head’s eye, it was one Godsdamn motley crew.
Clad in a multicolored silk robe and a feathered hat, Tinyjohnson was positioned on Lord Barker’s left, while directly to Head’s right sat a man by the name of Bix Byderbek, a man who was shorter than Tinyjohnson and fatter than Bobbert. There were four people on the opposite side of the table: A bald, bucktoothed man named Wangle Strydant; a youngster named Hawkwynd Bagelthorp, who was as skinny as Byderbek was fat; a one-armed, one-legged gent named Cofffeee Teeormee; and an angry-looking deaf-mute who went only by the name Skype.
Head pounded the table with his fist—hard enough that it caused six onions to fall onto the floor, which caused Skype to look even angrier—then emitted, “Alright, this meeting is called to order. His Highness neglected to give me notes before he left town, so would anybody like to start?”
Tinyjohnson raised his tiny hand and offered, “I have a suggestion, Foot.” After a lengthy pause, he explained, “This is difficult for me to say.”
Desirous to make a pillow out of the onions and take a nap, Head grumbled, “Best to just say it, eunuch.”
“I’m not a eunuch, Foot.”
Staring at the feathered hat, Head drawled, “Riiiiiight, of course you’re not. Now speak your piece.”
“Well, good Foot Barker, it is the Council’s opinion that you need to rethink your wardrobe.”
Glancing at his brown burlap blouse, his gray burlap vest, and his tan burlap pants, Head asked, “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
“Look around this table,” Tinyjohnson demanded. “We have certain standards here.”
Head took a gander at his cohorts’ respective outfits: Byderbek was wearing a tight white shirt with a long, skinny piece of material tied around his neck; Strydant had on an outfit similar to Head’s, the primary difference being that his burlap was thick and colorful, rather than thin and drab; Bagelthorp wore only a vest, which, in Head’s mind, was a mistake, as his ribs were as prominent as a snake who uncoiled himself in the stomach of a pregnant woman; Teeormee took Bagelthorp’s stylistic choice a bit further, choosing to wear no shirt at all; and Skype was covered shoulder-to-toe with what appeared to be dried mud.
Giving Tinyjohnson a defiant look, Head offered, “I don’t know, I feel like I’m doing okay here.”
Tinyjohnson shook his head and disagreed, “I disagree. When you represent House Barfonme, you have to represent it with class and grace.”
Pointing at Skype, Head pointed out, “But that one’s wearing mud.”
“It’s the classiest, most graceful mud in all of Capaetal Ceity,” Tinyjohnson noted.
“What about Bagelthorp?” Head asked. “Couldn’t he put on a shirt or something? His ribs are … distracting.”
“Bite your tongue.” Tinyjohnson winced. “Hawkwynd has spent years cultivating that look, years.”
Head rubbed his temples and sighed, “Fine. I’ll get some new clothes.”
Tinyjohnson beamed and clapped,
then said, “Oh, goody! You and I shall go shopping posthaste. We’ll get you looking like a good Foot in no time.”
“Fantastic,” Headcase monotoned. “Hey, I’ve been wondering: How did this major metropolis end up with such a motley governing body? Are you all Lords of some particular land?”
“I am Lord of all that I wear,” Strydant said. “But not all that much otherwise.”
“Well, how did you get these positions?” Head asked, scratching his namesake. “It’s almost as if you were picked for your dramatic differences in style and culture.”
Tinyjohnson claimed, “We were elected, you might say.”
“By the people? Since when did we become a democracy?”
“No, no, no, there’s no democracy here. We were each chosen by the author…”
“The what?”
“Er, I mean, many Summers ago, King Bobbbbbbbbb Barfonme thought a diverse council would appeal to multiple demographics.” He then whispered, “Phew, that’s thinking on your feet.”
Everybody heard his whisper. But everybody ignored it. Because everybody wanted this meeting—and this chapter—over and done with.
Head asked, “Is there anything, um, important to discuss? Something about, oh, I don’t know, ways to make Capaetal Ceity a better place to live?”
Teeormee raised his hand and said, “Did anybody mention to you that we’re broke?”
Head blinked. “Broke?” he asked.
“Yep,” Teeormee confirmed. “Broke. Busted. Empty. Drained. Penniless. Impoverished. Destitute. We got nothing. Nada. Zero. Zilch. Bupkus—”
“Okay,” Head interrupted, “I get it. There isn’t any money.”
“Not a Godsdamn cent. Naught. Goose egg. Zip. Zippo. Zipper. Zipperino.”
After he stopped, Head asked, “You done?”
Teeormee scratched his head, then asked, “Did I say impoverished?”
Head nodded.
“Then yeah, I’m done.”
A Game of Groans: A Sonnet of Slush and Soot Page 9
